University of Virginia Library

INTRODUCTION.

The American Revolution!—What a
world of glorious ideas are comprehended in
that phrase! How thrilling are the recollections
it awakens; how triumphant the anticipations
it inspires, to gladden the heart of every
friend of man!

In contemplating that great event, not only
is the imagination struck with its grandeur, but
the judgment is satisfied with the soundness of
its principles, and benevolence rejoices in its
results. The history of nations affords no
other great commotion among mankind, so singularly
impressive and satisfactory in all respects.
It is not the example of successful
resistance to arbitrary taxation; it is not the
signal defeat given to a powerful and haughty
faction, exercising despotic authority, and attempting
tyrannical measures; nor is it even the
establishment of a pure and equitable system of
government in an extensive and flourishing
country, that chiefly excites our enthusiasm and
challenges admiration. These, it is true, are
great and brilliant results; glorious events in a
nation's annals; happy items in the ingredients
that constitute her prosperity and happiness.
But there is nothing peculiar in them. Such

things have happened before. Other nations
have resisted oppression, overthrown tyranny,
and established rational and just laws. But the
American Revolution did more. It sent abroad
the voice of freedom and of truth; it proclaimed
to all men that they were equal—that tyrant
and slave were anomalies in nature, inconsistent
with the dictates of reason and the ordinances
of God.

The nations have heard and believed. Men
have awoke from the slumber of ages; they
have thrown off the apathy which held them
in subjection. Disenthralled millions have
moved in their might, and shaken the foundations
of arbitrary rule. A moral earthquake,
proceeding from the elements engendered in
this country, by the spirit of liberty which
animated the patriots of 1776, is in action; and
it will not cease until the thrones of despots,
together with their authority and their doctrines,
be overthrown, and banished for ever
from the precincts of emancipated humanity.

Such were the reflections that passed through
my mind, as during one of the few bright days
which visited Philadelphia in the beginning of
December last, I loitered along one of those
uninhabited avenues, leading from Spruce to
Pine street, in the vicinity of the city Hospital.
I was then on my way to visit an interesting
character, a patriot and a patriarch, residing in

that neighbourhood, who has had the rare fortune
to survive his hundredth year. The following
dialogue, which took place that morning
between the publisher of the novel of “the
Betrothed of Wyoming,” and myself, will explain
the object of my visit to this venerable
centenarian.

I had just retired from my breakfast table to
my study room, when my respected friend, the
worthy bibliopolist aforesaid, was announced. A
visit from a bookseller to an author, any time
between nine o'clock, A. M. and five P. M., is
always ominous of a new book being inflicted
upon the world. At any other period of
the twenty-four hours, motives of friendship or
courtesy, or a desire to gossip, may induce even
a bookseller to visit an author. But in the
hours of business, time is too valuable in the
estimation of gentlemen of the trade, to be
employed in any thing except business.—But to
my dialogue. My publisher, after salutation,
seated himself at my bidding, for he is a very
complaisant gentleman, and without any unnecessary
waste of the precious moments, began:

“I wish another novel from you.”

“Very good,” I replied. “Wyoming has
then proved satisfactory?”

“As much so as I expected,” he observed,
drily, not wishing to awaken my vanity; for
booksellers have, for reasons which may be

easily conjectured, a great aversion to arouse
the vanity of an author.—“I pushed it, however,”
he added, “so industriously, that the
first edition is gone, and I have another in the
press.”

“I am truly glad of it,” said I; “and shall
not dispute whether the credit should be yours
or mine. Perhaps we ought to share it. But
it is immaterial.—What size of a book do you
now wish for?”

“Oh, the other was a very good size,” he
replied. “It was short but sweet. Let me
have a similar one. I dislike long-winded
stories; and am truly of Solomon's opinion,
that a great book is a great evil. It is generally
unreadable; and, what is worse, it is
generally unsaleable. Give me a neat little
handy volume of a moving character, that will
not lie drowsily upon my shelves, as if fixed
there as much by the unwieldiness of its bulk,
as the gravity of its contents. And, hark ye,
Mr. Novelist, let it be truly American, and
historical; and descriptive, if you please, of the
spirit-stirring times of our glorious Revolution.”

“I admire your patriotism,” said I; “and
shall endeavour to make the work such as you
desire. But there is one thing necessary to
make it valuable, which you have forgot to
mention, namely, the amount of the author's

compensation. It is but reasonable to expect
that the more liberal the reward, the better will
be the performance.”

“Ah! true,” he replied; “what are your
terms?”

“My terms,” said I.—But the conversation
became here too interestingly confidential for
public exposure. The good natured reader
will, therefore, restrain his curiosity, and be
satisfied with the information, that, after some
discussion, the terms were settled, and my
shrewd and enterprising publisher, having exacted
a promise that I should proceed immediately
with the work, made his bow, and
withdrew to exercise his sagacity on some
other speculation.

Having thus undertaken to produce a new
work, I felt it incumbent on me without delay,
to set about collecting materials. Where I
should find them, was now the question. To
construct a tale purely from the workings of
my own imagination, would be comparatively
easy. Invention would furnish me with materials
at will. I should not be obliged to
leave my chamber, or, perhaps, to consult a
single book. But my employer wanted a work
of a different description—a romance of an
historical character, and connected, too, with a
portion of history with which few liberties
could be taken; because it is better known to the

American people than any other in the annals
of mankind, their own happy Revolution.

In writing such a work, the excursions of
fancy must be circumscribed within the limits,
not of probability only, but of consistency with
well-known facts. Incidents, and scenes, and
characters, and manners, it is true, may be invented
or embellished, yet not arbitrarily according
to the will or caprice of the author, but
in conformity with transactions already recorded,
manners, customs, and characters already
delineated, and scenes that may be yet
visited. Public events must not be distorted,
their dates must not be changed, nor the places
where they occurred erroneously described.
Accuracy in these particulars requires research,
and frequent application to authentic sources of
information. Hence the peculiar labour and
difficulty of writing the historical romance.
Writing that which is altogether fictitious, is
comparatively a pastime. It is true, that when
the difficulty is overcome, and the task accomplished,
the satisfaction is proportionably great.
Truth and fiction combine their charms to
lighten the labour of production; and the consciousness
of having performed what required
both dexterity and exertion for its accomplishment,
is always a matter of self-congratulation.

These reflections suggested the propriety of
inquiring of some of the yet surviving contemporaries

of the revolutionary struggle, relative
to such of its unpublished occurrences as
came under their own observation, of sufficient
importance for my purpose. Many venerable
individuals still exist in this city, from whom
I was aware I could obtain abundance of information.
The aged patriot whom I have already
mentioned, was one of these; and for
various reasons I considered him the most eligible
for my inquiries. He had been a subaltern
in the army of Washington, and consequently
had been a partaker in the sufferings,
as well as the glories of the trying period. He
had been wounded in the battle of Brandywine,
and taken prisoner at that of Germantown.
For a great portion of the time, therefore, that
the British army possessed our fraternal city, he
was a captive within its walls; but, as he himself
states, not very strictly confined. His
opportunities, therefore, of acquiring such
knowledge as I wanted, were all that could be
wished, and I had reason to believe he had not
neglected them. Besides, I know him to be a
very Nestor, not only in years, but in the
communicative spirit which he possesses in relation
to past times. Conversing about the
Revolution, and the part he had acted in it,
which, in his own opinion, was one of no small
importance, is, in fact, his hobby, and he rides
it with as much dexterity and enthusiasm as
any Uncle Toby that ever existed.

When I visited him on this occasion, I found
him in a situation truly picturesque and interesting.
He was seated at his fire-side, in his
arm-chair, surrounded, like the antiquated
veteran, in the farce of 102, with his progeny
down to the fourth or fifth generation. It was
a scene calculated to awaken stirring sensations.
When I looked at him, I thought of a hoary
oak of the forest that had weathered many a
storm, and was now surrounded by numerous
flourishing saplings that sheltered its enfeebled
age from the assaulting elements. He had done
his duty during a long period of manly activity,
and imparted to his posterity the proud consciousness
of having had a virtuous and patriotic
progenitor, whose days had been unusually
lengthened in the land which he had contributed
to render free.

As nothing could please this patriarchial
veteran more than to solicit him for information
relative to the trying times, the incidents
of which were indelibly implanted in his
memory, my visit was very well received, and
my interrogatories answered with much readiness
and good will. At length he observed,
that if I wished to publish any thing on the
subject, there was in possession of one of his
grandsons, a scrivener in Ninth street, a manuscript

account of a series of adventures chiefly
connected with the occupation of Philadelphia
by the British army, which might answer my
purpose. I eagerly caught at this information,
and impelled by anxiety to peruse the manuscript,
I soon took my leave of the good old Nestor,
and hastened to the residence of his grandson.
This latter gentleman produced the manuscript
without hesitation.

“It is the production,” said he, “of Mr.
Adam Ballantyne, a man to whose memory I
owe much respect. He was the owner of this
house, in which he died about twenty years
ago, at an advanced age. He rented the property
to my wife's father in consideration of
being supplied with subsistence during his
life. At his death he bequeathed it to my wife,
who had attended to his comforts with much
tenderness and assiduity during his latter years.
These papers also became her property by his
verbally desiring her, in his last moments, to
preserve them from destruction. Whether he
ever intended them for publication, does not
appear. Although written with tolerable accuracy
of language, and all the marks of scholarship,
they do not seem to me, in their
present state, to be well adapted for publication.
There is no gracefulness in their accuracy, and
their scholarship is too technical to be agreeable.
They abound with incidents and reflections.

But the incidents are not wrought into
a connected narrative, and the reflections are
often too theological and abstruse. Yet, with all
their faults, I believe, that, on perusing these
papers, you will find them to contain ample
materials for the construction of a narrative
which might be made interesting to every reader
who can sympathize in the hopes and fears,
and sufferings, which agitated our ancestors
during the severe struggle they maintained in
achieving the independence and liberties we
now enjoy.”

Having obtained permission to make use of
such materials as the manuscripts thus placed
in my hands might afford, suitable for my
intended work, I hastened home with my prize;
for such, in the elation of the moment, I considered
it. Nor was my opinion respecting
its value changed on persual. It contained a
mass of information concerning the olden time
in and about Philadelphia, which would have
been a treasure to my worthy friend Mr.
Watson, when compiling that most instructive
and curious of all American books, (not excepting
even Knickerbocker's renowned history,)
the Annals of Philadelphia. What I supposed
would be a treasure to Mr. Watson, I naturally
looked upon as valuable to myself. I therefore,
much to the satisfaction of my polite friend, the
scrivener, set about re-modelling the valuable

production, in order to fit it for the public
eye.

The work was written in the form of an unconnected
and desultory journal of events, interlarded
with numerous and tedious comments
and speculations, strongly smacking of the
mysterious doctrines of Calvin respecting freewill
and necessity. Indeed, it would appear
that the eccentric Napoleon himself, was not
a more strenuous believer in fatalism, than the
unpretending Adam Balantyne.

Among the many other modifications I have
made on the work, I have thrown it out of the
journalizing style, and reduced it to the form
of a connected narrative. The events, therefore,
which were originally related in the first
person, are now told in the third. Many frivolous
incidents, and long prosing reflections,
are omitted; while, in order to impart to the
work some regularity of design and consistency
of execution, great liberties are taken with Mr.
Balantyne's arrangement of its contents. So
that, all things considered, my excellent friend,
the scrivener himself, could scarcely discover
any resemblance between the crude mass of
writing which he put into my hands, and the
historical narrative, which, as soon as printed
I shall place in his. That the changes I have
wrought upon it have greatly improved it, is a
point firmly settled with myself, and I believe

that the sagacious scrivener will cordially subscribe
to my opinion. Whether with all my
improvements, it is worthy of being laid before
the public, the public itself must judge; and to its
august decision, I now submit with due deference
and profound respect.