The northern tribune. [volume] (Bath, Me.) 1847-1855, 1847-11-23
Rsom the Philadelphia Saturday Courier.
Arnold in Virginia.
A LEGEND OF THE REVOLUTION.
BY GEORGE LIPPARD.

In the history of the present Mexican War,
it is stated that fifteen women were driven by
the bombardment of Vera Graz to take refuge
in church, near the altar, their pale faces illu-
mined by the same red glare that revealed the
sculptured image of Jesus, and the sad mild
face of the Virgin Mother.
While they knelt there a lighted bomb-a
globe of iron, containing at least three hun
church. descended in the midst of the women,
and exploded.
There is not fend but whose heart would
fail him when surveying the result of that ex-
plosion.
So, upon the houses of Virginia, in Deem
Der, 1881, burst the traitor Benedict Arnold.
AS his ship glided up James River, aided by
wind and tide-a leaden sky above, dreary
winter scone around, the other vessels follow
ing in the wake-he stood on its deck and
drew his sword, repeating his oath to avenge
the death of John Andre!
How did he keep that oaths
He was always excited to madness in the
hour of conflict, always fighting like tigress,
robbed of her young; but now, he concealed
the heart of devil beneath British uniform.
The houses that he burnt, the men that he
stabbed, the murders that dripped from his
sword, could not be told in volume.
When morning came, there was dense
smoke darkening overiyonder woods. The
first light Of the winters day shone over the
maddened visage of Arnold cheering on his
men to scenes of murder.
The very men who fought under him, de-
spised him. AS the officers received his or
ders, they could not disguise the contempt of
the curved lip and averted eye. The phantom
of Andre never left him. If before he had
been desperate, he was now Internal; if Que
bee had beheld him brave soldier, the shores
of James River the streets of Richmend, saw
in his. form the image of an assassin.
Tortured by remorse, hated. doubted, de-
spised by the men who had purchased his
sword, his honor, Arnold seemed at the time
to become the foe of the whole human race.
When not engaged in works of carnage. he
would sit alone in his tent. resting his head on
his clenched hand, and shading from the light
face distorted by demoniac passions.
The memory of Andre was to him what the
cord, sunken in the lacerated flesh, Is to the
Hindoo devotee, dull, gnawing, ever-present
pain.
One day. he sent flag of truce " tn let
tel to La Fayette. The heroic Boy General
returned the letter without word. Arnold
took he unanswered letter, sought the shad "
of his tent, and did not speak tor s'me honrs,
That calm derision cut him to the soul.
There was brought before him, on calm
winter day, an American captain, who had
been taken prisoner. Arnold surveyed the
har ly soldier, clad in that glorious blue uni
form, which he himself had worn with honor,
and after pause of silent thought, asked with
careless smile
"What will the Americans do with me In
case they tIke me prisoner
Hang your body on gibbett, but bury
your leg with the honors OF war; Not the
leg that first planted footstep on the British
ship, but the leg that was broken at Quebec
and Saratoga"
Arnold's countenance fell. He asked nc
more questions of that soldier,