society, ever on the change, and always for the better, it doubles the retrospect of life. With me at any rate, it has had that effect. Did not the definite number of my years teach me to the contrary, I should think myself at least one hundred years old instead of fifty. The case is said to be widely different with those who have passed their lives in cities or ancient settlements, where, from year to year, the same unchanging aspect of things presents itself. There life passes away as an illusion or dream, having been presented with no striking events, or great and important changes, to mark its different periods, and give them an imaginary distance from each other, and it ends with a bitter complaint of its shortness.

One prominent feature of a wilderness is its solitude. Those who plunged into the bosom of this forest left behind them not only the busy hum of men, but domesticated animal life generally. The parting rays of the setting sun did not receive the requiem of the feathered songsters of the grove, nor was the blushing aurora ushered in by the shrill clarion of the domestic fowls. The solitude of the night was interrupted only by the howl of the wolf, the melancholy moan of the ill-boding owl, or the shriek of the frightful panther. Even the faithful dog, the only steadfast companion of man among the brute creation, partook of the silence of the desert; the discipline of his master forbade him to bark or move, but in obedience to his command, and his native sagacity soon taught him the propriety of obedience to this severe government.

The day was, if possible, more solitary than the night. The noise of the wild turkey, the croaking of the raven, or "the woodpecker tapping the hollow beech tree," did not much enliven the dreary scene.

The various tribes of singing birds are not inhabitants of the desert; they are not carniverous, and therefore must be fed from the labors of man. At any rate they did not exist in this country at its first settlement.

Let the imagination of the reader pursue the track of the adventurer into the solitary wilderness. Bending his course toward the setting sun, over undulating hills, under the shade of large forest trees, and wading through the rank weeds and grass which then covered the earth. Now viewing from the top of a hill the winding course of a creek whose stream he wishes to explore. Doubtful of its course and of his own, he ascertains the cardinal points of north and south by the thickness of the moss and bark on the north side of the ancient trees. Now descending into a valley and presaging his approach to a river, by seeing large ash, bass-wood, and sugar trees, beautifully festooned with wild grapevines. Watchful as Argus, his restless eye catches everything around him. In an unknown region, and surrounded with dangers, he is the sentinel of his own safety, and relies on himself for protection. The toilsome march of the day being ended, at the fall of night, he seeks for safety some narrow sequestered hollow, and by the side of a large log, builds a fire, and after eating a coarse and scanty meal,

wraps himself up in his blanket, and lays him down on his bed of leaves, with his feet to the little fire for repose, hoping for favorable dreams, ominous of future good luck, while his faithful dog and gun repose by his side.

But let not the reader suppose that the pilgrim of the wilderness could feast his imagination with the romantic beauties of nature, without any drawback from conflicting passions. His situation did not afford him much time for contemplation. He was an exile from the warm clothing and plentiful mansions of society. His homely woodman's dress soon became old and ragged; the cravings of hunger compelled him to sustain from day to day the fatigues of the chase. Often had he to eat his vension, bear meat, or wild turkey, without bread or salt. Nor was this all; at every step the strong passions of hope and fear were in full exercise. Eager in pursuit of his game, his too much excited imagination sometimes presented him with the phantom of the object of his chase, in a bush, a log, or mossy bank, and occasioned him to waste a load of his ammunition, more precious than gold, on a creature of his own brain, and he repaid himself the expense by making a joke of his mistake. His situation was not without its dangers. He did not know at what tread his foot might be stung by a serpent, at what moment he might meet with the formidable bear, or, if in the evening, he knew not on what limb of a tree over his head the murderous panther might be perched, in a squatting attitude, to drop down upon, and tear him to pieces in a moment. When watching a dear lick from his blind at night, the formidable panther was often his rival in the same business, and if by his growl or otherwise the man discovered the presence of his rival, the lord of the world always retired as speedily and secretly as possible, leaving him the undisturbed possession of the chance of game for the night.

The wilderness was a region of superstition. The adventurous hunter sought for ominous presages of his future good or bad luck, in everything around him. Much of his success depended on the state of the weather; snow and rain were favorable, because in the former he could track his game, and the latter prevented them from hearing the rustling of leaves beneath his feet. The appearance of the sky morning and evening gave him the signs of the times, with regard to the weather. So far he was a philosopher. Perhaps he was aided in his prognostics on the subject by some old rheumatic pain, which he called his "weather clock." Say what you please about this, doctors, the first settlers in this county were seldom mistaken in this latter indication of the weather. croaking of a raven, the howling of a dog, and the screech of an owl were as prophetic of future misfortunes among the first adventurers into this country, as they were among the ancient pagans; but above all, their dreams were regarded as ominous of good or ill success. Often when a boy, I heard them relate their dreams, and the events which fulfilled their indications. With some of the

The

woodsmen there were two girls of their acquaintance, who were regarded as the goddesses of their good or bad luck. If they dreamed of the one, they were sure of good fortune; if of the other, they were equally sure of bad. How much love or aversion might have had to do in this case, I cannot say, but such was the fact.

The passion of fear excited by danger, the parent of superstition, operated powerfully on the first adventurers into this country. Exiled from society and the comforts of life, their situation was perilous in the extreme. The bite of a serpent, a broken limb, a wound of any kind, or a fit of sickness in the wilderness, without those accommodations which wounds and sickness require, was a dreadful calamity. The bed of sickness, without medical aid, and above all, to be destitute of the kind attention of a mother, sister, wife, or other female friends, those ministering angels in the wants and afflictions of a man, was a situation which could not be anticipated by the tenant of the forest, with other sentiments than those of the deepest horror.

Many circumstances concurred to awaken, in the mind of the early adventurer into this country, the most serious and even melancholy reflections. He saw everywhere around him indubitable evidences of the former existence of a large population of barbarians, which had long ago perished from the earth. Their arrow-heads furnished them with gun-flints; stone hatchets, pipes, and fragments of earthenware, were found in every place. The remains of their rude fortifications were met with in many places, and some of them of considerable extent and magnitude. Seated on the summit of some sepulchral mound, containing the ashes of tens of thousands of the dead, he said to himself: "This is the grave, and this, no doubt, the temple of worship, of a long succession of generations, long since mouldered into dust; these surrounding valleys were once animated by their labors, hunting and wars, their songs and dances; but oblivion has drawn her impenetrable vail over their whole history; no lettered page, no sculptured monument informs who they were, from whence they came, the period of their existence, or by what dreadful catastrophe the iron hand of death has given them so complete an overthrow, and made the whole of this country an immense Golgotha."

Such, reader, was the aspect of this country at its first discovery, and such the poor and hazardous lot of the first adventurers into the bosoms of its forests. How widely different is the aspect of things now, and how changed, for the better, the condition of its inhabitants! If such important changes have taken place in so few years, and with such slender means, what immense improvements may we not reasonably anticipate for the future.

INCIDENTS OF THE REVOLUTION IN THE WEST.

THE war of the Revolution was peculiarly severe to the scattered settlements of the West, and it is surprising that its hardy population were enabled to sustain themselves against the numer ous hordes of savages that, strengthened by the aid of Britain, assailed them on all quarters.

Invasion of the Cherokee Country.-Beside the Indian nations of the North, the Cherokees, instigated by British agents, once more took up the hatchet, and broke up the settlements on the frontiers of the Carolinas, and in Southwestern Virginia, in the region of Abington. In the fall of 1776, their country was invaded by three separate divisions, respectively from South Carolina, North Carolina, and Virginia. These expeditions were successful; their fields were destroyed; their towns given to the flames; and they were compelled to sue for peace. At this time, the Virginia division, under Colonel Christian, erected Fort Henry in the heart of the Cherokee nation, on the south fork of the Holston, about one hundred and fifty miles above the mouth of French Broad,

In the spring of 1777, the Shawanese, having combined with the other tribes of the North, commenced an invasion of the infant settlements of the West, and before the close of summer, had made furious but unsuccessful attempts upon the Kentucky posts of Harrod's Station, Logan's Fort, and Boonesborough.

During the summer, the settlements in Northwestern Virginia, upon the Monongahela and Ohio Rivers, were harassed by scalping parties, who committed many murders.

Siege of Fort Henry.-In September, 1777, Fort Henry, at Wheeling, originally called Fort Fincastle, was besieged by about four hundred Indians, led on by a notorious renegade, Simon Girty. The fort was a parallelogram, with a block-house at each of the four corners, connected by lines of pickets, and inclosing about three-quarters of an acre. The principal gate was on the east side of the fort, next to the few straggling log-huts, comprising the then village of Wheeling. The garrison numbered only forty-two fighting men, including old men and boys, and they were sadly deficient in ammunition.

On the 27th inst., the settlers in the vicinity became alarmed, and sought shelter, with their families, within the fort. The next morning a man, sent out by Colonel Shepherd, the commandant, on an errand, was killed, and a negro with him escaped back to the fort, with the intelligence that they had been waylaid by a party of Indians in a cornfield. Upon this, Captain Mason, with fourteen men, went out to dislodge the Indians, when they were attacked on all sides by the whole of Girty's force. They made a desperate resistance; but overwhelmed by numbers, all but two, beside the captain, were slain. Captain Ögle, with twelve others, sallying out to cover their retreat, was also attacked, and defeated

with like slaughter. The enemy then advanced toward the fort in two extended lines, making the air resound with the warhoop. This salute was answered by a few rifle-shots from the lower block-houses. The garrison was now reduced to twelve men and boys; but they were undismayed by their losses, or the overwhelining force opposed to them; and on that day performed prodigies of valor. Girty, having disposed of his force in the deserted houses, and under cover of fences, appeared with a white flag at the window of a cabin. He read the proclamation of Governor Hamilton, of Detroit, and promised them protection if they would lay down their arms, and swear allegiance to his Britannic Majesty. He warned them to submit peacefully, and told them that he could not restrain the savages if the fort fell by assault. Colonel Shepherd replied that he could only obtain possession of the fort when there remained no longer an American soldier to defend it. Girty renewed his proposition, but a youth put an end to the conference by firing a gun at him, and the siege again opened.

It was yet early in the morning of a day of surpassing beauty. The Indians, for the space of six hours, kept up a brisk fire, but very much at random, and with little or no effect. The little garrison was composed of sharp-shooters, and fired with great coolness and precision. Occasionally the most reckless of the savages would rush up close to the block-houses to fire through the logs, but shots from the well-directed rifles drove them back. About one o'clock the Indians discontinued their fire, and fell back to the base of the hill.

The stock of gunpowder in the fort being exhausted, it was determined to seize this opportunity to send for a keg, in a house, distant about sixty yards from the fort. The colonel being unwilling to order any one upon such a desperate errand, asked for a volunteer. Several young men promptly stepped forward. The colonel informed them that, in the weak state of the garrison, only one man could be spared, and that they must decide who that should be. The eagerness of each to go prevented them from deciding, and so much time was consumed in the contention that fears began to arise that the Indians would renew the attack before the powder could be procured. At this crisis a young lady, Miss Elizabeth Zane, came forward and, to the astonishment of all, expressed a desire that she might be permitted to go. This proposition seemed so extravagant that it met with a peremptory refusal; but no remonstrances of her friends or the colonel could dissuade her from her heroic purpose. She stated that the great danger was the very reason that she should go; that the loss of her life would be unfelt, while that of a soldier, in the weak state of the garrison, would be of serious injury. Her petition was ultimately granted, and as she went out of the gate, the Indians in the vicinity looked at her with astonishment; but for some incomprehensible reason did not molest her. When she re-appeared with the powder, the