preaching to those ferocious warriors the gospel of peace. "His first visit was to the In dian Patemi [Tademy ?], who lived not far from Nazareth. He (Patemi) was a man of remarkably quiet and modest deportment, spoke English well, and regulated his housekeeping much in the European style." They also visited Clistowacka, and another Indian town, chiefly inhabited by Delawares; and then proceeded over the Blue Mountain to Po chapuchkung and Meniolagomekah. The count also extended his tour to Tulpehocken, the residence of Conrad Weiser, and to the Shawanees and Delawares of Wyoming and Shamokin. He returned to Europe in 1743.

Bethlehem and Nazareth continued to increase and prosper; new brethren came from other stations to labor here; and many believing Indians were baptized. Bethlehem became a central and controlling station, from which the brethren took their instructions from the elders, on their departure, from time to time, for the different outposts of the mission on the upper Lehigh, the Susquehanna, and eventually in the distant wilds of the Allegheny and Ohio Rivers. Little villages of Christain Indians, Huts of Grace, Huts of Peace, Huts of Mercy, were organized at various points, under the Society's regulations, where the converts might grow in grace, unmolested by the heathenish rites and revels of their untamed brethren. Rauch, Buettner, Senseman, Mack, Christian Frederick Post, Heckewelder, Zeisberger, Bishop Nischman, Bishop Cammerhoff, Bishop Spangenberg, and others, were the laborers in this self-denying enterprise. So frequent were the visits of the missionaries and Christian Indians to the Susquehanna, that a beaten path was worn across the Nescopeck Mountains, between Gnadenhutten and Wyoming.

"The Moravians are fond of music, and in their church, at Bethlehem, besides a fine-toned organ, they have a full band of instruments. When a member of the community dies, they have a peculiar ceremony: four musicians ascend to the tower of the church with trumpets, and announce the event by performing the death dirge. The body is immediately removed to the house appointed for the dead-the corpse-house '-where the remains are deposited for three days. The weeping willows, whose branches overhang this resting place for the dead, convey an impression of the solemnity and silence which reigns in the narrow house prepared for all mankind. It stands detached from all other buildings; excluded from all communication with the stir and bustle of business, and appears in character with the purpose to which it is devoted. On the third day the funeral service is performed at the church. The corpse is brought from the dead house to the lawn in front, and after several strains of solemn music, the procession moves toward the grave, with the band still playing, which is continued some time after the coffin is deposited. The graveyard is kept with perfect neatness. The graves are in rows, on each of which is placed a plain white stone, about twelve inches square, on which is engraved the name of the deceased, and date of his birth and death; nothing more is allowed by the regulations of the society. A stone, rude as it may be, is sufficient to tell where we lie, and it matters little to him on whose pulseless bosom it reposes. The ground is divided into various apartments for males, females, adults, children, and strangers. Among the many graves there is that of the pious Heckewelder, born 1743, died in 1823.

WILKESBARRE, a borough and seat of justice of Luzerne county, is situated on the left or south-eastern bank of the north branch of the Susquehanna, about 114 miles N. E. from Harrisburg, and 120 N. N. W. of Philadelphia. The town was laid out by Col. Durkee, in 1773, who gave it the compound name it bears, in honor of two distinguished members of the British Parliament, Wilkes and Barre, who advocated the American cause. The borough contains the county buildings, several churches and academies, and about 3,500 inhabitants. Its trade is facilitated by the North Branch Canal, and by railroad with New York, and elsewhere by the branch extending to Scranton, 16 miles distant, from Kingston, on the opposite bank of the Susquehanna. Large quantities of anthracite coal are found in the beds which surround the town, and which are among the thickest in the state.

The first settlers of this town and the Wyoming valley in which it is situated, were principally from Connecticut, and this beautiful tract was once considered as being within the limits of that state. In 1774, this tract was

formed into a town, by the name of Westmoreland, which sent its representatives to the assembly of Connecticut. The inhabitants are a highly intelli

gent and moral people, retaining, in a good degree, the manners, habits and enterprise of their New England ancestors. The valley of Wyoming is one of the most beautiful spots in its natural features, and one of the richest in historical associations among the localities of our country. The site of Fort Wyoming was where the court house now stands; there was another fort a little below the bridge. Fort Durkee was half a mile below, and on the hill, north of the village, the remains of the old redoubts are still visible.

North-western view in the central part of Wilkesbarre.

The view shows the appearance of the public square, or diamond, as entered by the road from the Susquehanna bridge, 30 or 40 rods distant. The new court house is seen in the central part; the academy on the left; the ancient court house on the right.

The following account of the battle of Wyoming, etc., is extracted from Day's Historical Collections of Pennsylvania:

Late in June, 1778, there descended the Susquehanna, Col. John Butler, with his own tory rangers, a detachment of Sir John Johnson's Royal Greens, and a large body of Indians, chiefly Senecas. The British and tories numbered about 400the Indians about 700. Jenkins' Fort was at the head of the valley, just below the gorge. This fort capitulated on the 2d of July, to a detachment under Capt. Caldwell. Wintermoot's Fort had been built near Jenkins', by a Low Dutch family of that name, with a view, as afterward appeared, to aid the incursions of the tories. As suspected, Wintermoot's Fort at once threw open its gates to the enemy. Here the British and Indian force was assembled at dinner just before the battle. To defend the settlement against this force, was a half-raised company of Capt. Deathic [Doeterick] Hewitt, consisting of 40 or 50 men, and the militia, the remains merely, out of which the three companies above mentioned had been enlisted for the continental army. There were several forts at Wyoming-not regular fortifications, with walls, and embrazures, and great guns-but stockades, built by setting logs on end in ditches, close together, surrounding a space for the retreat of the women and children, with no other means of defense than the smallarms of the men, firing through loop-holes. In all Wyoming Valley there was but one cannon, a four-pounder, without ball, kept at the Wilkesbarre Fort as an alarm gun. Against such a force as the enemy mustered, not one of these forts could have held out an hour, or kept the foe from reducing them to ashes. Some of the aged men out of the train-bands formed themselves into companies to garrison the forts, and yield to the helpless such protection as they could. Except at Pittstonwhich, from its position, was imminently exposed-no company of the Wyoming

regiment was retained for partial defense. All the rest assembled at Forty Fort, on the Kingston side, prepared in the best manner they could to meet the enemy. They numbered about 400 men and boys, including many not in the train-band. Old, gray-headed men, and grandfathers, turned out to the muster.

Col. Zebulon Butler happened to be at Wyoming at the time, and though he had no proper command, by invitation of the people, he placed himself at their head, and led them to battle. There never was more courage displayed in the various scenes of war. History does not portray an instance of more gallant devotion. There was no other alternative but to fight and conquer, or die; for retreat with their families was impossible. Like brave men, they took counsel of their courage. On the 3d of July they marched out to meet the enemy. Col. Zebulon Butler commanded the right wing, aided by Maj. Garret. Col. Dennison commanded the left, assisted by Lieut. Col George Dorrance. The field of fight was a plain, partly cleared and partly covered with scrub oak and yellow-pine. The right of the Wyoming men rested on a steep bank, which descends to the low river-flats; the left extended to a marsh, thickly covered with timber and brush. Opposed to Col. Zebulon Butler, of Wyoming, was Col. John Butler, with his tory rangers, in their green uniform. The enemy's right wing, opposed to Col. Dennison, was chiefly composed of Indians.

It was between four and five o'clock in the afternoon when the engagement began, and for some time it was kept up with great spirit. On the right, in open field, our men fired and advanced a step, and the enemy was driven back. But their numbers, nearly three to one, enabled them to outflank our men, especially on the left, where the ground, a swamp, was exactly fitted for savage warfare. Our men fell rapidly before the Indian rifles; the rear as well as the flank was gained, and it became impossible to maintain the position. An order to fall back, given by Col. Dennison, so as to present a better front to the enemy, could not be executed without confusion (and some misunderstood it as a signal for retreat). The practiced enemy-not more brave, but, beside being more numerous, familiarized to war in fifty battles-sprang forward, raised their horrid yell from one end of the line to the other, rushed in with the tomahawk and spear, and our people were defeated. When the left was thrown into confusion, our Col. Butler threw himself in front, and rode between the two lines, exposed to the double fire. "Don't leave me, my children," said he; "the victory will be ours." But what could 400 undisciplined militia effect against 1100 veteran troops? The battle was lost! Then followed the most dreadful massacre-the most heart-rending tortures. The brave but overpowered soldiers of Wyoming were slaughtered without mercy, principally in the flight, and after surrendering themselves prisoners of war. The plain, the river, and the island of Monockonock were the principal scenes of this horrible massacre. Sixteen men, placed in a ring around a rock (which is still shown, behind the house of Mr. Gay, near the river) were held by stout Indians, while they were one by one slaughtered by the knife or tomahawk of a squaw. One individual, a strong man, by the name of Hammond, escaped by a desperate effort. In another similar ring, nine persons were murdered in the same way. Many were shot in the river, and hunted out and slain in their hiding places (in one instance by a near, but adverse relative), on the now beautiful island of Monockonock. But sixty of the men who went into the battle survived; and the forts were filled with widows and orphans (it is said the war made 150 widows and 600 orphans in the valley), whose tears and cries were suppressed after the surrender for fear of provoking the Indians to kill them-for it was an Indian's pastime to brandish the tomahawk over their heads.

A few instances will show how universal was the turn-out, and how general was the slaughter. Of the Gore family, one was away with the army, five brothers and two brothers-in-law went into the battle. At evening five lay dead on the field, one returned with his arm broken by a rifle-ball; the other, and only one, unhurt. From the farm of Mr. Weeks, seven went out to battle-five sons and sons-in-law, and two inmates. Not one escaped-the whole seven perished. Anderson Dana went into battle with Stephen Whiting, his son-in-law, a few months before married to his daughter. The dreadful necessity of the hour allowed no exemption like that of the Jewish law, by which the young bridegroom might remain at home

for one year, to cheer up his bride. The field of death was the resting-place of both. Anderson Dana, jr., still living-then a boy of nine or ten years old-was left the only protector of the family. They fled, and begged their way to Connecticut. Of the Inman family, there were five present in the battle. Two fell in the battle, another died of the fatigues and exposure of the day; another was killed the same year by the Indians.

About two-thirds of those who went out, fell. Naked, panting and bloody, a few, who had escaped, came rushing into Wilkesbarre Fort, where, trembling with anxiety, the women and children were gathered, waiting the dread issue. Mr. Hollenback, who had swum the river naked, amid the balls of the enemy, was the first to bring them the appalling news-“All is lost!" They fled to the mountains, and down the river. Their sufferings were extreme. Many widows and orphans begged their bread on their way home to their friends in Connecticut. In one party, of near a hundred, there was but a single man. As it was understood that no quarter would be given to the soldiers of the line, Col. Zebulon Butler, with the few other soldiers who had escaped, retired that same evening, with the families, from Wilkesbarre Fort.

Just at even

But those left at Forty Fort? During the battle, says the venerable Mrs. Myers, who, then a child, was there, they could step on the river bank and hear the firing distinctly. For a while it was kept up with spirit, and hope prevailed; but by and by it became broken and irregular, approaching nearer and nearer. "Our people are defeated-they are retreating!" It was a dreadful moment. ing a few of the fugitives rushed in, and fell down exhausted-some wounded and bloody. Through the night, every hour one or more came into the fort. Col. Dennison also came in, and rallying enough of the wreck of the little Spartan band to make a mere show of defending the fort, he succeeded the next day in entering into a capitulation for the settlement, with Col. John Butler, fair and honorable for the circumstances, by which, doubtless, many lives were saved.

Most of the settlers had fled after the battle and massacre; but here and there a family remained, or returned soon after. Skulking parties of Indians continued to prowl about the valley, and kill, plunder and scalp as opportunity offered. It was at this time a little girl, named Frances Slocum, was taken captive by the Indians. The strange story of her life is thus told in the Philadelphia North American, in 1839:

At a little distance from the present court house at Wilkesbarre, lived a family by the name of Slocum [Mr. Jonathan Slocum]. The men were one day away in the fields, and in an instant the house was surrounded by Indians. There were in it, a mother, a daughter about nine years of age, a son aged thirteen, another daughter aged five, and a little boy aged two and a half. A young man, and a boy by the name of Kingsley, were present grinding a knife. The first thing the Indians did was to shoot down the young man and scalp him with the knife which he had in his hand. The nine-year old sister took the little boy two years and a half old, and ran out of the back door to get to the fort. The Indians chased her just enough to see her fright, and to have a hearty laugh, as she ran and clung to and lifted her chubby litile brother. They then took the Kingsley boy and young Slocum, aged thirteen, and little Frances, aged five, and prepared to depart. But finding young Slocum lame, at the earnest entreaties of the mother, they set him down and left him. Their captives were then young Kingsley and the litte girl. The mother's heart swelled unutterably, and for years she could not describe the scene without tears. She saw an Indian throw her child over his shoulder, and as her hair fell over her face, with one hand she brushed it aside, while the tears fell from her distended eyes, and stretching out her other hand toward her mother, she called for her aid. The Indian turned into the bushes, and this was the last seen of little Frances. This image, probably, was carried by the mother to her grave. About a month after this they came again, and with the most awful cruelties murdered the aged grandfather, and shot a ball in the leg of the lame boy. This he carried with him in his leg nearly six years, to the grave. The last child was born a few months after these tragedies! What were the conversations, the conjectures, the hopes and the fears concerning the fate of little Frances, I will not attempt to describe.

As the boys grew up and became men, they were very anxious to know the fate of their little fair-haired sister. They wrote letters, they sent inquiries, they made journeys through all the west and into the Canadas. Four of these journeys were made in vain. A silence

deep as that of the forest through which they wandered, hung over her fate during sixty years.

My reader will now pass over fifty-eight years, and suppose himself far in the wilderness of Indiana, on the bank of the Mississinewa, about fifty miles south-west of Fort Wayne. A very respectable agent of the United States-Hon. George W. Ewing, of Peru, Ind.—is traveling there, and weary and belated, with a tired horse, he stops in an Indian wigwam for the night. He can speak the Indian language. The family are rich for Indians, and have horses and skins in abundance. In the course of the evening, he notices that the hair of the woman is light, and her skin under her dress is also white. This led to a conversation. She told him she was a white child, but had been carried away when a very small girl. She could only remember that her name was Slocum, that she lived in a little house on the banks of the Susquehanna, and how many there were in her father's family, and the order of their ages. But the name of the town she could not remember. On reaching his home, the agent mentioned this story to his mother. She urged and pressed him to write and print the account. Accordingly he wrote it, and sent it to Lancaster in this state, requesting that it might be published. By some, to me, unaccountable blunder, it lay in the office two years before it was published. In a few days it fell into the hands of Mr. Slocum, of Wilkesbarre, who was the little two year and a half old boy, when Frances was taken. In a few days he was off to seek his sister, taking with him his oldest sister (the one who aided him to escape), and writing to a brother who now lives in Ohio, and who I believe was born after the captivity, to meet him and go with him.

The two brothers and sister are now (1838) on their way to seek little Frances, just sirty years after her captivity. They reach the Indian country, the home of the Miami Indians. Nine miles from the nearest white settlement they find the little wigwam. "I shall know my sister," said the civilized sister, "because she lost the nail of her first finger. You, brother, hammered it off in the blacksmith-shop when she was four years old." They go into the cabin, and find an Indian woman having the appearance of seventy-five. She is painted and jeweled off, and dressed like the Indians in all respects. Nothing but her hair and covered skin would indicate her origin. They get an interpreter, and begin to converse. She tells them where she was born, her name, etc., with the order of her father's family. "How came your nail gone?" said the oldest sister. "My older brother pounded it off when I was a little child in the shop." In a word, they were satisfied that this was Frances, their long-lost sister! They asked her what her Christian name was. She did not remember. "Was it Frances?" She smiled, and said "yes." It was the first time she had heard it pronounced for sixty years! Here, then, they were met-two brothers and two sisters! They were all satisfied they were brothers and sisters; but what a contrast! The brothers were walking the cabin, unable to speak: the oldest sister was weeping, but the poor Indian sister sat motionless and passionless, as indifferent as a spectator. There was no throbbing, no fine chords in her bosom to be touched.

When Mr. Slocum was giving me this history, I said to him, "But could she not speak English?" Not a word." "Did she know her age ?" "No-had no idea of it." "But was she entirely ignorant ?" "Sir, she did'nt know when Sunday comes!" This was, indeed, the consummation of ignorance in a descendant of the Puritans!

But what a picture for a painter would the inside of that cabin have afforded? Here were the children of civilization, respectable, temperate, intelligent and wealthy, able to overcome mountains to recover their sister. There was the child of the forest, not able to tell the day of the week, whose views and feelings were all confined to that cabin. Her whole history might be told in a word. She lived with the Delawares who carried her off until grown up, and then married a Delaware. He either died or ran away, and she then married a Miami Indian, a chief, as I believe. She has two daughters, both of whom are married, and who live in all the glory of an Indian cabin, deerskin clothes, and cowskin head-dresses. No one of the family can speak a word of English. They have horses in abundance, and when the Indian sister wanted to accompany her new relatives, she whipped out, bridled her horse, and then, a la Turk, mounted astride, and was off. At night she could throw a blanket around her, down upon the floor, and at once be asleep.

The brothers and sister tried to persuade their lost sister to return with them, and, if she desired it, bring her children. They would transplant her again to the banks of the Susquehanna, and of their wealth make her home happy. But, no; she had always lived with the Indians; they had always been kind to her, and she had promised her late husband on his death-bed, that she would never leave the Indians. And there they left her and hers, wild and darkened heathen, though sprung from a pious race. You can hardly imagine how much this brother is interested for her. He intends this autumn to go again that long journey to see his tawny sister-to carry her presents, and perhaps will petition congress that, if these Miamis are driven off, there may be a tract of land reserved for his sister and her descendants. His heart yearns with an indescribable tenderness for the poor helpless one, who, sixty-one years ago, was torn from the arms of her mother. Mysterious