3 From the Other Side

I walked up the hill toward the Capitol, because it was a favourite stroll of mine, whether by day or by night. I suppose that every one has a desire to be alone at times, to feel the full force of Nature, and there was no place in Washington more solitary, seemingly more abandoned by the world, than the Capitol at night. When the darkness covered the rawness and newness of everything, it was easy to fancy that the unfinished walls were not unfinished walls at all, but the crumbling ruins of an old temple, and the scattered houses that lay below the remains of an ancient city. While we of the West did not trouble ourselves much about old times and old things, but gloried rather in the newness and freshness of our country, yet it pleased me to do this now and then, for I had read the old histories, and I missed sometimes the glamour of ages, which the commonest country of Europe had, and we had not.

I ascended the last slope, and on my way passed the lone watchman of the building, who knew me, and, returning his nod, I entered the portico. The watchman, continuing his round, was soon hidden from my sight by the walls, and I stood alone looking down at the town, and seeing but little of it. I knew one dim shape to be the Treasury, and the dark line was a row of trees that shut out the White House. I could calculate just where the Pendleton house stood, but no light shining there, I supposed that all the guests had now gone home. There were but a few signs of life, and the whistling of the wind through the trees was like one of the ordinary noises of the wilderness. When the gusts struck the stone walls of the Capitol they curved around it with a moan and a shriek, and my fancy to make it an old ruin, haunted by the winds, was never more vivid.

I turned my eyes from the town, and they caught at the far end of the portico a gleam of scarlet. It was faint, just a flash, and then gone, but it was enough to attract my curiosity, and I stepped lightly down the portico, intent to see.

I was convinced that it was some one in a red coat, who had no business about the Capitol, and being in the Government employ myself I felt that I had in some sort as much right as a watchman, for instance, to follow the wearer of the coat and see who he might be and what he intended there. The gleam of scarlet was hidden by one of the pillars, and stepping behind another column I waited for its second appearance, which was delayed but a moment.

Major Northcote stepped from the shadow of the pillar, and I was sure that I heard him speaking in a low tone to some one, being strengthened in this belief when I caught a glimpse of a figure disappearing at the end of the portico and into the darkness beyond. Yet I could not say with absolute certainty, since the night was so black and one’s eyes were liable to deception. But of Major Northcote there could be no mistake, as he came forward from the shelter of a pillar and stood near at hand where I could see him very well, and in all his splendour.

He was dressed in the brilliant red, white, and gold uniform of an officer in the British army, his epaulets heavy with gold braid and tassels, and a jewel-hilted sword which I coveted at his side. He wore a large black cloak lined with red, which was thrown back from his chest, revealing the red interior of the cloak and the facings of his uniform. He seemed to have adorned himself with his most splendid attire, as if he were a young man preparing for a festival; and in truth I had noticed before that he was fond of fine clothing of brilliant colours—a taste which I confess to having myself to a slight extent, due perhaps to that touch of the Southern sun which we feel in Kentucky, and which they say breeds the love of colour.

He came toward me without any trace of hesitation or embarrassment, his face, so far as I could see, expressing only welcome and good breeding.

“And do you, too, walk alone at night, Cousin Philip?” he said in his full, mellow tones. “It is the best time to think, and I have come here, for where could one be more solitary than within the shadow of this Capitol building of a nation? But I was growing lonely when I saw you; now we will stay a while together.”

His manner was so graceful and easy, so natural, so full of cheery good humour, that it seemed impossible for his words to be false, and yet the faint sneer at the nation made me distrust him for the moment.

“Come,” he said, taking me by the arm, “let us walk together while we talk.”

I yielded to the influence of his manner and asked him nothing about his presence there, which, untimely as it seemed, despite his explanation, was not a matter that I had any real right to question. He was silent for at least five minutes, and I was silent too, waiting for him to speak first.

“Philip,” he said presently, “you are my kinsman, and I can speak to you plainly.”

I bowed.

“And in confidence?”

“If I ought to retain it so,” I said, growing cautious.

He laughed a little.

“That was a statesmanlike reservation,” he said, “and I think well of you for it.”

I could not tell from his manner whether he meant it as a compliment or a gibe, and I was silent.

“Yes, Philip,” he continued, “you are my kinsman, and, distant as the relationship is, I wish to rememher it, for I have some of that feeling of kinship which you Kentuckians cherish.”

“I am flattered,” I said.

“And I am glad to observe,” he continued, without noticing the interruption or my manner, “that you show more wit and spirit than most of those around you.”

“Shall I take that as a compliment to myself, or a slur upon my countrymen?” I asked.

“I am speaking seriously, and because I am interested in you,” he replied with some rebuke in his tone. “I am an old man and I do not jest.”

I was silent, for I felt that his manner had the advantage of mine, and I did not wish to appear the inferior of anybody in wit and presence.

“This is a convenient time and place for me to say to you what I wish,” he continued. “You and I were together to-day, and we listened to your Mr. Clay.”

“He spoke words of wisdom.”

“Not at all—not at all! They were the words of a young enthusiast blinded by his own ignorance. He spoke of making war upon England; of this country, without an army or a navy, divided into many factions and scattered over vast distances, declaring war upon Great Britain, the greatest power in the world, greater even than Bonaparte, despite the vast military machine that he holds under his hand. One could not believe such monstrous folly did he not hear it urged daily and know that it would be done.”

“Then war is sure to come?”

“Certainly; not in a month or six months, perhaps, but in its own good time.”

“And the result?”

He lifted his head with a peculiar motion of pride, and a triumphant flush swept over his face. I knew well what the answer would be, and I felt a sickness at the heart, for he seemed to me at that moment, in his resplendent uniform, with his red-lined cloak thrown back from his shoulders, his sword at his side and his figure drawn up, to typify the haughty and arrogant nation which even then was all-powerful wherever Bonaparte was not, and with all his power the emperor could not pass the line of English ships that belted Europe in.

But Major Northcote’s show of triumph was only for a moment, a mere passing flash, and he answered in a quiet tone without any emphasis, but all the more convincing because of it:

“There can be only one result, and it will be even more sweeping than you expect, for you must know the disproportion between the two nations. These colonies will be returned to their old allegiance. Colonies they are! You can not call this a nation!”

He made a gesture of contempt toward the city that lay in the darkness below, and then another to the walls that rose above us.

“Is this a capital, Philip?” he asked; “a muddy village in the woods, and some rough stone walls between which farmers meet and make what they call laws?”

“They will be finished,” I said; “both the capital and the Capitol.”

“Never!” he replied, speaking with emphasis, and in such a tone of conviction that I could not fail to be impressed. “England will soon claim her own again, and we exiles of Canada, American by birth, but sons of England yet, will come back with her. When we were building new homes in the Canadian woods we never forgot our old ones here. You have heard of the Moors in Africa, who still keep the keys of the houses of their ancestors in Spain?”

“But the Moors have never gone back to Spain.”

“You can not say they never will. But it will not be long before the English flag will wave here again. England is the greatest power in the world. I am not boasting. Can not you see it? Look at her! Has she ever been beaten by anybody?”

“Yes, by us. You forget our own Revolution.”

“But an incident that will be reversed. She never fails. No nation in Europe can prevail against her. She is always victor in the end. She broke the power of Louis the Great. She has driven France out of America and India. The navies of France, Holland, Spain, and Denmark have crumbled to pieces before hers. Bonaparte, too, great as he seems, must yield to her, for England grows stronger every day she fights, since her trade, her agriculture, and her manufactures go on the same in peace or in war, and meantime France becomes weaker. When Bonaparte is crushed you will be left to confront England alone.”

He spoke with the greatest fervour and his air of indifference was gone, leaving me to see the soul of this man and his dearest ambitions, a man who knew the world, both that of Europe and that of our own country, and the relative power of nations. I had seen perhaps more of these things than most people of the West who had not the same opportunities, and understanding them thus there was no reply that I could make to him just then.

“If I believed in omens and prophecies and cared for dramatic illustrations,” he said, resuming his easy and careless manner, “I would point to the clouds and vapours which hang over this capital and tell you that it is doomed.”

“I do not think so,” I said, though I had been affected deeply by his predictions and the more substantial array of forces to support them.

“You know the only possible result of this war,” he said, speaking again with emphasis and a certain enthusiasm like that of a young man. “And why should you care?”

“I care very much.”

“A mere passing phase of feeling, soon over. Why should you care, I say? You are a young man of sense and spirit. You have ambitions, political, perhaps of high place, the right of every young man. What sort of a stage does this country offer to you? Suppose you reach the presidency itself! Merely the chief farmer among a crowd of rusty farmers talking at your cabinet meetings about the crops and the sordid cares of a small nation that has no cultivation and no interests beyond the most primitive. This country is only a fringe of settlements in the woods of a vast continent. The great world is yonder in Europe. But when Britain comes back and reclaims her colonies, you become an Englishman. You will be in the British Empire, and you can play your part upon the greatest and most brilliant stage in the world. Is not the exchange worth while? What have you to lose? Nothing! To gain? Everything! With the British Empire restored and whole, with this country to receive England’s surplus population and to aid her and re-enforce her at every turn, that empire will rule the world, a wider and greater world than ever acknowledged old Rome as mistress. What a destiny for the Anglo-Saxon race, and do you not wish to have your part in it rather than wear your life out here? Republics are tawdry, mean, commonplace. An aristocracy must govern if a country is to be governed well.”

I confess that I was dazzled for the moment by his picture and the manner in which he drew it, but it was my imagination only, and not my judgment, the better part of me, that was overcome. Nor was the thought new to me, and I had heard other Americans speculate upon the future might and grandeur of the Anglo-Saxon race had it remained united, though the quarrel between the two branches was daily growing more bitter and I was one who shared in the strongest prejudices against the old country. Wishing to know the point to which he would lead, I asked him why he said these things to me.

“It may be that I said them to enlighten you,” he replied with cynical emphasis. “You are my kinsman, and perhaps I might wish to help you in the good time coming when an allegiance to the Government that meets here, if not too warm, would not be remembered against you. The British service will be open to its citizens of American birth as freely as to any others. Americans, the exiled Loyalists, have already won many honours there. The army and the navy swarm with them. They are serving in India, with Wellington in Spain, everywhere.”

I thought that he would tempt me with the promise of a splendid career under the empire to some service that no honourable man could accept, and though the great world of affairs which was Europe was not less attractive to me than to him, yet every impulse in me rose in rebellion against the future that he predicted. I would have been no true son of the West had it been otherwise, and the feeling that we were right and must prevail, however great the odds against us, re-enforced all the training of my youth and associations of my whole life. I said that I admired England, the England of Elizabeth and Cromwell and Orange, and not the England of to-day, which had lost all sense of right in its struggle with Bonaparte for the leadership of the world, nor did I think that conquest and extension of dominion should be the greatest aim of a people.

His manner changed again at my reply. Except in his rare moments of enthusiasm he seemed to have himself under perfect control, and now he turned to light irony, designing to make everything around us or in the country appear vain and idle, skilfully choosing the things which contained a grain of truth and exaggerating that grain manifold. He made me feel uncomfortable, sometimes a little ashamed, and I should have left him at once, but he interested me and I felt able to take care of myself. Seemingly he wished to make me forget what he had said about the future glory of Great Britain and the Anglo-Saxon race, as if he had been merely drawing a picture on a slate for our amusement and would now rub it out and let it go. He began to ask me about my ambitions, what I proposed to make of myself, and how I regarded my prospects, turning his tone again from raillery to seriousness.

“You would marry some day?” he said.

He asked the question so suddenly that I was confused and silent.

“You need not answer,” he said. “I can see and I use a kinsman’s freedom in speech. The lady’s father does not choose you, but in the future of which I spoke a little while ago he would be glad to do so. Come, let us go; the night is growing late and it is cold here.”

He drew his cloak more closely around him and we descended the hill, picking our way with care along the rough road and keeping a watchful eye for the mud puddles and stray heaps of building materials. The path narrowed, and just at its narrowest place we met a man in poor attire, probably a belated workman returning to his hut. There was room for only one on the firm ground, and Major Northcote, who was in advance, thrust the man with a careless bend of his elbow into the mud and passed on, unheeding the other’s curse, while I followed him. I was ashamed of myself, ashamed that I had listened to him so long on the hill, for now I saw the kind of world that he wished, the age of Louis XIV again, with a splendid and glittering aristocracy riding triumphantly on the necks of the people; it would be neither sordid, mean, nor commonplace for the aristocracy, but wretched only for the unconsidered others; something which no American should wish, and which the free-born English race itself had rejected.

He bade me good night with his usual courtesy and show of good will and went his way to the British embassy, while I went mine to my room in the Six Buildings, not wholly pleased with myself nor wholly blaming.

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