Cooke, John Esten, 1830-1886 [1859], Henry St. John, gentleman, of Flower of Hundreds, in the county of Prince George, Virginia: a tale of 1774-75. (Harper and Brothers, New York) [word count] [eaf510T].
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Front matter
Covers, Edges and Spine
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Preliminaries
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University Of Virginia, 1819
Gift Of
Dr. Wilbur P. Morgan
Of Baltimore
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Henry St. John, Gentleman.
Preliminaries
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Title Page
Henry St. John, Gentleman,
of
“Flower Of Hundreds,”
In the County of Prince George,
Virginia.
A Tale of 1774-'75.
“Love is ftrong as death;
Jealoufy cruel as the grave.”
Song Of Solomon.
BY
JOHN ESTEN COOKE,
Author of the “Virginia Comedians,” “Leather Stocking and
Silk,” “The Laft of the Forefters,” etc., etc.
New York:
HARPER & BROTHERS.
1859
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Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1859, by
HARPER & BROTHERS.
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Southern District of New York.
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Dedication
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I inscribed a former work
To one
Whose life was moulded
To the perfect form of Honor;
A noble spirit,
Brave and faithful as Bayard,
Gentle and tender as Sir Philip Sydney:
“The model,” said an old associate,
“Of lofty courtesy, and chivalry, and generosity;”—
Who, dying tranquilly,
“Without an enemy,” another says,
“On the broad bosom of this spacious Earth,”
Has left to his children the inestimable name
And great example
Of a Christian Gentleman.
I offer these pages,
With a cordial brother's-greeting,
To two persons
Who were taught by him
The scorn of falsehood
And the love of honor:
To
Henry Pendleton Cooke, and
Edward St. George Cooke;
Health—Happiness!
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PROLOGUE. BY THE AUTHOR OF THE ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT.
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“In the golden sunshine of the budding spring, on the porch of my
old country house, I sit and gaze at the waving foliage, and think'
t is not time lost to fall into a reverie, as it were into a dream, of
other days, and the noble figures which illustrated and adorned them.
“The sun of May is shining on the flowery lawn, where the yellow
buttercups and velvet grass are stirred by the warm south wind; the
belt of forest makes a rich green background to the fields and streams;
and bright like the flowers, dancing like the brook, my little girl, with
eyes `as azure as the heavens,' and sunny hair, chases the earliest
butterflies across the sward, and with her presence adds the finishing
grace to the mellow landscape of spring.
“So I sit, and smile, and dream; then I think, with a sigh, that a
few decades may change, and even wholly obliterate, this rural beauty,
this smiling ease and repose. Little Kate may be called to heaven,
or out into the wide, wide world—my form will assuredly be laid in
earth—the old homestead probably will pass from my race—and those
who knew and loved us, know us no more. Why not? Is it not,
after all, the common story? Where are now all those brilliant scenes
and figures of the elder Virginia, glimmering faintly through the mists
of scarce fourscore years? Where are the men and manners of the
days of the Revolution, only hinted at obscurely in what the world
calls histories? Do they exist for us to-day, except as names and
traditions? And what does the present generation know of them?
“Alas for the historians! They tell us many things, but so little!
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They relate, with much dignity, how the battle was fought and the
treaty made—they tell us the number of the combatants, and spread
every protocol upon the page. But the student of the past asks for
more. Of the historian we ask a picture of the elder day—portraits
of the Virginian and his household. We would know the peculiarities
of character and manner which marked a great race—the worthies
of Virginia. We would live again, for a time, beneath those
fair or storm-convulsed skies of `Old Virginia;' we would take the
hand of the honest old planter; we would go into his library, and
look over his shoulder as he reads the new Act in the `Virginia Gazette,'
and would not disdain to scan critically the powdered curls
and looped-back gowns, the flounces, and furbelows, and fancies of
the dames.
“We would see the rude Old-Field School on the edge of the forest,
and listen to the words, and watch the bright faces of those children
who will make hardy patriots and devoted women. We would accompany,
in the fine chariot, Myrtilla, or Florella, as she goes to the
assembly, decked in satins, and laces, and towers of curls; and see Damon,
or Strephon, dance the minuet opposite to her, with his cocked hat
pressed upon his heart. We would accompany the squire in his coach
and four, to the county court, where he sits in awful state, with his
brother justices of the peace; or to church, where the good parson
delivers the evangel of grace, from the tub-shaped pulpit. We would
hear the buzz of the crowd on the race course, or at the cockfight,
and listen to their discussions of the doings of Parliament, and the
speed of the favorite racer. We would look in at the window of the
old Raleigh Tavern, and read what the company assembled in the
Apollo Room are doing in spite of his Excellency and his stern `You
are accordingly dissolved!' In a word, we would look again on that
vigorous race, that singular society; see the tragedy and the comedy—
hear the sighs and the laughter. We would see the lofty forms
defile before us, slowly, in a long, august line; we would hear the old
voices, weigh every accent; and then we should know what the past
was really—we should seize on the spirit of the Revolution.
“That we should know what that Revolution really was, is a
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matter of the first importance to ourselves and our descendants. That
we should trace its steps, divine its causes, and see the effect produced
logically—this is what we ask the histories to assist us in. We ask
it in vain. The historians have bloody minds and delight in carnage;
or legal minds, and wander in the flowery fields of legislative enactments.
In vain does the student rebel and turn away; he is told
that what he wishes is beneath the dignity of history, and thus has
it happened that we have nothing but the skeleton, when we want
the warm blood, the flushed brows, and the flashing eyes.
“I hear Kate laughing as I ponder so, and my spleen against the
historians, as I listen to that cheerful music, disappears. My Kate
scatters light, and love, and goodness wherever she goes, and her
laughter is a purer music than the harp of æolus. It tells me now
that 'tis not my place to speak ill of the historians—that, after all, 't is
a hard task I would impose upon them—a heavy burden I would
place upon their shoulders. To revive a whole period, or many
periods, with all their peculiarities of life and thought and manners—
to depict those joys and griefs, whose causes often shift and change
in the long current of our human story—to live in the life, rejoice
with the joy, and sympathize with the sorrow of a vanished race—thus
bringing from the remote and misty shadow land, the actual figures,
and reconstructing, from the shattered fragments, the statue, the
moulding, and the inscription;—this is no child's play, rather a scourging
toil, and if no one has accomplished it, we can scarcely complain.
“So I make my peace again with the historians, and looking forth
upon the sunlit fields, return in thought to an earlier epoch, remembering,
with smiles, a boy whom I knew once on a time; a boy who
said that he would one day fill the immense canvas with the thronging
figures, and paint the great future of Virginia. He was young
and ardent; he loved the noble past of his native land. That past
stretched far away before him, like some land of Faëry, all sunlight,
beauty and romance. The breath of a million flowers came on the
winds, for ever blowing from the sea, and fanning tranquilly his boyish
forehead. The green fields were ever bathed in golden dawns,
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or purple sunsets dying on the vast horizon, or the great blue canopy
drooped over all like a dream. The stately rivers flowed through
bright champaigns, mirroring those skies with all their snowy cloud
ships; and the great forests waving their long plumes in the Atlantic
breezes, ever resounded musical and joyous secrets.
“This was the land in which had gone on—brave and hearty, illustrated
by a thousand scenes as picturesque as they were significant—
that strange, old, rude, poetical, colonial life.
“The great mountains, too, stretched mighty arms toward the boy,
and the immense belts of pines, crowding the steep precipices of the
Alleghanies, spoke, like their lowland brethren, of the things of the
past. Here, in these solitary fastnesses, the borderer had struggled,
breast to breast, with the savage; yonder, at the foot of that tree,
the girl or the child was tomahawked, and left to bleed and die;
those houses dotting the fair valley, from whose embowering foliage
curl wreaths of snowy smoke, in the lazy atmosphere, were every
one the scene of a tragedy or a comedy; they heard the broken sob
of the weeping mother, or the wild and uproarious revelry of the
borderers; their old walls are battered with balls, and the stockades
show where the torch of the Indian was applied in the darkness, but
quenched in his heart's blood by the rifle ball of the mountaineer.
From the mouth of the Potomac to its source in the Alleghanies, along
the banks of the beautiful Shenandoah, the `Daughter of the Stars,
there was scarcely a spot which did not recall a tradition, a legend,
or a history. All this did the youth I am thinking of dwell upon,
and—well, well, here I am dreaming! It was only his folly, and I
must think of my work.
“I design composing a work of the revolutionary period, based
on family archives. I shall begin with May of the year '74, when
the trees commenced to bud, and the flowers to bloom, as if the
thunder and lightning were not brooding upon the horizon, and the
soil beginning to tremble. It was not long before the chasm yawned—
indeed, a few months threw between the old days and the new, an
impassable gulf. Upon one side of that gulf, now looking back, we
discern the colonial régime of ease and tranquillity—the slow rolling
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coach, the aristocratic dignity, the machinery of class, and courtly
ceremony. On the other side, the mortal struggle of the new era, the
leveling republicanism, born of a common danger—the `gentry,' and
the `commoners,' in leather harness, fighting side by side under their
common father, and constructing a new world, 'mid storm and tempest,
on the bloody battle-fields of the Revolution.
“My work will aim to draw a few pictures of this period of transition,
and I have ample material. When my dear and honored father
died, he left me an old iron-bound trunk full of family letters, and in
these venerable papers I find many histories. To-day it shall be the
life of Henry St. John, Esquire, of `Flower of Hundreds,' in Prince
George, a gentleman connected with our house. Of Mr. St. John I
have a miniature in the stiff old style, and very many letters in his
own handwriting, which is rapid and careless, with a number addressed
to him by others. The miniature presents the young man
vividly to the eyes, with his olive cheeks, black hair, and clear, fixed
look; the letters embrace much of the history of his early manhood.
They allude to and describe, also, some public events which occurred
at the period in Virginia, and speak of more than one eminent name,
now the property of history.
“I have read these letters again and again; I often linger over
their pages with profound interest,—with smiles, or frowns, or deep
feeling.
“Yellow letters!—I say—which share with the moth-eaten doublets
and rusty old broad-swords, the honor of reviving the past! Cracked
miniature! in whose fading and age-dimmed outlines a face of other
days shines so clearly! Old letters, old miniatures, old costumes, old
swords, old ghostly reminiscences of ghostly `cocked hats!' the historian
salutes you with a low and respectful bow, for you speak of
the Revolution. Yellow laces, too, in the chests up stairs—old pearls,
and diamonds, breastpins and rings—he salutes you, too, for you
speak of the fair dames, and to these he bows with his whole heart.
“In the beautiful May morning of the new century, he will write
of you, with the old days shining in his memory, as it were, and the
old faces looking down from the wainscoted walls.
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“They have diamonds in their ears, and pearls in their hair; they
are covered with lace and embroidery,—the fair maidens and dames.
The cavaliers are ruffled and powdered, and they smile—they smile,
like the maidens, as their historian commences.
“So I sit in the merry May sunshine and idly dream—summoning,
from the dead, those gracious figures, before going to accomplish my
design. Soon I will go; here, in my plain old Virginia country
house, I will tell my plain old story.
“Some day, doubtless, 't will be edited, and so sent forth to the
world; but what matter if 't is not? I shall live again, as I write, in
the beautiful past—the sound of those noble voices is my consolation.
“C. EFFINGHAM.
“Glengary, May 3, 18—.”
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CONTENTS.
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Chapter
PAGE
Prologue 7
I.—Flowers of the Forest 17
II.—Flowers of the Court 21
III.—How Blossom fainted, and what followed 26
IV.—A Glimpse of his Excellency Lord Dunmore 28
V.—How his Excellency got the better of a Child 30
VI.—The Great-Grandson of Pocahontas 38
VII.—Conspiracy 46
VIII.—Vanely 53
IX.—Bonnybel Vane 57
X.—“Old Gouty” 65
XI.—A May Morning in '74 67
XII.—The Window Panes at Vanely 73
XIII.—How they danced a Minuet de la Cour 76
XIV.—Which verifies the Proverb, that listeners never hear any
good of themselves 81
XV.—Bonnybel looks in a Mirror and laughs 85
XVI.—The News from Boston 90
XVII.—The Model of a Perfect Lover 95
XVIII.—How Mr. Lindon came to, and went away from Vanely 101
XIX.—Bonnybel Vane to her friend, Mistress Catherine Effingham,
at “The Cove,” in Gloucester County 109
XX.—How Miss Bonnybel fainted in the Arms of her Cousin 112
XXI.—Bonnybel Vane to her Friend, Kate Effingham 121
XXII.—At the “Trysting Tree” 125
XXIII.—St. John makes his Entry into Richmond Town 133
XXIV.—In which the Author omits describing the Races 138
XXV.—How Mr. St. John encountered a Stranger, and of what
they conversed 141
XXVI.—How the Stranger became an Historian and a Prophet 151
XXVII.—How St. John met a Friend in Williamsburg 159
XXVIII.—The Secret Agent 164
XXIX.—How a Virginia Girl wrote Verses in '74 169
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XXX.—How Mr. St. John returned his Commission to Lord Dunmore
172
XXXI.—The Letter 180
XXXIL.—What happened at the “Indian Camp” 184
XXXIII.—A Sleeping Beauty 187
XXXIV.—St. John, from his House of “Flower of Hundreds,” to
his Friend, Tom Alston, at “Moorefield” 192
XXXV.—The Reply 194
XXXVI.—Blossom 196
XXXVII.—The Woof of Events 198
XXXVIII.—The Fixed Stars of Virginia 206
XXXIX.—How the Stranger's first Prophecy was fulfilled 214
XL.—How his Excellency asked the Name of the Stranger 220
XLI.—The Steps and the Base of Lord Botetourt's Statue 225
XLII.—The “Apollo Room,” in the Raleigh Tavern—Deus nobis
hœc olia fecit 229
XLIII.—In which a Chariot arrives 233
XLIV.—The Assembly at the Capitol 235
XLV.—The rival Lieutenants of the Guards 237
XLVI.—The Secretary 241
XLVII.—St. John and Lindon 245
XLVIII.—St. John goes to “Flodden” 252
XLIX.—How Captain Waters fulfilled his Mission 356
L.—The Fugitive 262
LI.—Her only Failing 266
LII.—The Combat: Red and White Roses 269
LIII.—The News reaches Vanely 277
LIV.—Two Hearts 281
LV.—Which commences the Second Portion of the History 284
LVI.—How Captain Waters plucked his Geese 292
LVII.—Some old Friends: at least the Author hopes so 299
LVIII.—The Second Warning 304
LIX.—How St. John drew his Sword and struck at a Shadow 308
LX.—Tom Alston to Henry St. John 314
LXI.—St. John tells how a Spirit entered his Room at Midnight 318
LXII.—How Mr. Alston traveled all Night, and what followed 334
LXIII.—A Broken Heart: Henry St. John to Thomas Alston 343
LXIV.—Henry St. John, Esquire, to Miss Bonnybel Vane, at
Vanely, in Prince George 344
LXV.—“How strange! I knew a Bonnybel once!” 347
LXVI.—The last Hallucination of St. John 351
LXVII.—How St. John kept his Appointment with the Stranger 354
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LXVIII.—A Virginia Giant 368
LXIX.—On the Banks of Belle Rivière 371
LXX.—The Old Church of St. John's 380
LXXI.—Bonnybel's Dream 383
LXXII.—Bonnybel Vane to her Friend, Kate Effingham 387
LXXIII.—The Friends 390
LXXIV.—The Removal of the Powder 397
LXXV.—Williamsburg in Arms and Captain Waters in Ecstacies 408
LXXVI.—A Meeting of Patriots 417
LXXVII.—A Young Spy 422
LXXVIII.—General Effingham is carried off by a Chariot 424
LXXIX.—The March of the Hanoverians on Williamsburg 428
LXXX.—The Meeting at Doncastle's Ordinary 433
LXXXI.—The Robbery of the Coach of the King's Receiver General 437
LXXXII.—How Lindon left Williamsburg, and whom he conversed
with at “Agincourt” 444
LXXXIII.—A Glance at Vanely 451
LXXXIV.—Bonnybel Vane to her Friend, Kate Effingham 453
LXXXV.—Lindon Smiles 458
LXXXVI.—The Two Letters. 461
LXXXVII.—The Unraveling of the Mesh 466
LXXXVIII.—Fire and Storm 471
LXXXIX.—The End of the Drama 477
XC.—A Summer Day at “Flower of Hundreds” 485
Epilogue 488
Historical Illustrations 491
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CHAPTER I. FLOWERS OF THE FOREST.
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It is a beautiful May morning, in the year 1774.
The sun is shining brightly, the oriole swings to and fro
on his lofty spray, and carols to the spring; the month of
flowers has dawned upon the world in all its loveliness, and
scattered daisies, violets and buttercups on the green expanse
of smiling meadows, and along the grassy banks of
streams.
Two children holding each other by the hand, take their
way through a forest stretching to the west of Williamsburg,
the old capital of Virginia.
They are a boy and a girl, apparently about ten years of
age.
The boy is a gallant looking urchin, clad in a richly embroidered
roundabout, drab shorts, and gayly colored stockings,
which disappear in high-quartered shoes, ornamented
with rosettes of ribbon; his curling hair, framing ruddy
cheeks, is surmounted by a little cocked hat with a jaunty
feather.
The girl's costume is in some points similar.
She wears a sort of frock coat, so to speak, of pink “calimanco,”
opening in front, and displaying a species of waistcoat,
laced across a ruffled stomacher. The frock falls only
to the knees, where it is met by white silk stockings, held
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by velvet garters, ornamented with clocks at the instep,
and ending in small high-heeled shoes, with galoshes. Her
head, with its bright curls, is protected by a broad-rimmed
chip hat, secured with a blue ribbon tied beneath the
chin.
The boy is gay, mischievous, full of mirth and high spirits.
The girl gentle, sedate, with a pensive look in her mild eyes
which peer out from a number of stray ringlets. In one
hand she carries a checker-work satchel, holding a few
books—for they are going to the old field school; in the
other, a nosegay of violets and sweet-briar roses, the gift
of her cavalier, who disputes the possession of her hand
with the flowers.
They soon come in sight of the old field school. It is a
log building, with a broad, well-barred door, a log for a
step, a chimney of rough stone built outside, and heavy
oaken shutters on rusty hinges.
The rude old building sleeps beneath the lofty oaks very
tranquilly; but from the interior comes a busy hum which
indicates the presence of children.
The girl looks anxiously toward one of the windows and
says:
“Oh me, Paul! See the sun on the shutter! We're very
late, and I'm afraid Uncle Jimmy 'll keep us in!”
“Let him!” replies Mr. Paul with great gallantry, “who
cares? We've had a glorious time getting flowers, Blossom;
and I don't mind being kept in with you.”
Paul inserts one thumb into the arm-hole of his waistcoat
as he speaks, and bestows a devoted look upon his
companion.
“I don't mind myself,” says Blossom, hurrying on, “but
you love Prisoner's Base so, Paul!—and then you came in
time: for yonder is your pony tied to the oak, and you'll be
kept in, because you came to meet me.”
“Well, what if I did come?” says Paul, carelessly, “although
you wouldn't let me carry your satchel. Is Uncle
Jimmy to ride roughshod over me for that? Can't a
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Virginia gentleman get flowers for a lady without being
brought to trial?”
And Paul looks proud and indignant.
“A lady, Paul!” says Blossom, with a low silvery laugh;
“why I'm only a child!”
“You're my sweetheart.”
“Pshaw, Paul! what a goose you are! how foolish you
do talk!”
And Blossom turns away her head, hastening on towards
the school-house. Paul gets before her, however, and in a
moment they are standing in presence of Uncle Jimmy
Doubleday, an old gentleman with a lengthy coat, huge
goggles, splatterdashes, and a gray queue, who presides
over a crowd of boys and girls—all rosy cheeks, curls,
freekles and health—busy studying at the long desks against
the walls.
Uncle Jimmy has just inflicted condign punishment upon
an urchin who was drawing individuals in a boxing attitude
upon his slate—the criminal having been posted in a corner
with the slate around his neck, and a huge dunce's cap upon
his head. Uncle Jimmy is therefore irate. He sternly demands
of Paul and Blossom why they are so late.
Paul, who still holds his companion's hand, declares, with
an easy air, that he is the cause of it: he thought he'd carry
Blossom off to get some flowers.
“Oh no, Uncle Jimmy!” says Blossom, with a timid look
into the old schoolmaster's face, “I was late before, and
Paul is not to blame. Papa came home last night, and I
love to talk with him so much.”
At the word papa, Uncle Jimmy seems suddenly mollified.
“Well, well,” he says, looking through his great goggles
at the child's face, and trying not to smile, “well, Blossom,
you are excused; you never do wrong purposely, my child;
and for your sake I excuse this youngster. But take care
sir!” added Uncle Jimmy, turning with a tremendous frown
to the urchin, “take care, in future, Mr. Paul Effingham! I
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make the prediction, that the birch destined for you, is
growing.”
And Uncle Jimmy scowled ferociously at Paul, who sauntered
with a jaunty air toward his desk. For Paul was a
favorite too.
The old pedagogue fell into a reverie, caressed gently
Blossom's hair, heaved a sigh, and then awoke. Having
vigorously applied the birch to a youngster who had just
made his neighbor execute a terrible leap, by sticking a pin
into him, Uncle Jimmy called the next class, and so the old
field school went on its way as usual.
At last came “play time,” and the old schoolmaster closed
his books. To his profound astonishment the girls and urchins
did not move. Uncle Jimmy saw with incredulous
stupefaction that they did not snatch their hats with ardor,
and rush into the open air.
The worthy pedagogue rubbed his eyes. Was he dreaming?
Had he made a mistake and forestalled the hour?
No: there was the rustic dial consisting of a nail driven
into the window seat, whose shadow, when it ran along a
certain line, marked noon; and now the shadow plainly indicated
twelve. Instead of rushing out, the boys and girls
had gathered around Blossom, and evidently desired to use
her favor with the pedagogue to obtain some boon.
Blossom seemed to resist; but the eloquent advocates redoubled
their entreaties, and at last the girl approached the
schoolmaster.
“If you please, Uncle Jimmy,” she said, timidly, “we
want you to give us a holiday to-day.”
“Holiday!” cried Uncle Jimmy, with a horrified expression,
“holiday! On what earthly ground?”
Blossom was a little abashed by the loud exclamation, and
faltered.
“There, my child—there, Blossom,” said Uncle Jimmy,
“don't mind my outcry. I'm not a httle forest bird like
you, that does nothing but cheep and twitter. I growl:
don't mind me; but say why you want a holiday. Can
any one explain such an unusual request?”
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And the pedagogue addressed himself with dignity to
the crowd. He had cause to regret the movement. A
deafening explanation greeted his appeal, above whose uproar
were heard only the words, “They're coming! They're
coming! They're coming!”
The schoolmaster closed his ears with horror; and then
rising to his full height upon the rostrum, extended both his
hands in wrath above the youthful orators, and cried—
“Cease, ye young bulls of Bashan!—cease! Have you
no regard for my ears, unhappy reprobates that you are!
Let Blossom speak, and hold your clatter, or I'll birch
every mother's son of you!”
It seemed that even the little maidens were terrified by
this address to the boys. A deep silence followed, and
Blossom having again urged the general request, Uncle
Jimmy did what he had never for a moment hesitated about—
he gave the desired holiday.
“Go, go my children,” he said, “yes, go and see the vain
pageant of a poor mimic royalty! You are not an old fellow
like me; you are children, and love music, and bells
ringing, and fine dresses. Go see how gallant we can be in
old Virginia when we—pshaw! I'm not making an address!
Go, children, and come early in the morning.”
With these words Uncle Jimmy extended his hands paternally,
and in a minute and a half the old school-house
was deserted.
At the same moment the noise of chariots was heard upon
the forest road in front of the school-house—the rolling of
wheels, and the sound of the hoofs of horses.
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CHAPTER II. FLOWERS OF THE COURT.
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Paul was hastening, with his arm around Blossom, toward
the tree where his pony Shag was tied—the young gentleman's
design being to convey his sweetheart behind him
into Williamsburg—when suddenly both stopped, arrested
by the appearance of a brilliant cavalcade.
It consisted of three richly decorated chariots, each drawn
by six glossy horses, and followed by plainer vehicles. The
drivers and footmen who hung behind were white English
servants, as were the numerous outriders.
The first equipage contained three ladies—the rest seemed
occupied chiefly by gentlemen.
As the flock of children ran out to look upon the brilliant
spectacle, the head of a young lady was thrust from the
window of the foremost coach, and she seemed to be calling
the attention of her companions to the children.
It was a beautiful face, framed in bright curls, and looking
very sweet and good-humored.
“Isn't she pretty, Paul?” said Blossom, in a whisper.
“Uncommonly,” returned Paul, with the air of a connoisseur;
“but look, Blossom, she is beckoning to you!”
In fact, the pretty picture of the boy and girl, with their
arms around each other, had attracted the attention of the
young lady, and taking advantage of a momentary pause,
occasioned by a portion of the harness becoming out of
place, she had really beckoned to the girl.
Blossom approached the chariot, followed by Paul, and
looked with timid grace into the face of the young lady, who
smiled sweetly, and gave her hand to each.
“That is a school-house, is it not, my dear?” she said;
“every thing is bright here, and you and all look very
happy.”
“That's because Blossom is so good, ma'am,” said Paul
politely; “everybody's happy where she is.”
-- 023 --
[figure description] Page 023.[end figure description]
“Blossom,” said the lady smiling, “is that your name?”
“Yes, ma'am,” returned the child, “and his is Paul.”
“Paul! do you hear, Susan?” said the young lady, turning
one of her companions; “what pretty names they have
in Virginia—Blossom and Paul! and you know we stopped
last night at Roslyn Hall.”
Then turning to the children, the young lady added:
“I wish you would come and see me, Blossom—and you
too, Paul. My name is Augusta Murray, and we are going
to live in Williamsburg now.”
As she spoke, the footman again mounted behind, having
fixed the harness, and the young lady again gave her hand
to the children, with a pleased smile.
The cavalcade then resumed its way slowly.
The flock of children, Blossom and Paul leading, surrounded
and followed it, as a triumphal escort, and it went
thus attended toward the old capital.
For many hours the good town of Williamsburg has been
in commotion. An immense crowd has assembled, and
the waves of the multitude now extend from the college
of “William and Mary,” past the old magazine, and the
“Raleigh” tavern, quite onward to the steps of the capitol,
where, around the base of Lord Botetourt's statue, the restless
and variegated billows seem to break into foam and
spray.
All classes, all costumes are seen. Plain homespun clothes
and rich doublets, gentry and commoners, merchants and
factors, and yeomen, and negroes, and a great crowd of
students from the college of “William and Mary,” who
flock in gay groups along the thoroughfares, cracking jokes,
like their brethren in all ages.
“Duke-of-Gloucester-street” thus represents a jubilant
carnival: it is a conglomeration of forms, plain and picturesque,
old and young, male and female—jesting, laughing,
shouting, jostling—awaiting the event of the day.
From time to time the crowd moves to and fro unwillingly,
and as it were under protest; then rapidly divides itself
-- 024 --
[figure description] Page 024.[end figure description]
into parallel columns on each side of the street; and through
this space rolls a chariot, with four glossy horses. It contains
some old planter in his richest pourpoint, with his wife
and daughters blazing in silk and velvet and diamonds; and
the driver is a portly and consequential negro, who, proud
of himself, his master, and his position, looks down with
aristocratic condescension on the “poor white folks.”
As the chariot disappears in the direction of the palace
of the Governor, some richly clad gallant, mounted upon
his gayly-caparisoned thorough-bred, prances by in the same
direction; and if he be handsome he occasions favorable remarks
from the damsels, whose heads are visible in the windows
above.
He is succeeded by some country cart of rude pine board,
drawn by a solemn-looking donkey; and as the old countryman
and his wife bounce up and down, the heads at the
windows utter jests and laughter—a taste for the grotesque
having characterized the maidens of that epoch, as it does
the damsels of to-day.
With the uproarious crowd mingle members of the House
of Burgesses, and many personages who seem to look with
a philosophic eye on the carnival. These do not laugh or
jest; they wait; they seek for the currents of popular opinion,
and continue to gaze silently.
All at once, in the midst of the tumult, a bell is heard,
and this is followed by a shout.
Then a great undulation takes place in the mass; the
waves roll right and left, young girls are precipitated into
strangers' arms; through the open space comes on a troop
of horsemen from the direction of the palace—Lord Dunmore's
guards, who occupy barracks near at hand.
They ride vigorous horses, and are clad in the British
uniform, being, indeed, Englishmen. They disappear at the
western end of Gloucester street, followed by some murmurs.
The crowd closes after them; the bells continue to ring;
the windows are more densely crowded; urchins even
-- 025 --
[figure description] Page 025.[end figure description]
mount upon the old Magazine, and clasp the flag-staff bearing
aloft the banner of St. George. A great shout tells
that the object of all this excitement has entered the capital.
The confusion becomes now like Pandemonium. The
heads of young girls are thrust to a dangerous distance from
the windows; handkerchiefs are violently waved by these
splendor-loving youthful personages; and the number of
damsels, children, and all weaker characters who are precipitated
upon alien bosoms is more marked than ever.
But the end is accomplished; the center of the street is
left free.
A score of the guards, riding four abreast, precede the
cavalcade which we have seen stop a moment near the old
field school. As many follow it.
The first chariot contains the Countess of Dunmore, wife
of his Excellency the Governor, with her daughters the Ladies
Susan and Augusta.
The second is occupied by Lady Catherine and her brothers,
the Honorable Alexander and John Murray.
The third contains Lord Fincastle, Captain Foy, the private
secretary of his Excellency, and his wife. Captain
Foy looks forth calmly on the crowd—his pale, quiet face
betrays nothing.
But the countess, her daughters and her sons, are plainly
gratified by their reception. The young ladies especially,
with their rosy and good-humored faces, seem far from indifferent
to the shouts of welcome which greet them. They
look out and smile, and raise their eyes to the fair faces at
the windows, or scan the crowd.
The crowd looks back amiably. It pays no attention to
Lord Fincastle, Captain Foy, or the sons of his Excellency.
They are accustomed to lords and honorables, and prefer
the smiling faces of the young ladies.
Thus the cortege passes along Gloucester street, accompanied
by the crowd which bears it on its way. The bells
continue to ring—a band of music in the palace grounds
commences an inspiring march—the chariots enter the great
-- 26 -- p510-031
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gateway, flanked as now by the two guard-houses—and then
the Scottish lindens hide them from the eyes of the multitude.
Virginia has beheld her last viceregal “entrance.”*
eaf510n1* Historical Illustrations, No. I.
CHAPTER III. HOW BLOSSOM FAINTED, AND WHAT FOLLOWED.
The crowd does not at once disperse. It busies itself
looking at the chariots, at the fat gentleman on the palace
portico, at the musicians who blow away with puffed cheeks.
The strident music has a less pleasing effect upon the
horses of the troop, who, ranged on each side of the great
gate, defend the passage against all but the chariots of the
“gentry.”
The animals move uneasily, threatening every moment to
trample on the crowd, and their riders are evidently as ill
at ease.
This sentiment seems experienced, more than all, by their
commander.
He is a young man of twenty-four or five, wearing a rich
uniform, and a heavy saber. He curbs with a vigorous hand
his restive charger; his dark eyebrows are knit into a heavy
frown.
More than once his animal has just escaped trampling on
some member of the crowd whose attention is attracted by
the efforts he plainly makes to subdue the horse; but the
officer seems ill disposed to furnish an object for popular
comment. His patience all at once gives way—anger overcomes
him—and striking the animal violently on the head
with his gauntleted hand, he mutters something very much
like an imprecation.
The horse backs, then starts forward under the spur
-- 027 --
[figure description] Page 027.[end figure description]
driven violently into his side. At the same instant a cry
beneath the very feet of the charger is heard, and the
young man sees that a child has fallen under the trampling
hoofs.
A score of hands are stretched out—as many exclamations
heard—but the young officer forestalls assistance. He
throws himself from the saddle, and raising the figure of the
child in his arms, asks anxiously if she is hurt.
“No sir—I believe—not,” she falters. “I was a little
frightened—I can stand—I think, sir.”
And Blossom—for it is our little friend of the old field
school, separated from Paul by the crowd—Blossom glided
from the encircling arm, and placed her feet upon the
ground.
Had not the young man supported her again, she would
have fallen. The frown deepened on his face, and something
like a growl issued from his lips.
“Go!” he said, turning to the troop with an imperious
gesture, “Go! you are disbanded!”
The troopers gladly obeyed. They quickly returned to
their barracks through the crowd, which made way for them,
one of them leading the young officer's horse.
As they disappeared he felt the slender form weigh heavily
upon his arm. A sudden pallor diffused itself over Blossom's
countenance; the long lashes drooped upon the cheek,
and the weak head fell like a wounded bird's upon the young
man's breast. The child's knees bent beneath her, and she
fainted in his arms.
A glance told him all, and raising the light figure wholly
from the ground, he bore the child quickly beneath the lindens
into the palace of the Governor.
A door was half open at the end of the hall, and perceiving
a vessel of water upon a sideboard, he hastened thither
and bathed the child's forehead in the cool liquid.
A slight tremor now ran through her frame, the color returned
to her cheeks, and with a deep sigh Blossom opened
her eyes.
-- 28 -- p510-033
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“Ah!” exclaimed the officer, drawing a long breath of relief,
“there's your color back again, my little girl! That's
well! You are not hurt, I hope. 'Tis but a poor pageant
that ends with injury to a child; and I'd much rather resign
my commission than have it on my conscience!”
A species of haughty growl, accompanied by the rustle of
silk on the opposite side of the apartment, attracted his attention
as he spoke, and, turning round, the young officer
saw that he was in presence of Lord Dunmore and his
household, who had apparently been so much surprised by
his entrance as not to have been able either to speak or
move.
CHAPTER IV. A GLIMPSE OF HIS EXCELLENCY LORD DUNMORE.
Lord Dunmore was clad on this occasion with great
splendor. His short and somewhat corpulent person had
apparently been decorated by his valet with extraordinary
care.
He wore a full dress—silk stockings, gold embroidered
waistcoat, velvet surcoat, also embroidered, a bag wig, and
a profusion of ruffles. At his button hole fluttered an order
of nobility.
The red and somewhat coarse face did not prepossess
strangers in his lordship's favor. They seemed to feel that
this countenance must needs indicate a scheming and wholly
egotistical nature. And it is certain that reliable records
establish this view. Lord Dunmore was not proficient even
in intrigue. He bungled in the dark paths which he trod,
and stumbled. All his plans went ill. No one would rely
on him. More than once, when thrown in collision with the
growing spirit of liberty in the colonies, and its advocates
in the Burgesses, he had essayed to wheedle the members;
-- 029 --
[figure description] Page 029.[end figure description]
and for this purpose had descended, as he conceived, to undue
familiarity. But this manner did not set well upon him.
Essentially unreliable and scheming by nature, he could not
conceal his character, and generally ended by disgusting
those whom he desired to conciliate. He was not wanting
in those social attentions which his predecessors from the
time of Berkeley had found so useful; but the guest whom
he entertained generally went away distursting his uneasy
politeness, and doubting the reality and good faith of his
Excellency's protestations.
Lord Dunmore had little of that urbanity and cordial politeness
which characterized his amiable predecessor, Francis
Fauquier; he possessed none of the tranquil and well-bred
courtesy and ease of the justly popular Lord Botetourt, who
had coveted no other title than that of “Virginia gentleman.”
In Fauquier the planters of the colony could and
did easily pardon a mania for card playing and wine; they
had not the same charity for Lord Dunmore's less amiable
weaknesses. While the counties of “Fauquier” and “Botetourt”
still remain, and will always, the county of “Dunmore”
had its name changed unanimously to “Shenandoah.”
The people of Virginia at the period brought ugly charges
against his Excellency. They said that through his secret
agent, Conolly, he was embroiling the Virginians and Pennsylvanians
about the boundary line, to divert attention from
the designs of the ministry, and dissipate the increasing
spirit of rebellion. They added that he had a league with
the savages, whom he tempted to make incursions on the
Virginia frontier,* and thus break the opposition to the
English Parliament by exhausting the colony's resources.
They finally declared that he was a traitor, inasmuch as he
attempted to betray Lewis into the hands of the enemy at
Point Pleasant. Colonel Bland charged his Excellency
with lying; said he held “lewd and filthy orgies in his
-- 30 -- p510-035
[figure description] Page 030.[end figure description]
palace;” and the events which attended the last months of his
residence seem to support this view of his character.
His Excellency, indeed, was no favorite with the Virginians,
who pardon much if a man possesses refinement and
amiability. “Lord Dunmore,” says Mr. Wirt, “was not a
man of popular manners; he had nothing of the mildness,
the purity, the benevolence, and suavity of his predecessor.
On the contrary he is represented as having been rude and
offensive; coarse in his figure, his countenance and his manners.”
That his Excellency was both cruel and cowardly, the
events which attended his flight from Williamsburg, and
his piratical ravages on the shores of the Chesapeake, will
prove abundantly; defying all explanation or apology.
eaf510n2* Historical Illustrations, No. II.
CHAPTER V. IN WHICH HIS EXCELLENCY GETS THE BETTER OF A CHILD.
Lord Dunmore stood motionless in his rich dress, by the
window, and neither deigned to bow or speak, when the
young officer turned to him.
Fauquier would have been at his side with a smile
and a welcome. Dunmore stood still and raised his head
haughtily.
This lofty expression, however, seemed to produce very
little effect on the intruder. For some time now he had
been accustomed to excellencies and honorables. He placed
the child on a settee, and made the ladies a profound bow.
“Your Excellency will pardon my unceremonious entrance,”
he said, coolly; “there was no one to announce
me, and this child had fainted.”
“Your entrance was very natural, and quite pardonable,
sir,” said Lord Dunmore, with an expression of mingled
hauteur and condescension; and then extending his hand
-- 031 --
[figure description] Page 031.[end figure description]
ceremoniously towards the young man, he added, “Lady
Dunmore, permit me to present to you, and my daughters,
Mr. St. John, lieutenant of my guards.”
The officer bowed low again, but it was easy to see from
the slight movement of his proud lip that something in the
title thus bestowed upon him was displeasing.
Lady Dunmore was about to speak, and from the amiable
smile upon her countenance, to refer, doubtless, to the pleasant
reception she had met with, and Mr. St. John's part
therein, when his Excellency forestalled such colloquy by
recalling attention to Blossom.
As he looked at the child there was as little evidence of
courtesy or amiability as in his address to Mr. St. John,
and he said, almost rudely—
“Is this young person hurt, sir? I confess I see no traces
of any accident, unless you call lassitude an accident.”
Mr. St. John's brow clouded more and more; for under
the circumstances of the case, the tone of Lord Dunmore
was as much an insult to himself as to the child; and the
young man did not seem to have been habituated to insult.
Before he could reply, however, the Governor turned away
from him to Blossom, and said, in the same careless and
rude tone:
“What happened to you?”
“I fainted, sir,” murmured the child, frightened at the
cold face and harsh voice, “in the crowd, sir.”
“A mere trifle! Where do you live—in Williamsburg?”
“No sir—I came to see the procession, and—”
“What! you had the imprudence to come to town thus!
Your parents show little sense in their government.”
“Paul was with me,” murmured Blossom—“we go
to school at Uncle Jimmy's, not far from here, and our
house is not so far as that. I think I can walk home
now, sir!”
And anxious to get away from the forbidding presence of
her interlocutor, Blossom rose to her feet, and made a step
toward the door. Her strength, however, was unequal to
-- 032 --
[figure description] Page 032.[end figure description]
the exertion, and she sank down again with an expression of
pain.
Mr. St. John, whose brow had assumed a darker and
darker cloud, as he stood listening to this conversation,
would have hastened to her, but he was forestalled by one
of the young ladies, who rose quickly, and in a moment was
at the child's side. It was the Lady Augusta whom Blossom
had met at the old school.
“Are you much hurt, Blossom?” she said, kindly and
softly; “don't try to walk yet.”
The child murmured something which was inaudible.
“Are you not sick?” asked the young lady, in the same
kind voice.
“No ma'am,” faltered Blossom.
“I'm afraid you are,” said the young lady, gazing at the
child with tender pity; “you must let his lordship send you
home in his chariot.”
“In his chariot, ma'am?”
“Certainly.”
Blossom murmured that she could walk; she was very
much obliged for her kindness; then the child paused, her
voice dying away in her throat.
The young lady had looked at her so kindly, and held
the small hand so lovingly in her own, that Blossom, in her
weak condition, had been too much affected to speak.
“Come, Lady Augusta,” said Lord Dunmore, coldly, “let
us prepare to receive the guests in the drawing-room. As
for this child—”
“Yes, yes, your lordship,” said the young lady submissively
and hurriedly, and turning to the child she said:
“Where do you live?”
“Just out of town, ma'am.”
“What is your name?”
“Beatrice, ma'am—but they call me Blossom.”
“Oh I know,” said the young lady, “but your other
name?”
“Beatrice Waters, ma'am.”
-- 033 --
[figure description] Page 033.[end figure description]
Lord Dunmore, who had turned stiffly away, wheeled
round as he heard this name.
“Did you say Waters?” he asked curtly.
“Yes, sir,” murmured Blossom.
“What Waters?”
“Sir?”
“I asked you what was the Christian name of you father.”
“Charles, sir—he is Mr. Charles Waters.”
His Excellency's brow clouded over, and he frowned.
“Lady Augusta,” he said, “do you know who you are
fondling?”
The young lady turned a frightened look upon her father,
and murmured some inaudible words.
“You are bestowing your caresses upon the daughter of
the most dangerous—yes! the blackest-hearted rebel in this
colony! A man,” added Lord Dunmore, with growing
choler, “who is a firebrand of sedition, and who will swing
from the gallows if my authority lasts, and I lay hands on
him! It is his offspring that my daughter, madame, is bestowing
her attentions upon!”
His Excellency was mastered by one of those sudden fits
of anger to which he was constitutionally subject. His
countenance reddened, and became puffed up; the vein in
his forehead was swollen, and his small keen eyes flashed,
as he spoke in his tone of disdainful roughness and anger.
His family were accustomed to humor him when these fits
seized upon him; and by submitting, to thus divert and
dissipate those domestic thunderbolts of his lordship.
One person present, however, did not seem to have been
trained to this species of deference. Mr. St. John had apparently
been in an ill-humor all day; moreover, he seemed
to be accustomed, himself, to courtesy at the very least,
and the utter want of ceremony on the part of his lordship,
added to the unfeeling insults directed toward his young
protegeé, produced in Mr. St. John's countenance an expression
of impetuous anger and no little disdain.
-- 034 --
[figure description] Page 034.[end figure description]
“Perhaps your lordship is mistaken in the individual
who is this child's father,” he now said, with cold courtesy.
“Impossible, sir! I'm not mistaken!” replied his Excellency,
surveying the young man with a look which seemed
to ask if he had the presumption to address him in that
tone.
Mr. St. John's brow darkened more and more.
“At least this girl does not resemble a very dangerous
rebel,” he said, with an imperceptible shade of sarcasm in
his voice, which made the Governor's cheek flush with
rage.
“Mr. St. John!” he said.
“Your Excellency,” was the cold reply.
“This is a singular colloquy! Your meaning, if you
please, in reading me a lecture, sir!”
“I read no lecture to your lordship,” replied the young
man, with a haughty look, and without lowering his eyes;
“my meaning simply is, that whatever may be the character
of this child's father—his dangerous character—your
lordship can't possibly be afraid of the child herself.”
For a moment his Excellency's countenance resembled
a thunder-cloud from which a flash of lightning was about
to dart. The vein in his forehead turned black, and his
frame trembled with anger. But his prudence suddenly
came to control him; he seemed to feel the bad policy of
a quarrel with Mr. St. John; and passing from rage to hauteur,
he endeavored to speak in a tone of insulted dignity.
“I am not in the habit of entering into debates with
young men, sir,” he said, “and I must beg that this discussion
may here end. I am sorry to say, Mr. St. John,
that I find you, like other gentlemen of this colony, inclined
to oppose my opinions and wishes, as well as strangely neglectful
of that ceremony and respect which are due to
myself, as a peer of the realm and the representative of his
majesty! I pass over this occasion, sir, and trust that you
will perceive the necessity of not holding arguments with
me in future, especially in the presence of my family.”
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[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]
“I did not wish to argue with your lordship; you questioned
me—I replied,” said the young man, with internal
rage, but outwardly as cold as ice. “If any thing which I
have said, has wounded the feelings of your lordship's
family, I most humbly pray them to pardon me.”
“Enough, sir,” returned the Governor, in no degree mollified,
if any thing, more haughtily than before; “the Countess
of Dunmore and my daughters are not accustomed to
have their feelings wounded by everybody; you may be at
rest upon that score, sir. Now let this conversation end.”
“I ask nothing more!” replied Mr. St. John, flushing
with anger and disdain at the tone of the Governor.
“I will see that this young person is conveyed home—if
the man Waters does not conceal his abode—but I certainly
shall not send my chariot and servants to the house of a
traitor!”
“Your Excellency need put yourself to no trouble—my
own carriage is at hand, and I take charge of the child.”
“Do so, sir; and permit me to congratulate you upon
making the friendly acquaintance of a treason-monger! It
is quite in character to allow his helpless daughter to wander
about unprotected. A traitor makes a heartless father,
and a bad man.”
Before Mr. St. John could speak, another voice was heard—
it was Blossom's. The child had listened with pale
cheeks, and a frightened look, to the fiery colloquy, and
had not dared to open her lips. But now her father was
insulted more grossly than before; his very affection for her
was called in question; the little heart boiled over with pain
and anguish; and clasping her hands Blossom cried:
“Oh no, sir! indeed, indeed papa's not bad! He loves
me dearly, and he did n't know I came, sir.”
“Enough of your childish twaddle!” said Dunmore contemptuously.
“I'm not here to be wearied by it. I'll
make your rebel father whine, too, before I have done
with him!”
“Oh me!” sobbed Blossom, “please let me go, sir!
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[figure description] Page 036.[end figure description]
I do not feel well. I ought not to stay and hear papa
abused.”
“Go, then!”
Blossom rose quickly, with a flood of tears, and turned toward
the door. But again her strength failed her; she
turned deadly pale as her bruised foot touched the carpet,
and fell back sobbing.
The arms of Mr. St. John received her, and thus standing,
with pale face and fiery eyes bent on the Governor, his indignation
and disdain were imperial.
He would have spoken, but his pale lips refused their
office. With a single look of defiance at his Excellency, the
young man raised the form of the child completely in his
arms, and left the apartment and the palace.
He passed rapidly with the sobbing girl along the graveled
walk beneath the lindens, and issued from the great gate.
Without pausing, he strode along Gloucester street, followed
by wondering eyes, and soon reached the Raleigh
Tavern.
In fifteen minutes a handsome chariot, with four splendid
bay horses, stood before the door, and Mr. St. John deposited
the child in the vehicle. Her delicate form sunk into the
luxurious velvet seat as into a bed of down, and Mr. St.
John took his place by her side. He then gave an order to
the negro driver, and the chariot proceeded slowly out of
the town in a westerly direction.
The young man had made but one allusion to the scene
at the palace; uttered but one word; that word was—
“Vulgarian!”
It was Mr. St. John's honest opinion of his Excellency
Lord Dunmore.
The evening was a lovely one, and the sun had sunk beyond
the belt of forests, leaving the sky rosy and brilliant,
and swimming in a gentle mist. The birds sang merrily,
and the woodland road unwound itself like a ribbon before
them as they penetrated into the leafy depths of the forest.
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The anger and disdain of Mr. St. John slowly disappeared,
and he seemed to enjoy the freshness and innocence of his
little companion. At last they reached Blossom's abode.
It was a small cottage, fronting south, and had about it an
air of home comfort which was very attractive. The tender
foliage of May appeared to wreathe the small portico, the
drooping eaves, and even the old chimneys; and a thousand
flowers, chiefly early roses, studded the diminutive lawn,
and filled the warm air of evening with their fragrance.
Blossom had indeed told her companion that the cottage
was called “Roseland,” and the name was perfectly appropriate.
On the threshold was no less a personage than Mr. Paul,
in an attitude of profound despair. He had just returned
to the cottage, hoping to find his companion, from whom he
had been separated in the crowd, and not finding her was
about to go back to the town, he declared, and find her or
perish in the attempt. That was happily unnecessary, St.
John said, with a smile; and so, with mutual good will, the
young man and the children parted.
St. John returned in his chariot to Williamsburg.
The town was brilliantly illuminated. From every window
along the main thoroughfare lights blazed in honor of
his Excellency and his family.* The crowd of revelers was
greater than ever, and the palace of the Governor was one
mass of light—more especially the great drawing-room,
where, under the globe lamps, and fronting the portraits of
the king and queen, the amiable countess, supported by
her daughters, received the congratulations of the gentry
of the colony upon her reunion with his Excellency.
Dismissing his chariot, Mr. St. John went and gazed for
some moments at the brilliant front of the palace.
“The silly masquerade may go on its way without my
assistance,” he muttered, coldly. “I'll not go there and
bow and simper when his lordship's put a slight on me—
-- 38 -- p510-043
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insulted me! Hang him! let the rest pay him their respects—
I won't, and there's an end on 't.”
With these words Mr. St. John retraced his steps to the
Raleigh Tavern, and sitting down, demanded a bottle of
wine and some biscuits.
Having finished his repast, he went out, passed down
Gloucester street, and entered a house, whose second floor
he occupied. Throwing himself upon a lounge, he tossed his
hat and sword on the floor, and looked through the window.
“I'm the only one who do n't illuminate,” he said. “Well,
so let it be.”
And leaning back, he closed his eyes—meditated, and
from meditation glided into sleep.
eaf510n3* Historical Illustrations, No. III.
CHAPTER VI. THE GREAT GRANDSON OF POCAHONTAS.
Henry St. John was the only son of Colonel John St.
John, of “Flower of Hundreds,” in the county of Prince
George. This John was himself the only son of Henry
St. John, Esquire, called “King Harry,” who having run
through a fine estate in Hertfordshire, England, came to
Virginia about the time of Bacon's rebellion, in which he
took part against the government, but, by good luck, escaped
with the payment of a heavy fine. He married, the
second time—his first wife, who was a Miss Pendleton, having
died without issue—Miss Virginia Rolfe, daughter of
Thomas Rolfe, Esquire, the only son of Pocahontas, daughter
of Powhatan, King of Virginia, whose empire stretched from
Florida to the great lakes, and from the Atlantic to the
Mississippi.
The Mr. Henry St. John of our narrative was, therefore,
the lineal descendant of Pocahontas.
We have little genius or fondness for the details of
-- 039 --
[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]
pedigree, but surely 't is a source of noble pride to be descended
from our dear Virginia maiden. Royalty and nobility are
but vulgar things, and the boast of Norman blood is but
the child's fondness for the rattle of a toy. The grace of
the fashion of it perisheth—its glorious beauty is a fading
flower—only the shadow of a shadow stays. It is different
in the case of the descendants of our little queen of the
West. Her patent of nobility was won beneath the war
club raised above the head of a poor captive; her royalty
was the royalty of a noble heart, of a great and pure devotion
to the cause of love and mercy.
So writes the good author of these manuscripts. Let us
pass, however, to the young gentleman who had in his veins
the blood of this new Indian royalty.
As he sleeps, in the flood of light from the tall silver candlesticks,
it is not difficult to fancy, from the wild grace of
his attitude, and the character of his face, that something of
his origin reveals itself.
The face is a handsome one, with a clear brown tint, almost
that of a brunette, and the hair is dark and waving.
The rounded and prominent chin indicates resolution, and
the curve of the lips, which possess great mobility, as plainly
show that the young man is subject to strong passions. In
the scene with the Governor we have observed the quick
shades of anger and resentment only; but now this has quite
disappeared, and, sleeping like a placid infant, all the features
of the face have subsided into softness and repose. In
his dreams the young man smiles, and the smile is one of
great sweetness.
Leaving to the course of the narrative any further indications
of Mr. Henry St. John's peculiarities, we proceed
to relate that, at the end of an hour, he was waked by a
knock at the door, which was followed by the entrance of a
young man clad in the height of the fashion. Indeed, it
might almost be said that this young gentleman's costume
was one mass of lace and embroidery. The drop curls of
his flaxen peruke were glossy with perfumed powder, a
-- 040 --
[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]
little dress sword just lifted up the skirt of his richly decorated
pourpoint of Mecklenburg silk, and his aristocratic
hands were covered with the finest point de Venise. Mr.
Tom Alston—for that was the name of the worthy—presented
a mixture of the fop and the philosopher in his dress
and manner, and seemed to have stepped carelessly from the
frame of one of Vandyke's pictures.
He extended two fingers to his friend and sat down.
“Not sleeping, Harry, my boy?” he said. “Why not at
the Governor's?”
“I preferred staying away. Did you go?”
“Yes—a crowd of nice girls, and refreshments of a pleasing
description.”
“Very well—but I do n't regret my absence,” said Mr.
St. John; “the fact is, Tom, I'm tired of his lordship, and
think I'll resign my commission. I'm no man's servant, and
I won't be his Excellency's.”
“Eh? His servant?”
“Yes. I am absolutely nothing more. There, let us leave
the subject, or I'm sure to burst forth into useless expletives.'2
“Expletives?” said Mr. Alston, tranquilly. “Come, tell
me all about it. I see that something has occurred, and
I'm really dying to hear a bit of scandal—absolutely none
for a whole week. Do proceed, Harry, my boy, and narrate
from the beginning, with all the orations, like that tiresome
old Thucydides.”
Mr. St. John was silent for a moment, and then said:
“I do n't care if I do, Tom. I feel as if the historic muse
would come at my call, and I'll try her. Well, here goes,
but you are not to yawn at my apologue.”
“By no means,” said Mr. Alston, with an air of reproach.
“Proceed, my friend.”
“Well, you must know that there formerly resided in a
country called Virginia a young man called Harry St. John.
You understand so far?”
“Yes.”
“Well, this young man, who had the misfortune to lose
-- 041 --
[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]
his parents in his childhood, was sole heir to an estate called
the `Flower of Hundreds,' upon which estate there was a
big old house, full of deer antlers, fine furniture, tall mirrors,
portraits of old fellows in periwigs, and dames in odd-looking
dresses; and in the stables were as fine a collection of
thorough-breds, 't was said, as any in the colony. Every
thing else was ample and comfortable, and it was reasonable
for the youngster to expect a life of ease and satisfaction—
was it not? He might marry his cousin, grow fat, preside
at the county court, and be a respectable vestryman of the
parish. There were plenty of foxes on his lands, and a quarrelsome
neighbor near at hand, with whom he might, at any
moment, plunge into a good comfortable lawsuit. In a single
word, all the elements of human happiness were at the young
fellow's disposal, and he had only to `enter and enjoy,' as
the lawyers say.”
“He was a lucky fellow, my boy. I should like to know
him,” said Mr. Alston.
“As to the luck, there's the question,” continued Mr. St.
John, “for nature had put a nail in the young man's shoe—
restlessness. He longed for something more exciting than
plantation life. Having left college, he came into his property,
carefully administered by his excellent uncle, Colonel
Vane; but very soon he began to grow dissatisfied. You
see, the couches were too soft, the beds were too large, the
wines were too good, and the fields which stretched far away
to the horizon from the portico of the old hall, were deficient
in rugged beauty and picturesqueness, such as the
mountains yield. In a word, the youthful heir was tired of
the insipidity of farm life, and longed for something like
adventure, having a private impression of his own that the
clash of swords and the whistling of bullets would make
merrier music than the winds in the trees, or the waves lap
ping on the banks of the river.”
“Odd,” observed Mr. Alston, “but I think I understand.”
“Well,” proceeded Mr. St. John, “this young fellow
-- 042 --
[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]
struggled with his passion for two or three years, but at the
end of that time his predilection got the better of him. A
nobleman came to be Governor of the country he lived in——
a vulgar fellow named Dunmore.”
“Oh! a vulgar fellow do you say? But proceed, my
friend.”
“You'll see before I end, if I am wrong in my characterization,
Tom,” continued Mr. St. John. “Well, as I said,
this man, Dunmore, came to the country in question, called
Virginia, and a great talk was made about his excellence
and greatness. He professed to be most solicitous about
Virginia, and turned his attention especially to repelling the
attacks of savages upon the western frontier. He said he
wished the inhabitants to hold themselves in readiness to
march under his command, and as a proof of his intention
to act vigorously, he brought with him some foreign soldiers,
who would serve as a nucleus for the proposed forces.
Exception was, however, taken by some persons to the
presence of this body of men, and in order to allay the disquiet,
his Excellency sought for a Virginian who should be
placed, as it were, in their front rank, to disarm this sentiment.
Here commenced the connection of Mr. St. John
with his Excellency. Introduced to him as one of the large
landed proprietors of the colony, his Excellency treated him
with much politeness, and finally requested private interviews.
Would Mr. St. John accept the commission of
lieutenant, commanding, for the present, this nucleus?—
they would ere long march to the frontier, and much glory
would ensue. Do you understand?”
His friend nodded.
“The aforesaid Mr. St. John was then twenty-three or
so, and had greater thirst for adventure than ever. Would
he accept? Yes, most willingly. No sooner said than done.
He leaves his estate, comes to the capital, establishes himself
therein as becomes a soldier, and gloriously parades on horseback,
in fine uniform, at the head of his troops. He enters
into military affairs with ardor and enthusiasmhe
trains
-- 043 --
[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]
his men in quick evolutions, in bush fighting, in rapid discharge
of pistols, and in approved cut and thrust with the
saber. He sees that their arms are as brilliant as silver;
their uniform and entire equipments perfect. He calls on
his Excellency every day to inquire for news from the frontier,
and receiving comforting answers, goes away twirling
his mustaches, his sword clanking against his boots, his head
full of martial glory, and conscious of the admiration of
every urchin who beholds him.”
“Of none of the girls—eh, my boy?” inquired Mr. Alston.
“Doubtless, for you know the gentler sex admire the soldier,
at least some of them. But to proceed. The young
man, you see, is ready, impatient; but somehow the order
to march is delayed, his Excellency's excuses are repeated,
the young fellow's assiduity finally seems distasteful. Moreover,
the troops he commands seem permanently stationed
in guard houses, flanking his lordship's gate—they attend
solely on his lordship's person—they ride behind his coach,
and are called by him, “My Guards.” His lordship is a
king, the young lieutenant a satrap of the provinces, and,
contrary to the habit of Virginians, he has become an upper
servant. Can you wonder that the result is distaste upon
his part; that he begins to think his Excellency insincere?
He finally concludes that he is tricked, and it is just at this
moment that he receives orders to marshal “My Guards,”
and go and receive the royal family on their entrance, which
event occurred this morning. Well, he obeyed. They were
ladies, and he was far from objecting to take part in the
pageantry. But he found in this cortége other characters—
lords, honorables, captains, drivers, footmen, outriders—
it was his place to escort them all. He did do it. He
mounted guard at the palace gate even, to keep the ill-bred
Virginians at their proper distance. He succeeded. Well,
now for the conclusion. The young soldier rode a spirited
horse; the music of a band annoyed him, the animal became
restive, and the result was the overthrow of a child, who
-- 044 --
[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]
rolled beneath his feet, and, when the young man raised
her, fainted away. He went to the nearest point for some
cold water, procured it in the palace, and for presuming to
so intrude was insulted by his Excellency. You se his
lordship was an English nobleman, and the young man was
only a Virginia gentleman. Not only the young man himself
was outraged, but the child who accompanied him was
grossly insulted and wounded! and Mr. Lieutenant St. John
was requested to retire and make way for his betters! Curse
me! if the man's one particle of a gentleman, and I'll throw
his commission back in his face!” cried St. John, flushing,
and thus breaking forth with long-gathering indignation.
Mr. Alston was silent for some moments, apparently musing
tranquilly upon the history to which he had just listened.
At last he said:
“Throw it back, Harry! what's the use? Do n't take the
trouble—rather come with me to my house of `Moorefield,'
where I will try and entertain you, though this peruke from
Mr. George Lafong's, who calls himself a wigmaker, is
making me silent and melancholy. Come, Harry, my boy,
come with me.”
“No, Tom,” said his friend, “I'll tell his lordship my
candid opinion of him, if he arrests me the next moment.
Hang him! he sha'n't tread on me, if he is a tyrant!”
And Mr. St. John scowled in imagination at Lord Dunmore,
with a sincerity that was very striking.
“You won't go to Moorefield?” said Mr. Alston, smiling;
“but that's just the way you always treat me. May I make
a second suggestion, however, Harry? Go to—Vanely.”
Mr. St. John turned his head quickly, and looked at his
friend. As he encountered Mr. Alston's eyes and smile,
something almost like a blush diffused itself over his cheek.
“Ah! ah!” said Mr. Alston, laughing, “there's a fine
historian! You make a splendid historic narrative, and you
leave out the most striking event in the life of your hero!
You carefully forget to mention that this Virginia Achilles
had a Briseis—this Hector of Prince George county, a
-- 045 --
[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]
prospective Andromache—and that the nodding plume of war
was put on to flash in the eyes of somebody!”
Mr. St. John blushed unmistakably this time, and then
burst out laughing.
“Well if I did, Tom,” he said, “what's the odds? She's
the loveliest girl in the colony.”
“Perhaps! But why not go and try your luck, then?”
Mr. St. John sighed.
“I'm afraid it's no use,” he said; “she loves me, but unfortunately
she's not in love with me.”
“A profoundly philosophical distinction; but did you
never hear the Spanish proverb, `Patience, and shuffle the
cards?' Now the cards are at `Vanely;' leave this abode of
royalty with me, forget his Excellency, and go see Dulcinea.”
Mr. St. John pondered, and from the varying color of his
tell-tale cheek, it was plain what he was thinking of.
“Well,” he said at last, “I'll do so, Tom. I'll follow the
advice scratched on the wall yonder, with the odd name, Sir
Asinus to it—`The duty of a subject is submission.' Yes,
I'll leave this wretched mimic court, and go to Vanely, provided
you stay all night and go with me.”
“Done,” said Mr. Alston, “and now let us have a game
of tric-trac.”
“Willingly,” Mr. St. John replied, “and my first stake
shall be these tawdry epaulets of gold thread against sixpence—
the value I attach to them!”
Cards and wine were quickly brought by a servant in
waiting, and the young men commenced playing.
Two hours afterwards they were sound asleep, and an
attentive listener might have heard the lieutenant of his Excellency's
guards murmur the name of a woman of whom
he seemed to be dreaming.
-- 46 -- p510-051
CHAPTER VII. CONSPIRACY.
[figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]
We have glanced at the scenes of the day on which, amid
the glare of sunlight, and the noisy plaudits of the crowd,
the Countess of Dunmore entered grandly the old capital.
We shall now pass to the night world; to a few scenes
which concealed themselves beneath the silence and gloom.
The lights in the city of Williamsburg had one by one
disappeared, as lord and lady, noble and commoner sought
their pillows; all the noises of evening and night had long
since died away, and a gloomy silence, only interrupted from
time to time by the low muttering of distant thunder,
reigned over the ancient town.
There was one exception, however, to this total darkness.
From the lofty window of a tall mansion which rose like an
attenuated ghost above the surrounding roofs, a faint glimmer,
like a star, just dispelled the gloom, and even this much
light seemed to escape by accident through the chinks of
the carefully closed oaken shutters.
Let us ascend the precipitous and winding stair-way of
the half-deserted mansion, and opening the door of the turretlike
chamber, endeavor to discover what business is thus
being transacted under the jealous vail of silence and darkness.
The apartment is destitute of all ornament, the furniture
consisting only of a long table, a few rough chairs, and some
shelves filled with old volumes and papers. It has two occupants.
The first is a rough-looking man, covered with
dust like a courier after a long journey, who is slumbering
heavily upon a bear skin thrown down in one corner. The
other inmate of the room sits at the table writing rapidly—
two loaded pistols lying within reach of his hand.
He is a man of middle age, clad in a suit of dark cloth,
affording no indication of his character or station. In the
-- 047 --
[figure description] Page 047.[end figure description]
face and form of this person, however, there is more to attract
attention.
The countenance of the stranger is one of those which,
once seen, haunts the memory. He has not passed middle
age, apparently, but the thin brown locks around his broad
forehead are sprinkled with gray; labor or care has furrowed
deep lines from temple to temple, and a slight stoop in the
neck communicates to the general carriage that air of intense
meditation which characterizes profound thinkers, or those
upon whom is thrown responsibility of the most critical
character. Covered with the pallor of care or exhausting
toil, with clear-cut and resolute features, eyes burning with
a gloomy flame beneath bushy brows, and lips set sternly
with an expression of iron will, every thing in the face of
the stranger indicated an organization of the largest strength,
and an intellectual vigor which no obstacle could daunt.
His thin muscular fingers traversed the paper for an hour
without pausing scarcely, and then, as he reached the end,
the stranger laid down his pen, and leaned back in his
leather chair.
“Why, I grow old!” he murmured. “This writing for
a day and a night only, begins to fatigue me. 'T is no
matter.”
And without further words he set about folding the written
sheets. They were then enveloped in stout brown paper,
corded, and securely waxed. Upon this envelope was
written simply—
“To Mr. Samuel Adams,
“At Boston, in the Province of
“Massachusetts.”
A word awoke the sleeper, who rose quickly and stood
at the stranger's side. Few words were exchanged; the
two men seemed to understand each other, and the stranger
gave his directions in a brief low tone, to which the courier
replied by a slight movement of the head only.
“This to the town of Baltimore,” said the stranger,
-- 048 --
[figure description] Page 048.[end figure description]
taking a dispatch similar to the one he had just finished—“you
know the house. This, to Philadelphia—guard it carefully.
This, to the port of New York—as quickly as possible.
Have you enough money?”
The courier laid his leather purse on the table, and the
stranger examined its contents.
“ 'Tis enough, unless your horse fails, but that must not
happen. Here is more gold, for which you will sign a receipt.”
The receipt was written, signed by the courier, and deposited
in a drawer with a number of others.
“Go at once now, and proceed cautiously as you leave
the town. The patrol is abroad.”
“Yes, your honor; never fear me. My service to you,
and good times to the cause.”
The stranger returned the salute, and the courier disappeared.
In a few moments his horse's hoofs were heard as
he cautiously proceeded along Gloucester street, and the
stranger who watched the retreating shadow from his window,
drew a long breath of satisfaction.
“Now for the rest,” he said, and leaning against one of
the panels of the oaken wainscot, he touched the spring of
a secret closet, which flew open. From this aperture he
took a bundle of letters, which he placed in his bosom. He
then rapidly returned to the table, secured the two pistols
in his belt, and throwing a cloak over his shoulders, put out
the light, and descended to the street.
The moon was just rising through a bank of threatening
clouds, which at one moment obscured the red orb, then
swept onward and permitted the full light to shine. No
wayfarer was visible upon the silent and deserted street,
and an expression of satisfaction came again to the features
of the stranger.
He wrapped his cloak more closely around him, and passing
along in the shadow of the houses, stopped, at the end
of ten minutes, before a low building, into the basement or
rather cellar of which he descended by a flight of
-- 049 --
[figure description] Page 049.[end figure description]
precipitous steps. All was dark, but the stranger proceeded without
stopping along the damp passage way, and struck quickly
thrice, then, after a pause, once again, upon an iron-bound
door. A boy opened the door, and he entered.
Two men were engaged at a printing table striking off,
by means of a “deer's foot” and mallet, copies of a species
of circular. Upon one end of the table lay a pile of these
printed sheets, still damp, which every moment received a
new addition from the cautious labors of the printers.
A masonic movement of the head was the sole recognition
which passed. To the stranger's brief question of the number
of copies printed, the reply was, “two hundred.”
“That is enough for the present moment,” he said; “fold
them securely.”
This was done rapidly, and with great skill, and in five
minutes the stranger stood again in the street. He proceeded,
as cautiously as before, on his return to the building
from which he had issued, stopping for a moment in the
shadow of one of the houses to let two of the Governor's
guardsmen in uniform go by.
They passed within three feet of the silent figure, jesting
roughly, their sabers rattling against their huge horseman's
boots. The figures finally disappeared at the corner of Palace
street, and the solitary man hastened onward, keeping, as
before, in the shadow.
He soon reached the tall house from which he had dispatched
the courier to the northern provinces, and, opening
a narrow gate, disappeared. Behind the building, in the
deep shadow, a horse awaited him, and, mounting, he issued
forth and proceeded cautiously in a westerly direction, keeping
as much as possible in the darkness.
He reached in safety the last house of the town, the muttering
over head nearly drowning the noise of his horse's
hoofs, and was about to issue into the country, when, as he
came opposite the door of this house, a party of the Governor's
patrol, who had been drinking in the ordinary, challenged
him and commanded him to halt. The stranger's
-- 050 --
[figure description] Page 050.[end figure description]
reply was the spur in his horse's side, which made the animal
bound ten feet.
A second and louder challenge was instantly followed by
the quick report of a carbine, and a ball passed through the
horseman's cloak between his side and his bridle hand.
With an unconscious movement as rapid as lightning he
drew one of his pistols, cocked it, and leveled it, with
flashing eyes, at his assailants.
He did not discharge it, however; quickly replacing it in
his belt, he muttered, “Useless!” and put spur to his horse.
Before a second carbine could be brought to the shoulder,
the figures of the stranger and his flying animal had disappeared
like shadows under the gloomy foliage of the great
woods. Without checking his horse, and with the air of a
man who knows the road as well by night as by day, the
stranger went on rapidly, penetrating deeper and deeper
into the forest, whose heavy boughs moaned in the wind.
At the end of half an hour's rapid riding, he came to a
sort of glade in the woods, and as he emerged from the
dense shadow the moon burst forth from a black cloud, and
poured a flood of yellow light upon the open space. Beneath
a huge oak, a confused mass of men and horses revealed
itself, and the stranger was challenged a second time.
“Good!” he said with satisfaction; “you are watchful,
friend. Wake your comrades; 't is time for them to be in
the saddle.”
In five minutes as many men were mounted and awaiting
silently their directions. The stranger drew from his breast
the package which he had taken from the wainscotting.
“West Augusta,” he said, briefly.
One of the horsemen silently rode up and took the dispatch
held out to him.
“Frederick,” continued the stranger.
A second horseman came and took this letter as the other
had done. In the same manner dispatches addressed “Fairfax,”
“Orange,” “Culpepper,” “Westmoreland,” “Botetourt,”
“Essex,” “Lancaster,” “Accomac,” and to other coun
-- 051 --
[figure description] Page 051.[end figure description]
ties, were delivered in turn, one courier having charge of all
lying upon his route. The entire province of Virginia, north
of the James, was thus apportioned out to these five men, who
seemed to understand perfectly what was expected of them.
“Friends,” said the stranger, wrapping his cloak around
him as he delivered the last dispatch, “I need not tell you
to be cautious in the carriage and delivery of these missives.
You know their importance, and every day the times grow
more dangerous, the encroachments of the government upon
private rights more daring. I do not conceal that the
dispatches you have received contain treason. Carry them
to his Excellency Lord Dunmore, and I will hang on Tower
Hill, if I'm taken. You will be rewarded richly, friends.
Enough! let us now go to our work!”
And making a salute with his hand, the stranger was saluted
in turn by the party of men, who, only replying by an
indistinct murmur, diverged upon their various routes.*
The solitary horseman retraced rapidly the road by which
he had come, for the space of a mile; then taking a bridlepath
to the left, he proceeded more slowly. In a quarter
of an hour he found himself in front of a small cottage, lost
like a leaf in the depths of the woods. On its roof the moon
poured a silver flood—the storm had muttered itself away
into the distance.
He dismounted, opened the door by means of a masterkey,
and taking a light which was burning upon the table,
ascended the stair-case to his chamber.
Upon a chair lay a valise, ready prepared for a journey,
and as the eye of the stranger fell upon it, his brow relaxed,
and an expression of softness which his features seemed incapable
of, communicated to the resolute countenance a singular
attraction.
Then his head turned unconsciously as it were toward a
door leading from the chamber into another, apparently.
This door he cautiously opened, and passed through into
an adjoining room.
-- 052 --
[figure description] Page 052.[end figure description]
It was the chamber of a girl, full of little feminine ornaments,
and filled, if we may so speak, with an atmosphere
of purity and innocence. The indefinable grace of childhood
seemed to pervade the balmy air, half illumined by
the soaring moon which poured through the open casement
its mellow light, and in the midst of this flood of radiance,
a child was sleeping in a little white bed.
It was a girl of about ten, with delicate features, long
silken lashes, and cheeks tinted with faint roses. The lips
smiled in sleep, and possessed great sweetness in curve and
expression; the hair of the child was light brown, and fell
in curls upon her white night-dress, and the bare arm which
supported her cheek. The fringed counterpane rose and
fell gently with the breathing of the little sleeper, and her
forehead was bathed in the faint and almost imperceptible
dews of slumber.
As he gazed at the young creature, the brilliant and fiery
eyes of the stranger softened more and more, his stern
features relaxed, he murmured softly, “my little Blossom!”
and bending over the child, he pressed upon her forehead a
kiss of indescribable tenderness. The small frame seemed
to thrill even in slumber, and the lips murmured something,
but the girl did not awake. The stranger knelt at the bedside—
remained in this devout attitude for a long time—then
rising, pressed a second kiss upon the child's lips, and left the
apartment.
He made a few preparations, and was soon in the saddle,
riding rapidly in a southern direction through the moonlit
forest. As he went on, his stern features resumed their
expression of austere resolution—the fire of his eyes returned—
he was iron again. Again his dominant idea possessed
him, and he muttered broken words.
“Yes!” he said aloud finally, “at last I think the struggle
comes! The light of a glorious dawn begins to touch
the gloomy east! The iron heel is almost down upon the
forehead, and henceforth there 'll be no appeal to the miserable
justice of the king. The true King of kings, the God
-- 53 -- p510-058
[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]
of Battles will decide! O Lord of Lords, fight for us!—
make us free!”
The head raised devoutly, sank again, and the stranger
rode on silently, the stillness of the forest only broken by
the noise of his horse's hoofs, or the mournful sobbing of
the wind.
eaf510n4* Historical Illustrations, No. IV.
CHAPTER VIII. VANELY.
Early on the morning after their colloquy, Mr. St. John
and his friend, Tom Alston, had left Williamsburg far in the
distance, crossed the river, and were pursuing their way
gayly through the spring forest, in the direction of Vanely.
Mr. St. John had thrown aside his uniform, and wore a
simple but elegant cavalier's suit—a coat of drab silk, pliable
knee breeches of dressed buckskin, and fair-topped
boots, fitting closely to the leg and ankle. He rode his fine
sorrel “Tallyho,” and the animal champed the bit, and tossed
his handsome head, with evident satisfaction at the breath
of his native air.
Mr. Tom Alston prefers a “sulky” for traveling—and
mounted in the circular leather chair, high above the wheels
of the airy-looking vehicle, he holds, with dainty fingers
clad in soft gauntlets, the slender “ribbands,” cutting at
butterflies occasionally for amusement.
The simple landscape seems entertainment enough for Mr.
St. John. He looks with joyous eyes upon the smooth road
winding along beneath the budding foliage of the forest,
and his impulsive nature fills with delight as he inhales the
fresh air laden with the perfume of leaves and flowers. He
is no longer lieutenant of his Excellency's Body Guards—
only Henry St. John. He laughs, leans idly on Tallyho's
neck and talks to him, follows the flight of a hawk across
the blue sky overhead, or bursts into snatches of song, in
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opposition to the oriole, whose joyous carol fills the wood
with music.
The young men passed rapidly through the green forest,
and at last, as they mounted a slope, Mr. St. John extended
his hand and cried,
“There's Vanely! See how it shines in the sun, on the
hill top! The oaks are huger to my eyes, and the sunshine
brighter there! Adieu, Williamsburg!” cried the young
man, rising in his saddle, “and welcome Vanely! I think'
t is a capital exchange!”
And putting spur to his horse, Mr. Harry St. John set
forward at full gallop again.
“I think I know what makes the sun shine brighter, my
youngster,” said Mr. Alston, as he followed rapidly; “there
are two violet-colored eyes there. Well, there are two black
orbs as handsome!”
And Mr. Alston indulged in a private and confidential
nod to himself. Soon afterwards they had reached the
broad esplanade in front of the house.
Vanely was one of those old mansions whose walls still
stand in Virginia, the eloquent memorials of other times, and
the good old race who filled the past days with so many festivals,
and such high revelry.
The first brick of the edifice had been laid upon the lap
of a baby afterwards known as Colonel Vane, and passed
through his tiny fingers. The life of the mansion and the
owner thus commenced together. It was a broad, rambling
old house, perched on a sort of upland which commanded
a noble landscape of field and river; and in front of the
portal, two great oaks stretched out their gigantic arms,
gnarled and ancient, like guardians of the edifice. In these,
as in the hundred others, scattered over the undulating
lawn, and crowning every knoll, a thousand birds were
caroling, and a swarm of swallows darted backward and
forward, circling around the stacks of chimneys, and making
the air vocal with their merriment.
There was about the odd old mansion an indefinable air
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of comfort and repose, and within, these characteristics
were equally discernible. The old portraits ranged along
the hall in oaken frames, looked serenely down upon the
beholder, and with powdered heads, and lace ruffs, and
carefully arranged drapery, seemed to extend a stately and
impressive welcome. Sir Arthur Vane, who fought for a
much less worthy man at Marston Moor, was there, with
his flowing locks, and peaked head, and wide collar of rich
Venice lace, covering his broad shoulders;—and Miss Maria
Vane, with towering curls, and jewel-decorated fingers,
playing with her lap-dog, smiling meanwhile with that winning
grace which made her a toast in the days of her kinsman
Bolingbroke, and Mr. Addison;—and more than one
tender and delicate child, like violets or snow-drops, in
the midst of these sturdy family trunks, or blooming roses,
added a finishing grace to the old walls—that grace which
nothing but the forms of children ever give. Deer antlers,
guns, an old sword or two, and a dozen London prints of
famous race-horses, completed the adornment of the hall;
and from this wide space, the plain oaken stairway ran up,
and the various doors opened to the apartments on the
ground floor of the mansion.
On the May morning we have spoken of, the old house
was in its glory; for the trees were covering themselves
densely with fresh green foliage, and the grounds were carpeted
with emerald grass, studded with flowers, waving their
delicate heads, and murmuring gently in the soft spring
breeze, and the golden sunshine. The oriole swung from
the topmost boughs, and poured his flood of song upon the
air; the woodpecker's bright wings flapped from tree to
tree; and a multitude of swamp-sparrows flashed in and
out of the foliage and fruit blossoms, or circled joyously
around the snowy fringe-trees sparkling in the sunshine.
From the distant fields and forests the monotonous caw of
the crows, winging their slow way through the blue sky,
indicated even on the part of these ancient enemies of the
cornfield, joyous satisfaction at the incoming of the warm
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season after the long winter; and a thousand merry robins
flew about, with red breasts shaken by melodious chirpings,
and brilliant plumage burnished by the sunlight.
Every thing was bright with the youthful joy of spring,
and as Mr. St. John and his friend dismounted before the
old mansion, the very walls upon which the waving shadows
of a thousand leaves were thrown seemed smiling, and prepared
to greet them; the open portal held imaginary arms
of welcome to them.
Before this portal stood,—its old form basking pleasantly
in the sunshine,—the roomy, low-swung family chariot, with
its four long-tailed grays, as ancient, very nearly, as itself,
and showing by their well-conditioned forms and glossy
manes the results of tranquil, easy living. By their side
stood the old white-haired negro driver, time out of mind
the family coachman of the Vanes; and in the person of this
worthy African gentleman a similar mode of living was unmistakably
indicated. Old Cato had evidently little desire
to be a censor; sure of his own high position, and quite
easy on the subject of the purity of the family blood, he was
plainly satisfied with his lot, and had no desire to change the
order of things. In his own opinion he was himself one of
the family—a portion of the manor, a character of respectability
and importance.
Old Cato greeted the young gentlemen with familiar but
respectful courtesy, and received their cordial shakes of the
hand with evident pleasure. The horses even seemed to
look for personal greeting, and when the young man passed
his hand over their necks, they turned their intelligent heads
and whinnied gently in token of recognition.
Mr. St. John patted their coats familiarly, and called them
by name, and looking up to the old house said, smiling,
“Welcome, Vanely! The month I've been away seems
a whole century. After all, the town is nothing like the
country, and no other part of it's like Vanely!”
-- 57 -- p510-062
CHAPTER IX. BONNYBEL VANE.
[figure description] Page 057.[end figure description]
The young men entered the familiar old hall and then
passed to the comfortable sitting room, where Tom Alston
subsided languidly into an easy chair.
“Stay here till I return, Tom,” said St. John; “I'm going
to salute my respected aunt, and will announce our arrival
to anybody else I see.”
“Give my compliments to Miss Anybody Else,” said
Tom.
But his friend did not hear him. He ran out, ascended
the broad oaken stair-case, three steps at a time, with the
gayety of a boy, and threw open the door of the chamber
immemoriably the haunt of good Aunt Mabel.
The consequence was a collision with a lovely girl who
had been combing her hair, apparently, before the mirror,
as the profuse brown curls were hanging down on her bare
white shoulders and silken dress,—presenting to the eyes
of Mr. Harry St. John a mass of shadowy, waving gold,
which charmed him.
The girl no sooner caught sight of the young man, or rather
found their faces in collision, than she uttered a scream,
and crying “Good gracious! me!” quickly retreated, and
slammed the door in his face.
St. John burst into a fit of laughter and cried, gayly,
“Let me in, Bonny!”
“I won't!” cried the girl's voice vivaciously, accompanied
by the sound of a key hastily turned in the lock.
Then the following observations ensued, mingled with
laughter:
“I think you might, Bonny; I want to see aunt.”
“She's not here! there, sir!”
“Why, this is her room.”
“It is not! Mamma has moved down stairs.”
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“Oh! she has! But I want to see you, too. I think,
after being away so long, you might at least shake hands.”
“Shake hands! humph!” said the girl's voice, very expressively.
“I think kissing me was quite enough, sir!”
“Kissing you!” cried St. John, with well affected surprise.
“Yes! you know you did, and it was just like your presumption!”
“You astonish me! Did I kiss you? If I did it was
wholly accidental. But how long will it be before you come
down? Pray, make haste!”
The girl's smothered laughter was heard.
“You do n't deserve it, you odious fellow!” she said, after
a pause; “but wait! I 'll open in a minute.”
And at the expiration of the appointed time, the key was
turned in the lock, and Miss Bonnybel Vane, for that was
her name, opened the door. She had hastily arranged her
hair, some curls of which were still falling carelessly, however,
on the bare round shoulders. They did not detract
from her beauty.
“Where in the world did you come from?” she said, giving
him her hand. “You frightened me nearly to death,
sir, and you dared to kiss me!”
“Did I? Well, it is not the first time.”
“Humph!” as before, very expressively.
“It was by accident,” said St. John, laughing, “and I will
make you as many apologies as you wish, to say nothing of
as many compliments.”
“Thank you!” cried the girl, pouting satirically as she
made a mock curtsey, “I do n't want any of your compliments.”
“Then you are the first young lady I ever knew who did
not.”
“My Lord Harry is still severe upon our sex, I see—very
smart, indeed!”
“My Lord Harry! How familiar the foolish old nickname
sounds. I love every thing about old times, though.”
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“Do you? But when did your lordship arrive?”
“This moment, with Tom Alston.”
“Oh! then we 're to have a double pleasure! The lieutenant
of his Excellency's guards, and the fine gentleman,
above all others, of the colony! And just to think! my
goodness! to appear before such company with my hair
down! Will you wait a minute while I fix it, my lord?”
“Yes, indeed, and look on too.”
The girl did not seem to mind this in the least, but running
back to the mirror, gathered up her curls, and quickly
secured them with a tortoise-shell comb. She then affixed
a bow of scarlet ribbon, added a loop of pearls, and turning
round with a demure air, said,
“How do you like me?”
St. John tried to make a jesting reply, but failed. The
little elf looked so lovely, standing with a vagrant gleam of
sunlight on her head, which was inclined coquettishly over
one shoulder, that her companion's fun disappeared. For a
moment he gazed at her in silence, and we shall embrace
the opportunity to make an outline sketch of the little beauty—
our heroine.
Bonnybel Vane is a sparkling, mischievous little maiden of
about seventeen. She has a slender, but elegantly rounded
figure, a clear white complexion, with two fresh roses blooming
in her cheeks; red, pouting lips, large bright eyes of a
deep violet, which seem ready to melt or fire under the
long dusky lashes, and a profusion of light brown hair, as
soft as silk.
The face is oval, of that pure-blooded Norman type which
fascinated the kings and princes of the middle ages, and led
to so many bitter feuds and bloody wars. The beautiful,
mischievous-looking head is placed upon a swan-like neck,
and inclines toward one of the snowy shoulders.
As to the expression of the girl's features, we can not describe
it. The brilliant violet eyes are ready to dance with
merriment and mischief, or swim in the dews of feeling;
the lips are mobile, prepared to contract, like crumpled
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roseleaves, with demure amusement at some jest, or, half-parted,
to express a world of pity and pathos. Bonnybel is a striking
type of the woman of the South, as opposed to the pale,
calm, statuesque beauty of more northern countries; she is
brimful of feeling, of impulse, mischief, coquettish wildness;
indeed, but for the impropriety of the illustration—
“——it sounds ill,
But there's no wrong at bottom—rather praise”—
we should say that she resembles a “thorough-bred” young
race-horse of the most elegant proportions and the purest
“blood.”
She is clad in a pink dress, looped back with bows of
ribbon, a close-fitting, square-cut bodice; and a frill of rich
lace runs around the neck, and appears beneath the short
sleeves, which leave the arms of the girl bare almost to the
shoulders. She wears red coral bracelets clasped with gold,
and her arms are of dazzling whiteness.
In reply to her question, “How do you like me?” St.
John at last, when he ha recovered from his trance of admiration,
replies that he likes her more than he can tell.
“Your arms are especially beautiful, Bonny,” he says.
“Do you use cosmetics?”
“Cosmetics! indeed! No, sir, I do not!” she cried, with
indignation. “Nature made them as they are!”
“I wish nature had given them to me.”
“To you? Pray, what would you do with them?”
“I would clasp them round my neck,” said the young
man; “though I know about fifty young gentlemen who
would like, in that event, to put an end to my existence.”
“A very pretty speech!” cries Bonnybel, with a dangerous
glance of her coquettish eyes; “please inform me what
romance you have been reading lately.”
“None. I have not had time. I have been thinking.”
“Thinking of what?”
“Of reality—suppose I say of you, Bonny?”
And the young man, losing his tone of jesting satire,
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almost sighs. Bonnybel's quick ear catches the sound perfectly,
and the change of tone. But she does not betray the
fact in the least. On the contrary, she laughs carelessly and
says:
“Of me? Good gracious! is it possible you have time
to think of your little country cousin in the midst of your
arduous toils, parading and marching?”
“Yes,” replies St. John, looking with honest fondness
straight into the girl's eyes, “I thought of you often. Ah!
my dear, a young man can not be so much with his `little
cousin,' as you say, when she is as sweet as you, Bonny,
and then master his thoughts. I dream of you sometimes,
and 't is a lovely, laughing little fairy I see in my dreams.”
“Excellent! You have certainly been reading romances!
Gracious! I a fairy. I suppose you'll call me an angel next.
Thank you, sir, but I'm sorry to say I am neither. I am
only a country girl, made of flesh and blood, with a fine appetite,
a quick temper, and a fondness for every thing like a
frolic—there, sir!—and a—”
“Warm, true heart, in spite of your mischievous ways!”
added St. John, returning to his light tone of jest. “Oh,
I know you very well, Bonny—may be too well. I mean
that I had better have not seen so much of you; but let us
go to aunt.”
He took her hand, and Bonnybel, who had rapidly glanced
at his face, yielded it without a word. The little beauty,
with the quick instinct of her sex, had already discovered
the state of her cousin's feelings—the secret of the power
she could exert over him. The further progress of our narrative
will show whether the young lady's calculations were
or were not correct.
They rapidly descended the stair-case, hand in hand, and
Bonnybel, quietly extricating herself, led the way to a room
in the rear, the door of which she opened.
In a moment Mr. St. John found himself affectionately
embraced by a pair of thin arms, and received a kiss. Aunt
Mabel sat in her old chair, thin, erect, clad in black silk, a
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snowy handkerchief pinned across her bosom; her scant
gray hair neatly gathered beneath the plaits of her full lace
cap. The old lady was busy knitting, casting from time to
time a glance at a little negro girl, who was taking her first
lessons in coarse sewing, on a cricket at her mistress' feet.
At the distance of six paces, a chambermaid was knitting
rough stockings, and, in the corner, an old negro woman,
with her head tied up in a white cloth, assiduously plied the
shears in cutting out clothes for the household.
Aunt Mabel received her nephew with great affection,
and made him give her all the news.
“Well, well,” she said at last, “I'm glad to see you in
such good health and spirits, nephew. Still, you were best
here attending to your interests.”
“I think so, too, aunt,” said the young man, looking toward
Bonnybel, who was powdering her hair at the mirror,
with a little round cushion of swansdown; “and what does
Miss Bonnybel think on the subject?”
“Sir?” said the young lady, turning round; “did you
speak to me?”
“Yes.”
“What did you say?”
“Then our conversation is inaudible—is it?” he said, with
a smile. “I was only telling aunt that I thought I had best
come back to the old county and remain here. I think
there's nothing like the beauty of our fields in the whole
wide world, aunt. To be a country gentleman after all
seems to me a worthier ambition than to bow my knee before
the grandest royalty of Europe. The sight of the fields
yonder, where I played in boyhood, makes me a boy again;
and,” he added, with a smile, “I have the pleasure of meeting
one of my old playmates.”
“You mean Bonny, I suppose, Harry,” says Aunt Mabel,
knitting busily. “Yes, she often says 't is not so merry
when you are away—your laugh is wanting.”
Miss Bonnybel turned quickly, having suddenly finished
her occupation.
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“I said!—mamma!—I only meant—”
“That Columbine did n't enjoy herself without Harlequin!”
said the young man. “I'm glad you've suddenly
found your ears, Miss Columbine!”
“Thank you, sir!” said Bonnybel, curtesying with mock
ceremony, and pouting satirically, “I suppose you think
that's very smart and fine! O! goodness gracious!” suddenly
cried the young lady, relapsing into laughter, “there's
all my hair come down!”
In truth the ardor of the damsel in turning her head had
produced the result indicated, and her snowy shoulders were
again covered by the profuse brown curls.
“Let me assist you,” said St. John, raising a mass of curls
and smiling.
“No, if you please, sir!” cried the girl, drawing back;
“you would make a bad lady's maid, and I'd rather not!”
“Then I'll go see Aunt Seraphina and Cousin Helen,” said
St. John, and with these words he descended to the sitting-room.
It was a large apartment, decorated, after the fashion of
the period, with carved wainscoting, and hung around with
many portraits of old gentlemen in powder, and fair dames
floating in translucent clouds of saffron lace. High-backed
chairs stood about in picturesque disorder, and upon a table,
with crooked legs, were a number of volumes in embossed
leather, tossed about at random. An embroidery frame
stood in one corner, upon which a lady was then working,
the design of her picture being Amyntor, in red stockings,
and a blue hat, with snowy feathers, playing upon a Spanish
mandolin, beneath the window of Amoret. An old sideboard,
with some silver plate on it, a little table, covered with china
figures and grotesque vessels of that hideous description
fashionable at the period, and, between the windows looking
on the lawn, an old harpsichord, tall, stately, and antique—
completed the accessories of the apartment in which Mr.
St. John now found himself.
Miss Seraphina, sister of Colonel Vane, and a lady of
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uncertain age, was working at the embroidery frame with sentimental
smiles, as Mr. Tom Alston exchanged compliments;
and Mr. St. John had scarcely gotten through his greetings
when Miss Helen Vane made her appearance, her waist encircled
by the arm of Miss Bonnybel, a pretty picture which
young ladies have affected in all ages. Miss Helen is a
handsome brunette of about twenty, with dark hair, dark
eyes, and an air of serenity which seems incapable of change.
She is erect and somewhat stately in the carriage of her full
and handsome person, clad in rich black, rustling silk, and
the faint smile which wanders from time to time over her
countenance, scarcely relaxes this prevailing expression of
collected calmness.
When Mr. St. John essays to “salute” Miss Helen, she
draws back, turning away her head, and the young man is
obliged to content himself with a salute bestowed upon the
ribband of her head dress.
We have thus attempted to outline two young ladies who
were great toasts in their day—especially the younger
maiden, Miss Bonnybel, whose brilliant eyes, and lovely face,
with those of her companions, illustrated so finely the times
in which they moved. Yet who can paint them? cries our
good author, breaking forth, as is his wont, into raptures.
Who can even so much as outline them truly, those tender
little dames of the Virginia past? They shine upon us
now like stars, glimmering far away on the blue horizon of
the elder day, withdrawing, as we gaze, their ineffectual
fires, and fainting in the garish sunlight of the present. It
is easy to tell of the looped-back gown, and all the rich furbelows
and flounces, with streaming ribbon knots; the red
Spanish shoes, the clocks on the stockings, the lace around
shoulders like the driven snow, or the powder that lies, like
that snow, on the hair—the dark or bright hair, the raven
or the golden! But alas! these are only the externals.
There is something beneath all this which still escapes us,
which we vainly attempt to grasp or describe. Mild and
serene, there was yet something bright and ardent in these
-- 65 -- p510-070
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natures which we do not see to-day! The blossom on the
bough, the spray on the wave, the dew on the grass—something
fresh, and natural, and indescribable! A grace which
we can not express, which flits when we try to embrace it—
the shadow of a shadow!
CHAPTER X. “OLD GOUTY. ”
The party of young people are laughing and talking with
immense assiduity, when a door in the hall is heard to open,
a species of growl resounds, and Helen and Bonnybel say, at
the same moment, “There's papa!”
The young men rise, and at the same moment old Colonel
Vane appears at the door, and cries in a cheery voice,
“Good morrow, Tom, and welcome, Captain Harry!
When did you turn up, and where from?”
“Tom came with me from town, uncle,” says Mr. St. John,
shaking the fat hand, “how is your health?”
“So so—so so! I think the devil's in this foot, Harry!
I might sit for the portrait of Old Gouty!”
And the rubicund old gentleman laughed and grimaced.
There was much truth in his declaration. Never did gout
attack a more suitable subject. Colonel Vane was an old
fellow of about sixty, with a portly person, one foot wrapped
in bandages, while the other was encased in a neat buckled
shoe, and silk stocking, and his costume indicated one well
to do in the world, and fond of his ease. His powdered
hair was gathered in a queue behind, his ruffles were huge
and spotless, and the gold-headed cane which he carried
had evidently found its way to Virginia from the shop of a
London maker. With this cane he half supported himself,
though he seemed greatly to prefer the soft shoulders of
Misses Helen and Bonnybel, who hastened to his side.
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Had Addison seen the old fellow thus smiling and making
wry faces at the enemy in his foot, the worthy colonel would
have been immortalized in a number of the Spectator, and
it is more than probable that Hogarth, or one of the later
humorists of the town, would have drawn him in the character
of an East Indian director limping forth to his coach, after
a dinner at the Lord Mayor's, irascible with the gout,
and still growling at the insolence of the American rebels,
who had tossed the Company's tea overboard in the harbor
of Boston.
“Youth's a fine thing!” said the jolly old colonel, smiling
at the party, “and I enjoyed my own. There! there!
my dear—softly!”
And the colonel commenced moving toward the chariot.
“I am going to the county court,” he said, “that is if
this cursed gout will let me! My old enemy, boys,” added
the worthy; “and like a scolding wife, has ever the last
word! 'T is enough to make a man swear; but I won't. I
must get on and see to that road to the river; the girls will
take care of you—there! there! easy, my dear!”
And the colonel stepped upon the portico, still supported
by the girls.
“Come here you old rascal!” he cried to Cato; “give me
your arm!”
Old Cato, in a measured and deliberate way, abandoned
the horses, and approached his master. The colonel, however,
desired that Cato should rush rapidly toward him, and
the deliberate pace of the old negro caused him to flourish
his cane and swear.
Cato did not hasten his steps, however. He seemed to
think that he as well as his master had rights, and moreover,
was convinced from long experience that the cane would
not descend upon his shoulders. The event proved his good
sense—he preserved his personal dignity and lost nothing.
“Look at the old dog!” said the colonel; “he presumes
upon my good nature and takes his time. Come, you abandoned
old wretch! There! take care of the foot! easy!”
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And leaning upon Cato, the old gentleman reached the
chariot, and was comfortably deposited within upon the
soft cushions. The young girls bade him good-bye, with a
kiss; and old Cato having received an intimation from the
colonel that he would thrash him on his return, if he drove
faster than a slow walk, the chariot rolled away over the
smooth gravel at a brisk trot, and was soon out of sight.
It had scarcely disappeared behind the foliage, when half
a dozen ladies and gentlemen on horseback appeared at the
outer gate, and mounted the hill at full gallop. They dismounted
before the house in the midst of a joyful clatter,
and a shower of kisses, and Miss Bonnybel seemed ready to
dance with delight at the anticipation of a frolic.
CHAPTER XI. A MAY MORNING IN '74.
Our history will not admit of a detailed description of
the events of the day at Vanely, else should we take pleasure
in relating how the gallants in ruffles and powder paid
assiduous court to the damsels in hoops and furbelows; how
laughter and sighs, bright glances and jests, with incessant
rattling on the old harpsichord, filled the morning.
Many songs were sang, and in truth—says our good author,
full of admiration, as usual, of the damsels—there was
rarest music in those girlish voices caroling the tender or
gay ditties of the past. The ardent love of faithful shepherds
for the dearest shepherdesses sang in their madrigals,
and all was love and sunshine, laughter, merriment and joy.
Sparkling eyes lent point and brilliancy to jests from rosy
lips; and all was May in the old house, whose very portraits
seemed to smile and say, “Be happy while 't is May!”
At last the gay sunshine drew them to the lawn, and soon
they were wandering across the flowery grass, and under
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[figure description] Page 068.[end figure description]
the old century oaks—a merry party, brilliant as the flowers
which the little maidens really resembled in their variegated
dresses, and communicating to the grounds of the old homestead
new attraction.*
The birds sang merrily above their heads, flitting from
tree to tree across the mild blue; the apple blossoms lay
upon the boughs like fragrant snow, and the fresh river
breezes, bearing on their wings the odor of the sea, blew
on the tender foreheads, and made every cheek more rosy,
and ran through the branches overhead, dancing and singing,
and then died away, a musical murmur, mingling with
the carol of the maidens like a symphony from airy harps.
And suddenly in a dell of the forest, or rather beneath
a knoll of the lawn, they came upon a very pleasing device
of Miss Bonnybel's—nothing less than a most tempting
array of edibles scattered in picturesque confusion on the
grass. Heavy slices of fruit-cake piled themselves up or lay
in masses; cut-glass dishes scarcely held the golden mountains
of cool jellies; bottles of the colonel's finest sherry
rolled about, like topers overcome with liquor, in the grass;
and in the center a huge round of beef flanked with cold
fowls and ham, twinkled in light and shadow, as the boughs
of the great oak moved with the breeze.
Laughing like children at the pleasant surprise, the young
men and maidens hasten to the spot, and the attack commences
very vigorously.
It is a scene from “As You Like it,” or of Robin Hood's
day, or such as Watteau liked to place on canvas.
Seated on the emerald sward, in attitudes of careless ease
and graceful abandon, with saffron laces around snowy arms,
and silken dresses emulating tulip beds, and small hands
grasping slender glasses filled with gold, and merry laughter
at a thousand jests—thus scattered over the lawn, beneath
the rustling boughs of the old oak, the party make a little
Arcady for themselves, without a cloud, filled full with sunshine.
-- 069 --
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“ 'T is really charming,” says Tom Alston, who, having
finished his repast, gently smoothes his ruffles with one hand,
holding a glass of sherry in the other; “ 't is quite a sylvan
scene, from one of the pastorals, of Mr. Pope, say.”
“Or Theocritus,” adds a young gentleman recently from
college.
“Yes,” says Mr. Alston, “and reminds me of a similar
scene, when I was a young fellow, in Effingham woods.”
“When Kate Effingham was your sweetheart,” cries
Bonnybel, laughing.
“Really—ahem!—really now,” replies Mr. Alston, modestly,
“I prefer not alluding to these subjects, but I believe
that most charming young lady did have some regard for
me.”
Mr. Alston looks more modest than ever, and adds,
“I, however, resigned her to my friend, Will Effingham—
sacrificed myself on the altar of friendship—they are now
married.”
General laughter greets this communication, and a smile
even wanders over the countenance of Helen. The laughter
does not embarrass Mr. Alston, who says,
“On that agreeable occasion, Miss Kate sang a charming
song—`I'm o'er young to marry yet;' also another, which
methinks no poet has surpassed—`There lives a lass upon
the green.' ”
Mr. Alston's talent is well known, and he is besieged to
sing. He receives the proposal with surprise, declares he
has a cold—protests he can not. At the end of ten minutes,
however, he is singing in a voice of great melody. This is
his song:
“There lives a lass upon the green;
Could I her picture draw,
A brighter nymph was never seen;
She looks and reigns a little queen,
And keeps the swains in awe.
“Her eyes are Cupid's darts and wings,
Her eyebrows are his bow,
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Her silken hair the silver strings,
Which swift and sure destruction brings
To all the vale below.
“If Pastorella's dawn of light
Can warm and wound us so,
Her noon must be so piercing bright
Each glancing beam would kill outright,
And every swain subdue!”
Much applause follows, and Mr. Alston raises his glass—
“I have the honor of drinking the health of our hostess,
Pastorella,” he says, bowing to Bonnybel.
The young lady rises, and makes a low and demure curtesy,
endeavoring to smother her laughter, caused by the
languishing expression of Mr. Alston. It bursts forth, however,
and all join in the merry peal.
At the same moment, a distant cannon booms across the
fields, and every one starts. Bonnybel claps her hands and
cries that it is Captain Fellowes, of the “Charming Sally,”
with all the new London dresses! She has seen his arrival
at York in the Gazette, and he always fires his swivel at the
landings!
Miss Bonnybel's excitement about the new dresses is contagious,
and in fifteen minutes the entire party of young ladies,
accompanied by their cavaliers, are galloping toward
the Vanely wharf.
The “Charming Sally” has gone aground, owing to low
water, at some distance from the piers running out into the
river, but the large boat, always lying below the old warehouse,
is put in requisition, and, propelled by two stalwart
and grinning Africans, the craft plunges her cutwater into
the current, and lands the party on the vessel.
Captain Fellowes is a good-humored old tar, and meets the
young people with the air of an old acquaintance. To Miss
Bonnybel's excited question as to her dresses, the old fellow
replies by lugging down his book of entries, smiling,
and the young lady having come to V, reads aloud hurriedly—
-- 071 --
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“Colonel Vane—Vanely Landing—Prince George—casks
Canary—boxes Zante currants—oranges Barcelona—Lucca
olives—saddles—harness—volumes in leather, namely—
gowns from Madam Fenton—over against—”
“Here it is!” cries Miss Bonnybel; “look, Helen! every
thing we sent for!”
Helen smiles—she is less enthusiastic.
“O thank you, Captain Fellowes!” cries Bonnybel; “you
must not laugh at me for my noise, for you know I'm not
one of the lords of creation. Please send these boxes at
once to the house, and papa's Canary for dinner, if he comes
back.”
To all this, Captain Fellowes growled a good-humored
assent, and then the party, having scattered themselves over
the vessel, and satisfied their curiosity by inspecting every
thing, reëntered the boat and were rowed back to the
wharf.
But not to the sons or the daughters of men, come days
without a cloud—unalloyed pleasure—the rose without the
obstinate thorn.
Bonnybel and her cousin were the last to leave the boat.
With dancing eyes, and bright cheeks, rosy with pleasure,
the young lady hastened to ascend the wharf. But unhappy
to relate, her slipper was placed much too carelessly upon
the smooth gunwale; the boat swayed, and slipping first
upon her knee, then wholly, Miss Bonnybel was precipitated
into the river.
We need scarcely say that she rose from the waves in the
arms of Mr. St. John, who gallantly rescued her.
A dozen frightened faces and eager hands were immediately
stretched out, and the young lady stood safely upon
the wharf; but with a direful change in her appearance.
Her hair had fallen upon her shoulders, and streamed with
water; her furbelows had disappeared, and a small foot clad
in a white silk stocking, from which the shoe had been lost,
peered from her skirt, from which a flood of moisture descended.
-- 072 --
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“Oh me!” cried the young lady, leaning upon one of her
companions, “how did I fall into the water?”
“Very gracefully,” replied St. John.
“And you saved me!”
“In the most heroic manner,” replied the young man,
wringing his wet sleeves, “and I know you are too much
of a heroine to mind it.”
“I do n't,” said Miss Bonnybel, laughing and blushing
as she drew back her foot; “but, oh goodness, I've lost my
shoe!”
It was brought as she spoke, by a negro who had fished
it out; and Mr. St. John most gallantly replaced it upon
the foot. It was doubtless owing to the moist state of the
stocking that he consumed about twice as much time as was
necessary.
The ceremony was concluded at last, however, and then
the young man would have sent for a carriage, but Bonnybel
would not hear of it. She declared that the accident
was nothing; she could return upon horseback as she came;
and mounting with laughter into the saddle, she galloped
off with her hair streaming, followed by the other young
ladies, and the gallants, who declared that she was a heroine,
and “full of pluck.”
We shall not pause to discuss the question, but proceed
to relate that they soon reached Vanely; that Miss Bonnybel
was forced to partake largely of artificial spirits by good
Aunt Mabel, and that the young lady thereafter put on one
of the London dresses which punctual Captain Fellowes had
just sent from the vessel, and flirting an enormous fan,
swept up and down the room with all the mincing languor
of a lady of the court, to the great enjoyment of the young
ladies, her companions, who greeted the exhibition with
much laughter.
They had then a great dinner, at which sunset surprised
them; and so the day was done; but not the merry-making.
eaf510n5* Historical Illustrations, No. V.
-- 73 -- p510-078
CHAPTER XII. THE WINDOW PANES AT VANELY.
[figure description] Page 073.[end figure description]
Mr. Harry St. John changed his wet dress, and having
taken a last survey of himself in the mirror, issued forth
and descended the stair-case.
At the bottom step, he paused and leaned upon the banister.
A portrait hanging high up on the old wall, among the
powdered heads and snowy bosoms of the Vane family, has
attracted his attention.
It is a picture of Bonnybel, taken in her fifteenth year,
when the London artist came to Williamsburg, and turned
his skill to golden account among the gentlemen and ladies
of the colony. The little maiden looks lovely on the canvas,
in her pretty costume of silk, and lace, and ribbons;
her sunny hair descending upon plump white shoulders;
her mischievous eyes and rosy cheeks peering forth as it
were from the brown curls. She caresses with her dimpled
hand the head of a shaggy little lapdog, and looks into the
beholder's face with a mixture of mirth and tenderness.
“'T is a wonderful art,” mutters the young man, “and
there's the very face I've loved to look on for many a day—
full of wild mischief, and yet tender. 'T would make
quite a story for the pastoral romances!—the history of my
life!—and now I wish to go away and fight the Indians!
“Tom's right after all,” he continued. “I doubtless put
on the plume of war to dazzle the eyes of somebody! I
believe I am falling regularly in love; but what will be the
issue I do n't know. Well, patience and shuffle the cards,
as Tom says; who knows what will happen?”
“Suppose now you look a minute at the original,” said a
voice at his elbow. St. John turns quickly and sees the vivacious
Miss Bonnybel, decked out for the evening, at his
side.
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“But if I prefer the portrait?” he replies; “it reminds
me of old times.”
“When I was a child, I suppose, sir!”
“Yes; and when you loved me more than now.”
“Who said I did not love you now?” asked the girl, with
a coquettish glance.
“Do you?”
“Certainly. I love you dearly—you and all my cousins.”
St. John sighed, and then laughed; but he said nothing,
and offering his arm, led the girl into the sitting-room.
The young girls, whilst awaiting the appearance of Cæsar,
the violin player, from the “quarters,” amused themselves
writing their names, after a fashion very prevalent in Virginia,
upon the panes of the windows. For this purpose
they made use of diamond rings, or, better still, the long,
sharp-pointed crystals known as “Virginia diamonds.”
With these the gallants found no difficulty in inscribing
the names of their sweethearts, with all the flourishes of a
writing-master, on the glass, and very soon the glittering
tablets were scrawled over with Lucies and Fannies, and a
brilliant genius of the party even executed some fine profile
portraits.
Those names have remained there for nearly a century,
and when afterwards the persons who traced them looked
with age-dimmed eyes upon the lines, the dead day rose
again before them, and its forms appeared once more, laughing
and joyous, as at Vanely on that evening. And not
here only may these memorials of another age be found; in
a hundred Virginia houses they speak of the past.
Yes, yes, says our author, those names on the panes of
Vanely are a spell! They sound with a strange music,
a bright wonder in the ears of their descendants! Frail
chronicle! how you bring up the brilliant eyes again, the
jest and the glance, the joy and the laughter, the splendor
and beauty which flashed onward, under other skies, in the
old Virginia, dead to us so long! As I gaze on your surfaces,
bright panes of Vanely, I fancy with what sparkling
-- 075 --
[figure description] Page 075.[end figure description]
eyes the names were traced. I see in a dream, as it
were, the soft white hand which laid its cushioned palm on
this glittering tablet; I see the rich dresses, the bending
necks, the figures gracefully inclined as the maidens leaned
over to write “Lucy,” and “Fanny,” and “Nelly,” and
“Frances,” and “Kate;” I see the curls and the powder,
the furbelows and flounces, the ring on the finger, the lace
on the arm—poor lace that was yellow indeed by the snow
it enveloped! I see, no less clearly, the forms of the gallants,
those worthy young fellows in ruffles and fairtops; I
see all the smiles, and the laughter, and love. All is very
plain, and I mutter, “Fair dames and cavaliers, what's become
of all your laughter and sighing—your mirth, and
bright eyes, and high pride? Did you think that all generations
but your own were mortal? that the sun would always
shine, the music ever sound, the roses on your cheeks
never wither? You had pearls in your hair, and your lips
were carnations; the pearls may remain, but the carnations,
where are they? O beautiful figures of a dead generation!
you are phantoms only. You are all gone, and your laces
have faded or are moth-eaten; you are silent now, and still,
and the minuet bows no more; you are dimly remembered
laughter, the heroines of a tale that is told—you live on a
window pane only!” Old panes! it is the human story that
I read in you—the legend of a generation, and of all generations!
For what are the records of earth and its actors
but frost-work on a pane, or these scratches of a diamond
which a blow shatters. A trifle may shiver the tablet and
strew it in the dust! There is only one record, one tablet,
where the name which is written lives for ever; it is not in
this world, 't is beyond the stars!
“O there's Uncle Cæsar!” cries Bonnybel, “and we'll
have a dance!”
“Yes, a dance!”
“O yes!”
“How do you do, Uncle Cæsar?”
“A minuet first!”
-- 76 -- p510-081
[figure description] Page 076.[end figure description]
These are some of the outeries which resound through the
apartment as an old gray-haired African appears at the door,
and removing his fox-tail cap, louts low before the animated
throng.
CHAPTER XIII. HOW THEY DANCED A MINUET DE LA COUR.
We linger for a moment to look upon the divertisements of
that old, old land—the far away colonial Virginia. It is all
gone from us, and, as says our worthy author, the minuet
bows no longer, but it shall bow in our history as it did before.
A narrative, such as we write, should not only flow
on like a stream toward its termination, it should also mirror
on its surface the bright scenes it passes through—the
banks, the skies, the flowers of other years, all should be
painted on the ever moving current.
Therefore we pause a moment to look on the minuet, to
listen to old Uncle Cæsar's fiddle, to hear the long-drawn
music wind its liquid cadences through mellow variations,
and to see the forms and faces of the young men and the
maidens.
They have a quadrille first, and then a couple take the
floor.
St. John leans on the carved back of Bonnybel's chair,
and makes himself generally agreeable.
“How gracefully the girls of Virginia dress,” he says;
“like butterflies, all blue and gold, and—down.”
“Butterflies indeed!” cries the young lady, “and pray
what do the gentlemen resemble—wasps?”
“No; working bees.”
“Drones rather!”
“What a wit you have!” says Mr. St. John, laughing;
“but, really now, just see. Consider these lilies of the
-- 077 --
[figure description] Page 077.[end figure description]
parlor, they toil not, neither do they spin, like their grandmothers.”
“I do, sir!”
“Then you are different. The young ladies do n't sew
or spin, they engage Mr. Pate or Mrs. Hunter to relieve
them of it.”
“Pray, what do you know of Mr. Pate?”
“I know what I read,” says St. John, taking up, with a
smile, the “Virginia Gazette;” “see here the notice that
Master Matthew Pate has for sale, `Stays, twin and single;
jumps, half-bow stays, stays made to buckle before, pin or
button,' no doubt with diamond studs, like yours, madam!”
“You are extremely wise and learned in the female costume;
my stays came from London, and I'll thank you—”
Here the minuet ends, and the particular conversation is
lost in the general buzz. It is next Bonnybel's turn, and
with a queenly air she says to Mr. St. John, who has engaged
her hand,
“You'll please ask me to dance formally, sir?”
St. John smiles, deposits his cocked-hat on his heart, and
bowing to the ground, requests the pleasure of a minuet.
Bonnybel opens her enormous fan, with ivory decorations,
places its downy edge upon her chin, and inclining her head
sidewise with a die-away expression, declares, simpering,
that really the gallants will not let her rest, she's wearied
with attention, but supposes, since my Lord Bolingbroke
has asked her hand, she ought not to refuse.
With these words, and in the midst of general laughter,
Miss Bonnybel gives her hand daintily to her partner, and
they advance into the floor, to the mellow strains of Uncle
Cæsar's fiddle.
It is a little beauty of the eighteenth century, armed capa-pi
é for conquest, that the current of our story now reflects;
the picture will be seen no more in truth, however,
unless grandma on the wall yonder, painted at the age of
seventeen, steps down and curteseys to us in some reverie or
dream.
-- 078 --
[figure description] Page 078.[end figure description]
Bonnybel wears, over a scarlet petticoat, a hooped dress
of yellow satin, all furbelowed and decorated, especially with
a row of rich rosettes, down to the feet. The bodice is cut
square, the waist long and slender; the satin fits closely to
the young lady's pliant figure, which is encircled by a silver
girdle, and between the silken net-work of red cords, securing
the open front, a profusion of saffron lace, kept in its
place by diamond studs, dazzles the eye like a heap of new
fallen snow tinted with sunset. The sleeves are short, or
perhaps it will be more correct to say that the dress has no
sleeves at all, the round, dimpled shoulders of the young
lady being encircled only, so to speak, by a narrow band of
silk; and, last of all, a clond of gauze floats round the neck
and shoulders, reconciling Miss Bonnybel to a pattern which
she gazed at somewhat ruefully when it was first unfolded.
Blue satin shoes, with slender heels about four inches high,
and a light head-dress, principally consisting of a wreath of
roses, finish the costume; the young lady having for decoration
only a pearl necklace, rising and falling tranquilly.
As this prettily clad little beauty bowed before him, Mr.
St. John thought he had never seen a fairer sight, more dancing
eyes, any thing at the same time half so feminine and
mischievous. Bonnybel danced exceedingly well; and as she
moved in perfect time to the stately music, and bent in the
measured curtesey, until her curls fell like a cloud of dusky
gold around the rosy cheeks, and her knee touched the
floor almost,—thus gliding before him in the fine old dance,
and giving him, with dainty ceremony, the tips of her fingers,
the young dame made her partner fancy that the most attractive
and provoking fairy of Titania's court had come in
from the moonlight, and would flit away as she came. He
saw her thus curteseying long afterwards, and when an old
man, told it to another generation.*
So the minuet bowed and curteseyed itself onward through
its stately motions, and with a low sigh of satisfaction and
self-admiration, died away.
-- 079 --
[figure description] Page 079.[end figure description]
But the dancing was not over. A reel succeeded. The
fiddler exchanged his mellow cadences for spirit-stirring
mirth, the tragic symphony gave way to sparkling comedy.
Darting, inclining, clasping and unclasping hands, the gay
party bore no bad resemblance to a flock of children turned
loose for a holiday. Even the stately Helen's “dignity”
was overthrown, and Mr. Tom Alston's fine peruke, from
Monsieur Lafonge's, filled the whole wide apartment with
its perfumed powder.
For almost an hour thus Uncle Cæsar made the bounding
feet keep time to his gay music, and as he approached the
end of the performance, the old fiddler seemed to be carried
away by the genius of uproar. With head thrown
back, eyes rolling in their orbits, and huge foot keeping
time to the tune, his bow flashed backward and forward
with a wild delight, and the violin roared and burst into
shouts of laughter. Quicker yet and ever quicker grew the
movements of the “Snow-bird on the ash-bank,” the old
musician threw his whole soul into the uproarious reel, and
the brilliant forms, with dazzling silks and eyes more dazzling
still, and rosy cheeks, and laughter, flashed from end
to end of the great room, and whirled through mazes, and
were borne like variegated foam upon the sparkling waves—
those waves of the wild music which roared, and laughed,
and shouted over pearls and powder, diamonds and bright
eyes, in grandest revelry and furious mirth.
So reigned the great Cæsar over man and maid, and so,
perhaps, the headlong violin would still be playing—but for
cruel fate. Suddenly a string snapped, the dance was at an
end, and Uncle Cæsar, with a long scrape, put his fiddle
under his arm, and made his most impressive bow. The
maidens stood still panting and laughing, with undulating
forms, and rosy cheeks, and sparkling eyes, and vigorous
fannings; and then the reel at an end, they hastily prepared
to depart.
In vain they were pressed to stay; and soon, with a multiplicity
of kisses, (then, as now, a favorite amusement of
-- 080 --
[figure description] Page 080.[end figure description]
young ladies in the presence of young gentlemen,) they
fled away into the moonlit forest, with their attendant cavaliers.
Fair dames! what a pity it is that the pen of him who
writes could not adequately paint your joy and beauty, your
brilliant eyes, your pearl-looped towers of curls, your dangerous
glances—all your sighs, and coquetries and laughter!
And if your fair grand-children, following, in an idle
moment, their most humble servant's chronicle, cry out
with a pretty indignation at the fact, the chronicler can
only take his hat off humbly, and bow low, and plead his
inability to make the picture; to tell how beautiful those
lilies of the past appeared; those lilies and dear roses of
Virginia fields; and hope that they are somewhere blooming
on Virginia walls—flowers of the years before; but
fresh still for us, in imperishable memory!
St. John and Bonnybel stood on the portico and watched
them till they disappeared.
She must have understood the long ardent look which he
fixed upon her face, as she stood thus, bathed in the silver
moonlight; but Miss Bonnybel was sleepy and intent on
bed.
Much as she would have liked to promenade with her
companion, and tantalize him with her glances, she preferred
retiring. So, pursing up her lips toward him, as though she
wished to be kissed, she darted away, laughing, and disappeared.
St. John remained alone, musing by moonlight for an
hour, and then also retired to his chamber and his bed.
It was to dream of her.
eaf510n6* Historical Illustrations, No. VI.
-- 81 -- p510-086
CHAPTER XIV. WHICH VERIFIES THE PROVERB THAT LISTENERS NEVER HEAR ANY GOOD OF THEMSELVES.
[figure description] Page 081.[end figure description]
On the morning following the scenes just narrated, St.
John leaped out of bed at sunrise, and leaving Tom Alston
still asleep, dressed quickly, and went down stairs;
thence he issued forth upon the lawn, and bent his steps
toward the “quarters.”
Here, in all the dignified state of a log cabin of the largest
size, his nurse, “Mammy Liza,” resided.
Let it not be a matter of surprise that the lieutenant of
his Excellency's guards rose thus early to go and see his
nurse. In the South, and more especially in Virginia, that
element of society denominated “Mammy,” is of no slight
importance and dignity.
This lady is of high aristocratic dignity. She is of the
Order of the “Bath”—in reference to the young ladies of
the manor house, both of the “Bath” and the “Garter.”
Honi soit qui mal y pense!
For her young master, the old African countess preserves
an unfailing attachment and a jealous care. All his goings
on are criticised with a watchful supervision. Does he perform
a generous and noble action? the countess is there to
say it is just like her boy. Does he sit up late with reveling
blades, and make darkness hideous with tipsy uproar?
the countess eloquently extends her arm, assumes a look of
outraged virtue, and rates the delinquent soundly—using
for the purpose all her vast resources in the art of scolding;
and ending with an ominous shake of the head, an unfavorable
comparison of the scapegrace with his honored sire,
Old Master, and a prophecy that if he do n't reform, he'll
come to want, and them overseers will be masters at the hall.
Does the crushed malefactor urge in gentle tones that he
was merely entertaining his friends, and playing a hand at
-- 082 --
[figure description] Page 082.[end figure description]
cards, for amusement only? the countess is unconvinced,
and requests, with dignity, that she may not be told any
thing of that sort; she never thought that any son of Mistress
would turn out a sorrow to her; and with renewed
ominous shakings of the head, she sends away the penitent
criminal, overwhelmed with remorse, and making good resolutions.
Beautiful and touching is the love of these old
women for the children they have nursed; and they cherish
and love, and scold and forgive them, with the earnestness
of real maternity.
Mammy Liza is an old woman with her head enveloped
in a white handkerchief, and she spins at the door of her
comfortable cabin, from the summit of whose stone chimney
built up outside, a wreath of smoke rises, and glows like a
stream of gold in the sunrise.
St. John hastens on, smiling, and his shadow falling before
her, makes Mammy Liza lift her old face. She utters an
exclamation of great joy, and in a moment they are sitting
side by side on the old bench, talking of a thousand things—
this talk being chiefly on the part of the old woman, who,
with the garrulity of age, embraces the past, the present,
and the future, in her monologue.
For half an hour they thus sit side by side, and then Mr.
St. John rises with the bright smile which makes his countenance
at times singularly attractive. He has renewed
with the old woman all those recollections of his youth and
childhood, rapidly disappearing amid the dust of the arena,
and the kind old voice has sounded to him like the softest
music, the very echo of happiness.
As he looks forth thus into the fields, he thinks he sees
Bonnybel approaching, and soon this is confirmed. He suddenly
passes behind the door, and cautioning the old woman,
waits to give the young lady a surprise.
She comes on with an active and springy step, clad in a
brown gown, thick, serviceable shoes, and a broad-rimmed
chip hat; presenting thus a strong contrast to the Miss
Bonnybel of the minuet. But her cheeks are even more
-- 083 --
[figure description] Page 083.[end figure description]
rosy, her eyes brighter, her laughing lips resemble real carnations.
She is followed by a small negro maiden, carrying a
basket and pitcher—the duty of this maiden at Vanely being
to watch Miss Bonnybel's countenance, and run at her nod.
Bonnybel's voice salutes Mammy Liza, and asks how she
is, to which the old woman returns the reply that she is
“poorly, thank God; how is Miss Bel?”
“I'm as gay as a lark,” returns the young lady, summoning
her body-guard, “and I've been to see Aunt Jane and
all the sick. Aunt Seraphina tried to take it away from me,
but I fought her and made her give up,” added Miss Bonnybel,
with great cheerfulness.
St. John, behind the door, laughs silently. The young
lady continues, running on carelessly:
“Here's some breakfast, Mammy. I suppose you know
the news. Your great General Harry's come back! and
now I suppose you think I'm going to praise him! but
you're mistaken! He is terribly ugly! and the most disagreeable
person I ever knew! Lazy, too! just think of
his lying in bed, with poor little me out here! It was chilly
enough when I got out of my warm bed. But I am going
to get up every morning, just to shame those lazy boys.
Ha! ha! now you are getting angry, Mammy! You want
me to praise that stiff, awkward, lazy, odious, good-for-nothing
Harry of yours, but I won't! Do you believe that he
had the audacity to kiss me! Humph! he thinks I'm a
child still, does he? I'll make him know that I'm a young
lady! I'm seventeen! and I intend to make every one of the
boys run when I tell them! some of 'em are glad enough to!”
The young lady paused to catch her breath; but seeing
what she considered an expression of pain upon Mammy
Liza's face, immediately recommenced:
“Have I hurt your feelings, Mammy, with my talk about
your boy? O! I was only jesting! and I'll say any thing
you wish! To think me in earnest! He's the dearest,
sweetest, handsomest fellow in the world! I would n't
have had him to miss kissing me for any thing! He's so
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erect, and proud, and noble! and has such an excellent
heart! and dances so well! and rides so well! and—”
“Fishes young ladies from the water so well!” says St.
John, coming from his hiding place, with a laugh.
Bonnybel retreats a step, almost screaming. She reconsiders
this, however, and bursts out laughing.
“Ain't you ashamed, sir?” she then says, passing quickly
to a pout, “to lie in wait, and listen to me so! But there's
one comfort, you heard my abuse of you; listeners never
hear any good of themselves.”
“I did,” said St. John.
“You heard some bad too, then!”
“Well, I'll mix the good and bad together, and perhaps
I shall arrive at your real opinion of your poor cousin.”
“Now you are commencing your mock humility. I detest
you!”
And Bonnybel draws away abruptly the small soft hand
which, by some accident, has remained in that of her companion
since he took possession of it. There is, however,
very little detestation in the tone of the words, or the
glance which accompanies them.
When they take leave of Mammy Liza, and return toward
the mansion over the beautiful dewy lawn, beneath the great
oaks, bathed in the red sunlight, an excellent understanding
seems to have been arrived at, and Bonnybel is plying the
dangerous artillery of her eyes with fatal effect upon her
companion.
Mr. Harry St. John is falling in love as rapidly as it is
possible to go through that ceremony.
-- 85 -- p510-090
CHAPTER XV. BONNYBEL LOOKS IN A MIRROR AND LAUGHS.
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The ladies were assembled in the cheerful breakfast room,
and half a dozen servants were placing on the broad table a
profusion of smoking edibles, contributing to the perfection
of that most perfect of inventions, a Virginia breakfast.
St. John mixed a julep with the skill and rapidity of an
old practitioner, and the ladies, having each taken a sip, the
parties were soon seated around the board, Miss Bonnybel
behind the urn.
“Did Mr. Alston commence his toilet when you did?”
asked the young lady, innocently, of St. John, glancing, as
she spoke, demurely at the stately Helen; “he takes as
long to dress as a girl, and Bel Tracy said, the other day,
that he was no better than one, with his curls and perfumes!”
Helen, with a dignified toss of the head, intimates her
opinion of this attack upon her admirer, but says nothing.
“Just think of Mr. Alston on horseback!” continues Bonnybel,
pouring out, “with musquetoon, and saber, heavy
boots, and pistols, going to the wars! Now you all frown
at me, as if it was treason to doubt that the elegant Mr.
Alston would leap out of his bed, and be ready at sunrise,
if the trumpet called to horse!”
“I doubt that myself, my dear Miss Bonnybel,” said the
subject of the conversation, behind the young lady; “ 't is
only the breakfast bell that rouses me.”
And Mr. Alston, in snowy ruffles, and serene smiles, saunters
in and distributes a comprehensive salute.
“Was I the subject of discussion?” he says, amiably.
“Chocolate, if you please, Miss Bonnybel.”
“ 'T was Miss Tracy's epigram about you that was repeated,”
says St. John.
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“Ah, Miss Tracy?” replies his friend. “A fine girl, Miss
Tracy—told me she wished she was a man, the other day.”
“Well, Tom, she said she regarded you no more than a
girl. 'T is only reasonable to suppose that she wishes to
change her condition with her sex and marry you. Mr.
Bel Tracy, on the 10th, to Miss Thomas Alston, daughter
of, and so forth, in the `Gazette!' ”
Mr. Alston replies, serenely,
“Delighted to marry Miss Bell Tracy, but not to change
my sex.”
“I would,” says Bonnybel.
“You!” says St. John; “pray why?”
“Oh we'd have such glorious fox-hunts—I and the other
boys!” cries Bonnybel, “and such a jolly frolic afterwards!”
The air of the young lady, while she utters these words,
is so excellent a farce that even Aunt Mabel laughs.
“But, you will permit me,” says Mr. Alston; “what
would be the state of mind of your adorers, Miss Bonnybel,
for doubtless you wish to marry a young gentleman.”
“No, sir! Pray whom?”
“Why, let us say, Will Roan—why not espouse that
gentleman?”
“For a very good reason—he's not asked me!” laughs
the young lady; “besides, I would n't if he did. I've no
desire to go halves in his affections with the thorough-bred
he's had the goodness, I am told, to call `Bonnybel,' after
me, forsooth!”
“Well, Roan is fond of horses. But there's Buck Ranton.
He's a fine fellow; though I heard an aristocratic
little lady in town, the other day, declare that Mr. Ranton's
family were scarcely `good enough for her—he was n't an
F. F. V.' ”
“An F. F. V.? I hate that new-fangled phrase!” cries
Bonnybel, “and I think the young lady was a goose! I say
Mr. Ranton's every inch a gentleman, and I do n't care a fig
about his family!”
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“Why not have him then, my dear Madam?” urges Mr.
Alston, gently.
Bonnybel is silent—Mr. Ranton's misadventure being very
recent.
“Or Charley Fox,” continues the gentleman, smiling, and
sipping his chocolate; “he at least does not fill his mind
with horses like Mr. Roan.”
“But he does with his namesakes, the foxes!” says Bonny
bel. “ 'T is even more humiliating to divide with fox-hounds
than horses. Mr. Fox's wife is sure to be the keeper
of the kennels!”
“Say Mr. Lindon, then.”
The girl's face clouds, and she says, coldly,
“I do not like Mr. Lindon.”
“Well, well,” says Mr. Alston, “then I will not further
annoy you, unless you will permit me to suggest the names
of your friends, Mr. Randolph, Mr. Page, Mr. Pendleton,
or Mr. Braxton; I believe they all come occasionally to
see you, do they not?”
A smile runs around the table, and for a moment there is
silence. Mr. Alston has given an accurate catalogue of the
slain and wounded, for whose condition Miss Bonnybel is
responsible—for all these gentlemen have met with bad
fortune at Vanely.
Bonnybel, however, is a true woman—that is to say, she
finds no difficulty in commanding her countenance.
“Did you ask if these gentlemen were my friends?” she
says, with the most dove-like innocence, “and if they ever
came to see me? Yes, they do, sometimes, sir.”
Mr. Alston gently inclines his head, sipping his chocolate.
“I thought I had seen them here once or twice,” he
replies, “though not very frequently of late. However, I
suppose they have one and all been detained by some little
accident.”
“Do you think so?” says Miss Bonnybel, with innocent
curiosity; “but while I think of it, pray how do you gentlemen
propose to spend the morning?”
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Mr. Alston acquiesces in the change of topic, and says
with graceful ease,
“I think I shall bestow my poor society on Miss Helen,
if she is not afraid of being thrown into a fit of yawning.”
“And I will ride out with you if you wish,” says St. John
to Bonnybel.
This arrangement is acquiesced in, and the breakfast
ends. Aunt Mabel retires to her chamber to supervise the
“cutting out,” Miss Seraphina to peruse the last romance
brought from London, and the young men to smoke pipes
and look at the horses. The Vanely stables boast many
thorough-breds, and more than one racer in full training.
St. John had that passion for fine horses characteristic of
the soil, and with a corn-cob pipe between his lips, in the
midst of a crowd of stable-boys, who respectfully greeted
him as an old friend and favorite, discoursed at great length
to Tom Alston on the points of the animals, as they were
led out, and stepped proudly onward, in the sunshine.
The last was a bay filly of elegant proportions, and this he
ordered to be saddled for Bonnybel, whose property it was.
Soon afterwards—Tom Alston having sauntered back to
the drawing-room—the young man, mounted on his fine
“Tallyho,” was flying along a winding road of the Vanely
woods by the side of his cousin.
It is said that ball-rooms, parlors, and social haunts in
general, are unpropitious for certain emotions. Either
something distracts the attention or the atmosphere is
unfavorable to romance. It is added that it is extremely
dangerous, however, to a young man to ride alone, with
a lovely cousin in a beautiful forest.
In the case of Harry St. John this proved true. After
that ride, he felt with a sort of fearful happiness, a rueful
delight, that his fate was sealed. As they galloped on, his
eyes were unconsciously riveted on the mischievous little
beauty, who, with rosy cheeks and rippling curls, and slender
figure, undulating in the close-fitting riding-habit, resembled
rather a wild nymph of the woods than a mortal
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maiden. Every word she uttered was a jest or an exclamation;
she performed a thousand anties on her steed; the
very spirit of the laughing audacious spring seemed to flush
her blood. The perfume of a thousand flowers crammed
the balmy air with fragrance; the birds sang joyfully from
the oakes and pines; the leaves whispered in the river
breeze, and cast a fitful shadow on them as they moved.
Our chronicle would grow to ponderous length, if we
paused to record the witty nothings uttered by Miss Bonnybel;
her careless and sparkling jests, pointed with laughter,
and bright glances of coquettish eyes. We must leave the
conversation unrecorded. All lived, however, in the young
man's recollection, and this ride became one of the most delightful
treasures of his memory.
Three hours were spent thus; then the heads of the horses
were turned toward home. At the great gate they encountered
the chariot, and were gaily greeted by the jovial old
colonel, who had been detained over night at the house of
one of his neighbors.
They stopped but a moment; leaving the ponderous chariot
to follow at its leisure, they sped up the hill, and the foaming
horses were checked before the great portico.
In helping the young lady to the ground, St. John did
even more than his duty. He quietly took her in his arms
and lifted her from the saddle, receiving a box on the cheek
for his pains, given and received with laughter.
Bonnybel then gathered her long skirt in her hand, and
ran up stairs to her chamber. It might have been supposed
that her object was to lay aside her habit, but her first proceeding
was singular. She went to the large mirror, turned
herself from side to side before it, surveying, from every
point of view, her graceful face, her curls, her cheeks, her
very dimples; then, with a proud and triumphant toss of
her little head, and a confidential nod, the maiden threw
aside her chip hat, and letting fall her beautiful brown hair,
uttered a low laugh.
Can any of our fair readers tell us what she meant?
-- 90 -- p510-095
CHAPTER XVI. THE NEWS FROM BOSTON.
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The profuse dinner is nearly over, and nothing remains
upon the wide table but the nuts and wine.
Leaning one arm upon the board, and pushing about the
port and Canary, Colonel Vane, with features which gradually
flush with anger, addresses the two young men:
“Yes, gentlemen, you have a right to be astonished!”
he says, “and I share your astonishment.”
“But't is not in the last `Gazette,' ” says Mr. St. John.
“How could the intelligence have arrived?”
“Well, it arrived through a private channel, but a reliable
one. An emissary, who never deceives, announced it
yesterday at the court house, and there is no longer any
doubt of it. Yes, things at last approach an issue. Government
enacts that, after the first day of June, the harbor
of Boston shall be closed by armed troops, her shipping
shall rot in the bay, her streets be thronged with red coats,
and martial law prevail! What think you, gentlemen of
the colony of Virginia, of this blow at our beloved sister
province of Massachusetts Bay?”
“I think 't is a despotic and base exercise of power” says
St. John, “and I'd resist at all hazards.”
“And I agree with you, Harry,” says Mr. Alston, “to
the letter.”
“You are right, gentlemen,” said the old planter; “and
no North American can see Massachusetts holding out her
hand without aiding her. Whatever touches her, touches
Virginia, nay, touches all the colonies, for this tyrannical
edict is but the entering wedge! If it does not arm the
colonies, then they will lie down in chains for ever! Miserable
and woful times! tyrants and knaves banded against
honest men!” cries the old gentleman, dashing down his
glass, wrathfully. “I'll buckle on my sword and fight for
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the cause in the ranks, as a common soldier, before I'll forget
that I'm a Virginia gentleman, and grovel in the dust, and
lick the boots of North and his yelping beagles. And not
even tyrannical edicts will answer! We are to be whipped
into submission by this General Gage, commander of his
Majesty's forces in the provinces! He is to cut and hack
us to pieces if we dare to murmur! By Heaven! we are
slaves indeed! We, the descendants of Englishmen, with
the strong arms of our forefathers, and their liberty as British
subjects! We who fought for the king on a hundred
battle fields, and poured out our best blood like water for
our sovereigns; sovereigns that never gave us any thing to
bind our wounds, although we served them generation after
generation, as kings were never served! We Englishmen
are to be trodden down and trampled on like a pack of curs,
and whipped back to our places by this body of time servers,
who are rolling yonder in their wealth, and making laws to
bind the chains upon our limbs, as though we were their
serfs! Damn my blood!” cries the colonel, striking the
table with his fist, “I'll give half my estate to arm a company,
and I'll march myself at the head of it, if Cato has to
hold me on my crutches.”
During the course of this explosive address, which was
terminated by a sudden attack upon the colonel's foot by
his old enemy, Mr. St. John leaned back in his seat, and,
with folded arms, revolved, in the depth of his mind, the
significance of this new blow at the colonies.
Was it not foreseen or even reported by its movers, by
secret dispatches to Lord Dunmore, and had not this fact
something to do with the existence of his Excellency's
“guards” at the palace gate—soldiers who recognized no
other allegiance than that due to their master, and who, if
need be, would be employed to awe the inhabitants of Williamsburg
and the House of Burgesses?
And he was the commander of this body! He who
swore by the code which the old gentleman had just proclaimed,
who rated his dignity of honest gentleman as
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high as that of a peer of the realm, who was ready to
pour out his blood for the preservation of his most trivial
right—he, Henry St. John, was in the pay of his Excellency!
The young man's brow clouded and his eyes flashed.
“You are right, uncle,” he said, “'t is a bitter draught
they hold to our lips and expect us to drink. I predict that
this act will open the eyes of the inhabitants of this colony,
and that there will soon be a struggle for supremacy with
Lord Dunmore. In that cause, I, for one, know which side
I'll be ranged on. I've long felt that my position yonder
was slavery, and nothing but disinclination to retreat from
my post in the service of the government, threatened with
Indian troubles, has kept me from resigning what has come
to be a menial's miserable routine! Lord Dunmore has deceived
me, sir, in a manner wholly unworthy of a gentleman,
and I'll tell him so, if need be. Yes, sir! if the struggle's
here in Virginia, I'll myself cheerfully brace on my sword,
and strike as hard blows as I'm able in the contest against
this detestable tyranny! I am more than of your way of
thinking, sir. For this body of men across the water to be
forcing down our throats every nauseous dose they choose!
binding us hand and foot with chains, no doubt to lash us
the better, and so force us along the king's highway, dragging
at our heels the lumbering parliament coach, with my
Lord North and his family inside! I'll no more wear their
harness than I'll longer don the livery of his Excellency,
which I'm fixed to discard and throw from me, as a plague
garment! I'll be no nobleman's dog, to hunt his prey and
do his dirty work; I'll not be this man's lackey—a vulgar
fellow, in my humble opinion, neither more nor less, and I'll
say it to his face, if I'm provoked to it!”
St. John stopped, red, angry and disdainful, thinking of
the scene at the palace.
“Well, well,” said the colonel, relieved by his explosion,
“let us not speak evil of dignitaries, Harry. I confess I do
not like Lord Dunmore, but he is Governor.”
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St. John made a motion of his head, indicating his willingness
to dismiss so distasteful a subject.
“All I have to say, sir,” he added, “is that things in Virginia
seem to be progressing, and we'll probably have an
act of Parliament for our own special behoof ere long.”
“Well, well,” said the old gentleman, who seemed to regret
his momentary outburst, “we shall see.”
“If I am not much mistaken, sir, his Excellency will endeavor
to make us shut our eyes as long as possible, and use
his skill to make us believe black's white. Yes, sir, we shall
see, and perhaps we shall do more—we shall fight!”
There was silence after these words, and the colonel filled
his glass and pushed the wine.
“Perhaps we will not find in his lordship a tool of the
ministry, Harry,” he said, “and my old blood flushes up
too hotly. I should set you youngsters a better example
than rashness. You are already too full of fight. I remember
Lord Botetourt said to me one day that he'd throw
his appointment into the Atlantic rather than aid in enforcing
upon Virginia a tyrannical regulation of Parliament;
and who knows but the like public spirit may exist in the
bosom of Lord Dunmore; at least 't is time lost to speculate
at present. Let us hold in, and watch the action of the
House of Burgesses. If they proceed to the resolves which
become them, they will come to a point, and his Excellency
will have to show his hand.”
“Yes, sir,” said St. John, “and I predict that you'll see
a card up his sleeve.”
The old gentleman smiled.
“Well, well, Harry,” he said, “we won't charge him
with cheating till we see it; and then it will be time enough
to outlaw him. Thank Heaven, we have noble players in the
game! There's Bland, and Pendleton, and Harrison, and
Henry, a host in themselves, especially this last, who's an
absolute thunderbolt. There's Lee, and Randolph, and
Nicholas, and Cary, all gentlemen of conspicuous talents.
Mr. Jefferson from the mountains, too, goes, I'm told, all
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lengths, and is of extraordinary political genius. We must
not forget Colonel Washington, whose fine house at Mount
Vernon is so delightfully situated on the Potomae. You
know how heroically he fought in the expedition against
Fort Duquesne, in which I am told he gave General Braddock
advice which it had been well for that ill-fated gentleman
to've taken. Certainly Colonel Washington is of
admirable presence, and there is I know not what of majesty
in his deportment, and grandeur in the carriage of his
head. I think we have a worthy body of gentlemen engaged
at present in our public affairs, and history may yet
dwell on our period and its characters, and future generations
may erect statues to these patriotic leaders of opinion.
Certainly they do seem to possess remarkable unanimity in
distrusting his lordship. But let us wait, Harry, and not
try his Excellency before he is caught with the bloody hand—
an unfortunate illustration I have fallen on, but—”
“It's apt, sir.”
The colonel shook his head in a good-humored way and
smiled.
“No, no, Harry,” he said, “let us be just to all men; let
us not forget that moderation is the most fatal enemy of
despotism, until it throws off its disguise. Then there's
time enough to gird on the sword. My preaching and
practicing are, I confess, somewhat different on the present
occasion, and I've set you a bad example. But the old
hound growls the loudest, you know, because he's got no
teeth, and thinks every shadow reason for alarm. There,
there, Harry, let us leave all this to the future, and to that
Almighty Power in whose hand are the balances of fate—
the issue of peace and war!”
St. John bowed his head, and was silent.
“I'll go take my nap now, boys,” added the old gentleman,
smiling pleasantly; “that road to the river's all fixed,
and I shall sleep with a good conscience, and have pleasant
dreams, I trust.”
Having delivered himself of this good-humored speech,
-- 95 -- p510-100
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the old gentleman emptied the remainder of his glass of
Canary, and, assisted by Bonnybel, who ran to give him her
shoulder, limped from the room into the library upon the
opposite side of the hall.
Here, composing himself comfortably in his customary
arm-chair, with the gouty foot across another, the worthy
colonel covered his face with a copy of the “Virginia Gazette,”
and very soon was slumbering like an infant.
CHAPTER XVII. THE MODEL OF A PERFECT LOVER.
We have repeated the conversation upon the subject of
the new Act of Parliament, and we now proceed to say,
that at Vanely, as elsewhere in that earnest period, action
followed theory.
When the family descended on the next morning, they
saw ranged in a long row upon the sideboard, the japanned
tea-canisters of the house, all hermetically sealed, with the
Vanely seal upon the wax.*
This ceremony had been performed by Miss Bonnybel,
under the colonel's supervision, and from that time forth,
until the end of the revolutionary troubles, no tea was drunk
at Vanely, as happened at a thousand other places all over
the colony.
After breakfast, Mr. St. John and the colonel went to
witness some operations upon the lands, and Mr. Alston, as
usual, betook himself to the sitting-room.
We have busied ourselves so exclusively with the sayings
and doings of two personages of our story, that Mr.
Thomas Alston's adventures have not been even adverted to.
We say adventures, for during all these hours at Vanely
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Mr. Alston has been far from idle, and has vigorously applied
himself to the prosecution of an undertaking which
we have scarcely hinted.
Let us still forbear to intrude upon this gentleman's private
interviews with his friend; let us respectfully retreat
when he closes, on this eventful morning, the sitting-room
door upon himself and that friend; let us go and return
with Mr. St. John and Colonel Vane, who get back in their
light carriage after an hour or two.
Mr. Alston's sulky stands at the door—his horse's head
held respectfully by a groom.
To the colonel's question, whether Mr. Alston intends
to depart, his friend, Mr. St. John, replies that he has not
been advised of such intention; and learning soon that his
friend has gone up stairs, he follows him, and finds him
there.
Mr. Alston is seated in an easy-chair, with one foot upon
the window sill, the other being elegantly thrown over his
knee.
He is gazing philosophically out upon the landscape, and
nods with tranquil greeting to his friend.
“What, Tom!” St. John says, “surely you're not going
away: seeing your sulky—”
“Yes, I think I'll go, Harry, my boy,” says Mr. Alston,
leaning back easily.
“Why, pray?”
“For two reasons.”
“Name them, in order that I may instantly refute them.”
A serene smile wanders over Mr. Tom Alston's countenance,
and he regards his friend with quiet superiority, as
of one impregnable.
“Do you think you'll be able, Harry, my boy?” he asks.
“I am confident of it.”
Mr. Alston smiles and shakes his head.
“Come, speak!” says St. John.
“You want my reasons?”
“Yes, both at once, if you choose.”
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“I prefer mentioning them in succession, Harry,” says
Mr. Alston, “if it's all the same.”
“Entirely: well the first?”
“My first reason for departing from this elegant abode
of the muses and the graces,” says Mr. Alston, eloquently,
“is the absolute necessity I'm under of procuring a clean——
frill, let us say. Can you answer that?”
“Easily—you know my whole wardrobe's at your service.”
Mr. Alston shakes his head in the old way.
“Unfortunately your garments do not fit me, Harry,” he
replies, “and nothing but regard for your feelings has prevented
me from revealing the misery I've experienced from
the frill I borrowed of you yesterday.”
“Why, there's none better in London!”
“You're deceiving yourself, my dear friend—you do mdeed!”
says Mr. Alston, almost earnestly; “indeed you are
mistaken! Were it not from regard for your friendship I
should feel compelled to say that your linen's absolutely
terrible!”
St. John laughs.
“Well,” he says, “there's no appealing from a matter of
taste. Mutato nomine de te, you know, and I'll wager that
the weaknesses in my own wardrobe are shared by your
own. But there remains the reason in reply, that you may
easily have clothes brought to you from Moorefield.”
“I fear not.”
“Why?”
“They would necessarily be rumpled, and to wear a rumpled
frill plunges me into untold agony.”
“Hang it, Tom,” says St. John, laughing, “you're really
the most perfect maccaroni I have ever seen. There's no
arguing with such a fop—dyed in the grain!”
“My dear friend, you pain me,” says Mr. Alston, mildly;
“pray, do n't pursue this mode of talking.”
“Well, that is as you choose. Come, what's your second
famous reason for departing? I predict I'll easily refute
this one at least.”
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Mr. Alston smiles.
“Do you think so?” he says.
“I am confident of it.”
Mr. Alston nods serenely, and is silent.
“Come speak, thou unconscionable Sphynx! Thou enigma
of mystery, unfold thy logic.”
Mr. Alston smiles again.
“I will ask you a question first, my dear Harry,” he says. “If you had laid siege to a fortress for many months—had
plied the enemy with your heaviest chain shot, and red-hot
cannon balls—if you had sounded the trumpet at last, and
so advanced bravely to the assault with your colors flying,
and your charger neighing—and in this, the final and conclusive
onset, been ignominiously beaten back—do you understand?”
“Yes, so far.”
“I ask, under such a state of things, would you be likely
to remain in presence of the victorious enemy; be cut, and
hacked, and wounded; worse still, be cut to pieces and disposed
of in a bloody trench, as some one of my friends, the
poets, says? Answer me, or rather do n't, for I see, from
your dumb-foundered look, that my reasoning has been conclusive.”
And Mr. Alston smooths his peruke gently, smiling.
“You do n't mean to say—” cries St. John, with an outburst.
“I do indeed, my friend. I have the honor of observing
that this morning my addresses were respectfully declined
by Mistress Helen, and you behold, really, the most unfortunate
of men!”
St. John stands, for a moment, looking at his friend in
silence; his friend returns the look with pleasing smiles.
“Well, Tom,” says St. John, “I will say that you are the
most philosophical discarded lover I have ever seen.”
“Philosophical?”
“Intensely.”
“Why, Harry, my boy, you do n't think that propriety
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requires me to strew ashes on my head, do you? If you
think so, there's the fire-place, and, doubtless, sackcloth is
convenient.”
“What a philosopher!” cries his friend in admiration.
“Well, well, I arrogate no praise. Why should I? Why should I pull a long face and groan? My friend, 't is
the fortune of war, and I add, in the unsuspecting and confiding
simplicity of my nature, that this event has happened
to me with the same young lady twice before. This should,
doubtless, be estimated in the matter, for, you see, I am
used to it.”
St. John received this declaration with a burst of laughter.
“And you are not desperate?” he says.
“Not at all. After that decent interval which propriety
requires, I shall again request Miss Helen's acceptance of
my hand, and if she refuses, I shall probably ask her again.
Who knows? Some day I am likely to win her, and she's
worth the trouble. She's no soft peach, my boy, ready to
fall into your mouth. The happy fellow who gets her will
be obliged to shake hard, and, you see, I've been shaking.
Perhaps the fruit's looser, and will some day fall—patience,
and shuffle the cards!”
Having delivered himself of these remarks, Mr. Alston
rises and adds,
“I waited to see you, Harry, before going, and I hope
you'll come to Moorefield soon. If you're here a week
I'll probably see you again, as I've promised Miss Helen
to repeat my visit. There, my dear boy, do n't stare and
laugh so. One would think you were surprised at such a
thing as a young fellow's making the attack and being beaten.
I confess I was somewhat precipitate. I thought I
saw a defect in the wall of the fortress—in fact Miss Seraphina
told me that Miss Helen admired my peruke, and
thought I'd make a very amiable husband. I should not
have been so much deceived—but nothing's lost. I'll soon
be back.”
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And after the young men had exchanged some more conversation—
serene on Mr. Alston's part, and full of pent-up
laughter on St. John's—they descended to the hall.
Mr. Alston went round, in the Virginia fashion, and took
separate leave of everybody, with a friendly and smiling remark
for each.
He trusted that the colonel's gout would soon leave him,
and that the road to the river would be all he expected.
He hoped Aunt Mabel would not have a return of her
cough—these colds must be very painful.
He thought Miss Seraphina's coiffure was the handsomest
he'd ever seen.
He begged Miss Bonnybel to give him the rose in her
hair or one of the two in her cheeks.
And he expressed to the blushing and quiet Helen the
most graceful thanks for the thousand kind things she had
done for him during his most delightful visit—a visit which
he should ever continue to remember, and would certainly
repeat before many days had passed.
Having gone through these various friendly and complimentary
speeches, Mr. Alston pressed his cocked hat on
his heart, and smiling with the utmost courtesy, bowed
low, and issued forth.
In ten minutes his light sulky, with its rapid trotter, had
disappeared in the forest, was seen to glitter with revolving
flashes on the road, and then finally it disappeared, carrying
away the discarded model of a lover, or the model of a discarded
lover, whichever our fair friends please.
eaf510n7* Historical Illustrations, No. VI.
-- 101 -- p510-106
CHAPTER XVIII. HOW MR. LINDON CAME TO AND WENT AWAY FROM VANELY.
[figure description] Page 101.[end figure description]
Several days have passed. It is a beautiful May morning.
Bonnybel and St. John are talking together in the sitting-room—
a habit into which they have of late quietly and
tacitly fallen.
Bonnybel sits in the most coquetish attitude upon one of
the old carved-backed sofas, her slender figure supported by
the round, bolster-like pillow. She wears a light blue silk,
and around her bare arms falls a quantity of lace. From
the skirt of her azure silk peep forth in the most accidental
way two delicate little feet, cased in white silk
stockings, and red morocco slippers, with high heels and
rich rosettes. The slender ankles are gracefully crossed—
the beautiful feet seem wrapped around each other, so to
speak—an ill-natured critic might say that Miss Bonnybel
had fixed them thus for her companion's inspection and admiration.
He sits at her side, and is showing her a book of engravings.
One of these is a woman weeping upon the breast
of a steel-clad cavalier—the illustration of some border ballad.
He reads to her, and—for the moment, thoughtful—Bonnybel's
eyes are weighed down with an impulsive pity. It
is a tale of love, devotion and death; and as he reads, she
turns upon him a pair of violet eyes swimming in tears.
No word is uttered—the volume lies on her lap—St. John
holds her unconscious hand, and the beautiful face, with its
large eyes full of tender pity, droops slowly and unconsciously
as it were, toward the picture of the woman weeping
in her husband's arms.
This is the pretty little tableau, when, with a shock which
skakes both windows, the door is thrown open, and a tall,
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richly-clad gentleman, the arrival of whose splendid equipage
they had not been aware of, is ushered into the apartment.
Bonnybel rises calmly to her feet—closing the volume
which she holds in her hand—and returns the low salute
of the visitor with a cold and ceremonious inclination.
Mr. Lindon will pray be seated, and if he will excuse her a
moment, she will retire to arrange her somewhat informal
toilette. Mr. Lindon, she believes, is acquainted with her
cousin, Mr. St. John.
With these formal sentences, Miss Bonnybel moves from
the apartment and goes up stairs with the air of a duchess
subjected to an intrusion.
The two men greeted each other with ceremonious coldness;
on the part of Mr. Lindon there seemed even an exhibition
of suppressed and somber rage at the changed
demeanor of the young lady.
He was a tall, powerful man, verging, apparently, on forty,
and his bearing indicated a supercilious and yet uneasy
pride.
In a few moments Colonel Vane entered, and soon afterwards
the ladies appeared. Mr. Lindon did not seem a
great favorite with these, and when he announced his intention
of spending the day and night, as his estates lay at some
distance, the intimation did not appear to cause any one
unusual pleasure. All were scrupulously courteous and polite,
but nothing more.
In Virginia, where cordiality and warmth, in the reception
of visitors, are a standing rule, a greeting of this species
always indicates dislike.
We have heard Miss Bonnybel, under Mr. Alston's teasing,
speak coldly of the visitor; let us endeavor briefly to
exhibit the cause of this coldness.
Mr. Lindon was the only son of an English Catholic of
ancient family, who had purchased lands on the South Side.
These purchases had become a principality, in extent and
value, at the time of his death, and his son found himself the
possessor of a princely estate. Lindon the elder had been a
-- 103 --
[figure description] Page 103.[end figure description]
bigoted Catholic and aristocrat in the worst sense of the
term, and his son inherited the same opinions. He honestly
regarded his family as the best in the colony, and regarded
rebellion against England as a crime of the deepest die.
Early enabled to command large resources, Mr. Lindon
had plunged at once into every species of vice and dissipation.
He had lost immense sums at the card table, and even
had been charged with cheating. More than one humble
family had been brought to misery and ruin by his vices—
and he was liable, at times, to horrible excesses in wine,
which had already greatly impaired his vigorous constitution.
His character was a strange mixture of boldness and
cunning, of reckless courage and hidden treachery, and
the influence of his religious training, in the worst tenets of
the Jesuits, was very discernible. Under an affectation of
chivalric honor, he concealed a powerful tendency toward
secret scheming, and this unfavorable characteristic already
began to be suspected by the gentlemen with whom his position
enabled him to associate.
Mr. Lindon had made the acquaintance of Bonnybel some
months before, and she became the passion of his life. He
paid his addresses to her with a conquering air, however,
and, to his profound surprise, found himself at once discarded.
He had scarcely been able to restrain an explosion of rage
and astonishment; that a man of his family and wealth
should be refused, was wholly incredible to him, and after a
month's reflection, he came to the conclusion that there was
some misunderstanding in the matter.
Let us pass over the events of the morning, and the ceremonious
dinner, so unlike the habitual family reunion, full
of talk and laughter, and come to the afternoon. Perhaps
we shall find if there was such misunderstanding.
The meal had been over for an hour, and as they dined
early in those days, Mr. Lindon solicited the company of
Miss Bonnybel for a walk. The young lady pouted, but
finding it would be discourteous to refuse, consented,
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[figure description] Page 104.[end figure description]
hoping to induce Mr. St. John and Helen to accompany them.
Helen was unwell, however, and so, in no favorable humor
toward her cavalier, Bonnybel was soon walking with Mr.
Lindon on the lawn.
Mr. Lindon's cheeks were somewhat flushed with the wine
he had been drinking; but the Canary of the colonel seemed
only to have added to his habitual ceremony—his uneasy air
of haughty defiance.
“We have a fine evening, Miss Vane,” he said, settling
his chin in his voluminous white cravat, “and this scene reminds
me of that at my estate of `Agincourt.' ”
“Does it, sir?” she said, coldly.
“Yes; it was so called by my father, the name of the
family hall, in England, being similar.”
Mr. Lindon settled his chin deeper in his white cravat,
and added:
“It originated after the great battle of that name. Sir
Howard Lindon, my ancestor, won his spurs there, though
our race came in with William the Conqueror.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The king, in recognition of Sir Howard's services,
created him a Knight of the Bath, which, however, he
did not long enjoy, having fallen on the field some years
after.”
“You do not retain the title, I believe, sir,” Bonnybel
said, coldly, forcing herself to say something.
“I do not, having no right, I fear, madam. It is hard to
be thus deprived of what's honestly my due.”
Bonnybel inclined.
“Like many other noble families,” said Mr. Lindon, raising
his head proudly, “we have suffered misfortune, and of
all our princely possessions, in the mother country, nothing
remains. It is true that my place of `Agincourt' is not
wholly contemptible, consisting as it does of ten or twelve
thousand acres, with three dwellings, besides the manor
house.”
And Mr. Lindon settled his chin again.
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“That is a very fine estate, I should think, sir,” said Bonnybel,
coldly.
“Yes, tolerably fine, but my negroes, a thousand in number,
if I do not mistake, are badly managed. Still I can
not complain. My annual income, from numerous sources,
is some fifteen or twenty thousand pounds sterling, and I
find that adequate to my wants.”
“It is a very handsome income, I should suppose, sir.”
“Vanely is not quite so large as Agincourt, I believe,
madam?”
“I am sure 't is not, sir,” said Bonnybel, quite calmly;
“though I do not know the extent of papa's grounds.”
“Vanely is very richly cultivated.”
“Is it, sir?”
“Very—but you will pardon me for saying that I did not
come hither, upon this occasion, to compare plantation views
with Colonel Vane, madam.”
“You did not, sir?”
“No, Miss Vane, and I think you do not misunderstand
me.”
Mr. Lindon's stately ceremony did not melt at all as he
thus spoke. Bonnybel made no reply.
Mr. Lindon was silent for some moments too, then he
said,
“I observed that this scene of hill and meadow, oak forest
and pine, reminded me of `Agincourt,' and I often sit upon
my portico and think of Vanely.”
“Do you, sir?”
“Yes, madam, and I will add, of yourself.”
Bonnybel inclined her head silently, and prepared for the
rest.
“Since I had the misfortune to be deprived for a time
of your society”—this was Mr. Lindon's graceful paraphrase
of his discardal—“I have not been able to banish your
image from my mind, Miss Vane.”
Bonnybel was still silent and cold.
“I have found no one to supply your place,” continued
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[figure description] Page 106.[end figure description]
Mr. Lindon, with a look of increasing condescension, “and
you will thus scarcely be surprised to find that I have returned
to ask if you have not seen reason to change your
determination. Do not speak yet, Miss Vane—you seem
about to—I desire you to ponder before replying. It is
proper that I should repeat that I am the possessor of a great
estate, and this fact can not be destitute of weight with a
young lady of your excellent sense. Of my family, I think,
I need not speak,” he said loftily, “but I should of more
material things. As my wife, you will have, at your command,
every luxury which wealth can purchase, chariots,
plate, fine horses, and assemblies as often as the mistress of
`Agincourt' pleases. I am quite willing, if you desire it, to
settle upon you an annual amount to the extent of one third
of my entire income; one entire third, I say, madam, and
this you may expend in such manner as may seem suitable
to yourself. It is proper to say that I shall require my sons
to embrace the faith of the Catholic Church, unjustly excluded
by the bigots of this colony, but I am willing, if it is
desired, to permit my daughters to become Protestants,
either of the established Church or the new sect of Baptists,
it being quite indifferent to me whether they are of one or
the other persuasion, if they are not of the true church.
With these conditions, I desire to leave my wife wholly to
her own views in every matter, and I will compel all who
are around her to yield to her wishes. If Miss Vane has
any desire to change her former decision, she has now
an opportunity, and I need scarcely add that her affirmative
decision will be a source of much satisfaction to myself.”
Having finished his speech, Mr. Lindon again buried his
chin, in a stately way, in his neckcloth, and was silent.
Bonnybel did not speak for some moments, and then she
merely said, struggling successfully against her anger and
indignant scorn,
“I am surprised, sir, that you should have again renewed
this proposition, and—”
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[figure description] Page 107.[end figure description]
He interrupted her more grandly and ceremoniously than
ever, and said, with a motion of his hand,
“Your surprise is quite natural, Miss Vane. I can understand
that you naturally feared that I would not return,
having treated me, upon our last interview, with a coldness
which I am sure you have regretted. You are right, madam.
Men of my stamp seldom renew a proposition of this description,
and there is room for some astonishment in the present
instance. But I have set my mind upon seeing you preside
at my house of `Agincourt,' and your rebuff has not repelled
me. You, no doubt, regretted it, and I desire to afford
you an opportunity of reconsidering your determination.”
His tone was so insulting with its stately condescension
now, that Bonnybel blushed with speechless indignation.
Mr. Lindon misunderstood the origin of this emotion, and
said, in the same patronizing way,
“Do not permit your agitation to carry you away, Miss
Vane. I can understand that you did not expect this, and
am not desirous of compelling you to declare your regret at
our misunderstanding in any formal manner. We are nearly
at the portico now, and I beg that you will compose yourself.
A simple line, as I depart in the morning, will be sufficient,
and if I may suggest, you might fix as early a day as
is consistent with social propriety. I shall be very happy to
have your cousin, Mr. St. John, as my first groomsman,
though he does not seem well affected toward the government,
and may cause me some trouble with his Excellency.
I beg to assure you that in any such contingency I shall be
most happy to use my influence. We have arrived, madam,
and I regret to see you so much overcome with the natural
and engaging modesty of your sex. But I beg you will
not be flurried. I shall expect your reply when I depart
in the morning, and, meanwhile, shall spare your maiden
blushes, and not renew the subject.”
They had reached the portico as Mr. Lindon concluded
this oration, and were now joined by Helen and Aunt
Mabel.
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Bonnybel left her stately admirer, and hastened up stairs,
whether to hide her maiden blushes, or burst into tears of
scorn, and anger, and indignation, we leave the reader to
determine. She did not reappear during the whole evening,
and only came down stairs on the next morning when Mr.
Lindon's fine equipage stood at the door. Her cheeks burnt
with indignant fire, and her little foot almost ground itself
into the carpet with anger as she murmured, “He shall not
think I'm afraid to meet him!”
She restrained her scorn by a violent effort, however, and
when Mr. Lindon invited her into the library, coldly declined.
Her hand held a note tightly, however, and this
note Mr. Lindon took with an expression of condescending
satisfaction.
He bowed ceremoniously, and with his head raised in a
conquering attitude, entered his chariot and drove away,
holding the reins himself.
Bonnybel watched him with the same look of scornful
pride, but suddenly this expression gave way to one almost
of pleasure.
Mr. Lindon turned in his seat almost foaming with rage,
and tore a piece of paper which he held in his hand; after
which he shook his clenched fist at the hall, and lashing his
wild horses, disappeared like lightning.
The torn paper was Bonnybel's note, and this note contained
simply—
“Miss Vane declines, now and for ever, the insulting addresses
of Mr. Lindon. If they are renewed, she will regard
it as an outrage unworthy of a gentleman. She prays
that all personal acquaintance, even, may henceforth cease
between them.”
That was all. And if any reader thinks our little heroine
too fiery, it is because we have not drawn the portrait of
her admirer with sufficient force.
When Helen took leave of Mr. Alston, a kind look of
-- 109 -- p510-114
[figure description] Page 109.[end figure description]
regret was in her eyes; when Mr. Lindon departed, Bonnybel's
eyes flashed dangerously.
The reason was that Mr. Alston was a gentleman—Mr.
Lindon was not. But the fact made him all the more dangerous,
as this hitory will in due time show.
CHAPTER XIX. BONNYBEL VANE TO HER FRIEND, MISS CATHARINE EFFINGHAM, AT “THE COVE, ” IN GLOUCESTER COUNTY.
Vanely, before breakfast.
I desire to be informed why you have not written to
me, madam? Has that odious domestic tyrant, Mr. Willie,
forbidden you to correspond with your friends? You may
inform him, with my compliments, that I regard him in the
light of a monster, an ogre, an eastern despot, else he would
not keep the dearest girl in the world down at that horrid
old house in Glo'ster—if it is so fine—when her friends are
dying to see her.
I hear that he runs at your call, and obeys your orders,
and passes all his leisure moments in composing sonnets to
your eyebrows; but I do n't believe it, that is, I would not
if it was not you, dear. He was very humble once when he
was on probation, and I'll never forget his lordship's look
of agony and despair when you gave the jessamine bud to
Tom Alston that day at the ball; but heigho! (that's the
way the romance writers spell a sigh, is n't it?) I do n't
believe any thing of that sort survives the honeymoon—
does it? Before we're married—we're married!—the beaus
are all maccaronies in their dress and manners; and they
rhyme love and dove, sighs and eyes, kiss and bliss, 'till one's
really wearied with them. Then when the odious hypocrites
have worked upon our feelings and entrapped our poor little
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hearts, they forget how to rhyme, and behave abominably.
It is my intention to be an old maid, which that outrageous
Willie of yours predicts. But I won't!—that's flat!—I'll
get married just to spite him!
“What a flood of nonsense I've written! but I'm in excellent
spirits this morning, and I never feel ill at my ease
with you, my own precious, darling Kate. It is very good
in you to let a mere child like me take so many liberties
with you. But you know you've raised me; always at
Effingham Hall you made me your companion, young as I
was; and, if I had my arms around your neck now, I'd
squeeze you to death! I would! Please write soon. I
long to hear from you, for I love you dearly—dearly! and
if you do n't write, I'll come down to the Cove and make
you!
“There's little or no news in Prince George; we have
been plagued, as usual, by a crowd of stupid boys, tho' some
nice gentlemen came too. I have had another visit from my
bugbear, that Mr. Lindon, but I do n't think he'll call again
in a hurry. He made me the most insulting speech you can
think; but I returned it with interest. You would have
thought he was bidding for a slave-girl. I gave him my
answer in writing, and he tore it up, and went off in a rage.
He may rage as he pleases.
“Dearest papa has the gout again, but it did not prevent
his going to court the other day, and coming back in high
indignation about the new Act of Parliament—the attack
on our liberties. They think they'll make us slaves, but
they are very much mistaken. I've sealed up all the tea—
and I'd die before I'd drink a drop!
“We all rode to Mr. Bland's the other day, and found
the dear old gentleman home from the Burgesses. His sight
is failing, and he wears a green blind, but there's no finer
gentleman in the world. He made me a beautiful bow and
kissed my cheek. There are very few of the rising generation
like papa, or Squire Effingham, or Mr. Bland.*
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[figure description] Page 111.[end figure description]
“The day after, to Cawson's, which is as lovely as ever,
and I think I'll never grow tired looking on the meeting of
the two rivers, the white ships and dipping boughs. Frances
Randolph is there from Matoax, with the baby, who is almost
walking. She is as dark and lovely as ever, and little
Johnny is a wonder of beauty. He's a darling love of a
baby, and has a complexion like a lily with the morning
sun on it! There, madam! what would Mr. Cowley say
of that? I think they ought to have called him Bland,
too, or Effingham, as I'm told a lovely girl, named Kate Effingham,
or Mistress Catherine Effingham, if your ladyship
pleases, stood godmother for him. Simple John Randolph
is too short—do n't you think so? When I took the little
creature in my arms—you know all the babies come at once
to me—he laughed, and crowed, and clapped his hands, looking,
all the time, curiously at me out of his dark piercing
eyes.”*
eaf510n8* Historical Illustrations, No. VIII.
eaf510n9* Historical Illustrations, No. IX.
Here follows a long description of various scenes at Vanely,
the pastoral frolic and other divertisements, of which the
reader has heard. The letter ends thus:
“Give my love to Mr. Willie, and write soon, my precious
Kate. How I love you! Won't you come soon? Do,
there's a dear! Vanely's looking beautiful with green
leaves, and I long to see you, to hear your dear, kind laugh,
and kiss you to my heart's content! Tom Alston said, the
other day, that I reminded him frequently of you. I could
have run and kissed him, I assure you.
“Give oceans of love to everybody, and do n't forget to
kiss the baby for me. Good night, now, my own darling.
Please do n't stop loving your fond
“Bonnybel.
“Postscript.—Did I mention that his Serene Excellency
and Royal Highness, the Honorable Lieutenant Henry St.
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[figure description] Page 112.[end figure description]
John, Esquire, was here? He has been good enough to
take notice of his small cousin occasionally, and to ride out
with me. On our return from one of these rides, he had
the audacity to take me in his arms! Just to think of his
impudence! but I boxed him soundly! Of course, 't was
in lifting me from the saddle. I fell into the water, coming
back from the “Charming Sally,” and the lieutenant had
the goodness, in putting on my slipper, which I 'd dropped,
to squeeze my foot into a jelly! Just reflect! to squeeze a
young lady's foot! Was n't it dreadful? He thought himself
mighty fine, I dare say! Odious fellow! not that I
mean to speak ill of him, however. He 's too wholly indifferent
to me for me to take the trouble. By the bye, I
heard something of his paying his addresses to a young lady
from Glo'ster. Is it true? I ask from idle curiosity only—
it is nothing to me.
“Good night, my own dear Kate.
“Your
“Bonnybel.”
CHAPTER XX. HOW MISS BONNYBEL FAINTED IN THE ARMS OF HER COUSIN.
Although Miss Bonnybel carefully forgot to state the
fact, St. John had accompanied them on the visit to Jordan's
and Cawson's, riding by the old chariot on his fine “Tallyho,”
and adding very much to the zest of the journey by
his wit and humor.
The young man was now quietly domiciled at Vanely;
the fact that he was lieutenant of the Governor's guards
appearing never to cross his mind. He had left his subordinate
in command, and did not trouble himself further.
His whole thoughts were absorbed in the pursuit of the now
“cherished object.”
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Day by day, thus lingering at Vanely, he became more
dangerously enthralled. He constantly found, or thought
that he found, in the little maiden, some new and more exquisite
attraction.
Nor was this wholly the result of fancy. Since his last
visit, Bonnybel had greatly changed, and was changing still.
To every maiden comes a time when, opening from bud to
blossom, into the perfect flower of womanhood, she stands
upon the banks of the fast-flowing stream, and sees, in
dreams as it were—dreams full of mysterious loveliness—
an unknown face: and with sighs and smiles, feels in
her pulses a new life before undreamed of. Thus was it
with the careless little witch of Vanely. St. John, when he
came again to the familiar old mansion, saw, in place of a
romping child, a beautiful young lady.
He had left Bonnybel a girl, and found her, all at once, a
woman. The change in her person was even more remarkable
than in her character. Before, her figure was ungracefully
angular, and many of her movements abrupt and awkward.
Now all this had disappeared. Still slender, her
person was yet full and exquisitely rounded; every motion
was gliding and full of grace; the cheek, once too pale, was
now round and blooming like a rose; the large eyes were
brilliant, melting, and full of what the poets have described
as “liquid light.” In a word, that marvelous change which
is so peculiar to the girl just budding into the woman, had
come over the young lady, and with every passing hour the
influence deepened, the rosy cheeks grew rosier, the pouting
lips bloomed with a richer carnation, the dangerous
eyes increased their fatal brilliancy.
Bonnybel possessed that rare and indefinable attraction,
which, in all ages, has brought men to the feet of the women
endowed with it. With far less beauty of feature, her influence
would probably have been nearly as great. Her
mobile and ever changing countenance reflected, as from a
mirror, the ceaseless play of her thoughts and feelings. She
was, by no means, at all times, the wild and coquetish girl,
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[figure description] Page 114.[end figure description]
full of mirth and laughter; at certain moments, every trace
of gaiety disappeared, and the bright eyes swam in tears,
or were fixed upon vacancy with a sad intentness.
She sang delightfully. And here again she was finely endowed.
She not only caroled, with the most contagious
mirth and wild abandon, the “comic” ditties of the period—
“Within a Furlong of Edinborough Town,” “Pretty Betty
Martin, tip-toe fine,” and others; she sang, with a sadness
and pathos equally contagious, the songs of sentiment then
popular—“Flowers of the Forest,” “Grammachree,” “Farewell
to Lochaber,” and that beautiful ditty which is certainly
the pearl of all music, which sounds like the sigh of the autumn
wind through the broom straw, the inexpressibly pathetic
“Katherine Ogie.”
Of these songs, sung by Bonnybel, our worthy author
says—They are the sweetest, I think, of all the Scottish minstrelsy.
But all are sweet, far more so than the ditties of
to-day. They sound for us now with a dim memorial music,
those madrigals which were caroled by our grandmothers
to the murmur of old ghostly harpsichords, while, standing
by the little beauties, our respected grandfathers were captivated,
and for ever after dreamed of those old tunes, and
loved them as the echoes of past happiness and youthful
joys, and all that carnival which glitters and darts onward
in the rosy dawn of youth. I knew an old gentleman who
would often take his book of ancient Scottish songs, and
murmur them to himself for hours; and I've frequently
seen my dear and honored father sit, with wistful smiles,
and pensive eyes, recalling, as he listened to his favorite
“Flowers of the Forest,” youthful hours, and the little
maiden who sang for him, the same song, in the days of silk
stockings and hair powder, early in the century. Kindhearted
and true Virginia gentleman, whose hand has so
often rested on my head in childhood, may you sleep in
peace! O noble father, gone from us to heaven! thinking
of you now, here in the sunshine, and of what was a rarer,
purer sunshine—your sweet smile—the idle words I write
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swim as I gaze on them. I lay down my pen and muse, and
am thankful for the blood that flows in my veins, for the noble
sire bestowed upon me by a gracious and kind Heaven!
But let us not listen further to the worthy old gentleman.
The personages of our history demand attention—the scenes
which attended Mr. Harry St. John's visit to Vanely. Let
us return thither for a brief space, before following the current
of the chronicle which glides away to mix itself with
the roar of history. Let us linger in the old domain, and
watch the ripple of that stream of colonial life which has
flown from us, and seems now to murmur from remote and
misty shores. Let us gaze upon the snowy clouds, serenely
floating over emerald fields to the far, mysterious horizon;
hear the whisper of the ocean breeze in the Vanely oaks,
and follow our hero, Mr. Henry St. John, in his gradual approaches
toward the woman whom he loved.
That he had reached this point, his own heart no longer
left him in the least doubt. A new influence seemed to
have descended upon his life; every thing became, as it
were, transfigured. A purer orange shone in the sunset
and the dawn, the waves upon the shore were perfect music,
the songs of birds came to him like a divine harmony
of joy and love. The future, which before he had scarce
given a thought to, opened now a grand, illimitable landscape,
bathed, as it were, in rosy and enchanting sunlight.
The poor, cold, trifling past had disappeared like a dream of
the hours of darkness, and in the marvelous radiance of the
new dawn, the heart of the young man throbbed, his cheeks
glowed like a boy's; the world seemed to him one great field
of flowers, over which wandered slowly, like some fairy
queen of a sinless realm, the figure of the woman whom he
loved. Strange power of ardent and true love! which in
our cold, prosaic age is so often strangled by the dust of
the conflict, or in the inexorable grasp of mammon; which
the dilettanti and the “men of the world” sneer at; which for
that reason, if no other, may demand respect and honor!
Of the endless walks, and talks, and rides, and excursions,
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we have no room to speak. Perhaps we are fortunate in
this, since our friends, the sneering philosophers of the new
school, might call the history “love-sick,” and visit us with
their displeasure.
Still, let us go with the young man and his companion
on one of these excursions. Perhaps the ocean breeze
may blow on the page, and that is better than the dust of
streets.
It is a balmy morning, and unloosing a sail-boat from the
Vanely wharf, St. John assists the girl to her seat, and
spreads the white sail, which the wind fills immediately.
Directed by the skillful paddle, the sail-boat plunges its
cutwater into the waves, and, like a waterfowl with outstretched
wings, flies down the broad river.
Little is said by either the young man or his companion
as they float on. The beautiful landscape, the fleecy clouds
serenely drifting across the blue sky, the soft and balmy air,
these seem to discourage idle conversation; an indefinable
feeling steals over Bonnybel, and she is silent and pensive.
Half reclining on the gunwale of the boat, she listens to the
murmur of the waves, surrendering herself wholly to the influence
of the time and scene.
St. John thinks that he never saw her look more lovely,
and, in truth, the picture is attractive. The wide straw hat,
with its fluttering ribbons, has fallen back upon the graceful
neck, and the young lady's profuse brown hair, parted in
the middle of her forehead, lies in a mass of curls upon her
shoulders. The head droops forward in a pensive attitude,
and as the boat runs before the breeze, the fingers of the
wind caress and bring a blush, as it were, to the damsel's
cheeks, blowing her hair in ripples from the white forehead,
and fluttering gayly the gay ribbon knots which decorate
her bodice. The odors of the foliage and flowers along the
banks combine to fill the atmosphere with breaths of fragrant
perfume, and the brilliant sunlight falls in a silver flood upon
the wide expanse, glittering in the ripples, and rejoicing,
so to speak, in its tranquil splendor.
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Bonnybel leans lower over the boat's side, and plays with
her fingers in the water, and, with a smile, flirts some drops
toward St. John. Then raising her head, she follows the
flight of a hawk or an eagle, disappearing in the clouds, or
her glance rests upon some white-sailed ship winging its
way like a sea-bird to the ocean; or with half-closed eyes,
in a dreamy reverie, she listens to the song of birds, heard
faintly from the forest, whose rich leaves dance and twinkle
in the sunshine, moved by the balmy wind for ever blowing.
Such idle words as were uttered, the gay breeze bore far
away; those winds of other years still hold the secret.
They came at last opposite the old island of Jamestown,
and in obedience to the young lady's wish, St. John ran the
boat ashore, and they landed.
The old church and a few ruins only remained, with one
or two fishermen's huts near at hand, and lingering among
the ruins, the young man and his companion talked of old
times.
Few spots on earth possess the interest of Jamestown
island. It was here that the New World was born and
cradled, in storm and blood. Here lived and thought, and
fought, and suffered, and triumphed, one of the noblest and
truest gentlemen that ever walked the world—Captain John
Smith. Here Pocahontas was received into the church and
married; the child who had held a hero's head upon her
bosom, to defend it from the savage war-club; who lives yet
in ten thousand hearts, as the impersonation of the highest,
truest womanhood, of love, pity, a devotion which counted
life as nothing if she might save from death a poor, unknown,
disarmed captive! The monumental pride of kings
in hard marble or the stubborn bronze will go to decay, lapse
back to earth, and they and their actions be forgotten. But
the story of Pocahontas shall be known and remembered
by a mighty host of unborn millions, who will love and honor
her.
They spoke of the Indian princess, lingering in the old
ruins, and on the spot where she had so often stood, and
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Bonnybel's pensive eyes seemed to wander to the past, as
her companion went on.
“We lead but poor, cold lives compared with her,” she
said at last, with a deep sigh; “we are nothing but butterflies!”
And plucking a flower from the ruins, she added,
“As this bud to the artificial flower of the dressmaker, so
does Pocahontas compare with us. There, it is not worth
while to deny it; it is true, and `pity 'tis, 'tis true.' You
are descended from Pocahontas—there, I present you with
the flower. It is time to go home.”
The tide was favorable, as it was coming in, and taking
in the sail, St. John plied his paddle, and slowly returned to
the Vanely wharf. They had then the new recreation of a
walk through the fields, and, as though for their especial
benefit, the day became even more delightful. The affluent
glory of the morning deepened, a languid pleasure seemed
to brood over the landscape; as St. John walked by Bonnybel's
side, he felt as if he were making a journey through
fairy land.
They were not to reach home without incident, however—
an incident of a nature sufficiently startling.
Their path wound through the meadow, crossed a brook,
skirted with deep grass and flowers, and then ascended the
hill. They paused by the brook side, and Bonnybel requested
her companion to go and get her a bunch of wild honeysuckle
flowers, which was visible fifty yards off, in a clump
of bushes.
St. John left her side, and the young lady was strolling
along the little stream, when her attention was attracted by
a singularly brilliant object, apparently lying in the grass.
It looked like a jewel, and was buried, so to speak, in a
bunch of thick herbage.
Suddenly the bright object moved. Turning deadly pale,
the girl started back, and a stifled cry escaped from her colorless
lips.
It was a rattlesnake of the largest size; and as the girl
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gazed toward the horrible object with panting bosom and
charmed eyes, the reptile unrolled his great bulk, and raised
high up above the bunch of grass, his loathsome, but beautiful
crest.
In an instant this crest seemed to swell and expand—
it assumed a hue like topaz—and the small, piercing eyes
burned and glittered with a light which seemed to deprive
the girl of her will.
She stretched out her arms and tried to cry aloud, but her
voice expired in a moan.
The reptile's wide mouth was all at once expanded, and
his sharp teeth, bending backward, glittered in a deadly row.
The forked tongue shook with an angry vibration; the tail
began to move and curl to and fro.
The girl was spell-bound by those glittering and satanic
eyes, which charmed and dazzled her, while they chilled her
heart's blood. She had never for a moment given credit to
the stories of this influence; but she now found a horrible
attraction in those eyes. She felt a mingled desire to fly
and to advance—the eyes of the snake terrified her to death,
yet drew her toward him.
But suddenly this expression of the eye changed. The
rattlesnake seemed to abandon the idea of charming, and
to be mastered by anger. The piercing eyes darted flames
of fire, the crest burned and blazed with a thousand colors,
the forked tongue darted to and fro like lightning, and the
huge folds of the reptile rapidly undulated, writhed about,
and changed into all the colors of the rainbow. At the
same moment the tail was raised and shaken with the rapidity
of a humming bird's wings; the huge mouth opened,
and the deadly rattle rang out in the silence.
The girl knew that this was the signal of the serpent's
spring, and she no longer struggled against her fate. Her
knees bent beneath her, a cold perspiration streamed from
her brow, and with laboring bosom, and head thrown back
like a wounded bird, she closed her eyes and lost consciousness.
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She was aroused by the contact of cold water on her brow
and hands, and opening her eyes, found herself lying in the
arms of Mr. St. John.
At two paces from her the rattlesnake lay dead—completely
severed in the middle. St. John had seen her attitude
of horror, had heard the deadly rattle, and arrived just
in time to strike the snake with a pliant stick, and prevent
the girl from falling. She now lay on his bosom, panting
and trembling, and hiding her face. She attempted to draw
back, and half rose to her feet, but her eyes falling on the
reptile, her strength was again paralyzed, and the second
time she fainted in Mr. St. John's arms.
The young man saw that it was absolutely necessary to
remove her from the repulsive object, and doubtless was not
displeased with his duty. He hastily took Bonnybel in his
arms, as if she was a child, and bore her to some distance.
Placing her pale and inanimate form on a bank, he quickly
brought some water in his hat and threw it in her face.
The color came back to her cheeks, she uttered a deep
sigh, and opened her eyes. It was some time before he
could reassure her, and make her understand that there was
no longer any danger. He succeeded at last, however, and
leaning on her cousin's arm, Bonnybel slowly returned
home. We forbear from relating the scene which ensued.
Mr. St. John was the hero of the hour for performing his
duty.
Bonnybel did not recover from her horror for a week, but
at the end of that time her gaiety returned, and as she was
going to retire one night, she told St. John, with an audacious
look, that if he had asked her on the day of the accident,
she would certainly have kissed him.
“It was of no importance,” returned the young man,
laughing. “I had you in my arms and carried you fifty
yards; your cheek lay on my shoulder; it is the softest I
ever felt.”
“Humph!” cried Miss Bonnybel, with a decided pout;
“highly improper in you to take a young lady in your arms!
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and I'd like to know what you know about girls' cheeks!
Well, I won't quarrel with my brave defender! I'm very
glad I'm alive; I'm sure 't is infinitely better than being
dead. Good night, my lord!”
And the little witch slams the door, and runs to her chamber
singing. St. John follows her example and dreams of
her.
CHAPTER XXI. BONNYBEL VANE TO HER FRIEND, KATE EFFINGHAM.
Vanely, midnight.
“I thought I should have died of laughing, Kate!
He drove up to the door in his little sulky, with the pretty
bay trotter, and got out with as easy and careless an air as if
nothing at all had happened on his last visit. I think he is
the most delightfully cool personage I've ever known, and
were I one of the medical profession, I should prescribe for the
spleen or melancholy, a single dose of Mr. Thomas Alston!
His demeanor to sister Helen all day was really enchanting.
The most critical observer could not have discerned a shade
of embarrassment on his part. At first she was very much
put out, but I believe she ended by laughing—at least I saw
her smile. He inquired how Miss Helen had been since he
had last the pleasure of seeing her; he was happy to say
that his own health and spirits had been excellent!
“Did you ever hear of such a man? What a wretch!
Just as much as to say, “If you fancy I'm in the dumps because
you discarded me, you're very much mistaken!” And
now mark my prediction, Kate—sister Helen will end by
marrying him! just as sure as you're alive. And I should n't
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blame her. Do n't tell anybody what I am now going to
say—do n't even whisper it—but, hold your ear close!—
we girls like a gallant that won't take a repulse! Do n't
we?
“There's no news but Jenny's marriage. I'm out of patience
with the post for not delivering my letter. I described
every thing, and crossed every page. I never saw Curle's
so full of company or so noisy. Some of the young men got
terribly, or delightfully tipsy, for they were very amusing.
There was a bowl of apple toddy that would, sure, have
floated a ship, and some of the gentlemen visited it so often
that they lost the use of their sea legs. That jets is not my
own—'t is second-hand.
“I stood, as I told you, with Barry Hunter, and he made
himself very agreeable. My dress was white brocade, with
rosettes of satin ribbon. The head-dress was of point de
Venise, my hair looped up with the pearls mamma presented
me at Christmas—the whole crowned with a wreath of
roses. I wore a pair of the stays I told you of, from Mr.
Pate's, in town. They fit admirably to the figure, and I
bend with ease in them, which can't be said of the newfashioned
ones I got from London.
“I wish my letter telling you every thing had not been lost.
There were a number of your friends there—Mr. Cary, Mr.
Pendleton, and that remarkable-looking gentleman, Mr.
Tazewell, of Kingsmill, with his statue-like head and flowing
hair, parted in the middle like a picture of Titian.* Mr.
Pendleton danced a minuet with me, with admirable grace,
but said with his silvery voice and extraordinary sweet smile,
that he was becoming an old gentleman, and must make
way for the youngsters. Mr. Jefferson from the mountains,
came up as he left me, and made himself very agreeable,
laughing with a pleasant wit at every thing. I do n't wonder
in the least at Martha Wayles marrying him, in spite of his
wild pranks at college which they talk of.† They are at
The Forest, over in Charles City, you know.
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“But I have n't told you of the terrible, dreadful accident
that happened to me, that is, the girls all thought it
such, but I did n't care a button. I was dancing with Barry
Hunter, in the reel, when one of the young heroes, who
had lost his sea legs from too great devotion to the inspiring
punch-bowl, trod on my skirt and tore it dreadfully. I
stumbled besides, and made the bride a low bow, kneeling
gracefully on one knee! The gentlemen all ran to aid me,
though I rose at once, and they gave the unfortunate young
gentleman, who 'd caused the accident, the blackest possible
looks. Barry Hunter would have followed, and called him
to account, had I not prevented it. The poor fellow, whose
name I'll suppress, made me the humblest apology, for
which I gave him my hand and a laugh; he 's since presented
me with a copy of verses, so exactly descriptive of
myself that you shall hear them, madam.
“Read!
“Iris, with every power to please,
Has all the graceful aids of art;
She speaks, she moves with matchless ease;
Her voice, her air alarms the heart!
While every eye her steps pursued,
As through the sprightly dance she shone,
The queen of Love with envy viewed
A form superior to her own.
`Cupid! my darling child,' she cried,
`Behold, amid that jocund train,
A nymph elate in beauty's pride,
The dangerous rival of my reign!
If aught a mother then may claim,
O! let her triumph here no more!
But mortify this earthly dame,
Or who will Venus now adore?'
She speake, her son obeyed, and lo!
Hid where no mortal eye could see,
At Iris' feet he dropped his bow,
She tripped, and fell upon her knee!
But ere a youth could lend his aid,
The sister graces rushed between,
Who still attend the lovely maid,
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And softly raised her up unseen.
The little archer, in a fright,
To her who first the deed designed,
On fluttering pinions took his flight,
And left the guilty bow behind—
In Paphos, on a flowery bed,
Reposes now, bereft of arms;
While Iris conquers in his stead,
And reigns resistless in her charms!”
“Oh me! to be called the rival of Venus, and Iris, and all—
is n't it delightful? Pray, show the verses to everybody,
but do n't let them slip in the “Gazette,” 't would look so
vain.*
“I suppose we'll all go to the fine assembly soon, in town,
given to the Governor's lady. Won't my darling Kate
come too? I'm not flattering you, madam, when I say that
once the macearonies trooped after you, as the stars follow
lovely Cynthia, their queen! Mr. Willie's a pretty fellow!
“He's made the sun in private shine,” as Tom Alston says in
some verses he claims for his own, but he tells a story, for
they're by Mr. Addison. Do, pray, come shine on Vanely!
I know one somebody who'll dance for joy when you appear
there! She loves you dearly! and her name is
“Bonnybel.
“Postscript.—I must defer to another occasion an account
of the really terrifying scene I had with a rattlesnake. His
Excellency Lord Harry St. John acted in the most heroic
manner, and after killing the snake, had the extreme goodness
to take me in his arms, as I'd fainted, and carry me
some distance. O! it was awful, Kate! I see the horrible
eyes still, but I won't think of it. 'T was in coming back
from a sail on the river, and a visit to Jamestown island.
By the bye, I wonder if Pocahontas was brunette; I should
suppose so, as his Excellency, the Lieutenant, who's descended
from her, and admires her hugely, is dark. I'm
happy to say that I'm blonde—am I not? You did not
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tell me the truth of the report that his lordship was courting
down in Glo'ster. When I ask him he laughs. Do you
know, Kate, he's sadly deteriorated; he's really the most
odiously disagreeable person I know, and wearies me to
death. I wish he'd go and marry his Glo'ster beauty, but I
fear there's no such good luck—is there? Tell me in your
next letter, if you think of it. I'm dying to have some one
to tease him about when he returns from Richmond town,
whither he 's going in a day or two.
“Goodness! how late 't is by my repeater! I'll have no
roses in the morning. Pray, write soon—and now, pleasant
dreams to my precious, darling Kate. Good night!”
eaf510n10* Historical Illustrations, No. X.
eaf510n11† Ibid., No. XI.
eaf510n12* Historical Illustrations, No. XII.
CHAPTER XXII. AT THE “TRYSTING TREE. ”
The highest point in the Vanely “chase,” studded all over
with great trees, which throw their twinkling shadows on
the green sward, is crowned by a mighty oak, from the foot
of which a noble view may be obtained.
Around the base of the tree is arranged a wicker seat, immemorially,
if tradition may be believed, the favorite resort
of lovers. Indeed, the great oak, time out of mind, has
been known as the “Trysting Tree.”
It is a balmy evening, and the sun is about to set. A
thousand birds carol in the orange atmosphere, darting from
tree to tree; the swallows circle on quick wings around the
stacks of chimneys, up above them, crimson now in the sunset.
It is the hour above all others favorable to lovers, and
the two personages, whose fortunes we relate, are sitting on
the wicker seat of the trysting tree.
The attitude of Bonnybel would make an excellent picture.
It is such as we have described, on the morning of
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Mr. Lindon's visit, when St. John and herself were reading
from the book of ballads.
The coquettish maiden leans back upon the picturesque
seat. She wears her pink dress, ornamented with ribbon
knots, and her bare white arms are encircled by the red coral
bracelets. A rebellious mass of curls has fallen, by the
purest accident, of course, upon her shoulders, and in the
same accidental way, a pair of exquisite feet appear from beneath
the young lady's skirt. This accident invariably happens
to Miss Bonnybel in spite of her most anxious care.
They are remarkable feet; one of the “minute philosophers,”
gifted with a genius for poesy and exclamation
points, might write a chapter on their expression. They
are slender, with lofty insteps, and seem made to dance over
flowers and sunny sward, in the revels of May. Rich red
rosettes burn on the insteps; the slippers are of blue morocco
with high heels, and pointed toes; they are secured
with ribbons crossed above the delicate ankles. They wrap
themselves around each other as before, and occasionally
move about, in a way that would induce a carping observer
to declare that the little maiden was abundantly aware of
their being visible, and wanted her companion to admire
their beauty.
As she reclines thus in the rich light of the balmy evening,
which pours a flood of joyous splendor on her face, her hair,
her dress, down to the rich rosettes, in bold relief against
the slender little feet, Miss Bonnybel presents a picture
of the most coquettish beauty; at least this is the opinion
of her lover, Mr. Harry St. John.
He has been relating for her entertainment the legend of
the trysting tree; how a lovely little ancestress of the Vanely
family met a youth here, who had lost his heart with her;
how the maiden played with him and amused herself, and
gave him her brightest and most encouraging smiles, and
ended by haughtily discarding him in the flattest and most
surprised way, when he said how madly he loved her. He
had left her without a word, with only a profound, cold
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inclination of his head, and for a time the little beauty had
not been able to realize the fact that his pride had been outraged.
She expected him to return, but he did not come.
She met him at public places, and beamed on him with her
most coquettish sunshine; he bowed and passed her without
speaking. She came to love him with a love greater
even than his own former sentiment for her; he did not
come. She wrote him a laughing, jesting note, inviting
him to Vanely; he excused himself. In a fit of rage and
despair she married a wealthy planter, twice her age, and
on the night of her wedding, stole from the company, and
was found, in a fainting fit, on the wicker seat of the trysting
tree.
Ten years afterwards, her lover was slain in the great rebellion
of 1676, and they found, on his dead body, a letter in
the handwriting of a woman, with the words, “I loved you and am wretched, for I can never see you more. Farewell.”
The ball which tore through his heart had obliterated
the name signed to the epistle, and it was replaced upon
the pale, cold bosom, and buried with the body.
This was the legend of the trysting tree, related by
St. John for his companion's amusement. Bonnybel
listens silently, and at its termination says, with a heavy
sigh,
“That 's just the way with men; they never love truly,
but fly off, at a moment's warning, for a glance or a word
they dislike.”
“Do n't you think he was right?” said her companion.
“Right! who could ever think so?”
“I do.”
“Right to leave the girl he loved, because she did not
yield to his suit at the first word? Forsooth! you lords of
creation are truly very reasonable.”
“I think he was right,” said St. John, “because no man
should suffer his self respect to be invaded even by the woman
he loves. If he do n't respect himself, how can she?
It was thus in the legend. The young gentleman loved the
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young lady honestly and truly; she beckoned to him with
her eyes, and held out her hands to him, as 't were, to come
and receive them. Well, he obeys the enticing eyes, and
smiles; he blushes, may be, with the thought that he 's
surely going to be happy; he is an honest gentleman, he
loves her; she says, plainly, `I love you with my whole
heart,' though she does not speak, and on this hint he does speak. But, instead of yielding, she looks indignant; she
is surprised, bestows a haughty look upon him, repulses
him. Come now, my dear, could he still remain beside her,
much less love her?”
“I'll thank you to keep your `my dears' to yourself, sir!”
says Miss Bonnybel, with a look which says “you may call
me so as much as you please.” “I think the hero of the
legend acted as no true lover could. Humph! to leave her,
and put on his grand airs when she even condescended to
smile, and hold out her hand, and solicit him. I'd have
boxed his ears! No gentleman really in love could have
refused her hand.”
“I could have done it.”
“Ha! ha! I know what you would have done; you
would have taken it! Now, just fancy me the young lady;
I'm only a poor little country maiden, but I shall act her
part.”
And with the most audacious and bewitching glance,
crammed full of coquettish attraction, and caressing blandishment,
Bonnybel held out one of her small white hands
toward her companion.
He put both of his own behind his back, with a laugh.
Bonnybel, thrown suddenly off her guard by the action,
colored to the roots of her hair, and her pouting lips contracted
with anger.
“So your lordship is determined to act the part of
the hero to the life, are you?” she said, with flushed
cheeks.
“Yes.”
Bonnybel turned from him with a toss of the head, and
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pouting elaborately, played in a fretful way with the tassels
of her girdle.
St. John quietly waited for her mood to change. He did
not mistake in his calculation. Bonnybel played petulantly
for some moments longer with the tassels, then stole a wary
glance at her lover, writhed the small slippers around each
other, and finally meeting Mr. St. John's smiling eye, colored
slightly, and burst out laughing.
“I suppose you would refuse my hand if I offered it in
my own character, as simple Bonnybel Vane,” she said.
And with a hesitating movement, she released the unfortunate
tassels, and seemed about to give the hand, but drew
it back suddenly.
It was too late.
“Refuse your hand!” said St. John, bestowing upon the
young lady a look so tender that she turned crimson, “I
should refuse it thus then!”
And imprisoning not only one, but both of the soft
hands in his own, the impulsive lover drew Bonnybel
toward him, and seemed about to press his lips to her
own.
The young lady uttered an exclamation, and with a slight
struggle released herself.
“How dare you presume, sir,” she cried, “to try to kiss
me? You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
“Cousins, you know!” laughed the young man, “ 't was
only the cousin's privilege I was about to take!”
“A pretty excuse!” said the young lady, with a rosy
blush, and pouting more than ever, “and just look, sir!
my hair's all tumbled down by your rudeness.”
In truth the beautiful brown hair lay in a brilliant mass
upon her shoulders, and a stray curl wandered down and fell
upon the young man's cheek, as he sat on the projecting
root beside her feet.
“I can testify my contrition in one way only,” he said,
smiling, “but you will not let me.”
“In what way, pray?” said Bonnybel, recovering her
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daring self-possession, and bestowing upon him her customary
glance of provoking attraction.
“I will act as your lady's maid,” he said, “I have done so
often, you know.”
And in spite of some slight resistance on the part of the
girl, he gathered up the beautiful locks and set about arranging
them. We are bound to say that the resistance offered
by Miss Bonnybel was such as to make her smiling
companion think she was not really averse to his obliging
proposal. Bonnybel had the most beautiful hair, as soft and
glossy as silk, and she was not unwilling to have it admired.
Then, after all, Mr. Harry St. John was her cousin and playmate,
and in Virginia, ceremony of every sort falls to the
ground before the magical spell of “cousin.”
So Mr. Harry St. John applied himself assiduously, but
not rapidly, to his task. Let not the cynical reader laugh
when we relate that his pulse galloped fast as he took in his
hands the bright, perfumed curls, and touched the rosy
cheek by purest accident. When a young man is as much in
love as was our hero—we would urge upon the critics in his
favor—the cheek will occasionally flush, the heart will beat—
by singular good fortune the hearts of the cynical philosophers
are never known to beat.
“There, sir!” cried Bonnybel, suddenly, “you've had
time enough!”
“What beautiful hair you have!” he said, finishing his
task, “and how I admire it.”
“That's all about me that you admire, then, I suppose.”
“No indeed; I admire every thing. But I need not assure
you on this point. In truth, Bonnybel,” added the
young man, taking his former seat upon the root at her feet,
“I do n't know how I shall get on, when I'm away from
you now.”
And there was so much seriousness in his tone, that the
young lady, this time, did not laugh.
“You know I go to Richmond town to-morrow, and thence
to Williamsburg. When I can come again I don't know.
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His Excellency is my master, you see, and I've already
taken an immensely long holiday. I certainly calculated on
being arrested, or at the very least, on a terrific explosion.
But this is not interesting to you. I may escape the storm
of wrath and come back some day.”
“Not interesting to me?” said Bonnybel, passing, as she
often did, from mirth and jest to sadness, and looking at the
young man as she spoke, with her large, sad, serious eyes;
“why do you say that what concerns you can not interest
me?”
St. John sighed.
“I do n't mean, my dear—but you do not like me to call
you, `my dear'—”
“It is nothing,” she said, in a low voice.
“Well, I do n't mean that you 'll not take a certain interest
in my life, dear, for we are of one blood. But I find
myself doubting the reality of any deep sympathy in any
one. You see, Bonnybel, I never knew my father or my
mother, that is, they are mere figures of my early childhood.
It is true that uncle and aunt have been as kind to me as
kind can be, but I have always felt, as it were, alone in the
world.”
“That is not just; you know how much we—all—love
you.”
“Then you will be glad to know that I am well and happy?
You say `we all.' Does that mean that you care any
thing for me?” he whispered, taking her hand and gazing
into her eyes, with a long, fixed look.
With the beautiful head sorrowfully drooping over the
right shoulder, and her large, sad eyes, fixed on his own, the
young girl, not withdrawing her hand, murmured in a low
voice,
“Yes.”
The sweetest hours of evening had descended on them,
as they tarried beneath the old trysting tree, and the orange
west grew fainter as the great orb sank slowly to its couch
in the purple waves. The east began to twinkle with a
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million stars, and the balmy breeze of the ocean sighed
through the great boughs above, and died away in a low
murmur. The birds had folded up their wings and gone to
rest, the last lingering rays of sunset rose like golden crowns
from the lofty chimneys of the old hall. The whole landscape
sank, field after field, tint after tint, into warm and
dreamy sleep.
St. John held in his own the unresisting hand of the young
lady, and those words which determine often the fate of a
whole life, were on his lips. As he gazed upon the exquisite
countenance; upon the large eyes swimming in pensive
sadness; upon the graceful head, with its clustering curls
drooping toward the shoulder; upon the pouting lips, half
parted, as in some dreamy reverie, his glance grew more
fixed and tender, his cheek flushed impetuously, and he
drew the hand he held toward him.
Poor St. John! Unfortunate lover! Suddenly a voice
greets him—a voice from behind—and Miss Seraphina, in
capacious sunbonnet, and holding a bunch of May flowers,
is added to the party. She has been out walking, and on
her return, seeing the two young people at the trysting
tree, has determined to bestow her company upon them.
Approaching from behind, she had remained unseen, until
they were in contact almost.
Miss Seraphina does or does not suspect something; but
at least she smiles, and launches forth cheerfully on a variety
of subjects. St. John utters an inaudible sigh, and as Bonnybel
says that it is time for her to go in, accompanies the
ladies to the house.
The young man and Miss Bonnybel seemed both preoccupied
throughout the early part of the evening, but toward
bed-time the young lady's gayety seemed to return,
and she bade farewell to Mr. St. John, who was going with
the Vanely race-horses to Richmond, at an ealy hour, with
her former air of mischief and coquettish satire.
“I trust your lordship will very soon return,” she said;
“the next time, I promise to be in the drawing-room with
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my hair elegantly dressed, and you'll kiss me at your peril,
sir! We'll surely meet at the assembly, but I count on
having you come back before that time. Pray do so, if
you think the inducements here sufficient. A pleasant journey!”
And giving him her hand, with an audacious glance from
her dangerous eyes, the young lady dashed up the broad
stair-case, candle in hand, and disappeared.
Mr. St. John was “finished,” but his smile seemed to indicate
that he felt any thing but pain.
CHAPTER XXIII. ST. JOHN MAKES HIS ENTRY INTO RICHMOND TOWN.
On the following morning, at early dawn, the young man
was in the saddle, and followed by the grooms, leading the
race-horses, set out for Richmond town. He had volunteered
his services to see his uncle's horses safely conveyed and
entered at the races there*—his intention being to proceed
thence to Williamsburg.
The cavalcade traveled slowly in order that the horses
might be in the best possible condition, and as the races
did not take place till the next day, St. John stopped and
spent the night at Cawson's, the residence of his friend,
Colonel Theodoric Bland. Little John Randolph and his
mother were still there, and the young man held in his arms
the afterwards celebrated orator of Roanoke.
On the next morning, early, with the exchange of many
cordial good wishes, he set out again on his journey, and
crossing in the ferry-boat, entered Richmond town in the
midst of an enormous crowd, attracted by the double festival
of the fair and the races.
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The town was scarcely more than a village straggling
along a winding creek which emptied its bright waters into
the James, flowing in serene majesty from the foot of the
falls away into the immense forest.
On a hill to the west, above the river, foaming over huge
rocks, and encircling the verdurous islands scattered over its
bosom, rose from the foliage of May the single fine dwelling
house of the town, “Belvidere,” some time the residence of
Colonel William Byrd, whose large warehouse for tobacco
rose above the village. On the opposite hill, to the east,
the old church of St. John peeped from the forest, and was
gilded by the brilliant sunlight.
As the young man passed on through the row of log houses,
with their wooden chimneys, against which an ordinance
had been lately passed, he saw representatives of every
clime almost. There were Dutch and Portuguese from
sloops in the river, negroes just landed from Africa, and
vagrant Indians come to purchase rum with their furs. The
Africans spoke their native dialect, and the rest a broken
patois, and the numerous goats swarming in the streets, and
peering into every thing, added their bleating to the hubbub.
Almost every class and tongue was represented in the
streets, from the swaggering foreign sailor to the well-bred
gentleman in his coach, and the small village, usually so obscure,
had become almost a city on this the day of the fair.
Mr. St. John pushed his way onward, through men, and
women, and children, and goats, and reached the door of
the tavern, a long building overflowing with revelers.
He had his animals baited, and then applied himself vigorously
to the substantial viands set respectfully before him
by mine host of the “Rising Sun.” Having satisfied his
material wants, he issued forth and looked around him on
the hubbub of the fair.
It was a sufficiently entertaining sight, and worthy of the
pencil of Hogarth. Unfortunately, we do not possess the
burin of that great humorous genius, and must content ourselves
with saying that those favorite deities of Virginia,
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Fun and Frolic, seemed to be ruling the great crowd despotically.
This crowd was, as we have said, of every possible description
of personage—from the wealthy and richly dressed Virginia
planter, to the traveling showman announcing, in discordant
accents, like a bull of Bashan, from the opening of
his canvas booth, the wonders of his three-headed pig, or his
greyhound with eight legs.
The great master of the science of thimble-rig here puzzled
the rustic clod-hoppers with his feats of legerdemain;
a step further, a serene and solemn gentleman was stationed
in the rear of a table covered with a figured cloth, on which
a number of pistoles would be laid down by betters, to be
raked immediately into Mr. Sweatcloth's pouch; still, a step
further, an Italian boy turned summersets, and sang and
played with his monkey, and from the crowd assembled
round these various spectacles, and games, and exhibitions,
came a ceaseless buzz of talk and laughter, rising at times into
a shout almost, and deafening the ears with joyous discord.
Mr. St. John pushed his way through the crowd, exchanging
greetings with a hundred acquaintances, and entered
the grounds of the fair proper.
Here it was no longer confusion only—it was Babel. A
specimen brick, so to speak, had been brought from the edifices
of dealers in all imaginable commodities, and Mr. St.
John found himself assailed on a dozen sides, in as many moments,
by the merchants.
Would his honor like this fine saddle? or perhaps this
handsome cloth? But before the victim could reply, he
was entreated, by the merchant opposite, to purchase a full
set of variegated china.
Would he look at these buckskin knee-breeches, as fine
and pliable as satin? And no sooner had Mr. St. John declined
the knee-breeches, than a country lass offered him a
set of frilled shirts, which seemed to have been made with
especial reference to the foam of the sea, so elaborate and
immense were the ruffles.
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The young man put aside every thing, laughing, and went
through the whole grounds uncaptured. He paused beside
more than one chariot to pay his respects to young ladies,
and finally found himself opposite the judge of the races on
the ensuing day.
The judge was a portly gentleman, of about thirty, with
a large bundle of watch seals, an enormous frill, and a bearing
at once dignified and agreeable. He wore a huge peruke,
fine buckskin breeches, and fairtop boots with spurs—boots
covering feet of the dimensions of kneading troughs.
His large hands were encased in gloves, and the right glove
held the handle of a riding whip, ornamented with silver.
When this worthy saw Mr. St. John, he made him a profound
bow, but immediately raised his head with dignity.
“Well, Mr. Lugg,” said St. John, shaking hands in a
friendly way, “I have come to enter some horses. How
are the lists?”
“Pretty well filled, Mr. St. John,” replied Mr. Lugg, saluting
an humble passer by in a friendly and condescending
way; “pretty full, sir, but we're glad to have as many entries
for the purse as possible.”
“I forewarn you—Belsize or Serapis will win it.”
“That's as it may be, sir, for there are some beauties entered.”
“Have you any horse?”
“Yes, sir—that is, a mare. If there's a question connected
with her, of course I do n't act as judge.”
“Exactly. What's her name?”
“I call her Donsy, sir—after my lady. A thorough-bred,
by Selim, the Arabian of my friend, Captain Waters, out of
Juliet, whom I purchased of my friend and neighbor, Mr.
Champ Effingham. He wished to make me a present of the
mare, but of course I could n't accept.”
And Mr. Lugg raised his head with dignity.
Mr. St. John smiled, and asked his companion to come
and look at his horses, and see Mr. Gunn with him—this
latter gentleman being the manager of the races.
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Mr. Lugg obeyed with alacrity, and more than once returned
a salute from a gentleman riding by—holding Mr.
St. John's arm.
They went to the race course, which was in an old field,
toward the east, and to the stables.
Mr. Lugg, and his friend Gunn, expatiated at length upon
the merits of the different horses, and bestowed discriminating
praise upon Belsize and Serapis, who had already been
entered by Mr. St. John's servant.
They then returned, conversing, to the inn.
Night fell upon the fair, but it did not diminish the
revelry. In the great room of the “Rising Sun,” especially,
was the uproar perfectly tremendous.
When Mr. St. John entered this apartment, his attention
was attracted by a figure mounted on the great table, high
above the immense roaring crowd, which figure shook in
his hand a parchment, and, with violent gesticulations, demanded
to be heard.
At last Mr. St. John made out that the orator was offering
the title deed of a lot in the town of Richmond, to any
one who would treat the crowd, himself included, to a bowl
of punch, of the best Scotch whiskey.
The young man looked on, curiously, to see what success
this offer would meet with, and his patience was rewarded.
A little personage with a tie-wig jostled through the
crowd, and took and examined the parchment. The examination
seemed satisfactory, and the gentleman in the wig
signified his willingness to close with the owner's proposition.
The crowd received the speech with shouts of applause,
and mine host was ordered to brew an ocean of punch, the
offer being unlimited.
Mr. St. John saw the gentleman in the tie-wig roll up
the title-deed and retire, after speaking to the landlord;
and then the young man retired too, fatigued with his
ride.
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As to the parchment thus purchased, it was the title-deed
of the square upon which St. Paul's Church now stands, in
the city of Richmond.
eaf510n13* Historical Illustrations, No. XIII.
CHAPTER XXIV. IN WHICH THE AUTHOR OMITS DESCRIBING THE RACES.
We have said that nothing but the pencil of Hogarth
could depict the humors of the streets of Richmond town,
when Mr. St. John arrived.
We add, that even this great humorist would have had
his powers taxed to their utmost by the scenes on the race-course
upon the following day.
We shall scarcely attempt to outline them, for we feel
how powerless would be the endeavor. It is enough to say
that the old field presented the appearance of Pandemonium
broke loose; that cock-fights, dog-fights, rat and terrier
combats, and human fisticuff engagements, were the lesser
and more unimpressive details of what seemed a tremendous
orgy.
The crowd was huger, the traveling gamblers more indefatigable,
the Italian and his monkey turned wilder summersets,
and through this mass of “low life” and revelry,
a thrill of delight and expectation seemed to run, which
changed to resounding acclamations when the horses were
led forth.
Mr. St. John, by express kindness of his friend, L. Lugg,
Esquire, chief judge, was accommodated with a seat in the
judges' stand—a little round tower, fronting the balcony,
and looking down upon the concourse.
The young man gazed with that interest and curiosity,
which is said to be peculiar to Virginians, upon the spectacle.
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Beneath him the crowd reeled and flowed to and fro in
waves; rich chariots shot by like stars, full of little beauties
in diamonds and lace, or portly old fellows in enormous ruffles;
the dog-fights, cock-fights, man-fights, went on in a
ceaseless uproar.
Above and fronting him was a spectacle somewhat different.
In the wide balcony a mass of dames and gentlemen
resembled, with their variegated costumes, a blooming
flower-garden; and the sparkling eyes, red cheeks, and lips
ever smiling, indicated how much pleasure the young ladies
expected from the race.
Alas! for the cause of morality and solemnity! 'T is much
the same, says our author, in all ages. Whether princess
or young lady, damsel or lass of the mill, they, one and all,
are the same foolish, giddy creatures! They all love fine
dresses, and colors of the rainbow! They thrill one and all
at a festival or jubilee! They like gallants, and admiration,
and pretty speeches, and amusement! and I do n't think, Sir
Diogenes, they are heathen!
The horses are led up and down through the crowd—the
cock-fights, dog-fights, man-fights, disappear—a thrill of admiration
even runs through the bevy of fair girls.
The horses are stripped and saddled. They are the cream
of Virginia racers, and they know what they are expected
to perform.
The boys are tossed into the saddle, the drum tapped,
and the animals vanish from the stand like meteors on the
circular track.
It is not our intention to dwell on the details of the races,
or on the singular and laughable scenes which followed them.
If the reader would see that jolly period rise up from the
mists of oblivion, renew its faded colors, and unroll its wide
tapestry of fun and revelry; if he would know how our
ancestors amused themselves and carried on, he has only to
consult the “Virginia Gazette,” and the advertisement of the
frolic on St. Andrew's day, at Captain John Bickerton's old
field in Hanover, to see the whole spectacle again. He will
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see how the hat worth twenty shillings was cudgeled for;
how a violin was played for, and then how they all played
different tunes at once; how a quire of ballads was sung for,
and silver buckles wrestled for, and a pair of handsome shoes
and stockings danced for—the stockings to be given to the
prettiest girl upon the ground.
All this the honest and veracious old “Gazette” sets forth—
every other word commencing with a capital—and there
we read it all to-day. How can the poor chronicler depict
it? He listens with respectful attention to the fiddlers, and
hears the maidens' voices singing for the book of ballads,
and bows to the prettiest girl upon the ground, who got the
stockings—bows low, quite careless whether she be diamond-decorated
maiden or poor country lass, caring to know nothing
but her beauty. The chronicler thus hears, and sees,
and laughs, and looks down on the rout, or up to the
balcony, with its starry eyes—but that is all. He can not
describe you, bright young men and maidens! though he
hears your mirth and laughter chiming through the mists
of the century that is gone. He drops the corner of the
curtain he has raised for a moment, and passes onward,
smiling.
We shall not further dwell upon the races, or the fair, but
simply say that, on the following morning, Mr. St. John ordered
“Tallyho,” and turned his face toward Williamsburg.
The following note, however, went back, with Serapis and
Belsize, to Vanely:
“At Shoccoe's, Thursday morning.
“My Dear Uncle,
“I am just getting into the saddle for Williamsburg,
but write to say that Serapis won the purse. He was nearly
distanced the first heat, but won the two others over every
horse upon the ground. He's worth a thousand pounds.
“Tom bears you this. I go to Williamsburg, but hope
soon to see you all again at Vanely.
“Your dutiful nephew,
“Henry St. John.”
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Having delivered this note to the negro, Mr. St. John got
into the saddle, and pushed his way through the crowd, toward
the hill upon which stood old St. John's Church.
CHAPTER XXV. HOW MR. ST. JOHN ENCOUNTERED A STRANGER, AND OF WHAT THEY CONVERSED.
The road which the young man pursued led around the
hill in a sort of curving ascent, and passing by the church
of St. John, debouched from the town in the direction of
“Bloody Run,” where Bacon had defeated the Indian army
a hundred years before.
He looked back upon the town, as he arrived at the summit,
and was so much impressed by the beauty of the landscape
that he dismounted, and tied his horse to the bough
of a tree, and entered the grounds of the church, seeking
for the highest point of view.
He found this in the immediate vicinity of the old edifice,
and threading his way among the tombstones of three generations,
paused upon a grassy hillock, and feasted his eyes
upon the scene.
It is beautiful to-day—it was far more lovely then. The
majestic river, far beneath him, poured its waves from the
western hills around islands of dipping foliage, and over rocks
which broke its waters into foam, and then, tired of this contention,
flowed away in serene majesty toward the sea. Far
away to the south, it wound into view again, the white sails
of barks glittering on its bosom against the green forest—
that immense forest which seemed to clasp the whole landscape
in its embrace. At the foot of the high hill, scattered
along the brook, were the houses of the town, and in the
west rose the walls of Belvidere, embowered in foliage, and
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looking down serenely on the village. Over the whole scene
drooped the warm and golden atmosphere, and a great pile
of clouds, like snow drift, floated away toward the southern
horizon.
The beautiful spectacle was not without its effect upon
the young man, whose mind and heart, for a moment diverted
by the scenes of the fair, now returned with new
pleasure to his possessing thought.
It was the face of a girl which he saw in the clouds and
the mirror-like river; it was her voice which he heard in
the murmur of the breeze, and the mellow music of the
laughing water, foaming over moss-clad rocks. Her image
had been obscured by the grotesque scenes, and the passion
and uproar of the race-course; now, however, he was alone
with nature, and in the midst of purity and peace, her beautiful
face came back to him, and filled his heart with gladness.
The erect brows of the young man drooped; he leaned
against the trunk of one of the old trees, and lowering his
eyes, fixed them with idle and dreamy pleasure on the flowery
sward.
He remained thus silent and absorbed, scarcely conscious
of the outer world, for nearly an hour—absorbed in one of
those reveries which come at times to all. Place and time
had disappeared—he was alone with his love.
He was aroused by a distant muttering of thunder, and
by a heavy drop of rain falling upon his face.
He looked up. The whole scene had changed. Heavy
clouds obscured the sky, fringed beneath by a long, ragged
line of fire; and as he gazed, the far horizon was illuminated
by successive flashes of lurid lightning, which shone,
with dazzling brilliancy, against the black masses of the
thunder clouds. The May morning had been obscured thus
suddenly by one of those thunder storms which rush into
the skies of Virginia, at this season of the year, with scarcely
a moment's warning, and the brooding darkness, which advanced,
like a giant towering from earth to heaven, over
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river, and field, and forest, proved that the storm about to
burst would be one of no ordinary violence.
The young man had scarcely taken in with a glance the
state of things, when the heavy drops began to patter more
rapidly through the trees; a huge wall, apparently, of mist
advanced rapidly from the west, and accompanied by vivid
lightning flashes, and deafening peals of thunder, as its heralds,
the storm was upon him.
He threw a glance toward “Tallyho,” who was sheltered
somewhat by the great oak, beneath which he was tied, and
then hastened to the door of the church for shelter.
He struck it with his hand, and fortunately it was open.
He entered just at the moment when the storm roared down
upon the hill, lashing it with all its power, and making the
building shake and quiver.
St. John found himself in an old edifice, almost dark, and
at first he scarcely saw his way.
The windows were for the most part closed, but through
those which remained open the dazzling flashes of lightning
streamed fearfully, preluding roars of thunder like a thousand
cannon.
The young man had advanced toward the tub-shaped pulpit,
and was standing with one hand upon the railing of the
chancel, when he heard issue, as it were, from beneath his
feet, the words,
“A dangerous thunder-storm, sir; you are fortunate in
finding refuge from it.”
He started and turned round. At the same moment, a
vivid flash of lightning lit up the building, and a step beneath
him, in the door of the vestry-room, St. John discovered
the figure of a man, clad in somber and severe black.
It was the singular individual whom we have seen in the
tall, tower-like edifice in Williamsburg—in the underground
printing office—beneath the boughs of the forest—and in the
chamber of his child, as he prepared to set forth on his midnight
journey.
His appearance had not changed. There was the same
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expression of iron calmuess, the same steady fire in the dark
eyes, the same air, as of one who is possessed by an intellectual
fanaticism, an absorbing idea, which never for a moment
disappears from his mind.
St. John gazed for a moment at the pale face, and the nervous
figure, which seemed like a collection of steel springs.
He was trying to remember where he had met with the
stranger before. That he had encountered him somewhere,
he was perfectly well assured. But where? The attempt
to recall the time or place was vain; he gave up the search.
To the deep-toned words of the stranger, he replied,
“Yes, a dangerous storm, sir; pardon my staring at you
so very rudely, but I fancied we had met before.”
“Perhaps,” said the stranger, gravely.
“Your appearance in the darkness somewhat startled me.
I had expected to find this old building vacant, and almost
recoiled when you spoke from the shadow.”
“I confess my appearance was somewhat melo-dramatic,”
replied the stranger, advancing from the door with a measured
movement, “but my presence here, like yours, is very
simple.”
“I took refuge from the storm.”
“And I came to look at this building.”
St. John's look denoted that he had failed to understand.
“You wished to see the church?”
“Yes, sir—its capacity.”
“Its capacity?”
“In other words, sir,” said the stranger, “how many
persons could assemble within its walls.”
“Yes,” said the young man, “I think I understand.
There is to be an ecclesiastical convention.”
“I have not heard of it, sir.”
“What then?”
“A convention of persons employed in other matters, perhaps.
Possibly a meeting of the Burgesses.”
“The Burgesses?”
“Why not?”
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“I thought that honorable body sat in Williamsburg,
sir.”
The stranger was silent for a moment, and during this
pause, his dark eyes, piercing and brilliant, and full of
gloomy earnestness, fixed themselves upon the face of his
companion.
“Williamsburg is truly the present place of meeting of
the Burgesses,” he said in his deep voice, “but do you think
they will sit there long?”
“Ah! I understand—you refer to Lord Dunmore?”
The stranger nodded.
“You mean that he will coerce them?”
“Is it very improbable?”
“It is just the contrary.”
“Well, then, sir,” said the stranger, thoughtfully, “do
you think it strange that another place besides Williamsburg
is looked to? But, your pardon. Perhaps I speak to
a gentleman having no sympathy with the cause—to one
connected with Lord Dunmore?”
At that name the young man's face had already clouded
over, and his eyes assumed an expression of disdain and
menace.
“Yes,” he said, coldly, “I am connected with his lordship.”
The stranger made a movement of his head.
“I am lieutenant of his `guards,' so styled.”
“I can not congratulate you, sir,” said the stranger,
gloomily, “but I have nothing to say.”
“I have something to add, however,” returned St. John,
disdainfully, “and it is this, sir: that I cordially despise his
Excellency, and throw the commission I've held in his face!”
The stranger advanced a step, his gloomy look changing
to one of animation.
“You do not then approve of this gentleman?” he said.
“I deny that he's a particle of a gentleman!” returned
the young man, coldly; “he's a vulgar fellow, and if he
asks me my opinion, I'll tell him so!”
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The stranger's face glowed.
“Then you are of the opposition, sir?” he said in his deep
voice.
“To the death!”
“You are a patriot?”
“I know not what you mean by the word,” returned St.
John, coldly; “if, however, it signifies a man who regards
the legislation of Parliament as odious and despotic; who
would war to the death against the tyrannical enactments
let loose upon Virginia, like a brood of cormorants; above
all, who would gladly march at the head of a regiment to
drive this man, Dunmore, from the capital of the province,
and lash him like a hound from our borders—if this is what
you call being a patriot, sir, I'm one to all lengths!”
As the young man spoke in his bold and earnest voice,
with its disdainful and passionate sternness, the form of the
stranger seemed to dilate with satisfaction, his strange eyes
grew more brilliant, and his pale cheek was tinged with a
slight color.
He advanced and said:
“Then you would oppose Parliament?”
“To the bitter end!”
“You would resist the execution of its acts in the province?”
“With arms, if necessary!”
“You would levy war against the Governor.”
“As cheerfully as a bridegroom assembles his friends to
ride to his wedding!”
The stranger seemed to glow with gloomy satisfaction
as he listened to these disdainful words. But he restrained
himself.
“Do you know that the words you have uttered are dangerous?”
he said.
“Perfectly,” said St. John.
“That I may be a spy and informer?”
“I care not.”
“That the Governor may arrest you and send you to rot
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in a prison ship, or swing from Tyburn tree, by the verdict
of an English jury?”
“Stop!” said St. John, as coldly as before; “there you
are mistaken, sir!”
“Mistaken?”
“You lose sight of one thing—the fact that I wear a
sword! and that before the tools of Dunmore arrest me—”
“Yes, yes?”
“I will drive it to the hilt in his cowardly breast!” said
St. John, carried away with rage; “if I 'm hanged for treatson
it shall be for something! But this is idle, sir. I talk
like a school-boy, and I get blood-thirsty. I mean that my
contempt for this man is so deep, my jealousy of parliamentary
misrule so strong, my blood so hot with the cause of
this, our native land, that I'd cheerfully take the first step
in high treason to defeat our enemies—stake my head upon
the game, and abide by the result!”
The stranger seemed to listen to these words with stern
delight, and his eyes burned with the fires of internal excitement.
He advanced two steps, and enclosing the young man's
hand in a grasp of iron, said, in his deep, resounding voice:
“I offer you the clasp of amity, friend, and recognize in
you a brother and coworker! I see in your eyes, your voice,
the expression of your lips, what I'd trust my life to sooner
than distrust it!”
“You may,” replied St. John, coldly; “I am not one to
hide any thing.”
“I see that plainly!” said the stranger, “and it is men
like yourself that we want—bold natures and strong hands.
Do not think that I flatter you, sir—there is no man living
I will flatter. I speak simply when I say that you have
interested and moved me, as few persons have moved me
for years. But even in this moment of full sympathy, let
me still ask if these views are deliberate, and not the result—”
“Of private feelings!” said St. John, mastered in spite of
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himself by the gloomy earnestness of the stranger; “is that
your meaning, sir?”
The stranger nodded.
“I reply that a private feeling toward the Governor has
had some weight with me, but my opinions were formed
before. They are summed up in this—that Virginia is
being crushed! that we, free-born men, are being rapidly
enslaved, that our chains are being forged, and my remedy
is war!”
The stranger listened with an avidity which glowed in his
eyes, and seemed to send the blood more rapidly through
his veins.
“You say well, sir,” he replied in a voice which swelled
and grew deeper and more gloomy as he spoke; “you have
uttered the single word which expresses the whole truth of
the times. Yes, we free-born Virginians are becoming slaves—
serfs! the serfs of a mean and ignoble Parliament full
of representatives from rotten boroughs, and advancing to
tread upon the necks of these provinces. The serfs of a
Governor, coarse, treacherous and bloody, whose very presence
on our soil taints it, and makes it tremble with disgust.
You have nobly spoken, sir. Your voice has uttered those
noble thoughts which tremble, as we stand here, on a thousand
tongues, but are silenced by this tyranny beneath which
we groan; which is crushing our free spirits and making us
those most miserable creatures, the slaves of a phantom—
an idea!”
As the stranger spoke, his voice grew deeper still and full
of meance; his hands moved, and seemed to tremble with
disdain.
“How long? how long?” he said, “this is the cry of the
new generation, unfettered by the past or the present, and
looking to the future. This new generation I look to as
my stay and my hope—I who live in and draw my heart's
blood from the breath of revolution! The word stratles
the old generation—it is the watch-word, the battle cry of
the new! Look at my face, sir! the wrinkles that begin to
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diverge from my eyes—they are the result of ten years of
conflict, of ten years, in which I have toiled and nearly worn
myself out in pushing onward, through evil report and good,
through darkness and gloom, the car of a revolution which
shall break and overturn, and crush beneath its wheels what
oppresses us! I speak as I have the right to speak. I tell of
the darkness through which I have passed, wherein scarely
a star shone to guide me. But thanks to the Supreme Ruler
of the destinies of humanity, the gloom begins at last to
disappear, the day of liberty to dawn.
“Yes, sir,” continued the stranger, his lofty stature seeming
to increase as he spoke, “the day begins to dawn on our
western world, and the powers of the night to be dethroned.
For generations it has lain in darkness, and the horrible
vultures have fed upon its bowels, tearing out its vitals and
burying obscene talons in its noble heart. But that heart
is not cold—the heart of Virginia is still alive—it throbs and
it rises! You may see the prostrate form begin to quiver!
see the shudder which runs through the gigantic frame! it
trembles and pants, and, like Lazarus, rises from its grave!
like Samson, it will shiver into atoms the chains which fetter
its mighty limbs! When that body rises to its feet from
the living grave in which a horrible and murderous tyranny
has engulfed it, the solid earth will shake beneath its tread,
and the waters of the very sea will boil. Wo then to the
vultures of tyranny! Wo to Dunmore, to Gage, to the king
on his throne, in that hour! The atmosphere is even now
charged with hatred, the lightnings of years of oppression
will fall on our tyrants to brand and paralyze them, with the
false and lying hounds they have let loose to tear us!
“You gaze at me with wonder, sir,” continued the stranger,
“but if you knew what I have passed through, you
would not be astonished. I who speak, sir, as I feel myself
compelled to speak, by an influence I can not resist—I who
speak to you, have no thought, no existence, no heart, but
Virginia! Whatever strikes her strikes me, what arrests
the life-blood in her veins paralyzes mine; what she thrills
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and trembles with sends a shudder through my frame! For
ten years I have had no other life—for ten years I have been
burnt up by one eternal dominant idea, and that idea is
summed up in the word—Revolution! For this I have toiled—
to unfetter the human mind has been my mission. If I am
worn out, as I nearly am, what matter? If I brand the tyranny
of Parliament—if I help to tear out the lying tongues,
and overthrow the power of a hateful and disguisting oppression—
if I even advance the phalanx one step toward
our enemies—then I shall go to my grave with joy, for my
end will be accomplished. There is little in life to attract
me,” continued the speaker, who paused, as it were, and
with drooping brows, gazed toward the ground, “for at the
prime of manhood, I am old—when my life should be bursting
into flower, I am alone.”
There was such profound and gloomy sadness in the tones
of the deep voice, that St. John gazed at his companion with
deep sympathy.
“You have suffered, sir?” he said.
“Deeply,” said the stranger, in a low voice.
“A long time?”
“For a decade—the period of my labor.”
St. John was silent, and the stranger for some moments
was silent too. Then he raised his head, and two tears moistened
his fiery eyes, but were instantly dashed away.
He laid his hand upon St. John's shoulder, and for some
moments gazed at him with an expression at once so piercing
and so sorrowful that the young man remembered it for years.
“It is strange,” he said, “but I feel an irresistible desire
to confide in you, friend. Can I? I think I can.”
“Any thing communicated to me shall be locked in my
bosom,” was the reply.
“Your word is then given that what I say shall be repeated
to no one?”
“To no one upon earth.”
“Then listen, sir,” said she stranger, in his deep, sorrowful
voice, “listen and I will relate to you the history of a life.”
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CHAPTER XXVI. HOW THE STRANGER BECAME AN HISTORIAN AND A PROPHET.
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The stranger had scarcely uttered the words, when a dazzling
flash of lightning darted across the sky, was immediately
succeeded by a roar of thunder, like the discharge of a
battery, and one of the great oaks, upon which the bolt fell,
was split and shivered, from the top to the bottom, by the
fiery stream.
For a moment the eyes of the two men were dazzled by
the terrible spectacle, and they gazed at the torn trunk,
which, encumbered with broken boughs, was fitfully seen
by successive flashes, or chance gleams.
“Do you see this tree thus shattered by lightning?” said
the stranger; “well, that is the type of a man's life—of the
life which speaks to you now.
“Ten years ago,” he continued, “there lived in Virginia
a warm-hearted, ardent, and impressible youth. The soul
of this youth throbbed with generous emotions, and such
was his frankness, and tenderness, and kindness, that he
could not have trodden upon a worm or an insect. His
dream was to do good, to ameliorate the condition of humanity,
to unfetter and enlighten his brethren, and give
them liberty of thought, self respect, and happiness. To
this end all his studies tended, and he lived in a dream, as
it were, of love and philanthropy.
“Such was his state of mind, and such his hope, when he
met with a woman—a woman of rare and overpowering loveliness,
and by a strange accident, this woman, or rather girl,
was proved to be his cousin. Almost the first moment in
which he saw her sealed his fate; from that instant he loved;
loved deeply, passionately, absorbingly. She returned his
affection, and that new world which he had imagined—the
world of beauty and truth—seemed to center and find its
realization in her love and her presence.”
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The stranger paused for a moment, but continued, calmly,
“This love became a portion of his life, of his being, of
his soul. Before, he had found in the great thoughts of
the kings of literature, sufficient food for his mind, and in
their grand ideas he had wrapped himself so completely,
that he lived, as it were, in history, and asked nothing more.
But now all was changed; he no longer dreamed of the progress
and enlightenment of man; the happiness and destiny
of mankind was no longer a thought to him. He had found
something grander than the fate of the world, a more absorbing
passion than philanthropy; he had found a woman's
heart to clasp to his own, a heart whose beating made him
careless of the past or the future, so that future were spent
in her presence, by her side.
“I said,” continued the stranger, “that this woman loved
him. O yes, she loved him! Rare and wonderful decree
of a Deity of love and goodness! the imperishable treasure
of this woman's heart was given solely to himself. To speak
of her is idle, words fade and fail me; 't is enough to say that
she was such as he had never seen before, and will never see
again—no never! Well, well, sir, I linger; let me go on
with my narrative. The man and the woman were married;
they went far away to the vast solitudes, and there, in the
presence of nature and the Creator, they were wholly, completely,
blissfully happy—happy as human beings can seldom
be, and never for long, because earth would then be like
heaven.”
These recollections seemed almost to unnerve the stranger,
but he suppressed his emotion and continued,
“Well, I will not dwell on this further. Let me hurry
on. The man and the woman lived a year thus, tranquil
and serene, and then the bolt of Heaven fell. God saw fit
to take away this woman,” said the stranger, hoarsely, “to
lead back the man to his neglected work. He no longer
recognized his mission, for he was happy; he had forgotten
his duty. The Deity decreed that he should come away,
and the means which he used were the fires of grief and
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anguish. Well, sir, all this came about as was decreed. The
blow fell, and the trunk was stripped of its verdure and freshness—
stripped for ever. The hard heart alone remained, and
this sufficed for the work. The man came on foot one day
to the capital; he was dusty and worn with fatigue; he saw
flame and breathed agony and despair. He raised his head,
and was accosted by a former companion, who harshly upbraided
him for his inaction, and in words of fire laid before
him his future work. There was a great crowd assembled,
every heart throbbed with rage and defiance toward England;
before he knew it, he was speaking to them by the
red glare of the burning stamps, and from that moment he
comprehended the behest of Providence. He had neglected
his mission; he was led back and thrust into the ranks to
do his part.
“Well, sir, from that time forth he became what he is,
what you see him, a machine of iron, with but one eternal
idea burning like fire in his soul. His work was to aid in
unfettering the human soul—when that is accomplished he
will disappear. When I have no longer any work to do,
when my aim is accomplished, my memory will kill me.
But that will not take place; I shall fall by the sword, or
the cannon ball, or bayonet—it matters not—and the day
which sees me stretched cold and pale upon the battle field,
will be the happiest of my life, for on that day I trust to rejoin
my wife!”
The stranger paused, and wiped his forehead, which was
steaming with cold sweat. By an immense effort he suppressed
the shudder which ran through his frame, and his
features subsided gradually into iron calmness.
“You may think it strange, sir,” he said, coldly, to the
young man, who had listened with deep sympathy to this
narrative; “you may think it strange that I have thus unrolled
the history of my life, as it were, to a person whom I
do not know. But such is the human mind. Philosophy and
self control are mighty bulwarks, but at times the crushed
heart will writhe and moan beneath the iron heel. There
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are moments when human sympathy is necessary even to
my shattered soul, and this feeling has been too much for
me to-day. Perhaps I have spoken to unsympathizing ears,
but I could not refrain, sir—the words have been uttered.”
St. John said, with great feeling,
“I have listened with respect, sir, and sympathy, and do
not, I pray you, believe that your suffering finds an indifferent
listener in myself. If't were only from curiosity, I
must have heard you with attention, for you relate a strange
and moving story! But it is with more than curiosity that
I have listened—with sympathy and deference, sir; that
deference which is due to a great misfortune.”
“Thanks, friend,” said the stranger, more calmly even than
before; “your face is so loyal and sincere that I scarcely regret
my indiscretion. Well, to finish. From the moment
when I saw what my work was, I have been in harness. I
have aimed further than protest against parliamentary despotism,
I have aimed at perfect independence and—a republic.”
“Ah! a republic?”
“Nothing less, sir,” said the stranger, calmly. “For ten
years nearly I have been stirring up this colony to an armed
revolt—a rebellion.”
St. John mused with drooping head.
“I see that you question the possibility of this movement
now,” said the stranger, “and I regret that my time will
not permit me to expand my views of the past. See one
thing, however. As you, at this moment, are in advance of
thousands of the most intelligent and patriotic thinkers upon
government, as you would meet Parliament in arms, and
lash the tyrannical Dunmore from Virginia, so, ten years
ago, I was in advance of yourself. In that time I have
watched, with attentive eyes, the progress of thought, the
expansion of men's minds. They approach nearer and nearer
to me every hour. I do not boast, sir, for God gave me my
eyes and my soul, pointed out my work. What I saw, near
a dozen years since, will be acted, perhaps, in twelve months
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from this time. The stamps were burned in the year '65;
that was the firing of the slow match. It is nearly burnt
out. In the next year, the year '75, it will reach the powder,
and the mine will explode with a crash which shall bury the
throne, in America at least, in ruins, from which nothing
can dig it forth.”
The speaker's eyes glowed as he spoke, and his nervous
hand was stretched out unconsciously.
“It is this for which I have worked,” he continued, in his
deep, iron tone, “and how I have worked, I will tell you,
for I trust you implicitly. From Williamsburg, the center,
I have disseminated into the remotest counties, the thoughts
of a body of men, whose mouth-piece I am. They supply
the means, I give them my life. We have organized committees
of vigilance in a hundred places, and, traveling day
and night, I have thrown myself everywhere in contact with
the heart of the people, feeling its pulsations, and endeavoring
to infuse into it the thoughts of my own mind, and the
minds of my associates. I have means given me for private
expresses, and many days before the Boston Harbor bill was
published in Williamsburg, we were arousing the whole province
with this new outrage. Under three royal governors,
the press has been busy within a step of their doors, and
scattering broadcast what it is treason to print. Fauquier
was feasting and card-playing, Botetourt hoping for better
times; they did not arrest it. Dunmore has placed all his
hounds on the trail, but as yet they have not caught the
game. I think I am worth a good sum to the informer who
will arrest me, and furnish the proof of my treason. That I
am a traitor to the government, under the 25th Edward III.,
there is not the least doubt, and you may call the association
the League of Treason with perfect propriety. That I
know to whom I speak, I prove to you, sir, by entering into
these details. For ten years I have thus been the instrument
of a system, and of an organized body. Their work
is to arouse the mind of Virginia, and the other provinces,
to an armed rebellion. We have hailed every new blow
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struck by the Parliament with profound and unfeigned delight;
we have longed and yearned for the final and decisive
act; we have invited the stamp of the heel which
shall spur into madness the down-trodden masses; which
shall make them writhe upward and sting! The Culpeper
minute-men will take for their motto the words, `Do n't
tread on me!' over a rattlesnake; the association which I
represent, have another and a different motto—`Tread on
us and grind us! outrage us, treat us as slaves! insult us,
spit on us, exhaust our whole patience, till we rouse from
our apathy and sting you to death!' Do you think we are
blundering? Do you mistake our design? Do you imagine
we are wrong in hailing joyfully this new `Port Bill?'
That act is the beginning of the end! Ten years ago, I
spoke with a man of gigantic mind, one of those fiery souls
breathing but in revolution, born to wield the thunderbolt
of oratory, to ride on and direct the storm. `Let us strike!'
were his words, `come! a revolution!' I replied, `You are
wrong—you desire to strike the blow before we have arms
in our hands; let us enlighten the minds of the people, let
us arm them, let us train them, and keep silent and wait!'
The name of this man was Patrick Henry, and his sentiments
were shared by another great intellect, Thomas Jefferson
by name. These men, then, were carried away by the
fires of genius, they advanced too rapidly; like generals,
they rode ahead of the marching legions, who alone could
win the battle. There were others, as true friends of liberty,
who erred in the opposite extreme. They were sincerely attached
to the mother country; they closed their eyes to her
faults, as an affectionate child will not see its parent's foibles;
they venerated, and justly, the great common law, the bulwark
of freedom; they were deeply attached to the liturgy
of the established Church; they feared innovation, they feared
that the masses, once wholly unfettered, would rush into license
and madness. They doubted, and advocated protests
and petitions, from a sincere love of country and the species.
The names of these patriots were Edmund Pendleton,
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Richard Bland, and others. They were borne onward by Henry
and Jefferson, but they, in their turn, held these great leaders
back. Thus the phalanx marched slowly, evenly, and
in order, with gradual, but certain progression. Had we
sounded the battle cry in the year '65, the rising would have
been a revolt, now it will be a revolution! The result then
would have been defeat, and more grinding slavery; the result
now will be victory and freedom! Do you doubt it,
friend? Listen to my prediction! As we speak, the House
of Burgesses are slowly advancing to a point which will
compel them to act strongly or be slaves. They will act as
they should, for that body is composed of the flower of this
mighty colony, and the eyes of America are fixed anxiously
upon them. The whole continent looks to Virginia to sound
the war-cry, and she will sound it! She will first draw the
sword, and throw the scabbard away. The result of the
action of the Burgesses will be this: the Governor will dissolve
them; they will dissolve and reassemble in Williamsburg,
or in this building, and then the full crisis of the
storm will come. The appeal to arms is inevitable, and the
die will be cast. The struggle, breast to breast, will commence
in Virginia, the great heart of the South, or Massachusetts,
that other noble heart of the North. Then see the
result! see the fiat of that God who presides over nations,
and the doings of his creatures! In this man, Patrick
Henry, the revolution speaks—he is its tongue. In Jefferson,
and the rest, it vindicates itself to the public opinion
of Europe—they are its pen. In some one not raised up
yet, it will find its soul and its sword. Do you say, that is
the question, that this is the point of doubt? Friend,” said
the stranger, with glowing eyes, and a gloomy earnestness,
which seemed to thrill through his frame, “let us trust
in God! let not the atom distrust the Sovereign of the Universe!
That great Being has kindled the first fires of revolution;
he has raised up, successively, the prophet and the
scribe; he has consolidated the phalanx, and he will not
leave his work incomplete. Do you question your memory
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for some name, for some leader who shall lead the onset?
There are many, and were it not for fear of presumption, I
might hazard an opinion whom this leader will be. He
will be led, as a child, by the hand of the Almighty, when
the time shall come, and that time is approaching; let us
wait!
“This then,” said the stranger, raising his lofty head and
gazing out upon the storm which was rolling off to the
south, “this then is the point which we have reached. The
legions are armed, the ranks are arranged, the leaders await
but the trumpet of the enemy to charge! It is this I have
toiled for, wearing myself out, and exhausting my life; but
I would give to the cause a million lives did I possess them.
My name may not be uttered by a single voice, the form
which enclosed my spirit may moulder without an epitaph
even, but that is of small import. I have done faithfully my
duty, I have performed my work, I have gone on my way,
and I shall not die until I see the New World inaugurated.
See! the thunder-storm is over, and the sky is growing
clear—so will it be with us in our struggle! The darkness
and the gloom in which we are enveloped will be dissipated—
the old things shall pass away, and behold all things shall
become new! See the sun yonder; see the glorious and
resplendent orb chasing the gloom, rising in serene majesty
above the mists and the clouds, and mounting to its meridian
of splendor and glory. It is the sun of America! The
light of the world! It was hidden by the darkness, but is
risen. It is risen! Oh marvelous spectacle! It is risen!
Oh noble and consoling thought! It is risen! and the power
of a million emperors can never obscure one ray of it, for
the hand of the Almighty has rolled it on its glorious way,
the hope and the pole star of nations!”
With eyes fixed almost with ecstacy upon the great orb,
the stranger ceased speaking, and seemed almost to forget
the presence of his companion. He remained motionless
and silent.
This silence was unbroken by St. John, who, carried away
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in spite of himself by the words to which he had listened,
pondered the thoughts of his companion, and sent his mind,
so to speak, through that future which had thus been unrolled
before his eyes.
He was aroused by the voice of the stranger, whose momentary
excitement had yielded to his habitual expression
of iron calmness.
“I see that the storm is over,” he said, “and now, sir, I
must go on my way, for what purpose you know, for I have
spoken without reserve. I do not regret having thus uttered
my thoughts, and related my sorrowful story. I have
accustomed myself to read human character in the countenance,
and were you my bitterest enemy I would sleep at
your side, though you were awake with a dagger in your
hand! I speak my honest conviction alone, friend, and I go
without a fear that I have committed an imprudence. I feel
that we shall meet again.”
Having thus spoken in a tone of noble courtesy, the
stranger bowed to St. John, and issuing forth, mounted his
horse, which was tied near, and disappeared on the road to
the northward.
St. John, too, mounted, and overwhelmed with new
thought, took his way toward Williamsburg, as the last
mutterings of the storm died away in the distance.
CHAPTER XXVII. HOW ST. JOHN MET A FRIEND IN WILLIAMSBURG.
Once more in Williamsburg! It was with new emotions
that the young man gazed upon the scene so familiar to him,
and he scarcely realized that he could be the same person
who had left it, carelessly, so short a time since.
In that time his mind appeared to have altered its whole
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character—to have been flooded with emotions and impulses,
new, strange and undreamed of.
He had listened to the voice of a singular and mysterious
personage, he had felt his face flush with fire as he heard
those blazing accents; a new world had opened to him
amid the crash and roar of that storm—a fuller life, in
the old church there, among the memorials of dead generations.
But a world more novel and attractive had expanded itself
in another direction before his enamored eye—a world all sunlight,
and verdure, and perfume, where the uplands and the
fields, lit by suns and moons of surpassing glory, lay sleeping
in the dews of a serener heaven. A world which he
entered with smiles and sighs to the music of a million singing
birds in the foliage, and myriads of streams, that danced
over diamonds and pearls. That music and melody resounded
in his ears like the dreamy music of the Eolian harp, and
a celestial harmony seemed to pervade, like a mysterious undertone,
the sound of the singing-birds and the flowing
water—the voice of a “simple girl.”
The town, thus, seemed to rise on the young man's sight
for the first time, and as he passed along the streets slowly,
and with smiles, he looked up at the houses, and wondered
that he had never before observed how picturesque they
were, relieved against the foliage, and running in long, pretty
rows with the white-sanded street.
Was this the place he had hated so? Could this be the
“odious town” he had maligned so? Why it was a fairy
village in a lovely land, and the children who tripped along
the street with little glancing feet and rippling curls, were
the sweetest forms that the eye could possibly behold.
So true is it that the view we take of life depends on the
eyes which we regard it with. Some lips will sneer, and
others laugh; to the melancholy, the jaundiced the unhappy,
the fairest and most brilliant May day lowers with
clouds; to the happy, the buoyant, the rejoiceful vision of
the lover, the gloomiest December is a flowery spring.
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The young man's whole nature was changed, and he even
thought of Lord Dunmore, as he glanced toward the palace,
with indifference and unconcern.
He went toward the old Raleigh tavern, whose long row
of dormer windows sparkled in the May sunlight, and when
the smiling ostler took his horse, the young man rewarded
his cheerful face with a pistole.
With head erect, lips smiling, and eyes full of light, Mr.
St. John then went toward the front of the building, and
here he was quickly accosted by a laughing and hearty
voice, which uttered the words:
“Why morbleu! my dear fellow, you look like a conqueror.
Give you greeting!”
The speaker was a man of thirty-eight or forty, of tall
stature, of vigorous frame, and that erect and martial bearing
which indicates the profession of arms at some portion
of the owner's life. The worthy wore a rich suit of dark
cloth, profusely embroidered, a Flanders hat with a black
feather bound around it, and a pair of large spurs glittered
upon the heels of his horseman's boots, against which a
long sword, buckled by an old leather belt, incessantly rattled.
The face was decidedly a pleasant one, the forehead broad
and skirted by short, dark hair; a heavy mustache as black
as midnight fringed the firm lips, and the brilliant eyes
sparkled and shone with a laughing good humor. The face
of the stranger seemed that of a soldier, a bon camarado of
a thousand adventures and vicissitudes, and the heavy mustache
which was curled toward the eyes seemed to be eternally
agitated by merriment.
“Good morrow, my dear captain,” said St. John, shaking
hands, “how are Madame Waters and the little streamlets,
and what brings you to Williamsburg?”
“Basta!” cried the captain, “there's a flood of questions,
and I content myself with replying to the first—
that the various inhabitants of Flodden are well and jolies.
Where have you been?”
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“Everywhere—another comprehensive answer.”
“Ah! you smile!” cried the captain, curling his huge
mustache; “the fact is, mon ami, your face seems made for
smiling, you do it so well.”
“Because I am in good spirits.”
“Is not everybody?”
“I was not the other day.”
The captain shook his head.
“That's unphilosophical,” he said, sagely; “keep up the
spirits.”
“I can't always.”
“Why?”
“They are tried.”
“And this other day?”
“They were tried by his Excellency, Lord Dunmore.”
“Ah, ah! by his Excellency you say! Morbleu! he's a
bucket of cold water in truth, I understand!”
“He acted like a shower-bath for me.”
“But you seem to have had the glow of reaction!” said
the captain, laughing, “and I do n't wonder at it. As I tell
my friend, the Seigneur Mort-Reynard Hamilton, when he
growls sometimes, and abuses even my claret, the wretch!
as I tell him, there's nothing like sunshine and May! Ventre
sainte Gris! what a day! 'Tis enough to make a fellow
swear from pure excess of spirits!”
“Swear away then,” said St. John, laughing, “and draw
on your assortment of French oaths.”
“French! I never swear in French, mon ami, I heartily
despise the Français, morbleu! they're a nation of frog
eaters!”
“You do n't like them?” asked St. John, laughing; “I
can understand then that you never utter a single `morbleu.'”
“Well, well,” said the captain, “perhaps now and then an
oath of this description accidentally escapes me, but prepend,
mon ami, I detest the Gauls, though they're brave as steel.
You see I fought them for a number of years like an insensè
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at Gratz, at Lissa, at Minden and elsewhere, and I assure
you they were a devil of a set. I tell you, comrade, if you
give a mounseer his champagne and his gloire—and add a
few chansons and the eyes of a young woman—if the
Frenchman has these he will cheerfully march into a trench
and be shoveled in the same trench with pleasure. At Minden—
but here I am running into a story as usual. Basta!
a miserable world where a fellow must be ever fighting his
battles over again!”
And the captain closed his lips as though nothing could induce
him to continue.
“There is some apology for my thinking of Minden, comrade,”
he said, “as the newly-arrived private secretary of
his Excellency was there.”
“Who—Captain Foy?”
“The same.”
“At Minden?”
“And fought like a Trojan. A keen fellow, that Foy;
looks a long way ahead, and's as sharp as a razor, morbleu!”
St. John's eyes were directed down the street.
“What attracts your attention, comrade?” said the soldier.
“The individual who's as sharp as a razor,” said St. John,
laughing; “I hope he won't cut us.”
“Who? why it's Foy in person.”
“And coming straight toward us.”
“Eh bien! we'll give our brother soldier a military salute,”
said the captain, laughing, and placing his left hand
on the hilt of his sword; “let's see if he recognizes his
`compagnon d'armes!'”
-- 164 -- p510-169
CHAPTER XXVIII. THE SECRET AGENT.
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As the soldier uttered these words, Captain Foy, private
secretary, confidential adviser, and general secret agent of
his Excellency, Lord Dunmore, approached the spot where
he stood with St. John.
Captain Foy was a gentleman of middle age, of tall stature,
with a pale, cold countenance, piercing eyes beneath
shaggy brows, and a certain mixture of boldness and stealth-iness
in his carriage, which brought to the mind the idea of
an animal of the tiger species—at once soft and cruel, calm
and ferocious.
There was about the man an air of mystery and reserve
which could not be mistaken, and forcibly impressed upon
the beholder the opinion that he was habitually employed
in what was then known as “secret service.” The secretary
was richly clad, but wore no sword, not even a parade
weapon, and as he approached, Mr. St. John felt as if a
portion of Lord Dunmore himself were walking toward
him.
“Why my dear Foy,” said Captain Waters, making a
military salute as the secretary came opposite to him, “really
delighted to see you! You haven't forgotten an old
comrade, eh?”
The secretary's calm, piercing eye, dwelt for an instant
upon the soldier's face, and he replied at once, with a bow,
“By no means, Captain Waters. I am pleased to meet
with you, and with you, Mr. St. John.”
“The same to you my boy,” replied the captain, with great
good humor; “I reply for both of us. You're looking
rather thin and pale, which is probably owing to your con-finement
in your abominably disagreeable office of secretary,
and I find you no longer the jolly companion you were on
the continent; but I'm delighted to see you.”
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“I reciprocate your obliging sentiments, Captain,” said
Foy, in the same serene tone.
“You really, then, have not forgotten me?”
“By no means! I think that is proved by saluting you
at once, though I had no expectation of seeing you.”
“Why certainly,” cried the captain. “Morbleu! that
never occurred to me. The fact is, my dear comrade, I am
deteriorating, I'm getting fat and stupid for want of fighting.
Tonnerre! if I only had Minden for an hour! I'd get
well again, or the devil's in it!”
“A terrible fight, Captain Waters.”
“Perfectly glorious!”
“We were near each other frequently, I remember.”
“Morbleu! that's a great compliment!” cried the soldier.
“A compliment, sir?”
“To myself, faith!”
The secretary bowed serenely.
“No simpers and disclaimers, comrade!” said the soldier;
“may the devil eat me whole, if you didn't fight like a wild
boar. At present, companion, permit me to say that your
countenance resembles that of a clergyman; on the day of
Minden, it resembled that of Mars, parbleu! A devil of a
fight, friend! and you did your part like a firebrand!”
As the captain spoke thus in his rough, laughing voice, a
slight color seemed to tinge, for a moment, the pale cheek
of the soldier-secretary, and his eyes wandered. He recovered
instantly, however, his presence of mind, and with
a movement of his hand, said,
“I fear you are too complimentary, sir; I did but my
small part!”
“Morbleu! 't was a large part, companion. I'll say that
everywhere, and do you full justice, if you are the secretary
of my Lord Dunmore, whom I've not yet fallen very much
in love with. In fact, I dislike that worthy nobleman to an
extent really wonderful, but I don't commit injustice. I
have the pleasure of informing you, my dear St. John, that
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Captain, or Secretary Foy, went through the ranks of the
French at Minden like a flaming sword, and that he was
publicly complimented by his commanding officer, on full
parade, afterwards.”
Foy made a modest movement with his hand.
“You forget after Lissa, Captain Waters,” he said, “and
for fear you will not mention it, I will inform Mr. St. John
that you were publicly thanked also, sir.”
“Why so I was!” cried the captain. “I'd forgotten it!”
“I have not, sir, as I shall not forget the flash of your
sword in the charge.”
“See now!” said the captain, laughing, “how pleasant
this is.”
“Pleasant?”
“Yes, recalling, morbleu! all these tender recollections!
There is one, however, my dear Foy, which affects me even
still more deeply.”
“What's that, captain?”
“The little scene at Reinfels!”
And the captain burst into laughter.
The ghost of a smile touched the secretary's pale face.
“Basta!” cried the captain. “I see you remember!”
“Perfectly, sir,” replied the secretary, serenely.
“Under the bastion!”
“Yes, sir.”
“A little duel, my dear friend,” said the captain to St.
John, by way of explanation; “a little bout between Foy
and myself. I regret to say that our present dear spiritual
adviser, as I regard him, and myself, fell out about a—”
“Ah, Captain Waters! why recall these follies?”
“Why not? They were but youthful pranks.”
“That is all, sir.”
“Well, as I was saying, 't was a girl that we quarreled
for. We fought the next morning, and faith! both of us
were a month in the hospital!”
“Unfortunately,” said the secretary, “that is true—just
a month!”
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“And you remember, my dear comrade—?”
“What, Captain Waters?”
“We were lying in cots, next to each other.”
“Yes, I remember.”
“And I made you explain, with the arm I had slashed,
the coup which broke my guard, and ran me very nearly
through the gizzard. Morbleu! 't was admirable, and I
adored you after that blow!”
With which the captain laughed.
“See how pleasant 't is, recalling these scenes of the past,”
he said. “Hilf himmel! is there any thing like it? Here
I'm getting fat and vegetating, and becoming a country
squire, thinking only of tobacco and wheat, and with not a
care in the world, when, formerly, in the good old times, I
was lean and full of muscle, with a wrist of bone and sinew,
not a sous in my pocket, and half the time not knowing
where to lay my head! Bah! it's really deplorable—is it
not comrade?”
“I think it more agreeable, sir.”
“More agreeable! You do n't really? But I can't
wonder at your mistake—you've not tried it.”
“I am, like yourself, no longer a soldier.”
“Why so you are not.”
“I am a civilian.”
“And a secretary. My dear comrade,” said the captain,
sighing, “we have both deteriorated. I foresee that we
shall have no more amusement, no life, no frolics! For the
future we must resign ourselves to fate. No more Mindens,
no Lissas, no glorious assaults like that of Breslau, where I
think the devil got loose; no battles or skirmishes any more!
In the bitterness of my regret, comrade, I could propose a
bout here in the street, that I might thus be taken back
to old times and learn the coup of Reinfels! I despair of
any amusement in the future, comrade, unless—but that is
idle.”
“Unless, captain?”
“Unless Dunmore will afford it.”
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The secretary retired into himself suddenly, all thoughts
of the past seemed to disappear, and his pale face became
impenetrable.
“That reminds me, Captain Waters,” he said, with formal
courtesy, “that my duties recall me to his lordship's presence—
I have already tarried too long. I have the honor to
salute you, gentlemen.”
And the secretary bowed, and then moved toward the
palace.
“I say, my dear Foy!” called the captain.
“Sir,” said the secretary, half turning.
“Give my compliments to his Excellency, and tell him I
am thirsting for something to do. If he'll only endeavor
now to turn the Burgesses out of doors and give me an opportunity
of meeing you, sword in hand, and learning the
coup—of Reinfels, you know!”
A strange smile flitted over the subtle face of the secretary,
but he only bowed.
In a moment he disappeared at the corner of the street
which led to the palace.
Captain Ralph Waters looked after him for a moment in
silence, and then moving his head up and down, said to St.
John,
“My dear companion, there goes one of the most dangerous
fellows under heaven! As close as a trap, as
brave as steel, and as cunning as the devil. Take care of
him!”
“Thanks for your warning,” said St. John, laughing,
“but I'm not afraid.”
“Well, I do n't feel so myself. In case of trying the coup
of Reinfels, I count on you.”
“The coup?”
“In a duel with Foy, I mean.”
“Certainly; and if ever I'm in want of a second, you'll
act for me?”
“Morbleu! with delight, my dear comrade!”
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“It's a bargain?”
“Signed and sealed.”
“Well, perhaps I may call on you.”
And the friends parted, going each a different way.
CHAPTER XXIX. HOW A VIRGINIA GIRL WROTE VERSES IN '74.
St. John was going along in a reverie, with his head
hanging down, his hands idle at his side, his steps wandering
and uncertain, as the steps of drunkards and lovers, those
true brethren, are so apt to be, when suddenly he found
himself arrested; a gross material obstacle encountered
him, his hat was thrust forcibly quite over his eyes, and he
waked up, so to speak, from his dream.
The first object which attracted his attention was a slight
gentleman, clad in a suit of dark drab cloth, and carrying
under his arm a bundle of papers, which gentleman, with a
profusion of smiles and numerous deprecating waves of the
hand, uttered a flood of apologies, accompanied by courteous
bows.
“I beg you'll not trouble yourself about such a trifle,
Mr. Purdie,” said St. John, shaking hands with the editor
of the old “Virginia Gazette,” “ 't was the most natural
thing in the world.”
“Very awkward in me! really now, excessively awkward,
Mr. St. John!”
“ 'T was my own fault.”
“Pardon me,” returned Mr. Purdie, with courteous persistence,
“I was really to blame! But this copy of verses
absorbed me.”
“Very well, my dear friend, have it as you will; but pray
let me have a sight of the copy of verses which interested
you so.”
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“Willingly, my dear sir.”
And Mr. Purdie handed a letter to Mr. St. John. As his
eyes fell upon the hand-writing, a slight color came to the
young man's cheek, and he smiled. Mr. Purdie wondered
at the sparkling eyes and deep interest betrayed by the
young man as he read the verses; but we shall soon understand
the reason.
The letter and poem were word for word as follows. We
have even retained the spelling and capital letters customary
at the period in written composition.
“To the Printer of the Virginia Gazette.
“Sir:—The accompanying verses are sent to you by a
Country Girl, who hopes they will meet your Approval.
Your Correspondent withholds her Name from Fear of the
Criticks, whom she truly detests. They're an odious Set!
are they not, Mr. Purdie? A Portion of the Effusion may
make you laugh, Sir. I offer you a Salute to bribe you in
Favour of my Verses; but observe, Sir! 't is only when you
find me out! That I'm resolved you shall never do. All
I shall say is, that I've the Honour to be humble Cousin to a
very high Military Functionary of this Colony, who honours
me with his Esteem! Now do print my effusion, dear, good
Mr. Purdie. I like you so much because you are a true
Friend to the Cause of Liberty. We've sealed up all our
Tea, and I'd walk with bare Feet on hot Ploughshares before
I'd drink a drop of the odious Stuff!
“I am Mr. Purdie's friend,
“—— ——.”
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“Permit a giddy, trifling, Girl,
For once to fill your Poet's Corner,
She cares not though the Criticks snarl,
Or Beaus and Macaronies scorn her;
She longs in Print her Lines to see,
Oblige her, (sure you can't refuse it,)
And if you find her out, your Fee
Shall be—to kiss her—if you choose it.
-- 171 --
Perhaps you'll think the Fee too small—
You would not think so if you knew her!
For she has Charms confessed by all
Who have the Happiness to view her.
The Favour that to you she proffers
Has been solicited in vain,
And many flattering, splendid Offers
Rejected with a cold Disdain.
She scorns the Man however pretty,
However Riches round him flow,
However wise, or great, or witty,
That's to his Country's Rights a Foe.
He that to flatter Folks in Power,
His Country's Freedom would betray,
Deserves the Gallows every Hour,
Or worse—to feel a Tyrant's Sway!
May such alone be unprotected
By Justice and by Nature's Laws,
And to Despotic Powers subjected,
Suffer the Miseries they cause.
To scorn them is each Female's Duty;
Let them no Children have, or Wife,
May they ne'er meet the Smiles of Beauty,
Nor any social Joys of Life!”
These were the lines which caused Mr. St. John's eyes to
sparkle and his face to beam with smiles. The explanation
of this is not difficult. As the reader has guessed, they
were in the handwriting of Miss Bonnybel Vane.
“Well, sir,” said Mr. Purdie, smiling, when the young
man had finished, “you seem as much pleased as myself.”
“I am delighted, my dear Mr. Purdie,” was the laughing
reply, “indeed I admire them so greatly that I shall esteem
as a great favor the gift of the manuscript, promising you a
clear copy in an hour.”
“I see not the least objection, my dear Mr. St. John—pray
keep them—a friend eh?” he added with a sly smile; “and
now I wish you a very good morning.”
The friends parted, and Mr. St. John hastened to his lodgings
to make the copy he had promised. The occupation
-- 172 -- p510-177
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was often interrupted by laughter, but the copy was finished
at last and sent to the office of the “Virginia Gazette.”
On the fourth page of the old journal for June 2, 1774,
the reader will find them now, though unaccompanied by
the letter, good Mr. Purdie having given his space to more
important events than the epistles of young ladies. Here,
in the discolored pages of the old colonial paper, were the
verses found by the present writer. You read such old
pieces with smiles and sighs if you are a dreamer. Where
now are the lips which kissed, the eyes that shone—all the
“charms” which true lovers “confessed”—the archness, the
favor, the disdain? From far-off fields—the fields of colonial
Virginia—shines the form of this lovely little maiden,
so long dead. She passed away like a shadow or a dream—
like the brilliant old days she adorned with her loveliness—
her bright eyes and curls, her blushes and smiles. But
being dead she still lives and speaks; lives here on the yellow
old page, as up there on the canvas! The “giddy girl”
was a heroine at heart; that heart, like ten thousand more
of her sex's, heat high and true in the storm of the Revolution!
Toute dame, tout honneur!
CHAPTER XXX. HOW MR. ST. JOHN RETURNED HIS COMMISSION TO LORD DUNMORE.
The young man had just returned to his lodgings, and
had scarcely seated himself, when a knock came at his door,
and a servant, wearing the livery of Lord Dunmore, entered,
and bowing respectfully, handed him a note.
“Good,” said he to himself, “now I think the storm
comes; I am summoned to be scolded, or arrested.”
And he calmly read the note, bidding the servant return.
The communication was in these words:
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“Mr. Secretary Foy presents his respects to Mr. St. John,
and requests, on the part of his Excellency Lord Dunmore,
that Mr. St. John will attend at the palace this afternoon,
for conversation with his lordship on military affairs.”
“Very well,” said the young man, tossing the paper carelessly
on the table, “I suppose there'll be an explosion.
I care nothing.”
Early in the afternoon he made his toilette, proceeded to
the palace, and was ushered into the council chamber.
Lord Dunmore, clad with his habitual splendor, sat opposite
the portraits of the king and queen, the members of his
council occupying large leather chairs ranged in a circle.
Behind the table, draped with red damask, and covered with
papers, the pale face of Captain Foy was seen, as he bent
over the documents lying before him.
Mr. St. John was ushered in with great form, and having
attracted the Governor's attention, made that dignitary a
bow, which was perfectly courteous and stiff.
His eye then made the circuit of the apartment—dwelt
on the members of the council, the secretary, the Governor
in the center.
It looked very much like a trial for high treason, a proceeding
of the Star Chamber.
Lord Dunmore, upon whose brow was visible its customary
expression of hauteur and ill humor, acknowledged the
young man's salute by the least possible movement of his
head.
The members of the council were, however, better bred,
and inclined their heads courteously, as the new comer saluted
them.
“Well, Mr. St. John,” said Lord Dunmore, moving with
dignity in his large throne-like chair, “I see you received
my message.”
“I did receive a note from Captain Foy, your Excellency.”
“I instructed him to write, as you doubtless saw.”
Mr. St. John inclined, calmly.
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His Excellency did not seem pleased at the small effect
produced upon his visitor by the solemnity and state of his
reception. His brow clouded with its unpleasant frown, and
his head rose more haughtily than ever.
“I wished to see you, sir,” he said, almost rudely, “to
express my disapprobation of your lengthened absence from
command of my guards. You must be aware, sir, that such
absence does not comport with my views of the duty of the
commander of that body, but I am ready to listen to any
thing in explanation from yourself, sir.”
As the Governor spoke, the old flush of anger came to
Mr. St. John's face, and his head rose proudly erect as he
listened to these words, even more insulting in tone than
significance. The folly of any exhibition of ill temper seemed,
however, to strike him at once, and he controlled himself in
an instant.
“Do not be embarrassed, sir,” said the Governor. “I
have no desire to confuse you.”
“I am much obliged to your Excellency,” said the young
man, calmly, “but I do n't feel at all confused or embarrassed.”
“I thought, being a young man, sir—”
“That I was a clodhopper? No, your Excellency, that
is not my station in society,” replied Mr. St. John, with
calm politeness.
The vein on Lord Dunmore's brow swelled, and his little
eyes began to gleam with anger. He plainly resented the
tone of unconcern in the delinquent, and was carried out of
his equanimity.
“You amuse yourself at my expense, sir,” he said, coldly,
“and intimate that I intended as an insult what was not so
meant. My observation arose from the way in which you
carry your hat, sir—what I should call an uneasy way!”
And the Governor frowned.
Mr. St. John was motionless and silent for a moment, in
presence of the man who was guilty of this immense exhibition
of ill breeding.
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He surveyed Lord Dunmore with an expression of frigid
surprise, which caused the vein in that gentleman's forehead
to distend itself hugely.
“My hat, your Excellency?” said the young man, with
freezing politeness, “perhaps the uneasiness your Excellency
is so good as to observe, is caused by the fact that I have
no place to deposit it, your Excellency not having requested
me to be seated.”
And with the air of a nobleman who has been outraged,
Mr. St. John made his lordship a low and exaggerated bow.
His lordship was beaten with his own weapons, his rudeness
failed, and his ill temper laughed at in the presence of
his council, the most loyal of whom could not forbear smiling.
His countenance colored with anger, and his eyes flashed.
“Well, sir!” he said, “you gentlemen of Virginia are extremely
witty! I make you my compliments, sir, upon your
attainments in private theatricals! Your discourteous reply
to my simple remark, however, sir, shall not move me.
If I overlooked the fact that you were standing, it was because
I am not accustomed to request persons who are called
to defend themselves before me, to be seated in my presence.”
The young man met this outburst with an expression of
cold disdain lurking in his eyes, which lashed the Governor's
anger into fury.
“I await your reply, sir!” he said, almost trembling with
rage.
“If your lordship will frame a distinct question, I will reply,”
said Mr. St. John. “I can not answer your denunciation.”
“I demand why you have absented yourself from the barracks
of my guards?”
“I went to visit my relations.”
“That is no excuse, sir.”
“I inform your lordship that I left my sub-lieutenant in
command,” said the young man, coldly, controlling himself.
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“That was wholly informal, without my permission, sir!”
“Informal, my lord?”
“Yes, sir! worse! It was a dereliction of duty!”
“Your lordship proceeds far, and I am at a loss to understand
upon what grounds this decision is based.”
“I am not in the habit, sir, of defending my opinions on
occasions like this!”
“This is, then, simply your Excellency's opinion?”
“No, sir—it is the opinion of every rational individual.
You have deserted your post and gone away at your pleasure,
sir, leaving your command to take care of itself!”
“I have the honor to call to your Excellency's attention
the fact that Virginia is not now in a state of war.”
“That is nothing, sir!”
“Pardon me, my lord, I think 't is a vast deal. During
hostilities I should not have gone away.”
“There's no difference, sir!”
“Your Excellency is determined to find fault with me.”
“I repeat that you have deserted your post, sir! I repeat
that!”
“I have the honor to repeat that my sub lieutenant is in
command.”
“You know perfectly, sir, that he's no fit commander for
my guards!”
“He's an Englishman, commissioned by your Excellency.”
“Mr. St. John!” said the Governor, crimson with rage,
“are you aware with whom you are bandying epithets and
contradictions?”
“Your Excellency has spoken, I have replied,” returned
the young man, bracing himself against the coming storm.
“Are you aware, sir, that I am a peer of the realm?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“That I am the Governor of this colony—do you know
that, sir?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“And knowing this, sir—knowing my nobility, and my
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power—knowing my commission from his Majesty—a commission,
sir, which gives me the power of punishing sedition
and treason!—knowing this, sir, you have presumed to address
me as you have done! Pray, who are you, sir?” added
his Excellency, almost trembling with rage and scorn, “who
are you, to reply to me in this manner?”
The young man made a ceremonious bow, and in a tone as
cold as ice, replied,
“Only a gentleman, your lordship—that, and nothing
more.”
These calm words put the finishing touch to Lord Dunmore's
wrath. Beaten, defeated, derided, humbled almost,
by a young man who did not lose his temper, while he was
furious; exposed and humiliated thus in presence of his
council and his secretary, the Governor shook with speechless
rage, and almost rose to his feet in the tumult of his
wrath.
“Look you, sir!” he cried with an explosion of passion,
“this interview has come to a conclusion! There is but
one reply I have to make to your insults, sir!”
His lordship turned furiously to Captain Foy, and would
have ended his threatening sentence by an order to that
gentleman.
Something in Captain Foy's eye, however, seemed to arrest
him even in the height of his rage. The dark glance
of the secretary and the slight movement of his pale lips,
seemed to produce an instant effect upon Lord Dunmore,
and he did not finish the sentence which doubtless would
have ordered the arrest of Mr. St. John.
The subtle glance of Captain Foy seemed to arouse in the
Governor his own large supply of cunning, and he leaned
back silent for a moment in his seat, scowling at the young
man.
Mr. St. John preserved the same attitude of coldness and
disdain, and waited to be addressed.
“Young man,” said his Excellency, with a bad affectation
of dignified forbearance, “you have in this conversation
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adopted a manner of speaking toward myself extremely irritating
and wholly improper, coming from one of your age
to myself. Permit me, also, to say, sir, that more than you
imagine is due to a peer of the realm and the representative
of his majesty in the colony, and it will be well for the inhabitants
of this colony to understand the fact. Yes, sir!”
continued his Excellency, carried out of his assumed dignity,
“the sooner they become convinced of the fact, the better
for them! and I think that you, sir, have much yet to
learn.”
“I desire to treat your Excellency with every particle of
respect that is your due,” replied Mr. St. John coldly.
“Those words may contain a new insult, sir!”
“Your Excellency's number of imaginary insults drives
me to despair.”
“That's a very pretty speech, sir! Then I search for insults!”
“I did not say so, my lord.”
“But you looked it!” said Dunmore, gradually yielding
again to his anger; “it is your favorite mode of outraging
me, sir!”
“Your Excellency seems determined to be outraged. I
have the misfortune to be tried and convicted before my
hearing, in the mind of your lordship.”
“No, sir! this is not the first time you have placed yourself
upon my level, even arrogated superiority, I think, to
judge from your lordly manner!”
And the Governor's lip curled with a sneer.
“Yes, sir!” said the Governor, the vein in his forehead
again swelling, “on the day of Lady Dunmore's entry I was
subjected to your highness' imposing air, and was informed
that I was afraid of a child. Your highness,” he continued,
with a disdainful sneer, “was so good as to find fault with
my honest expression of opinion about the traitor, Waters,
and reprove me with your eyes! By Heaven, sir!” cried
Lord Dunmore, starting up and relapsing into greater rage
than before, “by Heaven, sir! I have endured sufficient
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insult, and my patience is ended. Mr. Lieutenant St.
John—”
“Stop, sir!—my lord, I should say—a moment!” interrupted
the young man, rising to a loftier and colder attitude,
“I am no longer Lieutenant St. John—I no longer hold a
commission in the service of your Excellency, or the colony;
I resign that commission, and return it to your Excellency,
and scorn it!”
As the young man spoke, his face turned white with rage
and disdain, and taking from his bosom the parchment, he
threw it at the Governor's feet.
“ 'T is the post of a slave!” he said, “and I'll be no man's
lackey! Your Excellency may supply yourself with another
menial! I'll not fill the position of head waiter to any peer
of the realm that ever was born! I'm a Virginian, and
I'm free! and I'll not be your slave to shiver at your frown,
and crouch like a hound at your bidding! I've been outraged
and insulted; your lordship has tried to put your foot
on my neck, and I resist, that is all! I resist! and I add
that I'll go to my death before mortal man makes a serf
of me! I have done, sir! You hear what has boiled in my
breast from the first day I entered your service—from the
hour when, misled by your unworthy representations, I put
on your livery! You hear a Virginian's voice—one who's
subjected to such insults as he'll no longer endure! I throw
back your lordship's commission, and scorn it, and stamp on
it! I'll not be your slave, and I'm free again!”
And trembling with passion, his eyes burning in his pale
face like balls of fire, the young man turned toward the
door.
Dunmore rose up as on springs. The members of the
council had risen tumultuously to their feet too, and the
eyes of Captain Foy glittered in his white countenance as
he towered above the group.
“Captain Foy!” said Lord Dunmore, pallid with rage,
“call the sentinel to arrest this man.”
Mr. St. John's sword—a part of his full dress—flashed
-- 180 -- p510-185
[figure description] Page 180.[end figure description]
instantly from its scabbard, and he struck his hat down upon
his brows furiously.
“I'll not be arrested!” he said; “I swore that I would
first plunge this sword into your lordship's breast! and I'll
do it!”
As the weapon flashed before his eyes, and these furious
words resounded through the room, Lord Dunmore trembled
and drew back.
His lordship was not courageous.
“I'll not be arrested!” added the young man, white with
wrath; “I'll not be sent to rot in a prison, or tried for
sedition on your lordship's evidence. You have made me
desperate, and I'll go all lengths to defend myself!”
With which words Mr. St. John left the room and the
palace, unpursued and unmolested.
We shall only add that the council broke up in confusion,
and that Lord Dunmore and Captain Foy remained
alone.
Dunmore strode about the room crimson with rage, and
uttering violent curses, with which he seemed to endeavor
to unburden himself of his wrath.
Captain Foy was writing, serenely, calm, pale and quiet.
“The instructions for Conolly are ready, my lord,” he
said; “let us forget this little scene, and come to business.”
CHAPTER XXXI. THE LETTER.
St. John proceeded to his lodgings, frowning, gesticulating
and muttering wrathfully, to the great astonishment of
the passers by. Reaching his chambers, he sat down, began
to smoke a pipe, and grew more composed.
“The fact is I gave him as good as he sent,” the young
man at length muttered, with a grim smile, “insulted him
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to the teeth, and humiliated him in presence of his council—
that's some satisfaction in any event. I suppose I'm on
the Black List ere now, and the order for my arrest is issued.
Let'em attempt it! I'll not be taken alive, and it's odds
if I do n't raise such a storm in the streets of the good
town of Williamsburg, as will break some windows in his
Excellency's palace!”
Having thus relieved his feelings, St. John was about to
fall into a reverie when his servant entered bearing the tall
silver candlesticks. Taking from the table a letter which
the young man had not seen, he placed it on a waiter and
handed it to his master, with the explanation that Dick, from
Vanely, had brought it in his absence.
St. John took the letter, motioned the servant away, and
glanced at the superscription. He had no sooner done so
than his frowning brow cleared; his compressed lips expanded
with a smile. The letter was sealed with blue wax,
stamped with the Vane coat of arms—an armed hand grasping
a sword, and beneath, a shield with three mail gaunlets,
supported by a stag and sphynx—the motto, Nec temere, nec
timide.*
But St. John did not look at the seal—the direction was
in a handwriting which he knew perfectly—and carefully
opening the letter, with a smile, and the murmured words,
“ `Neither rashly, nor fearfully!'—an admirable motto for
a lover!” read what follows:
“Vanely, Thursday.
“These to his Excellency, the Lieutenant, greeting:
“Papa bids me write to your lordship, and say that you
need not trouble yourself to engage apartments for us at
Mrs. White's, on the night of assembly, as Mr. Burwell has
invited us all to stay with him at his town residence, and I
know somebody who's as glad as glad can be, for she'll see
her dear Belle-Bouche—Miss Burwell once, but now unhappily
a victim on the altar of matrimony.†
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“Having executed my commission I might terminate my
letter here, but I shall take pity on your lordship's forlorn
condition, so far away from home, and add a few lines. The
day you went—that is yesterday—Barry Hunter came,
and said that his lands in the southwest of the colony had
grown immensely in value, and that any young lady who
accepted him, might be a princess if she chose, and have a
kingdom. A princess, forsooth! A princess of the woods,
I fancy, with bears and panthers for subjects! Nevertheless
Barry's extremely handsome, and I am seriously thinking
of marrying the young gentleman, if he asks me, which
he shall! Just mark my words, sir.
“Before I end I've a favor to request of your Excellency.'
T is to write a line to that tyrannical Mr. William Effingham
of the `The Cove,' in Glo'ster, commanding him, on pain
of my displeasure, to bring Kate to the assembly. She's
the queen of goodness, and the star of loveliness—at which
declaration I suppose your lordship laughs, and says `pooh!
pooh! a woman chanting the praises of another!' That
would be quite in keeping with your ordinary turn for satire
and injustice. But say what you choose, only write. If she
does not come I'll say with Robin Adair, `What's the dull
town to me—Kate is not there!' And you know the other
words, `What makes the assembly shine?' to which I reply,
Kate! Mr. Champ Effingham and Madam Clare will
be present, and 't will be a delightful family reunion!
“Will not your Excellency come to Vanely, and bestow
upon us the brilliancy of his countenance before the assembly?
I pine without him; my days are spent in sighing and
looking down the road; I've quite lost my appetite, and
Mr. Thomas Alston, who was here this morning, could not
make me laugh! When you come to-morrow, be sure to
make a noise in opening the great gate, that I may put on
my best gown and ruffles to receive your Excellency as becomes
his importance.
“Goodness gracious! what a flood of foolish nonsense! as if
so great a military gentleman could think of his poor little
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country cousin. Has the explosion taken place at the palace?
I hope not. Of course I do n't expect you about half past
eleven to-morrow morning. You must be far too busy with
important matters!
“Your lordship will please excuse this thick, rough sheet
of Bath post. 'T is the only paper in the house.
“Bonnybel.
“Postscript.—Have you heard from the young lady in
Glo'ster lately? I'm desperately anxious to become acquainted
with my future cousin. You must introduce me
at the assembly. I shall make her ladyship my very finest
curtsey.”
eaf510n15† Ibid., No. XV.
The young man dropped the hand which held the letter,
and smiled.
“The young lady in Glo'ster!” he murmured; “so my
friendship for that damsel has subjected us to the curious
eyes, and the gossip of the tattling world! I'd certainly
show my taste; but pretty Miss Puss has a terrible rival!
Her countenance is lovely, 't is very true, with its beautiful
eyes and bewitching lips; but I look beyond to a face I've
loved from boyhood!”
And he reread the letter, thinking that her hand had lain
upon the paper. Poor St. John! Then carefully depositing
the paper in the breast pocket of his doublet, he went
and leaned from the open window, and surveyed the moonlit
streets of the town, upon which the shades of night were
descending.
An irresistible desire took possession of him to wander
out in the balmy night, and putting on his hat, he issued
forth into the nearly deserted streets.
Buried in thought, he went on, unconsciously, for some
time. Suddenly he saw a grove of trees before him, and
looking around, discovered that he had made his way, without
knowing it, as far as the picturesque “Indian Camp.”
eaf510n14* Historical Illustrations, No. XIV.
-- 184 -- p510-189
CHAPTER XXXII. WHAT HAPPENED AT THE “INDIAN CAMP. ”
[figure description] Page 184.[end figure description]
The “Indian Camp” was a wild and secluded retreat, the
haunt, in former times, so said tradition, of the great King
Powhatan and his dusky followers. In course of time it had,
however, become the resort of those fond of natural beauties—
especially the chosen meeting-place of lovers. Many
allusions to it may be found in letters of the period.
It now lay before the eyes of the young man, clothed in
all its wild and mysterious beauty. Seating himself upon a
mound of moss-covered rock, he gazed pensively upon the
scene, surrendering his thoughts wholly to the woman whom
he loved. For an hour he was scarcely aware of the objects
around him. The weird moonlight fell from the heights of
heaven unheeded. The dazzling orb rode like a ship of
pearl through the drifting clouds; the melancholy whippoorwill
sent his mournful cry from the wood; the owl
whooped from the low grounds; the river breeze came
and fanned the dreamer's cheek—he was still absorbed in
thought.
“Yes,” murmured the young man, “I'll go and essay
my fate; `to-morrow, at half past eleven,' shall find me at
Vanely, and I'll put it on the hazard of the die. Is there
hazard? Did I misinterpret her demeanor on that evening
at the trysting tree? Courage! nec timide, nec temere!”
And the murmur died into silence. Another hour passed
by, the young man pondered still, gazing at the old shadowy
mounds and trenches as they gleamed in the moonlight.
Suddenly the light was obscured, and raising his eyes, he
saw that a huge cloud, moving slowly like a great black
hulk, had invaded the moon, and buried it in its ebon folds.
In the darkness the rude objects of the scene loomed out
more shadowy and solemn still, and the cry of the whippoor-will
assumed a deeper sadness. St. John rose and leaned
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against the trunk of an oak, whose wide boughs cast an impenetrable
shade, and thus elevated, as it were, above the
scene, listened to the subdued and mysterious sounds of night.
All at once to these stealthy noises was added another
sound; he thought at first that his fancy deceived him, but
this impression soon disappeared. He heard cautious voices
whispering.
He bent forward, inclining his ear in the direction of the
sound. He was not mistaken in his surmise. As he gazed
and listened, holding his breath almost, two dark figures
detached themselves, as it were, from the darkness, and advanced
toward the spot which he occupied.
With an unconscious movement he drew deeper into the
shadow of the heavy boughs, and, blended with the shade
which they cast, was lost completely to view.
The figures passed so close to him that their garments almost
touched his own, still whispering in a low and stealthy
tone. They had gone but a few paces when the obscuring
cloud passed from the moon, and St. John discerned them
clearly. The first figure was very tall, the other shorter,
and wrapped from head to foot in a long cloak, upon whose
collar drooped the folds of what seemed a Spanish hat, completely
concealing the face.
The taller of the two wore no wrapping, and Mr. St. John
distinctly recognized the form of Lindon. He bent earnestly
toward his companion, and seemed to be urging something
which had been met with opposition. Mr. St. John could
not catch the words, which were uttered in a low and cautious,
though very excited tone, and he was glad that they
did not reach him; glad when the voice grew more and
more a mere murmur, and Lindon, with his silent companion,
disappeared in the distance and the darkness. Their
footfalls, growing fainter and fainter, were finally absorbed
by the silence.
St. John stood for an instant looking in the direction they
had taken, and then, issuing forth from the shadow, calmly
bent his way back to Williamsburg.
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“That is really something more than I bargained for,”
he muttered as he went along. “I came to enjoy my own
thoughts in silence, and alone, and here I stumble on this
man and one of his companions. They say that Lindon and
his Excellency have exchanged many civilities, and my head
to half a crown! that man is engaged in the plots against
the liberties of Virginia!”
“Well,” continued the young man, after a pause, during
which he looked thoughtfully toward the lights of the town,
which were, one by one, disappearing, like fire-flies going
to sleep, “well, let this gentleman of the villainous countenance
go on his way. He is nothing to me, and I do n't
fear that he will do us any injury. He plots and walks in
darkness as his congenial element, but there are others who
conspire against the conspirator!”
With these words St. John returned to his chamber, and
after a last look at the moon, fell asleep murmuring the
motto of Bonnybel's seal, “Nec temere, nec timide!”
He had a strange dream. He fancied himself again at the
Indian Camp, with the mysterious figures of Lindon and his
companion before him. They disappeared, but suddenly
came upon him again, before he was aware, behind his back.
He saw Lindon's face convulsed with a smile of triumphant
hate, as he placed a dagger in the hand of his companion,
with which the cloaked figure struck at the young man's
back. He started from sleep, and half sprung from bed, but
laughing at his fears, soon fell asleep again, his slumber remaining
uninterrupted until morning.
Do dreams ever forewarn? Had Mr. St. John believed
so, and acted upon his convictions, the whole current of this
narrative would have been changed.
At seven o'clock upon the following morning, he was pursuing,
at full speed, the road to Vanely.
-- 187 -- p510-192
CHAPTER XXXIII. A SLEEPING BEAUTY.
[figure description] Page 187.[end figure description]
The young man rode so well that before the hour indicated
in Bonnybel's letter, he entered the great gate of
Vanely, and cantered to the door.
No servant was visible, and securing his horse to the rack
beneath one of the great oaks, he entered the mansion.
He opened the door of the library expecting to see Colonel
Vane; his hand was extended to greet the old gentleman,
but suddenly he paused.
In the great leather chair by the table, covered with books
and papers, Miss Bonnybel, overcome, apparently, by the
balmy influence of the May morning, was slumbering tranquilly.
Upon her lap rested an open volume, which seemed
to have escaped from her hand as she fell asleep, for one of
the slender fingers remained between the leaves.
St. John paused for a moment to take in fully the entire
details of the pretty picture.
The great chair had a sloping back, and thus the young
lady's position was almost that of one reclining. The graceful
head was languidly thrown back, and drooped sidewise
towards the rounded shoulder. Her hair had become
unbound and lay in brown masses of curls upon her neck.
Her small feet, with high-heeled slippers, decorated with
rich rosettes, reposed upon a velvet-cushioned cricket, and
the little pointed toes, over which fell the ribbons of the
artificial roses, peeped out gracefully from their hiding
place.
The young man remained for some time silent and motionless,
watching the sleeper. Not a trait of the picture
escaped his brilliant and penetrating glance. His laughing
eye riveted itself upon every detail—on the forehead
bathed in the dews of slumber, the dusky lashes lying
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[figure description] Page 188.[end figure description]
on the rosy cheeks, the glossy curls, which rose and fell with
the tranquil breathing of the maiden. He smiled as his gaze
dwelt upon the little slippers, so prettily arranged even in
sleep; on the hand, glittering with a single diamond which
hung languidly over one arm of the chair; upon the tapering
arms, the countenance filled with maiden sweetness,
and the fawn-colored dress, falling in ample folds around the
wearer's graceful figure.
We doubt if even the most violent advocates of propriety
will blame him, when he cautiously approached, and bending
down, took the disengaged hand and kissed it in a cousinly
way.
But Miss Bonnybel did not awake. He looked at the
volume lying on her lap. It was the book of ballads which
he had been reading to her on the morning when Lindon
interrupted them, and she had opened at the particular
poem they had read together.
A slight color came to the young man's cheek. Let us
pardon him—he was in love. He hesitated what course to
pursue, but, all at once, this hesitation disappeared. His
glance fell, with an audacious smile, upon the coquettish
feet, and he had fixed on his scheme. This scheme was
simply to remove the rosettes, which were secured by small
silver buckles, from the shoes, to go into the hall and make
some noise which should arouse Miss Bonnybel, and then to
enjoy, from his hiding place, the young lady's surprise and
confusion.
He carefully set about his undertaking, and became so
absorbed in it that he did not see the maiden's head rise
with a sudden movement, her eyes open, and fix themselves
upon him. He raised his head, however, to see if the sleeper
was undisturbed, and Miss Bonnybel closed her eyes, and
drew a long, labored breath—smiling, it seemed, in her
sleep! The young man's smile replied to it, and having detached
one of the rosettes, he set about securing the other.
Then it was that he heard suddenly the calm and satirical
words,
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“Do n't you think that will do, sir? I should suppose that
one was enough!”
Thus caught in the act, Mr. Harry St. John remained for
a moment dumbfoundered. But recovering his equanimity,
he said, laughing,
“Did you compose yourself in that pretty attitude to receive
me, Bonnybel?”
“Humph! and you suppose I would take the trouble!”
“You said you'd put on your best gown and ruffles.”
“I was speaking satirically, sir! I suppose your vanity
will not believe it—but, pray, what are you doing to my
feet?”
“I was only taking off your rosettes. I should like to examine
them; they're very pretty!”
“I suspect you intended some trick! I know it, sir!
But enough! You'll please let them alone!”
And Miss Bonnybel withdrew her feet, vivaciously, from
sight.
“I feel profound remorse for my presumption,” said Mr.
St. John, in a contrite tone; “let me atone for my offense,
most beautiful lady. The culprit can only make restitution—
though your feet are dangerous things to approach! Hold
them out!”
Bonnybel hesitated, glancing doubtfully at him. But
the young lady had lovely feet, and her obduracy yielded to
her vanity. She thrust out the extreme point of the slipper
deprived of its rosette, and Mr. St. John secured the ornament
in its place. He was so long doing so, however,
that the young lady tapped her foot impatiently, and then
the wide folds of her dress swept over foot and slipper.
“You see,” said her companion, “I've come in obedience
to your command. Where's uncle?”
“They all went over to Maycock's,” returned the young
lady. “Heigho! I've had such a dull time reading that
love-sick ballad. It put me to sleep.”
And she yawned.
“How I should like to take a ride,” she added.
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“Would you? Then I'll go order your horse. Mine's
at the door. Where shall we go?”
“Anywhere; say to `Flower of Hundreds.' ”
“My old rattletrap? Well, so be it.”
And the young man went and ordered Miss Bonnybel's
horse.
They were soon galloping over the fields and through
the forest, exchanging a hundred jests, and an hour's ride
brought them to their destination.
“Flower of Hundreds,” Mr. St. John's mansion, stood on
an elevated plateau, near the river. Instead of a “rattletrap,”
it was a fine old country house, with a score of apartments,
stables sufficient to accommodate a hundred horses,
and a servant for every pane in every window.
They entered the fine old grounds, and the gray-haired
African, left as major domo, by his master, came and greeted
them with dignity and respect. Half a dozen negro boys
ran to take their horses, and leaning lightly on the arm of
her cavalier, Miss Bonnybel held up her long skirt, and entered.
Along the walls of the old antler-decorated hall hung the
St. Johns, male and female, of a dozen generations. A number
of fox-hounds rose to welcome the visitors, but, neglecting
the young lady, bestowed their entire caresses upon the
young man.
“See the small discrimination of the canine species,” said
St. John, “they neglect `Beauty' for the notice of the
`Beast.' ”
“I always distrust your mock humility, and especially your
compliments; the dogs like you because they've had nobody
else to like; you're a miserable old bachelor!”
“So I am, but how can I help that?”
“Humph! very easily. That is to say, sir, you can
try!”
And Miss Bonnybel gave her cousin an audacious glance,
shot over her right shoulder, and full of coquettish audacity.
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[figure description] Page 191.[end figure description]
“What's the use of trying?” he said. “ 'T is very easy
to get married, but difficult to get the girl one wants.”
“And she is to marry your lordship without being asked,
I suppose! That's very reasonable indeed!”
St. John looked steadily at his companion, to discover if
the words meant more than was expressed. But she darted
from him, and ran into the great sitting-room.
“O! there's my favorite portrait,” she cried; “the picture
of Sir Arthur St. John, is n't it, of the time of his
Majesty Charles II., who died for love? What a noble
face, with its pointed beard, and long, gay curling `love
locks!' ”
“ 'T is handsome indeed, but do you admire him for dying
of love?”
“Yes—to distraction! I wish he'd courted me! He'd
never have died!”
“Pity you did n't live in his Majesty's times,” said St.
John, with a glance of admiration; “the Arthurs have all
gone, and our hair to-day is cut close. You might marry
a gentleman of the St. Johns somewhere, but he'd be apt
to look far less romantic.”
It was Miss Bonnybel's turn to dart a look of curiosity at
her cousin now, but she read nothing in his face.
With a sudden laugh, the conversation was turned by the
young lady, and then they ran all over the old mansion, prying
into every nook, and laughing at every thing.
An hour passed thus, and then they remounted and returned
to Vanely, where they found the ladies of the family
and the colonel.
St. John related the scene at the Governor's, with many
amusing exaggerations, but he was glad at last to steal away
into a corner with Bonnybel, who drew him toward her with
laughing glances.
Thus passed several days, and, with every passing hour,
the dazzling loveliness of Miss Bonnybel increased in her
lover's eyes, and he found his resolution failing him.
In their rides and walks, the damsel said a hundred
-- 192 -- p510-197
[figure description] Page 192.[end figure description]
careless things which made his pulse throb, and her dangerous
eyes gave meaning to her mischief.
Who can paint such a compound, as she was, of audacity
and reserve, of feeling and mirth? who could place, in cold
words, the light, and fire, and attraction of her brilliant
eyes? The present chronicler is unequal to the task. He
sees her smiles and coquetries, her pouts and blushes; he
hears her laughter and her sighs, but he can not describe
them.
Of what those days of constant meeting resulted in, he
can tell with ease, however. But even this trouble is spared
him. By good fortune, he has a letter from St. John to his
friend Mr. Alston, and this will tell the tale.
CHAPTER XXXIV. ST. JOHN, FROM HIS HOUSE OF “FLOWER OF HUNDREDS, ” TO HIS FRIEND, TOM ALSTON, AT “MOOREFIELD. ”
“Flower Of Hundreds, May 22, 1774.
“Well, Tom, I've got my quietus. You've the pleasure
of hearing from a young gentleman who's just been discarded!
“Do you start, my dear friend? Does the event seem
so very tremendous and unexpected? I'm sorry to shock
your feelings, and would not do it for the world, could I
avoid it, but the fact is as I've stated.
“I do not take the event with your equanimity; I am
sufficiently miserable even to satisfy the vanity of the young
lady who has thought it decorous to give me many reasons
to believe that she returned my affection, and then to inform
me that she can't be my wife. You see I'm angry, as well
as unhappy. I do n't deny it, and I think I've some reason.
“I went to Vanely on Saturday, and we rode hither,
where we spent an hour, and then returned; on Sunday,
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you remember, we met at church, and on Monday—but
I'm prosing with a detail of my movements. I meant to
say that on the visit here, in all of our rides, and interviews,
and conversations, I was fond enough to imagine than I saw
some indications of real love on Bonnybel's part. She declared
that I would find no difficulty in marrying, that faint
heart never won fair lady, upbraided me for not speaking,
as if maidens could propose themselves, and in a thousand
different ways, led me to believe that she loved me, and
was willing to marry me.
“On these hints I spoke; it was one evening at the trysting
tree, the old oak at the end of the lawn, you know, and
I made myself clearly understood. You know that, much
as I may love a woman, I'm not the man to kneel at her
feet, and wipe my eyes, and whine out, `please love me!'
On the contrary, I told Miss Bonnybel simply that I loved
her truly, and asked her to marry me.
“You should have seen her look when I spoke thus. She
became crimson, and was silent for a time. Then—but hang
it, Tom! I can't fill the chair of the historian. She discarded
me—that's all. She had the greatest affection for
me, 't was true, she said, but she was over young to marry
yet; she'd not made up her mind—it was unfair in me to
thus make her feel pain—she would always love me as her
dear cousin and playmate—then she raised her white handkerchief
to her eyes, and begged me to reconduct her to
the house.
“I did so in silence, and then discovered that I had important
business here. That's all.
“Well! I'll neither cut my throat, nor sit down and
weep, nor, worst of all, go crouching back to her, like a
dog! Henceforth I forswear the sex. A bachelor's life
for me, my boy. Come, take a main at tric-trac with me,
and help me to find the bottom of a cask of Bordeaux or
Jamaica. I'm moping, you see, and want company.
“Your friend,
“Harry St. John.”
-- 194 -- p510-199
CHAPTER XXXV. THE REPLY.
[figure description] Page 194.[end figure description]
“Moorefield, May 23, 1774.
“Your letter really astonished me, my dear boy—it did,
upon my word. You will permit me to observe that you
are really the most unreasonable and exacting of all the
lovers that I've read of, from the time of Achilles to the
present hour.
“And so, when you pointed your gun at the tree, the
bird did not flutter down and light on your shoulder! Or
say that you banged away, my boy, do you expect such a
wild little thing as Miss Bonnybel to sit and be shot at by
you? You discharge your fowling piece, and before the
smoke's cleared away, walk tranquilly up to pick up the
game; you find that your aim was bad, and there's no bird
on the ground, and you scowl, and growl, and complain of
her for not falling!
“ `My son,' I would say to you, as I'm told the great King
Solomon did on one occasion, `listen to the words of the
wise; wisdom is the principal thing,' he adds, `therefore
get wisdom, and with all thy getting, get understanding.'
“Curious and complex, O my beloved friend, is the heart
of woman. Many philosophers have written concerning
them, but they are hard to understand. But one thing I
am sure of, that the young ladies of the province of Virginia
object to falling without due warning—subsiding, hysterically,
into the embrace of any young man who is good
enough to hold out his arms. And you will pardon my declaring
my opinion that it is reasonable; were I a woman,
as that engaging young lady, Miss Tracy, says I am already,
I'd demand a siege of a decade! 'T is true I should be
verging toward forty by that time, but I'd possess the inestimable
satisfaction of reflecting that I'd passed my life in
worrying a young man.
“You dissent, perhaps, from my views, but, honestly now,
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do you think you gave Miss Bonnybel `sufficient notice' of
the intended movement in your `suit?' 'T is a charming
damsel (though of course much less so than a certain person),
and I fancy she resents your cavalier assault, your ferocious
charge, as though your banner were inscribed, `Marriage
or instant death!!!' And then you go on to complain
of her bright eyes, of her chance-uttered words and jests.
Really, my dear Harry, you are a perfect ogre. You can't
let a maiden display her liking, and smile, and look attractive,
and please you! Suppose all the world was of your
way of thinking! What a dull, stiff, artificial world it
would be. Just think, my dear fellow, of the awful result.
No laughter, no ogling, no flirting any more! The true
joy of our existence would disappear, the girls would be
lifeless statues. You may fancy a statue of marble for your
spouse, but I'd rather have a nice young woman of the real
world, with her dangerous smiles, and head bent sidewise!
Do you say that a friend of mine at Vanely is not such as
this? I can only reply that my tastes were not formed
when I met her. I adore her, 't is true, but logically speaking,
I'm wrong.
“Take my word for it, some day, your bird will descend;
shake the tree, and the fruit will fall. Imitate an unappreciated
friend of yours, and still continue the shaking.*
“As to misery and moping, and anger, and all that, 't is
natural but very irrational; 't is unpleasant, and does no
good. Go back to Vanely and renew your attack—love the
damsel so much that her pride may be flattered. My friend,
there is nothing like perseverance. Go court your inamorata
more ardently than ever, and if, meanwhile, you do n't
meet a girl you love more, I'll lay you ten to one that you
get her!
“These few words, Harry my boy, must suffice. I can't
come to see you; I am busy at home. But we'll meet at
the assembly, in town. You say that the young lady put
-- 196 -- p510-201
[figure description] Page 196.[end figure description]
her handkerchief to her eyes; well I predict that those eyes
will shine brightly when they next rest on you. 'T is always
thus when the April shower is over.
“Your friend—Heaven grant, your brother—
“Tom Alston.”
“P. S.—Get wisdom.”
eaf510n16* On the margin, we find in his, St. John's, hand-writing:
“If I do, I'll be hanged. I'll tie myself to no woman's apron-string!”
CHAPTER XXXVI. BLOSSOM.
The views of his friend had little effect upon St. John.
It was not his pride which was so deeply wounded; it was
his heart.
His letter was one of those tissues of self-deception, which
are woven to blind their eyes by the most clear seeing. He
loved the girl more than ever when he found her beyond
his reach, and his faint flush of anger gave way to misery.
It was not long, however, before this sentiment also yielded.
The first pangs of his disappointment gradually became
less poignant. He coolly set about seeing to his neglected
affairs on the estate, and having attended to every thing,
and wound up the machine, cast about him for some occupation
to divert his thoughts.
“I'll go to town,” he said, with a sardonic smile; “I'll
go give his Excellency a chance to arrest me! What an
admirable scene will be enacted if he tries it; perhaps the
cause will be affected by my act, and historians will put
my name in their books!”
The real object of the young man was to divert his mind
from thought, and he had no sooner conceived his plan than
he proceeded to execute it.
Mounting “Tallyho,” he rode to the nearest ferry, crossed
the river, and approached the capital as the sun was setting.
He went along carelessly through the forest illumined
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by the orange light, and with eyes fixed on the ground, gave
free rein to his thoughts. He did not observe that his horse
had taken a wrong turn in the road, and was aroused from
his abstraction suddenly by a voice. This voice, which seemed
that of a child, said,
“Won't you stop a minute, sir? I'm very glad to see
you!”
In the little maiden who spoke, he recognized Blossom,
and she stood at the gate of the small cottage, which smiled
on him, embowered in foliage and flowers.
“Will I stop? Why with pleasure, my little spring blossom;”
replied the young man, pleased with the fair face; “I
am not the least in a hurry, and I am glad to see you in
turn.”
With these words he dismounted, and securing Tallyho,
shook hands with Blossom, and followed her to the trellised
porch.
“My dear, you are the very image of your namesakes,”
he said, caressing the child's hair; “where did you get such
roses?”
Blossom took a cluster of buds from her bosom, and
said—
“They are from the flower-bed yonder, sir.”
St. John smiled.
“I mean the roses in your cheeks, my dear; they are
prettier than the others.”
“Oh it's nothing but running about playing,” said Blossom,
blushing, “I run sometimes as far as town, sir, you
know—as I did that day—”
“When my horse nearly killed you—yes,” said St. John;
“well he'll never do so any more. I saw our friend, the
Governor, the other day, and I'm happy to say for the last
time as his servant.”
“Oh! I hope you did not quarrel, sir! he's a dreadful
man!”
“Quarrel?” said St. John, with his sardonic smile, “what
put such a thought in your head? Why his Excellency and
-- 198 -- p510-203
[figure description] Page 198.[end figure description]
myself fairly dote upon each other, and the room was full
of the first gentlemen of the colony, invited to attend and
meet me! His lordship talked more with me than with any
one else, and when I went away, called a soldier to escort
me!”
Having made this elaborate jest, St. John smiled on Blossom.
“Oh! I'm very, very glad that you did n't quarrel!” she
said, “he's so fierce looking, and spoke so cruelly of papa.”
“Of your father? Oh yes, I remember—where is he,
Blossom?”
“I do n't know, sir.”
“Ah?”
“I never know where papa goes, sir,” she said, simply, “I
believe he has a great deal to do.”
As she spoke horse's feet were heard, and Blossom jumped
up crying,
“Oh there he is, sir!”
At the same moment a gentleman entered the gate.
In the father of the child whom he had so nearly crushed
beneath the hoofs of his horse, St. John recognized the
stranger of the old church at Richmond.
CHAPTER XXXVII. THE WOOF OF EVENTS.
The stranger was clad in black, as formerly, and his face
wore the same expression of iron calmness. His penetrating
eyes were full of collected strength, and when he greeted
St. John in his deep and resounding voice, the young
man felt again that he was in the presence of a remarkable
individual.
“I am glad to see you again, Mr. St. John,” said the
stranger, with an iron-like grasp of the slender white hand.
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“I believe I need not introduce myself—as my child has
told you my name.”
“Yes, Mr. Waters,” returned St. John, “and we can not
meet as strangers. 'T is true, I come ill recommended, since
my horse nearly killed your child.”
The stranger made a movement with his hand.
“Do not speak of that,” he said, “ 't was no fault of yours.
The real offender was Dunmore, and I congratulate you on
leaving his service.”
“You have heard, then, of my resignation?”
“Assuredly. I have even heard every particular of the
interview at the palace. I knew all, half an hour after it
occurred.”
“Pray how was that possible?”
“In the simplest way—the society I represent has friends
everywhere.”
“You seem to know every thing. Did you recognize me
yonder in the old church of Richmond?”
“Undoubtedly, sir; how could I fail to? You have been
for some time a public character, and I knew perfectly your
opinions before I spoke. If in what I said, I was carried
away by a rush of bitter memories into egotism, you will
not think harshly of it, and will pardon me—will you not,
sir?”
There was so much simplicity and nobility in the air of
the speaker that St. John, unconsciously, held out his hand.
“You did me an honor, sir,” he said, “in confiding your
misfortunes to me. I trust we shall be friends.”
“We are such already, I am sure,” said his companion;
“your words in the old church yonder stirred my pulses, and
your reply to the insults of Dunmore, in his palace, was the
reply of a fearless patriot and gentleman.”
St. John bowed low.
“Thanks!” he said, “but I merely defended myself. Was
any action taken in regard to my humble self?”
“None. Dunmore and Captain Foy had more critical
business. Do you know what they were doing, and are
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[figure description] Page 200.[end figure description]
doing now? They are devising a plan to embroil the people
of Pennsylvania and Virginia on the subject of the boundary
line, and further, to invite the savages to invade the
western frontier of the province.”
“Impossible!”
“So it is,” said the stranger; “the agent of these traitorous
schemes to crush Virginia in the coming revolution is a
man named Conolly, commandant at Fort Pitt; he is now
in Williamsburg awaiting instructions. Those instructions
were being drawn up in cipher by Foy, without the knowledge
of the council, on the day you appeared before the
Governor.”
St. John's head fell, and his brows contracted.
“Why 't is nothing less than treachery—blood—murder!”
he said.
“Precisely that,” said the stranger, coolly.
“And I! am I forgotten?”
“As yet nothing has been done; a new lieutenant has
been appointed; the matter waits. But I advise you to lie
down armed. I am a peaceful man, but I rarely move unprepared.
I would advise you to do the same.”
A careless movement of the stranger's hand threw open
the breast of his doublet. From a side pocket protruded
the dark handles of a brace of pistols.
“Events ripen,” he continued, “and the times grow dangerous.
This very day, sir, a great movement has been made.
The Burgesses have resolved that the Boston Port bill is
dangerous to liberty—the dispatch of troops thither an act
of oppression. The first of June is appointed as a day of
fasting, humiliation and prayer; to implore divine Providence
to give them courage and heart to oppose this invasion
of Right. In accordance with this act, it was further
resolved this morning that the Burgesses, on the day appointed,
will proceed with the speaker and the mace to
church, there to pray for the cause of America. Such are
the resolves, and they will answer the purpose.”
“The purpose?”
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[figure description] Page 201.[end figure description]
“To force the Governor to dissolve them.”
“Do you think he will?”
“To-morrow.”
“Ah! and then?”
“The rest is arranged—prepared.”
“Can you speak?”
“Yes, to you, friend. We are alone here, and I know
whom I address. The House of Burgesses will be dissolved
to-morrow. The members will, on the next morning, meet
in the Raleigh tavern, and eighty-five, perhaps eight-nine,
of them, will unite in an association to arouse the colonies,
through a committee of correspondence, to a general congress,
binding themselves to use nothing from the docks of
the East India Company. They will then leave Williamsburg.
They will every one be reëlected by the people. They will
meet here again on the first day of August, and their work
then will be to cement the disjointed resistance North and
South, and appoint deputies to the general congress. That
congress will meet, probably, in Philadelphia, and much will
depend upon its proceedings.”
“The Governor will dissolve the Burgesses to-morrow?”
“Yes, at three in the afternoon he will summon them
before him, as though he were majesty itself, and then he
will dismiss the chivalry and wisdom of this land like disobedient
school-boys. Would you see the proceeding? I will
meet you at the door of the capitol.”
St. John was silent, only assenting with a thoughtful
movement of his head.
“Your long labor is then beginning to produce results?”
he said, looking at his companion.
“Yes,” said the stranger; “yet not mine alone. I am
but a poor soldier in a noble army; an army of strong
arms and great hearts, which advances under the leadership
of the Almighty, who directs and guides its onward
march.”
As the stranger spoke, his companion again observed
that look which had formerly attracted his attention,
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[figure description] Page 202.[end figure description]
—the expression of an intellectual fanatic who has but one
idea, and is bent and swayed by a pursuit which is his life
blood.
“What we have just been discussing,” he said, “these
resolutions, and debates, and associations, these are are but
the husks of ideas, the shells in which principles are wrapped,
the costume and material frame. There is beneath all this,
the heart and the soul, the vital idea, which must clothe itself
thus for action. To read the annals of history, without
eternally keeping in view the existence and superintendence
of that Almighty Being, under whose breath we move, is to
paralyze the mind with a chaos of unmeaning and discordant
elements, a jumble of effects without causes. The voice
of God resounds to my ears through the long galleries of
history, and I see His footprints on the soil of every land.
It is that great Being who shapes, in silence and darkness,
the far-off result, who strikes, when he is ready, with his
thunderbolts. It is not from a clear sky that these thunderbolts
fall; it is only when the atmosphere is prepared that
he unharnesses his lightnings. It is only when the political
atmosphere has reached the requisite state that he lets loose
the thunderbolts of revolution.
“I wish to say,” continued the stranger, with his far-away
look, “that under all these resolutions and business details,
these husks and shells, is the living and vital idea, the onward
march of man. Every word and phrase in these papers
we have referred to, embodies a thought crammed with
significance; every new expression, growing bolder and
bolder, is like the increase in the height of the waves when
the storm sweeps onward. From the year '65 to the present
hour, I have looked with awe and wonder upon the
gradually unfolding intent of the Deity. I have seen this
land advance toward a new and splendid existence, as a
ship is impelled by the breath of the hurricane. I have
seen the great multitude advance, step by step, pushed onward
by an invisible hand toward the bloody gates of revolution,
through which, and which alone, shall we enter on
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the promised land of liberty. We spoke, yonder, of this,
and I then said that I thought I saw how to each one his
part was assigned. To Patrick Henry, that soul of fire, and
prophet of liberty, was assigned the duty of putting the
huge ball in motion. He was raised up at the crisis and did
the work which the Deity assigned to him; he struck, as it
were, with the flat of his sword, and aroused the whole
land to indignation. In his fiery and burning periods, in his
immense denunciations, the oppressions of England shone
forth in all their deformity. He did no half work; beneath
his gigantic shoulder, the ball of revolution began to move.*
But the immense mass must move in its appointed way;
it must not roll at random; its course must be fixed. And
to fix this course, to define the revolution, its track and its
aims, to the public opinion of Europe and America, Thomas
Jefferson appeared, a man who has just begun his career, but
whose genius for overturning is immense. See here, too,
the hand of the Deity; see this wonder and mystery of his
decrees. This man, thus raised up to fulfill the divine purpose,
is an infidel, has no particle of reverence; for him,
Christ is but a name. The Almighty has removed the
faculty of reverence completely from his intellect, and he
advances over thrones and systems, through prejudice and
prestige, with a fatal, a mathematical precision. He carries
out his premises to the bounds of and beyond pure treason;
like a machine, his splendid intellect does not stop to reflect,
but accomplishes its work without pausing. Well, sir, see
how, in these two men, who utter and define the revolution—
see how God has raised up, at the appointed time, the instruments
with which he designs to produce his results. I
said, up yonder, and I repeat, that the military leader will
appear in good time; I doubt it not at all—I expect without
impatience—I calmly await the appointed moment.
Who knows what the hand of God has been doing? Perhaps,
as we have passed our serene existence here in the
midst of civilization, and surrounded by comforts—perhaps
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some lonely youth, in the wilds of the forest, fording great
rivers, and ascending vast mountains, has been trained in
peril, and suffering, and hardship, for the leadership of liberty.
Perhaps, as we speak, this man is ready to appear;
let us wait, let us trust in God.
“But I weary you,” said the stranger. “I forget that the
philosophy of history, as the schoolmen say, may not interest
you as it does myself. What my brief and awkward
train of thought would utter is this, and this alone: that
for ten years these colonies have been slowly advancing, led
by the Almighty, as he led the Israelites of old, to a point
from which they can not recede, where they can not stand
still, when, consequently, they must press onward, even
though it be through the Red Sea of revolution and blood.
The seeds of liberty were sown in the opposition to the
Stamp Act; they have sprung up and spread into a tree,
whose iron grain will blunt the sharpest battle-ax. In '65,
the alarm was sounded by the voice of Patrick Henry, and
reverberating from cliff to cliff, it will mingle, in '75, with
the roar of cannon, the trumpet blast of battle! Do not mistake
or misunderstand, I beseech you!” said the stranger,
with his dazzling and fiery glance. “Revolution is logical,
mathematical, but it is the logic, the mathematics of God!
It is God, sir, who directs us poor puppets beneath him; it
is God who has made all things work together harmoniously
to this splendid result; it is God who, having aroused our
minds, and strengthened our souls, will also give us victory
in the struggle. For my part I do not fear the result; I
look forward, I pray, I wait!”
The stranger was silent, and for some time nothing disturbed
the stillness. At last Blossom stole out, thinking
the conversation was over, and came to her father.
The gloomy and wistful eyes grew clear, the lips relaxed
from their compressed expression, and a sad smile played
over the stranger's face.
“Perhaps, after all, it is better to listen to the heart,” he
said, “and happy is the man who does not feel compelled to
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espouse the cause of his species. Poor intellect which has
not a heart!”
And with a sad and wistful look, the stranger passed his
white hand over the child's bright curls.
Blossom took the hand and pressed it to her lips, at the
moment when Mr. St. John rose to depart.
To the stranger's courteous invitation to remain, he urged
business in town, and so they separated, appointing to meet
at the capitol.
Blossom, too, had her little speech, which was a request
that her friend would please come again, and this promise
being given, the young man set forward to Williamsburg
again as the night fell.
A singular idea occurred to him as he rode onward.
The man whom he had just left, with every thing which
surrounded him, seemed a living protest against the old
world and the past. The cottage, with its low roof, hidden
in the wood, from which issued a man whose spirit
aroused revolution, was the direct antagonist of kings' palaces
and courts. As the palace, and the king in his royal
trappings, were the incarnation of privilege and prerogative,
and superstition, so the cottage in the wild forest, and the
plain man in black, were the representatives of liberty, disenthrallment—
of that freedom of thought and soul which
the new world must inaugurate.
The child before him, young, weak, and so nearly crushed
to death beneath the hoofs of his horse, was the type of Virginia,
which the legions of Great Britain would soon strive
to trample down!
He reached Williamsburg and his lodgings before he was
aware of it. Wearied with the long ride from “Flower of
Hundreds,” he was soon asleep.
eaf510n17* Historical Illustrations, No. XVI.
-- 206 -- p510-211
CHAPTER XXXVIII. THE FIXED STARS OF VIRGINIA.
[figure description] Page 206.[end figure description]
St. John was awakened by the sunbeams falling on his
forehead.
It was the 26th of May, 1774, a day memorable in the
annals of Virginia.
As though to cheer and embolden the hearts of patriots,
the great orb of day rose clear and brilliant, and mounted
to his noon unobscured by clouds, as on that occasion in the
old church of St. John, when the stranger had pointed to
it, soaring above the retreating thunder storm, and called it
“the Sun of America.”
At an early hour, the entire capital was in commotion, for
the news had gotten abroad that on this day Lord Dunmore
would dissolve the Assembly. The crowd continued to increase
throughout the morning, and at three in the afternoon,
it poured in one living mass toward the capitol, in
front of whose wide portico the statue of the good Lord
Botetourt looked down with calm serenity upon the multitude.
But since the days of that honest nobleman, men and
events, unhappily, have changed. Other times have come,
and another Governor rules in the chair of Norborne Berkeley.
Lord Botetourt, it is true, had also dissolved the Burgesses,
but sadly, sorrowfully, with the reluctance of a man
who acknowledges in his heart the justice of a protest, but
is forced, by his sworn duty, to oppose himself to the protestants.
The worthy nobleman loved Virginia and the Virginians,
and many persons said that the oppressions of the
ministry had hastened his death. However that may be,
one thing is certain, that soon after his dissolution of the
Burgesses, this statue of him was commanded by that body;
and having been duly erected before the capitol, to be
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removed afterwards to the college grounds, where it may now
be seen, the marble image of the good nobleman, on this
May day of'74, looked tranquilly upon the masses ruled now
by —— Dunmore.
Let history, with her inexorable justice, her cold stylus,
fill the space left blank before the name. The present
writer disdains to attempt the task, leaving to others the
duty of depicting one who united in his character the most
perfect treachery, the utmost cowardice, and the most consistent
and harmonious meanness.
But let us follow St. John.
The whole population, as we have said, flowed toward the
old capitol, along Gloucester street, as, on the day of Lady
Dunmore's entry, in an opposite direction toward the palace.
But now it seemed agitated by far different emotions.
Then it had shouted and laughed, now it was silent and
frowned. Then it saw a cavalcade, brilliant with the bright
eyes and smiling faces of a good woman and her beautiful
daughters, and it smiled gladly in return. Now it was
about to behold the haughty progress of a bad man, with
a scowling face, surrounded by his mercenary attendants.
And the people scowled honestly back in advance, and
looked sidewise, with a threatening air, at the guards when
they appeared.
St. John was carried onward by the crowd to the base of
Lord Botetourt's statue, where the waves of the multitude
were divided, and flowed right and left.
It was with immense difficulty that he succeeded in elbowing
his way up to the portico. At last, however, he attained
his position, and then his glance surveyed the long
street, with its undulating and imposing occupants, its old
men with gray beards, and maidens in picturesque dresses,
and curiously peering children, lost like flowers in the waves.
He was still absorbed in this scrutiny when he felt a hand
on his arm, and a calm voice said,
“An interesting spectacle, friend; the curiosity of the
multitude seems general.”
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He turned, and found himself face to face with the stranger,
who added with a grave inclination, as he leaned against
a pillar, and thoughtfully surveyed the crowd,
“We are punctual to our appointment, Mr. St. John; I
have been awaiting you, however, as the Burgesses are
awaiting the Governor.”
St. John pressed the extended hand, and said,
“I should like to look at the House. Will we have time
before the Governor arrives?”
“He will not come for twenty minutes.”
“Well then let us go into the gallery, and you shall point
out to me some of the leaders.”
“Willingly.”
And in a moment they were in the gallery of the Burgesses.
The speaker sat opposite in a tall chair, clearly relieved
against a red curtain, held aloft by an ornamental rod.*
Beneath, sat the clerk of the House, behind his table littered
with bills; before him on the table lay the great mace,
which signified that the body was in full session. When
they sat in Committee of the Whole, it was laid under the
table.
The members were scattered throughout the hall, talking
earnestly in groups, and scarcely heeding the hammer and
cry of “Order, gentlemen!”
“Strange to say I have not before visited the present
House,” said St. John; “ 't is my loss, for they have a most
imposing air.”
“It is the reflex of their mental characteristics,” said the
stranger. “The body before you, friend, contains the great
leaders of Virginia—the burning and shining lights of the
coming storm. Look, there, in front of the speaker. Do
you know the member in the peach-blossom coat, with the
tie-wig and the worn red cloak?”
“I have seen him pass on the street I think: yes, one day,
talking with Mr. Carrington.Ӡ
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“That is Patrick Henry,” continued the stranger, “the
prophet and king of the revolution that comes onward, the
torch which illumines the way. He was born in Hanover,
among the slashes, and after a youth spent in idleness,
studied law, and appeared in the `Parsons' cause.' The rest
of his career you are familiar with. The burning eloquence
which drove the clergy in despair from their seats in the
court house, soared to heaven like a flame of fire in the days
of the Stamp Act agitation, in '65. At this moment, that
awkward-looking man, with the listless air and the stooping
shoulders, is the grandest orator on the continent of America,
and none in the old world compare with him. Heaven
sends but one such man in a thousand years. It sent Demosthenes,
and now it sends this greater than Demosthenes.
Sir, I weary you, but this man, the very sight of him, arouses
me. He will rule and sway, in right of his genius, the storm
which is rushing downward!”
St. John looked at the ungainly figure, and could not realize
the truth of what he heard. It was simply a slouching
county court lawyer that he saw.
“I see that you think I am enthusiastic,” said the stranger;
“you think that this man in the old worn coat—this
man of the people—is unequal to the task I describe.* Hear
him speak, and your doubt will disappear. You will then
see him rise erect like a giant, you will see the lightning of
such glances as you never even dreamed of, hear the thunder
of an oratory which will shake the throne of England,
and reverberate through the history of this continent!†
Enough! the event will show.”
The stranger was silent for a moment, then turning his
eyes from Henry, continued,
“Those two gentlemen in front of the speaker must be
known to you. The one whose tall figure is bowed by the
weight of seventy years, with the deep blue eyes protected
by a green shade—that is Colonel Richard Bland, of `Jordan's,'
in Prince George, the author of the letter on the
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`Twopenny Act,' of the tract on the `American Episcopate;'
above all, of the `Inquiry into the Rights of the
American Colonies,” whose logic advances with the resounding
roll of an avalanche. He is descended from Giles Bland,
who fought with Bacon—is called, for his great acquisitions,
`The Antiquary of Virginia,'—at seventy, and when almost
blind, he still puts on the old harness in the service of his
countrymen.”*
“I know Colonel Bland,” said St. John, “and his companion—”
“Is Mr. George Wythe, one of the most learned gentlemen
of the province. His mother taught him Latin and
Greek in his childhood. He drew the celebrated memorial
to the Commons in '64; he is second to no one in patriotism.
But these men are but units in a noble line. See, youder,
Mr. Thomas Nelson, from the town of York; see his
gentle smile, and the suavity that beams in his features.
He is capable of giving his time, his means, his very life-blood
to his country. And there beside him is Mr. Robert
Carter Nicholas—thin-featured, growing bald, of grave bearing;
he is a sound financier and far-seeing statesman. You
know the tall and portly gentleman with whom he converses.
It it Mr. Benjamin Harrison, of `Berkeley,' on James river.
In his veins flows the blood of Harrison the Regicide, the
man who was prominent in condemning Charles I. to death.
He is a man of the most admirable administrative genius,
of a patriotism unsurpassed; his courage would make him
smile at the foot of the gallows.Ӡ
“Yes,” said St. John, “that is true, every word, of
Mr. Harrison. And who is that tall youth just behind
him?”
“With the slender figure, and amiable black eyes? That
is a young gentleman, residing in Fauquier; Mr. John
Marshall. He is seeking, I believe, for a commission in the
service.”‡
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“I do not know Mr. Marshall, but his face is attractive,”
returned St. John.
“But you doubtless know that tall gentleman to his right.
That is Mr. Edmund Pendleton of Caroline, the type and
representative of the conservative revolutionists—the thinkers
who desire to advance, logically, and in well-ordered
phalanx. You read in his bearing, in his very countenance,
the character of the man—the man whom I regard as equally
valuable to the revolution with Mr. Henry and Mr. Jefferson.
Mr. Pendleton is profoundly read in the laws binding
nations and individuals; his conservative genius curbs
the fiery and rash minds of the passionate reformers; his
familiarity with forms and parliamentary rules, will be of
indispensable value to the cause. In debate he is wholly
unsurpassed by any man in North America, and in the
fiercest encounter of the sharpest weapons 't is impossible
to throw him off his guard. His noble and serene bearing
is a great aid to his oratory; his suavity and grace conciliate
the rudest. No finer type exists of the courtly gentleman.
If Henry is our Demosthenes, Pendleton is our Cicero;
his silvery voice steals away your reason.”*
“Absolutely,” said St. John. “Yes, I know Mr. Pendleton
wery well.”
“You doubtless know also the group who are talking
yonder earnestly in the corner,” continued the stranger.
“Do you see the tall gentleman who thrusts a hand covered
with ruffles into the breast of his blue, gold-laced waistcoat;
him of the broad massive brow, the dark eyes, full of
mingled sadness and severity, the brown cheek and the lofty
carriage? That is Mr. George Mason from the county of
Fairfax, but not a member of the present Burgesses. He is
a man of the profoundest political genius, not second even
to Mr. Jefferson. A statesman of the very first rank, deeply
read in the lore of charters and constitutions, with a brain
and heart beating with one pulse of patriotism. Should a
declaration of rights be thought advisable by the province
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—a chart to steer by in the storm—it is to this man that I
would most willingly confide the task. The bill of rights
which he would frame would be the platform of liberty, the
embodiment of the philosophy of honest government, the
exposition of the inalienable rights of mankind.”*
“'T is truly an admirable head,” said St. John. “I did
not know Mr. Mason.”
“The small gentleman,” continued the stranger, “of graceful
feature and eyes singularly piercing, is Archibald Cary, of
`Ampthill,' in Chesterfield, called `Old Iron' for his inflexible
courage,† and the member whom he addresses is Richard
Henry Lee, of `Chantilly,' in Westmoreland, called `The
Gentleman of the Silver Hand.' Is his not a noble head?
The type of the Roman, a true Scipio Africanus, inclining
forward with lofty grace, as though he were listening to you
with his best courtesy. 'T is a pity that an accident made
the black bandage on his left hand necessary; but let him
once speak and you see it no longer, though he uses it in
his gestures; you hear only his swelling and magnificent
periods!‡ Many of the rest you doubtless know. Mr.
Peyton Randolph, Mr. Francis Lightfoot Lee, Mr. Rutherford,
Mr. Langhorne, Mr. Paul Carrington, Mr. Lewis Burwell
of Gloucester county; and yonder you see Mr. Thomas
Jefferson.”
“Ah! you spoke warmly of him, sir, when we talked,”
said St. John.
“Not more warmly than I should have done,” replied the
stranger. “See the penof the revolution; you have looked
at Henry, the tongue. You may discern in the countenance
of this gentleman, too, his whole character. See his broad,
swelling forebead, with thin sandy hair; his prominent nose,
thin lips and resolute chin; see, above all, his piercing and
clear eye. It is the face of a man with a genius essentially
political; a mind which arrives, with a single bound, at conclusions
which startle the boldest. In this man, as in Mr.
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George Mason, the revolution vindicates itself to history;
the true representative of a convulsed epoch, he will guide
and direct great events. His glance of lightning has already
flashed through the cobwebs and ruins of feudalism, the
trappings of royalty and nobility; he believes in nothing,
trusts to nothing, accepts nothing which is not clearly proved
by the doctrine of inalienable right! Before the fatal advance
of his inexorable logic, royalty, aristocracy and religious
intolerance yield, one after another, and are overthrown.
His faults are those of a genius too youthful and fiery;
his views are extreme, and need the mellowing hand of time
to harmonize them, but still he is the man for the times, the
gladiator for the present arena!”
As the stranger uttered these words, a stifled sound from
the great crowd without was heard, and the Burgesses gathered
in more earnest groups than before.
“The moment has come!” said the stranger, taking St.
John's arm, “let us go look on; but first, see that great
figure which has risen but now, the man who stands surrounded
by Henry, Mason, and Nelson, and Jefferson, and
young Marshall, who is as tall as the lofty General Lewis, of
Botetourt, beside him. Ah! I see you know him. Yes,
that is Colonel George Washington, of `Mount Vernon,' in
Fairfax. He sustained the whole frontier on his shoulders,
fought with Braddock, and is now a member of the Burgesses.
I have spoken of the tongue and the pen of the
revolution, friend. If Providence so wills it, see the
sword.”
And without further words the stranger led the way from
the gallery. In a moment they again stood on the portico
of the capitol.
eaf510n18* Historical Illustrations, No. XVII.
eaf510n19† Ibid., No. XVIII.
eaf510n20* Historical Illustrations, No. XIX.
eaf510n21† Ibid., No. XX.
eaf510n22* Historical Illustrations, No. XXI.
eaf510n23† Ibid., No. XXII.
eaf510n24‡ Historical Illustrations, No. XXIII.
eaf510n25* Historical Illustrations, No. XXIV.
eaf510n26* Historical Illustrations, No. XXV.
eaf510n27† Ibid., No. XXVI.
eaf510n28‡ Historical Illustrations, No. XXVII.
-- 214 -- p510-219
CHAPTER XXXIX. HOW THE STRANGER'S FIRST PROPHECY WAS FULFILLED.
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The movement and murmur in the crowd had been caused
by the approach of Lord Dunmore.
The two men had arrived just in time.
From the portico upon which they were stationed, above
the statue of Botetourt, and the undulating masses, their
glances embraced the whole spectacle.
The approach of his Excellency was announced by a handfull
of his guards who rode before, royally, to clear the way.
Then a larger detachment appeared riding abreast in front
of the chariot, the plumes of a troop of like number reveal
ing themselves plainly in the rear.
At the head of the troop in front rode a tall and magnificently
accoutred gentleman, and as the cavalcade drew on,
St. John started slightly.
The new commander of his Excellency's guards was Mr.
Lindon.
The young man's lip curled.
“Ah well!” he said, carelessly, “I congratulate his Excellency
on securing such a fine captain, and Mr. Lindon on
entering the service of such a master. They'll suit each
other to a marvel.”
Having thus expressed his view of the matter, St. John
continued to gaze at the procession with a curling lip and a
sort of wonder, as he thought that, but a short time before,
Lindon's position was his own.
His Excellency drew on.
Having a profound conviction that the easiest mode of
ruling the human species, was to awe and dazzle them in
advance, his lordship had made great preparations for the
present ceremony, and in the programme, so to speak, had
studied to imitate the royal model.
As the guards sent before were to represent those troops
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sent in advance of royalty to cry, “make way! make way
for his majesty!” and as the larger detachments were to
still further carry out the idea and the resemblance, and
awe the masses into terror and submission, so, in the selection
of his equipage itself, the Governor had endeavored to
dazzle the eyes, as with the splendor and state of a king.
The chariot was a huge affair, covered with gilding, and
velvet, and damask; a dozen footmen in liveries seemed to
hang behind and at the sides, and a driver with a hat bound
with gold lace, looked grandly downward on the heads of
the common people, through whom he urged onward his
six glossy horses, when the guards allowed the mass to
close in.
His Excellency was accompanied only by Captain Foy
and Lord Fincastle, the secretary or captain, as the reader
pleases, preserving his habitual expression of serenity. His
dark eyes shining from his pale face, quietly surveyed the
crowd with a species of philosophical composure, and then
were again lowered thoughtfully.
The chariot paused before the front of the capitol, and
the Governor issued forth, in the midst of a profound
silence.
He raised his head haughtily, as a king, who is not met
with the shouts and acclamations he expects, might do, and
then, taking a comprehensive view of the crowd, ascended
to the council chamber, followed by the secretary and Lord
Fincastle.
“Come,” said the stranger to St. John, “let us see the
rest; there is a gallery I know of from which we may see
all.”
And with a rapid step he led the way up a narrow and
winding stair, and with a key which he took from his pocket,
opened a low door beneath the ceiling.
From behind the high railing of the small, circular gallery,
the eyes of the two men looked into the council
chamber.
The members of the council, who had already assembled,
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rose upon the Governor's entrance, and saluted him—also,
his companions.
Lord Dunmore then took his seat in the large carved chair
of red damask, at the end of the council table, with Lord
Fincastle and Captain Foy at his side, the members remaining
in their former seats.
A pause of some moments followed the arrangement of
every one in his place, and during this time his lordship's
countenance wore an expression at once haughty and nervous,
disdainful and anxious.
He cleared his throat, arranged with nervous hands some
papers before him, and then, leaning back in his chair,
said,
“Gentlemen of the council, I have summoned you to meet
me here to-day in order that I may express to you, briefly,
the reasons for the course I am about to adopt. I shall be
extremely brief, for my resolution is taken, and I shall not
be swerved from my purpose.
“It is scarcely necessary for me to inform you, gentlemen,”
continued the Governor, haughtily, but, as he thought, with
dignity, “that seditious persons and enemies to the government
in this colony have for a series of years been disturbing
the public tranquillity, and even proceeding to what is
constructive treason, and would be held such under the 25th
Edward III.”
St. John exchanged a glance with the stranger, who moved
his head slightly, but again riveted his cold look on the
Governor.
“The men that I speak of, gentlemen, are not, I believe,
members of the Burgesses, who heretofore, except upon cer
tain occasions, have conducted themselves respectfully toward
the government and its representatives in the colonies.
The persons I refer to are those who have printed and circulated
seditious pamphlets, some of which I have seen purporting
even to be issued in this capital. I have information
that a man named Waters is the most active agent and desseminator
of these papers, and I shall, at an early day, take
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steps to arrest and send him for trial to England, with the
proofs of his guilt, which are ample. If these proofs do not
rid the government of one who is eternally holding sedition,
then, gentlemen, I shall lose all confidence in the laws of
England, and that gallows which punishes treason!”
A grim and disdainful smile seemed to flit across the
countenance of the stranger as he and St. John exchanged
glances. Then his fiery glance vailed itself, his face grew
cold again, and he fixed his eyes on the Governor.
“But it was not my purpose, gentlemen,” continued Lord
Dunmore, with a severe air, “to refer to these obscure and
contemptible agents of treason. I designed calling your attention
to the fact that these seditious views are being so
widely disseminated that all classes of persons are becoming
aroused by them. All proper subservience to the government
and myself; the very respect that is due to my person,
is refused in a manner most insulting and outrageous!”
The stranger laid his hand on St. John's arm and said, in
a low voice, “Now it's your turn, friend, but do n't move
or speak—let us listen.”
The Governor, whose countenance slowly colored with
anger as he spoke, continued.
“You know, gentlemen,” he said, “to what I have reference—
the scene that took place at my palace some days
since. You were, some of you, present, and you witnessed
the spectacle of a peer of the realm, and the representative
of his Majesty, insulted, outraged, and even menaced by a
young man whose reply to my just complaints of his remissness
was a threat to plunge his sword into my breast.
If I have not brought this impudent person to justice, it is
only because I have been absorbed by affairs more important,
but he is marked in my black book, and in good time
his sedition will be punished.”
“Listen,” said the stranger, in his low, deep voice, and
crouching with fiery eyes, near the face of the young man,
“listen—`affairs more important!'—do you understand?
Conolly!”
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And the stranger's eyes seemed to blaze as he leaned forward,
pointing to Dunmore.
“Yes,” said St. John, coldly, “I understand!”
The Governor paused a moment, then went on, loftily.
“All these outrages and commotions,” he said, “indicate,
on the part of the people of this colony, a tendency to tumult
and rebellion. This tendency has entered the House
of Burgesses, and even appeared in that body some years
ago. On that occasion, their action compelled Lord Botetourt
to dissolve them, an act which he, however, performed
in a manner extremely reprehensible. I say reprehensible,
sirs, and I know what I say! His lordship committed a
great fault, and I shall take warning from the result of his
ill-advised proceeding.”
The Governor frowned as he spoke, and looked round
the council haughtily.
“In myself, gentlemen,” he said, “his Majesty has a representative
of another description. I keep no terms with
rebels, I utter no honeyed words; I suppress their rebellious
career, that is all. And this brings me, gentlemen, to the
point I would reach. The House of Burgesses, yesterday,
proceeded to resolves upon the late bill for the closing of
Boston harbor—to resolves, in their spirit, if not in letter,
treasonable! Yes, treasonable!” said the Governor, scowling
at the council; “they have presumed to declare that
this bill is a blow at the liberties of America! The liberties!
the very word is nonsense! I know what the tools
of sedition say about these `liberties,' but I say that the
best writers upon constitutional law lay down the fixed
principle that dependent colonies can have no liberties.
They are subject to Parliament and the King; it is their
place to submit, and I for one, gentlemen, will see that the
government does not yield to these impudent claims! Yes,
impudent! You think the word too strong, I do not! It
is impudence, and nothing less, to declare that the government
has no right to close the port of Boston, for their overt
act of sedition in destroying the tea in December last! And
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the House of Burgesses is not content with declaring this
an attack on the liberties of America, forsooth! It must
proceed further, and appoint the first day of June a day of
fasting, and humiliation, and prayer! Well, gentlemen, I
have but one word to add. The Burgesses, by their own action,
declare themselves desirous of being humiliated. They
fix on the first day of June; I will save them the trouble and
delay by humiliating them now!”
And with an angry flush upon his countenance, the
Governor turned to the clerk of the council and said,
haughtily,
“Bid the gentlemen Burgesses attend me in my council
chamber!”
The clerk bowed low, and left the apartment in the midst
of profound silence on the part of the council.
“Look now and listen!” said the stranger, in a low voice,
to St. John; “see how this coarse little terrier will snarl at
the lions of Virginia!”
The usher returned and announced that the Burgesses
were approaching.
They soon made their appearance, headed by the speaker
and the sergeant carrying the great mace, defiling into the
apartment with measured steps, and heads bent with cold
courtesy as they fronted the Governor.
Lord Dunmore's eye, for a moment, quailed before the
clear and calm gaze of these men of lofty stature and erect
port.
He nervously arranged his papers as before, and cleared
his throat. No doubt his Excellency had designed to utter
his views at length, and in a manner similar to that already
made use of to the council.
But before the array of fearless countenances with their
firm lips and cold eyes, filled with a hauteur greater even
than his own, this design seemed to be too great a tax on
his powers.
He gazed for a moment with his former mixture of nerv
ous trepidation and insulting disdain at the body, and then,
-- 220 -- p510-225
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raising from the table a copy of the resolutions passed on
the previous day, he said,
“Mr. Speaker, and gentlemen of the House of Burgesses,
I have in my hand a paper, published by order of your House,
conceived in such terms as reflect highly upon his Majesty
and the Parliament of Great Britain, which makes it necessary
to dissolve you, and you are dissolved accordingly!”
Having so spoken, the Governor, with an angry and swollen
countenance, leaned back in his chair, and gazed with a
sort of fearful definance upon the Burgesses.
The speaker simply bowed, and then, followed by the
members, left the apartment in the same deliberate and
measured manner.
“Come, friend!” said the stranger to St. John, whom he
drew away, “the first scene is played, and the rest will rapidly
follow!”
CHAPTER XL. HOW HIS EXCELLENCY ASKED THE NAME OF THE STRANGER.
The two men soon found themselves again upon the portico
of the capitol.
The crowd, if any thing, had increased, and now seemed
to have exchanged its silence and gloom for indignation and
uproar.
The great waves rolled, and muttered, and dashed themselves
about with somber menace, and at times the long procession,
so to speak, lining the whole of Gloucester street,
writhed to and fro, resembling, in the brilliant sunshine, a
great serpent with glittering scales, his body agitated and
lustrous as that of the cobra or the rattlesnake, when about
to raise his crest and strike with his fangs.
This threatening air was obvious at once, and the stranger
surveyed the huge mass of heads with a species of gloomy
satisfaction.
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“Good, good!” he said, in his deep voice, “the breath
of the storm sweeps toward us, the surface begins to
foam!”
“The people?” said St. John.
“Yes, look! Do you see this great crowd—this crowd,
made up of gray beards and children, of matrons and maidens,
of high and low, rich and poor? Well, friend, I see in their
faces the result of our labors, our toils, our long waiting!
They rise, they tremble! the billows begin to boil! you may
see the `white horses,' as the poets say; wait! You will
see the tenth wave before long!”
As the stranger spoke, his brilliant and fiery eye embraced
the whole spectacle, and his body bent forward like that of
the hunter, when he finds himself in the presence of the lion
at bay.
“You say, the `tenth wave,' ” said St. John, gazing on the
stranger's pale countenance with its sparkling eyes.
“Yes, the wave that will strike and overwhelm!”
“Heaven grant it!”
“That is the prayer of thousands night and morning—
that this insolent armed tyranny may be swept from the
earth!”
“Ah! armed! you refer to the guards?”
“Yes, look at them!”
“They almost trample on the crowd. To think that I
was once commander of these men!”
“You are free again, and see what you have gained!”
At this moment the agitation of the crowd grew even
greater, and the guards of his Excellency were hemmed in
on every side by the waves, from which issued threatening
murmurs.
From their elevated position the two men had a full view
of the scene, and especially of Mr. Lindon, whose tall form,
on his large horse, rose above the press.
Lindon's countenance wore a mingled expression of fear
and defiance, of anxiety and supercilious disdain.
He seemed to regard the crowd with the impatience and
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scorn of a nobleman, in presence of a rebellious canaille, but
a canaille which it was good policy not to arouse.
His horse, however, was restive, and the heavy spurs
which his rider unconsciously dug into his sides at times, excited
him more and more. The result of the last application
of the sharp rowels, was a furious bound of the animal, and
an old man, with hoary head and beard, was struck heavily
and fell.
In an instant the crowd was driven to frenzy, and with
furious countenances, they were about to throw themselves
upon the troops, when a loud noise from the portico attracted
every one's attention.
It was his Excellency, who had adjourned the council
and now descended to his carriage.
“What is the meaning of this uproar?” he said, sternly;
“are my people being attacked by these insurgents?”
“Yes, my lord,” cried Lindon, “the masses here are in
commotion!”
And he struck at the hand of a tall fellow who caught at
his bridle.
The Governor saw the threat of the man, and his face
grew pale.
“If they attack you, charge and disperse them!” he said,
pale and fearful amid all his anger.
Lindon hesitated.
The furious faces and menacing arms intimidated the
worthy commander.
“I say charge them!” cried the Governor.
The words were distinctly heard by the crowd, and a howl
of rage was the reply.
The women and children were hastily hurried to the rear,
the men with strong arms appeared all at once in front, in
an immovable phalanx, and the hands of these men, whose
faces were pale and determined, were inserted into the
pockets of their doublets, grasping concealed arms there.
In a moment a sanguinary contest would have ensued,
and the streets flowed with blood.
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But a more commanding voice than that of his Excellency
rung above the heads of the crowd, and drew all eyes to
the speaker.
It was the voice of the stranger, and it resounded like the
blast of a trumpet above the roar of shouts and menaces.
The words which he uttered were brief, fiery, and to the
point. He counseled moderation—the moment had not
come. The men before them were a handfull only, which a
breath would scatter, but no advantage would be gained by
dispersing them.
“Let them pass!” he said in his sonorous voice, which
rang above the menacing multitude like a clarion; “the hour
has not struck! Wait! it comes!”
“And you, my lord,” added the stranger, advancing with
his head raised proudly erect toward Dunmore, “do not lash
this people into madness! 'T is sound counsel! Return to
your palace before it is too late, sir! In ten minutes your
path will be barred by the crowd, and at a word the streets
of the capital will flow with blood! I give you good advice,
and advise you to profit by it. Return, I say, while you
have time!”
The Governor trembled with rage, and glared at the
speaker for an instant without speaking.
“And who are you, sir?” he said, with an explosion;
“who are you that give advice to a peer of the realm, and
the representative of his Majesty?”
“A man of the people only, my lord.”
“Your name, sir! I desire to remember it!”
A cloud passed over the stranger's brow, and his eyes
flashed.
“It is a name that is not pleasant to your lordship!” he
said, haughtily, “a circumstance which I do not regret!”
“Your name, sir!”
“Waters!” replied the stranger, returning the Governor's
from with a glance of fire which showed to what depths
his nature was moved. “Waters is my name, and I am the
father of the child whom your lordship, with a coarseness
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and cruelty only worthy of a peer of the realm, outraged
and wounded in your palace! I scorn to conceal any thing!
If your lordship presumes to order my arrest, I will arouse
that crowd to tear you and your escort to pieces!”
Carried away for the moment by rage and scorn, the
speaker advanced another step toward the Governor, and
confronted him with a look of such decision and fire, that
Dunmore's cheek grew pale, and his lips vainly endeavored
to shape an answer.
“Your lordship will doubtless have all your hounds on
my track to-morrow!” said the stranger, “but I will defend
myself now and at all times! If you arrest me, it will be my
dead body!”
The Governor had not time to utter a word in reply to
this speech, before the portico suddenly filled with the members
of the House of Burgesses.
At sight of them the crowd uttered a shout, or rather a
roar, indicating a perfect knowledge of their ignominious
dismissal.
The menacing waves rushed again toward the troop,
and the six horses, drawing the chariot of his Excellency,
tossed their heads and moved about in their harnesses with
fright.
“My lord,” said the speaker of the Burgesses, “permit
me to respectfully suggest your return to the palace. The
people assembled here evidently construe your dissolution
of the Burgesses into an insult and outrage, and we can not
be responsible for the consequences of the further presence
of the troops!”
Dunmore, boiling with rage, and pale with fear, surveyed,
alternately, the Burgesses and the roaring crowd.
The people were more completely aroused than ever; Lindon's
eyes turned, from moment to moment, uneasily toward
the Governor.
“My lord!” said the speaker, “in the name of Heaven,
either return or dismiss your troops! In ten minutes blood
will flow!”
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Dunmore, with a convulsion of wrath, but a step wavering
and undecided, half descended the flight of steps.
“Go on, my lord,” said the speaker, “we will attend you
and restrain any commotion of the inhabitants. I beseech
your lordship to proceed!”
Lord Dunmore half turned, with a countenance red and
pale with rapid changing expressions, and for an instant his
wrathful glance rested upon the face of the stranger.
He ground his teeth audibly, and shaking his glove toward
his enemy, turned and descended the steps.
The members of the Burgesses surrounded him, and mixing
with the crowd, spoke earnestly and reproachfully to
them.
The justice of these representations seemed to be acknowledged,
and the sea of heads flowed backward toward the
houses on each side of the way, leaving an open space,
through which the troops, headed by Lindon and the chariot
containing the Governor, rapidly advanced towards the palace.
The Burgesses continued to escort it until it disappeared
at the turn of the street, and then they mixed with the
crowd, in whose tumultuous and agitated waves they were
swallowed up and lost.
CHAPTER XLI. THE STEPS AND THE BASE OF LORD BOTETOURT'S STATUE.
One member of the Burgesses remained on the portico
of the capitol.
It was the awkward-looking man in the tie-wig, the peach-blossom
coat, and old red cloak.*
Leaning against a pillar, with his shoulders bent, a pair
of old saddle-bags, containing papers, on his arm, his iron
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mouth wreathed with a cold, grim smile, the man in the red
cloak gazed after the retreating chariot and its escort.
He then rose erect, and laying his hand on the arm of the
stranger, said, in a voice at once harsh and musical, careless
and earnest,
“Well, brother patriot! that's a handsome spectacle, is
it not now?”
The stranger was silent for some minutes, during which
time he seemed to be engaged in suppressing the last mutterings
of the storm of wrath which had clouded his mind.
One after one his features sank into rest, the old iron
calmness again diffused itself over his countenance, and he
replied,
“I know not, friend, if it is a handsome sight, but I think
it a very fair exhibition of aped and mimiced royalty.”
“Well, you see, his Excellency's king here—we can't
complain.”
“Yes, king! by right of arms.”
“I do n't think you treated royalty with sufficient respect,”
said the man in the red cloak, smiling grimly;
“he'll take his revenge and arrest you.”
“My dead body, perhaps.”
“Good! good!” said the grim speaker; “that's the way
I like to hear people talk! That's the true lingo! I know
you are in earnest, and are ready.”
“I am,” said the stranger.
“Beware of your movements—watch! guard yourself.
For you have a cunning and treacherous enemy to deal
with, a man who absolutely disgusts and revolts me!”
And the countenance of the man in the red cloak lost its
grim carelessness, and his eyes flashed.
“Brother!” he said, proudly raising his head, “I think
we're beginning to reap! Do you remember our talks at
the Raleigh ten years ago? I then affected to teach you;
I was really learning. I was wrong, you were right! It
was necessary to advance step by step; `from doubt to certainty,
from certainty to indignation, from indignation to
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revolution!' Those were your very words, and they have
been the iron bit, the chain bridle which curbed my natural
impetuosity and recklessness. I would have shot on, like a
war-horse, and you held me in. I would have rushed headlong,
your mind held me back! Yes, you were the true
thinker, marching, step by step, with the times, neither in
advance or behind. Do not deny it,” continued the man in
the red cloak, gazing with a proud look upon the stranger,
which seemed to illumine his countenance, and rendered it
most attractive; “do not say no, for I speak the truth of
your genius! You saw further and deeper than I did, and
history is your vindication. Well, now, we have truly gone
from doubt and certainty to indignation, and the end will
be the fires of revolution, as you predicted.”
“Yes, friend!” said the speaker, raising his head still more
nobly, and with glowing eyes, “you were right, a thousand
times right, and yet ten years ago we really inaugurated this
revolution. Can your memory ever lose that scene which I
refer to? I see that you remember; that you can not forget
the burning stamps, the great crowd, the roaring of that
thunder, and the dazzling bolt which crashed down in a
blaze like the light of the eyes of the Almighty! But you
did not hear my words then, there on that platform, above
the roaring fire, for you were lifeless, your mouth full of
bloody foam! Brother! I received you as you fell back in
my arms on my breast! I clasped your weak form to my
heart as a mother clasps her child. Do you know what I
said after what you uttered then? I said, `The revolution
is begun!' and it was! To-day it only goes on, you see!
and it's no new acquaintance to us at least!”
The man in the red cloak had completely lost his carelessness,
as he spoke in animated and nervous tones, and
his earnest eyes dwelt with proud admiration on the
stranger.
“There's the hand I gave you ten years ago,” he said,
“the hand of a loyal man! I then said to you that the new
world dawned; I now add that the sun mounts, through
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clouds and mists, to its zenith. Remember! to-morrow, in
the Raleigh, you know! The association is already drawn
up.”
And, retiring as it were into himself, again the man in
the red cloak led the way down the steps, with a careless
and shambling gait, which was the perfection of awkwardness.
St. John gazed after him with thoughtful eyes, and asked
himself if this man really could be the thunderbolt of oratory,
the genius of the rising storm.
The voice of the stranger recalled him to himself.
“I see what you are thinking of, friend,” he said, in his
habitual tone of calmness; “you doubt whether this man is
equal to the work assigned to him; you question the sublimity
of that strength I have claimed for him. Well let us
not further discuss the matter. Let us wait, and perhaps we
shall hear his voice. Let us follow the current of events,
and see their course. Virginia is every moment now making
history!”
The stranger then descended the steps, followed by St.
John, and they both disappeared in the crowd.
There were two personages present at these stormy
scenes whom neither the young man nor the stranger had
noticed.
The first was a child who, mounted upon the pedestal of
Lord Botetourt's statue, with one white arm clasped round
that worthy nobleman's knee, had followed, with flushed
cheeks and fearful eyes, the details of the tumult.
She was clad in a little pink dress, with scarlet silk stockings,
which ended in rosetted shoes, and one of these shoes
was firmly planted on the pedestal of the statue. The child
kneeled with the other knee on the shoulder of a youthful
cavalier, on whose curly head she rested her left hand for
further security, and the boy seemed to be proud of his
burden.
As the stranger and St. John disappeared, the girl slid
down from the statue, was caught gallantly in the arms of
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her escort, and they wandered away—the boy's arm round
the neck of the child, and her own resting innocently on his
shoulder.
As they were lost in the crowd the girl said,
“Oh me, Paul! did n't it scare you?”
“No!” replied Paul; “no, Blossom! You see, you are
a girl; I am a man, and I want to fight!”
He did so, in the Revolution.
eaf510n29* Historical Illustrations, No. XXVIII.
CHAPTER XLII. THE “APOLLO” ROOM IN THE RALEIGH TAVERN.
Deus nobis hœc otia fecit.
It was the morning of the 27th of May, 1774, a day which,
like the 22d of February, 1732, and the 4th of July, 1776,
belongs to history.
As before, the sun rose, bright and serene, through a
cloudless heaven, and at ten o'clock the members of the
late House of Burgesses met in the “Apollo” room of the
Raleigh tavern. On the same evening, the ball given by
the Burgesses, in honor of Lady Dunmore, was to be held
at the capitol.*
Our brethren of other States have carefully collected the
dates of revolutionary occurrences, at this period, when so
many colonies were jostling each other, as it were, in the
noble struggle for precedence in bidding defiance to the
oppression of the home government. For this reason we
rigidly adhere to history in narrating events at Williamsburg.
It was at four in the evening, on the 26th of May, 1774,
that the Virginia House of Burgesses were dissolved for their
action on the bill closing Boston harbor. It was at ten in the
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morning, on the 27th of May, the next day, that they met
in the Raleigh tavern to enter their solemn protest against
the act of the Governor, and send their words of cheer to
their brethren. It was at nine o'clock at night, on the same
evening, that the Burgesses and gentlemen of Virginia met
to honor with splendid entertainment the wife and daughters
of Lord Dunmore.
It was an act very characteristic of the men of Virginia—
those courtly gentlemen whose portraits we now gaze on
with so much affection and admiration. They bowed low
to Lord Dunmore on that evening; but it was the bow of
the swordsman, who salutes his adversary as he places himself
on guard.
The “Apollo” room was a plain apartment, with whitewashed,
walls, numerous windows, and a pine wainscotting,
painted lead color, running around the whole extent of the
room.
A door at one end afforded entrance, and at the other end
an old-fashioned fire-place was flanked by two other doors,
leading by winding stair-cases to the dormitories above.
A long table and a number of benches and chairs, hastily
provided, were the sole furniture of the apartment when the
Burgesses assembled.
Our chronicle aims rather to give colors and social peculiarities
than public events, and in preceding pages we have
endeavored to trace some of the traits of the period, and to
exhibit the effect, in a social point of view, of those events
upon the minds especially of men leading that remote country
life, where the true character of movements and things
is caught more vividly and accurately, perhaps, than in other
localities. We have shown how the intelligence of the Boston
Port bill was received at Vanely, and we have just witnessed
the scenes which attended the resolves of the Burgesses
on the same subject.
We shall, therefore, leave to the imagination of the reader
the meeting at the Raleigh of those true and noble patriots—
leave, also, to imagination, the countenances and words of
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those men who did so much for their descendants; who, in
the long galleries of history, will hang the noblest pictures,
the heroes, of the dark and stormy days of our Revolution.
For him who writes, there seems ever to rest upon those
splendid figures and imperial brows a richer splendor than
we see to-day—the glory and beauty of a purer patriotism,
and a more serene and changeless devotion to the cause of
truth and the happiness of their species. They were true as
steel amid the fury of the storm, and sent their great voices
to their brethren without fear.*
Tout Seigneur, tout honneur!
Of this body of men who threw down the gauntlet to a
wicked oppression, pledging life and fortune, and sacred
honor in the struggle; of these men who met at the old
Raleigh, Virginia will ever be proud. Not a head but is dear
to her still, for there is not a name but is an echo of truth
and courage, and devotion to a noble cause.
The meeting in the “Apollo” room soon terminated.
Its deliberations had been marked by the utmost calmness,
the most immovable decision, and a dignity and moderation
which gave its action the effect of a decree emanating
from the flower of the patriotism and strength of the
colony.
The convention had agreed upon a proclamation to the
people of Virginia, headed, “An Association signed by
eighty-nine members of the late House of Burgesses.”
It declared that the Burgesses, “having been deprived, by
the sudden interposition of the executive part of the government,
from giving their countrymen the advice they wished
to convey to them in a legislative capacity, they found
themselves under the hard necessity of adopting this, the
only method they had left, of pointing out to their countrymen
such measures as in their opinion were best fitted to
secure their dear rights and liberty from destruction, by
the heavy hand of power now lifted against North America.”
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The paper went on to declare that the application of the
colonies to Great Britain for justice had been disregarded;
that a determined system was being pressed to reduce them
to slavery, by taxing them without representation, and that
the Boston Harbor bill was unconstitutional and “most violent
and arbitrary”—a “dangerous attempt to destroy the
liberties of America.” That tea should be used by no person
wishing well to his country, and that no other East India
Company commodity whatsoever, but absolute necessaries,
should be purchased or used.
“We are further clearly of opinion,” said the paper, “that
an attack made on one of our sister colonies, to compel submission
to arbitrary taxes, is an attack made on all British
America, and threatens ruin to the rights of all, unless the
united wisdom of the whole be applied. And for this purpose
it is recommended to the committee of correspondence,
that they communicate with their several corresponding
committees, on the expediency of appointing deputies from
the several colonies of British America, to meet in general
congress at such place, annually, as shall be thought most
convenient; there to deliberate on those general measures
which the united interests of America may, from time to
time, require.”
The paper ended by declaring that a persistence in the
designs of Parliament would produce an “end of all commercial
intercourse with Great Britain,” and then were affixed
the signatures of the eighty-nine Burgesses.
Thus, in this paper, the members of the late House of
Burgesses:
I. Protested against their arbitrary dissolution by Lord
Dunmore.
II. Declared the Boston Port bill unconstitutional, and a
blow at the liberties of the North American provinces.
III. That they and their countrymen would use no tea
or other English commodities until the act was repealed.
IV. That an attack on the sister province of Massachusetts
was regarded as an attack upon Virginia.
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V. That persistence in these measures would terminate
all intercourse with Great Britain.
VI. That steps should at once be taken for a general
congress to meet annually, and deliberate on such measures
as the united interests of the country at large might demand.
Thus the Burgesses of Virginia accurately and clearly defined
the oppressions of England, and proclaimed the rights
of the people of North America. They declared common
cause with the sister colonies, and pointed out the strength
to be derived from union. Thus Virginia was at her post,
as always, in the van of the great army of resistance. All
eyes were directed toward her, and her voice of good cheer
was heard through the gathering storm, as her sisters had
heard it in the past.*
In the burning oratory of Patrick Henry in '65, the
gauntlet was thrown down to the originators of the Stamp
Act.
In the protests of the Burgesses in '74, the issue was joined
on the Boston Port bill.
The hot metal, for nine years, growing hotter and hotter
in the cauldron, was thus poured into the mould of revolution.
eaf510n30* Historical Illustrations, No. XXIX.
eaf510n31* Historical Illustrations, No. XXX.
eaf510n32* Historical Illustrations, No. XXXI.
CHAPTER XLIII. IN WHICH A CHARIOT ARRIVES.
“Well friend,” said the stranger, issuing forth with St.
John from the Apollo chamber of the “Raleigh,” “you see
the game's afoot! the leashes are loosed, and the dogs of
war bay on the track!”
“Your prophecies rush to their fulfillment truly!”
“They were not such—they were mere announcements.
And now, friend, I must go. My work calls me. Events
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tread on each other's heels, and minutes grow to days. I
have told you where to find me, if you wish, in the capital.”
And saluting his companion, the stranger turned away
and was lost in the depths of the crowd.
St. John returned slowly to his lodgings, and sitting
down remained for a long time buried in thought. In the
two days which had just elapsed he had received so many
new and vivid impressions that he needed silence and reflection.
He had heard the moving accents of a mysterious
agent of revolution; he had seen the representatives of the
people defy the authority of the government; he felt the
ground shake beneath him as it were, with the tramp of a
nation slowly advancing toward the gulf of war.
On that other more painful event of recent hours, he tried
not to let his mind dwell. At first he succeeded, but soon
his resolution succumbed, and, with a bitter sigh, he went
over every detail of his misfortune.
“Well, well,” he said at length, rising, “let the dead days
bury the dead, I'll not touch the corpse. I'll not whine
and moan, let what will come! Patience! 't is all in a lifetime!”
And going to the window, he gazed sorrowfully into the
street. As he did so, a chariot stopped before the door of
the large house opposite, the residence of his friend, Mr.
Burwell. He started as he saw Bonnybel issue from it. She
was followed by the gouty old colonel and the rest of the
family, and the great traveling trunks, containing doubtless
the ball costumes of the ladies, having been removed, old
Cato whipped up his four long-tailed horses, and the chariot
drove to the stables.
The visitors were received at the door by Mr. Burwell;
a beautiful young lady, with sunny curls, embraced and
kissed Bonnybel; it was she whom the girl called Bellebouche”—
and the door closed upon the party.
St. John returned to his sofa and his reflections. They
busied themselves with the query whether he should attend
the assembly. At last he seemed to have made up his mind.
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“Yes, I'll go,” he muttered, “and not act the part of the
Knight of the Forlorn Countenance! I'll go dance, and
laugh, and be as hypocritical as the best of them. What a
world it would be if every luckless fellow turned hermit!
if every heavy heart did not mask its anguish with a laugh!”
And looking with a sardonic smile at a picture resembling
Bonnybel, which hung on the wall, he added:
“The fallen salutes his victor!”
CHAPTER XLIV. THE ASSEMBLY AT THE CAPITOL.
Night had fallen, brilliant with stars. The streets of the
capital resounded ceaselessly with the roll of chariots. A
laughing throng rushed, with merriment and confusion, toward
the center of attraction—the old capitol, where the
ball was held.
A procession of splendid equipages constantly deposited
their burdens before the portico. These burdens were pompous
old planters in rich dark doublets, powdered heads, knee-breeches,
and silk stockings; grand old dames in black silks
and diamonds, and laughing little maidens, who flashed forth
like butterflies in their immense hooped dresses of glittering
satin, with jewels and laces, and curls and smiles, the latter
directed at the gay gallants who received them.
The youngsters in question did not come in the family
chariots. They preferred, to that “slow” mode of conveyance,
the saddles of their thorough-breds. On their fine
prancing horses they had galloped by the coaches, uttering
a hundred jests, and exhibiting their graces to Dulcinea
within, and they now stood prepared to lead in the ladies.
Let us leave the scenes of hubbub at the door, and enter
the assembly room.
It is filled with the laughter of revelers. A great crowd,
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undulating to and fro beneath the brilliant lamps, is constantly
increased by new arrivals. From end to end of the
great room, runs a buzz of voices, which rises at times to a
deafening din, and when the sable musicians in the corner
scrape their catgut, a thrill of delight runs through the
young men and maidens. Silks and satins rustle and whistle,
like the broad leaves of corn when a breeze passes over
them; the bright eyes of the ladies summon their partners
for the quadrille and the minuet.
From his post in a corner, St. John sees Colonel Vane and
his family enter. The colonel limps, leaning on his gold-headed
cane, erect Aunt Mabel at his side. Behind comes
Miss Seraphina with her friend, Mr. John Hamilton; Tom
Alston escorts Helen; and lastly Miss Bonnybel appears on
the arm of Barry Hunter, the Prince of the Wilderness. St.
John does not look at Mr. Burwell's party, he gazes calmly
at Bonnybel.
She is clad in a dress of gauze-like fabric, over a petticoat
of azure satin. A mass of lace envelopes her beautiful arms,
and she looks as fresh as a rose. Her hair, profusely powdered
and looped with pearls, is carried back from her white
forehead; her violet eyes sparkle with anticipation.
The dark brunette complexion, black hair, and calm face
of the gentleman who comes and salutes her, present a decided
contrast to the maiden.
It is Mr. St. John, who approaches in the most courteous
way, and pays his respects to the party. A slight color
comes to the girl's cheek as he bows, and she holds out her
hand and presses his own warmly. The pressure is not returned,
and St. John, bowing low, makes way for the gentlemen
who hasten to pay their respects to the little beauty.
All at once the brilliant crowd is seen to divide. Lord
Dunmore, in a costume of immense splendor, enters. His
squat little figure is covered with embroidery and decorations.
His countenance wears an elaborate smile, but his
eyes do not smile at all, they glitter, so to speak, on the assembly.
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The ladies, however—the countess and her daughters—
seem unaffectedly pleased. Innumerable presentations commence
then, and these are succeeded by a minuet, in
which the countess is led forth by Mr. Randolph, of the
council.
The festivities of the evening are thus formally inaugurated,
and thenceforth the assembly commences in earnest.
Quadrilles, contra-dances, minutes succeed each other; the
joy and mirth of the ball begins to culminate. The apartment
trembles and quakes with the flood of voices, the
floors jar with the feet of the dancers as they move, as
they move to the loud music, which rejoices and triumphs
in its sway over gallants and dames.
CHAPTER XLV. THE RIVAL LIEUTENANTS OF THE GUARDS.
“Are you angry with me, cousin?”
St. John, who was talking with his friend, Mr. Hamilton,
felt a hand on his arm from behind. He started, and turning,
saw Bonnybel leaning on the arm of a gentleman.
There was a color in her cheeks, and something like a
pout upon her lips, but the eyes of the young lady were very
sad as she gazed at St. John.
“Angry?” he said recovering from his momentary surprise;
“by no means; why should you think so?”
“Because you've scarce saluted me, and not asked me to
dance.”
And Miss Bonnybel pouted again.
“I am not very gay this evening,” replied the young man.
“I spare your feelings, for I should doubtless weary you.”
“You are very cold!” she murmured, in a tone which he
alone caught, “you look at me as though I were the most
indifferent person in the world to you.”
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And the large sad eyes dwelt pensively upon his countenance.
His pulse throbbed, but that was all. He did not speak.
“You forget that long ago, you engaged my hand for a
minuet,” she continued, coloring, “but, doubtless, you have
not thought of me or the engagement.”
“On the contrary, I was coming to claim your hand for
the next. Will you dance with me?”
“Yes,” she said.
The embarrassing conversation was interrupted by the
appearance of Mr. Lindon, who, in his splendid uniform of
lieutenant of the guards, came and saluted, profoundly, the
young lady.
“May I have the honor of dancing the next minuet with
you, madame?” he said.
“I have just engaged myself to my cousin, Mr. St. John,
sir,” she replied, coldly.
The two men looked at each other with that expression
which indicates concealed hostility, and bowed low.
“Then I trust I may have the pleasure of presenting Miss
Vane to the countess and his Excellency,” continued Lindon.
“Pray excuse me, sir. I propose going up with my father.”
Lindon's head rose proudly.
“I am unfortunate in my requests,” he said, “but at least
I may hope to secure Miss Vane's hand for the next quadrille.”
“I am engaged, sir.”
“For the next, then.”
“It is very fatiguing.”
Lindon's face colored with anger, and with a haughty toss
of the head, he said,
“I regret that Miss Vane should regard me with personal
dislike.”
“I am sorry I have offended you, sir; it gives me no
pleasure to wound any one's feelings.”
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“Miss Vane's theory and practice slightly differ.”
St. John had been chafing for some moments at Lindon's
tone. He now raised his finger, coldly, and said,
“You must be aware, sir, that this conversation is disagreeable
to Miss Vane. I insist on its terminating at
once.”
The flush of anger deepened upon Lindon's face, and he
was about to reply, when the musicians struck up a minuet.
Bonnybel hastily took her cousin's arm, and led him to the
dance. In all their movements they were followed by the
glittering and sinister eyes of Lindon, and the expression of
his face indicated profound rage.
But this rage was destined to be further increased.
As the minuet ended, a sudden burst of laughter, at the
door of the apartment, attracted the attention of every one,
and all eyes were turned upon Lindon.
“Pray what's the jest yonder, Captain Waters?” said
St. John to that gentleman who stood near; “something
seems to amuse the company.”
“Ah, farceur!” cried the captain, twirling his huge mustache,
and making a low salute to Bonnybel, “do you deny
that you are the originator of this comedy—this excellent,
admirable comedy?”
“Comedy?”
“Farce! harlequinade! what you please!” cried the captain,
laughing, “and see if my opinion is not that of all!”
As he spoke, all eyes were turned upon St. John. The
young man's brows contracted, and desiring that Bonnybel
might not share this strange publicity, he surrendered her
to the protection of the other.
“Right! right!” said the captain, shaking with laughter;
“search! investigate! find out, my dear fellow!”
“I certainly shall.”
And pushing through the crowd, St. John gained the
door of the apartment. He stopped suddenly.
In the door of the ball-room, with the serene air of one
who considers himself worth looking at, stood St. John's
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servant, Julius. The negro wore a uniform exactly similiar
to Mr. Lindon's. It had been tossed to him scornfully by
his master, after the scene at the palace, and Julius now
donned it for the purpose of shining in the eyes of his fellow
servants.
Attracted to the door of the ball-room by his natural love
for sight-seeing, Julius had been seen by the company, and
as neither Mr. Lindon nor the guards were very popular,
the sight had been greeted with uproarious laughter.
St. John could not repress a grim smile at the superb attitude
of Julius, but this instantly gave way to displeasure.
He advanced with a gathering frown, and the first intimation
which the sable gentleman had of the presence of his
master, was the vigorous application of the flat of a dress
sword to his shoulders.
“Go and take off that suit this instant, rascal!” said St.
John. “Go!”
Julius disappeared. He did not utter a word, or walk, or
run, he vanished, amid a peal of laughter.
St. John immediately sought with his eye for Mr. Lindon;
his intention being to make that gentleman an explanation
and apology. He saw his rival glaring at him with a
face pale with rage, but the crowd separated them. St.
John was borne to the side of Lord Dunmore.
“Pray, what was the occasion of that laughter?” his
lordship was saying to a gentleman near at hand.
“A strange spectacle, my lord,” was the reply; “ 't was
a negro clad precisely like the lieutenant of the guards, in a
laced uniform, with epaulettes.”
“Are you jesting, sir?” cried Dunmore, with flashing
eyes; “the costume of Mr. Lindon?”
“Precisely, my lord.”
Dunmore's face flushed with wrath, and the black vein
swelled.
“Whence this impudent outrage?” he cried; “answer
me, gentlemen! Who will explain this base insult to myself
and my authority?”
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“I will, my lord,” said St. John, approaching and bowing.
“I regret to say that I am the cause of the outrage.”
“Ah you!—you, Mr. St. John!” cried the Governor,
glaring on the young man, almost speechless with rage;
“you again cross my path!”
“My lord, I did not come to be insulted, but to explain.
If you permit me, I can do so very briefly.”
And seeing that the Governor's wrath was too great for
him to speak, he added:
“The explanation is simple. Having resigned my commission
in your lordship's service, I had no further use for
my uniform, and my servant fell heir to it, in common with
all others which I decide to wear no longer. He has donned
the suit to-night, from a childish desire, no doubt, to excite
admiration. I need scarcely say that his intention was unknown
to me, and to-morrow I shall punish him. I am sorry
that I even seem to have any agency in so stupid and ill-bred
a jest, and shall explain to Mr. Lindon, and eutreat
his pardon.”
The young man bowed low as he ended, and left Lord
Dunmore as he uttered a hoarse growl of anger.
At the same moment, supper was announced, and this important
event proved a complete diversion to the company
from the enjoyment of the farce. But it continued to be
food for laughter long afterward.
CHAPTER XLVI. THE SECRETARY.
For a time, nothing was now heard but the rattle of
plates and glasses, the crying of toasts, the buzz and laughter,
which accompanied the process of doing honor to the
profuse supper.
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Then the ladies were conducted back to the ball-room,
the music recommenced, and the assembly, interrupted only
for the moment, went on its way again in triumph. In those
times, a company did not separate because so slight a circumstance
as the sounding of midnight occurred, and the
dancing began more gayly than ever.
St. John was standing listlessly looking on, when Captain
Waters drew his arm into his own, and suggested the propriety
of a glass or a dozen of Canary.
“The fact is,” said the captain, as they went toward the
supper room, “my wife's not here, and I feel like a jolly
bachelor. To let you into a secret, my dear St. John,
Madam Henriette's a terrible personage, and makes me behave
myself. But who goes yonder?”
“Where?”
“There! Why it's Foy! Good evening, comrade!”
And the captain made a sign to the secretary, who, pale
and calm as usual, was gliding among the revelers. He
stopped, and returned the greeting of the soldier with calm
courtesy.
“Why, I'm delighted to see you,” said the captain;
“labors over for the day?”
“My labors, captain? Good evening, Mr. St. John.”
St. John bowed courteously.
“Yes, your writing,” said the soldier; “it must be terribly
trying, this thing of copying all the Governor's proclamations.”
The secretary's keen eye rested steadily for a moment
upon the face of his interlocutor, and then was withdrawn.
“My work is indeed sometimes very exhausting, sir,” he
said.
“See there!” cried the captain, with an innocent air; “I
said so!”
“You said, captain?”
“Why, that this civil life was terribly wearisome!”
The secretary inclined his head.
“And to think that you wouldn't believe me, my dear
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Foy, when I told you that our old adventures were far more
attractive and amusing!”
“They were truly very enticing to young men, as we then
were.”
“Reinfels and all, comrade!”
“Ah! that was a misfortune, sir,” said Foy, courteously.
“A misfortune! morbleu, comrade, 't was no such thing.
It was a splendid adventure, and you rose, in my opinion,
immensely after that scene. I repeat, my dear Foy, that I
positively adored you for that blow!”
The secretary again made his deprecating wave of the
hand.
“Come! no disclaimers! no modest expression, as of a
young lady, who says, sweetly, `You take me very much by
surprise, sir—really—la!' I say, comrade, 't was a great
blow, this coup of Reinfels, as I call it! Don't deny it!”
“You are very flattering, captain.”
“Not at all, comrade; I'm merely just. And now mark
my words—are you listening?”
“Yes, Captain Waters.”
“Well, my dear Foy, in future treatises upon swordsmanship,
after the author has described every imaginable lunge,
in carte, in tierce, in guard, semicircle, octave, and flangonet—
after all this, he will write, `To these must be added
the coup used by Captain Foy, in his duel with Captain
Waters at Reinfels, and known as the Coup de Reinfels!'
You see, comrade, 't is really indescribable.”
“Upon my word, Captain Waters, you overwhelm me.”
“No, 't is the truth, and now confess that 't was better to
be fighting over there, with the jolliest comrades to look
on, morbleu, than to be driving a quill here, under the nose
of his Excellency, with such rascally spectators as this
Conolly and others!”
The secretary's eye flashed, and his piercing look tried to
plunge beneath the captain's laughing face and divine his
thoughts. But the soldier preserved the most innocent air,
gazing at Foy with the utmost simplicity and good humor.
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The secretary suddenly turned away, and retired, as it
were, into himself.
“I have seen Major Conolly at the palace, it is true, Captain
Waters,” he said, calmly, “but I have not the honor
of his friendship.”
“A back-woodsman, is he not?”
“I do not know, sir.”
“From Pennsylvania?”
“I really regret my inability to deliver any thing, with
certainty, upon the subject, Captain Waters; and now, with
your permission, I will first see his Excellency a moment,
and then retire, as I need rest.”
“A moment!” said the captain; “did you deliver my
message?”
“Your message, sir?”
“To his Excellency, my dear Foy, about the Burgesses,
you know. I experienced a sentiment of real pride, yesterday,
when they were turned out of the capitol, for you
will remember that I requested you to suggest that idea to
his Excellency!”
Under this persevering banter, the calm secretary's pale
countenance did not move.
“Your suggestion escaped my memory, sir,” he said.
“Ah! then 't was not on my account his Excellency dismissed
the youngsters?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, my dear Foy, you are not my friend, and as I
have not had even the least adventure or fight with his Excellency's
handsome guards, commanded by that broadshouldered
Mr. Lindon, I'm in a furious bad humor. A
soldier, though, should not be discouraged. We may yet
have a little encounter—who knows?”
“All things are possible, Captain Waters,” said the secretary,
calmly; “now I must leave you, sir.”
And with the same impassive air, the pale gentleman inclined
his head, and disappeared in the crowd.
“Go on, snake! go on, conspirator!” said the captain,
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looking after him as he was lost in the brilliant undulations
of the excited and uproarious crowd; “I'll yet cross your
sword, and show you something better than the coup de
Reinfels! Come, my dear St. John, let's get a cup of
Canary. Talking with that fellow makes me choke, mor-leu!”
And they entered the supper room.
CHAPTER XLVII. ST. JOHN AND LINDON.
St. John had not advanced five steps beyond the threshold
of the door, when he met Lindon face to face.
The eyes of that gentleman were fixed upon him with an
expression of rage and menace which fairly made them
blaze.
Lindon seemed to hesitate between two courses—to throw
into Mr. St. John's face the glass of wine which he held in
his hand, or publicly strike and outrage him.
A glance at the cold and resolute countenance of the
young man, however, seemed to deter him from pursuing
either of these courses, and instead, he advanced two steps,
and made a low and exaggerated bow.
“I have been looking for you, sir,” he said, “I am glad
that at last I have found you.”
“Looking for me?” said St. John, with cold politeness.
“Yes, sir!”
“Pray for what purpose, if I may venture to ask?”
Lindon looked around, and seeing that the crowd were
completely absorbed in drinking healths and dispatching
the viands, advanced another pace toward St. John, and
said,
“I was looking for you in order to join me in making
some arrangements, sir.”
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“Arrangements?” said St. John; “pray explain yourself,
Mr. Lindon.”
“You do not understand?”
“I am very stupid this evening, and must beg you to explain.”
Lindon raised his head with haughty anger, and said,
“The arrangements I desire, sir, are those to be made between
my friend, Captain Foy, his Excellency's private secretary,
and a gentleman designated by yourself.”
“Oh! a duel!” said St. John, coldly, “you mean a duel?”
“Precisely,” said Lindon, bowing ceremoniously, and biting
his lip to hide his wrath, “you have understood me at
last, sir.”
St. John returned the cold gaze with a look as cold, and
said,
“May I ask, Mr. Lindon, why you consider it necessary
to take my life, or for me to take yours?”
“That is wholly unnecessary!”
“Pardon me, I think it is.”
“Mr. St. John, do you refuse my defiance? Do you
first hide yourself, and when you are found, retreat! I
say retreat, sir! I have been looking for you, and I
thought it was only necessary to find you. Am I mistaken,
sir?”
A flash darted from the young man's eyes, and he raised
his head with an air so proud, that it far exceeded the stateliness
of his adversary. For a moment he made no reply
to these words, but controlling himself at length, said,
calmly,
“I also have been looking for you, sir.”
“Good! then we understand each other perfectly!”
“No, sir, I think not.”
“Sir?”
“You sought me to deliver a defiance—”
“Yes, sir.”
“While I sought you to make you an apology.”
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An expression of profound incredulity came to Lindon's
face, and then this look gave way to one of the deepest contempt.
“I am glad I spoke,” he said, with a curling lip, “before
you had an opportunity of addressing me. I will accept no
apologies! I reject them in advance! I have delivered my
defiance, and I will not withdraw it!”
St. John listened to these insulting words with an air of
stupefaction almost. He seemed scarcely to realize that fatuity
could proceed so far.
“Mr. Lindon,” he said, at length, with eyes which seemed
to blaze, “are you demented, out of your senses, lunatic, or
is it your intention to act a comedy?”
“Sir!”
“I said simply that I sought you to make you that apology
which is due from one gentleman to another whose feelings
he has unintentionally been the cause of wounding.
Stop, sir! Before this interview proceeds further I will make
that apology in spite of your insults. Another word such
as you have just uttered will seal my lips. I have therefore
the honor to say, sir, that I had no part in the stupid jest of
that servant this evening, whose presumption it is my intention
to punish. I persist in making the explanation, that
the use of that uniform by my servant was wholly without
my knowledge or consent—an explanation due to myself,
inasmuch as I will not suffer you or any one to think that
I was guilty of so ill-bred and puerile an action. Now,
sir, I am not accustomed to make apologies; I would
much rather decide differences otherwise. If, after this
full and complete explanation, you still persist in your defiance—”
“I do!” said Lindon, trembling with anger; “your statement
may be true, or it may be untrue; in either event I
hold you responsible at the sword's point!”
St. John stood for a moment pale and silent, confronting
his insulting opponent. He scarcely seemed to realize that
hatred could go so far upon a basis so trifling.
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“Well, sir!” said Lindon, “do you intend to show the
white feather?”
St. John turned paler than ever, and his eyes filled with
blood.
“Mr. Lindon,” he said, sternly, “I will first ask you a question.”
“Well, sir?”
“Are you mad, or intoxicated?”
“No, sir! I am neither! I am thirsty, sir, however, for
your blood!”
“For my blood? Then you take advantage of this trifle
to insult me and break down my patience.”
“I do!”
“You do not fight for the cause you have specified?”
“No, sir!”
“Pray, why, then?”
“Ask yourself, sir!”
“Mr. Lindon, you will pardon me, but your conversation
is either stupid, or you are fond of enigmas—your real
reason, sir!”
“Ask yourself, I repeat!” said Lindon, pale with rage;
“I suppose you have not humiliated, laughed at, triumphed
over me yonder sufficiently!”
“I sir? I humiliated you, triumphed over you!” said St.
John, in profound astonishment.
“Yes, sir! your air of innocence and surprise does not
dupe me! I am not to be tricked by so shallow a device!”
The profound and violent passion of the young man's nature,
upon which he had heretofore placed a resolute curb,
began to rise and foam, as he listened to these repeated insults.
“You then design to force me to fight you about nothing!”
he said, with increasing anger.
“Yes!” was the reply.
“You refuse to tell me any rational grounds for your
quarrel.”
“I do, sir! If you choose to ignore the fact that you have
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supplanted me, laughed at me, made me a jest in your conversation
with a young lady to whom I have paid my addresses,
then I give no reason! If you choose to put on a
mask, and act your part, and pretend ignorance,” he continued,
white with rage, “then I will not explain myself! If
you refuse to regard the words which I now utter in your
hearing as sufficiently insulting, I will make them more distinct
and unmistakeable! If no word of insult will move
you, and induce you to give me that satisfaction which
you rightfully owe me, then I'll throw this glass of wine
in your face, sir! and we'll see if that outrage will arouse
you!”
St. John advanced a step, with a countenance as pale as
death, in which his dark eyes burned like coals of fire.
“Enough, sir!” he said, in a voice low and distinct; “you
have accomplished your purpose, which was doubtless to
drive me beyond all patience. We had better pause at the
words, sir. Were you to move your arm to throw that
wine-glass in my face, I should kill you where you stand.
I have the honor, sir, to place myself entirely at your
orders. My friend, Captain Waters, will doubtless act for
me.”
And taking a step backward, the young man bowed with
cold ceremony, and was silent. An expression of fierce
satisfaction diffused itself over his adversary's face and he
also bowed low.
“Really,” said Captain Waters in the most cheerful voice,
“'t is delightful to see an affair conducted in this elegant
way! Will I act for you, my dear St. John? Why certainly
I will; and now I have the honor to inform Mr. Lindon,
that my dear friend, Captain Foy, or other gentleman
representing him, will find me all day to-morrow at the
Raleigh tavern. Eh? Is that satisfactory?”
“Perfectly,” said Lindon, haughtily; “you shall hear from
Captain Foy.”
“Good!” said the soldier in a friendly tone; “that is excellent!
Morbleu! 't will give me absolute delight to act
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with Foy. Who knows but he'll take a hand himself? And
then hurrah for the coup of Reinfels!”
The captain's spirits seemed to have risen immensely, and
he curled his moustache with an air of the proudest satisfaction.
“Come, my dear St. John,” he said, “as this little affair's
arranged, let us get our Canary and—”
“No, I believe I'll return, captain, but I won't take you.
I may count on you?”
“To the death!”
“Then I will see you to-morrow.”
“I'll arrange all duly. Come dine at `Flodden' and I'll
report to you. Is it understood?”
St. John nodded, and they parted. His interview with
Lindon had passed unnoticed almost.
The crowd, in the midst of their uproar and revelry, had
only seen two men holding an animated conversation, terminating
in a ceremonious bow. So sees the world.
As St. John left his side, the captain muttered, with a
smile,
“Lieutenant St. John and Lieutenant Lindon! Captain
Waters and Captain Foy! Why the affair arranges itself
morbleu!”
And he twirled his long black moustache with joyous ardor.
As St. John appeared in the dancing room, the assembly
was coming to an end. It terminated with a reel, as usual,
and the manner in which the ladies whirled round in their
great hooped skirts, or darted from end to end of the apartment,
was marvelous to behold. More than one pile of
curls lost the pearl loops and comb which held them, and
fell in raven or golden showers on snowy shoulders, sending
on the air a storm of perfumed powder. But the accident
was unheeded—the reel overthrows the influence of ceremony,
and they danced on carelessly until the long scrape
of the musician's bow gave the signal that the assembly was
at an end.
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It was the expiring compliment to royalty in Virginia.
It was sent upon its way that evening with a “Joy go with
you!” and the most stately bows and curteseys; the next
ball in which the representatives of England were concerned,
was opened on the battle-field.
It was a singular celebration, coming as it did between
the seditious assemblage of Burgesses, in the Raleigh, in
the morning, and the fasting, humiliation, and prayer of
the first of June. This last recommendation of the Burgesses
was widely responded to, and the gentlemen and ladies
of the colony went into mourning on that day, and heard
a sermon, and fasted, and prayed for the liberties of the
land, threatened by the Boston Port bill.* In the old church
of Williamsburg, the patriotic clergyman did not mind the
presence of the frowning Governor, and spoke without mincing
his words.
Two hours after the breaking up of the assembly, St.
John was looking pensively through his window, when he
saw a light glimmer in a window opposite, and in an instant
Bonnybel appeared in the luminous circle of rays.
The figure of the young lady, clad in her night dress of
snowy white, was visible for an instant only. A white arm
was raised, the falling sleeve of the robe leaving it bare, and
the extinguisher plunged the whole into darkness.
“I am fond of emblematics,” muttered the young man,
with his sardonic smile, beneath which was, however, concealed
bitter pain and melancholy, “and here I have one
that suits my case admirably! I beam my brightest for her,
and think that she values me somewhat, when down comes
the extinguisher! I am put out at a word! Well, so let
it be! I have something else on my hands now. I need
rest for to-morrow.”
And without further words, he retired to bed.
eaf510n33* Historical Illustrations, No. XXXII.
-- 252 -- p510-257
CHAPTER XLVIII. ST. JOHN GOES TO “FLODDEN. ”
[figure description] Page 252.[end figure description]
On the next morning, St. John made the Vanes a visit, at
Mr. Burwell's, and found them all ready to depart. The
chariot was at the door.
To the cordial invitation of the colonel to return with
them, the young man responded by saying that he had
“important business,” which might detain him some days;
he would come as soon as was possible. Few words passed
between himself and Bonnybel, and these were very formal
and constrained. So they departed.
The young man then turned his thoughts to another subject.
We have seen that he had appointed with Captain
Waters to come and dine with that worthy, and hear the
result of the negotiations with Foy, and toward the captain's,
which was up the river, he now directed his way,
mounted on “Tallyho,” who cantered on gayly, and soon
left Williamsburg in the far distance.
A ride of an hour brought St. John in front of a fine old
building crowning a bluff of the James, and surveying, from
its lofty position, the wide expanse of field, and stream, and
forest.
This was “Flodden,” the residence of Captain Ralph
Waters, and, far off, across the river, on a lofty hill toward
the west, the young man discerned the walls of his own
house, “Flower of Hundreds,” embowered in the spring
foliage, and glittering in the fresh light of morning.
St. John had scarcely drawn rein at the door of “Flodden,”
when the voice of Captain Waters, from within the
hall, greeted him jovially, and the next moment saw the
figure of the soldier advance, with a smile of welcome on
the bold features.
St. John's horse was led away, and they entered.
“Why, here you are as punctual as a clock, morbleu!”
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cried the captain; “delighted to see you on this glorious
morning. Faith! it makes a man laugh in spite of
him!”
And the captain performed that ceremony with great
gusto. When the worthy soldier laughed he seemed simply
to carry out the design for which his features were
moulded, as we have said elsewhere in speaking of him.
His bold and vigorous nature appeared to find food for
laughter in every thing, and his clear eyes looked the whole
world in the face with careless good humor.
“A fine animal that?” said the captain, gazing at “Tallyho,”
as he was led away, “and I see Selim's blood plain in
him.”
“You are right, captain.”
“Well, you see, I seldom am any thing else in regard to
horses.”
“And as to men?”
“Well!” said Captain Waters, curling his moustache, “I
judge them tolerably too. There's Foy, now, thinks he's
duping your humble servant, and preserves the most mysterious
air about things I'm perfectly acquainted with.
Really, a perfect snake in the grass is that Foy!”
And the captain curled his moustache downward, a sign
of disdain with him always.
“You have seen him of course,” said St. John, “as he
acts for Mr. Lindon?”
“Why, certainly, my dear fellow,” returned the captain,
“and we had the most charming little interview you ever
heard of. Wait till we're alone, after dinner, comrade, and
I'll tell you how it was.”
“Good! I'll listen with pleasure, and I'm not curious at
present. Tell me when we've dined.”
“Count on that, mon ami, and now let's go see madam
and the bon père.”
“With pleasure!”
Madam, whom the captain addressed also, from time to
time, as Henriette, was an extremely handsome dame of
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about thirty, perhaps a year or two more, and carried herself
with an air of the most aristocratic ease. Two little
girls played on the carpet at her side, and a little boy was
busy on a wooden horse in the distance.
Opposite this domestic group sat old John Waters, the
captain's father, in his wide, softly-cushioned chair, with his
benignant smile, his gray, thin locks, and his empty pipe
carelessly resting against his knee.
Mrs. Waters advanced, with her courtly and graceful
case, to press St. John's hand, the old man rose erect in his
chair, and smiled more benignantly than ever, and even the
little girls rose too, and came, bashfully peering from their
showers of golden curls, to receive their share of the young
man's attention.
It was only Captain Ralph Waters, jr., that somewhat
petted and spoiled young gentleman, who paid no attention
to the visitor.
“See the domestic and touching group!” said the captain;
“the hen in the midst of her chickens; the dame partlet
scratching and clucking.”
Madam Henriette shook her handsome head, threateningly,
at this address, and said,
“Well, sir, and pray what are you?”
“I'm a rooster,” observed the captain with great candor;
“you see, my dear partlet, I fought the Français so long,
and heard the crowing of the Gallic cock so often, that morbleu!
I've turned to a rooster completely.”
“And I suppose you like to crow over us poor women?”
“Exactly.”
“Is he not a shameful man, Mr. St. John?” said the lady,
laughing; “he has not the least regard for our feelings.”
“Your feelings, madam?”
“Yes; only the other day I requested him to buy me a
set of pearls at Rowsay's, in town, and he absolutely refused.”
“Is it possible, captain?” said St. John; “could you resist?”
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“Yes, my dear boy,” said the captain, heaving a sigh, “I
was hard-hearted to that extent.”
“You acknowledge it then?”
“Certainly.”
“Is that not dreadful, Mr. St. John?” said the lady;
“there is only one excuse that he gives; can you divine
it?”
“No indeed.”
“This excuse is, that he bought me some diamonds! It
is true that the diamonds cost ten times as much as the
pearls, and I greatly preferred them, and said so. But he
knew that I did not wish to be so extravagant, and like an
unfeeling man, he went and bought the diamonds!”
The captain looked guilty and conscience-stricken—his
expression of remorse was affecting.
“Well, well, my dear,” he said, “do not thus expose my
failings to the public. Ventrebleu! I'm ashamed, but you
see diamonds have always attracted me since—”
The captain paused.
“Since when, sir?”
“Since I won your heart with that diamond necklace, my
dear Henriette!” replied Captain Waters, with simplicity,
“some time in the good year '65, I think.”
At this charge, madame seemed to be actually overcome
by indignation. Her work dropped upon her knee,
she gazed steadily at her enemy, and then burst into
laughter.
“Mr. St. John I hope you will pardon me,” she said,
struggling with her mirth, “but this gentleman, Captain
Waters, always sets me off! Look at him there, everlastingly
playing with that horrid moustache, stooping in his
shoulders, and pretending to be dreaming, as he thrums on
his chair. Just look!”
“Dreaming?” said the captain; “was I dreaming ma
chére?”
“Yes, sir, you were!” cried Mrs. Henriette, laughing.
“I believe I was,” said the captain, whose bold face grew
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[figure description] Page 256.[end figure description]
suddenly very sad, “I was thinking of those good old times,
and our Beatrice.”
The martial head drooped, and for a moment there was
silence.
The lady's face, too, had passed from smiles to sadness—
from mirth to pensiveness.
“Eh bien!” said the captain, heaving a sigh; “let us not
rake in the ashes for those buried memories. I'll dream no
more, but rather light the bon pére's pipe. Eh? Shall I,
mon pére?”
The old man assented with a smile and a nod, and the lady
laid down her work and went and arranged the cricket for
his feet in the kindest and most attentive way.
The little girls then leaned on grandpa's knee to see the
brilliant glow in the bowl of the pipe, and then the old man
was left alone to his dreams, and Captain Waters and his
friend strolled out through the grounds, talking of every
thing but the real subject, which, by general consent, had
been deferred.
Thus passed the morning at Flodden.
CHAPTER XLIX. HOW CAPTAIN RALPH WATERS FULFILLED HIS MISSION.
“Now, my dear comrade,” said the captain, when he and
St. John were alone over their wine, “now we can come to
our little arrangements, and I can report progress.”
“Thanks, my dear captain,” replied St. John, “and first,
what time is fixed on?”
“To-morrow morning.”
“The place?”
“Jamestown island. Have you any objection?”
“None captain, though I was there lately upon a more
agreeable errand.”
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“Well, that's settled then; but I'll proceed more in order
and tell you how I set to work—shall I?”
“It will interest me.”
“Well,” said the captain, filling his glass and pushing
the bottle, “I was at the Raleigh tavern duly as I informed
Monseigneur Lindon, and I duly received a visit from
Foy—”
“A strange second, is he not?”
“Why no—how?”
“He looks so peaceful?”
“You do n't know him, mon ami; he's a perfect takein,
that Foy is—a real sword blade, ventrebleu! Well Foy
came and we made each other the lowest and most courteous
bow. You see we are both of us old hands at this
business, and we went at it like ducks to water. `My dear
Foy, is it so and so?' `Yes, my dear captain,' bowing,
smiling, as amicable as two ganders hissing and wagging
their beaks at each other.”
St. John smiled.
“Then every thing was easily arranged?”
“By no means.”
“Explain yourself.”
“With pleasure. Foy, you see, was in favor of going out
of the province to fight—”
“Out of the province!”
“Yes, he was a little touchy about Dunmore, and so the
conversation was something like the following. I listen to
his proposition, smiling politely, and the first remark I make
is, `My dear Foy, are you afraid?'
“ `Afraid, sir?' he says, coldly; `I am not accustomed to
feel afraid!'
“ `Oh well, my dear comrade, do n't be offended,' I replied,
`it really did seem to me that this looked something
like fear—of his Excellency.'
“ `His Excellency is not my master, Captain Waters.'
“ `Really, now, is he not?'
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“ `No, sir!' this observation being uttered with a sort of
flash out of the eyes, you see.
“ `Oh, my dear comrade,' I say, `just see now how you
are deprived of that praise which is justly your due! 'T is
whispered everywhere that it is his Excellency who really
employs Conolly in his rascally mission to embroil the borderers,
and that you are only the instrument he uses, when
in fact you are all the while head man.' ”
“Why, captain,” said St. John, smiling, “that seems to
me nothing more nor less than an insult!”
“Precisely, mon ami,” said the captain, cheerfully, “just
so.”
“You wished to insult Captain Foy?”
“Yes.”
“For what purpose?”
“In order that a little affair might be hatched between
him and myself.”
“Ah! indeed!”
“Exactly, my dear fellow. Ventrebleu! you have no
idea how many overtures I have made to Foy in order to
draw him into a quarrel. But he won't take offense.”
“Your object? Do you hate him?”
“Not at all.”
“Why then—”
“Wish to fight him? Simply because I wish to put an
end to his maneuvers! I do hate Dunmore, and by running
Foy through the gizzard, you see, I disable his Excellency's
right arm to the shoulder blade.”
The cheerful way in which Captain Waters unfolded these
views was admirable to behold.
“I'm merely a rude soldier, you see, mon ami,” he continued,
“but having learned diplomacy on the continent, I
practice it here. That was my object then in drawing Foy
out, and I thought I had him that time!”
“What did he reply?”
“Well, for a moment he said nothing. You see, I had
said that he ought to have the praise of employing Conolly
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on that rascally mission, and I waited, smiling, for him to
insult me again.”
“Did he fail to?”
“Point blank. I was all ready—getting my hand ready
to take off my hat and bow, and say, `Well, when shall we
settle our little difference, comrade?' In a word, I looked
for an explosion. It never came. Foy only looks at me
with those wicked eyes, and says, `I have already disclaimed
more than a passing acquaintance with Major Conolly, Captain
Waters—let us return to our affair.'
“ `In an instant, directly, my dear comrade,' I say politely,
`but first tell me one thing.'
“ `What is that, sir?'
“ `Is it really true,' I continued, smiling, `that Conolly
has orders from Dunmore, or his tools in Williamsburg, to
promise the Indians assistance from his Excellency, if they
make an inroad and massacre the people on the Virginia
borders?'
“As I say this, Foy's eye flashes worse than ever, and
his thin lips contract. He advances a step, frowning.
“ `Captain Waters,' he says, `do I look like a man who
is fond of being insulted?'
“ `Why no, comrade.'
“ `Do I look like a man,' he continues, does this red-hot
Foy! `who would leave his sword in its scabbard if it was
possible to draw it?'
“ `No,' I reply, `and whether you look so or not, I know
you can use it, and have the will, companion.'
“ `Well, sir,' he says, with real dignity, hang him! `well,
sir, if I do not cram down your throat the insults you have
addressed to me, you may understand that I refrain simply
because my hands are bound for the present by the office I
hold, otherwise, Captain Waters,' he adds, bowing, `it would
give me immense pleasure to cut your throat!' Those were
his very words.”
And the soldier burst out laughing, in which laughter St.
John united.
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“You see, after that, my dear fellow,” said the captain, “I
could not add another insult.”
“Certainly not.”
“In fact I positively adored Foy after that reply! He
looked so gallant, when he said it! he touched his left side,
where a sword ought to have been, with such an air! he
was so cool, and elegant, and ferocious, when he mentioned
his desire to cut my throat, that I could have embraced him
as a brother!”
The captain twirled his moustache with admiration to his
very eyes as he spoke, and seemed lost in delighted contemplation.
“Well,” said St. John, laughing, “after that the interview
was more friendly?”
“Friendly! I believe you! After that it was positively
fraternal! Then it was that we came to resemble two highbred
geese, nodding our heads, and uttering `Ah's!' and
`Oh's!' and `By no means!' and `Really captain's!' You
ought to have seen us! We would not overcome each other;
we could not force each other to accept what each wanted.
It was,
“ `Really, my dear Captain Waters, it must be Jamestown
island, as you wish!'
“ `No, upon my honor, my dear Foy, it shall be out of
the province, as you desire!'
“ `I never can consent to inconvenience such a gallant
man!'
“ `I never should hold up my head again if I forced such
a noble gentleman as you, my dear Foy, to quarrel with his
Excellency!' It was this, that, the other, no, yes, really,
truly! At last I yielded, and to see how Foy pressed my
hand you would have thought I had done him the greatest
favor in the world.
“ `I shall not quarrel with his Excellency, captain,' he
says, smiling, `and I have already said he is not my master.'
“ `Do n't allude to my miserable rudeness, comrade” I
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reply; `it wounds me to the heart, and I shall shed
tears.'
“ `That is all forgotten, captain,' says Foy; `a mere jest.
Do not think that I shall suffer from engaging as second in
a combat to take place at Jamestown island. His Excellency
will not inquire very closely, for you know, my dear
Captain Waters,' adds Foy, with a tiger smile, `you know my
principal, Mr. Lindon, is a perfect master of every weapon,
and he'll be sure to kill Mr. St. John! You will understand,
in the present state of affairs betwen Mr. St. John
and his Excellency,' adds Foy, smiling, `that Mr. Lindon or
myself will not be very severely scolded!' ”
“Pshaw, captain!” said St. John, “your hero turns out
a boaster, and a mere blood-thirsty calculator of chances!”
“Certainly! Do n't you comprehend that all his bowing
and smiling was acted?”
“Eh?”
“Nothing less,” returned the captain. “Foy, mon ami!
is, by nature, as great a comedian as that celebrated little
Garrick I saw in London. I know him well—but, to finish.”
“Yes, let us hear the rest.”
“I will be more brief. The weapons then came up, and
we had some discussion as to the length and other points.
There was no real difficulty, because both you and Mr. Lindon
prefer swords. So that was arranged, and I engaged to
provide them of exactly the same length. It is the ordinary
length, and I'll show them to you directly. Then the hour
of seven, to-morrow morning, was fixed on, and we parted,
mutually pleased with each other. My only hope with Foy
now is to drive him into insulting me, and then of course he
can't refuse my challenge. I would cheerfully pay five
hundred pounds to have him, for ten minutes, at arm's
length!”
Having expressed himself cheerfully to this effect, Captain
Waters emptied his glass, and suggested a stroll on
the lawn.
The young man rose, and the captain led the way out.
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It had been arranged that St. John should remain at Flodden
for convenience, and accompany his host in his own
carriage, and every detail being thus determined on, even
down to the hour to awake, the subject was for the moment
dismissed.
CHAPTER L. THE FUGITIVE.
The two friends made the circuit of the lawn, and had
reached the broad gate, when a man, riding at full speed,
drew up suddenly before them and inclined his head.
“Will you be good enough to inform me, sir,” he said,
addressing the captain who was foremost, “whether this is
the road to the town of Richmond?”
“It is, sir,” replied the soldier; “and you have only to
follow it and you'll soon arrive at that place.”
“And that other road branching off?” asked the horseman,
extending his hand, and at the same moment looking
over his shoulder.
“That leads to New Kent Court House, to Hanover, or
King William, and so, west.”
“Thanks, sir,” said the stranger, hurriedly, and with another
glance over his shoulder, he struck spurs into his
horse, and departed at a rapid gallop.
The eyes of the two men followed him, and they saw him
turn into the road to New Kent, disappearing in an instant
in the pines.
The captain shook his head.
“There's something wrong about this gentleman, mon
ami,” he said; “something lies beneath this, take my word
for it! But I could n't refuse to reply to a civil question.”
“No—and I agree with you. Who could it be, captain?”
“Faith, I can't imagine! If, now, it had occurred on the
continent—”
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“What?”
“Why, I should have set our rapid cavalier down for a
king's messenger. But, you know, we do n't have kings on
the western continent, a circumstance for which I do n't
mind saying I'm grateful, comrade.
“They're a poor set of fellows,” added the soldier; “I've
seen many and never admired one. You see, my dear fellow,
they are shams, and they know it; from his gracious
Majesty George III., defender of the faith, et cetera, down
to his royal highness of Poland, a post which my friends,
General Littlepage, and Captain Charles Lee, very nearly
occupied. I'm glad they did n't lower themselves; and
these are my views! Who the devil could this horseman
have been?”
“I can't tell you.”
“Well, well, let him go on; I care nothing, morbleu!
As Effingham says, my friend Champ, you know, ` 't is all in
the game,' and so he may go on!”
Having reached this extremely philosophical conclusion,
the captain twirled his moustache, and led the way back to
the mansion, which he and his companion entered.
They had scarcely disappeared when three horsemen, riding
at full speed, shot by the gate on the track of the fugitive.
They bent in their saddles as they rode, and evidently
examined the highway for the marks of hoofs, by which they
seemed to follow and track their game.
Coming, in a moment, to the cross road leading to New
Kent, which the fugitive had taken, they suddenly drew up,
and one of them dismounted.
It was the stranger, the friend of St. John.
“Friends,” he said, in his calm, deep voice, “he has not
followed the high road further. Here are his footprints;
he has turned off toward the court house. Come!”
And getting into his saddle again, he took the lead, and
the whole troop disappeared in the foliage.
Let us follow them.
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They darted on, at full speed, for more than a mile, and
then, reaching the summit of a hill, distinctly perceived the
fugitive ascending another hill, at full gallop, half a mile in
advance of them.
“Look!” cried the stranger; “there! see! we shall arrest
him!”
And digging the spur into his horse's side, he darted onward,
taking the lead of his companions.
The solitary horseman had turned in his saddle and seen
them, and a gesture of rage and despair, visible even at the
great distance, showed how much he feared the encounter.
The pursuers rode furiously for another mile, and entered
the somber woodland of pines, whose summits were now
gilded by the last rays of the setting sun.
With bent heads, as they rode at full gallop, the stranger
and his companions scanned the road, to convince themselves
that the fugitive had not turned aside into the woodland.
The tracks continued in the center of the road, and they
pushed on at full speed.
Nearly five miles thus ran from beneath the rapid feet of
their horses, and still the tracks held the center of the highway.
Suddenly one of the riders stretched out his hand, and
said, “Look!”
Two hundred yards before them, a horse without a rider
was flying onward, and panting heavily as he ran.
The stranger uttered a growl, as it were, of disappointment,
and drew rein suddenly.
“He has dismounted and escaped into the woods!” he
said, calmly; “we need not further follow the highway.”
The three horsemen drew up, and with the heads of their
animals thus touching, held a rapid consultation with the
stranger.
It was quickly decided that each should take different
directions, and beat the whole country for traces of the
fugitive.
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“Be alert, friends! do not stop! do not sleep!” said the
stranger, whose fiery eyes plunged into the woodland, upon
which the shades of night were rapidly descending; “it is
of the first importance, as you know, that this man's dispatches
shall be secured! It will be for us a powerful engine!
Come! to work! forward! We may still arrest
him on his way.”
And the three horsemen separated, each taking different
ways.
The dark pines received them, and they disappeared like
shadows, the sound of their hoofs dying away in the somber
depths, from which nothing was heard but the cries of night
birds, and the harsh murmur of frogs in the swampy, low
grounds.
As they disappeared, a pile of brushwood, deep in the
woodland, stirred slightly, a man's head rose, and seeing
that the coast was clear, the man emerged from the brush,
and listened.
“Well gentlemen,” he said, with a sinister smile which
made his eyes glitter in the starlight, “I have escaped your
toils, I think, and you will probably have an agreeable time
of it beating the bushes of the country-side here. I have
my papers all safe here in my breast, most worthy patriots,
and there they will remain for the present. I shall only arrive
at Fort Pitt a little later, and our affairs will not suffer.
It's odds if I do not pay you, and the people of Virginia
generally, for this little night ride!”
He paused a moment and listened.
“All is still,” he said, “and now it only remains to
get another horse. That's easy, as my pockets are well
lined by his lordship! Come! let us not despair; I trust
in the doctrine of chances, and they've seldom failed
me!”
Having thus spoken, the fugitive turned, resolutely,
deeper into the woodland, and was soon lost in the darkness.
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The man who thus escaped with his papers of such great
importance, was Major Conolly, secret agent of Lord Dunmore
in embroiling the border and arousing the Indian tribes
against the people of the Virginia frontier.*
eaf510n34* Historical Illustrations, No. XXXIII.
CHAPTER LI. HER ONLY FAILING.
On the next morning, after a sound night's rest on the
captain's part, and much tossing to and fro, in his dreams,
on St. John's, the friends met and greeted each other.
Madam Henriette met them with a smile.
“Where in the world are you going so early?” she said
to her husband; “breakfast is ready—but why set out so
soon?”
The captain saw that his wife was dying with curiosity, but
he only smiled; he did not reply.
“This is not court day, I believe, Mr. St. John?”
“No, madam, I think not.”
“Does any thing of interest take place in town this morning?”
“I have not heard, madam.”
“Then where in the world are you going, Captain Waters?
You really are the most provoking—”
“My dear Henriette—”
“Well, sir?”
“I think you said that breakfast was ready?”
The lady pouted, and said that it was.
“Then, with your leave, we will proceed to eat it. Ventre
bleu! I'm as hungry as a hawk after all that sleep!”
And the captain led the way into the breakfast room, and
did the honors of his board.
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Thereafter, his carriage was ordered at once, and he and
St. John put on their hats.
“What in the world is that bundle they are putting in the
carriage?” said Mrs. Henriette.
“Are they putting a bundle in the carriage?” said the
captain, with interest.
“Yes, you see they are!”
“Well, so they are.”
And the captain put on his gloves.
“When will you be back?” asked the lady thus constantly
foiled.
“Do n't know,” said the captain.
“Where can you be going?”
“Did you say it was a fine morning, my dear St. John?
Why glorious!”
“Captain Waters!” said the lady, with an imperious little
stamp of the foot.
“Did you speak, my dear?” said the soldier.
“Yes, sir! I asked you to be so good as to tell me where
you and Mr. St. John are going?”
“Why yes!” said the captain, “certainly, my dear.”
“Yes, what, sir?”
“The moon is, most probably, green cheese.”
The captain uttered these words with a cheerful and
smiling air, which caused Mrs. Henriette to pat her little
foot with impatience and vexation.
“I think it 's very cruel in you!” she said, pouting.
The captain twirled his moustache absently.
“Won't you please tell me?”
The captain smiled.
“Won't you tell your Henriette, Ralph?” said the lady,
with an entreating air, and leaning on his shoulder.
The captain's lip curled with smiles.
“You know it's so simple—just a word,” she said, coaxingly;
“won't Ralph tell his Henriette?”
The captain smiled again and ended by laughing.
“I think I can!” he said, absently.
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“Tell me, my dear! I thought you would!”
“I'm sure I can!” continued the soldier, with his eyes
fixed upon vacancy.
“Certainly nothing is more proper, Ralph, to your own
loving wife!”
The captain woke, as it were, from his dream.
“What is that, my love?” he said; “do you agree with
me that it's proper? But what do you know about such
things? You can't tell whether Foy will resign his secretaryship.”
“You were not listening to me then, sir!” said Mrs. Henriette,
imperiously.
“No, my love.”
“You did not hear me?”
“Have you been speaking?”
“You are a disgraceful husband, sir!”
“Why?” asked the captain, cheerfully.
“Because you will not tell me, or even listen. But you
shall tell me where you're going with Mr. St. John, sir!”
“Well, my love.”
“You are outrageous!”
“So I am, ma chére!”
“Where are you going?”
“To Jericho.”
“Captain Waters!”
“Madam!”
“What are you going to do?”
“Take the air!”
The lady, flushed with vexation, and half-threatening,
half-laughing, caught away the captain's hat.
“You shall tell me?” she said, laughing.
The captain recovered his hat, and bursting into responsive
laughter, cried,
“Away, partlet! silence, hen! Go make the bibs and
tuckers for the chickens, and do n't meddle with the rooster's
private matters!”
The captain then squeezed Mrs. Henriette's cheeks with
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his fingers, gallantly ravished a kiss, and followed by his
friend, got into the carriage.
“That's a charming wife of mine, my dear boy,” he said,
as they rolled rapidly on their way; “though slightly subject
to curiosity, her only failing. Well, well, let's be
charitable! And now, mon ami, I will give you my views
upon the subject of Lindon's style of fencing. Let us compare
views.”
The captain then proceeded to enter at length upon his
favorite topic, and he was still speaking when they reached
the low peninsula of Jamestown.
The soldier referred to his timepiece.
“Just seven,” he said, “and here come Foy and Lindon.”
CHAPTER LII. THE COMBAT: RED AND WHITE ROSES.
The two carriages arrived almost at the same moment,
and the hostile parties, as they issued forth, made each other
a low bow.
Lindon was superbly dressed, but Captain Foy wore his
customary suit of black, fitting closely to his slender and
nervous figure.
Around his waist was buckled a plain sword, with yellow
leather accoutrements, the whole very much worn.
Captain Waters had no sooner accomplished his bow,
than, assuming a most engaging smile, he pointed to the
weapon of the secretary, and said,
“Do n't I recognize an old friend there, comrade? It
seems to me that sword is not new to me, and I even think
it once ran into my body, did it not?”
Captain Foy made a modest gesture, and said,
“Let us forget our youthful contentions, Captain Waters;
they are of no importance now.”
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“But really, I'm curious,” said the captain; “did you
not wear that sword—”
“At Reinfels? Yes, sir. 'T is an old companion, with
whom I'm loth to part. Shall we now proceed to make
our arrangements?”
“With pleasure; here are the swords.”
The bundle was unwrapped, and the weapons were measured.
“Exact to an inch, these two,” said Captain Waters, “and
you may take either.”
“Thanks, captain, I accept this.”
And Foy took one of the swords, and critically examined
its point.
He then made it whistle to and fro in his vigorous and
nervous grasp, listening if the blade clicked in the hilt.
The examination seemed to satisfy him perfectly, and
making his opponent another bow, he said,
“I find this weapon perfect, Captain Waters, and we may
now proceed to business, as the position of these gentlemen
is already determined upon, north and south with the sun.”
“Yes, my dear comrade; you really fill me with admiration,
and make me remember old times. Could n't we have
a little bout now, after this event is through; a mere friendly
pass or two?”
“I would rather not, captain; you might wound me, and
I can not afford to lose my time now, having much to attend
to.”
“You retain your post of secretary?”
“Yes, sir.”
The captain sighed.
“My dear Foy,” he said, “I'll give you five hundred
pounds if you'll resign.”
“I regret to say that 't is impossible for me to accept
your offer, Captain Waters. Shall we proceed?”
“Of course, of course!”
And the captain examined St. John's sword as carefully
as his opponent had tested Lindon's.
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He then raised his head, and making a motion with his
hand,
“Foy,” he said, “a moment yet before we commence.”
“Certainly, sir.”
“Is your secretaryship the obstacle in the way of that
friendly little affair I proposed?”
“Yes sir.”
“I offered you five hundred pounds to resign, did I not?”
“I believe so, sir.”
“And you refused?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You still refuse?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, I offer you a thousand!”
“Captain Waters,” said the secretary, smiling grimly,
“if you proceed any further you will make me laugh, and
as laughter, upon an occasion like the present, is not becoming,
I must beg you to desist. I regret extremely that 't is
not in my power to resign my commission in his Excellency's
service at the present time. If, however, that event
occurs, I shall most assuredly inform you, and willingly
permit you to take advantage of it in the way you propose.”
Captain Foy bowed as he spoke, and indicated that he
was ready.
Waters shook his head.
“My dear comrade,” he said, sighing, “that was always
your way. You talk so eloquently, and turn your periods
with such melodious art, that a poor camp devil like myself,
morbleu, can't answer you, and's obliged to yield. I will,
therefore, say no more, except that I most thankfully accept
your offer, and will, on the proper occasion, gladly avail
myself of it.”
And turning to hand Mr. St. John his sword, Captain
Waters muttered to himself,
“Ah, rascal! ah, rascally second of a rascally principal,
if faces do n't deceive me! I'll yet split your forked tongue
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still wider, and pull your fangs, and stop you forefinger and
thumb from writing instructions for Conolly!”
“What did you say, my dear captain?” asked Foy.
“I observed, my dear friend, that it was a charming
morning, and that I was filled with happiness at meeting
again, on this congenial occasion, with a comrade for whom
I have so great an affection as yourself. I foresee, if we
ever kill each other 't will be from a pure love of art, not
from bad blood, and so, if you choose, we'll proceed.”
With these words, accompanied by the most agreeable
smiles, Captain Waters went to the side of his friend, who
was calmly looking forth upon the beautiful river, and signified
to him that every preliminary of the combat was now
arranged.
The young man coolly took his weapon, and leaned the
point upon his boot.
“All's ready, my dear St. John,” the captain said, “and I
have only to add a word. Lindon is as fresh as a lark; he's
taken perfect care of himself, and, therefore, I advise you
not to stand on the defensive with a view to weary him.
Better lunge from the first, and I think, from the way he
carries his elbow, your best lunge will be in carte.”
“Thanks, captain,” said St. John; “I shall simply endeavor
to protect myself, having not the least desire to shed
this gentleman's blood. If that is necessary, however, I
shall not hesitate, having been forced into the whole affair,
and being quite at my ease.”
The captain's countenance filled with pleasure.
“My dear St. John,” he said, “you will kill him! I
know you will! I compliment you!”
“Why, captain?”
“You are cool as ice, and now let us get to business.”
Captain Foy signified at the same moment that Mr.
Lindon was ready, and the opponents confronted each
other.
“Gentlemen,” said Captain Waters, “we now permit you
to proceed, unless the party from whom the insult, on this
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occasion, has issued, shall make full and ample apology for
the same, retracting the said insult, and entreating pardon
of his opponent.”
Lindon made a haughty movement, but Captain Foy
answered for him.
“It is with great regret that we must decline such apology,”
said the secretary; “unfortunately there is no possibility
of any such thing.”
“You persist?” said Captain Waters.
“We have the honor,” said Captain Foy.
“Well then the affair will, of course, proceed. There is
absolutely no alternative. This affair, gentlemen, as I need
scarcely say, has arisen from a difference of opinion upon the
quality of the Canary supplied to the late assembly, Mr. St.
John having declared the said Canary wretched, and unworthy
to be drunk by a gentleman, Mr. Lindon having
taken the opposite view, and offered Mr. St. John a glass,
which that gentleman declined. I confess I see no means of
bringing about a community of sentiment but the sword, and
so, Captain Foy, we are ready!”
“And we, sir—proceed, gentlemen!”
The two men raised their swords quickly, and the weapons
crossed.
The seconds retired ten paces and looked on.
Lindon was perfectly fresh, and, as his sword touched his
opponent's, his eyes flashed with gratified hatred.
St. John was perfectly calm and cool.
Lindon advanced furiously and made a mortal thrust at
his opponent, which was parried perfectly.
The next moment they closed in a violent, deadly, breastto-breast
struggle, the swords glittering in what seemed inextricable
confusion, but really the perfection of skill and
method.
Both the seconds advanced at once, crying “Gentlemen!
gentlemen!”
The combatants stopped and drew back — Lindon pale
with rage, St. John growing gradually hot.
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“Gentlemen!” said Captain Waters, with affecting earnestness,
“you really move me to the heart, and wound my
sense of propriety cruelly, in which I am sure I also utter
the sentiments of my friend, Captain Foy! In Heaven's
name do n't make a dagger fight of an honorable encounter
with swords before seconds! Let us commence again, gentlemen,
and spare our feelings, I beseech you.”
The captain was evidently greatly affected as he spoke,
and Foy said,
“I beg, gentlemen, that you will observe the suggestion
of Captain Waters. It is not less just than feelingly
expressed.”
The two men, whose blood was completely aroused, waited
with impatience for the signal to proceed.
The word was given, and they threw themselves upon
each other with the ferocity of tigers.
Lindon made his former lunge with a fury which indicated
the height of his rage. St. John again parried it perfectly.
For ten minutes then they fought, not like two civilized
men opposed to each other, but like blood-thirsty gladiators
on the arena, in a mortal combat.
The two men were as nearly matched as possible, and the
incessant clash of the weapons, from which darted flashes
like lightning, proved the immense skill and strength of the
enemies.
Suddenly St. John struck his foot against a stone, and
thrown off his guard for an instant, could not parry the furious
lunge of his opponent.
The point of Lindon's sword appeared streaming with
blood behind the young man's back, and at the same instant
his own weapon was buried in his enemy's shoulder.
Lindon's weapon broke at the hilt, and the two combattants
fell, dragging each other to the ground.
The seconds ran and pulled them asunder, and raised them
to their feet.
Leaning on the shoulders of Captain Waters and Captain
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Foy, the two men gazed at each other with flashing eyes and
crimson cheeks, breathing heavily, and clutching at their
weapons.
“Your sword! Give me your sword, Captain Foy,” cried
Lindon, faintly, “I'll finish him!”
Foy's hand moved to his weapon.
“Captain Foy,” said Waters, “if you hand that weapon
to your principal I'll run you through the body, and him
too, upon my honor!”
“Let him have it!” said St. John, hoarsely, his breast
streaming with blood. “Your sword, sir!”
“He shall not!” cried Captain Waters, “ 't is three inches
longer than yours.”
Foy moved to draw the weapon.
“Well comrade!” said Waters, “if that's the use you're
going to make of it, nothing could delight me more! I
have been pleading for the favor. Captain Foy, I have the
honor to salute you and to place myself entirely at your
orders!”
With these cold words, Captain Waters drew his sword
and confronted his opponent.
Foy's hand left the hilt of the weapon, and a keen flash
of his proud eye showed how reluctantly he yielded.
“No sir,” he said, coldly, “there shall be no need of the
encounter you propose. I recognize the propriety of your
objection to the further progress of this affair, and I agree
with you that it is, for the present, at an end.”
As he spoke, Captain Foy turned to Lindon, who was
deadly pale, and staunched the deep wound in his shoulder
with his white handkerchief, which he bound round it.
He then assisted Lindon, who could scarcely stand alone,
to his carriage, and turning to bow to Captain Waters, ordered
the driver to drive to Williamsburg.
Captain Waters then gave his whole attention to St.
John.
The young man had stretched out his hand and plucked
a little white rose from a sweet briar, rustling in the river
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breeze—just such an one as Bonnybel had pulled to pieces
on that morning—and looking now at the flower, he seemed
to think of the girl.
“What are you doing there, comrade?” said the soldier,
“what is that?”
“Only a flower, captain,” he said faintly.
“A flower!”
“Yes, a rose, and here is another—a red one.”
With which St. John endeavored to point to the circular
blood-stain, gradually extending upon his white linen bosom.
As he spoke, the captain felt the young man's form weigh
heavily upon his arm; and the head fell like a wounded
bird's.
He had fainted.
Captain Waters was one of those men who act promptly.
He took the young man in his arms, and carrying him
like a child, to the edge of the stream, deluged his forehead
with the cool water.
He then laid the pale form upon the green sward, and
tearing violently away the frill at his own breast, proceeded
to bare the bosom of the wounded man, and probe the
wound.
Lindon's sword had struck upon a letter, written on thick
Bath post, and thus diverted from its point blank direction
toward the heart, had traversed the flesh and muscles completely
through to the back.
The wound was more painful than dangerous, except from
the profuse flow of blood.
Captain Waters bound it up with the rapidity and skill
of an experienced hand, and St. John opened his eyes.
“How do you feel now, comrade?” said the soldier, kneeling,
and holding up the young man's head.
“A little faint,” was the reply. “Where am I, captain?”
“You are on the grass, companion, with a bad fleshwound,
which talking makes worse; and the motion of the
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carriage will be worse still for it, morbleu! Miserable day
that it is!”
And the soldier groaned.
The young man pointed with his finger to the stream.
The captain looked, and saw a sail-boat passing.
“I will—go—to Flower of Hundreds—captain,” said St.
John, faintly.
The soldier gently deposited his burden upon the sward
again, and hastening to the point of the island running out
into the stream, hailed the boatman.
In fifteen minutes the young man was being borne in the
little bark toward Flower of Hnndreds, his head supported
upon the breast of Captain Waters.
He still held the small, white flower in his hand, and Bonnybel's
letter had not left his breast.
CHAPTER LIII. THE NEWS REACHES VANELY.
In the old drawing-room at Vanely, through whose open
windows a fresh breeze wafts in an odor of green leaves,
and flowers, and fruit trees, full of perfumed blossoms, sit
the young ladies of the family, busily engaged on some ornamental
work, and in entertaining Mr. Alston and a certain
Mr. Hamilton.
Mr. Hamilton is a rubicund widower who has come—he
says—to see Colonel Vane on business; but not finding that
gentleman at home, is disconsolate, and is compelled to talk
with Miss Seraphina. He calls frequently “on business with
Colonel Vane.”
Mr. Alston does not mask his designs with any such plea—
he does not conceal the fact that he has come “to shake
the tree,” or in other words, to pay his addresses to Miss
Helen, who seems far from being offended by it.
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For the moment, however, honest Tom is talking with
Miss Bonnybel. He leans over her, and says, with a gentle
smile,
“Pray what enchanting little affair is that, Miss Bonnybel?
The wedding dress of a fairy princess?”
Bonnybel appears, of late, to have lost much of her old
vivacity. She scarcely smiles as she replies:
“It is only a cuff. I thought I would make them myself
instead of giving them to Miss Carne.”
“Miss Carne? pray who is that?”
“I forgot—you've not seen her. She's a seamstress
whom we brought from town with us. There she is at the
door.”
Mr. Alston turns his head and makes a slight movement,
as he sees before him the remarkable head. Miss Carne is
an Italian-looking woman, with a brunette complexion, black
hair, and deep, penetrating eyes. She is undeniably handsome,
standing in her submissive attitude with folded hands;
but there is something repelling in her air and appearance.
“Have you laid out the pieces, Miss?” she said, with a slight Italian accent; “I am ready to go on with the
dress.”
Bonnybel gave her some directions, and she disappeared
as she came, without noise.
“A singular face,” said Mr. Alston, “but I do not like it.
She is undoubtedly beautiful, but not prepossessing. Well,
that is scarcely a matter of importance. Pray whose is this
delightfully perfumed epistle?” adds Mr. Alston, smiling,
and raising, as he does so, from the table an embossed
paper.
“ 'T is Aunt Seraphina's verses,” says Helen, smiling demurely;
“ask her to let you read them.”
“Coming from such a source, they must be indeed perfect,”
says the gallant Jack Hamilton, with an ogle.
In spite of Miss Seraphina's objections, Mr. Alston reads
aloud,
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A LADY'S ADIEU TO HER TEA TABLE.
“Farewell to the Tea Board, with its gaudy equipage
Of Cups and Saucers, Cream Bucket, Sugar Tongs,
The pretty Tea Chest, also, lately stored
With Hyson, Congo, and best Double Fine.
Full many a joyous moment have I sat by ye,
Hearing the Girls Tattle, the Old Maids talk Scandal,
And the spruce Coxcomb laugh at, may be, nothing.
No more shall I dish out the once loved Liquor,
Though now detestable to all at Vanely,
Because I'm taught (and I believe it true),
Its Use will fasten slavish Chains upon my Country,
And Liberty's the Goddess I would choose
To reign triumphant in America!”
“Bravo!” cried honest Jack; “I have rarely heard such
verses! Permit me, my dear Miss Seraphina, to have them
put in the `Gazette.' ”
“O, I never could consent,” murmurs Miss Seraphina, in
confusion.
“Genius must be treated with gentle force, my dear
madam,” says Mr. Hamilton; “I'll strike out the words,
`to all at Vanely,” and all the colony shall admire you.'
That the gentleman carried out his threat is proved from
the fact that we have taken the verses from the old “Virginia
Gazette.”
The conversation then turns on a number of things, and
finally, at the request of Tom Alston, Bonnybel goes reluctantly
to the harpsichord and sings. The song is “Katherine
Ogie,” and the young lady sings it with deep sadness.
It sighs itself away, and she returns listlessly to her
seat.
“An exquisite tune,” says Mr. Alston, “and 't is Harry's
great favorite. By the bye, Miss Bonnybel, where is Harry?”
“I really do not know, sir,” is the reply; “in town, I
suppose, where we left him, or rather he left us.”
And Bonnybel's sadness changes to a pout.
“Harry's not in town, my child,” says the voice of Colonel
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Vane, behind them, “and I'm sorry to say that his life is in
danger.”
Bonnybel rose to her feet with a start, turning pale as
death, but instantly fell again in the chair.
“He is at `Flower of Hundreds,' ” continued the colonel,
sorrowfully, “and he was brought thither yesterday, by
Captain Waters, in one of the sail-boats. The account is,
that the boatman was hailed by Captain Waters, at Jamestown,
and going ashore found Harry lying on the grass,
bleeding from a wound in the breast. I know who's to
blame for it!” added the colonel, flushing, “and if the boy
dies, I'll pursue him to the end of the earth!”
He was diverted from his wrath by a sudden exclamation
from Helen. Bonnybel had caught her sister's arm, to prevent
herself from fainting. In a few minutes she was weeping
in her chamber, in the arms of Helen, who cried with
her.
She heard the two gentlemen mount their horses hastily,
and ride away at full gallop, and then the chariot rolled up
to the door.
“O, I'll go too!” cried Bonnybel, starting up. “I would
die of suspense here! Come, sister!”
And breaking away from Helen, she hastily descended,
just as the colonel and Aunt Mabel were entering the coach.
Helen followed, and they soon reached “Flower of Hundreds.”
The colonel and Aunt Mabel went to St. John's chamber,
the young ladies remaining in the sitting-room. Bonnybel
resembled a statue; she did not move or speak, but, from
time to time, her vacant eyes were raised to the pictures
they had looked upon together.
As the slow step of the colonel was heard descending
the stairs, she started, her cheeks flushed—she rose, and
hastened to the door.
“How is he?” she said, in a low tone.
“Badly hurt, but not dangerously,” returned the colonel;
“the wound was got in a duel with that man Lindon, at
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Jamestown island; the letter which you wrote, my child,
before the assembly, turned the weapon, and, in all probability,
saved his life. The doctor and his friends are now
with him, and they think that a month's confinement will
be all.”
Bonnybel drew a long, labored breath, went slowly to the
window, looking forth on the river, and there she remained
without turning her head.
She was crying like a child, but they were tears of joy.
CHAPTER LIV. TWO HEARTS.
St. John had a vigorous constitution, and his wound soon
ceased to make him suffer acutely. The doctor directed
entire quiescence for some time, however, and thus the young
man was confined to his room and his bed still.
It was a great favor, which he at last obtained, to be permitted
to rise, and lie, in his dressing gown, on a couch
in the drawing-room, and while Lindon was still turning
and tossing with fever, in his close quarters in town, St.
John was inhaling the breath of leaves and flowers.
Many friends flocked to cheer his hours of weariness, and
we need not say that the Vanely family were not remiss.
Tom Alston assumed his most foppish air to make him
laugh; Jack Hamilton told a hundred stories of fox hunting
and frolicking; Captain Waters related endless anecdotes
of his campaigns. With shoulders drooping, and
dreamy looking eyes, as he thrummed on his chair, the worthy
soldier recalled, for his companion's amusement, a thousand
tales and remembrances. He made his brilliant and
joyous youth rise again; he beat, or was beaten again by
the French; he fought all his battles over with sighs or
careless laughter.
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But of all the friendly and sympathizing faces which gathered
round him, during those long hours of suffering and
weakness, there was one which contributed more powerfully
to the young man's recovery than all the rest.
We need scarcely say that this was the face of Bonnybel.
Claiming her privilege of cousin and old playmate, the
young lady, throwing aside all ceremony, came almost daily,
with her mother and sisters, to see the invalid, and St. John
experienced in her society a charm which seemed to make
him stronger day by day, as though by the influence of
magic.
Bonnybel was no longer the coquettish and mischievous
little fairy, such as we have seen her in former pages of this
history. She appeared suddenly to have changed her entire
character. She no longer laughed and jested at every thing
and nothing. All the little pouts, and “spites,” and ironies,
and angers, which had made her society so piquante, disappeared.
She became suddenly an earnest woman, full of
pity and sympathizing tenderness, and very soon a critical
observer might have seen, dawning in her eyes, and on
her tell-tale cheeks, the evidences of a warmer and more
profound emotion—the imperceptible light, and rosy dawn,
of a true woman's faithful love.
They spent hours and hours together, beneath the open
window, through which came the breath of vernal fields and
summer flowers, and Bonnybel seemed never weary gazing
at the fine landscape. From the lofty hill, the wooded banks
of the great river, studded with white mansions, embowered
in green foliage, stretched far away, and disappeared in the
mists of the horizon; the broad current glittered with the
snowy sails of sea-bound barks or those returning home from
distant lands; the forests, day by day, assumed a deeper
and more beautiful emerald; the summer came apace, completing
with its warmth and fuller radiance, the influence of
the fresh spring, and in the heart of the young lady, also, all
those vague emotions of the past came gradually to combine
and ripen into the warm summer of love.
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It is out of our power to trace, with greater distinctness,
the successive steps by which the girl approached this supreme
point in the life of a woman. We would not, if we
could. Such topics should not be lightly handled. A poet
says:
“Two happier lovers never met
In dear and talk-charmed privacy.
The memories of happier hours
Are like the cordials pressed from flowers
And madden sweetly. I impart
Nought of the love talk I remember,
For May's young pleasures are best hid
From the cold prudence of December,
Which clips and chills all vernal wings;
And love's own sanctities forbid,
Now, as of old, such gossippings
In halls, of what befalls in bowers.”
We prefer to simply state the fact that the result of those
hours of quiet talk, or more expressive silence, was an affection,
on the part of the young lady, as warm and true as
that of her lover. Doubtless it commenced in her woman's
pity for suffering, and tender sympathy for him who suffered,
but ere long this sympathy was needless, for he grew
stronger day by day; still the feeling of the young lady
deepened.
No word had been spoken by either, but the language of
the eyes is superior to all words. All around them soon
perceived what they thought so wholly concealed, and by a
series of accidents, Mr. St. John's visitors were all called
away when Bonnybel came to see him. They would talk
alone for hours, the fresh breeze moving her bright curls,
or bringing back the color to his pale thin cheeks, and then
they would part with a long look, which needed no words
to express its meaning.
It was one evening when, having arisen from his sick
couch, and received permission to ride out, St. John went
with Bonnybel to Vanely, that he found the moment.
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It was a lovely evening, and the sun was just setting, as
they drew near the old hall. In the east, a luminous halo
preceded the rising of the moon, and a single star, suspended,
like a lamp of fire, in the rosy atmosphere, delicately scintillated,
gathering clearer radiance as the purple margin of the
sunset grew more pale.
In a moment, the two hearts beat together; he understood
what had angered and pained him so much; she had
loved him and expected him to return; her suffering had
been greater than his own.
They reached the old hall, and now, when the pale, weak
young man assisted her from the saddle, she did not pout or
reprimand him.
The curious moon, looking down, saw a man holding
closely to his breast a woman—a woman who smiled through
her tears—that was all.
They had plighted their troth.
CHAPTER LV. WHICH COMMENCES THE SECOND PORTION OF THE HISTORY.
With the words which we have just written, we should
be glad to conclude our history. The young and kindhearted,
everywhere, would thank us, for, to this class, nothing
is so pleasant as happiness and sunshine. St. John would
be remembered as one happy in the possession of a truehearted
woman; Bonnybel, as the bride of the man whom
she preferred, above all the world, for her husband.
But, alas! human life is not made up entirely of sunshine.
It is often when the day is brightest, that the dark folds of
the thunder cloud sweep from the horizon, and blacken the
most brilliant landscape. It was so in the lives of these
lovers, and the duty of their historian is to tell all he knows.
In some points of view, perhaps, this duty is of advantage
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to the history. For this volume has two themes, two aims:
the story of a man and a woman; the history, also, of a
period in the annals of a nation.
We have followed the steps of these two persons toward
the point where their hands clasped; we have witnessed
the gradual narrowing of the space which separated two
lands from the battle-field, where hearts, long united, would
be torn asunder, where squadrons would clash, and blood
flow like water. Let us now look again on the columns
marching to the conflict, from which a new world was to
rise, like a colossal form of Victory, its face to the morning
and the stars of glory on its brow. Let us also see what
befell the two main personages of the history. There are
clouds and sunshine in both pictures.
For a month, St. John was wholly and completely happy.
If, before, the whole world appeared brighter and lovelier
in his eyes, it was now wholly transfigured, for he was
blessed with the fruition of his dearest wish. Like the sun
shining out after a storm, his present joy was more fresh
and brilliant for the hours of gloom which had preceded it.
The woman whom he loved, loved him in return, and every
one at Vanely sincerely rejoiced. The young man had
twined himself around the hearts of old and young, and the
parents of the young lady hailed with joy the closer bond
which was about to unite them to the young man; he had
been like a son always to them, now he would be really
such.
Bonnybel bore her “new honors” with some blushes, but
a serene, tranquil happiness. All her wildness and mischief
had departed; she no longer laughed or jested; she was
content to be silent and happy.
It was arranged that the marriage should take place at
the end of summer, and the young lady and her companion
had a hundred confidential talks on the arrangements which
that event would make necessary. It was at last decided
that, after a month spent at Vanely, they should go to
“Flower of Hundreds,” and settle down permanently; thus
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Mr. St. John would be what he wished to be, an honest
country gentleman. He would cultivate his patrimonial
acres, and never dream of Indians or war any more!
His old ambition seemed to him, as he pondered and
smiled now, like a dream of the night, a mere foolish fancy.
Indians? That they should concern him was supremely
ridiculous! He had other things to think of—his wife!
Thus a month fled away, and one morning the young man
mounted “Tallyho” to go to Williamsburg, where he had
to attend to some pecuniary matters, and see to having the
old house of “Flower of Hundreds” refitted for the abode
of its future mistress.
“Are you sure you'll not forget me?” said Bonnybel,
archly, and blushing, as he bade her farewell; “a whole
week! what a long, long time!”
“It is a century to me,” he replied, gazing with pride
and admiration on the girl; “but I'll try not to forget you,
if you will promise me as much.”
The foollish, idle thought was not worth replying to, she
said, smiling; he would write to her?
“Every day—could she think he would neglect it?”
And with a heavy heart the young man vaulted into the
saddle. “Tallyho” departed at a gallop, but his master did
not see the road before him. His head was turned backward,
his eyes fixed on a woman, who waved her white
handkerchief; at last the forest intervened; they were
parted for the first time since that moonlit evening.
Let us now leave the happy fields of Vanely, and its cheerful
faces, and following St. John, reënter the old capital.
From this center and heart flows already the fiery blood of
revolution; here, also, fell that cloud, which we have spoken
of, on the young man who thought his life all sunshine.
It was the afternoon of the first of August when St.
John rode into Williamsburg and stopped at the Raleigh
tavern.
As he approached the door, a concourse of gentlemen
were issuing forth, and he recognized the members of the
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House of Burgesses, which Dunmore had dissolved more
than two months before.
Suddenly he saw, in front of him, the stranger of the old
church at Richmond.
The stranger was talking with one of the members, but
his clear, penetrating eye having caught sight of St. John,
he ended his colloquy and approached the young man.
“Welcome, friend,” he said, in his deep, calm voice; “I
have not seen you of late, as was very natural. You have
recovered?”
“Yes, perfectly. So you knew of my accident?”
“Of course; the whole province knows it. Your adversary
has just gotten out again.”
“Well, I'm glad of that, and accounts are closed, I think,
between us. But this meeting, this assemblage!”
“It is the first Virginia Convention. You arrive too late.”
“I am sorry, but I can at least compliment you on your
foresight. This is the second prediction which you made;
both, I see, are now accomplished.”
“My prediction?” said the stranger; “it was scarcely
such. Prophets are inspired, and speak from their inspiration.
I was simply informed in advance. I have an advantage
over you. To the uneducated eye of the mere looker
on, Virginia advances blindly, and without knowing what
she does; to me, as to those who know, her whole career is
the result of a logical, mathematical set of premises; the accomplishment,
in open day, of what Henry and the great
leaders have resolved on in council.”*
“Ah, I understand!”
“This was to do—it is done,” continued the stranger;
“the sword was drawn, the blow has now been struck. Do
you know what the blow is?”
“Tell me.”
“This convention of delegates, elected by the people of
Virginia, has just affirmed the action of the House, making
common cause with the people of Boston to the very death,
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and breaking off wholly all commercial connection with England.”
“That is well.”
“What remains is better. Do you remember that the
articles of association, on the occasion of the dissolution, recommended
a general congress?”
“I remember.”
“Well, that congress is now resolved on. Delegates have
just been appointed: Peyton Randolph, Richard Henry Lee,
George Washington, Patrick Henry, Richard Bland, Benjamin
Harrison, and Edmund Pendleton.”
“A noble array of names.”
“A constellation of glory and victory!” said the stranger,
in his deep, earnest voice; “our Virginia noblemen, by
God's patent, not the king's! Do you know the instructions
they carry in their hands? Listen to the ending—I
have it by heart: `If the said General Gage conceives he is
empowered to act in this manner, as the commander-in-chief
of his Majesty's forces in America, this odious and illegal
proclamation must be considered as a plain and full declaration
that this despotic viceroy will be bound by no law, nor
regard the constitutional rights of his Majesty's subjects
whenever they interfere with the plans he has formed for
oppressing the good people of Massachusetts Bay, and, therefore,
the executing, or attempting to execute, such proclamation
will justify resistance and reprisal.' This is what
the delegates of Virginia take to the general continental
congress, to meet in Philadelphia on the 5th of September,
and it is enough! No matter whether 't is General Gage,
or the government represented by him, which we are to resist
and execute reprisals on! I defy a million casuists to
change the issue when the cannon begin to roar!”
“You are right,” said St. John, thoughtfully, “it is really
England which these instructions defy.”
“Nothing less,” replied the stranger, opening a pamphlet
which he carried folded in his hand, “and here is the defiance
at greater length.”
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“What is that?”
“See! `A Summary View of the Rights of British
America.'”
“By whom?”
“Mr. Thomas Jefferson.”
“Ah! the man of the mathematical logic, the irreverent
genius, the overturner!”
“Yes, the pick-ax, as Henry is the gunpowder. Take
this pamphlet and read it, friend. See its noble sentiments:
`the whole art of government consists in the art of being
honest!' Weigh attentively its inexorable logic, treading
upon thrones and principalities! See how I uttered the
simplest truth when I told you that this man, Jefferson,
would be one of the eagles of the storm! In this pamphlet,
which will probably cause his attainder for treason, the great
issue is defined with irresistible vigor and unflinching exactness;
these pages are the statement of the quarrel, the
watch-word of resistance — revolution!* Every moment
that revolution advances! We have looked for it almost
with tears and groans! Now it comes, with gigantic strides,
as I speak! Ten years ago, Patrick Henry said to me:
`Even now you may scent the odor of the coming storm!'
Well, friend, that odor gathers closer and more intense, but
it is not suffocating! It fills the veins of thousands with fierce
heat—of thousands who are taking down their old swords and
fire-arms. The gloomy cloud droops above, and the world
lies in darkness, but wait, friend, wait! be not doubtful!
From this gloom will leap the lightning of an oppressed people's
indignation; woe to those who are struck by the bolt!”
“You speak in a voice which leaves no room for answer,”
said his companion. “I will take this pamphlet and read
it; but I fear I shall be a worthless proselyte.”
“No, you belong to Virginia, and will take your part.”
St. John smiled.
“Do you know why I think I shall not accomplish much,
friend?” he said.
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“No.”
“I am happy.”
And the young man's eyes wandered, with a tranquil light
in them, toward the far south-west.
“You have been frank with me, friend,” he said to the
stranger; “you unrolled before me your whole past life—I
will not be so unfriendly as to conceal my own. I love and
am beloved by the noblest woman in the land, and in her love
I find the consummation of my hopes and dreams. Do you
understand now why I am a bad instrument of revolution?”
And the young man looked at the stranger with an air of
tranquil happiness.
The stranger for a time did not speak, but gazing at his
companion, seemed to muse sadly. This expression of sadness
deepened into sorrow as he reflected, and at last, shaking
his head, he muttered,
“Youth! youth! what a grand thing it is! how full of
trust!”
“What did you say?” asked St. John; “speak out your
thoughts.”
“Perhaps I had better not, friend,” said the stranger,
sadly; “they are not happy thoughts.”
“Let me share at least your griefs.”
“I have none, and I only mused, as do all men who have
seen wither and fade the blossoms and flowers of their
dreams.”
“Speak, friend!” said St. John, “I wish to hear your
thought.”
“It will not appear rational to you, but I may as well
utter it. Well, you think the future is clear and happy, do
you not?”
“Yes.”
“That you are assured of this happiness—certain to
reap?”
“I think I am.”
“You think that no clouds can rise, no thunderbolts descend?”
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“No clouds which love can not dissipate, no thunderbolts
which happiness will not turn aside.”
The stranger shook his head.
“I thought so once, too,” he muttered, “but it came.
Take care! be not too certain! Do not think that Heaven
will permit you to withdraw yourself from the contest.”
St. John smiled.
“You speak to a man demented by a possessing thought,
a single image,” he said; “your words do not convince me.”
“Well, perhaps they had better have not been uttered.
But the future is dark—we know not what may happen. I
see that for the present I have lost a coadjutor, for you are
happy and content. If that happiness changes to sadness,
that content to suffering and pain, then you will come back
to the struggle from which you are now taken. If that
event happens, come and put your hand on my shoulder—I
will support you. My words seem idle, friend, but they
may be the best rationality for you if the darkness comes.
Do you see that tall house yonder rising above the suburbs?
That is my working place, you know, and there you will
find me! I hope you will not come. I trust I may be a
mere raven, like Virgil's, croaking from the hollow tree;
but the future for all of us lies in the hand of God. Now
I will take my leave, as I have much to attend to. I shall
see you again.”
And exchanging a grasp of the hand with St. John, the
stranger left him, and disappeared in the moving throng before
the door of the tavern.
The young man looked after him with a sad smile.
“There goes one who has suffered much,” he muttered,
“and he fears that I will suffer. He does not know the
depth and security of my happiness, poor heart! He does
not know that Bonnybel and myself are united by a tie
which destiny itself is powerless to burst asunder!”
He spoke with a smile, and so went into the Raleigh.
eaf510n35* Historical Illustrations, No. XXXIV.
eaf510n36* Historical Illustrations, No. XXXV.
-- 292 -- p510-297
CHAPTER LVI. HOW CAPTAIN WATERS PLUCKED ALL HIS GEESE.
[figure description] Page 292.[end figure description]
It was on the afternoon of the next day that St. John,
while going along with his head bent down, struck suddenly
against an object approaching, as he was leaving, the
Raleigh tavern.
He raised his head and found that the object was Captain
Waters, who had been going along in the same thoughtful
way.
There was this difference, however, between the musings
of the friends; those of St. John were happy, while Captain
Ralph was evidently sad.
“I'm delighted to see you, my dear captain,” said St.
John, holding out his hand, “and must beg your pardon for
nearly knocking you down. What news?”
The captain pressed his friend's hand with melancholy
pleasure, and with a countenance elongated to an extent
really deplorable, replied, sadly,
“Absolutely nothing, my dear comrade, unless you call
the convention here, and a dreadful disappointment I have
suffered, news.”
“A dreadful disappointment!”
“Yes, my friend, nothing less,” groaned the captain, “a
real staggerer.”
“You pain me,” said St. John, scanning the mortified
face of his companion; “come, be friendly, and tell me your
trouble as I told you mine. Perhaps I can serve you as you
served me.”
The captain shook his head.
“Impossible, mon ami,” he groaned, “actually impossible.
Morbleu! how black that sunshine is!”
And the captain drew down the corners of his mouth, and,
consequently, the midnight fringe which covered them, in
a way which indicated actual despair.
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“You look at me curiously, my boy,” he said, after a moment;
“you lament my distress. You will lament it more
when I tell you about it, and will see that you can't relieve
it. I succeeded tolerably well in hatching that little affair
between you and Lindon, who is just getting out again, but
you can not reciprocate the favor. It has some relation to
that little circumstance at Jamestown island, but the similarity
soon ends. You can't help me, miserable wretch that
I am! You can not be of the least service to me!”
And the captain groaned again. This time he almost
sobbed.
“I see you are dying to hear about it, comrade,” he continued,
after a disconsolate pause, “and I do n't mind telling
you every thing. But let us go and get a cup of Canary—
I'm choking.”
With which words Captain Ralph led the way into the
domain of mine host of the Raleigh, and being supplied
with what he demanded, drew St. John into a corner of the
apartment, and sitting down, proceeded to his disappointment.
“Fancy me lounging yonder at home, mon ami,” he said,
“after seeing you well through that little affair with Lindon,
and behold me, as the French lingo has it, idle, sombre, becoming
gradually a prey to the blue devils. They assaulted
me even when you were sick, and that's why I told you all
those adventures and wore out your patience with stories!
Do n't deny it, comrade, you are too polite. My own
opinion is, that those narratives delayed your recovery at
least a fortnight! You smile—you think I'm a farceur!
My friend, I am not; I am plunged into despair. But to
proceed.”
And taking another draught of the Canary, the soldier
sighed and continued.
“Back to Flodden once more, as I said, companion, I became
a prey to the blue imps, and all day long I thought of
nothing but my disappointment in the matter of drawing
Foy into a duel. In vain did madam, that paragon of
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women, endeavor to extract from me the origin of my low
spirits. In vain did Master Ralph Waters, that noblest of
urchins, and most indefatigable of dirt pie fabricators, climb
up my knees, and beg for a caress. I motioned Madame
Henriette away—I sent Master Ralph to the nursery. Every
day I grew thinner, and was rapidly becoming weary of life
under the ungentlemanly persecution of that fellow, Foy,
who has treated me abominably. You see it was his refusal
to fight me, mon ami, which caused my melancholy, and I
was in despair.
“Well, things were in this condition, when, one morning
I read in the `Virginia Gazette,' that their honors, the delegates
of the colony, would meet in convention in a day or
two, at Williamsburg; and no sooner had I persued this
announcement than a fortunate or unfortunate idea at once
struck me. Foy had refused to fight me on the ground of
his secretaryship. Now I would place myself on an equality
with him, by becoming the secretary of the convention.
Do n't you see? I do n't mind saying I'm rather proud of
the idea, and I proceeded immediately to put it into execution.
I got a bundle of paper as big as a horse could carry,
a fascine of pens, which Madame Henriette made by reducing
all the geese on the plantation to a state of nature, and
having thus prepared for my civil duties, the ink being left
to the liberality of the convention, I hunted up my best
sword, and spent an entire day in burnishing my accoutrements.
On the next morning I set out in my carriage, bidding
a triumphant adieu to that paragon of women, Madame
Henriette, who was dying with curiosity—her only failing,
my friend—and in due time I reached Williamsburg.”
The captain stopped to sip his Canary, in the midst of
smiles from Mr. St. John.
“I arrived just in time,” continued the narrator, “and by
the influence of my friends, secured the post of secretary of
the convention, which I, however, paid a deputy, an excellent
scrivener, to perform the duties of. You see, however,
I was de jure, as Jack Hamilton is fond of saying, the
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secretary, and I rubbed my sword again, until I could see my
face in it. As to the paper and quills, the deputy took them,
while I went after Foy.
“I called at the palace—his secretaryship was at Montebello,
the residence, some six miles below town, of his Excellency,
the noble Dunmore. I got into the saddle, and
went to Montebello; his secretaryship sent me word that he
was engaged in important business with his lordship, and
begged to be excused. You may know I came back in a
furious bad humor, and so I remained until this morning.
“I then heard that Foy had returned, and dressing myself
in this elegant suit, and girding on this pretty little parade
sword, I repeated my call at the palace.
“I heard Foy say to the servant, `Tell him, pest that he
is! tell him I have not returned!' The lackey was delivering
this message when I pushed him aside, and went in.
“Foy was sitting at his table, the same one, I doubt not,
mon ami, from behind which his Excellency scolded you,
and from the pile of papers before him, I suppose he was
busy. We look at each other for a moment, and Foy frowns.
I smile and bow.
“ `I am really distressed to disturb you, my dear Foy,' I
say, `but you will permit me to say that 't was scarcely
friendly to deny yourself thus to an old comrade.'
“ `I am busy, Captain Waters,' he replies, with a grand
air.
“ `I thought Conolly was gone, my dear friend,' I say;
for, you see, I wanted to get him up to the point. Once
aroused, I knew I had him.
“At the words, `I thought Conolly was gone,' his pale
face flushes, as I expected, and he rises and says,
“ `Captain Waters, this is the third or fourth time you
have been pleased to connect me with Major Conolly, his
Excellency's agent—'
“ `Ah! he is his Excellency's agent,' I interrupt; `you acknowledge
it?'
“ `I acknowledge nothing, sir!' he says, growing hot at
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[figure description] Page 296.[end figure description]
his blunder, `I only say that your persevering intrusion upon
me, and your insinuations, are insulting, offensive, and
such as I shall not longer endure!'
“My dear St. John,” continued the captain, smiling,
“when Foy said that, growing red as he spoke, I felt a happiness
which I have not before experienced for a long time.
I saw that I had fortunately come on him in an irritable
moment, when the best of us, you know, can't keep cool,
and I expected much from this circumstance.
“ `My dear Foy,' I say, `do you really consider that question
insulting? Well, I'll tell you in confidence, I meant
it to be so; not in any bad spirit, for I have a positive affection
for you, and would not wound your feelings for worlds,
but, you see, I have set my heart on fighting you.'
“I said all this with so much good feeling, that my gentleman
saw, I suppose, that I uttered the truth. He sat
down, coldly, and I read, in his keen eye, that he felt he
had all to lose and nothing to gain by the encounter, and
that his best revenge for my insult was to take no notice
of it.
“ `Sir,' he said, in his grand way, `you seem actually demented,
and did I not know the eccentricity of your character,
I should not suffer this offense to pass unanswered. I
shall not so proceed, however, sir, and I request that this
interview may end. I have repeatedly assured you that my
post of secretary, in the service of his Excellency, renders it
impossible for me to accept your defiance; you know me
perfectly well, sir, and are doubtless aware that I place much
restraint upon my feelings in refusing.'
“ `Know you! my dear Foy!' I reply, `like the word of
command! You're as brave as steel, and I offer you a little
affair whereby you may prove it to these stupid Virginians,
persons wholly ignorant of your valorous deeds at
Minden, and a thousand other places.'
“ `I repeat, sir,' he says, coldly, `that this duel is impossible.'
“ `Why? On account of your secretaryship, eh?'
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“ `Yes, sir.'
“ `That makes the combat unequal?'
“ `It does, sir.'
“ `Well,' I say, triumphantly, `suppose we stood on equal
grounds, would things be changed?'
“ `Yes, sir, and as I said before, it would give me extreme
pleasure to cut your throat,' replies Foy, making me the
most elegantly sneering salute.
“I did not notice it; I got ready my blow.
“ `It gives me real happiness to inform you, my dear Foy,'
I say, `that the equality which you mention really exists.
I am secretary of the convention of Virginia, and here is a
parchment evidence of it, sworn to by three witnesses—I
added the third for safety. This paper, my dear Foy, proves
what I say, and now I suppose you will no longer refuse.
Come, let us make the arrangements; I'm dying to learn
the coup of Reinfels, and if I kill you, I shall bless your
memory.'
“My gentleman looks, with the strongest astonishment,
on the paper, and says,
“ `Captain Waters, you seem really crazy.'
“ `My dear Foy,' I reply, smiling, `you seem to me absolutely
stupid.'
“ `Captain Waters, I shall suffer no more insults!' says my
gentleman, flushing. `Take back your parchment, sir, the
evidence of your participation in a treasonable assemblage;
take it back, sir, and I advise you to destroy it. Otherwise
you will suffer by it when the government makes its investigations
into the riotous conduct of the inhabitants of the
colony. I give you this advice, sir, as an old companion,
and I refuse to have you arrested, as I might, because we
have fought and slept together. Go, captain! let us proceed
different ways; at present, I repeat that I neither can
nor will fight you, but if it is any consolation, I announce to
you that, in all probability, the time will soon arrive when
I shall show you your favorite coup. I do not pretend to
think that we are not enemies; we are, for we espouse
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different sides. If you can kill me, do so; when the time
comes, I have good hopes of performing that ceremony for
yourself!'
“And bowing, with an air of the most odious elegance,
the confounded fellow bent over his papers again. I had
nothing to reply, my dear friend,” finished the captain. “I
could not force Foy to recognize the validity of my appointment
as secretary, when he conscientiously doubted. I was
beaten, driven back, disappointed, conquered completely.
I only shook my head, and bidding Foy adieu, came away.
At the door I met his Excellency, whom I saluted, and so I
was returning, sorrowfully, when I ran up against you.
Miserable and detestable fate!” added the captain, “which
pushes me eternally away from this snake. But even in the
depths of my disappointment, I'll not despair. I'll yet wait
for happier times.”
The captain finished his Canary, and rose, St. John, having
listened with the utmost attention, and not without
laughter, to his narrative.
“Perhaps resignation is the best, my dear captain,” he
said, “and I can feel for you in your distress. I have listened
to your relation with much entertainment, and 't is
certainly another touch added to Captain Foy in my imagination.
He seems to me a mixture of the soldier and the
diplomatist, the tiger and the lamb.”
“Exactly,” said the captain, “that hits him to the very
letter.”
“Well, may be his lamb's fleece will fall off and he will
show his teeth. Let us hope for the best!”
And, laughing, St. John rose and followed the soldier to
the street.
As they reached the portico of the tavern, St. John saw
Lindon pass, and the two adversaries exchanged a ceremonious
salute. On the part of St. John, this salute was perfectly
polite and frank; on the part of Lindon, formal and
almost haughty, his dark eyes glittering with a sinister ex
-- 299 -- p510-304
[figure description] Page 299.[end figure description]
pression in his pale, cold face, as he passed on and disappeared.
“There's another of the snakes, if I'm not greatly mistaken,”
said the captain, “and I advise you to keep a good
look-out when you pass dark corners. A man with an eye
like that can't possibly be honest, and now, my dear friend,
I must return home. To our next meeting!”
And the friends separated—the captain to mount his
horse, St. John to attend to the business which brought
him to Williamsburg.
CHAPTER LVII. SOME OLD FRIENDS—AT LEAST THE AUTHOR HOPES SO.
*
St. John's business was nothing more nor less, says our
author, than some pecuniary arrangements in connection
with his proposed embarkation upon the seas of matrimony,
and the agent in these arrangements was a certain Mr.
A. Z. Smith, factor.
We should like to pause in our narrative, and once more
enter the small warehouse of the worthy factor, salute the
round-faced shopboy, who, as of old, presides with smiles
over the domain of tin pans and flitches, whips and boxes
of tobacco, in perennial youth. We should like to enter the
little counting-room beyond, where Mr. A. Z. Smith, as in
old days, transacts his real business with his courtly customers,
and taste his rum, and see the picture of his mustachioed
aneestor, and admire his great ledgers chronicling the business
of a lifetime. But, unfortunately, Mr. A. Z. Smith,
factor, is not destined to affect the current of our narrative,
which runs in other channels past the little shop.
Mr. St. John was with Mr. A. Z. Smith a portion of every
day, and the smiling little factor made him his best bows
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when he appeared, and went away; that salute of familiar
respect which the wealthy bourgeois bestowed at the period
on one of the gentry.
After these business interviews Mr. St. John was idle
for the rest of the day, and one morning he thought he
would take a gallop into the country for the benefit of the
air.
He accordingly mounted Tallyho, and putting spur to
that spirited animal, was soon beyond the limits of the town,
carcering through the summer forest, in the direction of
Captain Ralph's.
Tallyho seemed to think that the choice of the road was
left to himself, and his master soon found that he had diverged
from the highway, and that they had arrived in front
of a certain mansion known as the “Trap,” where resided
a certain Mr. Jack Hamilton.
“Well,” said the young man, smiling, “why not go in
and see Jack? I'm idle, and I'll stop.”
With which words he halted and dismounted before the
mansion.
An old gray-haired African came, respectfully, to take the
bridle of one of the new generation, and this bridle was
loftily relinquished by the perennial old nobleman of the
stables to a grotesque individual about four feet high, addressed
by the euphonious name of Crow.
Mr. Crow still rolled in his gait, distended his large popped
eyes, grinned from ear to ear, and if he did not turn summersets,
danced as before, with like danger of trenching on
the rights of his sweeping coat skirts.
Mr. Hamilton received his friend with great cordiality,
and laughed heartily when, over a bottle of claret, Mr. St.
John related the interview between Captain Waters and
the secretary.
“The fact is, my dear St. John,” he said, “our friend,
Waters, is a trump, and sooner or later, I predict, will run
the secretary through the body. Eh? Do n't you think so?”
“Not unlikely.”
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“He'll do his work better than you did in the case of
Lindon.”
“I'm very glad of the result in that case, my dear Hamilton.”
“Glad?”
“Certainly; you see, I'm naturally indisposed to shed
blood, and I was forced into that duel. I begin to think all
duels folly though, and there's the whole matter.”
Hamilton laughed.
“I understand,” he said; “there's a little angel who's
been talking to you, doubtless—come, do n't blush, my boy,
she certainly is an angel, and if I'm not mistaken, you wish
to monopolize her.”
St. John stopped blushing, and smiled.
“See how the world is given to scandal,” he said.
“Scandal,” exclaimed his friend; “do you deny it?”
“I will reply by asking you a question, my friend.”
“Ask it, Harry, my boy.”
“Do n't you understand the real motive of my visits to
Vanely?”
“I think I do,” observed Mr. Hamilton, triumphantly;
“you go thither in order—”
“To see Colonel Vane on important business! Yes, I
perceive you know my affairs thoroughly!”
And Mr. St. John concluded with a burst of laughter
which caused Jack Hamilton to look rather sheepish.
“I've plainly got the better of you, my dear fellow,” said
St. John, “and now I shall leave you to continue my ride.
I want exercise—come, go with me.”
“Willingly; I have a little message for the squire at the
Hall yonder—let us go there.”
Mr. St. John assented, and very soon the two friends were
in the saddle and on their way to Effingham Hall. The
old mansion ere long rose before them, and they passed beneath
the great trees, and stopped at the door.
On the portico, the old squire, now grown gray, but lusty
and determined as before, was arguing vigorously with his
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old neighbor, Mr. Lee, on whose head had also descended
the snows of those ten additional winters. As in long past
days, the squire indignantly denied the propositions of his
friend before they were enunciated, and, in contrast to all
this violent discussion of the gray heads, at their feet a child
was busily weaving larkspurs—those little flowers resembling
goblin hoods—into a wreath, intent upon her toil and
wholly indifferent to the progress of the argument.
Mr. Champ Effingham and Madam Clare came forth to
welcome their friends—the one calm and serene, the other
smiling and bright—and behind these, Mr. William Effingham,
raised his intelligent head, and shot a stately smile;
one hand extended courteously, the other supporting a form
leaning on his arm.
Before this latter, says our worthy author, with her joy
and beauty, and perennial loveliness and goodness; before
Kate Effingham, now as in old days, the queen of purity
and meekness, the present chronicler bends to the very
ground, and takes his hat off and does homage, as in presence
of an empress. Not in vain has his pen, gliding
through the hours, and taking him from present scenes to
older days and figures; not in vain has his pen labored, as
the painter's brush does, to delineate the lovely visions of
the past, when this fair form remains to speak of him.
Among those faces and characters which he tried to draw,
and which he is fain to hope, the readers of the present
chronicle will have also looked on—among all the figures
of his former history, not one contents him but this maiden.
Everywhere something is to add to make the drawing
worthier, something to take away, an outline to round, a
trait to expand; but here he can add nothing. Not from
his idle imagination could this picture have proceeded—this
vision of purity and joy. A portrait painter simply, he can
claim no laurels such as are justly due to the great artist
originating from an inner impulse something new and beautiful.
Old letters, yellow and faded, and crumbling into
dust, told of that fairest maiden; and her portrait yonder,
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[figure description] Page 303.[end figure description]
laughing on my wall, spoke audibly the words I read, with
pensive smiles, from the old sheet her snowy fingers rested
on. I read those dear old letters often—letters commencing,
“Dearest Bonnybel,” and ending, “Your own Kate”—
and thus, with these memorials, I knew what loveliness and
goodness the original of the portrait was endowed with.
Then with this image of the maiden of the last century,
blended the fair figure of a child of the present age—a child
of such rare and touching purity and truth, that thinking of
her now, I grow young again almost, and live in the scenes
of other years—bright years which have flown, but left behind
the aroma of their joy and tenderness, and sunshine.
Thus I am satisfied, as far as that is possible in any instance,
with the picture of this maiden—I have nothing to add, no
trait to change. I shall never do the like again, and I dare
not introduce her into the present history, or even so much
as repeat her letters. As she passes before me smiling and
beautiful, with the light on her hair and in her tender eyes;
as she glides on thus like a vision or a dream; I stand aside
as she moves, and only smile as I look, and return to that
life which is poor and cold without her, for it holds no figure
adequate to represent her beauty!
After this fashion does our worthy old chronicler discourse
upon the subject of Mrs. William Effingham, which
lady seems to have been an extreme favorite with him. In
the former portion of this MSS. this feeling of complaisant
satisfaction with his work more than once appears, and as,
doubtless, the character of Miss Kate Effingham shone fairer
for him than it can for the reader, we may pardon his rhapsody,
as the harmless exhibition of that fondness for youthful
recollections, which frequently characterizes elderly gentlemen.
We should extract the author's account of Mr. St. John's
visit to Effingham Hall, which he describes at length, repeating
all the conversation of the personages, but unfortunately
our narrative leads us to more important scenes.
The friends remained to dinner, which was served at an
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[figure description] Page 304.[end figure description]
early hour, and then departing, the two gentlemen returned
homeward—Mr. Hamilton to the “Trap,” and Mr. St. John
toward Williamsburg.
His route lay in the direction of the old field school,
and just as he came opposite that sylvan academe, Uncle
Jimmy Doubleday terminated the toil of the day, and gave
the summons of dismissal to his flock of chirping youngsters,
male and female.
eaf510n37* The worthy author of this chapter seems to refer to some scenes and
events in a previous history.
CHAPTER LVIII. THE SECOND WARNING.
The young man was in an idle mood, and attracted by
the fresh faces of the children, always favorites with him,
halted, and turning in his saddle, followed their gay gambols
with a pleased smile.
It was not long before a figure detached itself from the
merry flock of boys and girls, and this little figure approached
the fence, and made Mr. St. John a smiling curtesey.
It was Blossom, and the young lady seemed to experience
much pleasure in again meeting with her friend.
The man and the child had scarcely exchanged greetings
when Uncle Jimmy Doubleday himself made his appearance,
framed, like a gigantic pedagogue, in the doorway of the
old field school. Seeing Mr. St. John, Uncle Jimmy came
toward that gentleman, walking, with the dignity of a patriarch,
in the midst of his family and tribe.
“You behold a pleasing sight, my dear Mr. St. John,”
said Uncle Jimmy, taking off his great goggles, and extending
the hand holding them toward the flocks of children.
“I hold not with the heathen philosophers that children are
as ciphers in the state; to my mind, they are meadow flowers
which gladden the hearts of those who look upon them,
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[figure description] Page 305.[end figure description]
and in all the various relations of our life, wield mighty influences.”
Uncle Jimmy stooped, in a dignified way, to button a
negligent “point” of his splatterdashes as he spoke, and
then pulled his long waistcoat again carefully to his knees.
“I think with you, Mr. Doubleday,” replied the young
man smiling, “that they are great blessings; their affection
often outweighs that of older persons.”
“Yes, that is true,” said Uncle Jimmy, placing a fatherly
hand on the sunny curls of little Blossom, who stood demurely
by him, one foot based firmly on the ground, the
other poised upon the toe of her slipper—the neat stockings,
without crease or fold, beneath the short skirt; “that is
true, Mr. St. John, and in my little friend, Blossom, here,
who seems to know you, I recognize a treasure of goodness
and affection. Nay, do n't blush, my child; I like to praise
you for your dutiful and obedient conduct. I only wish you
would give a little of your character to that young scamp,
Paul, who narrowly escaped the birch this morning.”
And Uncle Jimmy smiled.
Before Blossom could defend her sweetheart, Uncle Jimmy
felt a hand on the skirt of his long coat, and turning
round, beheld the smiling physiognomy of Master Paul.
“I say, Uncle Jimmy,” said that young man, “I did n't
mean to hit you on the nose, shooting that pea. I was only
trying Bob Dandridge's popgun, and I did n't mean for it to
go off.”
“Behold, Mr. St. John, the depravity of the character of
children,” said Uncle Jimmy, with philosophic severity;
“this youth is really incorrigible; reproving does not affect
him in the least; he always begs off in a way which indicates
a natural genius for the forum.”
And Uncle Jimmy frowned at Paul, after which he turned
away his head to smile.
Whether Master Paul saw the smile or not, we can not
say, but he uttered the observation, “Uncle Jimmy, me and
Blossom like you very much,” after which the youngster
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ran to his pony, and putting Blossom up behind him, galloped
off toward “Roseland,” her father's cottage.
“Such is the nature of children,” said Uncle Jimmy,
smiling and taking a pinch of rapparee, which he offered to
his friend, “they laugh at every thing.”
“I think 't is a better philosophy than groaning,” said
St. John.
“Doubtless, but many disappointments await them; life
is a hard enemy. A decade from this moment and they will
change their merriment to sorrow, their smiles to sighing.”
St. John smiled.
“Then your theory questions the possibility of perfect
happiness to adults,” he said.
“Almost,” replied Uncle Jimmy.
“Suppose a grown man, as this child will be in the decade
you speak of; suppose such a man is loved devotedly
by a woman, all purity and truth,” said the young man,
smiling with his happy secret; “suppose the whole treasure
of a beautiful and noble nature is his own; is not that something
like the happiness you deny men?”
Uncle Jimmy shook his head.
“Time is uncertain,” he said; “woman more uncertain
than time.”
“Some are,” said St. John, laughing at his companion's
ignorance; “others are the pole stars of the earth.”
Uncle Jimmy shook his head again.
“It is well to look keenly to see whether the star we have
taken for the polar light, is not in the constellation of the
Serpent—Scorpio, my friend. Truly hath it been said by
Horatius,
“ `——uxorem cum dote fidemque et amicos
Et genus, et formam, regina Pecunia, donat;'
meaning, as you doubtless comprehend, that women are oft
swayed by worldly considerations. But let me not seem
uncharitable. Perhaps grief has soured me and clouded my
eyes. It is the old who chant the
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“ `Præcipe lugubres
Cantus, Melpomene,'
and beating their breasts cry, `Oh, Postumus! Postumus!
how the flying years glide away:
“ `Eheu fugaces, Postume, Postume!
Labuntur anni!' ”
And Uncle Jimmy sighed and was silent, betaking himself,
for consolation, to his snuff again.
In taking the box from his pocket, he dropped a letter,
which came out with it, and as this circumstance did not attract
his attention, St. John pointed to it.
Uncle Jimmy stooped to pick it up rather hastily, and the
young man's eye chanced to fall upon the direction. He
smiled, for it was in a lady's handwriting.
“That seems to be from a fair friend—is it not?” he said,
laughing.
“Y-es,” observed Uncle Jimmy, rather shyly, “it is from
a friend of mine.”
“A lady?”
“Well, yes, my dear Mr. St. John, but the affair is simply—
Platonic—simply that, upon my word, sir.”
And Uncle Jimmy put the letter in his pocket. St. John
did not say that the preaching and practicing of the philosopher
badly agreed, but he thought so, and thus triumphed.
After a little more friendly conversation, they parted, and
Uncle Jimmy returned toward the old field school house,
now deserted. Mr. St. John continued his way back to
Williamsburg, smiling.
“What an amusing illustration of human philosophy that
was!” he said, “but how strange that thus, for the second
time in three or four days, I have listened to a voice unconsciously
bidding me distrust my happiness, and prepare for
a change, for misery. The other day it was, `Heaven will
not permit you to rust in the sloth of happiness at such a
crisis;' to-day it is, `Woman are scorpions!' What sad
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philosophy! Ah, they do not know that the gift of this noble
love comes straight from heaven, and will purify me;
they do not know that whatever other women may be, this
one is nearly an angel in faithfulness and truth. A change
in her love! I should sooner look to see the star of evening
yonder dart from its orbit, and fade into nothing. How
unhappy must these poor hearts have been, to doubt the
certainty of my happiness!”
And smiling tranquilly, the young man went upon his
way.
CHAPTER LIX. HOW ST. JOHN DREW HIS SWORD, AND STRUCK AT A SHADOW.
“Williamsburg, Tuesday.
“My Dear Tom,
“I send you the contents of your memorandum, as far
as I could procure the articles, and am sorry to hear that
you are indisposed. I trust 't is but trifling. I might beg
your pardon for detaining Dick, and for sending an inferior
quality of hair powder, but I have been too much troubled
to have my right wits about me.
“Instead of trying to think of some news, which 't is certain
this execrable place do n't afford, I will proceed to tell
you the origin of my trouble. I do n't know if it 's a natural
weakness, or springs from the depth of the feeling I experience,
but I think it will relieve me to unburden my trouble
to a true friend like yourself, and perhaps you will be able
to give me some cheering view of the affair.
“I will announce the cause of my trouble at once. I
have just returned from Vanely, and the person that I love
more than the whole world has received me almost with
coldness.
“Can you imagine the possibility of that? Do n't you
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think I am out of my senses? You know, as so true a
friend deserved to know, the whole of my position there,
and every thing; and this knowledge will make you doubt
my sanity. When you have heard my narrative, however,
which I write with a heavy heart, you will be forced to believe
me.
“I had been here attending to my affairs for more than a
sen'night, when one morning, having dispatched my estimates—
for the building up yonder, you know—sooner than
I expected, I felt an absolute thirst for her society, and determined
to gallop all the way to Vanely to have a little of
it. Out of her presence I only breathe, I think—I do not
live, or enjoy existence. I had felt indeed for these seven
days during which I was absent, that the world would be but
a poor place for me without her; that I would not care to
live; and away from her now for even this small space, it
seemed to me that the sun did not shine as brightly, and that
even the orioles which flew over the roof tops sang almost
harshly. I'm not ashamed to say I love her with my whole
heart and soul, and I had to go and see her again!
“Well, I went, and although she received me with happy
smiles, I thought I discerned some constraint, and even a
certain coldness in her air. I make you my father confessor
for the nonce, and I pour my story into your friendly ear.
It troubles me, Tom, and I have to speak. I could not have
imagined this thing—making a buggaboo for my private
annoyance—I discerned this coolness plainly, for the eyes
of a man who feels as I do toward her, grow supernaturally
penetrating, his ears nervously sensitive to the most delicate
variations in the tone of voice. It seems to me that
since I have loved this beautiful girl, I have received the
faculty of plunging into her very soul, and often I have
read her very thoughts, and replied in such a way as to
startle her. I can not explain this thing, which I blunder
out without expressing my meaning in the least; but I
mean that every shadow passing over the mirror of her
mind seems to cloud my own; every happy thought in her
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bosom seems to be transferred to my own heart. I share
her disquiet, partake of her joy, and down to the least sentiment,
the most minute and varying emotion—what affects
her affects me, even before she has spoken—for I love
her.
“Whether you understand this rhapsodical passage or
not, it contains none the less the very simplest truth, and
the sympathy thus existing between us made me at once
aware that in some way her feeling for me had been modified.
The family did not observe the least change; and the
explanation of that fact was very simple. They might have
attributed a much greater constraint to mere bashfulness
at her position, always an embarrassing one, I am told, to
young girls. Certain it is they saw nothing.
“As I have told you over and over—for my distress makes
me garrulous and disconnected—I saw it distinctly. The
sailor sees and notes with attention and anxiety the cloud
no larger than the hand of a child on the far horizon of the
sea, while the landsman only looks up when the rain begins
to fall, or the thunder mutters and the lightnings flash!
The reason is, that, to the latter, it is but a question of rain
which he may avoid by entering his house, while the remote
speck for the sailor contains storm and tempest which
may plunge his craft beneath the hungry waves, and himself
with it.
“I weary you, Tom, with my poor wandering words, but
I repeat that this troubles me. I saw in her eyes that indefinable
shadow which indicates a change; there was no longer
the same sunny frankness, the same joy and abandonment,
if I may use the word. With a smile, assumed to hide my
disquiet, I asked her if my absence had tried her affection—
my `lengthy sojourn in foreign lands,' I said, making a jest,
you see, or attempting to—and she, with a smile which I
thought as forced as my own, said, `Oh no, how could I say
such a thing?' But the constraint remained, and after a
hundred attempts to fathom the mystery, I gave up in despair.
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“I remained from the evening of one day to the morning
of the third day. I think the constraint grew almost to
coldness before I departed, and, as I write, I am greatly distressed.
You see, Tom, this is no trival affair with me. I
have built all my future on the broad foundation of this
woman's love, and I can not love lightly. Where the heart's
given with me, it's given for ever, and this troubles me.
Formerly nothing troubled me; but I am changed now.
I no longer look upon life with that careless and almost disdainful
indifference with which I once regarded it. You
may have heard me say a thousand times that nothing could
annoy me long or deeply, that I was `sufficient for myself,'
that the world and its inhabitants might go their way and
I would go mine, unmoved by their opinion good or bad,
unaffected either by their love or their hatred—at least,
greatly. Well, now, I say that no longer. I wish every-body's
good opinion; for the expression of this good opinion
doubtless gives her pleasure. Can't you understand my
meaning? Can't you see how a man who formerly laughed
at the idea of being moved in the least by a world of women,
now fixes his eyes upon a single one's face, and lives only
when he thinks of her or's with her? I am even proud of
my bondage, for I know that the chain binding me binds
her, that my love is as much to her as her own is to me—at
least it was the other week.
“I write the words with a heavy heart. I tell you, Tom,
there's no doubt about the coldness. The absence of her
former frankness and joy was, and is, proof strong as holy
writ. Something has come between us, I know not what.
Write what you think of it; I am blind, I confess it. Like
that seer of the middle age, who bartered all his lore for
love, and gave up willingly his power over the invisible
denizens of earth and air, to be a simple mortal, and lean on
a woman's bosom, as her equal and love; like him, I have
lost, perhaps, my penetration; I am troubled, it may even
be, by a chimera, for I confess I begin to distrust myself.
If she is untrue, then all things are false, and, with the rest,
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my intellect. Friend, help me to extricate myself from
this web, which seems to be even now closing round me,
wrapping me closer and closer in its mysterious folds. I
scarcely know what I write, and I doubt if it is sense; but
there is something, I know not what—I feel it! I breathe
it! There is some evil at work upon my life! I am not
superstitious, but it seems to me that a cloud is rising somewhere,
with which I am to struggle, though I can not grasp
it. Have you never felt this irrational foreboding? If you
have not, you will laugh at me, but your laugh will not affect
me. You must first tell me why here, in the morning, with
the sunlight around me, with my nerves perfectly healthful,
my pulse beating with its wonted regularity; why thus, in
perfect health of mind and body, I feel as if a dark fate were
at work upon my life, travailing to bring forth my misery!
“That you will think me insane after this full and unreserved
expression of what I meant to conceal, even from
you, friend, I fully expect. Whatever you think, I can not
complain. I frankly confess that I have given you but sorry
and foolish grounds for my disquiet.
“What! I hear you say, St. John become superstitious,
trembling at such bugbears of the fancy as are only fit to
frighten nervous women! St. John, the careless fellow with
the stalwart shoulders, the iron nerves, the smiling lips;
who touched his sword hilt, and boasted that he was ready
to meet any foe, and would have laughed in derision at the
very intimation of imaginary disquietude! St. John, now
crouching and shrinking under an invisible lash, wielded by
airy hands! St. John a-trembling, like a baby, at the sight
of a buggaboo, and whining out mysterious influences!—
secret warnings! I hear you say that, and I fancy you
shaking your head, and thinking that from this time forth,
you can never trust in human boastings, or, any man, however
healthy's nerves. Well, friend, be it as you will; I
do not try to convince you—I yield. Say, if you choose,
that I am mastered by a dream, a vision of the night, a very
shadow and chimera. But I am none the more convinced,
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none the less mastered by my insanity, if you like the word.
I tell you, friend, earnestly, strongly! with my whole force!
that, even as I write, this influence is growing, increasing,
darkening terribly! More than ever, there is in the full
sunshine a sad splendor, gloomier than midnight! More
than ever, I thrill with a nameless dread! I seem to see descending
on me a huge ebon cloud! A thrill runs through
my veins—my hair stands up! there are forms around me;
one, that of a woman with cold eyes, and a sneer which
chills me! There! before me as I write! Away!
“Well—
“I shall end this letter, my dear friend, with words less
fanciful than those above. Perhaps there is something wrong
with my nerves; I am out of health, it may be; I am sick.
For, after writing those hurried words there, it seemed to
me that an enemy stood beside me, advanced toward me—
a something, I know not what, which matched itself against
me! 'T is gone now, but to prove to you how profoundly
I was moved, look at that blot upon the paper. It was
caused by my pen falling from my trembling fingers, as I
rose to my feet, drawing my sword completely from the
scabbard, and striking madly at the air. Doubtless I am
sick, for even now my breast seems contracting, and I
breathe heavily. There, 't is doubtless the old story of
Marius cutting at his visions when he was dying—the fever
moving him.
“Yet my pulse beats regularly again; I see myself in the
mirror yonder, and my complexion is healthful; I do not
seem sick. I must be, however, for no traces of my delirium
remain—I write calmly. Keep my letter as a striking exhibition
of the power of the imagination.
“I will end with a few words of news. His Excellency
is said to regard the convention of the delegates with side
looks and suspicion, and to threaten. But he will do nothing.
All your friends are well. At Vanely, every one is
well, I think, and there is nothing new. The
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Italian-looking woman, the seamstress, is still there, and, I know not
why, I have taken up a prejudice against her. Another of
my irrational whims, you will say—well, but she none the
more pleases me with her dark, wary-looking eyes.
“You will be glad to hear that 't is my decided opinion
that your shaking begins to detach the fruit. From chance
observations, uttered by the young lady, I should say that
another siege would terminate in victory, though I hope the
victor would not demolish. It is rather a sad jest to make,
but I hope to be your brother Harry some day.
“I have writen you what may seem a pure pack of nonsense,
my dear Tom, but 't is you alone who will read it.
We are old comrades, and I'm not afraid to speak my
thoughts.
“Write and dissipate my trouble, if you can. Until then,
and for ever, I am,
“Your friend,
“H. St. John.”
CHAPTER LX. TOM ALSTON TO HENRY ST. JOHN.
“Moorefield, after Dinner.M
“Most beloved of friends, and estimable of gentlemen,
but also most superstitutious of correspondents, and strangest
of Sancti Johannes! I have perused thy letter with abundant
laughter, and return unto thee my most grateful thanks
for dissipating a catarrh which has troubled me this fortnight!
“In this mournful vale of tears, O Henricus! not every
day do the immortals vouchsafe to the inhabitants of earth
the high prerogative and privilege of inextinguishable laughter.
This assurance will I write unto thee, O Henry! thy
prelection having rendered it incumbent. Even now a nasal
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cachinnation, or inaudible expiration, vulgarly called snicker,
doth bear witness to the account given of your gorgons and
chimeras!
“In other words, my dear boy, to descend all at once from
my ceremonious style, your letter has made me laugh, sans
intermission, an hour by the dial! Per Hercle!—but my
swearing shall be confined to the French. Or, rather, I'll
not swear at all, or laugh. I will be grave as Erebus.
“To be serious, and stop my jesting, my dear Harry,
pray tell me what, in the name of all the gods at once, has
thrown you into this nervous state of mind? Is it too much
work, or the want of my cheerful society, or the sight of
that fine gentleman, his Depravity Lord Dunmore? I have
never before known you to give evidence of this strange susceptibility
to superstitious impressions, and though I make
a jest of your letter, and certainly did laugh at first, it has
been productive, by this time, of far more disquiet to me.
“You rightly supposed that I would consider your fancies
the product of disordered nerves, and I here declare,
once for all, that they seem to me the very climax of irrationality,
from first to last. What! you can not permit a
young girl of the most timid and shrinking disposition to
exhibit a little embarrassment at your arrival—you, her accepted
lover, and I wish you joy of it! You can't let her
blush a little, and leave the burden of the conversation to
the rest, and retire when she feels sick, or looks badly, and
fears you will not admire her in that plight, and therefore
hides herself; you can't permit those most natural and obvious
every-day, humdrum occurrences to take place, without
imagining a change in her feelings, a diminution of her love,
an interruption of her affection? Fie, Harry! 't is but a
poor lover that you make, and I predict that if you go on
with your fancies, 't will end in frightening her, and causing
the very thing which you dread. It is my intention, throughout
the two following pages, to dwell upon this subject of
the young lady's constraint, which you, yourself, acknowledge
no one observed but a certain Mr. St. John, gifted, for
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the nonce, with nautical penetration to discern distant clouds,
and atmospheric phenomena, invisible to landsmen; it is my
intention to proceed at length to the refutation of your fancies
on this point, and then I shall handle more briefly the
phantom appearances.
“Having thus completely demolished your first point, absolutely
leveled it with the ground, plowed up the foundations,
and sowed salt in the furrows, I proceed briefly, as
my paper decreases, to speak of your phantoms. My dear
Harry, can you seriously believe in those idle stories?
“There was a time, certainly, when the best minds, ignorant
and surrounded by common things which they could not
understand, took refuge, from their blank thoughts, in an
irrational superstition. Socrates, it is said, believed in a familiar
spirit, Friar Bacon also, and even that strong-minded
old fellow, Doctor Johnson, to come nearer, gives credit to
the story of the Cock Lane Ghost. The others had strong
intellects, but they lived in an age of scientific darkness, and
we may pardon, while we deplore, the vagaries of their
imaginations. But that an educated gentleman of 1774,
should seriously give credence to the airy whisperings of
such a philosophy as you do! that you, a strong, healthy,
hearty, educated individual should believe in secret warnings,
and mysterious presentiments! really the thing grieves
me too much to permit any more laughter.
“I pray you to banish these fancies, which are simply the
result of disordered blood, of a nervous attack, of loss of
rest, probably, or excess in the use of tobacco, the supply of
which, being last year's crop, is, I think, particularly rank
and violent in its effect upon the nerves. Physical causes
very frequently produce mental effects, and if you see the
devil enter, with horns and tail, you have but to go to the
next physician's library to read an account of the same phenomenon
witnessed a century ago by another sick as you
are.
“What's certain is, that you are unhappy, and you rightly
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think that nothing that concerns you is indifferent to me;
that nothing you write will find in me an unsympathizing
listener. We have been friends since childhood, and though
censorious individuals are pleased to consider my carriage
of person the proof of a shallow nature, still I persist in declaring
that I love my friends as well and heartily as the best
of them, and among these friends none takes a place before
yourself. I pray you throw aside these imaginary troubles,
and do not doubt that you have the entire affection of that
beautiful nature, than whom I know none purer or more
faithful.
“I am still languid from my attack, or I would come to
see you. Why should you not make a visit here? Leave
your plans for `Flower of Hundreds,' and come, for a day at
least, and recover your spirits. You'll work all the better
afterwards. I shall assuredly expect your answer to this in
person, and by word of mouth.
“I thank you for the things. They are all excellent, except
the hair powder, which that abandoned profligate, Lafonge,
has prepared with musk. My opinion of that fellow
is, that he is a wretch, and that the chief end and aim of his
whole existence is to disappoint, wound, and humiliate me.
A hundred times I have remonstrated with him, almost to
tears, on his conduct. I have dedicated whole mornings to
the most pathetic representations, which he has listened to
with sobs, standing behind his counter, and wringing his
hands, and promising, between his sniffs of contrition, that
in future he will be perfect. It is all in vain; his insidious
design is to mortify and humiliate me; he thinks even to
shorten my days by his unmanly persecutions. He is mistaken,
however. This puts the finish to our dealings. I
distinctly ordered this hair powder to be prepared in an
apartment which a suspicion even of musk had never entered,
and here I and my household, the very dogs and
cats, are turned into moschine denizens of Thibet, causing
me to blow my nose and groan every five minutes while I
write. Well, I have one recourse—Lafonge and myself
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part for ever; I am tearful, but firm—we separate. I'm
none the less obliged to you, Harry my boy, for the trouble
you were put to.
“I've got to the end of my paper. Do not write, but
come here and breathe a purer atmosphere.
“For Heaven's sake don't yield again to your fancies,
which wound and distress me no less than they do yourself.
Forget them, and come and have a laugh with, or at, if you
choose,
“Your friend to the end,
“Tom Alston.”
“P. S.—Even my pointer, Milo, is turning up his nose at
the musk, and regards me with a look of reproach which
penetrates my heart. The depravity of Lafonge has been
exhibited for the last time.”
CHAPTER LXI. ST. JOHN TELLS HOW A SPIRIT ENTERED HIS ROOM AT MIDNIGHT.
“Williamsburg, Wednesday.
“Your letter, my dear friend, was scarcely different from
what I expected. I was perfectly well aware of the fact
that my account of the singular influence I experienced
would excite rather laughter than sympathy, and I even
add that your reply contained less of banter than I expected.
“It is unnecessary for me to say that your laughter did not
annoy me at all. I recognize your right to scold me as vigorously
as you choose, for, as you say, we are too close friends
to stand upon the least ceremony. I thank you indeed for
your letter, filled as it was, the greater part of it, with the
most friendly assurances of regard, and the most labored
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attempts to raise my drooping spirits, and cheer me after
my afflicting adventure. After reading the sheets carefully
I laid them down, thinking your views admirably just. I
said to myself that I would not further continue the discussion,
but leave to after events the determination of the matter.
I would willingly believe, if she met me as of old, and
if the presentiments did not return, that I was merely carried
away by fancy, and there would be the end of the argument,
and your triumph. If, on the contrary, this change
became more marked in her—if these influences attacked
me more unmistakably—then, too, there would be an end
of the discussion, and I should have wofully triumphed.
“I announce to you, with a groan as I write, that the last
is the fact. I can not come to Moorefield—I can not move
now. I do what I can—I write.
“In order to understand what has taken place since the
arrival of your letter, and to make myself better understood
in the further account of what has befallen me, I shall begin
at the beginning, and trace the matter through all its steps;
briefly, however, for I am weak and faint.
“To go back, then.
“I left Vanely a fortnight or more ago, and came hither
to see to a number of arrangements connected with Flower
of Hundreds, which is sadly in want of repairs, owing, I
suppose, to my long absence. As you may imagine, I carried
away from Vanely, in the looks and tones of somebody,
what made these toils a happiness, for she was to share the
home I was bent on beautifying for her reception.
“I came hither, therefore, with a light heart, and proceeded
to work. But the strangest thing happened to me—
so strange in connection with what has taken place since
that—but I will narrate.
“On the very day of my arrival I encountered at the
Raleigh tavern that strange man of whom I have spoken to
you more than once—the stranger of the old church of St.
John, at Richmond town. We talked of political matters,
and when he came to allude to the assistance the province
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demanded from all her patriotic inhabitants, I returned his
strange confidence up yonder, by speaking of myself, and
saying that I would be able to do little, since I had received
from a woman an avowal of her affection, and was happy and
content, and disposed to think all things in the world just
as they should be. He replied, with a strange look, `Do
not think that Heaven will permit you to withdraw yourself
from the contest.' Those were his very words, and though
I listened to them then with careless inattention, I now remember
them, and find them echoing, like his deep voice,
in my mind and my heart.
“Some days after the interview with the stranger, I rode
out, went to Jack Hamilton's, and, with him, visited Effingham
Hall, where I had a long and very pleasant conversation
with Mrs. Kate Effingham, her friend, you know. Sure
a woman never tires of dwelling on the merits of her friend,
and my cheek glowed, I think, as I listened to her praises.
I came away with those gracious words of love and praise
resounding in my heart, and having left Hamilton at the
`Trap,' proceeded toward Williamsburg. I stopped, however,
to exchange a few words with old Mr. Doubleday at
the school house, and in some way, here too the conversation
turned upon human happiness and the female character.
As the stranger had intimated that Heaven would not
permit me to enjoy tranquil happiness in wedded life at such
a juncture as the present, so now the old philosopher of the
school house croaked, `Time is uncertain, woman more uncertain
than time.' He presented an admirable commentary
on his sermon by dropping, accidentally, a letter from a fair
friend with whom he had an affair, `simply Platonic,' he said,
and I came away laughing. But still these coincidences
trouble me.
“You see when a man has staked his whole earthly happiness
upon the faith of a single heart, he is no longer free,
he no longer laughs with careless indifference at theories
affecting him; he is bound with a chain of gold, and at a
certain spot he is forced to pause and reflect. Happiness
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is more than life to the heart, at least, happiness such as I
play for, and I could not resist a sentiment of disquiet in
spite of my laughter and incredulity. I had built all my
hopes on a woman's faith; I had played my own happiness
against that stake, and I could not bear in my mind even a
suspicion of the genuine nature of the coin. See my miserable
player illustrations—my figures, borrowed from the
gaming table! I attempt thus to divert my mind from
what follows.
“Let me say at once that I determined to go back, were
it even for an hour, to Vanely. I determined to escape thus
from my foolish fancies; the very sight of her tender and
confiding countenance would dissipate my uneasiness and
gloom.
“You know the result of that visit, for I wrote you a
lengthy account of it, laboring, unsuccessfully it seems, to
impress upon you the singular change which proved the rationality
of my fears, first suggested by the words of the
stranger and the old schoolmaster. It was in writing that
letter, as you remember, that a strange and mysterious presentiment
attacked me—a presentiment which you laughed
at when you read my letter, and argued against in your reply,
as a mere hallucination, springing from nervousness, or
illness. You shall judge whether I was not sane and well—
what follows will cut the knot.
“Your letter, as I have said, communicated to my mind
great cheerfulness. I read, and reread it, and dwelt upon
your views connected with the physical and mental organization
attentively and carefully. They seemed to me of
excellent soundness, and positively irrefutable. Not only
your argument, but your laughter, had a strong effect upon
me. I imagined you remonstrating with Lafonge—I saw
his gestures—the horror you experienced at the discovery
of the musk; and Milo's look of reproach as you declared.
Your laughter dispelled my gloom; your gayety brought
back the sunshine. From clouds I came forth into the sunny
air; my surrounding of presentiment was dispelled by
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your surrounding of merriment. Thus, your arguments and
your smiles together made me think that I had indeed
yielded to an unhealthy melancholy; that my nerves had
disordered my mind, and that the distressing change in her
demeanor existed only in my faney.
“I therefore determined to go again to Vanely, and to
enter the hospitable doors unaccompanied by the least suspicion.
All that should be left behind in this detestable
place, which I wonder now that I ever could have dwelt in.
I would go to Vanely with the smiling face of the past—
with my arms stretched out to press welcoming hands, as in
old days. I would say to her, frankly, that I had foolishly
thought her feelings changed toward me, and would have
a hearty laugh at my imaginary disquiet. Sitting down,
with a smile, I leaned my head upon my hand, and imagined
her replying, with a look of reproach, that I must have indeed
been very ill to think that she could ever change; and
as I fancied her smiling and tender countenance, my fears
were all dissipated, and I rose up joyfully and mounted my
horse.
“Never had I seen a morning so bright, I thought. Williamsburg
no longer frowned, the white houses smiled and
saluted me, as on one happy morning when I cantered by,
from Richmond town, thinking of her and laughing. `Tallyho'
bore me into the open country, to the ferry, across
the bright waters, and into the smiling fields of Vanely, far
away from turmoil and confusion. As I entered that longloved
land—as I breathed the fresh and balmy air, which,
sure, is nowhere so inspiriting as in our good Old Dominion—
as I went along thus rapidly through forests, and across
blooming meadows, where the lark sang, and the wheat
waved in luxuriant gold, my last anxiety was dissipated, and
I felt that I had not only been irrational and ridiculous in
my fancies; I had been unjust to one of the purest and loveliest
natures ever sent into the world.
“I linger upon these emotions of freshness and joy, and
pass to what followed with reluctance and a sort of dread.
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I pause under the blue skies, without a cloud, and turn away
from the storm.
“Well, I came thus to Vanely.
“What I write now, friend, is between my lips and your
ear, as though we sat alone beneath a tree, in the middle of
a field, you know, with no foliage to conceal a listener—for
you, and you only. Not only would it compromise a young
lady, if known, by speaking of her former demeanor to one
who is not the same to her, but it would, perhaps, procure
me the reputation of a madman, and make me the subject
of a writ de lunatico inquirendo. But I have set out with
the intention of telling you all, and I write nothing that I
should not write.
“Well, to proceed.
“As I entered the grounds, I more than ever busied my
imagination happily with the reception which I was sure to
receive. When formerly I had gone from Vanely to `Flower
of Hundreds,' or elsewhere, and returned in the evening, she
had come always to meet me, sometimes to the outer gate,
in her little chip hat, with a smile on her lips and a flower
in her hand. On such occasions I had strained my eyes,
from the far distance, to discern her form, relieved clearly
against the emerald sward, and even `Tallyho' had tossed
his head when the fair figure glimmered in the sunset, for
he knew and shared the delight of his master. As I drew
nearer, the animal's speed would increase, he would almost
fly; in a moment he would bear me to her side, and leaping
from the saddle, I would hold in mine a hand throbbing,
like my own, with happiness. We ascended the Vanely hill,
I leading `Tallyho,' she leaning on my arm, and stopping at
times to caress the neck of the animal, because he was mine,
she said. And then she would turn again with sweeter
smiles to me; I would cover her hand with kisses, and if
my lips touched the pure forehead, she did not shrink, but,
looking into my eyes with an expression of the tenderest
affection, told me, thus, that her feeling for myself was an
echo of my own for her. As I write now, her eyes shine
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on me; I see the light on her hair, the flower in her hand;
I hold that hand, and groan, and endeavor, in vain, to forget!
“Well, I won't groan so! I think the sound must have
attracted the attention of my servant! A man can't see all
his hopes pass from him, though, and smile as they depart.
I will stop my recollections, and proceed with the relation.
It was in the manner which I have described that I now expected
to be met, and, sure, I thought, she would at least
meet me thus, after an absence of what seemed a century to
myself. I hastened forward, with eager looks, I am sure,
certain of meeting her upon the portico, or in the hall, for'
t is impossible for her not to have known of my approach,
as `Tallyho' neighed at the foot of the hill, and I saw the
faces of the family looking from the window. You know
the sonorous sound of the animal, and it announced my coming
from the commencement of the winding road, where
the great elm stands by the gate.
“She was not on the portico, she was not in the hall.
Instead of her figure, I saw Helen's and uncle's advance to
greet me with friendly smiles and open hands.
“I entered the sitting-room. She was bending over an
embroidery screen, with cheeks as red as blood, and I saw
her tremble. As Helen came in again (uncle had remained
without to give orders about my horse), she rose, and with
a sort of spasmodic gesture, held out her hand. I took it
in silence; nor do I know whether I looked pale or red.
Helen gazed at her in silence, too, and for a moment she
stood thus, cold and pale now as a statue, and fixing upon
me eyes which burnt into my brain, so wild was their expression.
She looked like a stricken bird, and leaned upon
the screen for support.
“Helen asked her if she were unwell. With something
like a gasp, she said, in a faint voice, `Yes,' and passing before
me like a phantom, was gone. I heard her ascend slowly
the broad stair-case, and then, as her footsteps died away,
I looked toward Helen with an expression of incredulous
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despair, and terrible curiosity, at least, if my face spoke my
thoughts. Helen was as profoundly astonished and shocked
as myself, however, and could only say that she could not
imagine what made Bonnybel unwell. I saw from her eyes,
as she spoke, that she did not believe the change in the
young girl's manner of receiving me attributable to illness;
but we had no further opportunity of talking upon the subject,
as my uncle came in after seeing `Tallyho' taken, smiling,
hearty, and cordial as before.
“The old gentleman was in excellent spirits, and asked
me a thousand questions about the doings in Williamsburg,
the convention at the Raleigh tavern, the Governor's view
of it—every thing. I replied at random, and I suppose he
thought me utterly careless whether my answers pleased
him or not. You see I was racked by my feelings; my
mind was filled with an absorbing thought; I scarcely knew
where I was. I gazed at him when he spoke with the air
of a man who is waked suddenly from sleep, and is not permitted
time to collect his thoughts. You will not feel astonishment
at this; my only surprise is that I did not burst
forth into the cry of an idiot or a madman, and toss and
rave.
“I suppose my uncle thought the inattention due to fatigue,
for he made me go and drink some Canary with him,
and then dinner was served. She did not appear, but she
did come down in the evening, and my heart bled to see
how pale and sad she looked. As she gazed at me I saw
her eyes swim in tears, and then she turned away. All I
could extract from her was an assurance that she felt grieved
at her coldness in meeting me, that she was very unwell—
had been suffering much, and—I must pardon her. She
felt weak now, and believed she would retire, but Helen
would talk with me; I must not think her wanting in—politeness—
or—or—affection. She uttered the word with a
hesitation, a flush in her cheeks, and a swimming of the eyes,
which showed how profoundly she was moved. I think her
eyes gushed with tears as she left the room, for she raised
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her handkerchief quickly as she disappeared, and I thought
I heard a sob. I strangle one in my own throat as I write,
friend, but I shall proceed.
“The interview I have just described will serve for the
two or three others which I held with her during this and
the next day. There was the same mixture of coldness and
pain in the eyes, which spoke with a more terrible eloquence
than any lips could. More than once she pressed my hand
in the most convulsive way, and her lips opened as though
she were about to speak. Before she uttered a word, howover—
when I was wholly silent, fearful lest I should interrupt
her, did I speak—before the dumb lips formed the
least sound, an expression of constraint and coldness, almost
of fear, would diffuse itself over her countenance, and coloring
to the temples, she would turn away in silence.
“This is an exact description of the interview which we
held about twilight on the day after my arrival. We were
on the portico alone, and after refusing thus to speak, she
pleaded a headache and retired, going to her chamber with
the faint step of one who is indeed sick, as she evidently
was, for her eyes were red, and her face so pale that it made
my heart bleed to look at her.
“She left me thus and I sat down, and looked out upon
the fields. The sun was setting, and throwing long shadows
along the meadows, over the golden grain, which undulated
in the evening breeze, and from the great oaks, red now in
the flush of sunset, a low dreamy sigh seemed to steal, and
die away in the bloody sky. Never had I seen a landscape
fuller of the elements of beauty, but never did I think a
night so sad. That sorrowful splendor in the sunshine,
which I spoke of before, again attracted my attention, and
an oriole, upon the summit of the great oak before the door,
seemed to sing a funeral dirge.
“Prepare now to laugh, friend—collect your incredulous
philosophy. I am about to utter more of my stupidities—I
am going to make you think me more than ever superstitious.
I care not, I will continue. As I sat thus upon the portico,
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and saw the mournful beauty of the sunset die away across
the lands, I felt again that same presentiment of evil which
I formerly described. It seemed to me that again I was
encircled by hidden foes, that the atmosphere grew dark as
though from a great midnight cloud, and though I struggled
to resist the impression, my nerves again began to tingle,
my pulse to throb unaccountably, my hair moved upon
my head, and a shiver ran through my body. I seemed to
feel rather than see the presence of something hostile to me—
something cunning, insidious and dangerous—something
I must struggle against or yield to. A nameless dread
seized upon me, and all color forsook my cheek—as before,
I laid my hand convulsively upon my sword.
“In a moment the feeling disappeared, and I looked
around to see if any one had observed my agitation. I saw
no person, and rising, entered the house, feeling completely
wretched. You think this only another evidence of disordered
nerves; well, you will soon see that I was ere long
the victim of another hallucination, if you choose, more
strange and terrifying than this even.
“I shall trace the remaining incidents in regular order.
That evening she came down, looking, as usual, pale, very
pale, and so sad that my heart sank as I gazed at her. I
announced my intention of returning to Williamsburg on
the next morning, and as I did so I saw her turn her head
hastily. It was in the direction of myself, and for a moment
our eyes met, and a long look was exchanged. I
never saw any thing so sad as those eyes—even now they
haunt me, and make me groan as I write. I went to her
side, carelessly, but with a throbbing heart; and taking a
volume from the table, played with it, and tried to smile,
saying, with a wretched affectation of mirth, that I was no
longer my own master now, and that the repairs at Flower
of Hundreds must not be delayed, under the circumstances.
I am a bad actor; I assume badly, and I think that human
laugh never before rang out so harsh and false. My muscles
refused to obey me—they rebelled—and the sound that
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should have been mirthful must have almost been tragical
and sinister.
“She did not reply with a word; I waited in vain for her
to speak, and after an hour, during which she took part in
the conversation only fitfully, and at intervals, in the same
forced way, she glided out of the apartment, and did not
return. My heart grew cold as she disappeared, for I had
determined to hold a private interview with her that night,
when the rest of the family had retired, and entreat her to
explain her demeanor toward me. I had planned all this,
down to the very words which I would utter, the arguments
I would use, and I thought she would be unable to resist.
You have seen how she defeated this scheme by simply
retiring without a word.
“Well, I curbed, by a violent effort, all exhibition of my
disappointment and distress, determining to have the interview
on the next morning, in the library, before my departure.
I felt as if I must either have this explanation or go
mad, and the discovery of the grounds of this terrible
change must come from her lips alone. The rest of the
family, with the exception of Helen, did not seem to perceive
any thing unusual. Busy about other things, they left
us to ourselves, and did not occupy themselves with the expression
of her countenance. Certainly they never dreamed
of watching her face with that rabid anxiety which led me
to bestow the closest scrutiny upon its most minute details—
upon the most flitting lights and shadows.
“They must certainly have observed her constraint in my
society—that she was not, wholly, the same. But this was
doubtless attributed by them all, as you suggested, to maidenly
modesty and timidity at her novel position in relation
to myself. I saw that I should only be stared at by Aunt
Mabel or Miss Seraphina if I declared myself surprised by
the young girl's manner. They would think me the most
irrational of men, even foolish, if I gave expression to my
pain—insulting, perhaps, if I spoke of feeling offended.
That could not be thought of, and I placed all my hopes
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upon the interview with herself on the next morning. I
therefore talked upon other subjects, and finally retired to
my chamber.
“Now comes the account of my final hallucination, if you
like the word, friend. I approach what will doubtless lead
you to believe that I am really a lunatic.
“I went to my chamber at the hour of ten about, for in
the country they retire early, and I remained for an hour,
perhaps, sitting by the open window, from which I looked
out upon the moonlit fields, and pondered. All was hushed,
and no sound disturbed the silence but the low twitter of
the swallows which have their nests beneath the eaves, and
were going to sleep. The fitful sighing of the ocean breeze
in the great moonlit oaks served as a sort of burden to my
sad thoughts, and silent thus by the open window I reflected
long and painfully upon the woful change which had
taken place in the feelings of that one whom I loved more
than my life. I remember that at last my thoughts dwelt
upon the singular warnings I had received before I had the
least reason to suspect this change, and a slight feeling of
superstitious fear may have agitated me. I think that no
man is wholly free from this influence, which is due either to
the stories of those old negro nurses who frighten children,
and instill thus early the seeds of superstition, or to the perusal
of those authors who make use of hobgoblins to lend
attraction to narratives otherwise stupid. There was some
excuse for this sentiment, too, in my surroundings. The
chamber which I occupied was the `haunted chamber,' that
invariable adjunct of a Virginia country house. Here, it
was said, Mrs. Vane, my uncle's mother, had died in great
pain, and here, said the servants, she often `walked.'
“I was not afraid of the old gentlewoman's spirit at all,
however, and if I thought of her at all it was with a smile
at my childish disquiet and foolish superstition. I threw
off my clothes, tried to make my prayer as my dear mother
taught me at her knee, and then, somewhat quieted by this
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appeal to a higher power, extinguished the light in the tall
candlestick, and was soon asleep.
“I do not know how long I slept, but I suddenly awoke
with the consciousness that something or somebody was at
the side of my bed. I distinctly heard a low and suppressed
breathing, and opening my eyes, I swear I saw a white figure
within three paces of me, crouching and looking toward me,
where I lay! The moonlight fell upon the figure, and I saw
that it was only a long, white garment, not unlike graveclothes,
and from beneath the folds of this garment two
burning eyes were fixed upon me.
“For a moment I lay motionless, in that stupor which
possesses the frame immediately upon awaking, and I remember
thinking how foolish I was to fancy myself awake,
and not what I was, asleep and dreaming. Then I rose suddenly
in the bed, as the mist was dispelled from my mind,
and as I did so, the figure hastily retreated.
“With a single bound, I was out of the curtains, and
clutched my sword. A glimmer, a stealthy footfall, and the
figure melted into the darkness and disappeared.
“I went quickly to the door, which had been left open,
as the weather was warm, and found it just as I had left it,
almost ajar. A human figure could scarcely have passed
through it. I opened it, and went out in the upper hall.
Every thing was silent. I stood there for a moment with
my sword in my hand, trembling, I think, with a vague
fear—for you must confess the adventure was enough to affect
the nerves of the boldest—and then I reëntered the
room. Every thing was just as I had left it upon the preceding
night; nothing had been disturbed. I looked at my
timepiece; it was half past two o'clock, and the moon, by
whose light I made the examination, was just setting.
“I replaced my sword upon the chair by my bed, and
sitting upon the side of the couch, reflected, as you may
easily imagine, upon what had just occurred. Could I have
been dreaming? Certainly it seemed to me that I was wide
awake, that I saw the thing with my material eyes; its eyes
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still burned before me, and I heard the stealthy footfall.
But was not this all fancy? Could the appearance be real?
I dismissed at once, you see, the thought of a spirit, though
I still felt a supersitious dread, and my only question was
the state I had been in—sleeping or awake. If awake, then
some person had entered my room stealthily, and retreated
as noiselessly. Who could it have been, and what possible
object could have produced this nocturnal walking? Decidedly,
I thought, I dreamed the whole thing, and took
the result of my nervous imagination, aroused and stung by
my meditations at the window, for the veritable presence of
an intruder.
“I remained thus lost in thought for half an hour, I suppose,
and then I went and locked the door, and returning
to bed, lay down. After a while my thoughts ran into each
other, I began to dream, and then fell sound asleep. I was
waked by the sun shining in my face, and rose and dressed.
As I did so, I almost laughed at my dream, for it doubtless
was such, as I do not believe in spirits, however superstitious
I may seem to you. Yet was it not strange that I should
thus have sprung up, and caught my sword, and followed
my airy visitant? Think what you may—laugh at me if
you choose, but it seemed to me that those burning eyes
were like the eyes of the hostile figure in my first delirium,
when I dropped the pen upon the paper, writing to you,
and rose clutching at my sword.
“Well, let me finish my long, sad letter; I will proceed
with the events of the morning in turn. Finding that none
of the family were yet stirring, I sat down at the table, upon
which were writing materials, and wrote you a note, asking
you to pay me a visit in Williamsburg—the note to await
your appearance at Vanely. You have doubtless received
it, and pray come, my friend. Your presence will soothe
and cheer me. Do not measure my desire to see you by
the brief nature of the note, which was written, as you may
imagine, under unfavorable circumstances. I must beg you
to pardon its style, and also the apparent discourtesy in not
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sealing the wax with my signet. Upon looking on my fin
ger for it, I found it was gone, left, doubtless, on my table
here when I went to Vanely, though, strange to say, I have
not found it, and even think that I remember having it on
when I went thither.
“To end my letter with the events of the morning, however.
As I informed you, I had announced, on the previous
evening, my intended departure, and every one had given
me commissions. I had letters to friends from my uncle, a
memorandum from Helen, and a package from Aunt Mabel
for Mrs. Burwell, through a window of whose dwelling, one
night, not very long ago—but I am wandering, and, as it
were, making a sorrowful soliloquy. You see—to continue,
calmly—I had, in every way, impressed upon the family, including
herself, the fact of my departure on that morning
early. I had, I said, pressing business; the architects, with
their plans, were waiting; beyond a preadventure I must
certainly go—I could not remain. I meant her to understand
that I should not lengthen my visit, and that an explanation
must take place upon that morning, or I should
continue miserable away from her, not near her.
“After finishing the note to you, therefore, I drew on my
riding boots, with a pair of large spurs, and leaving my
chamber, descended the stair-case. I thought the heavy
sound of my footsteps, and the metallic ring of the spur
chains, on the oaken floor, would attract her attention, and
bring her down to the library, which I entered. Often when
I was going over to `Flower of Hundreds,' early in the morning,
this sound had drawn her from her chamber, fresh, rosy,
and smiling with happiness and beauty, like a flower of the
morning—how I groan, friend as I write! Well, well! I
thought the desire of seeing me would again make her run
to me, and give me that innocent embrace which her pure
heart accorded to me. Alas! she did not come. I sat in
the library, as yet untenanted, except by myself, and with
the `Gazette' open before me, made pretense to read, as
the servant moved about; in reality, I did not even see the
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letters—I was listening for her footsteps. If ever you have
thus sat, with a throbbing heart, and waited for a figure
which did not appear, you will know my breathless expectation,
and my agony. My agony, for she did not come.
“The members of the family, one after another, entered;
every one had a kind word, a smile, and a regret at my departure,
while she—she did not even come to look coldly at
me. I had not even the consolation of her frown. Well, I
did not ask why she delayed, I did not utter a word on the
subject; somehow the words stuck in my throat. I only conversed,
with my eyes fixed upon the door; and when Aunt
Mabel thought I was listening, with the deepest attention,
to her new method of curing colds, I was trying to catch
her approaching footsteps.
“Breakfast was announced, and every one sat down.
Then Aunt Mabel asked the question which I feared to propound,
`Where was Bonnybel?' She was unwell, Helen
said, and begged Cousin Harry to excuse her not coming
down to bid him good-bye.
“As the words were uttered, I think I must have turned
pale, and I sat down the chocolate which I was raising to
my lips. Aunt Mabel diverted attention from me, however,
by pausing, in her operations with the urn, to say, `Unwell!
why she was well last night.' Helen replied that she did
not think her sister had been well for a week or two, and
there the subject was dropped. Half an hour afterwards I
was in the saddle, on my way hither, without having seen
her, and carrying away with me no second message from her
even.
“And now, my friend, you have it all; you have, I think,
the proof, full and unanswerable, that I was not so irrational
in my presentiments as you declared me. I told you, in my
former letter, that a cloud seemed descending on my life;
I now show you that cloud covering my whole existence.
I said, in the commencement of this letter, that I had determined,
if she met me as of old, to consider my foreboding
only fancy, and thus you would triumph—the woful
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triumph, as you see, is my own. Of these influences, I have
no word more to say; they may return or disappear, it is
indifferent to me. It is nothing, either way, now when I
am perfectly wretched, when I am ruined, broken-hearted,
overwhelmed by a fatality which I can not oppose, and which
crushes me in its inexorable grasp. I no longer struggle, I
no longer attempt to understand; silent, gloomy, and pale,
I bend under my fate, and only reply with hoarse groans.
“I have written with forced calmness. Why I wrote at
all I do not know, unless it is from that mad despair which
makes the dying soldier turn the weapon in his breast.
“I can write no more. I am faint, and seem to grow cold.
Well, so it ends. I thought—
“I can write no more—not even tears will relieve me.
“Farewell.
“H. St. John.”
CHAPTER LXII. HOW MR. ALSTON TRAVELED ALL NIGHT, AND WHAT FOLLOWED.
The letter which we have just laid before the reader
reached Mr. Alston on the afternoon of the day after it was
written, and in fifteen minutes that gentleman, looking very
sad and gloomy, was on his way to Vanely.
On the next morning, just as Mr. St. John had finished
his toilet, he entered the young man's chamber, having
traveled all night.
Up to the moment when his foot touched the threshold,
Mr. Alston's face had worn an expression of anxiety and
care, very unusual with him, but no sooner had he entered
the presence of his friend, than this changed to an appearance
of the most careless humor.
“Well, Harry, my boy,” said Mr. Alston, “how is it this
morning? how are the nerves?”
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Instead of resenting this banter or expressing any surprise,
Mr. St. John merely held out his hand, rising for that
purpose from the sofa upon which he lay, with drooping
head, and then having given this evidence of welcome, he
sank back as cold and silent as before.
The reception did not seem to please Mr. Alston; he
gazed for a moment with an expression of great feeling at
the pale, cold face, turned away from him; at the drooping
brows, the half-closed eyes, and the lips indicating hopeless
despair.
“Come, Harry, my dear fellow,” he said, rapidly changing
his expression, and speaking in a tone of careless good
humor, “this is a poor greeting, and you have not replied
to my question.”
“Your question, Tom?” asked Mr. St. John, waking up,
as it were, and looking absently at his friend.
“Yes, my question!”
“What was it? You must pardon me, Tom, I'm not
very well this morning, or very lively, as you may imagine.”
“Bah! all the imagination is on your side. My question
was in the words and figures following, to wit: `how are
your nerves?' ”
“Quite firm.”
“Has a mouse run across the floor?”
His friend looked at him with an expression of inquiry.
“I say, has a mouse squeaked this morning, and thrown
you into agonies?”
The look of inquiry changed to one of cold surprise,
which it seemed Mr. Alston comprehended.
He burst out laughing.
“I understand!” he said, “you are ready to cut my throat
because I refer to your nerves. Well, I believe I am competent
to form an opinion, and empowered to express the same,
I only being responsible, under the circumstances, for the
said expression of the said opinion. The practical application
which I make, on the present occasion, of this little
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observation, is simply as follows. The dreadful words have
been uttered now, and if my opinions upon the nervous system
do not please monsieur, I am entirely at his orders, my
preference being for the short sword!”
St. John sat down and leaned his head upon his hand.
“Pardon my coldness and irritation, Tom,” he said, “I
can't afford to lose any friends now.”
“Ah! you come to reason, do you?”
“Yes, I would keep the few hearts I retain. You see
I'm a poor miserable devil that do n't dare to quarrel—I'm
too wretched for that.”
“Wretched folly it indeed is, Harry my boy, to say that
you are wretched—or rather, to proceed logically, to say
that you have any reason to be wretched.”
“Have you received my last letter?” said St. John, suppressing
a groan.
“Yes, I have.”
“And you laugh still?”
“Most heartily.”
“It is at my distress, then.”
“No; at your philosophy.”
“Of what?”
“Why, of spirits.”
St. John made a movement with his head, signifying
plainly, “You are at liberty to laugh.”
“I understand very well,” said his friend; “you mean by
that lordly nod to grant me permission to think as I may.
Well, my dear friend, I cheerfully avail myself of your permission,
and consider that you ought to have a nurse to put
you in bed, and to sleep in the same room with you.”
St. John was silent. What he had said in his letter was
true. He no longer cared to discuss the strange presentiments,
and the dream, if it were a dream. In his agony all
other things were swallowed up, and after the momentary
outbreak he felt no anger even at the rough address of his
friend.
This, however, seemed to be just what Mr. Alston desired
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to excite—he wished to arouse the young man. When his
taunts were received with indifference he seemed disappointed.
“Come,” he said, returning to the attack, “confess, my
dear Harry, that you are a baby.”
“If you choose, I will.”
“A child frightened by a buggaboo.”
“I have no objection.”
“Really,” said Mr. Alston, with a compassionate air, “you
do seem to me a mere girl; put the cover over its head and
stop whimpering, and go to sleep—mammy's sitting by its
bed!”
St. John made no reply.
“Would you have a little pap, mother's darling?” inquired
Mr. Alston.
“No, I thank you.”
“A sugar rag's convenient.”
Mr. St. John nodded his head.
“Mammy won't let bogy frighten mother's darling—ugly
bogy, coming here to scare his mother's own sweet ducky
dear.”
Mr. St. John had even ceased to hear the voice of his
friend; stretched upon a lounge, he was thinking, with far
away eyes set in a face as pale as death.
“Harry St. John,” said Mr. Alston, suddenly dropping
his tone of banter, “do you wish to hear my real opinion of
you?”
Mr. St. John turned toward his friend, looked at him for
a moment, intently, and said:
“I will listen.”
“Well, sir,” said Mr. Alston, austerely, “I consider you
an idiot.”
And Mr. Alston raised his head with a haughty air, and
placed his hand upon the hilt of his sword.
Mr. St. John only looked at him more attentively.
“Yes, sir,” said Mr. Alston, coldly, “I understand your
gaze very well; you think to intimidate me. But you will
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not, sir! no, sir! I am not to be bullied! I say again, sir,
and I will repeat it a third time, if necessary, that my real
opinion of you is that you are an idiot—a fool. There,
sir! I am ready to take the responsibility of that declaration.”
St. John scarcely raised his head, and for a moment did
not speak.
“Miserable coward!” said Mr. Alston, sotto voce, and
frowning.
A long silence followed—it was broken by Mr. St. John.
He rose wearily from the sofa, passed his hand over his forehead
and said,
“You're a good friend, Tom. I can not, however, say as
much for your acting. You are quite transparent. I see
plainly what brings you, and I know very well what you
intend by your affected taunts and insults. You overdo it;
but even were it acted with a reality which persuaded me
of the sincerity of your desire to offend me, I doubt if I
should resent your words. You wish to arouse me by your
stage-play, but I am too dreary and despairing. All's over
for me; I yield. I do not even hear your insults distinctly,
for my mind is paralyzed.”
And Mr. St. John sank back again, and was silent.
An expression of real pain diffused itself over Mr. Alston's
countenance, and gazing at his friend, he said,
“Harry, you afflict me to the heart.”
“I am sorry.”
“And I groan! How can you yield to this infatuation?”
“Infatuation?”
“Yes, 't is nothing more.”
St. John looked at his friend.
“Do you think me infatuated after going and seeing for
yourself?” he said.
“Seeing for myself?” asked Mr. Alston.
“Yes; are there many of those jessamines left under the
window?”
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And Mr. St. John pointed to a flower in Mr. Alston's button
hole, plucked at Vanely as he departed.
“That reminds me of a little flower I pulled one day at
Jamestown island,” added the young man, “a long, long
time ago.”
And he was silent.
Mr. Alston looked at his friend with the same expression
of pain, and said,
“I see you have divined my movements. Well, I have
been to Vanely.”
“And traveled all night to come and comfort a poor
devil, your friend. Thanks, Tom.”
“You have hit it. I come to comfort you.”
Mr. St. John shook his head.
“You wish to make me think you have something to tell
me which will raise my spirits. But 't is impossible. All 's
at an end.”
And Mr. St. John sank back again, silent and despairing.
Mr. Alston seemed touched to the very depths of his nature
by this agony of his friend; it almost silenced him,
for he scarcely hoped to make any impression upon one so
resolute in his despair. He nevertheless collected all his
strength, and commenced the assault.
We shall not repeat the conversation, for it consisted only
of a description, in all their details and ramifications, of the
events which have been described in Mr. St. John's letters.
From these letters, with the reply of Mr. Alston, the reader
will gather exactly what the present interview concerned
itself with. On one side, arguments against imaginary influences,
presentiments and superstitions; on the other, either
silence or indifferent replies. Then came the question of
the young girl's change; and here, too, Mr. Alston dwelt
upon the same views which he had expressed in his letter—
maidenly modesty and indisposition. Mr. St. John only
shook his head, making no reply.
“For Heaven's sake, Harry!” said his friend, “do n't meet
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my arguments with that eternal gesture of simple dissent.
Really you are not open to conviction, for here, after two
hours' discussion, you seem absolutely more than ever determined
to despair; you hug your wretchedness and resist
every attempt I make to remove it.”
“It hugs me,” said St. John, groaning.
“Because you invite it to do so. Look away from it.”
“I can not.”
“Have I then been merely wasting my time?”
“I am afraid so, Tom, alas! I hear your heart rather
than your head speak to me. You wish to cheer me, but
you have nothing to offer me. For what is the sum of
your argument? You tell me that you have been to Vanely,
that you have adroitly sounded the whole family, and
you tell me their replies to your questions. My uncle, you
say, in reply to one of your allusions to me, expressed himself
well pleased that I was to become his son; Aunt Mabel
loved me in spite of my faults; Miss Seraphina, like
uncle and aunt, saw nothing, and looked forward to the
wedding. Helen alone saw the cloud, but was guarded in
her speech, and mentioned indisposition as the cause of her
change; lastly, she herself being flatly and earnestly interrogated,
replied with—what? `I am very sorry that
my manner has wounded Cousin Henry's feelings; I have
not been well lately, Mr. Alston.' There, Tom, that is but
the old story. You have in vain attempted to lift the burden
of despair weighing me down. I thank you, I recognize
your friendship; it is a gloomy pleasure to me, but I
remain unchanged—all 's over.”
And St. John covered his face, and uttered a moan which
made honest Tom Alston turn away his head and remain
for some time silent.
After a while Mr. Alston returned again to the subject;
but this time, with less vehemence, and a more quiet earnestness.
His object now was to persuade his friend to return.
St. John shook his head.
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“Why should I?” he said; “it will only make two persons
more miserable still.”
“And you thus relinquish, without a struggle, the happiness
of your whole life?”
“I must!” said St. John, with a cruel groan.
“You must not, Harry!” said Tom Alston, almost groaning
too; “I tell you, you must not! As your friend, as your
companion and playmate in childhood and youth, and your
friend now in manhood, I beseech you to consider this! By
returning no more, you at once break off all connection with
those who love you and whom you love! By going thither
no more, you end for ever all affection which they have for
you. At present no one but Helen observes any thing
strange; your uncle and aunt will resent your action, and
banish you from their hearts. I beseech you to think what
you are doing, and not wreck the whole happiness of your
future life on a chimerical fancy, which may be a mere
dream!”
At the end of an hour, during which Tom Alston thus
dwelt upon the effects of such a proceeding as his friend had
decided on, with the greatest earnestness—at the end of this
long and elaborate expostulation, St. John, weak and undecided,
promised to think of the matter. Tom Alston pushed
his advantage, and ere long forced from his friend a promise
that he would make a final attempt to penetrate the mystery.
“Yes, you have overcome me,” said the young man, rising,
with a slight color in his pale cheek; “I will go again,
and I will take this with me.”
As he spoke, he drew from the breast pocket of his doublet
a folded paper, on the face of which a slash or cut running
through the direction, “Henry St. John, Esquire,” was
plainly visible.
“Yes, Tom,” said the young man, suppressing a weary
sigh, “I will follow your advice, and make a last attempt.
Look at this letter, it is one which she wrote me some days
before my duel with Lindon, and it turned his sword point.
I will go to her and say, `It was a loyal heart which your
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letter saved from being pierced and torn asunder; the heart
which it now covers is as loyal. If an enemy has spoken
against me, tell me what he has said, and I will answer it;
and not punish him if you wish it.' I will go and say that
and beseech her to not leave me in despair. You are right,
Tom, propriety at least requires that from me.”
And the young man finished with an expression of mingled
despair and disdain which was painful to behold.
Mr. Alston was, however, too much pleased with the determination
of his friend to feel longer pained. He replied,
with a cheerful look,
“Be easy, Harry. All will come out right; you have determined
most manfully. I confess there is much to afflict
any one in this matter, but you have only to oppose yourself
to the obstacle like a valorous chevalier, and all will be
well. You say this little flower in my button-hole reminds
you of that one you plucked when you were wounded, as
you told me at Flower of Hundreds. Well, take this flower,
and add to your former address, `When I was wounded
and bleeding, fainting and unable to stand up, one day, I
thought of you more than my wound, and plucked a flower
such as you had plucked on the very same spot, and
even when I lost my senses clung to it, and thought of
you.' Add that to your speech, Harry, and if you do
not move her, and make her return to her old affection,
then I will really sympathise with you, for I shall have
reason.”
Having thus terminated the discussion, and extracting
from his friend a promise that, within three days at farthest,
he would carry out his design of visiting Vanely, Mr. Tom
Alston declared himself extremely hungry, and the friends
proceeded to the Raleigh and breakfasted. St. John scarcely
touched his food, and had never changed his expression of
cold despair.
An hour afterwards he bade his friend good-bye, and they
separated—Mr. Alston to return to Moorefield, where he
was to receive a letter from his friend; Mr. St. John to seek
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his lounge, where he now spent hour after hour steeped in
gloomy reverie.
His friend's visit had been like a ripple on the surface of
a dark tarn—the waters again closed over its gloomy depths,
silent and motionless.
CHAPTER LXIII. A BROKEN HEART: HENRY ST. JOHN TO THOMAS ALSTON.
“I HAVE followed your advice, and made the journey
which you suggested, carrying with me the letter, and intending
to add what you advised me to add to my address.
“I write because I promised to write, though the ink
is somewhat faded. Strange! that the merchants of Williamsburg
will not provide the gentlemen of the colony, who
deal with them, something better than this pale, watery
fluid, which can hardly be seen! I shall purchase no more
of it, depending for the future upon London.
“I feel somewhat badly this morning, which I suppose is
attributable to the fact that I traveled all night, as a friend
of mine did a long time ago, when he came in early one
morning. Why, what am I writing? It was yourself—
was it not? My head is a little disordered this morning,
and my memory is bad. As I said, I traveled all last night.
“What have I written? Is my mind failing? Why, I
am writing to Tom Alston! We talked of this—assuredly
we did! I told you of this visit to Colonel Vane's, in Prince
George—did I not? I told you I was going to see—her.
I told you I would write, or I dream!
“I have this moment returned. Oh, Tom! it all flashes
on me now; I have my senses again, which were stunned.
I went and she would not see me; she refused to meet me.
I am broken-hearted! My head pains me—something troubles
me; is the weather turning cold again? Strange, at
this season!
H. St. John.”
-- 344 -- p510-349
CHAPTER LXIV. HENRY ST. JOHN, ESQUIRE, TO MISS BONNYBEL VANE, AT VANELY, IN PRINCE GEORGE.
[figure description] Page 344.[end figure description]
“Is it wrong for me to write to you? We were cousins
once, with some affection for each other—I at least for you.
I do not add that we have ever been any thing more, for
that would doubtless wound and offend you. I would not
wound or offend you; I am too unhappy to think of reproaches.
Once I might have given way to my passionate
temperament, and uttered wild words; now I have no
such words to utter. I acquiesce in all you do and say,
and scarcely dare to write these lines—to my cousin, as it
were.
“My memory has been impaired of late, but I think we
were playmates in our youth, were we not? Are not you the
Bonnybel of my childhood? She was very lovely, and had
the kindest and tenderest heart, and a face full of the most
delicate loveliness. I have been thinking about her, and you
must not think me unmanly because the tears come to my
eyes. I do not think any one ever loved Bonnybel as I did.
She seemed to me like an angel, holding out her pure white
hands and blessing me. I used to weave flowers for her,
and once she showed me the wreath, a long time afterwards—
she had kept it for my sake, she said.
“I believe I am wandering from what I intended to write.
I have been sick, but am very well to-day. My friend, Tom
Alston, has been to see me in my sickness, and he has taken
up the strangest idea, he thinks that we have quarreled—
you and myself. Could any thing be more absurd? Ordinary
persons quarrel and fall out, but the very idea of Bonnybel
and Harry being any thing but friends! I told him
that it was absolutely silly, and the grounds of his opinion
are the silliest part of it. He thinks, because you were unwell
the other day, when I was at Vanely, and did not come
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down, that for this reason you do not like me. I wrote him
word, on my return that night, or rather early in the morning,
for I preferred traveling in the night, as the weather
was warm—I wrote him word about the visit, and said I
had not seen you, because you were sick. My letter had
scarcely reached Moorefield, I thought, when he broke into
my chamber here in the strangest manner, with tears in his
eyes, crying, most singularly, `O, Harry! Harry!' and sitting
down with his hands over his face. He then came and
put his arm around me and asked me how I felt, as though
I had been sick. I was not at all sick then, but became unwell
that evening, strange to say; I believe it was on account
of his visit. He persuaded me that I must be sick, or
I never would have written him such a letter, when my letter
was the simplest in the world, and just such as I generally
write to him. A physician came to see me, and he and
Tom went out just now together. I have risen from the
sofa, to write to you.
“I believe I am not quite well this morning, and I have
a strange feeling, as if we had quarreled. Write to me,
darling, and tell me that you still love me. My whole heart
is wrapped up in you, and I can not breathe without your
love. How kind and good in the merciful Creator to give
me your love. I have been very ungrateful not to thank
him, and obey his commands, but I will try in future to be
better. I expect much from your love, I think it will make
me purer and better. I do not love you only because your
face is beautiful, but because you are pure and good. When
we are married, I shall be far better, and you will have made
me so.
“They spoke of something which had come between us.
Is it not strange? Why, what could ever separate us?
There was a strange man who hinted at something of this
sort, I remember, but how foolish.
“I have not seen you for some days now, but I will come
soon. I am a little unwell to-day, but I am happy, thinking
of you.
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“There's Tom Alston's step upon the stairs, and he must
not see me writing to you; I can not write to you in company,
as I can not speak to you when others are present.
We must be alone, darling, to address each other as we
wish. I can not call you by your name in society, and I
can not even write it when another's present.
“They are near the door now, Tom and his friend, and I
must close my letter, which my servant shall carry to the
post office when they are gone.
“Write to me very soon, my own Bonnybel, and a good
long letter, such as you used to send me over to `Flower of
Hundreds,' when I was detained.
“Good bye.
“Your faithful
“Henry St. John.”
“P. S.—Tom and his friend have just gone out, and I am
glad I hid my letter from their eyes. They affect to think
that I am sick, and even say that writing and reading will
be injurious. How strange it is that intelligent men like
Tom and the doctor, do not understand that I am merely a
little fatigued and indisposed from want of rest and working
at the plans for `Flower of Hundreds.' I have devised a
very pretty wing, I think, such as you said you liked when
we looked at the old house from the hill in front. You did
not know that you were describing your preference to a
company of invisible architects. The addition will contain
a sitting-room for you, a smaller library, looking out upon
the lawn, and two guest chambers. I am sure you will like
it, and you know I only live to please you. Farewell.”
-- 347 -- p510-352
CHAPTER LXV. “HOW STRANGE! I KNEW A BONNYBEL ONCE!”
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Three days after this letter was dispatched, Mr. Alston,
who was now permanently residing at the Raleigh tavern,
entered his friend's chamber, after breakfast, and found him
holding in his hand a paper which his eyes were fixed upon
as though riveted to it by iron chains.
The sound of his footsteps did not arouse Mr. St. John,
who continued to gaze at the paper.
Mr. Alston approached, and, without ceremony, looked
over the young man's shoulder.
As his eyes ran over the letter, all color forsook his cheek,
a sort of tremor passed through his frame, and leaning one
hand on the back of the carved chair, he remained silent
and motionless.
The letter was in the following words:
“Vanely, Thursday.
“I have received your strange letter, in which you speak
of our union, and your plans in making additions to you residence,
suggested, you say, by myself. It was not my intention
to make such suggestions, and I hope the addition
will be stopped. At least I do not wish you to indulge the
hope that I shall ever become its inmate.
“It pains me to refer to what was, I hoped, forgotten—
that is, our engagement. What has occurred since that
time makes such engagement null, and it is no longer binding
upon either of us.
“Your strange letter will, I hope, be the last on this subject.
I am entirely resolved.
“B. V.”
It was this letter which Mr. St. John was gazing at with
wide eyes. His friend took it out of his hand and placed it
in his own pocket. Mr. St. John did not move.
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Mr. Alston went and sat down at some distance, and with
eyes hollow and red from want of rest, watched the young
man, the very sight of whose figure seemed to send a pang
through his honest heart.
St. John remained for nearly an hour perfectly motionless,
his shoulders drooping, his head bent down, his eyes fixed
upon the floor, across which a long bar of sunshine ran like
a stream of gold.
“It was a glorious sail we had upon the river,” he at
length murmured with a smile. “What a day it was!”
Mr. Alston half rose, but fell back in his seat.
“The sky was so blue, and the sun shone so brightly!”
continued St. John, laughing. “Even now I remember
how the foam danced along, far whiter than the wings of
the sea birds who hovered over us! What a happy time!
They may talk of the great wide ocean, but there's nothing
like our stately river—nothing! It runs from the mountains
of Virginia to the east, and Virginia is the fairest of
all lands, is it not? How the foam danced before us, and
the winds were blowing! The air was perfumed by the
forest as we sailed!”
“Harry! Harry!” murmured Tom Alston, in a stifled
voice.
“Ah! are you there, friend?” said the young man, turning
gayly, “are you there, good mine host of the Raleigh
tavern? 'Tis a fine tavern, and a stranger told me they
were making history there—ah! is it so? But we'll not
mind them. Bring me some sherry, host—or stay! let it
be Canary. 'Tis a gentleman's wine, and I am a gentleman—
though a poor one: very, very poor!”
And the head sank.
“Are we in the capitol?” he murmured, smiling as before.
“I am a stranger, but it seems that I have been here
once before! One night, when the violins played, and I
danced a minuet with some one—who could she have been?”
And with the air of a man who tries to recall something,
Mr. St. John touched his forehead and was silent.
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“Well, well, well!” he murmured at length, in a low,
measured voice, “I can not remember—it was very long ago.
How long, good host? A decade? Well, well, well—'
t was a merry time, I think. What a noble gift is memory!”
And with the same musing smile, both sad and joyous,
the young man raised his head. The colored drawing on
the opposite wall attracted his attention—the drawing purchased
for its chance likeness to Bonnybel—that which he
had selected on the night of the assembly, with the words
“The fallen salutes his victor.”
“Ah!” he murmured, “who is that, mine host? Is the
wine coming? Who is that—a fair face, I think!”
“He does not even recognize Bonnybel!” muttered Tom
Alston, covering his face, with a sob.
Only the last word caught the young man's wandering
attention.
“Bonnybel!” he murmured, “did you say Bonnybel was
her name? How strange! I knew a Bonnybel once: she
was very beautiful and tender. Eyes bright and of the tenderest
violet; hair a soft brown, and the very same lips—the
same, as I live! But no, no, no! that picture is not like her.
She was truer looking than that portrait—answer me not,
sir! Who says she was false? Do you wear a sword? I
who stand here am Henry St. John, of Prince George, in
Virginia!”
And an expression of haughty anger drove all smiles from
the wan face.
“Oh, me! oh, me!” was all Tom Alston could repeat, in
a voice stifled with emotion.
St. John continued for some moments gazing wildly at
the picture, and, as he gazed, a shudder ran through his
frame, his eyes expanded with a sort of dread, and, rising
violently from his seat, he drew his sword, shouting:
“Who are you that stand beside the picture of my love
and darken it? Away! I have seen you before, with
your burning eyes, and I defy you! I will meet you breast
to breast!—back!”
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[figure description] Page 350.[end figure description]
And with a fiery flash from his haughty eyes, the young
man cut at the air with his sword.
Tom Alston ran to him, and, sobbing like a child, put his
arms round him, and with gentle force compelled him to sit
down again.
“Oh, Harry! Harry! my poor, poor Harry!” he sobbed,
“'t is only your fancy: there is no one in the room. Oh,
Heaven! that it should come to this!”
St. John looked with a dreamy, absent air into the face
of his friend, and then turned away.
His momentary excitement soon disappeared, and, reclining
now against the tall, carved back of his chair, his shoulders
drooped, and he traced figures idly with the point of
his scabbard on the floor.
As he did so, his excitement seemed completely dissipated,
and, with a smile, he murmured to himself:
“Yes, yes! she is very beautiful and faithful! Who says
she's not?—poor creature, unworthy of my steel! Is that
a flower you hold in your hand? I have seen that rose before—
it is white. Were there not red roses too? Did you
tell me that you loved me? Oh, how dearly I love you!
Is your name Bonnybel? I knew one once like you—she
was very good and beautiful—but she died, and flowers are
growing from her bosom. Do I dream? Oh, me! Is she
dead, then—my own girl? Is she dead, then—my own
faithful girl? Oh, no! I should not be alive to ask you!—
that was another! You are my own dear Bonnybel, are
you not? You hold the flower in your hand, and smile.
You have the dearest eyes, and your hair is gold in the sunlight.
Do you love me? I shall die if you do not love
me! There is the moon!—take care or your horse will
stumble!—Oh, to die now since I have pressed your lips,
with your head on my bosom, with that light in your eyes!—
my own faithful, noble girl!”
And with an expression of the most radiant happiness,
the young man fixed his eyes upon the image of his memory,
and remained thus, lost in his reverie of joy and delight.
-- 351 -- p510-356
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At five paces from him, his friend followed every movement,
caught every murmur. With a heaving bosom, and
with eyes wet with tears, honest Tom Alston, whom the
world called fop and derided, watched, wofully, the progress
of the delirium.
At last he breathed more freely, his eyes turned eagerly
toward the door. He heard the step of the old physician
slowly ascending, and he soon entered.
A single glance at Mr. St. John told him all: he shook
his head.
“He has a brain fever,” said the old doctor, “produced
by mental excitement, exposure to the sun, after sickness,
perhaps, and loss of rest; of course chiefly by the former.
The sooner he is in bed the better, Mr. Alston. Ring for a
servant, and give orders that no person whatever be admitted.”
A powerful opiate was administered to the young man,
and he slept for some hours.
When he awoke, it was to toss and rave, deliriously,
from a violent brain fever, as the old physician had predicted.
CHAPTER LXVI. THE LAST HALLUCINATION OF ST. JOHN.
For more than two weeks, Mr. St. John remained thus
prostrated in body and mind, by the burning delirium
which had seized upon him.
The strong nature had been too heavily taxed—the vigorous
mind had succumbed beneath the vast pressure of
the weight of grief and agony—completely prostrated now,
the young man was but the wreck of himself—and, from
the delirious ravings which shook his thin frame, seemed to
be possessed by but one absorbing thought—his love.
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He would ramble on thus for hours, his memory returning
to all the happy scenes of the past: and looking at
times into the face of Tom Alston, who scarcely ever left
his side, he would speak of her with an accent of such
tenderness, that the honest fellow had to turn away his
head to hide the tears in his eyes.
Mr. Alston had found that one of the most soothing
medicines, so to speak, consisted in holding before his
friend's eyes the picture resembling Bonnybel;—and in
order that the sick man might have the full benefit of the
painting, its position had been changed to the wall in front
of the foot of the bed.
The young man did not seem to associate with the girl
thus brought to his mind, a single event of a sorrowful
nature. It was the Bonnybel of the happy past which he
gazed at with pensive pleasure; and he would lie thus
for hours, gazing in silence at the picture, or speaking to
it.
At last the crisis of his malady came, and seated at the
side of the bed, Tom Alston and the old physician followed
every indication of the disease. Life and death seemed to
wrestle over the young man's body—but life conquered.
From the brink of the grave he returned to life, and with
every hour now, to his friends' inexpressible delight, he
grew better.
One morning Mr. Alston had taken advantage of the
favorable condition of his friend, to go and get some sleep.
He had nearly broken himself down, this honest fop, by
those vigils at the bedside of his friend night after night;
and yielding at last to the doctor's expostulations, he went
to the Raleigh and slept.
St. John sank into a gentle slumber soon after his
friend's departure; and he had a happy dream, he thought.
It seemed to him that he was awake and gazing at the
picture resembling Bonnybel, when the door opened noiselessly,
a light footfall rustled on the carpet, and the figure
on the wall, as he continued to gaze, slowly became living,
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advanced from its frame, and stood at the foot of the bed,
looking at him.
A change, however, seemed to have taken place in the
features. The picture was happy and smiling, while the
figure of his imagination gazed at him with inexpressible
sadness, sobbing and permitting large tears to escape unheeded,
as the eyes continued to survey him.
Then as though to perfect the vision, another figure
advanced to the side of the first; and the young man recognized
the sad face of Helen, weeping like the image of
her sister.
The figures stood thus for some moments, motionless and
silent, except for the low sobs; and then slowly separating,
right and left, they came to the side of his bed.
The figure of Bonnybel sank into a chair, and the head
drooped until it rested upon the bed. Her companion
also sank down, and for some minutes he seemed to hear
low sobs, of inexpressible sorrow, dying away one after
another in the silence.
He tried to move and speak, and bid the vision not sob
so; but he could not. An influence, gentle and yet all
powerful, seemed to paralyze his limbs.
Then the figure of Bonnybel slowly raised its head, and
he saw that the eyes were red with weeping; and turning
his head, he perceived that the other image wept also.
As he looked, he felt a soft warm hand encircle his wrist,
a tear fell upon it; and this was followed by a kiss which
the figure Bonnybel pressed upon his thin, pale hand.
He tried again to move, but could not.
And then he saw the figures rise, stand for an instant
gazing at him with grief too deep for words; and then
they seemed slowly to disappear, and the picture on the
wall smiled as before.
From that time he grew rapidly better—the disease
retreated, and the color began to return to his cheek.
Life again infused itself like a subtle liquid into all the
cells of his being, and his eyes every hour grew clearer.
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At last he rose, and as before, at “Flower of Hundreds,”
lay beneath the window inhaling the fresh breeze
and basking in the sunshine; and finally, Tom Alston,
with the doctor's permission, drove him out. On the
next morning, after a sound sleep, the young man was
well.
Nothing remained of his illness but a slight paleness
and a settled melancholy. The old physician could cure
the body, but he could not minister to the mind diseased.
Mr. St. John was entirely uncomplaining now—he was
also entirely hopeless.
CHAPTER LXVII. HOW ST. JOHN KEPT HIS APPOINTMENT WITH THE STRANGER.
Three days after the morning ride of the friends, and
about midnight, a man was seated in the upper room of
the tall house pointed out by the stranger to St. John,
and bending over a great table covered with papers, was
writing rapidly.
It was the stranger himself.
He was clad in the same sable suit—his face was pale
and earnest as before—and he was writing by the light of
a single candle which sent its feeble glimmer far across the
roofs of the houses—a solitary sentinel, in its watch-tower,
over the sleeping town.
The stranger continued writing for half an hour without
raising his head; but at the end of that time, a footstep
upon the winding stair-case attracted his attention.
He listened as the step ascended, and went to the door,
which he threw open.
He found himself opposite to Mr. St. John.
“Ah! it is you, friend!” he said; “welcome! And yet I
grieve to see you—if—”
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And a look of inquiry ended the sentence.
St. John inclined his head, slowly, and took the seat toward
which the stranger motioned him.
“I reply to your unuttered question,” said the young man,
calmly; “yes, I have come to seek you, as you predicted
I would come. It is to do my duty—to try at least. I am
ready to do all that a broken-hearted man may do—a poor
gentleman. You were right; I am miserable, utterly so—
you triumph.”
Having thus spoken in a tone of gloomy, but uncomplaining
despair, the young man leaned upon the table, and lowered
his eyes.
The stranger looked at him long and intently, without
speaking. Then taking his cold hand and pressing it,
“You will not think me insincere when I tell you, sir,” he
said, “that your unhappiness deeply afflicts me. I will not be
guilty of the bad taste of asking its nature, of probing your
wounds afresh, and making you suffer for the gratification
of my curiosity. It is enough for me to know that you are
grieved, and I most sincerely sympathize with you, and, if
possible, would endeavor to console you.”
There was great dignity in the air of the stranger, as he
spoke, and that sincerity which springs from a superior nature,
but the young man only shook his head, and muttered
some inaudible thanks.
“So let it be then, friend,” said the stranger, “I shall ask
you no questions and offer no common-place consolations.
Will you permit me, however, to make one observation before
we dismiss the subject?”
“Willingly.”
“Do you remember one day when we dined in your private
apartment at the Raleigh tavern?”
“Yes, perfectly,” said St. John.
“Do you remember observing my silence and abstraction?”
“Yes.”
“To end my questions—do you recall that history of
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my life which I related in the old church at Richmond
town?”
“I shall not forget it.”
“Well, friend,” said the stranger, calmly, “the apartment
to which you conducted me, in the Raleigh tavern, was the
one which she occupied, when I knew her first—the woman
who was more to me than life. There first I saw her,
there she moved about, and sat, and read, and smiled; there
first her head rested on my breast, and I heard her heart
speak to me. Well, I thus entered that room again at your
invitation, after years of absence, and I recognized, perfectly,
every detail of the apartment—the windows, the old
mirror above the fireplace, the very andirons, and the crack
in the plaster of the wall. Here she had sat down and
looked at me so kindly, there she had stood with the breeze
lifting her curls, yonder she had leaned one white arm on
the moulding—I saw all, and lived through the whole past
again. You observed my abstraction, I remember; you
gazed at me as I leaned on the table, and left the wine untasted,
and mused.”
“Yes, I saw all that, sir,” said St. John, “and I feel for
you.”
“Let me finish, friend; it is not idly that I recall all this.
I say that there, in that apartment, I thus recalled to my
mind the grand hours of my life, when my horizon was all
sunshine, and the sad present was set, like a black figure,
against that dead sunlight. Well, I did not groan and sob,
turn pale, and cover my face. I looked, in turn, upon every
object; I traversed the whole past with a single glance, and
then I returned to the subject we had been discussing, without
emotion. Do you understand?”
St John inclined his head, calmly.
“You wish to console me,” he said. “I thank you.”
“I wish, indeed, to say to you that the lapse of time
slowly wears away the deepest impressions, that grief gradually
disappears, that God finally leaves us only that pensive
sadness which surrounds the beloved and lost figure with a
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sort of glory, contributing far more to our happiness than
our misery.”
St. John remained silent.
“I have said,” added the stranger, “that I would not
weary you, in your doubtless great grief, with common-place
consolations. But I declare to you, friend, as the result
of the observation and experience of a life crammed with
bitter and corroding emotions—I declare to you, I say, as a
proposition, a truth, which can not be refuted, or modified
in its application, that the merciful God, who has made the
creature man, does not design, nor will he permit grief to
master us, the clouds to overshadow us for ever. The gloom
will disappear, the sun will again shine, that hope which
now flies from you for ever, as you imagine, will return, and
again you will be happy.”
St. John listened in the same gloomy silence, and said at
last,
“I know not if I even believe in a God, but I do in my
destiny.”
The stranger looked sadly at his companion.
“I thought the old Greek dogma had disappeared, friend,”
he said; “destiny is but another word for chance, however
opposite they may seem.”
“Well, I do not refuse that philosophy either.”
“Look at that flower on my table,” said the stranger;
“that alone refutes you.”
“An apple blossom; yes, it is very pretty; simple, but
delicate and beautiful.”
“Simple?” said the stranger; “there, friend, you err;'
t is a miracle of complexity. Its history unfolds the spirit
of the universe, and simple as that flower may seem to you,
the links of an invisible chain bind it to the throne of the
Eternal. Look at it with me; see these delicate petals, like
rose-colored velvet, the germ of the fruit in the middle of
the star, the down on the leaf and around the stem. A
thousand trees shall grow upon a hundred hills, and no one
shall produce a different bloom, and if this be conceded,
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friend, 't is violating reason to dub such causality as is here
apparent, with the name of chance. Chance might, if you
choose, originate this blossom, though I could never comprehend
the meaning of the word, even; but could a blind
chance continue to produce? Let it be granted that this
wonderful trifle came by accident, could accident constantly
renew it? Is it not a mere contradiction, I ask you calmly,
friend? To me it is evident that this incessant reproduction,
this fatal sequence, involves necessarily the existence of
law. The bough buds and blooms, the bloom falls away,
the green germ expands into a globe, striped or mottled,
filled with juice, sour or sweet, and the small seed of this
globe possesses the reproductive power so perfectly that
with a handful you may plant a forest. Year after year that
forest, in turn, blossoms and bears fruit—what fruit? Why
the same, absolutely the same, and the existence of immutable
law thus reveals itself. I see you acquiesce.
“Well now friend,” continued the stranger, whose design
seemed to be a diversion of the young man's thoughts,
“if this law does beyond doubt exist, how was it established?
Chaos as you know is the primal condition of
matter—does order evolve itself from chaos blindly? or
can law itself rise from anarchy without a motor, a fiat of
some greater power? There must of necessity be something
above chaos and anarchy, to bring forth law and
order. What must it be? Why a God. It seems to me,
friend, that the necessity for this Being is more fatally
logical, armed with a wedge more penetrating, than the
Greek `Necessity.' ”
“I did not mean to say that I doubted the existence of
a supreme Being,” said St. John gloomily; “I only say
that this Being, if he exists, has made my life darkness.”
“How do you know that fact?”
“My reason tells me so—to answer you philosophically,”
said St. John.
“And what does your reason tell you about the atonement?”
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“It recoils.”
“I thought so. Well, friend, permit me to say that you
reject these consolations precisely because you reason as
you do, with the head.”
“How should I?”
“As a child does, with the heart.”
“Must I embrace blindly?” said the young man with
gloomy calmness. “I can not do that.”
“No one expects you to.”
“How then?”
“With faith founded on reason—a `reasonable faith.' ”
“Faith and reason are implacable enemies,” said St.
John struggling gloomily against hope, “the encyclopæ
dists prove that——”
“Man is a machine. So they do, friend,” interrupted the
stranger. “Well they make but sorry machines of us—I
prefer one of wood and iron to their imaginary men. I
say that faith and reason, so far from being hostile, are inseparable;—
true faith and right reason, understand me,
friend—else we wander. It is no quibble to say you must
exert faith to believe in reason—to comprehend what is
really such. I do not call a skepticism, springing from
depravity of life, and warping mind and heart, the triumph
of reason. I say that the French idea of it is based at
most on science and philosophy miscalled; and the encyclop
ædists stumble in the dark, and utter only broken
words, for science and philosophy are progressive. Do
you comprehend the immense significance of this fact,
friend? Undoubtedly both science and philosophy are
constantly advancing and unfolding—well, the philosophy
preached by Paul in the name of his Master, is perfect,
finished, not progressive. From Plato and Pythagoras,
to Diderot and D'Alembert, the philosophers of all nations
have been speculating on the mystery of human life—man's
destiny; and those accomplished intellects, you must confess,
have come to different conclusions. They all appealed
to science and philosophy, and their systems have all been
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rejected—because the child who succeeds the octogenarian
knows more than the gray-haired thinker—has the benefit
of every new discovery, a sealed book to the generation
preceding him. That is undoubtedly the state of science.
What is revelation, by which term I mean of course the
system of the `Nazarene philosopher,' as says a friend of
mine? Is it either progressive or defective? More than
seventeen hundred years ago, from the depths of the East,
where the paganism of the profligate Romans mingled
with the groveling hypocrisy of the debased Hebrews—
from this repulsive society of hard masters and cowering
slaves, came a man of thirty, announcing a new system.
He was poor, and his followers were some fishermen from
the most gnorant district of the country of Galilee. This
man continued to disseminate his views for three years, and
then the Hebrews, whom he arraigned as hypocrites, procured
his execution as a seditious person, in the Roman
manner—by crucifixion. What was the system of this
young philosopher, the philosophy originating in the most
debased age and people of which history speaks? Friend,
you may read it in the book called by that Greek word
itself—the Bible. If you do not see that the model therein
given is superior to the highest development of holiness
found in the purest ages and the most enlightened countries,
you must read without the student's mind. As I
have said over and over, human philosophy is progressive,
and consequently defective; the divine system is not progressive,
because it is perfect. It has not advanced one
step for seventeen hundred years, and is still immeasurably
in advance of our purer civilization. Is that not plain?
Look at it as a statesman searching for the means of leading
a great land to happiness and glory; then say if you
can doubt that if the precepts of the Nazarene philosopher—
I mean love and charity—were the common law, the
world would touch the summit of her splendor, her peace
and joy? Year by year, the world has advanced to higher
heights under the banner bearing that rude instrument on
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which the Founder was executed—the Cross drives the
powers of darkness before its triumphal march. Thus the
earth blossoms every year with purer flowers; but where
is the individual whose life has approached the great Exemplar's?
He was a poor youth, reared up in the midst
of the superstition, cruelty, and debasement of a pagan
land and nation. You, a Virginia gentleman of the eighteenth
century can not touch the threshold of this majestic
temple, where truth and goodness sit like queens. I finish
by saying, that if there is any cause and effect, the system
can not be of human origin. I would rather believe the
miracles recorded in that book than credit the idea that
the man who founded its system was merely a man—a system
which, after two thousand years nearly, soars above the
onward march of the nations, and remains unapproached
and unapproachable. Reason shifts and changes, and the
philosophy of to-day is the byword of the morrow. This
revelation alone does not change—because man eternally
requires the same consolation, just this, and this alone—and
so it will be to the end. Friend, there are times when the
cold reason brings but sorry consolation. When the heart
is broken with grief, the spirit weary and worn by sorrow,
the eye dim, and the blood cold, at such times we do not
read the encyclopaedia. We then feel that the heart is
greater than the intellect—that after all we are not machines—
we find in faith that rest which the wounded seek
when they drag their bleeding limbs from the battle field.
I ask for the healing balm, and will not listen to Voltaire
who stands by and sneers, and tries to persuade me that it
is a nostrum. And now pardon me for these many words;
my excuse is that they are true.”
“There is nothing for me to pardon,” said St. John, in the
same cold and gloomy tone; “I should rather return you
my thanks, friend. I see plainly that your object is to console
me in my affliction. I only regret that 't is impossible.
Whatever I may have in the future, I have now no faith
like yours. I lament it, but I can not help it. Let me not
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longer trespass on your time than is absolutely necessary.
You were writing?”
“Yes,” said the stranger, abandoning the subject, as his
companion desired, “I was at work.”
“And I interrupt you.”
“No, it is not interruption to see friends, whatever having
others by me may be. The mind gathers strength and
elasticity from rest. My pamphlet will end with greater
vigor for your visit.”
And the stranger lifted one of the sheets and ran his eye
over it with that comprehensive glance peculiar to authors.
“I have nearly finished,” he said.
“What is it?” asked St. John, who had never for a moment
lost his cold and gloomy air, and seemed indeed to
move and speak like a lifeless automaton; “is it revolutionary?”
“You shall judge for yourself.”
And the stranger pointed to a rough printed sheet of proof.
Mr. St. John read,
“Thoughts on the Present Aspect of Affairs, by a
Man of the Times.”
As he was reading the commencement of the pamphlet,
a tap at the door announced a visitor, and without waiting
for permission, a printer's boy entered.
The stranger handed him the pages of MS., and he retired
as silently as he had come.
St. John, for a moment interrupted, again returned to the
pamphlet, and having read the two or three sheets, said, as
he laid them down,
“That seems to me treason, friend—it will be seized.”
“No,” said the stranger.
“Why not?”
“At least if it is seized, that ceremony will take place in
a thousand separate localities throughout Virginia.”
“You do not publish here then?”
“No, 't is only printed here.”
“And scattered by your agents?”
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The stranger nodded.
St. John reflected for some moments without speaking,
and then said,
“I came to offer you a gift for the cause, friend. 'T is
twenty thousand pounds, in valid securities, for which I will
take your receipt.”
The young man uttered these words as coldly as before,
and then waited for the stranger's reply.
That reply was a refusal of the money, on the ground
that the association would not consent to impoverish its
friends even for the general good. The stranger presented
his view at great length and earnestly, but St. John did not
seem in the least moved by his arguments.
“Well, friend,” he said, with gloomy calmness and the
same measured, automaton-like movement of the head, “well,
be it as you wish. I can not force you to accept the gift I
offer; but I forewarn you that this refusal will be injurious
to me, perhaps fatal, if I do not forestall its effects. You
look at me with curiosity, and my words even seem to cause
you concern; well, I will respond to the silent question of
your eyes; I will speak plainly as you formerly spoke; I
will explain my meaning, and the action I have taken.”
St. John paused a moment, and suppressed the groan
which struggled for utterance—in an instant he was again
calm.
“Since I last saw you, friend,” he said, coldly, “I have
suffered a misfortune which henceforth renders me the victim
of an incurable despair. I shall only say, upon this
point, that my despair proceeds from the changed relations
of a woman who is no longer the same to me, and has
broken my heart. 'T is almost a piece of cant, the phrase
which I use, but it is true. You will easily understand, after
these words, that I can not remain where I was once happy.
I can not look upon the objects which were familiar to me
and to her, without breaking my heart daily, and opening
afresh my almost mortal wounds. I fear to do so. I think
my frame, already much weakened by illness, would
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succumb. I shall therefore go away from these scenes; I shall
never again look upon them. I have just perfected the arrangements
by which my whole property is alienated, my
intention being to leave Virginia for ever. I have executed,
in the first place, a deed by which my old and faithful servants,
with their entire families, are conveyed in fee simple
to a gentleman living near me, my uncle—one who has been
a most tender father to me in my orphanage, refusing absolutely
to accept the least return for his kindness, or even so
much as repayment of his expenditures on my account.
This deed is properly drawn, and my uncle will have no
choice in the matter, for I shall be dead, as it were, and it
is in fact a bequest by my last will and testament. Well,
there was so much taken from the cause, but I did not dream
of any other course. My real estate remained, and that is
all free from incumbrance. See these papers—they are approved
securities from the purchaser, Mr. A. Z. Smith, of this
town. At the moment when he affixed his name to them,
I felt almost relieved, for, from that instant I should no
longer look upon scenes which it tears my very soul to approach
now. You spoke of that room at the Raleigh, friend;
you say you were simply sad. With me it is different, for
there is a room yonder in my house, which would strangle
me with memories should I enter it, were I not to faint and
fall on the threshold.
“But I wander. Let me say what I intended. I thus
hold in my hand the purchase money of my manor house and
plantation, but it will not remain by me long. It shall not
be the accursed temptation in my grasp, corrupting me, and
leading me to those desperate courses by which men most
frequently try to drown despair. No, I am resolved, friend.
I will not retain the means of drugging myself with sensual
poison, and of thus slowly slipping, as it were, into the gulf
of perdition. I know myself well enough to understand
that I require rough medicine, if indeed any medicine at all
exists, for my disease. I must wrestle with the hard world
if I would retain even my faith of gentleman, if I would
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forget what has paralyzed me. Well, friend, do you still
refuse? If you do, I have only to add that the dice will
relieve me of my incumbrance. I have a natural and acquired
fondness for the vice of play, and, from my past experience,
I do not despair of being rapidly relieved. Speak
finally now, for myself I have nothing more to say.”
And the young man, as cold and gloomy as ever, ceased
speaking, looking out into the gloomy night.
The stranger did not reply for some moments. During
this pause, his penetrating eyes were fixed intently upon the
face of his companion, and he seemed to feel that he was in
presence of a man who had finally resolved, and whom it
was useless to make any effort to move. Then, as he gazed,
a sigh shook his breast, and an expression of compassion,
almost tender, as a father's for an unhappy child, softened
the iron features, and vailed the brilliant eyes.
He stretched out his hand, and laying it kindly on the
young man's shoulder, said,
“You must suffer much.”
“I do,” was the gloomy reply.
“Is there no means of relieving this unhappiness?”
“None.”
“You will not confide in me entirely, and take my advice.”
“It is useless, friend; it will only tear open my wounds.”
A silence followed the low words, during which neither
spoke.
“Be it so,” said the stranger, at length; “I do not further
urge you, and I accept your gift.”
With these words, he took a piece of paper, wrote some
lines on it, and received in exchange for it the papers which
St. John still held in his hand.
“I retain what I need,” said the young man, “and my
future is already resolved on.”
“That at least you can speak of.”
“Assuredly. I shall to-morrow apply to the Governor of
Virginia for a commission in the service of his Majesty.”
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“Ah! you apply to Dunmore?”
“Yes. That is, to the Governor of this colony, in his official
capacity; my plea being simply that I am an educated
Virginian.”
“You go West?”
“Yes, to the Indian wars, and, if I do not die there, down
the Ohio river to New Spain, thence to Europe.”
And the young man looked, with the calmness of despair,
through the window, at the stars.
The stranger sighed, and his clear eyes were again vailed
with their expression of compassionate regret.
“I understand all now,” he said, “and I can not oppose your
plans. I know well that the heart, when deeply wounded,
instinctively recoils from the sight of those objects familiar
to it in the hours of happiness; I know that the impulse to
go away to some distant land, to new scenes and adventures,
which will divert the mind's eternal brooding, is unconquerable.
Perhaps, after all, you have adopted the best course,
and in a few years you will return cured of your wounds.”
The young man replied by a gloomy shake of the head.
“Well,” said the stranger, “let us leave it to time. To
return to the affairs of the moment, I think you are right in
going to the frontier. At last his Excellency has sounded
the bugle blast, and the men of Virginia are mustering to
the rendezvous. General Lewis, a giant among giants, the
brave of braves, is in Williamsburg, and in ten days the
army will be on its march, his Excellency following it with
his select corps.”
The stranger spoke coolly, but a meaning glance showed
that his words contained more than they expressed. What
he now added proved this:
“This is the affair as it appears in the official proclamation,”
continued the stranger, “and even to the eyes of
many Virginians. Those who pierce beneath the wrappings
of events see differently, however. It is my profound conviction
that this man, Dunmore, is going out younder to perfect
the treachery which he long since conceived. Conolly
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laid the train—his master will apply the match. You are
going to look on, and hear the explosion. It is really the
cause of liberty which you serve, in diverting thus your own
private grief. Let that cheer you.”
And the stranger again looked earnestly and compassionately
at St. John, and was silent.
The young man rose.
“Friend,” he said, “I have listened as you have listened
to me, and I thank you. You more than ever confirm me
in my intention, and I shall early in the morning proceed
to put it into execution—take the first step. Yes, from this
time forth I am a wanderer, and if that wandering will benefit
a cause which I feel is just and noble, so much the better.
I shall apply for the commission of lieutenant—if it is
refused, I shall volunteer in the ranks. Now I will go, having
too far trespassed already on your valuable time. You
are courteous to shake your head, but I have seriously interrupted
you. Well, good friend, let us now part. I shall
see you again before I go—until then, farewell.”
And exchanging a grasp of the hand with his companion,
who still looked at him with that compassionate softness,
dimming the brilliant and penetrating eyes, the young man
took his departure, and soon regained the street, which was
still and vacant.
With measured steps, and in silence, he sought his own
mansion, and the lonely stars looked down upon him, peering
with their curious eyes, as they have looked on men who
have suffered in all ages.
As he entered the door, the young man turned his head
and saw the light still shining from the lofty eyrie of the
stranger.
“Yes,” he murmured, “like him, it keeps watch while
others sleep. Sleep! Oh! when shall I sleep, and not
awake?”
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CHAPTER LXVIII. A VIRGINIA GIANT.
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On the next day Mr. St. John presented himself, clad
with the most scrupulous ceremony, at the door of Governor
Dunmore's palace.
He was shown into the receiving room by a solemn major
domo in black velvet, and thus found himself in the presence
of the Governor.
Lord Dunmore was seated, as always, in his great carved
chair covered with red damask, the portraits of the king
and queen, respectively, facing and behind him, and at a
table, the members of the council, together with Captain
Foy, were ranged in a long and imposing array.
There was another personage seated at some distance,
whom Mr. St. John had never before seen, and this man
attracted perforce, as it were, his attention.
He was almost gigantic in stature, with limbs moulded
like those of a Hercules, and his massive head, with its long
hair, rose from a pair of shoulders, which, like those of Atlas,
seemed vigorous enough to bear aloft a world. The
broad collar was turned down, and the throat of this singular
personage was thus revealed—a mass of iron muscles,
and sinews like whip cords. He was clad in a pair of huge
horseman's boots, to which were affixed heavy spurs with
enormous rowels; knee breeches of buckskin, secured at
the knee by thongs instead of buckles, and over this lower
costume fell the folds of a hunting shirt, gathered round
the waist by a broad leather belt, from which depended an
enormous broad-sword.
The air of this man had in it a collected and invincible
resolution, mingled with a sort of wild and primitive ease;
but it was the ease of a stern and rugged nature, which
does not care for the etiquette of courts. As though to
confirm this impression, the strange-looking personage held
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in his hand, as if from habit, a short Indian pipe, which he
passed backwards and forwards through his fingers, as he
gazed with a careless air at the Governor.
St. John exchanged a glance with the individual as he
entered, and remembered afterwards the penetrating eyes
which flashed beneath the shaggy brows.
“Well, sir,” said the Governor, without returning the
young man's bow in the least, “pray what is your pleasure?”
“I have indicated it in the paper which lies before your
Excellency,” returned St. John, coldly, pointing to the table,
and again bowing.
Lord Dunmore raised the paper with a supercilious air
and looked at it carelessly. Then he looked again at the
young man, and tried, after the fashion usual with his lordship,
to brow-beat him.
As may be imagined, it had little effect. The cruel distress
of the young man's mind was a triple shield against
any thing which the words or looks of the Governor could
express.
He felt rather wearied standing, while being subjected to
this scrutiny—that was all—and looked round for a chair.
There was none vacant, and although a handbell upon the
table at his Excellency's elbow would have summoned a
servant in a moment, it remained untouched.
“So this is from yourself, is it, sir?” said his lordship,
tapping the paper with his finger and then throwing it
down.
“Yes, my lord, as you may perceive, it bears my signature.”
“The signature of `H. St. John,' I believe,” said the Governor,
coldly.
“That is my name, your lordship.”
“The name of one who grossly insulted me, sir!” said
his Excellency, frowning, “and you now expect me to forgive
and forget that, and commission you anew, after your
insulting treatment of my last.”
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Mr. St. John replied, with his old gloomy calmness,
“Precisely, my lord.”
Lord Dunmore looked for a moment at the young man
with silent anger, and then moving about in his chair, as
was his habit when growing more and more angry, said
rudely,
“And upon what grounds do you presume, sir, to make
this request?”
“Will I be permitted to inform your Excellency?” said
St. John.
“What do you mean, sir? Have I not demanded the information.”
“It is true that your Excellency has done so, and I only
request permission to speak, uninterrupted.”
The flush on Lord Dunmore's brow grew deeper, and the
vein in his forehead swelled.
“Mr. St. John,” he said, with a scowl, “you seem to
think it necessary to bandy reproaches with me whenever
you appear before me. On former occasions I have overlooked
this, but I advise you, for your own good, not to repeat
them.”
“I do not wish to do so, my lord. I wish, on the present
occasion, simply to say, with the highest respect for the authority
of your lordship, that I am constitutionally subject
to irritation when not permitted to speak in my own way,
and for this reason I solicit permission from your lordship to
speak without interruption.”
“Speak, then, sir!” said Lord Dunmore, more angry
than ever, but beaten by his adversary's superior coolness;
“speak, and as briefly as possible.”
“I will, my lord. Your lordship asked me the grounds
upon which I apply for this commission—”
“Yes, sir, I did.”
“Well I reply to your lordship as briefly as possible, as
you request. I resigned my former commission because the
duties which it involved were unpleasant to me. In Virginia
we are so accustomed to be served, that we can not
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ourselves serve, as gentlemen do, I am told, in the old world.
The duties of my office of lieutenant, in a word, were distasteful
to me, and I resigned my commission. I see that
your lordship is thinking of the scene on that occasion. It
was unfortunate. I beg that your lordship will make allowance
for a somewhat excitable temperament. After that
scene I should certainly not apply for a new commission in
my own name, as it were, to the nobleman with whom I had
had an altercation. It is simply as an educated Virginian
who can furnish testimonials of fitness, that I apply to the
Governor of the colony of Virginia for a commission to fight
the battles of Virginia. I have endeavored to be as brief
as possible in laying before your lordship the state of the
case, and need only add that I do not ask a favor. It is
simply permission to join the forces of the colony which I
ask—a commission in the service of his Majesty.”
And Mr. St. John bowed, and was silent.
“Have you done, sir?” said his Excellency, suppressing
his anger, and speaking in a tone of striking coldness and
spitefulness, if we may use the word.
“I have said all, my lord.”
“And you wish a reply?”
“As soon as is convenient to your lordship.”
“It is quite convenient now,” said the Governor, with a
sneer; “I require no delay, sir, in deciding whether I will
commission a person of your description in his Majesty's
service. No, sir! I regard your conduct and your character
as seditious, and you may congratulate yourself upon
personal immunity after your deportment here upon a former
occasion. I refuse you the commission, sir! I need no
time to reflect! I treat your special pleading about `educated
Virginians' and `Governors of this colony' with the
contempt which it deserves! I have still another word to
add, sir! Beware how you again cross this threshold with
your arrogant air, and your insults! Hitherto I have spared
your—for the future, beware! Now, go sir! I have done
with you!”
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A flash of his old passion for an instant illuminated, like
lurid lightning, the young man's haughty eyes, but this soon
disappeared. His face again became pale and cold—his
eyes colder still.
“I am glad to reciprocate your Excellency's desire, that
in future we go separate ways,” he said with courtly calmness;
“I did not seek your Excellency formerly, you sought
me; and now I depart, careless of your Excellency's hatred
or regard.”
Mr. St. John accompanied these words with a low bow,
and went out of the apartment and the palace.
On the same afternoon he was going along Gloucester
street, in front of the Raleigh tavern, when he heard a
grave, deep voice utter the words:
“Give you good day, Mr. St. John.”
The young man raised his head, and saw, standing upon
the portico of the tavern, the tall personage whom he had
seen in the receiving room of Lord Dunmore. At the other
end of the porch, a number of men, who seemed to be
recruits, were assembled, engaged in laughing, talking and
drinking. Their suddenly-assumed military air, added to
the tarnished uniforms worn by some of the company, communicated
to the Raleigh the air of a camp.
As to the tall personage who thus saluted Mr. St. John,
he was clad, as before, in his rude costume of the backwoods,
and carried in his hand the short pipe, which now, however,
was smoking.
As he stood erect, apart from the rest, his stature
appeared more gigantic than before; and the young man
saw that his vigorous frame was moulded with extraordinary
symmetry.
“Give you good day, Mr. St. John,” repeated the
stranger, in his deep voice. “Do you still hold to your
determination, expressed this morning to his lordship, of
going to the frontier?”
“I do, sir,” said St. John, inclining his head. “It is my
purpose to volunteer in the ranks.”
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“In the ranks?”
“Yes, sir.”
“As a common soldier?”
“Precisely, sir.”
“That shall not be necessary, sir,” said the stranger, in
the same deep, reserved voice; “I will commission you.”
“You?” said the young man, in some astonishment.
“Yes, sir,” said his companion, calmly. “A man of your
coolness, and so disposed to serve the country, shall not
fight in the ranks, though many gentlemen will. You
deserve a commission, sir, and I make you Lieutenant in
Colonel Fleming's battalion. My name is Lewis—Andrew
Lewis, of Botetourt, and I listened, with pleasure, to your
observations this morning.”
St. John bowed to the man of whom he had so often
heard—the commissioner for Virginia in the treaty of Fort
Stanwix—of whom the Governor of New York declared
that “the earth seemed to tremble under him as he walked
along.”
“I am a rough backwoodsman,” said General Lewis,
“and make few protestations, sir. I nevertheless say that
I like your face. I'll commission you without further
acquaintance. If his lordship objects, it will not move me.
If he does not like me, let him seek another commander for
the forces. You will rendezvous at Camp Union, otherwise,
Fort Savannah, on the first of next month, which is near at
hand,” and General Lewis calmly inserted his pipe between
his lips, and commenced smoking.* After some more
arrangements, Mr. St. John took his leave, and went to his
lodgings.
“Well,” he murmured, as he stretched himself upon the
sofa, “that is the first step toward the struggle and oblivion.
If a tomahawk or a bullet interpose, what matter? 'T is the
same, for the end will be reached.”
As he spoke, Tom Alston entered, and his friend laid
before him all his plans, which he had hitherto concealed.
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To paint the dismay and sorrow of honest Tom Alston at
this mad resolution, as he called it, would be impossible.
He exhausted his strength, and grew positively hoarse in the
attempt to change the resolution of his friend.
In vain did he protest, however. In vain he declared
that the state of things, in regard to Bonnybel, could not
last—that every one at Vanely had as perfect an affection
for him as at any previous time. In vain did he represent
that the mystery of the young girl's demeanor could not
long remain unsolved, and that a single word would show
the injustice she had been guilty of—the groundless nature
of her sudden dismissal of her lover.
To all this, the young man opposed either gloomy silence
only, or the words, incessantly repeated, “I am ruined, I
have lost all.”
Tom Alston returned again to his expostulations, and
used every possible argument to prove the madness of his
friend's course. The family at Vanely had felt the greatest
solicitude about his illness; had only been prevented from
seeing him by the physician's orders; they had sent all the
delicacies which were so grateful to him in his convalescence;
the girls had even come to Williamsburg, and had
stolen into his chamber, in his sleep. At this, the young
man started; and, all at once, the vision, as he had considered
it, flashed on his mind, and a look of wonder greeted
the announcement of the reality of the appearance. But he
was no more convinced than before. “I am ruined, I have
lost all,” was all that his friend could extract from him;
and, after three hours of expostulation, honest Tom Alston
sank back, pale and exhausted, and gave up the struggle.
Two days afterward, Mr. St. John and his friend
exchanged a silent grasp of the hand. The young man
mounted his horse, and, throwing a last look upon the window
through which she had shone on him, like a vision of
the night, in the luminous halo, he set forward.
As before, Tallyho tossed his head, and careered merrily
along; but his head was not turned toward home.
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Camp Union, or, as we now say, Lewisburg, was the
young man's destination; and, going along, not smiling, as
before, but gloomy and despairing, he murmured:
“A tomahawk or bullet—'t is the same!”
eaf510n38* Historical Illustrations, No. XXXVI.
CHAPTER LXIX. ON THE BANKS OF BELLE RIVIERE.
The aim of this book is rather to show what led to our
Revolution, than to narrate great public events; rather to
present something like a picture, however feeble and faint,
of the state of society which preceded the struggle, than to
follow that struggle through its bloody, but triumphant
steps, from Bunker Hill to Yorktown.
The precursor of the greater contest was the war of '74,
which is now known as “Dunmore's war,” perhaps on the
principle of lucus a non lucendo, for he did not fight the battle
which began and ended it.
This is not the place or the occasion to trace the details
of that splendid campaign, if we may call it such; that campaign
in which the Indian dominion, on the banks of “la
belle riviere,” the Ohio, was leveled at a blow, and the ferocious
savage driven back to his fastnesses.
We listen with dull ears to the old frontier story, and can
not believe that the sweet and smiling fields, blooming now
with the fairest flowers of peace, were once the battle field
on which the Anglo-Saxons opposed a merciless enemy. In
our comfortable homes to-day, we read carelessly the old
chronicle which clasps in its embrace such bleeding forms
and desolated hearth-stones. It is in the midst of peace and
plenty, with the blessings of a ripe civilization around us,
with the bright eyes and cheeks, and the laughter of happy
children at our side, that we read the moving story. What
does it say? Let an incident, similar to a thousand others,
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and no worse, tell what horrors were then enacted on the
border.
“An Indian seized Mrs. Scott, and ordered her to a particular
spot, and not to move; others stabbed and cut the
throats of the three younger children, in their bed, and afterwards
lifting them up, dashed them upon the floor, near
the mother; the eldest, a beautiful girl of eight years old,
awoke, escaped out of the bed, ran to her parent, and, with
the most plaintive accents, cried, `O! mamma! mamma!
save me!' The mother, in the deepest anguish of spirit,
and with a flood of tears, entreated the savages to spare her
child, but, with a brutal fierceness, they tomahawked and
stabbed her in her mother's arms.”
In the pages of Withers and Kercheval, the Commines
and the Froissart of the Valley, we read all this, and follow
the details of a hundred massacres—the burning of houses,
the murder of men, the merciless beating out of women and
children's brains against the door posts of the dwellings of
the West. We read it all, and then close the chronicle, and
go to the routine of business, and scarcely give a thought to
the men who prostrated the power of the savage, thus dyeing
the very soil with the best blood of our country.
It is matter of rejoicing to all who admire and love the
great hearts of the past, that Virginia has finally decreed
recognition of the claims of one at least of these heroes of
the border.
The names of Andrew Lewis and his noble companions
shine like stars in the western horizon. Let the valiant soldier
stand on his well-won pedestal in the capital of the land
which he fought for; let the children of to-day and the
future be told, that long ago, when the sky was dark, in
old years which they do not remember, this stalwart gentleman
and his brave followers opposed their broad breasts to
the flood of savage cruelty, and stood up between the tomahawk
and the bosoms from which the present generation
drew their life. Let them be told that when women and
children were cowering before a foe which knew no mercy,
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this man and his companions came to succor them; let the
names of those who came from the bloody fight be honored;
let the memory of those who fell be perennial in the nation's
heart, and all coming generations delight to honor them.
At some other time we may relate the “old and moving
story;” how, entering the wilderness at the head of his noble
army, General Lewis reached the junction of the Kanawha
and Ohio, in October, and how there, at Point Pleasant,
on the banks of that stream which was called “belle
riviere” for its beauty, he defeated the combined forces of
the great northern nations.
It was the flower of the Indian tribes, led on by their
most celebrated chiefs, which were thus routed. Redhawk,
the renowned Delaware, Cornstalk, the greatest of the Shawnees,
and Ellinipsico, the “Mountain Deer,” his son; Scoppathus,
the Mingo; Chiyawee, the Wyandot, and Logan,
the last of the Cayugas, whose mournful speech, in reply to
Dunmore, is the pearl of Indian eloquence.
At sunset on the 10th day of October, the Indian power
was completely broken, and the tribes were flying into the
forest.
The Virginians returned to count their dead.
Alas! among those dead ones was Charles Lewis, the
brother of the general, one of the colonels of the expedition,
and beloved by all for his courage and nobility.
Receiving in his heart the fatal ball, which he had come
from such a distance to oppose his bresst to, he fell at the
foot of a tree, only murmured a few words, and expired as
the soldiers came back from the pursuit, amid the tears of
his companions, and his brother.*
It was not only this valiant gentleman who fell, who there,
on the banks of the great stream, breathed his last, stiffening
in the arms of those faithful comrades, who wept for
him and held him on their bosoms. The bloody foliage of
October was dyed with a deeper crimson, and the waves of
“la belle riviere” were stained with the life current of the
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noblest hearts of the land. The bright waves rolled on, the
brilliant sun of October shone on forest and river, the stains
disappeared, and the birds chirped and sang where the volleys
of musketry and the clash of arms had startled the silence
of the woods. But that blood was not lost in the immensity
of waters—that crimson stain did not idly imbrue
the soil of the West. It fertilized and enriched, not the
spot where it fell only, but the whole land, east and west.
Borne along through the length of the land to the dark
waves of the Gulf, it diffused its influence wherever it flowed;
though invisible, and swallowed in the waste of waters, it
blazed with red fires before the eyes of the country. From
the earth which drank it sprang the bright flowers of peace,
and the golden fruits of civilization. Not in vain thus did
they bleed, those noble hearts of the old border, those heroes
of western and eastern Virginia. To him who writes, all
their names are sacred. The sun which shone down on their
lifeless bodies, shines more brightly now because they fell.
They rolled back the cloud from our horizon, and in that
horizon, now calm and beautiful, let them shine as the stars
for ever!
General Lewis would have completed the extermination of
the enemy on the border, and driven them into the wilderness
never to return; but here he was opposed by his
Excellency, Lord Dunmore.
In courts of law, men are condemned upon circumstantial
evidence, and hanged for the crimes thus proven on them.
Why should the judge of historical events and characters
be confined within narrower bounds? The circumstantial
evidence which connects Lord Dunmore's name with
treachery, and the most horrible schemes excludes every
other hypothesis than guilt, and has long since gibbeted
that nobleman in the popular mind. Some day, that treachery
will be established by irrefutable documentary proof.
We do not follow in detail the events succeeding the
battle of Point Pleasant, to show, as we think we have it
in our power, that the Governor had been guilty of “foul
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play.” It is no part of our undertaking to bring home to
him a particular treason. It is enough to say that General
Lewis was sent by an order from Lord Dunmore, who was
on the Sciota, to disband his forces and return.
The General could scarcely believe his senses; and for
reply, indignantly refused. He resolutely continued his
march, and finally halted within three miles of the Governor's
camp.
Lord Dunmore was at the head of his own army, and
yet had failed to come to Lewis's assistance at Point Pleasant.
The General's men were very much inflamed against
his Excellency, as the event which followed demonstrated.
Most truly did an eye-witness of these events say of Dunmore
and Conolly, “there were wheels within wheels, dark
things behind the curtain between this noble earl and his
sub-satellite.”
That the Virginians under General Lewis believed as
much, is very plain.
“His lordship,” says the historian, “accompanied by the
Indian chief, White-Eyes, now visited the camp of Lewis,
and he (according to some relations) with difficulty restrained
his men from killing the Governor and his Indian
companion.”
But we trench upon history, and only add here, that the
General was forced to obey. With a heavy heart, and
surrounded by men who thirsted to revenge the horrible
cruelties of the Indians on a thousand occasions, General
Lewis bowed to the command of his superior and marched
back: Lord Dunmore remained to perfect his schemes.
He returned in November to Williamsburg.
Thus ended the war of '74.
It had demonstrated to the minds of all men three important
things.
That the men of Virginia were ready for the field in a
moment, and too stubborn to yield.
That the struggle of the Revolution would not be embarrassed
by incursions on the frontier.
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That Lord Dunmore was a traitor to the colony.
This was what “Dunmore's war” impressed upon the
most careless and unthinking.
eaf510n39* Historical Illustrations, No. XXXVII.
CHAPTER LXX. THE OLD CHURCH OF ST. JOHN.
It was the great and peculiar good fortune of Virginia to
have thus, for the last of her governors, when the storm
was first lowering on the horizon, a man whose whole
conduct revolted completely the popular mind—whose
malignant and treacherous disposition and action united all
the elements of revolution.
Had Fauquier or Botetourt held the reins, they would,
either of them, been the last whom the Virginians would
have struck at.
Lord Dunmore was now their first enemy—their prime
hatred.
With the spring of '75, all the fruits of the long opposition
rapidly matured. In the electric atmosphere, as in a
hot-house, the bloody flower of revolution began rapidly to
expand into bloom; and its seeds were soon scattered far
and near, wafted on the sobbing wind which heralded the
approaching hurricane.
The general congress at Philadelphia had risen in October
of the preceding year—almost at the moment when
Dunmore was endeavoring to perfect his treachery on the
Sciota.
They had agreed on a petition to the king—an address
to the people of Great Britain—and a memorial to the inhabitants
of the colonies.
But the great result of this congress was the bond
which thenceforth united the North and the South. The
leaders of the two sections saw that they could now advance
with the certainty of coöperation.
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The delegates of Virginia returned home, followed by
Dunmore from the frontier; and then they gave, viva voce,
an account of all things to the people.
Around one of these delegates, at the court house of his
county, the old neighbors gathered and made him describe
the whole proceeding. Then they asked about the men
who formed the congress.
Patrick Henry replied, “Colonel Washington was unquestionbly
the greatest man on that floor.”
The spring of '75 opened thus, as we have said, with a
threatening cloud, and that murmur which precedes the
rising of the masses, as it is the precursor of the storm.
In March, the second Virginia convention met at the old
church of St. John in Richmond town, crowning to-day, as
it then did, the summit of the hill, from which the eye
embraces the city below, the foaming falls, the glittering
current of the river, and the beautiful expanse of field and
forest.
Up even to this moment, the best patriots cast a longing
look behind them at the peaceful fields of the past, and tried
to close their eyes to the events rushing forward to fulfillment.
They wished to avoid that terrible conflict which
would stain the earth with so much precious blood. They
hesitated and doubted—resolving, indeed, that the general
congress had done well—that the warmest thanks of
Virginia were justly due to her delegates for their services—
but also resolving that the greatest desire, the most
ardent aspiration of all men should be, for the “speedy
return of those halcyon days” when England had not yet
molested them.
Patrick Henry listened in silence to these resolutions,
bearing the stamp of the doubt and indecision of every one.
He said nothing—waiting for the proper moment. When
that time had come, he rose and moved that “a wellregulated
militia, composed of gentlemen and yeomen, was
the natural strength and only security of a free government.”
That “the establishment of such militia was at
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that time peculiarly necessary.” And that “the colony be
immediately put in a state of defense.”
The resolutions fell like a thunderbolt. After the first
silence of astonishment, a dozen members of the convention
sprung to their feet and vehemently opposed them. The
burden of the flood of impassioned oratory was that the
resolutions were premature and impolitic—that the time
had not come, if it ever was to come.
It was then that the great prophet of revolution, rising
slowly and solemnly from his seat, delivered that speech
which is a part of the classics of America.
In its burning sentences, as we read it even to-day, the
stormy voice of the orator again resounds; its solemn and
august periods seem to blaze and flash with the hidden fires
of an immense genius, a gigantic resolution. It strips the
husk from events, and defines with a finger of iron the
exact issue. The invisible spirit of the Revolution informs
it; like an avalanche it rolls onward, sweeping away all
obstacles to the comprehension of the issue, and roaring
like the ocean in its passage.
With the measured step of a giant, moving slowly, the
orator advanced at last to the dividing line—the gulf between
submission and revolution:
“If we were base enough to desire it, it is now too late
to retreat from the contest! There is no retreat but in
submission and slavery! Our chains are forged! Their
clanking may be heard on the plains of Boston! The war
is inevitable! and let it come!”
Then with both arms extended aloft, and burning eyes,
“I know not,” he said, “what course others may take;
but as for me—give me liberty or give me death!”
The resolutions were adopted without a dissenting voice,
their policy embraced, and the convention rose.
Its action sent a thrill of satisfaction through the whole
of Virginia, and in three weeks the popular mind was
braced for the contest.
Everywhere old arms were hunted up, swords burnished,
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the militia was organized, and only a match to fire the train
was required.
Lord Dunmore applied this match on the 20th of April,
by removing the powder from the old magazine in Williamsburg.
But let us not anticipate.
CHAPTER LXXI. BONNYBEL'S DREAM.
At Vanely all is bright and beautiful again, as on that
morning when St. John and Tom Alston cantered to the
door, together, on the day succeeding Lady Dunmore's
entry.
The fine season of May has nearly come, and the swallows
twitter, as before; the grass is full of flowers; the
great oaks clothe themselves in heavy foliage, through
which the breezes of the spring pass, as it were, with laughter.
In the beautiful sunsets and the golden dawns, the
fine old mansion raises proudly its gray walls, and looks
down, smiling, on the fields and river, as before.
Let us follow one of the curious and prying rays of sunrise
into a chamber of the mansion. The indiscreet and
careless intruder, as though weary with his long journey of
so many millions of miles, falls prostrate, and rests tranquilly
upon the soft hair of Bonnybel, who sleeps beside her
sister.
The sisters always occupy one apartment and one bed.
It was always so in their childhood; they retain the habit.
Helen is awake, but lies, as it were, in that delightful
state of semi-consciousness which is such a luxury to the
dreamer. The young lady dreams, so to speak, though she
does not sleep. From this reverie she is aroused by what
seems a sob at her side.
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She turns her head quickly, and looks at her sister.
Bonnybel lies with one round bare arm thrown outside
the counterpane; the other is placed beneath her head.
Over the white arm fall the curls of her soft brown hair,
like a golden ripple; for the vagrant sunbeams change their
hue, and make them shine.
The light falls on the beautiful brow, like a glory, in the
pictures of Raphael and his brethren. It never fell on a
purer and sweeter face; and, lying thus enveloped in her
snowy night-dress, close buttoned to the neck, the girl is a
picture of modesty and loveliness.
But her sleep is not tranquil. Some sorrowful dream
seems to prey upon her. Her form trembles slightly, and
beneath the long silken lashes, resting on her cheeks, large
tears flow silently. Helen gazes at her. The form of the
girl again shakes, and another sob escapes from the half-parted
lips, dying away, like a murmur, in the silent
chamber.
Helen gazes at her sister with an air of the greatest
solicitude and tenderness, for this somewhat stately and
reserved girl conceals under her prim exterior a warm and
affectionate heart.
All at once, the sleeping girl moves painfully, and, with a
contraction of the lips which indicates great suffering, murmurs,
audibly,
“Oh, no! no! Do not take away the letter! do not
take away the letter! Oh, me! oh, me!” and a passionate
sob breaks from the girl's lips, followed by a flood of tears,
which bathe her cheeks and neck.
“Wake, sister!” cried Helen, laying her hand on the
girl's shoulder. “What are you dreaming of? Wake up!”
Bonnybel opened her eyes, and looked dreamily around
her.
“What is the matter, sister?” said Helen. “You were
crying and sobbing in your sleep. Were you dreaming?”
The girl passed her hands over her eyes, and sighed
deeply.
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“Yes,” she murmured; “I believe I was. Oh, sister!
I have had such a terrible dream!” and Bonnybel wiped
her wet eyes, and half rose in bed, leaning upon her elbow,
and looking around her.
“What was the dream?” asked Helen. “It must have
been very sorrowful.”
“It was, sister. Oh, so sorrowful! I thought he was
dying in the battle with the Indians. A bullet had wounded
him, and they were holding him upon their breasts at the
foot of a tree by the great river. He was pale and bleeding!
oh, sister! so pale! and his breast was all bloody!”
Bonnybel sobbed again, as she spoke, and wiped her eyes
with her fingers.
“They opened his coat, and were going to take away a
letter—a letter I wrote him long ago, which saved his life
once! Oh, sister! how foolish I was to think that he has
that letter now!” and leaning her head upon the fringed
pillow again, the girl cried silently.
“Don't cry, dear,” said Helen, kissing her. “You must
not let this foolish dream disturb you. There is no reason
to think he is even wounded.”
“No,” murmured the girl, more calmly; “and you know
I am nothing to him. But the scene was so vivid that I
thought it real. I saw every thing as plainly as I see the
mirror there. He was lying on the grass at the foot of a
tall elm on the banks of a river which flowed, at a little
distance, in the sunshine. The sunshine came through the
boughs of the elm, and fell upon his forehead, which was
very pale. A man, who had leaned his rifle against the
tree, was holding his head upon his breast, and opening his
bosom where he was wounded. The linen was all covered
with blood, and his eyes were closed, and he breathed
heavily. Oh, me! what made me dream so? I could have
died when I saw him! I thought they tried to take away
a letter from his bosom—one of my letters—and he did not
seem to know it. He was looking at a flower which grew
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at his feet, a white rose, and he smiled as he used to smile
once when—oh, me! I am so miserable!”
And with a passionate sob, which seemed slowly to have
gathered in her breast, as she had gone on, the girl was
silent, her bosom shaken with sighs, her cheeks wet with
large tears chasing each other in rapid succession.
Helen put an arm round her neck, and drew toward her
the trembling form, with a tenderness which betrayed itself
in her own moist eyes and sad lips. Then resting the girl's
head upon her shoulder, as she would have done a child's,
she pressed her lips to the white cheek, and smoothed the
disordered mass of curls from the brows which they covered.
“Don't cry, dear,” she said, soothingly; “you must not
let a dream affect you so. 'Tis only a dream, and you
should not permit it to cause you so much trouble. You
were probably thinking of the battle when you went to sleep,
and your imagination thus carried you away.”
“It was so real!” murmured the girl, hiding her face on
her sister's shoulder, with a sob.
“But it was only a dream,” continued Helen. “Dreams
are merely the result of the fancy let loose, and you know
the old saying, that they always `go by contraries.' If there
is any thing in your dream, it proves that he is alive and
well.”
Bonnybel only sobbed, making no reply.
Helen continued to soothe and talk to the girl, and at last
the tears disappeared from the pure eyes, and a sad smile lit
up the innocent features.
“Well, sister,” said Bonnybel, at last, “you have made
me feel much better, and I will not permit this dream to
disturb me so. After all he is—he is—nothing—to me.
Well! I will not cry. I hope he is happy, and's forgotten
me.”
A last tear moistened the girl's eyes, and she was silent,
motionless, in the arms of her sister, leaning her blushing
face, enveloped by the soft masses of brown hair, on the
shoulder of Helen.
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An hour afterwards, before the family had risen, Bonnybel
was going, through the fresh light of morning, on her
daily expedition to the “quarters,” followed by her maid,
bearing the accustomed basket.
Only a sad and pensive smile remained, after her dream,
and she was tranquil again, for she had prayed for him.
CHAPTER LXXII. BONNYBEL VANE TO HER FRIEND, KATE EFFINGHAM.
“Vanely, 18th April, 1775.
“'Tis so long since I've written to my Kate that she
must almost have forgotten me. But you will not think,
my dear, that this silence has proceeded from forgetfulness;
that is not possible toward the dearest girl in the world.
“I have been unhappy, and when I'm unhappy I can not
write. Alas! my Kate, I am greatly changed. I am no
more merry and happy, as I used to be. Once I thought
this life was the gayest and happiest existence imaginable; I laughed and jested, and bade defiance to gloom. Now,
all's gone from me. I only sigh, and sometimes I go away
and cry for hours. You know the cause of this change.
“I write now to tell you that I've seen him again, and
oh! he was so changed. I shall proceed to tell you how
the interview took place. In pouring my pain and sorrow
into my own Kate's ears, I may relieve my bosom, in some
degree, of the cruel pressure I experience.
“'T was this morning, at the `quarters,' in Mammy Liza's
cabin. I woke at sunrise, crying from a bad dream I had,
in which I saw him wounded and dying in a great battle
with the Indians. My dream was so vivid that when sister
shook and awoke me, I was sobbing and crying, and for a
long time I could not get over the impression.
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“I rose and dressed, however, and went on my customary
rounds to see the sick, returning, as my habit is, by Mammy
Liza's house.
“I had been thinking of my dream and of him, and approached
the cabin with my head bent down, gazing absently
at a small white flower I held in my hand—a little
rose, such as I'd given him one day, when we went together
to Jamestown island—it seems centuries now! and I scarce
realize the truth that I am the Bonnybel of that time. But
I shall not stop to speak of that. I was very near the door
of Mammy Liza's house, and was thinking of him, as I do
now and then, when I heard the neigh of a horse. I thought
that there was something familiar and yet strange in the
sound, and looked toward the spot from which it issued.
“I recognized Tallyho, his horse, in an instant; and,
when I turned my head toward the cabin, he stood before
me. Oh, me! he was so thin and pale. Oh, Kate! you
can not conceive what a change had taken place in his appearance.
Formerly, he had been so strong and handsome;
his cheeks so ruddy, and his lips and eyes so laughing and
full of joyous pride when he raised his noble head and
looked at you with that beautiful smile of such extraordinary
sweetness. My heart bleeds as I describe the change;
now the color had all disappeared from his face; his eyes
were dim and sunken, as after illness; his cheeks white
and thin, and the hand which he leaned on Mammy Liza's
spinning-wheel was like a ghost's! His dress looked travelworn,
and his left arm was supported by a scarf, of some
Indian fabric, passed around his neck. He was but the
shadow of himself, and when he looked at me with a slight
tinge of color in his cheek and a sad surprise, inexpressibly
sorrowful, I would have burst into tears, and cried myself
weak, had not I placed a violent constraint upon myself.
As I found afterward, he had been talking with Mammy
Liza for nearly two hours, and thus he must have ridden to
Vanely in the night. Mammy Liza was crying and fixing
her spindle, stopping every moment to wipe her old eyes,
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and muttering, `My child! my own child!' in such an
affecting way that I could scarcely restrain my sobs. I give
way to them now as I write. These blots upon the paper
are tears.
“He stood, for a moment, looking at me so sadly that it
made my heart ache and my throat feel as if it were choking.
He then took from the left breast of his doublet an old
letter, and, with an inclination of courtesy—yes, simple
courtesy—held it toward me. It was the very letter I had
seen the soldier try to take from his breast when I saw him
dying in my dream, and the wound was now, apparently, in
his shoulder, really, as I had dreamed it. How strange!
For a moment I stood looking at him with tears in my eyes,
and he continued to hold the letter toward me.
“I saw that he would hold it thus until I took it, and
that the exertion was making him weaker. I unconsciously
received it, and then holding, for a moment, in his own,
Mammy Liza's hand, he inclined before me again with a
long, penetrating look, passed by me like a shadow, and
thus, with his pale face turned over his shoulder, as it were,
he mounted his horse, and was lost in the woods. He had
never spoken—I had not heard his voice!
“I can write but little more, Kate; I feel faint and
badly. This interview has, since the morning, preyed upon
my spirits; and I have vainly sought to relieve my distress
by writing to you. It seems only to have opened the wound
afresh. I remained with Mammy Liza until a message
came that breakfast was ready, but I could not extract from
her any thing, scarcely. She only wrung her hands, and
muttered, `My child! my own child!' in a manner that
nearly broke my heart; and I finally came away, and have
come here to my chamber now to hide my red eyes.
“Can you explain the strange fact of my dream? He
was clad just as I saw him, and, lying before me, is the letter
which I dreamed they wished to take from him. As he
gave it to me he looked intently at the white flower in my
hand, and I think, as he went away, and the letter fell at my
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feet, he remembered—oh, me! my memory is my chief
wretchedness!
“Oh, Kate! if I could only lay my head upon your bosom,
and cry myself to rest there! This meeting has made me
ill, and I feel as though I was going to faint.
“Was I wrong in the past? Answer me, Kate: Was
I wrong? Could I so command my feelings as to prevent
the terrible change in our relations? I ask the question
with inexpressible anguish. Oh, tell me, Kate! was I
wrong?
“I know not, but I do know that I'm miserable! His
old affection is mine no longer; he bowed with common
courtesy alone. Wo is me that the day should ever come!
“I can not write more. The words swim in tears, and
I'm blinded by them. Farewell.
“Bonnybel.
“P. S.—My maid comes to say that Mr. Lindon is below.
I have sent word down that I desire to be excused. His
very appearance is hateful in my eyes! May Heaven forgive
my sinful feelings!”
CHAPTER LXXIII. THE FRIENDS.
On the day after the meeting between the young man
and Bonnybel, two men, well mounted, rode slowly out of
Gloucester street in a western direction.
These men were Tom Alston and St. John.
The purple light of evening lit up the two forms clearly,
and the young lady had accurately described the appearance
of her former lover. Mr. St. John was but the ghost
of himself. Since those bright and happy days when inhaling
the breath of love and living a life full of splendid
and joyful emotions—since those hours at Vanely, which
now seemed to have shone for him, in the long past years of
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centuries that had fled, the young man appeared to have
become another being—to have changed the very foundations
of his identity.
His cheek was no longer ruddy and firm; his eyes no
longer filled with mirth, dancing in the joyful light of love
and merriment. Pale, silent, with a tranquil sadness in his
face, he was, truly, but the phantom of himself.
Tom Alston was the same nearly as before, though somewhat
more subdued, and as the two friends rode along, he
gazed at Mr. St. John with an air of the deepest regret and
compassion.
The young man had been speaking of the events which
had taken place since he had parted with his friend. He
had told how the army of General Lewis left Lewisburg;
how they passed rapidly through the wilderness; how they
fell upon the enemy at Point Pleasant, and how that enemy
was defeated and put to rout. In his picturesque narrative,
in his sad but vivid story, characters and events rose vividly
before his auditor, and thus going along quietly in the
bright evening, he related, incident by incident, the history
of his adventures and his misfortunes.
“It was near the end of the battle that I received this
wound,” said the young man, indicating his left shoulder,
“and 't is not yet entirely healed. Colonel Lewis, the
brother of the General, and myself were fighting side by
side, and I think we fell at nearly the same moment. A
nobler-hearted gentleman ne'er lived, and the whole army
wept for him, and carried him to his grave with a sad triumph
which I'll never forget. But to return to myself,
friend. I was fighting as I said, when suddenly I felt what
seemed to be a red-hot iron pierce my breast, and then the
wild battle, with its shouts and yells, its whistling bullets
and dim canopy, all disappeared. I fainted, and when I returned
to my senses, I was lying at the foot of a tree, supported
upon the breast of a companion. They had opened
my bosom, and were probing the wound, and I saw the bullet
when it was extracted. A little white flower I
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remember grew at my feet, and I gazed at it, as my head dropped
forward. It seemed to me familiar, and I've since recognized—
but that is nothing. It is very strange! Well, well,
some other time, friend, I will tell you the rest of our campaign—
how the General, at my request, had me borne on a
litter, by his side, to the spot where he halted near the camp
of Dunmore. The General, after a stormy scene, was obliged
to retreat, and changing my former plan of going down Belle
Riviere to Natchez, I returned with him to Botetourt. The
exertion had irritated my wound, and all the winter I was
confined with it, receiving from the General such kindness
as I never shall forget. You see this man is a nobleman of
nature, a great-hearted gentleman, whose name will live on
the page of our Virginia story when the vulgar name of
Dunmore has been forgotten.
“So ends my story,” said the young man, calmly; “you
see, Tom, I have come back to the spot which I left, a poor
wounded soldier, with my heart wounded worse than my
frame. Perhaps 't would be better for me to die here; but
that, I think won't be. I tarry for a moment only on my
way, to exchange a passing grasp of the hand with yourself
and my other friends. In a week I go on my path to the
old world, there to seek oblivion. From that continent I
shall never return. It is not my fault. I thought my life
would be happy, and assuredly it opened with rare promise,
surrounded as I was by the old, loving faces, and especially
by that which—well, well! Let me not open my wound,
which is healing, I think. All is ended there, and I blame
no one. It is over simply, and I go on my way.”
It was thus that the young man ended his story—smiling
tranquilly and gazing upon the sunset.
For a time, Mr. Alston remained silent and sad, with the
accents of his friend still echoing in his ears. Then he raised
his head, uttered a deep sigh, and said,
“Harry, I think I am growing old.”
“How is that?” said St. John; “you are young both in
years and character.”
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Mr. Alston shook his head.
“A man lives rather in thought than in years,” he said:
“a trite maxim. I mean, Harry, that between last year and
to-day a great gulf seems to have been thrown for me, and
I add that 't is you who have opened it.”
“I am sorry—I can not help it. Do not let my griefs
trouble you.”
“I must,” said honest Tom Alston, with feeling; “I can
not prevent it. Why will you thus cling to a delirium?
Why ruin yourself for a chimera?”
“A chimera?”
“Yes, Harry, it is even worse! You think that young
girl is faithless to you.”
“Do not use the word faithless,” said St. John, with tranquil
sadness.
“What then shall I say?”
“Say that I am unfortunate; that she is not to blame—
only changeable, like women—even the best of them.”
“No, I say that there is some mystery in this affair which
must be cleared up.”
“Some mystery?”
“Assuredly—oh! most assuredly. What it is I can not
say—but I stake my life upon the fact.”
Mr. St. John gazed at him with sad surprise.
“You're a good friend, Tom,” he said; “you are faithful
to the end, and I thank you. But you convince me not at
all. You told me that you had made every effort to discover
this mystery—that you were constantly repulsed—
that she would tell you nothing, always turning the conversation
or retiring. Nought remains.”
“Why not go yourself?”
“I would not!” said St. John haughtily; then with a
sorrowful smile, “I ought not to,” he added. “You tell
me yourself, Tom, that the family at Vanely no longer
think of me; well, were I to go thither, I should cause
them to think of me with bitterness—perhaps to insult me.
No, no! 'tis better as it is. I shall bid them farewell in
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a letter, when no word shall indicate my sense of their
seeming injustice, and then I shall go away, never to
return.”
“And break her heart!”
St. John shook his head.
“The time for such a thing is past,” he said, “she no
longer thinks of me. Some one has long since filled my
place in her affections. Do you think I blame her? Alas!
I do not. I am simply miserable. I blame no one. I am
much changed. I say that human nautre is weak—that
the strongest heart is feeble—that God has made women
fallible like men. I think she loved me once—with her
whole heart I then thought, and for ever. Well, she was
a woman, and at best they are but women. My prayers
and blessing will always follow her; but we meet no more
on this earth, Tom.”
And Mr. St. John made a movement with his hand which
indicated a desire on his part that the subject should be
abandoned.
Tom Alston sighed and yielded. That honest heart was
pained by the despair of his friend; and in the conflict
with the settled sadness of Mr. St. John, he gave way and
said nothing more.
Mr. St. John had not spoken of the visit to Mammy
Liza's cabin; for that encounter had produced a more
powerful effect upon his feelings than he cared to own.
The sight of her pale white face, her haunting eyes, her
thin form—this sad vision had left him strangely affected,
and he had ridden slowly back to Williamsburg, musing
gloomily. They had met but for a moment, yet in that
instant all the past had seemed to rush upon him again,
with its smiles and hppiness, its joy and beauty. As he
gave her the letter which had saved his life, as he looked
at the flower which she held in her and, as he took in at
a glance all the details of that countenance, toward which
his heart still turned, as the Chaldean turns to his star, his
resolution had almost melted—his strength had nearly
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given way as he bowed to her, it had required all his selfcontrol
not to seize her thin hand and press it to his trembling
lips, and moisten it with his tears.
He had not done so, he had only bowed and came away;
and now he was more sad than before, almost yielding to
his emotion, and uttering a groan as he finally bade adieu
to all his hopes and his love.
They went on silently thus in the sunset, and soon came
in front of a cottage embowered in foliage and flowers. It
was Roseland.
Blossom played as of old upon the grassplat; and, as she
recognized her friend, the child's face filled with blushes of
happiness, and she ran toward him.
“Let us dismount a moment, Tom,” said St. John, “I
must not neglect my friends.”
As he spoke, the young man affixed the bridle of his
horse to the fence, and accompanied by Tom Alston, slowly
entered the grounds of the cottage.
Blossom had for visitor, her friend and admirer, Paul
Effingham, Esquire—and this young gentleman now abandoned
an immense pile of flowers which he was weaving
into a garland, intended to encircle Miss Blossom's shoulders
and waist, to come and welcome his friends.
He shook hands with Mr. St. John and Mr. Alston with
great good feeling, and with an impressive air asked them
how they were.
As for Blossom, she held Mr. St. John's other hand
tightly, looking sadly into his thin pale face, and seemed to
prefer that gentleman's society to her admirer's.
St. John looked at the child with a smile which was not
so sad. Blossom had increased considerably in stature, and
was now almost as tall as Mr. Paul Effingham. She might
now have stood on the base of Lord Botetourt's statue,
and clasped that good nobleman's waist instead of his
knee, and omitted entirely the ceremony of kneeling on
the shoulder of her devoted cavalier.
“And how have you been this long, long time, my child?”
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said St. John, caressing kindly the soft hair. “I see that
the blossom is as bright as ever on your cheek. You are
happy and well, are you not, my dear?”
“Yes, sir,” said the child, “I am very well indeed, but—
but—I am not happy, I think—”
“Pray why?”
Blossom was silent a moment, gazing sadly on the thin
face of her friend.
“I am grieved because you look pale and unhappy,” she
murmured; “something grieves you; won't you tell me
what it is?”
St. John smiled sadly and shook his head.
“Am I changed?” he said.
“Oh yes, sir! when you were here before you looked
stronger and brighter.”
“That was because the sun was rising for me, Blossom,
Since then my day has passed. It is setting now.”
And St. John gazed calmly on the great orb sinking in the
forest.
“I understand you,” said the child, in a low voice, “you
are not happy. But you know the sun will rise again to-morrow.”
The young man looked at the child, as she spoke, with
an air of such hopeless sadness, that the tears rushed to her
eyes. He saw them, and was pained at her pain.
“There, there, my dear,” he said, “do n't cry, for you distress
me. See, I smile, and, who knows? when I come
again I may be laughing. Paul has finished your garland.
See, he hands it out to you.”
And taking the wreath of flowers, he put it around her
shoulders. Then he pressed the child's hand and bade her
good bye, with a request that she would tell her father of
his visit.
The friends returned to Williamsburg, and parted with a
close grasp of the hand, and an appointment to meet again
on the morrow.
“The sun may rise again,” murmured St. John, as he
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sought his lodgings, “and the flowers may blossom again,
but my sunshine and flowers are all gone. So be it! A few
heavy years, some more pain and heart-burning—then I'll
sleep.”
CHAPTER LXXIV. THE REMOVAL OF THE POWDER.
It was nearly midnight, and St. John was standing listlessly
on the door-step of the house he occupied, when raising
his eyes, he saw the glimmer of a light in the tall tower
where the stranger pursued his labors.
He hesitated for a moment, but soon made up his mind.
He slowly set forward toward the light.
He quickly reached the house, and ascended the winding
stair-case. The stranger awaited him, with outstretched hand,
on the threshold.
“Welcome, friend,” said the worker, who was clad as before
in his somber black dress, “welcome back to the capital.
I was waiting for you, and knew your footstep.”
St. John returned the iron grasp of the slender hand, and
took the seat which was offered him.
“You awaited me?” he said; “how is that? Did you
then know of my arrival?”
“Three days before you came I expected you. As you
know, I have many correspondents, and I heard of your
journey from three sources—but first from General Lewis.”
And the stranger touched a letter lying upon the top of
an enormous pile similar to it.
St. John nodded.
“I see,” he said, “and it will make an account of my
sickness unnecessary; perhaps I need not even speak of my
adventures on the border.”
“It is useless, I may as well say frankly. I know all that
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happened to you—your wound, your journey in the litter,
your return. My correspondent gave me every detail.”
St. John nodded again.
“Well,” he said, “so I come back. You see I have not
carried out my plan of going down Belle Riviere and the
Mississippi. I go to Europe by the eastern route.”
And St. John sat down opposite the stranger. That personage,
for some reason, did not seem disposed to combat
the resolution of his companion; he did not reply even to
his last observation. He remained motionless for a moment,
leaning his pale face on his hand, and then taking a letter
from a drawer, carefully read it. He then returned it, and
said,
“Well, friend, we won't discuss your movements at present;
the future can take care of itself. Let us converse as
friends. You seem sad, and are very pale.”
“As you know, I have been sick.”
“Yes.”
“And as you do not know, my character is changed.”
“I know that too.”
St. John looked at the stranger.
“How?” he said.
“Friend,” said his companion, leaning back in his chair,
and gazing thoughtfully at Mr. St. John, “to an eye so practiced
as my own, 't is not a difficult thing to penetrate that
calmness which envelops grief and hopelessness. You are
no longer the gay cavalier; you are the thoughtful man of
sorrow.”
“Well, yes,” said St. John, “I am as much.”
“You have yielded in the conflict with despair.”
“I am calm.”
“I see. That is just what I say. You retire from all
struggles henceforth—you seek merely oblivion.”
“You read my heart, friend,” said the young man,
gloomily.
“I know I do, and I say to you that your resolution is
unworthy of a brave man!”
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St. John nodded.
“So be it,” he said; “I am no longer brave.”
“That may be, but you have your duty, and you shrink
from it.”
“What duty?”
“The struggle with wrong.”
St. John said nothing for some minutes; then, raising his
head:
“Do you know, friend,” he said, “that life no longer affects
me—its sorrows or joys, or good or evil? If I were
not a stoic I should be an epicurean. Let society go its
ways; it does not concern me. I do not deny that once I
thought differently, but opinions often change as we grow
older. As for me, my strength is quite broken. I could not,
if I would, enter the contest.”
He was silent, and the stranger seemed to acquiesce in his
plain wish to change the subject. He made a slow and measured
movement with his head, and replied,
“So be it; but you may yet change your views. Events
are now on the brink of an abyss, into which we'll all be
plunged. The revolution rushes on, and to-morrow may
be a day of history.”
“To-morrow?”
“I mean any day now, for the storm is about to burst!
You have been away, and do not know how the country
speaks of Dunmore, how the minds of men have been striding
on toward the battle field. Within the year which ends
next month, the North American provinces have advanced
toward rebellion with far greater rapidity than within the
entire ten years preceding. In '65, as I have before said,
the seeds of revolution were scattered broadcast by the
voice of Patrick Henry; well, in these ten years they have
been ripening, now they burst into the air. In May of last
year, as you remember, the Boston Port bill was passed, and
you were witness of the effect which it produced upon the
Burgesses and upon the people. That outrage brought forth
the general congress, which Virginia proposed six days
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before Massachusetts, though it was also original with the men
of the North, since no communication could have taken place.
That congress met at Philadelphia; the Virginia convention
also met last month, in the old church where we first came
together, when, as you will recollect, I was looking at the
edifice with this very thing in view. The general congress
spoke boldly, but the Virginia convention struck the face of
royalty with its gauntlet! It was the voice of Patrick Henry
which resounded again, for he saw that the time had come!”
“Yes,” said St. John.
“It was Dunmore himself,” continued the stranger, with
gloomy pleasure; “it was Dunmore who placed his shoulder
to the car which will finally crush him! And here see the
wondrous ways of Providence! the proof that all men are
puppets in an invisible hand! At the moment when the
general congress rose in Philadelphia, this man was plotting
treachery upon the Sciota! He thought that he was banding
the savages against Virginia in silence and secrecy; he
was only arousing more violently the popular fury. Every
letter from the camp of General Lewis made the waters of
revolution boil and foam more angrily! A popular idea for
the crisis was needed, an especial treason on the part of the
government. Dunmore went a thousand miles through the
wilderness to supply it! He is the true author of the struggle
about to burst; his treachery will bear Dead Sea fruits;
by him the discordant elements are combined; before, there
was dissension and difference, but now there is none. The
phalanx moves forward, fully armed and in order!”
The stranger paused for a moment, and then continued.
“You may not fully realize as I do, friend,” he said, “the
full meaning of those words, `discordant elements.' Listen,
however, and I think I can tell you what they signify. The
society of Virginia is essentially composite—made up of a variety
of classes. To ascertain the character of these classes,
to analyze the elements which will enter into the struggle
before us—this has long been my study and my passion. A
poor engineer, but, delegated to touch the fuse, it has been
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my great subject of investigation, the nature and the properties
of this splendid ordnance which will batter down the
walls of royalty in America, sending its roar of triumph over
the ruins!
“In Virginia, then, there are twenty different classes—
from the indented servant who toils on the glebe, and the
fisherman who sleeps in the sunshine, to the great landed
proprietor who rolls by in his coach, and lives like a feudal
baron on his splendid estate. The intermediate grades are
immensely diversified, but, as far as politics go, there are
but three prominent classes. They are, first, patriotic conservatives,
with a sprinkling of royalists or tories; next, advocates
of revolution, prepared to go all lengths; lastly,
men who wait for events, and conceal their sentiments,
read to join either side, if it acquires the ascendency.
“The first of these classes embraces the great landed
proprietors. They are the sons or grandsons of English
younger sons who came here and obtained, by industry or
favor, large tracts on the banks of our rivers. In the first
generation they often lived rudely, and worked hard; in the
second or third, they roll in coaches, and live splendidly.
They are cavaliers, or gentlemen—call them what you
please—essentially of the old English stock of country gentlemen.
They have, many of them, been educated in England,
and have traveled on the continent. They have
thus imbibed the traditions of the past. On their walls
hang the portraits of their ancestors, and they read of these
personages in the memoirs of past ages. Thus, every thing
combines to make these men royalists: family pride, education,
the fear of innovation on their class, and the dread
of Democracy. They are members of the established Church
of England, and believe in the apostolic succession. They
are attached to that constitutional royalty which recognizes
the monarch as the first gentleman of his kingdom. They
like the order of nobility because a step only separates them
from its elevation—a step which has often been passed over.
They believe in those `degrees in a state' which Shakspeare
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tells of—they believe that they are better than the commoners.
They love, in a word, the whole machinery of the
English system, and recoil at the thought of opposing her.
“This class, thus imperfectly outlined, has longed for an
arrangement of the present difficulties—a peaceful solution
of all dissensions. They have voted, in the Burgesses, for
petitions and protests, but their protests have always ended
with a clause about `his Majesty's most loyal humble servants
and subjects.' They shudder and draw back when
the word revolution is uttered, and they cling to the past,
to the habitudes of London, to the sentiments and views
of their fathers.
“Now for the second class, the advocates of revolution—
those fiery souls who inhale the odor of the muttering
tempest, and rejoice as they descry its approach. These are
men of less property, though similar origin. They live, for
the most part, upon small estates, and ride to court with
their saddle-bags, and dress carelessly. They do not cultivate
that suavity and repose which is the aim of the rich
planter; they wear no velvet or lace; they speak often uncouthly,
but with a rough eloquence which arouses. In
the West they are often mountain hunters, depending for
support, in a measure, on their rifles, clad in hunting-shirts
and deer-skin buskins. They have few family traditions,
and no portraits. Their ancestors could not fee Sir Godfrey
Kneller or Van Dyck. They breathe the winds of the
great mountains, hear the noise of the torrents; the eagle
screams, from the clouds, above their lodges in the clefts of
the Alleghanies, and he is not more free and disdainful of
control than themselves. These men not only do not stand
in awe of royalty—they do not understand or think of it. It
has never come to molest them in their far mountain eyries,
and they care as little for the aristocracy of the lowland.
They listen, as in a dream, when you tell them of the chariots,
and gold plate, and the opulence of the Tidewater.
They nod their heads, and tell you that your story is interesting;
then they play with their great rifles, and follow the
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flight of an eagle with their eyes, and go, singing, up the
mountain, thinking only of the buck hunt on the morrow.
When the planter of the East turns in bed to take his second
nap, the hunter is following the deer over the breezy
hills, or dashing aside the waves of the Kanawha with the
paddle of his gum-tree canoe. The elegantly-clad cavalier
receives his guests at the door of his fine mansion, bowing
low as he assists the dames from their coaches; the mountaineer
is telling stories to his comrades around the camp fire.
As the minuet commences, with its dazzling figures and stately
music, the hunter falls asleep beneath the stars. These
men, the yeomen of the East and the mountaineers of the
West, form the second class—almost ignorant of royalty, and
careless of its doings, but ready to march on it, and strike it
mortally when it invades their territory, as they would a
wolf or a panther. But I mistake. Ten years ago this was
just the picture. To-day these men have made the acquaintance
of his Majesty and of Parliament. They have not said
much, but they have looked to their rifles. You will see
them in Williamsburg soon; Goths and Huns in the streets
of Rome.
“I have said that the third class embraced the hangerson—
those men who watch events, and are prepared to side
with the strongest. They are factors, for the most part, who
have `moneys' involved in the issue—who do not wish to
quarrel with the planters, and await their action. They opposed
the non-intercourse association of last year because it
injured their business; they trade now in their patriotism,
and await the rising of the curtain. Enough of them.
“Well, now, friend,” the stranger continued, “you see
the issue; you see the elements which will enter into this
struggle. I commenced by saying that the action of Dunmore
had combined these discordant elements; and I think
you comprehend what I meant.
“The great planters, the first class, love England and
their old traditions, but they are true Englishmen, and love
their personal liberty more. They are afraid of Democracy,
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[figure description] Page 404.[end figure description]
but they are more afraid of Parliament. They would risk
their lives to preserve the legitimate action of the sovereign
from insult; they will die before they'll bow to what is despotism.
Well, the treachery of Dunmore has revolted this
class profoundly; his insults have aroused their hot blood;
they hate him, and hate the government which instructed
him, and are ready to strike him. They overmatch, lastly,
the pure royalists so immensely that this element is completely
paralyzed.
“The second class, the yeomen and the hunters, are
aroused, too—that is, made to see that the time has come.
They now understand that their own is a popular sentiment—
that, when they march, it will be with an ever-increasing
force as they proceed. They feel that the treachery of Dunmore
has matured all: they unite with the planters.
“The third class are accustomed to watch the times.
They see that the liberty stock is rising. They begin to
understand that their debts to English houses will be abrogated
by a struggle with the mother country. They now
press forward, and are flaming patriots. They shout `Liberty!'
and then look round for applause. It is Dunmore's
treachery which has decided these men, too: they march
with the rest.
“Well, friend,” added the stranger, raising his head,
“you now know what has taken place in your absence.
The tornado, long blowing, is beginning to roar; royal authority
trembles in the balance, and is weighed, and found
wanting. The fiery finger has traced the flaming letters on
the wall, Mene, mene, tekel, upharsin! `God hath numbered
thy kingdom and finished it!' The monarch, in his
palace, already hears the roar of the unloosed waters.
Those waters commenced, a mere rill, a thread upon the expanse
of the land; but they have rolled on and gathered
strength; from year to year they have increased; at last
they rush toward the sea, whose surges are lashed by the
tempest! On the banks of the great stream a poor wanderer
stands musing. It is myself, friend! My part has
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been to follow it in its august flow from the source—to remove,
when I could, the obstructions in its bed—to widen
and clear out the channel. If I have assisted, thus, the infant
stream of Liberty, I have not lived in vain. My mission
was to perform this service, and I have tried to fulfill it.
The stream rushes onward now, and I disappear. Henceforth
there is little for me to do but to throw myself into
the current and share its fate. Swallowed up in the billows,
lost in the ranks, I have, henceforth, my arm alone to offer.
Seek me here in the autumn of this year and, I predict, you
will not find me. Before that time, all will be decided;
even now events rush to their fulfillment!”
As the stranger spoke, the neigh of a distant horse was
heard, and, bending forward, he listened.
“They are on their march!” he said.
“Whom?” said St. John, rising.
“Wait; you will see,” and the stranger led the way to
the open window.
It was a clear, moonlight night, and the mellow radiance
slept peacefully on the roofs of the houses. No sound disturbed
the deep silence except the murmur of the sea breeze
dying away in the distance.
But as St. John and the stranger leaned forth and listened,
a second neigh, much closer than the first, was borne
on the night wind to their ears.
Then, in the deep silence, a measured tramp was heard,
sabers gleamed in the moonlight, and a body of men advanced
along Gloucester street, and turned into Palace
street.
At the head of these men rode a horseman wrapped in a
cloak, and it was his animal which had neighed.
From their lofty post the stranger and St. John witnessed
the silent advance of the company, and soon saw a light
glimmer in a window of the palace, before which the men
halted.
“Ah!” said St. John, “these are—”
“Marines from the schooner Magdalen, which lies at
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Burwell's Ferry on James river, yonder. The horseman is
Captain Collins.”
“What is their object?”
“Look and listen, friend,” said the stranger, “and you
will see.”
St. John leaned further out and listened, a color for the
first time invading his pale cheek, and his eyes ardently
plunging into half darkness.
A colloquy seemed to be going on in front of the palace,
but this lasted for a few minutes only. Almost immediately
the noise of wheels was heard, and the chariot of Lord
Dunmore, drawn by six horses, and surrounded by his guards,
commanded by Lindon, drove slowly, and with apparent caution,
out of Palace street, and disappeared in the direction
of Montebello, the Governor's mansion, some six miles below
Williamsburg.
“Do you understand?” said the stranger, whose lips wore
an expression of the most withering scorn; “do you know
what that means, friend?”
“Speak!”
“His Excellency flies to his country seat, leaving his
family behind!”
“Flies! What is his fear?”
“Listen and look!”
As the stranger spoke, he extended his hand in the moonlight,
and St. John saw the troop of men march to the powder
magazine, rapidly place fifteen or twenty barrels of
powder in carts, and then quickly retrace their steps in
the direction from which they had come.
“They are disarming the town!” cried St. John, starting
up, and drawing his sword; “give the alarm, friend, or they
will escape!”
And he threw himself toward the door, with flashing
eyes, and cheeks crimson with passion.
The heavy hand of the stranger violently arrested him.
St. John looked impatiently at the hand on his shoulder,
at the cold and collected face.
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“Why do you stop me?” he said.
“Because I do not recognize your right to forestall events
and embarrass the cause.”
“Embarrass!”
“Yes. Can you misunderstand?”
“Speak!”
“That powder is, in all, fifteen half barrels of fifty pounds
each. We have ten times the amount safely stored. It is
necessary that this powder should be removed. It was
foreseen—”
“Foreseen!”
“By myself and others. Were you to arouse Williamsburg
now you would oppose some frightened burghers, half
asleep, to a band of armed marines, stimulated by drink.
The result would be unnecessary loss of life and defeat.
The injury to the cause is, however, the paramount thing.”
“Injury!”
“Yes, friend,” said the stranger, coolly, “I repeat that it
is in the first degree desirable that Lord Dunmore should
perfect this outrage. In a week you will understand me.
The powder is valueless—the outrage is of immense value
to the cause! Do you not comprehend the enormous importance
of this blow—of an armed encounter between the
Governor and the people, before an overwhelming force is
marched hither? The great masses busy themselves little
about abstract principles, but every one will understand this
midnight robbery. In ten days Virginia will thrill to her
remotest borders with wrath and indignation. I would not,
for the whole English arsenal in the Tower, have that powder
obstructed—have those men molested!* Do you understand
now?”
St. John fell back, murmuring.
“Let us now get some sleep, for the events of the morrow
will need fresh arms, perhaps, friend,” said the stranger;
“it is Dunmore who plays our whole game for us.
He is but a tyro! for he's staked the authority of his
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[figure description] Page 408.[end figure description]
master in Virginia against eight barrels of powder, and
he'll lose!”
With which words the stranger coolly resumed his seat.
St. John retired to his lodgings, making an appointment
to meet the stranger at the Raleigh at sunrise, and soon
the town was as silent as before.
The powder marauders, with their illustrious master, had
come and gone as silently as shadows.
eaf510n40* Historical Illustrations, No. XXXVIII.
CHAPTER LXXV. WILLIAMSBURG IN ARMS, AND CAPTAIN RALPH WATERS IN ECSTACIES.
At sunrise the stranger and St. John met in front of the
Raleigh, and in fifteen minutes the intelligence of the removal
of the powder had run like wildfire through the
town.
All Williamsburg flew to arms.
Every moment the crowds at the corners increased, and
these crowds were harangued by orators of the common
people, who sprung up thus in an instant, and rode for the
moment upon the popular current.
Execrations directed at Lord Dunmore resounded upon
every side, and a hoarse murmur, rising at times into a roar,
indicated the depth of the feeling which this last outrage
had aroused and pushed into action.
As the morning drew on, the crowd ever grew more
dense and more furious; for it was found, that in addition,
the muskets in the magazine had been deprived of their locks.
The gentlemen of the town, and some members of the Governor's
council, in vain attempted to calm the tumult.
The people of Williamsburg were completely aroused,
and like most popular bodies, only waited for a leader to
proceed to acts of violence.
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This leader presented himself in the person of a country
lawyer, who sprang upon a barrel-head at the door of a
shop and announced that the palace floor was covered with
muskets, and that Lord Dunmore had hastened to Montebello
to arm his negroes, and the Shawnee hostages brought
back from the frontier.
The intelligenee fell like fire upon gunpowder. A hoarse
roar issued from the crowd, and like an immense wave of
the ocean, it surged toward the palace, which was surrounded
in an instant by the shouting and furious inhabitants.
At the front gate stood his Excellency's chariot, which
had just returned from Montebello, and as the multitude
rushed toward the spot, Lady Dunmore and her daughters
were just stepping into the vehicle.
Before they could do so, they were jostled aside by some
of the crowd, and violent hands were laid upon the bridles
of the rearing horses. The driver sat pale and trembling,
scarcely able to hold the reins; and Lady Dunmore and
her daughters trembled too.
It was but an instant that they were thus subjected to
insult.
A sword flashed in the air—a vigorous arm hurled back
the assailants, who were the mere scum of the multitude,
that vulgar froth, so to speak, which floats on the purest
waters—and looking up, Lady Dunmore and her daughters
encountered the pale face of St. John, which was cold, but
fiery with indignation.
“Your ladyship need fear no violence,” said the young
man; “myself, and Captain Waters here, will see that you
are treated with respect. Before your ladyship is insulted
by any one, I'll sheathe my sword in his heart.”
And confronting the assailants, Mr. St. John met their
furious glances with a look which indicated that he was
both ready and willing to carry out his threat.
“That's the word, Harry my boy!” said Captain Waters,
pushing through to his side. “Morbleu! I'll stand
by you there—and her ladyship can proceed.”
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Lady Dunmore, still trembling, got into the carriage,
followed by her daughters, and assisted by Mr. St. John:
and then the crowd opening, the chariot was permitted to
proceed.
St. John exchanged a glance with young Lady Augusta,
who thanked him with that grateful look for his devotion.
But he had only repaid her kindness to Blossom, when the
child nearly fainted, and was cheered by the girl.
The crowd thus permitted the Governor's family to
depart, disowning the vulgar assault of the understrappers;
but the palace of the hateful Governor remained.
They seized all the arms, which were ranged in long rows
upon the floor; and took prisoner the private secretary of
his Excellency.
Captain Foy looked around him for a moment like an
infuriated tiger—cold, but burning with rage. Then he
calmly went on with his writing.
“My dear Foy,” said Captain Waters, as the tide of invaders
flowed away, leaving them nearly alone, “do you
know that you really fill me with admiration? Parbleu! we seem vulgar urchins beside you. I recognize my superior;
and rather than see you assailed by the good people
of the town, I will die on the threshold of your apartment.”
“Thanks, captain,” said Foy coolly, “that sounds like a
comrade.”
“It sounds true, my dear Foy. I have no idea of letting
some vulgar fellow run you through. I reserve that pleasure
for myself.”
Foy smiled sardonically.
“I think, from present appearances, you'll soon have an
occasion, captain,” he said; “events are thickening, and
the pen yields to the sword.”
“Certainly it does, and that's right.”
“I agree with you.”
“The sword will serve his Excellency better than the
pen, eh?”
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“Such is my opinion, captain,” said Foy, coolly.
“You confess, then, that the goose quill's but a sorry
tool—that it has not succeeded?”
“Succeeded, captain?”
“Yes, my dear Foy. It is obvious to all now that his
Excellency's chief rascal, Conolly, took advantage of the
confiding disposition of his lordship, and deceived him;
that his Excellency's treachery quite failed.”
“Captain Waters—!”
“My dear Foy!” said the captain with a polite air.
“It is perilous to speak thus of his Majesty's representative!”
“Representative!—where?”
“In Williamsburg.”
“If you refer to Dunmore, my dear friend, I reply
simply that he's not here. Having abstracted—I believe
that's the polite word—our powder, his lordship is amusing
himself making fireworks at Montebello, having doubtless
forgotten his wife and daughters.”
“He is still the Governor, sir.”
“Then we are unfortunate, for we've a coward for a
ruler. Come, don't think me rude, my dear Foy. I declare
it to be my opinion that the man who runs away to
escape popular wrath, and leaves his family behind to meet
the shock which he knows will come—this personage, I am
constrained to declare, in all simplicity, a coward; and that
is worse than a traitor. His Excellency, I regret to say, is
both.”
“Captain Waters, do you consider it grateful to insult a
prisoner?”
“Insult!”
“Yes, me sir!”
“Insult you, my dear Foy, and at present? I would
sooner cut off my right hand, and have my ears nailed to a
pillory.”
“Well, sir, this insult to his Excellency is an insult to
me.”
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The captain stood dumbfoundered at this new view, and
the longer he reflected, the more just did it seem.
He drew back and sighed.
“My dear Foy,” he said, “I am absent this morning, and
that never occurred to me. You see I was only jesting, and
I wouldn't hurt your feelings for the world. My real opinion
of his lordship is quite different. I regard him as the model
of a gentleman and a cavalier. In all the relations of life
he shines preëminent; he touches nothing which he don't
adorn; the Latin's escaped me, if I ever knew it.”
The same sardonic smile wreathed the corners of Foy's
mouth.
“I'm glad your real opinion of his Excellency is different,
captain,” he said.
“Different! I should say it was. Could you think for a
moment, my dear comrade, that I attached any credit to the
vulgar rumors of the day? The idea of a nobleman being
guilty of treachery and cowardice! My amazement at this
charge is so great that I feel as if some one had cuffed me
on my head! I'll uphold his lordship as the grandest of his
order, and I'll cram down the throats of his enemies their
accusations!”
A rather poor commentary upon the captain's sincerity
was instantly afforded.
The crowd had taken all the muskets, disarmed the servants,
and now they came to the apartment in which Foy
was under guard, muttering “traitor!” and a variety of
other criticisms of his Excellency.
No insult or violence was offered to Captain Foy, however,
and they even permitted him to retain his papers.
In the afternoon, the guard was withdrawn, and he was
at liberty. The secretary received the intimation as coolly
as before, and continued his writing.
The palace and the grounds were by this time vacated,
and another portion of the inhabitants, who had armed themselves
to march and attack the Magdalen, and recover the
powder, returned to their homes.
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This moderation of the popular excitement was due to the
exertions of the members of the Governor's council, who
earnestly dissuaded the people from violence. They recommended
a meeting of the town in its corporate capacity, and
the meeting was held at once.
The result was an address to his Excellency, in which the
Common Council represented that the “inhabitants of the
city had been that morning exceedingly alarmed by a report
that a large quantity of gunpowder was, in the preceding
night, while they were sleeping in their beds, removed
from the public magazine in the city, and conveyed, under
an escort of marines, on board one of his Majesty's armed
vessels lying at a ferry on James river;” that “the magazine
was erected at the public expense of the colony,” for
arming the militia, “in cases of invasion and insurrection,”
and they desired “to be informed by his Excellency, upon
what motives and for what particular purpose the powder
had been carried off in such a manner,” and ended by requesting
that it might be “immediately returned to the
magazine.”
His Excellency returned, verbally, the reply, that he had
heard of “an insurrection in a neighboring county,” and
had removed the powder to a place of safety. Whenever
it was wanted, upon his word of honor, it should be delivered
in half an hour. He had removed it in the night
time to prevent any alarm, and was surprised to hear the
people were under arms; he could not trust them with powder.
That was all the reply.
On the next day, Captain Collins and some of his men entered
Williamsburg, and swaggered about the streets, and
in the evening the captain and Foy rode to Montebello, returning
at twilight.
On the next morning, his Excellency sent word by one
of the magistrates that “if any insult were offered to Captain
Foy, or Captain Collins, he would declare freedom to
the slaves and lay the town in ashes,” adding that he could
easily depopulate the county.
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His lordship finding this threat received without open exhibitions
of resistance, then returned with his guards to Williamsburg.
On the next evening, Captain Foy was proceeding toward
the palace when he met Captain Waters.
“Have you heard the news, my dear friend?” said Waters.
“No, captain,” returned Foy.
“Well, I'll tell you. That scoundrel, General Gage, who
represents his most Christian Majesty in Boston, has removed
their powder, as his Excellency kindly did ours. The result
has been a battle at Lexington and Concord, on the very
day that Captain Collins marched to Williamsburg and robbed
the magazine. Can you conceive of such a rascally coincidence,
my dear Foy?”
“Captain Waters!” said Foy, coloring, “are you aware,
sir, that you utter sedition?”
“Sedition, my dear Foy?” returned Waters; “well, I
believe all Williamsburg is assisting me.”
“All Williamsburg, sir?”
“Yes, my dear friend. The Raleigh's in a flame from
the news, and it's rapidly spreading. As I observed, the
general opinion is, that the removal of the powder throughout
America was concerted—done in obedience to orders
from home. Eh? Wasn't it, my dear Foy?”
“Seek intelligence elsewhere, Captain Waters,” said Foy,
passing on.
“Well, I will,” said Captain Ralph, smiling; “but let me
finish, my dear Foy.”
“Proceed, sir.”
“If the removal of the powder here, and in Massachusetts,
was concerted, you see—”
“Well, sir!”
“In obedience to orders from London—”
“Suppose it was, sir!”
“Why, then, you see, I am cleared from any accusation
of sedition, which is libel,” said the captain. “His
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Excellency said he removed it because there was an insurrection
in James City county; now, if he really did so, in obedience
to general orders, without reference to the insurrection, why
it is obvious that his Excellency has willfully lied, and the
coincidence, as I said, is in every sense rascally. It's no
libel, it's the simple and plain truth, my dear Foy!”
Met thus by a direct and unmistakable insult, as gross as
it was pointed, Foy advanced a step and said, with a slight
flush in his pale face,
“Captain Waters, do you wish to visit the Fowey manof-war
in irons?”
“Not at present, my dear Foy,” said the captain.
“Well, sir, if you wish to avoid it, I advise you to control
your remarks.”
“What remarks?”
“About his Excellency.”
“I have said nothing wrong.”
“You have charged him with falsehood, sir—plainly!”
“Well, my dear Captain Foy, I think he has been guilty
of that.”
“Captain Waters!”
“And of cowardice.”
“Sir—!”
“Treachery too, Foy,” said Captain Waters, coolly, “and
my own opinion is, that you yourself have more or less
to do with both the falsehood and the treachery. You
see, I acquit you of the cowardice for old acquaintance
sake.”
Foy's hand darted to the hilt of his sword, and thus driven
like a wild cat to the wall, by these repeated insults, he
would in an instant have rushed upon his adversary.
Before his sword, however, leaped from its scabbard, he
heard a voice say, “His lordship sends for you, sir,” and
turning round he found himself face to face with the old
usher in black velvet.
A flush of rage and disappointment threw a lurid light
upon the secretary's face, and, advancing within two steps
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of Waters, he said, between his clenched teeth, and in a low,
hissing voice,
“We shall meet again, sir, and I'll wipe out the insults
you have heaped upon me with your heart's blood. I promise
you that, sir!”
“Good, good, my dear Foy!” said the captain, cheerfully;
“that sort of talk really delights me!”
“I'm glad you like it, sir,” said Foy, pale with rage.
“Like it? I believe you. It sounds like the sweetest
winds of summer to my ears. At last I shall learn the coup
de Reinfels, and perhaps in return teach you the coup de
Waters, you see!”
“Well, sir, I'll try and end your affectation and your
boasting!”
“My affectation! my boasting!” cried the captain; “see
how an old comrade does injustice to a friend! You think
I boast, you think I affect! when all the time I'm moved
by a pure love of art.”
“Well, sir, I hope to show you the art of splitting tongues,
and if I live I'll perform that service for you.”
“Split my tongue!” said the captain, cheerfully; “see
here the coincidence of genius. That is just what I've long
been wishing to do for you! Your tongue is already forked
like a snake's, my dear Foy, but I wish to improve it still
further!”
It seemed that Captain Foy meditated again an instant
rush upon his enemy, but this idea was at once abandoned.
With a hoarse growl he turned away.
“A last word, my dear Foy,” said the captain; “let us
exchange a parting assurance of regard. I have a real affection
for yourself and his Excellency, and you may inform
him that in forty-eight hours we intend to knock his house
about his ears. We are no longer restrained by a sentiment
of politeness—the family of his Excellency being absent.
Perhaps their presence made him a coward, and, now they
are gone, he may fight. He has an elegant-looking guard,
and a tall, ugly captain thereof, named Lindon, which I
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regret, as I'd like to spoil his beauty. I say, you can inform
his Excellency that we're coming to pay him our respects,
our compliments, on the issue of the Indian affair, and to
return him our thanks for removing the powder out of reach
of our slaves. He says we are traitors, and may be cowards—
well, `birds of a feather,' you know. We think his Excellency's
admirable company for such folk! Go, my dear
Foy! do n't keep his Excellency waiting! He is doubtless
devising new benefits for the colony, and needs your valuable
assistance.”
Foy walked away, shuddering with rage, but saying nothing;
and Waters added, with a laugh, as he disappeared
around the corner,
“Go on, my dear scorpion; I'll soon draw your sting!
the hours are ripening!”
With these words, the captain twirled his huge mustache,
and, with an expression of radiant pleasure, sought
the Raleigh, which, truly, was in a flame with the news of
Lexington and Concord.
CHAPTER LXXVI. A MEETING OF PATRIOTS.
Instead of pausing to depict the excitement, the agitation,
the fury, almost, of Williamsburg, just informed, by
expresses, of the events in the North—instead of dwelling
upon this picture, which the reader may very well fancy for
himself, let us follow the captain, and see where he goes.
Perhaps we shall thus stumble upon something.
Just at twilight, Captain Waters mounted his horse, and,
issuing from Williamsburg toward the west, plunged into
the great forest as the shades of night descended.
He proceeded silently through the wood until he reached
the vicinity of the old field school house, and then
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dismounting, tied his horse to the bough of a tree, and
proceeded on fast toward the building, in which a light
glimmered.
He passed a number of horses tied like his own, and soon
came upon a figure which advanced from the shadow of a
tree, and hailed him:
“ `Liberty”s the word, eh?” said the captain, shaking
Mr. Lugg by the hand. “How many are here, Lanky?”
“A good many, captain,” said Mr. Lugg. “Mr. Hamilton
has just come.”
“Captain Hamilton, say! for I'll vote for him.”
“What place will you take? They speak of you for
captain.”
“The rear guard next to the enemy. I'll not go before
Jack.”
“Well, captain, I wish they would make me quartermaster.”
“Why so?”
“I'm terribly hungry,” and Mr. Lugg applauded his joke.
“You always were that, you rascal!” said the captain,
cheerfully. “The amount of bacon, bread and beer which
you used to cost me was really immense.”
“Oh, cap'en!—that is, my dear captain,” said Mr. Lugg,
correcting his defective pronunciation, and raising his head
with all the dignity of a freeholder, “we have forgotten
those early days, I think.”
“You have,” said the captain, twirling his mustache,
“and that is the consequence of a good action. It was all
owing to me that you secured that incomparable Donsy,
formerly pupil of his Highness, Mr. Tag, in this very house;
and, after all my lies on that occasion, you wish to forget!”
“Oh, no, captain!” said Mr. Lugg, with earnestness,
“I'll never forget all your goodness. Donsy is a good
wife, and I owe my getting her to you.”
“Very well, Scaramouche, that is honest, and I'm coming
next week to see the juvenile Lankys. Have they pineknot
heads?”
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“Oh, captain! but you talked of Tag.”
“Yes.”
“Well, he's in there,” said Mr. Lugg, pointing to the
school house.
“You do n't say so! A pedagogue?”
“He was a soldier, you know, once.”
“Yes, and a great rascal. Well, well, it's a good sign
when the riff-raff adhere to a cause. It proves that they
think we're going to succeed.”
“He talks mighty big,” said Mr. Lugg.
“And will walk big until the enemy comes along, when
he'll run,” with which words Captain Waters proceeded to
the school house.
About twenty men were assembled there—and Uncle
Jimmy Doubleday presided. Around him were grouped
Mr. Jack Hamilton, Mr. Tag, and a variety of gentlemen,
and in the corner a sable personage with goggle eyes and
clad in an enormous coat, squatted down, and moved his
midnight fingers to and fro on a fife.
Uncle Jimmy opened the meeting, which had waited, apparently,
only for the captain, with an address setting forth
its object.
At that primitive period there were no short-hand reporters,
and we regret our inability to present more than the
heads of his discourse.
The late outrage—the designs of England—the schemes
of Dunmore—the public excitement—the march of Patrick
Henry on Williamsburg, with the men of Hanover, which
the company now organizing was going to join—the duty
of good citizens—the blow that was to be struck, now or
never—this was the train of Uncle Jimmy's remarks. It
seemed that they were very acceptable to the meeting; for
when the old gentleman made a final flourish with his
glasses, and sat down, a murmur of applause followed.
The gentlemen then rose and pledged themselves for
different numbers of men, to meet at the rendezvous the
next day. Then they proceeded to the election of officers.
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Captain Waters declared that he should vote for Hamilton,
peremptorily refusing to command.
He was urged to change his determination; but refusing,
the meeting elected Mr. Hamilton, who returned thanks.
Other officers were then chosen, and lastly, the question
of the commissariat was raised.
At this juncture—says the worthy author—our old and
esteemed friend, Mr. Tag, slowly rose from his seat. Age
had not dimmed him in the least, or the pedagogue rostrum
staled his infinite vanity. He was still the brilliant mixture
of the soldier and the schoolmaster, the pedagogue and the
politician, the civilian and the warrior. Like Ulysses, the
worthy Tag had seen many “climates, councils, governments”—
and if not “honored of them all,” had at least
been noticed, if't were only at a cart-tail.
On the present occasion, the worthy Tag desired the
commissariat. He made a speech, declaring, of course,
that he could not accept it. He finally relented, however,
and announced that if his friends chose to confer the office
upon him, he should not feel at liberty to refuse it; devotion
to the public weal being the first passion of his soul.
His friend—he might almost say, his noble friend—Captain
Waters, knew that he was experienced in such things; and
often, in the Seven Years' War, they had slept together, in
the next couch he was sorry to say, to that viper, Captain
Foy. He had always distrusted that man—from the first
he knew him to be a villain. In those complicated and entangled
secret schemes which to the everlasting shame of
the English government, Lord Dunmore, with this man,
had projected”—
Here symptoms of impatience on the part of the audience
developed themselves.
Mr. Tag therefore cut short his remarks by saying that
if the commissariat was bestowed upon him, he should be
much flattered. And then he sat down in the spot where
he and Lanky had encountered each other in old days,
sword against tongs.
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Lanky was opposed to him now, and Lanky was elected.
“Mas' Tag did n't do it dat time—he did n't,” issued in a
murmur of triumph from the corner; “tread on my coattail,
and knock me down and lam me—berry glad to hear
it, Mas' Tag!”
Having made this remark, sotto voce, Mr. Crow subsided
into silence and darkness, running his fingers along the fife
and grinning.
The meeting had now concluded its business, and soon it
rose.
They had agreed upon a rendezvous early the next day,
at Bank's cross-roads.
“Morbleu!” said the captain, as he rode away with Hamilton;
“'tis strange how the sight of that building affected
me. You know, Jack, it's an old acquaintance!”
“Ah!”
“Yes,” said the captain, sighing and smiling, “you must
have observed that amid all the excitement, I was quiet—in
the midst of the enthusiasm, I was thoughtful. Do you
know why?”
“Tell me.”
“Because I was often there in the merry old days when I
was courting Henrietta, you know, Jack,” said the captain
smiling, and raising his fine and martial face in the moonlight.
“It was there that I remember leaning through the
window, and swearing back at Tag, when I went to get
Donsy for Lanky Lugg. It was there that the noble Lanky
fought—an encounter which I arrived just in time to witness,
and whisk away the maiden Donsy in my chariot, in
defiance of his excellency, Mr. Tag, who had threatened to
whip her, and made her cry. Faith! Lanky acted like a
hero that day, and would have demolished his enemy, but I
held him back. Strange how vivid all is! And now the
clownish boy is married to the crying girl; and a new
generation thrusts the schoolmaster aside, and bestows its
trust on the scholars. That's what I call the long result of
time—and I think my mustache is growing gray!”
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The jovial soldier laughed as he spoke, but he sighed, too.
There is no one but feels, at times, this regret for the past—
who does not gild thus the days that are dead?
“Well, well, mon ami,” added the soldier, “all that's
gone, and the new days are here—also a new generation.
Let us act, and not meditate. We're to meet in the morning
at Banks' cross-roads, where, formerly, I encountered
William Effingham, Esq. Well, I think there 'll be a real
fight this time—if not at the cross-roads, elsewhere. Let
us hope so,” and the friends rode on through the moonlight.
CHAPTER LXXVII. A YOUNG SPY.
The last person to leave the school house was Uncle Jimmy
Doubleday, and the old schoolmaster saw that all was
secure before he departed.
He tried all the shutters, set back the benches, and,
finally, took the light and proceeded toward the door.
It was just at this moment that a voice behind him made
him suddenly start:
“Oh, Uncle Jimmy! Uncle Jimmy! do n't lock me in!”
said the voice, and Mr. Paul Effingham appeared from behind
a desk in the corner where this worthy had concealed
himself.
“You!” said Uncle Jimmy, holding up his hands, “you
here, sir?”
“Oh, yes, Uncle Jimmy. Was it wrong? I'm a patriot,
you know, and wanted to hear,” and Mr. Paul approached
the pedagogue with a winning smile, bent upon obtaining a
full pardon.
As for Uncle Jimmy, he gazed with austere surprise upon
the youthful patriot, and then, shaking his head—
“Young man,” he said, “what impelled you to this highly
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reprehensible course? Young man, what did you do it for?
More than one man and boy have hung for being spies.
What, sir, was your object?”
“I'm a patriot, you know, Uncle Jimmy,” said the young
spy, “and Jim Crow told me you all were to meet here.”
“You were present all the time?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And your parents! your parents! young man, who are
now anxious about you?”
“Oh, I often ride out in the evening, and it's not late.
You know, Uncle Jimmy, I was bound to know every thing,
I was. I'm a patriot,” and Mr. Paul assumed a wheedling
smile which made Uncle Jimmy turn aside his head and
smile, too.
“Young man,” he said, turning again, with austere dignity,
to Paul, “you have acted with extraordinary freedom
on this occasion. If I do not punish you, 't'is from regard
for your worthy parents. Go, sir, and be home immediately;
as for our affairs, we can trust you, and let me
never—”
“Trust me, Uncle Jimmy!” cried Paul, raising his head;
“I should say you can! I'm the captain of the Cornstalk
regiment, sir—I am!” and Paul placed his hand upon his
left hip with great dignity.
“Well, my child,” said Uncle Jimmy, much mollified,
“I doubt not 't is a patriotic company. Go, now, and
never repeat this indiscretion.”
“I'm going right off. Shag's tied under an oak in the
woods,” said Paul; “but I say, Uncle Jimmy.”
“Well, my boy?”
“Is Banks' cross-roads the place of meeting?”
“Yes, why do you ask?”
“I just wanted to know,” said Paul, mysteriously.
“Good night, Uncle Jimmy. I'm very much obliged to
you for the holiday to-morrow; we all are, and Blossom
says you're very good.”
“She certainly is, Paul.”
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“Yes, sir,” replied Paul, putting on his hat; “she's a
real patriot, she is. Our union, Uncle Jimmy, will be a
happy one, and you shall be invited. Now good night, sir.”
With these words Mr. Paul bowed with dignity, and, with
extreme ceremony, disappeared.
Uncle Jimmy looked after him for a moment, and then a
smile diffused itself over the old features.
“Oh, he's a proud one, is Paul,” said Uncle Jimmy.
“With what an air he touched his little hat! how high he
carried his head! how grand he walked! That boy would
march into the cannon's mouth, I think! I have never
seen his equal.”
Having thus expressed his admiration, Uncle Jimmy
locked the school house and proceeded homeward. The
forest was again silent, save for the hooting of a few owls
and the notes of the whippoorwill, and the moon soared
aloft in triumph.
CHAPTER LXXVIII. GENERAL EFFINGHAM IS CARRIED OFF BY A CHARIOT.
On the morning after the nocturnal meeting, and about
ten o'clock, a company of youths, some twenty or thirty in
number, were assembled in a glade of the forest, not far
from Banks' cross-roads.
A huge oak stretched its wide arms over their heads, and
a hamper, containing a variety of eatables, was reposing on
the mossy roots of the oak.
It was the spot where in former times the old Cornstalk
regiment had paraded, and pic-niced—where the noble soldiers
had been cheered by the presence of the fair—where
Mr. Crow gamboled—where the drum-head court martial
had been rapidly dispersed by the inspiriting notes of the
Bowling Green banjo.
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That was a peaceful parade, however, and the only fatal
weapons were the eyes of Kate Effingham and her friends—
the only victims, Master Willie, and his rival, Tom Alston.
But, since the good year of '65, many things had taken
place, and now the great Cornstalk regiment assembled
anew, with far other designs than peaceful festivals.
Master Paul Effingham stood upon a stump and harangued
his followers. His remarks were to the effect that at last
the day of liberty had dawned, that Virginians would never
be slaves, and to prevent this result he besought his associates
to enter into the war with vigor.
A cheer greeted these observations, and the youthful followers
of the young patriot rallied round him, and declared
that they were ready.
They were of all ages under fifteen and above eight, and
were armed with old guns, which were far too heavy for
them, and should have been left at home for their fathers,
from whom the weapons had been filched.
Captain Effingham formed his men into a line, and then
separated this line into companies of three.
Then the order was given to march—upon the hamper.
The soldiers obeyed this order, acquiescing, apparently, in
the opinion of their chief, that before they joined the forces
marching on Williamsburg, nature would call for refreshment.
Guns were therefore abandoned, hats cast on the ground,
and the Cornstalk regiment attacked the hamper with great
valor.
In fifteen minutes the basket was emptied, and turned
with its top upon the ground.
Captain Effingham finished a bun with dignity, and ordered
his men to their arms. The ranks were immediately
formed, Captain Effingham made another speech, and then
the noble regiment, full of ardor and patriotism, set forward,
at a quick step, toward Banks' cross-roads.
But alas! for the designs of the patriots. They had just
reached the highway, and were marching in fine order,
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when a chariot rolled toward them, and this chariot, when
it reached a point just abreast of them, suddenly paused.
Captain Paul gave the order to present arms, which was
obeyed with soldierly precision.
But alas!
From the window of the chariot, a fair head was thrust,
and Master Paul recognized his mother.
The young patriot's countenance fell, and his chin subsided
on his breast. Arrested, thus, in his march, the regiment
trod upon his heels.
“Oh, Paul!” said Madame Clare, “where in the world
are you going?”
“To fight the enemy, mamma,” returned Paul, with a
groan. “We are going to Banks' cross-roads, the place of
meeting.”
“Oh, my son, what an idea!” said his mother. “How
could you?”
“A patriot must do his duty, mamma,” said Paul, ruefully.
“Yes, my son,” said his mother; “but you are much
too young. You distress me very much by these freaks,
Paul! Come, now, and do not make me feel badly. Come
into the carriage, and go home, my son.”
It was long before Paul would consent to this, and more
than one “noble tear,” as says the poet, bedewed his youthful
eyes at his disappointment. Had the command come
from any other than his own mother, it is probable that
Captain Paul would have summoned his men to the rescue;
but it was the voice of a beloved parent which besought
him; it was the wish of one to whom he had ever paid obedience
which arrested him. He turned a last look of agony
on his soldiers, and obeyed.
“About, face! my friends,” said Captain Paul, with dignity.
“The commands of our superiors must be obeyed.
It is proper that, as your captain, I should set you the example
of obedience, and I must leave. Tom Jones, you can
march the regiment back,” with which words Captain Paul
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slowly entered the carriage, and, we regret to say, cried as
it drove away.
Once deprived of their noble and courageous—once left
alone without him who was the soul of their action—once
paralyzed thus, and left desolate—the Cornstalk regiment
no longer aspired; they no longer had the heart to march
forward; they disbanded, broke into groups, and went off
to play at something else than “soldiering.”
The battle was not to have them in its tumult.
I have paused thus, our worthy author says, on the very
brink of great events to relate this little comedy of the past.
Why not? It is not only in the immense events of history
that the thoughtful mind looks to see the picture of the
times. The coloring of the bud is often brighter and more
delicate than that of the flower. What I aim at in my
chronicle is a picture of the minds of men in old days; the
movements of boys even arrest and absorb me. What
I've told is a veritable incident, and I think it is worthy of
our notice. The child is the germ of the man, and, just as
the character of the seed determines the plant, so does the
character of the boy make the gray bread's. The children
whom we have seen thus ardently on their march were
those who nursed the young republic in its infancy—who
braced their arms around it in the storm which came across
the seas to shake it. They stood around its cradle like a
phalanx of steel-clad warriors, and some of them fought for
it at Yorktown. At sixteen, my friend Judge B—* was
captain of a company; and almost before the beard of manhood
decked his face, our noble Washington was in charge
of the whole border. The mind ripened quickly in those
days, and bloomed early; it was a noble, and chivalrous,
and high nature which thus filled the breasts of children.
The roar of revolution made them old; they were educated
by Henry and Washington! For myself, there is nothing
connected with that period void of interest. I listen to
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the great voices in council; I listen to the voices of the
striplings, too. I see the great look on the stern brow of
the warrior; I see, also, the flush on the cheeks of the boys.
In the great panorama of the revolutionary story there is no
figure unworthy of attention.*
eaf510n41* The author here seems to refer to the late venerable Judge Francis
Brooke, of the Court of Appeals.
eaf510n42* Historical Illustrations, No. XXXIX.
CHAPTER LXXIX. THE MARCH OF THE HANOVERIANS ON WILLIAMSBURG.
The removal of the gunpowder from the magazine in
Williamsburg sent a thrill of indignation throughout Virginia.
It was the last and crowning outrage—the keystone finishing
the arch of oppression—the final blow at those
liberties which so long had been insidiously attacked by
Dunmore.
In every county the inhabitants hastened to pass resolutions
upon the outrage. Many of these have been preserved—
others lost, or not recorded; but what we have are
enough to show the spirit of the period.
Amelia county, William Archer, chairman, resolved,
first, on a general muster of the militia; next, that each
member of the committee should provide “half a pound of
gunpowder and one pound of lead, a stand of arms and ammunition;”
and John Tabb and Everard Meade were appointed
to purchase “eight hundred pounds of gunpowder
and three thousand two hundred pounds of lead.” Thus
Amelia alone furnished to the cause more powder than the
magazine had contained when it was robbed.
New Kent county resolved that the removal of the powder
was “arbitrary,” the governor's answer “evasive,” that
the rest of his lordship's conduct proved him “an enemy
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of liberty and a zealous supporter of tyranny and despotism
over the people who had the unhappiness to live under his
government.” To this was added a resolution to raise instantly
a company.
Gloucester county declared the reply of the governor
“unsatisfactory, disrespectful, and evasive,” and offered
twenty-five pounds sterling for three hundred pounds of
gunpowder manufactured in Virginia; fifty pounds sterling
for manufactures of woolen.
King William county contributed one hundred and
seventy-five pounds to the suffering citizens of Massachusetts.
Sussex county declared the removal of the powder “an
act conceived in secrecy and brought forth in darkness,”
and that the governor, by his action, had “forfeited all title
to the confidence of the good people of Virginia.” The
members of the meeting promised to use every endeavor to
enlist volunteers.
Bedford county offered ten pounds sterling for twenty-five
pounds of sulphur.
Prince George county organized a committee of intelligence,
whose duty it was to communicate with other counties.
Henrico county declared the removal of the powder “an
insult to every freeman in this county”—an action which
they viewed with “detestation and abhorrence.”
Albemarle county spoke, in a letter, of the independent
company, to Colonel Washington:
“The company of Independents,” they said, “will attend
in Williamsburg properly equipped and prepared to enforce
an immediate delivery of the powder, if not to be obtained
otherwise, or die in the attempt.” The captain of the company
signed his name Charles Lewis.
These old leaves of the past have been preserved for us;
the action of the other counties is lost. What it was we
know perfectly, for the whole land was in arms, and the
Valley especially, on fire. Old Frederick, ever the
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foremost where the issue was one of blood, became the rallying
point for the companies of the West. For half a
century, nearly, the town of Winchester had been the
heart of the West—the sentinel of liberty—and Washington
had lived there, sending from this center his voice of
good cheer to the whole border. It was now to be the
rendezvous of men bent on attacking another enemy than
the savages—to send forth its blood as before.
Fredericksburg lastly took that action which has made
her so famous—surrounding her brows with a halo of
glory. The men of Fredericksburg declared that they
were prepared to defend the liberties of Virginia, and of
her sister colonies, “at the utmost hazard of ourselves and
our fortunes.” And at the bottom of this declaration was
written in large letters, “GOD SAVE THE LIBERTIES OF
AMERICA!”
A week after the removal of the powder, seven hundred
men, completely equipped, were assembled at Fredericksburg,
ready to march upon the capital. Among these
were the “Culpepper Minute Men,” in their green hunting
shirts, hats crowned with buck-tails, and belts stuck round
with tomahawks and knives. On their breasts were inscribed,
in white letters, Henry's words, “LIBERTY OR
DEATH;” and their banner had for device, a coiled up
rattlesnake, with the words “Do n't tread on me!” beneath.
Thus the whole State was fully aroused, and the East
and West ready to march; when a dispatch from Mr.
Randolph of the council reached Fredericksburg.
This letter declared that his Excellency had solemnly
promised that the affair of the powder should be fully
accommodated.
The deliberation of the volunteers, upon the reception of
this letter, was long and excited; and when the vote was
taken, opinions were found to be nearly equally divided.
At first, the men were fixed in their original purpose; and
the fourteen companies of light horse, then encamped near
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at hand, were ardently expecting the order to march.
Peace counsels prevailed finally, however, by a single vote,
and expresses were sent off to Caroline, Frederick, Berkeley,
Shenandoah, and other counties, to inform them of the
arrangement.
The volunteers then dispersed, entering into a mutual
pledge to be ready at a moment's warning, whenever the
standard was raised.
That moment was not delayed.
The troops separated on the 29th of April. On the 2d
of May, Patrick Henry summoned the Independent Company
of Hanover, to meet him at New Castle, on the
Pamunkey, in the same county.
Henry had seen, with bitter regret, the action of the
troops on the reception of the letter conveying the false
promises of Dunmore—he had estimated those promises at
their just value—he saw with anguish that the moment
when the whole land was aroused, was likely to pass by
unimproved.
He, too, had hailed the affair of the powder as an invaluable
blessing to the cause in which his whole soul was
wrapped. For ten years he had been endeavoring to
arouse Virginia to armed resistance, and thus, Dunmore in
committing this robbery, had coöperated with him, and
aided him. But now this same man was about to disarm,
with a promise, those men whom he had armed by an outrage.
A smile and a promise which he never intended to
keep, would delay the attack until an overwhelming force
was marched into Virginia.
Henry had thus no sooner heard of the action at Fredericksburg,
as we have said, than he hastened to assemble
the men of Hanover. To give more solemnity to his act,
he also convened the county committee which had just
separated.
They assembled in mass at his summons, and the orator
addressed them with all the powers of his wonderful eloquence.
In his burning words, the fields of Concord and
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Lexington rose vividly before the auditors, floating in the
blood of Americans; with passionate vehemence he stripped
from the ministerial designs their garb of concealment, of
specious promises and protestations, and showed them in all
their deformity. He declared that now or never—when
this last outrage of Dunmore was still hot in the minds of
all—that now or never the blow must be struck. He ended
by asking who would accompany him to Williamsburg, to
demand the restoration of the powder.
“The meeting was in a flame,” says the historian; “and
Captain Samuel Meredith resigning the command of the
Independents, Henry was unanimously chosen their leader,
Captain Meredith taking the post of lieutenant.”
The company consisted of one hundred and fifty men,
and at once commenced its march for Williamsburg.
Forty-eight hours afterward the news spread like wild-fire,
and five thousand men were on their way to join Henry.
Let us not anticipate, however.
A body of sixteen men, under command of Colonel Parke
Goodall, ensign of the “Independents,” was detached across
the river into the county of King and Queen, to demand
from the king's receiver-general, there residing, the value
of the powder, about three hundred pounds sterling.
There is no reason to believe that Colonel Richard Corbin,
the receiver-general, was opposed to the cause of
liberty. Doubtless, like many others, it so happened that
he held an office under the vice-regal government at this
crisis, and hoped for a peaceful redress of grievances.
The orders to Colonel Goodall were to demand the value
of the powder, and, if this were refused, to take Colonel
Corbin prisoner, and bring him “with all possible respect
and tenderness,” to Doncastle's Ordinary, about sixteen
miles above Williamsburg.
The detachment crossed the river on the same afternoon,
about twilight, and proceeded toward “Laneville” on the
Matapony, the residence of the receiver, which they reached
nearly at midnight.
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Colonel Goodall, with that courtesy which characterized
the men of his period, determined not to arouse the family
until daybreak, reflecting that this nocturnal assault upon
ladies in their beds would be exceedingly terrifying. He
therefore stationed guards around the dwelling, and calmly
waited for the daylight.
At daybreak, the ladies of the family appeared, not without
terror at the sight of the patrol, and to the courteous
demand of the colonel, replied, that the receiver was in
Williamsburg. If this declaration was doubted, however,
the house, they said, was open to a search.
Colonel Goodall replied courteously that such a proceeding
was wholly unnecessary; that Mrs. Corbin's assurance was
enough. And then, without taking the proffered refreshments,
ordered his men to continue their way to the Ordinary,
where they were to join Henry.
The main body had proceeded through Hanover, and a
portion of New Kent, passing by the church of St. Peter
and the old Custis mansion, called the “White House,”
where Washington was married, and ever increasing as
they rolled on like a flood, had reached finally Doncastle's
Ordinary.
Here at this tavern, which was also in New Kent, near
the boundaries of James City, Colonel Goodall joined his
chief; and here the company halted to refresh themselves.
CHAPTER LXXX. THE MEETING AT DONCASTLE'S ORDINARY.
At the moment when Colonel Patrick Henry arrived
with his troop in front of Doncastle's Ordinary, the company
commanded by Captain John Hamilton made their
appearance, at full gallop, coming to meet them.
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In a few moments the two troops had dismounted—a host
of negroes ran to bait their weary horses—and the men of
Colonel Henry and Captain Hamilton, respectively, proceeded
to fraternize and exchange congratulations.
Our friend Captain Waters and Colonel Henry seemed to
be old acquaintances. They exchanged a hearty greeting,
and the captain seemed in high spirits.
“The sight of you is really good for sore eyes, my dear
colonel,” he said; “morbleu! I think the cards at last
shuffled and dealt! What's the number of your men?”
“About two hundred only, captain,” said Colonel Henry,
drawing round him his inseparable old red cloak; “but five
thousand I'm told are marching to join us.”
“Five thousand! why, an army! a host! With that
many, my dear friend, we will blow his Excellency sky
high.”
“Yes, I think we could drive him away.”
“ `Could!' What do you mean, colonel?”
“ `Will,' then,—if—if—unfortunately”—
“If?” said the captain anxiously. “I'm afraid of that
little word `if,' friend.”
“So am I, captain.”
“What does it mean in your mouth, mon ami? speak!”
“Well, I meant to say that the result of our march
would probably be the rout of his Excellency and his
adherents—if he does not defeat us by paying for the
powder.”
And Colonel Henry's face assumed its old grim smile as
he spoke.
“Paying,” cried Captain Waters, “paying for the powder!”
“Yes, captain.”
“Why, that would be dishonest! it would be illegal, my
dear colonel!” cried his companion. “Here this fellow
Dunmore first robs us of our property and then has the audacity
to offer us the value of the stolen goods! You
can't think of accepting such an offer!”
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“I fear I must.”
“Must! why?”
“The colony would not sustain me in refusing. I should
simply be deposed from my command, and the only result
would be that some one else's signature would be appended
to the receipt. I'm not a free agent, captain. Colonel
Carter Braxton left me, some hours since, for Williamsburg,
and I promised to wait a certain time for him to go and return;
you know, Colonel Corbin, the receiver, is his relative.
Now he'll come, I predict, and bring the money.”
The captain's head drooped.
“What you say, my friend,” he muttered, mournfully,
“has caused me the very keenest anguish. It seems to me
that the result will be the escape of the wolf, just when the
chase is in full burst!”
“Exactly, captain.”
The captain remained thoughtful for a moment and
sighed. He seemed really overcome.
“And so your parole is given to Colonel Braxton, is it?”
he said.
“Yes; but in less than an hour I shall be released.”
“Released?”
“The time fixed for his return will expire then, captain.
If he did not bring the money then, I told him, I should
march.”
“You would march?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“And in less than an hour.”
The colonel nodded.
“Morbleu!” cried the captain, “you delight me, my
dear colonel! Then I'll have my good bout with Foy
yet.”
“With Foy?”
“With Mr. Secretary Foy. You see, my dear friend,'
t is a little arrangement between us that, at the first open
hostilities, our swords shall cross. I'm positively sick
for the encounter, and now, since you assure me that you
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march in an hour, I think the chances are favorable for the
bout!”
Colonel Henry shook his head dubiously.
“I have a presentiment, captain,” he said, “that Colonel
Braxton will return in time. He said the money would be
paid, and he'd only to go for it, and you know he's a man
of his word.”
As these words were uttered in a melancholy tone, an
expression of deep disappointment came to the captain's
face.
“He'll return with the money.”
“I'm sure of it.”
“Then all's lost!” and the captain let his chin fall on his
breast. He remained motionless and frowning for some
moments; but suddenly his frown disappeared, his head
rose:
“My dear colonel,” he cried, “you made Colonel Braxton
a promise; will you make me one, too?”
“A promise? What is it?”
“Oh, 't is nothing unreasonable, my small request. Mor
blue! 't is most fair.”
“Speak, captain.”
“Do you wish valid payment for the powder if you are
compelled to receive payment?”
“Certainly, sir.”
“Then promise me that you'll only receive gold or Bank
of England notes—no promises of payment of any description
from either his Excellency, or the receiver, or Colonel
Braxton.”
Colonel Henry reflected, and the captain watched the expression
of his countenance with the deepest anxiety.
“Well,” said the colonel, “I see no objection to promising
that, and I certainly shall refuse any promissory
notes.”
“Good!” cried the captain; “and now, my dear colonel,
I will not further intrude on you. I see my friends Hamilton
and Effingham yonder coming to talk with you.”
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So speaking, the captain made the military salute, sauntered
easily away, and went out of the Ordinary.
He had no sooner reached the spot where his horse was
tied, however, than, leaping into the saddle, he set forward,
at full speed, on the road to Williamsburg.
CHAPTER LXXXI. THE ROBBERY OF THE COACH OF THE KING'S RECEIVERGENERAL.
Just an hour before the interview which we have just related,
a chariot, drawn by four fresh horses, and driven at
full speed, left Williamsburg by the road leading to New
Kent.
The speed of the coach, great as it was, however, did not
seem to keep pace with the feelings of its inmate.
The head of a gentleman about forty years of age, wearing
a long flaxen peruke and ample cocked hat, was thrust
from the window, and this head uttered, in an impatient and
hurried voice, the words,
“Faster! faster! make the horses gallop!”
The driver obeyed and laid his long lash on the backs of
the horses.
They started forward, at a gallop, and the coach whirled
along through the fields and into the forest with fearful rapidity.
At the end of half an hour the speed of the horses began
to abate, their strength to flag. The coach then proceeded
at a more moderate pace, apparently causing the gentleman
within great impatience.
He took from his pocket some papers, however, and
examined them carefully. Then he opened a large pocket
book of leather, and counted some notes of the Bank of
England.
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As he did so, he heard, or thought he heard, the rapid
foot-falls of a horse behind the carriage.
He thrust his head from the window, and at the same
moment descried a horseman who rushed rapidly toward
him, and drew rein beside the window.
The chariot was descending a gorge in the forest at
the moment, and had moderated still further its headlong
speed.
The stranger drew rein, and leaning one hand on the
edge of the window, said,
“Have I the honor to speak to Colonel Braxton?”
“Yes,” said the occupant of the chariot; “your business,
sir!”
“Order the coach to stop, colonel.”
“Impossible, sir; I am on urgent public business, and can
not tarry for a moment.”
“Still it's necessary, my dear colonel,” said the enemy;
“give the order.”
“I'll do nothing of the sort, sir!” cried the other; “drive
faster!”
These latter words were directed to the coachman, who
raised his whip to strike the horses.
Before it descended the cavalier had rushed on his swift
horse to the head of the animals, and catching the leaders by
the bridle, made them rear and start sidewise.
He was immediately at the coach window again, and said,
coolly,
“Now, your money, my dear colonel.”
“My money sir! are you mad?” cried Colonel Braxton,
in a fury.
“No, morbleu!” cried the enemy, “I'm perfectly sane!
I repeat that I want your money, my dear friend—not your
money or your life, as the highwaymen say—but the sum
which you bear from his Excellency!”
“You are insane!” cried the colonel, shouting to the
driver to lash his horses; “you shall repent this outrage,
sir! begone!”
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The horses again darted forward, but the cavalier kept
his place at the carriage window.
“For the last time, your money, friend!” he said; “mor
bleu, I shall not ask you again.”
“You intend to rob me, then?”
“Precisely.”
With a movement as rapid as lightning, Colonel Braxton
thrust his hand into the pocket of the coach and drew forth
a pistol.
He leveled the weapon at his enemy and discharged it,
the bullet passing through the lappel of the horseman's surtout.
“Ah! well!” cried that gentleman, “you'll do battle, will
you, friend? But first I'll secure what I want.”
With these words the speaker suddenly extended his
hand through the window of the coach, and caught from
the other's grasp the three or four hundred pound notes
which he held.
“Now friend,” he said, “this will suffice! I had some
compunctions about proceeding so irregularly, but you've attempted
my life, and I'm quite easy! Don't discharge
another pistol at me as I go, or I'll imitate you. I have
two in my holsters, and perhaps I shall blow out your
brains!”
With these words the speaker put spur to his horse, and
striking the coach horses as he passed, disappeared in the
forest.
With a face full of rage and amazement, Colonel Braxton
was borne onward, asking himself if he had dreamed this
outrage—if he really could be awake.
“Well,” he growled, “'t is far more important to arrive
yonder in time, and I can easily give my note for the money.
Lash your horses!”
And in obedience to his order the driver again struck his
animals, which rapidly bore the vehicle to the Ordinary.
The Hanover company and the rest were drawn up before
the door, and Colonel Henry was just issuing forth to get
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into the saddle. He paused, however, as the chariot flashed
up.
“Ah! is that you, colonel?” he said; “you have come at
last.”
“Yes,” said Colonel Braxton, getting out of the chariot
and exchanging a grasp of the hand with Henry, “I have
come, on the part of his lordship, to pay for the powder.”
“To pay!”
“Yes, its full value.”
A grim smile came to the face of Colonel Henry, and he
hesitated, looking at his men. With a deep sigh he seemed
to decide.
“I am told we'll have an army of five thousand men to-morrow,”
he said; “still I promised to take the money, and
I must take it.”
With these words Colonel Henry walked into the Ordinary,
followed by Colonel Braxton.
“Pen and ink, landlord,” he said; “of course I shall give
a receipt.”
“I must first premise that I was robbed on the route
hither,” said Colonel Braxton. And he related the scene
on the road to Henry. Some of the company, who were in
the room, laughed heartily, and the same grim smile reappeared
on the face of Henry.
“In truth, he must have been a madman,” he replied,
“and what you have said, colonel, materially alters the face
of affairs.”
With these words Colonel Henry laid down his pen.
“Alters affairs?” asked the other; “how is that?”
“Why, unfortunately, I gave a promise no later than half
an hour ago, that I would take only gold or bank bills in
payment. 'T is unfortunate, my dear colonel, but the promise
is given.”
“To whom—Heaven preserve us!” cried Colonel Braxton,
in despair.
“To a friend—Captain Waters by name.”
“Tall—with a black moustache—riding a black Arabian?”
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“Yes, that is an accurate description of him.”
“Why, he it was who robbed me!”
“Possible!” said Colonel Henry, with his former grim
smile; “why, my dear colonel, he is a gentleman of large
landed estate, and I have always heard that he was honest.”
“I say 't was he!”
“Captain Waters?”
“Yes! Colonel Henry. 'Tis a deep-laid conspiracy, and
the object of this gentleman was plainly to paralyze me.”
“If so, it was very reprehensible in the captain.”
And the same sardonic smile wreathed the corners of the
iron mouth of Henry.
“Of course you will not suffer the affair to affect your
action.”
“Unfortunately I've promised to take gold or notes only,
colonel. I am the veriest slave of my word.”
“You then refuse my own obligation for the powder?”
“I must—perforce.”
Colonel Braxton bit his lip, and looked both anxious and
irritated. But the expression of pain and regret predominated.
“Of course, sir,” he said, “I am not so discourteous as to
intimate you had any part in this. Your action, however,
supports Captain Waters' outrage, and the result will be
blood.”
“It is unfortunate,” said Henry, with the same iron calmness,
and buckling on his sword.
Colonel Braxton knit his brows in anguish, and remained
thus silent and gloomy for some moments.
Then his countenance was suddenly illumined with joy,
and he hastened to his chariot, and immediately returned
with a small leather portmanteau.
From this portmanteau he drew a roll of bank notes.
“It is most fortunate, colonel,” he said to Henry, “that
the events of the last few days have caused me so much
concern. I brought this money to Williamsburg to make a
payment on my own private account, and such was my
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preoccupation that I quite forgot it until this moment. I now
offer you, on the part of his Excellency, three hundred and
thirty pounds in Bank of England notes, in payment for the
powder. There, colonel.”
And he laid the notes on the table.
Colonel Henry thereupon sat down, and spreading a large
sheet of paper before him, wrote the following receipt:
“Doncastle's Ordinary, New Kent, May 4, 1775. Received
from the Hon. Richard Corbin, Esq., his Majesty's
Receiver-General, 330l., as a compensation for the gunpowder
lately taken out of the public magazine by the Governor's
order, which money I promise to convey to the Virginia
delegates at the general congress, to be, under their direction,
laid out in gunpowder for the colony's use, and to be
stored as they shall direct until the next colony convention
or general assembly, unless it shall be necessary, in the meantime,
to use the same in the defense of this colony. It is
agreed that, in case the next convention shall determine
that any part of the said money ought to be returned to his
Majesty's said Receiver-General, that the same shall be done
accordingly.
“Patrick Henry, Jun.
“Test.—Samuel Meredith, Parke Goodall.”
Colonel Henry had scarcely affixed his signature to this
paper, when the hoof-strokes of a horse resounded on the
road before the tavern, and the next moment Captain Waters
entered the apartment, his spurs jingling and his lips
smiling.
At sight of the money, however, and the receipt which
Colonel Braxton raised from the table and folded, this expression
suddenly changed.
“The money's paid!” he cried; “you don't say the powder
is paid for, my friends!”
“Yes, sir,” said Colonel Braxton, with an angry flush;
“and your outrage has failed—your robbery, sir”
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The captain was so much overwhelmed by this failure of
his scheme that he scarcely heard the angry words addressed
to him.
His head drooped, his hands fell at his side, and from his
lips escaped the sorrowful words,
“Then Foy and myself will not meet!”
The captain sighed, and looked around mournfully.
“Ah! well!” he said at length, “I'll not be cast down!
What's not to-day may be to-morrow! Let us wait!”
Then turning to Colonel Braxton, the captain took from
his pocket the four hundred pound notes and returned them.
“You will pardon my little jest, my dear colonel,” he
said, “as I freely pardon you the pistol shot which passed,
you see, close to my breast, spoiling my best coat—my best,
parole d'honneur! It was only a little escapade of fun, an
ebullition of youthful spirits. I'm getting old and I need
amusement. My object was simply to further a small private
affair, which the march of our friends here upon Williamsburg
would have suited admirably. I thought I had
provided for every thing—well! well! The best schemes
sometimes fail—the most honest intentions! I suppose now
the chance of war's at an end—what unhappiness!”
And the captain sighed in the midst of laughter.
Even Colonel Braxton, who was excellently pleased with
the result, joined in the laughter, and one would have
thought that these men were in a ball room, instead of on
the surface of a volcano.*
“So the affair is all over, and the fight will not take place,”
said Captain Waters to Colonel Henry, as he got into the
saddle.
A grim smile wreathed the firm iron lips, and the man of
the red cloak replied,
“Let us wait; 't is the momentary ebb of the wave,
friend!”
“The ebb?”
“Yes; the silence in the air—the lull before the storm—
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[figure description] Page 444.[end figure description]
the retrograde movement of the great wave of revolution.
When that wave rushes forward again, as it will before you
can speak, almost, it will strike and overwhelm! Then you'll
see the last scene of the last act of the tragedy—the tragedy
of `George III. in Virginia!' Farewell!”
And the trumpet sounded to horse.
eaf510n43* Historical Illustrations, No. XL.
CHAPTER LXXXII. HOW LINDON LEFT WILLIAMSBURG, AND WHOM HE CONVERSED WITH AT AGINCOURT.
The prophecy was destined soon to be fulfilled. Dunmore
vainly thought that compliance with the demands of
the Hanoverians, in the matter of the powder, would quiet
the colony and disarm revolution.
Things had gone too far; the times were ripe now, and
nothing could divert the storm about to burst. The Assembly
was summoned, the Governor made a diplomatic speech,
with Lord North's famous “olive branch” proposal in his
hand, but it was all of no avail.
Virginia was aroused in its whole length and breadth, and
arms were in every hand, soon, as we shall see, to be used.
Let us proceed, however, to relate the events which befell
the personages of our narrative, before we chronicle the
outburst of the storm. For, after all, it is a family history
which we relate—the joys and sorrows of unhistorical personages
is our chief subject.
Let us follow now the events which brought all things to
an issue here too; like the whole land, our small domain
had its convulsion and its tragedy, and this we shall now
proceed to relate.
About three weeks after the scene which we have just
witnessed at Doncastle's Ordinary, Lindon one morning
presented himself before Lord Dunmore, and requested
leave of absence for a fortnight.
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This leave was graciously accorded by his lordship, who
thought he would have at present no use for his mercenaries;
and on the same afternoon, Lindon mounted his horse,
and crossing the James at Burwell's ferry, set forward in a
south-westerly direction over the main road of Isle of Wight
county.
Busy with the events befalling our chief characters, we
have not been able to expend, upon this gentleman and his
affairs, that attention, which, in view of their connection
with our history, they demand at our hands.
Lindon had, time after time, renewed his addresses to
Bonnybel, and repulse seemed only to arouse still more
deeply the profound passion of his nature. Driven back
upon every occasion—rejected time after time, and always
with increased coldness and decision by the girl—he had
come at last to regard it as a single combat between them
for the victory, and in the depths of his heart he registered
a silent oath that he would conquer the girl's resolution or
die in the attempt. There was still another reason in addition,
which impelled him to persevere.
The large property which he inherited from his father,
had, by successive mortgages, been almost wholly alienated;
and such had been the success of the owner, that his
affairs were now hopelessly embarrassed. To preserve his
station, and not be turned as a beggar on the world, it was
necessary that he should look around him speedily for some
means of fortifying his position; and this he found in a
marriage with Bonnybel. Were he to secure the hand of
that young lady, the wealth and influence of Colonel Vane
would be at his command; and he could easily induce his
creditors to delay the threatened sale of all his property.
They had already forced him to sell nearly every servant
which he possessed; and he was scarcely left now with a
handful. A union with Bonnybel was thus equally desirable
in a business point of view; and with passion and
cupidity working together, the whole energies of this man's
nature were put forth to attain his object.
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Let us follow him, and see whither he goes.
About sunset, Lindon reached his house of “Agincourt,”
which was a fine old mansion, erected upon a lofty hill; and
as he rode up, the dying sunset gilded the roofs and the
many out-houses attached to the homestead.
With an air of fiery impatience which had become habitual
with him of late, he threw the bridle of his horse to
a rough-looking man, and said briefly:
“You have watched carefully, as I ordered you?”
“Yes sir,” replied the man, doffing his cap; “she has
been rather more restive to-day, and I had some trouble, as
usual; but I think she sees there's no hope.”
“That's well,” said Lindon; “now order some dinner
for me, I'm nearly broken down. Go!”
The man touched his forehead, and Lindon entered the
house.
It was elegantly arranged, and the furniture of the great
apartment which he entered, though rather too gaudy for
good taste, displayed every mark of wealth.
Lindon threw himself upon a velvet sofa, and ringing for
wine, which a servant brought him upon a silver waiter,
took great gulps of the liquid, and then seemed to reflect.
“Things are coming to a crisis,” he muttered at length;
“and if I act at all, I must act quickly. Those scoundrels
will sell me out, if I do not prevent them; and there's but
one way now—this marriage! How can I achieve it?
How conquer that diabolical resolution of a mere love-sick
girl, dreaming, I have no doubt, of that pale-faced hero, forsooth!
She loves him, and she scorns me! Curse him!
he's the stumbling-block in all my schemes, and eternally
opposes and conquers me! Why didn't I run him through
the heart yonder, and so end him? Shall I now? He is
still weak from his sickness, and I could do it! I'll think
about it!”
And with a heavy from upon his brow, Lindon was
silent for some moments, reflecting.
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“No!” he growled, at length, with an oath; “no! curse
him! I'd like to put an end to his scheming; but what
good would that do? It would only make the marriage
more difficult, and I've no time to attend to such things.
In a fortnight, perhaps, Dunmore will be driven from Virginia,
and I was a fool to attach myself to such a coward as
he is! I thought he would bolster me up, but he can't
protect himself from these canaille! This fine hero, St.
John, this Lord Bolingbroke! well, he shall escape me for
the present, though I shall not forget him. I must think of
something more important.”
He was interrupted by the summons to the table, whither
he proceeded and rapidly devoured his meal, washing it
down with large draughts of wine. He then returned to
the sofa, and, with knit brows, again reflected:
“Well, I'm determined, at last!” he said, with a face
flushed by the thought in his mind more than by the wine
which he had drunk; “it is the only way that's left to me,
and I'll do it and take the consequences! Now I'll go and
see madame,” with which words he rose, with a sinister
smile, from the sofa, and left the room.
He ascended the great stair-case, and, taking a key from
his pocket, opened a room directly over the one he had
just left.
It was a chamber elegantly furnished, and, in a corner,
sat—Miss Carne, the Vanely seamstress.
The woman sat crouched down and leaned her elbows on
her knees. Her hair, falling in disordered masses on her
bosom, completely concealed her countenance—the brows
resting upon her white and nervous hands.
As Lindon entered she half raised her head, and, when
she saw who her visitor was, raised it entirely erect.
The face thus revealed was scarcely recognizable. Formerly,
this woman had been almost beautiful, and an expression
of tranquillity and content characterized her entire
appearance. Now, however, all this had disappeared. Her
face was haggard and furrowed by passion, and her dark
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eyes burned with a sullen and lurid flame which seemed to
flash up and glitter as she looked upon Lindon.
He entered with a sarcastic smile, and, approaching the
woman, said, satirically,
“How is my pretty bird to-day—how is madame the vulture?
Have my people supplied all her wants and complied
with her wishes?”
A lurid flash, brighter than the former, darted from the
eyes of Miss Carne.
“Madame seems silent,” said Lindon in the same tone of
sarcasm.
There was no reply.
With cheeks flushed with wine, and a gait unsteady from
the same cause, Lindon drew nearer to the woman, and, at
last, placed one hand carelessly on her head.
Before he could complete the caress which he attempted,
the woman rose to her feet, with a spring like a wild cat,
and uttered a hoarse cry which was scarcely human.
“Don't touch me!” she said. “Touch me at you peril!”
and, with bloodshot eyes, hair hanging in disorder, and
lips writhing with convulsive passion, she seemed ready to
spring upon Lindon and throttle him.
“Ah! our pretty hawk is angry,” he said, with a sarcastic
grin; “our lady bird intends to show her claws. Come to
its deary—deary won't let anybody hurt his turtle-dove,”
and again he attempted to touch her hair.
With one bound the woman sprang to a table upon
which a knife had been left, and, clutching it, confronted
her persecutor.
Lindon regarded her, for a moment, with drunken gravity,
and then said, soothingly,
“Come, don't let us have any scenes.”
“I wish to have none!” said the woman, hoarsely, “but
before you shall touch me I will plunge this knife into your
heart. I hate you! I detest you! The very sight of you
makes me sick!”
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“Ah! does it?” said Lindon, approaching her cautiously
but with apparent carelessness.
“Yes! you tempted me to crime! you took advantage
of my treacherous nature! you made me the tool of your
villainy by appealing to my avarice, and now—”
“You've not even the consolation of the reward, eh?”
said Lindon, satirically; “is that your meaning?” and,
with the same air of carelessness, he approached nearer
still.
“Yes!” said the woman, hoarsely; “you made a devil
of me, and now you turn me loose without the money for
which I sold myself!”
“Turned you loose, my pretty bud? Isn't that a slight
mistake?”
And he drew nearer still.
“Yes!” said the woman, with sullen passion, “you are
right! I am not free; I am a prisoner here under a brutal
jailor.”
“And can't go and tell the world of my depravity, eh?”
“It shall know all yet, and you will be punished! If the
world does not do it I will!”
And an angry clutch of the knife showed the meaning of
the speaker.
“Ah? You will?”
“Yes!”
“You will punish me?”
“Yes!”
“Perhaps stab me?”
“If you tempt me!”
“Well, I will!”
And Lindon, who had approached nearer and nearer as
he uttered these words, suddenly sprang upon the woman,
and wrenching the knife from her grasp, broke the blade by
striking it on the table.
He then confined the wrists of the furious woman in his
own, and forcing her writhing form violently into a chair,
said,
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“Now, my pretty lady-bird, I've blunted your claws! In
future you had better watch better!”
He continued to hold her thus until she ceased struggling,
and then finding her apparently subdued, released
his hold.
“My dear Madame Carne, or Madame In-What-EverOther-Name-Thou-Rejoicest,”
he said, “you perceive that
after all I am more than a match for you in deviltry. It is
true I never could have accomplished what you did, and there
I accord you every praise. Your boldness and treachery and
cunning were admirable, and extort my highest admiration.
You effected your object, and I confess that the thousand
pound note which I promised you ought to have been forthcoming.
You know it became absolutely necessary to confine
you here afterwards, and here you will still remain until
I've finished a little affair which I may as well tell you
of as a friend. You can not report it, fortunately, and I'm
ennuyé this evening. Come, I'll sit here and tell you all
about it!”
With these words Lindon coolly sat down opposite to
Miss Carne, upon whose countenance the sullen and lurid
look had taken the place of the fiery passion, and thus, reposing
gracefully, her persecutor spoke at length upon the
“little affair.”
At ten o'clock he rose, and said,
“I think the thing looks promising; don't you? You
know the old adage, `faint heart never won a fair lady yet,'
and I need not tell so intimate a friend as yourself—one so
well acquainted with my private affairs—that 't is absolutely
necessary for me to take some acred young lady to wife. I
am determined to have this one, and I've told you the means
I shall employ. Of course your thousand pounds will be
punctually paid, and I shall escort you gallantly to the seaboard,
and see you depart. I trust 't will so end; but perhaps
you will not permit it. I see a gleam in your fair eyes
which may make it necessary to suppress you. Do you
know the meaning of that word? I've a fellow here who
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has an original genius for murder; of course, however, I
shall not employ him. You won't be revengeful, dear lady-bird,
but profit by the thing and go away.”
Having thus spoken in the same tone of mocking sarcasm,
Lindon yawned and declared his intention to retire.
The woman did not reply. Still crouching in her seat,
and looking at him fixedly with her bloodshot eyes, she resembled
a panther about to spring.
Lindon rose and made her a low, mock, ceremonious
bow.
“I trust your ladyship will have pleasant dreams,” he
said, “and I now have the honor of respectfully bidding
you adieu.”
As he closed the door and disappeared, the woman rose
to her feet, and with an indescribable expression of hatred,
looked at the spot where he had passed from her sight.
At the same moment the key turned, the heavy bolt was
shot into its place, and Lindon retreated, singing in a harsh
and drunken voice, a bacchanalian song.
The woman shook her clenched fist at the door, and with
lips convulsed by passion, muttered hoarsely,
“You said I was cunning—wait and see!”
And her sinister eyes betrayed the fixed resolution which
she had made.
CHAPTER LXXXIII. A GLANCE AT VANELY.
At Vanely, as of old, sleeps the beautiful sunshine of the
tender May, and the flowers bloom as they did on that
morning of '74 when we opened the pages of our chronicle.
Again, as on that morn when Tom Alston and his friend
rode gayly up the hill, the leaves bourgeon and bloom—the
winds laugh and dance onward as though singing, while the
great oaks rustle, the clouds float like white strips on an
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ocean of azure, and the grass on the lawn is sprinkled with
forget-me-nots, those stars of the earth in the spring.
That spring, as in old years, has come in rejoicing, and
the domain of Vanely wakes up and smiles, and puts on the
gala costume of the fine season.
Let us enter, for a moment, as we pass onward, and look
around us.
In his old chair, in the library with its oaken book cases
and table covered with volumes, sits our friend the good
colonel, with his gouty foot raised upon a cricket. He reads,
stopping at times to polish his spectacles, for the old gentleman
finds age creeping on him.
By his side sits Bonnybel, engaged at some work, with a
sad smile on her fair face, which is still paler than before.
But this paleness even adds to her beauty. She looks more
like a sweet phantom than a woman of flesh and blood, and,
when she raises her large violet eyes and smiles, her whole
countenance is so spiritual that an old painter might have
taken it for a type of Madonna.
Long hours pass thus, and then Mrs. Vane, Miss Seraphina
and Helen come in, and the family converse and try to
cheer the girl. They evidently affect the merriment of
spirit which they display, and it is meant to enliven her.
The father and daughter sit thus in the cheerful room
every morning, and here Bonnybel receives her visitors.
These visitors are Barry Hunter, Mr. Page, Mr. Ranton
and others, and often Tom Alston and Jack Hamilton come
to Vanely, though the former has, for some time now, been
sick.
Miss Seraphina rather likes to be teased about Mr. Hamilton,
and the color in Helen's cheek, when Mr. Alston is
mentioned, seems to indicate that the fruit has nearly fallen
by the “shaking.”
At times, Bonnybel goes to the harpsichord and sings,
and her voice has the old tenderness and sweetness, but not
the joy. That contagious freshness and merriment which
once characterized it is gone, and it has a sad music in its
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faint carol. It is “Katherine Ogie” which she sings most
frequently, and the ditty is so inexpressibly sad and touching
as she sings it, that tears more than once come to the
eyes of the auditors.
Thus the days pass on, and the current flows tranquilly
in the good old mansion from which we have been absent so
long. Political events make small stir there, though they
are spoken of frequently, and often the old colonel suppresses
an outbreak. He does not yield now to these passionate
impulses. He grows old.
One subject alone is never mentioned—one name is never
uttered. But she thinks of him always.
What befell that personage, and, especially, what happened
to the girl, the two letters, which we now lay before
the reader, and the events which followed, will abundantly
show.
The crisis of the family history and the political storm
ripened and rushed into action nearly at the same moment.
CHAPTER LXXXIV. BONNYBEL VANE TO HER FRIEND KATE EFFINGHAM.
“Vanely, the 20th May, '75.
“How long it seems now since I've written to my own
dear Kate! I received, more than three weeks since, your
kind, sweet letter, and only my unhappiness has prevented
me from replying. You may not consider this a good reason,
but it is true. When we suffer little sorrows, and are
sad only, then we fly to our friends and unbosom ourselves,
and the act brings us consolation. This is not the case, I
think, when we are deeply wounded, as I am. I ask only
silence and quiet, for nothing relieves me, not even writing
to my Kate!
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“But I'll not write so sadly. I will try and relate cheerfully
what has happened to us all. It is nothing, scarcely.
There is little that's new. Papa continues to have gout,
but his health, I think, improves with the spring; mamma,
too, seems stronger since the advent of May, and Helen and
Aunt Seraphina are as blooming as roses. My cheeks have
not reddened yet, as they will soon, I trust. The spring
will, doubtless, restore my strength and spirits, which, you
know, dearest, have not been good since—well, let me not
speak of that sad subject again. Papa is going to send me,
in a day or two, to Mr. Burwell's. He thinks the fresh sea
breeze will quite cure me.
“I thought I would not write upon sad subjects, but I
can think of little besides that which my Kate knows about.
It continues to depress me very much, and I will tell you
how it has been again brought up to me. Since the meeting
at Mammy Liza's, of which I told you, I have seen him
twice, but we have never spoken.
“The first time was at Moorefield, Mr. Alston's, you
know, whither we went in the chariot to see Mrs. Alston,
Mr. Thomas' aunt. Our staying away was becoming absolutely
marked, and so we went. As the chariot drove up to
the door, he had just mounted his horse to ride away. As
I afterwards discovered, he had been staying some days
with Mr. Alston, who is sick, and now returned to Williamsburg.
He passed within a few feet of the carriage, and made
us a low and ceremonious salute. I saw him distinctly, and
though still very pale, he looked stronger and more cheerful.
His arm was no longer supported by the scarf, and
seemed to have quite healed.
“I need not tell you, dear, how much I was rejoiced to
see him thus well again, and his sickness seemed even to
have added to that singular grace which, you know, has
ever characterized him. His air had lost none of its dignity,
and I observed that extraordinary smile as he passed—a
smile which seemed now both happy and sad. All this I
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descried as he passed quickly; in a moment he was gone.
That is the first meeting.
“The second was the other evening, and at the old graveyard,
where his mother and father are buried, you know.
When you were last here, we visited it one afternoon, and,
you know, it lies down the vale, within sight of the upper
window of my chamber. I can see the distant oaks as I
write. Helen and myself had gone out to take a walk about
twilight, and we extended it so far that the night caught us,
as we passed the old graveyard on our return. The moon
was shining, however, and we were not afraid, as we heard
the voice of Uncle Robin, on the hill near by, driving home
the cattle and singing one of his rude songs. The moonlight
was nearly as bright as day as we came near the graveyard,
and Helen went to the gate and looked in. You
know it is surrounded by an old brick wall, which is beginning
to crumble, some of the bricks having been knocked
off by mischievous boys, and the enclosure, in other places,
cracked by the roots of the trees forcing up.
“Helen went to the old wooden gate, which was closed
with a log laid against it, and peered through the bars. I
followed her, and for a moment we stood thus silently gazing
at the tombstones. We were about to return when suddenly
we heard a low sigh, and a figure, which had been
kneeling in the shadow upon the grave of Aunt St. John,
rose erect in the moonlight. We drew back quickly into the
shadow of the great oak, for we were somewhat frightened,
as you may imagine. In an instant, however, I recognized
him, and my terror yielded to sorrow. He leaned upon the
tall tombstone in the moonlight, and rested his forehead on
the cold marble. I shall never forget his figure as he stood
thus. His right arm encircled the weeping willow cut on
the top of the stone, his long dark hair fell upon the white
surface, and only the movement of his breast proved that
he himself was not a form of marble. He remained thus for
about a quarter of an hour, and then, raising his head, looked
in succession at every object in the graveyard, apparently
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bidding them farewell, one after another. He then stooped
and plucked a wild rose from the turf on his mother's grave,
stood looking at it for a moment, and then slowly passed
through a cleft in the wall and disappeared. We heard his
horse neigh from a copse near by, and then the sound of
hoof-stokes dying gradually into silence. He was gone,
and we came home without a word—I think Helen was
crying too.
“I thought I would write of these two meetings, my own
Kate, because it affords me a painful consolation to speak of
him. O, why will he leave us? for he came to bid farewell
thus to his mother, I know, before going to foreign lands,
whither, I'm told, he would long since have gone but for
the late troubles and the sickness of his friend, Mr. Alston.
He leaves many who love him, and ask only that he will
come back again. My wounded pride is no longer mistress
of me, and though he can never be the same to me, I should
love and cherish him still—though I never could be his
wife.
“I am not happy. Please write and give me some comfort,
if you can. I must end my sad letter now, dearest. I
will write you again from Mr. Burwell's, whither I go, as I
said, in a day or two.
“Much love to Willie, and farewell, dear.
“Your devoted
Bonnybel.”
“Mr. Burwell's, Isle of Wight, the 2d June, '75.
“In my last letter, dear Kate, I told you I was coming
hither in search of some color for my cheeks. I am sorry
to say I've not found it. I think the air's not as wholesome
to me as that of Prince George, and in a day or two I
shall set out on my return to Vanely.
“I need not tell you that I have received every kindness
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and goodness from the family. The Burwells are admirably
cheerful and kindly, and I tink `Belle-bouche,' as they still
call her, from some old jest, is a beauty, and as tender as
she's lovely. She delights us as usual—for Bel Tracy is
here—with stories about her `youth,' as she calls it with a
laugh, and certainly, from her own relation, Monsieur Belle-bouche,
if the name is proper, had a very difficult time in
his courtship. They began talking about these old scenes
one evening on the portico, when Mr. Mowbray and that
dazzling lady, his wife, Mistress Philippa, had ridden over
from their house, not far off, and I think the stories which
they repeated would make a lively comedy. There seemed
to be even more than Belle-bouche told, for she was going
on, laughing, when Mistress Philippa stopped her, and blushing
deeply, prayed her to refrain. Mr. Mowbray turned his
fine head with a smile, and said, `Silence was better,' after
which he went on talking with Mr. Nelson, from Little York.
How merry and happy all are, except myself! But that's
envious, and I will not complain.
“This is all that I think of to tell you, dear, but I've forgotten
the chief incident of all! Mr. Lindon and myself
had a violent scene yesterday morning, and we have parted
for the last time, I trust. He renewed his addresses, which,
you know, I have repeatedly rejected, and had the discourtesy,
when I simply said I could not accept his attentions
any further, to reply, that he would yet find the means to
make me change my resolution! Can you imagine such
rudeness? It aroused all my pride, and I told him, with a
look as freezing as ice, that I despised his threat, and cared
nothing for him. I regretted it afterwards and do now—I
mean my passion, but his tone was insufferable. The scene
made me sick all day, but I believe I have now quite recovered
from it. I left Mr. Lindon in the parlor, and came up
stairs, and he soon went away. His abuse of him has for
ever ruined him in my estimation.
“I must close, as the mail passes very soon, dear. Please
write to me a good long letter, such as my Kate knows how
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to write. Direct to Vanely, where I shall be before your
letter can arrive.
“Do not let my sadness grieve you, and we should trust
in our dear heavenly Father, who sends the clouds and the
sunshine in mercy. In him I put my trust.
“Much love to Willie—I hope you enjoyed your visit to
the Hall, where Mr. Hamilton says he saw you.
“Good bye now, dear—pray for me, as I do for you
night and morning.
“Your own
“Bonnybel.”
CHAPTER LXXXV. LINDON SMILES.
At the moment when Bonnybel folded and sealed the
letter last laid before the reader, Lindon entered Williamsburg
from the south, riding at full speed, and casting a
glance toward the palace as he passed, halted in front of
the Raleigh tavern.
He threw his bridle to a servant, and ordering him to
hold his horse, and not take him to the stable, entered the
tavern.
To his demand, whether any one had asked for him, the
landlord respectfully replied that a gentleman giving his
name as Tag, had done so.
Where was he?
In the room which his honor had directed him to be
shown to—No. 6, second floor.
And preceded by a servant, Lindon quickly ascended.
He was met upon the threshold of the room by no less a
personage than Mr. Tag, unsuccessful candidate for the
commissariat.
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The door closed behind them, and remained closed for an
hour.
Then it opened, and Lindon gave orders to have dinner
served to him and his companion, cautioning the servant to
have “plenty of wine.”
The servant bowed respectfully, and hastened to obey,
bringing, when he came again, half a dozen bottles of mine
host's best Rhenish.
The dinner went in and came out; and still the two men
remained shut up together.
They remained thus until three o'clock in the afternoon,
when they issued forth and descended.
A second horse came to the door in accordance with
Lindon's orders, and he and Mr. Tag got into the saddle,
setting forward immediately toward Burwell's ferry on the
James.
As they proceeded through the streets of the town, they
perceived that the whole place was in commotion.
Groups of men assembled at the corners, were discussing
with excited voices and gestures, something which seemed
to have profoundly aroused the popular mind.
As the two men pushed onward, and approached the embouchure
of Palace street, this agitation grew greater and
greater—the crowds still more numerous—and the groups
were gathered more closely around those stump-speakers,
who give utterance at all times to the general sentiment,
rising like bubbles on the waves of commotion.
From the groups thus gathered around the excited speakers,
hoarse murmurs rose from time to time, and even
shouts were heard when some sentiment peculiarly acceptable
was uttered, or some lengthened or fiery period brought
to a defiant close.
“What the devil are these canaille talking about?” said
Lindon disdainfully to his companion; “let us listen.”
“Let us listen, sir.”
They soon discovered. From his lofty position in the
saddle, Lindon looked down upon the excited figures of the
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speakers, swaying to and fro in the gusts of oratory; and
distinctly heard the words which they uttered.
The popular commotion was excited by a report just
disseminated, that Captain Collins, by the orders of his
Excellency, Lord Dunmore, was marching at the head of a
company of his marines, to take vengeance on the city of
Williamsburg for the late outrages; intending to reduce
that city to ashes.
This was the sudden rumor which had drawn the population
from their houses into the streets; and the sudden
nature of this sally, at a moment's notice, sufficiently proved
that the general feeling was as fiery as ever, and that every
one looked forward to critical events, and was prepared for
the issue. The specious words of his Excellency had not
deceived a single individual; and Williamsburg had never
been so thoroughly on its guard, as it was when the powder
affair was arranged.
It now rose en masse, as we have seen, at a word, and all
classes—from the members of the House of Burgesses,
which assembled on the day before, to the humblest citizen
of the town—all was violent commotion and expectation.
More than one sinister glance was directed toward Lindon
as he proceeded, for he was recognized as lieutenant of
the Governor's guard. But no violence was offered him,
and he was allowed to proceed quietly.
“Fools!” he muttered; “you are as fearful as children!
You make bugbears and tremble at them! With a single
company I'd crush out your sedition, and teach you your
duty to the government!”
In spite, however, of this lofty tone, Lindon hastened the
speed of his horse, and arriving thus, followed by Tag, at
the outskirts of the town, betrayed visible satisfaction at the
event.
He looked back at the crowd which seemed gradually
diminishing, and then turning his head in front again, encountered
the gaze of a horseman coming into, as he was
leaving, Williamsburg.
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As he and the horseman exchanged low and ceremonious
salutes, a cold and sinister smile for a moment illuminated
Lindon's countenance; and this smile became one of triumph
as the horseman passed on and disappeared.
That horseman was Mr. St. John, who, having bid adieu
to his friend, Tom Alston, now came to make his preparations
to leave Virginia, as he had said, “never to return.”
CHAPTER LXXXVI. THE TWO LETTERS.
Bonnybel had rightly supposed that nothing but the
sickness of Mr. Alston had detained Mr. St. John in Virginia.
That sickness having now yielded, he rapidly made
every preparation, and paid his adieus to the places, the
things, the personages of his youth.
She had chanced to meet him as he bade farewell to the
tombs of his mother and his father—that was the last and
saddest of all. From that moment his heart was dissevered
from the soil, and he no longer thought of any thing but
another land where he might forget his sufferings and his
misfortunes.
It was on Friday, the second day of June, when the
young man entered Williamsburg, and on the morning of
Monday, the fifth, he was informed by a message from Captain
Fellowes of the “Charming Sally,” that at twilight the
brig would sail for Europe.
He hastened to make the final preparations for his long
journey, and as this was to be his last sight of Virginia, he
sought all his friends to say farewell.
The stranger was absent, and he sought him in vain at
the well-remembered place; with a sigh, he gave up the
search and retired.
As he went toward the Raleigh, where his horse was
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waiting, he met Captain Waters, who was strolling along
humming a song.
When he announced his intention of departing, the
worthy captain stood aghast, and then he plied every possible
argument to induce him to change his resolution.
We need scarcely say that these arguments were in vain,
and at the end of an hour the captain found that he had
simply expended so much breath in vain.
“Well,” he said, “never have I seen such a perfect block!
Mark me, friend, you'll regret this proceeding! It is the
maddest thing, morbleu! which I ever heard of!”
“I know you think so.”
“Parbleu! I do think so; but as you are determined, I
have no more to say.”
“I know I have your good wishes, my dear friend, and I
believe you sincerely regret our parting. But believe me,'
t is necessary for me to go. When I shall return I know
not.”
“Basta!” cried the captain, knitting his brows, “that's
the very thing! If you were coming back soon't would
be quite another thing, but I doubt if you'll ever return!”
“And I too, my dear captain, most seriously. Well, well,
I must go. You would not ask me to stay if you knew
why I go. Tell your brother, whose relationship to you,
strangely enough, never occurred to me until lately—tell
Mr. Charles Waters good bye for me.”
“There it is! you take this moment when he's away.
He'll be furious!”
And the captain frowned to hide his emotion.
“I would willingly defer my departure to see him,” said
St. John, sadly, “but I have staid longer now than I intended
owing to Tom Alston's sickness. The `Charming Sally'
sails at twilight with the wind.”
“The `Charming Sally?”
“Yes.”
“You go in her?”
“This evening.”
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“Captain Fellowes?”
“Yes, that is the captain's name. What are you thinking
of?”
The captain's brows drooped, and a sigh shook his
breast.
“I was thinking of old times, mon ami, and of other
faces. Pardon me, 't is a bad habit, and, morbleu! I must
break myself thereof. But again she rose before me as I
heard that name—the old days all rushed back—I saw
her, Beatrice, one whom you never knew, whom I loved!
There! there! my mind wanders to another epoch. Let
us dismiss the subject.”
St. John inclined his head.
“Yonder is Jack Hamilton,” he said, gazing sadly at the
approaching figure, “I will bid him farewell again; a long
farewell, for I shall never return.”
And the young man smiled, but so sorrowfully that a
moisture came to the soldier's brilliant eye.
“Ventre Sainte Gris!” cried the captain, dashing his hand
across his eyes; “do you know, comrade, you make me cry
like a baby with your sad way of talking? Something's
wrong with me or I never would feel thus.”
“Something's right with you, friend,” said St. John,
again smiling, as he looked at the honest soldier; “'t is
your heart!”
And leading Tallyho by the bridle, he went to meet Jack
Hamilton, whose face at sight of St. John clouded over, and
lengthened deplorably.
To all the protestations and persuasive arguments of his
friends the young man made brief replies. He must go;
all was ended.
“Could any thing induce me to continue in Virginia,”
he said, “'t would be the true hearts of men like you—faces
I would not go away from but for an inexorable destiny
which drives me. You will think of me sometimes, though,
will you not?” he said, holding a hand of each. “Under
other stars I will think of you,” and pressing the hands of
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the two men, who looked at him with drooping heads, the
young man made a movement to get into the saddle.
At the same moment he heard his name uttered by the
voice of a child, and, turning around, found himself accosted
by Blossom.
The child was almost breathless with the haste she had
used to reach him, and her bosom labored heavily for a moment.
Then, regaining her breath, she said, looking at Mr.
St. John with deep affection,
“You will not leave us, will you, sir?”
“I must, my child; I am glad I have met you. Take
my love and this kiss,” he added, stooping and pressing his
lips to those of the child, “and pray for me.”
The tears rushed to Blossom's eyes, and she clung to his
hand obstinately.
“Oh, do not go!” she said, sobbing, “please do not go,
sir!”
“I must, my dear. 'Tis written, as the Orientals say.
Farewell!”
Blossom seemed to be too much overcome to speak, but,
seeming suddenly to remember something, put her hand
into her pocket and took therefrom a letter.
“Papa told me to give you this or make Uncle Ralph
give it to you,” she said, blinded with tears; then, bursting
into sobs again, she cried, “Oh, do not go away! please do
not go away! Papa said you were going away never to
come back. Oh! please do not go!”
The young man smiled sadly, but shook his head. His
eye fell carelessly upon the letter, which seemed to be
double, and he tore it open. It was, in truth, two letters.
The first was in the hand-writing of the stranger, and contained
these words:
“I have looked everywhere to find you, friend, having,
by a strange chance, received what I know is of importance
to you. 'Tis a letter which, with this, I entrust to my
child, having an instant call away; my foot is in the stirrup.'
T will reach you in time, however, I do not doubt, for
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Blossom has the unerring instinct of affection, to which I
trust.
“You might remember that one night when you visited
me I opened my drawer, while you were speaking, and
drew forth a letter which I looked at with what probably
seemed to you discourtesy. That letter was, however, about
yourself, and others have reached me of the same tenor.
I have not spoken with you about these affairs, but I am
convinced, that, in the matter of your suffering, you are the
victim of some diabolical conspiracy and fraud.
“To the point now. I was traveling yesterday in Isle of
Wight county, post haste, when, just as I passed the residence
of the man Lindon, lieutenant of the guards, I was
accosted by a servant girl who delivered me the enclosed
letter, saying that her mistress bade her bring it me. On
a slip of paper was written, in a woman's hand, `If you are
a friend of justice and right bear this to Mr. Henry St.
John, of Prince George county.' I took the letter, brought
it hither, and searched everywhere for you. I think it contains
what most nearly concerns you, and, in giving it to
Blossom, I do best. You must, necessarily, visit Williamsburg
for preparations before your departure, if you depart,
and she or my brother Ralph will deliver it.
“I know not what the letter contains, but a presentiment—
a sentiment I can not explain, bids me say to you, do not
leave Virginia till you see the woman who wrote that letter.
“I can add no more, friend. My horse neighs, and the
cause calls me. Every moment now is a century. Farewell.
“C. W.”
Mr. St. John finished the letter, and, looking from Blossom
to Captain Waters, and from the soldier to Hamilton,
with blank, wondering eyes, seemed for a time speechless
with astonishment at the contents of the stranger's letter.
Then, letting the paper fall, he turned over the other letter,
which was securely sealed and directed to “Mr. Henry
St. John, Prince George county.”
Mechanically, without looking at it intelligently, as it
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were, he opened it and held it for some moments in his
hand without reading it. Then his eyes fell upon the
sheet.
No sooner had he read the first few lines, however, than
a fiery flush blazed on his cheeks, his hands grasped the letter
so violently as almost to tear it asunder, and with his
distended eyes glued to the paper he ran over its contents
rapidly, and ending it, almost gasped for breath.
A deadly paleness invaded his countenance, a tremor ran
through his frame, and holding out the paper, he tried to
say to Waters and Hamilton, “Read!” His dumb lips did
not utter a sound, however, and he stood thus like a statue
of marble.
Waters caught the letter and ran hastily over it.
CHAPTER LXXXVII. THE UNRAVELING OF THE MESH.
The letter was evidently written by a woman, and ran as
follows:
“Mr. St. John,
“The words which you are about to read come from
one who has been guilty of deception, treachery, forgery
and robbery, and therefore at first you may not give credit
to my statements. Before I have finished what I design
writing, however, you will give implicit credence to what
I say.
“I write this at Agincourt, the house of your enemy
and rival, Lindon, and I do so at the peril of my life. I
think I can bribe the servant who waits on me, however,
and whom her master has sold, and I shall run the risk.
The interview which I have just had with this man, and
his outrageous treatment, have made me resolve to hazard
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every thing, and I do not conceal the fact that my motive
in addressing you is wholly to take my revenge on him.
“The hours are long here, sir, and I have much time on
my hands. I shall employ this leisure in revealing to you
the conspiracy which has made your life miserable, and yet
been of no benefit either to the one who conceived it or to
his tool—myself.
“Listen, sir. I was born in Italy, and my parents having
removed to England, I was there brought up and well educated.
Then they came to Virginia, and within a year after
our arrival both my parents died, and I was thrown upon
the world without any fixed principles or regular employment.
I became finally a seamstress at Pate's shop in
Williamsburg, and here this man, Lindon, who had before
made me unworthy proposals, came to seek me. He had
many conversations with me, and asked me if I had nerve
to undertake an enterprise requiring skill and secrecy; if it
was done in accordance with his views and effected its object,
he would pay me one thousand pounds.
“Follow me closely now, sir, in my narrative, and you
will see the steps by which your misery was effected. I had
always been avaricious and am now—I would sell my soul
for money, and I do not conceal the fact. When Lindon
offered me the thousand pounds, I said I would do any and
every thing which he demanded. At first he made no distinct
promise, and it was only one night at the Indian Camp,
where I accompanied him disguised as a man, that he directly
offered me the large sum.
“Now, would you like to know Mr. Lindon's project?
He was in love with, or at least wished to marry, Miss Vane,
and you were his rival. He thought that if you were removed,
or what amounted to the same thing, the girl's mind
poisoned against you, she would fall an easy prey to his assiduity
or his wiles. My part was to go to Vanely and thus
poison the young lady's heart against you. Of course you
will hate and wish to strike me, perhaps kill me, after what
follows, but that is nothing. You had much better strike
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Lindon. Well, I at once set about my scheme. One day
the ladies came into the shop and I offered to work for them.
It is not often that seamstresses will go into the country,
and they readily accepted my offer. I remember seeing
you gazing from your window at the girl in a window of
Mr. Burwell's house on the night before I left town with
them in the chariot, and I half relented. But the sum of
money decided me.
“I went to Vanely and commenced my part almost immediately,
but your duel and what followed it came too
soon. I waited. At last you went to Williamsburg to see
to the repairs of your house, and then I had a fair field.
Lindon had supplied me with some of your writing, and I
forged letters from you to the girl—letters which gradually
grew lukewarm, then cool, then short and stiff. I intercepted
every one which you really wrote to her. Her letters
to yourself I suppressed, and this I easily effected, as I
carried the letter bag always to the servant and received
it from him.
“You came to see the young lady several times. On the
first occasion she treated you coolly; I watched through the
door. On the second, I had so poisoned her mind, that she
would scarcely look at you; and, on this second visit, I
secured what I had often coveted, your signet ring. I
entered your apartment two hours after midnight, and stole
the signet from the toilet table. Then mastered by curiosity
to see how a man slept when his heart was breaking, I
approached your bed. You awoke, sprung up, and I had
just time to escape. You probably supposed that it was a
dream; it was myself, sir.
“Well, having secured your signet, I had no longer any
fears. My proficiency in imitating hand-writing, which I
had learned at a common school in England, enabled me to
forge letters from you; and the stamp of your motto on the
seal placed these letters beyond all doubt. I shaped the
contents of these letters so as to indicate a gradual change
of feeling on your part. At first, lukewarm as I said, then
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cool, then jesting and careless, then indifferent. I placed
one after another in the mail bag—and under the forgeries,
I saw the young lady tremble and shrink, and her peace of
mind pass away, yielding to anger and despair—until when
you came, she refused to see you. I could have killed myself
for my treachery, for she is as good as she is beautiful;
but the accursed money controlled and mastered me.
“At last the end came. You wrote a letter which I well
recollect, for it bore the marks of the delirium which soon
attacked you. It commenced with the words, `Is it wrong
for me to write to you?' and was written immediately after
that third and last visit, upon which occasion she refused to
see you, and you left abruptly.
“This letter very nearly reached her, for she seemed, by
a strange instinct, to suspect something, and now went forth
herself to meet the servant who brought the letters from the
office. On this evening I accompanied her, although she
tried to repulse me; and before she could take the bag, I
had it in my own hand. I slipped your letter up my sleeve,
and presented to her the one which I had forged and held
ready, the post-mark and every thing down to the rumpling
of the edges, being perfectly feigned. In that letter I made
you declare that you had been too hasty, and would think
more seriously before you undertook to marry; and I saw
her tremble and turn pale as she read it.
“It was my reply which you read. She wrote none—
pride succeeded agony, and she permitted her heart to break
in silence without speaking. I wrote the answer, in which
I declared, in the character of the young lady, that your
letter was `strange;' that the alterations in your manor
house concerned only yourself; and ended, by breaking off
the engagement. I next heard that you were sick—she
visited you in your sleep—and then you went away, and all
was over. I had accomplished my object—I had played my
part—and I had even done it so adroitly, that she felt an
honorable scruple against uttering a word to the family.
Her sister endeavored in vain to extort from her any thing
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contained in my letters, and I doubt if to this moment she
has told any thing. Her pure and noble nature was true to
itself through all; and though her heart was broken, she
did not speak. I had thus conquered by fraud, treachery,
and robbery, a young girl's heart—conquered, by appealing
to that immense weakness of woman, pride—and I went to
my master, after your departure, and asked for my reward.
“What do you suppose, sir, was his reply? He denied
that he had ever made any such arrangement with me; and
when I threatened, in my wrath and disappointment, to expose
his part in the matter, he took advantage of his power
and made me a close prisoner here, in his house of Agincourt.
Here I have remained since the month of October
last, the prisoner of this man, who either watches over me
himself, or employs a brutal jailor, who has twice struck me,
as if I were a slave or a mad woman.
“Well, sir, I have now informed you of the means which
I used to destroy your happiness, and I have shown you
that my treachery resulted in no gain. I am about to make
some amends for my crime by informing you of a scheme
which intimately concerns your peace of mind. Lindon
came hither to my apartment yesterday, and, in a spirit of
bravado, laid before me, at length, a design which he will
surely accomplish.
“It is his intention to waylay Miss Vane, who is now
upon a visit to Mr. Burwell's, in this county, and who designs
soon to return. His intention, I say, is to waylay her
carriage, and bring her here to this place by force. Once
here, a hedge parson, named Tag, is to marry her to Lindon,
and the whole scheme will be complete.
“I write these lines, as I said, that, through your instrumentality,
I may have revenge upon this man. I hate him
with a deadly hatred, and, if I have my revenge, you may
do any thing you please with me. I care not.
“Lucrezia Carne.
“P. S.—Since writing the above, Lindon has come again.
He designs to accomplish his object upon Monday, the 5th
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of June, when, he has learned, Miss Vane sets out on her
return.”
These were the words which made St. John turn pale and
crimson, and his eyes blaze as with lightning.
Captain Waters had scarcely read five lines before St.
John seized the letter and pointed hoarsely to the last paragraph,
then to the postscript.
“To-day is the fifth of June!” cried the young man, as
Waters and Hamilton looked at the letter with wondering
eyes, “and it is past noon already!”
Captain Waters, without a word, pointed to the young
man's horse, and then hastened into the Raleigh for his
own. Hamilton followed him.
In fifteen minutes the three men left Williamsburg at a
furious gallop, and, on fire with excitement, struck the spurs
into their horses and took the open highway to the south.
CHAPTER LXXXVIII. FIRE AND STORM.
They rapidly crossed the river, plunged into the forest,
and fled straight across the country in the direction of the
point which they wished to reach.
St. John was well acquainted with the district, and chose,
with unerring precision, the shortest roads.
Leaning forward in his saddle, the young man seemed
to be devoured by a terrible passion, and, at every bound,
he struck his horse furiously with the spur, and shouted
hoarsely to him, as though he were a human being.
Tallyho responded nobly to his master's will, and the man
and the animal fled onward like a single body.
The captain and Hamilton were at St. John's side. Riding
Selim, that noble Arabian who, in old days, had
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distanced the best steeds of Virginia, and whose speed age had
not diminished, leaning over, as did St. John, and impelled
by the same passion which drove his friend on like a tempest,
the worthy soldier kept pace with the most furious
rush of his companion, and strained his eyes forward into
the distance.
“We'll kill our horses, if necessary,” said the young man,
hoarsely, “but we'll arrive!”
“We'll arrive!” repeated the soldier and Hamilton, and
they plunged their spurs into their animals.
The three horses ran neck and neck, and, passing now
like shadows over the soft, sandy road, they resembled
phantoms intent upon some weird enterprise of darkness.
It was not long before actual darkness came to add verisimilitude
to the idea. The west, which had been clear an
hour before, now filled with black clouds, and, from these
clouds, piled up in huge ebon masses, fringed by the crimson
of sunset, flashes of lightning began to gleam, illuminating
the whole heavens with their lurid splendor.
One of those brief but terrible storms which visit Virginia
at this season, was lowering, and the mutter of thunder,
every moment growing louder, showed that the tempest
was near at hand.
The cavaliers still pushed on at headlong speed, without
uttering a word. The hot mouths of the horses were nearly
touching, the clouds of foam, from their burning nostrils,
mingled and fled away in the gathering darkness.
“If they are married when we arrive, I'll make the new
wife a widow!” cried the young man, through his clenched
teeth, in a voice hoarse with passion. “I'll plunge my
sword into his heart, as I would into a dog's.”
“And I!” added Hamilton.
“Good!” said the captain.
“Faster! faster!” howled the young man; “every instant
is a lifetime!”
And he plunged his spur anew in “Tallyho,” who leaped
ten feet and quivered.
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Hamilton and the captain were at the side of their friend
still.
“How far?” said Hamilton.
“Five miles only! Come!”
As the young man spoke, a dazzling flash darted from the
black clouds, and a roar of thunder, like the discharge of a
battery, shook the forest.
The startled animals snorted, and fled on beneath the
overshadowing boughs of the forest more rapidly.
For a quarter of an hour no word was spoken, no sound
was heard, but the rumbling of thunder, and the rapid hoof-strokes
of the horses.
Suddenly they issued forth into the open country, and St.
John stretched out his hand and said, hoarsely,
“There is the house!”
“Where?” said the captain.
“There, rising over the woods! Faster!”
And the young man struck his horse, with his clenched
hand, on the neck.
The captain looked in the direction indicated, and saw a
large edifice, embowered in foliage, and gilded now by the
lurid rays of the bloody sun flashing from beneath the
thunder cloud as it sunk from sight.
“Is that Lindon's?” he said.
“Yes! how's your horse?”
“Quite fresh yet!”
“And mine's nearly dead, but that's nothing.”
They fled on.
The storm, which had been long gathering, now seemed
about to burst. Vivid flashes of lightning succeeding each
other with rapidity, illuminated the darkness, and the very
earth seemed shaken by the warring thunder, which crashed
down like the rush of an ocean.
The frightened horses rather flew than ran, and their
coats, bathed in sweat and foam, showed the immense exertion
they had undergone.
Another woods was passed through, and just as darkness
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and storm descended, the three men drew up before the
edifice.
A vivid blaze of lightning struck the great elm at the
door as they checked their foaming horses, and splintered it
from top to bottom.
At the same moment a blinding torrent of rain descended,
and the three men threw themselves from the saddle and
rushed forward.
In another moment they stood in the great hall of the
house, and their eyes penetrated into the large apartment.
Had not the captain laid a violent hand on the shoulder
of St. John, the young man would have burst into the room.
The sight was enough to arouse him.
With his back to the door, Lindon stood with one arm.
round Bounybel, who seemed nearly fainting—in front of
the couple, Tag, the miserable hedge-priest, with an open
prayer book in his hand, was reading the marriage service.
Two rough-looking men stood by as witnesses, and in a
corner, bowed down upon a chair, old Cato, the Vanely
coachman, was ringing his hands and crying like a child.
Suddenly the words resounded, “If any man can show
just cause why this couple may not lawfully be joined together,
let him now speak, or else hereafter for ever hold
his peace.”
A scream from the girl, so piercing and full of anguish
that it rose above the very roar of the storm, sent a shudder
through the frames of the auditors without, two of whom
held back the third, whose eyes glared like a madman's as
he looked.
“O, no! no!” cried the girl, struggling to disengage
herself from Lindon's arm; “he brought me here by force!
I was seized and dragged here! I will die before I become
his wife!”
The girl had scarcely uttered these words, and still
writhed to get free, when St. John broke from his companions
and threw himself, like a wild beast, upon Lindon.
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So tremendous was the blind passion of the young man,
that, great as was the strength and bulk of his adversary,
he was hurled to the ground like a child—St. John falling
with his enemy, locked in a mortal embrace.
At the same instant the captain and his companion rushed
with drawn swords upon the accomplices, who, uttering
cries, retreated before them hastily and disappeared in the
darkness.
St. John's struggle with Lindon was not protracted. The
infuriated man caught a pistol from his belt, and placing the
muzzle on his enemy's breast, drew the trigger. The murderous
weapon hung fire, and a blow on the head, from the
sword hilt of St. John, made him relax his grasp, and fall
back stunned and senseless.
St. John rose to his feet, pale and bleeding from a wound
in his temple, and seeing the girl totter, at the moment, toward
a chair, he placed his arm round her, and prevented
her from falling.
She clung to him in an agony of terror, with the wild
agitation of a child who flies to a protector, and at the contact
of those arms, at that face again laid near his own, the
young man felt a thrill of bitter delight run through his
frame.
“O, take me away!” she sobbed; “take me from this
dreadful place! O, I shall die if I stay here longer!”
“That is true,” said a low voice; “truer than you think.
The house is on fire!”
And Miss Carne, standing on the threshold of the apartment,
pointed with her finger to the adjoining room. As
she did so, a sudden gust of smoke and flame invaded the
one which they occupied.
“In five minutes escape will be cut off!” cried the pale
woman, and she disappeared in the hall.
St. John raised the girl in his arms like a child, and just
as the flame rushed roaring upon them, bore her forth into
the storm, the whole broadside of the edifice bursting into
flame.
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“'T is a horrible death” cried Hamilton; “he's senseless
and—”
“Look!” shouted Waters, “the dog's come to his wits!”
In truth, Lindon seemed to have recovered completely,
for in the midst of the brilliant space, upon which torrents
of rain descended, lit by lightning flashes, he appeared suddenly,
pale, furious and despairing.
Looking around him with the air of one who is demented,
he shook his clenched hand at his enemies, uttered a horrible
oath, grasped at his belt, where no sword hung, and leaping
upon one of the horses, disappeared at headlong speed, like
a fury, in the darkness.
The wild vision had scarcely vanished in the forest when
another spectacle attracted the attention of the shuddering
group.
It was a woman at one of the loftiest windows who half
threw herself out, driven, it seemed, by the scorching flame.
The cry which she uttered was awful in the intensity of its
terror. Suddenly, however, she disappeared, and returned
with a cord which she affixed rapidly to the sill. Then,
holding between her teeth a casket, she swung by this cord
safely to the top of the great portico, slid with incredible
agility along the moulding, and fell to the ground, from
which she rose and disappeared like Lindon in the storm.
It was Miss Carne, who had broken open the coffers of
her enemy and escaped.
As she disappeared, the whole house became one great
mass of hissing and crackling flame, and this flame roared
for hours without cessation, wall after wall falling with a
crash until the ruin was complete.
Bonnybel had long before been assisted into the Vanely
chariot, which old Cato got ready with nervous haste. Escorted
by the three gentlemen it was now proceeding rapidly
toward Prince George through the last mutterings of
the storm.
Faint and weak, scarcely realizing that the scene through
which she had just passed was not some hideous dream, the
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young lady felt herself borne along, hour after hour, until,
at last, she saw the welcome walls of Vanely, which began
to loom out indistinctly in the first gray glimmer of dawn.
The gentlemen who escorted her resembled dusky shadows
as they assisted her from the chariot. She felt a letter
placed in her hand, heard some murmured words, and then
one shadow only remained at her side.
Captain Waters and St. John set out at once for Williamsburg
in pursuit of Lindon, who had bent his steps
thither.
“Time enough afterward for explanations,” said St. John,
as they departed at full gallop; “come, captain, and see me
excute my private vengeance!”
CHAPTER LXXXIX. THE END OF THE DRAMA.
The speed of their horses was so great that the two men
entered Williamsburg as the sun was rising.
The leagues seemed to have fled from beneath the feet of
the animals—the gray, glimmering landscape had flitted by
like a dream.
As they rushed onward toward the town which gleamed
before them now, they heard a measured and yet confused
noise, at times rising to a roar almost. Something important
was evidently taking place.
The hoofs of the horses clashed on the stones; the riders
leaned forward in the saddle to see what was going on. In
an instant they were in the midst of a shouting and tumultuous
crowd.
The capital seemed convulsed.
The crowd which had thronged the streets three or four
days before seemed nothing in comparison with the fiery
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multitude which now surged to and fro from the college to
the capitol—from the palace of the governor to the old
magazine. This last was the center from which radiated
the shouts and cries—the heart from which the hot blood
flowed.
The whole population seemed driven to fury. The two
men heard that hoarse and somber roar which accompanies
the movements of an enraged multitude, as it does the tossing
of the sea when lashed by tempests.
At one spot, before the old magazine, the excitement
seemed to culminate. Here the huge waves of the crowd
rolled to and fro, surrounding, with their tumult and uproar,
the form of a man who succeeded in standing erect only by
leaning on the shoulders of two others.
This person was pale and bleeding from a wound in the
shoulder.
“Morbleu! something strange has happened!” muttered
the captain; “let us find out,” and he addressed his question
to one of the crowd. The information was soon obtained.
Dunmore had affixed concealed spring guns at the door of
the magazine, and the wounded man, in opening the door,
had received a full charge of slugs in his shoulder and
breast.
The face of the soldier flushed like fire, and his hoarse exclamation
was added to those of the crowd, which every
moment seemed to lash itself to greater fury.
“Ah, well!” he growled, bringing round the hilt of his
sword; “the moment comes at last! we will fight, friend!
Listen to that roar, like the growl of a lion at bay! And
look yonder!”
St. John followed the pointed finger, and saw that the
Governor's guards, mounted and fully equipped, were drawn
up before the gate of the palace. Two loaded cannon were
directed point blank upon the furious multitude.
St. John pushed his horse through the agitated mass, and
riding up to the cannon, followed close by Waters, said to
one of the men who recognized him,
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“Where is your captain—Mr. Lindon?”
The man whom he addressed looked strangely at him, and
replied with the single word,
“Within.”
“Come friend,” cried St. John, throwing himself from his
horse, the bridle of which he hastily affixed to the wall;
“let us enter! Our game is not here!”
“You are right!” growled the captain, dismounting
quickly; “my game too is there—it is Foy!”
And they hurried onward to the palace. It was in the
wildest confusion. The servants were hastening in every
direction with affrighted looks, and there was no one to announce
them.
St. John heard the voice of Dunmore, however, in the
great apartment which he knew so well; and without ceremony
threw open the door.
As he did so, Captain Foy, who was rushing out, struck
against him. The secretary was armed to the teeth. A
heavy saber rattled against his horseman's boots, and his
leather belt was stuck round with pistols. His somber
calmness had all disappeared. His dark eyes burned with
ferocious excitement, and a sort of audacious pride; his
cheek flushed with the thought of the coming contest. As
he rushed by toward the hostile crowd, he seemed filled
with the gaudium certaminis.
He scowled and then smiled with grim satisfaction, as he
recognized the two men; and then in a martial and strident
voice,
“Come, Captain Waters!” he said; “the moment has
arrived. The pen yields to the sword as I promised you!”
A flush of joy rushed to the martial features of Waters,
aud leaving the side of his companion, he rushed after Foy.
“I will be with you in an instant!” said St. John. “I
have my own game too. In a moment—or Lindon will escape!”
And as the two men disappeared, he hastily entered the
apartment of the Governor.
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But he recoiled from the threshold.
At the sight which greeted him, he turned pale and trembled;
a cold sweat burst from his forehead, looking around
as though seeking for some means of escape from the spectacle
which riveted his staring, and horror-struck eyes.
Stretched on a sofa opposite the table of the Governor,
lay the dead body of Lindon, clearly relieved against the
red damask of the couch.
His haughty features were deadly pale—his heavy brows
were knit into a frown of rage and despair—his entire frill
and waistcoat were bathed in blood; and looking again, the
young man saw that his bosom was completely torn to
pieces.
St. John recoiled in irresistible horror. As he did so,
Dunmore, who was surrounded by his crouching and terrorstricken
family, rose wrathfully to his feet.
“So you come, like a vulture, to croak over death!” he
cried, hoarse with passion and agitation; “you scent the
carrion, and rush toward it!”
The young man was speechless with horror and disgust
at the spectacle, and the words of Dunmore. He could not
speak.
“You do not answer! you pretend ignorance!” cried the
Governor, looking at the dusty garments and horseman's
boots of St. John; “you would say that the death of this
person was unknown to you! Well, I'll soon explain that,
sir! I placed guns to defend the arms of his Majesty in
the magazine, from the rioters of this capital and province.
For what reason I know not, nor do I care, Mr. Lindon
went thither, and met with the accident that resulted in his
death! I suppose you will say that it was all my fault! I
say it was his own. He deserted me, and met his reward.”
St. John almost recoiled from the speaker, as he had done
from the dead body—with a sentiment of awful horror and
disgust. Then his mind's eye, with a lightning-like glance,
saw Lindon again rushing, without his sword, from the burning
house—he imagined the unfortunate man flying to
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Williamsburg—he saw him stop at the magazine, the key of
which he carried, to procure a sword; he heard the tremendous
explosion, and saw them bear the shattered and
bleeding body to the palace.
“Yes, he met with his proper reward!” repeated Dunmore,
with wrathful agitation; “you do not answer, sir.
Am I not to hear your highness' insults?”
St. John had no time to reply. A roar, like that of a
great dyke giving way to the rush of waters, rolled in from
the street. The crowd had just discovered several barrels
of gunpowder, buried beneath the floor of the magazine,
with trains attached; and this new enormity, in addition
to the rest, made their anger perfect fury.
As the menacing thunder reverberated, the ladies of the
Governor's family rose to their feet with irrepressible terror.
Trembling like aspens—pale, fear-stricken, overwhelmed—
they looked toward the door, and awaited a repetition of
the sound.
Their panic was shared by the Governor. His courage
seemed to give way, his cheek grew pale, and turning toward
the man whom he had just insulted, he faltered out,
“These people will tear us to pieces!”
St. John looked away from the speaker with a curl of the
lip which he could not repress; his gaze fell upon the ladies,
and he saw Lady Augusta, the friend of Blossom, gazing into
his face, with so helpless and beseeching a glance, that
his heart melted in his breast.
“Fear nothing, madam,” he said, replying in words to
the look, and bowing with grace and ceremonious courtesy;
“the men of Virginia do not make war on women. I will
preserve you from insult with my life, if that is necessary.”
And turning to the Governor,
“I place myself wholly at your Excellency orders,” he
said, “and I think that the ladies should leave the palace.”
“Yes, yes! and I, too, sir! I, too, will go! I will no
longer remain where my life is threatened!”
The young man did not wait for more. He rushed through
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the palace to the stables, with his drawn sword, compelled
the terrified servants to attach the horses to the chariot; in
ten minutes it stood at the rear entrance of the palace.
The ladies were ready with a few hastily-gathered jewels
and articles of clothing, and quickly got in with the Governor.
Lady Augusta entered last, and St. John long remembered
the sweet look of gratitude which she bestowed upon him.
“Thanks, Mr. St. John,” she said, hurriedly pressing his
hand; “you are truly a gentleman. We may never meet
again, but I will always remember you!”
And, whether by design or accident, she dropped one of
her small gloves at his feet, which he raised and placed in
his bosom, with a low bow of thanks and farewell.
The door closed—the coachman, trembling with fear,
lashed his terrified horses; they started at a gallop, and the
chariot disappeared at the moment when another roar shook
the palace.
St. John hastened to the great gateway—saw a wild, terrible
tumult—was mounted, and spurring his animal into the
meleé, before he knew it, almost, the guards of the Governor
had charged the crowd.
The veins of the young man seemed to fill with fire instead
of blood; his eyes blazed with indignation as the
trampling troopers bore down on the unarmed mass; his
sword flashed in the sun, and digging the spur into the
quivering sides of his animal, he rushed upon Captain Foy,
who, raging like a wild beast at bay, led the guards in their
charge.
But suddenly another adversary was opposed to Foy—an
adversary who cried, as his horse reeled through the mass,
“Now for the Coup of Reinfels!”
Then St. John saw, raised above the heads of the crowd,
two men clash together with a noise like thunder—two
swords gleamed aloft—the combatants grappled, as it were,
for an instant, breast to breast, face to face, and then, as the
sudden blast of a trumpet, and the sound of galloping horses
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resounded from the other end of Gloucester street, the combat
came to its termination. Captain Waters rose erect, with
his hat slashed in two, and the blood flowing from a slight
wound in his temple; Captain Foy dropped his saber, and
turning deadly pale, fell forward on the neck of his horse.
His opponent's weapon had passed through his body.
The trumpet and galloping horses announced a company
from the county of James City, and they came on now with
shouts and cries; the guards were seen to waver and fall
back. When it was known that their captain, Foy, was
disabled, they lost heart, and looked around in despair.
Then finally, as the horsemen swept on, they recoiled and
fled, with a last look toward the palace, from which they
seemed to have expected succor. The chariot of the Governor
was seen ascending, at full gallop, a distant hill, and
in that direction they now directed their flight, pursued by
the victorious shouts of their enemies.
Foy glared at his adversary for an instant, like a wounded
wolf, with indescribable hatred and rage; his dark eyes
burned like coals in his pallid face, and he gnashed his teeth
with a sort of helpless fury. Then turning his horse's head,
and shaking his clenched hand at his enemies, with a last
exertion of strength, he dug the spur into his horse and fled
reeling. His unconquerable spirit seemed to supply him
with strength to remain in the saddle. His black horse
darted onward on the heels of the rest—the flying hoofs
resounded for some moments on the stones—then, bearing
away his faint and reeling rider, the wild animal disappeared
from all eyes.
As Foy thus vanished, an immense roar of victory resounded,
and borne on by the tumultuous and shouting multitude,
St. John found himself suddenly by the side of the
commander of the reinforcement. It was the stranger.
But no longer the stranger of the past, in his plain citizen's
accoutrements—the man of the pen. It was now the
man of the sword. His belt was filled with pistols, a long
broad-sword clashed against his heavy boots; with his white
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[figure description] Page 484.[end figure description]
and nervous hand, as supple and hard as steel, he reined in
the fiery and plunging animal which he rode with a grasp
of iron.
His pale face was slightly flushed, his lips compressed with
icy resolution, his dark, haunting eyes, blazed with a steady
flame.
As his horse and that of St. John came in collision, the
young man found his hand enclosed in the vice-like grasp
of the stranger's.
“We meet again, friend,” said the stranger, in his collected
voice, which sounded low and clearly in the midst of the
immense tumult; “I told you that events were ripening—
that the storm rushed on. We'll see now! it has come!
hear its thunder! You will soon see its lightning!”
“Yes,” replied St. John, gazing with absorbing interest
at the pale martial face, “yes! the tongue and the pen are
about to yield—to yield to the sword, as you said.”
“They have yielded! They disappear!” cried the stranger,
with a glance of fiery joy and pride. “We have found
what we wanted—the sword!”
“You have found it? found the leader?”
“Yes! the man who will lead us to glory and victory!
He is already elected general in chief of the armies of North
America!”
“His name?”
“George Washington!”
As though in response to the utterance of the name, a
deafening cheer rose above the multitude, making the horses
start and rear.
The flag of St. George—the banner of England—which
had waved above the magazine, was seen to drop. Then,
obeying the strength of the hundred hands which caught
the ropes, it slowly descended, amid the shouts of the great
crowd.
In an instant it had disappeared. It was trampled beneath
the feet of the roaring multitude, and torn into a
thousand shreds.
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“Look, friend!” cried the stranger, with glowing eyes,
“see the banner of England trodden down and torn to
pieces! See the beginning of the end! the advent of war
and revolution! The hour has struck! the day dawned!
The old world has passed away—behold all things from
henceforth become new!”
The triumphal roar of cannon seemed to reply to the
words—the Revolution had indeed begun.
CHAPTER XC. A SUMMER DAY AT “FLOWER OF HUNDREDS. ”
With the scenes which have just been narrated our history
might very well end, but perhaps by so terminating
it, we should leave too much to the imagination of the
reader.
We shall therefore add a few words in relation to Mr. St.
John, the family at Vanely, and some other personages of
the history.
The stranger had not used the money which the young
man deposited in his hands “for the cause.” He never for
a moment had any such intention, and soon after the departure
of St. John for the Indian wars, had entrusted the
entire sum to Colonel Vane, with a statement of the circumstances
under which he had received it.
The old gentleman had been ignorant of the young man's
return to Williamsburg, Bonnybel having never spoken of
their meeting at the graveyard, and thus there had been
no communication between the two gentlemen.
Soon after the flight of Dunmore, however, and when St.
John went again to Vanely, and dissipated with a word
the long misunderstanding, the old gentleman returned the
twenty thousand pounds, and in the presence of the young
man, burned, smiling, the deed by which he had conveyed
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[figure description] Page 486.[end figure description]
to Colonel Vane all his servants. One thing only remained
to be done—to repurchase “Flower of Hundreds” from Mr.
Smith, the factor—and in this St. John did not experience
any difficulty. The worthy factor was quite content to receive
back the money, with interest, having found that residing
at “Flower of Hundreds” was neither in consonance
with his habits, which were those of a town-dweller, or his
interests, which made his presence necessary in Williamsburg.
The young man, therefore, found himself reinstated
in his family mansion—the owner again of his patrimonial
acres, as though he had never left them, or parted with them.
We need scarcely say that the cloud which had obscured
his relations with Bonnybel had wholly disappeared. Perhaps
they loved each other even more dearly than before
for the woful misunderstanding which had taken place.
There was now no obstacle to their union, and they were
accordingly married in the autumn of the same year. Two
other marriages took place on the same evening at Vanely.
Miss Seraphina gave her hand to the inconsolable widower,
Jack Hamilton, whose business at Vanely now lay with the
lady—no longer with Colonel Vane. And Helen rewarded
the long and persevering suit of honest Tom Alston, whose
“shaking” had at last brought down the fruit.
On the same morning Mr. St. John had been invited to
the wedding of James Doubleday, Esq., who was about to
espouse the lady for whom he had only a “Platonic regard,”
and we may add that there were present at Vanely, in the
party of Captain Waters and his wife, who possessed but a
single failing, two young people who, perhaps, looked forward
to the day upon which they, also, would be married.
These young persons were Paul Effingham, Esq., son
and heir of Champ Effingham, Esq., of Effingham Hall, and
Miss Beatrice Waters, otherwise called Blossom, daughter
of Charles Waters, Esq.
“The son of Champ and the daughter of Beatrice!” murmured
the captain, as his shoulders drooped and his eyes
grew dreamy; “what a singular world!”
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[figure description] Page 487.[end figure description]
At the door, on a chair set for her, was Mammy Liza;
and, when the ceremony was over, Bonnybel went to her
and put her arms around her neck and kissed her. It is
the fashion in our country, gentle reader.
So the festival passed, with its joy, and merriment, and
uproar, and bright eyes, and smiles, and true love was rewarded.
St. John did not remain many days with his bride. He
again girt on his sword, exchanged his buckled shoes for
heavy horseman's boots, and went to join the troops that
were marching against Dunmore. He was present at the
battle of “Great Bridge,” where the raw volunteers of Virginia
defeated the grenadiers of a crack English regiment,
at the burning of Norfolk, and at the terrible tragedy of
“Gwynn's Island,” from which, driven by General Andrew
Lewis, the victor at “Point Pleasant,” and now arrayed
against him who had endeavored to betray him, Lord Dunmore,
abandoning his mercenaries and armed slaves, took
flight, leaving thus, happily for ever, the soil of the land
which he had tried to enslave.
St. John fought throughout the Revolution, and was
known to enjoy the confidence and warm personal regard
of the friend of Colonel Vane, the great leader of the armies
of America. He only visited his estates in Virginia occasionally;
but, after Yorktown, returned thither to go away
no more. The sun-burnt soldier hung up his sword on the
wall of “Flower of Hundreds,” and sank back to the place
of a Virginia planter.
Need we say that a beautiful face appeared at the door as
the aged “Tallyho” neighed joyfully at the great gate?—
that a form flitted, rather than ran, over the emerald grass,
and, in an instant, was weeping in the arms of the soldier?
and soon his knees were clasped by two little urchins with
sunny curls, and a lovely child, fast ripening into beautiful
girlhood, threw her arms around his neck, and sobbed for
joy upon his bosom.
St. John reëntered the familiar old hall in the midst of
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a joyful paean from a multitude of Africans with grinning
and delighted faces; and then the old chariot from Vanely
was described ascending the hill, the day of his return having
been announced in a letter. The honest old colonel
limped forth with grimaces and warmly pressed the hand
of the young man. Old Cato did the same with evident
satisfaction, and good Aunt Mabel placed her thin arms
around him and gave him a kiss and her blessing.
They were happy in the cheerful old mansion, thus reunited,
and we leave them as we found them—smiling.
EPILOGUE. BY THE AUTHOR OF THE MS.
So it ends, my simple old chronicle; my poor dimcolored
picture of the men and women, habitudes and costumes
of the days of the Revolution.
'Twas an unknown land, and a forgotten generation which
I attemped to describe; the terra incognita of old Virginia;
the race of giants, looming now, as it were, through mists,
or the smoke of battle; the race which played such a great
and noble part in the drama of those days which tried men's
souls.
I wished my pages to embody, if that were possible,
some of the secret influences which bore on great events—
to paint the humble and unnoted source of the great stream
of revolution, ever increasing, and, at last, overthrowing
all which stood before it. To paint, too, the gallant youths
and lovely maidens—their gay love encounters, in the old,
old, days—their sorrows and joys—their sighs and their
laughter—their whispering voices, heard still, as we read
the yellow old letters of the far away Past! What is it
that comes up before the page as we read? Is it a ghostly
laughter, a glimmer of bright eyes, a beautiful shadow of
something flitting and impalpable, as delicate as a reverie or
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[figure description] Page 489.[end figure description]
dream? I read the dim words, and lay down the sheet,
and think, with smiles, of the gallant protestations of gal
lants long dead—as dead as the maidens whom they toasted
long ago. Damon is gone this many a day, and Celinda
sleeps with the roses. The Philanders and Strephons, the
Mays and the Cynthias are “white as their smocks,” or
their ruffles—and so cold!
Whither have you flown, O maidens of a dead generation?
There was a time when you smiled and sighed;
when your frowns or your laughter plunged the gallants
into misery or exuberant delight. Will you come no more
back if we call to you, and sigh for you? Will you still remain
silent and cold when we adjure you?
Alas! yes. For you are the stars of another generation. It is fourscore years since you shone in the skies—you will
shine no more to the eyes of mortals. You have crumbled
to dust beneath emerald sward; from your white maiden
breasts grow flowers. You played your merry parts beneath
the old colonial skies, and then went away to heaven;
and now we, your descendants, in another age, read of your
happy faces with such pensive smiles—ponder so wistfully,
as we follow the old story—the story which chronicles the
beauty and goodness of the dear, dead maidens of the Past!
But I am dreaming. I look on the landscape from my
shady old porch, and only see the faces of Bonnybel and
her lover—of Blossom, and Tom Alston, and Kate Effingham.
I linger still in the haunted domain of my memory,
or my fancy, if it please you. I press the warm hands,
hear the musical voices; but they die away as I listen. The
colors all fade—the laughter is hushed—no more the gay
jest rings careless and free—'t is a company of ghosts which
I gaze at; fading away into mist.
A glimmer—a murmur—they are gone!
-- --
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-- -- p510-496
HISTORICAL ILLUSTRATIONS.
[figure description] Page 491.[end figure description]
“Last evening the Right Honorable the Countess of Dunmore, with
Lord Fincastle, the Honorable Alexander and John Murray, and the
Ladies Catherine, Augusta and Susan Murray, accompanied by Captain
Foy and his lady, arrived at the palace in this city, to the great
joy of his Excellency the Governor, and the inexpressible pleasure
and satisfaction of the inhabitants, who made a general illumination
upon the happy occasion, and with repeated acclamations welcomed
her ladyship and family to Virginia.”
Virginia Gazette.
“Lady Dunmore is here—a very elegant woman. She looks,
speaks, and moves, and is a lady. Her daughters are fine sprightly,
sweet girls. Goodness of heart flashes from them in every look.
How is it possible... my Lord Dunmore could so long de-prive
himself of those pleasures he must enjoy in such a family?”
Life of Gouverneur Morris.
“I have since been informed by Colonel Lewis that the Earl of
Dunmore (the King's Governor), knew of the attack to be made upon
us by the Indians, at the mouth of the Kanawha, and hoped our
destruction. This secret was communicated to him by indisputable
authority.”
Colonel John Stuart's Narrative. Deed Book No. 1, in
Greenbrier Clerk's Office Va.
To-night another illumination makes the new capital of Virginia
blaze. The one hundred and twenty-sixth birth-day of a member of
the House of Burgesses, whose eyes beheld the scene we have described,
has been heralded and welcomed with the roar of cannon,
and the shouts of a great nation. To-day the equestrian Washington
of Crawford was uncovered, and greeted with that acclaim which
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[figure description] Page 492.[end figure description]
hails the great work of a great genius. The member of the Burgesses—
Colonel Washington, from Fairfax—is, in history, and men's
hearts and memories, the foremost man of all this world. His Excellency
Lord Dunmore is forgotten, or remembered only for contempt.
So time at last makes all things even.
A gentleman profoundly read in the private history, so to speak,
of the Revolution, stated to us, not long since, that nothing had astonished
him more, in the course of his researches, than the extraordinary
quickness and fidelity of the expresses at this period. The post
was slow and unreliable, but news was widely and expeditiously disseminated
in spite of the fact. In a letter from R. K. Meade to General
Everard Meade, his brother, dated April, '75, the writer says
that the intelligence of the battle of Lexington has just come from
Boston, “by an express who must almost have flown.”
It may be thought that the costumes here spoken of, as in other
portions of the volume, are heightened in brilliancy by the fancy of
the writer. To show that the sketches are truthful, a curious description
of an elaborate painting of Washington's wedding is appended.
The writer declares that the main figures are taken from “the original
pictures of Colonel and Mrs. Washington, the one of the date of 1772,
by Peale, and the other of 1759, by Woolaston,” and then proceeds:
“The scene is laid in the ancient parish church of St. Peters, county
of New Kent, colony of Virginia, time, 6th of January, 1759.
“In the foreground, and near the altar, appears the Rev. Dr. Mossom,
the officiating clergyman, in full canonicals; he is about to present
the marriage ring. The bridegroom is in a suit of blue and silver,
lined with red silk—embroidered waistcoat—small clothes—gold
shoe and knee buckles—dress sword—hair in full powder. The bride
in a suit of white satin—rich point-faced ruffles—pearl ornaments in
her hair—pearl necklace, ear-rings and bracelets—white satin high-heeled
shoes, with diamond buckles. She is attended by a group
of ladies, in the gorgeous costume of that ancient period. Near to
the bridegroom is a brilliant group, comprising the vice-regal Governor
of Virginia, several English army and navy officers, then on
colonial service, with the very elite of Virginia chivalry of the old
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[figure description] Page 493.[end figure description]
regime. The Governor is in a suit of scarlet, embroidered with gold,
with bag wig and sword—the gentlemen in the fashion of the time.
“But among the most interesting and picturesque of the personages
in the various groups is Bishop, the celebrated body servant of Braddock,
and then of Washington, with whom he ended his days, after
service of more than forty years.
“This veteran soldier of the wars of George II. forms a perfect study
in the picture. His tall, attenuated form and soldierly bearing, as
with folded arms, and cocked hat in hand, respectfully he approaches
the bridal group, gives a touching interest to the whole scene. He
is in a scarlet coat, and is booted and spurred, having just dismounted,
and relinquished the favorite charger of his chief to a groom.
Through the large folding doors of the church is seen the old-fashioned
coach of the bride, drawn by six horses, also the fine English charger
bequeathed to Washington by Braddock, after the fatal field of the
Monongahela. From the account of the marriage, handed down
from those that were present at its celebration, it appears that the
bride and her ladies occupied the coach, while the provincial colonel
rode his splendid charger, attended by a brilliant cortege of the gay
and gallant of the land. Such was Washington's marriage in 1759.”
This splendor, in costume and personal adornment, remained unchanged
up to the time of the Revolution. Dress then shared the
change in every thing else.
For fear that some portions of the costume of Miss Bonnybel, as
here described, may be regarded as merely of our own invention, we
append an “Invoice from England to a Virginia belle,” communicated
by a gentleman of Havover county to the Norfolk Argus, February,
1858:
| A fashionable laced cap, handkerchief, tucker and ruffles |
£7 00 |
| A fashionable brocade suit |
16 00 |
| 3 pair stays |
2 00 |
| 1 blue silk petticoat |
3 00 |
| 1 scarlet cloth under petticoat |
2 00 |
| 1 pair blue satin shoes, buckled and full trimmed |
1 16 |
| 1 hoop |
1 00 |
| 1 pair blue silk stockings |
12 |
| A fashionable silver girdle, £1; 1 fan, £1 |
2 00 |
|
£34 08 |
It will be seen that hoops and scarlet petticoats are by no means
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[figure description] Page 494.[end figure description]
original discoveries of the fair maidens of to-day, and even blue stock
ings existed a hundred years ago.
“Much credit is due to the ladies for the part they took in our association,
and it does honor to their sex, for no sooner were they
made acquainted with the resolutions to prohibit the use of tea, after
the 1st of June, but, before the day came, they sealed up the stock
which they had on hand, and vowed never more to use it till the op-pressive
act, imposing a duty thereon, should be repealed. May their
example be followed by all the ladies on this continent!”
Virginia
Gazette, June 2, 1774.
The gentleman here spoken of seems to have been Mr. Richard
Bland, of Jordan's, the author of the celebrated “Inquiry,” and famous
among the old members of the House of Burgesses.
The child of whom Miss Vane thus speaks was evidently the late
Hon. John Randolph, of Roanoke, so remarkable for his powers of
oratory.
The gentlemen here mentioned appear to have been those celebrated
patriots and leaders, Archibald Cary, Edmund Pendleton,
and Henry Tazewell.
The gentleman alluded to was Mr. Thomas Jefferson, afterwards
President of the republic.
It would appear that Mistress Effingham failed to comply with this
request. The verses may be found in the poet's corner of the old
“Virginia Gazette.”
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[figure description] Page 495.[end figure description]
“The fair in Richmond town begins the second Thursday in May.
The purse will be run for the first day of the fair by any horse or
gelding, carrying weight for age, according to the rules of racing.
Certificates will be expected for the ages of the horses, &c. Any
horse under size will be allowed weight for size. All horses, &c., to
be entered with James Gunn, the day before.
“N. B.—Any person that is inclined to start a horse, may become
a subscriber by sending a line to James Gunn.”
Virginia Gazette.
From this it would appear that the Vanes were of the noble family
of the Vanes, or Fanes, as it was sometimes spelt, earls of Darlington.
Their arms may be found in the “Book of Peerages.”
The lady here alluded to is evidently that Miss Rebecca Burwell
whom Mr. Thomas Jefferson, in his college correspondence, now published,
mentions under the names of Belinda; and, spelling the name
backward in Greek, Αδνιλεβ, and in Latin, Campana in die, Bell in
Day. She married Mr. Jaqueline Ambler, the exemplary Treasurer
of Virginia.
Thomas Jefferson, his co-worker, says of Henry: “He was as well
suited to the times as any man ever was, and it is not now easy to
say what we should have done without Patrick Henry. He was far
before all in maintaining the spirit of the Revolution.... His
eloquence was peculiar, if indeed it should be called eloquence, for it
was impressive and sublime beyond what can be imagined....
On one or two occasions I have seen him angry and his anger was
terrible; those who witnessed it were not disposed to rouse it again....
After all, it must be allowed that he was our leader;..
he left us all far behind.”
... “He is by far the most powerful speaker I ever heard,”
says George Mason. “Every word he says, not only engages, but
commands the attention, and your passions are no longer your own
when he addresses them.”
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... “Mr. Henry,” says Jefferson, “certainly gave the first
impulse to the ball of the Revolution.”
This chair is now in the House of Delegates, at Richmond.
“On the afternoon of the day on which he offered his resolutions,
he might have been seen passing along the street, on his way to his
home in Louisa, clad in a pair of leather breeches, his saddle-bags on
his arm, leading a lean horse, and chatting with Paul Carrington, who
walked by his side.”
Mr. Grigsby's “Convention of '76.”
“He was always plain in his dress, and disliked changes in the fashions.
`Here,' said he to a friend, holding up his arm and displaying
the sleeve of a coat the worse for wear; `here is a coat good
enough for me, yet I must get a new one to please the eyes of other
people.'.... He was wont to tell, with great zest, an incident
that happened in the yard of Prince Edward court house, just
before leaving the county to take his seat in the federal Convention,
in Richmond. An old fox-hunter gave him a sharp tap on the shoulder,
and said to him, `Old fellow, stick to the people; if you take the back
track, we are gone!' ”
Mr. Grisgby's “Convention of '76.”
“That mysterious and almost supernatural transformation of appearance,
which the fire of his own eloquence never failed to work
in him.”
Wirt's Life of Henry.
“His perfect mastery of every fact connected with the settlement
and progress of the colony, had given him the name of the Virginia
Antiquary. He was a politician of the first class, a profound logician
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and was also considered as the first writer in the colony.”
Wirt's Henry.
“I am an old man, almost deprived of sight.”
Bland's speech in the Convention of '75.
The traits here referred to are all historical.
John Marshall, afterwards Chief Justice of the United States, was
at the battle of “Great Bridge”—not then twenty-one.
“Taken all in all, he was the ablest man in debate I have ever met
with.”
Jefferson's Memoirs.
“He had that silvery voice (vox argentea), of which Cicero makes
such frequent and honorable mention.... A perennial stream
of transparent, cool, and sweet elocution.”
Wirt's Life of Henry.
“His person was of the first order of manly beauty, his voice clear
and silver-toned, and under perfect control; and his manners were so
fascinating as to charm all who came in contact with him....
He had that intuitive love of prescription, which was a marked trait
in the character of almost all the eminent lawyers to whose exertions
the liberties of England were indebted for their existence....
He was called on, not by one party, but by both parties, to fill all
the great posts of the day, the duties of which he performed with
masterly skill.... He may be regarded as yet only in the beginning
of his wonderful career.”
Mr. Grigsby's “Convention of '76.”
“He was nearly six feet high.... Exposure had deepened
the tints of a light-brown complexion.... His portrait...
may still be seen at Clermont. As you look upon it you perceive
that his dark eyes have that peculiar expression, half sad, half severe,
which is seen in the eyes of the painter Giotto, the shepherd boy,
whom Cimabue found in the recesses of the Alps, tending sheep, and
who, like Mason, when he was summoned from his forest home made
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an era in the history of his art.... The Declaration of Rights
is indeed a remarkable production.... It is the quintessence
of all the great principles and doctrines of freedom, which had been
wrought out by the people of England from the earliest times...
It received the applause of the generation which hailed its birth, and
of those generations which have passed away, and will receive the
applause of those to come. It stands without a model in ancient or
in recent times.”
Mr. Grigsby's “Virginia Convention of '76.”
“Virginia, Gunston Hall, June 3d, 1781.
“Dear George,
... “God bless you, my dear child! and grant that we may
again meet, in your native country, as freemen; otherwise, that we
never see each other more, is the prayer of
“Your affectionate father,
“G. Mason.”
“I recommend it to my sons, from my experience in life, to prefer
the happiness and independence of a private station to the troubles
and vexations of public business; but if either their own inclinations,
or the necessities of the times, should engage them in public affairs, I
charge them, on a father's blessing, never to let the motive of private
interest or ambition induce them to betray, nor the terrors of poverty
and disgrace, or the fear of danger or death, deter them from asserting
the liberty of their country, and endeavoring to transmit to their
posterity those sacred rights to which themselves were born.”
Mason's
Will.
“Cary barely reached the middle stature. He received, mainly
from his indomitable courage, the soubriquet of `Old Iron.' The face
of Cary, in youth, was remarkably handsome; his features small and
delicately chiseled, his eyes of that peculiar brightness which may
yet be seen in all his race.... He was a descendant of Lord
Hunsdon, and was himself, at the time of his death, the heir apparent
of the barony. He delighted in blooded horses and improved breeds
of stock.... When the scheme of a dictator was talked of in
the Assembly... the friends of the measure were in favor of
Patrick Henry. Bitterly opposed to such a scheme,... Colonel
Cary... met the half brother of Henry in the lobby of the
House, and accosted him, `Sir, I am told that your brother wishes
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to be dictator. Tell him, from me, that the day of his appointment
shall be the day of his death, for he shall find my dagger in his heart
before the sunset of that day.' ”
Mr. Grigsby's “Convention of '76.”
“Richard Henry Lee was in person tall and well proportioned;
his features bold and expressive, nose aquiline; the contour of his
face noble. He had lost, by an accident, the use of one of his hands,
and was sometimes styled `the gentleman of the silver hand.' This
hand he kept covered wtth a black silk bandage, but leaving his
thumb free. Notwithstanding this disadvantage, his gesture was
preëminently graceful.... His eloquence flowed on in tranquil
magnificence, like the stream of his own Potomac.”
Campbell's Virginia.
“When I first saw Mr. Henry, which was in March, 1773, he wore
a peach-blossom colored coat, and a dark wig, which tied behind,
and, I believe, a bag to it, which was the fashion of that day.”
Wirt's Life.
“And this day, at ten o'clock, the honorable members of the late
House of Burgesses met, by agreement, at the long room in the Raleigh
tavern, in this city, called the Apollo, when the following agreement
was unanimously entered into by that patriotic assembly.”
Letter from Williamsburg, 27th May, 1774, in Purviance's “Narrative
of Events which Occurred in Baltimore town, &c.”
“Yesterday, between three and four o'clock, P. M., the Right
Honorable the Earl of Dunmore sent a message to the Honorable the
House of Burgesses, by the clerk of the council, requiring their immediate
attendance in the council chamber, when his Excellency
spoke to them as follows:...
“This evening there is to be a ball and entertainment at the capitol,
given by the Honorable the House of Burgesses, to welcome Lady
Dunmore, and the rest of the Governor's family, to Virginia.”
Virginia
Gazette, May 27th, 1774.
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“Williamsburg,6th, April, 1776.
... “I conjure you as you value the liberties and rights of the
community of which you are a member, not to lose a moment, and
in my name, if my name is of consequence enough, to direct the commanding
officer of your troops at Annapolis, immediately to seize the
person of Governor Eden; the sin and blame be on my head. I will
answer for all to the Congress.... God Almighty give us wisdom
and vigor in this hour of trial.
“Dear sir,
“Yours, most affectionately,
“Charles Lee.” —Purviance's Narrative.
“Many proofs are preserved of the general anxiety of the other
colonies as to the course of Virginia. The Maryland committee
`flatter themselves with great hopes, from the well-known spirit and
zeal of the gentlemen of this province, one of the most ancient, exteusive
and prosperous in America, and hitherto foremost in the assertion
of American rights.... Much depends upon the determination
of Virginia, which we shall anxiously expect.' The men
of Boston write to the Marylanders: `The accounts you give us of
the spirit and magnanimity of the people of Virginia, confirm us in
the opinion we have ever had of that ancient colony, of whose disinterested
virtue this province has had ample experience.' ”
Purviance's
Narrative.
“Yesterday being the Day set apart by the Members of the late
House of Burgesses, as a Day of Fasting, Humiliation, and Prayer,
devoutly to implore the Divine Interposition for averting the heavy
Calamity which threatens Destruction to the civil Rights of America,
the same was accordingly observed by the Inhabitants of this Place,
who repaired to Church and heard an excellent Sermon preached by
the Reverend James Marye, from Psalm xii., Verse iii.—Help, Lord,
for the godly Man ceaseth, for the Faithful fail from among the Children
of Men.—The Reverend Mr. Wilson read Prayers.”
Virginia Gazette, June 2d, 1774.
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LETTER FROM FREDERICKSBURG.
“Enclosed you have the Boston Trade Act, and a resolve of our
House of Burgesses. You will observe that it is confined to the members
of their own House, but they would wish to see the example
followed through the country, for which purpose the members, at
their own private expense, are sending expresses, with the resolve,
to their respective counties. Mr. Massie (the minister of Fairfax),
will receive a copy of the resolve from Colonel Washington, and
should a day of prayer and fasting be appointed in our county, please
to tell my dear little family that I charge them to pay a strict attention
to it, and that I desire my three eldest sons and my two oldest
daughters may attend church in mourning, if they have it, as I believe
they have.”
George Mason to Martin Cockburn, May 26, 1774.
... “I do not know of any of the chiefs besides the Cornstalk,
but the Blue Jacket, a Shawnee chief, who was known to be at the
Governor's camp, on the 9th of October, and in the battle on the 10th.
On the day of battle, Dunmore and a Captain O'Connolly (Conolly),
were walking together, afterwards a noted tory. The Governor observed
to him that Lewis had hot work about that time of day. He
evidently intended General Lewis' army to be cut off, and if you
could see Colonel Stewart's narrative, it would convince you and
every other man that the battle at Point Pleasant was the first blood
shed in the revolutionary war.”
Letter from Colonel Lewis, son of the General, in Campbell's History of Virginia.
The proof of Major Conolly's collusion with Dunmore, and their
treachery, crowds the records of the war of '74. See Jacob's Account,
and many others.
“Whatever resolves or measures are intended for the preservation
of our rights and liberties, will be reserved for the conclusion of the
session. Matters of that sort here are conducted and prepared with
a great deal of privacy, and by very few members, of whom Patrick
Henry is the principal.”
George Mason to Martin Cockburn, of Fair
fax, Williamsburg, May 26th, 1774.
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“This elaborate production displays a profound knowledge of the
history and constitutional rights of the colony. It breathes a fiery
spirit of defiance and revolution; and the splendor of elevated declamation,
in some of its passages, is not inferior to Junius....
Owing to the authorship of it, Lord Dunmore, it is said, threatened
Mr. Jefferson with a prosecution for treason, and his name was enrolled
in a bill of attainder, commenced in one of the Houses of Parliament,
but never consummated. Among the proscribed were Peyton
Randolph, John Adams, Samuel Adams, John Hancock and Patrick
Henry.”
Campbell's Virginia, page 148.
“General Lewis, upon learning the enemy's approach, lit his pipe,
and immediately sent forward the main body of his army, a detachment
of Augusta troops, under his brother, Colonel Charles Lewis,
and another of Botetourt troops under Colonel Fleming.”
Campbell's
History of Virginia, page 143.
“This gallant and estimable officer, when struck by the fatal ball,
fell at the foot of a tree, when he was, against his own wish, carried
to his tent, by Captain Morrow and a private, and died in a few
hours. His lost was deeply lamented.”
Campbell's Virginia, page
143.
“Patrick Henry desired,” says Mr. Wirt, in his Life, “that the
blow which must be struck, sooner or later, should be struck at once.
These sentiments were then avowed by him to two confidential
friends (Colonel Richard Morris, and Captain John Dabney), to
whom he further declared that he considered the outrage on the
magazine a most fortunate circumstance, and as one which would
rouse the people from north to south.”
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“When the British were about landing on James river, and Yorktown
was peculiarly exposed, General Nelson, then in arms against
them, was obliged to send Mrs. Nelson, with an infant three weeks
old, to the upper country. When near Williamsburg, she met a company
of youths, some of them mere boys, armed with their guns, and
marching down to fire at the enemy. On meeting the well-known
old English coach, they halted and presented arms to Mrs. Nelson,
wishing to show her all honor. She received their salutation very
courteously, but perceiving among them two of her own sons, mere
boys at the preparatory school, she directed the coachman to stop,
and, opening the door, requested them to enter the carriage. Mortifying
as it must have been to them, they were too much accustomed
to obey to think of refusing. Taking them with her, she sent them
to Philadelphia, to complete their education, placing them under the
care of Mr. Rittenhouse.”
Bishop Meade's “Old Churches of Vir
ginia.”
“Colonel Carter Braxton was chiefly instrumental in persuading
Henry to halt at Doncastle's, and in negotiating the settlement of the
affair.... Finding that Henry would not disband without receiving
the powder, or compensation for it, Mr. Braxton returned to
Williamsburg and procured from his father-in-law, Corbin, the
deputy receiver-general, the amount demanded, and delivering it to
Henry, succeeded in warding off the threatened blow. In this pacific
course he coincided with the moderate counsels of Pendleton,
Nicholas, and Peyton Randolph. He was an active member of the
Assembly and the convention that met in Richmond,... one
of the Committee of Safety,... elected a delegate to Congress
in the place of Peyton Randolph,... and was a signer of the
Declaration of Independence.”
Campbell's Virginia.
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Cooke, John Esten, 1830-1886 [1859], Henry St. John, gentleman, of Flower of Hundreds, in the county of Prince George, Virginia: a tale of 1774-75. (Harper and Brothers, New York) [word count] [eaf510T].
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