pointment in serving their country, only adds sharper thorns to the crown of his shame, and increases the contempt and detestation of the world. The infamy of Arnold is equally immortal with the fame of Washington.

The moment was now swiftly approaching which had been looked forward to, sometimes in trembling hope, but oftener in stern despair. The crisis was come, and the question of eight years mooting was now to be decided. Cornwallis, at the head of upwards of seven thousand men, with a great train of artillery, had taken a position at York, a small town at the northern verge of the peninsula, between York and James Rivers, about eight miles wide. The town occupies the summit of a high abrupt bank, on the south side of the river, which is here a noble stream, upwards of ten fathoms deep, and a mile wide. His lordship has been blamed for cooping his army up in a place from whence there was no escape in case of defeat; but his own letters explain his reasons. He calculated on the superiority of the British naval force, which would at all times afford him the means of escape, and the facility in receiving reinforcements from Sir Henry Clinton.

The arrival of Count de Grasse with twentyfive ships of the line destroyed one ground of hope, and the delays of Sir Henry were equally fatal to the other. He saw himself besieged by a superior army, animated by the hope, nay, the certainty of success, and inspired by a noble emulation; every day increased his difficulties, and diminished his hopes of succour ; new batteries were raised on all sides against him, while his own defences fell, one after another; the Americans and French vied in acts of gallantry, and at the expiration of a few days his situation became desperate. On the nineteenth of October, 1781, a second British army deposited its arms at the feet of American soldiers, and the plain of York became for ever illustrious as the spot where the struggle for liberty was finally closed, and the award of Providence given in favour of its defenders.

The actors in the closing scene of that great revolution, whose consequences are beyond all calculation as to the future, deserve to be remembered with honour. It is needless to mention Washington. He was the soul that animated the war, the genius which directed it, the presiding spirit of valour, prudence and

decision. Among the bright, though lesser stars, was La Fayette, the steady friend, the gallant soldier, the virtuous patriot; Hamilton, whose genius equally fitted him for whatever he undertook, whether in war or in peace; Laurens, the Chevalier Bayard of the South; Viomenil, Lincoln, Knox, Du Portail, Steuben, Rochefontaine, and many others who deserved well of our country, and bore a brave hand in her deliverance. Nor must the name of Nelson be forgotten on this occasion. At the head of the militia of Virginia his gallantry was not a whit behind that of the regulars, and his patriotic disinterestedness deserves to be remembered among the honourable examples of the war.

He possessed the finest house in York, which was occupied by the enemy. Perceiving that, from a delicate consideration for his interests, the American artillerists avoided directing their pieces to that particular spot, he proclaimed a reward of a guinea for every shot that should be lodged in his house. In a few minutes it became too hot for the occupants, and was abandoned, though not before it had been well riddled with balls.

VOL. II.-K

The force surrendered by Cornwallis amounted to more than seven thousand men, with a train of upwards of one hundred and sixty pieces of cannon. The site where the British laid down their arms is still pointed out by the people of York; and the scene itself was grand and affecting. The captured army marched to the spot in silence, and was received in silence by crowds of spectators, French and Americans, who lined the path through which they passed. The latter preserved a high and magnanimous decorum; not a smile was seen, or a word heard, indicative of triumph or exultation; and all seemed struck with the contrast so often presented in the vicissitudes of human life. The terror of the wives and children of our country, the active and indefatigable Cornwallis, the boasted conqueror of the South, was now about to deliver his army and his sword into the hands of those he had always considered in the light of rebels to their sovereign. All eyes were turned in one direction, in expectation of his coming; but he came not. He shrunk from this trial of manhood, and deputed General O'Hara as his substitute in this humiliating trial. The scene had scarcely closed

when Sir Henry Clinton appeared at the mouth of the Chesapeake with a reinforcement equal in number to those who had just laid down their arms. But he came, like the sunshine after the storm, not to repair, but to witness the devastation. The news arrived that all

was over with Cornwallis and his army, and the British commander returned again to NewYork.

The capture of Cornwallis awakened a thrill of rapture from one end of the United States to the other. It was everywhere hailed as the finishing stroke of the war, the end of a long series of hardships and sufferings. There was scarcely a city, town, or sequestered village throughout the whole wide circuit of the Confederation that had not felt the Scourge of war; few were the fields that escaped ravaging, or the houses that had not been plundered, and few the citizens but had suffered in their persons or property. The whirlwind had not confined itself to one narrow track of devastation; it had swept over the face of the earth from north to south, from east to west; it had crossed and recrossed its track in every direction, and