horse in the service of Pennsylvania in the French war of 1759-60, and before the Revolution resided at Fort Pitt, since Pittsburg. He was made a brigadier early in 1776, and, having joined General Sullivan in Canada, was made prisoner at Trois Rivières. Thompson was succeeded, in March, 1776, by Edward Hand, his lieutenant-colonel, who had accompanied the Royal Irish to America in 1774 as surgeon's mate, but who resigned on his arrival. He was afterwards a brigadier, and fought to the close of the war.

Daniel Morgan, who, in less than a week after the intelligence of the battle of Lexington, enrolled one hundred and seven men, with whom he marched to Cambridge, had been a wagoner in Braddock's army in 1755. For knocking down a British lieutenant he had received five hundred lashes without flinching. He seems at one period to have fallen into the worst vices of the camp, but before the Revolution had become a correct member of society. Washington despatched him with Arnold to Quebec in September, 1775, where, after having forced his way through the first defences, he was made prisoner while paroling some captives that he himself had taken; so that a common fate befell both Morgan and Thompson, and on the same line of operations. Morgan, after his exchange, was appointed colonel of the 11th Virginia, a rifle-corps, November 12, 1776. Of his subsequent career we need not speak.

Chastellux relates that when some of Rochambeau's troops were passing a river between Williamsburg and Baltimore, where they were crowded in a narrow passage, they were met by General Morgan, who, seeing the wagoners did not understand their business, stopped and showed them how to drive. Having put everything in order, he proceeded quietly on

his way.

The best account we have of Colonel Morgan's appearance describes him as 66 stout and active, six feet in height, not too much encumbered with flesh, and exactly fitted for the pomp and toils of war. The features of his face were strong and manly, and his brow thoughtful. His manners plain and

decorous, neither insinuating nor repulsive. His conversation grave, sententious, and considerate, unadorned and uncaptivating."

Mount Benedict is associated with an event which has no parallel, we believe, in the history of our country, namely, the destruction of a religious institution by a mob. The ruins of the Convent of St. Ursula long remained an evidence of what popular rage, directed by superstition and lawlessness, has been able to accomplish in a community of high average civilization. For half a century, these ruins served to emphasize a condition which has as completely disappeared as have the ruins themselves, by the grading down of the hill-top, where they stood, to its present level.

It must be admitted that the Jesuit fathers who planted the missions of their order in every available spot in the New World possessed an unerring instinct for choosing fine situations. Wherever their establishments have been reared civilization has followed, until towns and cities have grown up and

environed their primitive chapels. Whatever may be said of the order, it has left the finest specimens of ancient architecture existing on the American continent. We need only cite Quebec, Mexico, and Panama to support this assertion.

The choice of Mount Benedict, therefore, for the site of a convent is only another instance of the good judgment of the Catholics. The situation, though bleak in winter, commands a superb view of the meadows through which the Mystic winds, and of the towns which extend themselves along the opposite shores. Beyond these are seen the gray, rocky ridges, resembling in their undulations some huge monster of antiquity, which, coming from the Merrimack, form the most remarkable valley in Eastern Massachusetts, and through which, in the dim distance of bygone ages, the river may have found its outlet to the sea. Perched on their rugged sides appear the cottages and villas of a population half city, half rural, but altogether distinctive in the well-kept, thrifty appearance of their homes.

On the night of the 11th of August, 1834, the convent and outbuildings were destroyed by incendiary hands. The flames raged without any attempt to subdue them, until everything combustible was consumed, the bare walls only being left standing. The firemen from the neighboring towns were present with their engines, but remained either passive spectators or actors in the scenes that ensued. A feeble effort was made by the local authorities to disperse the mob, an effort calculated only to excite contempt, unsupported as it was by any show of force to sustain it. The affair had been planned, and the concerted signal expected.

For some time previous to the final catastrophe rumors had prevailed that Mary St. John Harrison, an inmate of the convent and a candidate for the veil, had either been abducted or secreted where she could not be found by her friends. As this belief obtained currency, an excitement, impossible now to imagine, pervaded the community. Threats were openly made to burn the convent, but passed unheeded. Printed placards were posted in Charlestown, announcing that on such a night the convent would be burned, but even this did not arouse the

authorities to action. At about ten o'clock on the night in question a mob, variously estimated at from four to ten thousand persons, assembled within and around the convent grounds. A bonfire was lighted as a signal to those who were apprised of what was about to take place. The Superior of the convent, Mrs. Moffatt, with the other inmates, were notified to depart from the doomed building. There were a dozen nuns, and more than fifty scholars, some of whom were Protestants, and many of a tender age. The announcement filled all with alarm, and several swooned with terror. The unfortunate females were at length removed to a place of security, and the work of destruction began and concluded without hindrance. The mob did not even respect the tomb belonging to the convent, but entered and violated this sanctuary of the dead.

A general burst of indignation followed this dastardly outrage. Reprisals from the Catholics were looked for, and it was many years before the bad blood created by the event subsided. The better feeling of the community was aroused; and few meetings in Old Faneuil Hall have given more emphatic utterance to its voice than that called at this time by Mayor Lyman, and addressed by Harrison Gray Otis, Josiah Quincy, Jr., and others. Measures of security were adopted, and once more, in the language of the wise old saw, "the stable door was shut after the steed had escaped."

The Catholics showed remarkable forbearance. On the day following the conflagration their bishop, Fenwick, contributed by his judicious conduct to allay the exasperation of his flock; and even Father Taylor, the old, earnest pastor of the seamen, was listened to with respectful attention by a large assemblage of Irish Catholics, who had gathered in the immediate neighborhood of their church, in Franklin Street, Boston, on the same occasion.

In reverting to the conduct of the firemen, it should be remembered that Colonel Thomas C. Amory, then chief engineer of the Boston Fire Department, repaired to the convent at the first alarm, and did all in his power to bring the firemen to their duty. Finding this a hopeless task, he then visited the

bishop, and advised him to take such precautions as the dangerous temper of the mob seemed to demand.

Many arrests were made, and some of the rioters were convicted and punished. Chief Justice Shaw was then on the bench, and John Davis governor of the State. Both exerted themselves to bring the offenders to justice, and to vindicate the name of the old Commonwealth from reproach.

The form of the main building of the convent, which faced southeast, was a parallelogram of about thirty-three paces long by ten in breadth; what appear to have been two wings joined. it on the west side. The buildings were partly of brick and partly of the blue stone found abundantly in the neighboring quarries; the principal edifice being of three stories, with a pitched roof, and having entrances both in the east and west fronts. The grounds, which were very extensive, and embraced most of the hill, were terraced down to the highway and adorned with shrubbery. A fine orchard of several acres, in the midst of which the buildings stood, extended on the west quite to the limits of the enclosure, where, until recently, were visible the remains of the convent tomb. The hill is now being levelled with a rapidity that is fast obliterating every vestige of its original appearance, as nature left it. Mount Benedict already belongs to the past, whatever regret we may feel at the disappearance of so beautiful an eminence.

The convent was opened on the 17th of July, 1826. It is but little known that there was a similar establishment in Boston, contiguous to the Cathedral in Franklin Street, though no incident drew the popular attention to it. The information upon which the mob acted in the sack of the Mount Benedict institution proved wholly groundless.

When we last visited the ruins the scene was one of utter loneliness. Year by year the walls had been crumbling away, until the elements were fast completing what the fire had spared. The snow enshrouded the heaps of débris and the jagged outlines of the walls with a robe as spotless as that of St. Ursula herself. For nearly forty years these blackened memorials of the little community of St. Angela had been visible to thousands