The national whig. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1847-1847, 1847-06-09
BY GEORGE LiPPARD.
A Legend of the Revolution

IL Is clOudlpss summer Jay. les u
clear blue sky arches and smiles above a
quaint ediice, rising among giant trees, in
the centre Of wide city That ediice is
built Of red brick, with heavy window
frames and massey hall door. The wide
spreading dome Of ST. Peters, the snowy
pillars Of the Parlhenon, the gloomy glory
Of Westminster Abbey-none of these,
nor any thing like are here, to elevate this
ediice Of plain red brick, into gorgeous
monument of architecture.
Plain red brick, the walls; the windows
partly framed in stone; the roof-evss heavy
with intricate carvings; the hall door orna-
mented with pillars Of dark stone; snch is
the State House Of Philadelphia in this year
Of our Lord, l776
Around this edifice stately trees arise
Yonder toward the dark walls Of Walnut-s,
gaol, spreads pleasentlawn, enclosed by
plain board fence. Above orr heads, these
trees lock their massey limbs and spread their
leafy canopy.
There are walks here too, not fashioned
as squares and circles, but spreading in care
less negligence along the lawn. Benches
too, rude benches, on which repose the
forms of old men with grey hairs, and wo-
men with babes in their arms.
This is beautiful, day and this is pleasant
lawn; but why do those clusters of citizens
with anxious faces gather around the State
House walls? There is the Merchant in his
velvet garb and ruffied shirt; there the me-
chanic, with apron on his breast and tools
in his hands there the bearded Sailor and
the dark-robed Minister,-all grouped to-
gether.
Why this anxiety on every face, This
gathering in little groups all over the lawn
Yet hold moment In yonder wooden
steeple, which crowns the red-brick State
House, stands an old man with white hair
and sunbnrnt free. He is clad in humble at
tire, yet his eye CLEANS, as it is fixed npon
the ponderors 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 forrest:
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 face-that sun
burnt face-in wonder, stands a flaxen-
haired boy with laughing eyes Of summer
blue.
Come here, my boy; you are rich
mans child You can read, Spell me
those words, and I'll bless, ye my good
child!'
And thechild raised itself on tip-to and
pressed its tiny hands against the bell,
and ,aaa in l;sr;nS .,-~-. 1890 49, ---li-
words:
Procldim Liberty 10 all The land, and all
the Inhabitants thereof
The old man ponders for moment on
those strange words; then gathering the boy
in his arms, he speaks:
Look here, my child! Wilt do the old
man kindness? Then haste you down
stairs, and wait in the hall, by the big door
until man shall give you message for me.
A man with velvet dress and kind face,
will come out from the big door, and give
you word for me. When he gives you
that word, then run out yonder, in the
street, and shout it out to me. Do you
mind!'
It needed no second command. The boy
with blue eyes and faxen 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 Chestnut,
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.
'Ahn groaned the old man, she has for
gotten 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, merry,
ringing laugh broke on his ear. There
among the crowds on the pavement, stood
the blu-eyed boy, clapping his tiny hands
about his face.
And then swelling his little chest, he raj
sed himself on tip-toe, and shouted single
word
sRINGp
Do you see that old mans eye fire. Do
you see that arm SO suddenly barred 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 il, and
burst forthin one long shout! Old Della
ware 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 al though an earthonake had spo