Belmont chronicle. [volume] (St. Clairsville, Ohio) 1855-1973, 1890-07-03

at dead of night, but there was a da,
when the echo of that bell awoke
world, slumbering in tyranny and crime
Yes, as the old man swung tn,
iron tongue, the bell spoke to all tn,
world. That sound crossed the Allan
tice-pierced the dungeons of Europe
the workshops of England-the vassal
fields of France.
The echo spoke to the slave, babe hin
look from his toil-and know himself &
man.
That echo startled the kings upon
their 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
| "RING"-had deep and awful mean.
lug in its 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 Ring! !!
the echo of that bell, to do with the
downfall of the dishonest priest or the
tyrant king?
Under that very bell, pealing out at
MONDAY, in an old hall, fifty six traders,
farmers and mechanics had assembled to
shake the shaekles off the world
Now let us look upon the band of plain
men, met in such solemen council. 1t is
now half on 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 monarch's ante-room; yet
it is fine old hall. The walls are con-
cealed in dark Oaken wainscoting, and
there along the Enclosed windows the
purple tapestry comes dropping down.
The ornaments of this hall?
Over the head of that noble 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 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-
cry voice is shushed-every face is stamp
ed with deep and awful responsibility
Why turns every glance to that door?
why is every face so solemn is
it so terribly still?
The committee of three who have been
out all night, planning a 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 upon
the gibbet yonder in the Potter's field, or
nail these heads to the door posts of
these hallsi
At last, harkl The door opens-the
Committee appears. 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 eyes? That is a Boston
man, one JOHN ADAMS. And the calm
faced man, with hair dropping in thick
curls on his shOulders-that man, dress
ed in plain coat, and such odious
home made blue stOckings-that is the
Philadelphia printer, one BENJAMIN
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 syllables |
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-gib6eti
"GIBBETp echoes a fierce bold voice,
that startles men from their seats-and
look yonder A tall, slender man rises,
dressed, although it is summer time, in
faded red cloak. Look how his white
hand undulates as it is stretched slowly
Sut; how that dark eye burns, while his
words ring through the hall.
: "GIBBET! They may stretch our necks
Dn all the gibbets in the land-they may
7hrn every rock into scaffold- every
Tree into gallows home into a
grave, and yet the words of that parch-
ment can aeoer diei
! "They may pour our blood ona thous-
and scaffolds, and yet for every drop
hat dyes the axe, or drops on the saw
lust of the block, a new martyr to
Freedom will spring into birthl
"The British King may blot out the
stars of God from His sky, but he can
not blot out His words written on the
parchment there. The work of God may
oerish-His Wordl neverl
"These words will 90 forth to the
world when our bones are dust. To the
'lave in bondage they will speak HOPE
to the mechanic in his workshop,
FREEDOM--to the coward-kings these
words will speak, not in tones of fiat
,eryl They will speak like the syllables
IN Belshazzar's wall: The days Of your {;
pride and glory are numbered. The days
# judgment draao aears'
"Yes, that parchment will speak to {;
he Kings in language sad and terri
de as the triumph of the Archangel.
have trampled on the rights of J
long enough. AT last the voice l
# human woe has reached the ear of
Tod, and called His judgment down. c
I ou have waded on to thrones over seas {
If blood, you have travelled on to pow
II over the necks of millions; you have
urned the poor mans sweat and blood I
nto robes for your delicate forms; into
rowns for your anointed brows: Now, t
purpled hangmen of the G
vorld-for you come the days of
xes and gibbets and scaffolds; for you t
he wrath of man; for you the lightnings
# Godl Lookl how the light of your I
'alaces on fire flashes up in the midnight t
kyl Now, purpled hangman of the +
pnrld turn and heU for maroyt 10