to the church, and an old soldier named Samuel Smiley is said to have marched before it all the way, refusing to ride, and mourning the loss of his old commander."

The restless spirit of Mad Anthony seems to have characterized even his last sleep, and the two graves have given rise to much discussion, some stoutly declaring that the real hero still reposes in the garrison inclosure at Erie, because so little was found to remove, while others consider the knowledge that his bones at least rest beneath the shadow of St. David's entirely satisfactory.

Passing through the low doorway, the visitor is struck, as in all the old buildings of this vicinity, with the exceeding thickness of the walls; and inside, the severe plainness and whiteness of the little sanctuary are its most noticeable fea

tures. No gilded coro

the tiny chancel; the evening services at St. David's are of rare occurrence, and conducted by the fragrant light of kerosene the plainest of receptacles in the way of lamps being fastened in the wall for this purpose. Modern iconoclasts have spirited away the old three-story pulpit with its sounding-board, which was so thoroughly in keeping with the character of the edifice, and which most of the parishioners well remember opposite the door of entrance. One of them often recalls her childish reverence for the ancient pulpit, which, with its faded crimson hangings, seemed to her the grandest thing in the world.

in the neighborhood; and an interesting | na, with its flashing gas jets, hangs over historical sketch of the old church says of it: "The remains of General Anthony Wayne were removed from the fortress at Presqu' Isle to Radnor church-yard, by his son Colonel Isaac Wayne, and at the same time (July 4, 1809) the Pennsylvania State Society of the Cincinnati, with due ritual ceremonies, placed over the grave of the illustrious dead the present monument. The wonders of that day are still fresh in the minds of some of our church members; the First City Troop, of Philadelphia, under command of Mayor Robert Wharton, rode out to Radnor, and performed the honors of war over the grave of the General, but so excessively hot was the day that one of the officers is said to have fainted while coming down the hill near which the present parsonage stands. The hearse proceeded from Mr. Wayne's house

The iconoclasts started a subscription for modernizing the entire edifice, and had not one influential parishioner promptly refused to contribute to a project worthy

and where he spent most of his life when | youthful face, with its florid complexion not engaged in military campaigns. It is a grand old homestead, with five hundred acres, owned and occupied by one of the general's descendants, and courteously open to visitors with inquiring minds.

A winding carriage drive brings us to the dwelling, whose wide, hospitablelooking doorway seems to invite entrance, and we find ourselves in the old

and double chin, and quite devoid of the reckless daring that one naturally looks for in the counterfeit presentment of Mad Anthony Wayne.

We are kindly shown his military coat, in an excellent state of preservation, the sacrilegious moths having confined their visible marks to a few small holes, and the old Continental blue and gold appear

in all their glory. There are also a quaint | sistance on their part had ceased; the cry pitcher, with the ever-recurring portrait for quarter was unheeded, and the British on one side, and other relics in cases and bayonet did its work with unpitying feboxes; a small miniature, which seems a rocity." perfect fac-simile of the portrait by Rembrandt Peale, hanging above us; the turnip-shaped watch, with plain unengraved case, carried by the general; the compass used by him when surveyor in Canada in his early youth; various medals and decorations presented on different occasions; and a dozen small silver drinking cups, without handles, for army use.

The parlor across the hall is furnished exactly as it was in General Wayne's time an ancient fire-place, with brass andirons and fender, a portrait over it, and on the mantel two pairs of slightlooking china vases, with handles, that have survived without a crack, and a pair of silver candlesticks and snuffers; a beautiful old mirror, with the central ornament of the frame in the shape of a gilt vase, with slender vines falling gracefully down on either side, and repeated at the bottom, fills the space between the windows, the stiff scanty draperies of the period that fall across it from the windows almost concealing its beauty. These draperies are looped with gilt pins, and harmonize thoroughly with the ancientlooking sofa and chairs and the stiff neutral-hued carpet. The chairs, of course, are high-backed and broad-seated, after the fashion of a century ago, and the room is an admirably preserved relic of that olden time.

Paoli is the terminus of the road, and the announcement at the city dépôt of "Train for Paoli and intermediate stations" gives one the expectation of finding a place of considerable activity and importance. This expectation, however, is not gratified. Paoli is a hotel, and it is nothing more, not even a station, for passengers and luggage are ignominiously deposited in the road, the waiting-room and ticket office, such as they are, being some little distance off.

The settlement is an old, old place in the midst of beautiful scenery, and its quaint Italian name is derived from the celebrated Corsican general Pasquale di Paoli, the leader of the revolt against the Genoese.

From Paoli to the monument is a drive of about two miles through scenes and views of great beauty; and it is difficult to realize the events of that dreadful September night as we stand in the balmy air of a bright September afternoon, beside the railing that incloses the old and new monuments, and look over the smiling fields and orchards around it, and hear the voices of the school-children in the road beyond. The scene is so still, and deserted, and uneventful-looking; but the monuments are there, and the cannon planted only the other day, on the 102d anniversary of the massacre.

The new monument, a handsome granite shaft, with inscriptions on the four sides, was unveiled on the centennial of the massacre, two years ago; and the occasion, with its interesting ceremonies, was a great day for Paoli.

Beautiful exceedingly, and full of legend and story, are all these nooks and hamlets of Chester Valley. Homes of wealth and refinement, with all nature's abundance smiling around them, are sown broadcast over the region; and the farmAl-er's life is here spent in venerable homesteads where beauty looks in at every window.

The house is about one mile south of Paoli, the scene of the massacre of a hundred and fifty American soldiers on the night of September 22, 1777. "Guided by his Tory aides, General Gray, under cover of the night, massed his troops as near the camp of Wayne as possible without betraying a knowledge of his approach; from there he cautiously moved through the woods, and up the narrow defile below Paoli, where he met the outer picket. This was the signal for a deadly charge upon the American corps. though well conceived and cleverly executed, the surprise was not complete. The assailants were received with several close and destructive volleys, which must have done great execution; but it soon became evident that the Americans were greatly outnumbered, and were obliged to retreat in haste and great disorder. Many victims were massacred after re

But even in these softer moods there is a decided gleam of practical commonsense that is apt to bring one down rather unexpectedly from a poetical flight; and this is thoroughly illustrated in the origin of Hammer Hollow"-a wild, beautiful spot, with the ruins of a picturesque old

wicked expression; and a weird and uncanny sort of look characterizes the whole place, which, if it had a proper sense of the fitness of things, would be in ruins. It was originally a "half-way house" for the entertainment of travellers, and the property of a woman who died in the very opposite of the odor of

mill, and the dash and sparkle of a minia- | like half-shut eyes. These eyes have a ture water-fall. It is easy to account for the Hollow, on looking down into its wooded depths; and the Hammer is confidently asserted to have arisen from those tuneful spring heralds known in some localities as "yellow-hammers"; but this, pleasing theory is speedily upset by the testimony of a colored farmer whose modest residence, with its "truck patch," skirts the Hollow, and who affirms that an an

sanctity, at the end of a century of stormy existence.

66

Melissy's House" was known far and near; and Melissy herself was a figure of terror to the small children of the neighborhood-in spite of the attractions of jars of mint-stick and cocoa-nut molasses balls invitingly displayed in the front windows. The childish recollections of residents in the vicinity are of a tall, gaunt, masculine woman, with an evil face and a very apparent beard, the prominent characteristics of her dress being a dingy silk handkerchief crossed on her

bosom, and a sort of Quaker bonnet worn over a cap. Melissy's friendship, which was decidedly "cranky," and sought the most unexpected channels, was a thing to be tremblingly cherished, like the frailest of tropical plants, for a sudden blight was liable to fall upon it at any time, and her enmity was-well, not a good thing to have.

Dark tales were afloat concerning the "doings" at Melissy's; and in spite of her savory pot - pies, unapproachable turnovers, and ever-to-be-remembered doughnuts, she could not, on the whole, have been termed a pleasant person to board with. A peddler was said at dead of night to have received hurried burial in the woods near by-why is it that peddlers are so popular as the heroes of country murders?--and a well-to-do female boarder, with a weakness for whiskey, was also suddenly and mysteriously disposed of. Whiskey was the fashionable beverage at Melissy's; and a sick man whom it was desirable to make way with would find a barrel of it by his bedside, with a pint measure for a drinking-cup.

Melissy's tongue was a whip that cowed all who fell under its lash; round oaths and foul abuse seemed the natural atmosphere in which she lived and breathed;