University of Virginia Library

34. CHAPTER XXXIV.
IN WHICH BEATRICE RETURNS.

With head erect, brows flushed, eyes clear and fiery, lips
still agitated by the tumult of thought, the speaker was
silent. His eyes then turned toward the stranger.

A singular alteration seemed to have taken place in his
features, and the expression of grandeur and majesty which
illuminated the rugged features, usually so cold, was startling.

The stranger's expression was so noble, his eye so bright
and proud, his whole manner so completely changed, that
his companion found himself gazing at him with an astonishment
which he could not suppress.

“Pardon me, sir,” said the man in the red cloak, in a
voice of noble courtesy, strongly in contrast with his habitual
roughness; “pardon me for the manner in which I have
seemed to sift your opinions, and provoke a collision of your
ideas with my own, in this and our former interviews. It is
one of the bad habits which I acquired in a country store,
and I find myself now its slave—since the temptation to
open and study that grand volume, human nature, wherever
I find it, has become irresistible. In your case, I have been

instructed and interested; and though I say with a frankness
which you may consider rude, that I have thought most
of your thoughts before—still, sir, permit me to return you
my thanks for an honor and a pleasure.”

The haughtiest nobleman in the world would not have
found in these words, uttered by the coarsely-clad stranger
on the rude tavern porch, to a man of the people like himself,
any thing to cater to his laughter or amusement; for
the man in the red cloak seemed no longer to be coarsely
dressed; his pronunciation no longer appeared vicious and
incorrect; the very porch of the tavern seemed to be transformed
by his magical voice and look into a palace portico.

“In all your views I concur,” continued the stranger,
“and your ideas are mine. God himself placed us in the
condition we both find ourselves in, that mind might speak
to mind, freely, sympathetically, with that frankness and
plainness from which Truth springs, armed, ready for the
conflict.”

“Yes, sir,” continued the stranger, with that high and
proud look which his companion had observed once in a
former interview. “Yes, sir! this Virginia of 1763 is in
an unhappy state! Social organization to-day, with the influences
that environ it, is one of those phenomena which
occur but once in a century. On all sides murmurs, mutterings
as of an approaching storm! Men doubtful of the
ground they walk on—new ideas dazzling them—old institutions
crumbling—the hand upon the wall tracing, in fiery
letters, the mysterious future—that future crammed with
storms—groaning like a womb which holds the destiny of
humanity! The heavens are dark, the ways we tread
devious and full of hidden snares. England, our tender
mother, might say, who planted them? For England, from
whose loins we sprung, has cursed us!—like a stepmother,
she has struck, with a bitter and remorseless hatred, those
who would be her children! She cursed us with this race
of Africans who are eating us up and ruining us, and some
day, in the blind convulsions of her rage, she will taunt us
bitterly for asking what we do not grant ourselves—for demanding
freedom, when our arms are holding down a race
human as ourselves! Let her gnash her teeth in impotent
and irrational complaint!—let her complain, we will not;

for God decreed that she herself, black with crime and injustice,
should be the means of bringing hither this race,
that in the future Christianity should dawn on that vast continent
of Africa—that land where the very air seems tainted
with paganism—where the very palms which wave their long
plumes on the ocean breeze seem celebrating some horrible
rite! No; this is not the head and front of the accusation
which, in the name of justice and humanity, we bring against
England. She has thrust upon us her despotic regulations.
She has contracted suffrage. She has given to Lord Culpeper
the whole territory from the mouth of the Rappahannock
to the sources of the Potomac—enthroned him a
prince and king over us! She has crushed our commerce
by navigation laws which are so odious and unrighteous that
the very instruments of her tyranny shrink from enforcing
them! With a blind, remorseless hatred—a policy destitute
of reason as it is foul with injustice and wrong—she has
bound on this poor laboring brute, Virginia, burdens which
crush her, under which she staggers, groaning, and tearing
herself with rage, terror, and despair! She has made for
herself a gospel whose commandments are—`Thou shalt
steal'—`Thou shalt bear false witness against thy neighbor'—`Thou
shalt have no other god but George III.' She
has gone on from wrong to wrong, from injustice to injustice,
until like those unhappy creatures whom the gods intend to
strike, she has grown mad, lost her brain, her reason, braced
herself to rush upon an obstacle which will hurl her back, as
a wave of the ocean is hurled back from the cliff of eternal
stone! Yes, sir, that empire rushes upon what will tame
her! Already she speaks of an act decreeing that a stamp
shall be placed upon every instrument written or printed of
human affairs. Journals, deeds, conveyances—pleadings in
law, bills of lading—on the marriage contract, and the bill
for the headstone—nothing to be operative without that
stamp! Well, sir, that act will make the cup filled with the
bitter and poisonous draught run over—that law will make
the infuriated animal, thrown on her knees, rise up, and
then, sir, God alone knows where things will end! You wish
to wait and let the old world pass away by virtue of its inherent
decay, its immemorial rottenness—you would have
the crumbling monument of wrong fall slowly, stone by
stone, as the winds and rain descend upon it year after year!
Such will not be the event, sir! The tornado you spoke of
will bring down that godless monument, at one blow, with
a crash that will startle nations! And do not think that
this is not as legitimately God's act as the slow ruin you
advocate. That Great Being unlooses the hurricane of revolution
as easily as he sends the zephyr to cool the cheek,
each in its place!—the hurricane here! You may even now
scent the odor of the storm!”

And the stranger rose with such grandeur in his visage,
such majesty in his attitude, such a clear fire in his proud
eyes, which seemed to plunge into the mysterious future, and
see with the vision of a prophet all which that future was to
bring, that his companion felt himself overwhelmed, he knew
not how, carried away in spite of himself.

“It is coming!” continued he, with indescribable grandeur
in voice and countenance and attitude; “the storm which
will topple down the edifice of fraud and lies, which has so
long shamed the sunlight!—in that storm old things shall
pass away, and behold! all things shall become new. The old
world is decayed, she totters on the brink of the abyss prepared
for her:—she rushes on, blindly, full of curses, and
hatred—the gulf yawns—let her foot trip, she is swallowed
up for ever!”

And the brilliant eye seemed to grow brighter still, the
voice became more clear and strong. The rude visage of the
speaker glowed as if the light of a great conflagration streamed
upon it. His stature seemed almost to grow before his
companion's eyes, and become gigantic, his two hands to be
filled with thunderbolts!

“Yes, sir! yes!” he exclaimed, “the storm comes!—
the tocsin of a revolution is already being sounded! Ere
long the clash of arms will fall upon our ears, the sound of
firearms and the roar of cannon. War and storm, tempest
and hurricane, are waiting, like hounds held back by the leash,
to burst upon this land. Let it come! let the storm roar,
the lightning flash, the waves roll mountain high—God still
directs that storm, and will fight for us! Let the bloody
dogs of war be loosed, let them dye their sharp fangs in
blood, they shall not daunt us. I repeat it, sir,—let it come!

I, for one, will grapple with the monster, and strangle or be
strangled by him! Liberty or death!”

And the man in the red cloak, with a gesture of overwhelming
grandeur, stood silent, motionless, his eyes on fire,
his hands clenched as though the struggle depicted by his
brilliant and fiery imagination were about to begin. Charles
Waters, carried away by his tremendous passion could make
no reply, and they both remained silent.

The stranger wiped his brow, and drew his cloak around
him: then gazing on his companion with an expression of
nobility and pride, which glowed in his eyes and filled them
with light, said:

“And now, sir, we must part. I go hence to-day, having
yesterday been retained in an important cause in Hanover
county, brought by the Reverend Mr. Maury against
the collector. I am for the defendant, and must prepare
myself for a hard struggle. Permit me again to thank you,
sir, for many hours of your company. I repeat, that you
have done me a pleasure, and an honor: for I find in you a
mind clear and strong, competent to test, to sift, to grasp,
to wield those new ideas which will change the world. Do
not dream that we will pass through the years, directly following
this, without convulsions and a conflict, such as the
world has never seen. Prepare yourself, put on your armor,
get ready! For my part, I ask in that inevitable conflict,
no better companion. These are no idle words, sir. I shall
call upon you, and am well convinced, that my call will not
be in vain!”

And bowing with lofty courtesy, the stranger entered the
tavern. At the same moment the footfall of a horse attracted
the attention of Charles Waters, and looking up, he
saw Beatrice Hallam, who had stopped before the inn,
mounted as usual on her tall white horse.