The Labor enquirer., 1883-09-22
SPIRIT OF 1'776.
The Inspired Language of Patrick
Henry to the Declaration
Signers.
Read and Ponder, Ye Disinherited
Sons, a Patriot Fathers
Words.
Published by San Francisco Truth"
From Articles Long Kept in
the Dark.

| ton Journals of l776. 1t is not TO be elsewhere
| by Patrick Henry have been, and are still
| Systematically suppressed. Truth Is indebted
| to George Everett Schenck Tor the artlcles,
| they having been preserved in his family lor
over sixty years. Let Americans read and
ponder.l
1t is in the old Hall of Philadelphia,
on July 4, l776. There is a silence in
this hall, every voice is hushed, every
face is stamped with deep and awful
responsibility.
Why turns every glance to that door ?
Why is it 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 penlying
on yonder table, may either make the
world free, or stretch these necks upon
the gibbet yonder in Potter's field, or
nail these heads to the door posts of
this hall.
That was the time for solemn faces
and deep silence,
AT last, hark The door Opens-the
committee appear. Who are these men
who come walking up to John Hancock's
chair?
The tall man, with sharp features, the
bold brow and sand-hued hair, holding
the parchment in his hand, is the Nir-
gina farmer. Thomas jefferson. That
stout built man, with resolute look and
sparkling eye-that is Boston man, one
John Adams. And the calm-fa"ed man,
with his hair dropping in thick curls to
his shoulders; that man dressed N
plain coat and such odious homemade
blue stockings-that is the Philadelphia
printer, one Ben njanin Franklin.
The three advance to the table. The
parchment is laid there. Shall it be
signed or not?
Then ensues high debate; then all
the faint hearted cringe in corners, while
Thomas jefferson speaks out his few bold
words, and John Adams pours out his
whole soul.
Then the soft-toned voice of Charles
Carroll is heard undulating in syllabes
of deep music.
But still there is doubt, and that pale
faced man, shrinking in one corner
squeaks out something about axes, scat
folds, and a-gibbet.
"Gibbet" !" echoes fierce, bold tone,
that startles men from their seats-and
look wonder A tall, slender, form rises,
dressed, though it is summer time, in a
faded red cloak. Look how his white
hand trembles, as it is stretched slowly
out how his dark eye burns, while his
words ring through the hall.
"Gibbet They may stretch our necks
on all the gibbets in the land they may
turn every rock into a scattold, every
tree into a gallows, every home into a
grave, and yet the words of that parch-
ment can never die
"They may pour our blood on a thou
sand scafolds, and yet from every drop
that dyes the ak, or drops on the saw
dust of the block, new martyr to free
dom will spring into birth !
"The British king may blot out tho
stars of God from His sky, but he can
not blet out His words written on the
parchment there. The work Of God
may perish His word, never
These words will 60 forth to the world
when our homes are dust. To the slave
in bondage, they will speak hope; to the
mechanic in his workshop, freedom; TO
the coward kings these words will speak,
but not in tones of fattery. They will
speak like the flaming syllables on Bel
shazzar's wall The days of your pride
and glory are numbered The days OF
Judgment draw near
Yes, that parchment will speak to
kings in language sad and terrible as the
trumpet of the Archangel. You have
trampled on the rights of mankind long
enough. At last, the voice of human woe
has pierced the ear of God, and called
His judgment down. You have Waded
on to thrones through seas of blood you
have trampled on to power over the
necks of millions; you have turned the
poor mans sweat and blood into robes
for your delicate forms, into crowns for
YOUR anointed brows. Now, kings
Now, purpled hangmen of the world
For YOU comes the day of axes and glib
bets, and scaffolds; for you the wrath Of
man for you the lightnings of God!
"Look! how the light of your palaces
on fire flashes up into the midnight sky !!
Now, purpled hangmen of the world,
turn and beg for mercy! Where will
YOU find it? Not from God, for you have
blssphemed His laws! Not from the
people, for you stand baptized in their
blood! Here you turn, and 10 agibbet
There. and scaffold stares you in the
face All around you-death-but no
where pity! Now, executioners OF the
human race, kneel down; yes knee'
down on the sawdust of the scafold lay
your perfumed heads upon the block ;