A THRILLING NARRATIVE.

THE following Revolutionary reminisence we find in an old periodical, where it is given as a well authenticated fact.

In the autumn of 1777, when Lord Howe had possession of Philadelphia, the situation of the Americans who could not follow their beloved commander, was truly distressing, subject to the every day insults of cruel and oppressive foes. Bound to pay obedience to laws predicated, on the momentary power of a proud and vindictive commander, it can be better pictured than described. To obtain the common necessaries of life, particularly flour, they had to go as far as Bristol, a distance of eighteen or twenty miles, and even this indulgence was not granted them, until a pass was procured from Lord Howe, as guards were placed along Vine street, extending from the Delaware to the Schuylkill, forming a complete barrier; beyond these, through the woods extending as far as Frankford, were stationed the piquet guards— thus rendering it in a manner impossible to reach the Bristol mills, unless first obtaining a pass.

The American forces were then encamped at the Valley Forge, suffering from cold, hunger, and the inclemency of the season. The British rolled in plenty, and spent their days in feastings, their nights in balls, riots, and dissipation; thus resting in supposed security, while the American chief was planning a mode for their final extirpation. A poor woman, with six small children, whose husband was at the Valley Forge, had made frequent applications for a pass. Engagements rendered it impossible for her cruel tormenters to give her one. Rendered desperate from disappointment and the cries of her children, she started alone

without a pass, and by good luck eluded the guards and reached Bristol.

About this time, there were six brothers of the name of Doale, renowned for many acts of heroic bravery, but which were in the character of marauders rather than soldiers. They were men full six feet high, stout and active, a fearless intrepidity characterizing their deeds, and they always succeeded in making their escape. A marked partiality to the Americans, rendered them obnoxious to the British, and always welcome to the former, to whom they conveyed what information they could glean in their adventures.

Our adventurous female, having procured her flour in a pillowcase, holding about twenty pounds, was returning with a light heart to her anxious and lonely babes. She had passed the piquet guards at Frankford, and was just entering the woods a little this side, when a tall, stout man, stepped from behind a tree, and putting a letter in her hand, requested her to read it. She grasped with eager joy, the letter bearing the character of her husband's hand-writing. After a pause, he said, "Your husband is well, madam, and requested me to say, that in a short time he will be with you; money is a scarce article among us—I mean among them; but on account of your husband's partiality to the cause of liberty, I am willing to become his banker." So saying, he handed her a piece of money, "my means, madam, are adequate or I would not be thus lavish," seeing she was about to refuse it.

"You said, sir," my husband would see me shortly; how do know that which seems so impossible? and how did you know me, who never

you

"Hush, madam, we are now approaching the British guard; suffice it to say, the American commander has that in his head,

which, like an earthquake, will shake the whole American continent, and expunge all these miscreants; but, hark! take the road to the left-farewel." So saying, he departed. She gave one look, but vacancy filled the spot where he stood. cautious steps, she approached Vine street. burned beneath her bread, when the awful word "halt!” struck

a British sentinel.

With slow and

Already her fire

her to the soul. She started, and found herself in the custody of "Your pass, woman." "I have none, sir; "D- -n the rebel crew, why do you

my children are

breed enemies to your king-this flour is mine-off, woman, and die with your babes." A groan was her only answer. The ruffian was about departing, when the former messenger appeared― his whole demeanor was changed; humble simplicity marked his gait-he approached the guard with a seeming fearfulness, and begged him in a suppliant voice, to give the poor woman her flour. "Fool! idiot!" exclaimed the guard, "who are you? see yonder guard house, if you interfere here, that shall be your quarters." "May be so, sir; but wont you give the poor woman the means of supporting her little family one week longer? recollect the distance she has walked, the weight of the bag, and recollect

"Hell and fury, sirrah! Why bid me recollect, you plead in vain-begone, or I'll seize you as a spy."

"You won't give the poor woman her flour?"

"No."

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"Then by my country's faith, and hopes of freedom, you shall !" and with a powerful arm, he seized the guard by the throat and hurled him to the ground. Run, madam, run--see the guard house is alive-secure your flour, pass Vine street, and you are safe." "Twas done. The guard made an attempt to rise, when

The unfortunate

There was but

the stranger drew a pistol, and shot him dead. man gazed around him with fearless intrepidity. one way of escape, and that through the woods. Seizing the dead man's musket, he started like a deer, pursued by the hounds. "Shoot him down! shoot him down !" was echoed from one line to another. The desperado was lost in the woods, and a general search commenced; the object of their pursuit, in the meantime, flew like lightning; the main guard was left behind, but the whole piquet line would soon be alarmed-one course alone presented itself, and that was to mount his horse, which was concealed among the bushes, and gallop down to the Delaware; a boat was already there for him. The thought was no sooner suggested, than it was put into execution. He mounted his horse, and, eluding the alarmed guards, had nearly reached the Delaware.

Here he found himself headed and hemmed in, by at least fifty exasperated soldiers. One sprang from behind a tree, and demanded immediate surrender. ""Tis useless to prevaricate— "Son of a slave! slave of a king!

you are now in our possession." how dare you to address a freeman! Surrender yourself-a Doale never surrendered himself to any man, far less to a blinded poltroon-away, or die;" and attempted to pass. The guard levelled his gun; but himself was levelled in the dust; the ball of Doale's pistol, had been swifter than his own. His case was now truly desperate; behind him was the whole line of guards—on the north of him, the Frankford piquets, and on the left of him, the city of Philadelphia, filled with British troops.

One

way, and only one presented itself, and that was to cross the river. He knew his horse; he plunged in-a shout succeeded

and ere he reached half the distance, twenty armed boats were in

swift pursuit. His noble horse dashed through the Delaware, his master spurred him on with double interest, while the balls whistled around him. The tide was running down, and when he reached the Jersey shore, he found himself immediately opposite the old slip, at Market street. On reaching the shore, he turned round, took out a pistol, and, with steady aim, fired at the first boat; a man fell over the side and sank to rise no more. He then disappeared in the wood. The angry, harassed, and disappointed pursuers gave one look, one curse, and returned to the Pennsylvania shore,fully believing, that, if he was not the devil, he was at least one of his principal agents.

THE STORY OF AN OLD SOLDIER.

THE following story is as it was related by an old soldier. It was in the summer of 1780, at the close of a Sabbath day, that the inhabitants of a retired farm house in Georgia assembled at their evening repast. The venerable farmer, the widow of his son, and her only daughter, a blooming girl of sixteen, composed the little circle. "I should like," said the old man, "to know where our young soldier is now." Tears and blushes appeared at once on the countenance of Kate, and when the mother fervently exclaimed "God preserve him," she could not restrain her sobs; for it was of her cousin Leonard, her betrothed husband, that they spoke. "Out with your tears, baby face," cried her grandsire, cheerfully; "he will come home to you soon, nothing less than a captain. What! would you have him stay at home at such a time; ah! if I felt not the aches of seventy in my limbs,