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After his interview with Beatrice, Charles Waters returned
homeward, lost in thought. Was he pondering again
upon his system of education, or upon any of his novel
political ideas, such as Parson Tag had “called to the attention”
of the squire, for their absurd and treasonable character?
Was he admiring the beautiful autumn woods, all
yellow, and gold, and crimson, through which the fresh fall
breezes laughed and sang, from the far surging ocean?
None of these things occupied his thoughts; ideas of national
politics were as far from his mind as the forest, which
his dreamy eye took no note of.

He was thinking of that young girl he had just left; so
womanly, yet childlike; so beautiful and attractive in the
richness of her great loveliness; yet so like a girl who has
never thought to bind up the careless waves of her hair.
What an anomaly was here! And was there not food for
thought? He had seen her on the stage, and, spite of his
total ignorance of what acting was, felt perfectly convinced
that she was a great genius; and now this splendid woman,
whose magical voice had interpreted every change and phase
of passion, glancing from the highest to the lowest tones,
with lightning-like rapidity and marvellous ease; whose
attitudes were so grand, whose very walk rivetted the attention,
and hushed the crowd; this great interpreter of the
greatest of human intellects, with whose name the whole
colony was ringing, had thrown aside in his presence all this
intellect and strength, to take his hand, and laugh merrily,
and talk with rapture of the fresh beauty of the river and
the forest, and, like a child, plead for another visit from
him! Was the scene real or imaginary?

He passed over the whole distance between Williamsburg
and his home in a dream, and all that day, and for
more than a week thereafter, was plainly busy with some
problem that he could not explain to his satisfaction. He
would go and work in the field; and, before he knew it, find
himself leaning on his spade and murmuring, “Could she

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have acted all this?” He pored over his books hour after
hour, and found he had made no progress; for her image
rose in all its fresh and tender beauty between him and the
page. Then he became conscious of his preoccupation, and
determined to banish it. She was nothing to him—he had
other ends in life, and other duties than idle visits. This
young woman was, no doubt, very original and striking in
every point of view, and he felt a strange sympathy with
her—a strange sensation of having seen and known her elsewhere,
perhaps in another world—but that was nothing to
him. Realities were his food, not fancies—henceforth he
would drive from his mind this fit of dreaming.

And he succeeded. This young man had a mind of rare
vigor and resolution; he had trained his mind like a courser
to obey the bridle, and now he found the effect of this mental
discipline. By degrees the young girl's image no longer
made his eye brighter, his lip wreath into a tender smile;
he returned to his grave, patient labor, and his thoughts on
the great questions which absorbed him.

On the day after Mr. Effingham's instalment at the
Raleigh, Charles Waters visited Williamsburg again. His
business was to procure some little articles for his father,
who seldom went to the town—Lanky, the lad we have seen
on the day of the river adventure, attending to the sale of
fish and other things which old Waters sent to market.
Having dispatched his errand, he went to the office of the
“Virginia Gazette” to purchase a copy.

As he was coming out with the paper in his had, he felt
a touch upon his arm, and turning round, perceived his friend
with the red cloak, who had come for the same purpose, it
seemed, as he had a copy of the Gazette under his arm.

“We are well met, friend,” said the man in the red cloak,
“and at a place which is not extraordinary. We might
have expected to find each other here.”

“How so?” asked Charles Waters, gravely extending
his hand, but betraying evident pleasure at the meeting.

“Why,” replied his companion, “we are both thinkers.”

“Yes, but—”

“And as thinkers must have food for thought,” added
the man in the red cloak, “we both decided, some moments
since, to come and purchase the `Gazette.' Is it not so?”

“With me—yes.”

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“Something new is as much your passion, or I greatly
mistake, as it is my own. What is new in facts, what is new
in ideas?”

“You will search long in this paper for the latter novelty,”
said the other; “there is generally, however, a good budget
of news from Norfolk, York, and—when a vessel arrives—
from England.”

“Good! That is what we want more than comments on
facts. Give me the food—I can myself digest it. I beg
leave to decline taking any writer's opinion on the eternal
legislation in Parliament on Virginia affairs—the said opinion
being invariably favorable to government. I ask for the
new act of Parliament—I will light my pipe with the commentary.”

“Still the two things might be combined in a gazette.”

“Yes, when thought is free.”

“It will be, some day.”

“Well, I think so, too,” said the man in the red cloak.
“I hope I shall live to see the day when the public journal
will be the great speaker of the time—though I could never
express my own ideas with a pen; it freezes me—I dream
sometimes of this mingled chronicle and essay you mention:
a great daily volume, containing intelligence from every
quarter of the world, news upon every subject, comment free
from partisan falsehood; and this great organ of thought I
sometimes think will, in future, be scattered over the land
like the leaves of that antumn forest yonder. When the
time comes, mankind will take a great stride onward.”

“I scarcely hope to live so long,” said his companion.

“Why? The new era comes slowly, but still comes.”

“This paper I hold in my hand is a bad commencement
of your grand dream, liberty! Yes, liberty will come—but
will it be in our day?”

“What do you mean by liberty?” said the stranger,
bending his keen eye on his companion; “are men fit for
such a thing?”

“Yes.”

“Let us see, now—but here we are at the Raleigh
Tavern, accompany me to my room, and we will talk; or if
not talk, I will play you a tune on the violin, and before you
go show you something I have written.”

p520-132

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Charles Waters willingly complied, and, passing Beatrice's
door, which he merely glanced at, they entered the apartment
of the stranger. It was, like most rooms in Virginia
taverns, of considerable extent, and of a rather bare appearance.
In one corner, a neat bed covered with a white counterpane,
stood, with its tall, slender posts; and the rest of
the furniture consisted of a rude oaken table and some
leather-bottomed chairs. On the table lay a violin and bow,
and beneath it an open book. The fire-place had two square
stones in place of andirons, and these stones now supported
an armful of twigs, which were crackling and blazing pleasantly.
The day was not cold, but the stranger seemed to
be one of those men who rightly consider a cheerful blaze
always pleasant, and he sat down before it, resting his
rudely-shod feet on the iron fender. His companion sat
down opposite, and for a moment there was silence. It was
first broken by the man in the red cloak, who said:

“We are now separated from the outer world; this inn
is our castle, and before I amuse you, as my guest, by playing
the violin, let us have a few words upon the subject we
were speaking of but now.”