University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.

Pope.

Whoever has witnessed the departure from
a small village, upon a distant enterprise of
importance and danger, of a band of soldiers
endeared to the inhabitants by long residence
and ties of affinity, must have been moved by
the many spontaneous effusions of sincere affection;
the tears, the embraces, the tender exhortations,
the blessings, and the heart-warm
prayers for the protection of Heaven, which
are fervently reciprocated by friends, relatives
and lovers, now parting, many of them to meet
no more. This is the revealing hour of attachment.
Emotions of love which were hitherto concealed,
now break forth, and show themselves
freely, though, perhaps timidly, before the face
of day. A degree of license is permitted to the
public outpourings of the heart on such occasions,
which on others would be considered unseemly
or indecorous. It is not the parting embraces

and sorrows of parents and children, or
sisters and brothers, that are now alone tolerated
by the sympathizing feelings of the public; the
bursting forth of the grief of young and bashful
lovers is viewed as neither misplaced nor
unbecoming. The hearts of all are softened,
and enter fully into the pathetic spirit of the
scene; and partake so much of its tenderness
as to comprehend and value the kindly influence
from which it flows.

Such a scene, in all its variety of feelings,
and intensity of emotions, was, much to his
chagrin, witnessed by John Butler, the royalist,
on the day that Henry Austin and his brave
band of patriotic volunteers, departed from
Wyoming to join the encampment at Valley
Forge. Yet Butler rejoiced at the departure
of these men. It removed to a distance many
of his enemies, and diminished the strength of
the whig interest in the settlement. He was
only chagrined to see how much they were
beloved; and if a wish of his could have annihilated
these patriotic soldiers and those who
lavished on them their parting caresses, that
wish would have gone forth with the joyous
energy of malignant triumph. He still wore
the cloak of patriotism; but the time had come
when he gave up the intention of wearing it
much longer. He had tried popularity for many

months, but it had gained him no confidence;
it had procured him no public trust, no official
emolument. He now saw reasons for permitting
the current of his affections to revert into
their former channel. It reverted, however,
secretly. It did not yet suit his views to
change his outward professions or his observable
conduct. Hypocrisy was, for some time
yet, his surest game, and he played it admirably.
The leaders of the people were deceived.
It was, therefore, easy to dupe the people
themselves. But he deceived them no longer
for office. That object he saw was hopeless.
He deceived them for his own safety and their
ruin.

At this period, many families fled from the
populous districts that were the seats of the
war, to seek repose and safety in more remote
settlements. The settlement of Wyoming offered
abundant attractions to these. Accordingly,
both whigs and tories flocked there in
considerable numbers. But of these newcomers,
the tories were by far the most numerous.
Their continuance in the war-haunted
districts where their opponents had obtained
all authority, was neither pleasant nor safe. It
is true, the authorities, as well as the majority
of the people of Wyoming, opposed them in
politics, and disliked their turbulence. But they

were a people generous and hospitable, and
many of them connected with the fugitives, or
as they were more courteously termed, the refugees,
by the ties of relationship. The latter,
therefore, by the most solemn pledges of peaceable
intentions, gained the good will, and secured
the protection of the deceived and kindhearted
inhabitants of the district, who believed
that they had admitted among them men
who sincerely regretted their past errors, and
were resolved by their future conduct, to atone
for them. A few were sincere, and remained
faithful to their pledge; but fear alone induced
the majority to feign a repentance which they
did not feel. Their feelings and opinions were
not changed. But the deceived people could
not see the heart. They believed the professions
which they heard, and gave credit for
the decorum they beheld. That which was
produced by expediency, they mistook for
the result of conviction. The traitors were
forgiven, received as friends, and treated with
affection by the virtuous and unsuspecting people
of Wyoming, whom they waited only for
a fitting opportunity to destroy.

Many even of the latter character would, no
doubt, have remained tranquil, and perhaps
gradually abandoned their unpatriotic and dangerous
sentiments, but for the machinations of

Butler, who, like the evil genius of the place,
would permit neither tranquillity, confidence,
nor amity to remain long therein. War and
destruction were the elements in which he delighted
to move. To enjoy the revelry of
bloodshed, he scrupled not to sacrifice both the
obligations of kindred and the ties of gratitude.
He had in his advances to popularity, among
the whigs, met with repulses sufficient to convince
him of the fruitlessness of pursuing aggrandizement
in that direction. The encreasing
numbers of the refugee tories that now
sought safety in the settlement, and looked up
to him as their head, induced him secretly to
abandon all desire of connexion with the
whigs, and to throw himself entirely into the
arms of the party to which, from feeling and
habit, he had long been attached.

Since the departure of Henry Austin, he had
made several overtures to Miss Norwood. She
had been long acquainted with his passion for
her. Master of duplicity as he was, he had
not even been able entirely to prevent Henry
from suspecting it. But Henry had never
breathed his suspicion to Agnes, nor she hers
to him. He felt too confident of the firmness
with which he was rooted in her affection, to
fear being supplanted by Butler or any other
rival; and he had the delicacy not to hurt her

feelings by alluding to the possibility of such
an occurrence. Butler's engagement with his
sister he had long wished to see dissolved; for
he now knew enough of the man to be assured
that he was not calculated to make her happy.
His surmise that his affections were transferred
to Agnes, led him to hope that the intended
union of such a man with so near and dear a
relative as his sister, never would take place.
Yet he grieved for the affliction which the disappointment
would bring upon Isabella. She
had unfortunately fixed her affections upon an
unworthy object, and was, therefore, doomed
to the misery of a sorrowing heart, whether
she became united to him or not. In the one
case, however, the sorrow might be transitory
—the hand of time and the force of reflection
would at least weaken, if they did not entirely
obliterate its impression.—In the other, there
could be no hope of this. An indissoluble
bond would unite her destiny to that of a
villain, and permanent wretchedness could not
but ensue. On his sister's account, therefore,
the change in the affections of Butler afforded
Henry satisfaction sufficient to atone for any
uneasiness he might feel on account of Agnes
being the object of the new flame of the deceitful
royalist. In the fidelity of Agnes to
himself he had full confidence. The rivalship
of Butler he therefore treated with contempt;
and he left Wyoming without giving him to
understand, by any indication whatever, that he
suspected its existence. When at a distance,
however, from the object of his love, he soon
began to have unpleasant feelings on the subject.
He recollected that in his absence, Butler
might have the boldness to make an express
declaration of his passion; and although it was
impossible that Agnes could be induced to encourage
his pretensions, she might be subjected
to his importunities, and even—but it was an
idea he wished not to entertain—in the event
of disturbance in the settlement, to his violence.
In his correspondence with her—for
he found frequent opportunities of forwarding
letters to his friends—he never alluded to his
fear on this subject, lest he might give her unnecessary
uneasiness. But to Dr. Watson he
poured them forth without reserve.

“There is one great cause of uneasiness under
which I suffer,” said he, in a letter to the
Doctor, written in the spring of 1778, “that I
have as yet communicated to no one. For
some months before I left Wyoming, I was
haunted with a suspicion that Butler loved
Agnes. It is needless to detail the circumstances
that gave birth to that suspicion. I
shall only say that they were numerous and

forcible. You are aware of his engagements
with my sister. Because I had a bad opinion
of the man, any thing that inspired a hope that
those engagements would not be fulfilled, afforded
me pleasure. His passion for Agnes
did not much alarm me, while I was in her
vicinity. I knew that she would be faithful
to me, and I feared not his rivalship. Neither
did I then fear that she would be subjected to
any inconveniences from his importunities, or
danger from his violence. The one she would
repel, and the other he dared not attempt.
The circumstances of the parties and the affairs
of the settlement sanctioned this conclusion.
She was under the protection of her
father, of her lover, of her friends, of the
whole population of the village, by whom she
was beloved—while he—a refugee without
power, without influence, without character,
could not without ruin to himself, attempt any
thing against her peace.

“But, my friend, I am now separated from
her by an extensive and almost pathless wilderness.
I know not what may be the posture
of public affairs at Wyoming. The savages
are your neighbours, and they are far
from being friendly to our cause; and tories
are numerous even in the midst of your population.—I
cannot forget that Butler was a tory;

nay, I have good grounds for believing he is
still one in his heart. Should any interruption
of your tranquillity take place, I tremble to
think of what may be his conduct. He hates
my sister. Might he not avail himself of some
Indian irruption to destroy her—to destroy
perhaps my aged parent?—And then his passion
for Agnes—might he not employ the
marauders to bear her off to some distant concealment,
where she would be completely in
his power?

“It is the possibility of evils like these that
cause my uneasiness. Will you say that my
apprehensions are fanciful? Heaven grant that
they may be so! But incidents have come to
my knowledge, that impart to them a greater
strength than they could ever derive from
mere fancy. Has Butler been absent of late,
for any length of time, from your village? If
he has, there is treachery on foot; and my fears
are not without foundation. Let all his movements
be watched with the closest vigilance,
and you may possibly detect and frustrate his
designs. Hear the reasons for my alarm, and
the cautions I give you. I suspect he has been,
within these few weeks, in Philadelphia, arranging
with General Howe the plan of some
military movement, doubtless on the frontiers.
One of my corps, who is now a prisoner in the

city, has found means to inform me, that he is
persuaded he saw this restless and deceitful
man, in a disguised habit, at General Howe's
quarters. What should he be doing there, if
he is, as he professes, our friend? And why
disguised, unless engaged in some treacherous
design, which he fears may be discovered by
some of our friends in the city. But he may,
I admit, be wrongfully accused. My informant
may have been mistaken in his identity.
You will, on the spot, be best able to judge. I
would not have him accused if he is innocent.
It would be impolitic, as well as unjust. It
would excite his revenge and arm his adherents
against us. He is now, perhaps, at least neutral;
and it is better to keep him so than arouse
against our cause one so capable of doing mischief.

“I do not know whether it would be proper
to acquaint Agnes with my fears. It would
alarm her, perhaps needlessly. Your discretion
will decide this point. Alas! my friend,
if I were to describe the full extent of my
gloomy forebodings, you would imagine that I
had lost all moral courage, and become totally
unfit for the duties of a soldier. Yet it is not
so. The contrariety of my feelings is, indeed,
strange, but not unaccountable. I feel that I
am not a coward, and yet I am a prey to intense

fears of a certain description. I could
with alacrity go out, at any moment, to meet
the enemy in battle array. It is not for myself
I fear. It is for one dearer than myself.
Oh, if you have ever felt the power of an absorbing
love like mine, you will be able to understand
my feelings; to account for my inconsistency—perhaps
you will call it my weakness.
Yet be assured that this passion, potent
as it is, is still kept in subserviency to my duty.
My duty requires me to be here to act
against the enemies of my country; but my
affections are in Wyoming, wound round the
form of the loveliest and sweetest of earthly
beings.—But I become rhapsodical, forgetting
that you may not be lover enough to relish my
flights of romantic passion. I will conclude
by imploring you to watch over the safety of
my Betrothed, and to be alive to the information
I have given you in relation to Butler.”

The following letter Henry forwarded at the
same time with the foregoing, to Agnes:

“My dearest love—You can scarcely imagine
the gratification which an opportunity of writing
to you affords me. The most rapturous
moments of my existence have been spent in
pouring forth in your presence, the language
of love that told the emotions of my heart;
and in listening to the sweet tone of approval

with which you answered me. We are now
far asunder—more than a hundred miles of an
almost impenetrable forest separate us. Yet
do I pant as strongly as ever for that sweet
communion of souls, that interchange of devoted
affections once so ardently expressed by
every look and every tone which then rendered
us so happy. Yes, in such moments my
bliss was great, and but for the sake of my suffering
country, I never should have withdrawn
from the endeared scenes where I enjoyed it.
Reflecting upon them, and meditating on
your perfections, are substitutes for those happy
moments which I often enjoy. But writing to
you is still a more rapturous employment. An
opportunity for it occurs more rarely than for
meditation, and it approaches in its nature
more nearly to conversation. It imparts the
pleasing feeling that the sentiments I commit to
the paper shall be conveyed to you; that you
will ponder on them; that they will be cherished
by you, and that you will derive from them
a gratification similar to what I experienced in
writing them. Such are the enjoyments of letterwriting
to separated lovers. Oh! my Betrothed!
for my sake indulge in it frequently, that I
may frequently behold the words which your
own hand wrote, the sentiments which your
own heart conceived, and the assurances which
shall speak the unwavering fidelity of thy affection.
Do not mistake me. I doubt not thy
affection, my Agnes. I would as soon doubt
the existence of the sun on which I daily gaze.
Yet I would beg from you frequent assurances
of thy love, because of the delight they afford
me. Oh! with what luxury could I dwell on
the dear lines that should contain those assurances.
Save hearing thy lips pronounce them,
earth could afford no enjoyment so sweet.

“Let then thy letters convey to me that which
thou knowest will be my best solace for thy
absence—the assurance of thy welfare, and the
whole fervour of thy love. Without reserve
—Oh! Agnes! without reserve, surely, thou
wilt express all the ardour of thy affection, all
the devotedness of thy heart—all thy fondness,
and all thy wishes for me. I am, my love,
covetous of every thought that passes through
thy mind. I would not have the slightest
emotion of thy soul unknown to me; nor
would I conceal from thee the least sensation
of mine. Would to Heaven that separated
lovers had some more perfect and expeditious
means of interchanging sentiments and feelings,
than by letters. Then should we, even at this distance,
be made happy by the intermingling of
thoughts and sensations. I should then less regret
the necessity which keeps us asunder; and endure

with more patience, the absence from thee to
which I am doomed.

“Yes, Agnes, attached as I am to the righteous
cause in which I am embarked, I acknowledge
I suffer much from my impatient desires
again to be with thee—to hearken to the tones
of thy sweet voice—to gaze upon thy beauty—
thy unrivalled beauty! Agnes, at this moment,
thy picture is placed before me—thy
bright eyes so full of fondness—thy sweet
lips surrounded with smiles—the innumerable,
nameless, and matchless charms of thy whole
countenance! `Ah!' I may well exclaim,
`among the daughters of men who is like unto
thee, my beloved!' No wonder my fancy is
inflamed, andmy heart enraptured, when I meditate
on thee. And art thou to be my own!
Hast thou sworn it, my betrothed? Shall I
yet be the master of such boundless happiness
—such intoxicating charms? My soul is kindled
with the idea. My imagination flies to
the haunts of Wyoming. I embrace thee—I
am happy—thou art my all—the world, and all
its interests, ties and connexions are forgotten.
What are they to me when thou art mine!
This is the potency of love which I delight to
obey! Oh! Agnes! that such a reverie might
last for ever!—that no wordly interruption
should remind me that my joys are but visionary

—that no trumpet's sound, nor sentinel's gun,
should disperse the dear illusion, and tell me
that I am in the midst of a camp, enchained
there by a soldier's and a patriot's duty, whilst
thou art far distant amidst sylvan wilds on the
frontiers of civilization!

“But I will have fortitude—I will endure
our separation on account of my country, until
she shall no longer need my service. Thou
wilt love me the more for the sacrifice. Oh!
write to me that thou wilt. It will strengthen
my resolution; and from the exhortations of
love I shall draw inducements to patriotism,
and acquire a spirit of perseverance in duty,
which will in the end afford me matter of self-satisfaction
and joy.”