Belmont chronicle. [volume] (St. Clairsville, Ohio) 1855-1973, 1890-07-03
July 4th, ITS.
Published by request.


Published by request.
Let me paint you picture on the can
vas of the Past
1t was a cloudless summer day. Yes
a clear blue sky arches and smiles above
aquaint edifice, rising among giant trees
in the center of that wide city. That
edifice is built of red brick, with heavy
window frames and massive hall door.
The wide-spreading dome of st. Peters
the snowy pillars of the Parthenon, the
gloomy glory of Westminster Abbey
none of these, or anything like, are here,
to elevate this editice of plain red brick
into gorgeous monument of architect
ure.
Plain red brick the walls; the roof
caves heavy with intricate carvings; the
hall door Ornamented with pillars of
dark stone; such is the State House of
Philadelphia in the year of Our Lord,
1776.
Around this edifice stately trees arise.
Yonder, toward the dark walls of Wal
nut street gaol, spreads pleasant lawn
enclosed by plain board fence. Above
our heads these trees lock their massive
limbs and spread their leafy canopy.
There are walks here, too; not fash
ioned in squares and circles, but spread
ing, in careless negligence, along the
lawn. Benches, too, rude benches, on
which repose the forms of old men with
gray hairs, and women with babes in
their arms.
This is beautiful day, and this
pleasant lawn; but why do these clus-
ters of citizens, with anxious faces,
gather around the State House walls?
There is merchant in his velvet garb
and ruffied shirt; there the mechanic,
with apron on his breast and tools in his
hand; there ,he bearded sailor and dark
robed miniSt.-, all grouped together.
Why this anxiety on every face?-this
gathering in little groups all over the
lawn?
Yet hold momentl In yonder wood
en- steeple, which crowns the red brick
State House, stands an old man with
white hair and sunburnt face. He is clad
in plain attire, yet his eye CLEANS, as it
it is fixed upon the ponderous outline of
the bell, suspended in the steeple there.
The old man tries to read the inscription
on that bell, but cannot. Out upon the
waves, far away in the forest, thus has
his life been passed. He is no scholar;
he scarcely can spell one of those strange
words carved on the surface of that bell
BY his side gazing in his face-that
sunburnt face-in wonder, stands flax,
en-haired boy, with laughing eyes of
summer blue.
"Come here, my boy; you are a rich
mans child. You can read. Spell me
these words, and I'll bless ye, my good
childr
And the child raised himself on tip
toe, and passed his tiny hands against
the bell and read, in lisping tones, these
memorable words:
"Proclain liberty to all the land, and
all the Inhabitants thereof"
"Look here, my child Wilt thou do
the old man a kindness? Then haste
you down stairs and wait in the hall, by
the big door, until man shall give you
a message for me. When he gives you
that word, then run out yonder, in the
street, and shout up to me. Do you
mind?"
1t needed no second command. The
boy with blue eyes and flaXen hair sprang |
from the bell-keeper's arms, and thread
his way down the dark stairs.
The old bell-keeper was alone. Many |!
minutes passed away. Leaning over
the railing of the steeple, his face toward
Chestnut street, he looked anxiously for
the fair haired boy. Moments passed,
yet still he came not. The crowds gath
cred more darkly along the pavement,
and over the lawn, yet still the boy came
not.
"Ahr' groaned the old man, che has
forgotten me! These old limbs will have
to totter down the State House stairs,
and climb up again, and all on account
of that child" AS the words were on
his lips, a merry, ringing laugh broke on
his ear. There, among the crowds on
the pavement, stood the blue-eyed boy,
his tiny hands, while the breeze
blew his naxen hair all about his face.
And then, swelling his little chest, he
raised himself on tip-toe and shouted a
single word-"Ring"
Do you see that mans eyes fireP Do
you see that arm so suddenly barred to
the shoulder Do you see that wither-
ed hand grasping the iron tongue of the
bellP The old man is young again; his
veins are filled with new life. Back
ward and forward, with sturdy strokes,
he swings the tongue. The bell speaks
outl The crowd in the street hears it,
and bursts forth in one long shoutl Old
Delaware hears it, and gives it back in
hurrahs of her thousand sailors. The
city hears it, and starts up from the
desk and workbench, as though an
had spoken.
Yet still, while the sweat pours from
his brow, the old bell-keeper hurls the
iron tongue, and still boom-boom-I
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
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. II