University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER NINTH.
THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1776.

The mild clear light of a summer day was upon the roof and
steeple of the old State House.

Beautifully in the beams of that calm hour, glowed every
point of the massive structure, its windows glittering like living
gold, its roofs with heavy ornaments along the eaves, bathed in
light, while the steeple stood clearly out, against the blue sky.

It was toward the close of day, when the trees in the lawn
shook their leaves in the rays of the setting sun, while over the
city from the forest on the west, to the waves of the Delaware,
the mild golden radiance invested the roofs in a veil of sunbeams.

The zenith of the sky, calm as an infant's sleep, extended
above the scene, a dome of clear deep azure, and on the west,
over the wide sweep of woods, huge masses of white clouds,
piled up in the horizon—their forms of snow, contrasted with
the green of the foliage, the blue of the heaven—slowly rolling
apart, disclosed the full glory of the setting sun.

Such a sun had never set for eighteeh hundred years.

Not that its glorious beams arrest our attention alone, nor the
many dyes which it flung in parting, over roof and tree and sky,
alone attract our gaze, but because the Day, which its setting
closed, marked an Era in the history of Man.

On that day a Continent in fierce travail for its rights, struggled
into birth and became a People.

As evening came on, the crowd which had all day long
thronged the arena of the State House, and darkened in the open
space along its front, or gathered in a dense mass, under the old
trees of the lawn, was swelled by new accessions.

It seemed as if the city had poured its people from their firesides,
and sent them thronging into the scene. Nor was the
crowd merelv composed of the rich, in their soft apparel, nor of
the poor in their work-day attire; but the men whose hearts beat
for their country, were there, and among their ranks, with sidelong
looks and ominous scowls, glided the creatures of the king.

The women too, were there, some with their young faces
glowing more beautiful with love of country, some with their
warm lips curling in sneers, as the word “Freedom” whispered
on the air, and some, with anxious faces, holding in their arms
those babes, whose fathers were absent fighting the battles of
their native land. They came in silken attire, they came in
their coarse linsey peasant garb, they came in matronly apparel,
with a mild light playing over their matured brows; the women
of the city and the field, forgetting the severe modesty of their
sex, in the interest of the day, were there.

For all day long—from the moment when the first beam of
light played upon the State House steeple, until now, when its
last kiss lingers there—a rumor had crept through the city, and
deepened and spread until it filled every heart.

And all day long, without a moment's interval, the Congress
had been holding their secret session in the large hall, on the
east of the main avenue, while the people awaited in quivering
anxiety the result of their deliberations.

As the day wore on, that rumor deepened, and now, from lip
to lip a word thrills like electric fire—“Independence!”

Let us wander through the crowd, in front of the State House,
and see the varying passions painted on each face, and listen to
the whispers until we feel our hearts swell with the same interest
that fills every bosom. Oh, the eloquence of those women's
faces, the stern anxiety of those patriot looks!

Hark! A murmur swells through the crowd, you see it surging
far from the walls of the State House, away to the trees, that rise

on either hand. There is a sound in yonder avenue, the tread
of many feet—listen! that murmur, “Congress has closed its
session, and the work is done!”

Then from that door, with massive pillars, come forth one by
one, the members of the solemn council. How the smile upon
their faces flashes through the crowd!

First, while other Delegates mingle with the crowd and answer
their hurried questions, a gentleman of mild appearance,
yet with a bold brow and keen eye, comes to the verge of the
steps, and stretches forth his hands.

Every eye in the crowd beholds his dark attire, relieved by
cambric ruffles and lace of gold, for the gentleman is one of
Boston's stout-hearted merchant princes. From lip to lip, the
murmur runs, “John Hancock, the President!”

And as he stretched forth his left hand, holding a parchment
in his right, you see Franklin standing with uncovered brow,
the foremost of the group at his back, with the sunlight playing
on his animated face. That form, tall and angular, leaning with
one hand behind the back, the other raised to the heart, against
the pillar on the right side of the door, while the face, with the
eyes sunken beneath the downdrawn brows, the nether lip compressed,
the nerves quivering with an emotion, not the less deep
because it is scarce perceptible.

It is Thomas Jefferson. Never king upon his throne, never
conqueror on the battle-field felt a deeper joy than thrilled his
bosom then! Glorious Prophet of the Rights of Man, how my
heart beats, as through the mists of seventy-one years, I survey
you, standing there, against the right pillar of the State House
door, with the sunshine streaming over your glowing face!

Stout-hearted John Adams stands between him and Franklin,
his face beaming as he rests his hand on Jefferson's arm, and
converses with him, repeating the word which swells every
heart—Independence!

Between the heads of Jefferson and Adams, you see the face
of Livingston, while leaning against the left pillar, Roger Sherman
gazes on the scene.

Hancock stretches forth his hand—

An old soldier, battered with cuts and scars, hobbles up to the
foot of the steps, and with the marks of the Indian wars and
Bunker Hill upon his face, gasps the words, “Well, President,
is it all right?”

There is silence in that breathless crowd.

Every ear in the throng hears his reply, spoken in calm, conversational
tones.

“It is! This day we have signed our Declaration of Independence!
To-morrow it will be published in the Gazette, and
on the eighth day of July, proclaimed from the State House
steps. From this day there are no Colonies, but States. From
this day there is no British dominion, but the Republic of the
United States of America!”

Did you ever see a bolt of lightning stream in one red mass
from the zenith, and then scatter in a thousand rays of fire, over
the tree-tops of an undulating wood?

So these words rush into every heart, and burst upon the
crowd, scattering their rays in every heart.

The crowd is terribly still for a moment, and then the murmur
swells into a shout.

At this moment, a little boy, whose golden hair tosses about
his rosy cheeks, steals up the steps and clutches the President
by the knee, and whispers—“The old man in the steeple sent
me down, to ask you whether he should ring the bell? Shall I
say ring?”

Hancock pressed his hands upon the head of the child, and
said—“You will live to see the day, my child, when the voice
of that bell will have been heard by all the world! Tell the old
man to ring!”

Through the crowd brave boy! Out into the street, and clap
your tiny hands until the old man in yonder steeple hears you.
Look! with his bronzed face and snow white hair, he bends from
the steeple, he sees that child, with flushed cheeks and golden
hair, clap his hands, he hears that boyish shout—“Ring!”

Then the old man bared his arm, and the bell on which was
written—“Proclaim liberty to the land, and all the inhabitants
thereof,” spoke to the city, to the People, to a
world in chains.

As the tones of that bell go swinging over the city, let us look
upon the strange tumultuous panorama in front of the State
House, now known forever as Independence Hall.

It is a picture, or rather a combination of pictures, worthy of
the artist's pencil, but which requires the pen of Jefferson or the
voice of Patrick Henry to describe.

It resolves itself into three prominent points of view.

First, the group on the left of the hall door.

An Indian stands with his back towards us, in the act of stepping
toward a group whom he surveys, his rich blanket, revealing
the bold outline of his right shoulder, and drooping in rainbow
hues to the ground. His face — but partly seen in its
marked profile, is turned slightly to the left, while over his brow
waves the plume of snowy feathers, and down to his shoulders
streams that mass of straight black hair.

The group on which he gazes!

Do you see that young man, attired in a rich dark dress, bending
with uncovered brow, before a beautiful girl, who clings to
the arm of an aged man? Her young face blooming with the
fullness of life and love, is surmounted by a slight bonnet that
crowns her flowing hair; her beautiful neck and white shoulders,
and a glimpse of her virgin bosom, glow in the light of the fading
day. Her form is clad in a flowing dress of plain white, that
waves from the bosom to the feet, while the arm, around whose
half-bared outlines flutters a silken shawl, points to the Presi

dent's form, as it rises above the crowd, in front of those massive
pillars.

The light which blazes from the young man's eye is reflected
in the joyous sunshine of her face.

That look, flashing from face to face, tells the whole story.

“This is better”—exclaimed the Rose of Wissahikon—
“much better than last night!”

“To you,” cried Reginald, with the blood rising to his face;

To you, I owe the share which I have taken in the glorious
deed of this day. If the name of Reginald Landsdowne, of St.
Leonard's, goes down to posterity as a `Signer of the Declaration,'
the merit of his fame belongs to the—Rose of Wissahikon!”

And while the noble Indian contemplates with calm satisfaction
this group—his sister, his father, and the husband of that
sister—look yonder, over the shoulder of Reginald, and see that
face, lowering with malignant passions, livid with crushed
hopes, the clenched hand raised to the chin, the cold, dead eye
turning from these glowing faces with hatred and fury.

It is Gerald Moynton, the sister of the Idiot Woman, Lady
Marion; the minion of the King.

The second forms of interest, in fact the centre of the picture,
directly in front of the Statehouse door —

Three figures, standing in a group, and talking earnestly of
the great Declaration. One, with his back to the Indian, his
bold profile turned towards us, his hand pressed to his side,
grasping a paper, with a book beneath his arm. A long brown
coat reaches to his knees. You see, in the outlines of his face,
the stamp of a strong genius. The dark eye flashes a fire which
kings have felt, and trembled for their thrones. There is a
mocking scorn upon his lip, which has made the tools of power
writhe more than once. Altogether, his attitude, his face, impress
us with a deep interest in this man.

Thomas Paine, the author-hero of the Revolution!

That book beneath his arm, “Common Sense,” produced the
“Declaration,” a rude draft of which he grasps in his hand.[1]

With that full, large eye flashing with the consciousness of
genius, he surveys the form of Robert Morris, who stands opposite,
holding hat and cane in one hand, while he extends the
other to Benjamin Rush, and congratules him on the fulfilment
of the great work.

“This is a great day!” he said—this patriot without a stain,
—this banker without a fault.

“Yes, a glorious day!” You see Rush, in the earnestness of
his thoughts, raise the left hand, grasping his cane, while his
calm face glows, and his eyes fixed on the air, seem glancing

into the future. “The children of unborn time will behold its
perfect work. It is to you, Paine, we owe it! The book,
which you first suggested to me—which I besought you to write
—which you wrote and scattered to the world, startled the
country into thought, and wrote `Independence' in every honest
heart!”

As we survey these three men, their faces warmed by the
same glow, let us remember the manner in which they died.
Paine—having forsaken that Bible, from which he gleaned the
truths of “Common Sense”—died a miserable and heart-broken
man. Morris, whose financial genius saved his country in her
darkest hour, died in a common jail, to which the holy law of
“imprisonment for debt”—which yet obtains in some savage
communities—consigned him. Rush alone, calm and serene,
rich in the fame of science and humanity, died in his home.

Passing this group, we come to the third form of interest. A
confused crowd, stretching away under the shade of these trees,
moving to and fro, gesticulating earnestly, as they conversed
on the great topic of the hour. Here, a fiery patriot raises his
arm, as if to strike a calm-faced Tory, who doubts the expediency
of the means.

“It is not yet time, thee sees, my friend.”

“Time! Zounds, sir, it never will be time, so long as we
permit traitors like you to prowl the streets!”

Thus strolling through the crowd, we may see every variety
of expression—every change of countenance; the hearts of men
glow in their faces—speak not only in their words, but in the
upraised arm and significant finger.

And, all the while, that group upon the steps rises above the
crowd, the object of every eye, their faces revealed by the light
which flashes from the west; Hancock, the President, foremost
in the group, while Jefferson leans against the pillar, and the
compatriots cluster round.

And all the while, with a peal and a clang, the bell spoke out,
saying to the kings on their thrones—and, of all kings, to the
weak and wicked George of England—“Doom! doom! doom!”

Then changing its peal, it spoke to man, whether in workshop
or the mine—whether toil in the field or bleeding in the
battle, and the word, that it said, as the sun went down, was
still—“Dawn! dawn! dawn!”

Doom to kings—the night of death! Dawn to man—the day-break
of freedom!

Thus, as the sun went down, the glorious Liberty-bell rang at
once a curse and blessing on the solemn close of the Fourth of
July.

President Hancock advanced through the crowd, and confronted
the White Indian, as he towered in the pride of his forest
stature.

“I have heard your story. How, stolen when a child from
the ruined home of your father, you were reared at once by the
Indians, an Indian like themselves; and, by an American colonist
who had forsaken society for the turmoil of savage life, in
all the knowledge of the white race. I know your heart! You
would serve your country—serve Washington?”

“Mayaniko lives but to serve the great chief!” said the White
Indian, as he stood in the presence of his father, Reginald, and
the Rose of Wissahikon. “Speak the word, and it is done!”

“Will you ride an hundred miles or more to-night? Take
this parchment,” and he drew near the Indian, and whispered a
few words—“The horse stands ready for you across the river,
in Cooper's woods. To-night,” he said aloud, “you must seek
the camp of Washington!”

At once gathering his blanket about his form, the Indian turned,
and, with the parchment to his breast, without a word of
farewell to father or sister, hurried to the river side.

“Now,” said Reginald, as he took Rose, in all her beauty,
from her father's arm—“Now, we must away to the home
that wooes us with its smile, the Cottage Home of Wissahikon!”