IX.—ARNOLD, THE MILITARY COMMANDER OF PHILADELPHIA.
Let us look for Arnold again!
We will find him passing through the streets of old Philadelphia, in his
glittering coach, with six splendid horses, and liveried outriders; riding in
state as the Governor of Philadelphia.
Then we look for him again. In the dim and solemn aisle of Christ
Church, at the sunset hour, behold a new and touching scene in the life of
Benedict Arnold.
It is the sunset hour, and through the shadows of the range of pillars,
which support the venerable roof of the church, the light of the declining
day, streams in belts of golden sunshine.
As you look, the sound of the organ fills the church, and a passing ray
streams over the holy letters, I H S.
There beside the altar are grouped the guests, there you behold the Priest
of God, arrayed in his sacerdotal robe, and there—O, look upon them well,
in this last hour of the summer day—the centre of the circle, stand the
Bridegroom and Bride.
A lovely girl, scarce eighteen years in age, with golden hair and eyes of
deep clear blue, rests her small hand upon a warrior's arm, and looks up
lovingly into his battle-worn face. She is clad in silks, and pearls, and gold.
He in the glorious uniform of the Revolution, the blue coat, faced with buff
and fringed with gold. The sword that hangs by his side, has a story all
its own to tell. Look! As the sunshine gleams upon its hilt of gold, does
it not speak of Ticonderoga, Quebec, and Saratoga?
And in the deep serenity of this evening hour—while the same glow of
sunshine gilds the white monuments in yonder graveyard, and reveals the
faces of the wedding guests—Benedict Arnold, in the prime of a renowned
manhood, having seen thirty-eight years of life, in all its phases—on the
ocean, in battle, amid scenes of blood and death—links his fate forever with
that queenly girl, whose romance and passion in love of power, are written
in two emphatic words—beautiful and eighteen!
Yes, in the aisle of Christ Church, the Hero of Quebec, hears the word
—husband—whispered by this young girl, who combines the witchery of a
syren, with the intellect of a genius; the Tory daughter of a Tory father.
And as the last note of the organ dies away, along the aisles, tell me, can
you not see the eye of that young wife, gleam with a light that is too intense
for love, too vivid for hope? That deep and steady gleam looks to me like
a fire, kindled at the altar of Ambition. The compression of that parting
lip, the proud arch of that white neck, the queenly tread of that small foot,
all bespeak the consciousness of power.
Does the the wife of Benedict Arnold, looking through a dark and troubled
future, behold the darkness dissipated by the sunshine of a Royal Court?
Does she—with that young breast heaving with impatient ambition—already
behold Arnold the Patriot, transformed into Arnold the Courtier—and
Traitor?
Future pages of this strange history, alone can solve these questions.
We must look at Arnold now, as by this marriage and his important
position—the Military Commander of the greatest city on the Continent—
he is brought into contact with a proud and treacherous aristocracy—as he
feasts, as he drinks, as he revels with them.
From that hour, date his ruin.
That profligate and treacherous aristocracy, would ruin an angel from
heaven, if an angel could ever sink so low, as to be touched by the poison
of its atmosphere.
We can form our estimate of the character of this Aristocracy in the
Revolution, from the remnant which survives among us, at the present hour.
Yes, we have it among us yet, existing in an organized band of pretenders,
whose political and religious creed is comprised in one word—England—
lovers of monarchy and every thing that looks like monarchy, in the shape
of privileged orders, and chartered infamies; Tory in heart now, as they
were Tories in speech, in the days of the Revolution.
I never think of this Aristocracy, without being reminded of those Italian
mendicants, who are seen in your streets, clad in shabby tinsel, too proud
to work the work of honest toil, and yet not too proud to obtain a livelihood
by the tricks of a juggler and mountebank.
—I do not mean the aristocracy of worth, or beauty, or intellect, which gets
its title-deeds from God, and wears its coat of arms in the heart, and which
if ever man saw, I see before me now—[2]
But I do mean that aristocracy, whose heraldry is written in the same
ledger of a broken bank, that chronicles the wholesale robbery of the widow
and the orphan, by privileged theft and chartered fraud.
If we must have an Aristocracy, or in other words a privileged class, entitled
by law to trample on those who toil, eat their bread, and strip from
them one by one, the holy rights for which their fathers fought in the Revolution,
let us I pray you, have a Nobility, like that of England, made
respectable by the lineage of a few hundred years. Let us—if we must
have an Aristocracy—constitute by law, every survivor of the Revolution,
every child of a hero of the Past, a Noble of the Land. This will at least
bear some historical justice on its face.
But to make these Tory children of Tory fathers, a privileged order, is it
not a very contemptable thing? As laughable as the act of the Holy Alliance,
who established the Restoration of the Bourbons, on the foundation
laid by Napoleon.
We have all seen the deeds of the Tory Aristocracy of Philadelphia.
To-day, it starves some poor child of genius—whom it has deluded with
hopes of patronage—and suffers him to go starving and mad, from the quiet
of his studio, to the darkness of the Insane Asylum. To-morrow, it
parades in its parties, and soirees some pitiful foreign vagrant, who calls himself
a Count or Duke, and wears a fierce beard, and speaks distressing English.
This aristocracy never listens to a lecture on science, or history,
much less a play from Shakspeare, but at the same time, will overflow a
theatre, to hear a foreign mountebank do something which is called singing,
or to witness the indecent postures of some poor creature, who belies the
sacred name of Woman, which obscene display is entitled dancing.
There is nothing which this aristocracy hates so fervently, as Genius,
native to the soil. It starved and neglected that great original mind, Charles
Brockden Brown, and left him to die in his solitary room, while all Europe
was ringing with his praise.
It never reads an American book, unless highly perfumed and sweetened
with soft words, and tricked out in pretty pictures. It takes its history,
literature, religion, second-hand from England, and bitterly regrets that the
plainness of our Presidential office, is so strong contrasted with the imperial
grandeur of Great Britain's hereditary sovereign—a Queen, who imports
a husband from the poverty of some German Kingdom, three miles square,
and saddles her People with an annual Prince or Princess, whose advent
costs one hundred thousand yellow guineas.
This aristocracy never can tolerate native Genius. Because, in its fermenting
corruption, it resembles a hot-bed, it plausibly fancies that everything
which springs from such a soil, must be at once worthless and
ephemeral.
In one word, when we survey its varied phrases of pretension and meanness,
we must regret, that some bold Lexicographer had not poured into one
syllable, the whole vocabulary of scorn, in order to coin a word to be applied
to this thing, which always creeps when it attempts to fly, crawls
when it would soar—this Aristocracy of the Quaker City.
This Tory aristocracy existed in full vigor, at the time Arnold assumed
the command in Philadelphia.
You will observe that his position was one of singular difficulty; Washington
himself would not have given general satisfaction, had he been in
Arnold's place. In after time, Jackson at New Orleans, excited the enmity
of a bitter faction, because he held the same power, which Arnold once
exercised—that of a Military Governor, who commands in the same town
with a Civil Magistracy.
You will remember, that the very Aristocracy, who yesterday had been
feasting General Howe, sharing the orgies of the British soldiery, swimming
in the intoxication of the Meschianza, were now patriots of the first water.
The moment the last British boat pushed from the wharf, these gentlemen
changed their politics. The sound of the first American trooper's horse,
echoing through the streets of the city, accomplished their conversion.
Yesterday, Monarchists, Tories; to-day, Patriots, Whigs, these gentlemen,
with dexterity peculiar to their race, soon crept into positions of power and
trust.
From their prominence, as well as from his marriage with Miss Shippen,
Arnold was thrown into constant intimacy with these pliable politicians.
Having grounded these facts well in your minds, you will be prepared to
hear the grumbling of these newly-pledged patriots, when Arnold—who
yesterday was such a splendid fellow, sprinkling his gold in banquets and
festivals—obeyed a Resolution of the Continental Congress, and by proclamation,
prohibited the sale of all goods, in the city, until it was ascertained
whether any of the property belonged to the King of Great Britain or his
subjects.
This touched the Tory-Whigs on the tenderest point. Patriotism was a
beautiful thing with them, so long as it vented itself in fine words; but
when it touched King George's property, or the property of King George's
friends, they began to change their opinion.
Their indignation knew no bounds. They dared not attack Washington,
they dared not assail the Congress. Therefore, they opened their batteries
of malignancy and calumniation against Arnold.
Where that brave man had one fault, they magnified it into ten. Where
he was guilty of one wrong act, they charged him with a thousand.
Not seven months of Arnold's command had transpired, before Congress
and Washington were harrassed with letters asking for the trial and disgrace
of Arnold.
At last the matter was brought before Congress, and a Committee of that
body, after a thorough examination, gave to Benedict Arnold, “a vindication
from any criminalty in the matters charged against him.”
Then the war was opened against Arnold anew; then the Mob—not the
mechanics or men of toil—but the Rabble who do no work, and yet have
time to do all the riots in your large cities, were taught to hoot his name in
scorn, to stone him in the streets, him, the Hero of Quebec. Yes, the out-casts
of the city, were taught to cover him with filth, to wound with their
missiles, the very limb that had been broken by a cannon ball, on the barrier
of Quebec.
Congress did not act upon the Report of the Committee. Why was this?
That report was referred to a joint Committe of Congress and the Assembly.
At last General Washington was harrassed into appointing a Court
Martial. It was done, the day fixed, but the accusers of Arnold were not
ready for trial. Yes, loud as they were in their clamors, they asked delay
after delay, and a year passed.
All the while, these men were darkening the character of Arnold, all the
while he stood before the world in the light of an untried CRIMINAL. The
Hero of Quebec was denied a right, which is granted to the vilest felon.
Accused of a crime, he was refused the reasonable justice of a speedy trial.
At last, after his accusers had delayed the trial, on various pretences, after
the sword of the `unconvicted criminal,' resigned on the 18th of March,
1779, had been taken up again by him, on the 1st of June, the day appointed
for his trial, in order to defend his country once again, at last, on
the 20th of December, 1779, the Court Martial was assembled at the head-quarters
of Washington, near Morristown.
At last the day came—Arnold was tried—and after a month consumed in
the careful examination of witnesses and papers, was found guilty of two
colossal enormities. Before we look at them, let us remember, that his
accusers, on this occasion, were General Joseph Reed, and other members
of the Supreme Executive council of Pennsylvania.
Here are the offences:
I. An irregularity, without criminal intention, in granting a written
protection to a vessel, before his command in Philadelphia, while at Valley
Forge.
II, Using the public wagons of Pennsylvania, for the transportation
of private property from Egg Harbor.
Those were his colossal crimes!
The other two charges were passed aside by the court.
It was upon these charges that the whole prosecution rested—a military
irregularity in granting a written protection, before he assumed command in
Philadelphia, and—O, the enormity of the crime almost exceeds the power
of belief—a sacriligious use of the baggage wagons of Pennsylvania!
For this Benedict Arnold had been pursued for at least thirteen months,
with a malignity insatiable as the blood-hounds thirst. For this he had
been held up to all the world as a criminal, for this pelted in the streets, and
for this, the Hero of Quebec and Saratoga and Champlain, was to be publicly
disgraced, REPRIMANDED by George Washington.
Let us hear what that honest man, Jared Sparks, says of the matter:
“It was proved to the court, that although the wagons had been employed
for transporting private property, they were nevertheless used at
private expense, without a design to defraud the public, or impede the
military service.”
And the man who had poured out his blood like water, on the frozen
ground of Quebec, was to be stamped with eternal infamy for “USING THE
PUBLIC WAGONS OF Pennsylvania!”
You will pardon the italics and capitals. These words ought to be inscribed
in letters of fire on a column of adamant!
Is it possible for an honest man to read this part of the tragedy, without
feeling the blood boil in his veins?
My friends, here is the only belief we can entertain in relation to this
matter. At the same time that we admit that Arnold was betrayed into
serious faults through his intimacy with the Tory aristocracy of Philadelphia,
as well as from the inherent rashness of his character—that very
rashness forming one of the elements of his iron-souled bravery—we must
also admit, that among the most prominent of his accusers or persecutors,
as you please,—was “a man whose foot had once been lifted to take the
step which Arnold afterwards took.”
Before large and respectable audiences of my countrymen, assembled in
at least three States of this Union, I have repeatedly stated that I was
“prepared to prove this fact, from evidence that cannot lie.” No answer
was ever made to the assertion. In the public papers I have repeated the
statement, expressing my readiness to meet any person, in a frank and
searching discussion of the question—Was Arnold's chief accuser in heart
a Traitor? Still no answer!
It is true, that other and unimportant points of my history have been
fiercely attacked. For example, when following the finger of history, I
awarded to Arnold the glory of Saratoga, a very respectable but decidedly
anonymous critic, brought all his artillery to bear upon a line, which had a
reference to the preparation of buckwheat cakes!
So, when I expressed my readiness to examine the character of Arnold's
chief accuser, a very prominent individual, who has made that accuser's
deeds the subject of laborious and filial panegyric, instead of meeting the
question like a man, crept away into some dark corner of history, and called
a sincere patriot by the portentous name of—Infidel! This was very much
like the case of the patriot John Bull, who, hearing a Frenchman examine
the character of George the Third, in no very measured terms, replied by a
bitter attack on the Emperor of Timbuctoo!
Having therefore, repeatedly stated that I was ready to give a careful and
impartial investigation of the history of Arnold's chief accuser, I will now
enter upon the subject as a question comprised within the limits of legitimate
history.
Is it not reasonable to suppose, that the man who took upon himself the
work of crushing Benedict Arnold, must have been a very good citizen, a
very sincere patriot, and if not a great warrior, at least a very honest
statesman?
Have we not a right to examine the character of this accuser? Remember—this
trial and disgrace of Arnold, was the main cause of his treason—
and then dispute our right to search the character of his Accuser, if you can.
Let us then, summon a solemn Court of history. Let us invoke the
Ghost of Washington to preside over its deliberations. Yes, approaching
that Ghost, with an awful reverence, let us ask this important question.
“Was not General John Cadwallader your bosom friend, O, Washington,
the man whose heart and hand you implicitly trusted? Did he not defend
you from the calumniation of your enemies? Was he not, in one word, a
Knight of the Revolution, without fear and without reproach?”
And the word that answers our question, swelling from the lips of Washington,
is—“Yes!”
We will ask another question.
“In the dark days of December, 1776, when with a handful of half-clad
men, you opposed the entire force of the British army, on the banks of the
Delaware, who then, O, Washington, stood by your side, shared in your
counsels, and received your confidence?”
“Benedict Arnold!”
If these answers, which the Ghost of Washington whispers from every
page of history, be true, it follows that General John Cadwallader is an impartial
witness in this case, and that Benedict Arnold was a sincere Patriot
in the winter of 1776.
Then let us listen to the details of facts, stated by General Cadwallader,
and by him published to the world, attested by his proper signature.
