Upon Sunday, 15 February 1551, this man was foully murdered in the abbey house he called his own, by a certain Thomas Mosby, a London tailor, the lover of Alice Arden, Thomas Arden's wife.

His wife Alecia in her sleep by chance reveals to him her adulterous love for Mosby; but Arden forgives her on her promising never again to see her seducer.

From that moment she plots with her lover to murder her husband, and succeeds at last, after many failures, by killing him in the abbey house by the hands of two hired assassins, while he is playing a game of draughts with Mosby.

The secret was discovered by the afterward celebrated Colonel John S. Mosby, then a private, and just returned, by way of Fortress Monroe, from prison in Washington.

My father fought with Mosby's Rangers, and I was born in the South, but the Negroes saved that fight, and the day will come when General Shafter will give them credit for their bravery.

I was better off when I was on the Merrimac fighting the Monitor, or with Mosby, the guerilla, than I am in this accursed island.

I was one of Colonel Mosby's guerillas, and was wounded with them.

I left the navy to go with John Mosby and burn houses.

The angels ride with Mosby.

The C. V. Mosby Company (PWH); 11Mar77; R654413.

The angels ride with Mosby.

The C. V. Mosby Company (PWH); 11Mar77; R654413.

In Virginia, Mr. Cadwallader and Mr. Fitzpatrick, of The Herald, and Mr. Crounse, of The Times, were captured by Mosby, and liberated after a brief detention and a complete relief of every thing portable and valuable, down to their vests and pantaloons.

Unarmed none cared to stir abroad For berries beyond their forest-fence: As glides in seas the shark, Rides Mosby through green dark.

Ah! black blood Was his 'gainst even child and wife Fast friends to Mosby.

Yet one there was who looked but glum; In middle-age, a father he, And this his first experience too: "They shot at my heart when my hands were up This fighting's crazy work, I see" But noon is high; what next do? The woods are mute, and Mosby is the foe.

While echoes ran, a wagon old, Under stout guard of Corporal Chew Came up; a lame horse, dingy white, With clouted harness; ropes in hand, Cringed the humped driver, black in hue; By him (for Mosby's band a sight) A sister-rebel sat, her veil held tight.

Nettled now, He grew politer than before: "'Tis Mosby's fault, this halt and search" The lady stiffened in her starch.

And with a formal hate was filled Of Mosby's band; and some he'd killed.

look how the lads advance Mosby we'll have in the ambulance!

the rifles from every gate, The Gray-backs firedashes up and down Each alley unto Mosby known!"

but so calm That death seemed nothingeven death, The thing we deem every thing heart can think; Amid wilding roses that shed their balm, Careless of Mosby he layin a charm!

In order due the Major rode Chaplain and Surgeon on either hand; A riderless horse a negro led; In a wagon the blanketed sleeper went; Then the ambulance with the bleeding band; And, an emptied oat-bag on each head, Went Mosby's men, and marked the dead.

In the verse the name of Mosby is invested with some of those associations with which the popular mind is familiar.

But facts do not warrant the belief that every clandestine attack of men who passed for Mosby's was made under his eye or even by his knowledge.