University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER SEVENTH.
THE COUNCIL IN THE OLD STATEHOUSE.

Through old Philadelphia, at dead of night, we will hasten,
with hushed breath and stealthy tread.

Not through the Philadelphia of our day, which extends for
miles on miles, a wilderness of red brick, a gorgeous panorama
of wealth and misery—reaching from the marble temple consecrated
with the name of Girard, to the ark-like structure of the
Navy-yard—from the Elm of Shakamaxon to that palace which
rises on the Schuylkill, a mansion for the poor—from river to
river—from green hills on the north, to the sloping meadows of
the Neck, on the south—a beautiful city, with such elegant
streets—such dark alleys—such white banks, and such picturesque
jails;—such magnificent churches—some rising in the
pride of their varied architecture, and some blackening in the
day, rearing the awful witness of their blasted walls to the blue
sky of God!

No! almost the only thing of the old Philadelphia that yet remains
is the Hall of the Declaration, and that speculation dare
not batter into ruins—the lust of money cannot gnaw into dust!
Even as the Hebrew people of old solemnly cursed the man who
removed the sacred landmark, or stoned to atoms the wretch
who spat upon his mother's gray hairs, so let him be treated who
removes a brick or pollutes an inch of glorious Independence
Hall!

Old Philadelphia, as it lay beneath the midnight sky, on the
3d of July, 1776, was altogether a different thing from the Philadelphia
of 1847.

Along the Delaware, two miles north and south; from the Delaware
to the west, but a mile at most:—such was its extent.
From where Broad street now extends—the most beautiful
avenue in the world for gay young gentlemen, ambitious of a
fast-trotting horse—to the waves of the Schuylkill, all was a
thick wood, as wild as the red men whom it sheltered, not a
hundred years ago.

From Bush Hill for a mile or two into the city, were green
fields, beautiful hills, and picturesque country-seats. In brief,
some four or five cities, like the old Philadelphia, could, with
ease, be laid to sleep in the lap of the modern “Brotherly-love.”

Through these streets, then let us hurry; in front of the Statehouse,
which arises from a green lawn, overspread with trees,
and encircled by a rude board fence, let us stay our steps, and
survey the scattered crowds who cluster there.

The clock whose face is seen near the top of the abutment

projecting from the rear of the Statehouse, points to the hour of
twelve; the 3d of July is near its end, and, flashing on the world,
a beautiful thing of godlike hopes, the Fourth of July trembles
on the verge of birth.

What mean these crowds? Those voices, whispering low?
The mingled garb of merchant, mechanic, farmer and laborer,
scattered over the lawn? Listen! For days Congress has been
in secret session, and a strange rumor broods upon the air, that
they are planning some deed which will startle the world!

Only one window of the old Statehouse emits a ray of light.
Light, through carefully closed curtains, comes forth in trembling
rays, and dies on the darkness of the lawn.

While you immense cloud gathers over the Statehouse—so
black, so dense, so like a pall—let us hasten up these wide stairs,
along this dark hall, through the darker corridor, into this small
room, separated by partitions from the larger chambers of the
second-story, and hung with plain tapestry of a rich dark color.

It is a simply furnished room. A huge table of solid oak, on
which a shaded lamp is placed, a few heavy chairs, a curtain,
hanging across the ceiling, and marking a dark space of some
few feet between its folds and the narrow door. You behold this
Council Chamber of the old Statehouse.

Around that table are seated five men, whose various faces
and different attitudes strike you with a deep interest.

Alone, at the head of the table, bending over an unfolded
sheet, traced with the characters of a firm, round hand, you behold
a tall, athletic man, clad in a plain costume of iron gray,
such as a farmer who dwelt in the quiet of his fields might wear.
His hair is sandy—almost red; his complexion somewhat fair,
but marked with freckles; his features bold and prominent, but
his clear gray eyes light up his face, and warm each feature
with the fire of a determined soul.

As he bends over the paper, you see his long finger pass from
line to line, while his cheek, warming with a crimson flush, betrays
the presence of deep emotion. That is Thomas Jefferson,
a Delegate from Virginia, who has distinguished himself in
Congress, as a “Silent member, but prompt, frank, explicit,
and decisive; not so much renowned for great speeches, as for
his literary and scientific attainments.”[1]

On his right, leaning back in the wide arm-chair, sat a man
dressed in a rich suit of brown velvet, his hands folded calmly
over his chest. Not so tall, but somewhat larger in bulk than
his companion, his face ruddy in the cheeks, intricate with
wrinkles where the brows meet, piercing in the eyes, displays
at once the fever and irritability of genius.

That is John Adams, the Delegate from Boston, who thunders,
three times a day, in that voice that wakes up men's souls—
“Great Britain is the natural enemy of America!”

Far back, in the shadows, you see a mild face, beaming with
a gentle smile about the lips, the eyes full of calm light, the
forehead relieved by brown hair, silvered with age, and falling
in heavy curls behind the ears, stamped with the outlines of a
giant intellect.

Benjamin Franklin, the printer boy, who has lured the lightnings
from the sky, and hurled them at thrones of kings.

On one side of Franklin, a man, whose short stout form is clad
in a dress of dark green—whose ruddy face, stamped with the
traces of an honest heart, is also marked by the lines of thought.
Roger Sherman, the shoemaker of Connecticut.

There a gentleman, who is attired in a rich garb of dark velvet,
while his face, somewhat jovial in its expression, sparkles
with the light of flashing black eyes, that glance to and fro,
with a restless expression.

That is Robert R. Livingston, of New York.

“I like that paper, Jefferson,” said Adams, drawing his chair
nearer to the table; “I am delighted with its high tone—its
flights of oratory; especially that concerning negro slavery,
which, however, I am afraid will touch our Southern brethren
who own slaves —”

One of those cold smiles which gave such a cutting sarcasm
to the face of Jefferson, now crossed his lips.

“Or, our Northern brethren, some of whom are carriers of
slaves,” he quietly said.

“There is one word, however, which I do not like,” exclaimed
Adams. “You call King George a “tyrant.” Now, I regard
his crimes as rather of an official than a private nature —”

“Yes, Claudius Nero was a gentleman of the most amiable
qualities, and yet he murdered a few thousand Christians every
day, and fiddled sometimes over burning Rome.”

Not a smile ruffled the severity of Franklin's face, as he uttered
this sentiment.

“To be sure,” said Livingston; “Lexington and Bunker
Hill were fine illustrations of the amiable, Christian character
of our good King.”

“It is indeed severe to call him a tyrant, when he values our
heads at such a reasonable price,” said Sherman, the shoe-maker.

The irritable blood of Adams began to glow.

“Well, have it as you will—I care not for the weak, misguided
man. My love for his government has been recorded in
my actions.” He grasped Jefferson by the hand—“That is a
noble document—such as they never dreamed of in Greece or
Rome. It does you eternal honor.”

A glow of pleasure pervaded Jefferson's face. To be praised
by stout-hearted John Adams, was worth fine gold.

Just fifty years and six hours from the moment when Jefferson
and Adams joined hands in that council room, they lay on
their death-beds, separated by a distance of four hundred miles,

yet joined in one glory, their freezing ears filled with the
cannon-thunder and earthquake-shout of the Fourth of July.

“Read it again, Jefferson,” said Franklin.

As Jefferson prepared to read the paper once again, a noise—
like a stealthy footstep—was heard, behind yonder curtain.
They did not heed that sound of warning. Yet, behind the curtain
and in the corridor, without the chamber, twenty swords
gleamed through the darkness.

They did not hear that sound, nor the deep whisper of Reginald
Landsdowne of St. Leonard's—“A moment, and the conspirators
are ours!”

Thomas Jefferson read the Declaration once again.

How his eyes flashed—how his deep tones rung through the
chamber, as he uttered words like these:—

Gloriously have we trod the path! Blazing in light, it led us
through the Revolution, through the horrors of the last war with
England, and now, traversing wastes of sand, and deserts of
chapparal, it conducts the hardy column of Democratic truth to
the palace of Montezuma. Even now,[2] perchance, the Banner
of the Stars, that waved so gallantly above the heights of Bunker
Hill, floats over the waters of Palenque, and crowns the last
stronghold of Azteca!

There was the strong fervor of enthusiasm upon the face of
Jefferson, as he uttered the last word of the Declaration.

“But this is not all!” he said—“When the war is over and
our freedom won, the People must make a new Declaration.—
They must declare the rights of man, the individual, sacred above
all craft in priesthood or government. They must, at one blow,
declare the end of all those trickeries of English Law, which,
garnered up from the charnels of age, bind the heart and will
with lies. They must perpetuate republican truth, by declaring
the homestead of every American, a holy thing, which no law
can touch, no juggle wrest, from his wife and children. Until
this is done, the Revolution will have been fought in vain.”

These words created strong emotions in the breasts of his
compatriots.

“This is true, but we must take care to preserve the balance
of power in our government.” exclaimed Adams; “with all its
faults, the English system seems the best—”

“The king pulling one way, the house of lords tugging
another, while the commons is hauled about by both together!”
exclaimed Franklin, with one of his quiet smiles.

Sherman and Livingston exchanged meaning glances, and
joined in his smile.

Again that sound behind the curtain!

But Jefferson rose to his feet, his angular form displayed in
the shaded light. In a tone of deep conviction, he spoke. Oh,
that I could write his words of holy truth in every American
heart!

“Our People must take care that the labor, the blood of the
Revolution, is not spent in vain. There is one evil, above all
others, which I fear—the government of this Confederacy centralized
at the Capitol, surrounded by innumerable hordes of officeholders,
dependent on its will, and backed by a Judiciary independent
of the People. You may talk, gentlemen, of an age not
being prepared for their progress into perfect freedom, you may
whisper `It is not yet time!' but the word of God, the history of
centuries, attests the fact, that for a people determined to be
wholly free, it is always Time; that for an age resolved to work
out its destiny, it is always Day!”

When the heart of Jefferson was in his words, his freckled
cheek glowed with crimson, and his eye flashed the fire of a soul
conscious of its powers. So now, rising above his compatriots,
he thrilled in every nerve, while his words shot like electric fire,
to every heart.

“We must make the Declaration unanimous,” he said, resuming
his seat. “For days the debate has been fierce and tumultuous.
But now we have nerved the timorous, frowned the
wavering from our councils, and combined the forces of freedom
in one solid front. That was a noble deed, the Declaration
made by Pennsylvania, on the 28th of June!—We have tested
our men, and know them! Yet there is one man absent, whose
presence I especially desire—the lately elected Delegate from
the State of — who has not yet taken his seat. I mean
—”

The State House clock striking the hour of twelve, interrupted
his words.

The Fourth of July was born.

“I mean Reginald Landsdowne of Landsdowne!”

“He is here!” said a deep voice.

At the word, the curtain was dashed aside, and the gleam of
swords shone through the Council Room. Silently around that
council table, circled twenty gallant forms, surrounding Jefferson
and his compatriots with a wall of glittering steel.

Silently a solitary form advanced; stood before Jefferson; his
tall form heaving with emotion, his pale face traced with the
fiery resolve of that hour.

“Reginald Landsdowne!” said Jefferson, rising with calm
dignity.

“I am here! Conspirators, you are our prisoners!” cried
Reginald, placing his sword before the heart of Jefferson.

“Prisoners?” echoed Adams, starting to his feet.

“Yes, your plans are known, your schemes are revealed!”
spoke Reginald, his breast heaving with deep indignation.—
“Ah! shame, eternal shame upon your heads! You, the Prophets
of Freedom, to become her executioners! You, Jefferson,
to plan the overthrow of Washington—you, Franklin, to fling
the sceptre of the Continent once more at the feet of the English
king,—you, Sherman, Livingston, stern republicans as you are,
to join in this work—and Adams, first and bravest of the heroes
of the council, you who nominated Washington, to plot his
downfall!”

An indignant murmur pervaded the council chamber, while
the band drew closer round their prisoners.

“Surely, this is some dream!” cried Jefferson, very calmly,
but with a flash of anger rising on his face.

“Say rather, a plot to assassinate us!” cried Adams, all his
tumultuous passion flushing to his face.

Franklin quietly folded his arms, and whispered with Livingston
and Sherman. They heard the murmurs of the men, who
gathered at their backs, and saw those swords gleam through the
darkness, but were calm.

“You are our prisoners!” The form of Reginald rose to its
full stature, as he spoke the words. “To crush your schemes,
we are forced to control your liberty, until the People know
your crime. To meet the forces of the enemy, traitors within
and foes without, we are resolved to stand in one solid phalanx,
our leader, Washington the King.

And through that dim council chamber, with the lights burning
in the centre, and glittering on the blades of twenty swords, rose
the deep chorus—“Washington the King!”

At that word, which in a breath revealed the canker-worm
always gnawing at the root of republican freedom—the elevation
of one man to supreme power — Jefferson stood
aghast.

“Reginald, you are mad! Read this, aye read, and then hurl
charges like these at our heads!”

He pointed to the Declaration, but with his head erect, his
sword circling through the darkened air, Reginald started
proudly back.

“Read! Have I not read the proofs of your treachery? Comrades,
what say ye all? Have we not seen the names of these
men attached to letters as base as they are decisive? Gentlemen,
there is no need of further words. We are resolved to crush
your cabal with our lives!”

Now came the crisis of the scene.

Jefferson and Adams stood side by side, while at the other end
of the table, Franklin, Sherman, and Livingston formed a group.
The face of Jefferson was pale, Adams crimson; Sherman stood

with his lip fixedly clenched, while the hand of Livingston
sought the hilt of the small dress-sword which he wore.

Franklin alone was calm.

“Advance! You are prisoners, gentlemen!”

Jefferson quietly removed his chair, retreated a step, and confronted
Landsdowne, with his unquailing eye.

“Do not lay your hand on me,” said he, in that calm tone.
There was danger in his look.

Reginald advanced, his sword clenched in his good right hand,
his soul resolved when a circumstance occurred that deepened
the tumultuous emotions of the scene.

A hand was laid upon the arm of Reginald. He turns, all the
blood in his body rushing to his face, he clutches his sword resolved
to revenge the touch of violence, and holds its glittering
blade above the head of—Rose!

In the hunter's dress, her knees bending beneath her with fatigue,
her arms extended, her head drooping on her bosom, she
lifts her eyes to his face.

“Read!” she gasps, and forces the packet in his hand “It
is a plot—a scheme, to lure you on to ruin. Behold these forgeries!
Ah! I have foiled this dark and scheming woman.
Thank God! It is not yet too late!”

You may imagine that scene!

Every eye centred upon the disguised woman, who, like a
flower shaken by the storm, trembled before Reginald, as he
stood with sword sunk into the floor, his eyes fixed upon his
eredentials as Delegate to the Continental Congress.

For a moment he stood as one bewildered in a dream.

The swords of his comrades fell; Jefferson gazed upon him
in sincere pity, Franklin and the other patriots awaited in silence
the issue of the scene.

“O, Arthur,” cried the brave girl, her bosom beating against
the vest, until it burst the fastenings—“Do not wonder, do not
pause. I cannot explain it—I know not how it is! But believe
it is all a scheme contrived for your ruin. O, my heart beats
and I am so faint—I would fain tell you all, but my father—my
brother—”

The storm of feeling shook the Rose, at last.

Spreading out her arms, while her hair, falling from beneath
her cap, waved over her form, she fell.

But Franklin caught her in his arms, exclaiming as he gazed
upon the young cheek, gleaming so white, through the intervals
of her flowing hair—. “Upon my life, it is a woman!”

Franklin was a Philosopher.

Meanwhile Jefferson and Adams examined the papers, which
Rose had scattered on the tables.

“Forgeries, whispered the former. “Another trick of his
Majesty's minions, and by no means the weakest. Those forgeries
are excellently done.”

Reginald's sword clattered on the floor.

That sound jarred through the council chamber like a knell.
Ere it had died away, a louder sound, crashed like thunder on
the air. Twenty swords fell to the floor.

Reginald stood as if in a dream, pressing the paper with the
same hand that clasped his burning brow.

“Speak, Landsdowne!” cried his comrades, their voices
mingling in chorus—“Is it a trick—have we been duped!
Speak—are these good men and true?”

It was now Jefferson's turn to prove his magnanimity.

“Reginald, read this,” he quietly said, and led young Landsdowne
to the table.

Reginald bent down. You behold that pale face, with lips
working, the eyes rolling, as it hurries over the immortal lines
you perceive the clenched hands laid on the table.

“O, shame!” he gasped, beating his brow against those hands
which rested on the table—“To be made the tool of this ambitious
woman.” They could see the blushes glow beneath his
hands. “But there is a remedy for it all! I can yet atone for my
fault! To-morrow, Jefferson, I will sign it, and, then if need be,
spend my life to maintain its truth!”

He raised the draft of the Declaration above his head, while
his comrades gathered round him, and Jefferson shook him by
the hand.

At the same moment, Rose nestling in the arms of Franklin,
unclosed her eyes, while a smile like heaven blushed over her
face. Parting the long hair from her cheeks, she gazed with
dim eyes—shining through their tears—upon her lover, and
whispered,

“Arthur! I was not too late!”