The Weekly Perrysburg journal. [volume] (Perrysburg, O. [Ohio]) 1861-1???, 1862-12-24

glide sofsly up the stairs. Softly, for death ID
here in this Home Of Quincy.
With heads bowed low and steA lthy tread, W.
enter the dsrkencd room. The sound of gasp
ing breath, the sob Of manhood in its agony
the wall of women, the music of the summer
air among the leaves, all at once rush on our
cars.
We enter and gaze, and start back awed aud
dumb.
All the windows OF the room, save one, are
dark. Yondet, to the east, you see that win.
dow, its easement opened, it's white curtains
flung aside, the perfume Of the garden, and the
Joy OF the sunshine, gushing through it's spcr.
ture into the shsdowy desth-chamber.
Yonder, in the thickly curtsiued bed All old
man Is dying.
Restng against the pilowS, his shrunken form
lost Ia the folds Of the silken coverlet, he awaits
the hour Of hia summons, while The sonenrd
sunlight plays gently on his brow, and the sum.
mer breeze plays with his hairs. That brow is
withered into wrinkles, and moisteued by the
deAth.swest, vet as ynu gaze, II lights up with
the fire OF fifty years before, and the lips move,
and the unclosed eyes blaze as though the heart
Of the hero was back again with the immortal
band Of SiSners.
IL il stout. hearted John Adams, sinking
calmly into the surges of death. Every mo.
ment the waves rise higher; the ice of the
grave comes slowly through the congealing
veins, up the withered limbs the mist of death
gathers about the old msu's eyes.
At this moment, while all is stil, from the
crowd of mute spectators, select single form.
Beside the death-piow, on which bis right
hand rests, g,ziSg in his fathers face, his noble
brow bathed in a solitary gleam of the sun,
stands the son. the Statesman and President.
Fifty years before, his father in the State
House of Philadelpbia, uttered words that he
came history as they rang from his indignant
lips, and now welding the Presidential scepier
which his father received from the hand Of
Washington, the son of the Hero gazes with un-
speskabe emotion in the f,ce of the dying old
man.
Again our features wander from the faces OF
the enciroIng spectators to the visage OF the de-
parting hero; 80 withered in the brow, 80
ghsstly pale, so quivering in the lips. so sunken
in the cheeks, and yet for all it shines, as with
the last ray OF its closing hour
Hark The thunder of cannon, softeued by
distance oomes through the window. The old
man hears il at once his eye fires, he trembles
up in the bed, and gazed toward the light.
at is"- his dying voice rings with the fire
of fifty years ago -" 1t is the Fourth Of
JULY"
Ths' oh man sitting erect in his death couch,
his ghastly face q iivering into youth again miy
wei furnish picture for painters artl Gaze
upon him in this hour of his weakness, WHOM
brow oozing with the death-sweat, he starts up
and knows the voice of the cannon, and answers
its message =" IL is, il is the Fourth of July '
G,ze upon that wreck of body, now quivering
with the soul about to leave it forever -q quiyer-
ing and glowing into youth again, aud tell me
that the soul is not immortal!
II was a sight too holy for tears The spec
tators man, and woman, and children - feel
their hearts hushed with one common feeling,
admiration mingled with awe, The son winds
his arms about his fathers neck, and whispers
-" Fifty years Ogo to-day you signed the
Declaration which made us Free
How the memory Of the old timc rushes upon
the old mans heart! Fifty years ago - the
Hall thronged with the signers - the speech
that rung from his lips. when his country's des.
tiny hung palpitsting upon his words - the elo
quence of his compatriots, Jefferson standing in
the foreground Of a group of heroes, Hancock
smiling serenely over the crowd, in front of the
old State House Hall 1T rushed upon bif
soul, th't glorious memory, and made him live
again with the men of '76.
Higher rose the waves OF death Higher
mounted the ice OF the grave! Rluer the Aug
ers, damper the brow, hollow and faint the rat
tling voice.
The old man sank slowly hack in the bed
while the arm of his son, the President, was
about his neck. His eyes we're closed, hi'
hands plnced on his breast. lie was sliding
gently, almost imperceptiby, into death. The
belt of sunlight that poured through the window
over the floor, moved along the carpet like the
shadow of a dial, shortened and was gone,
Still he lived - still a faint Auttering Of tn,
shrunken chest showed that the soul was not
yet gone home.
Il would have made you grow in love will
death to see how calmly he died. Just "a the
shadows of the trees were cas-, far over the
meadow by the declining sun - Just as The
shout of the people, the thunder OF cannon, lh'
lore of the orator, came softened in the breeze
the old man raised bis head, aud unclosed hii
eyes
Jefferson yet survives he said. and the
wave Of death teaehed his lips, and be bFeatheC
no more.
| Il was I o'clock, On the afternoon Of July
4, 1926, when John Adams closed his life o
glorious deeds.
Jefferson still survivesl
While the words of the venerable Adams ye
Iiuger in our ears, let US hasten away to tn,
second Home, where death has crossed tn,
threshold.
Emerging from the shadows Of the heautifu
valley of Virginia, we ascend slight elevation
and by the light of the morning sun behold
strange structure, standing amid a grove o
forest trees But one story in height, with ele
giant pillars in front, and dome rising above ii
roof, it strikes you with its singular almost Ori
entail style of architecture, and yet seems rh
appropriate hermitage of philosophy ant
thought.
The structure, relieved by the back ground o.
towering trees, is the Home OF Hero. Beneatl
| the Grecian nortinn The Poets Artsta AM