ce and derive pleasure from my intimate connexion
with one who is esteemed worthy of the important trust devolved upon
him"--such words could but urge the fighting colonists to greater deeds
of heroism. And many of the patriot husbands thoroughly appreciated the
silent courage of their wives. John Adams, thinking upon the years of
hardships his wife had so cheerfully undergone, how she had done a man's
work on the farm, had fed and clothed the children, had kept the home
intact, while he struggled for the new nation, wrote her: "You are
really brave, my dear. You are a heroine and you have reason to be, for
the worst than can happen can do you no harm. A soul as pure, as
benevolent, as virtuous, and pious as yours has nothing to fear, but
everything to hope from the last of human evils."

Mercy Warren, too, though she might ridicule the weakness of her sex in
_Woman's Trifling Need_, cheerfully remained alone and unprotected while
her husband went forth to battle; she was even thoughtful enough in
those years of loneliness to keep a record of the stirring times--a
record which was afterwards embodied into her History of the Revolution.
Catherine Schuyler was another of those brave spirits that faced
unflinchingly the horrors of warfare. When a bride of but one week, she
saw her husband march away to the Indian war, and from girlhood to old
age she was familiar with the meaning of carnage. Shortly after the
Battle of Saratoga the entire country was aroused by the murder of Jane
McCrea; women and children fled to the towns: refugees told of the
coming of a host of British, Tories, and Indians. The Schuyler home lay
in the path of the enemy, and in the mansion were family treasures and
heirlooms dear to her heart. She determined to save these, and back she
hastened from town to country. As she pushed on, multitudes of refugees
begged her to turn back; but no appeal, no warning moved her. It was
mid-summer, and the fields were heavy with ripe grain. Realizing that
this meant food for the invaders, she resolved to burn all. When she
reached her home she commanded a negro to light torches and descended
with him to the flats where the great fields of golden grain waved. The
slave went a little distance, but his courage deserted him. "Very well,"
she exclaimed, "if you will not do it, I must do it myself." And with
that she ran into the midst of the waving stalks, tossed the flaming
torches here and there, and for a moment watch