 | Washington and his generals, or, Legends of the Revolution |  |
IV.—THE PREACHER-GENERAL.
It was a beautiful picture, that quaint old country church, with its rustic
steeple and grey walls, nestling there in the centre of a green valley, with
the blue sky above, and a grass-grown grave-yard all around it.
It was indeed a fine old church, that Chapel of St. John, and in the
quietude of the summer noon, when not a cloud marred the surface of the
heavens, not a breeze ruffled the repose of the grave-yard grass. It seemed
like a place where holy men might pray and praise, without an earthly care,
a worldly thought.
The valley itself was beautiful; one of the fairest of the green valleys
of the Old Dominion. A slope of meadow, dotted with trees, a stream of
clear cold water, winding along its verge, under the shadow of grey rocks;
to the east a waving mass of woodland; to the west a chain of rolling hills,
with the blue tops of the Alleghanies seen far away! Was it not a lovely
valley, with the quaint old church, smiling in its lap, like a Pilgrim, who,
having journeyed afar, came here to rest for a while, amid green fields and
swelling hills!
It was a Sabbath noon, in the dark time of the Revolution. Fear was
abroad in the land, yet here, to the good old church, came young and old,
rich and poor, to listen to the words of life, and break the bread of God.
Yonder, under the rude shed, you may see the wagon of the farmer, and
the carriage of the rich man; or looking along this line of trees, you may
behold the saddled horses, waiting for their masters. All is silent without
the church; a deep solemnity rests upon the sabbath hour.
Within! Ah, here is indeed an impressive spectacle. Through the
deep-silled windows pours the noon-day sun, softened by the foliage of trees.
Above is the dark ceiling, supported by heavy rafters; yonder the altar,
with the cross and sacred letters, I. H. S., gleaming in the light; and all
around, you behold the earnest faces of the crowded assemblage.
The prayers have been said, those prayers of the Episcopal church,
which, gathered from the Book of God, flow forever in a fountain of everlasting
beauty in ten thousand hearts—the prayers have been said, the
hymn-notes have died away, and now every voice is hushed, every face is
stamped with a marble stillness.
A few moments pass, and then behold this picture:
Old men and young maidens are kneeling around the altar—yes, the forms
of robust manhood and mature womanhood are prostrate there. Along the
railing, which describes a cresent around the altar, they throng with heads
bent low and hands clasped fervently.
They are about to drink the Wine of the Redeemer—to eat the bread
of God.
Is it not a lovely scene? The white hairs of the old men, the brown
men, the calm faces of the matrons, all touched by the flitting sunbeam.
Look! Amid that throng a dusky negro kneels, his swart visage seen
amid the pale faces of his white brethren.
All is silent in the church. Those who do not come to the altar, kneel
in reverence, and yonder you may see the slaves, clustering beside the
church-porch, with uncovered heads and forms bent in prayer.
All is silent in the church, and the Sacrament begins.
The Preacher stands there, within the railing, with the silver goblet
gleaming in one hand, while the other extends the plate of consecrated
bread.
His tall form, clad in the flowing robes of his office, towers erect, far
above the heads of the kneeling men and women, while his bold countenance,
with high brow, and clear dark eyes, strikes you with an impression
of admiration. He is a noble looking man, with an air of majesty, without
pride; intellect, without vanity; devotion, without cant.
Tell me, as he moves along yonder, dispensing the wine and bread, while
his deep, full voice, fills the church with the holy words of the Sacrament
—tell me, does he not honor his great office, this Preacher of noble look
and gleaming eyes?
Look! how fair hands are reached forth to grasp the cup, how manly
heads bow low, as the bread of life passes from lip to lip. Not much
whining here, not much strained mockery of devotion, but in every face
you see the tokens of a sincere and honest religion.
The Preacher passes along, bending low, as he places the goblet to the
red lips of yonder maiden, or extends the bread to the white-haired man by
her side. Meanwhile, his sonorous voice fills the church:
—And as they were eating, Jesus took bread and blessed it, and
break it, and gave is to his disciples, and said, Take, eat, this is my body.
And he took the cup, and gave thanks, and gave it to them, saying,
Drink ye all of it, for this is my blood of the New Testament, which is
shed for many, for the remission of sins.—
As you gaze upon the scene, a holy memory seizes upon your soul.
The quiet church, the earnest faces of the spectators, the sunlight stealing
through the deep-silled windows, over the group of kneeling men and
women, who, in this time of blood and war, have met to celebrate the
Supper of the Lord, the tall Preacher passing before the altar, the goblet
gleaming in his hand—This is the scene which is now present with you.
The memory?
Ah, that is of a far-gone day, some seventeen centuries ago, when in the
fragrant chamber of Jerusalem, Jesus looked around with his eyes of eternal
love, and shared the cup and bread with his faithful Eleven, while beloved
John looked silently into his face, and black-browed Judas scowled at his
shoulder. Yes, the Memory seizes upon you now, and you hear his tones,
of God-head, with its eyes of unutterable beauty.
Now the Sacrament is over, yet still the men and women are kneeling
there.
The Preacher advances, and stands in front of his people, with the silver
cup in his hand. A slight breeze ruffles the folds of his robes, and tosses
his dark hair back from his brow.
He is about to speak on a subject of deep interest, for his lip is compressed,
his brow wears a look of gloom. Every man, woman and child
in that crowded church, listens intently for his first word; the negroes come
crowding around the church-porch; the communicants look up from their
prayers.
The words of the Preacher were uttered in a tone that thrilled every heart:
“There is a time to preach, to pray, to fight!” He paused, looking from
face to face, with his flashing eyes.
“The time to preach is gone, the time to pray is past, the time to fight
has come!”
You could see his stature dilate, his eye fire, as he thundered through
the church—“the time to fight has come!”
The silver goblet shook in his quivering hands. With one impulse the
congregation started to their feet. With the same movement the kneeling
communicants arose. These strange words burned like fire-coals at every
heart.
“Yes,” thundered the Preacher, “Yes, my brethren, when we preach
again, it must be with the sword by our side—when we pray, it must be
with the rifle in our hands! I say the time to fight has come! for at this
hour your land is red with innocent blood, poured forth by the hirelings of
the British King. For at this moment the voices of dead men call from the
battlefields, and call to you! They call you forth to the defence of your
homes, your wives and little ones! At this moment, while the noonday
sun falls calmly on your faces, the voices of your brothers in arms pierce
this lonely valley, and bid you seize the rifle, for your country and your
God!”
Bold words were these, majestic the bearing of the Pracher, fierce as
flame-coals his look, eloquent his ringing voice!
A deep murmur swelled through the church—a wild, ominous sound—and
then all was still again.
“My brethren, we have borne this massacre long enough. Now, our
country, our God, our dead brethren call on us. Now, our wives look in
our faces and wonder why we delay to seize the sword, nay, our little ones
appeal to us for protection against the robber and assassin. Come, my
friends, I have preached with you, prayed with you—with you I have eaten
the Saviour's body and drank his blood. Now, by the blessing of God, I
will lead you to battle. Come, in the name of that country which now
lives in this holy cause—in the name of the God who made you, and the
Saviour who redeemed you—I say come! To arms! The time to fight
is here!”
Did you ever see the faces of a crowd change, like the hues of the ocean
in a storm? Did you ever hear the low, deep, moaning of that ocean, when
the storm is about to break over its bosom?
Then may you have some idea of the wild agitation which ran like
electric fire, through this quaint old Chapel of St. John, as the preacher
stood erect, with the goblet held in his extendnd hand, his brow flushed with
a warm glow, and his eyes gleaming fire.
“The time to fight is here,” he said, as with a sudden movement he
flung his sacerdotal robe from his form, and stood disclosed before his congregation,
arrayed in warrior costume.
Yes, from head to foot, his proud form was clad in the blue uniform of
the Continental host, while the pistols protruded from his belt, and the
sword shone by his side.
At that sight, a murmur arose, a wild hurrah shook the church.
“To arms!” arose like thunder on the Sabbath air.
And then there was one wild impulse quivering through each manly
breast, as though each heart beat with the same pulsation. They came
rushing forward, those robust forms; they clustered around the altar, eagerly
reaching forth their hands to sign the paper which the Preacher laid upon
the Sacramental table. In that crowd were old men with white hair, and
boys with beardless chins, all moved by the impulse of the hour. The
women, too, were there urging their brothers, their husbands, to sign their
names to the Preacher's muster-roll, and become soldiers for their Country
and their God.
The sunlight fell over the wild array of faces, glowing with emotion, and
revealed the light forms of the women passing through the crowd, while the
Preacher stood alone, with the paper in one hand and his good sword in
the other.
Softly came the summer breeze through the windows; brilliantly in the
sunlight glittered the Cross and the holy letters—I. H. S.
Still the Preacher stood there, that proud flash upon his brow, that deep
satisfactian gleaming from his dark eye.
“Now,” said he, gazing upon the stout forms which encompassed him
like a wall, “now let us pray God's blessing on our swords!'
As one man they knelt.
The Preacher, attired as he was in the blue and buff uniform, knelt in
their midst, clasping his sword in his hand, while his deep voice arose in
prayer to God.
That night, through a road that led between high rocks, three hundred
Washington.
At their head, riding a grey steed, his tall form clad in the blue and buff
uniform, was their leader, who, with compressed lip and gleaming eye, led
them on to battle.
It was the darkest hour of the battle of Germantown, when a gallant
warrior, clad in the Continental uniform and mounted on a grey steed, was
surrounded by a crowd of British soldiers.
All day long, that American General had gone through the ranks of battle,
at the head of his brave men. Side by side with Washington and Wayne,
he had rushed upon the the British bayonets. One by one, he had seen his
gallant band measure their graves upon the fatal field. Now he was alone,
the last in the dread retreat.
All around was smoke and mist. Chew's house was seen to the east,
looming grandly through the gloom. The American army were in full retreat,
while this solitary warrior, mounted on his grey war-horse, looking
from side to side, beheld nothing but scarlet uniforms and British bayonets.
At his back, toward the North, was a high wall, built of massive stone, a
wall the most gallant steed might essay to leap in vain. That warrior's
horse was brave, his blood was full of fire, but he recoiled from that terrible
leap.
The soldier on the grey steed was a prisoner.
The British encircled him, their bayonets pointed at his breast, while his
dark eye moved from face to face.
A soldier advanced to secure the victim; he was a gallant fellow, his
brown hair waving in thick curls around his ruddy face. He advanced,
when the American soldier gazed in his face with a look of deep compassion,
and muttered a prayer. The hand of the Briton was extended to grasp
the bridle rein of the grey steed, when the American suddenly drew his
pistol from the holster, and fired.
A moment passed—the smoke cleared away. There, on the moist earth,
bleeding slowly to death, lay the handsome Briton—but the prisoner?
Look yonder to the South! There, through the folds of mist, you may
see the grey horse and his rider. Bullets whistle in the air, but he does
not fall. Still the gallant steed keeps on his career. Right through the
British Army, right through the hail of lead, and the gleam of bayonets,
dashes the grey war-horse, the mist wreathing like a cloak around his
rider's form.
Now he turns, yes, to the North again. The band of soldiers look up
from the corse of their dead comrade, and behold the American soldier
dashing along the road, right in front of their path. They raise their musquets—they
fire. The American soldier looks back and smiles, and
passes on.
The white cloud receives him into its folds.
Yet lo! As he passes on through smoke and mist, urging his gallant
grey to the top of his speed, he sees once more the glare of red uniforms,
the flashing of British steel. He is surrounded by a band of dragoons, returning
from the pursuit of Washington's army. Again to the South, brave
soldier! Again to the South, with the pursuing troopers at his horse's
heels. How gallantly he rides—look! You can see his form rising through
the mist; by the light of that pistol flash, you can even see the tossing of
his plume, white as a snow-flake floating in the sun.
Again to the South, through the closely-woven ranks of the British host.
Those soldiers look up in wonder at the strange sight—an American officer
dashing bravely through their lines unscathed by bullet or sword.
Now doubling on his pursuers, now near Chew's house, now far away
in the fields, that brave soldier kept on his flight. God and the mist favored
him. At last, after dashing through the British lines, he was riding Northward
again—his pursuers had lost sight of their victim. He was riding
slowly Northward again; when looking ahead, he beheld a wounded man
stretched on the sod, in the agonies of death.
It was the brave young Briton who had fallen by his shot. A tear was
in the eye of the American soldier as he beheld that pale brow, with its
curling brown hair. Perchance the youth had a wife—a sister—in far away
England? Or, maybe, even now a mother wept for his return?
Our Continental soldier dismounted; he laid the head of the dying Briton
on his knee. He moistened his hot lips with water from his flask.
It was a sad yet lovely sight, to see that brave American, in his blue
uniform, kneeling there, with the head of his enemy, the red-coated Briton,
resting on his knee.
Then as the dying man looked up, his foe muttered a prayer for his
passing soul. As that prayer went up to God, up with its accents of compassion,
ascended the soul of the British youth.
The American held a dead body in his arms.
One look at the pale face, and he sprang to his steed. He rejoined the
American army some miles above, but never in all his life did the Preacher-Soldier
forget the last look of the dying Briton.
Another scene from the life of this Preacher-soldier.
It is night around Yorktown. Yonder, through the gloom, you see dim
masses of shadow, creeping along toward the British entrenchments. Suddenly
all is light, and groans and smoke! Suddenly the Continentals start
up from darkness into the light of the cannon-glare! Suddenly the sky is
traversed by fiery bombs, while the earth shakes with the tread of embattled
legions!
Look yonder! A desperate band of American soldiers, with fixed bayonets,
advance along the trenches, and spring up the steep ascent, to the very
spiked, this redoubt carried, and Yorktown is won! Two brave men lead
on these soldiers—one, the high-browed Alexander Hamilton, the other the
Preacher-Soldier! A desperate charge, a wild hurrah, the redoubt is won!
And there, standing in the glare of the cannon, on the very summit of
the steep ascent, the flag of stars in one hand, the good sword in the other
the Preacher Soldier shouts to his comrades, and tells them that Yorktown
is won.
He stands there for a moment, and then falls in the trench, his leg shattered
by a cannon ball.
Bending over him, by the light of the battle-glare, the brave Hamilton
gazes in his pale face, and bending beside the wounded Preacher-Soldier,
pens a few hasty words, announcing to the Continental Congress that Yorktown
is taken—Cornwallis a prisoner—America a Nation!
And who was this brave man, who, from the altar of God's Church
preached freedom? Who, the last in the retreat of Germantown, escaped
as by a miracle from British bayonets? Who, by a long course of gallant
deeds, wreathed his brow with the Hero's laurel? Who was this brave
man? How name you him,who led on the forlorn hope at Yorktown,
with the starry banner waving over his head!
Ah, he bore the name which our history loves to cherish, which our
literature embalms in her annals, which Religion places among her holiest
lights, burning forevermore by the altar of God!
Pennsylvania is not just to her heroes. She is content to have them do
great deeds, but she suffers them to be crowded out of history. While
North and South, with untiring devotion, glorify their humblest soldiers,
Pennsylvania is content to take but one name from a crowd of patriots, and
blazon that name upon the escutcheon of our glory—the name of “Mad
Anthony Wayne.”
Now let us do the Iron State some small justice at last. Now let us
select another name of glory from the crowd of heroes. Now let us write
upon the column of her fame, side by side with the name of Anthony
Wayne, the name of Peter Muhlenberg, the Preacher-General of the
Revolution!
There let them shine forever—those brother heroes, solemn witnesses,
of the glory of the Land of Penn—there let them shine, the objects of our
reverence and our love—these two great names—Peter Muhlenberg and
Anthony Wayne.
| Washington and his generals, or, Legends of the Revolution | |