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.
