Harper's New Monthly Magazine. No. XVI.—September, 1851—Vol. III

Arnold was innately wicked and treacherous. The mother who bore him was an exemplar of piety and sweetness of character, and daily counseled her boy with words of heavenly wisdom. Yet, from earliest childhood he was wayward, disobedient, reckless, and profane. A stranger to physical fear, and always heedless of the consequences resulting from action, his hands were ever ready to do the bidding of a perverse nature or the impulses of circumstances. When the tocsin of Freedom was sounded at Lexington and Concord, his impetuous spirit was aroused, and his feelings assumed the character of the most zealous patriotism. He was doubtless sincere, and went into the contest with a soul filled with desires to cast back the surges of despotism, which were beating higher and higher against the liberties of his country. His brave exploits on Lake Champlain; his wondrous journey through the wilderness from the Kennebeck to the St. Lawrence; his assault on the capital of the Canadas, and his brilliant deeds at Ridgefield, Compo, and Saratoga excited the astonishment and admiration of his countrymen. Congress awarded him special honors, and the name of Arnold was a host in the Northern Department. As a soldier and leader he was the bravest of the brave, skillful and high-souled; but in his social relations he was a moral coward, deceptive, mean-spirited, and debased. Washington admired his military genius, but despised his avarice, selfishness, and profligacy. He was ever distrustful of his patriotism, because he lacked the essential elements of that virtue, except personal courage. He was disliked by the leading men in the army, for he quarreled with all his peers, and was reserved toward his subordinates. His avarice was notorious. "Money is this man's God, and to get enough of it, he would sacrifice his country," said Colonel Brown, in a hand-bill, almost four years before Arnold's defection. From the hour when temptation lured him at Montreal and St. John's, till the termination of his command in Philadelphia, he was guilty of peculations, fraudulent, and unworthy acts, which dimmed the lustre of his military fame.

Justice, however, demands some light touches upon this dark picture. Envy, the bane of happiness, and the sure accompaniment of honors, was rank among his fellow-officers. The brilliancy of Arnold's personal acts eclipsed their achievements, and doubtless the jealous feelings excited thereby were powerful and not very remote causes of his defection. At the outset, when, in company with Ethan Allen, he assisted in the capture of Ticonderoga, he felt aggrieved by the seeming neglect of the civil authorities of Connecticut and Massachusetts; and during the five years succeeding, fresh instances of neglect occurred, and obstacles were continually placed in the way of his advancement and popularity, by those who hoped to shine in proportion to the waning of his fame. The very men who conspired against Washington, were most prominent in opposition to Arnold, and that officer saw no hope of justice, real or shadowy, at the hands of Congress, for faction was as rife there as in the army. With contracted vision he beheld, in the conduct of its political representatives, the ingratitude and injustice of his country; and the hatred which he fostered for the few was extended to the cause, of which they were the accredited supporters. This feeling, and the hope of large pecuniary reward, by which he might relieve himself of heavy and increasing embarrassments, extinguished his patriotism, and beckoned him to the bad pre-eminence of a mercenary traitor.

From Cain to Catiline, the world hath seen
Her traitors – vaunted votaries of crime —
Caligula and Nero sat alone
Upon the pinnacle of vice sublime;
But they were moved by hate, or wish to climb
The rugged steeps of Fame, in letters bold
To write their names upon the scroll of time;
Therefore their crimes some virtue did enfold —
But, Arnold! thine had none; 'twas all for sordid gold.

    Estelle Anna Lewis.
In consequence of a bad wound received in his leg while gallantly fighting at Saratoga (and which was yet unhealed), Arnold was not fit for active service when the British evacuated Philadelphia in the spring of 1778. Washington, desirous of keeping him employed, appointed him military governor of that city, in command of a small corps of soldiers. Fond of show, and feeling the importance of his station, Arnold adopted a style of living incompatible with his resources and the character of a republican. He made the fine old mansion of William Penn his residence; kept a coach-and-four; gave splendid soirées and banquets, and charmed the gayer portion of Philadelphia society with his princely displays. His station, and the splendor of his equipage, captivated the daughter of Edward Shippen, a leading loyalist, and afterward Chief Justice of the State. Her beauty and accomplishments won the heart of the widower of forty. She had bloomed but eighteen summers, and admirers of every degree coveted her smiles; yet she gave her hand to Arnold, and they were married. Stanch Whigs shook their heads in distrust, and the equally stanch loyalists were gratified. To the former, this union augured of evil; to the latter, it had promises of hope. Both were right interpreters.

Arnold's extravagance soon brought importunate creditors to his door. Rather than retrench his expenses, he procured money by a system of fraud and prostitution of his official power. The city being under martial law, his power was supreme. He forbade shopkeepers selling certain articles, and then, through agents, he trafficked in those very articles, and sold them at enormous profits. The people were incensed, and a deputation went before the President and Council of Pennsylvania, and preferred charges against him. These were laid before Congress, and that body referred the whole matter to Washington, to be adjudicated by a military tribunal.

After a delay of more than a year Arnold was tried, and found guilty of two of four charges preferred against him. The court pronounced the mildest sentence in its power – a mere reprimand by the Commander-in-chief. Washington performed the duty with the greatest delicacy. "Our profession," he said, "is the chastest of all. Even the shadow of a fault tarnishes the lustre of our finest achievements. The least inadvertence may rob us of the public favor, so hard to be acquired. I reprimand you for having forgotten that, in proportion as you had rendered yourself formidable to our enemies, you should have been guarded and temperate in your deportment toward your fellow-citizens. Exhibit anew those noble qualities which have placed you on the list of our most valued commanders. I will myself furnish you, as far as it may be in my power, with opportunities of regaining the esteem of your country."

What punishment could have been lighter! Yet Arnold was greatly irritated. He had anticipated a full acquittal, and a triumphant vindication of his honor. Even this slight punishment deeply wounded his pride, and instead of receiving it with the generous feelings of true honor and dignity, he resented it as a meditated wrong. The rank weed of treason was already growing luxuriantly in his heart, for he had been for nine months in secret correspondence with the enemy in New York; now it bloomed, and its fruit expanded under the genial heat of intense hatred, fed by mortified pride, foiled ambition, the pressure of embarrassments, the want of employment, intercourse with loyalists, and a sense of public injustice.

When the great fête, called the Mischianza was given in Philadelphia in honor of General Sir William Howe, on his departure from America in the spring of 1778, Captain John Andrè was the most active and talented officer engaged in its preparation. He was a wit, a poet, and a painter. Thwarted in an engagement of marriage with the charming Honora Sneyd, by the unwise scruples of her father, on account of the suitor's youth and obscurity, Andrè placed in his bosom the miniature of his idol, painted by his own hands, joined the army, and came to America to seek, in the excitement of the camp, an alleviation of sufferings inflicted by disappointed love. He landed in Canada; was captured at St. John's on the Sorel, where he saved the picture of Honora by concealing it in his mouth; was taken to Pennsylvania; was exchanged, and finally rejoined the army in New York.

Among the young ladies of Philadelphia who graced the Mischianza, was the gay and brilliant Margaret Shippen, who afterward became the wife of Arnold. Andrè was a frequent guest at her father's table, and Margaret continued her acquaintance with him, by epistles, even after her marriage. Through this channel her husband opened a correspondence with Sir Henry Clinton, the Commander-in-chief of the British forces in America, and then quartered in New York. For a long time Arnold's letters were vague. His advances were slow and cautious. He assumed the name of Gustavus, and couched his letters in commercial phrases. Profound secrecy was observed by both. Arnold's wife, it is believed, was ignorant of the true intent of her husband's letters, and Clinton had no other confidant than Andrè and Colonel Beverly Robinson. The latter was the son-in-law of Frederick Phillipse, one of the largest landholders in America. Twenty years before, Washington, then a Virginia colonel, had enjoyed the hospitalities of his house, and there became enamored of Mary Phillipse, the betrothed of Roger Morris, his old companion in arms in the battle of Monongahela. Of course his suit was rejected, and the young soldier gave his heart and hand to a charming widow of his own province. Robinson had an extensive acquaintance among the American officers. He early espoused the patriot cause, even as early as the era of the Stamp Act; but when the Declaration of Independence was promulgated, he was unwilling to accede to so bold a measure as the dismemberment of the British Empire, and he took up arms for the king.

West Point, on the Hudson, fifty miles above New York, made strong by nature, and strengthened by art, was an object of covetous desire to Sir Henry Clinton. It was the key to the northern country and the route to Canada, and the strong link of co-operation between the patriots of the Eastern and Middle States. Arnold knew its value to both parties, and he resolved to make its betrayal the equivalent for personal honors and a large sum of money. When his determination was fixed, and his plans were arranged, his deportment was suddenly changed. Hitherto he had been sullen and indifferent; now his patriotism glowed with all the apparent ardor of his earlier career. Hitherto he had pleaded the bad state of his wounds as an excuse for inaction; now they healed rapidly. He was now anxious to join his old companions in arms, and to General Schuyler, Robert R. Livingston, and other influential men in Congress, he expressed his impatience to be in the camp or the field. Rejoiced at the change, and believing him sincere, they wrote letters to Washington commendatory of Arnold, and, in pursuance of his intimation, suggested his appointment to the command of West Point. At the same time Arnold visited the camp to pay his respects to the commander-in-chief, and expressed his desire to have a command, like that at West Point, for his wounds would not now allow him to perform active service on horseback in the field. Washington was surprised, but, unsuspicious of wrong, acceded to his request, and on the 3d of August, 1780, gave him written instructions. His command included West Point and its dependencies from Stony Point to Fishkill.

Upon a fertile plateau, high above the river, and at the foot of a range of lofty hills, nearly opposite West Point, was the confiscated country seat of Colonel Beverly Robinson, a spacious mansion for the times, and now a pleasant residence. There Arnold established his quarters, and elaborated his wicked scheme; and there he was joined by his wife and infant son, when his plans were ripe, and his treason almost consummated.

It was a part of Washington's plan for the autumn campaign, to make an attack upon the city of New York, with the combined French and American forces, the former to approach by the way of Long Island, and the other by crossing Kingsbridge at the head of York, or Manhattan Island. Arnold communicated the details of this plan to Sir Henry Clinton, and proposed that when the assailants approached, a large British force should proceed up the Hudson to the Highlands in a flotilla under Admiral Rodney, when the traitor should surrender West Point and its dependencies, excusing himself with the plea of a weak garrison. The anticipated result was a retreat of Washington toward the Highlands to regain the fortress and save his ample stores and the probable capture of the French army.

Sir Henry Clinton was delighted with the plan, and eagerly sought to carry it out. Hitherto he was not certified of the real name and character of Gustavus, although for some months he had suspected him to be General Arnold. Unwilling to proceed further upon uncertainties, he proposed sending an officer to some point near the American lines to have a personal interview with his correspondent. Arnold consented, and insisted that young Andrè, now the adjutant-general of the British army, and high in the confidence of Sir Henry Clinton, should be the officer sent. They agreed to meet at Dobb's Ferry, upon the Neutral Ground, some twenty miles above New York. Thither Andrè, accompanied by Colonel Robinson, proceeded; but the vigilance of the British water-guard prevented the approach of Arnold, and the conference was deferred.

Sir Henry Clinton, anxious to effect definite arrangements with Arnold, sent the Vulture sloop-of-war up the river, as far as Teller's Point, nearly opposite Haverstraw, with Colonel Robinson on board. That officer, under pretense of making inquiries respecting his confiscated property, communicated with Arnold, who, in an ambiguous answer, informed him that a flag and a boat would be sent to the Vulture on the night of the twentieth, to be used as circumstances might require. This fact was communicated to Clinton, and on the morning of that day, Major Andrè, after singing a song and taking wine with some fellow-officers, at Kip's Bay, proceeded by land to Dobb's Ferry, and from thence in a barge to the Vulture. He was instructed not to change his dress, go within the American lines, receive papers, or in any other way act as a spy. It was supposed that Arnold himself would come to the Vulture, and that there the whole plan would be arranged. The wily general was not to be caught, and he chose a meeting place which involved less personal hazard.

About half way between Stony Point and Haverstraw, lived Joshua Hett Smith, a brother of the Tory Chief Justice of New York. To his house Arnold repaired, and employed him to proceed to the Vulture, at night, and bring a gentleman to the western shore of the Hudson. Smith was an active man, of considerable influence in his neighborhood, and is supposed to have been the dupe, not the voluntary aid of Arnold in his treasonable preparations. Unable to procure oarsmen, Smith did not proceed to the Vulture until the night of the twenty-first. As soon as the moon went down, he glided silently out of Haverstraw creek, with muffled oars, and at a little past midnight reached the vessel anchored in the middle of the river. It was a serene, starry night, and not a ripple was upon the bosom of the waters. Cautiously he approached the Vulture, and, by proper signal, obtained admission on board. His oarsmen waited but a few minutes, when Smith, accompanied by a British officer, descended into the boat. The latter was dressed in the scarlet uniform of the royal army, but all was covered with a long blue surtout, buttoned to the chin, and a plain cocked hat covered his head. Not a word was spoken as they moved noiselessly toward a deep-shaded estuary at the foot of Long Clove Mountain, a little below Haverstraw. Smith led the officer, in the gloom, to a thicket near by, and there, in a low whisper, introduced John Anderson (the name assumed by Major Andrè in his correspondence) to General Arnold, and then retired. The conspirators were left alone. There, in the deep shadows of night, concealed from human cognizance, they discussed their dark plans, and plotted the utter ruin of the patriot cause. There the arch-traitor, eager for the coveted gold of a royal purchaser, higgled with the king's broker about the price of his infamy; there the perjured recusant, satisfied with the word of an honest man (for he dared not accept a written bond), "sold his birth-right for a mess of pottage."

The hour of dawn approached, and their conference was not ended. Smith came, and urged the necessity for haste, for the water-guard would soon be on the alert, and it would be difficult to return to the Vulture. Much was yet to be done, and Andrè reluctantly consented to accompany Arnold to Smith's house, nearly four miles distant, and await the darkness of another night to return to the vessel. Expecting a protracted interview, Arnold had brought two horses with him. While it was yet dark they mounted, and as they passed in the rear of Haverstraw, in the dim twilight of earliest dawn, the voice of a sentinel gave Andrè the first intimation that he was within the American lines. He perceived the danger, but it was too late to recede. They reached Smith's house before sunrise, and at that moment the boom of a cannon came up from the bosom of the bay. Several discharges quickly succeeded each other, and soon the Vulture, galled by an iron four-pounder upon Teller's Point, weighed anchor, and dropped down the river beyond the vision of the conspirators. Deep inquietude stirred the soul of Andrè. He was within the enemy's lines, without flag or pass. If detected, he would be called a spy – a name he hated as much as that of traitor. The ingenious sophistry of Arnold allayed his apprehensions, and in an upper room of Smith's house, the plan of operations was determined, and there Andrè passed a day of great solicitude. The plan was simple. Washington had gone to Hartford, to confer with the French officers. It was agreed to consummate the scheme during the absence of the Commander-in-chief, instead of waiting for the uncertain movements of the armies. The garrison at West Point was to be weakened by dispersion, and Clinton was to sail up the river with a strong force, and take possession.

At noon, the whole plan being arranged, Arnold placed in Andrè's possession, several papers, explanatory of the condition of West Point and its dependencies. Zealous in the service of his king and country, Andrè disobeyed the commands of his general, and received them. At Arnold's suggestion, he placed them in his stockings under his feet, and receiving a pass from the traitor (printed on the next page), waited impatiently for the approach of night.

Fully believing that no obstacle now interposed in the way of success, Arnold prepared for the reception of Rodney's flotilla with a strong force under Clinton. Pretending that it needed repairing, a link from the great iron chain which spanned the Hudson at West Point, was taken out and sent to the smith, and the garrison at Fort Clinton, on the Point, was weakened by scattering the troops in detachments among the several redoubts in the vicinity. Colonel Lamb, who commanded the garrison, wondered at the movement, but did not suspect his chief. So skillfully had Arnold managed all his plans, that no suspicion of his defection was abroad; and Washington held his conference with Rochambeau and Ternay, satisfied that West Point was in safe hands.

When night approached, Smith positively refused to convey Andrè back to the Vulture, but offered to accompany him to the borders of the Neutral Ground on the east side of the Hudson. Andrè remonstrated in vain. There was no alternative but to remain. He exchanged his uniform for a citizen's dress, and at twilight, mounted on good horses, and accompanied by a negro servant, Smith and Andrè crossed King's Ferry (now Verplanck's Point), and turned their faces toward White Plains. Andrè was moody, for he felt uneasy. They met with no interruption, until near the little village of Crompond, eight miles from King's Ferry, when they were hailed by a sentinel. Arnold's pass was examined, known to be genuine, and the travelers were about to pass on, when the officer of the post magnified the dangers of the road, and persuaded them to halt for the night. Sleep was a stranger to the eyes of Andrè, and at dawn they were in the saddle. When they approached Pine's Bridge, and he was assured that he was upon neutral ground, beyond the American lines, his gloomy taciturnity was exchanged for cheerful garrulity, and he conversed in an almost playful manner upon poetry, the arts, literature, and common topics. A mile above the bridge, Smith handed him a small sum in Continental bills, and they parted, the former to proceed to Arnold's quarters and report his success, the latter to hasten toward New York. Andrè, being told that the Cow-boys[3 - The Cow-boys were a set of people mostly, if not wholly refugees, belonging to the British side, and engaged in plundering cattle near the lines and driving them to New York. The name indicates their vocation. There was another description of banditti called Skinners, who lived for the most part within the American lines, and professed attachment to the American cause; but in reality they were more unprincipled, perfidious, and inhuman than the Cow-boys themselves; for these latter exhibited some symptoms of fellow-feeling for their friends, whereas the Skinners committed their depredations equally upon friends and foes.By a law of the State of New York, every person refusing to take an oath of fidelity to the State, was considered as forfeiting his property. The large territory between the American and British lines, extending nearly thirty miles from north to south, and embracing Westchester county, was populous and highly cultivated. This was the famous Neutral Ground. A person living within that space, who took the oath of fidelity, was sure to be plundered by the Cow-boys; and if he did not take it, the Skinners would come down upon him, call him a Tory, and seize his property as confiscated by the State. Thus the execution of the laws was assumed by robbers, and the innocent and guilty were involved in a common ruin.It is true, the civil authority endeavored to guard against these outrages, as far as it could, by legislative enactments and executive proclamations; but, from the nature of the case, this formidable conspiracy against the rights and claims of humanity could be crushed only by a military arm. The detachments of Continental troops and militia, stationed near the lines, did something to lessen the evil; yet they were not adequate to its suppression, and frequently this force was so feeble as not to afford any barrier against the inroads of the banditti. The Skinners and Cow-boys often leagued together. The former would sell their plunder to the latter, taking in exchange contraband articles from New York. It was not uncommon for the farce of a skirmish to be acted near the American lines, in which the Skinners never failed to come off victorious; and then they would go boldly into the interior with their booty, pretending it had been captured from the enemy while attempting to smuggle it across the lines. —Sparks.] were more numerous on the Tarrytown road, took that direction, contrary to the advice of Smith and others, who directed him to proceed by the way of White Plains. Andrè was anxious to be among his friends, and as these marauders were such, he concluded that the Tarrytown road would be the safer for him, for if he fell into their hands, he would be taken to New York, whither he was hastening. This was his fatal mistake.

On the morning when Andrè left Pine's Bridge, a little band of seven young volunteers, went out near Tarrytown to watch the movements of the Cow-boys and other depredators. Four of them (John Yorks, John Dean, James Romez, and Abraham William) agreed to tarry upon a hill which commanded an extensive view of the highway, while the remaining three (John Paulding, Isaac Van Wart, and David Williams) were to be concealed in the bushes on the bank of a small stream, near the road. At ten o'clock in the morning, while engaged in playing cards, the young men saw a horseman approach from the direction of Sleepy Hollow. They confronted him, and demanded a knowledge of his business and destination. "I hope, gentlemen, that you belong to our party," said the traveler. "What party?" inquired Williams, who had presented his firelock to his breast. "The lower party" (meaning the British), quickly replied the horseman.

"I am a British officer, out upon urgent business. I hope you will not detain me a minute."

He was ordered to dismount, when he instantly discovered his fatal mistake. "My God!" he exclaimed, half laughing, "we must do anything to get along;" and then showed them Arnold's pass, for the traveler was Major Andrè. The young militia men were not as easily satisfied as the sentinel at Crompond. They insisted upon searching him. They made him strip; ripped up the housings of his saddle, and finally ordered him to pull off his boots. He reluctantly obeyed, and beneath his feet were the papers given him by Arnold.

Andrè offered his captors tempting bribes of money and merchandise, if they would allow him to pass on, but their patriotism was too dear to be bought with a price. They conducted him to the quarters of Colonel Jameson at North Castle, the nearest post, and delivered him up. That officer, with obtuseness of perception most extraordinary, resolved to send him immediately to General Arnold! Major Tallmadge, with better judgment, boldly expressed his belief that Arnold was a traitor, and finally induced Jameson to send the prisoner to Colonel Sheldon's quarters at North Salem, until more should be known respecting him, for, they had no suspicion of the rank and character of the young man in their custody. Jameson, however, would not suspect the fidelity of his general, and actually sent a letter to inform him that "a Mr. John Anderson" was a prisoner in his hands.

On the morning of the 24th of September, the day fixed upon by the conspirators for the surrender of the fort, Washington returned from Hartford. It was two days earlier than Arnold expected him. The traitor was astounded when a messenger rode up, a little after sunrise, and announced the intention of the Commander-in-chief to breakfast with him. On approaching Arnold's quarters, Washington directed La Fayette and Hamilton, who were with him, to go on and breakfast with Mrs. Arnold, while he turned down a lane to the river to inspect a redoubt upon the bank.

Arnold and his guests were at breakfast when a messenger came in haste with a letter for the general. It was from Jameson, announcing the arrest of Andrè, instead of the expected intelligence that the enemy were moving up the river. Agitated, but not sufficiently to excite the special notice of his guests, he arose from the table, hastened to the room of his wife, kissed his sleeping babe, and telling his spouse in hurried words that they must part, perhaps forever, left her in a swoon, mounted the horse of one of his aids standing at the door, dashed across the fields and down a declivity to a narrow pathway on the borders of a morass to a dock built by Colonel Robinson, and throwing himself into his barge, nerved the oarsmen with promises of large rewards of rum and money for swiftness of speed, and was soon sweeping through the Race at Fort Montgomery. The old dock from whence the traitor escaped, is still there, but the Hudson River Railway has spanned the mouth of the swale, and cleft the rocky point, so that little of the original features of the scenery remain.

Washington went over to West Point before going to Arnold's quarters. He was surprised when informed by Lamb that the general had not been at the garrison for two days. He recrossed the river, and when he approached Robinson's house, Hamilton, greatly excited, met him, and revealed the dreadful secret of Arnold's guilt and flight. His guilt was made manifest by the arrival of the papers taken from Andrè, and his flight confirmed the dark tale which they unfolded. With these papers came a letter from Andrè to Washington, frankly avowing his name and character. "Whom can we trust now?" said the Chief with calmness, while feelings of the deepest sorrow were evidently at work in his bosom, as he laid before La Fayette, Hamilton, and Knox the evidences of treason.

The condition of Mrs. Arnold excited Washington's liveliest sympathy. But one year a mother and not two a bride, the poor young creature had received a blow of the most appalling nature. She raved furiously and mourned piteously, alternately. The tenderest care was bestowed upon her, and she was soon sent in safety to New York, whither her fallen husband had escaped.

Pursuit of the traitor was unavailing. He had four hours the start. The Vulture was yet lying below Teller's Point, awaiting the return of Andrè, and to the security of her bulwarks Arnold escaped. She proceeded to New York that evening, and Sir Henry Clinton, informed of the failure of the scheme, was unwilling to hazard an attack upon the Highland fortresses, now that the patriots were thoroughly awake.

The main body of the American army was lying at Tappan, on the west side of the Hudson, near the present terminus of the New York and Erie Railroad. Thither Andrè was conveyed, after being brought to West Point, and in a stone house, near the head-quarters of the commander-in-chief, he was strongly guarded. On the twenty-ninth of September a court martial was convened near by, for his trial, and, after a patient investigation, it being proven, and confessed by the prisoner himself, that he was in the American lines (though not voluntarily) without a flag, they gave it as their opinion that he ought to suffer death as a spy. All hearts were alive with sympathy for the condemned, and Washington would gladly have saved his life; but the stern demands of the cruel and uncompromising rules of war, denied the petitions of mercy, and the Commander-in-chief was obliged to sign his death-warrant. He was sentenced to be hung on the afternoon of the first of October.

Andrè exhibited no fear of death, and to the last the workings of his genius were displayed. On the morning of the day appointed for his execution, he sketched a likeness of himself with a pen and ink, and conversed cheerfully with those around him upon the pleasures of painting and kindred arts. But the manner of his death disturbed his spirit. He pleaded earnestly to be shot as a soldier, not hung as a spy. But even this poor boon could not be allowed, for the rules of war demanded death by a cord and not by a bullet. His execution was delayed one day in consequence of the intercession of Sir Henry Clinton, and a hope that Arnold might be obtained and righteously suffer in his stead. All was unavailing, and Major Andrè, in the bloom of manhood, was hung at Tappan on the second of October, 1780, at the age of twenty-nine years.

The youth, accomplishments, and gentleness of manners of the young soldier, endeared him to all, and his fate was deeply regretted on both sides of the Atlantic. His king caused a mural monument, of elegant device, to be erected to his memory in Westminster Abbey; and in 1831, the Duke of York had his remains removed from Tappan and taken to London, where they now repose beneath his marble memorial, among those of many heroes and poets of old England. A halo of melancholy sweetness surrounds the name and character of the unfortunate youth which increases in glory with the flight of time.

The traitor, though unsuccessful, received ten thousand guineas from the British treasury, and the commission of a brigadier from the king. He served his new master faithfully. With the spirit of a demon he desolated, with fire and sword, the beautiful country near the mouth of the Thames, in Connecticut, almost in sight of the roof which sheltered his infancy; and with augmented ferocity he spread distress and ruin, to the extent of his power, upon the Virginia shores of the Chesapeake, and along the fertile borders of the James and the Appomattox. Hated and despised by his new companions in arms, and insulted and contemned in public places after the war, Arnold became an outcast like Cain, and like Esau he found no place for repentance, though he sought it diligently with tears. He died in obscurity in the British metropolis, in 1801, and who knows the place of his grave?

The captors of Andrè were highly applauded by the people, and honored and rewarded by Congress. That body awarded to each a silver medal, having on one side the word Fidelity, and on the other, Vincit Amor Patræ; "the love of country conquers." They were also allowed each an annual pension of two hundred dollars, during their lives. Public esteem for their services has erected monuments over the remains of two of them. Paulding's mortality sleeps beneath a chaste marble cenotaph in the old St. Peter's church-yard, two miles eastward of Peekskill; and over the dust of Van Wart, in the Greenburgh church-yard, near the banks of the beautiful Nepara, in Westchester county, stands a plain monument of white marble. The former was erected by the corporation of the city of New York; the latter by citizens of Westchester county. No public memorial yet marks the place of rest of David Williams in the church-yard at Livingstonville, in Schoharie county.

The traitor and his victim, the captors, judges, and executioner, have all gone to the spirit-land whither the ken of the historian and the moralist may not follow; and the myriads of hearts which beat with sympathy or indignation, as the sad intelligence of the tragedy at Tappan winged its way over our land, or sped to the abodes of intelligent men in the Old World, are pulseless and forgotten. Charity would counsel tenderly respecting each,

"No farther seek his merits to disclose,
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,
(There they alike in trembling hope repose)
The bosom of his father, and his God."

Gray

Yet it is well, occasionally, to lift the vail from past events, though they may be dark and forbidding in aspect, for to the wise and thoughtful they convey lessons of wisdom, and to the foolish and inconsiderate, the wayward and the wicked, they may speak a word of warning in season to curb an evil spirit and promote righteousness.

MEMORIES OF MEXICO

The first action fought by the American army in the valley of Mexico, on the 20th August, 1847, was at Contreras. It was an attack upon a fortified camp, in which lay General Valencia with 6000 Mexicans, composed of the remnant of the army beaten by Taylor, on the hills of Buena Vista. It was styled "The Army of the North;" most of the soldiers composing it being from the northern departments – the hardy miners of Zacatecas and San Luis Potosi – and they were esteemed "the flower of the Mexican army."

On the previous day powder enough was burned to have cured the atmosphere for twenty miles around, yet there was nothing done. We held the ground, however, in mud up to our ankles. In this we lay shivering under a cold drizzle until the morning. By daylight we were at it in earnest. During the night two of our best brigades had crept, unperceived, through the clay "barrancas" close up to the rear of the enemy's camp, ready to spring. At daybreak old Riley shouted, "Forward and give them h-ll!" and before our foes – not expecting us from that quarter – could bring their artillery to bear upon us, we were in the midst of them. The action lasted just seventeen minutes. At the end of that time we had laid our hands upon thirty of Valencia's cannon, and taken about a thousand prisoners; and had the satisfaction of seeing the rest of them, in their long yellow mantles, disappearing through the fissures of the lava fields, in rapid flight along the road to Mexico. We followed, of course, but as our cavalry had not been able to cross the Pedregal, and the enemy were our superiors in retreat, we were soon distanced. As we came down upon the village of San Angel, the occasional blast of a light infantry bugle, with the "crack – crack – cr-r-r-ack" of our rifles in front, told us that we had still more work to do before entering the halls of the Montezumas. We were, in fact, driving in the light troops of Santa Anna's main army, lying we knew not where, but somewhere between us and the far-famed city.

It is not my intention to give an account of the battle that followed, nor should I have entered into these details of the fight at Contreras, but to put the reader in possession of "situations," and, moreover, to bring to his notice an incident that occurred, during that action, to a friend – the hero of this narrative – whom I will now introduce. I was then a Sub., and my friend, Richard L – , was the captain of my company; young as myself, and full as ardent in pursuit of the red glory of war. We had long known each other, had gone through the campaign together, and, more than once, had stood side by side under the leaden shower. I need not say how a juxtaposition of this kind strengthens the ties of friendship.

We had come out of Resaca and Monterey unscathed. We had passed through Cerro Gordo with "only a scratch." So far we had been fortunate, as I esteemed it. Not so my friend; he wished to get a wound, for the honor of the thing. He was accommodated at Contreras; for the bullet from an escopette had passed through his left arm below the elbow-joint. It appeared to be only a flesh wound; and as his sword-arm was still safe, he disdained to leave the field until the "day was done." Binding the wounded limb with a rag from his shirt, and slinging it in his sash, he headed his company in the pursuit. By ten o'clock we had driven the enemy's skirmishers out of San Angel, and taken possession of the village. Our commander-in-chief was as yet ignorant of the position of the Mexican army; and we halted, to await the necessary reconnoisance.

Notwithstanding the cold of the preceding night, the day had become hot and oppressive. The soldiers, wearied with watching, marching, and the fight, threw themselves down in the dusty streets. Hunger kept many awake, for they had eaten nothing for twenty hours. A few houses were entered, and the tortillas and tasajo drawn forth; but there is but little to be found, at any time, in the larder of a Mexican house; and the jail-like doors of most of them were closely barred. The unglazed windows were open; but the massive iron railings of the "reja" defended them from intrusion. From these railings various flags were suspended – French, German, Spanish, and Portuguese – signifying that the inmates were foreigners in the country, and therefore entitled to respect. Where no excuse for such claim existed, a white banner, the emblem of peace, protruded through the bars; and perhaps this was as much respected as the symbols of neutrality.

It was the season when fashion deserts the Alameda of Mexico, and betakes itself to montè, cock-fighting, and intriguing, in the romantic "pueblos" that stud the valley. San Angel is one of these pueblos, and at that moment many of the "familias principales" of the city were domiciled around us. Through the rejas we could catch an occasional glimpse of the inmates in the dark apartments within.