charge. His inhuman captors could hardly wait till his prayer was ended, and before the petition for their pardon had died on his lips, drove a bayonet through his body, when he fell forward in the agonies of death. They then snatched away his watch and part of his clothing, and mutilating left him weltering in his blood. The man, or rather fiend, who had acted the part of executioner, immediately after entered one of the hotels of Trenton, and told the woman who kept it, that he had killed a rebel minister, and showed the watch as proof of what he had done, but added, in a frenzied manner, that it was too bad he should have been praying for them while they were killing him. "Oh!" said she, "you have made bad work for his poor family." With a frightful oath he retorted, “If you say another word, I will run you through." He then seized his sword, and ran off like one possessed with a devil, and told some British officers what he had done, who, instead of condemning the dastardly deed, commended it.

A young soldier, named Hayes, one of his congregation, who had often sat under his preaching, took the mangled corpse, and concealed it, and the next day buried it in an out of the way spot near Trenton. Rev. Mr. Duffield, another chaplain, hearing of it, went and had the body disinterred, and buried with proper services in the grave-yard of an adjoining church. The widow, accompanied by her brother, a member of the Provincial Congress, came on to see the corpse, but his murderers had so disfigured it, that it was with difficulty she could recognize it. Two short

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weeks before, her arms had entwined that noble form, and now it lay a mutilated mass before her.

She received three letters from him, after he bade her farewell, full of affection, and glowing with patriotism. The following extract from one shows the spirit that animated him: "My dear, I am still yours. I have but a minute to tell you that the company are all well. We are going over to attack the enemy. You would think it strange to see your husband, an old man, with a French fusee slung at his back. This may be the last you shall ever receive from your husband. I have committed myself, you, and the dear pledges of our mutual love to God. As I am out of doors, I can write no more. I send my compliments to you, my dear, and to the children. Friends, pray for us. I am your loving husband."

Let the scrupulous Christian of to-day condemn, if he can, this noble divine for fighting in defence of his country. He had no doubts of the righteousness of his conduct, when passing with prayer on his lips into the presence of his God.

Amiable, kind, and distinguished as a peace-maker, he had to overcome all his natural tendencies to war, to take up arms; but having settled it to be his duty, he had no after-misgivings.

In the turbulent scenes that followed his death, his grave was left unmarked, and no one, at this day, can tell where the sainted patriot sleeps.

CHAPTER XV.

ABNER BENEDICT.

HIS BIRTH AND EDUCATION.-SETTLED AT MIDDLETOWN.-BECOMES CHAPLAIN IN THE ARMY AT NEW YORK.-DESCRIPTION OF A TERRIFIC THUNDER-STORM.— THE BATTLE OF LONG ISLAND.-HIS FEELINGS. THE LAST TO LEAVE THE SHORE IN THE RETREAT.-INVENTIONS IN SUBMARINE NAVIGATION.-MANUFACTURES SALTPETRE FOR POWDER.-ELECTED PROFESSOR IN YALE COLLEGE.— HIS CHARACTER AND DEATH.

ABNER BENEDICT was born at North Salem, N. Y., Nov. 9th, 1740. A classmate of Timothy Dwight, he graduated at Yale College, in 1769, and studied theology with the celebrated Dr. Bellamy, of Bethlehem, Conn. He married Lois Northrup, of New Milford, Conn., in 1771, and the next year was ordained and settled in Middlefield, Middletown, of the same state. He retained his connection with this church fourteen years, though, like his classmate Dwight, he was absent a part of the time as volunteer chaplain in the army. An ardent patriot, his sympathies drew him away to the field where his countrymen were battling for their rights, but when the tide of war rolled southward, he returned to his parish.

He was with the army in New York, and being deeply interested in the efforts put forth to destroy the enemy's ships by torpedos, made some inventions in submarine navigation, which were looked upon with great favor by those to whom they were submitted.

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He often spoke of the excitement which the news of the landing of the British on Long Island created in the army, and of its effect on the inhabitants, who saw that the final struggle for New York was at hand. The day, around which clustered such momentous destinies, closed with what seemed an awful omen of good or ill to the American cause. Mr. Benedict was in the ranks on Brooklyn Heights at the time, from the ramparts of which he could look out on the rolling country, dotted with troops, hurrying in every direction. The most intense excitement prevailed throughout the city, and reënforcements had been pushed rapidly forward all day to meet the coming shock.

But crowded as the day had been with anxious fears and gloomy forebodings, the coming on of evening brought new terrors. In the west slowly rose a thunder-cloud, the glittering, coruscated edges of which seemed solid as marble, so that when the sun passed behind it, it was like a total eclipse, and sudden darkness fell on sea and land.

Mr. Benedict's description of the appearance and passage of this thunder-cloud was appalling. As it continued to rise higher and higher, he observed that it was surcharged with electricity, for the lightning was constantly searching it from limit to limit, and the deep reverberations that rolled along the heavens without

* Mr. Benedict was my grandfather, and I can remember, when a mere child, the effect this description had on me; but, as I can recall only disconnected portions of it, I have chosen to put the whole account in my own language.—ED. .

intermission, sounded more like successive billows bursting on the shore, than the irregular discharges of a thunder-cloud.

At length, at seven o'clock, it began to rain. All before had been the skirmishing that precedes the battle, but now like some huge monster that cloud suddenly gaped and shot forth flame. Then followed a crash louder than a thousand cannon discharged at once. It was appalling. The soldiers involuntarily cowered before it. In a few moments the entire heavens became black as ink, and from horizon to horizon the whole empyrean was ablaze with lightning, while the thunder that followed did not come in successive peals, but in one long continuous crash, as if the very framework of the skies was falling to pieces, accompanied with a confused sound, as though the fragments were tumbling into a profound abyss. The lightning fell in masses and sheets of fire to the earth, and seemed to be striking incessantly and on every side. There was an apparent recklessness and wildness about the unloosed strength of the elements that was absolutely terrifying. The power that was abroad seemed sufficient to crush the earth into a thousand fragments. The fort was silent as the grave, for the strongest heart bent before this exhibition of God's terrible majesty. It did not pass away like an ordinary shower, for the cloud appeared to stand still, and swing round and round like a horizontal wheel over the devoted city. It clung to it with a tenacity that was frightful. For three hours, or from seven to ten, the deafening uproar continued without cessation or abatement.