Upon the Roads of Mason's journey South, the scene is alarming. In Maryland, in September, the Mob had pull'd down the house of Zachariah Hood, who, refusing to resign as the Province's Stamp Dis?tributor, fled to New-York, and was granted refuge in Fort George, in time to witness Foretopman Bodine's Bi-Lunar Exhibition. Tho' 'twas now possible to clear Vessels out of Chesapeake Ports unstamp'd, plead?ing a lack of Stamps, Maryland was somehow among the last of the American Provinces to do so. As if, having paus'd self-amaz'd at their bold deed, the Mobility were now considering their next step. As Autumn rusted toward Winter, Youths went careering along the high roads firing long Rifles from Horse-back at any target that might suggest a connexion with stamp'd Paper, Puffs of Breath and Smoke decorating the way. Groups of farm Girls stood at crossroads and sang to them, "Americans All." Their Fathers, not always with better things to do, offer'd Jugs and Pipes, and their Mothers Tea. Traveling Sons of Liberty never had to pay a farthing for Drink,— and were ever the objects of Suggestions that, for even the liveliest of them, would have taken more time away from their Itineraries than Duty would allow. Massachusetts Bay accents were heard for the first time, out in the Allegheny, up in the Coves, or "Coves," as Folk there were pronouncing it, purs'd as the Yan?kees were broad. New-Yorkers in Georgia, Pennsylvanians in the Caroli-nas, Virginians ev'rywhere, upon Horses perhaps better looking than suited to the Work,— all took time to appreciate the musick of Voices from far away, yet already, unmistakably, American.
Out in the Field, Down by the Sea, The Hour has peal'd, Whoever ye be,
Daughter of Erin, Scotia's Son, Let us be daring,— Let it be done.
It is time for
The Choosing,—
Americans all,
No more refusing
The Cry, and the Call,—
For the Grain to be sifted,
For the Tyrants to fall,
As the Low shall be lifted,—
Americans all...
Till the end of the Story, Till the end of the Fight, Till the last craven Tory Has taken to Flight,
Let us go to the Wall, Let us march thro' the Pain, Americans all, Slaves ne'er again.
At Williamsburg, Mason, as well as being invited to the College of William and Mary, to inspect the Philosophickal Apparati, is introduc'd, at the State House, to a Party of Tuscarora Chiefs, upon a Mission to bring out the last of their people from the Carolinas, and conduct them safely back under the Protection of the Senecas, where they will join the rest of their Tribe, the sixth of the Six Nations.
The Escort have some apprehension about crossing Pennsylvania, with an hundred, perhaps two hundred, Tuscaroras, for they have heard
 of the Paxton Massacres. But along the way they are to be join'd by Pro?tectors from various Nations, principally Mohawks. Tho' their Territory lies hundreds of Leagues to the North, the Six Nations are ever a-bustle thro' the Forests of Pennsylvania, observing all Movement, regardless of Size, vigilantly. "Any of Paxtonian Disposition," Mason tries to reassure the Chiefs, "being usually bless'd with a Marksman's Eye, know who's in the Woods, and why,— yet will not at ev'ry Opportunity choose to engage."
He is staying at Mr. Wetherburn's. One morning a note appears tuck'd into a Frame full of cross'd Ribbons, from Col° Washington, in Town and seeking a quiet game or two of Billiards. Their Tranquillity is not long preserv'd, as more and more arrive in Raleigh's Billiard-Room, 'round the fam'd great Table.
"Even as Clearings appear in the Smoke of a Tavern, so in Colonial matters may we be able to see into, and often enough thro', the motives of Georgie Rex and that dangerous Band of Boobies.... Henceforth, it seems, the Irish and the Ulster Scots are to be upon the same terms with them as the Africans, Hindoos, and other Dark peoples they............