THE CONSECRATION OF WASHINGTON

In 1773 some of the Pietist monks were still living in their rude
monastery whose ruins are visible on the banks of the Wissahickon. Chief
among these mystics was an old man who might have enjoyed the wealth and
distinction warranted by a title had he chosen to remain in Germany, but
he had forsworn vanities, and had come to the new world to pray, to rear
his children, and to live a simple life. Some said he was an alchemist,
and many believed him to be a prophet. The infrequent wanderer beside the
romantic river had seen lights burning in the window of his cell and had
heard the solemn sound of song and prayer. On a winter night, when snow
lay untrodden about the building and a sharp air stirred in the trees
with a sound like harps, the old man sat in a large room of the place,
with his son and daughter, waiting. For a prophecy had run that on that
night, at the third hour of morning, the Deliverer would present himself.
In a dream was heard a voice, saying, "I will send a deliverer to the new
world who shall save my people from bondage, as my Son saved them from
spiritual death." The night wore on in prayer and meditation, and the
hours tolled heavily across the frozen wilderness, but, at the stroke of
three, steps were heard in the snow and the door swung open. The man who
entered was of great stature, with a calm, strong face, a powerful frame,
and a manner of dignity and grace.

"Friends, I have lost my way," said he. "Can you direct me?"

The old man started up in a kind of rapture. "You have not lost your
way," he cried, "but found it. You are called to a great mission. Kneel