 | CHAPTER IX. Logan |  |
9. CHAPTER IX.
`What shall we do, now?' said lady Elvira, to Harold,
as they sat, leaning in the starlight, against an
old, and decayed oak, that outspread its wilderness of
branches over a bed of spotted rocks, that glittered in
the thin water, as it rattled by them, and sprinkled the
rich and variegated moss with a profusion of fine drops,
like seed pearl, or crystal dust. It was their favourite
retreat of late. From it, they were now accustomed
to see the lordly sun descend from his chariot, and
trample over the hills, while the whole concave of heaven
was flashing and changing with the irradiation
that issued from his garniture. `What shall we do?
This life is not worthy of us. Where is our ambition?
thine, and mine?—Ah, do not look so sadly, Harold.
It is not utterly extinct. Thy path is not yet over the
bleak and iron precipices of life—but thy stature is too
lofty, and thy stride too far, for the plains. It hath not
perished—hath it?'
`No, Elvira, no! it hath not, cannot perish!' said Harold,
pressing his hands to his heart, with strong emphasis—`But
our Ambition—no, not ours, but mine, has
been a wasting, and discontented spirit. I should tremble
to see her resuscitated.'
`So should I, Harold. But there is something to be
done, here, is there not?'
`Yes, much, much. A world is opening before us:
and might I be permitted to avail myself of its mysterious
and wonderful resources—then, Elvira, then
(his eyes lighted, and he stood suddenly upon his feet)
my dominion.'
Elvira caught the lustre of his eyes, and reflected it,
like a panoply of steel—she turned, and gazed upon
him with rapturous astonishment. His fine face was all
on fire—his broad forehead, so spacious, so sublime—
and his parted lips were full of gallant intensity.
`What wouldst thou, Harold?' asked she, tremblingly,
with her beautiful arm reposing on his shoulder, and
her hand locked in his, and holding back her luxuriant
brown hair, her eyes shining in their moisture, the
moisture of an overflowing heart, sending up its exhalations
to heaven—and eyelids quivering, like white
blossom-leaves, in the starlight—`what wouldst thou,
Harold?'
`Indeed, I know not what. All about the future is
vague and indistinct; but this I do feel, (turning about
with energy, and facing her, like a prince; with a look,
that spoke volumes)—this! that I should be, if I might,
something worthy of thee!—or perish—nay, love, tears!
yet, who would not weep? I, even I, who never weep
but in suffocation, never in pain—even I could fall
upon thy bosom, at this moment, and weep, aloud.
For thou, Elvira, even thou—wast the first, strong, generous
impulse of my nature. Thy hand was the first that
awoke, and stirred up the embers of my heart. It was
a solitude, a cold hearth stone, till I saw thee. My
first passion had blazed brightly, but there was no
warmth in it—at thy voice, my mind, a desert till then,
swarmed with a gigantick, and kingly population. Nay,
do not doubt me—even she whom I first loved—she,
who would have sold me, but the other night, to bondage
and death—even she, at the moment of my first
thrilling, and passionate love, when my veins tingled,
my temples throbbed, and the blood gusned from my
nostrils, at the sound of her voice—even she could not
awaken me as thou didst. But I disturb thee love; why so
melancholy? surely thou wouldst not covet such a passion,
so unreasonable, so merely constitutional!—O, Elvira,
thy deep breathing, the lifeless slumbering of thy hand
in mine, betoken a strange answer to my supplication.
Art thou unhappy? have I done aught to offend thee?
thee, thou majestick creature. Nay, do not tremble so.
Do not doubt me. Be assured, love, that it is better
for me to speak of the past, though I speak of it in convulsion;
no matter at what expense of agony and terrour,
than to shut up the poison and death, in the darkness,
and solitude, and loneliness of my heart. The silent,
secret, settled brooding of the spirit, that may be
fatal. This is not. No remedy can reach the hidden
wound; to be touched, the sore heart must be unclothed.
Then do not doubt me; have I not told my love,
openly, freely.'
`They love, oh, Harold, Harold, I cannot bear it. To
hear thee tell of love to another, is insupportable. My
heart sickens at the thought.'
`Nay, why that look of terrour? what seest thou?'
`Oscar! oh, it is Oscar, himself,' she exclaimed,
throwing herself upon his bosom.
`Elvira!' said Harold, in dismay—`what ails thee?'
She bowed her head upon his hands, kissed them, and
wept upon them. Had he understood her? his agony
was now like hers. She had loved Oscar: thought of
him, even in his arms! It was a pang, a bolt of lightning;
it seared his heart, and blinded him, as it hissed
through the blood of his overloaded brain. He was
speechless.
There was a silence—a breathless, melancholy, and
almost resentful silence, followed, boding much evil to
their haughty, and still trembling hearts. Harold was
the first to break it. They were approaching the house;
a few paces more, and they would have passed the
threshold—a few paces, and they might have gone too
far for reconciliation; they would be observed, and
every moment of delay would be a new impediment,
hindering each, from advancing first.
Harold gasped for breath. `Elvira,' said he, pressing
the hand, which had hung coldly in his, for many
minutes—`can it be? must our acquaintance end here?'
She trembled, attempted to reply; but her voice failed
her for she was as proud as he, and felt as sensibly,
the peril of such a silence, at such a moment, and
upon his arm.
He understood it! involuntary, as it seemed, for what
will not the heart that truly loves, understand? He understood
it, as pardon, and light, and life, and reconciliation.
`Heaven bless thee,' he cried, and fell upon
her neck, and gently touched it with his lips.
`One moment, dear Elvira,' he added, detaining
her near the entrance, `let us beware—there are some
themes, some! that are treacherous, desperate. Let
us not rashly take offence; let us be patient, forgiving.
O, Elvira, we shall have much to forget, thou especially,
above all—(her countenance was here turned toward
him, full of noble, and tender expression; and
her eyes overflowed, and her lips murmured like some
fountain, hastily gushing out, in harmony and light)
above all! let us swear, here, in the sight of heaven,
with the recollection of the last few moments upon our
hearts, let us swear to be patient, not to resolve, precipitately,
not to believe hastily, whatever may happen—
thou hast loved before?'
`And thou!'
`Yes, I admit it. Our experience is alike. Why
shouldst thou tremble for me? I do not for thee. I do
not feel my heart sink within me, at the mention of his
name, though I confess—'
`True—but he is dead.'
`And how knowest thou, that she is not?'
`O, I know she is not!'—She checked herself suddenly,
as she said this, but Harold did not appear to
observe it, or if he did, the troubled shadow upon his
forehead, probably arose at the mention of her name.'
`Beside,' said Elvira, reproachfully, `Ye are not
faithful in love, as we are.'
`O, believe me! we are, indeed we are! we feel with
a masculine steadiness, and strength, in our brain, artery,
forever and ever.'
`I hope not.'
Harold paused, and looked down. `Yes, it is true,'
he added, `I shall feel a vital tenderness for her, to
my last hour—so helpless, so impassioned, so dependent
as she was on me, for her whole happiness. Yet,
never felt aught that resembled it, before: so exalted,
so pure, so respectful, yet so tender and thrilling. And
love, dear woman, like friendship, may differ in degrees,
and quality.'
Elvira sighed.
`My own experience proves this to me. Why that
sigh? do I not love thee, as tenderly, as devotedly, as
thou lovest me? and why shouldst thou feel a more agitating
emotion, at hearing the name of—of Loena, than I
do, at the name of Oscar—merciful powers! that cry!
Is his name so terrible yet?—`Elvira!' (his voice grew
solemn, awfully solemn) `beware!'—a moment's silence
followed, which was interrupted, by a sudden alteration
of his whole countenance, as if some uninvited,
strange thought, had suddenly flashed into his mind,
and he continued, in a suffocating, earnest tone.
`O, Elvira, hear me—am I—hear me—I will kneel
to thee! I do, behold me here. Let me die here, die at
thy feet; but oh, speak the truth—O, speak it I conjure
thee, by all that we have suffered, or hoped! by all
that we have felt, or feigned! by our hopes of happiness
here, and mercy hereafter! O, speak the truth,
tell me, am I beloved, for mine own sake, or O, is it
—is it only for my resemblance to my poor brother!
O, speak to me, thy tears are blistering, they fall upon
my forehead, like a rain of fire—thy tenderness for
him—'
`For thine own sake, and thine, alone, beloved of
my soul,' said Elvira, sobbing against his cheek. `Now,
I love thee, for thine own sake; at first, I did not. At
first, I loved thee, without knowing it, for thy resemblance
to him, the lord, the sceptred one of my broken
heart; but as I came to know thee better, and found in
thee all his heroick greatness, with other, and more
awful virtues, O, I could not but love thee, then, for
thine own sake, alone!—tenderness for Oscar! tenderness!
O, no believe me, I never felt aught that resembled
it, till I encountered thee. Why, Harold, at the
very sound of thy voice, thy tread, I could fall flat upon
my face, and weep for joy, sometimes—a delicious and
something, that I cannot express, makes me so humble,
so thankful, when I am near thee! Ah, I am then too
happy! I tremble for myself, when I am alone—I look
for some calamity to follow; nay, I expect it.'
`It is wise, Elvira,' said Harold, tenderly, `we
must expect it—be prepared for it—change—suffering
—death!'
Such was the nature of all their conversation, evening,
after evening, until Harold, who had been sending
his emissaries all over the continent of America,
to obtain accurate information respecting the number,
disposition, and resources of the red men, received
enough to authorise his revisiting some of the deep solitudes
that he had haunted in his youth.
`I cannot rest,' said he, one morning to Elvira, as
he sat with her hands held to his heart, `I cannot rest.
The god of my fathers, the red Logan is upon me! I
must redress the wrongs of his children—I must. I
must learn their fate.'
A few tears, a few expostulations, a parting kiss, and
Harold slung his rifle, selected his dogs, the fiercest
and strongest of the breed, and with one servant successively
visited the Canadian Indians, the Penobscots,
the Five Nations, and the southern Creeks and Cherokees.
Wherever he went, he was hailed with enthusiasm;
he sought for the vestiges of his kindred. There was
not a trace left—some said they had amalgamated with
a tribe of the Iroquois—others that they had gone to
the western world—and others that they had passed
that, to the land of souls, and that they had been seen,
running their wild horses over the steel pavement of
heaven. Everywhere—yes, everywhere, he found the
Indian trampled upon, derided, mocked at, scorned,
and cheated. His great heart arose within him.
Should he build up a coalition, a confederacy? Might
he not erect an empire of his own, and roll back, upon
the whites, the flood of encroachment, with which they
had swept away the red nations of America? Night
and day he fevered with this thought. Night and
crowns upon their heads. He could not sleep; he had
no appetite, and was wasted to a shadow, before he
brought his menacing and ambitious spirit to confess
that war was no longer a profession worthy of the good
man; and least of all, such a war.
This was his determination. Was there then no
remedy for the red men—no punishment for their
oppressors, no employment for his power? Although
he might not lay waste and scatter the habitations of
the white, was there nothing to be done?
He returned to Elvira. Weeks of enjoyment, and
confidence, passed away, but his countenance was still
thoughtful, and even stern at times—yea, wrathful.
She was leaning upon his shoulder, one day, and her
beautiful arm encircled his neck, negligently, but affectionately;
he had been silent for many minutes.
`I must go—I will!' said he.
`Well, then, go,' said she, smiling, `if you must
and will.'
Harold put his hand to his forehead, `he did not
understand her,' he said,—`not from thee, love—not
from thee.'
`And whither, then?'
`To England! Aye, woman of my heart, to England,
brave old England,' pressing his lip to her snowy forehead,
while the scarlet flew over it, like a flash of fire.
`To England! how? when? for what?' said Elvira,
turning deadly pale.
`Immediately; in the first ship, to get law and right
for my derided countrymen.'
`But how?'
`By shaming to scorn the ministry, the plantation
committees, and the council board. Gracious heaven!
how blind and deaf they are!—here have they parcelled
out an empire, and given kingdoms to the petty,
depredating pedlars of the country—loosened a set of
hell hounds, hungry and fleet, among the naked population
of a continent, to lay waste, and spoil. It shall
not be, Elvira, it shall not be! One effort, and we shall
will then be happy.'
She understood him. This was the first time that
he had ever audibly alluded to that event, and she
thrilled and shivered from head to foot, as he did so
now.
Harold was rapid in resolve, but more rapid in execution.
His materials were ready. In two weeks from
that day, he was under sail, with Elvira, from America
—preparing his proofs to confound the ministry. He
soon arrived, and strong in the consciousness of his
power and honesty, he carried his remonstrances directly
to the Premier, (the greatest that Britain ever
saw in her cabinet.) `The question shall be taken up,'
said the Premier, returning the papers, with an eye of
strong anxiety and respect, `in due season. We shall
want your assistance. You will take care not to be out
of the way. Leave your address, and we will send for
you.'
The Premier was as good as his word. Notice was
given in the house, the very next evening, that a parlimentary
investigation would be moved on the following
Monday.
The motion, at first, appeared to excite little or no
attention; but, as it came to be considered, in all its
consequences, and relations, the genius of the British
constitution herself was invoked, and arose with a disturbed
and darkened countenance. Confederacies were
formed, council engaged, and most of the chartered
communities of the empire were agitated. Even the
East India Company participated in the general sensation,
and manifested their solicitude by vehement
efforts to suppress the inquiry, probably as a precedent,
by which they might be reached, at some future day,
if it were not protested against, in its very conception,
or strangled in its birth.
The momentous day came, and after a desultory
debate, a formal motion was made to appoint a committee
from the house to inquire into, and report upon
the manner of treating and trading with the North
American Indians, by the British colonial governments,
&c. &c. &c.
Harold was in a fever. The house of lords had been
two days vehemently occupied, when Harold, who had
regularly taken his seat in the gallery, began to be
pointed out, and talked of with eagerness, enthusiasm,
and extravagance. On the third evening he had scarcely
taken his seat, when he was called out by the serjeant
at arms to attend the house, in a committee of
the whole. He trembled from head to foot; all eyes
were upon him; and when he descended, it was with a
desperate courage, that blinded and stupified him for
some minutes.
Behold him now. He is standing near the great table.
The lord Chancellor is before him. The judges
of England are about him—her greatest men before
and behind him. He dares not lift up his eyes. There is,
at first, a continual hum of bustling eagerness and preparation,
followed, at length, by a more appalling silence.
It grows dark about him. His lips and throat are
parched; he sees nothing, hears nothing but a confused
ringing in his ears.
`Young man,' said somebody near him, `remember
your duty—yourself.'
Harold trembled the more, for as he turned the flash
of his eye in the direction whence the voice proceeded,
he was unable to detect the speaker. There was a mist,
a darkness before him, and the ermine that he saw was
like a white vapour, moving in the wind; the very atmosphere
appeared full of faces. He was ready to sink
down upon the the floor.
`Harold! Harold! Harold! was distinctly breathed
in his ear again. He turned, and the wildness of his
eye, and fixedness of his look, in the mortal silence of
the place, as it wandered over the countenances near
him, and then turned away, sicker, and sicker at heart,
gave a more noble and interesting, though deathlike
expression to his countenance. There was a general,
and delighted murmur of encouragement.
`Son of Logan!' said the voice aloud, as if passing
over him in the air.
`Powers of heaven!' cried Harold, his great spirit
breaking out, all at once, at the sound, as if he were
instant, he stood before, no ermine and coronets, but
naked men, under no dome but the dome of heaven,
lighted by stars and council fires.
The change was instantly greeted as portentous. To
the looks of compassionate solicitude, doubtfulness,
dismay, and trembling expectation, there instantly succeeded
an animated and confident expression of hope,
in the whole house.
Harold's arms were folded. He spoke! the sound of
his own voice would have frightened him the moment
before, or even a moment later—he spoke! exactly at
the extremest moment of his power and self-possession.
`Englishmen,' said he, `my lords, why am I summoned
to your bar? arrayed against all this formidable
accumulation of power and magnificence. Would
you oppress me? would you intimidate me? I was born
an American, of an Indian: an Englishman was my
father, a daughter of Logan my mother.
`I have been told, nay, you have all been told, that I
appear as the advocate, the champion, of Indian rights.
I am not. God is their advocate, their champion. God
himself, with whom my countrymen, the red men of
America, hold their communion in the deep solitudes of
another world.
`These forms, shame on them—I have submitted to
them, my lords, that I might be heard, not for my own
sake, for I have no interest apart from my countrymen,
but for them. And therefore have I stooped to appear
before you, not in my true character, one of the oppressed
bowing before his oppressors, and praying that
a whole people may be heard at this bar—no!—but
merely and only, for so your ceremonies have prescribed,
as the friend of one poor creature, one that is
helpless, friendless, and naked; one whom you, yes,
you, my lords—for your ministers have done it, and
you are answerable for it—have stripped of his possessions.
Do you ask who this is? It is Logan, Logan
himself! my ancestor.
`The petitioner, my lords, with his whole family, is
in his grave. But their spirits are here, here, at my
side! At this moment, Logan himself is whispering in
my ears—my voice flows only at his prompting. He
comes before you, over the Atlantick; stands before
you, in the shape and presence of his child, outstretches
his arms, and proclaims aloud the wrong and suffering
that you have afflicted him with. He was a monarch.
You have shattered his crown, mocked at his
calamities, and trampled him in the dust. He was a
father. You have left him desolate and alone. He was
an ally. You have degraded him to slavery; and the
wages of his devotion to you, have been scorn, and oppression,
and misery.
`His dominion was an empire. It was given to him
by Almighty God. He held it by no earthly tenure,
no vassalage, no feud, no mediate nor intermediate
sovereign, lord or man. How have you reverenced his
title? You have spoiled him of his inheritance, butchered
his family, and banished him beyond the mountains.
`Yet this, even this, is not all, my lords.
`The time has now come, when you, as the supreme
tribunal of this empire, shall learn the truth of the red
men. Oh, you know not what we have suffered. Outrage
and derision have been measured out to us, till
we have learned to turn sick with hatred and abhorrence,
at the very name or approach of a white man.
We are numerous, warlike, generous—faithful!—Oh!
yes, strange as it may sound, faithful, accustomed as
you are to hearing all that is perfidious, and treacherous,
associated with the name of the Indian, still—faithful
unto death. I know what I am saying, my lords; I
am not beside myself. I know what I owe to the dignity
of this house; and I am not desperate enough to
provoke its power; but I say to you that the red men
of America are, and ever have been, and always will
be, faithful to them that are faithful.
`My lords, you have been abused, shamefully abused.
You have been cheated and played with. It is time
that you awake—I have come prepared to disabuse
will prove to you that your patience, and magnanimity,
have been set at nought, blinded, and sacrificed, by
your rabble authorities in America.
`Remember, I pray you, my lords, that here, in the face
of this awful assembly, unused as I am to such a presence,
inexperienced as I am, I am prepared to encounter the
wrath of all that shall dare to contradict me. Hear me, my
lords, hear me calling on the Judge of the quick and
the dead, to record my testimony, and smite me with
his heaviest hand, here! to dust and ashes upon the
spot, if I err, or prevaricate—and now behold me: I
lay down my hands upon this gospel, and swear in his
presence, and before you, that there never has been a
fair treaty violated by the red men of America! Are
you amazed? Treaties! gracious heaven! what treaties
were they? One party took, and the other yielded.
One struck and the other stood still. Kingdoms and
states and empires were bartered for baubles; and
peace lasted only till these territories were taken possession
of, and the white spoiler saw that there was
something yet left, beyond, to the red men of America.
And yet, even these treaties were kept by the Indians.
`Sometimes, it is true, my lords, the Indian, who had
been drugged with your infernal poisons, and made
drunk by stratagem, would awake in delirium, from the
infatuation into which you had beguiled him; and then,
like the wild beast in the net, he would rend, tear the
meshes with which he had been encompassed. Was
this wonderful? Is it wonderful, that men who went to
sleep, with whole provinces in their grasp, and awoke,
without land enough of their own, to bury their abused
children in, should be wrathful and vindictive?'
`No!—they were cheated in their treaties. The law
of nations permitted them to break and scatter the parchment,
that imprisoned them. When their treaties were
fair and honest, the red men always kept them. Do ye
as much? Is it not, my lords, is it not a part of your
political religion, creed—that a treaty imposed upon a
nation, by power, terrour, or fraud—in cruelty or wickedness,
while they are unable to break it.'
`You keep your treaties, when fair and honest. So
do we. You break them that are questionable. We do
not. You disdain and scatter all fetters, that are unworthily
rivetted upon you. So do we! In what particular
then, are we worse than you? Nay, are we so
bad? The men of North America adhere to treaties,
that the people of Europe would burst asunder, in
wrath and ruin, the first moment of their power.'
`But facts, facts, are called for. You shall have
them. Look at William Penn. Were his treaties fair?
Were they ever broken? No! Was the Indian faith
ever doubted or denied in that province? No, no! The
very women and children slept quietly, with their doors
open; and my brethren, the red men, coming in, and
going out of their habitations, at all hours of the night!
So much for that government.
`Turn your eyes eastward. Look into the doings of
New Plymouth, and the Providence plantations. Their
history is the same. Look to their treaties. All that
your lordships would not blush to acknowledge your
countrymen as parties to, all!—without any exception,
were religiously observed by the red men. I appeal to
their history. Their history? God of heaven! From
whom have we the history of Indian wrongs, and Indian
outrages? From the wronged, and abused, and insulted!—oh,
no—no! but from the insulters, the oppressors,
the spoilers themselves! O, that some Indian
had arisen, to record the doings of the pious and benignant!
What a bloody and perfidious tragedy it would
have been!—for even now, my lords, even now—I say it
because I know it—with my own eyes and ears, have
I seen and heard what I say; because I have journeyed
from the Atlantic to the Pacific—from the north to the
south, exploring the character, history, and sufferings
of my poor brethren; even now, are your doings as
wise and merciful!'
`Look to your own histories. Even to them do I
appeal; to them, the records of the zealot, the persecutor,
and the fanatick, the interested, and profligate.
such barbarity perpetrated upon us! there are voices
that ought to shake the genius of your empire, were
she slumbering within the ashes of its ruin; like the
sound of the last trumpet, ringing abroad through all
heaven and earth, the empty skies, and the subterraneous
solitudes of this globe—and awaken her in fear
and trembling.'
`But the treaties. Do the French ever complain that
the Indians break their treaties with them? No, never.
They are magnanimous and wise. Will you go with
me, awhile to the south—to the Carolinas? So truly
were all the treaties, that bear the common marks of
decency, observed by the Indians there, that not one
instance of violation on their part, can be found. Nay,
so well is this known by the white settlers, and so confidently
trusted to by them, that, when a treaty is made
with the Indians, it is only necessary to publish it abroad
by proclamation, and the very frontier lands, those that
touch upon the Indian possessions, are instantly swarming
with an awakened, unarmed, yet secure population
of young whites. Read it to one of the whites, and according
as the terms are, he will abandon his lands; or
go to his tillage, with his rifle slung and cocked; or
ramble about, with no other arms than his implements
of husbandry.'
`If the treaty be not more reproachful, more humiliating,
more outrageous, than was ever imposed upon
conquered rebels, living among the nations of Europe,
your Indian allies in America will keep it, as the faith
of their fathers. But there are none such of late. All
the treaties of purchase, are treaties of abandonment,
and surrender; like these made by the abject to, not
with, those who have held their hand in the extremity
of their provocation, and refrained from annihilating
them, even in the excess and rashness of their power.'
`Thus much, my lords, for treaties. There are yet
other subjects, upon which you are mightily abused.
Would you know the Indian character? You talk of
your Spartans, your Greeks—you are surprised, my
lords, but Indian as I am, I am familiar with the deeds
till my blood thrilled. Why? By heaven, I thought that I
was reading the history of my own people. As I passed
along, generation after generation of their history,
there was not a great act, no, not one, which I could
not have paralleled in the history of my own little
tribe. Were the Spartans fiercer in combat? more deadly,
no! were they more adroit, subtile? persevering?
immoveable, taciturn? no—are we more effeminate,
luxurious? no—was their chastity like ours? their self-denial,
their fortitude? It will not be pretended. Was it
ever heard that an Indian offered violence to a woman?
never! that he ever cried out, though his vitals were
broiling at the stake, though he were blinded and choked
by the vapour of his own blood, as it fell, mingling
with his sweat, and hissed upon the living coals that
encompassed him? no, never!—were they cunning, cautious
in war? so are we. Is it a reproach to us? then
is it to yourselves. The Indian holds it a mortal reproach
to be taken alive in battle, or even to fall—
and so should you. Ye are inconsistent. They are not.
They would capture without losing a man, if they
could, and so would you. What is your art of war?
your most consummate generalship? what! but the perfected,
scientifick stratagem of the Indian? Is it not
the essence of all military knowledge, to do your enemy
the greatest injury, with the least injury to yourself?
It is; yet the red man is called a coward, and the
white, a general! What has given Hannibal his name?
Was he more wary, fuller of resources, more indestructible,
or vigilant, that the commonest Indian? no! why
is Xenephon remembered? for his retreat! why? such a
retreat has nothing wonderful in it, except in the
strength of them that retreated, to the Indian ear. Our
parties, ours! penetrate for hundreds of miles, into the
very heart of an enemy's country, and return, often
and often, encumbered with spoil, without the loss of
a man.'
`But, let us speak of their religion. It is said, that
they have none. No religion! the red man of North
America, no religion! Almighty God! Thou, whom the
tree branches, swinging in the hurricane—Thou!
whose thunders and voices are his familiar musick,
from his earliest hour—Thou! whom he has listened
to, through all his childhood, while thy ten thousand
chariots rattled over the rocky mountain tops that surround
him—Thou! whom he pursues, and worships,
at all seasons—in winter, and summer; in day, and
night; in the caverns of the earth, or upon the rude water;
in blood and sweat, with the truest veneration; a
veneration that can only be felt in his temples, that
shame to darkness the most gorgeous of yours, with a
simplicity and nakedness of heart, like that of our first parent,
when he stood first under thy blue sky, and chanted
with the rejoicing elements—Thou, alone, shalt
judge if the great heart of the Indian does not palpitate
more loudly in his devotion, amid the awful silence
of his sanctuary, than any heart among the habitations
of the white men! wilt thou not judge us!'
`No religion! behold yon patriarch upon his face!
There hath he been ever since the sun went down.
Look at yon warriour, stretching his glossy limbs in the
shadow of yon rifted oak, teaching his naked boy how
to feather his arrow and barb his javelin. He is a father.
Is he not religious? lo! he is teaching his child to
defend his inheritance. He is training him in the first
lesson of patriotism, and is not patriotism, religion?'
`Would you hear of individual acts of heroism?
Hearken to me. I have seen a nation sitting in council—such
was their pride and grandeur of spirit, when
their liberties were in peril—and calmly deliberating
whether they should put all their women and children
to death! yea, and I have known the proposition rejected
by only two votes![1]
Can ye parallel that? the men
of Jerusalem did it, but what other people ever conceived
a thought so terrible, so sublime, so surpassing
all that Athens thought of, when she fled, with her
very gates, and embarked upon the water?'
`Look through our whole history. Take the malignant
and scornful misrepresentation of our enemies,
who dared not tell the truth, and you will find heroick
examples, of every virtue, nay the most heroick—
love, fortitude, bravery, perseverance, chastity, and all
others. There are Pocahontas, Alexander, Logan,
Philip of Mount Hope, Opechancanough, and a host
of others. Ransack the golden archives of history—tear
out every bright and burning page, and I will pledge myself
to produce, from the testimony of our enemies, who
knew not even our language, and we were a little people,
and but little known, and for a few years—an army of
blazing parallels, martyrs, heroes, orators, and kings.'
`But why pursue the theme of their greatness. Our
fathers, where are they? turn your eyes to the south—
where are our people? rolled back, nation upon nation,
people upon people, from ocean to ocean, from river
to river, from forest to forest, from the Atlantick
through the wilderness, over the mountains, into the
Pacifick! Look at the map! where once their possessions
were from the rising of the sun, even to the
going down of the same, where there was no outline,
no barrier, no boundary, you may now trace, with
your fingers, all that remain to them. They are cooped
up in a corner, a mere corner of the world, that they
once inhabited! My lords! I am authorised to say,
and I do say it, with a knowledge of the fact, that of
twenty-eight Indian tribes that inhabited South Carolina,
in 1670, when it began to be settled by the
whites, twenty-six have entirely disappeared.'[2]
`Do you not tremble? will you not weep? have you
no compassion for such men, nor for their descendants,
so wasted, so scattered! Think of your treatment to
them—yes, yours! know ye, ye sceptred, and crowned
princes of the land; ye ermined men, that occupy the
high places of power and glory in the dominion of your
countrymen, as a dominion of the righteous—know ye,
that the free-born savage of America, the unfettered roving
creature of a continent, is often hunted down, mana
authorities. My lords, I do aver, that native Indians
have been kidnapped by men of high rank, in your province
of South Carolina, and sent to the West Indies,
and sold as slaves!—Yes, wars are provoked, and bounties
are offered for the capture of Indians, and whole
cargoes are shipped to your plantations.[3] —Yes, wars,
wars, are excited between us, that you may purchase
the prisoners on each side.'[4]
`You complain of our scalping. You threaten us
with the malediction of your God for it. Will you believe
me, my lords? I declare it of my own knowledge,
that there is not a single province, not one, among all
your North American possessions, where the white government
has not offered a reward for scalps—The holy
charitable, and gentle fathers of New Plymouth, not
excepted.'
`But let me dwell a moment longer upon features
of individual greatness—you will forgive my desultory
rambling, my lords, I hope, and attribute it to its true
cause, inexperience in these matters, and unsubdued
feeling. I have not yet learnt to be calm, or stormy,
after the rules of Quintilian. Have you forgotten the
Virginia princess, a creature moulded in loveliness,
flashing from head to foot, with the irradiations of Divinity—beautiful,
even in her complexion, like the
Moorish girl, or the young Spaniard—of surpassing
grace, and majesty; so devoted, so tender, so passionately
tender! need I repeat her story? when the bravest
of your name, he, who among adventurers was the
chief; among knights, the loftiest, and among the romantick
and chivalrous, the first, and foremost; she
was his preserver!'
`Have you heard of Philip, Philip of Mount
Hope? By the eternal majesty of heaven! Greece,
and her Philip of Macedon, with all his intrigue, are
less terrible, less wonderful in history, than are Philip
of Mount Hope, and his confederacy! For thirteen
years, the Indian Philip held all the jarring spirits,
laughed to scorn all the strength and subtility, all the
intrigue and suspicion of his encompassing enemies!
He amalgamated whole tribes, bound together mortal
and hereditary foes, the timid and haughty, the wavering
and arrogant; yea, built up to himself an empire,
almost of elements, more conflicting and volcanick,
than were ever assembled before, by the might or
wisdom of men. And they obeyed him; they! for thirteen
years of darkness and temptation. For thirteen
years, that man continued at his work, day and night,
augmenting his power in silence, and concocting his
tremendous drugs in darkness, and they who begirt
him, round about, who looked upon him as their prisoner,
vassal, slave—when they awoke, and saw the
chain of annihiliation contracting about them, like a
tremendous serpent, knew not where to touch a single
link or coil, with any hope of escape! Ruin and death
had enmeshed them, while they watched like armed
sentinels over naked men! For thirteen years, did Philip
of Mount Hope play this game. Did he of Macedon
do as much? no, no, he could not have done it, he was
not the man to do it—Not the statesman, the captain,
nor the politician, to do it! The Indian Philip was the
more wily, indefatigable, resolute, and unappeasable
of the two. I appeal again to history. Your whole population
were within a few hours of being exterminated,
and how were they saved? Great God! you talk of
treachery! you talk of faith in war! you, ye men of
Plymouth! O, shame on your memories! ye cruel, cowardly
assassins! Ye were Philip's murderers, not his
conquerors! You bought his blood, the blood of a monarch;
set his confidential friend, his minister, to the
work of death, yea, and boasted of it when it was
done! What Indian ever did this? what barbarian,
whose name has not been left weltering and accursed,
in the blood that he had so basely purchased!'
`Would ye have another instance, another, of your
damnable perfidy? My lords, my lords, let me mention
one more, one only, for my heart is bursting!'
`Some of your whites, in their wantonness, were
A quarrel ensued, and some whites were killed. Governor
Littleton of South Carolina, demanded the
murderers. The Indians treated his demand respectfully.
They called a council. They selected thirty-two
chiefs from among them, of the best blood, and
bravest name, in their nation, and sent them all, as
ambassadors, mark me, as ambassadors, to the governor,
to remonstrate, and conclude some treaty, promising
to deliver the murderers, when they were known,
and caught. And this was all that they could do. These
ambassadors were thrown into prison. Their countrymen
heard of it, and their proud hearts boiled over at
the indignity. They entered the territory of the whites
for vengeance. What then? these thirty-two ambassadors,
coming under the holiest sanction of religion and
law, the law of nations, were imprisoned in a room not
large enough for six persons;[5] and then, for this was not
enough, it seemed—it was afterwards ordered that
they should be ironed hand and foot, aye, ironed! The
attempt was made, and he who first proffered the manacles,
was struck dead at the feet of the Indian. This
was the signal for massacre! the whole garrison fell
upon them, unarmed, and defenceless as they were,
and butchered the whole thirty-two, and threw them
out, to welter and bleed, like carrion, under the beak of
the vulture.'
`There was another affair too, in Pennsylvania,
where a body of helpless Indians, who had given
themselves up to the faith of the government, were
broken in upon at night, even in their place of refuge,
the common jail, and butchered, every living creature,
in cold blood.'
`But I cannot go on. My heart is too full—O, my
lords, believe me. You know us not. You are profoundly
ignorant of our qualities. We are powerful and warlike,
stern, vindictive and implacable, where it is a virtue;
but kind and generous, and devoted to excess, where it
is wise to be so.
`My lords, I tremble for you! You have made us
desperate. Twice, nay three times, have we associated
in a coalition so tremendous, as to involve every living
creature of the whites, in its contemplated work of
wrath; and thrice, almost by a miracle, have you escaped,
when our plans were matured, and all the dangers
of preparation were passed.
`This day, my lords, I have heard language in this
house,—that—oh, if I were but one of you for a few
hours, I would lift up my voice like the thunder of
my native hills, and pray you to forbear—this day
have I heard such language, such consummate misrepresentation
of our rights and history, nay of our very
geography, that I should have been moved to pity and
scorn, were it not that my tears blinded me. Our continent
has been cut up into islands by one of your
members, and whole provinces converted into lakes
and rivers, by the blundering of your statesmen. You
smile, my lords; I am sorry for it, the solemnity of the
subject would—but I forbear—I could have wept,
aloud, but I am an Indian.
`We have been called Scythians. Call us so—we
bend the bow of the strong man, and our enemies are
sacrificed in blood, and flame. Great names have been
cited, yet I, Indian as I was, I did not tremble. I dare
to evoke the same. Grotius has been cited, yes, Grotius,
he who so gravely deduces our relationship to
the Chinese, from a number of ridiculous fables, which,
theory and all, he has stolen from another.[6]
He says
that wrecks of Chinese vessels are found upon the
shores of the Pacific, that we worship the sun, that we
write, like the Chinese, from the bottom to the top of
the page—
`Others affect to find traces of the Jewish ritual
among us. Others the customs of Tartary. Others
that we are Christians. And others say we cannot be
descended from the Tartars, because we have no horses!—no
horses! because, say they, the Tartars would
have carried their horses with them, even in shipwreck
much of the Norwegian dialect, and German language,
is to be distinguished among us. And others again
would make us Welchmen!—But why reiterate such
nonsense. It is only the childishness of learned men.
It is no matter whence we are sprung, from the sun,
or the earth, the whirlwind; or, like Adam, from the
nostrils of the Deity. Enough for us, that the everlasting
God is our friend. Your Creator is our Creator.
Of the same elements, the same materials, as you are
made, we are made. We have all the same passions,
the same infirmities, and are accountable to the same
God. Are we not also in his image? Woe to the hand,
then, that defaces or pollutes it? But who has done
this? You, you have done it. You have wronged us,
mocked at us, trampled on us, trodden us in the dust,
rolled us back, nation upon nation, people upon people,
until we know not where to set our foot, or lay our
heads. Beware! Ye have mightily wronged us.
`You complain—of what? Because we have made
war upon your wives and little ones. Men! men! would
ye not do the same? How came you upon us? We were
naked and helpless—you, invulnerable—we met you
with bows and arrows; and you wielded the thunder,
hurled the lightning, at our hearts. Was it not so?
Suppose that some people should descend upon you from
the clouds, and literally charge upon you in a tempest
of fire, shod and sheathed and panoplied, from head
to foot in armour, and rain down blood and death upon
you. Suppose that you should be persuaded to receive
them, feed them, watch them; and that in return you
should be driven back, back, back, forever back from the
fires, and dust and bones of your ancestry, having left no
hunting grounds, no burial places, no land that was
your fathers', would you not turn upon them in your
desperation? would you not? Would you not yearn to
requite upon them, living or dying, the evil that they had
visited upon you. Would you spare them? or their
old men, or their women, or their children? Would
not the law of self preservation command you to their
death? Oh, let me beseech you, ask yourselves. Would
their bones to dust, and giving their ashes to the
wind and water, their blood to the desert?'
`Such was our case! Ye came upon us with fire
and thunder; not, it is true, of the clouds, but of the
earth. You arose from the Ocean. Ye sat yourselves
down upon our altars, with our household gods, ate
with us, slept with us, drank of our cup, and ate of
our bread; cheated, poisoned and murdered us. Ye
drove us backward, league after league, into the black
wilderness, where a perpetual rain falls, and the sun
is shut out. Yea, even there, when the solitude and
silence had become supportable to us, even there, you
pursued us; but we were at bay! we turned, we fell
upon your tombs, your sepulchres, your hearths and
fire places, your cradles; we spared neither wolf nor
whelp.—Tremble.—I have done.—Tremble!—The
vengeance of the Almighty will not sleep forever.—I
have done—My strength, but not my courage, is exhausted.
God forgive you, men of England, if you
slight my voice. My voice!—it is not mine. It is the
voice of congregated multitudes, of whole nations, lifting
up their pinioned arms, and shouting for redress.
It is their voice that you hear. Bear patiently with
it. It is their right. Do you righteously with them,
and so as you do unto them, and theirs, this day, may
their God, and your God, do unto you, and your posterity,
forever and ever, in the retribution of his power.'
He sat down, overwhelmed and speechless, amid a
general burst of feeling and consternation. The house
literally trembled and quaked with his presence. Never
had the walls of the Roman capital shaken to such
tremendous denunciation, so original, so majestick, so
wild and vigorous. His front and bearing, the impressive
action of his limbs, his illuminated eyes, his gathered
brow, the changing of his cheek and forehead,
the planted tread, and free, lordly motion of his arm—
Oh, they were astonished and dismayed at it.
They who, for half a century, had been familiar with
all the sublimity and power of a British senate, in all
been accustomed to having their passions assailed, for
half a century, by wisdom, eloquence, and address,
without effect, without excitement, without emotion;
they, even they, their eyes were flashing, and their lips
quivering, when Harold sank down, like men that are
contemplating a great battle, between giants, within the
solitude of a continent.
Harold fainted—and whole years afterward, he
would turn deadly pale, when he thought of what he
had encountered, on this occasion. So it is—our blood
will run cold in thinking of a transaction, which, at the
time, scarcely disturbed us.
The effect was, indeed, most flattering. A thousand
officious hands were thrust forward to his support; a
thousand eyes glanced encouragement and delight upon
him. But one countenance—one, the first that he saw
when he awoke, one that he never forgot, it haunted
him to his last moment, its awful front, so high, so
full of composure and solemnity, so steadfast, so dignified,
a face for Michael Angelo to dream of, so
mild, and old, and resolute, and august, oh, I cannot
describe it—that countenance was nearest to him.
`Young man,' said a voice, bending over him, `when
you have recovered, you will follow this gentleman.'
Harold bowed, he could not speak, there was such
an air of royalty about the retiring presence, that he
could have sworn it to be of the blood of kings.
Harold was mistaken. The princely stranger was
not even of the nobility. But he was more. He was a
man, a statesman, one who watched and revered the
first working of greatness in the young.
Harold followed his conductor. They arrived at a
magnificent old-fashioned pile, so retired and built
round about by trees and walls, that, but for the court
yard, thronged with splendid equipages, Harold would
have believed himself approaching some battered fortress
of gone-by days, that had withstood the tempestuous
visitation of battle and earthquake, wind, age,
and thunder.
His guide passed on, looking neither to the right
nor the left, through a long antichamber, crowded with
with difficulty, and feeling an awe that he would
have blushed to confess, at the presence of so much
parade and ceremony. His guide too, youthful and
kind as he was, appeared to move with more stateliness,
and tread with a less vascillating emphasis, as
he passed through the throng of anxious eyes and
throbbing hearts, and approached the abiding place of
the great man. Nay, was not that action of his hand,
that careless nod, somewhat haughty, arrogant, supercilious?
Was he one of those who reward with smiles,
because they are too dastardly of spirit to frown? No,
he and his master were alike. They gave the whole,
or nothing.
One more step, only one more, and Harold stood
before the stranger. His presence was unexpected, it
seemed, for the latter appeared to thrust something
into his bosom, with a little trepidation, as he looked
round.
`Young man,' said he, `sit down; Mr. Morville
will call in an hour for his instructions.'
The conductor bowed, reverentially, affectionately,
and departed. The stranger took out his watch, looked
at it, `three quarters, yes,' said he, in a low voice, and
then laying it on the table, repeated in a louder tone,
`I have just three quarters of an hour to devote to you.
Tell me who you are? what? whence? your pursuits,
temper, and views. Treat me as your friend, as if I
had known you from your birth. If I find you deserving,
I can, and will be of service to you. You have
astonished me to-day. But that is not sufficient to
satisfy me. It is easier to astonish, than to reason, to
electrify than to convince. Make it appear that you
are, what I think you are, and I am your friend.'
Harold bowed; he was unused to such majestick
kindness and frankness. He told his story, however, distinctly,
bravely, with all that natural and burning energy,
so eminently his own. The other's eyes darkened
with pleasure. He had never witnessed aught that resembled
this. It was a colloquial power, of such direct,
downright, intrepid promptitude, that it amazed him.
of energy. His language was sometimes, and particularly
on this occasion, bold, accurate, and singularly
beautiful.
`It is very remarkable,' said the truly great man, as
in a revery, when Harold had finished, `there is one
thing that you have omitted. I remind you of it. If it
be an unintentional omission, say so, at once. I shall
pursue you no further. No matter what may be your
motive; I shall respect it. But, if you can answer me,
and will, I shall be gratified. I would have no half
confidence. Enable me to say that I know you.'
`I will withhold nothing from you sir,' said Harold.
`Well then—your family name, birth?' as he said
this, his eagle eye glanced upon Harold, with a peculiar
and mysterious earnestness of expression.
Harold replied distinctly to both questions, watching
his countenance the while. No emotion was visible,
none! in his great forehead; but his noble chest heaved
slightly, at long intervals, as with some deep and ancient
recollection.
Tears, gracious heaven, tears.
It was too true. Harold could have fallen upon his
knees before the august creature, but he waved him off.
`Leave me awhile,' he said, `the time has expired.
There is my hand. I am your friend. I knew your
father. (His voice trembled.) Come to me, to-morrow,
at the same hour.'
Harold obeyed, and the next day, precisely at the
moment, stood again, at the door of the chamber. He
was instantly admitted.
`Harold,' said the mysterious man, after a distressing
silence of some minutes, during which he sat leaning
upon a table, with his face buried in his hands, and
his dark hair moving of itself, over his wrought and
agitated brow.
`Harold, come nearer to me. I knew your father
Hush, we must not be overheard. We will retire to
that closet.'
`Harold followed him thither, and they were seated.
`We were school fellows,' said he. `He had the elements
There was no boy that bid so fair to be great, as your
father. I trembled in his presence. I was afraid of him;
and no man ever made me afraid. He carried authority
and dominion in his very tread. We had a quarrel.
It was on my account—'
He paused. The working of his forehead spoke
grievously of what he had suffered; there were grief,
sorrow, and passion in its movement, sullen and distant,
and indefinite, however, like shadows painted from
recollection.
`It was on my account that he left England forever-'
Here the speaker's voice trembled, and his whole
frame shook; he arose and walked, several times across
the apartment, struggling tremendously with some
unintelligible feeling, and exclaiming at last—
`No, no, I cannot.'
Harold was amazed—such perturbation in such a
countenance! Why, it was as if some pyramid had
grown tremulous with the stirring of its buried, blasted
and withered inhabitants—the spectres of the past.
`I read your astonishment, sir,' said the speaker, `I
do not wonder at it. I have deceived myself, mightily,
mightily—there are embers among the dead ashes,
here, here. Nature will arise, and will be heard, though
you bury her with years and snow, yea, though you
pile upon her the affairs of an empire. At this moment,
(he dashed his hand over his eyes, as he spoke, and
frowned, as at his own weakness,) `the warmest, noblest,
most romantick feelings of my youth have arisen,
like spirits. They have touched me, and I thrill from
head to foot. I feel as if a score of years were suddenly
taken off my heart; as if the darkness were suddenly
brushed away from the beautiful tablets of memory,
and all her first record and inscription were illuminated.'
He still continued walking about, in great disorder,
but at length stopped, abruptly, before Harold, saying,
as to himself, `boy, boy, how like his father. Yes
Harold, Harold is thy name, I think, (Harold bowed,)
that thou hadst never been born. It were better to herd
with the vilest, weakest, the most abject and insensible,
forever, than be wrung by one such pang as we
feel, daily, hourly, even in our pride of power. No
sympathy, no affection, no holy consecrated sweet communion
of the heart, no stillness, no solitude, are ours.
We have nothing in common with our fellow-men,
nothing in love or friendship, nothing but the incessant
cold, and lifeless glitter of ceremony and pomp.
Boy! beware of thy nature.
Trample down the fierce spirit that I see in thine eyes.
Wrestle with it, subjugate it. We are always tyrants
or slaves. Choose thou, this day, which of the twain
thou wilt be. But time passes—It is the last time, too,
that we shall meet. I dare not trust myself with thee.
I would fain do somewhat for the son of my earliest
friend, and, if possible, teach that son how to avoid
the melancholy consequences of his own nature. Sir,
your intrepid, fearless, resolute, adventurous manner
is alarming to me. True, it has that bearing of noble
confidence, which only the generous and great can
feel, what no human being can affect or counterfeit; but
it is dangerous always, and often fatal. Harold, I could
have come down from my seat and embraced thee,
yea, knelt with thee, upon the floor of parliament, had
not this apprehension disheartened me. But stay—'
`Your father, as I have said before, was my friend.
I was his. We loved the same woman. But we knew
it not. He was haughty and implacable—I would not
go on, but the truth must be told, shall be. He married
her, married the woman of my heart! (he covered his
face with his hands, and his fingers were convulsed
upon his temples.) It was that, that which made me
what I am, a wretch, of kingly power and dimensions,
it may be, but a wretch. That marriage kindled a spirit
in me, which has blazed for thirty years, is blazing
yet, will blaze, while there is life enough in these vitals
to feed it.'
`About a year after his marriage, and after the
birth of Oscar, I saw his wife. We had loved. I know
though he did not unfairly win her, yet I lost her unfairly.
I saw her, for I was going to the continent,
with the intention of bidding her an eternal adieu. We
discovered that she had been wrought upon, cheated,
and betrayed, not by him, I verily believe, but by her
relations. The whole conspiracy came out in our interview;
she was agitated to tears, pale as death. We
heard his footstep. I knew it not, but she did, and
fainted. I caught her in my arms, her dishevelled
tresses floating—great God! I cannot go on—Suffice it
to say that he assaulted me, wounded me, and left her
for dead upon the floor. He fled; we knew not where,
but we soon discovered that a devil had been his ruin,
the devil jealousy. I had kept my attachment to his
wife before her marriage, a secret; whether wisely or
not, it is now too late to determine; and she, too, had
adopted the same secrecy. Believe me, our reasons
were good. Your father was actually married before
I knew the name of his wife, (I had known her abroad,
in Spain, for she was born of a Castilian mother,) and,
when I discovered it, I was stunned, blinded, as by a
clap of thunder. She had been treacherously wrought
upon, and, in an evil hour gave her hand to him, at
the same moment, burying my name and memory in
her heart, never, as she thought, to be again disturbed.
Such is an outline of our reasons. But your father knew
them not—all that he knew, was the prompting of some
fiend, who persuaded him of his wife's—curses! ten
thousand curses on him, and his, for the insinuation!—
her infidelity. He watched us, attributed our accidental
meeting, for it was purely accidental on her part, and
almost so on mine, though I had long wished it, to premeditation.
But—you know the rest.'
`Your father fled, to America, it seems now, for,
many years after I have reason to believe that he reappeared
for a season, with some fell purpose of revenge,
and that he was appeased by his desolate wife.
I never saw her afterward. I knew her pure spirit,
her exalted nature too well, to hope for aught in my
favour, although we had been assured of his death.
she loved me, and would have died for me, after an
event so disastrous and malignant. She gave birth to
another daughter, in her retirement—that sigh! ah,
she was the very picture of her mother, so gentle, so
beneficent, so beautiful, timid and pure—Oh, my
heart, my heart fails me—I could throw myself down
and cry like a child, at the memory of what the mother
was. I feel, Harold, just as I felt, when we last parted,
in Andalusia, of a starlight evening. I never could
abide the starlight since. Harold, I confess that I am
weak, very weak, but I love thee; I feel as if thou wert
my son for thou art his, and he was her husband.
Would that thou wast her child! Statesmen are but
men; ministers, disguised as they are, encumbered as
they are, with the parade and pageantry of dominion,
are but men.'
`Nay, our feelings when touched rightly, in mystery
and power, flow but the more fiercely, for the unnatural
secresy and restraint in which they have been held.
I have now done. You have heard all. What can I do
for you? The army? the navy? a post? are your circumstances
easy? Are you ambitious? You are, and
there is my hand. The world will have it so—I will
make your fortune. And yet—for there I spoke like
a man of the world, a politican—now I speak like a
father—I could almost go down on my knees to thee,
my son, and pray thee to turn thy back upon my offers.
Refuse them, and thou wilt be happy. Accept them,
and thou wilt be great, great as the world goes, but
wretched, wretched!'
Harold replied, modestly and firmly; thanked him,
and declined all assistance, all countenance.
`Your reasons, Harold?'
Harold gave them, in his temperate, assured way;
and the minister embraced him, and wept upon his
neck.
`Boy!' he cried, with enthusiasm, his old eyes sparkling
through their lashes, like lamps abruptly kindled;
`thou art an honour to thy name and house. Bear that
spirit with thee, to thy grave. Go back to America.
his champion. God prosper thee!—embrace me—again!
there! there! farewell!'
Harold turned to depart, when the great man embraced
him a third time, and buckled upon his thigh
a magnificent sword. `Wear that,' said he, `in memory
of me.'
| CHAPTER IX. Logan | |