There were the long rows of plain uncushioned benches, extending up and
down the sides, filled with men of all ages, some with wigs, some with
powdered hair, some with unpowdered hair, all dressed in small-clothes,
breeches, knee-buckles, long stockings, and buckled shoes; coats of
blue, gray, and snuff color; venerable men like Franklin and Stephen
Hopkins, men in the full vigor of middle life, like Samuel Adams and
Roger Sherman, young men in the ardor and flush of lusty patriotism,
like Thomas Jefferson, and Francis Hopkinson, and Robert Livingston, and
John Hancock--the younger evidently predominating, alike in numbers and
activity. The faces were solemn and grave, no doubt, though Dr. Franklin
would have his genial joke about the necessity of their all hanging
together, lest they should all hang, separately; deep silence prevailed,
followed now and then by an excited stir among the benches.

[Sidenote: President Hancock.]

[Sidenote: The Continental Army.]

Then there was the President's table, a little aside from one end of the
hall, with papers strewed over it, and by its side President Hancock,
attired with dainty and aristocratic precision, his sword by his side,
his wig perfectly dressed, his face earnest yet serene and bright. We
can fancy, too, the commotion which arose, the leaning forward, the
holding of the breath, then the dead silence, when the committee
appointed to draw the Declaration advanced to the President's table. It
was the moment of crossing the Rubicon. It was the burning of the
ships behind them. From this moment there was to be no possibility of
retreating. Independence declared, it still remained to conquer it.
British troops burdened the soil; shiploads of them were at that moment