38. CHAPTER XXXVIII.
THE FIXED STARS OF VIRGINIA.
St. John was awakened by the sunbeams falling on his
forehead.
It was the 26th of May, 1774, a day memorable in the
annals of Virginia.
As though to cheer and embolden the hearts of patriots,
the great orb of day rose clear and brilliant, and mounted
to his noon unobscured by clouds, as on that occasion in the
old church of St. John, when the stranger had pointed to
it, soaring above the retreating thunder storm, and called it
“the Sun of America.”
At an early hour, the entire capital was in commotion, for
the news had gotten abroad that on this day Lord Dunmore
would dissolve the Assembly. The crowd continued to increase
throughout the morning, and at three in the afternoon,
it poured in one living mass toward the capitol, in
front of whose wide portico the statue of the good Lord
Botetourt looked down with calm serenity upon the multitude.
But since the days of that honest nobleman, men and
events, unhappily, have changed. Other times have come,
and another Governor rules in the chair of Norborne Berkeley.
Lord Botetourt, it is true, had also dissolved the Burgesses,
but sadly, sorrowfully, with the reluctance of a man
who acknowledges in his heart the justice of a protest, but
is forced, by his sworn duty, to oppose himself to the protestants.
The worthy nobleman loved Virginia and the Virginians,
and many persons said that the oppressions of the
ministry had hastened his death. However that may be,
one thing is certain, that soon after his dissolution of the
Burgesses, this statue of him was commanded by that body;
and having been duly erected before the capitol, to be removed
afterwards to the college grounds, where it may now
be seen, the marble image of the good nobleman, on this
May day of'74, looked tranquilly upon the masses ruled now
by —— Dunmore.
Let history, with her inexorable justice, her cold stylus,
fill the space left blank before the name. The present
writer disdains to attempt the task, leaving to others the
duty of depicting one who united in his character the most
perfect treachery, the utmost cowardice, and the most consistent
and harmonious meanness.
But let us follow St. John.
The whole population, as we have said, flowed toward the
old capitol, along Gloucester street, as, on the day of Lady
Dunmore's entry, in an opposite direction toward the palace.
But now it seemed agitated by far different emotions.
Then it had shouted and laughed, now it was silent and
frowned. Then it saw a cavalcade, brilliant with the bright
eyes and smiling faces of a good woman and her beautiful
daughters, and it smiled gladly in return. Now it was
about to behold the haughty progress of a bad man, with
a scowling face, surrounded by his mercenary attendants.
And the people scowled honestly back in advance, and
looked sidewise, with a threatening air, at the guards when
they appeared.
St. John was carried onward by the crowd to the base of
Lord Botetourt's statue, where the waves of the multitude
were divided, and flowed right and left.
It was with immense difficulty that he succeeded in elbowing
his way up to the portico. At last, however, he attained
his position, and then his glance surveyed the long
street, with its undulating and imposing occupants, its old
men with gray beards, and maidens in picturesque dresses,
and curiously peering children, lost like flowers in the waves.
He was still absorbed in this scrutiny when he felt a hand
on his arm, and a calm voice said,
“An interesting spectacle, friend; the curiosity of the
multitude seems general.”
He turned, and found himself face to face with the stranger,
who added with a grave inclination, as he leaned against
a pillar, and thoughtfully surveyed the crowd,
“We are punctual to our appointment, Mr. St. John; I
have been awaiting you, however, as the Burgesses are
awaiting the Governor.”
St. John pressed the extended hand, and said,
“I should like to look at the House. Will we have time
before the Governor arrives?”
“He will not come for twenty minutes.”
“Well then let us go into the gallery, and you shall point
out to me some of the leaders.”
“Willingly.”
And in a moment they were in the gallery of the Burgesses.
The speaker sat opposite in a tall chair, clearly relieved
against a red curtain, held aloft by an ornamental rod.[1]
Beneath, sat the clerk of the House, behind his table littered
with bills; before him on the table lay the great mace,
which signified that the body was in full session. When
they sat in Committee of the Whole, it was laid under the
table.
The members were scattered throughout the hall, talking
earnestly in groups, and scarcely heeding the hammer and
cry of “Order, gentlemen!”
“Strange to say I have not before visited the present
House,” said St. John; “ 't is my loss, for they have a most
imposing air.”
“It is the reflex of their mental characteristics,” said the
stranger. “The body before you, friend, contains the great
leaders of Virginia—the burning and shining lights of the
coming storm. Look, there, in front of the speaker. Do
you know the member in the peach-blossom coat, with the
tie-wig and the worn red cloak?”
“I have seen him pass on the street I think: yes, one day,
talking with Mr. Carrington.”[2]
“That is Patrick Henry,” continued the stranger, “the
prophet and king of the revolution that comes onward, the
torch which illumines the way. He was born in Hanover,
among the slashes, and after a youth spent in idleness,
studied law, and appeared in the `Parsons' cause.' The rest
of his career you are familiar with. The burning eloquence
which drove the clergy in despair from their seats in the
court house, soared to heaven like a flame of fire in the days
of the Stamp Act agitation, in '65. At this moment, that
awkward-looking man, with the listless air and the stooping
shoulders, is the grandest orator on the continent of America,
and none in the old world compare with him. Heaven
sends but one such man in a thousand years. It sent Demosthenes,
and now it sends this greater than Demosthenes.
Sir, I weary you, but this man, the very sight of him, arouses
me. He will rule and sway, in right of his genius, the storm
which is rushing downward!”
St. John looked at the ungainly figure, and could not realize
the truth of what he heard. It was simply a slouching
county court lawyer that he saw.
“I see that you think I am enthusiastic,” said the stranger;
“you think that this man in the old worn coat—this
man of the people—is unequal to the task I describe.[3]
Hear
him speak, and your doubt will disappear. You will then
see him rise erect like a giant, you will see the lightning of
such glances as you never even dreamed of, hear the thunder
of an oratory which will shake the throne of England,
and reverberate through the history of this continent![4]
Enough! the event will show.”
The stranger was silent for a moment, then turning his
eyes from Henry, continued,
“Those two gentlemen in front of the speaker must be
known to you. The one whose tall figure is bowed by the
weight of seventy years, with the deep blue eyes protected
by a green shade—that is Colonel Richard Bland, of `Jordan's,'
in Prince George, the author of the letter on the
`Twopenny Act,' of the tract on the `American Episcopate;'
above all, of the `Inquiry into the Rights of the
American Colonies,” whose logic advances with the resounding
roll of an avalanche. He is descended from Giles Bland,
who fought with Bacon—is called, for his great acquisitions,
`The Antiquary of Virginia,'—at seventy, and when almost
blind, he still puts on the old harness in the service of his
countrymen.”
[5]
“I know Colonel Bland,” said St. John, “and his companion—”
“Is Mr. George Wythe, one of the most learned gentlemen
of the province. His mother taught him Latin and
Greek in his childhood. He drew the celebrated memorial
to the Commons in '64; he is second to no one in patriotism.
But these men are but units in a noble line. See, youder,
Mr. Thomas Nelson, from the town of York; see his
gentle smile, and the suavity that beams in his features.
He is capable of giving his time, his means, his very life-blood
to his country. And there beside him is Mr. Robert
Carter Nicholas—thin-featured, growing bald, of grave bearing;
he is a sound financier and far-seeing statesman. You
know the tall and portly gentleman with whom he converses.
It it Mr. Benjamin Harrison, of `Berkeley,' on James river.
In his veins flows the blood of Harrison the Regicide, the
man who was prominent in condemning Charles I. to death.
He is a man of the most admirable administrative genius,
of a patriotism unsurpassed; his courage would make him
smile at the foot of the gallows.”[6]
“Yes,” said St. John, “that is true, every word, of
Mr. Harrison. And who is that tall youth just behind
him?”
“With the slender figure, and amiable black eyes? That
is a young gentleman, residing in Fauquier; Mr. John
Marshall. He is seeking, I believe, for a commission in the
service.”[7]
“I do not know Mr. Marshall, but his face is attractive,”
returned St. John.
“But you doubtless know that tall gentleman to his right.
That is Mr. Edmund Pendleton of Caroline, the type and
representative of the conservative revolutionists—the thinkers
who desire to advance, logically, and in well-ordered
phalanx. You read in his bearing, in his very countenance,
the character of the man—the man whom I regard as equally
valuable to the revolution with Mr. Henry and Mr. Jefferson.
Mr. Pendleton is profoundly read in the laws binding
nations and individuals; his conservative genius curbs
the fiery and rash minds of the passionate reformers; his
familiarity with forms and parliamentary rules, will be of
indispensable value to the cause. In debate he is wholly
unsurpassed by any man in North America, and in the
fiercest encounter of the sharpest weapons 't is impossible
to throw him off his guard. His noble and serene bearing
is a great aid to his oratory; his suavity and grace conciliate
the rudest. No finer type exists of the courtly gentleman.
If Henry is our Demosthenes, Pendleton is our Cicero;
his silvery voice steals away your reason.”[8]
“Absolutely,” said St. John. “Yes, I know Mr. Pendleton
wery well.”
“You doubtless know also the group who are talking
yonder earnestly in the corner,” continued the stranger.
“Do you see the tall gentleman who thrusts a hand covered
with ruffles into the breast of his blue, gold-laced waistcoat;
him of the broad massive brow, the dark eyes, full of
mingled sadness and severity, the brown cheek and the lofty
carriage? That is Mr. George Mason from the county of
Fairfax, but not a member of the present Burgesses. He is
a man of the profoundest political genius, not second even
to Mr. Jefferson. A statesman of the very first rank, deeply
read in the lore of charters and constitutions, with a brain
and heart beating with one pulse of patriotism. Should a
declaration of rights be thought advisable by the province
—a chart to steer by in the storm—it is to this man that I
would most willingly confide the task. The bill of rights
which he would frame would be the platform of liberty, the
embodiment of the philosophy of honest government, the
exposition of the inalienable rights of mankind.”
[9]
“'T is truly an admirable head,” said St. John. “I did
not know Mr. Mason.”
“The small gentleman,” continued the stranger, “of graceful
feature and eyes singularly piercing, is Archibald Cary, of
`Ampthill,' in Chesterfield, called `Old Iron' for his inflexible
courage,[10]
and the member whom he addresses is Richard
Henry Lee, of `Chantilly,' in Westmoreland, called `The
Gentleman of the Silver Hand.' Is his not a noble head?
The type of the Roman, a true Scipio Africanus, inclining
forward with lofty grace, as though he were listening to you
with his best courtesy. 'T is a pity that an accident made
the black bandage on his left hand necessary; but let him
once speak and you see it no longer, though he uses it in
his gestures; you hear only his swelling and magnificent
periods![11]
Many of the rest you doubtless know. Mr.
Peyton Randolph, Mr. Francis Lightfoot Lee, Mr. Rutherford,
Mr. Langhorne, Mr. Paul Carrington, Mr. Lewis Burwell
of Gloucester county; and yonder you see Mr. Thomas
Jefferson.”
“Ah! you spoke warmly of him, sir, when we talked,”
said St. John.
“Not more warmly than I should have done,” replied the
stranger. “See the penof the revolution; you have looked
at Henry, the tongue. You may discern in the countenance
of this gentleman, too, his whole character. See his broad,
swelling forebead, with thin sandy hair; his prominent nose,
thin lips and resolute chin; see, above all, his piercing and
clear eye. It is the face of a man with a genius essentially
political; a mind which arrives, with a single bound, at conclusions
which startle the boldest. In this man, as in Mr.
George Mason, the revolution vindicates itself to history;
the true representative of a convulsed epoch, he will guide
and direct great events. His glance of lightning has already
flashed through the cobwebs and ruins of feudalism, the
trappings of royalty and nobility; he believes in nothing,
trusts to nothing, accepts nothing which is not clearly
proved
by the doctrine of inalienable right! Before the fatal advance
of his inexorable logic, royalty, aristocracy and religious
intolerance yield, one after another, and are overthrown.
His faults are those of a genius too youthful and fiery;
his views are extreme, and need the mellowing hand of time
to harmonize them, but still he is the man for the times, the
gladiator for the present arena!”
As the stranger uttered these words, a stifled sound from
the great crowd without was heard, and the Burgesses gathered
in more earnest groups than before.
“The moment has come!” said the stranger, taking St.
John's arm, “let us go look on; but first, see that great
figure which has risen but now, the man who stands surrounded
by Henry, Mason, and Nelson, and Jefferson, and
young Marshall, who is as tall as the lofty General Lewis, of
Botetourt, beside him. Ah! I see you know him. Yes,
that is Colonel George Washington, of `Mount Vernon,' in
Fairfax. He sustained the whole frontier on his shoulders,
fought with Braddock, and is now a member of the Burgesses.
I have spoken of the tongue and the pen of the
revolution, friend. If Providence so wills it, see the
sword.”
And without further words the stranger led the way from
the gallery. In a moment they again stood on the portico
of the capitol.
