University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

Scene 1.

—A Street in Philadelphia.
[Enter Timothy, meeting Eldad and Nathan.]
Timothy.
What of the war up North, good Deacon Eldad.

Eldad.
It's well begun, friend; and—

Timothy.
Good,—well begun,—
So says poor Richard, well begun, half done.

Eldad.
Don't you believe it: never a proverb yet
But it's as easily twisted on itself
As any Jonah's gourd,—lo—hearken now,
Rise with the lark and lie down with the lamb,—
Lambs are asleep at noon when the lark rockets;
Do everything to-day and not to-morrow,—
As if you wouldn't be wiser by to-morrow
For knowing surely what to-day brings forth;
The early bird gathers the worm,—but then
That earlier worm were better far abed,—

Timothy.
Well, Deacon, don't be tedious,—how's the war?

Eldad.
Friend, I must end my homily on beginnings:
It is a simple business to begin;
But to go on, and on, and persevere
Wrestling down Amaleks, and fording Jordans,
And wandering wearily the sandy flats
Of some hot wilderness, not half way yet,
Oh, not half midway yet,—here is the toil,
I tell you—

Timothy.
Well but, Deacon, how's the war?

Eldad.
It's well begun, I grant it, well begun;
Something is done, though much remains to do,
And thus—

[Enter John Adams.]
Timothy
to John Adams.
From Boston, sir? how goes the war?

John Adams.
Bravely: at Lexington first blood was drawn;
Pitcairn attacked us; but we answered him
So stoutly, that we drove him for six miles
(He thrice our force and we undisciplined)
Hunting him to his ships at Charlestown Neck,
Where he took shelter with his grenadiers,
Leaving the victory ours. Massachusetts
Flung out the watchword ‘Death or Liberty’
And everywhere the beacons blazed defiance
From State to State through thirteen colonies:
Then the great giant woke, and stood up strong:
A mighty people flaming red with rage.
Gathered by drum and trumpet everywhere:
The steeples clashed to arms,—even pious preachers
Stood on their pulpit stairs, calling to arms;
The teamster left his ploughshare in the furrow
And galloped with his horses to the war,—
The yeoman tore his rifle from its case,
The draper leapt across his counter straight
Eager to fight for freedom; even women
Swarmed in as volunteers, and very children
Shouldered the muskets they could scarcely lift.
We soon had thirty thousand men in arms,
Selected from three hundred thousand more,
And at their head our noble Washington,
Chosen Commander-in-Chief.

Timothy.
Good news; what more?

John Adams.
On Lake Champlain, Arnold and Ethan Allen,
From Vermont, with their brave Green Mountain Boys,
Surprised Ticonderoga and Crownpoint,
Seizing their stores of cannon, and supplies—

Timothy.
Good, good, ey Deacon,—well begun half done?

John Adams.
And though at Bunker's Hill we failed at first,
Through lack of powder for our empty guns,
Yet those few cartridges had burnt so well
The enemy fell before us in such heaps
They conquered but a fatal victory.
Then Washington rushed fiercely to the front
And shelled them from the heights of Dorchester,
And stormed them out of Boston in hot haste,
Howe and his veteran army in a mass
Driven to his ships by Putnam's bayonets.
Enough—the right is conquering—fare you well.
Exit John Adams.

Timothy.
Well, Deacon Eldad, what say you to this—
Is well begun, half done?—

Eldad.
Nay, Timothy,
You count the profits only; take your ledger
And post me up the loss; I wot the loss,
Could we but count it, balances the gain,
Ay, much outweighs it,—look you firstly, now—

Timothy.
Deacon, I cannot stop; for firstly means
Secondly, thirdly, and fifteenthly too,—

Eldad.
But, Haerlem Heights? Kip's Bay? call you these gains,
Where Washington gave orders to shoot down
Our many runaways? Then Hackensack—

Timothy.
Croaker! be dumb: or shout at Trenton Falls
With conquering Washington, Their flags are struck!
No more. Good den, good Deacon.

Exit.
Eldad.
Well, methinks
Folks are gone mad, they will not listen to reason;
The love of liberty hath driven them mad;
There is some fighting fever in the air
Tainting us all with a contagious courage:
I should not wonder now, if Nathan and I
Were some day found shouldering a firelock too,
And shouting after General Washington.

Scene 2.

A Chamber. Patrick Henry and Washington.
Patrick Henry.
We can rejoice together, General,
That our own dear Virginia joined the league,
Albeit at bloody cost already;—Norfolk,
That loyal town of peaceful homes, burnt down
By the cold cowardly despot Lord Dunmore,
Who hiding on a man-of-war in the roads
Dared thus to cannonade us!—O King George,
If Cæsar had his Brutus, Charles his Cromwell,
'Twere well you—profited—I say no more—
By such examples.

Washington.
This is saddening news;—
Friend, I have more to make me sorrowful.
New York is falling away; Connecticut
Is wearying as half-hearted in the cause,
Her levies at our need deserting us
Even by battalions,—they had served their year
And must get home they say,—let others fight!
O Sir, my soul has groaned, where are the men
With whom I must defend America?—
The weight of care lies heavy on my heart
Shamed by desertions, vexed with meannesses,
The jealousy of Congress and the taunts
Even of brother soldiers slandering me.

Patrick Henry.
I hear that General Lee has brought a charge
Of sloth, incompetence, I know not what—

Washington.
O Sir, the worst afflictions of a man
Come from false friends, envious competitors
Whispering detraction in a private sense,
More than from public foes: I can endure
Defeat, but not defection; all the toils,
Perils and open accidents of war,
But not the secret jealousies of peace.
They thwart me, doubt me, misinterpret me,
Maligning all that's done, and left undone.
I may stand up serene, but feel it still.

Patrick Henry.
For climax, Colonel Reed, your secretary,
Stings you, 'tis said, with slander.

Washington.
Yes,—I know it;
Pass him; forget it all, I can forgive,
I will not even let him know I know it:
Trust me,—and let me drop it lightly thus,
As not to be down-tilted by a reed.

Patrick Henry.
Cheerfully taken: the well balanced mind
However hemmed by adverse circumstance
As in a labyrinth of cactus hedges
Is always happy in itself, at peace
And ready thus to beat down to its will
The thorns of still opposing circumstance.
We count and call you, George, our Fabius,
Winning by patience what with all your skill,
With all your courage, hangs still in the balance
Unwon, and not to be won, save by waiting:
In war, in peace, the name of Washington
Lives in all hearts and dwells upon all tongues,
At once our Fabius and our Hannibal.

Washington.
Peace, friend, no praising; any speech but that:
The man who knows himself can bear reproach
Better than flattery: do I call you flatterer?
Forgive me this sharp word, dear Patrick Henry,—
I know your soul sincere: yet, while my thanks
Are yours for so much love, suffer my foes
To speak their thoughts of me for good or evil:
Cæsar and Curtius are my teachers here;
A man is nothing if he has no foes,
Nothing, if slander, ridicule, contempt
Are not the frequent scorpions in his path;
Can he have lived a life of faithfulness
Of earnest work for good, and have escaped
Hatred from wickedness, or scorn from folly?
No,—there are serpents still hissing before him:
Let him march on, as duty bids, unfearing,
And trample out their poison as he goes;
Let him march on, heedless of praise and censure,
Living alone for conscience and for God,
And he shall make his veriest foes his friends.
I have stood up well nigh alone thou knowest,
Daring impossibles to save the state,
That scarce will let me save it; thus I reap
The tares of slander sown by factious tongues.
But—I must leave you: I have much to do
And little time for speech.

Exit.
Patrick Henry.
Farewell, great heart:
The Saul and the Musæus of our millions.
A nobler spirit never breathed in man;
Thoughtful for others, and forgetting self,
Dauntless in danger, yet so meek withal;
Calm amid calumnies, and flatteries;
Strengthened through failure, humbled by success.
And full of love for man and trust in God,
Chivalric wise and pious and serene,
The pinnacle of human excellence.
Yes,—I have noted him from earliest youth
And marvelled to what great and lofty ends
The hand of Providence was training him.
He was our Moses in the wilderness
Inured to savage warfare, and prepared
Through perils multitudinous to lead
This people to their Canaan of the West:
And when Monongahela's bloody swamp
Proved gallant Braddock's grave, young Washington
Screened by the Manitou himself, they said,
Alone stood victor on that fatal field;
And ever since the same impetuous soul,
Calm, truthful, bold, upright, and self-reliant,
That dwells within his tall athletic frame
Has marked him out to all a chief of men
Fitted and trained to his high destiny,
The first in peace and war, first everywhere,
First in the hearts of all his countrymen.

Exit.

Scene 3.

—A Street in Baltimore.
Enter Timothy, Rachel, and Nathan; then Franklin.
Timothy.
It was a day of days, I promise you,
A sight of sights, our Yankee flag's new birth,
At Boston, Dorchester heights, on New Year's Day.

Rachel.
Yankee—why Yankee?

Timothy.
Yenghees, Redman English.

Rachel.
But we're not English now.

Timothy.
Who told you that?
We're Greater Britain, England magnified,
In origin and laws and soul the same.
What language do you speak? Who were your fathers?
What's your religion, if not Protestant?
Your books, your liberties, your stalwart force
Of independent character, all English;
They fill an island, we a continent;
We are republicans, they monarchists;
But our Head Man looks very like a King,
And their great Ruler is the sovereign people!
The name seems well enough, our Yankee flag.

Rachel.
You saw it, Timothy?

Timothy.
Yes, girl, at Boston;
There first was shown that glorious flag unfurled.

Nathan.
Yea, friend, I too stood by when they tore down
The Union Jack of England and flung out
Those stars and stripes: tell me why stars and stripes.

Timothy.
It's fair enough; they make a pretty show
Shining and wriggling in the sun like snakes.

Nathan.
That's a poor answer: why choose stripes and stars?
Enter Franklin.
O here comes one can tell us everything.
Goodmorrow, brother Franklin: dost thou know,
And wilt thou say, why they chose stars and stripes?

Franklin.
Yes, Nathan, I proposed it to the Congress.
It was their leader's old crusading blazon,
Washington's coat, his own heraldic shield.

Nathan.
Can this be known? and was it not ambition?
A Cromwell come again?

Franklin.
Listen, good friends:
It is not known, and it was not ambition.
He never heard of it till fixed and done.
For on the spur, when we must choose a flag,
Symbolling independent unity,
We, and not he—all was unknown to him—
Took up his coat of arms, and multiplied
And magnified it every way to this
Our glorious national banner.

Rachel.
Coat of arms?
What was this coat of arms?

Franklin.
I'll tell you, friends.
I've searched it out and known it for myself,
When late in England there, at Herald's College,
And found the Washingtons of Wessyngton
In County Durham and of Sulgrave Manor
County Northampton, bore upon their shield
Three stars atop, two stripes across the field,
Gules—that is red—on white, and for the crest
An eagle's head upspringing to the light,
Its motto, Latin, “Issue proveth acts.”
The architraves at Sulgrave testify,
As sundry painted windows in the hall
At Wessyngton, this was their family coat.
They took it to their new Virginian home:
And at Mount Vernon I myself have noted
An old cast iron scutcheoned chimney-back
Charged with that heraldry.

Timothy.
Well, this is strange,
And no one knows it; surely such a relic
Must soon be cared for, if not worshipped—

Franklin.
Sir,
Causes are soon forgotten; consequents
Quickly close-shadow them as plants their seeds.
I wot I am the first to tell you all
This root and reason for our stars and stripes,
Washington's heraldry. Farewell.

Exit.
Nathan.
Farewell, we thank thee.

Timothy.
Well, Nathan, this is grand about those stars;
The stars are now thirteen, each star a state
And may soon be thrice that, say thirty-nine,
With “forty stripes, save one,” to whip the world!
How say you, Quaker friend?

Nathan.
Well, I opined
Friend Franklin must have known; and I perceive
That eagle's head hath pulled a body out
Fullfledged as mounting to the higher heaven
Trailing a mantlet cloud of stars and stripes.
I am a man of peace, I love not wars;
Yet were it well that none should strive with me,
Or touch, unless in love, those stars and stripes.

Timothy.
Well said, old Nathan! but we stay too long
Come to head quarters,—there are all the news.