University of Virginia Library

LEGEND TENTH.
THE KING AND THE PLANTER.

In a venerable edifice, dedicated to the
memory of a thousand years — crowded with
monuments which resembled palaces — dense
and heavy with the atmosphere of death — a
young man stood one night in the fall of 1760,
leaning against a column, his arms folded and
his eyes cast to the floor.

That ancient place was full of light and darkness
— light more vivid than day, and darkness
deeper than the night. The great pillars
flung broad shadows over the floor, with belts
of radiance quivering here and there; the
monuments stood boldly forth in red light, their
flowers of marble, and images of death, glowing
into life and bloom; the arches of the
place, stretching from pillar to pillar, and bewildering
the eye with the intricate mazes of
Gothic architecture, waved with the banners
of a royal race. Banners rich with armorial
splendors, and sad with emblems of the grave.

The young man leaning with folded arms,
against a pillar, gazed in silence down a broad
aisle, which led among colossal monuments,
like the track of time among the dead of past
ages.

It was an impressive sight which met his
gaze. Advancing slowly, to the sound of low
deep music, a coffin burdened with velvet and
gold, appeared in the centre of a circle of
lighted torches.

Upon that coffin a crown was laid — it shone
from the black velvet like a strange jewel, set
upon the breast of Death.

Around the coffin were yeomen of a royal
guard, clad in gay attire, and behind it, a long
procession extended far into the distance, until
its light and splendor dwindled into one little
point of brightness. There were priests clad
in sable — princes tottering under the weight
of robes, whose lengthened trains were borne
by lines of vassals — peers whose coronets
glimmered dimly under jet black plumes.

The far-extending arches flung back the
music, which groaned in a dismal chant for
the dead — a dirge which had a voice but no
sorrow, a moan but no tears.

The same torch-light which flashed over the
gorgeous sadness of the funeral array, beamed
upon the face of the young man, while his form
was lost in shadow.

In that great temple he stood alone. On one
side was darkness; on the other the coffin
glittering with a crown, and the procession
dwindling away in brightness, until it was lost
in the distance.

The face of the young man was by no means
unhandsome. It was a fair face; the eye-balls
somewhat protuberant, the nether lip
hanging with an irresolute expression, but the
eyes were clear deep blue, and the low forehead
and blonde complexion were relieved by
carefully arranged hair, strewn with white
powder, after the fashion of the time.

He was dressed in sable; on his left breast
shone a single star.

And while leaning against the pillar, his blue
eye glanced upon the procession, the coffin
and the mourners, which every moment drew

nearer, the young man's face was agitated by
a singular expression.

It gave a glow to his cheek, imparted brightness
to his eye, and made his irresolute lip,
seem firm and determined.

This expression was not sorrow — it was
joy — joy whose very intensity was sublime.

For standing alone, by a great column of
Westminster Abbey, the handsome youth,
whose form and face were ripening fast into
beautiful manhood, did not weep as he beheld
the coffin — did not feel his heart grow heavy
with even one throb of awe, as the dismal
funeral chaunt swelled wearily upon the air.

It was the coffin of a king which he beheld.
Within that coffin lay the corse of a powerful
king. They were bearing him slowly along
the broad aisle — amid encircling soldiers,
priests and peers — under the arches hung
with banners — with the chaunt of death, the
solemn gleam of muffled arms, the sweeping
of princely robes, and bearing him to the vault
which yawned in the centre of the abbey.

And yet there was no tear in the young
man's eye. He gazed upon the coffin, watched
each minute detail of the splendid mockery,
and uttered in a low voice the simple words —

“And I am King of England — now
—”

The young man was George the Third,
gazing upon the funeral of his royal grandsire,
George the Second.

He felt it in every vein, it shone from his
eye, and with an involuntary impulse, he
reached forth his arm, exclaiming once more—

“King of England — King of England —”

King of England!

Not the England which a Norman Robber
conquered, one morning in the distant ages.
Not the England which quivered under the
iron footsteps of the Third Edward, or grew
drunk with blood under the Eighth Henry.
Not the England which saw Elizabeth upon
the throne; Elizabeth who dipped her fair
maiden hands in the blood of Mary, and
boasted amid her virtuous orgies that she was,
in truth, the Virgin Queen. Not the stern,
heroic England which tried a crowned criminal,
and sent him to the scaffold, as a warning
through all time to Royal Guilt. Not the
England which grew great and strong, stern in
courage, mighty in its victories, mightier in its
people, under the rule of a Brewer, named
Cromwell.

No! But an England, strong with the accumulated
conquests of ages, red with the concentrated
carnage of a thousand years: at once,
infamous with consecrated Murder, and glorious
with an Empire mightier than Imperial
Rome.

This young man, clad in sable — a star glittering
on his breast — can lay his hand upon
the Map of the World, and sweeping his Royal
finger over England, Scotland, Ireland — over
North America — over India — exclaim, without
a boast:

“This, and this — and this — one-eighth of
the world, at least, is mine!”

Was it not enough to bewilder even a royal
brain?

India, won by an hundred thousand corpses,
multiplied by ten — Canada conquered with
the blood of Wolfe, poured forth upon the
rock of Quebec — North America, from Georgia
to Massachusetts, secure under the dominion
of British Custom, British Taxes, and British
Law — Scotland, reeking with the carnage of
Glencoe — Ireland, beaten down at last, trampled
into dumb anguish, into slavery that had
no lower deep —

This was “England” in 1760, and over
this England George the Second had reigned;
and the handsome youth, George the Third,
was about to reign.

Therefore the spectacle of the royal funeral
— the coffin with purple and gold, the death-chaunt
and the long train of splendid mourners
— brought no sorrow to the heart of the young
man, who, leaning against the column, murmured
—

“I am King of England — now” —

And there came no omen to fright the soul
of the young King, there was no word of the
future to make him feel afraid. The banners
that waved from the wide arches, the priests
and lords who came along the aisle, the chaunt
of the death, and the coffin adorned by a
Crown, only spoke to him of a glorious future,
of a kingdom unbroken by dissension, an imperial
sway, consecrated by God and acknowledged
by men.

And all the while through the dark night
which brooded over London, Westminster

Abbey illuminated for the reception of the royal
corpse, shone like a funeral pyre.

Let us for a moment gaze upon the handsome
face which is turned toward the light,
while the young form is buried in shadow.
Let us mark the joy now glowing warmly on
the cheeks and flashing clearly in the blue
eyes. Let us stand in the midst of this dread
Mausoleum, called Westminster Abbey, and
while the splendors of a royal funeral mock
the monuments that start into view on every
side, and England sends her Prince and Priest
to bury the dead King, we will look upon the
face of the living Monarch, who, blessed by
youth, is about to enter upon a glorious career.

At this moment, we will ask one or more
rude questions, in our plain, peasant way —

Is there no danger in the future for this
King?

“Have the coming years any judgment for
his Throne, any stern decree against his
power and the power of Kings like him?”

There is danger for the King; danger for
his Throne; danger for the power of Kings
like him.

Where?

In England? Is he not the Sovereign Lord,
backed by a horde of Nobles, backed by a
code of bloody penal laws?

Not in England — but yonder? Yonder,
over the ocean — follow me across the trackless
ocean, into a land whose awful forests
and dread solitudes, compare but poorly with
Westminster Abbey, now flashing through the
dark night, like a sublime funeral pyre.

We are here, by the waves of the Potomac.
A mansion, not remarkable for its height, or
its breadth, or for the splendor of its architecture,
rises on the summit of a gently sloping
hill. It is half encircled by trees, and from
yonder window, the ray of a lamp trembles
out upon the dark river.

Entering the room lighted by that lamp, we
behold a man of twenty-eight years seated beside
a table, his cheek resting on his hand. He
is clad very plainly. In fact, he wears the
costume of a Planter of 1760. His form, tall
and muscular, his face sharpened in every
outline, indicate a life of some experience and
toil.

Before him, on the table, rests a letter, and
a sword whose long blade is covered with rust.
It may be seen that there are stirring memories
connected with the letter and the sword,
for as the solitary man gazes upon them, his
eye brightens and his cheek flashes into vigorous
bloom.

It is a very plain, uninteresting scene; such
as we may behold at any moment of our lives.
A man of twenty-eight years, seated alone, in
a neatly furnished chamber, his cheek resting
on his hand, and his brightening eye fixed
upon a letter and a sword.

Look upon him — mark each outline of his
form — note each outline of his face. You see
nothing remarkable in the scene. It is only a
Virginian Planter, sitting alone in his home,
by the banks of the Potomac, at dead of night.
That is all you behold.

The contrast between this solitary figure and
Westminster Abbey, flashing with ten thousand
lights, crowded by a royal funeral, tenanted
by a dead King, and a living — is it not
idle to think of any contrast?

And yet the solitary Planter buried in
thought, sees spreading before him a succession
of wild and phantasmal pictures. He is
dreaming, not in sleep, but dreaming wide
awake.

He is mounted upon a horse; that sword is
in his hand; an army of peasants, only peasants,
extends around him. He is in battle;
his army is crushed in dust and blood. But
another army darts into being from the dust
and blood; his sword is still in his hand, and
now — waving over his head — a flag, such a
flag as never was seen before, flutters on the air
of battle. There is another contest; there are
cold faces upturned to a setting sun, and then
the scene changes.

Still it is only a dream, a wandering dream,
but the Planter is in the Senate Hall of a
People — how vague, how wild a dream! In
the Senate Hall of a People — and amid the
deep silence of a breathless multitude, he is
invested with the crude insignia of a great office
— he is hailed as the Liberator of a Nation
— acknowledged as the Ruler of freemen.

Such are the dreams of the Planter, and
rising from his seat he advances to the window,
and looks forth upon the night.

He smiles as he thinks of his waking dream
— and yet it still pursues him, with its pictures
of battles all ending with a free people,

all terminating in that scene, where a nation of
freemen hail their Ruler in the person of their
Liberator.

Smiling at his vague wild thoughts, the
Planter approached the table again — pauses for
a moment while the light streams over his
young face, already stamped with thought —
and then absently, scarce conscious of the action,
lays his hand upon his sword —

There is the danger, which the future has
in store for King George the Third.

There — in that hand grasping the sword —
in that eye lighting up with soul, in that face
stamped with a Prophecy of the Future —
there is the judgment which threatens the
future of King George and all Kings like
him.

They are burying the dead King in the Abbey.
They are placing the gorgeous coffin in
the vault; there are lines of torches, and
splendid apparel, deep crowds of mourners,
and a living King beside his grave.

At the same moment, perchance the Virginia
Planter, away in his new-world home, in
his silent chamber, grasps his sword, and dares
to think of the Future.

He utters certain half-coherent words —

“This sword I wore at Braddock's field —
and” —

He did not say where he would wear it
again, but his hand presses firmly the hilt of
his sword.

Was his dream false? Did that sword ever
threaten the power of King George?