II.—THE DRUGGIST OF NEW HAVEN.
Let us look at his life between these periods; let us follow the varied
and tumultuous course of forty-five years, and learn how the innocent and
smiling babe, became the Outcast of his native land.
The course of this strange history, will lead us to look upon two men:
First, a brave and noble man, whose hand was firm as his heart was true,
at once a Knight worthy of the brightest days of chivalry, and a Soldier
beloved by his countrymen; honored by the friendship of Washington—
that man,—Benedict Arnold.
Then, a bandit and an outcast, a man panoplied in hideous crimes, so
dark, so infamous, that my tongue falters as it speaks his name—Benedict
Arnold.
Let me confess, that when I first selected this theme. I only thought of
its melo-dramatic contrasts, its strong lights and deep shadows, its incidents
of wild romance.
But now, that I have learned the fearful lesson of this life, let me frankly
confess, that in the pages of history or fiction, there is no tragedy to compare
with the plain history of Benedict Arnold. It is, in one word, a Paradise
Lost, brought down to our own times and homes, and told in familiar
language of everyday life. Through its every page, aye from the smiling
autumnal landscape of Kenebec, from the barren rock of Quebec, or the
green heights of Hudson, there glooms one horrid phantom, with a massive
forehead and deep-set eyes, the Lucifer of the story—Benedict Arnold.
The man who can read his life, in all its details, without tears, has a
heart harder than the roadside flint.
One word in regard to the infancy of Arnold.—
You have doubtless seen, in the streets of our large cities, the painful
spectacle of a beggar-women, tramping about with a deformed child in her
arms, making a show of its deformity, exciting sympathy by the exhibition
of its hideousness? Does the poor child fail to excite sympathy, when
attired in a jacket and trowsers, as a little boy? Then, the gipsey conceals
its deformed limbs under a frock, covers its wan and sickly face with a
bonnet.
And she changes it from to-day, making deformity always new, sickness,
rags and ulcers always marketable.
There is a class of men, who always remind me of this crafty beggar-woman.
They are the journeymen historians, the petty compilers of pompous
falsehood, who prevail in the vincinity of bookseller's kitchens, and
acquire corpulence.
As the beggar-woman has her Deformed child, so these Historians who
work by the line and yard, have their certain class of Incidents, which they
crowd into all their Compilations, whether Histories, Lectures, or Pictorial
abominations, dressing them somewhat variously, in order to suit the changes
of time and place.
For example; the first English writers who undertook the history of
Napoleon, propagated various stories about his infancy, which, in point of
truth and tragic interest, remind us of Blue-beard and Cock-robin. The
same stories had been previously told of Alexander, Cæsar, Richlieu, and
lately we have seen them revived in a new shape, in order to suit the infantile
days of Santa Anna.
These stereotyped fables—the Deformed children of History—are in fact,
to be found in every Biography, written by an enemy. They may wear
trousers in one history, put on a frock in another, but still cannot altogether
hide their original features. Cloak it as you may, the Deformed child of
history appears wherever we find it, just what it is, a puny and ridiculous
libel.
One of these Deformed children lurks in the current life of Arnold.
It is the grave story of the youth of Benedict, being passed away in various
precocious atrocities. He strewed the road with pounded glass, in
order that other little boys might cut their feet; he fried frogs upon a bakeiron
heated to an incredible intensity; he geared flies in harness, decapitated
grasshoppers, impaled “Katy-dids.”
So says the history.
Is not this a very dignified, very solemn thing for the Historian's notice?
Why did he not pursue the subject, and state that at the age of two years,
Benedict Arnold was deeply occupied in the pursuit of Latin, Sanscript,
Hebrew, Moral Philosophy and the Philosopher's stone?
Because the latter part of a man's life is made infamous by his crimes,
must your grave Historian ransack Blue-beard and Cock-robin, in order to
rake up certain delectable horrors, with which to adorn the history of his
childhood?
In our research into Arnold's life, we must bear one important fact in
mind. After he had betrayed his country, it was deemed not only justifiable
to chronicle every blot and spec in his character, but highly praiseworthy
to tumble the overflowing inkstand of libel upon every vestige of
his name.
That he comes down to our time, with a single good deed adhering to his
memory, has always seemed miraculous to me.
With these introductory remarks, let us pursue the history.
It was in the city of New Haven, on a cold day of April, 1775, that a
man of some thirty-five years, stood behind a counter, an apron on his
manly chest, mixing medicines, pasting labels on phials, and putting poisons
in their places.
Look well at this man, as he stands engaged in his occupation. Did you
ever see a bolder brow—a deeper, darker, or more intensely brilliant eye—
a more resolute lip or more determined chin? Mark the massy outline of
that face from the ear to the chin; a world of iron will is written in that
firm outline.
The hair, unclogged with the powder in fashion at this time, falls back
from his forehead in harsh masses; its dark hue imparting a strong relief to
the bold and warrior-like face.
While this man stands at his counter, busy with pestle and mortar—hark!
There is a murmur along the streets of New Haven; a crowd darkens
under those aged elms; the murmur deepens; the Druggist became conscious
of four deep-muttered words:
“Battle—Lexington—British—Beaten!”
With one bound the Druggist leaps over the counter, rushes into the
street and pushes his way through the crowd. Listen to that tumultuous
murmur! A battle has been fought at Lexington, between the British and
the Americans; or in other words, the handsomely attired minions of King
George, have been soundly beaten by the plain farmers of New England.
That murmur deepens through the crowd, and in a moment the Druggist
is in the centre of the scene. Two hundred men group round him, begging
to be led against the British.
But there is a difficulty; the Common Council, using a privilege granted
to all corporate bodies from immemorial time, to make laughing-stocks of
themselves, by a display of petty authority, have locked up all the arms.
“Arnold,” cried a patriotic citizen, uncouth in attire and speech: “We
are willing to fight the Britishers, but the city council won't let us have
any guns!”
“Won't they?” said the Druggist, with that sardonic sneer, which always
made his enemies afraid: “Then our remedy is plain. Come; let us
take them!”
Five minutes had not passed, before the city Council, knowing this
Druggist to be a man of few words and quick deeds, yielded up the guns.
That hour the Druggist became a soldier.
—Let us now pass over a month or more.
It is a night in May.
Look yonder, through the night? Do you see that tremendous rock, as
it towers up ruggedly sublime, into the deep blue sky? Yes, over the wide
range of woods, over the silent fastnesses of the wilderness, over the calm
waters of Lake George and the waves of Champlain, that rock towers and
swells on the night, like an awful monument, erected by the lost Angels,
when they fell from Heaven.
And there, far away in the sky, the moon dwindled away to a slender
thread, sheds over the blue vault and the deep woods and the tremendous
rock, a light, at once sad, solemn, sepulchral.
Do you see the picture? Does it not stamp itself upon your soul, an
image of terrible beauty? Do you not feel the awful silence that broods there?
On the summit of that rock the British garrison are sleeping, aye, slumbering
peacefully, under the comfortable influence of beef and ale, in the
impregnable fortress of Ticonderoga. From the topmost crag, the broad
Banner of the Red Cross swings lazily against the sky.
At this moment, there is a murmur far down in the dark ravine. Let us
look there. A multitude of shadows come stealing into the dim light of the
moon; they climb that impregnable rock; they darken round that fortress
gate. All is still as death.
Two figures stand in the shadows of the fortress gate; in that stern determined
visage, you see the first of the green mountain boys, stout Ethan
Allen; in that muscular figure, with the marked face and deep-set eye,
you recognize the druggist of New Haven, Benedict Arnold.
A fierce shout, a cry, a crash goes up to Heaven! The British Colonel
rushing from his bed, asks what Power is this, which demands the surrender
of Ticonderoga?
—For all his spangled coat and waving plumes, this gentleman was
behind the age. He had not heard, that a New Nation had lately been
born on the sod of Lexington. Nor did he dream of the Eight Years Baptism
of blood and tears, which was to prepare this nation for its full communion
with the Church of Nations, on the plains of Yorktown.—“In
what name do you demand the surrender of this fortress?”
In the name of a King? Or perchance in the name of Benedict Arnold
and stout Ethan Allen? No! Hark how that stern response breaks through
the silence of night.
“In the name of the Lord Jehovah and the Continental Congress!”
And floating into the blue sky, the Pine tree banner waved from the
summit of Ticonderoga.
—You will remember, that the emblem of the New-born nation, at
that time, was a Pine Tree. The Lord had not yet given his stars, to flash
from the Banner of Freedom; an emblem of the rights of man all over the
world.—
That was the first deed of Benedict Arnold; the initial letter to a long
alphabet of glorious deeds, which was to end in the blackness of Treason.
