The Rangers; or, The Tory's Daughter A Tale Illustrative of the Revolutionary History of Vermont and the Northern Campaign of 1777 — Key Ideas to Explore
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The Rangers; or, The Tory's Daughter A Tale Illustrative of the Revolutionary History of Vermont and the Northern Campaign of 1777 — Key Ideas to Explore can be approached with a clearer sense of reading commitment from its source measurements: 141,924 words, 10 hr 18 min estimated reading time, and 15 detected text sections.
The text analysis averages about 30.8 words per sentence, while the detected sections provide another way to judge how the source is divided.
Project Gutenberg metadata also associates the work with “Vermont -- History -- Revolution, 1775-1783 -- Fiction,” connecting these edition facts with the source record’s subject description.
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own money, and running up a large debt to this, and other friends of Brush, gave them his obligations and absconded. But coming there again, for some purpose, a year or two after, with a large sum of money, it was thought, which had been left or given him by a rich Spaniard, whose life he had saved, or something of the kind, those whom he owed beset him to pay them, or play again. But he refused to play, pretending to have become pious, and also held back about paying up his old debts. Their debts, however, they determined to have, and went to him for that purpose; when an affray arose, and one of them was killed by Herriot, who escaped, and fled, it seems, to this section of the country, where he kept himself secluded in some hut in the mountains, occasionally appear-ing abroad to preach religion and rebellion to the people, by which means he was discovered, arrested, and imprisoned in Westminster jail, where he awaits his trial at the coming term of the court. And I presume he will be convicted and hung, unless he makes friends with Brush to intercede for a pardon, which he probably might do, if the fellow would disgorge enough of his hidden treasures to pay his debts, and cease disaffecting the people, which is treason and a hanging matter of itself, for which he, and fifty others in this quarter, ought, in justice, to be dealt with without benefit of the clergy.--What say you, Squire Haviland?”
“I agree with you fully,” replied the squire. “But to return to Judge Chandler's communication: what steps have you taken, if any, in order to sustain the court in the threatened emergency?”
“Why, just the steps that Chandler knew I should take--sent off one messenger to Brush, there on the ground at Westminster; another to Rogers, of Kent; and yet another to a trusty friend in Guilford, requesting each to be on, with a small band of resolute fellows; while I whipped over to Newfane myself, fixed matters there, and came round to Bennington to enlist David Redding, and a friend or two more; as I did, after I arrived, last night, though I was compelled to leave them my sleigh and horses to bring them over, which accounts for my begging a passage with you. So, you see, that if this beggarly rabble offer to make any disturbance, I shall be prepared to teach them the cost of attempting to put down the king's court.”
“Things are getting to a strange pass among these deluded people, that is certain. I cannot, however, yet believe them so infatuated as to take this step. But if they should, decided measures should be taken--such, indeed, as shall silence this alarming spirit at once and forever.”
“I hope,” observed Miss Haviland, who had been a silent but attentive listener to the dialogue, “I hope no violence is really intended, either on the part of the authorities or their opponents. But what do these people complain of? There must be some cause, by which they, at least, think themselves justified in the movement, surely. Do they consider themselves aggrieved by any past decisions of the court?”
“O, there are grumblers enough, doubtless, in that respect,” answered the sheriff. “And among other things, they complain that their property is taken and sold to pay their honest debts, when money is so scarce, they say, that they cannot pay their creditors in currency--just as if the court could make money for the idle knaves! But that is mere pretence. They have other motives, and those, too, of a more dangerous character to the public peace.”
“And what may those motives be, if it be proper for me to inquire, sir?” resumed the fair questioner.
“Why, in the first place,” replied the sheriff, “they have an old and inveterate grudge against New York, whose jurisdiction they are much predisposed to resist. But to this they might have continued to demur and submit, as they have done this side of the mountain, had New York adopted the resolves of the Continental Congress of last December, and come into the _American Association_, as it is called, which has no less for its object, in reality, than the entire overthrow of all royal authority in this country. But as our colony has nobly refused to do this, they are now intent on committing a double treason--that of making war on New York and the king too.”
Daniel P. Thompson opens The Rangers; or, The Tory's Daughter with a verse epigraph that establishes a pattern of heightened, lyrical language: “Sing on! sing on! my mountain home, / The paths where erst I used to roam.” The novel then shifts abruptly to a detailed, almost documentary description of a sleigh journey on March 12, 1775, noting the “reeking and jaded horses” and the “sloppy and slumping snow paths.” This juxtaposition of poetic invocation and granular physical detail recurs throughout the excerpts, suggesting an authorial strategy that alternates between romantic elevation and a reporter’s eye for material conditions.
The Author’s Preface as a Contract with History
In his preface, Thompson explicitly frames the novel as a deferred part of an earlier design, noting that he had originally intended to include the Battle of Bennington in The Green Mountain Boys but “relinquished” that plan to preserve “unity and interest.” He then claims a greater anxiety to give “a true historic version” than to produce a compelling tale. This is a notable rhetorical move: the author positions historical fidelity above narrative pleasure, even as he acknowledges the risk of diminished “interest as a mere tale.” The preface thus functions as a contract with the reader, promising that the work will prioritize documentary accuracy over romantic convention—a claim that the ensuing chapters both honor and complicate.
Dialogue as Political Theater in the Council Scene
The extended council debate in the excerpts reveals Thompson’s ear for colloquial, character-specific speech. Tom Rowley’s proposal is met with the aside “Tom Rowley all over! but a gallant push nevertheless,” a line that blends admiration with amused recognition of his impulsiveness. Samuel Robinson’s formal motion for “one company of one hundred men” is countered by Clark’s “two companies of sixty men each,” and the back-and-forth captures the fractious, pragmatic tone of revolutionary deliberation. Ira Allen’s grander vision of “a full regiment” is dismissed as “Chimerical!” by one voice, while the “patriotic Carpenter” urges patience. The dialogue does not merely advance plot; it dramatizes the ideological and logistical tensions within the Green Mountain leadership, with each speaker’s diction marking their temperament and role.
Descriptive Precision and the Texture of Winter
Thompson’s descriptive passages are notable for their sensory specificity. The opening sleigh ride is rendered through the condition of the horses—“reeking and jaded”—and the road’s “sloppy and slumping snow paths,” which are “fast resolving itself into the element of which it was composed.” This attention to the physical environment extends to the council chamber, where the debate is punctuated by Allen’s sudden halt in his walk and turn to the chair. Such details ground the historical action in a tangible, often harsh, material world. The author avoids generic winter scenery; instead, he emphasizes the transitional moment when winter yields to spring, mirroring the political thaw of 1775.
The Verse Epigraph as Thematic Key
The opening lines—“Sing on! sing on! my mountain home, / The paths where erst I used to roam”—are not merely decorative. They introduce a motif of nostalgic attachment to place that recurs throughout the excerpts, particularly in the council’s references to “the different hamlets among our mountains” and “every glen in Vermont.” The verse’s exclamatory, rhythmic quality contrasts with the prose’s more measured tone, suggesting that Thompson uses poetry to access an emotional register that historical narration alone cannot reach. This interplay between lyric and reportage is a deliberate structural choice, one that invites readers to consider how the novel balances personal sentiment against collective history.
Readers attentive to Thompson’s craft will notice how he weaves together three distinct registers: the poetic, the documentary, and the dramatic. The verse epigraphs, the precise descriptions of winter travel, and the heated council debates each serve a different function, yet together they create a textured portrait of Vermont on the eve of revolution. The novel rewards those who read not only for plot but for the authorial decisions that shape how history is told.
In Thompson’s tale, the council debates echo with old loyalties fracturing under new necessity—a quiet weight I feel again in George Leatrim — Key Ideas to Explore, where character is similarly tested by circumstance. Both harbor that tenderness for conviction, sorrowing for what must be left behind. A shared hush of history’s cost, best lingered over. I’ve shelved them as patient neighbors.
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