University of Virginia Library

26. CHAPTER XXVI.
HOW THE STRANGER BECAME AN HISTORIAN AND A PROPHET.

The stranger had scarcely uttered the words, when a dazzling
flash of lightning darted across the sky, was immediately
succeeded by a roar of thunder, like the discharge of a
battery, and one of the great oaks, upon which the bolt fell,
was split and shivered, from the top to the bottom, by the
fiery stream.

For a moment the eyes of the two men were dazzled by
the terrible spectacle, and they gazed at the torn trunk,
which, encumbered with broken boughs, was fitfully seen
by successive flashes, or chance gleams.

“Do you see this tree thus shattered by lightning?” said
the stranger; “well, that is the type of a man's life—of the
life which speaks to you now.

“Ten years ago,” he continued, “there lived in Virginia
a warm-hearted, ardent, and impressible youth. The soul
of this youth throbbed with generous emotions, and such
was his frankness, and tenderness, and kindness, that he
could not have trodden upon a worm or an insect. His
dream was to do good, to ameliorate the condition of humanity,
to unfetter and enlighten his brethren, and give
them liberty of thought, self respect, and happiness. To
this end all his studies tended, and he lived in a dream, as
it were, of love and philanthropy.

“Such was his state of mind, and such his hope, when he
met with a woman—a woman of rare and overpowering loveliness,
and by a strange accident, this woman, or rather girl,
was proved to be his cousin. Almost the first moment in
which he saw her sealed his fate; from that instant he loved;
loved deeply, passionately, absorbingly. She returned his
affection, and that new world which he had imagined—the
world of beauty and truth—seemed to center and find its
realization in her love and her presence.”

The stranger paused for a moment, but continued, calmly,

“This love became a portion of his life, of his being, of
his soul. Before, he had found in the great thoughts of
the kings of literature, sufficient food for his mind, and in
their grand ideas he had wrapped himself so completely,
that he lived, as it were, in history, and asked nothing more.
But now all was changed; he no longer dreamed of the progress
and enlightenment of man; the happiness and destiny
of mankind was no longer a thought to him. He had found
something grander than the fate of the world, a more absorbing
passion than philanthropy; he had found a woman's
heart to clasp to his own, a heart whose beating made him
careless of the past or the future, so that future were spent
in her presence, by her side.

“I said,” continued the stranger, “that this woman loved
him. O yes, she loved him! Rare and wonderful decree
of a Deity of love and goodness! the imperishable treasure
of this woman's heart was given solely to himself. To speak
of her is idle, words fade and fail me; 't is enough to say that
she was such as he had never seen before, and will never see
again—no never! Well, well, sir, I linger; let me go on
with my narrative. The man and the woman were married;
they went far away to the vast solitudes, and there, in the
presence of nature and the Creator, they were wholly, completely,
blissfully happy—happy as human beings can seldom
be, and never for long, because earth would then be like
heaven.”

These recollections seemed almost to unnerve the stranger,
but he suppressed his emotion and continued,

“Well, I will not dwell on this further. Let me hurry
on. The man and the woman lived a year thus, tranquil
and serene, and then the bolt of Heaven fell. God saw fit
to take away this woman,” said the stranger, hoarsely, “to
lead back the man to his neglected work. He no longer
recognized his mission, for he was happy; he had forgotten
his duty. The Deity decreed that he should come away,
and the means which he used were the fires of grief and

anguish. Well, sir, all this came about as was decreed. The
blow fell, and the trunk was stripped of its verdure and freshness—stripped
for ever. The hard heart alone remained, and
this sufficed for the work. The man came on foot one day
to the capital; he was dusty and worn with fatigue; he saw
flame and breathed agony and despair. He raised his head,
and was accosted by a former companion, who harshly upbraided
him for his inaction, and in words of fire laid before
him his future work. There was a great crowd assembled,
every heart throbbed with rage and defiance toward England;
before he knew it, he was speaking to them by the
red glare of the burning stamps, and from that moment he
comprehended the behest of Providence. He had neglected
his mission; he was led back and thrust into the ranks to
do his part.

“Well, sir, from that time forth he became what he is,
what you see him, a machine of iron, with but one eternal
idea burning like fire in his soul. His work was to aid in
unfettering the human soul—when that is accomplished he
will disappear. When I have no longer any work to do,
when my aim is accomplished, my memory will kill me.
But that will not take place; I shall fall by the sword, or
the cannon ball, or bayonet—it matters not—and the day
which sees me stretched cold and pale upon the battle field,
will be the happiest of my life, for on that day I trust to rejoin
my wife!”

The stranger paused, and wiped his forehead, which was
steaming with cold sweat. By an immense effort he suppressed
the shudder which ran through his frame, and his
features subsided gradually into iron calmness.

“You may think it strange, sir,” he said, coldly, to the
young man, who had listened with deep sympathy to this
narrative; “you may think it strange that I have thus unrolled
the history of my life, as it were, to a person whom I
do not know. But such is the human mind. Philosophy and
self control are mighty bulwarks, but at times the crushed
heart will writhe and moan beneath the iron heel. There

are moments when human sympathy is necessary even to
my shattered soul, and this feeling has been too much for
me to-day. Perhaps I have spoken to unsympathizing ears,
but I could not refrain, sir—the words have been uttered.”

St. John said, with great feeling,

“I have listened with respect, sir, and sympathy, and do
not, I pray you, believe that your suffering finds an indifferent
listener in myself. If't were only from curiosity, I
must have heard you with attention, for you relate a strange
and moving story! But it is with more than curiosity that
I have listened—with sympathy and deference, sir; that
deference which is due to a great misfortune.”

“Thanks, friend,” said the stranger, more calmly even than
before; “your face is so loyal and sincere that I scarcely regret
my indiscretion. Well, to finish. From the moment
when I saw what my work was, I have been in harness. I
have aimed further than protest against parliamentary despotism,
I have aimed at perfect independence and—a republic.”

“Ah! a republic?”

“Nothing less, sir,” said the stranger, calmly. “For ten
years nearly I have been stirring up this colony to an armed
revolt—a rebellion.”

St. John mused with drooping head.

“I see that you question the possibility of this movement
now,” said the stranger, “and I regret that my time will
not permit me to expand my views of the past. See one
thing, however. As you, at this moment, are in advance of
thousands of the most intelligent and patriotic thinkers upon
government, as you would meet Parliament in arms, and
lash the tyrannical Dunmore from Virginia, so, ten years
ago, I was in advance of yourself. In that time I have
watched, with attentive eyes, the progress of thought, the
expansion of men's minds. They approach nearer and nearer
to me every hour. I do not boast, sir, for God gave me my
eyes and my soul, pointed out my work. What I saw, near
a dozen years since, will be acted, perhaps, in twelve months

from this time. The stamps were burned in the year '65;
that was the firing of the slow match. It is nearly burnt
out. In the next year, the year '75, it will reach the powder,
and the mine will explode with a crash which shall bury the
throne, in America at least, in ruins, from which nothing
can dig it forth.”

The speaker's eyes glowed as he spoke, and his nervous
hand was stretched out unconsciously.

“It is this for which I have worked,” he continued, in his
deep, iron tone, “and how I have worked, I will tell you,
for I trust you implicitly. From Williamsburg, the center,
I have disseminated into the remotest counties, the thoughts
of a body of men, whose mouth-piece I am. They supply
the means, I give them my life. We have organized committees
of vigilance in a hundred places, and, traveling day
and night, I have thrown myself everywhere in contact with
the heart of the people, feeling its pulsations, and endeavoring
to infuse into it the thoughts of my own mind, and the
minds of my associates. I have means given me for private
expresses, and many days before the Boston Harbor bill was
published in Williamsburg, we were arousing the whole province
with this new outrage. Under three royal governors,
the press has been busy within a step of their doors, and
scattering broadcast what it is treason to print. Fauquier
was feasting and card-playing, Botetourt hoping for better
times; they did not arrest it. Dunmore has placed all his
hounds on the trail, but as yet they have not caught the
game. I think I am worth a good sum to the informer who
will arrest me, and furnish the proof of my treason. That I
am a traitor to the government, under the 25th Edward III.,
there is not the least doubt, and you may call the association
the League of Treason with perfect propriety. That I
know to whom I speak, I prove to you, sir, by entering into
these details. For ten years I have thus been the instrument
of a system, and of an organized body. Their work
is to arouse the mind of Virginia, and the other provinces,
to an armed rebellion. We have hailed every new blow

struck by the Parliament with profound and unfeigned delight;
we have longed and yearned for the final and decisive
act; we have invited the stamp of the heel which
shall spur into madness the down-trodden masses; which
shall make them writhe upward and sting! The Culpeper
minute-men will take for their motto the words, `Do n't
tread on me!' over a rattlesnake; the association which I
represent, have another and a different motto—`Tread on
us and grind us! outrage us, treat us as slaves! insult us,
spit on us, exhaust our whole patience, till we rouse from
our apathy and sting you to death!' Do you think we are
blundering? Do you mistake our design? Do you imagine
we are wrong in hailing joyfully this new `Port Bill?'
That act is the beginning of the end! Ten years ago, I
spoke with a man of gigantic mind, one of those fiery souls
breathing but in revolution, born to wield the thunderbolt
of oratory, to ride on and direct the storm. `Let us strike!'
were his words, `come! a revolution!' I replied, `You are
wrong—you desire to strike the blow before we have arms
in our hands; let us enlighten the minds of the people, let
us arm them, let us train them, and keep silent and wait!'
The name of this man was Patrick Henry, and his sentiments
were shared by another great intellect, Thomas Jefferson
by name. These men, then, were carried away by the
fires of genius, they advanced too rapidly; like generals,
they rode ahead of the marching legions, who alone could
win the battle. There were others, as true friends of liberty,
who erred in the opposite extreme. They were sincerely attached
to the mother country; they closed their eyes to her
faults, as an affectionate child will not see its parent's foibles;
they venerated, and justly, the great common law, the bulwark
of freedom; they were deeply attached to the liturgy
of the established Church; they feared innovation, they feared
that the masses, once wholly unfettered, would rush into license
and madness. They doubted, and advocated protests
and petitions, from a sincere love of country and the species.
The names of these patriots were Edmund Pendleton, Richard
Bland, and others. They were borne onward by Henry
and Jefferson, but they, in their turn, held these great leaders
back. Thus the phalanx marched slowly, evenly, and
in order, with gradual, but certain progression. Had we
sounded the battle cry in the year '65, the rising would have
been a revolt, now it will be a revolution! The result then
would have been defeat, and more grinding slavery; the result
now will be victory and freedom! Do you doubt it,
friend? Listen to my prediction! As we speak, the House
of Burgesses are slowly advancing to a point which will
compel them to act strongly or be slaves. They will act as
they should, for that body is composed of the flower of this
mighty colony, and the eyes of America are fixed anxiously
upon them. The whole continent looks to Virginia to sound
the war-cry, and she will sound it! She will first draw the
sword, and throw the scabbard away. The result of the
action of the Burgesses will be this: the Governor will dissolve
them; they will dissolve and reassemble in Williamsburg,
or in this building, and then the full crisis of the
storm will come. The appeal to arms is inevitable, and the
die will be cast. The struggle, breast to breast, will commence
in Virginia, the great heart of the South, or Massachusetts,
that other noble heart of the North. Then see the
result! see the fiat of that God who presides over nations,
and the doings of his creatures! In this man, Patrick
Henry, the revolution speaks—he is its tongue. In Jefferson,
and the rest, it vindicates itself to the public opinion
of Europe—they are its pen. In some one not raised up
yet, it will find its soul and its sword. Do you say, that is
the question, that this is the point of doubt? Friend,” said
the stranger, with glowing eyes, and a gloomy earnestness,
which seemed to thrill through his frame, “let us trust
in God! let not the atom distrust the Sovereign of the Universe!
That great Being has kindled the first fires of revolution;
he has raised up, successively, the prophet and the
scribe; he has consolidated the phalanx, and he will not
leave his work incomplete. Do you question your memory
for some name, for some leader who shall lead the onset?
There are many, and were it not for fear of presumption, I
might hazard an opinion whom this leader will be. He
will be led, as a child, by the hand of the Almighty, when
the time shall come, and that time is approaching; let us
wait!

“This then,” said the stranger, raising his lofty head and
gazing out upon the storm which was rolling off to the
south, “this then is the point which we have reached. The
legions are armed, the ranks are arranged, the leaders await
but the trumpet of the enemy to charge! It is this I have
toiled for, wearing myself out, and exhausting my life; but
I would give to the cause a million lives did I possess them.
My name may not be uttered by a single voice, the form
which enclosed my spirit may moulder without an epitaph
even, but that is of small import. I have done faithfully my
duty, I have performed my work, I have gone on my way,
and I shall not die until I see the New World inaugurated.
See! the thunder-storm is over, and the sky is growing
clear—so will it be with us in our struggle! The darkness
and the gloom in which we are enveloped will be dissipated
—the old things shall pass away, and behold all things shall
become new! See the sun yonder; see the glorious and
resplendent orb chasing the gloom, rising in serene majesty
above the mists and the clouds, and mounting to its meridian
of splendor and glory. It is the sun of America! The
light of the world! It was hidden by the darkness, but is
risen. It is risen! Oh marvelous spectacle! It is risen!
Oh noble and consoling thought! It is risen! and the power
of a million emperors can never obscure one ray of it, for
the hand of the Almighty has rolled it on its glorious way,
the hope and the pole star of nations!”

With eyes fixed almost with ecstacy upon the great orb,
the stranger ceased speaking, and seemed almost to forget
the presence of his companion. He remained motionless
and silent.

This silence was unbroken by St. John, who, carried away

in spite of himself by the words to which he had listened,
pondered the thoughts of his companion, and sent his mind,
so to speak, through that future which had thus been unrolled
before his eyes.

He was aroused by the voice of the stranger, whose momentary
excitement had yielded to his habitual expression
of iron calmness.

“I see that the storm is over,” he said, “and now, sir, I
must go on my way, for what purpose you know, for I have
spoken without reserve. I do not regret having thus uttered
my thoughts, and related my sorrowful story. I have
accustomed myself to read human character in the countenance,
and were you my bitterest enemy I would sleep at
your side, though you were awake with a dagger in your
hand! I speak my honest conviction alone, friend, and I go
without a fear that I have committed an imprudence. I feel
that we shall meet again.”

Having thus spoken in a tone of noble courtesy, the
stranger bowed to St. John, and issuing forth, mounted his
horse, which was tied near, and disappeared on the road to
the northward.

St. John, too, mounted, and overwhelmed with new
thought, took his way toward Williamsburg, as the last
mutterings of the storm died away in the distance.