XII.—ARNOLD AT LANDSDOWNE.
Aged persons, survivors of the Revolution, have told me singular and impressive
stories of Arnold's appearance and demeanor, while in Philadelphia,
after this trial.
He wandered from place to place, with an even and steady gait, neither
looking to one side nor to the other, scarcely even speaking to any one,
either in courtesy or in anger, but preserving a settled calm of look and
manner.
And when the Mob stoned him, he never looked back, but patiently received
their missiles in his face, and on his wounded limb. He had grown
patient.
They tell me, that his features, swarthy and battle-worn, lost every trace
of vivacity: they were rigidly fixed; the lips compressed, the brow calm
and unfrowning, wore an expression that no one could read, while his eyes
had a wildness in their gleam, a fire in their glance, that told somewhat of
the supernatural struggle at work within him, the Battle between Arnold's
Revenge and Arnold's Pride.
Who shall tell the horrors of that mental combat?
At this time, he brings to mind the Hebrew Giant, Sampson. Yes, Arnold
imagined that his pursuers had put out the eyes of his honor, and
shorn off the locks of his strength. He fancied himself brought forth before
all America, to make sport for the tricksters and trimmers, in Camp and
Congress—the cowardly Philistines of that heroic time.
His fall had been determined with himself, but he also, resolved that the
ruins which were to crush him should neither be small nor insignificant.
He was to fall, but he would drag down the temple with him.
The Ruin should be great and everlasting. He would carve out for himself,
a monument of eternal infamy, from the rock of his patriot greatness.
Look yonder, my friends, into the retirement of Arnold's home.
Not the home in the city, amid the crowded haunts of life, but this mansion,
rising from the summit of a hill, that slopes gently away for a mile,
until its grassy breast melts into the embrace of the Schuylkill.
It is almost a Palace, this beautiful place of Landsdowne, which once
occupied by the Penn family, is now the retreat of Benedict Arnold. Here,
amid these beautiful woods, he hides his sorrow. Here, along these gravelled
walks, beneath the shade of overhanging trees, he paces all day long.
Sometimes he gazes on the distant rocks of Laurel Hill. Sometimes he
strays by the Schuylkill, and its clear waters mirror his face, lowering with
fearful passions. At times, secluding himself in these silent chambers, he
utters certain words in a low voice.
—Fancy the lion of the forest, captured, tied, his limbs, severed one by
one, and you have the case of Benedict Arnold.—
This proud mansion, once rung with the clamor of a Three day's festival.
It was when Arnold, recently appointed General in command of Philadelphia,
received the French Minister, Monsieur Gerard. For three days,
liveries, uniforms, gold, jewels and laces, fluttered and shone, over the wide
sweep of this beautiful lawn. The wine ran, day and night, free as the
Schuykill's waves. The mansion, luxuriously furnished, displayed in every
room the gaiety of the French Court, combined with the glitter and show
of an oriental Divan. Beneath the trees banquets were spread; on the
river, boats, shapen like Venetian gondolas, glided softly, freighted with a
precious treasure of voluptuous beauty.
At night, the wood and the mansion, and the river broke out, all at once
with a blaze of light. It was like a scene of enchantment.
And amid all these scenes, one Woman, pre-eminently beautiful, glided
along, her young form, swelling in every vein, with a sense of life, her eyes
gleaming passion, pride, fascination. Her long hair waved to her half bared
bosom. Her small foot, encased in delicate slipper, bounded in the dance
like a feather blown by a gentle wind, so light, so easy, so undulating.
Every eye was centred on her form. How often Arnold would stand in the
shadow, gazing upon her as she went to and fro, and thinking that all this
treasure of warm loveliness, this world of enticing beauty, was his own!
His wife, his newly-married Bride!
—But those glorious days were now changed. The guests were gone;
long since gone. Gone the honor, the gold, the friends. Then, the celebrated
Arnold, surrounded by parasites; now the disgraced Arnold, living
alone in these shades, in company with his wife.
It is of that wife and of her influence that I would speak.—Do you see
that lovely woman, clinging to the breast of the stern-browed warrior? It
is the evening hour. Through the window pours the red flush of sunset, bathing
both forms in rosy light. Those tresses fall over her white shoulders,
and along the manly arms which gird her to his heart.
Do you think he loves her? Look at his eye, blazing from the shadow
of his brow; that glance surveys her form, and gathers a softened fire from
her look. And she rests in his arms, just as you have seen a solitary white
lily repose on the bosom of a broad green leaf, which the waves urged
gently to and fro.
She is indeed a beautiful woman—but listen? What words are these,
that she whispers in his ear?
Does she tell him how much nobler will be Arnold the Patriot, enshrined
in the hearts of his countrymen, than Arnold the Courtier, dancing attendance
in the ante-chamber of King George?
Does she—following the example of many an humble country-woman,
clad not like her, in satins and gold, but in plain homespun—place in her
Husband's hand, the patriot's sword? Do those mild blue eyes, looking
up into his stern face, gleam with the holy flame of patriotism or with a
base love for the baubles of a Court?
Let History answer.
I make no charge against the wife of Arnold. May the sod lay lightly
on her beautiful frame, which has long since mouldered into dust. Peace
to her ashes—if we invoke her memory, it is only for the sake of the terrible
lesson which it teaches.
Had she, instead of a King-worshipper, a lover of titles and courts and
shows, been a Hero-woman, Arnold might have been saved. But he loved
her. She clung to him in his disgrace. When the world frowned, her
bosom received his burning brow, and pillowed his torn heart. She was
with him in his loneliness. Was it strange, that her voice whispering to
him at all hours, should sway his soul with a powerful, nay, an irresistable
influence?
Imagine him neglected by Congress, disgraced in the camp, pelted in the
streets, striding to his home, his heart beating against his breast, like a lion
in its cage. There, in his Home, a beautiful girl welcomes him. She, at
least, is true. She may have married him because he was so renowned,
because he bore his honors with so proud a grace, but now, she is Home,
Friend, World to him.
—That single fact should make the flowers grow more beautifully above
her grave.—
She is ambitious. Perchance, when sleeping on his breast, she dreams
of a royal court, and there, attired in coronet and star, she beholds,—Earl
Arnold! Then when she wakes, bending her lips to his ear, she whispers
her dream, and not only a dream, but lays the plan of—Treason. Is it
improbable that Arnold was fatally swayed by the words of this bewitching
wife?
Again I repeat, had this wife, instead of a lover of courts and pomps and
names, been a Hero-Woman, her heart true to the cause of freedom, her
soul beating warmly for Washington and his cause, there would never have
been written, on the adamantine column which towers from history—dedicated
to the memory of Infamous Men—the name of—Benedict Arnold.
Let Woman learn this lesson, and get it by heart.
The influence of his wife was one of the main causes of Arnold's
treason.
A terrible lesson, to be remembered and told again, when this hand is dust!
How did she influence his life? By forcing herself into the rostrum or
the pulpit? By sharing in the debates of the Congress, the broils of the
camp? No? These women who write big books and mount high pulpits,
talking theology and science by the hour, never influence anybody. They
are admired for the same reason that the mob rushes to see a Mermaid or
link from the Sea Serpent's tail. Not on account of the usefulness, but
merely for the curiosity of the thing; for the sake of the show.
It was in the Home, at the Fireside, that the wife of Arnold exercised
her bewitching and fatal power!
And, O, let the Woman of our country, unheeding the silly philanthropy
which would force her into the pulpit, or the rostrum, into the clamor of
wordy debates, or the broils of political life, remember this great truth:
Her influence is by the Fireside. Her world is Home. By the light of
that Fireside, she stands a Queen upon her Throne. From that Throne,
she can mould man to good or evil—from the Sanctity of her home, she
can rule the world.
—Let us now, in one historical picture, condense three important points
of Arnold's career.—
