“Your Honor,” he wrote in April, “may see to what unhappy straits the distressed inhabitants and myself are reduced.  I see inevitable destruction in so clear a light, that unless vigorous measures are taken by the Assembly, and speedy assistance sent from below, the poor inhabitants that are now in forts must unavoidably fall, while the remainder are flying before the barbarous foe.  In fine, the melancholy situation of the people; the little prospect of assistance; the gross and scandalous abuse cast upon the officers in general, which is reflecting upon me in particular for suffering misconduct of such extraordinary kinds; and the distant prospect, if any, of gaining honor and reputation in the service,—­cause me to lament the hour that gave me a commission, and would induce me at any other time than this of imminent danger to resign, without one hesitating moment, a command from which I never expect to reap either honor or benefit, but, on the contrary, have almost an absolute certainty of incurring displeasure below, while the murder of helpless families may be laid to my account here.”

“The supplicating tears of the women and moving petitions of the men melt me into such deadly sorrow, that I solemnly declare, if I know my own mind, I could offer myself a willing sacrifice to the butchering enemy, provided that would contribute to the people’s ease."[337]

[Footnote 337:  Writings of Washington, II. 143.]

In the turmoil around him, patriotism and public duty seemed all to be centred in the breast of one heroic youth.  He was respected and generally beloved, but he did not kindle enthusiasm.  His were the qualities of an unflagging courage, an all-enduring fortitude, and a deep trust.  He showed an astonishing maturing of character, and the kind of mastery over others which begins with mastery over self.  At twenty-four he was the foremost man, and acknowledged as such, along the whole long line of the western border.

To feel the situation, the nature of these frontiers must be kept in mind.  Along the skirts of the southern and middle colonies ran for six or seven hundred miles a loose, thin, dishevelled fringe of population, the half-barbarous pioneers of advancing civilization.  Their rude dwellings were often miles apart.  Buried in woods, the settler lived in an appalling loneliness.  A low-browed cabin of logs, with moss stuffed in the chinks to keep out the wind, roof covered with sheets of bark, chimney of sticks and clay, and square holes closed by a shutter in place of windows; an unkempt matron, lean with hard work, and a brood of children with bare heads and tattered garments eked out by deer-skin,—­such was the home of the pioneer in the remoter and wilder districts.  The scene around bore witness to his labors.  It was the repulsive transition from savagery to civilization, from the forest to the farm.  The victims of his axe lay strewn about the dismal “clearing” in a chaos of prostrate trunks,