a musket! Turn out!" he shouted; "the
regulars are landing on Plum Island!" "I'm glad of it," responded the
old gentleman from his chamber window; "I wish they were all there, and
obliged to stay there." When it is understood that Plum Island is little
more than a naked sand-ridge, the benevolence of this wish can be readily
appreciated.

All the boats on the river were constantly employed for several hours in
conveying across the terrified fugitives. Through "the dead waste and
middle of the night" they fled over the border into New Hampshire. Some
feared to take the frequented roads, and wandered over wooded hills and
through swamps where the snows of the late winter had scarcely melted.
They heard the tramp and outcry of those behind them, and fancied that
the sounds were made by pursuing enemies. Fast as they fled, the terror,
by some unaccountable means, outstripped them. They found houses
deserted and streets strewn with household stuffs, abandoned in the hurry
of escape. Towards morning, however, the tide partially turned. Grown
men began to feel ashamed of their fears. The old Anglo-Saxon hardihood
paused and looked the terror in its face. Single or in small parties,
armed with such weapons as they found at hand,--among which long poles,
sharpened and charred at the end, were conspicuous,--they began to
retrace their steps. In the mean time such of the good people of Ipswich
as were unable or unwilling to leave their homes became convinced that
the terrible rumor which had nearly depopulated their settlement was
unfounded.

Among those who had there awaited the onslaught of the regulars was a
young man from Exeter, New Hampshire. Becoming satisfied that the whole
matter was a delusion, he mounted his horse and followed after the
retreating multitude, undeceiving all whom he overtook. Late at night
he reached Newburyport, greatly to the relief of its sleepless
inhabitants, and hurried across the river, proclaiming as he rode the
welcome tidings. The sun rose upon haggard and jaded fugitives, worn
with excitement and fatigue, slowly returning homeward, their
satisfaction at the absence of danger somewhat moderated by an unpleasant
consciousness of the ludicrous scenes of their premature night flitting.

Any inference which might be drawn from the foregoing narrative
derogatory to the character of the people of New England at that day, on
the score of courage, would be essentially erroneous. It is