II.—THE PROPHET OF THE BRANDYWINE.
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 Brandywine!
In the southern part of old Chester County—near the line of Pennslyvania
and Delaware—this valley bursts on your eye, in one vivid panorama
of beauty and gloom.
It seems as though the hand of God, stretched out from yonder sky, had
scattered his blessings broadcast over hill and dale.
A clear and glassy stream, now overshadowed by drooping elm or oaken
trees, 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 Brandywine is at
once quiet, gentle, and full of peace. A sinless virgin with gentle thoughts
gleaming from her mild eye, soft memories flushing over her young cheek,
grace in her gestures and music in her voice—such is the Brandywine
among rivers, such her valley among other valleys!
Far away from the Brandywine, yet within an half hour's ride in the
centre of this Garden of the Lord, arises an old-time church.
Here are no towers to impress the soul with images of gloom; no marble
monuments to glare upon you through the night; here is no majestic dome
swelling up with the sky, with its cross gleaming in the stars. No!
A plain one storied fabric, stands in one corner of a small enclosure of
dark green grass. This enclosure is fenced from the field and highway by
a wall of grey stone; this fabric, built of the same kind of stone, is surmounted
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 graveyard
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
softened 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 tradition
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 Sabbath
afternoon, in the first flush of June.
Here in the stillness of that Sabbath hour, the Quaker brethren were assembled,
listening to the earnest words of the preacher, who stood in their
midst.
He stood there, in that rude gallery which supplied the place of pulpit
and altar, his snow-white hair sweeping to his shoulders, while his calm
blue eyes shone with a mild light, as he spake of the Saviour, who hung
upon the cross, for the salvation of all mankind.
Yes, in calm and even tones, touched with a deep pathos, he spoke of
the life of Jesus. While his accents fell round the rude place—as the
breeze of June came softly through the opened windows, as a vision of hill
and valley lay there, mellowing in the light of the afternoon sun—his
hearers were hushed into deep silence
Yon aged Quaker there—whose white hairs had once been pressed by
the hands of William Penn, bent his head upon his staff and listened—yon
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, woman,
with her big eyes dim with tears, her parted lips quivering with suspense,
leaning forward with clasped hands as the name of Jesus trembled
on her ear—yes, clad in her Quaker garb, yet with all her loveliness about
her, there was woman, listening to that story which she is never tired of
hearing: the story of the Saviour and the three beautiful women, who
watched and wept with him, and when all the world forsook him, still came
weeping to his tomb.
Then the old man, in a tremulous voice, pictured the horrors of that
awful day when Jerusalem was deserted by her people; while Calvary
throbbed with the beating of ten thousand hearts—when the world was
dark, while its Saviour suspended to the cross, looked down, even in the
moment of his agony, and beheld—woman watching there!
Dilating in this great theme, that aged man began to predict the reign of
peace over all the world.
“This valley,” he said, elevating his form, and speaking in the low deep
tone of a prophet, “This valley shall never be stained with human
blood!”
His attitude, his voice, that uplifted hand—all were sublime.
As he stood, a silence like the grave, prevailed throughout the Quaker
church.
“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 clasping
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
prophecy:
“This is a quiet and happy place, my brethren, and the Sabbath sunbeams
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 children
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 you graveyard shall be choked with ghastly heaps of dead—
broken limbs, torn corses, all crowded together in the graveyard of Peace!
Cold 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 Brandywine.
Years passed on. The old men who had heard it were with their
fathers. The maidens who had listened to its words of omen, were grave
matrons, surrounded by groups of laughing children. Still the prophecy
lingered in the homes of Brandywine. Still it was whispered by the lips
of the old to the ears of youth.
At last a morning came when there was panic in the very air. The
earth shook to the tread of legions; the roads groaned beneath the weight
of cannon. Suddenly a white cloud overspread the valley, and enveloped
the Quaker temple. Then groans, shouts, curses, were heard. The white
cloud grew darker. It advanced far over the plain, like a banner of colossal
murder. It rolled around yonder hill, it lay darkening over the distant
waters of the Brandywine.
At last, toward evening it cleared away.
The sun shone mildly over the beautiful landscape; the Brandywine rippled
into light from afar.
But the beams of the sun lighted up the cold faces of the dead, with a
ghastly glow.
For in the fields, along the slope of yonder hill, down by the spring under
the wild cherry tree, in the graveyard there, and within the walls of
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.
