was met by the gleam of sword and bayonet, from the woods on the opposite side of the stream, and presently the Americans beheld emerging along the brows of the opposite hills, the large, burly forms of Hessian soldiers, marked by a profusion of heavy accoutrements, the lofty cap, bushy with fur, the massive sword, the musket and bayonet, and the knapsack, strapped to the broad back of each soldier, with intricate crossings of cord and buckskin.

In an instant, the cannon of Wayne uttered a volume of smoke that rolled in folds of gloomy grandeur high upward in the azure heavens; in another instant had the rifle bands, under the brave Maxwell and the gallant Porterfield, sprang from the embankment down on to the meadow of the Brandywine; in another moment, the massive trees overlooking that quiet stream received the daring rangers within their shadow-they were met in mid-stream by the Yagers of the Hessian army, and then there was one fearful moment of death, of bloodshed, and horror. The shrill cry of the wounded arose for the first time upon the silence of that quiet vale-the smoke came sweeping upward from the depths of the green trees, and from the vast and gloomy folds darted the blaze of the rifle, whose aim was death, and the full and vivid blaze of the cannon, flashed over the plain like the lightning glare amid the clouds of the mountain storm; while far beneath in the middle of the stream, the opposing riflemen of either army met hand to hand and foot to foot, and fought with all the maniac energy of the man who fights for his own life and for the life-blood of his foe.

Foot by foot, and They were driven blood of their dy

The Hessians were driven back. step by step, were they driven back. back to the opposite shore, while the ing crimsoned the stream, and the death groan bubbled upward to the surface of the water, as the victim was trodden down to the sand of the river's bed.

11 O'CLOCK.

And then, pausing on their arms, the Americans awaited the renewal of the attack, but they waited for hours in vain. It was not made when eleven o'clock came, and the sun was rising towards his noonday height; and Sullivan looked anxiously and eagerly from the heights where he was stationed, for the appearance of the enemy at Brinton's Ford, but they came not; nor could his scouts give him any intelligence of the movements of Howe or Cornwallis.

General Kniphausen, he well knew, had made the attempt to cross at Chadd's Ford, and had been nobly and gallantly repulsed; but the larger divisions of the enemy-where were they? What was their plan of operations? Where would Howe appear, or in what quarter would Cornwallis commence the attack?

All was wrapt in mystery to the minds of Washington and the leader of his right wing. This silence of Howe and Cornwallis they feared had something of omen-dark and fearful omen-of defeat and dismay, for its explanation.

THE HORSEMAN.

Eleven o'clock came, and Washington with Sullivan by his side, stood gazing from an elevated knoll, about half-way between Brinton's and Chadd's Ford.

A horseman was observed riding up the hill side at the top of his horse's speed. His attire seemed to be that of a substantial yeoman, but he was destitute of a hat or coat; his dress was disordered, his face covered with dust, and, as he rode up the hill side, again and again he dug the spurs in the sides of his horse, whose eye glared wildly, while the dust and foam on his limbs showed that he had borne his master long and far.

In a moment the horseman flung himself from his horse, and rushed to the side of Washington. In hurried words he told his story, and his manner was warm and urgent. He was a farmer-his name was Taylor -he lived some miles northward of Kennet's Square

early on that morning he had been aroused by the tread of armed men and the tramp of war-steeds. He looked from his window, and beheld the British army passing northward, General Howe and Lord Cornwallis were with them. He believed it to be the intention of the enemy to make the passage of the Brandywine at Trimble's Ford, and Jeffrey's Ford, some miles above the forks of the river-and then to occupy the high hills to the northward of Birmingham meeting-house, and thus having the entire right wing of the Continental forces laid open to his attack, Howe thought he might accomplish an easy victory.

This was the story of the farmer, and Washington would have given it credence were it not for one fearful doubt that crept over his mind. The surrounding country swarmed with tories-might not this be a tory spy in disguise? He discredited the story of the farmer, though he enforced its truth by an appeal to an oath, and even continued to utter it, with tears in his eyes-yet still under the influence of doubt and suspicion, Washington refused his credence to the story of Farmer Taylor. This mistake lost the battle of Brandywine.

Soon after this incident, Sullivan received information by the hands of Lieutenant Colonel Ross, that the enemy had just passed the forks of the Brandywine, some two or three miles above the Fork, five thousand strong, and provided with sixteen or eighteen field pieces.

No sooner was this information transmitted to Washington, than he ordered Sullivan to advance towards the Forks, and attack this division of the enemy. But as Sullivan is about to undertake this movement, fresh scouts come in, and report no intelligence of the British army whatever in the quarter named. The movement was postponed; and while Sullivan was thus shifting from one opinion to another, while Washington, with Wayne, was expecting the attack at Chadd's Ford, through this unfortunate contradiction of conflicting intelligence, the enemy was allowed to take a secure and

powerful position, some three miles north-east of Brinton's Ford, and some four miles from Chadd's Ford.

Let me transport my readers from this scene, along the banks of the Brandywine to one of the principal battle-fields of the day-the battle-field around Birmingham meeting-house.

THE BATTLE.

The word of command was given. It passed from the lips of Howe, and along the whole line streamed the blaze of musquetry and the roar of cannon, and around the hill-side circled the white smoke, in vast and airy folds, and then the death-hail rattled along the American lines, and the ground was strewed with the dying and the dead.

A single moment! The voice of Sullivan was heard along the American line, and from the heights to the south, a stunning report burst upon the air-the quick and piercing musket shot, the crack of the rifle, and the roar of cannon-and then the southern hills were wrapt in smoke and gloom, while the Quaker meeting-house was all alive with reflected blaze and death-shot, flashing from each window, from every nook and cranny.

Another moment! That loud shout-the clash of swords what means it? The order rings along the British line to charge! And along the Continental columns it is given back, in redoubled echo, "Charge for your God, for Washington, and right!"

THE FIGHT, HAND TO HAND.

And then, while over hill and valley arose the dim and darkening sinoke, sweeping from either hill, at the top of their horses' speed, the troopers of the armies metsword to sword, fighting for life, they met!

Another moment of blood and horror! The Americans fight bravely-they fight, each man of them, as though the issue of the field depended on his separate hand and blow-but in vain-in vain!

The enemy swarm from the opposite hill-rank after

rank, column after column, they swarm, superior in force, superior in arms to the brave Continental yeoman!

THE CHARGE.

Again they advance to the charge-again they breast the foe-but now! They waver-they fall back-Sullivan beholds his right wing in confusion-back, step by step, they retreat, and now the fight thickens around the grave-yard and the meeting-house. They came rushing up the hill, the British troopers-swords raised, and steeds ready for the charge, they came sweeping up the hill, while the shout of carnage and havoc echoes from lip to lip.

Another moment, and they will have gained the graveyard front. All is calm about the meeting-house—not a rifle-blaze streams from the windows-not a musket shot peals from the grave-yard wall.

On sweep the British troopers-behind them follow the infantry, with fixed bayonets-before them flee the Continental forces! The road-side is gained, and the gallant array are breasting the grave-yard wall-they are rearing their horses for the leap-a single instant, and they will have passed the barrier-when lo! starting as from the very earth, a long line of bold backwoodsmen spring up from behind the wall-their rifles poised at the shoulder, and that sudden and fatal aim securely taken!

How the faces of the bold backwoodsmen gleamhow their eyes sparkle as the vivid blaze of their pieces flashes over the wall-and around, falling from their steeds and toppling from their war-horses, are the stout red-coats, grimly grasping their swords, while over their prostrate bodies rush the advancing lines of charging bayonets.

The American forces rally for a moment-the combatants fill the grave-yard-that quiet grave-yard overhung by one gloomy cloud of smoke the fight is fierce, and short, and desperate.