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name, 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 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 scerres 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 Ameri

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can people, I went on in my work, published it, and was rewarded for my labor, with the approbation of men of distinguished genius, in this country and in Europe.

I make this remark from no motive of vanity. I simply wish to leave the fact on record for the benefit of any young American author, who may feel the hoof of persecution in his breast, as I have felt it.

And now sir, to pass between the subject, to one which affords a feeling of pleasure, mingled with bitterness, let me present to you, this last work, combining the legend, the history and romance of Brandywine. From the lips of old men, from dim legends preserved in a thousand homes, from each hill and valley, hallowed by the conflict of the Eleventh of September, I have gathered the details of this work and moulded many traditions into our continuous story. This story will live when I am dead. Not on account of any merit on my part, but because the legends of Brandywine, are immortal as the hills which overshadow, her beautiful valleys.

In your kind letter of the 25th of July, 1845, you remark: "All that you say about the ardent affection of my friends, is perfectly true. It has been displayed in many, and some very touching forms. I am inexpressibly grateful for it. I wish it were in my power, more than I have ever been able to do, to testify the profound sense which I feel for the great obligations under which they have placed me."

Such testimonial is needless, for the warm heart-burst, which accompanies the mention of your name, throughout this land, is its own reward. Yes, to love chivalry, genius, greatness, fills the heart with fire from each; and lifts the soul into a purer light, a holier atmosphere.

May the blessings of God be upon your grey hairs. May the love of the nation, which now comes sweetly through the graves of your own Ashland, be an antepast of your renown in future time. May your name be the watch-word and the star of the Orphan, through ages yet to come. And when gathered to the Past, to add another glory to the constellation of heroes, which illumes our history, you leave a nation to shed their tears beside your grave, may this book bloom there, an humble flower, planted over the ashes of the dead, in honor of the name of HENRY CLAY.

WISSAHIKON, near Philadelphia.

GEORGE LIPPARD.

June, 17th. 1846.

PROLOGUE.

A BEAUTIFUL girl-a white-haired old man!

A beautiful girl, her proud form, attired in robes of white, a single lily, gleaming from the midnight blackness of her hair-an old man, clad in almost royal robes, with a star, glittering over his breast, an old man, with a high brow, blue eyes, and snowy hair.

They stood alone in the centre of that lighted hall, admired by an hundred eyes, flattered by a chorus of voices, this lovely girl, and proud old man. Say as you gaze upon this festival scene, this lofty hall, blazing with a brightness like day, these gaudy hangings, floating from the painted ceiling to the bounding floor, these young forms, undulating in the graceful circles of the dance, say as this light, this beauty, this motion dazzles your eyes, as the music fills your ears, do you not envy that old man, the lord of this proud mansion; do you not long for the destiny of that beautiful girl, who with the lily in her glossy hair, stands there, alone amid the throng, her dark eye gleaming with the memory of one, now far away?

Gaze from yonder lofty window, and behold the wide park, shadowy with ageworn trees, the deep lake, that now reflects the stars on its motionless bosom, the distant hills, that now arise into the midnight sky. A magnificent domain, this Earldom of Monthermer; a proud old man, this white haired Earl; a beautiful lady, this orphan ward, who bethrothed to his son, now stands with the lily in her dark hair, the glare of festival lights, upon her brow.

And the music, swells on the air, and the lake gleams in one broad column of light, and the stars shine calmly down, upon the towers of Monthermer, embosomed among lofty trees.

An hour passes. All is music and dance and beauty, in the lighted hall, but the old man, has gone to his lovely room. Yes, in that dimly-lighted chamber, beside the narrow window, with the stars gleaming over his pale face, he stands, gazing over the broad extent of his domains. There is agony in his writhing face, doom upon his darkened brow, remorse in his glaring blue eye.

He turns and speaks to the aged servant, who grey-haired and withered, stands like a piece of old-time furniture, by his master's side.

“Bernard, it is the Seventeenth of July !”

The servant shudders, from head to foot. With trembling steps, he turns to the farther corner of the chamber and lifts the purple tapestry. Three doors, known only to the Earl and his servitor, are revealed, with a few strange words, written on their dark panels.

On the first door is written: "THE SEVENTEENTH OF JULY."

On the second: "THE ELEVENTH OF SEPTEMBER."

On the third: "THE FOURTEENTH OF NOVEMBER."

The servant shudders, for on the return of each of these days, his master, the proud Earl, enters one of these rooms, and passes long hours in unspeakable agony.

So it has been for years. Into the first, old Bernard may enter with his lord; but the others, are sacred to the Earl. No form, but his, may pass their threshold; no voice but his, disturb the echo of their walls.

"It is the Seventeenth of July!" said the Earl, and the cold drops, started out from his forehead. He unlocked the door of the first room, and entered. Soon a lamp, suspended from the ceiling, was lit by the old servitor and its light, fell around a vaulted chamber, with roof and walls and floor of stone. In the centre arose a white altar, surmounted by a cross of iron.

The proud Earl laid off the jewelled robe, which enveloped his slender form. Nay even the vest, which encircled his sunken chest. With his aged form, bare to the waist, he knelt on the hard floor, beside the cross of iron. He knelt groaning with agony.

"The lash, Bernard, the lash!"

The old servant, with tears in his eyes, drew forth, from beneath the curtains of the altar, a thick cord, knotted at the ends.

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Strike, Bernard, and do not-spare,” said the old Earl, in a choking voice. Then Bernard, with tears raining down his aged face, wound one end of the cord around his wrist, and lashed his master on the shoulders and breast, until the blood ran down. His withered flesh, was all one mass of gore. As the servant struck him, with the dripping cord, he called on God for mercy, murmuring a terrible confession of broken vows, innocence betrayed, and holy rites profaned Still as the blood ran down, in separate streams, he shrieked, "Strike, Bernard, strike!" The memory of this day is terrible, but, oh God-the Eleventh of September! The Eleventh of September, it will soon be here! I can endure the lash; that I have endured without a murmur, for twenty years! But that terrible Fourteenth of November, spare me, oh my God, spare a weak old man!"

At last he sank exhausted on the floor, his hands covered with the blood, that streamed from his breast and shoulders. Bernard, weeping like a child, wrapped the azure robe around his form, extinguished the lights, and bore him from the fatal room. He locked the door, and laid his master on his couch.

After a long while he unclosed his eyes.

"This seventeenth of July is terrible, but-ah! The Eleventh of September -the Fourteenth of November-my God, have mercy and crush me at once! This slow torture is worse than a thousand deaths!"

His words were interrupted, by a hurried footsteps, and a voice, shrieking in tones of horror

Woe for us, woe! The Lady Isidore-ah woe, woe! So young too and yet to die! Could none of ye save her? As she wandered by the lake, why did ye not warn her from the brink? Ye saw her, hurry from the hall, ye saw her white form, gleaming among the trees, ye heard the plunge, and now-woe, woe, woe! There is her scarf and the lily, that she wore in her dark hair!"

And with a shriek the aged woman, burst into the room, and flung herself at the feet of the Earl, placing in his hands, all that remained of the Lady Isidore. The white scarf, which had been warmed by her bosom, the lily which had gleamed from her dark hair.

"This" shrieked the Earl. "This, is but the seventeenth of July, but the Eleventh of September, the Fourteenth of November-they are yet to come."