4ssN sas fssfsaespsta Dstardsg G6ayssy. LEgEADSOF FHEREVOLUFION.

pr eEaRGR LIRRAaD.-sEW skRIEG

LEGEND FoRTy-NINrH.

THE LAST DAY or SEFFERsON AND ADAMs.
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or sEFFERsONAND ADAMS. Fifty yeafa passed away: the Foarth cf Jaly. a''1. had been made Immortal by its Declaration; the Fourth of July, Ie96 ws to 6a favored md Yen. defed Holy Day. by the hand of Death.

 On that sefehe morning, thesn rose beautifully Ipoa e .as world. shining apoa .he yeang gFo.hsF to te Gulf of Mexico, with the Atlantic aIittsring Ike belt of waves and beams along IS e.vtern enore, the Mlssasippi wending four thousand mics Western border, whiIerugredly sublime, the Alisghsnes lowered in tho centre Of the land. with It's smile of good omen, lisls naies of thiT- teen Provinces. nestiing between the Ailoghanies and me Atlantic, and fighting even for that space baonoed by mountains aud rivers. with the greatest and hloediest power in the world

 The battles of eight years had been fought; Eng land, foied In the revolution had been hambled in the dust again i; fifty years had passed away; the thirteen Provinces of the bloody Monarchy had swelled into twenty-lour States of a Free People- 1 The banner that had waved SO glosiously in the Revolution unveiiing It's thirteen stars to the blood red glare of battle, now futtering in the sammer morning air, from Home and Church and Council Hall, flashed from its folds the blaze of tsnsy-foaf stars, joined in one Sun of Hope and Promise The wild Eagle who had sweoped SO heYceIy on

 the British host, some fifty years ago. now sate calm ly on bis mountain crag, snrveying his Banner, srimsened with the light of victory, while the peace fu land, beautiful with river and valley, bloasomed on every side. It was the Fourth of July, 1928. From the lit- tie villages came joyous bandswhite robed virgins and sinless children scattering flowers by the way; in the deep forests the voice of praise and prayer arose to God; from the Pulpit the Preach er spoke; beside the old cannon which had blaxed at Germantown, stood the veteran of the Revelation, as battered and scared as the cannon which he

 fired; In the wide ci ies en thousand hearts throb- bed with one common joy, and the flowers that were scattered by the way, the words that the Preacher spoke, and tho hymn that the forest echoes sent to Heaven, the blaze of the canhon and the joy of the wide city, all had one meaning: "Tms LAND THAT WAS ONCE THE PRovIscE oE 4 KING, IS NOW THE HokEsTEAD or PEoPLx!'

 And yet, even while the heart of fourteen mil lion People papiated with the same ioy there came two brave hearts, with his hand, and frose them into clay. Even while the Jubilee of Freedom, rang its ho- zannas from every wood and dell, Death was in the land. Silently, with that step that never makes sound, with that voice which speaks the language of Eternity,--and which we never hear translated until we die-Desth giided into the chambers of two heroes, and bade them Home to God!

 Almost at the same moment almost within the compass of the same hour, two hearts-that once warmed with the passion of freedom, the frenzy of eloquencc-were stopped in their beatings. for ever.

 We will go to the room of old age, we will stand beside the bed of death, we will see the snnbeams of July the Fourth, 1896, playing over the clammy brows of the Brother Heroes.

 l The First Home.

 Does 1t not look beautiful, the very picture of rustic comfort and unpretending wealth. as 1t rises | wonder in the soil of Massachusetts the land of Hancock and Warren, the mansion with many windows. porch extending along it's front, fair flowers and richly foaged trees, blooming from its hall door tc the fDad-siie gate7 The house is very still. It Is near high noon. You can see the roof with corniced eyes and balustraded summit, marked boldly out, against the deep blue summer sky While tho thunder of cannon is in our ears we will pass the gate, enter the hall door, and glide softly up the stairs. Softly, for Death is here, in this Home of Qaincy.

 With heads bowedlow and stcaltiy tread, we en- ter the darkened room. The sound of gasping breath, the sob of manhood in it's agony the wall of women, the music of the summer air among the leaves, all at once rushed our ears. 1 We enter tue gaze-and start back, awed and dumb.

 All the widows of the room, save one, are dark Wonder, to the east, you see that window, its case ment opened, its white curtains flung aside, the perfume of the garden, and the joy of the sunshine gushing through its aperture, into the shadowy death chamber.

 | Yonder, in the thickly -curtained bed, an old man is dying. 1 Resting against the pillows, his shrunken form

 lost in the folds of the silken coveret he awaits the hour of his simmons, while the softened sunlight plays gently on his brow, and the sum breeze, plays with his hairs That brow is wi,hcred into wrinkles, and moistened by the death-sweat, yet as you gaze, 1t lights up with the fire of fifty years ago. and the liz moHe and the nnciosed eye bIazes though the heart Of the Hero was back again, with ! the Immortal band of Signers.

 | It is stout-hearted Inhn Adams, sinking calmly into the surges of death. Every momen. the waves raise higher; the i,c of the grave comes slowly through the congealing veins, up the withered

 limbs; the mist of death gathers about the old man s eyes.

 At this moment, while all Is still, let us, from the crowd of mute spectators, select single form. Be- side the death- pillow, which his right hand rests, gazing in his father's face, his own noble brow bathed in solitary geam of tho sun, he stands, the son, the statesman and President.

 Fifty years ago, his father, in the State House of Philadelphia, uttered words that became History as they rung from his indignant lips. and now, wieid- ing the Presidential sceptre, which hs father re- | eeived from the hands of Washington, the son of the Hero gszcs with nnspeakabe emotion In ths face of the dying old man.

 l Again our eyes wander from the faces of the en- eirciing spectators to the visage of the departing heFo SO wihered in the brow, so ghastly pale. so qniverng in the lips, so sunken In tho cheeks, and yet for a 1t shines as with the last ray ofits clos Ing hour.

 Harw. The thunder of cannon, softened by dis l tance, comes through the window. The old man hears at once his eye fires he tremblez up in the bed, and gazes toward the light.

 "It is'-his dying voice rings with the fire of 1 ffty years ago--'slt fs--rHE FoUETH or JuLyr' | That old man, sitting erect In his desth-coach, his ghastly face quivering into youth again, may well furnish picture for the painters art. Gaze upon him, In this hour of his weakness, when, with hls fingers blae with the desth-chif. and his brew sczing with the death-sweai. he starts up, and knows the voice of the cannon, and answers iis mes sage-sIt Is, 1t is the Fourth of Julyr Gaze upon that wreck of body. nav quivering with the soul about leave It tfereverqaivcring in glowing into youth nxain, and tell me that the soaf s not iTn- mortal!

 It vas sight too holy for tears. The spectators I --man, and woman, and child--fsel their hearts hnshed wiih one common feeling, admiration mingled with awe. The son, winds his arm ahoat hIs hshes's neck, and whispers-"Fifiy year to-