VI.—THE APE-AND-VIPER GOD.
Let us now pass rapidly on, in this our strange history. At first a
glorious landscape bursts upon our view, and Courage and Patriotism walk
before us in forms of God-like beauty. Let us leave this landscape, let us
on to the dim horizon, where the dark cloud towers and glooms, bearing in
its breast the lightnings of Treason.
Let us pass over those brilliant exploits on Lake Champlain, which made
the Continent ring with the name of Arnold.
Let us see that man rising in renown as a soldier, who was always—
First on the forlorn hope, last on the field of battle.
Let us behold certain men, in Camp and Congress, growing jealous of
his renown.
They do not hesitate to charge him with appropriating to his own use,
certain goods, which he seized when in command at Montreal. The
records of history give the lie to this charge of mercenary business, for
when Arnold seized the goods, he wrote to his commanding general and to
Congress, that he was about to seize certain stores in Montreal for the public
benefit. Those goods were left to waste on the river shore, through the
reckless negligence of an inferior officer.
We will then go to Congress, and behold the rise of that thing, which the
ancient sculptors would have impersonated under the mingled form of an
ape and a viper—THE SPIRIT OF PARTY.
It is the same in all ages. Without the courage or the talent, to project
one original measure, it is always found barking and snarling at the heels
of Genius. To-day it receives Napoleon, crowned with the bloody laurel
of Waterloo, and instead of calling upon France, to support her Deliverer,
this spirit of Party truckles to foreign bayonets, and requests—his abdication.
To-morrow, it meets the victor of the south, in a New Orleans' court
of justice, and while the shouts of thousands protected from British bayonets,
rings in his ears, this spirit of Party in the shape of a solemn Judge,
attempts to brand the hero with dishonor, by the infliction of a thousand
dollar fine. In the Revolution, Washington held the serenity of his soul
amid the hills of Valley Forge, combating pestilence and starvation, with an
unshrinking will. All the while in the hall of the Continental Congress,
the Spirit of Party was at work, planning a mean deed, with mean men for
its instruments; the overthrow of the Hero by a cabal, that was as formidable
then, as it is contemptable now.
In all ages, to speak plainly, this spirit of party, this effervescence of faction,
is the voice of those weak and wicked creatures, who spring into life
from the fermenting compost of social dissension. It never shows a bold
front, never speaks a plain truth, never does a brave deed. Its element is
intrigue, more particularly called low cunning; its atmosphere darkness; its
triumph the orgie of diseased debauchery, its revenge as remorseless as the
malice of an ape, or the sting of a viper.
A great man may be a Republican, or even a King-worshipper, willing to
write, or speak, or fight for his principles, with a fearless pen and voice and
sword. But he never can be a—Party Man. The very idea of faction,
pre-supposes intrigue, and intrigue indicates a cold heart, and a dwarfed
brain. It is the weapon of a monkey, not of a man.
This Spirit of Party, this manifestation of all the meanness and malice
which may exist in a nation, even as the most beautiful tropical flower
shelters the most venomous snake, has destroyed more republics, than all
the Tyrants of the world together, were their deeds multiplied by thousands.
Indeed, in nine cases out of ten, it has been by playing on the frothy passions
of contending factions, that Tyrants have been suffered to trample
their way to power, over the bodies of freemen.
Let us go to the hall of Congress, and see this Spirit of Party, the Apeand-Viper
God, which burdened the heart of Washington, more than all the
terror of British bayonets or scaffolds, first manifested in the case of Arnold.
Let a single fact attest its blindness and malignity.
—In February, 1777, Congress created five Major Generals, over the
head of Benedict Arnold. All of these were his juniors; one of them was
from the militia.
Was that the way to treat the Hero of the Wilderness, of Quebec, of
Ticonderoga and of Champlain?
Even the well-governed spirit of Washington, started at such neglect.
He wrote a manly and soothing letter to Arnold. He knew him to be a
man of many good and some evil qualities, all marked and prominent. He
believed that with fair treatment, the Evil might be crushed, the Good
strengthened. Therefore, Washington, the Father of his Country, wrote a
letter, at once high-toned and conciliating, to the Patriot, Benedict Arnold.
What was the course of Arnold?
He expostulated with the party in Congress, who wished to drive him
mad.
How did he expostulate? In his own fiery way. Like many stout souls
of that Iron time, he spoke a better language with his sword than with his
pen. Let us look at the expostulation of Arnold.
—It is night around the town of Danbury. Two thousand British
hirelings attack and burn that town. Yes, surrounded by his hirelings, assassins
in the shape of British soldiers, and assassins in the shape of American
Tories, brave General Tryon holds his Communion of Blood, by the
light of blazing homes.
In the dimness of the daybreak hour, these gallant men, whose trophies
are dishonored virgins, and blasted homes, are returning to their camp.
Yonder on those high rocks, near the town of Ridgefield, Arnold, with
only 500 men, disputes the path of the Destroyer. Ths Continentals are
driven back after much carnage, but Arnold is the last man to leave the rock.
His horse is shot under him; the British surround him, secure of their
prey; the dismounted General sits calmly on his dying steed, his arms
folded, his eye sunk beneath the compressed brow. A burly British soldier
approaches to secure the rebel—look! He is sure of his prisoner. Arnold
beholds him, beholds the wall of bayonets and faces that encircle him. The
soldier extends his hand to grasp the prisoner, when Arnold, smiling
calmly, draws his pistol and shoots the hireling through the heart. Follow
him yonder, as he fights his way down the rock, through the breasts of
his foes.
That was the right kind of Expostulation!
When a faction, nestling in the breast of your country, wrong you, then
only fight for that country with more determined zeal. Right will come
at last.
Had Arnold always expostulated thus, his name would not now be the
Hyperbole of scorn. His name could at this hour, rank second, and only
second to—Washington.
When Congress received the news of this Expostulation, Arnold was
raised to the rank of Major General. Yet still, they left the date of his
commission, below the date of the commissions of the other five Major Generals.
This—to use the homely expression of a brave Revolutionary soldier
—`was breaking his head and giving him a plaster,' with a vengeance.
Ere we pass on to the Battle-Day of Saratoga, let me tell you an incident
of strange interest, which took place in 1777, during Arnold's command near
Fort Edward, on the Hudson River.
