Another night past in peace within the settlement of
the Hutted Knoll. The following morning was the Sabbath,
and it came forth, balmy, genial, and mild; worthy of the
great festival of the Christian world. On the subject of religion,
captain Willoughby was a little of a martinet; understanding
by liberty of conscience, the right of improving by
the instruction of those ministers who belonged to the church
of England. Several of his labourers had left him because
he refused to allow of any other ministrations on his estate;
his doctrine being that every man had a right to do as he
pleased in such matters; and as he did not choose to allow

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of schism, within the sphere of his owh influence, if others
desired to be schismatics they were at liberty to go elsewhere,
in order to indulge their tastes. Joel Strides and
Jamie Allen were both disaffected to this sort of orthodoxy,
and they had frequent private discussions on its propriety;
the former in his usual wily and jesuitical mode of sneering
and insinuating, and the latter respectfully as related to his
master, but earnestly as it concerned his conscience. Others,
too, were dissentients, but with less repining; though occasionally
they would stay away from Mr. Wood's services.
Mike, alone, took an open and manly stand in the matter,
and he a little out-Heroded Herod; or, in other words, he
exceeded the captain himself in strictness of construction.
On the very morning we have just described, he was present
at a discussion between the Yankee overseer and the Scotch
mason, in which these two dissenters, the first a congregationalist,
and the last a seceder, were complaining of the
hardships of a ten years' abstinence, during which no spiritual
provender had been fed out to them from a proper source.
The Irishman broke out upon the complainants in a way
that will at once let the reader into the secret of the county
Leitrim-man's principles, if he has any desire to know
them.

“Bad luck to all sorts of religion but the right one!” cried
Mike, in a most tolerant spirit. “Who d'ye think will be
wishful of hearing mass and pr'aching that comes from any
of your heretick parsons? Ye're as dape in the mire yerselves,
as Mr. Woods is in the woods, and no one to lade
ye out of either, but an evil spirit that would rather see all
mankind br'iling in agony, than dancing at a fair.”

“Go to your confessional, Mike,” returned Joel, with a
sneer—“It's a month, or more, sin' you seen it, and the
priest will think you have forgotten him, and go away
offended.”

“Och! It's such a praist, as the likes of yees has no
nade of throubling! Yer conscience is aisy, Misther Straddle,
so that yer belly is filled, and yer wages is paid. Bad luck
to sich religion!”

The allusion of Joel related to a practice of Michael's that
is deserving of notice. It seems that the poor fellow, excluded
by his insulated position from any communication

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with a priest of his own church, was in the habit of resorting
to a particular rock in the forest, where he would kneel
and acknowledge his sins, very much as he would have
done had the rock been a confessional containing one
authorized to grant him absolution. Accident revealed the
secret, and from that time Michael's devotion was a standing
jest among the dissenters of the valley. The county Leitrim-man
was certainly a little too much addicted to Santa Cruz,
and he was accused of always visiting his romantic chapel
after a debauch. Of course, he was but little pleased with
Joel's remark on the present occasion; and being, like a
modern newspaper, somewhat more vituperative than logical,
he broke out as related.

“Jamie,” continued Joel, too much accustomed to Mike's
violence to heed it, “it does seem to me a hardship to be
obliged to frequent a church of which a man's conscience
can't approve. Mr. Woods, though a native colonist, is an
Old England parson, and he has so many popish ways about
him, that I am under considerable concern of mind”—concern,
of itself, was not sufficiently emphatic for one of Joel's
sensitive feelings—“I am under considerable concern of
mind about the children. They sit under no other preaching;
and, though Lyddy and I do all we can to gainsay the
sermons, as soon as meetin' is out, some of it will stick.
You may worry the best Christian into idolatry and unbelief,
by parseverance and falsehood. Now that things look
so serious, too, in the colonies, we ought to be most careful.”

Jamie did not clearly understand the application of the
present state of the colonies, nor had he quite made up his
mind, touching the merits of the quarrel between parliament
and the Americans. As between the Stuarts and the House
of Hanover, he was for the former, and that mainly because
he thought them Scotch, and it was surely a good thing for
a Scotchman to govern England; but, as between the Old
countries and the New, he was rather inclined to think the
rights of the first ought to predominate; there being something
opposed to natural order, agreeably to his notions, in
permitting the reverse of this doctrine to prevail. As for
presbyterianism, however, even in the mitigated form of
New England church government, he deemed it to be so

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much better than episcopacy, that he would have taken up
arms, old as he was, for the party that it could be made to
appear was fighting to uphold the last. We have no wish
to mislead the reader. Neither of the persons mentioned,
Mike included, actually knew anything of the points in dispute
between the different sects, or churches, mentioned;
but only fancied themselves in possession of the doctrines,
traditions, and authorities connected with the subject. These
fancies, however, served to keep alive a discussion that soon
had many listeners; and never before, since his first ministration
in the valley, did Mr. Woods meet as disaffected a
congregation, as on this day.

The church of the Hutted Knoll, or, as the clergyman
more modestly termed it, the chapel, stood in the centre of
the meadows, on a very low swell of their surface, where a
bit of solid dry ground had been discovered, fit for such a
purpose. The principal object had been to make it central;
though some attention had been paid also to the picturesque.
It was well shaded with young elms, just then opening into
leaf; and about a dozen graves, principally of very young
children, were memorials of the mortality of the settlement.
The building was of stone, the work of Jamie Allen's own
hands, but small, square, with a pointed roof, and totally
without tower, or belfry. The interior was of unpainted
cherry, and through a want of skill in the mechanics, had
a cold and raw look, little suited to the objects of the structure.
Still, the small altar, the desk and the pulpit, and the
large, square, curtained pew of the captain, the only one the
house contained, were all well ornamented with hangings,
or cloth, and gave the place somewhat of an air of clerical
comfort and propriety. The rest of the congregation sat on
benches, with kneeling-boards before them. The walls were
plastered, and, a proof that parsimony had no connection
with the simple character of the building, and a thing almost
as unusual in America at that period as it is to-day in parts
of Italy, the chapel was entirely finished.

It has been said that the morning of the particular Sabbath
at which we have now arrived, was mild and balmy.
The sun of the forty-third degree of latitude poured out its
genial rays upon the valley, gilding the tender leaves of the
surrounding forest with such touches of light as are best

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known to the painters of Italy. The fineness of the weather
brought nearly all the working people of the settlement to
the chapel quite an hour before the ringing of its little bell,
enabling the men to compare opinions afresh, on the subject
of the political troubles of the times, and the women to
gossip about their children.

On all such occasions, Joel was a principal spokesman,
nature having created him for a demagogue, in a small way;
an office for which education had in no degree unfitted him.
As had been usual with him, of late, he turned the discourse
on the importance of having correct information of what
was going on, in the inhabited parts of the country, and of
the expediency of sending some trustworthy person on such
an errand. He had frequently intimated his own readiness
to go, if his neighbours wished it.

“We're all in the dark here,” he remarked, “and might
stay so to the end of time, without some one to be relied on,
to tell us the news. Major Willoughby is a fine man”—
Joel meant morally, not physically—“but he's a king's
officer, and nat'rally feels inclined to make the best of things
for the rig'lars. The captain, too, was once a soldier, himself,
and his feelin's turn, as it might be, unav'idably, to the
side he has been most used to. We are like people on a
desart island, out here in the wilderness—and if ships won't
arrive to tell us how matters come on, we must send one
out to l'arn it for us. I'm the last man at the Dam”—so
the oi polloi called the valley—“to say anything hard of
either the captain or his son; but one is English born, and
the other is English bred; and each will make a difference
in a man's feelin's.”

To this proposition the miller, in particular, assented;
and, for the twentieth time, he made some suggestion about
the propriety of Joel's going himself, in order to ascertain
how the land lay.

“You can be back by hoeing,” he added, “and have
plenty of time to go as far as Boston, should you wish to.”

Now, while the great events were in progress, which led
to the subversion of British power in America, an undercurrent
of feeling, if not of incidents, was running in this
valley, which threatened to wash away the foundations of
the captain's authority. Joel and the miller, if not

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downright conspirators, had hopes, calculations, and even projects
of their own, that never would have originated with men of
the same class, in another state of society; or, it might
almost be said, in another part of the world. The sagacity
of the overseer had long enabled him to foresee that the
issue of the present troubles would be insurrection; and a
sort of instinct which some men possess for the strongest
side, had pointed out to him the importance of being a patriot.
The captain, he little doubted, would take part with
the crown, and then no one knew what might be the consequences.
It is not probable that Joel's instinct for the
strongest side predicted the precise confiscations that subsequently
ensued, some of which had all the grasping lawlessness
of a gross abuse of power; but he could easily foresee
that if the owner of the estate should be driven off, the property
and its proceeds, probably for a series of years, would
be very apt to fall under his own control and management.
Many a patriot has been made by anticipations less brilliant
than these; and as Joel and the miller talked the matter
over between them, they had calculated all the possible
emolument of fattening beeves, and packing pork for hostile
armies, or isolated frontier posts, with a strong gusto for
the occupation. Should open war but fairly commence, and
could the captain only be induced to abandon the Knoll, and
take refuge within a British camp, everything might be made
to go smoothly, until settling day should follow a peace. At
that moment, non est inventus would be a sufficient answer
to a demand for any balance.

“They tell me,” said Joel, in an aside to the miller, “that
law is as good as done with in the Bay colony, already; and
you know if the law has run out there, it will quickly come
to an end, here. York never had much character for law.”

“That's true, Joel; then you know the captain himself
is the only magistrate hereabout; and, when he is away,
we shall have to be governed by a committee of safety, or
something of that natur'.”

“A committee of safety will be the thing!”

“What is a committee of safety, Joel?” demanded the
miller, who had made far less progress in the arts of the
demagogue than his friend, and who, in fact, had much less

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native fitness for the vocation; “I have heer'n tell of them
regulations, but do not rightly understand 'em, a'ter all.”

“You know what a committee is?” asked Joel, glancing
inquiringly at his friend.

“I s'pose I do—it means men's takin' on themselves the
trouble and care of public business.”

“That's it—now a committee of safety means a few of
us, for instance, having the charge of the affairs of this
settlement, in order to see that no harm shall come to anything,
especially to the people.”

“It would be a good thing to have one, here. The carpenter,
and you, and I might be members, Joel.”

“We'll talk about it, another time. The corn is just
planted, you know; and it has got to be hoed twice, and
topped, before it can be gathered. Let us wait and see how
things come on at Boston.”

While this incipient plot was thus slowly coming to a
head, and the congregation was gradually collecting at the
chapel, a very different scene was enacting in the Hut.
Breakfast was no sooner through, than Mrs. Willoughby
retired to her own sitting-room, whither her son was shortly
summoned to join her. Expecting some of the inquiries
which maternal affection might prompt, the major proceeded
to the place named with alacrity; but, on entering the room,
to his great surprise he found Maud with his mother. The
latter seemed grave and concerned, while the former was
not entirely free from alarm. The young man glanced inquiringly
at the young lady, and he fancied he saw tears
struggling to break out of her eyes.

“Come hither, Robert”—said Mrs. Willoughby, pointing
to a chair at her side—with a gravity that struck her son as
unusual—“I have brought you here to listen to one of the
old-fashioned lectures, of which you got so many when a
boy.”

“Your advice, my dear mother—or even your reproofs—
would be listened to with far more reverence and respect,
now, than I fear they were then,” returned the major, seating
himself by the side of Mrs. Willoughby, and taking one
of her hands, affectionately, in both his own. “It is only
in after-life that we learn to appreciate the tenderness and
care of such a parent as you have been; though what I

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have done lately, to bring me in danger of the guard-house,
I cannot imagine. Surely you cannot blame me for adhering
to the crown, at a moment like this!”

“I shall not interfere with your conscience in this matter,
Robert; and my own feelings, American as I am by birth
and family, rather incline me to think as you think. I have
wished to see you, my son, on a different business.”

“Do not keep me in suspense, mother; I feel like a prisoner
who is waiting to hear his charges read. What have
I done?”

“Nay, it is rather for you to tell me what you have done.
You cannot have forgotten, Robert, how very anxious I have
been to awaken and keep alive family affection, among my
children; how very important both your father and I have
always deemed it; and how strongly we have endeavoured
to impress this importance on all your minds. The tie of
family, and the love it ought to produce, is one of the sweetest
of all our earthly duties. Perhaps we old people see its value
more than you young; but, to us, the weakening of it seems
like a disaster only a little less to be deplored than death.”

“Dearest—dearest mother! What can you—what do
you mean?—What can I—what can Maud have to do with
this?”

“Do not your consciences tell you, both? Has there not
been some misunderstanding—perhaps a quarrel—certainly
a coldness between you? A mother has a quick and a jealous
eye; and I have seen, for some time, that there is not
the old confidence, the free natural manner, in either of
you, that there used to be, and which always gave your
father and me so much genuine happiness. Speak, then,
and let me make peace between you.”

Robert Willoughby would not have looked at Maud, at
that moment, to have been given a regiment; as for Maud,
herself, she was utterly incapable of raising her eyes from
the floor. The former coloured to the temples, a proof of
consciousness, his mother fancied; while the latter's face
resembled ivory, as much as flesh and blood.

“If you think, Robert,” continued Mrs. Willoughby,
“that Maud has forgotten you, or shown pique for any little
former misunderstanding, during your last absence, you do
her injustice. No one has done as much for you, in the

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way of memorial; that beautiful sash being all her own
work, and made of materials purchased with her own pocketmoney.
Maud loves you truly, too; for, whatever may be
the airs she gives herself, while you are together, when
absent, no one seems to care more for your wishes and
happiness, than that very wilful and capricious girl.”

“Mother!—mother!” murmured Maud, burying her face
in both her hands.

Mrs. Willoughby was woman in all her feelings, habits
and nature. No one would have been more keenly alive
to the peculiar sensibilities of her sex, under ordinary circumstances,
than herself; but she was now acting and
thinking altogether in her character of a mother; and so
long and intimately had she regarded the two beings before
her, in that common and sacred light, that it would have
been like the dawn of a new existence for her, just then, to
look upon them as not really akin to each other.

“I shall not, nor can I treat either of you as a child,”
she continued, “and must therefore appeal only to your
own good sense, to make a peace. I know it can be nothing
serious; but, it is painful to me to see even an affected coldness
among my children. Think, Maud, that we are on the
point of a war, and how bitterly you would regret it, should
any accident befall your brother, and your memory not be
able to recall the time passed among us, in his last visit, with
entire satisfaction.”

The mother's voice trembled; but tears no longer struggled
about the eyelids of Maud. Her face was pale as
death, and it seemed as if every ordinary fountain of sorrow
were dried up.

“Dear Bob, this is too much!” she said eagerly, though
in husky tones. “Here is my hand—nay, here are both.
Mother must not think this cruel charge is—can be true.”

The major arose, approached his sister, and impressed a
kiss on her cold cheek. Mrs. Willoughby smiled at these
tokens of amity, and the conversation continued in a less
earnest manner.

“This is right, my children,” said the single-hearted
Mrs. Willoughby, whose sensitive maternal love saw nothing
but the dreaded consequences of weakened domestic
affections; “and I shall be all the happier for having

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witnessed it. Young soldiers, Maud, who are sent early from
their homes, have too many inducements to forget them and
those they contain; and we women are so dependent on the
love of our male friends, that it is wisdom in us to keep
alive all the earlier ties as long and as much as possible.”

“I am sure, dearest mother,” murmured Maud, though
in a voice that was scarcely audible, “I shall be the last to
wish to weaken this family tie. No one can feel a warmer—
a more proper—a more sisterly affection for Robert, than I
do—he was always so kind to me when a child—and so
ready to assist me—and so manly—and so everything that
he ought to be — it is surprising you should have fancied
there was any coldness between us!”

Major Willoughby even bent forward to listen, so intense
was his curiosity to hear what Maud said; a circumstance
which, had she seen it, would probably have closed her lips.
But her eyes were riveted on the floor, her cheeks were
bloodless, and her voice so low, that nothing but the breathless
stillness he observed, would have allowed the young
man to hear it, where he sat.

“You forget, mother”—rejoined the major, satisfied that
the last murmur had died on his ears—“that Maud will
probably be transplanted into another family, one of these
days, where we, who know her so well, and have reason to
love her so much, can only foresee that she will form new,
and even stronger ties than any that accident may have
formed for her here.”

“Never—never”—exclaimed Maud, fervently—“I can
never love any as well as I love those who are in this
house.”

The relief she wanted stopped her voice, and, bursting
into tears, she threw herself into Mrs. Willoughby's arms,
and sobbed like a child. The mother now motioned to her
son to quit the room, while she remained herself to soothe
the weeping girl, as she so often had done before, when
overcome by her infantile, or youthful griefs. Throughout
this interview, habit and single-heartedness so exercised
their influence, that the excellent matron did not, in the most
remote manner, recollect that her son and Maud were not
natural relatives. Accustomed herself to see the latter every
day, and to think of her, as she had from the moment when

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she was placed in her arms, an infant of a few weeks old,
the effect that separation might produce on others, never
presented itself to her mind. Major Willoughby, a boy of
eight when Maud was received in the family, had known
from the first her precise position; and it was perhaps morally
impossible that he should not recall the circumstance in
their subsequent intercourse; more especially as school,
college, and the army, had given him so much leisure to
reflect on such things, apart from the influence of family
habits; while it was to be expected that a consequence of his
own peculiar mode of thinking on this subject, would be to
produce something like a sympathetic sentiment in the bosom
of Maud. Until within the last few years, however, she had
been so much of a child herself, and had been treated so
much like a child by the young soldier, that it was only
through a change in him, that was perceptible only to herself,
and which occurred when he first met her grown into
womanhood, that she alone admitted any feelings that were
not strictly to be referred to sisterly regard. All this, nevertheless,
was a profound mystery to every member of the
family, but the two who were its subjects; no other thoughts
than the simplest and most obvious, ever suggesting themselves
to the minds of the others.

In half an hour, Mrs. Willoughby had quieted all Maud's
present troubles, and the whole family left the house to repair
to the chapel. Michael, though he had no great reverence
for Mr. Wood's ministrations, had constituted himself sexton,
an office which had devolved on him in consequence of his
skill with the spade. Once initiated into one branch of this
duty, he had insisted on performing all the others; and it
was sometimes a curious spectacle to see the honest fellow,
busy about the interior of the building, during service, literally
stopping one of his ears with a thumb, with a view,
while he acquitted himself of what he conceived to be temporal
obligations, to exclude as much heresy as possible.
One of his rules was to refuse to commence tolling the bell,
until he saw Mrs. Willoughby and her daughter, within a
reasonable distance of the place of worship; a rule that had
brought about more than one lively discussion between himself
and the leveling-minded, if not heavenly-minded Joel

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Strides. On the present occasion, this simple process did
not pass altogether without a dispute.

“Come, Mike; it's half-past ten; the people have been
waiting about the meetin' 'us, some time; you should open
the doors, and toll the bell. People can't wait, for ever,
for anybody; not even for your church.”

“Then let 'em just go home, ag'in, and come when
they 're called. Because, the ould women, and the young
women, and the childer, and the likes o' them, wishes to
scandalize their fellow cr'atures, Christians I will not call
'em, let 'em mate in the mill, or the school-house, and not
come forenent a church on sich a business as that. Is it
toll the bell, will I, afore the Missus is in sight?—No—not
for a whole gineration of ye, Joel; and every one o' them,
too, a much likelier man than ye bees yerself.”

“Religion is no respecter of persons”—returned the philosophical
Joel. “Them that likes masters and mistresses
may have them, for all me; but it riles me to meet with
meanness.”

“It does!” cried Mike, looking up at his companion, with
a very startling expression of wonder. “If that be true, ye
must be in a mighty throubled state, most of the live-long
day, ye must!”

“I tell you, Michael O'Hearn, religion is no respecter of
persons. The Lord cares jist as much for me, as he does
for captain Willoughby, or his wife, or his son, or his darters,
or anything that is his.”

“Divil burn me, now, Joel, if I believe that!” again cried
Mike, in his dogmatic manner. “Then that understands
knows the difference between mankind, and I'm sure it can
be no great sacret to the Lord, when it is so well known to
a poor fellow like myself. There's a plenthy of fellowcr'atures
that has a mighty good notion of their own excellence,
but when it comes to r'ason and thruth, it's no very
great figure ye all make, in proving what ye say. This
chapel is the master's, if chapel the heretical box can be
called, and yonder bell was bought wid his money; and the
rope is his; and the hands that mane to pull it, is his; and
so there's little use in talking ag'in rocks, and ag'in minds
that's made up even harder than rocks, and to spare.”

This settled the matter. The bell was not tolled until

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Mrs. Willoughby, and her daughters, had got fairly through
the still unprotected gateway of the stockade, although the
recent discussion of political questions had so far substituted
discontent for subordination in the settlement, that more
than half of those who were of New England descent, had
openly expressed their dissatisfaction at the delay. Mike,
however, was as unmoved as the little chapel itself, refusing
to open the door until the proper moment had arrived, according
to his own notion of the fitness of things. He then
proceeded to the elm, against which the little bell was hung,
and commenced tolling it with as much seriousness as if the
conveyer of sounds had been duly consecrated.

When the family from the Hut entered the chapel, all the
rest of the congregation were in their customary seats. This
arrival, however, added materially to the audience, Great
Smash and Little Smash, the two Plinys, and some five or
six coloured children, between the ages of six and twelve,
following in the train of their master. For the blacks, a
small gallery had been built, where they could sit apart, a
proscribed, if not a persecuted race. Little did the Plinys
or the Smashes, notwithstanding, think of this. Habit had
rendered their situation more than tolerable, for it had
created notions and usages that would have rendered them
uncomfortable, in closer contact with the whites. In that
day, the two colours never the together, by any accident;
the eastern castes being scarcely more rigid in the observance
of their rules, than the people of America were on this
great point. The men who would toil together, joke together,
and pass their days in familiar intercourse, would not
sit down at the same board. There seemed to be a sort of
contamination, according to the opinions of one of these
castes, in breaking bread with the other. This prejudice often
gave rise to singular scenes, more especially in the households
of those who habitually laboured in company with
their slaves. In such families, it not unfrequently happened
that a black led the councils of the farm. He might be seen
seated by the fire, uttering his opinions dogmatically, reasoning
warmly against his own master, and dealing out his
wisdom ex cathedra, even while he waited, with patient
humility, when he might approach, and satisfy his hunger,
after all of the other colour had quitted the table.

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Mr. Woods was not fortunate in the selection of his subject,
on the occasion of which we are writing. There had
been so much personal activity, and so much political discussion
during the past week, as to prevent him from writing
a new sermon, and of course he was compelled to fall back
on the other end of the barrel. The recent arguments inclined
him to maintain his own opinions, and he chose a
discourse that he had delivered to the garrison of which he
had last been chaplain. To this choice he had been enticed
by the text, which was, “Render unto Cæsar the things
that are Cæsar's,” a mandate that would be far more palatable
to an audience composed of royal troops, than to one
which had become a good deal disaffected by the arts and
arguments of Joel Strides and the miller. Still, as the sermon
contained a proper amount of theological truisms, and
had a sufficiency of general orthodoxy to cover a portion
of its political bearing, it gave far more dissatisfaction to a
few of the knowing, than to the multitude. To own the
truth, the worthy priest was so much addicted to continuing
his regimental and garrison course of religious instruction,
that his ordinary listeners would scarcely observe this tendency
to loyalty; though it was far different with those who
were eagerly looking for causes of suspicion and denunciation,
in the higher quarters.

“Well,” said Joel, as he and the miller, followed by their
respective families, proceeded towards the mill, where the
household of the Strides' were to pass the remainder of the
day, “well, this is a bold sermon for a minister to preach
in times like these! I kind o' guess, if Mr. Woods was down
in the Bay, `render unto Cæsar the things that are Cæsars,'
wouldn't be doctrine to be so quietly received by every congregation.
What's your notion about that, Miss Strides?”

Miss Strides thought exactly as her husband thought,
and the miller and his wife were not long in chiming in
with her, accordingly. The sermon furnished material for
conversation throughout the remainder of the day, at the
mill, and divers conclusions were drawn from it, that were
ominous to the preacher's future comfort and security.

Nor did the well-meaning parson entirely escape comment
in the higher quarters.

“I wish, Woods, you had made choice of some other

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subject,” observed the captain, as he and his friend walked
the lawn together, in waiting for a summons to dinner,
“In times like these, one cannot be too careful of the political
notions he throws out; and to own the truth to you, I
am more than half inclined to think that Cæsar is exercising
quite as much authority, in these colonies, as justly falls to
his share.”

“Why, my dear captain, you have heard this very sermon
three or four times already, and you have more than
once mentioned it with commendation!”

“Ay, but that was in garrison, where one is obliged to
teach subordination. I remember the sermon quite well,
and a very good one it was, twenty years since, when you
first preached it; but—”

“I apprehend, captain Willoughby, that `tempora mutantur,
et, nos mutamus in illis.' That the mandates and
maxims of the Saviour are far beyond the mutations and
erring passions of mortality. His sayings are intended for
all times.”

“Certainly, as respects their general principles and governing
truths. But no text is to be interpreted without
some reference to circumstances. All I mean is, that the
preaching which might be very suitable to a battalion of
His Majesty's Fortieth might be very unsuitable for the
labourers of the Hutted Knoll; more especially so soon
after what I find is called the Battle of Lexington.”

The summons to dinner cut short the discourse, and probably
prevented a long, warm, but friendly argument.

That afternoon and evening, captain Willoughby and his
son had a private and confidential discourse. The former
advised the major to rejoin his regiment without delay,
unless he were prepared to throw up his commission and
take sides with the colonists, altogether. To this the young
soldier would not listen, returning to the charge, in the hope
of rekindling the dormant flame of his father's loyalty.

The reader is not to suppose that captain Willoughby's
own mind was absolutely made up to fly into open rebellion.
Far from it. He had his doubts and misgivings on the
subjects of both principles and prudence, but he inclined
strongly to the equity of the demands of the Americans.
Independance, or separation, if thought of at all in 1775,

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entered into the projects of but very few; the warmest wish
of the most ardent of the whigs of the colonies being directed
toward compromise, and a distinct recognition of their political
franchises. The events that followed so thickly were
merely the consequences of causes which, once set in motion,
soon attained an impetus that defied ordinary human
control. It was doubtless one of the leading incidents of
the great and mysterious scheme of Divine Providence for
the government of the future destinies of man, that political
separation should commence, in this hemisphere, at that
particular juncture, to be carried out, ere the end of a century,
to its final and natural conclusion.

But the present interview was less to debate the merits
of any disputed question, than to consult on the means of
future intercourse, and to determine on what was best to be
done at the present moment. After discussing the matter,
pro and con, it was decided that the major should quit the
Knoll the next day, and return to Boston, avoiding Albany
and those points of the country in which he would be most
exposed to detection. So many persons were joining the
American forces that were collecting about the besieged
town, that his journeying on the proper road would excite
no suspicion; and once in the American camp, nothing
would be easier than to find his way into the peninsula. All
this young Willoughby felt no difficulty in being able to
accomplish, provided he could get into the settlements without
being followed by information of his real character.
The period of spies, and of the severe exercise of martial-law,
was not yet reached; and all that was apprehended
was detention. Of the last, however, there was great danger;
positive certainly, indeed, in the event of discovery;
and major Willoughby had gleaned enough during his visit,
to feel some apprehensions of being betrayed. He regretted
having brought his servant with him; for the man was a
European, and by his dulness and speech might easily get
them both into difficulties. So serious, indeed, was this last
danger deemed by the father, that he insisted on Robert's
starting without the man, leaving the last to follow, on the
first suitable occasion.

As soon as this point was settled, there arose the question
of the proper guide. Although he distrusted the Tuscarora,

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captain Willoughby, after much reflection, came to the
opinion that it would be safer to make an ally of him, than
to give him an opportunity of being employed by the other
side. Nick was sent for, and questioned. He promised to
take the major to the Hudson, at a point between Lunenburg
and Kinderhook, where he would be likely to cross the river
without awakening suspicion; his own reward to depend on
his coming back to the Hutted Knoll with a letter from the
major, authorizing the father to pay him for his services.
This plan, it was conceived, would keep Nick true to his
faith, for the time being, at least.

Many other points were discussed between the father and
son, the latter promising if anything of importance occurred,
to find the means of communicating it to his friends at the
Knoll, while Farrel was to follow his master, at the end of
six weeks or two months, with letters from the family.
Many of the captain's old army-friends were now in situations
of authority and command, and he sent to them messages
of prudence, and admonitions to be moderate in their
views, which subsequent events proved were little regarded.
To general Gage he even wrote, using the precaution not to
sign the letter, though its sentiments were so much in favour
of the colonies, that had it been intercepted, it is most probable
the Americans would have forwarded the missive to
its direction.

These matters arranged, the father and son parted for the
night, some time after the house-clock had struck the hour
of twelve.

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