 | Washington and his generals, or, Legends of the Revolution |  |
XX.—THE LAST OF THE SIGNERS.
Come to the window, old man!
Come, and look your last upon this beautiful earth! The day is dying;
the year is dying; you are dying; so light and leaf and life, mingle in one
common death, as they shall mingle in one resurrection.
Clad in a dark morning gown, that revealed the outlines of his tall form,
now bent with age—once so beautiful in its erect manhood—he rises from
his chair, which is covered with pillows, and totters to the window, spreading
forth his thin white hands.
Did you ever see an old man's face, that combines all the sweetness of
childhood, with the vigor of matured intellect? Snow-white hair falling in
flakes around a high and open brow, eyes that gleam with mild clear light,
a mouth moulded in an expression of benignity almost divine?
It is the Fourteenth of November, 1832; the hour is sunset, and the man
Charles Carroll of Carrolton, THE LAST OF THE SIGNERS.
Ninety-five years of age, a weak and trembling old man, he has summoned
his dark gown contrasted with the purple curtains.
He is the last!
Of the noble Fifty-Six, who in the Revolution stood forth, undismayed
by the axe or gibbet, their mission the freedom of an age, the salvation of a
country, he alone remains!
One by one the pillars have crumbled from the roof of the temple, and
now the last—a trembling column—glows in the sunlight, as it is about to fall.
But for the pillar that crumbles there is no hope, that it shall ever tower
aloft in its pride again, while for this old man about to sink in the night of
the grave, there is a glorious hope. His memory will live. His soul will
live, not only in the presence of its God, but on the tongues and in the
hearts of millions. The band in which he counts one, can never be
forgotten. The last!
As the venerable man stands before us, the declining day imparts a warm
flush to his face, and surrounds his brow with a halo of light. His lips
move without a sound; he is recalling the scenes of the Declaration, he is
murmuring the names of his brothers in the good work.
All gone but him!
Upon the woods—dyed with the rainbow of the closing year—upon the
stream, darkened by masses of shadow, upon the homes peeping out from
among the leaves, falls mellowing the last light of the declining day.
He will never see the sun rise again.
He feels that the silver cord is slowly, gently loosening; he knows that
the golden bowl is crumbling at the fountain's brink. But Death comes on
him as a sleep, as a pleasant dream, as a kiss from beloved lips!
He feels that the land of his birth has become a Mighty People, and
thanks God that he was permitted to behold its blossoms of hope, ripen into
full life.
In the recess near the window, you behold an altar of prayer; above it,
glowing in the fading light, the Image of Jesus seems smiling even in
agony, around that death-chamber.
The old man turns aside from the window. Tottering on he kneels beside
the altar, his long dark robe drooping over the floor. He reaches forth
his white hands; he raises his eyes to the face of the Crucified.
There in the sanctity of an old man's last prayer, we will leave him.
There where amid the deepening shadows, glows the Image of the Saviour,
there where the light falls over the mild face, the wavy hair, and tranquil
eyes of the aged patriarch.
The smile of the Saviour was upon the Declaration on that perilous day,
the Fourth of July, 1776, and now that its promise has brightened into
fruition, He seems—he does smile on it again—even as his sculptured
image meets the dying gaze of Charles Carroll of Carrolton,
THE LAST OF THE SIGNERS.
| Washington and his generals, or, Legends of the Revolution | |