“In former pages of this true history, I had occasion to set
down a few reflections upon the feelings of my worthy ancestor,
Mr. Effingham, when, having been repulsed by the
young actress, he rode back to the hall. I come now to say
a few brief words of Mr. Charles Waters, another of the
characters whose mental development it is my duty to advert
to. Charles Waters was, as the reader will have perceived,
by nature a student and thinker. Unused from his
very childhood to the amusements and employments of his
associates, his character had assumed a peculiar mould. To
strong feelings he united a cool and self-possessed intellect,
and this intellect he had trained by hard study, and long
and profound thought. Accustomed to live thus in the past
and future, not in the present—or if at all in the present,
only so far as to examine its bearing on that future—he had
grown up without experiencing any of those sensations which
men generally become acquainted with when they are thrown
in contact with the fairer sex. In other words, he had passed
his majority without experiencing what is universally known
by the name of love. His character had thus become serious,
and his countenance habitually wore an expression of thoughtful
quiet. He seldom laughed, and scarcely ever joined in
the rough, jovial converse of his father's guests—the boatman
Townes and others—and though he was greatly beloved by
this class of persons, and respected also, this personal popularity
was rather to be attributed to his well-known goodness
and nobility of character than his social traits. He

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had visited the theatre, as we have seen, on the opening
night, in compliance with his father's request, not from any
motion of his own. His father had imagined that his cheek
was pale, his eye mournful, his health injured, by those incessant
explorations into the ruins of systems and nations;
the play, he thought, would be of service to him; and he
had gone, and admired Beatrice Hallam, and felt some indignation
when Mr. Effingham annoyed her—and nothing
more. Then he had preserved that young woman's life, and
there is much of significance in this fact. We experience
warm regard toward those we have greatly served—a young
girl is never afterwards wholly indifferent to the man who
has preserved her life. He had felt the truth of this, and
required no urging on his father's part to go and inquire
how Miss Hallam had borne her accident. We were present
at that interview, and were witnesses of the pleased
surprise he betrayed at the exhibition by Beatrice of such
fresh and virgin innocence and childlike enthusiasm. He
came away, as we have seen, thinking of her, and thereafter
for many days neglected his books, and felt at his heart the
new and strange emotion I have spoken of. Then impelled
by the desire to see again that enchanting face, hear again
the fresh voice, so pure, and loving, and musical, he had
gone to town persuading himself that business required his
attention there, and at the office of the `Gazette' encountered
his friend, who, at the conclusion of their interview,
had conveyed to him the intelligence that number seven was
occupied by Mr. Effingham. We have seen how his face
flushed and his breast labored as in a close atmosphere. He
had intended to visit the young girl, but business called him
away, and when he had dispatched it, the evening began to
draw on, and he was obliged to return homeward. He returned,
then, with that one thought in his brain—that one
sensation in his heart. Persecuted—for this was plainly
persecution on Mr. Effingham's part—loved and followed,
for this, too, was as plain—Beatrice became more dear to
him than ever. His breast heaved, his eye flashed, his
haughty lip trembled, and he passed a sleepless night thinking
of her. Then for the first time he started at his own
feelings, and he felt his heart throb. He would be her protector
from that man, who had, on the first evening of her

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appearance, annoyed and insulted her; he would watch over
her, find if he really persecuted her—yes, and if necessary,
avenge her! Then he stopped, like a horse at full speed
suddenly checked by his rider. Where had his imagination
borne him—what was he dreaming of? What interest had
he in this young girl? say that he had preserved her life,
would not any courageous man have done the same? She
was grateful to him for that, there the matter ended; the
service rendered, the thanks returned, what were they further
but strangers? What was he to the young actress?
The young actress! What could she be to him? She was
a bird of passage with gorgeous wings, and magical singing,
caressed, applauded, swaying all hearts—and he, what was
he? An obscure man, without name, or wealth, or birth;
his station repelled her, as her profession repelled him.

A thousand thoughts like these chased each other
through his mind during the two or three days which followed
his interview with the stranger; and then, drawn as
by a magical influence—he sought Williamsburg again—he
had an object, too, as will be seen.

Thus, the writer of the MS.: Charles Waters entered
Williamsburg, and, thoughtful and absent, took his way along
the main street toward the Raleigh. Suddenly, as he walked
on rapidly, he found himself stopped by an obstruction. He
raised his head, and found himself in the presence of the man
in the red cloak. That gentleman was conversing with no
less a personage than Parson Tag; and when Charles Waters
joined them, the parson was about to pass on. He scowled
upon the homely-clad man, bowed with patronizing condescension
to the stranger, and with head borne magisterially
erect, went down the street.

“There goes one of the lights of the age—one of the
pillars of the church,” said the stranger, with his habitual
coolness, but smiling as he spoke, “the good Parson Tag!
The worthy gentleman is indignant to-day, having, from his
own account, just quarrelled with his wealthiest parishioner,
Squire Effingham.”

His companion raised his head at this name: and this
movement did not escape the stranger's keen eye.

“Yes,” he added, “there seems to have been some little
private matter in the business. The squire has a son, my

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neighbor at the tavern—No. 7, you know—and this son,
it appears, has been making himself the subject of discussion,
for presuming to experience an honest friendship for the
young actress, Miss Hallam.”

The stranger did not fail to note the troubled and gloomy
look of his listener, as they walked on toward the Raleigh.

“Well,” he continued, “the parson took the liberty of
condoling with the worthy squire on the reprobacy of his son,
and, thereby, excited the rage of his parishioner. High words
followed—the squire declared, indignantly, that he would
permit no one to insult his son in his presence—that it was
a mere youthful freak on his part—and that the Christian
religion made it incumbent on all men, especially parsons,
to exercise a little of the spirit of forgiveness, or affect the
same, if they had it not. Tolerably plain, you observe, that
intimation of his excellency, the squire. The interview ended
by the parson's getting enraged, and declaring he would no
longer live in a parish which was cursed with so unreasonable
a member—and by the squire's replying, with a bow,
that his holiness should be called elsewhere, as the parish
had long desired. These are pretty nearly the facts of the
interview, I suppose—sifted from the rubbish—and now, it
seems to be understood that the good Parson Tag goes to
the Piedmont region, and a Mr. Christian—an excellent
name—takes his place. `A mere milk-and-water family
visitor,' says Parson Tag. Ah, these parsons, these parsons!”

And the stranger shook his head, in a way which signified
that the representatives of the established church were
far from occupying a distinguished place in his regards.
Charles Waters had listened to this account with a troubled
expression, which did not escape the stranger. The name
of Effingham evidently excited some painful emotion—and
he remained silent, until they reached the Raleigh. He
inquired for Miss Hallam. She was not at the tavern, but
would probably come in soon. He turned away.

He was diverted from his absorbing thought, by feeling
the arm of the stranger in his own.

“Come,” said his companion, “as I suppose you will
wait, in view of the fact, that a lady is in the question—let
us sit down here on the porch, the sun is warm and pleasant.
Perhaps we may wile away a tedious moment. I leave this
place to-day, and may not see you again for years.”

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Charles Waters sat down by the stranger.

“What a singular race these parsons are,” said the man in
the red cloak; “come, dismiss your meditations, companion,
and listen to me. What do you think of them?”

“There are many worthy, not a few unworthy,” said his
companion, absently.

“True: but as they are an important element of our
society, it seems to me that the proportion of the unworthy
is too great.”

“Yes, sir: they are a very influential class,” said the
other, endeavoring to banish his thoughts.

“And wealthy.”

“Many I believe are.”

“They love their tobacco salary—but after all we cannot
complain of them. They are necessary, just as it is
necessary to have a class that rules and a class which
obeys.”

“That is true in a very limited sense, sir.”

“Why, we of the lower orders must look up to the
gentlemen: fustian cannot rub against velvet. The wealthy
gentleman and the poor laborer cannot associate with each
other. One rolls in his chariot, the other digs in the field,
and admires the grand machine rolling on with its liveried
coachman, and glossy four-in-hand. The necessity of the
thing is as plain as the fact, that we envy these lords of
creation.”

“We should not, sir.”

“Pshaw!—whether we should or not, we always will
envy and hate them. We are poor and obscure; they are
distinguished and wealthy. Could a clearer case be made
out?”

Charles Waters looked at his interlocutor with the same
expression, as on a former occasion, when the stranger had
said, “All men are false.”

“To envy those fortunate possessors of wealth and ease,
sir, is neither liberal nor true philosophy,” he said. “True,
there are classes, and must ever be, in some form; but
the poor are not, and should not be the enemies of the rich—
beyond all, they should not base such enmity upon the
ground that the gifts of fortune are unequally divided.
What a world we should have if that were so! We have

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here in Virginia all grades of wealth and rank, from that negro
yonder rubbing down his horse, to Governor Fauquier in his
palace. We have first, the rude ignorant servant indented
for a term of years, and almost an appendage of the glebe—
almost as much a slave as the negro. Then the coarse
overseer, scarcely better. Then the small merchant, factor,
and the yeoman, plain in manners, often very ignorant—but
a step higher. Then the well-to-do farmer. Lastly, the
great landed proprietors, with thousands of acres and negroes,
wearing velvet and riding in chariots, as you say. Well,
now sir, apply your philosophy! Let the well-to-do farmer
hate the great wealthy gentleman—the common yeoman hate
the farmer and the gentleman—the overseer hate all three—
and the indented servant, following the example of his betters,
hate all four of them, where would the clashing of these
complex hatreds, these inimical and bitter envyings, have
their termination? No, sir,” said Charles Waters, raising
his noble head, and speaking in that earnest and persuasive
voice, which it was hard to resist being moved and convinced
by—even by its very intonation—“No, sir: believe me—
these harsh and bitter feelings retard the advance of our
race, rather than forward its destiny. No sir—no! hatred
is not the element of progress, as envy and uncharitableness
are not the precursors of liberty!”