I.—THE RED CROSS IN PHILADELPHIA.
Toll—toll—toll! The State House bell, that once rung the birth-day of
Freedom, now tolled its knell.
It was a sad day for Philadelphia, a sad day for the nation, when the
pomp of British banners and the gleam of British arms were in her streets
and along her avenues; when, as far as eye could reach, was seen the long
array of glaring red coats, with the sunbeams of a clear September day falling
on helm and cuirass, shining like burnished gold.
It was a sad and gloomy day for the nation, when the Congress was
forced to flee the old provincial town of William Penn, when the tories
paraded the streets with loud hurrahs, with the British lion waving overhead,
while the whigs hung their heads in shame and in despair.
True, the day was calm and bright overhead; true, the sky was clear,
and the nipping air of autumn gave freshness to the mind and bloom to the
cheek; true it was, the city was all alive with the glitter of processions,
and the passing to and fro of vast crowds of people; but the processions
were a dishonor to our soil, the crowds hurried to and fro to gaze upon the
living monuments of the defeat of Brandywine—the armed and arrogant
British legions thronging the streets of Philadelphia.
They came marching along in front of the old State House, on their way
to their barracks in the Northern Liberties. The scene was full of strange
and startling interest. The roofs of the State House arose clearly in the
autumn air, each peak and cornice, each gable-end and corner, shown in full
and distinct outline, with the trees of Independence Square towering greenly
in the rear of the fabric, while up into the clear sky arose the State House
steeple, with its solemn bell of independence, that but a year ago sent forth
the news of liberty to all the land, swinging a welcome to the British host—
a welcome that sounded like the funeral knell of new world freedom. The
columns of the army were passing in front of Independence Hall. Along
Chesnut street, as far as the eye could see, shone the glittering array of
sword and bayonet, with the bright sunshine falling over the stout forms of
the British troopers, mounted on gallant war steeds, and blazing with burnished
cuirass and polished helm, while banner and pennon waived gaily
overhead. There, treading the streets in all the flush of victory, were the
regiments of British infantry, with the one bold front of their crimson attire
flashing in the light, with their bayonets rising overhead like a forest of steel,
and with marks of Brandywine written on many a whiskered face and
burly chest.
And at their head, mounted on a gallant steed, with the lordlings of his
staff around him, rode a tall and athletic man, with a sinewy frame, and a
calm, placid face, wearing an even smile and quiet look, seen from beneath
the shadow of his plumed chapeau, while his gaudy attire of crimson, with
epaulettes of gold on either shoulder, announced Lord Cornwallis, the second
general of the invading army.
And as the General glanced around, fixing his eye proudly upon the
British banner, waving from the State House steeple, as his glance was met
by the windows of Independence Hall, decorated by the flags of the British
King, a proud gleam lit up his calm blue eye; and with the thought of
Brandywine, came a vision of the future, speaking eloquently of provinces
subjugated, rebels overthrown and liberties crushed.
And then peals of music, uttered by an hundred bands, filled the street,
and startled the silence of the State House avenues, swelling up to the
heavens with notes of joy, the roll of drum, the shriek of bugle, and the
clash of cymbal mingling in grand chorus. The banners waved more
proudly overhead, the spears, the bayonets, and helmets shone brighter in
the light, and between the peals of music the loud huzzas of the crowd
blackening the sidewalks, looking from the windows, and clinging to the
trees, broke gladly upon the air.
Toll—toll—toll—the solemn notes of independence bell heralded, with an
iron tongue, the entrance of the invaders into the city; the possession of
Philadelphia by the British.
It was a grand sight to see—the windows crowded with the forms of
beauty, waving scarfs in the air, aged matrons lifting little children on high,
who clapped their hands with glee, as they beheld the glimmer of arms and
the glitter of steel, the streets below all crimson with British uniform, all
music and all joy, the side walks blackened by crowds of servile tories who
shouted till their loyal throats were tired “Long life to King George—confusion
to Washington, and death to the rebels!”
They trooped through the streets of Philadelphia on the 26th of September,
1777; just fifteen days after the battle-day of Brandywine, they took
possession with all the pomp of victory; and as the shades of twilight sank
down over the town, they marched proudly into their barracks, in the
Northern Liberties.
