VII.—THE QUAKER TEMPLE.
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 yonder hill, rising far above the plain—you hill to the
north east crowded with a thick forest, and sloping gently to the south, its
bare 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 Brandywine.
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,
of 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-scape.
The sky is very clear above us. Clear, serene and glassy, A single
cloud hovers in the centre of the 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
thin 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 approach 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 cultivation—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, desolation
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, fife,
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
thy cross waving on that blood-red banner?
Thy Cross, that emblem of peace and truth and mercy, emblem of thy
sufferings, thy death, thy resurrection, emblem of Gethemane and of Calvary!
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 dusky
Hindoo—it is stained with the blood of all the earth! The ghosts of millions,
from a thousand battlefields arise and curse that flag forever in the
sight of God! And now—ah, now it comes on to the valley of the Brandywine—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!
