 | Washington and his generals, or, Legends of the Revolution |  |
VIII.—COUNCIL OF FREEMEN.
It was in the time when a band of rebels sate in Carpenter's Hall—when
the smoke of Lexington and Bunker Hill, was yet in the sky, and the undried
blood of Warren and the martyrs, was yet upon the ground—that a
scene of some interest took place, in a quiet room, in the city of William
Penn.
Look yonder, and behold that solitary lamp, flinging its dim light around
a neatly furnished room.
Grouped around that table, the full warmth of the light, pouring full in
Philadelphia Doctor, and a Virginia Farmer.
Come with me there to that lonely room—let us seat ourselves there—
let us look into the faces of these men—the one with the bold brow and
resolute look, is one John Adams from Boston; next to him sits the calm-faced
Benjamin Rush—then you see the marked face of the Printer, one
Benjamin Franklin, and your eye rests upon a man, distinguished above all
others by his height, the noble outlines of his form, the calm dignity of his
forehead, the quiet majesty of his look. That man is named Washington
—one Mr. George Washington, from Mount Vernon.
These men are all members of the Rebel Congress; they have met here
to night to talk over the affairs of their country. Their talk is deep-toned
—cautious—hurried. Every man seems afraid to give free utterance to the
thoughts of his bosom.
They talk of Bunker Hill—of Lexington—of the blood-thirsty British
Ministry—of the blood-thirsty British King!
Then, from the lips of Franklin comes the great question—Where is this
War to end? Are we fighting only for a change in the British Ministry,
or—or—for the Independence of our land?
There is silence in that room.
Washington, Adams, Rush—all look into each other's faces—and are
silent!
Bound to England by ties of ancestry—language—religion—the very
idea of separation from Her, seems a Blasphemy!
Yes, with their towns burnt, their people murdered—Bunker Hill smoking
there, and Lexington bleeding yonder—still, still, these Colonists cling to
the name of England, still shudder at that big word, that chokes their throats
to speak—Independence.
At this moment, while all is still, a visitor is announced—look there! As
that unknown man in the brown coat enters—is introduced by Franklin—takes
his seat at the table—is informed of the topic in discussion—look there upon
his brow, his flashing eye, as in earnest words he speaks forth his soul!
Washington, Rush, Franklin, Adams, all are hushed into silence! At
first the little man in the brown coat startles—horrifies them with his
political blasphemy!
But as he goes on, as his broad, solid brow warms with fire, as his eye
flashes the full light of a soul roused into all its life, as those deep earnest
tones speak of the Independence of America—her glorious future—her destiny,
that shall stride on over the wrecks of thrones, to the Universal Empire
of Western Continent, then behold!
They start from around the table—they press that stranger in the brown
coat, by the hand—they beg him for God's sake, to write these words in a
book,—a book that shall be read in all the homes, thundered from all the
pulpits of America!
Do you see that picture, my friends?
That little man in the brown coat, standing there, flushed, trembling with
the excitement of his own thoughts; the splendidly formed Virginia
planter on one side, grasping him by the hand; those great-souled men
encircling him on the other side, John Adams the Lawyer, Benjamin Rush
the Doctor, Benjamin Franklin the Printer.
Let this scene pass: let us follow this little man in the brown coat, thro'
the year 1775.
The day after this scene, that modest Virginia Planter, George Washington,
was named Commander-in-Chief of the Continental Armies.
| Washington and his generals, or, Legends of the Revolution | |