DEATH OF THE LAST OF THE SIGNERS OF THE DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE.
On the morning of July 4th, 1826—just fifty years after the event—but three of the fifty-six members of the continental Congress of 1776 who had signed the Declaration of Independence, remained alive; on the evening of that day there remained but one—Charles Carroll, of Carrollton, Maryland; then a full score beyond the Psalmist's limit of manly life, and destined to a further lease of six good years. It has been remarked of the "signers of the Declaration" that a felicitous existence seems to have been reserved for them; blessed with long life and good health, honored with the public esteem, raised to the highest dignities of the States and of the federal government, happy in their posterity, and happy in the view of the great and prosperous country which their labors had brought into existence. Among these, so felicitous and so illustrious, he was one of the most happy, and among the most distinguished. He enjoyed the honors of his pure and patriot life in all their forms; age, and health, and mind, for sixteen years beyond that fourscore which brings labor and sorrow and weakness to man; ample fortune; public honors in filling the highest offices of his State, and a seat in the Senate of the United States; private enjoyment in an honorable and brilliant posterity. Born to fortune, and to the care of wise and good parents, he had all the advantages of education which the colleges of France and the "Inns of Court" of London could give. With every thing to lose in unsuccessful rebellion, he risked all from the first opening of the contest with the mother country: and when he walked up to the secretary's table to sign the paper, which might become a death-warrant to its authors, the remark was made, "there go some millions." And his signing was a privilege, claimed and granted. He was not present at the declaration. He was not even a member of Congress on the memorable Fourth of July. He was in Annapolis on that day, a member of the Maryland Assembly, and zealously engaged in urging a revocation of the instructions which limited the Maryland delegates in the continental Congress to obtaining a redress of grievances without breaking the connection with the mother country. He succeeded—was appointed a delegate—flew to his post—and added his name to the patriot list.
All history tells of the throwing overboard of the tea in Boston harbor: it has not been equally attentive to the burning of the tea in Annapolis harbor. It was the summer of 1774 that the brigantine "Peggy Stewart" approached Annapolis with a cargo of the forbidden leaves on board. The people were in commotion at the news. It was an insult, and a defiance. Swift destruction was in preparation for the vessel: instant chastisement was in search of the owners. Terror seized them. They sent to Charles Carroll as the only man that could moderate the fury of the people, and save their persons and property from a sudden destruction. He told them there was but one way to save their persons, and that was to burn their vessel and cargo, instantly and in the sight of the people. It was done: and thus the flames consumed at Annapolis, what the waves had buried at Boston: and in both cases the spirit and the sacrifice was the same—opposition to taxation without representation, and destruction to its symbol.