How a Philadelphia boy watched the Declaration of Independence in the
making and celebrated the first Fourth of July on the Eighth.
Philadelphia in July! Not even the most loyal boy or girl of that good
old Quaker town but must admit that Philadelphia in July _is_ a hot
place.
“Warm and sunshiny,” were the words that Mr. John Nixon, in his daily
journal for the year 1776, placed against the early days of July, but I
am inclined to think that young Joe Nixon was nearer the fact when he
called it “broiling hot.”
Very possibly, however, this slight exaggeration on the part of young
Joe was due to the fact that he was very busy and therefore very warm.
Not that he had anything of especial importance to do. Not always those
who are busiest have the most to do; but you see there was a great deal
to hear and see in Philadelphia town in the early days of July in the
year 1776 and young Joe Nixon, like a true American boy, felt it his
duty to be on hand when anything of importance was on foot.
And so he was continually on the go between his uncle’s big house on
the Water Street, the room of the Committee of Inspection on Second
Street, the parade-ground of the “Quaker Blues” on the city common, and
the big brick State House on Chestnut Street.
For young Joe Nixon was a privileged character and duly felt his
importance. His uncle, Mr. John Nixon, was a member of the Committee
of Safety, and better still, young Joe was a particular favorite of
Mr. David Rittenhouse who “had charge of the public clock in the State
House Square.” This put him on good terms with a still more influential
acquaintance--the doorkeeper of the Continental Congress, then in daily
session in the Assembly chamber of the State House.
Young Joe was a quick-witted lad and like all the rest of the race
of boys dearly loved to watch and listen even though he could not
always understand. Seated by the side of his friend the doorkeeper, he
found it very interesting and sometimes highly exciting to follow the
proceedings of the bewigged and earnest gentlemen who were talking,
discussing, and sometimes getting quite angry with one another on the
floor of the Congress. Joe only knew in a general sort of way what all
this talk and discussion meant. But one thing he was certain of, as
were all the boys and girls in the colonies--and that was that there
was a “jolly row” on hand between the colonies and the King. He knew,
too, that, away off toward Boston-town there had been two or three
fights with the King’s soldiers, in which the troops of the colonies
by no means had the worst of it. And he knew, most of all, that it was
mightily hard just now for a boy to get hold of anything new or nice
to eat or to wear or to play with and that, somehow, this was all the
fault of King George the Third, and that the colonies did not propose
to stand this sort of thing any longer.
So he had made the most of his acquaintance with the doorkeeper of the
Congress and had witnessed most of the important events that had taken
place during that lovely Philadelphia June.
He had looked with all the awe of a small boy of twelve upon the fifty
or more gentlemen--the delegates to the Congress--who, representing the
thirteen colonies, were ranged in a half-circle on either side of Mr.
Hancock, the President. But I think he admired, even more, the “elegant
standard, suspended in the Congress Room,” over the door of entrance at
which he sat with his friend the doorkeeper, and which was “a yellow
flag with a lively representation of a rattlesnake in the middle in the
attitude of going to strike, and these words underneath: ‘Don’t tread
on me!’”
He had been in the Congress Room so often that he knew most of the
delegates by sight and name: that gentleman in the big chair behind
the heavy mahogany table and the great silver inkstand--the gentleman
with the scarlet coat and the black velvet breeches--was Mr. John
Hancock, the President of the Congress--“Rosy John,” the Tory boys
called him, much to young Joe’s ireful indignation; that gentleman
in the long-waisted white cloth coat, scarlet vest and breeches, and
white silk hose, was Mr. Jefferson of Virginia; that gentleman in
the long buff coat and embroidered silk vest was, as of course every
Philadelphia boy knew, the great Doctor Franklin; and there, too, were
Mr. Adams and Mr. Gerry of Massachusetts, Mr. Sherman of Connecticut,
Mr. Clinton of New York, Mr. Stockton of New Jersey, Mr. Carroll of
Maryland, Mr. Lee of Virginia, Mr. Rutledge of South Carolina, and
many others whose faces and whose voices had now grown familiar. Even
his boyish mind, thoughtless of the present and careless of the future
though it was, had felt the excitement of the moment when on Friday,
June 7th, Mr. Richard Henry Lee of the Virginia colony had risen in his
place and, “amidst breathless silence,” had read to the Congress this
notable resolution:
“_Resolved_, that these United Colonies are, and of right ought to be,
free and independent States, that they are absolved from all allegiance
to the British Crown, and that all political connection between them
and the State of Great Britain is, and ought to be, totally dissolved.”
Then Mr. John Adams of Massachusetts seconded the resolution, Mr.
Thomson, the secretary, made the official entry in the Journal, the
Congress, with but few words, postponed its consideration until the
next day, and young Joe Nixon adjourned with the delegates, like them,
half-dazed and half-jubilant.
So, through the long June days, the Congress argued and debated and
hesitated while young Joe Nixon--a true type of the restless Young
America that is ever in a hurry for action and results--watched and
wished and wondered, not thinking of what might be in the future save
that King George was to be thrown overboard and the colonies were to
set up for a Nation.
At last, on June 28th, a committee, consisting of Mr. Jefferson of
Virginia, Mr. Adams of Massachusetts, Doctor Franklin of Pennsylvania,
Mr. Sherman of Connecticut, and Mr. Livingston of New York, presented
to the Congress a long paper which young Joe understood was called a
Declaration of Independence. And although he thought it was splendid
and full of the most mightily strong blows against King George, much to
the lad’s disgust the Congress did not seem to go into ecstasies over
it, but hummed and hawed and deliberated until July 2d, when Mr. Lee’s
original resolution was put to vote, carried by the voice of every
colony except New York, and the United Colonies were declared to be
Free and Independent States.
Young Joe Nixon, had he dared, would have tossed his little
three-cornered hat in the air with a loud hurrah, but the gentlemen of
the Congress he thought seemed strangely quiet about it all. He did not
see what their wiser heads comprehended, that the vote of the Congress
on that second of July meant years of struggle against a mighty
power--sorrow and privation and, perhaps, after all, only defeat and,
to the leaders, the disgraceful death of traitors. He saw only the
glowing colors of victory and excitement as young folks are apt to, and
as it is right they should.
And yet that very night, as the Congress adjourned, portly Mr.
John Adams, with whom the lad was quite a favorite, noticed the
ill-concealed exultation of the boy and laying a hand upon his head
said to him: “A great day this, my young friend; a great day, is it
not?”
“Oh, yes, sir,” replied young Joe with energy, “I’m so glad it passed,
sir.”
“And so am I, my lad,” said Mr. Adams, with almost equal enthusiasm;
“you are a bright and seemly little lad and will not soon forget this
day, I’ll be bound. So mark my words, my lad. The second of July,
1776, will be the most memorable day in all the history of America.
It will be celebrated ere you grow to manhood, and by succeeding
generations, as the great anniversary festival, commemorated as the day
of deliverance, by solemn acts of devotion to God Almighty, from one
end of the continent to the other, from this time forward for evermore.”
“Yes, sir,” said Joe most respectfully. He did not comprehend all the
meaning of Mr. Adams’s solemn words, but he was quite as confident as
was that gentleman that it was a day the anniversaries of which would
mean in future plenty of fun and jubilee.
Good Mother Nixon could get but little work from her Joe on the
following morning. And though, in her peaceful Quaker way, she bade
him beware of too much glorying in all the strife and warfare that
seemed afoot, I rather suspect that even her placid face flushed
with quiet enthusiasm as she besought her boy to remember that right
was always right, and that it was nobler and manlier to boldly face
whatever might betide than to be as were some men in their Quaker town
who, so she said, “loved too much their money and their ease, and did
but make conscience a convenience, instead of being sincerely and
religiously scrupulous of bearing arms.” All of which meant that there
were some craven folk in that day of manly protest against tyranny
who, to save themselves from annoyance, pretended to be Quakers and
“non-combatants,” when they were only skulking cowards. And all such
every honest Quaker utterly detested.
But young Joe Nixon, too full of the excitement of the moment, paid
but little regard to his good mother’s words, inasmuch as they did not
apply to his case; and, hot and panting, fearful lest he should miss
something new, dashed up to the State House and slipped in beside his
friend the doorkeeper.
The Congress was already in session. Mr. Jefferson’s paper called the
“Declaration respecting Independence” had been again taken up for
consideration, and was being soberly debated, paragraph by paragraph.
Frequent repetitions had made Joe familiar with some of the phrases
in this remarkable paper. Even his young heart beat high as he heard
some of those ringing sentences--about all men being created equal
and being “endowed with the inalienable rights of life, liberty, and
the pursuit of happiness”; how that “whenever any form of government
becomes destructive to these ends it is the right of the people to
alter or abolish it”; that “the history of the present King of Great
Britain is a history of repeated injuries and usurpations,” that “a
prince whose character is thus marked by every act which may define
a tyrant is unfit to be the ruler of a free people”; that “we must,
therefore, hold the British people, as we hold the rest of mankind,
enemies in war, in peace friends”; that “we, the representatives of the
United States of America in general Congress assembled, appealing to
the Supreme Judge of the world for the rectitude of our intentions, do,
in the name and by the authority of the good people of these colonies,
solemnly publish and declare that these united colonies are and of
right ought to be free and independent States”; and, lastly, that “for
the support of this declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection
of Divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our lives, our
fortunes, and our sacred honor.”
Joe, as I have said, had felt his young heart glow and his young
pulse beat under the enthusiasm of these ringing declarations and all
this debating and questioning appeared to him as fearfully slow and
faint-hearted; he wondered why, since the Congress had already passed
Mr. Lee’s resolution of Independence, they should so hesitate over Mr.
Jefferson’s Declaration of Independence; and, quite frequently, he felt
compelled to dash out into the hot and sunny street and work off his
impatience in a wild and purposeless “go-as-you-please” around what was
called “Mr. Rittenhouse’s Observatory” in the centre of the square.
The day dragged on and so did the debate. Even Mr. Jefferson lost
patience and, confessing that he was “writhing under” all this talk,
needed all of Doctor Franklin’s philosophy and example to calm him down
again. So it is not to be wondered at that, late in the afternoon,
Joe Nixon, enthusiastic young patriot though he was, grew wearied
with the talk and the delay and determined to go home. But just as
he was leaving the building there dashed into the State House yard
a big chestnut horse covered with foam and dust. Its rider, a fine,
well-built man in dust-stained travelling cloak, sprang from the saddle
and, dropping the bridle-rein into Joe’s ready hand with a quick,
“Here, my lad, take my nag to the City Tavern stables, will you?”
hurried without further words into the Congress room.
Joe’s impatience changed to burning curiosity again and, transferring
his panting charge to another ready lad for attention, he, too, hurried
into the hall and asked his friend the doorkeeper who this newcomer
might be.
“Why, lad, ’tis Mr. Cæsar Rodney, don’t you know,” replied the
doorkeeper. “The delegate from the Counties upon Delaware whom they
sent for by special post only yesterday, since his colony is divided in
action and his vote is needful to carry the Declaration through.”
“And did he ride from home to-day?” inquired Joe.
“Surely, boy,” said the doorkeeper, “clean from the County of Kent,
eighty miles away. ’Twas a gallant day’s ride and a fair day’s work,
for by it is independence won.”
It was even as he said. Rodney’s glorious ride secured the vote of
Delaware for the Declaration and late that very night of Wednesday, the
third of July, by a majority vote of the States--as the colonies now
called themselves--the immortal paper that we know as the Declaration
of Independence passed the Congress.
But before it was handed to the secretary to be engrossed, or copied so
that it might be signed by all the delegates, Mr. Hancock, as president
of the Congress, affixed to it his bold signature that we all now know
so well. And young Joe Nixon had, actually, to stuff his hat into his
mouth to stifle the hurrah that did so want to burst out when Mr.
Hancock, rising from his seat, said in his most decided tones:
“There! John Bull can read my name without spectacles. Now let him
double the price on my head, for _this_ is my defiance.”
Then the Congress adjourned and young Joe went home, completely tired
out with the day’s anxiety and excitement. And though on that notable
night of the third of July a nation had been born, Philadelphia lay
quietly asleep knowing little or nothing of the great happening.
Next day--the first Fourth of July ever specially known to
Americans--Joe was about the only privileged character who, slipping
into the secret session heard, from his seat by the side of his
friend the doorkeeper, the order given by Mr. Hancock as president of
the Congress that “copies of the Declaration be sent to the several
assemblies, conventions, and committees or Councils of Safety, and to
the several commanding officers of the Continental troops; that it be
proclaimed in each of the United States and at the head of the army.”
This was all that was done on the Fourth of July, 1776, as young Joe
Nixon could testify. But the printed copies of the Declaration prepared
for transmission to the several States and to the army and signed by
Mr. Hancock, the president of the Congress, and by Mr. Thomson, the
secretary, all bore the heading: “In Congress, July 4, 1776,” and thus
that date has come down to us as the one to be especially remembered.
That very night Joe heard, at his uncle’s big house on the Water
Street, that the Committee of Safety in Philadelphia--of which, as I
have said, Mr. John Nixon was a member--had ordered that “the Sheriff
of Philadelphia read or cause to be read and proclaimed at the State
House, in the city of Philadelphia, on Monday the 8th day of July
instant, at 12 o’clock at noon of this same day, the Declaration of the
Representatives of the United States of America, and that he cause
all his officers and the constables of the said city to attend to the
reading thereof.”
Here was a new treat in store for young Joe; and when he learned that
the Worshipful Sheriff had designated his uncle, Mr. John Nixon, as
the reader, Joe knew that this meant a front seat for him and was
appropriately jubilant.
The day came. Monday, the eighth of July, 1776. “A warm and sunshiny
morning” again reads the truthful journal, and twelve o’clock, noon,
must have been hot indeed. But not all the heat of a Philadelphia July
could wither the ardor of such patriots as young Joe Nixon. He was
therefore a very “live” portion of the procession which, forming at
the hall of the Committee of Inspection in Second Street, joined the
Committee of Safety at their lodge, and, to the stirring sounds of fife
and drum, marched into the State House square. Out from the rear door
of the State House came the Congress and other dignitaries and then,
standing upon the balcony of Mr. Rittenhouse’s astronomical observatory
just south of the State House, Mr. John Nixon in a voice both loud and
clear read to the assembled throng the paper which declared the United
States of America “Free and Independent.”
The reader concluded with the glorious words: “We mutually pledge to
each other our lives, our fortunes, and our sacred honor,” and, as his
voice ceased, the listening throng, so the record says, “broke out
into cheers and repeated huzzas.” Then the Royal arms were torn down
from above the seats of the King’s Judges in the State House, and Joe,
like a wild young Indian, danced frantically around the bonfire which
destroyed these “insignia of Royalty.”
Again, at five o’clock, the Declaration was read to the troops then
present in the town, and the evening was given up to bonfires and
fireworks which you may be certain young Joe enjoyed to his full
content.
And peal upon peal, sounding above all the shouts and the hurrahing,
rang out loud and clear, at both the noon reading and the night’s
celebration, the joyous clang of the big bell of the State House
telling the glad tidings of freedom, as well befitted a bell on whose
brazen rim men had read for twenty-four years the almost prophetic
motto:
“_Proclaim liberty through all the land to all the inhabitants
thereof._”
To his dying day Joe Nixon never forgot the glory and exultation of
that jubilant first Independence Day--the eighth of July, 1776.
One other notable scene also lived long in his memory--a day and a date
new to many of us who have always supposed that the Declaration of
Independence was passed, signed, and proclaimed on the Fourth of July.
It was the morning of Tuesday, the second of August, that same historic
summer of 1776. From his customary seat by the doorkeeper Joe saw Mr.
Thomson, the secretary of the Congress, lay upon the president’s
table a great sheet of parchment. And on this sheet carefully and
beautifully copied was the Declaration of Independence. Then, one by
one, beginning with Mr. Hancock the president, the delegates to the
Congress signed the great paper and by that act sent their names down
to posterity--famous and honored forever.
Of the fifty-six signers of the Declaration not all affixed their
names to the document on that notable second of August. Absentees and
new-comers added their names as they joined the Congress, and not until
the fourth day of November, 1776, was the last signature affixed.
Names and dates go for but little when a great deed is done. The
deed itself is of more importance than either names or dates. But
to us of this second century of the Republic there is both interest
and pleasure in re-telling the story of liberty and following out by
dates, altogether new to most of us, the real progress of the historic
document that made us a nation.
Instead of one “Fourth of July,” you see, we have really four--The
Second of July, upon which Mr. Lee’s Resolution of Independence was
passed by the Congress; the Third of July, upon which the Declaration
itself was passed; the Fourth of July which witnessed the order for
its proclamation, and the Second of August upon which it was actually
signed by the members of the Congress.
The original document to which these names were signed still exists,
grown worn and yellow with age; the Liberty Bell that rang out the
joyous news of freedom on the sunny noon and the starlit night of the
eventful eighth of July is now cracked and voiceless; the signers
themselves are now only names and memories; but their work lives in
the power and glory of the great nation which they founded, and every
true American girl and boy honors the memory and applauds the courage
of those devoted men. And upon each recurring Fourth of July every girl
and boy in the land is as joyous and jubilant a young patriot as was
even young Joe Nixon when, with bonfire and rude, old-time fireworks,
with hurrah and shout and song he celebrated, in the days when George
the Third was king, the first Fourth of July on the Eighth.