University of Virginia Library

6. Part the Sixth.
THE FUNERAL OF THE DEAD.

I.—THE ANCIENT CHURCH.

In the township of Towamensing, some twenty-six miles from Philadelphia,
from the green sward of a quiet grave-yard, arises the venerable walls
of an ancient church, under whose peaceful roof worship the believers in
the Mennonist faith, as their fathers worshipped before them.

The grave-yard, with its mounds of green sod, is encircled by a massive
wall of stone, overshadowed by a grove of primitive oaks, whose giant
trunks and gnarled branches, as they tower in the blue summer sky, seem
to share in the sacred stillness and ancient grandeur which rests like a holy
spell upon the temple and the hamlet of the dead.

Come back with me, reader, once more come back to the ancient revolutionary
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
figures 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 each musquet,
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 trussels,
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
Smallwood and Knox. Standing near the coffin's head, a tall and imposing
form, clad in a white hued uniform, is disclosed in the full light of the sunbeams.
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 American
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, he
gazes upon the faces of the dead.

The first corse, resting in the pine coffin, with the banner of blue and
stars sweeping over its rough surface, and bearing upon its folds the sword
and chapeau of a general officer, is the corse of General Nash. The noble
features are white as marble, the eyes are closed, and the lip wears the
smile of death.

The next corse, with the sword and chapeau of the commanding officer
of a regiment, is the corse of the brave Colonel Boyd.

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

death. The finely chisseled features, the arched brows, the Roman nose,
and 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, who
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.

II.—FUNERAL SERMON OVER THE DEAD.[4]

“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 solemnity
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 passed
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
clay.

But this is not all, brethren; for as we look upon these corses, the solemn
words of the book break on our ear, through the silence of the evening
air:

Blessed are the dead that die in the Lord, for they rest from their labors,
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

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

So fell White, and so fell Boyd; you have all heard how Lieutenant
Smith met his death. You have heard how he went forth on the battle
morn with the flag of truce in his hand. You have heard how he approached
the fatal mansion on the battle-field; you have heard how these
merciless men pointed their musquets at his heart, and he fell, bathing the
flag of truce with the warm blood of his heart.

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

From every drop of patriot blood sinking in the sod 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 the dawning of a brighter and more glorious
day.

They rest from their labors. From the toilsome labor of the night march,
from the fierce labor of the battle charge, from the labor of bloodshed and
death they rest.

They will no more share the stern joy of the meeting of congregated
armies; no more ride the steed to battle; no more feel their hearts throb at
the sound of the trumpet. All is over.

They rest from their labors! Aye, in the solemn courts of heaven they
rest from their labors, and the immortal great of the past greet them with
smiles and beckonings of joy, their hearts are soothed by the hymnings of
angels, and the voice of the Eternal bids them welcome.

From the dead let me turn to the living.

Let me speak for a moment to the men of the gallant band; let me tell
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 freemen-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
never yet beheld fearful wrong without sudden vengeance—in the name of
that Redeemer, whose mission was joy to the captive, freedom to the slave,
I bless thee,—Washington.

On, on, in thy career of glory!

Not the glory of bloodshed, not the halo that is born of the phosphorescent

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
down upon the fruit of their works. From the Vast Unseen they shall look
down upon your banner of blue as the sun gleam of victory glitters on its
stars. They shall behold the skeletons of the invader strewing our shores,
his banners trailed in the dust, his armies annihilated, his strong men over-thrown,
and the temple of his power, toppled from its strong foundations.

They rest from their labors.

Oh, glorious is their resting place, oh, most glorious is their home! As
they flee on spirit-wings to their eternal abode, the ghosts of the mighty-head,
come crowding to the portals of the Unknown, and hail them welcome
home! Brutus of old is there, shaking his gory dagger aloft, Hampden and
Sidney are there, and there are the patriot martyrs from all the scaffolds of
oppressed Europe, each mighty spirit sounding a welcome to the martyrs
of New World freedom.

The dead of Bunker Hill are there, the form of Warren is among the first
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
of 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 martyrdom;
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 announced
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 uppermost
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.

III.—PRAYER FOR THE DEAD.

Father of Heaven, we bow before thee, under the temple of the clear
blue sky and within the shadow of yon oaken grove, we bow beside the
corses of the dead. Our hearts are sad, our souls are awed. Up to thy
throne we send our earnest prayers for this, our much-afflicted land. Turn,
oh! God, turn the burning sword from between us and the sun of thy countenance.
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 throbbing,
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 martyred
dead of the past, in the name of that shadowy band, whose life-blood
dyes a thousand scaffolds, give us freedom.

In the name of Jesus give us peace! Make strong the hands of thy servant
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 Rest of the
Blessed.

So shall it be said of us—

“Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord,—they rest from their labors,
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 attendance
at the head of the graves. The coffins were lowered in their receptacles
of death. The man of God advanced, and took a handful of earth,
from one of the uprising mounds.

There was universal silence around the graves, and thro' the grave-yard.

“Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”

The sound of the earth rattling on the coffin of General Nash, broke with
a strange echo on the air.

Slowly along the sod, passed the minister of heaven speaking the solemn
words of the last ceremony, as he flung the handful of earth upon each
coffin.

A single moment passed, and a file of soldiers, with upraised muscuets,
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 repeated,
and as the thick folds of cannon-smoke waved overhead, the soldiers
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 the
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 arms,
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 Sullivan, the manly
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, and the last
glimpse of sun-light fell upon this solemn relic of the

Battle=Day of Germantown.