Martinsburg gazette. [volume] (Martinsburg, Va. [W. Va.]) 1833-1855, 1847-11-18

the Preacher spoke, aud the hymn that the for
est eehoes sent to Heaven, the blaze of the can
non, and the Joy OF the wide city. all had one
meaning: "THIs LAND THAT WAS ONCE THE
Province OF A KING, is NOW THE HOME
STEAD OF PEorLEl'
And vet, while the hearts Of fourteen mil
lions of people palpitaled with the same Joy,
there came an unseen and shadowy Messen-
ger, who touched two brave hearts, with his
hand, and froze them into clay.
Even while the Jubilee of Freedom rang its
hczannas from every wood and dell, Death
was in the land. Silently, with that step that
never makes sound, with that voice which
speaks the language OF Eternity, which
We never hear translated until we die--Deaih
glided into the chambers os two heroes, and
babe them Home TO God!
Almost atthe same moment, almost within
the compass of the same hour, two hearts
that once warmed with the passion of freedom,
the frenzy OF eoquence- stopped in their
bestngs forever.
We will go to the room of old age, we will
stand beside the bed Of death, we will see the
sunbeams of July the Fourth, 1896, PLAYING
over the clammy brows of the Brother Heroes.
The First Homel
Does il not look beautiful, the very picture
of rustic comfort and unpretending wealth. as
il rises yonder in the soil of Massachusetts. the
land of Hancock and Warren, that mansion
with many windows, porch extending along
its front, fair flowers and richly folaged trees,
blooming from its hall door to the road side
gate2 The house is very still. tits near high
noon. You can see the roof, with corniced
caves and balustraded summit, marked boldly
out, against the deep blue summer sky.
While the thunder of cannon is in our ears,
we will pass the gale, enter the hall door, and
| glide softly up the stairs. Softly, for Death
is here, IN this Home OF Quincy.
With heads bowed low and stealthy tread,
we enter the darkened room. The sound Of
gasping breath, the sob of manhood in its ag-
ony, the wall Of women, the music OF the
summer air among the leaves, all at once
rush on our ears.
We enter and gaze--and start back, awed
and dumb.
All the windows of the room, save one, are
dark. Yonder, TO the east, you see that win
dow, IFS easement opened, It's white curtain:
flung aside, the perfume of the garden, ant
the JOY Of the sunshine, gushing through ii
aperture, into the shadowy death chamber
Yonder, in the :hckly -curtained bed, an ole
man is dying.
Resting against the pillows, his shrunker
form lost in the folds of the sken coverlet, h,
awaits the hour of his summons, while tn,
softened sunlight plays gently on his brow
and the summer breeze PLAYS with his hairs
That brow is withered into wrinkles, ant
moistened by the deathsweat, yet as you gaze
tights up with the fire Of fifty years ago, an.
The lips move, and the Enclosed eve blaxes al
though the heart of the Hero was back agar
with the immortal band of Signers.
Ii is stouthearted John Adams, sinking
calmly into the surge Of death. Every mo
ment the waves raise higher; the ice of tn,
grave comes slowly through The congeame
veins, up the withered limbs; the mist o
death gathers about the old mans eyes.
AT this moment, while all is still, let US
from the crowd of mute spectators, select /
single form. Beside the death pillow, OF
which his right hand rests, gazing in his ia
theirs face, his own noble brow bathed in sol
itary CLEAN of the sun, he stands, the son
the statesman and President.
Fifty years ago, his father, in the STATE
House Of Philadelphia, uttered words that be
came History as they rung from his indignan
lips, and now, welding the Presidential seep
tire, which his father received from the hand
of Washington, the son of the Hero gaze!
with unspeakable emotion in the face oftht
dying old man.
Again our eyes wander from the faces o.
the eneircllng spectators to the visage Of the
departing Hero: so withered in the brow, sc
ghastly pale, so quivering in the lips, so sun
ken in the cheeks, and yet for all, il shines, as
with the last ray of its closing hour
Hark! The thunder of cannon, softenet
by distance, comes through the window
The old man hears it; at once his eye fires
| he trembles up in the bed and gaZes toward
the light.
sit is"-his dying voice rings with the fire
of fifty years ago-''lt is-THE FOURTH OF
JuLYl"
That old man, sitting erect in his death
couch, his ghastly face quivering into youth
again, may well furnish a picture for the
painters art! Gaze upon him in this hour
OF his weakness, when. with his fingers blue
with the death chill, and his brow oozng with
the death sweat, he starts up and knows the
voice of the cannon, and answers its message
cit is the Fourth of JULY" Gaze upon
that wreck of body, now quivering with the
soul about TO leave it forever-quivering and
glowing into youth again, and tell me that the
soul is not immortal!
| Ii was sight too holy for tears! The
spectators-man, and woman. and child
/ feel their hearts hushed with one common
| feeling, admiration mingled with awe. The
son winds his arms about his fathers neck,
and whispers-"Fifly years to-day, you siga-
ed the Declaration which made us Free 2"
| How the memory of the old time rushes
upon the old mans heart! Fifty years ago
| the Hall thronged with the Signers-,he
speech that rung from his lips, when his
counlry's destiny hung palpating on his
words-the eloquence Of his compatriots, JEFF
ferson standing in the foreground Of group
Heroes, Hancock smiling serenely over the
crowd, in front of the old State House Hall
it rushed upon his soul, that glorious memory.
and made him live again, with the men Of '16.
Higher rose the waves of DEATH Higher
mounted the ice Of the gravel Buer the fin
gers, damper the brow, hollow and faint the
rafting voice.
The old man sank slowly back in The bed,
while the arm of his son, the President, was
about his neck His eyes were closed. his
hands placed on his breast. He was sliding
gently, almost imperceptibly, into DEATH
The belt of sunlight that poured through the
window over the floor, moved along the car
pet, like the shadow Of dial, shortened, and
was gone. Still he lved-still faint futler-
ing in the shrunken chest, showed that the
soul was not yet gone home.