University of Virginia Library

37. CHAPTER XXXVII.
THE WOOF OF EVENTS.

The stranger was clad in black, as formerly, and his face
wore the same expression of iron calmness. His penetrating
eyes were full of collected strength, and when he greeted
St. John in his deep and resounding voice, the young
man felt again that he was in the presence of a remarkable
individual.

“I am glad to see you again, Mr. St. John,” said the
stranger, with an iron-like grasp of the slender white hand.

“I believe I need not introduce myself—as my child has
told you my name.”

“Yes, Mr. Waters,” returned St. John, “and we can not
meet as strangers. 'T is true, I come ill recommended, since
my horse nearly killed your child.”

The stranger made a movement with his hand.

“Do not speak of that,” he said, “ 't was no fault of yours.
The real offender was Dunmore, and I congratulate you on
leaving his service.”

“You have heard, then, of my resignation?”

“Assuredly. I have even heard every particular of the
interview at the palace. I knew all, half an hour after it
occurred.”

“Pray how was that possible?”

“In the simplest way—the society I represent has friends
everywhere.”

“You seem to know every thing. Did you recognize me
yonder in the old church of Richmond?”

“Undoubtedly, sir; how could I fail to? You have been
for some time a public character, and I knew perfectly your
opinions before I spoke. If in what I said, I was carried
away by a rush of bitter memories into egotism, you will
not think harshly of it, and will pardon me—will you not,
sir?”

There was so much simplicity and nobility in the air of
the speaker that St. John, unconsciously, held out his hand.

“You did me an honor, sir,” he said, “in confiding your
misfortunes to me. I trust we shall be friends.”

“We are such already, I am sure,” said his companion;
“your words in the old church yonder stirred my pulses, and
your reply to the insults of Dunmore, in his palace, was the
reply of a fearless patriot and gentleman.”

St. John bowed low.

“Thanks!” he said, “but I merely defended myself. Was
any action taken in regard to my humble self?”

“None. Dunmore and Captain Foy had more critical
business. Do you know what they were doing, and are doing

now? They are devising a plan to embroil the people
of Pennsylvania and Virginia on the subject of the boundary
line, and further, to invite the savages to invade the
western frontier of the province.”

“Impossible!”

“So it is,” said the stranger; “the agent of these traitorous
schemes to crush Virginia in the coming revolution is a
man named Conolly, commandant at Fort Pitt; he is now
in Williamsburg awaiting instructions. Those instructions
were being drawn up in cipher by Foy, without the knowledge
of the council, on the day you appeared before the
Governor.”

St. John's head fell, and his brows contracted.

“Why 't is nothing less than treachery—blood—murder!”
he said.

“Precisely that,” said the stranger, coolly.

“And I! am I forgotten?”

“As yet nothing has been done; a new lieutenant has
been appointed; the matter waits. But I advise you to lie
down armed. I am a peaceful man, but I rarely move unprepared.
I would advise you to do the same.”

A careless movement of the stranger's hand threw open
the breast of his doublet. From a side pocket protruded
the dark handles of a brace of pistols.

“Events ripen,” he continued, “and the times grow dangerous.
This very day, sir, a great movement has been made.
The Burgesses have resolved that the Boston Port bill is
dangerous to liberty—the dispatch of troops thither an act
of oppression. The first of June is appointed as a day of
fasting, humiliation and prayer; to implore divine Providence
to give them courage and heart to oppose this invasion
of Right. In accordance with this act, it was further
resolved this morning that the Burgesses, on the day appointed,
will proceed with the speaker and the mace to
church, there to pray for the cause of America. Such are
the resolves, and they will answer the purpose.”

“The purpose?”

“To force the Governor to dissolve them.”

“Do you think he will?”

“To-morrow.”

“Ah! and then?”

“The rest is arranged—prepared.”

“Can you speak?”

“Yes, to you, friend. We are alone here, and I know
whom I address. The House of Burgesses will be dissolved
to-morrow. The members will, on the next morning, meet
in the Raleigh tavern, and eighty-five, perhaps eight-nine,
of them, will unite in an association to arouse the colonies,
through a committee of correspondence, to a general congress,
binding themselves to use nothing from the docks of
the East India Company. They will then leave Williamsburg.
They will every one be reëlected by the people. They will
meet here again on the first day of August, and their work
then will be to cement the disjointed resistance North and
South, and appoint deputies to the general congress. That
congress will meet, probably, in Philadelphia, and much will
depend upon its proceedings.”

“The Governor will dissolve the Burgesses to-morrow?”

“Yes, at three in the afternoon he will summon them
before him, as though he were majesty itself, and then he
will dismiss the chivalry and wisdom of this land like disobedient
school-boys. Would you see the proceeding? I will
meet you at the door of the capitol.”

St. John was silent, only assenting with a thoughtful
movement of his head.

“Your long labor is then beginning to produce results?”
he said, looking at his companion.

“Yes,” said the stranger; “yet not mine alone. I am
but a poor soldier in a noble army; an army of strong
arms and great hearts, which advances under the leadership
of the Almighty, who directs and guides its onward
march.”

As the stranger spoke, his companion again observed
that look which had formerly attracted his attention,

—the expression of an intellectual fanatic who has but one
idea, and is bent and swayed by a pursuit which is his life
blood.

“What we have just been discussing,” he said, “these
resolutions, and debates, and associations, these are are but
the husks of ideas, the shells in which principles are wrapped,
the costume and material frame. There is beneath all this,
the heart and the soul, the vital idea, which must clothe itself
thus for action. To read the annals of history, without
eternally keeping in view the existence and superintendence
of that Almighty Being, under whose breath we move, is to
paralyze the mind with a chaos of unmeaning and discordant
elements, a jumble of effects without causes. The voice
of God resounds to my ears through the long galleries of
history, and I see His footprints on the soil of every land.
It is that great Being who shapes, in silence and darkness,
the far-off result, who strikes, when he is ready, with his
thunderbolts. It is not from a clear sky that these thunderbolts
fall; it is only when the atmosphere is prepared that
he unharnesses his lightnings. It is only when the political
atmosphere has reached the requisite state that he lets loose
the thunderbolts of revolution.

“I wish to say,” continued the stranger, with his far-away
look, “that under all these resolutions and business details,
these husks and shells, is the living and vital idea, the onward
march of man. Every word and phrase in these papers
we have referred to, embodies a thought crammed with
significance; every new expression, growing bolder and
bolder, is like the increase in the height of the waves when
the storm sweeps onward. From the year '65 to the present
hour, I have looked with awe and wonder upon the
gradually unfolding intent of the Deity. I have seen this
land advance toward a new and splendid existence, as a
ship is impelled by the breath of the hurricane. I have
seen the great multitude advance, step by step, pushed onward
by an invisible hand toward the bloody gates of revolution,
through which, and which alone, shall we enter on

the promised land of liberty. We spoke, yonder, of this,
and I then said that I thought I saw how to each one his
part was assigned. To Patrick Henry, that soul of fire, and
prophet of liberty, was assigned the duty of putting the
huge ball in motion. He was raised up at the crisis and did
the work which the Deity assigned to him; he struck, as it
were, with the flat of his sword, and aroused the whole
land to indignation. In his fiery and burning periods, in his
immense denunciations, the oppressions of England shone
forth in all their deformity. He did no half work; beneath
his gigantic shoulder, the ball of revolution began to move.[1]
But the immense mass must move in its appointed way;
it must not roll at random; its course must be fixed. And
to fix this course, to define the revolution, its track and its
aims, to the public opinion of Europe and America, Thomas
Jefferson appeared, a man who has just begun his career, but
whose genius for overturning is immense. See here, too,
the hand of the Deity; see this wonder and mystery of his
decrees. This man, thus raised up to fulfill the divine purpose,
is an infidel, has no particle of reverence; for him,
Christ is but a name. The Almighty has removed the
faculty of reverence completely from his intellect, and he
advances over thrones and systems, through prejudice and
prestige, with a fatal, a mathematical precision. He carries
out his premises to the bounds of and beyond pure treason;
like a machine, his splendid intellect does not stop to reflect,
but accomplishes its work without pausing. Well, sir, see
how, in these two men, who utter and define the revolution
—see how God has raised up, at the appointed time, the instruments
with which he designs to produce his results. I
said, up yonder, and I repeat, that the military leader will
appear in good time; I doubt it not at all—I expect without
impatience—I calmly await the appointed moment.
Who knows what the hand of God has been doing? Perhaps,
as we have passed our serene existence here in the
midst of civilization, and surrounded by comforts—perhaps
some lonely youth, in the wilds of the forest, fording great
rivers, and ascending vast mountains, has been trained in
peril, and suffering, and hardship, for the leadership of liberty.
Perhaps, as we speak, this man is ready to appear;
let us wait, let us trust in God.

“But I weary you,” said the stranger. “I forget that the
philosophy of history, as the schoolmen say, may not interest
you as it does myself. What my brief and awkward
train of thought would utter is this, and this alone: that
for ten years these colonies have been slowly advancing, led
by the Almighty, as he led the Israelites of old, to a point
from which they can not recede, where they can not stand
still, when, consequently, they must press onward, even
though it be through the Red Sea of revolution and blood.
The seeds of liberty were sown in the opposition to the
Stamp Act; they have sprung up and spread into a tree,
whose iron grain will blunt the sharpest battle-ax. In '65,
the alarm was sounded by the voice of Patrick Henry, and
reverberating from cliff to cliff, it will mingle, in '75, with
the roar of cannon, the trumpet blast of battle! Do not mistake
or misunderstand, I beseech you!” said the stranger,
with his dazzling and fiery glance. “Revolution is logical,
mathematical, but it is the logic, the mathematics of God!
It is God, sir, who directs us poor puppets beneath him; it
is God who has made all things work together harmoniously
to this splendid result; it is God who, having aroused our
minds, and strengthened our souls, will also give us victory
in the struggle. For my part I do not fear the result; I
look forward, I pray, I wait!”

The stranger was silent, and for some time nothing disturbed
the stillness. At last Blossom stole out, thinking
the conversation was over, and came to her father.

The gloomy and wistful eyes grew clear, the lips relaxed
from their compressed expression, and a sad smile played
over the stranger's face.

“Perhaps, after all, it is better to listen to the heart,” he
said, “and happy is the man who does not feel compelled to

espouse the cause of his species. Poor intellect which has
not a heart!”

And with a sad and wistful look, the stranger passed his
white hand over the child's bright curls.

Blossom took the hand and pressed it to her lips, at the
moment when Mr. St. John rose to depart.

To the stranger's courteous invitation to remain, he urged
business in town, and so they separated, appointing to meet
at the capitol.

Blossom, too, had her little speech, which was a request
that her friend would please come again, and this promise
being given, the young man set forward to Williamsburg
again as the night fell.

A singular idea occurred to him as he rode onward.

The man whom he had just left, with every thing which
surrounded him, seemed a living protest against the old
world and the past. The cottage, with its low roof, hidden
in the wood, from which issued a man whose spirit
aroused revolution, was the direct antagonist of kings' palaces
and courts. As the palace, and the king in his royal
trappings, were the incarnation of privilege and prerogative,
and superstition, so the cottage in the wild forest, and the
plain man in black, were the representatives of liberty, disenthrallment—of
that freedom of thought and soul which
the new world must inaugurate.

The child before him, young, weak, and so nearly crushed
to death beneath the hoofs of his horse, was the type of Virginia,
which the legions of Great Britain would soon strive
to trample down!

He reached Williamsburg and his lodgings before he was
aware of it. Wearied with the long ride from “Flower of
Hundreds,” he was soon asleep.