Hillsdale Whig standard. (Hillsdale, Mich.) 1846-1851, 1850-10-15
THE DISGRACE OF ARNOLD.
BY GEORGE LIPPARD.

whom he had fought and bled-standing, tho
centre of all eyes, in the place of the crim-
nal. with the eye of Washington upon him
in reproof-with a throng Of the meaner
things of the Revolution, whom the British
King might have bought, had he thought
them worth the buying, grouped. These
pretty men, who had been warming them-
selves at comfortable fires, while the hands
of Arnold were freezing oil the ramparts of
Quebec, exulting at his disgrace, glorying in
his shame, chuckling at his fall.
II was too much for Arnold That mo-
ment the iron entered his soul aud festered
there.
| From that moment he stood resolved in
his work of ftreason. From that moment his
country lost soldier history one of her
brightest names-W ashington his right hand
man-the Revolution its bravest Knight. In
one word, from that moment John Andre
lost his life, Benedict Arnold his honor; Sir
! Henry Clinton gained a-Traitor.
! lie could have borne reproof from Wash
ington, but he rebuked while the dwarf-pa-
triots were standing by-while the little
great men were lockers on. Ii was indeed
too much for Arnold.
Ii is true that the reprimand of Washing
ton was the softest thing that might bear the
name-'l reprimand you for having forgot
ten that, in proportion as you have rendered
yourselfformidable to our enemies, you sho'd
have shown moderation to our citizens. Ex-
hibt again those splendid qualities which
have placed you in the rank of our most dis
tinguished generals
These were the words of Washington,
worthy of his hero-hcart, but from that mo
ment, Arnold, the Patriot, was dead.
hat fran In of
dark thoughts, wounded pride, lacerated hon
or, sprung into birth hideous phantom,
known by history as-Arnold. the Traitor.
Had he but looked dersion upon his foes
raising himselfin all his proud height, his
eye blazing with that stern fire which light
ed up his bronzed faeo on the ramparts of
Quebec, his voice deep, hollow, ringing with
the accents of scorn. he should have spoken
to his enemies in words like these:
Look! pittiful creatures of an hour, how
your poisoned arrows fall harmless from this
bosom, like water from the rock!
Things of an hour, creatures of falsehood,
who 'trafiickcd to be bought while | served
my country in hunger and blood and cold,
hurl my defiance To your hearts! will yet
live down your persecution. In the name of
Washington and the Revolution | swear il.
| will yet write my name there OH the ze
NTH of my country's fame-thcre, where the
vulture beak of slander, the hyena fang of
malice, cannot taint nor touchitr
But he fiHcd 60 do this. Unlike Jackson, |
who, covered with the glory of New Orleans,
rested patiently for thirty years, under tho |
odium of an unjust fine, Arnold did not pos
sess the power to lire dO,en persecution. lie
was lost.
In order to understand the scene ofhs re-
prmand, in all its details, we must wander
back through the shadows of seventy years.
The fine old mansion Of Morristown rises
before us in the calm twilight of a winters
day. There is snow upon the ground but it
is frozen until it resembles an immense mir
ror, which flashes back to the sky the light
of the son.
Yondcr we behold tho mansion, standing
on gentle cmncncc. Those poplars before
the door, or rather beside the fence at the
foot Of the elevation, are stripped of their fo-
liage. The elm yondcr, barred of its green
leaves, shines with thousand limbs OF ice
and snow. All is cold, serene, desolato.
We enter this mansion. Without paus-
ing to survey the massive 'front.' or steep roof,
or projecting caves, we ascend the range of
steps, give the word to the sentmels, and
pass beneath these pillars which guard the
hall door.
Step gently along this hall-entered with
uncovered brow, uto this large room, where
the light of cheerful hickory fire, glowing
upon the hearth, mingles with the winter
sunshine, soitened as it is by the thick cur
tains along yonder windows.
Gaze with reverence, for great men are
gathered here. DO not let your eyes wan
der to those antique chairs, fashioned of wal
Il INT, %
nor to the heavy moudings of the mantle
piece, nor to the oval Mirror enriched by
wreath of gold flowers.
But by the hearty glow of the hearthside
flame, gaze, beseech you, upon this compa-
ny of heroes, who, dressed in blue and bud,
stand side by side, leaving an open space be-
fore the fire.
A largo table is there, on whose green
cloth are laid various papers, burdened with
seats, and traced with celebrated signatures.
In the midst you behold sword resting in
its sheath, its handle carved in the shape of
an eagles beak. That sword has seen
brave days in the wilderness and at Quebec.
Three figures arrest your attention.
Neither tho knightly visage Of Wayne,
nor the open countenanee of;he boy-eeneral,
Lafayette, nor the bluff, hearty good humor
of Knox, command your gaze. They are all
there. There, too, Cadwalader, the bosom
friend of Washington, and Green, SO calmly
sagacious, and all the heroes of that trial.
Yet il is not on these you gaze, though
their faces are all darkened by an expression
of sincere sorrow.
1t is upon three figures near the fro that
you look, and hush each whisper as you gaze.
The first, standing with his face to tho
light, superior to them all in calm majesty of
look and bearing. The sunshine, cleaning
through the closed windows, reveals that face
which crown sould not adorn, nor the title
of King ennoble. II is the face Of Wash
ingtohrevea.ing, in every calm, fixed outline
a heart too pure for the annointed disgrace
Of Royal Power He is very calm, but
still you can trace upon his countonance
look yf deep, aye. poignant regret.
His eye is fixed upon the figures opposite.
Standing with his back TO the window, n