I.—THE DAY.
Let me paint you a picture on the canvass of the Past.
It is a cloudless summer day. Yes, a clear blue sky arches and smiles
above a quaint edifice, rising among giant trees, in the centre of a wide city.
That edifice is built of red brick, with heavy window frames and a massy
hall door. The wide-spreading dome of St. Peter's, the snowy pillars of
the Parthenon, the gloomy glory of Westminster Abbey—none of these, nor
any thing like these are here, to elevate this edifice of plain red brick, into
a gorgeous monument of architecture.
Plain red brick the walls; the windows partly framed in stone; the roofeaves
heavy with intricate carvings; the hall door ornamented with pillars
of dark stone; such is the State House of Philadelphia, in this year of our
Lord, 1776.
Around this edifice stately trees arise. Yonder toward the dark walls of
Walnut street gaol, spreads a pleasant lawn, enclosed by a plain board fence.
Above our heads, these trees lock their massy limbs and spread their leafy
canopy.
There are walks here, too, not fashioned in squares and circles, but
spreading in careless negligence along the lawn. Benches too, rude benches,
on which repose the forms of old men with grey hairs, and women with
babes in their arms.
This is a beautiful day, and this a pleasant lawn: but why do those
clusters of citizens, with anxious faces, gather round the State House walls?
There is the Merchant in his velvet garb and ruffled shirt; there the Mechanic,
with apron on his breast and tools in his hands; there the bearded
Sailor and the dark-robed Minister, all grouped together.
Why this anxiety on every face? This gathering in little groups all
over the lawn!
Yet hold a moment! In yonder wooden steeple, which crowns the red
brick State House, stands an old man with white hair and sunburnt face.
He is clad in humble attire, yet his eye gleams, as it is fixed upon the ponderous
outline of the bell, suspended in the steeple there. The old man
tries to read the inscription on that bell, but cannot. Out upon the waves,
far away in the forests; thus has his life been passed. He is no scholar;
he scarcely can spell one of those strange words carved on the surface of
that bell.
By his side, gazing in his free—that sunburnt face—in wonder, stands a
flaxen-haired boy, with laughing eyes of summer blue.
“Come here, my boy; you are a rich man's child. You can read.
Spell me those words, and I'll bless ye, my good child!”
And the child raised itself on tip-toe and pressed its tiny hands against the
bell, and read, in lisping tones, these memorable words:
“Proclaim Liberty to all the Land and all the Inhabitants
thereof.”
The old man ponders for a moment on those strange words; then gathering
the boy in his arms, he speaks,
“Look here, my child? Wilt do the old man a kindness? Then haste
you down stairs, and wait in the hall by the big door, until a man shall give
you a message for me. A man with a velvet dress and a kind face, will
come out from the big door, and give you a word for me. When he gives
you that word, then run out yonder in the street, and shout it up to me.
Do you mind?”
It needed no second command. The boy with blue eyes and flaxen hair
sprang from the old Bell-keeper's arms, and threaded his way down the dark
stairs.
The old Bell-keeper was alone. Many minutes passed. Leaning over
the railing of the steeple, his face toward Chesnut street, he looked anxiously
for that fair-haired boy. Moments passed, yet still he came not. The
crowds gathered more darkly along the pavement and over the lawn, yet
still the boy came not.
“Ah!” groaned the old man, “he has forgotten me! These old limbs
will have to totter down the State House stairs, and climb up again, and all
on account of that child —”
As the word was on his lips, a merry, ringing laugh broke on the ear.
There, among the crowds on the pavement, stood the blue-eyed boy, clapping
his tiny hands, while the breeze blowed his flaxen hair all about his face.
And then swelling his little chest, he raised himself on tip-toe, and shouted
a single word—
“Ring!”
Do you see that old man's eye fire? Do you see that arm so suddenly
bared to the shoulder, do you see that withered hand, grasping the Iron
Tongue of the Bell? The old man is young again; his veins are filled
with new life. Backward and forward, with sturdy strokes, he swings the
Tongue. The bell speaks out! The crowd in the street hear it, and burst
forth in one long shout! Old Delaware hears it, and gives it back in the
hurrah of her thousand sailors. The city hears it, and starts up from desk
and work-bench, as though an earthquake had spoken.
Yet still while the sweat pours from his brow, that old Bell-keeper hurls
the iron tongue, and still—boom—boom—boom—the Bell speaks to the city
and the world.
There is a terrible poetry in the sound of that State House Bell at dead
of night, when striking its sullen and solemn—One!—It rouses crime from
its task, mirth from its wine-cup, murder from its knife, bribery from its
gold. There is a terrible poetry in that sound. It speaks to us like a voice
from our youth—like a knell of God's judgment—like a solemn yet kind
remembrancer of friends, now dead and gone.
There is a terrible poetry in that sound at dead of night: but there was
a day when the echo of that Bell awoke a world, slumbering in tyranny
and crime!
Yes, as the old man swung the Iron Tongue, the Bell spoke to all the
world. That sound crossed the Atlantic—pierced the dungeons of Europe
—the work-shops of England—the vassal-fields of France.
That Echo spoke to the slave—bade him look from his toil—and know
himself a man.
That Echo startled the Kings upon their crumbling thrones.
That Echo was the knell of King-craft, Priest-craft, and all other crafts
born of the darkness of ages, and baptised in seas of blood.
Yes, the voice of that little boy, who lifting himself on tip-toe, with his
flaxen hair blowing in the breeze, shouted—“Ring!”—had a deep and
awful meaning in its infant tones!
Why did that word “Ring!”—why did that Echo of the State House
Bell speak such deep and awful meaning to the world? What did that
“Ring!”—the Echo of that Bell to do with the downfall of the Dishonest
Priest or Traitor King?
Under that very Bell, pealing out at noonday, in an old hall, fifty-six
traders, farmers and mechanics, had assembled to shake the shackles of the
world.
Now let us look in upon this band of plain men, met in such solemn
council It is now half an hour previous to the moment when the Bell-Ringer
responded to the shout of the fair-haired boy.
This is an old hall. It is not so large as many a monarch's ante-room;
you might put a hundred like it within the walls of St. Peter's, and yet it
is a fine old hall. The walls are concealed in dark oaken wainscotting,
and there along the unclosed windows, the purple tapestry comes drooping
down.
The ornaments of this hall?
Over the head of that noble-browed man—John Hancock, who sits calm
and serene in yonder chair—there is a banner, the Banner of the Stars.
Perched on that Banner sits the Eagle with unfolded wings. (Is it not a
precocious bird? Born only last year on Bunker Hill, now it spreads its
wings, full-grown, over a whole Continent!)
Look over the faces of these fifty-six men, and see every eye turned to
that door. There is silence in this hall—every voice is hushed—every face
is stamped with a deep and awful responsibility.
Why turns every glance to that door, why is every face so solemn, why
is it so terribly still?
The Committee of Three, who have been out all night, penning a Parchment,
are about to appear.
The Parchment, with the Signatures of these men, written with the pen
lying on yonder table, will either make the world free—or stretch these
necks upon the gibbet, yonder in Potter's-field, or nail these heads to the
door-posts of this hall!
That was the time for solemn faces and deep silence.
At last, hark! The door opens—the Committee appear. Who are
these three men, who come walking on toward John Hancock's chair?
That tall man, with the sharp features, the bold brow and sand-hued hair,
holding the Parchment in his hand, is the Virginia Farmer, Thomas Jefferson.
The stout-built man with resolute look and flashing eye? That is a
Boston man—one John Adams. And the calm-faced man, with hair drooping
in thick curls to his shoulders—that man dressed in a plain coat, and
such odious home-made blue stockings—that is the Philadelphia Printer,
one Benjamin Franklin.
The three advance to the table. The Parchment is laid there. Shall it
be signed or not?
Then ensues a high and stormy debate—then the faint-hearted cringe in
corners—while Thomas Jefferson speaks out his few bold words, and John
Adams pours out his whole soul.
Then the deep-toned voice of Richard Henry Lee is heard, swelling in
syllables of thunder-like music.
But still there is doubt—and that pale-faced man, shrinking in one corner,
squeaks out something about axes, scaffolds, and a—GIBBET!
“Gibbet!” echoes a fierce, bold voice, that startles men from their seats,
—and look yonder! A tall slender man rises, dressed—although it is
summer time—in a dark robe. Look how his white hand undulates
as it is stretched slowly out, how that dark eye burns, while his words ring
through the hall. (We do not know his name, let us therefore call his
appeal)
THE SPEECH OF THE UNKNOWN.
“Gibbet? They may stretch our necks on all the gibbets in the land—
they may turn every rock into a scaffold—every tree into a gallows, every
home into a grave, and yet the words on that Parchment can never die!
“They may pour our blood on a thousand scaffolds, and yet from every
drop that dyes the axe, or drips on the sawdust of the block, a new martyr
to Freedom will spring into birth!
“The British King may blot out the Stars of God from His sky, but he
cannot blot out His words written on the Parchment there! The works
of God may perish—His Word, never!
“These words will go forth to the world when our bones are dust. To
the slave in the mines they will speak—Hope—to the mechanic in his
workshop—Freedom—to the coward-kings these words will speak, but not
in tones of flattery? No, no! They will speak like the flaming syllables
on Belshazzar's wall—the days of your pride and glory are numbered!
The days of Judgment and Revolution draw near!
“Yes, that Parchment will speak to the Kings in a language sad and
terrible as the trump of the Archangel. You have trampled on mankind
long enough. At last the voice of human woe has pierced the ear of God,
and called His Judgment down! You have waded on to thrones over
seas of blood—you have trampled on to power over the necks of millions—
you have turned the poor man's sweat and blood into robes for your delicate
forms, into crowns for your anointed brows. Now Kings—now purpled
Hangmen of the world—for you come the days of axes and gibbets and
scaffolds—for you the wrath of man—for you the lightnings of God!—
“Look! How the light of your palaces on fire flashes up into the midnight
sky!
“Now Purpled Hangmen of the world—turn and beg for mercy!
“Where will you find it?
“Not from God, for you have blasphemed His laws!
“Not from the People, for you stand baptized in their blood!
“Here you turn, and lo! a gibbet!
“There—and a scaffold looks you in the face.
“All around you—death—and nowhere pity!
“Now executioners of the human race, kneel down, yes, kneel down
upon the sawdust of the scaffold—lay your perfumed heads upon the block
—bless the axe as it falls—the axe that you sharpened for the poor man's
neck!
“Such is the message of that Declaration to Man, to the Kings of the
world! And shall we falter now? And shall we start back appalled when
our feet press the very threshhold of Freedom? Do I see quailing faces
around me, when our wives have been butchered—when the hearthstones
of our land are red with the blood of little children?
“What are these shrinking hearts and faltering voices here, when the very
Dead of our battlefields arise, and call upon us to sign that Parchment, or
be accursed forever?
“Sign! if the next moment the gibbet's rope is round your neck! Sign!
if the next moment this hall rings with the echo of the falling axe! Sign!
By all your hopes in life or death, as husbands—as fathers—as men—sign
your names to the Parchment or be accursed forever!
“Sign—and not only for yourselves, but for all ages. For that Parchment
will be the Text-book of Freedom—the Bible of the Rights of Man
forever!
“Sign—for that declaration will go forth to American hearts forever, and
speak to those hearts like the voice of God! And its work will not be
done, until throughout this wide Continent not a single inch of ground owns
the sway of a British King!
“Nay, do not start and whisper with surprise! It is a truth, your own
hearts witness it, God proclaims it.—This Continent is the property of a
free people, and their property alone. God, I say, proclaims it! Look at
this strange history of a band of exiles and outcasts, suddenly transformed
into a People—look at this wonderful Exodus of the oppressed of the Old
World into the New, where they came, weak in arms but mighty in God-like
faith—nay, look at this history of your Bunker Hill—your Lexington—
where a band of plain farmers mocked and trampled down the panoply of
British arms, and then tell me, if you can, that God has not given America
to the free?
“It is not given to our poor human intellect to climb the skies, to pierce
the councils of the Almighty One. But methinks I stand among the awful
clouds which veil the brightness of Jehovah's throne. Methinks I see the
Recording Angel—pale as an angel is pale, weeping as an angel can weep
—come trembling up to that Throne, and speak his dread message—
“`Father! the old world is baptized in blood! Father, it is drenched
with the blood of millions, butchered in war, in persecution, in slow and
grinding oppression! Father—look, with one glance of Thine Eternal eye,
look over Europe, Asia, Africa, and behold evermore, that terrible sight,
man trodden down beneath the oppressor's feet—nations lost in blood—
Murder and Superstition walking hand in hand over the graves of their
victims, and not a single voice to whisper, `Hope to Man!'
“He stands there, the Angel, his hands trembling with the black record
of human guilt. But hark! The voice of Jehovah speaks out from the
awful cloud—`Let there be light again. Let there be a New World. Tell
my people—the poor—the trodden down millions, to go out from the Old
World. Tell them to go out from wrong, oppression and blood—tell them
to go out from this Old World—to build my altar in the New!'
“As God lives, my friends, I believe that to be HIS voice! Yes, were
my soul trembling on the wing for Eternity, were this hand freezing in death,
were this voice choking with the last struggle, I would still, with the last
impulse of that soul, with the last wave of that hand, with the last gasp of
that voice, implore you to remember this truth—God has given America to
the free! Yes, as I sank down into the gloomy shadows of the grave, with
my last gasp, I would beg you to sign that Parchment, in the name of the
God, who made the Saviour who redeemed you—in the name of the millions
whose very breath is now hushed in intense expectation, as they look
up to you for the awful words—`You are free!”'
O, many years have gone since that hour—the Speaker, his brethren, all,
have crumbled into dust, but it would require an angel's pen to picture the
magic of that Speaker's look, the deep, terrible emphasis of his voice, the
prophet-like beckoning of his hand, the magnetic flame which shooting from
his eyes, soon fired every heart throughout the hall!
He fell exhausted in his seat, but the work was done. A wild murmur
thrills through the hall.—Sign? Hah? There is no doubt now. Look!
How they rush forward—stout-hearted John Hancock has scarcely time to
sign his bold name, before the pen is grasped by another—another and
another! Look how the names blaze on the Parchment—Adams and Lee
and Jefferson and Carroll, and now, Roger Sherman the Shoemaker.
And here comes good old Stephen Hopkins—yes, trembling with palsy,
he totters forward—quivering from head to foot, with his shaking hands he
seizes the pen, he scratches his patriot-name.
Then comes Benjamin Franklin the Printer, and now the tall man in the
dark robe advances, the man who made the fiery speech a moment ago—
with the same hand that but now waved in such fiery scorn he writes his
name.[1]
And now the Parchment is signed; and now let word go forth to the
People in the streets—to the homes of America—to the camp of Mister
Washington, and the Palace of George the Idiot-King—let word go out to
all the earth—
And, old man in the steeple, now bare your arm, and grasp the Iron
Tongue, and let the bell speak out the great truth:
Fifty-six Traders and Farmers and Mechanics have this day shook
the shackles of the World!
Hark! Hark to the toll of that Bell!
Is there not a deep poetry in that sound, a poetry more sublime than
Shakspeare or Milton?
Is there not a music in the sound, that reminds you of those awful tones
which broke from angel-lips, when the news of the child of Jesus burst on
the Shepherds of Bethlehem?
For that Bell now speaks out to the world, that—
God has given the American Continent to the free—the toiling
millions of the human race—as the last altar of the rights of man
on the globe—the home of the oppressed, forevermore!
Let us search for the origin of the great truth, which that bell proclaimed,
let us behold the great Apostle who first proclaimed on our shores, all
men are alike the children of God.
