The Man in Gray | Page 4

be of the
very necessity of his calling a nobleman.
Without vanity he lived daily in the consciousness of his own call to
this exalted ideal. It made his face, in repose, grave. His gravity came

from the sense of duty and the consciousness of problems to be met and
solved as his fathers before him had met and solved great issues.
His conservatism had its roots in historic achievements and the chill
that crept into his heart as he thought of this book came, not from the
fear of the possible clash of forces in the future, but from the dread of
changes which might mean the loss of priceless things in a nation's life.
He believed in every fiber of his being that, in spite of slavery, the old
South in her ideals, her love of home, her worship of God, her
patriotism, her joy of living and her passion for beauty stood for things
that are eternal.
And great changes were sweeping over the Republic. He felt this to-day
as never before. The Washington on whose lights he stood gazing was
rapidly approaching the end of the era in which the Nation had evolved
a soul. His people had breathed that soul into the Republic. To this hour
the mob had never ruled America. Its spirit had never dominated a
crisis. The nation had been shaped from its birth through the heart and
brain of its leaders.
But he recalled with a pang that the race of Supermen was passing.
Calhoun had died two years ago. Henry Clay had died within the past
two months. Daniel Webster lay on his death bed at Mansfield. And
there were none in sight to take their places. We had begun the process
of leveling. We had begun to degrade power, to scatter talent, to pull
down our leaders to the level of the mob, in the name of democracy.
He faced this fact with grave misgivings. He believed that the first
requirement of human society, if it shall live, is the discovery of men fit
to command--to lead.
With the passing of Clay, Calhoun and Webster the Washington on
which he gazed, the Washington of 1852, had ceased to be a forum of
great thought, of high thinking and simple living. It had become the
scene of luxury and extravagance. The two important establishments of
the city were Gautier's, the restaurateur and caterer--the French genius
who prepared the feasts for jeweled youth; and Gait, the jeweler who
sold the precious stones to adorn the visions of beauty at these

banquets.
The two political parties had fallen to the lowest depths of groveling to
vote getting by nominating the smallest men ever named for
Presidential honors. The Democrats had passed all their real leaders and
named as standard-bearer an obscure little politician of New Hampshire,
Mr. Franklin Pierce. His sole recommendation for the exalted office
was that he would carry one or two doubtful Northern states and with
the solid South could thus be elected. The Whig convention in
Baltimore had cast but thirty-two votes for Daniel Webster and had
nominated a military figurehead, General Winfield Scott.
The Nation was without a leader. And the low rumble of the crowd--the
growl of the primal beast--could be heard in the distance with
increasing distinctness.
The watcher turned from the White City across the Potomac and slowly
walked into his rose garden. Even in September the riot of color was
beyond description. In the splendor of the full Southern moon could be
seen all shades from deep blood red to pale pink. All sizes from the
tiniest four-leaf wild flowers to the gorgeous white and yellow masses
that reared their forms like waves of the surf. He breathed the perfume
and smiled again. A mocking bird, dropping from the bough of a holly,
was singing the glory of a second blooming.
The scene of entrancing beauty drove the thought of strife from his
heart. He turned back toward the house and its joys of youth.
Sam's sonorous voice was ringing in deliberation the grand call of the
evening's festivities:
"Choose-yo-pardners-fer-de-ol-Virginy-Reel!"
And then the stir, the rush, the commotion for place in the final dance.
The reel reaches the whole length of the hall with every foot of space
crowded. There are thirty couples in line when the musicians pause,
tune their instruments and with a sudden burst play "The Gray Eagle."
The Virginia Reel stirs the blood of these Southern boys and girls. Its

swift, graceful action and the inspiration of the old music seem part of
the heart beat of the youth and beauty that sway to its cadences.
The master of Arlington smiled at the memory of the young
Congressman's eloquence. Surely it was only a flight of rhetoric.
CHAPTER II
Phil had finally