CHAPTER I.

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Pope was a good poet but a bad philosopher.
He says that “health, peace and competence,”
are all that can be necessary for a reasonable
man's happiness. He is mistaken. There are
many other things necessary. I shall mention
but one—the fulfilment of duty.

For some years before the breaking out of
the American Revolutionary War, the Reverend
Hezekiah Norwood possessed all these in
addition to some other ingredients, not necessary
to mention, that tend to sweeten the cup
of human enjoyment. He resided on the banks
of the Susquehanna, in one of the flourishing
settlements of Wyoming. Those settlements, at

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that time, constituted within themselves, a kind
of independent commonwealth, having a governor,
councils, and laws of their own making.
They formed the most western frontier of
white population, being separated from all other
abodes of civilization by an extensive and unopened
forest. Although the nearest neighbours
to the Indians, whose hostility was then
the source of so many calamities to such of our
hardy forefathers as ventured, like them, to
become the pioneers of the woods, their peaceable
and conciliating dispositions, together with
the prudent policy of the public measures
adopted in their intercourse with the neighbouring
tribes, gained them the confidence and
friendship of the savages, and more effectually
secured their safety and tranquillity than could
have been done by armed bands and fortifications.
They were a prudent people, however,
and did not altogether neglect the precaution
of erecting strong-holds; but in doing so, they
had the art not to excite the jealousy of their
fierce and revengeful neighbours.

The virtue, prosperity, and happiness of the
inhabitants of Wyoming, at that period, are
topics on which not only historians have delighted
to dwell, but from which poets have
drawn inspiration as from the only example, in
modern times, of a society flourishing in

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primeval innocence, and affording, in their unsophisticated
manners, upright morals, simple
habits, uniform hospitality, and patriarchal polity,
a pleasing image of the golden age! Separated,
as before observed, from the corrupting
influences of artificial society, and, at the
same time, elevated by education, habit, and
feeling, far above the ignorance, coarseness,
and barbarity of savage life, they seemed to
have adopted the virtues of both, without the
vices of either. Such, at least, is the picture
which historians have given us of these interesting
people. As for the poets, their views of
their innocence and happiness may be ascertained
from the following stanza of Campbell's
well known poem of “Gertrude of Wyoming.”

Mr. Norwood was the religious instructer of
a congregation whose members resided in one
of the most pleasant spots in this peaceful region.
The name of Wyoming was that of the whole
settlement, comprehending a considerable extent
of country on both sides of the

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Susquehanna; but, as it is one familiar to the public,
we shall, in this work, apply it also to the village
in which Mr. Norwood resided. This village
was situated on the western bank of the great
river, at the junction which it formed with a
small meandering stream, which, as the name
by which it is now known, is not very euphonous,
we shall call Sharon. On either side of
this stream, a gradually ascending ridge of forest-covered
hills arose about a mile apart, and
stretching from the river for about a mile and
a half, began to approach each other, until, at
the distance of nearly two miles, they were
separated only by the gap through which the
stream of Sharon flowed. It was on the northern
bank of this stream, at the western extremity
of the village, that Mr. Norwood's mansion
raised its modest, but tasteful front, embowered
amidst a grove of sycamores and poplars.

In the year 1776, at the time our history
commences, Mr. Norwood had been, for some
time, a widower. He was the father of only
one child, a daughter, named Agnes, now in
her eighteenth year. But such a daughter!—
She was in reality, as she was often called,
the Rose of Sharon. Every eye admired her
beauty; her goodness was the theme of every
tongue. She was refined, intelligent, and affable.
Her father, by both precept and exam

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tion or the longings of love? If not, how can
they render deformity, which is so great a bar
to these emotions, a satisfactory incumbrance?

Oh deformity! thou art an eternal source of
mortification to the soul that is touched with
any desire for eminence or happiness in this
world—thou art a perpetually tormenting fiend
to thy sensitive victim. Let those who have
never experienced the tortures of thy agonizing
presence, talk of the virtue of enduring thee
with patience, and recommend philosophy as
an antidote to the ever-gnawing griefs which
thou inflictest. They speak of things they
know not, and of sensations they cannot feel.
What worldly blessings can render him happy
who is cursed by thee? In vain shall health
smile, wealth glitter, or friendship sooth, if
thou, the everlasting memento of degradation,
the inseparable companion of internal sorrow,
layest thy vexatious burthen on the crushed
and wearied spirit. Often and often did Edward
Watson exert the energies of a vigorous mind
in resisting the despondency which his malconformation
perpetually forced upon his feelings;
and occasionally he seemed to gain the
victory. But it was only occasionally, and
for short periods. In his childhood he had borne
the scoff of his playmates, and endured the vexation
of being unable to vie with them in the

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fleetness or dexterity required for their pastimes.
His college years, indeed, were less
mortifying, as his competitions there did not
require bodily so much as mental exertions.
Yet even there his disfiguration was not without
its annoyances. On any occasion of public
display amidst the assembled youths of his
own age—in parties or processions, he experienced
an humbling sense of inferiority; and in
the hours of relaxing exercise, he felt as if he
were an outcast from their companionship—unfit
to mingle in their feats of strength or their
trials of agility.

These feelings rendered him averse from
mixing unnecessarily with society, or exposing
himself to the view of a numerous population.
After the death of his parents, he, therefore,
persuaded his sister to remove with him
from the populous neighbourhood of their birth,
near Hartford in Connecticut, to the retired
and fertile settlement of Wyoming, among the
colonists of which he had many relations who
had written him pressing invitations to reside
amongst them. He accordingly sold his
little property near Hartford, and, with his
sister, joining a small party of his neighbours,
whose views were directed to the same destination,
proceeded to Wyoming. Here he was
soon engaged in the successful pursuit of his
profession, and might have felt happy amidst

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a simple and benevolent people, by whom he
was respected and beloved, but for the influence
of the most pleasing and most irresistible
of passions. He loved; but he loved in silence
and despair; for when he reflected on his deformity,
he imagined that he never could be
blessed with a return of affection, ardent and
faithful as his own. The object of his passion
was faultlessly beautiful in features as well as in
symmetry of person. And could he, blemished
as he was, and “curtailed of nature's fair proportion,”
expect to elicit passion in the breast
of one so lovely—one whom many gallant and
brave and graceful youths, endowed with all
that could recommend them to a lady's eye,
loved with ardour and sued in vain. Could one
who was so perfect in the love-kindling graces
of the outward form as Agnes Norwood—for it
was she for whom he pined—cast her regard on
him who was unseemly even in his own
eyes? “It were vain to expect it,” he despondingly
sighed; “I dare not hazard an attempt
to win her. I now enjoy her friendship,
and her intimacy with my sister affords me
often the high blessing of her society. Shall
I forfeit this, and expose myself to scorn and
mockery, by an imprudent disclosure of my
passion? It would be vanity—it would be
madness, it would be disappointment,

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humiliation and—despair. She would reject—she would
avoid—she would despise me.”

Though his heart was thus torn with a secret
and hopeless passion, and preyed upon by
the melancholy reflections which had embittered
his whole life, yet to the public eye
he appeared neither morose nor fretful. His
repinings were confined to his own bosom.
His sister, indeed, had long known the extent
of his early and irremediable sorrows; and suspicions
of the additional unhappiness which he
now endured, had sprung up in her mind; and
her anxious, but silent observations, soon ripened
them into certainty. She loved her brother
with the tenderest affection. She sympathised
in his sufferings, and keenly felt all his woes.
But she never alluded to them. Her good
sense told her that they shrunk from observation,
and were of too delicate a texture to bear
the gentle touch of even a sister's kindness.
Her chief study was to render agreeable to him,
the enjoyments of home, and to sooth him with
those daily comforts which the female manager
of our household concerns alone can supply.
He was not unobservant of these attentions.
He felt grateful for them. They endeared
his sister to him. They made him feel that
the world was not a desolation; that it contained
at least one being who loved him, and was

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solicitous for his happiness. He thanked Heaven
for the blessing, and felt that his existence
was not altogether in vain, while it contributed
to the support and satisfaction of one so affectionate
and worthy of his regard. On her
account he pursued his calling with industry,
and assumed a cheerfulness in society little
accordant with the internal state of his feelings.

Mary Watson was not a beauty in the pictorial
sense of the word. But she was far from
being disagreeable to look upon. Benevolence
and good nature ever shone from her countenance.
Her features were sufficiently regular,
but they were marked by some traces of the
small pox; and her complexion, though indicating
health, boasted but little of the delicate
intermixture of the rose and the lily which animated
the blooming countenance of her friend
Agnes Norwood.

CHAPTER II.

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In the year 1776, the tempest of civil war
gathered fearfully over this continent, and
frowned with peculiar wrath on the region of
New England. The cause of American liberty
had aroused that section of the country to arms,
even before the sister colonies had determined
on a union of strength to expel foreign dictation
and secure independence. But on a question
so important, one involving so many conflicting
opinions, feelings, and interests as that
which then agitated the country, it could not
be expected that there would be unanimity of
sentiment and action. Many opposed, even
by force of arms, the cause of their country,
and the names of Whig and Tory became the
distinguishing appellations of parties that were
more fiercely arrayed against each other, than
the factions so called had ever been in Great
Britain. The tories of New England had exerted
themselves very early in the struggle.
But they constituted, although a bold, a very
small minority in that patriotic section, and

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were soon subdued. Among the most troublesome
and dangerous of the bands into which
they formed themselves, was one commanded
by an enterprising and daring youth of Connecticut,
named Butler. His father had held a
lucrative and honourable office under the British
government, and had been one of the first
to assemble all who were attached to the old
regime, and raise the standard of Toryism.
His excessive zeal rendered him imprudent,
and in a rash attack upon a party of the patriots
he was taken prisoner, tried for treason, and
executed. His son, John, already mentioned,
assumed the command of his party, and vowed
revenge upon the Whigs for the destruction of
his father. He was well qualified to be the
leader of a desperate gang. Intrepid and fearless,
but wily and sagacious, he was equally
capable of contriving stratagems and of performing
exploits. Unscrupulous, unprincipled,
and fruitful in expedients, with wonderful celerity
he could retrieve the most disastrous
mischances; and often when his enemies supposed
that his power of doing mischief was
annihilated, he would suddenly come upon
them with renewed force and fury, and make
them feel that his arm was as strong, and his
heart as relentless as ever. His personal qualities,
as well as those of his mind, fitted him

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well to be a leader of desperate men engaged
in a marauding warfare against the recognised
authorities of the land. At once agile and
athletic, and of vigorous health, he was capable
of enduring any fatigue, and sustaining every
privation to which the adventurous and dangerous
courses he pursued so frequently exposed
him. He had also an air of dignity and
loftiness in his appearance, which contributed
much to secure him the complete ascendency
he possessed over his followers.

Many and terrible were the slaughters, the
burnings, and the desolations committed by
Butler and his guerilla band on the fairest portions
of Connecticut. His name soon became
so terrible, that rewards were offered for his
apprehension, and the militia of the country
made every effort to effect his destruction. He
was at length taken, carried to New Haven,
and condemned to the same fate his father had
borne, a fate which he had so cruelly avenged,
and so amply deserved. But he died not.
Love saved him. Oh! what is so faithful!
what is so energetic! what is so precious to
man as woman's love! Isabella Austin loved
the traitor, although she approved not the treason,
for her father's family were Whigs. She
deceived his gaoler—she procured admission to
the convict; and the same stratagem which

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afterwards saved the life of the celebrated La
Vallette, now saved that of John Butler.

Uriah Austin, the father of his deliverer,
and his family, with some other families in
the neighbourhood, were then preparing to fly
from the war-scourged plains of New England,
in search of repose and safety in the valley of
Wyoming. By the entreaties of his daughter,
and influenced by his own feelings of compassion,
Mr. Austin was prevailed upon to grant
shelter and protection to the fugitive whose
principles and conduct he reprobated, but who
now threw his life into his hands and assumed
the mask of penitence, professing his desire to
accompany his protectors to the country of
Wyoming, where some of his relatives were
already settled, and where he solemnly pledged
himself to lead a life of peace. The good
hearted Mr. Austin consented, and even promised,
in the event of his continued amendment
for a length of time sufficient to prove its
sincerity, to consent to his union with his
daughter.

It was early in the month of May, 1776, on
a day beautiful and serene as the unclouded sun
in spring ever illuminated, that a company of
travellers, with their wives and children, numbering
altogether about fifty persons, were seen
pursuing their way slowly along the right bank

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of the Susquehanna in the direction of the village
of Wyoming. They were accompanied
by a numerous drove of cattle, and about a dozen
teams, to which were attached large wagons
laden with all the requisites of household comfort.
Interspersed among these, at irregular
distances, a number of smaller vehicles, chiefly
gigs and dearborns, bore along the females and
the children, the aged and the infirm of the
party. In advance of these, two active young
men, armed, as if for the chace, with rifles and
hunting knives, pursued their way on foot at
a much brisker rate than the rest of the company.
These, aided by a couple of pointers,
were on the look-out for game, as the wild
deer and the wild pigeons were then abundant
in the woods. Of the latter they had made
considerable prey, when, considering that they
were now some miles separated from their
friends, they sat down on a bank that overlooked
the river, at a turning of the road, to
await their approach.

The impressive stillness of undisturbed nature
was around them. The river lay in a
smooth and glittering sheet, like an immense
mirror, beneath them, while a sombre forest
stretched far beyond it, whose tall tops seemed
to touch the heavens at the verge of the
horizon. Behind them at a very short

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distance, an oak-bearing mountain, one of those
that separated the surrounding country into so
many fruitful and pleasant valleys, raised its
lofty summit to the skies, as if it would penetrate
the secrets of the elements above.

“How solemn is the deep tranquillity of the
magnificent scene now before us!” said Henry
Austin to his companion, John Butler, the
fugitive from justice, with whom the reader is
already acquainted. Henry was the only son
of Uriah Austin who had afforded Butler his
protection, and the only brother of Isabella, who
had saved the life of that offender. He was at
this time little more than twenty years of age;
warm, open, and generous in his disposition,
and so zealous in the cause for which his country
was then struggling, that he panted to enrol
himself amongst her defenders; and but
for the commands of his father, whom he never
yet had ventured to disobey, he would, ere
this, have arrayed himself in their ranks.

Although Butler, in his heart, disliked the
patriotism of this brave youth, he was aware
of the imprudence of, at this time, expressing
his feelings; and, with profound dissimulation,
he continued to affect penitence for his former
conduct. In reply to Henry's remark, he said,
“this tranquillity forms a striking but pleasing
contrast to the scenes of tumult, strife, and

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blood, in which I was so lately engaged; but
which, thanks to your generous-hearted sister,
I now, from my very soul, abhor.”

“What is past cannot be recalled,” replied
Henry. “It is useless to grieve for it. When
penitence is sincere, it ought to procure the
forgiveness of error. But let us not allude to
the past when its memory is unpleasant. Let
it sink into forgetfulness; and let the future
engage our attention. Our country is, at this
moment, engaged in a tremendous struggle
against a powerful foe.—Oh! that I could fly
to her assistance.”

“Your enthusiasm is natural to your youth,”
said Butler, with an internal sneer. “But, my
dear Henry, you cannot be every where; and
you are now where your duty requires you,
comforting your parents in their old age, and
assisting them to find a place of safety from the
terrors of the times.”

“I should, indeed,” replied Henry, “be
unwilling to desert my friends in their present
circumstances. But the very repose of this
mighty solitude that surrounds us, recalls to
my mind, by the force of contrast, the agitations,
the dangers and the sufferings that now
shake our native land to its centre, and overwhelm
thousands of her sons and daughters in
irretrievable ruin. When I think of this, I

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cannot but sigh, that I am prevented from hastening
to her aid; and, if she conquers, to share
in her glory, or if she falls, to partake of her
calamities.”

“Your patriotism is sublime!” said Butler,
with an irony of tone which Henry's inexperience
of hypocrisy prevented him from observing.
“The profound silence of the present
scene is, indeed, strongly distinguished from
the sounding of the trumpet, the echoing of
the bugle, or the roaring of the cannon, and all
the other clamours of brazen-throated war, which
now roll their alarums along our sea-board,
from Boston to Savannah. But should we not
bless Providence, that those we love best are
so far removed from those clamours, and that
we are present to defend them from whatever
dangers may assail them?—for even here danger
may come.—Yes, Henry, tranquil as things
now are amidst this remote solitude, your martial
ardour may yet be needed even here. The
savage prowler, whose amity is so uncertain,
is in the vicinity.”

At this moment their attention was drawn
to a tall man of rather elderly appearance,
clothed in a wild mixture of savage and civilized
apparel, hurrying down the mountain behind
them. He soon approached, and addressed
them with hasty utterance—

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“White men—Christians—if ye have any
of the compassionate feelings which Christians
are said to possess, haste with me to rescue
from the cruelty of the savages, two young
females of your own nation, who have fallen
into their hands!”

“Lead on,” cried Henry, “we will follow;”
and Butler echoed the reply. The hill
was soon ascended; and about twenty minutes'
rapid race along its summit, brought them to a
steep and dangerous declivity, down a narrow
and scarcely traceable path of which their
aged conductor plunged with unhesitating alacrity,
and they as fearlessly followed. At
length, on coming to a tall and precipitous rock,
the base of which reached to the bottom of the
hill, their guide halted.

“Let us now proceed more cautiously,”
said he. Then in a stooping posture, so as to
be concealed by the brushwood, he preceded
them slowly and in silence for a short distance.
The brushwood then terminated, and afforded
them a clear view into a small glade in the
valley beneath them.

“My part is now done. What remains is
yours,” said the old man, and he disappeared.

Our adventurers beheld two white females
seated on a log; and three savages, two of
whom were employed at a large fire,

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apparently preparing food, while the third seemed
to act as sentinel over the females. A
short consultation soon determined the measures
they should adopt. They cautiously descended
a little lower among the brushwood,
till they approached near enough to take a sure
aim, when, both firing at the same moment,
two of the Indians fell dead. The third seized
a musket; but the assailants being sheltered by
a large tree, were secure from his fire, until
they had time to re-load. But before that had
taken place, another Indian, who had been
straggling a short distance from the group, appeared
upon the scene, armed also with a musket.
Instead of firing, however, the two savages
hastened from the glade to take shelter
behind the adjoining trees, which they reached
in safety.

Austin and Butler were now, for a space,
perplexed how to proceed. But the latter, being
experienced in every mode of bush-fighting,
soon determined on his measures. Instructing
his companion to remain stationary, with his
rifle displayed so as to deceive the Indians, he
cautiously approached them in a circuitous
direction, concealed by the woods, until he
gained a sure aim at one of them, whom he shot
through the heart. The other, with a loud
yell, darted from his station, exposing himself,

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in his flight, to the view of Austin, who fired,
but missed him. The savage, now that both
his antagonists had discharged their pieces,
rushed, with desparation, towards Austin, who,
in a few moments, found himself in contact
with his furious enemy, whom, with one blow
of his rifle, he felled to the earth. On account
of the tree which protected him, the Indian
had found no opportunity of firing at him until
he received the blow which disabled him
from firing with effect. The gun was discharged
in the scuffle, but its contents lodged
harmlessly in the side of the hill. In an instant,
however, the savage was again on his
feet. He was a powerful and active man, and
Austin would have had a dangerous and difficult
struggle to undergo, had not his antagonist
perceived the approach of Butler. One leap
carried him almost to the bottom of the hill,
where he plunged amidst the thickest of the
woods, and disappeared.

The attention of the victors was now directed
to the females, who had fled, with terror,
into the woods, at the commencement of the
combat. But the extreme thickness of the
undergrowth rendered it impossible for them
to proceed far. They, however, secreted themselves,
and anxiously awaited the issue of the

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contest. Finding that their deliverers were
victorious, they re-appeared to express their
gratitude and throw themselves on their protection.

But who can imagine the sensations of Henry
Austin, when he beheld so lovely a being as
Agnes Norwood, kneeling to return thanks to
Heaven for her deliverance, in effecting which
he had the happiness of being so instrumental.
Her amiable companion, Mary Watson, who
knelt beside her; his own companion and colleague
in the victory, Butler; the slain Indians;
the whole scene of woods and mountains, earth
and the heavens, that surrounded him, all—all
were forgotten, or rather extinguished in the
absorbing sensation of that enrapturing gaze
with which he beheld her. And she, when
her grateful outpourings to Heaven were finished,
and rising to salute him, for the first time
noticed his ardent gaze, and surveyed his generous
countenance—she, too, felt as if there was
none but him in the world.—From that moment,
indeed, they became all the world to
each other. On that spot, and in that moment,
love exerted his supremacy over two youthful
hearts as pure, as fervent, and as faithful as
ever beat in human bosoms. It is true, they
were entire strangers; they knew nothing of

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each other; and yet they felt as if they, for the
first time, beheld beauty and perfection, of
whose existence they had been long aware,
but which had never before been presented to
them in a vision so full of truth, blessedness,
and love.

CHAPTER III.

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The outrage upon Miss Norwood and her
friend, of which we have been speaking, was
the first that had been committed by the Indians,
on any of the inhabitants of Wyoming,
for many years. It was, therefore, totally unexpected,
and threw the whole district into the
utmost consternation. It was caused by the
intestine commotion which then agitated the
whole continent. It was one of the remote
heavings of that might commotion which effected
such a change in the destinies of man—
the American Revolution. A crisis was then
taking place in the fortunes of the western
world, and such a one as was not to be accomplished
without a violence, which shook the
fabric of society, and was felt at the most extreme
verge of civilization.

The outrage we are now considering, was
excited by some fugitive tories from New
England, who had taken refuge among the savages.
Its origin was, in truth, closely

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conneeted with the affairs of Butler, although, ignorant
of the circumstance, he was so instrumental
in defeating and avenging it. His prosecutors,
the Whigs of New Haven, had many
relations among the settlers of Wyoming. In
revenge, therefore, for the condemnation passed
upon him, which it was not doubted would
be executed, as well as in resentment of the
patriotic principles which predominated in
the settlement, some of his gang, after its dispersion
in Connecticut, fled to the country of
the Mohawk Indians, and exerted every artifice
to inflame them against the settlers. The
Mohawks were ready enough to hearken to
these instigations, not only on account of their
desire for plunder, but also of some claims
which they had to a portion of the lands occupied
by the settlement.

Their chiefs, however, would not rashly engage
in such a war. The neighbouring whites,
with whom they had long lived on peaceable
terms, had given them no recent cause of offence.
Besides, in the quarrel between the government
of Britain and the colonies, they believed that
their wisest course would be to remain neutral.
Old resentment against the colonies, however,
operated in their minds. They had not forgotten
the usurpation of their lands, and the exterminating
wars so frequently waged against

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their race. While, therefore, they refused as
a nation to commit any act of hostility, they
permitted it to be understood that they would
not too strictly scrutinize the conduct of any
individuals of their tribe who might join the
tories in their depredations on the whigs, or
undertake of themselves, any enterprise against
the frontier settlements. In consequence of
this tacit permission, many of the more adventurous
Indians began in small parties to harass
the colonists for the purposes of plunder or revenge.
The seizure of Agnes Norwood and
her companion, Mary Watson, the issue of
which has been narrated, was the first of a series
of outrages which the inhabitants of Wyoming
were destined to endure from the spirit
of hostility thus awakened in the minds of
the savages. The suggestion of one Silas
Bateman, a zealous partizan of Butler, was the
immediate cause of this outrage. He applied
himself to a half-breed Indian of a daring and
ferocious character, who possessed great influence
among the Mohawks. This man's name,
which has since become infamous in history,
was Brandt. He had, for some time past, harboured
much animosity against the people of
Wyoming, and particularly against Dr. Watson,
of whose character the reader is already
apprised. This arose from the following incident.

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About two years before the present adventure,
Brandt had accompanied a trading party
of his tribe to Wyoming. While there, in a
fit of intoxication, he quarrelled with one of
the inhabitants, whom he wounded with a
knife, so dangerously, that recovery was not
expected. Brandt was arrested, and the evidence
of Dr. Watson, who had witnessed the
affray, was decisive against him. He was convicted;
but as the person whom he wounded,
had not died, he was only sentenced to some
months imprisonment, a punishment to which
the leaders of his tribe gave their consent, acknowledging
it to be just. Brandt, however,
considered himself disgraced, and resented it
exceedingly. Before half the term of his sentence
had transpired, he broke from prison
and escaped; his bosom glowing with revenge
against the whole of the population of Wyoming,
but particularly against Dr. Watson, whom
he looked upon as the principal author of his
disgrace.

He was, therefore, a willing listener to the
suggestions of Bateman, and a ready instrument
in his hands, to execute any enterprise
of violence against the objects of his resentment.
Accordingly, as soon as he understood
that the chiefs of his tribe would be willing to
overlook whatever outrage he might commit

[figure description] Page 036.[end figure description]

upon the whites, he, in conjunction with three
of his boldest and most zealous confederates,
undertook the enterprise which, as we have
seen, terminated so disastrously for his party,
he himself being the only one that escaped.
His chief object was the destruction of Dr.
Watson. But in this he was disappointed, the
intended victim happening to be from home at
the time of the attack. The doctor's house being
situated in the outskirts of the village, was
easily assailed; and the attack was made at a
late hour in the evening, when the assailants
supposed there was little danger of alarming
the inhabitants before the completion of their
design. Unhappily for Agnes Norwood, she
happened to be on a visit to her friend at the
time the marauders entered the house. The
only other inmates were a male and a female
servant. The former in attempting to resist
the entrance of the savages, was killed; the
latter escaped by a back door, and hastened to
alarm the village. The savages perceived this,
and knowing there was no time to plunder or
destroy any of the property, they seized the
terrified Agnes and Mary, stiffled their cries
by gagging them, and carried them off. The
direction of their flight was not known to any
of the villagers, and although an active pursuit
was soon commenced, it was in vain. But

[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]

Providence sent deliverance to the captives from
another quarter. An old man, of singular habits,
and mysterious conduct, usually known
by the name of the “Hermit of the Woods,”
made his haunts in a secluded and rugged valley
some miles distant. Here, the day following
the outrage, he discovered the savages,
with their captives, encamped for the purpose
of rest and refreshment. Having, from the
arrangements they were making, satisfied himself
that they intended remaining there for the
night, he set off with the design of apprising
the people of Wyoming, when, on his way,
he met with Austin and Butler, as before
stated.

On the return of Agnes and Mary under
the protection of their deliverers, to their disconsolate
friends, the joy of the inhabitants of
Wyoming may be easier imagined than expressed.
The sincerest gratitude towards their
deliverers pervaded every bosom. Austin and
Butler became favourites throughout the whole
settlement. The toryism and late misconduct
of the latter, though they were universally
known, were universally forgiven. His conversion
from error was considered sincere;
and, whatever had been his guilt, it was amply
atoned for by the important service he had
now rendered. As for Austin, there was no

[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]

drawback upon the esteem in which he was
held. The arrival of his friends was hailed as
a valuable acquisition, which, in truth, it was,
to the strength and resources of the colony.

It may be imagined that among those who
felt most gratitude for the services, and esteem
for the virtues, of Henry Austin, was to be
found the father of Agnes Norwood. The fervour
with which he strained his hand to his
heart when, with tears of joy, he thanked him
for the preservation of his daughter, imparted
to Henry's feelings a thrill of delight that would
have amply repaid, a thousand-fold the degree
of danger he encountered in the performance of
that happy achievement. Butler, too, received
from Mr. Norwood the thanks which he deserved.
But his experienced eye perceived
the superior fervour with which the reverend
gentleman, perhaps unconsciously, addressed
his companion. He also observed the looks
which spoke a feeling much warmer than the
warmest gratitude, that brightened the countenance
of the lovely Agnes, whenever she would
rest her eyes on the happy Henry. The fiend
of jealousy, from that moment, seized upon the
depraved spirit of Butler. He began to hate
Henry; and forgetful of the obligation he owed
his sister Isabella, and the impassioned vows
he had often pledged to her, he began even to

[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]

dislike her. A new and fiercer flame, inspired
by the superior charms of Agnes, had arisen
in his breast. But he was an adept in deception,
and had the art to conceal the change in his
feelings, and even to conduct himself in such
a manner as to gain upon the esteem of those he
hated. He had several very influential relations
in the colony; one of whom, a cousin, named
Zebulon Butler, with whom he chiefly resided,
was so popular, that he was, shortly after this
period, elected commander of the small army
which the inhabitants raised for their protection
from any future aggression of the Indians.
This circumstance had, for a time, some influence
in counteracting the effects of Butler's jealousy
of Henry, and his increasing hatred of
the Austins. He hoped that he might yet, by
adopting a popular course of conduct, raise
himself to an equal influence with his cousin;
and acquire such a degree of authority in the
colony as would enable him to accomplish his
views of matrimony, with the fascinating Agnes,
in despite of the present favour enjoyed by his
rival.

Henry, in the mean time, did not dream of
the alteration that had taken place in the feelings
and designs of Butler. He conceived that
gratitude and love had bound him firmly to his
sister, and to the interests of all her friends.

[figure description] Blank Page.[end figure description]

[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]

Butler. Frequently did he feel sorry for his
sister's infatuation in loving this man; and,
although her happiness seemed to depend on a
union with him, he often felt as if he could
wish some event to take place which would
frustrate its accomplishment.

But there was one man in the village to
whom he delighted to open his heart; one whose
integrity of soul, (although he was to him, as
yet, but a comparative stranger,) he felt as if he
would be committing an act of dishonour to doubt—
one who, although reserved and unobtrusive,
had acquired his esteem so entirely, that he perseveringly
sought his friendship until he gained
it. This person was Dr. Watson. On his principles
he had reliance, and in his confidence he
felt safe. Many were the pleasant and instructive
hours these sincere friends passed together
in the shade of the tall oaks that skirted the
broad rolling Susquehanna. The attachment
that existed between Henry and Miss Norwood,
was well known to Dr. Watson. There were,
indeed, but few people in the village who did
not surmise it. Love affairs are mighty matters
in small villages; and usually furnish the most
frequent and interesting topics of gossip which
the uniform tranquillity of rustic seclusion can
supply. Henry had not been many weeks a
resident at Wyoming before the good natured

[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]

villagers had set him down as the destined husband
of Agnes Norwood. In the estimation
of all prophetic spirits, it was so suitable, it
was so likely, it was so just the thing, that it
could not but take place. There was only one
individual in the settlement that dissented from
this arrangement of the good villagers, or felt
hostile to its accomplishment. This individual
was John Butler. His conviction of their mutual
attachment gnawed at his heart; and every
allusion to it, by the gossips of the place, stung
him like a scorpion. He, however, was a consummate
master of duplicity, and preserved a
strict silence on the subject, affecting to occupy
his mind with more important concerns. But
he had internally vowed that their union never
should take place, during his life, without being
cemented by blood.

How different were the feelings of Dr. Watson!
He loved Agnes as passionately, but he
loved her more purely, and with a heart so
entirely and exclusively devoted to her welfare,
that he ardently wished for her union
with the man she preferred, especially since he
knew that man to be so eminently qualified to
render her happy. Such was the contrast between
the characters of Henry's rivals—the
contrast between virtue and vice!

CHAPTER IV.

[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]

It was a beautiful evening about the middle
of July, 1776—Shall I describe it? Nothing
would be easier—nothing more agreeable. All
its features are, at this moment, glowing
as vividly in my mind's vision, as ever the
charms of the fairest landscape shone in the
corporeal eye of a poetical admirer of the glories
of nature. But summer evenings, under
every variety of appearance, have been described
so often and so well, that there is nothing
left for me to say; and to repeat epithets which,
however appropriate and just, have, at this age
of literature, become trite and familiar, would
be worse than supererogation—it would be a
useless expenditure of my own time, as well as
that of my readers.

On the evening to which I refer, Henry
Austin and Dr. Watson were enjoying the
cooling breeze in a favourite retreat among linden
trees, on the bank of the stream of Sharon.
The great drama of the times—in which all

[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]

the daring spirits of the land were engaged, was
the subject of their conversation.

“I cannot understand,” said Henry, “how
any American, who has the feelings of a man,
can take part with a government that would
bind his country in the fetters of arbitrary
power; for to lay on imposts at will, is to exercise
such power. Slaves alone can be made
the objects of unlimited exaction—the bearers
of involuntary burthens. The conduct of our
tories is, to me, quite inexplicable.”

“The opinions of men,” observed his companion,
“even on subjects apparently the least
liable to controversy, are so various, that mere
difference of sentiment on this great question,
does not surprise me. I can imagine and believe
that even good and intelligent men may
feel a conviction that the mother country
has just claims to the prerogative she has attempted
to exercise. But that any number of
men should be so zealous for such sentiments,
as to enforce them by the destruction of their
nearest friends, affords, indeed, a theme for
astonishment, and implies motives of action
which I cannot comprehend. The destructive
hostility of men towards each other, for mere
difference of opinion, which our country at
present too fatally experiences, appears to me
the height of criminal infatuation, inexplicable

[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]

on any principle of rational sense or natural
feeling.”

“If those who have resisted the encroachments
of British authority,” said Henry, “had,
in the first instance, denounced all who would
not join in that resistance, self-defence would
have justified the tories in acting as they have
done. But no such denouncement took place.
All men were invited to repel the unjust aggression
of Britain, but none were forced to do
so—and I am aware of no instance of violence
exerted by the patriots against any whose dissentient
opinions did not carry them into overt
acts of devastation or bloodshed.”

“The moderation and forbearance of the
friends of liberty, amidst the most galling provocations,”
answered the Doctor, “are, in truth,
worthy of admiration, and augur favourably of
their final success. Contrasted with the ferocity
of the opposite faction, what praise does it
not deserve? But, oh, my friend, if there had
been any means of avoiding the unhappy struggle,
without sacrificing the most invaluable
rights, how much suffering and sorrow would
have been avoided; and what cause would humanity
have had to rejoice! The details you
have given me of scenes you have yourself
witnessed, and the accounts which we almost
daily receive of the events passing in our cities

[figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]

and populous districts, are truly heart-rending.
Would to Heaven that rulers could appreciate
the evil effects of, at any time, driving a gallant
people into the resistance of wrongs?”

“The calamities that overspread the country,
and will continue to do so while the contest
lasts,” said Henry, “are indeed to be deplored.
But if they are the price at which the
liberty of the country is to be purchased, surely
no patriotic heart will grudge the payment.
The object for which we have chosen to encounter
the evils of war is glorious. If we
attain it, generations yet unborn will enjoy its
benefits, and honour our names, and bless our
memories, for the sacrifices we shall make.
This is the consummation to which our patriots
look forward, as the glorious recompense of
their toils, their dangers, and their sufferings.”

“If,” said the Doctor, “the great measure
of proclaiming our country independent, now
in agitation by Congress, were once adopted, I
should then less grudge the sacrifices and the
miseries that the generous and the brave of the
land are destined to undergo. The contest
would then have a definite aim to which every
eye would be directed. There would be a fixed
point, an established and ascertained object,
round which every noble heart would rally,
and to defend which every valiant arm would

[figure description] Page 047.[end figure description]

be raised. But, at present, the unsettled and
undetermined, nay often discordant views of
our best patriots, distract their councils, disconcert
their measures, and expose their cause
and their country to many misfortunes and
much distress, from which they might otherwise
be exempted.”

“There is reason to hope,” replied Henry,
“that affairs will not remain long in this unsettled
condition. Our congress consists of a body
of men of as firm, fearless, and patriotic minds,
as ever were assembled; and it is confidently
believed, that the members are well aware that
the salvation of the country depends on the
adoption of this great measure. For myself, I
have full reliance on their wisdom and integrity,
and have not the slightest apprehension
that they will shrink from their duty.”

At that moment the Hermit of the Woods—
the old man who had conducted Henry and
Butler to the rescue of Miss Norwood and her
friend—stood before them.

“Rejoice Americans!” said he—“You are
now a nation. The yoke of the foreigner
is broken. The mighty voice has gone forth
which every land shall hear with delight, and
every tyrant with dismay, that you are FREE
AND INDEPENDENT. Arouse all your energies
to maintain the glorious privilege, ye men of

[figure description] Page 048.[end figure description]

the new-born nation, for to do so your lives,
your fortunes, and your sacred honour, are
pledged in the sight of Heaven and of the
world!”

“Whence is thy intelligence, Rodolph?”
asked Dr. Watson.

“Thou dost not doubt its accuracy? my
son,” inquired the Hermit.

“No, I have never heard aught but truth
from thy lips,” replied the Doctor. “But, to
us, thy news is so important and interesting,
that to know all its particulars will be grateful
to our hearts.”

“Yesterday,” said Rodolph—“by express
from Philadelphia, the tidings reached Allentown.
The blessed Declaration was read in
an assembly of the people. I heard the banks
of the Lehigh resound with the acclamations of
the multitude; and I hastened hither with the
joyful intelligence. Here is, in print, a copy
of the sacred instrument of your freedom.
Make it known to your people. Let them
raise the voice of thanksgiving to Heaven; and
dedicate, for ever, to jubilee and joy, the birthday
of their nation!”

So saying, he handed to Dr. Watson a printed
copy of the Declaration of Independence,
and hastily disappeared.

The delight with which the patriotic people

[figure description] Page 049.[end figure description]

of Wyoming received this important intelligence,
was expressed by long and fervent acclamations,
the discharge of fire arms, the parading
of their little military band, the blazing
of bonfires, and other demonstrations of public
rejoicing usual in remote villages. The day
following the arrival of the news, Mr. Norwood
invited the people to assemble in his
church, where, after reading to them the great
charter of their freedom, he addressed them as
follows:

“My fellow citizens: You have just heard the
most important public manifesto that ever was
issued. It is the mighty instrument of franchisement,
which delivers one half the world
from the thraldom in which it was held by the
other—for not the present generation alone,
but the innumerable unborn millions who will
yet fill this immense hemisphere, are destined
to enjoy its incalculable benefits. From the
date of this glorious charter, has commenced a
change not for us only, but for the human race,
which will elevate the humble and the lowly of
every clime from the contempt and degradation
in which they have been held by the powerful
and the proud. The sentiments of liberality
promulgated in this document, will go forth
like axioms, and form the political faith that
shall regulate the movements of the mightiest

[figure description] Page 050.[end figure description]

nations. “All men are born equal,” is a truth
before the prevalence of which the pretensions
of kings and nobles to exclusive privileges and
immunities in the social system, will disperse
as the shadow flies before the beams of the
sun. The right of the people to self-government,
and their capacity to exercise it properly
and to their own advantage, will become
recognised as an article of belief which it will
be thought absurdity to controvert. In short, mankind
shall so deeply venerate this declaration,
that it will become the text-book of freedom,
the manual of patriotism to all generations.

“What are its effects on yourselves, since ye
have heard the elevating spirit of its sentiments,
its bold announcement of your emancipation?
Are you not exalted in your own estimation?
Do you not feel as if chains had
fallen from your limbs? Do you not, inspired
with the dignity of freemen, almost imagine
that you breathe the air more freely, and
move with greater elasticity? The humility
and timidity of serfs have departed from your
spirits. But yesterday you felt as if your patriotism
were treason—to-day you feel that it
is allegiance—allegiance to the country of your
birth, to the government of your choice, and
not to an oppressor in a distant quarter of the

[figure description] Page 051.[end figure description]

globe, with whom you can have no common
interest, and who, for you, can have no fellow
feeling.

“Of the soil on which ye tread, ye are now
the paramount lords. Before the date of this
instrument you held it but in subjection to a
stranger whose counsellors have latterly assumed
the right to exact from you the fruits
of your industry without your consent. Your
resistance to this injustice was called treason.
But traitors you cannot now be, for, thanks to
this document, you are no longer subjects to the
foe. You are citizens, free and independent lords
of a soil that owns no foreign master.—You are,
it is true, weak in comparison to your foe. So is
the eagle in comparison to the lion, yet it has a
spirit equally daring, and in the independence
of its nature, acknowledges subjection to no
earthly lord. O! my countrymen, may the King
of kings, who is now your only sovereign,
render you worthy of your new-born rights,
and enable you to struggle successfully with
the terrible storms you shall have to encounter,
in defending them. Shrink not in the
hour of peril, ye who are now the fathers of a
nation! The morning of your existence is tempestuous
and dark; but it will usher in a day
of glorious tranquillity, when the fruits of
your labours shall diffuse joy over a grateful

[figure description] Page 052.[end figure description]

land, and the blessings of millions shall crown
your memories with immortality.”

This address made a deep impression on its
auditors—the true patriots became more zealous,
the wavering became firm, and many who had
hitherto been opposed to the cause of liberty
from the dread of committing treason, now
conceiving themselves freed from their allegiance
to royalty, unhesitatingly declared their
adhesion to the patriotic side. Still, however,
there were numbers whose attachment to
the ancient order of things, rendered them
hostile to the great measure now adopted.
Many of these had favoured the resistance to
British usurpation, but had never desired a separation
from British connexion or release
from British authority. The hardened and resolved
tories were strengthened by the accession
of such; and the bold and irretraceable
step which the whigs had now taken, aroused
their animosity to an implacable degree, and
they became more zealous and active than ever
in the warfare which they waged against the
friends of liberty. The whole heart and soul
of John Butler were secretly with these. Their
leaders knew it, and placed entire confidence
in him. With all their machinations and designs
he was made acquainted; and frequently,
by his advice and management, he contributed to

[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]

the success of their enterprises. He, however,
in public preserved an appearance of attachment
to the popular cause. This he did with the
double view of serving his own party the more
effectually by treachery to the other, and of
availing himself of any favourable occurrence
that might take place to aggrandize himself by
means of the whigs, in which, had he succeeded,
it is doubtful whether his principles might
not have accommodated themselves to his interest.
Be this as it may, he, for some months,
conducted himself so much to the satisfaction
of the people of Wyoming, that their most vigilant
patriots found no cause to make him an
object of either disapprobation or suspicion.

CHAPTER V.

[figure description] Page 054.[end figure description]

The promulgation of the Declaration of Independence,
although a bold, was an extremely
prudent and well-timed measure. Without its
encouraging tendencies, the numerous disasters
which befell the American arms during the
subsequent five or six months, must have occasioned
the most resolute friends of the popular
cause to give it up in despair. After the loss
of the great battle of Long Island, a series of
defeats reduced the combatants for freedom to
the mere skeleton of an ill-supplied and muchsuffering
army, harassed and pursued from
place to place, by a victorious, numerous, and
well-appointed foe.

This was that period of desponding prospects
which is emphatically said to have tried
men's souls. The most sanguine began to
despond, and in thebosoms of the timid, hope
was extinguished. The noblest cause for which
a people ever fought, depended entirely on the

[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]

firmness and management of one man, aided
by only the remnant of an army of harassed,
wearied and worn-out fugitives, so ill-appointed
that they had not clothing sufficient to defend
them from the severity of an inclement winter.
But that man was Washington, and those fugitives
were THE HEROES OF SEVENTY-SIX,
who soon became the conquerors of Trenton
and Princeton, and snatched, by their hardy
valour, the cause of their country—the cause
of man—from the brink of ruin. Even after
these brilliant achievements had shed their
cheering influence over the cause, the horizon
became again darkened by the disasters of
Brandywine and Germantown, and the country's
necessities called aloud to her sons for
sympathy and succour.

By none was the call more keenly felt than
by Henry Austin; and his ardour at length received
the sanction of his father. This ardour
was participated by many of the patriotic
youth of the settlement; and he was enabled
to collect a generous band of about fifty volunteers,
who enrolled themselves beneath his
command for the purpose of joining the army
under Washington. As the day of his departure
drew near, his patriotism had to contend
with the force of a powerful passion which
swayed his bosom as strongly as ever it swayed

[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]

the bosom of man. This passion was love—
love for Agnes Norwood, whose image had
become, from the first moment he beheld her,
entwined with his very existence. Day and
night was she the subject of his meditations.—
Her charms were the delicious food of his
imagination; and he felt as if he could live no
where, with satisfaction, but in her presence.
And she had long since acknowledged a mutual
love. Many and sweet were the hours of
romantic fervour they had passed together since
that acknowledgment took place. Their attachment
was sanctioned by their parents. Henry
appeared to Mr. Norwood just such a husband
as he could wish for his daughter, and
Mr. Austin rejoiced in the happy fortune
which had gained for his son the affections of a
female so fair and so worthy as Agnes Norwood.
For one reason in particular, he rejoiced
in the circumstance. He hoped that her
charms would have sufficient influence to retain
him at home, and check his patriotic eagerness
to embark in the dangers of war. And, indeed,
these charms had been sufficient for this
purpose, until Henry heard of the depth of his
country's misfortunes, and the encreasing
gloom which, after the battle of Germantown,
overshadowed her cause. His sense of
duty then came in aid of his patriotism, and

[figure description] Page 057.[end figure description]

he resolved to make a mighty effort to break
the fascinations of love and the enjoyments of
home, in order to serve a cause in the success
of which he felt so strongly interested. Yet
so powerful was his passion, that after he had
procured his father's consent to join the army,
and had even organized his band of followers,
his heart almost failed him, and he became irresolute
in his determination to leave, even but
for a season, the dear object of his soul's desire.

While under the influence of this feeling he
visited her. He found her in her father's parlour.

“I come, my Agnes,” said he, “to state
that your fascinations have conquered. Love
has prevailed.—Patriotism, duty, desire of
glory—all, all have yielded to my dread of
separating from thee. I have decided to remain
with thee. I feel I have done wrong:
but, O! for charms like thine, who would not
relinquish every thing? If my feelings were
known, the severest would forgive my error.”

“Henry,” said she, “what do I hear!—
Wilt thou refuse thy arm to thy country in her
distress?—But, perhaps, thou art right: we
may be happy here, although liberty should
be driven from the land!”

“What! Agnes,” he exclaimed, as if her
tone, rather than her words, had caused a

[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]

forgotten feeling to startle his mind, “what sayest
thou? Could we be happy as slaves?”

“Yes; with love like ours, even in slavery
we might be happy! But, Henry, self-abasement,
such a mind as thine could not endure.”

“Self-abasement! Agnes? What abasement
is there in preferring thy love to all things? In
preferring thy society to that of soldiers; thy
beauteous presence in this valley, to the clamours
of a camp?”

“It is preferring the indulgence of selfish
wishes, to the performance of duty. Henry,
canst thou not see how that would produce
self-abasement?”

“True, Agnes! I see it.”

“Couldst thou endure the torments of such
a degraded feeling?”

“No, Agnes! I fear not easily. But thy
smiles would be my recompense, my relief,
my unfailing comfort.”

“But could I smile if thou wert unhappy?
Or could I comfort thee, if thou hadst lost thy
own esteem?”

“Ah! I feel thy words, my beloved! Thou
art the angel of my protection.—My own esteem!—
I shall not lose it. I will do my duty.
Assist me, Agnes! strengthen me with thy
counsel. Enable me to leave thee for a time,

[figure description] Page 059.[end figure description]

that I may fly to the post of duty, and be worthy
of thy love.”

“When thou shalt do so, Henry, I will esteem
thee—nay, if possible, I will love thee
more than now!”

He caught her hands rapturously. “Thanks
to thee, my only love!” he said, “thou hast
saved me from my weakness. Thou shalt esteem,
as well as love me. My country needs
me. I will do my duty!”

“Although our separation, Henry, should
break my heart, I would not be the means of
detaining thee from thy duty. Thy departure
to the busy world where thou mayest forget
me, or to scenes of danger where thou mayest
be slain—O! Henry, such thoughts distract
me.—Yet—yet, thou must go—thy country
calls, and what is my happiness, or even thine,
that we should indulge it at her expense?”

“Agnes, I could worship thee for such sentiments.
I will leave thee for my country's
sake. Heaven will protect thee in my absence
in recompense of thy virtue.—And I too shall
win favour from above for the severe sacrifice
I now make in obedience to the calls of duty.—
But forget thee, didst thou say? No, not for a
moment, Agnes, shall thy image be absent
from my recollection—thy loveliness from my

[figure description] Page 060.[end figure description]

heart. But, my beloved, can we not unite before
my departure? Methinks, I could go
with less sorrow and reluctance, could I call
thee my own?”

“Henry, dost thou allude to marriage?—
We are both young—too young, perhaps.—But
let our fathers decide.—Return here at six this
evening. I will reflect on the subject. I will
consult my father. Do thou consult thine.”

Henry's father did not approve of his son's
marriage under present circumstances. “I
confess,” he said, “that Miss Norwood is in
all respects worthy of you. Your having
placed your affections on her affords me great
satisfaction. But you are now going on a toilsome
and dangerous pursuit. I should wish
you to go single and untrammelled with domestic
cares, so that your new profession may
receive your whole devotion, by which means
you will be more likely to command success.
But should disaster happen to you; should you
be wounded or slain, (casualties which, I trust,
Heaven will avert,) it will be enough that I and
my family be made miserable. Why expose
another family to the same hazard of sorrow,
by needlessly connecting yourself with it in
marriage? Should you marry, you do not propose
remaining at home to enjoy your wife's
society. You would make her your wife to

[figure description] Page 061.[end figure description]

abandon her after the ceremony, and expose
her to the risk of becoming an early widow.
Is this love, or is it selfishness? But you say,
you wish only to secure her fidelity? Has she
not owned her attachment, and promised constancy
in return for your's? And do you doubt
her truth? You cannot. It would be a feeling
unworthy of the lover of Miss Norwood.”

Henry was struck with his father's observations.
He felt that it would be sweet to call
Agnes his own. But it would be unjust to
expose her as his wife to the distress of any
accident that might befall him in the war.
True, she loved him, and were he unfortunately
to fall, even though unmarried to him, she
would grieve with a sincere and deep sorrow.
But would not that sorrow sooner end in the
maid than in the wife? At all events, he
would not at the present, urge the marriage,
since his father disapproved of it, unless Mr.
Norwood's opinion should be more favourable
towards it, which he did not venture to expect.

Henry judged rightly of Mr. Norwood's
opinion. That gentleman, anxiously alive for
his daughter's welfare, thought that her marriage
with so young a man on the eve of his
departure from the settlement, and on a hazardous
pursuit, would be extremely imprudent.

“Let a few years roll on,” said he to

[figure description] Page 062.[end figure description]

Agnes. “This tempestuous period will pass by,
and happier times may bless the land with
peace and freedom and prosperity. Henry
and you, my daughter, will be still young
enough to engage in the cares of the marriage
state, and I shall then be happy in joining your
hands and giving you my blessing.”

To her father's opinion Agnes bowed implicitly.
In all that concerned herself, his
opinion was her creed, his will was her law.
When Henry according to appointment visited
her that evening, she stated to him the objections
made by her father to their marriage
under present circumstances. He saw them in
their full force, and he admitted them, and forbore
to press his suit for immediate happiness;
although, when he beheld her loveliness in all
its blooming graces before him, he internally
deplored the untoward circumstances that withheld
him, for a time, from the possession of
such charms.

That evening, towards twilight, the lovers
walked out together along the banks of the
Sharon. It was the eve of Henry's departure.
His company of volunteers were assembled in
the village, in readiness to march the next
morning. Had his marriage, therefore, taken
place, short, indeed, must have been his stay
with his bride. This consideration, in some

[figure description] Page 063.[end figure description]

measure, reconciled him to the disappointment.

“Oh Agnes,” said he, “I was certainly too
inconsiderate in the wishes I expressed, for if
thou wert made my own, I feel that I could not
leave thee, and my duty should be neglected.”

“Indeed,” she replied, “I am persuaded
that the postponement of our nuptials, is both
prudent and proper. If Providence shall hear
my constant prayers, and restore thee to thy
friends in more propitious times, our union
will then have the sanction of our parents, and
the joy of that hour will not be blighted by the
grief of separation.”

They had now reached the entrance of the
village church. They observed the door partly
open. They concluded that it had been left so
by the negligence of some person employed in
making repairs inside. They entered the holy
place. All was still and silent as the interior
of the graves that surrounded it. Who has
ever visited a temple of the Divinity, built with
hands, when devoid of worshippers, without
being impressed with a sensation of the awful
solemnity that pervades the sacred edifice. It
is a feeling as if we were in the immediate presence
of the Supreme of all things, surrounded
by his ministering angels—for we imagine, or,

[figure description] Page 064.[end figure description]

at least have sensations skin to the imagination,
that such a place can never be unoccupied; and
since human worshippers are absent, their
place must be filled and their functions performed,
by invisible intelligences of a higher
and more holy order.

The lovers felt, that if they were not surrounded
by such intelligences, they were altogether
without witnesses of their fervent expressions
of mutual fondness and never-ending
constancy.

“Oh! my beloved,” said Henry, “it is not
any fickleness of thy mind I dread; for I believe
that thou art all truth and sincerity. But
events may occur in my absence severely to
try thy faith. Forgive me, therefore, if I wish
it secured by some solemn vow. Become my betrothed—
plight thyself to me within this solemn
shrine of God, and before that holy place from
whence thy father's lips have so often poured
forth pious instruction, and promulgated
the obligations of our holy faith. In the name
of love, and for the sake of my peace of mind
when I shall be afar off, let me entreat thee, to
kneel with me in this sacred temple, where it
may be long before we again meet, and, in the
awful presence of Him to whom the place is
consecrated, let us pledge to each other unwavering
faith, and eternal love—let us swear

[figure description] Page 065.[end figure description]

that in wedlock neither of us shall ever pledge
our vows to any other.”

They knelt, they caught each other's right
hands, and before God and his angels, they
swore the oath of betrothment, and sealed it
with a fervent kiss. That moment a voice
suddenly but sweetly said, “Heaven has registered
that vow. Oh! ye Betrothed! let it
never be broken!”

The lovers started to their feet in confusion;
but conscious of no sin, they felt no alarm.
They looked round, and beheld standing behind
them the “Hermit of the Woods.”

“Pardon my intrusion,” said he, “it was
not intentional. The door was open. I entered.
I approached too near before I perceived
you, to withdraw without disturbing
you. I, therefore, remained silent till your
vows were passed, when I thought it better to
discover myself than run the hazard of being
discovered by you. I have long known your
loves.—I have now witnessed your betrothment—
but fear nothing. I am your friend,
and your secret is safe.”

“Good Rodolph,” said Henry, “we know
you are our friend—we have effectually experienced
your friendship. What you have seen
and heard, you were sent by Heaven to witness.
We, therefore, murmur not at your

[figure description] Page 066.[end figure description]

presence. But in this holy place and sanctified
moment, we crave thy blessing.”

“May the great Being who rules above, and
who is worshipped here, bless you, my children.
May he watch over you when far
asunder, and in other days bring you together,
that you may redeem the vows you have pledged
this evening, and under happy auspices, fulfil
your Betrothment!” He said and departed.

CHAPTER VI.

[figure description] Page 067.[end figure description]

Whoever has witnessed the departure from
a small village, upon a distant enterprise of
importance and danger, of a band of soldiers
endeared to the inhabitants by long residence
and ties of affinity, must have been moved by
the many spontaneous effusions of sincere affection;
the tears, the embraces, the tender exhortations,
the blessings, and the heart-warm
prayers for the protection of Heaven, which
are fervently reciprocated by friends, relatives
and lovers, now parting, many of them to meet
no more. This is the revealing hour of attachment.
Emotions of love which were hitherto concealed,
now break forth, and show themselves
freely, though, perhaps timidly, before the face
of day. A degree of license is permitted to the
public outpourings of the heart on such occasions,
which on others would be considered unseemly
or indecorous. It is not the parting

[figure description] Page 068.[end figure description]

embraces and sorrows of parents and children, or
sisters and brothers, that are now alone tolerated
by the sympathizing feelings of the public; the
bursting forth of the grief of young and bashful
lovers is viewed as neither misplaced nor
unbecoming. The hearts of all are softened,
and enter fully into the pathetic spirit of the
scene; and partake so much of its tenderness
as to comprehend and value the kindly influence
from which it flows.

Such a scene, in all its variety of feelings,
and intensity of emotions, was, much to his
chagrin, witnessed by John Butler, the royalist,
on the day that Henry Austin and his brave
band of patriotic volunteers, departed from
Wyoming to join the encampment at Valley
Forge. Yet Butler rejoiced at the departure
of these men. It removed to a distance many
of his enemies, and diminished the strength of
the whig interest in the settlement. He was
only chagrined to see how much they were
beloved; and if a wish of his could have annihilated
these patriotic soldiers and those who
lavished on them their parting caresses, that
wish would have gone forth with the joyous
energy of malignant triumph. He still wore
the cloak of patriotism; but the time had come
when he gave up the intention of wearing it
much longer. He had tried popularity for many

[figure description] Page 069.[end figure description]

months, but it had gained him no confidence;
it had procured him no public trust, no official
emolument. He now saw reasons for permitting
the current of his affections to revert into
their former channel. It reverted, however,
secretly. It did not yet suit his views to
change his outward professions or his observable
conduct. Hypocrisy was, for some time
yet, his surest game, and he played it admirably.
The leaders of the people were deceived.
It was, therefore, easy to dupe the people
themselves. But he deceived them no longer
for office. That object he saw was hopeless.
He deceived them for his own safety and their
ruin.

At this period, many families fled from the
populous districts that were the seats of the
war, to seek repose and safety in more remote
settlements. The settlement of Wyoming offered
abundant attractions to these. Accordingly,
both whigs and tories flocked there in
considerable numbers. But of these newcomers,
the tories were by far the most numerous.
Their continuance in the war-haunted
districts where their opponents had obtained
all authority, was neither pleasant nor safe. It
is true, the authorities, as well as the majority
of the people of Wyoming, opposed them in
politics, and disliked their turbulence. But they

[figure description] Page 070.[end figure description]

were a people generous and hospitable, and
many of them connected with the fugitives, or
as they were more courteously termed, the refugees,
by the ties of relationship. The latter,
therefore, by the most solemn pledges of peaceable
intentions, gained the good will, and secured
the protection of the deceived and kindhearted
inhabitants of the district, who believed
that they had admitted among them men
who sincerely regretted their past errors, and
were resolved by their future conduct, to atone
for them. A few were sincere, and remained
faithful to their pledge; but fear alone induced
the majority to feign a repentance which they
did not feel. Their feelings and opinions were
not changed. But the deceived people could
not see the heart. They believed the professions
which they heard, and gave credit for
the decorum they beheld. That which was
produced by expediency, they mistook for
the result of conviction. The traitors were
forgiven, received as friends, and treated with
affection by the virtuous and unsuspecting people
of Wyoming, whom they waited only for
a fitting opportunity to destroy.

Many even of the latter character would, no
doubt, have remained tranquil, and perhaps
gradually abandoned their unpatriotic and dangerous
sentiments, but for the machinations of

[figure description] Page 071.[end figure description]

Butler, who, like the evil genius of the place,
would permit neither tranquillity, confidence,
nor amity to remain long therein. War and
destruction were the elements in which he delighted
to move. To enjoy the revelry of
bloodshed, he scrupled not to sacrifice both the
obligations of kindred and the ties of gratitude.
He had in his advances to popularity, among
the whigs, met with repulses sufficient to convince
him of the fruitlessness of pursuing aggrandizement
in that direction. The encreasing
numbers of the refugee tories that now
sought safety in the settlement, and looked up
to him as their head, induced him secretly to
abandon all desire of connexion with the
whigs, and to throw himself entirely into the
arms of the party to which, from feeling and
habit, he had long been attached.

Since the departure of Henry Austin, he had
made several overtures to Miss Norwood. She
had been long acquainted with his passion for
her. Master of duplicity as he was, he had
not even been able entirely to prevent Henry
from suspecting it. But Henry had never
breathed his suspicion to Agnes, nor she hers
to him. He felt too confident of the firmness
with which he was rooted in her affection, to
fear being supplanted by Butler or any other
rival; and he had the delicacy not to hurt her

[figure description] Page 072.[end figure description]

feelings by alluding to the possibility of such
an occurrence. Butler's engagement with his
sister he had long wished to see dissolved; for
he now knew enough of the man to be assured
that he was not calculated to make her happy.
His surmise that his affections were transferred
to Agnes, led him to hope that the intended
union of such a man with so near and dear a
relative as his sister, never would take place.
Yet he grieved for the affliction which the disappointment
would bring upon Isabella. She
had unfortunately fixed her affections upon an
unworthy object, and was, therefore, doomed
to the misery of a sorrowing heart, whether
she became united to him or not. In the one
case, however, the sorrow might be transitory—
the hand of time and the force of reflection
would at least weaken, if they did not entirely
obliterate its impression.—In the other, there
could be no hope of this. An indissoluble
bond would unite her destiny to that of a
villain, and permanent wretchedness could not
but ensue. On his sister's account, therefore,
the change in the affections of Butler afforded
Henry satisfaction sufficient to atone for any
uneasiness he might feel on account of Agnes
being the object of the new flame of the deceitful
royalist. In the fidelity of Agnes to
himself he had full confidence. The rivalship

[figure description] Page 073.[end figure description]

of Butler he therefore treated with contempt;
and he left Wyoming without giving him to
understand, by any indication whatever, that he
suspected its existence. When at a distance,
however, from the object of his love, he soon
began to have unpleasant feelings on the subject.
He recollected that in his absence, Butler
might have the boldness to make an express
declaration of his passion; and although it was
impossible that Agnes could be induced to encourage
his pretensions, she might be subjected
to his importunities, and even—but it was an
idea he wished not to entertain—in the event
of disturbance in the settlement, to his violence.
In his correspondence with her—for
he found frequent opportunities of forwarding
letters to his friends—he never alluded to his
fear on this subject, lest he might give her unnecessary
uneasiness. But to Dr. Watson he
poured them forth without reserve.

“There is one great cause of uneasiness under
which I suffer,” said he, in a letter to the
Doctor, written in the spring of 1778, “that I
have as yet communicated to no one. For
some months before I left Wyoming, I was
haunted with a suspicion that Butler loved
Agnes. It is needless to detail the circumstances
that gave birth to that suspicion. I
shall only say that they were numerous and

[figure description] Page 074.[end figure description]

forcible. You are aware of his engagements
with my sister. Because I had a bad opinion
of the man, any thing that inspired a hope that
those engagements would not be fulfilled, afforded
me pleasure. His passion for Agnes
did not much alarm me, while I was in her
vicinity. I knew that she would be faithful
to me, and I feared not his rivalship. Neither
did I then fear that she would be subjected to
any inconveniences from his importunities, or
danger from his violence. The one she would
repel, and the other he dared not attempt.
The circumstances of the parties and the affairs
of the settlement sanctioned this conclusion.
She was under the protection of her
father, of her lover, of her friends, of the
whole population of the village, by whom she
was beloved—while he—a refugee without
power, without influence, without character,
could not without ruin to himself, attempt any
thing against her peace.

“But, my friend, I am now separated from
her by an extensive and almost pathless wilderness.
I know not what may be the posture
of public affairs at Wyoming. The savages
are your neighbours, and they are far
from being friendly to our cause; and tories
are numerous even in the midst of your population.—
I cannot forget that Butler was a tory;

[figure description] Page 075.[end figure description]

nay, I have good grounds for believing he is
still one in his heart. Should any interruption
of your tranquillity take place, I tremble to
think of what may be his conduct. He hates
my sister. Might he not avail himself of some
Indian irruption to destroy her—to destroy
perhaps my aged parent?—And then his passion
for Agnes—might he not employ the
marauders to bear her off to some distant concealment,
where she would be completely in
his power?

“It is the possibility of evils like these that
cause my uneasiness. Will you say that my
apprehensions are fanciful? Heaven grant that
they may be so! But incidents have come to
my knowledge, that impart to them a greater
strength than they could ever derive from
mere fancy. Has Butler been absent of late,
for any length of time, from your village? If
he has, there is treachery on foot; and my fears
are not without foundation. Let all his movements
be watched with the closest vigilance,
and you may possibly detect and frustrate his
designs. Hear the reasons for my alarm, and
the cautions I give you. I suspect he has been,
within these few weeks, in Philadelphia, arranging
with General Howe the plan of some
military movement, doubtless on the frontiers.
One of my corps, who is now a prisoner in the

[figure description] Page 076.[end figure description]

city, has found means to inform me, that he is
persuaded he saw this restless and deceitful
man, in a disguised habit, at General Howe's
quarters. What should he be doing there, if
he is, as he professes, our friend? And why
disguised, unless engaged in some treacherous
design, which he fears may be discovered by
some of our friends in the city. But he may,
I admit, be wrongfully accused. My informant
may have been mistaken in his identity.
You will, on the spot, be best able to judge. I
would not have him accused if he is innocent.
It would be impolitic, as well as unjust. It
would excite his revenge and arm his adherents
against us. He is now, perhaps, at least neutral;
and it is better to keep him so than arouse
against our cause one so capable of doing mischief.

“I do not know whether it would be proper
to acquaint Agnes with my fears. It would
alarm her, perhaps needlessly. Your discretion
will decide this point. Alas! my friend,
if I were to describe the full extent of my
gloomy forebodings, you would imagine that I
had lost all moral courage, and become totally
unfit for the duties of a soldier. Yet it is not
so. The contrariety of my feelings is, indeed,
strange, but not unaccountable. I feel that I
am not a coward, and yet I am a prey to

[figure description] Page 077.[end figure description]

intense fears of a certain description. I could
with alacrity go out, at any moment, to meet
the enemy in battle array. It is not for myself
I fear. It is for one dearer than myself.
Oh, if you have ever felt the power of an absorbing
love like mine, you will be able to understand
my feelings; to account for my inconsistency—
perhaps you will call it my weakness.
Yet be assured that this passion, potent
as it is, is still kept in subserviency to my duty.
My duty requires me to be here to act
against the enemies of my country; but my
affections are in Wyoming, wound round the
form of the loveliest and sweetest of earthly
beings.—But I become rhapsodical, forgetting
that you may not be lover enough to relish my
flights of romantic passion. I will conclude
by imploring you to watch over the safety of
my Betrothed, and to be alive to the information
I have given you in relation to Butler.”

The following letter Henry forwarded at the
same time with the foregoing, to Agnes:

“My dearest love—You can scarcely imagine
the gratification which an opportunity of writing
to you affords me. The most rapturous
moments of my existence have been spent in
pouring forth in your presence, the language
of love that told the emotions of my heart;
and in listening to the sweet tone of approval

[figure description] Page 078.[end figure description]

with which you answered me. We are now
far asunder—more than a hundred miles of an
almost impenetrable forest separate us. Yet
do I pant as strongly as ever for that sweet
communion of souls, that interchange of devoted
affections once so ardently expressed by
every look and every tone which then rendered
us so happy. Yes, in such moments my
bliss was great, and but for the sake of my suffering
country, I never should have withdrawn
from the endeared scenes where I enjoyed it.
Reflecting upon them, and meditating on
your perfections, are substitutes for those happy
moments which I often enjoy. But writing to
you is still a more rapturous employment. An
opportunity for it occurs more rarely than for
meditation, and it approaches in its nature
more nearly to conversation. It imparts the
pleasing feeling that the sentiments I commit to
the paper shall be conveyed to you; that you
will ponder on them; that they will be cherished
by you, and that you will derive from them
a gratification similar to what I experienced in
writing them. Such are the enjoyments of letterwriting
to separated lovers. Oh! my Betrothed!
for my sake indulge in it frequently, that I
may frequently behold the words which your
own hand wrote, the sentiments which your
own heart conceived, and the assurances which

[figure description] Page 079.[end figure description]

shall speak the unwavering fidelity of thy affection.
Do not mistake me. I doubt not thy
affection, my Agnes. I would as soon doubt
the existence of the sun on which I daily gaze.
Yet I would beg from you frequent assurances
of thy love, because of the delight they afford
me. Oh! with what luxury could I dwell on
the dear lines that should contain those assurances.
Save hearing thy lips pronounce them,
earth could afford no enjoyment so sweet.

“Let then thy letters convey to me that which
thou knowest will be my best solace for thy
absence—the assurance of thy welfare, and the
whole fervour of thy love. Without reserve—
Oh! Agnes! without reserve, surely, thou
wilt express all the ardour of thy affection, all
the devotedness of thy heart—all thy fondness,
and all thy wishes for me. I am, my love,
covetous of every thought that passes through
thy mind. I would not have the slightest
emotion of thy soul unknown to me; nor
would I conceal from thee the least sensation
of mine. Would to Heaven that separated
lovers had some more perfect and expeditious
means of interchanging sentiments and feelings,
than by letters. Then should we, even at this distance,
be made happy by the intermingling of
thoughts and sensations. I should then less regret
the necessity which keeps us asunder; and endure

[figure description] Page 080.[end figure description]

with more patience, the absence from thee to
which I am doomed.

“Yes, Agnes, attached as I am to the righteous
cause in which I am embarked, I acknowledge
I suffer much from my impatient desires
again to be with thee—to hearken to the tones
of thy sweet voice—to gaze upon thy beauty—
thy unrivalled beauty! Agnes, at this moment,
thy picture is placed before me—thy
bright eyes so full of fondness—thy sweet
lips surrounded with smiles—the innumerable,
nameless, and matchless charms of thy whole
countenance! `Ah!' I may well exclaim,
`among the daughters of men who is like unto
thee, my beloved!' No wonder my fancy is
inflamed, andmy heart enraptured, when I meditate
on thee. And art thou to be my own!
Hast thou sworn it, my betrothed? Shall I
yet be the master of such boundless happiness—
such intoxicating charms? My soul is kindled
with the idea. My imagination flies to
the haunts of Wyoming. I embrace thee—I
am happy—thou art my all—the world, and all
its interests, ties and connexions are forgotten.
What are they to me when thou art mine!
This is the potency of love which I delight to
obey! Oh! Agnes! that such a reverie might
last for ever!—that no wordly interruption
should remind me that my joys are but visionary

[figure description] Page 081.[end figure description]

—that no trumpet's sound, nor sentinel's gun,
should disperse the dear illusion, and tell me
that I am in the midst of a camp, enchained
there by a soldier's and a patriot's duty, whilst
thou art far distant amidst sylvan wilds on the
frontiers of civilization!

“But I will have fortitude—I will endure
our separation on account of my country, until
she shall no longer need my service. Thou
wilt love me the more for the sacrifice. Oh!
write to me that thou wilt. It will strengthen
my resolution; and from the exhortations of
love I shall draw inducements to patriotism,
and acquire a spirit of perseverance in duty,
which will in the end afford me matter of selfsatisfaction
and joy.”

CHAPTER VII.

[figure description] Page 082.[end figure description]

Several weeks after writing the foregoing letters,
Henry received the following from Dr.
Watson.—

“Your information concerning Butler was
well-timed. It aroused our vigilance and led
to the detection of his villany. A deep and
nefarious conspiracy was formed against our
settlement, in which hundreds of our tory
neighbours were implicated. Many of them,
among whom is Butler, have fled, and some
are in prison. The latter, it is believed, for
better security, will be sent to Reading. The
bearer of this, carries despatches from our
council to your General, detailing our present
perilous condition, and requesting succour,
which, I trust, we shall receive in time for
our protection.

“On receiving your letter, my first impulse
was to lay it before our council. But as
you had expressed yourself doubtfully in

[figure description] Page 083.[end figure description]

relation to the guilt of Butler, and seemed desirous
that I should watch rather than accuse him, I
resolved to do so, for I felt unwilling to involve
into a trouble a man who might eventually be
innocent. There is an individual in our settlement
in whom I have long placed a greater degree
of confidence than is known to any one besides
ourselves. I have entrusted him with secrets
which I never entrusted to another, and
have, in consequence, derived from him consolation
none else could afford. This man is of wandering
habits; but wise, intelligent and venerable.
He is respected by all the people throughout
the settlements. Even the Indians, whom
he often visits, and with whose language he is
familiar, esteem him much, and on affairs of
intricacy consult him often. You will by
this time have perceived that I mean Rodolph,
the Hermit of the Woods.

“Rodolph had himself observed some movements
among the tories, and especially among
the New England refugees, over whom Butler
possesses great influence. Many of them had
lately visited the Mohawk Indians, a tribe
with which Rodolph is well acquainted. They,
in consequence, as he supposes, have held public
councils, and seem to be preparing for some
enterprise. But the circumstance most convincing
of Butler being connected with these

[figure description] Page 084.[end figure description]

movements, is his having been absent for nearly
four weeks, about the time when you state
that he was suspected to be in Philadelphia.
We concluded, therefore, that your friend was
under no mistake respecting him; and we looked
upon him not only as connected with the
treason which you suspected, but as the archtraitor
and chief contriver of the whole.

“Still we kept our suspicions from the public
ear. No one had as yet done any thing to
warrant his arrest; and by remaining in a state
of apparent security and indifference, we might
tempt the conspirators into some indiscretion
which would enable us to discover and baffle
their designs.

“Rodolph's political sentiments are not very
generally known. Until the agitations of the
times began to embroil the affairs of this disstrict,
he, perhaps, felt but little interest in
them; and, although he wandered much among
the valleys, he was never very communicative
with the inhabitants. His manners are reserved,
mild, and meditative, and obnoxious to
no party. The whiggish inclination of his
opinions, therefore, is known to only a few
of his select friends. The tories know nothing
of them. On perusing your letter, he
availed himself of this circumstance to deceive
them for the public good. He resolves to act

[figure description] Page 085.[end figure description]

the dangerous part of a spy on their conduct,
for which purpose he feigned an approbation
of their sentiments, and a preference for their cause.

“By this means he became acquainted with
the intrigues that were now actively going forward
among the refugees, and soon discovered
that the principal mover was Butler. I now
determined to put our rulers on their guard.
I had no longer any cause for hesitation. He
whom I should accuse, I could prove to be
guilty. Still there was an obstacle in the way.
The near kinsman of the traitor, you know, is
at the head of our local government. He is
a worthy man, and one in whom the whigs
justly repose confidence. He had been hospitable
and kind to his deceitful relative, and
had taken him under his protection, in the conviction
of his conversion to the cause of the
country being sincere. To inform such a man
that his cousin and protogee was a traitor,
would, to say the least of it, be to inflict a
pang of no ordinary kind upon his feelings.—
And would not the governor's friendship for
the accused naturally cause him to hesitate giving
credence to the accusation? I feared not
the latter. I had confidence in the governor's
patriotism and integrity, and I had proofs sufficient
to produce conviction on his mind. As

[figure description] Page 086.[end figure description]

for giving him pain, that was too trifling a consideration
not to fade away before the importance
of the revelations I was to make. I
therefore hastened to him. I made the revelations.
He was astonished; for the professions
of his kinsman had completely deceived him.
He was grieved; for he had cherished an affection
for the traitor, and was also on terms of
intimacy with many others involved in the
treason.

“Rodolph had discovered that an assemblage
of the tories was to take place in a few days in
an obscure valley, called the Hemlock Glade,
some miles to the westward of our village.
Several of the leading whigs were immediately
summoned to the governor's house. The particulars
of the information were laid before
them, and their opinions asked as to the measures
it would be most advisable to pursue.
After some deliberation, it was agreed that the
information should be kept secret, lest alarm
might be given to the tories, and their assembling
prevented—for, it was considered, that the act
of their assembling would be such manifest proof
of their treasonable designs, as would reconcile
their best friends to the necessity and justice
of their punishment. In the mean time it was
proposed that an armed force, sufficient to overpower
them, should be collected as secretly as

[figure description] Page 087.[end figure description]

possible, by which their meeting might be surprised,
themselves carried to prison, and all
their machinations frustrated and their power
of doing mischief destroyed at one blow. This
plan had also another essential advantage. It
would furnish sufficient evidence of the guilt
of the culprits, without obliging the authorities
to expose the individual from whom the information
originated. Such exposure was, if possible,
to be avoided, as it would incapacitate
him from afterwards serving the patriotic cause
in the character of a spy.”

Thus far the epistle of Dr. Watson has answered
the purpose of our narrative. The remainder
having by some accident been destroyed,
the story must proceed without its aid. By
industrious research the writer has obtained a
sufficient acquaintance with the facts, to be able
to relate them accurately enough without the
aid of any written document.

The measures mentioned by the Doctor having
been agreed to, a young and spirited officer
of the militia of the district, named Dennison,
undertook to have a sufficient armed force in
readiness for the service. In the valley appointed
for the meeting of the tories, there
was a small log house belonging to one of their
faction. About noon, on the appointed day,
around this rustic building, the conspirators

[figure description] Page 088.[end figure description]

began to assemble, and until about two o'clock
continued to increase in number, without proceeding
to business. Butler, Brandt, and
Aranooko, the Sachem of the Mohawks, were
early on the scene. In conformity with the
custom of modern and fashionable historians,
we shall stop the progress of the story for a
short time, in order to give a brief sketch of
these three distinguished personages. Though
this may communicate no important information,
it may satisfy the curiosity of the reader,
and, if so, will not be writing in vain.

Butler possessed a good figure; and, in his
pleasant moods, a handsome countenance. But
in his moments of gloom and resentment he
betrayed the looks of a ruffian, and in his periods
of wrath the scowl of a demon. On
such occasions the contracted brows, the flushed
cheeks, the clenched teeth, the quivering lips,
and the eyes flashing fire like burning mirrors,
denoted the hellish fury of his mind, and if he
did not become loathsome, he became terrifying.
But his most furious fits could be controlled
by his hypocrisy where his interest required
it. A moment's reflection would replace
him on his guard, and restore to him a placidity
yet an expressiveness of countenance, which at
once indicated great knowledge of the world,
and ability to deceive it.—But having spoken

[figure description] Page 089.[end figure description]

of his appearance and character in a preceding
part of our narrative, it is unncessary to enlarge
upon it here.

The ferocity of Brandt, his courage, his activity
and robust strength, are well known to
the readers of history, which has abundantly
exposed to an indignant world, the sanguinary
and vengeful disposition of this most daring of
savages. His hatred of the whites is said to
have been of a more embittered character than
was usual even among the Indians. This is the
more remarkable, as he himself was but a halfIndian,
his father having been a white man, of
German descent, who on occasion of some disgust
which he had imbibed against civilized society,
took up his residence among the Indians. The
collisions with the frontier settlers into which
the restless and enterprising disposition of
Brandt had frequently brought him, and in
which he had met with many repulses, no
doubt tended much to irritate his feelings, and
arouse that animosity against the whites which
was the reigning passion of his soul.

The Sachem, Aranooko, was an Indian of a
dignified figure, somewhat advanced in years,
but still athletic and healthful. He was actuated
with all the antipathy natural to the
aborigines against the despoilers of their race;
yet he was averse to useless and wanton

[figure description] Page 090.[end figure description]

warfare upon them. He was unlike Brandt in the
circumstance, that the destruction of white men
of itself, unattended with any advantage to the
Indian cause, afforded him no pleasure. At
least, like a prudent father of his people, he
was unwilling to plunge them into the horrors
of war, when it afforded no prospect of a successful
issue, merely from vengeful motives.
He possessed neither the unbounded ferocity
nor reckless hardihood of Brandt—yet he was
greatly under the influence of that mongrel
savage; and it was chiefly by his persuasions
that he had been induced to join the present
confederacy against the inhabitants of Wyoming.

CHAPTER VIII.

[figure description] Page 091.[end figure description]

Brandt and Aranooka sat on a bench in the
chief apartment of the log-cottage already mentioned,
waiting with dignified gravity, and in
meditative silence, the full assemblage of the
tories, whose number was every moment increasing
by fresh accessions from various parts
of the district. Five or six other savages sat
near them. The two chiefs were drest in a
very showy and rather imposing costume. Their
vestments of scarlet flannel, wide in the sleeves,
and tied closely round the body, were ornamented
in front, by an intertexture of porcupine's
quills and the down of various coloured
birds, wrought into curious devices. These,
together with their leggings of deer skin—their
mockasins of buffalo hide—and, above all, their
head dresses adorned with feathers of the flamingo
and the eagle, presented to the eye a wild
but rich and picturesque appearance. The
dignified composure of these rude sons of the

[figure description] Page 092.[end figure description]

forest was well contrasted with the noisy restlessness
of the tories who filled the apartment,
and were often disputatious and clamorous, and
sometimes even indecorous in their conversation
and conduct. Ardent spirits, furnished
for payment by the owner of the cabin, were
used freely by the whites. But Aranooko and
his companions refused to taste any until the
business for which they had met, should be
transacted.

Such was the state of matters within doors,
before the hour appointed for the transaction
of business arrived. Without, a promiscuous
assemblage of several hundred men, indulged
themselves in military exercises, or in discussing
the merits and prospects of their enterprise,
or in feats of strength and other amusements,
as whim or inclination suggested. At length,
twelve o'clock being announced, Butler mounted
on an elevated platform outside the door,
and requested the attention of the assembly,
which he addressed as follows:—

“Friends and fellow subjects, I now beg
leave to state the object of calling you together
on the present occasion. But first let me observe,
that I hope there is no one here who is
not truly and zealously faithful to the cause in
which we are embarked, namely, resistance to
the unnatural and bloody rebellion now raging

[figure description] Page 093.[end figure description]

throughout this unhappy land. Remember,
my friends, that we have been born subjects to
the kind and beneficent monarch who, at present,
sits on the throne of Britain. Britain,
that noble and illustrious isle, whose arts, and
arms, and literature have shed a glorious radiance
over the whole world, in which we, as
her children, largely partake; and of which, if
we were actuated by a proper sense of duty
and gratitude for the benefits she has, by her
fostering and protecting care, conferred upon
us, we should be proud. Unhappily, a large
portion of our countrymen have shown that
they are not actuated by such generous motives.
Stimulated by pride or selfishness, or misled
by the sophistry and cant of turbulent orators,
the great mass of our people have abandoned
the path of duty, broken the ties of gratitude,
set at nought their allegiance, and rushed into
a wild, sanguinary, and desperate rebellion,
which has already brought destruction on thousands,
and must terminante in the absolute ruin
of their audacious and ambitious schemes.

“My friends, I am, in truth, amazed and grieved
when I think on the state into which the affairs
of these colonies, so lately blooming in peace and
prosperity, are now plunged. I could scarcely
imagine, did not woful experience convince me
of the fact, that such a degree of turpitude as is

[figure description] Page 094.[end figure description]

sufficient to produce the present direful crisis,
could exist in human bosoms. What! the sons
of Britains separate themselves from Britain!—
disconnect themselves from British prosperity,
British virtue, British greatness, and British
glory!—And for what object?—the paltry consideration
of saving a few thousand pounds a
year, which we were well able, and well entitled
to pay; and which the slightest impulse of
gratitude or honour ought to have rendered us
willing to pay. And is it possible that the present
horrid state of things has arisen from this
sordid motive? Has it been a mere petty financial
speculation that has driven three millions
of people into the crime of rebellion against a
parental government; and induced them to
plunge into a sea of blood for the hope of saving
annually a few pence per head, which they
ought to have been proud to pay a generous
parent, who had so lately expended millions for
their sakes? But no; my fellow subjects, repugnance
to parliamentary taxation, let the disorganizers
pretend what they please, was not the
cause which induced the majority of the leading
rebels to raise their accursed standard. It was
ambition. Our lawyers got an itch for making
laws for a nation, hence they must have a congress.
Our military captains wanted war that

[figure description] Page 095.[end figure description]

they might become generals: our sheriffs and
magistrates, and forward politicians of every
class, wanted independence, that they might
become governors of states, or members of
cabinets, or public functionaries of some kind,
whereby they might make a figure in the land
at the public expense.

“But enough of these dishonest and dishonourable
men, who have embroiled us with the
mighty power to whom we owe allegiance, and
with whose vast superiority of strength it is
madness to contend. The distress into which
their schemes have plunged the country renders
them abhorred by every virtuous and well
principled mind. My friends, I hope there is
not one among you who does not loath and detest
them as you would a pestilence; and will
not be ready to hasten with just and holy vengeance
upon them, as you would upon incendiaries
whom you caught in the act of committing
destruction upon all that you held dear
and estimable, or accounted sacred and venerable
upon earth.

“I propose now to lead you against a nest of
rebels of this stamp. They have not, indeed,
taken the field against their sovereign, but they
have abjured their allegiance, and thrown off the
lawful authority under which their fathers and
themselves were born. Strange, indeed, and

[figure description] Page 096.[end figure description]

depraved must be that state of society in which
allegiance and loyalty are thrown aside with as
little ceremony and reflection, as the casting off
of a loose gown or a pair of slippers. It is against
the whigs in the adjoining settlements, whose
militia hold their fortifications for the rebel
congress, that I propose to lead you, and I call
upon you, by your allegiance, to follow me.
That you may see I am authorized to make
such a call, I request you to look upon this
commission. It has the signature of Howe, as
noble and brave a general as ever wore a sword.
I have within these two weeks been in his presence:
I have been honoured and delighted
with his conversation; and have received from
him authority to arm all his majesty's loyal
subjects in this district, in order to reduce the
people in the neighbourhood to obedience, and
sieze upon their fortified places in the name of
his majesty. Hearken to the reward offered
us in the event of succeeding in this service. It
is a rich one—no less than the whole valley
of Wyoming, including all its improvements,
dwellings, cattle, crops and property of every
description, now forfeited by the rebellion of
their present owners, to be divided amongst us
in proportion to the merit we shall individually
exhibit in the contest we may have to sustain.

“If we are truly zealous in the cause, and

[figure description] Page 097.[end figure description]

desirous to earn this rich reward, we cannot
but succeed. The force against which we shall
have to contend is not much more numerous
than our own, nor is it better equipped for war,
for of warlike stores the British general has
taken care to supply us abundantly. Besides,
what have we, inured as we are to all the toils
and risks of war, and experienced in its arts
and stratagems, to fear from a simple agricultural
race, the majority of whom have never witnessed
a battle nor destroyed a foe. It is my belief,
my friends, that on the first appearance of
danger, these men of timidity and peace, will
submit, and acknowledge once more the authority
of their legitimate sovereign, while we
shall earn the reward of our loyalty by becoming
the owners of the fair estates they have
forfeited by their rebellion.

“But should they unexpectedly resist, besides
our own strength, we shall, in reducing them,
have the powerful aid of the brave Mohawks,
the chiefs of whom I have invited to this conference,
in order to lay before them the proposals
of General Howe for an alliance between
them and the government of Britain. The liberality
of the terms offered to these valiant
people, cannot but secure their approbation and
win their aid; and with such potent allies, what

[figure description] Page 098.[end figure description]

have we to fear from the feeble peasantry of
Wyoming.

“Thus, my friends, the crisis which to others
is so gloomy and full of peril, opens to us a
brilliant prospect of glorious victory and rich
reward. Be courageous and resolute, and soon
the pleasant dwellings in which we have been
only sojourners, and the fertile fields which
surround them, shall be our own—and we shall
dispose of the present inhabitants according to
their deserts. What say ye, my gallant friends,
shall we raise the standard of loyalty in these
regions, and strike for possessions so valuable?”

A shout of applause was given by the auditors
of this harangue, in answer to the question
with which it concluded. This shout continued
to resound for some minutes, and seemed to
express the unanimous assent of the assembly
to the proposal of the speaker. It was not
unanimous, however. There was one man, and
one too in whose staunch loyalty all present
placed the firmest confidence, who opposed
waging war against the people of Wyoming,
for the purpose of despoiling them of their property.
This man's name was Clifton, who had
already suffered much for his royalism. He
had the courage to address the assembly, and
was listened to only on account of his known
zeal for the royal cause, and the sacrifices he

[figure description] Page 099.[end figure description]

had made for it. The warm expressions of
personal regard for him which General Howe
had more than once used in the hearing of Butler,
induced the latter to attend to his remarks
without interruption, although not without impatience
and a strong feeling of resentment.

“Friends and fellow subjects,” said Clifton,
“your zeal in behalf of the government under
which we and our fathers have so long flourished,
is worthy of all praise; and in these unhappy
times of treason and rebellion, is refreshing
and consolatory to every well-disposed
mind. I would not damp your ardour in such
a cause; but I would direct it to the ad option
of justifiable measures. I do not wish you to sit
down in sluggish apathy, while rebellion, like
a raging monster, fills the land with blood and
desolation. No, my friends, I rejoice to behold
your enthusiasm—I would have you to be
up and active in the cause of the lawful and
just government under which our colonies have
long enjoyed so many blessings; whose protection
and care alone preserved them in the feebleness
of their infancy, and reared them to
their present state of maturity.

“But I would have you to select proper objects
for the display of your zeal. I would have
you to direct your hostility to points where you
could perform real service to your sovereign, and

[figure description] Page 100.[end figure description]

vindicate, upon enemies actually in the field,
the majesty of his laws. I would have you to
wield your energies against rebels—and there
are abundance of such in the land—to whom
you are under no obligations for hospitality,
kindness and protection; and to whom you have
made no pledges of amity and peace. I cannot
suppose that you have so soon forgotten the forlorn
and fugitive state under which we implored
and received shelter and sustenance from the
people of these settlements. We were driven
from our homes, and like wild beasts, hunted
into the forests by the vindictive power of our
enemies. We fled hither, and threw ourselves
on the mercy of the inhabitants of these valleys.
Although they had embraced the cause of our
enemies, and disapproved of the political and
warlike course we had pursued, yet they saw
us destitute and suffering, and their humanity
relieved us. They received our assurances of
living in tranquillity among them, and they afforded
us habitations. They fed, they clothed,
they lodged us. We are at this moment, pensioners
on their bounty, protegees of their
care; and, trusting in our promises of peaceable
behaviour, they have taken no precautions
against our hostility, as if they could not dream
that men were to be found so wicked as to aim

[figure description] Page 101.[end figure description]

insidious and dark destruction against protecting
and confiding friends.

“The king's general requires us to arm; I
say too let us arm, since we have obtained the
means. But let us arm against our enemies;
not against our friends. The king has abundance
of foes who are no friends of ours. Let us
march to the sea-board; we shall there find rebels
to whom we owe no gratitude, whom it
will be our duty to subdue, and for subduing
whom, the royal authorities will be as grateful,
and, no doubt, reward us as liberally, as for
subduing a people less deeply plunged in the
guilt of rebellion, and to respect whose welfare
we are bound by every tie of gratitude and
honour.”

When Clifton ceased speaking, a mixed sensation
seemed to pervade the assembly—a murmur
expressive of divided sentiments, was distinctly
heard in various directions; for many were in
reality, forcibly struck with the justice of his
arguments and the propriety of his views. This
feeling of rectitude, however, did not prevail
long. Butler hastened to stem the current that
was setting against his designs; and by his address
he completely succeeded in giving it a
contrary direction.

“What!” said he, “have I, in reality, heard
sentiments of lukewarmness in the cause of

[figure description] Page 102.[end figure description]

Britain, from one who has hitherto been so devoted
to her interests; who has fought and bled
and lost his all for his fidelity to the government
that claims his allegiance! But it is the
weakness of humanity—it is the mere frothing
of the milk of human kindness, which now
prevails over his natural vigour of soul, and enfeebles
his energies with scruples of sickly sentiment
and morbid sensibility. We are distinctly
called upon by the British general, to
seize and occupy the fortresses of the Wyoming
valley, in behalf of the king, and to compel the
inhabitants to return to their allegiance.”

Here Butler read a commission which he had
received from general Howe, appointing him
to the command of such of the frontier royalists
as might join his standard. He also read to the
assembly a paper of instructions, requiring him
to use every effort in his power to reduce the
malecontents of Wyoming, and to preserve the
district in subjection to the regal authority.
This paper likewise contained the promise of bestowing
on him and his coadjutors in this service,
all the lands of the district whose owners
should be convicted of any act of disloyalty.

“Now,” said he, after he had finished reading
these documents, “all who are willing to
obey the orders of general Howe, and to serve
their king, and earn the reward offered for

[figure description] Page 103.[end figure description]

such service, will come forward, enrol their
names on the list of the king's friends, and
swear fidelity to his cause. Those who refuse
had better now retire from this assembly, for in
half an hour they shall be treated as enemies.”

None retired. All were either convinced or
intimidated by Butler's statement. Even Clifton
tacitly yielded to the opinions of the majority,
and made no further opposition. One
Ford, an active and violent tory, was appointed
to administer the oath of fidelity to the assembly;
while Butler and two or three other leaders
withdrew to hold a conference with the
Indian chiefs. The calumet was lighted, and
each having smoked from it, Aranooko arose,
and addressed Butler.

“Brother, we received your message, and
are here. Tell us the will of our father, the
great king of the east. We would be his friends,
and if his wishes be reasonable, we will obey
him. The Mohawks have suffered much from
the people of your race, the disobedient children
of your father beyond the great lake. Our
revenge has lately been asleep; but if the voice
of your father comes in friendship to us, we
will hear, we will awake—we will kindle up
the fierceness of our wrath, like the angry
panther when hunted in his native woods. We
will be a rod in the hands of your father to

[figure description] Page 104.[end figure description]

chastise his unruly children—we will be a flaming
brand to avenge our own wrongs. You have
heard me, brother; now speak.”

“Brave Mohawks!” replied Butler, “our
father knows ye are valiant, and he asks your
aid. He knows ye have been wronged, and he
bids you avenge yourselves. The chief captain
of his host bade me say to you, that he will
supply you with clothing, and with instruments
of war sufficient for your whole tribe. Ask
what else you want, and it shall be given, for
you are a brave people, and we wish for your
friendship.”

“Brother,” said Aranooko—“clothing and
arms are all we want. Our forests supply us
with food, and with fuel, and with timber for
wigwams. We want no more.—But when we
do, we shall ask it. We are your friends. The
disobedient of your race are our enemies. We
will join you in war against them.—Receive
our Wampum!”

So saying, he handed to Butler, a long string
of beads made of red berries, in testimony
of the league. In return for which Butler made
him a present of several trinkets he had provided
for the purpose. Brandt now arose. His
eyes glanced fire for some moments, then cooled
into a settled gleam of ferocious satisfaction:
while pride perched on his heavy brows,

[figure description] Page 105.[end figure description]

determination expanded his large lips, and imparted
a clenching firmness to the vigorous
muscles of his whole frame, as he addressed
himself to Butler.

“Brother,” said he, “You and I are now
leagued in one cause. You have rebellion to
punish. I have wrongs to avenge. Our victims
are the same. I devote them to death.
Let no man step between me and my purpose!
Brother, I am determined on slaughter. They
shall die! Are you of my mind?”

Butler himself was startled at the fiendish ferocity
with which the savage asked this question.
He paused for a moment, as if to recover
from his surprise, and to reflect on an answer.
He then said:

“Brother, our minds agree. Blood must
flow. Death must mark our course, for rebellion
must be rooted out, and your vengeance
be appeased. Brother, our hearts are one. I
feel that we are colleagues in a work destined
to eternize our names as perpetrators of unparralleled
deeds.—Brother, shall we exchange
gifts in token of the compact of blood?”

Butler received a sharp hatchet in return for
a poignard, on handing which to Brandt, he observed,
“The point of that steel is for the
hearts of thy enemies, until thy revenge is
glutted!—The edge of this hatchet is for the

[figure description] Page 106.[end figure description]

necks of rebels until they be cut off from the
land!”

“Why wert thou not born a Mohawk?” exclaimed
Brandt. “Thy sternness is worthy of
our nation, and in fierceness of spirit we are
brothers!”

At this moment the party were startled with
a discharge of musketry, and a cry of terror and
distress which rent the air, and announced that
they were attacked by the whigs. Butler,
Brandt, Aranooko, and all, indeed, who were
inside of the log-house, rushed out to lend
assistance to their friends, but they found them
in full flight, and were themselves borne off the
scene by a torrent of fugitives which they could
not resist. In a moment colonel Dennison and
his militia occupied the ground on which the
tories had been assembled, whence they detached
a strong party in pursuit of the fugitives.
The closeness of the woods and intricacies of
the country, favoured the flight of the latter,
and only about forty fell into the hands of their
pursuers. Among these was Clifton, who was
immediately released, on account of the effort
he had made in opposition to the proposal to
attack Wyoming, which was communicated to
the whigs by one of their party who had acted
as a spy among the conspirators.

CHAPTER IX.

[figure description] Page 107.[end figure description]

Who has made any progress on the journey
of life, and mingled, in any degree, with society,
without experiencing the truth of the above
sentiments? What has produced to human
hearts more intense pangs than ingratitude? To
be injured by those on whom we have conferred
no favour, on whom we have fixed no esteem,
and lavished no bounty, occasions but
little surprise, and inspires but little dissatisfaction
with human nature. We can still, after
such an injury, look upon the world and upon
mankind, in their natural colours, compounded
of the various and ever-changing shades of good
and evil, and remain satisfied with ourselves.
Hope blends with fortitude, and enables us to
bear present ills in anticipation of future good.
But when we have detected the lurking

[figure description] Page 108.[end figure description]

animosities of a favourite, or received an insidious
blow from one whom we have trusted, aided,
or esteemed, grief for disappointed hopes and
lost affections, mortification at being duped by
hypocrisy, and horror at witnessing such a
manifestation of the perfidy of man, contribute
much more than the amount of the injury received,
to inspire us with gloomy views of our
nature and condition, and render us discontented
with existence.

How intensely, on this occasion, did the astonished
people of Wyoming experience such
feelings! The greater number of the individuals
who were detected in this foul conspiracy
against their lives and properties, had been the
welcome partakers of their bounty, many of
them the confidants of their secrets, and some
of them bound to their affections by the closest
ties of relationship or marriage. When the
prisoners were conducted through several of the
villages on their way to the fort at Wyoming,
how grievously did many a confiding heart
shudder to reflect how it had been betrayed,
and to perceive that its destruction had been
contrived by those on whom its confidence had
been placed without restraint, and its kindness
lavished without limits.

Perhaps there was no circumstance connected
with these agitating scenes more remarkable

[figure description] Page 109.[end figure description]

than the forbearance of the inhabitants of Wyoming
towards their captured betrayers. The
bare idea that such a treacherous and murderous
combination had been projected, was enough to
inflame the blood of its intended victims, and
to arouse them to a degree of indignation which,
had it arisen and overwhelmed their prisoners
in immediate destruction, would have been
neither so wonderful nor censurable as many
ebullitions of popular fury which history has
recorded, nor half so flagitious and detestable
as the foul conspiracy it would have avenged.
But no excess of this kind was committed.
The generous inhabitants of the district were
more grieved than irritated at the example of
treachery and barbarous depravity they now
witnessed. Alarm and sorrow, rather than
indignation and rage, filled their hearts and actuated
their feelings. To their governor, Zebulon
Butler, who, though the relative of their
arch enemy, was a tried and faithful friend to
their cause, and to five of the most intelligent
of their known patriots, whom they selected to
form his council, they committed the management
of their affairs at this critical juncture.
Mr. Norwood, Mr. Austin, Dr. Watson,
Colonel Dennison, and the judge of their court,
whose name was Harvey, formed this council;
and a more judicious selection could not have

[figure description] Page 110.[end figure description]

been made. In the honesty and prudence of
these men, the inhabitants placed implicit reliance.
Nor did they place it wrongfully.—
Whatever zeal, vigilance and correct judgment
could effect for the safety of the district, was accomplished.
But their resources were small in
comparison to those of their enemies, who were
in league with the powerful tribe of the Mohawks,
and supplied with all the materials of
war, by the British General.

The aspect of the affairs of the settlement
was indeed extremely menacing. The inhabitants
had, it is true, detected and frustrated a
fearful plot, which, had it with matured force
burst upon them by surprise, would have found
them almost totally unprepared for resistance,
and would inevitably have effected their destruction.
But although this imminent danger
had been escaped, safety was far from being
secured. The clouds of a tremendous and savage
war were gathering around them. They
saw them with the apprehension of rational beings,
who could estimate probabilities and appreciate
consequences. But they trusted in
Providence, and did not sit down indolently to
await the bursting of the storm in the apathy of
despair. They assumed the fortitude of men
conscious of a good cause, and they made every
preparation for defence that judgment could

[figure description] Page 111.[end figure description]

suggest or circumstances would permit. All
among them, fit to bear arms, were enrolled,
and instructed to be in readiness to act on the
first alarm. Despatches were also forwarded
to Washington, informing him of the threatening
aspect of their affairs, and their defenceless
condition; and requesting military aid as soon as
he could possibly send it. The Wyoming volunteers
were also implored by many private
letters, to return to the protection of their
friends and their homes.

It was little more than a week after the
dispersion of the conspirators in the Hemlock
Glade, as mentioned in the preceding chapter,
that an incident happened which greatly increased
the consternation of the Whigs, and
excited them to stronger feelings of resentment
than any thing that had yet occurred.—Mr.
Norwood had returned home on the evening of
a warm day in June, from a meeting of his fellow
counsellors at the governor's house, when
learning that his daughter had gone into the
orchard which skirted the stream of the Sharon,
in order to enjoy the coolness of the evening air,
he hastened to join her. He found her seated
near the bank of the stream on a favourite spot,
where she had often sat with Henry Austin.
She had been reading, probably for the twentieth
time, a letter lately received from Henry.

[figure description] Page 112.[end figure description]

This letter described to her the joyous entry of
the troops under Washington into Philadelphia,
which had been evacuated by the British force
now under the command of sir Henry Clinton.
The glowing style of triumphant patriotism,
and the ardent expressions of undiminished
love, which pervaded this communication from
the chosen of her heart, warmed her feelings
and engrossed her attention so entirely, that the
alarming aspect of the affairs of her own neighbourhood
were for a time forgotten; her whole
faculties were employed in the contemplation
of her absent lover. His numerous virtues,
his patriotism, his courage, and the unchanging
and unchangeable nature of his love for her—
the toils he had undergone—the privations he
had endured, and the dangers he had encountered
in the performance of his duty of his
country—all stood imaged in her mind as personifications
of the highest excellence that
could dignify the character and conduct of man.
And he had been rewarded for these virtues and
privations. He had seen his country's chief and
her gallant army, in triumph enter her capital,
which had just been abandoned by a retiring
enemy.—He had himself formed part of the glorious
procession. And now he was in the
midst of a populous and fascinating metropolis.—
Her thoughts instantly flowed in another

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current. Would he be able to resist the fascinations
of gayety, beauty and splendor which the
new scenes he should now witness would present
to him? Amidst the many accomplished females
to whom he would now become introduced,
would there be none sufficiently attractive to
make an impression on his heart? She wished
to get rid of the unwelcome suggestion. To
harbour it was painful, and might be unjust—
nay, when she reflected on the vows and the
virtues of Henry, she felt assured that it was
unjust.—“No,” thought she, “no allurements
will lead him from the path of fidelity. The
temptations that shall assail him may be great;
but his virtue is great—his love is sincere, and
he will triumph over them all.”

She was indulging this train of thought when
her father approached her.

“My daughter,” said he, “the messenger to
general Washington has been despatched. Your
letter to Henry has gone with him. I fervently
pray that at least our own brave volunteers, who
serve under him, may return to our aid, before
the savages and tories shall have time to combine
their forces and attack us.”

“The distance is great and the road difficult;”
she observed, “but when they hear of
our danger, affection will give wings to their

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speed, and I trust in Heaven, that they will
reach us in time to secure our safety.”

“Their force is but small,” said Mr. Norwood,
“but their military skill would be of
immense value. We have requested general
Washington for more extensive aid, which, I
trust, he will be able to spare us, since the invading
enemy has been, at length, compelled to
make a retrogade motion, and to retreat, as we
have just heard, across the Jerseys, towards
New York, followed by the whole patriotic
army.”

“But, father,” said she, “this removes our
friends farther from our assistance. Heaven only
knows at what distance they may be, when
our messenger reaches them. Our situation is,
indeed, perilous. Our prospects are forlorn.”

“Do not be alarmed, my Agnes!” returned
her father. “Our messenger is well acquainted
with the country, and he has been ordered
to take the direct course into Jersey, and find
the head-quarters of Washington by the shortest
road. But lest he should fail, two other
messengers will be despatched to-morrow.
Nor are we in such immediate danger, nor so
totally destitute of strength, as to justify despondency.
Our men have all assumed arms—
they seem brave and resolute, and will nobly
resist any attack that the traitors and their

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savage allies may make upon us. And one or two
of our forts are strong—”

“Traitors and their savage allies!” exclaimed
a large man in a mask, who, followed
by two savages, rushed upon them from the
midst of some bushes on the bank of the rivulet,
where they had been concealed. The savages
seized Mr. Norwood, tied his hands behind
him, and hurried him off. The man in the
mask caught Agnes, whom, without binding,
he attempted also to carry away. She screamed
and struggled, but he succeeded in removing
her out of the orchard. She ceased her cries,
and assuming a tone of entreaty, begged for a
few moments' respite. She was taunted with
the exclamation—

“Traitors and their savage allies! These
were harsh terms. You and your father, fair
maid, shall soon know how far they are applicable.”
He however slackened his pace with
the view of treating her more mildly, as he
added in a conciliatory tone—“you at least
have nothing to fear. Unless too obstinate, your
father and you shall be both well treated. I
love you and wish to separate you from a rebellious
people destined to destruction. Behold
me, and believe my words!”

He withdrew his mask and presented the
countenance of Butler. An instinctive alarm

[figure description] Page 116.[end figure description]

seized her, and she again screamed aloud. At
that instant a man on horseback gallopped towards
them, the wood being sufficiently open
to admit his approach. Butler drew forth a
pistol. Agnes with great presence of mind,
watched his motions, and, at the moment he
fired, she shook his arm so forcibly, that the accuracy
of his aim was destroyed, and he missed
the advancing horseman. He uttered a profane
exclamation of disappointment, and, perceiving
the horseman to be in the act of presenting
a pistol, he fled, and was soon concealed
amidst the woods.

“My father—my father is carried off by the
savages!” cried Agnes, as Dr. Watson, for he
was the horseman, alighted in order to raise
and support her, for her alarm having overpowered
her, she had sunk upon the ground.

The main road was but a short distance from
the scene of this incident. The Doctor had
been riding past when he heard her cries. He
hastened to her assistance. He was armed as
has been stated. Since the times became dangerous
he had never ventured from home with
out being so. When Butler missed him and
fled, he prudently reserved his fire that he
might the more effectually protect Agues from
any other assailant until she could be conveyed
to a place of safety. This he soon

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accomplished, and hastened to raise a party to go in pursuit
of the captors of Mr. Norwood.

It will be readily supposed that so violent an
outrage on the person of a clergyman so much
esteemed as Mr. Norwood, would produce
strong sensations of both sorrow and resentment
in the minds of his people. Several hundred
were speedily in active chase of the savages.
But the latter, whom Butler soon overtook,
knew the lurking places of the woods too well
to be easily captured. For several days they
were briskly pursued. But they finally escaped,
and arrived safe, with their worn-out prisoner,
after a perilous and toilsome journey, at the
chief village of the Mohawks, where the tories
had formed an encampment.

Oh! Agnes, unhappy daughter of an unfortunate
father, to what desolation of heart wert
thou now subjected! What horrors did thy bereaved
and fearful spirit imagine to be the
doom of thy beloved and only parent! The
vengeful bitterness and capricious cruelty of
the savage nature were well known to thee—
and was thy father now destined to endure
them! Was his aged and venerable frame to
run the cruel gauntlet, and sustain the scorn
and the blows of Mohawk ferocity? Or does
thy terrified imagination behold the blazing
faggots, and the stake to which he is bound, in

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order to be consumed, amidst the shouting
vengeance of exulting fiends in the shape of
men? Is he doomed to that most cruel of all
deaths to which savage vengeance is accustomed
to devote its victims? Art thou, in thy misery
of mind, capable of enduring the terrible
thought? Or hast thou consolation? Does hope
whisper any solace to thy heart? Dost thou
listen to the suggestions of comfort? Dost thou
not rather repel them as fallacious, and beg thy
comforters to depart—to leave thee to silence—
to sorrow—to hopelessness—to despair! No;—
although thy grief is intense—almost too
great for thy tender frame to endure, thou art
a Christian, and wilt not harbour thoughts of
despair. Thy spirit is too strongly imbued
with the pious principles which thy father
taught thee, to question the designs of Heaven
in inflicting calamities, or to murmur at the
rod of chastisement although it pierces thee to
the heart. There is a Rock of comfort to which
he, for whom thou grievest, taught thee to look
for support under every affliction. And thou
rememberest his instructions—thou lookest to
the God of Christians for support in thy bereavement—
for solace in thy sorrow, and for
deliverance from thy affliction! Hence thou
wilt not listen to the suggestions of despair.
Thou art sick, and sorrowful, and wretched—

[figure description] Page 119.[end figure description]

thou canst not help suffering, but thou sufferest
with piety—with meekness and resignation.

The unrepining but intense grief of Agnes,
although it could not overcome the strength of
her mind, overpowered that of her body.
Sickness seized upon her. A strong fever ran
through her veins, and prostrated her strength.
The solicitude with which Dr. Watson attended
to a patient so beloved may be readily imagined.
His sister, her faithful friend, now
became her anxious and diligent nurse. She
made her abode with her, and her assiduous
cares and judicious counsels contributed much
both to mitigate her fever and to shorten its
duration. Her recovery, however, was chiefly
owing to intelligence contained in the following
letter, which she received about a week after
the capture of her father, from the author of
the outrage.

“This letter is written by a man you hate;
yet you will receive it with satisfaction. With
satisfaction do I write it, because it will give
pleasure to the woman I love—the only woman
I ever loved. It pleases me also to think
that the characters I now trace will be perused
by you—will be gazed upon by those eyes
which have struck the fire of love into my
soul.—But I hasten to communicate the circumstance
which is the object of my writing,

[figure description] Page 120.[end figure description]

and which alone will make my letter acceptable.—
Your father lives—he is well treated—
and, for your sake, until I hear from you, I
shall secure to him a continuance of good treatment.

“Believe me this will not be an easy task.
What I have already done for him, has encountered
much opposition. The half Indian
Brandt,—he who escaped from the attack upon
you, which afforded me the first occasion of beholding
your loveliness, and of rendering you
some service,—has not forgotten that he was
once a prisoner in your village. He is inveterately
hostile to all your people. He will go
any length, he will submit to any hardship, he
will expose himself to any danger, he will commit
any crime to be revenged on the feeblest
and most innocent among you. I had to sooth
and conciliate him, and make even humiliating
concessions to him, ere I could obtain his forgiveness
for the part I acted in your rescue.
His knowledge of the breach between your
people and me, and an assurance that we are
now irreconcilable enemies, tended to mollify
him; my influence among the royalists whom
he views as necessary instruments of his revenge,
procured for me his respect, and, in
some measure, his confidence; and my proposal

[figure description] Page 121.[end figure description]

to join him in the late attempt to carry you off,
has attached him entirely to my interests.

“It was you I wanted, my love, and not
your father. But when, from our lurking
place, we discovered him to be with you, the
Indians proposed to seize both, and I made no
objection. I was rather pleased with the circumstance.
My passion for you is vehement.
I know your aversion to me. Your father being
in my hands, might afford me the power of
working on your mind, so as to gain your consent
to become mine. I now lament the circumstance
of your father being present. I have
no ill-will towards him. I wish no harm to
befall him. His being with you occasioned the
failure of my great object to secure you. It
drew the attention of the Indians from you. I
thought my own strength sufficient to bear you
off. It would have been so, had I not been desirous
to effect my purpose with as little harshness
as possible. I refrained from stifling your
cries by force. I even indulged you by relaxing
my speed when we left the orchard, for I
wished to show you that you would be treated
tenderly. That relaxation ruined the whole
project. You renewed your cries. Your friend
approached. I knew not how many might be
following him. I cursed my ill-starred fate,

[figure description] Page 122.[end figure description]

and to avoid instant destruction, abandoned
you.

“I have gained something, however, by the
enterprise. Your father is my prisoner. I see
my advantage in this, and I am determined to
profit by it. Let the irresistible nature of my
love for you excuse my design. Your father
must be my instrument to gain, or if the expression
must be used, to extort, your consent
to my wishes. I have already stated that I
have protected him from injury. I have claimed
him from the savages as my own prisoner.
I have preserved him from the torments of
their cruel customs. I have saved him from
the humiliation and blows of the gauntlet, and
from the fiery horrors of the stake. Do I not
merit recompense for this? Will you not be
grateful? Will you not attribute my exertions—
for to do these things required exertions—to
the ardour of my love? I would restore him to
liberty, but my power over you would be then
lost. No; I must have you. My conceptions
of happiness are so entirely wrought up with
the idea of possessing you, that I swear to
you, I shall stop short of no effort that circumstances
may put in my power, to obtain that
great good for which I so passionately long. I
disdain every other luxury—I disdain mirth
and exhilaration—nay, I disdain reputation and

[figure description] Page 123.[end figure description]

power—I would disdain life itself but for the
hope that it may last till you have blest me with
your charms.

“Hear now my purpose. Your father's fate
is in my hands. It is in yours. Your conduct
to me shall regulate mine to him. Let me
know your resolves, and let me know them
soon. The aspect of the times will admit of no
delay. I enclose a safe-conduct for any messenger
you may send me. Should you decide
on coming here to see your father, and to be
mine, it will be prudent to communicate your
design to me privately, lest the people among
whom you live, should prevent its accomplishment.
Your messenger will hear of me at the
wigwam of Aranooko. If he comes not soon,
I shall not expect him at all. Fierce and prompt
measures shall then be adopted, and remember
who is in my power. Oh! drive me not, thou
most fascinating of thy sex, to the adoption of
measures that may sink thee into affliction, that
humanity may deplore, that I myself may view
with horror! If thou refusest to make me happy,
most solemnly do I swear to make thousands
miserable. Arouse not my energies to
do mischief, or terribly, on all whom thou dost
love, will I revenge thy hatred of me.

Section

[figure description] Page 124.[end figure description]

What a diversity of feelings did this letter
excite in the bosom of Agnes? With what contending
emotions did it agitate her whole frame?
Her immediate sorrow was relieved. Her father
was alive—was safe. How earnestly did
she rejoice—how ardently did she thank Heaven!
But how long should he be safe? That
depended upon her determination. Cruel consideration!
She could not, she dared not comply
with the terms on which her father would
be spared. Her love was given, her faith was
sworn, her hand was RETROTHED—to another.
She could not be Butler's without being faithless
and perjured. To save her father she would
cheerfully die; but could she wrong her soul?
Could she become a bold offender against Heaven
and subject herself to perdition?—No, no—
her father himself would shudder at the
thought. She must reject the dreadful alternative,
be the consequence what it would. To
Mary Watson she showed the letter, and explained
her perplexities, and from her she requested
counsel.

“Heaven be praised,” she said, “my father
is alive; and he has not been tortured. But
how shall I save him from the perils with
which he is threatened. Oh! my friend, thy
judgment is clear—counsel me what I shall
do!”

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