The men, I knew, would not inform on me. The British pressed on us close, and their light horse came down on us with such a force, that we broke and fled. We had to give way so fast, that we came out of the wood almost mixed up with the enemy. Livingston's regiment and Varnum's brigade had been stationed along the fence and in the open field, in front of the bridge over the morass, across which we had retreated before, and they received the British with a heavy fire; while the artillery, that had retired to the rear of the fence, poured some grape-shot into them. But they came on with a force we could n ot withstand; and a charge of their horse, broke Livingston's and Varnum's troops, who had covered our retreat, and they retired. Colonel Ogden had been ordered to take a position in the wood nearest the bridge, and to defend that post to the last extremity, in order to cover the retreat of the whole over the bridge; and he executed his orders to the letter. We all retreated safely over the bridge, and advanced to take a position on an eminence to which Lee had been directed. The General was one of the last men on the field, and brought of the rear himself. He was a brave man, whatever his faults may have been, and sustained his reputation admirably during the rest of the day. The stand we had made, though a very short one, served to check the advance of the enemy, and to give time to form the left wing and second line of the main army, in the wood and on the hill to which Lee was ordered.

"Well, you're not done; are you?" enquired one of the down-easters, as the narrator paused. He did not answer immediately, but seemed wrapped in deep thought.

"Did you see your friend's wife, 'cordin' to promise?" asked the backwoodsman, who had been much interested in the narrative of Ben's death.

"All in good time, men," replied the narrator. "You know the British decamped during thenight, without our knowledge. The main body of the army afterwards drew off to the borders of the North River. I tried to get permission from the commander of the regiment, to go to Philadelphia; but i could not. I therefore wrote a letter to Ben's wife, giving an account of his death, and enclosed the love-knot formed of their hair. Soon after, I received a letter from her, full of expressions of gratitude to me, and grief for the loss of her husband. She asked me to keep up a correspondence with her, as she was now alone in the world, and I had been her husband's friend; and I accordingly hae done so ever since."

"Then," said the Hibernian, "you must give us a bit o' the cake, when the weddin' comes off."

The listeners laughed, but the person addressed did no give the remark any attention. No doubt, he was imaggining the war over, and a neat little cottage by the side of a stream, with his friend's wife under his protection.

"Noting like a goot vrow dat can work," remarked the Conestoga farmer.

"Well, men," said the literary man, rousing himself. "It's about time for us to bunk. We'll fix the fire, and then turn in."

the fire was arranged for the night, and the mess sought their comfortable bunks. There, revelling in dreams of the battle of Monmouth and poor Ben and his wife, we leave them for the present.

The next night after the one on which we introduced the mess at Middlebrook to the reader, they were gathered around the fire, as usual. The Pennsylvanian, looking grum as possible; the Irishman, humming a rollicking reel-tune; the literary man, musing with his head resting on his hands, and looking vacantly at he fire; the Yankees from Connecticut, trying to outdo the backwoodsman, with the strength of their yarns; and the reminder, half asleep, presented a picture for the painter and for which the pen is inadequate.

"Och, muther, but this is a slapey way o' doin' the business," said the Irishman. "Won't some of you sing, or tell us a story, or do anythin' to make life amongst yes?"

Nobody answered the appeal of the Irishman; and he was on the point of commencing the "Boys of Kilkenny," or the "Sprig of Shillelah," when he was prevented, by one of the party volunteering to give an account of an adventure in which he was a participant. The Irishman was very willing to forego the pleasure of hearing himself sing, and all were ready to hear anything capable of amusing them.

"What's it about?" enquired one of the individuals from Connecticut.

"Is there a lady in it?" said another of the company.

"No insinuations," returned the literary gentleman, raising himself from his musing position. "Go on with your narrative," he continued, addressing the volunteer.

"Well," commenced that individual, after fixing himself in a comfortable position, "you must know, it was about two years ago, while the armies were manoeuvring at Saratoga, expecting a battle every day, I resided on my father's farm, in the vicinity. I had not joined the army under Gates, because my parents were getting old, and I could not be spared. There was a good many young men living near me, who were anxious to join the army and fight for their country, but were prevented by circumstances of a like character. However, we often formed parties to capture picket-guards and foraging detachments, belonging to the British, and sometimes to annoy those of the neighbors who professed an attachment to the royal cauase; thus serving our country, though we could not do so regularly, in the field. It is one of these adventures that I'm going to tell you about. There was about twenty of us who assembled regularly, upon four nights of the week. Our farm was generally the meeting-place, and there we planned the excursions we made. Intelligence was brought up, by one of our number, that there was an advance picket-guard of the British stationed on the north bank of the Middle Ravine, (or Mill Creek, as it was sometimes called,) which consisted of about thirty men; and he suggested that it would be an easy thing to surprise them. The prospect of an adventure heartily pleased us all; and we resolved to undertake it, if for nothing else, for the sake of the frolic. Accordingly, everything was arranged, and the next night was set apart for the undertaking. Our farm was selected as the rendezvous, and every man was ordered to provide himself with a fowling-piece, and plenty of powder and shot. Bill Hurley, the oldest and most experienced one of the band, was selected for the post of captain. I was the lieutenant. Everything was kept secret till the next night arrived. We assembled about an hour before dark, in the woods near our house. All were equpped according to agreement, and Bill Hurley had brought with im something for the party's refreshment --- nothing less than a bottle of old rye whiskey, with a long swig of which, we put ourselves in tune for the work. We started, and marched silently and cautiously through the wood; each man carrying his fowling-poiece in his hand, and the whole party walking in Indian file. Bill Hurley had also brought with him an old horse-trumpet,; though for what purpose, he did n ot explain. After marching about an hour, the captain gave us notice that the picket was not far of, and sent one of the party to reconnoitre, while the rest of us halted till we heard his report. He soon returned, and informed us that we were near the edge of the wood, and that directly beyond it was the picket-guard, without the least appearance of preparation for an enemy, or suspicion of the approach of one. The captain immediately gave us directions how we were to make the attack, and exhorted us all to do our duty. We didn't need much exhorting, however; we were too anxious to make the attack. We advanced silently to the edge of the wood, creeping among the bushes wherever there was a chance to do so, till we caught sight of the British coats. It was just about twilight; and it was evident, from the manner in which the enemy were disposed around --- some talking in groups, leaning on their guns; and others, feeling still more secure than the rest, lying on the ground --- that they were unsuspicious of the vicinity of danger. Suddenly, bill Hurley blew a tremendous blast on the old horse-trumpet, and the whole party of us rushed out of the bushes, yelling and howling like a whole tribe of Indians going into battle. Our captain cried out, at the top of his voice, 'ground your arms, or you're all dead men!' and the enemy immediately surrendered. No doubt, they thought half o f the American army was uon them, from the noise we made. We soon made sure of their arms, and then marched them of to the American camp, like regular prisoners of war. We laughed and joked the whole way there, about British soldiers surrendering to a few young farmers, who never were on a field of battle in their lives; and they seemed to feel their degradation. The soldiers in camp welcomed us with shouts, and we delivered our prisoners into their custody. Few parties ever had a more jolly time of it, than we had that night, after we returned home. We roused up the folks at our house, and had a glorious frolic, in eating and drinking, and dancing. That was only one of oour excursions, but it'll do for a specimen."

When the New-Yorker had concluded his story, he replenished the fire, and fixed his eyes on it, as a means of diverting attention from himself, as modest men sometimes do, after they have occupied the company with their conversation for a length of time.

"That must have been a bold fellow, that captain of yours," observed the backwoodsman. "It takes a confounded sight of luck, to undertake to capture thirty British soldiers, with twenty farmers, whose only weapons are fowling-pieces."

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12/24/06.