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THE BEAUTIFUL COUNTESS; Or, A Horrible Mystery, A Startling and Exciting Story BY SHERIDAN LE FANUE. CHAPTER IV. I told you that I was charmed with her in most particulars. There were Borne that did not please me so well. She was about the middle height of women. I shall begin by describing her. She was slen der, and wonderfully graceful. Except that her movements were languid t en/languid—indeed there was nothing in her appearance that indi- dicated an invalid. Her complexion was rich and brilliant; her features were small and beau tifully formed; her eyes large, dark and lustrous; her hair was quite wonderful, I never saw hair so magnificently thick and long when it was down about her shoulders; I have oiten placed my hands und § it, and laughed with wonder at its weight. It was exquisitly fine and 6oft, and in color a rich very dark brown, with some thing of gold. I loved to let it down, tumbling with its own weight, as, in her room, she lay back in her chair talking in her sweet, low voice, I used to fold and braid it, and spread it out and play with it. Heavens! If I bad but known all! I said there were particulars which did not please me. I have told you that her confidence won me the first night I saw her; but I found that she exercised with respect to herself, her mother, her history, everything in fact connect ed with her life, plans, and people, an ever wakeful reserve. I dare say I was unreasonable, perhaps 1 was wrong; I dare say I ought to have respected the solemn injunction laid on my fa ther by the stately lady in black velvet. But curiosity is a restless and unscrupulous passion, and no one girl can endure, with patience, that her’s should be baffled by another. What harm could it do anyone to tell me what I so ardently desired to know ? Had she no trust in my good sense or honor? Why would she not believe me when I assured her, so solemnly, that I would not divulge one syllable of what she told me to any mortal breathing. There was a coldness, it seemed to me, be yond her years, in hei smiling, melancholy, per sistent refusal to afford me the least ray of light I cannot say wa quarrelled on this point, for she would not quarrel upon any. It was, of course, very unfair of me to press her, very ill- bred, but I really could not help it; and I might just as well have let it alone. What she did tell me amounted in my estima tion to—nothing. It was all summed up in three very vague dis closures: First—Her name was Carmilla. Second.—Her family was very ancient and noble. Third,—Her home lay in the direction of the West. She would not tell me the name of her family, nor their armorial bearings, nor the name of the country they lived in. You are not to suppose that I worried her in cessantly on these subjects. 1 watched oppor tunity, and rather insinuated than urged my inquiries. Once or twice, indeed, I did attack her more directly. But no matter what my tac tics, utter failure was the inevitable result. Re proaches and caresses were all lost npon her, But I must add this, that her evasion was con ducted with so pretty a melancholy and depre cation, with so many, and even passionate de clarations of her liking for me, and trust in my honor, and with so many promises that I should at last know all, that I could not find it in my heart long to be offended with her. She used to place her pretty arms about my neck, draw me to her, and laying her cheek to mine, murmer with her lips near my ear, 'Dear est, your little heart is wounded; think me not cruel because I obey the irresistible law of my strength and weakness; if your dear heart is wounded, my wild heart bleeds with yours. In the rapture of my enormous humiliation I live in your warm life, and you shall die—die, sweet ly die—into mine. I cannot help it; as I draw near to you, you, in your turn, will draw near to others, and learn the rapture of that cruelty which yet is love; so, for a while, seek to know no more of me and mine, but trust me with all your loving spirit. " Aud when she had spoken such a rhapsody, she would press me more closely in her tremb ling embrace, and her lips in soft kisses gently on my cheek. Her agitation and her language were unin el igible to me. From these foolish embraces, which were not of very frequent occurrence, I must allow, I used to wish to extricate myself; but my en ergies seemed to fail me. Her murmured words sounded like a lullaby in my ear, and soothed my resistance into a trance, from which I only seemed to recover myself when she withdrew her arms. In these mysterious moods I did not like her. I experienced a strange tumultuous excitement that was pleasurable, ever and anon mingled with a vague sense of fear and disgust. I had no distinct thoughts about her while such scenes lasted, but I was conscious of a love growing in to adoration, and also of abhorrance. This I know is paradox, but I can make no other at tempt to explain the feeling. I now write, after an interval of more than ten years, with a trembling hand, with a confused and horrible recollection of certain occurren ces and situations, in the ordeal through which I was unconciously passing; though with a vivid and very sharp remembrance of the main cur rent of my story. But, I suspect, in all lives there are certain emotional scenes, those in which our passions are most wildly and terribly roused, that are of all others the most vaguely and dimly remembered. Sometimes after an hour of apathy, my strange and beautiful eumpanion would take my hand and hold it with a fond pressure, renewed again and again; blushing softly, gazing in my face with langnid and burning eyes, and breathing so fast that her dress rose and fell with the tu multuous respiration. It was like the ardour of a lover; it embarressed me; it was hateful and yet overpowering; and with gloating eyes she drew me to her, and her hot lips travelled along my cheek in kisses; and she would whisper, al most in sobs, “You are mine, you shall be mine, you and I are one forever.” Then she has thrown herself back in her chair, with her small hands over her eyes, leaving me trembling. “Are we related,” 1 used to ask; “what can you mean by all this ? I remind you perhaps of some one whom you love; but you must not, I hate it; I don’t know you—I don’t know my self when you look so and talk so.” She used to sigh at my vehemence, then turn away and drop my hand. Respecting these very extraordinary manifes tations I strove in vain to form any satisfactory theory—I could not refer them to affectation or trick. It was unmistakably the momentary breaking out of suppressed instinct and emo tion. Was she, notwithstanding her mother's volunteered denial, subject to brief visitations of insanity; or was there here a disguise and a romance ? I had read in old story books of such things. What if a boyish lover had found his way into the house, and sought to prosecute his suit in masquerade, with the assistance of a clever old adventuress. But there were many things against this hypothesis, highly interest ing as it was to my vanity. I could boast of no little attentions, snch as masculine gallantry delights to offer. Between these passionate moments there were long in tervals of commonplace, of gayety, of brooding melancholy, during which, except I i detected her eyes so full of melancholy fire, following me, at times I might have been as nothing to her. Except in these brief periods of mysteri ous excitement, her ways were girlish; and there was always a languonr about her, quite incom patible with a masculine system, in a state of health. In some respects her habits were odd. Per haps not so singular, in the opinion of a town lady, like you, as they appear to us rustic peo ple. She used to come down very late, gene rally not till one o’clock, she would then take a cup of chocolate, but eat nothing; we then went out for a walk, which was a mere saun ter, and she seemed, almost immediately, ex hausted, and either returned to the schloss or sat on one of the benches, that were placed here and there among the trees. This was a bodily languor, in which her mind did not sympathize. She was always an animated talker, and very intelligent. She sometimes alluded for a moment to her own home, or mentioned an adventure or a situation, or an early recollection, which indi cated a people of strange manners, and describ ed customs of which we knew nothing. I gath ered from these chance hints, that her native country was much more remote than I had at first fancied. As we sat thus, one ofternoon under the treea, a funeral passed us by. It was that of a pretty young girl, whom I had often seen, the daugh ter of one of the rangers of the forest. The poor man was walking behind the ooffin of his darling; she was his only child, and be looked qu’te heartbroken. Feasants walking two-and two came behind, they were singing a funeral hymn. I rose to mark my respect, as they passed, and joined in the hymn, they were very sweet ly singing. My companion shook me a little roughly, and I turned surprised. She said, brusquely, “Don’t you perceive how discordant that is?” “I think it very sweet, on the contrary,” I answered, vexed at the interruption and very uncomfortable, lest the people who composed the little procession, should observe and re sent what was passing. I resumed, therefore, instantly, and was again interrupted. “You pierce my ears” said Car milla, almost angrily, and stopping her ears with her tiny fingers. ‘ Besides, how can you tell that your religion and mine, are the same? Your forms wound me and I hate funerals. What a fuss ! Why you must die—every one must die; and all are happier when they do. Come home.” “My father has gone on with tho clergyman to the churchyard* I thought you knew she was to be buried to-day ?” •'She? I don’t trouble my head about peas ants. 1 don’t know who she is,” answered Car milla, with a flash from her fine eyes. “She is the poor girl, who fancied she was a ghost, a fortnight ago, and has been dying ever since, till yesterday, she expired.” “Tell me nothing about ghosts. I shan’t sleep tonight, if you do.” “I hope there is no plague or fever coming; all this looks very much like it,” I continued. ' The swineheard's young wife died only a week ago, and she thought that something seized her by the throat, as she lay in her bed, and nearly strangled her. Papa says, such horrible fancies do accompany some forms of fever. She was quite well the day before. She sank afterwards and died before a week. “Well, her funeral is over, I hope, and her hymn sung; and our ears shan’t be tortured with that discord and jargon. It has made me nervous. Sit down here, beside me; sit close; hold my hand; press it hard—hard—harder.” We had moved a little back, and had come to another seat. She sat down. Her face underwent a change, that alarmed, and even terrified me for a mo ment. It darkened, and became horribly livid; her teeth and hands were clenched, and she frowned and compressed her lips, while she stared down upon the ground at her feet, and trembled all over with a continued shudder, as irrepressible as an ague. All her energies seem ed strained to suppress a tit, with which she was then breathlessly tugging; and at length a low, convulsive cry of suffering, broke from her, and gradually the hysteria subsided. “There! That comes of strangling people with hymns!” she said, at last “Hold me, hold me still. It is passing away.” And so gradually it did; and perhaps to dis sipate the sombre impression, which the specta cle had left upon me, she became unusually an imated and chatty; and so we got home. This was the first time I had seen her exhibit any definable symptoms of that delicacy of health, which her mother had spoken of. It was the first time, also, I had seen her exhibit anything like temper. Both passed away like a summer cloud; and never but once afterwards, did I witness, on her part, a momentary sign of anger. I will tell you how it happened. She and I were looking out of one of the long drawing-room windows, when there entered the court-yard, over the drawbridge, a figure of a wanderer whom I knew very well. He used to visit the schloss generally twice a year. It was the figure of a hunchback, with the sharp lean features that generally accompany deformity. He wore a pointed black beard, and he was smiling from ear to ear, showing his white fangs. He was dressed in buff, black, and scarlet, and crossed with more straps and belts than I could count, from which hung all manner of things. Behind, he carried a magic- lantern, and two boxes, whioh I well knew, in one of which was a salamander, and in the other a mandrake. These monsters used to make my father laugh. They were compounded of parts of monkeys, parrots, squirrels, fish and hedge hogs, dried and stiched together with great neat ness and startling effect. He had a fiddle, a box of conjuring appartures, a pair of foils and masks attached to his belt, several other myste rious cases dangling about him, and a black staff with copper ferrules in his hand. His companion was a rough spare dog, that follow ed at his heels, but stopped short, suspiciously at the drawbridge, and in a little while began to howl dismally. In the meantime, the mountebank, standing in the midst of the courtyard, raised his gro- tesqe hat, and made us a very ceremonious bow, paying his compliments very volubly in execrable French, and German not much better. Then, disengaging his fiddle, be began to scrape a live ly air, to which he sang with a merry discord, duncing with ludicrous airs and activity, that made me laugh, in spite of the dog’s howling. Then he advanced to the window with many smiles and salutations, and his hat in his left hand, his fiddle under his left arui, and with a fluency that never took breath, he gabbled a long advertisement of all accomplishments, and the resources of the various arts which he placed at our service, and the curiosities and entertain ments which it was in his power, at our bidding, to display. “Will your ladyship be pleased to buy an am ulet against the onpire, which is going like the wolf, I hear through these woods,” he said, drop ping his hat on the pavement. “They are dying of it right and left; here is a charm that never fails; only piuned to the pillow, and you may laugh in his face." These churms consisted of oblong slips of vel lum, with cabalistic ciphers and diagrams upon them. • Carmilla instantly purchased one, and so did L He was looking up, and we were smiling down upon him, amused; at least, I can answer for myself, His piercing black eye, as he looked up in our faces, seemed to detect something that fixed for a moment his curiosity. In an instant he unrolled a leather case, full of ail manner of odd little steel instruments. “ See here, my lady,” he said, displaying it, and addresssng me, “ I profess, among other things less useful, the art of dentistry. Plague take the dog! ” he interpolated. “ Silence, beast! He howls so that your ladyships can scarcely hear a word. Your noble friend, the young lady at your right, has the sharpest tooth, —long, thin, pointed, like an awl, like a needle; ha, ha ! With my sharp and long sight, as I look up, I have seen it distinctly; now if it hap pens to hurt the young lady, and I think it must, here am I, here are my file, my punch, my nip pers; I will round and blunt, if her ladyship pleases; no longer the tooth of a fish, but of a beautful young lady as she is. Hey! Is the young lady displeased? Have 1 been too bold? Have I offended her ? ” The young lady, indeed, looked very angry as she drew back from the window. “ How dares that mountebank insult us so ? Where is your father ? I shall demand redress from him. My father would have had the wretch tied up to the pump, and flogged with a cart- whip, and burnt to the bones with the castle brand ! ” She retired from the window a step or two, and sat down, and had hardly lost sight of the offender, when her wrath subsided as suddenly as it had risen, and she gradually recovered her usual tone, and seemed to forget the little hunchback and his follies. My father was out of spirits that evening. On coming in he told us that there had been another case very similar to the two fatal ones which had lately occurred, The sister of a young peasant on bis estate, only a mile away, was very ill, bad been, as she described it attacked very near ly in the same way, and was now slowly but steadily sinking. “All this,” said my father, “ is strictly refer able to natural causes. These poor people infect one another with their superstition and so re peat in imagination the images of terror that have infested the neighbors.” “But that very circumstance frightens one horribly,” said Carmilla. “ How so ? ” enquired my father. “ I am so afraid of fancying I see such things; I think it would be as bad as reality.” . . “ We are in God’s hands; nothing can happen without his permission, and all will’ end well for those who love him. He is our faithful Cre ator. He has made us all, and will take care of us.” “Creator! Nature! ” said the young lady in answer to my gentle father. “And this disease that invades the country is natural. Nature. All things proceed from nature—don’t they? All things in the heaven, in the earth, and under the earth, act and live as Nature ordains? I think so.” “The doctor said he would come here to day,” said my father, after a silence. “ I want to know what he thinks about it, and what he thinks we had better do.” "doctors never dffi me any good,” said Carmilla. “ Then you have been ill? ” I asked. “More ill than ever you were,” she answered. “Long ago?” “Yes, a long time. I suffered from this very illness; but I forget all but my pain and weak ness, and they were not so bad as are suffered in other diseases.” “You were very young then?" “I dare say; let us talk no more of it. You would not wound a friend? She looked languidly in my eyes, and passed her arms around my waist lovingly, and led me out of the room. My father was busy over some papers near the window. “Why does your papa like to frighten us?" said the pretty girl with a sigh and a little shud der. “lie doesn’t, dear Carmilla, it is the very fur thest thing from his mind.” “Areyou afraid, dearest?” “I should be very much if I fancied there was any real danger of my being attacked as those poor people were.” “Y'ou are afraid to die?” “Yes, every one is.” “But to die as lovers may—to die together, so that they may live together. Girls are caterpil lars while they live in the world,, to be finally butterflies when the summer comfe; but in the meantime there are grubs and harm, don’t you see—each with their peculiar propensities, neces sities, and structure. So says Monsieur Buffon, in his big book, in the next room.” Later iu the day the doctor came, and was clos eted with papa for some time. He was a skillful man of sixty and upwards, he wore powder, and shaved his pale face as smooth as a pumpkin. He and papa emerged from the room together, and I heard papa laugh, and say as they came out: “Well, I do wonder at a wise man like you. What do you say to hippogriffs and dragons?” The doctor was smiling, and made answer shak ing his head— “Nevertheless life and death are mysterious states, and we know little of the resources of eith er.” And so they walked on, and I heard no more. I did not then know what the doctor had been breaching, but I think I guess it now. One day my father brought an artist from the city to renovate some old pictures that hung on the long, well-lined gallery walls. Among them was one that had been during all my reoolleotion, turned to the wall. My father had an indistinct recollection of their being some terrible story connected with it. It seemed, however, a fine picture—a portrait of a beautiful woman. When the artist had worked upon it for some time, my father called me to him. Pointing to the pic ture he asked: “Whom does it resemble?” It was wonderfully like our guest “Oh, father,” I cried, “it must have been painted for Carmilla.” He laughed. “It was painted over a oentury ago,” he said. When it was completely restored I brought Carmilla to look at it. She was visibly discom posed when her eyes fell upon it; and I thought she turned pale. But she said quietly: “Yes; it is like me. Suoh resemblances some times occur.” “ Will you let me hang this picture in my room papa ?’’ I asked. “Certainly, dear” said he, “I’m very glad you think it so like. It must be prettier even than I thought it, if it is.” The young lady did not acknowledge this pretty speech, did not seem to hear it. She was leaning back in her seat, her fine eyes under their long lashes gazing on me in contemplation and she smiled iu a kind of rapture. “ And now you can read quite plainly the name that is written in gold. The name is Mir- calla, Countess Karnstein, and this is a little coronet over it, and underneath a.d. 1698. I am decended from the Karsteius; that is mamma was.” “Ah ! said the lady, langui dly, “ so am I, I think, a very long descent, very ancient. Are there any Karnsteins living now?” “ None who bear the same, I think. The family were ruined, I believe, in some civil war*, long ago, but the ruins of the castle are only about three miles away. ” “ How interesting! ” she said, languidly, “ But see what beautiful moonlight! ” She glanced through the hall-door, which stood a little open. “ Suppose you take a little ramble round to look down at the road and river. ” “ It is so like the night you came to us, ” I said. She sighed, smiling. She rose, and each with her arm about the oth er's waist, we walked out upon the pave ment. In silence, slowly we walked down to tne draw bridge, where the beautiful landscape opened be fore us. “And so you were thinking of the night I came here?” she almost whispered. “Are you glad I came?” “Delighted, dear Carmilla,” I answered. “And you ask for the picture you think like me, to hang in your room,” she murmured with a sigh, as she drew her arm closer about my waist, and let her pretty head sink upon my shoulder. “How romantic you are, Carmilla,” 1 said. “Whenever you tell me your story, it will be made up chiefly of some great romance.” She kissed me silently. “I am sure, Carmilla, you have been in love; that there is, at this moment, an affair of the heart going on.” “I have been in love with no one, and never shall,” she whispered, “unless it should be with you.” How beautiful she looked in the moonlight. Shy and strange was the look with which she quickly hid her face in my neck and hair, with tumultuous sighs, that seemed almost to sob, and pressed in mine a hand that trembled. Her soft cheek was glowing against mine. “Dar ling, darling,’ she murmured, “1 live in you; and you would die for me, I love you so.” I started from her. She was gazing on me with eyes from which all fire, all meaning had flown, and a face colorless and apathe‘ic. “Is there a chill in the air, dear?" she said drowsily. “I almost shiver; have I been dream, ing? Let us come in. Come, come; come in.” “Y'ou look itl, Carmilla; a little faint. Y’ou must take some wine,” I said. “Yes, I will. I’m better now. I shall be quite well in a few minutes. Yes, do give me a little wine,” answered Carmilla, as we approached the door. “Let us look again for a minute ; it is the last time, perhaps, I shall see the moonlight with you.” “How do you feel now, dear Carmilla ? Are you really better?” I asked. I was beginning to take alarm, lest she should have been stricken with the strange epidemic that they said had invaded the country about us. “Papa would be grieved beyond measure,” I added, “if he thought you were ever so little ill, without letting us know. We have a very skill ful doctor near us, the physician who was with papa to-day.” “I’m sure he is. I know how kind you all are; but, dear child, I am quite well again. There is nothing ever wrong with me, but a little weak ness. People say I am languid ; I am incapable of exertion ; I can scarcely walk as far as a child of three years old ; and every now and then the little strength I have falters, and 1 become as you have just seen me. But after all, 1 am very easily set up again; in a moment I am perfectly myself See how I have recovered.” So, indeed, she had; and she and I talked a great deal, and very animated she was ; and the remainder of that evening passed without any re currence of what I called her infatuations. I mean her crazy talk and looks, which embarrassed, and even frightened me. But there occurred that night an event which gave my thoughts quite a new turn, and seemed to startle even Carmilla’s languid nature into mo mentary energy. Battles Around Atlanta FOURTH PAPER. The Bloody Battle of Atlanta. BY SIDNEY HERBERT. In noting the operations of the 20th of J uly, in the previous article, I overlooked the follow ing “special telegram” to the Southern press: “Gen. Wheeler has successfully engaged a large force of the enemy during the greater part of the day. This evening he charged their infant ry most gallantly, driving their line back toward Decatur.” Mr. F. G. de Fontaine, the great war corres pondent, writing from “Behind- the Chattahoo chee,” says: “While the fight.... was in progress on the left, YVheeler’s cavalry success fully held the enemy’s infantry in check on our right With small brigades he contested the ground with two corps—Dodge's and Logan’s— and after twelve or fourteen hour’s hard fighting has prevented them from obtaing any advantage. Cannonading has been constant along the lines all day. The enemy ate evidently endeavoring to maneuvere Hood out of Atlanta.” Resuming his narrative, Gen. Wheeler writes: “At daylight on the 21st another warm attack was made by the Federals, and a hill secured, to the right of the front, which was being de fended by our dismounted cavalry. From this point a battery of long range guns opened a se vere fire npon our works, a single volley having the remarkable effect of killing seventeen men of one company. Other batteries, however, opened fire without any very serious effect. “At about 10 o’clock a oharge was made upon the thin cavalry line, and upon the right of Gen. Cleburne’s front. The extreme right was driven from the works, but the stubborn fighting and good position of the centre and left, enabled them to hold on, and the oblique position of the attacking lines left their right some distance in Cleburne’s front.” Major General G. W. Smith, commanding the Georgia Militia, at 10 55 a. m., wrote to Gen. Wheeler as fol lo ws: ‘ -A battery of artillery from Gen. Hollengust's reserve hasjustcomeup, and is being placed in position. Immediately on receipt of your request for re-inforcements I sent a staff officer to you with request that you would send me one of your staff to conduct them. The troops are ready and waiting. Say 300 men.” Later still, Aid-de-Camp Jno. G. Smith sent him this order: “The General Com manding directs me to say that he wishes you to hold the gap between Gens’ Cleburne and Man ny.” And at 2 30 p. m., he wrote: “The Gen eral Commanding directs me to say that he will to-night fill the vacancy between Gens’ Cleburne and Manny with infantry; also to request that you come to his qnsrters as soon as you can leave your line this evening.” “Findings portion of the lines still maintain ing their position,” continues Gen. YVheeler, “our defeated, dismounted cavalry rallied at the foot of the ridge, and lead by their officers, charged the victorious foe and retook their lines after a sharp fight, which at one point was a hand to hand combat directly in the ditches and upon the parapet. That night we moved south, turned at Hall’s mill, and placed the^cav alry and Gen. Hardee’s corps on the left flank of Gen. Sherman’s army. “At daylight, on the 221, Gen. Hardee, Gen. Wm. Henry T. YValker, and myself, got a citizen to describe the topographical features ol the country. He first said there were no obstructions between ns and Sherman’s position, but a close cross-examination developed an admission on his part of a mill-pond, a mile long, and, in some places, ten feet deep. How well I remem ber Gen. Walker’s exclamation, and his several times turning to me and saying, *«. mill-pond ten feet deep and a mile long-no obstruction; this fellow says it is no obstruction.’ And it was during that same morning, while endeavoring to penetrate the thick growth at the swampy head of this very mill-pond, that General YValker, the Chevalier Bayard, the knightly son of Georgia, fell at the head of his division.” General Wheeler addressed the following re quest to Lieut. Gen. Hardee, before the battle commenced: “Several more of my scouts have come in, all corroborating the report I sent you this morning, that Gen. Garrard had moved towards Covington with his division. Shall I pursue and break up Garrard, or shall I detach a force to follow him ?” To this Gen. Hardee replied : “I cannot spare you or any force to pursue Garrard, now. We must attack as we arranged, with all our force. I think our at tack will bring Garrard back. You had best re port the facts to Gen. Hood.” On the 23d, however, Gen. Mackall sent the following instructions to Gen. YVheeler in regard to this matter : “Gen. Hood wishes you to take what you think a sufficient force and pursue the raiding party you report as moving on the Covington road. You must leave a small force to observe Gen. Hardee’s right, and if necessary, recall the brigade you were ordered to send to YVheeler, “was arranged with the corps of Gen. Hardee on on the left, and the cavalry extending to the right nearly to Decatur, aud during the struggle advancing to and through the town, capturing the garrison and a considerable wagon train, and a depot ol stores, together with a battery of four guns. The troops imme diately opposed to the cavalry retreated in a southwesterly direction, the cavalry pursuing them about two miles, when General Hardee, finding himself too hotly pursued, sent three staff officers, in succession, with directions to close in and concentrate everything to his sup port. The battle continued very warm until dark, yet the entire Confederate line held at night the advanced works captured by them in the morning. “The success of the Southern troops, howev er, was only partial. Though they attacked the left flank, it was unfortunate for them that Gen. McPherson had very prudently protected him self against just such an emergency by building strong works running back for a long distance perpendicular with his main line, and the apex of the angle thus created (built in the form of a strong redoubt with an armament of Napoleon guns) was the first part struck by our infantry. The redoubt and breastworks and armament were all captured, but at a most fearful loss, and just beyond them we were met by a large force who were moving up to relieve the troops in the works. “During the night the captured property was removed to Atlanta, and for severhl days after very heavy firing was kept up from the close contending lines. Gen. Garrard, of the Fed eral army, with a large force of cavalry had moved towards Covington early on the 22d, and after the battle of that day he was pursued by our cavalry, by whom he was compelled to re turn to the protection of his main army.’’ BETTERS FROM DISTINGUISHED GENERADS. Gen. Johnston having turned over the com mand of the Confederate army to Gen. Hood on the 18th of July, his “Narrative” does not fur nish any account of the bloody battle of Atlanta, which occurred on the 22d. In a recent letter to me, however, this distinguished and able officer writes as follows in regard to my previous article on this battle, and the death of Gen. McPherson : “Not being connected with the stirring events alluded to, I have no knowl edge of them. Therefore, in order to qualify myself to make some reply to your question, I have been looking for printed accounts of the circumstances of Gen. McPherson’s death. The m ost detailed, and I suppose most authentic, is Gen. Sherman’s—with which yours substantially agrees.” In reply to a request for information in re gard to this battle, Gen. J. B. Hood, under date of New Orleans, Dec. 9th, 1877, writes: “I have your * • » request to furnish you informa tion in regard to the operations of our army around Atlanta. This I cannot well do. Since the appearance of Johnston’s ‘ Narrative ’ and Sherman's ‘Memoirs,’ I have been engaged during the summer months in writing an ac count of the Seige of Atlanta, the Campaign to the Alabama line, and thereafter into Tennes see. The subject upon which you are writing is embraced in my own work.” The account given by Gen. Sherman, and upon which I based my previous article in re gard to the death of McPherson, seems to be generally accepted as reliable. Gen. John M. Schofield, writing me from the YVest Point Mili tary Academy, says: “So far as my memory serves me your article is correct in all essential details, and it is a very graphic account of the memorable events connected with the death of McPherson.” Gen. O. M. Poe, Engineer Corps, of Gen. Sherman’s staff, gives me in his letter the following important facts: “ I see bat little to change in the article prepared by you. There is one thing, however, which ought to be un derstood, especially at Atlanta, namely—that the “ Howard ” House referred to, was really the “ Hurt House." [The residence of CoL Augus tus Hurt] This fact was not known to me until two years ago, and as it is often referred to in official reports, correction should become generally Known. I presume the error arose from the similarity of sound between Howard and Hurt. The house was a two-story (perhaps it had an additional half-story) which stood about a half a mile north oi the railroad from Atlanta to Decatur, and about the same distance east of the site of a saw mill, or distillery. Now, a one-story building stands on the old foundation, and as I understand it, the house belongs to Mr. Hurt. This identification may be of im portance hereafter.” from gen. sherman’s memoirs. After closing his account of the engagement at Peachtree Creek on the 20th, and advance ment of his lines close to the “ finished en trenchments ” of the Confederates, Gen. Sher man proceeds to give a graphic account of the operations of the 21st and 22d, in the following language: “ From various parts of our lines the houses inside of Atlanta were plainly visible, though between us were the strong parapets, with ditch, fraise, chevaux-defrise, and abatis, prepared long in advance by Col. Jeremy F. Gilmer, formerly of the United States Engineers. McPherson had the Fifteenth Corps astride the Augusta Railroad, and the Seventeenth deployed on its left. Schofield was next on his right, then came Howard’s, Hooker’s, and Palmer’s corps, on the extreme right. Each corps was deployed with strong reserves, and their trains were parked to their rear. McPherson’s trains were in Decatur, guarded by a brigade commanded by Col. Sprague of the Sixty-third Ohio. The Sixteenth Corps (Dodge’s) was crowded out of position on the right ot McPherson's line, by the contrac-