The Old Bell of Independence; Or, Philadelphia in 1776

"With a firm, clear voice, that re-echoed to the distant hills, he announced his text:—

'They that take the sword shall perish by the sword.'

Then, straightening himself to his full height, and his eye beaming with a holy feeling inspired by the time and place, he commenced:—

"'They that take the sword shall perish by the sword.'

'Soldiers and Countrymen:

We have met this evening perhaps for the last time. We have shared the toil of the march, the peril of the fight, the dismay of the retreat—alike we have endured cold and hunger, the contumely of the internal foe, and outrage of the foreign oppressor. We have sat, night after, night, beside the same camp-fire, shared the same rough soldiers' fare; we have together heard the roll of the reveille, which called us to duty, or the beat of the tattoo, which gave the signal for the hardy sleep of the soldier, with the earth for his bed, the knapsack for his pillow.

'And now, soldiers and brethren, we have met in a peaceful valley, on the eve of battle, while the sunlight is dying away behind yonder heights—the sunlight that, to-morrow morn, will glimmer on scenes of blood. We have met, amid the whitening tents of our encampment,—in times of terror and of gloom have we gathered together—God grant it may not be for the last time!

'It is a solemn moment. Brethren, does not the solemn voice of nature seem to echo the sympathies of the hour? The flag of our country droops heavily from yonder staff; the breeze has died away along the green plain of Chadd's Ford—the plain that spreads before us, glistening in the sunlight; the heights of the Brandywine arise gloomy and grand beyond the waters of yonder stream, and all nature holds a pause of solemn silence, on the eve of the uproar and bloodshed and strife of to-morrow.'

"The propriety of this language was manifest. Breathless attention was pictured upon every countenance, and the smallest whisper could be distinctly heard. Pausing a moment, as if running back, in his mind's eye, over the eventful past, he again repeated his text:—

"'They that take the sword shall perish by the sword.'

'And have they not taken the sword?

'Let the desolated plain, the blood-soddened valley, the burnt farm-house, blackening in the sun, the sacked village, and the ravaged town, answer; let the whitening bones of the butchered farmer, strewn along the fields of his homestead, answer; let the starving mother, with the babe clinging to the withered breast, that can afford no sustenance, let her answer; with the death-rattle mingling with the murmuring tones that mark the last struggle for life—let the dying mother and her babe answer!

'It was but a day past and our land slept in peace. War was not here—wrong was not here. Fraud, and woe, and misery, and want, dwelt not among us. From the eternal solitude of the green woods arose the blue smoke of the settler's cabin, and golden fields of corn looked forth from amid the waste of the wilderness, and the glad music of human voices awoke the silence of the forest.

'Now! God of mercy, behold the change! Under the shadow of a pretext—under the sanctity of the name of God—invoking the Redeemer to their aid, do these foreign hirelings slay our people! They throng our towns; they darken our plains; and now they encompass our posts on the lonely plain of Chadd's Ford.

"The effect was electric. The keen eye of the in-trepid Wayne flashed fire. The neighboring sentinels, who had paused to listen, quickened their pace, with a proud tread and a nervous feeling, impatient for vengeance on the vandal foe.

"Gathering strength once more, he checked the choking sensations his own recital had caused, and continued:

"'They that take the sword shall perish by the sword.'

"Brethren, think me not unworthy of belief, when I tell you that the doom of the Britisher is near! Think me not vain, when I tell you that beyond the cloud that now enshrouds us, I see gathering, thick and fast, the darker cloud and the blacker storm of a Divine retribution!

'They may conquer us on the morrow! Might and wrong may prevail, and we may be driven from this field—but the hour of God's own vengeance will surely come!

'Ay, if in the vast solitudes of eternal space, if in the heart of the boundless universe, there throbs the being of an awful God, quick to avenge, and sure to punish guilt, then will the man, George of Brunswick, called king, feel in his brain and in his heart the vengeance of the Eternal Jehovah! A blight will be upon his life—a withered brain, an accurst intellect; a blight will be upon his children, and on his people. Great God! how dread the punishment!

'A crowded populace, peopling the dense towns where the man of money thrives, while the labourer starves; want striding among the people in all its forms of terror; an ignorant and God-defying priesthood chuckling over the miseries of millions; a proud and merciless nobility adding wrong to wrong, and heaping insult upon robbery and fraud; royalty corrupt to the very heart; aristocracy rotten to the core; crime and want linked hand in hand, and tempting men to deeds of woe and death—these are a part of the doom and the retribution that shall come upon the English throne and the English people!'

"This was pronounced with a voice of such power, that its tones might have reached almost to the Briton's camp, and struck upon the ear of Howe as the prophetic inspiration of one whose keen eye had read from the dark tablets of futurity.

"Looking around upon the officers, he perceived that Washington and Lafayette had half risen from their seats, and were gazing spell-bound at him, as if to drink in every word he uttered.

"Taking advantage of the pervading feeling, he went on:—

"'Soldiers—I look around upon your familiar faces with a strange interest! To-morrow morning we will all go forth to battle—for need I tell you that your unworthy minister will march with you, invoking God's aid in the fight?—we will march forth to battle! Need I exhort you to fight the good fight, to fight for your homesteads, and for your wives and children?

'My friends, I might urge you to fight, by the galling memories of British wrong! Walton—I might tell you of your father butchered in the silence of midnight on the plains of Trenton; I might picture his grey hairs dabbled in blood; I might ring his death-shriek in your ears. Shelmire—I might tell you of a mother butchered, and a sister outraged—the lonely farm-house, the night assault, the roof in flames, the shouts of the troopers, as they despatch their victim, the cries for mercy, the pleadings of innocence for pity. I might paint this all again, in the terrible colors of the vivid reality, if I thought your courage needed such wild excitement.

'But I know you are strong in the might of the Lord. You will forth to battle on the morrow with light hearts and determined spirits, though the solemn duty—the duty of avenging the dead—may rest heavy on your souls.

'And in the hour of battle, when all around is darkness, lit by the lurid cannon glare and the piercing musket flash—when the wounded strew the ground, and the dead litter your path—then remember, soldiers, that God is with you. The eternal God fights for you—He rides on the battle cloud, He sweeps onward with the march of the hurricane charge—God, the Awful and the Infinite, fights for you, and you will triumph.'

"Roused by this manly and pathetic appeal, a low murmur ran from man to man, as a heartfelt response; and the chieftains who were near the speaker, felt proud and happy in the command of such true hearts and tried blades. But darkness was enveloping all, and he hastened to conclude.

"'They that take the sword shall perish by the sword.'

'You have taken the sword, but not in the spirit of wrong and ravage. You have taken the sword for your homes, for your wives, for your little ones. You have taken the sword for truth, for justice and right, and to you the promise is, Be of good cheer, for your foes have taken the sword in defiance of all that man holds dear, in blasphemy of God—they shall perish by the sword.

'And now, brethren and soldiers, I bid you all farewell. Many of us may fall in the fight of to-morrow—God rest the souls of the fallen; many of us may live to tell the story of the fight of to-morrow; and, in the memory of all, will ever rest and linger the quiet scene of this autumnal night.

'Solemn twilight advances over the valley; the woods on the opposite heights fling their long shadows over the green of the meadow; around us are the tents of the continental host, the suppressed bustle of the camp, the hurried tramp of the soldiers to and fro among the tents, the stillness and silence that marks the eve of battle.

'When we meet again, may the long shadows of twilight be flung over a peaceful land.

'God in heaven grant it.'

"And now the last ray of lingering light had departed, and they were left in darkness. Presuming it proper to dismiss his auditors, he proposed a parting prayer, and immediately every head was uncovered and bowed in reverence, while, with outstretched hands, that sincere old man in the homespun garb thus addressed the throne of grace.

"'Great Father, we bow before thee. We invoke thy blessing, we deprecate thy wrath, we return thee thanks for the past, we ask thy aid for the future. For we are in times of trouble, oh, Lord! and sore beset by foes, merciless and unpitying; the sword gleams over our land, and the dust of the soil is dampened with the blood of our neighbors and friends.

'Oh! God of mercy, we pray thy blessing on the American arms. Make the man of our hearts strong in thy wisdom; bless, we beseech, with renewed life and strength, our hope and thy instrument, even GEORGE WASHINGTON. Shower thy counsels on the honorable, the Continental Congress. Visit the tents of our host; comfort the soldier in his wounds and afflictions; nerve him for the hour of fight; prepare him for the hour of death.

'And in the hour of defeat, oh, God of Hosts, do thou be our stay; and in the hour of triumph be thou our guide.

'Teach us to be merciful. Though the memory of galling wrongs be at our hearts, knocking for admittance, that they may fill us with desires for revenge, yet let us, oh, Lord, spare the vanquished, though they never spared us in their hour of butchery and bloodshed. And, in the hour of death, do thou guide us into the abode prepared for the blest; so shall we return thanks unto thee, through Christ, our Redeemer.—GOD PROSPER THE CAUSE.—Amen"

During the recital of this interesting and thrilling incident of the Revolution, the veterans—even Higgins, too—laid down their knives and forks, and listened as if carried back to the memorable eve of the battle of Brandywine, and filled with the hopes and fears of the period. At its conclusion, they expressed their approbation of the manner of the recital, and the beauty of the sermon.

"That minister was one of the kind that I like," said Wilson. "He could preach peace as long as peace was wise, and buckle on his armor and fight when it became his duty."

"Mr. Harmer handles his pen well," remarked Morton, "but such an incident would make any pen write well of itself. There's fire in it."

"Yes, a whole heap of fire," put in Mrs. Harmar, who thought she must make a remark, as she had been quieting the children while the latter part of the sermon and the remarks upon it were listened to by the others.

"But the Lord didn't assist us much in that next day's battle," said old Harmar. "We had hard fighting, and then were compelled to retreat."

"It was all for the best," said Wilson. "We shouldn't have known our enemies nor ourselves without losing that battle. The harder the struggle for liberty, the more we enjoy it when won."

"That's true," said young Harmar, "The freedom dearest bought is highest prized, and Americans have learned the value of that inestimable gem."

The dinner was, by this time, pretty well disposed of, and the party adjourned to the large parlor, where they were soon comfortable seated. Mrs. Harmar would make one of the company, and the children would force their way in to see and hear the "sogers." The windows were up, and the gentle breeze of summer blew softly through the parlor, thus relieving the otherwise oppressive atmosphere.

But we must introduce the company to the reader. Old Hannar was seated on one end of the sofa, with one of the small children on his knee. He was a stout, hearty-looking man of about seventy, with silvery hair, and a face much embrowned by exposure and furrowed by time. The general expression of his features was a hearty good humor, as if perfectly satisfied with things around. On the other end of the sofa sat Mr. Higgins, a thin, small-featured, bald-headed man, looking much older than old Mr. Harmar. On the opposite sofa sat Mr. Morton and Mr. Wilson. The first was a large-bodied, full-faced man, slightly bald, with a scar across his forehead, from the right eye to the left side of his head. His appearance bespoke an active life, and a strong constitution; and his eye yet beamed with intelligence. Mr. Wilson was evidently about seventy-five, with a long, lank face, tall figure, and head scantily covered with grey hair. Mr. Smith sat in an easy arm-chair. His appearance was much the same as that of Mr. Higgins, though his face expressed more intelligence. He had a troublesome cough, and was evidently very weak. Mr. Jackson Harmar sat on a chair next to his father. He was about thirty-five, rather short and thin, with long brown hair, wild, blue eyes, in a "fine frenzy rolling," and a very literary appearance generally. Mrs. Harraar sat near her husband, with two very mischievous little boys, apparently about six and eight years of age, by her side. She had a childish face, but might have been thought pretty by a loving and indulgent husband.

STORY OF THE PRAYER

"There is only one other scene during the struggle for our country's right," said young Harmar, "which I would compare with the one I have just narrated; and that is the scene in Congress—the old Continental Congress—during the first prayer by the Rev. Mr. Duche."

"I've heard something of that prayer," said Morton, "since the Revolution, but nothing that I could depend on."

"An account of the scene is given by John Adams, who was a chief actor in it," said young Harmar.

"Old John Adams?" enquired Higgins. "He was the man! He was the Washington of our politics during the war. He was the man!" and Higgins rubbed his hands together.

"Thomas Jefferson, take your foot off your brother's, and quit pinching him," interrupted Mrs. Harmar.

"I have Mr. Adams' account of that first prayer and its effects," said young Harmar, "and here it is." So saying, he pulled from his pocket a paper into which the account had been copied, and read:—

"'When the Congress met, Mr. Gushing made a motion that it should be opened with prayer. It was opposed by Mr. Jay, of New York, and Mr. Rutledge, of South Carolina, because we were so divided in our religious sentiments, some Episcopalians, some Quakers, some Anabaptists, some Presbyterians, and some Congregationalists, that we could not join in the same act of worship. Mr. Samuel Adams arose and said, 'that he was no bigot, and could hear a prayer from any gentleman of piety, and who was, at the same time, a friend of his country. He was a stranger in Philadelphia, but had heard that Mr. Duche (Dushay they pronounced it) deserved that character, and therefore he moved that Mr. Duche, an Episcopal clergyman, might be desired to read prayers to the Congress to-morrow morning.' The motion was seconded, and passed in the affirmative.—Mr. Randolph, our President, waited on Mr. Duche, and received for answer, that if his health would permit he certainly would. Accordingly, next morning he appeared with his clerk, and, in his pontificals, read several prayers in the established form, and then read the collect for the seventh day of September, which was the thirty-fifth psalm. You must remember, this was the next morning after we had heard the rumor of the horrible cannonade of Boston. It seemed as if Heaven had ordained that psalm to be read on that morning.

"'After this, Mr. Duche, unexpectedly to every body, struck out into an extemporary prayer which filled the bosom of every man present. I must confess I never heard a better prayer, or one so well pronounced. Episcopalian as he is, Dr. Cooper himself never prayed with such fervor, such correctness and pathos, and in language so elegant and sublime, for America, for Congress, for the province of Massachusetts Bay, especially the town of Boston. It has had an excellent effect upon every body here. I must beg you to read that psalm. If there is any faith in the sortes Virgilianæ, or sortes Homericæ, or especially the sortes Biblicæ, it would be thought providential.'

"The thirty-fifth psalm was indeed appropriate to the news received, and the exigencies of the times. It commences:—

"'Plead my cause, O Lord, with them that fight against me.

'Take hold of shield and buckler, and stand up for my help.

'Draw out also the spear, and stop the way against them that persecute me: say unto my soul, I am thy salvation.'

"What a subject for contemplation does this picture present. The forty-four members of the first Congress, in their Hall, all bent before the mercy-seat, and asking Him that their enemies 'might be as chaff before the wind.' WASHINGTON was kneeling there; and Henry and Randolph, and Rutledge, and Lee, and Jay; and by their side there stood, bowed in reverence, the Puritan patriots of New England, who, at that moment, had reason to believe that an armed soldiery was wasting their humble households. It was believed that Boston had been bombarded and destroyed. They prayed fervently 'for America, for the Congress, for the province of Massachusetts Bay, and especially for the town of Boston;' and who can realize the emotion with which they turned imploringly to Heaven for divine interposition and aid? 'It was enough to melt a heart of stone. I saw the tears gush into the eyes of the old, grave Quakers of Philadelphia.'"

"Yes," said Wilson, when young Harmar had concluded, "that was a scene equal, at least, to the one on the eve of Brandywine: how finely old John Adams speaks about it!"

"That Dr. Duche forgot his connexion with the Church of England, and only thought of his country," remarked Morton. "He was a good man."

"Yes; and he prayed in the presence of as good a set of men as was ever assembled together," added Smith. "Them was men—those Congressmen. They didn't get eight dollars a day for making speeches."

"No," put in Higgins, "but they earned a great deal more. Some of 'em lost all the property they had, during the war."

"The spirit which animated our countrymen at that period was the noblest which could prompt the deeds of men," said young Harmar, growing quite eloquent. "From the men who emptied the tea into Boston harbor, to the statesman of the Continental Congress, all were filled with patriotism, and that's the most unselfish of human motives."

STORY OF LYDIA DARRAGH

"Mrs. Harmar, your sex nobly maintained their reputation for devotion and patriotism during the Revolution," said Wilson. "Did you ever hear how a Quaker lady, named Lydia Darragh, saved the army under Washington from being surprised?"

"No, never," replied Mrs. Harmar.

"No! Then, as a Philadelphia lady, you should know about it," said Wilson.

"The superior officers of the British army were accustomed to hold their consultations on all subjects of importance at the house of William and Lydia Darragh, members of the Society of Friends, immediately opposite to the quarters of the commander-in-chief, in Second street. It was in December, in the year that they occupied the city, that the adjutant-general of the army desired Lydia to have an apartment prepared for himself and friends, and to order her family early to bed; adding, when ready to depart, 'Notice shall be given to you to let us out, and to extinguish the fire and candles.' The manner of delivering this order, especially that part of it which commanded the early retirement of her family, strongly excited Lydia's curiosity, and determined her, if possible, to discover the mystery of their meeting. Approaching without shoes the room in which the conference was held, and placing her ear to the keyhole, she heard the order read for the troops to quit the city on the night of the 4th, to attack the American army encamped at White Marsh. Returning immediately to her room, she laid herself down, but, in a little while, a loud knocking at the door, which for some time she pretended not to hear, proclaimed the intention of the party to retire. Having let them out, she again sought her bed, but not to sleep; the agitation of her mind prevented it. She thought only of the dangers that threatened the lives of thousands of her countrymen, and believing it to be in her power to avert the evil, determined, at all hazards, to apprize General Washington of his danger. Telling her husband, at early dawn, that flour was wanting for domestic purposes, and that she should go to Frankford to obtain it, she repaired to headquarters, got access to General Howe, and obtained permission to pass the British lines. Leaving her bag at the mill, Lydia now pressed forward towards the American army, and meeting Captain Allen M'Lean, an officer, from his superior intelligence and activity, selected by General Washington to gain intelligence, discovered to him the important secret, obtaining his promise not to jeopardize her safety by telling from whom he had obtained it. Captain M'Lean, with all speed, informed the commander-in-chief of his danger, who, of course, took every necessary step to baffle the contemplated enterprize, and to show the enemy that he was prepared to receive them. Lydia returned home with her flour, secretly watched the movements of the British, and saw them depart. Her anxiety during their absence was excessive, nor was it lessened when, on their return, the adjutant-general, summoning her to his apartment and locking the door with an air of mystery, demanded 'Whether any of the family were up on the night that he had received company at her house?' She told him, that, without an exception, they had all retired at eight o'clock. 'You, I know, Lydia, were asleep, for I knocked at your door three times before you heard me, yet, although I am at a loss to conceive who gave the information of our intended attack to General Washington, it is certain we were betrayed; for, on arriving near his encampment, we found his cannon mounted, his troops under arms, and at every point so perfectly prepared to receive us, that we were compelled, like fools, to make a retrograde movement, without inflicting on our enemy any manner of injury whatever.'"

"Ha! ha! a neat stratagem, and a patriotic woman," exclaimed young Harmar.

"Talking of the services of the women during the war," said Higgins, "reminds me of Molly Macauly, or Sergeant Macauly, as we knew her while in the army. She was a Pennsylvanian, and was so enthusiastic in her patriotism, that she donned a man's dress, and joined the army, when she became a sergeant, and fought bravely in several battles and skirmishes. Nobody suspected that she was not what she seemed to be; for she was tall, stout, and rough-looking, and associated with men very freely. Molly had a custom of swinging her sabre over her head, and hurraing for Mad Anthony, as she called General Wayne. She was wounded at Brandywine, and, her sex being discovered, returned home."

"She was not the only woman in disguise in the army," said old Harmar. "There was Elizabeth Canning, who was at Fort Washington, and, when her husband was killed, took his place at the gun, loading, priming, and firing with good effect, till she was wounded in the breast by a grape-shot. While our army lay at Valley Forge, several Pennsylvania women were detected in disguise, enduring all kinds of want, and with less murmuring than the men themselves. Oh, yes! the women were all right in those days, however they may have degenerated since."

"Come, no slander on the women of the present day," said Mrs. Harmar. "I've no doubt, take them all in all; they will not suffer in comparison with those of any age."

"Bravo! Mrs. Harmar," exclaimed Wilson.

"Women, now, are ready enough with disguises," remarked young Harmar.