Belmont chronicle. [volume] (St. Clairsville, Ohio) 1855-1973, 1882-06-29

| iron tongue, and still DoOm-DOom-
boom-the bell speaks to the city and
the world.
There is terrible poetry In the sound
of that State House Bell at the dead of
night, when striking its sudden and SOL
emn-ONEl 1t rouses crime from its
task, mirth from its wine-cup, murder
from its knife, bribery from its gold.
There is terrible poetry in that sound.
1t speaks to us like voice from our
youth-like knell of Gods Judgment
like solemn. yet kind remembrance of
friends now dead and gone.
There is terrible poetry in that sound
at dead of night, but there was a day
when the echo of that bell awOke a
world, slumbering in tyranny and crime.
Yes, as the old man swung the iron
tongue, the bell spoke to all the world.
That sound crossed the Atlantic-pierc-
ed the dungeons of Europe-the work
shops of England vassal fields of
| France.
The echo spoke to the slave, bade him
look from his toll-and know himself a
man.
That echo startled the kings upon
their crumbligg thrones.
That echo was the knell of king-craft,
priest-craft, and all other crafts born of
the darkness of ages, and baptized in
seas of blood.
Yes, the voice of that little boy, who,
lifting himself on tip-toe. with his flax
en- hair blowing in the breeze, shouted
"RINGp-had deep and awful mean
ing in its infant tones!
Why did that word "Ring!"-why did
that echo of the State House bell speak
such deep and awful meaning to the
world? What had that word "Ringv'
the echo of that bell, to do with the
downfall of the dishonest priest or the
the tyrant king?
Under that very bell. peeling out
at MONDAY, in an old hall, Fifty-six
| Traders, Farmers and Mechanics had
assembled to shake the shackles of the
world.
Now let as look upon the band of plain
men, met in such solemn council. 1t is
now half an hour previous to the mo-
ment when the bell-ringer responded to
the shout of the fair-haired boy.
This is an old hall. 1t is not so large
as many a monarch's ante-roem, you
might put hundred within the walls of
st. Peters, and yet it is a fine old hall
The walls are concealed in dark oaken
wainscOting, and there along the unclos-
ed windows the purple tapestry comes
dropping down.
The ornments of this hall?
Over the head of that nobled-browed
man John Hancock, who sits calm and
serene in yonder chair-there is ban
ner, the banner of the stars. Perched
on that banner sits the eagle with fold
ed wings. Is it not a precious bird
Born only last year on Bunker Hill, now
it spreads its wings, full-grown, over the
whole Continent!
=Look over the faces Of those fifty-six
men, and see every eye turned to that
door. There is silence in this hall-ev-
ery voice is hushed-every face is stamp
ed with deep and awful responsibility
Why turns every glance to that door
why is every face so solemn; why is il
SO terribly still?
The committee of three who have been
out all night, planning parchment, are
about to appear.
That parchment, with the signatures
of these men, written with the pen lying
on yonder table, will either make the
world free-or stretch these necks upOI
the gibbet yonder in Potter's field, ol
nail these heads to the door-posts Oi
these hallsl
At last, harkl The door opens-the
Committee appear. Who are these three
men who come walking on to John Han
cocks chair?
That tall man, with the sharp features
the bold brow, and sand-hued hair, hold
ing THE PARCHMENT in his hand, is the
Virginia farmer, THOMAS JEFFERSON
That stout-built man, with resolute look
and sparkling eyesP That is a Boston
man. one JOHN ADAMS. And the calm
faced man, with hair dropping in thich
curls to his shoulders--that man, dress
|. ed in a plain coat, and such odious home
made blue stockings that is the Phila
delphia Printer, one BENJAMIN FRANK
LIN.
The three advance to the table. The
Parchment is laid there. Shall it bt
signed or not!
Then ensues a high debate-then al
the faint hearted cringe in corners
while Thomas Jefferson speaks out hi!
few bold words, and John Adams pour!
out his whole soul.
Then the soft-toned voice of Charlie:
Carroll is heard, undulating IN syla
ables of deep music.
But still there is dOubt-and that pale
faced man, shrinking III one corner
squeaks out something about axes, scat
folds, and a-GIBBET!
"GIBBETi" echoes fierce bold voice
that startles men from their seats-anC
look yonderl A tall, slender man rises
dressed, although it is summer time, ii
a faded red cloak. Look how his whitt
hand undulates as it is stretched slowly
out: how that dark eye burns, while hi;
words ring through the hall.
"GIBBETl They may stretch oul
necks on all the gibbets in the land
they may turn every rock into scat
fold-every tree into a gallows-eyery
home into a grave, and yet the words oi
that parchment can never die!
They may pour our blood on a thou
sand scaffolds, and yet for every droI
that dyes the axe, or drops on the saw
dust of the block, new martyr to Free
kem will spring into birth!
The British King may blot out the
stars of God from His sky, but he can
not blot oat His words written on the
parchment there. The work of God may
perish-His Word! never!
These words will go forth to the worlt
when our bones are dust. To the slave
in bondage they will speak-HoPE-tt
the machanic in his workshop-FREE
DoM-to the coward-kings these word:
will speak, not in tones of fiatteryl They
will speak like the flaming syllaoles on
BelshazZar's wall: 'ThedGyS Qf your pY1d,
and gtory are numbered. The days Of
Judgment dr0iO near!
Yes, that parchment will speak to the
Kings In a language sad and terrible a
the triumph of the Archangel. Yot
have trampled on the rights of mankine
long enough. At last the voice OF hu
man wo has pierced the ear of God. anC
called His judgment down. You hav'
waded on to thrones over seas Of blood
you have trambled on to power over th'