University of Virginia Library

25. CHAPTER XXV.
HOW MR. ST. JOHN ENCOUNTERED A STRANGER, AND OF
WHAT THEY CONVERSED.

The road which the young man pursued led around the
hill in a sort of curving ascent, and passing by the church
of St. John, debouched from the town in the direction of
“Bloody Run,” where Bacon had defeated the Indian army
a hundred years before.

He looked back upon the town, as he arrived at the summit,
and was so much impressed by the beauty of the landscape
that he dismounted, and tied his horse to the bough
of a tree, and entered the grounds of the church, seeking
for the highest point of view.

He found this in the immediate vicinity of the old edifice,
and threading his way among the tombstones of three generations,
paused upon a grassy hillock, and feasted his eyes
upon the scene.

It is beautiful to-day—it was far more lovely then. The
majestic river, far beneath him, poured its waves from the
western hills around islands of dipping foliage, and over rocks
which broke its waters into foam, and then, tired of this contention,
flowed away in serene majesty toward the sea. Far
away to the south, it wound into view again, the white sails
of barks glittering on its bosom against the green forest—
that immense forest which seemed to clasp the whole landscape
in its embrace. At the foot of the high hill, scattered
along the brook, were the houses of the town, and in the
west rose the walls of Belvidere, embowered in foliage, and

looking down serenely on the village. Over the whole scene
drooped the warm and golden atmosphere, and a great pile
of clouds, like snow drift, floated away toward the southern
horizon.

The beautiful spectacle was not without its effect upon
the young man, whose mind and heart, for a moment diverted
by the scenes of the fair, now returned with new
pleasure to his possessing thought.

It was the face of a girl which he saw in the clouds and
the mirror-like river; it was her voice which he heard in
the murmur of the breeze, and the mellow music of the
laughing water, foaming over moss-clad rocks. Her image
had been obscured by the grotesque scenes, and the passion
and uproar of the race-course; now, however, he was alone
with nature, and in the midst of purity and peace, her beautiful
face came back to him, and filled his heart with gladness.

The erect brows of the young man drooped; he leaned
against the trunk of one of the old trees, and lowering his
eyes, fixed them with idle and dreamy pleasure on the flowery
sward.

He remained thus silent and absorbed, scarcely conscious
of the outer world, for nearly an hour—absorbed in one of
those reveries which come at times to all. Place and time
had disappeared—he was alone with his love.

He was aroused by a distant muttering of thunder, and
by a heavy drop of rain falling upon his face.

He looked up. The whole scene had changed. Heavy
clouds obscured the sky, fringed beneath by a long, ragged
line of fire; and as he gazed, the far horizon was illuminated
by successive flashes of lurid lightning, which shone,
with dazzling brilliancy, against the black masses of the
thunder clouds. The May morning had been obscured thus
suddenly by one of those thunder storms which rush into
the skies of Virginia, at this season of the year, with scarcely
a moment's warning, and the brooding darkness, which advanced,
like a giant towering from earth to heaven, over

river, and field, and forest, proved that the storm about to
burst would be one of no ordinary violence.

The young man had scarcely taken in with a glance the
state of things, when the heavy drops began to patter more
rapidly through the trees; a huge wall, apparently, of mist
advanced rapidly from the west, and accompanied by vivid
lightning flashes, and deafening peals of thunder, as its heralds,
the storm was upon him.

He threw a glance toward “Tallyho,” who was sheltered
somewhat by the great oak, beneath which he was tied, and
then hastened to the door of the church for shelter.

He struck it with his hand, and fortunately it was open.
He entered just at the moment when the storm roared down
upon the hill, lashing it with all its power, and making the
building shake and quiver.

St. John found himself in an old edifice, almost dark, and
at first he scarcely saw his way.

The windows were for the most part closed, but through
those which remained open the dazzling flashes of lightning
streamed fearfully, preluding roars of thunder like a thousand
cannon.

The young man had advanced toward the tub-shaped pulpit,
and was standing with one hand upon the railing of the
chancel, when he heard issue, as it were, from beneath his
feet, the words,

“A dangerous thunder-storm, sir; you are fortunate in
finding refuge from it.”

He started and turned round. At the same moment, a
vivid flash of lightning lit up the building, and a step beneath
him, in the door of the vestry-room, St. John discovered
the figure of a man, clad in somber and severe black.

It was the singular individual whom we have seen in the
tall, tower-like edifice in Williamsburg—in the underground
printing office—beneath the boughs of the forest—and in the
chamber of his child, as he prepared to set forth on his midnight
journey.

His appearance had not changed. There was the same

expression of iron calmuess, the same steady fire in the dark
eyes, the same air, as of one who is possessed by an intellectual
fanaticism, an absorbing idea, which never for a moment
disappears from his mind.

St. John gazed for a moment at the pale face, and the nervous
figure, which seemed like a collection of steel springs.
He was trying to remember where he had met with the
stranger before. That he had encountered him somewhere,
he was perfectly well assured. But where? The attempt
to recall the time or place was vain; he gave up the search.

To the deep-toned words of the stranger, he replied,

“Yes, a dangerous storm, sir; pardon my staring at you
so very rudely, but I fancied we had met before.”

“Perhaps,” said the stranger, gravely.

“Your appearance in the darkness somewhat startled me.
I had expected to find this old building vacant, and almost
recoiled when you spoke from the shadow.”

“I confess my appearance was somewhat melo-dramatic,”
replied the stranger, advancing from the door with a measured
movement, “but my presence here, like yours, is very
simple.”

“I took refuge from the storm.”

“And I came to look at this building.”

St. John's look denoted that he had failed to understand.

“You wished to see the church?”

“Yes, sir—its capacity.”

“Its capacity?”

“In other words, sir,” said the stranger, “how many
persons could assemble within its walls.”

“Yes,” said the young man, “I think I understand.
There is to be an ecclesiastical convention.”

“I have not heard of it, sir.”

“What then?”

“A convention of persons employed in other matters, perhaps.
Possibly a meeting of the Burgesses.”

“The Burgesses?”

“Why not?”

“I thought that honorable body sat in Williamsburg,
sir.”

The stranger was silent for a moment, and during this
pause, his dark eyes, piercing and brilliant, and full of
gloomy earnestness, fixed themselves upon the face of his
companion.

“Williamsburg is truly the present place of meeting of
the Burgesses,” he said in his deep voice, “but do you think
they will sit there long?”

“Ah! I understand—you refer to Lord Dunmore?”

The stranger nodded.

“You mean that he will coerce them?”

“Is it very improbable?”

“It is just the contrary.”

“Well, then, sir,” said the stranger, thoughtfully, “do
you think it strange that another place besides Williamsburg
is looked to? But, your pardon. Perhaps I speak to
a gentleman having no sympathy with the cause—to one
connected with Lord Dunmore?”

At that name the young man's face had already clouded
over, and his eyes assumed an expression of disdain and
menace.

“Yes,” he said, coldly, “I am connected with his lordship.”

The stranger made a movement of his head.

“I am lieutenant of his `guards,' so styled.”

“I can not congratulate you, sir,” said the stranger,
gloomily, “but I have nothing to say.”

“I have something to add, however,” returned St. John,
disdainfully, “and it is this, sir: that I cordially despise his
Excellency, and throw the commission I've held in his face!”

The stranger advanced a step, his gloomy look changing
to one of animation.

“You do not then approve of this gentleman?” he said.

“I deny that he's a particle of a gentleman!” returned
the young man, coldly; “he's a vulgar fellow, and if he
asks me my opinion, I'll tell him so!”

The stranger's face glowed.

“Then you are of the opposition, sir?” he said in his deep
voice.

“To the death!”

“You are a patriot?”

“I know not what you mean by the word,” returned St.
John, coldly; “if, however, it signifies a man who regards
the legislation of Parliament as odious and despotic; who
would war to the death against the tyrannical enactments
let loose upon Virginia, like a brood of cormorants; above
all, who would gladly march at the head of a regiment to
drive this man, Dunmore, from the capital of the province,
and lash him like a hound from our borders—if this is what
you call being a patriot, sir, I'm one to all lengths!”

As the young man spoke in his bold and earnest voice,
with its disdainful and passionate sternness, the form of the
stranger seemed to dilate with satisfaction, his strange eyes
grew more brilliant, and his pale cheek was tinged with a
slight color.

He advanced and said:

“Then you would oppose Parliament?”

“To the bitter end!”

“You would resist the execution of its acts in the province?”

“With arms, if necessary!”

“You would levy war against the Governor.”

“As cheerfully as a bridegroom assembles his friends to
ride to his wedding!”

The stranger seemed to glow with gloomy satisfaction
as he listened to these disdainful words. But he restrained
himself.

“Do you know that the words you have uttered are dangerous?”
he said.

“Perfectly,” said St. John.

“That I may be a spy and informer?”

“I care not.”

“That the Governor may arrest you and send you to rot

in a prison ship, or swing from Tyburn tree, by the verdict
of an English jury?”

“Stop!” said St. John, as coldly as before; “there you
are mistaken, sir!”

“Mistaken?”

“You lose sight of one thing—the fact that I wear a
sword! and that before the tools of Dunmore arrest me—”

“Yes, yes?”

“I will drive it to the hilt in his cowardly breast!” said
St. John, carried away with rage; “if I 'm hanged for treat-son
it shall be for something! But this is idle, sir. I talk
like a school-boy, and I get blood-thirsty. I mean that my
contempt for this man is so deep, my jealousy of parliamentary
misrule so strong, my blood so hot with the cause of
this, our native land, that I'd cheerfully take the first step
in high treason to defeat our enemies—stake my head upon
the game, and abide by the result!”

The stranger seemed to listen to these words with stern
delight, and his eyes burned with the fires of internal excitement.

He advanced two steps, and enclosing the young man's
hand in a grasp of iron, said, in his deep, resounding voice:

“I offer you the clasp of amity, friend, and recognize in
you a brother and coworker! I see in your eyes, your voice,
the expression of your lips, what I'd trust my life to sooner
than distrust it!”

“You may,” replied St. John, coldly; “I am not one to
hide any thing.”

“I see that plainly!” said the stranger, “and it is men
like yourself that we want—bold natures and strong hands.
Do not think that I flatter you, sir—there is no man living
I will flatter. I speak simply when I say that you have
interested and moved me, as few persons have moved me
for years. But even in this moment of full sympathy, let
me still ask if these views are deliberate, and not the result—”

“Of private feelings!” said St. John, mastered in spite of

himself by the gloomy earnestness of the stranger; “is that
your meaning, sir?”

The stranger nodded.

“I reply that a private feeling toward the Governor has
had some weight with me, but my opinions were formed
before. They are summed up in this—that Virginia is
being crushed! that we, free-born men, are being rapidly
enslaved, that our chains are being forged, and my remedy
is war!”

The stranger listened with an avidity which glowed in his
eyes, and seemed to send the blood more rapidly through
his veins.

“You say well, sir,” he replied in a voice which swelled
and grew deeper and more gloomy as he spoke; “you have
uttered the single word which expresses the whole truth of
the times. Yes, we free-born Virginians are becoming slaves
—serfs! the serfs of a mean and ignoble Parliament full
of representatives from rotten boroughs, and advancing to
tread upon the necks of these provinces. The serfs of a
Governor, coarse, treacherous and bloody, whose very presence
on our soil taints it, and makes it tremble with disgust.
You have nobly spoken, sir. Your voice has uttered those
noble thoughts which tremble, as we stand here, on a thousand
tongues, but are silenced by this tyranny beneath which
we groan; which is crushing our free spirits and making us
those most miserable creatures, the slaves of a phantom—
an idea!”

As the stranger spoke, his voice grew deeper still and full
of meance; his hands moved, and seemed to tremble with
disdain.

“How long? how long?” he said, “this is the cry of the
new generation, unfettered by the past or the present, and
looking to the future. This new generation I look to as
my stay and my hope—I who live in and draw my heart's
blood from the breath of revolution! The word stratles
the old generation—it is the watch-word, the battle cry of
the new! Look at my face, sir! the wrinkles that begin to

diverge from my eyes—they are the result of ten years of
conflict, of ten years, in which I have toiled and nearly worn
myself out in pushing onward, through evil report and good,
through darkness and gloom, the car of a revolution which
shall break and overturn, and crush beneath its wheels what
oppresses us! I speak as I have the right to speak. I tell of
the darkness through which I have passed, wherein scarely
a star shone to guide me. But thanks to the Supreme Ruler
of the destinies of humanity, the gloom begins at last to
disappear, the day of liberty to dawn.

“Yes, sir,” continued the stranger, his lofty stature seeming
to increase as he spoke, “the day begins to dawn on our
western world, and the powers of the night to be dethroned.
For generations it has lain in darkness, and the horrible
vultures have fed upon its bowels, tearing out its vitals and
burying obscene talons in its noble heart. But that heart
is not cold—the heart of Virginia is still alive—it throbs and
it rises! You may see the prostrate form begin to quiver!
see the shudder which runs through the gigantic frame! it
trembles and pants, and, like Lazarus, rises from its grave!
like Samson, it will shiver into atoms the chains which fetter
its mighty limbs! When that body rises to its feet from
the living grave in which a horrible and murderous tyranny
has engulfed it, the solid earth will shake beneath its tread,
and the waters of the very sea will boil. Wo then to the
vultures of tyranny! Wo to Dunmore, to Gage, to the king
on his throne, in that hour! The atmosphere is even now
charged with hatred, the lightnings of years of oppression
will fall on our tyrants to brand and paralyze them, with the
false and lying hounds they have let loose to tear us!

“You gaze at me with wonder, sir,” continued the stranger,
“but if you knew what I have passed through, you
would not be astonished. I who speak, sir, as I feel myself
compelled to speak, by an influence I can not resist—I who
speak to you, have no thought, no existence, no heart, but
Virginia! Whatever strikes her strikes me, what arrests
the life-blood in her veins paralyzes mine; what she thrills

and trembles with sends a shudder through my frame! For
ten years I have had no other life—for ten years I have been
burnt up by one eternal dominant idea, and that idea is
summed up in the word—Revolution! For this I have toiled
—to unfetter the human mind has been my mission. If I am
worn out, as I nearly am, what matter? If I brand the tyranny
of Parliament—if I help to tear out the lying tongues,
and overthrow the power of a hateful and disguisting oppression—if
I even advance the phalanx one step toward
our enemies—then I shall go to my grave with joy, for my
end will be accomplished. There is little in life to attract
me,” continued the speaker, who paused, as it were, and
with drooping brows, gazed toward the ground, “for at the
prime of manhood, I am old—when my life should be bursting
into flower, I am alone.”

There was such profound and gloomy sadness in the tones
of the deep voice, that St. John gazed at his companion with
deep sympathy.

“You have suffered, sir?” he said.

“Deeply,” said the stranger, in a low voice.

“A long time?”

“For a decade—the period of my labor.”

St. John was silent, and the stranger for some moments
was silent too. Then he raised his head, and two tears moistened
his fiery eyes, but were instantly dashed away.

He laid his hand upon St. John's shoulder, and for some
moments gazed at him with an expression at once so piercing
and so sorrowful that the young man remembered it for years.

“It is strange,” he said, “but I feel an irresistible desire
to confide in you, friend. Can I? I think I can.”

“Any thing communicated to me shall be locked in my
bosom,” was the reply.

“Your word is then given that what I say shall be repeated
to no one?”

“To no one upon earth.”

“Then listen, sir,” said she stranger, in his deep, sorrowful
voice, “listen and I will relate to you the history of a life.”