 | CHAPTER XXX.
UTOPIAN DREAMS. The Virginia comedians, or, Old days in the Old Dominion |  |
30. CHAPTER XXX.
UTOPIAN DREAMS.
He who came first, was a man of about thirty, but looking
much older. In his keen eye could easily be discovered the
strong and excitable character of his intellect: across his
high forehead extended the lines of incessant, brooding,
anxious thought: around his grim mouth, were two semi-circular
furrows, which gave a rigid and iron-like expression
to the whole lower portion of his face. Captain Ralph
needed but a glance at this man, who was clad in a suit of
plum-color, with silk stockings, and who wrapped himself in
an old red cloak, to perceive that he was in the presence of
one of those born leaders, who burn up, with the fires of their
genius, all that opposes itself to them.
His companion was taller, and carried himself with elegant
simplicity. His eye was mild and benevolent—the
features comely, and full of character—his head covered
with a curling flaxen wig, and his dress plain, but rich.
The man in the red cloak came forward, and made a curt
ducking movement with his head, and extended his hand.
The captain grasped it hospitably, and then, in the same
manner, shook hands with his smiling companion, whose
greeting was very plain and courteous.
“Can Mr. Charles Waters have gone elsewhere to live?”
said the man in the red cloak, sitting down, and speaking in
a strong, rough voice of sincerity and open plainness, “I
came to visit him, sir.”
“My brother—my name is Ralph Waters, sir, a captain
in his Majesty's Prussian corps, formerly,” explained the
soldier; “my brother is now residing in the mountains, and
will regret not seeing you.”
“Yes,” said the man in the red cloak, “we are old
friends.”
The other visitor had, meanwhile, taken his seat in a
corner, and with a courteous, “Will you permit me, sir?”
to Captain Ralph, in his clear, silvery voice, had betaken
himself to perusing a legal record. “I trust the urgency of
my business will excuse this seeming discourtesy, sir,” he
added, “I am much pressed for time in a very important
case.”
And soon his smiling face was buried in his record.
The Captain turned again to the man in the red cloak.
“I think we have had the pleasure of meeting at the
Raleigh tavern, formerly, mon ami!” he said, “pray were
you not there in the autumn of '63?”
“Yes,” said his visitor, “and I now recollect you.”
“Charley has spoken of you frequently; and even has
used some very extravagant terms in praise of your acute
and vigorous intellect.”
The stranger smiled grimly: the circles around his
mouth growing deeper.
“Did he?” he said.
“Morbleu! yes! he was quite extravagant—though observe,
companion, I do not say that he was too much so.”
“You are complimentary.”
“I never compliment.”
“Well, sir, I will then return you my own opinion of
Mr. Waters. I found him one of those clear, vigorous
minds, which carry all before them—in debate, in thought,
in battle, whether that battle be of words, or of swords. He
will harden into an intellectual giant. I tested him.”
“Ah, you have a keen eye!” said Captain Ralph, twirling
his moustache, “you are, peradventure, some sorcerer,
who can read men's minds by merely looking at them.”
“In a degree, sir.”
“And when you hear them talk,” continued the Captain,
laughing, “what then?”
“I have found out as much of them as I need.”
“Diable! 'tis a great talent. Say, now, what do you
find in me, sir?—for you have both seen me, and hear me
talking now.”
“I do not pretend to sorcery, Captain Waters,” said the
stranger, in his strong, rough voice, “but I think I can
divine your character, without much difficulty.”
“Ah, well! speak then, sir: I assure you, you interest
me greatly.”
“You are frank, sir.”
“Ah, morbleu! I believe I am.”
“Perfectly sincere.”
“Thanks, thanks!”
“And you would strike in a good cause with that sword
upon the table, until it fell from your hand.”
“Ma foi! so I would.”
“Well, sir, I read that very clearly in your face—in
your eye—in your lip; for they are all full of martial fire
and frankness. Beyond this, I cannot speak: but I saw
more in your brother, for I knew him longer.”
“Ah! well, speak now of him!”
“Willingly; it gives me pleasure: for I found in that
young man, sir, the mind I had been looking for to help me
in the work which I see before me. I gauged him from the
first, and my object from that moment was, to dive into the
depths of his soul, to study line by line, joint by joint, articulation
after articulation, the character of his genius. We
went to the root of government—he taught me: I commenced
by laughing—I ended by feeling the flood in my
eyes as he spoke. I studied that young man, and I think I
understood him.”
“Why he is as open and transparent as the day: your
study was thrown away, it seems to me, mon ami!”
“No, sir: and the proof is that I wished to talk farther
with him, for which reason I came by with my friend from
Caroline. No, sir, you are mistaken; that young man is
not transparent, or, if so, 'tis the transparency of the tropical
seas, where the eye pierces hundreds of feet, to the far
fury. There is the man in that illustration, sir,” said the
stranger, drawing his old red cloak about him, and appearing
to take a peculiar delight in speaking of Charles Waters,
“very calm, very pure, very simple and limpid, so to speak:
but once roused, I fancy he would be more dangerous than
the most furious—as the calm sea, lashed by the wind, becomes
more fatal than the noisiest brook. His weakness,
however, in one point, was great—in his heart. That is too
soft and easy: it will interfere with him in the struggle, I
foresee. But the intellect, the reason, ah! sir, that is so
powerful in its humility, so strong in its weakness, that I
predict it will grow up gigantic, if God spares him for
twenty years. At present—excuse me, sir, but I find a
strange pleasure in speaking of that man—at present, his
mind is in the transition state: he is too full of love for
humanity, not to say it profanely;—he wants hardness: his
ideas are too grand, he cannot bend them down to common
things wholly—he cannot mount step by step upon that ladder
which reaches to the sky—he would soar. As a proof
of this I have but to mention his political theory: will you
listen, sir?”
“Parbleu! I am delighted to hear you talk,” cried the
Captain, “and yours is a face, mon ami, which promises
ideas.”
The stranger smiled grimly.
“I am only a poor member of the House of Burgesses,”
he said, “but let me tell you one of Charles Waters's grand
ideas; those grand ideas, as I said, are his weakness. He
commences by saying that the present bond with England
cannot last—”
“The devil!” are you sure of that, companion?”
“Perfectly sir, but to continue. Next, Mr. Waters
uses the word Republic.”
“A grand word, but—”
And the Captain shook his head.
“Next, while I listen attentively, he begins to speak of
that republic, and his scheme is, that the free white people
who have reached their majority, should wield all power.”
“I doubt the feasibility of that,” said the Captain.
“Next,” continued the stranger, “he explains the republic
idea. The people shall elect the sheriffs, the clerks of courts,
the justices, the burgesses, even the governor of the State.”
The Captain again shook his head doubtfully.
“That is not all,” said the stranger, “he has gone further.
Virginia, he assumes, will not be the only colony which
will cast off the chains. All the rest will follow—all as far
north as Massachusetts, which will arm its very slaves against
England. Then, sir—for with his grand confidence, he assumes
our success in the struggle—then he has arranged
what he styles the federation of the colonies, in the shape of
a league offensive and defensive, to be known as one nation,
as the `Federated Colonies,' or the `United States,' or by
some other name which shall denote the terms of the compact.
And now mark the conclusion of his scheme. Having
made all offices and dignities spring from the people in this
colony of Virginia, he says that the officers of this federated
government should also be elected by votes. He would have
a great supreme justice of the peace, to be called a protector
or president; a great senate, and a lower house, also elected
by the people; a great national court, also elected by the
people; one grand national organization, partaking of the
character of an empire, and a league of sovereign countries.
His Utopia is complete, perfect, not a rod or a wheel wanting
in the machine, not a flaw in the work; it is only a pity
that 'tis but a Utopia, for of course such a monstrosity can
never exist.”
The stranger paused a moment, then added:
“This is one of the grand weaknesses of Mr. Waters
which I mentioned, sir; those splendid Utopian ideas which
will disappear as his intellect matures, leaving it all steel.
But I have even respect for his fallacies, for they spring from
a man of trained intellect, and impassioned, political genius.
Yes, sir, from a brain of rare fertility, and power, and
strength, for it is humble; from a soul that goes up to the
upper air, and looks down calmly above the mist and rain.
The hours spent with him impressed me so profoundly, that
I have come hither to say to him, `Now is the time, sir—
this is the crisis—you promised to assist me—keep that
promise.'”
“To what do you refer?” said the Captain, “to politics?”
“Assuredly.”
“The stamp act?”
“Yes.”
“You believe it will pass?”
“I know it.”
“And you count on Charles to render you assistance of
some description?”
“Yes, sir, a great assistance.”
The Captain shook his head; the stranger's glance in
terrogated him.
“I very much fear you have forgotten the old maxim,
that where love enters, every thing else disappears,” said the
soldier.
“Love, sir?”
“Charley's married.”
The stranger reflected for a moment, and replied—
“Well, sir, marriage makes a man stronger. One is not
a perfect citizen until he has given to society those hostages
of fortune, which Lord Bacon speaks of.”
“I doubt much whether his mind is as full of political
ideas as formerly, mon ami,” said the Captain, “he has never
lived, he writes, until now.”
The stranger reflected.
“He is in the grand mountains yonder, with a wife who,
morbleu! has never had her equal; he says the country is
a paradise, and that the world is dead to him.”
The stranger shook his head.
“In one word, he is happy and contented, sir,” said the
Captain.
The stranger uttered a sigh, which seemed to say, “all is
over then.”
“I will send him any message, companion,” said the
Captain, “or if you want a good arm for any active service,
why, for Charley's sake, my own is yours.”
The stranger rose, shaking his head.
“I trust 'tis no disparagement to say, sir, that you cannot
supply his place,” he said. “When the time comes I know you
will be at your post, Captain Waters; but your brother is
different. You may think all this very strange, but I repeat
that I need all the lights to guide me on the dark path I shall
soon tread; and this torch I came to seek cannot have its
that I must go alone. I see many noble lights around me,”
continued the stranger, with his high, calm look, and glancing
at the gentleman seated in the corner poring over his brief,
“but I do not think they will guide me as far as I wish to
go; again sir, let me say that the impression made upon
me by Mr. Waters, must be my excuse for this strange
conversation.”
“Not at all! not all!” said the Captain. “I am most
happy to hear Charley praised; and he will, I am sure, be
glad to hear of your visit.”
“Well, sir,” said the stranger, “when you write again,
say that I remembered his words, `If God decrees revolution
let it come!' Say to him, that this decree of God has
gone forth; that he is needed.”
And bowing with his old, awkward bow, the man in the
red cloak, refusing to stay and sup, took his leave, followed by
his companion, who exchanged a cordial and smiling farewell
with the Captain.
In ten minutes they had disappeared in the direction of
Williamsburg.
| CHAPTER XXX.
UTOPIAN DREAMS. The Virginia comedians, or, Old days in the Old Dominion | |