HARVARD COLLEGE LIBRARY

GRATIS

1942

ENTERED according to act of Congress, in the year 1846, by
MOGRIDGE & M CARTY.

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court, of the Eastern District of
Pennsylvania.

STEREOTYPED BY

MOORIDGE AND M'CARTY......Phited

THIS BOOK OF THE BATTLE OF BRANDYWINE, IS BY HIS KIND PERMISSION, RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED.

MY DEAR SIR:

I HAVE been a pilgrim in holy ground, but not to the old world, not the altars of Rome, or the sepulchres of Palestine, has my pilgrimage been made.

I have been a pilgrim to those hallowed places, where the ghosts of the heroes, arise and walk the earth, forevermore. I have been to the altars of the American Past; I have worshipped among the sepulchres of the illustrious dead. Bending down upon the sod of our battle-fields, I have traced the footsteps of that religion, that patriotism, that genius, which in the olden time of the Revolution, went mightily over the land.

Yes to the battle-fields of our soil, to the haunts of the heroes, to the graves of the Man-Gods of our Past, has my pilgrimage been made.

And now Sir, with the memories of the immortal field of Brandywine, kindling in my soul, with the vision of that beautiful valley, hallowed by legend and romance rising in all its bloom, before my eyes, do I, a young man, a Pennsylvanian, an American author, inscribe this book of the battle-field, with With all my heart, as one of that innumerable band of young men, who cherish your name in their souls, I lay this sincere tribute on the altar of vour fame.

your name.

Pardon me, for the omission of the usual titles of courtesy or honor, in connection with your name. There are some names, which by the acclamation of a nation, are elevated above all titles or courtesy of rank, into the simple magnificence of a watch-word, for the patriots of all time. There are some names worth all the stars or ribbons ever bestowed by kings, prouder than all the Gene

kes, Princes, which flutter in the sunshine of royal favor. There is one

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same, a simple word of three syllables, which has been shouted by the patriots of South America, charging for their rights in the thickest of the battle; gasped with the last breath of dying Greeks, as they poured forth their blood in the contest for their religion, their altars, their homes; a name of three syllables, which has become History, in every American heart.

It is the name of that Orphan Boy of Hanover who-without the glare of military glory, by the force of his genius alone-lifted himself into the Statesman, the Orator, the Man of the People, the simply magnificent name of Henry Clay.

You are bound to my heart, by strong ties. Not by the ties of party, for in this city, certain demagogues, who shout your name, when they cannot betray you, have swindled some ten thousand orphans out of an education, by the shameless expenditure of Girard's bequest. Instead of erecting a schoolhouse for the education of this generation of orphans, among whose ranks I am proud to class myself, they squandered the trust of the good old man, Girard, and with his money, built a marble sepulchre, which towers above our city, a Monument of its shame. These men have robbed me, and my brother-orphans. I owe them no love, for I was always taught to regard a robber as a robber, whether he wore rags, or sat in a council chamber.

You are bound to me, then, by strong ties, but not by the ties of party spirit. No, no! By stronger and holier ties, by the teachings of grey hairs, by the memories of childhood. I was reared to love your name; I grew up, an enthusiastic admirer of that chivalry, that indomitable will, that genius, which has written your name in every page of our history for the last fifty years.

With men of all parties, I rejoice, that while we, mourn the Man of the Hermitage, your illustrious compeer in the race of glory, now sleeping the last slumber, under the sod of his home, I say I rejoice, that our hearts can go forth to the serene shades of Ashland, and behold an American, who yet living is immortal, whose grey hairs, are lighted already, by the sunshine of historic fame.

This work, which gathered from the legends of the past, I now dedicate to you, is the fifth work, written by me, during the last three years. The first "Ladye Annabel," was intended as a picture of the glory and the gloom of the age of chivalry. The second "Herbert Tracy" and the third "The Battle-Day of Germantown" were devoted to the romance and history of one of the most renowned scenes of our revolutionary glory. The fourth, "THE QUAKER CITY,” was an attempt to picture the vices and crimes of a large city; the plain matter of fact horrors, which are taking place, every day, around us. As in the pages of this work, I unwittingly trod upon the toes of profligates of every sort, so profligates of every sort, attacked me in the papers, calumniated me in the circles of society, and blustered profusely about pistols, daggers and libel suits. But Sir, this petty persecution had its day. Relying upon the justice of the Ameni