As the friendly shades of night came down the British were pressing the fugitive army off the field, though not with a hot pursuit. In the Wilmington road, below Dilworthtown, at dusk, we have a view of Washington riding hastily along and ordering the officers whom he met to gather up the disorganized troops and hurry toward Chester. As the night hid the retreat, the stars came out to shine upon the dead, the dying and the wounded. Howe estimated the American loss at three hundred killed, six hundred wounded and four hundred prisoners--figures which Greene's report did not essentially contradict. The wounded were mostly in Howe's hands: few had escaped, as one did in a "chair" hurriedly driven over to the Black Horse tavern, on the road to Chester, by Robert Mendinhall, a neighboring Quaker farmer. The British loss was reported as five hundred and seventy-eight killed and wounded, including fifty-eight officers. Even if these figures were too low, the day's casualties aggregated fifteen hundred. The little meeting-house was filled with the badly wounded, and Howe sent word to Washington that more surgeons were needed, in response to which message several were sent to the field. The dead, as usual, were hastily buried, and heavy rains after the battle washed out many of the shallow pits, exposing their ghastly occupants to the elements and prowling beasts. The neighboring people were compelled to undertake the work of re-interment, in which, Joseph Townsend says, "it would be difficult to describe the many cases of horror and destruction of human beings" that they encountered. The battle was over, the tide of war had swept past, but these horrid evidences of its slaughter remained as the memorials of the struggle by which, for a time, the British had captured Philadelphia. HOWARD M. JENKINS. A GREAT DAY. FROM THE ITALIAN OF EDMONDO DE AMICIS. The G---- family were at their villa, a few miles out of Florence, when the Italian army was preparing to march on Rome. The enterprise was not favorably regarded by them. The father, the mother and the two grown-up daughters, ardent Catholics and mild patriots, desired "moral measures." "We do not understand politics," said Madame G---- to her friends, "and I least of all; and if I had to tell you quite clearly and distinctly why I think as I do, I should be puzzled. But what can I do? I have a presentiment; I hear a voice within me; I feel a thrill--something which tells me they must not go, they ought not to go, they cannot go, to Rome in such a manner. I remember '48; I remember '59; I remember '60. Well, in those days I had no fear; I never felt at heart the anxiety that I have now: I always thought things would come right. But this time, my friends, there is no use in talking, I see trouble in the air, and a great deal of it. You smile. Pray to Heaven that some day or other you may not have cause to weep. That day does not seem to me far off."