the camp." When not engaged in military duties, Hale devoted much of his time to reading, especially works on the science of war. Feeling the importance of discipline, he gave such untiring attention to his men, that his company soon became one of the most thoroughly drilled and orderly in the service. When the American army was nearly annihilated by the defeat of Long Island, and the expiration of the terms for which the soldiers had enlisted, Hale generously relinquished his own pay to induce the men of his company to remain.

Hale's fondness for athletic sports suffered no abatement in consequence of his military pursuits, for we find him, when at leisure, engaging with his brother officers in wrestling, running, jumping, and in other amusements of that nature. He was also scrupulously observant of his religious duties, being a regular attendant at camp worship, when such a privilege was not denied by some professional duty.

In the succeeding spring (1776), the regiment to which Ilale was attached proceeded, with others under the command of General Heath, to the vicinity of New York. He there became the principal in a brilliant little affair, from which he gained considerable eclat. In the East River lay a British vessel filled with supplies for the army. Although not armed, it was protected by a sixty-four gunship anchored only a few rods distant. Hale formed the project of capturing and taking her into the harbor of New York.

Under cover of night, he embarked with a small party in a rowboat, and dropped down near their intended prize, and then pulled in their cars to wait until the moon should go down. When it was entirely dark, the little party resuming their oars, silently rowed toward the doomed vessel. As they approached her, the figure of a solitary sentinel was dimly seen pacing the deck of the man-of-war by which the supply vessel was guarded. The sentinel suddenly paused-then gazed out upon the water. The approaching rowboat rested a moment, and its crew with beating hearts waited to see if they were discovered. In a brief time, "All's well," was heard from the lips of the lookout, as he turned and disappeared in the gloom. A few more pulls with the oars and the patriots were alongside. Not a soul was on deck-all were below and asleep. They took possession of the vessel, fastened the sleeping sailors in the hold, and in a short time, without alarming the guard of the neighboring man-of-war, noiselessly sailed away, and succeeded in gaining a wharf with their fine prize, where an expectant crowd greeted them with loud huzzas and the waving of hats. The vessel was laden with stores of provisions and clothing, which were a valuable acquisition to the army.

It was at a most gloomy period of the war of independence when Hale departed from the American camp, on a secret mission that sent a thrill of terror through those who were aware of its nature. The disastrous defeat of Long Island had just passed-Harlem Heights had been deserted, and White Plains had-witnessed defeat. Shattered and depressed, the American army, like a crowd of fugitives, hovered around King's Bridge. The victorious Howe, flushed with success, was pursuing an enlarged system of operations, and it became evident that the concentrated forces of the invaders were to be let loose upon the rebellious colonists. But where the

blow was to fall, no human sagacity could foresee. Whether they were to take possession of New York, cut off the communication of the American army, and claim the country by conquest, or proceed southward and make a descent where no preparation would present a barrier, were questions of anxious import to the American commander, and the solution of which was of vital importance. With all his vigilance, he could not unravel the designs of the enemy, whose movements were purposely contradictory. Never during that war, copious as are its records of difficulty, was Washington more perplexed or more filled with anxiety. Finally, he concluded that some one must enter the British lines and gain the requisite information, or he feared that all would be lost.

In this emergency, he applied to the brave Colonel Knowlton, of the Connecticut line, for him to endeavor to obtain an officer for this service possessing the rare union of qualities necessary to success. Knowlton assembled his officers, and made known to them the request of Washington, stating the exigency of the case, and appealing to their patriotism, in the hope that some one would volunteer for the service. No one responded. He then addressed himself individually to each of those present, but with no better success. Indeed, many of them seemed offended that such a request should be made, in view of the danger of the mission and the ignominious death that would result on detection. One of these, an officer remarkable for a spirit of hazardous adventure, replied, "No, no! I am willing at any time, and on any terms, to fight the British; but I wont go among them to be hung like a dog."

Knowlton was about despairing of success, when from the assembled group came the slow, firm words, "I will undertake it!" The speaker had just recovered from a severe illness, and was late in joining the council, or "I will undertake it," would have been heard sooner.

All eyes turned toward the speaker, and a thrill of anguish pervaded the throng as they looked upon the pale, determined face of the universal favorite, the young and noble NATHAN HALE! They at once closed around him, and remonstrated by every appeal which consideration and friendship could dictate, to abandon his purpose-the love of home, the ties of kindred, future fame, and a felon's death, were all in vain urged to dissuade him. Among those most importunate was Lieutenant, afterward General, Hull, his old classmate at Yale, who plead with him almost with tears to abandon the project. Hale listened to the appeals, and replied in these memorable words:

"I think I owe to my country the accomplishment of an object so important, and so much desired by the commander of her armies-and I know of no other mode of obtaining the information, than by assuming a disguise and passing into the enemy's camp. I am fully sensible of the consequences of discovery and capture in such a situation, but for a year I have been attached to the army, and have not rendered any material service, while receiving compensation for which I make no return; yet I am not influenced by the expectation of promotion or pecuniary reward. I wISH TO BE USEFUL, AND EVERY KIND OF SERVICE NECESSARY FOR THE PUBLIC GOOD, BECOMES HONORABLE BY BEING NECESSARY. If the exigencies of my

country demand a peculiar service, its claims to the performance of that service are imperious."

This was spoken with that air of lofty heroism which showed that he was ready to sacrifice himself if need be, in any way, for the good of his country, even by an ignominious death. Words embodying more truly the soul of patriotism were never expressed.

Hale received instructions from Washington in person, upon the points on which he was to obtain information. The plan was for him to cross over the Sound and land on Long Island, of which the enemy had then full possession. Numerous difficulties were to be overcome at the very outset. The Sound was filled with British cruisers, while the adjacent shores were scoured by their foraging parties, so that he was liable to be apprehended at any moment. If he succeeded, great benefit was to accrue to his country; if he failed, death on the gallows was to be his certain fate. He proceeded to Norwalk, a distance of fifty miles, and made arrangements there with Captain Pond to have him carried in his sloop across the Sound to the Long Island shore, some twenty miles distant. He assumed the disguise of a school-teacher, wearing on the occasion a suit of brown cloth and a broadbrimmed hat. At Norwalk, he dismissed his faithful friend Stephen Hempstead, and embarking on board the sloop was safely landed on the opposite shore, at "The Cedars," near Huntington Bay.

In this vicinity lived the Widow Chichester, called "Mother Chick" by the tories, who made her house a sort of roost during their predatory incursions. Quite a flock of them might usually have been seen hovering around in the vicinity eager to enjoy the bounty of loyal Mother Chick. Hale passed this tory haunt without difficulty, and proceeded toward the settlements. His first pause was at the house of William Johnson, whose hospitality and confidence he for a few hours enjoyed.

His exact route from thence is not known. The difficulties he encountered the narrow escapes he ran the strategems he practiced, we can only conjecture. We do know that he succeeded in reaching the British camp, and in accomplishing the main object of his mission, from the drawings dis covered in his possession when taken by the enemy. Doubtless his peaceful demeanor and unpretending attire as a village school-master, subjected him to the "jibes and jokes" of many a British red-coat, as he made his way into their camps; but it facilitated his means of acquiring information. In the course of his investigations, it is supposed, he entered the city of New York, then overrun with British soldiers, where he was every instant exposed to arrest, as indeed was every citizen who went abroad without a royal protection in his pocket. In such an event, he was very certain to have been confined in the old "Sugar House," from whose fearful gateway the "dead-cart" daily bore away its victims, who had died by starvation or poison at the hands of the infamous wretches in charge.

After spending a week or more among the enemy, Hale had accomplished the main objects of his enterprise. He then retraced his steps the way he came, encountered the same difficulties in passing through a country in the possession of the enemy, and arrived in safety at "The Cedars," where he had arranged to meet a boat which was to convey him back to the Connecticut shore.

It was early morning, and the bay doubtless presented to him a friendly appearance. He could plainly discern the shores of his native State, rising in beauty beyond the blue waters of the Sound. His perils seemed ended, and his heart must have swelled with emotions of pleasure, as he thought that in a few hours more his feet would again press friendly soil, and he should be enabled to render a great service to his country.

At length he saw, as he supposed, his boat approaching. He hastened to the waters' edge to meet it and get on board. It neared the shore-and, O! how cold must have grown the blood around that gallant young heart, when, springing to their feet, he saw a dozen men with muskets cocked and aimed at his breast, and the summons to surrender fell upon his ears. The boat was a barge belonging to the Halifax, a British man-of-war anchored near by, but concealed by the projection of Lloyd's Neck.

His captors took him on board the Halifax, Captain Quarme. He was searched, and between the soles of his shoes were found drawings of military works, with descriptions in Latin. What had he, a plain schoolmaster, to do with laborious profiles of intrenchments, forts, and batteries; and these the exact counterpart of those occupied by the royal army? It was evident he was a spy! As such Captain Quarme treated him, though with kindness, won by his noble bearing, and regretting, as he afterward said, “that so fine a fellow had fallen into his power."

His subsequent history is soon told. He was conveyed to New York, which he reached on the same day that nearly one half of it had been laid in ruins by a dreadful conflagration.

He was taken into the presence of the relentless Howe. The notes found in his possession, the drawings of the British works, and other information collected for the use of the American commander, were proofs conclusive of his guilt. Before his judge he practiced no duplicity, resorted to no subterfuge; his garb of a school-teacher made no screen behind which he longer aimed to conceal himself from the British general. The case was soon made out and judgment rendered-such a one as might have been expected-signed by Howe, in the name of his royal majesty, George III. He was condemned as a spy, and sentenced to be hung the next morning at daybreak.

He was then conducted to prison, to reflect during the remaining few hours upon his melancholy doom. Young, full of life and hope, he was soon to be executed like a common felon, and sent into the presence of that God whose unsearchable riches he had one day hoped to have proclaimed to his fellow-men. What memories must have crowded upon him during the short interval before his execution! How through the dim past must his thoughts have rolled back along the vista of his brief life, even to the scenes of his boyhood! How the image of his dear mother must have presented itself to him, as he thought of the shock to her when she received the tidings, in her quiet New England home, that her son had been hung! Then too, the image of his beautiful betrothed would appear lovingly before him, to remind him of the pure young heart his fate would make desolate! But the die was cast. To-morrow, at daybreak, he was to be executed. No power could avert it. Yet he was to perish in the service of h's country, and he resolved to mect death as became a Christian patriot.

Major Cunningham, a brutal Irishman, whose infamous cruelties upon American prisoners were so notorious, was then provost marshal of the city. He declared, with an oath, that the harshest treatment was too good for such "traitors to undergo." He even murdered the prisoners by poisoning their food, that he might appropriate their rations to his own benefit. Such was the vile wretch into whose custody Hale was given.

Their first interview was characteristic. Hale requested writing materials, that he might write to his parents and friends. This was refused. He then asked for the Bible, that he at least might have the benefit of religious consolation. With an oath, this also was denied. A lieutenant of the royal army, then present, here interposed with entreaty, and his requests were finally complied with. There, on the verge of eternity, Hale for the last time communed with his loved ones. It is thought he wrote three letters; one to his parents, one to his brother, and the other to his betrothed. They were handed over to Cunningham for delivery. His eye ran eagerly over their contents, which so incensed him that he tore them to atoms, swearing, "that the rebels should never know they had a man who could die with such firmness!"

A few hours more, and the fatal morning dawned-a beautiful Sabbath morning, in early autumn, 1776. The gray tint that streaked the eastern sky told Hale his hour had come. On many just such mornings, he had looked out upon the scenery of his New England home, and felt a thrill of delight; on many such had his father gathered the little flock around his hearth for family worship, to prepare them for that eternity upon whose awful threshold he now stood. It was his last morning. The sun would rise again, but its rays would fall upon his grave.

mence.

The provost marshal ordered the march to the place of execution to comWith his hands tied behind him ;-a convict's cap on his head ;wrapped in the habiliments of the tomb;-beside the cart with his coffin;before and behind him, files of soldiers for his guard;-close by, the mulatto hangman of Cunningham, with rope and ladder;—and behind, Cunningham himself;-to the cadence of the "Dead March," Hale proceeded to the fatal spot.

They reached the place just as the sun was rising. A large crowd had assembled to witness the death of the spy. The limb of a tree was used for the gallows. Hale manifested no fear as the rope was adjusted around his neck. Though he was cheered by no friendly voice, the fire of freedom animated his bosom with holy inspiration. He mounted firmly upon the ladder on that still Sabbath morning, and looked calmly over the large assemblage. Nowhere did he meet a glance of recognition, but on all sides he saw sympathizing hearts. The men were sad, and here and there the tear rolled down the cheek, expressive of the keenest compassion; while the women, as they gazed upon the face of one so young and noble, gave vent to their overcharged feelings in sobs and lamentations.

The arrangements being completed, Cunningham, in coarsest tones of fiend-like triumph, demanded of "the rebel" his "dying speech and confession ;"-evidently in the hope that the young man would make some remark that he would be able to turn into ridicule for the amusement of the depraved among the by-standers. Bitter, however, was his disappointment

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