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"177 6." 

O II, 








We pronounce this to be the best book that has ever been written on tfiis portion of our history, it being 
of the days and times of 1776. This 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 Washington s battles, 
as if coldly digging them out of their tomb but we see the living general as he moves round over the 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 the 
flee of the living and the dead. Through all, we see dashing on the wild figure of mad Anthony 
Wayne, followed ivith the broken battle-cry of Pal a ski ; until along the line, and over the field, the images 
of death and terror are only hidden from our view by the shroud of smoke and flame. 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1876, by 

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C. 

HA/i ) 

THIS work, entitled, the " 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 t-he 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 sorely tried men s souls." 

Not only George Washington, as well as his Generals, 
have I attempted to delineate in these Legends of the 
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 




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, that 
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, 
trated in this volume. 









The Entrance of the British - 25 
Lord Cornwallis at the head of his 

legions 25 

The Old-time village - 27 
The view from Chesnut Hill - 28 

Chew s house before the battle 29 
The position of the British Army 30 
Night in Germantown 30 
The names, not recorded in the 

" Herald s" college - 31 

WASHINGTON by his camp-fire 32 
His plan of battle - 33 

The Brother s soul and the Sister s 

prayer 37 

WASHINGTON comes to battle 37 

The hunt of death begins - 38 

Pulaski s war-cry - - 3$ 

The flash of musquetry - 40 

WASHINGTON and his Generals in 


The halt at Chew s House 
The Volunteer of Mercy 
His murder 







A sight worth a score of years, to see 45 
The fate of the stormers - 46 


WASHINGTON, receives intelligence 47 

The legions on their battle march 34 



The sentinel on Mount Airy - 35 
The sound that he hears - 36 


The dream of the sentinel - 36 

Scene in Germantown - 48 
The British army, in full force, 

moves to the field - 49 

The old man in the graveyard 49 
The rifle-shot ... 50 



Sullivan s charge 50 

The density of the fog - 5C 

Fighting in the dark 50 


He rushes into the enemy s fire 51 






His gallant exploit 53 

Death, in the Riot, the Home and 

the battle 53 

One face among a thousand - 54 
The Messenger of Peace - 54 

The drop from the ceiling 56 
Not blood but wine - - 57 
The last drop from the Goblet 58 

A poem of everlasting beauty 59 
The Hessians and the Continentals 60 
The vengeance of the Continentals 61 

WASHINGTON and his Generals be 
fore the graves of the dead 

The preacher speaks of the dead 

t Of the Heroes of the Past 



The last scene 




Nine o clock in the morning - 
The daring of the Chieftains 
The Curse of WASHINGTON - 




The group by the wayside - 
How goes the battle ! - - 
The last fight of the veteran - 
"Lost!" .... 


The terror of the retreat 

The wound of General Nash - 


WASHINGTON S last look at the field 69 

III. CAPTAIN LEE - - . 69 
His daring adventure 70 
He foils the Hanovarians 71 

The spirit of desolation - 71 
Death, supreme, among the wrecks 

of battle ... 72 
The murdered boy 72 


AGAIN ^ ... 73 

HP will go < Home ! to morrow 73 
The last dead man of the battle day 74 



Introduction the beauty of the 
stream and dell a gleam of the 

Indian maids of old 85 


ERER - . . . 86 

The Monastery S7 
A strange scene 88 
The Priest of Wissahikon - 89 
The last day of 1773 - . 90 
A wild superstition - - 91 
The new World, the Ark of Free 
dom .... 92 
Prayer of the father and son - 93 
The Deliverer comes 94 
The Prophet speaks to him - 95 
A maiden looks upon the scene 96 
The Deliverer is consecrated - 97 
He takes the oath - - 98 
WASHINGTON visits the ruins 98 


Scene on the Wissahikon at mid 
night .... 99 

Ellen 100 

Old Michael meets the Tory band 101 

The Parricide - - - 102 

The Orphan s curse - - 103 
The yell of the dying horse and 

his rider - - 104 


SAHIKON - - - 104 

A memory of " Paoli !" 104 

The ordeal - - - 105 

The Old and New Testaments 106 

This speaks, Life, that, Death 106 

The hand of Providence - 107 


Washington in prayer - 108 

The stranger in the red uniform 108 

A Dukedom for the Rebel - 10S 

Scorn from the Rebel iv the King 1 1C 



AND REBEL - - 111 

The Viceroy WASHINGTON - 111 
He is presented to the King - 112 
He is crowned in Independence 


- 113 


He is beheaded on Tyburn Hill 113 
As HE is! - - - - 114 

The block house among the 

woods - - - 115 

The young girl beholds her 

father s danger - - 116 
She loads the rifle - - 117 
A terrible picture - -117 

She points the rifle to the pow 
der keg - - -118 


ABUT - - - 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 
V1IL VALLBT FORGE - - - 126 
The Tory and his daughter 

Mary - - - 126 

The plot to entrap WASHINGTON 127 
The Room on the Right and the 

Room on the left - - 128 
The old man beholds his victim 129 
The last word of the death- 

stricken - - - 130 

Kilt. - - - -131 

The falls ofSchuylkill - - 131 
A scene of the olden time - 132 
The last secret of Cornelius 

Agrippa ... 133 ni. 
The Sister, in her Vision sees 

her brother - - 134 

Amable in danger - 134 

The libertine enjoys the sight 
of his intended victim 
the agony of the dying 
man - - - . 135 
4 red Indian - - - 136 
A white Indian - -1371 


The Virgin Widow - . 133 
Do not lift the coffin-lid from 

the face of the dead ! - 139 

Indian to the last - . 139 

TOWN - . .140 

Its memories of God and Im 
mortality ... 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 
The Massacre - . - 145 
Stony Point . 146 

How Anthony Remembered 



Scene in a New England church, 

one hundred years ago 151 
The strange vision of the 

Mother - - .152 
The Babe grown to Manhood 

the Child changed into a 

Devil - - -153 

One drop of virtue, in a sea of 

crimes! ... 153 

The fearful nature of this his 
tory - - . -154 
The deformed Children of 

history 155 
The Druggist - - - 155 
How he became a Soldier - jtf>6 
Ticonderoga ! 156 
DERNESS ... 157 

Napoleon and Arnold - - 158 
WASHINGTON and Arnold, in 
terview " Continental." - 158 
The Kennebec a lone Indian 159 
The Murder of a Priest at the 

Altar, by White Savages 16% 
Arnold claims the Wilderness 

the Prophecy 161 








The Banner of the Stars - 162 
The Lake - - - 162 

The fearful dangers of Arnold and 

his men - - 161 

He sees QUEBEC ! - 163 

Montgomery and Arnold pledge 

their Faith on the heighths 

of Abraham - - 16 

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 


Retreat of the American army 

incident in the career of 

Arnold - - - 169 

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 


The festival and wager - 173 

The Apparition - - 173 
The bloody scalp and long 

black hair - - 175 

An awful bridal Eve ! - 176 



Horatio Gates before his tent 176 

THE Black Horse and his Rider 177 

"Ho! WARREN! forward!" 
The scene with the retreating 
soldiers - 



A strange spectacle ! 

The crisis of the conflict 

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 


The aisle of Christ Church - 183 j 


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 


General Cadwallader and the 
Adjutant General of the 
army their conversation 
in 1776 . . . 19f 

Serious charges against the 

Adjutant General - 194 

The summing up of the evi 
dence ... 19) 

Arnold s memorable words - 192 
The day of the reprimand - 192 
He cannot live down persecu 
tion - - - 193 
The scene of the Reprimand 194 
The portrait of the Accuser 195 
He meditates the Future - 196 
His Palace his Wife his 

Infamy - - - 197 

The silent influence of his 

Wife ... 198 

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 - 204 




learns the 
Treason - 

The Mother and WASHINGTON 

The Ship Vulture and its Pas 
senger ... 


Seven men watch for robbers 





The day-dream of the wayfarer 211 
Three men of the seven, arrest 

the tiaveller - - 212 
The Pass of Arnold - - 213 
The development - - 214 
The bribe - - - 215 
A prisoner, a spy and the Vul 
ture in sight! - - 216 
The Poor Man Heroes of the 

Revolution - - 217 
The blunder by which Arnold 

escaped - - - 218 


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 

XVII. JOHK CHAMPE - - - 224 
The luxurious chamber - 224 
A mysterious visitor - - 225 

The Ghost of John Andre - 226 
The wife of Arnold and the 

Ghost - 227 

WASHINGTON in his Tent - 228 

A Knight of the Revolution - 229 

Only one way to save Andre ! 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 laughter - - - 240 

A beautiful woman - 241 

A shadow of death, in the 

Arnold s Oath 
Champe alone with Arnold 
The memory of the gallant 

How he died 
Vengeance upon the Double 






The Phantom of Arnold s life 
The Man who has not one 

friend in the world 250 
Lee s encampment again 

scene changed - 250 

" CHAMPE a brave and honest 

man !" - - - 251 

Explanation of the Mystery - 252 
One of the noblest names in 

history ... 353 


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 256 
Arnold s sneer - : - 257 

XIX. THE SISTERS - - - 257 
A flower garden ... 257 
The bud and the moss rose - 258 
The Sisters talk of the absent 259 
The Presentiment of the Second 

of October - - 268 

The return of the aged soldier 261 
The fatal intelligence - - 261 
The Brother s Star - - 262 

XX. ANDRE THE SPY - - 263 
Andre a partner in Arnold s 

Conspiracy - - 263 

Tne Wife of Arnold, also a 

Conspirator - - 263 

WASHINGTON condemned him 

justly ... 263 

Tears for the fate of Andre - 264 

XXI. NATHAN HALE - - - 264 
The farewell of the student 

soldier - - - 264 

The Blessing of the aged 

Mother - - 26fi 




The Betrothed - 266 

The Cell of the doomed Spy - 266 
The Martyr who 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 

Gloom in Charleston 270 
The Gallows and the Murderer - 271 
The Prayer of the Sister and the 

Children - - - 272 
The Response of the titled Murderer 273 

The farewell beside the gibbet - 274 

Theory of the Idiot Boy - - 275 

The contempt of WASHINGTON 276 

Arnold the Destroyer - - 276 
Despised by all the men who 

bought him, and the men 

whom he would have sold 277 

A strange legend - - - 277 
The Benighted traveller and the 

old hunter - - - 278 

An old soldier s opinion of Arnold 279 

The emotion of the stranger - 280 
/The old hunter sees a vision of 

the Evil Spirit - 281 




The burning of New London and 

Fort Griswold - - 

The death of Leydard - - 
British magnanimity - - 

The guilt and weakness of King 

George - - 

The three words . - - 
Talleyrand and Arnold - - 
The Remorse of the Traitor 
The obscurity of his death - 



His early life - 

The prime of his manhood - - 
WASHINGTON S opinion of him 
His marriage his enemies his 

postponed trial > - 

Review of his offences, difficulties 

and treason - 
Motives of the Author in this dark 

history - . .292 






- 291 


The Ciree lines, which comprise the 

whole burden of this Tragedy 29S 


An awful death-bed 294 

A superhuman Remorse - - 295 
The last memory of the fallen 

Lucifer - - - 296 

The Right arm ... 296 




Pennsylvania neglected by history 299 
Her monuments ... 300 







WINE .... 

Description of the Valley of Bran- 
dywine ... 

Prophecy uttered forty years before 
the battle 


The landing of Howe 


The encampment of WASHINGTON 
and his Men ... 

Howe, Comwallis and their hire 
lings .... 

The Preacher Heroes of the Revo 
lution - - 
Hymn to the Preacher Heroes 
Revolutionary Sermon 
Prayer of the Revolution 
WASHINGTON holds council under 

the chesmit tree 

La Fayette .... 
The attack at Chadd s Ford 

Survey of the battle-field - 
Howe comes to battle 

The approach of the American 



The moment before the contest 


Howe giVes the signal 
The battle 


















The Idiot King and the Warrior 

Form - - - -324 


The story of Percy, told by him to 

Cornwallis - - - 325 

He beholds his Dream - . 326 

His charge - - - - 327 

He meets his Indian Brother 328 

XII. THE LAST HOUR - - - 329 
Retreat of WASHINGTON - - 329 
Daring of the Boy La Fayette - 329 

XIII. PULASKI - - - - 330 
In his glory - - 330 
How he spoke English - - 331 
WASHINGTON a man of genius - 332 
Pulaski rescues the CHIEFTAIN - 333 
Night comes down on Pulaski - 333 



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 Brandy wine - 340 

Scene among the mountains - 340 
WASHINGTON, the Colonel at Brad- 
dock s field - - - 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 

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 

father - - - 358 

The infamous butcheries of England 

and the crimes of King George 359 

The Vow of the Negro Sampson 360 



Flowers from ashes . 360 

War, the parent of many virtues - 361 
The American Union a sacred 

thing . . . 361 
The guilt of the wretch who would 

destroy it - . - 362 

The memories of the Negro Prince 363 

The outraged Mary 364 

The Dog DEBBIL, - - 365 

Sampson prepares to go a-mowing. 366 

He mows British stubble - - 367 

The last scene of Mary - - 368 
The fate of the Son of the Hunter 

Spy .... 370 


DYWINE - - - 3F2 

A scene of British mercy -372 
The strange battle-cry - - 374 
The three last shots of the dying 

man .... Jfl5 

The boy and the mimic fight - J175 
The Man and the bloody battle - 5*76 
Wayne and his Roan horse - 3<77 
His riflemen drive back the Hes 
sians .... 378 

The doubt of WASHINGTON - 379 
Wayne beholds the battle of the 

afternoon - - - 381 

The appearance of Kniphausen - 383 

The charge of Mad Anthony . 384 


BATTLE - - - 386 

La Fayette comes again to the 

battle-field - - - 386 

His emotion as he contrasts the con 
dition of America with that of 
France - - 387 



The old state house - - - 391 
The old man, the boy, and the BELL 392 
The message of the Bell to the 

world - - . - 393 
The fifty-six, and the Speech of the 

UNKNOWN - - 394 

The message of the Declaration - 395 
The New Exodus of God s People, 

the Poor - - - 396 

The signing of the Parchment - 397 




WORLD .... 398 
The River shore, two hundred 

yean ago ... 398 

The Landing of the Apostle - 400 

The Mission of The Apostle 401 

The Pipe of Peace - - - 402 


The Deduction traced from the 
Hall of Independence to the 
Mount of Calvary - - 403 
The Hut of the Carpenter 404 

Godhead enshrined in the form of 

Toil - - - - 405 
The Bride of the Living God - 406 
The Doubt of Divinity 407 


The skeleton people - - 408 

The self-communion of the Nazarene 409 
The Prince of this world - 410 
The Panorama of Empire - - 411 
Ninevah Rome, Imperial Rome, 

Papal - - -411 

Fhe bloody grandeur of the Mon 
ster Empire ... 412 
The voice of the Tempter, to every 

Reformer - - - 413 

The Pharasee of the Pulpit - 414 

The Viper of the Press - 415 
The Ministering of the Angels 415 

n. "THE OUTCAST" 416 

Sabbath in the synagogue 416 

The appearance of the Carpenter s 

Son .... 417 

He announces the great Truth, in 
which is built the Declara 
tion . - 418 

The " Infidel" is thrust from the 

Synagogue - - 419 

The Godhead shines from the brow 

of Toil ... 420 

The last look of the Outcast upon 

his Home . . 421 

The name of the Outcast covers all 

the earth - - - 423 

The Coming of the day of God 423 


YEARS - - 423 

The fate of the Saviour s mission 

in 1775 ... 423 

Pope George of England and his 

Missionaries . 424 







The solitary man on shipboard 
WASHINGTON, Adams, Rush, Frank 
lin, in council with the Un 
known stranger - - 421 
The word u Independence" first 

poken > . * 426 

The author his garret the battle 

which he fights . - 427 
a Common Sense" in a book 428 

The name of the Stranger 429 


He follows the Army of WASH 
INGTON ... 429 
The libeller of the dead - 429 
A King on Trial ; his Crime, trea 
son to the People - - 431 
King George, guilty of treason and 

murder .... 432 
Thomas Paine pleads for the life 

Louis Capet - 433 

Death of Louis and Marie 

Antoinette ... 433 
The offerings to the bloody Majesty 

of France - - - 434 


The principle of the French Revo 
lution ... 434 

The hideous murders that have been *\. 
done in the name of God - 435 \ 

The Reign of Terror contrasted with 
the Massacre of St. Bartho 
lomew .... 436 






- . 436 
The chamber in the palace - 436 

The orange-faced dandy and his 

Death-list - - - 437 

The Hall of the National Assembly 

the fear of Robespierre - 437 
The Death of the King of the reign 

of Terror - - 438 

THE BIBLE - - - 43<T 

The Palace-Prison of the Luxem 
burg - - 439 
Genius profaned in the M Age of 

Reason" - 440 




The beauty, tenderness, truth of 

the Bible - 441 

The mistake of Thomas Paine - 442 
My motives in the discussion of his 

character, writings and life 443 
Christianity not the dogma of a creed 

but the Religion of the Heart 444 


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 448 




ADAMS - - - 449 

The fourth of July, 1826 - - 449 
Filly years after the Great Day - 450 
The Home of Quincy - -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 


The Prison - - 455 

The Prisoner .... 456 
An infamous law, upheld by pirates 

and assassins in broad cloth 457 

Life, leaf, "light mingle in Death - 457 
The old man dies before the Cru 
cifix - - - -458 

A sequel to the fourth 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, ami what is not, " well 

timed" ... 465 

Glimpses of " Common Sense." 466 
The old malice of a Tory - - 468 
Burke the Scyophant - - 469 

A warning to Traitors descendants 470 
Th children of the Author-Hero 471 




The Soldier returning home - 475 

The war-horse Old Legion - 476 

The Memory of Alice . 477 

Home ! . 473 

The foreboding of death - - 479 

The Soldier and his father . 480 

The Chamber of Alice - 48} 

The curtained bed - 482 

The Revelation 

- 483 

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 489 
Michael the soldier, and Michael the 

General, Marshal and Duke 490 


A scene in Valley Forge 491 

WASHINGTON and the Sergeant - 492 
A strange volunteer for a work of 

death - - - 493 

The Bridegroom looks upon the 

Bride ... 494 

The fear of the word, Nine - 495 
The last kiss 496 

An old mansion in a dark dell - 497 
" Death to WASHINGTON !" - 498 

The Ordeal - - 499 

The Spy 500 

" AH !" how the memory of child 
hood melts the heart of stone 501 
A strange revelation in the history 

of a soul - - - 502 

Again the fatal number Nine! 503 
WASHINGTON Wayne La Fayette 
Hamilton Burr, the Wed 
ding Guests - - - 503 
WASHINGTON S trust - - 504 

The fallen goblet - - 505 

An half hour of suspense the guests 
await the explanation of the 
mystery 506 

The Bride and Bridegroom alone 506 
The Ninth hour of the Ninth Day 
of the Ninth Year 

The Sight which WASHINGTON 






509 VI. 


Sabbath Noon the Church of St. 

John -509 

The Sacrament -510 

Strange words from a Preacher 511 
Beneath the Gown, or Here s heart 512 
The Preacher-General - - 513 
His adventure ... 514 

Yorktown - . - - 514 

Who was the Preacher-General - 515 

V TRENTON, or the footstep in the 

snow, a tradition of Christ 
mas night, 1776 -516 
The Poetry of Home - - 516 
The footstep in the Snow 517 

"Trenton!" - 518 




A picture of Toil - - - 519 

A scene of Night, Music, Romance 520 

The true Nobleman of God - 521 


The Jerusalem of the Soul - 522 

TheRockofWissahikon ,- - 522 
Legends of the Lost-Nations of 

America - 523 

A sublime vision - 523 

The three Empires - - 524 
Legends of the golden and bloody 

land - - - - 24 

The Soldier of the New Crusade 525 

The Author to the reader 526 
A IH-VV pilgrimage 






" And when servile Fraud stalks through the land, and Genius starves in his ceil, 
while upstart Imbecility rides abroad in chariots ; when man is degenerate, public 
faith is broken, public honor violated, then will we wander forth into the awful shadow* 
of the Past, and from the skeletons of the battle-field evoke the spirits of that giant 
time, calling upon their forms of unreal majesty for the mighty secret which mad 
them the man-gods of that era of high deeds and glorious purposes, THE GHOSTLY PAST." 




TOLL toll toll ! The State House bell, that once rung the birth-day of 
Freedom, now tolled its knell. 

It was a sud day for Philadelphia, 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 sunbeams 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 the 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 hung their heads in 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 to 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 
to 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 futt 
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 > 


teeple, 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 sunshino falling over the stout forns 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 steel, 
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, with 
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 from the State House steeple, as his glance was roet 
by the windows of Independence 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 toil toll the solemn notes of independence bell heralded, with an 
iron tongue, the entrance of the 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, ah 
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- 
frision to Washington, and death to the rebels !" 

They trooped through the streets of Philadelphia on the 26th of Septcia 


ber, 1777; just fifteen days after the battle-day of Brandy wine, 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. 


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 rolling woodland 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 houses" 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 
tmbrowned by the upturning plough. 

The village looked calm and peaceful in the sunlight, but its plain and 


simple people went not forth to the field to work on that calm autumnal 
afternoon. 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 Germantown, and that spell was the shadow of the 
British banner flung over her fields of white buckwheat, surmounting the 
dream-like steeps of the Wissakikon, waving from Mount Airy, and floating 
in the freslming 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 
omen of the battle-smoke and mist that shall cloud their light on the morrow 

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 the 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 field there is the gleam of arms, on every hill-top there waves a royaj 
banner, and over hill and plain, toward the Schuylkill on the one side, and 
trie 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 
sopse of green woodland, just tinged by autumn, there a brown field, yonder 
ihe 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 little 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 woodland rolling away to the blue of the horizon. Mark 
that woodland well, try and discern the outline of every tree, and count the 
miles as you gaze upon the prospect. 

The distance from Chesnut Hill, is sixteen weary miles, and under that 
mass of woodland, beneath the shadows of those rolling fc rests, beside tn* 
streams hidden from your eye, in distress and in want, in defeat ami in 
danger, rendevouz the bands of a desperate, though gallant army. 


It is the Continental army, and they encamp on the banks of the Skip- 

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 meteor 
will burst over the British Hosts at Germantown, and fighting for life, for 
liberty, will advance the starved soldiers of the Continental host. 


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 
ear 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 

One word with regard to the position of the British on the 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-skin 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 with 
it? man, for the keen chase of the rebel route, whenever the master of the 
Uounds might start the hunt. 


This wing was defended in the front by a battalion of light infantry, and 
the 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 field, 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 
had 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 the " 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 
utreet. 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-dress 


and tine suk gown, all hooped and frilled ; there a stately dame in frock of 
calico, newly bought 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 little foot, 
would possess more attractions for our eyes, than the frock of calico or 
gown of silk. 

We would stroll along the street of the village, and listen to the conver 
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 yard> 
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 yard ; 
further down we would pass the KNOORS, the HAINES, the PASTORIUS , the 
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, battle, 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 Briiish 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, whether 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 
green lawn, now silvered by the moonlight, will be soddened with blood. 


when the ancient mansion, now rising in the midnight air, like an emblem 
of rural ease, with its chimneys and its roof sleeping in the moonbeams, vviR 
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. 


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 the 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 death, 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 
Brandywine, waving solemnly in the twilight.* 

The tents were struck, the camp fires where had been prepared the hasty 
supper of the soldier, were still burning ; the neighing of steeds, and the sup 
pressed rattle of arms, rang thro the grove startling the night-bird of the 
Skippack, when the uncertain light of a decaying flame, 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 and 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 
Brandywine 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 Germantown. 


of Poland and the Patriot of Brandy wine, PULASKI, whom it were tautology 
to call the brave ; there was the towering form of SULLIVAN, there was 
COXWAY, with his 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 SMALL WOOD 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 restin^ 
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- 

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 effective, 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 Mill,) and then advance eastward, along the bye roads, until two 
miles distance between this mill and the Germantown market-house were 

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 wa. 
the central point of operation for all the divisions. 


Between Germantown and Old York Road, at the distance of near iwr 
miles from the village, extends a road, called Limekiln road. The division! 
cf Greene and Stephens flanked by McDougal 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 

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 this 
magnificent 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 was 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 officer 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, rain, 
fled with the low muttered word of command, the clank of arms and the 
neighing of war-steeds all dim and indistinct, yet terrible to heai. The 


farmer sleeping on his humble couch, rushed to the window of his rustic 
mansion at the sound, and while his wife stood beside him, all tremor and 
affright, 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 some 
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. 


Ghastly and white, iShrouding the moon with a fiery glare 

Through the gloom of the night, iSolemn voices now startle the air, 

From plain and from heath, (To theif sounds of omen you are fain to 

Like a shroud of death, list: 

The mist all slowly and sullenly sweeps I To listen and tremble, and hold your 

A shroud of death for the myriad brave, 
Who to-morrow shall find the tombless 

In mid heaven now a bright spirit weeps ; 
While sullenly, slowly rises that pall, 
Crimson tears for the brave who shall 

Crimson tears for the dead without tomb, 

Crimson tears for the death and the! red, 

breath ; 
While the air is thronging with shapes of 

" On, on over valley and plain the legions 

Scenting the foemen who sleep in their 

camp ; 
Now bare the sword from its sheath blood- 


Crimson tears for an angel s sorrow, 
For the havoc, the bloodshed, the car 
nage and gloom, 

That shall startle the field on the mor 
row ; 
And up to the heavens now whitens the 


Now dig the pits for the unwept dead : 
Now let the cannon give light to the hour 
And carnage stalk forth in his crimson 

Lo ! on the plain lay myriads gasping for 

While the mist it is rising THE SHROUD 



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 
fixing 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 white wreathe 


and snowy columns, came sweeping up on every side, from the bosom of 
the Wissahikon, from the depths of a thousand brooklets, over hill and ovei 
valley, circled that dnse and gathering exhalation ; covering the woods with 
its 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 
oorch, 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 sleep 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 
sky, 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 
sound 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 
sentinel 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. Ajstream 
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, and on 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 dark 

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, and no longer looks upon the 
face of nature covered by mist. He sleeps. The sound not long ago far 
off, is now near and mighty in its volume, the tramp of steeds startles the 
silence of the road, suppressed tones are heard, and there is a noise like the 
moving of legions. 


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 


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 
her lips, and in that kiss hushes her welcome " Brother, have you come 
at last !" 

But, ah ! That horrid sound crashing through his dream ! 

He 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 first shot of the Battle-day 
of Germantown. 

And that dead man, flung along the porch in all the ghastliness of sudden 
death cold and stiff 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 glit 
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 t 
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 Battles, 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 grev, 
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 iines 
" There he rides how grandly his form towers in the mist; it s Washing- 
ton it s Washington !" and the whole arrny take up the sound " It is 
Washington !" 


Allen 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 a 
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 effort 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 

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 
rounds, 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 steeds, 
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, 


marked by a compressed lip, rendered fierce by the overhanging mustachio 
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: 

" For war is, brudern, forwards !" 

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 musquetry, 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 
soun-ds, " Form iads, 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 battle-shout 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. JSteeds 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 " Forwarts brudern ForwartsT 

The hunt is up ! 

The British face the bayonets of the advancing Americans, but in vain 
Each bold backwoodsman sends his volley of death along the British line* 
and then clubbing his musquet, rushes wildly forward, beating the red-coat 


to the sod with a blow that cannot be stayed. The British troopers niib 
forward in the charge, but ere half the distance between them and the Amer 
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 dying, 
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. The never-ceasing clang of sword against sword, 
the low muttered shriek of the fallen, vainly trying to stop 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 involuntary 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 affrighted 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 

The British wheel down the Germantown road, they turn their backs to 
their ibes, they flee wildly toward Germantown, leaving their dead and 
dying in their wake, man and horse, they flee, some scattering their arms by 
he roadside, others weakened by loss of blood, feebly endeavoring to join 


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 I 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 tiercer 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 briidern 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 death ; 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 nmsquetry boomed along 



the air, echoing among the nooks and corners of the ancient houses on the 
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 into 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 cry " Onward " while the hoarse shout of Pulaski rang out in the 
air " Forwarts brudern Forwarts !" 

" It is against every rule of military science " exclaimed General Knox, 
whose opinion in council was ever valuable with Washington "It in 
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 
staff* 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 

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 
casioned 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 

All was ready for the storm. Here were men with firebrands, ready to 
rush forward under the cover of the first 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 


yonler were the cannomers, their pieces loaded, the linstock in the hand 
of one soldier, while another stood ready with the next charge of ammuni 
tion ; on every side was intense suspense and expectation, and heard above 
all other sounds, the rattle of the British musquetry rose like thunder over 
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- 
lia-ncy to the wreaths of mist above, and columns of armed men below. 


7 RADITION states that at this moment, when every thing was ready for 
the storm of death, an expression of the most intense thought passed over 
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 vain. 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 Che\v 1 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 states that the fire from the house ceased for 
a moment, while Musgrave s band were silently maturing their 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 tmnk 
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 officer came steadily on, and now he stood some thirty pace* 
from the house, waving his white flag on high, and then whh an even step 
he advanced toward the hall door. He advanced, but he never reached 


that hall door. He was within the scope of the British soldiers vision 
they could have almost touched him with an extended flag staff, 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 magnificent 

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 !" 

tfte Eftirtr. 


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 ! ttriktifor the massacred dead of Paoli ! 



AND while the mist gathered thicker and darker above, while the lurid 
columns of bathe smoke waved like a banner overhead, while all around 
was dim and indistinct, all objects rendered larger and swelled to gigantic 


proportions by the action of the log, aiong that green lawn arose the 
sound of charging legions, and the blaze of musquetry flashing from the 
windows 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, file 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 battle 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 their 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 upon 
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 
H"as dark as midnight. 

A wild yell broke along the American line, and then the voice of Wayne 
rung out through the darkness and the gloom " Sweep forward under the 
cuver of the smoke sweep forward and storm the house ! 

They came rushing on, the gallant band of rangers, bearing torches in 
U eir hands they came rushing on, and their path lay over the mangled 


bodies of the forlorn hope, scattered along the sod, in all the ghastliness of 
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 ar .y. 

On 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 flame 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 splin 
ters from the roof. 

Another moment, and the pall of mist and battle smoke is swept aside, 
revealing 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 
window, 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 chest. 

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 
clanging 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 party 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 that rang in the ears 
of all who heard it for life. A musquet ball had penetrated his skull, and 
the red torrent was already strearr/ng over his forehead, and along his 
iwarthv features. 


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. 


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 Ins 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 slightly to one side of his steed and then to the other, as if 
in the effort to catch the slightest sound, his lips were fixedly compressed 
and his eye flashed and flashed again, until it seemed turning to a thing of 
living flame. 

The sounds grew near, and nearer ! A horseman approached from 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 will 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 

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 frorr the bosom of the mist on the 


south, as a long column ol red coated soldiers, began to break slowly on the 
vision of Washington and his men. 


Turn we for a moment to Germantown. 

The first glimpse of day, flung a grey and solemn light over the tenements 
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 his ear to the 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 the 
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 coming 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 startled * 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 
14 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 
aver his person, rode to the head of his command, and while Kniphausen, 
gay with the laurels of Brandy wine, rode from rank to rank, speaking 


encouragement to his soldiers in his broken dialect, the British army moved 
forward over the fields and along the solitary street of Germantown toward* 
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. 


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 witli 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 right, 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 o/ a mile be- 
low Chew s House 


The soldier replied with a peevish oath that yonder officer was Genera. 
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. 


And in a moment the voice of Sullivan was heard " Charge upon the 
4 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 battle 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. 


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 column after 


column ; they drove back the British columns with 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. 


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 
charg-e met with defeat or victory. He heard the tread of hurrying 
legions, the thunder of the cannon, the rattle 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 

He turned to the officers of his staff " Follow me who will !" he cried, 
and in a moment, his steed of iron grey was careering over the sod, littered 
with ghastly 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 forward, and speeding between the fires of 
the opposing armies, approached the house. 

At every step, a dead man with a livid face turned upward ; little pools 
of blood crimsoning the lawn, torn fragments of attire scattered over the 
sod ; on every side hurrying bodies of the toemen, 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 whistling 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 cattle-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 cattle-pen, and rode forward to the American line, 
scarcely abln to discover their path in the dense gloom that gathered around 


them. They reached the American lines, and to their horror, discovered 
that Washington was not among their band. He had not leaped the fence 
of the cattle-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 house 
strike to the north-east, and then facing the tires 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. 



1 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 no ! 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!" Mss. REVOLUTION 


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 bullets, a single 
moment and his corse may be added to the heaps of dead piled along the 


lawn in all the ghastliness of death ; another moment and the Continenuls 
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 army. 

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 

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. 


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 in 
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 

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, Peath in any shape, in the times of Peace by the fireside, and in 
ihe 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 
*en thousand faces crimsoned by the glare of a burning church, Death looks 
not only horrible but grotesque. For those dead men laid stiffly along the 


streets, their cold faces turned to scarlet by the same glare that reveals the 
cross of the tottering temple, have been murdered by their brother* 
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 bubbling 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 corse, 
and gaze upon it in silence Is he dead ? The young man yonder with the 
pale face, the curling 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 ! 

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 


simple coat, vest with wide appels, small clothes and stockings, that mark 
the believers of the Quaker faith. 

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 

But along 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 ami 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 us 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 
nirelingr, that ever disgraced Christianity or blasphemed the name of Jesus. 

Ah, methinks, even amid the carnage of Germantown, 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. 



WITHIN Chew 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, 
into 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 

Some were young and handsome officers, 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 Uird 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 
d-op from the ceiling, and trickle down his cheek. 


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 fell 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 floor. 

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 ceiling. 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 battle. 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 oft 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; while 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 battle 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 !" 

i he shout arose from the lips of a grey-haired veteran, and he fell to the 
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 revel grew loud and 
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 


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 moment, 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 

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-full 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 

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, apd 
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. 



It is a poem of everlasting beauty a dream of magnificence the 
world-hidden, wood-embowered Wissahikon. Its pure waters break for 
ever in ripples of silver around the base of colossal rocks, or sweep mur- 
muringly on, over beds of pebbled Hints, 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 quietly in the fierce light of the sum 
mer sun, with the tired cattle 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, many 
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, tbat rise almost perpendicularly on either 
side, casting a shadow of gloom over the water, while every steep is green 
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 

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 dreamy 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 

* Formerly Vanduring s, now Robinson s mill. 


clearness. 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 
around is quiet and still ; silence seems to have assumed a positive existence 
imid these vallies of romance and of dreams. 

It was along the borders of this quiet stream, that an ancient fabric arose 
towering through the verdure of the trees, with its tottering chimneys 
enveloped 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 
on 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 
oaths, 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 
figure 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 
stairway 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 
their 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 


The Hessians rushed o the window, they suddenly remembered that 
they had neglected to search the cellar, and looking far below, they beheld 
thin wreaths of light blue smoke, winding upward from the cellar window. 

A fearful suspicion crept over the minds of the soldiers. 

The; rushed from the attic, in a moment they might reach the lower 
floor and escape. With that feeling of unimaginable terror creeping round 
each heart and paling every face, they rushed 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 assailed 
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 human bodies torn and scattered into innu 
merable pieces, and the air was filled with a dense smoke, that hung over 
the forest, in 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 the 
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. 


AGAIN we return to the field of Chew s House. 

\Vashington determined to make one last and desperate effort. The 
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 Reserve, 
under Lord Stirling, Generals Maxwell and Nash. 

The British force, under command of General Howe, who had arrived 
on the field soon after the onslaught at Chew s House, were led to battle 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 pause in the horror of the battle. 

The Americans rested on their arms, the troopers reined in their steeds 


in signt of Chew s House, and amid the bodies of the dead. The Conti 
nental ranks were terribly thinned by the desolating fire from the house ; 
every file was diminished, and in some instances, whole companies were 
swept 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 
ting 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 ! Tn an instant the cannons opened their 
fire on Chew s house, the troopers came thundering on in their hurricane 
charge. All around were charging legions, armed bodies of men hurrying 
toward the 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 veteiar? continentals drove the Britishers over the field, trampling 
down the faces ot 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 ! 

fn the thickest of the fight, where swords flashed most vivedly, where 
death-groans 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 over 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 more to battle, his sword gleaming like a meteor, 
around his head. On and on, without fear, without a thought save his coun 
try s honoi 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, brudtrn, 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 
men onw?rd, hc*^ like a sunbeam playing on glittering ice, his sword flits to 
and fro, along the darkened air ! 


I^ike one solid battle-bolt, his gallant band speed onward, 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 

* Forwarts briidern 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 

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 yet 
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 

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 

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 die 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 fvent 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. 


The gallant Colonel Matthews, at the head of a Virginia regiment, pene 
trated into the centre of the town, driving the British before him at pleasure, 
xnd after this glorious effort, he was returning to the American lines with 
tome three hundred prisoners, when he encountered a body of troops in the 
mist, whom he supposed to be Continentals. He rode unfearingly into their 
midst, iiiul found himself a prisoner in the heart of the British army ! The 
mist had foiled his gallant effort ; his prisoners were 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 Cornwallis, 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 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 "re/mz/" "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 
their 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 
beseech them in his broken dialect, with a flushed cheek and a maddening 
eye, implore them to turn and face the well-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 arid scattered, their num 
bers limmished, taking their way along the northern road, calmly it is true, 
and in -amarkable order, but still in the order of a retreat, though the enemy 
showed no disposition to annoy or pursue them. 

And while his heart swelled to bursting, and his lip was pressed between 
his teeth in anguish, Washington bowed his head to the mane of his gallant 
grey" 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 

fn a moment ne raised his face. All was calm and immovable, all 
traces of emotion had passed away from the stern and commanding 1 features, 
?iVT ilie waves rolling from the rock. 

He whispered a few brief words to his aids-de-camp, and then raising his 
iVm proudly in the stirrups, he rode along the Continental columns, while 
with a confused and half-suppressed murmuring sound, the RETREAI OT 
GERMANTOWN commenced. 

tfte Jfiftft. 


" Look forth upon the scene of fight, comrade." 

" The moon is up in the heavens her beams glimmer on the cold faces of the deiid 
Over dead carcase and over fallen banner, in the midst of the lawn, arises one fell 
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 ; hs 
shakes his arms of bone aloft, his skeleton hands wave in the moonlight, he holds 



A PAUSE in the din of battle ! 

The denizens of Mount Airy and Chesnut Hill came crowding to their 
doors and windows ; the hilly street was occupied by anxious groups of 
people, who conversed in low and whispered 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 are in 
voluntarily crossed over her bosom, that heaves and throbs into view. 

The matron, calm, self possessed, and placid, little children clinging to 
the skirt of her dress, her wifely cnp flung carelessly on her head, with 
hair slightly touched with grey, while the sleeping babe nestles in her 

The boy, with the light flaxen hair, the ruddy cheiks, th merry blue 
eye ! He stands silent and motionlesi he also listens 


You stand upon the height of Mount Airy, it is wearing towards noon, 
vet gaze around you. 

Above the mist is rising. Here and there an 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 the 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 
the 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 tramp of ten 
thousand footsteps, mingled with a wild and indistinct murmur. Tramp, 
tramp, tramp, the air is filled with the sound, and then distinct roices 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 in seen rusKing from 
K* irist in the valley below, he comes speeding round the bend of the road, 
n Ascends the hill, but his steps totter, and he staggers to and frt> like a 
drunken 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 


form with his trembling arms, and with an unsteady step nears the group 
on 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 

The soldier and the veteran he bears upon his shoulders, are clad in the 
blue hunting shirt, torn and tattered and stained with blood, it is true, but 
still yoi 1 can recognize the uniform of the Revolution. 

The tottering soldier nears the group, he lays the aged veteran down bv 
the roadside, and then looks around with a ghastly face and a rollino- eve. 
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 battle ? 

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 wine 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 [ sre 
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 
tumbling from loss of blood, raising the grey haired veteran in his arms, 
placing his face toward Germantown, 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 s-ec Mad Antony ! 
Wipe the blood from my eyes, comrade, for it darkens my sight it is da * 
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 hst shot, shouted the 


name of Mad Antony for the last time, and yet his withered hand cle^cb*^ 
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^V 
turned to the group, smiled ghastily and then flung his wounded arm to the 

"7y0s. " 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. 


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 
waving aloft, and his voice heard above the hurry and confusion of the 

"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 
thought 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 
aiong the road, in glaring relief against the background of blue-shirted con- 


tmentals ; then came the columns of Sullivan, the divsion of Greenp, and 
then huddled together in a confused crowd, 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, wit* 
broken arms and limbs protruding from their confines, with pallid faces up 
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 the 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. 


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. 


while the German Reformed Church, with its venerable front and steeple, 
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 

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 
suing, now turned on their pursuers, and escape seemed impossible. The 
brave Partizan turned to his men. Each swarthy face gleamed with 
delight each sunburnt hand flung aloft the battle-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 !" 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 
strong, came thundering in their rear, each dark-coated trooper leaning over 
th3 neck of his steed, with sword upraised, and with fierce battle-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. 

Lee s men spurred their steeds merrily forward, ringing their Koistprou* 


shouts 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 
cient houses, 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 the 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 pie;^. 

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 ns it fell ; here wa a ,r^r/er clinging with the 
grasp of death to his h )rse s neck ; yonder reared another horse without its 
rider, and the ground was littered with the overthrown and wounded 

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 oft 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 company 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. 


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 


heaped with ghastly piles of dead, whose cold upturned faces shore witb 9 
terrible lustre in the last beams of the declmino- 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 on 
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 the 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- 
bedabbled, his blue hunting shirt spotted with clotted drops of purple. The 
sunburnt hand extended, grasps the unfailing rifle the old warrior is merrv 
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 hair all stiffened with blood, while tl^e 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 
the 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 brod over the scene, in 
all its ghastiliness and horror. 



ALONG the solitary streets of Germantown, as the sun went down, ranjj 
tiie 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 
nilled your heart to see. It was an expression which stamped his features 
*vith 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 

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 
ful, 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 the 
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 rifle 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 
Agnew, as, with his back turned to the grave-yard wall, he gazed upon the 
piospect, and nis eye lit up with a sudden brilliancy, when tiio quick 


and piercing report of a rifle broke on the air, and echoed around the 

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 ghastly face appeared once more above the stones of the grave-yard 
wall, and a shriek of triumph, wilder and ghastlier than the face, arose 
shrieking 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. 



"Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord, they rest from their labors, wJ 
their works do follow them." 


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 
speH 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 of the 
dead : and in the quiet grave-yard we will behold the scene. 


Bands of armed men throng the place of graves ; on every side you behold 
igures of stout men, clad in the uniform of war ; on every side you behold 
stern and scarred visages, and all along the green sward, with its encircling 
grove of oaks, the pomp of banners wave flauntingly in the evening air, but 
no glittering bayonet gleams in the light of the declining day. The banners 
are heavy with folds of crape, the bayonets are unfixed from eacii rnusquet, 
and every soldier carries his arms reversed. 

Near the centre of the ground, hard by the roadside, are dug four graves, 
the upturned earth forming a mound beside each grave, and the sunbeams 
shine upon four coffins, hewn out of rough pine wood, and laid upon trus- 
sels, with the faces of the dead cold and colorless, tinted with a ghastly 
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 lip 
is compressed. Wayne is by his side, his bluff countenance marked by 
infeigned sorrow ; and there stands Greene and Sullivan, and Maxwell and 
Armstrong, clustered in the same group with Stirling and Forman, with 
Small wood 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. It 
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 still 

A grey-haired man, tall and imposing in stature, advances from the group 
of pall-bearers. He is clad in the robes of the minister of heaven, his face 
is marked by lines 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, IIP 
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 corse, with the sword and chapeau of the commanding officei 
of a regiment, is the corse of the brave Colonel Boyd. 

Then comes the corse of Major White, handsome and dignified even iu 


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, wlio 
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 
in this. 


General Nash, Colonel Boyd, Major White, and Lieutenant Smith : buried in Town- 
mensing Mennonist Grave-yard, the day after the Battle of Germanlown. 

" 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 the 
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 

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 works do follow 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 

* NOTE. The author deems it necessary to state, once for all, that all the legends 
given in this chronicle, are derived from substantial fact or oral tradition. The legend 
of the Debauch of Death- the old Quaker the House on the Wissahikon the escape 
f Washington the presentiment and death of General Agnew the 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 contemporaries. 
There is some doubt concerning the name of the preacher who delivered the funeral 
sermon. But with regard to the funeral ceremonies at the Mennonist church at Toy- 
amonsing, there can be no doubt. General Nash and his companions in death, were 
iHiried with the horn rs of war, in presence of the whole army the day after the battle. 


him, while all was terror and gloom, he fell at the head of his men, bravely 
Cashing his sword for his fatherland. * 

So fell White, and so fell Boyd ; you have all heard how Lieutenant 
&mith met his death. You have heard how he went forth on the battle 
morn with the flag of truce in his nanc You have heard how he ap 
proached the fatal mansion on thr battle-held . vou have heard how these 
merciless men pointed their musquets at his hean, and he fell, bathing the 
flag of truce with the warm blood ol his heart. 

They fell, but their blood shall not fall unheeded. Veoige of Bruns 
wick, may augur success to his cause from the result of tus fight, but the 
weak and mistaken man shall soon know his delusion false. 

From every drop of patriot blood sinking in the soci 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 he jawning of a brighter and more glorious 

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 spring 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 
lever yet beheld fearful wrong without sudden vengeance in the name of 
.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- 


cent light hovering around the carcasses of the dead, not the empty fame of 
human slaughter. No no. 

The glory of a pure soul, actuated by one motive of good, straining 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 other, 
but speeding forward, with sure and steady steps, to the goal of all thy 
hopes the freedom of this land of the new world. 

Such is thy glory, Washington. 

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 Germantown. 


Yes yes. From the Eternal world, our departed friends shall look 
do^rFupmrtrre 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 
in 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 
3* Germantown 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 


hymns of little children, blessed in the tears of woman, shed for their mar 
tyruorn ; blessed in the world beyond, forever and forever blessed. 

Farewell to ye, mighty dead, on earth ! The kind hands of wife or child 
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 child, no 
soft-voiced wife, no fair-haired boy was near ye. 

Alone ye died. Alone amid the ranks of battle, or ere the battle shout 
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 the 
offering of prayer. Let us pray. 


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 throb 
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-Woof* 
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 cloud by day and a pillar of 
fire by night. 

And at last, when our calling shall have been fulfilled, when we have 


done and suffered thy will here below, receive us into the Res of the 

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 them !" 

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 in 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. 

44 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 

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, ai?d 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 at 
the head of the grave, was disclosed in all its majesty of proportion, his face 
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 



the bluff visage of Knox, the commanding features of Sulivan. tn. .nanly 
countenances of Maxwell, Stirling, Forman, Conway, and the other officers 
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, anti the last 
glimpse of sun-light fell upon this solemn relic of the 

Uattir-Dai> of Grrmautoton. 






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 
Wissahickon, or Wissahiccon, or pronounced as it fell from the lips of the 
Indian maidens in the olden time, who bathed their forms in its waters, and 
adorned their raven hair with the lilies and wild roses that grow in its deep 


That word speaks of rocks, piled up in colossal grandeur, with waves 
murmuring at their feet, and dark green pines blooming forever on their 

That name tells me of a tranquil 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 burying 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 comes 
shining out, smiling from her window in the sky. The Eagle too, lord en 



the wild domain, starts from his perch, and wheels through the deep azure 
circling round the moon, bathing his pinions in her light 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 straightly 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 I 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 


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. 


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 cairn 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 js welling 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 proa 
trate ; again they swell into a shapeless mass, as though stricken by a 

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 ? 
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 


outlines of early manhood, is attired in a robe or gown, dark as his father s 
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 ? T~ 

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 last 
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 sildnt 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 hi 
Father s heart. 


" The last day of this year the third hour after midnight THE DE 


These words may seem lame and meaningless, when spoken again, but 
had 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 silently beside them. 

The tones of Prayer broke upon the stillness of the darkening woods. 

Tell us the meaning of this scene. Wherefore call this huge editice, 
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, there 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 
chasing 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 
s^n, 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 
ipon 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 titled 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- 
test-jnts of Germany, as it was by the Catholics of France, it still treasured 
the Bible as its rule and the Cross as its symbol. 

The Monastery, in which the brothers of the faith lived for long years, 


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, untii 
one evening tney 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 

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 
wearing 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 
rorrldor, we will enter the Monastery. 


In the centre of this room, illumined by the light of two tall white candles 
sits the old man, his slender form clad in dark velvet, with the silver cross 
gleaming on his bosom, buried in the cushions of an oaken chair. 

His slender hands are laid upon 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 creaking of a footstep for this 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 spotless 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. 

" He will come!" mutters the Priest of the Wissahikon, as common 
rumor named him. "Jit the third hour after midnight, the Deliverer will 

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 face and deep 
dark eyes, appears advances to his father s side. 

44 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 OWD 
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 


do we dwell together, the father and his children, in this wild forest of o 
strange land ?" 

The sun veiled his eyes with his clasped hands : the emotion of hia 
father s look, thrilled him to the soul. 

" I will tell you why ! 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 Fulfilment 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 Wissahikon, in a 
softened voice, as he laid his withered hand upon the white forehead of his 
son: "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 ; with 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 our studies, our long and painful search into the awful world, which 
the Bible opens to our view, has ended in a knowledge of these great truths 
The Old World is sunk in all manner of crime, as was the Jlnte-Deluvian 
World ; THE NEW WORLD is given to man as a refuge, even as the Jirk 
was given to Noah and his children. 

" The New World 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 fire 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 as 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 other, I strolled forth along the 
woods, that voice whispered a message to my soul ! To-night the De 
hverer will come !" 


AJ is ready for his coming !" exclaimed Paul, advancing to the altar 
Behold the Crown, the Flagon of Anointing Oil, the Bible and the Cross 

The old man arose, lifting his withered hands above his head, while the 
light streamed over his silver hairs. 

" Even as the Prophets of old anointed the brows of men, chosen by 
God to do great deeds in His name, so will I, purified by the toil and 
prayer, and self-denial of seventeen long years, anoint the forehead of the 
Deliverer !" 

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 
in 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 

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 
sullen ONE ! swells through the silent halls ! 

Still they kneel together there still the voice of the prayer quivers from 
each ton^te. 

Another hour, spent in silent prayer, with bowed head and bended knees. 
A. s the clock speaks out the hour of two, the old man rises and paces the 

" Place your hand upon my heart, my son ! Can you feel its throb- 
bings ? Upon my brow ah ! it burns like living tire ! The hour draws 
nigh he comes ! Yes, my heart throbs, my brain fires, but my faith 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 the 
strong heart which beats within his shrunken chest. 

^ till 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 
^ages of the Revelations of Saint 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 countenance 
were lost in shadows, the old man hurried along, his eye blazing with a 
wilder 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 Crost 


was seen the whole altar still broke through the darkness, with its ftilvei 
Flagon and Laurel Crown. 

Hark ! That 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. 

" He comes not !" cries Paul darting to his feet, his features quivering 
with suspense. They clasp their hands together they listen with frenzied 

M Still no footstep ! Not a sound !" gasped Paul. 

" But he will come !" and the old man, sublime in the energy of fanati 
cism, towered erect, one hand to his heart, while the other quivered in 
the air. 

THREE ! The last stroke of the bell swelled echoed and died away. 
" He comes not !" gasped the son, in agony * But yes ! Is there not a 
footstep on the 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 
Deads 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 ! You hear the old door creak on its hinges, 
3S it swings slowly open a strange voice breaks the silence. 

44 Friends, I have lost my way in the forest," said the voice, speaking in 
a calm, manly ton?. 44 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 feel. 

Towering above the stature of common men, his form was clad in the 
dress of a plain gentleman of that time, fashioned of black velvet, with ruf 
fles on the bosom and around the wrist, diamond buckles gleaming from his 

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 
heavy cloak around the arm. 

His white forehead, large, overarched eyes, which gleamed even through 
the darkness of the room with a calm, clear light ; his lips were firm ; his 


chin round and full ; the general contour of his face stamped with the settled 
beauty of mature manhood, mingled with the tire 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, while a warm glow overspread his 
commanding face. Paul stood as if spell-bound by the calm gaze of his 
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. He 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 " 

44 This is true !" muttered the Stranger in a musing tone, while his face 
expressed surprise. 

44 As you dashed along, mounted on the steed which soon will bear your 
form in the ranks of battle, the cold air of night fanned your hot brow, but 
could not drive from your soul the Thought of your Country !" 

4 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. 

44 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, in 
calm tones, the way through the forest, another and a deeper question rose 
to your lips " 

"I confess it !" said the Stranger, his tone cetching the deep emotion of 
the old man s voice. 4 As I stood upon the threshold, the question that 
rose to my lips was 

44 Is it lawful for a SUBJECT to draw sword against his KING ?" 

44 Man ! You read the heart!" and this strange man of commanding 


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, ty 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 ju?ah, 
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 brow 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. 

44 Thou art called to the great work of a Champion and Deliverer ! 
Soon thou wilt ride to battle 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 
yonder, in the dark shadows of the doorway ! 

A young form, with a dark mantle floating round her white robes, stands 
trembling 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 

Unseen 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 for thy country and thy God ?" 


It was in tones oroken by emotion, that the Stranger simply answered-^ 
" I do !" 

" Dost thou promise, in the hour of thy fflory when a nation shall bow 
before thee as in the fierce moment of adversity, when thou shall be 
hold thy soldiers starving for want of bread to remember the great truth, 
written in these words / am but the Minister of God in the great work 
of a nation s freedom. 

Again the bowed head, again the tremulous " 1 do promise !" 

" Then, in P is 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 

With the finger of his extended hand, touched with the anointing oil, he 
described the figure of 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 Cathedral, 
this rude Block House of the Wissahikon a plainly-clad gentleman, this 
kneeling Stranger a wild Enthusiast, the old man ! 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 sight 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 con 
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, aad, 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 from 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 given 


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 the consciousness of 
his commanding look and form. The laurel-wreath encircled his white 
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 up silently into his face. 

They all beheld the form of this strange man shake with emotion ; while 
that face, whose calm beauty had won their hearts, now quivered in every 

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 Wissahikon. 

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 hocfs ! 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, betore 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 ? 


There ne stands, wnile the long shadows of the trees darken fc.r over the 
ward there, while the twilight deepens into night, gazing with a heaving 
chest and quivering lip, upon the Ruins of the old Block-House. 

Perchance he thinks of the dead, or it may be his thoughts are with 
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 


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 but ton wood tree ; you have seen that 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 rook 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 
toward the Wissahikon, with his four tall sons around him, armed with rifle 
and with knife ? 

To-night there is a meeting at yon lonely house far up the Wissahikon 

* NOTE BY THE AUTHOR Tn this Legend, I have endeavored to compress an old-time 
tradition of the Wissahikon, which, related with justice to all its details, would fill a 
volume. There is no spot in the land not even on the storied hills of the Satitee, or 
*he beautiful wilds of the Kenehec 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 rugged grandeur of rock, and stream, and tree ; and is to-day what it was 
two 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 uni 
ted 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 settlers of Pennsylvania, terming them in derision, (as little minds are wont,) 
the " ignorcnit Germans," etc. etc., should come here to the wilds of Wissahikon, and 
learn something of the philosophy, the religion, and toleration of these German colo 
nists. The Legend will be more clearly understood when it is known that the belief 
was prevalent among these Pietists of the "Coming of a Great Man," who was to 
appear in the wilderness, in fulfilment of a Prophecy in the Book of Revelations. 


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 all. 
It was true that this young man, at the time of his disappearance, was be 
trothed to a beautiful girl an orphan child who had been reared in the 
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 there was a 
dark mystery about the whole affair. . 

And while the old man stood there, surveying the faces of his sons, there ff 
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 buttonwood 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 


British trooper." to surprise the meeting of the patriot farmers to surprise 
them and crush them at a blow. 

Even as she spoke, grasping that old man s withered hand, there to the 
south, was heard the tramp of steeds. Already the British troopers came 
on to the work of massacre. 

A cloud passed over the moon it was dark in a moment it was light 

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 Michael 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 the 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 the line between this rock and that Buttonwood 
^ 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 Wissahikon 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 Carrier. 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, he 
drags him from the rock, he spurs his horse 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. 


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 face, convulsed in death, over his glaring eyes, over his long white 
hair, dabbled 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 which 
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 awftfl silence. The Parricide slowly rose, 
turned his face from the dead, and folded his arms. 

Then a light footstep broke the deep silence of this scene a fair form 
came softly 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 
hia clenched right hand. That hand was wet with blood. 


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 
then he pointed to the corse of Michael Derwent, with the reeking knife 
standing out from the gash along the throat. 

Then the 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 British 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 methinks 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 his 
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 Wood-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 Wissahi- 


kon rising with a robe of gnarled pines all about it, rising like a 
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 horse refused to take the leap. 

But there, there 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. 


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, and now they fought, not 
with sword or rifle, but with long and deadly hunting knives, that flash in 
the light, as they go turning and 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 his 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. 
iwful gulf yawned below. " Mercy ! I have a wife a child spare me 1* 


Then the Continental, with his muscular strength gathered for the effort, 
snook the murderer once more over the abyss, and then hissed this bitter 
sneer between his teeth : 

" My brother had a wife and two children ! The morning after the night 
of Paoli, that wife was a widow, those children were orphans ! Wouldn t 
you like 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 
little 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 judge 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 linger 
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. 


Then the culpiit 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: 


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 little 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. 


Ah ! that moment was sublime ! 

Oh ! awful Book of God, in whos 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 Galilee. 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 1 

That very night, as the widow sate by her lonely hearth her orphans 
ty 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 
-nany wounds, was in her arms ! 


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 the Wissa- 
hikon ! 


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 of 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. 

That 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 ! Yea, 


Look upon him, as he paces that moss-covered rock see that eye burn 
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 freedom 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 ! 

Ah, kings of the world, planning so cooly your schemes of murder, 
come here, and look at George Washington, as he offers 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 you 
are, George Washington in council with his God ! 

My friends, I can never think of that man in the wilds of Wissahikon 
praying there, alone : praying for his country, with the deep agony in his 
heart and on his brow, without also thinking of that dark night in Gethse- 
rnane, 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 feet 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 ? 

The same heighth, breadth of chest, sinewy limbs, nay, almost the same 
faces, save that the face of the stranger, sharper in outline, 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 * 


dress, that British uniform, flashing with gold and stars ! Washington starts 
hack, and lays his hand upon his sword. 

And as these two men, so strangely alike, meet there by accident, undel 
that canopy of boughs, one wandering from Valley Forge, one from Phila 
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 important. 

For a moment, the British General stood spell-bound before the man 
whom he had crossed the ocean to entrap, and bring home ; the Rebel, who 
had lifted his hand against the Right Divine of the British Pope! To that 
British General there was something awful about the soldier who 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, Mister Washington?" 

Washington coldly bowed his head. 

u 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 
rny country ?" 

"The commander of his Majesty s forces in America !" said Howe, ad 
vancing along that wood-hidden rock towards Washington. And oh, sir, 
let me tell you that the king, my master, has heard of your virtues, which 
alone dignifies the revolt with the name of a war, and it is to you he looks 
for 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 parch 
ment sealed with the broad seal of England, signed with the manuel of 
King George. 

Washington took the parchment opened it read his face did not 
change a muscle. 

And yet that parchment named Mister George Washington " GEORGE 
DUKE WASHING JON, OF MOUNT VERNON, our well-beloved servant, VICEROY 

Here was a boon for the Virginia planter here was a title and here a 


power for the young man, who was one day struggling ft r his life away 
there arnid floating ice on the dark Allegheny river. 

For a moment, the face of Washington was buried in that parchment, 
and then, in a low, deep voice, he spoke- 

" I have been thinking," 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 German town " 

** 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 marble, " 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 that title, that royal name, into one mass of 

rags and dust. 

" That is my answer to your king !" 

And then he 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 

" 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 by 
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 head 
yesterday was sought, with a high reward, to grace the gates of London 
he offers that Rebel a Dukedom a vice regal 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 General 


Howe cringeil away from the presence of Washington mounted his horse 
was 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 !"* 


WE have seen Washington and Howe 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 ilags, 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 shout 
his name. 

And now, as the drums roll out their thunder, as the voice of cannon bids 
him welcome he comes ! 

* This tradition, prevails 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 grand 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 five different persons, with as many 
changes of time and place. Even the precise spot, on which La Fayette, received his 
wound at Brandywine, is a matter of doubt. Two aged men pointed out to me. in the 
course ot 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, hirn 
self, when he visited the place in 1824." These localities, were only four mile* 


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 on 
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 comes, that man of kingly presence ; he stands 
there, 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 

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 behold a strange scene ; the meeting between King 
George and Duke Washington, that man who yesterday was a rebel, but 
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 
flung 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, 
kiagly look. He is clad oh, shame ! in the scarlet uniform his breast 
w.iving with ribbons and glittering with stars. 

And that noble man kneels in the centre of that crowd, kisses the gouty 
hand of that King. The good-humored idiot murmurs something about for 
giving the rebel Washington, because that rebel has become a loyal subject, 
and brought 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 nis 
brow, stands George the First, King of America. 

The glitter of arms flashes o er Independence Square ; the huzzas of the 


mob burst into the sky ; there is joy to-day in Philadelphia the aristocracy 
are glad for George Washington, forsaking the fact of republican truth, has 
yielded to thfc 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 Cornwallis is taken !" he had 
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. Giles, 
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 io 
death and to-day he dies. 

And now look, the priest approaches ; he begs that calm-faced traitor to 
repent of his treason before he dies, to be reconciled to his Kin<r, the gooa 


King George ; lo repent of his wicked deeds at Trenton, Monmouth, Ge*. 
mantown, 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 rile 
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 light. 

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 ! 

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 
tain 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 
rebel, the crushed and convicted traitor let us look a!. 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 its 
patron saint. 

W T herever 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 

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 flame nc 
one asks who first built the tire but all know that it has burned for ages 


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 American 
heart, and burning on when the night is darkest, and blazing brightest when 
the 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. 


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 tiie 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 

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 who 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 charge of some ammunition in 
tended for a band of brave farmers, about to join the hosts of freedom. 
Even 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. 


Leaning from the casement, she listened with every nerve quivering with 
suspense, to the shouts of combatants, the hurried tread of armed men echo 
ing from the south. 

There was something very beautiful in that picture ! The form of the 
young girl, framed by the square massive window, the contrast between the 
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 mansion, 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 moment 
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 party 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 old 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, and then we 
will have to trust to God for the rest !" 

Look down there, and see, a hand stealing over the od^c of the wall ! 
The old man levels his piece that British trooper falls back with a crushed 
har. J upon his comrades heads ! 


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 

For a moment all is silent below ; the British bravoes are somewhat 
loath to try that wall, when a stout old " Rebel," rifle in hand, is looking 
from yonder window ! There is a pause low, deep murmurs they are 
holding a council ! 

A moment is sjone, 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 fell 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 the 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 

musquet 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, over 
her father s grey hairs, while the ancient furniture of the small chamber 
affords a dim back-ground to the scene ! 



Now hark! The sound of axes, at the hall door shouts - hurrahs 
curses ! 

We have the old rebel, at last !" 

The old man raises his head at that sound ; makes an effort to rise ; 
clutches for a rifle, and then falls bick again, his eyes glaring, as the fierce 
pain of that wound quivers through 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 
shouts 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 he? 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 

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/ic&" of that rifle falls with an unpleasant emphasis upon 
his ear. 

" Bess, I am dying," gasps the old man, faintly extending his arms. 
14 Ha, ha, we foiled the Britishers . 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 


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 riile ; 
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 crushed 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. 


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 
iitles, as long as a hypocrite s prayer, took a quiet stroll through the dim 
cloisters 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, which 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 outline of his face 


and form. He is 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 white 
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 yonder monument, a woman dressed in faded Mack 
starts 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. 

44 Mercy !" she cries, with uplifted hands. 

44 What what what?" stammers the good King. 44 What s all this?" 

44 My son committed robbery, some two months ago. He robbed pn the 
highway to give me bread. I was sick famished dying. He has been 
condemned to death, and to-morrow he dies. Mercy for the widow s son ?" 

What what what? Eh ? What s this ? How much did he steal?" 

44 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 offence 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 


of light, through the air and over a long sweep of ocean waves. His journey 
H as but for a moment, yet, it seemed to him, that he had traversed thousands 
of miles. When he opened his eyes again, he found himself standing by a 
road-side, opposite a beautiful little cottage, which, with a garden in front, 
smiled upon the view from a grove of orchard trees. A young woman with 
a little 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, lie 
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 that 
wounded man. 

Yet the poor farmer lay there at the feet of his wife, bleeding slowly to 
death. The young woman knelt by his side, kissing him on the forehead, 
and placing her hand over the wound, as if to stop the blood, but it was in 
vain. 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 little 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 running 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 rnusquet, 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. 

. j\ 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 wretch! 

"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 in the red coat. "I ve Killeo 


many a one to-day, beside him. I m quite used to it, though burnui* <?m 
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 
shape, 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 
the young woman and her children, kneeling around the body of the dead 

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 King, listened to that chaunt with freezing blood, with tremb 
ling limbs. He knew not why, but he joined in that song in spite of him 
self, he sung their hymn of woe. 

* George of England, we curse thee in the sight of God, for toe niurdei 
four fathers ! We curse thee with the orphan s curse !" 


This was their chaunt. No other words they 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 Altar ! But to be cursed 
by widows to be cursed by little children ah " 

The good King fell on his knees. 

" Where am I !" he shrieked ** and who are these ?" 

A voice from the still winter air answered 

" You are on the battle-field. These are the widows and orphans of the 
dead of Germantown." 

" But 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; I will escape from the wind and cold, and the sight of that horrid 

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 

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 Howg, 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 dead ! 

" Washington is here !" was all he said, ere he died. 

In another hut, in search of shelter, peeped the cold and hungry King. 
i rude fellow sate warming his hands by a miserable fire, over which an 


old kettle was suspended. His face was lean and his cheeks hollow, nay 
the hands which he held out towards the light, looked like the hands of a 

" Ho ! my friend what cheer ?" said the King. " I am hungry hav 
you any thing to eat ?" 

" Not much of any account," replied the rude fellow ; " yesterday I eat 
the 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 fine 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 !" 

" 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 

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 

" We will endure disease, starvation, death, but, in thy name, oh, God ! 
wo 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 should 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 Hunted 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 from his child ! It was I that drove these freemen 
10 the huts of Valley Forge, where they endure the want of bread, fire, the 
freezing cold, the loathsome small-pox, rather than take my gold it was I 


Rebel I am at your feet! Have mercy ! I, George by the 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 

The 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 there, 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 ami 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 ! 

Thus with a smile and gently-waving hand, spoKe 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 

The good King looked at them both with a silly smile, and then pressed 
his ringer against his forehead. 

" What what what ? Do you see it here ? Do, you see it ? It burns t 

With that silly smile the King leaped in the carriage. Hurrah ! How 


the mob shouted how the swords of the guards gleamed on high iioir 
gaily the chariot wheels dashed along the streets hurrah ! 

Let us swell the shout, but 

That night a rumor crept through all London, that KING GEOROK WAS 



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 fire, 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 care. 

And the daughter 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 with 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 
sits 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 * Rebel" Washington, whose starving 
soldiers are yonder in the huts of Valley Forge. 

Washington or his lonely journeys is wont to pass this farm houao ; 


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 tl at 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 echo from the next chamber as the hand of the old clock is on the 
hour of eleven hark ! There is the sound of horses hoofs witiiout 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 s 
blue and gold uniform then mumbling something to his daughter about 
ik 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 battle 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 " Rebel" 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 little food und 
an hour s repose at his hands. 

In a few moments, behold the Soldier, with his cloak thrown ofl, sitting 


at that oaken table, partaking of the food, spread out there by the hands of 
the 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 this 
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 father and the Tories ; she heard tlie dice box rattle, as they were cast 
ing lots, who should stab George. Washington in his sleep ! 

And now, the words : " Jleware, 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. 

r " 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. 

44 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 stab the sleeping man. 

Even this half-drunken murderer is pale at the thought how the knife 
trembles in his hand 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 
chamber 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 before the fire, 
with the bloody knife in his hand. 

"Look!" he shrieks, as he scatters the red drops over his comrades 


I Kt 

faces, over the hearth, into the fire " Look ! it is his blood the traitot 
Washington !" 

His comrades gather round him with yells of joy : already, in fancy, they 
count the gold which will be paid for this deed, when lo ! that stair door 
opens, and there, without a wound, without even the stain of a drop of blood, 
jstands George Washington, asking calmly for his horse. 

"What!" 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 the 
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 silliness 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 awnited the knifo f 
although that knife might be clenched in a father s hand. 

And now that father, frozen to stone, stood there, holding the light in one 
hand, the other still clutching the red knife. 

There lay his child, the blood streaming from that wound in her arm 
lu i r eyes covered with a glassy film. 


" Mary !" shrieked the guilty father for robber and Tory as he was, he 
**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 with 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 the 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 speaks 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, choked by the death-rattle 
that word was * WASHINGTON !"* 

* Will you pardon me, reader, that I have made the Prophetess of Wissahikon, 
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 " Wissahikon," do not, it is true, 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, with 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 Wissahikrn. 



GLIDING one summer day over the smooth bosom of the Schuylkill, with 
the white sail of my boat, swelling with the same breeze that ruffled the 
pines of Laurel Hill, I 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 white 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 sloping 
gently down almost to the river s brink, its encircling grove of magnificent 
trees, its statues ami 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-time 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 white 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 every 
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 charm. 

The view is beautiful in the morning, when the pillars of the bridge, fling 
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 Schuylkill 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 
every moment, and impart a gorgeous beauty, which does not cease when 
the spires of Laurel Hill glow in the first beam of the uprising rnoon. 

Ah, night, deep and solemn the great vault above below and around 


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-tirne mansion, rushed upon my 

T 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 howled among rugged rocks. No bine 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 

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, "Improvement;" whose river all untramelled, 
went singing on its way until it kissed the Delaware. 

Tt was a night in the olden-time, when Washington held the huts and hills 
of Valley 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 
ing its rays around a quaint old fashioned room. A quaint, old fashioned 
room, not so much remarkable 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 brightly 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 
outlines of mature womanhood, was enveloped in a flowing habit of easy 
folds and snow-white hue. Around that face, glowing with red on th? 
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. Her 
blue eyes beaming with all a woman s love for a trembling old man, that 
man her father were fixed upon his face with a silent anxiety and 


The old man s gaze was rivetted to the countenance of the th;rd figure in 
this scene, who sat opposite, on the left side of the fire. 

A man of some fifty years, with strongly marked features, thick grey eye 
brows, hooked nose like an eagle s beak, 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 e LASTE SECRET OF CORNELIUS AGRIPPA, 
now fir fit frans/afed 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 influence over the minds of the people, in all the country, about 

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 seventy 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 le?rn 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 horn before midnight January 12, 1740?" said the 
Astrologer. * Four years from the night of his birth, he disappeared ?" 

The old man bowed his head in assent. 

" 1 have cast his Horoscope," said the Astrologer. " By this paper, 1 
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 dffff 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 
*nd various unknown compounds upon the dish, the Astrologer applied a 
light, and in a moment, one portion of the room, was enveloped in rolling 
Clouds of fragrant smoke. 

" Now Amable," said he, in a meaning tone, " This charm can be tried 


by a pure virgin and by her alone. Would 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 strange smile passed over the Astrologer s face. Was it of scorn 01 
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 was 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 Vho had persecuted Amable 
with his addresses and been repulsed with scorn. 

He stood there, his laugh of derision, ringing through the chamber, while 


Amable looxe^ up in his brutal face, with a terror that hushed her 

The Ast^ogcr 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 Gerald Morton, instinctively became aware that his child 
was in the bravo s power. 

" Spare my girl/ he said, in a quivering voice. " She never harmed 
you !" 

" O, I will spare the lovely lass," sneered Marcham, " Trust me for that ! 
Old man you need not fear ! 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 !" 

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 I 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 

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 : BRITISH POWER, means cruelty to the fallen, murder to the 
unarmed brave. They all remembered, that Paoli was yet red with the 


blood of massacre, while Walnut Street goal, every morning sent its dis 
figured dead to Potter s field. 

Therefore the old man buried his face in his hands, therefore Amable 
terrified to the heart, sank crouching by the fireplace, while the bravo looked 
with his brutal sneer, upon both father and child. 

" Come girl no trifling," 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 hands. 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 hrs 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 : 

p " 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 officer 
tood as if appalled by a ghost. 

" Your brothers are tied, as cowards should be tied, who put on the war- 


nor s dress to do a coward s work," exclaimed the Indian. * My vvaniura 
came on them, 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 stern 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 hearts 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 few 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 lew 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 in 
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 white 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 the 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 face. The old man, as if 
bis 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 chair. 

Ho was dead. 


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 quietly 
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 battle had been fought near Monmouth. 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 over her 

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 ; 
he saw her brother s face, she knew that she was Widow and Virgin at 

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 
shadow over a white tombstone and a new made grave. 


Sunset steals through these branches, over the white tombstone, down 
into the recesses of the new-made grave. What is this we see beside the 
grave ? A man in Indian attire, bending over a coffin, on whose plate is 
inscried a single word 

A M A B L E . 

Ah, do not lift 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, contem 
plating with deep sorrow, the corse of a friendly savage. He lay there, 
stiff and cold, the wreck of a giant man, his bronzed face, 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 

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 bridge was consumed 
by fire. The railroad bridge a splendid stone structure in modern style 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 ground around the Falls, on the shores of the Schuylkill is rich in legends 
of the most picturesque and romantic character. 



IN Germ-ntown there is an old-time graveyard. No gravelled walks 
iio delicate sculpturings of marble, no hot-beds planted over corruption are 
there. It is an old-time graveyard, defended from the highway and encirc 
ling fields by a thick stone wall. On the north and west it is shadowed by 
a range of trees, the sombre verdure of the pine, the leafy magnificence of 
the marple and horse-chesnut, mingling in one rich mass of foliage. Wild 
flowers are in that graveyard, and tangled vines. It is white with tomb 
stones. They spring up, like a host of spirits from the green graves ; they 
seem to struggle with 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 
mr 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 
father 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 also 
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 white tombstones, played and lingered the cold rnoori. 


In summer, 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 world, I would plant it on that man s 

It was in November, not in chill, gloomy November, but in golden No 
vember, when Paradise opens her windows to us, and wafts the 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 collarless, 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 of 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. 


We sat for a long while in silence. 

At last the Quaker spoke. 

44 1 am trying to remember which is John and which is Jacob?" said he. 

" John ? Jacob ?" 

" Truly so. For I knew them well. I was but a youth then on the 
day of the battle, thee minds ? The fourth of the tenth month, 1777 ! 
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 

" 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 tall, 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 holds 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 battle in Chew s field. He was 
quite dead look ! Thee can see the bnllet 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 coffins ?" 

The old man opened his eyes. 

" Had thee seen the village people, taking their barn-doors off their hinges^ 
so that they might carry away the dead bodies by dozens at a time, 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 


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 of glory!" 

" 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. t 
remember one fair-faced British officer; his ruffled shirt was red with blood. 
He was a tine-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 him 
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 
forehead 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 ? " 


An had just told him that one of his Generals was dninK 
undei a hedge." 

" Did you see Cornwallis ?" 

" 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 before 
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 Quaker s mouth. 


HIST ! It is still night ; the clear sky arches above ; the dim woods 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 thm down to dream of a time when the ripe harvest shall no more 
be trodden down by the blood-stained hoof when the valley shall no more 
be haunted by the Traitor-Refugee when Liberty and Freedom shall walk 
in broadcloth, instead of wandering about with the unshodden feet, and the 
tattered rags of want. 

It is still night; and Mad Anthony Wayne watches while his soldiers 

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, 
yaried 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 intlis 
tinct it sweeps, and is silent and still. I can see nothing. 

Place your ear to th^ earth. Hear you nothing ? 


Yes yes. A slight sound a distant rumbling. There is thunder growl 
ing in the bosom of the earth, but it is distant. It is like the murmur 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 you 
nothing ? 

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 

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 them down ! Charge for England and 
St. George !" 

And then there was uplifting of swords, and butchery of defenceless mon, 
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 response 

" 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 gentle- 
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 slaughter, 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 ! Rool 
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 ghastly morning ; and the first sunbeams shine 


over the field, which was yesternight a green meadow the field that is nov* 
an Aceldema a field of blood, strewn with heaps of the dead, arms lorn 
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. They 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 
seen the long talon-like fingers of the skeleton-god clutching for his own 
plump British throat. But his eye-sight was no-t keen more s the pity for 

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 voioe 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 syjht or hearing ; he did 


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 
wept the thunder-shout 

" 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." 


And as the beams of the rising moon, streaming through yonder narrovr 
w ndow, for a moment light up the brow of the Avenger dusky with bat 
tle-smoke, red with blood, deformed by passion behold ! That sword 
describes a fiery circle in the air, it hisses down, sinks into the victim s 
kull ? 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 kill you ! 
shouts the American Warrior, and his weaponless hands are extended to 
the trembling Briton. 

Ail 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, pouring through 
the solitary window, behold a strange and impressive sight : 


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. 

44 Look ye old man at Paoli " and that hoarse voice, heard amid the 
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 ! 

44 And he spared him ?" faltered the Briton. 

44 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 
widowed heart forth to battle " 

" And he spared him " again faltered the Briton. 

44 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 that 
young face, with the red wound between the eyes, passes before me, I 
spare your life ; there lies my sword I will not take it up again ! Cling 
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 ! They 







XuEjangels of God look down from the sky to witness the deep tender- \ 
Hess 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 little 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 softly 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 upou 
the sacramental altar. 

That motner 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 Mother. 

And why 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 racancy of the twilight air, she beholds a vision of that boy s life, acf 


crowding on act, scene on scene, until her eyes burn in their sockets, ami 
the thick 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 uoon 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 !" 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 God ! 

" 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 a 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-night, 
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 flows 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. 


And there oh, Father of Mercy ! there, in that steeple, stands a soldiei 
with a dark cloak half-wrapped around his red uniform yes, there he stands, 
with 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-five 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 cries 
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 little girls when he was a boy here they 
are, hacked by British swords, and he 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 still amic 
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 father 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 Hill 
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 shelter 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 
eomrade, the patriot Warren. 

Is it true, that when the curse of all wronged orphans quivers up yonder, 
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 



LET us look at his life between these periods ; let us follow the varied 
and tumultuous course of forty-iive 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 


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 

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 1 Then, the gipsey conceals 
its deformed limbs under a frock, covers its wan and sickly face with a 

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 compilers of pom 
pous falsehood, 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 iuto all their Compilations, whether Histories, Lectures, or Pictorial 


abominations, dressing them somewhat variously, in order to suit the changes 
of time and place. 

For example ; the first English writers who undertook the history oi 
Napoleon, propagated various stories about his infancy, which, in point of 
truth and tragic interest, remind us of Blue-beard and Cock-robin. The 
same stories had been previously told of Alexander, Caesar, 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 

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 strewed the road with pounded glass, in 
order that other little boys might cut their feet ; he fried frogs upon a bake- 
iron heated to an 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. After he. had betrayed 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 inkstand 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 always 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 a 
man of some thirty-five years, stood behind a counter, an apron on his 
manly chest, mixing medicines, pasting labels on phials, and putting poisons 
in their places. 

Look well at this man, as he stands engaged in his occupation. Did you 
ever see a bolder brow a deeper, darker, or more intensely brilliant eye 


a more resolute lip or more determined chin ? Mark the massy outline of 
that face from the ear to the chin ; a world of iron will is written in that 
firm outline. 

The hair, unclogged 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 pestle 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 
image of terrible beauty ? Do you not feel the awful silence that broods there 


On the summit of th^it rock the British garrison are sleeping, aye, slum 
bering peacefully, under the comfortable influence 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 m the dark ravine. Let u* 
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, BENEDICT 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 gentleman was 

behind the age. He had not heard, that a jNew Nation had lately been 
born on the sod of Lexington. Nor did lie dream of the Eight Years Bap 
tism of blood arid tears, which was to prepare this nation for its full com 
munion with the Church of Nations, on the plains of Yorktown. " 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. 

44 In the name of the Lord Jehovah and the Continental Congress !" 

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 lime, was a Pine Tree. The Lord had not yet given his stars, to flash 
from the Banner of Freedom ; an emblem of the rights of man all over the 

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. 


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 
tery 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 


with cannons, and plumes, and banners, and a little man .n a grey riding- 
coat in their midst. 

That little 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 deed, 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 

In April, 1775, that man Arnold stood behind a counter, mixing medi 
cines, pasting labels en 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 night, 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 

Washington answered this with a look of incredulous 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." 

Still that soldier was firm. 

" 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 CONTI 
NENT. His army was not called the A.merican, but the CONTINENTAL 
army. The Congress was not entitled American, but CONTINENTAL. The 


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 17th of September, 1775, contains 
eleven hundred brave men, and their leader, Benedict Arnold. 

They reach the mouth of the Kennebec they glide along its cliff-em 
bosomed shores. These brave men are about to traverse an untrodden 
wilderness 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 

Let us leave this little army to build their canoes near the moutli 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 
cliffs, 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 cliffs a grandeur fresh from the hands 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 ; 
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 small 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 shattered 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 
mm ? 

Listen. Here, many years ago, dwelt a powerful Indian tribe, and here 
from afar over the waters, came a peaceful man, clad in a long coarse rob, 


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 twenty- 
five 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 him, the dusky savage of the woods. 
When he first 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 fired 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 deaJ 
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 


ino like solves along these rocks, to murder a congregation in the act of 
worshipping their Maker. 

Do you ask me for my opinion of such men ? I 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 

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 ha! 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 bine hunting-frock, faced with fur ; strange warriors, with powder 
horn, knife and rifle. Far ahead of the main body of the fleet, a solitai 
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 

Look ! He rises in the canoe he stands erect he flings the cloak from 
his 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 struggling 
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 Wilderness. 
Let us follow him there ! 

Now dashing down boiling rapids, now carrying their canoes through 
miles of forest, over hills of rock, now wading for long leagues, through 


water that freezes to their limbs as they go, the little army of Arnold 

On, brave Arnold, on ! For you the awful mountain has no terrors, the 
cold that stops the blood in its flowing, no fear. Not even the dark night 
when the straggler falls dying by the way, and unknown ravines yawn far 
below your path, not even the darker day when the little 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 
soul ! On, brave Arnold, on ! 

Look, at last, after dangers too horrible to tell, the little 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 

Under the shadow of this mountain the little 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 little 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 
tall pines ? Look up a faint glimpse of starlight is seen there through the 
intervals of the sombre boughs. The stars look down 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 brink of the 


For an hour these iron men are merry ! Yes, encamped by the wave 
of Lake CHAUDIERE. They roast the ox amid the huge logs ; they draw the 
rich salmon 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 ! 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 
along 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 

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 glittering town. 

At last he beheld QUEBEC ! 


IT was the last day of the year 1775. 

Yonder, on the awful cliffs of Abraham, in the darkness of the daybreak, 
while the leaden sky grooms above, a band of brave men are gathered ; yes, 
vrhrle the British are banquetting in Quebec, here, on this tremendous rock, 


in silent array, stand the Heroes of the Wilderness, joined with their 
brothers, the Continentals from Montreal. 

That little 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 counte 
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 little 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, vender? That 
barrier, grim with cannon, commands every inch of th . o -* /. On one side, 
the St. Charles heaps up its rocks of ice ; on the olhc a r / \ A rt the rocks 
of granite 


JJhience 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 
Cotpu>- may arouse the sleeping soldier on yonder barrier. If he awake, 
we ar* lo<n ! On, brave band, on with stealthy footstep, and rifle to each 
snoulder ; on, men of the wilderness, in your shirts of blue and fur! 

At the head of the column, with his drawn sword gleaming through the 
mpht Benedict Arnold silently advances. 

Then a single cannon, mounted on a sled, and dragged forward, by stou 

Last of all, Daniel Morgan with the riflemen of the Wilderness. 

In this order along the narrow pass, with ice on one side and rocks on 
the other, the hero-band advance. The pass grows narrower the battery 
nearer. 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 
softly on. 

Arnold silently turns to his men. 

And yonder through the gloom, over the suburb of that city, over ihe 
rocks of that city s first barrier there frowned the battery grim with 

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 Blares 
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. 


dash these British hirelings upon the barrier s rocks ye heroes of 
Wilderness ! 

Now Arnold is in his glory ! 

Now he knows nothing, sees nothing but that grim barrier 
yonder ! Those fires flashing from the houses that rattling hail of 
pattering on the snow~he sees, he feels them not ! 

His eye is fixed upon the second barrier. He glances around that mass 
3f rifles, now glittering in the red light he floats the Banner of the Stars on 
high Hark to his shout ! 

" Never fear, 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 ! sainted mother of Jlrnold, who on that calm summer night, near 
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 ! For then 
his name will be enshrined with fVarrens and Washingtons of all time ! 

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 ojhis 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, silently, 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 
pras ascended. He stood before the block-house. Now, comrades 


How that rifle-blaze flashed far over the rocks down to the St. Lawrence J 
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 rifles, a shout, the block-house is won ! 

Talk of your British bayonets ha, ha ! Where did they ever stand the 
blaze of American rifles ? Where ? Oh, perfumed gentlemen, 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 
Hill? 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 then 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 
iimbs 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 the 
.ock, yonder in his far-off home, his young wife kneels by her bed, and 
prays God to hasten his return ! 
* He dind in the flush of heroism, in the prime of early manhocd. leaving 


his country the rich legacy of his fame, leaving his blood upon the rock of 

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 
flag waving in the forlorn hope against the British banner ! Then perhaps 
some true American heart will wash out the blood of Montgomery from th 
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. Now look at him, as with his form 
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 wailing 
"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 

Then he endeavors to rise. A gallant soldier offers his arm to thi 
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 until he makes his bed 
there on the cold snow, in a pool of his own blood, until his eyes fail and 
his right leg stiffens, 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. 

Wouid 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 


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 lived ; his ashes accursed by his countrymen, rest in an unknown 

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 


Now let us pass with one bold flight over the movements of the Conti 
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 Point, 

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 

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 
rnane 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 tight ! 
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, floating 
his dark mane over his shoulders. Arnold who never shed a tear tor tne 
dead men in battle, felt his eyes grow wet. He was about to snooi mat 
friend, who had served him so well, and never betrayed him. 

"There was the report of a pistol the sound of a heavy oouy faiui.g oc 
the sand the motion of a light canoe speeding over the waters. 


And Arnold looked back, and beheld the dying head of his horse faintly 
upraised ; he beheld that large eye rolling in death. 

Ah, little can you guess the love that the 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. 


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 Champlain, which made 
the Continent ring with the name of Arnold. 

Let us see that man rising in renown as a soldier, who was always 
First 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. Without 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 Party 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 
dujlar fine. In the Revolution, Washington held the serenity of his soul 
amid 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 r>f Party was at work, planning a mean deed, with mean men for 


its instruments ; the overthrow of the Hero by a cabal, that was as formid 
able then, as it is contemptable now. 

In all ages, to speak plainly, this spirit of party, this effervescence 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 
malice 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 fight for his principles, with a fearless pen and voice and 
sword. But he never can be a Party Man. The very idea of faction, 
pre-supposes intrigue, and intrigue 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 suffered 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 Washington, 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 
strengthened. 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 

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 British 

hirelings attack and burn that town. Yes, surrounded by his hirelings, ag 


sassins in the shape of British soldiers, and assassins in the shape of Amer 
ican Tories, brave General i 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 
only 500 men, disputes the path of the Destroyer. Ths Continentals are 
driven 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 
oeholds 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 rights his way down the rock, through the breasts of foes. 

That was the right kind of Expostulation ! 

When a faction, nestling in the breast of your country, wrong you, then 
only 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 
commission, 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. 


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, white 
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 the old 
mansion, whose hundred lights glanced far over the waters of Champlain 


nere in this quiet room, with the cool evening breeze blowing in their 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 by 
his long service and hard fighting ; " and I have a pretty lass of a daughter 
there in 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 lo the veteran, " and I never saw painting or statue, much less living 
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 waves 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 
gHttering 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 
ibrms of Hindoostan? 

The Captain hesitated for a moment, and then tossing off 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 American 
girl? To-night, at midnight too, that American girl will join the dance ic 


the 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, mote 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 ! 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 !" echoed the veteran Colonel ; " Rather an odd guar 
dian for 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 you 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 
place this gold with a hundred guineas of your own." 

" Agreed ! It is a wager !" chorussed the Colonel and the two other 

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 little 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 

" Ha, ha ! See how I ve frightened you !" he said and then laughed 
that cold, unnatural, hollow laugh again. 

And yet, half an hour from that time, he freely confessed the natur* 
ftf the horrid picture which he had seen drawn upon that blank, wains 
totted wall, as if by some supernatural hand. 


But now, with the wine cup in his hand, he turned from one comrade to 
another, uttering some forced jest, or looking towards the doorway, 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 the 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. 

" Where 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 ! 

Then tho 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. 

Not 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, falling 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 still 
clutching the bloody scalp, and the long dark hair falling in glossy tresses 
over the floor ! 


This was his bridal eve ! 

Now tell me, my friends, you who have heard some silly and ignorai i 
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 
scene 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. 



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 battle at all, if we may believe in the 
bulletin of Gates, 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 
n 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, 
frosted into snowy ripeness 

It was a calm, clear da*y, but the tread of legions shook the ground. From 


every bush shot the glimmer of the rifle barrel, on every nllside blazed the 
sharpened bayonet. Flags were there, too, tossing in the breeze ; here the 
Banner of the Stars yonder the Red Cross gonfalon. 

Here in solid lines were arrayed the Continental soldiers, pausing on 
laeir arms, their homely costume looking but poor and humble, 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 riiles 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. Tliey 
had quarrelled, Arnold and Gates, about some matter of military courtesy 
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 battle, 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, those 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 ? Then his color the 
raven is not darker than his skin, or maiden s cheek more glossy than his 
spotless 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 
their delicate perceptions. Their experience teaches them, that the word glossy, 
coupled with black, must refer to a glossy black maiden. Had my ideas ran iri 
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 iet 


Look upon thai gallant steed, and remember the 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 
rmed men. 

He moeketh 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 ii 
the sound of the trumpet. 

He saith 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 forehead. 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 ringers 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 officers with unmingled surprise. 

" Armstrong ." 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 

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 !" I have no doubt they would prefer for a hero, an excellent 
animal, noted for his deep throat and long ears. My taste inclines in a different 


lade 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 battle 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 that 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 ! Warren ! 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 you 
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-coats 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 twenty 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. 


They spring forward, with the same bound look ! Their bayonets al 
most touch the muzzles of these rifles ! 

At this moment the voice of the Rider was heard. 

" Now let them have it -fire /" 

A sound is heard a smoke is seen twenty Britons are down, some 
writhing in death, some crawling along the sod, 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 

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 deatli 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 ! 

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. Still 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 Ameri 
can cause was lost. 

That fortress was to be gained, or Gates was a dishonored man ; Bur 
goyne a triumphant General. 


That 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. 

Even those bold riflemen, who were in the wilderness with one Benedict 
Arnold, who stormed the walls of Quebec, with this Arnold and Montgomery, 
on that cold daybreak of December thirty-first, 1775, even those men of 
iron fell back, terrified at the sight. 

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. 

44 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 you 
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 1 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 bolt of battle, 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 
r ortross 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 


up his voice, and shouts afar to Horatio Gates, waiting yonder in his tent ; 
he tells him that 


And look ! As that shout goes up to heaven, he falls upon his Steed, 
with his leg shattered by a cannon ball. 

He lays there, on his dead Steed, bleeding and insensible, while his 
hand, laid over the neck of the gallant Horse, still grasps the Banner of the 

Who was the Rider of the Black Horse ? 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 been 
Now, do you not guess his name ? That wound was received at the 
Storming of Quebec ; that Rider of the Black Horse was BENEDICT 

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 something rash. 1 " 

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 of the battle, did not mention the name 

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 

The conduct of Arnold in this battle became known, in spite of the 
dastardly 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 WU- 


derness, Quebec and Saratoga, MAJOR GENERAL ARNOLD, of the Continental 

At the same time that George Washington received the account of Ar 
nold s daring at Saratoga, he also received from a Nobleman of France, three 
splendid sets of epaulettes and sword-knots, with the request to retain one 
for himself, and bestow the others on the two bravest men of his army. 

George Washington sent one set of epaulettes with a sword-knot to Ben 
edict Arnold. 

When we next look for Arnold, we find him confined to his room, with 
a painful wound. For the entire winter the limb which 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 ! 


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 weli, 
in this last hour of the summer day the centre of the circle, stand the 
Bridegroom and Bride. 


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 that hangs by his side, has a story all 
its own to tell. Look ! 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 ! 

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 young 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 neck, 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 
w*Mre Tories in speech, in the days of the Revolution. 


I never think of this Aristocracy, without being reminded of those Italian 
mendicants, 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, I 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 Nobility, 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 
riot 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 parties, 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, arid 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 impe- 

On the occasion of the third lecture, before the Win Institute. 


rial grandeur of Great Britain s hereditary sovereign a Queen, who unporu 
a husband from the poverty of some German Kingdom, three miles square f 
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 

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 gentlemen 
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 

From 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 
yesterday was such a splendid fellow, sprinkling his gold in banquets and 
festivals obeyed a Resolution of the Continental Congress, and by procla 
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 

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 
4 riends, they began to change their opinion. 

Their indignation knew no bounds. They dared not attack Washington* 


they dared not assail the Congress. Therefore, they opened their batterie* 
of malignancy and calumniation against Arnold. 

Where 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 vindication 
from any criminally 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 
scorn, to stone him in the streets, him, the Hero of Quebec. Yes, the out- 
sasts 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 barrier 
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 
after 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 4 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 Washington, 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. Jin irregularity, without criminal intention, in granting a written 
protection to a vessel, before his command in Philadelphia, while at Val 
ley Forge. 



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 military 
irregularity in granting a written protection, before he assumed command in 
Philadelphia, and O, the enormity of the crime almost exceeds the power 
of belief a sacriligious use of the baggage wagons of Pennsylvania ! 

For this 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 the 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 

Let us hear what that honest man, Jared Sparks, says of the matter : 

" It was proved to the court, that although the wagons had been em 
ployed for transporting private property, they were nevertheless used at 
private expense, without a design to defraud the public, or impede the 
military service. 11 

And the 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 


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 had once been lifted to take the 
step which Arnold afterwards took. 11 

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 Was Arnold s 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 ringer of history, I 
awarded to Arnold tlie 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 * 


<*hief accuser, a very prominent individual, who has made that accuser s 
deeds the subject of laborious and filial panegyric, instead of meeting the 
question like a man, crept away into some dark corner of history, and called 
a sincere patriot by the portentous name of Infidel ! This was very much 
like the case of the patriot John Bull, who, hearing a Frenchman examine 
ne cnaracter 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 the 
Ghost of Washington to preside over its deliberations. Yes, approaching 
that Ghost, with an awful reverence, let us ask this important question. 

44 Was not General John Cadwallader your bosom friend, 0, Washington, 
the man whose heart and hand you implicitly trusted ? Dhd 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 44 YES !" 

We will ask another question. 

44 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. 



IN December, 1776, a few days before the battle of Trenton, in the dark 
eat 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 Cadwallader 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, 
perchance the existence of that army, remarked to General Cadwaliader : 

" That he did not understand following the fortunes of a broken-down 
and shattered army " 

At the very moment that he said this, 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: 

" That 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 Adjutant General " 1 have advised the Lieu 
tenant Colonel, my brother, now at Burlington, to remain there, and take 
protection and swear allegiance, and in so doing he will be perfectly 

You will all admit, that this was beautiful and 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 

General Cadwallader, the bosom friend of Washington, heard these re 
marks with surprise, with deep sorrow. From pity to the Adjutant Gen 
eral, he locked them within the silence of his own breast, until the brilriant 
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 hi 
country s flag. 

WHO WAC 1!i: ACCUSE > 191 

Time passed, and General Cadwallader communicate \h\f conversation 
lo certain prominent men of the time, thinking it better from ipotives of 
kindness, to avoid a public exposure of the Adjutant General s intended 

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 
rilled with indignation that he could not master, uttered these memorable 
words : 

"It argues the effrontery of baseness " said the brave officer, directing 
his eagle eye toward the Attorney General " in one man to pursue cm* 
other man to death, for taking a step which his own foot had once beef 
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 rive years, a discussion was provoked, facf 
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. 

The 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 rind 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 Continntal cause. 

Alexander Hamilton and Benjamin Rush, were never given to falsehood. 
And then comes a statement from Major Win. Bradford, which dated 


March 15, 1783, strips the Adjutant General of every vestige of patriotisn,. 
This brave officer states, that while he was at Bristol, in command of the 
Philadelphia militia, in 1776, the Adjutant General went over to Burling 
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 Cadwallader. 

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 John 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 
nis intention of deserting the Continental army, but was in fact, three days 
and nights in the camp of the enemy. 

Was this the conduct of a Patriot, or it is a dark word, and burns the 
forehead on which it is branded A TRAITOR ! 

This adjutant general, was General JOSEPH REED, President of the Su 
preme Council of Pennsylvania, and the prominent accuser of BENEDICT 

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 ?" 


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 *he centre of all 
syes, in the place of the Criminal, with the eye of Washington fixed upon 
him in reproof with a throng of the meaner things of the Revolution. 
wh in the British King might have bought, had he thought them worth the 


ouying, 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 little * 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 " 1 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 


In order to unde?stand the scene of his reprimand in all its details, we 
must wander back through tho shadows of seventy years. 


That tine old mansion of Morristown rises before us, m <hc calm light of 
a winter s day. There is snow upon the ground, but it is frozen, until il 
resembles an immense mirror, which flashes back to the sky the light 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, 

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 that you look, and hush each 
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. 


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 settled look. His brow is bathed in the light of 
the hearth. Do you see the red glare that flashes 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 
suffers 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 earnestly 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 
height 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 the 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 
faces 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. 



AGED persons, survivors of the Revolution, have told me singular and im 
pressive stories of Arnold s appearance and demeanor, while in Philadelphia, 
after tiiis 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, 
eillier in courtesy or in anger, but preserving a settled calm of look and 

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 

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 wildness 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 off 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 
self, 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 family, 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 
btrays by the Schuylkill, and its clear waters mirror his face, lowering with 
(earful passions. 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. 


This proud mansion, once rung with the clamor of a Three day s festival 
It was when Arnold, recently appointed General in command of Philadel 
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 softly, freighted with a 
precious treasure of voluptuous beauty. 

At night, the wood and the mansion, and the river broke out, all at once 
wiih 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, sui rounded 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 white 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 o-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 t 
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-chamber of King George ? 

Does she following the example of many an humble country-woman, 
^lad 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 


up into his stern face, gleam with the holy 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 sod lay lightly 
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 
of 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 the 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 

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 ? 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, but 
merely foi the curiosity of the thing ; for the sake of the show 


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. 


THERE was a night, when an awful agony was passing in the breast of 
Arnold ; the struggle between Arnold s revenge and Arnold 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 the 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 face, 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 blue 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 


Turn that uniform and it is scarlet. That is a British Spy. He is waiting 
to bear the letter to Sir Henry Clinton. 

That handsome cavalier, dressed in the extreme of fashLm, 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 offer of Arnold, who wishes to enter the 
service of the French King. 

The third 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 

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 

Then occurs a hurried and a deeply-interesting scene. 

While the wife of Arnold sits trembling by the fire, he advances, and 
greets the Chevalier De Luzerne : 

" Look ye," he mutters in quick tones, " Your king can have my sword, 
but mark ! 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. 

44 My King never buys soldiers !" he whispers with a sneer, and then 
bowing, politely retires. 

Stung to the quick with this cool insult, Arnold turning his eyes awaj 
from the British Spy salutes the Indian chief hark ! They converse in 
the wild, musical Indian tongue. 

44 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 " 

44 Try my love for the pale faces," mutters Arnold with a look and ? 
sneer that makes even the red Indian start. 

The chief resumes : 44 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." 

44 TRY ME !" was the hoarse response of Arnold, given with knit brows, 
and clenched hands. 

44 Then shall the Death Eagle become the chief of the red men" said 
the Indian 44 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 de- 


light, the proposition, to become the chief of a murderous tribe of wild In 
dians felt his heart grow cold ! 

Ah 1 how he loved that wife ! 

Arnold who in his mad revenge, was willing to sweep the towns of the 
whites with torch and knife, quailed at the idea of leaving that fair young 

" 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. 


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 the 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 breakfast, 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 the 
soul Treason with a wife on one side, a baby laughing on his knee ! 
T)pes it not seem to mingle the ridiculous with the sublime, or worse, the 
dull Common-place with the Demoniac ? 

And yet, there is nothing under Heaven more terribly true f Search 



history, and 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 another 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 ruffles from 
his wrists ! 

We might multiply our illustrations of the fact, by a thousand other 

Yet among 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 

That traitor sits near the head of the table, his imposing form attired in a 
blue 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 the less impressive, because it is almost im 

Near the General are seated two young officers, his aids-de-camp, whose 


lerder 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 thing out of Paradise a young wife, with 
a biby nestling 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 attire, 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 us 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 cliffs of West 

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 bluff General, with somewhat 
corpulent form and round good-humored face General Knox. A.nd on the 
right hand of Washington, mounted on a splendid black horse, whose dark 
Sides are whitened by snowy flakes of foam, rides a young man, not re 
m&rkable for heighth or majesty of figure, but his bold high forehead awes 


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 
their 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 
something 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 b 
#eak, or crazy, but not altogether so mad as that !" 

The General sipped his coffee, and the conversation took another turn. 

The latest fashion of a lady s dress whether the ponderous head-gear 
jf tnat ime, would be succeeded by a plainer style the amusements of 


the British in New York, their balls, banquets and gala days sucn were 
the subjects of conversation. 

Never had the wife of Arnold appeared so beautiful. Her eyes ocannng 
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 open 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 
Messenger 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 
called 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, 
deep set, beneath overhanging brows, glare in her face. 

She totters towards him. 

For a moment he gazes upon her in silence. 


She does not breathe a word, but trembling to him, as though unconscious 
of the action, lifts her babe before his eyes. 

" Wife " he exclaimed, in a voice that was torn from his very heaii 
" 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 with 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. Still it sleeps ! What knows it, the sinless 
child, of the fearful Tragedy of that hour ? The Mother passes her hand 
over her brow, now hot as molten lead ; she endeavors to recal the memory 
of that 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 ? 

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 
at the house, he hastened to the river. 


In a few moments the barge rippled gently over the waves. Washington 
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 

" 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 wrapped 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 detail*, 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 

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 
ibrboding 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 Colonel 
Jamison of North Castle reveal a strange truth, gentlemen. We journeyed 



to Hartford by the lower road, but returned by the upper. 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 

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 

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 
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. 

44 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 giRring from her blue eyes. 

She stood erect, regarding him with that blazing eye, that defiant look. 

44 0), shame !" she cried, curling her proud lip in scorn 44 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 ?" 


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 had 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 sui 
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 

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 the last scene 
of that fatal day. 

While the Wife lay cold and senseless, there, in the chamber of her des 
olated home, the State Room of the Vulture presented a scene of some 

The British ship was gliding over the Hudson, its dishonored flag tinted 
by the last beam of the setting sun. On the soft cushions of the State 
room sofa, was seated a man, with his throat bared, his brow darkened, 
every line of his face distorted by passion. His eyes were fixed upon an 
object, which rested on the Turkish carpet at his feet. 

That man, the Hero of the Wilderness, whose glory had burst upon tns 


sountry, with the bewildering splendor of the Aurora, which flushes th 
northern sky with dies of matchless beauty Benedict Arnold. 

That object was an unsheathed sword the sword of Quebec and Sar 



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 b) 
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 yonder 
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 

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 the 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. 

It is a beautiful morning, but the young traveller feels not the breeze 
cares not for the joyous beam. Nor do those wreaths of autumnal misi, 


in graceful festoons among the tall forest trees, arrest the glance of 
n/s hazel eye. 

He paces along the bridge. Now he lays his hand upon the mane of hws 
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 that 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 
tiful dream ! That old familiar room, with oaken wa.nscot and antique 
furniture ; the mother, with her placid face, venerable with grey hair ; the 
fair girls now blushing and ripening into women ! 

*le wili return home ; yes, they shall hear his manly steo. They shall 


look from the door, and instead of the untitled Cadet, behold tne 
General. The thought fires his soul. 

He gives his fears to the wind. For he is a brave man, but no\ *tt t 
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 
see in a life-time. A trunk, like the column of some Druid Templa, 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 sprang <o his feet. He beheld our young traveller riding slowly 
toward .he iree. In a moment he was in the highway, intently regarding 
tlu; stranger, whom he surveyed with a meaning glance. 

As his lorse reached the poplar tree, Williams sprang forward and seized 
the reins yhile Paulding presented his rifle to the breast of the young man. 

" Stano " he exclaimed, in a deep, sonorous voice, " Which way ?" 

For a ruoment the stranger gazed in the face of the soldier, who stooo 
before him, clad in a British uniform. A shade of doubt, inquiry, tea* 
passed over his handsome face. 


Gentlemen," said he, in a voice which struck their ears with its tone* 
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. " I trust that 
you will know better than to detain me, when you learn that I am out ol 
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 from face 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, Robinson s House, Sept r 22d, 1780. 

Permit Mr. John Anderson to pass the Guards to the White Plains, or below 
if he chooses. 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, 1 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, I d let you pass," said Paulding, " but there s so many 
bad people about, I m afeerd you might be one of them. Besides, Blister 
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 

" 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 I 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 th 
bushes ; we want to sarch you." 

Without a word, the stranger suffered them to lead him under the shad* 


of 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 
look of deep anxiety. 

They took the overcoat, the coat of claret hue, glittering with tinsel, the 
nankin and flannel waistcoats, nay, the ruffled shirt itself, 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 
ings, were removed ; yet still no paper, no sign of mystery or treason was 

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* 
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. 

The 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 

44 Take my watch, my horse, my purse all I have only let mf 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 gotf wnteh, 
or purse of yellow guineas. 


For a moment Paulding was silent, his manly face wore a hesitating look, 
44 Will you gif us any ting else ?" said Van Wert, with a strong Dutch 

" 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 ?" 

44 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 agony 
quivering in every feature, awaited their reply. 

44 Dress yourself," muttered Paulding, in a rough voice. 
" Then you consent,you will let me go ?" eagerly exclaimed the diguiscd 

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 offer ; 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. 

44 No !" said he, in a voice which chilled the young man s blood ; " If 


you were to offer me ten thousand guineas I could not I would not, let 
you go !" 

The prisoner said not a word, but his face grew paler. 

They went slowly forth from the wood, and stood once more beneath the 

The young stranger looked upon his horse, which was to bear him away 
a 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 them to take all ; he promised them fortune, only that 
he might depart. 

But still that stern answer : 


The sun was up in the heavens. The breeze tossed the magnificent 
limbs of the Tulip-Poplar. 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, ant 1 
honor to Paulding, Williams, and Van Wert, the POOR MEN HEROES OF 

They stood grouped under the Tulip-Poplar ; but their prisoner ? 

He laid his arras upon his horse s neck, and hid his face on its dark 

Long ago the bones of that young traveller crumbled to dust, in a felon s 
grave, 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 namet 


we remembered foi evermore. Let us look for A moment at the class to 
which they belonged, let us take one of these humble men and paint the 
picture of a Poor Man Hero, 

He crouches beside the trunk of the giant oak, on the wild wood 

side. He s_weeps the overhanging leaves aside with his brawny hand the 
light 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 Britisher has taken the mea 
sure of his grave. 

And thus speeding along from tree to rock, from the fence to the secure 
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-knell 
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 cliff* ; 
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 


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 the 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 North 
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. 1 

At the same time, he announced that he had sent these dangerous papers 
to Washington. You have seen the agitation of the Ameriean 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 -b^en described in at least twenty 
different ways. The distinguished historian, Sparks, presents a plain, straightforward 
account, which in its turn is contradieted 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, 

4 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 taken to Sing Sing, 
and from thence to Tappan, where Washington arrived in 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 absent 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 
wilful or involuntary misrepresentation. The mention of the British uniform placet 
A new construction upon the whole affair, and is, in my opinion, the only satisfactor? 
explanation of the conduct of Andre, ever vet published. 



Two scenes from the past j two scenes from the dim shadows of Revo- 
utionary Romance. One is a scene of Light the other, of Gloom. 

The first scene took place when the British Army was in Philadelphia ; 
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 in 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 

Ah, it was a glorious night. A midnight sky above, and light and glitter 
below. Then gondolas, freighted with beauty, glided over the waters, 
flashing 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 
a gay 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 crowded into one view, you 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. 

Me&chianza ? 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 


origin Yes, it ia possibly \lerived from some Sancrit word, and signifies, 
to 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 

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 ste^d, 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 splendid display of 
lovely women, and oh, for a swelling word from the vocabulary of adjectives 
a Meschianza ; and all in honor of Sir William Howe, who is so glad 
that 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 Beauty 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 orer 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 ? 


Now change the scene. Let the Tournament pass. Let Sir William \ 
Howe go home 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 the 
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. 

Yes, she has linked her fate with the destiny of Jlrnold. Yet, still af 
ter her marriage, she continues her correspondence with the Knight of the 
Meschianza, who dtvells in New York, the favorite of Sir Hrnry Clinton. 

In those letters, the first letters of Arnold to Clinton, signed Gustavus, 
and speaking Treason, were enclosed. Thus, the letters of the Wife, 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 
scpntling, 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 the GALLOWS! 

It was around this gallows as the hour of noon came on, that a dense 


crowd gathered. There were blue and gold uniforms, and there the brown 
dress of the farmer. That high-browed man, whom you see yonder, 
among the 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 figure, 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. 

There 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 man 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 Eng 
land. A mother and two fair sisters sit there, embroidering a scarf, for the 
eon 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 - 


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, plunging 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, hide the 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 he 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 


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 very 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 his 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 Arnoh.. 

Behold the Legends that hover above the grave of Andre the Spy 



A SOFT voluptuous light pervaded that luxurious chamber. 

It was the night of November Second, 1780. The mansion was one 
of the most magnificent in the New York of that day. It stood in a 
garden, planted with vines and flowers. Near this garden a dark alley led 
to the river. 

The vines 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 garden. 

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 

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 elegantly furnished. The gorgeous carpet was woven 
in 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 tall form clad 
in dark velvet, impresses you with her strange wild 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 wifti 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 taco 
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 


of the dark eyes, are all lost in a pale fixed expression of resolulp 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 pale 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 

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 thrown 
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 disturb? 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 rises 
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 hollow 
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, is 

"You observe the chain, with its slender links of gold falling from die 
neck, into the shadowy recess of her bosom. She raises the chain ; a mm- 


iature is revealed ; the portrait of a gallant cavalier with hazel e) es, and 
locks of dark brown hair. 

" So young, so gallant, so brave ! The last time he pressed my hand 
le last time his kiss melted on my lips ! O, God, shall I ever forget 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 mantle, 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 

Tn 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. 

Beautiful 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 

As she sits there, with the light playing downward over her form the 
ohapeau 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 poetrv, paint pictures or wield a 


sword, 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 ! 

" He 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 this impetuous woman is 

44 Arnold ! That sight should blast you into madness !" 

Nearer nearer yet, the sound of that step is heard. The woman trem 
bles. 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. 

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 you, a picture of unut 
terable anguish. 

At last she gathers courage to speak to address the Phantom. 

44 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. 

44 Andre !" again the voice of the horror-stricken woman is heard " You 
come from the grave to haunt me ! Speak O, speak to me ! ( or id I 


aelp it, if your fate was so dark and cold? Your death so hideous ? Yoia 
grave so dishonored ?" 

The woman clad in the attire of John Andre slowly rises. She turns, 
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 the 
-evelry of a Tournament, crowned John Andre with a chaplet 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 s-weeps back her golden tresses from 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 " 

44 1 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 

44 Is all ready ?" whispered the lady disguised in the attire of Andre ; 
44 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 lonely 
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 in his marque , on the heights of Tappan, sat General Washington 
his 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 


this still I our 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 performed 
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. * Jlis 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 ! 


He loved the British so, that he was never happy, unless he was near 

Oftentimes, 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 !" 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 battle 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 1 

You may compress courage, honor and glory in three words THB 

Aye, the 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 

" 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 o the enemy, which 
implicate one of our bravest general s in the treason of Arnold ?" 

Lee glanced over the papers and suffered an ejaculation of surprise to 
pass his lips. 

" Andre has your sympathies said Washington " So voung, so 


gallant, so chivalrous, he has the hearts of all men with him. And yet 
unless a certain thing can be accomplished, he must die. Not even the 
death of a soldier will be awarded him, but the death 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 Lee. 

Never had the Knight of the Legion beheld his Chief so powerfully 

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. There 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, 1 consent !" he said, in a voice husky with emotion. Wash 
ington wrung his hand, with a grasp that made Lee s heart bound within 

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 military cloak a sword and 
pair of pistols. 


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, h 
was to hold a similar conversation with one of the bravest men of fcis 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 
aize, with a bronzed visage, a form full of bone and muscle, and the air of a 
soldier, whom danger could only delight. He was attired in a green 
trooper s coat, breeches 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 he 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 fight, strike 
with all your might and never let this horse bear you from the foe !" 


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 
arid 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 starting forward, as 
he raised his hand to heaven, with the moonbeams on his writhing face ! 

The 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, 
stood 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 sangui 
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 


that Champe had been seen taking the route to Paulus Kook, opposite the 
city of New York. 

Lee heard this information with deep emotion. He could not believe that 
Charnpe 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 Games could impress the 
Partizan with the fact, that one of his bravest men had gone over to the 

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 cruelty. 

44 Cornet, it appears that Sergeant Champe has taken the road to Paulus 
Hook. Take with you twenty dragoons and pursue him. Bring him 
a li ve " 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 " dye, 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, arid fought among their bravest. 

it was at the break of day that the most exciting scene took place. 


Some miles to the north ot the village of Bergen, arose a high hill com 
inanding a view of the road far to the south. 

Cornet Middleton, riding at the head of his men, led the way up the hill ; 
a wild hurrah broke from his band. 

Half a 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 bou-nded 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 

On the brow of this hill, by the roadside, arose the hotel of the Three 

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 ambush, 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 11 be in at the death !" 

The music of those rattling bridles, those clanking scabbards, those hoofi 


thundering down with one sound, was very pleasant to hear. But those 
compressed lips, those eyes glaring from beneath the 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 effort 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 they 

It was a fine old bridge 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, they behold the bridge. Yes, they 
have him now, for yonder, reined in the centre of the road, are the bold 
Sergeant and his comrades. Near and nearer draws Middleton and his 

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 Sergeant waves his sword and shouts, 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 


for the foot-tracks of the deserter. The villagers roused from their slum- 
oers saw him pass a solitary man, with despair on his face, urging his 
steed with spur and bridle-rein but cannot tell the way he has gone. 

The search is tumultuous, hurried, intensely interesting. At last a 
Conner 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 hundred 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 

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 

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* 


me morning sun glitter on their buttons yes, their faces convulsed with 
lage, their 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 
44 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, without 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 

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 ! 

44 Powhatan, save your master ! If I fall, may God pity my mother 
my poor father ! 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 flame, 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, thrown ovei 
the saddle, was led along, exciting the attention of every eye. 

Cornet Middleton and his band had returned. That horse, wa& the steed 
of John Champe, the gallant Powhatan. 

44 Joy, Major good news !" cried a trooper rushing forward " Th 
Iroop have come back ! The scoundrel s killed !" 


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 
" Champe 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, Champe 
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 leather 
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 over the trooper i 


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 Holford : 

" 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. Dp you axe why ? Yesterday, the best of our Legion, and the 
bravest was John Champe. To day look yonder, and see, John Champe 
aboard a British galley ! Why I would not trust my own father, after that " 

In silence 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, with 
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 
tired 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 Henry, 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 ? 


On the 30th of September, Champe, was appointed 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 battle, 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 ? 

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. 


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 

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. Arid 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 cf 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 other ladies were clad w. th a profusion 


of silks, laces, pearls, jewels. She, so strange in the majestic lovelinean 
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 you see her eyes flash, her bosom heave, as those ladies converse 
with Sir Henry Clinton ? 

44 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 they 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 with 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 

I CHI not tell how it was, but assuredly, the presence of that officer, witn 
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 smiled 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 


no more the light laugh, 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 thrilled 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 brother-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 


" 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 

" You spoke, I believe ? The next time you intrude upon my privacy, 
1 will thank you to use a little more formality !" 

** Excuse me, General, but this news has set us all a kind o topsy-turry !" 

* 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 


** By the rope, at noon Washington wouldn t allow him to be shot." 

As the Traitor turned he beheld Champe, seated on a military chest, hif 
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 own eyes from the light. 

" 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, abruptly 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 its 
blade in victory ! Now by " he muttered a horrible oath, " they shall 
know that sword once more, know it as the instrument of vengeance ay<e, 
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 death 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 

" You loved Andre ? Then join swords, and swear with 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 

This was on the night 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 wont 
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 these 
communications sent by a Deserter from the cause of freedom, to a re 
nowned Champion of that cause ? 


Lee invariably showed these letters to Washington. Doubtless they 
riewed 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 the 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 
alley. 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 pill- 
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 Hoboknn. 
There a party of Lee s dragoons might await his coming, ready to boar 
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 whatever, 
ihall obtain my consent to his being put to death. My aim is to make a 
public example of him. 


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 
ine Second of November. 

The Soldier with the crape over his face, stood in the shadow, silently 
observing these two beautiful women. 

A strange contrast ! 


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, in 
hue resembles 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 hushand !" 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 ?" 

" 0, do not do not speak of these memories " gasped the wife of 

" 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. 

M Spare .ne !" she cried, lifting her ashy face toward that beautiful wro 


man, clad in the dress of John Andre " Do not rend my heart with these 

" How died he, the young, the gifted, the brave ?" You see that eye 
dart an almost demoniac fire " Perchance in battle at the head of legions, 
his good steed beneath him, his true sword in hand ? Yes, charging into 
the thickest of the light, 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 1" sneered the disguised maiden " Mercy for the Wife of Ben 
edict Arnold, who after her marriage suffered 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" 
iurked 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 1 
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 lace and gaze on me in wonder. I speak the solemn truth, from 
this chamber, wound and dumb, Arnold shall be led this night. In the dark 


street trusty men are waiting ibr 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 I 
Ha, ha ! Washington will not sleep to-night he expects a strange visitor, 
Benedict Arnold !" 

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 ail power of speech. 

" 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 with emotion. 

" You cannot do this. 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 

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 !" 

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, her luxuriant 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. 

" 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 
golden hair. 

44 He is saved ! Thank heaven your schemes are foiled. The angels 
need not weep, to behold another scene of murder !" 


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. 

" The 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 once ^-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 ! 



* 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 

" 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. The 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 trees, 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 Lieutenani 
Colonel, sad, although his men love him like a brother, and would give theii 
Uves 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 Coio 


Del Lee, the entire Legion come running to the scene : on every side, you 
behold men starting up from an untasted 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 Major ! 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 !" 
spoken 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 Champa . " tic \vas 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 : 


Those iron Legionists 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. 

" My comrades," exclaimed Lee, as he took Champe by the hand and 
surveyed 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 dishonoi 


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 
iron 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 nt 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 
tent of Lee, surrounded by that crowd of brave men, every eye centred 
upon that ragged form, with the hollow cheek and sunken eyes. 


Lee himself, 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 
.one 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 


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 l 
and present it to him. 

The letter received by the American Chief, in answer, contained these 
words : 

k Soon after the war, the gallant soldier removed to Kentucky. There 
he died. Though no monument towers above his bones we do not even 
know his resting place every true soldier must confess, that the history 
of the Revolution does not record a nobler name than 



ONE more scene from the sad drama of Andre s fate ! 

On a calm autumnal evening the last day of September, 1780 Sir 
Henry 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, dotted 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 Sn 
Henry Clinton saw it not. 

His thoughts were with a letter which lay half open beside the untasted 


goblet of rich old wine, and that letter bore the signature of Georg 

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 skirts, and 
the snowy whiteness of his cambric bosom, across whose delicate ruffles 
hi 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 reverie 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 

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. 

44 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 


his 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 

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 
riot 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 

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 Hushed face of his superior 

" 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. 


* Your Excellency will pardon my rudeness. I am a rough soldier, but 
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. But he has a soul, your Excellency, he has a heart. I would 
peril rny life to save him. I can t help thinking of his mother and sisters 
in England he is their only dependence, and 

44 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 Arnold and 1 
will give you Andrei" 

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 

The Colonel started when he beheld the strange paleness of Sir Henry s 
eountenance. He was terribly agitated, for his lips were compressed, his 
Grows 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 Washington offered me the Throne of the Western Con 
tinent, he could not have so tempted me, as he does by this proposition, to 
exchange Arnold for Andre. 1 " 

" 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 he was met by an officer attired in a rich scarlet uniform, who 


-.ame the carpet with an easy stride, somewhat lessened in dignity by 
a perceptible lameness. 

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 

ik 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, when 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, 4 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 ! 


IT was a flower garden, watered by a spring that bubbled up from yellow 

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 


the porch before the door, supported by oaken pillows wreathed with 

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 style of loveliness, swaying side by side in the summer breeze, 
their varied tints affording 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 
glossy 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 they 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 fo sweet, at this still bour, Mary, to think of him ! To remembei 


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 applause 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 

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. Corne. 
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 stored with berries, blooms in evergreen freshness, into the dim 
woods, where there is a carpet of soft moss, filled with sunshine and 

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 waf 
li a fancy !" 


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 

44 How can you remember dafes ?" 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 !" 

44 It happened to fix itself upon my memory," replied Mary, raising her 
face and walking statelily onward again. 44 That sudden faintness is past: I 
am quite well now," she said, passing her hand lightly over her brow. 

44 0, I remember " said the Mother, in a careless tone. 44 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." 

44 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 approach ed, 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 
beard, 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 within the breast 
of his coal. His slumber was disturbed ; he seemed laboring under the 


fears and hopes of some tumultuous dream. Suddenly, starting to his feet, 
with a horrible cry, he gazed wildly round, aud trembled, while the clammy 
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 

" 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 whal a 
delightful surprise !" cried Alice. 

Still the Soldier stood silent and confused, his hands pressed together, 
while his douncast 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 beheld 
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 


which now comes with overwhelming force, and takes her soul by storm, 
you see her advance and take the veteran by the 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 
stands as calm, as pale as a corse. 

Mary alone advances, gasps these words as with the last effort of her 

" 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 
Aiiaiden, 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 spy." 

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 
oil 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 



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 hymns 
la his memory, but remember, he was a SPY. 

That dishonored thing, which no true warrior can look upon, save with 


loathing not merely a Conspirator, nor a Traitor, but the .acquey of Tre i 
son A SPY. 

KeiLember, 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. lie 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 victory. 

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 tights 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 overwhelming 
force. It starts from the history, and moves along every page, a brooding 
and fearful shadow. John Andre and the Wife of Arnold, first planned 
the Treason, and then while his heart was lacerated by a sense of his 
ivrongs lured him into 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 phn 
had been laid to capture a Fortress and crush his army. This plan aided 
by an honorable gentleman in the guise of a Spy. It was necessary tc 


make an example, the time had come for the British General to learn me 
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, I 
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 Horo, 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 Reso 
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 ! 


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. 

I 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 trees, 
fragrant with the first blossoms of spring. Yonder you behold the liay- 
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 British lines, expressed her contempt for the American 
cause, sanctioned the course of Arnold, and uttered other expressions of feeling, 
which showed that she was a co-partner in the work of Treason. 


sostume. Her eyes, their dark blue contrasting with the withered outlines 
af her countenance, are upraised. She is gazing in the face of the son, 
who 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 leather. A plain costume this, but gaze upon the face of 
that 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 Thought, 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 Yale, 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 stiffened 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. 
War, 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 your 
nnther s blessing is on your head !" 


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 cheek. 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 rivetted 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 death !" 

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, anc! cheek, and lip 
of that youthful countenance. 


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. 
But, 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 

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 more 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 would 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 this 
expedition to Long Island. All I can answer is with one word bid me 
depart and I will go " 


He went, obtained the information which he sought,, and was about tc 
leave the shore of the Island for New York, when he was discovered. 

Now, in the chamber of the condemned felon, he awaited the hour of hi* 
late, his face betraying deep emotion, yet it was not the agitation of fear 
Death he could 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, lei 
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 !" 

The 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 1 
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, 
that you 11 get neither through me." 

The young man sank slowly in his chair, and covered his face with his 
hznds. The brave Briton, whose courage had been so beautifully mani 
fested 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 

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 
night ? 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 
ever 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 was 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 Gibbet s rope ! 
] will confess, that to me, there is something terrible in the last night ot 


the Condemned Spy. Never does my eye rest upon the page of American 
history, that 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 the poor the neglected the Martyrs, whose fate it 
was, not to suffer in the storm of battle, 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 wa a plotter from motives altogether mercenary We sing hymns 
about him, and yet with 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 
shore 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, of 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 

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, the 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 mother, not even for his meek-eyed be 
trothed, not even for the darkness of that hour, but, said the Martyr, 

"I regret that 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 


And yet here, tosses and plunges the image of God, tied by the neck to a 
gibbet ! 

Like a dog he died like a dog they buried him. No Preacher, m- 
prayer, no friend, not even a dog to howl over his grave. There was only 
a pine box and a dead body, with a few of the vilest wretches of the Bri 
tish camp. That was the Martyr s funeral. 

At this hour, 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, for 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, foreverrnore. 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 
light 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 granite, surmounted by a single leaf of laurel, inscribed with the 
motto "Jllas that I have but one life for my country . " and this poor 
column, and leaf of laurel and motto, shall be consecrated with the name of 


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 diluted 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, let 
us contrast their ruthless ferocity, with the Mercy of Washington. 


THERE is a gloom to-day in Charleston. 

It is not often that a great city feels, but when this great heart of human- 
ty 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. 


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 
in 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, wear 
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 ; there 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 staff, it does not swell buoyantly upon the breeze, but droops heavily 
to the ground. 4 

The only sound you hear, save the hurried tread of the citizens, is 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 ? Why this 
silence, this awe, this dread ? 

Look yonder, and in the centre of that common, deserted by every hu 
man thing, behold rising in lonely hideousness behold, a GALLOWS. 
Why does that gibbet stand there, blackening in the morning sun ? 
Come with me into yonder mansion, whose roof arises proudly over all 
other roofs. Up these carpeted stairs, info 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 

A single glow of morning light steals through the parted curtains of 
yonder window. Beside that window, with his back to the light, his face 
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, while the 
right grasps a parchment, which bears his signature, the ink not yet dried. 


That parchment is a death-warrant. 

If you will look closely upon that red uniform you will see that u i* 
stained with the blood of Paoli, where the cry for "quarter" was answered 
by the falling sword and the reeking bayonet. Yes, this is none other than 
General Grey, the Butcher of Paoli, transformed by the accolade of his 
King into 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 adyance ; do you behold the pale face of 
that woman, her eyes large and dark, not wet with tears, but glaring witli 
speechless woe ? On one side a little 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 rnilinery 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 !" 

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 

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, my 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 officers 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 act 
otherwise than he did? how could he refuse to take your oath? In his 
case, would you, my lord, would any man, refuse to do the same ? " 


Still the silent children stood there before him, while the clear voice oi 
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 bov 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 stem 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 


trifling game ; that the rope and the gibbet will reward each Rebel for his 
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 officei 
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 thai 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 

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 the 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 !" 


AS the boy turned and went through the crowd, the father stepped firmly 
into the cart. 

There was a pause, as though every mail 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 father !" he cried, and then pointed to the body, and broke into a 

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 hearts 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 ; Lord Corn- 
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;aimed it a holy act. But how did Washington act ? 

He left each murderer to God and his own conscience. He showed the 


whole world a sublime manifestation of forgiveness and scorn. Forgive- 
ness for this humilitated Cornwallis, who, so far from bearing Washington 
home to London a prisoner in chains, was now a conquered man in the 
midst of his captive army. 

But this Lord Rawdon, who, captured by a French vessel, was brought 
into Yorktown, this 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 ? 


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 

While they knelt there, a lighted bomb a globe of iron, containing at 
least three hundred 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 Arnold. 

As his ship glided up James River, aided by wind and tide a leaden 
sky 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 ! 

How 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 

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 

W\ien morning came, there was a dense black smoke darkening over 


yonder woods. The first light of the winter s day shone over the maddened 
visagt, 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 memory 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 wa 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 the 
morass, with that solitary horsemen darkly delineated in the centre. 

Suffering the horse to choose his way, the traveller, with his fare "on 
cealed in the cloak, seemed absorbed in his thoughts, while the sun 
down ; the night came on ; the snow fell in large flakes. 


The instinct of the horse guided liim 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 suddenly 
dark. He could not distinguish the path. Suddenly, however, a lighl 
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. 

* Who comes thar ?" the challenge echoed and a rifle was raised. 

* A friend, who 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 hunter 
" 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 these two figures were 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 redly in the 

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-ftue among the Ingins as I have 
been, you d think this here log hut reether comfortable place !" 

" You a captive ?" muttered the traveller. 

Look thar !" 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, 
were clearly perceptible. 


* Thar s whar the Ingins scalped me ! But old Bingimin did n t die 
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 hoss to fight, mind I tell ee !" 

44 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 ?" 

44 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 I 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 Sattin, 
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 little older than the rest of us! 
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 Stormin o Quebec ! Laws help 
u* ! Why, even when his leg was broke, he cheered his men, and fought. 


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. 

41 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 gentlemen 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 know 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 must 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, ta 
gazed upon the sight revealed by its glare That cloaked figure mounted on 


ihe dark steed, who with mane and tail waving to the gust, neck arched 
and eye rolling, stood ready for the march. 

It was a terrible night. The snow had changed to sleet, the wind swell 
ing 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 universa of darkness beyond. 

The old man gazed intently for a moment, and then fell back against the 
door-post of his hut, appalled, frightened, thundurstricken. The mingled 
despair, wonder, fear, stamped upon his battle-worn face, was frightful to 

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 light of 
eternal despair. 

ffoWj do you know me P" 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 the glare of the winter lightning. 

The space before the hut was vacant, yet still that old man with his par 
aiyzed hand clenching the torch, beheld a hideous vision rising against the 
dark sky a red uniform, a bronzed visage, two burning eyes . 


" To-night," lie faltered this brave old man, now transformed into J 
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 me 
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 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 


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- 
gei 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 beneath the light 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- 
>r 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 countenance 


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 ! 

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 stabbed 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 Jefferson, 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 during 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 me 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 prge th 


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 THE 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 Lord 
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 issued from his gorgeous mansion, the liveried servant, that ate 
his bread, and earned it too, by menial offices, whispered in contempt, to 
his fellow lacquey as he took his position behind his Master s carriage 

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 thfl 
murderer of my son by ARNOLD THF. TRAITOR " 


Grossly insulted in a public place, he appealed to the company noble 
.ords 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 spit 
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 widow, 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 
by 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 Englishman, 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. 


His form, vigorous even with the snows of fifty winters, was clad in a 
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, 
without a friend or a hope. You 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, his eye 
still looking from beneath his darkened brows. 

He spoke as he retreated backward : his voice was full of meaning. 

" /am the only man, born in the New World, that can raise his hand 

Tallyrand never forgot the overwhelming sadness of that look, which 
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 iti 
convulsive expression " My name is Benedict Arnold" 

He was gone. Tallyrand sank into a chair, gasping the words " ARNOLI 

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 Inn 
at Havre, his crime found him out and faced him, to tell his name, tha 
name the synonomy 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 
the curtain from the death-bed of Benedict Arnold. 



DID you ever, reader, journey among dark mountains, on a stormy night, 
*rith 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 ? Then 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 

He next became a merchant, shipping horses and cattle and provisions 
to the West Tndies, 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. 


One sister a noble-hearted woman, Hannah Arnold, clung to him in all 
the changes of \u* 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 suffering 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 February, 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 
tU 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 

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 


character and conduct of General Arnold had been groundlessly and cruelly 

Congress confirmed that report, complimented Arnold with the gift of pn 
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 : 

/ tun 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 be immediately sent to join the northern 

" He is active, judicious, and brave, and an officer in whom the militia 
ii i/t repose great confidence." 

This was the language of Washington. 

meld did not hesitate a moment. He took up his sword once more, 
only hoping that his claims would be heard, after he had fought the battles 
of his cou ;tr\ . 

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. 


If ever a man won his way to rank, by heaping victory on victory, that 
man was Benedict Arnold. 

In May, 1778, Arnold joined the army at Valley Forge. 

But a short time elapsed ere he established his 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 Scollay, 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 parties. 

The accusers were not ready at the appointed time. The trial was pul 
off " to allow them to collect evidence." 

Three months had now elapsed since the charges were first presented to 

On the 18th of March, 1779, Arnold resigned his commission. 

The day finally agreed upon, was the 1st of June, 1779, the place, 

At this time the enemy in New York made threatening demonstrations 
and the Court Martial was again postponed. 


Arnold then formed the project of forming a settlement for the soldier* 
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 his 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 
f avor 

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 State." 

These testimonies speak for themselves. Was Arnold without noble and 
rirtuous 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 

Time wore on, and the trial came at last. It commenced at Morristown, 
on the 20th 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 offences ; for these he was sentenced to be reprimanded by Washington. 

At least thirteen months had passed, from the lime 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 
French 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 

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, John Anderson, and Arnold was known as Gustavus. Andre from 
a mere correspondent and friend of the wife, was at last selected as the 
great 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. 

Die 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. 


He was captured on the 23d of September, 1780. On the 25th, Arnold 
escaped to the 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 

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 best 
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 
ne is disgraced for using the public wagons of Pennsylvania. 

Married to a beautiful wife, he uses her letters to an intimate friend as 
the vehicles 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 wing and torn breast into the roadside mire to see the white 


column that rose so beautifully through 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 


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-hearted 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. 


FIFTY years ago, 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 



attire of a sweeper of the public streets. In a few moments, while the ram 
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 
in 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 in 
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 something so full of 
unutterable loneliness, unspeakable despair that the aged minister started 
back in horror 

But look ! 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 
be 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 
the heirt, "will that faith give me back my honor ? Come with me, oM 


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 my 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 
so 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 

"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 coat 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 
ghastly 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 battje, 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 freedom, 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 


meet in the centre of the town. We will meet there, in victory, or die ! 
Hist ! 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, ghastly ! 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, still treasured up that blue uniform, that faded flag ? 

Who is this being of horrible remorse ? this man, whose memories seem 
lo link something of heaven, and more of hell ? 

Let us look at that parchment 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, m that rude hut, while the death-watch throbbed like a 
in the shattered wall there, unknown, unwept, in all the bitterness of deoo- 
iation, 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, 








BEAUTIFUL in her solitary grandeur fair 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 altar 
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, JerTer- 
son stood forth, the consecrated Prophet of Freedom, proclaiming, from 
Independence Hall, the destiny of a Continent, the freedom of a People. 

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 us 
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 Kirk wood 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 i? a singular fact, that while all other States have their eulogists, their 
historians, and their orators, to speak oi their past glory, their present pros 
perity, and their present fame, yet has Pennsylvania been neglected ; she 



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 blood-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 ouj: 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 cultivation, 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 battle ? 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 field 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 


of Germantown, mark the cannon-rifts on the walls of Chew s House, hear 
the veteran of the Revolution discourse of the bloodshed of the 4th of Oc- 
lober, 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 wanderer and adventurer, 
when the South sneers and the north derides, then let the Pennsylvania!) 
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, 
jr 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 battlefield 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 



THE Alleghanies 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 cliffs ! 
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 Pennsly va- 
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 blessing broadcast over hill and dale. 


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 wild 
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 Brandy wine 
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 with 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 
ioftened sadness on the air. 


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 battle-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 the 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 

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 


bold backwoodsman, standing beside the open window, in his robes of fur, 
crossed his arms upon his breast, as the story of the Saviour s life 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 I 

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 

" 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 
jitophecy : 


" This is a quiet and happy place, my brethren, and the Sabbath sun- 
oeams shine with a mild 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 Peaco 
Cokl glassy eyeballs shattered limbs mangled bodies crushed skulls 
all glowing in the warm light of the setting sun ! For the Lord for the 
Lord of Israel hath spoken it!" 

This was the prophecy, preserved in many a home of Brandy wine. 

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 Brandyuine 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 clown by the spring under 
trie wild cherry tree, in the graveyard there, and within the walls ol 


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. 


IT was in the month of September, in the year of our Lord,._L777, 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 Brandy wine. 

For many days the rumor was vague and shadowy ; the fear of war 
hovered in the air, with 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 Continental 


IT was 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 shadows upon the meadows, and from many 
a farmer s home, the light of the hearth-side lamp poured out upon the 

h was night among the hills of Brandywine, when there was a strang* 


ound echoing and trembling through the deep forests. There was a strange 
sound in the forest, along the hills, and through the meadows, arid soon 
breaking from the thick shades, there came a multitude of dim and spectral 

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 witli 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 Brandy wine, 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 Held of Brandy wine, 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 
Unknown 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 Kennef s Square, 
some seven miles westward of Chadd s Ford, where Washington had taken 
his position. 

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 


to toy ana wanton in breeze of freedom, after it had floated above the fields 
of dow.n-trodden Europe, and looked down upon the plains of ravaged 
Hindoostan ! 

Yes, there in the far East, where the Juggernaut of British Power 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 their 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 
head, was the Master- Assassin of this tyrant band ? 

Or that the amiable Cornwallis, who rode at his side, was the tit tool 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, gay 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 Brandy wine, 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 shadows of the twiligh< 



IT was the eve of the battle of Brandy wine. 

1 see before me now chat 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 oul 
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 the meadow, arose the snowy tents of the Con- 
tinential encampment. Then arms gleamed from these hills, and war-steeds v 
laved their limbs in yonder stream. Then, at the gentle 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 

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 
hour. 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 
the Revolution. We will remember them in hymns, sung oi-x the cold 
winter nights, around the hearthsides of our homes we will n< v forget 
th 3m 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 dying. Honest 
men were they, who forsook pulpit and church to follow George Washing 
ton 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. 


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, 

I 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, thi 
rugged hymn of the olden time 


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 with a sudden glow 
This c.haunt 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 tones, 

Rising all bold and clear 
Above their brothers groans. 

They preached, they prayed to-night, 

And read God s solemn word- 
To-morrow, in the fight. 

They grasp d a freeman s sword. 


O ! they were brave and true, 
Their names in glory shine ; 

For, by the flag of blue. 

They fought at Brandy wine. 

At Germanlown aye, tnere : 
They pray d the columns ON ! 

Amen ! to that bold pray r 

Honor to those men of old, 

Who pray d in field and gorge 
Who shar d the crust and cold 
With the brave, at Valley Forge. 

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 the r 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 

Tho lion-hearted men of old. 



Preached on the eve of the Battle of Brandywine, (September 10, 1777,) m presence of 
Washington and his Army, at Chadd t Ford.* 

"They that take the sword, shall perish by the sword." 

Soldier? and Countrymen : We have met this evening perhaps for th 
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 duty, 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 staff 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. 

"They that take the sword, shall perish by the sword." 

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 
let the starving mother, with the babe clinging to her withered breast, that 
caji afford 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 substantial evidence to ./ 
prove that the Preacher was none other than HUGH HENRY BRECKENRIDGE, a distin- v 
guished Divine, who afterwards wrote "Modern Chivalry," nn eminently 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 Washington 


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, aid 
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 bound 
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 colors 
of vivid reality, if I thought your courage needed such wild excitement 


JBut_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 th 
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 their 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. 


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 GEORGE 

\ 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. 


Teach us to be merciful. Though the memory ot galling wrongs be at 
our .learts, knocking for admittance, that they may fill us with desires of 
revenge, yet let us, oh, Lord, spare the vanquished, though they 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 THE 

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, the 
last gleam of the setting sun lights up the Banner of the Stars. 


IT was the battle day. The ELEVENTH of September ! 

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 
peace, 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 Brandywine 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 
Df coming Doom. 

Even in the Quaker Meeting house, standing some miles away from 
Chadd s Ford, the peaceful Friends assembled for their Spirit Worship, felt 
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 intervening, lay the plain of Chadd s Ford, with the hastily-erected 
tents of the American encampment, whitening along its sward. 


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 

And the man who stood in their midst, towering above them all, like a 
Nobleman whose title 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 her 

babe to her bosom and bids him syllable a prayer for the safety of the father, 
far away, amid the ranks of battle, 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 the 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 face of the sagacious Greene 
the rugged brow of the fearless Pulaski the bluff, 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 quite 
a boy with a light and well-proportioned form, mingling the outlines of 
youthful beauty with the robust 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 brow. 

And who was he ? 


Not a soldier in the American camp, from the green mountain boy of the 
north, to the daring Ranger of the Santee, but knows his name and has hit 
story at his tongue s end, familiar as a household word. 

And why cast he friends and rank and hereditary right aside, why 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 glad I v 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 forth 
that high resolve, that generous daring, that nobility of soul, which in life 
made his name a blessing, 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 the 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 Kniphausen towards Chadd s 

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 Porterfield, dart 
down from the fortified knoll, hurry across the meadow, until the green tree* 
overlooking the stream, received them in their thick shade. 


Then came the fierce and deadly contest, between these riflemen and tne 
Yager bands of the Hessian army ! 

Then came the moment, when standing in mid stream, they poured the 
rifle-blaze into each other s faces, when they fought foot to foot, ajuMiand 
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 
battle, 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 Brandy wine ; 
let us emerge from these thick woods, let us look upon the hills around 
Birmingham Meeting House. 


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 ypnder hill, rising far above the plain yon hill to the 
north east crowded with a thick forest, and sloping gently 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 Brandy wine. 

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, among 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 
there stands a small one-storied fabric, with steep and shingled roof with 
walls of dark grey stone 


This unpretending structure arises in one corner of a small enclosure, 
0f 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 

The sky is very clear above us. Clear, serene and glassy, A single 
cloud hovers in the centre of tiie 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 approacli 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 over 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 dotted with cottages here a massive 
hill, there an ancient farm house, and far beyond peaceful mansions, reposing 
in the shadow of twilight woods 

Look ! Along these plains and fields, the affrighted people of the valley 
are fleeing as though some bloodhound tracked their footsteps. They flee 


the valley of the Quaker Temple, as though death was in the breeze. <i<v 
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 and 
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-off mountains and 
now ! 

By the soul of Mad Anthony it stirs one s blood ! 

And now there is a merry peal bursting all along the woods drum, fiifc, 
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 banners wave and bayonets gleam ! In 
one magnificent array of battle, they burst from the woods, column after 
column legion after legion. On their burnished arms on their waving 
plumes 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 there 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 ? Is that 
hy cross waving on that blood-red banner ? 

Thy Cross, that emblem of peace and truth anu mercy, emblem of thv 
sufferings, thy death, thy resurrection, emblem of Gethemane and of (Ja*- 
vary ! thy cross waves there, an emblem of HIDEOUS MURDER ! 

Look^. The blood of the Nations drips from that flag! Look, it is 
stained with the blood of the Scot, the Irishman, RED INDIAN, and the dusKf 
Hindoo it is stained with the blood of all the earth ! The gnosts 01 mil 
lions, from a thousand battlefields arise and curse that flag forever in the 
sight of God ! And now ah, now t comes on *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 t 



AGAIN turn we to the South. What see you there ? 

There is the gleam of arms, but it is faint, it is faatu anu lar away 
Hark ! Do you hear that sound ? Is it thunder, is it tr>e throbDhig of 
some fierce earthquake, tearing its way through the vitals of the earth ? 

No ! No ! The legions are moving. 

Washington has scented the prey doubt is over. Glory to the god 
of battles glory ! The Battle is now certain. There, there, hidden by 
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! That is the wel 
come of Mad Anthony to Kniphausen, as he attempts to cross the Bran- 
dywine ! 

And on they come, the American legions over hill and thro wood. x 
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 fight, 
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 little 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 ? 

But when it emerges from the green woods, when tossing on the winds 
of battle, it seeks the open plain, and its belts of scarlet and snow flo* 


grandly in the air, and its stars flash back the light of the sun ah, then it 
is a glorious sight 1 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 ! 


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 above 
their heads, 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 the bidding 

of their masters, to advance or retire, as the fate of the 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 tor 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 Cornwallis rein their 
steeds, encircled by the chieftains of the British host. 

And from the trees along the opposite hills, pour the hurried bands of the 
Continental Army, at the very moment that the British General is about to 
give the word of battle, which will send an hundred Souls to Eternity! 

There comes the Right Division of the army under the brave S-illivan, 
the unfortunate Stephens, the gallant Stirling. Tnev take .r/eir position in 
hurry and disorder. They file along the hills in their coats of blue and 
buff, they 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 from vender hill. 

There mounted on his grey war-steed, Sir William Howe looked fot a 


moment over he ranks of his armv. over then* forest of swords and bayonets 
and banners, and then slowly unsheathing his sword, he waved it in the 

That was the signal of battle. 

An hundred bugles hailed that sign with their maddening Deals, an hun 
dred drums rolled forth their deafening thunder Hark ! The hill ouivers 
as though 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-wnue 
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 death-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 voice 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 ! 

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 ot 
the battle breeze. 


Hurrah ! The fever of blood is in its worst and wildest delirium ! Now 
are human faces trampled deep into the blood-drenched sod, now are glazing 
eyes torn out by bayonet thrusts, now are quivering hearts rent from the 
Btill-living bodies of the foemen ! ^ 

Hurrah ! 

How gallantly 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 
their weaponless hands. 


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 

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 SUBLIMITY ! 

Here are twelve thousand British hirelings, seeking the throats of yon 
small 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, sits 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 Brandy wine 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 ? 

v 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 warrior-form rising above the ranks of battle, clad in the uniform 

of blue and buff and gold that warrior-form, with the calm blue eye 

kindling with such fire, 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 
af battle-smoke 


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 ? 
Tel , me the name of that warrior-form ? 

Have your answer in the battle-cry, which swells from a thousand hearts 


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 yonder graveyard. Would that I had a brave man, who would dare to 
plant the royal standard on those dark grey walls !" 

" I will take it," said the young officer, 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 tell 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 oi Os- 
borne s Hill.) 

He had left the dissipations of the English Court, for the wilds of the 
New World, at the request of the aged Eari, 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 Earl, 
had hurried his legitimate son to the wilds of America, with the charge to 


seek out the illegitimate child of the Indian girl of Carolina, and place 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 was on his mind. It had 
haunted his brain, from the very first moment hie 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 him, 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 the eyes glaring upon the blue heavens, 
with the glassy stare of death ! That form was mine !" 

" Pshaw ! This is 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 DREAM ! MY DREAM !" he shrieked, rising in his stirrups, and 
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 aw 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 !" 


No words could shake this belief. Seeking his brother officers, Lori 
Percy bestowed some token of remembrance on each of them, gave hii 
dearest friend a last word of farewell for his Betrothed, now far away in the. 
lofty 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 
Dears the graveyard wall. 

He raised his form in the stirrups, he cast one flashing glance over his 
trooper band, robed in forest green, and then his eye was fixed upon the 

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. 

Little does Lord Percy think, as he rides madly toward that graveyard, 
that there that half-Indian brother is waiting for him, with bullet and 

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 full 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 bold 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, hia 
horse s hoofs upon the wall ! 

" On Britons, on," 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 


" Riders of Santee upon these British robhers ! Upon these British rob 
bers, who redden 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 i 
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 Waldemar, 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 
strange 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 with his 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 
ears in his dark eyes, scooped a grave for his brother, and buried him 

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 
grazes to the west, and counts the hours that will elapse ere his coming I 


4h 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 ! 


MEANWHILE the terror of the fight darkened around the Quaker Temple. 

There is a moment of blood and horror. They fight each man of them 
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 

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 effort 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 battle, 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 
strike yet another blow ! 

It was in vain ! While his warm arm was yet raised on high, while his 
voice yet arose in the shout for Washington and freedom, La Fayette wa 
wounded near the ancle by a musket ball. The blood of old France 
dowed warmly in the veins of that gallant boy ! 

That glorious French blood of Charlemagne, of Conde, of Navarre, 


that glorious French blood, which in aftertime, making one wide channel 
of the whole earth, 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 
to carve himself a name upon the battlements of time oh tell me, have you 
no sneer for this boy at Brandywine? 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 

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." 


IT was at the battle 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 his 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 dun- 


drcd men, whose faces, burnt with the scorching of a tropical sun. <x nard- 
ened 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 the men to fight. To be taken by the 
British would 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 swards 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 : 


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 few 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 Brandywine 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, Briidern, forwarts !" 

It was in the Retreat of Brandywine, 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 
ling when it fell still his voice was heard, hoarse and husky, but strong ii 
it* every tone " Forwarts, Briidern !" 

He beheld the division of Sullivan retreating from the field ; he saw ihe 


British yonder, stripping their coats from their backs in the madness of 
pursuit. He looked to the South, for Washington, who, with the reserve, 
under Greene, was hurrying to the rescue, but the American Chief was 
not in view. 

Then Pulaski was convulsed with rage. 

He rode madly upon the bayonets of the pursuing British, his sword 
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 the 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 
ths 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 show 
mo 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 
Skippack, upon an army like the British at Germantown, or started from 
ictt 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 Fabius. This comparison of our heroes, with the barbarian demi-gods 
of Rome, only illustrates the poverty of the mind that makes it. 

Compare 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 ! Let 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 

It was in the battle of Brandywine that this truth was made plain. He 
came rushing on to battle. He beheld his men hewn down by the British ; 
he heard them shriek his name, and regardless of his personal safety, he 
rushed to join them. 

Ves, it was in the dread havoc of that retreat that Washington, rushing 


forward into the very centre of the melee, was entangled in the enemy s 
troops, on the 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 red coats. 

Washington was in terrible danger his troops were rushing to the 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 his troopers ; his whiskered lip wreathed with 
a grim smile he waved his sword he pointed to the iron grey and its 

There was but one moment : 

With one impulse that iron band wheeled their war horses, and then a 
dark 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 London. 

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, 
but that half yell, half hurrah, which shrieks from the Iron Men, as they 
scent 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 
green sod he had passed over the hill, he had passed the form of Wash 

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 
best they bear him in all a soldier s battle joy. 

tt was at Savannah, that night came down upon Pulaski. 


Yes, see him now, under the gloom of night, riding forward toward* 
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 !" 

Then 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 his 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 
again, 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. 


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 title of Philoso 
pher and Historian, have scattered to the world, concerning our own Wash 

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, WASHINGTON THE 

You may take the demi-god if you like, and vapor away whole volumes 


of verbose admiration on a shadow, but for my part, give oie Washington 
die 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, struggling for 
his life, yonder on the raft, 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 the 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 his eye ; 
I hear the words of indignation ring from his lips ; as I look, his broad 
rhest heaves, his clenched hand grasps his sword. 

And yet in a moment, he is calm a^ain ; 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 ? 
Man of strong passions and warm blood, yet he crushed these passions 
end 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 n,r that he was never known to smile. And yet there never 
breathed 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 

After the Revolution, there were as substantial and important reasons ioj 
his solemnity of look and presence as before. 

The country which he had redeemed, w^ toru by the fangs of party- 


spirit The wolves of faction, who had lain somewhat stilled and subdued 
during the war, came out from their dens as soon as the day broke over 
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 

It is a bitter thought to me that the heart of this great, this 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 British 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 

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. 


The noble countenance of the brave Pole stood out in strong relief from 
the white smoke of battle. That massive brow, r r .,.un ed by the dark 
fur cap and darker plume, the aquiline nose, the li; 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 deep sadness stamped the face of 
the hero. 

44 1 was thinking of Poland !" he exclaimed, in broken accents, as he 
heard his name pronounced by Washington. 

44 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 !" 

44 He will !" 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 ID 
her million homes. 

44 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 ngh; 
wing yielding slowly before the invader, yet fighting for every inch ol 
fround. He beheld the reserve under Greene, locked in one solid mass 
fares, hands, musquets, swords, all turned to the foe ; an island of heroes 


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 rifted 
clouds look there upon the serene azure, and tell me ! ^ Do you not bi2- 
hold the ghosts of the dead, an awful and shadowy band, clustering yonder 
ghastfy 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 !" 

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 
pive 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 Hashing from the 
eye of Washington " Give way there ! Down to the valley, for our lasl 
farewell !" 

Washington quivered from head to foot. His eye glared with the fevet 
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. He 
would have thrown his horse in the path of the chief, but the voice of 


Washington- -terrible in its calmness, irresistible in its rage thundered 
even amid the clamor of that fight. 

" 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 
,ike 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 the 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 
them by thousands. 

There was one horrid crash, a sound as though the earth had yawned to 
engulph the armies. 

TiiL-M, oh then, you miuht see this holt of batik 1 , 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 }f this human hurricane. Follow the sword of Washington, yonder. 


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 unexpected, thai iheii 1 proud array are for .b? 
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 ; anotner 
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, Puiaki, 
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 


It was a magnificent scene. 

Washington his steed halted by the roadside, the men of Pulaski and 
his own life-guard ranged at his back Washington gazed upon his legions 
as they swept by. They came with dripping swords, with broken arms ; 
horse and foot, went hurrying by, spreading along the rode to the eoufh, 
while the banner of the stars waved proudly overhead. First, the legions 
of Greene, then the band of Waldemar, with the gallant La Fayette riding 
m 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 !" 

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 

" Now," said Washington, while the Life Guard and Pulaski s men en 
circled 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- 
ented a spectacle of deep interest. 

He sat erect upon his steed, gazing with mingled sadness and joy, now 
upon the retrearing Continentals, now upon the advancing British. Around 
nim were the stout troopers ; by his side the warrior form of Pulaski, far 
i>way hills and valleys, clouded with smoke, covered with marching legions ; 
above, the blue sky, seen in broken glimpses the blue sky and the declin- 
jjg sun. 

The blue and buff uniform of the Hero was covered with dust and blood 


His sword, lifted in his extended arm, was dyed with crimson drop*. 

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 valley, 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- 
lions of life, are now stilled forever. And at this dread hour, as if in 
mockery of the scene, while the souls of the slain thronged trembling 
Jo their dread account, the sun set calmly over the battle field, the blue 
tky smiled again the Brandywine went laughing on! 

Let us group together these Legends of the past, illustrative of the 
Romance and Tragedy of Brandywine. 


NOT in the dim cathedral aisle, where the smoke of the incense ascends 
foi 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 
hora^e 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 forever, her anthem of thankfulness and prayer. 

It is a sublime anthem which she sings out yonder, in the untrodden 
wildernoes. The cataract thunders it, as in all the glory of its flashing 
waters, it springs from the cliff into the darkness below. The breeze, too, 
softly 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 
only 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 sinps the 
anthem, and the lightning writes it on the universe. 

It was noon among the mountains, nearly a hundred years ago, when the 
sun shone down through the woods upon the waters of a cataract, trem 
bling in tumultuous beauty on the verge of a granite cliff, ere it dashed into 
the abyss below. 

Let us pause upon th verge of this cliff, and gaze upon Nature as she 


tends 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 cliff. Grey and hoary, overgrown with vines, and 
clamps of moss. It trembles beneath our feet trembles as with the pulse 
of the cataract. Look yonder a mass ot waters, not riTty 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 cataract, 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 

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 

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 woods an hour ago. Strange sounds, scarce 
ever 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 wa 
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. 


Yet hold 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 cliff, with the blue uniform, 
fluttering in ribbands over his broad chest, and spotted with blood on the 
arms. A man in the prime of life, with brown hair clustering around his 
brow, and a blue eye lighting up his sunburnt face. Though his 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, without 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 Monongahela, 
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 hia 
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, 
n the verge of this rock, and then " 

" Send him yelling down into the pool below !" added the tall soldier. 

The other soldier merely wiped the blood from his brow, and muttered 
a deep oath, coupled with the ominous words " The Spy !" 

" Come, my boys, we must hurry on !" cried the Sergeant, his form 
rising proudly in the sunlight. " Them Injin devils are in our rear, and 

Trfri HUNTER- SPY. ->43 

you know the place where ail us fellows, who dont happen to 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 oi 
that strange surprise. 

There, at the foot of the tree, his head laid against its trunk, his limbs 
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 heart, 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 faca, gaae upon him, he 
leeps on, this wild hunter of the wild woods. 


Do you see that silken purse, slightly protruding from the breast of 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 strange story connected with that silken purse, with its golden 

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 hia 

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 
ington ; 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 hands together. There is something fearful in this ominous 

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 ?" 

A grim smile passes over each face still the hunter sleeps on ; he sleeps 
th sound slumber of hardship and toil. 


Presently the Sergeant advances, shakes him roughly by the shoulder, 
and shouts in his ear 

" Come, Isaac, get up. To-day you die !" 

The sleeping man quivered, opened his eyes, beheld the darkened fact 
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 lie was a man of powerful frame and hardened sinews. He gazed 
from face to face, and then toward the cliff his countenance changed from 
sunburnt 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 
crime transform a man of iron sinews into a trembling wretch ! 

44 Say your prayers, Isaac," was the only answer which awaited him. 
As the Sergeant spoke, the light in his blue eye grew wilder ; he trembled 
from his heart to his ringer-ends, but not with fear. 

Again the Hunter raised his stealthy grey eye, ranging the arbor with t 
glance of lightning-like rapidity. All hope of escape was idle. 

" Let me finish him with the knife !" 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 voice. 

" 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 soldiers 
#tood, awaiting in silence the issue of the scene. 


And ever and anon, in the pauses of the fearful conversation, the cataract 
howled below. 

" I ve no prayers to say," 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, wuo 
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 
termined 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, quietiy 
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 pity ?" 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 *ilent in the forest the Sergeant and his comrades 
had passed on their way the deep anthem of the waterfall arose to the 
unset Heaven. 

There was a footstep on the fallen tree, and a boy of some twelve years, 


bearing a burden on his back, came tripping lightly over the cataract. He 
was roughly clad, in a dress of wild deer s hide, yet there was a frankness 
about his sunburnt face, a daring in his calm grey eye, which made you 
forget his uncouth attire. As he came bounding on, as fearlessly as though 
the floor 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 I 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 
wayed 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 ! 

"Father!" 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 earnestlv the boy stood gazing upon that distorted face. The 
same 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 cliff, he took his father s hands within 
his own. They were very cold. He placed his hands upon the o;d man i 


face. Tt was clammy and moist. The boy began to shudder with a feni 
hitherto unknown to him. For the first time, he stood in the presence of 

His broken ejaculations were calculated to touch the hardest heart. 

" Father !" he would whisper, " you aint dead, are you ? If you are 
dead what 11 I do ? Come, father, and tell me ye aint dead? Father ! 1 
say, father !" 

As the sun went down, that cry quivered through the woods. 

The moon arose. Still by her pale light, there on the verge of the cliff", 
stood the boy, gazing in his father s face. 

" I ll cut him down, that s what I ll do !" 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 
i 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 picture : 

The Boy, leaning over the rock, as he gazes with straining eyes, far down 
indo the darkness of the abyss, for the DEAD BODY OF HIS FATHER ! 


THE gleam of the hearthside taper flashed far over the valley of the Bran- 
iywine. From the 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 road, at least an 
hundred yards from the waters of the Brandywine. A small fabric of dark 
Ifrey 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 the waves, rolling over their pebbled bed, broke 
the deep silence of the night. 

Let us look through the darkness, and by the clear starlight, behold 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. 


We will enter the home. ves. into the upper room, from whose narrow 
MH dow the ray of the fireside taper, gleams along the shadowy valley. 

An old man, sitting" easily in his oaken arm-chair, the glow of the candle 
ipon 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 attitude 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 beneath a small mirror, with a Bible, old and 
venerable, laid upon its 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 the 
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 wife who 
now sleeps the last slumber, under the sod of the Quaker graveyard with 
the scenes of battle in the dim forests, where the rifle-blaze streams rediy 
over the leaves, and the yell of the Indian mingles with the war of the 

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 waters 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 features 

This you will confess, was a terrible memory, or a strange frenzy. An 


old TCI n whose life for at least twenty years, had been spent in the scenes 
o: a quiet home, to behold a livid face, working convulsively in death, 
wherever he turned ! 

" I know not why it is, but wherever I turn, I seem to see yes, 1 cio 
seea dead man s face ! And whenever I try to think of my dead wife, I 
hear a voice repeating t.his 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 
rough timbers of the doorway, beheld the form of a young girl, clad slightly, 
in her 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 other grasped the handle of the door. 

There was something very beautiful 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 the lips and cheeks, with the warmth of a summer dawn, and 
shone in the deep blue eyes, with the tranquil loveliness of a starlight 

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 outlines 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 Brandy wine. 

" 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 / r 

And while the word trembled on her lip, a dull, heavy sound broke like 
A knell upon the air. It was the crashing of a musket-stock against the 
door of the schoolmasters home. 


* Fly ! For God s sake, fly!" exclaimed Mary, darting foiward, and 
laying her white hanu 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 the Camp of Washington !" 

ki 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 the 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 in 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 he *"11 be free !" 


Holding the light above her head, she swept her brown ha:r aside from 
ner face, and gazed into the darkness beneath with dilating eyes. 

Still from beneath the windows arose that hoarse cry ; again the crasl* of 
oiusquet-stocks against the door. 

" In truth, thee father is in great danger, * said a mild voice, which made 
ihe young girl start as though she had trod on a serpent s fang. 

She turned, and beheld a man of slender frame, clad in the plain garb of 
;he Quaker faith. Gaze upon him and tell me, in that contracted face, with 
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 
Dosom to the brow with 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 
of 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 !" 
e:rclaimed Mary, as she flung the rays of the light into the gloom below. 
" Be yours !" and while every pulse throbbed turnultuously 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, while 
the other raised aloft a solid piece of oak, which she had seized from the 

You oan 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 lingers are 
pressed convulsively against his breast. Suddenly his hard features were 


fofiened by a look of emotion, which played over his face like a sunbeam 
rumbling on a rock of granite. 

" Maiden, did thee know my life MY OATH thee would not taunt me 
ihus. HE died alone in the wild wood ah, even now, 1 see the tunset 
/lush upon his icy face . My father the 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, which red 
dened her cheeks, was succeeded by a look of deep compassion. 

Again that deep roar beneath the windows hark ! A crash a wild yell 
" We have the Rebel up stairs, and the guineas are ours !" 

" Does thee consent ?" exclaimed Gilbert Gates, advancing a single step 

" Ha ! The door between the cellar and the passage is unfastened 
But I will save my father at the hazard of my life !" 

With one bound she flung herself upon the ladder, and with the light 
above her head, descended into the darkness of the cellar. As she went 
down, her hair fell wavingly over her neck and shoulders, over the bosom 
wrr ch heaved tumultuously into the light. 

Gilbert Gates in his Quaker garb, with his hands folded over his narrow 
cliest, 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 his 
heart-strings, and filled his blood with liquid h re. 

Darkness around him ; no eye to look upon the writhings 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. 

44 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 !" 

44 The Spy !" echoed the deep voices of the Tories, as they waved their 
torches, their rifles, and their knives, above their heads. 

44 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 daughter Mary 
are even now in the cellar, attending to their household affairs !" 


With one movement, the Tory Captain and his comrades rushed down 
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 
ao back through the vista of twenty years, and behold 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 solid oak, which separated the cellar from tne suoierra- 
nean passage, the Tories paused. Then deep-muttered oaths alone disturbed 
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 !" 

Thus speaking, the Tory leader, whose face was hidden beneath the Tolas 
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, with 
an oath. 

44 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, she 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 throats 


tnev 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. 

44 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 there 
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 off 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 

Still, true to that wild fidelity which burned in his savage heart like a 
gleam from Heaven he shouted his hoarse war-cry. 

44 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. 

44 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 along 
tne passage. 

In another moment, a light shone over the cellar anal t mian of some 
twenty-six years, attired in the brown dress of a fanner, with biue eves and 
flaxen hair, advanced toward the unconscious girl. 


" Here s a party business !" he exclaimed, with a strong German acc 
" De nigga kilt, and Polly half dead !" 

And thus speaking, honest Gotleib Hoff knelt before the unconscious 

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 him arched the universe of stars around him, slumbered the 
peaceful valley of Brandywine within him, burned the tortures of a losi 

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 rolled 
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 May land, 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 !" 

44 Hark ! Does thee hear the shouts of thee pursuers ? * Death, death 
to Mayland the Spy ! Will thee trust to them ?" 

" To the hay-stack be it, then !" cried the bewildered old man : " Bles 
me, what does this mean ? A hole hollowed out in the centre of the stack !" 

44 I ll tell thee when thou art saved !" cried Gilbert, with his peculiar 
f mile. 44 In, friend Mayland, in ! They will never suspect thee hiding- 
place I will conceal it with this loose hay !" 

In a moment Jacob Mayland disappeared, while Gilbert Gates stood a!o* 
in the centre of the sward. 


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 
one by one, from the mouth of the passage. 

* Ha ! Gilbert Gates !" shouted the Tory leader " which way went 
they spy ?" 

** To the woods ! to the woods !" cried Gilbert, as his sharp features 
glowed in the light of twenty torches. 

" Look, you smooth-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 Hamsdrotf, 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, chilled 
even the drunken Sergeant to the heart * do not, I beseech thee, fire tke 
poor man s hay-stack . " 

" Ha, ha ! Won t I though ?" shouted the Sergeant. " The old foi 
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 the 
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 tire whizzed, and crackled, and hissed, winding around the cone of 
hay, and shooting in one long column, into the midnight sky. Abroad over 
the meadow, abroad over the forest, crimsoning each leaf with a blood-red 
glow, high and higher, tierce 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 pile, merrier and gayer danced the soldiers, flinging then 


swords in the blood-re l light, and sending the name of the Good King 
George to the skies ! 

Retired in the background, some few yards from the burning stack, his 
arms folded on his 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 Tory 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 

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 Brandy wine, 
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 stillness yon flickering fire ?" 

They reached the burning embers on the hill-side and stood for a mornen 
gazing upon the scene. 


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, Gotlieb hold the light nearer it seems to move, to stir !" 

Gotlieb held the light over the darkened mass. Here let me pause for a 
single 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 with 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 k> look upon it as it is ; a horrible bandit, reeking with the 
blood of the innocent, the knife of murder in his hand, the tire of carnage 
in his eye. 

The war which Washington waged, was not war, in the proper sense of 
the term. It was only the defence of one s hearthside againat the robber 
and murderer. 

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, the 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 in 
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 the combat, starts the solemn ghost 
of Washington ! 

Let us follow this tragedy to the end, and at the same time, remember it 
is only one among a thousand. 


Ootlieb held the light over the darkened mass. 

Yes, while the men of Brandy wine 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 looked 

There are some sights which it is blasphemy to paint, and this is one 
of them ! 

Some Angel of Mercy, at the sight, took from her sense and consciousness. 
She tell : her white hands outstretched, touched the mangled form of her 

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 Brandy wine 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 1" 

And the SON OF THE HUNTER-SPY stood gazing on the miserable remains 


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. 


So from the very blood and horror of the battle-field, many a tender 
virtue is born, yes, from the carnage which floods the green meadow with 
the life-current of a thousand hearts, many a god-like heroism springs 
gloriously into life. 

War is the parent of many virtues. Not Invading War, which attracts 
ten 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 

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 Brandy wine, 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 
his 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 this 
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 man 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 ages 


yet to come. I care not how plausible his argument, how swelling hia 
sounding periods, how profuse his * sympathy for suffering humanity? 
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 

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 
me 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 

His head placed erect upon his shoulders, by a firm bold neck. His face 
with Us unmistakable clearness of outline. The brow full and prcm.nent, 
the nose aquiline with slight and tremulous nostrils, the lips not remarkable 


for thickness, set together with a firm pressure, the chin square and bold, 
the cheek-bones high and angular. 

And yet he is a Negro, and yet he has been a slave ! 

A Negro, without the peculiar conformation, which marks whole tribes 
of his race. Neither thick lips, flat nose, receding chin or forehead, are 
his. He stands in the dimness of this hour, a type of the war-like A*han- 
tee race, whose forms remind you at once of Apollo and Hercules, hewn 
from 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 the meadow 
of the Brandywine. 

These 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-snle, 
where a circle had been described on the soft sward, by the action of fir?. 

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 

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 ciear 
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 the 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 bough ! Yonder by the deep river, whose waves 
are white with lillies yonder beneath the shadow of the palm, yonder 
with its roof, evergreen with vines ! 


* 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. But 
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 
i ays of the 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 

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 HofT, 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 white arms folded over her almost pulseless bosom, he, the black man, 


Still the young woman came on, and stood before him a miserable wreck 
-telling in her mad way, the story of her unutterable wrong. She did 
not see Sampson, for her glassy eyes looked on the vacant air, but still she 
told her story, making 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 ravings 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 

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 from yer home, and " 

The negro did not utter another word, for he saw the stout form of Got- 
lieb Hoff coming briskly over the sod, a rifle on his shoulder, an oaken sprig 
in the band of his hat. Gotlieb 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 sight. Even as Gotlieb 
came gaily on, the black man bounded from the porch, and hastened toward 
yonder barn. 

If he the negroturned away from the agony of this meeting between 
ths 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 piled 
up 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 

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 am gwain a-mowin dis day !" 

The dog darted up, as with mingled rage and joy. 

You will admit that Sampson s movements are peculiar In order to 


understand this strange magnetic sympathy between the master and the dog 
let us follow Sampson s steps into the barn. 

He flings open the 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 

" Look heah Debbil, we am gwain a-mowin dis day ! De ye know 
what we gwain to mow ? I tells ye. De night afore last, de dam British, 

dey burn your Massa alive d ye hear dat, ye stupid Debbil ? 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 
um 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 laughing 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 Gotlieb listens to the story 
of the veteran s child, here, on this circle of withered grass, Black Sampson 
prepared for battle. 

The manner of his preparation was singular. 

The sun came on the gleam of British arms shine on the opposite hills 
the battle 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 right arm around 
the handle of his scythe. 

He la^d the other hand upon the head of his dog. His eye gleamed with 
deadly light. 


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 yonder 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 gvvain a-mowin !" 

But then, through the clamor of battle, there comes a long and ringing 
cry. It is the battle-shout of Anthony Wayne. 

Black Sampson hears it, darts forward, and with his dt>g by his side, 
rushes into the folds of the battle-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 battle of Brandywine, 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, 
irmed 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, ihe dog howled, and there was another mangleu 
corse upon the ground. 


The British soldiers saw him come his broad black chest gleaming in 
the sun his strange weapon glittering overlie ui his white dog yelling by 
nis 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 DemonJ / 
created by the horror of battle, rushing on with the fiend-animal by his 

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 u 
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 ruffles and a wig, 
perfumed with Marechale powder,) was startled by the 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 

But I will not do it. My only object is to impress upon your minds, 
my 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 you 
friends the idea of Black Sampson s conduct, his religion, his ruling 

It was this : The 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 revenge 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, when that sweet valley of Brandy wine 
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. 


It was in a house near Dilworth corner, one or two miles from the ba;- 
ile-fielcl 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 
fiu-sh of gold from the setting sun. Stout men were in that crowd, men 
who had done brave work in that day s battle, 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 lives 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, b it 
stiffened with clotted gore. He had been in battle, Gotlieb Hoff striving 
earnestly 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 there, 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 the 

clojed eyelids that were never to open more, and you see they wept 

there, all of them, for she looked so sadly beautiful as she lay dead, even 
Mary swset gentle lovable Mary, with the waving brown hair and the 
laughing bhe 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 
should rise upon the dead girl was kissing her closed lids as if in pity, 
there came a rude figure, breasting his way through the spectators. 

Black and grim almost horrible to look upon bleeding from many 
wounds, the scythe in his hand, Sampson stood there. He looked long and 


fixedly upon the dead girl. They could see a tremulous motion at hi 
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 

" Debbil you am a rale brute, and no mistake ! Dars Missa Maylan 
layin 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 Corawallis, 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 hickorv trees would spring back to their 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 Hoff, the plighted 
\ausband of the dishonored girl. 


We have followed to its end, the strange and varied career of Gilbert 
(rates, the False Quaker of Brandywine. Now let us look upon a Friend 
of another kind. The day before the battle, there stood in the shadows 
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 
pressed 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 thoughts, while his sleek, black horse a long known and favorite 
animal bending his neck, cropped the fragrant wild grass at his feet. 

The stout Quaker felt the throes of a strange mental contest quivering 
through his veins. The father butchered by his hearthstone, the 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, his principles were * Peace . , his impulses 
shrieked Washington . 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 thee 
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 
verity 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 r* 
did a brave work in the battle of Brandy wine- 



NEAR Dilworth corner, at the tinue 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 peril 
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. The American leader was to be lured 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 


And there stood the blacksmith gazing upon that wreck of his hearth 
stone ; there he stood with folded 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 build 
a fairer home 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 beheld 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 

At last, forcing the blacksmith along the brown gravelled walk, now strewn 
with cinders, he pointed to the smoking embers. There, there amid that 
heap of black and smoking ruins, the blacksmith beheld a dark mass of 
burnt flesh and blackened bones. 

"Your wife!" 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, pointing 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 that mass of burned flesh and 
blackened bones all that was once Ms 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 going 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 


stout form striding on, lifting a huge hammer into light. Where that ham 
mer falls, it kills where that hammer strikes, it crushes ! it is the 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 rippling, so musi- 
cal name 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 

" 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 
free ; he placed the rifle, the balls, the powder-horn in his grasp. 

Then whipping his horses through the narrow pass, from the summit of 
t 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. 


Suddenly he raised his head a sound struck on his ears. A party of 
British came rushing along the narrow road, mad with carnage 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. " That 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 deatli 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 stiffening in death, Ke 
took the aim he fired the young Briton fell with a sudden shriek. 

" And that," cried the blacksmith, in a voice that strengthened intt i 
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 ( 
hear that word, echoing and trembling there among the rocks of Brand/ 
wine. That word was 


Or? 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 ths fort, rising before the dark school -house wall, a mound ot 
ice, over a waete of snow, its summit lined with the brave defenders, 
while the forlorn hope of the enemy come rushing to the conflict, resolved 
to force tne entrenchments and put the conquered soldiers to the sword. 
Not sword of steel, but a formidable blade carved with a pen-knife from a 
branch of oak or hickory. 


The hearty shouts of the combatants, ring out upon the air, their cheeks 
flush, 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 ol 
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 yi 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 Brandy wine, 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- 
hoou, stood on the summit of a mound that rose from the meadows of the 


it was in the early morning time, when the light of the stars was scarcely 
paled by the glow of the autumnal dawn. 

Looking from the height of the fortified knoll, defended by a deep ditch 
and grim with cannon, General Wayne awaited the approach of the enemy. 
Beneath him spread the valley, gleaming with American arms ; yonder 
rippled the stream, so soon to be purpled in its every wave, with the life- 
drops of human hearts. On the opposite shore of the Brandywine, 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 fight, not like La Fayette, for a strange people 
of a far land, not like Pulaski, as an Exile and a Wanderer, nor yet liko 
Washington, the leader of a People. No ! Surrounded by the memories 
of childhood, his foot upon his native soil, his chest swelling with the air 
that came rich and fragrant over the orchards of his native valley, he had 
buckled on th sword to fight for that soil, he stood prepared to spend hia 
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, 
eye rolling in fire, 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 the fire 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 heigth, in form displaying a hardy 
energy, an iron vigor in every outline, was clad in a blue coat faced with 
buff, and falling open on his broad chest. There was a belt of dark leather 
over his breast, military boots on 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 steep.s, 
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, 
their 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 slowly in the morn* 


ing air, but the flags of Hesse and Anspach fluttering above their hordes of 

Wayne beheld them come, and spoke to the cannoniers, arrayed in their 
faded uniform of blue and buft*. 

In a moment, those cannon at his feet uttered a volume of smoke, that 
rolled in folds of gloomy grandeur, high upward into the 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 Porterfield, 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 Porterfield 
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 shouts 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, yelled 
on the air. For the first time, the Brandywine was stained with blood of 
the white man ; for the first time, dead men, borne onward by its waves, 
with t-heir 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 fight. 

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 step by step, 
foot by foot they had hurled them 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 away, and the enemy did not resume their attack. 
The^r 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 
Brandywine 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. 


The morning passed. Shaken by a thousand conflicting emotions, 
Washington hurried along the eastern heights of Brandy wine, nis grey 
horse, now seen among the trees of Brenton s Ford, now darting through 
the battle-smoke of Chadd s Ford, now halting beside the gallant roan of 
Anthony Wayne. He knew not, whether the attack of Kniphausen was a 
mere feint ; at one moment he anticipated the approach of the British in 
full force, eighteen thousand strong, across the Brandy wine, 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 the renewal 
3f 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 Briuton s and Chadd s 

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 

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- 
tor lie lived some miles northward of Kennel s Square early on that 


morning lie had been aroused by the tread of armed men and the tramp of 
War stee Js. 

He looked from his window, and beheld the British army passing north 
ward General Howe and Lord Cornwallis were with them. 

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 the entire right wing of the Con 
tinental forces laid open to his attack, Howe thought he might accomplish 
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 lories 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 Chaytor. 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 
or.lered 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. 


At first looking from the steep where Wayne watched the fight, his hand 
kaid on the neck of his steed, you behold nothing but vast clouds of smoke 
rolling like the folds of an immense curtain over the valley. Through 
these clouds, streamed every instant great masses of flame. Then 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 

And as they swayed to and fro, you might behold a strange meeting 
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 lighted 
them on their way. As they came on, their musquets poured volley after 
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 ranks. Silently loading 
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. 1 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 almost 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 columns, displayed in the most 
approved style of European warfare ! 

The American riflemen met them breast to breast, and sent their bullets 
home. Their faces darkened by powder, spotted with blood, their uncouth 
attire fluttering in rags, they did not move one inch, but in stern silence only 


broken by the report of their rifles, these Continental heroes met the onset 
of the foe. 

Suddenly the sun broke through the clouds, and lighted up the theatre of 

Almost 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 the explosion of powder, it shot 
a long column of fire and blackness into the sky, and then its fragments 
strewed the battle-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 his 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 valley 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 plumes, 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 man 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 

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, their 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 Continental host. 

Wayne saw them come, and glanced for a moment on their formidable 
airay. Then turning he beheld the steeds of some two hundred troopers, 
fccattered 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 hand* 
ol a soldier at his side, his trooper s helmet, faced with steel and adorned 
with a single bucktail plume. 


Then vaulting in the saddle, he unsheathed his sword, and turning to the 
troopers shouted in his deep, indignant tones, the simple battle-word- 
14 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 the charge, shrieked far along the meadow. 

Rio-ht through 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. 

Anthony Wayne, at the head of two hundred brave troopers, dashing 
toward the centre of the meadow, from the east the Hessian Kniphausen, 
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 
into 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 
seen a rock hurled from an enormous height, crush the trees in the valley 


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