The blue sky was overhead, the red sun upon the castellated
walls a thousand feet above us, the purpling chasm opened be-
fore.
walls a thousand feet above us, the purpling chasm opened be-
fore.
Warner - World's Best Literature - v27 - Wat to Zor
We
must make the most of the levels. Rougher work, cruel obstacles
were before. All the wild, triumphant music I had ever heard
came and sang in my ears to the flinging cadence of the resonant
feet, tramping on hollow arches of the volcanic rock, over great
vacant chasms underneath. Sweet and soft around us melted
the hazy air of October; and its warm, flickering currents shook
like a veil of gauzy gold between us and the blue bloom of the
mountains far away, but nearing now and lifting step by step.
On we galloped — the avenger, the friend, the lover — on our
errand to save and to slay.
It came afternoon, as we rode on steadily. The country grew
rougher. The horses never flinched; but they sweated freely, and
foam from their nostrils flecked their shoulders. By-and-by, with
little pleasant admonitory puffs, a breeze drew down from the
glimmering frosty edges of the sierra and cooled us. Horses and
men' were cheered and freshened, and lifted anew to their work.
We had seen and heard no life on the desert. Now, in the
broken country, a coyote or two scuttled away as we passed.
Sometimes a lean gray. wolf would skulk out of a brake, canter
after us a little way, and then squat on his haunches, staring at
our strange speed. Flight and chase he could understand; but
ours was not flight for safety, or chase for food. Men are queer
mysteries to beasts. So our next companions found. Over the
edge of a slope, bending away to a valley of dry scanty pasture
at the left, a herd of antelopes appeared. They were close to
us, within easy revolver shot. They sprang into graceful flight,
some score of them, with tails up and black hoofs glancing. Pres-
ently, pausing for curiosity, they saw that we fled, not followed;
and they in turn became pursuers, careering after us for a mile
or more, until our stern business left their gamboling play far
behind.
We held steadily for that notch in the blue sierra. The
mountain lines grew sharper, the country where we traveled
rougher, every stride. We came upon a wide tract covered with
wild sage-bushes. These delayed and baffled us.
-
It was a pigmy
forest of trees, mature and complete, but no higher than the knee.
## p. 16081 (#427) ##########################################
THEODORE WINTHROP
16081
>
Every dwarfed, stunted, gnarled bush had the trunk, limbs, twigs,
and gray withered foliage, all in miniature, of some tree, hap-
less but sturdy, that has had a weather-beaten struggle for life
on a storm-threshed crag by the shore, or on a granite side of
a mountain, with short allowance of soil to eat and water
to drink. Myriads of square miles of that arid region have no
important vegetation except this wild sage or Artemisia, and a
meaner brother, not even good to burn,- the greasewood.
One may ride through the tearing thickets of a forest pri-
meval, as one may shoulder through a crowd of civilized barba-
rians at a spectacle. Our gallop over the top of this pigmy wood
was as difficult as to find passage over the heads of the same
crowd, tall men and short, men hatted with slouched hats, wash-
bowls, and stove-pipes. It was a rough scramble. It checked our
speed and chafed our horses. Sometimes we could find natural
pathways for a few rods. Then these strayed aside or closed up,
and we must plunge straight on. We lost time; moments we lost
more precious than if every one were marked by a drop in a
clepsydra, and each drop as it fell changed itself and tinkled in
the basin, a priceless pearl.
“It worries me, this delay," I said to Brent.
“They lost as much more time than we,” he said.
And he crowded on more desperately, as man rides for
dearer than life. as a lover rides for love.
We tore along, breaking through and over the sage-bushes,
each man where best he could. Fulano began to show me what
leaps were in him. I gave him his head. No bridle would
have held him. I kept my mastery by the voice, or rather by
the perfect identification of his will with mine. Our minds acted
together. "Save strength," I still warned him, “save strength,
.
my friend, for the mountains and the last leaps!
A little pathway in the sage-bushes suddenly opened before
me, as a lane rifts in the press of hurrying legions 'mid the
crush of a city thoroughfare. I dashed on a hundred yards in
advance of my comrades.
What was this? The bushes trampled and broken down,
just as we in our passage were trampling and breaking them.
What ?
Hoof-marks in the dust!
« The trail ! I cried, the trail !
They sprang toward me. Brent followed the line with his
eye. He galloped forward with a look of triumph.
XXVII-1006
a
(
>
»
»
## p. 16082 (#428) ##########################################
16082
THEODORE WINTHROP
Suddenly I saw him fling himself half out of his saddle, and
clutch at some object. Still going at speed and holding on by
one leg alone, after the Indian fashion for sport or shelter against
an arrow or a shot, he picked up something from the bushes,
regained his seat, and waved his treasure to us.
We ranged up
and rode beside him over a gap in the sage.
A lady's glove! - that was what he had stooped to recover.
An old buckskin riding-gauntlet, neatly stitched about the wrist,
and pinked on the wristlet. A pretty glove, strangely, almost
tragically, feminine in this desolation. A well-worn glove that
had seen better days, like its mistress; but never any day so good
as this, when it proved to us that we were on the sure path of
rescue.
"I take up the gauntlet,” said Brent. «Gare à qui le
touche! ”
We said nothing more; for this unconscious token, this silent
cry for help, made the danger seem more closely imminent. We
pressed on. No flinching in any of the horses. Where we could,
we were going at speed. Where they could, the horses kept side
by side, nerving each other. Companionship sustained them in
that terrible ride.
And now in front the purple sierra was growing brown, and
rising up a distinct wall, cleft visibly with dell, gully, ravine, and
cañon. The saw-teeth of the ridge defined themselves sharply
into peak and pinnacle. Broad fields of cool snow gleamed upon
the summits.
We were ascending now all the time into subalpine regions.
We crossed great sloping savannas, deep in dry, rustling grass,
where a nation of cattle might pasture. We plunged through
broad wastes of hot sand. We flung ourselves down and up the
red sides of water-worn gullies. We took breakneck leaps across
dry quebradas in the clay. We clattered across stony arroyos,
longing thirstily for the gush of water that had flowed there not
many months before.
The trail was everywhere plain. No prairie craft was needed
to trace it. Here the chase had gone but a few hours ago; here
across grassy slopes, trampling the grass as if a mower had
passed that way; here plowing wearily through the sand; here
treading the red, crumbling clay; here breaking down the side
of a bank; here leaving a sharp hoof-track in the dry mud of a
fied torrent. Everywhere a straight path, pointing for that deep-
ening gap in the sierra, Luggernel Alley, the only gate of escape.
## p. 16083 (#429) ##########################################
THEODORE WINTHROP
16083
Brent's unerring judgment had divined the course aright. On
he led, charging along the trail, as if he were trampling already
on the carcasses of the pursued. On he led and we followed,
drawing nearer, nearer to our goal.
Our horses suffered bitterly for water. Some five hours we
had ridden without a pause. Not one drop or sign of water in
all that arid waste. The torrents had poured along the dry
watercourses too hastily to let the scanty alders and willows
along their line treasure up any sap of growth. The wild sage
bushes had plainly never tasted fluid more plenteous than seldom
dewdrops doled out on certain rare festal days, enough to keep
their meagre foliage a dusty gray. No pleasant streamlet lurked
anywhere under the long dry grass of the savannas. The arroyos
were parched and hot as rifts in lava.
It became agonizing to listen to the panting and gasping of
our horses. Their eyes grew staring and bloodshot. We suffered,
ourselves, hardly less than they. It was cruel to press on. But
we must hinder a crueler cruelty. Love against Time,- Ven-
geance against Time! We must not Ainch for any weak humanity
to the noble allies that struggled on with us, without one token
of resistance.
Fulano suffered least. He turned his brave eye back, and
beckoned me with his ear to listen, while he seemed to say:
“See, this is my Endurance! I hold my Power ready still to
show. ”
And he curved his proud neck, shook his mane like a banner,
and galloped the grandest of all.
We came to a broad strip of sand, the dry bed of a mountain
torrent. The trail followed up this disappointing path. Heavy
plowing for the tired horses! How would they bear the rough
work down the ravine yet to come ?
Suddenly our leader pulled up and sprang from the saddle.
“Look! ” he cried, “how those fellows spent their time and
saved ours.
Thank heaven for this! We shall save her, surely,
now. ”
They had dug a pit deep in the thirsty sand, and found a
lurking river buried there. Nature never questioned what man-
ner of men they were that sought. Murderers flying from ven-
geance and planning now another villain outrage,-still impartial
Nature did not change her laws for them. Sunshine, air, water,
life, — these boons of hers, — she gave them freely. That higher
## p. 16084 (#430) ##########################################
16084
THEODORE WINTHROP
as we.
«
VOS
boon of death, if they were to receive, it must be from some
other power, greater than the undiscriminating force of Nature.
Good luck and good omen, this well of water in the sand! It
proved that our chase had suffered as we, and had been delayed
Before they had dared to pause and waste priceless mo-
ments here, their horses must have been drooping terribly. The
pit was nearly five feet deep. A good hour's work, and no less,
had dug it with such tools as they could bring. I almost laughed
to think of the two,, slowly bailing out the sliding sand with a
tin plate, perhaps, and a frying-pan, while a score of miles away
upon the desert we three were riding hard upon their tracks to
follow them the feeter for this refreshment they had left. Sic
non vobis ! ” I was ready to say triumphantly; but then I
remembered the third figure in their group,- a woman, like a
Sibyl, growing calmer as her peril grew,- and succor seemed to
withdraw. And the pang of this picture crushed back into my
heart any thoughts but a mad anxiety, and a frenzy to be driv-
ing on.
We drank thankfully of this well by the wayside. No gentle
beauty hereabouts to enchant us to delay. No grand old tree,
the shelter and the landmark of the fountain, proclaiming an oasis
near. Nothing but bare, hot sand. But the water was pure, cool,
and bright. It had come underground from the sierra, and still
remembered its parent snows.
We drank and were grateful —
almost to the point of pity. Had we been but avengers, like
Armstrong, my friend and I could well-nigh have felt mercy
here, and turned back pardoning. But rescue was more imperative
than vengeance. Our business tortured us, as with the fanged
scourge of Tisiphone, while we dallied. We grudged these mo-
ments of refreshment. Before night fell down the west, and
night was soon to be climbing up the east, we must overtake –
and then ?
I wiped the dust and spume away from Fulano's nostrils and
breathed him a moment. Then I let him drain deep, delicious
draughts from the stirrup-cup. He whinnied thanks and undying
fealty,— my noble comrade! He drank like a reveler. When I
I
mounted again, he gave a jubilant curvet and bound. My weight
was a feather to him. All those leagues of our hard, hot gallop
were nothing
The brown sierra here was close at hand. Its glittering, icy
summits, above the dark and sheeny walls, far above the black
## p. 16085 (#431) ##########################################
THEODORE WINTHROP
16085
ind":
det
Side
phalanxes of clambering pines, stooped forward and hung over
us as we rode. We were now at the foot of the range, where
it dipped suddenly down upon the plain. The gap, our goal all
day, opened before us, grand and terrible. Some giant force had
clutched the mountains, and riven them narrowly apart. The wild
defile gaped, and then wound away and closed, lost between its
mighty walls, a thousand feet high, and bearing two brother
pyramids of purple cliffs aloft far above the snow line. A fear-
ful portal into a scene of the throes and agonies of earth! and
my excited
eyes seemed to read, gilded over its entrance, in
the dead gold of that hazy October sunshine, words from Dante's
inscription,-
«Per me si va tra la perduta gente:
Lasciate ogni speranza, voi ch'entrate! ) *
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«Here we are,” said Brent, speaking hardly above his breath.
« This is Luggernel Alley at last, thank God! In an hour, if the
horses hold out, we shall be at the Springs; that is, if we can go
through this breakneck gorge at the same pace. My horse began
to flinch a little before the water. Perhaps that will set him up.
How are yours ? ”
“Fulano asserts that he has not begun to show himself yet.
I may have to carry you en croupe before we are done. ”
Armstrong said nothing, but pointed impatiently down the
defile. The gaunt white horse moved on quicker at this gesture.
He seemed a tireless machine, not flesh and blood, - a being like
his master, living and acting by the force of a purpose alone.
Our chief led the way into the cañon.
Yes, John Brent, you were right when you called Luggernel
Alley a wonder of our continent.
I remember it now,- I only saw it then;- for those strong
-I
scenes of nature assault the soul whether it will or no, fight in
against affirmative or negative resistance, and bide their time
to be admitted as dominant over the imagination. It seemed to
me then that I was not noticing how grand the precipices, how
stupendous the cleavages, how rich and gleaming the rock faces
in Luggernel Alley. My business was not to stare about, but to
look sharp and ride hard; and I did it.
*« Through me one goes among the lost folk:
Leave behind all hope, ye who enter!
Li-
1:
## p. 16086 (#432) ##########################################
16086
THEODORE WINTHROP
Yet now I can remember, distinct as if I beheld it, every
stride of that pass; and everywhere, as I recall foot after foot of
that fierce chasm, I see three men with set faces,-one deathly
pale and wearing a bloody turban,- all galloping steadily on, on
an errand to save and to slay.
Terrible riding it was! A pavement of slippery, sheeny rock;
great beds of loose stones; barricades of mighty bowlders, where
a cliff had fallen an æon ago, before the days of the road-maker
race; crevices where an unwary foot might catch; wide rifts
where a shaky horse might fall, or a timid horseman drag him
down. Terrible riding! A pass where a calm traveler would go
quietly picking his steps, thankful if each hour counted him a
safe mile.
Terrible riding! Madness to go as we went! Horse and man
any moment either might shatter every limb. But man and
horse — neither can know what he can do, until he has dared and
done. On we went, with the old frenzy growing tenser. Heart
almost broken with eagerness.
No whipping or spurring. Our horses were a part of our-
selves. While we could go, they would go. Since the water, they
were full of leap again. Down in the shady Alley, too, evening
had come before its time. Noon's packing of hot air had been
dislodged by a mountain breeze drawing through. Horses and
men were braced and cheered to their work; and in such rid-
ing as that, the man and the horse must think together and move
together,-eye and hand of the rider must choose and command,
as bravely as the horse executes.
The blue sky was overhead, the red sun upon the castellated
walls a thousand feet above us, the purpling chasm opened be-
fore. It was late; these were the last moments. But we should
save the lady yet.
“Yes,” our hearts shouted to us, we shall save her yet. ”
An arroyo, the channel of a dry torrent, followed the pass.
It had made its way as water does, not straightway, but by that
potent feminine method of passing under the frowning front of
an obstacle, and leaving the dull rock staring there, while the
wild creature it would have held is gliding away down the valley.
This zigzag channel baffled us; we must leap it without check
wherever it crossed our path. Every second now was worth a
century. Here was the sign of horses, passed but now. We
## p. 16087 (#433) ##########################################
THEODORE WINTHROP
16087
-
could not choose ground. We must take our leaps on that cruel
rock wherever they offered.
Poor Pumps!
He had carried his master so nobly! There were so few miles
to do! He had chased so well; he merited to be in at the death.
Brent lifted him at a leap across the arroyo.
Poor Pumps!
His hind feet slipped on the time-smoothed rock. He fell
short. He plunged down a dozen feet among the rough bowlders
of the torrent bed. Brent was out of the saddle almost before
he struck, raising him.
No, he would never rise again. Both his fore legs were
broken at the knee. He rested there, kneeling on the rocks
where he fell.
Brent groaned. The horse screamed horribly, horribly,— there
is no more agonized sound,- and the scream went echoing high
up the cliffs where the red sunlight rested.
It costs a loving master much to butcher his brave and trusty
horse, the half of his knightly self; but it costs him more to
hear him shriek in such misery. Brent drew his pistol to put
poor Pumps out of pain.
Armstrong sprang down and caught his hand.
“Stop! ” he said in his hoarse whisper.
He had hardly spoken since we started. My nerves were so
strained that this mere ghost of a sound rang through me like a
death yell, a grisly cry of merciless and exultant vengeance. I
seemed to hear its echoes, rising up and swelling in a flood of
thick uproar, until they burst over the summit of the pass and
were wasted in the crannies of the towering mountain flanks
above.
“Stop! ” whispered Armstrong. «No shooting! They'll hear.
The knife ! )
He held out his knife to my friend.
Brent hesitated one heart-beat. Could he stain his hand with
his faithful servant's blood ?
Pumps screamed again.
Armstrong snatched the knife and drew it across the throat of
the crippled horse.
Poor Pumps! He sank and died without a
Noble
martyr in the old, heroic cause!
(
>>
I
moan.
## p. 16088 (#434) ##########################################
16088
THEODORE WINTHROP
man.
I caught the knife from Armstrong. I cut the thong of my
girth. The heavy California saddle, with its macheers and roll
of blankets, fell to the ground. I cut off my spurs.
They had
never yet touched Fulano's flanks. He stood beside me quiet,
but trembling to be off.
"Now, Brent! up behind me! " I whispered, - for the awe of
death was upon us.
I mounted. Brent sprang up behind. I ride light for a tall
Brent is the slightest body of an athlete I ever saw.
Fulano stood steady till we were firm in our seats.
Then he tore down the defile.
Here was that vast reserve of power; here the tireless spirit;
here the hoof striking true as a thunderbolt, where the brave eye
saw footing; here that writhing agony of speed; here the great
promise fulfilled, the great heart thrilling to mine, the grand
body living to the beating heart. Noble Fulano!
I rode with a snaffle. I left it hanging loose. I did not check
or guide him. He saw all. He knew all. All was his doing.
We sat firm, clinging as we could, as we must.
. Fulano
dashed along the resounding pass.
Armstrong pressed after; the gaunt white horse struggled to
emulate his leader. Presently we lost them behind the curves of
the Alley. No other horse that ever lived could have held with
the black in that headlong gallop to save.
Over the slippery rocks, over the sheeny pavement, plunging
through the loose stones, staggering over the barricades, leaping
the arroyo, down, up, on, always on,- on went the horse, we
clinging as we might.
It seemed one beat of time, it seemed an eternity, when be-
tween the ring of the hoofs I heard Brent whisper in my ear.
« We are there. ”
The crags flung apart, right and left. I saw a sylvan glade.
I saw the gleam of gushing water.
Fulano dashed on, uncontrollable!
There they were,—the Murderers.
Arrived but one moment!
The lady still bound to that pack-mule branded A. & A.
Murker just beginning to unsaddle.
Larrap not dismounted, in chase of the other animals as they
strayed to graze.
## p. 16089 (#435) ##########################################
THEODORE WINTHROP
16089
The men heard the tramp and saw us, as we sprang into the
glade.
Both my hands were at the bridle.
Brent, grasping my waist with one arm, was awkward with
his pistol.
Murker saw us first. He snatched his six-shooter and fired.
Brent shook with a spasm. His pistol arm dropped.
Before the murderer could cock again, Fulano was upon him!
He was ridden down. He was beaten, trampled down upon
the grass,-crushed, abolished.
We disentangled ourselves from the mêlée.
Where was the other?
The coward, without firing a shot, was spurring Armstrong's
Flathead horse blindly up the cañon, whence we had issued.
We turned to Murker.
Fulano was up again, and stood there shuddering. But the
man ?
A hoof had battered in the top of his skull; blood was gush-
ing from his mouth; his ribs were broken; all his body was a
trodden, massacred carcass.
He breathed once, as we lifted him.
Then a tranquil, childlike look stole over his face,- that well-
known look of the weary body, thankful that the turbulent soul
has gone.
Murker was dead.
Fulano, and not we, had been executioner. His was the stain
of blood.
1
## p. 16090 (#436) ##########################################
16090
WILLIAM WIRT
(1772-1834)
a
Billiam WIRT, LL. D. , distinguished in his day as lawyer, states-
man, and author, left speeches which are a part of American
forensic eloquence. He wrote the best biography of Patrick
Henry, and in his prosecution of Aaron Burr gave a noble example
of old-fashioned classical oratory.
Although his life and chief labor are associated with Virginia,
Wirt was born at Bladensburg, Maryland, November 8th, 1772. He
was of Swiss-German extraction. He was left an orphan at eight
years of age, and was brought up by an
uncle. His education was received at
local grammar-school; some tutoring in a
private family followed, and then he studied
law, and began its practice in 1792. Three
years later he inarried and settled at Pen
Park, near Charlottesville, Virginia, remov-
ing to Richmond in 1799. For three years
he was clerk of the House of Delegates,
and afterwards chancellor of the Eastern
District of Virginia. He made his home
in Norfolk in 1803. His popular Letters of
the British Spy' appeared in the Virginia
WILLIAM Wirt Argus during that year: they purported to
be addressed to a British M. P. by a trav-
eler of the same country, and contained interesting portraitures. In
the Richmond Enquirer was first published the series of papers col-
lected into book form under the title (The Rainbow. '
Wirt returned to Richmond in 1806; and the next year took part
in the prosecution of Aaron Burr for treason, — regarding his scheme
for a Southwestern Empire,— being retained as assistant counsel to
the Attorney-General, and making a very strong impression by his
impassioned pleading. He was in the House of Delegates 1807-8,
United States Attorney for the District of Virginia in 1816, and for
three terms (1817–29) Attorney-General of the United States. His
essays entitled “The Old Bachelor) were printed in the Enquirer
in 1812. Most of his essay-writing thus had newspaper birth. Wirt
settled in Baltimore in 1830; and in 1832 he was the Anti-Masonic
## p. 16091 (#437) ##########################################
WILLIAM WIRT
16091
candidate for the Presidency. He died while actively engaged in his
profession, at Washington, February 18th, 1834.
Dr. Wirt's life was one of varied usefulness and importance. He
was a courtly Southern gentleman of the old school; and his writings
have a pleasing flavor of good breeding and easy elegance, with
something of the formality and sententiousness of his time.
As an
author he is lucid and polished, rising on occasion to real eloquence.
His works make an impression of candor and integrity; qualities
which seem to have been reflected in his character. A man of much
local reputation and influence, his written words, both for thought
and style, are worthy of an audience not confined to his locality and
period.
PERSONAL CHARACTERISTICS OF HENRY
From (Sketches of the Life and Character of Patrick Henry)
M*
(
R. Henry's conversation was remarkably pure and chaste.
He never swore. He was never heard to take the name
of his Maker in vain. He was a sincere Christian, though
after a form of his own; for he was never attached to any par-
ticular religious society, and never, it is believed, communed with
any church. A friend who visited him not long before his death,
found him engaged in reading the Bible. Here,” said he, hold-
ing it up, “is a book worth more than all the other books that
were ever printed; yet it is my misfortune never to have found
time to read it, with the proper attention and feeling, till lately.
I trust in the mercy of Heaven that it is not yet too late. ”
He was much pleased with Soame Jenyns's view of the internal
evidences of the Christian religion; so much so, that about the
year 1790 he had an impression of it struck at his own expense,
and distributed among the people. His other favorite works
on the subject were Doddridge's Rise and Progress of Religion
in the Soul, and Butler's Analogy of Religion, Natural and
Revealed. This latter work he used at one period of his life to
style, by way of pre-eminence, his “Bible. ” The selection proves
not only the piety of his temper, but the correctness of his taste,
and his relish for profound and vigorous disquisition.
His morals were strict. As a husband, a father, a master, he
had no superior. He was kind and hospitable to the stranger,
## p. 16092 (#438) ##########################################
16092
WILLIAM WIRT
as
and most friendly and accommodating to his neighbors. In his
dealings with the world he was faithful to his promise, and
punctual in his contracts, to the utmost of his power.
Yet we do not claim for him a total exemption from the fail-
ures of humanity. Moral perfection is not the property of man.
The love of money is said to have been one of Mr. Henry's
strongest passions. In his desire for accumulation, he was
charged with wringing from the hands of his clients, and more
particularly those of the criminals whom he defended, fees rather
too exorbitant. He was censured too for an attempt to locate
the shores of the Chesapeake, which had heretofore been used
public common; although there was at that time no law
of the State which protected them from location. In one of his
earlier purchases of land, he was blamed also for having availed
himself of the existing laws of the State, in paying for it in the
depreciated paper currency of the country; nor was he free from
censure on account of some participation which he is said to have
had in the profits of the Yazoo trade. He was accused too of
having been rather more vain of his wealth, toward the close of
his life, than became
so great in other respects.
Let
these things be admitted, and let the man who is without fault
cast the first stone. ” In mitigation of these charges, if they be
true, it ought to be considered that Mr. Henry had been, during
the greater part of his life, intolerably oppressed by poverty and
all its distressing train of consequences; that the family for which
he had to provide was very large; and that the bar, although it
has been called the road to honor, was not in those days the
road to wealth. With these considerations in view, charity may
easily pardon him for having considered only the legality of the
means which he used to acquire an independence; and she can
easily excuse him, too, for having felt the success of his endeav-
ors a little more sensibly than might have been becoming. He
was certainly neither proud, nor hard-hearted, nor penurious: if
he was either, there can be no reliance on human testimony;
which represents him as being, in his general intercourse with
the world, not only rigidly honest, but one of the kindest, gen-
tlest, and most indulgent of human beings.
While we are on this ungrateful subject of moral imperfec-
tion, the fidelity of history requires us to notice another charge
against Mr. Henry. His passion for fame is said to have been
a man
## p. 16093 (#439) ##########################################
WILLIAM WIRT
16093
too strong: he was accused of a wish to monopolize the public
favor; and under the influence of this desire, to have felt no
gratification in the rising fame of certain conspicuous characters;
to have indulged himself in invidious and unmerited remarks
upon them, and to have been at the bottom of a cabal against
one of the most eminent. If these things were so — alas, poor
human nature! It is certain that these charges are very incon-
sistent with his general character. So far from being naturally
envious, and disposed to keep back modest merit, one of the
finest traits in his character was the parental tenderness with
which he took by the hand every young man of merit, covered
him with his ægis in the Legislature, and led him forward at the
bar. In relation to his first great rival in eloquence, Richard
Henry Lee, he not only did ample justice to him on every occas-
ion in public, but defended his fame in private with all the zeal
of a brother; as is demonstrated by an original correspondence
between those two eminent men, now in the hands of the
author. Of Colonel Innis, his next great rival, he entertained
and uniformly expressed the most exalted opinion; and in the
convention of 1788, as will be remembered, paid a compliment
to his eloquence, at once so splendid, so happy, and so just, that
it will live forever. The debates of that convention abound with
the most unequivocal and ardent declarations of his respect for
the talents and virtues of the other eminent gentlemen who were
arrayed against him, - Mr. Madison, Mr. Pendleton, Mr. Ran-
dolph. Even the justly great and overshadowing fame of Mr.
Jefferson never extorted from him, in public at least, one invidi-
ous remark; on the contrary, the name of that gentleman, who
was then in France, having been introduced into the debates of
the convention for the purpose of borrowing the weight of his
opinion, Mr. Henry spoke of him in the strongest and warmest
terms, not only of admiration but of affection, - styling him "our
illustrious fellow-citizen," "our enlightened and worthy country-
our common friend. ”
The inordinate love of money and of fame are certainly base
and degrading passions. They have sometimes tarnished char-
acters otherwise the most bright; but they will find no advocate
or apologist in any virtuous bosom. In relation to Mr. Henry,
however, we may be permitted to doubt whether the facts on
which these censures (so inconsistent with his general character)
man, » «
## p. 16094 (#440) ##########################################
16094
WILLIAM WIRT
1
are grounded, have not been misconceived; and whether so much
of them as is really true may not be fairly charged to the com-
mon account of human imperfection.
Mr. Henry's great intellectual defect was his indolence. To
this it was owing that he never possessed that admirable alert-
ness and vigorous versatility of mind which turns promptly to
everything, attends to everything, arranges everything, and by
systematizing its operations, dispatches each in its proper time
and place and manner. To the same cause it is to be ascribed
that he never possessed that patient drudgery, and that ready,
neat, copious, and masterly command of details, which forms so
essential a part of the duties both of the statesman and the law-
yer. Hence too he did not avail himself of the progress of science
and literature in his age. He had not, as he might have done,
amassed those ample stores of various, useful, and curious knowl-
edge which are so naturally expected to be found in a great
man. His library (of which an inventory has been furnished to
the author) was extremely small; composed not only of a very
few books, but those, too, commonly odd volumes.
must make the most of the levels. Rougher work, cruel obstacles
were before. All the wild, triumphant music I had ever heard
came and sang in my ears to the flinging cadence of the resonant
feet, tramping on hollow arches of the volcanic rock, over great
vacant chasms underneath. Sweet and soft around us melted
the hazy air of October; and its warm, flickering currents shook
like a veil of gauzy gold between us and the blue bloom of the
mountains far away, but nearing now and lifting step by step.
On we galloped — the avenger, the friend, the lover — on our
errand to save and to slay.
It came afternoon, as we rode on steadily. The country grew
rougher. The horses never flinched; but they sweated freely, and
foam from their nostrils flecked their shoulders. By-and-by, with
little pleasant admonitory puffs, a breeze drew down from the
glimmering frosty edges of the sierra and cooled us. Horses and
men' were cheered and freshened, and lifted anew to their work.
We had seen and heard no life on the desert. Now, in the
broken country, a coyote or two scuttled away as we passed.
Sometimes a lean gray. wolf would skulk out of a brake, canter
after us a little way, and then squat on his haunches, staring at
our strange speed. Flight and chase he could understand; but
ours was not flight for safety, or chase for food. Men are queer
mysteries to beasts. So our next companions found. Over the
edge of a slope, bending away to a valley of dry scanty pasture
at the left, a herd of antelopes appeared. They were close to
us, within easy revolver shot. They sprang into graceful flight,
some score of them, with tails up and black hoofs glancing. Pres-
ently, pausing for curiosity, they saw that we fled, not followed;
and they in turn became pursuers, careering after us for a mile
or more, until our stern business left their gamboling play far
behind.
We held steadily for that notch in the blue sierra. The
mountain lines grew sharper, the country where we traveled
rougher, every stride. We came upon a wide tract covered with
wild sage-bushes. These delayed and baffled us.
-
It was a pigmy
forest of trees, mature and complete, but no higher than the knee.
## p. 16081 (#427) ##########################################
THEODORE WINTHROP
16081
>
Every dwarfed, stunted, gnarled bush had the trunk, limbs, twigs,
and gray withered foliage, all in miniature, of some tree, hap-
less but sturdy, that has had a weather-beaten struggle for life
on a storm-threshed crag by the shore, or on a granite side of
a mountain, with short allowance of soil to eat and water
to drink. Myriads of square miles of that arid region have no
important vegetation except this wild sage or Artemisia, and a
meaner brother, not even good to burn,- the greasewood.
One may ride through the tearing thickets of a forest pri-
meval, as one may shoulder through a crowd of civilized barba-
rians at a spectacle. Our gallop over the top of this pigmy wood
was as difficult as to find passage over the heads of the same
crowd, tall men and short, men hatted with slouched hats, wash-
bowls, and stove-pipes. It was a rough scramble. It checked our
speed and chafed our horses. Sometimes we could find natural
pathways for a few rods. Then these strayed aside or closed up,
and we must plunge straight on. We lost time; moments we lost
more precious than if every one were marked by a drop in a
clepsydra, and each drop as it fell changed itself and tinkled in
the basin, a priceless pearl.
“It worries me, this delay," I said to Brent.
“They lost as much more time than we,” he said.
And he crowded on more desperately, as man rides for
dearer than life. as a lover rides for love.
We tore along, breaking through and over the sage-bushes,
each man where best he could. Fulano began to show me what
leaps were in him. I gave him his head. No bridle would
have held him. I kept my mastery by the voice, or rather by
the perfect identification of his will with mine. Our minds acted
together. "Save strength," I still warned him, “save strength,
.
my friend, for the mountains and the last leaps!
A little pathway in the sage-bushes suddenly opened before
me, as a lane rifts in the press of hurrying legions 'mid the
crush of a city thoroughfare. I dashed on a hundred yards in
advance of my comrades.
What was this? The bushes trampled and broken down,
just as we in our passage were trampling and breaking them.
What ?
Hoof-marks in the dust!
« The trail ! I cried, the trail !
They sprang toward me. Brent followed the line with his
eye. He galloped forward with a look of triumph.
XXVII-1006
a
(
>
»
»
## p. 16082 (#428) ##########################################
16082
THEODORE WINTHROP
Suddenly I saw him fling himself half out of his saddle, and
clutch at some object. Still going at speed and holding on by
one leg alone, after the Indian fashion for sport or shelter against
an arrow or a shot, he picked up something from the bushes,
regained his seat, and waved his treasure to us.
We ranged up
and rode beside him over a gap in the sage.
A lady's glove! - that was what he had stooped to recover.
An old buckskin riding-gauntlet, neatly stitched about the wrist,
and pinked on the wristlet. A pretty glove, strangely, almost
tragically, feminine in this desolation. A well-worn glove that
had seen better days, like its mistress; but never any day so good
as this, when it proved to us that we were on the sure path of
rescue.
"I take up the gauntlet,” said Brent. «Gare à qui le
touche! ”
We said nothing more; for this unconscious token, this silent
cry for help, made the danger seem more closely imminent. We
pressed on. No flinching in any of the horses. Where we could,
we were going at speed. Where they could, the horses kept side
by side, nerving each other. Companionship sustained them in
that terrible ride.
And now in front the purple sierra was growing brown, and
rising up a distinct wall, cleft visibly with dell, gully, ravine, and
cañon. The saw-teeth of the ridge defined themselves sharply
into peak and pinnacle. Broad fields of cool snow gleamed upon
the summits.
We were ascending now all the time into subalpine regions.
We crossed great sloping savannas, deep in dry, rustling grass,
where a nation of cattle might pasture. We plunged through
broad wastes of hot sand. We flung ourselves down and up the
red sides of water-worn gullies. We took breakneck leaps across
dry quebradas in the clay. We clattered across stony arroyos,
longing thirstily for the gush of water that had flowed there not
many months before.
The trail was everywhere plain. No prairie craft was needed
to trace it. Here the chase had gone but a few hours ago; here
across grassy slopes, trampling the grass as if a mower had
passed that way; here plowing wearily through the sand; here
treading the red, crumbling clay; here breaking down the side
of a bank; here leaving a sharp hoof-track in the dry mud of a
fied torrent. Everywhere a straight path, pointing for that deep-
ening gap in the sierra, Luggernel Alley, the only gate of escape.
## p. 16083 (#429) ##########################################
THEODORE WINTHROP
16083
Brent's unerring judgment had divined the course aright. On
he led, charging along the trail, as if he were trampling already
on the carcasses of the pursued. On he led and we followed,
drawing nearer, nearer to our goal.
Our horses suffered bitterly for water. Some five hours we
had ridden without a pause. Not one drop or sign of water in
all that arid waste. The torrents had poured along the dry
watercourses too hastily to let the scanty alders and willows
along their line treasure up any sap of growth. The wild sage
bushes had plainly never tasted fluid more plenteous than seldom
dewdrops doled out on certain rare festal days, enough to keep
their meagre foliage a dusty gray. No pleasant streamlet lurked
anywhere under the long dry grass of the savannas. The arroyos
were parched and hot as rifts in lava.
It became agonizing to listen to the panting and gasping of
our horses. Their eyes grew staring and bloodshot. We suffered,
ourselves, hardly less than they. It was cruel to press on. But
we must hinder a crueler cruelty. Love against Time,- Ven-
geance against Time! We must not Ainch for any weak humanity
to the noble allies that struggled on with us, without one token
of resistance.
Fulano suffered least. He turned his brave eye back, and
beckoned me with his ear to listen, while he seemed to say:
“See, this is my Endurance! I hold my Power ready still to
show. ”
And he curved his proud neck, shook his mane like a banner,
and galloped the grandest of all.
We came to a broad strip of sand, the dry bed of a mountain
torrent. The trail followed up this disappointing path. Heavy
plowing for the tired horses! How would they bear the rough
work down the ravine yet to come ?
Suddenly our leader pulled up and sprang from the saddle.
“Look! ” he cried, “how those fellows spent their time and
saved ours.
Thank heaven for this! We shall save her, surely,
now. ”
They had dug a pit deep in the thirsty sand, and found a
lurking river buried there. Nature never questioned what man-
ner of men they were that sought. Murderers flying from ven-
geance and planning now another villain outrage,-still impartial
Nature did not change her laws for them. Sunshine, air, water,
life, — these boons of hers, — she gave them freely. That higher
## p. 16084 (#430) ##########################################
16084
THEODORE WINTHROP
as we.
«
VOS
boon of death, if they were to receive, it must be from some
other power, greater than the undiscriminating force of Nature.
Good luck and good omen, this well of water in the sand! It
proved that our chase had suffered as we, and had been delayed
Before they had dared to pause and waste priceless mo-
ments here, their horses must have been drooping terribly. The
pit was nearly five feet deep. A good hour's work, and no less,
had dug it with such tools as they could bring. I almost laughed
to think of the two,, slowly bailing out the sliding sand with a
tin plate, perhaps, and a frying-pan, while a score of miles away
upon the desert we three were riding hard upon their tracks to
follow them the feeter for this refreshment they had left. Sic
non vobis ! ” I was ready to say triumphantly; but then I
remembered the third figure in their group,- a woman, like a
Sibyl, growing calmer as her peril grew,- and succor seemed to
withdraw. And the pang of this picture crushed back into my
heart any thoughts but a mad anxiety, and a frenzy to be driv-
ing on.
We drank thankfully of this well by the wayside. No gentle
beauty hereabouts to enchant us to delay. No grand old tree,
the shelter and the landmark of the fountain, proclaiming an oasis
near. Nothing but bare, hot sand. But the water was pure, cool,
and bright. It had come underground from the sierra, and still
remembered its parent snows.
We drank and were grateful —
almost to the point of pity. Had we been but avengers, like
Armstrong, my friend and I could well-nigh have felt mercy
here, and turned back pardoning. But rescue was more imperative
than vengeance. Our business tortured us, as with the fanged
scourge of Tisiphone, while we dallied. We grudged these mo-
ments of refreshment. Before night fell down the west, and
night was soon to be climbing up the east, we must overtake –
and then ?
I wiped the dust and spume away from Fulano's nostrils and
breathed him a moment. Then I let him drain deep, delicious
draughts from the stirrup-cup. He whinnied thanks and undying
fealty,— my noble comrade! He drank like a reveler. When I
I
mounted again, he gave a jubilant curvet and bound. My weight
was a feather to him. All those leagues of our hard, hot gallop
were nothing
The brown sierra here was close at hand. Its glittering, icy
summits, above the dark and sheeny walls, far above the black
## p. 16085 (#431) ##########################################
THEODORE WINTHROP
16085
ind":
det
Side
phalanxes of clambering pines, stooped forward and hung over
us as we rode. We were now at the foot of the range, where
it dipped suddenly down upon the plain. The gap, our goal all
day, opened before us, grand and terrible. Some giant force had
clutched the mountains, and riven them narrowly apart. The wild
defile gaped, and then wound away and closed, lost between its
mighty walls, a thousand feet high, and bearing two brother
pyramids of purple cliffs aloft far above the snow line. A fear-
ful portal into a scene of the throes and agonies of earth! and
my excited
eyes seemed to read, gilded over its entrance, in
the dead gold of that hazy October sunshine, words from Dante's
inscription,-
«Per me si va tra la perduta gente:
Lasciate ogni speranza, voi ch'entrate! ) *
DU
lange
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«Here we are,” said Brent, speaking hardly above his breath.
« This is Luggernel Alley at last, thank God! In an hour, if the
horses hold out, we shall be at the Springs; that is, if we can go
through this breakneck gorge at the same pace. My horse began
to flinch a little before the water. Perhaps that will set him up.
How are yours ? ”
“Fulano asserts that he has not begun to show himself yet.
I may have to carry you en croupe before we are done. ”
Armstrong said nothing, but pointed impatiently down the
defile. The gaunt white horse moved on quicker at this gesture.
He seemed a tireless machine, not flesh and blood, - a being like
his master, living and acting by the force of a purpose alone.
Our chief led the way into the cañon.
Yes, John Brent, you were right when you called Luggernel
Alley a wonder of our continent.
I remember it now,- I only saw it then;- for those strong
-I
scenes of nature assault the soul whether it will or no, fight in
against affirmative or negative resistance, and bide their time
to be admitted as dominant over the imagination. It seemed to
me then that I was not noticing how grand the precipices, how
stupendous the cleavages, how rich and gleaming the rock faces
in Luggernel Alley. My business was not to stare about, but to
look sharp and ride hard; and I did it.
*« Through me one goes among the lost folk:
Leave behind all hope, ye who enter!
Li-
1:
## p. 16086 (#432) ##########################################
16086
THEODORE WINTHROP
Yet now I can remember, distinct as if I beheld it, every
stride of that pass; and everywhere, as I recall foot after foot of
that fierce chasm, I see three men with set faces,-one deathly
pale and wearing a bloody turban,- all galloping steadily on, on
an errand to save and to slay.
Terrible riding it was! A pavement of slippery, sheeny rock;
great beds of loose stones; barricades of mighty bowlders, where
a cliff had fallen an æon ago, before the days of the road-maker
race; crevices where an unwary foot might catch; wide rifts
where a shaky horse might fall, or a timid horseman drag him
down. Terrible riding! A pass where a calm traveler would go
quietly picking his steps, thankful if each hour counted him a
safe mile.
Terrible riding! Madness to go as we went! Horse and man
any moment either might shatter every limb. But man and
horse — neither can know what he can do, until he has dared and
done. On we went, with the old frenzy growing tenser. Heart
almost broken with eagerness.
No whipping or spurring. Our horses were a part of our-
selves. While we could go, they would go. Since the water, they
were full of leap again. Down in the shady Alley, too, evening
had come before its time. Noon's packing of hot air had been
dislodged by a mountain breeze drawing through. Horses and
men were braced and cheered to their work; and in such rid-
ing as that, the man and the horse must think together and move
together,-eye and hand of the rider must choose and command,
as bravely as the horse executes.
The blue sky was overhead, the red sun upon the castellated
walls a thousand feet above us, the purpling chasm opened be-
fore. It was late; these were the last moments. But we should
save the lady yet.
“Yes,” our hearts shouted to us, we shall save her yet. ”
An arroyo, the channel of a dry torrent, followed the pass.
It had made its way as water does, not straightway, but by that
potent feminine method of passing under the frowning front of
an obstacle, and leaving the dull rock staring there, while the
wild creature it would have held is gliding away down the valley.
This zigzag channel baffled us; we must leap it without check
wherever it crossed our path. Every second now was worth a
century. Here was the sign of horses, passed but now. We
## p. 16087 (#433) ##########################################
THEODORE WINTHROP
16087
-
could not choose ground. We must take our leaps on that cruel
rock wherever they offered.
Poor Pumps!
He had carried his master so nobly! There were so few miles
to do! He had chased so well; he merited to be in at the death.
Brent lifted him at a leap across the arroyo.
Poor Pumps!
His hind feet slipped on the time-smoothed rock. He fell
short. He plunged down a dozen feet among the rough bowlders
of the torrent bed. Brent was out of the saddle almost before
he struck, raising him.
No, he would never rise again. Both his fore legs were
broken at the knee. He rested there, kneeling on the rocks
where he fell.
Brent groaned. The horse screamed horribly, horribly,— there
is no more agonized sound,- and the scream went echoing high
up the cliffs where the red sunlight rested.
It costs a loving master much to butcher his brave and trusty
horse, the half of his knightly self; but it costs him more to
hear him shriek in such misery. Brent drew his pistol to put
poor Pumps out of pain.
Armstrong sprang down and caught his hand.
“Stop! ” he said in his hoarse whisper.
He had hardly spoken since we started. My nerves were so
strained that this mere ghost of a sound rang through me like a
death yell, a grisly cry of merciless and exultant vengeance. I
seemed to hear its echoes, rising up and swelling in a flood of
thick uproar, until they burst over the summit of the pass and
were wasted in the crannies of the towering mountain flanks
above.
“Stop! ” whispered Armstrong. «No shooting! They'll hear.
The knife ! )
He held out his knife to my friend.
Brent hesitated one heart-beat. Could he stain his hand with
his faithful servant's blood ?
Pumps screamed again.
Armstrong snatched the knife and drew it across the throat of
the crippled horse.
Poor Pumps! He sank and died without a
Noble
martyr in the old, heroic cause!
(
>>
I
moan.
## p. 16088 (#434) ##########################################
16088
THEODORE WINTHROP
man.
I caught the knife from Armstrong. I cut the thong of my
girth. The heavy California saddle, with its macheers and roll
of blankets, fell to the ground. I cut off my spurs.
They had
never yet touched Fulano's flanks. He stood beside me quiet,
but trembling to be off.
"Now, Brent! up behind me! " I whispered, - for the awe of
death was upon us.
I mounted. Brent sprang up behind. I ride light for a tall
Brent is the slightest body of an athlete I ever saw.
Fulano stood steady till we were firm in our seats.
Then he tore down the defile.
Here was that vast reserve of power; here the tireless spirit;
here the hoof striking true as a thunderbolt, where the brave eye
saw footing; here that writhing agony of speed; here the great
promise fulfilled, the great heart thrilling to mine, the grand
body living to the beating heart. Noble Fulano!
I rode with a snaffle. I left it hanging loose. I did not check
or guide him. He saw all. He knew all. All was his doing.
We sat firm, clinging as we could, as we must.
. Fulano
dashed along the resounding pass.
Armstrong pressed after; the gaunt white horse struggled to
emulate his leader. Presently we lost them behind the curves of
the Alley. No other horse that ever lived could have held with
the black in that headlong gallop to save.
Over the slippery rocks, over the sheeny pavement, plunging
through the loose stones, staggering over the barricades, leaping
the arroyo, down, up, on, always on,- on went the horse, we
clinging as we might.
It seemed one beat of time, it seemed an eternity, when be-
tween the ring of the hoofs I heard Brent whisper in my ear.
« We are there. ”
The crags flung apart, right and left. I saw a sylvan glade.
I saw the gleam of gushing water.
Fulano dashed on, uncontrollable!
There they were,—the Murderers.
Arrived but one moment!
The lady still bound to that pack-mule branded A. & A.
Murker just beginning to unsaddle.
Larrap not dismounted, in chase of the other animals as they
strayed to graze.
## p. 16089 (#435) ##########################################
THEODORE WINTHROP
16089
The men heard the tramp and saw us, as we sprang into the
glade.
Both my hands were at the bridle.
Brent, grasping my waist with one arm, was awkward with
his pistol.
Murker saw us first. He snatched his six-shooter and fired.
Brent shook with a spasm. His pistol arm dropped.
Before the murderer could cock again, Fulano was upon him!
He was ridden down. He was beaten, trampled down upon
the grass,-crushed, abolished.
We disentangled ourselves from the mêlée.
Where was the other?
The coward, without firing a shot, was spurring Armstrong's
Flathead horse blindly up the cañon, whence we had issued.
We turned to Murker.
Fulano was up again, and stood there shuddering. But the
man ?
A hoof had battered in the top of his skull; blood was gush-
ing from his mouth; his ribs were broken; all his body was a
trodden, massacred carcass.
He breathed once, as we lifted him.
Then a tranquil, childlike look stole over his face,- that well-
known look of the weary body, thankful that the turbulent soul
has gone.
Murker was dead.
Fulano, and not we, had been executioner. His was the stain
of blood.
1
## p. 16090 (#436) ##########################################
16090
WILLIAM WIRT
(1772-1834)
a
Billiam WIRT, LL. D. , distinguished in his day as lawyer, states-
man, and author, left speeches which are a part of American
forensic eloquence. He wrote the best biography of Patrick
Henry, and in his prosecution of Aaron Burr gave a noble example
of old-fashioned classical oratory.
Although his life and chief labor are associated with Virginia,
Wirt was born at Bladensburg, Maryland, November 8th, 1772. He
was of Swiss-German extraction. He was left an orphan at eight
years of age, and was brought up by an
uncle. His education was received at
local grammar-school; some tutoring in a
private family followed, and then he studied
law, and began its practice in 1792. Three
years later he inarried and settled at Pen
Park, near Charlottesville, Virginia, remov-
ing to Richmond in 1799. For three years
he was clerk of the House of Delegates,
and afterwards chancellor of the Eastern
District of Virginia. He made his home
in Norfolk in 1803. His popular Letters of
the British Spy' appeared in the Virginia
WILLIAM Wirt Argus during that year: they purported to
be addressed to a British M. P. by a trav-
eler of the same country, and contained interesting portraitures. In
the Richmond Enquirer was first published the series of papers col-
lected into book form under the title (The Rainbow. '
Wirt returned to Richmond in 1806; and the next year took part
in the prosecution of Aaron Burr for treason, — regarding his scheme
for a Southwestern Empire,— being retained as assistant counsel to
the Attorney-General, and making a very strong impression by his
impassioned pleading. He was in the House of Delegates 1807-8,
United States Attorney for the District of Virginia in 1816, and for
three terms (1817–29) Attorney-General of the United States. His
essays entitled “The Old Bachelor) were printed in the Enquirer
in 1812. Most of his essay-writing thus had newspaper birth. Wirt
settled in Baltimore in 1830; and in 1832 he was the Anti-Masonic
## p. 16091 (#437) ##########################################
WILLIAM WIRT
16091
candidate for the Presidency. He died while actively engaged in his
profession, at Washington, February 18th, 1834.
Dr. Wirt's life was one of varied usefulness and importance. He
was a courtly Southern gentleman of the old school; and his writings
have a pleasing flavor of good breeding and easy elegance, with
something of the formality and sententiousness of his time.
As an
author he is lucid and polished, rising on occasion to real eloquence.
His works make an impression of candor and integrity; qualities
which seem to have been reflected in his character. A man of much
local reputation and influence, his written words, both for thought
and style, are worthy of an audience not confined to his locality and
period.
PERSONAL CHARACTERISTICS OF HENRY
From (Sketches of the Life and Character of Patrick Henry)
M*
(
R. Henry's conversation was remarkably pure and chaste.
He never swore. He was never heard to take the name
of his Maker in vain. He was a sincere Christian, though
after a form of his own; for he was never attached to any par-
ticular religious society, and never, it is believed, communed with
any church. A friend who visited him not long before his death,
found him engaged in reading the Bible. Here,” said he, hold-
ing it up, “is a book worth more than all the other books that
were ever printed; yet it is my misfortune never to have found
time to read it, with the proper attention and feeling, till lately.
I trust in the mercy of Heaven that it is not yet too late. ”
He was much pleased with Soame Jenyns's view of the internal
evidences of the Christian religion; so much so, that about the
year 1790 he had an impression of it struck at his own expense,
and distributed among the people. His other favorite works
on the subject were Doddridge's Rise and Progress of Religion
in the Soul, and Butler's Analogy of Religion, Natural and
Revealed. This latter work he used at one period of his life to
style, by way of pre-eminence, his “Bible. ” The selection proves
not only the piety of his temper, but the correctness of his taste,
and his relish for profound and vigorous disquisition.
His morals were strict. As a husband, a father, a master, he
had no superior. He was kind and hospitable to the stranger,
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WILLIAM WIRT
as
and most friendly and accommodating to his neighbors. In his
dealings with the world he was faithful to his promise, and
punctual in his contracts, to the utmost of his power.
Yet we do not claim for him a total exemption from the fail-
ures of humanity. Moral perfection is not the property of man.
The love of money is said to have been one of Mr. Henry's
strongest passions. In his desire for accumulation, he was
charged with wringing from the hands of his clients, and more
particularly those of the criminals whom he defended, fees rather
too exorbitant. He was censured too for an attempt to locate
the shores of the Chesapeake, which had heretofore been used
public common; although there was at that time no law
of the State which protected them from location. In one of his
earlier purchases of land, he was blamed also for having availed
himself of the existing laws of the State, in paying for it in the
depreciated paper currency of the country; nor was he free from
censure on account of some participation which he is said to have
had in the profits of the Yazoo trade. He was accused too of
having been rather more vain of his wealth, toward the close of
his life, than became
so great in other respects.
Let
these things be admitted, and let the man who is without fault
cast the first stone. ” In mitigation of these charges, if they be
true, it ought to be considered that Mr. Henry had been, during
the greater part of his life, intolerably oppressed by poverty and
all its distressing train of consequences; that the family for which
he had to provide was very large; and that the bar, although it
has been called the road to honor, was not in those days the
road to wealth. With these considerations in view, charity may
easily pardon him for having considered only the legality of the
means which he used to acquire an independence; and she can
easily excuse him, too, for having felt the success of his endeav-
ors a little more sensibly than might have been becoming. He
was certainly neither proud, nor hard-hearted, nor penurious: if
he was either, there can be no reliance on human testimony;
which represents him as being, in his general intercourse with
the world, not only rigidly honest, but one of the kindest, gen-
tlest, and most indulgent of human beings.
While we are on this ungrateful subject of moral imperfec-
tion, the fidelity of history requires us to notice another charge
against Mr. Henry. His passion for fame is said to have been
a man
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WILLIAM WIRT
16093
too strong: he was accused of a wish to monopolize the public
favor; and under the influence of this desire, to have felt no
gratification in the rising fame of certain conspicuous characters;
to have indulged himself in invidious and unmerited remarks
upon them, and to have been at the bottom of a cabal against
one of the most eminent. If these things were so — alas, poor
human nature! It is certain that these charges are very incon-
sistent with his general character. So far from being naturally
envious, and disposed to keep back modest merit, one of the
finest traits in his character was the parental tenderness with
which he took by the hand every young man of merit, covered
him with his ægis in the Legislature, and led him forward at the
bar. In relation to his first great rival in eloquence, Richard
Henry Lee, he not only did ample justice to him on every occas-
ion in public, but defended his fame in private with all the zeal
of a brother; as is demonstrated by an original correspondence
between those two eminent men, now in the hands of the
author. Of Colonel Innis, his next great rival, he entertained
and uniformly expressed the most exalted opinion; and in the
convention of 1788, as will be remembered, paid a compliment
to his eloquence, at once so splendid, so happy, and so just, that
it will live forever. The debates of that convention abound with
the most unequivocal and ardent declarations of his respect for
the talents and virtues of the other eminent gentlemen who were
arrayed against him, - Mr. Madison, Mr. Pendleton, Mr. Ran-
dolph. Even the justly great and overshadowing fame of Mr.
Jefferson never extorted from him, in public at least, one invidi-
ous remark; on the contrary, the name of that gentleman, who
was then in France, having been introduced into the debates of
the convention for the purpose of borrowing the weight of his
opinion, Mr. Henry spoke of him in the strongest and warmest
terms, not only of admiration but of affection, - styling him "our
illustrious fellow-citizen," "our enlightened and worthy country-
our common friend. ”
The inordinate love of money and of fame are certainly base
and degrading passions. They have sometimes tarnished char-
acters otherwise the most bright; but they will find no advocate
or apologist in any virtuous bosom. In relation to Mr. Henry,
however, we may be permitted to doubt whether the facts on
which these censures (so inconsistent with his general character)
man, » «
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WILLIAM WIRT
1
are grounded, have not been misconceived; and whether so much
of them as is really true may not be fairly charged to the com-
mon account of human imperfection.
Mr. Henry's great intellectual defect was his indolence. To
this it was owing that he never possessed that admirable alert-
ness and vigorous versatility of mind which turns promptly to
everything, attends to everything, arranges everything, and by
systematizing its operations, dispatches each in its proper time
and place and manner. To the same cause it is to be ascribed
that he never possessed that patient drudgery, and that ready,
neat, copious, and masterly command of details, which forms so
essential a part of the duties both of the statesman and the law-
yer. Hence too he did not avail himself of the progress of science
and literature in his age. He had not, as he might have done,
amassed those ample stores of various, useful, and curious knowl-
edge which are so naturally expected to be found in a great
man. His library (of which an inventory has been furnished to
the author) was extremely small; composed not only of a very
few books, but those, too, commonly odd volumes.
