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i/ 
 
 THE LEGE^^DS 
 
 OF THE 
 
 AMERICAN REVOLUTION. 
 
 46 
 
 17 7 6." 
 
 oil, 
 
 WASHINGTOX AND HIS GENERALS. 
 
 WITH A STEEL ENGRAVING OF THE "BATTLE OF GERMANTOWN," AT "CHEW'S HOUSE" 
 
 BY GEORGE LIPPARD. 
 
 AUTHOR OF "THE QUAKER CITY; or, THE MONKS OF MONK HALF-," " PAUL ARDRNHKI! 
 
 THE MONK OF WISSAHIKON;" "BLANCHE OK BKANDVWINE;" 'WASHINGTON 
 
 AND HIS MEN;" "THE MYSTERIES OF FLOREN'CE;" "THE MEMOIiiS OK A 
 
 PREACHEK;" "THE EMI'IKE CITY;" "THE BANK DIHECTOIl'S .SON;" 
 
 "TUli ENTRANCED;" "THE NAZARENB;" "LEGENDS OF MEXICO." 
 
 We pronounce this to be (he best book that has ever been written on tJiis portion of our history, it being 
 of the days and times of ' 1776.' 'JTiis book is not merely a history, it is something more. It is a series 
 of battle pictures, with all the truth of history in them, where the heroes are made living, present and 
 visible to our senses. Here we do not merely turn over the dead dry facts of General Wasliivglon's battles, 
 as if coldly digging them out of their tomb — but we see the living general as he mores round over tlie field 
 of glory. We almost hear the word of his command. We are quite sure that we see the smnke rolling tip 
 from the field of battle, and hear the dreadful roar of the cannon, as it spouts its death-fianu in (Jie 
 face of the living and the dead, T/irnugh all, we see dashing on the wild figure nf mad Anthoiip 
 Wayne, followed with the broken battle-cry of Pulaski ; until along the line, and over the field, the imagei 
 of death and teiTor are only hidden from our view by the shroud of smoke andfUxmc. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA: 
 
 T. B. PETERSON & BI^OTHERS 
 
 306 CHESTNUT STIt^ET. 
 
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1876, by 
 
 T. B. PETERSON & BEOTHERS, 
 
 In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Wasliington, D. C. 
 
 GEORGE LIPPARD'S COMPLETE AVORKS. 
 
 T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, Philadelphia, have just published an entire 
 new, complete, and uniform edition of all the celebrated works uritten by the pojjular 
 American Hbitorian and Novelist, George Lippard. Every Family and every Library 
 in this country, should have in it a set of this new edition of his works. The following 
 is a complete list of 
 
 GEORGE LIPPAED'S WORKS. 
 
 THE LEGENDS OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION, 1776; OR, WASHING- 
 TON AND HIS GENERALS. By George Lippanl. With a steel Engraving of the 
 " Battle of Germaiitown," at " Chew's House." Complete in one large octavo volume. 
 Price $1.50 in jjajier cover, or bound in morocco cloth, price $2.00. 
 
 THE QUAKER CITY; OK, THE MONKS OF MONK HALL. A Romance 
 OF Philadklpiiia Life, Mystery, and Crime. By George Lippard. With hia 
 Portrait and Autograph. Complete in one large octavo volume, jjrice $1.50 in paper 
 cover, or bound in "morocco cloth, price $2.00. 
 
 PAUL ARDENHEIM, THE MONK OF WISSAHIKON. A Romance of 
 THE American Revolution, 1776. By George Lippard. Illustrated. Complete in one 
 large octavo volume, price $1.50 in paper cover, or bound in morocco cloth, 2.irice $2.00. 
 
 BLANCHE OF BRANDY WINE; or, SEPTEMBER THE ELEVENTH, 1777. 
 By George Lijipard. A Romance of the Revolution, as well as of tlie Poetry, Legends, 
 a'Mi History of the Battle of Brandywine. Complete in one large octavo volume^price 
 $1.50 in paper cover, or bound in morocco cloth, price $2.00. 
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF FLORENCE; or, THE CRIMES AND MYSTERIES 
 OF THE HOUSE OF ALBARONE. By George Lippard. Complete in one large 
 octavo volume, price $1.00 in paper cover, or $2.00 in cloth. 
 
 WASHINGTON AND HIS MEN. Being the "Second Series" of the 
 "Lkgknds ok the American Revolution, 1776." By George Lippard. With 
 IlUistrations. Complete in one large octavo volume, paper cover, price 75 cents. 
 
 THE MEMOIRS OF A PREACHER: OR, THE MYSTERIES OF THE 
 PULPIT. By Gei->rj;e Lippard. With Illustrations. Complete in one large octavo 
 volume, paper cover, price 75 cents. 
 
 THE EMPIRE CITY; OR, NEW YORK BY NIGHT AND DAY. Its Aris- 
 k)eracy and its Dollars. By George Lippard. Complete in one large octavo volume, 
 paper cover, price 75 cents. 
 
 THE NAZARENE; OR, THE LAST OF THE WASHINGTONS. By Geor-e 
 Lippard. A Revelation of Pliiladelphia, New York, and Washington. Complete in 
 one large octavo volume, paper cover, ])rice 75 cents. 
 
 THE ENTRANCED ; OR, THE WANDERER OF EIGHTEEN CENTURIES. 
 Containing also, .Jesus and the Poor, the Heart Broken, etc. By George Lipi)ard. 
 Complete in one large octavo volume, paper cover, j>rice 50 cents. 
 
 THE LEGENDS OF MEXICO. Bv George Lippard. Comprising Legends and 
 Historical Pictures of the Camp in the Wilderness; The Sisters of Monterey ; .The 
 Dead Woman of Palo Alto, etc. One large octavo volume, pajjcr cover, price 50 cents. 
 
 THE BANK DIRECTOR'S SON. A Revelation of Life in a Great City. By 
 George Lippard. Complete in one large octav." volume, paper cover, jirice 25 cents. 
 
 J33^ Above Books are for sale by all Booksellers, or copies of either one or more of the 
 above books, or a complete set of them, will be sent at once, to any one, to amy place, 
 postage pre-paid, or free of freight, on remitting the price of the ones wanted, in a letter 
 to the Publishers, 
 
 T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, 
 
 003 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, Pa. 
 
/6f 
 
 /9 
 
 / 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 Tnis work, entitled, tlie " Legends of the American 
 Revolution," or " Washington and his Generals " may be 
 described in one word, as an earnest attempt to embody the 
 scenes of the Past, in a series of Historical pictures. 
 
 Some portions of these Legends, were delivered in the 
 form of Historical lectures, before the William Wirt Insti- 
 tute, and the Institute of the Revolution, confessedly among 
 the first literary institutions in the land. To the gentlemen 
 of these institutions, I shall ever remain grateful, not only 
 for the success of these Legends, but for the uniform kind- 
 ness and courtesy, which marked their intercourse with me. 
 
 I may be permitted to state without the imputation of 
 vanity, that these Historical pictures, their purpose and 
 their style, beauties and defects, are the result of my 
 endeavors for years past, to delineate in all its fullness, 
 " the days and times of '76 that so soreh* tried men's souls." 
 
 Not only George Washington, as well as his Generals, 
 have I attempted to delineate in these Legends of i\\i\ 
 Revolution, but it has been my purpose, to picture the 
 scenes that went before the Revolution, together with the 
 heroic deeds of the Authors. Soldiers, and Statesmen of '76. 
 The patriotism of the humblest freeman, has been as dear 
 
 (11) 
 
12 PREFACE. 
 
 to me, for the purposes of illustration, as the moral gran- 
 deur of Washington, or the chivalric daring of La Fayette. 
 Some of the brightest gleams of poetry and romance, tjiat 
 illumine our history, or the history of any other land 
 and age, I have endeavored to embody, in those pages of 
 the present work, which relate to the deeds of the Hero- 
 Women of the Revolution. 
 
 With these introductory remarks, I submit to the public, 
 "The Legends of the American Revolution" as illus- 
 trated in this volume. 
 
 GEORGE LIPPARD. 
 
TABLE 
 
 OF 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 BOOK THE FIRST, 
 Tlir: RATTLE OF GERMANTOWN. 
 PART THE FIRST, 
 
 Tut. Battle- Eve. 25 
 
 I. The Red Cnoss in Philadelphia 25 
 
 The Entrance of the British - 25 
 Lord Cornvvallis at the head of his 
 
 legions - . - - 25 
 
 [I. The Haunt of the Resel - 27 
 
 The Old-time village - - 27 
 
 The view from Chesnut Kill - 28 
 
 Washixotdn on the Skippack 29 
 
 ni. The Camp of the Britisher 29 
 
 Chew's house before the battle 29 
 
 The positifm of the British Army 30 
 
 Night in Germantown . - 30 
 The names, not recorded in the 
 
 " Herald's" college - SI 
 
 IV. The Nioht-Maiich - - 33 
 
 Washington by his camp-fire 32 
 
 His plan of battle - - 33 
 
 The legions on their battle march 34 
 
 PART THE SECOND, 
 
 The Battlk Mohn. 35 
 
 I. The Datbreak Watch - 35 
 
 The sentinel on Mount Airy - 35 
 
 The sound that he hears - 36 
 
 Page 
 
 The Brother's soul and Ihe Sister's 
 
 prayer - - - 37 
 
 Washington comes to battle - 37 
 
 The hunt of death begins - 38 
 
 Pulaski's war-cry - - 39 
 
 The flash of musquetry - 40 
 
 Washington and his Generals in 
 
 battle ... 4 
 
 The halt at Chew's House - 41 
 
 The Flag of 'I'rcce - - 4.S 
 
 The Volunteer of Mercy - 43 
 
 His murder ... 44 
 
 PART THE THIRD, 
 Chew's House- 
 
 44 
 
 I. The forlorn hope . - 44 
 A sight worth a score of years, to see 45 
 The fate of the stormers - 48 
 
 II, The horseman and his message 47 
 Washington, receives intelligence 47 
 
 III. The British General - 48 
 Scene in Germantown - 48 
 The British army, in full force, 
 
 moves to the field - 49 
 
 IV. Legend of General Agnew - 49 
 The old man in the graveyard 49 
 The rifle-shot ' - - - 50 
 
 V. The contest in the villagb 
 
 street - - - 50 
 
 Sullivan's charge - - 50 
 
 The density of the fog - - 5C 
 
 VI. Chew's housb again - - 50 
 Fighting in the dark - - 50 
 
 n. The first corse of Germantown 36 j VII. '1'he adventure of Washington 51 
 The dream of the sentinel - 36 I He rushes into the enemy s fire 51 
 
 {U) 
 
14 
 
 TABLE OF CONTENTS. 
 
 PART THE FOURTH. 
 
 ThF, lALL OF THE BANNER OF THE STARS 
 
 I. VVASHISRTOJf IS DANGER 
 
 His gallant exploit 
 
 II. The unknown form 
 
 Death, in the Riot, the Home and 
 
 the balile 
 One face among a thousand - 
 The Messenger of Peace 
 HI. The Revel of Death 
 
 The drop from the ceiling 
 Not bliiuu but wine 
 'J'he last drop from the Goblet 
 [V. The Wissahikon 
 
 A poem of everlasting beauty 
 The Hessians and the Continentals 
 The vengeance of the Continentals 
 
 V. The Crisis of the fight 
 Nine o'cloclc in the morning - 
 The daring of the Chieftains 
 The Curse of Washington 
 
 VI. " Retreat." ... 
 Washington's agony 
 
 PART THE FIFTH, 
 The last shot of the battle. 
 I. The soldier and his burdA* - 
 
 The group by the wayside 
 How goes the battle'! 
 The last fight of the veteran 
 "Lost!" .... 
 
 K. How the legions came back from 
 
 BATTLE 
 
 The terror of the retreat 
 
 The wound of General Nash - 
 
 Washinrton's last look at the field 
 
 III. Captain Lee ... 
 His daring adventure 
 
 He foils the Hanovarians 
 
 IV. Sunset upon the battle-field 
 The spirit of desolation 
 
 Death, supreme, among the wrecks 
 
 of battle 
 The murdered boy 
 
 V. The LEOENn of General Agnew 
 
 again ... 
 
 llf v-ill go ' Home !' to morrow ' 
 
 The last dead man of the battle day 
 
 PART THE SIXTH, 
 
 The funeral of the dead 
 
 Paee 
 
 I. The ancient Church . 75 
 
 Washington and his Generals he- 
 fore the graves of the dead 75 
 
 II. Funeral sermon ovk.r the dead 76 
 The preacher speaks of the dead 70 
 
 To Washington - - 77 
 
 Of the Heroes of the Past 78 
 
 III. Prater for the dead - 79 
 The last scene - - 80 
 
 BOOK SECOND. 
 THE WISSAHIKON. 
 
 Introduction — the beauty of the 
 stream and dell — a sleain of the 
 Indian maids of old - - 85 
 
 I. The consecration of the Deliv- 
 
 erer .... 
 I The Monastery ... 
 
 A strange scene . . - 
 
 The Priest of Wissahikon 
 The last day of 1773 
 A wild superstition 
 The new World, the Ark of Free- 
 dom .... 
 Prayer of the father and son 
 'l"he Deliverer comes 
 The Prophet speaks to hira 
 A maiden looks upon the scene 
 The Deliverer is consecrated - 
 He takes the oath 
 Washington visits the ruins 
 
 II. The Midnight Death 
 Scene on the Wissahikon at mid- 
 
 86 
 87 
 88 
 89 
 90 
 91 
 
 32 
 
 S3 
 94 
 95 
 
 90 
 97 
 98 
 98 
 99 
 
 99 
 
 100 
 101 
 105J 
 103 
 
 night . . - . 
 Ellen .... 
 
 Old Michael meets the Tory band 
 The Parricide 
 The Orphan's curse 
 The yell of the dying horse and 
 
 his rider - - - 104 
 
 III. The Bible Legend of the Wis- 
 
 sahikon - - - 104 
 
 A memory of " Paoli !" - 104 
 
 The ordeal .... 105 
 The Old and New Testaments 108 
 This speaks, Life, that. Death 106 
 The hand of Providence - 107 
 
 IV. The temptation of V/as!Iingtos 107 
 Washington in prayer - 108 
 The stranger in the red uniform 108 
 A Dukedom for the Rebel - lOS 
 Scorn from the Rebel tj the King IK 
 
TABLK OF CONTENTS. 
 
 15 
 
 Page 
 
 WASIIINnTOX AS DUKE 
 AXU IIKBKL 
 
 - Ill 
 
 The Viceroy Washinotox - 111 
 He is presented to the King - 112 
 He is crowned in Independence 
 
 Hall - - - - 113 
 He is beheaded on Tyburn Hill 113 
 As HE IS I - - - - 114 
 
 The hero Womajt - - 115 
 
 The block house among the 
 
 woods ... 
 
 The young girl beholds her 
 
 father's danger 
 She loads the rifle 
 A terrible picture 
 She points the rifle to the pow- 
 
 X. 
 
 der ke_ 
 
 VII. King Gkorge in Westminster 
 
 Abbey - - - 119 
 
 An afternoon among the dead 119 
 How the good king looked - 120 
 How he scorned the widow's 
 
 prayer - - - 120 
 
 What strange sights he saw - 121 
 Orphans curse him ! - - 122 
 He visits Valley Forge - 123 
 
 Washington prays against him 124 
 He goes mad again - - 125 
 
 VIII. Valley Forge - - - 126 
 The Tory and his daughter 
 
 Mary - - - 126 
 
 The plot to entrap Washington 127 
 The Room on theUight and the 
 
 Room on the lei't - - 128 
 The old man beholds his victim 129 , If 
 The last word of the death 
 
 stricken 
 
 IX. The Mansion on the Schuyl- 
 
 kill .... 
 The falls of Schuylkill - 
 A scene of the olden tim.e 
 The last secret of Cornelius 
 
 ."^grippa ... 
 The Sister, in her Vision sees 
 
 her brother - - ■ 134 
 
 Amable in danger - - 134 
 
 The libertine enjovs the sight 
 
 of his intended victim — 
 
 the agony,of the dying 
 
 XI. 
 
 - 130 
 
 131 
 131 
 132 
 
 133 
 
 man 
 A red Indian 
 A white Indian 
 
 Page 
 
 The Virgin Widow - - 138 
 'Do not lift the co(iin-lid from 
 
 the face of the dead !' - 139 
 Indian to the last - - 139 
 The graveyard of German- 
 town ... [40 
 Its memories of God an<l Im- 
 mortal iiy - - - 140 
 A father — a Mother — two 
 
 sisters! - - - 140 
 The old Quaker and the Skel- 
 etons - - . . 141 
 A rough battle picture - - 142 
 ' He saw Washington !' - 143 
 — ' Cornwallis!' - - 144 
 " Remember Paoli !" - - 144 
 The camp fire of Mad Anthony 144 
 'J'he Massacre ... 145 
 Stony Point - - - 146 
 How Anthony ' Remembered 
 
 Paoli!' - - - 148 
 
 BOOK THIRD. 
 
 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 
 
 TheMothkr and her babe 151 
 
 Scene in a New England church, 
 
 one huiiilred years ago 151 
 Th« strange vision of the 
 
 Mother - - . ISa 
 
 The Babe grown to Manhood — 
 the (vhild changed into a 
 Devil - - - 153 
 
 One drop of virtue, in a sea of 
 
 crimes! - - - 153 
 
 The Druggist of New Haven 154 
 The fearful nature of this his- 
 tory - - - - 154 
 'I'he deformed Children of 
 
 hist.>ry - - 155 
 
 The Druggist - - - 155 
 
 How he became a Soldier - ^56 
 Ticonderoga! ... i^^ 
 
 The March through the Wil- 
 derness ... 157 
 Napoleon and Arnold - - 158 
 Washington and Arnold, — in- 
 terview " Continental." - l^r8 
 The Kennebec — a lone Indian 159 
 The Murder of a Priest at the 
 
 Altar, by White Savages IBto 
 Arnold claims the Wilderness — 
 
 the Prophecy 161 
 
16 
 
 TABLE OF CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 The River OF THE Dkad - 162 
 
 The Banner of the Stars - 162 
 
 The Lake - - - 162 
 The fearful Hangers of Arnold and 
 
 his men - - 163 
 
 He seesQuEUEC I - - 163 
 
 IV. Thk ATTACK ON Quebec - 163 
 Montgomery and Arnold pledge 
 
 their Faiihoii the heighths 
 
 of Abraham - - 164 
 Arnold, with his Men, advances 
 
 to the first barrier - 165 
 
 Arnold in his glory - - 166 
 Aaron Burr bends over the 
 
 Corse of Montgomery - 167 
 Arnold in the madness of the 
 
 battle - - - 168 
 
 ^. The War-Horse Lucifer - 169 
 Retreat of the American army — 
 
 incident in the career of 
 
 Arnold - - - 169 
 
 7L The ApE-and-ViPER God - 170 
 
 The renown of Arnold - - 170 
 
 The Spirit of Party - - 170 
 
 The injustice of Congress to 
 
 Arnold - - - 171 
 
 His adventure near Danbury 172 
 
 VH. The Bridal-Eve ■ 172 
 
 'I'he festival and wager . - 173 
 
 The Apparition - - 173 
 The bloody scalp and long 
 
 black hair - - 175 
 
 An awful bridal Eve ! - 176 
 
 VIIL The Black Horse, axd his 
 riokr; or " Who was 
 THE Hi:uo OF Saratoga?" 176 
 Horatio Gates before his tent 176 
 The Black Horse and his Rider 177 
 »'Ho! Warren! forward?" 178 
 The scene with the retreating 
 
 soldiers - - - 179 
 
 A strange spectacle ! - - 180 
 The crisis of the conflict - 180 
 In the moment of peril, the Cham- 
 pion of the day appears 181 
 The Battle is won — fate of the 
 Black Horse and his rider 
 — meanness of Gates - 182 
 Arnold the Conqueror - 183 
 
 DC. Arnold the Military Com- 
 mander OF Philadelphia 183 
 The aisle of Christ Church - 183 
 
 Pagt 
 
 The Hero of Quebec and his 
 
 Bride - - - 184 
 
 The Tory Aristocracy of Phila- 
 delphia - - - 184 
 ' Its cowardice, meanness and 
 
 pretension - - - 185 
 
 The difficulty of Arnold's 
 
 position ... 180 
 
 His long expected trial and the 
 offences of which he was 
 found guilty - - 187 
 
 The nature of these offences 188 
 
 A court of History, for the trial 
 
 of Arnold's chief accuser 189 
 X. Who was this accuser ? - 190 
 
 General Cadwallader and the 
 Adjutant General of the 
 army — their conversation 
 in 1776 - - - 19( 
 
 Serifins charges against the 
 
 Adjutant General - 194 
 
 The summing up of the evi- 
 dence ... 19J 
 
 Arnold's memorable words - 192 
 XL The Disbrace of Arnold - 192 
 
 'J'he day of the reprimand - 192 
 
 He cannot ' live down persecu- 
 tion' - - - 193 
 
 The scene of the Reprimand 194 
 
 The portrait of the Accuser 195 
 
 XII. Arnold at Landsdowne - 196 
 He meditates the Future - 196 
 His Palace— his Wife— his 
 
 Infamy - - - 197 
 
 The silent influence of his 
 
 Wife - - - 198 
 
 XIII. Arnold the Traitor - - 199 
 
 The struggle - - - 199 
 
 Three visitors ... 200 
 The Dispatch to Sir Henry 
 
 Clinton - - - 201 
 
 Arnold alone with his wife - 201 
 
 XIV. The Fall of Lucifer - - 201 
 Tragedy and Common-Place - 201 
 The Breakfast table of the 
 
 Traitor - - 202 
 The wife and the babe of the 
 
 Traitor - - - 203 
 The expected Guest, does not 
 
 come ... 204 
 
 The bursting of the thunder-bolt 205 
 
 Arnold under the British flag - 20« 
 
TAI5LE OF CONTENTS. 
 
 17 
 
 Pa£ 
 
 - 209 
 
 Washixoto^ learns the 
 
 Treason ... 
 
 The Mother and Washinrtox 
 The Ship Vulture and its Pas- 
 senger 
 
 fV. The 'J'ulip Poplar, on the 
 Pooh Mkn Hkhoes of 
 THE Revolution - 210 
 
 Seven men watch for robbers 210 
 The day-dream of the wayfarer 211 
 Three men of the seven, arrest 
 
 the tpaveller - - 212 
 
 The Pass of Arnold - - 213 
 The development - - 214 
 
 The bribe - - - 215 
 
 A prisoner, a spy and the Vul- 
 
 tuiie in sight! - - 216 
 The Poor Man Heroes of the 
 
 Revolution - - 217 
 
 The blunder by which Arnold 
 
 escaped ... 218 
 
 XVI. The Knight of the Meschi- 
 
 ANZA - - - 219 
 
 A scene of romance - 219 
 
 The Tournament - - 220 
 
 The scene sadly changed - 221 
 The Gallows - - - 221 
 
 The victim for the Sacrifice - 222 
 The Knight of the Meschianza 
 
 dies • - - - 223 
 Flowers on the Gibbet - 223 
 
 yVII. John Champe - - - 224| 
 The luxurious chamber - 224 j 
 
 A mysterious visitor - - 225 1 
 TheGhostof John Andre - 2261 
 The wife of Arnold and the ' 
 
 Ghost - - 227 1 
 
 M^ashington in his Tent - 228 
 A Knight of the Revolution - 229 
 Only one way to save Andre 1 230 
 The Camp of Lee's Legion - 231 
 John Champe - - - 232 
 The Deserter - - - 233 
 
 The Pursuit - - - 234 
 
 The stratagem - - - 235 
 The hounds at fault - - 236 
 John Champe, the doomed man 237 
 "Powhatan save your master!" 238 
 The Crisis - - - 239 
 
 Lee's laughte'r - - - 240 
 A beautiful woman - - 241 
 
 Page 
 
 A shadow of death, m the 
 
 festival - - - 2-12 
 
 Arnold's Oath - - -243 
 Champe alone with Arnold - 244 
 Washington's letter - - 245 
 The memory of the gallant 
 
 Knight - - - 216 
 
 How he died ... 246 
 
 Vengeance upon the Double 
 
 'I'raitor - - - 248 
 
 The Phantom of Arnold's life 249 
 The Man who has not one 
 
 friend in the world - 250 
 Lee's encampment again — 
 
 scene changed - 250 
 
 "Champe a brave and honest 
 
 man I" ... 251 
 
 Explanation of the Mystery - 252 
 One of the noblest names in 
 
 history - - - 253 
 
 XVIH.The Temptation of Sir Hen- 
 ry Clinton - - 253 
 A calm evening and a cloudless 
 
 soul - . - 253 
 
 Sir Henry Clinton shudders at 
 
 the picture - - 254 
 
 Exchange the Traitor for the 
 
 Spy . . - 255 
 
 Sir Henry's terrible temptation 2o6 
 
 - 257 
 
 - 257 
 
 Arnold's sneer 
 XIX, The Sisters 
 
 A flower garden 
 
 257 
 258 
 259 
 
 The bud and the moss rose - 
 The Sisters talk of the absent 
 The Presentiment of the Second 
 
 of October - - 260 
 
 The return of the aged soldier 261 
 
 XX. 
 
 The fatal intelligence - 
 
 261 
 
 The Brother's Star 
 
 263 
 
 Andre the Spt 
 
 263 
 
 Andre a partner in .'Vrnoki's 
 
 Conspiracy 
 Tne Wife of Arnold, also a 
 
 Conspirator 
 
 263 
 263 
 
 Washington condemned him 
 
 justly 
 Tears for the fate of Andre 
 
 263 
 264 
 
 Nathan Hale 
 
 264 
 
 The farewell of the student 
 soldier 
 
 264 
 
 The Blessing of the aged 
 Mother 
 
 26e 
 
 65 
 
IS 
 
 TABLE OF CONTENTS. 
 
 Tho Betrothod - - - 266 
 
 The Cell of the doomed Spy - 206 
 The Martyr w ho has perilled Honor 
 
 for his Country - - • 267 
 
 The last night of the Doomed 268 
 
 The Death of the Martyr - 269 
 
 No monument for him ! - - 270 
 
 yXII. The Martyr of the South - 270 
 
 Gloom in Charleston - - 270 
 
 'J'hc Gallows and the Murderer • 271 
 
 The Prayer of the Sisier and the 
 Children 
 
 272 
 
 The Res})onse of the tilled Murderer 273 
 
 The farewell beside the gibbet - 274 
 
 The cry of the Idiot Boy - • 275 
 
 The contempt of Washington - 276 
 
 S->ini. Arnold in Virginia - - 276 
 
 Arnold the Destroyer - - 276 
 Despised by all — the men who 
 
 bought hiiii, and the men 
 
 wliom he would have sold 277 
 
 A strange legend ... 277 
 Tije Benighted traveller and tlie 
 
 old hunter - - - 278 
 
 An old soldier's opinion of Arnold 279 
 
 The emotion of the stranger - 2S0 
 'I'lie old Jiunier sees a vision of 
 
 tlie Evil Spirit - • 281 
 
 XXIV.The tiikee words which fol- 
 lowed Benedict Arnold 
 
 TO HIS (iRAVE - - 282 
 
 The burning of New London and 
 
 ForiGriswold - - 282 
 
 The death of Leydard - - 283 
 
 British magnanimity - - 2»3 
 The guilt and weakness of King 
 
 George ... 283 
 
 The three words - - - 284 1 
 
 Talleyrand and Arnold - - 265 
 
 The Remorse of the Traitor - 286 
 
 The otecurily of his death - 286 
 KXV. Arnold; his glory, his wrongs, 
 
 HIS crimes - - - 287 
 
 Ilis early life • - - - 287 
 
 The prime of his manhood - - 288 
 
 Washington's opinion of him - 289 
 Ilis marriage — his enemies — his 
 
 postponed trial - - 290 
 Review of his offences, difficulties 
 
 and treason - - - 291 
 Motives of the Author in this dark 
 
 history - - - 292 
 
 Page 
 
 The V'lree lines, which comprise the 
 
 whole burden of this Tragedy 2y9 
 
 XXVI.The Right Arm - - - 293 
 An awful death-bed 
 A superhuman Remorse 
 The last memory of the fallen 
 
 Lucifer 
 The Right arm 
 
 294 
 295 
 
 - 296 
 . 296 
 
 BOOK THE FOURTH. 
 THE BATTLE OF BRANDYWINE. 
 The Glory of the Land of Penn 299 
 Pennsylvania neglected by histoiy 299 
 Her monuments • - - 300 
 
 The Prophet of the Brandy- 
 wine .... 301 
 Description of the Valley of Bran- 
 
 dywine ... 302 
 
 Prophecy uttered forty years before 
 
 the battle - - • 303 
 
 The Fear of War - - 306 
 
 The landing of Howe - - 306 
 
 The Gathering of the Hosts - 306 
 The encampment of Washington 
 
 and his Men - - - 307 
 Howe, Cornwallis and their hire- 
 
 VI 
 
 The Preacher of Brandywine 
 The Preacher Heroes of the Revo- 
 lution 
 Hymn to the Preacher Heroes 
 Revolutionary Sermon 
 Prayer of the Revolution • 
 The, Dawn of the Fight 
 Washington holds council under 
 
 the chesniit tree 
 La Fayette 
 
 The attack at Chadd's Ford 
 The Quaker Temple 
 Survey of the battle-field • 
 Howe comes to battle 
 
 VIII. Washington comes to battle 
 The approach of the American 
 
 Banner 
 
 IX. The Hour of Battle 
 
 The moment before the contest 
 
 begins 
 Howe gives the signal 
 The battle 
 
 X. The Poetry of Battlk 
 
 VIZ 
 
 308 
 309 
 
 309 
 310 
 312 
 314 
 315 
 
 315 
 316 
 317 
 318 
 319 
 320 
 321 
 
 321 
 322 
 
 322 
 322 
 323 
 324 
 
T4BLE OF CONTKNTS. 
 
 19 
 
 Tlie Idiot King and the Warrior 
 
 Konn - - - - 324 
 
 S.I I^RD Percv's dream. - - 325 
 Tho slory of Percy, told by him to 
 
 Conivvaliis - • - 325 
 
 He boiiokis his Dream - - 326 
 
 llis cliarge .... 3:27 
 
 He meets his Indian Brother • 328 
 
 Xri. The Last Hour - - - 329 
 
 Retreat of Washington - • 323 
 
 Daring of tlie Boy La Fayette • 32!) 
 
 XIIL Pulaski - - - - 330 
 
 In his glory .... 330 
 
 How he sjoko English - - 331 
 
 Washington a man of genius - 332 
 
 Pulaski rescues the Chieftain • 333 
 
 IN ight comes down on Pulaski • 333 
 
 XJV Washington's last charge at 
 
 Brandvwine - - 334 
 
 Washington the Man - - 334 
 
 The key to his character - - 335 
 
 He surveys the battle - - 336 
 He goes down, to say to the British 
 
 — "farewell!" - - 337 
 
 The carnage of his last charge - 338 
 
 La Fayette wounded - - 339 
 
 The smile of the Brandywine - 340 
 
 XV. The Hunter Spy - - - 340 
 Scene among the mountains • 340 
 Washington, the Colonel at Brad- 
 dock's Held ■ - - 341 
 
 The three fugitives - - 342 
 
 The sleeping spy - - 343 
 
 His punishment - . - 346 
 
 The Boy looks in his father's face 347 
 
 A horrible picture - . - 348 
 
 XVI. The son of the Hunter Spy - 348 
 The old man and his memory - 349 
 The peasant girl, Mary - - 350 
 The son of the Hunter Spy • 352 
 The arm of the maiden, supplies the 
 
 place of a bolt - - 354 
 
 The Black Hercules . - 355 
 The haystack . . -356 
 The son, avenges the death of the 
 
 felher . - - 358 
 The infamous butcheries of England 
 
 and the crimes of King George 359 
 
 The \'ow of the Negro Sampson 360 
 
 X* I. BLtcK Sampson • - - 360 
 
 I'lovvers from ashes 
 
 War, the parent of many virtues 
 
 The American Union a sacred 
 
 I'r 
 
 Pace 
 360 
 361 
 
 361 
 i 
 
 362 
 :' 363 
 364 
 365 
 366 
 367 
 363 
 
 370 
 
 3r2 
 
 372 
 
 .•/75 
 Anthony Wayne at Brandvwine 375 
 The boy and the mimic figlit - ;i75 
 The Man and the bloody battle 
 Wayne and his Roan horse 
 His riflemen drive back the Hes- 
 sians .... 
 The doubt of Washington 
 
 The guilt of the wrenh 
 
 destroy it 
 The memories of the N 
 The outraged Mary 
 The Dog — ' Debdil,' 
 Sampson prepares to ' go a-movvirig 
 He mows British stubble - 
 The last scene of Mary 
 The fate of the Sou of the Hunter 
 
 Spy . . . . 
 
 XVIII. The Mechanic Hero of Bran- 
 dvwine 
 
 A scene of British inorcy - 
 
 The strange battle-cry 
 
 The three last shols of the dying 
 man . . . . 
 
 XIX. 
 
 ilC, 
 
 c-11 
 
 373 
 379 
 
 Wayne beholds the battle of the 
 afternoon 
 
 381 
 3S3 
 
 384 
 
 The appearance of Kniphansen 
 The charge of Mad Anthony 
 
 Forty-seven years after the 
 
 battle . - . 38G 
 
 La Fayette comes again to the 
 
 battle-field - - - 386 
 
 His emotion as he contrasts the con- 
 dition of America with that of 
 France - . 387 
 
 BOOK THE FIFTH. 
 THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776. 
 The Day. .... 
 
 The old Slate house - . .391 
 The old man, the boy, and the Bell 3j'i 
 The message of the Beil to the 
 
 world . - - - 393 
 
 The fifty-six, and the Speech of the 
 
 Unknown - . .^94 
 
 The message of the Declaration - 3a3 
 The iNew Exodus of (iod's People, 
 
 the Poor - . . 396 
 
 Tho signing of tho Parchment . 19" 
 
20 
 
 TABLE OF CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 398 
 
 The Apostle to the New 
 
 Would - 
 The River sliore, two hundred 
 
 years ago 
 The Landing of the Apostle 
 The Mission of The Apostle 
 The Pipe of Peace - 
 " Bauk eighteen hundred years!" 403 
 The Declixation traced from the 
 
 Hall ol' Independence to the 
 
 Mount oi Calvary 
 The Hut of the Carpenter 
 Godhead enshrined in the form of 
 
 Toil .... 
 
 The Bride of the Living God 
 The Doubt of Divinity 
 The WiLDERNPiss 
 The skeleton people 
 
 398 
 400 
 401 
 402 
 
 The self-communion of the Nazarene 409 
 
 The Prince of this world - 
 
 The Panorama of Empire - 
 
 Ninevah — Rome, Imperial — Rome, 
 Papal 
 
 The bloody grandeur of the Mon- 
 ster Empire ... 
 
 The voice of the Tempter, to every 
 Reformer ... 
 
 The Pharasee of the Pulpit 
 
 The Viper of the Press 
 
 The Ministering of the Angels - 
 
 "The Outcast" 
 
 Sabbath in the synagogue - 
 
 The appearance of the Carpenter's 
 Son .... 
 
 He announces the great Truth, in 
 which is built the Declara- 
 tion .... 
 
 The " Infidel" is thrust from the 
 Synagogue ... 
 
 The Godhead shines from the brow 
 of Toil 
 
 The last look of the Outcast upon 
 his Home 
 
 The name of the Outcast covers all 
 the earth ... 
 
 The Coming of the day of God - 
 
 The hope of eighteen hundred 
 
 YEARS ... 
 
 The fate of the Saviour's mission 
 
 in 1775 
 Pope George of England and his 
 
 Missionaries 
 
 410 
 411 
 
 411 
 
 412 
 
 413 
 
 414 
 415 
 415 
 
 416 
 416 
 
 417 
 
 418 
 
 419 
 
 420 
 
 421 
 
 422 
 423 
 
 423 
 
 423 
 424 
 
 The solitary man on shipboard - 
 /III The Council of Freemen 
 
 Washington, Adams. Rush, Frank- 
 lin, in council witli the Un- 
 known stranger 
 The word " Independence" first 
 8jX)ken ... 
 
 iX. The Battle of the Pen - 
 
 The author — his garret — the battle 
 
 which he I ghis 
 " Common Sense" in a book 
 The name of the Stranger 
 X. The Author-Soldier 
 
 He follows the Army of Wash- 
 ington 
 The libeller of the dead 
 X. The People and the Criminal 
 A King on Trial ; his Crime, trea- 
 son to the People 
 King George, guilty of treason and 
 murder - . - - 
 
 Thomas Paine pleads for the life 
 Louis Capet ... 
 
 XL King Guillotine 
 
 Death of Louis and Marie 
 
 Antoinette ... 
 
 The offerings to the bloody Majesty 
 
 of France ... 
 
 XII. Truth from the carnage 
 
 The principle of the French Revo- 
 lution 
 
 Page 
 42S 
 
 425 
 
 42t 
 
 426 
 427 
 
 427 
 428 
 429 
 429 
 
 429 
 429 
 430 
 
 431 
 
 432 
 
 433 
 433 
 
 433 
 
 434 
 434 
 
 434 
 
 The hideous murders thai have been 
 
 done in the name of God - 435 
 
 The Reign of Terror conlras'.ed with 
 the Massacre of St. Bariho- 
 lomew .... 436 
 
 The Reign of the King of 
 
 Terror - • - 436 
 
 The chamber in the palace • 436 
 
 'The orange-faced dandy' and his 
 
 Death-list - - - 437 
 
 The fall of King Guillotine 437 
 The Hall of the National Assembly 
 
 — the fear ol' Robespierre - 437 
 The Death of the King of the reign 
 
 of Terror - - - 438 
 
 The Bible - - • 439 
 
 The Palace-Prison of the Luxem- 
 burg - - 439 
 Genius profaned in the " Age of 
 
 Reason" - 449 
 
TABLE OF CONTENTS. 
 
 21 
 
 Page 
 The beaiiiv. tenderness, truth of 
 
 the Bible - 441 
 
 The mistake of Thomas Paine • 442 
 My motives in the discussion of his 
 
 character, wnlings and life 443 
 Christianity nut the dogma of a creed 
 
 out the Religion of the Heart 444 
 
 iVl The DEATH-BED OF Thomas Paine 445 
 A dying old man ... 445 
 
 The hyena-fang of the bigot, enters 
 
 his soul ... 446 
 
 A Quaker speaks Hope ! to the 
 
 Infidel - - - 446 
 
 ' No grave for your bones, in Christ- 
 ian burial ground' - - 447 
 
 He dies - . - - 447 
 
 While we pity the Deist, we should 
 
 reverence the Patriot 44S 
 
 KVII. Review of the History - 449 
 
 XVni. The last day of Jefferson and 
 
 Ada.ms - - - 44.9 
 
 Tl.e fourth of July, 1826 - - 449 
 
 Filty years after the Great Day - 450 
 
 The Home of Quinry - - 451 
 
 The Death of John Adams - 452 
 
 The Hermitage of Monticello - 453 
 
 The Death of Thomas Jefferson - 454 
 
 A miracle - - 454 
 
 A dark contrast - - 454 
 
 KIX. The nameless death - 455 
 
 The Prison .... 455 
 
 The Prisoner - - - - 458 
 An infamous law, upheld by pirates 
 
 and assassins in broad cloth 457 
 
 KX. The last of the Signers - 457 
 Life, leaf, light mingle in Death - 457 
 The old man dies before the Cru- 
 cifix .... 458 
 
 THK VIOl.ATET! OF THE GRAVE. 
 A sequel to the tourth of July, 1776 459 
 The vilest Wretch - - - 461 
 The man who blasphemes the Dead 462 
 A Traitor coated in Gold - - 463 
 The Assassin of souls . . 464 
 
 What is, and what is not, " well 
 
 timed" ... 465 
 
 Glimpses of " Common Sense." - 466 
 The old malice of a Tory • • 468 
 Burke the Scyophanl - • 46D 
 
 A warning to Traitors' descendants 470 
 Th» children of lie Author-Hero 471 
 
 ni. 
 
 BOOK THE SIXTH. 
 Romance of the Revoli-tio.v. 
 Michael X X X : a tradition 
 
 Pag« 
 
 OF the two worlds 
 
 475 
 
 The Soldier returning home 
 
 475 
 
 The war-horse Old Legion 
 
 476 
 
 The Memory of Alice 
 
 477 
 
 Home! .... 
 
 478 
 
 The foreboding of death - 
 
 479 
 
 The Soldier and his father • 
 
 480 
 
 The Chamber of Alice 
 
 481 
 
 The curtained bed 
 
 482 
 
 The Revelation 
 
 4o3 
 
 The death of the white horse 
 
 484 
 
 The Covenant of Blood 
 
 485 
 
 The dream of the Godlike face 
 
 486 
 
 The bracelet of Alice 
 
 487 
 
 Alice! .... 
 
 488 
 
 The Revenge of the Legionary . 
 
 483 
 
 Michael the soldier, and Michael the 
 
 General, Marshal and Duke 
 
 490 
 
 The ninth Hour 
 
 491 
 
 A scene in Valley Forge 
 
 491 
 
 Washington and the Sergeant - 
 
 492 
 
 A strange volunteer lor a work of 
 
 
 death 
 
 493 
 
 The Bridegroom loolcs upon the 
 
 
 Bride .... 
 
 494 
 
 The fear of the word, Nine • 495 
 
 The last kiss - • - 496 
 
 An old mansion m a dark dell - 497 
 " Death to Washington !" - • 498 
 The Ordeal .... 499 
 The Spy - - - - 500 
 
 "Ah 1" — how the memory of child- 
 hood nielis the heart of stone 501 
 A strange revelation in the history 
 
 of a soul ... 502 
 
 A^.iin the fatal number — Nine ! 503 
 Washington — Wayne — La Fayette 
 — Hamilton — Burr, the Wed- 
 ding Guesia - - - 503 
 WASHiNGn)N's trust - - - 504 
 The fallen goblet - - -505 
 An half hour of suspense — the gue.sts 
 await the explanation of the 
 mysiery - - 506 
 
 The Bride and Bridegroom alone 506 
 The Ninth hour of the Ninth Day 
 
 of the Ninth Year • 507 
 
 The Sight which Washington 
 
 beheld 
 
 sns 
 
TABLE OF CONTENTS. 
 
 rv 
 
 The Prf.achf.r-General 
 
 Noon — the Church of St. 
 
 Page 
 SOU 
 
 Sabhail 
 
 John - - - - 509 
 
 The Sacrament - • -510 
 
 Strange words from a Preacher • 511 
 Beneath the Gown, or Here's heart 512 
 
 The Prearlier-Cioneral - - 513 
 
 His adventure - • -514 
 
 Yorkiown - - - - 514 
 
 Who was the Preacher-General - 515 
 
 Trenton, or the footstep in the 
 
 snow, a tradiiion of Christ- 
 inas nighi. 1776 - - 516 
 The Poetry of Home - - 516 
 The fotitsiep in the Snow - 517 
 "Trenton!" - - - - 518 
 
 The Prin-er-Boy and the Am- 
 bassador - - -519 
 
 A picture of Toil • - - 519 
 
 A scene of Night, Music, Romance 520 
 
 The true Nobleman of God - 521 
 
 The Rest of the Pilgrim 522 
 
 The Jerusalem of the Soul - 522 
 
 The Rock of Wissaliikon .- - 522 
 Legends of the Lost-Wations of 
 
 America - - - 52o 
 
 A sublime vision - - • 523 
 
 The three Empires • - 524 
 Legends of the golden and bloody 
 
 land - . - - £24 
 
 The Soldier of the Now Crusade £25 
 
 The Author to the reader - • 526 
 
 A new pilgrimage • yi37 
 
BOOK FIRST. 
 
 THE BATTLE OF CtERMANTOAVIn' 
 
 (23) 
 
THE BATTLE OF GEEMANTOWN. 
 
 "And when servile Fraud stalks through the land, and Genius starves in his ctll, 
 ^hile upstart Imbecility rides abroad in chariots; when man is degenerate, public 
 faiih is broken, public honor violated, then will we wander forth into the a\\t'ul shadows 
 of the Past, and from the skeletons of the battle-field evoke the spirits of that giaiit 
 lime, calling upon their forms of unreal majesty for the mighty secret whici) made 
 them iheman-godsof that era of high deeds and glorious purposes, the Ghostly Past." 
 
 Slutt tin jFit^t* 
 
 THE BATTLE EVE. 
 
 I.— THE RED CROSS IN PHILADELPHIA. 
 
 Toll — toll — toll ! The State House bell, t hat .o nce rung the birth-day of 
 Freedom, now tolled its knell. ^^m 
 
 It was a sad day for Piiiladelphia, a sad day for the nation, when the 
 pomp of British banners and the gleam of British arms were in her streets 
 and along her avenues; when, as far as eye could reach, was seen the long 
 array of glaring red coats, with the sunbenms of a clear September day fall- 
 ing on helm and cuirass, shining like burnished gold. 
 
 It was a sad and gloomy day for the nation, when the Congress was 
 forced to flee tlie old provincial town of William Penn, when the tories 
 paraded the streets with loud hurrahs, with the British lion waving over- 
 head, while the whigs juing their heads iii shame and in despair. 
 
 True, the day was calm and bright overhead ; true, the sky was clear 
 and the nipping air of autumn gave freshness to the mind and bloom to the 
 cheek ; true it was, the city was all alive with the glitter of processions, 
 and the passing to and fro of vast crowds of people ; but the processions 
 were a dishonor tc^our soil, the crowds hurried to and fro to gaze upon the 
 living monuments of the defeat of Brandywine — the armed and arrogant 
 British legions thronging the streets of Philadelphia. 
 
 They came marching along in front of the old State House, on their way. 
 (o their barracks in the Northern Liberties. The scene was full of strange 
 and startling interest. The roofs of the State House arose clearly in the 
 autumn air, each peak and cornice, each gable-end and corner, shown in full 
 and distinct outline, with the trees of Independence Square towering greenly 
 in the rear of the fabric, while up into the clear sky arose the State House 
 2 (25^ 
 
ZQ THE. BATTLE OF GERMANTOWN. 
 
 steeplo, with its solemn bell of independence, that but a year ago sent forth 
 the news of liberty to all the land, swinging a welcome to the British host — 
 a welcome that sounded like the funeral knell of new world freedom. The 
 columns of the army were passing in front of Independence Hall. Along 
 Chesnut street, as far as the eye could see, shone the glittering array of 
 sword and bayonet, with the bright sunshine falling over the stout forms of- 
 the British troopers, mounted on gallant war steeds, and blazing with bur- 
 nished cuirass and polished helm, while banner and pennon waived gaily 
 overhead. There, treading the streets in all the flush of victory, were the 
 regiments of British infantry, with the one bold front of their crimson attire 
 flashing in the light, with their bayonets rising overhead like a forest of stefil, 
 and with marks of Brandywine written on many a whiskered face and 
 burly chest. 
 
 And at their head, mounted on a gallant steed, with the lordlings of his 
 staff" around him, rode a tall and athletic man, with a sinewy frame, and a 
 calm, placid face, wearing an even smile and quiet look, seen from beneath 
 the shadow of his plumed chapeau, while his gaudy attire of crimson, tvith 
 epaulettes of gold on either shoulder, announced Lord Cornwallis, the second 
 general of the invading army. 
 
 And as the General glanced around, fixing his eye proudly upon the 
 British banner, waving fri^^lhe State House steeple, as his glance was met 
 by the windows of Indepenjpice Hall, decorated by the flags of the British 
 King, a proud gleam lit up his calm blue eye; and with the thought of 
 Brandywine, came a vision of the future, speaking eloquently of provinces 
 subjugated, rebels overthrown and liberties crushed. 
 
 And then peals of music, uttered by an hundred bands, filled the street, 
 and startled the silence of the State House avenues, swelling up to the 
 heavens with notes of joy, the roll of drum, the shriek of bugle, and the 
 clash of cymbal mingling in grand chorus. The banners waved more 
 proudly overhead, the spears, the bayonets, and helmets shone brighter in 
 the light, and between the peals of music the loud huzzas of the crowd 
 blackening the sidewalks, looking from the windows, and clinging to the 
 trees, broke gladly upon the air. 
 
 Toll — toll — toll — the solemn notes of independence bell heralded, with an 
 iron tongue, the entrance of flie invaders into the city ; the possession of 
 Philadelphia by the British. 
 
 It was a grand sight to see — the windows crowded with the forms of 
 beauty, waving scarfs in the air, aged matrons lifting little children on high, 
 who clapped their hands with glee, as they beheld the glimmer of arms and 
 the glitter of steel, the streets below all crimson with British uniform, all 
 music and all joy, the side walks blackened by crowds of servile tories who 
 shouted till their loyal throats were tired " Long life to King George — con- 
 ftjsion to Washington, and death to the rebels !" 
 
 They trooped tlirough the streets of Philadelphia on the 26th of Septem 
 
THE HAUNT OF THE REBEL. 2*7 
 
 ber, 1777; just fifeen days after the battle-day of Brandywine, they took 
 possession with all the pomp of victory ; and as the shades of twilight sank 
 down over the town, they marched proudly into their barracks, in the 
 Northern Liberties. 
 
 II.— THE HAUNT OF THE REBEL. 
 
 And where was Washington ? 
 
 Retreating from the forces of Sir William Howe, along the Schuylkill , 
 retreating with brave men under his command, men who had dared death in 
 a thousand shapes, and crimsoned their hands with the carnage of Brandy- 
 wine ; retreating because his powder and ammunition were exhausted; be- 
 cause his soldiers wanted the necessary apparel, while their hands grasped 
 muskets without lock or flint. 
 
 The man of the American army retreated, but his soul was firm. The 
 American Congress had deserted Philadelphia, but Washington did not 
 despair. The British occupied the surrounding country, their arms shone 
 on every hill ; their banners toyed in every breeze ; yet had George Wash- 
 ington resolved to strike another blow for the freedom of this fair land 
 
 The calm sunlight of an autumnal afternoon was falling over the quiet 
 valleys, the green plains, and the rich and roUing^oodland of an undulating 
 tract of country, spreading from the broad bosom of the Delaware to the 
 hilly shores of the Schuylkill, about seven miles from Philadelphia. 
 
 The roofs of an ancient village, extending in one unbroken line along the 
 great northern road, arose grey and massive in the sunlight, as each corniced 
 gable and substantial chimney looked forth from the shelter of the surround- 
 ing trees. There was an air of quaint and rustic beauty about this village. 
 Its plan was plain and simple, burdened with no intricate crossings of streets, 
 no labyrinthine pathways, no complicated arrangement of houses. The 
 fabrics of the village were all situated on the line of the great northern road, 
 reaching from the fifth mile stone to the eighth, while a line of smaller vil- 
 lages extended this " Indian file of hovises" to the tenth milestone from 
 the city. 
 
 The houses were all stamped with marks of the German origin of their 
 tenants. The high, sloping roof, the walls of dark grey stone, the porch 
 before the door, and the garden in the rear, blooming with all the freshness 
 of careful culture, marked the tenements of the village, while the heavy 
 gable-ends and the massive cornices of every roof, gave every house an ap- 
 pearance of rustic antiquity. 
 
 Around the village, on either side, spread fertile farms, each cultivated 
 like a garden, varied by orchards heavy with golden fruit, fields burdened 
 with the massive shocks of corn, or whitened with the ripe buckwheat, or 
 rmbrowned by the upturning plough. 
 
 The village looked calm and peaceful in the sunlight, but its plain and 
 
■IS THE BATTLE OF GERMANTOVVN. 
 
 simple people went not forlh to the field to work an that calm autumnal 
 atlernoon. The oxen stood idly in the barn-yard^ cropping the fragrant hay, 
 the teams stood unused by the farmer, and the flail was silent within the 
 barn. A sudden spell seemed to have come strangely down upon the 
 peaceful denizens of Gerraanlown, and that spell was the shadow of the 
 Briti'ih banner flung over her fields of white buckwheat, surmounting the 
 dream-like steeps of the Wissakikon, waving from Mount Airy, and tloaiing 
 in the iVeshning breeze of Chesnut Hill. 
 
 Had you ascended Chesnut Hill on that calm autumnal afternoon, and 
 gazed over the tract of country opened to your view, your eye would have 
 beheld a strange and stirring sight. 
 
 Above your head the clear and boundless sky, its calm azure giving no 
 tokens of the strife of the morrow ; declining in the west, the gorgeous sun 
 pouring his golden light over the land, his beams of welcome having no 
 ©men of the battle-smoke and mist that shall cloud their light on the morrow 
 morn. 
 
 Gaze on the valley below. Germantown, with its dark grey tenements, 
 sweeps away to the south, in one unbroken line; farther on you behold the 
 glitter of steeples, and the roofs of a large city — they are the steeples and 
 roofs of Philadelphia. Yon belt of blue is the broad Delaware, and yon 
 dim, dark object beyond^he city, blackening the bosom of the waters, is 
 Fort Mifflin, recently erected by General Washington. 
 
 Gaze over the fields of Germantown near the centre of the village. In 
 every lielJ there is the gleam of arms, on every hill-top there waves a royal 
 baimer, and over hill and plain, toward the Schuylkill on the one side, and 
 the Delaware on the other, sweep the white tents of the British army. 
 
 Now turn your gaze to the north, and to the northwest. The valley 
 opens before you, and fairer valley never smiled beneath the sun. 
 
 Away it sweeps to the northwest, an image of rustic beauty, here a rich 
 copse of green woodland, just tinged by autumn, there a brown field, yonder 
 jhe Wissahikon, marking its way of light, by a winding line of silver, in 
 one green spot a village peeping out from among the trees ; a litde farther 
 on, a farmer's dwelling with the massive barn and the dark grey hay-stack; 
 on every side life, and verdure, and cultivation, mingled and crowded to- 
 gether, as though the hand of God, had flung his richest blessings over the 
 valley, and clothed the land in verdure and in beauty. 
 
 Yonder the valley sweeps away to the northwest; the sun shines over a 
 dense mass of w-oodland rolling away to the blue of the horizon. Mark 
 that woodland well, try and discern the oudine of every tree, and count tho 
 miles as you gaze upon the prospect. 
 
 The distance from Chesnut Hill, is sixteen weary miles, and under tha! 
 mass of woodland, beneath the shadows of those rolling fc rests, beside ttie 
 streams hidden from your eye, in distress and in want, in defeat ana in 
 danger, rendevouz the bands of a desperate, though gallant army. 
 
THE CAMP OF THE BRITISHER. 29 
 
 It is the Continental army, and they encamp on the banks of the Skii»- 
 pack. 
 
 Their encampment is sad and still, no peals of music break upon the 
 woodland air, no loud hurrahs, no shouts of arrogant victory. The morrow 
 has a different tale to tell, for by the first flush of the coming morn, a nu feoa 
 will burst over the British Hosts at Germantown, and fighting for life, for 
 liberty, will advance the starved soldiers of the Continental host. 
 
 Ill— THE CAMP OF THE BRITISHER. 
 
 As the sun went down on the 3d of October, 1777, his last beams flung 
 a veil of golden light over the verdure of a green lawn, that extended from 
 the road near the head of Germantown, bounded along the village street by 
 a massive wall of stone, spreading north and south, over a quarter of a mile, 
 while toward the east, it swept in all its greenness and beauty, for the dis- 
 tance of some two hundred yards. 
 
 A magnificent mansion arose towering on the air, a mansion built of grey 
 stone, with a steep roof, ornamented by heavy cornices, and varied massive 
 chimneys, with urns of brown stone, placed on pedestals of brick at each 
 corner of the building. This fabric was at once substantial, strikingly 
 adapted for defence in time of war, and neat and well-proportioned as regards 
 architectural beauty. The walls thick and massive, were well supplied 
 vith windows, the hall door opened in the centre of the house, facing the 
 road, and the steps were decorated by two marble Lions placed on either 
 side, each holding an escutcheon in its grasp. 
 
 Here and there a green tree arose from the bosom of the lawn ; in the 
 rear of the mansion were seen the brown-stone buildings of the barn, and to 
 the north the grounds were varied by the rustic enclosures of a cattle-pen. 
 
 This was the mansion of Chew's House, and that green lawn, spreading 
 bright and golden in the beams of the declining sun, was the Battle-Field 
 OF Germantown. 
 
 One word with regard to the position of the British on tlie Eve of Battle. 
 
 The left wing of the British army extended from the centre of the village, 
 more than a mile below Chew's house, from a point near the old market 
 house, westward across the Wissahikon, and toward the Schuylkill. The 
 German chasseurs in their heavy uniform, the ponderous caps, defended by 
 bear-skm and steel, the massive sword, and the cumbrous ornaments of sil- 
 ver, were stationed in the front and on the flank of the left wing. 
 
 The right wing swept away towards the Delaware, as far as the Old 
 York Road ; each soldier well armed and accoutred, each dragoon supplied 
 with his stout war-steed, each cannon with its file of men, ready for action, 
 and every musket, with brilliant tube and glittering bayonet, prepared witli 
 its man, for tlie keen chase of the rebel route, whenever the master of the 
 bounds miglit start the hunt. 
 
aO THE BATTLE OF GERMANTOWN. 
 
 This wing was defeniled in the front by a battaHon of Ught infantry, and 
 ^e Queen's American Rangers, whose handsome accoutrements, uniform 
 of dark green, varied by ornaments of gold, and rifles mounted with silver, 
 gleamed gaily from amid the depths of the greenwood, presenting a brilliant 
 contrast to the course blue hunting shirt, the plain rifle, and uncouth woods- 
 man's knife that characterised the American Rifleman. 
 
 In a green held, situated near the Germantown road, a mile above Chew's 
 house, the banner of the 40th regiment floated above the tent of Col. Mus- 
 grave, its brave commander, while the canvass dwellings of the soldiers were 
 scattered around the flag, intermingled with the tents of another battalion 
 of light infantry. 
 
 Such was the British position at Germantown — a picket at Allan's house, 
 Mount Airy, two miles above Chew's house — Col. Musgrave's command a 
 mile below Allen's house — the main body two miles below Chew's, some- 
 where near the old market house — and this force was backed by four regi- 
 ments of British Grenadiers, stationed in the barracks in the Northern 
 Liberties, Philadelphia. 
 
 And this force, exceeding 18000 able-bodied regulars, the Patriot chieftian 
 bad resolved to attack with 8000 Continental troops and 3000 militia, infe- 
 rior in arms, in clothing, and in everything but the justice of their cause, to 
 the proud soldiers of the British host. 
 
 Night came down upon Germantown. The long shadows of the old 
 houses were flung across the village road, and along the fields ; the moon 
 was up in the clear heavens, the dark grey roofs were tinted with silver, 
 and glimpses of moonlight were flung around the massive barns of the village, 
 yet its peaceful denizens had not yet retired to rest, after their good old Ger- 
 man fashion, at early candle-light. 
 
 There was a strange fear upon the minds of the villagers. Each porch 
 contained its little circle ; the hoary grandsire, who had suffered the bright- 
 cheeked grandchild to glide from his knee, while he leaned forward, with 
 animated gesture, conversing with his son in a low whisper — the blooming 
 mother, the blue-eyed maiden, and the ruddy-cheeked, flaxen-haired boy, all 
 sharing the interest of the scene, and having but one topic of discourse — the 
 terror of war. 
 
 Could we go back to that quiet autumnal night on the 3d of October, in 
 the Year of tlie " Three Sevens," and stroll along the village street of Ger- 
 mantown, we would find much to interest the ear and attract the eye. 
 
 We would leave Chew's house behind us, and stroll along the village 
 btreet. We would note the old time costumes of the villagers, the men clad 
 in coarse linsey wolsey, voluminous vests with wide lappels, breeches of 
 buckskin, stockings and buckled shoes, while the head was defended by the 
 skimming dish hat;' we would admire the picturesque costume of the dames 
 and damsels of Germantown, here and there a young lady of " quality" 
 mincing her way in all the glory of high-heeled shoes, intricate head-dres3 
 
THE CAMP OF THE BRITISHER. 3| 
 
 and fine suk gown, all hooped and frilled ; there a stately dame in frock of 
 calico, newly bouglit and high-priced; but most would we admire the blush- 
 ing damsel of the village, her full round cheeks peeping from beneath the 
 kerchief thrown lightly around her rich brown locks, her blue eyes glancing 
 mischievously hither and thither, her bust, full rounded and swelling with 
 youth and health, enclosed in the tight bodice, while the rustic petticoat of 
 brown linsey wolsey, short enough to disclose a neat ancle and a litde foot, 
 would possess more att-ractions for our eyes, than the frock of calico ar 
 gown of silk. 
 
 We would stroll along the street of the village, and listen to the convcr 
 sation of the villagers. Every tongue speaks of war, the old man whispers 
 the word as his grey hairs wave in the moonlight, the mother murmurs the 
 syllable of terror as the babe seeks the shelter of her bosom, the boy gaily 
 shouts the word, as he brandishes the rusted fowling piece in the air, and 
 the village beau, seated beside his sweetheart, mutters that word as the 
 thought of the British ravisher flashes over his mind. 
 
 Strolling from Chew's House, we would pass the Bringhursts, seated 
 on their porch, the Helligs, the Peters, the Unrods just opposite the old 
 Grave Yard, and the Lippards, and the Johnsons, below the grave yardi 
 at the opposite corners of the lane leading back to the township line ; we 
 would stroll by the mansion of the Keysers, near the Mennonist grave vard ; 
 further down we would pass the Knoors, the Haines, the Pastorius', the 
 Hergesimers, the Engles, the Cooke-s, the Conrads, the Sck^ffers, and 
 the hundred other families of Germantown, descendants of old German stock, 
 as seated on the porch in front of the mansion, each family circle discussed 
 the terrible topic of war, bloodshed, batde, and death. 
 
 Nor would we forget the various old time families, bearing the names of 
 Nice — Moyer — Bowman — Weaver — Bockius — Forrest — Billmeyer — Lei- 
 bert — Matthias. These names may not figure brilliantly in history, but 
 their's was the heraldry of an honest life. 
 
 And at every step, we would meet a British soldier, strutting by in his 
 coat of crimson, on every side we would behold the gleam of British arms, 
 and our ears would be saluted by the roll of British drums, beating the tattoo, 
 and the signal cannon, announcing the hour of repose. 
 
 And as midnight gathered over the roofs of the town, as the baying of the 
 watchdog broke upon our ears, mingled with the challenge of the sentinel, 
 we would stroll over the lawn of Chew's House, note the grass growing 
 greenly and freshly, heavy with dew, and then gazing upon the heavens, our 
 hearts would ask the question, whetlier no omen of blood in the skies, 
 heralded the door and the death of the morrow ? 
 
 Oh, there is something of horror in the anticipation of a certain death, 
 when we know as surely as we know our own existence, that a coming 
 battle will send scores of souls shrieking to their last account, when the 
 gprecn lawn, now silvered by the moonlight, will be soddened with blood, 
 
82 THE BATTLE OF GERMANTOWN. 
 
 when the ancient mansion, now rising in the midnight air, Uke an emblem 
 of rural ease, with its chimneys and its roof sleeping in the moonbeams, wih 
 be a scene of terrible contest with sword, and ball, and bayonet ; when the 
 roof will smoke with the lodged cannon ball, when the windows will send 
 their volumes of flame across the lawn, when all around will be mist and 
 gloom, grappling foemen, heaps of dying mingled with the dead, charging 
 legions, and recoiling squadrons. 
 
 IV.— THE NIGHT-MARCII. 
 
 And as the sun went down, on that calm day of autumn, shooting his 
 level beams thro' the wilds of the rivulet of the Skippack, there gathered 
 within the woods, and along tlie shores of that stream, a gallant and despe 
 rate army, with every steed ready for the march, with the columns mar- 
 shalled for the journey of deall^ every man with his knapsack on his shoul- 
 der, and musket in his grasp, while the broad banner of the Continental 
 Host drooped heavily over head, its folds rent aud torn by the fight of 
 Brandyvvine, waving solemnly in the twilight.* 
 
 The tents were struck, the camp fires where had been prepared the hasty 
 supper of the soldier, v/ere still burning ; the neighing of steeds, and the sup- 
 pressed rattle of arms, rang thro' t)ie grove startling the night-bird of the 
 Skippack, when the uncertain light of a decaying fiame, glowing around the 
 stump of a giant oak, revealed a scene of strange interest. 
 
 The flame-light fell upon the features of a gallant band of heroes, circling 
 round the fire, each with his war cloak, drooping over his shoulder, half 
 concealing the uniform of blue a'lid buff; each with sword by his side, cha- 
 peau in hand, ready to spring upon his war-steed neighing in the grove hard 
 by, at a moments warning, while every eye was fixed upon the face of the 
 chieftain who stood in their midst. 
 
 By the soul of Mad Anthony it was a sight that would have stirred a 
 man's blood to look upon — that sight of the gallant chieftains of a gallant 
 band, clustering round the camp fire, in the last and most solemn council of 
 war, ere they spurred their steeds forward in the march of death. 
 
 The man with the form of majesty, and that calm, impenetrable face, 
 lighted by the hidden fire of soul, bursting forth ever and again in the glance 
 of his eye! Had you listened to the murmurs of the dying on the field of 
 Brandy wine you would have heard the name, that ha long since become a 
 sound of prayer and blessing on the tongues of nations — the name of Wash- 
 ington. And by his side was Greene, his fine countenance wearing a 
 shade of serious thought; and there listlessly thrusting his glittering sword 
 in the embers of the decaying fire, with his fierce eyes fixed upon the earth, 
 while his mustachioed lip gave a stern expression to his face, was the man 
 
 • The Skippack, the reader will remember, was some 16 miles from Gerniantowu 
 
THE NIGHT-MARCH. 3il 
 
 of Poland and the Patriot of Brandyvvine, Pl'laski, whom it were tautology 
 to call the brave ; there was the towering form of Sullivan, there was 
 Conway, with iiis fine face and expressive features, there was Armstrong 
 and Nash and Maxwell and Stirling and Stephens, all brave men and 
 true, side by side with the gallant Smallwood of Maryland, and the stalwart 
 FoRMAN of Jersey. 
 
 And there with his muscular chest, clad in the close buttoned blue coat, 
 with his fatigue cloak thrown over his left shoulder, with his hand resting 
 on the hilt of his sword, was the hero of Chadd's Ford, the Commander of 
 the Massacred of Paoli, the future avenger of Stony Point, Anthony Wayne, 
 whom the soldiers loved in their delight to name Mad Anthony ; shouting 
 that name in the hour of the charge and in the moment of death like a watch- 
 word of terror to the British Army. 
 
 Clustered around their Chief, were the aids-de-camp of Washington, John 
 Marshall, afterwards Chief Justice of the States, Alexander Hamilton, 
 gifted, gallant, and brave, Washington's counsellor in the hour of peril, his 
 bosom friend and confidant, all standing in the same circle with Pickering 
 and Lee, the Captain of the Partizan Band, with his slight form and swarthy 
 face, who was on that eventful night detailed for duty near the Commander- 
 in-chief. 
 
 And as they stood there clustered round the person of Washington, in a 
 mild yet decided voice, the chieftain spoke to them of the plan of the con- 
 templated surprise and battle. 
 
 It was his object to take the British by surprise. He intended for the 
 accomplishment of this object, to attack them at once on the front of the 
 centre ; and on the front, flank and rear of each wing. This plan of ope- 
 ration would force the American commander to extend the continental army 
 over a surface of from five to seven miles. 
 
 In order to make this plan of attack eff*ective, it would be necessary for 
 the American army to seperate near Skippack, and advance to Germantown 
 in four divisions, marching along as many roads. 
 
 General Armstrong with the Pennsylvania militia, 3000 strong, was to 
 march down the Manatawny road (now Ridge road,) and traversing the 
 shores of the Schuylkill, until the beautiful Wissahikon poured into its 
 bosom, he was to turn the left flank of the enemy at Vandurings (now Rob- 
 inson's Mdl,) and then advance eastward, along the bye roads, until two 
 miles distance between this mill and the Germantown market-house were 
 accomplished. 
 
 Meanwhile the Militia of Maryland and New Jersey, were to take up 
 their line of march some seven or eight miles to the eastward of Armstrong's 
 position, and over three miles distance from Germantown. They were to 
 march down the Old York Road, turn the right flank of the enemy, and 
 attack it in the rear, also entering the town at the market-house, which was 
 Ihe central point of operation for all the divisions. 
 
84 THE BATTLE OF GERMANTOWN. 
 
 Between Germantown and Old York Road, at the distance of near tvrr 
 miles from the village, extends a road, called Limekiln road. The divisions 
 cf Greene and Stejjhens flanked by McDoiigal's Brigade were to take a 
 circuit by this road, and attack the front of the enemy's right wing. They 
 also were to enter the town by the market-house. 
 
 The main body, with which was Washington, Wayne, and Sullivan, were 
 to advance toward Germantown by the Great Northern Road, entering the 
 town by way of Chesnut Hill, some four miles distant from the Market-house. 
 
 A column of this body was led on by Sullivan, another by Wayne, and 
 Convay's Brigade flanked the entire division. 
 
 While these four divisions advanced, the division of Lord Stirling, com- 
 bined with the brigades of Maxwell and Nash were to form a corps de 
 reserve. 
 
 The reader, and the student of American History, has now the plan of 
 battle spread out before him. In order to take in the full particulars of thia 
 n>agnificent plan of battle, it may be necessary to remember the exact nature 
 of the ground around Germantown. 
 
 In some places plain and level, in others broken by ravines, rendered in- 
 tricate by woods, tangled by thickets, or traversed by streams, it w^as in its 
 most accessible points, and most favorable aspects, broken by enclosures, 
 difficult fences, massive stone walls, or other boundary marks of land, ren- 
 dering the operation of calvary at all times hazardous, and often impassible. 
 
 In the vicinage of the town, for near a mile on either side, the land spread 
 greenly away, in level fields, still broken by enclosures, and then came thick 
 woods, steep hills and dark ravines. 
 
 The base line of operations was the country around Skippack Creek, 
 from which point, Washington, like a mighty giant, spread forth the four 
 arms of his force, clutching the enemy in front, on his wings and on the 
 rear, all at the same moment. 
 
 It was a magnificent plan of battle, and success already seemed to hover 
 round the American banner, followed by a defeat of the British, as terrible 
 as that of Yorktown, when the red-coat heroes of Germantown struck their 
 own Lion from his rock. 
 
 As Washington went over the details of battle, each brave ofiicer and 
 scarred chieftain leaned forward, taking in every word, with absorbing in- 
 terest, and then receiving the orders of his commander, with the utmost 
 attention and consideration. 
 
 All was now planned, everything was ready for the march, each General 
 mounted on his war-steed, rode to the head of his division, and with a low 
 solemn peal of music, the night-march of Germantown commenced. 
 
 And through the solemn hours of that night, along the whole valley, on 
 every side, was heard the half suppressed sound of marching legions, min. 
 gled with the low muttered word oi command, the clank of arms and the 
 neighing of war-steeds — all dim and indistinct, yet terrible to heai. — The 
 
THE DAYBREAK WATCH. 
 
 3h 
 
 farmer sleeping on his humble couch, rushed to the window of his rustic 
 mansion at the sound, and while his wife stood beside linn, all tremor and 
 aflVight, and his little ones clung to his knees, he saw with a mingled look 
 of surprise and fear, the forms of an armed band, some on horse and somu 
 on foot, sweeping through his green fields, as the dim moonbeams gleaming 
 through the gathering mist and gloom, shone over glittering arms, and dusky 
 banners, all gliding past, like phantoms of the Spectre Land. 
 
 JIatt tne Sctontr. 
 
 THE BATTLE MORN. 
 
 'Ghastly and white, 
 Through the gloom of the night, 
 From plain and from heath, 
 Like a shroud of death, 
 The mist all slowly and sullenly sweeps — 
 A shroud of death for the myriad brave. 
 Who to-morrow shall find the tombless 
 grave — 
 la mid heaven now a bright spirit weeps ; 
 While sullenly, slowly rises that pall, 
 Crimson tears for the brave who shall 
 
 fall. 
 Crimson tears for the dead without tomb, 
 Crimson tears for the death and the 
 
 doom — 
 Crimson tears for an angel's sorrow, 
 For the havoc, the bloodshed, the car- 
 nage and g'loom, 
 That shall startle the field on the mor- 
 row ; — 
 And up to the heavens now whitens the 
 mist, 
 
 Shrouding the moon with a fiery glare; 
 
 Solemn voices now startle the air, 
 
 To their sounds of omen you are fain to 
 
 list: 
 To listen and tremble, and hold your 
 
 breath ; 
 While the air is thronging with shapes of 
 
 death. 
 " On, on over valley and plain the legions 
 
 tramp. 
 Scenting the foemen who sleep in their 
 
 camp ; 
 Now bare the sword from its sheath blood- 
 red. 
 Now dig the pits for the unwept dead : 
 Novv let the cannon give light to the hour 
 And carnage s alk forth in his crimson 
 
 power, 
 Lo ! on the plain lay myriads gasping for 
 
 breath — 
 While the mist it is rising — the Shroud 
 
 OF Death !" 
 
 1.— THE DAYBREAK WATCH. 
 
 Along the porch of an ancient mansion, surmounting the height of Mount 
 Airy, strode the sentinel of the British picket, his tall form looming like the 
 figure of a giant in the gathering mist, while the musquet on his shoulder 
 was grasped by a hand red with American blood. 
 
 He strode slowly along the porch, keeping his lonely watch ; now turn 
 ing to gaze at the dark shadow of the mansion towering above him, now 
 iixing his eye along the Germantown road, as it wound down the hill, on its 
 northward course; and again he gazed upon the landscape around him, 
 wrapt in a gathering mist, which chilled his blood, and rendered all objects 
 Lround him dim and indistinct. 
 
 All around was vague and shadowy. The mist, with its wh'te wreaths 
 
36 THE BATTLE OF GERMANTOVVN. 
 
 and snowy columns, came sweeping up on every side, from the bosom of 
 tlie Wissahikon, from tlie depths of a thousand brooklets, over hill and ovei 
 valley, circled that dense and gathering exhalation ; covering the woods with 
 Us ghastly pall, rolling over the plains, and winding upward around the 
 height of Mount Airy, enveloping the cottages opposite the sentinel, in its 
 folds of gloom, and confining the view to a space of twenty paces from the 
 Dorch, where he kept his solitary watch — to him, a watch of death. 
 
 It is now daybreak, and a strange sound meets that soldier's ear. It is 
 now daybreak, and his comrades slee]) within the walls of Allen's house, ana 
 a strange, low, murmuring noise, heard from a great distance, causes him to 
 incline his ear with attention, and to listen with hushed breath and parted lips. 
 
 He listens. The night wore on. The blood-red moon was there in the 
 eky, looking out from the mist, like a funeral torch shining through a shroud. 
 
 The Sentinel bent his head down upon the porch, and with that musquet, 
 red with the carnage of Brandy wine, in his hand, he listens. It is a distant 
 Bound — very distant; like the rush of waters, or the moaning of the young 
 August storm, bursting into life amid the ravines of the far-oft' mountains. 
 It swells on the ear — it spreads to the east and to the west: it strikes the 
 Bentinel's heart with a strange fear, and he shoulders his musquet with a 
 firmer grasp ; and now a merry smile wreathes his lips. 
 
 That sound — it is the rush of waters ; the Wissahikon has flooded its 
 banks, and is pouring its torrents over the meadows, while it rolls onward 
 towards the Schuylkill. The sentinel smiles at his discovery, and resumes 
 his measured stride. He is right — and yet not altogether right. A stream 
 has burst its banks, but not the Wissahikon. A stream of vengeance — dark, 
 wild, and terrible, vexed by passion, aroused by revenge, boiling and seeth- 
 ing from its unfathomable deeps — is flowing from the north, andon its bosom 
 are borne men with strong arms and stout hearts, swelling the turbulence of 
 the waters ; while the gleam of sword and bayonet flashes over the darii 
 waves. 
 
 The day is "breaking — sadly and slowly breaking, along the veil of mist 
 that whitens over the face of nature like a Shroud of Death for millions. 
 The sentinel leans idly upon the bannisters of the porch, relaxes the grasp 
 of his musquet, inclines his head to one side, ai>d no longer looks upon the 
 face of nature covered by mist. He sleeps. The sound not long ago far 
 oflf, is now near and mighty in its volume, the tramp of steeds stardes the 
 silence of the road, suppressed tones are heard, and there is a noise like the 
 moving of legions. '* 
 
 n.-THE FIRST CORSE OF GbttMANTOWN. 
 
 And yet he sleeps — he dreams ! Shall we guess his dream ? That home 
 nidden away yonder in the shadows of an English dell — he is approaching 
 Its threshhold 
 
THE FIRST CORSE OF GERMANTOWN. S? 
 
 Yes, down the old path by the mill — he sees his native cottage — his aged 
 father stands in the door — his sister, whom he left a young girl, now grown 
 into a blooming woman, beckons him on. He reaches her side — presses 
 hor lips, and in that kiss hushes her welcome — " Brother, have you come 
 at last !" 
 
 But, ah ! That horrid sound crashing through his dream ! 
 
 lie wakes, — wakes there on the porch of the old mansion — he sees that 
 rifle-blaze flashing through the mist — he feels the death-shot, and then falls 
 dead to wake in Eternity. 
 
 That rifle-blaze, flashing through the mist, is the flrstshot of the Battle-day 
 of Germantown. 
 
 And that dead man, flung along the porch in all the ghastliness of sudden 
 death — cold and still" there, while his Sister awakes from her sinless sleep 
 to pray for him, three thousand miles away — is the first dead man of that 
 day of horror ! 
 
 And could we wander yonder, up through the mists of this fearful morning 
 even to the Throne of Heaven, we might behold the Prayer of the Sister, 
 the Soul of the Brother, meet face to face before Almighty God. 
 
 And now listen to that sound, thundering yonder to the North, and now 
 stand here on the porch of Allen's house, and see the Legions come ! 
 
 They break from the folds of the mist, the Men of Brandywine — foot- 
 soldiers and troopers come thundering up the hill. 
 
 The blood-red moon, shining from yonder sky, like a funeral torch through 
 a shroud, now glares upon the advancing legions — over the musquets gliu 
 tering in long lines, over the war-horses, over the drawn swords, over the 
 flags rent with bullet and bayonet, over the broad Banner of Stars. 
 
 Allen's house is surrounded. The soldiers of the picket guard rush wildly 
 from their beds, from the scene of their late carousal by the fire, they ruth 
 and seize their arms — but in vain ! A blaze streams in every window^ 
 soldier after soldier falls heavily to the floor, the picket guard are with the 
 Dead Sentinel. Allen's house is secured, and the hunt is up ! 
 
 God of Batfles, what a scene ! The whole road, farther than the eye 
 could see, farther than the ear could hear, crowded by armed men. hurrying 
 over Chesnut Hill, hurrying along the valley between Chesnut Hill and 
 Mount Airy, sweeping up the hill of Allen's house, rushing onward in one 
 dense column, with the tall form of Sullivan at their head, while the war 
 shout of Anthony Wayne is borne along by the morning breeze. There, 
 riding from rank to rank, speeding from battalion to battalion, from column 
 to column, a form of majesty sweeps by, mounted on a steed of iron grey, 
 waving encouragement to the men, while every lip repeats the whisper, and 
 every heart beats at the =ound, echoed like a word of magic along the lines — 
 " There he rides — how grandly his form towers in the mist; it's Washing- 
 ton — it's Washington !" and the whole army take up the sound — " It is 
 Washington !" 
 
38 THE BATTLE OF GERMANTOWN. 
 
 Alien's house was passed, and now the path of the central body of the 
 army lay along the descent of the road from Mount Airy, for the space of u 
 mile, until the quarters of Colonel Musgrave's regiment were reached. 
 
 The descent was like the path of a hurricane. The light of the break- 
 ing day, streaming dimly through mist and gloom, fell over the forms of the 
 patriot band as they swept down the hill, every man with his musquet ready 
 for the charge, every trooper with his sword drawn, every eye fixed upon 
 the shroud of mist in front of their path, in the vain elTort to gaze upon the 
 position of the advance post of the enemy a mile below, every heart throb- 
 bing wildly with the excitement of the coming contest, and all prepared for 
 the keen encounter, — the fight, hand to hand, foot to foot, the charge of 
 death, and the sweeping hail of the iron cannon ball and the leaden bullet. 
 
 How it would have made your heart throb, and beat and throb again, to 
 have stood on that hill of Mount Airy, and looked upon the legions as they 
 rushed by. 
 
 Sullivan's men have passed, they are down the hill, and you see them 
 below, — rank after rank disappearing in the pall of the enveloping mist. 
 
 Here they come — a band brave and true, a band with scarred faces and 
 sunburnt visages, with rusted musquets and tattered apparel, yet with true 
 hearts and stout hands. These are the men of Paoli ! 
 
 And there, riding in their midst, as though his steed and himself were but 
 one animal — so well he backs that steed, so like is the battle-fever of 
 horse, with the waving mane and glaring eye, to the wild rage that stamps 
 the warrior's face — there in the midst of the Men of Paoli, rides their 
 leader — Mad Anthony Wayne ! 
 
 And then his voice — how it rings out upon the morning air, rising above 
 the clatter of arms and the tramp of steeds, rising in a mighty shout — " On, 
 boys, on ! In a moment we'll have them. On, comrades, on — and remem- 
 ber Paoli !" 
 
 And then comes the band with the gallant Frenchman at their head ; the 
 brave Conway, brave though unfortunate, also rushing wildly on, in the train 
 of the hunt. Your eye sickens as you gaze over file after file of brave men, 
 with mean apparel and meaner arms, some half clad, others well nigh bare- 
 foot, yet treading gaily over the flinty ground ; some with fragments of a 
 coat on their backs, others without covering for their heads, all marked by 
 wounds, all thinned by hunger and disease, yet every man of them is firm, 
 every hand is true, as it clutches the musquet with an eager grasp. 
 
 Ha ! That gallant band who come trooping on, spurring their stout steedg, 
 with wide haunches and chests of iron, hastily forward, that band with every 
 face seemed by scars, and darkened by the thick mustachio, every eye 
 gleaming beneath a knit brow, every swarthy hand raising the iron sword on 
 high. They wear the look of foreigners, the manner of men trained to fight 
 in the exterminating wars of Europe. 
 
 And their leader is tall and well-proportioned, with a dark-hued face. 
 
THE FIRST CORSE OF GERMANTOWN. 36 
 
 marked by a compressed lip, rendered fierce by the overlianging mustarhio 
 his brow is shaded by the trooper's plume, and his hand grasps the trooper's 
 sword. He speaks to his men in a foreign tongue, he reminds them of the 
 well-fought field on the plain of Poland, he whispers a quick, terrible me- 
 mento of Brandy wine and Paoli, and the clear word rings from his lips; 
 
 " Forwarts, — brudern, — forvvarts 1" 
 
 It is the band of Pulaski sweeping past, eager for the hunt of death, and 
 as they spur their steeds forward, a terrible confusion arises far ahead. 
 
 There is flashing of strange fires through the folds of mist, lifting the 
 snow-white pall for a moment — there is rolling of musqueiry, rattling like 
 the thunderbolt ere it strikes — there is the tramp of hurrying legions, the 
 far-off shout of the charging continentals, and the yells and shouts of the 
 surprised foemen. 
 
 Sullivan is upon the camp of the enemy, upon them with the terror of 
 ball and bayonet. They rush from their camp, they form hastily across the 
 road, in front of their baggage, each red-coated trooper seeks his steed, each 
 footman grasps his musquet, and the loud voice of Musgrave, echoing wildly 
 along the line of crimson attire and flashing bayonets, is heard above all other 
 sounds, — " Form — lads, form — fall in there — to your arms, lads, to your 
 arms. — Form, comrades, form !'' 
 
 In vain his shouting, in vain the haste of his men rushing from their beds, 
 into the very path of the advancing continentals ! The men of Sullivan are 
 upon them ! They sweep on with one bold front — the forms of the troop- 
 ers, mounted on their war-steeds, looming through the mist, as with sword 
 upraised, and batlle-siiout pealing to the skies, they lead on the charge of 
 death ! 
 
 A moment of terror, a moment made an age by suspense ! The troopers 
 meet, mid-way in their charge, horse to horse, sword mingled with sword, 
 eye glaring in eye, they meet. The ground quivers with an earthquake 
 shock. Steeds recoil on their haunches, the British strew the road-side, 
 flooding the dust with their blood, and the music of battle, the fierce music 
 of dying groans and cries of death, rises up with the fog, startling the very 
 heavens with its discord ! 
 
 The hunt is up ! 
 
 " On — boys — on" — rings the voice of Mad Anthony — " on — comrades — 
 on — and Remember Paoli !" 
 
 " Charge .'" sounds the voice of Washington, shrieking along the line, 
 like the voice of a mighty spirit — " upon them — over them !" Conway 
 re-echoes the sound, Sullivan has already made the air ring with his shout 
 and now Pulaski takes up the cry — " Forivarts — brudern — Forwarts !" 
 
 The hunt is up ! 
 
 The British face the bayonets of the advancing Americans, but in vam 
 Eacli bold backwoodsman sends his volley of death along the British line> 
 find then clubbing his musquet, rushes wildly forward, beating the red-coal 
 
iO THE BATTLE OF GERMANTOVVN. 
 
 to the sod with a blow that cannot be stayed. The British troopers rush 
 forward in the charge, but ere half the distance between them and the Ainer 
 can host is measured, Mad Anthony comes thundering on, with his Legion 
 of Iron, and as his war-shout swells on the air, the red-coats are driven back 
 by the hurricane force of his charge, the ground is strewn with the dyinar, 
 and the red hoofs of the horse trample madly over the faces of the dead. 
 
 Wayne charges, Pulaski charges, Conway brings up his men, and Wash- 
 ington is there, in front of the battle, his sword gleaming like a meteor 
 through the gloom. 
 
 The fire of the infantry, spreading a sheeted flame thro' the folds of the 
 mist, lights up the scene. Tiie never-ceasing clang of sword against sword, 
 the low muttered shriek of the fallen, vainly trying to slop the flow of 
 blood, the wild yell of the soldier, gazing madly round as he receives his 
 death wound, the shout of the charge, and the invoLintary cry of 'quarter,' 
 all furnish a music most dread and horrible, as tho' an infernal band were 
 urging on the work of slaughter, with their notes of fiendish mockery. 
 
 That flash of musquetry ! What a light it gives the scene ! Above, 
 clouds of white mist and lurid smoke ; around, all hurry, and tramp, and 
 motion; faces darkened by all the passions of a demon, glaring madly in the 
 light, blood red hands upraised, foemen grappling in contest, swords rising 
 and falling, circling and glittering, the forms of the wounded, with their faces 
 buried in the earth, the ghastly dead, all heaped up in positions of ludicrous 
 mockery of death, along the roadside ! 
 
 That flash of musquetry ! 
 
 The form of Washington is in the centre of the fight, the battle-glare 
 lighting up his face of majesty ; the stalwart form of Wayne is seen riding 
 hither and thither, waving a dripping sword in his good right hand ; the 
 figure of Pulaski, dark as the form of an earth-riven spirit of some German 
 story, breaks on your eye, as enveloped in mist, he seems rushing every 
 where at the same moment, fighting in all points of the contest, hurrying his 
 men onward, and driving the affiughted British before him with the terror 
 of his charge. 
 
 And Col. Musgrave — where is he ? 
 
 He shouts the charge to his men, he hurries hither and thither, he shouts 
 till he is hoarse, he fights till his person is red with the blood of his own 
 men, slain before his very eyes, but all in vain ! 
 
 He shouts the word of retreat along his line — "Away, my men, away to 
 Chew's House — away !" 
 
 The retreat commences, and then indeed, the hunt of death is up in good 
 earnest. 
 
 The British wheel down the Germantown road, they turn their backs to 
 ^heir foes, they flee wildly toward Germantown, leaving iheir dead and 
 dying in their wake, man and horse, they flee, some scattering their arms by 
 ihft roadside, others weakened by loss of blood, feebly endeavoring to join 
 
THE FIRST CORSk OF (J/ r.MANTOWN. 41 
 
 the retreat, and then falling dead in the path of the pursuers, who with one 
 bold front, with one firm step rush after the British in their flight, ride down 
 the fleeing ranks, an ! scatter death along the hurrying columns. 
 
 The fever of bloodshed grows hotter, the chase grows fearful in interest, 
 the hounds who so often have worried down the starved Americans, are 
 now hunted in their turn. 
 
 And in the very van of pursuit, his tall form seen by every soldier, rode 
 George Washington, his mind strained to a pitch of agony, as the crisis of 
 the contest approached, and by his side rode Mad Anthony Wayne, now 
 Mad Anthony indeed, for his whole appearance was changed, his eye 
 seemed turned to a thing of living flame, his face was begrimed with 
 powder, his sword was red with blood, and his battle-shout rung fiercer on 
 the air — 
 
 " Over them boys — upon them — over tkem, and Remember Paoli !" 
 
 " Now Wayne, now'^ — shouted Washington — " one charge more and we 
 have them !" 
 
 " Forwarts — brudern — forwarts !" shouted Pulaski, as his iron band came 
 thundering on — " Forwarts — for Washington — Forwarts !" 
 
 The British leader wheeled his steed for a moment, and gazed upon his 
 pursuers. All around was bloodshed, gloom, and deatli ; mist and smoke 
 above ; flame around, and mangled corses below. — With one hoarse shout, 
 he again bade his men make for Chew's House, and again the dying scat- 
 tered along the path looked up, and beheld the British sweeping madly 
 down the road. 
 
 The vanguard of the pursuers had gained the upper end of Chew's wall, 
 when the remnant of the British force disappeared in the fog ; file after file 
 of the crimson-coated British were lost to sight in the mist, and in the very 
 heat and flush of the chase, the American army was brought to a halt in 
 front of Chew's wall, each soldier falling L^ck on his comrade with a sud- 
 den movement, while the officers gazed on each other's faces in vain inquiry 
 for the cause of this unexpected delay. 
 
 The fog gathered in dense folds over the heads of the soldiers, thicker 
 and more dense it gathered every instant; the enemy was lost to sight in 
 the direction of Chew's lawn, and a fearful pause of silence, from the din 
 and tumult.of bloodshed, ensued for a single moment. 
 
 Bending from his steed in front of the gate that led into Chew's lawn, 
 Washington gazed round upon the faces of his staff, who circled him on 
 every side, with every horse recoiling on his haunches from the sudden ef- 
 fect of the halt. 
 
 Washington was about to speak as he leaned from his steed, with his 
 
 sword half lowered in the misty air, he was about to speak, and ask the 
 
 meaning of this sudden disappearance of the British, when a lurid flash 
 
 lifted up the fog from the lawn, and the thunder of niusquetry boomed along 
 
 3 
 
42 THE BATTLE OF GERMANTOWN. 
 
 the air, echoino- among the nooks and corners of the ancient houses on thf 
 opposite side of the street. 
 
 Another moment, and a soldier with face all crimsoned with blood and 
 darkened by battle smoke, rushed thro' the group clustering around the horse 
 of Washington, and in a hurried voice announced that the remnant of the 
 British Regiment had thrown themselves inio the substantial stone mansion 
 on the left, and seemed determined to make good, a desperate defence. 
 
 •'What say you, gentlemen" — cried Washington — "shall we press on- 
 ward into the town, and attack the main body of the enemy at once, or shall 
 we first drive the enemy from their strong hold, at this mansion on our left ?" 
 
 The answer of Wayne was short and to the point. " Onward !" — he 
 shouted, and his sword rose in the air, all dripping with blood — " Onward 
 into the town — our soldiers are warmed with the chase — onward, and with 
 another blow, we have them !" 
 
 And the gallant Hamilton, the brave Pickering, the gifted Marshall, echoed 
 the crv — " Onward — " while the hoarse shout of Pulaski rang out in the 
 air — " Forwarts — briidern — Forwarts !" 
 
 " It is against every rule of military science — " exclaimed General Knox, 
 whose opinion in council was ever valuable with Washington — " It is 
 against every rule of military science, to leave a fortified stronghold in the 
 rear of an advancing army. Let us first reduce the mansion on our left, 
 and then move forward into the centre of the town !" 
 
 There was another moment of solemn council ; the older officers of the 
 8taft* united in opinion with Knox, and with one quick anxious glance 
 around the scene of fog and mist, Washington gave the orders to storm the 
 house. 
 
 And at the word, while a steady volume of flame was flashing from Chew's 
 House, every window pouring forth its blaze, glaring over the wreath of 
 mist, the continentals, horse and foot, formed across the road, to the north 
 of the house, eager for the signal which would bid them advance into the 
 very jaws of death. 
 
 The artillery were ranged some three hundred yards from the mansion — 
 their cannon being placed on a slight elevation, and pointed at the north-west 
 corner of the house. This was one of the grand mistakes of the battle, oc- 
 easioned by the density of the fog. Had the cannon been placed in a 
 proper position, the house would have been reduced ere the first warm flush 
 of pursuit was cold on the cheeks of the soldiers. 
 
 But the fog gathered thicker and more densely around, the soldien 
 moved like men moving in the dark, and all was vague, dim, undefined and 
 uncertain. 
 
 All was ready for the storm. Here were men with firebrands, ready to 
 rush forward under the cover of the fi st volley of musquetry and fire the 
 house : here were long lines of soldiers grasping their guns with a quiet 
 nervous movement, one foot advanced in the act of springing forward 
 
THE FLAG OF TRUCE. 43 
 
 yonler were (he cannoniers, their pieces loaded, the linstock in the haad 
 of one soldier, while another stood ready with the next charge of anirauui- 
 lion ; on every side was intense suspense and expectation, and heard above 
 all other sounds, tlie rattle of the British musquetry rose like thunder ovei 
 Chew's lawn, and seen the brightest of all other sights, the light of the 
 British guns, streamed red and lurid over the field, giving a strange bril- 
 lianicy to the wreaths of mist above, and columns of armed men below. 
 
 III.— THE FLAG OF TRUCE. 
 
 1 RADiTioN states that at this moment, when every thing was ready for 
 the storm of death, an expression of the most intense thought passed OTer 
 the impenetrable countenance of Washington. Every line of his features 
 was marked by thought, his lip was sternly compressed, and his eye 
 gathered a strange fire. 
 
 He turned to the east, and bent one long anxious look over the white 
 folds of mist, as though he would pierce the fog with his glance, and gaze 
 upon the advancing columns of Greene and Stephen. He inclined his head 
 to one side of his steed, and listened for the tramp of their war-horses, but 
 in vam. He turned towards Germantown ; all was silent in that direction, 
 the main body of the enemy were not yet in motion. 
 
 And then in a calm voice, he asked for an officer who would consent to 
 bear a flag of truce to the enemy. A young and gallant officer of Lee's 
 Rangers, sprang from his horse ; his name Lieut. Smith ; he assumed the 
 snow-white flag, held sacred by all nations, and with a single glance ?t the 
 Continental array, he advanced to Chew's House. 
 
 In a moment he was lost to sight amid the folds of the fog, and hi? way 
 lay over the green lawn for some two hundred yards. All was still and 
 silent around him. Tradition stales that the fire from the house ceased for 
 a moment, while Musgrave's band were silently maturing (heir plan of des- 
 perate defence. The young soldier advanced along his lonely path, speed- 
 ing through the bosom of the fog, all objects lost to his sight, save the green 
 verdure of the sod, yet uncrimsoned by blood, and here and there the irunk 
 of a giant tree looming blackly through the mist. 
 
 The outline of a noble mansion began to dawn on his eye, first the slop- 
 ing roof, then the massive chimneys, then the front of the edifice, and then 
 its windows, all crowded with soldiers in their crimson attire, whiskered 
 face appearing above face, with grisly musquet and glittering bayonet, thrust 
 out upon the air, while with fierce glances, the hirelings looked forth into 
 the bosom of that fearful mist, which still like a death-shroud for millions^ 
 hung over the lawn, and over the chimneys of the house. 
 
 The young ofldcer came steadily on, and now he stood some thirty par-e* 
 from the house, waving his white flag on high, and then wi'h an even step 
 he advanced toward the hall door. He advanced, but he never reached 
 
a • THE BATTLE OF GERMANTOWN. 
 
 that hall door. He was within the scope of the British soldiers' vision 
 they coulJ have almost tout^hed him with an extended flag stafT, when the 
 loud word of command rang through the house, a volley of fire blazed from 
 every window, and the whole American army saw the fog lifted from the 
 surface of the lawn, like a vast curtain from the scenes of a magniticenl 
 theatre. 
 
 Slowly and heavily that curtain uprose, and a hail storm of bullets 
 whistled across the plain, when the soldiers of the Continental host looked 
 for their messenger of peace. 
 
 They beheld a gallant form in front of the mansion. He seemed making 
 an effort to advance, and then he tottered to and fro, and his white flag dis- 
 appeared for a moment ; and the next instant he fell down like a heavy 
 weight upon the sod, and a hand trembling with the pulse of death was 
 raised above his head, waving a white flag in the air. That flag was 
 stained with blood : it was the warm blood flowing from the young Vir- 
 ginian's heart. 
 
 Along the whole American line there rang one wild yell of horror. Old 
 men raised their musquets on high, while the tears gathered in their eyes ; 
 the young soldiers all moved forward with one sudden step ; a wild light 
 blazed in the eye of Washington ; Wayne waved his dripping sword on 
 high ; Pulaski raised his proud form in the stirrups, and gave one meaning 
 glance to his men ; and then, through every rank and file, through every 
 column and solid square, rang the terrible words of command, and high 
 above all other sounds was heard the voice of Washington — 
 
 ♦♦ Charge, for your country and for vengeance — charge !" 
 
 ^^vt tne muvtf. 
 
 CHEW'S HOUSE. 
 
 ,1, Now bare the sword from its sheath blood-red, 
 
 'Tis wet with the gore of the massacred dead ; 
 Now raise the sword in the cause most holy — 
 
 And while the whispers of ghosts break on your ear, 
 Oh! strike without mercy, or pity, .or fear; 
 Oh ! strike for the maxsacred dead of Paoli ! 
 
 Revolutionary Song. 
 
 1.— THE FORLORN HOPE. 
 
 And while the mist githired thicker and darker above, while the lurid 
 columns of battie smoke waved like a banner overhead, while all around 
 was dim and indistinct, — all objects rendered larger and swelled to gigantic 
 
THE FORLORN HOPE. 45 
 
 jyroportions by the action oi ilie fojj, — aiong that green lawn arose the 
 sound of charging legions, and the blaze of musquetry flashing from the 
 »vindows of Chew's house, gave a terrible light to the theatre of death. 
 
 Again, like a vast curtain, the mist uprose, — again were seen armed men 
 brandishing swords aloft, or presenting fixed bayonets, or holding the sure 
 rifle in their unfailing grasp, or yet again waving torches on high, all rushing 
 madly forward, still in regular columns, tile after file, squadron after squad- 
 ron — a fierce array of battle and of death. 
 
 It was a sight worth a score of peaceful years to see ! The dark and 
 heavy pall of batde smoke overhead, mingled with curling wreaths of snow- 
 white mist — the curtain of this theatre of death — the mansion of dark, grey 
 stone, rising massive and ponderous from the lawn, each peak and corner, 
 each buttress and each angle, shown clearly by the light of the musquet 
 flash — the green lawn spreading away from the house — the stage of the 
 dread theatre — crowded by bands of advancing men, with arms glittering in 
 the fearful light, with fierce faces stamped with looks of vengeance, sweep- 
 ing forward with one steady step, their eyes fixed upon the fatal honse ; 
 while over their heads, and among their ranks, swept and fell the leaden 
 bullets of iheir foes, hissing through the air with the sound of serpents, or 
 pattering on the sod like a hailstorm of death. 
 
 And while a single brigade, with which was Washington and Sullivan 
 and Wayne, swept onward toward the house, the other troops of the cen- 
 tral division, extending east and west along the fields, were forced to remain 
 inactive spectators of this scene of death, while each man vainly endeavored 
 to pierce the gloom of the mist and smoke, and observe the course of the 
 darkening fight. 
 
 Some thirty yards of green lawn now lay between the forlorn hope of 
 the advancing Americans and Chew's house; all became suddenly still and 
 hushed, and the continentals could hear their own foot tramp breaking upoa 
 the air with a deadened sound, as they swept onward toward the mansion. 
 
 A moment of terrible stillness, and then a moment of bloodshed and hor- 
 ror ! Like the crash of thunderbolts meeting in the zenith from distant 
 points of the heavens, the sound of musquetry broke over the lawn, and 
 from every window of Chew's house, from the hall door, and from behind 
 the chimneys on the roof, rolled the dense columns of musquet smoke; 
 while on every side, overhead, around, and beneath, the musquet flash of 
 the British glared like earth-riven lightning in the faces of the Americans, 
 and then the mist and smoke came down like a pall, and for a moment all 
 *fas dark as midnight. 
 
 A wild yell broke along the American line, and then the voice of Wayne 
 rvng out through the darkness and the gloom — " Sweep forward under the 
 ct-ver of the smoke — sweep forward and storm the house ! ' 
 
 They came rushing on, the gallant band of rangers, bearing torches in 
 t\ eir hands — they came rushing on, and their path lay over the mangled 
 
4Q THE BATTLE OF GERMANTOWN. 
 
 bodies of the forlorn hope, scattered alon^ the sod, in e^U the ghastliness ot 
 wounds and death, and at their backs advanced with measured step the firm 
 columns of the continental army, whue the air was heavy with the shriek 
 of wounded men, and burdened with cries of aro v. 
 
 0(1 they swept, trampling over the face of the dead in the darkness and 
 gloom, and then the terrible words of command rung out upon the air— 
 "Advance and fire — advance and storm the house !'' 
 
 A volley of sheeted tlame arose from the bosom of the fog along the 
 lawn, the thunder of the American musquetry broke upon the air, and the 
 balls were heard pattering against the walls of the house, and tearing spHn- 
 ters from the roof. 
 
 Anotiier moment, and the pall of mist and battle smoke is swept aside, 
 rerealinnr a scene that a thousand words might not describe — a scene whose 
 hurry, and motion, and glare, and horror, the pencil of the artist might in 
 vain essay to picture. 
 
 There were glittering bayonets thrust from the windows of the house, — 
 there were fierce faces, with stout forms robed in crimson attire, thrust from 
 every casement, — there were bold men waving torches on high, rushing 
 around the house; here a party were piling up combustible brush-wood; 
 there a gallant band were affixing their scaling ladder to a second story 
 v/indow, yonder another band were thundering away at the hall door, with 
 musquet and battle axe; while along the whole sweep of the wide lawn 
 poured the fire of the continental host, with a flash like lightning, yet with 
 uncertain and ineffectual aim. 
 
 The hand of the soldier with the hand gathered near the combustible pile 
 under a window — the hand of the soldier was extended with the blazing 
 torch, he was about to fire the heap of faggots, when his shattered arm fell 
 to his side, and a dead comrade came toppling over his cliest. 
 
 A soldier near the hall door had been foremost among that gallant band, 
 the barricades were torn away, all obstructions well nigh cleared, and he 
 raised his battle axe to hew the door in fragments, when the axe fell with a 
 cbnging sound upon the threshold stone, and his comrades caught his falling 
 body in their arms, while his severed jaw hung loosely on his breast. 
 
 The parly who rushed forward in the endeavor to scale the window ! 
 The ladder was fixed — across the trench dug around Chew's house it was 
 fixed the hands of two sturdy continentals held it firm, and a file of des- 
 perate men, headed by a stalwart backwoodsman, in rough blue shirt and 
 fur cap, with buck-tail plume, began the ascent of death. 
 
 The foot of the backwoodsman touched the second round of the scaling 
 ladder, when he sprang wildly in the air, over the heads of his comrades, 
 and fell dead in the narrow trench, with a death shriek thai rang in the ears 
 of all who heard it for life. A musquet ball had penetrated his skull, and 
 the red torrent was already stieam i;g over his forehead, and along his 
 swarthv features. 
 
THE HORSEMAN AND HIS MLSSAGE. 47 
 
 The Americans again rushed forward to the house, but it was like rush* 
 ing into the embrace of death ; again they scaled the windows, again were 
 they driven back, while the dead bodies of their comrades littered the trench: 
 again they strode boldly up to the hall door, and again did soldier after 
 soldier crimson the threshold-stone with his blood. 
 
 II.-THE HORSEMAN AND HIS MESSAGE. 
 
 And while the battle swelled fiercest, and the flame flashing from the 
 windows of Chew's house was answered by the volley of the continental 
 brigade, two sounds came sweeping along the air, one from the south, and 
 the other from the northwest. They were the sounds of marching men — 
 the tread of hurrying legions. 
 
 On the summit of a gentle knoll, surrounded by the officers of his staff, 
 Washington had watched the progress of the fight around Chew's mansion, 
 not more than two hundred yards distant. 
 
 With his calm and impenetrable face, wearing an unmoved expression, 
 he had seen the continentals disappear in the folds of the fog, he had seen 
 file after file marching on their way of death, he had heard the roar of con- 
 test, the shrieks of the wounded and the yells of the dying had startled his 
 ear, but not a muscle of his countenance moved, not a feature trembled. 
 
 But when those mingling sounds of marching men came pealing on his 
 ear, he inclined slighdy to one side of his steed and then to the other, as if 
 m the effort to catch the slightest sound, his lips were fixedk' compressed 
 and his eye flashed and flashed again, until it seemed turning to a thing oi' 
 living flame. 
 
 The sounds grew near, and nearer ! A horseman approached l>om the 
 direction of Germantown, his steed was well nigh exhausted and the rider 
 swayed heavily to and fro in the saddle. The horse came thundering up 
 the knoll, and a man with a ghastly face, spotted with blood, leaned from 
 the saddle and shrieked forth, as he panted for breath — 
 
 " General — they are in motion — they are marching through Germantown 
 — Kniphausen, Agnew, and Grey, they wiU be on you in a moment, and — 
 Cornwallis — Cornwallis is sweeping from Philadelphia." 
 
 The word had not passed his lips, when he fell from his steed a ghastly 
 corpse. 
 
 Another messenger stood by the side of Washington — his steed was also 
 exhausted, and his face was covered with dust, but not with blood. He 
 panted for breath as he shrieked forth an exclamation of joy : — 
 
 " Greene is marching from the northwest — attracted by the fire in this 
 quarter, he has deviated from his path, and will be with you in a moment?" 
 
 And as he spoke, the forms of a vast body of men began to move, dim 
 and indistinctly, from the folds of the fog on the northwest, and then the 
 glare of crimson was seen appearing fron" the bosom of the mist on the 
 
48 THE BATTLE OF GERMANTO WN. 
 
 soutli, as a long column ol red coated soldiers, began to break, slowly on th« 
 vision of Wasliington and his men. 
 
 in.— THE BRITISH GENERAL. 
 
 Turn we for a moment to Germantown. 
 
 The first glimpse of day, flung a grey and solemn light over the tenemenis 
 of Germantown, when the sound of distant thunder, aroused the startled 
 inhabitants from their beds, and sent them hurriedly into the street. There 
 they crowded in small groups, each one. asking his neighbor for the expla- 
 nation of this sudden alarm, and every man inclining ids ear to tlie north, 
 listening intently to those faint yet terrible sounds, thundering along the 
 northern horizon. 
 
 The crowded moments of that eventful morn, wore slowly on. Ere tlie 
 day was yet light, the streets of Germantown were all in motion, crowds 
 of anxious men were hurrying hither and thither, mothers stood on the rustic 
 porch, gathering their babes in a closer embrace, and old men, risen in haste 
 from their beds, clasped their withered hands and lifted their eyes to heaven 
 in muttered prayer, as their ears were startled by the sounds of omen peal- 
 ing from the north. 
 
 The British leaders were yet asleep ; the soldiers of the camp, it is true, 
 had risen hastily from their couches, and along the entire line of the British 
 encampment, ran a vague, yet terrible rumor of coining battle and of sudden 
 death ; yet the generals in command slept soundly in their beds, visited, it 
 may be, with pleasant dreams of massacred rebels, fancy pictures of the 
 night of Paoli, mingled with a graphic sketch of the head of Washington 
 adorning one of the gates of London, while the grim visage of mad Anthony 
 Wayne figured on another 
 
 The footstep of a booted soldier rang along the village street, near the 
 market-house, in the centre of the village, and presently a tall grenadier 
 strode up the stone steps of an ancient mansion, spoke a hurried word to 
 the sentinel at the door, and then hastily entered the house. In a moment 
 he stood beside the couch of General Grey, he roused him with a rude 
 shake of his vigorous hands, and the slarded ' Britisher' sprang up as hastily 
 from his bed as though he had been dreaming a dream of the terrible night 
 of Paoli. 
 
 " Your Excellency — the Rebels are upon us !" cried the grenadier — 
 •• they have driven in our outposts, they surround us on every side — " 
 
 " We must fight it out — away to Kniphausen — away to Agnew — " 
 
 " They are already in the field, and the men are about advancing to 
 Chew's House." 
 
 But a moment elapsed, and the British general with his attire hung hastily 
 over his person, rode to the head of his command, and while Kniphausen, 
 gay with the laurels of Brandywine. rode from rank to rank, speaking 
 
THE LEGEND OF GENERAL AGNEW. 49 
 
 encouragement to his soldiers in his broken dialect, the British army moved 
 forward over the lields and along the solitary street of" Germanlown towardtr 
 Chew's House. 
 
 The brilliant front of the British extended in a flashing array of crimson, 
 over the fields, along the street; and through the wreaths of mist on every 
 side shone the glitter of bayonets, on every hand was heard the terrible 
 tramp of 16,000 men sweeping onward, toward the field of battle, their 
 swords eager for American blood. 
 
 As the column under command of General Agnew swept through the 
 village street, every man noted the strange silence that seemed to have 
 come down upon the village like a spell. The houses were all carefully 
 closed, as though they had not been inhabited for years, the windows were 
 barricaded ; the earthquake tramp of the vast body of soldiers was the 
 only sound that disturbed the silence of the town. 
 
 Not a single inhabitant was seen. Some had fled wildly to the fields, 
 others had hastened with the strange and fearful curiosity of our nature to 
 the very verge of the battle of Chew's House, and in the cellars of the 
 houses gathered many a wild and affrighted group, mothers holding their 
 little children to their breasts, old men whose eyes were vacant with enfee- 
 bled intellect, asking wildly the cause of all this alarm, while many a fair- 
 cheeked maiden turned pale with horror, as the thunder of the cannon seemed 
 to shake the very earth. 
 
 IV.— THE LEGEND OF GENERAL AGNEW. 
 
 A singular legend is told in relation to General Agnew. Tradition states, 
 that on the eventful morn, as he led the troops onward through the town, a 
 singular change was noted in his appearance. His cheeks were pale as 
 death, his compressed lip trembled with a nervous movement, and his eyes 
 glared hither and thither with a strange wild glance. 
 
 He turned to the aid-de-camp at his side, and said with a ghastly smile, 
 that this day's work would be his last on earth, that this battle-field would 
 be the last he should fight, that it became him to look well at the gallant 
 array of war, and share in the thickest of the fight, for in war and in fight 
 should his hand this day strike its last and dying blow. 
 
 And tradition states that as his column neared the Mennonist grave- 
 yard,* a man of strange and wild aspect, clad in the skins of wild beasts, 
 with scarred face and unshaven beard, came leaping over the grave-yard 
 wall, and asked a soldier of the British column, with an idiotic smile whether 
 that gallant officer, riding at the head of the men, was the brave General 
 Grey, who had so nobly routed the rebels at Paoli ? 
 
 • Adjoining the dwelling of Mr. Samuel Keyser, about three fourths oi a niil« t/fr 
 low Chew's House, 
 
50 THE BATTLE OF GERMANTOWJSi. 
 
 The soldier replied with a peevish oath that yonder officer was General 
 Grey, and he pointed to General Agnew as he spoke. 
 
 The strange man said never a word, but smiled with a satisfied look and 
 sprang over the grave-yard wall, and as he sprang, a bullet whistled past the 
 ear of General Agnew, and a thin column of blue smoke wound upward 
 from the grave-yard wall. 
 
 The General turned and smiled. His officers would have searched the 
 grave-yard for the author of the shot, but a sound broke on their ears from 
 the road above, and presently the clatter of hoofs and the clamor of swords 
 came thundering through the mist. 
 
 v.— THE CONTEST IN THE VILLAGE STREET. 
 
 And in a moment the voice of Sullivan was heard — " Charge — upon the 
 'Britishers' — charge them home!'''' 
 
 And the steeds of the American cavalry came thundering on, sweeping 
 down the hill with one wild movement, rushing into the very centre of the 
 enemy's column, each trooper unhorsing his man, while a thousand fierce 
 shouts mingled in chorus, and the infantry advanced with fixed bayo- 
 nets, speeding steadily onward until they had driven back their foes with 
 the force of their solid charge. 
 
 And along that solitary street of Germantown swelled the din and terror 
 of battle, there grappled with the fierce grasp of vengeance and of death the 
 columns of contending foemen, there rode the troopers of the opposite 
 armies, their swords mingling, their horses meeting breast to breast in the 
 shock of this fierce tournament; there shrieked the wounded and dying, 
 while above the heads of the combatants waved the white folds of mist, 
 mingled with the murky batde smoke. 
 
 Sullivan charged bravely, Wayne came nobly to his rescue, Pulaski 
 scattered confusion into the ranks of the enemy, and the Americans had 
 been masters of the field were it not for a fresh disaster at Chew's House, 
 combined with the mistakes of the various bodies of the Continentals, who 
 were unable to discern friend from foe in the density of the fog. 
 
 VI.— CHEWS HOUSE AGAIN. 
 
 Meanwhile the contest thickened around Chew's house ; the division of 
 Greene, united with the central body of the American army, were engaged 
 with the left wing of the British army, under Kniphausen, Grant, and Grey, 
 while Sullivan led forward into the town, a portion of the advance column 
 of his division. 
 
 Tradition has brought down to our times a fearful account of the carnage 
 and bloodshed of the fight, around Chew's house at this moment, when the 
 British army to the south, and the Americans to the north, advanced in the 
 terrible charge, under the cover of the mist and gloom. 
 
 It was like fighting in the dark. The Americans advanced colunm aftei 
 
THE ADVENTURE OF WASHINGTON 51 
 
 column ; they drove back the British columns vviih a line of bristling 
 bayonets, while the fire of the backwoodsmen rattled a death-hail over the 
 field : but it was all in vain ! That gloomy mist hung over their heads, 
 concealing their foes from sight, or investing the forms of their friends with 
 a doubtful gloom, that caused them to be mistaken for British ; in the 
 fierce melle ; all was dim, undefined and indistinct. 
 
 VII.— THE ADVENTURE OF WASHINGTON. 
 
 It was at this moment that a strange resolution came over the mind of 
 Washington. All around him was mist and gloom, he saw his men disap- 
 pear within the fog, toward Chew's house, but he knew not whether their 
 charge met with defeat or victory. He heard the tread of hurrying 
 legions, the thunder of the caimon, the ratde of the musquetry broke on his 
 ear, mingled with the shrieks of the wounded and the groans of the dying. 
 The terrible panorama of a battle field, passed vividly before his eyes, 
 but still he knew not the cause of the impregnability of Chew's house. 
 
 He determined to advance toward the house, and examine its position in 
 person. 
 
 He turned to the officers of his staflT — " Follow me who will !" he cried, 
 and in a moment, his steed of iron grey was careering over the sod, littered 
 with ghasUy corses, while the air overhead was alive with the music of bul- 
 lets, and earth beneath was flung against the war steed's flanks by the can- 
 non ball. 
 
 Followed by Hamilton, by Pickering, by Marshall, and by Lee, of the 
 gallant legion, Washington rode forwa-rd, and speeding between the fires of 
 the opposing armies, approached the house. 
 
 At every step, a dead man with a livid face turned upward ; litde pools 
 of blood crimsoning the lawn, torn fragments of attire scattered over the 
 sod ; on every side hurrying bodies of the foemen, while terrible and unre- 
 mitting, the fire flashing from the windows of Chew's House, flung a lurid 
 glare over the battle-field. 
 
 Washington dashed over the lawn ; he approached the house, and every 
 man of his train held his breath. Bullets were whisding over their heads, 
 cannon balls playing round their horses' feet, yet their leader kept on his 
 way of terror. A single glance at the house, with its vollies of flame flash- 
 ing from every window, and he turned to the north to regain the American 
 lines, but the fog and smoke gathered round him, and he found his horse 
 entangled amid the enclosures of the catde-pen to the north of the mansion. 
 " Leap your horses — " cried Washington to the brave men around him 
 — "Leap your horses and save yourselves !" 
 
 And in a moment, amid the mist and gloom his officers leaped the north- 
 ern enclosure of the catUe-pen, and rode forward to the American line, 
 scarcely able to discover their path in the dense gloom that gathered around 
 
62 THE BATTLE OF GERMANTOWN. 
 
 them. They reached the American lines, and to their horror, discoverea 
 that Washington was not among their band. He had not leaped the fence 
 of the catlle-pen ; with the feeling of a true warrior, he was afraid of injur 
 ing his gallant steed, by this leap in the dark. 
 
 While the officers of the staff were speeding to the American line, Wash 
 ington turned his steed to the south, he determined to re-pass the liouse 
 strike to the north-east, and then facing the fires of both armies, regain the 
 (Continental lines. 
 
 He rose proudly in the stirrups, he placed his hand gently on the neck 
 of his steed, he glanced proudly around him, and then the noble horse 
 sprang forward with a sudden leap, and the mist rising for a moment dis- 
 closed the form of Washington, to the vision of the opposing armies. 
 
 JIart tfte jFouvtn* 
 
 THE FALL OF THE BANNER OF THE STARS. 
 
 ' What seest thou now, comrade ?" 
 
 " I look from the oriel window — I see a forest of glittering steel, rising in the 
 light, with the snow-flakes of waving plumes flaunting with the sunbeams! Our 
 men 'advance — the banner of the stars is borne aloft, onward and on it sweeps, like a 
 mighty bird ; and now the foemen waver, they recoil — they — " 
 
 '° They fly !— they fly !" 
 
 .. No — ,10 ! — oh, moment of horror ! — the banner of the stars is lost ! — the flag of 
 olood-red hue rises in the light — the foemen advance — I dare not look upon the 
 scene " 
 
 " Look again, good comrade — look, I beseech thee — what seest thou now ?" 
 
 " I see a desolated field, strewn with dead carcases and broken arms — the banner 
 of the stars is trampled in the dust — all is lost, and yet not all!" — I\lss. Revolutiow 
 
 I.--WASIIINGTON IN DANGER. 
 
 The form of the Chieftain rose through the smoke and gloom of battle, 
 in all its magnificence of proportion, and majesty of bearing, as speeding 
 between two opposing fires— his proud glance surveying the battle-field— he 
 retraced his path of death, and rode toward the American army. 
 
 He was now in front of Chew's House, he was passing through the very 
 sweep of the fires, belching from every window ; the bullets whistled 
 around him ; on every hand was confusion, and darkness, made more 
 fearful by the glare of musquetry, and the lightning flash of cannon. 
 
 He is now in front of Chew's House ! Another moment and the Man 
 of the Army may fall from his steed riddled by a thousand bidlets, a single 
 moment and his corse may be added to the heaps of dead piled along the 
 
THE UNKNOWN FORM. 53 
 
 lawn m all the ghastliness of death ; another moment and the Continentijs 
 may be without a leader, the British without their most determined foe. 
 
 His form is enrapt in mist, he is lost to sight, he again emerges into 
 light, he passes the house and sweeps away toward the Continental array. 
 
 He passes the house, and as he speeds onward toward the American 
 lines, a proud gleam lights up his eye, and a prouder smile wreaths his de- 
 termined lips. " The American army is yet safe, they are in the path to 
 victory — " he exclaims, as he rejoins the officers of his staff, within the 
 American lines — " Had 1 but intelligence of Armstrong in the West — of 
 Smallwood and Forman in the East, with one bold effort, we might carry 
 the field !" 
 
 But no intelligence of Smallwood or Forman came — Armstrong's move- 
 ments were all unknown — Stephens, who flanked the right wing of Greene, 
 was not heard from, nor could any one give information concerning his 
 position. 
 
 And as the battle draws to a crisis around Chew's house, as the British 
 and Americans are disputing the possession of the lawn now flooded with 
 blood, let me for a moment turn aside from the path of regular history, and 
 notice some of the legends of the battle field, brought down to our times by 
 the hoary survivors of the Revolution. 
 
 •■ II.— THE UNKNOWN FORM. 
 
 Let us survey Chew's house in the midst of the fight. 
 
 It is the centre of a whirpool of flame. 
 
 Above is the mist, spreading its death shroud over the field. Now it is 
 darkened into a pall by the battle smoke, and now a vivid cannon flash lays 
 bare the awful theatre. 
 
 Still in the centre you may see Chew's house, still from every window 
 flashes the blaze of musquetry, and all around it columns of jet black smoke 
 curl slowly upward, their forms clearly defined against the shroud of white 
 mist. 
 
 It is a terrible thing to stand in the shadows of the daybreak hour, by the 
 bedside of a dying father, and watch that ashy face, rendered more ghastly 
 by the rays of a lurid taper — it is a terrible thing to clasp the hand of a sis- 
 ter, and feel it grow cold, and colder, until it stiffens to ice in your grasp — 
 a fearful thing to gather the wife, dearest and most beloved of all, to your 
 breast, and learn the fatal truth, that the heart is pulseless, the bosom clay, 
 the eyes fixed and glassy. — 
 
 Yes, Death in any shape, in the times of Peace by the fireside, and in 
 the Home, is a fearful thing, talk of it as you will. 
 
 And in the hour when Riot howls through the streets of a wide city, its 
 4en thousand faces crimsoned by the glare of a burning church, Death looks 
 Dot only horrible but grotesque. For those dead men laid stifily along th« 
 
64 THE BATTLE OF GERMANTOWN. 
 
 streets, their cold faces turned to scarlet by the same glare that reveals the 
 cross of the tottering temple, have been murdered by their — brothers 
 Like wild beasts, hunted and torn by the hounds, they have yielded up their 
 lives, the warm blood of their hearts mingling with the filth of the gutter. 
 
 This indeed is horrible, but Death in the Battle, who shall dare paint its 
 pictures ? 
 
 What pencil snatched from the hands of a Devil, shall delineate its colors 
 of blood ? 
 
 Look upon Chew's house and behold it ! 
 
 There — under the cover of the mist, thirty thousand men are hurrying to 
 and fro, shooting and stabbing and murdering as they go ! Look ! The 
 lawn is canopied by one vast undulating sheet of flame ! 
 
 Hark ! To the terrible tramp of the horses' hoofs, as they crash on over 
 heaps of dead. 
 
 Here, you behold long columns of blue uniformed soldiers ; there dense 
 masses of scarlet. Hark ! Yes, listen and hear the horrid howl of 
 slaughter, the bubbhng groan of death, the low toned pitiful note of pain. 
 Pain ? What manner of pain ? Why, the pain of arms torn off at the 
 shoulder, limbs hacked into pieces by chain shot, eyes darkened forever. 
 
 Not much poetry in this, you say. No. Nothing but truth — truth that 
 rises from the depths of a bloody well. 
 
 From those heaps of dying and dead, I beseech you select only one cofte, 
 and gaze upon it in silence — Is he dead 1 The young man yonder with the 
 pale face, the curUng black hair, the dark eyes wide open, glaring upon that 
 shroud above — is he dead ? 
 
 Even if he is dead, stay, O, stay yon wild horse that comes rushing on 
 without a rider ; do not let him trample that young face, with his red hoofs. 
 
 For it may be that the swimming eyes of a sister have looked upon that 
 face — perchance some fair girl, beloved of the heart, has kissed those red 
 lips — do not let the riderless steed come on ; do not let him trample into 
 the sod that face, which has been wet with a Mother's tears I 
 
 And yet this face is only one among a thousand, which now pave the bat- 
 tle field, crushed by the footsteps of the hurrying soldiers, trampled by the 
 horses' hoofs. 
 
 And while the battle swelled fiercest, while the armies traversed that 
 green lawn in the hurry of contest, along the blood stained sward, with 
 calm manner and even step, strode an unknown form, passing over the 
 field, amid smoke and mist and gloom, while the wounded fell shrieking at 
 his feet, and the faces of the dead met his gaze on every side. 
 
 It was the form of an aged man, with grey hairs streaming over hi? 
 shoulders, an aged man with a mild yet fearless countenance, with a tall 
 and muscular figure, clad neither in the glaring dress of the ' Britisher,' or the 
 hunting shirt of the Continental, but in the plain attire of drab cloth, the 
 
THE UNKNOWN FORM. 55 
 
 simple coat, vest with wide appels, small clothes ami stockings, that mark 
 the believers of the Quaker I'aiih. 
 
 He was a Friend. Who he was, or what was his name, whence he 
 came, or whither he went, no one could tell, and tradition still remains 
 silent. 
 
 But aloni,- that field, he was seen gliding amid the heat and glare of bat- 
 tle. Did the wounded soldier shriek for a cup of water ? It was his hand 
 that brought it from the well, on the verge of Chew's wall. Extended 
 along the sward, with their ghastly faces quivering with the spasmodic throe 
 of insupportable pain, the dying raised themselves piteously on their tremb- 
 ling hands, and in broken tones asked for relief, or in the wildness of de- 
 lirium spoke of their far oft' homes, whispered a message to their wives or 
 little ones, or besought the blessing of their grey haired sires. 
 
 It was the Quaker, the unknown and mysterious Friend, who was seen 
 unarmed save with the Faith of God, undefended save by the Armour of 
 Heaven, kneeling on the sod, whispering words of comfort to the dying, and 
 pointing with his uplifted hand to a home beyond the skies, where battle 
 nor wrong nor death ever came. 
 
 Around Chew's house and over the lawn he sped on his message of 
 mercy. There was fear and terror around him, the earth beneath his mea- 
 sured footsteps quivered, and the air was heavy with death, but he trembled 
 not, nor quailed, nor turned back from his errand of mercy. 
 
 Now seen in the thickest of the fight, the soldiers rushing on their paths 
 of blood, started back as they beheld his mild and peaceful figure. Some 
 deemed him a thing of air, some thought they beheld a spirit, not one offered 
 to molest or harm the Messenger of Peace. 
 
 It was a sight worth all the ages of controversial Divinity to see — this 
 plain Quaker going forth with the faith of that Saviour, whose name has 
 ever been most foully blasphemed by those who called themselves his 
 friends, going forth with the faith of Jesus in his heart, speaking comfort to 
 the dying, binding up the gashes of the wounded, or yet again striding 
 boldly into the fight and rescuing with his own unarmed hands the prostrate 
 soldier from the attack of his maddened foe. 
 
 Blessings on his name, the humble Quaker, for this deed which sanctifies 
 humanity, and makes lis dream of men of mortal mould raised to the majesty 
 of Gods. His name is not written down, his history is all unknown, but 
 when the books of the unknown world are bared to the eyes of a 
 congregated universe, then will that name shine brighter and lighter with a 
 holier gleam, than the name of any Controversial Divine or loud-mouthed 
 ftireling, that ever disgraced Christianity or blasphemed the name of Jesus. 
 
 Ah, melhinks, even amid the carnage of Germantovvn, I see the face of 
 the Redeemer, bending from the battle-mist, and smiling upon the peaceful 
 Quaker, as he never smiled upon learned priest or mitred prelate. 
 
66 THE BATTLE OF GERMANTOWN. 
 
 III.— THE REVEL OF DEATH. 
 
 Within Chaw's house this was the scene : 
 
 Every room crowded with soldiers in their glaring crimson attire, the old 
 hall thronged by armed men, all stained with blood and begrimed with battle 
 smoke, the stair-way trembling beneath the tread of soldiers bearing ammu- 
 nition to the upper rooms, while every board of the floor, every step of the 
 stair-case bore its ghastly burden of dying and dead. The air was pestilent 
 with the smell of powder, the walls trembled with the shock of battle; thick 
 volumes of smoke rolling from the lower rooms, wound through the doors, 
 mto the old hall, and up the stairway, enveloping all objects in a pall of 
 gloom, that now shifted aside, and again came down upon the forms of the 
 British soldiers like dark night. 
 
 Let us ascend the stairway. Tread carefully, or your foot will trample 
 on the face of that dead soldier ; ascend the staircase with a cautious step, 
 or you will lose your way in the battle smoke. 
 
 The house trembles to its foundation, one volley of musquetry after 
 another breaks on your ear, and all around is noise and confusion ; nothing 
 seen but armed men hurrying to and fro, nothing heard but the thunder of 
 the fight. 
 
 We gain the top of the stairway — we have mounted over the piles of 
 dead — we pass along the entry — we enter the room on the right, facing to« 
 ward the lawn. 
 
 A scene of startling interest opens to our sight. At each window are 
 arranged files of men, who, with faces all blood stained and begrimed, are 
 sending their musquet shots along the lawn ; at each window the floor is 
 ' stained with a pool of blood, and the bodies of the dead are dragged away 
 by the strong hands of their comrades, who fill their places almost as soon 
 as they receive their death wound. The walls are rent by cannon balls, 
 and torn by bullets, and the very air seems ringing with the carnival shouts 
 of old Death, rejoicing in the midst of demons. 
 
 Near a window in this room clustered a gallant band of British officers, 
 who gave the word to the men, directed the dead to be taken from the floor, 
 or gazed out upon the lawn in the endeavor to pierce the gloom of the 
 contest. 
 
 Some were young and handsome oflScers, others were veterans who had 
 mowed their way through many a fight, and all were begrimed with the 
 blood and smoke of battle. Their gaudy coats were rent, the epaulette was 
 torn from one shoulder by the bullet, the plume from the helm of another, 
 and a third fell in his comrades' arms, as he received the ball in his heart. 
 
 While they stood gazing from the window, a singular incident occurred. 
 
 A yourg officer, standing in the midst of his comrades, felt something 
 drop from the ceiling, and trickle down his cheek. 
 
THE REVEL OF DbATH. 67 
 
 The fight was fierce and bloody in the attic overhead. They could hear 
 the cannon balls tearing shingles from the roof— they could hear the low. 
 deep groans of the dying 
 
 Another drop fcU from the ceiling — another and another. 
 "It is blood !" cried his comrades, and a laugh went round the group. 
 Drop after drop fell from the ceiling; and in a moment a thin liquid 
 stream came trickling down, and pattered upon the blood-stained lloor. 
 
 The young officer reached forth his hand, he held it extended beneath the 
 falling stream : he applied it to his lips. 
 
 " Not blood, but wine!" he shouted. " Good old Madeira wine !" 
 The group gathered round the young officer in wonder. It was wine — 
 good old wine — that was dripping from the ceding. In a few moments the 
 young officer, rushing through the gloom and confusion of the stairway, had 
 ransacked the attic, and discovered under the eaves of the roof, between the 
 rafters and the floor, some three dozen bottles of old Madeira wine, placed 
 there for safe-keeping some score of years before the batUe. These bottles 
 were soon drawn from their resting-place, and the eyes of the group in the 
 room below were presently astonished by the vision of the ancient bottles, 
 all hung with cobwebs, their sealed corks covered with dust. 
 
 In a moment the necks were struck off some half-dozen bottles, and while 
 the fire poured from the window along the lawn, while cries and shrieks, 
 and groans, broke on the air ; whde the smoke came rolling in the window, 
 now in folds of midnight blackness, and now turned to lurid red by the 
 glare of cannon ; while the terror and gloom of batde arose around them, 
 the group of officers poured the wine in an ancient goblet, discovered in a 
 closet of the mansion, — they filled it brimming full with wine, and drank a 
 royal health to the good King George ! 
 
 They drank and drank again, until their eyes sparkled, and their lips 
 grew wild with loyal words, and their thirst for blood — the blood of the 
 rebels — was excited to madness. Again and again were the soldiers shot 
 down at the window, again were their places filled, and once more the gob- 
 let went round from lip to lip, and the old wine was poured forth like water, 
 in healths to the good King George ! 
 
 And as they drank, one by one, the soldiers were swept away from the 
 windows, until at the last the officers stood exposed to the blaze of the 
 American fire, flashing from the green lawn. 
 
 " Health to King George — Death to the rebels !" 
 
 '1 he shout arose from the lips of a grey-haired veteran, and he fell to tlie 
 floor, a mangled corse. The arm that raised the goblet was shattered at 
 the elbow by one musket ball, as another penetrated his brain. 
 
 The goblet was seized by another hand, and the reveJ grew loud anil 
 wild. The sparkling wine was poured forth like water, healths were drank, 
 hurrahs were shouted, and — another officer measured his length on the floor. 
 He had received his ball of death 
 4 
 
58 THE BATTLE OF GERMANTC WN. 
 
 There was something of ludicrous horror in the scene. 
 
 Those sounds of revel and bacchanalian uproar, breaking on the air, amid 
 the intervals — the short and terrible intervals of battle — those faces flushed 
 by wine, and agitated by all the madness of the moinent, turned from one 
 side to another, every lip wearing a ghastly smile, every eye glaring from 
 its socket, while every voice echoed the drunken shout and the fierce 
 hurrah. 
 
 Another officer fell wounded, and another, and yet another. The young 
 officer who had first discovered the wine alone remained. 
 
 Even in this moment of horror, we cannot turn our eyes away, from his 
 young countenance, with its hazel eyes and thickly clustered hair ! 
 
 He glanced round upon his wounded and dying comrades, he looked 
 Vacantly in the faces of the dead, he gazed upon the terror and confusion 
 of the scene, and then he seized the goblet, filled it brimming-fuU with wine, 
 and raised it to his lips. 
 
 His lip touched the edge of the goblet, his face was reflected in the 
 quivering wavelets of the wine, his eyes rolled wildly to and fro, and then 
 a musket shot pealed through the window. The officer glared around with 
 a maddened glance, and then the warm blood, spouting from the wound 
 between his eyebrows, fell drop by drop into the goblet, and mingled with 
 the wavelets of the ruby wine. 
 
 And then there was a wild shout ; a heavy body toppled to the floor 
 and the young soldier with a curse on his lips went drunken to his God. 
 
 Let us for a moment notice the movements of the divisions of Washing- 
 ton's army, and then return to the principal battle ground at Chew's house. 
 
 The movements of the divisions of Smallwood and Forman are, to this 
 day, enveloped in mystery. They came in view of the enemy, but the 
 density of the mist, prevented them from effectually engaging with the 
 'British. 
 
 Armstrong came marching down the Manatawny road, until the quiet 
 Wissahikon dawned on the eyes of his men ; but after this moment, his 
 march is also wrapt in mystery. — Some reports state that he actually 
 engaged with the Hessian division of the enemy, others state that the alarm 
 of the American retreating from Chew's house reached his ear, as the van 
 guard of his command entered Germantown, near the market-house, ard 
 commenced firing upon the chasseurs who flanked the left wing of the 
 British army. 
 
 However this may be, yet tradition has brought down to our times a ter- 
 rible legend connected with the retreat of Armstrong's division. The 
 theatre of this legend was the quiet "Wissahikon, and this is the story of 
 ancient tradition. 
 
THE WISSAHIKON. 
 
 IV.— THE WISSAHIKON. 
 
 59 
 
 U is a poem of everlasting beauty — a dream of magnificence — th« 
 wrcvid-hidden, wood-embowered Wissahikon. Its pure waters break for- 
 ever in ripples of silver nroiind the base of colossal rocks, or sweep miiT- 
 muringly on, over beds of pebbled flints, or spread into calm and mirror- 
 like lakes, with shores of verdure, surmounted by green hills, rolling away 
 in waves of forest trees, or spreading quiedy in the fierce light of the sum- 
 mer sun, with the tired catde grouped beneath the lofty oaks. 
 
 It is a poem of beauty — where the breeze mourns its anthem through the 
 tall pines ; where the silver waters send up their voices of joy ; where 
 calmness, and quiet, and intense solitude awe the soul, and fill the heart 
 with bright thoughts and golden dreams, woven in the luxury of the sum- 
 mer hour. 
 
 From the moment your eyes first drink in the gladness of its waters, as 
 they pour into the Schuylkill, seven miles from Philadelphia, until you be- 
 hold it winding its thread of silver along the meadows of Whitemarsh, m»iy 
 miles above, it is all beauty, all dream, all magnificence. 
 
 It breaks on your eye, pouring into the Schuylkill, a calm lake, with an 
 ancient and picturesque mill* in the foreground. A calm lake, buried^in 
 the depths of towering steeps, that rise almost perpendicularly on either 
 Bide, casting a shadow of gloom over the water, while every steep is greea 
 with brushwood, every rocky cleft magnificent with the towering oak, the 
 sombre pine, or the leafy chesnut. 
 
 This glen is passed ; then you behold hilly shores, sloping away to the 
 south in pleasant undulations, while on the north arise frowning steeps. 
 Then your mind is awed by tremendous hills on either side, creating one 
 immense solitude ; rugged steeps — all precipice and perpendicular rock — 
 covered and crowded with giant pines, and then calm and rippleless lakes, 
 shadowy glens, deep ravines and twilight dells of strange and dreamy 
 beauty. 
 
 There is, in sooth, a stamp of strange and dreamy beauty impressed 
 upon every ripple of the Wissahikon, every grassy bank extending greenly 
 along its waters, on every forest-tree towering beside its shores. 
 
 On the calm summer's day, when the sun is declining in the west, you 
 may look from the height of some grey, rugged steep, down upon the depths 
 of the world-hidden waters. Wild legends wander across your fancy as 
 you gaze ; every scene around you seems but the fitting location for a wild 
 and drcimy tradition, every rock bears its old time story, every nook of the 
 wild wood has its tale of the ancient days. The waters, deep, calm, and 
 well-like, buried amidst overhanging hills, have a strange and mysterious 
 
 * Fcrmerly Vanduring'e, now Robinson's mill. 
 
(if) THE BATTLE OF GERMANTOWN, 
 
 Hearness. The long shadows of the hills, broken by golden belts of sun- 
 shine, clothe the waters in sable and gold, in glitter and in shadow. All 
 aronnd is quiet and still ; silence seems to have assumed a positive existence 
 amid tiiese vallies of romance and of dreams. 
 
 It was along the borders of this quiet stream, that an ancient fabric arose 
 tawering through the verdure of the trees, with its tottering chimneys 
 enreloped in folds of mist. The walls were severed by many a fissure, the 
 windows were crumbling to decay ; the halls of the ancient mansion were 
 silent as the tomb. 
 
 It was wearing toward noon, when a body of soldiers, wearing the blue 
 hunting-shirt and fur cap with bucktail plume, came rushing from the woods 
 na the opposite side of the rivulet, came rushing through the waters of the 
 lonely stream, and hurried with hasty steps toward the deserted house. 
 
 In a moment they had entered its tottering doorway, and disappeared 
 within its aged walls. Another instant, and a body of soldiers broke from 
 the woods on the opposite side of the stream, clad in the Hessian costume, 
 with ponderous bearskin caps, heavy accroutements, and massive muskets. 
 
 They crossed the stream, and rushed into the house in pursuit of the 
 flying continentals. They searched the rooms on the first floor; they hur- 
 ried along the tottering timbers, but not a single Continental was to be seen. 
 They ascended the crumbling stairway with loud shouts and boisterous 
 oalhs, and reached the rooms of the second story. Every door was flung 
 hastily aside, every closet was broken open, the boards were even torn from 
 the floor, every nook was searched, every corner ransacked, and yet no 
 vision of a blue shirted backwoodsman, met the eye of the eager Hessians. 
 
 All was silent as death. 
 
 Their own footfalls were returned in a thousand echoes, their own shouts 
 alone disturbed the silence of the house, but no sound or sight, could be ob- 
 tained of the fleeing Continentals. Every room was now searched, save 
 the garret, and the Hessians, some twenty men, able bodied and stout, were 
 about rushing up the stairway of the attic in pursuit of the ten Continental 
 soldiers, when the attention of one of their number was arrested by a sin- 
 gular spectacle. 
 
 The Hessian soldier beheld through a crumbling window frame, the 
 flgure of a woman, standing on the height of an abrupt steep, overhanging 
 the opposite side of the stream. She waved her hands to the soldier, 
 shouted and waved her hands again. He heeded her not, but rushed up the 
 Btairway after his companions. 
 
 The shout of that unknown woman was the warning of death. 
 
 While the Hessians were busily engaged in searching the attic, while 
 the;r shouts and execrations awoke the echoes of the roof, while they were 
 thrusting sword and bayonet into the dark corners of the apartment, that 
 shout of the woman on the rock, arose, echoing over the stream again and 
 again. 
 
THE CRISIS OF THE FIGHT. ♦ 61 
 
 The Hessians rt.:?hcd *;D the window, they suddenly remembered tiial 
 they had neglected to search the cellar, and looking lar below, they beheld 
 tiiin wreaths of light blue smoke, winding upward from the cellar window. 
 
 A fearful susjjicion crept over the mmds of the soldiers. 
 
 They rushed from the attic, in a moment they might reach the lowei 
 floor and escape. With that feeling of unimaginable terror creeping round 
 each heart and paling every face, they rustied tremblingly on, they gained 
 the second floor, their footsteps already resounded along the stairway when 
 the boards trembled beneath their feet, a horrid combination of sounds assaile<l 
 their ears, aud the walls rocked to and fro like a frantic bacchanal. 
 
 Another moment! And along that green wood rang a fearful sound, 
 louder and more terrible than thunder, shaking the very rocks with an earth- 
 quake motion, while the fragments of the ancient fabric arose blackening 
 into the heavens, mingled with Iiuman bodies torn and scattered into innu- 
 nierable pieces, and the air was filled with a dense smoke, that hung over 
 the forest, m one thick and blackening pall. 
 
 In a few moments the scene was clear, but the ancient house had disap- 
 peared as if by magic, while the shouts of the Continental soldiers were 
 heard in the woods, far beyond the scene. 
 
 The house had been used by the British as a temporary depot of powder. 
 When the American Continentals rushed into the cellar, they beheld tbe 
 kegs standing in one corner, they piled up combustible matter in its vicinity- 
 and then made their escape from the house by a subterranean passage 
 known only to themselves. They emerged into open air some hundred 
 yards beyond, and beheld the result of this signal vengeance on their foes. 
 
 V.-THE CRISIS OF THE FIGHT. 
 
 Again we return to the field of Chew's House. 
 
 W^ashington determined to make one last and desperate effort. Tlie 
 Corps de Reserve under Stirling, and Maxwell, and Nash, came thundering 
 along the field ; each sword unsheathed, every bayonet firm ; every man 
 eager and ready for the encounter. 
 
 It was now near nine o'clock in the morning. — The enemy still retained 
 Chew's house. The division under Greene, the main body commanded 
 by Wayne, by Sullivan and Conway, composed the American force engaged 
 'in actual contest. — To this force was now added the Corps de Resenre, 
 under Lord Stirling, Generals Maxwell and Nash. 
 
 l^e British force, under command of General Howe, who had arrived 
 on the field soon after the onslaught at Chew's House, were led to batde by 
 Kniphausen, Agnew, Grant, and Grey, who now rode from troop to troop, 
 from rank to rank, hurrying the men around toward the main point of the flight. 
 
 There was a paus(! in the horror of the battle. 
 
 The Americans rested on dieir arms, the troopers reined in their stee*is 
 
6a THE BATTLE OF GERMANTOWN. 
 
 tn sitrnt of Chew's House, and amid the bodies of the dead. The Conti- 
 nental ranks were terribly thinned by the desolating fire fiom the house ; 
 CTery file was diminished, and in some instances, whole companies were 
 fftrept away. 
 
 The British were fresh in vigor, and ably armed and equipped. They 
 impatiently rushed forward, eager to steep their arms in American blood. 
 
 And amid the folds of mist and battle-smoke — while the whole field re- 
 sembled some fearful phantasmagoria of fancy, with its shadowy figures flit- 
 titlg to and fro, while the echo of the cannon, the rattle of the musquetry, 
 and the shrieks of the wounded yet rung on the soldiers' ears — they eagerly 
 awaited the signal for the re commencement of the fight. 
 
 The signal rang along the lines ! In an instant the cannons opened their 
 fir.e on Chew's house, the troopers came thundering on in their hurricane 
 charge. All around were charging legions, armed bodies of men hurrying 
 toward tlie house, heaps of the wounded strown over the sod. That terri- 
 ble cry which had for three long hours gone shrieking up to heaven from 
 that lawn, now rose above the tumult of'battle — the quick piercing cry of 
 the strong man, smitten suddenly down by his death-wound. 
 
 The American soldiers fought like men who fight for everything that man 
 needs for sustenance, or holds dear in honor, or sacred in religion. Step by 
 step the veteran continentals drove the Britishers over the field, trampling 
 down the faces of their dead comrades in the action ; step by step were 
 they driven back in their turn, musquets were clubbed in the madness of the 
 strife, and the cry for "quarter," fell on deafened ears. 
 
 Then it was that the chieftains of the American host displayed acts of 
 superhuman courage ! 
 
 (n the thickest of the fight, where swords flashed most vivedly, where 
 death-errnans shrieked most terribly upon the air, where the steeds of con- 
 tending squadrons rushed madly against each other in the wild encounter of 
 the charge, there might you see mad Anthony Wayne ; his imposing form 
 towering: ^^er the heads of the combatants, his eye blazing with excitement, 
 and his sword, all red with blood, rising and falling like a mighty hammer 
 in the hands of a giant blacksmith. 
 
 How gallantly the warrior-drover rides ! Mounted on his gallant war- 
 steed, he comes once mor;^ to battle, his sword gleaming like a meteor, 
 around his head. On and on, without fear, without a thought save his coun- 
 try's honor and the vengeance of Paoli — on and on he rides and as he 
 speeds, his shout rings out clear and lustily upon the air — 
 
 "On, comrades, on — and Remember Paoli!" 
 
 '■'■Forwarts, brndern., forwarts .'" 
 
 Ha ! The gallant Pulaski ! How like a king he rides at the head of his 
 .ron band, how firmly he sits in his stirrups, how gallantly he beckons his 
 mer onw9rd, hew L-kr n surbeam playing on glittering ice, his sword flits «j 
 and Iro, along the darkened air ! 
 
THE CRISIS OF THE FIGHT. 03 
 
 Like one solid battle-bolt, his gallant band speed onwari, carrying terror 
 and confusion into the very centre of Kniphausen's columns, leaving a line 
 of dead men in their rear, and driving the discomfitted Hessians before them, 
 while the well-known battle-shout of Pulaski halloos these war-hounds on 
 '«) th.f i'iughter — 
 
 *' P'orwarts — brudern — forwarts !" 
 
 And there he rides, known to all the men as their commander, seen by 
 every eye in the interval of the battle-smoke, hailed by a thousand voices 
 — Washington ! 
 
 Hark ! How the cheer of his deep-toned voice swells through the confu- 
 sion of battle ! 
 
 A calm and mild-faced man, leading on a column of Continentals, rides 
 up to his side, and is pushing forward into the terror of the mist-hidden 
 mele^, when the voice of Washington rings in his ear — 
 
 " Greene — why is Stephens not here ? Why does he delay his divi- 
 sion ?" 
 
 " General, we have no intelligence of his movements. He has not yel 
 appeared upon the field — " 
 
 Washington's lip quivered. A world seemed pent up in his heart, and 
 for once in his entire life, his agitation was visible and apparent. 
 
 He raised his clenched hand on high, and as Napoleon cursed Grouchy 
 at Waterloo, in after times, so Washington at Germantown cursed Stephens, 
 from his very heart of hearts. The glittering game of battle was being 
 played around him. Stephens alone was wanting to strike terror into the 
 ranks of the enemy around Chew's house, the crisis had come — and Ste- 
 phens was not there, one of the most important divisions of the army was 
 powerless. 
 
 And now the gallant Stirling, the brave Nash, and the laurelled Maxwell, 
 came riding on, at the head of the corps de reserve, every man with his 
 sword and bayonet, yet unstained with blood, eager to join the current of the 
 fight. 
 
 Nash — the brave General of the North Carolina Division, was rushing 
 into the midst of the melee with his men, leading them on to deeds of cour- 
 age and renown, when he received his death-wound, and fell insensible in 
 the arms of one of his aids-de-camp. 
 
 The mist gathering thicker and denser over the battle field, caused a ter- 
 rible mistake on the part of the American divisions. They charged against 
 their own friends, shot down their own comrades, and even bayonetted the 
 very soldiers who had shared their mess, ere they discovered the fatal mis- 
 take. The mist and battle-smoke rendered all objects dim and indistinct— 
 the event of this battle will show, that it was no vain fancy of the author, 
 which induced him to name this mist of Germantown — the Shroud of 
 Death. It proved a shroud of death, in good sooth, for hundreds who laid 
 down their lives on the sod of the battle field. 
 
64 THE BATTLE OF GERMANTO VVN. 
 
 The gallant Colonel i\I:iiiliews, at the head of a Virginia regiment, pene- 
 trated into the centre of the town, driving the British before him at pleasure, 
 and after this glorious effort, he was returning to the American lines with 
 some three hundred prisoners, when he encountered a body of troops in the 
 misl, whom he supposed to be Continentals. He rode unfearingly into their 
 midst, ami found himself a prisoner in the heart of the British army ! The 
 mist had foiled his gallant effort ; his prisoners ^vere recaptured, himself and 
 his men were captives to the fortune of war. 
 
 Now it was that Washington beheld his soldiers shrink and give way on 
 every side ! On every hand they began to waver, from line to line, from 
 column to column ran terrible rumors of the approach of Cornvvallis, with 
 a reinforcement of grenadiers; the American soldiers were struck with despair. 
 
 They had fought while there was hope, they had paved their way to vic- 
 tory M.ih heaps of dead, they had fought against superior discipline, superior 
 force, superior fortune, but the mist that overhung the battle field, blasted all 
 their hopes, and along the American columns rang one word, that struck 
 like a knell of death on the heart of Washington — '■^retreat'''' — "retreat !" 
 
 It was all in vain that the American chieftain threw himself in the way 
 of the retreating ranks and besought them to stand firm — for the sake of 
 tfieir honor, for the sake of their country, for the sake of their God. 
 
 It was all in vain ! In vain was it that Pulaski threw his troopers in the 
 path chosen by the fugitives ; in vain did he wave his sword on high, and 
 be8ei?ch them in his broken dialect, with a flushed cheek and a maddening 
 eye, implore them to turn and face the vi^ell-nigh conquered foe ! It was in 
 vain ! 
 
 In vain did Mad Anthony Wayne, the hero of Pennsylvania, ride from 
 rank to rank, and with his towering form raised to its full height, hold his 
 hand aloft, and in the familiar tones of brotherly intimacy, beckon the sol- 
 diers once again to the field of battle. 
 
 All was in vain ! 
 
 And while Chew's house still belched forth its fires of death, while all 
 through Germantown were marching men, hot-foot from Philadelphia, while 
 over the fatal lawn rushed hurried bands of the Continentals, seeking for 
 their comrades among the dead, Washington gazed to the north and beheld 
 the columns of Continentals, their array all thinned and scattered, their num- 
 bers iiminished, taking their way along the northern road, calmly it is true, 
 r,n(! "n -.^-niarkable order, but still in the order of a retreat, though the enemy 
 showed no disposition to annoy or pursue them. 
 
 And wliile his heart swelled to bursting, and his lip was pressed between 
 his teeth in anguish, Washington bowed his head to the mane of his gallan» 
 "grp.y" and veiled his face in his hands, and then his muscular chest throb- 
 bed as though a tempest were pent up within its confines. 
 
"RETREAT." 65 
 
 In a moment ne raised his face. All was calm and immoveable, all 
 traces of emotion had passed away from the stern and commandinof features, 
 IVct the waves rolling from the rock. 
 
 n<; ^vhispered a few brief words to his aids-de-camp, and then raising his 
 fjrrn proudly in the stiiTups, he rode along the Continental columns, while 
 with a confused and half-suppressed murmuring sound, the Retueai o? 
 Germantown commenced. 
 
 Havt tlie iFiftti, 
 
 THE LAST SHOT OF THE BATTLE. 
 
 " Look forth upon the scene of fight, comrade." 
 
 " The moon is up in the heavens — her beams glimmer on the cold faces of the dcid 
 Over dead carcase and over fallen banner, in the midst of the lawn, arises one £3!! 
 and ghastly form, towering in the moonbeams — " 
 
 " The form, comrade ?" 
 
 " It is the form of Death, brooding and chuckling over the carnage of the field ; h9 
 shakes his arms of bone aloft, his skeleton hands wave in the moonlight, he holds 
 
 HIGH FESTIVAL OVER THE BODIES OF THE DEAD." — MsS. OF THE REVOLUTION. 
 1.— THE SOLDIER AND HIS BURDEN. 
 
 A PAUSE in the din of battle ! } 
 
 The denizens of Mount Airy and Chesnut Hill came crowding to th^ii 
 doors and windows ; the hilly street was occupied by anxious groups of 
 people, who conversed in low and wliispered tones, with hurried gestures 
 and looks of surprise and fear. Yonder group who stand clustered in the 
 roadside ! 
 
 A grey haired man with his ear inclined intently toward Germantown, 
 his hands outspread, and his trembling form bent with age. The maiden, 
 fair cheeked, red lipped, and blooming, clad in the peasant costume, the 
 tight boddice, the linsey skirt, the light 'kerchief thrown over the bosom. 
 Her ear is also inclined toward Germantown, and her small hands aie in- 
 voluntarily crossed over her bosom, that heaves and throbs into view. 
 
 The matron, calm, self possessed, and placid, litde children clinging to 
 the skirt of her dress, her wifely cap flung carelessly on her head, with 
 hair, slightly touched with grey, while the sleeping babe nestles in hor 
 bosom. 
 
 The boy, with the light flaxen hair, the ruddy chesks, the merry blue 
 eye I He stands silent and motionlese — he also listens ' 
 
66 THE BATTLE OF GERMANTOWJN, 
 
 You stand upon the height of Mount Airy, it is wearing towards noon, 
 yet gaze around you. 
 
 Above the mist is rising. Here and there a« occasional sun gleam lights 
 the rolling clouds of mist, but the atmosphere wears a dull leaden hue, and 
 the vast horizon a look of solemnity and gloom. 
 
 Beneath and around sweep field and plain, buckwheat field, and sombre 
 woods, luxuriant orchards and fertile vallies, all seen in the intervals of the 
 white columns of the uprising mist. 
 
 The group clustered along the roadside of Mount Airy are still and silent. 
 Each heart is full, every ear absorbed in the effort of catching the slightes 
 sound from Germantown. 
 
 There is a strange silence upon tlie air. A moment ago, and far off 
 shouts broke on the ear, mingled with the thunder of cannon and the 
 shrieks of musquetry, the earth seemed to tremble, and far around the wide 
 horizon was agitated by a thousand echoes. 
 
 Now the scene is still as midnight. Not a sound, not a shout, not a dis- 
 tant hurrah. The anxiety of the group upon the hill becomes absorbing 
 and painful. Looks of wonder at the sudden pause in the battle, flit from 
 face to face, and then low whispers are heard, and then comes another mo- 
 ment of fearful suspense. 
 
 It is followed by a wild rushing sound to the south, like the shrieks of 
 tb.e ocean waves, as they fill the hold of the foundering ship, while it sinks 
 fir in the loneliness of the seas. 
 
 Then a pause, and again that unknown sound, and then the traiarap of ten 
 thousand footsteps, mingled with a wild and indistinct murmur. — Tramp, 
 tramp, tramp, the air is filled with the sound, and then distinct voices break 
 upon the air, and the clatter of arms is borne on the breeze. 
 
 The boy turns to his mother, and asks her who has gained the day ? 
 Every heart feels vividly that the battle is now over, that the account of 
 blood is near its close, that the appeal to the God of battles has been made. 
 
 The mother turns her tearful eyes to the south — she cannot answer the 
 question. The old man, awaking from a reverie, turns suddenly to the 
 maid; n, and clasps her arm with his trembling hands. His lips move, but 
 his tongue is unable to syllable a sound. His suspense is fearful. He 
 flings a trembling hand southward, and speaks his question with the gesture 
 of age. 
 
 The battle, the battle, how goes the battle ? 
 
 And as he makes the gesture, the figure of a soldier is seen rusKing from 
 vh". mist in the valley below, he comes speeding round the bend of the road, 
 he aec=^;nds the hill, but his steps totter, and he staggers to and fro like a 
 dntnken man. 
 
 He bears a burden on his shoulders — is it the plunder of the fight, is it 
 spoil gathered from the ranks of the dead ? 
 
 No — ^no. He bears an aged man on his shoulders, he grasps the ag»ta 
 
THE SOLDIER AND HIS BURDEN. 67 
 
 form with his trembling arms, and with an unsteady step nears the group 
 nn the hill top. 
 
 The old man's grey hairs are waving in the breeze, and his extended 
 hand grasps a broken bayonet, which he raises on high with a maniac 
 gesture. 
 
 The soldier and the veteran he bears upon his shoulders, are clad in the 
 blue huntmg shirt, torn and tattered and stained with blood, it is true, but 
 still yoo can recognize the uniform of the Revolution. 
 
 The tottering soldier nears the group, he lays the aged veteran down by 
 the roadside, and then looks around with a ghastly face and a rolling eye. 
 There is blood dripping from his attire, his face is begrimed with powder, 
 and spotted with crimson drops. He glances wildly around, and then 
 kneeling on the sod he takes the hands of the aged man in his own, and 
 raises his head upon his knee. 
 
 The battle, the battle, how goes the batde ? 
 
 The group cluster round as they shriek the question. 
 
 The young Continental makes no reply, but gazing upon the face of the 
 dying veteran, wipes the beaded drops of blood from his forehead. 
 
 " Comrade," shrieks the veteran, " raise me on my feet, and wipe the 
 blood from my eyes. I would see him once again !" 
 
 He is raised upon his feet, the blood is wiped from his eyes, 
 
 "I see — I see — it is he — it is Washington! Yonder — yonder — I see 
 his sword — and Antony Wayne, — raise me higher, comrade, — all is getting 
 dark — I would see — Mad Antony !" 
 
 Did you ever see a picture that made your heart throb, and your eyes 
 grow blind with tears ? 
 
 Here is one. 
 
 The roadside, the group clustered in front of Allen's house, which rises 
 massive and solemn in the background. The young soldier, all weak and 
 tiL-mbling from loss of blood, raising the grey haired veteran in his arms, 
 placing his face toward Germantov/n, while the wrinkled features light up 
 with a sudden gleam, and waving his broken bayonet before his eyes, he 
 looks toward the scene of the late fight. 
 
 The bystanders, spectators of this scene. The matron gazing anxiously 
 upon the old man's face, her eyes swimming in tears, the ruddy cheeked 
 boy holding one hand of the dying veteran, the youthful maiden, all blossom 
 and innocence, standing slightly apart, with the ancient man in peasant's 
 attire, gazing vacantly around as he grasps her arm. 
 
 " Lift me, comrade — higher, higher — I see him — I see Mad Antony ! 
 Wipe the blood from my eyes, comrade, for it darkens my sight — it is da r 
 it is dark !" 
 
 And the young soldier held in his arms a lifeless corse. The old veteran 
 was dead. He had fought his last fight, fired his last shot, shouted the 
 
 
68 THE BATTLE OF GERMANTOWN. 
 
 name of Mad Antony for the last time, and yet his withered hand cle-iob«»d. 
 with the tightness of death, the broken bayonet. 
 
 The battle, the battle, how goes the battle ? 
 
 As the thrilling question again rung in his ears, the young Contine':'-,' 
 turned to the group, smiled ghastily and then flung his wounded arm to the 
 fiouth. 
 
 "7/Osf.'" he shrieked, and rushed on his way like one bereft of his 
 senses. He had not gone ten steps, when he bit the dust of the roadside 
 and lay extended in the face of day a lifeless corse. 
 
 The eyes of the group were now fixed upon the valley below. 
 
 II.— HOW THE LEGIONS CAME BACK FROM THE BATTLE. 
 
 Tramp, tramp, echoed the sound of hoofs, and then a steed, caparisoned 
 in battle array, came sweeping up the hill, with his wounded rider hanging 
 helpless and faint by the saddle-bow. — Then came another steed, speeding 
 up the hill, with bloodshot eye and quivering nostril, while his rider fell 
 dying to the earth, shouting his wild hurrah as he fell. 
 
 Then came baggage wagons, then bodies of flying troops in continental 
 attire, turned to the bend of the road in the valley below, and like a flash the 
 hillside of Mount Airy was all alive with disordered masses of armed men, 
 rushing onward with hurried steps and broken arms. 
 
 Another moment ! The whole array of the continental army comes 
 sweeping round the bend of the road, file after file, rank after rank, and 
 now, a column breaks into sight. 
 
 Alone the whole column, no vision meets the eyes of the group, but the 
 spectacle of broken arms, tarnished array, men wearied with toil and thirst, 
 fainting with wounds, and tottering with the loss of blood. 
 
 On and on, along the ascent of the hill they rush, some looking hastily 
 around with their pallid faces stained with blood, some holding their shat- 
 tered arms high overhead, others aiding their wounded comrades as they 
 hurry on in the current of the retreat, while waving in the air, the blue 
 banner of the continental host, with its array of thirteen stars, droops 
 heavily from the flagstaff, as its torn folds come sweeping into light. 
 
 And from file to file, with a wild movement and a reckless air, rode a tall 
 and muscular soldier, clad in the uniform of a general officer, his sword 
 wavmg aloft, and his voice heard above the hurry and confusion of the 
 retreat — 
 
 •'Turn, comrades, turn, and face the Britisher — turn, and the day is ours !" 
 
 Mad Anthony cried in vain ! The panic had gone like a lightning flash 
 through the army, and every man hurried on, without a thought, save the 
 U^iought of retreat ; without a motion, save the escape from the fatal field 
 of Chew's House. 
 
 Then came Pulaski and his veterans, their costumes of white extending 
 Riong the road, in glaring relief against the background of blue-shirted con- 
 
CAPTAIN LEE. 69 
 
 mientals ; then came llie columns of Sullivan, the rlivsion of Grei-no, and 
 then huddled together in a confused erowa, came the disordered bands of 
 the army, who had broken their ranks, and were marching beside the bag- 
 gage wains loaded to the very sides with wounded and dying. 
 
 It was a sad and ghastly spectacle to see that train of death-cars, rolling 
 heavily on, with the carcases of the wounded hanging over their sides, witl. 
 broken arms and limbs protruding from their confines, with pallid faces upr 
 turned to the sky, while amid the hurry and motion of the retreat, piteous 
 moans, fierce cries, and convulsive death-shrieks broke terribly on the air. 
 
 Yon gallant officer leaning from his steed, yon gallant officer, with the 
 bared forehead, the disordered dress, the ruffle spotted with blood, the coat 
 torn by sword thrusts, and dripping with the crimson current flowing from 
 the heart, while an aid-de-camp riding by his side supports his fainting form 
 on his steed, urging the noble animal forward in the path of the retreat. 
 
 It is the brave General Nash. He has fought his last fight, led his gallant 
 North Carolinians on to the field for the last time, his heart is fluttering 
 with the trembling pulsation of death, and his eyes swimming in the dim- 
 ness of coming dissolution. 
 
 In the rear, casting fierce glances toward Germantown, rides the tall form 
 of Washington, with Pickering and Hamilton and Marshall, clustering round 
 their chieftain, while the sound of the retreating legions is heard far in the 
 distance, along the heights of Chesnut Hill. 
 
 Washington reaches the summit of Mount Airy, he beholds his gallant 
 though unfortunate army sweeping far ahead, he reins his steed for a mo- 
 ment on the height of the mount, and looks toward the field of German- 
 town ! 
 
 One long look toward the scene of the hard fought fight, one quick and 
 fearful memory of the unburied dead, one half-smothered exclamation of 
 anguish, and tiie chieftain's steed springs forward, and thus progresses the 
 retreat of Germantown. 
 
 In the town the scene is wild and varied. The mist has not yet arisen, 
 the startled inhabitants have not crept from their places of concealment, and 
 through the village ride scattered bands and regiments of the British army. 
 Here a party of gaudily-clad German troopers of Walbeck break on your 
 eye, yonder the solemn and ponderous Hessian in his heavy accoutrements 
 crosses your path, here a company of plaid-kilted Highlanders came march- 
 ing on, with claymore and bagpipe, and yonder, far in the distance sweep 
 the troopers of Anspack, in their costume of midnight darkness, relieved by 
 ornaments of gold, with the skull and cross-bones engraven on each sable cap. 
 
 ni.— CAPTAIN LEE. 
 
 In the centre of the village extended a level piece of ground, surrounded 
 by dwelling houses, stretching from the eastern side of the road, with the 
 market-house, a massive and picturesque structure, arising on one side, 
 
70 THE BATTLE OF GERMANTOWN. 
 
 while the German Reformed Church, with its venerable front and steej/ie 
 arose on the other. 
 
 The gallant Captain Lee, of the Partizan Rangers, had penetrated thus 
 far into the town, in common with many other companies of the army, but 
 soon all others retreated, and he was left alone in the heart of the British 
 army, while the continentals were retreating over Mount Airy and Chesnut 
 Hill. 
 
 Lee had pursued a Hanoverian troop as far as the market house, when 
 he suddenly perceived the red-coated soldiers of Cornwallis breaking from 
 the gloom of the mist on the south, while a body of troopers came rushing 
 from the school house lane on one side, and another corps came thundering 
 from the church lane on the opposite side. 
 
 Lee was surrounded. The sable-coated troopers whom he had been pur- 
 cuing, now turned on their pursuers, and escape seemed impossible. The 
 ()rave Partizan turned to his men. Each swarthy face gleamed with 
 delight — each sunburnt hand flung aloft the batde-dented sword. The con- 
 fusion and havoc of the day had left the Partizan but forty troopers, but 
 every manly form was marked by wide shoulders, muscular chest, and lofty 
 bearing, and their uniform of green, their caps of fur, with bucktail plume, 
 gave a striking and effective appearance to the band. 
 
 " Comrades, now for a chase 1" shouted Lee, glancing gaily over his men. 
 " Let us give these scare-crow hirelings a chase ! Up the Germantown 
 road, advance, boys — forward !" 
 
 And as they galloped along the Germantown road, riding gallantly four 
 abreast, in all a warrior's port and pride, the Hanoverians, now two hundred 
 Btiong, came thundering in their rear, each dark-coated trooper leaning over 
 th.3 neck of his steed, with sword upraised, and with fierce batde-shout 
 echoing from lip to lip. 
 
 Only twenty paces lay between the Rangers and their foes. The mo- 
 notonous sound of the pattering hoof, the clank of the scabbard against the 
 soldier's booted leg, the deep, hard breathing of the horses, urged by boot 
 and spur to their utmost speed, the fierce looks of the Hanoverians, their 
 bending figures, their dress of deep black, with relief of gold, the ponder- 
 ous caps, ornamented with the fearful insignia of skull and cross-bones, the 
 Rangers sweeping gallantly in front, square and compact in their solid 
 column, each manly form in costume of green and gold, disclosed in the light, 
 in all its muscular ability and imposing proportions, as they moved forward 
 with the same quick impulse, all combined, form a scene of strange and 
 varying interest, peculiar to those times of Revolutionary peril and blood- 
 shed. 
 
 The chase became exciting. The advance company of sable-coated 
 troopers gained on Lee's gallant band at every step, and at every step they 
 left their comrades further in the rear. 
 
 I^e's men spurred their steeds merrily forward, rinjring their hoisterou" 
 
SUNSET UPON THE BATTLE FIELD. 71 
 
 •liouts tauntingly upon the air, while their exasperated foes replied with 
 curses and execrations. 
 
 And all along through the streets of Germantown lay the scene of this 
 exciting chase, the clatter of the horses' hoofs awake the echoes of the an 
 cientiiouses, bringing the frightened denizens suddenly to the doors and win- 
 dows, and the pursuers and pursued began to near the hill of the Mennon- 
 ist graveyard, while tlie peril of Lee became more imminent and apparent. 
 The Hanoverians were at the horses' heels of the Rangers — they were 
 gaining upon them at every step ; in a moment they would be surrounded 
 and cut to pieces. 
 
 Lee glanced over his shoulder. He saw his danger at a glance ; they 
 were now riding up the hill, the advance company of the enemy were in 
 his rear, the main division were some hundred yards behind. In a moment 
 the quick word of command rung from his lips, and at the instant, as the 
 whole corps attained the summit of the hill, his men wheeled suddenly 
 round, faced the pursuing enemy, and came thundering upon their ranks like 
 an earth-riven thunderbolt ! 
 
 Another moment ! and the discomfitted Hanoverians lay scattered and 
 bleeding along the roadside ; here a steed was thrown back upon its 
 haunches, crushing its rider us it fell ; here was a \rjo er clinging with the 
 grasp of death to his li nse's neck; yonder reared anoiher horse without its 
 rider, and the ground was littered with the overthrown and wounded 
 troopers. 
 
 They swept over the black-coated troopers like a thunderbolt, and in an- 
 other instant the gallant Rangers wheeled about, returning in their charge of 
 terror with the fleetness of the wind, each man sabreing an enemy as he 
 rode, and then, with a wild hurrah, they regained the summit of the hill. 
 
 Lee drew his trooper's cap from his head, his men did the same, and then, 
 with their eyes fixed upon the main body of the enemy advancing along the 
 foot of the hill, the gallant Rangers sent up a wild hurrah of triumph, wa- 
 ving their caps above their heads, and brandishing their swords. 
 
 The enemy returned a yell of execration, but ere they reached the sum- 
 mit of the hill, Lee's comj)any were some hundred yards ahead, and all 
 pursuit was vain. The Rangers rode fearlessly forward, and, ere an half, 
 hour was passed, regained the columns of the retreating army. 
 
 IV.— SUNSET UPON THE BATTLR FIELD. 
 
 It was sunset upon the field of battle — solemn and quiet sunset. The 
 rich, golden light fell over the grassy lawn, over the venerable fabric of 
 Chew's house, and over the trees scattered along the field, turning their 
 autumnal foliage to quivering gold. 
 
 The scene, was full of the spirit of desolation, steeped in death, and crim- 
 soned in blood. The green lawn — with the soil turned up by the cannon 
 wheels, by the tramp of war steeds, by the rush of the foemen — was au 
 
72 TOE BATTLE CY GERMAN TOWN. 
 
 hpaped with ghastly piles of dead, whose cold upturned faces shore, wiiii a 
 terrible lustre in the last beams of the declinino; sun. 
 
 There were senseless carcasses, with the arms rent from the shattered 
 body, with the eyes scooped from the hollow sockets, with foreheads severed 
 by the sword thrust, with hair dabbled in blood, with sunken jaws fallen oa 
 the gory chest; there was all the horror, all the bloodshed, all the butchery 
 of war, without a single gleam of its romance or chivalry. 
 
 Here a plaid-kilted Highlander, a dark-coated Hanoverian, were huddled 
 together in tlie ghastliness of sudden death ; each with that fearful red wound 
 denting the forehead, each with that same repulsive expression of convulsive 
 pain, while their unclosed eyes, cold, dead, and lustreless, glared on the blue 
 heavens with the glassy look of death. 
 
 Yonder, at the foot of a giant elm, an old Continental, sunk down in the 
 grasp of death. His head is sunken on his breast, his white hair all blood- 
 liedabbled, his blue hunting shirt spotted with clotted drops of purple. The 
 sunburnt hand extended, grasps the unfailing rifle — the old warrior is merry 
 even in death, for his lip wears a cold and unmoving smile. 
 
 A little farther on a peasant boy bites the sod, with his sunburnt face 
 half buried in the blood-soddened earth, his rustic attire of linsey tinted by 
 the last beams of the declining sun ; one arm convulsively gathered under 
 his head, the long brown iiair all stiffened with blood, while the other grasps 
 the well-used fowling piece, with which he rushed to the field, fought bravely, 
 and died like a hero. The fowling piece is with him in death ; the fowling 
 piece — companion of many a boyish ramble beside the Wissahikon, many 
 a hunting excursion on the wild and dreamy hills that frown around that 
 rivulet — is now beside him, but the hand that encloses its stock is colder 
 than the iron of its rusted tube. 
 
 Let us pass over the field, with a soft and solemn footstep, for our path 
 is yet stamped with the tread of death ; the ghosts of the heroes are throng- 
 ing in the air. 
 
 Chew's house is silent and desolate. The shattered windows, the broken 
 hall door, the splintered roof, the battered chimneys, and the walls of the 
 house stained with blood : all are silent, yet terrible proofs of the havoc and 
 ruin of the fight. 
 
 Silence is within Chew's house. No death-shriek, no groan of agony, 
 no voice shrieking to the uplifted sword to spare and pity, breaks upon the 
 air. All is still and solemn, and the eye of human vision may not pierce 
 liie gloom of the unknown, and behold the ghosts of the slain crowding be- 
 fore the throne of God. 
 
 The sun is setting over Chew's lawn and house, the soldiers of t^° 
 British army have deserted the place, and as the last beams of day quiver 
 over the field, death — terrible and fearful death — bro«ds nver the scene, in 
 all its ghastiliness and horror. 
 
THE LEGEND OF GENERAL AGNEW AGAIN. 73 
 
 V —THE LEGEND OF GENEKAt AGNEW AGAIN 
 
 A.CONG the solitary streets of Germantown, as ihe sun went down,, rang 
 luf echo of horses' hoofs, and the form of the rider of a gallant war steed 
 was seen, disclosed in the lasi beams of the dying day, as he took his way 
 along the village road. 
 
 The horseman was tall, well-formed, and muscular in proportion ; his 
 hair was slightly touched with the frost of age, and his eye was wild and 
 wandering in its glance. The compressed lip, the hollow cheek, the flash- 
 ing eye, all told a story of powerful, through suppressed emotion, stirring 
 the warrior's heart to bitter thoughts and gloomy memories. 
 
 It was General Agnew, of the British army. He had fought bravely in 
 the fight of Chew's house, though the presentiment sat heavy on his soul ; 
 he had fought bravely, escaped without a wound, and now was riding alone, 
 along the solitary street, toward the Mennonist grave-yard. 
 
 There was an expression on his commanding face that it would have 
 < niUed your heart to see. It was an expression which stamped his features 
 y'^iiti a look of doom and fate, which revealed the inward throbbings of his 
 soul, as the dark presentiment of the morning, moved over its shadowy 
 ilepths. 
 
 He may have been thinking of his home, away in the fair valleys of Eng- 
 land — of the blooming daughter, the bright-eyed boy, or the matronly wife — 
 and then a thought of the terrible wrong involved in the British cause may 
 have crossed his soul, for the carnage of Chew's lawn had been most fear- 
 liil, and it is not well to slay hundreds of living beings like ourselves, for 
 the shadow of a right. 
 
 He reached the point where the road sweeps down the hill, in front of 
 the grave-yard, and as he rode slowly down the ascent, his attention was 
 arrested by a singular spectacle. 
 
 The head of a man, grey-bearded and white haired, appeared above ihe 
 grave-yard wall, and a fierce, malignant eye met the gaze of General Agnew. 
 It was the strange old man who, in the morning, had asked whether " that 
 was General Grey ?" pointing to the person of Agnew as he spoke, and 
 being answered, by mistake or design, in the affirmative, fired a rifie at the 
 officer from the shelter of the wall. 
 
 No sooner had the wild face rose above the wall than it suddenly disap- 
 peared, and, scarce noting the circumstance, the General reined his steed for 
 a moment, on the descent of the hill, and gazed toward the western sky. 
 where the setting sun was sinking behind a rainbow hued pile of clouds, all 
 brilliant with a thousand contrasted lights. 
 
 The last beams of the sun trembled over the high forehead of General 
 Agne.w, as, with his back turned to the grave-yard wall, he gazed upon the 
 prospect, and nis eye lit up with a sudden brilliancy, when the quick 
 5 
 
74 THE BATTLE OF GERMANTOWN 
 
 and piercing report of a rifle broke on the air, and eclioed around tlie 
 scene. 
 
 A small cloud of light blue smoke wound upward from the grave-yard 
 wall, a ghastly smile overspread the face of Agnew, he looked wildly round 
 for a single instant, and then fell heavily to the dust of the road-side, a — 
 lifeless corse. 
 
 His gallant steed of ebon darkness of skin, lowered his proud crest, and 
 thrust his nostrils in his master's face, his large eyes dilating, as he snuffed 
 the scent of blood upon the air; and at the very moment that same wild 
 and ghasdy face appeared once more above the stones of the grave-yard 
 wall, and a shriek of triumph, wilder and ghastlier than the face, arose 
 chrieking above the graves. 
 
 That rifle shot, pealing from the grave-yard wall, was the last shot of 
 the battle-day of Germantown ; and that corse flung along the roadside, with 
 those cold eyes glaring on the blue sunset sky, with the death-wound near 
 the heart, was the last dead man of that day of horror. 
 
 As the sun went down, the dark horse lowered his head, and with quiver- 
 ing nostrils, inhaled the last breath of his dying master. 
 
 mvt tfie Sirtn. 
 
 THE FUNERAL OF THE DEAD. 
 
 "Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord, — they rest from their labors, tuti 
 their works do follow them." 
 
 I.— THE ANCIENT CHURCH. 
 
 In the township of Towamensing, some twenty-six miles from Philadel- 
 phia, from the green sward of a quiet grave-yard, arises the venerable walls 
 of an ancient church, under whose peaceful roof worship the believers in 
 the Mennonist faith, as their fathers worshipped before them. 
 
 The grave-yard, with its mounds of green sod, is encircled by a massive 
 wall of stone, overshadowed by a grove of primitive oaks, whose giant 
 trunks and gnarled branches, as they tower in the blue summer sky, seem 
 to share in the sacred stillness and ancient grandeur which rests like a holy 
 spell upon the temple and the hamlet of the dead. 
 
 Come back with me, reader, once more come back to the ancient revolu- 
 tionary time. Come back to the solemnity and gloom of the funeral ot the 
 dead : and in the quiet grave-yard we will behold the scene. 
 
THE ANCIENT CHURCH. 76 
 
 IJaiuls of armed men throng the place of graves ; on every side you behold 
 igures ol stout men, clad in the uniform of war ; on every side you behold 
 srern and scarred visages, and all along the green sward, with its encircling 
 grove of oaks, ihe pomp of banners wave flauntingly in the even ng air, but 
 no glittering bayonet gleams in the light of the declining day. The banners 
 are heavy with folds of crape, the bayonets are untixed from each musquei. 
 and every soldier carries his arms reversed. 
 
 Nenr the centre of the ground, hard by the roadside, are dug four graves, 
 the upturned earth forming a mound beside each grave, and the sunbeamp 
 shine upon four coffins, hewn out of rough pine wood, and laid upon irus- 
 sels, with the faces of the dead cold and colorless, tinted with a ghasUy 
 gleam of the golden sunlight. 
 
 Around the graves are grouped the chieftians of the American army, each 
 manly brow uncovered, each manly arm wearing the solemn scarf of crape, 
 while an expression of deep and overwhelming grief is stamped upon the 
 lines of each expressive face. 
 
 Washington stands near the coffins : his eyes are downcast, and his iip 
 is compressed. Wayne is by his side, his bluff countenance marked by 
 mfeigned sorrow; and there stands Greene and Sullivan, and Maxwell and 
 Armstrong, clustered in the same group with Stirling and Forman, w.lh 
 Smallwood and Knox. Standing near the coffin's head, a tall and imposing 
 form, clad in a white hued uniform, is disclosed in the full light of the sun- 
 beams. The face, with the whiskered lip and the eagle eye, wears the 
 same expression of sorrow that you behold on the faces of all around. Ii 
 is the Count Pulaski. 
 
 These are the pall-bearers of the dead. 
 
 And in the rear of this imposing group sweep the columns of the Amer- 
 ican army, each officer with his sword reversed, each musquet also reversed, 
 while all around is sad and stUl. 
 
 A grey-haired man, tall and imposing in stature, advances from the group 
 of pall-bearers. lie is clad in the robes of the minister of heaven, his face 
 is marked by hues of care and thought, and his calm eye is expressive of a 
 mind at peace with God and man. He stands disclosed in the full glow of 
 the sunbeams, and while his long grey hairs wave in the evening air, he 
 gazes upon the faces of the dead. 
 
 The first corse, resting in the pine coffin, with the banner of blue and 
 stars sweeping over its rough surface, and bearing upon its folds the sword 
 and chapeau of a general officer, is the corse of General Nash. The noble 
 features are white as marble, the eyes are closed, and the lip wears the 
 smile of death. 
 
 The next coi^, with the sword and chapeau of the commanding officei 
 of a regiment, is the corse of the brave Colonel Boyd. 
 
 Then conies the corse of Major White, handsome and dignified even it 
 
76 THE BATTLE OF GERMANTOVVN. 
 
 death The finely chisseled features, the arched brows, the Roman nose 
 ana compressed lip, look like the marble of a statue. 
 
 The last corse, the corse of a young man, with a lieutenant s sword and 
 cap placed on the coffin, is all that remains of the gallant Virginian, wdu 
 bore the flag of truce to Chew's house, and was shot down in the act. 
 Lieutenant Smith rests in death, and the blood-stained flag of truce is placed 
 over his heart. 
 
 The venerable minister advances, he gazes upon the faces of the dead, 
 his clear and solemn voice breaks out in tones of impassioned eloquence 
 m this. 
 
 II.— FUNERAL SERMON OVEK THE DEAD.* 
 
 General Nash, Colonel Boyd, iSIajor White, and Lieutenant Smith : buried in Towa- 
 mensing Meruionist Grave-yard, the day after the Battle of Germantown, 
 
 " Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord, — they rest from their 
 labors, and their works do follow them." 
 
 Soldiers and Countrymen : — Our brethren lie before us in all the solem 
 nity of death. Their eyes are closed, their lips are voiceless ; life, with its 
 hurry and turmoil, its hopes and its fears, with them is over forever. They 
 have passed from among us, amid the smoke and glare of battle they passetf 
 away ; and now, in this solemn grove, amid the silence and quiet of thf 
 evening hour, we have assembled to celebrate their funeral obsequies. 
 
 Brethren, look well upon the corses of the dead, mark the eyes hollowed 
 by decay, the cheeks sunken, and the lips livid with the touch of death: 
 look upon these forms, but one short day ago moving and throbbing with 
 the warm blood of life, and now cold, clammy, dead, senseless remains of 
 clay. 
 
 But this is not all, brethren ; for as we look upon these corses, the sol- 
 emn words of the book break on our ear, through the silence of the even 
 ing air : 
 
 Blessed are the dead that die in the Lord, for they rest from their la- 
 bors, and their ivorks dofolloio them. 
 
 For they did die in the Lord, my brethren. Fighting in the holiest cause, 
 fighting against wrong, and might, and violence, the brave Nash rode into 
 the ranks of battle, and while the bullets of the hirelings whistled around 
 
 * NoTK. The author deems it necessary to stale, once for all, that all the legends 
 given in this chronicle, are derived from sub.siantial fact or oral tradition. The legend 
 of the Debauch of Death- the old Quaker — the House on the Wissahikon — the escape 
 of Washington — the presentiment and death of (General Agnew — ihe feat of Captain 
 Lee — as well as all other incidents are derived from oral tradition. In other points, 
 the history of the Battle is followed as laid down by Marshall and his cuniemporaries. 
 There is some doubt concerning the name of ihe preachfr who di livered ihe fnnoral 
 sermon. But with regard to ihe funeral ceremonies at ihe Mennonist church at Toy- 
 ainonsing, there can be no doubt. General Nash and his companions in death, were 
 buried with the hoii< rs of war, in presence of the whole army the day after the battle. 
 
FUNERAL SERMON OVER THE DEAD, 77 
 
 hiui, while all was terror and gloom, he fell at the head of his men, bravely 
 Cashng his sword for his fatherland. 
 
 So fell White, and so fell Boyd ; you have all heard how Lieiilenani 
 fetniih met his dealh. You have heard how he went forth on the battle 
 morn with the flag of truce in his iiaiiu You have heard how he ap- 
 proached the fatal mansion on th*^ battle-heicl . von have heard how these 
 merciless men pointed their musquets at his heart, and he fell, bathing the 
 flag of truce with the warm blood ol fiis liearl. 
 
 They fell, but their blood shall not fall untieedea. iVeoige of Bruns- 
 wick, may augur success to his cause from the lesul' ol Mus fight, but the 
 weak and mistaken man shall soon know his dehisiot) i;iise. 
 
 From every drop of patriot blood sinking in the sml of Germantown, a 
 hero shall arise ! From the darkness and death of that terrible fight, I see 
 the angel of our country's freedom springing into birth ; beyond the clouds 
 and smoke of battle, I behold be Jawning of a brighter and more glorious 
 day. 
 
 They rest from their labors. From the toilsome labor of the night march, 
 from the fierce labor of the battle charge, from the labor of bloodshed and 
 death they rest. 
 
 They will no more share the stern joy of the meeting of congregated 
 armies ; no more ride the steed to battle ; no more feel their hearts throb at 
 the sound of the trumpet. All is over. 
 
 They rest from their labors ! Aye, in the solemn courts of heaven they 
 rest from their labors, and the immortal great of the past greet them with 
 smiles and beckonings of joy, their hearts are soothed by the hymnings of 
 angels, and the voice of the Eternal bids them welcome. 
 
 From the dead let me turn to the living. 
 
 Let me speak for a moment to the men of the gallant band ; let me tel 
 them that God will fight for them ; that though the battle may be fierce and 
 bloody, still the sword of the Unknown will glisten on the side of the free- 
 men-brothers ; that though the battle clouds may roll their shadows of gloom 
 over heaps of dying and dead, yet from those very clouds will sprii.g the 
 day of Freedom, from the very carnage of the battle-field, will bloom the 
 fruits of a peaceful land. 
 
 Man, chosen among men, as the leader of freemen, I speak to thee ! And 
 as the prophets of old, standing on the ramparts of Israel, raised their hands, 
 and blessed the Hebrew chieftains as they went forth to battle, so now I 
 bless thee, and bless thy doings ; by the graves of the slain, and by the 
 corses of the patriot dead, I sanctify thy arms, in the name of that God who 
 never yet beheld fearful wrong without sudden vengeance — in the name ol 
 '.hat Redeemer, whose mission was joy to the caotive, freedom to the slave, 
 _ bless thee, — Washington. 
 
 On, on, in thy career of glory ! 
 
 Not the glory of bloodshed, not the halo that is born of the phosphores- 
 
78 THE BATTLE OF GERMANTOV\N. 
 
 cent light hovering around the carcasses of the dead, not the empty fame oi 
 haman shuighter. No — no. 
 
 The glory of a pure soul, actuated by one motive of good, stniunig every 
 purpose of heart to accomplish that motive ; neither heeding the threats of 
 the merciless tyrant, on the one hand, or the calls of ambition on the otlier, 
 bui speeding forward, with sure and steady steps, to the goal of all thy 
 hopes — ihe freedom of this land of the new wuiUl. 
 
 Such is thy glory, Washingion. 
 
 On, then, ye gallant men, on, in your career of glory. To day all may 
 be dark, all may be sad, all may be steeped in gloom. You may be driven 
 from one battle-field, you may behold your comrades fall wounded and dying 
 in the path of your retreat. Carnage may thin your ranks, disease walk 
 through your tents, death track your footsteps. 
 
 But the bright day will come at last. The treasure of blood will find its 
 recompense, the courage, the self-denial and daring of this time will work 
 out the certain reward of the country's freedom. 
 
 Then behold the fruits of your labors. 
 
 A land of mighty rivers, colossal mountains, a land of luxurious vallies, 
 fertile plains, a land of freemen, peopled by happy multitudes of millions, 
 whose temples echo with hosannas to God, whose oraises repeat your 
 names, gallant survivors of the battle-field of Gerraantown. 
 
 "THEIR WORKS DO FOLLOW THEM I" 
 
 Yes — yes. From the Eternal world, our departed friends shall look 
 down upon the fruit of their works. From the Vast Unseen they shall look 
 down upon your banner of blue as the sun gleam of victory glitters on its 
 stars. They shall behold the skeletons of the invader strewing our shores, 
 his banners trailed in the dust, his armies annihilated, his strong men over- 
 thrown, and the temple of his power, toppled from its strong foundations. 
 
 They rest from their labors. 
 
 Oh, glorious is their resting place, oh, most glorious is their home ! As 
 they flee on spirit-wings to their eternal abode, the ghosts of the mighty- 
 head, come crowding to the portals of the Unknown, and hail them welcome 
 home ! Brutus of old is there, shaking his gory dagger aloft, Hampden and 
 Sidney are there, and there are the patriot martyrs from all the scaffolds of 
 oppressed Europe, each mighty spirit sounding a welcome to the martyrs 
 of New World freedom. 
 
 The dead of Bunker Hill are there, the form of Warren is among the first 
 m the mighty crowd, and there, raising their gory hands on high, a band of 
 the martyred men of Brandywine, press forward, and hail their compeers 
 M Germanlown a welcome home. 
 
 Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord. 
 
 Oh ! thrice blessed, oh ! blessed on the tongues of nations, blessed in the 
 
PRAYER FOR THE DEAD. 79 
 
 hymns of little children, blessed in the tears of woman, shed for their mar 
 tyroom ; blessed in the world beyond, forever and forever blessed. 
 
 Farewell to ye, mighty dead, on earth ! The kind hands of wife or chili 
 were not passed over your brows, when the big drops of the death-dew an- 
 nounced the approach of the last enemy of man ! No blooming cliild, no 
 soft-voiced wife, no fair-haired boy was near ye. 
 
 Alone ye died. Alone amid the ranks of battle, or ere the battle shoui 
 had yet ceased to echo on your ear. Alone, with fever in your brain, with 
 fever in your hearts, with maddening throes of pain, forcing from your 
 manly lips the involuntary cry of agony, yet, with your native land upper- 
 most in your thoughts, ye died. 
 
 And now, brethren, the sun sinking in the west, warns me to close. The 
 bright golden beams tint the tops of the trees, and fling a shower of light 
 over the roof of the ancient church. The sky above arches calm and azure, 
 as though the spirits of the dead smiled from yon clime upon our solemn 
 ceremonies. The hour is still and solemn, and all nature invites us to tha 
 offering of prayer. Let us pray. 
 
 III.— PRAYER FOR THE DEAD. 
 
 Father of Heaven, we bow before thee, under the temple of the clear 
 blue sky and within the shadow of yon oaken grove, we bow beside the 
 corses of the dead. Our hearts are sad, our souls are awed. Up to thy 
 throne we send our earnest prayers for this, our much-afflicted land. Turn, 
 oh ! God, turn the burning sword from between us and the sun of thy coun- 
 tenance. Lift the shadow of death from our land. And, as in the olden 
 times, thou didst save the oppressed, even when the blood-stained grasp of 
 wrong was at their throats, so save thou us, now — oh, most merciful God 
 And if the voice of prayer is ever heard in thy courts, for the spirits of 
 the dead, then let our voices now plead with thee, for the ghosts of the 
 slain, as they crowd around the portals of the Unseen world. 
 
 Oh ! Lord God, look into our hearts, and there behold every pulse throl>- 
 bing, every vein filling with one desire, which we now send up to thee 
 with hands and soul upraised — the desire of freedom for this fair land. 
 
 Give us success in this our most holy cause. In the name of the mar- 
 tyred dead of the past, in the name of that shadowy band, whose life-bloo<* 
 dyes a thousand scaffolds, give us freedom. 
 
 In the name of Jesus give us peace ! Make strong the hands of thy ser« 
 vant even George Washington. Make strong the hearts of his counsellors, 
 stir them up to greater deeds even than the deeds they have already done, 
 let thy presence be with our host, a pillar of doud by day and a pillar of 
 fire by night. 
 
 And at last, when our calling shall have been fulfilled, when we have 
 
80 THE BATTLE OF GERMANTOWN. 
 
 done and suffered thy will here below, receive us into the Res of the 
 l^essed. 
 
 So shall it be said of us — 
 
 " Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord, — they rest from their la- 
 bors, and their works do follow themV 
 
 The last words of the preacher, sank into the hearts of his hearers. 
 Every man felt awed, every soul was thrilled. 
 
 The preacher made a sign to the group of war-worn soldiers in attend 
 ance at the head of the graves. The coffins were lowered m their recep- 
 tacles of death. The man of God advanced, and took a handful of earth, 
 from one of the uprising mounds. 
 
 There was universal silence around the graves, and thro' the grave-yard. 
 
 " Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust." 
 
 The sound of the earth rattling on the coffin of General Nash, broke with 
 a strange echo on the air. 
 
 Slowly along the sod, passed the minister of heaven speaking the solemn 
 words of the last ceremony, as he flung the handful of earth upon each 
 eoffin. 
 
 A single moment passed, and a file of soldiers, with upraised musquets, 
 extended along the graves. The word of command rang out upon the air, 
 and the shot after shot, the alternating reports of the musquets, broke like 
 thunder over the graves of the laurelled dead. 
 
 The soldiers suddenly swept aside, and in a moment, a glittering cannon 
 was wheeled near the graves, with the cannonier standing with the lighted 
 linstock, by its side. The subdued word of command again was heard, the 
 earthquake thunder of the cannon shook the graveyard, and like a pall for 
 the mighty dead, the thick folds of smoke, waved heavily above the grave. 
 
 Again did the file of musquetry pour forth the fire, again did the cannons 
 send forth their flame flashing down into the very graves of the dead, while 
 the old church walls gave back the echo. — Again was the ceremony re- 
 peated, ai7d as the thick folds of cannon-smoke waved overhead, the soldi- 
 ers opened to the right and left, and the pall-bearers of the dead advanced. 
 
 They advanced, and one by one looked into the graves of the slain. 
 
 This was the scene when Washington looked for the last time into th« 
 grave of Nash and his death-mates. 
 
 The sun setting behind the grove of oaks threw a veil of sunshine over 
 the masses of armed men thronging the grave-yard, over the reversed arras, 
 and craped banner of blue and stars. The form of Washington, standing ai 
 the head of the grave, was disclosed in all its majesty of proportion, his fac*; 
 impressed with an expression of sorrow, and his right hand reversing 
 his craped sword ; Wayne — the gallant, the noble, the fearless Wayne — 
 stood at his right shoulder, and then sweeping in a line along the graves, 
 extended the chieftains of the army, each face stamped with grief, each right 
 arm holding the reversed sword : there was the sagacious face of Greene 
 
PRAYER FOR THE DEAD. 81 
 
 the bluff visage of Knox, the commanding features of Sullivan, tnc .nanly 
 countenances of Maxwell, Stirling, Forman, Conway, and the other officera 
 of the continental host.- All were grouped there beside the graves of the 
 slain, and as every eye was fixed upon the coffins sprinkled with earth, a 
 low, solemn peal of music floated along the air, and a veteran advancing to 
 the grave, flung to the wind the broad banner of blue and stars, ant» the lasi 
 glimpse of sun-light fell upon this solemn relic o^ the 
 
 Battle-Bag of (KcrmantoUjn^ 
 
BOOK SECOND. 
 
 THE WISSAHIKON. 
 
 (83) 
 
THE WISSAIIIKON. 
 
 WlSSAHIKON I 
 
 That name, soft as the wind of May, breathing its perfume over the 
 brow of the way-worn wanderer — melodious as a burst of music, swelling 
 from afar, over the bosom of still waters — sad and wild, as the last groan of 
 a dying warrior, who conquering all vain regrets by one strong impulse of 
 his passing soul, sternly gives up his life to God — Wissahikon ! 
 
 That name speaks to our hearts with a pathos all its own. Yes, it 
 speaks to our hearts with a strange and mingled meaning, whether written 
 Wissahiekon, or Wissahiccon, or pronounced as it fell from the lips of tlie 
 [ndian maidens in the olden time, who bathed their forms in its waters, and 
 adorned their raven hair with the lilies and wild roses tliat grow in its deep 
 
 woods WiSSAHIKONE ! 
 
 That word speaks of rocks, piled up in colossal grandeur, with waves 
 murmuring at their feet, and dark green pines blooming forever on their 
 brows. 
 
 That name tells me of a tr?inquil stream, that flows from the fertile 
 meadows of White marsh, and then cleaves its way for eight miles, through 
 rocks of eternal granite, now reflecting on its waves the dark grey walls and 
 steep roof of some forest hidden mill, now burymg itself beneath the 
 shadows of overhanging trees, and then comes laughing into the sun, like a* 
 maiden smiling at the danger that is past. 
 
 We will go down to Wissahikon. 
 
 You have been there; some of you in the still summer afternoon, when 
 the light laugh of girlhood rang through the woods — some of you perchance 
 in the early dawn, or in the purple twilight when the shadows came darkly 
 over the waters. 
 
 But to go down into its glens at midnight, when silence like death is 
 brooding there ! Then the storm-cloud gathers like a pall — then, clinging 
 to yon awful cliff" that yawns above the blackness, you hear the Thunder 
 speak to the still woods, and the deeps far below, speak back again their 
 Thunder. Then at dead of night, you see the red lightning flashing down 
 over the tall pines, down over the dark waters, quivering and trembling with 
 its arrows of wrath, far into the shadows of the glen. 
 
 At last the storm-cloud rolls back its pall. The silver moon cornea 
 shining out, smiling from her window in the sky. The Eagle too, lord of 
 
 (85j 
 
86 THE WISSAHIKON. 
 
 the wild domain, starts from his perch, and wheels through tlie deep azure 
 circling round the moon, bathing his pinions in her hght as he looks for the 
 coming of his God, the sun. 
 
 Had you been there at dead of night, as I have been, you would know 
 something of the supernatural grandeur, the awful beauty of the Wissahi- 
 kon ; then, even though you were an Atheist, you would have knelt down 
 and felt the existence of a God. 
 
 The Wissahikon wears a beauty all its own. True, the Hudson is mag- 
 nificent with her mingled panorama of mountain and valley, tumultuous 
 river and tranquil bay. To me she seems a Queen, who reposes in strange 
 majesty, a crown of snow upon her forehead of granite, the leaf of the In- 
 dian corn, the spear of wheat, mingled in the girdle which binds her waist, 
 the murmur of rippling water ascending from the valley beneath her feet. 
 
 The Susquehanna is awfully sublime ; a warrior who. rushes from his 
 home in the forest, hews his way through primeval mountains, and howls 
 in his wrath as he hurries to the ocean. Ever and anon, like a Conqueror 
 overladened with the spoils of battle, he scatters a green island in his path, 
 or like the same Conqueror relenting from the fury of the fight, smiles like 
 Heaven in the wavelets of some tranquil bay. 
 
 Neither Queen, nor Warrior is the Wissahikon. 
 
 Let us look at its Image, as it rises before us. 
 
 A Prophetess, who with her cheek embrowned by the sun, and her dark 
 hair — not gathered in clusters or curling in ringlets — falling straighdy to her 
 white shoulders, comes forth from her cavern in the woods, and speaks to 
 us in a low soft tone, that awes and wins our hearts, and looks at us with 
 eyes whose steady light and supernatural brightness bewilders our soul. 
 • Yes, whenever 1 hear the word — Wissahikon — I fancy its woods and 
 waves, embodied in the form of an Indian Prophetess, of the far gone time. 
 
 Oh, there are strange legends hovering around those wild rocks and dells 
 — legends of those Monks who dwelt there long ago, and worshipped God 
 without a creed — legends of that far gone time, when the white robed In- 
 dian priests came up the dell at dead of night, leading the victim to the altar 
 — to the altar of bloody sacrifice — that victim a beautiful and trembling girl. 
 
 Now let us listen to the Prophetess as she speaks, and while her voice 
 thrills, her eyes fire us, let us hear from her lips the Legends of the olden 
 limes. 
 
 1.— THE CONSECRATION OF THE DELIVERER. 
 
 It stood in the shadows of the Wissahikon woods, that ancient Mon- 
 astery, its dark walls canopied by the boughs of the gloomy pine, inter- 
 woven with leaves of grand old oaks. 
 
 From the waters of the wood-hidden stream, a winding road led up to its 
 gates ; a winding road overgrown with tall rank grass, and sheltered from 
 the light by the thick branches above. 
 
THE CONSECRATION OF THE DELIVERER. 87 
 
 A Monastery? Yes, a Monastery, here amid the wilds of Wissahikon, 
 in the year of Grace 1773, a Monastery built upon the soil of William 
 Penn ! 
 
 Let me paint it for you, at the close of this calm summer day. 
 
 The beams of the sun, declining far in the west, shoot between the thickly 
 gathered leaves, and light up the green sward, around those massive gates, 
 and stream with sudden glory over the dark old walls. It is a Monastery, 
 yet here we behold no swelling dome, no Gothic turrets, no walls of mas- 
 sive stone. A huge square edifice, built one hundred years ago of the 
 trunks of giant oaks and pines, it rises amid the woods, like the temple of 
 some long forgotten religion. The roof is broken into many fantastic 
 forms ; — here it rises in a steep gable, yonder the heavy logs are laid pros 
 trate ; again they swell into a shapeless mass, as though stricken by a 
 hurricane. 
 
 Not many windows are there in the dark old walls, but to the west four 
 large square spaces framed in heavy pieces of timber, break on your eye, 
 while on the other sides the old house presents one blank mass of logs, ris- 
 ing on logs. 
 
 No : not one blank mass, for at this time of year, when the breath of 
 June hides the Wissahikon in a world of leaves, the old Monastery looks 
 like a grim soldier, who scathed by time and battle, wears yet thick wreaths 
 of laurel over his armour, and about his brow. 
 
 Green vines girdle the ancient house on every side. From the squares 
 of the dark windows, from the intervals of the massive logs, they hang in 
 luxuriant festoons, while the shapeless roof is all one mass of leaves. 
 
 Nay, even the wall of logs which extends around the old house, with s 
 ponderous gate to the west, is green with the touch of June. Not a trunk 
 but blooms with some drooping vine ; even the gateposts, each a solid 
 column of oak, seem to wave to and fro, as the summer breeze plays with 
 their drapery of green leaves. 
 
 It is a sad, still hour. The beams of the sun stream with fitful splendor 
 over the green sward. That strange old mansion seems as sad and deso- 
 late as the tomb. But suddenly — hark ! Do you hear the clanking of 
 those bolts, the crashing of the unclosing gates ? 
 
 The gates creak slowly aside ! — let us steal behind this cluster of pines, 
 and gaze upon the inhabitants of the Monastery, as they come forth for 
 their evening walk 
 
 Three figures issue from the opened gates, an old man whose withered 
 features and white hairs are thrown strongly into the fading light, by his 
 long robe of dark velvet. On one arm, leans a young girl, also dressed in 
 black, her golden hair falling — not in ringlets — but in rich masses, to her 
 shoulders. She bends upon his arm, and with that living smile upon her 
 lips, and in her eyes, look up into his face. 
 
 On the other arm, a young man, whose form, swelling with the proud 
 
88 THE WISSAHIKON. 
 
 outlines of earl}^ manhood, is attired in a robe or gown, dark as his father'i 
 while his bronzed face, shaded by curling brown hair, seems to reflect the 
 silent thought, written upon the old man's brow. 
 
 They pace slowly along the sod. Not a word is spoken. The old man 
 raises his eyes, and lifts the square cap from his brow — look ! how that 
 golden beam plays along his brow, while the evening breeze tosses his 
 white hairs. There is much suffering, many deep traces of the Past, writ- 
 ten on his wrinkled face, but the light of a wild enthusiasm beams from his 
 blue eyes. 
 
 The young man — his dark eyes wildly glaring fixed upon the sod — moves 
 by the old man's side, but speaks no word. 
 
 The girl, that image of maidenly grace, nurtured into beauty, within an 
 hour's journey of the city, and yet afar from the world, still bends over that 
 aged arm, and looks smilingly into that withered face, her glossy hair wav- 
 ing in the summer wind. 
 
 Who are these, that come hither, pacing, at the evening hour, along the 
 wild moss ? The father and his children ! 
 
 What means that deep strange light, flashing not only from the blue eyes 
 of the father, but from the dark eyes of his son ? 
 
 Does it need a second glance to tell you, that it is the light of Fanaticism, 
 that distortion of Faith, the wild glare of Superstition, that deformity of Re- 
 ligion ? 
 
 The night comes slowly down. Still the Father and son pace the ground 
 in silence, while the breeze freshens and makes low music among the 
 leaves. — Still the young girl, bending over the old man's arm, smiles ten- 
 derly in his face, as though she would drive the sadness from his brow with 
 one gleam of her mild blue eyes. 
 
 At last — within the shadows of the gate, their faces lighted by the las! 
 gleam of the setting sun — the old man and his son stand like figures of 
 stone, while each grasps a hand of the young girl. 
 
 Is it not a strange yet beautiful picture ? The old Monastery forms one 
 dense mass of shade ; on either side extends the darkening forest, yet here, 
 within the portals of the gate, the three figures are grouped, while a warm, 
 soft mass of tufted moss, spreads before them. The proud manhood of the 
 son, contrasted with the white locks of the father, the tender yet voluptuous 
 beauty of the girl relieving the thought and sadness, which glooms over 
 each brow. 
 
 Hold — the Father presses the wrist of his Son with a convulsive grasp — 
 hush ! Do you hear that low deep whisper ? 
 
 " At last, it comes to my soul, the Fulfilment of Prophecy !" he whispers 
 and is silent again, but his lip trembles and his eye glares. 
 
 "But the time — Father — the time?'" the Son replies in the same deep 
 voice, while his eye dilating, fires with the same feeling that swells hia 
 Father's heart. 
 
TKc: CONSECRATION OF THE DELIVERER. 89 
 
 •' The last day of this year — the third hour after midnight — the J)e 
 
 LIVERER WILL COME !" 
 
 These words may seem lame and meaningless, when spoken again, but 
 Iiad you seen the look that kindled over the old man's face, his white hand 
 raised above his head, had you heard his deep voice swelling through the 
 silence of the woods, each word would ring on your ear, as though it quiv 
 ered from a spirit's tongue. 
 
 Then the old man and his son knelt on the sod, while the young girl — 
 looking in their faces with wonder and awe — sank silendy beside them. 
 
 The tones of Prayer broke upon the stillness of the darkening woods. 
 
 Tell us the meaning of this scene. Wherefore call tiiis huge edifice, 
 where dark logs are clothed in green leaves, by the old world name of Mo- 
 nastery ? Who are these — father, son, and daughter — that dwell within its 
 walls ? 
 
 Seventeen years ago — from this year of Grace, 1773, — tliere came to the 
 wilds of the Wissahikon, a man in the prime of mature manhood, clad in a 
 long, dark robe, with a cross of silver gleaming on his breast. With one 
 arm he gathered to his heart a smiling babe, a little girl, whose golden hair 
 floated over his dark dress like sunshine over a pall; by the other hand he 
 led a dark haired boy. 
 
 His name, his origin, his object in the wilderness, no one knew, but pur 
 fhasing the ruined Block-House, which bore on its walls and timbers the 
 marks of many an Indian fight, he shut himself out from all the world. His 
 son, his daughter, grew up together in this wild solitude. The voice of 
 prayer was often heard at dead of night, by the belated huntsman, swelling 
 from the silence of the lonely house. 
 
 By slow degrees, whether from the cross which the old stranger wore 
 upon his breast, or from the sculptured images which had been seen within 
 the walls of his forest home, the place was called — the Monastery — and its 
 occupant the Priest. 
 
 Had he been drawn from his native home by crime ? Was his name 
 enrolled among the tided and the great of his Father-land, Germany ? Or, 
 perchance, he was one of those stern visionaries, the Pietists of Germany, 
 who, lashed alike by Catholic and Protestant persecutors, brought to the 
 wilds of Wissahikon their beautiful Fanaticism ? 
 
 For that Fanaticism, professed by a band of brothers, who years before 
 driven from Germany, came here to Wissahikon, built their Monastery, and 
 worshipped God, without a written creed, was beautiful. 
 
 It was a wild belief, tinctured with the dreams of Alchemists, it may be, 
 yet still full of faith in God, and love to man. Persecuted by the Pro- 
 teslunts of Germany, as it was by the Catholics of France, it still treasured 
 ♦.he Bible as its rule and the Cross as its symbol. 
 
 The Monn.stery, in which the brothers of the faith lived for long years. 
 
yn THE WISSAHIKON. 
 
 was situated on the brow of a hill, not a mile from the old Block-House. 
 Here the Brothers had dwelt, in the deep serenity of their own hearts, until 
 one evennig mey gathered in their garden, around the form of their dying 
 father, who yielded his soul to God in their midst, while the setting sun 
 and the calm silence of universal nature gave a strange grandeur to the 
 scene. 
 
 But it was not with this Brotherhood that the stranger of the Block-House 
 held communion. 
 
 His communion was with the dark-eyed son, who grew up, drinking the 
 fanaticism of his father, in many a midnight watch with the golden-haired 
 daughter, whose smile was wont to drive the gloom from his brow, the 
 wearmg anxiety from his heart. 
 
 Who was the stranger ? No one knew. The farmer of the Wissahikon 
 had often seen his dark-robed form, passing like a ghost under the solemn 
 pines ; the wandering huntsman had many a time, on his midnight ramble, 
 heard the sounds of prayer breaking along the silence of the woods from 
 the Block-House walls : yet still the life, origin, objects of the stranger were 
 wrapt in impenetrable mystery. 
 
 Would you know more of his life ? Would you penetrate the mystery 
 of this dim old Monastery, shadowed by the thickly-clustered oaks and 
 pines, shut out from the world by the barrier of impenetrable forests ? 
 
 Would you know the meaning of those strange words, uttered by the old 
 man, on the calm summer evening ? 
 
 Come with me, then^at midnight — on the last day of 1773. We will 
 enter the Block-House together, and behold a scene, which, derived from a 
 tradition of the past, is well calculated to thrill the heart with a deep awe. 
 
 It is midnight: there is snow on the ground : the leafless trees fling their 
 bared limbs against the cold blue of the starlit sky. 
 
 The old Block-House rises dark and gloomy from the snow, with the 
 heavy trees extending all around. 
 
 The wind sweeps through the woods, not with a boisterous roar, but the 
 strange sad cadence of an organ, whose notes swell away through the arches 
 of a dim cathedral aisle. 
 
 Who would dream that living beings tenanted this dark mansion, arising 
 in one black mass from the oed of snow, its huge timbers, revealed in 
 various indistinct forms, by the cold clear light of the stars? Centred in 
 the midst of the desolate woods, it looks like the abode of spirits, or yet like 
 some strange sepulchre, in which the dead of long-past ages lie entombed. 
 
 There is no foot-track on the winding road — the snow presents one 
 smooth white surface — yet the gates are thrown wide open, as if ready for 
 ♦he coming of a welcome guest. 
 
 Through this low, narrow door — also flung wide open— -along this dark 
 torridor, we will enter the Monastery. 
 
THE COxVSECRATION OF THE DELIVllRER. ()1 
 
 1:1 the centre of this room, illumined by the light of two tali white candles 
 Bits the old man, his slender form clad in dark velvei, with the silver cross 
 gleaming on hisliosom, buried in the cushions of an oaken chair. 
 
 His slender hands are laid npon his knees — he sways slowly to and fro 
 — while his large blue eye, dilating with a wild stare, is fixed upon the 
 opposite wall. 
 
 Hush! Not a word — not even the creakii'i: of a footstep — for ll;:.s old 
 man, wrapped in his thoughts, sitting alone in the centre of this strangely 
 furnished room, fills us with involuntary reverence. 
 
 Strangely furnished room ? Yes, circular in form, with a single doorway, 
 huge panels of dark oaken wainscot, rise from the bared floor to the gloomy 
 ceiling. Near the old man arises a white altar, on which the candles are 
 placed, its spoUess curtain floating down to the floor. Between the candles, 
 you behold, a long, slender flagon of silver, a wreath of laurel leaves, fresh 
 gathered from the Wissahikon hills, and a Holy Bible, bound in velvet, with 
 antique clasps of gold. 
 
 Behind the altar, gloomy and sullen, as if struggling with the shadows of 
 the room, arises a cross of Iron. 
 
 On yonder small fire-place, rude logs of oak and hickory send up their 
 mingled smoke and flame. 
 
 The old man sits there, his eyes growing wilder in their gaze every 
 moment, fixed upon the solitary door. Still he sways to and fro, and now 
 his thin lips move, and a faint murmur fills the room. 
 
 " ^e will comer'' mutters the Priest of the Wissahikon, as common 
 rumor named him. "At the third hour after midnight, the Deliverer will 
 come!''^ 
 
 These words acquire a singular interest from the tone and look which 
 accompany their utterance. 
 
 Hark — the door opens — the young man with the bronzed fiice and deep 
 dark eyes, appears — advances to his father's side. 
 
 "Father" — whispers the young man — " May it not be a vain fancy after 
 all ! This Hope that the Deliverer will come ere the rising of the sun ?" 
 
 You can see the old man turn suddenly round — his eye blazes as he 
 grasps his son by the wrist. 
 
 " Seventeen years ago, I left my father-land, became an exile and an out- 
 cast ! Seventeen years ago, I forsook the towers of my race, that even 
 now, darken over the bosom of the Rhine — I, whose name was ennobled 
 by the ancestral glories of thirteen centuries, turned my back at once on 
 pomp, power, — all that is worshipped by the herd of mankind ! In my 
 native land, they have believed me dead for many years — the castle, the 
 broad domains that by the world's law, are yours, my son, now oyrxt 
 another's rule — and here we are, side by side, in this rude temple of the 
 Wissahikon! Why is this^, my son? — Speak, Paul, and answer me, why 
 
92 THE WISSAHIKON. 
 
 do we dwell together, tlie father and his children, in this wild forest of o 
 strange land V 
 
 The sun veiled his eyes with his clasped hands : the emotion of iiis 
 father's look, thrilled him to the soul. 
 
 " I will tell you why 1 Seventeen years ago, as I bent over the body of 
 my dead wife, even in the death-vault of our castle, on the Rhine, the 
 Voice of God, spake to my soul — bade me resign all the world and its toys 
 — bade me take my children, and go forth to a strange land !"' 
 
 " And there await the Fultilment of Prophecy !" whispered Paul, raising 
 his hand from the clasped hands. 
 
 " For seventeen years i have buried my soul, in the pages of that book" — 
 
 "I have shared your studies, father! Reared afar from the toll and the 
 vanity of worldly life, I have made my home with you in this hermitage. 
 Together we have wept — prayed — watched over the pages of Revelation !" 
 
 " You have become part of my soul," said the Priest of AVissahikon, in a 
 softened voice, as he laid his withered hand upon the white forehead of his 
 Bon: " you might have been noble in your native land; yes, your sword 
 might have carved for you a gory renown from the corses of dead men, 
 butchered in battle ; or the triumphs of poetry and art, might have clothed 
 your brow in laurel, and yet you have chosen your lot with me ; wiih me, 
 devoted life and soul to the perusal of God's solemn book !" 
 
 The dark eye of the son began to burn, with the same wild light that 
 blazed over his father's face. 
 
 " And bur studies, our long ajid painful search into the awful world, which 
 the Bible opens to our view, has ended in a knowledge of these great truths — 
 The Old IVorld is sunk in all manner of crime, as teas the Ante-Detuvian 
 World ; — THE Nkw World is given to man as a refuge, even as the Ark 
 was given to JSoah and his children. 
 
 " llie New IVorld is the last altar of human freedom left on the surface 
 of the Globe. Never shall the footsteps of Kings pollute its soil. It is 
 the last hope of man, God has spoken, and it is so — Amen !" 
 
 The old man's voice rung, in deep, solemn tones, through the lonely 
 room, while his eye seemed to burn as with the tire of Prophecy. 
 
 " The voice of God has spoken to me, in my thoughts by day, in my 
 dreams by night — / will send a Deliverer to this land of the New World, 
 who shall save my people from physical bondage, even us my Son saved 
 them from the bondage of spiritual death! 
 
 "And to-night he will come, at the third hour after midnight, he will 
 come through yonder door, and take upon himself his great Mission, to free 
 the New World from the yoke of the Tyrant ! 
 
 " Yes my son, six: months ago, on that calm summer evening, as with 
 Catherine leaning on one arm, you on the oilier, I strolled forth along the 
 woods, that voice whispered a message to my soul ! To-night the De 
 hverer will come !" 
 
THE CONSECRATION OF THE DELIVERER. J)3 
 
 ••AJ is ready for his coming!" exclaimed Paul, advancinir to die altar 
 •' Behold the Crown, the Flagon of Anointing Oil, the Bible and the Cross '' 
 
 The old man arose, lifting his withered hands above his heaa, wliile the 
 light streamed over his silver hairs. 
 
 " Even as the Prophets of old anointed the brows of men, chosen b\ 
 God to do great deeds in His name, so will 1, — purified by the toil and 
 prayer, and self-denial of seventeen long years, — anoint the forehead of the 
 Deliverer 1" 
 
 Hark ! As the voice of the aged enthusiast, tremulous with emotion, 
 quivers on the air, the clock in the hall without, tells the hour of twelve ! 
 As the tones of that bell ring through the lonely Block House, like a voice 
 from the other world — deep, sad and echoing — the last minute of 1773 sank 
 m the glass of Time, and 1774 was born. 
 
 Then they knelt, silently beside the altar, the old man and his son. The 
 white hairs of the Priest, mingled with the brown locks of Paul ; their hands 
 clasped together rested upon the Bible, which was opened at the Book of 
 Revelations. 
 
 Their separate prayers breathed in low whispers from each lip, mingled 
 together, and went up to Heaven in one. 
 
 An hour passed. Hark ! Do you hear the old clock again ? How that 
 BuUen One ! swells through the silent halls ! 
 
 Still they kneel together there — still the voice of the prayer quivers from 
 each tonji*e. 
 
 Another hour, spent in silent prayer, witli bowed heatl and bended knees. 
 As the clock sptvaks out tlie hour of two, the old man rises and paces the 
 fioor! 
 
 " Place your hand upon my heart, my son ! Can you feel its throb- 
 bings ? Upon my brow — ah ! it burns like living fire ! The hour draws 
 nigh — he comes ! Yes, my heart throbs, my brain fires, but my fliith in 
 God is firm — the Deliverer will come !" 
 
 Vain were the attempt to picture the silent agony of that old man's face ! 
 Call him dreamer — call him fanatic — what you will, you must still admit 
 that a great soul throbbed within his brain — still you must reverence tiie 
 strong heart which beats within his shrunken chest. 
 
 Mill must you remember that this old man was once a renowned lord ; 
 that he forsook all that the world holds dear, buried himself for seventeen 
 years in the wilds of this forest, his days and nights spent amid the dark 
 jiages of the Revelations of 8aint John. 
 
 Up and down the oaken floor, now by the altar, where the light shone 
 over his brow, now in the darkness where the writhings of his co^intenance 
 were lost in shadows, the old man hurried along, his eye blazing with a 
 \T'iIder light, his withered cheek with a warmer glow. 
 
 Meanwhile the son remained kneeling in prayer. The lights burned 
 dimly — the room was covered with a twilight gloom. Still the Iron C-ross 
 
34 THE WISSAHIKON. 
 
 was seen — the whole altar still broke throujrh the darkness, with its feilvei 
 Flagon and Laurel Crown. 
 
 Hark ! Th.at sound — the clock is on the hour of three ! The old man 
 starts, quivers, listens ! 
 
 One ! rings through the desolate mansion. 
 
 " I hear no sound !" mutters the enthusiast. But the words had not 
 passed on his lips, when Two ! swells on the air. 
 
 ♦' lie comes not !" cries Paul darting to his feet, his features quivering 
 with suspense. They clasp their hands together — they listen with frenzied 
 intensity. 
 
 " Still no footstep ! Not a sound !" gasped Paul. 
 
 " But he ivill come !" and the old man, sublime in the energy of fanati- 
 cism, towered erect, one hand to his heart, while the other quivered m 
 the air. 
 
 Three ! The !a?t stroke of the bell swelled — echoed — and died away. 
 
 " He comes not !" gasped tlie son, in agony — " But yes ! Is there not a 
 footstep on Uie frozen snow ? Hark ! Father, father ! do you hear that 
 footstep ? It IS on the threshold now — it advances — " 
 
 " He comes !" whispered the old man, while the sweat stood out in 
 Oeads from his withered brow. 
 
 — " It advances, father ! Yes, along the hall — hark ! There is a hand 
 on the door — hah ! All is silent again ! It is but a delusion — no ! He is 
 come at last !" 
 
 "At last he is come !" gasped the old man, and with one impulse they 
 sank on their knees. Hark 1 You hear the old door creak on its hinges, 
 •is it swings slowly open — a strange voice breaks the silence. 
 
 " Friends, I have lost my way in the forest," said the voice, speaking in 
 a calm, manly torn. " Can you direct me to the right way ?" 
 
 The old. man looked up ; a cry of wonder trembled from his lips. As 
 for the son, he gazed in silence on the Stranger, while his features were 
 stamped with inexpressible surprise. 
 
 The Stranger stood on the threshold, his face to the light, his form thrown 
 boldly forward, by the darkness at his back. 
 
 He stood there, not as a Conqueror on the battle field, with the spoils of 
 many nations trampled under his feet. 
 
 Towering above the stature of common men, his form was clad in the 
 dr^fes of a plain gentleman of that time, fashioned of black velvet, with ruf- 
 iles on the bosom and around the wrist, diamond buckles gleaming from his 
 shoes. 
 
 Broad in the shoulders, beautiful in the sinewy proportions of each limb, 
 he stood there, extending his hat in one hand, while the other gathered his 
 h'^avy cloak around the arm. 
 
 His white fbrehead, large, overarched eyes, which gleamed even through 
 ti)e darkness of the room with a calm, clear light ; his lips were firm ; his 
 
THE CONSECRATION OF THE DELIVERER. 95 
 
 dun round and full ; the general contour of his face stamped with the seUled 
 beauty of mature manhood, mingled with the fire of chivalry. 
 
 In one word, he was a man whom you would single out among a crowd 
 of ten thousand, for his grandeur of bearing, his calm, collected dignity of 
 expression and manner. 
 
 " Friends," he again began, as he started back, surprised at the sight of 
 the kneeling enthusiasts, " I have lost my way — " 
 
 " Thou hast not lost thy way," spoke the voice of the old man, as he 
 arose and confronted the stranger ; " thou hast found thy way to usefulness 
 and immortal renown !" 
 
 The Stranger advanced a footstep, M'hile a warm glow overspread hi» 
 commanding face. Paul stood as if spell-bound by the calm gaze of liis 
 clear, deep eyes. 
 
 " Nay — do not start, nor gaze upon me in such wonder ! I tell thee the 
 voice that speaks from my lips, is the voice of Revelation. Thou art called 
 to a great work ; kneel before the altar and receive thy mission !" 
 
 Nearer to the altar drew the Stranger. 
 
 "This is but folly — you make a mock of me !" he began ; but the wild 
 gaze of the old man thrilled his heart, as with magnetic fire, lie paused, 
 and stood silent and wondering. 
 
 " Nay, doubt me not ! To-night, filled with strange thoughts on your 
 country's Future, you laid yourself down to sleep within your habitation in 
 yonder city. But sleep fled from your eyes — a feeling of restlessness drove 
 you forth into the cold air of night — " 
 
 " This is true !" muttered the Stranger in a musing tone, while his face 
 expressed surprise. 
 
 " As you dashed along, mounted on the steed which soon will bear your 
 form in the ranks of batde, the cold air of night fanned your hot brow, but 
 could not drive from your soul the Thought of your Country !" 
 
 ' How knew you this ?" and the Stranger started forward, grasping the 
 old man suddenly by the wrist. 
 
 Deeper and bolder thrilled the tones of the old Enthusiast. 
 
 " The rein fell loosely on your horse's neck — you let him wander, you 
 cared not whither ! Still the thought that oppressed your soul was the fu- 
 ture of your country. Still great hopes — dim visions of what is to come — 
 floating panoramas of battle and armed legions — darted one by one over 
 your soul. Even as you stood on the threshold of yonder door, asking, m 
 calm tones, the way through the forest, another and a deeper question rose 
 to your lips " 
 
 " I confess it !" said the Stranger, his tone c?tching the deep emotion of 
 •he old man's voice. " As 1 stood upon the threshold, the question that 
 rose to my lips was — 
 
 " Is it la u fid for a subject to draw sword against his King ?" 
 
 "Man! You read the heart!" and this strange man of commanding 
 
96 THE WISSAHIKON. 
 
 form and thoughtful brow, gazed fixedly in the eyes of the Enthusiast, 
 while his face expressed every conflicting emotion of doubt, suspicion, sur- 
 prise and awe. 
 
 " Nay, do not gaze upon me in such wonder ! I tell thee a great work 
 has been allotted unto thee, oy the Father of all souls ! Kneel by this 
 altar — and here, in the silence of night, amid the depths of these wild woods 
 — will I anoint thee Deliverer of this great land, even as the men of judah, 
 in the far-gone time, anointed the brows of the chosen David !" 
 
 It may have been a sudden impulse, or perchance, some conviction of the 
 luture flashed over the Stranger's soul, but as the gloom of that chamber 
 gathered round him, as the voice of the old man thrilled in his ear, he felt 
 those knees, which never yielded to man, sink beneath him, he bowed be- 
 fore the altar, his brovv bared, and his hands laid upon the Book of God. 
 
 The light flashed over his bold features, glowing with the beauty of man- 
 hood in its prime, over his proud form, dilating with a feeling of inexpressi- 
 ble agitation. 
 
 On one side of the altar stood the old man— the Priest of the Wissahikon 
 — his silver hair waving aside from his flushed brow — on the other, his son, 
 bronzed in face, but thoughtful in the steady gaze of his large full eyes. 
 
 Around this strange group all was gloom : the cold wintry air poured 
 through the open door, but they heeded it not. 
 
 "Thou art called to the great work of a Champion and Deliverer! 
 Soon thou wilt ride to batde at the head of legions — soon thou wilt lead a 
 people on to freedom — soon thy sword will gleam like a meteor over the 
 ranks of war !" 
 
 As the voice of the old man in the dark robe, with the silver cross flash- 
 ing on his heart, thrills through the chamber — as the Stranger bows his 
 head as if in reverence, while the dark-browed son looks silently on — look 
 ydnder, in the dark shadows of the doorway ! 
 
 A young form, with a dark mantle floating round her white robes, stands 
 tr.imbling there. As you look, her blue eye dilates with fear, her hair 
 streams in a golden shower, down to the uncovered shoulders. Her finger 
 is pressed against her lip ; she stands doubting, fearing, trembling on the 
 threshold. 
 
 Tlnseen by all, she fears that her father may work harm to the kneeling 
 Stranger. What knows she of his wild dreams of enthusiasm ? The 
 picture which she beholds terrifies her. This small and gloomy chamber, 
 lighted by the white candles — the altar rising in the gloom — the Iron Cross 
 confronting the kneeling man, like a thing of evil omen — her brother, mute 
 and wondering — her father, with white hairs floating aside from his flushed 
 forehead. The picture was singular and impressive : the winter wind, 
 moaning sullenly without, imparted a sad and organ-like music to the scene. 
 " Dost thou promise, that when the appointed time arrives, thou wilt be 
 found ready, sword in hand, to fight tor thy country and thy God ?" 
 
THE CONSECRATION OF THE DELIVERER. 9^ 
 
 It was in tones ofoken by emotion, that the Stranger simply answered— - 
 " I do !" 
 
 " Dost thou promise, in the hour of thy glory — when a nation shall bow 
 before thee — as in the tierce moment of adversity, — when thou shall be- 
 hold thy soldiers starving for want of bread — to remember the great trutli, 
 written in these words — ' / am but the Minister of God in the great work 
 of a nafion^s freedom.'' " 
 
 Again the bowed head, again the tremulous — " 1 do promise !" 
 "Then, in Pis name, who gave the New World to the millions of the 
 human race, as the last altar of their rights, I do consecrate thee its — 
 Deliverer !" 
 
 With the finger of his extended hand, touched with the anointing oil, he 
 described the figure cf a Cross on the white forehead of the Stranger, who 
 raised his eyes, while his lips murmured as if in prayer. 
 
 Never was nobler King anointed beneath the shadow of Cathedral arch 
 — never did holier Priest administer the solemn vow ! A poor Cathedn.l, 
 this rude Block House of the Wissahikon — a plainly-clad gentleman, this 
 k-neeling Stranger — a wild Enthusiast, the old man I I grant it all. And 
 yet, had you seen the Enthusiasm of the white-haired Minister, reflected in 
 the Stranger's brow, and cheek, and eyes, had you marked the contrast be- 
 tween the shrunken form of the " Priest," and the proud figure of the 
 Anointed, — both quivering with the same agitation, — you would confess 
 with me, that this Consecration was full as holy, in the siglit of Heaven, as 
 that of" Good King George." 
 
 And all the while that young man stood gazing on the stranger in silent 
 awe, while the girl, trembling on the threshold, a warm glow lightens up 
 her face, as she beheld the scene. 
 
 " When the time comes, go forth to victory ! On thy brow, no cou" 
 queror's blood-red wreath, but this crown of fadeless laurel !" 
 
 He extends his hand, as if to wreath the Stranger's brow, with the leafy 
 crown — yet look ! A young form steals up to his side, seizes the crown 
 from his hand, and, ere you can look again, it falls upon the bared brow of 
 the kneeling man. 
 
 He looks up and beholds that young girl, with the dark mantle gathered 
 over her white robes, stand blushing and trembling before the altar, as 
 though frightened at the boldness of the deed. 
 
 " It is well !" said the aged man, regarding his daughter with a kindly 
 smile. " From whom should the Deliverer of a Nation receive his crown 
 of laurel, but frotri the hands of a stainless woman !" 
 
 " Rise ! The Champion and Leader of a People !" spoke the deep voice 
 of the son, as he stood before the altar, surveying, with one glance, the face 
 of his father — the countenance of the blushing girl, and the bowed head of 
 the Stranger. "Rise, sir, and take this hand, which was never yet gitrep 
 
98 THE WISSAHIKON. 
 
 to man ! I know not thy name, yet, on this book, I swear to be faithful tc 
 thee, even to the death !" 
 
 The Stranger rose, proudly he stood there, as with tlie consciousness of 
 his commanding look and form. The laurel-wreath encircled his wliite 
 forehead ; the cross, formed by the anointing oil, glistened in the light. 
 
 Paul, the son, buckled a sword to his side ; the old man extended his 
 hands as if in blessing, while the young girl looked upsilendy into his face. 
 
 They all beheld the form of this strange m^i shake with emotion ; while 
 that face, whose calm beauty had won their hearts, now quivered in every 
 fibre. 
 
 The wind moaned sadly over the frozen snow, yet these words, uttered 
 by the stranger, were heard distinctly by all — 
 
 "From you, old man, I take the vow ! From you, fair girl, the laurel ! 
 From you, brave friend, the sword ! On this book I swear to be faithful 
 unto all !" 
 
 And as the light flashed over his quivering features, he laid his hand upon 
 the Book and kissed the hilt of the sword. 
 
 Years passed. 
 
 The memory of that New Year's night of 1774, perchance, had passed 
 with years, and lost all place in the memory of living being. 
 
 America was a nation — Washington was President. 
 
 Through the intervals of the trees shine the beams of the declining sun, 
 but the Block-House was a mass of ruins. Burned one night by the British^ 
 in the darkest hour of the war, its blackened timbers were yet encircled by 
 green leaves. 
 
 Still the smiling summer sun shone over the soft sward and among the 
 thickly clustered trees of Wissaliikon. 
 
 But Father — Son — Daughter — where are they ? 
 
 Yonder, a square enclosure of stone shuts three green mounds out from 
 the world. 
 
 The sad story of their lives may not be told in few words. The terrors 
 of that night when the Block-House was fired, and — but we must not speak 
 of it ! All we can say is — look yonder, and behold their graves ! 
 
 Hark ! The sound of horses' hoofs! A man of noble presence appears, 
 guiding his gallant grey steed, along the winding road. He dismounts ; the 
 horse wanders idly over the sod, cropping the fragrant wild grass. 
 
 This man of noble presence, dressed in plain black velvet, with a star 
 gleaming on his breast, with a face, magnificent in its wrinkled age, as it was 
 beautiful in its chivalric manhood — this man of noble presence, bek)re whom 
 kings may stand uncovered, approaches the ruin of the Block-House. 
 
 Do you see his eye light up again with youthful fire, his lip quiver with 
 an agitation deeper than battle-rage ? 
 
THE MIDNIGHT DEATH. 99 
 
 There ne stands, wnile the long shadows of the trees darken ft.r over the 
 "^ward — there, whih: the twiUght deepens into night, gazing with a heaving 
 i^hest and quivering lip, upon the Ruins of the old Block-House. 
 
 Perchance he thinks of the dead, or it may be his thoughts are witii 
 scenes of the Past — perchance, even now, a strange picture rises before him ! 
 
 — That picture a darkened chamber, with a white altar rising in its cen- 
 tre, while an old man, and his brave son, and virgin daughter, all gather 
 round a warrior form, hailing him with one voice — 
 "THE DELIVERER."* 
 
 II.— THE MID.NIGIIT DEATH. 
 
 Let me tell you a legend of the Revolution — a legend that even now 
 makes my blood run cold to think upon. 
 
 You all have seen the massive rock that projects out into the roadside 
 near the Red Bridge. You have seen the level space, that spreads from 
 this rock to that ancient buttonwood tree ; you have seen liiat cluster of 
 mills, and cottages and barns, nestling there, in the embrace of the wild 
 Wissahikon, with the dark rocks and the darker trees frowning far above. 
 
 It was here along this open space — about the time of the Battle of Ger- 
 mantown — it was here, at dead of night, when the moon was shining down 
 through a wilderness of floating clouds, that there came an old man and his 
 four sons, all armed with rifle, powder-horn and knife. 
 
 They came stealing down that rock — they stood in the centre of that 
 level space — a passing ray of moonlight shone over the tall form of that old 
 man, with his long white hairs floating on the breeze — over the manly 
 figures of his sons. 
 
 And why came that old farmer from the woods at dead of night, stealing 
 icward the Wissahikon, with his four tall sons around him, armed with rifle 
 and with knife ? 
 
 To-night tliere is a meeting at yon lonely house far up tiie Wissahikon 
 
 * Note by the Author — In this Legend, I have endeavored to compress an old-time 
 tradition of the Wis.sahikon, which, rehired wiih justice to all its deiails, would fill a 
 volume. There is no spot in the land — not even on the storied hills of ihc Santee, or 
 •he beautiful wilds of (he Kenebec — more hallowed of poetry and romance, than this 
 same Wissahikon, which, attainable by half an hour's journey from the city, yet pre- 
 serves its rui^ged grandeur of rock, and stream, and tree; and is to-day what it was 
 'wo hundred years ago. It was here that the Protestant Monks made their home, 
 more than a hundred years gone by; here, driven from their father-land, by the nni- 
 lej persecutions of Protestant and Catholic, they reared their Monastery, and wor- 
 shipped God, in the deep silence of primeval forests. The man who sneers at the 
 first .lettlers of Pennsylvania, terming them in derision, (as little minds are wont,; 
 the " ignora7it Germans," etc. etc., should come here to the wilds of Wissahikon. and 
 learn something of the philosophy, the religion, and toleration of the.=e German colo- 
 nists. The Legend will be more clearly ui"iderstood when it is known that the belief 
 was prevalent among these Pietists of the ••Comiri^ of a Great !\lti?i.," who was i« 
 appear in the wilderness, in fulfilment of a Prophecy in the Be )k of Revelaiions. 
 
100 THE WISSAHIKON. 
 
 — a meeting of all the farmers of Germantown who wish to join the army 
 of Mister Washington, now hiding away in the wilds of the Skippack. 
 
 The old farmer and his children go to join that meeting. Old as he is, 
 there is yet fiery blood in his veins — old as he is, he will yet strike a blow 
 for George Washington. 
 
 Suddenly he turns — he flings the blaze of a lantern full in the faces of 
 his sons, 
 
 " You are all here, my children," he said, "and yet not all." A gleam 
 of deep sorrow shot from the calm blue eye. 
 
 In that moment he remembered that missing son — his youngest boy with 
 those laughing locks of golden hair, with that eye of summer blue. 
 
 One year ago from this night that youth, George Derwent, had disap- 
 peared — no one knew whither. There was a deep mystery about it ail. 
 It was true that ihis young man, at the time of his disappearance, was be- 
 trothed to a beautiful girl — an orphan child — who had been reared in tlie 
 family of an old Tory down the Wissahikon, an old Tory named Isaac 
 Warden, who was in the pay of the British. It was true that there was 
 some strange connection between this Tory and young Derwent ; yet old 
 Michael his father, had heard no tidings of his son for a year — tiiere waf a 
 dark mystery about the whole affair. 
 
 And while the old man stood there, surveying the faces of his sons, there 
 came stealing along the narrow road, from the shadows of the cottage and 
 mill, the form of a young and beautiful girl, with a dark mantle thrown 
 loosely over her white dress, with her long black hair waving in free tresses 
 about her shoulders. 
 
 It was Ellen, the betrothed of George Derwent, who had now been miss- 
 ing from the wilds of Wissahikon for a year. 
 
 And why comes this orphan girl, with her full dark eye, with her long 
 black hair waving on the breeze, with her lovely form veiled in a loose 
 mantle ? Why came she hither so lonely at dead of night ? 
 
 This night, one year ago, George Derwent bade her good-bye under the 
 shade of that button wood tree — told her that some dark mysterious cause 
 would lead him from the valley for a year — and then, pressing the last 
 good-bye on her lips, swore to meet her under this same tree, after the 
 lapse of a year, at this very hour. 
 
 And now she comes to meet her lover — and now she comes to keep 
 her tryst. 
 
 And the moon, beaming from the parted clouds, fell over her form, as she 
 came in all her beauty toward that buttonwood tree, looking for all the 
 world like the spirit of that lonely dell. 
 
 With a muttered shriek she beheld old Michael standing there. Then, 
 rushing forward, she seized his withered hand, and bade him beware of the 
 lonely house of the Wissahikon. 
 
 That night, at the old Tory's house, she had overheard the plot of some 
 
THE MIDNIGHT DEATH. 101 
 
 British trooper.' to surprise the meeting of the patriot farmers — to surprise 
 them and crusfi them at a Mow. 
 
 Even as she spok^ grasping that old man's withered hand, there to the 
 south, was heard the tramp of steeds. Ah-eady the British troopers came 
 on to the work of massacre. 
 
 A cloud passed over the moon — it was dark — in a moment it was lio-hi 
 again. 
 
 That level space between the rock and the tree was vacant — the maiden 
 was gone into the shade of the forest trees — and there on that bold rock, 
 half hidden by the thick foliage, there stood Michar\ Derwent and his four 
 sons, waiting for the assassin-band. 
 
 Hark ! The tramp of steeds ! Near — and near and nearer yet it grows ! 
 
 Look ! They emerge from tiie shadow of the mill, ten British troopers, 
 mounted on stout steeds, with massy cap upon each brow, pistols in each 
 holster, swords by each side. 
 
 For a moment the moon shone over their glittering array, and then all is 
 dark. Hark to that old man's whisper — 
 
 " My boys, do you see them Britishers ? Mark each one of you his 
 man ; and when they cross tlie line between this rock and that Buttonvvood 
 tree — then fire !" 
 
 And they came on. 
 
 The captain of the band waved his sword boastingly in the air. 
 
 In a moment, he cried, we will be — in the midst of the rebels — he would 
 have said ; but the words died on his lips. 
 
 He fell from his steed — with a horrid curse he fell — he was dead ! 
 
 Did you see that flash from the trees ? Did you hear that shout of old 
 Michael ? Did you hear the crack of the rifles ? 
 
 Look, as the smoke goes up to Heaven — look, as the moon shines out 
 from a cloud ! 
 
 Where, a moment ago, were ten bold troopers riding forward at their 
 ease, now are but six. There are four dead men upon the ground — yonder 
 through the ^'issahikon dash four riderless steeds. 
 
 With a wild yell the six troopers spur their horses to the fatal rock — they 
 rear their hoofs against its breast — there is a moment of murder and death. 
 
 Look ! That trooper with the slouching hat — the dark plume drooping 
 over his brow — he breasts his steed against the rock — that jet black horse 
 flings his hoof high against the flinty barrier. While the moon hides hei 
 face behind that cloud, that trooper with the plume drooping over his brow 
 leans over the neck of his steed — he seizes old Michael by the throat, hfl 
 drags him from the rock, he spurs his liorse toward the stream, and that old 
 man hangs there, quivering at the saddle-bow. 
 
 Then it was that old Michael made a bold struggle for his life. He drew 
 his hunting knife from his belt — he raised it in the darkened air ; but lock — 
 the trooper snatches it from his grasp. 
 
102 THE WISSAHIKON. 
 
 " Die, Rebel !" he shouts. Bending over his steed, he strikes it deep 
 into the old man's neck down to his heart. 
 
 Then the moon shone out. Then, as the old man fell, the moon shone 
 over his fare, convulsed in death, over his glaring eyes, over his long white 
 hair, (lahbled in blood. 
 
 He fell with the knife sticking in his throat. 
 
 Then the trooper slowly dismounted from his steed — he kneels beside 
 the corse — his long dark plume falls over the face of the dead man. 
 
 And there he kneels, while the people of the valley, aroused by the 
 sound of conflict, come hastening on with torches — there, while that other 
 band of British troopers, sweeping from the north, surprise the lonely house 
 of the Wissahikon, and come over the stream with their prisoner in their 
 grasp — there while the sons of Michael Derwent — there are only two now 
 — stood pinioned beside the corse of their father, there kneels that trooper, 
 with his long plume drooping over the dead man's face. 
 
 Look — that old man with those hawk-like eyes, the sharp nose and thin 
 lips — that is the old Tory, Isaac Warden. 
 
 Look — that fair girl, stealing from the shade of that tree it is Ellen, the 
 orphan girl, the betrothed of the missing George Derwent. 
 
 Look ! The trees towering above are reddened by the light of torches. 
 Hark — the Wissahikon rolls murmuringly on — still that trooper kneels 
 there, bending down with that long dark plume drooping over the dead 
 man's face. 
 
 A strange shudder — an unknown fear thrills through the hearts of all 
 around. No one dared to arouse the kneeling man. 
 
 At last that burly trooper advances— '-he lays his hand upon the shoulder 
 of the kneeling man — he bids him look up. And he does look up ! 
 
 Ah, what a shudder ran through the group — ah, what a groan was heard 
 from the white lips of those two sons of Michael Derwent ! Even that 
 British captain starts back in horror of that face. 
 
 The trooper looked up — the light shone upon a young face with light 
 blue eyes, and locks of golden hair waving all around it, — but there was a 
 horror written on that face, worse than death, a horror like that wliich 
 stamps the face of a soul forever lost. 
 
 It was the face of George Derwent — he knelt beside the dead body of 
 his father — with that knife sticking in his throat. 
 
 For a moment there was an awful silence. The Parricide slowly rose, 
 turned lys face from the dead, and folded his arms. 
 
 Then a light footstep broke the deep silence of this scene — a fair lorm 
 came sofdy through the crowd — it was Ellen, the Orphan Girl. 
 
 " George — George, I see you once more. You are come," she cried, in 
 her wild joy, rushing to his arms. But the cry of joy died away in a 
 groan of horror. She beheld that awful face — one of her dark tresses swept 
 his clenched risiht hand. That hand was wet with blood. 
 
THE MIDNIGHT DEATH. . 103 
 
 Then like a crushed reed, she cowered back upon the ground. Her 
 lover spoke not, but he slowly raised that blood-red hand in the light, and 
 rfien — he pointed to the corse of Michael Derwent, with the reeking knile 
 standing out from the gash along the throat. 
 
 Thenxthe full horror of that hour burst upon the maiden's heart. Then 
 she slowly rose, then she laid her quivering hand upon the arm of that 
 hoary Traitor — Isaac Warden. 
 
 " Old man !" she whispered, in that low deep tone that came from hei 
 bursting heart. 
 
 " It is now one year since you told George Derwent that he could not 
 win my hand — the hand of your son's child — unless he engaged in your 
 service as a Hriiish spy, (this night, and this night only did I learn the 
 mystery of that foul bargain.) For one year you have reaped the gains of 
 his degradation — and now, after that year is past, he, George Derwent, who 
 loved your son's daughter, with as true a love as ever throbbed beneath the 
 blue heavens — he returns to reap his harvest, and — oh, God — behold that " 
 harvest !" 
 
 And with her dark eyes starting from their sockets, she pointed to the 
 ghastly son, and the dead father. Then in low, deep tones, a curse trembled 
 from her white lips — the orphan's curse upon that hoary traitor. And he 
 trembled. Yes, grown grey in guilt, he trembled, for there is something so 
 dark, so dread in that curse of a wronged orphan, as it quivers up there, 
 that melhinks the angels around the Throne of God turn pale and weep at 
 the sound. 
 
 And then while this scene froze the bystanders with awe, George Der- 
 went slowly opened his vest — he unstrung a chain of slender gold from hia 
 neck, he took the locket from the place where it had hung for one year ; 
 moved by each throbbing of his heart — he gave it to the maiden. 
 
 He then pointed to her form — and then to Heaven. To his own — and 
 then downward. That gesture spoke volumes. 
 
 " You to Heaven' — I — there." 
 
 Then with that blood-stained hand he tore the British Lion from his 
 breast — he trampled it under foot. Then gathering the strength of his 
 strong arm for the effort, he tore that British uniform — that scarlet tainted 
 uniform — from his manly chest — he rent it into rags. 
 
 Then without a word, he mounted his steed — he rode toward the stream 
 — he turned that ghastly face over his shoulder. 
 
 " Ellen ! ' he shrieked, and then he was gone. 
 
 " Ellen !" he shrieked, and then there was the sound of a steed dashing 
 through the water, crashing through the woods. 
 
 Then a shriek so wild, so dread, rang on the air — still the Parricide 
 thundered on. 
 
 Not more than a quarter of a mile from the scene of this legend, there is 
 a steep rock, rising one hundred feet above the dark waters of the VVissahi- 
 
10 4 , TPIE WISSAHIKON. 
 
 kon — rising with a robe of gnarled pines all about it, rising like a hvigfl 
 wreck of some primeval world. 
 
 The Parricide thundered on and on — at last his steed tottered on the 
 verge of this rock. 
 
 For a moment the noble liorse refused to take the leap. 
 
 But there, tliere is a dark mist before the eyes of the Parricide — there 
 was the figure of an old man — not a phantom ; ah, no ! ah, no ! It was too 
 real for that — there was the figure of an old man, that knife protruding from 
 the fatal wound, that white hair waving in dribbled blood. 
 
 And there was a crash — then an awful pause — then far, far down the 
 dell the yell of the dying horse and his rider mingled in one, and went 
 quivering up to God. 
 
 Ill— THE lilBLE LEGEND OF TFIE WISSAHIKON. 
 
 It was here in these wilds of the Wissahikon, on the day of the battle, 
 as the noonday sun came shining through the thickly clustered leaves, that 
 two men met in deadly combat. They grappled in deadly conflict near a 
 rock, that rose — like the huge wreck of some primeval world — at least one 
 hundred feet above the dark waters of the Wissahikon. 
 
 That man with the dark brow, and the darker grey eye, flashing, with 
 deadly light, with the muscular form, clad in the blue hunting frock of the 
 Revolution, is a Continental named Warner. His brother was murdered 
 the other night at the Massacre of Paoli. That other man, with long black 
 hair, drooping along his cadaverous face, is clad in the half-military costume 
 of a Tory refugee. That is the murderer of Paoli, named Dabney. 
 
 They had met there in the woods by accident, gjid now they fought, not 
 with sword or rifle, but with long and deadly hunting knives, that flash in 
 the light, as they go turning ^nd twining and twisting over the green sward. 
 
 At last the Tory was down ! Down on the green sward with the knee 
 of the Continental upon his breast — that upraised knife quivering in the 
 light, that dark grey eye flashing death into his face! 
 
 "Quarter — I yield!" gasped the Tory, as the knee was pressed upon 
 his breast — " Spare me— -I yield !" 
 
 " My brother !" said the Patriot soldier, in that low deep tone of deadly- 
 hate — " My brother cried for ' quarter' on the night of Paoli, and, even as 
 he clung to your knees, you struck that knife into his heart! Oh ! I will 
 give you the quarter of Paoli !" 
 
 And liis hand was raised for the blow, and his teeth were clenched in 
 deadly hate. He paused for a moment, and then pinioned the Tory's arms, 
 and with one rapid stride dragged him to the verge of the rock, and held 
 him quivering over the abyss. 
 
 " Mercy !" gasped the Tory, turning black and ashy by turns, as tha. 
 iwfu! gulf yawned below. " Mercy ! I have a wife — a child — spare me I' 
 
THE BIBLE LEGEND uf THE WISSAHIKON. 105 
 
 Then the Continental, with his muscular strength gathered for the effort, 
 snook the murderer once more over the abyss, and then hissed this bittei 
 sneer between his teeth : 
 
 " My brother had a wife and two children ! — The morning after the nighl 
 of Paoli, that wife was a widow, those children were orphans ! — Wouldn't 
 you hke to go and beg your life of that widow and her children ?" 
 
 This proposal, made by the Continental in the mere mockery of hate, 
 was taken in serious earnest by the horror-stricken Tory. He begged to 
 be taken to the widow and her children, to have the pitiful privilege of beg- 
 ging his life. After a moment's serious thought, the patriot soldier con- 
 sented ; he bound the Tory's arms yet tighter ; placed him on the rock 
 again — led him up to the woods. — A quiet cottage, embosomed among trees, 
 broke on their eyes. 
 
 They entered that cottage. There, beside the desolate hearth-stone, sat 
 the widow and her children. She sat there a matronly woman of thirty 
 years, with a face faded by care, a deep dark eye, and long black hair hang- 
 ing in dishevelled flakes about her shoulders. 
 
 On one side was a dark-haired boy, of some six years — on the other a 
 litde girl, one year younger, with light hair and blue eyes. The Bible — an 
 old and venerable volume — lay open on that mother's knee. 
 
 And then that pale-faced Tory flung himself upon his knees, confessed 
 that he had butchered her husband on the night of Paoli, but begged his life 
 at her hands ! 
 
 " Spare me, for the sake of my wife, my child !" 
 
 He had expected that his pitiful moan would touch the widow's heart — 
 but not one relenting gleam softened her pale face. 
 
 " The Lord shall judg^ between us !" she said in a cold icy tone, that 
 froze the murderer's heart. — " Look ! The Bible lays open upon my knee. I 
 will close that volume, and then this boy shall open it, and place his finger 
 at random upon a line, and by that line you shall live or die !" 
 
 This was a strange proposal, made in full faith of a wild and dark super- 
 stition of the olden time. 
 
 For a moment the Tory kneeling there, livid as ashes, was wrapt in 
 thought. Then in a faltering voice, he signified his consent. 
 
 Raising her dark eyes to Heaven, the mother prayed the Great Father 
 to direct the finger of her son — she closed the Bible — she handed it to that 
 boy, whose young cheek reddened with loathing as he gazed upon his 
 father's murderer ! 
 
 He took the Bible — opened its holy pages at random — placed his finger 
 on a verse. 
 
 Then there was silence! 
 
 Then that Continental soldier, who had sworn to avenge his brother's 
 death, stood there with dilating eyes and parted lips. 
 7 
 
106 THE WISSAHIKON. 
 
 Then the culprit kneeling on the floor, with a face like discolored clay 
 felt his heart leap to his throat. 
 
 Then in a clear, bold voice, the widow read this line from the Old Testa 
 ment ; — it was short, yet terrible : 
 
 " That man shall die !" 
 
 Look ! The brother springs forward to plunge a knife into the murder 
 er's heart, but the Tory, pinioned as he is, clings to the widow's knees .' 
 He begs that one more trial may be made by the little girl, that child of five 
 years, with golden hair and laughing eyes. 
 
 The widow consents ; there is an awful pause. 
 
 With a smile in her eye, without knowing what she does, that litde girl 
 opens the Bible as it lays on her mother's knee — she turns her laughing face 
 away — she places her finger upon a line. 
 
 That awful silence grows deeper ! 
 
 The deep-drawn breath of the brother, the broken gasps of the murderer, 
 alone disturb the silence. — The widow and dark-eyed boy are breathless. 
 
 That little girl, unconscious as she was, caught a feeling of awe from the 
 horror of the countenances around her, and stood breathless, her face turned 
 aside, her tiny fingers resting on that line of life or death. 
 
 At last gathering courage, the widow bent her eyes to the page, and read. 
 It was a line from the New .Testament. 
 
 " Love your enemies." 
 
 Ah ! that moment was sublime ! 
 
 Oh ! awful Book of God, in vvhos« dread pages we see Job talking face 
 to face with Jehovah, or Jesus waiting by Samaria's well, or wandering by 
 the waves of dark Gahlee, Oh ! awful Book, shining to-night, as I speak, 
 the light of that widow's home, the glory of that mechanic's shop, shining 
 where the world comes not, to look on the last night of the convict in his 
 cell, lightening the way to God, even over that dread gibbet. Oh ! book 
 of terrible majesty and child-like love, of sublimity that crushes the soul into 
 awe, of beauty that melts the heart with rapture : — you never shone more 
 strangely beautiful than there, in the lonely cot of the Wissahikon, when 
 you saved that murderer's life ! 
 
 For — need I tell you — that murderer's life was saved ! That widow recog- 
 nised the finger of God — even the stern brother was awed into silence. 
 
 The murderer went his way. 
 
 Now look ye, how wonderful are the ways of Heaven ! 
 
 That very night, as the widow sate by her lonely hearth — her orphans 
 by her side — sate there with crushed heart and hot eye-balls, thinking of 
 her husband, who now lay mouldering on the blood-drenched sod of Paoli 
 —there was a tap at the door. 
 
 She opened the door, and — that husband living, though covered witb 
 ?liany wounds, was in her arms ! 
 
THE TEMPTATION OF WASHINGTON. 107 
 
 He had fallen at Paoli — but not in death. He was alive ; his wife lay 
 panting on his breast. 
 
 That night there was prayer in that wood-embowered Cot of tlie Wissa- 
 hikon ! ' 
 
 IV.— THE TEMPTATION OF WA.SULNGTOX. 
 
 There are days in winter when the air is very soft and balmy as the 
 early days of summer, when, in fact, that glad maiden May seems to blow 
 her warm breath in the grim face af February, until the rough old warrior 
 laughs again. 
 
 It was a day like this that the morning sunshine was streaming over a 
 high rock, that frowns there, far above the Wissahikon. 
 
 A high rock' — attainable only by a long, winding path — fenced in by the 
 trunks of giant pines, whose boughs, on the coldest day of winter, form a 
 canopy overhead. 
 
 This rock is covered with a carpet of evergreen moss. 
 
 And near this nook — this chamber in the forest, for it was nothing less — 
 sate an old man, separated from it by the trunks of the pines, whose boughs 
 concealed his form. 
 
 Tliat old man had come here, alone, to think over his two sons, now 
 
 freezing at Valley Forge for, though the father was a Tory, yet his 
 
 children were Continentals. He was a well-meaning man, but some half- 
 crazy idea about the Divine Right of the British Pope, George the Third, 
 to rule this Continent, and murder and burn as he pleased — lurked in his 
 brain, and kept him back from the camp of Washington. 
 
 And now, in this bright morning in February, he had come here, alone, to 
 think the matter over. 
 
 And while he was pondering this deep matter over, whether George the 
 Pope or George the Rebel was in the right — he heard the tramp of a war- 
 steed not far off, and, looking between the trunks of the pines, he saw a 
 man, of noble presence, dismount from his grey horse, and then advance 
 into the quiet nook of moss-carpeted rocks, encircled by giant pines. 
 
 — And now, leaving that aged Tory, to look upon this man for himself, 
 let us also look on him, with our own eyes. 
 
 As he comes through those thick boughs, you behold a man, more than 
 six feet high, with his kingly form enveloped in a coarse grey overcoat; a 
 chapeau on his bold forehead — and beneath the skirts of that grey coat, you 
 may see the military boots and the end of a scabbard. 
 
 And who is this man of kingly presence, who comes here alone, to pace 
 this moss-covered rock, with drooped head and folded arms ? 
 
 Come, my friends, and look upon him — let me show you — not this figure 
 of mist and frost-work, which some historians have called Washington — 
 but Washington, the living, throbbing, flesh and blood, Washington ! — Yes; 
 Washington the man. 
 
108 THE WISSAHIKON. 
 
 Look upon him, as he paces that moss-covered rock — see that eye bura 
 that muscular chest heave under the folded arms. 
 
 Ah, he is thinking of Valley Forge ! Of the bloody foot-prints in the 
 snow — of those three hideous figures that sit down in the huts of Valley 
 Forge together — Disease, Starvation, and Nakedness ! 
 
 Look, as those dark thoughts crowd on his soul, he falls on his knees, he 
 prays the God of Heaven to take his life, as an offering for the fieedom of 
 his native land ! 
 
 And as that prayer startles the still woods, that grey coat falls open, and 
 discloses the blue and gold uniform — the epaulette and the sword-hilt. 
 
 Then the agony of that man, praying there in the silent woods — praying 
 for his country, now bleeding in her chains — speaks out, in the flashing of 
 the eye, in the beaded sweat, dripping from the brow 1 
 
 — Ah, kings of the world, planning so cooly your schemes of murder, 
 come here, and look at George Washington, as he oflers his life, a sacrifice 
 for his country ! 
 
 Ah, George of England, British Pope, and good-natured Idiot, that you 
 are, now counting, in your royal halls how many more men it will take to 
 murder a few thousand peaceful farmers, and make a nation drink your tea, 
 come here to this rock of the Wissahikon, and see, King and Pope as yo» 
 are, George Washington in council with his God ! 
 
 My friends, 1 can never think of that man in the wilds of Wissahikon — 
 praying there, alone : praying for his country, with the deep agony in hia 
 heart and on his brow, without also thinking of that dark night in Gelhse- 
 mane, when the blood-drops startled from the brow of Jesus, the Blessed 
 Redeemer, as he plead for the salvation of the world ! 
 
 Now look ! As Washington kneels there, on that moss-covered rock, 
 from those green boughs steps forth another form — tall as his own — clad in 
 a coarse grey coat, with the boots and scabbard seen below its skirts, with 
 the chapeau upon his brow. 
 
 That stranger emerges from the boughs — stands there unperceived, gazing 
 in silence upon the kneeling warrior. 
 
 A moment passes ! 
 
 Look ! Washington has risen to his feel — he confronts the stranger. 
 
 Now, as that stranger, with a slight bow, uncovers his forehead, tell me, 
 did you ever see a stronger or stranger resemblance between two men than 
 between these two, who now confront each other in silence, under the shade 
 of those dark pines ? jj^sf^!^)^ 
 
 The same heighth, breadtii of chest, sinewy limbs, nay, almost the same 
 faces, — save that the face of the stranger, sharper in oi'.liue, lacks that calm 
 consciousness of a great soul, which stamps the countenance of Washington. 
 
 That resemblance is most strange — their muscular forms are clad in the 
 same coarse grey coat — their costume is alike — yet hold 
 
 The stranger throws open his overcoat — you behold that hangman's 
 
THE TEMPTATION OF WASHINGTON. 109 
 
 dress, tliat British uniform, dashing wiih gold and stars ! Washington starts 
 hacic, and lays his hand upon his sword. 
 
 And as these two men, so strangely alike, meet there by accident, undel 
 that canopy of bouiihs, — one wandering from Valley Forge, one from Pliila- 
 delphia — let me tell you at once, that the stranger is none other than the 
 Master Butcher of the Idiot-king — Sir William Howe. 
 
 Yes, there they meet, the one the impersonation of Freedom — the other 
 the tinselled lacquey of a Tyrant's Will ! 
 
 We will listen to their conversation : it is brief, but impt)rtant. 
 
 For a moment, the British General stood spell-bound belbre the man 
 whom he had crossed the ocean to entrap, and bring home; the Rebel, who 
 had lifted his hand against tfie Right Divine of the British Pope! To that 
 British General there was something awful about the soldier wlio could talk 
 with his God, as Washington had talked a moment ago. 
 
 "I cannot be mistaken," at last said Sir William Howe; "I behold be- 
 fore me the chieftain of the Rebel army, iMister Washington?" 
 
 Washington coldly bowed his head, 
 
 "Then this is a happy hour ! For we together can give peace and free- 
 dom to this land !" 
 
 At this word Washington started with surprise — advanced a step — and 
 then exclaimed — 
 
 "And who, sir, are you that thus boldly promise peace and freedom to 
 my country ?" 
 
 "The commander of his Majesty's forces in America!"' said Howe, ad- 
 vancing along that wood-hidden rock towards Washuigton. " And oh, sir, 
 let me tell you that the king, my master, has heard of your virtues, which 
 alone dignities the revolt with the name of a war, and it is to you he looks 
 fur the termination of this most disastrous contest." 
 
 Then Washington, whose pulse had never quickened before all the pano- 
 ply of British arms, felt his heart flutter in his bosom, as that great boon was 
 before his eyes — peace and freedom to his native land ! 
 
 " Yes," continued Howe, advancing another step, •' my king looks to you 
 for the termination of this unnatural war. Let rebellion once be crushed — 
 let the royal name be finally established by your influences, and then, sir, 
 behold the gratitude of King George to Mister Washington." 
 
 As he spoke, he placed in the hands of Washington a massive parcli- 
 ment — sealed with the broad seal of England, signed with the manual o( 
 King George. 
 
 Washington took the parchment — opened it — read — liis face did no\ 
 change a muscle. 
 
 And yet that parchment named Mister Gegrge Washington " George 
 Duke Washincon, of Mount Vernon, our well-beloved servant. Viceroy 
 OF America !" 
 
 Here was a boon for the Virginia planter — here was a title and here a 
 
110 THE WISSAHIKON. 
 
 power for the young man, who was one day struggling fc r his life away 
 there arnid tloating ice on the dark Allegheny river. 
 
 For a moment, the tace of Washington was buried in that parchment, 
 and then, in a low, deep voice, he spoke — • 
 
 '* I have been tiiinking," he said, " of the ten thousand brave men who 
 have been massacred in this quarrel. I have been thinking of the dead of 
 Bunker Hill — Lexington — Quebec — Trenton — Yes, the dead of Saratoga — 
 Brandy wine — Germantown " 
 
 " And," cried Howe, startling forward, " you will put an end to this 
 unhappy quarrel ?" 
 
 " And your king," continued Washington, with a look and tone that would 
 have cut into a heart of nurble, " would have me barter the bones of the 
 dead for a ribbon and a title !'" 
 
 And then — while Howe shrunk cowering back — that Virginia planter, 
 Washington, crushed that parchment into the sod, with the heel of his war- 
 rior boot Yes, trampled tiiat tide, that royal name, into one mass of 
 
 rags and dusl. 
 
 " That is my answer to your king !" 
 
 And then lie stood with scorn on his brow, and in his eye, his outstretched 
 arm pointing at that minion of King George. 
 
 Wasn't that a picture for the pencil of an angel ? And now, that British 
 General, recovering from his first surprise, grew red as his uniform with 
 rage, 
 
 "Your head !" he gasped, clenching his hand, "your head will yet red- 
 den the Traitor's block !"' 
 
 Then Washington's hand sought his sword — then his fierce spirit awoke 
 within him — it was his first impulse to strike that braggart quivering into 
 the dust. 
 
 But in a moment he grew calm. 
 
 " Yours is a good and great king," he said, with his usual stern tone- 
 "At first he is determined to sweep a whole Continent with but five thou- 
 sand men, but he soon finds that his five thousand men must swell to twenty- 
 five thousand before he can ever begin his work of murder. Then he 
 sacrifices his own subjects by thousands — and butchers peaceful farmers b) 
 tens of thousands — and yet his march of victory is not even begun. Then, 
 if he conquers the capital city of the Continent, victory is sure ' Behold ' 
 the city is in his grasp, yet still the hosts of freedom defy him even from 
 the huts of Valley Forge ! 
 
 " And now, as a last resource, your king comes to the man whose hend 
 yesterday was sought, with a high reward, to grace the gates of London — 
 he offers that Rebel a Dukedom — a vice re^al sceptre ! And yet that Rebel 
 tramples the Dukedom into the dust — that Rebel crushes into atoms the 
 name of such a king." 
 
 Ah, never spaniel skulked from the kick of his master as that Genersd 
 
WASHINGTON AS DUKE. KING AND REBEL. Ill 
 
 Howe cringeJ away from the presence of Washington — mounted his horse 
 — wass gone ! 
 
 One word with regard to the aged Tory, who beheld this scene from 
 yonder bushes, with alternate wonder, admiration, and fear. 
 
 That Tory went home " I have seen George Washington at prayer," 
 
 he said to his wife: "the man who can trample upon the name of a king, 
 as he did — pray to God as he prayed, that man cannot be a Rebel or a bad 
 man. To-morrow, I will join my sons at Valley Forge !"* 
 
 v.— WASHINGTON AS DUKE, KING AND REBEL. 
 
 We have seen Washington and Hows stand face to face on the cliff of 
 Wissahikon ; we have seen the British General offer the American leader a 
 ducal title, a vice-regal sway as the reward of treason. 
 
 Now let us behold four scenes which arise to our minds from the con- 
 templation of this Legend. These scenes are fraught with a deep mystery, 
 a sublime and holy moral. 
 
 The first scene ! 
 
 We stand in the streets of a magnificent city. A dense crowd darkens 
 the avenues leading to yonder palace. That palace, which rises over the 
 heads of the living mass, like a solitary mountain amid ocean waves. 
 
 There are bands of armed men around that palace — look ! How the 
 sun glitters over the red uniforms, over the lines of bayonets, over the 
 thousand flags, that wave in the summer air. 
 
 And there, high over all, from the loftiest dome of that palace, one single 
 broad banner tosses slowly and lazily upon the breeze — look, its wide 
 shadow is cast upon the multitude below. That is the Red Cross Banner 
 of England. 
 
 And -now every eye is fixed upon that palace door — a great potentate 
 will shortly come forth — the mob are anxious to look upon him, to shoul 
 his name. 
 
 And now, as the drums roll out their thunder, as the voice of cannon bidi 
 him welcome — he comes ! 
 
 * This tradition, prev'iils not only among the rock-bound cliffs of the Wissahikon, 
 but amid the pastoral glades of Brandy wine. A different version, states that the inci- 
 dent occurred, in the darkest hour of the Battle of Brandywine, on a beautiful knoll, 
 which arises from the bosom of the meadow, crowned with gran'l old trees. In this 
 shape, I have incorporated it, in the pages of my novel — " Blanche of Brandywine." 
 In the present work, I have given it, with the locality of the Wissahikon, and the 
 dark time of Valley Forge. Nothing is more common, in the history of the Revolu- 
 tion, than to hear the same tradition, recited by live different persons, with as many 
 changes of lime and place. Even the precise spot, on which La ['"ayette, received his 
 wound at Brandywine, is a matter of doubt. Two aged men pointed out to me, in the 
 course of my pilgrimage over the field, two localities, for this incident, with the em- 
 phatic remark — •' Here's where La Layette received his wound. He said so, him 
 self, when he visited the place in 1824." These locaUiies, were only four milee 
 apart. 
 
112 THE WISSAHIKON. 
 
 Yes, as women press forward, lifting their babes en high, eager to be- 
 hold him ; as old men cl'mb those trees, mad with anxiety, to catch but one 
 glimpse of his form, he somes, the Viceroy of America ! 
 
 Yes, from that palace door, environed by guards and courtiers, fine gen 
 tlemen and gay ladies, he oomes, that man of kingly presence ; he stands 
 the^e, for the moment, with the sun playing over his noble brow, glittering 
 along his vice-regal robes. How the thunder of the cannon, the clang of 
 drum and bugle, the hurrahs of the mob, go mingling up to Heaven in one 
 mad chorus. And that great prince standing there under the shadow of the 
 British banner ; that is George, Duke Washington, Viceroy of America. 
 
 Yes, that is what Washington might have been, had he betrayed his 
 country. 
 
 Now we will change the scene : 
 
 We stand in the ante-chamber of the British King. 
 
 Here, in this lofty hall, adorned with trophies from all the world — tro- 
 phies from plundered Ireland — from ravaged Hindoostan — from down-trod- 
 den America — here, under that Red Cross Banner, which like a canopy, 
 reddens over that ceiling ; here are gathered a glittering party of noble lords 
 and ladies, anxious to beliold a strange scene ; the meeting between King 
 George and Duke Washington, that man who yesterday was a rebel, bui 
 now having returned to his duty as a loyal subject, is about to be presented 
 to his master. 
 
 While all is suspense, two doors at opposite ends of that wide hall, are 
 (lung open by gentlemen ushers ; one announces " His Majesty !" 
 
 And a decrepit man with a vacant eye — a hanging lip — a gouty form, 
 mocked with purple robes, hobbles slowly forth. 
 
 That other gentleman in livery announces : — " His Grace, Washington, 
 Duke of Mount Vernon, Viceroy of America !" 
 
 And from that door comes a man of magnificent form, high bearing, 
 kiigly look. He is clad — oh, shame ! — in the scarlet uniform — his breast 
 w.wing with ribbons and glittering with stars. 
 
 And that noble man kneels in the centre of that crowd, kisses the gouty 
 hsndof that King. The good-humored idiot murmurs something about for- 
 giving the rebel Washington, because that rel)el has become a loyal subject, 
 and brouglit back a nation to the feet of the British King. 
 
 And there kneels Duke Washington, and there stands the Protestant 
 Pope of Britain. 
 
 — Had Washington accepted the parchment from General Howe, some- 
 thing like this scene would have been the presentation at Court. 
 
 Or change the scene again : 
 
 What see you now ? Independence Hall transformed into a monarch's 
 reception room, and there, surrounded by his courtiers, the crown on ni? 
 brow, stands George the First, King of America. 
 
 The iflitter of arms flashes o'er Indej^ndence Square ; the huzzas of the 
 
WASHINGTON AS LUKE, KING AND REBEL. 113 
 
 mob burst into the sky ; there is joy to-day in Philatlelphia — the aristocracy 
 are glad — for George Washington, forsaking the fact of republican truth, hag 
 yielded to the wishes of servile friends, yielded to the huzzas of the mob 
 and while Independence Bell tolls the death of freedom, has taken to him 
 self a crown and a throne. 
 
 So, my friends, would one dark page in history have read, had not George 
 Washington been George Washington all his life. 
 
 And now let us look for a moment at the other side of the picture. 
 
 Suppose instead of the cry uttered by the watchman one night as the 
 State House struck one — " One o'clock and Cornwaliis is taken !" — he haa 
 shrieked forth- — 
 
 " One o'clock, and George Washington is taken !" / 
 
 Then would history have chronicled a scene like this : 
 
 One summer day an immense crowd gathered on Tyburn Hill. Yes. 
 that immense crowd spread far along the street, over the house tops, clung 
 to the trees, or darkened over the church steeples. That day London had 
 given forth its livery and its rags — its nobility and its rabble. St. Gihis, 
 that foul haunt of pollution, sent its thieves and its beggars — St. James, the 
 home of royalty, sent its princes and its lords, to swell the numbers of this 
 vast crowd which now darkened far and wide over Tyburn Hill. 
 
 And in the centre of this wide theatre — whose canopy is yonder blue 
 heaven — whose walls are human faces — there glooms a scaffold covered 
 with drooping folds of black. 
 
 There, on that scaffold, stand three persons : — That grim figure, with 
 face muffled in crape, and the axe in his hand, that is the executioner. 
 
 There is a block by his side, and around that block is scattered a heap 
 of saw dust. 
 
 That saw dust has drunk the blood of men like Algernon Sidney — but 
 to-day will drink the blood of a greater rebel than he ! 
 
 By the side of that executioner stands another figure in black, not a hang- 
 man, but a priest, come to pray for the traitor. 
 
 And the third figure ? 
 
 See, how he towers above priest and hangman, his blue uniform still en- 
 robing his proud figure — a calm resolution still sitting like a glory upon his 
 brow ! 
 
 Can you tell me the name of this traitor ? 
 
 Why you must be a stranger in London not to know his story. Why 
 the rabble in the street have it at their tongues' end — and those noble ladies 
 looking from yonder windows — they shed some tears when they speak it. 
 
 That man standing on the scaffold is the great rebel, who was captured at 
 Yorktown — brought home in chains — tried in Parliament — sentenced vo 
 death — and to-day he dies. 
 
 And now look, the priest approaches; he begs that calm-faced 'traitor ui 
 repent of his treason before he dies, — to be reconciled to his King, the gooa 
 
114 THE WISSAHIKON. 
 
 King George ; to repent of his wicked deeds at Trenton, Monmouth, Gub 
 mauKnvn, Brandy wine, and Valley Forge 
 
 And as the priest doles out his store of set-phrases, look, how that nobie« 
 looking rebel pushes him aside with a quiet scorn. 
 
 Then, with one prayer to God, with one thought of his country, now 
 bleeding in her chains, he kneels — his head on the block. 
 
 How awfully still that crowd has become. The executioner draws near 
 Look ! ne strips that blue coat from the rebel's shoulders — epaulettes, sword- 
 belt and sword — he tears them all from his manly form. With his vile 
 hands he breaks that sword in twain — for it is a rebel's sword. 
 
 Look ! he feels the edge of the axe — still that noble rebel, but half dressed, 
 is kneeling there, in the light of the summer sun. 
 
 That axe glimmers into hght. 
 
 Now hold your breath — oh, horror ! — it falls. — There is a stream of 
 blood pouring down into the saw dust — there is a human head rolling on the 
 scaffold 1 
 
 And now look again ! 
 
 As that vast crowd breathe in gasps, the executioner, with crape over his 
 face, raises the head into light — and while the features yet quiver, while the 
 blood falls pattering down upon the mangled corse — 
 
 Hark — do you hear his brutal shout ? 
 
 " Behold the head of George Washington, the rebel and traitor !" 
 
 Thank God! that page was never written in history.' And who will 
 dare to say that this picture is too strongly drawn ? Ah, my friends, had 
 my Lord Cornwallis been the victor at Yorktown, had the Continental 
 armies been crushed, then these streets would have been too narrow to con- 
 lain the gibbets erected by the British King. 
 
 Ah ! those English lords and ladies — these English bards are now too 
 glad to lisp the praises of Washington. 
 
 But had the American armies been crushed, then would the head of 
 Washington have been nailed to the door-post of Independence Hall. 
 
 And now that you have seen what Washington might have been as the 
 Duke, the Viceroy, the King — or how dark would have been his fate as the 
 rtibel, the crushed and convicted traitor — let us look at him as he is. 
 
 Is. For he is not dead ! For he will never die ! For he lives — lives 
 at this hour, in a fuller and bolder life than ever. 
 
 Where'er there is a hearthstone in our land, there Washington shines lis 
 patron saint. 
 
 Wherever a mother can teach her child some name, to write in its heart 
 and wear there forever next to the name of the Redeemer, that name is 
 Washington, 
 
 Yes, we are like those men who dig in the deep mines of Norway — 
 there in the centre of the earth forever burns one bright undying Uame — nc 
 one asks who first built the lire — but all know that it has burned for ages — 
 
THE HERO WOMAJS. 115 
 
 all, from father to son, make it a holy duty to heap fuel on that fire, and 
 watch it as though it were a god. 
 
 The name of Washington is that eternal fire built in every Amwican 
 lifart, and burning on when the night is darkest, and blazing brightest when 
 ihe gloom is most terrible. 
 
 So let that altar of flame burn and burn on forever, a living testimonial 
 of that man who too proud to be a Duke, or Viceroy, or King, — struck 
 higher and bolder in his ambition, struck at that place in the American heart 
 second in glory, and only second, be it spoken with awful reverence — to the 
 eternal Majesty of God 
 
 VI.— THE HERO WOMAN. 
 
 In the shadows of the Wissahikon woods, not more than half a mile 
 from the Schuylkill, there stood in the time of the Revolution, a quaint old 
 fabric, built of mingled logs and stone, and encircled by a palisaded wall. It 
 had been erected in the earlier days of William Penn, — perhaps some years 
 before the great apostle of peace first trod our shores, — as a block-house, in- 
 tended for defence against the Indians. 
 
 And now it stood with its many roofs, its numerous chrmneys, its massive 
 square windows, its varied front of logs and stone, its encircling wall, 
 through which admittance was gained by a large and stoutly-built gate : it 
 stood in the midst of the wood, with age-worn trees enclosing its veteran 
 outline on every side. 
 
 From its western window you might obtain a glimpse of the Schuylkill 
 waves, while a large casement in the southern front, commanded a view of 
 the winding road, as it sunk out of view, under the shade of thickly-clustered 
 boughs, into a deep hollow, not more than one hundred yards from the 
 mansion. 
 
 Here, from the southern casement, on one of those balmy summer days 
 which look in upon the dreary autumn, toward the close of November, a 
 farmer's daughter was gazing with dilating eyes and half-clasped hands. 
 
 Well might she gaze earnestly to the south, and listen with painful inten- 
 sity for the slightest sound ! Her brothers were away with the army of 
 Washington, and her father, a grim old veteran — he stood six feet and three 
 inches in his stockings — wiio had manifested his love for the red-coat in- 
 vaders, in many a desperate contest, had that morning left her alone in the 
 old mansion, alone in this small chamber, in char e of some ammunition in- 
 tended for a band of brave farmers, about to join the hosts of freedom. 
 F.ven as she stood there, gazing out of the southern window, a faint glimpse 
 of sunlight from the faded leaves above, pouring over her mild face, shaded 
 by clustering brown hair, there, not ten paces from her side, were seven 
 'oaded rifles and a keg of powder. 
 
116 THE WISSAHIKON. 
 
 Leaning from the casement, she Hstened with eveiy nerve quivenng; with 
 suspense, to the shouts of combatants, tiie hurried tread of armed men echo- 
 ing fi-om the south. 
 
 There was something very beautiful in that picture ! The form of the 
 young girl, framed by the square massive window, tlie contrast between die 
 rough timbers, that enclosed her, and that rounded face, the lips parting, the 
 hazel eye dilating, and the cheek warming and flushing with hope and fear ; 
 there was something very beautiful in that picture, a young girl leaning from 
 the window of an old uiansion, with her brown hair waving in glossy 
 masses around her face ! 
 
 Suddenly the shouts to the south grew nearer, and then, emerging from 
 the deep hollow, there came an old man, running at full speed, yet every 
 few paces, turning round to fire the rifle, which he loaded as he ran. He 
 was pursued by a party of ten or more British soldiers, who came rushing 
 on, their bayonets fixed, as if to strike their victim down, ere he advanced 
 ten paces nearer the house. 
 
 On and on the old man came, while his daughter, quivering with sus- 
 pense, hung leaning from the window ; — he reaches the block-house gate- 
 look ! He is surrounded, their muskets are levelled at his head ; he is 
 down, down at their feet, grappling for his life ! But look again ! — He 
 dashes his foes aside, with one bold movement he springs through the gate -, 
 an instant, and it is locked ; the British soldiers, mad with rage, gaze upon 
 the high wall of logs and stone,«and vent their anger in drunken curses. 
 
 Now look to yonder window ! Where the young girl stood a momeui 
 ago, quivering with suspense, as she beheld her father struggling for his life, 
 now stands that old man himself, his brow bared, his arm grasping the rifle, 
 while his grey hairs wave back from his wrinkled and blood-dabbled face ! 
 That was a fine picture of an old veteran, nerved for his last fight; a stout 
 warrior, preparing for his death-struggle. 
 
 Death-struggle ? Yes ! — for the old man, Isaac Wampole, had dealt too 
 many hard blows among the British soldiers, tricked, foiled, cheated them 
 too often to escape now ! A few moments longer, and they would be re- 
 inforced by a strong parly of refugees ; the powder, the arms, in the old 
 block-house, perhaps that daughter herself, was to be their reward. There 
 was scarcely a hope for the olti man, and yet he had determined to make a 
 desperate fight. 
 
 " We must bluff off these rascals !" he said, with a grim smile, turning to 
 his child. " Now, Bess, my girl, when I fire this rifle, do you hand me 
 another, and so on, until the whole eight shots are fired ! That will keep 
 them on the other side of the wall, for a few moments at least, aid then we 
 will have to trust to God for the rest !" 
 
 liook down there, and see, a hand stealing over thn edge of the wall ! 
 The old man levels his piece — that British trooper falls back with a crushed 
 hand upon Ins comrades' heads ! 
 
THE HERO WOMAN. 11? 
 
 No longer quivering with suspense, but grown suddenly firm, that young 
 girl passes a loaded rifle to the veteran's grasp, and silently awaits the 
 result. 
 
 For a moment all is sileijt below ; the British bravoes are somewhat 
 loath to try that wall, when a stout old " Rebel," rifle in hand, is lookuig 
 from yonder window ! There is a pause — low, deep murmurs — they are 
 holding a council ! 
 
 A moment is gone, and nine heads are thrust above the wall at once — 
 hark ! One — two — three ! — The old veteran has fired three shots, there are 
 three dying men, grovelling in the yard, beneath the shadow of the wall '. 
 
 " Quick, Bess, the rifles !' 
 
 And the brave girl passes the rifles to her father's grasp ; there are four 
 shots, one after the other ; three more soldiers feU back, like weights of lead 
 upon the ground, and a single red-coat is seen, slowly mounting to the top of 
 the wall, his eye fixed upon llie hall door, which he will force ere a moment 
 is gone ! 
 
 Now the last ball is fired, the old man stands there, in that second-story 
 window, his hands vainly grasping for another loaded rifle ! At this mo- 
 ment, the wounded and dying band below, are joined by a party of some 
 twenty refugees, who, clad in their half-robber uniform, came rushing from 
 the woods, and with one bound are leaping for the summit of the waU ! 
 
 " Quick, Bess, my rifle !" 
 
 And look there — even while the veteran stood looking out upon his foes, 
 the brave girl — for, slender in form, and wildly beautiful in face, she is a 
 brave girl, a Hero-Woman — had managed, as if by instinctive impulse, to 
 load a rifle. She handed it to her father, and then loaded another, and an- 
 other . — Wasn't that a beautiful sight ? A fair young girl, grasping powder 
 and ball, with the ramrod rising and falling in her slender fingers ! 
 
 Now look down to the wall again ! The refugees are clambering over 
 its summit — again that fatal aim — again a horrid cry, and another wounded 
 man toppling down upon his dead and dying comrades ! 
 
 But now look ! — A smoke rises there, a fire blazes up around the wall ; 
 they have fired the gate. A moment, and the bolt and the lock will be 
 burnt from its sockets — the passage will be free ! Now is the fiery moment 
 of the old man's trial ! While his brave daughter loads, he continues to 
 fire, with that deadly aim, but now — oh horror ! He falls, he falls, with a 
 
 rausquet ball driven into his breast the daughter's outstretched arms 
 
 receive the father, as with the blood spouting from his wound, he topples 
 back from the window. 
 
 Ah, it is a sad and terrible picture ! 
 
 That old man, writhing there, on the oaken floor, the young daughtei 
 bending over him, the light from the window streaming over her face, ovei 
 her father's grey hairs, while the ancient furniture of the small chamber 
 affords a dim back-ground to the scene ! 
 
118 THE VVISSAIIIKON. 
 
 Now hark! — The sound of axes, at the hall door — shouts - hurrahs— 
 curses ! 
 
 " We have the old rebel, at last !" 
 
 Tlie old man raises his head at that sound ; makes an effort to rise : 
 clutches for a rifle, and then falls back again, his eyes glaring, as the fierce 
 pain of that wound quivers tiiroiigh his heart. 
 
 Now watch the movements of that daughter. Silently she loads a rifle, 
 silently she rests its barrel against the head of that powder keg, and then, 
 placing her finger on the trigger, stands over her father's form, while the 
 Bhouts of the enraged soldiers come thundering from the stairs. Yes, they 
 have broken the hall door to fragments, they are in possession of the old 
 block-house, they are rushing toward that chamber, with murder in their 
 hearts, and in their glaring eyes ! Had the old man a thousand lives, they 
 were not 'worth a farthing's purchase now. 
 
 Still that girl — grown suddenly white as the 'kerchief round her neck — 
 stands there, trembling from head to foot, the rifle in her hand, its dark 
 tube laid against the powder-keg. 
 
 The door is burst open — look there ! Stout forms are in the doorway, 
 with musquets in their hands, grim faces stained with blood, glare into the 
 room. 
 
 Now, as if her very soul was coined into the words, that young girl with 
 her face pale as ashes, her hazel eye glaring with deathly light, utters this 
 short yet meaning speech — 
 
 " Advance one step into the room, and I will fire this rifle into the powder 
 there !" 
 
 No oath quivers from the lips of that girl, to confirm her resolution, but 
 there she stands, alone with her wounded father, and yet not a soldier dare 
 cross the threshold ! Embrued as they are in deeds of blood, there is some- 
 thing terrible to these men in the simple words of that young girl, who 
 stands there, with the rifle laid against the powder-keg. 
 
 They stood as if spell-bound, on the threshold of that chamber! 
 
 At last one bolder than the rest, a bravo, whose face is half-concealed in 
 a thick red beard, grasps his musquet, and levels it at the young girl's 
 breast ! 
 
 " Stand back, or by , I will fire !" 
 
 Still the girl is firm ; the bravo advances a step, and then starts back. 
 The sharp " c/icA'" of that rifle falls with an unpleasant emphasis upon 
 his ear. 
 
 " Bess, I am dying," gasps the old man, faintly extending his arms. 
 " Ha, ha, we foiled the Britishers I Come — daughter — kneel here ; kneel 
 and say a prayer for me, and let me feel your warm breath upon my face 
 for I am getting cold O, dark and cold !" 
 
 Look ! — As those trembling accents fall from the old man's tongue, 
 those fingers unloose their hold of the rifle — already the troopers are secure 
 
KIN(J GEORGE IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY. HL' 
 
 of one victim, at least, a young and beautiful girl ; for affection for her father, 
 is mastering the heroism of the moment — look ! She is about to spring 
 into his arms ! But now she sees her danger ! again she clutches the rifle ; 
 again — although her father's dying accents are in her ears — stands there, 
 prepared to scatter that house in ruins, if a single rough hand assails that 
 veteran form. 
 
 There are a few brief terrible moments of suspense. Then a hurried 
 sound, far down the mansion ; then a contest on the stairs ; then the echo 
 of rifle shot and the light of rifle blaze ; then those ruffians in the doorway, 
 fall cruslied before the strong arms of Continental soldiers. Then a wild 
 shriek quivers through the room, and that young girl — that Hero-Woman, 
 with one bound, springs forward into her brothers' arms, and nestles there, 
 while her dead father — his form yet warm — lays with fixed eyeballs upon 
 the floor. 
 
 VII— KING GEORGE IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 One fine summer afternoon, in the year 1780, King George the Third, 
 of Great Britain, defender of the faith, as well as owner of a string of other 
 titles, as long as a hypocrite's prayer, took a quiet stroll through the dim 
 •jloisters of Westminster Abbey. 
 
 It does not become me to picture that magnificent House of the Dead, 
 where Royalty sleeps its last slumber, as soundly as though it had never 
 butchered the innocent freeman, or robbed the orphan of her bread, while 
 poor Genius, starved and kicked while living, skulks into some corner, with 
 a marble monument above its tired head. 
 
 No ! We will leave the description of Westminster Abbey to any one of 
 the ten thousand travellers, who depart from their own country — scarce 
 knowing whether Niagara is in New York or Georgia — and write us home 
 such delightful long letters about Kings and Queens, and other grand folks. 
 
 No ! All we have to do is to relate a most singular incident, w^hich hap- 
 pened to George the Third, etc., etc., etc. — on this fine summer afternoon, 
 in the year of our Lord, 1780. 
 
 Do you see that long, gloomy aisle, walled in on either side by gorgeous 
 tombs, with the fretted roof above, and a mass of red, blue, purple and gold 
 pouring in on the marble pavement, through the discolored window-panes, 
 yonder? Does not the silence of this lonely aisle make you afraid? Do 
 you not feel that the dead are around, about, beneath, above — nay, in 
 the air? 
 
 After you have looked well at this aisle, with its splendid tombs, its mar- 
 ble floor, its heavy masses of shade and discolored patches of light, let me 
 ask you to look upon the figure, which, at this moment, turns the corner 
 of yonder monument. 
 
 He stands aside from the light, yet you behold every oudine of his face 
 
120 THE WISSAHIKON. 
 
 and form. He la clad in a coat of dark purple velvet, faced with gold lace 
 His breeches are of a pale blue satin; his stockings flesh-colored, and of 
 the finest silk. There is a jewelled garter around his right leg. His while 
 satin vest gleams with a single star. His shoes glitter with diamonds buckles, 
 he carries a richly-faced hat under his right arm. This is a very pretty 
 dress: and I am sure you will excuse me for being so minute, as I have 
 the greatest respect for grand folks. 
 
 This man — if it is not blasphemous to call such a great being a man — 
 seems prematurely old. His face does not strike you with its majesty ; for 
 his forehead is low, the pale blue eyes bulge out from their sockets, the 
 lower lip hangs down upon the chin. Indeed, if this man was not so great 
 a being, you would call him an Idiot. 
 
 This, in fact, is George the Third, King of Great Britain, Ireland and 
 France ; and owner of a string of other titles, who rules by divine right. 
 
 As he stands near yoniler monument, a woman — dressed in faded hlack 
 — s^tarts from behind that big piece of sculptured marble, on which " Mercy" 
 appears, in the act of bending from the skies, and flings herself at the feet 
 of the King. 
 
 " Mercy !" she cries, with uplifted hands. 
 
 " What — what — what?" stammers the good King. " What's all this?" 
 
 " My son committed robbery, some two months ago. He robbed on the 
 highway to give me bread. I was sick — famished — dying. He has been 
 condemned to death, and to-morrow he dies. Mercy for tlie widow's son ?" 
 
 u What — what— what? Eh? What's this ? How much did he steal?" 
 
 " Only ten shillings ! Only ten shillings ! For the love of God, mercy ?" 
 
 The good King looked upon the wan face and pleading eyes of that poor 
 woman, and said, hurriedly — 
 
 "I cannot pardon your son. If I pardon the thief, I may as well pardon 
 the forger and murderer, — There — go, good woman : I can do nothing 
 for you." 
 
 The good King turned away, leaving the insensible form of the widow 
 stretched out upon the marble floor. He would have pardoned her boy, 
 but there were some two or three hundred crimes punishable with death, 
 from the petty oflTence of killing a man up to the enormous blasphemy of 
 shooting a rabbit on a rich man's estate. Therefore, King George could not 
 pardon one of these crimes, for, do you mark, the hangman once put down, 
 there is an end of all law. 
 
 The King, I like to call grand people by their titles, the good King — I 
 also like to call him good, because, do you see, the Archbishop of Canter- 
 bury called him so, in his sermon, every Sunday morning — the good King 
 turned away, leaving the poor widow insensible on the floor. 
 
 This little incident had somewhat excited him, so he sank down upon the 
 corner of a marble slab, and bent his head upon his hand, and began to think. 
 
 All at once, he felt seized by invisible hands, and borne, with the speed 
 
KING GEORGE IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY. J^! 
 
 aj'l'aiit, through the air and over a long sweep of ocean waves. His joisrnev 
 u as but for a moment, yet, it seemed to liim, that he had traversed thousands 
 of miles. When he opened his eyes again, he found himself standing by a 
 road-side, opposite a beautiful litde cottage, which, with a garden in front, 
 smiled upon liie view from a grove of orchard trees. A young woman with 
 a lilUe boy by her side and a baby in her arms, stood in the cottage door. 
 
 The King could not admire that cottage too much, with its trees and 
 flowers, and, as for that rosy-cheeked woman, in the linsey gown, he was 
 forced to admit to himself that he had never seen anything half so beautiful, 
 even in the Royal family. 
 
 While the King was looking upon the young woman and her children, he 
 heard a strange noise, and, turning his head, he beheld a man in a plain 
 farmer's coat, with a gun in his hand, tottering up the highway. His face 
 was very pale, and as he walked tremblingly along, the blood fell, drop by 
 drop, from a wound near his heart, upon the highway dust. 
 
 The man stumbled along, reached the garden gate, and sprang forward, 
 with a bound, towards the young woman and her children. 
 " Husband !" shrieked the young woman. 
 ♦* Father !" cried the little boy. 
 
 Even the baby lifted its little hands, and greeted in its infant tones thai 
 wounded man. 
 
 Yet the poor farmer lay there at the feet of his wife, bleeding slowly to 
 death. The young woman knelt by his s de, kissing him on the forehead, 
 and placing her hand over the wound, as if to stop the blood, but it was in 
 v.^in. The red current started from his mouth. 
 
 The good King lifted his eyes. The groans of the dying man, the shrieks 
 of the wife, the screams of the litde children, sounded like voices from the 
 dead. At last his feelings overcome him — 
 
 " Who," he shouted, " who has done this murder ?" 
 As he spoke — as if in answer to his question — a stout, muscular man 
 came runnmg along the road, in the very path lately stained with the blood 
 of the wounded man. He was dressed in a red coat, and in his right hand 
 he grasped a musquet, with a bayonet dripping blood. 
 
 "I killed that fellow," he said in a rude tone, "and what have you got 
 to say to it ?" 
 
 " Did he ever harm you ?" said the King. 
 " No — I never saw him before this hour !" 
 " Then why did you kill him ?" 
 
 " I killed him for eight-pence," said the man, with a brutal sneer. 
 The good King raised his hands in horror, and called on his God to pity 
 the wretclv! 
 
 " Killed a man for eight-pence ! Ah, you wretch ! Don't you hear the 
 groans of his wife ? — the screams of his children ?" 
 
 "Why, that hain't nothin'," said the man m the red coat. "I've killed 
 
122 THE WISSAHIKON. 
 
 many a one to-day, beside him. I'm quite used to it, though burnin' Vm 
 alive in their houses is much better fun." 
 
 The King now foamed with righteous scorn. 
 
 ' Wretch !" he screamed, " where is your master, this devil in human 
 sliape, who gives you eight-pence for killing an innocent man ?" 
 
 " Oh, he's a good ways over the water," said the man. " His name is 
 George the Third. He's my King. He " 
 
 The good King groaned. 
 
 " Why — why," said he, slowly, " I must be in America. That dying 
 man must be a — Rebel. You must be one of my soldiers " 
 
 " Yes," said the man in the red coat, with a brutal grin ; " you took me 
 out o' Newgate, and put this pretty dress on my back. That man whom I 
 killed was a farmer: he sometimes killed sheep for a dollar a day. I'm 
 not quite so well off as him, for I kill men, and only get eight-pence a day. 
 I say, old gentleman, couldn't you raise my wages ?" 
 
 But the King did not behold the brute any longer. He only saw that 
 tlie young woman and her children, kneeling around the body of tlie dead 
 man. 
 
 Suddenly those invisible hands again grasped his Royal person, and bore 
 him through the air. 
 
 When he again opened his eyes, he beheld a wide lawn, extending in the 
 light of the December moon. That lawn was white with snow. From its 
 centre arose an old-time mansion, with grotesque ornaments about its roof, 
 a hall door defended by pillars, and steps of stone, surmounted by two lions 
 in marble. All around the mansion, like sentinels on their midnight watch, 
 stood scattered trees, their bare limbs rising clearly and distinctly into the 
 midnight sky. 
 
 While the King was wrapped in wonder at the sight — behold ! A band 
 of women, a long and solemn train, came walking over the lawn, their long 
 black gowns trailing in the winter snow. 
 
 It was a terrible sight to see those wan faces, upturned to the cold moon, 
 but oh ! the chaunt they sung, those spectral women, as they slowly wound 
 around the lawn : it chilled the King's blood. 
 
 For that chaunt implored Almighty God to curse King George of Eng- 
 land for the murder of their husbands — fathers — brothers ! 
 
 Then came a band of little children, walking two by two, and raising 
 their tiny hands in the light of the moon. They also rent the air with a 
 low, deep chaunt, sung in their infantile tones. 
 
 George, the Kmg, listened to that chaunt with freezing blood, with tremb- 
 hng limbs. He knew not why, but he joined in that song in spite ot him- 
 »elf, he sung their hymn of woe. 
 
 " George of England, we curse thee in the sight of God, for toe murde) 
 of onr fathers ! We curse thee with the orphan's curse !" 
 
KING GEORGE IN WESTMINSTER aL;BE\ 123 
 
 This was their chaunt. No other words ihey sung. But this simple 
 hymn they sung again and again, raising their little hands to God. 
 
 " Oh, this is hard !" shrieked King George. " I could bear the curse of 
 warriors — nay, even the curse of the Priest at the Ahar ! But to be cursed 
 by widows — to be cursed by little children — ah " 
 
 The good King fell on his knees. 
 
 " Where am 1 1" he shrieked — " and who are these ?" 
 
 A voice from the still winter air answered — 
 
 " Foil are on the battle-field. These are the widows and orphans of the 
 dead of Germantowny 
 
 " Bat did I murder their fathers ? Their husbands ?" 
 
 The voice replied — 
 
 " You did ! Too cowardly or too weak to kill them with your own hand, 
 you hired your starving peasants, your condemned felons to do it for you !" 
 
 The King grovelled in the snow and beat his head against the frozen 
 ground. He felt that he was a murderer : he could feel the brand of Cain 
 blistering upon his brow. 
 
 Again he was taken up — again borne through the air. 
 
 Where was he now ? He looked around, and by the light of that Decem- 
 ber moon, struggling among thick clouds, he beheld a scattered village of 
 huts, extending along wintry hills. The cold wind cut his cheek and froze 
 his blood 
 
 An object at his feet arrested his eye. He stooped down : examined it 
 with a shudder. It was a man's footsteps, printed in blood. 
 
 The King was chilled to the heart by the cold ; stupified with horror at 
 the sight of this strange footstep. He said to himself, I will hasten to yonder 
 hut; 1 will escape from the wind and cold, and the sight of that horrid 
 footstep. 
 
 He started toward the village of huts, but all around him those bloody 
 footsteps in the snow seemed to gather and increase at every inch of his 
 way. 
 
 At last he reached the first hut, a rude structure of logs and mud. He 
 looked in the door, and beheld a naked man, worn to a skeleton, stretched 
 prostrate on a heap ot straw. 
 
 " Ho ! my friend," said the King, as though a voice spoke in him, with- 
 out his will, " why do you lie here, freezing to death, when my General, 
 Sir William Howe, at Philadelphia yonder, will give you such fine clothes 
 and rich food ?" 
 
 The freezing man looked up, and muttered a few brief words, and then 
 fell back— dti-ad ! 
 
 " Washington is here !" wns all he said, ere he died. 
 
 In another hut, in search of shelter, peeped the cold and hungry King. 
 k rude hillow sate warming his hands by a miserable fire, over which an 
 
[•^4 THE WISLAHIKOxN. 
 
 old kettle was suspended. His face was lean and his cheeks hollow, nay 
 the hands which he held out towards tlie light, looked like the hands of a 
 (skeleton. 
 
 "Ho! my friend — what cheer?" said the King. "Iain hungry — have 
 you any thing to eat?" 
 
 " Not much of any account," replied the rude fellow ; " yesterday 1 eat 
 Me last of my dog, and to-day I'm goin' to dine on these mocassins : don't 
 you hear 'em bilin' ?" 
 
 " But," said the King, " there's line living at Philadelphia, in the camp of 
 Sir William. Why do you stay here to starve ?" 
 
 "Was you ever to school ?" said the starved Rebel. "Do you know 
 
 how to spell L-I-B-E-R-T-Y ?" 
 
 The good King passed on. In the next hut lay a poor wretch dying of 
 that loathsome plague — small-pox. 
 
 " Come," said the King, or rather the voice in him spoke, " away to 
 Philadelphia 1" 
 
 " These hills are free !" cried the poor wretch, lifting his loathsome face 
 into light; then, without a moan, he laid down to his fever and starvation 
 again. 
 
 At last, his Royal brain confounded by the words of these strange men 
 the King entered a two-story stone house, which arose in the glen, between 
 the hills, near the brink of a dark river. Slowly entered the King, attracted 
 by the sound of a voice at prayer along a dark passage, into a small chamber, 
 in which a light was burning. 
 
 A man of noble visage was on his knees, praying to God in earnest 
 tones — 
 
 " We will endure disease, starvation, death, but, in thy name, oh, God ! 
 w»! will never give up our arms ! The tyrant, with murder in his heart, 
 may darken our plains with his hirelings, possess our cities, but still we 
 thank thee, oh, God ! that «the mountains are free, that where the panther 
 howls, we may yet find a home for the brave. 
 
 " Hold, hold !" shouted the voice within the King, as the terror-stricken 
 Monarch rushed into the room. " Washington do not pray against me ! I 
 can bear to be called a murderer — a butcher of orphans, but that you- — you, 
 so calm amid starvation, nakedness, disease — you whom I thought hunted 
 long ago, like a wolf before the hounds — that you sliould call God's ven- 
 geance on my head — that I cannot bear ! Washington, do not pray 
 against me !" 
 
 And he flung himself at the feet of the Ilunled Rebel, and besought his 
 mercy with trembling hands, extended in a gesture of supplication. 
 
 " It was I that butchered your farmers ! It was I that tore the husband 
 from the wife, the father froin his child ! It was I that drove "these freemen 
 to the huts of Valley Forge, vvhi re they endure the want of bread, fire, the 
 freezing cold, the loathsome small-pox, rather than take my gold — it was 1 ' 
 
KING GEORGE IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 125 
 
 Rebel I am at your feet! Have mercy ! I, George by llie Grace of God, 
 Defender of the Faith, Head of the Church, fling myself at your feet, and 
 beg your pity ! For I am a murderer — the murderer of thousands and tens 
 of thousands !'' 
 
 He started tremblingly forward, but in the action, that room, that solemn 
 face and warrior form of the Rebel, passed away. 
 
 George the King awoke : he had been dreaming. He woke with the 
 cold sweat on his brow ; a tremor like the ague upon his limbs. 
 
 The sun was setting, and his red light streamed in one gaudy blaze 
 through yonder stained window. — All was terribly still in Westminster 
 Abbey. 
 
 'I'he King arose, he rushed along the aisles, seeking with starting eyes 
 for the form of the poor widow. At last he beheld her, shrouded in her 
 faded garments, leaning for support against a marble figure of Mercy. 
 
 The King rushed to her, with outspread hands. 
 
 " Woman, woman !" he shrieked, " I pardon your son !" 
 
 He said nothing more, he did not even wait to receive her blessings, but 
 rushing with trembling steps toward the door, he seized the withered old 
 Porter, who waited tliere, by the hand 
 
 ♦' Do you see it in my face ?" he whispered — " don't you see the brand 
 — Murder — here ?" 
 
 He sadly laid his hand against his forehead, and passed through the door 
 on his way. 
 
 " The poor King's gone mad !" said the old Porter. " God bless his 
 Majesty !" 
 
 In front of that dim old Abbey, with its outlines of grandeur and gloom, 
 waited the Royal carriage, environed by guards. Two men advanced to 
 meet the King — one clad in the attire of a nobleman, with a heavy face and 
 dull eye ; and the other in the garb of a Prelate, with mild blue eyes and 
 snow-white hair. 
 
 "I hope your Majesty's prayers, for the defeat of the Rebels, will be 
 smiled upon by Heaven !' 
 
 Tlius with a smile and genUy-waving hand, spoiie my Lord, the Arch- 
 bishop of Canterbury. 
 
 " O, by Christmas next, we'll have this Washington brought home in 
 chains !" 
 
 Thus with a gruff chuckle spoke my Lord North, Prime Minister of 
 England. 
 
 The good King looked at them both with a silly smile, and tlien pressed 
 his finger against his forehead. 
 
 " What — what — what I Do you see it here ? Do, you see it ? It burns i 
 Eh ? Murderer !" 
 
 With that silly smile the King leaped in the carriage. Hurrah ! How 
 
126 THE VVISSAHIKON. 
 
 the mob shouted — how the swords of the guards gleamed on high — iio«r 
 gaily the chariot wheels dashed along the streets — hurrah ! 
 
 Let us swell the shout, but — 
 
 Tliat night a rumor crept through all London, that Kino GEORUi-: was 
 
 MAD AGAIN ! 
 
 VIII.— VALLEY FOUGE. 
 
 Hidden away there in a deep glen, not many miles from Valley Forge, a 
 quaint old farm house rose darkly over a wide waste of snow. 
 
 It was a cold dark winter night, and the snow began to fall — when from 
 the broad fireplace of the old farm house, the cheerful blaze of massive logs 
 flashed around a wide and spacious room. 
 
 Two persons sat there by that tire, a father and child. The father, who 
 sits yonder, with a soldier's belt thrown over his farmer's dress, is a man 
 of some fifty years, his eyes bloodshot, his hair changed to an untimely grey, 
 his face wrinkled and hallowed by care, and by dissipation more than cara. 
 
 And the daiighter who sits in the full light of the blaze opposite her father 
 — a slenderly formed girl of some seventeen years, clad in the coarse linsey 
 skirt and kerchief, which made up the costume of a farmer's daughter, in 
 the days of the Revolution. 
 
 She is not beautiful — ah, no ! 
 
 Care— perhaps that disease, consumption, which makes the heart grow 
 cold to name — has been busy wiih that young face, sharpened its outlines, 
 and stamped it with a deathly paleness. 
 
 There is no bloom on that young cheek. The brown hair is laid plainly 
 aside from her pale brow. Then tell me, what is it you see, when you gaze 
 in her face ? 
 
 You look at that young girl, you see nothing but the gleam of two large 
 dark eyes, that burn into your soul. 
 
 Yes, those eyes are unnaturally large and dark and bright — perhaps con- 
 sumption is feeding their flame. 
 
 And now as the father sits there, so moody and sullen, as the daughter 
 Bits yonder, so sad and silent and pale, tell me, I pray you, the story of 
 their lives. 
 
 That farmer, Jacob Manheim, was a peaceful, a happy man, before the 
 Revolution. Since the war, he has become drunken and idle — driven his 
 wife broken-hearted to the grave— and worse than all, joined a band of Tory 
 refugees, who scour the land as dead of night, burning and murdering as 
 they go. 
 
 To-night, at the hour of two, this Tory band will lie in wait, in a neigh- 
 boring pass, to attack and murder the " RebeV Washington, whose starving 
 soldiers are yonder in the huts of Valley Forge. 
 
 Washington or his lonely journeys is wont to pass this farm houao;— 
 
VALLEY FORGE. 127 
 
 the cut- throats are there in the next chamber, drinking and feasting, as they 
 wait for two o clock at night. 
 
 And the daughter, Mary — for her name was Mary ; they loved ttat name 
 in the good old times— what is the story of her brief young life ? 
 
 She had been reared by her mother, now dead and gone home, to revere 
 this man Washington, who to-night will be attacked and murdered — to revere 
 him next to God. Nay, more : that mother on her death-bed joined the 
 hands of this daughter, in solemn betrothal with the hands of a young parti- 
 san leader, Harry Williams, who now shares the crust and the cold of 
 Valley Forge. 
 
 Well may that maiden's eye flash with unnatural brightness, well may 
 her pale face gather a single burning flush, in the centre of each cheek ! 
 
 For yesterday afternoon, she went four miles, over roads of ice and snow, 
 to tell Captain Williams the plot of the refugees. She did not reach Valley 
 Forge until Washington had left on one of his lonely journeys ; so this night, 
 at twelve, the partizan captain will occupy the rocks above the neighboring 
 pass, to "trap the trappers" of George Washington. 
 
 Yes, that pale slender girl, remembering the words of her dying mother, 
 had broken through her obedience to her father, after a long and bitter strug- 
 gle. How dark that struggle in a faithful daughter's heart ! She had 
 betrayed his plots to his enemies — stipulating first for the life, the safety of 
 her traitor-father. 
 
 And now as father and child are sitting there, as the shouts of the Tory 
 refugees eclio from the next ciiamber — as the hand of the old clock is on the 
 hour of eleven — hark ! There is the sound of horses' hoofs without the 
 farm house — there is a pause — the door opens — a tall stranger, wrapped in 
 a thick cloak, white with snow, enters, advances to the fire, and in brief 
 words solicits some refreshment and an hour's repose. 
 
 Why does the Tory Manheim start aghast at the sight of that stranger'^ 
 blue and gold uniform — then mumbling something to his daughter about 
 " getting food for the traveller," rush wildly into the next room, where his 
 brother Tories are feasting ? 
 
 Tell me, why does that young girl stand trembling before the tall stranger, 
 veiling her eyes from that calm face, with its blue eye and kindly smile ? 
 
 Ah — if we may believe the legends of that time, few men, few warriors, 
 who dared the terror of batde with a smile, could stand unabashed before 
 the solemn presence of Washington. 
 
 For it was Washington, exhausted, with a long journey — his limbs stif- 
 fened and his face numbed with cold — it was the great " Ilebel" of Valley 
 Forge, who returning to camp sooner than his usual hour, was forced by 
 the storm to take refuge in the farmer's house, and claim a litUe food and 
 an hour's repose at his hands. 
 
 In a few moments, behold the Soldier, with his cloak thrown ofl, fitting 
 
128 THE WISSAHIKON. 
 
 at that oaken table, partaking of the food, spread out there by the hands of 
 tlie gill, who now stands trembling at his shoulder. 
 
 And look ! Her hand is extended as if to grasp him by the arm — her lips 
 move as if to warn him of his danger, but make no sound. Why all thia 
 silent agony for the man who sits so calmly there ? 
 
 One moment ago, as the girl, in preparing the hasty supper, opened 
 yonder closet door, adjoining the next room, she heard the low whispers of 
 her fadier and the Tories ; she heard the dice box rattle, as they were, cast 
 ing lots, who should stab George IVashington in his sleep! 
 
 And now, the words : " Beware, or this night you die!''' trembles half- 
 formed upon her lips, when the father comes hastily from that room and 
 hushes her with a look. 
 
 " Show the gentleman to his chamber, Mary !" — (how calmly polite a 
 murderer can be !) — " that chamber at the head of the stairs, on the left. On 
 the left, you mind !" 
 
 Mary takes the light, trembling and pale. She leads the soldier up the 
 oaken stairs. They stand on the landing, in this wing of the farm-house, 
 composed of two rooms, divided by thick walls from the main body of the 
 mansion. On one side, the right, is the door of Mary's chamber; on the 
 other, the left, the chamber of the soldier — to him a chamber of death. 
 
 For a moment, Mary stands there trembling and confused. Washington 
 gazes upon that pale girl with a look of surprise. Look ! She is about to 
 warn him of his danger, when, see there! — her father's rough face appears 
 above the head of the stairs. 
 
 " Mary, show the gentleman into the chamber on the left. And look ye, 
 girl — it's late — you'd better go into your own room and go to sleep." 
 
 While the Tory watches them from the head of the stairs, Washington 
 enters the chamber on the left, Mary the chamber on the right. 
 
 An hour passes. Still the storm beats on the roof — still the snow drifts 
 on the hills. Before the fire, in the dim old hall of that farm-house, are 
 seven half-drunken men, with that tall Tory, Jacob Manheim, sitting in their 
 midst ; the murderer's knife in his hand. For the lot had fallen upon him 
 He is to go up stairs and slab the sleeping man. 
 
 Even this half-drunken murderer is pale at the thought — how the knife 
 trembles in his liand — trembles against the pistol barrel. The jeers of his 
 comrades rouse him to the work, — the light in one hand, the knife in the 
 other, he goes up the stairs — he listens ! — first at the door of his daughter's 
 cliamber on the right, then at the door of the soldier's chamber on the left. 
 All is still. Then he places the light on the floor — he enters the chamber 
 on the left — he is gone a moment — silence ! — there is a faint groan ! He 
 comes forth again, rushes down the stairs, and stands there Ijefore the fire, 
 with the bloody knife in his hand. 
 
 " Look 1" hs shrieks, as he scatters the red drops over his comrades' 
 
VALLEY FORGE. 12«, 
 
 faces, over the hearth, into the fire — " Look ! it is his blood — ihe traitor 
 Washington !" 
 
 Ilis comrades gather ronnd him with yells of joy : already, in fancy, tliey 
 count the gold which will be paid for this deed, when lo ! that stair door 
 opens, and there, wiihout a wound, without even the stain of a drop of blood, 
 stands George Washington, asking calmly for his horse. 
 
 " What I" shrieked the Tory Manheim, " can neither steel nor bullet 
 harm you? Are you a living man? Is there no wound about your heart? 
 no blood upon your uniform ?" 
 
 That apparition drives him mad. He starts forward — he places his hands 
 tremblingly upon the arms, upon the breast of Washington ! Still no wound. 
 Then he looks at the bloody knife, still clutched in his right hand, and stands 
 there quivering as with a death spasm. 
 
 While Washington looks on in silent wonder, the door is flung open, the 
 bold troopers from Valley Forge throng the room, with the gallant form and 
 bronzed visage of Captain Williams in their midst. At this moment tlie 
 clock struck twelve. Then a horrid thought crashes like a thunderbolt upon 
 the brain of the Tory Manheim. He seizes the light — rushes up stairs — 
 rushes into the room of his daughter on the right. Some one had just risen 
 from the bed, but the chamber was vacant. Then towards that room on 
 the left, with steps of leaden heaviness. — Look ! how the light quivers in 
 his hand ! He pauses at the door; he listens ! Not a sound — a stillness 
 like the grave. His blood curdles in his veins ! Gathering courage, he 
 pushes open the door. He enters. Towards that bed through whose cur- 
 tains he struck so blindly a moment ago ! Again he pauses — not a sound 
 — a stillness more terrible than the grave. He flings aside the curtains — 
 
 There, in the full light of the lamp, her young form but half covered, 
 bathed in her own blood — there lay his daughter, Mary ! 
 
 Ah, do not look upon the face of the father, as he starts silently back, 
 frozen to stone ; but in this pause of horror listen to the mystery of this 
 deed ! 
 
 After her father had gone down stairs, an hour ago, Mary silently stole 
 from the chamber on the right. Her soul shaken by a thousand fears, she 
 opened the door on the left, and beheld Washington sitting by a table on 
 which were spread a chart and a Bible. Then, though her existence was 
 wound up in the act, she asked him, in a tone of calm politeness to take the 
 chamber on the opposite side. Mary entered the chamber which he left. 
 
 Can you imagine the agony of that girl's soul, as lying on the bed in- 
 tended for the death-couch of Washington, she silently awaited the knifo 
 although that knife might be clenched in a father's hand. 
 
 And now that father, frozen to stone, stood there, holding the liglit in one 
 hand, the other still clutching the red knife. 
 
 'J'here lay his child, the blood streaming from that wound in her arm — 
 hrr eyes covered with a glassy film. 
 
130 THE WISSAHIKON. 
 
 " Mary !" shrieked the guilty father — for robber and Tory as he was, he 
 rt-as still a father. " Mary !" he called to her, but that word was all he 
 could say. 
 
 Suddenly, she seemed to wake from that stupor. She sat up in the bed 
 with her glassy eyes. The strong hand of death was upon her. As she 
 sat there, erect and ghastly, the room was thronged wi h soldiers. Her 
 lover rushed forward, and called her by name. No answer. Called again 
 — spoke to her in the familiar tones of olden time — still no answer. She 
 knew him not. 
 
 Yes, it was true — the strong hand of death was upon her. 
 
 " Has he escaped ?" she said, in that husky voice. 
 
 " Yes !" shrieked tlie father. " Live, Mary, only live, and to-morrow I 
 will join the camp at Valley Forge." 
 
 Then that girl — that Hero- Woman — dying as she was, not so much from 
 the wound in her arm, as from the deep agony which had broken the last 
 chord of life, spread forth her arms, as though she beheld a form floating 
 there above her bed, beckoning her away. She spread forth her arms as 
 if to enclose that Angel form. 
 
 " Mother !" she whispered — while there grouped the soldiers — there, 
 with a speechless agony on his brow stood the lover — there, hiding his face 
 with one hand, while the other grasped the light crouched the father — that 
 light flashing over the dark bed, with the white form in its centre — 
 " Mother, thank God ! For with my life I have saved him " 
 
 Look, even as starting up on that bloody couch, she spe-aks the half- 
 formed word, her arms stiffen, her eyes wide open, set in death, glare in her 
 father's face ! 
 
 She is dead ! From that dark room her spirit has gone home ! 
 
 That half-formed word, still quivering on the white lips of the Hero- Wo- 
 man — that word uttered in a husky whisper, clioked by the death-rattle— 
 that word was — " Washington 1"* 
 
 * Will you pardon me, reader, that I have made the Prophetess of V/issahikon, 
 relate various Legends, which do not directly spring from her own soil ? The le- 
 gends of Valley Forge, King George, the Mansion on the .Schuylkill, with others 
 included under the general head of " VVissahikon," do not, it is ir\ie, relate especially 
 to the soil of this romantic dell, but they are impregnated with the same spirit, which 
 distinguishes her traditions, and illustrate and develope the idea of the previous 
 sketches. I have taken Wissahikon, as the centre of a circle of old-time Romance, 
 whose circumference is described by the storied ground of Paoli, the hills of Valley 
 Forge, the fields of Germantown. — They were written on the banks of the Wissahi- 
 kon, wiih her wild scenery before the author's eye, the music of her stream in his 
 ears. It has been his object, to embody in every line, that spirit of mingled light and 
 shade, which is stamped on every rock and tree of the VVissahikrji. 
 
THE MANSION ON THE SCHUYLKILL. 131 
 
 !X.— THE MANSION ON THE SCHUYLKILI.. 
 
 Gliding one summer cky over the smooth bosom of the Schuylkill, with 
 the wliite sail of my boat, swelling with the same breeze tliat ruffled the 
 pines of liaurel Hill, 1 slowly emerged from the shadow of an old bridge, 
 and all at once, a prospect of singular beauty lay before me, in the beams 
 of the setting sun. 
 
 A fine old mansion crowned the summit of a green hill, which arose on 
 the eastern shore, its grassy breast bared to the sunset glow. A fine old 
 mansion of dark grey stone, with its wiiite pillars looking out from among 
 green trees. From the grassy bosom of the hill, many a white statue arose, 
 many a fountain dashed its glittering drops into light. There was an air 
 of old-time elegance and ease about that mansion, with its green lawn slopiiig 
 gently down — almost to the river's brink, its encircling grove of magnificent 
 trees, its statues anrl fountains. It broke on your eye, as you emerged from 
 the arches of the old bridge, like a picture from Italy. 
 
 Yet from the porch of that old lime mansion, a fairer view bursts upon 
 your eye. The arches of the bridges — one spanning the river in all the 
 paint and show of modern fancy, the other gloomy as night and the grave — 
 the sombre shades of Laurel Hill, hallowed by the while tombs of the dead, 
 with the Gothic Chapel rising among dark green trees — the Schuylkill, ex- 
 tending far beyond bridge and Cemetry, its broad bosom enclosed on everv 
 side by hills and trees, resting like some mountain lake in the last glow of 
 the setting sun — a fairer view does not bless the traveller's eye from the 
 Aroostook to the Rio Grande. 
 
 There is a freshness in the verdure — a beauty in that still sheet of water, 
 a grandeur in yonder sombre pines, waving above the rocks of Laurel Hill 
 —a rural magnificence in the opposite shore of the river, rising in one mas- 
 sive hill, green with woods and gay with cottage and mansion, — a beauty, a 
 grandeur, a magnificence that at once marks the Falls of Schuylkill with an 
 ever-renewing novelty, an unfading cliarm. 
 
 The view is beautiful in the morning, when the pillars of the bridge, ding 
 their heavy shadows over the water; when the tree tops of Laurel Hill, un- 
 dulate to the breeze in masses of green and gold, while the Scluiylkill rests 
 in the shade. 
 
 Beautiful at noon, when from the thick foliage on the opposite shore, 
 half-way up the massive hill, arises the blue smoke of the hidden " God of 
 Steam," winding slowly upward to the cloudless sky. 
 
 Beautiful at twilight, when flashes of purple and gold change the view 
 fivery moment, and impart a gorgeous beauty, which does not cease whei; 
 '.he spires of Laurel Hill glow in the first beam of the uprising moon. 
 
 Ah, night, deep and solemn — the great vault above — bt-low and around 
 
13*4 THE WISSAIilKON. 
 
 the river glistening in the moonbeam, the bridges one mingled mass of light 
 and darkness — Laurel Hill a home for the dead in truth, with its white mon- 
 uments glaring fitfully into light, between the branches of the trees. There 
 is a sad and solemn beauty, resting on this scene at night. 
 
 It was at night, that a Legend of this old-titne mansion, rushed upon my 
 soul. 
 
 I stood on the porch; and the bridge, the Cemetry melted all at once 
 away. T was with the past — back sixty years and more, into the dim 
 arcades of time. Nor bridge, nor cemetry were there, but in place of the 
 cemetry, one sombre mass of wild wood ; where the bridge now spans the 
 river, a water-fall dashed and hovvled among rugged rocks. No blue smoke 
 of steam engine, then wound up from the green trees. A man who would 
 have dreamed of such a thing, would have been imprisoned as a mad- 
 man. 
 
 Yet a strange wild beauty, rested upon this mansion, this river, these 
 hills in the days of the Revolution. A beauty that was born of luxuriant 
 forests, a river dashing tumultuously over its bed of rocks, hills lifting their 
 colossal forms into the sky. A beauty whose fields and flowers were not 
 crushed by the Juggernaut, " Lu pro vement ;" whose river all untramelled, 
 went singing on its way until it kissed the Delaware. 
 
 It was a night in the olden-time, when Washington held the huts and hilis 
 of Vallev Forge, while Sir William Howe enjoyed the balls and banquets 
 of Philadelphia. 
 
 A solitary light burned in the mansion — a tall, formal wax candle— cast- 
 inof its rays around a quaint old fashioned room. A quaint, old fashioned 
 room, not so much reinarkable for its dimensions, as for the air of honest 
 comfort, which hung about the high-backed mahogany chairs, the oaken 
 wainscot, the antique desk, standing in one corner ; a look of honest comfort 
 which glowed brigluly from the spacious fire-place, where portly logs of 
 hickory sent up their mingled smoke and flame. 
 
 In front of that fire were three persons, whose attitude and gestures pre- 
 sented a strange, an effective picture. On the right, in a spacious arm- 
 chair, lined with cushions, sat a man of some seventy years, his spare foim 
 wrapped in a silk dressing gown, his grey hair waving over his prominent 
 brow to his shoulders, while his blue eyes, far sunken in their sockets, 
 lighted up a wan and withered face. 
 
 At his feet, knelt a beautiful woman, whose form swelling with the full 
 oudines of mature womanhood, was enveloped in a flowing habit of easy 
 folds and snow-white hue. Around that face, glowing with red on the 
 cheek and lip, and marble-white on the brow, locks of golden hair fell 
 in soft undulations, until they floated around the neck and bosom. Hei 
 blue eyes — beaming with all a woman's love for a trembling old man, thai 
 man her father — were fixed upon his face with a silent anxiety and 
 tenderness. 
 
THE MANSION ON THE SCHUYLKILL. 133 
 
 The old man'c gaze was nvetted to the countenance of the th/rd I'lgiire in 
 this scene, who sat opposite, on the left side of tlie fire. 
 
 A man of some fifiy years, with strongly marked features, thick grey eye- 
 bt iws, hooked nose like an eagle's heak, thin lips and prominent chin. 
 His head was closely enveloped in a black silk cap, which concealing his 
 hair, threw his wrinkled forehead boldly into the light. A gown or tunic 
 of faded dark velvet, fell from his shoulders to his knees. His head was 
 bent down, while his eyes rested upon the uncouth print of an old volume, 
 which lay open across his knees. 
 
 That volume was intituled — " Y^ Laste Secret of Cornelius Agrippa, 
 no7v firat translated into English. Jlnno. Dom. 1516. 
 
 The man who perused its pages, was none other than the " Astrologer" 
 or "Conjurer" who at this time of witchcraft and superstition, held a 
 wonderful iniluence over the minds of the people, in all the country, about 
 Philadelphia. 
 
 He had been summoned hither to decide a strange question. Many 
 years ago, while dwelling in the backwoods of Pennsylvania, with his 
 young wife, Gerald Morton — so the old man of seveniy was named — had 
 been deprived of his only son, a boy of four years, by some unaccountable 
 accident. The child had suddenly disappeared. Years passed — a daughter 
 was born — the wife died, but no tidings reached the father's ears of his 
 lost son. 
 
 To night a strange infatuation had taken possession of his brain. 
 
 His son was living! He was assured of this, by a voice that whispered 
 to his soul. 
 
 He was doomed to die, ere morning dawned. Ere he gave up the 
 Ghost, he wished to learn something of his child, and so — with a supersti- 
 tion shared by the intelligent as well as the illiterate of that time — he had 
 summoned the Astrologer. 
 
 "The child was born before midnight January 12, 1710?" said the 
 Astrologer. " Four years from the night of his birth, he disa])peared V 
 
 The old man bowed his head in assent. 
 
 "I have cast his Horoscope," said the Astrologer. " B)-- this paper,! 
 know that your son lives, for it threatens his life, with three eras of dan 
 ger. The first, Jan. 12, 1744. The second, Jan. 12, 1778. The third— 
 a dale unknown — " 
 
 " He is in danger, then to night," said Mr. Morton ; " For to night is the 
 Twelfth of January, 1778?" 
 
 The Astrologer -rose and placed a chafing dish on the carpet, near the 
 antique desk, which was surmounted by an oval mirror. Scattering spices 
 and various unknown compounds upon the dish, the Astrologer applied a 
 light, and in a moment, one portion of the room, was enveloped in rolling 
 flouds of t>agrant smoke. 
 
 " Now Amable," said he, in a meaning tone, " This charm can be tried 
 
ia4 THE WISSAHIKON. 
 
 by a pure virgin and by her alone. A\ould'st thou see thy brother, at this 
 moment? Enter this smoke and look within the mirror: thou shalt behold 
 him !" 
 
 A deep silence prevailed. Gerald Morton leaned forward with parted 
 lips. Amable arose ; clasping her hands across her bosom, she passed to- 
 ward the mirror, and her form was lost in the fragrant smoke. 
 
 A stranore smile passed over the Astrologer's face. Was it of scorn oi 
 malice, or merely an expression of no meaning ? 
 
 " What dost thou see ?" 
 
 A tremulous voice, from the bosom of the smoke-cloud, gave answer. 
 
 *' A river ! A rock ! A mansion !" 
 
 "Look again' — what seest thou now?" 
 
 The old man half-rose from his arm-chair. That strange smile deepened 
 over the Astrologer's face. 
 
 A moment passed— no answer! 
 
 All was still as the grave. 
 
 Amable did not answer, for the sight which she beheld, took from her, 
 for a moment, the power of utterance. She beheld her father's mansion, 
 rising above the Schuylkill, the river and the rocks of Laurel Hill white 
 with snow. The silver moon from a clear cold sky shone over all. Along 
 the ascent to the mansion, came a man of strange costume, with a dark eye 
 and bold countenance. A voice whispered — this is your brother, maiden. 
 
 This vision, spreading before, in the smoke-darkened glass, filled the 
 maiden with wonder with awe. 
 
 Was it a trick of the Conjurer's art? Or did some Angel of God, lift 
 the veil of flesh, from that pure woman's eyes, enabling her to beheld a 
 sight denied to mortal vision ? Did some strange impulse of that angel- 
 like instinct, which in woman, supplies the place of man's boasted, reason, 
 warn Amable of approaching danger? 
 
 The sequel of the legend will tell us. 
 
 Still the old man, starting from his seat, awaited an answer. 
 
 At last the maiden's voice was heard — 
 
 " I behold " she began, but her voice was broken by a shriek. 
 
 There M'as the sound of a hurried struggle, a shriek, a confused tread. In 
 a moment from the clouds of smoke, appeared a man of some thirty years, 
 whose muscular form was clad in the scarlet uniform of a British officer. 
 One arm held Amable by the waist, while the other wound around her neck. 
 
 The old man started aghast from his seat. That face, swollen with de- 
 bauchery, those disclosed eyeballs starting from the purple lids, those lips, 
 stamped with a brutal smile — he knew it well, and knew that it was not the 
 face of his son. 
 
 He oeheld him. Captain Marcham, a bravo who had persecuted Amable 
 with his addresses and been repulsed with scorn. 
 
 He stood there, his laugh of derision, ringing through the chamber, while 
 
'^HE MAN'lION ON THE SCHUYLKILL. 135 
 
 Amable Ion.<p,(* up in his brutal face, with a terror that hushed her 
 breath. 
 
 The Ast>-ol()grr stood near the hearth, the strange smile which had crossed 
 his face, once or twice before, now deepening into a sneering laugh. One 
 hand, placed within his breast, fondled the heavy purse which he had re- 
 ceived for his treachery from the British Captain. He had despatched his 
 servants from the mansion on various errands, left the hall-door unclosed so 
 as to afford secure entrance to the Captain and his bravoes. Amable 
 was lost. 
 
 In a moment Gerg'id Morton, instinctively became aware that his child 
 was in the brave's ;pnwer. 
 
 "Spare my girl," he said, in a quivering voice. "She never harmed 
 you !" 
 
 " 0, I will spar? the lovely lass," sneered Marcham, " Trust me for that ! 
 Old man you need not fear 1 You old rebels with pretty daughters, should 
 not make your country mansions places of rendezvous for rebels and traitors. 
 Indeed you should'nt. That is, if you wish to keep your pretty girls safe." 
 
 " When was my house a rendezvous for a rebel or a traitor ?" said the 
 old man, rising with a trembling dignity. 
 
 " Have you not given aid, succor, money, provisions, to those rebels who 
 now skulk somewhere about in the fields of White Marsh ? Did not the 
 rebel officers meet here for council, not more than a month ago ? Has not 
 Mister Washington himself rested here, and received information at your 
 hands ? Old man — to be plain with you — Sir William thinks the air of 
 Walnut Street gaol would benefit your health. I am commanded to arrest 
 you as a — spy 1" 
 
 The old man buried his face in his white hands. 
 
 " There is a way, however," said the Captain, leering at Amable, " Let 
 me marry this pretty girl, and — presto vesto ! The order for your arrest 
 will disappear !" 
 
 With a sudden bound Amable sprang from his arms, and sank crouching 
 near the hearth, her blue eyes fixed on her father, with a look of speechless 
 agony. i 
 
 The danger, in all its terrible details stared her in the face. On one side, 
 dishonor or the pollution of that coward's embrace — on the other, death to 
 her father by the fever and confinement of Walnut Street gaol. 
 
 It is very pretty now-a-days for certain perfumed writers and orators, to 
 prate about the magnanimity of Britain, but could the victims who were 
 murdered within the walls of the old Gaol by British power, rise some fine 
 moonlight night, they would form a ghastly band of witnesses, extending 
 Tom the prison gate to the doors of Independence Hall. 
 
 The old man, Amable, the bravo and Astrologer, all felt the importance 
 of this truth : Buitish power, means cruelty to the fallen, murder to the 
 unarmed brave. They all remembered, that Paoli was yet red with tjie 
 
136 THE WISSAIIIKOxN. 
 
 blood of massacre, while Walnut Street goal, every morning sent its dis- 
 figured dead to Potter's Held. 
 
 Therefore the old man buried his face in his hands, therefore Amable 
 terrified to the lieart, sank crouching by the fireplace, while the bravo looked 
 with his brutal sneer, upon both father and child. 
 
 " Come girl — no trilling," exclaimed Marcham, as he approached the 
 crouching maiden. " You must go with me, or your good father rests in gaol 
 before daybreak. Take your choice my pretty lass ?" 
 
 The father raised his face from his iiands. He was lividly pale, yet his 
 blue eyes shone with unusual light. His lip quivered, while his teeth, 
 closely clenched, gave a wild and unearthly aspect to his countenance. 
 
 All hope was over ! 
 
 The intellect of the old man was, for a moment, threatened with ruin, 
 utter and withering, as the dark consciousness of hiS helplessness pressed 
 like lead upon his brain. 
 
 At this moment a footstep was heard, and lo ! A man of singular cos- 
 tume came through the feathery clouds of smoke, and stood between the 
 bravo and the father. 
 
 A man of almost giant height, with a war-blanket folded over his breast, 
 a wampum belt about hi:s waist, glittering with tomahawk and knife, while 
 his folded arms enclosed a rifle. 
 
 The aquiline nose, the bold brow, the head destitute of hair, with a single 
 plume rising from the crown, the eagle-nose and clear full eye — there was 
 quiet majesty in the stranger's look. He was an Indian, yet his skin was 
 bronzed, not copper-colored ; his eye was sharp and piercing, yet blue as a 
 summer sky. 
 
 For a moment he surveyed the scene. The Captain shrank back from 
 his gaze. The old man felt a sudden hope dawning over his soul. The 
 young woman looked up, and gazed upon the Indian's stern visage without 
 a fear. 
 
 There was a pause like the silence of the grave. 
 
 At last advancing a step, the Indian handed a paper to Gerald Morton. 
 He spoke, not in the forest-tongue, but in clear bold English, with a deep, 
 gutteral accent. 
 
 " The American Chief sends this to his father. He bade me deliver it, 
 and I have done his bidding." 
 
 Then wheeling on his heel, he confronted the Captain : 
 
 " Give me that sword. The sword is for the brave man, not for the 
 coward. A brave man seeks warriors to display his courage : a coward 
 frightens old men and weak women. Will the coward in a red coat give 
 me the sword, or must I take it ?" 
 
 There was a withering scorn in the Red-Man's tone. The British oflicer 
 Btood as if appalled by a ghost. 
 
 " Your brothers are tied, as cowards should be tied, who put on the war* 
 
THE MANSION ON THE SCHUYLKILL. |37 
 
 nor's dress to do a coward's work," exclaimed the Indian. " My warriors 
 came on tiieiri, captured them and tied them together like wolves in a pack 
 Come ! We are waiting for you. To-night you must go to Valley Forge." 
 
 There was something so strange in the clear English of this slern Indian, 
 that the bravo stood spell-bound, as though it was but the voice of a dream. 
 
 At this moment, two savage forms drew near, through the smoke, which 
 rolling away from the door, now hung coiled in wreaths near the ceiling. 
 Without a word, the Briton was led from the room. He made no resistance, 
 for the tomahawk of an Indian has an unpleasant glitter. As he disappeared, 
 his face gathered one impotent scowl of malice, like a snake that hisses 
 when your foot is on its head. The Astrologer skulked slowly at his heels. 
 
 The Indian was alone with father and daughter. 
 
 He looked from one to the other, while an expression of deep emotion 
 came over his bronzed face. 
 
 At last flinging down his rifle, he extended one hand to the old man, one 
 to the crouching woman. 
 
 " Father!" he groaned in a husky voice : " Sister ! I have come at last !" 
 
 As though a strange electric impulse throbbed from their hearls and joined 
 them all together, in a moment the old man, his daughter and the Indian 
 lay clasped in each other's arms. 
 
 For some k\v moments, sobs, tears, broken ejaculations ! At last the 
 old man bent back the Indian's head, and with flashing eyes, perused his 
 image in his face. The daughter too, without a fear, clung to his manly 
 arm, and looked tenderly up into his blue eyes. 
 
 " Father, sister ! It is a long story, but I will tell it in a few words. A 
 white man, whom you had done wrong, stole me from your house thirty, 
 three years ago. He was an outcast from his kind and made his home i.n 
 the wigwam of the Indian. While the warriors taught me to bend the bow 
 and act a warrior's part, he learned me the tongue of my father. I grew up 
 at once a vvhite man and an Indian. But, two moons ago, the white man^ 
 whose name we never knew, but who was called the Grey -hawk, told me 
 the secret of my father's name. Then, he died. I was a warrior ; a chief 
 among warriors. I came toward flie rising of the sun to see my father and' 
 my sister. One day I beheld the huts of Valley Forge — I am now a warrior 
 under the American chief. My band have done him service for many a day; 
 he is a Man. Father, I see you ! Sister, I love you ! But ask no more; 
 for never will the White Indian forsake his forest to dwell within walls — never 
 will the Chief lay down his blanket, to put on the dress of the white race !" 
 
 The Sister looked tenderly into her brother's Aice. The old man, as if 
 his only wish had been fulfiilled, gazed long and earnestly on the bronzed 
 countenance of his child. He murmured the name of the man whom he 
 had darkly, terribly wronged. Then with a prayer on his lips, he sank- 
 back in the arm cliair. 
 
 Ho was dead. 
 9 
 
138 THE WTSSAHIKON. 
 
 On his glassy eye and fallen jaw streamed the warmth of the fire, while 
 at his feet knelt the white-Indian, his bronzed face glowing in the same 
 beam, that revealed his sister's face, pale as marble and bathed in tears. 
 
 Months passed away. Winter with its ice and snow was gone. Laurel 
 Hill was green and shadowy with summer. The deer browsed quiedy 
 along the lawn of the old mansion, and the river, which the Indian called 
 Manayong, went laughing and shouting over its rocky bed. 
 
 It was summer, and Sir William Howe had deserted Philadelphia, when 
 one day, there came a messenger to Congress, in the old State House, that 
 A batde had been fought near Monmoulh. A battle in which Sir William 
 learned, that Freedom had survived the disease and nakedness and starvation 
 of Valley Forge. 
 
 On that summer day, a young woman sat alone in the chamber of the old 
 mansion, where her father had died six months before. Alone by the win- 
 dow, the breeze playing with her golden hair, the sunlight — stealing ray by 
 ray through thick vines — falling in occasional gleams over her young face. 
 
 Her blue eye was fixed upon a miniature, which pictured a manly face, 
 with dark eyes and raven hair, relieved by the breast of a manly form, clad 
 in the blue uniform of the Continental Army. It was the Betrothed of 
 Amable ; the war once over, freedom won, they were to be married. He 
 was far away with the army, but her voiceless prayers invoked blessings on 
 his head. 
 
 While the maiden sat there, contemplating her lover's picture, a form 
 came stealing from the shadows of the room : a face looked oyer her 
 shoulder. 
 
 It was the White-Indian in his war-blanket. 
 
 His face became terribly agitated as he beheld that picture. 
 
 At last the maiden heard his hard-drawn breath. She turned her head 
 and greeted him at first with a smile, but when she beheld the horror 
 glooming over his face, she felt her heart grow cold. 
 
 " Whence come you, brother ?" 
 
 " Monmouth !" 
 
 " Have you no message for me ? No word from 
 
 The Brother extended his hand, and laid the hilt of a broken sword gently 
 on her bosom. 
 
 He said no word, but she knew it all. She saw the blood upon the hilt ; 
 she saw her brother's face, she knew that she was Widow and Virgin at 
 once. 
 
 It was a dark hour in that old Mansion on the Schuylkill. 
 
 A graveyard among the hills, a small space of green earth separated from 
 the forest by a stone wall. In the midst, a wild cherry tree, flinging its 
 ■hadow over a white tombstone and a new made grave. 
 
THE MANSION ON THE SCHUYLKILL. 130 
 
 Sunset steals through these branches, over the white tombstone, down 
 into tfie recesses of the new-made grave. What is this we see beside th* 
 grave ? A man in Indian attire, bending over a coflin, on whose plate ia 
 inscried a sintjle word — 
 
 A M A B L E . 
 
 Ah, do not Uft the lid, ah, do not uncover that cold face to the light! Ah, 
 do not lift the lid, for then the breeze will play with her tresses ; then the 
 air will kiss her cheek. Her marble cheek, now colorless forever. 
 
 The White-Indian knelt there, the last of his race, bending over the corse 
 of that fair girl. No tear in his eye, no sob in his bosom. All calm as 
 stone, he bent there above his dead. Soon the coffin was lowered ; anon 
 the grave was filled. The star-beams looked solemnly down through the 
 trees, upon the grave of that fair girl. 
 
 The Indian broke a few leaves from the wild cherry tree, and went on 
 his way. 
 
 He was never seen on the banks of the Manayong again. 
 
 Long years afterward, in the far wilds of the forest, a brave General who 
 had won a battle over the Indian race, stood beside an oaken tree, conteni- 
 plating with deep sorrow, the corse of a friendly savage.. He lay there, 
 stiff and cold, the wreck of a giant man, his bronzed lace, lighter in hue 
 than the visages of his brother Indians. He lay there, with blanket and 
 wampum belt and tomahawk about him, the rifle in his grasp, the plume 
 drooping over his bared brow. 
 
 He had died, shielding the brave General from the tomahawk. Yes, 
 with one sudden bound, he sprang before him, receiving on his breast, the 
 blow intended for Mad Antony Wayne. 
 
 And Wayne stood over him — his eyes wet with a soldier's tears — sor- 
 rowing for him as for a rude Indian. 
 
 Little did he think that a white man lay there at his feet! 
 
 Ah, who can tell the magic of those forests, the wild enchantment of the 
 chase, the savage witchery of the Indian's life ? Here was a man, a white 
 man, who, bred to Indian life, had in his mature manhood, rejected wealth 
 and civilization, for the deep joy of the wigwam and the prairie, and now 
 lay stretched — a cold corse, yet a warrior corse — on the banks of the Miami* 
 
 AN InBIAN to the LAST. 
 
 Note.— This fine old mansion, at the Falls of the Schuylkill, was formerly the 
 residence of General Mifflin. The view from the porch of this mansion was always 
 renowned^^ for its beauty. It is proper to mention, that the old bridtre was consumed 
 by fire. The railroad bridge— a splendid stone structure in modern stvle — gives addi- 
 tional beauty to the prospect. The supernatural part of this legend, is" not to be 
 laid to the author's invention, but to the superstition of the Era, in which it occurred 
 This gro-md- around the Falls, on the shores of the Schuylkill— is rich in Ifeo-ends 
 of the most picturesque and romantic character. " 
 
J40 THE WISSAHIKON. 
 
 X.— THE GRAVEYARD OF GERMANTOVVN. 
 
 Ik Germ.ntown there is an old-time graveyard. No gravelled walks 
 no delicate sculpturings of marble, no hot-beds planted over corruption are 
 there. It is an old-lime graveyard, defended from the highway and encirc- 
 ling fields by a thick, stone wall. On the north and west it is shadoweJ by 
 a range of trees, the sombre verdure of the pine, the leafy magnificence of 
 the maple and horse-chesnut, mingling in one rich mass of foliage. Wild 
 dowers are in that graveyard, and tangled vines. It is white with tomb- 
 stones. Tiiey spring up, like a host of spirits from the green graves ; they 
 seem to struggle witli each other for space, for room. The lettering on these 
 tombstones, is in itself, a rude history. Some are marked with rude words 
 in Dutch, some in German, one or more in Latin, one in Indian ; others in 
 English. Some bend down, as if hiding their rugged faces from the light, 
 some start to one side ; here and there, rank grass chokes them from the 
 light and air. 
 
 You may talk to me of your fashionable graveyards, where Death is 
 made to look pretty and silly and fanciful, but for me, this one old grave, 
 yard, with its rank grass and crowded tombstones, has more of God and 
 Immortality in it, than all your elegant cemetries together. I love its soil: 
 its stray wild flowers are omens to me, of a pleasant sleep, taken by weary 
 ones, who were faint with living too long. 
 
 It is to me, a holy thought, that here my bones will one day repose. For 
 here, in a lengthening line, extend the tombstones, sacred to the memory of 
 my fathers, far back in to time. They sleep here. The summer day may 
 dawn, the winter storm may howl, and still they sleep on. No careless 
 eye looks over these walls. There is no gaudiness of sculpture to invite 
 the lounger. As for a pic nic party, in an old graveyard like this, it would 
 be blasphemy. None come save those who have friends here. Sisters 
 come to talk quietly with the ghost of sisters ; children to invoke the spirit 
 of that Mother gone home; I, too sometimes, panting to get free from the 
 city, come here to talk with my sisters — for two of mine are here — with my 
 fsUher — for that clover blooms above his grave. 
 
 It seems to me, too, when bending over that grave, that the Mother's 
 form, awakened from her distant grave, beneath the sod of Delaware, is alsc 
 here! — Here, to commune with the dead, whom she loved while living; 
 here, with the spirits of my fathers ! 
 
 I cannot get rid of the thought that good spirits love that graveyard. For 
 all at once, when you enter its walls, you feel sadder, better ; more satisfied 
 with life, yet less reluctant to die. It is such a pleasant spot, to take a long 
 repose. I have seen it in winter, when there was snow upon the graves, 
 and the sleigh-bells tinkled in the street. Then calmly and tenderly upon 
 the while tombstones, played and lingered the cold moon. 
 
THE GRAVEYARD OF GERMANTOWN. li\ 
 
 In Slimmer, too, when the leaves were on the trees, and the grass upon 
 the sod, when the chirp of the cricket and katy-did broke shrilly over the 
 graves through the silence of night. In early spring, when there was scarce 
 a blade of grass to struggle against the north wind, and late in fall when 
 November baptizes you with her cloud of gloom, I have been there. 
 
 And in winter and summer, in fall and spring, in calm or storm, in sick- 
 ness or health, in every change of this great play, called life, does my heart 
 go out to that graveyard, as though part of it was already there. 
 
 Nor do I love it the less, because on every blade of grass, in every flower, 
 that wildly blooms there, you find written : — " This soil is sacred from 
 creeds. Here rests the Indian and the white man ; here sleep in one sod, 
 the Catholic, Presbyterian, Quaker, Methodist, Lutheran, Mennonist, Deist, 
 Infidel. Here, creeds forgotten, all are men and women again, and not one 
 but is a simple child of God," 
 
 This graveyard was established by men of all creeds, more than a century 
 ago. May that day be darkness, when creeds shall enter this rude gate. 
 Better had that man never been born, who shall dare pollute this soil with 
 the earthly clamor of sect. But on the man, who shall repair this wall, or 
 keep this graveyard sacred from the hoofs of improvement, who shall do his 
 best to keep our old graveyard what it is, on that man, be the blessings of 
 God ; may his daughters be virtuous and beautiful, his sons gifted and brave. 
 In his last hour, may the voices of angels sing hymns to -his passing soul. 
 If there was but one flower in the wprld, I would plant it on that nian's 
 grave. 
 
 It was in November, not in chill, gloomy November, but in golden No- 
 vember, when Paradise opens her windows to us, and wafts ihe Indian 
 Summer over the land, that I came to the graveyard. 
 
 There was a mellow softness in the air, a golden glow upon the sky, 
 glossy, gorgeous richness of foliage on the trees, when I went in. It was 
 in the afternoon. The sun was half-way down the sky. Everything was 
 still. A religious silence dwelt all about the graveyard. 
 
 An aged man, with a rosy countenance, and snow-white hair, sat on a 
 grave. His coat was strait and coUarless, his hat broad in the rim. At 
 once I knew him for a Disciple of Saint William, the Patron Saint of Penn- 
 sylvania. His eyes were fixed upon something at his feet. I drew nigh, 
 and beheld two skeletons resting on the grass near a new-made grave. 
 
 The old Quaker greeted me kindly, and I sat down opposite on a grassy 
 mound. The skeletons presented a strange, a meaning sight. Around 
 their crumbling bones were fluttering the remnants of soldiers' uniform. 
 Buttons, stamped with an eagle, pieces of the breast-belt, fragments of mili 
 tary boots — ah, sad relics Offt the fight of Germantown ! The sunlight 
 streamed slowly over their skulls^ lighting up the hollow orbits, where once 
 shone the eyes; and over the bones of the hand, protruding from the crumb- 
 ing uniform. 
 
142 THE WISSAHIKON. 
 
 We sat for a long while in silence. 
 At last the Quaker spoke. 
 
 " 1 iiin trying to remember which is John and v/hich is Jacob ?" said he. 
 " John ? — Jacob ?" 
 
 " Truly so. For I knew them well. I was but a youth then — on the 
 d iv of the battle, thee minds ? The fourth of the tenth month, 1777 I 
 Jacob was a fine young man, with light curly hair; he was married. John 
 was dark-haired, something younger than Jacob, but quite as good looking. 
 They were both with Washington at Skippack ; with him they came to the 
 battle — " 
 
 " Ah, you remember the battle ?" 
 
 " As well as if it happened last week. Did thee ever see a small, one 
 story house, about half-way down Germantown, with 1713 on its gable? 
 Jacob's wife lived there. On the morning of the battle, about ten o'clock, 
 she was standing in the door, her babe resting on her bosom. There was 
 a thick fog in the air. She was listening to the firing. I stood on the 
 opposite side, thinking what a fine-looking wife she was, for does thee mind, 
 she was comely. Her hair was glossy and brown ; her eyes dark. She 
 was not very tail, but a wondrous pleasant woman to look upon. As I 
 stood looking at her, who should come running down the road, but Jacob 
 there, with this same uniform on, and a gun in his hand. I can see him 
 yet : and hear his voice, as plain as I now hear my own. 
 
 " ' Hannah ! Hannah !' he cried, ' we've beat 'em !' 'And he ran towards 
 her, and she held the babe out to him, but just at that moment, he fell in the 
 middle of the road, torn almost in two by a cannon ball, or some devil's- 
 work of that kind. Young man, it was a very sad sight ! To see that 
 poor Jacob, running to kiss his wife and child, and just as the wife calls and 
 the babe hojds out its little hands — ah !" 
 
 The Quaker rubbed his eye, blaming the road side dust for the tear that 
 glimmered there. 
 " And John ?" 
 
 " Poor John ! We found him after the batUe in Chew's field. He was 
 quite dead — look ! Thee can see the bullet hole in his brain." 
 And with his cane, he pointed to the scull of the soldier. 
 " We buried them together. They were fine-looking young men, and 
 many of us shed tears, when we put the sod upon their brows." 
 " Sod ? Had you no coflins ?" 
 The old man opened his eyes. 
 
 " Had thee seen the village people, taking their barn-doors off their hinges^ 
 so that they might cajrry away the dead bodies by dozens at a lime, and 
 bury them in the fields, whenever a big hole was dug — had thee seen this, 
 thee would'nt ask such a question !" , 
 
 "Was there not a great deal of glory on that day?" 
 
 " If thee means, that it was like an election parade, or a fourth of July 
 
THE GRAVEYARD OF GERMANTOWN. Hi 
 
 gathering, I can tell thee, there was not much glory of that kind. If thee 
 means that it made my blood boil to see the bodies of my neighbois carried 
 by, some dead, some groaning yet, some howling mad with pain ; others 
 with legs torn off, others with arms rent at the very shoulder, here one with 
 his jaw broken, there another with his eyes put out ; — if thee means that 
 boiling of the blood, caused by sights like these, then I can tell thee, there 
 was plenty oi glory T^ 
 
 " The battle was bloody then ?" 
 
 " Did thee ever see how rich the grass grows on Chew's lawn ? How 
 many hearts spent their last blood to fatten that soil ?" 
 
 " You helped to bury the dead ?" 
 
 " I remember well, that thy grandfather — he is buried yonder — took hold 
 of one corner of a barn-door, while I and two friends took the others. There 
 were some six or seven bodies piled crosswise, and huddled together on that 
 barn-door. We took them to the fields and buried them in a big pit. ( 
 remember one fair-faced British officer; his ruffled shirt was red with blood. 
 He was a fine-looking young man, and doubtless had a wife or sister in Eng- 
 land. I pitied him very much."' 
 
 ♦ Were you near the scene of conflict? I do not wish to imply that you 
 bore arms, for your principles forbid the thought." 
 
 •'I can remember standing in my father's door, when a wounded soldier 
 pursued by another, fell at my feet crying ' quarter !' I remember that I 
 seized the pursuer's musket, and rapped him over the head, after which he 
 let the wounded soldier be." 
 
 " Did you hurt him much ?" 
 
 " He did'nt move afterward. Some evil people wished to make it ap- 
 pear, that I killed him. But thee sees that was false, for he may have been 
 very tired running and died from the heat. However, I hit him with all 
 my strength." 
 
 The Quaker held out his right arm, which was an arm of iron, even in 
 its withered old age. 
 
 " What was he ? British or American ?" 
 
 *' He was dressed in red," meekly responded the Quaker. 
 
 " Did you see General Washington during the fight ?" 
 
 " I saw a tall man of majestic presence riding a grey horse. I saw hira 
 now go in the mist ; now come out again ; now here, now there. One 
 time I saw him, when he reigned his horse in front of Chew's wall — he 
 looked terrible, for his eyes seemed to frown, his lips were clenched ; his 
 .•brehead was disfigured by a big vein that seemed bursting from the skin. 
 He was covered with dust and blood — his saddle-cloth was torn by bullets 
 I never forgot the look of that man, nor shall I, to the hour of my death. 
 That man they told me was George Washington." 
 
 ♦' Why was he thus moved ^" 
 
144 THE WISSAHIKON. 
 
 " An aid-de.camp had just told him that one of his Generals was driniK 
 undet a hedge." 
 
 " Did you see CornwaUis ?" 
 
 " That I did. He was riding up the street, as fast as his horse could go 
 — a handsome man, but when I saw him, his face was white as a meal-bag. 
 Thee sees he was a brave man, but friend Washington came on him bei'ore 
 day, without timely notice.^'' 
 
 There was a curious twitch about the Quaker's mouth. He did not smile 
 but still it was a suspicious shape for a Quaiver's mouth. 
 
 XL— "REMEMBER PAOLI." 
 
 Hist! — It is still night; the clear sky arches above; the dim wjods are 
 all around the field ; and in the centre of the meadow, resting on the grass 
 crisped by the autumnal frosts, sleep the worn veterans of the war, dis- 
 heartened by want, and wearied by the day's march. 
 
 It is still night; and the light of the scanty fire falls on wan faces, hol- 
 low eyes, and sunken cheeks ; on tattered apparel, muskets unfit for use, 
 and broken arms. 
 
 It is still night; and they snatch a feverish sleep beside the scanty fire, 
 and lay th«m down to dream of a time when the ripe harvest shall no more 
 be troddon down by the blood-stained hoof — when the valley shall no more 
 be haunfed by tlie Traitor-Refugee — when Liberty and Freedom shall walk 
 in broadcloth, instead of wandering about with the unshodden feet, and the 
 tatterfid rags of want. 
 
 It is still night ; and Mad Anthony Wayne watches while his soldiers 
 sleep. 
 
 He watches beside the camp-fire. You can mark his towering form, his 
 breadth of shoulders, and his prominence of chest. You can see his face 
 by the red light of the fire — that manly face, with the broad forehead, the 
 marked eye-brows, over-arching the deep hazel eye, that lightens and gleams 
 as he gazes upon the men of his band. 
 
 You can note the uniform of the Revolution — the wide coat of blue, 
 varied by the buckskin sword-belt, from which depends the sword that 
 Wayne alone can wield, — the facings of buff, the buttons rusted by the dews 
 of night, and the march-worn trooper's boots, reaching above his knees, 
 with the stout iron spurs standing out from each heel. 
 
 Hist ! The night is still, but there is a sound in yonder thicket. 
 
 Look ! can you see nothing ? 
 
 No. The night is still — the defenceless Continentals sleep in the centre 
 of the meadow — all around is dark. The sky above is clear, but the stars 
 give forth no light. The wind sweeps around the meadow — dim and indis 
 linct it sweeps, and is silent and still. I can see nothing. 
 
 Place your ear to th^ earth. Hear you nothing ? 
 
" REMEMBER PAOLl. 14£ 
 
 Yes — yes. A slight sound — a distant rumbling. There is thunder growl- 
 ing in the bosom of tlie earth, but it is distant. It is lilie the mu-mur on 
 the ocean, ere the terrible white squall sweeps away the commerce of a na- 
 tion — but it is distant, very distant. 
 
 Now look forth on the night. Cast your eye to the thicket — see yoi 
 notiiing ? 
 
 Yes — there is a gleam like the light of the fire-fly. Ha ! It lightens on 
 the night — that quivering gleam ! It is the flash of swords — the glittering 
 of arms ! 
 
 "Charge upon the Rebels! Upon them — over them-^no quarter — no 
 quarter !" 
 
 Watcher of the night, watcher over the land of the New World, watching 
 over the fortunes of the starved children of Freedom — what see you now i 
 
 A band of armed men, mounted on stout steeds, with swords in their up- 
 lifted hands. They sweep from the thicket; they encompass the meadow? 
 they surround the Rebel host ! 
 
 The gallant Lord Grey rides at their head. His voice rings out clear 
 and loud upon the frosty air. 
 
 " Root and branch, hip and thigh, cut them down. Spare not a man — 
 heed never a cry for quarter. Cut ihern down ! Charge for England and 
 St. George !" 
 
 And then there was uplifting of swords, and butchery of defenceless mem, 
 and there was a riding over the wounded, and a trampling over the faces of 
 the dying. And then there was a cry for quarter, and the respon'--e — 
 
 " To your throats take that ! We give you quarter, the quarter of the 
 sword, accursed Rebels !" 
 
 There was a moment, whose history was written with good sharp 
 swords, on the visages of dying men. 
 
 It was the moment when the defenceless Continental sprang up from his 
 hasty sleep, into the arms of the merciless death ! It was the moment 
 when Wayne groaned aloud with agony, as the sod of Paoli was flooded 
 with a pool of blood that poured from the corses of the slaughtered soldiers 
 of his band. It was the moment when the cry for quarter was mocked — 
 when the Rebel clung in his despair to the stirrup of the Britisher, and 
 clung in vain ; it was the moment when the gallant Lord Grey — that genUe- 
 man, nobleman, Christian — whose heart only throbbed with generous im- 
 pulses ; who from his boyhood, was schooled in the doctrines of mercy, 
 halloed his war-dogs on to the slaugliter, and shouted up to the star-lit 
 Heavens, until the angels might grow sick of the scene — 
 
 " Over them — over them — heed never a cry — heed never a voice ! Root 
 and branch cut them down ! — No quarter !" 
 
 It is dark and troubled night; and the Voice of Blood goes up to God, 
 shrieking for vengeance ! 
 
 It is morning ; sad and ghasUy morning ; and the first sunbeams shine 
 
146 THE WISSAHIKON. 
 
 over the field, which was yesternight a green meadow — the field that is now 
 an Aceldenia — a field of blood, strewn with heaps of the dead, arms loru 
 from the body, eyes hollowed from the sockets, faces turned to the earth, 
 and buried in blood, ghastly pictures of death and pain, painted by the hand 
 of the Briton, for the bright sun to shine down upon, for men to applaud, 
 for the King to approve, for God to avenge. 
 
 It is a sad and ghastly morning ; and Wayne stands looking over the 
 slaughtered heaps, surrounded by the little band of survivors, and as he 
 gazes on this scene of horror, the Voice of Blood goes shrieking up to God 
 for vengeance, and the ghosts of the slain darken the portals of Heaven, 
 with their forms of woe, and their voices mingle with the Voice of Blood. 
 
 Was the Voice of Blood answered ? 
 
 A year passed, and the ghosts of the murdered looked down from the 
 portals of the Unseen, upon the ramparts of Stony Point. 
 
 It is still night ; the stars look calmly down upon the broad Hudson , and 
 in the dim air of night towers the rock and fort of Stony Point. 
 
 The Britishers have retired to rest. The)"- sleep in their warm, quiet 
 beds. They sleep with pleasant dreams of American maidens dishonored, 
 and American fathers, with grey hairs dabbled in blood. They shall have 
 merrier dreams anon, I trow. Aye, aye ! 
 
 All is quiet around Stony Point : the sentinel leans idly over the wall 
 that bounds his lonely walk ; he gazes down the void of darkness, until his 
 glance falls upon the broad and magnificent Hudson. He hears nothing — 
 he sees nothing. 
 
 It is a pity for that sentinel, that his eyes are not keen, and his glance 
 piercing. Had his eye-sight been but a little keener, he might have seen 
 Death creeping up that rampart in some hundred shapes — he might have 
 Been the long talon-like fingers of ilie skeleton god clutching for his own 
 plump British throat. But his eye-sight was no-t keen — more's the pity for 
 him. 
 
 Pity it was, that the sentinel could not hear a little more keenly. Had 
 his ears been good, he might have heard a little whisper that went from two 
 hundred tongues, around the ramparts of Stony Point. 
 
 " General, what shall be the watch-word ?" 
 
 And then, had the sentinel inclined his ear over the ramparts, and listened 
 very attentively indeed, he might have heard the answer, sweeping up to 
 the Heavens, like a voice of blood — 
 
 " Remember Paoli !" 
 
 Ho — ho ! And so Paoli is to be remembered — and so the Voice of 
 Blood shrieked not in the ears of God in vain. 
 
 And so the vengeance for Paoli is creeping up the ramparts of the fort ! 
 Ho — ho ! Pity Lord Grey were not here to see the sport ! 
 
 The sentinel was not blessed with supernatural si^ht or hearing ; he did 
 
"REMEMBER PAOLI." I47 
 
 not see the figures creeping up the ramparts ; he did not hear their whispers, 
 until a rude hand clutched him round the throat, and up to the Heavens 
 swept the lhuii(Je,-shoiit — 
 
 " Remember Paoli !" 
 
 And then a rude bayonet pinned him to the wood of the ramparts, and 
 then the esplanade of the fort, and its rooms and its halls were filled with 
 silent avengers, and then came Britishers rushing from their beds, crying for 
 quarter, and then they had it — the quarter of Paoli ! 
 
 And then, through the smoke, and the gloom, and the bloodshed of that 
 terrible night, with the light of a torch now falling on his face, with the 
 gleam of starlight now giving a spectral appearance to his features, swept on, 
 right on, over heaps of dead, one magnificent form, grasping a stout broad- 
 sword in his right hand, which sternly rose, and sternly fell, cutting a 
 British soldier down at every blow, and laying them along the floor of the 
 fort, in the puddle of their own hireling blood. 
 
 Ghosts of Paoli — shout! are you not terribly avenged ? 
 
 " Spare me — I have a wife — a child — they wait my return to England ! 
 Quarter — Quarter !" 
 
 " I mind me of a man named Shoelmire — he had a wife and a child — a 
 mother, old and grey-haired, waited his return from the wars. On the night 
 of Paoli, he cried for quarter ! Such quarter I give you — Remember Paoli !" 
 
 " Save me — quarter !" 
 
 How that sword hisses through the air ! 
 
 " Remember Paoli !" 
 
 ' I have a grey-haired father ! Quarter !" 
 
 •' So had Daunton at Paoli ! Oh, Remember Paoli !" 
 
 " Spare me — you see I have no sword ! — Quarter !" 
 
 " Friend, I would spare thee if I dared. But the Ghosts of Paoli nerve 
 my arm — ' We had no swords at Paoli, and ye butchered us !' they shriek." 
 
 " Oh, Remember Paoli !" 
 
 And as the beams of the rising moon, streaming through yonder narrow 
 window, for a moment light up the brow of the Avenger— dusky with bat- 
 tle-smoke, red with blood, deformed by passion — behold ! Tliat sword 
 describes a fiery circle in the air, it hisses down, sinks into the victim's 
 skull ? No ! 
 
 His arm falls nerveless by his side ; the sword, that grim, rough blade, 
 dented with the records of the fight of Brandy wine, clatters on the floor. 
 
 " It is my duty — the Ghosts of Paoli call to me — but I cannot kfll vou !' 
 shouts the American Warrior, and his weaponless hands are extended 10 
 the trembling Briton. 
 
 All around is smoke, and darkness, and blood ; the cry for quarter, and 
 the death-sentence. Remember Paoli ! but here, in the centre of the scene 
 of slaughter— yes, in the centre of that flood of moonlight, pourintr throi-oh 
 iho solitary window, behold a strange and impressive sight : 
 
149 THE WISSAHIKON. 
 
 The kneeling form — a grey-haired man, who has grown hoary doing 
 murder in the name of Good King George, — his hands uplifted in trembling 
 supplication, his eyes starting from the dilating lids, as he shrieks for the 
 mercy that he never gave ! 
 
 The figure towering above him, with the Continental uniform fluttering 
 in ribands over his broad chest, his hands and face red with blood and 
 darkened with the stain of powder, the veins swelling from his bared throat, 
 the eye glaring from his compressed brow — 
 
 Such were the figures disclosed by the sudden glow of moonlight ! 
 
 And yet from that brow, dusky with powder, red with blood, there broke 
 the gleam of mercy, and yet those hands, dripping with crimson stains, • 
 were extended to lift the cringing Briton from the dust. 
 
 " Look ye — old man — at Paoli — " and that hoarse voice, heard amid tlio 
 roar of midnight conflict, grew tremulous as a child's, when it spoke those 
 fatal words — at Paoli ; " even through the darkness of that terrible night, I 
 beheld a boy, only eighteen years old, clinging to the stirrup of Lord Grey ; 
 yes, by the light of a pistol-flash, I beheld his eyes glare, his hands quiver 
 over his head, as he shrieked for ' Quarter !' " 
 
 "And he spared him ?" faltered the Briton. 
 
 " Now, mark you, this boy had been consigned to my care by his 
 mother, a brave American woman, who had sent this last hope of her 
 Miidowed h-eart forth to battle " 
 
 " And he spared him — " again faltered the Briton. 
 
 " The same pistol, which flashed its red light over his pale face, and 
 quivering hands, sent the bullet through his brain. Lord Grey held that 
 pistol, Lord Grey heard the cry for mercy. Lord Grey beheld the young 
 face trampled into mangled flesh by his horse's hoofs ! And now, sir — 
 with that terrible memory of Paoli stamped upon my soul — now, while thai 
 young face, with the red wound between the eyes, passes before me, 1 
 spare your life ; — there lies my sword — I will not take it up again ! Clmg 
 to me, sir, and do not part for an instant from my side, for my good soldiers 
 have keen memories. I may forget, but hark ! Do you hear them ? 
 They do not massacre defenceless men in cold blood — ah, no ! The^ 
 only — 
 
 "REMEMBER PAOLI 1" 
 
BOOK THIRD. 
 
 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 
 
 (140) 
 
BEiNEDICT ARNOLD. 
 
 1.— THE MOTHER AND HER BABE. 
 
 The angels of God look down from the sky to witness the deep tender- 
 ness of a mother's love. The angels of God look down to witness that 
 sight which angels love to see — a mother watching over her sleeping babe. 
 Yes, if even these awful intelligences, which are but litde above man, and 
 yet next to God, circling there, deep after deep, far through the homes of 
 eternity, bend from the sky to witness a scene of human bliss and woe, that 
 sight is the deep agony of a mother's love as she watches o'er her sleeping 
 child ! 
 
 The deep agony of a mother's love ? Yes ! For in that moment, when 
 gazing upon the child — smiling upon it as it sleeps — does not a deep agony 
 seize the mother's soul, as she tries to picture the future life of her babe ? — 
 whether that child will rise in honor and go down to death in glory, or 
 whether the dishonored life and unwept death will be its heritage ? 
 
 Ah, the sublimity of the heart is there, in that mother's love, which even 
 angels bend down to look upon. 
 
 One hundred years ago, in a far New England town, a mother, with her 
 babe in her arms, stole sofdy through the opened doors of a quaint old vil- 
 lage church, and knelt beside the altar. 
 
 Yes, while the stillness of the Sabbath evening gathered like a calm from 
 heaven around her, — while a glimpse of the green graveyard came through 
 the unclosed windows, and the last beam of the setting sun played over the 
 rustic steeple, that mother knelt alone, and placed her sleeping boy upon 
 the sacramental altar. 
 
 That mother's face was not beautiful — care had been too busy there — 
 yet there was a beauty in that uplifted countenance, in those upraised eyes 
 of dark deep blue, in that kneeling form, with the clasped hands pressed 
 against the agitated bosom, — a beauty holier than earth, like that of Mary, 
 the Virgin Moilier. 
 
 And wliy comes this Mother here to this lonely church, in this twilight 
 hour, to lay her babe upon the altar, and kneel in silence there ? 
 Listen to her prayer. 
 
 She prays the Father, yonder, to guide the boy through life, to make him 
 a man of honor, a disciple of the Lord. 
 
 While these faltering accents fall from her tongue, behold ! There, on 
 the v:icancy of the twilight air, she beiiolds a vision of that boy's life, ac* 
 
 (isn 
 
152 BEiNEDlCT ARNOLD. 
 
 I'Tovvding on act, scene on scene, until her eyes burn in their sockets, aniJ 
 tlie thicii. sweat stands in beads upon her brow. 
 
 First, her pale face is stamped with fear. She beholds her boy, now 
 grown to young manhood, standing upon a vessel's deck, far out UDon the 
 deep waters. The waves heave around him, and meet above the mast, and 
 yet that boy is firm. The red lightning from yon dark cloud, comes quiv- 
 ering down the mainmast, and yet his cheek does not pale, his breast does 
 not shrink. Yes, while the stout sailors fall cowering upon the deck, that 
 boy stands firm, and laughs at the storm — as though his spirit rose to meet 
 .he lightning in its coming, and grapple with the thunderbolt in its way. 
 
 This vision passes. 
 
 The mother, kneeling there, beside the sacramental altar, beholds another 
 scene of her boy's life — another and another. At last, with eyes swimming 
 in tears of joy, she beholds a scene, so glorious drawn there upon the twi- 
 light air — her boy grown to hardy manhood, riding amid embattled legions, 
 with the victor's laurel upon his brow — the praises of a nation ringing in his 
 ears — a scene so glorious, that her heart is filled to bursting, and that deep 
 ♦' I thank thee, oh my God I" falls tremulously from her lips. 
 
 The next scene, right after the scene of glory — it is dark, crushing, horri- 
 ble ! The mother starts appalled to her feet — her shriek quivers through 
 the lonely church — she spreads forth her hands over the sleeping babe — 
 she calls to Gjd ! 
 
 " Father in Heaven ! take, O take this child while he is yet innocent ! 
 Let him not live to be a man — a demon in human shape — u curse to his race /" 
 
 And as she stands there, quivering and pale, and cold with horror — look ' 
 That child, laid there on the sacramental altar, opens its clear dark eyes, 
 ar.d claps its tiny hands, and smiles ! 
 
 That child was Benedict Arnold. 
 
 Near half a century had passed away. It was night in that New Eng- 
 land town, where, forty-five years before, that mother, in the calmness of 
 the Sabbath evening, brought her babe and laid it on the altar. 
 
 It was midnight. The village girl had bidden her lover a last good-niglit, 
 that good old father had lifted up his voice in prayer, with his children all 
 around him — it was midnight, and the village people slept soundly in 
 their beds. 
 
 All at once, rising from the deep silence, a horrid yell went up to the 
 midnight sky. All at once a blaze of fire burst over the roof. Look yon- 
 der ! — That father murdered on his own threshhold — that mother stabbed 
 in the midst of her children — that maiden kneeling there, pleading for life, 
 as the sharp steel crashes into her brain ! 
 
 Then the blood flow^ in the startled streets — then British troopers flit to 
 and fro in the red light — then, rising in the centre of the town, that quiet 
 village church, with its rustic steeple, towers into the blaze. 
 
THE MOTHER AND THE BABE. 153 
 
 And there — oh, Falher of Mercy ! — there, in that steeple, stands a soldiei 
 with a dark cloak half-wrapped around his red uniform — yes, there he stands, 
 >\'itli folded arms, and from that height surveys with a calm joy, the horrid 
 scene of massacre below. 
 
 Now, mother of Arnold, look from Heaven and weep ! Forty-live years 
 ago, you laid your child upon the sacramental altar of this church, and now 
 he stands in yonder steeple, drinking in with a calm joy, the terrible criea 
 of old men, and trembling women, and little children, hewn down in hideous 
 murder, before his very eyes. 
 
 Look there, and learn what a devil Remorse can make of such a man ! 
 
 Here are the faces he has known in Childhood — the friends of his man- 
 hood — the matrons, who were litde girls when he was a boy — here they 
 are, hacked by British swords, and lie looks on and smiles ! 
 
 At last, the cries are stilled in death ; the last flash of the burning town 
 glares over the steeple, and there, attired in that scarlet uniform, his bronzed 
 face stamped with the conflict of hideous passions — there, smiling §lill amid 
 the scenes of ruin and blood, stands Benedict Arnold. 
 
 That was the last act of the Traitor on our soil. In a few days he sailed 
 from our shores, and came back no more. 
 
 And now, as he goes yonder, on his awful way, while millions curse the 
 echo of his name, in yonder lonely room two orphans bless that name. 
 
 What is this you say ? Orphans bless the name of Arnold ? Yes, my 
 friends — for there was a night when those orphans were without a crust of 
 bread, while their fatlier lay mouldering on the sod of Bunker Hill. Yes, 
 the Legislature of Massachusetts had left these children to the cold mercy of 
 the world, and that when they bore his name who fell on Bunker HiU — 
 the immortal Warren. 
 
 While they sate there, hungry and cold, no fire on the hearth, not a crust 
 of bread upon the table, their eyes fixed upon the tearful face of the good 
 woman who gave them the siielter of a roof, a letter came, and in its folds 
 five hundred dollars from Benedict Arnold. 
 
 This at the very moment when he was steeling his soul to the guilt of 
 Treason. This at the moment when his fortune had been scattered in ban- 
 quets and pageants — when assailed by clamorous creditors, he was ready to 
 sell his soul for gold. 
 
 From the last wreck of his fortune, all that had been left from the para- 
 sites who fed upon him, while they could, and then stung the hand that fed 
 them, he took five hundred dollars and sent them to the children of his 
 comrade, the patriot Warren. 
 
 Is it true, that when the curse of all wronged orphans quivers up yomlcr, 
 the Angels of God shed tears at that sound of woe ? Then, at the awful 
 hour when Arnold's soul went up to judgment, did the prayer's of Warren's 
 orphan children go up there, and like Angels, plead for him with God 
 10 
 
,54 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 
 
 II.— THE DRUGGIST OF NEW HAVEN. 
 
 Let us look at his life between these periods ; let us follow the varied 
 and tumultuous course of forty-five years, and learn how the innocent and 
 smiling babe, became the Outcast of his native land. 
 
 The course of this strange history, will lead us to look, upon two men : 
 
 First, a brave and noble man, whose hand was firm as his heart was true. 
 at once a Knight worthy of the brightest days of chivalry, and a Soldier 
 
 beloved by his countrymen ; honored by the friendship of Washington 
 
 that man, — Benedict Arnold. 
 
 Then, a bandit and an outcast, a man panoplied in hideous crimes, so 
 dark, so infamous, that my tongue falters as it speaks his name — Benedict 
 Arnold. 
 
 Let me confess, that when I first selected this theme. I only thought of 
 its melo-dramatic contrasts, its strong lights and deep shadows, its incidents 
 of wild romance. 
 
 But now, that I have learned the fearful lesson of this life, let me frankly 
 confess, that in the pages of history or fiction, there is no tragedy to com- 
 pare with the plain history of Benedict Arnold. It is, in one word, a Par- 
 adise Lost, brought down to our own times and homes, and told in familiar 
 language of everyday life. Through its every page, aye from the smiling 
 autumnal landscape of Kenebec, from the barren rock of Quebec, or the 
 green heights of Hudson, there glooms one horrid phantom, with a massive 
 forehead and deep-set eyes, the Lucifer of the story Benedict Arnold. 
 
 The man who can read his life, in all its details, without tears, has a 
 heart harder than the roadside flint. 
 
 One word in regard to the infancy of Arnold. 
 
 You have doubtless seen, in the streets of our large cities, the painful 
 spectacle of a beggar-women, tramping about with a deformed child in her 
 arms, making a show of its deformity, exciting sympathy by the exhibition 
 of its hideousness ? Does the poor child fail to excite sympathy, when 
 attired in a jacket and trowsers, as a little boy ? Then, the gipsey conceals 
 its deformed limbs under a frock, covers its wan and sickly face with a 
 bonnet. 
 
 And she changes it from to-day, making deformity always new, sickness, 
 rags and ulcers always marketable. 
 
 There is a class of men, who always remind me of this crafty beggar- 
 woman. They are the journeymen historians, the petty couipilers of pom- 
 pous filsehood, who prevail in the vincinity of bookseller's kitchens, and 
 acquire corpulence. 
 
 As the beggar-woman has her Deformed child, so these Historians who 
 work by the line and yard, have their certain class of Incidents, which they 
 crowd into all their Couipilations, whether Histories, Lectures, or Pictorial 
 
THE DRUGGIST OF NEW HAVEN. 155 
 
 abominations, dressing them soinewluit variously, in order to suit the chanjjeH 
 of time and phice. 
 
 For example; the first English writers wlio unilerlook the history oi 
 Napoleon, propagated various stories about his infancy, wliich, in point of 
 trutli and tragic interest, remind us of lilue-beard and Cock-robin. The 
 same stories had been previously told of Alexander, Ca)sar, Richlieu, and 
 lately we have seen them revived in a new shape, in order to suit the in 
 fantile days of Santa Anna. 
 
 These stereotyped fables — the Deformed children of History — are in fact, 
 to be found in every Biography, written by an enemy. They may wear 
 trousers in one history, put on a frock in another, but still cannot altogether 
 hide their original features. Cloak it as you may, the Deformed child of 
 history appears wherever we find it, just what it is, a puny and ridiculous 
 libel. 
 
 One of these Deformed children lurks in the current life of Arnold. 
 
 It is the grave story of the youth of Benedict, being passed away in va- 
 rious precocious atrocities. He stsewed the road with pounded glass, in 
 order that other little boys might cut their feet ; he fried frogs upon a bake- 
 iron heated to nn incredible intensity ; he geared flies in harness, decapitated 
 grasshoppers, impaled " Katy-dids." 
 
 So says the history. 
 
 Is not this a very dignified, very solemn thing for the Historian's notice ? 
 
 Why did he not pursue the subject, and state that at the age of two years, 
 Benedict Arnold was deeply occupied in the pursuit of Latin, Sanscript 
 Hebrew, Moral Philosophy and the Philosopher's stone ? 
 
 Because the latter part of a man's life is made infamous by his crimes, 
 must your grave Historian ransack Blue-beard and Cock-robin, in order to 
 rake up certain delectable horrors, with which to adorn the history of his 
 childhood ? 
 
 In our research into Arnold's life, we must bear one important fact in 
 mind, .flfter he had betrcnjed his country, it was deemed not only justi- 
 fiable to chronicle every blot and spec in his character, but highly praise- 
 worthy to tumble the overflowing inkstarid of libel upon every vestige of 
 his name. 
 
 That he comes down to our time, with a single good deed adhering to his 
 memory, has alvva,ys seemed miraculous to me. 
 
 With these introductory remarks, let us pursue the history. 
 
 It was in the city of New Haven, on a cold day of April, 1775, that « 
 man of some thirty-five years, stood behind a counter, an apron on his 
 manly chest, mixing medicines, pasting labels on phials, and putting poisofls 
 in their places. 
 
 Look well at this man, as he stands engaged in his occupation. Didyoy 
 ever see a bolder brow — a deeper, darker, or more intensely brilliant eyt — 
 
,50 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 
 
 3 more resolute lip or more determined chin ? Mark the massy outline of 
 that face from tlie ear to the chin ; a world of iron will is written m thai 
 firm outline. 
 
 The hair, unclojrged with the powder in fashion at this time, falls back 
 from his forehead in harsh masses ; its dark hue imparting a strong relief to 
 the bold and warrior-like face. 
 
 While this man stands at his counter, busy with pesUe and mortar — hark ! 
 There is a murmur along the streets of New Haven ; a crowd darkens 
 under those aged elms ; the murmur deepens ; the Druggist became con- 
 scious of four deep-muttered words : 
 
 " Battle — Lexington — British — Beaten .'" 
 
 With one bound the Druggist leaps over the counter, rushes into the 
 street and pushes his way through the crowd. Listen to that tumultuous 
 murmur ! A battle has been fought at Lexington, between the British and 
 the Americans ; or in other words, the handsomely attired minions of King 
 George, have been soundly beaten by the plain farmers of New England. 
 That murmur deepens through the crowd, and in a moment the Druggist 
 is in the centre of the scene. Two hundred men group round him, begging 
 to be led against the British. 
 
 But there is a difficulty ; the Common Council, using a privilege granted 
 to all corporate bodies from immemorial time, to make laughing-stocks of 
 themselves, by a display of petty authority, have locked up all the arms. 
 
 " Arnold," cried a patriotic citizen, uncouth in attire and speech : " We 
 are willing to fight the Britishers, but the city council won't let us have 
 any guns !" 
 
 " Won't they ?" said the Druggist, with that sardonic sneer, which always 
 made his enemies afraid : " Then our remedy is plain. Come ; let us 
 take them !" 
 
 Five minutes had not passed, before the city Council, knowing this 
 Druggist to be a man of few words and quick deeds, yielded up the guns 
 That hour the Druggist became a soldier. 
 
 Let us now pass over a month or more. 
 
 It is a night in May. 
 
 Look yonder, through the night ? Do you see that tremendous rock, as 
 it towers up ruggedly sublime, into the deep blue sky ? Yes, over the wide 
 range of woods, over the silent fastnesses of the wilderness, over the calm 
 waters of Lake George and the waves of Champlain, that rock towers and 
 swells on the night, like an awful monument, erected by the lost Angels, 
 when they fell from Heaven. 
 
 And there, far away in the sky, the moon dwindled away to a slender 
 thread, sheds over the blue vault and the deep woods and the tremendous 
 rock, a light, at once sad, solemn, sepulchral. 
 
 Do you see the picture ? Does it not stamp itself upon your soul, an 
 fmau-e of terrible beauty ? Do you not feel the awful silence that broods there ^ 
 
THE MARCH THROUGH THE WILDERNESS. 15: 
 
 On the summit of th^t rock the British garrison are sleeping, aye, slum- 
 berino" peacefully, under the comfortable inliuence of beef and ale, in the 
 impregnable fortress of Ticonderoga. From the topmost crag, the broad 
 Banner of the Red Cross swings lazily against the sky. 
 
 At this moment, there is a murmur far down in the dark ravine. Let us 
 look there. A multitude of shadows come stealing into the dim light of the 
 moon ; they climb that impregnable rock ; they darken round that fortress 
 gate. All is still as death. 
 
 Two figures stand in the shadows of the fortress gate ; in that stern de- 
 termined visage, you see the first of the green mountain boys, stout Ethan 
 Allen; in that muscular figure, with the marked face and deep-set eye^ 
 you recognize the druggist of New Haven, Bknedict Arnold. 
 
 A fierce shout, a cry, a crash goes up to Heaven ! The British Colonel 
 rushing from his bed, asks what Power is this, which demands the surren- 
 der of Ticonderoga ? 
 
 For all his spangled coat and waving plumes, this gentlemah was 
 
 behind the age. He had not heard, that a iNew Nation had lately been 
 born on the sod of Lexington. Nor did he dream of the Eight Years Bap- 
 tism of blood and tears, which was to prepare this nation for its full com- 
 munion with the Church of Nations, on the plains of Yorkiown. " In 
 
 what name do you demand the surrender of this fortress ?" 
 
 In the name of a King ? Or perchance in the name of Benedict Arnold 
 and stout Ethan Allen ? No ! Hark how that stern response breaks through 
 the silence of night. 
 
 «' In the name of the Lord Jehovah and the Continental Congress 1" 
 
 And floating into the blue sky, the Pine tree banner waved from the 
 summit of Ticonderoga. 
 
 You will remember, that the emblem of the New-born nation, at 
 
 that time, was a Pine Tree. The Lord had not yet given his stars, to flash 
 from the Banner of Freedom ; an eniblem of the rights of man all over the 
 world. — 
 
 That was the first deed of Benedict Arnold ; the initial letter to a long 
 alphabet of glorious deeds, which was to end in the blackness of Treason. 
 
 III.— THE MARCH THROUGH THE WILDERNESa 
 
 There was a day, my friends, when some Italian peasants, toiling in the 
 vineyards of their cloudless clime, beneath the shadow of those awful Alps, 
 that rise as if to- the very Heavens, ran in terror to the village Priest, beg- 
 ging him to pray for them, for the end of the world was coming. 
 
 The Priest calmly inquired the cause of all the clamor. Soon the mys- 
 lery was explained. Looking up into the white ravines of the Alps, the 
 peasants had seen an army coming down — emerging from that awful wilder- 
 ness of snow and ice, where the avalanche alone had spoken, for ages — 
 
158 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 
 
 with cannons, and j)liiines, and banners, and a liule man .'n a grey riding* 
 soat in iheir midst. 
 
 That litde man was named Napoleon Bonaparte — a young man, who 
 one day was starving in Paris for the want of a dinner, and the next held 
 France in the palm of his hand. 
 
 That was a great deecl, the crossing of the Alps, by the young man, Na- 
 poleon, but I will now tell you a bolder deed, done by the Patriot, Benedict 
 Arnold. 
 
 In April, 1775, that man Arnold stood behind a counter, mixing medi- 
 cines, pasting labels on phials, and putting poisons in their places. 
 
 In May, the Druggist Arnold, stood beside stout Ethan Allen, in the gate 
 of conquered Ticonderoga. 
 
 In September, the soldier Arnold was on his way to Quebec, through an 
 untrodden desert of three hundred miles. 
 
 One niglit, the young Commander Washington sat in his tent at Cam- 
 bridge, (near Boston,) with his eye fixed on the map of Canada, and his 
 finger laid on that spot marked Quebec. 
 
 While thus employed a soldier stood by his side. 
 
 •' Give me" two thousand men. General," said he, " and I will take 
 Quebec." 
 
 Washington answered this with a look of incredidous surprise. 
 
 " Three hundred miles of untrodden wilderness are to be traversed, ere 
 you can obtain even a glimpse of the rock of Quebec.'' 
 
 " Yet I will go !" was the firm response of the soldier, 
 
 " But there are rocks, and ravines, and dense forests, and unknown lakes, 
 and impassable cataracts in the way," answered Washington ; " and then 
 the cold of winter will come on ; your provisions will fail ; your men will 
 be starved or frozen to death." 
 
 Slill that soldier was firn* 
 
 " Give me two thousand men, and I will go !" 
 
 Do you mark the bold brow — the clear, dark eye — the determined lip of 
 that soldier? Do you behold the face of Washington — utterly unlike your 
 vulgar pictures of the man — each outline moulded by a high resolve, the 
 eye gleaming chivalry, the brow radiant with the light of genius ^ 
 
 That soldier was Benedict Arnold. 
 
 Washington took him by the hand, and bade him go ! 
 
 " Yes, go through the* wilderness. Attack and possess Quebec. Then 
 the annexation of Canada will be certain ; the American name will embrace 
 a Continent. Go ! and God speed you on your journey." 
 
 Did that great truth ever strike you ? Washington did not fight for a 
 Half-America, or a Piece-America, but for the Continent, the whole Conh- 
 nent. His army was not called the American, but the Continental 
 army. The Congress was not entitled American, but Continental. The 
 
THE MARCH THROUGH THE WILDERNESS. 159 
 
 very currency was Continental. In one word, Washington and his com- 
 patriots were impressed with the belief that God had given the whole Con- 
 tinent te the Free. — Therefore he gazed upon the map of Canada. There- 
 fore, pressing Arnold's hand, he bade him God speed ! 
 
 And he did go. Yes, look yonder on the broad ocean. Behold that lit- 
 tle fleet of eleven vessels stealing along the coast, toward the mouth of the 
 Kennebec. That fleet, sailing on the 17lh of September, 1775, contains 
 eleven hundred brave men, and their leader, Benedict Arnold. 
 
 They reach the mouth of the Kennebec — they glide along its clifl'-em- 
 bosomed shores. These brave men are about to traverse an untrodden 
 virilderness of 300 miles, and then attack the Gibralter of America. If that 
 was not a bold idea, then the crossing of the Alps was a mere holiday 
 pastime. 
 
 Let us leave this little army to build their canoes near the mouth of the 
 Kennebec ; let us hurry into the thick wilderness. 
 
 Even in these days of steam and rail-road cars, the Kennebec is beautiful. 
 Some of you have wandered there by its deep waters, and seen the smiles 
 of woman mirrowed in its wave. Some of you have gazed upon those high 
 clifTs, those snadowy glens, now peopled with the hum of busy life. 
 
 But in the day when Arnold dared its solitudes, there was a grandeur 
 stamped on these rocks and clifl^s — a grandeur fresh from the haaids of God. 
 
 Yet, even amidst its awful wilds, there was a scene of strange loveliness, 
 a picture which I would stamp upon your souls. 
 
 Stretching away from the dark waters of that river — where another 
 stream mingles with its flood — a wide plain, bounded by dense forests, 
 breaks on your eye. 
 
 As the glimmering day is seen over the eastern hills, there, in the centre 
 of the plain, stands a solitary figure, a lone Indian, the last of a line of kings f 
 yes, with his arms folded, his war-blanket gathered about his form, the 
 hatchet and knife lying idly at his feet — there stands the last of a long line 
 of forest kings, gazing at the ruins of his race. 
 
 The ruins of his race ? Yes — look there ! In the centre of that plain, 
 a small fabric arises under the shade of centuried oaks — a sinall fabric, with 
 battered walls and rude windows, stands there like a tomb in the desert, so 
 lonely, even amid this desolation. 
 
 Let us enter this rude place. What a sight is there ! As the first gleam 
 of day breaks over the eastern hills, it trembles through those rude windows, 
 it trembles upon that shaittered altar, that fallen cross. 
 
 Altar and cross ? What do they here in the wilderness ? And why 
 does that lone Indian — that last of the kings — who could be burned without 
 a murmur — why does he mutter wildly to himself as he gazes upon this 
 turn ? 
 
 Listen. Here, many years ago, dwelt a powerful Indian tribe, and here 
 fiom afar over the waters, came a peaceful man, clad in a long coarse robe, 
 
J do BENEDICT ARNOLD. 
 
 with a rude cross hanging on his breast. That peaceful man built the 
 church, reared the altar, planted the cross. Here, in the calmness of the 
 summer evening, you might see the red warrior with blunted war-knife, 
 come to worship ; the little Indian child kneeling there, clasping its tiny- 
 hands, as it learned, in its rude dialect, to lisp the name of Jesus ; and here 
 the dark brown Indian maiden, with her raven hair falling over her bending 
 form, listened with dilating eyes, to that story of the virgin-mother. 
 
 Here, that man with the cross on his breast, lived and taught for tvventy- 
 tive years. Forsaking the delights of Parisian civilization, the altars and 
 monuments of the eternal city, he came here to teach the rude Indian that 
 he had a soul, that God cared for him, that a great Being, in a far distant 
 land, wept, prayed, and died for /«'m, the dusky savage of the woods. 
 When he tirst came here, his hair was dark as night : here he lived until 
 it matched the winter's snow. 
 
 One Sabbath morn, just as the day broke over these hills, while man and 
 woman and child knelt before the altar, while the aged Priest stood yonder, 
 lifting the sacramental cup above his head, yes— my blood chill, as I write 
 it — on a Sabbath morning, as the worship of Almighty God was celebrated 
 in the church, all at once a horrid cry broke on the silent air ! A cry, a 
 yell, a wild hurrah ! 
 
 The cry of women, as they knelt for mercy, and in answer to their prayer 
 the clubbed rifle came crushing down — the yell of warriors shot like dogs 
 upon the chapel floor — the wild hurrah of the murderers, who flred through 
 these windows upon the worshippers of Jehovah ! 
 
 There was a flame rising into that Sabbath sky — there were the horrid 
 shrieks of massacre ringing on the air, as men and women plunged into the 
 flood — while from yonder walls of rocks, the murderers picked them one by 
 one ! The lonely plain ran with blood, down to the Kenebec, and the 
 dying who struggled in its waves, left but a bloody track on the waters, to 
 tell of their last fatal plunge ! 
 
 And yonder, yes, in the church of God, kneeling beside that altar, clasp- 
 ng that cross with his trembling hands, there crouched the old man as the 
 death-blow sank into his brain ! 
 
 His white hair was dyed blood-red, even as the name of the Saviour 
 quivered from his lips. 
 
 Even, came — where a Nation had been, was now only a harvest of dea i 
 bodies : where Religion had been, was now only an old man, murdered 
 beside his altar. 
 
 Yet still, in death, his right hand uplifted, clung to the fallen cross. 
 
 And who were the murderers ? 
 
 I will not say that they were Christians, but they were white men, and 
 the children of white parents. They had been reared in the knowledge of 
 a Saviour ; they had been taught the existence of a God, They were sol- 
 diers, too, right brave men. withal, for they came with knife and rifle, skulk- 
 
THE MARCH THROUGH THE WILDERNESS. loi 
 
 ing like wolves along these rocks, to murder a congregation in the act of 
 worshipping their Maker. 
 
 Do you ask me for my opinion of such men ? 1 cannot tell you. But 
 were this tongue mute, this hand palsied, I would only ask the power of 
 speech to say one word — the power of pen, to write that word in letters 
 of fire — and the word would be — Scorn ! — Scorn upon the murderers 
 OF Father Ralle ! 
 
 And now, as the light of morning broke over the desolate plain, there 
 stood the lone Indian, gazing upon the ruins of his race. Natanis, the last 
 of the Norridgewocks, among the graves of his people ! 
 
 But now he gazes far down the dark river — lia ! what strange vision 
 comes here ? 
 
 Yonder, gliding from the shelter of the deep woods, comes a fleet of 
 canoes, carrying strange warriors over the waters. Strange warriors, clad 
 in the blue hunting-frock, faced with fur ; strange warriors, with powder 
 horn, knife and rifle. Far ahead of the main body of the fleet, a solitar^ 
 canoe skims over the waters. That canoe contains the oarsmen, and another 
 form, wrapped in a rough cloak, with his head drooped on the breast, while 
 the eye flashes with deep thoughts — the form of the Napoleon of the wil 
 derness, Benedict Arnold. 
 
 Look ! He rises in the canoe — he stands erect — he flings the cloak from 
 liis form— he lifts the rough fur cap from his brow. Do you mark each 
 outline of that warrior-form ? Do you note the bold thought now strugghng 
 into birth over that prominent forehead, along that compressed lip, in the 
 gleam of those dark grey eyes, sunken deep beneath the brow ? 
 
 He stands there, erect in the canoe, with outspread arms, as though he 
 would say — 
 
 " Wilderness, I claim ye as my own ! Rocks, ye cannot daunt me ; 
 cataracts, ye cannot appal ! Starvation, death, and cold — I will conquer 
 ye all !" 
 
 Look ! As he stands there, erect in the canoe, the Indian, Natanis, be- 
 holds him, springs into the river and soon stands by his side. 
 
 " The Dark-Eagle comes to claim the wilderness," he speaks in the wild 
 Indian tongue, which Arnold knows so well. " The wilderness will yield 
 to the Dark-Eagle, but the Rock will defy him. The Dark-Eagle will soar 
 aloft to the sun. Nations will behold him, and shout his praises. Yet 
 when he soars highest, his fall is most certain. When his wing brushes 
 the sky, then the arrow will pierce his heart !" 
 
 It was a Prophecy. In joy or sorrow, in battle or council, in honor or 
 treason, Arnold never forgot the words of Natanis. 
 
 He joins that little fleet ; he advances with Arnold into the Wilaerness. 
 Let us follow him there ! 
 
 Nov dashing down boiling rapids, now carrying their canoes throuoh 
 miles of forest, over hills of rock, now wading for long leagues, throufrh 
 
162 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 
 
 water that freezes to their limbs as they go, the little army of Arnold 
 advance. 
 
 On, brave Arnold, on ! For you the awful mountain has no terrors, the 
 sold that stops the blood in its flowing, no fear. Not even the dark night 
 when tlie straggler falls dying by the way, and unknown ravines yawn far 
 below your path, not even the darker day when the litde store of parched 
 corn fails, and your famished soldiers feed on the flesh of dogs — when even 
 the snake is a dainty meal — not even terrors like these can scare your iron 
 Boul ! On, brave Arnold, on ! 
 
 Look, at last, after dangers too horrible to tell, the litde fleet is floating 
 down that stream, whose awful solitude gained it this name, the river of 
 THE DEAD. Far over the waters, look ! A tremendous mountain rises there 
 from the waters above all other mountains into the blue sky ; white, lonely 
 and magnificent, an alabaster altar, to which the Angels may come to wor- 
 ship. 
 
 Under the shadow of this mountain the litde army of Arnold encamped 
 for three days. A single, bold soldier, ascends the colossal steep ; stands 
 there, far above, amid the snow and sunbeams, and at last comes rushing 
 down with a shriek of joy. 
 
 " Arnold !" he cries, " I have seen the rock and spires of Quebec !" 
 
 What a burst of joy rises from that litde host ! Quebec ! the object of 
 all their hopes, for which they starve, and toil, and freeze ! Hark ! to that 
 deep-mouthed hurrah ! 
 
 Benedict Arnold then takes from his breast, — where wrapped in close 
 folds he had carried it, through all his dreary march — a blue banner gleam- 
 ing with thirteen stars. He hoists it in the air. For the first time the 
 Banner of the Rights of Man, to which God has given his stars, floats over 
 the waters of the Wilderness. 
 
 On, brave Arnold, on ! On over the deep rapids and the mountain rock ; 
 on again in hunger and cold, until desertion and disease have thinned your 
 band of eleven hundred down to nine hundred men of iron ; on, brave hero 
 — Napoleon on the Alps, Cortez in Mexico, Pizarro in Peru, never did a 
 bolder deed than yours ! 
 
 Let us for a moment pause to look upon a picture of beauty, even in this 
 terrible march. 
 
 Do you see that dark lake, spreading away there under the shadow of 
 tal pines ? Look up — a faint glimpse of starlight is seen there through the 
 intervals of the sombre boughs. The stars look dowi\ upon the deeps ; 
 eolitude is there in all its stillness, so like the grave. 
 
 Suddenly a red light flares over the waters. The gleam of fires redden 
 the boughs of these pines, flashes around the trunks of these stout oaks. The 
 men of Arnold are here, encamped around yonder deserted Indian wigwam, 
 whose rude timbers you may behold among the trees, near the bynk of the 
 waters. 
 
THE ATTACK ON QUEBEC. 163 
 
 For an hour these iron men are merry ! Yes, encamped by the wave 
 of Ijake Chaudiere. They roast the ox amid the huge logs ; they draw the 
 rich sahnon and the speckled trout from these waters. Forgive them if the 
 drinking horn passes from lip to lip ; forgive them if the laugh and song go 
 round ! — Forgive them — for to-morrow they must go on their dread march 
 again ; to-morrow they must feed on the bark of trees, and freeze in cold 
 waters again — forgive them for this hour of joy. 
 
 Now let us follow them again ; let us speak to brave Arnold, and bid 
 him on ! 
 
 O, these forests are dark and dense, these rocks are too terrible for us to 
 climb, the cold chills our blood, this want of bread maddens our brain — but 
 still brave Arnold points toward Quebec, and bids them on ! 
 
 Hark ! That cry, so deep, prolonged, maddening, hark, it swells up into 
 the silence of night ; it stops the heart in its beating. On, my braves 1 It 
 is but the cry of a comrade who has missed his footing, and been dashed 
 to pieces against the rocks below. 
 
 It is day again. The sun streams over the desolate waste of pines and 
 snow. It is day ; but the corn is gone — we hunger, Arnold ! The dog is 
 slain, the snake killed ; they feast, these iron men. Then, with canoes on 
 their shoulders, they wade the stream, they climb the mountain, they crawl 
 aloniJ" the sides of dark ravines. Upon the waters again ! Behold the 
 stream boiling and foaming over its rocky bed. Listen to the roaring of the 
 torrent. Now guide the boat with care, or we are lost; swerve not a hair's 
 breadth, or we are dashed to pieces. Suddenly a crash — a shout — and lo ! 
 Those men are struggling for their lives amid the wrecks of their canoes. 
 
 But still that voice speaks out : " Do not fear my iron men ; gather the 
 wrecks, and leap into your comrades' canoes. Do not fear, for Quebec is 
 there !" 
 
 At last two long months of cold, starvation and death are past; Arnold 
 stands on Point Levy, and there, over the waters, sees rising into light the 
 rock and spires of Quebec ! 
 
 Napoleon gazing on the plains of Italy, Cortez on the Halls of Montezu- 
 ma, never felt such joy as throbbed in Arnold's bosom then ! 
 
 It was there, there in the light, no dream, no fancy; but a thing of sub- 
 stance and form, it was there above the waters, the object of bright hopes 
 and fears ; that massive rock, that ghttering town. 
 
 At last he beheld — Quebec ! 
 
 IV.— THE ATTACK ON QUEBEC. 
 
 It was the last day of the year 1775. 
 
 Yonder, on the awful diRs of Abraham, in the darkness of the daybreak, 
 while the leaden sky grooms above, a band of brave men are gathered ; yes, 
 whrle the British are banquetting in Quebec, here, on this tremendous rock. 
 
164 BEIS EDICT ARxNOLD. ' 
 
 in silent array, stand the Heroes of the Wilderness, joined with their 
 brothers, the Continentals from Montreal. 
 
 That hltle army of one thousand have determined to at ack the Gibralter 
 of America, with its rocks, its fortifications, its two thousand British soldiers. 
 Here, on the very rock, where, sixteen years ago, Montcalm and Wolfe 
 poured forth their blood, now are gathered a band of brave men, who are 
 seen in the darkness of this hour, extending like dim shadow-forms, around 
 two figures, standing alone in the centre of the host. 
 
 It is silent, and sad as death. The roaring of the St. Lawrence alone is 
 heard. Above the leaden sky, around the rock extending like a plain — 
 yonder, far through the gloom, a misty light struggles into the sky, that 
 light gleams from the firesides of Quebec. 
 
 Who are these, that stand side by side in the centre of the band ? 
 
 That muscular form, with a hunting shirt thrown over his breast, that 
 orm standing there, with folded arms and head drooped low, while the eye 
 glares out from beneath the fanning brow, that is the Patriot Hero of the 
 Wilderness, Benedict Arnold. 
 
 By his side stands a graceful form, with strength and beauty mingled in 
 its outlines, clad in the uniform of a General, while that chivalrous couniL- 
 nance with its eye of summer blue, turns anxiously from face to face. In 
 that form you behold the doomed Montgomery. He has come from Mon- 
 treal, he has joined his litde band with the Iron Men of Benedict Arnold. 
 
 Who are these that gather round, with fur caps upon each brow, mocca 
 sins upon each foot; who are these wild men, that now await the signal- 
 word ? — You may know them by their leader, who, with his iron form, 
 stands leaning on his rifle — the brave Daniel Morgan. 
 
 The daybreak wears on ; the sky grows darker ; the snow begins to fall. 
 
 Arnold turns to his brothers in arms. They clasp each other by the 
 hand. — Their lips move but you hear no sound. 
 
 " Arnold !" whispers Montgomery, " I will lead my division along the St. 
 Lawrence, under the rocks of Cape Diamond. I will meet you in the cen- 
 tre of Quebec — or die !" 
 
 " Montgomery, I will attack the barrier on the opposite side. There is my 
 hand ! I will meet you yonder — yonder in the centre of Quebec — or perish !" 
 
 It is an oath : the word is given. — Look there, and behold the two divi- 
 sions, separating over the rocks : this, with Montgomery towards the St. 
 Lawrence, that with Arnold and Morgan, towards the St. Charles. 
 
 All is still. The rocks grow white with snow. All is still and dark, but 
 grim shadows are moving on every side. 
 
 Silence along the lines. Not a word on the peril of your lives ! Do 
 you behold this narrow pass, leading to the first bar/-.er, vonder ? That 
 barrier, grim with cannon, commands every inch of th . o-.s/. On one side, 
 the St. Charles heaps up its rocks of ice ; on the oth< jl^< ) j-jtf Uie rocks 
 of granite 
 
THE ATTACK ON QUEBEC. 165 
 
 salience aiong the lines ! The night is dark, the way is difficult, but Que- 
 bec IS yonder ! Soldier, beware of those piles of rock — a single misplaced 
 Cbou^u.'- may arouse the sleeping soldier on yonder barrier. If he awake, 
 we are losij On, brave band, on with stealthy footstep, and rifle to each 
 alioulder ; on, men of the wilderness, in your shirts of blue and fur! 
 
 At {i\e head of the column, with his drawn sword gleaming through tha 
 niijht Benedict Arnold silently advances. 
 
 Then a single cannon, mounted on a sled, and dragged forward, by stout 
 arms. 
 
 Last of all, Daniel Morgan with the riflemen of the Wilderness. 
 
 In this order along the narrow pass, witli ice on one side and rocks on 
 the otlier, the hero-band advance. The pass grows narrower — the battery 
 uearer. Arnold can now count the cannon — nay, the soldiers who are 
 watching there. Terrible suspense ! Every breath is hushed — stout hearts 
 now swell within the manly chest. 
 
 Lips compressed, eyes glaring, rifles clenched — the Iron Men move 
 sofdy on, 
 
 Arnold silently turns to his men. 
 
 And yonder through the gloom, over the suburb of that city, over the 
 rocks of that city's first barrier — there frowned the battery grim with 
 cannon. 
 
 There wait the sentinel and his brother soldiers. They hear no sound; 
 the falling snow echoes no footstep, and yet there are dim shadows moving 
 along the rocks, moving on without a sound. 
 
 Look ! Those shadows move up the rocks, to the very muzzles of the 
 cannon. Now the sentinel starts up from his reclining posture ; he hears 
 that stealthy tread. He springs to his cannon — look ! how that flash glares 
 out upon the night. 
 
 Is this magic ? There disclosed by that cannon flash, long lines of bold 
 riflemen start into view, and there — 
 
 Standing in front of the cannon, his tall form rising in the red glare, with 
 a sword in one hand, the Banner of the Stars in the other — there, with that 
 wild look which he ever wore in battle, gleaming from his eye — there stands 
 the patriot, Benedict Arnold ! 
 
 On either side there is a mangled corse — but he stands firm. Before 
 him yawns the cannon, but he springs upon those cannon — he turns to his 
 men — he bids them on ! 
 ."To-night we will feast in Quebec!" 
 
 And the hail of the rifle balls lays the British dead upon their own can- 
 non. — Now the crisis of the conflict comes. 
 
 Now behold this horrid scene of blood and death. 
 
 While the snow falls over the faces of the dead, while the blood of the 
 dying turns that snow to scarlet, gather round your leader, load and fire. 
 
1(;6 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 
 
 dash iliese British hirelings upon the barrier's rocks — ve heroes oi th« 
 Wilderness ! 
 
 Now Arnold is in his glory I 
 
 Now he knows nothing, sees nothing but that grim barrier irDWmsg 
 yonder ! Those tires flashing from the houses — that rattling hail vi bujitTi-s 
 pattering on the snow — he sees, he feels thein not ! 
 
 His eye is fixed upon the second barrier. He glances around mat mass 
 of rifles, now glittering in the red light — he floats the Banner of the Start, on 
 high — Hark to his shout ! 
 
 " Never fean, my men of the Wilderness ! We have not come three 
 hundred miles to fail now ! Have I not sworn to meet Montgomery there, 
 to meet him in the centre of the town, or die ?" 
 
 And then on, across the rocks and cannon of the barrier ! Hark — that 
 crash, that yell ! The British soldiers are driven back over the dead bodies 
 of comrades — the first barrier is won ! 
 
 Arnold stands victorious upon that barrier — stands there, with blood upon 
 his face, his uniform — dripping from his sword — stands there with the Ban- 
 ner of the Stars in his hand ! 
 
 Oh J sainted mother of Arnold, who on that calm summer night, neat 
 forty years ago, laid your child upon the sacramental altar, now look 
 from Heaven, and — if saints pray for the children of earth — then pray 
 that your son may die here upon the bloody barrier of Quebec J For then 
 his name ivill be enshrined with fVarrens and Washingtons of all time I 
 
 Even as Arnold stood there, brandishing that starry banner, a soldier 
 rushed up to his side, and with horror quivering on his lip, told that the gal- 
 lant Montgomery had fallen. 
 
 Fallen at the head of his men, covered with wounds ; the noble heart, 
 that beat so high an hour ago, was now cold as the winter snow, on which 
 his form was laid. 
 
 Leaving Arnold for a moment, on the first barrier of Quebec, let us trace 
 the footsteps of his brother-hero. 
 
 Do you behold that massive rock, which arises from the dark river into 
 the darker sky ? Along that rock of Cape diamond, while the St. Lawrence 
 dashes the ice in huge masses against its base, along that rock, over a path 
 that leads beneath a shelf of granite, with but room for the foot of a single 
 man, Richard Montgomery leads his band. 
 
 Stealthily, silendy, my comrades ! — Not a word — let us climb this nar- 
 row path. Take care ; a misplaced footstep, and you will be hurled down 
 upon the ice of the dark river. Up, my men, and on ! Yonder it is at 
 last, the block-house, and beyond it, at the distance of two hundred paces, 
 the battery, dark with cannon ! 
 
 With words like these, Montgomery led on his men. The terrible path 
 was ascended. He stood before the block-house. Now, comrades ■ 
 
THE ATTACK ON QUEBEC. 167 
 
 How that rifle-blaze Hashed far over the rocks down to the St. Lawrence .' 
 An axe ! an axe ! by all that is brave ! He seizes the axe, the brave 
 Montgomery ; with his own arm he hews the palisades. — The way is clear 
 for his men. A charge with blazing rides, a shout, the bloclv-house is won ! 
 
 Talk of your British bayonets — lia, ha ! Where did they ever stand the 
 blaze of American rifles? Where? Oh, perfumed gendemen, who in 
 gaudy uniforms, strut Chesnut street — talk to me of your charge of bayonets, 
 and your rules of discipline, and your system of tactics, and I will reply by 
 a single word — one American rifleman, in his rude hunting shirt, was worth 
 a thousand such as you. Who mocked the charge of bayonets on Bunkei 
 IJill ? Who captured Burgoyne ? Who — at Brandy wine — kept back all 
 the panoply of British arms from morning till night ? — The Riflemen. 
 
 One shout the block-house is won. — Now on toward the battery — load 
 and advance ! Montgomery still in the front. With a yell, the British be- 
 hold them approach ; they flee from their cannon. — Montgomery mounts 
 the walls of rocks and iron ; his sword gleams on high, like a beacon for his 
 men. At this moment, hush your breath and look ! — While Montgomery 
 clings to the rocks of the battery, a single British soldier turns from his 
 flight, and fires one of those grim cannon, and then is gone again, 
 
 A blaze upon the right, a smoke, a chorus of groans ! 
 
 Montgomery lays mangled upon the rock, while around him are scat- 
 tered four other corses. Their blood mingles in one stream. 
 
 A rude rifleman advances, bends down, and looks upon that form, quiv 
 ering for an instant only, and tlien cold — upon that face, torn and mangled, 
 as with the print of a horse's hoof, that face, but a moment before glowing 
 with a hero's soul. He looks for a moment and then, with panic in his 
 .face, turns to his comrades. 
 
 " Montgomery is dead !" he shrieks ; and with one accord tney retreat 
 — they fly from that fatal rock. 
 
 But one form lingers. It is that boyish form, graceful almost to womanly 
 beauty, with the brow of a genius, the eye of an eagle. That boy ran away 
 from college, bore Washington's commands 300 miles, and now — covered 
 with the blood of the fight — stands beside the mangled body of Montgomery, 
 his dark eye wet with tears. In that form behold the man who was almost 
 President of the United States, and Emperor of Mexico — the enigma of 
 our history, Aaron Burr. 
 
 They are gone. Montgomery is left alone, with no friend to compose 
 limbs or close those glaring eyes. And at this moment, while the snow 
 falls over his face, while the warm blood of his heart pours out upon me 
 rock, yotider in his far-oflT home, his young wife kneels by her bed, and 
 prays God to hasten his return ! 
 
 He ditid in the flush of heroism, in the prime of early manhord. leavmg 
 
J 68 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 
 
 his country the rich legacy of his fome, leaving his blood upon the rock of 
 Quebec. 
 
 The day is coming when an army of Free Canadians will encamp on 
 that very rock, their rifles pointed at the British battery, their Republicai 
 Dug waving in the forlorn hope against the British banner ! Then perhaps 
 some true American heart will wash out the blood of Montgomery from tht 
 rock of Quebec. 
 
 Arnold stood upon the first barrier, while his heart throbbed at the story 
 of Montgomery's fate. 
 
 Then that expression of desperation, which few men could look upon 
 without fear, came over Arnold's face. JSow look at him, as witli his forji 
 swelling with rage he rushes on ! He springs from that barrier, he shouts 
 to the iron men, he rings the name of Morgan on the air. 
 
 He points to the narrow street, over which the second barrier is thrown. 
 
 " Montgomery is there," he shouts, in a voice of thunder, " there waiting 
 "or us !" 
 
 Hurrah ! How the iron men leap at the word ! There is the quick 
 clang of ramrods ; each rifle is loaded. They rush on ! 
 
 At their head, his whole form convulsed, his lips writhing, his chest 
 heaving unconscious of danger, as though the ghost of Montgomery was 
 there before him, Benedict Arnold rushes on ! 
 
 Even as he rushes, he falls. Even as you look upon him, in his battle 
 rage with his right leg shattered, he falls. 
 
 But does he give up the contest? 
 
 By the ghost of Montgomery — No ! 
 
 No ! He lifts his face from the snow now crimsoned with his blood, he 
 follows with his startling eyes, the path of Morgan, he shouts with his 
 thunder tones, his well-known battle-cry. 
 
 He beholds his men rush on amid light and flame, he hears the crack of 
 the rifle, the roar of cannon, the tread of men, rushing forward to the 
 conflict. 
 
 Then he endeavors to rise. A gallant soldier offers his arm to the 
 wounded hero. 
 
 He rises, stands for a moment, and then falls. But still his soul is firm 
 — Still his eye glares upon the distant flight. Not untd he makes his bed 
 there on the cold snow, in a pool of his own blood, until his eyes fail and 
 his right leg stifl^ens, does his soul cease to beat with the pulsations of bat- 
 tle. Then and then only, the Hero of the Wilderness is carried back to 
 yonder rock. 
 
 Would to God that he had died there ! 
 
 Would to God that he had died there with all his honorable wounds about 
 him. O for a stray bullet, a chance shot, to still his proud heart forever 
 O, that he had laid side by side with Montgomery, hallowed forever by his 
 
THE W^R-HORSE LUCIFER. ifig 
 
 death of glory. Then the names of Arnold and Montgomery, mingled in 
 one breath, would have been joined forever, in one song of immortality. 
 
 But Montgomery died alone ; his blood stains the rock of Quebec. Ar- 
 nold liveu ; his ashes accursed by his countrymen, rest in an unknown 
 grave. 
 
 When the news of the gallant attack on Quebec — gallant though unsuc- 
 cessful — reached Philadelphia, the Congress rewarded Benedict Arnold with 
 the commission of a Brigadier General. 
 
 The same mob, who, afterwards — while Arnold was yet true to his coun- 
 try — stoned him in the streets, and stoned the very arm that had fought for 
 them, now cracked their throats in shouting his name. 
 
 The very city, which afterwards was the scene of his Dishonorable Per- 
 secution, now flashed out from its illuminated casements, glory of the Hero 
 of Quebec, Benedict Arnold. 
 
 v.— THE WAR-HORSE LUCIFER. 
 
 Now let us pass with one bold flight over the movements of the Co^Jti- 
 nental army in Canada; let us hasten at once, to that dark night when the 
 legions under Sullivan, embarked on the River Sorel, on their way to Lake 
 Champlain and Crown PoinU 
 
 Let us go yonder to the darkened shore, as the shades of night come 
 down. A solitary man with his horse, yet lingers on the strand. Yes, as 
 the gleam of the advancing bayonets of Bourgoyne, is seen there through the 
 northern woods — as the last of the American boats ripples the river, far to 
 the south, while the gathering twilight casts the shadow of the forest along 
 the waters, here on this deserted strand, a single warrior lingers with his 
 war-horse. 
 
 There is the light canoe waiting by the shore, to bear him over the 
 waters ; for he must leave that gallant steed with skin black as night, and a 
 mane like an inky wave. 
 
 He cannot leave him for the advancing foe ; he must kill him. 
 
 Kill the noble horse that has borne him scatheless through many a fight! 
 Kill — Lucifer — so the warrior named him — that brave horse, whose heart 
 in battle beats with a fire like his own ? Ah, then the stout heart of Arnold 
 quailed. Ah, then as the noble horse stooped his arching neck, as if to in- 
 vite his master to mount him once again, and rush on to meet the foe, then 
 Arnold who never turned his face away from foe, turned his face away from 
 the large speaking eye of that horse, Lucifer. 
 
 He drew his pistol ; the horse laid his head against his breast, flo^iuig 
 his dark mane over his shoulders. Arnold who never shed a tear lor iiie 
 dead men in batde, felt his eyes grow wet. He was about to snoot vim 
 friend, who had served him so well, and never betrayed him. 
 
 There was the report of a pistol — the sound of a heavy oociy fan.Lg on 
 the sand — the motion of a light canoe speeding over the waters. 
 11 
 
ITO BENEDICT ARNOLD. 
 
 And Arnold looked back, and beheld the dying head of his horse faintly 
 upraised ; he beheld that large eye roUing in death. 
 
 Ah, little can you guess the love that tlie true warrior feels for his steed ! 
 Ah, many a time in after life, when the friend of his heart betrayed, and the 
 beloved one on whose bosom he reposed, whispered Treason in his ear, did 
 he remember the last look of that dying war-horse, Lucifer. 
 
 VI.— THE APE-AND-VIPER GOD. 
 
 Let us now pass rapidly on, in this our strange history. At first a 
 glorious landscape bursts upon our view, and Courage and Patriotism walk 
 before us in forms of God-like beauty. Let us leave this landscape, let us 
 on to the dim horizon, where the dark cloud towers and glooms, bearing in 
 its breast the lightnings of Treason. 
 
 Let us pass over those brilliant exploits on Lake Chaniplain, which made 
 the Continent ring with the name of Arnold. 
 
 Let us see that man rising in renown as a soldier, who was always — 
 Fii'sl on the forlorn hope, last on the field of battle. 
 
 Let us behold certain men, in Camp and Congress, growing jealous of 
 his renown. 
 
 They do not hesitate to charge him with appropriating to his own use, 
 certain goods, which he seized when in command at Montreal. The 
 records of history give the lie to this charge of mercenary business, for 
 when Arnold seized the goods, he wrote to his commanding general and to 
 Congress, that he was about to seize certain stores in Montreal for the pub- 
 lic benefit. Those goods were left to waste on the river shore, through the 
 reckless negligence of an inferior officer. 
 
 We will then go to Congress, and behold the rise of that thing, which the 
 ancient sculptors would have impersonated under the mingled form of an 
 ape and a viper — the spirit of party. 
 
 It is the same in all ages. Witliout the courage or the talent, to project 
 one original measure, it is always found barking and snarling at the heels 
 of Genius. To-day it receives Napoleon, crowned with the bloody laurel 
 of Waterloo, and instead of calling upon France, to support her Deliverer, 
 this spirit of Parly truckles to foreign bayonets, and requests — his abdica- 
 tion. To-morrow, it meets the victor of the south, in a New Orleans' court 
 of justice, and while the shouts of thousands protected from British bayo- 
 nets, rings in his ears, this spirit of Party in the shape of a solemn Judge, 
 attempts to brand the hero with dishonor, by the infliction of a thousand 
 dojlar fine. In the Revolution, Washington held the serenity of his soul 
 anijd the hills of Valley Forge, combating pestilence and starvation, with an 
 unshrinking will. All the while in the hall of the Continental Congress, 
 the Sr'-it -^f Party was at work, planning a mean deed, with mean men for 
 
THE APE-AND-VTPER GOD. 171 
 
 Jts instruments ; the overthrow of the Hero hy a cahal, that was as formid- 
 able then, as it is oontemptable now. 
 
 In all ages, to speak plainly, this spirit of party, this effprvescencfs of fac- 
 tion, is the voice of those weak and wicked creatures, who spring into life 
 from the fermenting compost of social dissension. It never shows a bold 
 front, never speaks a plain truth, never does a brave deed. Its element is 
 intrigue, more particularly called low cunning; its atmosphere darkness ; its 
 triumph the orgie of diseased debauchery, its revenge as remorseless as the 
 •nalice of an ape, or the sting of a viper. 
 
 A great man maybe a Republican, or even a King-worshipper, willing to 
 write, or speak, or light for his principles, with a fearless pen and voice and 
 sword. But he never can he z — Party Man. The very idea of faction, 
 pre-supposes intrigue, and Invig^ie indicates a cold heart, and a dwarfed 
 brain. It is the weapon of a monkey, not of a man. 
 
 This Spirit of Party, this manifestation of all the meanness and malice 
 which may exist in a nation, even as the most beautiful tropical flower 
 shelters the most venomous snake, has destroyed more republics, than all 
 the Tyrants of the world together, were their deeds multiplied by thousands. 
 Indeed, in nine cases out of ten, it has been by playing on the frothy pas- 
 sions of contending factions, that Tyrants have been suflfered to trample 
 their way to power, over the bodies of freemen. • 
 
 Let us go to the hall of Congress, and see this Spirit of Party, the Ape- 
 and-Viper God, which burdened the heart of Washington, more than all the 
 terror of British bayonets or scaffolds, first manifested in the case of Arnold. 
 
 Let a single fact attest its blindness and malignity. 
 
 In February, 1777, Congress created five Major Generals, over the 
 
 head of Benedict Arnold. All of these were his juniors ; one of them was 
 from the militia. 
 
 Was that the way to treat the Hero of the Wilderness, of Quebec, of 
 Ticonderoga and of Champlain ? 
 
 Even the well-governed spirit of Washii'.gton, started at such neglect. 
 He wrote a manly and soothing letter to Arnold, He knew him to be a 
 man of many good and some evil qualities, all marked and prominent. He 
 believed that with fair treatment, the Evil might be crushed, the Good 
 stnnglhened. Therefore, Washington, the Father of his Country, wrote a 
 letter, at once high-toned and conciliating, to the Patriot, Benedict Arnold. 
 
 What was the course of Arnold ? 
 
 He expostulated with the party in Congress, who wished to drive him 
 mad. 
 
 How did he expostulate ? In his own fiery way. Like many stout souls 
 of that Iron time, he spoke a better language with his sword than with his 
 pen. Let us look at the expostulation of Arnold. 
 
 It is night around the town of Danbury. Two thousand Rriiish 
 
 hirelings attack and burn that town. Yes, surrounded by his hirelings, .^s 
 
172 
 
 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 
 
 sassins in the shape jf British soldiers, and assassins in the shape of Amer- 
 ican Tories, brave General 1 ryon holds his Communion of Blood, by the 
 Light of blazing homes. 
 
 -n the dimness of the daybreak hour, these gallant men, whose trophies 
 are dishonored virgins, and blasted homes, are returning to their camp. 
 
 Yonder on those high rocks, near the town of Ridgefield, Arnold, with 
 3nly 500 men, disputes the path of the Destroyer. Ths Continentals a:e 
 Jriven back after much carnage, but Arnold is the last man to leave the rock 
 
 His horse is shot under him ; the British surround him, secure of their 
 prey ; the dismounted General sits calmly on his dying steed, his arms 
 folded, his eye sunk beneath the compressed brow. A burly British soldier 
 approaches to secure the rebel — look ! He is sure of his prisoner. Arnold 
 aeholds him, beholds the wall of bayonets and faces that encircle him. The 
 soldier extends his hand to grasp the prisoner, when Arnold, smiling 
 calmly, draws his pistol and shoots the hireling through the heart. Follow 
 him yonder, as he fights his way down the rock, through the breasts of 
 r.is foes. 
 
 That was the right kind of Expostulation ! 
 
 When a faction, nestling in the breast of your country, wrong you, then 
 '>nly fight for that country with more determined zeal. Right will come 
 at last. 
 
 Had Arnold always expostulated thus, his name would not now be the 
 Hyperbole of scorn. His name could at this hour, rank second, and only 
 second to — Washington. 
 
 When Congress received the news of this Expostulation, Arnold was 
 raised to the rank of Major General. Yet still, they left the date of his 
 ccmmission, below the date of the commissions of the other five Major Gen- 
 erals. This — to use the homely expression of a brave Revolutionary soldier 
 — ' was breaking his head and giving him a plaster,' with a vengeance. 
 
 Ere we pass on to the Battle-Day of Saratoga, let me tell you an incident 
 of strange interest, which took place in 1777, during Arnold's command near 
 Fort Edward, on the Hudson River. 
 
 
 
 VIl.— THE BRIDAL EVE. 
 
 One summer night, the blaze of many lights streaming from the windows 
 of an old mansion, perched yonder among the rocks and woods, flashed far 
 over the dark waters of Lake Champlain. 
 
 In a quiet and comfortable chamber of that mansion, a party of British 
 officers, sitting around a table spread with wines and viands, discussed a 
 topic of some interest, if it was not the most important in the world, whib 
 the tread of the dancers shook the floor of the adjoining room. 
 
 Yes, while all gaiety and dance and music in the largest hall of tip lM 
 mansion, whose hundred lights glanced far over the waters of Chaniulmn — 
 
THE BRIDAL EVE. l^a 
 
 rere in this quiet room, with the cool eveniiiir breeze blowing in tlieir faces 
 thro' the opened windows, here this party of British officers had assembled 
 to discuss their wines and their favorite topic. 
 
 That topic was — the comparative beauty of the women of the world. 
 
 " As for me," said a handsome young Ensign, " I will match the voluptU' 
 ous forms and dark eyes of Italy, against the beauties of all the world !" 
 
 " And I," said a bronzed old veteran, who had risen to the Colonelcy bv 
 his long service and hard fighting ; " and I have a pretty lass of a daughiet 
 there m England, whose blue eyes and flaxen hair would shame your tragic 
 beauties of Italy into very ugliness." 
 
 " I have served in India, as you all must know," said the Major, who sat 
 next to the veteran, " and I never saw painting or statue, much less livmg 
 woman, half so lovely as some of those Hindoo maidens, bending down with 
 water-lillies in their hands ; bending down by the light of torches, over the 
 dark wa-ves of the Ganges," 
 
 And thus, one after another, Ensign, Colonel, and Major, had given their 
 opinion, until that young American Refugee, yonder at the foot of the table, 
 is left to decide the argument. That American — for I blush to say it — 
 handsome young fellow as he is, with a face full of manly beauty, blue deep 
 eyes, ruddy cheeks, and glossy brown hair, that American is a Refugee, and 
 a Captain in the British army. — He wore the handsome scarlet coat, the 
 glittering epaulette, lace ruffles on his bosom and around his wrists. 
 
 " Come, Captain, pass the wine this way !" shouted the Ensign ; " pass 
 the wine and decide this great question ! Which are the most beautiful : 
 .he red cheeks of Merry England, the dark eyes of Italy, or the graceful 
 forms of Hindoostan?' 
 
 The Captain hesitated for a moment, and then tossing oft' a bumper of 
 old Madeira, somewhat flushed as he was with wine, replied : 
 
 " Mould your three models of beauty, your English lass, your Italian 
 queen, your Hindoo nymph, into one, and add to their charms a thousand 
 graces of color and form and feature, and I would not compare this perfection 
 of loveliness for a single moment, with the wild and artless beauty of — an 
 American girl.'''' 
 
 The laugh of the three officers, for a moment, drowned the echo of the 
 dance in the next room, 
 
 " Compare his American milk-maid with the woman of Italy !" 
 
 *' Or the lass of England !" 
 
 " Or the graceful Hindoo girl !" 
 
 This laughing scorn of the British officers, stung the handsome Refugee 
 to the quick. 
 
 " Hark ye !" he cried, half rising from his seat, with a flushed brow, but 
 a deep and deliberate voice : " To-morrow, I marry a wife : an Ameriam 
 ^irlT— To-'!ight, at midnight too, that American girl will join the danctJ it 
 
174 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 
 
 tho next room. You shall see her — you shall judge for yourselves 
 Whether the American woman is not the most beautiful in the world !" 
 
 There was something in the manner of the young Refugee, more than in 
 the nature of his information, that arrested the attention of his brother offi 
 cers. — For a moment they were silent. 
 
 " We have heard something of your marriage, Captain,''' said the gay 
 Ensign, " but we did not think it would occur so suddenly ? Only think 
 of it I To-morrow you will be gone — settled — verdict brought in — sentence 
 passed — a married man! — But tell me? How will your lady-love be 
 brought to this house to night ? I thought she resided within the rebel lines ?" 
 
 " She does reside there ! But I have sent a messenger — a friendly Indian 
 chief, on whom I can place the utmost dependence — to bring her from her 
 present home, at dead of night thro' the forest, to this mansion. He is to 
 return by twelve ; it is now half-past eleven !" 
 
 " Friendly Indian !" eclioed the veteran Colonel; " Rather an odd guar- 
 dian ibr a pretty woman ! — Quite an original idea of a Duenna, I vow !" 
 
 " And you will match this lady against all the world, for beauty ?" said 
 the Major. 
 
 " Yes, and if y(»u do not agree with me, this hundred guineas which I lay 
 upon the table, shall serve our mess, for wines, for a month to come ! But 
 if you do agree with me — as without a doubt you will — then you are to re- 
 plafce this gold with a hundred guineas of your own." 
 
 " Agreed ! It is a wager !" chorussed the Colonel and the two other 
 officers. 
 
 And in that moment — while the door-way was thronged by fair ladies 
 and gay officers, attracted from the next room by the debate — as the Refu- 
 gee stood, with one hand resting upon the litde pile of gold, his ruddy face 
 grew suddenly pale as a shroud, his blue eyes dilated, until they were en- 
 circled by a line of white enamel, he remained standing there, as if frozen 
 to stone. 
 
 " Why, captain, what is the matter?" cried the Colonel, starting up in 
 alarm, " do you see a ghost, that you stand gazing there, at the blank wall ?" 
 
 The other officers also started up in alarm, also asked the cause of this 
 singular demeanor, but still, for the space of a minute or more, the Refugee 
 Captain stood there, more like a dead man suddenly recalled to life, than a 
 living being. 
 
 That moment passed, he sat down with a cold shiver; made a strong 
 effort as if to command his reason ; and then gave utterance to a forced 
 iaugh. 
 
 " Ha, ha ! See how I've frigluened you !" he said — and then laughed 
 that cold, unnatural, hollow laugh again. 
 
 Arid yet, half an hour from that time, he freely co/fessed the nature 
 ef the horrid picUire which he liad seen drawn upon that blank, ivuim 
 totted wall, as if by some supernatural hand. 
 
THE BRIDAL EVE. 176 
 
 But now, with the wine cup in his hand, he turned from one comrade to 
 another, uttering some forced jest, or looking towards the dcorway, crowded 
 by officers and ladies, he gaily invited them to share in this remarkable 
 argument : Which were the most beautiful women in the world ': 
 
 As he spoke, the hour struck. 
 
 Twelve o'clock was there, and with it a footstep, and then a bold Indian 
 form came urging through the crowd of ladies, thronging yonder doorway. 
 
 Silently, his arms folded on his war-blanket, a look of calm stoicism on 
 his dusky brow, the Indian advanced along the room, and stood at the head 
 of the table. There was no lady with him ! 
 
 Where is the fair girl ? She who it is to be the Bride to-morrow ? 
 Perhaps tiie Indian has left her in the next room, or in one of the other 
 halls of the old mansion, or perhaps — but the thought is a foolish one — she 
 has refused to obey her lover's request — refused to come to meet him ! 
 
 There was something awful in the deep silence that reigned through the 
 room, as the solitary Indian stood there, at the head of the table, gazing 
 silently in the lover's face. 
 
 " Whe7-e is she .?" at last gasped the Refugee. " She has not refused to 
 come ? Tell me — has any accident befallen her by the way ? I know the 
 forest is dark, and the wild path most difficult — tell me : where is the lady 
 for whom I sent you into the Rebel lines ?" 
 
 For a moment, as the strange horror of that lover's face was before him, 
 the Indian was silent. Then as his answer seemed trembling on his lips 
 the ladies in yonder doorway, the officers from the ball-room, and the party 
 round the table, formed a group around the two central figures — the Indian, 
 standing at the head of the table, his arms folded in his war-blanket — that 
 young officer, half rising from his seat, his lips parted, his face ashy, his 
 clenched hands resting on the dark mahogony of the table. 
 
 The Indian answered first by an action, then by a word. 
 
 First the action : Slowly drawing his right hand from his war-blanket, he 
 held it in the light. That right hand clutched with blood-stained fingers, a 
 bleeding scalp, and long and glossy locks of beautiful dark hair ! 
 
 Thf>n thf word : " Young warrior sent the red man for the scalp of the 
 pale-faced squaw ! Here it is !" 
 
 Yes — the rude savage had mistaken his message ! Instead of bringing 
 the bride to her lover's arms, he had gone on his way, determined to bring 
 the scalp of the victim to the grasp of her pale face enemy. 
 
 ;Xot even a groan disturbed the silence of that dreadful moment. Look 
 there ! The lover rises, presses that long hair — so black, so glossy, so 
 beautiful — to his heart, and then — as though a huge weight, filling on his 
 brain, had crushed him, fell with one dead sound on the hard floor. 
 
 He lay there — stiff, and pale, and cold — his clenched right hand stilJ 
 clutching the bloody scalp, and the long dark hair falling in glossy tresses 
 over the floor ! 
 
173 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 
 
 This was hris bridal eve ! 
 
 Now tell me, my friends, you who have heard some silly and ignorail 
 pretender, pitifully complain of the destitution of Legend, Poetry, Romance, 
 which characterises our National History — tell me, did you ever read a tra- 
 dition of England, or France or Italy, or Spain, or any land under the 
 Heavens, that might, in point of awful tragedy, compare with the simple 
 History of David Jones and John M'Crea ? For it is but a scene from this 
 narrative, with which you have all been familiar from childhood, that 1 have 
 given you. 
 
 When the bridegroom, flung there on the floor, with the bloody scalp and 
 long dark tresses in his hands, arose again to the terrible consciousness of 
 life — those words trembled from his lips, in a faint and husky whisper: 
 
 " Do you remember how, half an hour ago — I stood there — by the table 
 
 silent, and pale, and horror-stricken — while you all started up round me, 
 
 asking me what horrid sight I saw ? Then, oh then, I beheld the horrid 
 
 gcene that home, yonder by the Hudson river, mounting to Heaven in the 
 
 smoke and flames ! The red forms of Indians going to and fro, amid flame 
 and smoke— tomahawk and torch in hand ! There, amid dead bodies and 
 smoking embers, I beheld her form — my bride — for whom I had sent the 
 messenger — kneeling, pleading for mercy, even as the tomahawk crashed 
 into her brain !" 
 
 As the horrid picture again came o'er his mind, he sank senseless again, 
 still clutching that terrible memorial — the bloody scalp and long black hair! 
 
 That was an awful Bridal Eve. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 THE BLACK HORSE AND HIS RIDER; OR 
 
 •'WHO WAS THE HERO OF SARATOGA?" 
 
 There was a day my friends, when the nation rung with the glory of 
 the victor of Saratoga. 
 
 The name of Horatio Gates was painted on banner, sung in hymns, 
 flashed from transparencies, as the Captor of Burgoyne. 
 
 Benedict Arnold was not in the batUe at all, if we may believe in the 
 bulletin of Gales, for his name is not even mentioned there. 
 
 Yet I have a strange story to tell you, concerning the very battle, which 
 supported as it is, by the solemn details of history, throws a strange light 
 on the career of Benedict Arnold. 
 
 It was the Seventh of October, 1777. 
 
 Horatio Gates stood before his tent, gazing steadfastly upon the two 
 armies, now arrayed in order of battle. It was a clear bracing day, mellow 
 with the richness of Autumn ; the sky was cloudless, the foliage of the 
 woods scarce tinged with purple and gold ; the buckwheat on yonder fields, 
 irosted into snowy ripene.ss 
 
 It was a calm, clear da»y, but the tread of legions shook the ground. From 
 
THE BLACK HORSE AND HIS RIDER. J7-J 
 
 every bush shot the glimmer of the rifle barrel, on every 'M'llside blazed the 
 sharpened bayonet. Flags were there, too, tossing in the breeze ; here the 
 Banner of the Siars — yonder the Red Cross gonf\ilon. 
 
 Here in solid lines were arrayed the Continental soldiers, pausing on 
 their arms, their homely costume looking but poor and bumble, when com« 
 pared with the blaze of scarlet uniforms, reddening along yonder hills and 
 over the distant fields. Ah, that hunting shirt of blue was but a rude dress, 
 yet on the 19th of September, scarce two weeks ago, on these very hills, it 
 taught the scarlet-coated Briton a severe lesson of repentance and humility. 
 Here, then, on the morning of this eventful day, which was to decide the 
 fate of America, whether Gates should flee before Burgoyne, or Burgoyne 
 lay down his arms at the feet of Gates, here at the door of his tent stood 
 the American General, his countenance manifesting deep anxiety. 
 
 Now he gazed upon the glittering array of Burgoyne, as it shone over 
 yonder fields, and now his eye roved over those hardy men in hunting shirts, 
 with rifles in their hands. He remembered the contest of the 19th, when 
 Benedict Arnold, at the head of certain bold riflemen, carried the day, before 
 all the glitter of British arms ; and now — perchance — a fear seized him, that 
 this 7th of October might be a dark day, for Arnold was not there. Thjy 
 had quarrelled, Arnold and Gates, about some matter of military courtesj ' 
 the former was now without a commission ; the latter commanded, alone, 
 and now would have to win glory for himself with his own hands. 
 
 Gates was sad and thoughtful, as in all the array of his uniforn, he stood 
 before his tent, watching the evolutions of the armies, but all at once a smoke 
 arose, a thunder shook the ground, a chorus of shouts and groans, yelled 
 along the darkened air. The play of death was begun. The two flags — 
 this of Stars, that of the Red Cross— tossed amid the smoke of batUe, while 
 the sky was clouded in leaden folds, and the earth throbbed as with the 
 pulsation of a mighty heart. 
 
 Suddenly Gates and his officers started with surprise. Along the gentle 
 height on which they stood, there came a Warrior on a Black Horse, rush- 
 ing toward the distant battle. There was something in the appearance of 
 this Horse and his Rider, to strike them with surprise. The Horse was a 
 noble animal ; do you mark that expanse of chest, tliose slender yet sinewy 
 limbs, that waving mane and tail ? Do you mark the head erect, those nos- 
 trils quivering, that eye glaring with terrible light ? Tlien his color — the 
 raven is not darker than his skin, or maiden's cheek more glossy than his 
 «pofless hide.* 
 
 * There have been certain learned critics, who object to this similie. They state, 
 with commendable gravity, that the idea of a horse — even a war-horse, who ranks, 
 jn the scale of being, next to man — having a hide 'glossy as a maiden's cheek,' hurts 
 iheir delicate perceptions. Their experience teaches them, that the word ' glossy,' 
 coupled with 'black,' must refer to a • glossij black maiden.' Had my ideas ran in 
 that direction, I never would have penned the sentence ; but as I do not possess the 
 large experience of these critics, in relation to 'African maidens,' I must even iei 
 
lis BENEDICT ARNOLD. 
 
 Look upon thai gallant steed, and remerabsi" Use words of Job — 
 
 Hast thou given the horse strength? hast thou clothed his neck with thunder? 
 
 Cans't thou make him afraid as a grasshopper. The glory of his nostrils is terrible 
 
 He paweth in the valley, and rejoiceth in his strength; he goeth on to meet th« 
 armed men. 
 
 He moL-keth at fear and is not affrighted ; neither turneth he back from the sword. 
 
 The quiver rattleth against him, the glittering spear and the shield. 
 
 He swalloweth the ground with fierceness and rage ; neither believeth he that it is 
 the sound of the trumpet. 
 
 He saiih among the trumpets, Ha ! ha ! and he smelleth the battle afar off, the 
 thunder of the captains and the shouting. 
 
 But the Rider presents also a sight of strange and peculiar interest. He 
 is a man of muscular form, with a dark brow gathered in a frown, a darker 
 eye, shooting its glance from beneath the projecting foreliead. His lip is 
 compressed — his cravat, unloosened, exposes the veins of his bared throat, 
 now writhing like serpents. It is plain that his spirit is with the distant 
 battle, for neither looking to the right or left, not even casting a glance aside 
 to Gates, he glares over his horse's head toward the smoke of conflict. 
 
 No sword waves in his grasp, but while the rein hangs on his horse's 
 neck, his hands rest by his side, the fingers quivering with the same agita- 
 tion that blazes over his face. 
 
 Altogether it is a magnificent sight, that warrior in the blue uniform on 
 his Black Horse, who moves along the sod at a brisk walk, his tail and mane 
 tossing on the breeze. And as the noble horse moves on, the soldier speaks 
 to him, and calls him by name, and lays his right hand on his glossy neck. 
 
 " Ho ! Warren — forward !" 
 
 Then that Black Horse — named after the friend of the soldier, a friend 
 who now is sleeping near Bunker Hill, where he fell — darts forward, with 
 one sudden bound, and is gone like a flash toward the distant battle. 
 
 This brief scene, this vision of the Horse and his Rider, struck Gates 
 with unfeigned chagrin, his ofliicers with unmingled surprise. 
 
 " Armstrong l" shouted Gates, turning to a brave man by his side, " Pur- 
 sue that man ! Tell him it is my command that he returns from the field. 
 Away ! Do not lose a minute, for he will do something rash, if left to 
 himself J^^ 
 
 Armstrong springs to his steed, and while the heaven above, and the broad 
 sweeps of woods .and fields yonder, are darkened by the smoke of conflict, 
 he pursues the Black Horse and his Rider. 
 
 But that Rider looks over his shoulder with a smile of scorn on his lip, 
 * scowl of defiance on his brow. Look ! He draws his sword — the sharp 
 
 the sentence stand as it is. They also object to the horse ; saying piteously — " You 
 make him a hero 1" I hove no doubt they would prefer for a hero, an excellent 
 animal, noted for his deep throat and long ears. My taste inclines in a diiferent 
 direc'ion. 
 
THE BLACK HORSE AND HIS RlDEtv. 179 
 
 olade quivers in the air. He points to the battle, and lo ! he is gone — gone 
 through yonder clouds — while his shout echoes over the fields. 
 
 Wherever the fight is thickest, through the intervals of batde smoke 
 and cannon glare, you may see, riding madly forward, that strange soldier, 
 mounted on his steed, black as death. 
 
 Look at him, as with his face red with British blood, he waves his sword, 
 and shouts to the legions. Now you see him fighting in tliat cannon's 
 glare, the next moment he is away off yonder, leading the forlorn hope up 
 the steep cliff. 
 
 Is it not a magnificent sight, to see that nameless soldier, and that noble 
 Black Steed, dashing like a meteor through the long columns of battle ? 
 
 And all the while. Major Armstrong, spurring his steed to the utmost, 
 pursues him, but in vain. He shouts to him, but the warrior cannot hear. 
 He can see the Black Horse, through the lifted folds of battle-smoke, now 
 and then he hears the Rider's shout. 
 
 " Warren ! Ho ! AVarren ! Upon them — charge !" 
 
 Let us look in for a moment through these clouds of battle. Here, over 
 this thick hedge, bursts a band of American militia men — their rude farmer's 
 coats stained with their blood — while, scattering their arms by the way, 
 they flee before yonder company of red-coat hirelings, who come rushing 
 forward, their solid front of bayonets gleaming in the battle-light. 
 
 In the moment of their flight, a Black Horse crashes over the field. 
 The unknown warrior reins his steed back on his haunches, right in the 
 path of this broad-shouldered militia man. 
 
 " Now, coward, advance another step, and I will shoot you to the heart!" 
 shouts the rider, extending a pistol in either hand. " What ! are yon 
 Americans — men — and fly before these British soldiers ? Back and face 
 them once more — seize your arms — face the foe, or I myself will ride you 
 down !" 
 
 That appeal, uttered with deep, indignant tones, and a face convulsed 
 with passion, is not without its effect. The militia man turns, seizes his 
 gun ; his comrades as if by one impulse, follow his example. They form 
 in solid order along the field, and silently load their pieces ; they wait the 
 onset of those British bayonets. 
 
 " Reserve your fire until you can touch the point of their bayonets !" 
 was the whispered command of the Unknown. Those militia-men, so lately 
 panic-stricken, now regard the approach of the red-coals in silence, yet 
 calmly and without a tremor. The British came on — nearer and nearer 
 yet — you can see their eyes gleam, you can count the buttons on their 
 scarlet coats. They seek to terrify the militia-men with shouts ; but those 
 plain farmers do not move an inch. 
 
 In one line — but tweniy men in all — they confront thirty sharp bayonets. 
 
 The British advance — they are within two yards. 
 
 "Now upon the rebels — charge bayonet!" shouted the red-coat officer. 
 
IHO BENEDICT ARNOLD. 
 
 They spring forward, with the same bound — look ! Their bayonets al- 
 most tonch the muzzles of these rifles ! 
 
 At this moment the voice of the Rider was heard. 
 
 " Now let them have it— /ire .'" 
 
 A sound is heard — a smoke is seen — twenty Britons are down, some 
 writhing in death, some crawling along the so:], some speechless as stone 
 The remaining ten start back — but then is no time for surprise. 
 
 " Club your rifles, and charge them home !" shouts the Unknown, and 
 the Black Horse springs forward, followed by the militia-men. Then a 
 confused conflict- — a cry of " quarter !" — a vision of the twenty farmers 
 grouped around the Rider of the Black Horse, greeting him with hearty 
 cheers. 
 
 Thus it was all the day long. 
 
 Wherever that Black Horse and his Rider went, there followed victory. 
 The soldiers in every part of the field seemed to know that Rider, for they 
 hailed him with shouts, they obeyed his commands, they rushed after him. 
 over yonder cannon, through yonder line of bayonets. His appearance in 
 any quarter of the field was succeeded by a desperate onset, a terrible 
 charge, or a struggle hand to hand with the soldiers of Burgoyne. 
 
 Was this not a strange thing? This unknown man, without a command 
 was obeyed by all the soldiers, as though they recognized their General. 
 They acknowledged him for a Leader, wherever he rode ; they followed 
 him to death wherever he gave the word. 
 
 Now look for him again ! 
 
 On the summit of yonder hill, the Black Horse stands erect on his 
 haunches, his fore-legs pawing the air, while the rider bends over his neck, 
 and looks toward the clouded valley. The hat has fallen from that Rider's 
 brow ; his face is covered with sweat and blood ; his right-hand grasps that 
 battered sword. How impressive that sight, as an occasional sun-gleam 
 lights the Rider's brow, or a red flash of battle-light, bathes his face, as in 
 rays of blood I 
 
 At this moment, as the black steed rears on the summit of the hill, look 
 yonder from the opposite valley, dashes Major Armstrong, in search of that 
 Unknown Rider, who sees him coming, turns his horse's head and disap- 
 pears with a laugh of scorn. Slill the gallant Major keeps on his way, in 
 search of this man, who excites the fears of General Gates— this brave 
 Rider, who was about to do " something rash." 
 
 At last, toward the setting of the sun, the crisis of the conflict came. 
 
 That fortress yonder on Behmus Height, was to be won, or the Amei> 
 can cause was lost. 
 
 That fortress was to be gained, or Gates was a dishonored man ; Bur- 
 goyne a triumphant General. 
 
THE BLACK HORSE AND HIS RIDER. 181 
 
 Thai fortress yonder — you can see it through the battle-clouds — with its 
 wall of red-coats, its lines of British cannon, its forest of bayonets. 
 
 Kven those bold riflemen, who were in the wilderness with one Benedici 
 Arnold, who stormed the walls of Quebec, with thi%.Arnold and x\Iontgomery, 
 on that cold daybreak of Decdfcber jhirty-first, 1715, even those men of 
 iron fell back, terrified at the siSti 
 
 That cliff is too steep — that death is too certain. Their officers cannot 
 persuade them to advance. The Americans have lost the field. Even 
 Morgan — that Iron Man among Iron Men — leans on his rifle, and despairs 
 of the field. 
 
 But look yonder ! In this moment, while all is dismay and horror, here, 
 crashing on, comes the Black Horse and his Rider. 
 
 That Rider bends from his steed ; you can see his phrenzied face, now 
 covered with sweat, and dust, and blood. He lays his hand on that bold 
 rifleman's shoulder. 
 
 " Come on !" he cries ; " you will not fail me now !" 
 
 The rifleman knows that face, that voice. As though living fire had 
 been poured into his veins, he grasps his rifle, and starts toward the rock. 
 
 " Come on !" cries the Rider of the Black Horse, turning from one 
 scarred face to another. " Come on ! you will not fail me now !" 
 
 He speaks in that voice which thrills their blood. 
 
 " You were with me in the Wilderness !" he cries to one ; " and you a. 
 Quebec !" he shouts to another; " do you remember ?" 
 
 " And you at Montreal !'" 
 
 " And YOU, there on Lake Champlain ! You know me — you have 
 known me long ! Have I ever spoken to you in vain ? I speak to ymi 
 now — do you see that Rock ? Come on !" 
 
 And now look, and now hold your breath as that black steed crashes up 
 the steep rock ! Ah, that steed quivers — he totters — he falls I No, no ! 
 Still on. still up the rock, still on toward the fortress ! 
 
 Now look again — his Rider turns his face — ■ — 
 
 " Come on. Men of Quebec, where I lead, you will follow !" 
 
 But that cry is needless. Already the bold riflemen are on the rock. 
 And up and onward, one fierce boltof batde, with that Warrior on his Black 
 Steed, leading the dread way, sweep the Men of the Wilderness, the Heroes 
 of Quebec. 
 
 Now pour your fires, British cannon. Now lay the dead upon the rock, 
 in tens and twenties. Now — hirelings — shout your British battle-cry if 
 you can ! 
 
 For look, as the battle-smoke clears away, look there, in the gate of the 
 '"ortress for the Black Steed and his Rider ! 
 
 That Steed falls dead, pierced by an hundred balls, but there his Rider 
 waves the Banner of the Stars, there — as the British cry for quarter, he lifts 
 
1S2 BENEDICT ARNOLD. . 
 
 up his voice, and shouts afar to Horatio Gates, waiting yonder in hia tent; 
 he tells him that — 
 
 " Saratoga is won !" 
 
 And look! As that^lioiit goes up to^ieaven, he falls upon his Steetl, 
 with his leg shattered J^^ cannon ball._ ^b 
 
 He lays there, on /ros dead Steed, I^Pding and insensible, while his 
 hand, laid over the necR of the gallant Hotle, still grasps the Banner of the 
 Stars. 
 
 Who was the Rider of the Black Horse's Do you not guess his name ? 
 Then bend down and gaze upon that shattered limb, and you will see that 
 it bears the scars of a former wound — a hideous wound it must have oeen 
 Now, do you not guess his name ? That wound was received at the 
 Storming of Quebec ; that Rider of the Black Horse was Benedict 
 Arnold. 
 
 In this hour, while the sun was setting over the field of the Seventh of 
 October — while the mists of battle lay piled in heavy clouds above the walls 
 of the conquered fortress, — here, up the steep rock came Major Armstrong, 
 seeking for the man who "might do somelhing rash!''' 
 
 He found him at last, but it was in the gate of the fortress, on the body 
 of the dead steed, bleeding from his wound, that he discovered the face of 
 Benedict Arnold, the Victor of Behmus Heights. 
 
 This was not the moment to deliver the message of Gates. No ! for this 
 Rash Man had won laurels for his brow, defeated Burgoyne for him, rescued 
 the army from disgrace and defeat. He had done something — rash. 
 
 Therefore, Armstrong, brave and generous as he was, bent over the 
 wounded man, lifted him from among the heaps of dead, and bore him to a 
 place of repose. 
 
 Would it be credited by persons unacquainted with our history — would 
 the fact which I record with blushes and shame for the pettiness of human 
 nature, be believed, unless supported by evidence that cannot lie? 
 
 General Gates, in his bulletin cf the battle, did not mention the name 
 of Benedict Arnold ! 
 
 Methinks, even now, I see the same Horatio flying from the bloody field 
 of Camden — where an army was annihilated — his hair turning white as 
 snow, as he pursues his terrible flight, without once resting for eighty miles 
 — methinks I hear him call for another Arnold, to win this battle, as 
 Saratoga was won ! 
 
 The conduct of Arnold in this battle became known, in spite of the 
 dastJ'rdly opposition of his enemies, and — says a distinguished and honest 
 historian — Congress relented at this late hour with an ill-grace, and sent 
 him a commission, giving him the full rank which he claimed. 
 
 He was now in truth, crowned as he stood, with the laurels of the Wil- 
 
ARNOLD, THE MILITARY COMMANDER OF PHILADELrHlA. IbS 
 
 ilerness, Quebec and Saratoga, Major General Arnold, of the Continental 
 Army. 
 
 At the same time that George Washington received the account of Ar- 
 nold's daring at Saratoga, he also neceived from a Nobleman of France, three 
 splendid sets of epaulettes and ^Jprd-knots, with the request to retain one 
 for himself, and bestow the other^on the two bravest men of his arniy. 
 
 George Washington sent one set of epaulettes with a sword-knot to Ben- 
 edict Arnold. 
 
 When we next look for Arnold, w^. find him confined to his room, with 
 a painful wound. For the entire winter the limb wiiich had been first 
 broken at Quebec, broken again at Saratoga, kept him a prisoner in the 
 close confinement of his chamber. 
 
 Then let us behold him entering New Haven, in triumph as the Hero of 
 Saratoga. There are troops of soldiers, the thunder of cannon, little chil- 
 dren strewing the way with flowers. 
 
 Was it not a glorious welcome for the Druggist, who two years ago, was 
 pasting labels on phials in yonder drug store ? 
 
 — A glorious welcome for the little boy, who used to strew the road with 
 pounded glass, so that other little boys might cut their feet ? — 
 
 In this hour of Arnold's triumph, when covered with renown, he comes 
 back to his childhood's home, may we not imagine his Mother looking from 
 Heaven upon the glory of her child ? Yes, sainted Mother of Arnold, who 
 long years ago, laid your babe upon the sacramental altar, baptized with the 
 tears and prayers of a Mother's agony, now look from heaven, and pray to 
 God that he may die, with all his honorable wounds about him ! • 
 
 IX.— ARNOLD, THE MILITARY COMMANDER OF PHILADELPHIA. 
 
 Let us look for Arnold again ! 
 
 We will find him passing through the streets of old Philadelphia, in his 
 glittering coach, with six splendid horses, and liveried outriders ; riding in 
 state as the Governor of Philadelphia. 
 
 Then we look for him again. In the dim and solemn aisle of Christ 
 Church, at the sunset hour, behold a new and touching scene in the life of 
 Benedict Arnold. 
 
 It is the sunset hour, and through the shadows of the range of pillars, 
 which support the venerable roof of the church, the light of the declining 
 day, streams in belts of golden sunshine. 
 
 As you look, the sound of the organ fills the church, and a passing ray 
 streams over the holy letters, I H S. 
 
 There beside the altar are grouped the guests, there you behold the Priest 
 of God, arrayed in his sacerdotal robe, and there — O, look upon them well. 
 in this last hour of the summer day — the centre of the circle, stand the 
 Bridegroom and Bride. 
 
184 BENEDICT ARNOLD 
 
 A lovely girl, scarce eighteen years in age, with golden hair and eyes oi 
 deep clear blue, rests her small hand upon a warrior's arm, and looks up 
 lovingly into his battle-worn face. She is clad in silks, and pearls, and gold. 
 He in the glorious uniform of the Revolution, the blue coat, faced with bufF 
 and fringed with gold. The sword lha<i hangs by his side, has a story all 
 its own to tell. liOok ! As the sunshine gleams upon its hilt of gold, does 
 it not speak of Ticonderoga, Quebec, and Saratoga ? 
 
 And in the deep serenity of this evening hour — while the same glow of 
 sunshine gilds the white monuments in yonder graveyard, and reveals the 
 faces of the wedding guests — Benedict Arnold, in the prime of a renowned 
 manhood, having seen thirty-eight years of life, in all its phases — on the 
 ocean, in battle, amid scenes of blood and death — links his fate forever with 
 that queenly girl, whose romance and passion in love of power, are written 
 in two emphatic words — beautiful and eighteen I 
 
 Yes, in the aisle of Christ Church, the Hero of Quebec, hears the word 
 — husband — whispered by this young girl, who combines the witchery of a 
 syren, with the intellect of a genius ; the Tory daughter of a Tory father. 
 
 And as the last note of the organ dies away, along the aisles, tell me, can 
 you not see the eye of that youi>g wife, gleam with a light that is too intense 
 for love, too vivid for hope ? That deep and steady gleam looks to me like 
 a fire, kindled at the altar of Ambition. The compression of that parting 
 lip, the proud arch of that white nock, the queenly tread of that small foot, 
 all bespeak the consciousness of power. 
 
 Does the the wife of Benedict Arnold, looking through a dark and troubled 
 future, behold the darkness dissipated by the sunshine of a Royal Court? 
 Does she — with that young breast heaving with impatient ambition — already 
 behold Arnold the Patriot, transformed into Arnold the Courtier — and 
 Traitor ? 
 
 Future pages of this strange history, alone can solve these questions. 
 
 We must look at Arnold now, as by this marriage and his important 
 position — the Military Commander of the greatest city on the Continent — 
 he is brought into contact with a proud and treacherous aristocracy — as he 
 feasts, as he drinks, as he revels with them. 
 
 From that hour, date his ruin. 
 
 That profligate and treacherous aristocracy, would ruin an angel from 
 heaven, if an angel could ever sink so low, as to be touched by the poison 
 of its atmosphere. 
 
 We can form our estimate of the character of this Aristocracy in the 
 Revolution, from the remnant which survives among us, at the present hour. 
 Yes, we have it among us yet, existing in an organized band of pretenders, 
 whose political and religious creed is comprised in one word — England — 
 lovers of monarchy and every thing that looks like monarchy, in the shape 
 of privileged orders, and chartered infamies ; Tory in heart now as they 
 were Tories in speech, in the days of the Revolution. 
 
ARNOLD, THE MILITARY COMMANDER OF THILADELi'FIIA. 185 
 
 ! never think of this Aristocracy, without being reminded of iliose Italian 
 inendicants, who are seen in your streets, clad in shabby tinsel, too proud 
 to work the work of honest toil, and yet not too proud to obtain a livelihood 
 by the tricks of a juggler and mountebank. 
 
 — I do not mean the aristocracy of worth, or beauty, or intellect, which gets 
 Its title-deeds from God, and wears its coat of arms in the heart, and which 
 if ever man saw, 1 see before me now * 
 
 But I do mean that aristocracy, whose heraldry is written in the same 
 ledger of a broken bank, that chronicles the wholesale robbery of the widow 
 and the orphan, by privileged theft and chartered fraud. 
 
 If we must have an Aristocracy, o.' in other words a privileged class, en- 
 titled by law to trample on those who toil, eat their bread, and strip from 
 them one by one, the holy rights for which their fathers fought in the Rev- 
 olution, let us I pray you, have a iN'obility, like that of England, made 
 respectable by the lineage of a few hundred years. Let us — if we must 
 have an Aristocracy — constitute by law, every survivor of the Revolution, 
 every child of a hero of the Past, a Noble of the Land. This will at least 
 bear some historical justice on its face. 
 
 But to make these Tory children of Tory fathers, a privileged order, is it 
 not a very contemptable thing ? As laughable as the act of the Holy Alli- 
 ance, who established the Restoration of the Bourbons, on the foundation 
 laid by Napoleon. 
 
 We have all seen the deeds of the Tory Aristocracy of Philadelphia. 
 To-day, it starves some poor child of genius — whom it has deluded with 
 hopes of patronage — and suffers him to go starving and mad, from the quiet 
 of his studio, to the darkness of the Insane Asylum. To-morrow, it 
 parades in its parlies, and soirees some pitiful foreign vagrant, who calls him^ 
 self a Count or Duke, and wears a fierce beard, and speaks distressing Eng- 
 lish. This aristocracy never listens to a lecture on science, or history^ 
 much less a play from Shakspeare, but at the same time, will overflow a 
 theatre, to hear a foreign mountebank do something which is called singing, 
 or to witness the indecent postures of some poor creature, who belies the 
 sacred name of Woman, which obscene display is entitled dancing. 
 
 There is nothing which this aristocracy hates so fervently, as Genius> 
 native to the soil. It starved and neglected that great original mind, Charles 
 Brockden Brown, and left him to die in his solitary room, while all Europe 
 was ringing with his praise. 
 
 It never reads an American book, unless highly perfumed and sweetened 
 with soft words, and tricked out in pretty pictures. It takes its history, 
 literature, religion, second-hand from England, and bitterly regrets that the 
 plainness of our Presidential office, is so strong contrasted with the imp.e- 
 
 On the occasion of the third lecture, before the Wirt Institui*. 
 12 
 
186 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 
 
 rial grandeur of Greal Britain's hereditary sovereign — a Queen, who imporu 
 a husband froin the poverty of some German Kingdom, three miles squarci 
 and saddles her People with an annual Prince or Princess, whose advent 
 costs one hundred thousand yellow guineas. 
 
 This aristocracy never can tolerate native Genius, Because, in its fer- 
 menting corruption, it resembles a hot-bed, it plausibly fancies that every- 
 thing which springs from such a soil, must be at once worthless and 
 ephemeral. 
 
 In one word, when we survey its varied phrases of pretension and mean- 
 ness, we must regret, that some bold Lexicographer had not poured into one 
 syllable, the whole vocabulary of scorn, in order to coin a word to be ap- 
 plied to this thing, which always creeps when it attempts to fly, crawls 
 when it would soar — this Aristocracy of the Quaker City. 
 
 This Tory aristocracy existed in full vigor, at the time Arnold assumed 
 the command in Philadelphia. 
 
 You will observe that his position was one of singular difficulty ; Wash- 
 ington himself would not have given general satisfaction, had he been in 
 Arnold's place. In after time, Jackson at New Orleans, excited the enmity 
 of a bitter faction, because he held the same power, which Arnold once 
 exercised — that of a Military Governor, who commands in the same town 
 with a Civil Magistracy. 
 
 You will remember, that the very Aristocracy, who yesterday had been 
 feasting General Howe, sharing the orgies of the British soldiery, swimming 
 in the intoxication of the Meschianza, were now patriots of the first water. 
 The moment the last British boat pushed from the wharf, these gendemen 
 changed their politics. The sound of the first American trooper's horse, 
 echoing through the streets of the city, accomplished their conversion. 
 Yesterday, Monarchists, Tories ; to-day. Patriots, Whigs, these gentlemen, 
 with dexterity peculiar to their race, soon crept into positions of power and 
 trust 
 
 Frnm their prominence, as well as from his marriage with Miss Shippen, 
 Arnold was thrown into constant intimacy with these pliable politicians. 
 
 Having grounded these facts well in your minds, you will be prepared to 
 hear the grumbling of these newly-pledged patriots, when Arnold — who 
 j'esterday was such a splendid fellow, sprinkling his gold in banquets and 
 festivals — obeyed a Resolution of the Continental Congress, and by procln- 
 mation, prohibited the sale of all goods, in the city, until it was ascertained 
 whether any of the property belonged to the King of Great Britain or his 
 subjects. 
 
 This touched the Tory-Whigs on the tenderest point. Patriotism was a 
 beautiful thing with them, so long as it vented itself in fine words ; but 
 when it touched King George's property, or the property of King George's 
 friends, they began to change their opinion. 
 
 Their indignation knew no bounds. They dared not attack Washington, 
 
ARNOLD, THE MILITARY COMMANDER OF PHILADELPHIA. 187 
 
 ihey dared not assail the Congress. Therefore, they opened their batteries 
 of mahgnancy and calumniation against Arnold. 
 
 Wher^ that brave man had one fault, they magnified it into ten. Where 
 he was guilty of one wrong act, they charged him with a thousand. 
 
 Not seven months of Arnold's command had transpired, before Congress 
 and Washington were harrassed with letters asking for the trial and disgrace 
 of Arnold. 
 
 At last the matter was brought before Congress, and a Committee of that 
 body, after a thorough examination, gave to Benedict Arnold, " a vindicatioM 
 from any criminalty in the matters charged against him." 
 
 Then the war was opened against Arnold anew ; then the Mob — not the 
 mechanics or men of toil — but the Rabble who do no work, and yet have 
 time to do all the riots in your large cities, were taught to hoot his name in 
 Bcorn, to stone him in the streets, hi:n, the Hero of Quebec. Yes, the out- 
 lasts of the city, were taught to cover him with filth, to wound with theii 
 missiles, the very limb that had been broken by a cannon ball, on the barriei 
 of Quebec. 
 
 Congress did not act upon the Report of the Committee. Why was this ? 
 That report was referred to a joint Committe of Congress and the Assem- 
 bly. At last General Washington was harrassed into appointing a Court 
 Martial. It was done, the day fixed, but the accusers of Arnold were not 
 ready for trial. Yes, loud as they were in their clamors, they asked delay 
 ?ifter delay, and a year passed. 
 
 All the while, these men were darkening the character of Arnold, all the 
 while he stood before the world in the light of an untried criminal. The 
 Hero of Quebec was denied a right, which is granted to the vilest felon. 
 Accused of a crime, he was refused the reasonable justice of a speedy trial. 
 
 At last, after his accusers had delayed the trial, on various pretences, after 
 the sword of the 'unconvicted criminal,' resigned on the 18th of March, 
 1779, had been taken up again by him, on the 1st of June, the day ap- 
 pointed for his trial, in order to defend his country once again, at last, on 
 the 20th of December, 1779, the Court Martial was assembled at the head- 
 quarters of W^ashington, near Morristown. 
 
 At last the day came — Arnold was tried — and after a month consumed in 
 the careful examination of witnesses and papers, was found guilty of two 
 colossal enormities. Before we look at them, let us remember, that his 
 accusers, on this occasion, were General Joseph Reed, and other members 
 of the Supreme Executive council of Pennsylvania. 
 , Here are the offences : 
 
 I. An irregularity, without criminal intention, in granting a written 
 vrotectinn to a vessel, before his command in Philadelphia, while at I'a!- 
 ley Forge. 
 
 II. UfiING THE PUBLIC WAGONS OF PENNSYLVANIA, FOR THE TRANSPORTA 
 TTON OF PRIVATE PROPERTY FROM EgG HaRBOR. 
 
I8B BEJNEDICT ARNOLD. 
 
 Those were his colossal crimes ! 
 
 The other two charges were passed aside by the court. 
 
 It was upon these charges that the whole prosecution rested — a militarv 
 irregularity in granting a written protection, before he assumed command in 
 Phiiadelpliia, and — O, the enormity of the crime almost exceeds the power 
 of belief — a sacriligious use of the baggage wagons of Pennsylvania ! 
 
 For tiiis Benedict Arnold had been pursued for at least thirteen months, 
 with a malignity insatiable as the blood-hounds thirst. For this he had 
 been held up to all tiie world as a criminal, for this pelted in the streets, and 
 for this, the Hero of Quebec and Saratoga and Champlain, was to be pub- 
 licly disgraced, reprimanded by George Washington. 
 
 Let us hear what that honest man, Jared Sparks, says of the matter: 
 
 "• // was proiied to the court, that although the wagons had been em- 
 ployed for transporting private p-operty, they were nevertheless used at 
 private expense, without a design to defraud the public, or impede the 
 military service.'''' 
 
 And tiie man who had poured out his blood like water, on the frozen 
 ground of Quebec, was to be stamped with eternal infamy for " using the 
 
 PUBLIC WAGONS OF PENNSYLVANIA !" 
 
 You will pardon the italics and capitals. These words ought to be in- 
 scribed in letters of fire on a column of adamant ! 
 
 Is it possible for an honest man to read this part of the tragedy, without 
 feeling the blood boil in his veins ? 
 
 My friends, here is the only belief we can entertain in relation to this 
 mutter. At the same time that we admit that Arnold was betrayed into 
 serious faults through his intimacy with the Tory aristocracy of Philadel- 
 phia, as well as from the inherent rashness of his character — that very 
 rajhness forming one of the elements of his iron-souled bravery — we must 
 also admit, that among the most prominent of his accusers or persecutors, 
 as you please, — was " a man whose foot hud once been lifted to take the 
 step which Jlrnold afterwards took.'''' 
 
 Before large and respectable audiences of my countrymen, assembled in 
 at least three States of this Union, I have repeatedly stated that I was 
 " prepared to prove this fact, from evidence that cannot lie." No answer 
 was ever made to the assertion. In the public papers I have repeated the 
 statement, expressing my readiness to meet any person, in a frank and 
 searching discussion of the question — IFas AnxohCs chief accuser in heart 
 a Traitor? Still no answer ! 
 
 It is true, that other and unimportant points of my history have been 
 fiercely attacked. For example, when following the finger of history, I 
 awarded to Arnold t' e glory of Saratoga, a very respectable but decidedly 
 anonymous critic, brought all his artillery to bear upon a line, which had a 
 reference to the preparation of buckwheat cakes! 
 
 So, when I expressed my readiness to examine the character of Arnold's 
 
ARNOLD, THE MILITARY COMMANDER OF PHILADELPHIA. 189 
 
 "hief accuser, a very prominent individual, who has made that accuser's 
 deeds the subject of laborious and filial panegyric, instead of meeting the 
 Vuestion like a man, crept away into some dark corner of liistory, and called 
 a sincere patriot by tlie portentous name of— Infidel ! This was very much 
 iike the case of the patriot John Bull, who, hearing a Frenchman examme 
 ne character of George the Third, in no very measured terms, replied by a 
 bitter attack on the Emperor of Timbuctoo ! 
 
 Having therefore, repeatedly stated that I was ready to give a careful and 
 impartial investigation of the history of Arnold's chief accuser, I will now 
 enter upon the subject as a question comprised within the limits of legiti- 
 mate history. 
 
 Is it not reasonable to suppose, that the man who took upon himself the 
 work of crushing Benedict Arnold, must have been a very good citizen, a 
 very sincere patriot, and if not a great warrior, at least a very honest 
 statesman ? 
 
 Have we not a right to examine the character of this accuser ? Remem- 
 ber — this trial and disgrace of Arnold, was the main cause of his treason — 
 and then dispute our right to search the character of his Accuser, if you can. 
 
 Let us then, summon a solemn Court of history. Let us invoke tlie 
 Ghost of Washington to preside over its deliberations. Yes, approaching 
 that Ghost, with an awful reverence, let us ask this important question. 
 
 " Was not General John Cadwallader your bosom friend, O, Washington, 
 the man whose heart and hand you implicitly trusted ? Did he not defend 
 you from the calumniation of your enemies ? Was he not, in one word, a 
 Knight of the Revolution, without fear and without reproach ?" 
 
 And the word that answers our question, swelling from the lips of Wash- 
 ington, is — " Yes !" 
 
 We will ask anf)ther question. 
 
 "In the dark days of December, 1776, when with a handful of half-clad 
 men, you opposed the entire force of the British army, on the banks of the 
 Delaware, who then, O, Washington, stood by your side, shared in your 
 counsels, and received your confidence ?" 
 
 " Benedict Arnold !" 
 
 If these answers, which the Ghost of Washington whispers from every 
 page of history, be true, it follows that General John Cadwallader is an im- 
 partial witness in this case, and that Benedict Arnold was a sincere Patriot 
 in the winter of 1776. 
 
 Then let us listen to the details of facts, stated by General Cadwallader. 
 and by him published to the world, attested by his proper signature. 
 
190 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 
 
 X.-WIIO WAS THIS ACCUSER1 
 
 In December, 1776, a few days before the battle of Trenton, m the dark 
 est hour of the Revolution, when Washington and his army were menaced 
 with immediate destruction, an important conversation took place at Bristol, 
 on the banks of the Delaware. 
 
 The interlocutors were John Cadvvallader and the Adjutant General of 
 the Continental Army. 
 
 The conversation was explicit ; no disguise about its meaning, not a 
 doubt in the sound or purport of its every word. 
 
 The adjutant general of the Continental army, to whom Washington had 
 entrusted duties, involving, in their faithful performance, the well-being, 
 percliance the existence of that army, remarked to General Cadwallader: 
 
 "• That he did not understand following the fortunes of a broken-down 
 and shattered army " 
 
 At the very moment that he said tliis, Benedict Arnold was out yonder, 
 on the brink of the ice bound river, assisting with his heart and hand, the 
 movements of George Washington. 
 
 But sheltered by the convenient silence of a comfortable chamber, the 
 Adjutant General continued: 
 
 " Tliai the time allowed by General Howe, for offering pardons and 
 protections to persons who would come in, before the 1st of January, 1777, 
 had nearly expired " 
 
 The philosophical nature of this remark becomes evident, when you re- 
 member that at the very hour when the Adjutant General spoke, there was 
 a price set upon the head of the Rebel Washington. 
 
 " And — " continued this A.djutant General — " / have advised the Lieu- 
 tenant Colonel, my brother, now at Burlington, to remain there, and take 
 protection and fiwear allegiance, and in so doing he will be perfectly 
 justifiable^ 
 
 You will all admit, th;\t this was beautiful nnd refreshing language from 
 any one, especially from the Adjutant General of the Continental army. 
 
 Much more was said of similar import, but the amount of the whole con- 
 versation was in one word, that the Adjutant General, tired and sick of 
 the Rebel cause, was about to swear allegiance to his Majesty, King 
 George. 
 
 General Cadwallader, the bosom friend of Washington, heard these re- 
 marks with surprise, with deep sorrow. From pity to the Adjutant Gen- 
 ei-al, he locked them within the silence of his own breast, until the brilhant 
 attack at Trenton, which took place a few days afterwards, made it a safe 
 as well as comfortable thing, for the trembling patriot to remain true to his 
 country's flag. 
 
WHO WaC T3T:S ACCUS^.Tl' 191 
 
 Time passed, and General Cadwallader communicatev^ thi? conversation 
 10 certain prominent men of the time, thinking it bet'er from piotives of 
 kindness, to avoid a public exposure of the Adjutant General's intended 
 Treason. 
 
 But in the year 1778, a circumstance took place which forced the truth 
 from the lips of this memorable witness. 
 
 It was in a Court of Justice. A young man charged with Treason, was 
 on trial for his life. The Adjutant General, now transformed into an At- 
 torney General, urged his conviction with all the vehemence of which he 
 was capable. There may have been some extenuating circumstances in the 
 young man's case, or perhaps, the manner of the Attorney General, betrayed 
 more than patriotic zeal, for General Cadwallader a spectator in the Court 
 filled with indignation that he could not master, uttered these memorable 
 words : 
 
 " // argues the effrontery of baseness — " said the brave officer, directing 
 his eagle eye toward the Attorney General — " in one man to pursite an- 
 other man to death, for taking a step which his own foot had once beer 
 raised to take.'''' 
 
 These were hard words. The steady look and pointed finger, and deej 
 voice of Cadwallader, made them intelligible to the entire Court. 
 
 The Adjutant General never forgot them. 
 
 In the course of some four or five years, a discussion was provoked, faff 
 after fact came out in its proper colors, and General Cadwallader accused 
 the Adjutant General before the whole world, of the painful dereliction 
 stated in the previous pages. 
 
 He did not merely accuse, but supported his accusation by such evidence 
 that we are forced to the conclusion in plain words, that either the Adjutant 
 General was a Traitor in heart, speech and purpose, or General Cadwal- 
 lader was a gross calumniator. 
 
 'J'he evidence which he produced in his published pamphlet, was a thou- 
 sand times stronger than that which stripped the laurel from Arnold's brow. 
 
 As a part of this evidence, we find a letter from Alexander Hamilton, dated 
 Philada. March 14, 1783, in which that distinguished statesman affirms his 
 remembrance of a conversation, which occurred between him and General 
 Cadwallader, in '77, and which embraced a distinct narrative of the derelic- 
 tion of the Adjutant General in December, '76. 
 
 Benjamin Rush, and other eminent men of that time, by letters dated 5th 
 Oct. 1782, March 12, 1783, and March 3, 1783, either record their re- 
 membrance of a conversation, with General Cadwallader, in which he nar- 
 rated the treasonable sentiments of the Adjutant General, or distinctly af- 
 firm a conversation with that individual himself, had before the battle of 
 Trenton, and full of Disloyalty to the Continental cause. 
 
 Alexander Hamilton and Benjamin Rush, were never given to falsehood. 
 And then comes a statement from Major Wm. Bradford, which dated 
 
192 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 
 
 March 15, 1783, strips the Adjutant General of every vestige of patriotisit.. 
 This brave officer states, that while he was at IJristol, in command of the 
 Philadelphia militia, in 1776, the Adjutant General went over to Burlmg- 
 ton, where the enemy were, and was gone three days and nights. It wan 
 the opinion of Col. Bayard, that he had gone over to swear allegiance to 
 King George. 
 
 Such is but a portion of the testimony, presented in the memorable 
 pamphlet, signed by the bosom friend of Washington, John Cadwalbuier. 
 
 This case demands no elaborate argument, no expenditure of invective. 
 Either the Adjutant General was a Traitor, or John Cadwallader a * * * *. 
 
 There is no skulking away from the question. One way or other it 
 must be decided by every honest man, who peruses the evidence. 
 
 You will remember that 1 give no opinion about the matter. There are 
 the facts ; judge every honest man for himself. That Jolin Cadwallader 
 was no base calumniator, is attested by the records of history, by the 
 friendship of Washington. 
 
 To what fearful conclusion then, are we led ? 
 
 That the Adjutant General in the dark days of 1776, not only avowed 
 tiis intention of deserting the Continental army, but was in fact, three days 
 and nights in the camp of the enemy. 
 
 Was tills the conduct of a Patriot, or — it is a dark word, and burns tlie 
 forehead on which it is branded — A Traitor ! 
 
 This adjutant general, was General Joseph Reed, President of the Su- 
 prerhe Council of Pennsylvania, and the prominent accuser of Benedict 
 
 AllNOLD. 
 
 In his defence before the Court Martial, Arnold used these words : 
 — " I can with boldness say to my persecutors in general, and to the 
 chief of them in particular — that in the hour of danger, when the affairs of 
 America wore a gloomy aspect, when our illustrious general was retreating 
 through America, with a handful of men, I did not propose to my associates 
 basely to quit the General, and sacrifice the cause of my country to my per- 
 sonal safety, by going over to the enemy, and making my peace." — 
 
 Can you see his eye flash, as he looks upon the " Chief of his Per 
 secutors ?" 
 
 XI.— THE DISGRACE OF ARNOLD. 
 
 At last the day of the Reprimand came — Father of Mercy what a scene! 
 
 That man Arnold, brave and proud as Lucifer, standing among the gene- 
 rals, beside whom he had fought and bled — standing ihe centre of all 
 eyes, in the place of the Criminal, with the eye of Washington fixed upon 
 nim in reproof — with a throng of the meaner things of the Revolution. 
 .wh ra the British King might have bought, had he thought them worth the 
 
THE DISGRACE OF ARNOLD. 193 
 
 nuying, grouped about him ; these petty men — who had been warming 
 themselves at comfortable tires, while the hands of Arnold were freezing on 
 the ramparts of Quebec — exulting at his disgrace, glorying in his shame, 
 chuckling at his fall 
 
 It was too much for Arnold. That moment the iron entered his soul, 
 and festered there. 
 
 From that moment he stood resolved in his work of treason. From that 
 moment his country lost a soldier, history one of her brightest names. 
 Washington his right-hand man, the Revolution its bravest Knight. In one 
 word, from that moment John Andre lost his life, Benedict Arnold his 
 honor ; Sir Henry Clinton gained a — Traitor. 
 
 He could have borne reproof from the lips of Washington, but to be re- 
 buked while the dwarf-patriots were standing by, while the litde 'great 
 men' were lookers on ! — It was indeed, too much for Arnold. 
 
 It is true, that the reprimand of Washington was the softest thing that 
 might bear the name — " / reprimand you for having forgotten, that in 
 proportion as you have rendered yourself formidable to our enemies, you 
 should have shown moderation towards our citizens. Exhibit again 
 those splendid qualities, which have placed you in the rank of our most 
 distinguished generals." — 
 
 These were the words of Washington, worthy of his hero-heart, but 
 from that moment, Arnold the Patriot was dead. 
 
 At that instant from the terrible chaos of dark thoughts, wounded pride, 
 lacerated honor, sprung into birth a hideous phantom, known by history as 
 — Arnold the Traitor. 
 
 Had he but taken the advice of Washington, had he but looked derision 
 upon his foes ! Raising himself in all his proud height, his eye blazing 
 with that stern fire which lighted up his bronzed face on the ramparts of 
 Quebec, his voice deep, hollow, ringing with the accents of scorn, he should 
 have spoken to his enemies words like these : 
 
 " Look ! Pitiful creatures of an hour, how your poisoned arrows fall 
 harmless from this bosom, like water from the rock ! Things of an hour, 
 creatures of falsehood, who ' trafficked to be bought,' while I served my 
 country in hunger and blood and cold, I hurl my defiance to your very 
 hearts ! I will yet live down your persecution. In the name of Washing- 
 ton and the Revolution, I swear it ! I will yet write my name there — on 
 the zenith of my country's fame, — there, where the vulture beak of slander 
 the hyena fang of malice, cannot taint nor touch it !" 
 
 But he failed to do this. Unlike Jackson, who covered with the glory of New- 
 Orleans, rested patiently for thirty years, under the odium of an unjust fine, 
 Arnold did not possess the power — to live down persecution. He was 
 
 lOSt. 
 
 In order to unde-rstand the scene of his reprimand in all its details, wc 
 must wander back through the shadows of seventy years. 
 
194 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 
 
 That fine old mansion of Morristown rises before us, m the calm light of 
 a winter's day. There is snow upon the ground, but it is frozen, until it 
 resembles an immense mirror, which flashes back to the sky the liglit of 
 the sun. Yonder we behold the mansion, standing on a gentle eminence 
 Those poplars before the door, or rather beside the fence at the foot of the 
 elevation, are stripped of their foliage. The elm yonder, bared of its green 
 leaves, shines with a thousand limbs of ice and snow. All is cold, serene, 
 desolate. 
 
 We enter this mansion. Without pausing to survey its massive front, or 
 steep roof or projecting eves, we ascend the range of steps, give the word 
 to the sentinels, and pass beneath these pillars which guard the hall door. 
 
 Step gently along this hall — nter with uncovered brow, into this large 
 room, where the light of a cheerful hickory fire glowing upon the hearth, 
 mingles with the winter-sunshine, softened as it is by the thick curtains 
 along yonder windows. 
 
 Gaze with reverence, for great men are gathered here. Do not let your 
 eye wander to those antique chairs, fashioned of walnut, and carved into 
 various fantastic forms, nor to the heavy mouldings of the mantle-piece, nor 
 to the oval mirror encircled by a wreath of gold flowers. 
 
 But by the hearty glow of the hearthside flame, gaze I beseech, upon 
 this company of heroes, who dressed in blue and buff stand side by side, 
 leaving an open space before the fire. 
 
 A large table is there, on whose green cloth, are laid various papers, 
 burdened with seals, and traced with celebrated signatures. In the midst, 
 you behold a sword resting in its sheath, its handle carved in the shape of 
 an eagle's beak. That sword has seen brave days in the Wilderness and 
 at Quebec. 
 
 Three figures arrest your attention. 
 
 Neither the knightly visage of Wayne, nor the open countenance of the 
 Boy-General, La Fayette, nor the bluff hearty good-humor of Knox, com- 
 mand your gaze. They are all there. There too, Cadwallader the bosom 
 friend of Washington, and Greene so calmly sagacious, and all the heroes 
 of that time of trial. Yet it is not upon these you gaze, though their faces 
 are all darkened by an expression of sincere sorrow. 
 
 It is upon those three figures near the fire tiiat you look, and hush eacli 
 whisper as you gaze. 
 
 The first standing with his face to the light, his form rising above the 
 others, superior to them all in calm majesty of look and bearing. The 
 sunshine streaming through the closed curtains reveals that face, which a 
 crown could not adorn, nor the title of King ennoble. It is the face of 
 Washington, revealing in every calm, fixed outline, a heart too high for the 
 emoty bauble of a crown, a soul too pure for the anointed disgrace of Royal 
 Power. He is very calm, but still you can trace upon his countenance a 
 look of deep, aye, poignant regret. 
 
THE DISGRACE OF ARNOLD. 195 
 
 His eye is fixed upon the figure opposite. 
 
 Standing with his back to the window, a man of some thirty-nine years, 
 vigorous in each muscular limb, majestic in his breadth of chest, and in the 
 erect bearing of his neck and head, rests one hand upon the table and gazes 
 upon Washington with a setded look. Ilis brow is bathed in the light of 
 the hearth. Do you see the red glare that flasiies over each rigid feature ? 
 Does it not impart to that bold brow and firm lips and massive chin, an ex- 
 pression almost — supernatural ? 
 
 As he stands there, you see him move one foot uneasily. The limb 
 broken once at Quebec, shattered once at Saratoga pains him. That of 
 course, is Arnold. 
 
 You hear the words of the Reprimand pass from the lips of Washington. 
 You listen with painful intensity. Not a whisper in this thronged room, 
 scarcely a breath ! You hear the flame crackle, and the crumbling wood 
 fall in hot coals along the hearth. 
 
 Arnold hears it, all — every word of that solemn Reprimand. 
 Does his cheek blench ? His eye change its fixed glance ? His lip 
 quiver? No ! As those words fall from the lips of Washington, he merely 
 sufl'ers his head to droop slowly downward, until his eyes seem glaring 
 upward, from compressrd brows. But the light of those eyes is strange, 
 yes, — vivid, deadly. 
 
 — Meanwhile, looking between Washington and Arnold, do you see that 
 figure, resting one arm upon the mantel-piece, while his face is turned away, 
 and his eyes seem earnesUy perusing the hot coals of the fire ? That is a 
 very singular face, with parchment skin, and cold stony eyes, and thin, 
 pinched lips. The form — by no means commanding, or peculiar, either for 
 hejght or dignity — is attired in the glorious blue and buff uniform. Who 
 is this person ? 
 
 Behold that glance of Arnold, shooting its scorn from the woven eye- 
 brows, and answer the question, every heart for itself. That glance surveys 
 the figure near the fire, and pours a volume of derision in a single look. 
 Who is this gentlemen ? Ask the Secret records of the Revolution, and 
 ask quickly, for ihe day comes, when they will be secret no longer. 
 
 At last this scene — which saddens you, without your knowing why — is 
 over. The reprimand is spoken. Arnold raises his head, surveys the whole 
 company, first, Washington, with a look of deep respect, then the warrior 
 laces of his brothers in arms, and last of all, that figure by the firesiae. 
 O, the withering scorn of that momentary gaze ! 
 
 The flame light falls upon Arnold's brow, and reveals him, very calm, 
 somewhat pale, but utterly Resolved. 
 
 So, do I imagine the scene of the Reprimand. So, taking for 
 
 granted, that his enemies, who had hunted him for thirteen months, were 
 present at the scene of his disgrace — do I, in my own mind, delineate this 
 picture of the Past. — 
 
196 BENEDICT ARNOLD 
 
 XII.— ARNOLD AT LANDSDOWNE. 
 
 Aged petsons, survivors of the Revolution, have told me singular and im- 
 pressive stories of Arnold's appearance and demeanor, while in Philadelphia. 
 after this trial. 
 
 He wandered from place to place, with an even and steady gait, neithei 
 looking to one side nor to the other, scarcely even speaking to any one, 
 eimer in courtesy or in anger, but preserving a settled calm of look and 
 manner. 
 
 And when the Mob stoned him, he never looked back, but patiently re- 
 ceived their missiles in his face, and on his wounded limb. He had grown 
 patient. 
 
 They tell me, that his features, swarthy and battle-worn, lost every trace 
 of vivacity : they were rigidly fixed ; the lips compressed, the brow calm 
 and unfrowning, wore an expression that no one could read, while his eyes 
 had a wildnesH in their gleam, a fire in their glance, that told somewhat of 
 the supernatural struggle at work within him, the Battle between Arnold's 
 Revenge and Arnold's Pride. 
 
 Who shall tell the horrors of that mental combat ? 
 
 At this time, he brings to mind the Hebrew Giant, Sampson. Yes, Ar- 
 nold imagined that his pursuers had put out the eyes of his honor, and 
 shorn oft' the locks of his strength. He fancied himself brought forth before 
 all America, to make sport for the tricksters and trimmers, in Camp and 
 Congress — the cowardly Philistines of that heroic time. 
 
 His fall had been determined with himself, but he also, resolved that the 
 ruins which were to crush him should neither be small nor insignificant. 
 He was to fall, but he would drag down the temple with him. 
 
 The Ruin should be great and everlasting. He would carve out for him- 
 ss-lf, a monument of eternal infamy, from the rock of his patriot greatness. 
 
 Look yonder, my friends, into the retirement of Arnold's home. 
 
 Not the home in the city, amid the crowded haunts of life, but this man- 
 sion, rising from the summit of a hill, that slopes gently away for a mile, 
 until its grassy breast melts into the embrace of the Schuylkill. 
 
 It is almost a Palace, this beautiful place of Landsdowne, which once 
 occupied by the Penn funnily, is now the retreat of Benedict Arnold. Here, 
 amid these beautiful woods, he hides his sorrow. Here, along these grav- 
 elled walks, beneath the shade of overhanging trees, he paces all day long. 
 Sometimes he gazes on the distant rocks of Laurel Hill. Sometimes he 
 strays by the Schuylkill, and its clear waters mirror his face, lowering with 
 (earful jiassions. At times, secluding himself in these silent chambers, he , 
 utters certain words in a low voice. 
 
 — Fancy the lion of the forest, captured, tied, his limbs, severed one by 
 one, and you have the case of Benedict Arnold. — 
 
ARNOLD AT LANDSDOWNE. 197 
 
 This proud mansion, once rung with the clamor of a Three day's festival. 
 It was when Arnold, recently appointed General in command of Piiiladei- 
 phia, received the French Minister, Monsieur Gerard, For three days, 
 liveries, uniforms, gold, jewels and laces, fluttered and shone, over the wide 
 sweep of this beautiful lawn. The wine ran, day and night, free as the 
 Schuylkill's waves. The mansion, luxuriously furnished, displayed in every 
 room the gaiety of the French Court, combined with the glitter and show 
 of an oriental Divan. Beneath the trees banquets were spread ; on the 
 river, boats, shapen like Venetian gondolas, glided sofdy, freighted with a 
 precious treasure of voluptuous beauty. 
 
 At nio"ht, the wood and the mansion, and the river broke out, all at once 
 'with a blaze of light. It was like a scene of enchantment. 
 
 \nd amid all these scenes, one Woman, pre-eminently beautiful, glided 
 along, her young form, swelling in every vein, with a sense of life, her eyes 
 gleaming passion, pride, fascination. Her long hair waved to her half bared 
 bosom. Her small foot, encased in delicate slipper, bounded in the dance 
 like a feather blown by a gentle wind, so light, so easy, so undulating. 
 Every eye was centred on her form. How often Arnold would stand in the 
 shadow, gazing upon her as she went to and fro, and thinking that all this 
 treasure of warm loveliness, this world of enticing beauty, was his own ! 
 His wife, his newly-married Bride ! 
 
 — But those glorious days were now changed. The guests were gone ; 
 long since gone. Gone the honor, the gold, the friends. Then, the cele- 
 brated Arnold, surrounded by parasites ; now the disgraced Arnold, living 
 alone in these shades, in company with his wife. 
 
 It is of that wife and of her influence that I would speak. — Do you see 
 that lovely woman, clinging to the breast of the stern-browed warrior ? It 
 is the evening hour. Through the window pours the red flush of sunset, bath- 
 ing both forms in rosy light. Those tresses fall over her wiiite shoulders. 
 and along the manly arms which gird her to his heart. 
 
 Do you think he loves her ? Look at his eye, blazing from the shadow 
 of his brow ; that glance surveys her form, and "-nthers a softened fire from 
 her look. And she rests in his arms, just as you have seen a solitary whit 
 lily repose on the bosom of a broad green leaf, which the waves urged 
 gently to and fro. 
 
 She is indeed a beautiful woman — but listen ? What words are these, 
 that she whispers in his ear ? 
 
 Does she tell him how much nobler will be Arnold the Patriot, enshrined 
 in the hearts of his countrymen, than Arnold the Courtier, dancing atten- 
 dance in the ante-ciiamber of King George ? 
 
 Does she — following the example of many an humble country-woman, 
 zhd not like her, in satins and gold, but in plain homespun — place in her 
 Husband's hand, the patriot's sword ? Do those mild blue eyes, looking 
 
198 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 
 
 up into his stem face, gleam with the iioly flame of patriotism or with a 
 base love for the baubles of a Court ? 
 
 Let History answer. 
 
 1 make no charge against the wife of Arnold. May the soJ lay iigiiily 
 on her beautiful frame, which has long since mouldered into dust. Peace 
 to her ashes — if we invoke her memory, it is only for the sake of the terri- 
 ble lesson which it teaches. 
 
 Had she, instead of a King-worshipper, a lover of titles and courts and 
 shows, been a Hero-woman, Arnold might have been saved. But he loved 
 her. She clung to him in his disgrace. When the world frowned, her 
 bosom received his burning brow, and pillowed his torn heart. She was 
 with him in his loneliness. Was it strange, that her voice whispering to 
 him at all hours, should sway his soul with a powerful, nay. an irresistable 
 influence ? 
 
 Imagine him neglected by Congress, disgraced in the camp, pelted in the 
 streets, striding to his home, his heart beating against his breast, like a lion 
 in its cage. There, in his Home, a beautiful girl welcomes him. She, at 
 least, is true. She may have married him because he was so renowned, 
 because he bore his honors with so proud a grace, but now, she is Home, 
 Friend, World to him 
 
 — That single fact should make the flowers grow more beautifully above 
 her grave. — 
 
 She is ambitious. Perchance, when sleeping on his breast, she dreams 
 \)f a royal court, and there, attired in coronet and star, she beholds, — Earl 
 Arnold ! Then when she wakes, bending her lips to his ear, she whispers 
 her dream, and not only a dream, but lays the plan of — Treason. Is it 
 improbable that Arnold was fatally swayed by ihe words of this bewitching 
 wife ? 
 
 Again I repeat, had this wife, instead of a lover of courts and pomps and 
 names, been a Hero-Woman, her heart true to the cause of freedom, her 
 soul beating warmly for Washington and his cause, there would never have 
 been written, on the adamantine column which towers from history — dedi- 
 cated to the memory of Infamous Men the name of — Benedict Arnold. 
 
 Let Woman learn this lesson, and get it by heart. 
 
 The influence of his wife was one of the main causes of Arnold's 
 treason. 
 
 A terrible lesson, to be remembered and told again, when this hand is dust ! 
 
 How did she influence his life ? By forcing herself into the rostrum or 
 the pulpit ? By sharing in the debates of the Congress, the broils of the 
 camp 1 No ? These women who write big books and mount high pulpits, 
 talking theology and science by the hour, never influence anybody. They 
 are admired for the same reason that the mob rushes to see a Mermaid or 
 link from the Sea Serpent's tail. Not on account of the usefulness, biil 
 merely foi <he curiosity of the thing ; for the sake of the show 
 
ARNOLD, THE TRAITOR. I9fl 
 
 It was in the Home, at the Fireside, that the wife of Arnold exercised 
 her bewitching and fatal power! 
 
 And, O, let the Woman of our country, unheeding the silly philanthropy 
 which would force her into the pulpit, or the rostrum, into the clamor of 
 wordy debates, or the broils of political life, remember this great truth : 
 Her influence is by the Fireside. Her world is Home. By the light of 
 that Fireside, she stands a Queen upon her Throne. From that Throne, 
 she can mould man to good or evil — from the Sanctity of her home, she 
 can rule the world. 
 
 — Let us now, in one historical picture, condense three important points 
 of Arnold's career. — 
 
 XII.— ARNOLD, THE TRAITOR. 
 
 There was a night, when an awful agony was passing in the breast of 
 Arnold ; the struggle between Arnold's revenge and Arnokl's pride. 
 
 You have all seen that old house, in Second near Walnut street, which 
 once the Home of William Penn, once the Palace of Benedict Arnold, is 
 now used as a manufactory of Venus De Medicis, and sugar candies. That 
 old house, picturesque in ruins, with battlemented walls and deep-gabled 
 roofs ? 
 
 One night a gorgeously furnished chamber, in that mansion, was illumi- 
 nated by the glare of a bright wood fire. And there, with his back to that 
 fire, — there, looking out upon the western sky, gleaming in deep starlight, 
 stood Benedict Arnold. One hand was laid upon his breast, which throbbed 
 in long deep gasps ; the other held two letters. 
 
 Read tlie superscription of those letters, by the light of the stars ; one is 
 directed to General Washington, the other to Sir Henry Clinton. One an- 
 nounces his acceptance of the command of West Point, the other offers to 
 sell West Point to the British. 
 
 And now look at that massive fare, quivering with revenge, pride and 
 patriotism ; look at that dark eye, gleaming with the horror of a lost soul ; 
 look at that bared throat with the veins swelling like cords ! 
 
 That is the struggle between Arnold the Patriot, and Arnold the Traitor. 
 
 And there, far back in the room, half hidden among silken curtains, silent 
 and thoughtful, sits a lovely woman, her hands clasped, her unbound hair 
 showering down over her shoulders, her large ^jhie eyes glaring wildly upon 
 the fire ! Well may that bosom heave, that eye glare ! For now the wife 
 of Arnold is waiting for the determination of her husband's fate ; now, the 
 darkest shadow is passing over the Dial-plate of his destiny. 
 
 While Arnold stands brooding there, while his wife sits trembling by the 
 fire — without, in the ante-chamber, three persons wait for him. 
 
 One is a base-browed man clad in the blue uniform of the Continentals 
 
200 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 
 
 Turi? that uniform and it is scarlet. That is a British Spy, He is waiting 
 A) bear the letter to Sir Henry Clinton. 
 
 That handsome cavalier, dressed in the extreme of fashi >n, with em- 
 broidered coat, red heeled shoes and powdered hair, is a nobleman of 
 France ; the Ambassador of the French King, the Chevalier De Luzerne. 
 He has come here to listen to the oft'er of Arnold, who wishes to enter the 
 service of the French King. 
 
 The tJiird — look ! A silent and moody red-man of the forest; an Indian 
 chief; wrapped up in his blanket, standing there, proud as a king on his 
 throne. 
 
 He has come from the wilds of the forest in the far northwest, to hearken 
 to the answer of Arnold (the Death Eagle, as the Indians call him,) to 
 their proposition, by which they agree to make him chief of their tribes. 
 
 Now look : the door opens ; the three enter ; Arnold turns and beholds 
 them. 
 
 Then occurs a hurried and a deeply-interesting scene. 
 
 While the wife of Arnold sits trembling by the rire, he advances, and 
 greets the Chevalier De Luzerne : 
 
 " Look ye," he mutters in quick tones, " Your king can have my sword, 
 but mark I I am in debt ; the mob hoot me in the streets ; my creditors are 
 clamorous I must have money !" 
 
 This bold tone of one used to command, little suits the polite Ambassador. 
 
 " My King never buys soldiers !" he whispers with a sneer, and then 
 bowing, politely retires. 
 
 Slung to the quick with this cool insult, Arnold — turning his eyes awaj 
 from the British Spy — salutes the Indian chief — hark ! They converse in 
 (he wild, musical Indian tongue. 
 
 "My brothers are willing to own the Death Eagle as their chief," ex- 
 claims the Indian. " Yet are they afraid, that he loves the pale faces too 
 well " 
 
 "Try my love for the pale faces," — mutters Arnold with a look and ? 
 sneer that makes even the red Indian start. 
 
 The chief resumes : " My brothers who are many — their numbers are as 
 the leaves of the forest — my brothers who sharpen their war-hatchets for 
 the scalp of the pale-face, will ask the Death Eagle to lead them on the 
 towns of the pale-face ; to burn, to kill, till not a single pale-face is left in 
 the land." 
 
 " Try me !" was the hoarse response of Arnold, given with knit brows, 
 and clenched hands. 
 
 " Then shall the Death Eagle become the chief of the red men" — said 
 the Indian — " But his pale face squaw there ! He must leave her ; she can 
 never dwell in the tents of the red men." 
 
 Then it was that Arnold — who had embraced with a gleam of savage do- 
 
ARNOLD. THE TRAITOR. 201 
 
 li^ht, the proposition, to become the chief of a murderous tribe of wild In 
 dians — felt his heart grow cold ! 
 
 Ah \ how he loved that wife ! 
 
 Arnold who in his mad revenge, was willing to sweep the towns of the 
 whiles with torch and knife, quailed at the idea of leaving that fair young 
 
 Wif3. 
 
 " The Death Eagle cannot be your chief!" he said as he turned from the 
 Indian. The red man went from the room with a sneer on his dark face, 
 for the man who could not sacrifice his wife — the loved one of his heart — 
 to that revenge, which was about to stamp his name with eternal scorn. 
 
 ' Now take this letter to Sir Henry Clinton !" gasped Arnold, placing 
 the fatal letter in the hands of the British Spy. And then Arnold and his 
 wife were alone. 
 
 Then that wife — gazing on the noble countenance of her husband, now 
 livid as ashes, — gazing in that dark eye, now wild and rolling in its glance, 
 — gazing on that white lip, that quivered like a dry leaf — then that wife of 
 Arnold trembled as she felt that the dread Rubicon was passed, that Arnold, 
 the Patriot, dead, she sat in the presence of Arnold, the Traitor. 
 
 XIV.— THE FALL OF LUCIFER. 
 
 How often in the lower world, does the tragedy of life, walk side by side 
 with the Common-place ! 
 
 A dark cavern, where no light shines, save the taper flashing from the 
 eyes of hollow skull — a lonely waste where rude granite rocks tossed in 
 fantastic forms, deepen tha midnight horror of the hour — the crash of battle, 
 where ten thousand living men in one moment, are crushed into clay — such 
 are the scenes which the Romancer chooses for the illustration of his Trage- 
 dy, the Historian for his storied page, every line full of breathing interest 
 and life. 
 
 But that the development of a horrible tragedy, should be enacted amid 
 the familiar scenes of Home ? What is more common, what appears more- 
 natural ? 
 
 That the awful tragedy of Arnold's treason, should find its development 
 at a — Breakfast-table ! — Does it not make you laugh ? 
 
 Treason comes to us in history, hooded in a cowl, dagger in hand, the 
 dim light of a taper trembling over its pallid skull. But Treason calmly 
 sitting down to a quiet breakfiist, the pleasant smile upon his face, hiding 
 the canker of his heart, the coffee — that fragrant intensifier of the brain — 
 smoking like sweet incense, as it imparts its magnetism from the lip to lli<; 
 soul — Treason with a wife on one side, a baby laughing on his knei; ! 
 Does it not seem to mingle the ridiculous with the sublime, or worse, tfio 
 dull Common-place with the Demoniac ? 
 
 And yet, there is nothing under Heavtn more terribly true ! Search 
 
202 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 
 
 history, aiul you will find a thousand instances, where the most terrible 
 events— things that your blood congeals but to read — were mingled with 
 the dullest facts of every-day life. 
 
 — While the head of Mary Queen of Scots, falls bleeding on the sawdust 
 of the scaffold, every vein of that white neck, which Kings had deemed it 
 Paradise to touch, pouring forth its separate stream of blood, in yonder 
 chamber Queen Elizabeth, the sweet Jezebel of the English throne, is 
 adding aaother tint to the red paint on her cheek, and breaking her looking 
 glass, because it cannot make her beautiful! 
 
 Napoleon, flying from the field of Waterloo, where he had lost a World, 
 pauses in his flight to drink some miserable soup, made by a peasant, in the 
 hollow of a battered helmet ! 
 
 General Nash, riding to the bloody surprise of Germantown, from which 
 he was to come back a mangled corse, turns to Washington, and gravely 
 apologizes for the absence of powder from his hair, cambric rufiies from 
 his wrists 1 
 
 We might multiply our illustrations of the fact, by a thousand othe*- 
 instances. 
 
 Yet am.ong them all, that Development of Arnold's Treason, which took 
 place at a Breakfast-table, has ever seemed to us most«terrible 
 
 Yonder in Robinson's House, which you behold among the trees, on the 
 sublime heights of the Hudson, opposite the .cliffs of West Point, the Break- 
 fast-party are assembled. 
 
 The blessed sunshine of an autumnal morning, which turns the Hudson's 
 waves to molten gold, and lights the rugged rocks of West Point with a 
 smile of glory, also shines through these windows, and reveals the equip- 
 age of the breakfast-table, the faces of the guests. 
 
 Why need I tell you of the antique furniture of that comfortable room, or 
 describe the white cloth, the cups of transparent porcelain, or the cumbrously 
 carved coffee urn, fashioned of solid silver ? These things are very com- 
 mon-place, and yet even the coffee urn becomes somewhat interesting, when 
 we remember that its polished silver reflects the bronzed features of a 
 Traitor ? 
 
 That traitor sits near the head of the table, his imposing form attired in a 
 bhie coat, glittering with buttons and epaulettes of gold, a buff vest, ruffles, 
 and neckcloth of cambric. That face whose massive features have glowed 
 with demoniac passions, is now calm as marble. The hand which has 
 grasped the Sword of Quebec and Saratoga, now lifts a porcelain cup. And 
 yet looking very closely you may see the hand tremble, the features 
 shadowed by a gloom, not th,e less impressive, because it is almost im- 
 perceptible. 
 
 Near the General are seated two young officers, his aids-de-camp, whose 
 
THE FALL OF LUCIFER. 20:-( 
 
 ■Icrder form do not conceal a coward thought. Their eyes wander from 
 the form of the General, to the figure by his side. 
 
 That figure, the most beautiful tiling out of Paradise — a young wife, with 
 a biby nesding on her bosom ! , 
 
 At the head of the table she is seen ; her form now ripened into its per- 
 fect bloom, negligently attired in a loose robe, whose careless folds cannot 
 hide the whiteness of her neck, or the faultless contour of that half-bared arm. 
 
 And the child that sleeps upon her full bosom, its tiny hands wound 
 among the tresses of her golden hair, is very beautiful. The Darkness of 
 its Father's Crime, has not yet shadowed its cherub face. 
 
 Arnold is silent. Ever and again from the shadows of his deep drawn 
 brows, he gazes upon her, his wife ! Upon the burden of her breast, that 
 smiling child. 
 
 How much has he risked for them ! 
 
 Her eye of deep melting blue, first trembles over the face of the infant, 
 and then surveys her husband's visage. O, the fearful anxiety of that mo- 
 mentary gaze ! Does she fear for the future of her babe ? Shall he be the 
 ,heir of Arnold the Earl ? Does she the child of wealth and luxury, lapped from 
 her birth in soft aitire, for a moment fancy that Arnold himself, was once a 
 friendless babe, pressed to the agonized bosom of a poor and pious woman ? 
 — Ere we listen to the conversation of the Breakfast-table, let its approach 
 these windows, and behold the scene without. 
 
 Not upon the beautiful river, nor the far extending mountains, will we 
 gaze. No ! There are certain sights which at once strike our eye, 
 
 A warrior's horse stands saddled by the door. 
 
 Yonder far down the river, the British Flag streams from the British 
 Ship, Vulture. To the north-west, we behold the rocks and clifl's of West 
 Point. 
 
 Let us traverse this northern road, until having passed many a quiet nook 
 we stand upon the point, where a narrow path descends to the river. 
 
 From the green trees, a brilliant cavalcade bursts into view Yonder 
 rock arises from the red earth of the road, overshadowed by a clump of 
 chesnut trees. A General and his retinue mounted on gallant steeds come 
 swiftly on, their uniforms glittering, their plumes waving in the light. 
 
 It is Washington, attended by La Fayette and Knox, with the other 
 heroes of his band. In this gallant company, need you ask which is the 
 form of the American Chief? 
 
 He rides at the head of his Generals, his chivalric face glowing with the 
 freshness of the morning air. By his side a slender youth with a high fore- 
 head and red hair — La Fayette ! Then a bkiflf General, with somewhat 
 corpulent form and round good-humored face — General Knox. And on the 
 right hand of Washington, mounted on a splendid black horse, whose dark 
 s.des are whitened by snowy flakes of foam, rides a young man, not re 
 markable for heighth or majesty of tigure, but his bold high forehead awes 
 
204 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 
 
 his deep-set eyes, flashing with genius, win and enchain you. It is young 
 Alexander Hamilton. 
 
 As we look at this gallant cavalcade, so gloriously bursting into view 
 from the shadows of these green trees, let us listen to La Fayette, who 
 gently lays his hand on the arm of Washington. 
 
 — '• General, you are taking the wrong way," he says, in his broken accent 
 — " That path leads us to the river. This is the road to Robinson's 
 House. You know we are engaged to breakfast at General Arnold's head- 
 quarters ?■' 
 
 A cheerful smile overspread Washington's face — 
 
 "Ah, I see how it is!" he said, alternately surveying La Fayette and 
 Hamilton — " You young men, ha, ha ! are all in love with Mrs. Arnold, and 
 wish to get where she is, as soon as possible. You may go and take 
 breakfast with her, and tell her not to wait for me. I must ride down and 
 examine the redoubts on this side of the river, and will be there in a short 
 time !" 
 
 The officers however, refuse to take advantage of their General's kind 
 permission. Two aids-de-camp are sent forward to announce Washington's 
 return from Hartford, where he had been absent for some days, on a visit 
 to Count De Rochambeau. — In the meantime, the Chief and his retinue 
 disappear in the shadows of the narrow path leading to the river. 
 
 The aids de-camp arrive, announce the return of Washington, and take 
 thsir seats beside Mrs. Arnold, at the breakfast-table. 
 
 " The General is well ?" asked that beautiful woman, with a smile that 
 revealed the ivory whiteness of her teeth. 
 
 " Never in better spirits in his life. Our visit to Hartford, was a re- 
 markably pleasant one — By the bye. General," — turning abruptly to Arnold 
 — " What think you of the rumor now afloat, in reference to West Point?" 
 
 The porcelain cup, about to touch Arnold's lip, was suddenly stopped in 
 its progress. As the sunlight pours in uncertain gleams over his forehead, 
 you can see a strange gloom overshadow his face. 
 
 " Rumor? West Point ?" he echoed in his deep voice. 
 
 " Yes — " hesitated the aid-de-camp — " On our way home, we heard 
 3omething of an intended attack on West Point, by Sir Henry Clinton — " 
 
 The smile that came over Arnold's face, was remembered for many a 
 day, by those who saw it. 
 
 " Pshaw ! What nonsense ! These floating rumors are utterly ridicu- 
 'ous ! Sir Henry Clinton meditate an attack on West Point ? He may be 
 weak, or crazy, but not altogether so mad as that !" 
 
 The General sipped his colfee, and the conversation took another turn. 
 
 The latest fashion of a lady's dress — whether the ponderous head-gear 
 i( ttiat *ime, would be succeeded by a plainer style — the amusements of 
 
THE PALL OF LUCIFER. 205 
 
 the British in New York, their balls, banquets and gala d;iys — sncn were 
 the subjects of conversation. 
 
 Never had the wife o( Arnold appeared so beautiful. Her eyes oeaming 
 :n liquid light, her white hand and arm moving in graceful gesture, her hair 
 now floating gently over her cheek, now waving back in all its glossy love- 
 liness, from her stainless neck her bosom heaving softly beneath its beloved 
 burden, that peerless woman gave utterance to all the treasures of her mu- 
 sical voice, her bold and vivacious intellect. 
 
 Arnold was silent all the while. 
 
 Suddenly the sound of horses' hoofs — the door flung rudely ojien — a 
 soldier appears, covered from head to foot with dust and mud, and holding 
 a letter in his hand. 
 
 "Whence come you ?" said Arnold, quietly sipping his coffee, while his 
 eye assumed a deeper light, and the muscles of his face suddenly contracted, 
 — " From whom is that letter?" 
 
 " I came from North Castle — that letter's from Colonel Jamison." — The 
 Messanger sank heavily in a chair, as though tired almost to death. 
 
 Arnold took the letter, broke the seal, and calmly read it. Calmly, al- 
 though every word was fire, although the truth which it contained, was 
 like a voice from the grave, denouncing eternal woe upon his head. 
 
 You can see the wife centre her anxious gaze upon his face. Still he is 
 calm. There is one deep respiration heaving his broad chest, beneath his 
 General's uniform, one dark shadow upon his face. — as terrible as it is 
 brief — and then, arising with composed dignity, he announces, that sudden 
 intelligence required his immediate attendance at West Point. 
 
 " Tell General Washington when he arrives, that I am unexpectedly 
 railed to West Point, but will return very soon." 
 
 He left the room. 
 
 In an instant a servant in livery entered, and whispered in Mrs. Arnold's 
 ear — " The General desires to see you, in your chamber." 
 
 She rose, with her babe upon her bosom, she slowly passed from the 
 room. Slowly, for her knees bent beneath her, and the heart within her 
 bieast contracted, as though crushed by a vice. Now on the wide stairway, 
 she toils towards her chamber, her face glowing no longer with roses, but 
 pale as death, her fingers convulsively clutching her child. 
 
 O, how that simple message thrills her blood ! " The General desires 
 to see you, in your chamber !" 
 
 She stands before the door, afraid to enter. She hears her husband pace 
 the room with heavy strides. At last gathering courage, she enters. 
 
 Arnold stands by the window, with the morning light upon his brow. 
 From a face, darkened by all the passions of a fiend, two burning eyes, 
 ileep set, beneath overhanging brows, glare in her face. 
 
 She totters towards him. 
 
 For a moment he gazes upon her in silence. 
 
JOB BENEDICT ARNOLD. 
 
 She does not breathe a word, but tremblinir to him, f.s though unconscious 
 of the action, hfts her babe before his eyes. 
 
 " VVife — " he exclaimed, in a voice that was torn from his very heart— 
 " All is lost !" 
 
 He flung his manly arms about her form — one pressure of his bosom, 
 one kiss upon her lips — he seizes the babe, kisses it u'ith wild frenzy, flings 
 it upon the bed, and rushes from the room. 
 
 Then the wife of Arnold spread forth her arms, as though she stood on 
 the verge of an awful abyss, and with her eyes swimming in wild light, fell 
 heavily to the floor. 
 
 She laid there, motionless as death ; the last fierce pulsation which 
 swelled from her heart, had burst the fastening of her robe, and her white 
 bosom gleamed like cold marble, in the morning light, 
 
 Arnold hurries down the stairs, passes through the drawing room, mounts 
 the saddled horse at the door, and dashes toward the river. 
 
 Awaking from her swoon, after the lapse of many minutes, the wife 
 arises, seeks her babe again. Stdl it sleeps ! What knows it, the sinless 
 child, of the fearful Tragedy of that hour ? The Mother passes her hand 
 over tier brow, now hot as moUen lead ; she endeavors to recal the memory 
 of thai scene ! All is dim, confused, dark, She approaches the window. 
 Far down the river, the British Flag floating from the Vulture, waves in 
 the light. 
 
 There is a barge upon the waters, propelled by the steady arms of six 
 oarsmen. How beautifully it glides along, now in the shadow of the moun- 
 tains, now over the sunshiny waves ! In the stern stands a figure, holding 
 a white flag above his head. Yes, as the boat moves toward the British 
 ship, the white flag defends it from the fire of American cannon, at Ver- 
 planck's point. As you look the barge glides on, it passes the point, it 
 nears the Vulture, while the ripples break around its prow. 
 
 Did the eye of the wife once wander from that erect figure in the stern I 
 
 Ah, far over the waters, she gazes on that figure ; she cannot distinguish 
 the features of that distant face, but her heart tells her that it is — Arnold ! 
 
 — In the history of ages, I know no picture so full of interest, as this — 
 
 The Wife of Arnold, gazing from the window of her home, upon the 
 barge, which bears her Husband to the shelter of the British flag ! 
 
 It was now ten o'clock, on the morning of the 25th of September, 1780. 
 
 Soon Washington approached Robinson's house, and sat down with 
 Hamilton and La Fayette, to the Breakfast table. He was told that Arnold 
 had been called suddenly to West Point. After a hurried breakfast, he 
 resolved to cross the river, and meet his General at the fortress. After 
 this interview it was his purpose to return to dinner. Leaving Hamilton 
 it the house, he hastened to the river. 
 
THE FALL OF LUCIFER. 807 
 
 In a few moments the barge rippled gently over the waves. Washingtoa 
 gazed upon the sublime cliffs all around him, upon the smooth expanse of 
 water, which rested like a mirror, in its mountain frame, and then gaily 
 exclaimed : 
 
 " I am glad that General Arnold has preceded us. He will receive us 
 with a salute. The roar of cannon is always delightful, but never so grand 
 as when it is re-echoed among the gorges of these mountains." 
 
 The boat glided on toward the opposite shore. No sound of cannon 
 awoke the silence of the hills. Doubtles, Arnold was preparing some plea- 
 sant surprise. Nearer and nearer to the beach glided the barge. Still no 
 salute. 
 
 " What !" exclaimed Washington — " Do they not intend to salute us ?" 
 
 As the barge grated on the yellow sand, an officer in the Continental 
 uniform, was seen on the rocks above : 
 
 He was not prepared for the reception of such visitors, and hoped that he 
 would be excused for any apparent neglect, in not having placed the garrison 
 in proper condition for a military inspection and review. 
 
 " What ? Is Arnold not here ?" exclaimed Washington, as he leaped 
 upon the beach. 
 
 " He has not been here within two days, nor have I heard from him 
 within that time !" replied the officer. 
 
 Washington uttered an exclamation of surprise, and then for a moment 
 stood wrap[)ed in thought, the sheath of his sword sinking in the sand as he 
 unconsciously pressed his hand upon the hilt. 
 
 Did the possibility of a Treason, so dark in its details, so tremendous in 
 its general outline, burst upon him, in that moment of thought? 
 
 Soon he took his way up the rocks, and followed by his officers, devoted 
 some three hours to an examination of the works of West Point. 
 
 It was near 4 o'clock in the afternoon, when he returned to Robinson's 
 house. 
 
 As the company pursued the path leading from the river to the house, 
 an officer appeared, his countenance stamped with deep anxiety, his step 
 quickened into irregular footsteps. There was an unimaginable horror 
 written on his face. 
 
 That officer was Alexander Hamilton. 
 
 As Washington paused in the roadside, he approached and whispered a 
 few words, inaudible to the rest of the party. 
 
 Neither La Fayette or Knox heard these words, but they saw that ex- 
 pression of horror reflected from Hamilton's visage to the face of Washing- 
 ton, and felt their hearts impressed with a strange awe. As a dim, vague 
 forboding thrilled from heart to heart, the party approached the house. 
 
 Washington beckons La Fayette and Knox to his side : 
 
 " These letters and papers, despatched to me two days since, by Colonci 
 Jamison of North Castle reveal a strange truth, gentlemen. — We journeyed 
 
208 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 
 
 Ui Hartford by the lower road, but returned by the uppe'. Therefore, the 
 messenger has been chasing us for two days, and the information has not 
 reached me until this morning. — The truth gentlemen, is plain — General 
 Arnold is a Traitor. Adjutant General Andre — of the British army — a 
 
 SPY !" 
 
 La Fayette sank into a chair, as though the blood had forsaken his heart. 
 Knox uttered an involuntary oath. 
 
 Then the agony which was silently working its way through the soul 
 of Washington — leaving his face calm as marble — manifested itself in these 
 words : 
 
 " Whom," he whispered, quietly folding the papers, — " Whom can we 
 
 TRUST NOW ?" 
 
 Hamilton immediately started, on the fleetest horse, for Verplanck's, 
 point his intention being to intercept the Traitor. He returned in the course 
 of an hour, not with the Traitor, but with a letter headed " His Majesty's 
 Ship, Vulture, Sept. 25, 1780," directed to Washington, and signed " Bene- 
 dict Arnold." 
 
 Meanwhile a strange, aye, we may well say it, a terrible interview took 
 place at Robinson's house. 
 
 The actors — Washington and the wife of Arnold. 
 
 The General ascended the stairs leading to her chamber. He was met 
 at the threshhold by a strange apparition. A beautiful woman, with her 
 dishevelled hair floating over her bared bosom, her dress flowing round her 
 form in disordered folds, her white arms convulsively clutching her fright- 
 ened babe. 
 
 The tears streamed down her cheeks. 
 
 " Do not harm my child !" she said, in a voice that brought tears to the 
 eyes of Washington — " He has done no wrong ! The father may be guilty, 
 but the child is innocent ! O, I beseech you, wreak your vengeance on me, 
 but do not harm my babe !' ' 
 
 " Madam, there is no one that dares lay the finger of harm, on yourself 
 or your child !" replied Washington. 
 
 You can see this lovely woman turn; she places the babe upon the bed ; 
 she confronts Washington with heaving breast and flashing eyes : 
 
 " Murderer !" she cried, " Do not advance ! You shall not touch the 
 babe ! I know you — know your plot to tear that child from a Mother's 
 breast, but I defy you !" 
 
 Strange words these, but a glance convinced Washington, that the wife 
 of Arnold stood before him, not calm and collected, but with the light of 
 madness glaring from her blue eyes. 
 
 She stood erect, regarding him with that blazing eye, that defiant look. 
 
 " O, shame !" she cried, curling her proud lip in scorn — " A warrior like 
 you, to harm an innocent babe ! Wreak your vengeance on me I am 
 ready to bear it all. But the child — what has he ever done ?" 
 
THE FALL OF LUCIFER. 209 
 
 Her voice softened as she spoke these last words : she bent forward with 
 I look of beseeching eloquence. 
 
 " On my word, I will protect you and your babe !" said Washington, 
 and his voice grew tremulous with emotion. 
 
 For a moment, she stood before him calm and beautiful, even with her 
 disordered robes and loosened tresses, but that moment gone, the light of 
 madness blazed again from her eyes. 
 
 " Murderer !" she exclaimed, again, and grasped his arm, with a clutch 
 like the last effort of the dying ; but as she spoke, her face grew paler, her 
 bosom ceased to beat ; she dashed the thickly clustered tresses from her 
 face, and fell to the floor. 
 
 The only signs of life which she exhibited, were a tremulous motion of 
 the fingers, a slight quivering of the nether lip. Her eyes wide open, glared 
 in the face of Washington. Then, from those lips, whose beauty iiad been 
 sung by poets, celebrated by warriors, pressed by the Traitor, started a 
 white foam, spotted with drops of blood. 
 
 And the babe upon the bed, with its face baptized in the light of the set- 
 ting sun, smiled playfully as it clapped its tiny hands and tried to grasp the 
 fleeting beams. 
 
 Washington stood beside the unconscious woman : his face was con- 
 vulsed with feeling. The tears started from his eyes. 
 
 " May God help you, and protect your babe !" he said, and hurried from 
 the room. 
 
 What mean these strange scenes, occurring on this 25th of Sept., 1780 ? 
 What were the contents of the letter which Arnold received at the Breakfast 
 table? Can you tell what Revelations were those comprised in the letters 
 and papers which Washington perused, on the afternoon of this interesting 
 day ? 
 
 Who was John Andre ? 
 
 Was the Wife of Arnold a Partner in the work of Treason ? 
 
 The first question must be answered by another picture, painted on the 
 shadows of the Past. 
 
 Ere we survey this picture, let us glance for a moment, at tiie last scene 
 of that fatal day. 
 
 While the Wife lay cold and senseless, there, in the chamber of her des- 
 olated home, tlie State Room of the Vulture presented a scene of some 
 interest. 
 
 The British ship was gliding over the Hudson, its dishonored flag tinted 
 by the Inst beam of the setting sun. On the soft cushions of the State 
 room sofa, was seated a man, with his throat bared, his brow darke; ed, 
 every line of his face distorted by passion. His eyes were fixed upon an 
 object, which rested on the Turkish carpet at his feet. 
 
 'i fiat man, the Hero of the Wilderness, whose glory had burst upon nia 
 
210 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 
 
 jountry, with the bewildering splendor of the Aurora, which Hushes thb 
 northern sky with dies of matchless beauty — Benedict Arnold. 
 
 That object was an unsheathed sword — the sword of Quebec and Sar- 
 atoga. 
 
 XV— THE TULIP-POPLAR; 
 
 OR 
 
 THE POOR MEN HEROES OF THE REVOLUTION. 
 
 One fine morning in the fall of 1780, seven men went out by the roadside 
 to watch for robbers ! 
 
 It was two days before the scene of the Breakfast table. 
 
 Four of these men concealed themselves in the bushes on the summit of a 
 high hill. 
 
 Three of their comrades sat down under a large poplar tree — some hun- 
 dred yards to the northward — for a pleasant game at cards. 
 
 These are plain sentences, telling simple facts, yet on these simple facts 
 hinged the destiny of George Washington, the Continental Army, and the 
 cause of freedom. 
 
 Let us go yonder into the hollow, where the highway, descending a hill, 
 crosses a gentle brook, ascends the opposite hill, and is lost to view among 
 the trees to the south. On either side of the road, darkens the foliage of 
 the forest trees, scarcely tinged by the breath of autumn. 
 
 This gentle brook, tossing and murmuring on its way, is surmounted bj 
 a bridge of rade pine planks, defended on either side by a slender railing. 
 
 A dark-brown horse stands champing the bit and tossing his black mane 
 in the centre of the bridge, while his dismounted rider bends over yondei 
 railing, and gazes down into the brooklet with a vacant stare. 
 
 Let us look well upon that traveller. The manly form, enveloped in a 
 blue overcoat, the young brow, surmounted by a farmer's round hat, the 
 undercoat of a rich scarlet hue, with gold buttons and tinselled trinkets, the 
 well polished boots, all display the mingled costume of a yeoman and a 
 soldier. 
 
 His rich brown hair tosses aside from his brow : his dark hazel eye 
 grows glassy with thought : his cheek is white and red by turns. Now his 
 lip is compressed, and now it quivers. Look ! He no longer leans upon 
 the railing, no longer gazes down into the dark waters, but pacing hurriedly 
 up and down the rustic bridge, displaying the elegance of his form, the 
 beauty of his manly face, to the light of day. 
 
 The sun is seen by intervals through tiie tops of these eastern trees : the 
 song of birds is in the woods ; the air comes freighted with the rich odours 
 of fall. It is a beautiful morning. Light, feathery clouds floating overhead, 
 only serve to relieve the clear blue of the autumnal sky. 
 
 \t is a beautiful morning, but the young traveller feels not the breez>i 
 cares not for the joyous beam. Nor do those wreaths of autumnal misi, 
 
THE TULIP-POPLAR. 5M 
 
 nanpmg in graceful festoons among the tall forest trees, arrest the glance of 
 {•/« iiazel eye. 
 
 He paces along the bridge. Now he lays his hand upon the mane of hw 
 horse ; now hastily buttons his overcoat, as if to conceal the undercoat of 
 -laret, with its handsome gold buttons ; and at last, pausing in the centre 
 of the bridge, he clasps his hands, and gazes absently upon the rough planks. 
 
 Well may tliat man that paces the bridge, thus clasping his hands, thus 
 stand like marble, with his dark hazel eyes glassy with thought. 
 
 For he is a Gambler. 
 
 He has matched his life against a glittering boon — the sword of a General. 
 The game he plays is — Treason — if he wins, an army is betrayed, a Gene- 
 ral captured, a Continent lost. If he loses, he dies on the gallows, with 
 the rope about his neck, and the bandage over his eyes. 
 
 Was he not a bold Gambler ? 
 
 He has been far into the enemy's country. Over the river, up the rocks, 
 and into the secret chamber. With the Traitor he has planned the Trea- 
 son. Now he is on his way home again to the city, where his General 
 awaits him, trembling with suspense. 
 
 Is that not a handsome boot on his right foot? I do not allude so much 
 to the heavy tops, nor to the polished surface, but to the glove-like nicety 
 with which it envelopes the manly leg. That boot contains the fortress of 
 West Point, the liberty of George Washington, the safety of the Continental 
 Army ! An important boot,' you will admit, and well adapted to create 
 fever in his mind who wears it. 
 
 One question is there before the mind of that young traveller : Can he 
 pass unmolested to the city of New York? 
 
 He has come far on his journey ; he has passed through perils that 
 chilled his blood, and now thirty miles alone remain. But thirty miles of 
 neutral ground, ravaged by robbers from both armies, who plunder the 
 American because he is not a Briton, and rob the Briton because he is not 
 an American. 
 
 This is a thrilling question. 
 
 Those papers in his boot, once transferred to Sir Henry Clinton, this 
 young gentleman will be rewarded with a General's commission. 
 
 As this brilliant thought passes over his mind, there comes another 
 thought, sad, sweet, tender. 
 
 The little sitting room yonder in England, where his fair-haired sister, 
 and his sister with the flowing dark tresses, are seated by the mother's 
 knee, talking of him, their absent brother ! O, it is sweet to dream by 
 night, but sweeter far, to dream by day, with the eyes wide open. A beau- 
 titul dream ! That old familiar room, with oaken wa.nscot and antit^uc 
 furniture ; the mother, with her placid face, venerable vvitii grey hair ; ifce 
 fair girls now blushing and ripening into women ! 
 
 Ke will return home ; yes, they shall hear his manly sten. Tbey ahaU 
 
?1"2 BENEDICT ARNOT,D. 
 
 :00k from the door, and instead of the untitled Cadet, behold the ienovrnt4 
 General. The thought tires his souL 
 
 He gives his fears to the wind. For he is a brave man, but now :iif is 
 afraid, for he is doing a coward's work, and feels a coward's pangs. 
 
 He springs on his horse, and with Washington, West Point, and the Con- 
 tinental Army in his right boot, he passes on his way. 
 
 Let us go up yonder hill before him. What is this we see ? 
 ( hree men seated beneath a tree playing cards ! Alone and magnificent 
 stands that Tulip-Poplar, its broad limbs extending at least forty feet from 
 the trunk, and that trunk six feet in diameter. Such a tree you may not 
 fiee in a life-time. A trunk, like the column of some Druid Temple, hewn 
 of granite rock, a shade like the shelter of some colossal war-tent. How the 
 broad green leaves toss to and fro to the impulse of the breeze ! 
 
 It stands somewhat aside from the road, separated from the trees of 
 yonder wood. 
 
 While these men pass the cards and fill the air with the song and laugh, 
 let us draw near. 
 
 That small man, leaning forward, with the smile on his lips, is named 
 Williams. He is near forty years of age, as you can see by the intricate 
 wrinkles on his face. His costume, a plain farmer's dress, with belt and 
 powder horn. By his side, reclining on the ground, a man of large frame, 
 stalward arms, broad chest, also leans forward, his eyes fixed upon the game. 
 He is named Van Wert. His face, dogged and resolute in its expression, 
 gives you an idea of his character. The third, a tall, well-formed man of 
 some twenty years, with an intelligent countenance and dark eye, is dressed 
 in a faded British uniform. He is at once the most intelligent and soldier- 
 like man of the company. His name is Paulding. 
 
 Their rifles are laid against the trunk of the tulip-poplar. Here we have 
 them, intent upon their game, lauo-hing in careless glee, now and then sing- 
 ing a camp song, while the cards move briskly in their fingers. 
 
 All at once the party turned their faces to the north. The sound of 
 a horse's hoof struck on their ears. 
 
 " Here comes a stranger !" exclaimed Van Wert, with a marked Dutch 
 accent, " A fine, gentleman-like man. Hey, Paulding ? Had not we better 
 stop him ?" 
 
 Paulding sprancr <o his feet. He beheld our young traveller riding slowly 
 toward 'he iree. In a moment he was in the highway, intently regardmg 
 th ■ stranger, whom he surveyed with a meaning glance. 
 
 As his iorse reached the poplar tree, Williams sprang forward and seized 
 the reins yliile Paulding presented his rifle to the breast of the young man. 
 
 " Stano " he exclaimed, in a deep, sonorous voice, *' Which way ?" 
 
 For a moment the stranger gazed in the face of the =oldier, who stoO 
 before him, clad in a British uniform. A shade of doubt, inquiry. Jeai 
 passed over his handsome face. 
 
THE TULIP POPLAR. 213 
 
 " (Gentlemen," said he, in a voice which struck their ears with its tones 
 of music, " I hope you belong to our party ?" 
 
 " Which party ?" ashed Paulding. 
 
 " The Lower Party .'" returned the traveller. 
 
 A. smile darted over Paulding's face. 
 
 " So do I,'' said he, still keeping his rifle at the breast of the unknown. 
 
 * I am a British officer !" exclaimed the young man, rising proudly in his 
 stirrups, as he displayed a gold watch in his extended hand. " 1 trust that 
 you will know better than to detain me, when you learn that I am out ot 
 the country on particular business." 
 
 The three soldiers started. The athletic Van Wert advanced to the side 
 of Williams, and seized the other bridle rein. Paulding smiled grimly. 
 
 " Dismount !" he said, pointing the rifle at the very heart of the stranger, 
 who gazed (rom t'ace to face with a look of wonder. 
 
 " My God !" said he, gaily, with a faint laugh, " I suppose I must do 
 anything to pass." 
 
 He drew from his breast a paper, which he extended to Paulding. The 
 other soldiers look over their comrade's shoulder as he read it aloud : 
 
 Head Quarters, Robinsori's House, Sept'r 22d, 1780. 
 Permit Mr. John Anderson to pass the Guards to the White Plains, or below 
 if he cliooses. He being on Public Business by my Direction. 
 
 B. Arnold, M. Gen. 
 
 " Now," said the bearer of this passport, as he dismounted, " I hope you 
 will permit me to pass. You will risk a great deal by detaining me. Gene- 
 ral Arnold will not lightly overlook my detention, I assure you !" 
 
 Paulding, with the paper in his hand, turned to his comrades, who, with 
 surprise in their faces, uttered some hurried words, inaudible to the stranger. 
 
 " You see, sir, Fd let you pass," said Paulding, " but there's so many 
 bafl people about, Fm afeerd you might be one of them. Besides, Mister 
 Anderson, how came you, a British officer, in possession of this pass from 
 an American General?^' 
 
 For the first time the face of the stranger was clouded. His lip was 
 tightly compressed, as though he was collecting all the resources of his 
 mind. 
 
 " Why do you wear a British uniform ?" he exclaimed, pointing to Paul- 
 ding's dress. 
 
 " Why you see, the tories and robbers belongin' to your army, would not 
 let me live a peaceable life until I enlisted under your king. I staid in New 
 York until I could escape, which 1 did one fine day, with this uniform on 
 my back. Here I am, on neutral ground, but an American to the backbone !" 
 
 " Come, Mister," exclaimed Williams, " You may as well walk into tne 
 bushes ; we want to sarch you." 
 
 Without a word, the stranger suffered them to lead him under the .shade 
 
214 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 
 
 ot yonder wood. In a moment he stood on a mossy sod, with a leafy 
 canopy overhead. Around him, with suspicion, wonder, curiosity, stamped 
 on their faces, stood Paulding, Williams, and Van Wert. 
 
 He was calm, that unknown man; not a flush was on his face, not a 
 frown upon his brow. Yet his hazel eye glanced from face to face with a 
 looli of deep anxiety. 
 
 They took the overcoat, the coat of claret hue, glittering with tinsel, the 
 nankin and flannel waistcoats, nay, the ruflled shirt itsflf, from his form, 
 and yet no evidence of his character in the shape of written or printed paper 
 met their eyes. At last his boots, his under-garments, all save his stock- 
 mgs, were removed ; yet still no paper, no sign of mystery or treason was 
 revealed. 
 
 He stood in that silent recess, with all the proud beauty of that form — 
 which, in its manliness of chest, grace of limb, elegance of outline, rivalled 
 the Apollo of the Sculptor's dream — laid bare to the light. His brown curls, 
 tossed to the impulse of the breeze, about his face and brow. His arm^s 
 were folded across his breast, as he gazed in the soldier's faces. 
 
 " Your stockings, if you please," said Paulding, bending down at the 
 officer's feet. The stocking of the right foot was drawn, and lo ! three 
 carefully folded papers, placed next the sole of the foot, were disclosed. In 
 a moment the other stocking, and three papers more. 
 
 Th.e young man shook with a sudden tremor. 
 
 One burst of surprise echoed from the soldiers as they opened the papers. 
 
 The stranger had one hope ! They were but rude men ; they might not 
 be able to read the papers, but that hope was vain, for in a clear, bold voice 
 Paulding gave their fatal secret to the air. 
 
 Artillery orders, showing how the garrison of West Point should be dis- 
 posed of in case of an alarm ; an estimate of the force of the fortress ; an 
 estimate of the number of men, requisite to man the works ; a return of the 
 ordnance ; remarks on the strength and weakness of the various works, a 
 report of a council of war lately at head quarters, concerning the campaign, 
 which Washington had sent to Arnold — such were the secrets of these 
 papers, all in the undisguised hand writing of Benedict Arnold. 
 
 It is in vain to picture the dismay which was stamped upon each soldier's 
 face, as word by word, they spelled out and guessed out the terrible treach- 
 ery, which, to their plain minds, seemed to hang over these letters. 
 
 The young man — now their prisoner — stood silent, but pale as death. 
 For a moment all his fortitude seemed to have forsaken him. 
 
 At last, laying his hands on Paulding's arms, he said, in tremulous tones 
 
 " Take my watch, my horse, my purse — all I have — only let me go !" 
 
 This was a terrible temptation for three poor men, who, living in a land 
 demoralized by war, where neither property nor life was safe for an hour 
 had never, in all their lives, owned such a fine horse, elegant golc* wiU;h, 
 or purse of yellow guineas. 
 
THE TULIP.POPLAR. 215 
 
 For a moment Paulding was silent, his manly fare wore a hesitating look. 
 " Will you gif us any ting else ?" said Van Wert, with a strong Dutch 
 •ccent. 
 
 " Yes, I will make each man of you rich for life," repeated the young 
 man, his manner growing more urgent, while his face was agitated with 
 emotion. — " Lands — dry-goods — money, to enable you to live independent 
 of the world — anything you like, only let me go !'' 
 
 Poor fellow ! His tones were tremulous. He was only pleading not for 
 a free passage, but for life, and a— Generalship. A terribly distinct vision 
 of his mother and sisters flashed over his soul. 
 
 "But, Mister," exclaimed Williams, " How are we to know that you'll 
 keep your word ?" 
 
 " I will stay here until you go into the city and return !" was the response 
 of the prisoner. 
 
 Paulding was yet silent, with a shade of gloom on his brow, while Van 
 Wert and Williams looked in one another's face. The prisoner, with agonv 
 quivering in every feature, awaited their reply. 
 
 " Dress yourself," muttered Paulding, in a rough voice. 
 " Then you consent.you will let me go ?" eagerly exclaimed the diguised 
 officer. 
 
 Paulding made no reply. 
 Slowly he resumed his apparel. 
 
 He then looked around, as if to read his doom in the faces of these 
 rude men. 
 
 For they were rude men. It was an awful time of fear, doubt, murder, 
 that era of 1780. No man could trust his neighbor. This thirty miles of 
 neutral ground was as much under the control of law as the Desert of Ara- 
 bia. These men had felt the hand of British wrong ; they had been robbed, 
 ill-treated, trampled under foot by British power. 
 
 Here was a chance to make them all rich men. The young man's words 
 were fair. He would remain a prisoner until they had tested his truth, by 
 going to New York. They knew that some strange mystery hung about 
 his path ; they guessed that his escape would bring danger to Washington, 
 But more than this, they could neither know nor guess. 
 
 Admit, as some have urged, that these men were robbers, who came out 
 this fine morning of September, to try their fortune on the highway, and 
 the case becomes more difficult. If poor men, they would scarcely refuse 
 his ofler ; if robbers, they would at once take watch, and horse, and gold, 
 and bid him go ! 
 
 For some moments deep silence prevailed. 
 
 " Will you accept my offer, gentlemen ?" 
 
 Paulding turned and faced him. 
 
 " No !" said lie, in a voice which chilled the young man's blood ; " If 
 
216 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 
 
 you were to offer me ten thousand guineas I could not — I would not, Id 
 you go !" 
 
 The prisoner siiid not a word, but his face grew paler. 
 
 They went slowly forth from the wood, and stood once more beneath the 
 Tulip-Poplar. 
 
 The young stranger looked upon his horse, which was to bear him away 
 1 prisoner, and his heart thrilled with a pang like death. 
 
 At this moment, turning to the west, he beheld a sight which chilled his 
 blood. The British ship Vulture, — which he had missed near West 
 Point, by some accident never yet explained — rode there, upon the calm 
 Hudson, within a mile from the spot where he stood. Escape, safety, 
 honor, so near, and yet he was a prisoner. 
 
 Once more he turned, once more in piercing tones, with hurried ges- 
 tures, he besought tliem to take all ; he promised them fortune, only that 
 he might depart. 
 
 But still that stern answer : 
 
 " For TEX THOUSAND GUINEAS WE WOULD NOT LET YOU GO !" 
 
 The sun was up in the heavens. The breeze tossed the magnificent 
 limbs of the Tulip-Puplar. Grouped under its shadow were the captors 
 and their prisoner. Here, the manly Paulding, with an expression of pity 
 stealing over his face ; there, Williams, his countenance expressing a dull, 
 apathetic wonder ; farther on. Van Wert, his form raising above his com- 
 rades, while his. arms were folded across his breast. The cards were lit- 
 tered over the grass, but each man grasped his rifle. 
 
 O, silken people, in fine robes, who read your perfumed volumes, detail- 
 ing the virtues of the rich and great, can you see no virtue under those rude 
 waistcoats, no greatness in those peasant faces ? It has been my task again 
 and again, to portray the grandeur of a Washington, the chivalry of La- 
 fayette, the glorious deeds of Wayne; but here, in these half-robber, half- 
 soldier forms, methinks is found a Self-denial, that will match the bright- 
 est of them all. Honor to Washington, and Lafayette, and Wayne, am' 
 honor to Paulding, Williams, and Van Wert, the Poor Men Heroes of 
 THE Revolution. 
 
 They stood grouped under the Tulip-Poplar; but their prisoner? 
 
 He laid his arms upon his horse's neck, and hid his face on its dark 
 mane. 
 
 Long ago the bones of that young traveller crumbled to dust, in a felon's 
 grive, beneath a gibbet's foot. 
 
 Long ago, on a stormy night, the lightnings of God descended upon the 
 Tulip-Poplar, and rent its trunk to the roots, and scattered its branches to 
 the air. 
 
 And Paulding, Williams, and Van Wert, are also gone, but their natnea 
 
THE TULIP-POPLAR. 817 
 
 are remembered foievermore. Let us look for a moment at the c(as8 to 
 which they belonired, let us take one of these humble men and paint the 
 
 '.■>icture of a Poor Man Hero, 
 
 He crouches beside the trunk of the giant oak, on the wild wood 
 
 side. He sweeps the overhanging leaves aside with his brawny hand — the 
 iiirht falls suddenly over his swarthy and sunburnt face, over his fur cap, 
 with its bucktail plume, over the blue hunting shirt, over his forest mocca- 
 sins, and huntsman's attire. He raises the glittering rifle to his eye, that 
 keen, grey eye, looking from beneath the bushy eyebrow, and fixed upon 
 the distant foeman — he raises his rifle, he aims at the star on the heart — he 
 fires. The wood rings with the sound — the Brilishev has taken the mea- 
 sure of his grave. 
 
 And thus speeding along from tree to rock, from the fence to the secsre 
 ambush of the buckwheat field — speeding along with his stealthy footsteps, 
 and his keen eye ever on the watch, the bold rifleman heeds not the battle 
 raging in the valley below ; he cares not for the noise, the roar of cannon, 
 the mechanical march of the drilled columns ; he cares for naught but his 
 own true rifle, that bears a death in every ball — that shrieks a death-kneil 
 at every fire. A free man was the old rifleman. His home was the wild 
 wood, his companions the beasts of the ravine, and the birds of the cliflf"; 
 his friend, true and unfailing, was his rifle, and his joy was to wander 
 along the lonely pathway of the wilderness, to track the Indian to his 
 camp-fire, the panther to his lair. 
 
 A free man was the old rifleman. At the close of the day's hard chase, . 
 what king so happy as he ? He seats himself on the green sward, at the 
 foot of the ancient oak, in the depths of the eternal woods, while the setting 
 sunbeams fling their lines of gold athward the mossy carpet, and between 
 the quivering leaves of the twilight foliage. 
 
 He rears the booth of forest branches, with its walls and roof of leaves, 
 he spreads his couch of buffalo robes, and then gathering the limbs of de- 
 cayed trees, he lights his fire, and the rosy gleam flares over the darkening . 
 woods, a sign of home built in the wilderness. 
 
 The victim of the day's chase, the gallant deer, is then dragged to the fire- 
 side, divested of his skin, and anon the savory steak smokes in the blaze, 
 and the tree hermit of the woods, the free old backwoodsman, rubs his bony, 
 hands with glee, and chuckles with all a hunter's delight. 
 
 Such were the men that thronged the woods and peopled the solitudes- 
 of this, our glorious land of the New World, in the year of grace, Seventy- 
 Six, — in the year of freedom — One. To this class belong the captors of 
 Andre, who refused a fortune, rather than aid the enemy of Washington. 
 Such were the men whom the British were sent to conquer : such were 
 the men who knew nothing of pretty uniforms, mechanical drills, or regular 
 lines of march, whom the stout red-coats were to annihilate. 
 
 The huntsman's frock of blue was not very handsome, his rough leggings 
 
 1 1 
 
818 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 
 
 were not^ quite as pretty as the grenadier's well polished boots, his cap of 
 fur was a shapeless thing altogether, and yet he had two things that some 
 times troubled his enemies not a little — a sure rifle and a keen eye. 
 
 Let us be just to their memories. While we honor Paulding, Williams 
 and Van Wert, let us remember that ten thousand such as these, rest un- 
 known, unnamed, beneath the graves of the Past, while the grass grows 
 more beautiful above, moistened with their blood, the unhonored Poor Men 
 Heroes of tlie Revolution.* 
 
 It now becomes our task to examine the contents of the letter which 
 Arnold received at the Breakfast table. 
 
 Andre, when captured, was taken to the nearest military post at iSorth 
 Castle, where Colonel Jamison was stationed with a regiment of dragoons. 
 This brave officer was utterly confounded by the revelations of the papers, 
 which had been concealed in the boot of the Conspirator. He could not 
 imagine, that a General so renowned as Arnold was a Traitor. His con- 
 fusion may be imagined when it is known, that the letter perused by the 
 traitor at the breakfast table, was a hasty note from Jamison, announcing the 
 capture of a man named Anderson, who " had a passport signed in your 
 name and papers of a very dangerous tendency.^' 
 
 At the same time, he announced that he had sent these dangerous papers 
 to Washington. — You have seen the agitation of the American General, 
 when after two day's delay, he received these documents at Robinson's 
 House. — The honest blunder of Jamison saved the Traitor's neck. 
 
 Next comes the question — Was Arnold's wife a Partner in the work of 
 Treason ? Again let us question the shadows of the past for an answer. 
 Was her fate, in any manner, connected with the destiny of John Andre ? 
 Let these scenes, which break upon us from the theatre of the Revolution, 
 solve the question. 
 
 Note. — There is a strange mystery connected with this capture. Like other 
 prominent incidents of the Revolution, it has been described in at least twenty 
 different ways The distinguished historian, Sparks, presents a plain, straightforward 
 account, which in its turn is contradicted by a late article in a western paper, 
 purporting to be reminiscences of a gentlemen named Hudson, who professes to be 
 conversant with the facts, from an actual acquaintance with Paulding, Williams, 
 and Van Wert. Mr. H. states that Paulding wore a British uniform; that Williams 
 was despatched with a note to Arnold ; and that the prisoner was laken to Sing Sing, 
 and from thence to Tappan, where Washington arrived m a few minutes. Sparks, 
 the FIRST Historian of our country, makes no mention of the uniform, and by the 
 evidence of the three heroes, directly contradicts the other statements. Andre 
 was taken to North Castle, while Washington was ahxent on a journey to Hartford. 
 Not a word (on the trial of Andre.) was said by either Paulding or his comrades, in 
 relation to the departure of Williams with a note to Arnold. There is an evident 
 ambiguity here, which should be removed. Mr. Hudson's statement, plain and decided 
 as It is, contradicts the evidence of the men from whom he received it. If correct, 
 then they uttered falsehoods on the trial of Andre, — if untrue, they are guilty of 
 wilfu' or involuntary misrepresentation. The mention of the British uniform places 
 a new construction upon the whole affair, and is, in my opinion, the only satisfactorv 
 e.^pianation of the conduct of Andre, ever yet published. 
 
THE KNIGHT OF THE MESCHlAxNZA. 2l» 
 
 XVI.— THE KNIGHT OF THE MESCHIANZA. 
 
 Two scenes from the past; two scenes from the dim shadows of Res'o- 
 utionary Romance. One is a scene of liitrht — the other, of Gloom. 
 
 The first scene took place when the British Army was in Pliiladelphia ; 
 and while Benedict Arnold was confined to his room, in the city of New 
 Haven, with the wounds of Saratoga. 
 
 The other scene occurred more than two years afterwards, when Benedict 
 Arnold was ui command at West Point. 
 
 Yonder, on the outskirts of Philadelphia, stands an old house, with the 
 marks of decay about its roofs, its windows and walls. An old house, with 
 scattered tenements and broken commons all around it. Not long ago, 
 fallen into utter neglect, it was occupied as a coach-shop ; now it is crowded 
 with the young faces, the busy hum of a common school. 
 
 There was a time, when that old house was a lordly palace, with one 
 wide green lawn stretching away from the hall-door for half a mile, away 
 to the brink of the broad Delaware. 
 
 There was a night when that house shook to the tread of warriors, and 
 the steps of dancers — when every tree along that wide lawn shone with 
 lights on every bough. Yes, a night, a banquet was given, there by the 
 officers of Sir William Howe, in honor of his glorious victory ! Victory ? 
 Yes, in honor of the fact that he hadn't been worse beaten, by Mister 
 Washington. 
 
 Ah, it was a glorious niglu. A midnight sky above, and light and glitter 
 below. Then gondolas, freighted with beauty, glided over the waters, 
 fiasliiiig streams of light along the dark waves. Then the gallant officers 
 put off their red coats to put on armor and helmet, like knights of old, and 
 agay tournament, with heralds, and plumes, and steeds, and banners, flashed 
 over the wide lawn. 
 
 Let us for a moment look upon this tournament. 
 
 In yonder balcony, on the southern side of the lawn — that balcony, over- 
 hung with the blood-red banner, festooned with flowers — is crowded one 
 living mass of womanly beauty. Blue eyes and hazel, eyes dark as mid- 
 night, or soft and languishing as .June, there mingle these glances in one 
 blaze of light. There you behold the tender forms of girlhood, the mature 
 bust of womanhood, there cjowded into one view, yon see all that is like 
 the ruby or the rose on woman's lip, like the summer dawn on her cheek, 
 like the deep stars of night in her eye. 
 
 These are the flowers of the aristocracy, assembled in one group of love- 
 liness, to grace the Meschianza of Sir William Howe. 
 
 Meschianza ? 'That is a strange word, what does it mean? I cannot 
 tell you, but my mind is somewhat impressed with the fancy of its Hindoo 
 
220 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 
 
 origin Yes, it ia possibly derived from some Sancrit word, and signifies, 
 fo be glad at not being worse beaten, to be exceedingly joyful on limited 
 victories, to be thankful that one's neck is safe. That is the only derivation 
 I could ever find for Mechianza. 
 
 Below the balcony spreads the scene of the tournament. There, at one 
 end, through the trees, you see the palace, flaming like a funeral pyre, with 
 lights, and yonder, far down the lawn, the broad Delaware glimmers into 
 view. 
 
 Hush every whisper; the Tournament is ready to begin. 
 
 From these groups of Knights at either end of the lists, two cavaliers 
 sally forth and confront each other. One in armour of plated gold, mounted 
 on a dark steed, with a black plume shadowing his brow. The other, on 
 that milk-white steed, is cased from head to foot, in an armour of azure 
 steel. A white plume tosses from his brow. 
 
 Now hold your breath, for they come thundering on. On, on, over the 
 green lawn, on to each other's breasts, on with the levelled lance. 
 
 There is a pause — they crash together — now there is a moment of doubt 
 — but now — look ! How the white scarfs from yon gallery wave like 
 snow-flakes on the air. 
 
 The Knight on the dark steed is down ; but the Knight in armour of 
 azure steel, mounted on the milk-white steed, rides round the lists in 
 triumph, with his snowy plume tossing as he goes. 
 
 Oh, this is a glorious show, a grand Tournament, a splondid display of 
 lovely women, and oh, for a swelling word from the vocabulary of adjectives 
 — a Mesciiianza ; and all in honor of Sir William Howe, who is so glad 
 thit he is not worse beaten by Mister Washington. 
 
 Yonder fair girl bending from the gallery, lets fall upon the brow of that 
 white-plumed Knight, a chaplet of laurel, woven with lilies and roses. 
 
 His dark hazel eyes upraised catch the smile as it speaks from her lips 
 
 The Queen of Bea\ity crowns the Victor of the Tournament. It is a 
 lovely picture. Let us look upon a lovelier. 
 
 Yonder, in the deep shadows of the grove, where the lights glare flicker- 
 ing and indistinct, over the tufted sward, a knight cased in glittering armour 
 kneels at the feet of a lovely girl. 
 
 For she is lovely, even into that towering head-dress that lays back her 
 golden hair from her white brow, in a mass of powder and pearls ; she is 
 lovely in that gorgeous dress, trailing in luxurious folds upon the ground, its 
 jewels and satin and gold, hiding the matchless outline of her form. Yes, 
 she is lovely, for that deep, yet wild and languishing eye, that laughing lip, 
 would be more beautiful, were the form girded in a peasant garb, instead of 
 being veiled in the royal robes of a Queen, 
 
 And tell me, as that fair girl, extending her hand, half turns her head 
 away, the blush ripening over her cheek, while the lover looks up with glad 
 and grateful eyes, tell me, is it not as lovely a picture as artist ever drew ' 
 
THE KNIGHT OF THE MESCHIANZA. 221 
 
 Now change the scene. Let the Tournament pass. Let Sir William 
 Howe go liome to England. Let the gay Knights of the Blended Roses 
 and Burning Lances go to the battle-field again, there to be beaten by Mad 
 Anthony, that Knight of the Iron-Hand; or George Washington, the Knight 
 without Fear and without Reproach, 
 
 Now let us go to West Point. 
 
 In the Southern window of the mansion, opposite that fortress stands a 
 beautiful woman, with her long hair all scattered in disorder about her shoul- 
 ders, while her blue eye, glaring with a look like madness, is fixed on ihe 
 Southern sky. 
 
 In that beautiful woman, you recognize the lovely girl of the Meschianza. 
 That woman is now the wife of Benedict Arnold, who fled from West 
 Point but a few brief days ago, in the British ship Vulture. That child 
 laughing on her bosom, is the child of a Traitor. 
 
 Ves, she has linked her fate ivith the destiny of Arnold. Yet, still (f- 
 ter her marriage, she continues her correspondence with the Knight of the 
 Meschianza, who dwells in New York, the favorite of Sir H nry Clinton. 
 
 In those letters, the first letters of Arnold to Clinton, signed Gustavxts, 
 and speaking Treason, were enclosed, llius, the letters of the Tf'ife, to 
 the gallant Knight, were the vehicles of her Husband'' s dishonor. — 
 
 Why does she gaze so earnestly toward the South ? She looks for the 
 Knight of the Tournament ! 
 
 There on that piece of table-land, which looks down upon the Hudson, 
 where its waters sweep in their broadest flow — at Tappan Zee — there 
 under the light of the noon-day sun, a dense crowd is gathered near a small 
 stone house ; not a murmur is heard in that crowd ; all is silent as the clay 
 cold lips of the dead. 
 
 Ere we look upon the sight which chills the crowd into such deep 
 silence, let us go back to the daybreak hour. 
 
 Day was breaking over the broad Hudson, over the hills crowned with 
 gorgeous autumnal foliage, over yon solitary stone house and along the level 
 space, when two figures came hither with spades in their hands. 
 
 They were rough men, embrued in life-long deeds of blood, but as they 
 sunk two holes in the sod, with the distance of a few feet between, they 
 were at first silent; then a scalding drop of moisture stole from the eyes of 
 that rough man, while his comrade cursed him for crying, as his own eye 
 was wet with a tear. 
 
 It must have been a dark matter indeed to make men like these, shed tears. 
 
 When those holes were dug, then they brought two thick pieces of 
 BC!»ntling, and placed them in the cavities ; then another piece at the top 
 connected these upright timbers ; and last of all, a rope was brought, and 
 then behold — ihe Gallows! 
 
 It was around this gallows as the hour of noon came on, that a dense 
 
222 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 
 
 crowd gathereJ. There were blue and gold uniforms, and there tlu; brown 
 dress of the farmer. That high-browed man, whom you see yonaer, 
 among tlie crowd of officers, bears the great name, which the nation always 
 loved to repeat — Alexander Hamilton. 
 
 It is noon — and look ! From yonder stone-house comes a young man, 
 in a magnificent scarlet uniform ; a young man, with glossy brown hair and 
 a deep hazel eye. 
 
 As he comes through the lane, made by the parting of the crowd, you 
 can see that cart moving slowly at his heels ; that cart in which crouches a 
 grim fitrure, sitting on a pine box, with crape over its face. 
 
 Does this spectacle interest you ? Then look in that young man's face, 
 and behold the Knight of the Tournament. When we beheld him last, a 
 fair lady dropped laurel on his brow, a chaplet of laurel and roses. To- 
 day, that grim figure will crown him with a chaplet of death ! 
 
 He draws near the foot of the gallows. For a moment, he stands, roll- 
 ing over a little stone with his foot, as he tries to smother that choking sen- 
 sation in his throat. 
 
 'I'here is silence in that crowd. 
 
 Look ! the cart waits for him under the dangling rope — that grim figure 
 lays the pine coffin upon the ground — and then binds his arms lightly with 
 a handkerchief. 
 
 The silence is deeper. 
 
 Now the young man turns very pale. With his half-pinioned arms, he 
 arranges the frill of the ruffle around his wrist ; he binds the handkerchief 
 over his face. 
 
 Oh, father of souls, that look ! Yes, ere he winds the handkerchief 
 around his brow, he casts one glance, one deep and yearning look over the 
 faces of men, the river, the sky, the mountains. 
 
 That look is his farewell to earth ! 
 
 Why do those stout men cry like little children? Heads bowed on their 
 breasts, faces turned away, showering tears — the sun shines on them all. 
 
 The young min leaps lightly into the cart — Does'n't it make your blood 
 run cold to see the rough hangman wind that rope around his neck, so fair, 
 so like a woman's ? 
 
 Now, there is silence, and tears, and veiled faces, in that crowd. 
 
 — At this moment let us look yonder, in that quiet room, away in Enor- 
 iand. A mother and two fair sisters sit there, embroidering a scarf, for the 
 son and brother, who is now in a far land. 
 
 " Hark !" exclaims the dark-haired sister ; " it is not his footstep ?" 
 
 And as she goes to the door, trembling with suspense and joy, and looks 
 out for her brother — Here, that brother stands, upon the death-cart, with 
 the hangman's rope about his neck ! 
 
 Even as the sister looks forth from her home, to behold his form — 
 
THE KNIGHT OF THE MESCHIANZA. 223 
 
 Ah, at the very moment the hangman speaks to his horse, the cart moves 
 on — look ' 
 
 There is a human being dangling at the end of a rope, phinging and 
 quivering in the air. Behold it, nor shudder at the sight ! That black- 
 ened face, livid, blue, purple at turns, those starting eyes, — Oh, hide the 
 horrid vision ! What, iiide tlie Poetry of the Gallows? 
 
 Hide it you may, but still the thick, gurgling groan of that dying man 
 breaks on your ear. 
 
 That is the Music of the Gallows. 
 
 Ah, can that loathsome corse, with the distorted face, can that be the 
 gallant Knight who fell at the feet of the lovely girl, in the gay Tournament? 
 
 While lie hangs quivering on the gallows, yonder in New York, before a 
 glittering mirror, stands Benedict Arnold, surveying his proud form, attired 
 for the first time, in that hangman's dress — a scarlet uniform. 
 
 Yonder — even while the last tremor shakes his form — yonder, alone, 
 kneels George Washington, in prayer with his God. 
 
 And now, as they thrust his young form — scarcely cold — into the pine 
 coffin, his mother and sisters, in that far English town, have done embrodi- 
 ering the scarf — nay, that one dark-eyed sister has even worked his name 
 in the corner — 
 
 " My Brother « * * « John Andre." 
 
 From that Gibbet of John Andre, the fairest flowers of Poetry and 
 Romance wave fragrantly from the night of ages. 
 
 Around that hideous thing of evil, whose blackened timbers rise before 
 us from the twilight of sixty-seven years, are clustered the brightest and 
 the darkest memories, like a mingled crowd of fiends and angels. 
 
 His fate was very dark, yet on the rery darkness of the cloud that hung 
 over his setting sun, his name has been written in characters of light. 
 
 All that can melt the heart in pathos, all that can make the blood run 
 cold in tragedy, scenes of tender beauty, memories of immeasurable horror, 
 are grouped beside the dishonored grave of John Andre. 
 
 A volume might be filled, with the incidents connected with liis closing 
 hour ; the long winter night passed unheeded away, ere the narrator could 
 tell but half the Legends that hover round his tomb. 
 
 There was that in his fate, which made his friends stand palzied with 
 horror, his very enemies shed tears for him. The contempt, which all 
 honorable men feel for one who undertakes the lacquey work of Treason, 
 and plays the part of a Spy, was lost in the unmeasured scorn which all 
 men felt for Benedict Arnolc. 
 
 Behold the Legends that hover above the grave of Andre the Spy 
 
224 BENEDICT ARNOLD 
 
 XVII.-JOHN CHAMPE. 
 
 A SOFT voluptuous light pervaded that hixurious chamber. 
 
 It was the night of November Second, 1780. The mansion vi^as one 
 of the most magnificent in tJie New York of that day. It stood in a 
 garden, planted with vines and llowers. Near this garden a dark alley led 
 to the river. 
 
 The vmes and flowers were withered now. The night was dark, and 
 the spacious mansion lay wrapt in shadow. There were dim shadowy 
 figures moving along the darkness of the alley. Yet from a single window, 
 through the closed curtains, the warm gleam of a light flashed over the 
 deserted gard.en. 
 
 In the centre of this chamber, stood a beautiful woman, her form clad in 
 a habit of black velvet, her dark hair laid plainly back from her clear 
 forehead. 
 
 As the light falls over that form — one hand laid upon the table, the 
 fingers touching a parchment. — while the other clasps the bosom, heaving 
 through its dark vestment, let us gaze upon this beautiful woman, and ask 
 the cause of her lonely watch ? 
 
 The chamber is elegandy furnished. The gorgeous carpet was woven 
 m a Turkish loom, the massive chairs are cushioned with crimson velvet, 
 the wainscot blooms with fruits and flowers, carved from the forest oak. 
 The lamp standing on the table, its warm light softened and refined by a 
 shade of clouded glass, is upheld by a sculptured figure of Apollo. The 
 hangings of dark crimson velvet depending along these windows, their folds 
 presenting masses of light and shade, are worthy the hall of a Prince. 
 
 In yonder corner from a shadowy niche, the marble form of the Medicean 
 Venus steals gently on you. Beautiful in its spotless whiteness, this image 
 of womanly loveliness, with the averted head, the gently bending form, the 
 half-raised hands steals softly on your eye, like a glimpse from Eden. 
 
 And the living woman, who stands by the table there, her tail form clad 
 in dark velvet, impresses you with her strange wUd beauty, more than all 
 the statues in the world. 
 
 Do you mark the bosom heaving from its vestment ? The alabaster of 
 that rounded neck, contrasted with the black velvet which encircles it ? 
 The falling symmetry of the waist, contrasted wifh the ripe fulness of the 
 other part of her figure ! The foot protruding from the folds of the habit, 
 small and delicate, cased in a satin slipper and beating with an impetuous 
 motion against the carpet ? 
 
 The form bewilders you with its impetuous loveliness, but the face 
 startles you with the conflict of passions, impressed on every outline. 
 
 The bloom of the cheeks, the love of the warm lips, the melting softness 
 
JOHN CHAMPE. 226 
 
 of the dark eyes, are all lost in a pale fixed expression of resoIiilR despair. 
 Yes, there is Despair written on that beautiful countenance, but Revenge 
 glares in the deadly fire of those dark eyes. The white brow is deformed 
 by a hideous wrinkle, that, black and swollen, swells upward to the roots 
 of the hair. 
 
 Who is this woman so pnle in the face, so voluptuous in the form, now 
 waiting alone in this silent chamber ? 
 
 Her hand rests upon a letter, inscribed with the name of — Benedict 
 Arnold. 
 
 That sword resting on the table, with the dented edge and battered hilt, 
 IS the sword, of Quebec and Saratoga. 
 
 The blue uniform thrown carelessly over the arm of the chair, is the 
 costume of a Continental hero. Wherefore are sword and uniform throwp 
 neglectedly aside, in this luxurious room ? 
 
 It is the apartment of Benedict Arnold. He does not wield that sword, 
 or wear that uniform any longer. He is a Traitor, and makes his home 
 here in the city of New York, in this spacious mansion. 
 
 The sound of a bell disturbs the silence ; it tolls the hour of twelve. 
 
 The beautiful woman is still there, her bosom fluttering with those 
 pulses of revenge, which resemble the throbbings of love, as the lurid torch 
 of the assassin resembles the soft sad light of the moon. 
 
 Presently raising her dark eyes, she unfastens the gold button that ris(!3 
 with each throb of her heart. She uncovers that bosom, now the home of 
 hideous passion. She draws forth not a love-letter, nor yet the lock of a 
 lover's hair, but a glittering and pointed dagger. 
 
 Grasping that dagger with her small hand, while the lines of strange 
 emotion are drawn more darkly over her face, she speaks in a hoUoMr 
 voice : 
 
 " If the plot fails, this must do the work of my love and my revenge !" 
 
 Then sinking in the arm-chair, this woman overcome by her emotion, 
 lets the dagger fall, and bursts into tears. 
 
 O, that agony of a heart that loved so truly, hoped so madly, and then 
 lived to see both love and hope turned to hatred and despair, by the hand 
 of death ! 
 
 Is this the wife of Arnold ? Gaze on her dark eyes and black hair, and 
 remember that the hair of the wife waves in flakes of sunshine gold, that 
 her eyes are summer blue. Is it his Ladye-love ? The thought is vain. 
 Say rather, as you behold the bosom torn by fiery passions, the eyes dart- 
 ing the magnetic rays of revenge, the dagger gleaming death from its keen 
 blade, that this lovely woman waiting alone in his most secret chamber, la 
 his Executioner ! 
 
 You observe the chain, with its slender links of gold falling from ihe 
 neck, into the shadowv recess of her bosom. She raises the chain ; a mm- 
 
Z26 BENEDICT ARNOLD 
 
 iature is revealed; the portrait of a gallant cavalier with hazel ejes. and 
 looks of dark brown hair. 
 
 " So young, so gallant, so brave ! The fast time he pressed my hand— 
 the last time his kiss melted on my lips ! O, God, shall I ever for.ojet it ' 
 And — now " 
 
 As the hideous picture broke in all its details upon her brain, she started 
 to her feet, grasping the dagger once more with a hand that knew no tremor. 
 
 She heard the sound of a footstep echoing from afar, through the cor- 
 ridors of the mansion. Bending her head to one side, she listened, as her 
 lips parted and her eyes dilated. 
 
 She then approached the window. The rope-ladder which had gained 
 her admittance, was still confined beneath the sash. A dark object touched 
 her feet ; it was her velvet manUe, concealing a precious relic of the dead, 
 the warrior costume of one loved and lost. 
 
 She shrouds herself within that voluminous curtain. Shrouded from the 
 light within, and the profane gaze without by this impenetrable veil, she 
 loosens the fastenings of her dress, while her bosom freed from those velvet 
 folds, soars more . tumultuously upward. Another moment, and her 
 woman's costume flutters from her form. You hear a sob, a sigh, a mut- 
 tered word, and stepping from the curtain's shadow, this beautiful woman 
 comes once more toward the light, attired 
 
 In the silken robes of a queen ? 
 
 Or, in the majesty of her own loveliness ? 
 
 No ! She stands before us attired as a young and gallant cavalier. 
 
 From those white shoulders descends a red coat, with wide skirts and 
 facings of gold. The bosom is veiled beneath a vest of finest doe-skin, 
 which falls in loose folds around the waist. Cambric ruffles hide the white- 
 ness of the throat, while each' elegantly moulded limb is encased in a war- 
 rior's boot. Those dark tresses are covered with a gay chapeau, heavy 
 with lace and waving with plumes. 
 
 Beaiftiful in her woman's costume, but most bewitching as a gallant 
 cavalier ! 
 
 You now gaze upon the movements of the disguised woman with deep- 
 ening interest. 
 
 She listens — the echo of that footstep grows near and near. Gazing on 
 the mahogony panels of the folding door, the lady sinks in the arm chair 
 Her position is peculiar. The head bowed, the cheek laid on the hand, 
 the face averted, she awaits the approach of the Unknown, with statue-like 
 immovability. 
 
 As she sits there, with the light playing downward over her form — the 
 chapeau hiding her face in shadow — tell me, what strange resemblance chills 
 you with an involuntary horror ? 
 
 This beautiful woman resembles — O, fearfully resembles — a young and 
 gallant cavalier, whose hand could write poetry, paint pictures or wield a 
 
JOHN CHAMPE. 227 
 
 swnril, whose foot sprung as lightly toward the cannon's muzzle, as it 
 
 bounded in the dance. 
 
 ■ But what young and gallant cavalier. 
 
 You dare not repeat his name ! A sickening tragedy crowds on your 
 memory, as that name arises ! The image of a handsome form, hidden 
 oeneath clods of clay, the worms revelling over its brow, the taint of the 
 gibbet's rope about its neck ! 
 
 How the heart of that woman beats, as she hears that foot ! 
 
 " lie comes !" she murmurs, still preserving that strange position — 
 " Murderer and Traitor, he comes ! At the dead hour of midnight, to his 
 most secret chamber, he comes, to lay his plans of ambition and plot new 
 treasons ! But here, in the silence of this room, where his guilty heart can 
 find no refuge from its remorse, here, placing his foot on yonder threshhold, 
 he will feel his blood curdle with horror, as he beholds, seated at his table, 
 waiting for him, the form of the murdered — John Andre !" 
 
 You will confess with me, that the revenge of tliis impetuous woman is 
 terrible. 
 
 " Arnold ! That sight should blast you into madness !" 
 
 Nearer — nearer yet, the sound of that step is heard. The woman trem- 
 t)les. There is a hand upon the door — she hears the step on its opposite 
 side. Still that statue-like position — still the endeavor to hide the anguish 
 of the heart, by laying one hand upon the swelling bosom. 
 
 The door opens. The disguised woman hears the footstep cross the 
 threshhold. Is it a warrior's footstep ? Too light, two soft, too delicate ! 
 She does not raise her head to look, but suddenly the sound of that stealthy 
 tread is lost in silence. 
 
 There, slightly advanced from the shadows of the threshhold, stands — 
 the appalled form of Benedict Arnold ? No ! 
 
 No ! Would that it were ! But there, disclosed by the light, stands a 
 young woman, her blooming form clad in a loose robe, her unfastened hair 
 drooping to her uncovered shoulders. o 
 
 You see her blue eyes centred on the figure by the table. At that sight 
 the roses wither on her cheek — her bosom bounds from its slight covering. 
 Her uplifted arm, grasping a bed-room candle, is palzied — her lips slowly 
 part — unable to advance or retreat, she stands before yoa, a picture of unut 
 terable anguish. 
 
 At last she gathers courage to speak — to address the Phantom. 
 
 " Andre speak to me !" she gasps. 
 
 At that voice, the disguised woman feels her blood grow cold. Slightly 
 turning her face, she gazes on the woman with golden hair, between the 
 fingers of her right hand. 
 
 " Andre !" again the voice of the horror-stricken woman is iieard — " You 
 come from the grave to haunt me ! Speak — O, speak to me ! C or Id I 
 
2'ZS BENEDICT ARNOLD. 
 
 aelp it, if your fate was so dark and cold i Your death so hideous ? Your 
 grave so dishonored ?" 
 
 The woman clad in the attire of John Andre slowly rises. She tarns, 
 and flinging the chapeau aside, confronts the — Wife of Arnold. 
 
 Yes, the lady-love of John Andre, confronts the wife of his Evil Genius, 
 Benedict Arnold. 
 
 You will remember that this Wife, when a blooming virgin, once in tlie 
 -evelry of a Tournament, crowned John Andre with a chaplel of laurel and 
 roses, that she corresponded with him some months after her marriage, 
 that in her letters, the letters of Arnold to Sir Henry Clinton were envel- 
 oped, that — perchance — from her girlhood memories, — perchance — from 
 deeper reasons — he was dear to her heart ! 
 
 Therefore, you will understand, that this meeting in the secret chamber 
 of Arnold, was a strangely interesting scene. 
 
 The lady-love of the Spy — the Wife of the Traitor ! Behold them sur- 
 vey each other. The wife sweeps back her golden tresses iVom her brow, 
 as if to gaze more clearly upon the Disguised woman. The lady-love 
 stands erect, in her voluptuous beauty, a mocking smile upon her lip, a fiend- 
 like scorn in her dark eyes. 
 
 " Virginia De *****[" exclaimed the Wife, breathing a name renowned 
 for virtue, wealth and beauty — " You here ! In the chamber of " 
 
 " I await your husband, madam !" replied the strange woman, laying her 
 hand upon the dagger, and a deadly light blazed from her dark eyes. 
 
 At this moment a sound is heard, like the raising of a window. A shadow 
 steals from the curtains, approaches the light, and you behold the form of a 
 Soldier, clad in scarlet uniform. 
 
 He surveys the two women, and unfastening his coat, reveals the blue 
 and buff Continental uniform. His features are concealed by a veil of dark 
 crape. 
 
 " Is all ready ?" whispered the lady disguised in the attire of Andre ; 
 " The Traitor is not yet come. But there, you behold his wife. It is well. 
 She shall behold his Punishment !" 
 
 And as the Wife shrank back appalled, there commenced in that lonel)^ 
 chamber of Arnold, a scene of wild interest. 
 
 This, you will remember, was on the night of November Second, 1780. 
 
 Andre had been captured some forty-two days' before, on the twenty- 
 third of September. 
 
 We will now reveal to you, a scene which took place but a few days 
 after his capture. 
 
 Alone m his marque:, on the heights of Tappan, sat General Washington 
 bis sword placed on the table, which was covered with piles of papers. 
 He was writing. — Not often was his face disturbed by emotion, but a> 
 
JOHN CHAMPE. 22» 
 
 this still lour — while the stars came shining out above the mountains and 
 over the river — his entire form was shaken by a powerful agitation. 
 
 As the light streamed upon his face, his lips were compressed, his eye- 
 brows drawn downward, his eyes wet with moisture. 
 
 It was plainly to be seen, that the sense of a severe duty, to be performod 
 by him, was struggling with the softer feelings of his heait. Still he wrote 
 on. Still, combatting the writhings of his breast, he committed his thoughts 
 to paper. 
 
 Presently a shadow stood in the doorway of his tent. 
 
 Do you behold that form ? That is one of the most renowned Knights 
 of the Revolution. Yes, this young man, whose slight form is clad in a 
 green coat, with pistols in his girdle, and a trooper's sword by his side, is 
 a true Knight, who loves danger as a brother, and plays with sword and 
 bayonet as though he thought Death itself a pastime. 
 
 His face is swarthy and freckled, his eyes, dark grey, and piercing as a 
 dagger's point. His frame is very slight, and yet you see in every outline 
 the traces of an iron will, a knightly daring. 
 
 Washington gazes upon him with pride, for that young man has played 
 sad tricks in his time, with the good soldiers of King George. 
 
 Sometimes, in the hour of battle, when the British thought the Rebrls 
 altogether beaten, aye, when their legions drove the Continentals from the 
 field, like sheep before the wolf, this young man, would dart from the covert 
 of a thicket, and write his mark upon their faces. He came not alone, you 
 will remember. Eighty iron forms, mounted on sinewy steeds, were wont 
 to follow at his back, with eighty swords flashing above their heads. And 
 the way they came down upon the British, was beautiful to see, for each 
 trooper marked his man, and that mark always left a dead body beneath 
 the horse's hoofs. 
 
 There was not a soldier in the British army who did not know this 
 young man. He was so unmannerly ! 
 
 They sometimes, after having plundered an American farm-house, and 
 murdered a few dozen farmers, would gather round a comfortable fire, for a 
 quiet meal. But then, the blaze of rifles would flash through the shutters, 
 the door would give way, and this Young Man, with his troopers, would 
 come in, rather rudely, and eat the meal which the British had prepared. — 
 You may be sure that he took good care of these red coat gentlemen, before 
 eating their supper. 
 
 Still he was a glorious young man ! You should have seen him, on 
 some dark night, scouring a darker road, at the head of his men, and march- 
 ing some fifty miles without once pulling a bridle rein, so that he might 
 pay his regards to his dear friends, the British ! 
 
 Then, how he crashed into their camp, making sweet music with his 
 eighty swords ! 
 
330 BENEDIC'] ARNOLD. 
 
 He loved the British so, that he was never happy, unless he was near 
 them 
 
 Ofientiines, in the hour of battle, Washington would turn to La Fayette, 
 and pointing with his sword, far down the shadows of a defile, observe in a 
 quiet way — " The Major is yonder! Do you see him, at the head of 
 his men ? Ah, General, it does one's heart good to see him pour down 
 upon the enemy, when they think he is a hundred miles away !" 
 
 His men loved their captain dearly. It mattered not how dark the night, 
 or how tired with the previous day's toil, or how starved they were, let the 
 Major once whisper — " There is work for us, my friends 1" and ere five 
 minutes passed, eighty horses bore eighty men on their way, while the 
 stars played with the blades of eighty swords. 
 
 And as the Men of that hero-band loved their captain, so the horses loved 
 the men, — That man who does not love his horse, even as a comrade, is no 
 warrior. — Gathered like the Men from the beautiful hills of Carolina, these 
 horses always seemed to know that a batUe was near, and when it came 
 dashed with erect heads, firm front, and quivering nostrils, on the foe. 
 
 Even when the bullet or the cannon ball, pierced their smooth flanks, 
 these horses would crawl on while life lasted, and with their teeth tear the 
 horses of the enemy. 
 
 "Why all these words to describe the chivalry of this hero-band ? 
 
 You may compress courage, honor and glory in three words — The 
 Legion of Lke ! 
 
 Aye, tlie Legion of Lee, for it was their Captain, who now stood uncov- 
 ered in the presence of Washington. 
 
 " Major," said Washington, pointing with his right arm, through the 
 door of the tent. " Look yonder !" 
 
 The Major turned and looked — not upon the beautiful Hudson, nor the 
 mountains — but upon a small stone house, which arose from the bosom of 
 the sward. 
 
 The Major understood the extended finger and look of Washington. — In 
 that stone house, John Andre was a prisoner. Taken as a Spy, he would 
 be hung on a felon's gibbet. — 
 
 " Is there no way to save him ?" said Lee, in a voice that quivered with 
 emotion. 
 
 » There is," said Washington, " It depends upon you to save him, and 
 at the same time, save the honor of an American General !" 
 
 Lee started with surprise. 
 
 " On me ?" he echoed. 
 
 " You behold these papers ? Intercepted despatches n the enemy, which 
 implicate one of our bravest general's in the treason of Arnold V 
 
 Lee glanced over the papers and sufl:'ered an ejaculation of surprise to 
 pass his lips. 
 
 "Andre has your sympathies — ' said Washington — "So voung, so 
 
JOHN CHAMPE. 231 
 
 gallant, so chivalrous, he has the hearts of all men with him. And yet 
 unless a certain thing can be accomphshed, he must die. Not even the 
 death of a soldier will be awarded him, but the deaih of a common felon. 
 You can save him, Major Lee ! You can rescue the name of this General 
 from the taint of Treason !" 
 
 And thus speaking, that Deliverer Washington, turned the eloquence of 
 his face and eyes full upon Major I^ee. 
 
 Never had the Knight of the Legion beheld his Chief so powerfully 
 agitated. 
 
 Lee trembled to see this great man — always so calm and impenetrable — 
 now affected almost to tears. 
 
 '• General, speak the word and I will do it !" exclaimed the Partizan, 
 sharing the emotion of Washington. 
 
 The Chief reveals his plan. Why is it, that Lee turns pale and red by 
 turns, knits his brows and clenches his hands, and at last falters a refusal ^ 
 
 But Washington will not be denied. Again with his face and voice all 
 eloquent, with deep emotion, he urges the enterprise. 
 
 " Andre must die unless you consent, 'i here is no hope for him ! Every 
 one pities, every one confesses the justice of his doom ! What have I 
 neglected, to save his life ? No sooner was his capture known to me, than 
 I despatched a Special messenger to Congress. I asked the counsel of my 
 Generals. I questioned my own heart, I besought guidance from my God ! 
 Behold the result! My Generals weep for him, but condemn. Congress 
 confirms that sentence. The struggle of my own soul, and my prayers to 
 Heaven have one result. This young man must pay the penalty of his 
 crime, and die a felon's death !" 
 
 Washington passed his hand over his brow, as with every feature quiv- 
 ering with emotion, he surveyed the face of Lee. 
 
 " And all this you may avert ! You — Lee — whom I have never known 
 to falter — may save the life of Andre !" 
 
 How could Major Lee refuse ? To stand and hear Washington, with 
 tears in his eyes, beseech him to save the life of Andre ! 
 
 " General, I consent !" he said, in a voice husky with emotion. Wash- 
 ington wrung his hand, with a grasp that made Lee's heart bonnd within 
 him. 
 
 The camp of Lee's Legion was pitched near the roadside, in the shadows 
 of a secluded dell. Their white tents were constrasted with the dark rocks 
 all around. The music of a brook rippled on the silence of the air. From 
 afar, the broad river flashed in the light of the stars. 
 
 In the centre of the encampment arose the tent of Henry Lee. The 
 furniture of that tent was by no means luxurious. A chest, on which a 
 flickering candle was placed — a narrow bed — a milita -y cloak — a sword and 
 pair of pistols. 
 
232 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 
 
 Lee was seated on the bed, with his head placed between his hands 
 But a half an hour ago, he had conversed with Washington, and now, ha 
 was to hold a similar conversation with one of tlie bravest men of ^is iron band. 
 
 There was the sound of a heavy footstep, and that man stood before him. 
 it must be confessed, that he looked the Soldier in every inch of his form. 
 
 Imagine a man of some twenty-four years, somewhat above the common 
 -size, with a bronzed visage, a form full of bone and muscle, and the air of a 
 s'bldier, whom danger could only delight. He was attired in a green 
 trooper's coat, breerhes of buckskin, and long boots of dark leather. A pair 
 of pistols hung from one side of his belt ; a long and ponderous sword from 
 the other. 
 
 He stood before Lee, with his heavy steel helmet faced with fur, in his 
 right hand. 
 
 The Major surveyed him for a moment with a look of admiration, and 
 then stated the desperate enterprize in all its details. 
 
 The brave man trembled, shuddered, and grew pale, as he heard the 
 words of his commander. Yes, Sergeant John Champe, — an iron man, 
 who had never known fear — now felt afraid. 
 
 No words can depict the agony of that half hour's interview. 
 
 At last, as Lee bent forward, exclaiming, " Would you save the life of 
 Andre ?" Champe hurried from the tent. 
 
 From a nook among the bushes lie led forth his steed. While the hel- 
 met, drawn over his brows, shadowed the emotion of his swarthy visage 
 from the light of the rising moon, he silently flung his cloak over the back 
 of the horse, tied his valise to the saddle, and placed his orderly book within 
 the breast of his coat. 
 
 These preparations all betokened the stern composure of a mind bent 
 on a desperate deed. 
 
 In silence he led the horse along the sward, under the shadow of the 
 thicket. At last, emerging into the light, where two high rocks, overlook- 
 ing the road, raised their brows in the beams of the moon, he placed his 
 hand on the saddle, and laid his face against the neck of his steed. His 
 emotions were dark and bitter. 
 
 The beauty of that horse's proportions was revealed in the calm, clear 
 light. His hue was dark as ink. A single star on the forehead varied the 
 midnight blackness of his hide. A small head, a sinewy body, supported 
 by light and elastic limbs, a long mane and waving tail, an eye that softened 
 as it met it's master, or glared terribly in the hour of battle — such was the 
 horse of John Champe, the renowned Sergeant Major of Lee's Legion. 
 
 That horse had been given to him in 1776, by the old man, his father. 
 Before the door of his home, in a green valley of Loudon county, Virginia, 
 the white-haired patriot had bestowed this parting gift to his son. 
 
 "John, I bid you good bye with a single word ! When you fijjht, strike 
 with all your might — and never let this horse iiear you from the foe I" 
 
JOHN CHAMPE. 233 
 
 And now this Son, blessed by his Patriot Father, was about to turn the 
 horse's head toward the British Camp, the soidier, praised by Washington 
 and loved by Lee, was about to turn — Deserter ! 
 
 He had never groaned in battle, but now he uttered a cry of anguish, as 
 he thought of that fatal word ! 
 
 " You have borne me many a time, old Powhatan, into the ranks of the 
 foe ! Now — now — you must bear me to New York — you must carry the 
 Deserter into the enemy's camp ! Come — we have many miles to travel-* 
 many dangers to dare !" 
 
 This horse, — known by his master as Powhatan — after the Indian king 
 — raised his head, and with quivering nostrils, uttered a long and piercing 
 neigh. He thought that he was about to bear his master to battle ! What 
 knew he of that word of scorn — Deserter ? 
 
 As Champe stood beside his steed, wrapped in deep thought, a mass of 
 dark clouds, that had been gathering on the mountain tops, came rolling 
 over the moon. From an aperture in the black mass, a parting ray of 
 moonlight streamed down upon the soldier and his steed. 
 
 All around was dark, yet that picture stood out from the back-ground of 
 rocks, in strong light — the mounted soldier, his horse starling forward, as 
 he raised his hand to heaven, with the moonbeams on his writhing face ! 
 
 'J'he horse moved onward ! Champe passed the boundary of the camp, 
 and dashed along the road. The thunder growled and the rain fell. Still 
 down into the shadows of the road. On the corner of a projecting rock, 
 Btood a Patrole of Lee's band, his horse by his side. A challenge — Who 
 goes there ? No answer ! The crack of a rifle ! 
 
 The button is torn from the breast of his coat, yet still Champe the 
 Deserter dashes on. 
 
 The rain fell in large drops, sinking heavily into the roadside dust. From 
 afar, the thunder moaned, its sound resembling the echo of huge rocks, pre-- 
 cipitated from an immense height over an inclined plane of brass. 
 
 Ere half an hour passed. Captain Carnes, a brave and somewhat sanguir 
 nary officer, rushed into Lee's tent, with a pale face and scowling brow. 
 
 Lee was on his couch, but not asleep. 
 
 " Major, a soldier has just passed the patrole, and taken the road to the 
 enemy !" 
 
 •• What?" cried the Partizan, with an incredulous smile—" A trooper of 
 Lee's Legion turn Deserter ? Impossible !" 
 
 " Not only a trooper of the Legion," cried the indignant Captain, " But 
 John Champe, the bravest of the band !" 
 
 " John Champe desert ? By Jove, Major, you must be dreaming !" And 
 Lee turned himself to sleep again. 
 
 But the Captain would not be denied. Again with many an oath and 
 exclamation of contempt, as he named the Sergeant, he stated on his honor 
 15 
 
234 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 
 
 that Champe had been seen taking the route to Paulus Hook, opposite the 
 city of New York. 
 
 Lee heard this information with deep emotion. He could not beUeve that 
 Champe would desert. The idea was ridiculous ; some mistake had hap- 
 pened ; he wished to sleep, for he was fatigued with his ride to head-quar- 
 ters ; in fact, half an hour passed before Captain Carnes could impress the 
 Partizan with the fact, that one of his bravest men had gone over to the 
 British. 
 
 At last. Lee arose, and sent for Cornet Middleton, a man of stout frame 
 with a ruddy face with light brown hair. He was noted for the mildness 
 of his temper, while Carnes was fierce to cruelly. 
 
 " Cornet, it appears that Sergeant Champe has taken the road to Paulus 
 Hook. Take with you twenty dragoons and pursue him. Bring him 
 alive — " his face quivered in every feature as he spoke — " so that he may 
 suffer in presence of the army ! Kill him if he resists ! — " Every nerve 
 of his form trembled with an emotion, the cause of which was unknown 
 to the bystanders — " Aye, kill him if he resists, or escapes after being 
 taken .'" 
 
 Lee was now alive in every vein. So anxious was he, that the Deserter 
 should be taken, that he spent another half hour in giving the Cornet direc- 
 tions with regard to the pursuit. 
 
 At a few minutes past twelve, Henry Lee, standing near the door of his 
 tent, beheld the Cornet and his Dragoons gallop forward, their swords glit- 
 tering in the light. 
 
 As the last man disappeared, Lee entered his tent and flung himself upon 
 the couch. 
 
 He passed that night like a man under sentence of death. 
 
 All the mildness of his nature turned to gall, by this flagrant act of 
 Treachery on the part of one so renowned as Champe, the Cornet dashed 
 along the road, at the head of his men. Every lip was clenched, every 
 brow wore a scowl. Woe ! to the Deserter if he encounters these iron 
 men, his pursuers and executioners ! 
 
 They hurried on, pausing now and then in their career, to examine the 
 print of hoofs, stamped in the dust of the road. The moon came out and 
 revealed these traces of the traitor's career. The horse-shoes of the Le- 
 gion were impressed with a peculiar mark. The recent rain settling the 
 dust, left each foot-print clear and distinct. There was no doubt of success ; 
 they \\ ere on the track of the Deserter. 
 
 Their swords clattering, the sound of their horses' hoofs echoing through 
 the wood, they dashed on, eager for the blood of this man, who lately 
 shared their mess, and fought among their bravest. 
 
 It was at the break of day that the most exciting scene took place. 
 
JOHN CHAMPE. 2JIS 
 
 Some miles to the north ot the village of Bergen, arose a high hill com 
 mantling a view of the road far to the south. 
 
 Cornet Middleton, riding at the head of his men, led the wayuplhc hill ; 
 a wild hurrah broke from his band. 
 
 Haifa mile to the south, they beheld the black horse, his sides whitened 
 with foam ; they beheld the Deserter, with his head turned over his shoul- 
 der. He saw them come, he knew his doom if taken, so, digging the rowels 
 into the flanks of his steed, he bounded away. 
 
 It was a splendid sight to see the troopers thundering down one hill, 
 while Champe — alone, desperate, the object of their vengeance — excited his 
 horse to unnatural efforts of speed, in ascending the opposite hill. 
 
 He gained the summit, looked back, uttered a hurrah in scorn, and was 
 gone. 
 
 On the brow of this hill, by the roadside, arose the hot^l of the Three 
 Pidgeons. 
 
 The Cornet reined his steed in full career : 
 
 " Beyond the village of Bergen, the high road crosses a bridge, which 
 the deserter must cross in order to reach Paulus Hook. You see this bye- 
 road on your left ? Sergeant Thomas, you will take four dragoons, and 
 gain this bridge by the short-cut — conceal yourselves — and wait the ap- 
 proach of the traitor — while we drive him into the a^ibush, by pursuing the 
 high road !" 
 
 You see the veteran Thomas — whose face bears the marks of battles 
 fought amid the snows of Canada, under the sun of Carolina — with four 
 dragoons dash into the shadows of the bye-path, while the Cornet hurries 
 on in the high road. The capture of the deserter is now certain. 
 
 That road-side tavern is soon left behind. Cornet Middleton, his face 
 flushed with the fever of pursuit, his eye fired with the ardor of the chase, 
 points the way with his sword, speaks to his horse and at the head of his 
 band thunders on. 
 
 For a moment they lose sight of the chase. He — the Deserter, the 
 Traitor — is lost to view behind those trees, on the summit of yonder hill. 
 Now he bursts into light again, urging his black horse to desperate feats : 
 they see him bending forward, they see the noble steed dash on with the 
 speed of a hurled javelin, while the white foam gathers on his neck and 
 bathes his flanks. 
 
 " On, my comrades ! We must secure this villain, or be disgraced ! 
 Only think of it — one of Lee's legion a deserter ! The honor of the corps 
 is at stake! Ha — ha — we gain on him, we will have him, aye, before the 
 day is an hour older ! There he is again — you see his horse is tired, he 
 seems about to fall ! On — on my boys ! Through the village of Bergen, 
 we will drive him toward the Bridge, and there, ho, ho ! The fox ia 
 caught — we Ml be in at the death !" 
 
 The music of those rattling bridles, those clanking scabbards, those hoofs 
 
^36 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 
 
 thundering down with one sound, was very pleasant to hear. But those 
 compressed lips, those eyes glaring from beneath tlie steel frontlet of each 
 trooper's helm, did not indicate much mercy for the Deserter. 
 
 But a quarter of a mile in front, Champe looked over his shoulder, and 
 saw them come ! Now is the time to try the mettle of Powhatan! Now 
 — if you do not love the gibbet's rope — make one bold efTort and secure 
 your neck, by gaining Paulus Hook ! 
 
 Champe saw them come. His dark face assumed a ferocious expression, 
 his eyes shone with a wild intensity. 
 
 " On — on — Powhatan !" he muttered, while the blood and foam streamed 
 down the flanks of his steed. 
 
 Like the limb of a tree, rent by the hurricane and hurled along the 
 darkened air, Champe dashed into the old town of Bergen, and was lost to 
 view, among the shadows of its rustic homes. 
 
 Close at his heels followed Middleton, marking the traces of his horse's 
 hoofs, winding where he had wound, turning where he had turned — while 
 the dragoons at his back, preserving a death-like silence, began to feel that 
 the crisis of the chase was near. 
 
 Suddenly they lose all traces of the Deserter's course. Amid these 
 streets and lanes he has doubled, until the foot-tracks of his horse are no 
 longer discernable. 
 
 " Never mind, my boys ! He has taken the road to Paulus Hook — to 
 the bridge, to the bridge !" 
 
 " To the bridge !" responded the sixteen troopers, and away tliey 
 dashed. 
 
 It was a fine old bridsfe of massive rocks and huge timbers, with the 
 waves roaring below, and forest trees all about it. The red earth of the 
 road was contrasted with autumn dyed forest leaves above. 
 
 They turn the bend of the road, tliey behold the bridge. Yes, they 
 have him now, for yonder, reined in the centre of the road, are the bold 
 Sero-eant and his comrades. Near and nearer draws Middleton and his 
 band. 
 
 Leaning over the neck of his steed, he shouts : 
 
 " You have him. Sergeant ? Yes, I knew it ! He plunged blind-fold 
 into the trap !" 
 
 The Serireant waves his sword and shovits, but they cannot distinguish 
 his words. 
 
 Still on in their career, until with one sudden movement they wheel their 
 steeds upon the bridge. 
 
 " The prisoner — where is he ?" thunder sixteen voices in chorus. 
 
 " He is not here. We waited for him but he came not this way — " 
 growled the old Sergeant, 
 
 With a burst of cries and oaths, the whole band wheel, and hasten back 
 to the village. In a moment dispersed through all the streets, they search 
 
JOHN CHAMPE. 237 
 
 for the fool-tracks of the deserter. Tlie villagers roused from their slutn- 
 oers saw him pass — a solitary man, with despair on his face, urging his 
 steed with spur and bridle-reiu' — but cannot tell the way he has gone. 
 
 Th<i search is tumultuous, hurried, intensely interesting. At last a 
 t'^'inner s cry is heard — 
 
 " Here he is ' I've found his track !" 
 
 And ere the word has passed from his lips, another trooper points with 
 his sword — 
 
 " Yonder, look yonder ! On the road to Elizabeth Town Point, he 
 rides ! Ah — he has tricked us ! Foiled in his purpose to gain Paulus 
 Hook, he is determined to make at once for the Bay, and take refuge 
 a-board the British galleys !" 
 
 And there on the road to the Point, they beheld their chase. He must 
 gain the shore of the bay, swim to the British galleys or be taken ! It is 
 his last hope. 
 
 But three hupdred yards of beaten road, separates the pursuers and pur- 
 ''sued. Only that space of red earth, between John Champe and the Gal- 
 lows ! Let his brave steed but miss his footing, or stumble for an instant, 
 and he is a doomed man. 
 
 It was terrific to see the manner in which they dashed after him, every 
 horse nerved to his utmost speed. As the troopers dug the rowels into the 
 flanks of their steeds, they drew their pistols. 
 
 John Champe felt that the crisis of his fate was near. Patting gently on 
 the neck of his brave horse, whispering encouragement to him in a low 
 tone, he looked back and felt his heart bound. His pursuers had gained 
 fifty yards — were rapidly nearing him ! 
 
 As this fact became evident, the river, the city, and the bay broke upon 
 his view ! A beautiful city, that thrones itself amid glorious waters — a 
 noble river rushing from its mountain fortress, to make battle with the sea 
 — a lordly bay, that rolls its waters from island to island, reflecting on 
 every wave, the blue autumnal sky, the uprising sun. 
 
 It was a beautiful sight, but John Champe had no time, no eye for beau- 
 tiful sights just now. The only beauty that met his eye, was the vision of 
 the British Galleys, rising and falling upon the waves, within pistol-shot of 
 shore. The fresh breeze played with the British flag, and tossed it gaily 
 to and fro. 
 
 John beheld the galleys, the flag, and knew the moment of his fate had 
 come. 
 
 Let us look upon him now, as three hundred yards lie between him and 
 the shore, while his pursuers are within two hundred yards of his horse's 
 heels. 
 
 He looked back, every vein of his face swollen, his eyes starting from 
 the expanded lids. He counted the number of his pursuers. Twenty 
 men, twenty horses, twenty swords, twenty levelled pistols ! He could se# 
 
238 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 
 
 the morning sun glitter on iheir buttons — yes, their faces convulsed with 
 lage, tlieir horses with quivering nostrils, were there clearly and distinctly, 
 in the light of the new-risen day. 
 
 But two hundred yards between him and death ! 
 
 " Yield !" shouted Cornet Middleton, whose white horse led the way — 
 " Yield, or you die !" 
 
 Champe turned and smiled. They could see his white teeth, contrasted 
 with his sun-burnt face. That laugh of scorn fired their blood. Without a 
 shout, witliout an oath, they crashed along the road. 
 
 The movements of Champe were somewhat peculiar. 
 
 Even in that moment of awful suspense, he took his valise and lashed it 
 to his shoulders. Then, rising magnificently in his stirrups, he flung away 
 his scabbard, placed the sword between his teeth, and threw his arms on 
 high, grasping a pistol in each hand. 
 
 " Now, come on ! Come — and do your worst !" he said in a voice, 
 which low-toned and deep, was yet heard, above the clatter of horse's 
 hoofs. 
 
 Even now I see him, yes, between the troopers and the uprising sun ! 
 
 That hunted man, mounted on a steed, which black as death, moistens 
 the dust, with the foam, that falls in flakes from its sides, that miserable 
 deserter, rising erect in his stirrups, the sword between his teeth, a pistol 
 in each hand ! 
 
 " Powhatan, save your master ! If I fall, may God pity my mother-— 
 ray poor father I A Deserter, rushing to the shelter of the British flag ! 
 Help ! Help ! I come to seek the protection of the King !" 
 
 A blue smoke, wound upward from the deck of each galley — a report 
 like thunder startled the air. 
 
 And while the decks, were crowded with spectators, while the pursuers, 
 thundered nearer to the shore, every pistol, emitting a volume of smoke 
 and flam^, that lonely man on his black horse, held on his dread career. 
 
 It was a moment of fearful interest. 
 
 That same day, at four o'clock in the afternoon, a wild hurrah, disturbed 
 the silence of Lee's encampment. 
 
 Lee, sitting alone, his whole frame, shaken by some indefinable emotion, 
 heard that hurrah, and started to his feet. Rushing hurridly to the door of 
 his tent, he beheld a group of dragoons, dismounted, surrounding a band of 
 mounted men, whose trappings were covered with dust. 
 
 In the midst of this band, a riderless steed, with a cloak, throvvn ovei 
 the saddle, was led along, exciting the attention of every eye. 
 
 Cornet Middleton and his band had returned. That horse, was the steed 
 of Jo^in Champe, the gallant Powhatan. 
 
 " Joy, Major — good news!" cried a trooper rushing forwai'd— " The 
 troop have come back ! The scoundrel's killed !" 
 
JOHN CHAMPE. 239 
 
 Lee was a brave man, but at that word — as the sight of the riderless 
 horse, met his eye — a sudden faintness came over him. He grasped the 
 tent-pole, and grew very pale. 
 
 " Killed did you say ?" he cried in a tone of wringing emphasis — 
 " Chanipe killed ? My God, it cannot — cannot be true !" 
 
 The trooper was thunder-stricken, with astonishment, as he beheld, the 
 sorrow painted on the Major's face. Sorrow for a traitor, grief for the 
 death of a — deserter ! 
 
 Let us return to the chase. 
 
 It was the crisis of the Deserter's fate. 
 
 A pistol bullet, tore a button from his breast, as he reached the bank. 
 
 His pursuers were not fifty yards behind him. 
 
 As his noble horse, stood trembling on the shore, recoiling on his 
 haunches, while the sweat and foam, streamed down his sides, Chanipe 
 turned his head to his pursuers — beheld them come On — saw their pistols 
 levelled once more — and in a moment was wrapt in a cloud of smoke. 
 
 When that cloud cleared away, a riderless horse, dashed wildly along the 
 bank. Is he killed ? The eyes of the British on the galley-decks, the 
 glances of the troopers, who scatter along the shore, all search for the corse 
 of the traitor. 
 
 From the shore, for fifty yards or more, extends a dreary march of reeds. 
 You see their tops wave, as though a serpent was trailing its way over the 
 oozy mud, you see a head upraised, and then the sound of a heavy body, 
 falling into the water is heard. 
 
 Look once again, and look beyond the marsh, and see that head, rising 
 above the waves, those arms dashing the spray on either side. 
 
 It is John Champe, swimming with sword in his teeth, towards the 
 nearest galley. 
 
 Middleton and his troopers, gaze upon him, from the bank, in dismay, 
 while the Commander of the galley, surrounded by sailors and soldiers, 
 encourages the deserter with shouts. 
 
 An old trooper of the Legion kneels. He carries a rifle — a delicate 
 piece, with stock mounted in silver — at his back, suspended by a leathei 
 strap. He unslings it, examines the lock, takes the aim. Old Holford, 
 has been in the Indian wars ; he can snuff a candle at a hundred yards. 
 Therefore you may imagine, the deep interest, with which the other troop- 
 ers regarded him, as raising the rifle, he levelled it, at the head, appearing 
 above the waters. 
 
 John Champe may look his last upon God's beautiful sky ! 
 
 Yes, as the sword in his teeth, gleams in the sun. Old Holford fires. At 
 the same instant a heavy volume of smoke and flame, rolls from the 
 galleys ; certain missiles make an unpleasant hissing oyer the trooper's 
 heads. 
 
240 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 
 
 When the smoke rolls away, the troopers look for the corse of the 
 doomed man, writhing its last, ere it sinks forever. 
 
 But the Commander of the Galley, reaching forth his arm, grasps the 
 hand of John Champe — whose cheek bleeds from the touch of a bullet — 
 and assists him to reach the deck. 
 
 The sword still between his teeth, his cheek slightly bleeding, his uni- 
 form dripping with spray. John Champe, with a pistol in each hand, 
 gazes calmly over the waters. After that composed look he hails his late 
 comrades with these words. — 
 
 " Good bye my boys ! Take care of Powhatan and d'ye hear ? Present 
 my respects to Washington and Lee !" 
 
 — From a multitude of expressions, uttered by the troopers on the bank, 
 we select a single one, which fell from the lips of old Ilolford : 
 
 " I'm a scoundrel," he said, doggedly, slinging his rifle — " You're a 
 scoundrel" — to a comrade — " and you, and you, and you ! There's no- 
 body honest in the world after to day. We're all scoundrels. I dont trust 
 myself. Do you axe why ? Yesterday, the best of our Legion, and the 
 bravest was John Champe. To day — look yonder, and see, John Champe 
 alx)ard a British galley ! Why I would not trust my ov/n father, after that "* 
 
 In sdence the band, returned their steps to camp, leading the riderless 
 steed by the bridle rein. Lee, soon, discovered the falsity of the 
 rumor, which announced the Deserter's death. Cornet Middleton, witti 
 his handsome face, covered with chagrin, told the whole story, and in terms 
 of sincere anguish, regretted, that he had not pistolled the Deserter, and 
 cursed the hour when he escaped. 
 
 To the utter confusion of the good cornet, Major Henry Lee, burst into 
 a roar of laughter. 
 
 He took horse, without delay, and riding to head quarters told the story 
 to the Chieftain, who heard it, with a countenance, beaming with smiles. 
 
 Though Champe has basely deserted the cause of freedom, his future 
 history, is fraught with interest. 
 
 Behold him, standing before Sir Henry Clinton, who delighted to receive 
 a deserter from the famed corps of Lee, questions him, with an almost ri- 
 diculous minuteness. Yet, the rough soldier, answers all Sir Henry's 
 questions, and satisfies him, on various important points. The army were 
 tu-ed of Washington. Other Generals were preparing to follow the example 
 of Arnold. Neither discipline, nor patriotism could keep the Mob of Mis- 
 ter Washington together much longer. The good Sir Heary, was 
 delighted with the information, and laughed till his fat sides shook, and 
 gave John Champe three golden guineas. 
 
 The fourth day, after the desertion, Lee received a letter, by the hands 
 of a secret messenger, signed, John Champe. What did the recreant desire ? 
 a pardon, perchance ? 
 
JOHN CHAMPE. 241 
 
 On the 30th of Sepcember, Champe, was appohited one of Arnold's re- 
 cruiting sergeants. The traitor Sergeant and the traitor General, were thus 
 brought together. That scarlet costume, which they had so often rent and 
 hacked in batde, was now their uniform. 
 
 Every day, or so, a secret messenger, in New York, forwarded to Lee, 
 certain letters, signed by Champe. Perhaps, he repented of his treason ? 
 Or, did he wish to impart information, that might prove the ruin of Wash- 
 ington ? What was the Deserter's object ? 
 
 Behold him now, an efficient soldier of Arnold's American Legion, 
 dressed in a red uniform, and doing the work of a Briton. Did he never 
 think of the old man, even his father, who had bestowed upon him, the 
 noble horse, Powhatan ? 
 
 At this time, there was not a home on New York, but morning, noon 
 and night, rung with the name of John Andre. 
 
 Would Washington dare to execute him ? Had Sir Henry Clinton 
 spared one exertion to save the life of his favorite ? What would be Ar- 
 nold's course, in case Andre was put to death as a spy 1 
 
 These questions were often asked, often answered ; but on the evening 
 of the Second of October, a rumor came to town, which filled every heart 
 with joy. 
 
 Andre was to be set free. 
 
 At midnight, on the Third of October, a brilliant company thronged the 
 lighted halls of an Aristocrat, who was pledged to the cause of " Our Blessed 
 King." 
 
 The soft light of the chandeliers streamed over the half-bared bosoms of 
 some two hundred beautiful women. Their forms fluttering in silks and 
 laces, their necks circled by pearls and jewels, these beautiful dames went 
 bounding in the dance. And the same light that revealed the lovely women, 
 and disclosed the statues, pictures, hangings and ornaments of those brilliant 
 saloons, also shone over groups of British officers, young and old, who 
 mingled with the fair Americans, or stood in the deep-framed windows, 
 talking in low, earnest tones of the fate of John Andre. 
 
 On a luxurious divan, cushioned with dark crimson velvet, with a statue 
 of the good King George forming the centre, Sir Henry Clinton reclined, 
 surrounded by a crowd of officers, mingled with beautiful women. 
 
 Among those women, there was only one who did not wear the tall 
 head-gear, in fashion at that time ; a sort of tower, that ladies had agreed 
 to carry on their brows, as an elephant carries a castle on his back. 
 
 She stood apart, while in front of her chattered a bevy of beauties, whose 
 cheeks, rendered surpassingly white by the contrast ;f patches, were re- 
 lieved by their intricately arranged hair. 
 
 Her dark locks gathered plainly back from her brow, fell behind the 
 small ears in glossy tresses. The oilier ladies were clad with a profusion 
 
242 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 
 
 of silks, laces, pearls, jewels. She, so strange in the majestic loveliness 
 of her dark eyes, so melting in the warm ripeness of her lips, in the volup- 
 tuous fullness of the bosom, stands alone, clad in a white dress that emi 
 nently becomes the beauty of her commanding person. 
 
 This is the Heiress of the Aristocrat who gives the festival to-night. 
 
 Do yon see her eyes flash, her bosom heave, as those ladies converse 
 with Sir Henry Clinton ? 
 
 " Do you think indeed, Sir Henry," lisps a fair haired beauty, " that 
 Major Andre will be set free by that odious Washington ?" 
 
 " I have no doubt that we will be able to snatch him from the ogre's 
 grasp," replies Sir Henry, with a smile, " But to speak seriously, the intel- 
 ligence received last night, sets my mind at rest. Andre will be with us in 
 a day or so !" 
 
 A murmur of satisfaction thrills through the group. 
 
 The Heiress feels her heart bound more freely : glancing towards a large 
 mirror she beholds the roses blooming once more upon her cheek. 
 
 " Andre will be free in a day or so !" she murmurs, and suffers a gallant 
 officer to lead her forward in the dance. 
 
 Presently the wide floor — chalked like the mazes of a puzzling garden, 
 is thronged with dancers. Such a fluttering of pretty feet over the boards, 
 that bound as they seem to feel the value of that beauty which ihey sustain ! 
 Such a glancing of fair necks and white arms in the light. Music too, fill- 
 ing the air, and making heart and feet and eyes, go leaping together. 
 
 The floor is crowded with dancers ; Sir Henry Clinton smiles with de- 
 light as he surveys the beautiful prospect. 
 
 And among all the dangers, that one, with the dark hair and brilliant 
 eyes, and voluptuous form, clad in white, most attracts the eye of Sir 
 Henry, for John Andre had kissed her hand, his arm has encircled her; 
 waist, his lips felt the magic of her rosy mouth. 
 
 Presently an officer is seen treading his way through the mazes of the 
 dance. Strange to say, he is not clad in ball costume. He appears in boots 
 spattered witli mud, while his hard-featured face seeks the form of Sir 
 Henry with earnest eyes. He comes through the dancers and whispers to 
 Sir Henry Clinton, who says never a word, but hides his face in his 
 hands. 
 
 I cainot tell how it was, but assuredly, the presence of that officer, with 
 the hard-featured face and spattered boots, spread a chill through the room. 
 
 One by one the couples left the dance : a circle, gradually deepening 
 was formed around Sir Henry : at last, the Heiress and her partner were 
 left alone in the centre of the room, pacing a solemn minuet, while her eyes 
 and cheeks and lips gmiled in chorus. She was entirely happy : for she 
 conversed with her partner about John Andre. 
 
 Presently she observed the circle gathered about the British General. 
 She turned her gaze and beheld every feature clouded in sorrow. She heard 
 
JOHN CHAMPE. 243 
 
 no more the light langh, nor the careless repartee. All was silent around 
 the divan, from whose centre arose the statue of the King. 
 
 The Heiress turned to ask the cause of this strange gloom, which had so 
 suddenly possessed the place, when a little girl, not more than six years 
 old, came running to her, spreading forth her tiny hands, and in one breath 
 she called the beautiful woman by name, and 
 
 — Spoke a fatal truth, that had just broken on her ears. 
 
 John Andre was dead. He had been hung that day, about the hour 
 of noon. 
 
 The shriek that thrille3 through that lighted hall, stopped every heart in 
 its throbbings. 
 
 One shriek, and one only: the Heiress fell, her hair showering about her 
 as she lay senseless on the floor. 
 
 So you may have seen a blossoming tree, which has long swayed to and 
 fro beneath the blast, suddenly tower erect, each leaf quivering gently, and 
 then — torn up by the roots — precipitate itself in ruins on the ground. 
 
 At the same hour, Benedict Arnold was writing in his most secret cham- 
 ber, while his brolher-traitor, John Champe, waited near his chair. 
 
 • The shaded lamp spread a circle over Arnold's face and hand, while all 
 around was twilight. Champe stood in the shadow behind the back of 
 Arnold, his dark visage working with a peculiar expression. 
 
 Arnold was just writing these words, when the door opened 
 
 ' If this warning shall be disregarded, and he suffer, I CALL Heaven 
 
 AND earth to witness, THAT YOUR EXCELLENCY WILL BE JUSTLY A:NWERA- 
 BLE FOR THE TORRENT OF BLOOD THAT MAY BE SPILT IN CONSEQUENCE.' 
 
 " Let them put Andre to death, if they dare ! Thus I wrote to Wash- 
 ington yesterday, and now I write it again, so that my soul may never forget 
 these words ! If Andre perishes " 
 
 As Arnold spoke, the door opened and a Soldier entered the room — 
 
 " General, Major Andre was put to death at noon to-day !" 
 
 Arnold gazed in the face of the Soldier, with a look of vacant astonish- 
 ■nent. 
 
 " You spoke, I believe? The next time you intrude upon my privacy, 
 I will thank you to use a little more form ilii\ !" 
 
 " Excuse me. General, but this news has set us all a kind o' topsy-turvy !" 
 
 " News ? What news ?" 
 
 " Major Andre was hung to-day at noon." 
 
 Arnold did not speak for five minutes. For that space of time, he sat in 
 the chair, with his eyes fixed on the paper, but in truth he saw nothing. A 
 hazy vapor swam before his sight, the sound of bells was in his ears. When 
 he saw clearly again, the stupified soldier stood in the doorway, gazing upon 
 the general in awe, for the agitation of that iron face was horrible to behold. 
 
 " How did he die ? — " His voice was hoarse ; he spoke with a great effort 
 
244 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 
 
 " By the rope, — it noon — Washington wouldn't allow him to be shot." 
 
 As the Traitor turned he beheld Champe, seated on a military chest, his 
 frame writhing in agony, while his swarthy face was bathed in tears. 
 
 " I thought you were a man — a soldier ! Why, you weep like a child — " 
 Arnold spoke in scorn, but took good care to keep his osvn eyes from the liglit. 
 
 " Andre — " was all that Champe could gasp. 
 
 Arnold paced the room, now folding his arms, now clenching his hands, 
 now uttering in a low voice, horrible blasphemies. 
 
 " Champe — " he said, abrupUy pausing, as his distorted countenance 
 glowed in the light — " They have known me in the Wilderness — yes, at 
 Quebec — at Saratoga ; my sword has been tried, and it has crimsoned Us 
 blade in victory ! Now — by — " he muttered a horrible oath, " they shall 
 know that sword once more, know it as the instrument of vengeance — aye, 
 they shall know it as the Avenger of John Andre !" 
 
 Terrified, as though he beheld a fiend instead of a man, Champe slowly 
 rose to his feet. 
 
 " By the light of their desolate homes, I will offer victims to the ghost 
 of Andre ! Take care, Washington ! Your towns will blaze ! Take 
 care — the Traitor Arnold will stand amid heaps of dead bodies, shouting as 
 he plunges his sword into your soldiers' hearts, This and This for John 
 Andre! Traitor — I accept the name — I will wear it ! From his hour, 
 every tie that bound me to this soil, is torn from my heart ! From this 
 hour, in camp and council — by my wrongs, by the deatli of Andre I swear 
 it — I stand the Destroyer of my native land !" 
 
 He turned to Champe, who shrank back from the blaze of his maddened 
 eyes. 
 
 "You loved Andre ? Then join swords, and swear witli me to avenge 
 his death ! Swear to have vengeance upon his Murderer !" 
 
 " I swear to have vengeance upon the Murderer of John Andre !" said 
 Champe, with a meaning emphasis. 
 
 Arnold stood erect, one hand laid upon his sword, while the other up- 
 lifted in the awful formality of an oath, attested the deep sincerity of his 
 resolve. 
 
 This was on the P.ight of October Third, 1780. 
 
 In the space of time between this night, and midnight of November Se 
 cond, the current of John Champe's life flowed smoothly on, scarcely 
 marked by the ripple of an event. 
 
 It was however observable, that in the intervals of his time, he was woni 
 to visit the secret messenger, who had conveyed his previous letters to Lee. 
 
 On the 19th of October, he despatched another message to his formei 
 Commander. Still his object is shrouded in mystery. What mean thest 
 communications sent by a Deserter from the cause of freedom, to a re- 
 nowned Champion of that cause ? 
 
JOHN CHAMPE. 243 
 
 Lee invariably showed these letters to Wasl)ington. Doubtless they 
 viewed with the same spontaneous scorn, these epistles of the Deserter. 
 
 Rumor now crept through New York, and abroad even to the camp of 
 Washington, that Arnold was gathering troops for some bandit-enterprize. 
 
 John Champe who was a very quiet man, saying little, but observing a 
 great deal, followed Arnold like a shadow, obeying his wish before the 
 Traitor could frame it in words, and making himself familiar with all the 
 habits of the great General. 
 
 In the course of his meditations, John impressed four or five facts upon 
 his soul. 
 
 The custom of tlie Traitor every night before retiring to rest, was to 
 walk in the pleasant garden of his mansion. 
 
 This garden was separated by certain slender palings from a narrow 
 alhy. The alley led to the river. 
 
 That river could be crossed by a boat at any hour of the night. 
 
 Now, it once struck John, that if these miserable rebels should want to 
 carry away Benedict Arnold, nothing was more easy, in case they arranged 
 their proceedings in a proper manner. For instance — two or three pal- 
 ings might be removed — the Traitor seized some dark night, and gagged — 
 placed on the shoulders of two men borne to the river, and across to Hoboktin. 
 There a party of Lee's dragoons might await his coming, ready to buar 
 him away to the camp of Washington. 
 
 At the same time, that John dreamed thus wildly, he also remembered 
 that somewhere or other, he had read words like these, signed by Wash- 
 ington : 
 
 " Arnold must be brought to me alive. No circumstance whcitever, 
 ihall obtain my consent to his being put to death. My aim is to make a 
 public example of him. 
 
 Washington." 
 
 A strange dream, this ! Let us hope that the Deserter's brain, was not 
 affected by his Crime. • 
 
 Time passed on. Andre had been dead nearly a month. 
 
 Arnold's preparations for his bandit-deed, excited universal attention. 
 No incident ruffled the quiet tenor of the Deserter's life, save that one even- 
 ing, toward the close of October, a lady of great beauty and wealth, sent foi 
 him, and talked earnestly with him for an hour or more, holding at the 
 same time in her hand, a miniature of John Andre. 
 
 Our history now returns to the midnight scene, in Arnold's chamber on 
 me Second of November. 
 
 The Soldier with the crape over his face, stood in the shadow, silently 
 observing these two beautiful women. 
 
 A strange contrast ! 
 
240 BExNEDICT ARNOLD. 
 
 One, whose years are scarce beyond girlhood, stands as if paralyzed ; hei 
 uplifted hand grasping a taper, while the light reveals her form, attired in a 
 white robe whose loose folds disclose her bosom — so pure and stainless- - 
 her small feet and bared arms. 
 
 The hair which falls along her cheeks and over her neck and breast, i|i 
 hue resemliles the first mild sunshine of a summer's day. 
 
 The other, rising in queenly stature, her form — more round, more volup- 
 tuous, more commanding in its outlines — attired in the scarlet coat of a 
 British officer, with cambric ruffles fluttering over the virgin breast, military 
 boots enveloping the finely formed foot and limb. Her hair showers to her 
 shoulders, in dark masses. Her face — whose faint olive tint deepens on 
 the warm lips and rounded cheek into bright vermillion — is marked with 
 the lines of conflicting passions. 
 
 Her full dark eye pours its light upon the clear blue eye of the woman, 
 who shrinks back from her gaze. 
 
 " You here ! In the chamber of my husband !" faltered the Wife — " In 
 this guise, too " 
 
 " Here, in the dress of John Andre ! Here to welcome Benedict Arnold, 
 in the garb of his victim ! Here, to award justice to the Double Traitor !" 
 
 The strange lady folded her arms, as if to still the throbbings of her 
 breast. The Wife stood like one fascinated by a serpent's gaze. 
 
 " Do you remember the days of your girlhood. Madam, when the thresh- 
 hold of your home was crossed by a young soldier, who won all hearts by 
 his knightly bearing ? Do you remember him so young, so brave ? His 
 heart warmed with all that is noble in man, the light of genius flashing 
 from his hazel eye ?" 
 
 " O, do not — do not speak of these memories — " gasped the wife of 
 Arnold. 
 
 " But I will speak, and you must hear !" was the reply of the proud 
 maiden, with the dark eye and scornful lips — " You do remember him ? 
 Every body loved him. .You can witness that ! For you saw him in his 
 young manhood — you surrendered your waist to his arm in the dance — you 
 heard that voice, which was at once Music and Poetry ! O, do you re- 
 member it all ?" 
 
 The wife stood like a figure of marble, her blue eyes dilating, her lips 
 parting in an expression of speechless horror. 
 
 " Where now is this gallant soldier ? Where now the Hero, whose 
 sword flashed so fearlessly in the hour of battle ? — Wife of Arnold, ask 
 your heart — nay, go to the river shore, and ask the sod of that lonely grave ! 
 Yes, the hand that pressed yours in the dance, is now the food of the 
 grave-worm ! The eye that gleamed so brightly, when your hand dropped 
 the crown of roses and laurel on the plumed brow, is dark forever !" 
 
 The Wife of Arnold sank on her knees. 
 
 " Spare .ne 1" she cried, lifting her ashy face toward that beautiful wo 
 
JOHN CHAMPE. 247 
 
 man, clad in the dress of John Andre — " Do not rend my heart with these 
 words — " 
 
 " How died he, the young, the gifted, the brave ?" — You see that eye 
 dart an almost demoniac fire — " Perchance in batde at the head of legions, 
 his good steed beneath him, his true sword in hand ? Yes, charging into 
 the thickest of the fight, he fell, his last smile glowing in the sunshine of 
 victory ! Or, maybe he perished in some midnight massacre, perished in 
 the act of an heroic defence ? No — no — no ! There was no sword in his 
 hand when he" died. He died — O, does it wring your heart — with the rope 
 about his neck, the vacant air beneath his feet. Beguiled into the lines of 
 an enemy by a Traitor, he died — not even by bullet or axe — but quivering 
 on a gibbet, like a common felon !" 
 
 How like the voice of an Accusing Angel, sent on earth to punish guilt, 
 the tones of that dark-haired woman rung through the chamber ! 
 
 "Could I help it?" faltered the beautiful Wife of Arnold, her face now 
 deathly pale — " Did 1 hurry him to this fatal death ? Wherefore wring my 
 heart with these memories ? Have you no mercy ?" 
 
 " Mercy !" sneered the disguised maiden — " Mercy for the Wife of Ben- 
 edict Arnold, who after her marriage sufllered her letters to John Andre, to 
 enclose the letters of the Traitor to Sir Henry Clinton ! Ah, droop your 
 head upon your bosom, and bury your face in your hands — it- is true ! — 
 Had you no share in that dark game ? Did you advise Benedict Arnold to 
 make John Andre the tool of his Treason ? O, if in. your heart there ever 
 lurked one throb of love for this noble soldier, how could you see him led 
 on to infamy ?" 
 
 That proud virgin, transformed by her dress into a living portrait of John 
 Andre, by her passions into an avenging spirit, was now bitterly avenged. 
 
 For the wife of Arnold knelt before her, her face upon her breast, her 
 golden hair floating to the knees, which crouched upon the floor. And the 
 light revealed the shape of her beautiful shoulders, a glimpse of her 
 tumultuous bosom. 
 
 " You ask why I am here ? I, a maiden whose good name no breath 
 has ever dimmed, here in the chamber of Arnold ? — I am here, because I 
 am a woman, because that love which can never be given twice to man, 
 now lies buried with the dead, — here to avenge the murder of that brave 
 soldier, who ere he started on his horrible journey, pressed his kiss upon 
 my lips, and told me, he would return on the morrow !" 
 
 " How — " sobbed the kneeling woman — " How will you avenge his 
 death ? You cannot reach Washington ? 
 
 " But Washington can reach Arnold !" — her voice sinks to a whisper, as 
 she repeats these meaning words. A shudder thrilled the kneeling woman. 
 
 " Yes, as Andre died, so Arnold shall die — on the gibbet! Aye, raise 
 >'our face and gaze on me in wonder. I speak the solemn truth. From 
 thjfi chamber, bound and dumb, Arnold shall be led this night. In the dark 
 
2-18 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 
 
 street trusty men are waiting for him, even now. That street leads to the 
 river^a boat is ready for the traitor, there. On the opposite shore, certain 
 brave Americans under the gallant Lee, watch for the coming of the Traitor ! 
 Ha, ha! Washington will not sleep to-night — he expects a strange visitor, 
 — B neilict ArnoUl !" 
 
 As though all life had fled from her veins, the Wife of Arnold glared in 
 the face of the dark-haired woman. The words of the strange maiden, 
 seemed for the moment to deprive her of all power of speecli. 
 
 " It is not so much for myself that I strike this blow ! But the Mother 
 of Andre — those innocent sisters who await his return Home — they are 
 before me now — they speak to me — they call for vengeance on the Double 
 Traitor !" 
 
 As she spoke, the Soldier with crape about his face advanced a single step, 
 his chest heaving wilh emotion. 
 
 " You cannot do tliis. Deliberately consign to an ignominious death, my 
 husband, who never wronged you ?" — The Wife raised her eyes to the face 
 of the dark-haired lady, while the fingers of her small hands were locked 
 together. 
 
 But there is no mercy in that determined face; not one gleam of pity in 
 those brilliant eyes. 
 
 " As I stand attired in the garb of Andre, so surely will I take vengeance 
 on his murderer I" 
 
 The Wife of Arnold made no reply. Bowing her face low upon her 
 bosom, with her loosened robe slowly falling from her shoulders, she 
 crouched on the floor, herjuxuriant hair twining about her uncovered arms. 
 
 The dark-haired woman beheld her agony, heard the sobs which con- 
 vulsed her form, aye, heard the groan which the Soldier uttered as he wit- 
 nessed this strange scene, yet still she stood erect, her unrelenting eye fixed 
 in a steady gaze, upon her victim's form. 
 
 " If the plot fails, this dagger will do the work of my revenge !" 
 
 The word has not gone from her lips, when the Soldier approaches — 
 whispers — you see the determined woman start — change color and sink 
 helplessly into the chair. 
 
 " Does the fiend protect him ?" she gasps, in a voice utterly changed 
 from her tone of triumphant resolve. 
 
 a Yes — this very night, he sails for the coast of Virginia," the Soldiei 
 whispers — " This night, selected for our purpose, has by some strange 
 chance, torn him from our grasp. Already on ship-board, he plans the 
 destruction of American towns, the murder of American freemen !" 
 
 You see the Wife of Arnold start to her feet, her blue eye gleaming 
 while with her upraised arm she dashes back from her face those locks of 
 jTolden hair. 
 
 " He is saved ! Thank heaven your schemes are foiled. The angels 
 need not weep, to behold another scene of murder !" 
 
JOHN CHAMPE. 249 
 
 For she love'' him, her Warrior-husband, that Wife of Arnold ; and now, 
 »vith her entire trame quivering with a joy which was more intense, from 
 the re-action of her despair, she beheld the schemes of her enemies crushed 
 In a moment. 
 
 " Tlte angels need not weep to behold another scene of murder ?" spoke 
 the deep voice of the Soldier, who stood with his face veiled in crape ; 
 •' And yet the Bandit and Traitor, who betrayed Washington, and left 
 Andre to perish on the gibbet, is now unloosed like a savage beast, on the 
 homes of Virginia !'' 
 
 The tone in which he spoke, rung with the hollow intonation of scorn. 
 
 " Who are you ? Attired in the garb of a British soldier, with a rebel 
 coat beneath ?" 
 
 EVen that Wife, felt a throb of pity as she heard the sad voice of this 
 unknown soldier. 
 
 " I have no name ! I had onc^^was once a brave soldier — so they said. 
 But now, the Americans never speak of me, but to curse my name, in the 
 same breath with Arnold !" 
 
 He slowly retired toward the window : standing among the heavy cur- 
 tains, he beheld the conclusion of this dark scene. 
 
 The woman attired in the dress of Andre slowly rose. The Wife shrank 
 back appalled, from the settled frenzy of her face, the sublime despair 
 stamped upon her features and flashing from her eyes. 
 
 " It is well ! Arnold escapes the hand of vengeance now. Now, flushed 
 with triumph, he goes on to complete his career of blood. He will gather 
 gold — renown, aye, favor from the hands of his King. But in the hour of 
 his proudest triumph, even when he stands beside the Throne, one form, 
 invisible to all other eyes, will glide through the thronging courtiers, and 
 wither him, with its pale face, its white neck polluted by the gibbet's rope, 
 its livid lip trembling with a muttered curse — the Phantom of John Andre ! 
 That Phantom will poison his life, haunt him in the street, set by him at 
 the table — yes, follow him to the couch ! As he presses his wife to his 
 lips, that pale face will glide between, muttering still that soundless curse. 
 
 " To escape this Phantom, he will hurry from place to place ! Now in 
 the snows of Canada, now amid the palm groves of the Southern Isles, now 
 on ship-board, now on shore — still John Andre's ghost will silently glide 
 by his side. 
 
 " That Phantom will work for him, a Remorse more terrible than mad- 
 ness ! It will glide into men's hearts, enrage their souls against the Traitor, 
 teach their lip the mocking word, their finger the quivering gesture of scorn. 
 As the Traitor goes to receive his Royal Master's reward, he will hear a 
 thousand tongues whisper, Traitor ! Traitor ! Traitor ! He will turn to 
 crush the authors of the scorn — turn and find, that the sword which may 
 hew a path through dead men, cannot combat the calm contemnt of a 
 World ' 
 
 16 
 
250 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 
 
 "Scorned by the men who bought him — his children and his wife al 
 swept away — he will stand a lonely column on a blasted desert. He will 
 be known as the Traitor Arnold. As the General who sold immortal 
 glory for twenty thousand guineas. As the Traitor who left John Andre to 
 perish on the gibbet. As the Man who has not one friend in the 
 
 WORLD. ^ 
 
 " And when he dies ; behold the scene ! No wife, no child ! Not even 
 a dog to howl above his grave ! 
 
 " Yes, when he dies — while the Phantom of Andre glides to his side — no 
 hand of friend or foe shall be placed upon his brow, no one shall wait by 
 his couch, no voice speak to him of Heaven or Hope, but in the utter deso- 
 lation of a Blighted heart and a Doomed Name, shall depart the soul of the 
 Traitor, Benedict Arnold !" 
 
 The scene of War was changed. Thg South was given up to the torch 
 and sword. 
 
 In Virginia, Cornwallis superintended the murders of the British, and 
 won his title, the Amiable, by a series of bloody outrages. Arnold, the 
 Traitor was there also, heading his band of Assassins. In the Carolinas 
 Lord Rawdon, that noble gentleman, who hung an innocent man in the 
 presence of a son, in order to terrify the Rebels, carried the Red Flag of 
 England at the head of a mingled crowd of Tories and Hirelings. 
 
 It was on the day when the glorious Nathaniel Greene, passed the Con 
 garee in pursuit of Lord Rawdon, that the Legion of Lee pitched their tents 
 for the night, where the trees of a magnificent wood encircled a refreshing 
 glade of greenest moss. 
 
 Through the intervals of those trees — crowning the summit of a high 
 hill — many a glimpse was obtained of the wide-spreading country, with 
 arms gleaming from the tree=!, and the Congaree, winding in light until it 
 was lost in the far distance. 
 
 The soldiers of the Legion were scattered along the glade, with the tops 
 of their tents glowing in the warm light of the evening sun. You may see 
 their horses turned loose on the green sward, while the brave men prepare 
 their evening meal, and the sentinels pace the hillside, beyond these trees. 
 
 In front of the central tent, seated on a camp stool, his elbow on his 
 knee, his swarthy cheek resting in the palm of his hand, you behold the 
 brave Lee, his helmet thrown aside, his green coat unfastened at the throat. 
 That sudden gush of sunlight, falling over his swarthy face, reveals the 
 traces of strong emotion. Yes, Lee is sad, although they have gained a 
 victory, sad, although he has been rewarded with the rank of Lieutenant 
 Colonel, sad, although his men love him like a brother, and would give theii 
 lives to him. 
 
 Suddenly a wild murmur was heard, and two dragoons are seen advan 
 cing with a prisoner, led between their steeds. As they ride toward Colo 
 
JOHN CHAMPE. 251 
 
 nel Lee, the entire Legion come running to the scene : on every side, you 
 behold men starting up from an unlasted meal, and hurrying toward the 
 tent of their leader. 
 
 A miserable prisoner ! 
 
 Every eye beholds him. Pale, hollow-eyed, his flesh torn by briars, his 
 form worn by famine, and clad in wretched rags, he is led forward. All 
 at once, the murmur swells into a shout, and then a thousand curses rend 
 the air. 
 
 " Colonel — " the discordant cries mingled in chorus — " Behold him ! 
 The next tree, a short prayer, and a strong cord for the traitor ! Colonel — 
 here is our deserter — the Sergeant Mnjor ! It is Champe !'* 
 
 Utterly absorbed in his thoughts, Lee had not observed the approach of 
 the dragoons. His eyes fixed upon the ground, he grasped his cheek in 
 the effort to endure his bitter thoughts. Yet at the word " Champe !" 
 Bpoken with curses, he raised his head and sprang to his feet. 
 
 " Where ?" he cried ; his whole manner changing with the rapidity of 
 lightning. His eyes encountered the strange hollow gaze of the Prisoner, 
 who stood silent and miserable, amid the crowd of angry faces. 
 
 " To the next tree with the traitor ! Ah, scoundrel, you would disgrace 
 the Legion, would you ! Champe the Deserter!" 
 
 The uproar grew tumultuous ; it seemed as though the brave soldiers 
 were about to transgress the bounds of discipline, and take the law in their 
 own hands. 
 
 Lee gazed steadfastly upon the prisoner, who pale and emaciated, re- 
 turned his look. Then, starting forward, his face betraying deep emotion, 
 he exclaimed : 
 
 " Is this indeed John Champe .'" — tie was so wretchedly changed. 
 
 The silence of the poor wretch gave assent, while the dragoon stated that 
 they had taken him prisoner, as he was making his way toward the camp. 
 
 Lee manifested his opinion of the recreant and deserter, by an expressive 
 action and a few decided words. Suddenly that group of soldiers became 
 as silent as a baby's slumber. 
 
 The action ! He took Champe by the hand, and wrung it, while the 
 tears came to his eyes. The words : 
 
 " Welcome back to the Legion, brave and honest man !" 
 
 Those iron Legionisls stood horror-stricken and dumb, while the reply 
 of the prisoner increased their dismay : 
 
 " Colonel, I am back at last !" he said, returning the pressure of Lee's 
 hand, and while the large tears streamed down his face, he whispered with 
 the Colonel. 
 
 " i\ly comrades," exclaimed Lee, as he took Champe by the hand and 
 Burveyed the confounded crowd — "There was a time when General Wash- 
 ington appealed to the Commander of a body of brave men, and asked him, 
 whether in his corps there could be found one man, willing to dare dishonos 
 
^;>3 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 
 
 and death, in the cause of Humanity and Justice ! He wished to save John 
 Andre by taking Benedict Arnold prisoner. In order to accomplish this, it 
 would be necessary to find a man who would desert to the enemy — desert, 
 pursued by his indignant comrades, desert in the sight of the British, and 
 take refuge in their ranks. This man was found. After a bitter struggle, — 
 for he could not make up his mind to endure his comrades scorn— he de- 
 serted, and barely escaped with his life. Once in New York, he enlisted 
 in the Legion of Arnold. While he was making his preparations for the 
 capture of the Traitor, Andre was hung. This wrung the Deserter to the 
 heart, for his great reason for undertaking this work was the salvation of 
 Andre's life. One object remained — the capture of Arnold. After the lapse 
 of a month, everything was arranged. You remember the night when a 
 detachment of our Legion watched until day, in the shades of Hoboken ? 
 The traitor was to be seized in his garden, tied and gagged, hurried to the 
 boat, then across the river into our clutches. But we waited in vain, the 
 plot was foiled ! That night Arnold went on ship-board, and with him the 
 Deserter, who, taken to Virginia, left the British at the first opportunity, 
 and after weeks of wandering and starvation, returned to his comrades. 
 What think ye of this Deserter? This Hero, who dared what the soldier 
 fears more than a thousand deaths — the dishonor of desertion — in order 
 to save the life of John Andre ? In short, my comrades, what think you 
 of this brave and good man, John Ckampe !" 
 
 No sound was heard. At least an hundred forms stood paralyzed and 
 motionless ; at least, an hundred hearts beat high with emotions, as strange 
 as they were indefinable. Not an eye but was wet with tears. When 
 inm men like these shed tears, there is something in it. 
 
 At last, advancing one by one, they took Champe by the hand, and with- 
 out a word, gave him a brother's silent grasp. There was one old war-dog, 
 terribly battered with cuts and scars, who came slowly forward, and looked 
 him in the face, and took both hands in his own, exclaiming, in his rough 
 way, as he quivered between tears and laughter — " Have n't you got another 
 hand, John .?" 
 
 It was the Veteran, who from the shore of Manhattan Bay, had taken 
 aim. at the head of the deserter Champe. 
 
 '< This moment," said Champe, his voice husky with suffocating emotion, 
 " This moment pays me for all I've suffered !" 
 
 Never in the course of the Revolution, did the sun go down upon a scene 
 so beautiful ! 
 
 The trees encircling the sward, with the horses of the legion tied among 
 their leaves. The scattered tents, and the deserted fires. The prospect 
 of the distant country, seen between the trees, all shadow and gold The 
 lent of TiCe, surrounded by that crowd of brave men, every eye centred 
 upon that ragged form, with the hollow cheek and sunken eyes. 
 
THE TEMPTATION OF SIR HENRY CLINTON. 233 
 
 Lee liimself, gazing with undisguised emotion upon that face, now red- 
 dened by the sunset glow, the visage of John Champe, the Deserter. 
 
 Nothing was wanting to complete the joy of the hero — yes, there was 
 3ne form absent. But, hark ! A crash in yonder thicket, a dark horse 
 bounds along the sod, and neighing wildly, lays his neck against his master's 
 breast. 
 
 It was Powhatan. 
 
 You may imagine the scene which took place, when Champe mounted 
 on Powhatan, rode to meet Washington ! 
 
 After many years had passed, when Washington was called from the 
 shades of Mount Vernon, to defend his country once again, he sent a Cap- 
 tain's commission to Lee, with the request that he would seek out Champe, 
 and present it to him. 
 
 The letter re ceived by the American Chief, in answer, contained these 
 words : 
 
 — ' Soon after the war, the gallant soldier removed to Kentucky. There 
 he died. Though no monument towers above his bones — we do not even 
 knoiv his resting place — every true soldier must confess, that the history 
 of the Revolution does not record a nobler name than — 
 John Champe. 
 
 XVIII.-THE TEMPTATION OF SIR HENRY CLINTON. 
 
 One more scene from the sad drama of Andre's fate ! 
 
 On a calm autumnal evening — the last day of September, 1780 — Sir 
 [lenry Clinton sat in his luxurious chamber, in the city of New York, 
 pondering over matters of deep interest. 
 
 The wine stood untasted in the goblet by his side, as reposing in the 
 arm-chair, by yonder window, with his hands joined across his chest, he 
 fixed his eye vacantly upon the rich carpet beneath his feet. 
 
 There was every display of luxury in that chamber. High ceiling and 
 lofty walls, hung with pictures, carpets on the floor that gave no echo to 
 the footfall, furniture of dark mahogany polished like a mirror, silken 
 curtains along the windows, and a statue of his Majesty, George the 
 Third, in the background. 
 
 The view which stretched before that window was magnificent. The 
 wide expanse of Manhattan Bay, doited with islands, and white with the 
 sails of ships of war — the distant shore of Staten Island and Jersey — the 
 clear sky — piled up in the west, with heavy clouds, tinged and mellowed 
 with all the glories of an autumnal sunset; this was a lovely view, but 8ii 
 Henry Clinton saw it not. 
 
 His thoughts were with a letter which lay half open beside the untasted 
 
254 BENEDICT ^RNOLD. 
 
 goblet uf rich old wine, and that letter bore the signature of Geoi^a 
 Washington. 
 
 Now, as some persons are always forming wrong ideas of the personal 
 appearance of great men, I ask you to look closely upon the face and form 
 of yonder General. His form is short, and heavy almost to corpulence , 
 his face round, full and good-humored ; his red coat glittering with epau- 
 lettes, thrown open in front, disclosed the buff" vest, with ample skirls, and 
 the snowy whiteness of his cambric bosom, across whose delicate ruffles 
 his hands were folded. He wore polished boots reaching above the knee, 
 where his large limb was cased in buckskin. His sword lay on the table 
 by his side, near the letter and goblet. 
 
 Sir Henry had been sitting in this position for an hour, thinking over the 
 ONE TOPIC that occupied his whole soul ; but strange it was, which ever 
 way he tried to turn his thoughts, he still saw the same picture. It was 
 the picture of a wan-faced mother, who sat in her lonely room, with a fair 
 daughter on either side, all waiting for the son and brother to come home 
 and he 
 
 Sir Henry dared not finish the picture. He was afraid when he thought 
 of it. And yet the Picture had been there before him, for an hour — there, 
 on the space between his eye and the western sky. 
 
 Suddenly his revehe was interrupted by the low tread of a footstep. 
 Sir Henry looked up, and beheld a man of harsh features, arrayed in a 
 Colonel's uniform. 
 
 The Colonel was a singular character. Harsh in features, with a 
 bronzed skin, long nose, thin lips — his character was moody, reserved and 
 misanthropic. He was attached to the General's staff, and yet he had no 
 associates. He never spoke except in monosyllables. Sir Henry had a 
 high regard for his military knowledge, as well as an admiration for his 
 blunt, soldierly bearing ; so he spoke to him kindly, and invited him to be 
 seated. 
 
 The Colonel sat down in the opposite recess of the broad window, with 
 his back to the light. 
 
 " So, John Andre is to be — hung?" uttered the Colonel, in a quiet, un- 
 concerned tone. 
 
 Sir Henry moved nervously in his seat. 
 
 " Why — why — the fact is," said he, hesitatingly, " this letter from 
 Washington states that he has been tried as a spy, and will be hanged to- 
 morrow morning as a spy." 
 ■ A shade of gloom passed over Sir Henry's face. He bit his lip, and 
 pressed his hand violently against his forehead. 
 
 " Very unpleasant," said the Colonel, carelessly. " Hanged ! Did you 
 •say so, General ? And he had such a white neck — heigh-ho !" 
 
 Sir Henry looked at the Colonel as though he could have stabbed him to 
 the heart. He said nothing, however, but crumpled Washington's letter in 
 
THE TEMPTATION OF SIR HENRY CLINTON. 255 
 
 nis hand. He knew one trait of the Colonel ; when he appeared most 
 careless and unconcerned, he was most serious. 
 
 *' So, they '11 take him out in a horrid old cart," said he, languidly — " a 
 cart that'll go jolt ! jolt ! jolt ! With a hideous hangman, too — and a pine 
 box — faugh ! I say, General, who would have guessed it, this time last 
 week ?" 
 
 Sir Harry said not a word. 
 
 " Will it not be unpleasant, when your Excellency returns home ? To 
 wait upon the Major's mother and sisters, and tell them, when they ask 
 you where he is, that he was — hung !" 
 
 Sir Henry Clinton grew purple in the face. He was seized with deadly 
 anger. Kising in his seat, he extended his hand toward the Colonel— 
 
 " Zounds ! sir, what do you mean ? The man who can make a jest of 
 a matter like this, has no sympathy — " 
 
 " For the General who will calmly consign one of his bravest officers to 
 the gallows !" interrupted the sardonic Colonel. 
 
 Sir Henry now grew pale ; the audacity of his inferior awed him. 
 
 " Do you mean to say, that I consign John Andre to the gallows ?" he 
 said, in a low voice, that quivered with suppressed rage. 
 
 " I do !" coolly responded the Colonel. 
 
 " Will you be pleased to inform me in what manner I am guilty in your 
 eyes ?" continued the General, in the same ominous tone. 
 
 " You can save John Andre, but will not !" 
 
 " How can I save him ?" 
 
 " This Rebel Washington does not so much care about hanging Andre, 
 as he does for making an example of — somebody. You give up that — 
 somebody — and he will deliver Andre, safe and sound, into your hands." 
 
 Had a thunderbolt splintered the floor at Sir Henry's feet, his face could 
 not have displayed such a conflict of wonder and alarm as it did now. He 
 looked anxiously around the room, as though he feared the presence of a 
 third person, who might overhear the deliberate expression of the Colonel. 
 
 " That — SOMEBODY — I met just now in Broadway. What a splendid red 
 coat he wears ! How well it becomes him, too ! Don't you think he feels 
 a little odd ?" 
 
 Sir Henry rose from his seat, and paced hurriedly up and down the 
 room. Now he was gone into shadows, and now he came forth into light 
 again. 
 
 At last he approached the Colonel, and bending down, so that their faces 
 nearly touched, uttered these words in a whisper: 
 
 " Give up Benedict Arnold for John Andre — is that what you mean?" 
 
 "It is !" and the Colonel looked up into the flushed face of his superioF 
 
 " Pshaw ! This is nonsense ! Washington would never entertain such 
 a proposition," muttered Sir Henry. 
 
 The answer from the Colonel was deep-toned, clear, and deliberate. 
 
256 BENEDICT ARNOLD, 
 
 ** Your Excellency will pardon my rudeness. I am a rough soldier, bul 
 I have a heart. I'll be frank with you. The fate of this Andre fills me 
 with horror. He is a good fellow, though he does paint pictures, and 
 write rhymes, and act plays, and do other things beneath the dignity of a 
 soldier, liut he has a soul, your Excellency, he has a heart. I would 
 peril my life to save him. I can't help thinking of his mother and sisters 
 in England — he is their only dependence, and — 
 
 " Well, Colonel, well" — interrupted Sir Henry. 
 
 " An officer from Washington waits in the room below, with authority 
 from his General to make this proposition to you — Give me Jlrnold and 1 
 will give you Andre T'' 
 
 Sir Henry Clinton fell back in his seat as though a shot had pierced his 
 breast. He said not a word, but as if stupefied by this proposition, folded 
 his hands across his breast, and gazed vacantly upon the sunset sky. 
 
 The last gleam of twilight fell over the broad expanse of Manhattan Bay. 
 All was silent in the chamber, save the hard, deep breathing of Sir Henry 
 Clinton, who, with his head inclined to one side, still gazed upon the west- 
 ern sky, with that same vacant stare. 
 
 At last two liveried servants entered, and placed lighted candles on the 
 table. 
 
 The Colonel started when he beheld the strange paleness of Sir Henry's 
 fountenance. He was terribly agitated, for his lips were compressed, his 
 orows contracted, his hands pressed fixedly against his breast. 
 
 At last he spoke. His voice was strangely changed from his usual bold 
 and hearty tones. 
 
 " Had George fVashihgfon offered me the Throne of the TVestern Con- 
 tinent, he could not have so tempted me, as he does by this proposition, to 
 exchange Arnold for Andre J'' 
 
 " Exchange them," growled the Colonel. 
 
 " But what will the world — what will my King say ? It would be a 
 breach of confidence, a violation of a soldier's honor — it would iu 
 fact, be " 
 
 " An easy method of rescuing the white neck of John Andre from the 
 gibbet!" coolly interrupted the Colonel. 
 
 This was a hard thrust. Sir Henry was silent for a moment ; but that 
 moment passed, he flung his clenched hand on the table. 
 
 " I am tempted, horribly tempted !" he exclaimed, in broken tones. " 1 
 never was so tempted in my life. Speak of it no more, sir, speak of it no 
 more ! Did you say that the rebel officer waited below ?" 
 
 " General, shall I call him up ?" whispered the Colonel, fixing his eyes 
 firmly on Clinton's face. 
 
 Sir Henry did not reply. The Colonel arose and moved towards the 
 door, when ho was met by an officer attired in a rich scarlet uniform, who 
 
THE SISTERS. 26'; 
 
 ?ame a.ong the carpet with an easy stride, somewhat lessened in dignity by 
 a perceptible hmieness. 
 
 The Colonel started as though a serpent had stung him. 
 
 For in that officer with the rich scarlet uniform, glittering with epaulettes 
 of gold — in that officer with the bold countenance, and forehead projecting 
 over dark eyes that emitted a steady glare, he recognized — Benedict Arnold. 
 
 " Good evening, Colonel !" said Arnold, with a slight inclination of his 
 head. 
 
 " Good evening. Colonel Arnold.'" at last responded the Colonel, with a 
 slight yet meaning intonation of scorn. " I never observed it before, but — 
 excuse me — you limp in the right leg ? Where did you receive the 
 wound ?" 
 
 It was not often that Arnold blushed, but now his throat, his cheeks, and 
 brow were scarlet. For a moment he seemed stricken into stone, but at 
 last he replied in a deep sonorous voice, that started Sir Henry Clinton 
 from his chair : 
 
 " That leg sir, was twice broken ; the first time, iifhen I stormed Quebec. 
 The second time, at Saratoga, when I took the last fortress of Burgoynt! 
 — Are you answered, sir ?" ~ 
 
 Without a word more, leaving the astonished officer to remember the 
 glare of his eye, he passed on, and saluted Sir Henry Clinton with a 
 deep bow. 
 
 Sir Henry received him with a formal bow, waving his hand toward the 
 chair, in the recess of the window. Arnold sat down, and crossing his legs 
 in a careless position, fixed his dark eyes full in Clinton's face, as he spoke 
 in a laughing tone : 
 
 " Do you know, General, I heard a very clever thing as I passed along 
 the street. Two of our soldiers were conversing ; — ' I tell you what it is,' 
 said one of the fellows to the other, 'Sir Henry Clinton couldn't do a bet- 
 ter thing, than send this Arnold — (ha ! ha ! this Arnold, mark you !) to 
 General Washington, who will very likely hang him in place of Andre !' 
 Wasn't it clever, General ? By the bye, this evening air is very cool." 
 
 Sir Henry saw the sneer on Arnold's face, and knew at once that An- 
 dre's fate was sealed ! 
 
 XIX.— THE SISTERS. 
 
 It was a flower garden, watered by a spring that bubbled up from yellow 
 sands. 
 
 It was a flower garden, environed by a wall of dark grey stone, over- 
 shadowed with vines and roses. 
 
 It was a flower garden, standing in the centre of a wood, whose leaves 
 blushed like the rainbow, with the dyes of autumn. 
 
 Yonder, rises the mansion, something between a stately dwelling and a 
 quiet cottage in appearance, you see its steep roof, its grotesque chimneys 
 
258 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 
 
 the porch before the door, supported by oaken pillows wreathed with 
 vines. 
 
 A dear retreat, this place of fragrant beds, and winding walks, of orchard 
 trees heavy with fruit, and flowers blooming into decay, trembling with 
 perfume ere they die. 
 
 It was that calm hour, when clouds hasten to the west, and range them- 
 selves in the path of the setting sun, as though anxious to receive the kiss 
 of their Lord, ere he sank to rest. It was that beautiful moment, when the 
 tree tops look like pyramids of gold, and sky resembles a dome of living 
 flame, with a blush of glory pervading its cope, from the zenith to the hori- 
 zon. It was the close of one of those delicious days in autumn, when we 
 love to bury ourselves in the recesses of brown woods, and think of the 
 friends that are gone, when it is our calm delight to wander through long 
 vistas of overarching trees, treading softly over the sward, and give our souls 
 to memories of love, or dwell sadly and yet tenderly upon the grave which 
 awaits us, when the play of life is over. 
 
 In the centre of the garden there grow four apple trees, their gnarled 
 limbs twining together, while their fruit of various colors glowed in the rosy 
 light. Beneath the shade and fruitage of these trees, a rugged bench, formed 
 with plain branches of oak twisted in various fantastic forms, was placed, 
 presenting a delightful retreat amid the recesses of that rustic garden. 
 
 Just as you may have seen, two flowers, alike beautiful, yet contrasted 
 in their stjie of loveliness, swaying side by side in the summer breeze, 
 their varied tints afi'ording a picture of never-ending freshness, so two beau- 
 tiful girls bloomed side by side, in that quiet recess. 
 
 Their faces are turned toward the evening light, as they feel the deep 
 serenity of that hour. One, a delicate, fragile thing, with skin almost su- 
 pernaturally fair, eyes blue as an Italian sky, hair like threaded gold, lays 
 her hand upon her sister's shoulder, and nestles gently to her side. 
 
 Young Alice ! A tender flower, that has just ripened from the bud, with 
 the dew yet fresh upon its petals. 
 
 The other, a warm figure, ripened into perfect womanhood, her breast 
 rounded, her small feet and hands in strong contrast with the blooming full- 
 ness of her shape. Her brown hair, that falls back from her white neck in 
 glosf^y masses, — here, dark as a raven's wing, there, waving in bright ches- 
 nut hues — affords a fresh beauty to her boldly chisseled face, whose lips 
 are red with mature ripeness. Her deep grey eyes, the clearly defined 
 brows and impressive forehead, combine in an expression of intellectual beauty. 
 
 Womanly Mary ! A moss rose, blooming its last hour of freshness, its 
 leaves crimsoning with all the beauty ihey can ever know. 
 
 On her full bosom the head of the younger Sister was laid, among her 
 brown tresses, the flaxen locks of her sister wandered, like sunshine rays 
 among twilight shadows. 
 
 " It is ?o sweet, at this still hour, Mary, to think of him ! To remembei 
 
THE SISTERS. 259 
 
 ow he looked, and what he said, when last we saw him — to count the 
 days, yes, the moments that must elapse before he will return to us !" 
 
 Thus spoke the young sister, her eye gleaming in moisture, but the elder 
 felt her face flush, and her eye brighten, as these words came impetuously 
 from her lips : 
 
 " But sweeter far, Alice, to think how proud, how noble he will look, 
 when he stands before us, so like a hero, with the star upon his breast, the 
 warrior's robe upon his form ! To think of him, not coming back to us as 
 he departed, an humble Cadet, but a titled General, welcomed by the favoi 
 of his king, the applauee of his countrymen ! — His last letters speak of his 
 certain ascent to fame. Even now, he is engaged upon a deed — whose 
 nature he does not reveal' — that will cause his name to burst in glory on his 
 country's fame !" 
 
 Sisterly love — pure and child-like — spoke in the words of the first. 
 Sisterly love, tender yet impetuous with ambition, rung in the strong tones 
 of the other. 
 
 " And Mother, 0, how glad she will be ! We shall all feel so happy, 
 and — " The younger Sister started, for she heard a step. With one as- 
 sent, they turned their eyes and beheld a widowed woman, with her silver 
 hair laid back from a mild and beaming face, come slowly along the garden 
 walk. 
 
 It was their Mother. They rose and greeted her, and in their different 
 ways, told their young hopes and fears. 
 
 She sat between them on the garden bench, each small hand on which 
 were marked the lines of time, laid upon a daughter's head. 
 
 " How strange it is, that we have had no letters for a month ! Not a 
 word from your brother, my children ! Perhaps, since we have retired to 
 this quiet cottage, near a secluded country town, the letters miss us. Come, 
 girls — it is a pleasant evening, let us walk in the woods !" 
 
 Taking their soft hands within her own, the Mother beside her daughters, 
 looked like a beautiful flower, whose young freshness has been but faintly 
 preserved in the leaves of Time's volume, contrasted with the young love- 
 liness of ungathered blossoms. 
 
 She led the way toward the garden gate. Along this narrow path, where 
 the thicket siored with berries, blooms in evergreen freshness, into the dim 
 woods, where there is a carpet of soft moss, filled with sunshine and 
 shadows. 
 
 They strolled along, the younger sister now stooping to pluck a wild 
 flower as gay as herself, the other talking earnestly to her mother of the 
 absent Soldier. 
 
 " Don't you remember, Mother, how a month ago, when we were work- 
 ing together, at our embroidery, I thought I heard my brother's step, and 
 went to the door to greet him ? 1 am sure I heard his step, and yet it wa? 
 Ril a fancy !" 
 
260 BExNEDICT ARNOLD 
 
 As the Sister Alice spoke, in a tone full of laughing gaiety, Mary changed 
 color and leaned upon her mother's shoulder, her breast throbbing violently 
 againt her dark habit. 
 
 The Mother looked upon her with unfeigned alarm : 
 
 " You are ill, Mary, and yet the evening air is by no means unpleasant, ' 
 she said. 
 
 "It was the Second of October!" she whispered, as though thinking 
 aloud. 
 
 " How can you remember dates ?" said Alice, laughing : " I'm sure I 
 can remember anything but dates. You know, Mary, when I read my 
 history at school, I always jumbled Henry the Eighth and Julius Caesar 
 together !" 
 
 " It happened to fix itself upon my memory," replied Mary, raising her 
 face and walking statelily onward again. "That sudden faintness is past: I 
 am quite well now," she said, passing her hand lightly over her brow. 
 
 " O, I remember — " said the Mother, in a careless tone. " On that day, 
 even as Alice hurried to the door, expecting to greet her brother's form, you 
 swooned away. You remember it, on account of your swoon ? Now that 
 I call the circumstance to mind, I recollect, the old clock struck twelve, as 
 you fainted." 
 
 " Twelve o'clock — the Second of October !" faltered the pale Mary, as 
 the remembrance of the strange hallucination which possessed her, on that 
 day and hour, freezing her blood and darkening her reason, came to her 
 soul with redoubled force. 
 
 The Vision that she saw, sitting in that quiet chamber, she dared never 
 tell, it was so strange, so like a nightmare, pressing its beak into her virgin 
 breast, and drinking slowly the life-blood from her heart. 
 
 They wandered on, Alice tripping gaily over the sod, the Mother con- 
 versing cheerfully, even Mary felt her heart bound, in the deep serenity of 
 that evening hour. 
 
 There was a nook in that wild wood, where the bank shelved down and 
 the trees stood apart, forming a circle around an ancient pile of stones, over 
 whose moss-covered forms bubbled a fountain of clear cold water. Above 
 the fountain arose a form of wood, overgrown with vines, and leaning for- 
 ward. It was a Cross, planted three hundred years before, when these 
 lands belonged to a Monastery, and the Old Religion dwelt on the soil. 
 
 The Mother and her Daughters approached, and started back with wonder. 
 
 A rude form, clad in tattered garments, crouched on the sod beside the 
 fountain. His war-worn face was laid against the bank, while his unshaven 
 heard, white as snow, gleamed in the light. His coat, which had once been 
 bright scarlet, betrayed the old soldier. There was dust upon his gaiters, 
 and his much worn shoes could scarce conceal his galled feet. 
 
 As he slept he grasped his staff, and thrust one hand witliin the breast 
 of his coat. His slumber was disturbed; he seemed laboring under the 
 
THE SISTERS. 261 
 
 fears and hopes of some tumultuous dream. Suddenly, starting to his feet, 
 wuh a horrible cry, he gazed wildly round, aud trembled, while the claaimy 
 moisture stood in beads upon his brow. 
 
 ' Who are you ? Back ! You shall not kill me !" he cried, and put 
 himself in an attitude of defence. 
 
 " It is the old Soldier, who went with my Son to the wars !" cried the 
 Mother — " Abel, don't you know us ?" 
 
 The effect of his dream passed away, and the aged Soldier advanced, his 
 hard hand pressed by the warm fingers of the young girls. As he stood 
 before them, his eyes seemed to avoid their gaze — now downcast — now 
 wandering on either side — his sunburnt face was flushed with a warm 
 glow. 
 
 " Speak*! Our Brother !" faltered the girls. 
 
 " My Son ! You bear a message from him ?" exclaimed the Mother. 
 The old Soldier was silent. 
 
 " Your Son ? You mean my Master — eh ? The Major — " he hesitated. 
 " Why have you returned home ? Is the war over?" exclaimed Mary. 
 " Ah — Brother is on his way home — he will be here presently — what a 
 delightful surprise !" cried Alice. 
 
 Still the Soldier stood silent and confused, his hands pressed together, 
 while his doi\ncast eyes wandered over the sod. 
 
 " My goodness, ladies — " he muttered — " Have n't you received a letter? 
 Sir Henry wrote to you. Ma'am, and — " 
 
 " Sir Henry write to me ?" echoed the Mother, her face growing deathly 
 pale — " Why did not my son write himself?" 
 
 And the sisters, laid each of them, a hand on the veteran's arm and looked 
 up eagerly into his rough visage. 
 
 His nether lip quivered ; his eyes rolled strangely in their sockets. He 
 endeavored to speak but there was a choking sensation in his throat; all 
 the blood in his frame seemed rushing to his eyes. 
 
 " I can't tell it ! God help me and forgiv' my sins, I aint strong enough 
 to tell it ! Ladies, can't you guess — you see — the Major — " 
 
 Through the gathering gloom of twilight, the Mother looked and behela 
 his emotion, and felt her soul palzied by a terrible fear. You may see 
 Alice, stand there, gazing on the soldier with surprise ; Mary, that stately 
 sister, is by her side, her face white as a shroud. 
 
 They stood like figures of stone placed in the midst of the wood, with 
 the moss beneath, and the autumnal leaves above. The sound of the foun- 
 tain gurgling over the grey rocks alone disturbed the silence of the air. 
 The bluff' old veteran stumbled forward, and fell on his knees. 
 " Look ye, — I'm rough — I aint afraid of man or devil, but I'm afraid 
 
 now ! Don't force me to speak it " 
 
 Adown that sunburnt face, slowly trickled two large and scalding tears. 
 You see the Mother, her face manifesting sudden traces of that agony 
 
262 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 
 
 which now comes with overwhelming force, and takes lier soul by storm, 
 you see her advance and take the veteran by tlie hand. 
 
 " Rise, friend Abel !'' she said, in a voice of unnatural calmness. " I 
 know your message. My son is dead." 
 
 The Soldier bowed his head and gave free vent to his tears. 
 
 Alice hears that word, and shrinks toward yonder tree, her eyes covered 
 in a strange mist, her heart suddenly palsied in its beatings. The Mother 
 elands as calm, as pale as a corse. 
 
 Mary alone advances, gasps tliese words as with tlic list effort of her 
 life— 
 
 " He died in battle — at the head of his men — Speak ! A soldier's 
 death " 
 
 Transformed in every nerve, she quivered before him, her fingers clutch- 
 ing his iron arms, her eyes flashing a death-like glare into his face. Her 
 falling hair sweeping back from her face, completed that picture of a sinless 
 maiden, trembling on the verge of madness. 
 
 The old Soldier looked up and answered her: 
 
 '■'■He died on the Second of October, at the hour of twelve — on the Gibbet 
 — as a spyy 
 
 These words, in a hollow yet deliberate voice, he slowly uttered, and the 
 Mother and the Sisters heard it all ! Heard it, and could not, at the mo 
 ment, die ! 
 
 God pity them, in this their fearful hour. 
 
 The Mother sank on her knees. Alice, the fair-haired and gentle, tottered 
 and fell, as though her life had passed with that long and quivering shriek. 
 
 The rough soldier wept aloud. 
 
 Mary, alone, stood erect: her pale countenance thrown into strong relief 
 by her dark flowing hair, her eyes glassy, her lips livid, her form towering 
 in marble-like majesty. 
 
 And as she stood — as though suddenly frozen into marble — her eyes 
 were fixed upon the heavens, visible through the intervals of the forest trees. 
 
 The last flush of sunset had died, and the first star came twinkling out 
 on the blue walls of space. 
 
 Only one expression passed her lips. Stifling the horrible agony of that 
 moment, she fixed her eyes upon that light in heaven, and said — 
 
 " It is my brother's star !" 
 
 XX.-ANDRE THE SPY. 
 
 We have now traversed the career of the ill-fated Andre in all its changes 
 of scene, in its varied phases of absorbing interest. 
 
 Pity that young man if you will, plant flowers over his grave, sing hymn* 
 to his memory, but remember, he was a spy. 
 
 That dishonored thing, which no true warrior can look upon, sa^e with 
 
ANDRE THE SPY. 263 
 
 loathing — not merely a Conspirator, nor a Traitor, but the .acquey of Trea 
 son — A spv. 
 
 Reiiiember, that the wife of Benedict Arnold, on terms of intimate friend- 
 ship with Andre, while the British held Philadelphia, corresponded with 
 him long after her marriage, and then call to mind a single fact : her cor- 
 respondence was the channel of communication between Arnold and the 
 British General. Can we, with any show of reason, suppose this wife 
 innocent of participation in the treason of her husband ? Is it at all plausible, 
 or probable, that she was ignorant of the contents of Arnold's letters ? 
 
 Remember that Andre was a partner in this conspiracy, from the first 
 moment of its dawn, until by his manly letter to Washington, he avowed 
 himself a British officer, captured in disguise, on American ground. He 
 was elevated to a Majority, dignified with the post of Adjutant General, in 
 order that he might more effectually carry out the plan, originated between 
 himself and Arnold. He was to enter West Point, not as an open foe, 
 ready to combat with his enemies on the ramparts of the fortress, but as a 
 Conspirator ; he was to conquer the stronghold, laid defenceless by the re- 
 moval of the Continental force, by a juggle, and wreathe his brows with the 
 parchments of a purchased victor}'. 
 
 For this, his promised reward was the commission of a Brigadier General. 
 
 For aiding an American General in his midnight campaign of craft and 
 treachery, he was to receive the honors that are awarded to a Conqueror 
 who fights in broad day ; for taking a deserted fort, his brows were to be 
 wreathed with laurel, which is given to the leader of a forlorn hope, who 
 dares the sternest front of battle without a fear. 
 
 With all his talent— displayed as an Artist, a Poet, and a Soldier — with 
 all the genius which made him an admirable companion, with all the chiv- 
 alry which won praise and tears from his enemies, with all the rich cluster 
 of his gifts, and the dim memories that gather round his name, we must 
 confess, that he was one of the originator's of Arnold's Treason, that he 
 descended to a course of intrigue, beneath the honor of a warrior, that he 
 was justly condemned and hung as a Spy. 
 
 There is one dark thought that crowds upon us as we survey this history. 
 We may endeavor to banish it, but it will come back with overwhehning 
 force. It starts from the history, and moves along every page, a broodimr 
 and fearful shadow. — John Jindre and the JVife of Arnold, first planned 
 the Treason, and then — while his heart was lacerated by a sense of his 
 wrongs — lured him iixto the plot. 
 
 That is a startling thought. 
 
 There is no point of Washington's career more thoroughly worthy of our 
 veneration, than his course in relation to Andre. He did not know — he 
 could not guess the extent or ramifications of the Treason. A base plan 
 had been laid to capture a Fortress and crush his army. This plan aided 
 by tin honorable gentleman in the guise of a Spy. It was necessary to 
 
264 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 
 
 make an example, the time had come for the British General to learn mc 
 bitter truth, that the American leader was no less ready to meet his foes, 
 sword in hand in battle, than to hang them on the gibbet's timbers as Spies. 
 
 At once he stood resolved in his course. Andre must die. No persua- 
 sions could change his firm purpose. He pitied the victim, but condemned 
 him to death. He wept for his untimely fate, but hung him on a gibbet. 
 His heart bled as he signed the death-warrant, but still he consigned Andre 
 to a felon's grave. 
 
 There have been many tears shed over Andre, but while I pity him, 1 
 must confess that my tears are reserved for the thousand victims of British 
 wrong, murdered during the war. Then the thought of Benedict Arnold, 
 hurled from the Patriot and the H^ro, into the Bandit and Traitor, as much 
 by the persecutions of his enemies, as by his own faults, as much from the 
 influence of Andre and his own wife,* as from inclination, has for me an in- 
 terest that altogether surpasses the fate of the Spy. 
 
 The historical pictures which I have placed before you, show the mys- 
 tery in every light I have endeavored to embody in these pictures the 
 manners, the costume, the contending opinions, the very spirit of the Re\o- 
 lution. Let me now present to you another illustration, in order to show, 
 that the British in a case similar to that of Andre, never indulged one throb 
 of pity. 
 
 Behold the Mercy of King George ! 
 
 XXI.— NATHAN HALE. 
 
 It was a calm, clear evening in the early spring of 1775, when a young 
 man came to his native home, to bid his aged mother farewell. 
 
 1 see that picture before me now. 
 
 A two-story house, built of grey stone, with a small garden extending 
 from the door to the roadside, while all around arise the orchard tree?, 
 fragrant with the first blossoms of spring. Yonder you behold the hay- 
 rick and the barn, with the lowing cattle grouped together in the shadows. 
 
 It is a quiet hour ; everything seems beautiful and holy. There is a pur- 
 ple flush upon the Western sky, a sombre richness of shadow resting upon 
 yonder woods ; a deep serenity, as if from God, imbues and hallows this 
 evening hour. 
 
 Yonder on the cottage porch, with the rich glow of the sunset on her 
 face, sits the aged mother, the silvery hair parted above her pale brow. 
 The Bible lays open on her knees. Her dress is of plain rude texture, but 
 there is that about her countenance which makes you forget her homespun 
 
 * It is stated on the authority of Aaron Burr, that the Wife of the Traitor, after 
 she joined her husband in the Briii'-h lines, expressed her contempt for the American 
 cause, sanctioned the course of Arnold, and uttered other expressions of feeling, 
 which showed that she vas a co-partner in the work of Treason. 
 
NATHAN HALE. 265 
 
 50Stuine. Her eyes, their dark blue contrasting with tlie withered outlines 
 jf Ler countenance, are upraised. She is gazing in the face of the son, 
 vv'io bends over her shoulder and returns her glance. 
 
 His young form is arrayed in a plain blue hunting frock, faced with fur 
 while his rifle rests against the. door, and his pistols are girded to his waist 
 by a belt of dark leatlier. A plain costume this, but gaze upon the face of 
 tiiat young man and tell me, do you not read a clear soul, shining from those 
 dark eyes ? That white brow, shadowed by masses of brown hair, bears 
 the impress of Thwught, while the pale cheek tells the story of long nights 
 given to the dim old Hebrew Bible, with its words of giant meaning and 
 organ-like music ; to the profane classics of Greece and Rome, the sublime 
 reveries of Plato, the impassioned earnestness of Demosthenes, or the in- 
 dignant eloquence of Cicero. 
 
 Yes, fresh from the halls of Vale, the poetry of the Past, shining se- 
 renely in his soul, to his childhood's home, comes the young student to 
 claim his mother's blessing and bid her a long farewell. 
 
 But why this rifle, these pistols, this plain uniform ? 
 
 I will tell you. 
 
 One day, as he sat bending over that Hebrew Volume — with its great 
 thoughts spoken in a tongue now lost to man, in the silence of ages — he 
 looked from his window and beheld a dead body carried by, the glassy eyes 
 upturned to the sky, while the stifl^ened limb hung trailing on the ground. 
 
 It was the first dead man of Lexington. 
 
 That sight roused his blood ; the voice of the Martyrs of Bunker Hill 
 seemed shrieking forever in his ears. He flung aside the student's gown ; 
 he put on the hunting shirt. A sad farewell to those well-worn volumes, 
 which had cheered the weariness of many a midnight watch, one last look 
 around that lonely room, whose walls had heard his earnest soliloquies; 
 and then he was a soldier. 
 
 The Child of Genius felt the strong cords of Patriotism, drawing him 
 toward the last bed of the Martyrs on Bunker Hill. 
 
 And now in the sunset hour, he stands by his mother's side, taking the 
 one last look at that wrinkled face, listening for the last time to the tremu- 
 lous tones of that solemn voice. 
 
 " I did hope, my child," said the aged woman, " I did hope to see you 
 ministering at the altar of Almighty God, but the enemy is in the land, and 
 your duty is plain before you. Go, my son — fight like a man for your 
 country. In the hour of battle remember that God is with your cause: 
 that His arm will guide and guard you, even in the moment of death. 
 HVar, my child, is at best a fearful thing, a terrible license for human 
 butchery ; but a war like this, is holy in the eyes of God. Go — and when 
 you fight, may you conquer, or if you fall in death, remember youi 
 nnlher's blessing is on your head !" 
 17 
 
206 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 
 
 And in that evening hour, the aged woman stood erect, and laid her 
 withered hand upon his bended head. 
 
 A moment passed, and he had grasped his rifle, he had muttered the last 
 farewell. While the aged woman stood on the porch, following him with 
 her eyes, he turned his steps towards the road. 
 
 But a form stood in his path, the form of a young woman clad in the 
 plain costume of a New England girl. Do you behold a voluptuous 
 beauty waving in the outlines of that form ? Is the hair dark as night, or 
 long, glossy, waving and beautiful ? Are those hands soft, white and deli- 
 cate ? You behold none of these ; for the young girl who stands there in 
 the student's path, has none of the dazzling attraction of personal beauty. 
 A slender form, a white forehead, with the brown hair plainly parted around 
 that unpretending countenance, hands somewhat roughened by toil; such 
 were the attractions of that New England girl. 
 
 And yet there was a something that chained your eyes to her face, and 
 made your heart swell as you looked upon her. It was the soul, which 
 shone from her eyes and glowed over her pallid pheek. It was the deep, 
 ardent, all-trusting love, the eternal faith of her woman's nature, which gave 
 such deep vivid interest to that plain face, that pale white brow. 
 
 She stood there, waiting to bid her lover farewell, and the tear was in 
 her eye, the convulsive tremor of suppressed emotion on her lip. Yet 
 with an unfaltering voice, she bade him go fight for his country and con- 
 quer in the name of God. 
 
 ■*' Or" — she exclaimed, placing her hands against his breast, while her 
 eyes were rivelted to his face, " should you fall in the fight, I will pray God 
 to bless your last hour with all the glory of a soldier's deatli !" 
 
 That was the last words she said ; he grasped her hand, impressed his 
 kiss upon her lip, and went slowly from his home. 
 
 When we look for him again, the scene is changed. It is night, yet, 
 through the gloom, the white tents of the British army rise up like ghosts 
 on the summit of the Long Island hills. It is night, yet the stars look 
 down upon that Red Cross banner now floating sullenly to the ocean breeze. 
 
 We look for the Enthusiast of Yale ! Yonder, in a dark room, through 
 whose solitary window pours the mild gleam of the stars, yonder we behold 
 the dusky outlines of a human form, with head bent low and arms folded 
 over the chest. It is very dark in the room, very still, yet can you dis- 
 cover the bearing of the soldier in the uncertain outline of that form, yet can 
 you hear the tread of the sentinel on the sands without. 
 
 Suddenly that form arises, and draws near the solitary window. The 
 stars gleam over a pale face, with eyes burning with unnatural light. It is 
 dusky and dim, the faint light, but still you can read the traces of agony 
 like death, anguish like despair stamped on the brow, and cheek, and lip 
 of that youthful countenance. 
 
NATHAN HALE. 267 
 
 You can hear a single, low toned moan, a muttered prayer, a broken 
 ejaculation. Those eyes are upraised to the stars, and then the pale face 
 no longer looks from the window. That form slowly retires, and is lost in 
 the darkness of the room. 
 
 Meanwhile, without the room, on yonder slope of level ground, crowning 
 the ascent of the hill, the sound of hammer and saw breaks on the silence 
 of the hour. Dim forms go to and fro in the darkness ; stout pieces of 
 timber are planted in the ground, and at last the work is done. All is still. 
 Hut, like a phantom of evil, from the brow of yonder hill arises that strange 
 structure of timber, with the rope dangling from its summit. 
 
 There is a face gazing from yonder window, at this thing of evil ; a face 
 with lips pressed between the teeth, eyes glaring with unnatural light. 
 
 Suddenly a footstep is heard, the door of that room is flung open, and a 
 blaze of light fills the place. In the door-way stands a burly figure, clad in 
 the British uniform, with a mocking sneer upon that brutal countenance. 
 
 The form — which we lately beheld in the gloom — now rises, and con- 
 fronts the British soldier. It needs no second glance to tell us that we be- 
 hold the Enthusiast of Yale. That dress is soiled and torn, that face is 
 sunken in the cheeks, wild and glaring in the eyes, yet we can recognize 
 the brave youth who went forth from his home on that calm evening in 
 spring. 
 
 He confronts the Executioner, for that burly figure in the handsome red 
 coat, with the glittering ornaments, is none other than the Provost of the 
 British army. 
 
 " I am to die in the morning," began the student, or prisoner as you may 
 choose to call him. 
 
 " Yes," growled the Provost, " you were taken as a spy, tried as a spy, 
 sentenced as a spy, and to-morrow morning, you will be hanged as a spy !" 
 
 That was the fatal secret. General Washington desired information from 
 Long Island, where the British encamped. A young soldier appeared, his 
 face glowing with a high resolve. He would go to Long Island ; he would 
 examine the enemy's posts ; he would peril his life for Washington. Nay, 
 he would peril onore than his life ; he would peril his honor. For the sol- 
 dier who dies in the bloody onset of a forlorn hope, dies in honor : but the 
 man who is taken as a spy, swings on the gibbet, an object of loathing and 
 scorn. But this young soldier wduld dare it all ; the gallows and the dis- 
 honor : all for the sake of Washington. 
 
 " General," was the sublime expression of the Enthusiast, " when I vol- 
 unteered in the army of liberty, it was my intention to devote my soul to 
 the cause. It is not for me now to choose the manner or the method of 
 the service which I am to perform. I only ask, in what capacity does my 
 country want me. You tell me that I will render her great service by thia 
 expedition to Long Island. All I c;ui answer is with one word — bid me 
 depart and I will go '" 
 
liiS BENEDICT ARNOLD. 
 
 He went, obtained the information which he sought,, and was about tc 
 leave the shore of the Island for New York, when he was discov^^red. 
 
 l\u\v, in the chamber of the condemned felon, he awaited the hour of hi- 
 fate, his face betraying deep emotion, yet it was not the agitation of fear 
 Death he coidd willingly face, but the death of the Gibbet! 
 
 He now approached the British officer, and spoke in a calm, yet hollow 
 voice : 
 
 " My friend, I am to die to-morrow. It is well. I have no regrets to 
 spend upon my untimely fate. But as the last request of a dying man, let 
 me implore you to take charge of these letters." 
 
 He extended some four or five letters, among which was one to his be- 
 trothed, one to his mother, and one to Washington. 
 
 " Promise me, that you will have these letters delivered after I am dead." 
 
 The Briton shifted the lamp from one hand to the other, and then with 
 an oath, made answer. 
 
 '• By , I'll have nothing to do with the letters of a spy I" 
 
 Tlie young man dropped the letters on the floor, as though a bullet had 
 torn them from his grasp. His head sunk on his breast. The cup of his 
 agony was full. 
 
 " At least," said he, lifting his large bright eyes, " at least, you will pro- 
 cure me a Bible, you will send me a clergyman ? — I am ready to die, but I 
 wish to die the death of a Christian." 
 
 " You should have thought o' these things before, young man," exclaimed 
 the Liveried Hangman. " As for Bible or Preacher, I can tell you at once, 
 th;it you'll get neither through me." 
 
 The young man sank slowly in his chair, and covered his face with his 
 hands. The brave Briton, whose courage had been so beautifully mani- 
 feiiied in these last insults to a dying man, stood regarding the object of his 
 spite with a brutal scowl. 
 
 Ere a moment was gone, the young man looked up again, and exclaimed : 
 
 "For the love of Christ, do not deny me the consolations of religion iu 
 this hour !" 
 
 A loud laugh echoed around the room, and the Condemned Spy was in 
 darkness. 
 
 Who shall dare to lift the veil from that Enthusiast's heart, and picture 
 the agony which shook his soul, during the slow-moving hours of his last 
 nitrht ? Now his thoughts were with his books, the classics of Greece and 
 Rome, or the pages of Hebrew volume, where the breeze of Palestine swells 
 over the waves of Jordan, and the songs of Israel resound forevermore ; 
 now with his aged mother, or his betrothed; and then a vision of that great 
 course of glory which his life 7ims to have been, came home to his soul. 
 
 That course of glory, those high aspirations, those yearnings of Genius 
 after the Ideal, were now to be cut off" forever by — the GibbiVs rope ! 
 
 I M'ill confess, that to me, there is something terrible in the last night ot 
 
NATHAJN HALE. 26fl 
 
 the ConJemned Spy. Never does my eye rest upon the page of Ameiicac 
 history, tliat I do not feel for his fate, and feel more bitterly, when I think 
 of the injustice of that history. Yes, let the truth be spoken, our history 
 is terribly unjust to tlie poor — the neglected — the Martyrs, whose fate it 
 was, not to suffer in the storm of batde, but in the cell, or by the gibbet's 
 • ope. How many brave hearts were choked to death by the rope, or buried 
 beneath the cells of the gaol, after the agonies of fever ! Where do you 
 find their names in history ? 
 
 And the young man, with a handsome form, a born of God genius, a 
 highly educated mind — tell us, is there no tear for him ? 
 
 We weep for Andre, and yet he was a mere Gambler, who staked his 
 life against a General's commission. We plant flowers over his grave, and 
 yet he was a plotter from motives altogether m.ercenary — We sing hymns 
 about him, and yet vvitli all his accomplishments, he was one of the main 
 causes of Arnold's ruin ; he it was who helped to drag the Patriot down 
 into the Traitor. 
 
 But this young man, who watches his last night on yonder Long Island 
 bhore — where are tears for him ? 
 
 Night passed away, and morning came at last. Then they led him forth 
 to the sound of the muffled drum and measured footsteps. Then — without 
 a Bible, o.r Preacher or friend, not even a dog to wail for him, they placed 
 him beneath the gibbet, under that blue sky, with the pine coffin before his 
 eyes. 
 
 Stern looks, scowling brows, red uniforms and bristling bayonets, were 
 all around, — but for him, the Enthusiast and the Genius, where was the 
 kind voice or the tender hand ? 
 
 Yet in that hour, die breeze kissed his cheek, and the vision of Manhat- 
 tan Bay, with its foam-crested waves and green Islands, was like a dream 
 of peace to his soul. 
 
 The rough hands of the Hangman tied his hands and bared his neck for 
 the rope. Then, standing on the death-cart, with the rope about his neck, 
 and Eternity before him, that young man was very pale, but calm, collec- 
 ted and firm. Then he called the brutal soldiery the Refugee Hangman, to 
 witness that he had but one regret — 
 
 And that regret not for his aged inother, not even for ids meek-eyed be- 
 trothed, not even for the darkness of that hour, — but, said the Martyr, 
 
 "/ regret t licit I have only one life to lose for my country ^ 
 
 That was his last word, for ere the noble sentiment was cold on his lips, 
 they choked him to death. The horse moved, the cart passed from under 
 his feet ; the Martyr hung dangling in the air ! Where was now that clear 
 white brow, that brilliant eye, that well formed mouth ? Look — yes, look 
 and behold that thing palpitating with agony — behold that thing suspended 
 in the air, with a blackened mass of flesh instead of a face. 
 
 Above, the bright sky — around, the crowd — far away, the free waves — 
 
270 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 
 
 ind yetheie, tosses and plunges the image of God, tied by the neck to a 
 gibbel ! 
 
 Like a d<ig he died — like a dog they buried him. No Preacher, iv- 
 prayer, no friend, not even a dog to howl over his grave. There was onlj 
 a pine box and a dead body, with a few of the vilest wretches of the 13ri 
 tish camp. That was the Martyr's funeral. 
 
 At this ht)ur, while I speak, — in the dim shadows of Westminster Abbey, 
 a white monument arises in honor of John Andre, whose dishonorable 
 actions were, in some measure, forgotten in pity for his hideous death. 
 
 But this man of Genius, who went forth from the halls of Yale, to die 
 like a dog, fur his country, on the heights of Long Island — where is the 
 marble pillar, carved with the letters of his name? 
 
 And yet we will remember him, and love him, forevermore. And should 
 the day come, when a Temple will be erected to the Memory of the 
 Heroes of the Revolution — the Man-Gods of our Past — then, beneath the 
 liglit of that temple's dome, among the sculptured images of Washington 
 and his compatriots, we will place one poor broken column of New Eng- 
 land graniie, surmounted by a single leaf of laurel, inscribed with the 
 molio—^'Jllas that I have but one life for my country T'' and this poor 
 column, and leaf of laurel and motto, shall be consecrated with the name of 
 Nathan Hale. 
 
 Do you now condemn Washington for signing the death-warrant of 
 Andre ? 
 
 The British visited their anathemas upon his head, denounced him as a 
 cold-blooded murderer, and talked long and loud of the 'Cruel Washington.' 
 
 Their poets made rhymes about the matter. Miss Seward, one of those 
 amiable ladies who drivel whole quires of dduted adjectives, under the 
 name of Poetry, addressed some stanzas to Washington, which were filled 
 with bitter reproaches. Even their historians echoed the charge of cruelty, 
 and assailed that Man whose humanity was never called in question. 
 
 Let us, after the case of Nathan Hale, look at another instance of British 
 humanity. Let us see how the British leaders spared the unfortunate, leJ 
 us contrast their ruthless ferocity, with the Mercy of Washington. 
 
 XXII.— THE MARTYR OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 There is a gloom to-day in Charleston. 
 
 It is not often that a great city feels, but when this great heart of human- 
 ity whose every pulsation is a life, can feel, the result is more terrible than 
 the bloodiest battle. Yes, when those arteries of a city, its streets, and 
 lanes, and alleys, thrill with the same feeling, when like an electric chain it 
 darts invisibly from one breast to another, until it swells ten thousand 
 hearts, the result is terrible. 
 
THE MARTYR OF THE SOUTH. 271 
 
 I care not whether that result is manifested in a Riot, that fills the streets 
 with the blood of men, and women, and little children, that fires the roof 
 over the head of the innocent, or sends the Church of God whirling in 
 smoke and flame to the midnight sky ; or whether that feeling is manifested 
 m the silence of thousands, the bowed head, the compressed lip, the 
 stealthy footstep, still it is a fearful thing to see. 
 There is gloom to-day in Charleston. 
 
 A dead awe reigns over the city. Every face you see is stamped with 
 gloom ; men go silently by, with anguish in their hearts and eyes. Wo- 
 men are weeping in their darkened chambers ; in yonder church old men 
 are kneeling before the altar, praying in low, deep, muttered tones. 
 
 The very soldiers whom you meet, clad in their British uniforms, weai 
 sadness on their faces. These men to whom murder is sport, are gloomy 
 to-day. The citizens pass hurriedly to and fro; cluster in groups ; whispei 
 together ; glide silently unto their homes. 
 
 The stores are closed to-day, as though it were Sunday. The windows 
 of those houses are closed, as though some great man were dead ; tliere ia 
 a silence on the air, as though a plague had despoiled the town of its beauty 
 and its manhood. 
 
 The British banner — stained as it is with the best blood of the Palmetto 
 State — seems to partake of the influence of the hour ; for floating from 
 yonder staflT, it does not swell buoyandyupon the breeze, but droops heavily 
 to the ground. 
 
 The only sound you hear, save the hurried tread of the citizens, ia the 
 low, solemn notes of the Dead March, groaning from muffled drums. 
 
 Why all this gloom, that oppresses the heart and fills the eyes ? Why 
 do Whig and Tory, citizen and soldier, share this gloom alike ? Wliy thia 
 silence, this awe, this dread ? 
 
 Look yonder, and in the centre of that common, deserted by every hu- 
 man tiling, behold — rising in lonely hideousness — behold, a Gallows. 
 Why does that gibbet stand there, blackening in tlie morning sun ? 
 Come with me into yonder mansion, whose roof arises proudly over all 
 other roofs. Up these carpeted stairs, into this luxurious chamber, whose 
 windows are darkened by hangings of satin, whose walls are covered with 
 tapestry, whose floor is crowded with elegant furniture. All is silent in this 
 chamber. 
 
 A single glow of morning light steals through the parted curtains of 
 yonder window. Beside that window, with his back to the light, his hce 
 in shadow, as though he wished to hide certain dark thoughts from the light, 
 sits a young man, his handsome form arrayed in a British uniform. 
 
 He is young, but there is the gloom of age upon that woven brow, there 
 IS the resolve of murder upon that curling lip. His attitude is significant. — 
 His head inclined to one side, the cheek resting on the left hand, wliile the 
 right grasps a parchment, which bears his signature, the ink not yet dried. 
 
272 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 
 
 That parchment is a death-warrani. 
 
 If you will look closely upon that red uniform you will see that it is 
 stained with the blood of PaoU, where the cry for "quarter" was answered 
 by the falling sword and tlie reeking bayonet. Yes, this is none other than 
 General Grey, the Butcher of Paoli, transformed by the accolade of his 
 King mto Lord Rawdon. 
 
 While he is there by the window, grasping that parchment in his hand, 
 the door opens, a strange group stand disclosed on the threshhold. 
 
 A woman and three children, dressed in black, stand there gazing upon 
 the English lord. They slowly advance ; do you behold the pale face of 
 that woman, her eyes large and dark, not wet with tears, but glaring with 
 speechless woe ? On one side a lillle girl with brown ringlets, on the other 
 her sister, one year older, with dark hair relieving a pallid face. 
 
 Somewhat in front, his young form rising to every inch of its height, 
 stands a boy of thirteen, with chesnut curls, clustering about his fair coun- 
 tenance. You can see that dark eye flash, that lower lip quiver, as he 
 silently confronts Lord Rawdon. 
 
 The woman — I use that word, for to me it expresses all that is pure in 
 passion, or holy in humanity, while your word — lady — means nothing but 
 ribbons and milinery — the woman advances, and encircled by these child- 
 ren, stands before the gloomy lord. 
 
 " I have come," she speaks in a voice that strikes you with its music 
 and tenderness. " I have come to plead for my brother's life 1" 
 
 She does not say, behold, my brother^s children, but there they are, and 
 the English lord beholds them. Tears are coursing down the cheeks of 
 those little girls, but the eye of the woman is not dim. The boy of thirteen 
 looks intently in the face of the Briton, his under lip quivering like a 
 leaf. 
 
 For a single moment that proud lord raises his head and surveys the 
 group, and then you hear his deep yet melodious voice : 
 
 *» Madam, your brother swore allegiance to His Majesty, and was after- 
 wards taken in arms against his King. He is guilty of Treason, and must 
 endure the penalty, and that, you well know, is Death." 
 
 ♦'But, m.y lord," said that brave woman, standing firm and erect, her 
 beauty shining more serenely in that moment of heroism, "You well know 
 the circumstances under which he swore allegiance. He, a citizen of South 
 Carolina, an American, was dragged from the bedside of a dying wife, and 
 hurried to Charleston, where this language was held by your oflicers — 'Take 
 the oath of allegiance, and return to the bedside of your dying wife : Refuse, 
 and we will consign you to gaol. This, my lord, not when he was free to 
 act, ah, no ! But when his wife lay dying of that fearful disease — small pox 
 — which had already destroyed two of his children. How could he -dcA 
 otherwise than he did ? how could he refuse to take your oath? In his 
 case, would you, my lord, would any 7nan, refuse to do the same ?" 
 
THE MARTYR OF THE SOUTH, 273 
 
 Still the silent children stood there before him, while the clear voice ol 
 the true woman pierced his soul. 
 
 "Your brother is condemned to death ! He dies at noon. I can do 
 nothing for you !" 
 
 Silently the woman, holding a little girl by each hand, sank on her knees ; 
 but the bo\ of thirteen stood erect. Do you see that group ? Those hands 
 upraised, those voices, the clear voice of the woman, the infantile tones of 
 those sweet girls, mingling in one cry for "Mercy !" while the Briton looks 
 upon them with a face of iron, and the boy of thirteen stands erect, no tear 
 in his eye, but a convulsive tremor on his lip ! 
 
 Then the tears of that woman come at last — then as the face of that stern 
 man glooms before her, she takes the little hands of the girls within her 
 own, and lifts them to his knee, and begs him to spare the father's life. 
 
 Not a word from the English Lord. 
 
 The boy still firm, erect and silent, no tear dims the eye which glares 
 steadily in the face of the tyrant. 
 
 "Ah, you relent !" shrieks that sister of the condemned man. " You 
 will not deprive these children of a father — you will not cut him off in the 
 prime of manhood, by this hideous death ! As you hope for mercy in 
 your last hour, be merciful now — spare my brother, and not a heart in 
 Charleston but will bless you — spare him for the sake of these children ,'" 
 
 " Madam," was the cold reply, "your brother has been condemned to 
 die. I can do nothing for you !" 
 
 He turned his head away, and held the parchment before his eyes. At 
 last the stern heart of the boy was melted. There was a spasmodic motion 
 about his chest, his limbs shook, he stood for a moment like a statue, and 
 then fell on his knees, seizing the right hand of Lord Rawdon with his 
 trembling fingers. 
 
 Lord Rawdon looked down upon that young face, shadowed with ches- 
 nut-curls, as the small hands clutched his wrist, and an expression of sur- 
 prise came over his face. 
 
 "My child," said he, "I can do nothing for you !" 
 
 The boy silently rose. He took a sister by each hand. There was a 
 wild light in his young eye — a scorn of defiance on his lip. 
 
 "Come, sisters, let us go." 
 
 He said this, and led those fair girls toward the door, followed by the 
 sister of the condemned. Not a word more was said — but ere they passed 
 from the room, that true woman looked back into the face of Lord Rawdon. 
 
 He never forgot that look. 
 
 They were gone from the room, and he stood alone before that window 
 with the sunlight pouring over his guilty brow. 
 
 "Yes, it is necessary to make an example ! This rebellion must be 
 crushed ; these rebels taught submission ! The death of this man will 
 strike terror into their hearts. They will learn at last that treason is no 
 
274 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 
 
 trifling game ; that the rope and the gibbet will reward each Rebel fur liia 
 crime !" 
 
 Poor Lord Rawdon ! 
 
 The streets were now utterly deserted. Not a citizen, a soldier, not 
 even a negro was seen. A silence like death rested upon the city. 
 
 Suddenly the sound of the dead march was heard, and yonder behold 
 the only evidence of life through this wide city. 
 
 On yonder common, around the gibbet, is gathered a strangely contrast- 
 ed crowd. There is the negro, the outcast of society, the British oificei 
 in his uniform, the citizen in his plain dress. All are grouped together in 
 that crowd. 
 
 In the centre of the dense mass, beside that horse and cart, one foot 
 resting on that coffin of pine, stands the only man in this crowd with an 
 uncovered brow. He stands there, an image of mature manhood, with a 
 muscular form, a clear full eye, a bold forehead. His cheek is not pale, 
 nor his eye dim. He is dressed neatly in a suit of dark velvet, made after 
 the fashion of his time ; one hand inserted in his vest, rests on his heart. 
 
 Above his head dangles the rope. Near his back stands that figure with 
 the craped face; around are the British soldiers, separating the condemned 
 from the crowd. Among all that rude band of soldiers, not an eye but is 
 wet with tears. 
 
 The brave officer there, who has charge of the murder, pulls his chapeau 
 over his eyes, to shield them from the sun, or — can it be ? — to hide his 
 tears. 
 
 All is ready. He has bidden the last farewell to his sister, his children 
 in yonder gaol ; he has said his last word to his noble boy, pressed his last 
 kiss upon the lips of those fair girls. All is ready for the murder. 
 
 At this moment a citizen advances, his face convulsed with emotion — 
 
 "Hayne," he speaks, in a choking voice, "show them how an American 
 can die !" 
 
 "I will endeavor to do so," was the reply of the doomed man. 
 
 At this moment tiie hangman advanced, and placed the cap over his brow 
 A cry was heard in the crowd, a footstep, and those soldiers shrank back 
 before a boy of thirteen, who came rushing forward. 
 
 "Father !" he shrieked, as he beheld the condemned with the cap over 
 his brow. 
 
 One groan arose from that crowd — a simultaneous expression of horror. 
 
 The father drew the cap from his brow : beheld the wild face, the glaring 
 eyes of his son. 
 
 "God bless you, my boy," he spoke, gathering that young form to his 
 neart. "Now go, and leave your father to his fate. Return when I am 
 dead — receive my body, and have it buried by my forefathers !" 
 
THE MARTYR OF THE SOUTH. 279 
 
 AS 'he boy turned and went through the crowd, the father stepped firmly 
 tnio the cart. 
 
 There was a pause, as though every man in that crowd was suddenly 
 turned to stone. 
 
 The boy looked back but once, only once, and then beheld ah, I dare 
 
 not speak it, for it chills the blood in the veins he beheld that manly 
 
 form suspended to the gibbet, with the cap over his brow, while the dis- 
 torted face glowed horribly in the sun. 
 
 That was his Father ! 
 
 That boy did not shriek, nor groan, but instantly — like a light extinguish- 
 ed suddenly — the fire left his eye, the color his cheek. His lips opened in 
 a silly smile. The first word he uttered told the story — > 
 
 "My fatlier !" he cried, and then pointed to the body, and broke into a 
 laugh. 
 
 Oh, it was horrible, that laugh, so hollow, shrill, and wild. The child 
 of the Martyr was an idiot. 
 
 Still, as the crowd gathered round him, as kind hands bore him away, 
 that pale face was turned over his shoulder toward the gallows: 
 
 "My Father !" 
 
 And still that laugh was borne upon the breeze, even to the gibbet's 
 timbers, where — in hideous mockery, a blackened but not dishonored thing 
 ■ -swung the body of the Martyr Hayne. 
 
 "This death will strike terror into the hear'ts of the Rebels !" 
 
 Poor Lord Rawdon ! 
 
 Did that man, in his fine uniform, forget that there was a God ? Did he 
 forget that the voice of a Martyr's blood can never die ? 
 
 This death strike terror into the heart of the Rebels ? 
 
 It roused one feeling of abhorrence through the whole South. It took 
 down a thousand rifles from the hooks above the fire-side hearth. It turned 
 many a doubting heart to the cause of freedom ; nay, Tories by hundreds 
 came flocking to the camp of liberty. The blood of Hayne took root and 
 grew into an army. 
 
 There came a day when George Washington, by the conquest of York- 
 town, had in his possession the murderer who did this deed ; l^ord Corri- 
 wallis, who commended, nay commanded it: Lord Rawdon, who signed 
 the death-warrant. 
 
 Here was a glorious chance for Washington to avenge the Martyr Hayne, 
 who had been choked to death by these men. The feeling of the army, 
 ne voice of America — nay, certain voices that spoke in the British Parlia- 
 ment, would have justified the deed. The law of nations would have pro- 
 c;aimecl it a holy act. But how did Washington act ? 
 
 He left each murderer to God and his own conscience. He showed the 
 
276 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 
 
 whole world a sublime manifestation of forgiveness and scorn. Forgive- 
 cess for this Immilitated Coriiwallis, who, so far from bearing Washington 
 home to London a prisoner in cliains, was now a conquered man in the 
 midst of his captive army. 
 
 Bui tliis Lord Ravvdon, who, captured by a French vessel, was brought 
 into Yorktowii, tliis arrested murderer, who skulled about the camp, the 
 object of universal loathing, how did Washington treat him ? 
 
 He scorned him too much to lay a hand upon his head ; from the fulness 
 of contempt, he permitted him to live. 
 
 Poor Lord Rawdon ! 
 
 Who hears his name now, save as an object, forgotten in the universality 
 of scorn ? 
 
 But the Martyr — where is the heart that does not throb at the mention of 
 his fate, at the name of Isaac Hayne ? 
 
 XXIII.— ARNOLD IN VIRGINIA 
 
 In the history of the present Mexican war, it is stated, that fifteen women 
 were driven by the bombardment of Vera Cruz, to take refuge in a church, 
 near the altar, their pale faces illumined by the same red glare, that revealed 
 the sculptured image of Jesus and the sad, mild face of the Virgin 
 Mother. 
 
 Wiiile they knelt there, a lighted bomb — a globe of iron, containing at 
 least three iiundred balls — crashed through the roof of the church, descended 
 in the midst of the women, and exploded 
 
 There is not a Fiend, but whose heart would fail him, when surveying 
 the result of that explosion. 
 
 So, upon the homes of Virginia, in December, 1781, burst the Traitor, 
 Benedict A.rnold. 
 
 As his ship glided up James River, aided by wind and tide — a leaden 
 ekv above, a dreary winter scene around, the other vessels following in the 
 wake — he stood on its deck, and drew his sword, repeating his oath, to 
 avenge the death of John Andre ! 
 
 H-ow did he keep that Oath ? 
 
 He was always excited to madness in the hour of conflict, always fight- 
 ing like a tigress robbed of her young, but now he concealed the heart of a 
 Devil, beneath a British uniform. The homes that he burnt, the men that 
 he stabbed, the murders that dripped from his sword, could not be told in a 
 volume. 
 
 At midnight, over the ice-bound river and frozen snow, a red column of 
 flame flashed far and wide, rising in terrible grandeur into the star-lit skv. — 
 It was only Arnold and his Men, laying an American home in ashes and 
 olood. 
 
 W^ien morning came, there was a dense black smoke darkening over 
 
ARNOLD IN VIRGINIA. 277 
 
 jondcr woods. The first light of the winter's day shone over the maddened 
 visagi. of Arnold, cheering on his men to scenes of murder. 
 
 The very men who fought under him, despised him. As the officers 
 received his orders, they could not disguise the contempt of the curved lip 
 and averted eye. The phantom of Andre never left him. If before he had 
 been desperate, he was now infernal — if Quebec had beheld him a brave 
 soldier, the shores of James River, the streets of Richmond saw in his form 
 the image of an Assassin. 
 
 Tortured by Remorse, hated, doubted, despised by the men who had 
 purchased his sword, his honor, Arnold seemed at this time, to become the 
 Foe of the whole human race. 
 
 When not engaged in works of carnage, he would sit alone in his tent, 
 resting his head in his clenched hand and shading from the light, a face 
 distorted by demoniac passions. 
 
 The hiemory of Andre was to him, what the cord, sunken in the lacerated 
 flesh, is to the Hindoo devotee, a dull, gnawing, ever-present pain. 
 
 One day he sent a flag of truce, with a letter to La Fayette. The heroic 
 Boy-General returned the letter without a word. Arnold took the unan- 
 swered letter, sought the shadow of his tent, and did not speak for some 
 hours. That calm derision cut him to the soul. 
 
 There was brought before him, on a calm winter's day, an American 
 Captain who had been taken prisoner. Arnold surveyed the hardy soldier, 
 clad in that glorious blue uniform, which he himself had worn with honor, 
 and after a pause of silent thought, asked with a careless smile — 
 
 » What will the Americans do with me, in case they take me prisoner?" 
 
 " Hang your body on a gibbet, but bury your leg with the honors of war. 
 Not the leg that first planted a footstep on the British ship, but the leg that 
 was broken at Quebec and Saratoga '/' 
 
 Arnold's countenance fell. He asked no more questions of that soldier. 
 
 One dark and cheerless winter's evening, as the sun shining from a blue 
 ridge of clouds, lighted up the recesses of a wood, near the James River, a 
 solitary horseman was pursuing his way along a path that led from the 
 forest into a wild morass. 
 
 On either side of the path were dangerous bogs, before the traveller a 
 dreary prospect of ice and reeds, at his back, the unknown wood which he 
 had just left. He had wandered far from the road, and lost his way. 
 
 He covered his face and neck with the cloak, which, drooping over his 
 erect form, fell in large folds on the back of his horse. The sky was dark 
 and lowering, the wind sweeping over the swamp, bitter cold. From an 
 aperture in the clouds, the last gush of sunlight streamed over the ice of tho 
 morass, with that solitary horsemen darkly delineated in the centre. 
 
 Sufl^'ering the horse to choose his way, the traveller, with his fa'^e -^on 
 cealed in the cloak, seemed absorbed in his thoughts, while the sun went 
 down ; the night came on ; the snow fell in large flakes. 
 
278 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 
 
 The instinct of the horse guided Uim through many devious paths, at 
 .ast, however, he halted in evident distress, while the falling snow whitened 
 his dark flanks. The traveller looked around : all had grown suddenlv 
 dark. He could not distinguish the path. Suddenly, however, a light 
 blazed in his face, and he beheld but a few paces before him, the glow of a 
 fireside, streaming through an opened door. A miserable hut stood there, 
 on an island of the swamp, with the immense trunks of leafless trees rising 
 above its narrow roof. 
 
 As the traveller, by that sudden light hurried forward, he beheld standing 
 in the doorway, the figure of an old man, clad after the Indian style, in 
 hunting shirt, leggings and moccasins, with a fur cap on his brow. 
 
 •' VVlio comes thar ?" the challenge echoed and a rifle was raised. 
 
 "A friend, vvlio will thank you to direct him to the path which leads into 
 the high road !" 
 
 " On sich a night as this, I'd reether not !" answered the old Winter — 
 ♦' How'sever, if you choose to share my fire and Johnny cake, you're wel- 
 come! That's all an old soldier can say !" 
 
 — In a few moments, looking into the solitary room of that secluded hut, 
 you might see the traveller seated on one side of a cheerful fire, built on the 
 hard clay, while opposite, resting on a log, the old man turned the cake in 
 the ashes, and passed the whiskey flask. 
 
 A lighted pine knot, attached to a huge oaken post which formed the main 
 support of the roof, threw its vivid glare into the wrinkled face of the hunter. 
 The traveller, still wrapped in his cloak, seemed to avoid the light, for while 
 he eagerly partook of the cake and shared the contents of the flask, he 
 shaded his eyes with his broad chapeau. 
 
 Around ihese two figures Vi^ere many testimonials of the old man's skill, 
 and some records of his courage. The antlers of a deer nailed to a post, 
 the skin of a panther extended along the logs, five or six scalps suspended 
 from the roof, bore testimony to a life of desperate deeds. By his side, 
 his powder horn and hunting pouch, and an old rifle, glowed redlv in the 
 light. 
 
 The rude meal was finished ; the traveller raised his head and glanced 
 covertly around the place. 
 
 " You seem comfortable here ? A somewhat lonely spot, however, in 
 the middle of the swamp, with nothing but ice and reeds around you ?" 
 
 The old hunter smiled until his veteran face resembled a piece of intri- 
 cate net work. 
 
 "If you'd a-been some five years cap-tive among the Ingins as I have 
 been, you'd think this here log hut reether comfortable place !" 
 
 " You — a captive ?" muttered the traveller. 
 
 " Look ihar !" and raising his cap he laid bare his skull, which was at 
 once divested of the hair and skin. The hideous traces of a savage outrage, 
 M'ere clearly perceptible. 
 
ARNOLD IN VIRGINIA. 279 
 
 ♦• Thar's whar the Ingins scalped me ! But old Bingimin did n't oli« 
 jest then !" 
 
 " Where were you, at the time the Indians captured you ?" 
 
 " In Canada — " 
 
 " Canada ?" echoed the traveller. 
 
 " Does that seem pecooliar ?" chuckled the old man — " Taken captive in 
 Canada, I was kept among 'em five years, and did n't get near a white set- 
 tlement, until a month back. I haint lived here more nor three weeks. 
 You see I've had a dev'lish tough time of it !" 
 
 " You are not a Canadian ?" 
 
 " Old Virginny to the back-bone ! You see I went to jine the army near 
 Boston, with Dan'el Morgan — You mought a-happened to heard o' that 
 man, stranger ? A parfict boss to fight, mind I tell 'ee 1" 
 
 •' Morgan ?" whispered the traveller, and his head sunk lower in his cloak. 
 
 " Yes, you see Morgan and his men jined Arnold — you've heered of 
 him ?" 
 
 The traveller removed his seat, or log, from the fire. It was getting un- 
 comfortably warm. 
 
 " Arnold — yes, I think I have heard of that man ?" 
 
 " Heer'd of him ? Why I reckon, if livin', by this time he's the greatest 
 man a-goin' ! Yes, stranger, I was with him, with Arnold on his v'yge 
 over land to Quebec ! What a parfict devil he was, be sure !" 
 
 " You knew Arnold ?" 
 
 " Wer n't I with him all the way, for two months ? Die n't I see him 
 every hour of the day ? Nothin' could daunt that fellow — his face was 
 always the same — and when there was danger, you need n't ask where he 
 was. Arnold was always in the front !" 
 
 " He was a rash, high-tempered man ?" 
 
 " A beaver to work and a wild cat to fight ! Hot-tempered as old Satlin, 
 but mind I tell 'ee, his heart was in the right place. I recollect one day, 
 we brought to a halt on the banks of a river. Our provisions were gone. 
 There were n't a morsel left. E'en the dogs an' sarpints had run out. Our 
 men set about in squads, talkin' the matter over. We- were the worst 
 starved men, that had ever been .seen in them parts. Well, in midst of it 
 all, Arnold calls me aside — I see his face yet, with an eye like one of them 
 fire-coals — ses he, " Bingimin, you're a Utile older than the rest of tts .' 
 Take this crust .'" And he gives me a bit of bread, that he took from the 
 breast of his coat. Yes, the Colonel — sufferin' himself for bread — give me 
 the last he had, out of his own mouth !" 
 
 The old man brushed his eyes with the back of his hand. The traveller 
 seemed asleep, for his head had fallen on his breast, while his elbows rested 
 on his knees. The hunter, however, continued his story. 
 
 " Then you should a-seen him, at the Storinin' o' Quebec ! Laws help 
 Of ! Why, even when his leg was broke, he cheered his men, and fought. 
 
280 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 
 
 sword in hand, until he fell in a puddle of his own blood ! I tell you, that 
 Arnold was a born devil to fight !" 
 
 " You said you were captured by the Indians ?" hastily interrupted the 
 stranger, keeping his face within the folds of his cloak. 
 
 '• I carried Arnold from the Rock at Quebec, and was with him when the 
 Americans were retreating toward Lake Champlain. One night, wandering 
 
 on the shore, the red skins come upon me but it's a long story. You 
 
 seem to be from civilized parts, stranger. Can you tell me, what's become 
 of Benedict Arnold ? Is he alive ?" 
 
 " He is," sullenly responded the traveller. 
 
 " At the head of the heap, too, I'll be bound ! A Continental to the 
 backbone ? Hey ? Next to Washington himself?" 
 
 The traveller was silent. 
 
 " Maybe, stranger, you can tell me somethin' about the war ? You 
 seem to come from the big cities? What's been doin' lately ? The Con- 
 tinental Congress still in operation ? I did heer, while captive among the 
 Ingins, that our folks had cut loose altogether from King George ?" 
 
 The strange gendemen did not answer. His face still shrouded in his 
 cloak, he folded his arms over his knees, while the old man gazed upon 
 him with a look of some interest. 
 
 " So you knew Benedict Arnold ?" a deep, hoarse voice echoed from the 
 folds of the cloak. 
 
 " That I did ! — And a braver man never " 
 
 " He was brave ? Was he ?" 
 
 " Like his iron sword, his character was full of dents and notches, but 
 his heart was always true, and his hand struck home in the hour of battle !" 
 
 " The soldiers liked him ?" 
 
 •' Reether so ! You should have seen 'em follow his voice and eye on 
 the ramparts of Quebec ! They fairly warshipped him — " 
 
 " Do you think he loved his country ?" 
 
 " Do I think ! I don't think about it — I knoiv it ! — But you don't seem 
 well — eh ? Got a chill ? You trimble so. Wait a moment, and I'll put 
 more wood on the fire." 
 
 The stranger rose. Still keeping his cloak about his neck and face, he 
 moved toward the narrow door. 
 
 " I must go !" he said, in that hoarse voice, which for some unknown 
 reason, struck on the old man's ear with a peculiar sound. 
 
 " Go : On sich a night as this ? It taint possible !" 
 
 " I mu,=t go ! You can tell me, the best path from this accursed swamp, 
 and I will leave without a moment's delay !" 
 
 The old man was conscious that no persuasion on his part, could change 
 the iron resolve of the stranger's tone. 
 
 In a moment standing in the door, a lighted pine knot in his hand, he 
 gazed upon the sight revealed by its glare — That cloaked figure mounted on 
 
ARNOLD IN VIRGINIA. 281 
 
 the Jark steed, who with mane and tail waving to the giist, neck arrhed 
 and eye rolHng, stood ready for the march. 
 
 It was a terrible night. The snow had changed to sleet, the wind swell- 
 ina to a hurricane, roared like the voices of ten thousand men clamoring in 
 battle, over the wilds of the swamp. Although it was in the depth of 
 winter, the sound of distant thunder was heard, and a pale lurid lightning 
 flashed from the verge of that dreary horizon. 
 
 The old man, with the light flaring now over his withered face, now over 
 the stranger and his steed, stood in the doorway of his rude home. 
 
 " Take the track to the right — turn the big oak about a quarter of a mile 
 from this place, and then you must follow the windin's of the path, as best 
 you may ! — But hold, it's a terrible night : I'll not see a fellow bein's life in 
 peril. Wait a minute, until I get my cap and rifle ; I'll go with you to the 
 edge of the swamp " 
 
 " So you would like to know — " interrupted the deep voice of the Stran- 
 ger — " So you would like to know what has become of Benedict Arnold ?" 
 
 That voice held the old man's eye and ear like a spell. He started for- 
 ward, holding the torch in his hand, and grasped the stirrup of the traveller. 
 
 Then occurred a sudden, yet vivid and impressive scene ! 
 
 You hear the winter thunder roll, you see the pale lightning glow. That 
 torch spreads a circle of glaring light around the old man and the horseman, 
 while all beyond is intensely dark. You behold the brown visage of the 
 aged soldier, seamed with wrinkles, battered with scars, its keen grey eyes 
 upraised, the white hairs streaming in the wind. 
 
 And then, like some wild creation of that desert waste, you see the im- 
 patient horse, and the cloaked figure, breaking into the vivid light, and dis- 
 tinctly relieved by the universe of darkness beyond. 
 
 The old man gazed intently for a moment, and then fell back against tlie 
 door-post of his hut, appalled, frightened, thunderstricken. Tlie mino-led 
 despair, wonder, fear, stamped upon his battle-worn face, was frightful to 
 behold. 
 
 — The cloak had fallen from the Stranger's shoulders. The old man be- 
 held a massive form clad in scarlet, a bronzed visage disturbed by a hideous 
 emotion, two dark eyes that flashed through the gloom, as with the lio-ht of 
 eternal despair. 
 
 " Now, do you know me ?" thundered that hoarse voice, and a mist came 
 over the old man's eyes. 
 
 When he recovered his consciousness again, the tufted sward before his 
 hut was vacant. There was the sound of horse's hoofs, crashing through 
 the swamp, there was the vision of a horse and rider, seen far over the 
 waste, by ihe glare of the winter lightning. 
 
 Tlie space before the hut was vacant, yet still that old man with his par 
 alyzed hand clenching the torch, beheld a hideous vision rising against the 
 dark sky — a red uniform, a bronzed visage, two burning eyes . 
 
282 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 
 
 " To-night," he faltered — this brave old man, now trat.sfonued into a 
 very coward, by that sight — " To-night, I have seen the Fiend of Dark- 
 ness — for it was not — no ! It was not Benedict Arnold !" 
 
 And the old man until the hour of his death, firmly believed that tne 
 vision of that night, was a horrible delusion, created by the fiend of dark- 
 ness, to frighten a brave old soldier. He died, believing still in the Patriot 
 Arnold. 
 
 Arnold was afterwards heard to say, that all the shames and scorns, 
 which had been showered upon his head, never cut him so thoroughly to 
 the soul, as the fervent admiration of that Soldier of the Wilderness, who 
 in his lonely wanderings still cherished in his heart, the memory of the 
 Patriot Arnold. 
 
 XXIV.— THE THREE WORDS— 
 WHICH FOLLOWED BENEDICT ARNOLD TO HIS GRAVE. 
 
 When we look for the Traitor again, we find him standing in the steeple 
 of the New London church, gazing with a calm joy upon the waves of fire 
 that roll around him, while the streets beneath, flow with the blood of men 
 and women and children. 
 
 It was in September 1781, that Arnold descended like a Destroying An- 
 gel upon the homes of Connecticut. Tortured by a Remorse, that never 
 for a moment took its vulture beak from his heart, fired by a hope to please 
 the King who had bought him, he went with men and horses, swords and 
 torches, to desolate the scenes of his childhood. 
 
 Do you see this beautiful river, flowing so calmly on beneatli the hght of 
 the stars ? Flowing so silently on, with, the valleys, the hills, the orchards 
 and the plains of Connecticut on either shore. 
 
 On one side you behold the slumbering town, with the outlines of Fort 
 Trumbull rising above its roofs ; on the other, a dark and massive pile, 
 pitched on the summit of rising hills, Fort Griswold. 
 
 All is very still and dark, but suddenly two columns of light break into 
 the star-lit sky. One here from Fort Trumbull, another over the opposite 
 shore, from Fort Griswold. This column marks the career of Arnold and 
 his men, that the progress of his Brother in Murder. 
 
 While New London baptized in blood and flames, rings with death- 
 groans, there are heard the answering shout of Murder, from the heights of 
 the Fort on the opposite shore. 
 
 While Benedict Arnold stands in the steeple, surveying -the work of 
 assassins, yonder in Fort Griswold a brave young man, who finds all de. 
 'ence in vain, rushes toward the British officer and surrenders his sword. 
 By the light of the musquet flash we behold the scene. 
 Heie the young American, his uniform torn, his manly countenancn 
 
THE THREE WORDS. 283 
 
 marked with the traces of the fight. There the British leader, clad in his 
 red uniform, with a scowl darkening his red round face. 
 
 The American presents his sword ; you see the Briton grasp it by the 
 hilt, and with an oath drive it through that American's heart, transfixing 
 him with his own blade I 
 
 British magnanimity ! Now it chains Napoleon to the Rock of St. 
 Helena, poisoning the life out of him with the persecutions of a Knighted 
 Fookey, now it hangs the Irish Hero Emmet, because he dared to strike 
 one blow for his native soil, now it coops a few hundred Scottish men and 
 women in the ravine of Glencoe, and shoots and burns them to death ! 
 
 British mercy ! Witness it, massacre ground of Paoli witness it, gibbet 
 of the martyred Hayne, hung in Charleston in presence of his son, witness 
 it, corse of Leydard slabbed in Fort Griswold with your own surrendered 
 sword ! 
 
 Do not mistake me, do not charge me with indulging a narrow and con- 
 tracted national hatred. To me, there are even two Nations of England, 
 two kinds of Englishmen. The England of Byron and Shakspeare and 
 Bulwer, I love from my heart. The Nation of Milton, of Hampden, of 
 Sidney, I hold to form but a portion of that great commonwealth of free- 
 dom, in which .TefFerson, Henry, and Washington were brothers. 
 
 But there is an England that I abhor ! There is an Englishman that I 
 despise ! It is that England which finds its impersonation in the bloody 
 imbecile George the Third, as weak as he was wicked, as blind as he was 
 cruel, a drivelling idiot, doomed in his reign of sixty years, to set brother 
 against brother, to flood the American Continent with blood, to convulse a 
 world with his plunders, and feel at last the Judgment of God in his blighted 
 reason, his demoralized family, his impoverished nation. 
 
 Behold him take the crown, a young and not unhandsome man with the 
 fairest hopes blossoming round him ! Behold him duririg the idiocy of 
 forty years, wandering along that solitary corridor of his palace, day after 
 day, his lip fallen, his eye vacant, his beard moistened by his tears, while 
 grasping motes with his hands he totters before us, a living witness of the 
 Divine Right of Kings. 
 
 And yet they talk of his private virtues ! He was such a good, amiable 
 man, and gave so many half-pence to the poor ; he even took a few shillings 
 from the millions wrung from the nation, to pamper his royal babes, and 
 bestowed them in charity, mark you, upon the — People whom he had 
 robbed ! 
 
 I willingly admit his private virtues. But when the King goes up to 
 Judgment, to answer for his Crimes, will you tell mc what becomes of 
 the — Man ? 
 
 There is a kind of Englishman that I despise, or if you can coin a word 
 to express the fullness of honest contempt, speak it, and I will echo you ! 
 
 Behold the embodiment of this Englishman in the person of Ge i»rge th* 
 
284 BENEDICT ARWOLD. 
 
 Fourth, who after a life rich only in the fruits of infamy, after long years of 
 elaborate pollution, after making his court a brothel the very air in which 
 he walked a breathing pestilence, went groaning one fine morning from his 
 perfumed chamber, to an unwept, a detested grave ! 
 
 On that grave, not one flower of virtue bloomed ; on that dishonored 
 corse, lying in state, not one tear of pity fell. The meanest felon, may 
 receive on his cold face one farewell tear — all the infamous tyrannies, enacted 
 beside the death-bed of Napoleon, could not prevent the tears of brave men 
 and heroic women, falling like rain, upon his noble brow. But will you 
 tell me, the name of the human thing, that shed one tear — only one — over 
 George the Fourth ? 
 
 It is thoughts like these, that stir my blood, when I am forced, to record 
 the dastardly deeds, performed by British herelings in our Revolution. 
 
 That single corse of the heroic Leydard, stabbed with his own sword, 
 should speak to us with a vice, as eternal as the Justice of Heaven ! 
 
 While he laid, cold and stiff, on the floor of the conquered fort, the flames 
 from the burning town spread to the vessels in the river and to the light of blaz- 
 ing roofs and sails, Benedict Arnold looked his last upon his childhood's home. 
 
 Soon afterward he sailed from our shores, and came back no mor»;. From 
 this time, forth wherever he went, three whispered words followed him, 
 singing through his ears into his heart — Arnold thk Traitor. 
 
 When he stood beside his king in the House of Lords — the weak old 
 man, whispered in familiar tones to his gorgeously attired General — a 
 whisper crept through the thronged Senate, faces were turned, fingers ex- 
 tended, and as the whisper deepened into a murmur, one venerable liord 
 arose and stated that he loved his Sovereign, but could not speak to him, 
 while by his side there stood — Arnold the Traitor. 
 
 He went to the theatre, parading his warrior form, amid the fairest flowers 
 of British nobility and beauty, but no sooner was his visage seen, than the 
 whole audience rose — the Lord in his cushioned seat, the vagrant of Lon- 
 don in the gallery — they rose together, while from the pit to the dome 
 echoed the cry — "Arnold the Traitor ?" 
 
 When he is«ued from his gorgeous mansion, the liveried servant, that ate 
 his bread, and earned it too, by menial oflices, whispered in contempt, to 
 his fellow lacquey as he took his position behind his Master's carriage — 
 Benedict Arnold the Traitor. 
 
 One day, in a shadowy room, a mother and two daughters, all attired in 
 the weeds of mourning, were grouped in a sad circle, gazing upon a picture 
 shrowded in crape. A visitor now advanced ; the mother took his card 
 from the hands of the servant, and the daughters heard his name. "Go ?" 
 ■aid that mother, rising with a flushed face, while a daughter took each hand 
 — "Go ! and tell the man, that my threshhold can never be crossed by the 
 mwrderer of my son — by Arnold thk Traitor " 
 
THE THREE WORDS. 285 
 
 Grossly insulted in a public place, he appealed to the company — noble 
 .oras and reverend men were there — and breasting his antagonist with his 
 fierce brow, he spat full in his face. His antagonist was a man of tried 
 courage. He coolly wiped the saliva from his cheek. "Time may tpit 
 upon me, but I never can pollute my sword by killing — Arnold the Trai 
 
 TOR !" 
 
 He left London. He engaged in commerce. His ships were on the 
 ocean, his warehouses in Nova Scotia, his plantations in the West Indies. 
 One night his warehouse was burned to ashes. The entire population of 
 St. John's — accusing the owner of acting the part of incendiary, to his own 
 property, in order to defraud the insurance companies-assembled in that 
 British town, in sight of his very w'idow, they hung an effigy, inscribed 
 with these words — "Arnold the Traitor." 
 
 When the Island of Guadalope was re-taken by the French, he was 
 among the prisoners. He was put aboard a French prison-ship in the har- 
 bor. His money — thousands of yellow guineas, accumulated through the 
 course of years — was about his person. Afraid of his own name, he called 
 himself John Anderson ; the name once assumed by John Andre. He 
 deemed himself unknown, but the sentinel approaching him, whispered that 
 he was known and in great danger. He assisted him to escape, even aided 
 him to secure his treasure in an empty cask, but as the prisoner, gliding 
 down the side of the ship, pushed his raft toward the shore, that sentinel 
 looked after him, and in broken English sneered — "Arnold the Traitor !" 
 
 There was a day, when Tallyrand arrived in Havre, hot-foot from Paris. 
 It was in the darkest hour of the French Revolution. Pursued by the 
 blood-hounds of the Reign of Terror, stripped of every wreck of poverty 
 or power, Tallyrand secured a passage to America, in a ship about to sail. 
 He was going a beggar and a wanderer to a strange land, to earn his bread 
 b) daily labor. 
 
 "Is there any American gentleman staying at your house ?" he asked the 
 Landlord of his Hotel — "I am about to cross the water, and would like a 
 letter to some person of influence in the New World — " 
 
 The Landlord hesitated for a moment, and then replied : 
 
 "There is a gentleman up stairs, either from America or Britain, but 
 whether American or 1. nglishman, I cannot tell." 
 
 He pointed the way, and Tallyrand — who in his life, was Bishop, Prince, 
 Prime Minister — ascended the stairs. A venerable supplicant, he stood 
 before the stranger's door, knocked and entered. 
 
 In the far corner of a dimly lighted room, sat a gentleman of some fifty 
 years, his arms folded and his head bowed on his breast. From a window 
 directly opposite, a flood of light poured over his forehead. His eyes, 
 looking from beneath the downcast brows, gazed in Tallyrand's face, with 
 a peculiar and searching expression. His face was striking in its outline; 
 the mouth and chin indicative of an iron will. 
 
886 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 
 
 His form, vigorous even with the snows of fifty winters, was clad in » 
 dark but rich and distinguished costume. 
 
 Tallyrand advanced — stated that he was a fugitive — and under the im- 
 pression, that the gentleman before him was an American, he solicited his 
 kind offices. 
 
 He poured forth his story in eloquent French and broken English. 
 
 "I am a wanderer — an exile. I am forced to fly to the New World, 
 vyithout a friend or a hope. Yoa are an American ? Give me, then, I be- 
 seech you, a letter of introduction to some friend of yours, so that I may be 
 enabled to earn my bread. I am willing to toil in any manner — the scenes 
 of Paris have filled me with such horror, that a life of labor would be Para- 
 dise, to a career of luxury in France — you will give me a letter to one of 
 your friends ? A gentleman like you, has doubtless, many friends — " 
 
 The strange gentleman rose. With a look that Tallyrand never forgot, 
 he retreated toward the door of the next chamber, still downcast, iiis eyes 
 still looking from beneath bis darkened brows. 
 
 He spoke as lie retreated backward : his voiv.e was full of meaning. 
 
 " / (an the only man, bom in the New f-Fcrld, that can raise his hand 
 to God, and sai/ -I have not one friend — not one — in all America." 
 
 Tallvrand never forgot the overwhelming sadness of that look, whicU 
 accompanied these words. 
 
 " Who are you ?'' he cried, as the strange man retreated toward the nex' 
 room — " Your name ?' 
 
 " My name — ' with a smile that had more of mockery than joy in ill 
 convulsive expression — " My name is Benedict Arnold." 
 
 He was gone. Tallyrand sank into a chair, gasping the words—" Arnoli 
 THE Traitor." 
 
 — Thus you see, he wandered over the earth, another Cain, with th 
 murderer's mark upon his brow. Even in the secluded room of that lun 
 at Havre, his crime found him out and faced him, to tell his name, tha* 
 name the synonsmy of infamy. 
 
 The last twenty years of his life, are covered with a cloud, from whose 
 darkness, but a few gleams of light flash out upon the page of history. 
 
 The manner of his death is not distinctly known. But we cannot doubt 
 that he died utterly friendless, that his cold brow was unmoistened by one 
 farewell tear, that Remorse pursued him to the grave, whispering John 
 Andre ! in his ears, and that the memory of his course of glory, gnawed 
 like a canker at his heart, murmuring forever, ' true to your country, what 
 might you have been, O, Arnold the Traitor !' 
 
 In the closing scene of this wild drama. I have dared to paint the agony 
 of his death-hour, with a trembling hand and hushed breath, I have lifted 
 ihe curtain from the death-bed of Benedict Arnold. 
 
ARNOLD: HIS GLORY, HIS WRONGS, HIS CRIMES. 287 
 
 XXV.- ARNOLD : HIS GLORY, HIS WRONGS, HIS CRIMES. 
 
 Did you ever, reader, journey among dark mountains, on a stormy night, 
 vi'ith hideous gulfs yawning beneath your feet, the lightning enveloping your 
 form, with its vivid light — more terrible from the blackness that followed — 
 the thunder howling in your ears, while afraid to proceed or go back, you 
 stood appalled, on the verge of a tremendous chasm, which extended deep 
 and black for half a mile below ? 
 
 Did you ever after a journey like this, ascend the last mountain top in 
 your path, behold the clouds roll from the scene of last night's danger, and 
 the eastern sky, glowing with the kiss of a new-born day ? Tlien you 
 surveyed the past terror with a smile, and counter the chasms, and measured 
 the dark ways with a look of calm observation. 
 
 So, after our dark and fearful journey over Arnold's life, do we reach 
 the last mountain top, and the day breaks over us. Not upon him, dawns 
 the blessed light — ah, no ! But upon us it glows, and we will now look 
 back upon the long track of his deeds, the waste of his despair, spread far 
 behind us. 
 
 Yes, our journey is near its end. The pleasant valleys of the Brandy- 
 wine will soon invite us to their shadows, soon we will repose beside their 
 clear waters, and drink the perfume of their flowers, while we listen to the 
 Legends of Battle, and Love, and Supernatural beauty, that rise like spirits 
 from those mound-like hills. Yet ere we pass to those shades of Romance 
 and Dreams, let us, at one bold sweep, survey the life of Arnold, his Glory, 
 his Wrongs, his Crimes. 
 
 He was born at Norwich, Connecticut, on the 3d of January, 1740. 
 At the age of sixteen, he ran away and joined the British army, was 
 stationed at Ticonderoga, but unable to endure either the restraint of disci- 
 pline, or the insults of power, he deserted and returned home. 
 
 He was now the only son of a devoted Mother. Left by a drunken father, 
 to the tender mercies of a World, which is never too gentle to the widow 
 or the orphan, his character was formed in neglect and hardship. He was 
 apprenticed to a druggist, and after his apprenticeship removed to New 
 Haven. 
 
 He next became a merchant, shipping horses and cattle and provisions 
 to the West Indies, and commanding his own vessel. In the West Indies, 
 his ardent temper involved him in a duel. His strong original genius, soon 
 led him in the way to wealth ; his precipitate enterprize into bankruptcy. 
 
 He married at New Haven, a lady named Mansfield, who bore him three 
 sons, Benedict, Richard, and Henry. The first inherited the father's tem- 
 per, and met an untimely end. The others settled in Canada after the war* 
 the wife died at the dawn of the Revolution. 
 
288 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 
 
 One sister a noble-hearted woman, Hannah Arnold, clung to him in all 
 the changes of his life, and never for an hour swerved from the holy tender- 
 ness of a sister's faith. 
 
 In May, 1775, he shared with Ethan Allen, the glory of Ticonderoga. 
 
 In September, 1775, with such men as Daniel Morgan, the great Rifle- 
 man, and Christopher Greene, afterward the hero of Red Bank, under his 
 command, together with eleven hundred men, he commenced his expedition 
 through the Wilderness, to Quebec. After two months of suflering and 
 hardship, without a parallel in our history, he arrived at Point Levy, oppo- 
 site Quebec, having accomplished a deed that conferred immortal honor to 
 his name. 
 
 On the last day of the year, 1775, he led the attack on Quebec. Con- 
 gress awarded him for his gallant expedition and brilliant attack, with the 
 commission of brigadier general. 
 
 After the campaign of Canada was over, Arnold was accused of miscon- 
 duct in seizing certain goods at Montreal. The testimony of the first his- 
 torian in our country, proves, that in the removal of these goods, he was 
 neither practising any secret manoeuvre, nor did he endeavor to retain them 
 in his possession. It is well to bear these truths in mind : the charge of 
 misconduct at Montreal, has been suffered almost to grow into history. 
 
 He was next appointed to the command of a fleet on Lake Champlain. 
 The nation rung with the fame of his deeds. On the water, as on the land, 
 his indomitable genius bore down all opposition. 
 
 A week before the battle of Trenton, he joined Washington's Camp, on 
 the west side of the Delaware, remained with the Chieftain three days, and 
 then hastened to Providence, in order to meet the invaders on the New 
 England coast. 
 
 In Februarv, 1777, the first glaring wrong was visited upon his head. 
 Congress appointed five new major generals, without including him in the 
 list: all were his juniors in rank, and one was from the militia. Washing- 
 ton was astonished and surprised at this measure ; he wrote a letter to 
 Arnold, stating "that the promotion which was due to your seniority, was 
 nc't overlooked for want of merit in you." 
 
 While on a journey from Providence to Philadelphia, where he intended 
 to demand an investigation of his conduct, he accomplished the brilliant 
 affair of Danbury. 
 
 Congress heard of this exploit, and without delay, Arnold was promoted 
 to the rank of Major General. With an inconsistency not easily explained, 
 the date of his commission was still left below the other five major 
 generals. 
 
 We next behold him in Philadelphia, boldly demanding an investigation 
 of his character, at the hands of Congress. The Board of War, to whom 
 all charges were referred, after examining all the papers, and conversing 
 with the illustrious Carrol, (Commissioner at Montreal) declared that the 
 
ARNOLD: HIS GLORY, HIS WRONGS. HIS CRIMES. 28» 
 
 character and conduct of General Arnold had been groundlessly and cruellv 
 aspersed. 
 
 Congress confirmed that report, comphmented Arnold with the gift of an 
 elegantly caparisoned horse, yet still neglected to restore him to his hard 
 won rank. This was the best way that could have been adopted to worry 
 a brave man into madness. 
 
 While his accounts lingered in the hands of Congress, Arnold was ap- 
 pointed to command the army then convening in the vicinity of Philadel- 
 phia. This duty he discharged with his usual vigor. 
 
 At last, chafed by the refusal of Congress to settle his accounts, and 
 adjust his rank, he resigned his commission in these words : 
 
 " / am ready to risk my life for my Country, but honor is a sacrifice 
 that no man ought to make — " 
 
 At this crisis came the news of the fall of Ticonderoga, and the approach 
 of a formidable Army under Burgoyne. On the same day that Congress 
 received the resignation, they also received a letter from Washington, re- 
 commending that Arnold should l)e immediately sent to join the northern 
 army. 
 
 " He is active, judicious, and brave, and an officer in whom the militia 
 will repose great confidence.'" 
 
 This was the language of Washington. 
 
 -' mold did not hesitate a moment. He took up his sword once mote, 
 only hoping that his claims would be heard, after he had fought the battles 
 of his cou my. 
 
 He even consented to be commanded in the northern army, by General 
 St. Clair, who had been promoted over his head. With all his rashness, 
 all his sense of bitter wrong and causeless neglect, on this occasion, he acted 
 with heroic magnanimity. 
 
 In the two Battles of Saratoga, the one fought on September the 19th, 
 and the action of Oct. 7th, Arnold was at once the General and the Hero. 
 From 12 o'clock, until night on the 19th, the battle was fought entirely by 
 Arnold's division, with the exception of a single regiment from another bri- 
 gade. There was no general officer on the field during the day. Near 
 night, Col. Lewis, arriving from the scene of action, stated that its progress 
 was undecisive. " I will soon put an end to it," exclaimed Arnold, and set 
 off in full gallop for the field. 
 
 Gates was so far forgetful of justice, as to avoid mentioning the name of 
 Arnold or his division in his despatches. A quarrel ensued, and Arnold 
 resigned his command. 
 
 On the 7th of Oct., without a command, he rushed to the field and led 
 the Americans to victory. "It is a singular fact," says Sparks, "that an 
 officer, who really had no command in the army, was leader in one of the 
 most important and spirited battles of the Revolution." 
 
 At last Congress give him the full rank which he claimed. 
 
2y0 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 
 
 If ever a man won liis way to rank, by heaping victory on victory, that 
 man was Benedict ArnoM. 
 
 In May, 1778, Arnold joined the army at Valley Forge. 
 
 But a short time elapsed ere he established liis headquarters in Phila- 
 delphia, as Military Governor or Commander. 
 
 Here, he prohibited the sale of all goods in the city, until a joint Com- 
 mittee of Congress and the Provincial Council should ascertain, whether 
 any of the property belonged to King George or his subjects. This mea- 
 sure, of course sanctioned by Washington and Congress, surrounded him 
 with enemies, who were increased in number and malignancy, by his im- 
 petuous temper, his luxurious style of living, and his manifest consciousness 
 of fame and power. 
 
 He had not been a month at Philadelphia, ere he solicited a command in 
 the navy. 
 
 It was at this time, that he sent five hundred dollars, out of his contracted 
 means, to the orphan children of Warren, and pressed their claims upon 
 the notice of Congress. — Six weeks before the consummation of his treachery, 
 he sent a letter to Miss ScoUay, who protected the hero's children, an- 
 nouncing that he had procured from Congress, the sum of thirteen hundred 
 dollars, for their support and education. — 
 
 Soon after he assumed command in Philadelphia, he married Miss Ship- 
 pen, a beautiful girl of eighteen, daughter of a gentleman, favorable to the 
 King, and an intimate acquaintance of John Andre. This marriage encircled 
 Arnold with a throng of Tory associates. So familiar was the intimacy of 
 his wife with John Andre, that she corresponded with him, after the British 
 left the city and returned to New York. 
 
 His enemies now began their work. A list of charges against him, with 
 letters and papers was presented to Congress, by General Joseph Reed, 
 President of Pennsylvania, and referred to a committee of inquiry. 
 
 That Committee vindicated Arnold from any criminality in the matters 
 charged against him. 
 
 Congress did not act upon their report, but referred the matter to a joint 
 Committee of their body and of the Assembly and Council of Pennsylvania. 
 
 At last, Washington ordered a Court Martial, and gave notice to the 
 respective parlies. 
 
 The accusers were not ready at the appointed time. The trial was put 
 off "to allow them to collect evidence." 
 
 Three months had now elapsed since the charges were first presented to 
 Congress. 
 
 On the 18th of March, 1779, Arnold resigned his commission. 
 
 The day finally agreed upon, was the 1st of June, 1779, the place, 
 Middlebrook. 
 
 At this time the enemy in New York made threatening demonstrations, 
 and the Court Martial \yas again postponed. 
 
ARNOLD: HIS GLORY. HIS WRONGS, HIS CRIMES. 291 
 
 Arnold then formed the project of forming a settlement for the soldiera 
 and officers who had served under him. He wished to obtain the grant of 
 a tract of land in Western New York. The members of Congress from 
 that state seconded his wishes, and wrote a joint letter to Governor Clinton, 
 soliciting fiis aid : 
 
 — " To you Sir, or to our state, General Arnold can require no recommen- 
 dation : a series of distinguished services, entitle him to respect and 
 favor " 
 
 The President of Congress, the virtuous Jay, enforced the same applica- 
 tion in a private letter to Governor Clinton. He said — 
 — " Generosity to Arnold will be Justice to the Slate.'''' — 
 
 These testimonies speak for themselves. Was Arnold without noble and 
 virtuous friends ? 
 
 Still with the odium of an "unconvicted criminal" upon his head, he was 
 attacked by a Mob, his person assaulted and his house surrounded. In 
 tones of bitter indignation he demanded a guard from Congress, and was 
 refused. 
 
 Time wore on, and the trial came at last. It commenced at Morristown, 
 on the 20lh of December, and continued until the 26th of January 1780. 
 
 He was thoroughly acquitted on the first two charges ; the other two 
 were sustained in part, but not so far as to imply a criminal intention. 
 He gave a written protection, (while at Valley Forge,) for a vessel to pro- 
 ceed to sea. He used the baggage wagons of Pennsylvania. These were 
 his oftences ; for these he was sentenced to be reprimanded by Washington. 
 
 At least thirteen months had passed, from the time of the first accusation 
 until he was brought to trial. In the course of this time, he made his first 
 approaches of Treason. 
 
 Plunged into debt, he wished to enter the service of the French King, 
 to join an Indian tribe, to betray his country to the British. The 
 FVench Minister met his offer with a pointed refusal, his mysterious propo- 
 sition to become the Chief of the red men, was never carried into effect ; 
 the only thing that remained, the betrayal of his country, was now to be 
 accomplished. 
 
 Supported by powerful influence, he obtained command of West Point. 
 He had corresponded for some months with Sir Henry Clinton, through 
 the letters of his wife to Major Andre. Andre affixed to his letter the sig- 
 nature, /o/i?i Anderson,^nA Arnold was known as Gustaviis. Andre from 
 a mere correspondent and friend of the wife, was at last selected as the 
 ^eat co-partner in the work of Treason. He was raised to the position of 
 Adjutant General, and when the fall of West Point was accomplished, was 
 to be created a Brigadier General. 
 
 T)ie Conspirators met within the American lines ; by some inexplicable 
 mistake Andre failed to go on board the Vulture, attempted to return to New 
 York by land, and was captured by Paulding, Williams, and Van Wert, 
 
292 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 
 
 He was c;iplured on the 23J ol" September, 1780. On the 2r)ih, Arnold 
 escaped to tlie Vulture. On the 2nd of October, at twelve o'clock, Andre 
 was hung. 
 
 In May 1781, Arnold returned to New York from Virginia, thus nar- 
 rowly escaping the capitulation of Yorktown ; in September he laid New 
 London in ashes ; and in December he sailed from the Continent for 
 England. 
 
 — Thus plainly in short sentences and abrupt paragraphs, without the least 
 attempt at eloquence or display, you have the prominent points of Arnold's 
 career before you. 
 
 Judge every heart for itself, the mystery of his wonderful life ! 
 
 A friendless boy becomes a merchant, a man of wealth, a bankrupt, a 
 druggist. From the druggist he suddenly flashes into the Hero of the Wil- 
 derness and Quebec, the Victor of Champlain and Saratoga. In renown as 
 a soldier and general, having no superior save Washington, he is constantly 
 pursued by charges, and as constantly meets them face to face. The bnst 
 men of the nation love him, Washington is his friend, and yet after the tor- 
 ture of thirteen months delay, his accusers press their charges home, and 
 he is disgraced for using the public wagons of Pennsylvania. 
 
 Married to a beautiful wife, he uses her letters to an intimate friend as 
 <he veliicles of his treason, and afterwards meets that friend as a brother 
 conspirator. Resolved to betray his country, he does not frankly break his 
 sword, and before all the world proclaim himself a friend of the King, but 
 in darkness and mystery plans the utter ruin of Washington's army. 
 
 His star rises at Quebec, culminates at Saratoga, and sets in eternal night 
 in the reprimand of Morristown. When it appears again, it is no longer a 
 star, but a meteor streaming along a midnight sky, and flashing a sepulchral 
 light over the ruins of a world. 
 
 The track of his glory covers the space of live years. 
 
 When we contemplate his life, we at once scorn and pity, despise and 
 admire, frown and weep. His strange story convulses us with all imagina- 
 ble emotion. So much light, so much darkness, so much glory, so much 
 dishonor, so much meanness, so much magnanimity, so much iron-hearted 
 despair, so much womanly tenderness in the form of Benedict Arnold ! In 
 the lonely hours of night, when absorbed in the books which tell of him, or 
 searching earnestly the memorials which are left on the track of time, to 
 record his career, I have felt the tears come to my eyes, and the blood beat 
 more tumultuously at my heart. 
 
 If there is a thing under Heaven, that can wring the heart, it is to see a 
 Great Man deformed by petty passions, a Heroic Soul plunged all at once 
 into the abyss of infamy. We all admire Genius in its eagle flight — but 
 who has the courage to behold its fall ? 
 
 To see the Eagle that soared so proudly toward the rising sun, fall with 
 broken win^r and torn breast into the roadside mire — to see the white 
 
THE RIGHT ARM. 293 
 
 column that rose so beautifully thr»'igh the night of a desert waste, the 
 memorial of some immortal deed, suddenly crumble into dust — to see the 
 form that we have loved as a holy thing, in a moment change into a leprous 
 deformity — Who would not weep ? 
 
 And then through the mist of sixty -seven years, the agonized words of 
 Washington thrills us with deep emotion — " Whom — " he cried, " Whom 
 
 CAN WE TRUST NOW 
 
 You may not be able to appreciate my feelings when I survey the career 
 of Arnold, but you will in any event, do justice to the honesty of my pur- 
 pose. Arnold has not one friend, on the wide earth of God, unless indeed 
 his true-hearled sister survives. His name is a Blot, his memory a Pesti- 
 lence. Therefore no mercenary considerations sway me in this my solemn 
 task. Had money been my object, I might have served it better, by writ- 
 ing certain Traitors into Heroes, and believe me there are plenty of grand- 
 children, with large fortunes, who would pay handsomely to have it done. 
 
 But Arnold — where is there a friend— to pay for one tear shed over his 
 dishonored grave ? 
 
 Guided by the same feeling with which I investigated the character of 
 Washington, and found it more Pure and Beautiful than even the dull history 
 tells it, 1 have taken up Arnold and looked at him in every light, and to his 
 good and evil, rendered — Justice. 
 
 Those who expect to find in my pages, a minute record of his petty 
 faults — how he burnt grasshoppers when a little boy, or swindled grown 
 men out of fine black horses, when a warrior — will be wofully disappointed. 
 
 It may be true that he defrauded some one of the price of a horse, but 
 while we abuse him for the deed, let us at least remember, that he had a 
 strange way of killing his horses throughout the war. It was his chance 
 to ride ever in the front of the fight. Then as he plunged into the jaws of 
 Death, snatching the laurel leaf of victory from the brow of a skull, his 
 horse would fall under him, gored by a chain-shot, or 'rent by a cannon ball. 
 
 It was my intention to have drawn a portrait of his character, in conclu- 
 sion of this Tragedy, to have compared him with the heroes and ac- 
 cursed ones of olden times, but the pen drops from my hand 
 
 I can only say — 
 
 Lucifer was the Son of the Morning, brightest and most beautiful of all 
 the hosts of Heaven. Pride and Ambition worked his ruin. But when he 
 fell, the angels were bathed in tears. 
 
 XXVI.— the right arm. 
 
 Fifty years r.go, a terrible storm shook the city of London. At the dead 
 of night, when the storm was at its highest, an aged minister, living near 
 one of the darkest suburbs of the city, was aroused by an earnest cry foi 
 help. Looking from his window, he beheld a rude man, clad in the coarse 
 
294 BENEDlul ARNOLD. 
 
 attire of a sweeper of the public streets. In a few moments, while the rain 
 came down in torrents, and the storm growled above, that preacher, leaning 
 on the arm of the scavenger, threaded his way to the dark suburb, listening 
 meanwhile to the story of the dying man. 
 
 That very day, a strange old man had fallen speechless, in front of the 
 scavenger's rude home. The good-hearted street-sweeper had taken him 
 ,n — laid him on his bed — he had not once spoken — and now he was dying. 
 
 This was the story of that rough man. 
 
 And now through dark alleys, among miserable tenements, that seemed 
 about to topple down upon their heads, into the loneliest and dreariest 
 suburb of the city, they passed, that white-haired minister and his guide. 
 At last into a narrow court, and up dark stairs, that cracked beneath their 
 tread, and then into the death room. 
 
 It was in truth a miserable place. 
 
 A glimmering light stood on a broken chair. — There were the rough 
 walls, there the solitary garret window, with the rain beating in, through 
 the rags and straw, which stuffed the broken panes, — and there, amid a heap 
 of cold ashes, the small valise, which it seems the stranger had with him. 
 
 In one corner, on the coarse straw of the ragged bed, lay the dying man. 
 He was but half-dressed ; his legs were concealed in long military boots. 
 
 The aged preacher drew near, and looked upon him. And as he looked, 
 throb — throb — throb — you might hear the death-watch ticking in the shat- 
 tered wall. 
 
 'It was the form of a strong man, grown old with care more than age. 
 
 There was a face, that you might look upon but once, and yet wear m 
 your memory for ever. 
 
 Let us bend over the bed, and look upon that face : A bold forehead, 
 seamed by one deep wrinkle between the brows — long locks of dark hair, 
 sprinkled with grey — lips firmly set, yet quivering as though they had a 
 life, separate from the life of the man — and then two large eyes, vivid, 
 burning, unnatural in their steady glare. 
 
 Ah, there was something so terrible in that face — eomething so full of 
 unutterable loneliness, unspeakable despair — that the aged minister started 
 back in horror 
 
 But look 1 Those strong arms are clutching at the vacant air — the death- 
 sweat starts in drops upon that bold brow — the man is dying. 
 
 Throb — throb— throb — beats the death-watch in the shattered wall. 
 
 "Would you die in the faith of the Christian ?" faltered the preacher, as 
 ke knelt there, on the damp floor. 
 
 The white lips of the death-stricken man trembled, but made no sound. 
 Then, with the strong agony of death upon him, he rose into a sitting 
 posture For the first time, he spoke : 
 
 "Christian !" he echoed in that deep tone, which thrilled the preacher to 
 llie hcTrt, "will that faith give me back my honor? Come with me, old 
 
THE RIGHT ARM. 295 
 
 man — come with me, far over the waters. Hah ! we are there ! This is 
 my native town. Yonder is the church in which I knelt in childhood — 
 yonder the green on which I sported when a boy. But another flag waves 
 yonder in place of the flag that waved when I was a child. And listen, 
 old man, where I to pass along the* street, as I passed when but a child, the 
 very babes in their cradles would raise their tiny hands and curse me. 
 The graves in yonder graveyard would shrink from ray footsteps, and yonder 
 flag — would rain a baptism of blood upon my head ?" 
 
 That was an awful death-bed. The minister had watched the "last 
 night" with a hundred convicts in their cells, and yet never beheld a scene 
 80 terrible as this. 
 
 Suddenly the dying man arose. He tottered along the floor. With those 
 white fingers, whose nails are blue with the death-chill, he threw open the 
 valise. He drew from thence a faded coat of blue, faced with silver, an 
 old parchment, a piece of damp cloth, that looked like the wreck of a 
 battle-flag. 
 
 " Look ye, priest, this faded coat is spotted with my blood !" he cried, as 
 old memories seemed stirring at his heart. "This coat I wore, when I 
 first heard the news of Lexington — this eo^ I wore, when I planted the 
 banner of the stars on Ticonderoga ! That bullet-hole was pierced in the 
 fight of Quebec ; and now — I am a — let me whisper it in your ear !" 
 
 He hissed that single, burning word into the minister's ear. 
 
 " Now help me, priest," he said, in a voice grown suddenly tremulous ; 
 " help me to put on this coat of blue and silver. For you see — " and a 
 ghasdy smile came over his face — " there is no one here to wipe the cold 
 drops from my brow ; no wife — no child — I must meet death alone ; but I 
 will meet him, as I have met him in battle, without a fear !" 
 
 And while he stood arraying his limbs in that worm-eaten coat of blue 
 and silver, the good preacher spoke to him of faith in Jesus. Yes, of that 
 great faith, which pierces the clouds of human guilt, and rolls them back 
 from the face of God. 
 
 "Faith!" echoed that strange man, who stood there, erect, with the 
 death-chill on his brow, the death-light in his eye " Faith ? Can it give 
 me back my honor ? Look, ye priest, there over the waves, sits George 
 Washington, telling to his comrades, the pleasant story of the eight years' 
 war — there in his royal halls sits George of England, bewailing in his idiot 
 voice, the loss of his Colonies. And here am I — I — who was the first to 
 raise the flag of freedoii), the first to strike a blow against that King — here 
 am I, dying, ah, dying like a dog !" 
 
 The awe-stricken preacher started back from the look of the dying man. 
 while throb — throb — throb — beat the death-watch in the shattered wall. 
 
 " Hush ! silence along the lines there !" he muttered, in that wild absent 
 lone, as though speaking to the dead ; " silence along the lines ! Not a 
 word, not»a word on peril of your lives. Hark you, Montgomery, we will 
 
290 BENEDICT ARNOLD. 
 
 meet in the centre of the town. We will meet there, in victory, or die ! — 
 H St ! Silence, my men — not a whisper, as we move up these steep rocks ! 
 Now on, my boys, now on ! Men of the Wilderness, we will gain the 
 town ! — Now up with the banner of the stars — up with the flag of freedom, 
 though the night is dark and the snow falls ! Now — now — " shrieked that 
 death stricken man, towering there, in the blue uniform, with his clenched 
 hands waving in the air — " now, now ! One blow more, and Quebec is 
 ours !" 
 
 And look ! His eye grows glassy. With that word on his, he stands 
 there — ah, what a hideous picture of despair, erect, livid, ghasdy ! There 
 for a moment, and then he falls ! He is dead ! 
 
 Ah, look at that proud form, thrown cold and stiff upon the damp floor. 
 In that glassy eye there lingers, even yet, a horrible energy — a sublimity 
 of despair. 
 
 Who is this strange man, dying here alone, in this rude garret — this man, 
 who, in all his crimes, slill treasured up that blue uniform, that faded flag ? 
 
 Who is this being of horrible remorse ? — this man, whose memories seem 
 to link something of heaven, and more of hell ? 
 
 Let us look at that parchmdHt and flag 
 
 The aged minister unrolls that faded flag — it is a blue banner, gleaming 
 with thirteen stars. 
 
 He unrolls that parchment. It is a colonel's commission in the Conti- 
 nental army, addressed to — Benedict Arnold ! 
 
 And there, in that rude hut, while the death-watch throbbed like a hesrl 
 in the shattered wall — there, unknown, unwept, in all the bitterness of deoo- 
 lation, lay the corse of the Patriot and the Traitor. 
 
 O, that our own true Washington had been there, to sever that good right 
 arm from the corse, and while the dishonored body rotted into dust, to bring 
 home that good right arm, and embalm it among the holiest memories of 
 the Past. — 
 
 For that right arm struck many a gallant blow for freedom, yonder at 
 Ticonderoga, at Quebec, Champlain, and Saratoga — that arm, yonder, 
 
 BENEATH THE SNOW-WHITE MOUNTAIN, IN THE DEEP SILENCE OF TITE RIVER 
 OF THE DEAD, FIRST RAISED INTO LIGHT THE BaNNER OF THE StARS. 
 
BOOK FOURTH. 
 
 HE BATTLE OE BRANDYWINE. 
 
 (297) 
 
THE BATTLE OE BEANDYWI^E. 
 
 1.— THE GLORY OF THE LAND OF PENN. 
 
 Beautiful in her solitary grandeur — f;iir as a green island in a desert 
 waste, proud as a lonely column, reared in the wilderness — rises the land 
 of Penn, in the History of America. 
 
 Here, beneath the Elm of Shackamaxon, was first reared the holy aliar 
 of Toleration. 
 
 Here, from the halls of the old State House, was first proclaimed, that 
 Bible of the Rights of Man — the Declaration of Independence. 
 
 Here, William Penn asserted the mild teachings of a Gospel, whose 
 every word was Love. Here, Franklin drew down the lightnings from the 
 sky, and bent the science of ages to the good of toiling man. Here, Jeffer- 
 son stood forth, the consecrated Prophet of Freedon), proclaiming, from 
 Independence Hall, the destiny of a Coniinent, the freedom of a Peo{)le. 
 
 Here, that band of men, compared to whom the Senators of Rome dwin- 
 dle into parish demagogues, — the Continental Congress — held their solemn 
 deliberations, with the halter and the axe before their eyes. 
 
 New England we love for her Adams', her Hancocks, and her Warrens. 
 Her battlefields of Bunker Hill and Concord and Lexington, speak to ua 
 with a voice that can never die. The South, too, ardent in her fiery blood, 
 luxuriant in flowers and fruits, we love for her Jefferson, her Lees, her im- 
 mortal Patrick Henry. Not a rood of her soil but is richer for the martyr 
 blood of heroes. 
 
 But while we love the North or the South for their Revolutionary glories, 
 we must confess that the land of Penn claims a glory higher and holier than 
 either. The glory of the Revolution is hers, but the mild light of science 
 irradiates her hills, the pure Gospel of William Penn shines forever over 
 the pages of her past. 
 
 While we point to Maryland for her Calvert and her Carroll, to Jersey 
 for her Witherspoon, to Delaware for her Kirkwood and M'Lane — while 
 we bow to the Revolutionary fame of New England and the South, we 
 must confess that the land of Penn has been miserably neglected by history. 
 
 It is a singular fact, that while all other States have their eulogists, their 
 historians, and tlieir orators, to speak ol iheir past glory, their present pros 
 peritj', and their present fame, yet has Pennsylvania been neglected ; siie 
 
 (299) 
 
300 THE BATTLE OF BRANDYWINE. 
 
 has been slighted by the historian ; her triumphs and her glories have been 
 made a matter of sparse and general narrative. 
 
 Our own fair land of Penn has no orator to celebrate her glories, to point 
 to her past ; she has no Pierpont to hymn her illustrious dead ; no Jared 
 Sparks to chronicle her Revolutionary granduer. 
 
 And yet the green field of Germantown, the twilight vale of the Brandy- 
 wine, the blooil-nurtured soil of Paoli, all have their memories of the Past, 
 all are stored with their sacred treasure of whitened bones. From the far 
 North, old Wyoming sends forth her voice — from her hills of granduer and 
 her vallies of beauty, she sends her voice, and at the sound the Mighty Dead 
 of the land of Penn sweep by, a solemn pageant of the Past. The char- 
 acter of the Pennsylvanian has been mockingly derided, by adventurers from 
 all parts of the Union. We have been told that our people — the Pennsyl- 
 vanians — had no enterprise, no energy, no striking and effective qualities. 
 Southern chivalry has taunted us with our want of daring ardor in the re- 
 sentment of insult ; Northern speculation has derided our sluggishness in 
 falling into all the mad adventures of these gambling and money-making times. 
 
 To the North we make no reply. Let our mountains, with their stores 
 of exhaustless wealth, answer ; let the meadows of Philadelphia, the rich 
 plains of old Berks, the green fields of Lancaster answer ; let old Susque- 
 hannah, with her people of iron nerve, and her mountain-shores of wealth 
 and culiivation, send forth her reply. 
 
 And to the South — what shall be our answer ? They ask for our illus- 
 trious dead ! They point to the blood stained fields of Carolina. They ask, 
 where are your fields of batUe ? They point to Marion — to Sumpter — to 
 Lee — to all the host of heroes who blaze along the Southern sky — " Penn- 
 sylvanians, where are your heroes of the Revolution?" 
 
 They need not ask their question more than once. For, at the sound, 
 from his laurelled grave in old Chester, springs to life again, the hero of 
 Pennsylvania's olden time, the undaunted General, the man of Paoli and of 
 Stony Point, whose charge was like the march of the hurricane, whose 
 night-assault scared the British as though a thunderbolt had fallen in their midst. 
 
 We need not repeat his name. The aged matron, sitting at the farm- 
 house door of old Chester, in the calm of summer twilight, speaks that 
 name to the listening group of grand-children, and the old Revolutioner, 
 trembling on the verge of the grave, his intellect faded, his mind broken, 
 and his memory gone, will start and tremble with a new life at the name, 
 and as he brushes the tear from the quivering eye-lid of age, will exclaim — 
 with a feeling of pride that a century cannot destroy — " I — I, too, was a 
 soldier with — mad Anthony Wayne !" 
 
 Bunker Hill has its monument. New England her historians, South Car- 
 olina her orators — but the fie'ld of Germantown, and the meadows of Bran- 
 dywine — where are their monumental pillars, their historians, their orators ? 
 
 And yet the freemen of our Land of Penn may stroll over the green lawn 
 
THE PROPHET OF THE BRAND^WINE. 301 
 
 of Germantown, mark the cannon-rifls on the walls of Chew's Floiise, heat 
 the veteran of the Revolution discourse of the bloodshed of the 4lli of Oc- 
 tober, 1777 — and count the mounds that mark the resting place of the dead, 
 and feel his heart throb, and his pulse warm, although no monumental 
 pillar arises from the green lawn, no trophied column consecrates the re- 
 pose of the slain. 
 
 And when the taunt falls from the lips of the wanden r and adventurer, 
 when the South sneers and the north derides, then let the Pennsylvanian 
 remember that though the Land of Penn has no history, yet is her story 
 written on her battlefields of blood ; that though she has no marble pillars, 
 or trophied columns, yet her monuments are enduring and undecaying — 
 they are there — breaking evermore into the sky — her monuments are her 
 'own eternal mountains. 
 
 Her dead are scattered over the Continent ; — Quebec and Saratoga, 
 Camden and Bunker Hill, to this hour retain their bones ! 
 
 Nameless and unhonored, " Poor Men Heroes" of Pennsylvania 
 sleep the last slumber on every batdefield of the Revolution. Their his- 
 tory would crowd ten volumes like this ; it has never been written. 
 
 In every spear of grass that grows on our battlefields, in every wild 
 flower that blooms above the dead of the Revolution, you read the quiet 
 heroism of the children of the Land of Penn. 
 
 Be just to us. People of the North ! Do not scorn our history, Chivalry 
 of the South ! 
 
 While we gladly admit the brightness of your fame, do not utterly forget 
 the nameless and neglected 
 
 Heroes of the Land of Penn. 
 
 ii.— the prophet of the brandywine. 
 
 The AUeghanies lifting their summits into the sky, while their sides are 
 gorgeous with the draperies of autumn, and old Susquehanna flows grandly 
 at their feet ! This is a sight at once religious and sublime. 
 
 The Wissahikon, flowing for miles through its dark gorge, where grey 
 rocks arise and giant pines interlock their branches from opposing clifis ! 
 This is a sight of wild romance — a vision of supernatural beauty. 
 
 But when you seek a vision of that pastoral loveliness, which fired the 
 poets of Greece and Rome, — that loveliness which presents in one view, the 
 ripeness of the orchard, the green slope of the meadow, the mirror-like 
 beauty of tranquil waters, — then come with me to the shades of Brandy wine ! 
 
 In the southern part of old Chester County — near the line of Pennslyva- 
 nia and Delaware — this valley bursts on your eye, in one vivid panorama 
 of beauty and gloom. 
 
 It seems as though the hand of God, stretched out from yonder sky. had 
 scattered his blessings broadcast over hill and dale. * 
 
J02 THE BATTLE OF BRANDYWINE. 
 
 A clear and glassy stream, now overshadowed by drooping elm or oaken 
 .rees, now open to the gleam of the sunlight, winds along amid the recesses 
 of this valley. Sloping to the east, a plain of level earth spreads green and 
 grassy — a lake of meadow — winding with each bend of the rivulet on the 
 one side, and arising on the other into massive, mound-like hills. These 
 hills are baptized in beauty. Here crowded into one glowing view, you 
 may behold the chesnut, the oak, and the beech tree ; here you may see 
 the brown field of upturned earth, the green corn, the golden wheat, the 
 meadowy pasturage. 
 
 It is, indeed, a lovely valley. 
 
 In the summer time, those ancient farm-houses, scattered along the bed 
 of the vale, look out from amid the rustic beauty of embroidered verdure. 
 Each knoll is magnificent with the foliage of its clustered trees. The wildt 
 vine on the rock, the forest flowers scattered over the ground, the grapes 
 drooping in clusters from the tall trees, silence and shadow in the bushy 
 dells, music and verdure on the plain — ah, it is beautiful in summer time, 
 this valley of the meadow and rivulet. Here indeed, the verdure seems 
 richer, the skies more serene ; here the hills arise with a more undulating 
 grandeur, than in any other valley throughout the Continent. The Hudson 
 is sublime ; the Susquehanna terrible and beautiful ; the Wissahikon lone 
 and supernatural in its beauty ; but the witchery of the Brandy wine is at 
 once quiet, gentle, and full of peace. A sinless virgin with gentle thoughts 
 gleaming from her mild eye, soft memories flushing over her young cheek, 
 grace in her gestures and music in her voice — such is the Brandywine 
 among rivers, such her valley among other valleys ! 
 
 Far away from the Brandywine, yet within an half hour's ride in the 
 centre of this Garden of the Lord, arises an old-time church. 
 
 Here are no towers to impress the soul with images of gloom ; no marble 
 monuments to glare upon you through the night ; here is no majestic dome 
 swelling up with the sky, with its cross gleaming in the stars. No ! 
 
 A plain one storied fabric, stands in one corner of a small enclosure of 
 dark green grass. This enclosure is fenced from the field and highway by 
 a wall of grey stone ; this fabric, built of the same kind of stone, is sur- 
 mounted by a plain roof. Such is the Meeting House, such the Graveyard 
 of the Brandywine. 
 
 Yet there are certain dim stains of blood upon those walls ; there are 
 marks of bullet and cannon ball along that roof. 
 
 I never shall forget that calm still hour, when my foot pressed the grave- 
 yard sod. It was in the purple glory of an evening in fall. The sky all 
 azure and gold, arched calmly overhead. Around lay the beautiful sweep 
 of hill and valley; here an orchard heavy v/ith ripened fruit; yonder a 
 quaint old farm-house ; and far away the summit of the battle hill crowned 
 with woods, rose up into the evening sky. There was a holy calmness, a 
 softened sadness on the air. 
 
THE PROPHET OF THE BRANDYWINE 303 
 
 Standing by that rude wall, I looked upon the mounds of the graveyard, 
 and examined with a reverential glance, the most minute details of the old 
 fabric, its walls and doors, windows and roof. As I stood there, a stranger 
 and a pilgrim on that holy ground, an old man stood by my side, his wrinkled 
 visage glowing with the last radiance of day. He was grey-haired. His 
 dress was a plain farmer's costume, and as for his speech, although not a 
 Quaker, he said " thee" and " thou." 
 
 And while the silence of evening gathered round us, that old man told me 
 stories of the balde-field that thrilled my blood. He was but a boy on the 
 battle-day, yet he remembered the face of Washington, the look of La 
 Fayette, the hearty war-shout of Anthony Wayne. He also had a memory 
 of a wild dusky figure, that went crashing over the field on a black horse, 
 with long flakes of dark hair flying over his shoulders. Was this the 
 Count Pulaski ? 
 
 Yet there was one legend, falling from the old man's lips, which struck 
 my soul with its supernatural beauty. 
 
 It was not the legend of the maiden, who watching the setting moon, in 
 the silence of midnight, beheld a dark cloud lowering over the valley, and 
 thronged with the phantoms of opposing armies. — Nor was it that wild tra- 
 dition of Lord Percy, whose grave was at my feet. No ! It was a legend 
 of a Sabbath day, some forty years before the battle, when Peace stood 
 serene and smiling on these hills, her hands extended in blessings over the 
 valley. It was a legend which impresses us with the belief that God sends 
 his warning voice to the sons of men, ere they pollute his earth with the 
 blood of battle. 
 
 More than one hundred years ago — forty years before the battle — the 
 plain walls of tlie Quaker Meeting House arose in the calm light of a Sab- 
 bath afternoon, in the first flush of June. 
 
 Here in the stillness of that Sabbath hour, the Quaker brethren were as- 
 sembled, listening to the earnest words of the preacher, who stood in their 
 midst. 
 
 He stood there, in that rude gallery which supplied the place of pulpit 
 and altar, his snow-white hair sweeping to his shoulders, while his calm 
 blue eyes shone with a mild light, as he spake of the Saviour, who hung 
 upon the cross, for the salvation of all mankind. 
 
 Yes, in calm and even tones, touched with a deep pathos, he spoke of 
 the life of Jesus. While his accents fell round the rude place — as the 
 breeze of June came softly through the opened windows, as a vision of hill 
 and valley lay there, mellowing in the light of the afternoon sun — his 
 hearers were hushed into deep silence 
 
 Yon aged Quaker there — whose white hairs had once been pressed by 
 the hands of William Penn, bent his head upon his staff and listened- — yon 
 
304 THE BATTLE OF BRANDYWINE. 
 
 bold backwoodsman, standing beside the open window, in his robes of fun 
 crossed his arms upon his breast, as the story of the Saviour's Hfe broke 
 on his ears ; nay, even the wild and wandering Indian, won by the tones of 
 the preacher's voice, dropped his knife and rifle on the graveyard sod, and 
 standing silent and motionless in yonder door-way, listened with a mute 
 wonder to that strange story of Jesus. 
 
 And there, listening also to the preacher's words, was woman ; yes, wo- 
 man, with her big eyes dim with tears, her parted lips quivering with sus- 
 pense, leaning forward with clasped hands as the name of Jesus trembled 
 on her ear — yes, clad in her Quaker garb, yet with all her loveliness about 
 her, there was woman, listening to that story which she is never tired of 
 hearing : the story of the Saviour and the three beautiful women, who 
 watched and wept with him, and when all the world forsook him, still came 
 weeping to his tomb. 
 
 Then the old man, in a tremulous voice, pictured the horrors of that 
 awful day when Jerusalem was deserted by her people ; while Calvary 
 throbbed with the beating of ten thousand hearts — when the world was 
 dark, while its Saviour suspended to the cross, looked down, even in the 
 moment of his agony, and beheld — woman watching there! 
 
 Dilating in this great theme, that aged man began to predict the reign of 
 peace over all the world. 
 
 " This valley," he said, elevating his form, and speaking in the low deep 
 tone of a prophet, " This valley shall never be stained with human 
 blood !" 
 
 His attitude, his voice, that uplifted hand — all were sublime. 
 
 As he stood, a silence like the grave, prevailed throughout the Quaker 
 eh arch. 
 
 " Here Peace, driven from the old world shall find a home at last. War 
 may ravage the old world, Murder may look down upon its battle-fields, and 
 Persecution light its flames ! But here, yea, here in this beautiful valley, 
 shall the sons of men rear at last the altar to the Unknown God — that God 
 of Peace, whose face for near two thousand years, has been hidden by the 
 smoke of slaughter. Here shall be reared the altar of peace ; this valley 
 shall never be stained with human blood !" 
 
 His manner was rapt, his tone eloquent, but even as the word " Peace," 
 rung from his lips, an awful change came over him. He stood there clasp- 
 ing the railing of the pulpit with trembling hands — his brow was damp, as 
 with death-sweat — his blue eye shone with a wild deep light. 
 
 The brethren started from their seats in awe and wonder. 
 
 " Look !" cried the aged preacher, in gasping tones, " Look ! The 
 vision of God is upon me !" 
 
 Then his eye was fixed upon vacancy, and in a hollow voice, as though 
 some awful scene of human guilt was before his sight, he spoke this strange 
 jrfophecy : 
 
THE PROPHET OF THE BRANDYWINE. 305 
 
 "This is a quiet and happy place, my brethren, and the Sabbath sun- 
 oeams shine with a mihi glow upon your calm and peaceful faces ! 
 
 " But the day cometh, yea, the Lord speaks, and I hear ! The day 
 Cometh when those mild sunbeams shall shine through yonder windows, 
 but shine upon heaps of dying, heaps of dead, piled up within these solemn 
 walls ! 
 
 " The day cometh when the red waves of battle shall roll over yonder 
 meadow — when the quiet of these walls shall be broken by the cry of 
 mortal agony, the groan of the parting soul, the blasphemy of the sinner, 
 dying the death of murder, blood upon his brow, and despair in his heart ! 
 
 " Here woman shall weep for her husband, butchered in battle ; here the 
 maiden shall place her hands upon the cold brow of her lover ; little chil 
 dren shall kneel beside the corse of the murdered father ! 
 
 " The Lord speaks, and I listen ! 
 
 *' The sword shall gleam within these walls ; the bullet rain its iron hail 
 upon this sacred roof; the hoofs of the war-horse stamp their bloody prints 
 upon this floor ! 
 
 " And yonder graveyard — do ye behold it ? Is it not beautiful, as its 
 grassy mounds arise in the mild glow of the afternoon sun ? The day 
 cometh when yon graveyard shall be choked with ghastly heaps of dead — 
 broken limbs, torn corses, all crowded together in the graveyard of Peacfj ' 
 Cold glassy eyeballs — shattered limbs — mangled bodies — crushed skulls — 
 all glowing in the warm light of the setting sun ! For the Lord — for ihe 
 Lord of Israel hath spoken it !" 
 
 This was the prophecy, preserved in many a home of Brandywine. 
 
 Years passed on. The old men who had heard it were with their 
 fathers. The maidens who had listened to its words of omen, were grave 
 matrons, surrounded by groups of laughing children. Still the prophecy 
 lingered in the homes of Brandywine. Still it was whispered by the lips 
 of the old to the ears of youth. 
 
 At last a morning came when there was panic in the very air. The 
 earth shook to the tread of legions ; the roads groaned beneath the weight 
 of cannon. Suddenly a white cloud overspread the valley, and enveloped 
 the Quaker temple. Then groans, shouts, curses, were heard. The white 
 cloud grew darker. It advanced far over the plain, like a banner of colossal 
 murder. It rolled around yonder hill, it lay darkening over the distant 
 waters of the Brandywine. 
 
 At last, toward evening it cleared away. 
 
 The sun shone mildly over the beautiful landscape; the Brandywine rip- 
 pled into light from afar. 
 
 But the beams of the sun lighted up the cold faces of the dead, with a 
 ghastly glow. 
 
 For in the fields, along the slope of yonder hill down by the spring under 
 the wild cherry tree, in the graveyard there, a»d within the walls ot 
 
300 THE BATTLE OF BRANDYWINE. 
 
 the meeting house, were nothing but dead men, whose blood drenched the 
 sod, dyed the waters of the spring and stained the temple floor, while their 
 souls gathered in one terrible meeting around the Throne of God. 
 
 The prophecy had met its fulfilment. The valley of Peace had been 
 made the Gologotha of slaughter; the house of prayer, the theatre of blood. 
 
 III.— THE FEAR OF WAR. 
 
 It was in the month of September, in the year of our Lord, 1777, when 
 the Torch of Revolution had been blazing over the land for two long years, 
 that the fear of war first startled the homes of Brandywine. 
 
 For many days the rumor was vague and shadowy ; the fear of war 
 hovered in the air, witli the awful indistinctness of the Panic, that precedes 
 the Pestilence. 
 
 At last, the rumor took form and shape and grew into a Fact. 
 
 General Howe, with some 17,000 well armed and disciplined soldiers, 
 had landed on the peninsula of Maryland and Delaware, above the mouth 
 of the Susquehanna. His object was the conquest and possession of Phil- 
 adelphia, distant some 30 or 40 miles. 
 
 To attain this object, he would sweep like a tornado over the luxuriant 
 plains that lay between his troops and the city. He would write his foot- 
 steps on the soil, in the fierce Alphabet of blood — the blasted field, the 
 burned farm-house, the bodies of dead men, hewn down in defence of their 
 hearth sides, these all would track his course. 
 
 With this announcement, there came another rumor — a rumor of the 
 approach of Washington; he came from the direction of Wilmington, with 
 his ill-clad and half-starved Continentals ; he came to face the British In- 
 vader, with his 17,000 hirelings. 
 
 It became a fact to all, that the peaceful valley of the Brandywine was 
 soon to be the chess board, on which a magnificent game of blood and 
 
 battle would soon be played for a glorious stake. The city of Philadel- 
 
 pnia, with its stores of provisions, its munitions of war, its Continentai 
 Congress. 
 
 IV.— THE GATHERING OF THE HOSTS. 
 
 It w9s the 9th of September. 
 
 The moon was up in the blue heavens. Far along the eastern horizon, 
 lay a wilderness of clouds, piling their forms of huge grandeur up in deep 
 azure of night. 
 
 The forests of Brandywine arose in dim indistinctness into the soft 
 moonlight. There were deep sjiadows upon the meadows, and from many 
 a farmer's home, the light of the hearth-side lamp poured out upon the 
 night. 
 
 It was night among the hills of Brandywine, when there was a strange 
 
THE GATHERING OF THE HOSTS. 30f 
 
 Bound echoing and trembling through the deep forests. There was a strange 
 sound in the forest, along the hills, and through the meadows, and soon 
 breaking from the thick shades, there came a multitude of dim and spectral 
 forms. 
 
 Yes, breaking into the light of the moon, there came a strange host of 
 men, clad in military costume, with bayonets gleaming through the air and 
 banners waving overhead. ' 
 
 They came with the regular movement of military discipline, band after 
 band, troop after troop, column after column, breaking in stern silence from 
 the covert of the woods, but the horses of the cavalry looked jaded and 
 worn, the footsteps of the infantry were clogged and leaden while the broad 
 banners of this strange host, waving so proudly in the air, waved and flut 
 tered in rags. The bullet and the cannon ball had done their work upon 
 these battle flags ! 
 
 And over this strange host, over the long columns of troopers and foot- 
 soldiers — over the baggage wagons bearing the sick, the wounded, nay, over 
 the very flags that fluttered into light on every side, there rose one broad 
 and massive banner, on whose blue folds were pictured thirteen stars. 
 
 Need I tell you the name of this host ? Look down yonder, along the 
 valley of the Brandywine, and mark those wasted forms, seared by the 
 bullet and the sword, clad in rags, with rusted musquets in their hands and 
 
 dinted swords by their sides look there and ask the name of this strange 
 
 host ! 
 
 The question is needless. It is the army of George Washington, for 
 poverty and freedom in those days, walked hand in hand, over rough roads 
 and bloody battlefields, while sleek faces and broad clothed Loyalty went 
 pacing merry measures, in some Royal ball room. 
 
 And thus, in silence, in poverty, almost in despair, did the army of 
 Washington take position on the field of Brandywine, on the night of Sep- 
 tember 9th, 1777. 
 
 And over the banner of the Continental host, sat an omen of despair, a 
 brooding and ghastly Phantom, perched above the flag of freedom, chuck- 
 ling with fiend-like glee, as he pointed to the gloomy Past and then — to the 
 Uidinown future. 
 
 On the next day, the Tenth of the Month, the hosts of a well-disciplined 
 army came breaking from the forests, with the merry peal of fife and drum, 
 with bugle note and clarion sound, and while the morning sun shone brightly 
 over their well burnished arms, they proceeded to occupy an open space 
 of ground, amid the shadow of the woods, at a place called Rennet's Square, 
 some seven miles westward of Chadd's Ford, where Washington had taken 
 his position. g 
 
 How grandly they broke from the woods, with the sunbeams, shining on 
 the gaudy red coat, the silver laced cap, the forest of nodding plumes. How 
 proudly their red cross banner waved in the free air, as though not ashamed 
 
308 THE BATTLE OF BRANDYWINE. 
 
 to toy ana wanton in breeze of freedom, after it had floated above the fields 
 of down-trodden Europe, and looked down upon the plains of ravaged 
 Hindoostan ! 
 
 Yes, there in the far East, where the Juggernaut of British I'ower had 
 rolled over its ten thousand victims, father and son, mother and babe, all 
 mingled in red massacre ? 
 
 Who would have thought, that these finely-built men, with their robust 
 forms, were other than freemen ? That their stout hands could strike 
 another blow than the blow of a free arm, winged by the impulse of a free 
 thought ? 
 
 Who, gazing on this gallant host, with its gleaming swords upraised in 
 the air, its glittering bayonets shining in the light, who would have thought, 
 that to supply this gallant host, the gaols of England had been ransacked, 
 her convict ships emptied ? That the dull slaves of a German Prince had 
 been bought, to swell the number of this chivalric band ! That these were 
 the men who had crossed the wide Atlantic with what object, pray ? 
 
 To tame these American peasants, who dared syllable the name of free- 
 dom. To whip these rebel-dogs, such was the courteous epithet, they 
 
 applied to Washington and Wayne — back to the if original obscurity. To 
 desolate the fair plains and pleasant vallies of the New World, to stain the 
 farmer's home with nis own blood, shed in defence of his hearthside. 
 
 To crush with the hand of hireling power, the Last Hope of man's free- 
 dom, burning on the last shrine of the desolated world ! 
 
 Who could have imagined that the majestic looking man, who led this 
 host of hirelings onward, the brave Howe, with his calm face and mild fore- 
 he:id, was the Master- Assassin of this tyrant band? 
 
 Or that the amiable Cornwallis, who rode at his side, was the fit tt)ol foi 
 such a work of Massacre ? Or that the brave and chivalric sons of Eng- 
 land's nobility, who commanded the legions of the invading host, that these 
 men, gav and young and generous, were but the Executioner's of that Hang- 
 man's Warrant, which converted all America into one vast prison of con- 
 victed felons — each mountain peak a scaffold for the brave, each forest oak 
 a gibbet for the free ? 
 
 And here, while a day passed, encamped amid the woods of Rennet's 
 Square, lay the British army, while the Continental host, spreading along 
 the eastern hills of Brandywine, awaited their approach without a fear. The 
 day passed, and then the night, and then the morning came 
 
 Yet ere we mingle in the tumult of that battle morn, we will go to the 
 American camp, and look upon the heroes in the shaxlows of the twiligh' 
 hour 
 
THE PREACHER OF BRANDYWINE. 308 
 
 v.— THE PREACHER OF BRANDYWINE. 
 
 It was the eve of the battle of Brandy wine. 
 
 I see before me now that pleasant valley, with its green meadow stretch- 
 ing away into the dim shadows of twilight. The stream, now dashing 
 around some rugged rock, now spreading in mirror-like calmness ; the hills 
 on either side, magnificent with forest trees ; the farm houses, looking out 
 from the embrace of orchards, golden with the fruitage of the fall ; the 
 twilight sky blushing with the last kiss of day — all are there now, as they 
 were on the 10th of September, 1777. 
 
 But then, whitening over tht; meadow, arose the snowy tents of the Con- 
 tinential encampment. Then arms gleamed from these hills, and war-steeds 
 laved their limbs in yonder stream. Then, at the genUe twilight hour, the 
 brave men of the army, sword and rifle in hand, gathered around a Preacher, 
 whose pulpit — a granite rock — uprose from the green hill-side, near Chadd's 
 Ford. 
 
 Look upon him as he stands there, his dark gown floating around his tall 
 form, his eye burning and his brow flushing with the excitement of the 
 liour. He is a man in the prime of manhood — with a bold face, tempered 
 down to an expression of Christian meekness — yet, ever and anon, a war- 
 rior soul looks out from that dark eye, a warrior-shout swells up from that 
 heaving bosom. 
 
 Their memories are with me now ; those brave men, who, with God for 
 their panoply, shared the terrors of Trenton, the carnage of Brandywine, 
 the crust and cold of Valley Forge ; their memories are with me now, and 
 shall be forevermore. They were brave men, those Preacher-Heroes of 
 ihi? Revolution. We will remember them in hymns, sung oi the cold 
 winter nights, around the hearthsides of our homes — we will nt forget 
 th'im in our prayers. We will tell the story to our children : "Chii '-en ! 
 there were brave men in the Revolution — brave men, whose hearts panted 
 beneath a preacher's gown. There were brave men, whose hands grasped 
 a Bible, a cross, and a sword. Brave men, whose voices were heard amid 
 the crash of legions, and beside the quivering forms of the dynig. Honest 
 men were they, who forsook pulpit and church to follow George Washing- 
 ion's army, as it left its bloody footsteps in the winter snow. Honor to 
 those Preacher-Heroes, who called upon their God in the storm and heard 
 his answer in the battle-shout !" 
 
 We will sing to their memory in h\mns of the olden time; on the 
 (Christmas night we will send up a rude anthem — bold in words, stern in 
 thought, such as they loved in the Revolution — to the praise of these chil- 
 dren of God. 
 
 Washington, Wayne, Pulaski, Sullivan, Greene ; there all are grouped 
 around the rock. The last ray of sunset gleams on their uncovered brows. 
 
310 THE BATTLE OF BRANDYWINE. 
 
 Far away spread the ranks of the army. Through the silence of the 
 twilight hour, you may hear that bold voice, speaking out words like these. 
 
 Come — we will go to church with the Heroes. Our canopy the sky, 
 the pulpit, yon granite rock, the congregation, a band of brave men, who, 
 with sword and rifle in hand, await the hour of fight ; our Preacher a 
 warrior-soul, locked up in a sacerdotal robe. Come — we will worship with 
 Washington and Wayne ; we will kneel upon this sod, while the sunset 
 gleams over ten thousand brows, bared to the beam and breeze. 
 
 Do you hear the Preacher's voice swelling through the twilight air ? 
 
 And first, ere we listen to his voice, we will sing to his memory, this 
 rugged hymn of the olden time — 
 
 HYMN TO THE PREACHER-HEROES. 
 
 'Twas on a sad and wintry night 
 
 When my Grandsire died ; 
 Ere his spirit took its flight. 
 
 He call'd me to his side. 
 
 White his hair as winter snow. 
 
 His voice all quiv'ring rung — 
 His cheek lit willi a sudden glow — 
 
 This chaunt in death he sung. 
 
 Honor to those men of old— 
 
 The Preachers, brave and good • 
 Whose words, divinely bold, 
 
 Stirr'd the patriot's blood. 
 
 Their pulpit on the rock, 
 
 Their church the battle-plain ; 
 They dared the foeman's shock, 
 
 They fought among the slain. 
 
 E'en yet methinks I hear 
 
 Their deep, their heart-wrung tonea, 
 
 Rising all bold and clear 
 Above their brothers' groans. 
 
 They preached, they prayed to-night. 
 
 And read God's solemn word — 
 To-morrow, in tlie fight. 
 
 They grasp'd a freeman's sword. 
 
THE PREACHER OF BRANDYWINE. 311 
 
 O ! they were bravo and true. 
 Their names in glory shuie; 
 For, by the flag of blue, 
 
 They fought at Brandywine. 
 
 At Germantown — aye, tnere : 
 
 They pray'd the coiumns on ! 
 Amen ! to that bold pray'r — 
 
 " God and Washington !" 
 
 Honor to those men of old. 
 
 Who pray'd in field and gorge— 
 Who sharM the crust and cold 
 
 With the brave, at Valley Forgo. 
 
 On the sacramental day 
 
 Press we His cup agen — 
 'Mid our sighs and tears we'll pray 
 
 God bless those martyr-men. 
 
 Those Preachers, lion-soul'd, 
 
 Heroes of their Lcrd, 
 Who, when the battle roll'd, 
 
 Grasp'd a freeman's sword. 
 
 Grasp'd a freeman's sword 
 
 And cheer'd their brothers on- 
 Lifted up His word — 
 
 By Freedom's gonfalon. 
 
 Nor sect or creed we know, 
 
 Heroes in word and deed — 
 Bloody footprints in the snow 
 
 Mark'd each preacher's creed. 
 
 'Mid the snows of cold December, 
 
 Tell your son's the story ; 
 Bid them for aye remember. 
 
 The Hero-Preacher's glory. 
 
 While glows the Christmas flame ; 
 
 Sing honor to the good and bold- 
 Honor to each Preacher's name — 
 
 The lion-hearted men of old. 
 
gl2 THE BATILB Ut BRANDYWINE. 
 
 REVOLUTIONARY SERMON, 
 
 Preached on the eve of the Battle of Brandywine, (September 10, 1777,) in presenci of 
 IVashington and hig Army, at Chadd' a Ford* 
 
 "They that take the sword, shall perish by the sword." 
 
 Soldiers and Countrymen : — We have met this eveiiing perhaps for the 
 last time. We have shared the toil of the march, the peril of the fight, 
 the dismay of the retreat — alike we have endured toil and hunger, the con- 
 tumely of the internal foe, the outrage of the foreign oppressor. We have 
 sat night after night beside the same camp fire, shared. the same rough sol- 
 dier's fare ; we have together heard the roll of the reveille which called us 
 to duly, or the beat of the tattoo which gave the signal for the hardy sleep 
 of the soldier, with the earth for his bed, the knapsack for his pillow. 
 
 And now, soldiers and brethren, we have met in the peaceful valley, on 
 the eve of battle, while the sunlight is dying away beyond yonder heights, 
 the sunlight that to-morrow morn will glimmer on scenes of blood. We 
 have met, amid the whitening tents of our encampment — in times of terror 
 and of gloom have we gathered together — God grant it may not be for the 
 last time. 
 
 It is a solemn time. Brethren, does not the awful voice of nature, seem 
 to echo the sympathies of this hour ? The flag of our country, droops 
 heavily from yonder stafl* — the breeze has died away along the plain of 
 Chadd's Ford — the plain that spreads before us glistening in sunlight — the 
 heights of the Brandywine arise gloomy and grand beyond the waters of 
 yonder stream, and all nature holds a pause of solemn silence, on the eve 
 of the bloodshed and strife of the morrow. 
 
 ^^Tliey that take the sword, shall perish by the sivord." 
 
 And have they not taken the sword ? 
 
 Let the desolated plain, the blood-soddened valley, the burned farm-house, 
 the sacked village, and the ravaged town, answer — let the whitening bones 
 of the butchered farmer, strewn along the fields of his homestead answer — 
 lei the starving mother, with the babe clinging to her withered breast, that 
 C3ii aflTord no sustenance, let her answer, with the death-rattle mingling with 
 the murmuring tones that mark the last struggle for life — let the dying 
 mother and her babe answer ! 
 
 It was but a day past, and our land slept in the light of peace. War was 
 not here — wrong was not here. Fraud, and woe, and misery, and want, 
 dwelt not among us. From the eternal solitude of the green woods, arose 
 the blue smoke of the settler's cabin, and golden fields of corn peered forth 
 
 * This Sermon was originally published, (before it was incorporated with the Lec- 
 tures,) with fictitious names attached, etc. etc. There is no doubt that a sermon was 
 delivered on the eve of the Battle of Brandywine, and I have substantialevidence to 
 prove that the Preacher was none other than Hugh Henry Breckenridge, a distin- 
 guished Divine, who afterwards wrote "Modern Chivalry," an eroinently popular 
 production, and filled various official positions with honor to himself and his country. 
 The Sermon is, I trust, not altogether unworthy of that chivalric band, who forsaking 
 their homes and churches, found a home and church in the Camp of WashingtcD 
 
THE PREACHER OF BRANDYWINE. 313 
 
 from amid the waste of the wilderness, and the glad music of human voices 
 awoKe the silence of the forest. 
 
 Now ! God of mercy, behold the change ! Under the shadow of a pre- 
 text — under the sanctity of the name of God, invoking the Redeemer to 
 their aid, do these foreign hirelings slay our people ! They throng our 
 towns, they darken our plains, and now they encompass our posts on the 
 lonely plain of Chadd's Ford. 
 
 "They that take the sword, shall perish by the sword." 
 
 Brethren, think me not unworthy of belief when I tell you that the doom 
 of the Britisher is near ! — Think me not vain when I tell you that beyond 
 that cloud that now enshrouds us, I see gathering, thick and fast, the darker 
 cloud, and the blacker storm, of a Divine Retribution ! 
 
 They may conquer us to-morrow ! Might and wrong may prevail, a (id 
 we may be driven from this field — but the hour of God's own vengeance 
 will come ! 
 
 Aye, if in the vast solitudes of eternal space — if in the heart of the bouid- 
 less universe, there throbs the being of an awful God, quick to avenge, and 
 sure to punish guilt, then will the man George of Brunswick, called King, 
 feel in his brain and in his heart, the vengeance of the Eternal Jehovah ! 
 A blight will be upon his life — a withered brain, an accursed intellect- -a 
 blight will be upon his children, and on his people. Great God ! how 
 dread the punishment ! 
 
 A'-crowded populace, peopling the dense towns where the man of money 
 thrives, while the laborer starves ; want striding among the people in all its 
 forms of terror ; an ignorant and God-defying priesthood, chuckling o\er 
 the miseries of millions ; a proud and merciless nobility, adding wrong to 
 wrong, and heaping insult upon robbery and fraud : royalty corrupt to the 
 very heart ; aristocracy rotten to the core ; crime and want linked hand in 
 hand, and tempting men to deeds of woe and death ; these are a part of the 
 doom and retribution that shall come upon the English throne and people. 
 
 Soldiers — I look around among your familiar faces with a strange inter- 
 est ! To-morrow morning we will all go forth to battle — for need I tell you, 
 that your unworthy minister will go with you, invoking God's aid in the 
 fight? We will march forth to battle. Need I exhort you to fight the good 
 fight — to fight for your homesteads, and for your wives and children ? 
 
 My friends, I might urge you to fight by the galling memories of British 
 wrong ! Walton— I might tell you of your father, butchered in the silence 
 of midnight, on the plains of Trenton : I might picture his grey hairs, dab- 
 bled in blood ; I might ring his death-shriek in your ears. 
 
 Shelmire, I might tell you of a mother butchered, and a sister outraged- 
 the lonely farm-house, the night-assault, the roof in flames, the shouts of 
 the troopers as they despatched their victims, the cries for mercy, the plead- 
 ings of innocence for pity. I might paint this all again, in the terrible color« 
 of vivid reality, if I thought your courage needed such wild excitement 
 20 
 
314 THE BATTLE OF BR\NDYWlNE. 
 
 Bat I know you are strong in the might of the Lord. You will go forth 
 to battle to-morrow with light hearts and determined spirits, though the 
 "solemn duty, the duty of avenging the dead, may rest heavy on your souls. 
 
 And in the hour of battle, when all around is darkness, lit by the lurid 
 cannon-glare, and the piercing musquet-flash, when the wounded strew the 
 ground, and the dead litter your path, then remember, soldiers, that God is 
 with you. The Eternal God fights for you — he rides on the battle-cloud, 
 he sweeps onward with the march of the hurricane charge. — The Awful 
 and the Infinite fights for you, and you will triumph. 
 
 " They that take the sword, shall perish by the sword." 
 
 You have taken the sword, but not in the spirit of wrong and ravage. 
 You have taken the sword for your homes, for your wives, for your little 
 ones. — You have taken the sword for truth, for justice and right ; and to 
 you the promise is, be of good cheer, for your foes have taken the sword, 
 in defiance of all that man holds dear — in blasphemy of God— they shall 
 perish by the sword. 
 
 And now, brethren and soldiers, I bid you all farewell. Many of us may 
 fall in the fight of to-morrow — God rest the souls of the fallen — many of us 
 may live to tell the story of the fight of to-morrow, and in the memory of 
 all, will ever rest and linger the quiet scene of this autumnal night. 
 
 Solemn twilight advances over the valley; the woods on the opposite 
 heights fling tlieir long shadows over the green of the meadow ; around us 
 are the tents of the Continental host, the half-suppressed bustle of the camp, 
 the hurried tramp of the soldiers to and fro; now the confusion, and now 
 the stillness which mark the eve of battle. 
 
 When we meet again, may the long shadows of twilight be flung over a 
 peaceful land. 
 
 God in heaven grant it. 
 
 Let us pray. 
 
 PRAYER OF THE REVOLUTION. 
 
 Great Father, we bow before thee. We invoke thy blessing — we de- 
 precate thy wrath — we return thee thanks for the past — we ask thy aid for 
 the future. For we are in times of trouble, Oh, Lord ! and sore beset by 
 foes merciless and unpitying : the sword gleams over our land, and the 
 dust of the soil is dampened by the blood of our neighbors and friends. 
 
 Oh ! God of mercy, we pray thy blessing on the American arms. Make 
 the man of our hearts strong in thy wisdom. Bless, we beseech thee, with 
 renewed life and strength, our hope and Thy instrument, even Georgk 
 Washington. Shower thy counsels on the Honorable, the Continental 
 Congress ; visit the tents of our hosts ; comfort the soldier in his wounds 
 and afflictions, nerve him for the fight, prepare him for the hour of death. 
 
 And in the hour of defeat, oh, God of hosts ! do thou be our stay ; and 
 in the hour of triumph, be thou our guide. 
 
THE DAWN OF THE FIGHT. 315 
 
 f'eacli us to be merciful. Though the memory of galling wrongs be at 
 »ur .learts, knocking for admittance, that they may fill us with det^ires o* 
 revenge, yet let us, oh, Lord, spare the vanquished, though tliey never 
 spared us, in the hour of butchery and bloodshed. And, in the hour of 
 death, do thou guide us into the abode prepared for the blest ; so shall we 
 return thanks unto thee, through Christ our Redeemer. — God prosper thk 
 Cause — Amen. 
 
 As the words of the Preacher die upon the air, you behold those battle 
 hosts — Washington in their midst, with uncovered brow and bended head — 
 kneeling like children in the presence of their God, 
 
 For he is there, the Lord of Sabaoth, and like a smile from heaven, thf 
 last gleam of the setting sun lights up the Banner of the Stars. 
 
 VI.— THE DAWN OF THE FIGHT. 
 
 It was the battle day. — The Eleventh of Septeiflber ! 
 
 It broke in brightness and beauty, that bloody day: the sky was clear 
 and serene; the perfume of wild flowers was upon the air, and the blue 
 mists of autumn hung around the summit of the mound-like hills. 
 
 The clear sky arched above, calm as in the bygone days of Halcyon 
 peiice, the wide forests .flung their sea of leaves all wavingly into the light — 
 the Brandy wine, with its stream and vallies, smiled in the face of the dawn, 
 nature was the same as in the ancient time, but man was changed. 
 
 The Fear of war had entered the lovely valley. There was dread in all 
 the homes of Brandyvvine on that autumnal morn. The Blacksmith wrought 
 no more at his forge, the farmer leaned wistfully upon the motionless plough, 
 standing idly in the half-turned furrow. The fear of war had entered the 
 lovely valley, and in the hearts of its people, there was a dark presentiment 
 of coming Doom. 
 
 Even in the Quaker Meeting house, standing some miles away from 
 Chadd's Ford, the peaceful Friends assembled for their Spirit Worship, fell 
 that another Spirit than that which stirred their hearts, would soon claim 
 bloody adoration in the holy place. 
 
 On the summit of a green and undulating hill, not more than half-a-mile 
 distant from the plain of Chadd's Ford, the eye of the traveller is arrested, 
 even at this day, by the sight of a giant chesnut tree, marked by a colossal 
 trunk, while the wide-branching limbs, with their exuberance of deep 
 green-leaved foliage, tell the story of two hundred years. 
 
 Under this massive chesnut tree, on that renowned morn, as the first 
 glimpse of the dawn broke over the battlefield, there stood a band of men in 
 military costume, grouped around a tall and majestic figure. 
 
 Within sight of this warlike group — a mound-shaped hill and rolling val- 
 ley mtervening, — lay the plain of Chadd's Ford, with the hastily-erected 
 tents of the American encampment, whitening along its sward. 
 
316 THE BATTLE OF BRANDYWINE. 
 
 There floated the banner of the stars, and there, resting on their well-tried 
 arms, stood the brave soldiers of the Continental host, casting anxious yet 
 fearless glances towards the western woods which lined the rivulet, in mo- 
 mentary expectation of the appearance of the British forces. 
 
 And while all was expectation and suspense in the valley below, this 
 warlike group had gathered under the shade of the ancient chesnut tree — a 
 hurried Council of war, the Prelude to the blood-stained toil of the coming 
 battle. 
 
 And the man who stood in their midst, towering above them all, like a 
 Nobleman whose tide is from God, let us look well upon him. He con- 
 verses there, with a solemn presence about him. Those men, his battle- 
 worn peers, stand awed and silent. Look at that form, combining the sym- 
 metry of faultless limbs, with a calm majesty of bearing, that shames the 
 Kings of earth into nothingness look upon that proud form, which dig- 
 nifies that military costume of blue and buff" and gold — examine well the 
 outlines of that face, which you could not forget among ten thousand, that 
 face, stamped with the silent majesty of a great soul. 
 
 Ask the soldier the name he shouts in the vanguard of battle, ask the dying 
 patriot the name he murmurs, when his voice is husky with the flow of 
 suffocating blood, and death is iceing over his heart, and freezing in his 
 
 veins ask the mother for the name she murmurs, when she presses hei 
 
 babe to her bosom and bids him syllable a prayer for the safety of the father, 
 far away, amid the ranks of batde, ask History for that name, which shall 
 dwell evermore in the homes and hearts of men, a sound of blessing and 
 praise, second only in sanctity to the name of the Blessed Redeemer. 
 
 And that name — need I speak it ? 
 
 Need I speak it with the boisterous shout or wild hurrah, when it is 
 spoken in tl\e still small voice of every heart that now throbs at the sound 
 of the word — the name of George Washington. 
 
 And as the sunbeams came bright and golden through the foliage of the 
 ancient chesnut tree, they shone upon the calm f\ice of the sagacious Greene 
 — the rugged brow of the fearless Pulaski — the blufl', good-humored visage 
 of Knox — the frank, manly face of De Kalb — and there with his open brow, 
 his look of reckless daring, and the full brown eye that never quailed in its 
 glance, was the favorite son of Pennsylvania, her own hero, dear to her 
 history in many an oft-told tradition, the theme of a thousand legends, the 
 praise of historian and bard — Mad Antony Wayne ! 
 
 Standing beside George Washington, you behold a young soldier — quiit 
 a hoy — with a liglit and well-proportioned form, mingling the outlines of 
 vouthful beauty with the robu=t vigor of manly strength. His face was 
 free, daring, chivalric in expression, his blue eye was clear and sparkling in 
 Its glance, and his sand-hued hair fell back in careless locks from a bold and 
 lofty t)row. 
 
 And who was he ' 
 
THE DAWN OF THE FIGHT. 317 
 
 Not a soldier in the American camp, from the green mountain boy of the 
 north, to the daring Ranger of tiie Santee, but knows hie name and has h'.s 
 story at his tongue's end, fan ihar as a household word. 
 
 And why cast he friends and rank and hereditary right aside, jvhy tear- 
 ing himself from the bosom of a young and beautiful wife, did he cross the 
 Atlantic in peril and in danger, pursued by the storm and surrounded by the 
 ships of the British fleet — why did he spring so gladlv upon the American 
 shore, why did he fling wealth, rank, life, at the feet of George Washing- 
 ton, pledging honor and soul in the American cause ? 
 
 Find your answer in the history of France — find your answer in the 
 history of her Revolutions — the Revolution of the Reign of Terror, and the 
 Revolution of the Three days — find your answer in the history of the 
 world for the last sixty years — in every line, you will behold beaming foiih 
 that high resolve, that generous daring, that nobility of soul, whicli in hfe 
 made his name a bletsing, and in death hangs like a glory over his memory 
 — the name — the memory of La Fayette. 
 
 Matter of deep import occupied this hurried council of war. In short 
 and emphatic words, Washington stated the position of the Continental 
 army. The main body were encamped near Chadd's Ford — the Pennsyl 
 vania militia under Armstrong two miles below ; the Right Wing under Sul- 
 livan two miles above. 
 
 This Washington stated was the position of tlie army. He looked for 
 the attempt of the enemy to pass the Brandywine, either at Chadd's or 
 Brinton's Ford. 
 
 He had it is true, received information that a portion of the British 
 would attack him in front, while the main body crossing the Brandywine 
 some miles above, would turn his right flank and take him by surprise. 
 
 But the country — so Washington said in a tone of emphatic scorn — 
 swarmed with traitors and tories ; he could not rely upon this information. 
 
 While the chiefs were yet in council, all doubt was solved by the arrival 
 of a scout, who announced the approach of Knipliausen towards Chadd's 
 Ford. 
 
 An hour passed. 
 
 Standing on the embankment, which grim with cannon, frowned above 
 Chadd's Ford, General Wayne beheld the approach of the Hessians along 
 the opposite hills. 
 
 The word of command rang from his lips, and then the cannon gave 
 forth their thunder, and the smoke of battle for the first time, darkened the 
 valley of the Brandywine. 
 
 Standing on the embankment, Mad Antony Wayne beheld the valley be- 
 low shrouded in smoke, he heard the cries of wounded and the dying ! 
 
 He saw the brave riflemen, headed by Maxwell and Porterneld, (hirt 
 down from the fortified knoll, hurry across the meadow, nntd the green trees 
 overlooking the stream, received thom in their thick shade. 
 
318 THE BATTLE OF BRANDYVVINE. 
 
 Then came the fierce and deadly contest, between these riflemen and tne 
 Yager bands of the Hessian army ! 
 
 Then came the moTnent, when standing in mid stream, tliey poured the 
 rifle-blaze into each other's faces, when they fought foot to foot, and hand 
 to hand, when the death-groan bubbled up to the water's surface, as the 
 mangled victim was trodden down into the yellow sands of the rivulet's bed. 
 
 Then with a shout of joy, gallant Mad Anthony beheld the Hessians driven 
 back, while the Banner of the Stars rose gloriously among the clouds of 
 bttde, and then 
 
 But why should I picture the doubt, the anxiety, the awful suspense of 
 that morning, when Washington looking every moment for the attack of 
 the British on his front, was yet fearful that they would turn his right wing 
 and take him by surprise ? 
 
 Suffice it to say, that after hours of suspense, one o'clock came, and with 
 that hour came the thunderbolt. * 
 
 A wounded scout brought intelligence of the approach of the British, in 
 full force, above the heights of Birmingham Meeting House, toward the 
 Right Wing of the Continental Army. The wounded scout gave this dread 
 message, and then bit the dust, a dead man. 
 
 Come with me now, come with me through the lanes of Brandywine ; 
 let us emeirge from these thick woods, let us look upon the hills around 
 Birmingham Meeting House. 
 
 VIl— THE QUAKER TEMPLE. 
 
 It is now two o'clock. 
 
 The afternoon sun is shining over a lovely landscape diversified with hills, 
 now clad with thick and shady forests, now spreading in green pasturages, 
 now blooming in cultivated farms. 
 
 Let us ascend yonder hill, rising far above the plain — yon hill to the 
 north east crowded with a thick forest, and sloping gendy to the south, its 
 Dare and grassy bosom melting away into a luxuriant valley. 
 
 We ascend this hill, we sit beneath the shade of yonder oak, we look 
 forth upon the smiling heavens above, the lovely land beneath. For ten 
 wide miles, that map of beauty lies open to our gaze. 
 
 Yonder toward the south arise a ravage of undulating hills, sweeping 
 toward the east, in plain and meadow — gently ascending in the west until 
 they terminate in the heights of Brandywine. 
 
 And there, far to the west, a glimpse of the Brandywine comes laughing 
 into light — it is seen but a moment a sheet of rippling water, ainong green 
 boughs, and then it is gone ! 
 
 Gaze upon yonder hill, in the south east. It rises in a gradual ascent. 
 On its summit thrown forward into the sun by a deep background of woods 
 (here stands a small one-storied fabric, with steep and shingled roof — with 
 Walls of dark grey stone. 
 
THE QUAKER TEMPLE. 319 
 
 This unpretending structure arises in one corner of a small enclosure, 
 of dark green grass, varied by gently rising mounds, and bounded by a wall 
 of dark grey stone. 
 
 This fabric of stone rests in the red sunlight quiet as a tomb. Over its 
 ancient roof, over its moss covered walls, stream the warm sunbeams And 
 that solitary tree standing in the centre of the graveyard — for that enclosed 
 space is a graveyard, although no tombstones whiten over its green mounds 
 or marble pillars tower into light — that solitary tree quivers in the breeze, 
 and basks in the afternoon sun. 
 
 That is indeed the quiet Quaker graveyard — yon simple fabric, one story 
 high, rude in architecture, contracted in its form is the peaceful Quaker 
 meeting house of Birmingham. 
 
 It will be a meeting house indeed ere the setting of yon sun, where 
 Death and blood and woe shall meet ; where carnage shall raise his fiery 
 hymn of cries and groans, where mercy shall enter but to droop and die. 
 
 There, in that rude temple, long years ago, was spoken the Prophecy 
 which now claims its terrible fulfilment. 
 
 Now let us look upon the land and sky. Let us look forth from the top 
 of this hill — it is called Osborne's hill — and survey the glorious land- 
 scape. 
 
 The sky is very clear above us. Clear, serene and glassy, A single 
 cloud hovers in the centre of the sky, a single snow white cloud hovers 
 there in the deep azure, receiving on its breast, the full warmth of the 
 Autumnal sun. 
 
 It hovers there like a holy dove of peace, sent of God ! 
 
 Look to the south. Over hill and plain and valley look. Observe those 
 .hin light wreaths of smoke, arising from the green of the forest some two 
 or three miles to the southwest — how gracefully these spiral columns curl 
 upward and melt away into the deep azure. Upward and away they wind, 
 away — away — until they are lost in the heavens. 
 
 That snowy smoke is hovering over the plain of Chadd's Ford, where 
 Washington and Wayne are now awaiting the approach of Kniphausen 
 across the Brandywine. 
 
 Change your view, a mile or two eastward — you behold a cloud of smoke, 
 hovering over the camp fires of the reserve under General Greene ; and 
 yonder from the hills north of Chadd's Ford, the music of Sullivan's 
 Division comes bursting ever wood and plain. 
 
 We will look eastward of the meeting house. A sight as lovely as ever 
 burst on mortal eye. There are plains glowing with the rich hues of cul- 
 tivation — plains divided by fences and doited with cottages — here a massive 
 hill, there an ancient farm house, and far beyond peaceful mansions, reposing 
 m the shadow of twilight woods 
 
 Look ! Along these plains and fields, the affrighted people of the valley 
 are lieeing as though some bloodhound tracked their footsteps, They flee 
 
320 THE BATTLE OF BRANDY WINE. 
 
 Ihe Valley of the Quaker Temple, as though death was in the breeze, ohro- 
 lation in the sunlight. 
 
 Ask you why they flee ? Look to the west and to the north west. — 
 what see you there ? 
 
 A cloud of dust rises over the woods — it gathers volumes — larger ami 
 wider — darker and blacker — it darkens the western sky — it throws its dusky 
 shade far over the verdure of the woodlands. 
 
 Look again — what see you now ? 
 
 There is the same cloud of dust, but nothing more meets the vision. Hear 
 you nothing ? 
 
 Yes. There is a dull deadened sound like the tramp of war steeds — now 
 it gathers volume like the distant moan of the ocean-storm — now it murmurs 
 like the thunder rolling away, amid the ravines of far-oflf mountains — and 
 now I 
 
 By the soul of Mad Anthony it stirs one's blood ! 
 
 And now there is a merry peal bursting all along the woods — drum, file, 
 bugle, all intermingling — and now arises that ominous sound — the clank of 
 the sword by the warrior's side, and all the rattle and the clang of arms — 
 suppressed and dim and distant, but terrible to hear ! 
 
 Look again. See you nothing ? 
 
 Yes, ! Look to the north and to the west. Rank after rank, file after 
 file, they burst from the woods — baimers wave and bayonets gleam ! Li 
 one magnificent array of battle, they burst from the woods, column after 
 column — legion after legion. On their burnished arms — on their waving 
 Illumes shines and flaunts the golden sun. 
 
 Look — far through the woods and over the fields ! You see nothing but 
 gleaming bayonets and gaudy red-coats — you behold nothing but bands of 
 marching men, but troops of mounted soldiers. The fields are red with 
 British uniforms — and tliere and there 
 
 Do you see that gorgeous banner — do you see its emblems — do you mark 
 Its colors of blood — do you see 
 
 Oh, Blessed Redeemer, Saviour of the world, is that thy cross I Is that 
 hy cross waving on that blood-red banner ? 
 
 Thy Cross, that emblem of peace and truth and mercy, emb.em of ihv 
 suff'erings, thy death, thy resurrection, embVem of Gethemane and of Cai- 
 vary ! thy cross waves there, an emblem of hideous murder ! 
 
 Look ! The blood of the Nations drips from that tia^ ! Look, it is 
 stained with the blood of the Scot, the Irishman, red Indian, and tlie clusK.y 
 Hindoo — it is stained with the blood of all the earth ! I'he gnosis oi mil- 
 lions, from a thousand battlefields arise and curse that flag forever in the 
 eight of God ! And now — ah, now U cciies oc *q *h'' valley of the Bran- 
 dy wine — it comes on its work of murder and blood ! 
 
 And there waving in the sun, that cross so darkly, so foully dishonored. 
 . courts the free air and does not blush for its crimes ! 
 
WASHINGTON COMES TO BATTLE. 
 
 VII!.— WASHINGTON COy.E'? '^O 9ATT».P. 
 
 Again turn we to the South. What see you there ? 
 There is the gleam of arms, but it is faint, it is fami and tar avrav 
 Hark! Do yon hear that sound? Is it thunder, is it the throODiiijj or 
 Bome fierce earthquake, tearing its way through the vitals ot the earth I 
 No ! No ! The legions are moving. 
 
 Washington has scented the prey — doubt is over. (xlory to the got) 
 of batUes — glory ! The Battle is now certam. There, there, hidden oy 
 woods and hills, advances the Banner of the New World — the Labarum of 
 the Rights of man ! There, the boy-general La Fayette gaily smiles and 
 waves his maiden sword — there, there white-uniformed Pulaski growls his 
 battle cry — there calm-visaged Greene is calculating chances, and there 
 Wayne — Mad Anthony Wayne ? Hah ? What does he now ? Listen to 
 his cannon— they speak out over three miles of forest! 'J hat is the wel- 
 come of Mad Anthony to Kniphausen, as hp attempts to cross the Bran- 
 dywine ! 
 
 And on they come, the American legions — over hill and thro' wood 
 a long lonely dell, band after band, battalion crowding on battallion — and now 
 they move in columns ! How the roar of the cataract deepens and swells ! 
 The earth trembles — all nature gives signs of the coming contest. 
 
 And over all, over the lonely valley, over the hosts advancing to the fignt, 
 there sits a hideous Phantom, with the head of a fiend, the wings of a vul- 
 ture ! Yes, yes, there, unseen and unknown, in mid-air, hovers the Fiend 
 of Carnage ! He spreads his dusky wings with joy ! He will have a rare 
 feast ere sundown — a dainty feast! The young, the gallant, the brave are 
 all to sodden your graveyard with their blood. 
 
 Near the foot of this hill, down in the hollow yonder, a clear spring of 
 cold water shines in the sun. Is it not beautiful, that spring of cold water, 
 with its border of wild flowers, its sands yellow as gold ? 
 
 Ere the setting of yonder sun, that spring will be red and rank and foul 
 with the gore of a thousand hearts ! 
 
 For it lays in the lap of the valley, and all the blood shed upon yon hill, 
 will pour into it, in litUe rills of crimson red '. 
 
 And on, and on, over hill and valley, on and on advances the Banner of 
 the New World. 
 
 — Glory to the God of battle, how fair that banner looks in the green woods, 
 how beautiful it breaks on the eye, when toying with the gentle breezes, it 
 pours its starry rays among the forest trees, or mirrors its beauty in some 
 quiet brook ? 
 
 Bui when it emerges from the green woods, when tossincr on the winds 
 of battle, it seeks the open plain, and its belts of scarlet and snow lloiv 
 
322 THE BATTLE OF BRANDY WINE. 
 
 grandly in the air, and its stars flash back the light of the sun — ah, then it 
 is a glorious sight I Then let this prayer arise from every American heart ! 
 
 Be thou enthroned above that banner, God of Battles ! Guard it with 
 thy lightnings, fan it with thy breezes, avenge it with thy thunders ! 
 
 May it ever advance as now, in a cause holy as thy light ! May the 
 hand that would dare pluck one star from its glory, wither — may treason 
 fall palsied beneath its shade ! 
 
 But should it ever advance in the cause of a Tyrant, should its folds evet 
 float over a nation of slaves, then crush Thou that banner in the dust — then 
 scatter its fragments to space and night, then, then take back to Heaven 
 thy Stars ! 
 
 But may it wave on and on — may it advance over this broad continent — 
 
 freedom's pillar of cloud by day — freedom's pillar of fire by night until 
 
 there shall be but one nation, from the ice-wilderness of the north, to the 
 waters of the Southern Sea — a nation of Americans and of brothers ! 
 
 IX.— THE HOUR OF BATTLE. 
 
 It was now four o'clock — the hour of battle. 
 
 It is the awful moment, when twenty-two thousand human beings, gazing 
 in each other's faces from opposite hills, await the signal word of fight. 
 
 Along the brow of yonder high hill — Osborne's hill, and down on eithei 
 side, into the valley on one hand, the plain on the other, sweeps the for- 
 midable front of the British army, with the glittering line of bayonets abov8 
 their heods, another glittering line in their rear, while the arms of the Bri- 
 gade in Reserve glimmer still farther back, among the woods on the hill- 
 top and yet farther on, a Regiment of stout Englishers await tlie bidding 
 
 of their masters, to advance or retire, as the fate of tlie day may decree. 
 
 There are long lines of glittering cannon pointed toward the opposite 
 hills, there are infantry, artillery and cavalry, a band of twelve thousand 
 men, all waiting lor the signal word of fight. 
 
 On that clear space of green hill-side, between the Regiment of horse and 
 the Brigade in Reserve, General Howe and Lord Cornwalli." rein their 
 steeds, encircled by the chieftains of the British host. 
 
 And from the trees along the opposite hills, pour the hurried bands ot the 
 Continental Army, at the very moment that the British General is about to 
 give the word of battle, which will send -a hundred Souls to Eternity l 
 
 There comes the Right Division of the army under the brave S-dlivan, 
 the unfortunate Stephens, the gallant Stirling. Tnev take tn-eir position in 
 hurry and disorder. They file along the hdls in their coats of blue and 
 buff, ihey throw their rifle bands into the Meeting House. With stout 
 hands, with firm hearts, this division of 'he Continental host confront the 
 formidable army, whose array flasnes irom vonder hid. 
 
 There mounted on his grey war-steed, Sir William Howe looKed foi a 
 
THE HOUR OF BATTLE. 323 
 
 moment over he ranks of his armv. over ihei'* forest of swords and bayonets 
 and banners, and then slowly unsiiealhinsr his sword, he waved it in the 
 light. 
 
 T'lat was the signal of battle. 
 
 An hundred bugles hailed that sign with 'heir maddeningr oeals, an hun- 
 dred drums rolled forth their deafening thunder — Hark ! 'I he hill auivers 
 as tjioiigh an earthquake shook its grassy bosom ! 
 
 Along the British line streams the blaze of musquetry, the air is rilled 
 with the roar of cannon ! 
 
 Look down into the valley below ! There all is shrouded in snow-wnite 
 smoke — snow-white that heaves upward in those vast and rolling folds. 
 
 A moment passes ! — 
 
 That cloud is swept aside by a breeze from the American army. That 
 breeze bears the groans of dying men to the very ears of Howe ! 
 
 That parting cloud lays bare the awful panorama of death — wounded 
 men falling to the earth — dpath-stricken soldiers leaping in the air, with the 
 blood streaming from their shattered limbs. 
 
 Where solid ranks but a moment stood, now are heaps of ghastly dead ! 
 
 Another moment passes, and the voic:e of Sullivan is heard along the 
 Continental line. From the southern heights there is a deafening report, 
 and then a blaze of flame bursts over the British ranks ! 
 
 The piercing musquet shot, the sharp crack of the rifle, the roar of the 
 cannon, these all went up to heaven, and then all was wrapt in smoke on 
 the southern hills. 
 
 Then the white pall was lifted once again ! Hah ! The Quaker Meet- 
 ing House has become a fortress ! From every window, nook and cranny 
 peals the rifle-blaze, the death-shot ! 
 
 And then a thousand cries and groans commingling in one infernal chorus, 
 go shrieking up to yon sky of azure, that smiles in mockery of this scene 
 of murder! — And yonder, far in the west, the waters of the Brandy wine 
 still laugh into light for a moment, and then roll calmly on. 
 
 Another moment passes ! That loud shout yelling above the chorus of 
 death — what means it ? The order rings along the British line — Charge, 
 charge for King George ! 
 
 The Continental columns give back the shout with redoubled echo, 
 Charge, charge in the Name of God, in the name of Washington ! 
 
 And then while the smoke gathers like a black vault overhead — like a 
 black vault built by demon hands, sweeping from either side, at the top of 
 their horses speed the troopers of the armies meet, sword to sword, with 
 banners mingling and with bugle pealing, fighting for life they meet. There 
 is a crash, a fierce recoil, and another charge I 
 
 Now the Red Cross of St. George, and the Starry Banner of the New 
 World, mingle their folds together, tossing and plunging to the impulse ol 
 the battle breeze. 
 
324 THE BATi'LE OF BRANDY WINE. 
 
 Hurrah ! Tlie fever ol' blood is in its wor^t and wildest delirium ! Now 
 are human faces trampled deep into the blood-drenched sod, now are glaziiig 
 eyes torn out by bayonet thrusts, now are quivering hearts rent from the 
 Btill-living bodies of the fuemen ! 
 
 Hurrah ! 
 
 How gallandy the Continentals meet the brunt of strife. Rushing for- 
 ward on horse and foot, under that Starry Banner, they seek the British 
 foemen, they pour the death-hail into their ranks, they throttle them with 
 iheir weaponless hands. 
 
 X.— THE POETRY OF BATTLE. 
 
 Talk not to me of the Poetry of Love, or the Sublimity of nature in re- 
 pose, or the divine beauty of Religion ! 
 
 Here is poetry, sublimity, religion ! Here are twenty thousand men 
 tearing each other's limbs to fragments, putting out eyes, crushing skulls, 
 rending hearts and trampling the faces of the dying, deeper down — 
 Poetry ! 
 
 Here are horses running wild, their saddles riderless, their nostrils 
 streaming blood, here are wounded men gnashing their teeth as they en- 
 deavor to crawl from beneath the horses' feet, here are a thousand little 
 pools of blood, filling the hollows which the hoofs have made, or coursing 
 down the ruts of the cannon wheels — Subllmitv ! 
 
 Here are twelve thou.sand British hirelings, seeking the throats of you 
 email band of freemen, and hewing them down in gory murder, because, 
 oh yes, because they will not pay tax to a good-humored Idiot, who even 
 now, sils in his royal halls of Windsor, three thousand miles away, with 
 his vacant eye and hanging lip, catching flies upon the wall, or picking 
 threads from his royal robe — yes, yes, there he sits, crouching among the 
 folds of gorgeous tapestry, this Master Assassin, while his trained mur- 
 derers advance upon the hills of Brandywine — there sits the King by right 
 divine, the Head of the Church, the British Pope ! — Religion ! 
 
 How do you like this Poetry, this Sublimity, this Religion of George 
 the Third ? 
 
 And now, when you have taken one long look at the Idiot-King, sitting 
 yonder in his royal halls of Windsor, look there through the clouds of battle, 
 and behold that warrior:form, mounted on a steed of iron-grey ! 
 
 That wari'iojr-furm rising above the ranks of battle, clad in the uniform 
 
 of blue and buff and gold that warrior-form, with the calm blue ?\e 
 
 kindling wiih sacii tire, with the broad chest heaving with such emotion — 
 with the stout arm lifting the sword on high, pointing the way to the field 
 of death — that form looming there in such grandeur, through the intervals 
 of battle-smoke 
 
LORD PERCY'S DREAM. 325 
 
 Is it the form of some awful spirit, sent from on high to guide the course 
 of the fight ? Is it the form of an earthly King 1 
 TeK me the name of that warrior-form ? 
 
 Have your answer in the battle-cry, which swells from a thousand hearts 
 " Washington ?" 
 
 XI.-LORD PERCY'S DREAM. 
 
 It was at this moment — the darkest of the conflict — that Lord Cornwallis, 
 surveying the tide of a battle, turned to a young officer who had been de- 
 tained for a moment by his side. 
 
 " Colonel Percy — " said he — " The rebels have entrenched themselves 
 in vonder graveyard. Would that I had a brave man, who would dare lo 
 plant the royal standard on those dark grey walls !" 
 
 " I will take it," said the young ofl^icer, as he gave his golden-hued steed 
 the spur, " I will take it, or die !" 
 
 And now as with his manly form, attired in a uniform of dark green 
 velvet, he speeds down the hill, followed by a band of thirty bold troopers, 
 his long dark hair flying back from his pale face ; let me (ell you the strange 
 story of his life. 
 
 Tradition relates, that accompanying the British host, urged by some 
 wild spirit of adventure, was a young and gallant spirit — Lord Percy, a near 
 connection of the proud Duke of Northumberland. 
 
 He was young, gallant, handsome, but since the landing of the troops on 
 the Chesapeake, his gay companions had often noted a frown of dark 
 thought shadowing his features, a sudden gloom working over his pale face, 
 and a wild unearthly glare in his full dark eye. 
 
 The cause had been asked, but no answer given. Again and again, yet 
 still no answer. 
 
 At last. Lord Cornwallis asked young Percy what melancholy feelings 
 were these, which darkened his features with such a strange gloom. With 
 the manner of a fated man, the young lord gave his answer. 
 
 (This scene occurred not ten minutes before the battle, when Cornwallis 
 was urging his way thro' the thick wood, that clothed the summit ol Os- 
 borne's Hill.) 
 
 He had left the dissipations of the English Court, for the wilds of the 
 \?w World, at the request of the aged Earl, his father. That earl, when a 
 young man, had wandered in the wilds of South Carolina — he had tricked 
 a beautiful girl, in whose dark cheek there glowed the blood of an Indian 
 King — he had tricked this beautiful girl into a sham marriage, and then de- 
 serted her, for his noble bride in England. 
 
 And now, after long years had passed, this aged Man, this proud Eart 
 had hurried his legitimate son to the wilds of America, with the charge l« 
 
326 THE BATTLE OF BRANDYWINE. 
 
 seek out the illegitimate ciiild of the Indian girl of Carolina, and piace a 
 pacquet in his hands. 
 
 This, in plain words, was the object of Lord Percy's journey to America. 
 And as to the gloom on his brow, the deathly light in his eye ? This 
 
 was the answer which Percy gave to Cornwallis 
 
 A presentiment of sudden death — he said— ->. as on his mind. It had 
 haunted his brain, from the very first moment he had trodden the American 
 shores. It had crept like a Phantom beside him, in broad daylight, it had 
 brooded with images of horror, over the calm hours devoted to sleep. It 
 was ever with hiin, beside his bed and at his board, in camp and bouviac, 
 that dark presentiment of sudden death. 
 
 Whence came this presentiment? was the query of Lord Cornwallis. 
 " One night when crossing the Atlantic, one night when the storm was 
 abroad and the thunderbolt came crashing down the mainmast, then, my 
 Lord, then I had a dream ! In that dream I beheld a lovely valley, a rustic 
 fabric, too rude for a lordly church and a quiet graveyard, without a tomb- 
 stone or marble pillar ! And over that valley, and around that graveyard, 
 the tide of battle raged, for it was a battle fierce and bloody ! 
 
 " And therein that graveyard, I beheld a form thrown over a grassy mound, 
 with the life-blood welling from the death-wound near the heart ! That 
 form was mine ! Yes, yes, I saw tho eyes glaring upon the blue heavens, 
 with the glassy stare of death ! That form was mine !" 
 
 " Pshaw ! This js mere folly," exclaimed Lord Cornwallis, as he en- 
 deavored to shake off the impression which the young Lord's earnest words 
 
 had produced — " This is but a vain fancy " 
 
 As he spoke they emerged from the thick wood, they reined their horses 
 
 upon the summit of Osborne's hill the valley of the meeting-house lay 
 
 at their feet. 
 
 At this moment Lord Percy raised his face — at a glance he beheld the 
 glorious landscape — a horrible agony distorted his countenance — 
 
 " My DREAi^i ! My dream !" he shrieked, rising in his stirrups, ana 
 spreading forth his hands. 
 
 And then with straining eyes he looked over the landscape. 
 That single small white cloud hovered there in the blue heavens ! It 
 hovered in the blue sky right over the Meeting House ! Hill and plain and 
 valley lay basking in the sun. Afar were seen pleasant farm houses em- 
 bosomed in trees, delightful strips of green meadow, and then came the blue 
 distance where earth and sky melted into one ! 
 
 But not on the distance looked Lord Percy — not on the blue sky, or glad 
 fields, or luxuriant orchards. 
 
 His straining eye saw but the valley at his feet, the Quaker temple, the 
 quiet graveyard ! 
 
 " My dream ! My dream !" he shrieked — " This is the valley of my 
 dream — and yonder is the graveyard ! I am fated to die- upon this field "'* 
 
LORD PERCY'S DREAM. 327 
 
 No words could shake this belief. Seeking his brother officers, Lort' 
 Percy bestowed some token of remembrance on each of them, gave hit 
 dearest friend a last word of farewell for his Betrothed, now far away in tht 
 laAy halls of a ducal palace, and then, with a pale cheek and flashing eye, 
 rode forth to battle. 
 
 And now look at him, 'as with his dark hair waving on the wind, he 
 nears the graveyard wall. 
 
 He raised his form in the stirrups, he cast one flasliing glance over his 
 trooper band, robed in forest green, and then his eye was fixed upon the 
 graveyard 
 
 All was silent there ! Not a shot from the windows — not a rifle-blaze 
 from the dark grey wall. There was that dark grey wall rising some thirty 
 paces distant — there were the green mounds, softened by the rays of the 
 sun, pouring from that parted cloud, and there back in the graveyard, under 
 the shelter of trees, there is ranged a warrior-band, clad like his own in 
 forest green, and with the form of a proud chieftain, mounted on a gold- 
 hued steed, towering in their midst. 
 
 That chieftain was Captain Waldemar, a brave partizan leader from the 
 wild hills of the Santee. His bronzed cheek, his long dark hair, his well- 
 proportioned form, his keen dark eye, all mark his relationship to the 
 Indian girl of Carolina. 
 
 Litde does Lord Percy think, as he rides madly toward that graveyard, 
 that there that half-Indian brother is waiting for him, with bullet and 
 Bword. 
 
 On with the impulse of an avalanche sweep the British troopers — behind 
 them follow the infantry with fixed bayonets — before them is nothing but 
 the peaceful graveyard sward. 
 
 They reach the wall, their horses are rearing for the leap — 
 
 When lo ! What means this miracle ? 
 
 Starting from the very earth, a long line of bold backwoodsmen start up 
 from behind the wall, their rifles poised at the shoulder, and that aim of 
 death securely taken ! 
 
 A sheet of fire gleamed over the graveyard wall pouring ful! into the faces 
 of the British soldiers— clouds of pale blue smoke went rolling up to heaven, 
 and as they took their way aloft, this horrid sight was seen. 
 
 Where thirty hold troopers, but a moment ago rushed forward, breasting 
 the graveyard wall, now were seen, thirty mad war-horses, rearing wildly 
 aloft, and trampling their riders' faces in the dust. 
 
 Lord Percy was left alone with the British Banner in his hand, his 
 horse's hoofs upon the wall ! 
 
 " On Britons, (?n," shrieked Percy, turning in wild haste to the advancing 
 columns of infantry — " On and revenge your comrades !" 
 
 At the same moment, from the farther extreme of the graveyard, was 
 heard the deep-toned shout — 
 
328 THE BATTLE OF BRANDYWINE. 
 
 " Riders of Santee upon these British robbers ! Upon these British rob- 
 bers, who reJtien our soil with the blood of its children !" 
 
 And then the British infantry, and then other bands of British troopers 
 came pouring over that fatal wall, upon the graveyard sward ! 
 
 Then crashing on — one fierce bolt of battle — that band of Rangers burst 
 upon the British bayonets; there was crossing of swords and waving of 
 banners — steeds mingled with steeds — green uniforms with green uniforms, 
 and scarlet with green — now right now left — now backward now forward, 
 whirled the fiery whirlpool of that fight — and there, seen clearly and dis- 
 tinctly amid the bloody turmoil of that battle, two forms clad in green and 
 gold, mounted on golden-hued steeds, with a gallant band of sworn brothers 
 all around them, fought their way to each other's hearts ! 
 
 Percy and the dark-visaged Partizan VValdemar, met in battle ! 
 Unknown to. each other, the Brothers crossed their swords — the child of 
 the proud English Countess, and the son of the wild Indian girl ! Both 
 mounted on golden-hued steeds, both attired in dark green velvet, that 
 strancre resemblance of brotherhood stamped on each face, they met in 
 deadly combat ! 
 
 Say was not this Fate ? 
 
 Their swords crossed rose and fell — there was a rapid sound of clashing 
 steel, and then witii Ifis brother's sword driven through his heart, Lord 
 Percy fell ! 
 
 The Indian girl was avenged. 
 
 A wild whirl of the fight separated Captain Waldemar from his brother 
 but when the battle was past, in the deep silence of that night, which 
 brooded over the battle-slain, this son of the Indian woman sought out the 
 corse of the English Lord from the heaps of dead. Bending slowly down 
 by the light of the moon, he perused the pale face of Lord Percy ; he tore 
 the pacquet from his bosom, he read the testimonial of his mother's mar- 
 riage, he read the offers of favor and patronage, from the old Earl to the In- 
 dian woman's son. 
 
 Then he knew that he held the body of a dead brother in his arms. 
 Then he tore those offers of favor into rags, but placed the marriage testi- 
 monial close to his heart. 
 
 Then he — that half Indian man, in whose veins flowed the blood of a 
 ong line of Indian kings mingling with the royal blood of England, he with 
 cars in his dark eyes, scooped a grave for his brotlier, and buried him 
 here. 
 
 And that fair young maiden gazing from the window of that ducal palace, 
 far away yonder in the English Isle, that fair young maiden, whose long 
 hair sweeps her rose-bud cheeks with locks of midnight darkness — look 
 how her deep dark eyes are fixed upon the western sky ? 
 
 She awaits the return of her betrothed, the gallant Lord Percy. She 
 gazes to the west, and counts the hours that will elapse ere his coming! 
 
THE LAST HOUR. 329 
 
 \h sne will count the weeks and the months and the years, and yet he will 
 not come. 
 
 He will not come, for deep under the blood-drenched earth of Brandy- 
 wine, he the young, the gallant, the brave, rots and moulders into dust. 
 
 And she shall wait there many a weary hour, while her dark eye, dila- 
 ting'with expectation, is fixed upon that western sky ! Ah that eye shall 
 grow dim, that cheek will pale, and yet her betrothed will not come ! 
 
 Ah while her eye gleams, while her heart throbs as if to greet his coming 
 footstep, the graveworm is feasting upon his manly brow ! 
 
 And there, in that lonely graveyard of Brandy wine, without a stone to 
 mark his last resting place, unhonored and unwept, the gallant Percy moul- 
 ders into dust ! 
 
 XII.-THE LAST HOUR. 
 
 Meanwhile the terror of the fight darkened around the Quaker Temple. 
 
 There is a moment of blood and horror. They fight each man of thena 
 as though the issue of the field depended upon his separate hand and blow 
 ■ — but in vain, in vain ! 
 
 The enemy swarm from the opposite hills, they rush forward in mighty 
 columns superior in force, superior in arms to the brave Continential Yeo- 
 men. 
 
 Again they advance to the charge — again they breast the foe — they drive 
 him back — they leap upon his bayonets — they turn the tide of fight by one 
 gallant eftort— but now ! They waver, they fall back, Sullivan beholds his 
 Right Wing in confusion — but why need I pursue the dark history further? 
 
 Why need I tell how Washington came hurrying on to the rescue of his 
 army, with the reserve under General Greene ? How all his efforts of 
 superhuman courage were in vain ? How Pulaski thundered into the Bri- 
 tish ranks, and with his white-coated troopers at his back, hewed a way for- 
 himself thro' that fiery batUe, leaving piles of dead men on either side ? 
 
 Suffice it to say, that overpowered by the superior force of the enemy, 
 the continental army retreated toward the. south. Suffice it to say, that the 
 British bought the mere possession of the field, with a good round treasure 
 of men and blood — That if Washington could not conquer the enemy, he 
 at all events saved his army and crippled his foe. 
 
 And there, as the American army swept toward Chester, there rushing 
 upon the very bayonets of the pursuing enemy was that gallant boy of 
 nineteen, imploring the disheartened fugitives to make one effort more, to 
 Btrike yet another blow ! 
 
 It was in vain I While his warm arm was yet raised on high, while hia 
 voice yet arose in the shout for Washii>gton and freedom. La Fayette was 
 wounded near the ancle by a musket ball. The blood of old France 
 flowed warmly in the veins of that gallant boy ! 
 
 That glorious French blood of Charlemagne, of Conde, of Navarre, 
 21 
 
330 I HE BATTLE OF BRANDY WINE. 
 
 that glorious French blood, which in aftertime, making one wide channel 
 of the whole earlh. flowed on in a mighty river — on to triumph, bearing 
 Napoleon on its gory waves ! 
 
 Ah there was warm and generous blood flowing in the veins of that gal 
 lant boy of France ! 
 
 Oh tell me you, who are always ready with the sneer, when a young 
 man tries to do some great deed, tries with a sincere heart and steady hand 
 lo carve himself a name upon the battlements of time — oh tell me, have you 
 no sneer for this boy at Brandy wine ? This boy La Fayette, who left the 
 repose of that young wife's bosom, to fight the battles of a strange people 
 in a far land ? 
 
 There was a General Howe, my friends, who invited some ladies to 
 take supper one night in Philadelphia, with this boy La Fayette, and then 
 sent his troops out to Barren Hill, to trap him and bring him in, — but my 
 friends, that night the ladies ate their viands cold, for Sir William failed to 
 — " Catch the boy." 
 
 There was a Lord Cornwallis, who having encircled the French Mar- 
 quis with his troops, there in the forests of Virginia, wrote boastingly home 
 to his king, that he might soon expect a raree-show, for he was determined 
 to " Catch this Boy," and send him home to London. The king had 
 his raree-show, but it was the news of my Lord Cornwallis's surrender at 
 Yorktown, but as for La Fayette, he never saw him, for my Lord Corn- 
 wallis failed to " Catch the Boy." 
 
 XIII.— PULASKI. 
 
 It was at the batfle of Brandywine that Count Pulaski appeared in all 
 his glory. 
 
 As he rode, charging there, into the thickest of the battle, he was a war- 
 rior to look upon but once, and never forget. 
 
 Mounted on a large black horse, whose strength and beauty of shape 
 made you forget the plainness of his caparison, Pulaski himself, with a form 
 six feet in height, massive chest and limbs of iron, was attired in a white 
 uniform, that was seen from afar, relieved by the black clouds of battle. 
 His face, grim with the scars of Poland, was the face of a man who had 
 seen much trouble, endured much wrong. It was stamped with an expres- 
 sion of abiding melancholy. Bronzed in hue, lighted by large dark eyes, 
 with the lip darkened by a thick moustache, his throat and chin were cov- 
 ered with a heavy beard, while his hair fell in raven masses, from beneath 
 his trooper's cap, shielded with a ridge of glittering steel. His hair and 
 beard were of the same hue. 
 
 The sword that hung by h s side, fashioned of tempered steel, with a hilt 
 of iron, was one that a warrior alone could lift. 
 
 it was in this array he rode to battle, followed by a band of three hun- 
 
PULASKI. 331 
 
 JrcH men, whose fiu^es, burnt with the scorching of a tropical sun, or hard- 
 eneil by northern snows, bore the scars of many a battle. They were 
 mostly Europeans ; some Germans, some Polanders, some deserters from 
 the British army. These were tiie men to fight. To be taken by the 
 British woiilti be death, and death on the gibbet ; therefore, they fought 
 their best and fought to the last gasp, rather than mutter a word about 
 " quarter." 
 
 When they charged it was as one man, their three hundred swords flash- 
 ing over their heads, against the clouds of battle. They came down upon 
 the enemy in terrible silence, without a word spoken, not even a whisper. 
 You could hear the tramp of their steeds, you could hear the rattling of their 
 scabbards, but that was all. 
 
 Yet when they closed with the British, you could hear a noise like the 
 echo of a hundred hammers, beating the hot iron on the anvil. You could 
 see Pulaski himself, riding yonder in his white uniform, his black steed 
 rearing aloft, as turning his head over his shoulder he spoke to his men : 
 
 " FoRWARTS, Brudern, forwarts !" 
 
 It was but broken German, yet they understood it, those three hundred 
 men of sunburnt face, wounds and gashes. With one burst they crashed 
 upon the enemy. For a kw moments they used their swords, and then 
 the ground was covered with dead, while the living enemy scattered in panic 
 before their path. 
 
 It was on this battle-day of Brandy wine that the Count was in his glory. 
 He understood but little English, so he spake what he had to say with the 
 edge of his sword. It was a severe Lexicon, but the British soon learned 
 to read it, and to know it, and fear it. All over the field, from yonder 
 Quaker meeting-house, away to the top of Osborne's Hill, the soldiers of 
 the enemy saw Pulaski come, and learned to know his name by heart. 
 
 That white uniform, that bronzed visage, that black horse with burning 
 eye and quivering nostrils, they knew the warrior well; they trembled 
 when they heard him say : 
 
 "Forwarts, Brudern, forwarts !" 
 
 It was in the Retreat of Brandy wine, that the Polander was most terrible. 
 It was when the men of Sullivan — badly armed, poorly fed, shabbily clad — 
 gave way, step by step, before the overwhelming discipline of the British 
 host, that Pulaski looked like a battle-fiend, mounted on his demon-steed. 
 
 His cap had fallen from his brow. His bared head shone in an occa- 
 sional sunbeam, or grew crimson with a flash from the cannon or rifle. His 
 white uniform was rent and stained ; in fact, from head to foot, he was 
 covered with dust and blood. 
 
 Still his right arm was free — still it rose there, executing a British hire- 
 hng when it fell — still his voice was heard, hoarse and husky, but strong ir< 
 118 every tone — " Forwarts, Briidern !" 
 
 He beheld the division of Sullivan retreating from the field; he saw ihe 
 
332 THE BATTLE OF BRANDYWINE. 
 
 British vonder, stripping their coats from their backs in the madness of 
 pursuit. He loolied to the South, for Washington, who, with the reserve, 
 under Greene, was hurrying to the rescue, but the American Chief wss 
 not in view. 
 
 Then Pulaski was convulsed with rage. 
 
 He rode madly upon the bayonets of the pursuing British, his swortl 
 gathering victim after victim ; even there, in front of their whole army, he 
 flung his steed across the path of the retreating Americans, he besought 
 them, in broken English, to turn, to make one more effort ; he shouted in 
 hoarse tones that the day was not yet lost ! 
 
 They did not understand his words, but the tones in which he spoke 
 thrilled their blood 
 
 That picture, too, standing out from the clouds of battle — a warrior, con- 
 vulsed with passion, covered with blood, leaning over ttie neck of his steed, 
 while his eyes seemed turned to fire, and the muscles of his bronzed face 
 writhed like serpents — that picture, I say, filled many a heart with new 
 courage, nerved many a wounded arm for the fight again. 
 
 Those retreating men turned, they faced the enemy again — like grey- 
 hounds at bay before the wolf — they sprang upon the necks of the foe, and 
 bore them down by one desperate charge. 
 
 It was at this moment that Washington came rushing on once more to 
 th; battle. 
 
 Those people know but little of the American General who call him the 
 American Fabius, that is, a general compounded of prudence and caution, 
 with but a spark of enterprise. American Fabius! When you will sho\? 
 me that the Roman Fabius had a heart of fire, nerves of steel, a soul that 
 hungered for the charge, an enterprise that rushed from the wilds like the 
 Sl.ippack. upon an army like the British at Germantown, or started froip 
 ic<: and snow, like that which lay across the Delaware, upon hordes like 
 those of the Hessians, at Trenton — then I will lower Washington down 
 into Fabir.s. This comparison of our heroes, with the barbarian demi-gods 
 of Rome, only illustrates the poverty of the mind that makes it. 
 
 Cornp:^re Brutus, the assassin of his friend, with Washington, the Sa- 
 viour of the People ! Cicero, the opponent of Cataline, with Henry, the 
 Champion of a Continent ! What beggary of thought ! Lei us learn to 
 be a little independent, to know our great men, as they were, not by com- 
 parison wiih the barbarian heroes of old Rome. 
 
 Let us learn that Washington was no negative thing, but all chivalry and 
 genius. 
 
 It was in the battle of Brandywine that this truth was made plain. Ho 
 r-.ame rushing on to batde. He beheld his men hewn down by the British ; 
 he heard them shriek his name, and regardless of his personal safety, he 
 rushed to jom them. 
 
 les, it was in the dread havoc of that retreat that Washington, rushing 
 
PULASKI. S33 
 
 forward into the very centre of the melee, was entangled in the enemy's 
 ;roops,'on tho top of a high hill, south-west of the Meeting House, while 
 PulasKi was sweeping on with his grim smile, to have one more bout with 
 the eager rod coats. 
 
 Washinsjton was in terrible danger — his troops were rushing ic ihe south 
 — the British troopers came sweeping up the hill and around him — while 
 Pulaski, on a hill some hundred yards distant, was scattering a parting 
 blessing among the hordes of Hanover. 
 
 It was a glorious prize, this Mister Washington, in the heart of the 
 British army. 
 
 Suddenly the Polander turned — his eye caught the sight of the iron grey 
 and his rider. He turned to Ifis troopers ; his whiskered lip wreathed with 
 a grim smile — he waved his sword — he pointed to the iron grey and its 
 rider. 
 
 There was but one moment : 
 
 With one impulse that iron band wheeled their war horses, and then a 
 oark body, solid and compact was speeding over the valley like a thunder- 
 bolt torn from the earth — three hundred swords rose glittering in a faint 
 glimpse of sunlight — and in front of the avalanche, with his form raised to 
 its full height, a dark frown on his brow, a fierce smile on his lip, rode 
 Pulaski. Like a spirit roused into life by the thunderbolt, he rode — his 
 eyes were fixed upon the iron grey and its rider — his band had but one 
 look, one will, one shout for' — Washington ! 
 
 The British troops had encircled the American leader — already they felt 
 secure of their prey — already the head of that traitor, Washington, seemed 
 to yawn above the gates of liOndon. 
 
 But that trembling of the earth in the valley, yonder. What means it ? 
 
 That terrible beating of hoofs, what does it portend ? 
 
 That ominous silence — and now that shout — not of words nor of names, 
 bi t that half yell, half hurrah, which shrieks from the Iron Men, as they 
 Kent their prey ? What means it all ? 
 
 Pulaski is on our track ! The terror of the British army is in our wake ! 
 
 And on he came — he and his gallant band. A moment and he had swept 
 •wer the Britishers — crushed — mangled, dead and dying they strewed the 
 ^Tcen sod — he had passed over the hill, he had passed the form of Wash- 
 irgton. 
 
 Another moment ! And the iron band had wheeled — back in the same 
 career of death they came ! Routed, defeated, crushed, the red coats flee 
 from the hill, while the iron band sweep round the form of George Wash- 
 ington — they encircle him with their forms of oak, their swords of steel — 
 the shout of his name shrieks through the air, and away to the American 
 host they bear him in all a soldiei's battle joy. 
 
 It was at Savannah, that night came down upon Pulaski. 
 
334 THE BATTLE OF BRANDYWINE. 
 
 Yes, » see him now, under the gloom of niglit, riding forward towards 
 yonder ramparts, his black steed rearing aloft, while two hundred' of his 
 iron men follow at his back. 
 
 Right on, neither looking to right or left, he rides, his eye fixed upon the 
 cannon of the British, his sword gleaming over his head. 
 
 For the last time, they heard that war cry — 
 
 " Forwarts, Brudern, forwarts !" 
 
 'riien they saw that black horse plunging forward, his forefeet resting on 
 the cannon of the enemy, while his warrior-rider arose in all the pride of 
 his form, his face bathed in a flush of red light. 
 
 That flash once gone, they saw Pulaski no more. But they found him, 
 yes, beneath the enemy's cannon, crushed by the same gun that killed his 
 steed — yes, they found them, the horse and rider, resting together in death, 
 that noble face glaring in the midnight sky with glassy eyes. 
 
 So in liis glory he died. He died while America and Poland were yet 
 in chains. He died, in the stout hope, that both would one day, be free. 
 With regard to America, his hope has been fulfilled, but Poland 
 
 Tell me, shall not the day come, when yonder monument — erected by 
 those warm Southern hearts, near Savannah — will yield up its dead ? 
 
 For Poland will be free at last, as sure as God is just, as sure as he gov- 
 erns the Universe. Then, when re-created Poland rears her Eagle aloft 
 ao-ain, among the banners of nations, will her children come to Savannah, 
 to gather up the ashes of their hero, and bear him home, with the chaunt 
 of priests, with the thunder of cannon, with the tears of millions, even as 
 repentant France bore home her own Napoleon. 
 
 Yes, the day is coming, when Kosciusko and Pulaski will sleep side by 
 side, beneath the soil of Re-created Poland. 
 
 XIV.— WASHINGTON'S LAST CHARGE AT BRANUYWINE. 
 
 They tell us that he was cold, calm, passionless ; a heart of ice and a 
 face of marble. 
 
 Such is the impression which certain men, claiming the tide of Philoso- 
 pher and Historian, have scattered to the world, concerning our own Wash- 
 ington. 
 
 They compare him with the great man of France. Yes, they say Napo- 
 leon was a man of genius, but Washington a man of talent. Napoleon was 
 all fire, energy, sublimity ; Washington was a very good man, it is true, but 
 cold, calculating, common-place. 
 
 While they tell the mass of the people that Washington was a saint, 
 nay, almost a demi-god, they draw a curtain over his heart, they hide from 
 us, under piles of big words and empty phrases, WAS1IINGT0^ the 
 Man. 
 
 You may take the demi-god if you like, and vapor away whole volumes 
 
WASHINGTON'S LAST CHARGE AT BRANDY WINE. 3H5 
 
 of verbose admiration on a shadow, but for my part, give me Washington 
 tlie Man. 
 
 He was a Man. The blood that flowed in his veins, was no Greenland 
 current of half-melted ice, but the warm blood of the South ; fiery as its sun, 
 impetuous as its rivers. His was the undying love for a friend ; his, the 
 unfathomable scorn for a mean enemy ; his, the inexpressible indignation 
 when the spirit of party — that crawling thing, half-snake, half-ape — began 
 to bite his heel. 
 
 I like to look at Washington the Man. Nay, even at Washington the 
 Boy, dressed in plain backwoodsman's shirt and moccasins, strug^rling for 
 his life, yonder on the rafi, tossed to and fro by the waves and ice of 
 Alleghany river. 
 
 Or at Washington the young General, sitting in his camp at Cambridge, 
 the map of tlie New World before him, as sword by his side, and pen in 
 hand, he planned the conquest of the Continent. 
 
 Or yet again, I love to behold Washington the Despised Rebel, sitting so 
 calm and serene, among those wintry hills of Valley Forge, while the 
 Pestilence thins his camp and Treason plots its schemes for his ruin in 
 Congress, Yes, I love to look upon him, even as he receives the letter an- 
 nouncing the Cabal, which has been formed by dishonest and ambitious 
 men, for his destruction ; I see the scorn flush his cheek and fire iiis eye ; 
 1 hear the words of indignation ring from his lips ; as I look, his broad 
 chest heaves, his clenched hand grasps his sword. 
 
 And yet in a moment, he is calm again ; he has subdued his feelings of 
 indignation, not because they are unjust, but from the sublime reason that 
 the Cause in which he is engaged is too high, too holy, for any impulse of 
 personal vengeance. 
 
 Here is the great key to Washington's heart and character. He was p 
 Man of strong passions and warm blood, yet he crushed these passions 
 and subdued this fiery blood, in order to accomplish the Deliverance of his 
 Country. He fervently believed that he was called by God to Deliver the 
 New World. — This belief was in fact, the atmosphere of all his actions ; 
 it moulded the entire man anew, and prepared the Virginia Planter, the Pro- 
 vincial Colonel, for the great work of a Deliverer. 
 
 They tell ujC that he was never known to smile. And yet there never 
 breatiied a man, whose heart bounded more freely at the song and jest, than 
 his. But there was a cause for the deep solemnity, which veiled his face 
 when he appeared in public. The image of his Country bleeding on her 
 thousand hills, under the footsteps of British Tyranny, was ever before 
 him, calling as with the voice of a ghost, upon him, her Champion and 
 Saviour. 
 
 After the Revolution, there were as substantial and important reasons iijj 
 his solemnity of look and presence as before. 
 
 The country which he had redeemed, w?" torn by the fangs of party- 
 
336 THE BATTLE OF BRANDYWINE. 
 
 spirit The wolves of faction, wrio had lain somewliat stilled and subdued 
 during the war, came out from their dens as soon as the day broke ovei 
 the long night, and howled their watch-words in the ear of Washington and 
 around the Ark of the Country's Freedom. 
 
 How to crush these creatures, without endangering that Ark, or embroil- 
 ing the land in a civil war — this was the thought that always shadowed, 
 with deep solemnity, sometimes gloom, the countenance of Washington, the 
 President. 
 
 It is a bitter thought to me that the heart of this great, tliis good, this 
 warm-hearted man, was as much torn and pained during his Presidential 
 career, by the war of opposing factions, as it was in the Revolution by his 
 contest with a Brilish foe. 
 
 To him there never came an hour of rest. His anxiety for his country 
 followed him to Mount Vernon, and ended only with his last breath. Too 
 pure for a party-man, soaring far above the atmosphere of faction, he only 
 held one name, one party dear to his heart — the name and party of the 
 American People. 
 
 In order to reveal a new page in this man's character and history, let us 
 look upon him in the hour of battle and defeat. Let us pierce the Dattle- 
 mists of Brandy wine, and gaze upon him at the head of his legions. 
 
 " Pulaski !" 
 
 The noble countenance of the brave Pole stood out in strong relief from 
 the white smoke of battle. That massive brow, sv"'".,. tin 'ed by the dark 
 fur cap and darker plume, the aquiline nose, the h\ concealed by a thick 
 moustache, and the full square chin, the long black hair, sweeping to the 
 shoulders — this marked profile was drawn in bold relief, upon the curtain 
 of the battle-smoke. An expression of Seep sadness stamped the face of 
 the hero. 
 
 " I was thinking of Poland !" he exclaimed, in broken accents, as he 
 heard his name pronounced by Washington. 
 
 •' Yes," said Washington, with a deep solemnity of tone, " Poland has 
 many wrongs to avenge ! But God lives in Heaven, yonder" — he pointed 
 upward with his sword — " and he will right the innocent at last !" 
 
 " He will 1" echoed the Pole, as his gleaming eye reaching beyond time 
 and space seemed to behold this glorious spectacle — Poland free, the cross 
 shining serenely over her age-worn shrines, the light of peace glowing in 
 her million homes. 
 
 " Pulaski," said Washington, " look yonder !" 
 
 The Polander followed with his eye the gesture of Washington's sword 
 Gazing down the hill, he beheld the last hope of the Continental Army em 
 bosomed among British bayonets ; he saw the wreck of Sullivan's riglv 
 wing yielding slowly before the invader, yet fighting for every inch ol 
 •round. He beheld the reserve under Greene, locked in one solid mass 
 faces, hands, musquets, swords, all turned to the foe ; an island of heroes 
 
"WASHINGTON'S LAST CHARGE AT BRANDYWINE. 337 
 
 encircled by a sea of British hirelings. The Royal Army extended far 
 over the fields to the foot of Osbourne's hill ; the Red Cross banner waved 
 over the walls of the Quaker Temple. Far to the South, scattered bands 
 of Continentals were hurrying from the fields, some bearing their wounded 
 comrades, some grasping broken arms, some dragging their shattered forms 
 slowly along. Still that brave reserve of Greene, that wreck of Sullivan's 
 right wing, fought around the banner of the Stars, while the Red Cross flag 
 glared in their faces from every side. 
 
 The declining sun shone over the fight, lighting up the battle-clouds with 
 its terrible glow. It was now five o'clock. But one hour since the con- 
 flict began, and yet a thousand souls had gone from this field of blood up to 
 the throne of God ! 
 
 The sky is blue and smiling yonder, as you see it through the rift id 
 clouds — look there upon the serene azure, and tell me ! Do you not bi?- 
 hold the ghosts of the dead, an awful and shadowy band, clustering yondi;r 
 — ghastly with wounds — dripping with blood — clustering in* one solemn 
 meeting around that Impenetrable Bar ? 
 
 At one glance, Pulaski took in the terrible details of the scene. 
 
 " Now," shouted Washington, " Let us go down 1" 
 
 He pointed to the valley with his sword. All his reserve, all his calm- 
 ness of manner were gone. 
 
 " Let us go down !" he shouted again. " The day is lost, but we will 
 give these British gentlemen our last farewell. Pulaski — do you hear me 
 — do you echo me — do you feel as I feel ? The day is lost, but we will go 
 down '." 
 
 " Down !" echoed Pulaski, as his eye caught the glow flashing from the 
 eye of Washington — " Give way there 1 ' Down to the valley, for our last 
 farewell !" 
 
 Washington quivered from head to foot. His eye glared with the fevei 
 of strife. The sunlight shone over his bared brow, now radiant with an 
 immortal impulse. 
 
 His hand gathered his sword in an iron grasp — he spoke to his steed — 
 the noble horse moved slowly on, through the ranks of Pulaski's legion. 
 
 Those rough soldiers uttered a yell, as they beheld the magnificent form 
 of Washington, quivering with battle-rage. 
 
 " Come, Pulaski ! Our banner is there ! Now we will go down !" 
 
 Then there was a sight to see once — and die ! 
 
 Rising in his stirrups, Washington pointed to the fight, and swept down 
 the hill like a whirlwind, followed by Pulaski's band, Pulaski himself vainly 
 endeavoring to rival his pace, at the head of the iron men. 
 
 General Greene, turning his head over his shoulders, in the thickest of 
 the fight, beheld with terror, with awe, the approach of Washington. Ho 
 would have thrown his horse in the path of the chief, but tie voice of 
 
338 THE BATTLE OF 3RANDYWINE. 
 
 Washington — terrible in its calmness, irresistible in its rage — thundere*! 
 even amid the clamor of that tight. 
 
 " Greene — come on !" 
 
 Who could resist that look, the upraised sword, the voice ? 
 
 The band of Pulaski thundered by, and Greene followed with horse and 
 foot, with steed and bayonet ! The fire blazing in Washington's eye spread 
 like an electric flash along the whole column. The soldiers were men no 
 longer ; no fear of bayonet or bullet now ! The very horses caught the 
 fever of that hour. 
 
 One cry burst like thunder on the British host : — " Give way there ! 
 Washington comes to battle !" 
 
 Far down the hill. La Fayette and the Life Guard were doing immortal 
 deeds, for the banner of the stars. 
 
 Brows bared, uniforms fluttering in rags, they followed the Boy of Nine- 
 teen, into the vortex of the fight, waving evermore that banner overhead. 
 
 They saw Washington come. You should have heard them shout, you 
 should have seen their swords how, dripping with blood, they glittered on 
 high. — La Fayette saw Washington come, yes, the majestic form, the sun- 
 lighted brow ! That sight inflamed his blood — 
 
 " Now, La Fayette, come on !" 
 
 They were ranged beside the band of Pulaski, these children of Wash- 
 ington ; the gallant Frenchman led them on. 
 
 Thus Washington, Pulaski, Greene, La Fayette, thundered down into 
 the fight. It was terrible to hear the tramp of their horses' hoofs. 
 
 Captain Waldemar — the brave partizan — with the last twenty of his 
 riders, was holding a de^^perate fight with thrice the number of British 
 troopers. — He too beheld Washington come, he too beheld that solid 
 column at his back ; with one bound he dashed through tlie British band ; 
 in another moment he was by the side of La Fayette. Washington turned 
 to him 
 
 " Waldemar, we go yonder to make our last farewell ! Come on !" 
 
 And they went, — yes, Washington at the head of the column led them 
 on. With banners waving all along the column, with swords and bayonets 
 mingling in one blaze of light, that iron column went to battle. 
 
 The British were in the valley and over the fields ; you might count 
 thera by thousands. 
 
 There was one horrid crash, a sound as though the earth had yawned to 
 engulph the armies. 
 
 Then, oh then, you might see this bolt of battle, crashing into the Bri- 
 tish host, as a mighty river rushing into the sea, drives the ocean waves far 
 before it. You might see the bared brow of Washington, far over swords 
 and spears ; then might you hear the yell of the British, as this avalanche 
 of steel burst on their ranks ! Men, horses, all were levelled before the 
 path jf this human hurricane. Follow the sword of Washington, youder; 
 
WASHINGTON'S LAST CHARGE AT BRANDYVVINE. 339 
 
 two hundred yards right into the heart of the British army, he is gone, — 
 gone in terrible glory ! On either side swell the British columns, but this 
 avalanche is so sudden, so unexpecleu, thai iheii' pro.id array are for '.be 
 moment paralyzed. 
 
 And now Washington turns again. He wheels, and his band wheel with 
 him. He comes back, and they come with him. His sword rises and 
 falls, and a thousand swords follow its motion. 
 
 And down — shrieking, torn, crushed, — the foemen are trampled ; anouier 
 furrow of British dead strew the ground. Vain were it to tell the deeds of 
 all the heroes, in that moment of glory. Greene, La Fayette, Pulaski, 
 Waldemar, the thousand soldiers, all seem to have but one arm, one soul ! 
 They struck at once, they shouted at once, at once they conquered. 
 
 " Now," he shouted, as his uniform, covered with dust and blood, quivered 
 with the glorious agitation that shook his proud frame, " Now, we can 
 
 AFFORD TO RETREAT !" 
 
 It was a magnificent scene. 
 
 Washington — his steed halted by the roadside, the men of Pulaski and 
 liis own life-guard ranged at his back — Washington gazed upon his legions 
 as they swept by. Tliey came with dripping swords, with broken aims ; 
 — horse and foot, went hurrying by, spreading along the rode to the poufh, 
 while the banner of the stars waved proudly overhead. First, the legions 
 of Greene, then tlie band of Waldemar, with the gallant La Fayette riding 
 in their midst. He was ashy pale, that chivalrous boy, and the manly arm 
 of a veteran trooper held him in the saddle. His leg Was shattered by a 
 musquet ball. Yet, as he went by, he raised his hand, still grasping that 
 well-used sword, and murmured faintly that word his French tongue pro- 
 nounced so well — " Washington !" Washington beheld the hero, and smiled. 
 
 " God be with you, my brave friend 1" 
 
 Then came the wreck of Sullivan's division, blood-stained their faces, 
 broken their arms, wild and wan their looks, sad and terrible their shattered 
 array. They swept by to the south, their gallant General still with his 
 nand. 
 
 " Now," said Washington, while the Life Guard and Pulaski's men en 
 sircled him with a wall of steel, " Now we will retreat !" 
 
 At this moment, while the British recovered from their late panic, were 
 rushing forward in solid columns, the face and form of Washington pre- 
 uented a spectacle of deep interest. 
 
 He sat erect upon his steed, gazing with mingled sadness antl joy, now 
 upon the retrearing Continentals, nowupon the advancing British. Around 
 nim were the stout troopers ; by his side the warrior form of Pulaski, far 
 :--way hills and valleys, clouded with. smoke, covered with marching legions ; 
 above, the blue sky, seen in broken glimpses — the blue sky and tiie declin- 
 jjg sun. 
 
 The blue and bufl" uniform of the Hero was covered with dust and blo<.)d 
 
340 TFIF. BATTLE OF BRANDY WINE. 
 
 His sword, lifted in his extended arm, was dyed witii crimson dropr. 
 
 "You could see his chest heave again, and his eye glare once more: 
 
 " On, comrades, now we can afford to retreat !" 
 
 And the sunlight poured gladly over the uncovered brow of Washington. 
 
 This was the last incident of the battle ! But an hour since the conflict 
 began, and yet the green valley is crowded with the bodies of dead men. 
 The Quaker temple throbs with the groans of the dying. The clear spring 
 of cold water, down in the lap of the valky, is now become a pool of blood, 
 its yellow sands clotted with carnage. 
 
 A thousand hearts, that one brief hour ago, beat with the warmest pulsa- 
 iions of life, are now stilled forever. And at this dread hour, as if in 
 giockery of the scene, while the souls of the slain thronged trembling 
 io their dread account, the sun set calmly over the battle Jield, the blue 
 iky smiled again — the Brandywine went laughing on! 
 
 Let us group together these Legends of the past, illustrative ot the 
 Romance and Tragedy of Brandywine. 
 
 XV.— THE HUNTER-SPY. 
 
 Not in the dim cathedral aisle, where the smoke of the incense ascends 
 for evermore, and the image of the Virgin smiles above the altar — not in 
 the streets of the colossal city, where the palace and the hut, the beggar and 
 the lord, are mingled in the great spectacle of life — not even in the quiet 
 hoiwe of civilization, where the glow of the hearth-side flame lights up the 
 face of the mother as she hushes her babe to slumber — 
 
 But among the mountains, where sky, and rock, and tree, and cataract, 
 speak of the presence of their God, — Nature, with her thousand voices, 
 sings fi>rever, her anthem of thankfulness and prayer. 
 
 It is a sublime anthem which she sings out yonder, in the untrodden 
 wilderness. The cataract thunders it, as in all the glory of its flashing 
 waters, it springs from the clitF into the darkness below. The breeze, too, 
 sofdy murmuring among the tops of the evergreen pines, in the calmness 
 of the summer morn, in the shadows of the summer eve, whispers that 
 anthem, as with an angel's voice. The sky writes it upon her vault, not 
 o: ly in the sun and stars, and moon, but in every feathery cloud that skims 
 over its blue dome, in the deep silence of a summer noon. 
 
 But at night, when the storm comes out, and mingles cataract and rock, 
 forest and sky, in one fierce whirlpool of battle ; then the thunder sinfs the 
 anthem, and the lightning writes it on the universe. 
 
 It was noon among the mountains, nearly a hundred years ago, whrn the 
 sun shone down through the woods upon the waters of a cataract, trem- 
 bling in tumultuous beauty on the verge of a granite clift', ere it dashed into 
 the abyss below. 
 
 Let us pause upon the verge of this cliff, and gaze upon Nature as she 
 
THE HUNTER-SPY. 341 
 
 stands before us, clad in the wild glory which she has worn since the hour 
 when " Let there be Light !" from the lips of Divinity, thundered over the 
 chaos of the new-born world. 
 
 Upon the verge of the clift*. Grey and hoary, overgrown with vines, and 
 ■;lamps of moss. It trembles beneath our feet — trembles as with the pulse 
 of the cataract. Look yonder — a mass ol waters, not fifty yards in width, 
 emerging from the foliage, gliding between walls of rocks, gleaming for a 
 moment in bright sunshine on the edge of darkness, and then dashing in one 
 long stream of light and spray, far down into night. 
 
 Look below — ah ! you tremble, you shrink back appalled. That void 
 is terrible in its intense blackness. And from that abyss, for evermore, 
 arises a dull, sullen sound, like the whispering of a thousand voices. It is 
 the catarartt, speaking to the rocks which receive it. 
 
 There is a rugged beauty in the spectacle. The woods all around, with 
 grey cliffs breaking from the canopy of leaves ; the sky, seen there, far 
 above the cataract and its chasm ; the cataract itself, bridged by fallen 
 tree. 
 
 A massy oak, rent from the earth by the storm, extends across the cata- 
 ract, just where it plunges into darkness. Here, on the western side, you 
 behold its roots, half torn from the ground — yonder, on the eastern side, 
 its withered branches, strongly contrast with the waving foliage all around. 
 And between the rocks and the fallen tree, glide the waters, ere they dash 
 below. 
 
 As we stand here, on this rock, leaning over the darkness, tell me, does 
 not the awful silence of these primeval woods — only broken by the eternal 
 anthem of the mountain stream — strike your hearts with a deep awe ? 
 
 Another music shook the M'oods an hour ago. Strange sounds, scarce 
 sver heard in these woods before ; sounds deeper than the roar of the cata- 
 ract, yet not so loud as thunder. Distant shouts, too, like the yell of mad- 
 dened men, were borne upon the breeze, and, for a moment, the cataract 
 seemed to hush itself into silence, as a horrible chorus of groans broke over 
 the woods. 
 
 What meant these sounds, disturbing the sanctity of the Almighty's 
 forest ? We cannot tell ; but, only yesterday, a brave band of men, attired 
 in scarlet and gold, with bayonets gleaming over their heads, passed this 
 way in solid columns. 
 
 Only yesterday, their commander — a man of courtly look and glittering 
 apparel — rode through these woods, pointing gaily with his sword, as the 
 warm hope of victory flushed his face : while at his side, journeyed a young 
 man, with thoughtful eye and solemn face. The commander was clad in 
 scarlet and gold — the young man, in blue and silver. The commander was 
 General Braddock ; the young man. Colonel Washington. 
 
 All day long the sounds of battle, borne from afar by th«? breeze, have 
 shrieked through the woods, but now all is still. 
 
342 THE BATTLE OF BRANDYWINE. 
 
 Yet kold — there is a crashing sound among the branches, on this western 
 side of tne waterfall — look ! A face is seen among the leaves, another, and 
 another. Three faces, wan, and wild, and bloody. In a moment, three 
 forms spring from the covert and stand upon this rock, gazing around upon 
 chasm, and wood, and sky, with the wild glare of hunted tigers. 
 
 The first form, standing on the verge of the clitf, with the blue uniform, 
 fluttering in ribbands over his broad chest, and spotted with blood on the 
 arms. A man in tlie prime of life, with brown hair clustering around his 
 brow, and a blue eye lighting up his sunburnt face. Though liis uniform is 
 rent and torn, you can recognize the Provincial Sergeant in the native troops 
 of General Braddock's army. 
 
 At his back stand two British regulars, clad in scarlet, with long military 
 boots upon each leg, and heavy grenadier caps upon each brow. As they 
 gaze around — their weaponless hands dripping with blood — a curse breaks 
 from each lip. 
 
 " Don't swear," exclaims the Sergeant, as he turns from the chasm to 
 his brother soldiers. " It's bad enough as it is, withoitt swearing ! It's 
 like to drive me mad when I think of it ! Only yesterday we hurried on, 
 through these very woods, and now — ugh ! D'ye remember what we saw, 
 by the banks of the river, not an hour ago ? Piles of dead men, those men 
 our comrades, each brow with the scalp torn from the scull — little rivers of 
 blood, each river running over the sod, and pouring into the Mouongahela, 
 until its waves became as red as your uniform. Ah ! I tell you, boys, it 
 makes a man sick to think of it !" 
 
 "And them Injins," exclaimed the tallest of the British soldiers, "how 
 like born devils they screech ! The fightin' I don't mind, but I confess the 
 screechin' hurts one's feelin's." 
 
 The other soldier, with a darkening brow, only muttered a single word, 
 hissing it, as with the force of his soul, through his set teeth : 
 
 "The Spy!" 
 
 At that word, the Sergeant started as though bitten by a rattle-snake. 
 His face, so frank in its hardy manliness of expression, was violently con- 
 torted, his hands clenched. 
 
 " Aye, the Spy !" he growled : " Would that I had him here !" 
 
 He bent over the chasm, his blue eye glaring with dangerous light, as his 
 fingers quivered with the frenzy of revenge. 
 
 " Would that I had him here, on this rock ! By that home which I never 
 hope to see again, I would give my life to hold him, for one moment only, 
 on the verge of this rock, and then — " 
 
 "Send him yelling down into the pool below !" added the tall soldier. 
 
 The other soldier merely wiped tlie blood from his brow, and muttered 
 a deep oath, coupled with the ominous words — " The Spy !" 
 
 " Come, my boys, we tjjust hurry on !" cried the Sergeant, his form 
 rising proudly in the sunlight. — " Them Injin devils are in our rear, and 
 
Trft: HUNTER-SPY. S43 
 
 yon know the place where ail us fellows, who dont happen lo be killed, are 
 to meet ! Aye, aye ! Come on ! Over this fallen tree be our way !" 
 
 Followed by the regular soldiers, the Provincial Sergeant crosses the 
 fearful bridge. You see them quivering there, with but a foot of unhewn 
 timber between them and the blackness of the chasm ; the sunbeam lights 
 up their tattered uniform and blood-stained faces. 
 
 In the centre of the fallen tree, even while the roar of the cataract deafens 
 his ears, the Sergeant suddenly turns and confronts his comrades : 
 
 " Did n't he look beautiful ?" he shouts ; and his eye flashes, and his 
 cheek glows — " Yes, beautiful's the word ! I mean our young Virginia 
 Colonel, charging in the thickest of the fight, with his sword uplifted, and 
 his forehead bare ! Did you see his coat, torn by the bullets, which pattered 
 about him like hail-stones ? And then, as he knelt over the dyin' General, 
 shielding him from bullet and tomahawk, at the hazard of his life, — I vow 
 he did look beautiful !" 
 
 As he speaks, his form trembles with the memory of the battle, and the 
 tree trembles beneath him. The British soldiers do not speak a word — 
 their position is too fearful for words — but with upraised arms they beseech 
 the Sergeant to hurry on. 
 
 Across the perilous bridge, and along this eastern rock — a murmur of joy 
 escapes from each lip. 
 
 Then, through the thickly-gathered foliage, into this forest-arbor, formed 
 by the wild vines, hanging from the limbs of this centuried oak. 
 
 A quiet place, with gleams of sunshine escaping through 'the leaves, and 
 lighting up the mossy sod, and the massive trunk of the grand old tree. 
 
 What means that half-muttered shriek, starting from each heart, and 
 hushed by the biting of each lip ? 
 
 The Sergeant starts back, places a hand on the mouth of each soldier, and 
 his deep whisper thrills in ears — 
 
 " In the name of Heaven be still !" 
 
 Then every breath is hushed, and every eye is fixed upon the cause of 
 that strange surprise. 
 
 There, at the foot of the tree, his head laid against its trunk, his limba 
 stretched along the sod, slumbers a man of some fifty years, one arm bent 
 under his grey hairs, while the other clasps the barrel of a rifle. Gaze 
 upon that sunburnt face, pinched in the lips, hollow in the cheeks, the brow 
 narrow and contracted, the hair and eyebrows black, sprinkled with grey 
 and tell me, is it not the index of a mean hear*, a cankered soul ? 
 
 The form, clad in the shirt, leggins and moccasins of one of the outcasts 
 of civilization, in whom were combined the craft of the pale face, with the 
 ferocity of the savage, is lean, straight and angular, with the sinews gatherec 
 around the bones like iron thongs. 
 
 And while the three soldiers, with darkening iaccM, gaze upon hira, he 
 ■leeps on, this wild hunter of the wild woods. 
 
344 THE BATTLc: OF BRAVDYWINE. 
 
 Do you see that silken purse, slightly protruding from the breast cf the 
 coarse hunting shirt. Look — even as the sunbeam falls upon it, the gleam 
 of golden guineas shines from its net-work. 
 
 There is a sirange story connected with that silken purse, with its golden 
 guineas. 
 
 Not ten days ago, the British General was encountered in the wild forest 
 of the Alleghany mountains, by a tall hunter, who offered to act as his guide 
 to Fort Pitt, where the French held their position. The offer was accepted 
 — the reward fifty guineas. The young Colonel Washington distrusted this 
 hunter — traitor was stamped on his face — but Braddock laughed at his 
 distrust. 
 
 The guide led them forward — led them into the ambush of this morning, 
 and then disappeared. 
 
 At this moment, five hundred hearts are cold on Braddock's field — there 
 are an hundred little rills of blood pouring into the waves of Monongahela 
 river; Braddock himself lies mangled and bleeding in the arms of Wash- 
 ino-ton ; — and here, in this arbor of the wild wood, lulled to rest by the an- 
 them of the cataract, sleeps the hunter-guide, with the silken purse and its 
 fifty guineas, protruding from his breast. Every guinea bears on its surface 
 the head of King Louis. Every guinea was given as the price of a life, 
 and yet there is no blood upon them ; but the sun, shining through the 
 foliage lights them with a mild, warm glow. 
 
 And all the while the three soldiers stand there, biting their lips, and 
 clenching their h-ands together. There is something fearful in this ominous 
 silence. 
 
 At last the Sergeant advances, stealthily, it is true, yet the sound of his 
 footstep echoes through the wood. Still the Hunter sleeps on. Then with 
 a rude knife he severs a piece of the wild vine, ties one end around a pro- 
 jecting limb of the oak, pushes the leaves aside, and you behold the other 
 end dangling over the chasm. 
 
 A flood of sunlight rushes in through the opening, bathes with its glow 
 the darkened face of the Sergeant, and the withered face of the sleeping 
 man. Around the form of the Sergeant, so vigorous in its robust manhood, 
 extends the mass of foliage, like a frame around a picture. For a moment, 
 he stands there, on the edge of the eastern rock, the grape vine dangling in 
 one hand, while his straining eye peruses the darkness of the abyss. 
 
 As he turns to his comrades again, he utters this singular sentence in a 
 whisper : 
 
 " Does n't it seem to you that a man tied to this grape-vine by the neck, 
 and forced to leap from the rock, would stand a mighty good chance of 
 being — hung T" 
 
 A grim smile passes over each face — 9tiU the hunter sleeps on ; he sleeps 
 Vhft sound slumber of hardship and toil. 
 
THE HUNTER-SPY. 345 
 
 Presently the Serjeant advances, shakes him roughly by the shoi.liler, 
 111(1 shouts in his ear — 
 
 " Come, Isaac, get up. To-day you die !" 
 
 The sleeping man quivered, opened his eyes, beheld the darkened fac« 
 above, and then clutched for his rifle. 
 
 With a sudden movement, the Sergeant flings it beyond his reach. 
 
 " You know me, Isaac. You see the blood upon my coat. You know 
 your doom. Get up, and say your prayers." 
 
 This was said in a very low voice, yet every word went to the Hunter's 
 heart. In silence he arose. As he stood erect upon the sod, it might be 
 seen that he was a man of powerful frame and hardened sinews. He gazed 
 from face to face, and then toward the clifl' — his countenance changed from 
 sanburnt brown to asky paleness. 
 
 "What d'ye mean?" he falters. "You don't intend mischief to an 
 old man ?" 
 
 Paler in the face, tremulous in each iron limb — ah ! how cowardice and 
 urime transform a man of iron sinew's into a trembling wretch ! 
 
 " Say your prayers, Isaac," was the only answer which awaited hira. 
 As the Sergeant spoke, the light in his blue eye grew wilder ; he trembled 
 from his heart to his finger-ends, but not with fear. 
 
 Again the Hunter raised his stealthy grey eye, ranging the arbor with « 
 glance of lightning-like rapidity. All hope of escape was idle. 
 
 "Let me finish him with the knife 1" growled the tall soldier. 
 
 " Say the word. Sergeant, and I'll send a bullet from his own rifle through 
 his brain !" 
 
 "I know'd ye when ye was a boy, down yander in the hills of old Vir- 
 ginny, Isaac," said the Sergeant; "and know'd ye for a liar and thief. 
 Now ye're grown to a tolerable good age — grey hairs, and wrinkles, too. — 
 I know ye for a traitor and a murderer !" 
 
 " But, Jacob, you won't kill me here, like a dog ?" exclaimed the Hunter, 
 in a hollow vaice. 
 
 " There's a matter of five or six hundred men dead, this hour, on yonder 
 battlefield. Not only dead, but mangled — their skulls peeled — ugh! It's 
 an ugly word, I know, but it's a fact — their skulls peeled, and their bodies 
 cut to pieces by musquet balls and tomahawks. You did it all, Isaac. You 
 sold your countrymen — your flesh and blood, as I might say, and sold 'era 
 to the French and Injins. Come, Isaac, say your prayers !" 
 
 There was a strange contrast between the broad, manly figure of the 
 Sergeant, rising to its full stature, and the slender form of the Hun;cr, 
 cringing as from the danger of a threatened blow. The sunlight fell over 
 both faces, one flushed with a settled purpose, the other livid with tne ex- 
 tremity of fear. In the shadows of the woody arbor the British saldicra 
 *lood, awaiting in silence the issue of the scene. 
 22 
 
346 THE BATTLE OF BRAi'TDYWINE. 
 
 And ever and anon, in the pauses of the fearful conversation, the cataract 
 howled below. 
 
 " I've no prayers to ssy," said the Hunter, in a dogged tone. " Come- 
 murder me — if you like, I'm ready !" 
 
 There was something sublime in the courage of the Coward, wiio 
 trembled as with an ague fit, as he said the words. 
 
 The words, the tone, the look of the man seemed to touch even the de- 
 lermined heart of the Sergeant. 
 
 • " But you may have a wife, Isaac, or a child — " he faltered — " You may 
 wish to leave some message ?" 
 
 " I may have a wife and child and I may not," said the Hunter, quieiiy 
 baring his throat. " Come, if you're goin' to murder me, begin !" 
 
 Then commenced a scene, whose quiet horror may well chill the blood in 
 ©ur veins, as we picture it. 
 
 The Sergeant advanced, seized the end of the grape-vine, and, while the 
 wretch trembled in his grasp, knotted it firmly about his neck, gaunt and 
 sinewy as it was. 
 
 The doomed man stood on the edge of the cliff. — Below him boiled the 
 waters — above him smiled the sky. His deathsman was at his side. 
 
 For a moment, the Hunter turned toward the comrades of the Sergeant. 
 
 " Kill him like a dog !" growled one of the soldiers. 
 
 " Remember the battle, and choke him until his eyes start !" exclaimed 
 the other. 
 
 The eye of the miserable man wandered to the face of his Executioner. 
 Calm and erect the Sergeant stood there ; the only signs of agitation which 
 he manifested, were visible in a slight tremulous motion of his lip, a sudden 
 paleness of his cheek. 
 
 " Ain't there no p!iy ?" whined the Hunter. " Ye see I'm not fit to die 
 — the waterfall skeers me. No pity, did ye say ?" 
 
 " None !" thundered the Sergeant, and with one movement of his arm 
 pushed the doomed man from the rock. 
 
 Then — as the limb quivered with the burden of the fearful fruit which it 
 bore — as the blackened face and starting eyes, and protruding tongue glowed 
 horribly in the sunlight — as one long, deep cry of agony mingled with the 
 roar of the cataract — the Sergeant seized the purse of guineas and hurled it 
 far down into the darkness of the chasm. 
 
 " Let the traitor's gold go with his soul !" he cried, as the coin, escaping 
 from the purse, sparkled like spray-drops through the air. 
 
 The level rays of the setting sun streamed over the dead man's face. 
 
 All was desolate and silent in the forest — the Sergeant and his comrades 
 had passed on their way — the deep anthem of the waterfall arose to the 
 sunset Heaven. 
 
 There was a footstep on the fallen tree, and a boy of some twelve years. 
 
THE HUNTER-SPY. 347 
 
 Kfifthng- a burden on his back, came tripping lightly over the cataract. He 
 was roiigiily clad, in a dress of wild deer's hide, yet there was a franitiiess 
 aDout his sunburnt face, a daring in his calm grey eye, which made you 
 (brget his uncouth attire. As he came bounding on, as fearlessly as though 
 the Uoor of some quiet home were beneath him — the breeze tossed his 
 brown hair aside from his face, until it waved in curls of glossy softness. 
 
 "Father !" his young voice resounded through the woods, clear and shrill 
 as the tones of careless boyhood. " Father, do you sleep yet ?" he cried, 
 as he crossed the tree. " You know 1 went this morning to the Indian's 
 wigwam to procure food and drink for you. Here it is — I'm safe back 
 again. Father, I say !" 
 
 Again he called, and still no answer. 
 
 He stood on the astern side of the waterfall, near the forest arbor. 
 
 "Ah! I know what you're about!" he laughed, with childish gaiety. 
 •• You want me to think you're asleep — you want to spring up and frighten 
 me ! Ha, ha, ha !" 
 
 And gaily laughing, he went through the foliage, and stood in the forest 
 arbor — stood before the dead man. 
 
 His FATHER, hanging by the grape-vine to the oaken limb, his feet above 
 the chasm, the sunset glow upon his face. That face as black as ink; the 
 eyes on the cheek; the purpled tongue lolling on the jaw — his father ! 
 Every breath of air that stirred waved his grey hairs about his brow, and 
 swayed his stiffened body to and fro. 
 
 The boy gazed upon it, but did not weep. His father might be a thief, 
 traitor, murderer, but the son knew it not. The old man was kind to him 
 — yes, treacherous to all the world, he loved his motherless child ! 
 
 "/"a/Afr/" the boy gasped, and the bread and bottle which he bore on 
 his shoulders, fell to the ground. 
 
 He approached and gazed upon the body of the dead man. You might 
 see a twitching of the muscles of his young face, a strange working of the 
 mouth, an elevation and depression of the eye-brows, but his grey eyes 
 were undimmed by a tear. There was something terrible in the silent 
 sternness with which the child gazed into his murdered father's face. 
 
 There was a paper pinned to the breast of the dead man, a rough paper 
 scrawled with certain uncouth characters. The boy took the paper — he 
 could not read — but carefully folding it, he placed it within the breast of his 
 jacket, near to his heart. 
 
 Twenty years afterward, that paper was the cause of a cold-blooded and 
 horrible murder, wild and unnatural in its slightest details. 
 
 Long and earnestK' the boy stood gazing upon that distorted face. The 
 game sunbeam that shone upon the visage of the dead, lighted up the singu- 
 lar countenance of the boy. 
 
 At last, approaching the edge of the cliflT, he took his father's hands within 
 his own. They were very cold. He placed his hands upon the aid man's 
 
348 THE BATTLE OF BRANDYWINE. 
 
 face. It was clammy and moist. The boy began to shudder with a te'« 
 hitherto unknown to him. For the first time, he stood in the presence o* 
 Death. 
 
 His broken ejaculations were calculated to touch the hardest heart. 
 
 " Father !" he would whisper, " you aiiit dead, are you ? If you are 
 dead what '11 I do? Come, father, and tell me ye aint dead? Father! [ 
 say, father !" 
 
 As the sun went down, that cry quivered tVirough the woods. 
 
 The mooa arose. Still by her pale light, there on the verge of the clitf, 
 stood the boy, gazing in his father's face. 
 
 " I'll cut hiui down, that's what I'll do 1" he said, taking a hunter's knife 
 from his girdle. 
 
 Standing on tip-toe he hacked the grape-vine with the knife ; it snapped 
 with a sharp sound: she boy reached forth his arms to grasp his father's 
 body ; for a moment he held it trembling there, the blackened face silvered 
 by the light of the moon. 
 
 But his grasp was feeble, compared to the weight which it sustained, and 
 the body passed from his hands. There was a hissing sound in the air — a 
 dead pause — a heavy splash in the waters below. 
 
 The boy knelt on the rock and gazed below. I confess, as I see him 
 kneeling there, the light of the moon upon his waving locks — the silence of 
 night only broken by the eternal anthem of the cataract, — that I cannot 
 contemplate without a shudder, that sad and terrible piiMure: 
 
 The Boy, leaning over the rock, as he gazes with straining eyes, far down 
 ini!o the darkness of the abyss, for the dead body of his Father ! 
 
 XVI.— THE SO.V OF THE HUNTER-SPY. 
 
 The gleam of the hearthside taper flashed far over the valley of the Bran- 
 Jywiiie. From tlie upper window of that peaceful home, it flamed a long 
 and quivering ray of golden light. 
 
 The old house stood alone, some few paces from the Dail, at least an 
 hundred yards from the waters of the Brandy wine. A small fabric of dark 
 |rey stone, standing in the centre of a slope of grassy sod, with steep roof, 
 narrow windows, and a rustic porch before the door. On either side of the 
 grassy slope, the woods darkened, thick and luxuriant ; above, the universe 
 of stars shed their calm, tranquil light, over the slumbering valley ; from 
 afar, the musical murmur of tlie waves, rolling over their pebbled bed, broke 
 the deep silence of the night. 
 
 Let us look through the darkness, and by the clear starlight, behoM this 
 small two-storied fabric, in all its rustic beauty, while yonder, not twenty 
 yards distant, a hay-rick rises from the level of the sod. All is still around 
 this home of Brandywine, — the house, the gently-ascending slope, the co- 
 nical hay-rick, the surrounding woods, present a picture of deep repose. 
 
THE SON OF THE HUNTER-SFY. 34«) 
 
 We will enter the home, ves. into the upper room, tVoin whose narrow 
 vr'"dow tlie ray of the tireside taper, gleams along the shadowy valley. 
 
 An old man, sitting easily in his oaken arm-chair, the glow of the candle 
 ■jpon his wrinkled face and snowy hairs. The smoke of his pipe winds 
 around his face and head ; his blue eyes gleaming with calm light, and 
 composed features, and altitude of careless ease, all betoken a mind at peace 
 with God and man. 
 
 On one side you behold his couch, with its coverlid of unruffled white ; 
 yonder a rude table, placed beneatli a small mirror, with a Bible, old and 
 venerable, laid upon iis surface. There is a narrow hearth, simmering with 
 a slight fire of hickory faggots ; beside the hearth, you see the door of a 
 closet, its panels hewn of solid oak, and darkened into inky blackness by 
 the touch of time. 
 
 In the centre of the room, his calm face glowing in the light of the candle, 
 sits the old man, coat and vest thrown aside, as he quietly smokes his 
 grateful pipe. As he knocks the ashes from the bowl, you may see that 
 he is one-armed ; for the right arm has been severed at the shoulder : the 
 sleeve dangles by his side. 
 
 You will confess that it is but a quiet, nay, a tame picture, which I have 
 drawn for you — an old and one-armed man, smoking his evening pipe, ere 
 he retires to rest, his wrinkled face melowed with unspeakable content, his 
 blue eyes gleaming from beneath the thick grey eye-brows, as with tne 
 light of blessed memories. 
 
 And yet this scene, placed beside another scene which will occur ere an 
 hour passes, might well draw tears from a heart of granite. 
 
 Suddenly the old man places his hand against his brow, his mild blue 
 eye moistens with a tear. His soul is with the past — with the wiie who 
 now sleeps the last slumber, under the sod of the Quaker graveyard — wiin 
 the scenes of battle in the dim forests, where the rifle-blaze streams reniv 
 over the leaves, and the yell of the Indian mingles with the war of the 
 cataract. 
 
 All at once there comes a memory which blanches the old man's cheek, 
 fills with wild light his calm blue eye. Looking back into time, he beholds 
 a dim recess of the forest, perched above the w'aters of the cataract, the sun- 
 beam playing over its moss, while the face of a dead man glares horribly m 
 the last flush of the sunset hour. 
 
 The old man rises, paces the floor, with his only hand wipes the moisture 
 from his brow. 
 
 " It was right," he murmurs — " He had betrayed a thousand brave men 
 to death, and he died !" 
 
 And yet, look where he might, through that quiet room, he beheld a dead 
 man, suspended to the limb of a forest oak, with the sunlight — that last red 
 flush of sunset, which is so beautiful — playing warmly over the livid leaiure.t 
 
 This you will confess, was a terrible memory, or a strange frenzy. An 
 
aSO THE BATTLE OF BRANDYWINE. 
 
 old nnn whose life for at least twenty years, had been spent in the snenea 
 o: r. quiet home, to behold a livid face, woiRinff convulsively in death, 
 wherever he turned ! 
 
 " 1 know not why it is, but wherever I turn, I seem to see — yes, 1 rlo 
 see — a dead man's face ! And whenever I try to think of my dead wife, I 
 hear a voice repeating — *^ this night, this night you die .'' " 
 
 As the old man spoke, resuming his pipe, a slight sound disturbed the 
 silence of the room. He turned, and there, like a picture framed by the 
 rougli timbers of the doorway, beheld the form of a young girl, clad slightly, 
 in iier night-dress with a mass of brown hair about her neck and shoulders. 
 
 One hand was raised, the finger to her lip, and the round white arm, 
 gleaming in the light ; the otiier grasped the handle of the door. 
 
 There was something very beaulilul in the sight. 
 
 Not that her dress was fashioned of silk or purple, or that her white 
 neck shone with the gleam of diamonds or pearls. Ah, no ! Her dress 
 was made of coarse homespun cloth ; it left her arms, and neck, and feet, 
 bare to the light. Still there was a beauty about her young face, which 
 glowed on tlie lips and cheeks, with the warmth of a summer dawn, and 
 shone in the deep blue eyes, with the tranquil loveliness of a starlight 
 night. 
 
 Her hair too ; you cannot say that it gathered in curls, or floated in 
 tresses ; but to tell the sober truth, in color it was of that rich brown which 
 deepens into black, and waving from her white forehead, it fell in one glossy 
 mass, down to the white bosom, which had never been ruffled by a thought 
 of sin. 
 
 With regard to the young form, whose oudines gleamed on you, even 
 from the folds of her coarse dress, you could not affirm that it rivalled the 
 dream of the Sculptor, the Venus de Medici, or burst forth in all the 
 majestic beauty of one of Raphael's Painted Poems. It was but the form 
 of a Peasant Girl, reminding you in every hue and outline, of a wild forest 
 rose, that flourishing alone amid large green leaves, trembles on the verge 
 of its perfect bloom ; not so gorgeous as a hot-house plant, still very warm, 
 and very loveable, and very beautiful. 
 
 And she stood there, even on the threshold, her finger to her lip, gazing 
 with a look of wild alarm, upon the wrinkled face of her father, the one 
 armed schoolmaster of Brandywine. 
 
 " Mary !"' the old man exclaimed, his eyes expanding with wonder. 
 
 " Hush, father ! Do you not hear the tread of armed men ? Listen ! 
 Do you not hear the rattling of arms ? Hark ! That deep-toned whisper, 
 coupled with an oath — ' Mayland the spy — break the door — arrest, and 
 bear him to the British camp T " 
 
 And while the word trembled on her lip, a dull, heavy sound broke like 
 A kneii upon the air. It was the crashing of a musket-stock against the 
 diw 01 the schoolmaster''s home. 
 
THE SON OF THE HUNTER-SPY. 351 
 
 ** Fly ! For God's sake, fly!" exclaimed Mary, darting foiward, and 
 laying her white hjvr.u on the old man's arm. 
 
 «*Fly!" he echoed, with a bewildered look — "Wherefore? Whom 
 have I wronged, that I should fly from my own home at midnight, like a 
 hunted beast ?" 
 
 In brief words, uttered with gasping breath and tremulous bosom, the 
 Daughter revealed the strange secret : 
 
 " A week ago, you gave shelter to an old man, clad in the garb of forest- 
 hunter. That man left in your charge a pacquet, which you promised to 
 transmit without delay, to tFie Camp of Washington !" 
 
 " And did so, this very morning." 
 
 " That pacquet was stolen from the camp-chest of General Howe. It 
 contained his plans of battle — Now do you guess wherefore the British sol- 
 diers surround your house, whispering your name as 'Mayland the Spy ?' " 
 
 The old man's countenance fell. 
 
 " Oh, that I had my own good right arm again !" he cried, after a mo- 
 ment's pause — "I would defy the whole pack of red-coat hounds !" 
 
 Harsh language, this ! But it must be confessed that the old school- 
 master was prejudiced against the British ; he had seen but one side of the 
 question — aye, read it too, in the smouldering ruins of the homes they had 
 burned, in tlie livid faces of the farmers they had butchered. 
 
 The Peasant Girl — clad lightly as she was, in her night dress — tripped 
 softly to the opposite side of the room, and opened the closet door. In a 
 moment, she had torn the loose boards from the floor. 
 
 "Father, the way of escape lies before you! This ladder descends 
 from the closet into the cellar ; from the cellar a subterranean passage leads 
 to the side of the hill ! Quick — there is no time to be lost ! For God's 
 sake — fly !" 
 
 ' The ladder was used as a stairway in the old times ; the underground 
 passage was made in the time o' the Injings," murmured the old man. 
 " But my daughter, who will protect you ?" 
 
 " They seek not to harm me," she hurriedly exclaimed — " Hark ! Do 
 you hear their shouts ?" 
 
 And, as if m answer to her words, there came a hoarse and murmuring 
 cry from beneath the windows. 
 
 "One blow, and we'll force the door!" a deep voice was heard — "Re- 
 member, comrades ! a hundred guineas, if we catch the Spy !" 
 
 The old man hesitated no longer. Placing a foot on the ladder, he began 
 to descend. His daughter bending over him, held the light in her extended 
 hand ; its rays lighted his grey hairs, and warmed the soft outlines of 
 her face. 
 
 " Quick, father !" she gaspingly whispered — " The passage leads out on 
 the hill-side, near the hay-stack ! Ha ! he descends — one moment more 
 and he will stand in the passage ! Another moment, and be »"11 be free!" 
 
j^2 'iHE BATTLE OF BRANDY WINE. 
 
 Holding the light above her head, she swept her brown hair aside from 
 ner face, and gazed into the darkness beneath with dilating eyes. 
 
 Still from beneath the windows arose that hoarse cry ; again the cras'.i of 
 flausquet-stocks against the* door. 
 
 " In truth, thee father is in great danger," said a mild voice, wliich made 
 »he young girl start as though she liad trod on a serpent's fang. 
 
 She turned, and beheld a man of slender frame, clad in the plain garb of 
 che Quaker faith. Gaze upon him and tell me, in that contracted face, wiih 
 sharp nose and hawk-like grey eyes, thin lips and brown hair, curling to 
 the shoulders, do you recognize some Memory of the Past ? 
 
 Does it look like the face of the Hunter-Spy, who hung above the 
 chasm, long years ago, or like the countenance of his Son, the laughing boy, 
 whose blood was congealed to ice, by the vision of the murdered man ? 
 
 " Gilbert Gates !" exclaimed Mary ; " here, too, in this hour of peril ! 
 Then indeed, does evil threaten us !" 
 
 " Maiden, thee wrongs me," exclaimed that soft and insinuating voice. 
 " Passing along the valley, on the way to my farm, which — as thee knows 
 — lies near Brenton's ford, I beheld thee father's house surrounded by 
 armed men, who clamored for his blood. I found entrance by a back 
 window, and am here to save thee." 
 
 ♦' Burst open the door !" .arose the shout from beneath the windows. 
 " We'll trap the Rebel in his den !" 
 
 " You here to save me ?" exclaimed Mary, as she blushed from the 
 DOBom to the brow v/ith scorn. " I tell you man, there is Traitor on your 
 forehead and in your eye !" 
 
 " Look thee, maiden — but two hours ago, thee father did reject the offer 
 />f marriage which I made to thee, with words of bitterness and scorn. 
 Now he is threatened with death — nay, smile not in derision — thy honor is 
 menaced with ruin ! Be mine — yea, consent to receive my hand in mar- 
 riiige, and I will save ye ! 
 
 " Ah ! his footsteps are in the cellar— he gains the passage — he is saved !" 
 erclaimed Mary, as she flung the rays of the light into the gloom below. 
 " Be yours !" and while every pulse throbbed tumultuously with loathing, 
 she turned to the strange man by her side — " Neither your assumed dress, 
 nor awkward attempt at the Quaker dialect, can deceive me ! I know you 
 —scorn you ! Nay, do not advance — I am but a weak girl, but dare to 
 pollute me, with but a finger's touch, and as heaven nerves my arm, I will 
 brain you with this oaken brand !' 
 
 She stood on the verge of the closet, one hand grasping the light, whil*' 
 the other raised aloft a solid piece of oak, which she had seized from the 
 floor. 
 
 You can see the man of slender figure and Quaker dress shrink back ap- 
 palled. A wild light blazes in his grey eye ; his long, talon-like fingers are 
 pressed convulsively against his breast. Suddenly his hard features were 
 
THE SON OF THE HUNTETl-SPY. SSS 
 
 Koftennil by a look of emotion, which phiyed over his fice like a sunhcuin 
 <feinl)hiig on a rock of granite. 
 
 '' Maiden, did thee know my life — my oath — the* would not taunt me 
 ihus. He died alone in the wild wood — ah, even now, I see the mmet 
 /lush upon his icy face J My father — tlie only friend I ever had — the only 
 thing I ever loved. Maiden, become mine, and all shall be forgotten — all 
 even my oath !" 
 
 Clasping his hands, while his cold grey eyes were wet with tears, he ad- 
 vanced, and gazed upon the warm bloom of the maiden's face. 
 
 For a moment, she gazed upon him, while the flush of scorn, wliich red- 
 dened her cheeks, was succeeded by a look of deep compassion. 
 
 Again that deep roar beneath the windows— hark I A crash — a wild yt^ll 
 — " We have the Rebel up stairs, and the guineas are ours !" 
 
 " Does thee consent ?" exclaimed Gilbert Gates, advancrng a single step 
 " Ha ! The door between the cellar and the passage is unfastene i 
 But I will save my father at the hazard of my life !" 
 
 With one bound she flung herself upon the ladder, and with the li^hl 
 above her head, descended into the darkness of the cellar. As she wont 
 down, her hair fell wavingly over her neck and shoulders, over the bosom 
 wh'ch heaved tumultuously into the light. 
 
 Gilbert Gates in his Quaker garb, with his hands folded over his narrow 
 cUpst, stood alone in the darkness of the school master's bed-room All 
 was darkness around him, yet there was a light within, which burned hi? 
 heart-strings, and filled his blood with liquid fire. 
 
 Darkness around him ; no eye to look upon the wrilhings of his face ; and 
 yet, even there through the gloom, he beheld that fearful vision — a dead 
 man swinging over the abyss of a cataract, with the sunset flush upon his 
 icy face. 
 
 Suddenly there was the sound of trampling feet upon the stairs ; then the 
 blaze of torches flashed into the room, and some twenty forms dressed in 
 the attire of Tory Refugees — half-robber, half-soldier — came rushing over 
 the threshhold. 
 
 "The schoolmaster — where is he?" exclaimed their leader, a burly ruf- 
 fian, with crape over his face, and a white belt across his breast. " Speak, 
 Gilbert !" 
 
 " The Spy !" echoed the deep voices of the Tories, as they waved their 
 toichcs, their rifles, and their knives, above their heads. 
 
 " Yes, Smoothspeech, where's the schoolmaster, and the purty robin his 
 daughter, Polly ?" cried a voice which issued from a mass of carbuncled 
 face, which in its turn, surmounted by a huge form clad in scarlet. " A 
 hundred guineas for the lass, you know ; eh, comrades ?" 
 The answer of Gilbert was short and concise. 
 
 •' In truth, it seems to me, the old man Mayland and his daugtiter Mary 
 »re even now in the cellar, attending to their household atlairs !" 
 
^a^ THE BATTLE OF BRANDYVVINE. 
 
 With une movement, the Tory Captain and his comrades rushed dowh 
 the stairway. 
 
 Gilbert approached the closet ; a light, gleaming from the cellar below, 
 bathed his face in a red glare. 
 
 " He will emerge from the passage on the hillside, near the hay-stack," 
 he muttered, while a demoniac look worked over his contracted face.— ' 
 ' Fairer tombs have I seen — but none so warm !" 
 
 As he gazes down the narrow passage, the light from beneath, reddening 
 his face, while his slender form quivers with a death-like agony Let us 
 ffo back through the vista of twenty years, and beliold the boy gazing into 
 the darkness of the chasm, in search of his father's corse. 
 
 Who, in the cold-featured, stony-eyed Gilbert Gates, would recognize the 
 boy with laughing eyes and flowing hair ? 
 
 The blaze of torches illumined the cellar. 
 
 Before a door of sohd oak, which separated the cellar from tne suoierra- 
 nean passage, tbe Tories paused. Then deep-muttered oaths alone distmbeu 
 the midnight silence. 
 
 " Quick — we have no time to lose — he is hidden in the underground 
 passage — let us force the door, before the people of the valley come to his 
 rescue 1" 
 
 Thus speaking, the Tory leader, whose face was hidden beneath the ibios 
 of crape, pointed with his sword towards a heavy billet of wood, whicn 
 laid on the hard clay of the cellar floor. 
 
 Four stalwart Tories seize it in their muscular grasp ; they stand pre- 
 pared to dash the door from its hinges. 
 
 " One good blow and the Spy is ours !" shouts the Tory leader, witn 
 an oath. 
 
 " And the guineas — don't forget the guineas, and the girl !" growled the 
 red-faced British Sergeant. 
 
 The torch-light fell over their faces, frenzied by intoxication and rage, 
 over their forms, clad in plain farmer's costume, with a belt across every 
 chest, a powder horn by each side. 
 
 And at this moment, as they stand ready to dash the door into fragments, 
 on the other side stands Mary, the peasant girl, her round white arm sup- 
 plying the place of bar and fastening. Yes, with the light in her extended 
 right arm, siie gazes after the retreating form of her father, while her left 
 arm is placed through the staples, in place of the bar. 
 
 One blow, and the maiden's arm will be rent in fragments, even to the 
 shoulder, one blow, and over her crushed and trampled body, will be made 
 the pathway of the ravager and robber ! 
 
 " Heaven, pity me ! My father has not sufficient strength to roll the 
 rock from the mouth of the passage ! I hear their voices — their threaw — 
 
THE SON OF THE HUNTER-SPY. 355 
 
 thev prepare to force the door, but I will foil them even yet ! They shall 
 not pass to my father's heart, save over the dead body of his child !" 
 
 Meanwhile, on the opposite side of the door, the four ruffians stood ready 
 with the billet of oak, in their iron grasp. 
 
 " Now !" shouted the Tory Captain, " one good blow, and it is done !" 
 
 They swayed the log slowly to and fro — it moved forward, — all the im- 
 pulse of their iron sinews concentrated in the effort — when a heavy body 
 fell from the narrow window of the cellar and beat the billet to the ground. 
 
 The curse of the Tory leader echoed through the vault. 
 
 In a moment, ere they could raise a hand, up from the darkness tliere 
 rose the form of a giant negro, bared to the waist, his broad chest heaving, 
 while his eyes rolled wildly in his inky face. 
 
 " Black Sampson !" growled the Tory. "Stand aside charcoal, or I'll 
 cut you down !" 
 
 " Look heah !" shouted the Negro, confronting the armed Tories with 
 his bared arms and breast, while his teeth grated convulsively. " Stan' off 
 — I say s-t-a-n' off! Ole Massa Maylan' kind to Sampson — gib him bread 
 when he hungry — med'cin' when he sick ! Now you gwain to hurt de ole 
 man ? I 'spose not, while Sampson hab an arm ! Stan' oft— I'm dange- 
 rous !" 
 
 And the black Hercules towered aloft, his sinews writhing, his teeth 
 clenched, his features — moulded with the aquiline contour of the Ashantee 
 race — quivering with rage. 
 
 There was a struggle — the gleam of arms — shouts and curses — yet still 
 the Negro beat them back — dashing their swords aside with his weaponless 
 hands. 
 
 Still, true to that wild fidelity — which burned in his savage heart like a 
 gleam froin Heaven — he shouted his hoarse war-cry. 
 
 " De ole man kind to Sampson ! 'Spose you hurt him? You mus' kill 
 dis nigga fust !" 
 
 Again he beat them back — but at last, by a simultaneous effort they bore 
 him to the earth. 
 
 At the same moment, the door flew open, and a shriek quivered through 
 the cellar. 
 
 " Saved — my father — saved !" 
 
 There, beneath the glare of the torches, lay the form of the fainting girl 
 — her bosom pulseless, her face as white as death. 
 
 " This way !" cried the Tory Captain. " We will secure the Spy first, 
 and then his daughter !" 
 
 They rushed after their leader — their shouts and cries, echoed far aloiig 
 me passage. 
 
 In another moment, a light shone over the cellar anal a wian of some 
 tweuty-six years, attired in the brown dress of a farmer, with blue eves and 
 flaxen hair, advanced toward the unconscsious giri. 
 
356 THE BATTLE OF BRANDYWINE. 
 
 "Here's a purty business !" he exclaimed, with a strong German nf..7EM 
 — " De nigga kiU, and Polly half dead !" 
 
 And thus speaking, honest Gotleib Hoft' knelt before the unconscious 
 girl. 
 
 On the green slope, which arose from the school-master's home, toward 
 the woods, on the hill-top stood the strange being whom we have known as 
 the son of the Hunter-Spy, and the Pretended Quaker — Gilbert Gates. 
 
 Above liim arched the universe of stars — around him, slumbered the 
 peaceful valley of Brandywine — within him, burned the tortures of a losi 
 •oul. 
 
 In his talon-like fingers he crushed a much-worn paper ; it had been 
 pinned to the dead man's breast some twenty years ago. 
 
 There were cold drops of sweat upon his brow ; he trembled from his 
 heart to his finger ends. 
 
 "They are on his track, the dupes, the tools of my vengeance ! Mine — 
 mine — father and daughter, both mine ! For him a death of horror — for 
 her a life of shame ! Hah ! I hear their shouts — they pursue him to the 
 death !" 
 
 As he spoke, a long column of light was flung over the green sward 
 where he stood, as if from the bosom of the earth. A huge rock was rolicd 
 from the mouth of the mound, and the shouts and yells of the ruffian band 
 swelled on the air. 
 
 A figure sprang from the shelter of the mound — a weak and aged man' — 
 his attire covered with earth, and torn in fragments — his blue eyes, wander- 
 ing in their glance, his grey hairs tossing to the impulse of the night breeze. 
 
 As he sprung out upon the sod, he muttered the name of God : 
 
 "It is hard for an old man like me to be hunted to death like a mad dog! 
 Let me see, which way shall I turn ? I must take to the woods !" 
 
 " Nay, friend Mayland, nay," said a mild and conciliating voice : " Thee 
 has never trusted in me, yet now will I save thy life. Not to the woods, 
 for the bloodhounds are too near ; in truth they are. But to the hay-stack ! 
 Behold this cavity, which I have made to conceal thee, amid this pile of 
 hay !" 
 
 " Gilbert Gates !" cried the old man, starting back. " I trust you not — 
 there is Traitor written on your face!" 
 
 " Hark ! Does thee hear the shouts of thee pursuers ? ' Death, deatV 
 to Mayland the Spy !' Will thee trust to them ?" 
 
 " To the hay-stack be it, then !" cried the bewildered old man : " Bles 
 me, wliat does this mean ? A hole hollowed out in the centre of the stack !'' 
 
 " I'll tell thee when thou art saved !" cried Gilbert, with his peculiar 
 imile. " In, friend Mayland, in ! They will never suspect thee hidini?- 
 place — I will conceal it with this loose hay !" 
 
 In a moment Jacob Mayland disappeared, While Gilbert Gates stood alant 
 m the centre of the sward. 
 
THE SON OF THE HUNTER-SPY. 357 
 
 The hay-stack, round, compact and uniform in appearance, rose darkly 
 in the dim light of the stars. Within its centre, cramped, confined, scarce 
 able to breathe, crouched Jacob Mayland, the one-armed schoolmaster. 
 . A shout from the mound, a flash of light, and some twenty forms leap 
 Dne by one, from the mouth of the passage. 
 
 " Ha ! Gilbert Gates !" shouted the Tory leader — " which way wenJ 
 they spy ?" 
 
 "To the woods! to the woods!" cried Gilbert, as his sharp features 
 glowed in the light of twenty torches. 
 
 " Look, you smootli-speech !" cried the huge British Sergeant, stumbling 
 forward — " I don't trust you. Your broad-brimmed hat don't hide youi 
 villainous face. By , I believe you've helped this Spy to escape !" 
 
 A hoarse murmur arose from the bravoes, who with ominous looks, came 
 Grouping round the False Quaker. 
 
 " Now, friend Hamsdroft*, do not get into a passion," said Gilbert, in his 
 mildest tones — " or if thee does get into a passion, I beseech — ' his face 
 assumed an expression which, in its mingled mildness and hatred, chili t;d 
 even the drunken Sergeant to the heart — " do not, I beseech thee, fire, the 
 poor marl's hay-slack T^ 
 
 " Ha, ha ! Won't I though ?" shouted the Sergeant. " The old fox 
 has escaped, but we'll burn his nest !" 
 
 He seized a torch and dashed it along the hay. 
 
 " Fire the hay-stack, my boys !" shouted the tory leader : " Fire tlip 
 hay-stack, every man of you ! Burn the rebel out of house and home !" 
 
 As you look, twelve of the band rush forward and encircle the hay-stack 
 with a belt of flame. Another moment — a sudden breeze from the forest — 
 the hay-stack glows from the sward a mass of living flame. 
 
 The Are whizzed, and crackled, and hissed, winding around the cone 0/ 
 hay, and shooting in one long column, into the midnight sky. Abroad over 
 the meadow, abroad over the forest, crimsoning each leaf witli a blood-red 
 glow, high and higher, fierce and madder, it whirled and rose, that column 
 of flame. 
 
 Now the Tories, half in rage and half in drunken joy, mingled hand in 
 hand, and danced around the burning pile. 
 
 " Hurrah for King George !" shouted the Sergeant, leaping from the 
 ground. " Death to all Rebels !" 
 
 " So perish all rebels !" echoed the Tories. 
 
 And higher and higher rose the flame. 
 
 Up to the heavens, paling the stars with its burning red — over the g*een 
 of the meadows — down upon the waters of the Brandywine — up the hill- 
 side — along the woods, it rose, that merry flame ! 
 
 As in the blaze of noonday, lay the level sward, the grey stone house of 
 the schoolmaster, the frame barn with its fences and outhouses — while 
 around the burning pi^e, merrier and gayer danced the soldiers, flinging tlieii 
 
358 THE BATTLE OF BRANDY WIN li. 
 
 swords in the blood-re'l light, and sending the name of tiie Good Kino 
 George to the skies ! 
 
 Retired in the background, some few yards from the burning stack, his 
 arms folded on liis breast, his head turned to one side, stood Gilbert Gates, 
 the Son of the Hunter-Spy. A smile on his pinched lips, a cold gleam in 
 his eye. 
 
 " Fire the house !" shouted the i ory leader. 
 
 They turned to fire the house, but a low, moaning sound broke on the 
 air — it caused the troopers, brutal as they were, to start with horror. The 
 leader of the Tories wheeled suddenly round bending his head to catch the 
 slightest whisper ; the face of the Sergeant grew white as his sword 
 belt. 
 
 That low, moaning sound swelled to a shriek — a shriek that curdled their 
 blood. It came from the bosom of the burning hay-stack— along the breeze 
 it yelled, and died away. Another shriek and another ! Three sounds 
 more horrible never broke on the ears of man. In a moment all was still 
 as death — the hay-stack crashed down with a deadened sound. Nothing 
 was left but a pile of smouldering embers. All was still as death, but a dim 
 object moved amid the last remains of the burning hay — moved, struggled, 
 and was still. 
 
 For the last time, the flame glared into the midnight sky. 
 
 Disclosed by that red glare, stood Gilbert Gates, perusing the crushed 
 paper which he grasped in his talon-fingers. 
 
 These are the words which he read by the glare of the hay-stack, words 
 written in a cramped hand — perhaps in blood-— and dated more than twenty 
 years before this, September day in 1777 ; 
 
 " Isaac Gates — a Traitor and Spy — Hung by three soldiers of his 
 Majesty's Army. Jacob Mayland." 
 
 " He died alone in the wild woods — and I — his son, and his avenger!" 
 
 With these words, the son of the Hunter-Spy passed behind the barn, 
 and was lost to sight. 
 
 And from the accursed pile of death fled the soldiers, spurring their horses 
 to their utmost speed — with the fear and horror of coward guilt they fled — 
 while far over the plain, far over the valley, came the men of Brandywine, 
 loused from their sleep by the burning hay-stack. Yes, from the hill-top 
 and valley they came, as the last embers of the fire were yet glowing on 
 the green sward. 
 
 And two figures emerged from the door of the schoolmaster's house, the 
 form of a stout and muscular man, and the form of a trembling maiden. 
 
 " Gotlieb, it seems like a dream," said the maiden. " The flight of my 
 father, the chase in the passage — the swoon ! Thank God, my father has 
 sscaped ! But what means this sudden stillnes.'j — yon flickering fire ?" 
 
 They reached the burning embers on the hill- side and stood for a mornen 
 gazing upon the scene. 
 
THE SON OF THE HUNTER-SPY. 359 
 
 A mass of burning hay, a pile of ashes, the wreck of some splintered 
 boards, were all that remained to tell of the location of the hay-stack. 
 
 " What is that dark thing in the fire ?" exclaimed Mary Mayland — 
 *' Quick, Gollieb — hold the light nearer — it seems to move, to stir !" 
 
 Gotlieb held the light over tlie darkened mass. Here let me pause for a 
 Bingle moment. 
 
 You may charge me with painting horrors that never existed. 
 
 And yet there is not a hill or a valley in any one of the old Thirteen 
 States unstained wiih the blood of peaceful men, shed by the hirelings of 
 King George. 
 
 Not only on the soil of Brandy wine, but in a quiet home of Germantown, 
 was a deed similar to the one in question, committed by American Tories 
 and their British brethren. 
 
 An old man burned to death in cold blood by the soldiers of King George : 
 it is horrible, but having occurred in the course of that beautiful game of 
 War, which Kings and Tyrants have played for some four thousand years ; 
 let us write it down, aye, in its darkest and bloodiest details, so that the 
 children of our day may know the features of Civil War 
 
 War has been painted too long as a pretty thing, spangled with buttons, 
 fluttering with ribbons, waving with plumes. 
 
 Let us learn *o look upon it as it is ; a horrible bandit, reeking with the 
 blood of the innocent, the knife of murder in his hand, the fire of carnage 
 in his eye. 
 
 Tlie war which Washington waged, was not icar, in the proper sense of 
 the term. It was only the defence of one's hearlhside against the robber 
 and iniirderer. 
 
 But of all the hideous murders which have been done, for two thousand 
 years, the war waged by the British King, against the American People, 
 was the foulest, tlie dastardliest, the bloodiest. 
 
 It was a massacre of eight years, beginning to kill at Bunker Hill, and 
 ending its work of butchery, only when it was crushed at Yorktown. 
 
 Let no mawkish sympathy for Great Britain shake this truth from our 
 souls. The Englishman we do not hate; he is the countryman of Shaks- 
 peare and Milton, he is our brother. 
 
 But it will take a thousand years of good deeds to wash from the History 
 of England, the horrid and merciless butcheries which she perpetrated ia 
 the Eight Years' War. 
 
 To forgive these crimes is our duty, but to forget them — 
 
 Can a child forget the wretch who butchered his mother ? 
 
 Why, at the thought, the dead of our battlefields bleed again — aye, from 
 the shades of Mount Vernon, armed for tl:e combat, starts the solemn ghost 
 of Washington ! 
 
 Let us follow this tragedy to the end, and at the same time, remember— it 
 is onlv one amonjj a thousand. 
 
300 THE BATTLE OF BRANDYWlNE. 
 
 Ootlieb held the light over the darkened mass. 
 
 Yes, while the men of Brandywine formed a circle about the scene, 
 grouping around the form of the farmer and the maiden, the light streamed 
 over that hideous object among the embers. 
 
 Mary, the daughter advanced, her face glowing mildly in the light, ad- 
 vanced and — lookeci — 
 
 — There are some sights which it is blasphemy to paint, and this is one 
 of them ! — 
 
 Some Angel of xVIercy, at the sight, took from her sense and consciousness. 
 She tell : her while hands outstretched, touched the mangled form of her 
 father. 
 
 Then one groan heaving from an hundred hearts, swelled on the air. 
 
 A dark form came rushing to the scene ; breasting the spectators aside, 
 Sampson, the Giant Negro stood there, gazing upon 'the horrid mass at 
 his feet. 
 
 And he knelt there, and his lips moved, and murmured a vow — not in 
 English — but in his wild Ashantee tongue. A heathen, with but an im- 
 perfect notion of the Christian Truth, dragged from his native land into 
 slavery when but a child, the son of a savage king, he murmured above 
 the old man's skeleton his horrible vow, devoting the murderers to his 
 Moloch God. 
 
 How that vow was kept let the records of Brandywine witness ! 
 
 At the moment while stout Gotlieb, appalled and stricken into stone, stood 
 holding the light over the dead — as Mary, pale and beautiful, lay beside 
 that which was her father, only an hour ago — as the huge negro bent above 
 the witness of murder, his sinews quivering, lips clenched and eyes glaring, 
 as he took the vow — at this moment, while the spectators stood alternately 
 melted into tears and frozen into the dead apathy of horror. 
 
 There came a peaceful man, gliding silently through the crowd, his bosom 
 trembling with deep compassion, his eyes wet with tears. 
 
 " Ah, this is a terrible thing !" said a tremulous voice — " In truth is it !" 
 
 And the Son of the Hunter-Spy stood gazing on the miserable remains 
 of his Father's Executioner. 
 
 XVII.— BLACK SAMPSON. 
 
 How beautiful in yonder graveyard, the wild flowers bloom, above the 
 Mother's grave ! 
 
 Fond hopes are buried here, yes, beneath the rank grass and the dark 
 mould, a true heart that once throbbed with the pulsations of that passion 
 which is most like Heaven — a Mother's Love — moulders into dust. 
 
 And yet from the very rankness of the mould, that encloses the Mother's 
 orm, from the very eyes and skull of Death, fair flowers bloom beautifully 
 into light, and with their fragrance sanctify the graveyard air. 
 
BLACK SAMPSON. 361 
 
 So from the very blood and horror of the battle-field, many a tender 
 rirtue is born, yes, from the carnage which floods the green meadow with 
 the life-current of a tliousand hearts, many a god-like heroism springs 
 gloriously into Hfe. 
 
 Vv ar is llie parent of many virtues. Not Invading War, which attracts 
 leii thousand crimes with its blood-red sword, and fills the land with the 
 dead bodies of its children. No ! Invading War is the Vulture of the 
 Andes, gorgeous in its plumage, bloody and merciless in its hatred, loath- 
 some in its appetite. It feeds only on the bodies of the dead. 
 
 But War for Home, and for Home's holiest altar, honest war waged with 
 a sword, that is taken from its resting place above the poor man's hearth, 
 and sanctified with the tears of his wife. War that is fought beneath a 
 clear sky, on a native soil, with the eyes of angels watching all the while ; 
 this is a holy thing in the sight of Heaven. 
 
 From such a war, fought on the Continent of America, during the long 
 course of Eight years, and extending its battle-field from the rock of Que- 
 bec to the meadows of Savannah, a thousand unknown virtues rushed into 
 birth. 
 
 I speak not now, of the sublime virtue of Washington, the heroism of La 
 Fayette, the wild energy of Anthony Wayne. No ! The hero whose 
 savage virtue is yet recorded in every blade of grass, that waves above the 
 field of Brandywine, was a poor man. A very humble man who had toiled 
 from dawn until dusk, with the axe or spade. A rude man withal, who 
 made his home in a miserable hut, yet still a Hero ! 
 
 The virtue that he cherished was a savage virtue, meaning in plain words, 
 Fidelity unto Death and after Death, yet still a virtue. 
 
 Start not when I tell you, that this hero was — a Negro ! His hair 
 crisped into wool, his skin blackened to the hue of ink, by the fiery sun of. 
 liis clime and race, his hands harsh and bony with iron toil. 
 
 He was a Negro and yet a Hero ! 
 
 Do not mistake me. I am no factionist, vowed to the madness of treason,, 
 under the sounding name of — Humanity. I have no sympathy — no scorn 
 — nothing but pity for those miserably deluded men, who in order to free 
 the African race, would lay unholy hands upon the American Union. 
 
 That American Union is a holy thing to me. It was baptized some 
 seventy years ago, in a river of sacred blood. For that Union thousands 
 of brave men left their homes, their wives, all that man holds dear in order 
 to die, amid ice and snows, the shock of battles, the dishonor of gibbets. 
 No one can count the tears, the prayers, the lives, that have sanctified tbis 
 American Union, making it an eternal bond of brotherhood for innumerable 
 millions, an altar forever sacred to the Rights of Man. For seventy years 
 and more, the Smile of God has beamed upon it. The nian that for any 
 pretence, would lay a finger upon one of its pillars, not only blasphemes 
 the memory of the dead, but invokes upon his name the Curse of all agea 
 23 
 
362 THE BATTLE OF L!KAND\ W IJNE. 
 
 yet to come. I care not how plausible his argument, how swelling hia 
 sounding periods, how profuse his ' sympathy for^ siijfering nwnaniiy," 
 that man is a Traitor to the soil that bore him, a Traitor to the mother 
 whose breast gave him nourishment, a Traitor to the Dead, whose very 
 graves abhor the pollution of his footsteps. 
 
 All that such a person can plead in extenuation, is the miserable excuse 
 of cowardice combined with folly. Arnold was a hero, a man of genius, 
 although a Traitor. The man who would taint with one unhallowed word 
 the sanctity of the Union, stands arrayed in the leprosy of Arnold's 
 Treason, without one redeeming ray of his heroism, one spark, of his 
 genius. 
 
 For the American Union is to Political Freedom, what the Bible is to 
 Religious Hope. There may be differences of opinion in relation to the 
 sacred volume, various creeds may spring from misconstruction of its pages, 
 defects of translation may mar the sublimest of its beauties. 
 
 Would you therefore blot the Bible from the earth ? Give us a better, a 
 holier book, before you take this from our homes and hearts ! 
 
 So the American Union may be the object of honest differences of opin- 
 ion ; it may be liable to misinterpretation, or be darkened by the smoke of 
 conflicting creeds ; yes, it may shelter black slavery in the south, and white 
 slavery in the north. 
 
 Would you therefore destroy it ? Give us a better, a holier Union, be- 
 fore you sweep this into chaos ! 
 
 With this protest against every illegitimate creation of a feverish philan- 
 throphy, whether it takes the shape of affection for the suffering African, or 
 — like the valorous bull who contended with the steam engine — pitches with 
 head down, eyes closed, horns erect, against the Happiness of Millions, let 
 rae turn to my hero. A negro Hero, with hair like wool, skin as black 
 as ink. 
 
 Against the porch of the murdered Schoolmaster's home, just before the 
 break of day, on the Eleventh of September, 1777, there leaned the figure 
 of a tall and muscular man. 
 
 You can see him yonder through the dimness of the day-break hour, rest- 
 ing with bent arms against the railing of the porch. His attire is very 
 simple ; rough coat and trowsers of plain homespun, yet through their loose 
 folds, you can discern the outlines of a noble, yes, magnificent form. 
 
 It is not his form however, with its breadth of chest, its sinewy arms, its 
 towering height, or Herculean outline of iron strength, that arrests your 
 attention. 
 
 His head placed erect upon his shoulders, by a firm bold neck. His face 
 with Its unmistakable clearness of outline. The brow full and prominent, 
 the nose aquiline with slight and tremulous nostrils, the lips not remarkable 
 
BLACK SAMPSON. 363 
 
 foi thickness, s(!t togellier with a firm pressure, tlie chin square and bohl, 
 the cheek-bones high and anguhir. 
 
 And yet he is a Negro, and yet he has been a slave ! 
 
 A Nco;ro, witliout the peculiar conformation, which marks whole tribes 
 of his race, Neitlier thick hps, flat nose, receding chin or foreliead, are 
 his. He stands in the dimness ol" this hour, a type of the war-like Ashan- 
 tee race, whose forms remind you at once of Apollo and Hercules, hewn 
 fnnn a solid mass of anthracite — black in hue yet bold in outline, vigorous in 
 the proportions of each manly limb. 
 
 Black Sampson — so they called him — stood leaning against the porch of 
 his murdered master's home, while around him, certain white objects arose 
 prominently in the dim air, and a vague murmur swelled above tlie meadow 
 of the Brandywine, 
 
 Ttiese white objects were the tents of the Continential Encampment, 
 stretching over the valley afar. That murmur was the omen of a terrible 
 event. It meant that brave men, with stout hearts in their bosoms, were 
 sharpening their swords, examining their rifles, and eating their last meal 
 before the battle. 
 
 But Sampson looked not upon the white tents, nor heard the murmur. 
 Nor did he gaze upon a space of earth, some few paces up the hill-side, 
 where a circle had been described on the soft sward, by the action of fire. 
 
 There, the night before last, his friend, his master, the veteran who had 
 served with Washington in Braddock's war, had been — burned to death. 
 
 Nor did the eye of Black Sampson, rest upon a rude hut, which you can 
 see, down the meadow yonder, half way between the stream, and the foot 
 of the hill. That was Black Sampson's home — there, when sick and at 
 death's door, he had been fed by the old schoolmaster, and there, his dreams 
 of Pagan Superstition had been broken by the prayers of the schoolmaster's 
 child. 
 
 Sampson's thoughts were neither with the murdered man and his blue- 
 eyed daughter, nor with the army whose murmur swelled around. 
 
 No! Gathering his coarse garb, to his breast, he folded his arms, and 
 talked to himself. 
 
 Now you will understand me, this Negro, could not speak ten clear 
 words of our English tongue. He could not master the harsh elements of 
 our northern language. But when he thought, it was in the musical sylla- 
 bles of his native Ashantee : shall we translate his thoughts into English ? 
 
 " Years — years — O, years of horrible torture, how ye glide away '. 
 Back into my native land again — the land of the desert and tlie sun, the 
 land of the Lion and the Tiger, — back once more into my father's kraal! 
 Yonder it stands among those trees, with the large green leaves, and many 
 colored birds upon each boujjh ! Yonder by the deep river, whose wavea 
 are white with lillies — yonder beneath the shadow of the palm, yonder 
 with its roof, evergreen with vines ! 
 
364 THE BATTLE OF BRANDYWINE. 
 
 " And my father is here ! Yes, with his people and his children round 
 him, he sits before his palace gate, gold bracelets on his wrists, the iron 
 spear in his hand, a chain of diamonds and pearls about his neck. Hut 
 Ka-Loloo, the king of the Ashantee has grown old ; he mourns for his son 
 — his son, who was stolen away, long years — ah, long, long years ago by 
 the pale face ! Look ! The old man weeps — he loved that son — see ! the 
 lays of tlie setting sun light up his aged brow — he weeps! His people in 
 vain attempt to comfort him. " My son, my son," he cries, " who shall 
 lead the Ashantees to battle, when I am gathered to the Kroalof the dead ?' 
 So speaks Ka-Loloo king of the Ashantees, sitting with his people round 
 him at his palace gate !" 
 
 —Laugh if you please, at these strange memories of the Negro, but I assure 
 you, there were tears in the rude fellows eyes, even as he stood there lean- 
 ing against the porch. 
 
 For his Father was a King — he was the Prince of three thousand war- 
 riors — he, whose native name was now lost in the cognomen. Black 
 Sampson — had been sold from his home into slavery. 
 
 The People of the valley of Brandywine knew but little about him. 
 About five years ago, he had appeared in the valley, a miserable skeleton, 
 covered from head to foot with scars. It was supposed that he was a slave 
 from the far south. No one asked his history, but the old veteran, even 
 Jacob Mayland, gave him a home. Therefore, Black Sampson clung to 
 the memory of his murdered master with all his soul. 
 
 The day began to dawn ; light clouds floating over the eastern horizon, 
 saw the sun approach, and caught his golden smile upon their snowy 
 breasts. 
 
 It was at this hour, that Black Sampson, leaning against the porch of the 
 murdered man's home, beheld a strange figure come slowly over the sward. 
 toward him. 
 
 Was it a Ghost ? So strangely beautiful, with those white feet, pressing 
 the soft grass, that flowing brown hair sweeping over the bared arms ? 
 
 At a second glance, he recognized the daughter of the schoolmaster, warm 
 and lovable and bewitching Mary Mayland, whom Gotlieb Hofl", the rough 
 farmer loved with all his heart. 
 
 Warm and lovable and bewitching no longer ! For she came with her 
 blue eyes fixed and glassy — she came, clad in her night dress as a shroud 
 — she came, the image of a Woman, whose dearest hope has all at once 
 been wrecked, whose life has suddenly been transformed from a garden of 
 virgin hopes, into a desert of blasted ashes. 
 
 Sampson was a Negro — a rude man, who had an imperfect idea of the 
 Blessed Saviour, mingling His Religion with the dreams of Pagan supersti- 
 tion — and yet, as he beheld this pale girl come slowly toward him, with 
 her whitQ arms folded over her almost pulseless bosom, he, the black man, 
 shuddered. 
 
BLACK SAMPSON. 365 
 
 Still the young woman came on, and stood before him — a miserable wreck 
 -tellinir ill her mad way, the story of her unutterable wrong. She did 
 not see Sampson, for her glassy eyes looked on the vacant air, hut still she 
 «old her story, makmg the honest negro's blood run cold in his veins. 
 
 — The night before she had been lured from her home, and . The 
 
 story cannot be told. All that we can know is, that she stands before us, in 
 the light of the breaking day, a mad and ruined girl. In her ravines — oh, 
 that name is too harsh ! In her mild, deep voice, she told the story of her 
 wrong, and murmured the name of Gilbert Gates, and the name of a British 
 officer. 
 
 You can see Sampson start forward, gather her gently in his rude arms, 
 and place her quietly on the seat of the porch. 
 
 " Dis am berry bad, Missa Polly — " he said, and you will remember that 
 he spoke very uncouth English — " Enuf to break a nigga's heart ! And 
 dev took you frorn yer home, and " 
 
 The negro did not utter another word, for he saw the stout form of Got- 
 lieb Hotf coming briskly over the sod, a rifle on his shoulder, an oaken sprig 
 in the band of his hat. Godieb whistled gaily as he came, his light curling 
 hair waving about his ruddy face. 
 
 He did not dream of the agony in store for him. 
 
 And while he came, the poor girl sat on the porch of her Home, folding 
 her white arms over her bosom, and muttering in that low deep voice, the 
 story of her wrong. 
 
 The negro Black Sampson, could not endure the siglit. Even as Gotlieb 
 came gaily on, the black man bounded from the porch, and hastened toward 
 yonder barn. 
 
 If he — the negro — turned away from the agony of this meeting between 
 thi Plighted Husband and his Ruined Bride, shall we take hearts of stone 
 to our bosoms, and gaze upon the horror of that interview ? 
 
 Black Sampson approached the barn whose walls of logs you see pileil 
 U|. yonder, on the side of the hill. 
 
 He opened a narrow door and called for his dog. The dog bounded 
 forth, a noble animal, in shape something like the kingly dogs of St. 
 Bernard, yet white as the driven snow. He came with fierce eyes and 
 formidable teeth, ears and head erect, and crouched low at his master's 
 feet. 
 
 Then Sampson entered the barn, and in a moment appeared, holding a 
 scythe in his right arm. He wound one arm around the handle, and with 
 the fingers of his other hand, tested the sharpness of the edge. 
 
 Then a low, deep, yet unnatural chuckle passed the African's lips. 
 
 " Look heah, Debbil — " that was the name of his dog — " Hah, yah ! 
 Sampson arn gwain a-niowin' dis day !" 
 
 The dog darted up, as with mingled rage and joy. 
 
 You will admit that Sampson's movements are peculiar In order to 
 
366 THE BATTLE OF BRANDY WIiNE. 
 
 understand this strange magnetic sympathy between the master and the dog, 
 let us follow Sampson's steps into the barn. 
 
 He flings open liie large door, and by the dim morning light you behold 
 a strange object in the centre of the threshing-floor among heaps of straw. 
 
 Is it a man, or an image ? 
 
 It is a British uniform, stuffed with straw and glittering with epaulettes 
 of gold. There is a gay chapeau placed on the shoulders of the figure, 
 military boots upon its legs. 
 
 The moment that ' Debbil ' beholds it, he howls with ungovernable rage, 
 displays his teeth, and shoots fire from his eyes. 
 
 But Sampson holds him by the collar, talking merrily to him all the 
 while — 
 
 " Look heah Debbil, we am gwain a-mowin' dis day ! De ye know 
 what we gwain to mow ? 1 tells ye. De night afore last, de dam British, 
 
 dey burn your Massa alive d'ye hear dat, ye stupid Debbil 1 Dis berry 
 
 hour dey abuse your young Missus — you understand me Debbil ? Dat's 
 de reason we am gwain a-mowin' ! Dat is ! An' whenebber ye see any- 
 ting like dat Debbil — " pointing to the figure — " Den at 'em trote, and lap 
 uni blood !" 
 
 He loosed the collar of the Dog and suffered him to go. 
 — You hear a deep howl, you see the dog spring forward. Look ! His 
 teeth are fixed in the throat of the figure ; he tears it, drags it, crushes it in 
 his rage, while Black Sampson stands lai^ghing by. 
 
 Laughing a low, deep laugh, that has something else than mirth in its tone. 
 
 " Dat's de way we am gwain a-mowin' dis day !" 
 
 He turned from the barn followed by the spotless dog. He stood amid 
 the cinders of the burned haystack, where his master had died in bitter 
 agony the night before last. 
 
 Then, while the armies were mustering for the conflict, while over the 
 valley of the Brandywine the Continentals formed in columns, their starry 
 banner waving overhead, while on yonder porch GoUieb listens to the story 
 of the veteran's child, here, on this circle of withered grass. Black Sampson 
 prepared for batde. 
 
 The manner of his preparation was singular. 
 
 The sun came on — the gleam of British arms shine on the opposite hills 
 —the batde was about to commence its Liturgy of yells and groans, yet 
 still Sampson stood there, in the centre of the blasted circle. 
 
 On the very spot where the veteran's bones had laid, he stood. 
 
 Muttering again that terrible oath of vengeance to his Moloch God, he 
 first stripped from his form his coat of coarse homespun. Then, with his 
 broad, black chest glittering in the sunlight, he wound his riglit arm around 
 the handle of his scythe. 
 
 He laid the other hand upon the head of his dog. His eye gleamed wiUi 
 deadly light. 
 
BLACK SAMPSON. 367 
 
 Thus, scythe in hand, his dog by his side, his form, in all its herculean 
 proportion, bared to the waist, Black Sampson stood prepared for battle. 
 
 Look yunder over the valley ! Behold that sweep of level meadow, that 
 rippling stream of water. On these eastern hills, you see the men of Mad 
 Anthony Wayne, ranged in battle-order. Yonder, from the western woods, 
 the gleam of Kniphausen's arms, shoots gaily over the leaves. 
 
 Suddenly there is a sound like thunder, then white columns of smoke, 
 then a noise of trampling hoofs. 
 
 Black Sampson hears that thunder and quivers from head to foot. He 
 sees the white smoke, and lifts his scythe. The trampling hoofs he hears, 
 and speaks to his dog — " Debbil, dis day we am gwain a-mowin' !" 
 
 But then, through the clamor of batUe, there comes a long and ringing 
 cry. It is the batde-shout of Anthony Wayne. 
 
 * Black Sampson hears it, darts forward, and with his dog by his side, 
 rushes into the folds of the batde-smoke. 
 
 You see him yonder, far down the valley, you see him yonder, in the 
 midst of the stream ; now he is gone among the clouds, now he comes forth 
 again, now the whirlpool of battle shuts him in. Still the white dog is by 
 his side, still that scythe gleams aloft. Does it fall ? 
 
 At last, yonder on the banks of the Brandy wine, where a gush of sunlight 
 pours through the battle-clouds, you see Black Sampson stand. A strange 
 change has passed over himself, his scythe, his dog. All have changed 
 color. The color they wear is a fiery red — look ! You can see it drip 
 from the scythe, crimson Sampson's chest and arms, and stain with gory 
 patches, the white fur of his dog. 
 
 And the word that Sampson said, as he patted his noble dog, was some- 
 thing like this : 
 
 " Dat counts one for Massa !" 
 
 Had the scythe fallen ? Had the dog hunted his game ? 
 
 Through the entire batde of Erandywine, which began at break of day, . 
 and spent its last shot when the night set in, and the stars came smiling out 
 upon the scene of murder, that Black Hercules was seen, companioned by 
 his white dog, the sharp scythe flashing in dazzling circles above his head. 
 
 On the plain or meadow, extending in a lake of verdure where the battle 
 begun ; four miles away in the graveyard of the Quaker Meeting house, 
 where thousands of contending foemen, fought until the sod was slippery 
 with blood ; at noon, at night, always rushing forward that Negro was seen, 
 armed only with a sharp scythe, his only comrade a white dog, spotted 
 with flakes of blood. 
 
 And the war-cry that he ever shouted, was in his rude way — 
 
 " Dat counts one for Masea, Debbil !" 
 
 Whenever he said this, the dog howled, and there was another mangled 
 corse upon the ground. 
 
868 I'HE BATTLE OF BRANDYWINE. 
 
 The British soldiers saw him come — his broad black chest gleaming in 
 the sun — his strange weapon glittering overhead — his white dog yelling by 
 his side, and as they looked they felt their hearts grow cold, and turned 
 from his path with fear. Yes fear, for with a superstition not unnatural, 
 they thought they beheld, not a warrior armed for the fight, but a Demon, 
 created by tlie horror of battle, rushing on with the fiend-animal by his 
 side. 
 
 Many a British throat that had been fondly pressed by the hands of 
 mother, wife, or sister, that day felt the teeth of the white dog ! Many a 
 British eye that had gazed undismayed into the muzzle of American can- 
 non, quailed with involuntary cowardice at the sight of that circling scythe. 
 Many a British heart that had often beat with mad pulsations, in the hour 
 when American homes had been desolated, American fathers murdered, 
 American mothers outraged, that day lay cold in the bosom which was 
 pressed by the foot of Black Sampson, the Prince of the Ashantee. 
 
 Do not impute to me a morbid appetite for scenes of blood. I might 
 pourtray to you in all their horrors, the several deaths of the murderers of 
 Jacob Mayland, the veteran of Braddock's war. How this one was hurled 
 from his horse by the white dog, while the scythe of Sampson performed 
 its terrible office. How another, pursuing the Americans at the head of 
 his men, uttered the shout of victory, and then heard the howl of the dog 
 and died. How a third gentleman, while in the act of listening to my Lord 
 Cornwallis, (who always went out to murder in clean rulHes and a wig, 
 perfumed with Marechale powder,) was startled by tlie apparition of a 
 giant negro, a whirling scythe, a white dog crimsoned with blood, and how 
 when he saw this apparition a moment only, he never saw or felt anything 
 more. 
 
 But I will not do it. My only object is to impress upon your minds, 
 rojT friends — for sitting alone in my room, with but this pen in my hand, I 
 can talk to you all ; you, the half-a-million readers of this page and call yoa 
 Jnends — the idea of Black Sampson's conduct, his religion, his ruling 
 n:otive. 
 
 It was this : Tlie old man Mayland and his daughter, had been very 
 kind to him. To them in his rude negro heart, he had sworn eternal 
 fidelity. In his rude African religion, to reveyxge the death of a friend, 
 was not only a duty, but a solemn injunction from the lips of the dead. 
 
 Therefore arming himself but with a scythe, he called his dog, and went 
 out to hunt Englishmen, as he had often hunted wild beasts. 
 
 Pass we then the carnage of that fearful day. 
 
 It was in the calm of twilight, wlien that sweet valley of Brandywine 
 looks as lovely as a young bride, trembling on the threshold of the Bridal 
 Chamber — a blushing, joyous, solemn thing, half-light, half-shadow — that a 
 rude figure stumbled into a room, where a dead woman lay. 
 
BLACK SAMPSON. 3e'.y 
 
 It was in a house near Dilwortli corner, one or two miles from the hai- 
 tle-field of the meeting house. 
 
 A quiet chamber filled with silent people, with hushed breath and deeply 
 saddened faces, and the softened glow of a glorious sunset pouring through 
 the closed curtains of yonder window. 
 
 Those people gathered round a bed, whose snow-white coverlet caught a 
 flu-sh of gold from the setting sun. Stout men were in that crowd, men 
 who had done brave work in that day's batde, and tender girls who were 
 looking forward with hope to a future life of calm, home-born joys, and 
 aged matrons, who had counted the years of their Hves by the burial of dear 
 friends. These all were there. 
 
 And there at the foot of the bed, stood a man in the dress of a farmer, his 
 frank honest face, stained with blood, his curling hair curling no longer, bit 
 stifTened with clotted gore. He had been in battle, Gotlieb Hoff striving 
 eaniestly to do some justice on these British spoilers, and now at the even- 
 ing hour — after scenes that I may picture at some future time — came to 
 look upon the burden of that bed. 
 
 It was no wonder that honest Gotlieb muttered certain mad sentences, in 
 broken English, as he gazed upon this sight. 
 
 For believe me had you been tliere, you would have felt your senses 
 gliding from you at that vision. It was indeed, a pitiful sight. 
 
 She looked so beautiful as she lay there upon the bed. The hands that 
 were gently clasped, and the bosom that had heaved its last throb, and tho 
 
 closed eyelids that were never to open more, and you see they wept 
 
 theie, all of them, for she looked so sadly beautiful as she lay dead, even 
 Mary cwnpt genUe lovable Mary, with the waving brown hair and the 
 laughing bl^e eyes. 
 
 She was dead now. About the hour of noon when the battle raged most 
 horribly, the last chord of her brain snapt, and on the altar of her outraged 
 life the last fire went out. She was dead, and O, she wore the saddest, 
 sweetest smile about her young face as she lay there, that you ever saw. 
 
 That was what made them weep. To have looked stiff and cold and 
 dismal, would have seemed more like Death, but to smile thus upon them 
 all, when her honor, her reason, her life, had all in one hour been trampled 
 into nothingness, to smile thus peacefully and forgivingly as she lay dead, 
 in her simple night-dress — ah ! It cut every heart with a sudden sharp 
 pain, and made the eyes overflow with bitter tears. 
 
 I have said that a rude figure stumbled into a room, where a dead 
 woman lay. 
 
 Yes, in the very moment when the last ray of the sun — that never more 
 ehould rise upon the dead girl — was kissing her closed lids as if m pity, 
 there came a rude figure, breasting his way through the spectators. 
 
 Black and grim — almost horrible to look upon — bleeding from manv 
 wounds, the scythe in his hand, Sampson stood there. lie looked long and 
 
370 THE BATTLE OF BRANDY WINE. 
 
 fixedly upon the dead girl. They could see a tremulous motion at his 
 nostrils, a convulsive quivering about his mouth. 
 
 At last with an oath — and O, forgive it kind Heaven, for it was but 
 sworn to hide the sincere feeling of his heart — he laid his hand upon the 
 head of the dog, which had crept silently to his side, and told the faithful 
 animal 
 
 " Debbil you am a rale brute, and no mistake ! Dars Missa Maylan' 
 layiii' dead — stone dead — she dat feed you and your Massa, many a hunder 
 time — and you no cry one dam' tear !" 
 
 Two large tears rolled down his face as he spoke, and the last sunbeam 
 kissed the eyelids of the dead girl, and was gone. 
 
 Some three or four years since, a ploughshare that upturned the soil 
 where a forest had stood in the Revolution, uncovered the grave of some 
 unknown man. In that grave were discovered the skeleton of a human be- 
 ing, the bones of an animal, and the rusted and blood-clotted blade of a scythe. 
 
 Did the hand of the Avenger ever strike the tinselled wretch who had 
 crushed into dishonor, the peasant-girl of Brandy wine ? 
 
 Even in the presence of Washington, while encircling the Chieftain with 
 British soldiers he fell, stricken down by the quiet Gilbert Gates, who whis- 
 pered in his freezing ear " Thou didst dishonor her — thou; that hadst no 
 father's blood to avenge !" 
 
 As the handsome Captain writhed in the dust — Washington amazed, the 
 British soldiers maddened by the sight — the pretended Quaker true to his 
 instinct of falsehood, whispered to the one, " Washington I have saved 
 thee !" and to the others — " Behold the order of friend Cornwallis, com- 
 manding this deed !" 
 
 Need we gaze upon the fate of this strange man, Gilbert Gates the Son 
 of the Hunter-Spy ? His crimes, his oath, his life, were all dyed with in- 
 nocent blood, but the last scene which closed the page of this world to him 
 forever, is too dark and bloody to be told. 
 
 In a dim nook of the woods of Brandywine, two vigorous hickory trees 
 bending over a pool of water, in opposite directions, had been forced by 
 strong cords together, and firmly joined into one. Those cords once 
 separated — the knot which combined them once untied — it was plainly to 
 be seen that the hickory trees would spring back to tiieir natural position, 
 with a terrific rebound. 
 
 The knot was untied by a rifle-ball. But the moment, ere the trees 
 sprung apart with a sound like thunder, you might see a human form lashed 
 by the arms and limbs, to their separate branches. 
 
 It was the form of Gilbert Gates, the Son of the Hunter-Spy. The ball 
 that untied the knot, was sped from the rifle of Gotlieb Hofl^, the plighted 
 busDand of the dishonored girl. 
 
BLACK SAMPSON. 37I 
 
 We have followed to its end, the strange and varied career of Gilbert 
 (fates, the False Quaker of Brandy wine. Now let us look upon a Friend 
 f)f another kind. The day before tlie battle, there stood in the sliadows 
 of the forest, at a point where two roads met, a man of some fifty-eight 
 years, one hand resting on the bridle-rein of his well-fed nag, and the other 
 j>ressed against his massive brow. He was clad in the Quaker dress. A 
 man of almost giant stature, his muscular limbs clad in sober drab, his 
 ruddy face and snow-white hairs crowned by a broad-rimmed hat. The 
 leaves formed a canopy above his head, as he stood wrapped in deep and 
 exciting thougiits, while his sleek, black horse — a long known and favorite 
 animal — bending his neck, cropped the fragrant wild grass at his feet. 
 
 The slout Quaker felt the throes of a strange mental contest quivering 
 through his veins. The father butchered by his hearthstone, tbe mother dis- 
 honored in the presence of her children, the home in flames, and the hearth a 
 Golgotha—these are not very Christian sights, and yet the old Quaker had 
 seen them all. And now with his heart torn by the contest between his 
 principles and his impulses, — hi* principles were ' /'er/ce .'', his impulses 
 shrieked » Washington T — he had come here to the silent woods to think 
 the matter over. He wished to shoulder a rifle in the Army of freedom, 
 but the principles of his life and creed forbade the thought. After much 
 thought, and it must be said, severe though silent Prayer, the stout Quaker 
 resolved to test the question by a resort to the ancient method of ordeal or 
 lottery. " Now," said he, as the sunlight played with his white hairs — " I 
 stand here, alone in the woods, where two roads meet. I will turn my favorite 
 horse, even Billy, loose, to go wherever he pleaseth. If he takes the road 
 on the right, I will get me a rifle and join the Camp of Friend Washington. 
 But in case he takes the road on the left, I will even go home, and mind 
 my own business. Now, Billy, thee is free — go where it pleaseth tbee-- 
 and mind what thee's about !" 
 
 The loosened rein fell dangling on Billy's sleek neck. The patriotic 
 friend beheld him hesitate on the point where the two paths joined ; he 
 saw him roll his large eyes lazily from side to side, and then slowly saun- 
 ter toward the road on the left — the ' Home ' road. 
 
 As quick as thought, the stout Quaker started forward, and gave the rein 
 almost imperceptible, but powerful inclination toward the ' Washington 
 Road,' exclaiming in deprecatory tones — '■'■Now thee stupid thing! 1 
 verily thought thee had better sense .'" 
 
 Whether the words or the sudden movement of the Quaker's hand, 
 worked a change in Billy's mind, we cannot tell, but certain it is, that while 
 the grave Friend, with his hands dropped by his side, calmly watched the 
 result, the sagacious horse changed his course, and entered the ' Washing- 
 ton road.' 
 
 *' Verily, it is ordered so !" was the quiet ejaculation of the Quaker, as 
 he took his way to the camp of Washington. We need not say, that t.t 
 •iid a brave work in the batUe of Brandy wine. 
 
372 THE BATTLE OF BRANDYWINE. 
 
 XVIII.— THE MECHANIC HERO OF BRANDYWINE. 
 
 Near Dilworth corner, at the time of the Revolution, there stood a quiet 
 cottage, somewhat retired from the road, under the shade of a stout chesnut 
 tree. It was a quiet cottage, nestling away there in one corner of the forest 
 road, a dear home in the wilderness, with sloping roof, walls of dark grey- 
 stone, and a casement hidden among vines and flowers. 
 
 On one side, amid an interval of the forest trees, was seen the rough 
 outline of a blacksmith's shop. There was a small garden in front, with a 
 brown gravelled walk, and beds of wild flowers. 
 
 Here, at the time of the Revolution, there dwelt a stout blacksmith, his 
 young wife and her babe. — What cared that blacksmith, working away the;e 
 in that shadowy nook of the forest, for war ? What feared he for the pei-il 
 of the times, so long as his strong arm, ringing that hammer on the anvil, 
 might gain bread for his wife and child ! 
 
 Ah, he cared little for war, he took little note of the panic that shook the 
 valley, when some few mornings before the battle of the Brandy wine, while 
 shoeing the horse of a Tory Refugee, he overheard a plot for the surprise 
 and capture of Washington. Tlie American leader was to be hired into the 
 toils of the tories ; his person once in the British camp, the English General 
 might send the " Traitor Washington" home, to be tried in London. 
 
 Now our blacksmith, working away there, in that dim nook of the forest, 
 without caring for battle or war, had still a sneaking kindness for this Mister 
 Washington, whose name rung on the lips of all men. So one night, bid- 
 ding his young wife a hasty good-bye, and kissing the babe that reposed on 
 her bosom, smiling as it slept, he hurried away to the American camp, and 
 told his story to Washington. 
 
 It was morning ere he came back. It was in the dimness of the autum 
 nal morning, that the blacksmith was plodding his way, along the forest 
 road. Some few paces ahead there was an aged oak, standing out into the 
 road — a grim old veteran of the forest, that had stood the shocks of three 
 hundred years. Right beyond that oak was the blacksmith's home. 
 
 With this thought warming his heart, he hurried on. He hurried on, 
 thinking of the calm young face and mild blue eyes of that wife, who, the 
 night before, had stood in the cottage door, waving him out of sight with a 
 beckoned good-bye — thinking of the baby, that lay smiling as it slept upon 
 her bosom, he hurried on — he turned the bend of the wood, he looked upon 
 nis home. 
 
 Ah ! what a sight was there ! 
 
 Where, the night before, he had left a peaceful cottage, smiling under a 
 green chesnut tree, in the light of the setting sun, now was only a heap of 
 black and smoking embers and a burnt and blasted tree ! 
 
 This was his home ' 
 
THE MECHANIC HERO OF BRANDY WINE. 373 
 
 And there stood the blacksmith gazing upon that wreck of his hearth- 
 atone ; — there he stood with foUled arms and moody brow, but in a moment 
 a smile broke over his face. 
 
 He saw it all. In the night his home had taken fire, and been burned to 
 
 cinders But his wife, his child had escaped. For that he thanked God. 
 
 With the toil of his stout arm, plying there on the anvil, he would bnild 
 
 a fairer iiome for wife and child ; fresh flowers should bloom over the 
 
 garden walks, and more lovely vines trail along the casement. 
 
 With this resolve kindling over his face, the blacksmith stood there,, with 
 
 a cheerful light beaming from his large grey eyes, when a hand was 
 
 laid upon his shoulder. 
 
 He turned and belield the face of a neighbor. 
 
 It was a neighbor's face ; but there was an awful agony stamping those 
 plain features — there was an awful agony flashing from those dilating eyes 
 — there was a dark and a terrible mystery speaking from those thin lips, 
 that moved, but made no sound. 
 
 For a moment that farmer tried to speak the horror that convulsed his 
 features. 
 
 At last, forcing the blacksmith along the brown gravelled walk, now strewn 
 with cinders, he pointed to tlie smoking embers. There, there — amid thiit 
 heap of black and smoking ruins, the blacksmith beheld a dark mass of 
 burnt flesh and bJackened bones. 
 
 '■'■ Your wife r'' shrieked the farmer, as his agony found words. "The 
 
 British they came in the night they" and then he spoke that outrage, 
 
 which the lip quivers to think on, which the heart grows palsied to tell — 
 that outrage too foul to name — " Your wife," he shrieked, pointincr to that 
 hideous thing amid the smoking ruins ; " the British they murdered your 
 wife, they flung her dead body in the flames — they dashed your child 
 against the hearthstone !" 
 
 This was the farmer's story. 
 
 And there, as the light of the breaking day* fell around the spot, there 
 stood the husband, the father, gazing upon tliat mass of burned flesh and 
 blackened bones — all that was once his wife. 
 
 Do you ask me for the words that trembled from his white lips ? Do 
 you ask me for the fire that blazed in his eye ? 
 
 I cannot tell you. But I can tell you that there was a vow going up to 
 Heaven from that blacksmith's heart ; that there was a clenched hand, up- 
 raised, in the light of the breaking day ! 
 
 Yes, yes, as the first gleam of the autumnal dawn broke around the spot, 
 as the first long gleam of sunlight streamed over the peeled skull of that 
 fair young wife — she was that last night — there was a vow goinu- up to 
 Heaven, the vow of a maddened heart and anguished brain. 
 
 How was that vow kept? Go there to Brandy wine, and where the car- 
 nage gathers thickest, where the fight is most bloody, there you may see a 
 
374 THE BATTLE OF BRANDYWINE. 
 
 stout form striding on, lifting a huge hammer into Hght. Wliere that ham« 
 mer falls, it kills — where that hammer strikes, it crushes ! It is tb.e black- 
 smith's form. And the war-cry that he shouts ? It is a mad cry of ven- 
 geance — half howl, half hurrah ? Is it but a fierce yell, breaking up from 
 his heaving chest ? 
 
 Ah no ! Ah no ! 
 
 It is the name of — Mary ! It is the name of his young wife ! 
 
 Oh, Mary — sweetest name of women — name so soft, so rippUng, so musi- 
 cal — n-ame of the Mother of Jesus, made holy by poetry and religion — 
 how strangely did your syllables of music ring out from that blacksmith's 
 lips, as he went murdering on ! 
 
 '•'■Mary !" he shouts, as he drags that red-coated trooper from his steed : 
 " Mary !" he shrieks, as his hammer crashes down, laying that officer in 
 the dust. Look ! Another officer, with a gallant face and form — another 
 officer, glittering in tinsel, clasps that blacksmith by the knees, and begs 
 mercy. 
 
 '^I have a wife — mercy! I have a wife yonder in England — spare 
 me !" 
 
 The blacksmith, crazed as he is, trembles — there is a tear in his eye. 
 
 " I would spare you, but there is a form before me — the form of my 
 dead wife ! That form has gone before me all day ! She calls on me to 
 strike !" 
 
 And the hammer fell, and then rang out that strange war-cry — " Mary !" 
 
 At last, when the battle was over, he was found by a wagoner, who had 
 at least shouldered a cartwhip in his country's service — he was found sitting 
 by the roadside, his head sunken, his leg broken — the life blood welling 
 from his many wounds. 
 
 The wagoner would have carried him from the field, but the stout black- 
 smith refused. 
 
 " You see, neighbor," he said, in that voice husky with death, " I never 
 
 meddled with the British till they burned by home, till they " he could 
 
 not speak the outrage, but his wife and child were there before his dying 
 eyes — " And now I've but five minutes' life in me. I'd like to give a shot 
 at the British afore I die. D'ye see that cherry tree ? D'ye think you 
 could drag a man of my build up thar ? Place me thar ; give me a powder- 
 horn, three rifle balls an' a good rifle ; that's all I ask." 
 
 The wagoner granted his request; he lifted him to the foot of the cherry 
 tree ; he placed the rifle, the balls, the powder-horn in his grasp. 
 
 Then whipping his horses through the narrow pass, from the summit of 
 a neighboring height, he looked down upon the last scene of the black- 
 smith's life. 
 
 There lay the stout man, at the foot of the cherry tree, his head, his 
 broken leg hanging over the roadside bank. The blood was streaming from 
 his wounds — he was dying. 
 
ANTHONY WAYNE AT BRANDYWINE. 375 
 
 Suddenly he raised his head — a sound struck on his ears. A party of 
 British came rushing along the narrow road, mad with carnnge and thirsting 
 lor blood. They pursued a scattered band of Continentals. An officer led 
 the way, waving them on with his sword. 
 
 The blacksmith loaded his rifle ; with that eye bright with death he took 
 the aim. " That's for Washington!" he shouted as he fired. The officer 
 lay quivering in the roadside dust. On and on came the British, nearer and 
 nearer to the cherry tree — the Continentals swept through the pass. Again 
 the blacksmith loaded — again he fired. " Tiiat's for mad Anthony Wayne !" 
 he shouted as another officer bit the sod. 
 
 The British now came rushing to the cherry tree, determined to cut 
 down the wounded man, who with his face toward them, bleeding as he 
 was, dealt death among their ranks. A fair-visaged officer, with golden 
 hair waving on the wind, led them on. 
 
 The blacksmith raised his rifle ; with that hand stifl'ening in death, he 
 took the aim — he fired — the young Briton fell with a sudden shriek. 
 
 "And that," cried the blacksmith, in a voice that strengthened into a 
 shout, "and that's for " 
 
 His voice was gone ! The shriek died on his white lips. 
 
 His head sunk — his rifle fell. ^ 
 
 A single word bubbled up with his death groan. Even now, methinks I 
 hctir that word, echoing and trembling there among the rocks of Brandy- 
 wine. That word was — Mary ! 
 
 XIX.— ANTHONY V/AYNE AT BRANDYWINE. 
 
 Oi>J a cold winter's day — far back in the olden time — in front of a rude 
 stone school-house, that arose from among an orchard, whose leafless 
 branches stood out against the clear blue sky, a crowd of school boys 
 might have been seen hurrying to and fro, in all the excitement of battle. 
 
 Their cheeks glowed crimson with the fever of the fight, as armed with 
 little globes of snow, they raised their battle shout, they met in conflict, 
 now rallying here, now retreating yonder, one party defending the entrench- 
 ments of ice and snow, while another band came on, the forlorn hope of 
 the mimic fray. 
 
 It was true, the weapons that they hurled, the fort, which was at once 
 the object of attack and defence, were all of frozen snow, yet the conflict 
 was carried on with an energy and skill worthy of many a bloodier fight. 
 
 You see the fort, rising before the dark school -house wall, a mound of 
 ice, over a waste of snow, its summit lined with the^brave defenders, 
 while the forlcrn hope of the enemy come rushing to the conflict, resolved 
 to force the entrenchments and put the conquered soldiers to the sword. 
 Not sv/ori) of steel, but a formidable blade carved with a pen-knife from a 
 branch of oak or hickory. 
 
376 THE BAllLE OF BRANDYWINE. 
 
 The hearty shouts of the combatants, ring out upon the air, their cheeks 
 flusli, their eyes fire ; the contest deepens and the crisis of the fight is near 
 
 You see that boy, not more than ten years old, standing erect upon the 
 fortress wall, his hazel eyes rolling like sparks of fire, in his ruddy face, 
 while his curly hair, white with snowy fragments, is blown around his brow 
 by the winter wind ? 
 
 He is the Master Spirit of the scene. 
 
 He urges his comrades with his merry shout, now bending to gather new 
 balls of snow, now hurling them in the face of the enemy, while his chest 
 heaves, expands, his nostrils quiver, his lips curl with the excitement ot 
 the hour. 
 
 It was he that raised this fort, and leading his comrades from their books, 
 marshalled them in battle array. 
 
 It is he, that retreating behind the wall, lures the enemy to the attack, 
 and then suddenly starting into view, with flushed cheeks and sparkling 
 eyes, shouts the word of command, and pours confusion in their ranks. 
 
 Backed by his comrades, he springs from the fort — again that shout — one 
 charge more and the day is ours ! Not a moment does he allow the enemy 
 to recover their broken ranks, but piles the snow upon their heads, and 
 sends the battle home. The air is thick with bombs of snow ; a frosty 
 shower whitens their cheeks, and dangles in glittering gems from their 
 waving hair. 
 
 Still that hearty shout, still that brave boy in front, still his little hands 
 are raised, wielding the missiles of the fight, as with his chest heaving and 
 one foot advanced, he stands upon the frozen snow, and shouts his com- 
 rades to the charge. 
 
 The enemy break, they scatter, they fly ! 
 
 The boy with the clear eye of hazel, the curling hair of chesnut brown, 
 is victor of the field. 
 
 You may smile at this contest, laugh at the gloom of the gruff school- 
 master's visage, projecting from yonder window, and yet the day will come, 
 when the enraged Pedagogue will hear this boy's name rung in the lips of 
 the nation, as the hero of an hundred bloody battles ! The day is coming, 
 when that little hand will yield an iron sword, while the hazel eye, flaming 
 from a face bathed in sweat and blood, will, with frenzied joy, survey the 
 mists, the glare, the hurrying ranks, the awful panorama of no mimic fight. 
 
 Time passed on, and the people of the good old county of Chester often 
 noted, a stripling, with his gun on his shoulder, wandering through the 
 woods of Brandywine, or sitting beside these still waters, holding the fishing 
 rod, from the brow of a projecting rock, his bare feet dipping in the waves, 
 as his hazel eye shone with visions of the future. 
 
 Time passed on, and there came a day, when this boy, grown to man- 
 hood, stood on the summit of a mound that rose from the meadows of the 
 Brandywine. 
 
ANTHOxXY WAYNE AT BRANDY WINE. 377 
 
 it was ill the t;ar!y morning time, when the liglit of the stars was scarcely 
 paled by the glow of the autumnal dawn. 
 
 Looking from the height of the fortitied knoll, defended by a deep ditch 
 and grim with cannon, General Wayne awaited the approach of the enemy. 
 Beneath him spread the va'ley, gleaming with American arms ; yonder 
 rippled the stream, so soon to be purpled in its every wave, with the life- 
 dro[)S of human hearts. On the opposite shore of the Brandy wine, .arose 
 wooded steeps, towering abruptly from the bed of the rivulet, crowned from 
 the ripple to the sky with forest trees. 
 
 Wayne stood on the summit of the knoll, his face flushed with deep 
 anxiety. He was about to fighl, not like La Fayette, for a strange people 
 of a far land, not like Pulaski, as an Exile and a Wanderer, nor yet like 
 Washinston, the leader of a People. No ! Surrounded by the memories 
 of childhood, his foot ufion his native soil, his chest swelhng with the air 
 that came rich and fragrant over the orchards of his native valley, he had 
 buckled on ih • sword to tight for that soil, he stood prepared to spend his 
 blood in defence of that valley. 
 
 By his side stood his gallant roan, caparisoned for the battle. 
 
 Tradition tells us, that it was a noble steed, with small head, broad chest 
 and tapering limbs. When he rushed into the fight, it was with neck arched, 
 uve rolling in (ire, and dark mane quivering on the battle breeze. But when 
 his master's shout rung on the air, sounding the-charge which mowed the 
 foemen down like stubble before the flame, then the gallant roan uttered his 
 battle neigh and went through the smoke and into tlie tire like a bomb shell, 
 hurled from the mortar along the darkened sky. 
 
 Wayne stood with his hand resting on his sword hilt. In stature, not 
 more than an inch above the middle heiglh, in form displaying a hardy, 
 energy, an iron vigor in every oudine, was clad in a blue coat faced witli. 
 buif, and falling open on his broad chest. There was a belt of dark leather 
 over his breast, military boots oJi his limbs, a plain chapeau, surmounted by 
 a plume of mingled red and white, surmounted his brow. 
 
 Beneath that plume you might behold the broad forehead, the aquiline, 
 nose, the clear, deep hazel eyes. It was the face of a warrior, nurtured 
 from boyhood to love the blaze of cannon, and hail the clang of contending' 
 swords, as the bridegroom hails the marriage music. 
 
 Surrounded by his brave men, Wayne looked upon the opposite steeps, 
 and looked for the bayonets of the foe. 
 
 At last they came. By the first gleam of morning light, he saw the 
 Hessian soldiers, burly in form, loaded with ornaments and armed to the 
 teeth, emerge from the shadows of the trees. Their heavy accoutrements, 
 iheir lofty caps, bushy with fur, their well-filled knapsacks, were all clearly 
 perceptible in the morning light. And the same sun that shone over their 
 tayonets, revealed not only the British banner, waving slcwly in the raorQ« 
 24 
 
378 THE BATTLE OF BRANDY WINE. 
 
 ing air, but the flags of Hesse and Anspach fluttering above their hordes of 
 slaves. 
 
 Wayne beheld thein come, and spoke to the cannoniers, arrayed in their 
 faded uniform of blue and but!". 
 
 In a moment, those cannon at his feet uttered a volume of smoke, that 
 rolled in folds of gloomy grandeur, high upward into tiie azure heavens. 
 
 He spoke to the Riflemen, in their rude hunting shirts of blue, with the 
 powder horn and knife at their sides. 
 
 He saw them rush from the embankment, he beheld them overspread the 
 meadow. Here, the steel cap of Porterfleld, with its bucktail plume, there, 
 the short sword of Maxwell, gleaming over the heads of his men. Bend- 
 ing from the fortified knoll, Wayne watched their career, with an interest 
 that fired his eye with deeper light. 
 
 Over the meadow, into the trees, — a solitary rifle shot yelled on the air^ 
 a solitary death-groan shrieked into the clear heavens. 
 
 The battle had begun. 
 
 Then crash on crash, peal on peal, the bands of Maxwell and Porterfleld 
 poured their balls into the faces of the Hessian foe. 
 
 Wayne beheld them glide among the trees, he saw the enemy recoil in 
 the midst of the waters, he heard their cries, but did not hear the sliouts of 
 his Riflemen. For these Riflemen, in the hour of battle, scarcely ever 
 spoke a word with their lips. When they had a message to send, it spoke 
 out from the tubes of their rifles. And these rifles always spoke to the heart ! 
 
 For the first time, that blue sky was clouded by the smoke of conflict. 
 For the first time, the groans of Christians hewn down by Christians, yeUed 
 on the air. For the first time, the Brandyv/ine was stained with blood of 
 the while man; for the first time, dead men, borne onward by its waves, 
 with l^ieir faces to the light, looked up with glassy eyes and glided on ! 
 
 Wayne beheld it all ! . 
 
 While the Hessian cannon answered to his own, while the fire from this 
 knoll was answered by the blaze yonder, Wayne bent forward, laid his 
 hand on the neck of his steed and watched the current of the figlit. 
 
 He was about to spring on his steed and rush into the conflict, when he 
 saw his Riflemen come out from the woods again, their arms dimmed, their 
 faces dabbled with blood. They had driven the Hessians back siepby step, 
 foot by foot they had hurled tliem back upon the opposite shore, and now 
 while the water dripped from their attire, silently lined the banks, awaiting 
 the next onset of the foe. 
 
 The morning passed awav, and the enemy did not resume their attack. 
 Their arms gleamed far over the hills, their banners waved "on every side, 
 between the leaves of the forest oaks, and yet they dared not cross the 
 Brandy wine again. Five thousand strong, they held their position in si- 
 lence, planted their cannon, arrayed their columns, and silently prepared the 
 destruction of the Rebel Foe. 
 
ANTHONY WAYNE AT BRANDY WINE. 379 
 
 The morning passed. Shaken by a thousand conflicting etnotions, 
 Washington hurried along the eastern heights of Brandywine, niss grey 
 horse, now seen among ihe trees of Brenton's Ford, now darting through 
 the batlle-smoke of Chadd's Ford, now halting beside the gallant roan of 
 Anthony Wayne. He knew not, whether the attack of Knipliaiiseii was a 
 mere feint; atone moment he anticipated the approach of the British in 
 full force, eighteen thousand strong, across the Brandywine, at another, 
 turning his eye away from the waters of the stream, he awaited the gleam 
 of Cornwallis' arms, from the northern woods. 
 
 Wayne and Washington stood on the summit of the fortified knoll, talk- 
 ing long and earnestly together. The same expression of suspense and 
 anxiety animated the lineaments of each warrior face. 
 
 The morning passed away. 
 
 Meanwhile, pausing on their arms, the Americans awaited tlie renewal 
 of the attack, but they waited for hours in vain. It was not made when 
 eleven o'clock came, and the sun was rising towards his noonday height ; 
 and Sullivan looked anxiously and eagerly from the heights were he was 
 stationed, for the appearance of the enemy at Brinton's Ford, but they came 
 not; nor could his scouts give him any intelligence of the movements of 
 Howe or Cornwallis. 
 
 General Kniphausen, he well knew, had made the attempt to cross at 
 Chadd's Ford, and had been nobly and gallantly repulsed ; but the larger 
 divisions of the enemy — where were they? What was their plan of oper- 
 ations ? Where would Howe appear, or in what quarter would Cornwallis 
 commence the attack ? 
 
 All was wrapt in mystery to the minds of Washington, Wayne and the 
 leader of his right wing. This silence of Howe and Cornwallis they feared 
 had something of omen — dark and fearful omen — of defeat and dismay, for 
 its explanation. 
 
 Eleven o'clock came, and Washington, with Sullivan by his side, stood 
 gazing from an elevated knoll, about half-way between Brinton's and Chadd's 
 Ford. 
 
 A horseman was observed riding up the hill-side at the top of his horse's 
 speed. His attire seemed to be that of a substantial yeoman, his coat hung 
 on his arm, his hat was extended in his upraised hand; his dress was dis- 
 ordered, his face covered with dust, and, as he rode up the hill-side, he sank 
 the spurs in the flanks of his horse, whose eye glared wildly, while the 
 dust and foam on his limbs showed that he had borne his master long and 
 far. 
 
 In a moment the horseman flung himself from his horse, and rushed to 
 the side of Washington. In hurried words he told his story, his manner 
 was warm, urgent even to agony. He was a farmer — his name was Chay- 
 k>r — he lived some miles northward of Rennet's Square — early on that 
 
380 THE BATTLE OF BRANDYWINE. 
 
 morning he had been aroused by the tread of armed men and the tramp of 
 War stee Js. 
 
 He look'^d from his window, and beheld the British army passing north- 
 vpard — General Howe and Lord Cornwallis were with tiiem. 
 
 He believed it to be the intention of the enemy to make the passage of 
 the Brandywine at Trimble's Ford and Jeffrey's Ford, some miles above 
 the forks of the river — to occupy the high hills to the northward of Bir- 
 mingham meeting-house, and thus having tlie entire right wing of the Con- 
 tinental forces laid open to his attack, Howe thought he might accompUsh 
 an easy victory. 
 
 This was the story of the farmer, and Washington would have given it 
 credence, were it not for one fearful doubt that darkened over his mind. 
 The surrounding country swarmed with tories — might not this be a tory 
 spy in disguise ? He discredited the story of the farmer, though he en- 
 forced its truth by an appeal to an oath, and even continued to utter it, with 
 tears in his eyes, yet still under the influence of this fearful suspicion, 
 Washington refused his -credence to the story of Farmer Cliaytor. This 
 mistake lost the battle of the Brandywine. 
 
 Soon after this incident, Sullivan received information by the hands of 
 Lieutenant Colonel Ross, that the enemy had just passed the forks of the 
 Brandywine, some two or three miles above the Fork, five thousand strong, 
 and provided with sixteen or eighteen field pieces. 
 
 No sooner was this information transmitted to Washington, than he 
 ordered Sullivan to advance towards the Forks, and attack this division of 
 the enemy. - But as Sullivan is about to undertake this movement, fresh 
 scouts come in, and report no intelligence of the British' army whatever in 
 the quarter named. The movement was postponed ; and while Sullivan 
 was thus shifting from one opinion to another, while Washington, with 
 Wayne, was expecting the attack at Chadd's Ford, through this unfortunate 
 contradiction of conflicting intelligence, the enemy was allowed to take a 
 secure and powerful position, some three miles north-east of Brinton's 
 Ford, and some four miles from Chadd's Ford. 
 
 We have seen the battle which ensued, and gone through its varies phases 
 of ferocity and chivalry. 
 
 While Washington with his Generals, Sullivan, Greene, and La-Fayette 
 was doing immortal deeds in the valley of the Quaker Temple, alone on the 
 heights of Chadd's Ford, stood Anthony Wayne, breasting the overwhelm- 
 ing force of the Hessian army, with his little band of heroes. 
 
 With a thousand half-armed Continentals, he opposed five thousand hire- 
 lings, prepared in every respect for the game of war, their cannon glooming 
 in every steep, their bayonets gleaming on every hill. 
 
 It was at four o'clock, that the valley of the Brandywine near Chadd's 
 Ford, presented a spectacle worthy of the brightest days of chivalry. 
 
ANTHONY WAYNE AT BRANDYWINE. 381 
 
 At first looking from the steep wliere Wayne watched tlie fight, his hand 
 laid on the neck of his steed, you behold notfiing but vast clouds of smoke 
 rolling like tlie folds of an immense curtain over the valley. Through 
 these clouds, streamed every instant great masses of flame. 'I'lien long and 
 arrowy flashes of light, quivered through their folds. Now they wore the 
 blackness of midnight, in a moment they were changed into masses of 
 snow. 
 
 And as they swayed to and fro, you might behold a strange nieeting 
 which took place in the lap of the valley. Pouring from the woods above 
 the stream, the Hessian hordes in their varied and picturesque costume, 
 came swarming over the field. As they advanced, the cannon above their 
 heads on the western hills, belched volumes of fire and death, and ligliled 
 them on their way. As they came on, their musquets poured volley alter 
 volley, into the faces of the foe. Their wild battle-shout was heard, in the 
 din of conflict Altogether the war of cannon, the sharp clang of musquetry, 
 the clouds now rolling here, now floating yonder, the bayonets gleaming 
 like scattered points of flame, far along the field, presented a scene at once 
 wild and beautiful. 
 
 And there in the centre of the valley, under the very eye of Wayne, a 
 band of men, some clad in plain farmer's attire, some in the hunting shirt 
 of the backwoodsman, stood undismayed while the Hessians swarmed on 
 every side. No shout broke from their sturdy r^nks. SilenUy loadinj/ 
 their rifles, they stood as though rooted to the sod, every one selecting a 
 broad chest for his target, as he raised his piece to the shoulder. 
 
 The sod beneath was slippery with blood. The faces of dead men 
 glared horribly all around i he convulsed forms of wounded soldiers — 
 whose arms had been torn oft" at the shoulder, whose eyes had been dark- 
 ened forever, whose skulls had been crushed from the crown to the brow — 
 were beneath their feet. 
 
 And yet they fought on. They did not shout, but waiting patiently until 
 they might alrnos: touch the bayonets of the Hessians, they poured the 
 blaze of rifles in their faces. And every time that blaze lighted up the 
 cloud, a new heap of dead men littered the field. 
 
 Still the Hessians advanced. Sold by their King to Murder, at so much 
 per day, very brutes in human shape whose business it was to Kill, they 
 trampled the dead bodies of their own comrades into the sod, uttered their 
 yell and plunged into the ranks of the Continental soldiers. 
 
 In vain the gleam of their bayonets which shone so beautiful, in vain their 
 hoarse shout, which echoed afar like the howl of savage beasts, mangling 
 their prey, in vain their elegantly arranged coluuins, displayed in llie most 
 approved style of European warfare ! 
 
 The American riflemen met them breast to breast, and sent their bullets 
 home, 'i'heir faces darkened by powder, spotted with blood, their uncouth 
 attire flulleriiig in rags, they did not move one inch, but in stern silence onlv 
 
382 THE BATTLE OF BRANDYWIxNE. 
 
 broken by the report ol their rifles, these Continental heroes met the onset 
 of tlie foe. 
 
 Suddenly the sun broke through the clouds, and lighted up the theatre of 
 battle. 
 
 Alinost at the same moment a venerable mansion rising among the woods 
 on yonder shore of the Brandywine, ascended to the sky, in a whirling 
 cloud of smoke and flame. Blown up by tjie explosion of powder, it shot 
 a long column of Are and blackness into the sky, and then its fragments 
 strewed the batde-field, mingled with the mangled wrecks of human forms. 
 
 Anthony Wayne, resting his hand on the neck of his steed, beheld it all. 
 
 He quivered in every nerve with the excitement of the combat, and yet 
 pressing his lip between his teeth, awaited the moment when iiis sword 
 should flash from the scabbard, his roan war-horse dash like a thunderbolt 
 into the storm of battle. 
 
 That moment came at last. It was when the bloody contest had rolled 
 over the valiey for an hour and more, that the crisis came. 
 
 Look yonder along the summit of the western hills, where the Hessian 
 banner darkens through the trees ! Look yonder and behold that gallant 
 company of warriors wind slowly down the hill, their swords, their helmets, 
 their plum 'S, brightening in the glow of the setting sun. Four hundred 
 strong, all attired in midnight black, relieved by gold, each helmet bearing 
 the ominous skull and cross bones emblazoned on its front, the dragoons of 
 Anspach came to battle. 
 
 At their head mounted on a snow-white steed, whose uplifted head and 
 quivering nostrils denote the fever of the strife, rides a iTian of warrior pre- 
 sence, his steel helmet shadowed beneath a mass of dark plumes, his broad 
 chest clad in a rich uniform, black as the raven's wing, glittering with stars 
 and epaulettes of gold. It is Kniphausen, the General of the Hessian horde, 
 riding at the head of veteran troopers, the bravest assassins of his hireling 
 band. 
 
 In their rude faces, darkened by the heavy mustachio and beard, cut and 
 hacked by scars, you read no gleam of pity. The cry of" Quarter !" falls 
 unheeded on the ears of men like these. No matter how just or infamous 
 the cause, iheir business is war, their pastime butchery. Unfurling the 
 black flag of their Prince — you see the Skull and Cross bones glittering in 
 the sun — they descend the hill, dash through the stream, and pour the 
 avalanche of their charge upon the C'ontinental host. 
 
 Wayne saw them come, and glanced for a moment on their formidable 
 uiray. Then turning he beheld the steeds of some two hundred troopers, 
 fecattered through the orchard at his back, the swords of their riders touch- 
 ing the ripe fruit which hung from the bending boughs. 
 
 Wayne silently removed his plumed chapeau, and took from the hands 
 ol a soldier at his side, his trooper's helmet, faced with steel and adorned 
 with a single bucktaii plume. 
 
ANTHONY WAYNE AT BRANDYWINE. 383 
 
 Then vaulting in the saddle, he unsheathed his sword, and turning to the 
 troopers shouted in his deep, indignant tones, the simple battle-word- 
 " Come on !" 
 
 He plunged from the embankment, and ere his gallant roan had reached 
 the base of the knoll, forth from the orchard trees burst that band of tried 
 soldiers, and with their swords steadily gleaming, thundered in one solic 
 mass down into the whirlpool of the fight. 
 
 Their banner, a White Horse painted on a blue field, and surrounded 
 with Thirteen Stars, fluttered out upon the breeze; that single peal of the 
 trumpet sounding tlie charge, shrieked far along the meadow. 
 
 Right throuirh the battle Kniphausen crashes on, the swords of his men 
 describing fiery circles in the air, the riflemen fall back, cut by their steel, 
 crushed by their horses hoofs, panic stricken by their Hessian hurrah. 
 
 But courage, brave yeomen ! Wayne is coming ; his banner is on the 
 breeze, his sword rises above his head, a glittering point of flame amid that 
 sea of rolling clouds. 
 
 The soldiers who remained on the embarkment, beheld a strange and 
 stirring sight. 
 
 Anihonv Wayne, at the head of two hundred brave troopers, dashing 
 toward tlie centre of the meadow, from the east — the Hessian Knipliausen, 
 at the same moment advancing to the same point from the west. Between 
 the Generals lay heaps of dead and dying ; around them, the riflemen and 
 Yagers, these in the hunting shirt, the others in a gaudy dress of green, 
 waged a desperate and bloody contest. 
 
 Wayne turned his head over his shoulder, and waved his sword — " Come 
 on !" the deep words rung through his clenched teeth. 
 
 They knew his voice, knew the glare of his battle eye, knew that uplifted 
 arm, and dented sword ! 
 
 Never has Kniphausen, crashing on, in the full current of impetuous 
 slaughter, beheld the trooper at his side, fall dead on the neck of his steed, 
 the marks of the rifle-ball oozing from his brow, he also looked up and be- 
 held the coming of Mad Anthony Wayne ! 
 
 It cannot be said that Wayne fought after the most approved style of 
 European tactics. 
 
 But there was an honest sincerity about his manner of fighting, an un- 
 pretending zeal in the method of his charge, when riding the enemy down, 
 he wrote his name upon their faces with his sword, that taught them to 
 respect the hardy son of Chester. 
 
 ♦' Upon them !" he shouted, and at once his two hundred troopers went 
 mto the heart of the Hessian column. They did not move very slowly 
 you will observe, nor advance in scattered order, but four abreast, a solid 
 bolt of horses, men and steel, they burst upon the foe, just as you have 
 Been a rock hurled from an enormous height, crush the trees in the valley 
 beneath. 
 
384 THE RATTLE OF BRANDYWINE. 
 
 The banner of the White Horse and Stars, mingled with the Black Flag 
 of Anspach — a cloud of men, horses and swords, whirled like the last effort 
 of a thunderstorm along the valley. In a moment, you can see nothing, 
 but the points of swords, gleaming from the confusion of the conflict. 
 Then, troopers bending over the mane of their steeds, their good swords 
 quivering together, ere the fatal blow — horses themselves, fired with the 
 fury of the hour, tearing each other's necks with their teeth — wounded 
 men, plunging from their saddles to the sod — the banners of the foemen 
 waving over all ! 
 
 It was in the centre of that whirling fight, that Kniphausen and Wayne, 
 cutting their way with their swords, silently confronted each other. The 
 dark figure on the white steed drew near and nearer to the form, attired in 
 blue and buff, and mounted on a roan war-horse. Each man beheld his 
 foe, and their eyes met in a look, as searching as it was momentary. 
 
 The appearance of Wayne indicated violent emotion. His lip compressed 
 between his teeth, his hazel eye firing beneath the frontlet of his cap, he 
 grasped his sword, and for one moment looked around. 
 
 It was a hideous spectacle that met his eye. The Continentals scatter- 
 ing over the meadow, in broken array ; the ground heaped with the bodies 
 of the dead ; the Brandywine, ghastly with the forces of the slain, thrown 
 into light by its crimson waves. 
 
 That look seemed to make the blood within him, boil like molten lead. 
 For raising himself in his stirrips, he called to his brother knigiits — to Mar- 
 shall of Virginia, to Proctor of the Land of Penn, to the heroic riflemen, 
 Maxwell and Porterfietd — he shouted, the day was not yet lost, and then, 
 with one impulse, himself and his horse, charged Kniphausen home. 
 
 No human arm might stand the fury of that charge. In a moment 
 Kniphausen found himself alone in the midst of his enemies, the sword of 
 Wayne, glaring near and nearer to his heart, the faces of the Continentals 
 darkening round. 
 
 He appealed to his men, but in vain. To drive them back on the rivulet, 
 to hurl them, horses and men together, into the red embrace of the waves, 
 to cut the banner staff, and trail their banner in the mire, to sabre them by 
 tens and twenties, as tliey strove to recover their battle order — this was a 
 brilliant thing to do, but right brilliantly it was done, by Mad Anthony and 
 his men. 
 
 That sight thrilled like electric fire along the field. In a moment the 
 Continentals rallied ; the riflemen advanced ; the artillery began to play, 
 the air thundered once more with the battle shout! 
 
 Reining his roan war-horse on the banks of the Brandywine, his sword 
 in sober truth dripping with blood, Anthony Wayne, his face quivering with 
 the intoxication of the battle, shouted to his soldiers, cheered them to the 
 charge, saw them whirl tiie whole Hessian force into the stream. 
 
ANTHONY WAYNE AT CRANDYWINE. 385 
 
 How brilliantly the fire of hope and glory, lit up the hazel eye of 
 Wayne ! 
 
 At the instant, while the Hessian army in all its varied costume thronged 
 the bed of tlie rivulet and scattered in dismay along liie western shore, while 
 Kniphausen mad witli chagrin, hurried from rank to rank, cursing the men 
 who would not fight, while Marshall and Proctor, Maxwell and Porterfield 
 were hurrying their forces to the charge, the sun shone out from the west- 
 ern sky and lighted up the Brandywine, the valley, the forces of the living 
 and the crushed countenances of the dead. 
 
 The sudden gush of sunlight bathed the brow of Anthony Wayne, as 
 thrilling to his inmost heart, he waved his sword, and once more sounded 
 the cliarge. 
 
 At the very moment, in the very flush of his triumph, a strange sound 
 from the east growled on the ears of the General. It was the tramp of 
 the right wing under Washington, Sullivan and Greene, retreating from the 
 field of the Quaker Temple. Wayne saw their broken array, and knew 
 that the field, not the day was lost. 
 
 His sword sank slowly to his side, with his face to the foe, he pointsd 
 the way to old Chester; he uttered the deep words of command. 
 
 " The soldiers of the right wing have been forced to retreat before supe- 
 rior numbers — we will protect their retreat !" 
 
 "With surprise, indeed with awe, Kniphausen beheld the victorious band, 
 who had just hurled his forces back upon the stream, slowly form in the 
 order of retreat, their swords and banners gleaming in the sun. 
 
 And as the Continental forces slowly wound along the eastern hills — as 
 Kniphausen proceeded to occupy the ground which they had deserted — 3 
 solitary warrior, the last of the rebel army, reined his steed on the knoll of 
 Chadd's Ford, and with his blood-stained face glowing in the sunshine 
 looked back upon the field, and in one glance surveyed its soil, transformed 
 into bloody mire, its river floating with dead, its overlooking hills glittering 
 with Hessian steel ! 
 
 That one look, accompanied by a quivering of the lip, a heaving of his 
 broad chest, the last gaze over, and the roan war-horse turned away, bear- 
 ing from the field of Brandywine its own hero. Mad Anthony Wayne ! 
 
 From the rising to the setting of the sun, he had maintained the fight; 
 on the hills of his childhood, he had worked out his boyhood's dream, and 
 wrote his name on the column of ages, with his battle sword.* 
 
 * Note. — Amonc; the many ridiculous anecdotes which are told of great men, none 
 are more contemptible than two stories which are gravely written in connection with 
 the name of Anthony Wayne. It is said on one occasion, when Washington desired 
 the presence of Wayne, at his council, the latter sent this message — " You plan, and 
 ril execute ! Plan an attach on Hell, and I'll storm the gates .'" Whether the wit of 
 this consists in its gross profanity, or drunken bravado, those grave gentlemen, who 
 record it in their pages, may best answer. It is an insult on the memory of the chivai. 
 
986 THE BATTLE OF BRANDYWINE. 
 
 XX.-FORTY-SEVEN YEARS AFTER THE BATTLE. 
 
 It was a calm and lovely day in summer — the time was morning, and 
 the place the valley of the Birmingham meeting house. The place was 
 calm and lovely as on the battle morn, but forty-seven long years had past 
 since that day of terror, and yet the bye roads the hills and the plains, were 
 all alive with people clad in their holiday costume. A long processiou 
 wound with banners and with the gleam of arms, around the base of Os- 
 borne's Hill, while in their front the object of every eye, there rolled a 
 close carriage, drawn by six magnificent steeds, and environed by civic sol- 
 diers who rent the air with shouts, and flung wreaths of flowers and laurel 
 beneath the horses' hoofs. 
 
 Slowly and with peals of solemn music — the summer sun above, shining 
 serenely from a cloudless sky — the carriage wound along the ascent of the 
 Hill and in a few moments, while valley and plain below were black with 
 people, the elegantly caparisoned steeds were reined in on the broad sum- 
 mit of that battle-mount. 
 
 There was a pause for a moment, and then an aged man, a veteran trem- 
 ulous with the burden of seventy years, and grim with scars — clad in the 
 lostume of the Revolution, approached and opened the carriage door. 
 
 The crowd formed a silent circle around the scene. 
 
 A man of some sixty years, tall in stature, magnificent in his bearing, 
 stepped from the carriage, his form clad in a plain dress of blue, his un- 
 covered brow glowing in the sun, with the grey hairs streaming to the 
 breeze. 
 
 He stepped on the sod with the bearing of a man formed to win the hearts 
 of men; he advanced with the manner of one of nature's Kings. For a 
 moment he stood uncovered on the brow of the hill, with the sun shining 
 on his noble brow, while his clear blue eye lighted up, as with the memo- 
 ries of forty-seven years. 
 
 And then from plain, from hill, from valley, from the lips of ten thousand 
 freemen arose one shout — the thunder of a Peoples' gratitude — loud, pro- 
 longed and deafening. The soldiers waved their swords on high — they 
 raised their caps io the air — and again, and again, the shout went up to the 
 clear heavens. — In that chorus of joy, only a word was intelligible, a word 
 that bubbled from the overflowing fountains of ten thousand hearts : 
 
 " La Fayette !" 
 
 ric Pennsylvanian, whose glory is the treasure of our history. The other anecdoto, 
 reads someihing like this: "Can you take that battery, Wayne," said Washington. 
 "I will take it by the Lord .'" " Do not swear, Anthony," — " Theii. with or without the 
 Lord, rU take it !" Can anything be more utterly unlike, Wayne? He was not a 
 •ufiian, but a gentleman. Why will these journeymen historians, transform a bravs 
 and heroic man, into a braggart and blasphemer i 
 
FORTY-SEVEN YEARS AFTER THE BATTLE. 387 
 
 The Stranger was observed to tremble with a strange emotion. He who 
 had fought undaunted in the battle of that valley forty-seven years ago, 
 .rembled like a child. The Hero of Two Revolutions, the Boy of Brandy- 
 wine, the Prisoner of Olmutz, who flung his broad lands and princely reven- 
 ues in the lap of freedom, now bowed his head, leaned upon the shoulder 
 of the veteran and veiled his eyes from the light. 
 
 When he raised his face again, there were tears in his eyes. 
 
 So beautiful that country bloomed before him, so darkly on his memory 
 rushed the condition of blighted France ! The land of his birth trodden 
 under the hoofs of the invader, the Bourbon-Idiot on her Throne, the Na- 
 poleon of her love, dead in his island-gaol of Si. Helena. And here an 
 Exile — almost a homeless Wanderer — stood the Man of Two Revolutions, 
 gazing upon the battle plain, which forty-seven years before had been 
 crowded by British legions, but now bloomed only with the blessings of 
 peace, the smile of an all-paternal God ! 
 
 The contrast between the Land of Washington and the Land of Napo- 
 leon, was too much for La Fayette. 
 
 He gazed upon the hills crowned with woodlands, the farms blooming 
 with cultivation and dotted with Homes upon the level plains, green as with 
 the freshness of spring, the wide landscape glowing in the sun, the very 
 Garden of the Lord — he gazed — he thought of — France. The tears 
 streamed freely down his cheeks. 
 
 Then his blue eye surveyed the Quaker temple, rising on its far-oflf hill, 
 surrounded by its grassy mounds. As on the battle-day it looked so with 
 Its grey walls and rude roof and narrow windows it now arose, the trees 
 around it, quivering their tops in the morning light. 
 
 Again the shout of that dense crowd thundered on the air, Welcome, wel- 
 come the friend of Washington, La Fayette ! 
 
 But it fell unheeded on his ear. His soul was with the Past. There 
 forty-seven years before, he had seen Washington in all his chivalric man- 
 hood ; there Pulaski in his white array and battle-worn face, thundering on, 
 in his hurricane charge ; there Sullivan and Wayne and Greene, with all 
 the heroes doing deeds that started into history ere the day was gone ; he 
 had seen, known them all, and loved the Chief of all. 
 
 And now 
 
 He stretched forth his arms, and clasped the veteran of the Revolution to 
 his heart. 
 
 " They're all gone, now — " were the earnest words that bubbled from 
 his full heart : " All comrade, but you ! Of all the chivalry of Brandy wine 
 
 now remams 
 
 ?♦' 
 
 that forty-seven years ago, blazed along these hills, what 
 
 Then as the vision of his blighted France, rushed once again upon his 
 
 soul, he murmured incoherently, " My God ! My God ! Happy country 
 
 - -happy People !" 
 
 There on the summit of the Battle-Hill he leaned his arm upon his 
 
398 THE BATTLE OF BRANDYWINn.. 
 
 brother veteran, noi trusting his tongue with further speech. His heart 
 was too full for words. As he stood overwhelmed by his emotions, the 
 shout of the people was heard once more — 
 
 » Welcome the Champion of Freedom in two Worlds, the hero of Bran- 
 dywine and friend of Washington, welcome La Fayette I" 
 
BOOK FIFTH. 
 
 THE FOURTH OF JULY. 1776. 
 
 MEN AND THEIR MISSION. 
 
 The Declaration; its source; its action upon mankind in tub 
 Revolutions of America and France. 
 
 (389) 
 
THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776. 
 
 I.— THE DAY. 
 
 Let me paint you a picture on the canvass of the Past. 
 
 It is a cloudless summer day. Yes, a clear blue sky arches and smiles 
 above a quaint edifice, rising among giant trees, in the centre of a wide city. 
 That edifice is built of red brick, with heavy window frames and a massy 
 hall door. The wide-spreading dome of St. Peter's, the snowy pillars of 
 the Parthenon, the gloomy glory of Westminster Abbey — none of these, nor 
 any thing like these are here, to elevate this edifice of plain red brick, into 
 a gorgeous monument of architecture. 
 
 Plain red brick the walls ; the windows partly framed in stone ; the roof- 
 eaves heavy with intricate carvings ; the hall door ornamented with pillars 
 of dark stone ; such is the State House of Piiiladelphia, in this year of our 
 Lord, 1776. 
 
 Around this edifice stately trees arise. Yonder toward the dark walls of 
 Walnut street gaol, spreads a pleasant lawn, enclosed by a plain board fence. 
 Above our heads, these trees lock their massy limbs and spread their leafy 
 canopy. 
 
 There are walks here, too, not fashioned in squares and circles, but 
 spreading in careless negligence along the lawn. Benches too, rude benches, 
 on which repose the forms of old men with grey hairs, and women with 
 babes in their arms. 
 
 This is a beautiful day, and this a pleasant lawn : but why do those 
 clusters of citizens, with anxious faces, gather round the Slate House walls ? 
 There is the Merchant in his velvet garb and ruflled shirt ; there the Me- 
 chanic, with apron on his breast and tools in his hands ; there the bearded 
 Sailor and the dark-robed Minister, all grouped together- 
 Why this anxiety on every face ? This gathering in little groups all 
 over the lawn ! 
 
 Yet hold a moment ! In yonder wooden steeple, whifeh crowns the red 
 brick State House, stands an old man with white hair and sunburnt face. 
 He is clad in humble attire, yet his eye gleams, as it is fixed upon the pon- 
 derous outline of the bell, suspended in the steeple there. The old man 
 trieS|to read the inscription on that bell, but cannot. Out upon the waves, 
 
 (391) 
 
393 THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776. 
 
 far away in the forests ; thus has his life been passed. He is no scholar, 
 ne scarcely can spell one of those strange words carved on the surface of 
 that bell. 
 
 By his side, gazing in his free — that sunburnt face — in wonder, stands a 
 flaxen-haired boy, with laughing eyes of summer blue. 
 
 " Come here, my boy ; you are a rich man's child. You can read. 
 Spell me those words, and I'll bless ye, my good child !" 
 
 And the child raised itself on tip-toe and pressed its tiny hands against the 
 bell, and read, in lisping tones, these memorable words: 
 
 " Proclaim Liberty to all the Land and all the iNHABiTANTa 
 
 THEREOF." 
 
 The old man ponders for a moment on those strange words ; then gath- 
 ering the boy in his arms, he speaks, 
 
 " Look here, my child ? Wilt do the old man a kindness ? Then haste 
 you down stairs, and wait in the hall by the big door, until a man shall give 
 you a message for me. A man with a velvet dress and a kind face, will 
 come out from the big door, and give you a word for me. When he gives 
 you that word, then run out yonder in the street, and shout it up to me. 
 Do you mind f" 
 
 It needed no second command. The boy with blue eyes and flaxen hai" 
 sprang from the old Bell-keeper's arms, and threaded his way down the dark 
 stairs. 
 
 The old Bell-keeper was alone. Many minutes passed. Leaning over 
 the railing of the steeple, his face toward Chesnut street, he looked anxiously 
 for that fair-haired boy. Moments passed, yet still he came not. The 
 crowds gathered more darkly along the pavement and over the lawn, yet 
 still the boy came not. 
 
 " Ah !" groaned the old man, " he has forgotten me ! These old limbs 
 Will have to toller down the Slate House stairs, and climb up again, and all 
 on account of that child " 
 
 As the word was on his lips, a merry, ringing laugh broke on the ear 
 'J'here, among the crowds on the#pavement, stood the blue-eyed boy, clap- 
 ping his tiny hands, while the breeze blowed his flaxen hair all about his face. 
 
 And then swelling his Utile chest, he raised himself on tip-toe, and shouted 
 a single word — 
 
 " Ring !" 
 
 Do you see that old man's eye fire ? Do you see that arm so suddenly 
 jarcd to the shoulder, do you see that withered hand, grasping the Iron 
 Tongue of the Bell ? The old man is young again ; his veins are filled 
 with new life. Backward and forward, with sturdy strokes, he swings the 
 Tongue. The bell speaks out ! The crowd in the street hear it, and burst 
 forth in one long shout ! Old Delaware hears it, and gives it back in the 
 hurrah of her thousand sailors. The city hears it, and starts up from desk 
 and work-bench, as though an earthquake had spoken. 
 
THE DAY. 393 
 
 Yet still while the sweat pours from his brow, that old Bell-keeper htirla 
 tne iron tongue, and still — boom — boom — boom — the Bell speaks to the city 
 and the world. 
 
 There is a terrible poetry in the sound of ihat Slate House Bell at dead 
 of night, when striking its sullen and solemn — One ! — It rouses crime from 
 its task, mirth from its wine-cup, murder from its knife, bribery from its 
 gold. There is a terrible poetry in that sound. It speaks to us like a voice 
 from our youth — like a knell of God's judgment — like a solem.n yet kind 
 remembrancer of friends, now dead and gone. 
 
 There is a terrible poetry in that sound at dead of night: but there was 
 a day v^hen the echo of that Bell awoke a world, slumbering in tyranny 
 and crime ! 
 
 Yes, as the old man swung the Iron Tongue, the Bell spoke to all tho 
 world. That sound crossed the Adantic — pierced the dungeons of Europe 
 — the work-shops of England — the vassal-fields of France. 
 
 That Echo spoke to the slave — bade him look from his toil — and know 
 himself a man. 
 
 That Echo startled the Kings upon their crumbling thrones. 
 
 That Echo was the knell of King-craft, Priest-craft, and all other craj\s 
 born of the darkness of ages, and baptised in seas of blood. 
 
 Yes, the voice of that litde boy, who lifting himself on tip-toe, with his 
 flaxen hair blowing in the breeze, shouted — '■'■ Ring T^ — had a deep and 
 awful meaning in its infant tones ! 
 
 Why did that word " 7?«/? "• .'" — why did that Echo of the State Houso 
 Bell speak such deep and awful meaning to the world ? What diJ that 
 " Ring.'" — the Echo of that Bell to do with the downfall of the Dishonest 
 Priest or Traitor King ? 
 
 Under that very Bell, pealing out at noonday, in an old hall, fifty-six 
 traders, farmers and mechanics, had assembled to shake the shackles of tlie- 
 world. 
 
 Now let us look in upon this band of plain men, met in such solemtv 
 council It is now half an hour previous to the moment when the Bell- 
 Ringer responded to the shout of the fair-haired boy. 
 
 This is an old hall. It is not so large as many a monarch's ante-room ; 
 you might put a hundred like it within the walls of St. Peter's, and yet it' 
 is a fine old hall. The walls are concealed in dark oaken waiuscotting, 
 and there along the unclosed ^vindows, the purple tapestry comes drooping 
 down. 
 
 The ornaments of this hall ? 
 
 Over the head of that noble-browed man — John Hancock, whc sits calm 
 and serene in yonder chair — there is a banner, the Banner of the Stars 
 Perched on that Banner sits the Eagle with unfolded wings. (Is it not a 
 precocious bird ? Born only last year on Bunker Hill, now it spreads its 
 wings, full-grown, over a whole Continent !) 
 
.194 THE FOURTH OF JULY. 1776. 
 
 Look over the faces of these fifty-six men, and see every eye turned to 
 that door. There is silence in this hall — every voice is hushed — every face 
 is stamped with a deep and awful responsibilitv. 
 
 Wliy turns every glance to that door, why is every face so solemn, why 
 is it so terribly still ? 
 
 The Committee of Three, who have been out all night, penning a Parch- 
 ment, are about to appear. 
 
 The Parchment, with the Signatures of these men, written with the pen 
 lying on yonder table, will either make the world free — or stretch these 
 necks upon the gibbet, yonder in Potter's-field, or nail these heads to the 
 door-posts of this hall ! 
 
 That was the time for solemn faces and deep silence. 
 At last, hark ! The door opens — the Committee appear. Who are 
 these three men, who come walking on toward John Hancock's chair ? 
 
 , That tall man, with the sharp features, the bold brow and sand-hued hair, 
 holding the Parchment in his hand, is the Virginia Farmer, Thomas Jefl"er- 
 son. The stout-built man with resolute look and flashing eye ? That is a 
 Boston man — one John Adams. And the calm-faced man, with hair droop- 
 ing in thick curls to his shoulders— that man dressed in a plain coat, and 
 such odious home-made blue stockings — that is the Philadelphia Printer, 
 one Benjamin Franklin. 
 
 The three advance to the table. The Parchment is laid there. Shall it 
 be signed or not ? 
 
 Then ensues a high and stormy debate — then the faint-hearted cringe in 
 corners — while Thomas Jefl^erson speaks out his few bold words, and John 
 Adams pours out his whole soul. 
 
 Then the deep-toned voice of Richard Henry Lee is heard, swelling in 
 syllables of thunder-like music. 
 
 But still there is doubt — and that pale-faced man, shrinking in one corner, 
 squeaks out something about axes, scaffolds, and a — gibbet ! 
 
 " Gibbet !" echoes a fierce, bold voice, that startles men from their seats, 
 — and look yonder ! A tall slender man rises, dressed — although it is 
 summer time — in a dark robe. Look how his white hand undulates 
 as it is stretched slowly out, how that dark eye burns, while his words ring 
 through the hall. (We do not know his name, let us therefore call his 
 appeal) 
 
 THE SPEECH OF THE UNKNOWN. 
 
 »' Gibbet? They may stretch our necks on all the gibbets in the land — 
 they may turn every rock into a scafl'old — every tree into a gallows, every 
 home into a grave, and yet the words on that Parchment can never die ! 
 
 " They may pour our blood on a thousand scaffolds, and yet from every 
 drop that dyes the axe, or drips on the sawdust of the block, a new martvr 
 to Freedom will spring into birth 
 
THE DAY. 39tt 
 
 " The British King may hlot out the Stars of God from His sky, but he 
 santiot blot out His words written on the Parchment there ! The wonts 
 of God may perish — His Word, never ! 
 
 *' These words will go forth to the world when our bones are dust. To 
 the slave in the mines they will speak — Hope — to the mechanic in his 
 workshop — Fri'EDOm — to the coward-kings these words will speak, hut not 
 m tones of flattery ? No, no ! They will speak like the flaming syllables 
 on Belshazzar's wall — the days of your pride and glory are numhered ! 
 The days of Judgment and Revolution draw near ! 
 
 " Yes, that Parchment will speak to the Kings in a language sad and 
 terrible as the trump of the Archangel, You have trampled on mankind 
 long enough. At last the voice of human woe has pierced the ear of God, 
 and called His Judgment down ! You have waded on to thrones over 
 seas of blood — you have trampled on to power over the necks of millions — 
 you have turned the poor man's sweat and blood into robes for your delicate 
 forms, into crowns for your anointed brows. Now Kings — now purpled 
 Hangmen of the world — for you come the days of axes and gibbets and 
 scafliblds — for you the wrath of man — for you the lightnings of God ! — 
 
 " Look ! How the light of your palaces on fire flashes up into the mid« 
 night sky ! 
 
 " Now Purpled Hangmen of the world — turn and beg for mercy ! 
 
 " Where will you find it ? 
 
 " Not from God, for you have blasphemed His laws ! 
 
 " Not from the People, for you stand baptized in their blood ! 
 
 " Here you turn, and lo! a gibbet ! 
 
 " There — and a scaffold looks you in the face. 
 
 •' All around you — death — and nowhere pity ! 
 
 " Now executioners of the human race, kneel down, yes, kneel down 
 upon the sawdust of the scaffold — lay your perfumed heads upon the block 
 — bless the axe as it falls — the axe that you sharpened for the poor man's 
 neck ! 
 
 " Such is the message of that Declaration to Man, to the Kings of the 
 world ! And shall we falter now ? And shall we start back appalled when 
 our feet press the very threshhold of Freedom ? Do I see quailing faces 
 around nie, when our wives have been butchered — when the hearthstones 
 of our land are red with the blood of litUe children ? 
 
 " What are these shrinking hearts and faltering voices here, when the very 
 Dead of our baldefields arise, and call upon us to sign that Parcjiment, oi 
 be accursed forever ? 
 
 " Sign ! if the next moment the gibbet's rope is round your neck ! Sign ! 
 if the next moment this hall rings with the echo of the falling axe ! Sign ! 
 By all vour hopes in life or death, as husbands — as fathers — as men — sign 
 your names to the Parchment or be accursed forever ! 
 
 " Sign — and not only for yourselves, but for all ages. For that Parch- 
 
396 THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776 
 
 meiit will be the Text-book of Freedom— the Bible of the Rights of Mun 
 forever ! 
 
 " Sign — for that declaration will go forth to American hearts forever, anJ 
 speak to those hearts like the voice of God ! And its work will not be 
 done, until throughout this wide Continent not a single inch of ground owns 
 the sway of a British King ! 
 
 " Nay, do not start and whisper with surprise ! It is a truth, your own 
 hearts witness it, God proclaims it. — This Continent is the property of a 
 free people, and their property alone. God, I say, proclaims it! Look at 
 this strange history of a band of exiles and outcasts, suddenly transformed 
 into a People — look at this wonderful Exodus of the oppressed of the Old 
 World into the New, where they came, weak in arms but mighty in God- 
 like faith— nay, look at this history of your Bunker Hill — your Lexington — 
 where a band of plain farmers mocked and trampled down the panoply of 
 British arms, and then tell me, if you can, that God has not given America 
 to the free ? 
 
 " Ii is not given to our poor human intellect to climb the skies, to' pierce 
 the councils of the Almighty One. But methinks I stand among the awful 
 cloue?^ which veil the brightness of Jehovah's throne. Methinks I see the 
 Recording Angel — pale as an angel is pale, weeping as an angel can weep 
 — come trembling up to that Throne, and speak his dread message — 
 
 " ' Father ! the old world is baptized in blood ! Father, it is drenched 
 with the blood of millions, butchered in war, in persecution, in slow and 
 grinding oppression! Father — look, with one glance of Thine Eternal eye, 
 look over Europe, Asia, Africa, and behold evermore, that terrible sight,^ 
 man trodden down beneath the oppressor's feet — nations lost in blood — 
 Murder and Superstition walking hand in hand over the graves of their 
 victims, and not a single voice to whisper, ' Hope to Man /' 
 
 " He stands there, the Angel, his hands trembling with the black record 
 of human guilt. But hark! The voice of Jehovah speaks out from the 
 awful cloud — ' Let there be light again. Let there be a New World. Tell 
 my people — the poor — the trodden down millions, to go out from the Old 
 World. Tell them to go out from wrong, oppression and blood— tell them 
 to go out from this Old World — to build my altar in the New !' 
 
 •' As God lives, my friends, I believe that to be his voice ! Yes, were 
 my soul trembling on the wing for Eternity, were this hand freezing in death, 
 were this voice choking with the last struggle, I would still, with the last 
 impulse of that soul, with the last wave of that hand, with the last gasp of 
 that voice, implore you to remember this truth — God has given America to 
 the free! Yes, as I sank down into the gloomy shadows of the grave, with 
 my last gasp, I would beg you to sign that Parchment, in the name of the 
 God, who made the Saviour who redeemed you — in the name of the mil- 
 liuns whose very breath is now hushed in intense expectation, as they look 
 up to yeu for the awful words — ' You are free !" ' 
 
THE DAY. 39^ 
 
 O many years have gone since that hour — the Speaker, his brethren, ;ill, 
 have cruinbled into dust, but it would require an angel's pen to picture the 
 nirigic of that Speaker's look, the deep, terrible emphasis of his voice, the 
 prophet-like beckoning of his hand, the magnetic flame which shooting from 
 his eyes, soon fired every heart throughout the hall ! 
 
 He fell exhausted in his seat, but the work was done. A wild murmur 
 thrills through the hall. — Sign? Hah ? Tliere is no doubt now. Look ! 
 How they rush forward — stout-hearted John Hancock has scarcely time to 
 sign his bold name, before the pen is grasped by another — another and 
 another! Look how the names blaze on the Parchment — Adams and Lee 
 and .Jefferson and Carroll, and now, Roger Sherman the Shoemaker. 
 
 And here comes good old Stephen Hopkins — yes, trembling wilh palsy, 
 he totters forward — quivering from head to foot, with his shaking hands lie 
 seizes the pen, he scratches his patriot-name. 
 
 Then comes Benjamin Franklin the Printer, and now the tall man in the 
 dark robe advances, the man who made the fiery speech a moment ago — 
 with the same hand that but now waved in such fiery scorn he writes liis 
 name.* 
 
 And now the Parchment is signed ; and now let word go forth to the 
 People in the streets — to the homes of America — to the camp of Mister 
 Washington, and the Palace of George the Idiot-King — let word go out to 
 all the earth — 
 
 And, old man in the steeple, now bare your arm, and grasp the Iron 
 Tongue, and let the bell speak out the great truth : 
 
 Fifty-six Traders and Farmers and Mechanics have this day shook 
 THE shackles of the World ! 
 
 Hark ! Hark to the toll of that Bell ! 
 
 Is there not a deep poetry in that sound, a poetry more sublime than 
 Shakspeare or Milton ? 
 
 Is there not a music in the sound, that reminds you of those awful tones 
 which broke from angel-lips, when the news of the child of Jesus burst on 
 the Shepherds of Bethlehem ? 
 
 For that Bell now speaks out to the world, that — 
 
 God has given the American Continent to the free — the toiling 
 
 MILLIONS of the HUMAN RACK AS THE LAST ALTAR OF THE RIGHTS OF MAN 
 
 ON THE GLOBE THE HOME OF THE OPPRESSED, FOREVERMORE ! 
 
 Let US search for the origin of the great truth, which that bell proclaimed, 
 let us behold the great Apostle who first proclaimed on our shores, all 
 
 BEN are alike THE CHILDREN OF GoD. 
 
 • The name of the Oraior, who made the last eloquent appeal before the Sif^ning 
 of the Declaration, is not definitely known, In this speech, ii is my wish to com- 
 press borne portion of the fiery eloquence of tlie time ; to embody in abrupt sentences, 
 the very spirit of the Fourth of July, 1776. 
 
398 THE FOURTH OF JULY. 1776. 
 
 11.— THE APOSTLE TO THE NEW WORLD 
 
 We are, with the Past again. 
 
 Yes, we are yonder — far over the Ocean of Time, where the Ages lik« 
 Islaiids of eternal granite, rear their awful forms. 
 
 At this hour on the shores of the Delaware, just where the glorious river 
 rich with the tribute of mountain and valley, widens into a magnificent bay, 
 at tfiis hour along yonder shore, on the slope of a gentle ascent blooms a 
 fair village, whose white houses rise in the summer air from among gardens 
 and trees. Away from this hamlet spreads fields, golden with wheat, or 
 emerald green with Indian corn ; away among these fields rank marshes 
 wind here and there, in all the luxuriance of their untamed verdure ; away 
 and away from marsh, and field, and coast, and bay, green woods arise, their 
 thick foliage sweeping into the summer sky. 
 
 A pleasant village, a glorious country, a green island, and a lordly bay. 
 
 Such it is now. But we will back into the past. We will wander into 
 the shadows of ages. We will stand face to face with the dead. 
 
 There was a day when no village bloomed along this coast, nor vvhite- 
 walled farm-house arose from among the orchard trees. There was a day 
 when standing on this gentle ascent, you might look forth, and lo ! the 
 waves were dashing to your feet. • Yonder is the green aisle, yonder far 
 away, the dim line of land which marks the opposite shore of the bay, and 
 there, heaving, and glistening, and roaring, the wide waters melt by slow 
 degrees into the cloudy sky. 
 
 Look to the south ! You behold the level coast — white sand mingled 
 with green reeds — the wide-spreading marsh — the thick woods, glorious 
 with oak, and beech, and chesnut, and maple. Enclosed in the arms of the 
 green shore, the bay rolls yonder, a basin of tumultuous waves. 
 
 It is noon : above your head you behold the leaden sky. It is noon, and 
 lo ! from the broad green of yonder marsh a pale column of blue smoke 
 winds up into the clouds. It is noon, and hark ! A shrill, piercing, his- 
 sing yound — a footstep — a form ! A red man rushes from yonder covert, 
 bow in hand, while the stricken deer with one proud bound, falls dead at 
 his feft. 
 
 A column of blue smoke from the marsh — an arrow hissing through the 
 air — a red man's form and a wounded deer ? What does all this mean? 
 Where are we now ? 
 
 Ilist ! my friend, for we are now in Indian land. Hist ! for we are now 
 f'.r hack among the shadows of two hundred years. 
 
 \f:i we will watch the motions of this Red Man. He stoops with his 
 hitchet of flint upraised, he stoops to inflict the last blow on the writhing 
 deer, when his eye wanders along the "Surface of the bay. The hatchet 
 
THE APOSTLE TO THE NEW WORLD. 3OD 
 
 drops from his hand — he stands erect, with parted lips and starting eyes, 
 his hands half-raised, in a gesture of deep wonder. 
 
 He stands on this gentle ascent, the waves breaking at his feet, the proud 
 maple spreading its leaves overhead. He stands there, an Apollo, such as 
 the Grecian artist ne' er sculptured in his wildest dream, an Apollo fashioned 
 by the Living God, with a broad chest, faultless limbs, quivernig nostrils, 
 and a flushing eye. No robes of rank upon that tawny breast, ah, no ! A 
 single fold of panther's hide around the loins, graces without concealing, the 
 proportions of his faultless limbs. 
 
 Tell us — why stands the lone Indian on this Delaware shore, gazing in 
 mute wonder across the sweep of yonder magnificent bay. 
 
 Look, yes, far over the waters look ! What see you there? The bay, 
 its waves plumed with snowy foam : yes, the rolling, dashing, panting bay, 
 rushing from the horizon to the shore. Look again, rude Red Man ; what 
 see you now ? 
 
 The Red Man cannot tell his thoughts ; hisbreast heaves; he trembles 
 from head to foot. 
 
 Strange — yes, terrible spectacle ! 
 
 A white speck gleams yonder on the horizon ; it tosses into view, on that 
 dim line where waves meet the sky. It enlarges, it spreads, it comes on 
 gloriously over the waters ! 
 
 The Red Man standing beneath the giant maple, chilled to his rude heart 
 with a strange awe. 
 
 That while speck is dim and distant no longer. It is nearer now. It 
 spreads forth huge wings of snow-white ; it displays a massive body of jet- 
 black ; it comes on, this strange wondrous thing, tearing the waves with its 
 beak. Beak ? Yes, for it is a bird, a mighty bird, sent by Manitto from 
 the Spirit-Land, sent to save or to destroy ! 
 
 Gloriously over the bay it comes. Larger and larger yet it grows. 
 White and beautiful spread its fluttering wings over the dark waters. 
 
 The Red Man sinks aghast. He prays. By the rustling in the leaves, 
 by the voice of his own heart, he knows that Manitto hears his prayer. 
 The White Bird comes for good ! 
 
 Leaving the rude Indian to gaze upon the sight of wonder with his own 
 eyes, let us also look upon it with ours. 
 
 A noble ship, dashing with wide-spread sails over the waters of the Dela- 
 ware Bay ! Such is the sight which two hundred years ago, excited tke 
 wonder and awe of the rude Indian, who never beheld ship or sail before. 
 Ship and sail had tossed and whitened along this bay full many a time be- 
 fore, but the Indian dwelling in the fastnesses of impenetrable swamps, had 
 never laid eyes upon this wondrous sight until this hour. 
 
 It is near the Indian now. It comes dashing over the waters toward the 
 Island, triumphing over the waves, which roar and foam in its path. Look ! 
 you can see the people on its deck, the sailors among its white wings 
 
400 THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776. 
 
 And now the anchor is cast overboard ; lliere is the rude ch;int of the 
 sailor's song ; and a boat comes speeding over the waters, urged along by 
 sinewy arms. 
 
 Yes, while the noble ship rides at anchor, under the shelter of yondei 
 isle, that small boat comes tossing over the waters. It nears • the spot 
 where the Indian stands ; he can see the bearded faces and stranj;e costume 
 of the sailors, he can see that Form standing erect in the prow of the boat. 
 
 That Form standing there under the leaden sky, with the uncovered 
 brow, bared to breeze and spray ! Is it the form of a spirit sent by Manit- 
 to ? The Indian sees that form — that face ! He kneels — yes, beneath the 
 maple tree, by the bleeding deer, tomahawk in hand he kneels, gazing with 
 fixed eyes u{)oa that face. As the boat comes near let us look upon that 
 face, that form. 
 
 A man in the prime of life, with the flush of manhood upon his cheek, 
 its fire in his eye, attired in a brown garb, plain to rudeness, stands in the 
 prow of the boat, as it comes dashing on. 
 
 And yet that Man is the Apostle of the Living God to the New 
 World. 
 
 Yes, on a mission as mighty as that of Paul, he comes. His coat is 
 plain, but underneath that plain coat beats a heart, immortal with the pul- 
 sations of a love that grasps at all the human race. 
 
 He is an Apostle, and yet his eyes are not hollow, his cheeks not gaunt 
 and cadaverous, his hair not even changed to grey. An Apostle with a 
 young countenance, a clear blue eye, a cheek flushed with rose-bud hues, 
 a broad brow shadowed by light brown hair, a mouth whose red lips curve 
 with a smile of angel like love. 
 
 An Apostle with a manly form, massive chest, broad shoulders, and bear- 
 ing far beyond the majesty of kings. 
 
 He stands in the prow, his blue eye flashing as the boat nears land. 
 Splash, splash — do you hear the oars? Hurrah — hurrah! How the 
 waves shout as they break upon the beach. 
 
 The boat comes on, nearer and nearer. A swelling wave dashes over 
 the dying deer, whilst the spray-drops wet the face of the kneeling Indian. 
 
 The keel grates the sand. 
 
 For a moment that man with the fair countenance and chesnut hair, 
 stands in the prow of the boat, his blue eyes upraised to God, For a mo- 
 ment he stands there, and behold ! The clouds are severed yonder. A 
 gush of sunshiue pours through their parting folds, and illumines the 
 Apostle's brow. In that light he looks divine. 
 
 Say through those parting clouds, cannot you see tlie face of the Saviour 
 bending down, and smiling eternal love upon his Apot^lle's brow ? 
 
 For a moment the Apostle stood there, and then — with no weapon by his 
 Bide, nor knife, nor pistol, nor powder-horn — but with bve beaming troii» 
 his brow, that man stepped gently on the sand. 
 
THE APOSTLE TO THE NEW WORLD. 401 
 
 The Indian looked up and saw that face, and was not afraid. Love, 
 gentleness, God — these were written on that face. 
 
 Was it not a beautiful scene ? 
 
 The kneehng Indian, his knife sunken in the earth, the dyinjr deer h-y 
 his side, looks up with a loving awe gleaming from his red face, 'i'iit; 
 Apostle standing tliere upon that patch of sod, the surf l)reaking round hi;; 
 feet, the sunlight burj^ting on his brow. The bearded sailors, their faces 
 hushed with deep awe ; while their oars hang suspended in mid-air. — On 
 one side the leafy maple — on the other the river, the ship, the island, and 
 the wide extending bay. 
 
 And then the blue sky, looking out from amid a wilderness of floating 
 clouds, as though God himself smiled down his blessing on the scene. 
 
 That was the picture, my friends, and O, by all the memories of Home 
 and Freedom, paint that picture in your hearts. 
 
 Columbus, with his eye fixed on land — the land of the New World — 
 Pizarro gazing on the riches of Peru, Cortez with the Temples of Monte- 
 zuma at his feet — these are mighty pictures, but here was a mightier than 
 them all. 
 
 Mighter than that historic image of Columbus gazing for the first time 
 on land ? Yes ! For Columbus but discovered a New World, while this 
 Aposde first planted on its shores the seed of a mighty tree, which had lain 
 buried for sixteen hundred years, beneath an ocean of blood. 
 
 The shade of that tree is now cast abroad, far over this Continent, far 
 over the World. That tree was called Toleration. In the day of its 
 planting, it was a strange thing. The Nations feared it. But now watered 
 by God it grows, and on its golden fruit you may read these words : 
 
 " Every man hath a right to worship God after the dictates or 
 
 HIS OWN CONSCIENCE." 
 
 For a moment, spell-bound, the Indian looked up into the Apostle's face 
 Then that Aposde slowly advancing over the sod, beneath the shade of the 
 Maple tree, clasped him by the hand, and called him Brother ! 
 
 Soon a fire flamed there upon the sod. Soon columns of blue smoke 
 wound upward, in the thick green leaves of the Maple tree. 
 
 Roar O, surf I roll ye clouds! beam O, sun! For now beneath the 
 Maple tree, on the shores of the Delaware, the Apostle in the plain garb 
 shares the venison and corn of the rude Indian, sits by his side, while the 
 red woman stealing from the shadows, prepares the pipe of peace, as her 
 large dark eyes are fixed upon that n^aidy face. 
 
 Around scattered over tho sod, were grouped the stout forms of the 
 saflors. In the distance the ship, like a giant bird, tossed slowly on the 
 waves. The summer breeze bent the reeds upon the green isle, and played 
 among the leaves of the Maple tree. The sky above was clear, the lasr 
 
402 THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776. 
 
 cloud huge and snowy, lay piitd away, between the water and the skf, oa 
 the distant horizon. 
 
 It was a calm hour. 
 
 The Pipe of Peace was lighted — its smoke arose, curhng around the 
 beaming face of the Aposde, while the red man looked upon him in rude 
 love, and the woman, iier form thrown carelessly on the sod, her long hair 
 showering in glossy blackness to her waist, gazed in his blue eyes with a 
 mute reverence, as though she beheld the Messenger of God. 
 
 That Apostle built a Nation without a Priest, witliout an Oath, without a 
 Blow. Yet he never wronged the poor Indian.* 
 
 That Apostle reared the Altar of Jesus, on the Delaware shore, and 
 planted the foundations of a Mighty People, amid dim old forests. Yet he 
 never wronged the poor Indian. 
 
 He died, with his pillow smoothed by the blessings of the rude Indian 
 race. To this hour the Indian Mother, driven far beyond the Mississippi, 
 driven even from the memory of the Delaware, takes her wild boy upon 
 her knee, and telh him the wild tradition of the Good Miquon. 
 
 My friends, when I think of this great man who in a dark age, preached 
 Toleration, or in other words, the Love of Jesus, a dream rushes upon 
 my soul. 
 
 One night in a dream, I beheld a colossal rock, a mountain of granite, 
 rising from illimitable darkness into bright sunshine. Around its base waa 
 midnight; half-way up was twilight; on the very summit shone the light of 
 God's countenance. , 
 
 A voice whispered — This awful rock, built upon midnight, girdled by 
 twilight, with the light of God's face shining upon its brow, this awful rock 
 is The History of the World. 
 
 Far down in blackest midniglit, I beheld certain lurid, horrible shapta, 
 goino- wildly to and fro. These, said the voice, these are the butchers of 
 the human race, called Conquerors. 
 
 Half-way up in the dim twilight, a multitude of Popes, Reformers, Pre- 
 tended Prophets and Fanatics, were groping their way with stumbling f-^.it- 
 Bteps, darkness below and twilight around them. These, said the voice, /re 
 the numerous race of Creed-Makers, who murder millions in the r / .le 
 of God. 
 
 But far up this terrible rock, — yes, yonder in the eternal sunshine, ^ ich 
 
 Note. — It is stated, (whether by history or by tradition only I am not )• j med, 
 
 that William Penn first put his foot on New World soil, on the shore oppoi . Reedy 
 
 Island, at the head of Delaware Bay, where now stands and flourishes il leasant 
 
 village of Port Penn. From tiiis legend of William Penn, we will pas/ ' the life 
 
 of his Divine Master, who first asserted the truth which the Deciara ' of In 
 
 dependence promulgated, after a lapse of eighteen hundred years — " a ies ar« 
 
 ALIKE THE CHILDKEW OF GoD." 
 
"BACK EIGHTEEN HUNDRED YEARS." 403 
 
 broke upon the highest point of its summit, side by side with Saint Paul, 
 and Uie Apostles stood a commanding form, clad in an unpretending garb, 
 with a mild glory playing over his brow ; that form, the Apostle of God to 
 the New World, William Penn. 
 
 III.— "BACK EIGHTEEN HUNDRED YEARS'" 
 
 Erk we come down to the days of the Revolution, let us go on a journey 
 into a far country and a long past age. 
 
 Kings and Priests have asked us, from whence do you derive the princi- 
 ple — All men in the sight of God are eqiia^ — from what work of philoso- 
 phy, from what dogma of musty parchments, or thesis of monkish schools. 
 
 From none of these ! We go higher, for the origin of the noble words 
 contained in the Declaration of Independence, even to the foot of that 
 Judean mount, which one day beheld a universe in mourning for the crimes 
 of ages. 
 
 We pass by our Kings and Priests ; we leave behind us the long column 
 of crowned robbers, and anointed hypocrites ; to the altar where the light 
 burns, and the truth shines forever, we hasten, with bended head and rev- 
 erent eyes. 
 
 Come with me to a far distant age. 
 
 There was a day when the summer sun shone from the centre of the 
 deep blue sky, in the far eastern clime. 
 
 It was the hour of high noon. 
 
 Come with me — yes — while the noonday sun is pouring his fierce rays 
 over the broad landscape, let us for a moment turn aside into the deep woods 
 — the deep green woods, not far from yonder town. 
 
 What see you herf ? 
 
 Here sheltered from the rays of the sun by a thick canopy of leaves, a 
 quiet stream stretches away into the dim woods. 
 
 Is it not beautiful ? The water so deep, so clear — trembling gendy 
 along its shores, fragrant with myrde — the thick canopy of leaves overhead 
 — the white lilies on yonder bank, dipping gently into the still waves ! 
 
 There is the balm of summer flowers, the stillness of noonday, the tran- 
 quil beauty of calm waters and stout forest trees — uU nre here ! 
 
 And look yonder ! '1 here, under the boughs of that spreading cedar, a 
 fountain of dark stone breaks on your eye. 
 
 It is but a pile of dark stone, and yet, cool water, trickling from the rock 
 above, shines and glimmers there — and yet, hanging from the boughs of 
 that giant cedar, thick clusters of grapes dip into the waters of that spring, 
 —and lo ! a single long gleam of sunlight streams through the thick boughs 
 upon the cold water, and the purple grapes. 
 
 Is it not a beautiful picture, nestling away here in dim woods, while the 
 noonday sun pours its fierce rays over hill and valley, far along the land ? 
 
4^4 THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776. 
 
 And yet we must leave this scene of quiet beauty, for the hot air and the 
 hurning sun. 
 
 Look there, at the foot of yonder giant cedar, beside the fountain, mur- 
 muring sutMi low music on the air, look yonder and behold a path winding 
 up, into the still woods. 
 
 We will follow that path, up and on with tired steps we go, we leave the 
 woods, we stand in the open air under the burning sun. 
 
 There, not a hundred paces from our feet, the white walls of a quiet town 
 break into the deep blue of the summer sky. 
 
 Come with me, to that town ; over the hot dust of the flinty road, come 
 with me ! 
 
 Let us on through the still streets — for the heat is so intense that the 
 rich and the proud have retired to their homes — nay, even the poor have 
 fallen exhausted at their labor. Let us on ; without pausing to look in upon 
 that garden, adorned with temples, musical with fountains, with the rich 
 man reclining on his bed of flowers. — 
 
 Let us not even pause to look in through the doors of yonder gorgeous 
 temple, where pompous men in glittering robes, and long beards are mumbling 
 over their drowsy prayers. 
 
 Here we are in the still streets — still as midnight, even at broad noon — 
 and around us rise the white walls of rich men's mansions, and the glitter- 
 ing dome of the synagogue. 
 
 Let us ask the name of this town ! Let us ask yonder solitary man, who 
 with his hands folded among his robes of fine linen, his long beard sweep- 
 ing his breast — Iiis calm self-complacent brow is striding haughtily along the 
 deserted streets. 
 
 " Tell us good sir, the name of this town !" That richly clad way-fiirer 
 answers one question with a haughty scowl, and passes on. 
 
 You perceive that man is too holy to answer the question of sinful men 
 — his robe is too rich, his phylactery too broad — his knowledge of the law 
 too great to speak to men of common garb. That is a holy man, a Phari- 
 see. 
 
 And this town is the town of Nazareth ; and we stand here tired and 
 fainting in the dusty streets ; with the drowsy prayers from that synagogue, 
 the music of rich men's fountains breaking on our heavy ears. 
 
 But hark ! The deep silence of this noonday hour is broken by sharp, 
 quick sound — the clink of a hammer, the grating of a saw ! 
 
 Let us follow that sound ! 
 
 Look there, between those two massive domes of rich men, there, as if 
 crouching away from the hot sun, in the thick shadow, nestles the rude hut 
 i»f a Carpenter. Yes, the rude hut of a Carpenter, with the sound of ham- 
 mer and saw, echoing from that solitary window. 
 
 We approach that window— 'we look in ! What is the strange sighl 
 we see ? 
 
"BACK EIGHTEEN HUNDRED YEARS." 409 
 
 Strange sight ? Call you this a strange sight, wh^n it is nothing more 
 
 than a young man, clad in the laborer's garments, the laborer's sweat upon 
 his hrow, bending down to his labor, amid piles of timber and unhewn 
 
 l)0ar(ls Call you this a strange sight ? 
 
 Why it is but a sight of every day life — a common sight, a familiar thing, 
 a dull, every day fad. 
 But hold a moment, 
 
 Look as that young man raises his head, and wipes the think drops from 
 his brow — look upon that face ! Look there, and forget the Carpenter's 
 shop, the boards, the hammer, the saw, nay, even the rou<rh laborer's dress. 
 
 It is is a young face — the face of a boy — but O, the calm beauty of thai 
 hair, flowing to the shoulders in waving locks — mingling in its hues, the 
 purple of twilight with the darkness of midnight — O, the deep thought of 
 those large, full eyes, O, the calm radiance of that youthful brow ! 
 
 Ah, that is a face to look upon and love — and kneel — and worship — even 
 though the form is clad in the rough carpenter's dress. Those eves, how 
 deep they gleam, more beautiful than the stars at dead of night; that bro'iv, 
 how awfully it brightens into the Majesty of God ! 
 
 And now, as you are looking through the window — hol-d your breath as 
 you look — do not, O, do not disturb the silence of this scene ! 
 
 As that boy — that apprentice boy — stands there, with a saw in one hand, 
 the other laid on a pile of boards — a strange thought comes over his soul ! 
 
 He is thinking of his brothers — the Brotherhood of Toil ! That vast 
 family, who now swelter in dark mines, bend in the fields, under the hot 
 sun, or toil, toil, toil on, toil forever in the Workshops of the World. 
 
 He is thinking of his brothers in the huts and dens of cities ; swelterincr 
 in rags and misery and disease. 0, he is thinking of the Workmen of the 
 World, the Mechanics of the earth, whose dark lot has been ever and yet 
 ever — to dig that others may sleep — to sow that others may reap — to coin 
 their groans and sweat and blood, into gold for the rich man's chest, into 
 purple robes for his form and crowns for his brow. This had been the fate 
 of the Mechanic — the Poor man from immemorial ages ! 
 
 Never in all the dark history of man, had the Mechanic once looked from 
 his toil — his very heart had always beat to that dull sound — Toil —Toil 
 Toil ! 
 
 Never since the day when Jehovah gave the word, " By the sweat of thy 
 brow thou siialt live !" never had that Great Army of Mechanics once looked 
 up, or felt the free blood dance in their veins. 
 
 By the sweat of the brow ? Was it thus the Poor man was to live ? And 
 how had he lived for four thousand years ? 
 
 Not only by the sweat of his brow, but the blood of his heart, the groans 
 of his soul. 
 
 This had been the fate of the Mechanic— the Poor Man, for four thousand 
 years. 
 
406 THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776. 
 
 And now, that Young Carpenter stood there, in the Carpenter s shop ol 
 Nazareth, thinking over the wrongs of the Poor, his brothers, his sister*, 
 THE Poor ! 
 
 At that moment, as if a flood of light from the throne of God, had poured 
 down into his soul, that young Mechanic stood there, with an awful light 
 hovering over his brow. 
 
 At that moment he felt the Godhead fill his veins— at that momont he 
 stood there a God. Yes, a God in a Mechanic's gaberdine ; with carpen- 
 ter's tools in his hand. 
 
 At that moment he felt the full force of his mission on earth ; yes, stand- 
 ing there, Ids brow gleaming, his eyes flashing with Eternal light, Jesus the 
 Carpenter of Nazareth, resolved to redress tlie wrongs of the Poor. 
 
 And as he stands there, behold. A mildly beautiful woman, steals from 
 yonder door, and pauses on tip-toe at the very shoulder of the young man ; 
 herself unseen, she stands with hands half-raised, gazing upon her son, with 
 her large full eyes. 
 
 That mildly beautiful woman is Mary the Virgin-Mother. 
 
 Is it not a picture full of deep meaning ? There stands the Bride of 
 
 the Living God, gazing upon that young Carpenter, ivhose body is human — 
 whose soul is very God .' 
 
 From that moment, these words became linked in one — Jesus and Man. 
 
 Yes, follow the Blessed Nazarene over the dust of the highway, heboid 
 him speaking hope to the desolate, health to the sick, life to the dead, eter- 
 nal life to the Poor ! Last night he had his couch on yonder mountain-top 
 — to-night he shares von poor crust ; to-morrow he goes on his way again ; 
 his mission still the Redemption of the Poor. 
 
 Does he share the rich man's banquet or the rich man's couch ? Is he 
 found waiting by rich men's elbows, speaking soft things to fheir drowsy 
 souls ! Ah, no ! Ah, no ! 
 
 For the rich, the proud, the oppressor, his brow darkens with wrath, his 
 tongue drops biting scorn. 
 
 But to the Poor — to his poor. Ah, how that mild face looks in upon 
 their homes, speaking within dark huts, great words, which shall never die; 
 ah, how the poor love him ; their Apostle, their Redeemer, more than all, 
 their brother. 
 
 Follow him there by the pool of Siloam — look ! A man clad in a faded 
 garb, with long hair sweeping down his face, — that face covered with sweat 
 and dust— stamped with the inefl'able Godhead — goes there by the waves 
 of dark Galilee — communes there at night with his soul — speaks to the stars 
 which he first spake into being ! 
 
 Or far down in the shades of Gethsetnane, there he kneels pleading, with 
 bloody drops upon his brow, for his brothers, his sisters the poor — 
 
 Or yonder on that griui heigh th frowning over Jerusalem, nailed to the 
 Cross in scorn — pain, iptense pain quivering through his racked sinews— 
 
THE WILDERNESS. 407 
 
 blood dripping from his hands and from his thorn-crowned brow — look 
 there, at the moment when it is made his fierce trial, to doubt his Divine 
 Mission ! 
 
 Look as the Awful Godhead is struggling willi his human nature. Hark 
 to that groan going up to God, froi«^ that Man of Nazareth, stretched there 
 upon the cross ! 
 
 " Eloi — Eloi — LAMA Sabacthani !" 
 
 My God ! My God ! Why hast thou forsaken me ! 
 
 I could bear the scorn of these High Priests ; I could bear this cross • 
 these bloody hands, this streaming brow ! 
 
 Nay, I could bear that very People, whose sick I have Itealed, whose 
 dead I have raised, the very People, who yest^^day strewing palm branches 
 in my way, shouted Hosannah to my name ; 1 could bear that these People 
 — these brothers of my soul — should have been the first to shriek — Crucify 
 him, Crucify him. 
 
 But Thou O God — Why hast thou forsaken me ! 
 
 Ah, was not that a dark hour, when the Man of Nazareth doubted his mis- 
 sion to the Poor, to Man — when God in human flesh doubted his Divinity ? 
 
 And wliy this life of Toil — this bloody sweat in Gethsemane — this awful 
 scene — these bloody hands, this thorn-crowned brow — this terrible Doubt 
 on Calvary ? 
 
 Was it only to root the Kings more firmly on their thrones — to grind the 
 faces of the poor yet deeper in the dust ! 
 
 No ! No ! The bloody sv/eat of Gethsemane — the groans of Calvary — 
 the soul of Jesus answers no ! no ! no ! 
 
 Yes, to-day from that Carpenter's shop in Nazareth, a Voice speaks out 
 to the workshops of the world — that voice speaks to Toil — yes, to dusty, 
 tired, half-clad, starving Toil — that voice speaks, and says, — " Look up 
 
 BROTlttK, FOR THE DAY OF YOUR REDEMPTION DRAWETH NEAR !" 
 
 Ere w« survey the result of this great mission of the Saviour, its actioa 
 upon Mm, after the lapse of eighteen hundred years, we will behold two 
 scenes in bis life, and learn the solemn lesson which they teach. 
 
 v.— THE WILDERNESS. 
 
 The WiLi>ERNEss, dark and vast, ihumined by the faint light of the break- 
 ing dawn ! 
 
 It is a wild place, this broken plain, gloomy by day, terrible by night ; 
 ghostly when the cold moonbeam shines over these rugged rocks. On 
 wvery side, from the barren earth, rade shapes of granite rock, struggle into 
 the dim light of morning. Here are grand old trees, towering aloft, stronij 
 with the growtli of ages, their colossal trunks looming through tlie mists of 
 the dawn, like the columns of some heathen temple, made unholy by the 
 rites of bloody sacrifice. 
 
408 THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776. 
 
 It is the early dawn, and yonder beyond this dreary plain, nigged with 
 scattered masses of antediluvian rock, yonder beyond those aged trees, the 
 oaks grouped in a venerable circle, the palm rising in solitary magnificence, 
 we behold a gloomy waste of dark water, heaving sullenly in the first beam 
 of tlie day. 
 
 All, that waste of dark water is invested with a fearful gloom ; silence 
 deeper ihan the grave broods over its impenetrable deep, like a raven over 
 the breast of the dead. Here and there, along the black shores, are scat- 
 tered dismal trees, stunted in their growth, blasted by lightning, withered in 
 trunk and branch, as with the weariness of long ages. Here and there, 
 from the edge of its sullen waters, huge masses of dark rock arise, their 
 fantastic shapes presenting images of hideous meaning, some rising like 
 fabled demons, some Uke beasts of prey, some like men, transformed by 
 infernal passions, into monuments of despair. 
 
 Altogether this dread, dark lake, this silent wilderness, strikes your heart 
 with a strange awe. 
 
 Let us seat ourselves upon this rude stone, and see the morning come 
 on, in solitary grandeur. Let us behold those snowy mists moving slowly 
 over the dark waters, like spirits of the blest over shades of unutterable 
 woe. Hark — a sound, harsh, crashing, and loud as thunder. In a moment 
 it is gone. It was but the last groan of an aged Oak, which, eaten by the 
 tooth of ages, has fallen with one sudden plunge into the waters of the 
 lake. All is silent again, but such a silence — 0, it chills the blood to dwell 
 in this place of shadows ! 
 
 Tell us, do fair forms ever visit these gloomy wastes, do the voices of 
 home ever break in upon this heavy air, do kind faces ever beam upon these 
 rugged rocks ? Tell us, does anything wearing the form of man ever press 
 this barren earth with a footstep ? 
 
 The raven croaking from the limb of a blasted tree, the wolf, gaunt and 
 grim, stealing from his cave by the waters, the hyena howling his unearthly 
 laugh, these all may be here, but man — why should he ever dare this soli- 
 tude, more terrible than the war of battle ? 
 
 Well may this place seem terrible by day, ghostly by night, blasted, as 
 with the judgment of God at all times ! For yonder beneath those dark 
 waters, heaving with sullen surges on the blackened shore lies entombed 
 in perpetual judgment, the Cities of the Plain! 
 
 Yes, there beneath those waves are mansions, streets, gardens, temples 
 and domes, all crowded with people, all thronged with a silent multidude, 
 who stand in the doors, or throng the pathways, or knetl in the halls of 
 worship, ghostly skeleton people, who never speak, nor move, nor breailie, 
 but they are there, deep beneath the bituminous waves, petrified monunien;« 
 of Almighty vengeance. The cities of the Plain are there, Sodom and 
 Gomorrah. 
 
 Therefore is this desert so silent, so breathlesly desolate ; therefore docs 
 
THE WILDERNESS 409 
 
 the crv of yonder raven, wasliing his plumage in the dark waters, :ome 
 over the waste, like the knell of a lost world. 
 
 We are in the desert, and the lake before us, is the Dead Sea. 
 
 Yet hold — there is a footstep breaking upon the silence of the desert air. 
 
 liO ! From behind yonder granite rock, a form comes slowly into view, 
 a form rounded with the outlines of early manhood, attired in the ~ude 
 gaberdine of toil. 
 
 Who is he that comes slowly on, with gently-folded arms and downcast 
 head, framed in the curling beard and flowing hair ? 
 
 Let us look well upon him ! 
 
 He wears the garb of labor ; his feet from which the worn sandals have 
 fallen away, are wounded by the desert flint. Slowly he comes, his head 
 upon his breast, his eyes fixed on the earth. Yet we may see that his 
 form combines in one view, all that is graceful in outline, or manly in vigor, 
 or beautiful in gesture. 
 
 Hold — and gaze ! For he lifts his head. 
 
 Ah why do we desire to kneel — to love — to worship him, this man in 
 the rude garb ? Why do our eyes seek that face with a glance of deep and 
 absorbing interest ? Why do broken ejaculations bubble from our full 
 hearts, while our souls, all at once, seem lifted beyond these houses of 
 clay ? 
 
 Look upon that faee and find your answer. 
 
 O, the rapture of that calm white brow, O, the speechless love of those 
 large full eyes, O, the eloquence of those gently-parted lips ! It is a young 
 face, with flowing hair, and curling beard, whose hues combine the dark- 
 ness of midnight, the rich purple of a summer's eve, while the brow is 
 clear as alabaster, the eyes dark with that excess of melting radiance. That 
 face touches your inmost soul. 
 
 Let us kneel, let us worship here, for the Carpenter of Nazareth comes 
 near us, clad in the garments of toil, yet with the Godhead beaming serenely 
 from his radiant brow. 
 
 Here, in this desert he has wandered forty days and forty nights. Not 
 a crust has passed those lips, not a cup of water moistened that throat,, 
 whose beautiful outline is seen above the collar of his coarse garb. 
 
 Here he has dwelt for forty days companioned by day with silence, by 
 night with the stars, at all times by an Almighty presence, shining unutter-- 
 able images of beauty into his soul. 
 
 Ah, in this time, his heart has throbbed for man : yes, in the workshop 
 degraded by oppression in the mine, burdened by the chain, in the field with 
 the hot sun pouring over his brow, still Man his Brother ! 
 
 Yes — beneath the calm light of the stars, amid the silence of noonday, 
 at twilight, when the long shadows of the palms, rested upon the bosom. of 
 ibe Dead Sea, has his great mission come home to his soul, calling him 
 with Its awful voice to go forth and free his brother ! 
 26 
 
410 THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776. 
 
 A?id the serene moon, shining from the sky of impenetrable blue, htts 
 oftentimes revealed that earnest face stamped with unutterable thoughts, 
 lifted up to God, glowing already with a consciousness of the dim future. 
 
 O, my friends, when I follow this pure Being on his desert way, and 
 msrk his tears as they fall for the sorrows of Man, and listen to his sighs, 
 as his heart beats with warm pulsations for the slave of toil, or see him 
 standing on yonder cliff, his form rising in the moonbeams, as he stretches 
 forth his hands to ihe sky and whispers an earnest prayer to God, for the 
 Millions of the human race, who have been made the sport of Priest and 
 
 King, for a dreary length of ages :then I feel my heart also warm, with 
 
 Hope that the Day is near, when Labor shall bless the whole earth, when 
 Man shall indeed be free ! 
 
 This Jesus of Nazareth, dwelling for forty days and nights, alone with 
 his Soul, has ever for me, a calm, divine beauty. 
 
 But lo ! he hungers, he thirsts at last. Where shall he find bread or 
 water ? Not from these rocks, covered with rank moss, shall grow the 
 bread that nourishes, not from the dead wave of yonder sea, shall the bent 
 palm-leaf be filled with pure water. 
 
 Jesus hungers, thirsts ; the hot sky is above, the arid earth below. But 
 neither bread nor water meet his gaze. 
 
 At this moment, hark ! A footstep is heard, and a man of royal pre- 
 sence, clad in purple robes, glistening with gems and gold, and contrasted 
 with the snowy whiteness of fine linen, comes striding into view, with the 
 air of majesty and worldly power. His ruddy countenance blushes with 
 the genial glow of the grape ; his eyes sparkle with the fire of sensual 
 passion ; his dark hair curls around a brow, which lofty and massive, is 
 stamped with that cunning, which among the people of this world, often 
 passes for Intellect. 
 
 In fact, he stands before us the inpersonation of Worldly Power, a goodly 
 looking man withal, whom it were policy and prudence to bow down and 
 reverence. 
 
 With his sandalled feet, glittering with diamonds that gleam as he walks, 
 ne comes on: he stands before the humbly-clad Jesus. At a glance, he 
 reads the light of Godhead on that brow, he feels the immeasurable power 
 of those earnest eyes. 
 
 Come ! he cries, taking Jesus of Nazareth by the hand, come ! And 
 the desert is passed, and rocks are gone, and the Dead sea has faded from 
 the view. Come ! repeats the Prince of this World, and as he speaks, 
 behold ! A mountain swells before them, towering above the plain, green 
 with the venerable cedars and grey with colossal rocks. 
 
 Come ! re-echoes the Prince, and up the steep mountain paths, ana 
 through the deep mountain shadows, and along the dark mountain ravines, 
 they hurry on. Now they are in the clouds, now riie mists of the summu 
 gather them in. 
 
THE WILDERNESS. 411 
 
 At last, upon this rock, projecting over an awful abyss, they stand, Jesus 
 af Nazareth in his laborer's garb, and the Prince of this world in his royal 
 robes. 
 
 Ah, what a doleful moc1;ery of speech and common sense, was that 
 which painted the Incarnation of Evil, in a liideous shape, with all the 
 grotesque mummery of satyr's hoof and tail, poor as the poorest of earth's 
 toiling children ! Whom could Satan ever tempt in a garb like this ? No, 
 the Prince of this World, when he comes to tempt Man frotn the voice of 
 God, speaking forever in his inmost soul, comes in purple robes and fine 
 linen, with the flash of grapes upon his cheeks, the well-filled purse in his 
 fair hands, the marks of good cheer and rich banquets upon his portly form. 
 
 So, in all his pride and glory, stood he before the humbly-clad Jesus of 
 Nazareth. 
 
 Look! he cries, pointing with his hand towards that sublime panorama 
 of Empire crowded on Empire, which spreads far into the haze of distance, 
 from the foot of th:s colossal cliff; Look! All these ivill 1 give thee, if 
 thou wilt fall down and worship me! 
 
 Jesus bends from that awful clifi" and gazes in mute wonder upon that 
 scene. Ah, who may describe that spectable, what power of imagery 
 depict the majestic drapery of glory which floated around that boundless 
 view \ 
 
 There, rising into golden sunlight, were cities, glittering with innumera- 
 ble spires, grand with swelling domes, rank after rank, they grew into space, 
 and shone with the glory of all ages. Yes, the glory of the past, the glory 
 of the present, the glory of the future were there ! Nineveh of old, rising 
 from a boundless plain, scattered with palms, her giant walls looming in 
 the light, her solitary temple towering over her wilderness of domes — 
 Nineveh was there ! And there the Romes of all ages swelling in con- 
 trasted glory. Imperial Rome — behold her ! Magnificent with colosseuna 
 and theatre, her streets crowded with the victorious legions, her white tem- 
 ples encircled by the smoke of incense, her unconquered banner S. P. Q. R. 
 floating over the heads of kneeling millions — Imperial Rome, clad in the 
 drapery of the Caesars, was there. 
 
 By her side arose another Rome ; the Papal Rome of after years, with 
 her immense cathedral breaking into space, over the ruins of the anoien* 
 city, while solemn Pontiff's, carried in gorgeous canopies, on the shoulders 
 of liveried guards, through the long files of kneeling worshippers, pomted to 
 the Cross, the Image and the Sword, and waved their heavy robes, rich 
 with lace and gold and jewels, as they swelled the anthem to the praise of 
 Rome, Papal Rome, the mistress of the souls of men ! 
 
 Jesus beheld it all. 
 
 Renounce thy mission, forsake the Voice which now calls thee forth, l» 
 
412 THE FOURTH OF JULY. 1776. 
 
 serve I his creohtre Man, who will afterwards trample on thee, and lo , 
 Behold thy reward — all these, and more than the^e will I give thee, if 
 thou wilt fall down and worship me! 
 
 Then from tlie unbounded field of space, high over Rome the Imperial, 
 Rome the Papal, high over Babylon the great, yes, above gorgeous empires, 
 whose names have been lost in the abyss of ;iges, there rose another Em[)ire, 
 terrible to behold in her bloody beauty. 
 
 She rose there, towering into light ; an immense sea seemed to shut her 
 cities in its girdle of blood-red waves. 
 
 The white sails of her ships were on that sea, the tread of armed war- 
 riors, crowding in millions, was heard in her palace gates, along her marls 
 of commerce, nay, in her temples of religion ! She had grown strong with 
 the might of ages. Mightier than Imperial Rome, her dominion ended only 
 with the setting sun, her banners were fanned by every breeze that swept 
 the earth, the ice-wind of the north, the hot blast of the tropics, the .summer 
 gales of more lovely climes. 
 
 She was terrible to behold that unknown empire, for her temples were 
 built upon the skulls of millions, her power was fed on human flesh, her 
 Red Cross Flag was painted with the blood of martyrs, moistened with the 
 tears of the widow, fanned by the sighs of the orphan ! 
 
 Dismal in her lurid grandeur, she towered there, above all other nations, 
 claiming their reverence, nay, her loftiest dome pierced the sky, blazing 
 with texts from the Book of God, as though she would excuse her crimes in 
 the face of Divinity himself, glossing Murder over, with a soft word, and 
 sanctifying Blasphemy with a prayer ! 
 
 O, it was a terrible picture, drawn by the hand of Satan, there on the 
 golden haze of infinite space. 
 
 These, these will I give thee, if thou wilt fall down and worship me! 
 Only renounce the Voice which calls thee forth to the relief of saffh-ing 
 Man, only forsake this dream of Good — a beautiful Dream- it may be, yet 
 still only a dream — which tells thee that thou canst lift np the toiling 
 Millions of the hwnan race, and the glory of all ages, the grandeur of all 
 empires shall be thine! 
 
 As the Tempter speaks in that soft persuasive voice, fluttering his jew- 
 elled robes as he prayed this Jesus of Nazareth, clad in his humble garb, to 
 descend into the herd of Conquerors and Kings, to become like them a 
 drpnker of human blood, a butcher of human hearts, let us look upon the 
 face of the Tempted one. 
 
 Lo ! At that moment, as if the light of God's presence shone more 
 serenely in his soul, this Man of Nazareth stands there, with a lofty scorn 
 upon his brow, an immortal glory m his eyes. 
 
 Solemnly he lifts his hand, his voice swells on the air: 
 
 Get thee heiue Satan, he exclaims in that voice of deep-toned music, 
 
THE WILDERNESS. 413 
 
 now terrible in its accent of reproof, For it is ivritten thou shalt wohsiup 
 Jehovah thy God, and him only shalt thou serve ! 
 
 It is written not only in the Page of Revelation, but here upon the heart. 
 thou shalt not worship Gold nor Superstition, nor tinselled Hypocrisy ; 
 thou shalt not bow down to Pomp, wliose robes are stained in blood, nor 
 reverence Power, whose tlirone is built on skulls, but thou shalt worjiliip 
 Jehovah the Father. To do good to Man is to worship God. 
 
 Ah — blasted on the brow, trembling in each lirnb, the abashed Devil — 
 attired as he is, in all the pomp of the world — crawls from the presence of 
 that humbly clad Jesus of Nazareth. 
 
 My friends shall we leave this beautiful passage in tiie life of Jesus, with- 
 out listening to its moral, without taking to our hearts the great truth which 
 it teaches ? 
 
 To you, O. Man of Genius, to you, O, Student, to you O, Seeker after 
 the Beautiful, it speaks in a voice of strange, solemn emphasis : 
 
 There will come a time in your life, when like Jesus, you will be led up 
 from the wilderness of neglect and want, by the Prince of this world, into 
 the eminence of Trial. You will have the good things of this world spread 
 out before you, you will hear the voice of the Tempter : 
 
 Crush the voice that is now speaking to your soul — that voice ivJiich 
 bids you go out and speak boldly and act bravely for the rights of man 
 — drown every honest thought — trample on every high aspiration, and 
 Lo ! These shall be thine! The praise of ?iien, the fattery of syco- 
 phants, the pleasure of rich men's feasts and the hum of mob applause! 
 These shall be thine, if thou wilt fall down and worship me ! 
 
 Does he not speak thus to you, O, Student, this purple-robed tempter, 
 with his soft persuasive voice ? 
 
 Do you tell him, in tones of scorn, like your Jesus before you : Get thee 
 hence ! I ivill obey the voice ivhich impels me to speak out for Man — ] 
 will go on my dread way, my only object the fVelfare of the Millions! 1 
 w'.ll worship the Lord Jehovah! 
 
 Then the Prince of this World, tells you wiili a sneer — Go on! Go on 
 with your imaginary schemes for the good of man, and yonder tn the 
 distance the Cross awaits you! Go on ! and behold your reward for this 
 honesty of purpose, as you call it! Fou ivill be despised in the syna- 
 gogue, stoned in the mart, spit upon in the halls of the great, crucified to 
 public scorn, as a robber and a murderer ! 
 
 So spake the Tempter to the Man of the Revolution, the signers of the 
 Declaration. Is it not true ? 
 
 Does not the Tempter in this our day, appeal to the inost bestial eniotioi. 
 of the human heart — Fkar? 
 
 Yes, the truth must be told, it was the curse of public opinion in the day 
 of '76. — as it is now— that shivering dread of the pompous Name, or the 
 infallible Synagogue — in press and church and home — alike it rule.<5~that 
 
Hi THE FOURTH OF JULY. 1776. 
 
 crawling obei-sance to creed and council, best syllabled in one empliau 
 word — " Fear." 
 
 Let but the Reformer of our time, who feels that God has given hira 
 powers for the good of his brethren, dare to be honest, dare to speak, out 
 boldly in his own way, against hideous evils, which glared in his face — 
 Behold his reward ! Scorn, hissed from serpent-tongues, malice howled 
 from slanderous throats, the portentous bray of a Public Opinion, made up 
 by men whose character and name, would not stand in the light of a farth- 
 ing candle. 
 
 Does the Author in the pages of a book, dare to picture the character of 
 some lecherous Pharisee, who has crawled up into a pulpit, clothing his 
 deformities with sacerdotal robes ? Behold — every lecherous Pharisee who 
 may possess a pulpit, or mouth the holy name of Jesus for his thousand 
 per year, assails that Reformer from his cowardly eminence, excommuni- 
 cates him from the synagogue, with bell, book, and candle, and more terrible 
 than all, stamps on his brow, the portentous word — Infidel ! 
 
 Or does that Author with the honest impulse of a full heart, dare to drag 
 up from the obscurity of undeserved scorn, some great name of th^ Past, 
 and render justice to martyred intellect, which in days by-gone, shone into 
 the hearts of millions with holy and refreshing light, then the vengeance of 
 these worshippers of the Prince of the World, knows no bounds. The 
 Pliarisaical pulpit, the obscene Press, work hand in hand to accomplish 
 that young man's ruin. No lie is too base, no slander too gross, no epithet 
 too malignant for the purpose of these atoms of an hour. If they cannot 
 charge the patriot with Crime, they charge him with Poverty. If they can- 
 not say that he is an Adulterer in holy robes, or a Scurvy Pol-ilician, feed- 
 ■ ing on the drippings of office, or a Forger clothing himself with the fruits 
 of fraud, they wreak their vengeance in one word, and say, as their proto- 
 types of old said of the Lord Jesus ; He is poor ! 
 
 Thus in the Revolution, spoke the liveried and gowned pensioners of 
 Kino- George, against the Signers and their partners in the work of freedom. 
 The British pulpit, and the British Press, joined their voices and spoke of 
 the " Infidel Jefferson" who denied the divine right of Kings ; the " Traitor 
 Washin<yton" who at the head of his " Ragmuffin Mob" in poverty and 
 rebellion, held the huts of Valley Forge. 
 
 Far be it from me, my friends, to say one word against that pure Minister 
 of the Gospel, who follows reverently in the footsteps of his Lord. Far be 
 it from me to whisper a breath against that high-souled Editor, who never 
 prostitutes his press to the appetites of the malignant and obscene. Such a 
 Minister, such an Editor I hold in reverence ; ihey are worthy of our 
 respect and honor. 
 
 Yet we cannot disguise the fact, that there exists no'v as in ttic 
 time of the Revolution, a band of creatures calling themselves Ministers, a 
 congregation of reptiles who assume the position of Directors of Puolie 
 
THE WILDERNESS. 4Ii> 
 
 Opinion, while in their microscopic souls ihey have no more sense of a pure 
 Religion, than the poor wretch who sold his Master, for thirty pieces of silver. 
 
 Who made these fellows Ministers of Almighty God ? Who clothed 
 ihem with all the solemn gravity of the portentous nod, the white cravat, 
 and the nasal twang ? Who lifted them from their obscurity into Priests 
 of the Altar, qualified to minister the holy rites of the sacrament, admonish 
 the living, bury tlie dead ? Who ! 
 
 We do not wish to investigate their tide, for our search might end on the 
 same rock where the Prince of this World tempted the Lord Jesus. 
 
 Then my friends, there is species of the genus reptile, calling himself 
 an Editor, who merits a passing word. The servile tool of some corrupt 
 politician, paid to libel at so much per line, he is always the first to fear the 
 cause of Religion. Reeking with the foul atmosphere of the brothel, he is 
 the first to shudder for the danger of public morals. Fresh from the boon 
 companionship of " lewd fellows of the baser sort," he is a virulent moral 
 lecturer. Were this creature alone in his work of infamy, not much fear 
 need be taken on his account. Like the rattlesnake he can but leap his 
 own slimy length. Yet a hundred reptiles together, hissing and stinging in 
 chorus may appal ihe stoutest heart, so does this Reptile Editor join himself 
 to other reptiles, and form an association of venom which poisons the life- 
 springs of many a noble soul, and distils its saliva even in the fountains of 
 home. This viper of the Press is not peculiar to our day — he hissed and 
 stuno", in the time when our freedom was but dawning from the long night 
 of ages. The Tory Press of the Revolution, from Rivington of tlie New 
 York Royal Gazette, down to his less notorious compeers of the Philadel- 
 phia loyalist Press, in their malignant attacks upon Washington, did not 
 even spare his private life. Forged letters were published day after day, 
 in their papers, signed with the name of Washington, in which the very 
 heart-strings of the chieftain were torn, by the leprous hand of Editorial 
 pestilence ! The Father of his Country avoided these things, the Reptile 
 Editor and the Reptile Preacher, as he would have shunned a rabid dog. 
 He turned their path, as you would from the path of a viper. Had the 
 generous indignation of his soul found vent in words, he might have said 
 like the Saviour to their Judean proto-types — 
 
 "0 ! Scribes, Pharisees, Hypocrites, how shall ye escape the damnation 
 of hell !"— 
 
 With the vengeance, or rather the venom of men like these, Jesus was 
 assailed in his day, because he refused to worship their master. So Wash- 
 ington was assailed because he refused obedience to the King. Think not 
 my friends, to escape the trial of your Saviour, if you follow in his footsteps. 
 Think not, be honest and bold in your actions and your words, without 
 feeling the fang of the viper in your soul. But in the darkest hour of your 
 life, when slander poisons your soul, and persecution blasts your fiame, then 
 remember these blessed words : 
 
416 THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776. 
 
 — Then the devil leaveth him, and behold ! Angels came and ministered 
 onto him. — 
 
 Yes, afier hunger and thirst and temptation, behold the Blessed Jesus, 
 sitting on yonder granite rock, while forms of beauty group about him, their 
 beaming eyes fixed upon his divine countenance. Forms of beauly, yes 
 the most beautiful of forms — all that is pure in w^oman, lovely in the bloom 
 of her face, beaming in the glance of her eye, rounded and flowing in the 
 outlines of her shape, — bend there before the Saviour, in the guis(| of Angels ! 
 
 liO ! one radiant form with floating tresses of golden hair brings the cup 
 of water; another, with those eyes of unutterable beauty presents the wild 
 honey-comb, the purple grapes, the fragrant fruit of the fig-tree, a third, g'i- 
 ding around him, with steps that make no sound, soothes his brow with the 
 pressure of soft, white hands. 
 -"Behold, angels ministered unto Him !" 
 
 It is before me now, that beautiful picture, created in the wild desert, with 
 the background of the Dead Sea ; Jesus silling calm and serene on the 
 rugged rock, while angel-forms kneel at his feet, bend over his shoulders, 
 smile in his face, group in shapes of matchless loveliness around him. 
 
 Itark, that song? was ever hymn so soft and dreamy, heard in this desert 
 wild before ? It swells over the dark mass of rocks, it glides along the 
 BuUen waters of the lake, it bursts up to the morning sky in one choral 
 murmur of praise. 
 
 Angels cheer the Lord Jesus with their hymns. 
 
 So, O, man of genius, O, Student, O, Seeker after the beautifiil, shall 
 angels cheer thee, and bless thee, and sing to thee ; after thou hast passed 
 the fiery ordeal of hunger, thirst, neglect and temptation. From the book 
 of God, Jesus speaks to thee, and his word is given ; it shall be. — Behold 
 Washington and Jefterson, with all the heroes and signers, rise triumphant 
 through all time, over the Tempter and Pharisees of the Revolution ! 
 
 VI.— "THE OUTCAST." 
 
 We will now behold another scene in the Divine Master's life. To the 
 very rock of Nazareth, we will trace the truths of the immortal Declaration. 
 
 The scene changes yet once more. We are in Nazareth, that city built 
 on a cliff, with the white walls of its synagogue arising in the calm blue 
 sky, above the mansions of the rich, the cottages of the poor. Let us still 
 our hearts with awe, let us hush our breath with deep reverence, for it is ihe 
 Sabbath, and we are in the Synagogue. 
 
 Yonder from the dome overhead, a dim, solemn light steals round the 
 place, while a sacred silence pervades the air. 
 
 Four pillars support that dome, four pillars inscribed with burning words 
 from the book ol God. 
 
 In the centre of the place behold the ark, in whicli is placed the holy 
 scroll of the law. Beside the ark a small desk arises where the reader of 
 
"THE OUTCAST." 417 
 
 the Synagogue may stand and utter the Sabbath prayers. Around this ark 
 and desk, from the liirht of the dome to the darker corners of the place, 
 throng the people of Nazareth sitting on benches which encircl.^ the centra 
 of the temple. Yonder, behind the ark and desk, on loftier oenclifS are 
 the elders, their white beards trailing on each breast, the flowing robes 
 wound about each portly form, the broad phylactery on each wrinkled brow. 
 These are the rich men that rule the synngogue. 
 
 In the dark corners, you see the gaunt faces, the ragged forms of the poor, 
 who have skulked into the temple, ashamed of their poverty, yet eiger to 
 hear the word of the Lord. Around the altar are seated all classes of life, 
 the merchant twith his calculating face, the mechanic with his toil-worn 
 hands, the laborer with his sunburnt visage. 
 
 But here, on the right of the altar, amid that throng of women, b^^held a 
 matron spated in front of the rest, her form, with its full outlines, infiicati.jg 
 the prime of woiuanht)od, just touched, not injured by age, while her sereie 
 face, relieved by brown hair, silvered with grey, is lighted by lar^^ blue 
 eyes. There are wrinkles on that brow, yet when you gaze in tho^e eir- 
 nest eyes, you forget them all. 
 
 This is Mary the mother of Jesus. The sunbeam stealing from yoncer 
 dome, light up her serene face, and reveals that smile, so soft, and sad, and 
 tender. 
 
 Her son is to preach to day in the Synagogue ; his fame is beginnmg to 
 Btir the world. The mother awaits his appearance with a quiet joy, while 
 yonder, in that toil-wrung man with the grey hair and sunburnt face, who 
 leans upon his staff with clasped hands, you behold Joseph the Carpenter. 
 
 A deep silence pervails in the temple. 
 
 Yonder, in front of ihe elders is seated the Minister (or Reader) of the 
 Synagogue, venerable in his beard, broad in his phylactery, with the scroll 
 of the law in his hand. He has just finished the prayers of the Sabbath ; 
 and all is silent expectation. They wait for the appearance of this Jesus, 
 who the other day, was toiling with his father, at the carpenter's bench. 
 Now, it is said he has become an eloquent Preacher ; his name is bruited 
 on every wind ; it is even said that he worked miracles yonder in Galilee. 
 He, Jesus, the carpenter's son ! 
 
 A murmur deepens through the synagogue. Eyes are cast toward the 
 door ; faces turned over the shoulder ; whispers resound on every side. 
 The mother yonder rises from her seat ; how her blue eye fires ! The 
 father lifts his head from his staff; a flush warms his wrinkled brow. 
 
 He comes ! Yes, his rude garments, travel-worn, his long hair floating 
 to his shoulders, embrowned by the roadside dust, he comes, the object of 
 every eye, walking through the agitated crowd towards the altar. 
 
 The poor, yes the ragged, loil-frodden poor, bend over the shoulders of 
 the rich, eager to catch the gleam of those mild deep eyes, the silent elo- 
 quence of that white brow, the love of those smiling lips. For it is said, 
 
ilS THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776. 
 
 this Jesiis has dared to espouse the cause of the poor, even against the 
 pomp of broad phylacteries and venerable beards. So the rumor runs. 
 
 Jesus advances ; one glance to that Dear Mother, and their eyes kindle 
 in ihe same Slaze, one reverent inclination to that Father, and he passes into 
 the desk. 
 
 Every eye beholds him ! 
 
 Do you not see him also, standing calm and erect, as his large earnest 
 eyes slowly pass from face to face, while his countenance already glows 
 with inward emotion ? He is there before me, one hand laid upon the un- 
 opened scroll, while the other rises in an earnest gesture. 
 
 The silence grows deeper. 
 
 He opens the scroll ; it is the book of the Prophet Isaiah, that Poet and 
 Seer, whose burning words are worth all your Virgils and Homers, were 
 their beauties multiplied by thousands. 
 
 Hark, that voice, how it rings through the temple: • 
 
 " The Spirit of Jehovah is vpon me T he exclaims, as he stands there, 
 f-lowing witli Divinity ; He hath anointed me to preach good tidings to 
 the Poor r'' 
 
 A deep murmur fills the synagogue. The Elders bend forward in 
 wonder, the Poor start up from their dark corners with a silent rapture. 
 Mary clasps her hands and looks into the face of her Son. Still that bold, 
 earnest voice rings on the Sabbath air. 
 
 " He hath sent me to heal the broken-hearted, to preach deliverance to 
 the captive, sight to the blind, liberty to them that are bruised ! — " 
 
 Then while the murmur deepens, while the Elders start from their seats, 
 and the Poor come hurrying forward, do you see that frame dilate, that eye 
 burn, as his voice swells again through the temple, 
 
 " To preach the acceptable Year of the Lord. " 
 
 Yes, freedom to the slave, hope to the Poor, the Great Millenium of God 
 — when Beauty shall dwell on earth forever — to all the Sons of Men ! 
 
 Then while wonder and indignation and rapture and scorn thrill round 
 the temple, this Jesus closes the book and from that desk, proclaims him- 
 self the ANOINTED ONE of God, the Redeemer of the Poor ! 
 
 Ah, what eloquence, what soul, what fire ! How he pictures the degra- 
 dation of Man, now crouching under the foot of Priest and King, how he 
 thunders indignant scorn into the face of Pharisee and scribe, how, stretching 
 forth his arms, while his chest heaves and his eye burns, he proclaims the 
 coming of that blessed day, when Man shall indeed be free ! 
 
 He stood there, not like an humble pleader for the right, but with the 
 tone and look and gesture of Divinity, who exclaims. Let there be ligiit and 
 light there was ! 
 
 Yet look ! Those bearded men with broad phylacteries, ha^e started 
 from their seats ; they encircle him with flushed faces and eyes gleaming 
 ficorn. 
 
"THE OUTCAST." 419 
 
 I see the most reverend of them all, stand there, with the sneer deepeii- 
 mg over his face, while his straightened finger points to the face of Jesus— 
 
 Look ! he cried, turning to his brethren, 7s not this Joseph the Carpen- 
 ter'' s son ? 
 
 Is not this the man of toil, who, the other day was working at a rude 
 bench ? Behold his mother — a poor woman ! Behold his father — a car- 
 penter ? Does he come to teach us, the EUlers of the synagogue, broad in 
 our phylacteries, flowing in our robes, voluminous in our prayers ? 
 
 But the Poor press forward too, and one rude son of toil kneels there 
 before him, pressing the hem of his gaberdine, while his eyes are lifted to 
 his face. Mary — ah, let us pity the poor Mother now ! — for starting to her 
 feet, she clasps her hands, while her lips part and her eye dilates as she 
 awaits the end. 
 
 Joseph has buried his head upon his bosom. 
 
 Jesus rises supreme above them all. Yes, unawed by the scowling 
 brows, unmoved by the words of scorn, he spreads forth his arms, his 
 voice rings on the air once more ! 
 
 — " A Prophet is not without honor save in his own country and his own 
 house ! — " 
 
 These words have scarce passed his lips, when the uproar deepens into 
 violence. 
 
 Forth with him ! the cry yells through the synagogue, Forth with him 
 blasphemer ! Forth with him from the synagogue and the city ! To the 
 rock, to the rock with the Infidel ! 
 
 With one accord they hurl him from the desk, they, the venerable elders, 
 with the broad phylacteries. Rude hands grasp him, demoniac voices yell 
 in his ear. At this moment, even as they drag him from the desk, a little 
 child, with flowing hair and dilating eyes, affrighted by the clamor, steals 
 up to Jesus, seizing his robe with its tiny hands. His face, alone calm and 
 smiling in the uproar, seems to promise shelter to the startle child. 
 
 Through the passage of the synagogue they drag him, and now he is in 
 the open air, with the Sabbath sun pouring upon his uncovered brow. Along 
 the streets, from the city, over the flinty stones — to the rock with the 
 blasphemer ! 
 
 The city is built upon a rock, which yawns over an abyss. Plunged 
 from this rock, dashed into atoms on the stones below, this blasphemer shall 
 blaspheme no more ! 
 
 All the while, poor Mary, weeping, trembling, clasping her hands in an- 
 guish, follows the crowd, imploring mercy for her son. Do you see the 
 finger of scorn pointed at her face, the brutal sneer levelled at her heart? 
 
 Joseph humbled and abashed, has gone quietly away, perhaps to his car- 
 penter shop, to weep that this bold Jesus ever dared to beard the Srnagogue. 
 
 Out from the city with shouts and yells and curses ! Out along the 
 flinty path — behold the crowd attains the rock. 
 
420 THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776. 
 
 Surrounded by these forms, trembling with passion, these faces scowling 
 with rage, Jesus looks cahxily over the abyss, while a rough hand pinions 
 each arm. It is an awful sight, that steep wall of rock, rising from the 
 ravine below. Even the elders, who hold tliis Carppnter's son on the verge 
 of the rock, start back affrighted. The dizzy heighth appals their souls. 
 
 The shouts, cries, curses, deepen. Man never looks so much like a 
 brute, as when engaged in an act of violence, but when this act is mob vio- 
 lence, where many join to crush a solitary victim, then man looks like a 
 brute and devil combined. 
 
 There is not one face of pity in that frenzied crowd. From afar some 
 few poor men, slaves of the rich and afraid to brook their anger, gaze upon 
 the crowd with looks of sympathy for Jesus stamped upon their rude faces. 
 
 Mary too, do you not see her kneehng there, some few paces from the 
 crowd, her hands uplifted, while her brown hair, slightly touched with grey, 
 floats wildly to the breeze. She has sunken down, exhausted by the con- 
 flict of emotions, even yet she shrieks for mercy, mercy for this Jesus, 
 her Son ! 
 
 Jesus looks over tlie dizzy rock. ^ 
 
 Nearer they urge him to its verge, nearer and nearer; ah — he is on the 
 edge — another inch and he is gone — hark ! his foot brushes the earth from 
 the brink ; you liear it crumbling as he stands there, looking into the abyss. 
 
 At this moment, pinioned by rude arms, he turns his face over his shoul- 
 der ; he gazes upon that crowd. 
 
 O, the immortal scorn, the withering pity of that gaze ! His brow glows, 
 his eyes fire, his lips wreathe in a calm smile. 
 
 As one man the crowd shrink back, they cannot face the lustre of those 
 eyes. Behold — the Pharisees who grasp the arm of Jesus, fall on their 
 knees with their faces to the flint. That radiant brow strikes terror to their 
 souls. 
 
 In a moment he is free, free upon the edge of the cliff, the glory of Di- 
 vinity radiating in flashes of light around that white brow, while the rough 
 carpenter's robes seem to change into new garments, flowing as the morning 
 mist, luminous as sunshine. Even his long hair, falling to his shoulders, 
 seems to wave in flakes of light. 
 
 Give way ye Pharisees, give way ye bearded Elders, give wav ye makers 
 of long prayers, with your flowing robes and broad phylacteries, for Jesus 
 the Carpenter's son would pass through your midst ! 
 
 And he comes on from the verge of the clifl!", even through their midst. 
 Jfisus comes in silent grandeur. 
 
 Where are these men who shouted Infidel — Dog — Blasphemer — a mo 
 ment airo ? Crouching on the earth, their faces to the flint, their flowing 
 robes thrown over their heads, there they are, these solemn men, with vene- 
 rable beards and broad phylacteries. 
 
 Je^us passes on. 
 
"THE OUTCAST." 431 
 
 Silently, his beautiful countenance beaming with immortal love, his arms 
 folded on his breast, he passes on. 
 
 Yes, it is written in the book of God ; " He passing from the midst of 
 Ihem, went his way.''' 
 
 He is gjne from their city. They raise their affrighted faces, while 
 malice rankles in their hearts, and follow his form with flashing eyes. 
 
 Mary gazes upon him, also, weeping bitterly for Jesus, her Outcast son, 
 now a wanderer and exile from the home of his childhood. 
 
 Can you imagine a picture like this ? 
 
 Yonder on the summit of a hill, the last which commands a view of 
 Nazareth, its synagogue and rock, just where the roadside turns and follows 
 the windings of a shadowy valley, stands Jesus, resting his clasped hands 
 on his staff, while his eyes are fixed upon the distant city. 
 
 Who may picture the untold bitterness of that gaze ? 
 
 It is home, the town in which he was reared, beneath the fond light of a 
 Mother's eyes. There is the carpenter shop in which he toiled ; there /he 
 walks of his solitary hours, nay, the temple in which he was wont to kn tel 
 in -prayer. 
 
 And now, with scorn and curses and rude hands, they have thrust him 
 forth, AN OUTCAST from his home. 
 
 It was his earnest, yearning desire to do good in that town ; to revcAil 
 his high mission there ; to proclaim the great year of Jehovah, to the people 
 of his childhood's home. 
 
 And now he stands there, gazing upon the town, while the mark of ttu>ir 
 rude grasp yet reddens on his arms, while the words. Blasphemer, Infideli 
 Dog, yet echo in his ears. 
 
 He is an Outcast, this Jesus the Carpenter's son. 
 
 O, if there is one drop in the cup of persecution more bitter than another 
 it is the galling thought of neglect and wrong which sinks into the heart ol 
 that Man, who has been driven forth like a venomous snake, from his child 
 hood's home, even m the moment when his soul burned brightest with its 
 love for God and Man ! 
 
 Welcome indeed is the grasp of a friend in a foreign land, but dark and 
 terrible is the blow which hurls us from the threshhold of our home ! 
 
 God in all his dispensations of alfliction, with which he visits us for o«r 
 good, has no darker trial than this ! 
 
 My friends, I confess from the fulness of my heart, as I behold the 
 solemn lesson which this passage in our Saviour's life, has for the man of 
 genius, the student, the seeker after the beautiful, I am wrapt in wonder, in 
 pity, in awe, that one man of intellect ever doubted the truth of this Reve- 
 ation 
 
422 THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776. 
 
 Behold the lesson ! 
 
 Here on this rock of the hill-lop, stands Jesus the Outcast, gazing on his 
 childhood's home. Godly Pharisees have thrust him forth ; sanctimonious 
 Elders have hissed the words. Infidel, dog, blasphemer in his ears ! 
 
 The day will come, when the beards and phylacteries of these m-en will 
 have crumbled in the same forgotten grave, where their flesh and bones rot 
 into dust. Their paltry town will be the abiding place of the Gentile and 
 the scoffer ; their religion crushed beneath the horse's hoofs of invading 
 legions. 
 
 That town will claim a name in history, only because it was once the 
 Home of Jesus. That religion be remembered only, because it prepared 
 the way for the Religion of Jesus. Yes, the name of the Outcast, who now 
 stands upon this hill, gazing upon the distant town, will one day cover the 
 whole earth ; it will throb in the heart of Universal Man, like the Presence 
 of a God ! 
 
 Who will remember the Pharisees, who record the names of the Elders ? 
 Into what dim old grave shall we look for their dust ? 
 
 Where are the hands that smote the Lord Jesus, where the tongues that 
 hissed Blasphemer ! in his ears ? 
 
 Eighteen centuries have passed, and the name of this Jesus where 
 
 does it not shine ? 
 
 Shouted on the scaffold, with the last gasp of martyrs, whose flesh was 
 crumbling to cinder, breatlied by the patriot, dying on the batdefield for the 
 rights of man, echoed by millions of worshippers, who send it up to Heaven, 
 with prayer and incense, every hour of the day, every moment of the hour, 
 that' NAME has dared the perils of untrodden deserts, ascended hideous 
 mountains, traversed unknown seas, encompassed the globe with its glory. 
 
 It has done more than all — it has survived the abuses with which Phari- 
 sees and Hypocrites, like their fathers of old, have not hesitated to darken 
 its light, through the long course of eighteen hundred years. 
 
 Even the fang of the Dishonest Priest has failed to tear that name from 
 the heart of Man. 
 
 Even long and bloody religious wars, crowding the earth with the bodies 
 of the dead, darkening the heaven with their blood-red smoke, have not 
 effaced this name of Jesus ! 
 
 Not even the fires of Smilhfield, nor that Hell revealed on earth, the In- 
 quisition, nor that cold-blooded murder, done by a remorseless Bigot, in the 
 open square of Geneva, the victim a weak and unoffending man, nor a 
 thousand such fires, inquisitions and murders, all working their barbarities 
 in this Holy Name, have been able to drag it from the altar where it shines, 
 the only hope of Man. 
 
 Still «he Name of Jesus lives ; who shall number the hearts m which it 
 throbs, with every pulsation of love and joy and hope ? Who shall nuinl>ei 
 the sands on the shore, or count the beams of the sun ? 
 
THE HOPE OF EIGHTEEN HUNDRED YEARS. VZi 
 
 And when that blessed day shall come — and come it will, as suros ai 
 Jehovah lives ! — When Kings and Priests shall be hurled from their thrones 
 of wrong and superstition, when Labor shall be no longer trodden down, by 
 the feet of task-masters, when every man who toils shall receive his equal 
 portion of tiie fruits of the earth, when a church gorgeously appareled in 
 all the splendor of lofty temples, uncounted revenues, hosts of pensioned 
 ministers shall be demanded no more, when this Earth sliall indeed be tlie 
 Garden of God, and men indeed be Brothers — 
 
 Then crowning the great work with its awful and blessed benediction, 
 one name shall swell to the sky, echoed by the voices of innumerable Mil- 
 lions, the name of Him whom Pharisees and Elders thrust ignominiously 
 forth, from the synagogue of Nazareth, the Friend of the Poor, the God of 
 Washington and the signers — the name of Jesus. 
 
 VII.-THE HOPE OF EIGHTEEN HUNDRED YEARS. 
 
 Now let us see how the Great Hope of the Redeemer's Life was fulfilled 
 after the lapse of some eighteen hundred years ! 
 
 We will come down to the year 1775— we will make a rapid journey 
 yver the earth — 
 
 Saviour of the world where are thy People, where are the millions for 
 rt'hom thou didst suffer, and bleed, and die? 
 
 Let us look over Europe — what see we there ? 
 
 Magnificeut temples — crowds of Priests — rivers of blood ! 
 
 But thy millions. Saviour of the World — where are they ? The children 
 of Toil — those who wear the Mechanic's garb — those for whom thou 
 didst weep such bitter tears, in the Ages long ago — where are they ? 
 
 In the deep mines — in the hot fields — in the hotter workshops— bending 
 beneath heavy burdens — crouching beneath the lash — these, these are thy 
 People, O Redeemer of die World ! 
 
 And was it for this, that the tears of Gethsemane fell — the groans of 
 Calvary arose ? 
 
 Was it to build these temples — to rear these thrones — to crush these toil 
 wig millions into dust ? 
 
 Here, in Rome where St. Paul spoke forth words that made Em- 
 perors tremble for their thrones — here you see nothing but lordly priests 
 walking on to power, over a strange highway— the necks of a kneeling and 
 down-trodden People ! 
 
 But this is Rome — benighted — Pagan Rome — let us go to liberal en 
 lightened, Protestant Europe ! 
 
 Go to Germany— go to the scene of the Reformation — what see you 
 ihere? 
 
 Why the tears of persecuted Innocence rain down upon the very grave 
 
421 THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776. 
 
 of Martin Luther — yes, the sweat, the blood of the milHons sink into tliC 
 Great Reformer's grave, and drench his bones ! 
 
 But ah, this is Germany — doubtless Protestant Persecution rages here, 
 and dyes the land in blood — but still there is a hope for the human race! 
 
 Let us pass by benighted France, with its Monarch, its Priests, its slaves 
 — its throne — its temples — its huts and its Bastile — let us go over the 
 channel to Christian England ! 
 
 Here Saviour of the world, here thy Religion has found a home — for is 
 not the broad Isle crowded with churches — is there an hour in the day un 
 sanctified by a Prayer? 
 
 It is true, for every church there is a factory, a poor-house, or a jail — it 
 is true for every prayer that ascends to heaven, a miserable convict is 
 pitched from some gibbet into Eternity — it is true, that if every groan 
 wrung from the Poor Man's heart, could harden into a pebble, then might 
 tiiese Priests build them a church, as large as ten thousand St. Pauls heaped 
 on each other — 
 
 But is not this enlightened, liberal, Protestant, Reformed England ! 
 
 Look, in yonder palace of Windsor, sits a man with a glassy unmeaning 
 eye — a drivelling lip — a man buried in robes of Purple, a crown on his re- 
 ceding brow, a scepire in his gouty hand ! 
 
 And this is Thy Representative, O, Man of Nazareth ! This is the 
 Head of the Church — Defender of the Faiih — this, this is the British 
 Pope ! 
 
 Yes, this is the Defender of the Faith ! — And let us look at this faith — 
 so kind, so merciful, so beautiful ! 
 
 So anxious is Pope George to defend the Faith, that even now he is 
 gathering Missionaries, who will carry this faith across three thousand 
 miles of ocean ! 
 
 Go there to the barracks — the dockyards — go there and find his mission 
 aries, preparing for their high duties with bayonets in their hands ! 
 
 A goodly band of Missionaries ! Look — their numbers are swelled by 
 convicts from the jail — nay even the Murderer on the gibbet comes down — 
 takes the rope from his neck — puts a red coat on his back, a musquet on 
 his shoulder — and stands forth — a Holy Missionary of Pope George ! 
 
 And whom are these Missionaries to convert ? 
 
 Blessed Redeemer look yonder, far over the waters ! Look yonder, 
 upon that New World, where the Outcasts of the old world have built a 
 Home, a Nation, a Religion ! That H«me a refuge for the oppressed of 
 all the earth — that nation a Brotherhood founded by the Men of Plymouth 
 rock — by the Catholic of Baltimore — by the Quaker of the Delaware ! 
 That Religion, Hope to Man ! Hope to Toil ! Hope to Misery in it3 
 hut— Despair in its cell ! 
 
 And now after this nation — this home — this religon — have built the altar 
 of the rights of man in the wilderness — behold George the Pope of Fng- 
 
COUNCIL OF FREEMEN. 425 
 
 land is sending his missionaries far over the waters to the New Wor»d, to 
 butcher its men, to dishonor its women, to drench its soil in blood ! 
 
 Already the brothers of these missionaries have begun their work — 
 already they have endeavored to teach their mild persuasive doctrines to the 
 people of the new world — but these heathens reject the British Mission- 
 aries — yes, on Bunker Hill, Concord, Lexington, the heathens of the new 
 world, trample the flag of England into dust — and bury that Hag beneath 
 the dead bodies of these Missionaries of the British Pope ! 
 
 And while, these new crowds of Missionaries are leaving the shores of 
 England, look yonder I pray you, and behold that solitary man, short in 
 stature, clad in a plain brown coat — see him embark on shipboard, behold 
 liim leave the shores of England. 
 
 Do you knovy that yonder solitary man in the brown coat, is destined 
 to do more harm to the British Pope, than centuries will repair ? Did 
 George of Hanover but know, what great thoughts are stirring in the 
 brain of this little man, as leaning over the side of the receding ship, he 
 gazes back upon the white cliffs of Albion — he would tear his royal robes 
 for very spite, nay offer the little man an earldom, a tide, wealth, baubles, 
 power, radier than he siiould depart from the English shore with such great 
 thoughts working in his great soul. 
 
 Let us follow this unknown man in the brown coat. 
 
 We are in Plnladelphia in 1775 — it is the time when a body of rebels 
 wlio impudently style themselves, the " Continental Congress," hold their 
 sessions, on yonder edifice somewhat retired from Chesnut Street, called 
 Carpenter's Hall. 
 
 You may have seen this building ? It still is standing there — yes, up a^ 
 dark alley in Chesnut Street,ibelween Third and Fourth it stands, the hall of 
 th(!^Vs/ Continental Congress, now used as the sale room of an auctioneer! 
 We have a great love for antiquities in Philadelphia — we reverence the 
 altars of the past, for lest any lying foreigner should charge us with the des- 
 cretion of holy places, we tear down the old house of William Penn, sell; 
 chairs and clocks and ponies in Carpenter's Hall, and degrade Independence 
 Hall, that altar of the world, into a nest for squabbling lawyers ! 
 
 Vni.— COUNCIL OF FREEMEN. 
 
 It was in the time when a band of rebels sate in Carpenter's Hall — when 
 the smoke of Lexington and Bunker Hill, was yet in the sky, and the un- 
 dried blood of Warren and the martyrs, was yet upon the ground — that a 
 scene of some interest took place, in a quiet loom, in the city of Williar.i 
 Penn. 
 
 Look yonder, and behold that solitary lamp, flinging its dim light around 
 a neatly furnished room. 
 
 Grouped around that table, the full warmth of the light, pouring full in 
 
426 THE. FOURTH OF JULY, xV76. 
 
 I'neir faces, are tive persons — a Boston Lawyer, a Phiiadelphia Printer, a 
 Philadelphia Doctor, and a Virginia Farmer. 
 
 Come with me there to that lonely room — let us seat ourselves there — 
 let us look into the faces of these men — the one with the bold brow and 
 resolute look, is one John Adams from Boston ; next to him sits the calm- 
 faced Benjamin Rush — then you see the marked face of the Printer, one 
 Benjamin Franklin, and your eye rests upon a man, di-tingiiished above all 
 others by his height, the noble outlines of his form, the calm dignity of his 
 forehead, the quiet majesty of his look. That man is named Washington 
 — one Mr. George Washington, from Mount Vernon. 
 
 These men are all members of the Rebel Congress ; they have met here 
 to night to talk over the affairs of their country. Their talk is deep-toned 
 — cautious — hurried. Every man seems afraid to give free utterance to the 
 thoughts of his bosom. 
 
 They talk of Bunker Hill — of Lexington — of the blood-thirsty British 
 Ministry — of the blood-thirst)'- British King ! 
 
 Then, from the lips of Franklin comes the great question — Where is this 
 War to end ? Are we fighting only for a change in the British Ministry, 
 or — or — for the Independence of our land ? 
 
 There is silence in that room. 
 
 Washington, Adams, Rush — all look into each other's faces — and are 
 silent ! 
 
 Bound to England by ties of ancestry — language — religion — the very 
 idea of separation from Her, seems a Blat^phemy ! 
 
 Yes, with their towns burnt, their people murdered — Bunker Hill smoking 
 there, and Lexington bleeding yonder — still, still, these Colonists cling to 
 the name of England, still shudder at that big word, that chokes their throats 
 to speak — Lidependence. 
 
 At this moment, while all is still, a visitor is announced — look there ! As 
 that unknown man in the brown coat enters — is introduced by Franklin — takes 
 his seat at the table — is informed of the topic in discussion — look there upon 
 his brow, his flashing eye, as in earnest words he speaks forth his soul ! 
 
 Washington, Rush, Franklin, Adams, all are hushed into silence ! Al 
 
 first the little man in the brown coat startles horrifies them with his 
 
 political blasphemy ! 
 
 But as he goes on, as his broad, solid brow warms with fire, as his eye 
 flashes the full light of a soul roused into all its life, as those deep earnest 
 tones speak of the Independence of America — her glorious future — her des- 
 tiny, that shall stride on over the wrecks of thrones, to the Universal Empire 
 of Western Continent, then behold ! 
 
 They start from around the table — they press that stranger in the brown 
 coat, by the hand — they beg him for God's sake, to write these words in a 
 book, — a book that shall be read in all the homes, thundered from all the 
 pulpit-s of America ! 
 
THE BATTLE OF THE PEN. 421 
 
 Do you see that picture, my friends ^ 
 
 That little man in the brown coat, standing there, flushed, tn^mhling vvilli 
 she excitement of his own thoughts ; the splendidly formed Virginia 
 planter on one side, grasping him by the hand ; those great-souled men 
 encircling him on the other side, John Adams the Lawyer. Benjamin Rush 
 the Doctor, Benjamin Franklin the Printer. 
 
 Let this scene pass: let us follow this little man in the brown coat, thro' 
 the year 1775. 
 
 The day after this scene, that modest Virginia Planter, George Washing 
 ton, was named Commander-in-Chief of the Continental Armies. 
 
 IX.— THE BATTLE OF THE PEN. 
 
 And on the summer days of '75, that stranger in the brown coat, was 
 seen walking up and down, in front of the old State House, his great fore- 
 head shown in full sunlight, while with hands placed behind his back, he 
 went slowly along the pavement. 
 
 Then that humble man would stride to his lonely garret, seize tiie quill, 
 and scratch down the deep thoughts of his brain ! Then forth again, for 
 a walk in the State House square — up and down under these old trees, he 
 
 wanders all the afternoon at night, there is a light burning in yonder 
 
 garret window, burning all night till break of day ! 
 
 Let us look in that garret window — what see you there ? 
 
 A rude and neglected room — a little man in a brown coat, sitting beside 
 an old table, with scattered sheets of paper all about him — the light of an 
 unsnuffed candle upon his brow — that unfailing quill in his hand ! 
 
 Ah, my friends, you may talk to me of the sublimity of your battles, 
 whose poetry is bones and skulls — but for me, there is no battle so awfully 
 sublime, as one like this, now being fought before our eyes. 
 
 A poor, neglected Author, silting in his garret, — the world, poverty, time, 
 and space, all gone from him — as with a soul kindled into one steady blaze, 
 he phes that fast-moving quill. That quill puts down words on that paper, 
 words that shall burn into the brains of Kings, like arrows winged with fire, 
 and pointed with vitriol ! 
 
 Go on brave Author, sitting in your garret alone, at this dead hour — go 
 on — on through the silent hours — on, and God's blessings fall like breezes 
 of June upon your damp brow — on, and on, for you are writing the Thoughts 
 of a Nation into Birth ! 
 
 For many days, in that year '75, was that little man in a brown coat, 
 seen walking up and down the State House square — look yonder ! There 
 in yon garret, ni^ht after night, burns that .solitary light — burns and burns 
 oil, till the break ot'd;!' . 
 
 At last the work is done ' At last crrappling the loose sheets in his 
 trembling hands — trembling, because feverish with the toil of the brain — 
 
428 THE FOURTH OF JULY. 1776. 
 
 that author goes forth. His book is written, it must now be printed — 
 scattered to the Homes cf America! But look ye — not one printer will 
 touch the book — not a publisher but grows pale at the sight of those dingy 
 pages ! Because it ridicules the British Pope — ridicules the British Mon- 
 archy — because it speaks out in plain words, that nothing now remains to 
 oe done, but to declare the New World free and Independent ! 
 
 riiis shocks the trembling printers ; touch such a mass of treasonable 
 stuff — never! But at last a printer is found — a bold Scotchman, name(| 
 Robert Bell — he consents to put these loose pages into type — it is done; 
 and on the first of January, 1776, Common Sense burst on the People of 
 the new world ! Bursts upon the hearts and homes of America, like a ligbt 
 from heaven ! That book is read by the Mechanic at his bench, the Mer- 
 chant at his desk, the Preacher in his pulpit reads it, and -scatters its great 
 truths with the teachings of Revelation ! 
 
 " It burst from th^ Press " — says the great Doctor Rush, — " with an 
 effect which has rarely been produced by types or paper, in any age or 
 country !" 
 
 That book of Common Sense said strange and wonderful things : listen 
 to it for a moment : — 
 
 " But where, say some, is the King of America? I'll tell you, friend, he 
 reigns alM)ve, and doth not make havoc of mankind, like the Royal Brute of 
 Britain ! Yet that we may not appear to be defective in earthly honors, let 
 a day be solemnly set apart for proclaiming the Charter , let it be brought 
 forth, placed on the divine law, the Word of God ; let a crown be placei! 
 thereon by which the world may know, that so far as we approve of Mon- 
 arijhy, that in America the law is King. For as in absolute governments 
 th>3 king is law, so in free countries the Law ought to be king, and there 
 jught to be no other. But lest any ill use should afterwards arise, let the 
 jrown at the conclusion of the ceremony, be demolished, and scattered 
 among the People, whose Right it is !" 
 
 Was not that bold language, from a little man in a brown coat, to a great 
 King, sitting there in his royal halls, at once the Tyrant and the Pope of 
 A.ineric=>. ? 
 
 Listen to " common sense" again : 
 
 " A jrreater absurdity cannot be conceived of, than three millions of 
 people, running to their sea coast, every time a ship arrives from London, 
 to know what portion of Liberty they should enjoy." 
 
 Or again — here is a paragraph for George of England to give to the 
 Archbishops of Canterbury, to be read in all churches after the customary 
 prayers for the Royal Family : — 
 
 " No man," says Common Sense, " was a warmer wisher for a recon 
 ciliation, than myself, before tlie fated 19th April, 1775," — the day of the 
 Massacr<? of Lexington — " but the moment the event of that day was made 
 known, I rejected the hardened, sullen-tempered Pharoah of England 
 
THE AUTHOR. SOLDIER. 429 
 
 forever ; and disuain the wretch, that with the pretended tide of Father 
 ■of his People, can unfeeUngly hear of their slaughter, and composedly sleep 
 with their blood upon his soul." 
 
 Listen to the manner in which lliis great work concludes : 
 * * * Independence is the only bond that can tie us together. ***** 
 Let the names of Whig and Tory be extinct ; and let none other be heard 
 among us, than those of a good citizen ; an open and resolute friend : and 
 a virtuous supporter of the rights of Mankind, and of the Free and Inde- 
 pendent Slates of America. 
 
 Need I tell you, my friends, that this work, displaying the mo-t intimate 
 knowledge of the resources of America — the nerve of her men, the oak of 
 her forests, the treasures of her mines, — displaying an insight into the future 
 greatness of the American Navy, that was akin to Prophecy, need I tell 
 you, that this work, cutting into small pieces the cobwebs of Kingship and 
 Courtiership — the pitiful absurdity of America being for one hour dependent 
 upon Britain — struck a light in every American bosom— was in fact the 
 great cause and forerunner of the Declaration of Independence ! 
 
 And is there a heart here that does not throb with emotion, at tiie 
 name of the author of that Declaration, Tiiomas Jefferson, the Statesman- 
 Hero ? 
 
 And do your hearts throb at the mention of his name, and yet refuse to 
 pay the tribute of justice to the memory of his brother-patriot, his forerunner 
 in the work of freedom, the Author-Hero of the Revolution — Thomas 
 Paine ? 
 
 x.— the author-soldier. 
 
 Now let us follow this man in the brown coat, this Thomas Paine, 
 through the scenes of the Revolution. 
 
 In the full prime of early manhood, he joins the army of the Revolution ; 
 hi shares the crust and the cold, with Washington and his men — he is with 
 those brave soldiers on the toilsome march — with them by the camp-fire — 
 with them in the hour of batde ! 
 
 And why is he with them ? 
 
 Is the day dark — has the battle been bloody — do the American soldiers 
 despair ? Hark ! That printing press yonder, that printing press that 
 moves with the American host, in all its wanderings — is scattering pamphlets 
 through the ranks of the army ! 
 
 Pamphlets written by the author-soldier, Thomas Paine, written some- 
 times on the head of a drum — or by the midnight fire, or amid the corses 
 of the dead — Pamphlets that stamp great Hopes and greater Truths in Plain 
 words, upon the souls of the Continental Army ! 
 
 Tell me, was not that a sublime sight, to see a man of Genius, whomi;rht 
 liave shone as an Orator, a Poet, a Novelist, following with untiring devo- 
 tion, the footsteps o( the Continental army ? 
 
430 THE FOURTH OF JULY, 177b. 
 
 Yes, in the dark days of '76, when the soldiers of Washington tracked 
 their footsteps on the soil of Trenton, in the snows of Princeton — there, 
 first among tlie heroes and patriots, there, unflinching in the hour of defeat, 
 writing his "Crisis," by the light of tlie camp-fire, was the Author-Hero, 
 Thomas Paine ! 
 
 Yes, look yonder — behold the Crisis read by every Corporal in the army 
 of Washington, read to the listening group of soldiers — look what joy, what 
 hope, wiiat energy, gleams over those veteran faces, as words like these 
 break on their ears : 
 
 "These are the times that try men's souls! The summer soldier and 
 the sunshine patriot, will in this crisis, shrink from the service of iiis coun- 
 try ; but he that stands it now, deserves the love and thanks of man and 
 woman. Tyranny like hell, is not easily conquered; yet we have this 
 consolation wiili us, that the harder the conflict, the more glorious the 
 triumph ! — " 
 
 Do not words like these stir up the blood ? 
 
 Yet can you imagine their effect, when read to groups of starved and 
 bleeding soldiers, by the dim watch-fire, in the cold air of the winter dawn ? 
 
 Such words as these stirred up the starved Continentals to the attack on 
 Trenton, and there, in the dawn of glorious morning, George Washington, 
 standing sword in hand, over the dead body of the Hessian Kalle, confessed 
 the magic influence of the Author-Hero, Tiiomas Paine ! 
 
 The lowest libeller that ever befouled a pen, a vulgar and infamous 
 
 fellow, — we need not name him — who has written a Lie of some 347 
 pages, and called it, " The Life of Thomas Paine," this libeller, who spits 
 his venom upon the memory of Franklin and Jefi'erson — in fact, combines, 
 in his own person, more of the dirty in falsehood — the disgusting in ob- 
 scenity — the atrocious in perjury — ilian any penster that ever wrote for 
 
 British Gold, at the dictation of a British Court this Biographer, I say, 
 
 who after the object of his spile was dead, sought out for something enef- 
 fably disgusting, with which to befoul ihe dead man's memory, and finding 
 nothing so foul as his ovvn base soul, poured out that soul, in all its native 
 filth, upon the dead man's bones — this creature, whom it were a libel upon 
 human nature to call — Man — Atheist, Blasphemer, libeller of the dead as 
 he was — even He confessed, that " the Pen of Tom Paine was as for- 
 midable to the British, as the cannon of Washington !" 
 
 X.— THE PEOPLE Ai\D THE CRIMINAL. 
 
 Now, my friends we will change the scene. 
 
 Coine uiih nie over three thousand miles of waves, come with me to 
 Paris. 
 
 Come wiili nie, past yon heap of rocks and burnt embers : — the ruins of 
 
THE PEOPLE AND THE CRIMINAL. 431 
 
 the IJastile — come with me, through these scattered crowds who murmur 
 in the streets — hush ! hold your breath as you enter this wide hall. 
 
 What see you now ? 
 
 A splendid chamber — splendid, because encircled with the architectural 
 trophies of four hundred years — a splendid chamber, crowded by one dense 
 mass of human beings. Here — and here — wherever you look, you see 
 nothing but that wall of human fa^es. 
 
 Does not the awful silence that broods here, in this splendid saloon, strike 
 upon your hearts, with an impression of strange omen? 
 
 Tell me, oh tell me, and tell me at once, what means the horror that I 
 see brooding and gathering over this wall of faces ? Listen ! 
 
 Here in this hall, the people of France have gathered, yes, from the dear 
 vallies of Provence and Dauphine — from the wilds of Bretagne — from 
 the palaces and huts of Paris, the people have gathered to try a great 
 Criminal. 
 
 That criminal sits yonder in the felon's seat — a man of respectable ap- 
 pearance — sitting there, with a woman of strange loveliness by his side — 
 sitting there, with the only uncovered brow in all this vast assemblage ! 
 
 That criminal is Louis Capet, he is to be tried here to day, for treason to 
 the people of France. 
 
 And when you look upon that mild-visaged man, sitting there, with the 
 beautiful woman by his side, and feel inclined to pity him — to weep for 
 that tender woman — as you see the lowering looks, of this vast crowd di- 
 rected to the pair — as you feel that this awful silence, brooding and gather- 
 ing on every side, speaks a terror, a horror more to be feared than the loud- 
 est words. — 
 
 Then as pity, sympathy, gather over your hearts, then I pray you in the 
 name of God to remember, that this man here, sits clothed with the groans, 
 the tears, the blood of fifteen million people — yes, that the mildly beautiful 
 pearls, that rise and fall, with every pulsation of that woman's bosom, if 
 transformed into their original elements, would flood the wide hall with two 
 rivers — a river of tears, a river of blood ! 
 
 And now, as the great question is about to be decided — Shall Louis the 
 Traitor-King, live or die ! — let us for a moment, I beseech you, look at 
 the great moral, the great truth of this scene 
 
 Ah, is it not a sublime sight, this that breaks upon our eye — a King* on 
 Trial for treason to his People ! For ages, and for ages, these Kings have 
 waded up to thrones, through rivers of blood, yes built their thrones upon 
 
 islands of dead bodies, centered in those rivers of blood and now, and 
 
 now, the cry of vengeance, rising from fifteen millions up to God, haa 
 pierced the eternal ear, and called his vengeance down ! 
 
 It is a sublime sight that we have here — a King on triil for his criraes— 
 his people the judges and the executioners. 
 
432 THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776. 
 
 Do you know the regret that seizes my soul, when I contemplate this 
 scene I 
 
 That we Americans, after our Revolution, did not bring our Traitor King, 
 George the Third, to Independence Hall ! and there, wliile the dead of the 
 Revolution gathered around him — yes crowded the hall and oarKened far 
 over Independence Square — and there while the widows and the orphans 
 of the Massacred heroes came to the bar, blasting the Kingly Murderer, 
 with their cries and tears — I do regret, that we, the people, did not try the 
 Traitor-King, the Murderer-Pope for his crimes. 
 
 Ah would not that have been a solemn scene ! While the deep groans 
 the orphans wail sadly like organ-music pealing from the grave, while the 
 dead gather round thronging to the witness-seat — yes, here, come the Minis- 
 ters of Religion kneeling around the Felon-King — with the Book of God 
 m their hands, they pray for his guilty soul — they bid him prepare for the 
 judgment of the people. Tliey point to yonder square — they point to the 
 Scaffold— the axe ! George of England, prepare ! This day convicted of 
 Treason to the people, convicted of wholesale Murder, committed upon a 
 whole Nation — "■This day you die T^ 
 
 Ah, would not that have been a sight for a world to see ? To have laid 
 his anointed head upon the block — to have sent him down, the shades 
 death, the dead around him, and the curses of millions in his ears ! 
 
 Then to have written over his grave — " Here lies the Traitor-King, con- 
 victed of Murder and sentenced to death one month after the capture of 
 
 "VORKTOWN !" 
 
 But we are in Paris again — again we stand in that wide hall, where Louis 
 ol" France, awaits his fate. 
 
 Hark ! at this moment as the vote is about to be taken, a man short in 
 biature, yet with a bold brow rises yonder — rises and pleads for the life of 
 the Traitor-King ! 
 
 Yes, with outstretched hands, an earnest voice, a gleaming eye, that man 
 pleads for the life of Louis of France ! 
 
 liCt us not, he exclaims, stain our glorious cause, even with the blood of 
 a King ! all punishments of death, are abhorrent in the eyes of God ! Let 
 us tell to the world that we found this King guilty of Treason, Treason to 
 his People ! But that we scorned to take his guilty life ! Punishment by 
 death is a libel on God and Man — let us spare the Traitor-King ! Let us 
 remember that his Government with its ocean of crimes, had one redeem 
 ing trait — it was this King who gave arms and men to Washington, in the 
 war of the American Revolution ! 
 
 Let tken these United Slates be the safeguard and asylum of Louis 
 Capet. — There, far removed from the miseries and crimes of royally, he 
 may learn that the system of government, consists not in Kings but m the 
 People. 
 
 And who was the unknown man, who companioned only by men like La 
 
KING GUILLOTINE. 433 
 
 Fayette, stood there pleading for the life of the King ? \\ ho was thia 
 Stranger, that while all around were scowling death in his face, dared to beg 
 the life of the Traitor-King ? 
 
 A.h that little man who stood there, alone in ihat breathless liall, with 
 such migliiy eloquence warming over his lofiy brow ? 
 
 That little man was one of that illustrious band, who had been made 
 citizens of France — France the Redeemed and New Born ! Yes, with 
 Macintosh, Franklin, Hamilton, Jefferson and Washington, he had been 
 elected a citizen of France — with these great men he hailed the era of the 
 French Revolution as the dawn of God's Millennium — he had hurried to 
 Paris, urged by the same deep love of man, that accompanied him in the 
 darkest hours of the American Revolution, — and there, lliere pleading for 
 the Traitor-King, alone in that breathless hall he stood, the Auihor-Herj, 
 Thomas Paine ! 
 
 xi.— king guillotine. 
 
 Need I tell you that his pleading was in vain ? Need I tell you that ere 
 the last word died on his lip, up, up, from a thousand souls — up, up, to tie 
 coiling arose the terrible syllable Death ! 
 
 And the People without, the legions of new-born freemen, extending lar 
 through the streets of Paris, took up the word — " Death, Death, Death 1" 
 
 Now Louis of France — now take from your anointed brows, the holy 
 crown, for to day it will not save your royal head ! 
 
 Now Marie Antoinette, fair woman whose soft form has hitherto reposcid 
 on beds of down, now take from your snow-white bosom that string of 
 pearls, for this day they will not save your queenly neck ! 
 
 Need I picture my friends, the terrible scenes, which followed the con- 
 demnation of Louis Capet ? 
 
 Now Louis Capet being dethroned, there reigned in Paris another King 
 — let us go there through the streets black with People, and look at him ! 
 There in the centre of this dense crowd, he raises his gory head — there the 
 sun streams over his bloody outlines — there gleams his dripping axe — there 
 there, towering above the heads of millions behold his Bloody Majesty, 
 the new Lord of Paris, King Guillotine ! 
 
 A strange king have we here — and look there, standing on the scaffold, a 
 burly ruffian towers into light, his bared arms red with blood, his hot brow 
 covered by a hideous scarlet cap ! That half-clad ruffian is one of the 
 Courtiers of the new king, that is The Hangman, Prime Minister to Kino 
 Guillotine ! 
 
 Now let us take our station by his throne ; let us behold the offerings 
 which are brought to King Gui"ntine ! 
 
 See — the crowd gives way — hark ! That shout ! Louis of France 
 kneels, lays his head upon the block — the axe falls ! Behold the firsi 
 offering to the Bloody Majesty of France — Kino Guillotine ! 
 
434 TffE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776. 
 
 Look — another scene breaks on our view ! The soft light of morning 
 break? over these palaces, over the spires of Notre Dame — the crowd give 
 way. 
 
 Great Heaven, what sight is this ! 
 
 The crowd give way — a lovely woman comes trembling up the scaffold- 
 steps ! 
 
 Oh, how beautiful ! Life in her eyes, on her dewy lip, life in her young 
 veins, life on the white bosom, that heaves tremulously into light. 
 
 Look ! with one rude grasp the Hangman tears aside the robes from that 
 white bosom — she kneels — Oh, God ! 
 
 Is not that a fair and beautiful neck to lay upon the block ? She kneels 
 — the axe glimmers — falls ! 
 
 Ah, can that head rolling there like a football, beneath the Executioner's 
 feet, that head with the long hair dabbled in blood, can that be the head of 
 Marie Antoinette of France ? 
 
 Now let us wait by King Guillotine all day long — here, from the death- 
 carts tumbled out upon the scaffold — here old man and maid, here Poet, 
 Warrior, Felon, here they come ! They kneel — hark ! The sound of the 
 falling axe ! The sawdust of the scaffold is drunk with blood — there is a 
 pile of human heads rising in the light! Behold the offerings to King 
 Guillotine ' 
 
 Thus from morning till night, that axe glimmers and falls ! Thus from 
 morning till night, King Guillotine plies his task — the gutters of Paris run 
 blood, down to the waters of the Seine — the graveyards are full. King 
 Guillotine knows not where to bury his dead — the stones of the prison 
 yards are taken up — deep pits are dug — here bring your dead-carts, here 
 into these yawning cavities, pitch them all, the warrior with his mangled 
 form, the old man with his grey hair, the maiden with her trampled bosom 
 — here pitch them all, and let the earth hide these offerings to King 
 Guillotine. 
 
 Now Starch the streets of Paris for the noblest and pure-sonled Patriots 
 of the Revolution — and search in vain ! They are gone — La Fayette and 
 Paine, and all the heroes are gone. In their place speaks that great orator 
 King Guillotine. 
 
 xii.— truth from the carnage. 
 
 And here, my friends, let us for a moment pause, even amid these rivers 
 of blood, to look the Great Truth of the French Revolution in the face: 
 
 Shall I, because the blood is yonder in curdling pools, shall I declare tha' 
 the Principle of the French Revolution was wrong ? 
 
 No ! No ! No ! 
 
 For it was for this same principle that Jesus toiled — endured — died ! ll 
 was for this Principle that every man is alike the child of God, that th' 
 tears of Gethsemane fell, that the groans of Calvary arose ! 
 
TRUTH FROM THE CARNAGE. 435 
 
 Shall I be ause the blood flows in rivers in the streets of France, declare 
 inith to be a liar — prate of the atrocities of the Revolution — or sing psalms 
 over the graves of tyrants and kings ? 
 
 Reme i.ber, my friends — and O, write this truth upon your hearts — tha/ 
 this French Revolution was the first effort of i\Ian, to assert his rights since 
 the crucifixion of the Saviour. 
 
 Remember, that between the Death of the Blessed Redeemer and the Era 
 of the Frencli Revolution, every atrocity that tlie imagination of the devils 
 could invent, had been heaped upon mankind, by Kings and Priests in the 
 name of God. 
 
 Remember — wherever Bigotry has reared her temples, there has the 
 name of God been polluted by the foul lips of Priests 
 
 The Hindoo Mother gives her child to the Ganges, in the name of God — 
 the car of the Juggernaut crushes its thousands, in the name of God ! 
 
 In a single war— a war that swept over Germany and Bohemia — nine 
 million souls went down to one bloody grave, because their King and his 
 Priests quarrelled in relation to this great question — whether a Church 
 should have a cross, whether a Preacher should say his prayers in Latin 
 or Dutch ! And then after the war was over, booted Priests and gowned 
 troopers, shouted the holy name of God, over a land which could show no 
 fruits, than the graves of nine million people ! 
 
 In this fair land of the New World, the children of the forest were hunted 
 and butchered in the name of God ! That name mingled with the blood- 
 hound's yell. In this land, helpless women and aged men were scourged 
 and burnt to death by grim sectarians, who calmly gazed upon the writhing 
 and blackened flesh of their victims, and shouted Glory to the name of 
 God ! 
 
 In this name, earth has been desolated ten thousand times, and ten thou- 
 sand limes again. In this name, the gardens of the world have been trans- 
 formed into howling deserts ; the heart of man changed into the heart of a 
 devil — in this name home has been made a hell. 
 
 These things have been done in the name of God ! You may say that 
 they were the work of ignorance, of superstition, of fanatacism, but still that 
 
 blistering fact stands out from the brow of history These things were 
 
 done in the name of God ! 
 
 And shall I therefore declare, that God is a Lie I Shall I therefore de- 
 clare, that his Book is a Fable ? Shall I, because the name of God has 
 been polluted, his holy word profaned, shall I declare, that there is no God 
 — no Revelation I 
 
 As well these absurdities, as declare that the Principle of the French 
 Revolution — all men are alike the children of God — is false, because that 
 Princi[)le was profaned by deeds of Massacre — by his bloody Majesty, 
 King Guillotine. 
 
 Remember, my friends, as you are gazing here, upon this immense crowd, 
 
436 THE FOURTH OF JULY, 177G. 
 
 in whose midst that Guillotine is butchering its hundreds and thousands 
 remember also to gaze upon yonder balcony, projecting from the wall of 
 the Palace of tlie Kin^s of France ? 
 
 Well — what of that balcony 
 
 Why, my friends, on that balcony, not a hundred years ago, stood Royal 
 Charles of France, while the darkness of night was broken by the flames 
 of St. Bartholomew ! 
 
 Yes, there he stood, gazing with a calm religious joy, upon the murder 
 old men, women, little children, — going forward in the streets below ! Yes, 
 there, with that Woman-Fiend, Catharine of Medici, by his side, there stood 
 the King, with his musquet in his hand, shooting down his own people — 
 and as that old man is writhing there, as that woman falls, crushed by his 
 shot — while the groans of three hundred thousand human beings, murdered 
 in a single night, between the setting and the rising of the sun, go up to 
 Heaven, He, tlie King, solemnly calls upon Jesus and on God ! 
 
 Multiply the victims of the French Revolution by ten myriads, and they 
 will not make a mole hill, beside the mountain of victims of Religious 
 bigotry, who have been murdered in the name of GOD. 
 
 XIII.— THE REIGN OF THE KING OF TERROR. 
 
 But while the orgies of the Revolution are filling Paris with horror, lei 
 us search for Thomas Paine ! 
 
 He is not in his home — nor in the Convention, nor in the streets — then 
 where is he ? 
 
 Come with me, at dead of night, and I will show you a strange 
 scene. 
 
 In the central chamber of yonder Royal palace, a solitary, dim, flickering 
 light burns in the socket. 
 
 Yes, a solitary light stands in the centre of that chamber, stands on the 
 table there, flinging its feeble rays out upon the thick darkness of that room. 
 
 It is a spacious chamber, but you can discover nothing of its lofty doors 
 — nothing of the tapestry that adorns its walls — for all save that spot in the 
 centre of the chamber, where the light is burning, all is darkness. 
 
 I ask vou to steep your souls in the silence, in the gloom of this place, 
 and then listen to that creaking sound of an opening door — that low — steal- 
 thy footstep. 
 
 Behold ,1 figure advances — stands there with one hand on the table — 
 
 It is the figure of a slenderly formed man dressed in the extreme of 
 dandyism — a jaunty blue coat — spotless white vest, lined with crimson 
 satin — a faultlessly white cravat. 
 
 There i.s a diamond on his bosom — rui^es round his wrists. 
 
 Look lor a moment at his face— the features small and mean — the hue a 
 discolored Yellow ; the eyes bleared and blood-shot. Who is this puny. 
 
THE FALL OF KING GUILLOTINE. 437 
 
 trembling dandy, who stands here, with that paper in his hand at dead of 
 night ? 
 
 That puny dandy, is the King of King Guillotine, that is Maximilian 
 Robespierre ! The paper that he grasps in his sallow hands, is a letter 
 iVoii) King Robespierre to King Gullotine ! Eighty victims are to feed the 
 sawdust and the axe to-morrow : their names are on that paper. 
 
 And now as we stand here in this Palace Hall, gazing upon this Blood- 
 thirsty dandy, let us look at his malicious lip, how it writhes, at his blood- 
 shot eye, how it gleams with spite and hate. These eighty victims sacra- 
 ticed ; eighty of the noblest and the best of France ; then the Guillotine 
 can be locked up forever, then the name of Robespierre, will be lost in the 
 name of his supreme equality, Maximillen, the First, King of France ! 
 
 And as he stands tliere, the full light of the lamp, streaming over his dis- 
 colored face ; let us look over his shoulder ; let us read the names on this 
 death-scroll ! 
 
 There are the names of Hero-men, of Hero-women, and first in he 
 scroll, you see the names of Madame La Fayette and Thomas Paine. 
 
 Yes, the eye of Robespierre gleams with a terrible ligiit, as he it rests 
 upon that n;ime ; the name of the most determined foe. 
 
 Thomas Paine ! To night he paces the damp floor of his sleepless-(Ji!ll 
 — to-morrow into the death-cart, and on to the Guillotine — ho, ho, so ends 
 the Author-hero, Thomas Paine! 
 
 XIV.— THE FALL OF KING GUILLOTINE. 
 
 Let us take one bold look, into the Hall of the National Assembly, on 
 the next day ! What see we here ? 
 
 Here are tlie best, the bravest, aye and the bloodiest of all France, sitting 
 silent — speechless — awed, before that orange-visaged dandy, who crouches 
 on the Tribune, yonder ! 
 
 Not a man in that crowd, dares speak ! Robespierre — the Guillotine, 
 Terror, have taken fast hold upon their hearts ! Every man io that dense- 
 ly-thronged hall looks upon his neighbor with suspicion ; for <5very other 
 man, there is already singled out as the victim of the orange-f-^ced King, in 
 the snow-white vest! It is not known who the next victim shall be; 
 wnere the tyrant will next strike and kill ! 
 
 Robespierre has carried his list of death ; has made his fiery speech : 
 France, the people, the bloody and the brave, sit crouching in that hall^ 
 be'ore that slender man, with blood-shot eyes ! 
 
 Robespierre in fact is King — do you see, that biting smile stealing over 
 his withered face ! There is triumph in that mockery of a emile ! 
 
 At this awful moment, when all is silence in the crowded hall — behold — 
 that unknown man, rising yonder, far from the Tribune — that unknown man 
 who trembling from head to foot, pale as a frozen corpse, — riaes aud speaks 
 u word that turns all eyes upon him : 
 
iUH THE FOURTH OF JULY, 2776. 
 
 " Roorn "' lie wiiispprs ; aiul yet his whisper is heard in every heart-- 
 " Room lliere ye dead !" 
 
 lie pauses, with his eye fixed on vacanry. All is still — the (Conven- 
 tion hold their breath — even Robespierre listens 
 
 *•' Room there ye dead i" again whispers that unknown man ; and then 
 Dointing to the white-vested Tyrant, his voice rises in a shriek — " Room ye 
 dead ! Room there — Room ye ghosts — room in hell for the soul of Maxi- 
 milien Robespierre !" 
 
 Like a voice from the grave, that word starUes the Convention — look ! 
 Robespierre has risen — coward as he is, that voice has palsied his soul. 
 
 But the unknown man does not pause ! In that some deep tone, he heaps 
 up the crimes of Robespierre in short and fiery words, he calls the dead 
 rrom their graves to witness the atrocities of the Tyrant ; trembling with 
 the great deed he has taken upon himself, he shrieks, Go, tyrant, go ! 
 Go, and wash out your crimes on the gory sawdust of King Guillotine I" 
 
 From that hour, Robespierre the Tyrant was Robespierre, the convicted 
 criminal! Look! Covered with shames and scorns, he rushes from the 
 hall — Hark ! The report of a pistol ! What does it mean ? 
 
 Let us away to King Guillotine and ask him ! 
 
 Ha ! Give way there Paris, give way, who is it that comes here — comes 
 through the maddened crowd ; who is it, that more dead than living, comes 
 on, shrinking, crouching, trembling, to the feet of Holy King Guillotine ? 
 
 Ah ! That horror-stricken face, yes, that face with that bloody cloth 
 oound around the broken jaw — look ! even through that cloth, the blood 
 drips slowly ; he bleeds, it is Robespierre ! 
 
 Grasped in the arms of men, whom the joy of this moment has mad- 
 dened into devils, he is dragged up to the scaffold 
 
 One look over the crowd — great Heaven, in all that mass of millions, 
 there is no blessing for Maximilien Robespierre ! 
 
 " Water !" shrieks the Tyrant, holding his torn jaw, " Water, only a cup 
 of water !" 
 
 Look — his cry is answered ! A woman rushes up the scaftbld — a woman 
 who yesterday was a mother, but now is widowed, because Robespierre and 
 Death have grasped her boy. 
 
 " Water ?" she echoes ; " Blood, tyrant, blood ! You have given France 
 blood to drink — you have drank her blood ! Now drink your own !" 
 
 Look — oh, horror — she drags the bandage from his broken jaw— he is 
 bathed in a bath of his own blood. Down on the block, tyrant ! One 
 gleam of the axe — hurrah for brave King Guillotine ! 
 
 There is a head on the scaffold — and there, over the headless corse, 
 stands that Widow, shrieking the cry she heard in the Convention to-day: 
 " Room ye dead ! Room — for the Soul of Maximilien Robespierre !" 
 
 * This phrase occurs in Bulwer's Zanoni. 
 
THE BIBLE 439 
 
 XV.— THE BIBLE. 
 
 We hdve seen Thomas Paine standing alone in the Judgment Hall of the 
 French Nation, pleading — even amid that sea of scowling faces — for the life 
 of King TiOuis. 
 
 We have seen him with Washington, Hamilton, Macintosh, Franklin, 
 and Jefferson, elected a Citizen of France. With these great men, he 
 hailed the dawn of the French Revolution as the breaking of God's Mi'len- 
 nium ; as the first great effort of iMan to free himself from the lash and 
 chain, since the crucifixion of the Saviour. 
 
 But soon the dawn was overcast; soon the light of burning rafters flashed 
 luridly over scenes of blood ; soon all that is grotesque, or terrible, or loath- 
 some in murder, was enacted in the streets of Paris. The lantern posts 
 bore their ghastly fruit ; the streets flowed with crimson rivers, the life- 
 blood of ten thousand hearts, down even to the waters of the Seine. King 
 Louis was dead; but this was not all. Liberty was dead also; butchered 
 by her fireside. 
 
 In her place reigned an orange-faced Dandy, with shrivelled cheeks and 
 blood-shot eyes. La Fayette and Paine, and all the heroes were gone from 
 the councils of France, but in their place, aye, in the place of Poetrv. 
 Enthusiasm and Eloquence, spoke a mighty orator — King Guillo- 
 tine ' 
 
 For eleven months, Thomas Paine lay sweltering in a gaol, the object of 
 the fierce indignation of Maxiniilien Robespierre, At last there came a day 
 when he was doomed ; when his name was written in the Judgment List 
 of the oranore-faced Dandy. 
 
 Let us go to tlie prison, even to the Palace Prison of the Luxemburg. It 
 is high noon. A band of eighty, clustered around that prison door, silently 
 await their fate. Here amid while-haired old men, here amid trembling 
 women, all watching for the coming of the death messenger, — here, silent, 
 atern, composed, stands the author-hero, Thomas Paine 
 
 Soon that prison door will open ; soon the death cars will roll ; soon the 
 axe will fall, and these eighty forms, now fired with the last glow of life, 
 will be clay. 
 
 But look — the gaoler comes ! A man of dark brow and savage look ; his 
 arms bared to the shoulder, displaying the sinews of a giant. He comes, 
 trudging heavily ihrough the crowd of his victims, the massive key of the 
 Palace Prison in his hand. He stands for a moment, looking gloomily over 
 the faces of his prisoners ; he places the key in the lock. Then the gloom 
 vanishes from his rough face ; a look of frenzied joy gleams from his eyes ; 
 his brawny chest swells with a maniac shout. 
 
440 THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776. 
 
 " Go forth !" he shrieks, rushing the first through the opened gates ; '< go 
 forth, young anc! old ; go forth -dWl— for Catiline Robespierre is dead I" 
 
 And fortii — while the air is filled with frenzied shrieks of joy — forth from 
 the Palace Prison walks the freed hero, the Man of Two Revolutions, 
 Thomas Paiue. 
 
 Now comes the darkest hour of his life. Now comes the hour when we 
 shall weep for Genius profaned ; when we shall see the great and mighty, 
 fallen from the pedestal of his glory into the very sink of pollution. 
 
 Now let us follow the path of Thomas Paine, as his first step is to reclaim 
 the Manuscript of a work which he wrote eleven months ago, before his 
 entrance into prison. He grasps that package of Manuscript again ; let us 
 look at its title : " The Age of Reason." 
 
 Here, my friends, let us pause for a moment. Let us ask that man of 
 the high brow, the eloquent eye, the face stamped with a great soul — let us 
 ask Tliomas Paine, as he goes yonder through the streets of Paris, to do a 
 great and holy deed ? 
 
 That deed — what is it? 
 
 Let ns ask him to take the Manuscl-ipt in his hand, to tear it in twain, 
 and hurl the fragments there, beneath the dripping axe of the Guillotine. 
 
 Yes, let tlie Guillotine do its last work upon this Manuscript of Falsehood ; 
 let the last descent of the gory axe fall on its polluted pages. For while 
 this "Age of Reason" speaks certain great Thoughts, announcing the author's 
 belief in a God and Immortality — thoughts derived from the Bible — it is 
 still a jest book, too vile to name. 
 
 It is true, it speaks of God and Immortality ; but it also heaps its v\le 
 jests, its vulgar scorn upon Jesus, the Redeemer of Man, and Mary the 
 Vn-gin Mother. 
 
 Let me tell you at once, my friends, that I stand here to-night, a preju- 
 diced man. Let me at once confess, that it has ever been my study, my 
 love, to bend over the dim pages of the Hebrew volume — to behold the 
 awful form of Jehovah pending over chaos ; to hear that voice of Omnipo- 
 tence resound through the depths of space, as these w^ords break on my 
 soul: " Vayomer Aloheim : yehee aur vayehee aur !" — Then spake 
 God : let there be light and light there was T'' 
 
 Or yet again, to behold that Jehovah, descended from the skies, walking 
 yonder with the Patriarchs, yonder where the palms arise, and the tents 
 whiten over the plain. Or, in the silence of night, to look there, through 
 the lone wilderness, where the Pillar of Fire beacons Moses the Deliverer 
 towards the Promised Land ; or to enter the solemn temple of Jerusalem, 
 and behold the same Jehovah, shining in the holiest place, shining over the 
 Ark of the Covenant, so awfully serene, yet sublime. 
 
 Let me tell you, that I have been with the Arab, Job, as he talked face 
 to face with God, and in images of divine beauty, spoke forth the writhmgs 
 of his soul : as ii» words that your orators of Greece and Rome never spoke 
 
THE BIBLE. 441 
 
 or dreamed, he pictures the littleness of life, the Majesty of Omnipotence, 
 the sweet, dear rest of the untroubled grave. " There the wicked cease 
 from troubling and the weary be at rest." 
 
 I have bent over this New Testament, and traced the path of God as he 
 walked the earth enshrined in human flesh. Is there no beauty here, to 
 warm the heart and fire the brain ? Even as we read, does not the face 
 of Jesus start fi-om the page — that face that painter never painted, with its 
 serene Divinity looking out from the clear, deep eyes. That face which 
 we may imagine, with its flowing hair falling gently down from the brow 
 where " God" is written in every outline, with the lips wreathing with such 
 eternal love for poor forsaken man, whether he sweats in the workshop or 
 grovels in the mine. Yes, I have followed diat face, as it appeared above 
 the hill-top at even, in the golden twilight of Palestine, and approached the 
 Poor Man's hut, and shone in the dark window, upon the hard crust of the 
 slave. How the Poor rose up to welcome that face ; how rude men bent 
 down before it and wept ; how tender women knelt in its light and gazed 
 in those Divine eyes ! Then how the voice of Jesus rung out upon the 
 air, speaking in dark huts great words that shall never die ! 
 
 Yes, I have followed that Man of Nazareth over stony roads, by the 
 waves of Galilee, into the Halls of Pilate ; and there — yes, up the awful 
 clifl's of Calvary, when Jerusalem poured through its gates by tens of thou- 
 sands, under the darkened heavens, over the groaning earth, to look upon 
 the face of the dying God, as the heavy air rung with that unspeakable 
 agony : " My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me 1" 
 
 Let me at once confess, that if the Bible is a Fable, it is a Fable more 
 D<^autiful than all the classics of Greece and Rome. Paint for me your 
 Cicero and Demosthenes in all their glory, and I will paint you that bold 
 forehead and those earnest eyes of Saint Paul, as, rising from his midnight 
 toil, his voice echoes the words he has just written ; those words that hve 
 forever, as though each word was an Immortal Soul — 
 
 In a moment, in a twinkling of the eye, at the last trump, for the 
 trumpet shall sound, and the dead shall be raised incorruptible, and we 
 shall be changed. 
 
 For this corruption must put on incorruption, and this mortal must 
 put on immortality. 
 
 Search your Poets for scenes of that quiet pathos which at once melts 
 and elevates the soul — search your Homer, your Shakspeare ; search them 
 all, the venerable Seers of Ages, and I will point you to a single line that 
 puts them all to shame ! It is in the New Testament, where Jesus the 
 Christ is dead and buried. It is on that serene morning, when the sun- 
 beams shine over the sepulchre of the Saviour. Three women, the blessed 
 Maries, come there to weep over the body of their Lord. Yes, all the 
 world has forsaken him : all save Peter the Faithless yet Lion-hearted, 
 John the Beloved, and these three women. They look into the sepulchre 
 28 
 
442 THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776. 
 
 — it is empty. The grave-clothes are there, but the Lord is gone. At 
 this moment, a poor, abandoned woman, whom the good Christ had lifted 
 up to virtue and forgave, even as she washed his feet with her tears — yes, 
 at this momen', sad, tearful, Mary Magdalene approaches a being whom she 
 mistakes for the gardener. Listen to the words of scripture. This beir^ 
 speaks : 
 
 •' Woman, why weepest thou ?" 
 
 She, supposing him to be the gardener, said unto him, 
 
 " Sir, if thou hast borne him hence, tell me where thou hast laid him, 
 ind I will take him away." 
 
 Jesus suith unto her, " Mary .'" 
 
 She turned herself and said unto him, " Master !" 
 
 This is all the gospel says of the matter, but is not this one line full of 
 eternal beauty : " Jesus saith unto her, ' Mary !' " No long explanations, 
 no elaborate phrase, no attempt to awe or surprise ; but one simple word, 
 that word her name, spoken in the tones she loved to hear. 
 
 Can you not hear his voice, speaking in those well-remembered tones ? 
 Can you not see his hand extended in a gesture of benediction, as his eye 
 lights up with an expression of brotherly tenderness ? 
 
 That one scene by the sepulchre, where the Magdalene, an image of 
 beauty purified by religion, bends delighted before the serenely divine face 
 of the risen Jesus, while the sunbeams of that calm dawn fell gently over 
 the grave-clothes which no longer clasp the dead — that one scene, sublime 
 in its very simplicity considered as a mere composition, is worth all the 
 pathos of Greece and Rome. 
 
 Yes, if the Bible is a fable, it is a fable more beautiful than all the iron- 
 hearted sophistry of your cold-blooded Philosophers — it is a Fable that 
 through all time has girded up the hearts of patriots on the scaffold and the 
 battle-field — it is a Fable that has shone like a glory over ten thousand 
 dying beds. If that Bible is a Fable, then is it a Fable that bursts like a 
 blaze of love and beauty through the dark cloud of human guilt, and lights 
 a way from the dull grave up to Immortality and God. 
 
 Ah, had I been Thomas Paine — had his great brain, his great soul been 
 mine, then would I have taken my stand here on the Bible with Jesus. 
 Then from this book would I have told the host of hypocrites who like 
 slimy lizards, crawl up on the Altar of God and sit there in all their loath- 
 someness, then would I have told these mockers of God, that here from this 
 Bible, even the mild spirit of Jesus is roused — to rebuke— to scorn — to speak 
 terror to their souls ! 
 
 Because hypocrites have made merchandize of God's Book, and split his 
 cross into pedlar's wares, shall I therefore heap scorn upon that serenely 
 beautiful face, looming out from the Bible ; that face of Jesus, the Redeemer 
 of Man ? Because hypocrites and kings have taken the seamless robe of 
 Christ and parted it into cords, to bind men's necks and hands and hearts, 
 
THE BIBLE. 443 
 
 am I to deriJe that Christ, scorn that Jesus, who stands there forever abovp 
 the clouds of human guilt, the only Redeemer of Man, the only Messiah 
 of the Poor ? 
 
 Here was the terrible mistake of Thomas Paine. He mistook the cloud 
 which marred the sun for the sun itself; he mistook the abuses of men, the 
 frauds of hypocrites, the lies of fabulists, which have been done and uttered 
 in the name of Christianity, for Christianity itself. 
 
 He lived in an age when Light and Darkness struggled together, when 
 the earth was convulsed from cottage to throne. He had done a great deed 
 when he wrote that book of "Common Sense," which derives its strongest 
 argunlenis from the Bible, fpr it quotes the memorable words of the prophet 
 Samuel against Monarchy and King-worshippers. This book of Common 
 Sense, founded on the Bible, was the forerunner of the Declaration of In- 
 dependence. 
 
 But now Paine fell into the deplorable error of mistaking certain wolves, 
 who assumed the fleece of religion, for the true sheep of the Lord Jesns. 
 He attacked Christianity in this ribald book, written in that style of contro- 
 versial blackguardism, which was first used by pretended followers of Christ, 
 who reduced their Master to an Enigma, his religion to a sophistry. This 
 pitiable style which makes up in filth what it wants in grandeur, and mis- 
 takes a showy falsehood for a solid truth, was used by Paine in his Age of 
 Reason. It was beneath him ; far beneath the genius of the man who 
 wrote " Common Sense." It has left his name, as the author of this work, 
 but a wreck on a desert shore ; while that name, when known as the author 
 of " Common Sense," is cherished by the wise and good all over the 
 land. 
 
 The position which I have assumed in this history is a plain one. No 
 one but a fool can mistake it. I found the character of " Thomas Paine, 
 Author of Common Sense," wronged and neglected. I took up that char- 
 acter, defended it, placed it on the pedestal where Washington and Jeffer- 
 son had placed it once before. No selfish motive actuated me in this work. 
 Paine has no relatives living to thank me ; nor— if my object was money — 
 has he any rich friends to pay me for the task. I think, therefore, that the 
 most prejudiced man will acknowledge that my motives here have been 
 pure, honest, above all mercenary considerations. 
 
 A fact that speaks for itself, is this : while an Atheistical paper abuses 
 me as a Bigot, another paper, governed by no particular morality or be- 
 lief, but supplying the place of Religion with Bigotry, calls me an— In- 
 fidel ! Does not this speak volumes ? In this case extremes meet, for the 
 snake puts his tail in his mouth. 
 
 Without one sordid motive, without one base fear, have I called up the 
 records of the past, the voices of the dead, to testify the character and 
 genius of Thomas Paine, the Author of Common Sense. 
 
 And now, without one sordid motive, without one base fear, do I record 
 
444 THE FOUHTH OF JULY, 1776. 
 
 my sorrow that a man like this should have written so paltry a book as the 
 Age of Reason ; ray detestation of the style and principles of that work ; 
 my pity for the individual who, in our day, could be turned from his Sa- 
 viour by arguments and sneers so puerile as are written in its pages. 
 
 For the Rehgion of Jesus is not a thing of an hour or a day, that it 
 should be undermined by a sneer or crushed by a falsehood. It is built up 
 in too many hearts, it brings too much hope to poor desolate man, it holds 
 out too gUltering beacons of Immortality, ever to die. When it survived 
 the wounds it received from pretended friends during a course of eighteen 
 hundred years, shall it die of a single Voltaire or Paine ? The Christianity 
 of the heart, which cheers us in toil, lights our homes with a gleam from 
 God's heaven, smoothes our pillow in sickness, and in the sad, stern hour 
 of death, sings hymns to our parting soul and leads it gently home to Im- 
 mortality — Can this Religion of the heart ever die ? 
 
 Speak, Mother, bending over your child, as you tell him of the Jesus who 
 gathered the little children to his breast — can this Religion die ? Speak, 
 Father, old man, now bending beside your daughter's corse, gazing upon 
 that face cold in death, with your earnest eyes, speak and tell us ! Can a 
 Religion that comforts you in an hour like this, that assures you your child 
 is not dead but gone home, can this Religion die ! Speak, slave of the 
 workshop and mine, now toiling on for a hard crust, with the sweat on 
 your brow, the agony in your heart — can this Religion die ? This Religion 
 wJiich tells you that God himself did not disdain to take the form of a man 
 of toil, in order to make your fate better in this world, and give you Im- 
 mortality in the next ?— Speak, Bigot — even you, whom Christ pities and 
 forgives — even you, last object of imbecility and malice — speak and tell us ! 
 Cin a Religion that stoops so far in its mercy, as to save you, ever die ? 
 
 Speak, Universal Man, and answer us I Can a Religion which binds 
 itself to your heart, links its eternal form with your joys and sorrows, hopes 
 and fears, soothes you in toil and sickness, appeals to your imagination, 
 with its images of divine loveliness, elevates you with its Revelation of Im- 
 mortality from a mere lump of clay almost into Godhead— Can this Religion 
 of the heart ever die ? 
 
 Here is the mournful lesson of Thomas Paine's life : Jl great man, when 
 he utters a great truth, raises himself to the dignity of an Angel : the 
 same great man, uttering a Lie, degrades himsef below the beast. 
 
 AVhen Thomas Paine wrote " Common Sense," he uttered a Truth, 
 (founded on the Bible,) which aroused a whole Continent to its destiny. 
 For this we honor him. 
 
 When the same Thomas Paine wrote the ' Age of Reason,' he uttered an 
 Error, opposed to the Bible and in direct contradiction of his former work. 
 Common Sense. For this we pity him. 
 
 The effect of the " Age of Reason," has long since passed away, but the 
 good work of " Common Sense," is seen in this great spectacle of Twenty- 
 
THE DEATH-BED OF THOMAS PAINE. 445 
 
 nine Commonwealths, combined in one great Republic, extending .Voni ths 
 Aroostook to the Rio Grande. 
 
 Have I made myself sufficiently plain ? — Has that man a weU-balnnced 
 mind who can now mistake my position ? If there is such a man within 
 sound of my voice, I would remind him that it is my duty to supply him 
 with information, but a Divine Power alone can furnish wilii braiiss. 
 
 Again I repeat — had I been Thomas Paine, I would have learned this 
 great truth : The path of the true Reformer is not against, but ever and ever 
 more with Jesus. 
 
 XVI.— THE DEATH-BED OF THOMAS PAINE. 
 
 Come with me to that Long Island shore — come with me to the farm of 
 New Rochelle, where an old man is dying. 
 
 Let us enter this rude and neglected room. There, on yonder bed, with 
 the June breeze — oh, it is sweet with the perfume of land and ocean, — with 
 the June breeze blowing sofUy through the open window — with gleams ot 
 June sunlight upon his brow — there, propped up by pillows, on his death- 
 bed, sits an old man. 
 
 That form is shrunk — that face stamped with the big wrinkles of age and 
 alcohol — yet the brow still looms out, a tower of thought, the eye still glares 
 from that wreck of a face — glares with soul. 
 
 He is dying. Death in the trembling hands — death in the brightening 
 eyes — death in every bead of sweat upon the brow. 
 
 And who is here to comfort that old man ? Wife, child ? Ah, none of 
 those are here ! No softly-whispered voice speaks love to the passing 
 eoal — no kind and tender hand puts back the grey hair from the damp 
 brow. 
 
 Yet still that old man sits there against the pillow, silent, calm, firm. 
 
 Softly blow the June breezes — softly pours the mild sunlight — sunlight 
 and breezes, he is about to leave forever, and yet he is firm. 
 
 Oh, tell me, my friends, why does this death-room seem so awfully still 
 and desolate ? 
 
 It is not so much because there is no wife, no child here — not because 
 there is no kind hand to smooth back the grey hairs from the damp brow — 
 but O, Father of souls — 
 
 Here in this still room, with its poor furniture, its stray sunlight, and its 
 summer breeze, — here, in this still room, there is no mildly-beautiful face 
 of Jesus, the redeemer, to look upon the old man, to gleam beside his bed, 
 to smile immortality in his glazing eyes. 
 
 This makes the room so awfully still and desolate. 
 
 There is no Jesus here ! 
 
 Yes, without a word of recantation on his lip — firm to his belief — one 
 God, and no Jesus — firm to his stoical creed, wiiich is all reason and no 
 
446 THE FOURTH OF JULY. 1776. 
 
 faith, the old man, Thomas Paine, picks at the coverlid, and takes death 
 calmly by the hand. 
 
 Now look, in this dread hour two men come forward, a Doctor and a 
 Preacher. What is their mission here ! Do they take the old man's hands 
 within their own, and chafe away the death-chill ? Oh, no ! 
 
 While one has note and pencil in hand, the other leans over the bed. 
 Don't you see his pitiful, whining face ? He leans over the bed and whis- 
 pers, or rather screeches, — xMisler Paine, we wish to know whether you 
 have changed your religious opinions ? Do you believe in our creed ? 
 
 And while the Doctor is ready, with his pencil, the Preacher leans gasp 
 ingly there — awaits his answer ! 
 
 Does not this scene disgust you ? There are two pedlars of death-bed 
 confessions, waiting to catch the last gasp of poor Tom Paine ! 
 
 Do you think, my friends, that the cause of Christ depends upon narrow- 
 souled bigots like these — who, instead of placing the cup of cold water to 
 the lips of the death-stricken, come here, around the death-bed, smelling of 
 creeds, and breathing cant all the while — and insult, willi their paper and 
 pencil, the last hours of a dying old man ? 
 
 Would your Fenelon, your Luther, your Wesley, have done thus ? 
 Would your Bishop While, or your Channing, talked to a dying man, with 
 paper and pencil in hand, instead of moistening his lips with the cup of 
 water, or soothing his soul with the great truths of Christ! Nay — would 
 the blessed Redeemer himself, who ever lifted up the bowed head, ever for- 
 gave the trembling sinner, ever reached forth the arms of his Godhead to 
 snatch despair iiom its sins and woes — would he have entered thus the 
 chamber of a dying man, to talk of creeds, when there was a soul to be 
 redeemed ! The thought is blasphemy ! 
 
 Now listen to the only answer, what these bigots could expect. The 
 old man looked in their faces, stamped with the petty lines of sectarian 
 Pharicaism, and answered — 
 
 " / have no denire to believe in anything of the kind .'" says the old man, 
 and turned his face to the wall. 
 
 At this moment, look ! Another man appears on the scene. He is 
 dressed in the garb of a Quaker. He pushes the bigots aside — waves these 
 Pencillers from the room, and then — God's blessing upon his head — takes 
 the old man by the hand, and silently smooths back the damp hair from his 
 brow. 
 
 Paine looks his speechless thanks to that stout-hearted Quaker's face. 
 
 " Friend Thomas," says the Friend, " trust in Christ. He died for thee. 
 His mercy is fathomless as the sea !" 
 
 Never did the plain coat and broad-brimmed hat look more like an Angel's 
 grarb than then. Not even in the hour when William Penn, under the Elm 
 of Shackamaxon, spoke immortal words to rude red men. Never did the 
 Quaker " thee" and " thou" sound more lovely, more like an angel's tongue, 
 
THE DEATH-BED OF THOMAS PAINE. 447 
 
 than then ! Not even when, from the lips of Apostle William, it sent forth 
 from the shores of Delaware, to -ill the world, the great message of Pence 
 and Toleration. 
 
 Thomas Paine grasped that Quaker by the hand, and gazed in his face 
 with dim eyes. 
 
 Now, my friends, do not let your hearts falter, but go with me to the end 
 of this scene. What is the mission of this Quaker to the author of" Com- 
 mon Sense ?" Why, he has been abroad all the morning, trying to secure 
 a grave — a quiet, secluded, unknown resting-place for Tom Paine. He has 
 been to all the churches — all ! For a dark tliought troubles the last hours 
 of Paine, the thought that his remains will rest unhonored, above ground, 
 unsheltered by the repose of a grave. 
 
 This was but human, after all. He believed his soul would not die. He 
 did not wish the aged clay which enshrined that soul to be the object of 
 contempt or insult, after his death. 
 
 Now look — while the Quaker grasps his hand, the dying man looks in 
 his face. 
 
 " Will they," he murmurs in a husky whisper, " will they give me a 
 grave ?" 
 
 The Quaker turns his head away. He cannot answer. Still Paine 
 clutches that hand — still repeats the question. At last, with tears in his 
 eyes, with choking utterance, the Quaker gasps a syllable : 
 
 " No ! Friend Paine — no ! I have been to them all — to all the Christian 
 cnnrcnes — ah . And all — yea, ail of these followers of Jesus, who forgave 
 the thief on the Cross — all refuse thy bones a grave 1" 
 
 That was a crushing blow for poor Tom Paine. That was the last drop 
 in the full cup of his woe ; the last kick of Bigotry against the skull of a 
 dying old man. 
 
 He never spoke again. 
 
 As if this last scorn of these Infidel-Christians had gathered hrs heart 
 and crushed it like a vice, then the old man silently released his hand from 
 the grasp of the Quaker — silently folded his arms over his breast — dropped 
 his head slowly down, and was — dead ! 
 
 Now look yonder, as the soul of that old man goes up to judgment — look 
 there, as the soul of Thomas Paine stands arrayed before that face of Inh 
 nite Mercy, and answer me ! 
 
 Who would not sooner be Tom Paine — there, before that bar of Jesus 
 — with all his virtues and errors about him, than one of the misguided 
 bigots who refused his bones a grave ? 
 
 Think of the charity which Jesus preached before you answer ! 
 
 And as we quote the terrible truth of those words, which I found written 
 m an old volume, in the dim cloisters of the Franklin Library — 
 
 " He has no name. The country for which he labo, ed and sxtffered, 
 \nows him not. His ashes rest in a foreign land. A rough, grass-grown 
 
44b THE FOURTH OF JULY. 1776. 
 
 '7iound,fiom which the bones have been purloined, is all that remains vn 
 he Continent of America, to tell of the Hero, the Statesman, the friend 
 if Man .'" 
 
 I say, as we quote the terrible truth of these words, let us go yonder to 
 Ihat deserted spot, near New Rochelle. Let us bend over that deserted 
 mound, covered with rank grass, read the inscription on that rough stone, 
 and then — while the Unbeliever is with his God, into whose awful councils 
 nor bigotry nor hate can enter — let us remember, that this simple monu- 
 ment is the only memorial on the Continent of America, of that Author- 
 Hero who first stood forth the Prophet of our rights, the compatriot of 
 Jefferson, the friend of Washington, the author of " Common Sense," — 
 poor Tom Paixe ! 
 
 Rememoer, then, that the hand which mouldered to dust, beneath thii 
 Btone, was tne first to write the words — 
 
 "The Free and Independent States of America.'^ 
 
THE LAST DAY OF JEFFERSON AND ADAMS. 449 
 
 XVII— REVIEW OF THE HISTORY. 
 
 'I'his is a strange and crowded history. Not only the great day on which 
 the Declaration was signed, and a Continent declared free, has been described, 
 but the eternal cause of that Declaration, reaching over a dark chaos of 
 eighteen hundred years, has been recognized in its characters of light and 
 beauty. From the day of July the F||irth, 1776, we have gone to tlie day 
 when the world was in mourning for its God — incarnating in the form of a 
 mechanic, by the death of shame, on the felon's cross. We have traced the 
 great facts of the Rights of Man, from humble Independence Hall, to the 
 awful clifl* of Calvary. From Christ the Redeemer, we have followed tie 
 track of light through the mist of ages, down to his great apostle, the Paul 
 of the seventeeth century, William Penn. From Penn to Washington and 
 Jefferson and Adams and Paine, all human, yet rising into heroes throujfh 
 the majesty of their intellect. The career of Paine, — now writing his bold 
 book in darkness, hunger and cold, now following the footsteps of Wanh- 
 ington's army^ striking mortal blows with his pen, into the very heart of 
 British cruelty — has led us into the vortex of the French Revolution, ifie 
 glorious and bloody child of our own. Through the cloud of that fearful 
 time, we have endeavored to follow the track of light, separating its rays 
 from the dark shadow of the Guillotine, and beholding its omen of good, 
 even above the crimson waves of the Seine. 
 
 Nor have we faltered, when it became our sad task to witness the doM n- 
 fall of Thomas Paine. An awful lesson is conveyed in his sad history. So 
 bright the dawning of that star, so dark its going out into hopeless night ! 
 Now, the intimate friend of Washington and the other heroes, and again, a 
 desolate old man, withered by the bigot's breath, and dying — desolate, 0! 
 how desolate and alone ! 
 
 It becomes our task now, to follow four of the Signers, in their way 
 through the valley of the shadow of death. We have not space nor time 
 to picture the lives of all the signers ; from among the host of heroes, we 
 will select but four immortal names. 
 
 From the death-chamber of Paine, to other scenes where the voice of the 
 messenger falls on the freezing ear, and his cold finger seals the glassy 
 eye. 
 
 XVIII.— THE LAST DAY OF JEFFERSON AND ADAMS. 
 
 Fifty years passed away : the Fourth of July, 1776 had been made 
 Immortal by its Declaration; .he Fourth of July, 1826 was to be forevei 
 rendered a Holy Day by the hand of Death. 
 
 Oil that serene morning, the sun rose beautifully upon the world, shining 
 
4aO THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776. 
 
 upon the great brotherhood of States, extending from the wilds of Maine 
 to the Gulf of Mexico, with the Atlantic glittering like a belt of waves and 
 beams along its eastern shore, the Mississippi winding four thousand miles 
 through its western border, while ruggedly sublime, the AUeghanies towered 
 in the centre of the land. 
 
 The same sun, fifty years before, and lighted up with its smile of good 
 omen, a little nation of Thirteen provinces, nestling between the AUeghanies 
 and the Atlantic, and fighting even for that space, bounded by mountains 
 and waves, with the greatest and bloodiest power in the world. 
 
 The battle of eight years had been fought ; England foiled in the Revo- 
 lution, had been humbled in the dust again ; fifty years had passed away; 
 the thirteen Provinces of this bloody Monarchy, had swelled into Twenty- 
 Four States of a Free People. The banner that had waved so gloriously in 
 the Revolution, unveiling its Thirteen stars to the blood-red glare of battle, 
 now fluttering in the summer morning air, from Home and Church and 
 Council Hall, flashed from its folds the blaze of Twenty-Four stars, joined 
 in one Sun of Hope and Promise. 
 
 The wild Eagle, who had swooped so fiercely on the British host, some 
 fifty years ago, now sat calmly on his mountain crag, surveying his Banner, 
 crimsoned with the light of victory, while the peaceful land, beautiful with 
 river and valley, blossomed on every side. 
 
 It was the Fourth of July, 1826. From little villages, came joyous bands 
 — white-robed virgins and sinless children — scattering flowers by the way ; 
 in the deep forests, the voice of praise and prayer arose to God ; from the 
 Pulpit the preacher spoke ; beside the old cannon, which had blazed at 
 Germantown, stood the veteran of the Revolution, as battered as the cannon 
 which he fired ; in the wide cities ten thousand hearts throbbed with one 
 common joy : and the flowers that were scattered by the way, the words 
 that the Preacher spoke, and the hymn that the forest echoes sent to 
 Heaven, the blaze of the cannon and the joy of the wide city, all had one 
 meaning : " This land that was once the Province of a King, is now 
 THE Homestead of a People !" 
 
 And yet, even while the hearts^of fourteen million people palpitated with 
 the same joy, there came an unseen and shadowy Messenger, who touched 
 two brave hearts with his hand, and froze them into clay. 
 
 Even while the .fubilee of Freedom rung its hosannas from every wood 
 and hill. Death was in the land. Silently, with that step that never makes 
 a sound, with that voice which speaks the language of eternity — and which 
 we never hear translated until we die — Death glided into the chambers of 
 two heroes, and bade them Home to God ! 
 
 Almost at the same moment, almost within the compass of the same hour, 
 two hearts — that once warmed with the passion of freedom, the frenzy of 
 eloquence — were stopped in their beatings forever. 
 
 We will go to the room of old age, we will stand beside the bed of death. 
 
THE LAST DAY OF JEFFERSON AND ADAMS. 451 
 
 we will see the sunbeams of July the Fourth, 182G, playuig over the clamray 
 brows of the Brother Heroes. 
 The First Home ! 
 
 Does it not look beautiful, the very picture of rustic comfort and unpre- 
 tending wealth, as it rises yonder on the soil of Massachusetts, the land of 
 Hancock and Warren, that mansion with many windows, a [)orch extending 
 along its front, fair flowers and richly foliaged trees blooming from its hall- 
 door to the roadside gate ? The hour is very still. It is near high noon. 
 You can see the roof, with corniced eaves and balustraded summit marked 
 boldly out, against the deep blue summer sky. 
 
 While the thunder of cannon is in our ears, we will pass the gate, enter 
 the hall-door, and glide sofdy up the stairs. Softly, for death is here, in this 
 Home of Quincy. 
 
 With heads bowed low and stealthy tread, we enter the darkened room. 
 The sound of gasping breath, the sob of manhood in its agony, the wail of 
 women, the music of the summer air among the leaves, all at once rush on 
 our ears. 
 
 We enter — and gaze — and start back, awed and dumb. 
 All the windows of this room, save one, are dark. Yonder to the east, 
 you see that window, its white curtains flung aside, the perfume of the 
 garden and the joy of the sunshine gushing through its aperture, into the 
 shadowy Death-Chamber. 
 
 Yonder on the thickly curtained bed, an old man is dying. 
 Resting against the pillow, his shrunken form lost in the folds of the 
 silken coverlet, he awaits the hour of his summons, while the softened sun- 
 light plays gently on his brow and the summer breeze plays with his hair. 
 That brow is withered into wrinkles, and moistened by the dealli-sweat, 
 yet as you gaze it lights up with the fire of fifty years ago, and the lips 
 move and the unclosed eye blazes as though the heart of the Hero was 
 back again with the Immortal band of Signers. 
 
 It is stout-hearted John Adams, sinking calmly into the surges of death. 
 Every moment the waves come higher; the ice of the grave comes slowly 
 through the congealing veins, up the withered limbs ; the mist of death 
 gathers about the old man's eyes. 
 
 At this moment, while all is still, let us from the crowd of mute specta- 
 tors, select a single form. Beside the death pillow, on which his right hand 
 rests, gazing in his father's face, his own noble brow bathed in a solitary 
 gleam of the sun, he stands, the Son, the Statesman and President. 
 
 Fifty years ago, his father, in the State House of Phihideliihia, uttered 
 words that became History as they rung from his indignant'lips, and now 
 wielding the Presidential Sceptre, which his father received from the hand 
 of Washington, the Son of the Hero gazes with unspeakable emotion, in tl\e 
 face of the dying old man. 
 
 Again our eyes wander from the faces of the encircling spectators, to the 
 
452 THE FOURTH OF JULY, 177G, 
 
 visage of the departing hero. So withered in the brow, so ghastly pale, so 
 quivering in the lips, so sunken in the cheeks, and yet for all, it shines as 
 with the last ray of its closing hour ! 
 
 Hark ! The thunder of cannon, softened by distance, comes through the 
 window. The old man hears it ; at once, his eye fires, he trembles up in 
 the bed, and gazes toward the light. 
 
 « It is — " his dying voice rings with the fire of fifty years ago — " It is 
 the Fourth of July 1" 
 
 That old man, sitting erect in his death-couch, his ghastly face quivering 
 into youth again, may well furnish a picture for the painter's art. Gaze 
 upon him in this hour of his weakness, when with his fingers blue with the 
 death-chill and his brow oozing with the death-sweat, he starts up, and 
 knows the voice of the cannon, and answers its message — " It is, it is the 
 Fourth of July !" Gaze upon that wreck of a body, now quivering with 
 the soul about to leave it forever, quivering and glowing into youth again, 
 and tell me, if you can the soul is not immortal? 
 
 It was a sight too holy for tears ! The spectators — man and woman and 
 child, — feel their hearts hushed with one common feeling, admiration 
 mingled with awe. The son winds hisarm about his Fatiier's neck, a'ld 
 whispers, " Fifty years to-day, you signed the Declaration, which made us 
 Free !" 
 
 How the Memory of the old time rushes upon the old man's heaft! 
 Fifty years ago — the Hall thronged with the Signers — the speech that rung 
 from his lips, when his Country's destiny hung palpitating on his words — 
 the eloquence of his compatriots, Jefferson standing i"n the foreground of a 
 group of heroes, Hancock smiling serenely over the crowd, in front of the 
 old Slate House hall — it rushed upon his soul, that glorious memory, and 
 made him live again, with the meo of '76. 
 
 Hiffher rose the waves of death ! Higher mounted the ice of the grave ! 
 Bluer tlie fingers, damper the brow, hollow and faint the rattling voice ! 
 
 The old man sank slowly back on the bed, while the arm of his son, the 
 President, was about his neck. His eyes were closed, his hands placed on 
 his breast. He was sliding gendy, almost imperceptibly into Death. The 
 belt of sunlight that poured through the window over the floor, moved along 
 the carpet like the shadow of a dial shortened, and was gone. Still he 
 lived : still a faint fluttering of the shrunken chest, showed that the soul 
 was not yet gone home. 
 
 It would have made you grow in love with death, to see how calmly he 
 died. Just as the shadows of the trees were cast far over the meadow by 
 the declining s*in, just as the shout of the People, the thunder of cannon, 
 ihe tone of the orator came softened on the breeze, the old man raised his 
 nead, unclosed his eyes — 
 
 " Jefffrsori, yet survives .'" he said, and the wave of Death reached his 
 iips, and he breathed no more 
 
THE LAST DAY OF JEFFERSON AND ADAMS. 453 
 
 Tt was four o'clock on the afternoon of July 4th, 182G, when John Adams 
 rtlosed his life of glorious deeds. 
 
 " Jefferson yet survives !" 
 
 While the words of the venerable Adams yet linger in our ears, let us 
 hasten away to the Second Home, where Death has crossed the threshhold. 
 
 Emerging from the shadows of this beautiful valley of Virginia, we as- 
 cend a slight elevation, and by the light of the morning sun, beliold a strange 
 structure, standing amid a grove of forest trees. But one story in heighth, 
 with elegant [tillars in front, and a dome rising above its roof, it strikes you 
 with its singular, almost oriental style of Architecture, and yet seems the 
 appropriate Hermitage of Philosophy and Thought. 
 
 That structure, relieved by the background of towering trees, is the Hon\e 
 of a Hero. Beneath that Grecian portico, the Poets, Artists and Philoso- 
 phers of the old world have often passed, eager to behold tlie Statesman ( i 
 the New World, the author of the Declaration of Independence. 
 
 It is noonday now ; the summer sun streams warmly on yonder dome ; 
 the leaves are scarcely stirred into motion by the faintest breath of air. 
 Uncovering our heads, we will prepare to look upon Death, and with qui 
 hearts subdued in awe, we will enter Monticello. 
 
 There is a group around the death-bed in yonder room. Every eye is 
 centred on the visage of a dying man ; the beautiful woman, whom you 
 behold standing near his pillow, her eyes eloquent with emotion, is his 
 beloved child. 
 
 As he rests before us, on the bed of death, the centre of the silent groip, 
 we will approach and look upon him. A man of tall and muscular frame ; 
 his face denoting in every marked feature, the power of a bold and feark.ss 
 intellect, his lip compressed with stern determination, his blue eye flashing 
 with tlie light of a soul, born to sway the masses of men, by the magic of 
 Thought. 
 
 As we approach, he looks up into the face of the beautiful woman, and 
 utters these memorable words : 
 
 " Let no inscription be placed upon my tomb but this : Here rests 
 Thomas Jefferson, the author of the Declaration of Independence, 
 AjfD the Friend of Religious Freedom." 
 
 As he speaks, he describes a faint gesture, with his withered right -hand. 
 That hand, fifty years ago, wrote the Declaration of Independence. It is 
 feeble and withered now ; time was, when it wrote certain words that sank 
 into the heart of universal man, and struck the shackles from ten thousand 
 hearts. 
 
 Against the frauds practised by priests and kings from immortal time — 
 against the tricks of courtiers, the malice of bigots, the falsehoods of time- 
 servers who are paid to be religious, hired to be great — against all manner of 
 barbarity, whether done by a New Zealand cannibal, who eats the wretch 
 whom he has butchered, or the Spanish Inquisition, which after burning its 
 
45t THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776. 
 
 victims, consigns them pleasantly to an eternal torture after death, or by 
 John Calvin, who calmly beheld the skull of an unoffending man crumble 
 into ashes, and then wiped his bloody hands and praised his God, that he 
 was such a holy roan — against all wrong, worked by the infamous or the 
 weak upon Man the child of Divinity, was directed the eloquence t)f his 
 Pen. The hand, that once wielded that pen of power, is now chilled with 
 the damps of chri'.h ! 
 
 As we stand gazing upon the dying man — held enchained by the majesty 
 ef that intellect, which glows brighUy over the ashy face, and flashes vividly 
 in the clear blue eye — the beautiful woman takes the icy hands within her 
 own, and ki?ses the cold brow. 
 
 The hand of Death is on him now. 
 
 •' Thank God that I have lived to see this glorious day !" he utters m a 
 firm voice ; and then raising his glazing eyes, he gazes in his daughter's 
 face, while the death-rattle writes in his throat — " Nunc dimmitis domine !" 
 were the last words of Thomas Jefferson. 
 
 At the same hour of noon, when the fervid sun poured straight down on 
 the dome of his hermitage, when not a breath of air ruffled the leaf or 
 stream, when in the midst of a weeping throng, stood his beloved daughter, 
 placing her soft npgers on his glassy eyeballs, pressing her warm mouth to 
 his cold lips, uicd Thomas Jefferson, the author of the Declaration of Inde- 
 pendence. 
 
 He died sorn? four hours before Adams surrendered his soul. When the 
 Patriot of Quincy gasped "Jefferson still survives," the soul of Jefferson 
 was alreaJ,y before his God. 
 
 It woulri have been deemed a wonderful thing, had either of these men 
 died on the Fourth of July, just half a century after the day of 1776. 
 
 But tiiot the Brothers in the work of freedom, the master spirits of the 
 Council, viho stirred up men's hearts with godlike impulses, and moved 
 their arms in glorious deeds, in the dark hour of Revolution, should have 
 died not only on the Fourth of July, but on the same day, within a few 
 hours of each other, while bodily separated by hundreds of miles, their souls 
 borne to Heaven by the hymns of a People, freed by their labors, looks to 
 me as *hough Almighty God had sent his Messenger and called his Servants 
 home, *.hus sanctifying by this two-fold death, the Fourth of July forever- 
 more. 
 
 Tl"?y met before the Throne of God, and stood, solemn and awful, amid 
 the throng of heroes clustered there. 
 
 Compare the death-beds of these men, with the closing hour of their 
 compeer in the work of freedom, Thomas Paine 1 They surrounded by 
 friends, who smiled fondly on their glazing eyes ; encircled by beautiful 
 women, who pressed their warm hands to \he icy brow, and kissed the 
 
THE NAMELESS DEATH. 455 
 
 fteezin* lips : He, utterly desolate and alone, with no friend, save one aged 
 Quaker; no hope, S3»'e that which dropped from the envenomed tongues 
 of the Phariseey, who came to feast their eyes with his death ^struggles, even 
 as savages amuse their idle hours by torturing the wretch whom they pur- 
 pose to burn to death. 
 
 Pity Thomas Paine, my friends, and ask yourselves the question — " Tried 
 by the same kind of justice, that has darkened his errors into sins worse 
 than murder or incest, and converted his heroic virtues into crimes, what 
 Would become of Jefferson and Adams ?" 
 
 Imagine the biography of Jefferson and Adams, written by one of those 
 Ignoble wretches, who heaped their slanders on the grave of Thomas Paine ! 
 
 I stand upon the grave of tliis deeply wronged hero, and ask my country- 
 men to do him juslice ! I admit his errors, and pity them, for the sake of 
 his substantial virtues. I boldly point to the records of the past for proof, 
 when I state, that Thomas Paine was the co-worker of Jefferson and Adams, 
 in the great deed of Independence. My voice may fall unheeded now, but 
 one hundred years hence, the name of the Infidel will be forgtjtten in the 
 glory of the Patriot, Thomas Paine. 
 
 XVIII.-TIIE NAMELESS DEATH. 
 
 There is another of the Signers, whose death I would like to picture, but 
 am afraid. 
 
 In the fearfi.l hour of the Revolution, when our army was without arms, 
 our treasury bankrupt, this Signer, by the force of his personal character 
 alone, gave muskets, swords and cannon to the soldiers, hundreds of thou- 
 sands of dollars to the Coniinental Congress. He was the life, the blood, 
 the veins of our financial world. To him the Congress looked for aid, to 
 his counting nouse Washington turned his eyes, in his direst peril, and was 
 not denied. The dollars of this Signer fed our starving soldiers ; his per- 
 sonal credit gave us througliout this world, that which is worth more than 
 gold — confidence. 
 
 And yet, he died — how ? Not in a duel, like Button Gwinett, nor sur- 
 rounded by the peaceful scenes of home, like Jefferson and Adams. Nor 
 did he meet his fate in batde. But he died — 
 ^ I am ashamed, afraid to tell it. 
 
 Not two hundred yards from the old State House, there rose some years 
 ago, an edifice, whose walls were black, whose only echoes were sobs and 
 groans, whose ornaments, some iron manacles and a stout timber gibbet. It 
 Beemed like a Curse frozen into stone, a Pestilence impersonified in bars 
 and bolts and black walls. In the Revolution, while the British held the 
 city, this edifice rung all day and night, with the horrible cries of rebel pris- 
 oners, dying the death of dogs, their heart eaten up by a Plague, which 
 had been created by the filth and corruption of the den. After the Revo- 
 
456 TflE I-OURTH OF JULY, 1776. 
 
 lution, the place made hideous by a thousand murders, was the residence 
 of thieves, pirates, assassins, felons of every grade. Among the various 
 groups of felons, who blasphemed all day in this stone Pandemonium, there 
 was a certain class, distinguished from the others by their silence, their pale 
 faces stamped with mental agony, their evident superiority in point of ap- 
 pearance and education. 
 
 Some of this latter class were men, some were women ; torn from their 
 homes by the hands of brutes, in the shape of officers of the law, they were 
 hurled through the gales, and left to rot in the company of the robber, the 
 pirate, the murderer. 
 
 This class of felons were guilty of a hideous crime, deserving of worse 
 penalties than theft or murder. 
 
 They were called Insolvent Debtors. 
 
 To me, this law of imprisonment for debt has ever seemed a holy thing, 
 worthy of the golden age of New Zealand, when burning little children and 
 innocent women, was a pleasant pastime for the jocular cannibals. It is 
 indeed a blessed law, worthy of the blood and tears which were shed in the 
 Revolution to establish our liberties. It merely converts your honest man 
 into a felon, inviting him most cordially to commit robbery, forgery or mur- 
 der, for these things are not punished with half the severity that visits tfie 
 head of your Unfortunate Debtor. Your forger can buy his Law — some- 
 times his Judge — your Murderer may procure a pardon from a merciful 
 Governor, but what mercy is there for the wretch who owes money, which 
 he cannot pay ? 
 
 In order more effectually to demonstrate the beauty of this law as it 
 existed some thirty years ago, in all its purity, let me beseech you to look 
 through the grated windows of Walnut street gaol, in the quiet of this eve- 
 ning hour. 
 
 It ia a cell that we behold ; four bare walls, a chair or too, a miserable 
 couch. There is some sunshine here. Yes, the evening sun shines through 
 the grates, on the floor of the cell, and lights up the sad face of the Mother 
 who with her children bends over the couch. You must not mind theii 
 tears ; you must laugh at their sobs, for the Husband, the Father, who 
 writhes on that couch, is an Insolvent Debtor. 
 
 He was once a man of noble presence, somewhat tall in stature, with a 
 frank, ingenious countenance, deep tranquil eyes, and a brow that bore the 
 marks of a strong intellect. 
 
 Now, the mere wreck of a man — face, form, brow, all withered, eyes 
 dimmed, and jaw fallen — he quivers on the couch of this Walnut street 
 gaol. 
 
 Why this change f For long years, pursued by honest gentlemen, with 
 ihin lips, pinched faces, eyes bleared with the lust of gain, this Man — for he 
 IS still a Man — has went through all the tortures with which poets, in their 
 imaginary hells, afflict the damned. They have hounded him in the streets 
 
THE LAST OF THE SIGNERS. 4f)7 
 
 in the church, in the house, yellinga kind of bloodhound's bay all the while, 
 nnd at last driven him into the gaol. 
 
 He is there, dying ; his wife, his children by his side. The curses of 
 pirates, thieves, pickpockets, murderers, echo through the iron-banded 
 door. 
 
 Mother ! Take your children by the hand ; lead them to the \v ndow ; 
 bid them look through the green trees, and behold yonder steeple glittering 
 in the sun. That is Independence Hall. 
 
 And here, on the debtor's couch, in the felon's gaol, lies one of the 
 Signers of the Declaration of Independence. Here, dying in slow agony, 
 writhes the man who gave arms to Washington, money to Congress, and 
 by his resolute energy, saved his country in the darkest hour of peril. 
 
 Robert Morris dying in a felon's gaol 
 
 It is too much ! For the honor of our country, for the sake of that 
 respect which honest shame and honorable poverty claims in every clime, 
 among all men, we cannot go on. 
 
 But those times, when Men were made felons by the holy law of Im- 
 prisonment for Debt have passed away. The law exists no longer in any 
 civilized community. It is true, that in two or three barbarous despotisms 
 — we cannot call them states — this law does yet remain in force, but this 
 merely leaves us to infer, that the majority of its honest citizens are felons, 
 needing infamous enactments to keep them in order. 
 
 No man can call himself an American citizen, who dwells in such a 
 community, or submits to such a despotism. 
 
 Wliat beautiful words these are for history, to be read in connection with 
 eath other — Robert Morris! A felon's gaol ! 
 
 XX.— THE LAST OF THE SIGNERS, 
 
 Come to the window, old. man ! 
 
 Come, and look your last upon this beautiful earth ! The day is dying; 
 the year is dying; you are dying ; so light and leaf and life, mingle in one 
 common death, as they shall mingle in one resurrection. 
 
 Clad in a dark morning gown, that revealed the outlines of his tall form, 
 now bent with age — once so beautiful in its erect manhood — he rises from 
 his chair, which is covered with pillows, and totters to the window, spread 
 ing forth his thin white hands. 
 
 Did you ever see an old man's face, that combines all the sweetness of 
 childhood, with the vigor of matured intellect ? Snow-white hair tailing m 
 flakes around a high and open brow, eyes that gleam with mild clear light 
 a mouth moulded in an expression of benignity almost divine ? 
 
 It is the Fourteenth of November, 18.32 ; the hour is sunset, and the man 
 Charles Carroll of Carrolton, the last of the signers. 
 
 Ninety-five years of age, a weak and trembling old man, he has sum 
 
458 THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776. 
 
 nioned all his strength and gone along the carpeted chamber to the window, 
 his dark gown contrasted with the purple curtains. 
 He is the last ! 
 
 Of the noble Fifty-Six, who in the Revolution stood forth, undismayed 
 by the axe or gibbet, their mission the freedom of an age, the salvation of a 
 country, he alone remains ! 
 
 One by one the pillars have crumbled from the roof of the temple, and 
 now the last — a trembling column — glows in the sunlight, as it is about to fall. 
 But for the pillar that crumbles there is no hope, that it shall ever tower 
 aloft in its pride again, while for this old man about to sink in the night of 
 the grave, there is a glorious hope. His memory will live. His soul will 
 live, not only in the presence of its God, but on the tong'-.e? and in the 
 hearts of millions. The band in which he counts one, can never ba 
 forgotten. The last ! 
 
 As the venerable man stands before us, the declining day imparts a warm 
 flush to his face, and surrounds his brow with a halo of light. His lips 
 move without a sound ; he is recalling the scenes of the Declaration, he is 
 murmuring the names of his brothers in the good work. 
 All gone but him ! 
 
 Upon the woods — dyed with the rainbow of the closing year — upon the 
 stream, darkened by masses of shadow, upon the homes peeping out from 
 among the leaves, falls mellowing the last light of the declining day. 
 He will never see the sun rise again. 
 
 He feels that the silver cord is slowly, gently loosening ; he knows that 
 the golden bowl is crumbling at the fountain's brink. But Death comes ou 
 him as a sleep, as a pleasant dream, as a kiss from beloved lips ! 
 
 He feels that the land of his birth has become a Mighty People, and 
 thanks God that he was permitted to behold its blossoms of hope, ripen into 
 full life. 
 
 In the recess near the window, you behold an altar of prayer ; above it, 
 glowing in the fading light, the Image of Jesus seems smiling even in 
 agony, around that death-chamber. 
 
 The old man turns aside from the window. Tottering on he kneels be- 
 side the altar, his long dark robe drooping over the floor. He reaches forth 
 his white hands ; he raises his eyes to the face of the Crucified. 
 
 There in the sanctity of an old man's last prayer, we will leave him. 
 There where amid the deepening shadows, glows the Image of the Saviour, 
 there where the light falls over the mild face, the wavy hair, and tranquil 
 eyes of the aged patriarch. 
 
 The smile of the Saviour was upon the Declaration on that perilous day. 
 the Fourth of July, 1776, and now that its promise has brightened into 
 fruition. He seems — he does smile on it again — even as his sculptured 
 DMiao^e meets the dying gaze of Charles Carroll of Carrolton, 
 
 THE LAST OF THE SIGNERS. 
 
THE VIOLATOR OF THE GRAVE. 
 
 A SEQUEL TO THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776. 
 
 (459) 
 
THE VIOLATOR OF THE GRAVE 46] 
 
 SEQUEL TO THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1770. 
 
 THE VIOLATOR OF THE GRAVE. 
 
 Among the many wretches who skulk in the dens of a laro-e city, there 
 IS one whose very name excites a sensation of overwhelming disgust. 
 
 It is not the Thief, for even he driven mad by hunger and pilfering a 
 crust, to keep life in him, may have some virtues. Nor is it the Murderer, 
 who plunges his knife from a dark alley into the back of the wayfarer, re- 
 turning home to his wife and children. Nor yet the Hangman, who for a 
 few dollars, puts on a mask of crape, mounts a gibbet, and chokes a human 
 being in slow agony to death, all in the name of the Law. Nor is it the 
 miserable vagabond of the large city, who covered with rags and sores, 
 sleeps at night in the ditch, picks his food from the gutter's filth, and is 
 found dead some morning with a botUe of alcoholic poison beside him, and 
 no one, not even a dog, to claim his corse. 
 
 The Wretch of whom we speak, must in point of ignominy claim prece- 
 dence over all these, Thief, Murderer, Hangman, Vagabond. He goes at 
 dead of night, into the silence of the graveyard, and with spade and axe in 
 hand, roots out from the consecrated earth the coffin of some one, fondly 
 beloved — it may be a Father, a Sister, a Wife, a Mother — and coolly 
 splintering the lid drags forth the corse, huddles it grotesquely in his 
 sack, and sells it for a few dollars. 
 
 Polite language has no name for this wretch, who like a fiendish beast 
 makes a meal from the dead, but in the language of those who purchase his 
 wares, he is called a Body-Snatcher. 
 
 A great painter once maintained a learned argument in favor of the 
 strange Aincy, that every human face bore a striking resemblance to the face 
 of some animal. I am not disposed to affirm the truth of this supposition, 
 but a fancy has oftsn arisen in my mind, that for every depraved wretch 
 whom we find skulking in rags in the holes of a large city, there may be 
 found anoilier wretch precisely similar, in the fine mansions, and beneath 
 the broadcloth garments of the wealthy and educated classes. 
 
 The thief who shivering in rags and gnawed with hunger rots in the 
 ditch, has his parallel in the Thief who dressed in satin, sits perched on a 
 banker's desk, robbing widows and orphans with religious deliberation. So 
 the Hangman who chokes to death for a few dollars, reminds us of the 
 Bribed Judge, who for his price — say a thousand dollars — will sentence to 
 the gallows an innocent man, or set free the murderer of a mother. 
 
 But wiiere shall we find the fellow of the grave-violator — the Body- 
 Snatcher of polite life ? 
 
 Look yonder, my dear friend, and behold a magnificent saloon brilliantly 
 lighted, and crowded with one dense mass of ladies and gentlemen, who 
 wear rich apparel and come elegantly in carriages, with liveried negroes, 
 
462 THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1,76. 
 
 and coats of arms, and all other indications of an excessively ••efined 
 iristocracy. 
 
 These ladies and gendemen all turn their eyes to one point. Behold the 
 point of interest ! Wliile silks rusde, and plumes wave, and eye-glasses 
 move to and fro, behold under the glare of the chandelier, a man of middle 
 age, clad in sober black, with a roll of paper in his hand. He lays the roll 
 of paper on the desk, erected in the centre of the platform, covered with 
 green baize, and lifts his head. 
 
 It is a striking face ! The hue yellow, its texture parchment, the eyes 
 pale grey, the lips pinched until they are invisible, the whole physiognomy 
 reminding you of a skull, dressed up for a Christmas pantomime by the 
 buffoon of a circus. 
 
 Who is this individual ? Hark ! He speaks in a soft silvery voice, with 
 a gesture that reminds you of a hyena prowling round the fresh mould of a 
 new made grave. 
 
 That my friends, is the Body-Snatcher of polite life. He does not, like 
 his brother, the grave-violator of the hut, steal a corse and sell it for a few 
 dollars, but he does something more. He takes up the Memories of the 
 Dead, and so covers them with his venom, that History can no more re- 
 cognize her heroes, than you can the corse which lies mangled on the 
 dissecting table. 
 
 This Body-Snatcher of the lecture room does not ravage graveyards ; no ! 
 History is a graveyard to him, and he tears souls from their shrines, and 
 withers hearts into dust. He would be very indignant, were you to intro- 
 duce him to his brother, the Body-Snatcher of the hut, and yet the grave- 
 yard mould, on the hands of the ragged wretch, is holy in the sight of 
 Heaven, compared with one shred of the apparel worn by the finely-dressed 
 Body-Snatcher of the lecture room. 
 
 Behold him as he stands there, before his aristocratic audience, in his 
 sober black apparel and skull-like face ; listen to his voice, as for a weary 
 hoyr, he belabors dead men with libels, calls their corses — Coward ! and 
 ets his base soul forth, to slander among the graves of heroes. 
 
 How far these remarks will apply to a recent Reviewer of Thomas 
 Paine, we will leave to the judgment of the impartial reader. 
 
 This Reviewer, whom it is not necessary to name, as he merely forms 
 one in the large class of lecturers and essayists to which he belongs, deter- 
 mined to deliver before an American audience, a sketch of the life, writings, 
 and death of the author of " Common Sense." It must be confessed, that 
 he had made ample preparations for the task. To a knowledge of the law, 
 he had added an intimate acquaintance with the arts and mysteries of bank- 
 ing, and all the ways and windings of the science of politics. The com- 
 plete statue of his character, moulded from the bar, the bank, and the bar- 
 room, shapen of the most incongrous materials, was mellowed and refined 
 by a warm glow of morality. This was what made it so charming to heai 
 
THE V OLATOR OF THE GRAVE. 463 
 
 the lecturer discourse of Thomas Paine ; he was so eminently moral, so 
 financially pure, so legally just and politically religious ! 
 
 As he rises hefore us, with his green bag in one hand, his last political 
 letter in the other, let us hear him discourse of the man whom Washington 
 delighted to call his friend. 
 
 He observed : 
 
 'That to dig from an almost forgotten grave, the intellectual character of 
 Thomas Paine, the object of violent obloquy during life, and of contumely 
 after death, might not be without its uses. It might be done now, without 
 offence, without injustice. Many a teacher of pernicious doctrine, had by 
 the purity of his domestic relations, left behind him a sort of protective 
 character. — There were surviving relatives and friends, or those who knew 
 surviving relatives and friends, who disarmed even just (triticism, and stand- 
 ing around the grave claimed pity for themselves if not for the poor inhabi- 
 tants below. — ' 
 
 This is beautiful, considered merely as a classic sentiment, but divme as 
 a moral apothegm. Let us illustrate its force by an exanple. We all 
 know that there were other Traitors beside Arnold in the Revolution, who 
 escaped disgrace and the gallows, made money by chaffering with both 
 parties, and died in the odour of a suspicious sanctity, leaving a dubious 
 fame to their children. Suppose I was to go forth on some dark night, to 
 the grave of one of those Traitors, take up his corse, strip from it the mark 
 of patriotism, and show it by the light of history, a base and dishonored 
 thing, for all its thick coating of gold ? Would not this be perfectly fair 
 admirabi}'- just ? Yes, shrieks a Relative of the Traitor, who stands palsied 
 and trembling on the brink of his Ancestor's grave, ' It is fair, it is just ! 
 But spare the traitor for the sake of his descendants ! It is true, he bar- 
 gained with both parties, it is true he heaped vp gold by his double treason, 
 it is true that these facts are written down by men roho never lied, and 
 only kept in the shade by the rvealth of the Traitor''s descendants, but 
 spare him for the sake of those descendants ! Spare him for the sake of 
 his respectable eonneclions ! Spare him for the sake of his Gold T^ 
 
 And I would spare him. Who can doubt it? The lecturer himself,, 
 with all his serene purity, and severe love of morality, would deal gently, 
 very gently with the memory of a Masked Traitor, who died wealthy and 
 left a dubious glory to his children. 
 
 " But — " continues our gifted friend, " Tliomas Paine had none of thesfr. 
 He WHS childless, friendless. Nor was there a human being in this wide 
 world, who cared a jot for him or his memory." 
 
 Yes, it is just! Go to the grave of this childless, friendless man ; lift 
 from his ashes the coffin lid ; bring forth his skull, and cover it with the 
 saliva of an honest lawyer's indignation ! He has no gold to buy immunity 
 from history ; no friends to stand beside his grave, beseeching pity for the 
 ^oor inhabitant below. ' Tiie Lion is dead, and a dog may rend him now.' 
 
 It may be true, eloquent and honest Reviewer, that not a " human being 
 in the ivide world cares a jot for him or his memory now,'''' but there waa 
 
464 THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776. 
 
 a time, when Washington, Jefferson, Adams called him friend, and Benja 
 mm Rush styled him the forerunner of Jefferson, in the great work oflnde 
 pendence. ']''hese men after a fashion, may be called human beings. 
 
 But what estimate do you place on the phrase ' human being ?^ Does it 
 mean, in your way of thinking, an artful pettifogger, who fattens on the 
 frauds of banks, and grows famous in the annals of political iniquity ? Then 
 not a '■human being ^ in the wide world cares a jot for Thomas Paine or 
 his memory. For Thomas Paine, with all his errors, ever directed the 
 lightning of his pen against such human beings. 
 
 Or, by ' human being,' do you mean a man who gets his bread by honest 
 toil, and scorns to bow down to treason, though it comes masked in gold, and 
 refuses to reverence a Traitor's blood, though it has been diluted in the veins 
 of some half dozen generations ? 
 
 Ten thousand such ' human beings,' scattered through this Union, at this 
 hour, ' care a jot ' for the memory of Thomas Paine. Ten thousand noble 
 hearts pity his faults, admire his virtues, and throb with the strong pulsa- 
 tions of scorn, when they behold his skull polluted by the leper's touch. 
 
 The lecturer, in his career about the grave of Paine, exhibits two remark- 
 able qualities in great perfection, critical acumen and love of truth. So well 
 does he love truth, that he dangles at her heels continually, his deep passiouv 
 for the coy beauty filling with modest blushes, and preventing him forever, 
 from any actual contact with her. So fine is the temper of the critical steel 
 which he wields, that even while he is supposed to be flashing it before your 
 eyes, you cannot see it. He seems indeed to have made an art, perfect in 
 all its parts, of avoiding a solemn truth, without seeming to do so, and criti- 
 cising a book or passage into nothing, apparently unconscious of the maxim : 
 •' // is a base thing to lie at all, but to lie like truth, or lie by insinuation 
 is the work of an intellectual assassin.^^ 
 
 Our Reviewer, in his attempts to display his great powers, occasionally 
 rifes into the sublime, or at all events, into something very near it, the 
 ridiculous : he reminds us of Paine's remark : 
 
 " The sublime of the critics, like some parts of Edmund Burke's sublime 
 and beautiful, is like a wind-mill just visible in a fog, which imagination 
 might distort into a flying mountain, or an archangel, or a flock of wild 
 geese." 
 
 Let us look at his criticism : He calls " Common Sense" a diatribe 
 against king, queens and prelates. 
 
 There is a great deal in a word. It would not do for our lecturer to call 
 this book a vulgar attack against kings, queens and prelates, for he is weli 
 aware, that its most violent passages, in relation to these holy personages, 
 are copied, word for word, from the Book of God ; Samuel's eloquent ap 
 peal to the Hebrews, against the monstrosites of monarchy, being quoted ift 
 full. But he calls it a ' diatribe.'' Choice word ! Let us see how it will 
 look m another connection. ' The Declaration of Independence was a 
 
THE VIOLATOR OF THE GRAVE. 465 
 
 diatribe against King George,' or ' Washington's farewell address a diatribe 
 against the evils of party spirit.' Tliere is about as much vulgarity in either 
 of those productions, as in Paine's Common Sense ; the word ' diatribe ' 
 would, in the mouth of our lecturer, eminently apply to them. 
 
 Again, with a gravity as commendable as that of the Italian friar, who 
 addressed his cap as Martin Luther, and completely vanquished his speech- 
 less antagonist, vviio of course, did not utter a word in reply, — the Reviewer 
 of Paine observes : 
 
 " Common Sense — a book of no particular merit, owing its celebrity and 
 power to its being well-timed." 
 
 Very good. Washingtons attack at Trenton, was by no means, such a 
 great affair as Napoleon's battle of Waterloo, yet still it had one merit — it 
 was well-timed. Napoleon's coming back from Elba, was remarkably 
 common-place, but — well-timed. Cortez burning his ships, did a very tame 
 thing, imitated from Alexander the Great, yet wiihal it was well-timed. 
 
 That Common Sense should have been well-timed, seems a small th.ng 
 in our reviewer's eyes. To be sure, it aroused a nation into Thought, or 
 rather, gave its burning thought a tongue as deep and tempestuous as »he 
 voice of thunder ; to be sure, it wrote the word " Independence" in ev( ry 
 heart, by one bold effort, prepared the way fur the Declaration, yet still it 
 is a very tame affair : merely " well timed." 
 
 We wish we could say as much of our lecturer's production. It may be 
 as powerful as a speech in the Criminal Court, adroit as a banker's spe:u- 
 lation, impetuous as a politician's letter, offering to bribe voters, by whjle 
 counties, yet still it is not well-timed. The day may come when it will 
 merit that praise. In some distant golden age, when the temples of religion 
 will bear the inscription * To lie is to worship God,' and the only capital 
 offence, punishable with death, will be the utterance of a Truth, and then — 
 but not till then — this Reviewer's lecture will be well-timed. 
 
 Let us look at this book of " no particular merit :" for a work so weak, 
 this is a somewhat forcible sentence. 
 
 " Government, like dress, is the badge of lost innocence ; the palaces ot 
 kings are built upon the ruins of the bowers of paradise." 
 
 Listen to Common Sense on Monarchy : 
 
 " For monarchy in every instance is tlie Popery of government. To the 
 evil of monarchy we have added that of hereditary succession ; and as the 
 first is a degradation and lessening of ourselves, so tlie second, claimed as a 
 matter of right, is an insult and imposition on posterity. For all men being 
 originally equals, no one by birth, could have a right to set up his own 
 family, in perpetual preference to all others for ever, and though himself 
 miffht deserve some decent degree of honors of his cotemporaries, yet his 
 descendants might be far too unworthy to inherit them. One of the strongest 
 natural proofs of the folly o. i.^ireditary right in Kings, is that nature dis- 
 approves it, otherwise she would not so frequently turn it into ridicule, by 
 giving mankind an Ass for a Lion." 
 
46P THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776. 
 
 Ile.-e is an opinion which no doubt shocked King George, and our elo- 
 T-Bent reviewer, with the same deep horror: 
 
 'Of more worth is one honest man to society, and in the sight ot God, 
 aian all the crowned ruffians that ever lived." 
 
 With reorard to the oft-repealed watch-word of American admirers of 
 England — " Great Britain is the Mother country," — thus speaks Common 
 Sense • 
 
 •• l3ul Britain is the parent country, say some. Then the more shame 
 upon her conduct. Even brutes do not devour their young, nor savages 
 make war upon their families ; wherefore, the assertion, if true, turns to her 
 reproach ; but it happens not to be true, or only partly so,, and the plirase 
 parent or mother country hath been jesuitically adopted by the king and 
 his parasites, with a low papistical design of g;iining an unfair bias on the 
 credulous weakness of our minds, Europe, and not England, is the parent 
 country of America. This new world hath been the asylum for the perse- 
 cuted lovers of civil and rehgious liberty from fuerjy /)«r/ of Europe. Hither 
 have they fled, not from the tender embraces, but from the cruelty of the 
 monster; and it is so far true of England, that the same tyranny which 
 drove the first emigrants from home, pursues their descendants still." 
 
 Speaking to those persons who still advocated a reconciliation with 
 Engh'.nd : 
 
 " But if you say, you can still pass the violations over, then I ask, hath 
 your house been burnt? Hath your properly been destroyed before your 
 face ? Are your wife and children destilule of a bed to lie on, or bread to 
 live on ? Have you lost a parent or a child by their hands, and yourself 
 the ruined and wretched survivor ? If you have not, then are you not a 
 judge of tliose who have. But if you have, and can still shake h;inds with 
 the murderers, then are you unworthy the name of husband, father, friend, 
 or lover, and whatever may be your rank or tide in life, you have the heart 
 of a coward, and the spirit of a sycophant." 
 
 Again : 
 
 Ye that tell us of harmony and reconciliation, can ye restore to us the 
 time that is past ? Can ye give to prostitution its former innocence ? Neither 
 can ye reconcile Britain and America. The last cord now is broken, the 
 people of England are presenting addresses against us. There are injuries 
 which nature cannot forgive; she would cease to be nature if she did. As 
 well can the lover forgive the ravisher of his mistress, as the continent for- 
 oive the murders of Britain. The Almighty hath implanted in us these 
 inextinguishable feelings, for good and wise purposes. They are the guar- 
 dians of liis image in our hearts, and distinguish us from the herd of common 
 animals, 'i'he social compact would dissolve, and justice be extirpated 
 from the earth, or have o-nly a casual existence were we callous to the 
 touches of affection. The robber and the murderer would often escape un- 
 punished, did not the injuries which our tempers sustain, provoke us into 
 justice. 
 
 " O ! ye that love mankind ! Ye that dare oppose, not only the tyranny, 
 but the tyrant, stand forth! Every spot of the old world is overrun with 
 oppression. Freedom hath been haunted around the globe. Asia, and 
 Africa, have long expelled her. Europe regards her like a stranger, and 
 F]ngland haih given her warning to depart. O ! receive the fugitive, and 
 prepare in time an asylum for mankind " 
 
THE VIOLATOR OF THE GRAVE. 467 
 
 This rude author of Common Sense had some idea of our resources; 
 near him in his iron-handed style : 
 
 ♦' In almost every article of defence we abound. Hemp flout islies even to 
 ranknass, so that we need not want cordage. Our iron is superior to tliat 
 of other countries. Our small arms equal to any in the world. Cannon 
 we can cast at pleasure. Saltpetre and jrunpowder we are every day [)ro- 
 during. Our knowledge is hourly improving. Resolution is our iniierent 
 character, and courage liath never yet forsaken us. Therefore, what is it 
 we want? Why is it that we hesitate? From Britain we can e.xpect 
 nothing but ruin. If she is once admitted to the government of America 
 again, this continent will not be worth living in. Jealousies will be always 
 arising, insurrections will be constantly happening; and who will go forth 
 to quell them ? Who will venture his life to reduce to own countrymen to 
 a foreign obedience ? The ditlerence between Pennsylvania and Connecticut, 
 respecting some unlocated lands, shows the insigniticance of a British gov- 
 ernment, and fully proves that nothing but continental authority can regulate 
 continental matters." 
 
 One passage more, in order to prove the puerility of the work : 
 
 " We have it in our power to begin the world over again. A situation, 
 similar to the present, hath not happened since the days of Noah until now. 
 The birthday of a new world is at hand, and a race of men, perhaps as 
 numerous as all Europe contains, are to receive their portion of freedom 
 from the events of a few mouths. The reflection is awful— and in this 
 point of view, how trifling, how ridiculous, do the little pahry cavilings, of 
 a few weak or interested men appear, when weighed against the business 
 of a world." 
 
 Here is a specimen of Paine's advice to great men. It was originally 
 applied to Sir William Howe, but will eminently suit our reviewer: 
 
 " But how, sir, shall we dispose of you ? The invention of a statuary is 
 exhausted, and Sir William is yet unprovided with a monument. America 
 is anxious to bestow her funeral favors upon you, and wishes to do it in a 
 manner that shall distinguish you from all the deceased heroes of the last 
 war. The Egyptian laelhod of embalming is not known to llie present 
 age, and hieroglvphical pageantry hath outlived the science of docyphering 
 it. Some other method, therefore, must be thought of to ninni)rtalize tue 
 new knight of the windmill and post. Sir William, thanks to his stars, is 
 not oppressed with very delicate ideas. He has no ambition of being 
 wrappeti up and handed about in myrrh, aloes and cassia. Less expensive 
 odors will sulFice ; and it fortunately happens, that the simple genius of 
 America hath discovered the art of preserving botiies, and embellishing them 
 too, with much greater frugality than the ancients. In balmage, sir, of hum- 
 ble tar, you will be as secure as Pharoah, and in a hieroglyphic ol' feathers, 
 rival in finery all the mummies of Egypt." 
 
 Do you not think that these passages indicate a work of some particular 
 merit? — The Reviewer continues his critical excursion in this style: 
 
 " He next wrote the " Crisis," a series of papers, sixteen in number ; and 
 designed as popular appeals. They bore the signature of" Common Sense." 
 The first words of the first number, written two days before the battle of 
 Trenton, have become part of our household words : — " 'IMiese are the 
 times that try men's souls " Yet, it is manifest that with all Paine's 
 aptitude at coining popular phrases, there was no spring of true eloquence 
 
468 THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776. 
 
 in him. And when he wrote under immediate and outward pressure, and 
 without an opportunity of revision and slow ehiljoration, no matter how 
 great the occasion or intense tlie excitement — he wrote feebly and impo- 
 tently. The fourth paper dated the day after the battle of Brandy wine is 
 given as an instance." • 
 
 These remarks made in the face of day, in tlie Nineteenth Century, can 
 only be answered with a sentence of Thomas Paine : "There is dignity in 
 the warm passions of a whig, which is never to be found in the cold malice 
 of a Tory. In the one nature is only heated — in the other she is 
 poisoned." 
 
 We must admit that the lecturer has the best right to think meanly of 
 Paine, for as we see by this sentence, Paine had but an inferior opinion of 
 the party to which our critical friend appertains. 
 
 You will perceive that he gives this short article, publislied ihe day after 
 the batfle of the Brandy wine, as an instance of impotence in style. 
 
 This impotent essay, written in the fear of British occupation amid the 
 palpitations of popular panic, comprises this weak line : 
 
 " We fight not to enslave, but to set a country free, and to make room 
 upon the earth for honest men to live in." 
 
 — "There was no spring of true eloquence in him!" Pity poor Tom 
 Paine ! The fountain of his thoughts did not flow from the marble portals 
 of a bank — chartered to rob by wholesale — nor from the miasmatic corri- 
 dors of a Criminal Court. " There was no spring of true eloquence in 
 him 1" Weep for Tom Paine ! Had he but wielded a green bag, and 
 written letters on the eve of a popular election, kindly offering' to pay for a 
 handsome majority, there might have been a spring of true eloquence in his 
 breast, but as the case stands in history, he was but an Author and Poor ! 
 
 Our rich, and of course virtuous reviewer, thus disposes of a work which 
 Washington and La Fayette did not iiesitate to honor with their names on 
 the dedication page : 
 
 " It was not long before he began to write again ; and in rapid succession, 
 a batch of revolutionary pampldets were published. Among them was the 
 " Rights of Man," in reply to Mr. Burke's " Reflections ;" and though the 
 reader of the present dav may smile at the contrast, it is idle to deny that 
 Paine made an impression in Great Britain. His grotesque and often 
 vigorous phrases told on the excited mind of the populace. 
 
 "A batch of revolutionary pamphlets!" Singular felicity of phrase! 
 Take all the addresses issued by Conventions in 1775, all the papers 
 penned by Jefferson or Henry, all the eloquent appeals impressed with the 
 power of Adams or the weight of Washington's name, and you have not a 
 selection of the noblest gems of patriotism and literature, but a — 'batch of 
 revolutionary pamphlets !' 
 
 Our lecturer's morality and patriotism all must admire. To slander the 
 childless dead is no sin. To write Common Sense, and awake a Nation 
 into ? sense of their rights, is merely to pen ' a diatribe To defend the 
 
THE VIOLATOR OF THE GRAVE. 459 
 
 rights of man affainst the elegant sycophant of royalty, Edmund Burke, who 
 thought the carcass of monarchy was beautiful because he flung flowers 
 upon its festering pollution, and concealed the worms upon its brow with 
 the musliroom blossoms of metaphor, is not to do a noble deed, y>ut simply 
 to write one of a — " batch of revolutionary pamphlets." 
 
 But it seems the fellow's" grotesque and vigorous phrases told on the ex- 
 citeJ mind of the populace " Yes : so the grotesque and vigorous phrases 
 of Samuel Adams told on the excited mind of the populace, who in Boston 
 Harbor disguised as Indians, drowned a cargo of British tea. 
 
 Here is one of the grotesque and vigorous phrases of Thomas Paine, 
 selected at random from the Rights of Man : 
 
 "If systems of government can be introduced less expensive, and more 
 productive of general happiness, than those which have existed, all attempts 
 to oppose their progress will in the end prove fruitless. Reason, like time, 
 will make its own way, and prejudice will fall in the combat with interest. 
 If universal peace, harmony, civilization and commerce are ever to be the 
 happy lot of man, it cannot be accomplished but by a revolution in the 
 present system of governments. All the monarchical governments are 
 military. War is their trade, plunder and revenue their oi)jects. While 
 Buch governments continue, peace has not the absolute security of a day. 
 What is the history of all monarchical governments but a disgustful picture 
 of human wretchedness, and the accidental respite of a few years repose \ 
 Wearied with war, and tired of iiuman bu#hery, they sat down to rest and 
 called it peace. This certainly is not the coiulition that heaven intended 
 for man ; and \i tlihhe monarchy, well might monarchy be reckoned among 
 the sins of the Jews 
 
 Doubtless the reader of the present day, will smile at the contrast b<i- 
 tvveen Mr. Burke's reflections and Thomas Paine's Rights of Man. Burke 
 was an elegant gentleman in a court dress, with a nosegay in his button- 
 hole. Paine but a man, with the garb of a freeman upon his form. Burke, 
 with his pretty figures and dainty words, wept for the French King and 
 cried his eyes out of their sockets for Marie Antoinette. Paine the vulgar 
 fellow, reserved his tears for the hundred millions of France, who had been 
 ground into powder by this king and his predecessors in iniquity, for the 
 women, the poor women of that enslaved land, who for ages had been 
 made the tool of a tyrant's lust or the victims of his power. Burke reminds 
 us of a spectator of a barbarous murder, who instead of defending the pros- 
 trate woman from the knife of the assassin, coolly takes paper and pencil 
 from his pocket and begins a sketch of the scene, exclaiming as the blood 
 streams from the victim's throat — " What a striking picture 1" Paine is 
 merely an honest member of the " populace," for while Burke makes his 
 picture, he springs at the murderer's throat, and rescues the bleeding woman 
 from his knife. 
 
 Meanwhile our lecturer stands quietly by, and 's;niies at Uie contrast' 
 between the elegant Burke and the vulgar Paine. 
 
 We might crowd out pages with illustrations of Thomas Paine's powtii 
 
470 THE FOURTPI OF JULY, 1776. 
 
 We miglit sulTer hitn to speak for himself, in his clear-thoiighted, iron- 
 tongiied style. And yet whole pages, extracted from liis works, stamped 
 with genius and glittering with heanlies, bear no more comparison to the 
 full volume of liis intellect, than a drop to the ocean, or — to use an imper- 
 fect oom[)arison — than the instinctive malignity of a hyena, to the cold- 
 blooded malice of our Reviewer. 
 
 They have been more read, more quoted, more copied, than any political 
 papers ever written. We hazard nothing, when we state, that our ablest 
 statesmen, for the last fifty years, have freely used the pages of Paine, in 
 their best papers, in some instances without a word of credit. Such phrases 
 as " These are the times that try men's souls," have become republican 
 scripture in every American heart. 
 
 You will be surprised, reader, after perusing these passages, at the hardi- 
 hood of our lecturer, who with all his love of truth, prepers Bnrke to Pair.e, 
 King George to Washington, the applause of an aristocratic audience to the 
 good opinion of the populace. 
 
 You will be somewhat indignant withal; while the strong throb of hom'ist 
 anger, — if the bile of a reptile can excite anger — swells your bosom, you 
 will be induced to ask this Reviewer — ' Could you not be a man for once 
 in your life? Scorned by the living, could you not leave the dead alone? 
 Were there not other graves to desecrate, other skulls on which to vfnt 
 your venom. Nay! Why, in your ferocious appetite for dead men's 
 bones, you did not dis-inter a Traitor of the Revolution, who has corae 
 down to our time, baptised in a miserable glory ?' 
 
 But these words would have been lost on the Violator of the Grave. He 
 wished to build a character for religion and morality. Paine was the author 
 of a deistical work ; Paine died childless. The Grave-Violator beheld this 
 glorious opportunity ! He could abuse the deistical author, and slander the 
 childless dead ! His reputation as a defender of religion would be estab- 
 lished ; he, the coiner of falsehoods as base as a Malay's steel, would be 
 quoted as a — Christian ! 
 
 Christianity was to be indebted for a character to him, who in sober 
 charity, had none to spare. 
 
 But he overshot his mark. While he dealt a just rebuke to the Infidel, 
 he should have spared the Patriot. While he took the last years of Paine's 
 life, and held them up to the laughter of the cold and heartless crowd, he 
 should have stepped lightly over his Revolutionary career. For in the sound 
 of his voice, there was an old man, who remembered Thomas Paine, writing 
 his Crisis, in 1776, and tracking his bloody footsteps in the snow, while a 
 certain officer of the Continental army, was basely bargaining with the 
 enemy and hungering to be bought. 
 
 While he struck his coward's blow upon the dead man's skull, he should 
 have heard the whisper of prudence — " Take care ! There are other dead 
 than Thomas Paine ! There are other traitors than Benedict Arnold !"' 
 
THE VIOLATOR OF THE GRAVE. 471 
 
 As a speciixen of our Reviewer's love of tiutli, we need only make a 
 reference lo tlie passage of his lecture, in which he states, that Paine, in 
 Paris, ' voted for the abolition of Royalty, and the trial of the King.' 
 This is all he tells us. He does not say how he voted on the trial of the 
 King; tiiat would not serve his purpose. He merely " voted." He may 
 have voted life ! or death ! but the lecturer dares not condescend to say a 
 word. His object is to leave the impression on your mind, that Paine voted 
 for the execution of the Monarch, when the fact is notorious, that he nobly 
 defended Louis from the penalty of death, and in the most lowering hour of 
 the Convention, pointed to the United States as an asylum for guilty Royalty. 
 
 Which is most contemptible, the bold utterance, or the snake-like insinu- 
 ation of a Lie ? The bite of the bull-dog, or the hiss of the viper ? 
 
 The hatred which the lecturer bears to Paine, does not even cease with 
 his death. Listen — 
 
 " About ten years after Paine's death, Cobbett made a pilgrimage to New 
 Rochelle, disinterred the mouldering bones, and removed them to Great 
 Britain. It was a piece of independent and inettVctual mockery. The 
 bones of the scoffer were looked on by such of the British people as knew 
 any thing about them, with no more regard than the anatomical student 
 bestowed on the unknown carcass before /a"m." 
 
 I do not know your opinion, but were I to meet the wretch who wrc te 
 the italicized sentence, on a dark night, by the lonely roadside, I would at 
 once look for the knife or pistols in his hands, and prepare to defend my 
 ife from the attack of an assassin. 
 
 " The unknown carcass" had once embodied a soul which Washingt-)t 
 recognized in words like these : 
 
 Rocky-Hill, Sept., 10th, 1783. 
 
 I have learned since I have been at this place, that you are at Borden 
 town. Whether for the sake of retirement or economy, I know not. Be 
 it for either, for both, or whatever it may, if you will come to this place, 
 and partake with me, I shall be exceedingly happy to see you. 
 
 Your presence may remind congress of your past services to this coun- 
 try ; and if it is in my power to impress them, command my best exertions; 
 with freedom, as they will be rendered cheerfully by one, who entertains a 
 lively sense of the importance of your works, and who, with much pleasure, 
 subscribes himself, Your sincere friend, 
 
 G. WASHINGTON. 
 
 If it were possible at this late day, to recover the skeletons of Judas 
 Iscariot and Benedict Arnold, much as I despise these melancholy examples 
 of human frailty, I would not insult even their bones, by placing the 
 " carcass" of this Reviewer in their company. 
 
 The wretch who can thus insult the dead, is not worthy of a resting 
 place, even among traitors. Did I believe the Pythagorean doctrine of 
 transmigration of souls, I would know where to look for the soul of this 
 Reviewer, after death. There is an animal that fattens on corses : it is 
 called the hyena. 
 
i72 THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776. 
 
 But our task is done. We have gone through the nauseous falsehoods, 
 the vulgar spite, the brutal malignity of this man, and felt inc'ined in his 
 case, to reverse our religious creed and believe in Total Depravity. He 
 cannot claim from mp, nor from any human being, the slightest pity. He has 
 violated the grave of the dead, and must not complain, if his own life is 
 made the subject of scathing analysis. Will it bear the light ? All the 
 talent ever possessed by himself, or anything of his name, bolstered by 
 wealth and puRed by pedantry, would not be sufficient to create one line, 
 worthy of Thomas Paine. 
 
 By this time, it is to be hoped, that the lecturer, and otliers of the same 
 class, will have learned that Thomas Paine is not altogether friendless. It 
 is not a safe thing to attack his Patriot Name. The man who consents 
 to do the work of a grave violator, must not expect favor from the People. 
 His only support will prove, only a broken and rotten reed. At all events, the 
 person who makes the attack, must look to his own life, and expect to be 
 treated in the same manner as he treats the dead. Stand forth, calumniator ! 
 Will you submit your life to this scrutiny ? You dare not. You can bluster 
 over dead men's graves, but you fear the living. Yes, you are afraid of 
 Light, of History, of the Past: well you know why ; too well! Behold 
 the man of courage ! He only attacks childless dead men ! 
 
 But Thomas Paine is not childless. He left behind him Common Sense, 
 the Crisis and the Rights of Man ; children that can never die, but wiil 
 outlive -all Traitors and descendants, to the end of time. 
 
BOOK SIXTH. 
 
 ROMANCE OF THE REYOLUTION. 
 
 (473) 
 
ROMANCE OF THE REVOLUTION. 
 
 MICHAEL XXX, 
 
 1.— A TRADITION OF THE TWO WORLDS. 
 
 Onk dark and stormy night, in the year 1793, a soldier was returning 
 home — 
 
 Home — after the toil and tloodshed of many a well-fought battle ; home 
 — to receive his father's blessing — Home, to feel the kiss of his bride upou 
 his lips ; home, for the second time in fourteen long years ! 
 
 It was where the winding road looked forth upon the broad bosom of the 
 Chesapeake, that we first behold him. 
 
 On the summit of a dark grey rock, which arose above the gloomy 
 waves, he reined his steed. All was dark above — the canopy of heaven, 
 one vast and funeral pall, on which the lightning ever and anon, wrote its 
 fearful hieroglyph — below, the waves rolled heavily against the shore, their 
 deep murmur mingling with the thunder-peal. 
 
 The same lightning (lash that traced its strange characters upon the pall 
 of a darkened universe, revealed the face and form of the warrior, every 
 point and outline of his war-steed. 
 
 For a moment, and a moment only, that lurid light rushed over the 
 waves and sky, and then all was night and chaos again. 
 
 Let us look upon the warrior by the glare of that lightning flash. 
 
 A man of some thirty years ; his form massive in the chest, broad in the 
 shoulders, enveloped in a blue hunting frock faced with fur. From his right 
 shoulder a heavy cloak falls in thick folds over the form of his steed. 
 
 At this moment he lifts the trooper cap from his brow. Bathed in the 
 lightning glare you behold that high, straight forehead, shadowed by a mass 
 of short thick curls, and lighted by the soul of his large grey eyes. The 
 broad cheek bones, fair complexion, darkened into a swarthy brown, by the 
 toil of fourteen long years, firm lips, and square chin, all indicate a bold and 
 chivalrous nature. 
 
 His grey eye lights up with wild rapture, as he gazes far beyond upon 
 the Clijesapeake, its surAice now dark as ink, and now ruffled into one 
 white sheet of foam. And ihe noble horse which bears his form, with his 
 ■now-wkite flanks seareii with the marks of many a battle-scar, arches his 
 
 (475) 
 
476 ROMANCE OF THE REVOLUTION. 
 
 neck, tosses his head aloft, and with quivering nostrils and glaring eye 
 seems to share the fiery contest of the elements. 
 
 It is an impressive picture which we behold ; the white horse and hil 
 rider, drawn by the lightning^glare on the canvass of a darkened sky. 
 
 The rain beats against the warrior's brow, it turns to hail, and scatters its 
 pearls upon the snowy mane of his steed, among his thickly clustered locks, 
 yet still he sits uncovered there. 
 
 The gleaming eye and heaving chest, betoken a soul absorbed in mem- 
 ories of the past. 
 
 Yes, he is thinking of fourteen long years of absence from home, years 
 spent in the charge of batde, or the terror of the forlorn hope, or far away 
 in the wild woods, where the tomahawk gleams through the greeu leaves 
 of old forest trees. 
 
 He speaks to his horse, and calls him by name. 
 " Old Legion !" 
 
 The horse quivers, starts, as with a thrill of delight, and utters a long and 
 piercing neigh. 
 
 He knows that name. 
 
 He has heard it in many a bloody fight ; yes, swelling with the roar of 
 Brandywine, echoing from the mists of Germantown, whispered amid the 
 thunders of Monmouth ; that name has ever been to the brave white horse, 
 the signal-note of battle. 
 
 Fourteen years ago, on this very rock, a boy of sixteen with long curling 
 hair, and a beardless cheek, reined in the noble white horse which he rode, 
 and while the moonlight poured over his brow, gave one last look at his 
 childliood's home, and then went forth to battle. 
 
 That white horse has now grown old. The marks of Germantown and 
 Valley Forge, and Camden, are written in every scar that darkens over 
 his snowy hide. The boy has sprung into hardy manhood ; beard on his 
 chin, scars on his form, the light of resolution in his full grey eye, a sword 
 of iron in its iron sheath, hanging by his side. 
 
 Only a single year ago the white horse and his rider halted for a moment 
 on the summit of this rock, a mild summer breeze tossing the mane of the 
 steed, and playing with the warrior's curls. Then he had just bidden fare- 
 well to his betrothed, her kiss was yet fresh upon his lips. On his way to 
 the Indian wars, he resolved to return after the fight was over, and wed his 
 intended bride. 
 
 One year had passed since he beheld her, one year of peril far away 
 among the Alleghanies, or in the wood-bound meadows of the Miami. 
 
 Now covered with scars, his name known as the bravest amonf[ the 
 brave, he was returning — home. 
 
 " Old Legion !" the souldier speaks to his steed, and in a moment you 
 •see the gallant war-horse — who is named in memory of the Legion, com- 
 
A TRADITIOX OF THE TWO WORLDS. 477 
 
 rnanded by the Partizan Lee — spring with a suilden bound from llie lock, 
 and (iisappc;ar in the shadows of the inland road. 
 
 Seven miles away from the Chesapeake, and the soldier would stand 
 upon the threshhold of his home. 
 
 Seven miles of a winding road, that now plunged into the shadows of 
 thick woodtf, now crossed some quiet brook, surmounted by a rude bridge, 
 now ascended yonder steep hill, with rocks crowned by cedars, darkening 
 on either side. 'J'hen came a long and level track with open fields, varied 
 by the tortuous " Virginia fence," strelcliiiig away on either side. 
 
 While the rain freezing into hail, dashed against his brow, our soldier 
 spoke cheerily to his steed, and trees, and rocks, and fields, passed rapidly 
 behind him. 
 
 He was thinking of home — of that beautiful girl — Alice ! 
 
 Ah, how the memory of her form came smiling to his soul, through the 
 darkness, and hail, and rain of that stormy night. Look where he might, 
 he saw her — yes, even as he left her one year ago. In the dark rocks 
 among the sombre pines, on the pall of the sky, or among the shadows of 
 the wood — look where he might — her image was there. 
 
 And this was the picture that memory with a free, joyous hand, and 
 colors gathered from the rainbow — Hope — sketched on the canvass of the 
 past. 
 
 A young girl, standing on the rustic porch of her home, at dead of nio'ht 
 — her form blooming from girlhood into woman — enveloped in the loose 
 folds of a white gown — while her bared arm holds the light above her head. 
 The downward rays impart a mild and softened glow to her face. Saw 
 you ever hair so dark, so glossy as that which the white 'kerchief lightly 
 binds ? Eyes, so large and dark, so delicately fringed with long tremulous 
 lashes, as these which now gleam through the darkness of the night ? Lips 
 80 red and moist? A cheek so rounded and peach-like in its bloom ? A 
 form — neither majestic in its stature, nor queenly in its walk — but warm in 
 its hues, swelling in its outlines, lovable in its virgin freshness. 
 
 So rose the picture of his betrothed, to the imagination of the soldier 
 So he beheld her one year ago — even now, closing his eyes in a waking 
 dream, which the thunder cannot dispel, he seems to hear her parting 
 words : 
 
 " Good bye, Michael ! Come back from tlie wars ; O, come back soon 
 — may God grant it ! Then, Michael, as 1 have pledged a woman's truth 
 to you, we will be married !" 
 
 A tear starts from the soldier's eye-lid. He has seen men fall in battle, 
 their skulls crushed by the horses' hoofs, and never wept. They were his 
 friends, his comrades, but his eye was tearless. — This game of war hardens 
 the heart into iron. 
 
 But now, as the thought of his young and loving bride steals mildly over 
 his soul, he feels the tear-drop in his eye. 
 
478 ROMANCE OF THE REVOLUTION. 
 
 Dashing through the swollen waters of a brook, Michael the soldiei, 
 begins to ascend the last hill. Look — as it darkens above him, look upon 
 its summit, by the lightning glare. You behold a group of oak trees — three 
 rugged, ancient forms — standing on the sod near the summit of the hill, their 
 branches spreading magnificently into the sky. 
 
 By the lightning flash Michael beholds the oaks, and knows that his 
 home is near. For looking from the foot of these old trees, you may behold 
 that home. 
 
 How his heart throbs, as Old Legion dashes up the hill ! 
 
 In order to conceal his agitation, he talks aloud to his war-horse. Smile 
 at the hardy soldier if you will, but ere you sneer, learn something of thai 
 strange companionship which binds the warrior and his steed together. 
 Even as the sunburnt sailor talks to the good old ship which bears him, 
 even as the hollow eye^d student talks to the well-used volumes, which have 
 been Love and Home to him, in many an hour of poverty and scorn, so 
 talks the soldier of Lee's Legion to his gallant horse. 
 
 " Soh — Old Legion ! We've had many a tough time together, but soon 
 all our trials will be past ! Many a lough time, old boy — d'ye remember 
 Germantown? How we came charging down upon them, before the break 
 of day ? 
 
 " Or Monmouth — that awful day — when the sun killed ten, where the 
 bayonet and cannon-ball only killed one ? 
 
 •' Or Camden, where we fled like whipped dogs ? But I led the forlorn 
 hope, in the attack of Paulus Hook, on foot — without you — my Old 
 Legion ? 
 
 " Or d'ye remember the fights among the Injins ? Mad Anthony Wayne 
 leading the charge, right into the thickest of the red-skins ? Many a battle 
 miny a fight by day, and fray by night, we've had together. Old Legion — 
 we've shared the last crust — slept on the same hard ground — haven't we 
 old boy ? And now we're going home — home to rest and quietness ! I'll 
 settle down, beneath the roof of the old homestead ; and as for you — there's 
 the broad meadow for you to ramble by day, and the clean straw for your 
 bed by night ! I should like to see the man that would dare harness you 
 to a plough, my brave old war-horse — no ! no ! No one shall ever mmmt 
 your back but your old master, or" — and a grim smile lighted the young 
 soldier's face — "or, perhaps — Alice !" 
 
 As he spoke — the rain beating beneath the steel front of his cap, all the 
 while — he attained the summit of the hill. All was very dark around, all 
 was like a pall above, yet there — stretching far to the north, over a dimly 
 defined field — the soldier beheld a long straight line of locust trees, their 
 green leaves crowned with snowy blossoms. Those trees, whose fragrance 
 imbued the blast which rushed against the soldier's brow, the very rain 
 which fell upon his cheek — those glorious trees, so luxuriant in foliage and 
 perfume — overarched the lane which led to — Home ! 
 
A TRADITION OF THE TWO WORLDS. 479 
 
 That home he could not see, for all was dark as chaos — but yonder from 
 over the level field, afar, there came a single quivering ray of light. 
 
 By that light — it was the fireside light of home — his father watched, and 
 Alice — Ah ! she was there, toiling over some task of home, her thoughts 
 fixed upon her absent lover. For Alice, you will understand me, was tha* 
 most to be pitied of all human creatures — an orphan child. She had beau 
 reared in the homesiead of the Meadows ; reared and protected from len- 
 derest childhood by the old man, even Michael's father. 
 
 How the thought that she was wailing for him, stirred the fire-coals a« 
 the soldier's heart ! 
 
 Leaning from his steed, Michael the Soldier of Lee's Legion, unfastened 
 the rustic gate which divided the lane from the road, and in a moment — Do 
 you hear the sound of the horse's hoofs under the locust trees ? 
 
 Ah, that fragrance from the snowy flowers, how it speaks Home ! 
 
 Near and nearer he drew. Now he sees the wicket fence, that surrounds 
 the old brick mansion — now, the tall poplars that stand about it, like grim 
 sentinels — and now ! There is a thunder peal shaking the very earth, a 
 lightning flash illumining the universe, and then the clouds roll back, and as 
 a maiden from her lattice, so looks forth the moon from her window in 
 the sky. 
 
 There it lies, in the calm clear light of the moon. A mansion of dark 
 brick, surrounded by a wicket fence painted white, with straight poplars en- 
 circling it on every side. 
 
 A whispered word to his horse, and the soldier dashes on ! 
 
 He reaches the wicket fence, flings the rein on the neck of his steed, 
 clears the palings at a bound, approaches yonder narrow, old-fashioned 
 window, and looks in 
 
 An old man, in a farmer's dress, with sunburnt face and white hair, sits 
 alone, leaning his elbow on the oaken table, his cheek upon his hand. Near 
 nim the candle, flinging its beams over the withered face of the old man, 
 around the rustic furniture of the uncarpeted room. , 
 
 The old man is alone. Alice is not there. Michael the soldier, gazes 
 long and earnestly, and gasps for breath. For, in one brief year, his father 
 sunk into extreme old age — his grey eyes, dim with moisture, his hair, 
 which was grey, has taken the color of snow, his mouth wrinkled and 
 fallen in. 
 
 Michael felt a dim, vague, yet horrible foreboding cross his heart. 
 
 Not daring to cross the threshhold, he gazed for a moment upon a window 
 on the opposite side of the door. The shutters were closed, but it was her 
 room, the chamber of Alice. See slept there — ah ! He laughed at his fears, 
 smiled that horrible foreboding to scorn. She slept there, dreaming of him, 
 her lover, husband. He placed his finger on the latch, his foot upon the 
 threshhold. 
 
 At this moment he felt a hand press his own, a knotted, toil-hardened 
 
480 ROMANCE OF THE REVOLUTION. 
 
 hand. He turned and beheld the form of a Negro, clad in coarse hnrntJ- 
 spun ; it was one of his father's slaves ; his own favorite servant, who had 
 carried him in his brawny arms when but a child, thirty years ago. 
 
 " De Lor bress you, Masa Mikel ! Dis ole nigga am so glad you am 
 come home !" 
 
 A rude greeting, but sincere. Michael wrung the negro's hand, and ut- 
 tered a question with gasping breath : 
 
 "Alice — she is well ? Alice, I say — do you hear Tony — she is well ?" 
 In very common, but very expressive parlance — which I hope your critic 
 will pick to pieces with his claw, even as an aged but eccentric hen picks 
 chaff from wheat — the old slave showed the whites of his eyes. 
 
 " Eh — ah !" he exclaimed, with a true African chuckle — " Do Massa 
 Mikel ax de old nigga, ' Miss Alice well ?' Lor ! Ef you had only see, 
 yisserday, singin' on dis berry porch, like a robin in a locus' tree !" 
 
 Michael did not pause to utter a word, but dashed his hand against the 
 latch, and crossed the threshhold of home. 
 
 At the same moment the old negro leaned his arms upon the banisters 
 of the porch, bowed his head, and wept aloud. 
 
 L was for joy. No doubt. Yes, with the true feeling of one of those 
 faithful African hearts, which share in every joy and sorrow of the master, 
 as though it were their own, the negro wept for joy. 
 
 Meanwhile, Michael rushed forward, and flung his arms about the old 
 man's neck. 
 
 "Father,! am come home! Home for good — home for life! You 
 know, some fourteen years ago, I left this place a boy, I came back a man, 
 a Soldier ! A year ago, I left you for my last campaign — it is over — we've 
 beat the Injins — and now I'm goin' to live and die by your side !" 
 
 The old man looked up, and met the joyous glance of those large grey 
 eyes, surveyed the high, straight forehead, and the muscular form, and tlien 
 silently gathered the hands of his boy within his own. 
 
 •' God bless you, Michael !" he said, in a clear, deep voice, yet with a 
 strong German accent. 
 
 " But what's the matter, father ? You don't seem well — ain't you glad 
 lo see me ? liOok here — I've brought this old sword home as a present for 
 you. Not very handsome, you'll say, but each of those dents has a story 
 of its own to tell. You see that deep notch ? That was made by the cap 
 of a Britisher, at Paulus Hook, and this — but God bless me ! Father, you 
 
 are sick — you " 
 
 The old man tuwied his eyes away, and pressed with a silent intensity 
 the hands of his son. 
 
 " Sit down Michael, I want to talk with you." 
 
 Michael slid into a huge oaken arm chair ; it was placed before the 
 hearth, and opposite a dark-panelled door, which opened into the ne^t 
 chamber — the chamber of Alice. 
 
A TRADITION OF THE TWO WORLDS. 451 
 
 The old man was silent. His head had sunken on his breast : Iiis handa 
 relaxed their grasp. 
 
 Michael gazed upon him with a vague look of surprise, and then his eyes 
 wandered to the dark-panelled door. 
 
 " She is asleep, Father ? — Shall I go to the door and call her, or will you T 
 Ah, the good girl will be so glad to see me !" 
 
 Still the old man made no answer. 
 
 " Ah ! I see how it is — he's not well — glad to see me, to be sure, but old 
 age creeps on him." Tlius murmuring, Michael sprang to his feet, seized 
 the light, and advanced to the dark-panelled door. " You see, father, I'll go 
 myself. It will be such a surprise to her ! I'll steal sofdy to her bed-side, 
 t)end over her pillow— ha ! ha ! The first news she will have of my return, 
 will be my kiss upon her lips !" 
 
 He placed his fingers on the latch. 
 
 The old man raised his head, beheld him, and started to his feet. With 
 trembling steps, he reached the side of his son. 
 
 " My son," he cried, invoking the awful name of God, " do not enter 
 that room !" 
 
 You can see Michael start, his chivalrous face expanding with surprise, 
 while the light in his hand falls over the wrinkled features of his father. 
 Those features wear an expression so utterly sad, woe-begone, horror-strick- 
 en, that Michael recoils as though a death-bullet had pierced his heart. His 
 hand, as if palsied, shrinks from the latch of the door. 
 
 For a moment there was a pause like death. You can hear the crackling 
 of the slight fire on the hearth — the hard breathing of the old man — but all 
 beside is terribly still. 
 
 " Father, what mean you ? I tell you, I can face the bloodiest charge of 
 bayonets that ever mowed a battlefield of its living men, but this — I know 
 not what to call it — this silence, this mystery, it chills, yes, it frightens, me !" 
 
 Still the old man breathed in hollow tones, marked with a deep guttural 
 accent, the name of God, and whispered — 
 
 " My son, do not enter that room !" 
 
 " But it is the room of Alice. She is to be my wife to-morrow — no ! she 
 IS my wife, plighted and sworn, at this hour ! // is the room of Alice" 
 
 The voice sunk to a whisper, at once deep and pathetic, as he spoke the 
 last words. 
 
 " Come, Michael, sit by me ; when 1 have a little more strength, I will 
 tell you all." 
 
 The old man motioned with his right hand, toward a seat, but Michael 
 Btood beside the dark-panelled door, his sun-burnt face grown suddenly pale 
 as a shroud. 
 
 At last, with measured footsteps, he approached the door, grasped the 
 latch, and pushed it open. The light was in his hand. Her room lay open 
 to his gaze, the chamber of Alice, yet he was afraid to — look. 
 
482 ROMANCE OF THE REVOLUTION. 
 
 Do you see him standing on the threshhold, the light extended in one hand, 
 while the other supports his bowed head, and veils his eyes ? 
 
 " Father,' he groaned, " her room is before me, but I cannot look — I 
 stand upon the threshhold, but dare not cross it. Speak" — and he turned 
 wildly toward the old man — " Speak ! I implore ye — tell me the worst !" 
 
 The old man stood in the shadows, his hands clasped, his eyes wild and 
 glassy in their vacant stare, fixed upon the face of his son. No word passed 
 his lips ; the horror painted on his countenance seemed too horrible for 
 words. 
 
 Michael raised his eyes and looked. 
 
 It was there — the same as in the olden time — that chamber in which his 
 mother had once slept — now the Chamber of Alice. 
 
 Behold a small room, with the clean oaken floor, covered by a homespun 
 carpet; two or three high-backed chairs, placed against the white-washed 
 walls ; a solitary window with a deep frame and snowy curtain. 
 
 Holding the light above his head, Michael advanced. In the corner, 
 opposite the door, stood a bed, encircled by hangings of plain white — thc\se 
 hangings carefully closed, descending in easy folds to the floor. 
 
 The fearful truth all at once rushed upon the soldier's soul. She was 
 dead. Her body enveloped in the shroud, lay within those hangings ; he 
 could see the white hands, frozen into the semblance of marble, folded stiffly 
 over her pulseless bosom. He could see her face, — so pale and yet so 
 beautiful, even in death, and the closed eyelids, the lashes darkening softly 
 over the cheek, the hair so glossy in its raven blackness, descending gently 
 along the neck, even to the virgin breast. 
 
 The curtains of the bed were closed, but he could see it all ! 
 
 Afraid to look, and by a look confirm his fancy, he turned aside from the 
 bed, and gazed toward the window. Here his heart was wrung by another 
 Bight. A plain, old-fashioned bureau, covered with a white cloth, and sur- 
 mounted by a small mirror oval in form, and framed in dark walnut. 
 
 That mirror had reflected her face, only a day past. Beside lay the 
 Bible and Book of Prayer, each bearing on their covers the name of Alick 
 — sacred memorials of the Dead Girl. 
 
 This man Michael was no puling courtier. A rude heart, an unlettered 
 Boul was his. His embrowned hand had grasped the hand of death a thou- 
 sand times. Yet that rude heart was softened by one deep feeling — that 
 unlettered soul, which had read its lessons of genius in the Book of Battle, 
 written by an avalanche of swords and bayonets, on the dark cloud of the 
 battlefield — bowed down and worshipped one emotion. His love for Alice ! 
 Next to his belief in an all-paternal God, he treasured it. Therefore, when 
 lie beheld these memorials of the Dead Girl, he feh his heart contract, ex- 
 pand, writhe, within him. His iron limbs trembled ; he tottered, he fell 
 lorward on his kness, his face resting among the curtains of the bed. 
 
A TRADITION OF THE TWO WORLDS. 483 
 
 He dashed the curtains aside — holding the light in his quivering hand 
 ue gazed upon the secret of the bed — the dead body of Alice ? No ! 
 
 The while pillow, unruffled by the pressure of a finger — the white cov 
 erlet, smooth as a bank of drifted snow, lay before him. 
 
 Alice was not there. 
 
 " Father !" he groaned, starting to his feet, and grasping the old man by 
 both hands — '• She is dead ; I know it ! Where have you buried her ?" 
 
 The father turned his eyes from the face of his son, but made no answer. 
 
 " At least, give me some token to remember her ! The bracelet which 
 was my mother's — which a year ago, I myself clasped on the wrist of 
 Alice !" 
 
 Then it was that the old man turned, and with a look that never forsook 
 the'"soul of his son until his death hour, gasped four brief words : 
 
 " Not dead, but — lost 1" he said, and turned his face away. 
 
 Michael heard the voice, saw the expression of his father's face, snd felt 
 the reality of his desolation without another word. He could no', speak ; 
 there was a choking sensation in his throat, a coldness like death, about 
 his heart. 
 
 In a moment the old man turned again, and in his native German, pouiod 
 forth the story of Alice — her broken vows, and flight, and shame ! 
 
 " Only this day she fled, and with a stranger !'' 
 
 The son never asked a question more of his father. 
 
 One silent grasp of the old man's hand, and he strode with measured 
 steps, from the room, from the house. Not once did he look back. 
 
 He stood upon the porch — the light of the moon falling upon his face, 
 with every lineament tightened like a cord of iron — the eyes cold and glassy, 
 the lips clenched and white. 
 
 " Here," said he to the old negro, who beheld his changed countenance 
 with horror — " Here is all the gold I havic in the world. I earned it by my 
 word ! Take it — I will never touch a coin that comes from this accursed 
 »il." 
 
 He passed on, spoke to Old Legion, leaped into the saddle, and was gone. 
 The negro heard a wild laugh borne shrilly along the breeze. Tlie old 
 man who, with his white hairs waving in the moonbeams, came out and 
 stood upon the porch, looked far down the lane, and beheld the white horse 
 and his rider. The moon shone from among the rolling clouds with a light 
 almost like day ; the old man beheld every outline of that manly form — saw 
 his cap of fur and steel, and waving cloak, and iron sword in its iron sheath. 
 
 Yet never once did he behold the face of his son turned back toward his 
 childhood's home. 
 
 On and on ! Never mind the fence, with its high rail and pointed stakes. 
 Clear it with a bound. Old Legion ! On and on ! Never mind the road ; 
 the wood is dark, the branches intermingle above our heads, but we will 
 
484 ROMANCE OF THE REVOLUTION. 
 
 dash thrniigli the darkness, Old Legion. On, on, on ! Never heeJ the 
 brook that brawls before us ; it is a terrible leap, from the rock which arises 
 here, to the rock which darkens yonder, but we must leap it. Old Legion ! 
 Soh, my brave old boy ! Through the wood again ; along this hollow, up 
 the hillside, over the marsh. Now the thunder rolls, and the lightning 
 flashes out ! — hurrah ! Many a battle we have fought together, but this is 
 the bravest and the last ! 
 
 — And at last, the blood and sweat, mingling on his white flanks, the 
 gallant old horse stood on the Rock of the Chesepeake, trembling in every 
 limb. 
 
 Michael looked far along the waters, while the storm came crashing down 
 again, and, by the lightning glare, beheld a white sail, raking masls, and a 
 dark hull, careering over the waters. Now, like a mighty bird, diving into 
 the hollows of the watery hills, she was lost to view. And now, still 
 like a mighty bird, outspreading her wings, she rose again, borne by the 
 swell of a tremendous wave, as if to the very clouds. 
 
 A very beautiful sight it was to see, even by the light of that lurid flash — 
 this thing, with the long dark hull, the raking masts and the white sail ! 
 
 She came bounding over the bay; the wind and waves bore her towards 
 the lock. 
 
 In a moment the resolution of Michael was taken. One glance toward 
 the while sail, one upon the darkened sky, and then he quietly drew his 
 pistol. 
 
 " Come, Old Legion," — he said, laying his hand upon the mane of the 
 old horse — " You are the only friend I ever trusted, who did not betray me !" 
 
 The flrst word he had spoken since the old man whispered " Lost," in 
 his ears. 
 
 " Come, Old Legion, your master is about to leave his native soil forever ! 
 He cannot take you with him. Y^nder's the sail that must bear him away 
 from this accursed spot forever. He cannot take you with him. Old Legion, 
 but he will do a kind deed for you. No one but Michael ever crossed your 
 back, nor shall you ever bear another ! Your master is about to kill you, 
 Old Legion !" 
 
 Nearer drew the while sail — nearer and nearer ! — The sailors on the 
 deck beheld that strange sight, standing out from the background of the dark 
 clouds — the rocks, the while horse and the dismounted soldier, with the 
 pistol in his hand. 
 
 They saw the white horse lay his head against his master's breast, they 
 heard his long and piercing neigh, as though the old sleed felt the balde 
 trunvp stir his blood once more. 
 
 They heard the report of a pistol ; saw a human form spring wildly into 
 the waves ; while the white horse, dropping on his fore-legs, with the blood 
 streaming from his breast, upon the rock, raised his dying head aloft, and 
 uttered once more that long and piercing howl. 
 
A TRADITION OF THE TWO WORLDS. 495 
 
 They saw a head rising above the waves — iheii all was dark night again. 
 I'here was hurrying to and fro upon the vessels deck; a rope was thrown; 
 voices, hoarse with shouting, mingled with tlie thunder-peal, and at last, as 
 if by a miracle, the drowning man was saved. 
 
 "What would you here?" exclaimed a tall, dark-bearded man, whose 
 form was clad in a strangely mingled costume of sailor and bandit — " What 
 would you here ?" 
 
 As he spoke, he confronted the form of Michael, dripping from head to 
 foot with spray. The lightning illumined both forms, and sliowed the 
 sailors who looked on, two men, worthy to combat with each otiier. 
 
 " Come you as a friend or foe ?" the hand of the dark-bearded man sought 
 his dirk as he spoke. 
 
 The lightning glare showed Michael's face ; its every lineament colored 
 in crimson light. There was no quailing in his bold grey eye, no fear upon 
 his broad, straight forehead. 
 
 Even amid the storm, an involuntary murmur of admiration escaped the 
 sailors. 
 
 " As a friend," — his voice, deep and hollow, was heard above the war 
 of the storm. " Only bear me from yonder accursed shore !" 
 
 " But sometimes, when out upon the sea, we hoist the Black Flag, with 
 a Skull and Crossbones prettily painted on its folds. What say you no\i ? 
 Friend or Foe ? Comrade or Spy ?" 
 
 "I care not how dark your flag, nor how bloody the murder wliich 70 
 do upon the sea — all I ask is this: Bear me from yonder shore, and I tm 
 your friend to the death !" 
 
 And swelling with a sense of his unutterable wrongs, this bravest of the 
 brave, even Michael of Lee's gallant Legion, extended his hand and grasped 
 the blood-stained fingers of the Pirate Chief. 
 
 Tlien, the wild hurrah of the pirate-band mingled with the roar of the 
 thunder, and, as the vessel went quivering over the waters, the red glare of 
 the lightning revealed the dark-bearded face of the Pirate Chief, the writhing 
 countenance of the doomed soldier. 
 
 Their hands were clasped. It was a Covenant of Blood. 
 
 That night, while the Pirate-Ship went bounding over the bay, Michael 
 flung himself upon the deck, near the door of the Captain's cabin, and slept. 
 As he slept a dream came over his soul. 
 
 Not a dream of the girl who had pressed her kiss upon his lip, and then 
 betrayed him, not a vision of Lost Alice. No ! Nor of the grey-haired 
 father, who stood on the porch, gazing after the form of his son, with his 
 white hair floating in the moonbeams. 
 
 Nor ever of that gallant horse, that white-maned old Legion, 'the only 
 friend he had trusted, that never betrayed him !' No ! 
 
48G ROMANCE OF THE REVOLUTION. 
 
 But of a battle ! Not only of one battle, but a succession of battles, th^ 
 seemed to whirl their awful storm of cannon and bayonei and sword, not 
 merely over one country, but over a world. The heaps of dead men that 
 Michael saw in his sleep, made the blood curdle in his veins. It seemed 
 as though the People of a World had died, and lay rotting unburied in the 
 gorges of mountains, on the gentle slopes of far-extending plains ; in the 
 streets of cilies, too, they lay packed in horrible compactness, side by side, 
 like pebbles on the shore. 
 
 Many strange things Michael saw in this, his strange dream : but amid 
 all, he beheld one face, whose broad, expansive brow, and deep, burning 
 eyes, seemed to woo his soul. That face was everywhere. Sometimes 
 amid the grey clouds of battle, smiling calmly, while ten thousand living 
 men were mowed away by one batde blast. Sometimes by the glare of 
 burning cities, this face was seen : its calm sublimity of expression, — that 
 beautiful forehead, in which a soul, greater than earth, seemed to make its 
 home, those dark eyes which gleamed a supernatural fire— all shone in 
 terrible contrast, with the confusion and havoc that encircled it. 
 
 That face was everywhere. 
 
 And it seemed to Michael as he slept, that it came very near him, and as 
 these scenes passed rapidly before his eyes, that the face whispered three 
 words. 
 
 These words Michael never forgot ; strange words they were, and these 
 are the scenes which accompanied them. 
 
 The fisrt word: — A strange city where domes and towers were invested 
 \with a splendor at once Barbaric and Oriental, with flames whirling about 
 these domes and towers, while the legions of an invading Host shrank back 
 from the burning town by tens of thousands, into graves of ice and snow. 
 The face was there looking upon the mass of fire — the soldiers dying in 
 piles, with a horrible resignation. 
 
 The second word : — He saw — but it would require the eloquence of some 
 Fiend who delights to picture Murder, and laugh while he fills his horrible 
 canvass with the records of infernal deeds, — yes, it calls for the eloquence 
 of a fiend to delineate this scene. We cannot do it. We can only say that 
 Michael saw some peaceful hills and valleys crowded as if by millions of 
 men. There was no counting the instruments of murder which were gath- 
 ered there ; cannon, bayonets, swords, horses, men, all mingled together, 
 and all doing their destined work — Murder. To Michael it seemed as if 
 these cannons, swords, bayonets, horses, men, murdered all day, and did not 
 halt in their bloody communion, even when the night came on. 
 
 The Face was there ! 
 
 Yes, it seemed to Michael, in this his strange dream, that the Face was 
 the cause of it all. For the Kings of the Earth, having (or claiming) a 
 Divine Commission to Murder, each one on his own account, hated fer- 
 vently this Face. Hated zealously its broad forehead and earnest eyes. 
 
A TRADITION OF THE TWO WORLDS. 4S'7 
 
 Ilated it so much, that they assembled a World to cut it into pieces, and 
 hack its memory from the hearts of men. 
 
 Michael in his dream saw this face grow black, and sink beneath an 
 ocean of blood. It rose no more ! 
 
 Yes, it rose again ! When ? 
 
 The third word was spoken, it rose again. Michael saw this face — 
 with its awful majesty and unutterable beauty — chained to a rock, yet 
 smiling all the while. Smiling, though all manner of unclean beasts and 
 birds were about it — here a vulture slowly picking those dark eyes ;— there 
 a jackal with its polluted paw upon that forehead, so sublime even in this 
 sad hour. 
 
 And it seemed to Michael that amid all the scenes, which he had beheld 
 
 in this his terrible dream, that the last that glorious face, smiling even 
 
 while it was chained to a rock, tortured by jackals and vultures, was most 
 terrible. 
 
 With a start, Michael awoke. 
 
 The first gleams of day were in the Eastern sky and over the waters. 
 His strange, fearful dream was yet upon his soul ; those three words seemed 
 ringing forever in his ears. 
 
 As he arose, something bright glittered on the deck at his feet. He 
 stooped and gathered it in his grasp. It was his — mother's bracelet. An 
 antique thing ; some links of gold and a medallion, set with a fragment of 
 glossy dark hair. 
 
 How came it there ? upon the Pirate Ship, out on the waves ? 
 
 Michael pressed it to his lips, and stood absorbed in deep thought. 
 
 While thus occupied, the muttered conversation of two sailors, who stood 
 near him, came indistinctly to his ears. Far be it from me to repeat the 
 horrid blasphemies, the hideous obscenities of these men, whom long days 
 and nights of crime, had embruted into savage beasts. Let me at once tell 
 you that a name which they uttered, coupled with many an oath and jest, 
 struck like a knell on Michael's ear. Another word — he listens — turns and 
 gazes on the cabin door. 
 
 These words may well turn to ice the blood in his veins. 
 
 For as they blaspheme and jest, a laugh — wild, yet musical, comes echo- 
 ing through the cabin door. 
 
 As Michael hears that laugh, he disappears in the darkness of the com- 
 panion-way, holding the bracelet in his hand. 
 
 An hour passed — day was abroad upon the waters — but Michael appeared 
 on deck no more. 
 
 In his stead, from the companion-way, there came a strut, muscular 
 man, clad in the coarsest sailor attire, his face stained with ochre, a close- 
 
488 ROMANCE OF THE REVOLUTION. 
 
 fitting skull-cap drawn over his forehead, even to the eyebrows. A rude 
 Pirate, this, somewhat manly in the expansion of his chesi, no doubt, out 
 who, in the uncouth shape, before us, would recognize the Hero of the 
 Legion, tlie bravest of the brave? 
 
 He was leaning over the side of the ship, gazing into the deep waves, 
 when the door of the Pirate Captain's cabin was opened, and the Captaia 
 appeared. You can see his muscular form, clad in a dress of green, laced 
 willi gold, plumes waving aside from his swarthy brow, his limbs, encased 
 in boots of soft doe-skin. Altogether, an elegant murderer ; an exquisite 
 Pirate, from head to foot. 
 
 The rude sailor — or Michael, as you please to call him — leaning over the 
 side of the ship, heard the Pirate Captain approach heard the light footstep, 
 which mingled its echoes with the sound of his heavy tread. Light foot- 
 step ? Yes, for a beautiful woman hung on the Pirate's arm, her form, 
 clad in the garb of an Eastern Sultana, her darkly-flowing hair relieved by 
 the gleam of pearls. 
 
 As she came along the deck, she looked up tenderly into his face, and 
 her light laugh ran iherrily on the air. 
 
 Michael turned, beheld her, and survived the horror of that look ! She 
 knew him not; the soldier and hero was lost in his uncouth disguise. 
 
 It was — Alice. 
 
 Let us now hurry on, over many days of blood and battle, and behold 
 the Pirate Ship sunk in the ocean, its masts and shrouds devoured by flames, 
 while the water engulfed its hull. 
 
 Three persons alone survived that wreck. You see them, yonder, by 
 the light of the morning sun, borne by a miserable raft over the gently 
 swelling waters. 
 
 Three persons, who have lived for days or nights without bread or water 
 Let us look upon them, and behold in its various shapes the horrors of 
 famine. 
 
 In that wretched form, laid on his back, his hollow cheeks reddened by 
 the sunbeams, his parched eye-balls upturned to the sky, who would recog- 
 nize the gallant — Pirate Chief? 
 
 By his side crouches a half-clad female form, beautiful even amid horrors 
 worse than death, although her eyes are fired with unnatural light, her 
 cheek flushed with the unhealthy redness of fever, her lips burning in their 
 vivid crimson hues. Starvation is gnawing at her vitals, and yet she i3 
 beautiful ; look — how wavingly her dark hair floats over her snowy shoul 
 ders ! Is tliis — Alice ? 
 
 The third figure, a rude sailor, his face stained with dark red hues, a 
 •kull-cap drawn down to his eyebrows. Brave Michael, of Lee's Legion. 
 
A TRADITION OF THE TWO WORLDS. 489 
 
 He sits with his elbows resting on his knees, his cheeks supported hy his 
 hands, while his eyes are turned to the uprising sun. 
 
 A groan quivers along the still air. It is the last howl of the Pirate 
 Chief; with that sound — half-blasphemy, half-prayer — he dies. 
 
 Ilis bride— CO beautiful, even yet amid famine and despair — covers his 
 lips with kisses, and at last, grasping the sailor by the arm, begs him to 
 save the life of her— husban 1 ! 
 
 The sailor turns, tears the cap from his brow ; the paint has already 
 gone from his face. 
 
 Alice anil Michael confront each other, alone on that miserable raft, a 
 thousand miles from shore. 
 
 Who would dare to paint the agojiy of her look, the horror of the shriek 
 which rent her bosom ? 
 
 Only once she looked upon him— then sunk stifTened and appalled beside 
 her pirate husband. But a calm smile illumined Michael's face ; he towered 
 erect upon the quivering raft, and drew some bread and a flagon of water 
 — precious as gold — from the pocket of his coarse sailor jacket. 
 
 *' For you," he said, in that iow-toned voice with which he had plighted 
 his eternal troth to her — " For you I have left my native land. For you I 
 liave left my father, alone and desolate in his old age. For you — not by 
 any means the least of all my sufferings — 1 have killed the good old war- 
 horse, the only friend whom I ever trusted, that (j^id not betray me. For 
 you, Alice, I am an outcast, wanderer, exile ! Behold my revenge ! You 
 are starving — I feed you — give you meat and drink. Yes, I, Michael, your 
 plighted husband — bid y on live T^ 
 
 He placed the bread and water in her grasp, and then turned with folded 
 arms to gaze upon the rising sun. Do you see that muscular form, tower- 
 ing from the raft — his high, straight forehead, glowing in the light of the 
 dawning day ? 
 
 Returned again: there was a dead man at his feet; a dead woman 
 before his eyes. 
 
 There may have been agony at his heart, but his face was unsoftened by 
 emotion. With his lineaments moulded in iron rigidity, he resumed his 
 gaze toward the rising sun. 
 
 At last, a sail came gleaming into view — then the hull of a man-of-war — 
 and then, bright and beautiful upon the morning air, fluttered the glorious 
 emblem of Hope and Promise — the tri-colored Flag of France. 
 
 Years passed, glorious years, which beheld a World in motion for its 
 rights and freedom. 
 
 There came a day, when the sun beheld a sight like this : — A man of 
 noble presence, whose forehead, broal, and high and straight, shone with 
 31 
 
490 ROMANCE OF THE REVOLUTION. 
 
 the chivalry of a great soul, stood erect, in the presence of his execu 
 lioners. 
 
 Those executioners, his own soldiers, who shed tears as they levelle-'' 
 their pieces at his heart. 
 
 This man of noble presence was guilty of three crimes, for which the 
 crowned robbers of Europe could never forgive him. 
 
 He had ris-en from the humblest of the people, and became a General, a 
 Marslial, a Duke. 
 
 He was the friend of a great and good man. 
 
 In the hour of this great and good man's trial, when all thfe crowned 
 robbers, the anointed assassins of Europe, conspired to crush him, this 
 General, Marshal and Duke refused to desert the great and good man. 
 
 For this he was to be shot — shot by his own soldiers, who could not 
 restrain their tears as they gazed in his face. 
 
 Let us also go there, gaze upon him, mark each outline of his face and 
 form, just at the moment when the musquets are levelled at his heart, and 
 answer the question — Does not this General, Marshal, Duke, now stand- 
 ing in presence of his Deatli' s-men, strangely resemble that Michael whom 
 we have seen on the banks of the Chesapeake — the Hero of Lee's Legion 
 — Bravest of the Brave ? 
 
 Ere the question can be answered, the Hero waves his hand. Looking 
 his soldiers fixedly in tlijg face, he exclaims in that voice which they have 
 so often heard in the thickest of the fight — 
 
 " At my heart, comrades !" 
 
 As he falls, bathed in blood, the victim of a " Holy Assassination," let 
 us learn what words were those which brave Michael, long years ago, 
 heard whispered in his dream, what face was that, which, with its sublime 
 forehead and earnest eyes, spoke these words ? Let us also learn who 
 was this soldier Michael, of Lee's Legion ? 
 
 The words ? The first, Moscow — the second, Waterloo — the third, 
 St. Helena. 
 
 This soldier of Lee's Legion, the bravest of the brave ? 
 MICHAEL NEY. 
 
 NOTE BY THE AUTHOR.— The idea of a Legend on this syibject, was firs* 
 euKHested by an able article, in a hue number of the Southern Literary Moppenger, 
 which presents the most plausible reasons, in favor of the identity of Major Michael 
 Rudolph, of Lee's Legion, with Michael Ney, the Marshal and Hero of France, who 
 was basely murdered, after the battle of Wartaloo. 
 
 In this article, it is distinctly stated that in personal appearance Ney and Rudolph 
 were strikingly similar, both described as follows: " Five feet eight inches in height 
 — a muscular man though not fat— of high, flat forehead, gray eyes, straight eyebrows, 
 frominent cheek-bones, atid fair complexion." 
 
 After a brilliant career in the Revob'tionary War, and a campaign under Wayne, 
 among the Indians, Major R idolph returned to his home, on the shores of the Chesa 
 
 ^. 
 
 eake, after ayear's absence, and remained ft)r the night at the residence of a brother 
 o qwote the exact words of the article. 
 
THE NINTH HOUR. 491 
 
 n.— TiiR NINTH noun. 
 
 The time was 1778 — the place, an olJ-lime mansion, among the Kills of 
 Valley Foroe. ' 
 
 Yonder, in a comfortable chamber, seated before a table, overspread with 
 papers, you behold a gentleman of some fifty six years, attired in black 
 velvet, with an elegant dress sword by his side, sViow-white ruffles on his 
 wrists and breast. By the glow of the fire, which crackles on the spncious 
 hearth, you can discern the face of this gentleman, the wide and massive 
 brow, the marked features, and the clear, deep grey eyes. As he sits erect 
 in the cushioned armchair, you can at a glance perceive that he is a man 
 of almost giant stature, with muscular limbs and iron chest. 
 
 And snow drifts in white masses on yonder hills, which you behold 
 through the deep silled windows; and the wind, moaning as with a nation's 
 dirge, howls dismally through the deep ravines. 
 
 Still the gentleman, with the calm face and deep grey eyes, sits in silence 
 there, his features glowing in the light of the hearth-side flame, while a 
 pleasant smile trembles on his compressed lips. 
 
 Altogether, he is a singular man. His appearance impresses us with a 
 strange awe. We dare not approach him but with uncovered heads. The 
 papers which overspread the table, impress us with a vague curiosity. 
 There you behold a letter directed to General the Marquis de La Fayette ; 
 another bears the name of General Anthony Wayne ; a third General Bene- 
 dict Arnold ; and that large pacquet, with the massive seal, is inscribed with 
 the words — To His Excellency, John Hancock, President of the Continen- 
 tal Congress. 
 
 This gentleman, sitting alone in the old-fashioned chamber, his form clad 
 in black velvet, his face glowing in mild light, must be, then, a person of 
 some consideration, perchance a warrior of high renown ? 
 
 " Here, he listens to a domestic revelation of the most cruel and humilialittg character 
 — of such a sort, as to determine not again to return to his family. * * * 'f/^g next 
 we hear of him, is an adventurer, about to sail from the Chesapeake, in a small vessel, 
 laden with tobacco, and destined to St. Domi7igo. or to a port in France.'" 
 
 The next inielligence of him, comes I'rom Revolutionary France. He soon disap- 
 pears, and Nay, a man strikingly similar in appearance and traits of character, rises into 
 view. 
 
 Ney spoke Englisli fluently ; was viewed as a foreigner by the French, and called in 
 derision ihe " Foreign Tobacco Merchant." 
 
 In short, the evidence placed before us, in this article — which our want of space wih 
 not permit us to quote in full — seems almost conclusive, on the important point, that Ney 
 and Rudolph were the same man. While on this topic, we may remark, that Berna- 
 doite, the King of Sweden, was a soldier in our Revolution. The reader will of course 
 understand, that in our Legend above given, we are alone responsible for the details, aa 
 well as all variations from the plain narrative of facts. 
 
 Whether true or ialsc, it is a splendid subject for a Picture of the Past: That the 
 Bsme heroic Legion of Lee, which earned for itself imperishable renown, in the dark 
 •.imes of Revolution, also ranked among its Iron-Men, the gallant Marshal Ney, the 
 Bravest of the Brave. 
 
192 ROMANCE OF THE REVOLUTION. 
 
 As yon look in mingled wonder and reverence upon his commandinu 
 face, the sound of a lieavj' footstep is heard, and a grim old soldier, clad in 
 the hunting shirt of the RevoluMon, appears in yonder doorway, and ap- 
 proaches the gentleman in black velvet. 
 
 He lifts the rude can with bucktail plume from his sunburnt brow, and 
 accompli.shes a rough salute. Then, he speaks in a voice which may have 
 been rendered hoarse by much shouting in battle, or sleeping dark winter 
 nights on the uncovered ground. 
 
 " General, 1 heer'd you wanted to speak to me, and I am here." 
 
 The gentleman in black velvet, raised his clear grey eyes, and a slight 
 smile disturbed the serenity of his face. 
 
 " Ah, Sergeant Caleb, I am glad to see you. I want your aid in an un- 
 dertaking of great importance." 
 
 " Say the word, and Caleb's your man 1" 
 
 " Nine miles from the mansion, at four o'clock this afternoon, the ' Loyal 
 Rangers of Valley Forge,' hold their meeting. Their captain, a desperate 
 man, has prepared a number of important papers for Sir William Howe. 
 In these papers are recorded the names of all persons within ten miles, who 
 are friendly to the British cause, or who are willing to supply Sir William 
 with provisions, together with a minute description of the affairs and pros- 
 pects of the Continental army. At four this afternoon, these papers will be 
 delivered to an officer of the British army, who is expected from Philadel- 
 phia in the disguise of a farmer. That officer is now a prisoner near our 
 headquarters on the Schuylkill, some six miles from this place. You — un- 
 derstand me, Sergeant Caleb — you will assume this disguise, hurry to the 
 Tory rendezvous, and receive the papers from the hands of the Captain." 
 
 As the gentleman spoke, the countenance of the old soiciier assumed an 
 expression of deep chagrin. The corners of his mouth were distorted in 
 an expression of comical dismay, while his large blue eyes expanding in 
 his suiil)urnt face, glared with unmistakable horror. 
 
 He had been with Arnold at Quebec, with Washington at Brandywine, 
 this hardy Sergeant Caleb — but to go to the Tory rendezvous in disguise, 
 was to act the part of a Spy, and the robber-captain of the Tories would 
 pufhim to death, on the first rope and nearest tree, as a — Spy ! 
 
 Therefore the old Sergeant, who had played with death as with a boon 
 companion, when he came in the shape of a sharp bayonet, or a dull can- 
 non ball, feared him when he appeared in the guise of a— Gibbet ! 
 
 " You are not afraid ?" said the genUeman. " That will be news in- 
 deed, for the soldiers ! Sergeant Caleb Ringdale afraid !" 
 
 The old Sergeant quivered from head to foot, as he laid his muscular 
 hand upon the table, and exclaimed in a voice broken by an emotion not 
 any the less sincere because it was rude : 
 
 " Afeer'd ? Now Gineral Washington, it isn't kind to say that o' mo ! 
 I'm not afeer'd of anythin' in the shape of a white or black human beiu', 
 
THE NINTH HOUR. 493. 
 
 out this tory Cap'in Runnels, is a reg'lar fiend, and that's a fact nobody 
 can deny !" 
 
 " Do you fear him ?" 
 
 "Not a peg! For all he's the bloodiest villain that ever murdered a 
 man in the name of King George — for all he hides himself in the darkest 
 hollow, in the meanest, old, out-of-the-way farm-house, I don't fear, no 
 more than I feer'd them ten Britishers that fell on me at Paoli ! But do 
 ycu see, Gineral, I don't like the idea of goin' as a spy ! Tliat's vi^liat 
 cuts an old feller's feelin's ! Say the word, and I'll go, just as I am, in my 
 own proper uniform — not very handsome, yet still the rale Continental — 
 an' tell the Britishers to crack away, and be hanged !" 
 
 And in the honest excitement of the moment, the old Sergeant brought 
 bis closed hand to bear upon the table, until the papers shook again. 
 
 Washington rested his cheek upon his hand, while his face was darkened 
 by an expression of anxious thought. 
 
 "You do not wish to go as a spy, and yet tliere are no other means of 
 securing these papers." 
 
 You can see the old soldier stand confused and puzzled there, wiping the 
 perspiration from his brow with his bony hand, while Washington turning 
 hi.t chair, folds his arms, and gazes steadily into the fire. 
 
 " Is there no man who will undertake this desperate oflice in my name ? 
 in the name of the cause for which we fight ?" 
 
 And as the words passed his lips, a soft voice — almost as soft and 
 musical as a woman's — uttered this reply, which thrilled the General to 
 th<! heart : 
 
 "There is. I will undertake it. General." 
 
 Washington started from his chair. 
 
 " You !" he exclaimed, surveying the intruder from head to foot. 
 
 It must be confessed, that the expression of wonder which passed over 
 thi! face of the American General, was not without a substantial cause. . 
 
 There in the glow of the fire, stood a young man, graceful and slenGer, 
 almost to womanly beauty, and clad not in the dress of a soldier, but in the 
 costume of a gentleman of fashion, a coat of dark rich purple velvet, satin 
 vest, disclosing the proportions of a broad chest and wasp-like waist, dia- 
 mond buckles on the shoes, and cambric rufiles around each delicate hand. 
 
 *' You !" exclaimed Washington, " surely Ensign Murray, you ara 
 dreaming !" 
 
 The face of the young man was somewhat peculiar. The skin very pale 
 and delicate as a woman's. The hair, long and dark brown in color, wav- 
 ing in rich masses to the shoulders. The eyes, deep and clear — almost 
 black, and yet with a shade of blue — shone with an expression which you 
 could not define, and yet it was at once calm, wild and dazzling. Indeed, 
 gazing on those eyes, or rather into their clear lustre, you could not divesi 
 yourself of the idea that they reflected the light of a strong intellect, at the 
 
4U4 ROMANCE OF THE REVOLUTION. 
 
 same time, an intellect shaken and warped by some peculiar train of 
 thought. 
 
 " Yes, Gen-eral," was the answer of Ensign Murray ; " at four o'clock, 
 in the disguise of a British officer, I will enter the den of the Tories and 
 receive those papers !" 
 
 Washington took the young man by the hand, and without a word led 
 him across the room. 
 
 " Look there !" he whispered. 
 
 " They stood beside a glass door, which opened the view into the next 
 apartment, the drawing-room of the mansion. 
 
 As Ensign Murray looked, his pale yet handsome face was darkened by 
 au expression of indefinable agony. 
 
 There, beside the fire of the next chamber was seated a young girl, 
 whose hair descended in curling masses along her cheek, until they touched 
 her ne^k, A green habit fitting closely to her form, revealed its warm and 
 blooming proportions. She sat there alone, bending over an embroidery 
 frame, her dark eyes gleaming with light, as tranquil as the beam of the 
 evening star, upon the unruffled depths of a mountain lake. 
 
 And as her white fingers moved briskly over the flowers, which grew into 
 life at her touch, she sang a low and murmuring song. 
 
 " Look there 1" whispered Washington, " aad behold your bride ! To- 
 night your wedding will take place. This very morning I left Valley 
 Fur^e, in order to behold your union with this beautiful and virtuous 
 woman. And yet you talk of going in disguise into tlie den of robbers, 
 who hesitate at no deed of cruelty or murder, and this on your bridal- 
 eve !" 
 
 There was a strange expression on the young man's face — a sudden con- 
 tortion of those pale, handsome features — but in a moment all was calm 
 again. 
 
 " General, I will go," he said, " and return before sunset!" 
 
 He stood before the Man of the Army, his slender form swelling as with 
 the impulse of a heroic resolve. 
 
 " George," said Washington, in a tone of kind familiarity ; " you must 
 not tliiak of this ! When your father died in my arms at Trenton, I 
 promised that I would, to the last breath of life, be a father to his boy. I 
 will not, cannot, send you on this fearful enterprise 1" 
 
 " Look you !" cried the old Sergeant, advancing — " I don't like this of- 
 fice of a Spy — but sooner than the young Ensign here should peril his life 
 at such an hour, I'll go myself! Jist set me down for that thing, will you ?" 
 
 " General !" said the Ensign, laying his white hand on the muscular arm 
 of Washino-ion, and speaking in a deep, deliberate voice, that was strongly 
 contrasted with his effeminate appearance and slender frame — "did I be- 
 have badly at Brandywine ?" 
 
 ♦'Never a braver soldier drew sword, than yDU proved yourself on tha» 
 
THE NINTH HOUR. 495 
 
 terrible day ! Twice with my own arm I had to restrain you from rushing 
 on to certain death !" 
 
 " At Germantown ?" 
 
 "I can speak for him there, Gineral ! You'd ought to seen him rushing 
 np to Chew's house, into the very muzzles of the British ! He made 
 many an old soldier feel foolish, I tell you !" 
 
 " You were the last in the retreat, George, the last and the bravest !" 
 
 " Then can you refuse me this one request? Let me go — secure those 
 papers — and come back crowned with laurels, to wed my bride !" 
 
 He spoke in a clear deliberate tone, and yet there was a strange fire in 
 his eye. 
 
 Washington hesitated ; his gaze surveyed the young man's face, and then 
 turning away he wrung him by the hand : 
 
 " On those papers, perchance, the safety of our army depends. Go or 
 stay as you please. I do not command nor forbid !" 
 
 With that word he resumed his seat, and bowed his head in the effort to 
 peruse the documents which were scattered over the table. He bowed his 
 head very low, and yet there were tears in his eyes — tears in those eyes 
 which had never quailed in the hour of battle, tears in the eyes of Wash- 
 ington ! 
 
 The young man turned aside into a dark corner of the room, and covered 
 his Weddinf-Dress with a coarse grey over-coat, that reached from his chin 
 to his knees. Then he drew on long and coarse boots, over his shoes 
 gemmed with diamond buckles. A broad-rimmed hat upon his curling 
 locks, and he stood ready for the work of danger. 
 
 " General," he said, in that soft musical voice — " is there a watch-word 
 which admits — ha, ha ! — the British officer into the Tory farm-house ?" 
 
 " Death to Washington !" and a sad smile gleamed over the General's 
 face. 
 
 " The name of the British officer whose character I am to assume ?" 
 
 "♦Captain Algernon Edam\ of His Majesty's Infantry!' — He is now 
 under guard, near headquarters, at Valley Forge." 
 
 " Hah !" gasped Ensign Murray. " Captain Edam !" 
 
 ♦' You know him, then ?" 
 
 "I have known Captain Edam," answered George Murray, with thai 
 strange smile which invested his face with an expression that was almost 
 supernatural. 
 
 " These papers will give you all requisite information. The Hirm-house 
 is three miles distant from this place, and nine miles from Valley Forge." 
 
 "Nine !" ejaculated the Ensign, with a sudden start. "Ah !" he mui' 
 tered in a whisper that would have penetrated your blood — " Must that hor- 
 rible number always pursue me ? Nine years, nine days ! These must 
 pass, and then I will wed my bride — but such a bride !" 
 
 Washington heard him murmur, but could not distinguish the words, yoi 
 
496 ROMANCE OF THE REVOLUTION. 
 
 he saw that pale face flusliing with unnatural crimson, while the deep blue 
 eye glaied with wild hght. 
 
 "Again let me entreat you to give up your purpose. Your danger is 
 enough to appal the stoutest heart ! Not only death you dare, but death on 
 the— gibbet !" 
 
 In the earnestness of his feelings, Washington would have seized hirn by 
 (he arm, but the Ensign retreated from his grasp, and left the room with 
 his exclamation : 
 
 "Farewell, General ! Do not fear for me ! Believe me, I will before 
 the setting of yonder sun, attain the object which I so earnestly desire !" 
 
 In the hall a new trial awaited the young soldier. He was confronted 
 by a jovial old man, with a corpulent frame, round face and snow-white 
 hair. It was Squire Musgrave, a line specimen of the old fasliiontd gentle- 
 man and — the father of his bride. 
 
 " Hah, you young dog ! What trick is this ?" said the old Squire, with 
 a jovial chuckle ; " you skulked away from the table just now, proving 
 yourself a most disloyal traitor to old Madeira ! And now I find you in 
 this disguise ! Eh, Georgie ! What's in the wind ?" 
 
 " Hush ! Not a word to 'Bel !" exclaimed \i\e Ensign, with a smile on 
 his lips, and a look of affected mystery in hi^Verj'es. " Not a word, or 
 you'll spoil a capital jest ! * ••* 
 
 Thus speaking, he Hung himself from the old man, and stood upon the 
 porch of the mansion. The beautiful country lay there before him, not 
 lovely as in summer, with green leaves, perfume and flowers, but covered 
 far up each hill, anil down into the shades of each valley, with a mantle of 
 frozen snow. The trees, their bared limbs upstarting into the deep blue 
 sky, were glittering with leaves and fruits, sculptured from the ice by the 
 finger of Winter. 
 
 And the rich warm glow of the declining sun was upon it all — the old 
 mansion, with its dark grey stone and antique porch, the far-extending hills 
 and winding dales of Valley Forge. 
 
 The Ensign stood upon the verge of the porch ; he was about to depart 
 upon his enterprise of untold danger, when — 
 
 A soft warm hand was laid upon his shoulder ; another was placed across 
 his eyes, and a light laugh thrilled him to the heart. 
 
 " Oh, you look like the ogre of some goblin story !" said a voice which 
 almost made him relent the stern purpose of that hour — " If you would only 
 look in the glass and see yourself! Ha, ha, ha !" 
 
 And as the soft hand was lifted from his eyes, George beheld the beauti- 
 ful form and beaming face of his — bride. 
 
 " Softly, Isabel ! Not a word !" he whispered laughingly, " Or you will 
 upoil one of the finest jests ever planned !" 
 
 He pressed his kiss upon her warm ripe lips. 
 
THE NINTH HOUR. 497 
 
 " The Last !" he murmured, as that pressure of soul to soul through the 
 mmgiiiig lips, fired every vein. 
 
 He darted from the porch, and hurried on his way. Far over the frozen 
 Bnow he toiled along, and only once looked back. 
 
 With that look of fearful anxiety he beheld his bride, standing on the 
 porch, her long hair floating from her face, while her merry laugh cam* 
 ringing to his ears. 
 
 Did you ever in a nightmare dream, chance to behold a dark old man- 
 sion, standing utterly alone in the shadows of a dell, encircled by steep 
 hills, rough wiih rocks, and sombre with thickly clustered trees? In tiiis 
 dell noonday is twilight, and twilight is midnight, so darkly frown the 
 granite rocks, so lowering rise the forest trees. 
 
 But this is in the summer time, when there are leaves upon the trees, aud 
 vines among the rocks. In the summer time when the little brook yonder, 
 winding before the mansion, sings a rippling song in praise of the flowei s, 
 and moss, and birds. 
 
 Now it is winter. Yonder, through the tall and leafless oaks, glares the 
 red flush of the sunset sky. Every tree with its rugged limbs, and stripped 
 branches, stands up against the western horizon, like a tree of ebory, 
 painted on a sky of crimson and gold. Winter now ! The rocks, the 
 hill-side, the very ice which covers the brook, is while with a mantle of 
 snow, that gleams and blushes in the sunset glare. 
 
 Still the old mansion rises in sullen gloom, its dark walls tottering as 
 though about to fall, its shutters closed, its doorway crumbling into fragments. 
 And like a white veil flung over some ruffian bandit's brow, the steep roof, 
 covered with wreaths of snow, gleams above the dark grey walls. 
 
 Is this old mansion tenanted by anything that wears the shape of maa ? 
 As we look, the leaning chimney sends up its column of blue smoke to the 
 evening sky. Still for all that emblem of fireside comfort, the farm-house 
 looks like a den for murderers. 
 
 Look closely on its shutters and wide door, and you will perceive certain 
 port-holes, made for the musquet and rifle. 
 
 There are footsteps printed on the frozen snow, and yet you hear no 
 voices, you behold no form of man or beast. 
 
 At this hour, wiien the solemn flush of a winter sunset is upon the 
 mantle of snow, there comes slowly toiling over the frozen crust, the figure 
 of a young man clad in a coarse overcoat, with a broad-rimmed hat upon 
 his brow. That coat gathers around his slender form in heavy folds, and 
 yet it cannot hide the heavings of his chest. The hat droops low over hi? 
 face, and yet cannot conceal the wild glance of those deep blue eyes. 
 
 Urging his way along the frozen snow, — the shadow of his iorm thrown 
 far and black behind him — he stands before the battered door of the farm- 
 house, he lifts the iron knocker and a sound like a knell breaks on the 
 still air. 
 
498 ROMANCE OF THE REVOLUTION. 
 
 The young man listens eagerly, but no answer greets his summons. 
 Then turning his face to the evening sky, he stands erect upon the granite 
 Btone before the door, and in a clear voice repeats the words — 
 
 " Death to Washington !" 
 
 There is the sound of an unclosing door, the young man is seized byun 
 known hands, and borne along a dark, passage into a large and gloomy 
 place. 
 
 It may be a room, it may be a cavern, but all that greets his sight is a 
 large fire, burning on a wide hearth, and flashing a lurid glare over some 
 twenty ruflian faces. 
 
 A dark, a hideous picture ! 
 
 A single form distinguished from the others by its height, but wearing the 
 pistols and knife, common to all, advances and confronts the stranger. The 
 young man, in that lowering face marked by the traces of many a crime, 
 recognizes " Black Runnels," the Tory Chief. 
 
 " Whence came you ?" 
 
 As \,v speaks, a strange sound mingles with his words — the clicking of 
 pistols, the clang of knives. 
 
 " From the headquarters of General Sir William Howe !" the young 
 man answered, in a clear deliberate voice. 
 
 " Your object here ?" 
 
 " The possession of certain papers prepared by Captain Runnels, for Sir 
 William Howe." 
 
 " Your name ?" ■ 
 
 " Algernon Edam, Captain in his Majesty's infantry !" replied the young 
 man, in the same collected manner. 
 
 There was a murmur, a confused sound as of many voices whispering in 
 chorus, and in a moment the blaze of a large lamp filled that spacious room 
 with light. 
 
 " Now look ye, Captain," said the Tory leader, earnestly regarding the 
 disguised American, " we don't doubt as how you are the rale Captain 
 Edam, but we Loyal Rangers have a way of our own. We never trusts an 
 individooal afore we tries his spunk. If you are a true Briton, you wont 
 object to the trial. If so be you chances to prove a Rebel, why, we'll soon 
 find it out." 
 
 The answer of the young man was short and to the point : 
 
 " Name your trial, jmd I am ready !" 
 
 " Do you see that keg o' powder thar ? We'll attach a slow match to it 
 — a match that'll take three minutes to burn out ! You will sit on that 
 keg! — Afore the three minutes is out, we'll return to the house, and see 
 how you stand the trial ! If there's a drop of sweat on your forehead, or 
 any sign of paleness on your cheek, we will conclude that you are a rebel, 
 »nd deserve to die !" 
 
IHE NINTH HOUR. 499 
 
 The Tories gathered round, gazing in the yountf man's fice with looks 
 jf deep interest. 
 
 " Pt^haw !" exclaimed the object of their interest, " what need of this 
 nonsense ? I am a British officer — but — what need of words, 1 am ready, 
 and will stand the trial." 
 
 Thus speaking, he saw the match applied to the keg, he saw it lighted, 
 and took his seat. With a confused murmur, the Tories left the room. 
 
 " Look ye," cried the last of their band, who stood in the doorway — it 
 was the Captain — " we will conceal ourselves, where the blowing up of the 
 house can do us no injury — that is, in case the worthless old den should 
 happen to blow up. In two minutes we'll return. Take care o' yourself, 
 Captain !" 
 
 The young man was alone — alone in that large old room, the light of the 
 lamjp falling over his brow, the keg beneath him, the match slowly burning 
 near his feet. 
 
 Why does he not extinguish the match, and at once put an end to this 
 fearful danger? Why does he sit there, fixed as a statue, his pale face 
 wearing its usual calm expression, his deep blue eyes gleaming with their 
 peculiar light ? 
 
 Not a motion — not a movement of the hand which holds his watch — not 
 a tremor of the face ! 
 
 What are the thoughts of this young man, whom another minute may 
 precipitate into eternity by a horrible death ? 
 
 Does he think of the young bride, who even now awaits his coming ? 
 
 Two minutes have expired. The Tories do not return. Slowly, surely 
 burns the match — as calm, as fixed as marble, the young man awaiw 
 his fate. 
 
 The half-minute is gone, and yet no sign of the bravoes. 
 
 At last — O ! do not let your eyes wander from his pale, beautiful face, in 
 this, the moment of his dread extremity — the match emits a sudden tlame, 
 sparkles, crackles, and burns out ! 
 
 " Nine years, nine days ! At last, thank God, it is over 1" • 
 
 These were his last words, before the powder exploded. He folded his 
 arms, closed his eyes, and gave his soul to God. 
 
 Did that lonely house ascend to heaven, a pyramid of blackening frag- 
 ments, and smoke and flame, with the corse of the young man torn into 
 atoms by the explosion ? 
 
 For a moment he awaited his fate— all was silent. Then came the 
 sound of trampling footsteps ; the young man unclosed his eyes, and beheld 
 the faces of the Tory band. 
 
 "Game, I vow, game to the last !" cried the Tory leader, Runnels — 
 " Do ye know we watched ye all the while, from a crack in yonder door' 
 It was only a trial you know, but a trial that would have made many an 
 older man than you shiver, turn pale, and cry like a babe ! — There's no 
 
500 ROMANCE OF THE REVOLUTION 
 
 powder in the keg — ha, ha ! How'd ye feel when the match burnl 
 out ?" 
 
 " Give me the papers," asked the brave young man. '* Let me hasten 
 on my way !" 
 
 " O, I don't object to giving you the papers," cried the Tory. " But, 
 afore I do, 1 like to ask your opinion of this gendeman ?" 
 
 As lie spoke, the Tories parted into two divisions ; in their centre ap- 
 peared a man of some thirty years, his tall and muscular form clad in crim- 
 son, his florid face with powdered hair and light blue eye, ruffled by a 
 sneering smile. 
 
 " Captain Edam !" exclaimed the disguised American, completely taken 
 by surprise — " I thought you were a prisoner, nine miles away at Valley 
 Forge V 
 
 " Yes, Captain Edam, at your service !" replied the British officer with 
 a polite bow. 
 
 As he spoke, a burst of hoarse laughter made the old room echo again, 
 
 " It was well planned, my dear Ensign, but it won't do !" exclaimed the 
 Briton ; — " 1 was a prisoner, but — escaped ! You were a British officer, a 
 moment ago, but now, you are — a Spy. I presume it is needless to lell 
 you the fuie of a Spy." 
 
 It was strange to see the calm smile which broke from the young En- 
 sign's lips and eyes. 
 
 " Death !" he replied, in his low musical voice. 
 
 " Death — aye, death by the rope !" shouted the Tory Captain ; — " I 
 say, Watkins, rig a rope to that beam ! We'll show you how to play 
 tricks on Loyal Rangers." 
 
 The rope was attached to the beam — the noose arranged ; the Tories 
 filled with indignation, clustered round — still the young man stood calm and 
 smiling there. 
 
 " Ensign, you have ten minutes to live," said the handsome British 
 officer. " Alake your peace. You have been taken as a spy, and — ha, 
 4)a ! must be punished as a spy !" 
 
 " Thank God !" said the young man in a whisper, not meant to be 
 audible, yet they heard it, every Tory in the room. 
 
 ''It seems to me, young man, you're thankful for very small favors !" 
 eried the Tory leader, with a brutal laugh. 
 
 The gallant Captain Edam made a sign — the Tories trooped through the 
 door-way. 
 
 George Murray was alone with Algernon Edam. 
 
 George Murray was pale — but not paler than usual — his blue eyes 
 glaring with deep light, his lip a lip of iron. Algernon Edam was tall and 
 magniiicenl in his healthy and robust manhood. There was ill-suppresse<l 
 lausiuer in his light blue eyes. 
 
 " Do you remember the days of our childhood, George, when we played 
 
THE NINTH HOUR. 501 
 
 tngeiher on the hills of Valley Forge ? Liitle did we think that a scene 
 like this would ever come to pass ! Here I stand, tlie rejected lover — ha, 
 ha ! the British officer ! And there stands the betrothed hu>iband, tlie 
 Rehel Spy ! Ha, ha, ha !" 
 
 These were bitter taunts to pass between a living and a dying man ! Yet 
 there was something in tlie words and look of Captain Edam that revealed 
 the cause of all iiis ill-timed mirth — he was a rejected lover. His success- 
 ful rival stood before him. 
 
 No word passed the lips of George, He regarded the elegant Captain 
 with a calm smile, and coolly asked, as thougli inquiring the dinner hour — 
 •• How many minutes before I am to be hung ?" 
 
 " You carry it bravely !' laughed the Briton ; " but think of Isabel !" 
 
 The only answer which escaped the lips of George, was a solitary 
 syllable : 
 
 " Al!" he said, and turiied his smiling face upon the fiice of his enemy. 
 
 That syllable made the Briton tremble from head to foot. It spoke to 
 himof the happy days of old— of the green hills and pleasant dells of Valley 
 Forge, — of two boys who were sworn friends — of George and Algernon. It 
 also spoke of a laughing girl, who was the cousin of Algernon, the beloved 
 of George — Isabel ! 
 
 For that name was the familiar diminutive which George had often wli/s- 
 pered in the ears of his boy-friend, Hinging his arms about his neck, a 'id 
 twir.ing his hands in his golden hair. 
 
 " Al, don't you remember the day, nine years and nine days ago, when 
 in the presence of Isabel, you rescued me from a terrible danger ?" 
 
 The words, the tone, the look, melted the heart of the undaunted Briton. 
 There is a magic in the memory of childhood, irresistible as a voice from 
 the lips of Death. 
 
 " I do, George, I do !" he cried ; " and now, I am to be your — execu- 
 tioner !" 
 
 " To-night, is my wedding night, my friend — " 
 
 " But I cannot save you 1" gasped Edam ; his voice now deepened with 
 the accent of irresistible agony — " we are surrounded — all hope is vain." 
 
 " I do not want to be saved," said George, still preserving his quiet 
 manner ; " let me be put to death as suddenly and with as little pain as 
 possible. But I have one request. When I am dead and you are safe in 
 Philadelphia, write to Washington, and tell him, that I died like a man 
 Write to— Isabel — and tell her ' 
 
 — A large tear rolled down the Ensign's cheek. The Captain struggled 
 to a seat. There was something unnaturally frightful in the calmness of 
 the doomed man. 
 
 " Tell her, that — pure and beautiful as she is — George Murray could 
 never have made her life a life of peace and joy. Tell her that the last 
 words which he spoke were these — ' Algernon Edam is noble in heart. 
 
502 ROMANCE OF THE REVOLUTION. 
 
 a!thov.g}i lie has espoused the British cause. Wed him, Isabel, for he loves 
 you — wed him, and my blessing be upon you !' " 
 
 The Captain, — to hide the agony of his feelings, uttered a horrible oath. 
 
 " Why cannot I aid you to escape ?" he cried, wildly pacing the room. 
 
 "You can aid me to escape !" slowly uttered the doomed man. 
 
 " How ? Name the method ! Quick — for I am yours — yours to th« 
 death ! 
 
 " Yon can aid me to escape from this horrible dream of life !" exclaimed 
 Murray, lifting his brown hair with his delicate hand — " this dream which 
 torments me, which sits upon my soul like a nightmare, which makes me 
 shudder at tlie idea of a union with Isabel ! O, you may think me strange, 
 mad ! — but talk as you will, my friend, 1 feel happier than I have felt for 
 years !" 
 
 While Edam stood horrified by his words, he removed the overcoat and 
 hat, and stood revealed in his wedding-dress. 
 
 " I thought that Brandy wine would awaken me from this dream — O, how 
 hard it is to pursue a grave, and feel it glide from your footsteps ! It was 
 a bloody batde, but I lived ! Then, in the darkest hour of Germantown, I 
 saw my death in the mists before me, and leaped to grasp it, but in vain ! 
 Still I lived ! The day of my marriage wore on, and there was no resource 
 but suicide, until Washington informed me of this enterprise. Ah, my dear 
 friend, give me your hand ; I feel very calm, aye, happy !" 
 
 The Brilon, or rather the British officer, (for by birth he was an Ameri- 
 can,) instantly seized the slender hand, wrung it, and swore by his Maker 
 that he should not die ! 
 
 An expression, as strange as it was sudden, darkened the pale face of the 
 doomed man. His blue eyes emitted wild and deadly light. Do you see 
 him start forward, his slender and graceful form attired in his wedding- 
 dress, his rich brown hair waving from his shoulders ? He seizes Edam 
 by the wrist. 
 
 " O, Algernon, were my bitterest enemy beneath my feet — one who had 
 done a wrong too dark for mercy, or revenge — sooner than sever his heart 
 with my knife, I would bid him line as I have lived for years .'" 
 
 There is nothing in language to picture the utter horror of his look and tone. 
 
 Captain Edam was dumb, but his face reflected the despair of George. 
 
 " O, Algernon, I beseech yon take Isabel, and be happy with her ! At 
 the same time I implore you aid me in my attempt to shake oft" this night- 
 mare — life y^ 
 
 Captain Edam sank back on the empty keg, and buried his face in his 
 hands. 
 
 You can see Murray stand there before the fire, contemplating him with 
 a calm smile. 
 
 •' Hark ! they come !" cried the British officer, starting to his feet and 
 
THE NINTH HOUR. 503 
 
 drawing his sword. " They come to put you to death, but not while I am 
 alive." 
 
 There was tlie sound of trampling feet — a confused murmur — then the 
 thunder of many rifle shots mingled in one deafening report, broke on the 
 silence of the hour. 
 
 George's countenance fell. 
 
 " Stand back !" shouted Captain Edam — "approach this room, and I will 
 fire ! Hark ! Do you hear, George ? They dispute among themselves ! 
 There is a division — we must save you ! Do you hear those shouts ?" 
 
 As he spoke, the door opened, and there, on the threshhold, stood a bluff, 
 hearty fi.gure, attired in the Continental uniform. 
 
 " '1 he Gineral sent me on your track !" exclaimed the hoarse voice of 
 Sergeant Caleb. " The Tories is captured and you are saved, you dare- 
 devil of an Ensign ! I say. Mister, in the red jacket, won't you give up 
 your sword ?" 
 
 As the honest veteran received the sword of Captain Edam, George 
 turned aside and buried his face in his hands, while his whole frame shook 
 with emotion, with agony. 
 
 " Foiled again ! ^ Nine years, nine dat/sJ^ I must submit— it is Fate 
 The ninth hour is near! Ah ! why is death denied to me ?" 
 
 The old clock in the hall smiled in the light, its minute hand pointing to 
 30, its hour hand to 9. 
 
 The wedding guests were assembled. Far over the frozen snow, from 
 every window, gushed a stream of joyous light. « 
 
 Grouped in the most spacious apartment of Squire Musgrave's mansion 
 the wedding guests presented a sight of some interest. 
 
 The light of those tall wax candles was upon their faces. 
 
 Washington was there, towering above the heads of other men, his mag- 
 nificent form clad in the blue coat and bufl' vest, with his sword by his side. 
 By his side, the high brow and eagle eye of Anthony Wayne. Yonder, a 
 gallant cavalier, attired in the extreme of fashion, with a mild blue eye, and 
 clustered locks of sand-hued hair — the chivalrous La Fayette ! 
 
 And there, standing side by side, were two young men, engaged in affa- 
 ble conversation. 
 
 One, with a high forehead, deeply indented between the brows — the other, 
 a man of slender frame, with a delicately-chiselled face, and eyes that seem 
 to burn you, as he speaks, in that low, soft voice, which wins your soul. 
 
 Who, that beholds these young men, calmly conversing together, on this 
 wedding-night, would dream that one was destined to die by the other's 
 nand. For the one with the deeply-indented brow is Alexander Hamilton, 
 the other, with the sculptured face, and magical eyes and voice, is Aaron Burr 
 
 In the centre of the scene stood a group, the objects of every eye 
 
504 ROMANCE OF THE REVOLUTION. 
 
 The Preacher in his dark gown, on one side ; the good-humored Squire, 
 with his jocund face and corpulent form, on the other. 
 
 Between them, under that chandelier, which warms their faces with i 
 mild light, stand the bride and briegroom. 
 
 She, in a dress of stainless white satin, which displays the beautiful out* 
 lines of her bust and waist, and by its short skirt permits you to behold 
 those small feet, encased in delicate slippers. Her neck, her shoulders, 
 gleam like alabaster in the light. A single ornament — a cross of diamonds 
 and gold — suspended from the neck, rises and falls with every pulsation of 
 her heart. And from the flowing world of her dark hair, which freely 
 courses from her brow to the shoulders, looks out a face, at once young, 
 innocent, angelic 1 
 
 Ever and again, glancing sidelong, she turns her large eyes towards the 
 bridegroom, while a soft crimson flushes imperceptibly over her face. 
 
 The bride^rroom is very pale, but calm and sedate. His dark blue eves 
 gleaming from the pallor of that delicately chiselled face, return the glance 
 of his bride with a look at once earnest and indefinable. Is it love? — or 
 love mingled with intense pity ? What means that scarce perceptible quiv- 
 ering of the neiher lip ? 
 
 The words of the Preacher are said. George presses the husband's kiss 
 on the lips of his bride. Why does Isabel — surrendering all the graceful 
 beauty of her waist to the pressure of his arm — start and tremble, as she 
 feels those lips, now hot as with fever, now cold as with death ? 
 
 At this moment, through the interval made by the parting guests, advances 
 the form of Washington"*— that face, which never yet has been painted by 
 artist, or described by poet, beaming with a paternal smile, those dark grey 
 eyes, which shone so fiercely in the hour of battle, now gazing in softened 
 regard, upon the bridegroom and the bride. 
 
 The voice of Washington was heard : 
 
 " George, when your father breathed his last, in my arms, amid the hor- 
 rors of batUe — it was at Trenton — with his parting breath, he besought me 
 to be a father to his son ! How can I better fulfil my trust, than by placing 
 your hand within the hand of a beautiful and innocent woman, and bidding 
 you be happy together ? She" — he turned to the bridegroom — " is worthy 
 of a soldier's love. He," — turning to the bride — " he is a soldier, a little 
 rash, perchance, but brave as the summer day is long!" 
 
 He placed their hands together, and kindly looked from face to face. 
 Every eye was centred upon this interesting group. 
 
 Here, Washington, tall and commanding; on one side the bridegroom, 
 slender, almost effeminate, yet with courage and manhood written on his 
 face ; on the other — a beautiful and sinless girl ! What words can describe 
 the last? 
 
 At this moment the jocund voice of the father, good-hearted, blufl" Squire 
 
THE NINTH HOUR. 505 
 
 ^'us^^ave, was heard. With a jovial smile upon his round and crimson 
 I'avie ho advanced. 
 
 " Look ye, George," he said. " Now that you're married, you must 
 conform to a custom in our family. Never a Musgrave was wedded but 
 the silver goblet and the old wine were brought forth, and a royal bumper 
 drank to the bride by all the guests. You dont't stand precisely in the 
 light of a guest — eh, George ? ha ! ha ! But you must begin the ceremony !" 
 
 As he spoke, a servant in livery appeared with a salver, on which was 
 placed a venerable bottle, dark in the body, red about the neck, and wreathed 
 in cobwebs. Thirty year old Madeira. By its side a silver goblet, antique 
 in shape, carved with all manner of fawns and flowers. 
 
 In a mompiit this goblet was filled ; from its capacious bowl flashed the 
 red gleam of rich old wine. 
 
 " Drink, George ! A royal bumper to the health of the bride !" 
 
 The movement of George were somewhat singular. Every one remarked 
 the fact. As the blufl* old Squire extended the goblet, George reached forth 
 his hand, fixing his blue eyes, with a strange stare, upon the crimson wine. 
 Then a shudder shook his frame, and communicated its tremor to the 
 goblet. 
 
 He seized it — as with the grasp of despair, or as a soldier precipitated 
 from a fortress might clutch the naked b'ade of a sword, to stay his fall — 
 his blue eyes dilating all the while he raised it to his lips. 
 
 His face was mirrored, there in the tremulous ripplets of the goblet, when,, 
 as his lip was about to press its brim, his arm slowly straightened outward 
 from his body, his fingers slowly parted, each one stiffening like a finger, 
 of marble. 
 
 The goblet fell to the floor. 
 
 George seemed making a violent effort to control his agitation. Tliat lip 
 pressed between his teeth until a single blood drop came, the eyes wildly 
 rolling from face to face, the hands nervously extended.— Was ever the last 
 moment of a dying man as terrible as this ? 
 
 He sank on one knee— slowly, slowly to the floor ; he sank as though 
 the blood were freezing in his veins. 
 
 No words can picture the surprise, the horror, the aw of the v/edding 
 guests. 
 
 Do you see ttiat circle of faces, all pale as death, with every eye fixed 
 upon the kneeling? Do you behold the young girl, who faints not nor 
 falters, in this hour of peril, but, with a face white as the snow, firmly ex- 
 tends her hand, and calls her husband tenderly by name ? 
 
 For a moment all was terribly still. 
 
 At last he raised his head. He gazed upon her with eyes unnaturally 
 dilated, and whispered in a tone that pierced every heart — 
 
 " Isabel — 1 would speak with you alone." 
 
 She raised hiui from the floor, and girding his waist with her arm, lert 
 32 
 
506 ROMANCE OF THE REVOLUTION. 
 
 nim toward the next room. Had she been a fine lady she would have 
 fainted, or shrieked, but, Heaven be blessed, was a Woman. One of those 
 women whose character is not known, until Adversity, like a holy angel, 
 reveals its heroic firmness and divine tenderness. 
 
 She closed the folding doors after her ; the bride and bridegroom wei»: 
 gone into the next chamber. 
 
 For half an hour, in silent awe, — not a word spoken, not a sound heard, 
 but the gasping of deep-drawn breath — the wedding guests waited there, 
 gazing on tlie closed folding doors. 
 
 It was an half hour of terrible suspense. 
 
 As the clock struck nine Washington advanced. "I can bear this no 
 longer," he said, and pushed open the folding doors. 
 
 Ere we gaze upon the sight he beheld, let us follow the footsteps of 
 George and Isabel. 
 
 As she led him through the doorway into that large chamber, filled with 
 antique furniture, and lighted by a single candle, standing before a mirror 
 on a table of mosaic work, Isabel felt the hand which she grasped, covered 
 with a clammy moisture like the sweat of death. 
 
 Before that large, old-fashioned mirror, in which the light was dimly re- 
 flected, — like a distant star shining from an intensely dark sky, — they sank 
 down on chairs that were placed near each other, George clinging to the 
 hand of his bride as to his last hope. 
 
 " The thing which I feared has come upon me !" he gasped, speaking 
 the pathetic language of Scipture — " Isabel, place your hand upon my brow, 
 and hear me. The time alotted to me is short : it rapidly glides away. 
 And while you listen, do not, ha, ha 1 do not smile if in the tragedy of my 
 life the grotesque mingles with the terrible !" 
 
 One hand with his own, one upon his brow, the brave girl listened. His 
 words were few and concise : 
 
 "Many years ago, when we were children, Isabel, on a cold, clear 
 winter's day, we wandered forth in the cheerless woods, you and I, and 
 Algernon. My favorite dog — you remember him ? — was with us ? Do 
 yon also remember " 
 
 Ah, that hollow voice, that unnatural smile ! How well did Isabel 
 remember. 
 
 " Suddenly the favorite — old Wolfe, you know he was named after the 
 brave General — turned upon me, fixed his teeth in my arm, and lacerated 
 •he flesh to the bone. Algernon struck him down " 
 
 Isabel felt that brow grow like iron beneath her touch. 
 
 " It was long before the wound was healed, but the dog, in a few days, 
 died, raging mad. Now mark you, Isabel, another circumstance. Per- 
 chance you remember it also ? While my wound was most painful, there 
 came to your father's house an aged woman, who was noted for her skill in 
 
THE NINTH HOUR. 507 
 
 the healing of injuries like this. She was also regarded hy the country 
 people as a witch — a corceress ! Is it not laughable, Isabel ? — that a poor 
 Old creature like this, regarded by some as an Indian, by others as a Negro, 
 should have such a strange influence upon my life ? She healed the wound, 
 but, at ihe same time, whispered in my ear the popular superstition, that a 
 person bitten by a rabid dog, would go mad on the ninth hour of the ninth 
 day nj the ninth year.' Child as I was, I laughed at her words. Time 
 passed on ; days, months, years glided away. Need I tell you how this 
 popular superstition fastened on my mind until it became a prophecy? 
 Perchance the poison, communicated by liie fang of the dog, was already 
 working in my veins, perchance — but why multiply words? Tliis- awful 
 fear gradually poisoned my whole existence ; it drove me from my books 
 into the army. I began to thirst for death. I sought him in every battle; 
 O, how terrible ' to long for death that cometh not !' For I was always 
 haunted by a fear — not merely the fear of going mad, but the fear of the 
 • ninth day of the ninth year' — the fear of dying a death at once horrible 
 and grotesque — dying like a venomous beast, my form torn by convulsions, 
 my reason crushed, my last breath howling forth a yell of horrible laughter — " 
 He paused ; you would not have liked to gaze upon his face. You 
 would rather have faced a charge of bayonets than heard his voice. There 
 was something horrible, not so much in the stillness of tliat dimly-lighted 
 room, nor altogether in the contortions of his face, the fire of his eye, the deep 
 conviction of liis voice, but in the idea, — a noble mind, a brave lieart, crushed 
 by a mere superstition ! A young life forever darkened by an idle halluci- 
 nation ! An immortal soul tortured by unmeaning words, uttered years 
 ago, in the dewy childhood time ! 
 
 " kabel !" gasped the wretched bridogroom, " in a moment, yonder clock 
 will strike the hour of nine ! At that hour, the end of all this agony wiil 
 come ! Hideously transformed, I will writhe at j^oiir i'eet !" 
 
 How acted then, this innocent and guileless girl, who had grown to be- 
 witching womanhood amid the hills and dells of Valley Forge ? 
 
 Hers was not the skill to argue this question in a philosophical manner. 
 True, she had heard of great minds being haunted all their lives by a 
 horrible fear. Some, the fear of being buried alive — some, the fear of going 
 raad — some, the fear of dying of loathsome disease. 
 
 But it was not her knowledge of these fancies — these monomanias of the 
 strong-hearted — that moved her into action at this hour. 
 
 It was her woman's heart that whispered to her soul a strange but fixed 
 resolve. 
 
 " As the clock strikes nine, you will go mad," she said. " This is tne 
 idea that has haunted your life for years. It was this that forced the goblel 
 from your lips, palsied your hand and dashed the wine to the floor ! But 
 if your reason survives the hour of nine ? Then the danger will be over ? 
 Speak George, is it so ?' 
 
508 ROMANCE OF THE REVOLUTION. 
 
 " It is," he gasped ; " but there is no hope — " 
 
 The word had not passed liis lips, when she tore one hand from tiia 
 prasp, removed the other to his brow. Outspreading her arms, she wound 
 them round his neck, and buried his face upon her bosom. 
 
 The clock began to strike the hour of nine. 
 
 Closer she clasped him, convulsively pressing his face to her breast — as 
 to a holy shrine — until he felt her heart beating against his cheek, 
 
 " Now, God help me !" she prayed, and reaching forth her left hand, 
 grasped a glass which stood upon the Mosaic table. It was filled with 
 water, fiesli and sparkling, from the brook. 
 
 Look ! she raises his head, gazes intendy in his face. Ah ! she winds 
 her right arm closer about his neck, and with those eyes earnestly, intensely 
 fixed upon his face, she holds the glass to his lips. 
 
 " Drink, George, and fear not ! If you love me, drink !" 
 
 Feeble words these, when spoken again, but had you heard her speak, 
 or but seen the overwhelming love of her young eyes ! 
 
 A nervous shudder shakes his frame. He shrinks from the glass. But 
 he sees her eyes, he feels her voice, he extends his hand and drinks. 
 
 The clock has struck the last knell of the fatal hour. 
 
 He drinks ! She, gazing earnestly, with her face and heart fixed on him, 
 all the while, he drinks. 
 
 " Now," she whispers, while her warm fingers tremble gently over his 
 cheeks. " Now, George, speak to me ' It is past ! You love me ? You 
 drink for my sake ! For my sake you conquered this fatal idea. Speak, 
 6p;ak — is it past ?" 
 
 He rose from his chair — his face changed, as a cloud seemed to pass 
 frcm his breast — he gazed upon her with tearful eyes, and then exclaimed 
 in a tone that came like music to her soul : 
 
 " Isabel, more than life you have saved ! My reason ; you — " 
 
 He could speak no more. His heart was too full. His joy too deep. 
 
 So, spreading forth his arms — as the horror of years rushed upon his 
 soul — he fell weeping on her bosom. 
 
 That was the sight which the unfolded doors revealed to Washington ! 
 
THE PREACHER-GENERAL. 50P 
 
 IV.— THE PREACHER-GENERAL. 
 
 Tr was a beautiful picture, that quaiut old country cln/rch, with its rustic 
 pleeple and grey walls, nestling there in the centre of a green valley, with 
 the blue sky above, and a grass-grown grave-yard all around it. 
 
 It was indeed a fine old church, that Chapel of St. John, and in the 
 quietude of the summer noon, when not a cloud marred the surface of the 
 heavens, not a breeze ruffled the repose of the grave-yard grass. It seemed 
 like a place where holy men might pray and praise, without an earthly care, 
 a worldly thought. 
 
 The valley itself was beautiful ; one of the fairest of the green va.^eys 
 of the Old Dominion. A slope of meadow, doited with trees, a stream of 
 clear cold water, winding along its verge, under the shadow of grey rocks ; 
 to the east a waving mass of woodland ; to the west a chain of rolling hills, 
 with the blue tops of the Alleghanies seen far away ! Was it not a lovely 
 valley, with the quaint old church, smiling in its lap, like a Pilgrim, who, 
 having journeyed afar, came here to rest for a while, amid green fields and 
 swelling hills ! 
 
 It was a S.ibbalh noon, in the dark time of the Revolution. Fear was 
 abroad in the land, yet here, to the good old church, came young and old, 
 rich and poor, to listen to the words of life, and break the bread of God. 
 
 Yonder, under the rude shed, you may see the wagon of the farmer, and 
 the carriage of the rich man ; or looking along this line of trees, you may 
 behold the saddled horses, waiting for their masters. All is silent without 
 the church ; a deep solemnity rests upon the sabbath hour. 
 
 Within ! Ah, here is indeed an impressive spectacle. Through the 
 deep-silled windows pours the noon-day sun, softened by the foliage of trees. 
 Above is the dark ceiling, supported by heavy rafters ; yonder the altar, 
 with the cross and sacred letters, I. H. S., gleaming in the light ; and all 
 around, you behold the earnest faces of the crowded assemblage. 
 
 The prayers have been said, those prayers of the Episcopal church, 
 w'lich, gathered from the Book of God, flow forever in a fountain of ever- 
 lasting beauty in ten thousand hearts — the prayers have been said, the 
 liynin-notes have died away, and now every voice is hushed, every fare is 
 etamped with a marble stillness. 
 
 A few moments pass, and then behold this picture : 
 
 Old men and young maidens are kneeling around the altar — yes, tlie forms 
 of robust manhood and mature womanhood are prostrate there. Along the 
 railing, which describes a cresent around the altar, they throng with heads 
 bent low a"d hands clasped fervently. 
 
 They are about to drink the Wine of the Redeemer — to eat the bread 
 of God. 
 
 Is it not a lovely scene ? The white hairs of the old men, the brown 
 
510 ROMANCE OF THE REVOLUTION. 
 
 tresses of the young girls, the sunburnt visages of those well-formed young 
 men, the calm faces of the matrons, all touched by the flitting sunbeam. 
 
 Look! Amid that throng a dusky negro kneels, his swart visage seen 
 amid the pale faces of his white brethren. 
 
 All is silent in the church. Those who do not come to the altar, kneei 
 in reverence, and yonder you may see the slaves, clustering beside the 
 church-porch, with uncovered heads and forms bent in prayer. 
 
 All is silent in the church, and the Sacrament begins. 
 
 The Preacher stands there, within the railing, with the silver goblel 
 gleaming in one hand, while the other extends the plate of consecrated 
 bread. 
 
 His tall form, clad in the flowing robes of his office, towers erect, far 
 above the heads of the kneeling men and women, while his bold counten- 
 ance, with high brow, and clear dark eyes, strikes you with an impression 
 of admiration. He is a noble looking man, with an air of majesty, without 
 pride ; intellect, without vanity ; devotion, without cant. 
 
 Tell me, as he moves along yonder, dispensing the wine and bread, while 
 his deep, full voice, (ills the church with the holy words of the Sacrament 
 — tell me, does he not honor his great office, this Preacher of noble look 
 and gleaming eyes ? 
 
 Look ! how fair hands are reached forth to grasp the cup, how manly 
 heads bow low, as the bread of life passes from lip to lip. Not much 
 whining here, not much strained mockery of devotion, but in every face 
 you see the tokens of a sincere and honest religion. 
 
 The Preacher passes along, bending low, as he places the goblet to the 
 red lips of yonder maiden, or extends the bread to the white-haired man by 
 her side. Meanwhile, his sonorous voice fills the church : 
 
 And as they were eating, Jesus look bread and blessed it, ana 
 
 break it, and gave is to his disciples, and said, Take, eat, this is my body. 
 
 And he took the cup, and gave thanks, and gave it to them, saying. 
 Drink ye all of it, for this is my blood of the Neiv Testament, which is 
 shed for many, for the remission of sins. 
 
 As you gaze upon the scene, a holy memory seizes upon your soul. 
 
 The quiet church, the earnest faces of the spectators, the sunlight steal- 
 ing through the deep-silled windows, over the group of kneeling men and 
 women, who, in this time of blood and war, have met to celebrate the 
 Supper of the Lord, the tall Preacher passing before the altar, the goblef 
 gleaming in his hand — This is the scene which is now present with you. 
 
 The memory ? 
 
 Ah, that is of a far-gone day, some seventeen centuries ago, when in thf 
 fragrant chamber of Jerusalem, Jesus looked around with his eyes of eternal 
 love, and shared the cup and bread with his faithful Eleven, while beloved 
 John looked silently ir.to his face, and black-browed Judas scowled at his 
 shoulder. Yes, the Memory seizes upon you now, and you hear his touts 
 
THE PREACHER-GENERAL. 511 
 
 yoi' see his face, the low deep tones flowing with eternal music, tlie lace 
 of (-lod-head, with its eyes of unutterable beauty. 
 
 Now the Sacrament is over, yet still the men and women are kneeling 
 there. 
 
 The Preacher advances, and stands in front of his people, with the silver 
 cup in his hand. A slight breeze ruffles the folds of his robes, and tosses 
 his dark hair back from his brow. 
 
 He is about to speak on a subject of deep interest, for his lip is com- 
 pressed, his brow wears a look of gloom. Every man, woman and child 
 in that crowded church, listens intently for his first word ; the negroes come 
 crowding around the church-porch ; tiie communicants look up from their 
 prayers. 
 
 The words of the Preacher were uttered in a tone that thrilled every heart : 
 
 " There is a time to preach, to pray, to tight !" He paused, looking from 
 face to face, with his flashing eyes. 
 
 " The time to preach is gone, the time to pray is past, the time to fight 
 has come !" 
 
 You could see his stature dilate, his eye fire, as he thundered through 
 the church — " the time to Jight has come .'" 
 
 The silver goblet shook in his quivering hands. With one impulse the 
 congregation started to their feet. Witii the same movement the kneeling 
 sommunicants arose. These strange words burned like fire-coals at every 
 heart. 
 
 " Yes," thundered the Preacher, " Yes, my brethren, when we preach 
 again, it must be with the sword by our side — when we pray, it must be 
 with the rifle in our hands ! I say the time to fight has come ! for at this 
 hour your land is red with innocent blood, poured forth by the hirelings of 
 the British King. For at this moment the voices of dead men call from tlie 
 battlefields, and call to you ! They call you forth to the defence of your 
 homes, your wives and little ones ! At this moment, while the noonday 
 sun falls calmly on your faces, the voices of your brothers in arms pierce 
 this lonely valley, and bid you seize the rifle, for your country and your 
 God !" 
 
 Bold words were these, majestic the bearing of the Preacher, fierce as 
 flame-coals his look, eloquent his ringing voice ! 
 
 A deep mutmur swelled through the church — a wild, ominous sound — and 
 then all was still again. 
 
 " My brethren, we have borne this massacre long enough. Now, our 
 country, our God, our dead brethren call on us. Now, our wives look in 
 our faces and wonder why we delay to seize the sword , nay, our litde ones 
 appeal to us for protection against the robber and assassin. Come, my 
 friends, I have preached with you, prayed with you — with you I have eaten 
 the Saviour's body and drank his blood. Now, by the blessing of God, I 
 will lead you to battle. Come, in the name of that ?ountry wliich no«r 
 
512 ROMANCE OF THE REVOLUTION. 
 
 bleeds beneath the Invaders feet — in the name of the dead who gave theit 
 lives in this holy cause — in the name of the God who made you, and the 
 Savioui who redeemed you — I say come ! To arms ! The time to fight 
 is here !" 
 
 Did you ever see the faces of a crowd change, like the hues of the ocean 
 in a storm ? Did you ever hear the low, deep, moaning of that ocean, when 
 the storm is about to break over its bosom ? 
 
 Then may you have some idea of the wild agitation which ran like 
 electric fire, through this quaint old Chapel of St. John, as the preacher 
 stood erect, with the goblet held in his exlendnd hand, his brow flushed with 
 a v/arm glow, and his eyes gleaming fire. 
 
 "The time to fight is here," he said, as with a sudden movement he 
 flung his sacerdotal robe from his form, and stood disclosed before his con- 
 gregation, ajrrayed in warrior costume. 
 
 Yes, from head to foot, his proud form was clad in the blue uniform of 
 the Continental host, while the pistols protruded from his belt, and the 
 sword shone by his side. 
 
 At that sight, a murmur arose, a wild hurrah shook the church. 
 " To arms !" arose like thunder on the Sabbath air. 
 And then there was one wild impulse quivering through each manly 
 breast, as though each heart beat with the same pulsation. They came 
 rushing forward, those robust forms ; they clustered around the altar, eagerly 
 reaching forth their hands to sign the paper which the Preacher laid upon 
 the Sacramental table. In that crowd were old men with while hair, and 
 boys with beardless chins, all moved by the impulse of the hour. The 
 women, too, were there urging their brothers, their husbands, to sign their 
 names to the Preacher's muster-roll, and become soldiers for their Country 
 and their God. 
 
 The sunlight fell over the wild array of faces, glowing with emotion, and 
 rerealed the light forms of the women passing tlirough the crowd, while the 
 P»eacher stood alone, with the paper in one hand and his good sword in 
 tl;e other. 
 
 Softly came the summer breeze through the windows ; brilliandy in the 
 punlight glittered the Cross and the holy letters— I. H. S. 
 
 Still the Preacher stood there, that proud flash upon his brow, that deep 
 satisfactian gleaming from his dark eye. 
 
 " Now," said he, gazing upon the stout forms which encompassed him 
 ike a wall, " now let us pray God's blessing on our swords !' 
 As one man they knelt. 
 
 The Preacher, attired as he was in the blue and buff" uniform, knelt in 
 their midst, clasping his sword in his hand, while his deep voice arose in 
 prayer to God. 
 
 That night, through a road that led between high rocks, three huntlrea 
 
THE PREACHER-GENERAL. 5(3 
 
 brave men, inounted on gallant steeds, went forth to join the Armv of 
 "Washington. 
 
 At their head, ri(1ing a grey steed, his tali form clad in the blue and buff 
 nniform, was their leader, who, with compressed lip and gleaming eye, led 
 them on to battle. 
 
 It was the darkest hour of the batde of Germantown, when a gallant 
 warrior, clad in the Continental uniform and mounted on a grey steed, was 
 surrounded by a crowd of Britiah soldiers. 
 
 All day lonsf, that American General had gone through the ranks of battle, 
 at the head of his brave men. Side by side with Washington and Wavne, 
 he had rushed upon the the British bayonets. One by one, he had seen his 
 gallant band measure their graves upon the fatal field. Nov/ he was alore, 
 the last in the dread retreat. 
 
 All around was smoke and mist. Chew's house was seen to the eaa, 
 looming grandly through the gloom. The American army were in full le- 
 treat, while this solitary warrior, mounted on his grey war-horse, looking 
 from side to side, beheld nothing but scarlet uniforms and British bayonets. 
 At his back, toward the North, was a high wall, built of massive stone, a 
 wall the most gallant steed might essay to leap in vain. That warriov's 
 horse was brave, his blood was full of fire, but he recoiled from that lerrilvle 
 leap. 
 
 The soldier on the grey steed was a prisoner. 
 
 The British encircled him, their bayonets pointed at his breast, while lis 
 dark eye moved from face to face. 
 
 A soldier advanced to secure the victim ; he was a gallant fellow, his 
 brown hair waving in thick curls around his ruddy face. He advanced, 
 when the American soldier gazed in his face with a look of deep compas- 
 sion, and muttered a prayer. The hand of the Briton was extended to grasp 
 the bridle rein of the grey steed, when the American suddenly drew his 
 pistol from the holster, and fired. 
 
 A moment passed — the smoke cleared away. There, on the moist earth, 
 bleeding slowly to death, lay the handsome Briton but the prisoner ? 
 
 Look yonder to the South ! There, through the folds of mist, you may 
 see the grey horse and his rider. Bullets whisUe in the air, but he does 
 not fall. Still the gallant steed keeps on his career. Right through the 
 British Army, right through the hail of lead, and the gleam of bayonets, 
 dashes the grey war-horse, the mist wreathing like a cloak around his 
 ridei'6 form. 
 
 Now he turns, yes, to the North again. The band of soldiers look up 
 from the corse of their dead comrade, and behold the American S(ddier 
 dashing along the road, rigl.:. in front of their path. They raise their mua- 
 quets — they fire. The American soldier looks back and smiles, and 
 passes on. 
 
5U ROMANCE OF THE REVOLUTION. 
 
 The white cloud receives him into its fohJs. 
 
 Yet.lo! As he passes on through smoke and mist, urging his gallant 
 grey to the top of his speed, he sees once more the glare of red uniforms, 
 the flashing of British steel. He is surrounded by a band of dragoons, re- 
 turning from the pursuit of Washington's army. Again to the South, brave 
 soldier ! Again to the South, with the pursuing troopers at his horse's 
 heels. How gallanUy he rides — look ! You can see his form rising through 
 the mist ; by the light of that pistol flash, you can even see the tossmg of 
 his plume, white as a snow-flake floating in the sun. 
 
 Again to the South, through the closely-woven ranks of the British host. 
 Those soldiers look up in wonder at the strange sight — an American oflTicer 
 dashing bravely through their lines unscathed by bullet or sword. 
 
 Now doubling on his pursuers, now near Chew's house, now far away 
 in the fields, that brave soldier kept on his flight. God and the mist favored 
 him. At last, after dashing through the British lines, he was riding North- 
 ward again — his pursuers had lost sight of their victim. He was riding 
 slowly Northward again; when looking ahead, he beheld a wounded man 
 stretched on the sod, in the agonies of death. 
 
 It was the brave young Briton who had fallen by his shot. A tear was 
 in the eye of the American soldier as he beheld that pale brow, with its 
 curling brown hair. Perchance the youth had a wife — a sister — in far away 
 England ? Or, maybe, even now a mother wept for his return ? 
 
 Our Continental soldier dismounted ; he laid the head of the dying Briton 
 on his knee. He moistened his hot lips with water from his flask. 
 
 It was a sad yet lovely sight, to see that brave American, in his blue 
 uniform, kneeling there, with the head of his enemy, the red-coated Briton, 
 resting on his knee. 
 
 Then as the dying man looked up, his foe muttered a prayer for his 
 passing soul. As that prayer went up to God, up with its accents of com- 
 passion, ascended the soul of the British youth. 
 
 The American held a dead body in his arms. 
 
 One look at the pale face, and he sprang to his steed. He rejoined the 
 American army some miles above, but never in all his life did the Preacher- 
 Soldier forget the last look of the dying Briton. 
 
 Another scene from the life of this Preacher-soldier. 
 
 It is night around Yorktown. Yonder, through the gloom, you see dim 
 masses of shadow, creeping along toward the British entrenchments. Sud- 
 denly all is light, and groans and smoke I Suddenly the Continentals start 
 up from darkness into the light of the cannon-glare ! Suddeidy the sky is 
 traversed by fiery bombs, while the earth shakes with the tread of embattled 
 Jegions ! 
 
 Look yonder! A desperate band of American soldiers, with fixed bayo- 
 nets advance along the trenches, and spring up the steep ascent, to the very 
 
THE PREACHER-GENERAL. 515 
 
 muzzles of British cannon. This is the crisis of the fight. Those cannon 
 spiked, this redoubt carried, and Yorktown is won ! Two brave men lead 
 on these soldiers — one, the higli-browed Alexander Hamilton, the other the 
 Preacher-Soldier ! A desperate charge, a wild hurrah, the redoubt is won ! 
 
 And there, standing in the glare of the cannon, on the very summit of 
 the steep ascent, the flag of stars in one hand, the good sword in the other 
 the Preacher Soldier shouts to his comrades, and tells them that Yorktown 
 is won. 
 
 He stands there for a moment, and then falls in the trench, his leo- shat- 
 tered by a cannon ball. 
 
 Bending over him, by the lighl of the battle-glare, the brave Hamilton 
 gazes in his pale face, and bending beside the wounded Preacher-Soldier, 
 pens a few hasty words, announcing to the Continental Congress that York- 
 town is taken — Cornwallis a prisoner — America a Nation ! 
 
 And who was this brave man, who, from the altar of God's Churcli 
 preached freedom ? Who, the last in the retreat of Germantown, escaped 
 as by a miracle from British bayonets ? Who, by a long course of gallant 
 deeds, wreathed his brow with the Hero's laurel? Who was this brave 
 •nan ? How name you him, who led on the forlorn hope at Yorktown, 
 with the starry banner waving over his head ! 
 
 Ah, he bore the name which our history loves to cherish, which our 
 literature eiiibalms in her annals, which Religion places among her holiest 
 lights, burning forevermore by the altar of God 1 
 
 Pennsylvania is not just to her heroes. She is content to have them do 
 great deeds, but she suffers them to be crowded out of history. While 
 North and South, with untiring devotion, glorify their humblest soldiers, 
 Pennsylvania is content to take but one name from a crowd of patriots, and 
 blazon that name upon the escutcheon of our glory — the name of " Mail 
 Anthony Wayne." 
 
 Now let us do the Iron State some small justice at last. Now let us 
 select another name of glory from the crowd of heroes. Now let us write 
 upon the column of her fame, side by side with the name of Anthony 
 Wayne, the name of Peter Muhlenberg, the Preacher-General of the 
 Revolution ! 
 
 There let them shine forever — those brother heroes, solemn witnesses, 
 of the glory of the Land of Penn — there let them shine, the objects of our 
 reverence and our love — these two great names — Peter Muhlenberg and 
 Anthony Wayne. 
 
516 ROMANCE OF THE REVOLUTION. 
 
 V— TRENTON; OR, THE FOOTSTEP IN THE SNOW. 
 
 A TRADITION OF CHRISTMAS MGIIT, 1770. 
 
 It was a dark and dreary night, ninety-nine years ago, when, in an ancient 
 farm-house, (hat rise.s along yonder .shore, an old man and his children hao 
 gathered around their Christmas heartii. 
 It was a lovely picture. 
 
 That old man, sitting there on the broad hearth, in the full glow of th€ 
 flame — his dame, a fine old matron, by his side— his children, a band of 
 red-lipped maidens, — some with slender forms, just trembling on the verge 
 of girlhood, — others warming and flushing into the summer morn of woman- 
 hood ! And the warm glow of the fire was upon the white locks of the 
 old man, and on the mild face of his wife, and the young bloom of thoive 
 fair daughters. 
 
 Had you, on that dark night— for it was dark and cold — while the De- 
 cember sky gloomed above, and the sleet swept over the hills of the Dela- 
 ^vare — drawn near that farm-house window, and looked in upon that 
 Christmas hearth, and drank in the full beauty of that scene — you would 
 confess with me that though this world has many beautiful scenes — much 
 of the strangely beautiful in poetry — yet there, by that hearth, centred and 
 brightened and burned that poetry, which is most like Heaven, the Poetry 
 OF Home ! 
 
 You have all heard the story of the convict, who stood on the gallov/s, 
 embruted in crime— steeped to the lips in blood — stood there, mocking at 
 the preacher's prayer, mocking even the hangman ! When, suddenly^, as 
 he stood with the rope about his neck — his head sunk — a single, burning, 
 scalding tear rolled down his cheek. 
 
 " I was thinking," said he, in a broken voice, " I was thinking of the — 
 Christmas fire !" 
 
 Yes, in that moment, when the preached failed to warn, when even the 
 hangman could not awe — a thought came over the convict's heart of that 
 time, when a father and his children, in a far land, gathered around their 
 Christmas fire. 
 
 That thought melted his iron soul. 
 
 " I care not for your ropes and your gibbets," he said. " But now, in 
 that far land — there, over the waters — my father, my brothers, my sisters, 
 are sitting around their Christmas fire ! They are waiting for me ! And J 
 am here—here upon the scaff'old !" 
 
 Is there not a deep poetry in the scene, that could thus touch a murder- 
 er's soul, and melt it into tears ? 
 
 And now, as the old man, his wife, his daughters cluster around their 
 5re. tell me, why does that old man's head droop slowly down, his eyes fill, 
 his hands tremble ? 
 
TRBNTON; OR, THE FOOTSTEP IN THE SNOW. fil? 
 
 kh. there is one absent from the Christmas hearth ! 
 
 He is thinking of the absent one — his manly, brave boy, who has been 
 gone from the farm-house for a year. 
 
 But hark ! Even as the thought comes over him, tlie silence of that fire- 
 Bide is broken by a faint cry — a faint moan, heard over the wastes of snow 
 from afar. 
 
 The old man grasps a lantern, and, with lliat young girl by his side, goes 
 out upon the dark night. 
 
 Look there — as following the sound of that moan — they go sofdy over 
 (he frozen path : how the lantern flashes over their forms — over a few 
 white paces of frozen snow — while beyond all is darkness! 
 
 Slill that moan, so low, so faint, so deep-toned, quivers on the air. 
 Sometiiing arrests tiie old man's eye, there in the snow — they bend doNUi 
 he and his daughter — they gaze upon that sight. 
 
 It is a human footstep painted in the snow, painted in blood. 
 " My child," whispers the old man, tremulously, " now pray to Heaven 
 for Washington ! For by this footstep, stamped in blood, I judge that li? 
 army is passing near this place !" 
 Still that moan quivers on the air ! 
 
 Then the old man, and that young girl, following those footsteps stair ed 
 in blood — one — two — three — four — look how the red tokens crimson 'he 
 white snow! — following those bloody footprints ; go on until they reac'rt 
 that rock, beetling over the river shore. 
 
 There the Jantern light flashes over the form of a half-naked man, croui'h- 
 ing down in the snow — freezing and bleeding to death. 
 
 The old iran looks upon that form, clad in ragged uniform of the Ciin« 
 tinental army — the stiffened fingers grasping the battered musket. 
 It was his only son. 
 
 He called to him — the young girl knelt, and — you may be sure th( re 
 were tears in her eyes— chafed her brother's hands — ah, they were still" and 
 cold ! And when she could not warm them, gathered them to her young 
 bosom, and wept her tears upon his dying face. 
 
 Suddenly that brother raised his head — he extended his hand towards 
 the river. 
 
 " Look THERE, FATHER !" he Said, in his husky voice. 
 And bending down over the rock, the old man looked far over the 
 river. 
 
 There, under the dark sky, a fleet of boats were tossing amid piles of. 
 floating ice. A fleet of boats bearing men and arms, and extending in irreg 
 ular lines from shore to shore. 
 
 And the last boat of the fleet — that boat just leaving the western shore 
 of the Delaware ; the oid man saw that too, and saw — even through the 
 darkness — }on tall form, half-muffled in a warrior's cloak, with a grey war- 
 horse by his side. 
 
518 ROMANCE OF THE REVOLUTION. 
 
 Was not .hat a strange siglit to see at dead of night, on a dark river, 
 under a darkar sky ? 
 
 The old man turned to his dying son to ask the meaning of this 
 mystery. 
 
 " Father," gasped the brave boy, tottering to his feet. " Father, give 
 me my musket — help me on — help me down to the river — for to-night — for 
 to-night 
 
 As that word was on liis lips — he fell. He fell, and lay there stiff and 
 cold. Still on his lips there hung some faintly spoken words. 
 
 The old man— that fair girl — bent down— they listened to those words — 
 
 " To-NiGHT— Washington— the British— to-night— TRENTON !" 
 
 And with that word gasping on his lips — " Trenton !" he died ! 
 
 The old man did not know the meaning of that word until the next morn- 
 ing. Then there was the sound of musketry to the south ; then, booming 
 along the Delaware came the roar of battle. 
 
 Then, that old man, with his wife and children, gathered around the body 
 of that dead boy, knew the meaning of that single word that had trembled 
 on his lips. 
 
 Knew that George Washington had burst like a thunderbolt upon the 
 British Camp in Trenton ! 
 
 Ah ! that was a merry Christmas Party which the British officers kept 
 m the town of Trenton, seventy years ago — although it is true, that to 
 that party there came an uninvited guest, one Mister Washington, his half- 
 clad army, and certain bold Jerseymen ! 
 
 Would that I might hnger here, and picture the great deeds of that morn- 
 mg, seventy years ago. 
 
 Would that I might linger here upon the holy ground of Trenton. 
 
 For it is holy ground. For it was here, in the darkest hour of the Revo- 
 lution, that George Washington made one stout and gallant blow in the name 
 of that Declaration, which fifty-six bold men had proclaimed in the old 
 State House of Philadelphia, six months befi)re. 
 
 If that State House is the Mecca of Freedom, to which the pilgrims 
 of all chmes may come to worship, then is the battle-ground of Trenton, 
 the twin-Mecca — the Jerusalem of Freedom — to which the Children of 
 Liberty, from every land, may come — look upon the footsteps of '.he 
 mighty dead — bring their ofl'erings — shed their tears. 
 
 December 26th, 1776 !— 
 
 It was a dark night, but the first gleam of mornmg shone over the form 
 of George Washington, as he stood beside the Hessian leader, Ralle, who 
 lay in yonder room wrestling with death — yes, Washington stood there, and 
 placed the cup of water to his feverish lips, and spoke a prayer for his 
 passing soul. 
 
 It was a dark night, but the gleam of morning shone over yon cliff dark 
 
THE PRINTER BOY AND THE AMBASSADOR. 519 
 
 suing above ihe wintry river, over the frozen snow, where a fatlici. a wife, 
 a band of children, clustered around the cold form of a dead soldier. 
 
 He was clad in rags, but there was a grim smile on his while lip-: — his 
 frozen hand still clenched with an iron grasp the broken rifle. 
 
 His face, so cold, so ,>ale, was wet with his sister!s tears, but his soul had 
 gone to yonder heaven, there to join the Martyrs of Trenton and of Bunker 
 HUl. 
 
 VI.-THE PRINTER BOY AND THE AMBASSADOR. 
 
 Genius in its glory — genius on its eagle-wings — genius soaring away 
 there in the skies ! 
 
 This is a sight we often see ! 
 
 But Genius in its work-shop — Genius in its cell — Genius digging away 
 in the dark mines of poverty — Toil in the brain, and Toil in the heart — this 
 is an every day fact — yet a sight that we do not often see ! 
 
 Let us for a moment look at the strange contrast between — Intellect 
 standing there, in the sunlight of Fame, with the shouts of millions ringing 
 iu its ears — and Intellect down there, in cold and night-crouching in the 
 work-shop or the garret ; neglected — unpitied — and alone ! 
 
 Let us for a moment behold two pictures, illustrating The Great Facts — 
 Intellect in its rags, and Intellect in its Glory. 
 
 The first picture has not much in it to strike your fancy — here are no 
 dim Cathedral aisles, grand with fretted arch and towering with pillars — 
 here are no scenes of nature in her sublimity, when deep lakes bosomed in 
 colossal cliffs, dawn on your eye — or yet, of nature's repose, when quiet 
 dells musical with the lull of waterfalls, breaking through the purple twilight 
 steal gently in dream-glimpses upon your soul ! 
 
 No ! Here is but a picture of plain rude Toil — yes, hot, tired, dusty 
 toil! 
 
 The morning sunshine is stealing through the dim panes of an old 
 window — yes, stealing and struggling through those dim panes, into the 
 dark recesses of yonder room. It is a strange old room — the walls cracked 
 in an hundred places, are hung with cobwebs — the floor, dark as ink, is 
 stained with dismal black blotches— and all around are scattered iho 
 evidences of some plain workman's craft — heaps of paper, little pieces of 
 antimony are scattered over the floor — and there, in the light of the 
 morning sun, beside that window, stands a young man of some twenty 
 years — quite a boy — his coat thrown aside, his faded garments covered 
 with patches, while his right hand grasps several of those small bits of 
 antimony. 
 
 Why this is but a dull picture — a plain, sober, every-day fact. 
 
 Yet look again upon that boy standing there, in the full light of the 
 morning sun — there is meaning in that massive brow, shaded by locks oi 
 
520 ROMANCE OF THE REVOLUTION, 
 
 darK brown hair — there is meaning in that full grey eye, now dilating and 
 burning, as that young man stands there alone, alone in the old room. 
 
 But what is this grim monster on which the young man leans ? This 
 thing of uncouth shape, built of massy iron, full of springs and screws, and 
 bolts — tell us the name of this strange uncouth monster, on which that 
 young man rests his hand ? 
 
 Ah ! that grim old monster is a terrible thing — a horrid Phantom for dis- 
 honest priests or traitor kings ! Yes, that uncouth shape every now and 
 then, speaks out words that shake the world— for it is a Printing Press ! 
 
 And the young man standing there in a rude garb, with the warm sun- 
 shine streaming over his bold brow— that young man standing alone 
 —neglected— unknown— is a Printer Boy ;— yes, an earnest Son of Toil ; 
 thinking deep thoughts there in that old room, with its dusty floor and its 
 cobweb-hung walls ! 
 
 Those thoughts will one day shake the world. 
 
 Now let us look upon the other picture : — 
 
 Ah ! here is a scene full of Night and Music and Romance ! 
 
 We stand in a magnificert garden, musical with waterfalls, and yonder, 
 far through these arcades of towering trees, a massive palace breaks up into 
 the deep azure of night. 
 
 Lei us approach that palace, with its thousand windows flashing with 
 lights — hark ! how the music of a full band comes stealing along this garden 
 — mingling with the hum of fountains — gathering in one burst up into the 
 dark concave of Heaven, 
 
 Let us enter this palace ! Up wide stair-ways where heavy carpets give 
 no echo to tlie footfall — up wide stair-ways— through long corridors, 
 adorned with statues — into this splendid saloon. 
 
 Yes, a splendid saloon — yon chandelier flinging a shower of light over 
 th;S array of noble lords and beautiful women — on every side the flash of 
 jewels— the glitter of embroidery— the soft mild gleam of pearls, rising into 
 light, with the pulsation of fair bosoms— ah ! this is indeed a splendid 
 scene ! 
 
 And yonder— f\r through the crowd of nobility and beauty— yonder, 
 under folds of purple tapestry, dotted with gold, stands the Throne, and on 
 that Throne— the King ! 
 
 That King— these courtiers — noble lords — and proud dames— are all 
 awaiting a strange spectacle! The appearance of an Ambassador from an 
 unknown Republic far over the waters. They are all anxious to look upon 
 this strange man — whose fame goes before him. Hark — to those whispers 
 — it is even said this strange Ambassador of an unknown Republic, has 
 railed donn the lightnings from God's eternal sky. 
 
 No (I'uibt this Ambassador will be something very uncouth, yet it still 
 must be pi tin that he will try to veil his uncoulhness in a splendid Court 
 dress I 
 
THE PRINTER BOY AND THE AMBASSADOR. 521 • 
 
 The King, the Courtiers, are all on the tip-toe of expectation ! 
 
 Why (Joes not this Magician from the New World — this Chainer of 
 thJnde.rbolts — appear? 
 
 Suddenly there is a murmur — the tinselled crowd part on either side — 
 look ! — he comes : the Magician, the Ambassador ! 
 
 He comes walking through that lane, whose walls are beautiful women ; 
 — is he decked out in a Court dress ? Is he abashed by the presence of 
 the King ? 
 
 All, no ! Look there — how the King starts with surprise, as that plain 
 man comes forward ! That plain man with the bold brow, the curling 
 locks behind his ears — and such odious home-made blue stockings upon his 
 limbs. 
 
 Look there, and in that Magician — that Chainer of the Lightnings — be- 
 hold the Printer Boy of the dusty room ; stout-hearted, true-souled, com- 
 mon-sense Benjamin Franklin ! , 
 
 And shall we leave these two pictures, without looking at the deep moral 
 they inculcate ? 
 
 Without the slightest disrespect to the professions called learned, I stand 
 here to-night, to confess that the great Truth of Franklin's life is the 
 sanctity of Toil ! 
 
 Yes, that your true Nobleman of God's creation, is not your lawyer, dig- 
 ging away among musty parchments, not even your white cravatted divine 
 — but this man, who clad in the coarse garments of Toil, comes out from 
 the work-shop and stands with the noon-day sun upon his brow, not 
 ashamed to own himself a Mechanic ! 
 
 Ah ! my friends, there is a world of meaning in these pictures ! They 
 speak to your hearts now — they will speak to the heart of Universal Man 
 forever ! 
 
 Here, the unknown Printer Boy standing at his labor, neglected, un- 
 known ; clad in a patched garb, with the laborer^ s sweat upon his brow 
 — There, //te Man whom nations are proud to claim as their own, stand- 
 ing us the Ambassador of a Free People — standing as a Prophet of the 
 KiGHTS OF Man — unawed, unabashed, in the Presence of Royalty and 
 Gold ! 
 
 Benjam'n Franklin, in his brown coat and blue stockings, mocking to 
 shame the o )mp of these Courtiers— the glittering robes of yonder King! 
 33 
 
522 ROMANCE OF THE REVOLUTION, 
 
 VII.— THE REST OF THE TILGRIM. 
 
 Like the Pilgrim of the olden time, who having journeyed through many 
 lands, gathering new memories from every shrine and fresher hopes from 
 every altar, ascends the summit of the last hill, and bending on his staff, 
 surveys afar the holiest place of all, I have reached after much joy and 
 toil the end of my wanderings, and in the distance behold gleaming into 
 light, the Jerusalem of my soul. 
 
 That Jerusalem the Altar of the American Past, the Sepulchre of the 
 American Dead. 
 
 I have been a Pilgrim in holy ground. On the sod of the battle-field, 
 where every flower blooms more beautiful from the oblation of heroic blood, 
 poured forth upon the hallowed soil — in old mansions where the rent walls 
 and blood-stained threshhold bear memory of the ancfent lime — amid the 
 shadows of the Hall of Independence, where the warm heart may see the 
 Signers walk again — in the dark glen where the yell of slaughter once arose, 
 and every rock received its bloody offiering — Such have been the holy 
 places of my Pilgrimage into the American Past. 
 
 And as the Pilgrim of the far-gone ages, resting on the last hill, stood after 
 all his wanderings only in sight of the great temple of all his hopes, so does 
 the Pilgrim of the battle-field, rich as he is with the relics of the Past, stand 
 after all but on the threshhold of his hallowed work. 
 
 For this book of the Revolution, stored with Legends of the Past, gathered 
 from aged lips and renowned battle-fields, speaking in the language of the 
 iron time of Washington and his heroes, is but a page in the traditionary 
 history of our land. Much I have written, but a volume ten times as large 
 as this rem.ains yet to be written.* I have but uncovered the sealed spring 
 of Revolutionary Legend, scarcely dipped my scallop shell into its wild, yet 
 deep and tranquil waters. 
 
 On this Rock of Wissahikon I pause in my pilgrimage, and write these 
 words to my reader. -This Kock of Wissahikon which rises on the sida 
 of a steep hill, amid thick woods — a craggy altar on whose summit wor* 
 
 * In the new series of the Le-eiuls of the Revolution, entitled " Washjngtok 
 ANJ) His I\1kn,'' being the second serie-, of ihe Ix'ycnos of the American lievo- 
 Intion, just iniblished by T. B. Peterson & ISrotliers, iiiiladel])hi:i, the deeds of the 
 Iieroes whom I have been forced to omit in these i)ayes, wiiJ be found fully illustrated. 
 Marion, the hero of the South, KiitKWouu of beiavvare, and Allln McLane, 
 that fearless partizan, whose courage and ohivalry remind us of the Knights of old, 
 will be found jwurtrayed with all the enthusiasm wliich their names excite. The 
 life of General Washington, too, in all its phases of contrast, interest, and 
 grandeur, will be found delineated in this series of Legends, extending from his 
 cradle to his grave. 
 
THE REST OF THE PILGRIM. 593 
 
 sliipped long ago, tlie Priests of a forgotten faitli. Arounil me branch the 
 trees — glorious monuments of tliree hundred years — fresh with the verchire 
 of June. Between their leaves the sky smiles on me, dimpled only hy a 
 floating cloud. Far below, the stream flashes and sings between its 
 mountain banks. Looking down a vista of trees and moss and flowers, I 
 behold a vision of forest homes, grouped by the waters. You tliat love to 
 lap yourself in June, and drink its odors, and feel its blessed air upon youi 
 brows, and recline on its rocks covered witli vines, musical with birds and 
 bees, should come hither. It is an altar for the Soul. 
 
 As I sit upon this rock— the paper on my knee, the birds, the stream, the 
 sky, the leaves, all ministering blessings to my soul— a strange throng of 
 fancies crowd tumultuously on me. 
 
 What was the name of the Race who peopled these cliR's, and roved 
 these woods two thousand years ago ! Were they but brute barbarians, or 
 a people civilized with all that is noble in science or art, hallowed by the 
 knowledge of all that is true and beautiful in Religion ? Wliere are their 
 monuments ; the wrecks of City and Altar? O, that this rock could speak, 
 and tell to me the history of the long-forgotten People, who dwelt in this 
 U.nd before the rude Indian ! 
 
 Tell us, ye Ages, what mysterious tie connects the history of the red 
 men of the north, with the voluptuous children of the south? Speak, ye 
 Centuries, and reveal to us the mystic message of these monuments of the 
 Past, scattered over the hills and prairies of our northern America ? The 
 mounds of the west, the fortifications rising ruggedly from the rank grass, 
 the deep- walled foundations of a city in Wiskonsan — a city that has been 
 a wreck for a thousand years — what is their Revelation ? What word have 
 they of the mysterious bye-gone time ? 
 
 Are there no Legends of the Lost Nations of America ? 
 
 As I start back, awed and wondering from the fancies that crowd upon 
 me, there rushes on my sight a vision at once sublime and beautiful ! 
 
 It is the vision of a land washed by the waters of the Atlantic and Pacific, 
 beautiful with vallies of fruit and floNTers, grand with its snow-white peak 
 of Orizaba, magnificent with its cities — reared in a strange yet gorgeous 
 architecture — among which sits supreme, the Capitol of Montezuma ! A 
 gorgeous vision ! It swells on my sight with its altars of bloody sacrifice, 
 rising above the sea of roofs, with its clear deep lakes set in frames of 
 flowers, and the volcanic mountains hemming it in a magic circle, their pil- 
 lars of snow and fire supporting the blue dome of the sky ! 
 
 Crowd your wonders of the old world into one panorama, pile Babylon 
 on Palmyra, and crown them both with Rome, and yet you cannot match 
 the luxury, the magnificence, the splendor that dazzles, and the mystery 
 that bewilders, of this strantje land. 
 
 The tamest word in its history is a Romance— the wildest dreams of Ro- 
 mance, iiollow and meaningless, con;pared with its plainest fact. 
 
824 ROMANCE OF THE REVOLUTION. 
 
 And the name of the vision that breaks upon me is— Mexico. 
 
 Behold three lines of its history in the course of six hundred years ! 
 — Six hundred years ago a barbarous horde from the fiir north of America, 
 the tribes of the Aztec people, precipitated themselves on ihis beautiAil val- 
 ley, conquered the race who dwelt there, and swelled into the civilized Em- 
 pire of Montezuma. 
 
 — Three hundred years ag-o, a wandering adventurer who came from ati 
 unknown land, with a band of white men clad in iron at his back— only six 
 hundred homeless men — overturned the splendid dominion of Montezuma, 
 and founded the Empire of Cortes. 
 
 — Now in the year eighteen-hundred and forty-seven, even while I write, 
 the white race of North America, the children of the Revolution and coun- 
 trymen of Washington, are thronging the vallies, darkening the mountains 
 of this land, bearing in their front amid a tide of sword and bayonet the 
 Banner of the Stars, which they have determined to plant on the Hall of 
 Montezuma and Cortez, thns establishing in the valley of Mexico, a new 
 dominion — the empire of freedom. 
 
 Shall we not write the traditions of this land ? Shall we not follow tha 
 Banner of the Stars from the bloody heighth of Bunker Hill, from tha 
 meadow of Brandywine, to the snow-clad heighth of Orizaba and the 
 golden city of *Tenochtidan ? 
 
 Yes, we will do it ; the beautiful traditions of that land speak to us in a 
 voice that we may not disregard. In one work, we will combine the tradi- 
 tion, the history, the battles and the religions of this wonderful land. We 
 will traverse its three Eras, gathering a wild excitement as we go. First, 
 the Era of the Aztec Invasion, six hundred years ago. Then the Era of 
 Cortez, three hundred years back into time. Last of all, the Era of Free- 
 dom, when the bloody fields of Palo Alto, Resaca, the three days fight of 
 Monterey, the terrible contest of Buena Vista, the seige of Vera Cruz and 
 glorious rout of Cerro Gordo, made new leaves in our history and linked 
 with Cortez and Montezuma, the names of Scott and Taylor ! 
 
 To you, reader, who perused with deep sympathy, the Legends of the 
 tlevolution, let us present the traditions of another scene; "the Legends 
 OF Mexico." 
 
 — Let me tell you, how the idea of writing the legends of the golden and 
 bloody Land, first dawned upon mc 
 
 One day, not long ago, as I sat in my room, my table strewn with the 
 manuscript of Washington and his Generals, there appeared on the thresh- 
 hold a young man, clad in a plain military undress, his pale face, scarred 
 forehead and fiery eye, denoting the ravages of the battle and the fever. 
 
 He advanced, greeted me by name, and 1 soon knew him as one of the 
 disbanded volunteers of Mexico. 
 
 Aztec name of ihe city of Mexico. 
 
THE REST Of THE PILGRIM. 525 
 
 I must confess that he was a raagnificent looking young man. Six feel 
 high, his figure Hght, agile, and muscular, his head placed proudly on his 
 shoulders — despite the withered cheek and scarred brow — he was a noble 
 man for the eyes to behold. 
 
 In short plain words, he told me his story, which was afterwards corrob- 
 orated by others who knew the stranger. But a year ago he had left his 
 home, in one of the dear vallies of the west, left a mother and sister, joined 
 the army of Taylor, shared in ike perils of Palo Alto, Resaca and Monte- 
 rey. You should have seen his lip quiver, his pale cheek glow, his full 
 eye flash, as he spoke of the terrible storming of the Bishop's Palace. It 
 made the blood run cold, to hear him talk of the sworn comrade of his 
 heart, whos» skull was peeled ofl", by an escoppette ball, as they advanced 
 side by side along the Plaza of Monterey. 
 
 Altogether the history of this young man, the story of his life from tlie 
 hour when he kissed " farewell" on his sister's lips, and beheld his molhei's 
 white hairs gleaming from the threshhold of Home, until the moment whim 
 disbanded with the other volunteers, he lay fevered and dying in the Hos- 
 pital of New Orleans, affected me with every varying interest; I felt ii)y 
 heart swell, my eyes fill with tears. 
 
 At last, I ventured to ask him how he knew my name — 
 
 " I came," said the soldier, mentioning my name with an emphasis, that 
 made my heart bound — " I came from the field of Monterey, to thank you 
 for myself and my comrades !" 
 
 " Thank me ?" 
 
 " Your works have cheered the weariness of many a sleepless nignt. 
 Gathered round our watch-fire before the batde of Monterey, one of our 
 number seated on a cannon, would read, while the others listened. Yes, in 
 the Courier we read your Legends of the Revolution ! Believe nie, sir, 
 those things made our hearts feel warm — they nerved our arms for the bat- 
 tle ! When we read of the old times of our Flag, we swore in our hearts, 
 never to disgrace it !" 
 
 As the young soldier spoke, he placed in my hand a small knife, — a very 
 toy of a thing — and a volume of blotted manuscript. 
 
 " This knife I took from the vest of my dead comrade in the plaza of 
 Monterey. Take it, sir, as a mark of gratitude from a soldier, whose lonely 
 hours have been cheered by your Legends. This Manuscript contains the 
 record of my wanderings— roughly written— yet the fiicts of the battles and 
 marches are there. Accept these tokens, the knife and the book — they are 
 all I have to give !" 
 
 As the brave fellow spoke, his voice grew tremulous : there was a tear 
 m his eye. 
 
 Shall I confess it ? As I glanced from the papers on my table— news 
 papers among others containing the foulest libels on my works, ever penned 
 by (he animaleulae of the Press— to the pale face of the young soldier, I fell 
 
526 ROMANCE OF THE REVOLJTION. 
 
 my neart bound with a joy unfelt before. Far more precious to my heart, 
 than the praise of all the critics in the world, was that scarred soldier's tear. 
 
 Rather dwell enshrined in one honest heart like his, than enjoy tho 
 praise of Critics, Reviewers^ and all other Pigmies of the pen, whose good 
 opinion can be bought even as you purchase peddler's wares. 
 
 I will confess, and confess frankly, that the knife, the journal of that sol- 
 dier of Monterey, are worth more to me than a ribbon or a title bestowed 
 by the hands of the proudest monarch thafcever lived. 
 
 From the rough heart-warm sketches of that journal, I have constructed 
 the basis of my " Legeni>s of Mexico."* 
 
 Do not charge me with the folly of egotism. I have journeyed far and 
 lor*g with you, my reader, and never once obtruded the Autiior on your 
 «5)ght. But at the same time that I frankly confess my thorough contempt 
 ©f the whole race of mercenary critics, whose praise 1 have once or twice 
 been so unfortunate as to receive — a praise more to be dreaded than their 
 slander — I must also slate that the spontaneciis tribute from the scarred sol- 
 dier of Monterey, spoke to my inmost heart. It showed me that my labors 
 were not altogether valueless ; it showed more a high and holy truth, thai 
 the memories of the Old Revolution are still with us, in the hearts of our 
 People, binding millions in one great bond of brotherhood, and nerving the 
 arms of American freemen in far distant lands, amid the horrors of savage 
 battles. 
 
 May — I whose greatest fault has ever been, that 1 could not mould my- 
 self to the humors of a tinselled aristocracy, nor worship empty pomps and 
 emptier skulls, though garnished with big names and hired praise — frankly 
 make the record on this page, that I am proud of the unbought approbation 
 of that battered soldier of Monterey ? 
 
 You should have heard him talk of the scenes he had witnessed, in the 
 strange land of Mexico. 
 
 In the battle where a few American freemen contended against the brave 
 hordes of the southern land. Among the mountains, whose shadows stfll 
 shelter the remnants of the Aztec People. Amid the ruins of gorgeous 
 chies, whose strange architecture stamped with the traces of a thousand 
 years, tells of a long lost civilization, whose wierd hieroglyphics are big 
 with History that no human eye may read ; whose rainbow vegetation, 
 blossoming amid monument and pyramid, adorns the wreck which it cannot 
 save — whose solemn temples, mysterious with God and Symbol, speak of 
 a Religion once the barbarous Hope of millions, and now forgotten in that 
 awful silence, brooding over the past ages, like the serene and patliless sky 
 above the summit of Chimborazo 1 
 
 * The reader will of course understand, that at the time this article in conclusion 
 of Washi;;(5ton and his Generals was written, the previous paiies of the work had been 
 published some rr.onilis. This notice is necessary, to free the author froi?t in impu 
 lotion which would otherwise be made, of plagiarizing from his own works. 
 
THE RFST OF THE PILGRIM. 527 
 
 Such had been the course of his wanderings ; and wherever he turned, 
 he discovered the broken links of the great chain which connects the stern 
 Indian of the rugged North, with those children of the blossoming South, 
 the dwellers in the land of Mexico and Peru ' 
 
 And now reader, as on this Rock of Wissahikon I write these farewell 
 words, while the supernatural beauty of this place is all about me, imbuing 
 the air as with an angel presence, permit me to hope that we do not part 
 forever. For the Pilgrim of the battle-fields of America will wander forth 
 again, and gather new relics from the Sepulclire of the Past. When next 
 we wander forth with staff and scallop shell, our pilgrimage will tend to 
 Mouiii, Vernon ; from that shrine of our history we will bring you fresh 
 stores of tradition, and from the grave of the American Chieftain, pour new 
 light upon the glorious career of the brother-heroes — Washington and his 
 Generals 
 
 George Lippard, 
 WissAiiiKOjr. 
 
GEORGE LIPPARD'S COMPLETE WORKS. 
 
 T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, Philadelphia, have just published an entire 
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 GEORGE LIPPARD'S WORKS. 
 
 THE QUAKER CITY; OR, THE MONKS OF MONK HALL. A Romance 
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 BLANCHE OF BRANDYWINE; OK, SEPTEMBER THE ELEVENTH, 1777. 
 
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 THE MEMOIRS OF A PREACHER; OR, THE MYSTERIES OF THE 
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 The following books are all issued in one volume, in 
 cloth, at ,§1.75 each, or in paper cover at S1.50 each. 
 The Count of Monte Cristo. By Alexander Dumas. 
 Camillo; or. The Fate of a Coquette. By Alex. Uumas. 
 Autobiography of Edward Wortley Montagu. 
 Thelaitiala. A Love Story. By Baroness Tautphoeco. 
 Self Sacrifice. By the authorof " Margaret Maitland." 
 A Woman's Thoughts About Women. By Miss Mulock. 
 The Jlemoire of Vidocq, the Great French Detective. 
 The Wo ;.an In Black., By author of " Man in Grey." 
 High Life in New York. By Jonathan Slick. 
 Tne Jealous Il^isband. By Annette Marie Maillard. 
 The BoUe cf Washington. By Mrs. N. P. Laseelle. 
 Flirtation 3 in Fashionable Life. By Catharine Sinclair. 
 The Beautiful Widow. By Mrs. Percy B. Shellev. 
 The Coquette) or. Life and Letters of Eliza Wharton. 
 Self Love ; or. The Afternoon of Single Life. 
 The Uich Husband. By authorof " George Geith." 
 Ilirem Llfeiu Egyptaud Constantinople. 
 The Lost Beauty. JJy a Lady of the Sjianish Court. 
 Hose Douglass. Accmpauionto" Sell Sacrifice." 
 Family Pride. By author of" Pique." 
 Family Secrets. By autl^or of" Family Pride." 
 ■The Heiress In The Family. By Mrs. Daniel. 
 Camors. " The .Man of the New Empire." By Feuillet. 
 Treason at Home. By M»-s. Greenoush. 
 A Lonely Life. By the author of " Wise as a Serpent." 
 My Hero. A Love Story. By Mrs. Forrester. 
 TheClylfard3ofClyfle,byauthor"Lo8tSirMassingberd." 
 Woman's Wrong. By Mrs. Eiloart. 
 Margaret Maitland. By Mrs. Oliphant. 
 The Heiress of Sweetwater. A Charming Novel. 
 The Mac Jcrmots of Ballyclorau. By Authony Trollope. 
 Lost Sir Massin^berd. By authorof "Carlyon'e Year." 
 Major Jones' Courtship and Travels. Illustrated. 
 The Pride of Life. By Lady Jane Scott. 
 Saratoga. An Indian Tale of FroutierLifeim787. 
 Married at Last. A Love Story. By Annie Thomas. 
 Major Jones's Scencsin Georgia. Illustrated. 
 Sivamp Doctor's Adventuresinihe South-West. Illust'd. 
 Cnlonel Tliorjie's Scenesin Arkausaw. Illustrated. 
 The Morrisons. By Mrs. Margaret Hosmer. 
 My Son's Wife. By authorof" Caste,"" Mr. Arle, "etc. 
 Co'i.Forney'sLettersfrom Europe, with Portraits Index. 
 The Rector's Wife ; or, Valley of a Hundred Fires. 
 Woodburn Grange. A Novel. By William Hewitt. 
 Coi ntry Quarters. By the Countess of Blessingtcn. 
 Th. ! Forsaken Daughter. A Companion to " Linda." 
 Thj Quaker Soldier. By Col. J. Richter Jones. 
 Ou( of the Depths. The Story of a " Woman's Life." 
 Th), Man of the World. By William North. 
 Thii Queen's Favorite ; or. The Price of a Crown. 
 Fal I e Pride ; or, Two Ways to Matrimony. 
 Co?a Belmont; or, The Sincere Lover. A Love Story 
 Thi Lover's Trials. By Mrs. Denison. 
 BiyAi Life in Washington. By Mrs. N. P. Lnssrlle. 
 X.0 Teand Money. By J. B. Jones, authorof Rival Belles. 
 Thi; Matclimalcer. By Beatrice Reynolds. 
 Th,3 Brother's Secret. By William Godwin. 
 Th 3 Lost Love. By Jvlrs. Oliphont. 
 Th.3 Roman Traitor. By Henry William Herbert. 
 Ihs Bohemians of London. By E. M. Whltty. 
 The Rival Belles; or, Life in Washington. By J. B. Jones. 
 Ti'ie Devoted Bride. By St. George Tucker. 
 Love and Duty. By Mrs. Unbbach. 
 The Ladies' Guide to Needlework end Embroiderr. 
 The Ladies' Guide to True Politeness. Bv Jiits Leslie. 
 Harris's Wild Sportsand Adventuresin Africa. 
 Jadge Haliburton's Yankee Stories. Illustrr-ted. 
 Courtship and Matrimony. By RobertMorris. 
 The Refugee. By Herman Melville, author cf'Omoo." 
 Lite, Speeci'.esand jMartyrdom of Abraham Lincoln. 
 Sam Slick, the Clockmaker. By Sam Slick, 
 liife. Writings, and Beautiesof Fanny Fern. 
 I-ifeand Lecturcsof Lola Muntes. with her portrait. 
 tVild Southern Scenes. By authorof Wild Wcsteri. Scenes, 
 The Oid Stone Mansion, or Hemlock Farm. 
 Kate Aylesford, a Love Story of the Refugees. 
 Tlielliimorsof Falconbridge. ByJ. F.Kelly. Illustrated. 
 Currer Lyle; or. The Autobiography of an ActrcEB. 
 Simon Suggs' Adventures and Travels. Illustrated. 
 Piney Wood's Tavern; or, Sam Slickin Tcsas. 
 Vvilfred Jlontressor i or, High Life in New York. 
 Modern Chivalry. By H. H. Brackenridge. In two Vols. 
 The Big Bear's Adventures and Travels. Illustrated. 
 Coal, Coal Oil, andother Alinerals. By EliBowcn. 
 The Cabin and Parlor. By J. Thornton Randolph. 
 A Life's Struggle. ALoveS'ory. By Miss Pardee. 
 Lady Maud; or. The Wonder of ICingswood Chase. 
 Seceseion, Coercion, and Civil War. By J. B. Jones. 
 LurrimcrLittleeood's Adventures. By " Frank Fairlegh." 
 Harry Coverdale's Courtsliip and Marriage. Illustrated. 
 Lord Montagu's Page. An Historical Novel. By James. 
 Tlie Conscript, or trie Days of First Napoleon, by Dumas. 
 Love and Liberty, in the French Revolution, by Dumas. 
 Cousin Harry. A Lo^e Story. By Mrs. Grey. 
 The Cavalier. An H'Etirical Hovel. By G. P. R. James. 
 The Littlo Beauty. A Stnrv of the Heart. By Mrs. Grey. 
 Lizzie Glenn; or. The Trials of a Seamstress. By Arthur. 
 The Earl's Scrret. A Love Story. By Mifs Pardee. 
 Ihe Adopted Heir. E v author of " The Earl's Secret." 
 Popery Exposed. By La Gattina. 
 Rome and The Papacy. The -Men and their Manners. 
 
 BOOKS BY BEST AUTHORS. 
 
 Charles O'Malley, the Irish Drigoon. By I>cver 2 fH 
 
 Harry Lorrequcr. With his Coufessiins. By Lever. 'J 00 
 
 Jack Hintou, t!ie Guardsman. Ey Charles Lever 2 00 
 
 Davenport Dur.n. A Man of Our Day. By Lever 2 00 
 
 Tom Eurkeof Ours. By Charles Lever 2 011 
 
 The Knight of Gwynn'. By Charles Lever 2 09 
 
 Arthur O'l.eary. Ey Charles Lever 2 00 
 
 Con Crcrran. By Charles Lever 2 00 
 
 Hirace Templeton. By Cha-.les Lever 2 00 
 
 Kate O'Donocliue. By Ch^.rlcs Lever 2 09 
 
 TheLe-ends of the American Revolution 2 Of> 
 
 The Quaker City ; or. The Monks of Monk Hall 2 00 
 
 Blanche of Btaudywine; or, Sept. 11th, 1777 2 00 
 
 P.uil Ardrnhcim, the Monk of Wissatickou 3 00 
 
 The Jlystcries of Florence; or. The Lady of Al !aronc.2 00 
 ValeutineVox,theVentriloq>.ist. By Henry Cockton.2 00 
 French, German, Spanish, Latin, and Italian Lan- 
 guages Without a Master. By A. H. Moutcith 2 00 
 
 Lii'cbig's Complete Works on Chemistry. By Pro- 
 fessor Justus Liebig. Containing all of his Writings. 2 00 
 
 5Iackenzie's Life of Charles Dickens 2 00 
 
 The Last Athenian. From the Swedish of Rydberg. 2 00 
 T!ie Wandering Jew. By Eugene Sue. Illustrated.. 2 iM) 
 Mysteriesof Paris, audits Sequel. By Eugene Sue.. 2 00 
 
 Martin, the Foundling. By Eugene Sue 2 00 
 
 Ten Thousand a Year. By Saniucl Warren 2 I'O 
 
 The Lawrence Speaker. By Professor Lawrence. ... 2 00 
 Comstock's Elocution and Reader. With23CIllust'B. 2 I'O 
 
 Thel^ife of Edwin Forrest. Patter, ftl.OO; cloth 2 O'l 
 
 Across the Atlantic. By Chas. U. Uaeseler, M. D....2 Oil 
 
 BEAUTIFUL SNOW! EEAUTrFUL SNOWJ 
 
 Beautiful Snow, and other Poems. Bv J. W. Watson. 52 00 
 The Outcast, and other Poems, fty J. W. Watsou.. 2 00 
 The Young Magdalen and other Poems, by F. S. Smith. 3 00 
 Hans Breitmann'nBalladH, complete. withglossarv.. 4 00 
 Melster Karl's Sketch Book. By Chas. G. Leland. 2 .10 
 
 The Tower of London. With 98 Illustrations 2.10 
 
 The CountCBSof Jlonte-Cristo. Clotli.gl. 75: paper, 100 
 
 Ne-U's Charcoal Sketches. Complete. Cloth 2 iH) 
 
 Frank Forrester's Sportin? Scenes and Characters. 
 
 With illustrations by Da:lcy. Two vols. .cloth.. . . 4 00 
 The Life and Adventures it Don Qu xote; aid His 
 
 Sq, ire. Sancho Panza. With all tl e Ori-ina! Notes. 1 75 
 Dr. Hollick's Great Work on the Anntorovand Physi- 
 
 ohgv of the Hunan Figure, with CclorVd P ates. . 2 00 
 Tl,e Oead Secret. By Wilkie Collins. M.rnico cloth 1 .y) 
 Basil; or. The Crn«sed Pa.h. By WilUie C^iUins.... .1 .'.0 
 
 Aurora Floyd. By Miss rfraddon 1 00 
 
 Six Nie'its With The Washinct^^.i^ms; aid (Hher 
 
 Temperance Tales. By T. S. i\rthnr. Illuhtraied..3 .TO 
 
 CvriUa. Bv theauthorof "Tlelni'ials" 1 7.i 
 
 The Miser's Dnnehter. By V, m. Harrison Ainsworth.l 75 
 Historical SkeL • • .- , r V'ly.,, nth. By 11, B. Wiight. 4 00 
 Aunt Fatty's.-. ! . C'nrf Hi e T.f e lientz . . 1 .'.0 
 
 The Story of I :-- • ' : , ' , : ss 'i h^ ekeray.I.ld. el. ] SO 
 Ladies' Wor!< 'i;r :. u , iiti pUttrs. ciolh, gilt. .. 1 50 
 
 The Laws and Practice i t tne i.ame of Euchre, cloth. 1 ( 
 Wild (lats Sown Abrond. !-pi.v. Bv T. B. WHnicr. 1 .'jO 
 JInore's IMe of Hon. .'^chuyler CoHax. with Portrait. 1 .'0 
 Above books are each in one volume, cloth, with gilt back. 
 Comstoek'sColored Chart. Everysehool wantsacopv.S 00 
 Riidcll's Model Architect fcr CoULtr^ RetideuctL.'.jJ 00 
 
 ■FTLAITK EAIELEGH'S WOEKS. 
 
 ran 
 Lewis Arundel 1 00 I Tom Racquet. 
 
 Fineeditionsoi above are issued in cloth, at 5l.7.'i eac"i. 
 Harry Covcrdale's Court- I Lorrimer Littlegood..51 .'.0 
 
 ship, ,?l..-.0,orcloth,51 7.5 | orincloth 1 7.S 
 
 The Colville Family ,. iO 
 
 WILKIE COLLmS' BEST WOUKS. 
 
 The Dead Secret. 12mo.,<;i M \ Basil, Crocsed Path...Kl HO 
 Above are in 12mo., cloth. Price only ,S1 .^oeach. 
 
 75 I Missor jMrs 
 75 I Mad Monkt 
 
 AflerDark 75 | Mi 
 
 Basil 
 
 Stolen Mask.... 25 1 Yellow Mask 25 | Sister Rose. . .25 
 
 HAKEY COCKTO^'S WOEKS. 
 
 Valentine Vox, paper.. 75 I The Fatal Marriages.... 75 
 
 Valentine Vox. cloth... 2 00 Thf Stew^ir.l 75 
 
 The Love Match 73 | Percy Effineham 75 
 
 Sylvester Sound, the Somnaaibulist..75 | The Prince.. 75 
 
 LANGUAGES WITHOUT A MASTEE 
 
 French Without a Master. In Six Easy Lessons 40 
 
 German With..uta Master. In Six Easy Lessons 40 
 
 Spanish Without a Master. In Four Easy Lessons 40 
 
 Italian Witliout a Master. In Five Easy Lessons 40 
 
 Latin Without a Master. In Six Easy Lessous 40 
 
 Anv one or all of the rbnve five Lantrunircs ran be 
 Icatned bv any one without a teacher. The Hve booki are 
 also bound in one large volvine, cloth. Price Two Dollars. 
 
 Above bookg are for sale by all Booksellers, or copies of any one or all of them ■will be sent, free 
 of postage, on receipt of retail price, by T. B. PSTSSSOK" & BI10THE2S, PhiladelpMa, Pa. (CJ 
 
T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS' PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 ALEXANDEH DUMAS' WOUKS. 
 
 Countof rHontcCristo..! 50 
 
 Eamoiid L>au;eB 7i 
 
 The Three Guiirdsraeu.. 75 
 Twenty Yciiia Alter ... 7i 
 
 Brugeloiine 75 
 
 The Iron Mask 1 OU 
 
 Louise La Valliere 1 «0 
 
 Diana otMeridor 1 00 
 
 Adventures of Marntiis.l 00 
 Love and Liberty, "92' 
 
 or, The Fate ofa Coquette . 
 
 Memoirs ofa Physician 
 
 Queen's Neclilace 
 
 Six Years Later 
 
 Countess of Charuy 
 
 Aiidree de Taveruey 
 
 The Chevalier 
 
 Forty-flve Guardsmen. 
 
 The Iron Hand 
 
 The Conscript 
 
 Countess Monte Cristo 
 
 Above are in paper cover, or in cloth. 
 
 >each. 
 
 The Mohicans of Paris... 75 I The Fallen Angel 
 
 The Uo'rroiBof Paris 75 The Black Tulip 
 
 I'elinade Chambure '5 I The Corsican Brothers.. 
 
 Sketches in France 75 I The Count of Moret 
 
 Isahelof B:ivaria 75 | The Marriape Verdict. .. 
 
 Twin Lieutenants 7.'; Madame I>e Chamblay.. 
 
 Man with Five Wives. ...75 I Buried Alive 
 
 Anrettc: or. The Ladyofthe Pearls 
 
 George; or, The Plauterof the Isle of France 
 
 GEORGE SAND'S WORKS 
 
 ,!2n 
 
 )., cloth. Si 50 
 
 ih.. 
 
 50 
 
 Above are in 12mo., cloth, gilt side ami back. 
 
 Fanchon. the Cricket. .Sl.OOin paper, orcloth 1 50 
 
 First and True Love.... 75 I The Corsair 50 
 
 Simon ,50 | Last Aldinl 50 
 
 Monsieur Antoinc. II Illustrations. P,iper,75: .loth,! 00 
 Consueloaud Countess of Rudolstadt, octavo, cloth. 2 00 
 
 FRANK FORRESTER'S BEST BOOK 
 
 FranU Forrester's S|iortina; Seenes and Characters. With 
 numerous illustrations by Darlcy. Two vols, cloth, S-l.OU 
 
 GREEN'S WORKS ON GAMBLING. 
 
 AboTearein cloth, orin paperc 
 
 MISS PARDOE'S WORKS. 
 
 The Jealous Wife 50 
 
 Confession of a Pretty 
 
 The 
 
 iie'sTr 
 
 Rival Beauties 75 
 
 anceofthe llarcm..75 
 
 The five above hooks are alsobound inone vol. tor 54.00 
 The Earl's Secret S1..W | The Adopted Heir. . ..S1.50 
 
 Above are in paper cover; or in cloth, at 51. 75 each. 
 
 HENRY MORFORL'S NOVELS. 
 
 Shoulder-straps 1 50 I DaysofShoddy 
 
 The Cowanl 1 50 I 
 
 Above areiu paper cover, orin cloth at 51.75 ea 
 
 EUGENE SUE'S WORKS. 
 
 The'Wanderine.Tew...SI r,0 
 
 Mvstericsof Paris 1.50 
 
 Martin, the Foundling. 1.50 
 
 Above in cloth, 52 each. 
 First Love 50 
 
 Woman's Love 
 
 Fem lie Bluebeard 
 
 .Man-of-War's-Man 
 
 Life and Adventures of 
 RaoulDeSurville 
 
 MRS. C. J. NEWBY'S WORKS. 
 
 Sunshine and Shadow. 
 
 Kate Kennertv 
 
 Won.lrons.-tra- -e 
 
 Trodden Down 50 
 
 Married .50 
 
 Common Sense 50 
 
 Only Temper 50 
 
 G. P. R. JAMES'S BOOKS. 
 
 Lord Montac-u'sPa^e.. 51-50 | The Cavalier 51.50 
 
 Above are in paper cover, or in cloth, at ,51.75 each. 
 
 The Miuiin Hlack.... 75 I ArrahNeil 75 
 
 Mary 01 Burgundy 75 | Eva St. Clair iO 
 
 MRS. GREY'S WORKS, 
 
 Cousin Harry 51.50 | The Little Beautv 51.50 
 
 Above are in paper cover, or in cloth, at 51.75 each. 
 Marriage in Uigh Lite... 50 ■ Gipsey's Daughter 
 LenaCanieron "" - • ■ -- 
 
 Belle of the Family 50 
 
 Sybil Lennard 50 
 
 Dukennd Cousin 50 
 
 The Little Wife .50 
 
 Manoeuvering Mother 50 
 
 Barotiet's Daurrhters 50 
 
 youngPrima Donna 60 
 
 Old Dower House. 
 
 Hyacinthe 25 
 
 Alice Seymour 2S 
 
 Mary Seaham 75 
 
 Passion and Principle 75 
 
 The Flirt 75 
 
 Good Society ...75 
 
 Lion-Hearted 76 
 
 BULWER'S (Lord Lytton) NOVELS. 
 
 rheBoue ..50 I Falkland , "?« 
 
 Lhe Oxonians 50 | Xne Courtier 25 
 
 G. W. M. REYNOLDS' WORKS. 
 
 CourtofLondon 51 00 
 
 Rose Foster 1 6o 
 
 Caroline ol Brunswick 1 00 
 
 VcuetiaTrelawney 1 00 
 
 Court of Naples 100 
 
 Lord Saxond ale 1 00 
 
 Count Christoval 1 00 
 
 The Gipsy Cliief 1 00 
 
 Rosa Lambert I 00 
 
 Above are in papercover 
 
 Isabella Vincent 75 
 
 Vivian Bertram 75 
 
 Countessof LasceUes 75 
 
 Dukeof Marchmont 75 
 
 The Opera Dancer 75 
 
 Childof Waterloo 75 
 
 Robert Bruce 75 
 
 Mary Stuart, QuecnScots75 
 
 TheSoIdier's Wife 75 
 
 May MIddleton 75 
 
 Massaereof (Jlencoc 75 
 
 Ciprina; or, The Sccretsof i 
 
 Mary Price 5I CS 
 
 Eustace tjuentin 1 00 
 
 .Joseph Wilmot 1 00 
 
 Banker's Daughter 1 00 
 
 Kenneth 1 00 
 
 lhe Bve-IIouse Plot... 1 00 
 
 The Necromancer 1 00 
 
 Wallace, the Hero of 
 
 Scotland, illnstiated. 1 00 
 or in cloth, at 51. 76 each. 
 
 Ellen Percy 76 
 
 Agues Evelyn 75 
 
 Pickwick Abroad 75 
 
 Parricide 75 
 
 Discarded Queen 75 
 
 Countessand the Page 75 
 
 Lovesof the Harem 75 
 
 Lifein Paris 50 
 
 Kdgar ATontroee 50 
 
 The Ruined Gameeter 60 
 
 Clifford and the Actress.. 50 
 Picture Gallery ..60 
 
 CAPTAIN MARRYATT'S WORKS. 
 
 ithful. 
 
 Jacob I 
 
 Japhet Starrh of Father.. .fO 
 
 Phantom Sliip 50 
 
 Midshipman Easy 50 
 
 Pacha of Many Tales 50 
 
 N.-ival Officer 50 
 
 Snarleyow 60 
 
 Newton Foster 50 
 
 King's Own 50 
 
 Pirate and Three Cutters.60 
 
 Peter Simple 60 
 
 Percival Kecne SO 
 
 Poor Jack .50 
 
 Sea King 60 
 
 T. S. ARTHUR'S WORKS. 
 
 The Lost Bride 50 
 
 The Two Brides 50 
 
 Love in a Cottage 50 
 
 Love in High Life 50 
 
 Year After Marriage 50 
 
 The Lady at Home 50 
 
 Cecelia Howard 50 
 
 The Orphan Children... .50 
 
 Debtor's Daughter 60 
 
 Jtarv Moreton 50 
 
 SixNightswiththe Washiui 
 
 Trial and Triumph I 
 
 The Divorced Wife i 
 
 Piideaud Prudence t 
 
 A;;nea,orthe Possessed..! 
 
 Lucy Sandford I 
 
 Ti e Bat ker's Vife ( 
 
 The Two Merchants I 
 
 I 1 subordination ; 
 
 The Iron Rule / 
 
 Lizzie Glenn, 51 .50, clo.l.; 
 gtouians. 8vo., cloth. ..53.J 
 
 AINSWORTH'S GREAT WORKS. 
 
 The Pictorial Life and Adventures of Jack Sheppard. 50 
 The Pictorial Life and AilveLtnres of Davy Crockett. 60 
 
 Tlie .Mysteries of the Courtof Queen Anne 60 
 
 The Pictorial Life and Ailventures of Guv Fawkes... 75 
 The Star Chamber. Full of IllustrativeEngravings. 75 
 OldSt.Paul's. A Tale of the riaeue and the Fire.. 75 
 
 The Mysteries of tie Court of tl>e Stuarts 75 
 
 PictorialLifeand Adventures of Dick Turpin 60 
 
 Windsor Castle. Illustrated. An Illi-torieal Romance. 75 
 
 Pictorial Life and Adventures of Grace O'Malley 50 
 
 The Sliser'sDanghter, papercover, ifl. 00, or in cloth..l 75 
 The Tower of London, with 98 ilUistraiions, one vol- 
 ume, papercover, price $1.50, or in cloth, gilt 2 50 
 
 Jack Sheppardand Guy Fawkes, in 1 volume, cloth. .1 76 
 
 MAXWELL'S WORKS. 
 
 Wild Sports of the TTest. 75 I Brvan O'Lynn 76 
 
 Stories of Waterloo 75 ( Lifeof Grace U'Malley...60 
 
 GUSTAVE AIMARD'S WORKS. 
 
 The White Scalper 50 I The Indian Chief 78 
 
 The Freebooters 50 The Red Trai k 75 
 
 The Rebel Chief 73 I Pirates of the Prairie. ...75 
 
 GEORGE LIPPARD'S WORKS. 
 
 The Legends of the American Revolution 1 60 
 
 Tlie Quaker City; or. The .Motiks of Monk Hall 1 50 
 
 Blanche of Brandywine; or, Sept. 11th, 1777 1 50 
 
 l>aul Ardenheim, the Monk of W'issahlckon 1 60 
 
 The Mysteries of Florence; or. The l.alv of Alharone.l 00 
 Above are in paper cover, or in clotli at $2.00 each. 
 
 The Empire City 75 I The Nazarene 78 
 
 Memoirs of a Preacher 75 | Legends of Mexico 60 
 
 LIEBIG'S WORKS ON CHEMISTRY. 
 
 Agricultural Chemistry. .25 
 
 Animal Cliemistry 25 
 
 Liebir's C^mi letu Works on Cheraistrv. Con 
 
 of ProlessorLleblg'swri tines, in cloth. Price 52.00, 
 
 I The Potato Disease, and 
 I how to preventit 25 
 
 MISS BRADDON'S WORKS. 
 
 fi Floyd, paper. 
 i Floyd, cloth. 
 
 75 I The Lawyer'i 
 .1 00 I For Better, F 
 
 cret 24 
 
 Vorse....76 
 
 Above books are for sale by all Booksellers, or copies of any one or all of them will be sent, free 
 of postage, on receipt of retaU price, by T. B. PETESSON & BEOIHEBS, Philadelpkia, Pa. (D) 
 
THE 
 
 iViOI\ilCS OF mOIMK HALL. 
 
 A EOMiNCE of PHILADELPHIA LIFE, IIVSTEIIV, and CRIME. 
 
 BIT GEOKGE LIPPARD, 
 
 AUTHOR OF "LEGENDS OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION;^' "BLANCHE OF BRANDYWINE; 
 
 "PAUL ARDENHEIM, THE MONK OF WISSAHIKUN ; " " WASHINOTON AND HIS MEN;" 
 
 "THE MYSTERIES OF FLORENCE:" "THE MKMOIKS OF A PREACHER," ETC. 
 
 Complete in One Large Octavo Volume, with a Portrait and Autograpli of the Author. 
 Price $1.50 in Paper Cover, or $2.00 hound in Morocco Cloth. 
 
 No American Novel lias ever commanded so wide-spread an interest, as the above work. 
 It has been made the subject ot" criticism wherever the English language is spoken. On one 
 hand, it has been denounced as a work of the most immoral and incendiary character; on the 
 other, it has been elaborately praised, as a painfully vivid picture of Life in the Great City. 
 It is written in a graphic style, with its dai'ker passages relieved by portraitures of intense 
 moral interest and beauty. But we advise the reader to refer to the work itself. Let him 
 survey its varied pages, and take in the wide panorama of its absorbing plot, from the first 
 chapter wliere the Great Idea of the story is dimly shadowed, even to the last, where that idea 
 is portrayed in all its details. The character of a pure but tempted woman, illustrated in 
 "jNIary" tlie Morchuut's Duighter, finds a strong contrast in "Dora Livingstone." Again; 
 in " Devil-Bug" the Outlaw of City Civilization, may be discerned, some of the highest evi- 
 dences of the autlior's grapliic powers, — powers wliich do not fail him, when he comes to depict 
 the proud Merchant Prince in Livingstone ; the heartless Sybarite in Lorrimer; the wayward, 
 although faitliful brother in Byrnewood; the feshionable swindler in Fitz-cowles; and the 
 " God-like Statesman " in the corrupt personage, who protects the Forger and the Swindler. 
 
 It is now many years since a prominent member of the Philadelphia bar first began to make 
 notes of his experience of the Life, Mystery, and Crime of the Quaker City. These memoranda, 
 frauglit with tlie most terrific interest, at the death of this aged and most respected lawyer, 
 v/ere bi-fineathed to the autlior, who occupied two years in working them np into this Bomance 
 of the Mystery, Crime, and Secret Life of Philadelphia, of the most original character. 
 
 Althougli all the characters of Piiiladelpliia Life are introduced — tlu- Lawyer, v, ho takes fees 
 from botli sides; the Parson, whose private history gives the lie to his inililic [nvaching; the 
 Doctor, who commits a disgusting crime for money ; as well as the dir-l]OiR>t ^derchant, tlie 
 Swell-Forger, the black-mail Editor, the Young Blood about town; the Fence Keeper, (re- 
 ceiver of stolen goods,) etc., etc.; yet has the author painted no living character in the pages 
 of his work, but only the distinguishing features of the representatives of a class. 
 
 GEORGE LIFPARO'S COil^FLETE WORKS. 
 
 THE LEGENDS OF THE AMEKICAN EEVOLUTION, 1776. lUuslrated ?1 50 
 
 THE QUAKER CITY; or, THE MONKS OF MONK HALL. With Portrait..:. .1 50 
 BLANCHE OF BRANDYWINE; or, SEPTEMBER THE ELEVENTH, 1777. .. 1 50 
 
 PAUL ARDENHEIM, THE MONK OF WISSAHIKON. With Jllustrations 1 50 
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF FLORENCE; or, THE LADY OF ALBARONE 1 00 
 
 Above are each in octavo form, paper cover, or each one is in cloth, price $2.00 each. 
 
 WASHINGTON AND HIS MEN. Being the "Second Series" of the "Legends of 
 
 the American Revolution." With Illustrations '75 
 
 THE MEMOIRS OF A PREACPIER; or, THE MYSTERIES OF THE PULPIT. 75 
 
 THE EMPIRE CITY ; or, NEW YORK BY NIGHT AND DAY 75 
 
 THE NAZARENE ; or, THE LAST OF THE WASHINGTONS 75 
 
 THE ENTRANCED; or, THE WANDERER OF EIGHTEEN CENTURIES... 50 
 
 THE LEGENDS OF MEXICO. Full of Historical Pictures and Battle Scenes 50 
 
 THE BANK DIRECTOR'S SON; or, LIFE IN A GREAT CITY 25 
 
 "^^ Above boohs are for sale by all Boolcsdlers and News Agents. 
 • Jg^^ Copies of any one, or more, or all of the above ivorks, will be sent at once, to any one, 
 postage pre-paid, or free of freight, on remitting price of the ones wanted, to the Publishers, 
 
 T. B. PETERSON &; BROTHERS, 
 
 No. 306 Cliestnnt Street, Piiiladelpliia. 
 
THE Mmr '" ' \ 
 
 BY" GEORGE I 
 
 AUTHOR OF "THE QUAKER CITY; OR, MONKS OF MONK HALL;" 'BLANCin: el" T!i; \yTiYV\INE;" 
 
 "LEGENDS OF THE AMEUICAN REVOLUTION ; " "WASHINGTON AND HIS MEN;" 
 
 "MYSTERIES OF FLORENCE;" "MEMOIRS OF A TREACHER," ETC. 
 
 Complete in one Large Octavo Volume, with a Portrait of the Monk of Witsaliikon. 
 Price $1.50 in Paper Cover, or $2.00 bound in Morocco Cioth. 
 
 Paul Ardenlieim ilhistrates tlie Secret History of the Revolution of "1776." The pcene Ls 
 now on the wild and mysterious Wissahikon ; now in the streets of old-time Phihuieli hia; 
 now among the homes of Germantown, and again on the dreary hills of Valley ]'"orge. In 
 its materials alone, it is pronounced to be one of the most singularly interesting w"(jrks of the 
 age. The characters of old-time Pennsylvania, the wild sujierstition.s, with which tradition 
 has invest'ed tlie gorge of the Wissahikon ; the Monks who in the ancient time reared their 
 rustic monastery in its shadows; the storied graveyards of Germantown ; Wharton's House, 
 in Pluladelphia, with its celebrated feast of the Meschianza ; the unwearied efiorts of partizan 
 warfare, the attack by night, the desperate fight, the massacre, and tlie peril of battle in every 
 shape. Such are a few of the incidents, scenes, and characters of this absorbing work. 
 
 Tlie main conception of the work is at once bold and striking. Taking advantage of an 
 old legend, whose theme is the Weird Horseman of the Wissahikon, the author has relieved 
 the his:orical portions of his work, by pictures of the dark and thrilling superstitions of old- 
 time Pennsylvania, which, springing from the forests of ancient Germany, found such con- 
 genial nurture in our soil. In one word, the book of Paul Ardenheim is intended as an 
 embodiment of three things. First, The Legends which give interest to the deil of the Wissa- 
 liikon, now grotesque, now terrible, and now sublime. Second, The Secret History of the 
 Revolution, especially that part of it which relates to the vast Masonic order, whose ramifi- 
 cations extended througli all the branches of the army. Third, Of the manners, customs, and 
 superstitions of old-time Pennsylvania. 
 
 The manuscript upon which this work is founded, covers that mteresting portion of the 
 history of the American Revolution which has been hitherto secret and unwritten. 
 
 Tiie following localities are embraced in the scenes and })ages of "Paul Ardenheim :" 
 
 The Wissahikon. — From Robinson's Mill, along the stream beyond the Monastery, wliich is 
 yet in existence. 
 
 Laurel Hill. — This is the scene of one of the most thrilling incidents of the Romance. 
 
 Wharton's House. — The Tournament of the Meschianza, with the exploit of the American 
 partizan chief. 
 
 The old State House. — The Signing of the immortal Declaration of Independence. 
 
 Valley Forye. — The trials and sutlcrings of the army under ^Vasllington, etc., etc. 
 
 CEORGE LIPPARD'S COf^lFLETE WORKS. 
 
 PAUL ARDEXPIEIM, THE MONK OF WISSAHIKON. With Itludrations §1 50 
 
 THE LEGENDS OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION, 177G. Illustrated 1 50 
 
 THE QUAKER CITY; or, THE MONKS OF iMONK HALL. With Portrait... . 1 50 
 BLANCHE OF BRANDY WINE; or, SEPTEMBER TIIE ELEVENTH, 1777. .. 1 50 
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF FLORENCE; or, THE LADY OF ALBARONE 1 00 
 
 Above are each in octavo form, -paper cover, or each one is in cloth, price §2.00 each. 
 
 WASHINGTON AND HIS MEN. Being the "Second Series" of the " Legends of 
 
 the American Revolution." With Jllustralions 75 
 
 THE MEMOIRS OF A PREACHER ; or, THlL MYSTERIES OF THE PULPIT. 75 
 
 THE EMPIRE CITY ; or, NEW YORK BY NIGHT AND DAY 75 
 
 THE NAZARENE ; or, THE LAST OF TIIE WASHINGTON'S 75 
 
 THE ENTRANCED; or, THE WANDERER OF EIGHTEEN CENTURIES... 50 
 
 THE LEGENDS OF MEXICO. Full of Historical Pictures and Battle Scenes 50 
 
 THE BANK DIRECTOR'S SON; or, LIFE IN A GREAT CITY^ 25 
 
 S^^ Above books are for sale by all Booksellers and News Agents. 
 
 i^^ Copies of any one, or more, or all of the above icorks, will be sent at once, to any one. 
 postage pre-paid, or free of freight, on remitting price of the ones wanted, to the Publishers, 
 
 T. B. PETERSON & BKOTHEKS, 
 
 No. 308 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia. 
 
OF BRANDYWINE; 
 
 SEPTEMBER THE ELEVENTH, 1777. 
 BY GEORGE LIFFARD. 
 
 AUTHOR OF "THE QUAKEB CITY; OB, MONKS OF MONK HALL;" "PAUL ARDENHEIM; 
 
 "LEGENDS OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION;" "WASHINGTON AND HIS MEN;" 
 "MYSTERIES OF FLORENCE;" "MEMOIRS OF A PREACHER," ETC. 
 
 Complete in one Large Octavo Volume. Price $1.50 in Paper, or $2.00 in Cloth. 
 
 "Blnnclieof Brandywine" is one of Lippard's noblest efforts, and is divided into four books, 
 all of wliich are contained in this volume, and are entitled, Munthernier ; The Eose of Bran- 
 dvwine; The Battle Morn; and Eandulpli, the Prince. It is a thrilling and heart-stirring 
 ro;naiii\', oiitainint^ the Legends, Poetry, and History of the Battle of Brandywine, and is 
 noL oiilv a vivid picture of the Battle of Brandywine, but also comprises some of the most 
 be.iniil'il iMiiiraituris of female character, ever written in the English language. 
 
 '■ iJi liiclK' 111' ISraiulywine" is a continuous Legend of the Revolution, or rather a group of 
 Lci;-,_Mnl-, in.iiliin ■«! in the form of a Romance. Tiie scene is laid on the battle-ground of 
 rji-ainlvunic', and the time, from the Eighth to the Eleventh of September, 1777. Among the 
 ])!irc!v !ii-;ti)rical characters introduced in the v.'ork, will be found those of Generals WASH- 
 lX(;r()X, LAFAYETTE, (JREEXE, MAD A^'THO^^Y WAYNE, STIRLING, SUL- 
 LIVAN, IIUWE, CURNWALLIS, LORD PERCY, and COUNT PULASKL 
 
 The interest of the reader is kept up from the first page to the last, and the following scenes 
 liave been specially noticed by the Press everywhere, for their great interest and power : 
 
 THE ESCAPE OF WASHINGTON. 
 THE CHARGE OF PULASKL 
 
 THE MEETING OF THE BROTHERS IN THE QUAKER TEMPLE, 
 AMID THE SCENES OF THE BATTLE. 
 
 THE REVENGE OF THE BLACKSMITH HERO. 
 THE CHARGE OF CAPTAIN LEE'S RANGERS. 
 
 Lippard's genius is not all dark and horrible. There is in him, too, the sweetest beauty, 
 flashing out betimes like the dancing aurora up the winter sky. Even amid all the war- 
 horrors of " r>lanche of Brandywine," we shall see how tiie author's soul deliglits in the 
 iina!;is of hiaiity and purity that seem to flit ever before him in the midst of the darkest 
 delineations. Our whole literature does not contain any more beautiful sketches of female 
 character than Lippard has given ns in his " Blanche of Brandywine," of Rose, Blanche, and 
 the Lady Isidore. All that a pure man could desire in a wife, a mother, or a sister, he will 
 find in this book, made living and beautiful in the lives of tliese characters. Isidore we shall 
 love forever, for she was not only " magnificently beautiful, but brave, and loving." 
 
 CEORCE LBPPARD'S COi^FLETE WORECS. 
 
 BLANCHE OF BRANDYWINE; or, SEPTEMBER THE ELEVENTH, 1777. ..$1 50 
 
 PAUL ARDENHEIil, THE MONK OF WISSAHIKON. With Illustrations 1 50 
 
 THE LEGENDS OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION, 1776. Illustrated 1 50 
 
 TIIE QUAKER CITY; or, THE MONKS OF MONK HALL. With Portrait... . 1 50 
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF FLORENCE; or, THE LADY OF ALBARONE 1 00 
 
 Above are each in octavo form, paper cover, or each one is in cloth, price $2.00 ea,ch. 
 
 Y.MSHINGTON AND HIS MEN. Being the "Second Series" of the "Legends of 
 
 the American Revolution." With Mlustrations 75 
 
 THE MEMOIRS OF A PREACHER ; or, THE MYSTERIES OF THE PULPIT. 75 
 
 THE EMPIRE CITY ; or, NEW YORK BY NIGHT AND DAY 75 
 
 THE NAZARENE ; or, THE LAST OF THE WASHINGTONS 75 
 
 THE ENTRANCED; or, THE WANDERER OF EIGHTEEN CENTURIES... 50 
 
 THE LEGENDS OF MEXICO. Full of Historical Pictures and Battle Scenes 50 
 
 THE BANK DIRECTOR'S SON ; or, LIFE IN A GREAT CITY 25 
 
 g®" Above books are for sale by all Booksellers and News Agents. 
 
 S^^ Copies of any one, or more, or cdl of the above works, will be sent at once, to any one, 
 postage pre-paid, or free of freight, on remitting price of the ones ivanted, to the Publishers, 
 
 ^AN 9o "I"- ^- PETERSON & BROTHERS, 
 
 ^>^i^ ' ]Sro. 306 Chestnut Street, Pliiladelphia. 
 
 ^81340 
 
' LEGENDS 
 
 OF THE 
 
 AMERICAN REVOLUTION. 
 
 "177©." 
 
 BY GEORGE LIPPARD. 
 
 AUTHOR OF "THE QUAKER CITY; OR, MONKS OF MONK HALL;" "BLANCHE OF BR ANDY WINE; 
 
 "PAUL ARDENHEIM, MONK OF WISSAHIKON;" "WASHINGTON AND HIS MEN;" 
 
 "MYSTERIES OF FLORENCE;" "MEMOIRS OF A PREACHER," ETC. 
 
 One Large Octavo Volume, with a Steel Engraving of the "Battle of Germantown," at 
 "Chew's House." Price $1.50 in Paper Cover, or $2.00 in Morocco Cloth. 
 
 This work is, emphatically, THE BOOK OF THE EEVOLUTION, of " 1776," and is 
 devoted to the records and legends of the American Kevolution, which it embodies in a series 
 of vivid and original historical pictures. It is the result of five years labor on the part of 
 the author. It comprises his researches into the Archives, documents and papers now hidden 
 away in the libraries and closets of the Union. It also combines those traditions whicli old 
 men" have brouglit down from their parents to our time, concerning the days of " 1776." It 
 is also the best book that l>as ever been written on this portion of our history, it being of tlie 
 days and times of " 1776." It is also not merely ahistory. It is sometlung more. It is 
 a series of battle pictures, with all the truth of history in them, where the heroes are made 
 living, present and visible to our senses. Here we do not merel)' turn over the dead dry facts 
 of General Washington's battles, as if coldly digging them out of their tomb — but we see the 
 living general as he moves round over tiie field of glory. We almost hear the word of his 
 command. We are quite sure that we see the smoke rolling up from the field of battle, and 
 hear the dreadful roar of the cannon, as it spouts its death-flame in tlie face of the living and 
 the dead. Through all, we see dashing on the wild figure of mad Anthony Wayne, followed 
 with the broken battle-cry of Pulaski; until along the line, and over the field, tiie images of 
 death and terror are only hidden from our view by the shroud of smoke and flame. 
 
 It also comprises life-like descriptions of the battles of Germantown, Saratoga, Quebec, 
 Brandywine, Trenton, Paoli, Red Bank, etc., with a new and minute description of the Signing 
 and Proclamation of the " DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE." 
 
 There is not a relic of the Revolution within a hundred miles of each scene, which has 
 not been visited by Mr. Lippard, not an inch of ground, on the old battle-fields, that he has 
 not explored. Hardly any old revolutionary newspaper has been allowed to rest in peace ; 
 that too iiad to be dug from its garret-grave, and stript of its cob-web shroud, to satisfy this 
 insatiate lumger for revolutionary history and legends. 
 
 A copy ot this work should be found on every centre-table, or at the fireside of every Patriot 
 and American, and it should be handed down to their childi-en and posterity, as an heir-loom. 
 
 GEORGE LIPPARD'S COSyiPLETE WORKS. 
 
 THE LEGENDS OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION, 1776. Illustrated $1 50 
 
 THE QUAKER CITY; or, THE MONKS OF MONK HALL. With Portrait 1 50 
 
 BLANCHE OF BRANDYWINE; or, SEPTEMBER THE ELEVENTH, 1777. .. 1 50 
 
 PAUL ARDENHEIM, THE MONK OF WISSAHIKON. With Illustrations 1 50 
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF FLORENCE; or, THE LADY OF ALBARONE 1 00 
 
 Above are each in octavo form, paper cover, or each one is in cloth, price $2.00 each. 
 
 WASHINGTON AND HIS MEN. Being the " Second Series" of the " Legends of 
 
 the American Revolution." With Illustrations 75 
 
 THE MEMOIRS OF A PREACHER ; or, THE MYSTERIES OF TIIE PULPIT. 75 
 
 TIIE EMPIRE CITY ; or, NEW YORK BY NIGHT AND DAY 75 
 
 THE NAZARENE ; or, THE LAST OF THE WASHINGTONS 75 
 
 THE ENTRANCED; or, THE WANDERER OF EIGHTEEN CENTURIES... 50 
 
 THE LEGENDS OF MEXICO. Full of Historical Pictures and Battle Scenes 50 
 
 THE BANK DIRECTOR'S SON ; or, LIFE IN A GREAT CITY 25 
 
 S^° Above books are for sale by all Booksellers and News Agents. 
 
 J^^ Copies of any one, or more, or all of the above works, will be sent at once, to any one, 
 postage pre-paid, or free of freight, on remitting price of the ones wanted, to the Publishers, 
 
 T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, 
 
 No. 306 Chestnut Street, Pliiladelpliia. 
 
\f 
 
 T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, No. 306 Cheatnut Street, Philadelphia, have jmt 
 published an entire new, complete, and uydform edition of all the celebrated works written by the 
 popular American Historian and Novelist, George Lippard. Every Family and every Library in 
 iLis country, shoidd have in it a set cf this new edition of his works. The following is a complete 
 
 LIST OF GEORGE LIPPARD'S WORKS. 
 
 THE LEGENDS OP THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION, 1776; or, 
 WASIlIlTGTOIT AND HIS GENERALS. By George Lippard. With a steel 
 Engniving of the "Battle of Germantown," at "Chew's House." Complete in one large 
 octavo volume. Price §1.50 in paper cover, or bound in morocco cloth, price $2.00. 
 
 THE QUAKER CITY; or, THE MONKS OF MONK HALL. A 
 Romanes of Philadelphia Life, Mystei-y, and Crime, By George Lippard. 
 With his Portrait and Autograph. Complete in one large octavo volume, price $1.50 in 
 paper cover, or hound in morocco cloth, price $2.00. 
 
 PAUL ARDENHEIM, THE MONK OP WISSAHIKON. A Romance 
 of the American Revolution, 1773. By George Lipi^ard. Illustrated. Complete 
 in one large octavo volume, price $1.50 in paper cover, or bound in morocco cloth, price $2.00. 
 
 BLANCHE OF BRANDYWINE ; or, SEPTEMBER THE ELEV- 
 ENTH, 1777, By George Lippard. A Romance of the Eevolntion, as well as of the 
 Poetry, Legends, and History of the Battle of Brandywine. Complete in one large octavo 
 volume, price $1.50 in paper cover, or bound in morocco cloth, price $2.00. 
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF* FLORENCE; or, THE CRIMES AND 
 MYSTERIES OP THE HOUSE OF ALBARONE. By George Lippard. 
 Complete in one large octavo volume, price $1.00 in paper cover, or $2.00 in cloth. 
 
 WASHINGTON AND HIS MEN, Being the Second Series of the 
 Legends of the American Revolution, 1776, By George Lippard. With 
 Illustrations. Complete in one large octavo volume, paper cover, price 75 cents. 
 
 THE MEMOIRS OP A PREACHER; or, THE MYSTERIES OF 
 THE PULPIT, By George Lippard. With Illustrations. Complete in one large octavo 
 volume, paper cover, price 75 cents. 
 
 THE EMPIRE CITY; or, NEV/ YORK BY NIGHT AND DAY. 
 
 Its Aristocracy and its Dollars. By George Lippard. Complete in one large octavo 
 volume, paper cover, price 75 cents. 
 
 THE NAZARENE; or, THE LAST OF THE WASHINGTONS, 
 By George Lippard. A Revelation of Philadelpliia, New Yoriv, and AVashington. Com- 
 •plete in one large octavo volume, paper cover, price 75 cents. 
 
 THE ENTRANCED; or, THE WANDERER OF EIGHTEEN 
 
 CENTURIES, containing also, Jesus and the Poor, the Heart Broken, etc. By George 
 Lippard. Complete in one large octavo volume, paper cover, price 50 cents. 
 
 THE LEGENDS OF MEXICO. By George Lippard. Comprising Legends and 
 Historical Pictures of the Camp in the Wilderness; The Sisters of Monterey; The L>ead 
 Woman of Palo Alto, etc. Complete in one large octavo volume, paper cover, price 50 cents, 
 
 THE BANK DIRECTOR'S SON, A Revelation of Life in a Great City. By 
 George Lippard. Complete in one large octavo volume, paper cover, price 25 cents. 
 
 Mg"- Above Books are for sale by all Booksellers, or copies of either one or more of the above 
 hooks, or a complete set of them, will be sent at once, to any one, to any place, postage pre-paid, or 
 free of freight, on remitting the price of the ones wanted., in a letter to the Publishers, 
 
 T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, 
 
 No. 306 Chestnut Street, Philadelpliia. 
 
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