[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

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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

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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

[figure description] Page 114.[end figure description]

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

[figure description] Page 117.[end figure description]

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—

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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,

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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

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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,

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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

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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.

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