Weekly miners' express. (DuBuque, Iowa) 184?-1849, 1847-10-27
Even while the Jubilee of Freedom rang

that never makes q sound, with that voice
which speaks the language Of Eternity
and which we never hear translated until |
we die--Death glided into the chambers of
two heroes, and babe them Home to God
Almost at the same moment, almost with
in the compass of the same hour, two hearts
that once warmed with the passion of free
dom, the frenzy of clcquence--were stopped
in their beatings forever.
We will 90 to the room of old age, we will
stand beside the bed or death, we will rec
the sunbeams of July the Fourth, 1926,
playing over the clammy brows Of the Bro
Their Heroes.
The First Home! T@
Does it not look beautiful, the very pic
ture of rustic comfort and unpretcnding
wealth, rs it rises yonder in the soil of Mas
sachusetts, the land OF Hancock and Warren,
that mansion with many windows, q porch
extending along it's front, fair flowers and
richly foliaged trees, blooming from its hall
door to the roadside gate? The house is
very still. It is near high noon. You can
see the roof with cosnced ewes and balus-
traded summit, married. boldly out, against
the deep blue summer sky.
| While the thunder Of cannon is in our
cars, we will pass the gate, enter the hall
door, and glide softly up the stairs. Softly,
for Death is here, in this Home of Quincy.
! With heads DO wed low and atealthy tread
we enter the darkened room. The sound
of gasping breath, the sob Of manhood in it's
agony, 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. Wonder, to the east, you see that
window, its easement opened, its white cur
tains flung aside, the perfume of the garden,
and the Joy of the sunshine, gushing through
it's aperture, into the shadowy death cham
Der.
Wonder, in the thickly -curtained bed, an
old man is dying.
Resting against the pillows, his shrunken
form lost in the folds of the silken cover]et.
he awaits the hour Of his summons, while
the softened sunlight plays gently on his
brow, and the summer breeze plays with his
hairs. That brow is Wirhered into wrlnk-
les, and mostened by the death sweat, yet
ns you gaze. it ghts up with the fire Of fifty
years $40, and the Ii s move, and the unclo-
sed eye b!azes as though the heart Of the
Hero vas back again, with the immortal
band Of Signers
1t is stout-hearted John Adams, sinking
calmly into the surges of death. Every mo-
ment the waves raise higher; the ice of the
grave comes slowly through the cougealing
veins, up the wthered limbs; the mist Of
death gathers about the old mans eyes.
1T this moment, while all is still, let us
from the crowd of mute spectators, select q
1c;o po.;3o tbo la,II nj l1ou
which his right hand rests, gazing in his
fathers face: his own noble brow bathed in
solitary CLEAN, of the sun, he stands, the
son, the statesman and President.
Fifty years ago, his father, in the State
House eff Philadelphia, uttered words that
became History as they rang from his naig
tial eceptrr, which his father received from
gazes with unspeakable emotion in the face
Of the dying old man.
Again our eyes wander from the faces o
the encircling spectators to the visage of the
departing hero: so wthered in the brow, 81
ghastly pale, SO quivering in the lips, sc
sunken IN the cheeks, and yet for all, il
shines, as with the last ray Of its closing
hour!
! IIAER. ] III LuuHuci vi LatIilol, o''ISASs
by distance, comes through the window
The old man hears it; at once his eye fires
he tvembIes up in the bed, and gazcs toWart
81 the light.
at is"-.-his dying voice rings with thu
fire offifty years cgo---''it is---THE foURTi
OF JuLy!"
That old man, sitting erect in his death
couch, his CHASTITY face quivering into yout
again, may we'll furnish picture for tn
D painters art! Gaze upon him in this hou
Of his weakness, when, with his fingers blu
with the death-chil', and his brow oozin.
# with the death sweat, he starts up, an
S knows the voice Of the cannon, and answer
IS its messege-"It is, it is the Fourth OF Il
e ly!" Gaze upon that wreck of Il body, nov
quiyering with the soul about to leave i
e forever-quivcrng and glowing into you'll
e again. and tell me that the soul is not i'm
n mortal!
,. 1t was sight too holy for tears! TIL
,f| spectators-man, and woman, and child
;, feel their hearts hushed with one common
IS feeling, admiration ming led with awe. III
V son winds his arms about his fathers neck
g and whspers---.'F'ifty years to-day. yo
signed theDeclaration which made us Free!
:. How the memory of the old time rushe
upon the old mans heart! Fifty years ag
: 1.-the Hall thronged with the Signers-->th
i speech that rung from his lips, when hi
v country's destiny hung palpitating on hi
i wordsthe eloquence Of his compatriots
Jefferson standing in the foreground of ,
!. group Of heroes. Hancock smiling serenely
n over the crowd, in front of the old STATE
4 House Habit rushed upon his soul, tina
2 glorious memory, and made him live again
;, with the men of rs
r Higher rose the waves Of death! Highe
: mounted the ice of the grave! Bluer thu
!. fingers, damper the brow, hollow and fain
q the rafting voice.
h The old man sank slowly back in thu
q bed, while the arm Of his son, the President
n was about his neck. His eyes were closed
: his hands placed on his breast. He wu
! sliding gently. almost imperceptibly, int
}. death. The belt of sunlight .;,at poured
;. through tho window over the floor, moved
+ along the carpet, like the shadow Of dial
i shortened, and was gone. Still he lived
still faint huttering of the shrunken chest
| 81. ~ ~