within a picket of ours to the house of Smith, where Arnold and he remained together in close conference all that night and the day following. At daylight in the morning, the commanding officer at King's Ferry, without the privity of Arnold, moved a couple of pieces of cannon to a point opposite to where the Vulture lay, and obliged her to take a more remote station. This event, or some lurking distrust, made the boatmen refuse to convey the two passengers back, and disconcerted Arnold so much, that by one of those strokes of infatuation which often confound the schemes of men conscious of guilt, he insisted on André's exchanging his uniform for a disguise, and returning in a mode different from that in which he came. André, who had been undesignedly brought within our posts, in the first instance, remonstrated warmly against this new and dangerous expedient. But Arnold persisting in declaring it impossible for him to return as he came, he at length reluctantly yielded to his direction, and consented to change his dress, and take the route he recommended. Smith furnished the disguise, and in the evening passed King's Ferry with him, and proceeded to Crompond, where they stopped the remainder of the night (at the instance of a militia officer), to avoid being suspected by him. The next morning they resumed their journey, Smith accompanying André a little beyond Pine's Bridge, where he left him. He had reached Tarrytown, when he was taken up by three militia men, who rushed out of the woods, and seized his horse. At this critical moment, his presence of mind forsook him. Instead of producing his pass, which would have extricated him from our parties, and could have done him no harm with his own, he asked the militia men if they were of the upper or lower party, distinctive appellations known among the refugee corps. The militia men replied, they were of the lower party; upon which he told them he was a British officer, and pressed them not to detain him as he was upon urgent business. This confession removed all doubt; and it was in vain he afterwards produced his pass. He was instantly forced off to a place of greater security; where, after a careful search, there were found concealed in the feet of his stockings, several papers of importance delivered to him by Arnold. Among these there were a plan of the fortifications of West Point, a memorial from the engineer on the attack and defence of the place, returns of the garrison, cannon, and stores, copy of the minutes of a council of war held by General Washington a few weeks before. The prisoner at first was inadvertently ordered to Arnold; but on recollection, while still on the way, he was countermanded and sent to Old Salem.

The papers were enclosed in a letter to General Washington, which having taken a route different from that by which he returned, made a circuit, that afforded leisure for another letter, through an ill-judged delicacy, written to Arnold, with information of Anderson's capture, to get to him an hour before General Washington arrived at his quarters, time enough to elude the fate that awaited him. He went down the river in his barge to the Vulture, with such precipitate confusion, that he did not take with him a single paper useful to the enemy. On the first notice of the affair he was pursued, but much too late to be overtaken.

There was some colour for imagining it was a part of the plan to betray the General into the hands of the enemy: Arnold was very anxious to ascertain from him the precise day of his return, and the enemy's movements seem to have corresponded to this point. But if it was really the case, it was very injudicious. The success must have

depended on surprise, and as the officers at the advanced posts were not in the secret, their measures might have given the alarm, and General Washington, taking the command of the post, might have rendered the whole scheme abortive. Arnold, it is true, had so dispersed the garrison as to have made a defence difficult, but not impracticable; and the acquisition of West Point was of such magnitude to the enemy, that it would have been unwise to connect it with any other object, however great, which might make the obtaining of it precarious.

Arnold, a moment before his setting out, went into Mrs. Arnold's apartment, and informed her that some transactions had just come to light, which must forever banish him from his country. She fell into a swoon at this declaration, and he left her in it to consult his own safety, till the servants, alarmed by her cries, came to her relief. She remained frantic all day, accusing every one who approached her with an intention to murder her child (an infant in her arms), and exhibiting every other mark of the most genuine and agonizing distress. Exhausted by the fatigue and tumult of her spirits, her phrenzy subsided towards evening, and she sunk into all the sadness of affliction. It was impossible not to have been touched with her situa tion; everything affecting in female tears, or in the misfortunes of beauty, everything pathetic in the wounded tenderness of a wife, or in the apprehensive fondness of a mother, and, till I have reason to change the opinion, I will add, everything amiable in suffering innocence, conspired to make her an object of sympathy to all who were present. She experienced the most delicate attentions, and every friendly office, till her departure for Philadel phia.

André was, without loss of time, conducted to the head-quarters of the army, where he was immediately brought before a board of general officers, to prevent all possibility of misrepresentation or cavil on the part of the enemy.

The board reported that he ought to be considered as a spy, and according to the laws and usages of nations, to suffer death, which was executed two days after.

The

Never, perhaps, did any man suffer death with more justice, or deserve it less. The first step he took after his capture, was to write a letter to General Washington, conceived in terms of dignity without insolence, and apology without meanness. scope of it was to vindicate himself from the impu tation of having assumed a mean character, for treacherous or interested purposes; asserting that he had been involuntarily an imposter; that contrary to his intention, which was to meet a person for intelligence on neutral ground, he had been betrayed within our posts, and forced into the vile condition of an enemy in disguise; soliciting only that to whatever rigour policy might devote him, a deceney of treatment might be observed due to a person who, though unfortunate, had been guilty of nothing dishonourable. His request was granted in its full extent; for in the whole progress of the affair, he was treated with the most scrupulous delicacy. When brought before the board of officers, he met with every mark of indulgence, and was required to answer no interrogatory which would even embarrass his feelings. On his part, while he carefully concealed everything that might implicate others, he frankly confessed all the facts relating to himself, and upon his confession, without the trouble of examining a witness, the board made their report. The members were not more impressed with the candour and firmness, mixed with a becoming sensibility, which he displayed, than he was penetrated

with their liberality and politeness. He acknowledged the generosity of the behaviour towards him in every respect, but particularly in this, in the strongest terms of manly gratitude. In a conversation with a gentleman who visited him after his trial, he said, he flattered himself he had never been illiberal; but if there were any remains of prejudice in his mind, his present experience must obliterate them.

66

In one of the visits I made to him (and I saw him several times during his confinement), he begged me to be the bearer of a request to the General, for permission to send an open letter to Sir Henry Clinton. "I foresee my fate," said he, and though I pretend not to play the hero, or to be indifferent about life, yet I am reconciled to whatever may happen, conscious that misfortune, not guilt, has brought it upon me. There is only one thing that disturbs my tranquillity. Sir Henry Clinton has been too good to me; he has been lavish of his kindness; I am bound to him by too many obligations, and love him too well to bear the thought that he should reproach himself, or others should reproach him, on the supposition of my having conceived myself obliged, by his instructions, to run the risk I did. I would not, for the world, leave a sting in his mind that should embitter his future days." He could scarce finish the sentence, bursting into tears, in spite of his efforts to suppress them, and with difficulty collecting himself enough afterwards to add, "I wish to be permitted to assure him, I did not act under this impression, but submitted to a necessity imposed upon me, as contrary to my own inclinations, as to his orders." His request was readily complied with, and he wrote the letter annexed, with which I dare say you will be as much pleased as I am, both for the sentiment and diction.

When his sentence was announced to him, he remarked, that since it was his lot to die, there was still a choice in the mode, which would make a material difference to his feelings; and he would be happy, if possible, to be indulged with a professional death. He made a second application by letter, in concise but persuasive terms. It was thought that this indulgence, being incompatible with the customs of war, could not be granted; and it was, therefore, determined, in both cases, to evade an answer, to spare him the sensations, which a certain knowledge of the intended mode would inflict.

In going to the place of execution, he bowed familiarly as he went along, to all those with whom he had been acquainted in his confinement. A smile of complacency expressed the serene fortitude of his mind. Arrived at the fatal spot, he asked, with some emotion, "must I then die in this manner?" He was told it had been unavoidable. "I am reconciled to my fate (said he), but not to the mode." Soon, however, recollecting himself, he added, "it will be but a momentary pang;" and springing upon the cart, performed the last offices to himself, with a composure that excited the admiration and melted the hearts of the beholders. Upon being told the final moment was at hand, and asked if he had anything to say, he answered, "nothing, but to request you will witness to the world, that I die like a brave man." Among the extraordinary circumstances that attended him, in the midst of his enemies he died universally regretted, and universally esteemed.

There was something singularly interesting in the character and fortunes of André. To an excellent understanding, well improved by education and travel, he united a peculiar elegance of mind and manners, and the advantage of a pleasing person. It is said, he possessed a pretty taste for the fine

arts, and had himself attained some proficiency in poetry, music, and painting. His knowledge appeared without ostentation, and embellished by a diffidence that rarely accompanies so many talents and accomplishments, which left you to suppose more than appeared.

His sentiments were elevated, and inspired esteem; they had a softness that conciliated affection. His elocution was handsome; his address easy, polite, and insinuating. By his merit, he had acquired the unlimited confidence of his General, and was making a rapid progress in military rank and reputation. But in the height of his career, flushed with new hopes from the execution of a project the most beneficial to his party that could be devised, he was at once precipitated from the summit of prosperity, and saw all the expectations of his ambition blasted, and himself ruined.

The character I have given of him, is drawn partly from what I saw of him myself, and partly from information. I am aware, that a man of real merit is never seen in so favourable a light as through the medium of adversity. The clouds that surround him are shades that set off his good qualities. Misfortune cuts down the little vanities, that in prosperous times serve as so many spots in his virtues, and gives a tone of humility that makes his worth more amiable. His spectators, who enjoy a happier lot, are less prone to detract from it through envy; and are more disposed by compassion to give him the credit he deserves, and perhaps even to magnify it.

I speak not of André's conduct in this affair as a philosopher, but as a man of the world. The authorized maxims and practices of war are the satires of human nature. They countenance almost every species of seduction, as well as violence; and the General who can make most traitors in the army of his adversary is frequently most applauded. On this scale we acquit André, while we would not but condemn him if we were to examine his conduct by the sober rules of philosophy and moral rectitude. It is, however, a blemish on his fame, that he once intended to prostitute a flag,-about this, a man of nice honour ought to have had a scruple; but the temptation was great. Let his misfortunes cast a veil over his error.

Several letters from Sir Henry Clinton, and others, were received in the course of the affair, feebly attempting to prove that André came out under the protection of a flag, with a passport from a general officer in actual service; and consequently could not be justly detained. Clinton sent a deputation, composed of Lieutenant-General Robinson, Mr. Elliot, and Mr. William Smith, to represent, as he said, the true state of Major André's case. General Greene met Robinson, and had a conversation with him, in which he reiterated the pretence of a flag, urged Andre's release as a personal favour to Sir Henry Clinton, and offered any friend of ours in their power in exchange. Nothing could have been more frivolous than the plea which was used. The fact was, that besides the time, manner, object of the interview, change of dress, and other circumstances, there was not a single formality customary with flags; and the passport was not to Major André, but to Mr. Anderson. But had there been, on the contrary, all the formalities, it would be an abuse of language to say, that the sanction of a flag, for corrupting an officer to betray his trust, ought to be respected. So unjustifiable a purpose would not only destroy its validity, but make it an aggra

vation.

André himself has answered the argument, by ridiculing and exploding the idea, in his examination

before the board of officers. urge it.

It was a weakness to There was, in truth, no way of saving him, Arnold or he must have been the victim; the former was out of our power

It was by some suspected, Arnold had taken his measures in such a manner, that if the interview had been discovered in the act, it might have been in his power to sacrifice André to his own security. This surmise of double treachery, made them imagine Clinton would be induced to give up Arnold for André; and a gentleman took occasion to suggest the expedient to the latter, as a thing that might be proposed by him. He declined it. The moment he had been capable of so much frailty, I should have ceased to esteem him.

The infamy of Arnold's conduct, previous to his desertion, is only equalled by his baseness since. Besides the folly of writing to Sir Henry Clinton, that André had acted under a passport from him, and according to his directions, while commanding officer at a post, and that therefore he did not doubt he would be immediately sent in, he had the effrontery to write to General Washington in the same spirit, with the addition of a menace of retaliation, if the sentence should be carried into execution. He has since acted the farce of sending in his resig nation. This man is, in every sense, despicable. În addition to the scene of knavery and prostitution during his command in Philadelphia, which the late seizure of his papers has unfolded, the history of his command at West Point is a history of little as well as great villanies. He practised every art of peculation; and even stooped to connexion with the suttlers of the garrison to defraud the public.

To his conduct, that of the captors of André formed a striking contrast. He tempted them with the offer of his watch, his horse, and any sum of money they should name. They rejected his offers with indignation; and the gold that could seduce a man high in the esteem and confidence of his country, who had the remembrance of past exploits, the motives of present reputation and future glory, to prop his integrity, had no charms for three simple peasants, leaning only on their virtue and an honest sense of their duty. While Arnold is handed down, with execration, to future times, posterity will repeat with reverence the names of Van Wart, Paulding, and Williams.

I congratulate my friend on our happy escape from the mischiefs with which this treason was big. It is a new comment on the value of an honest man, and, if it were possible, would endear you to me more than ever. Adieu.

FROM THE EULOGIUM ON GEN. GREENE, BEFORE THE SOCIETY OF THE CINCINNATI,

There is no duty that could have been assigned to me by this society which I should execute with greater alacrity than the one I am now called upon to perform. All the motives capable of interesting an ingenuous and feeling mind conspire to prompt me to its execution. To commemorate the talents, virtues, and exploits, of great and good men, is at all times a pleasing task to those who know how to esteem them. But when such men, to the title of superior merit, join that of having been the defenders and guardians of our country; when they have been connected with us as companions in the same dangers, sufferings, misfortunes, and triumphs; when they have been allied to us in the still more endearing character of friends; we recall the ideas of their worth with sensations that affect us yet more nearly, and feel an involuntary propensity to consider their fame as our own. We seem to appropriate to our

selves the good they have done; and to take a personal interest in the glory they have acquired; and to share in the very praise we bestow.

In entering upon a subject in which your feelings as well as my own are so deeply concerned, however it might become me to follow examples of humility, I shall refrain from a practice perhaps not less laudable than it is common. I cannot prevail upon myself to check the current of your sensibility by the cold formalities of an apology for the defects of the speaker. These can neither be concealed nor extenuated by the affectation of diffidence; nor even by the genuine concessions of conscious inability. "Tis your command, and the reverence we all bear to the memory of him of whom I am to speak, that must constitute my excuse, and my claim to your indulgence. Did I even possess the powers of oratory, I should with reluctance attempt to employ them upon the present occasion. The native brilliancy of the diamond needs not the polish of art; the conspicuous features of pre-eminent merit, need not the coloring pencil of imagination, nor the florid decorations of rhetoric.

From you who knew and loved him, I fear not the imputation of flattery, or enthusiasm, when I indulge an expectation, that the name of GREENE will at once awaken in your minds, the images of whatever is noble and estimable in human nature. The fidelity of the portrait I shall draw, will therefore have nothing to apprehend from your sentence. But I dare not hope that it will meet with equal justice from all others; or that it will entirely escape the cavils of ignorance and the shafts of envy. For high as this great man stood in the estimation of his country, the whole extent of his worth was hittle known. The situations in which he has appeared, though such as would have measured the faculties and exhausted the resources of men who might justly challenge the epithet of great, were yet incompetent to the full display of those various, rare, and exalted endowments, with which nature only now and then decorates a favorite, as if with intention to astonish mankind.

As a man, the virtues of Greene are admitted; as a patriot, he holds a place in the foremost rank; as a statesman, he is praised; as a soldier, he is admired. But in the two last characters, especially in the last but one, his reputation falls far below his desert. It required a longer life, and still greater opportunities, to have enabled him to exhibit, in full day, the vast, I had almost said the enormous, powers of his mind.

The termination of the American war-not too soon for his wishes, nor for the welfare of his country, but too soon for his glory-put an end to his military career. The sudden termination of his life, cut him off from those scenes, which the progress of a new, immense, and unsettled empire, could not fail to open to the complete exertion of that universal and pervading genius which qualified him not less for the senate than for the field.

In forming our estimate, nevertheless, of his character, we are not left to supposition and conjecture. We are not left to vague indications or uncertain appearances, which partiality might varnish or prejudice discolor. We have a succession of deeds, as glorious as they are unequivocal, to attest his greatness and perpetuate the honors of his name.

It is an observation, as just as it is common, that in those great revolutions which occasionally convulse society, human nature never fails to be brought forward in its brightest as well as in its blackest colors: and it has very properly been ranked not among the least of the advantages which compensate for the evils they produce, that they serve to bring

to light, talents and virtues, which might otherwise have languished in obscurity, or only shot forth a few scattered and wandering rays.

NATHANIEL GREENE descended from reputable parents; but not placed by birth in that elevated rank which, under a monarchy, is the only sure road to those employments that give activity and scope to abilities, must, in all probability, have contented himself with the humble lot of a private citizen, or, at most, with the contracted sphere of an elective office, in a colonial and dependent government, scarcely conscious of the resources of his own mind, had not the violated rights of his country called him to act a part on a more splendid and more ample theatre.

Happily for America, he hesitated not to obey the call. The vigor of his genius, corresponding with the importance of the prize to be contended for, overcame the natural moderation of his temper; and though not hurried on by enthusiasm, but animated by an enlightened sense of the value of free government, he cheerfully resolved to stake his fortune, his hopes, his life, and his honor, upon an enterprise, of the danger of which he knew the whole magnitude; in a cause, which was worthy of the toils and of the blood of heroes.

The sword having been appealed to, at Lexington, as the Arbiter of the controversy between Great Britain and America, Greene, shortly after, marched, at the head of a regiment, to join the American forces at Cambridge; determined to abide the awful decision.

He was not long there before the discerning eye of the American Fabius marked him out as the object of his confidence.

His abilities entitled him to a pre-eminent share in the councils of his Chief. He gained it, and he preserved it, amidst all the checkered varieties of military vicissitude, and in defiance of all the intrigues of jealous and aspiring rivals.

As long as the measures which conducted us safely through the first most critical stages of the war shall be remembered with approbation; as long as the enterprises of Trenton and Princeton shall be regarded as the dawnings of that bright day which afterwards broke forth with such resplendent lustre; as long as the almost magic operations of the remainder of that memorable winter, distinguished not more by these events than by the extraordinary spectacle of a powerful army straitened within narrow limits by the phantom of a military force, and never permitted to transgress those limits with impunity, in which skill supplied the place of means, and disposition was the substitute for an army; as long, I say, as these operations shall continue to be the objects of curiosity and wonder, so long ought the name of Greene to be revered by a grateful country. To attribute to him a port on of the praise which is due, as well to the formation as to the execution of the plans that effected these important ends, can be no derogation from that wisdom and magnanimity which knew how to select and embrace counsels worthy of being pursued.

The laurels of a Henry were never tarnished by the obligations he owed and acknowledged to a Sully.

*

From the Heights of Monmouth I might lead you to the Plains of Springfield, there to behold the veteran Knyphaussen, at the head of a veteran army, baffled and almost beaten by a general without an army-aided, or rather embarrassed, by small fugitive bodies of volunteer militia, the mimiery of soldiership!

But it would ill become me to detain you in the

contemplation of objects diminutive in comparison with those that are to succeed.

Hitherto, we have seen the illustrious Greene acting in a subordinate capacity, the faint glimmerings of his fame absorbed and lost in the superior rays of a Washington. Happy was it for him to have been called to a more explicit station. Had this never been the case, the future historian, perplexed between the panegyric of friends and satire of enemies, might have doubted in what colors to draw his true character. Accident, alone, saved a Greene from so equivocal a fate; a reflection which might damp the noble ardor of emulation, and check the towering flight of conscious merit.

The defeat of Camden, and the misfortune of Gates, opened the career of victory and of glory to Greene. Congress having resolved upon a successor to the former, the choice was left to the Commanderin-Chief, and fell upon the latter. In this destination, honorable in proportion as it was critical, he acquiesced with the mingled emotions of a great mind-impelled by a sense of duty-allured by the hope of fame-apprised of the danger and precariousness of the situation, yet confident of its own strength, and animated by the magnitude of the object for which it was to be exerted.

Henceforth we are to view him on a more exalted eminence. He is no longer to figure in an ambiguous or secondary light; he is to shine forth the artificer of his own glory-the leader of armies and the deliverer of States!

BALLAD LITERATURE, &c., OF THE INDIAN, FRENCH, AND REVOLUTIONARY WARS. ONE of the early ballads written in the country is that composed about 1724, on the encounter between Captain Lovewell and Paugus, an Indian chief. Lovewell was the son of Zaccheus Lovewell, an ensign in Cromwell's army, who emigrated to New Hampshire and settled at Dunstable, where he attained the wonderful age of one hundred and twenty years. Captain Lovewell had, previously to the engagement in which he lost his life, taken part in several encounters with the Indians, and proved himself a man of skill and bravery.* We give the ballad from the appendix to the reprint of Church's Indian Wars, by Samuel G. Drake, with the valuable notes added by the editor.

LOVEWELL'S FIGHT.

Of worthy Captain Lovewell, I purpose now to sing,

How valiantly he served his country and his King; He and his valiant soldiers, did range the woods full wide,

And hardships they endured to quell the Indians' pride.

'Twas nigh unto Pigwacket, on the eighth day of May,+

They spied a rebel Indian soon after break of day; He on a bank was walking, upon a neck of land, Which leads into a ponds as we're made to understand.

*Farmer and Moore's Hist. Coll. of New Hampshire, i. 25; iii. 64.

+Situated on the upper part of the river Saco, then fifty miles from any white settlement.-Farmer and Moore's Coll. i. 27. It is in the present town of Fryeburg, Maine.

They set out from Dunstable about the 16th April, 1725. Symmes' narrative, in Farmer and Moore's Coll. i. 27.

$ Called Saco pond. Some call this Lovewell's pond, but Lovewell's pond is in Wakefield, where he some time before captured a company of Indians, who were on their way to attack some of the frontier towns,

Our men resolved to have him and travell'd two miles round,

Until they met the Indian, who boldly stood his ground;

Then spake up Captain Lovewell, "Take you good heed," says he,

46 This rogue is to decoy us, I very plainly see.*

"The Indians lie in ambush, in some place nigh at hand,

In order to surround us upon this neck of land; Therefore we'll march in order, and each man leave his pack,t

That we may briskly fight them when they make their attack."

They came unto this Indian, who did them thus defy, As soon as they came nigh him, two guns he did let fly,t

Which wounded Captain Lovewell, and likewise one man more,§

But when this rogue was running, they laid him in his gore.

Then having scalp'd the Indian, they went back to the spot,

Where they had laid their packs down, but there they found them not,

For the Indians having spy'd them, when they them down did lay,

Did seize them for their plunder, and carry them away.

These rebels lay in ambush, this very place hard by, So that an English soldier did one of them espy, And cried out " Here's an Indian," with that they started out,

As fiercely as old lions, and hideously did shout.

With that our valiant English, all gave a loud huzza, To show the rebel Indians they fear'd them not a

straw:

So now the fight began, and as fiercely as could be, The Indians ran up to them, but soon were forc'd to flee.T

Then spake up Captain Lovewell, when first the fight began,

"Fight on, my valiant heroes! you see they fall like rain."

For as we are inform'd, the Indians were so thick, A man could scarcely fire a gun and not some of them hit.

Then did the rebels try their best our soldiers to surround,

But they could not accomplish it, because there was a pond,

To which our men retreated and covered all the rear,**

The rogues were forc'd to flee them, altho' they skulk'd for fear.

Two logs there were behind them, that close together lay,

Without being discovered, they could not get away; Therefore our valiant English, they travell'd in a

row,

And at a handsome distance as they were wont to go. "Twas ten o'clock in the morning, when first the fight begun,

And fiercely did continue until the setting sun; Excepting that the Indians, some hours before 'twas night,

Drew off into the bushes and ceased awhile to fight,* But soon again returned, in fierce and furious mood, Shouting as in the morning, but yet not half so loud; For as we are informed, so thick and fast they fell, Scarce twenty of their number, at night did get home well.+

And that our valiant English, till midnight there did stay,

To see whether the rebels would have another fray; But they no more returning, they made off towards their home,

And brought away their wounded as far as they could come.

Of all our valiant English, there were but thirty-four, And of the rebel Indians, there were about four

score.

And sixteen of our English did safely home return, The rest were killed and wounded, for which we all must mourn.§

Our worthy Captain Lovewell among them there did die,

They killed Lt. Robins, and wounded good young Frye,T

Who was our English chaplain; he many Indians slew,

And some of them he scalp'd when bullets round him flew.

Young Fullam** too I'll mention, because he fought so well,

Endeavouring to save a man, a sacrifice he fell ; But yet our valiant Englishmen in fight were ne'er dismay'd,

But still they kept their motion, and Wyman's++ Captain made,

feat. This is the more probable, as but few were killed afterwards.-Ib.

They probably drew off to take care of the wounded. Symmes nor Penhallow makes mention that they returned again to the fight, after they drew off.

Forty were said to be killed upon the spot, and eighteen more died of their wounds.-Penhallow.

Solomon Keyes, after receiving three wounds, crawled along the shore of the pond, where he chanced to find an old canoc, into which he rolled himself, and the wind wafted him on several miles toward the fort, which he reached in safety. He felt his end approaching, when he was in the boat, into which he had crawled, only to die in peace, and to escape the scalping knife, but wonderfully revived.-Symmes.

§ Eight were left in the woods, whose wounds were so bad that they could not travel, of whom two only returned. One ran away in the beginning of the fight.

He belonged to Chelmesford. Being mortally wounded, desired to have two guns charged, and left with him, which they did. He said, " As the Indians will come in the morning to scalp me, I will kill one more of them if I can."—1b.

He fell about the middle of the afternoon. He was the only son of Capt. James Frye of Andover, graduated at Harvard college in 1723, and was chaplain of the company.-16.

**Only son of Major Fullam of Weston, was sergeant of the company, and fell in the beginning of the fight.-Ib.

Ensign Seth Wyman of Woburn. He was presented with a silver hilted sword for his good conduct, and commissioned Captain. He died soon after.