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"Sign, and not only for yourselves, but for all ages, for that parchment will be the text-book of freedom-the Bible of the rights of men forever. Nay, do not start and whisper with surprise! It is truth, your own hearts witness it; God proclaims it. Look at this strange history of a band of exiles and outcasts suddenly transformed into a people—a handful of men weak in arms-but mighty in God-like faith; nay, look at your recent achievements, your Bunker Hill, your Lexington, and then tell me if you can that God has not given America to be free!

"As I live, my friends, I believe that to be His purpose! Yes, were my soul trembling on the verge of eternity, were this hand freezing in death, were this voice choking in the last struggle, I would still with the last impulse of that soul, with the last wave of that hand, with the last gasp of that voice, implore you to remember this truth-God has given America to be free! Yes, as I sank into the gloomy shadows of the grave, with my last faint whisper I would beg you to sign that parchment for the sake of the millions whose very breath is now hushed in intense expectation as they look up to you for the awful words 'You are free!

The unknown speaker fell exhausted in his seat; but the work was done.

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A wild murmur runs through the hall. Sign!' There is no doubt now. Look how they rush forward! Stouthearted John Hancock has scarcely time to sign his bold name before the pen is grasped by another-another and another. Look how the names blaze on the parchment! Adams and Lee, Jefferson and Carroll, Franklin and Sher

man!

And now the parchment is signed.

Now, old man in the steeple, now bare your arm and let the bell speak! Hark to the music of that bell! Is there not a poetry in that sound, a poetry more sublime than that of Shakespeare and Milton? Is there not a music in that

sound that reminds you of those

sublime tones which broke

from angel lips when the news of the child Jesus burst on the hill-tops of Bethlehem? For the tones of that bell now come pealing, pealing, pealing, "Independence now and Independence forever."

THE CITY OF NEW YORK

By FREDERIC René CoudeRT, Lawyer. Born in New York, N. Y.,

1832.

From a speech made at the annual banquet of the New England Society in New York City, December 22, 1884.

I am aware that other cities have claimed the precedence if not the monopoly of early patriotism and of early selfdenial in the good cause. New York City is so rich in present goods and past glories that she has, perhaps with excessive indulgence, looked smilingly upon the earnest advocates of these untenable claims. But historic truth cannot afford to be thus blinded. She will tell you that this island city was the first to throw down the gauntlet to royal armies and to royal fleets. Rhode Island and Maryland, especially the latter, may have worn before her the crown of religious toleration; but even in the early days, when religious freedom was almost unknown to the best and wisest men, this soil upon which we stand to-night was open to the persecuted of all climates. I shall not speak of the sectaries of Massachusetts, driven from their homes by persecution which it is not pleasant to think of now; but Jews and Dissenters the world over, fleeing from the cruelties which they endured for conscience' sake, found here a home and safety.

...

Pray tell me in what particular our city has not been the first to sound the clarion of rebellion against tyranny; to speak in loud tones for civil liberty and political independence? More than two hundred years ago the merchants of New York declared that they must have a voice and a vote in the administration of public business; and they meant it,

and showed their good faith by stubborn resistance until final success. Who maintained the liberty of the press by first consecrating its importance through the verdict of a jury? Who first opposed by arms the odious claim that citizens could be impressed by force into the military and naval service? Who led the battle against the Stamp Act, and declared it to be the duty of the colonies to consider as an act of tyranny any violation of her rights and privileges? New York, ever New York! To sum all up, who first shed the blood of her citizens in defense of America, if not New York?

All

But the glory of New York in the past was but the promise of the fruit that was to ripen in the future. She stands to-day firm in the enjoyment of those great truths and blessings which cost so much blood and treasure to secure. the noble tendencies of her origin have been developed. No city exceeds her in wealth, education, intelligence, and prosperity. None approaches her in that which best proves her excellence-I mean her charity. To enumerate the manifold channels in which that ever-flowing charity pursues its daily course would far exceed my limits. It covers every form of human suffering. It embraces every nationality and creed-it knows no limitation. The great heart of our city has a throb of pity for every form of wretchedness. Nay, going beyond this sympathy with human misfortune, one of our citizens was the first to discover that the dumb beast appealed to the humanity of man, and that his duty was not complete until he heeded that appeal. The helpless child who was elsewhere left to the cruel mercies of the law or to the isolated exercise of religious or individual bounty, became the object of new and enlightened solicitude. Our thrifty citizens, quite ready to scrutinize with jealous care the expenditure of their money in taxation, have ever grumbled and still grumble with Anglo-Saxon heartiness at all tributes that are unreasonable and extravagant. But where the education of our people is concerned their voice is silent,

except to urge renewed and increased expenditure. The descendants of the men who shed blood to resist a petty exaction because it was against their rights, spend four millions and more every year that all may be bountifully supplied with intellectual food. Her rapidly increasing wealth is surpassed by the rapidly accumulating monuments of her generosity. Libraries, hospitals, drinking-fountains, art associations, relieve, enlighten, encourage, and delight those on whom fortune has never smiled. Freely has she received and freely does she give, remembering that of all virtues charity is the greatest. That there are no dark spots in the picture, who will pretend? But we all know and feel that we may build much hope for the future on the glories of the past and the greatness of the present. No hand is strong enough to destroy our city, except that of her own children.

THE FIRST SETTLER'S STORY

By WILL CARLETON, Lecturer, Journalist, Author, Poet.
Hudson, Mich., 1845; living in Brooklyn, N. Y.

Born in

From "Farm Festivals," by Will Carleton. Copyright, 1881, 1898, by Harper & Brothers, New York.

Well, when I first infested this retreat,
Things to my view look'd frightful incomplete;
But I had come with heart-thrift in my song,
And brought my wife and plunder right along;
I hadn't a round-trip ticket to go back,
And if I had there was no railroad track;
And drivin' East was what I couldn't endure:
I hadn't started on a circular tour.

My girl-wife was as brave as she was good, And help'd me every blessed way she could; She seem'd to take to every rough old tree, As sing'lar as when first she took to me.

She kep' our little log-house neat as wax,
And once I caught her fooling with my axe.
She hadn't the muscle (though she had the heart)
In out-door work to take an active part;
She was delicious, both to hear and see,
That pretty girl-wife that kep' house for me.

Well, neighborhoods meant counties in those days;
The roads didn't have accommodating ways;
And maybe weeks would pass before she'd see-
And much less talk with-any one but me.

The Indians sometimes show'd their sun-baked faces,
But they didn't teem with conversational graces;
Some ideas from the birds and trees she stole,
But 'twasn't like talking with a human soul;
And finally I thought that I could trace
A half heart-hunger peering from her face.

One night, when I came home unusual late,
Too hungry and too tired to feel first-rate,
Her supper struck me wrong (though I'll allow
She hadn't much to strike with, anyhow);
And, when I went to milk the cows, and found
They'd wandered from their usual feeding-ground,
And maybe'd left a few long miles behind 'em,
Which I must copy if I meant to find 'em,
Flash-quick the stay-chains of my temper broke,
And in a trice these hot words I had spoke:
"You ought to've kept the animals in view,
And drove them in; you'd nothing else to do.
The heft of all our life on me must fall;
You just lie round, and let me do it all.”

That speech,—it hadn't been gone a half a minute
Before I saw the cold black poison in it;
And I'd have given all I had, and more,
To've only safely got it back in-door.

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