The storm swept us on in its fury for some time, when it gradually abated in violence, and began to subside. The heavy clouds, flying higher and higher in detached masses in the heavens, by and bye lifted themselves in the western sky, and through the ragged intervals the setting sun poured his last rays over the dripping forest, bronzing the dark sides of our little schooner as he sunk and disappeared beneath the horizon. As the evening wore on, a star here and there discovered itself struggling amid the scud flying over it, and presently the moon shone out with her broad and silver light, and every vestige of the storm had disappeared. As we glided gaily on, with a fresh, fine breeze, towards our cottage home past the deep forest, the silence was broken by a long, melancholy howl, which I supposed was that of a solitary wolf, but Lee said that it was more probably from some one of the large breed of dogs which are found on most of the plantations. Lee’s mind was of a sad and pensive, although not at all of a gloomy cast; and like most men of that character, he required strong excitement to arouse him; but when aroused, of all delightful companions that I have ever met, he was the man. The excitement of the storm had been sufficient stimulus, and giving the reins to his wild spirits and excited feelings, he entertained us with an incessant stream of anecdote and adventure. The howl of the wolf had recalled to mind an incident in the life of his ancestor, Lieutenant-Colonel Lee, and in connection, he related it with many other adventures of the celebrated Partisan Legion. I will not attempt to use his beautiful and spirit-stirring language, but will confine myself to a few disjointed anecdotes, of the many which he related of the dashing corps, as they happen to recur to my memory.