corresponding more with the dreams of the poet than any earthly reality. By the increase of its population it had been enabled to furnish almost a thousand men to the Continental army; a remarkable number for an infant colony. The cause of Independence had been espoused with zeal and supported with unabated vigor.——— While the crowded granaries and herds of cattle gave proofs of their industry, the number of young men absent in the field evinced the patriotism animating all classes.

The singular prosperity attending the settlement of Wyoming, and the enjoyment and happiness of its people, were too soon terminated by an event moving the whole country with grief and indignation. A few persons, disaffected to the cause of liberty, and attached to their former sovereign, fled from the settlement; others of similar sentiments, who remained, were treated with indignity, and the spirit of party became so violent and malignant that not even the ties of consanguinity constituted any guarantee for the safety and quiet of their persons, or the protection and enjoyment of their property. Members of the same family became mutually jealous of each other, and implacable hatred at length gave place to the resolutions of deadly revenge. An unusual number of strangers about this time visited the settlement, and from their intimacy with the tories and other circumstances, were suspected of hostile designs; they were, accordingly, arrested to the number of about twenty, and on examination, the facts disclosed seemed sufficient to justify sending them to Connecticut for trial. This event determined the tories to lose no time in concerting measures of retaliation. Some abandoned the settlement and fled to the posts in Canada; while others entered the forests, and uniting with the Indians, excited them to war by recounting their past sufferings and present grievances, and by anticipating the disasters which threatened, in the loss of their lands, the destruction of their game, and, finally, the extermination of their tribes.

The conduct of the Indians was now treacherous in the extreme. They sent small parties to the settlement professing friendship and giving the strongest assurances of amicable intentions and of their earnest desire to maintain peace. Besides convincing the inhabitants of their security, they obtained minute information respecting the affairs of the colony. Apprehensions of danger were, however, soon excited. The colonists became suspicious of their Indian neighbors and exerted themselves to provide against the threatened disasters. The avowed enmity and hatred of the tories, and

the mysterious conduct of the savages, led to the erection of four forts, whither the settlers might resort in the event of an attack. Letters, in the mean time, were addressed to Congress and to Gen. Washington, apprising them of the insecure and exposed situation of the colony, and requesting immediate aid. These despatches were intercepted by the Pennsylvania tories. Dangers multiplied, and a few days before the final catastrophe, the Indians made sev eral predatory incursions on the borders of the settlement; houses were burnt, property plundered, and murders committed. In one instance, either from mistake, or actuated by the love for bloodshed, they fell upon the family of one of those persons who had been sent to Connecticut for trial, and massacred his wife and five children. These acts were only preludes to scenes of greater enormity.

On the first of July, 1778, the enemy, in number about sixteen hundred, suddenly appeared on the Susquehanna; only four hundred of the band were Indians; the remainder white men, so disguised with paint and savage dresses as to make it difficult to distinguish them from their barbarous and blood-thirsty allies. The officers commanding were in their proper regimentals. They were headed by Col. John Butler, a tory from Connecticut, who had made himself the just object of terror by his cruelties in former campaigns on the frontier settlements. He had been employed by the British as Indian agent in Canada, and was pre-eminent for his vindictive and ferocious spirit. Associated with him in command was Col. Brandt, a half blood Indian, chief of the Mohawk tribe.— He had received an English education under the Rev. Mr. Wheelock, president of Dartmouth College. His intercourse with civilized life had deprived him of the virtues of the savage, but left the fierce and desperate elements in the character of the forest warrior.

Col. Zebulon Butler, cousin to John Butler, named above, was commander of the Wyoming forces. Different historians have presented bis character in different lights. Some have charged him with having concerted the destruction of the settlement; while others have ascribed to him great bravery with some capacity. He was, no doubt, courageous and resolute; but his credulity disqualified him in a contest with a treacherous foe.

The enemy directed an attack on the two smaller forts; the first of these, being garrisoned principally by tories, was surrendered without resistance, or, as is more probable, was betrayed;

the second, after a vigorous and spirited assault, yielded to the enemy. The men were put to death with unrelenting cruelty; the women and children were spared. The larger forts, Kingston and Wilkesbarre, were yet in the possession of the colonists; the former was situated on the west, the latter on the east bank of the river. Col. Zebulon Butler, availing himself advantageously of his means for defence, after ordering a small body of men into fort Wilkesbarre for its protection, crossed over with the remainder of his forces, amounting to nearly four hundred, to fort Kingston. With him, resorted thither, all the inhabitants, for safety and protection. Women and children, and those incapable, either from sickness or natural inirmity, of defending themselves, were seen hastening from every direction to fori Kingston, as the only refuge from the impending danger. All were filled with consternation. The air was rent with the most piercing shrieks.

This place was advantageously situated, and might have been successfully defended, had not Zebulon listened too easily to the treacherous proposals of the enemy. Apprised of the impracticability of subduing the fortress by a regular siege, and despairing of carrying it by storm, resort was had to stratagem. John persuaded his kinsman to hold a parley in the open field. The credulous Zebulon yielded to his flattering promises, and under the hope of rescuing from destruction the little band of patriots, with their wives and children, agreed on a place to meet to hold the intended treaty. Expectation of a speedy deliverance from their present forlorn and hopeless situation quelled for a time the fears, and raised the desponding spirits of the unhappy colonists. Little did they think of the perfidy of the inhuman and dissimulating enemy. Happy they who had already fallen! It was agreed that John should withdraw his forces to the distance of two or three miles from the fort, and that Zebulon should go out to a place appointed, and there conclude the treaty. The enemy retired according to the terms of agreement. Zebulon, as if distrusting the integrity of his cousin, instead of going out accompanied by a few only, took with him four hundred men, well armed, nearly the whole strength of the garrison. B.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

MISCELLANEOUS,

SELECTED.

THE SEA AND ITS INHABITANTS.

FROM THE EDINBURGH ENCYCLOPEDIA.

THE great business of fishes, as it has sometimes jestingly been said, is to eat each other, and a great part of it must be carried on in the dark, or, at least, without the light of the sun. From the experiments of Monsieur Bouguer, it has been deduced, that the transmission of light through sea-water is diminished in a ratio so rapid, that at the depth of 723 feet it ceases to be transmitted any longer. Now, we do not think that the method adopted by this philosopher was a correct one, or capable of determining this question. But as the general principle is unquestionable, we are willing to allow 1000 feet instead of 723; and it will immediately be seen that the main purpose of our argument will not be affected, though we should adopt a still higher limit. At some depths, therefore, and that probably not very great, there is absolute and perpetual darkness. But fishes are not thus limited to the surface, or near it, or even to depths of a thousand fathoms, much less to one of as many feet. There does not indeed seem to be any limit of depth for the habitable ocean. Innumerable fishes are known to reside, to breed, and to prey, in regions to which light can never penetrate. This is the case in particular with the pelagie fish, which form in themselves numerous tribes. It would indeed be a strange supposition, were we to imagine that the dark regions of the sea were uninhabited. In Captain Ross's voyage, shrimps were brought up by the sounding line from depths of 1300 feet: and other animals of various kinds were found in the same manner at 6000. It is difficult to prove this fact in many particular instances, because soundings seldom extend very deep, nor do fishermen fish at great depths. The greater number of our own seas are shallow; and it is the character of some of our principal fish to frequent the banks, or shoaler parts, where weeds grow, and where they probably find their prey. Besides this, it is tedious and expensive to fish in deep water. But we can quote one positive fact to this purpose. It is the habit of the ling to frequent the deep valleys of the sea, while the cod, like many others, resides on the hills, or banks, as they are commonly called. In the Shetland seas, one of the most productive spots for this fish, is a valley about 1200 feet deep, bounded on each side by hills that must be nearly pre

cipitous, since, in sounding, the water suddenly deepens from 20 and 30 to 200 fathoms. In this place, as well as in others, where this kind of fishery is carried on, it is found that the best fishing exists at the greatest depths; nor is it unusual to sink the long lines in water of 250 fathoms deep. But the time required for setting and drawing up from this depth, the enormous length of line that is used is so great, as to prevent the fishermen from making any attempts in deeper water; but they are all of opinion that this fish abounds most in the deepest places, and might advantageously be fished for at much greater depths. Thus the ling, for one, is proved to reside in places which must be perpetually dark, although we were to double M. Bouguer's estimate of the point of non-transmission.

It is perfectly known to fishermen that many species, which, in summer, frequent the shallow seas, apparently for the purpose of spawning chiefly, retire to the great depths in winter; and, as these persons suppose, to avoid the cold. The regions of darkness seem to be their proper residence; while, like the salmon and other migratory fishes, they are merely visitors in those of light. But, besides this, a very large proportion of all the fishes of the sea only preys by night, while there are some that do so by day, and others are ready for their food at all times. In the polar regions, and in the depths of winter, there can for a long period be no light in the sea, whatever faint glimmering the atmosphere, the planets, or the aurora, may yield for the inhabitants of the land. Yet here many fishes, and most conspicuously, some of the whales and the swordfish have their perpetual residence. These animals can have no light for a long time, particularly in their deep waters, unless they find it in their own bodies, or in that of their prey. The food of the great whale, consisting of various insects and worms, very commonly shrimps, such as the Cancer oculatus, resides at the bottom as well as on the top of the sea; and there cannot, therefore, be any doubt that, even in summer, but most assuredly in winter, it feeds in regions that are inaccessible to light.

The quantity of water discharged by rivers into the sea has been imperfectly examined. From facts, which we have already stated, the mean annual quantity of rain over the globe may be estimated about three feet; which would give no less than 16,000,000,000,000,000 cubic feet for the quantity of rain over the whole surface. If we suppose that a third part of this falls upon the land, we should have upwards of 5,000,000,000,000,000 cubic feet for