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How it is that the female heart, when in love,
can more successfully control its affections, at
least the display of them, when their object is
present, and suing with all his might, for some
little symptom of reciprocal fondness—than when
he is absent, and cannot witness, and, consequently,
cannot enjoy such endearments—I will
not stop to explain; and, perhaps, for the very
good reason, that I cannot do it to my own satisfaction.
But I can state, that after Charles Adderly's
departure from the Wilderness, Maria Frazier
experienced that she possessed this feminine
quality in perfection.

He was not many hours gone, when his image
took such full and forcible possession of her mind,
that whether she dreamed by night, or meditated
by day, that image was still present with her. It
haunted her in her rambles, it engrossed her

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studies, and disturbed her devotions; and whether
she ate, or drank, or walked, or slept, it would
never leave her, and what was in all respects as
extraordinary, she never wished it to leave her.
No, she cherished it fondly in her heart; it was
her only care, her only comfort, and her only joy.
Though she dared hardly venture to expect that
she should ever see him again, yet she felt that
without him the Wilderness was cheerless, life insipid,
and the world a blank. Her fears that he
should never return were great, but they arose not
from any doubt respecting the sincerity and unchangeableness
of his love for her, but from the
numerous perils and obstacles which she knew he
must encounter and overcome before he could retrace
the dread and savage-haunted wilds that now
separated them.

She, however, succeeded tolerably well in concealing
these feelings from the observation of all
her friends, except Nancy, who, perhaps, on account
of being actuated by some feelings of the
same kind, for a different object, but one also now
at a distance, the more readily suspected her sister;
or, if it be true, that the pangs of love are
always relieved by being poured into the ear of a
confidant, Maria may have voluntarily intrusted
her with her secret.

With respect to Nancy's own case, Dr. Killbreath
had found means during his short abode
with her, not only to convince her that she possessed
his heart, but also to obtain possession of
hers. In consequence of this, although the feeling
with which she remembered the doctor was
not so very deep and acute as that with which
Maria remembered Charles, yet it was sufficient to
make her sympathize so sincerely with her sister,
as induced the latter to confide her sorrows, and
her love, to her secresy. Nancy returned the

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favour by a reciprocal confidence, which, perhaps,
did more to keep alive the doctor's interest in
her heart, by occasionally affording her opportunities
to talk of him, than any impression his addresses
while with her had made.

Maria's affection for Charles Adderly did not
require any such stimulus of conversation to preserve
it, during his absence, from decay. It was
an affection which no time nor distance could diminish,
for it was planted in a mind as constant,
tender, sincere, and unchangeable in its attachments,
as any woman ever possessed. It might,
perhaps, be for this reason, that, although she felt
more acutely, she talked less freely, on the subject
of her feelings than Nancy. Nay, sometimes
she felt more enjoyment in meditating alone upon
her lover's perfections, as they appeared to her
imagination, than in conversing about them. But
often the disposition would vary, and she would
feel great satisfaction in being able to interchange
ideas concerning him with a friend and sister, of
whose perseverance in secresy she was fully confident.

Upwards of four months passed on in this manner,
and Maria had not heard from her lover, for
Paddy had not yet returned from Philadelphia,
and she was becoming very uneasy to ascertain
his safety.

“Surely, thought she, if they had reached Philadelphia
alive, Paddy would have been returned
before now, and I should have heard of Charles.
The Indians, alas! hated him—they may have taken
him—they may have put him to death—a cruel
death—when Tonnaleuka could not be near to
save him. It is true the prophet has discovered
that the mauraders were disa pointed in their attempt
near the Laurel Hill—but they may have
succeeded elsewhere, for it was a long

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Wilderness they had to traverse. Heaven grant that
my fears may be unfounded!”

At length, to the great joy of all Frazier's family,
Paddy arrived, accompanied by Dr. Killbreath,
whose desire to revisit Nancy had rendered him
easily persuaded to join her brother in trading with
the Indians. They, therefore, brought with them
in partnership a large and valuable assortment of
goods, not only suited for the Indians, but also for
the French, with whom Paddy was desirous to
open a trade, because he expected that it would
be lucrative, and that it might be the means of
preserving their friendship, which he was very
anxious to preserve, since they were now become the
lords of the forest. As to the danger the doctor
was in of falling again into their hands, he believed
that it could be easily removed, by a present to the
commandant at Le Bœuf, with a declaration that the
doctor wished to settle as a trader in the Wilderness
under the French protection.

Near the North Mountain they met with several
Indians who would, no doubt, have attacked and
plundered, and perhaps, massacred them, had some
of them not known Paddy, who speaking their language
freely, managed matters so well with them,
that they agreed, for a present of a few blankets
and some trinkets, to escort him home.

If Nancy was rejoiced to see her dear doctor
come back again, he was no less so to find himself
once more safe under her father's roof, with the
prospect of being permitted to remain there unmolested
by either the French or Indians.

But the great source of Maria's joy was the assurance
she now had of her lover's safety. He had
transmitted to her a present of various books of
late publication, such as the works of Pope,
Thomson, Addison, and others, which he knew she
had not seen, and was desirous to peruse. There

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were also other presents of considerable value, as
jewelry, dress, &c. which need not be particularized.
These had been intrusted to the care of Doctor Killbreath,
who punctually obeyed his instructions by
handing them to her in private. But the gift which
afforded her by far the greatest pleasure, was a
packet of letters written by her Charles's own hand.

In these letters he assured her of the unabated
fervour of his love, which rendered him extremely
anxious to return to the Wilderness, to be once
more in her presence. “Duties of a very imperious
nature, he said, compelled him to remain a few
months longer in Philadelphia, but he trusted that
during the summer he should be able to gratify the
most ardent desire of his heart, by visiting her.
In the mean time, he exhorted—he conjured her,
to constancy and perseverance in cherishing that
affection which it was his only consolation to know
she bore for him.”

But, reader, you have, no doubt read many a
love letter, and many, perhaps you have yourself
both written and received. To detain you, therefore,
with a recital of the sentiments contained in
those of Charles Adderly, for the sentimental parts
of all love letters, which are always the nine
tenths of their contents, are very much alike,
would be no treat. But as love had made him
something of a poet, and he had enclosed a few
verses in one of these letters in praise of his fair
one, (a thing which every writer of love letters cannot
do,) I shall take the liberty of submitting them
to your perusal. These verses although far from
being of first-rate excellence, are at least no worse
than the rhymes which many a love-sick gentleman
has thought proper to string together in compliment
to his mistress. But be they good or bad,
since Charles Adderly wrote them, I think I may
be permitted to print them.

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The summer months passed without any remarkable
occurrence happening to affect the fortunes
of Maria. Her habits of household rural
employments were attended to as usual, but her
secret thoughts were altogether occupied with the
idea of him who loved her so warmly and tenderly,
and whom she did not now affect to conceal
from herself, she loved with equal warmth and
tenderness The perusal of the books, but more
particularly the letters he had sent her, occupied
the chief portion of her leisure hours; and on some
occasions, but not often, she would indulge her
feelings by talking about him to her sister. On
such occasions, however she still took care not to
dwell long upon the dangerous subject, lest she

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might express herself more ardently in his favour,
than her delicate views of propriety would altogether
warrant.

It was one beautiful evening in November 1753,
the Indian summer being then in all its glory and
sweetness, that these two young women walked upon
the bank of the Monongahela. Charles Adderly,
Dr. Killbreath, and some Indian transactions,
were the chief topics of their conversation.

“I am not sure whether I could wish Mr. Adderly
to visit us this fall or not,” observed Maria—
“the French dislike him so much, that they might
instigate the savages to his destruction. Oh,
Nancy! what a barbarous and blood-thirsty people
we live among?”

“I can say but little,” replied Nancy, “in favour
of the Indians when they go out to war, or
when they take prisoners, for Dr. Killbreath says
that they have then little mercy on men, women,
or children. But I think Mr. Adderly could be
here long enough without their knowledge; and
Tonnaleuka, you know, could protect him.”

“Tonnaleuka cannot be every where,” said
Maria. “He has often to be at a distance among
the contending tribes, giving them counsel, and
settling their disputes. And the Indians are far
more exasperated this season against the English,
than they ever were before. But it is before he
arrives here, that danger is chiefly to be dreaded.
If the savages find him crossing any of the mountains,
alas! I fear his destruction will be inevitable.
I am sometimes tempted to pray that he may
not venture to come, at least until these outrageous
times be past.”

“Truly,” observed Nancy, “it would be better
that he should not attempt to visit you, than that he
should be killed. But both Paddy and Dr. Killbreath
say, that the white people would have no

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occasion to fear so much from the Indians, if they
would only treat them kindly, and not attempt to
cheat them, or wrest their lands from them, as they
do.”

“But Charles Adderly never cheated them,”
replied Maria, “nor had he taken any land from
them by force when they attacked him last year,
and were going to sacrifice him. Ah! I fear much
for him, for the French now hate him thoroughly;
and from their hatred there is less chance by far,
of escaping than from that of the Indians.”

“It is hard to say,” returned Nancy, “whether
he would consent to do what Dr. Killbreath has
done; make friends of the French, and live here
under their protection. If he would do this, I
think all would be safe, and—”

“No!” exclaimed Maria—“Charles Adderly
never will stoop to such a thing. I know him to
be too dignified in his sentiments for that. He
considers the French the enemies of his country,
and from such he never will crave protection.—
Alas! no, if he come at all, it will be either privately,
or publicly as their enemy; for the savages
and they, I fear, have latterly carried their ravages
into the English settlements too ferociously
and destructively, not to have made every one of
that nation their enemy.”

“Why, that cannot be!” observed Nancy, “for
Dr. Killbreath is English, and he now lives here
with us as the friend of the French.”

“The doctor's love for you,” returned Maria,
“has induced him in this affair, I am persuaded,
to act contrary both to his inclination and judgment.
He has become an exception to the conduct
that all the rest of his nation will adopt, which
I know Charles Adderly will never become.”

“I'm sure you know,” said Nancy, “that Mr.
Adderly is as much in love, and as desirous to live

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here, as Dr. Killbreath; and why shouldn't he as
well as the doctor prefer love to politics?”

“Because,” said Maria, “it would be preferring
private interest to public duty, which Charles never
will do.”

“La! now,” cried Nancy, “I cannot believe
that you think so. Don't you suppose that Mr.
Adderly would prefer you to all the French, and
all the Indians, and all the English into the bargain,
in the world?”

“I have no right,” said Maria, “to suppose any
such thing. Nay, if he did so, it would be very
wrong, and I do not think I should esteem him so
much if I thought him capable of it.”

“Now surely,” returned Nancy, with a look of
incredulity, “you cannot be serious. What harm
has Dr. Killbreath done by making friends of the
French? and sure I must like him the better for
doing it on my account, and I am persuaded, that
if Mr. Adderly's love for you would so far overcome
his dislike to them, you could not be displeased.”

“You are much mistaken in your opinion of me,”
said Maria, “if you believe so. A strict adherence
to principles and duty, I shall for ever admire; and
I shall the more admire it, that it is accomplished
in opposition to self interest and personal advantage;
for the more difficult the performance of virtuous
actions is, the greater must be their merit,
and the higher should be the approbation afforded
them.”

“Then you do not think that Dr. Killbreath has
done right?” observed Nancy.

“I do not undertake to judge the doctor,” returned
Maria. “Duties are, perhaps, like almost
every thing else, in the strictness of their obligation,
capable of being modified by circumstances.
What may be imperiously incumbent upon one

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man to perform, may be less so, or even not at all
so, upon another; and the same man may, in different
circumstances, feel himself bound to act differently
in respect to a general duty, if he wants to
act right. Dr. Killbreath in making peace with
the French, even while they are making war with
his countrymen, may have no design to injure the
latter; on the contrary, he may thereby have it in
his power to serve some of them. But Charles
Adderly has higher responsibilities to bear. He
has been already employed as a leader, and his
countrymen must expect more from him than from
many others. But Nancy, to cut short the discussion,
I am convinced that, in the present times, no
temptation will induce Charles, even in appearance,
and I believe that it is only in appearance
that Dr. Killbreath has done so, to court favour
from the French.”

“I know,” said Nancy, “that the doctor don't
like them in his heart; for when he heard of them
sending the Wiandots on their late Blue Ridge excursion,
“it will be a murderous affair,” said he—
“I wish to God the Virginians may give them a
thorough defeat!”

“It is, indeed, shocking to think of these doings,”
returned Maria: “what cruel hearts those men
must have, that can engage in them! I fear they
will not give over until the English are excited to
retaliation; and then, alas! what a terrible state
of things may we not expect to witness in this
country! But I hope Providence will avert the
calamity. My heart sickens to think of it. How
different from that secure and peaceful state of society,
which the delightful author I have in my
hand describes! Let us sit down, Nancy, and I
shall read for you the heart-cheering picture of
love, peace, and virtue, which the beautiful tale of
Palemon and Lavinia exhibits; it will drive away

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the disagreeable reflections which the contemplation
of those sanguinary horrors, of which we have
been talking, have excited.”

They sat down beneath a tree which grew on a
shelving portion of the bank, and Nancy listened
with great earnestness, while Maria read with an
audible and sweet voice, and with a tenderness and
pathos of manner which shewed that her whole
soul was enrapt with the delightful strains in
which the poet of the Seasons has told his sweetest
tale. She had just pronounced the following
exquisite lines,—
“He saw her charming, but he saw not half
The charms her downcast modesty conceal'd—” When Nancy, happening to direct her attention a
little to one side, perceived a white man leaning
against a tree scarce two yards distant. She immediately
started to her feet in surprise, crying
out—

“Oh, Maria! here is a white stranger!”

Maria arose, considerably startled, and the stranger
approached, with mildness, benevolence, and
admiration strongly expressed in his countenance.

“Ladies!” said he, “I must ask pardon for my
delay in addressing you. But how could I interrupt
the noble exercise, the refined enjoyment in
which I found you engaged! And in such a place
too—so unexpectedly! I have traversed the wilderness
nearly two hundred miles without seeing a
white woman; and here to discover such as you
and so employed! Ladies—forgive me, if I say
my delight is equal to my astonishment!”

“Sir!” replied Maria—“we meet in this wilderness
with so few gentlemen like you, that, if we
have on our part manifested any symptoms of
childish surprise at seeing you, we presume that
you have discernment and candour enough to

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ascribe it to its true cause—our peculiarly secluded
condition; for these woods, that river, and the sky
above us, are the utmost extent and variety of external
nature that we have seen since our birth.—
But our father lives near at hand; he always makes
the sojourner in the forest welcome. If you have
no objection, we will lead you to his house.”

“Is your father's name Frazier?” asked the
stranger.

“It is, sir,” was the reply.

“I was informed that his residence is about this
place, and was just in search of it, when I perceived
you,” he answered.

An idea now crossed Maria's thoughts, which
made her change colour, and embarrassed her
manner more then even the sudden appearance of
the stranger.

“He may be from Philadelphia—he may have
news for me (thought she);—but I dare not ask
him;”—and she unconsciously heaved a sigh,
which was not unobserved by the penetrating
stranger, whose eye, indeed, since he first saw
her, had, in spite of all his efforts, been kept steadily
fixed upon her. He would fain at this moment
have inquired into the cause of her slight
agitation, but his delicacy, and an agitation which
he himself felt, keener, perhaps, than even Maria's,
prevented him, and they went towards the house
in silence. A few minutes brought them to the
lane, where they met Gilbert; and Maria becoming
soon satisfied, from their conversation, that the
stranger was not from Philadelphia, the fluttering
of her bosom gradually subsided.

“That, sir, is my father,” said she, as Gilbert
approached. He soon saluted the stranger with a
friendly welcome, who cordially shook his hand,
saying,

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“I have heard of you, Mr. Frazier, and was directed
to take your house on my way to Fort Le
Bœuf, where I am proceeding on public business,
by the order of the Governor of Virginia.”

The high respect with which the stranger's first
appearance had impressed Gilbert, was, of course,
nothing diminished by this intelligence.

“Ay, ay! Indian business, na doot,” said he;
“I wonner the Governor did na lang ere this, send
to inquire after thir things; for there hae been
unco fearfu' an' troublesome doings lately. I hope
noo, howsomever, that ye'll get it a' settled. But
come in, come in—I wish I could accommodate
ye better; but amang thir woods, ye ken, it's no
like lievin' in a christian country.”

“Your kindness will far more than compensate for
any deficiency of accommodation—George Washington,
for such, Mr. Frazier, is my name, will
never be fastidious in this respect. If he has not
yet learned, he hopes he will learn, how to bear
hardships when the public service requires them.
In the mean time, to men who have, for several
nights past, lodged in the open woods, the shelter
of your roof will be a luxury; for I am not, you
will suppose, traversing this wilderness without
assistants and guides.”

“And whar are yere men?” inquired Gilbert;
“I'll send for them, an' try wi' heart an' gude
wull, to mak' ye a' welcome.”

“I left them about a mile up the river, where
they halted to refresh themselves, while, with my
rifle in my hand, I kept on our course before
them.”

“Your rifle!” said Gilbert, seeing none in
Washington's possession; “an' whar is it?”

“It is at the foot of a walnut tree, not far from
the place where I met your daughters; for on
perceiving them, I feared to alarm them by

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appearing armed in their presence, and dropped it
there.”

“I'll send my sin Archy to bring your men doon
the river,” said Gilbert. “He'll likely fin' the
rifle on his way. But come yoursel' into the
hoose, Mr. Washington, an' the women will hae
something comfortable for you, belyve.”

“I think I had myself better go back for the
rifle,” said Washington; “I can from thence call
my men together. It will save your son unnecessary
trouble.”

He accordingly retraced his steps as far back as
the walnut tree, where he sounded a horn, as a
signal for his company to come on, which was immediately
answered from no great distance.—
Archy, who, by his father's order, followed after
him, overtook him at that crisis, and was informed
that he need proceed no further, for his companions
would be present in a few minutes.

“I'll push on, if ye please, sir,” said Archy;
“the sight of a white man in thir woods, since the
Indians have frightened away the traders, is a
pleasure we canna get every day.

So saying, he hastened onwards, and Washington
returned to the house, desirous again to behold
the most beautiful and interesting female he had
ever seen.