2. II.
IN WHICH THE WRITER OMITS A NUMBER OF THINGS.
I HAVE not the least intention of inflicting upon the reader an
account of my childhood, boyhood, or early manhood, spent at
“Eagle's-Nest.” It would not interest deeply—that life of a
child who ran laughing and singing through the grounds of an old
house, or conned his lessons at his dear mother's knee—who listened
to the murmur of the Rappahannock flowing past the lofty
hill, and dreamed his idle dreams of far-off lands—who rode all
the colts he could catch, and was thrown by them, spun his top,
tore his clothes, and drew down the denunciations of his gray-haired
“mammy.” Nor would the life of the youth and man
prove more interesting.
All these details would be charming, my dear reader, if
Colonel Surry was anybody—a great warrior, statesman, or general—and
was dead. But he is none of these, and fortunately
still lives; so all these particulars of his youth are omitted. The
flowers bloomed brighter then, and the song of the birds was
sweeter; but that was in my childhood, not in yours, reader.
Mine for myself—yours for you, friend. Let us dream of the
dead days sometimes, as the comedy of life plays before us and
the voices laugh—we will never see those days any more, except
in dreams!
I spent one session at the Virginia Military Institute; studied
law at the University; commenced the practice in Essex and the
surrounding counties—and in 1861, at the age of twenty-five,
saw the country about to be plunged into war.
Fill that hiatus with the hundred octavo volumes which will
be written on the causes of what our friends across the border
call the “Great Rebellion.” In the present memoirs I intend to
weary neither myself nor the reader with that discussion. Let
others trace back the torrent to its source—laboriously demonstrating
how 1861 was the logical result of 1820—and show how
the antagonism of race and opinion became the antagonism of the
bayonet. This is not the place for that logomachy. I who write
am as firm to-day in my conviction of the right of secession as
yesterday, or five years ago. But the question has been tried—the
issue is dead, for the present, and let it rest. Besides, you know
all that story now, reader mine—how the whole North roared
at the wicked South, and John Brown with the pike carried out
what Helper wrote with the pen. In 1860 the beginning of the
end came. The “Republicans” triumphed: the Gulf States declared
that the Union was dissolved—and, asserting their right
to shape their own destiny, prepared to support their action with
the sword.
Where was Virginia? it may be asked. I reply that she was
trying to command the peace, vainly supposing that this storm
could be hushed. I blamed her then, when my blood was hot—
now I think that she acted with her ancient courage and dignity.
The Virgin of her shield would not lightly touch the sword, because,
when once she drew it, she meant to throw away the
scabbard.
Whether she kept that resolution, let the blood and tears and
desolation of four terrible years, in which she never shrank before
her foe, declare.
