XVI.—THE KNIGHT OF THE MESCHIANZA.
Two scenes from the past; two scenes from the dim shadows of Revolutionary
Romance. One is a scene of Light—the other, of Gloom.
The first scene took place when the British Army was in Philadelphia;
and while Benedict Arnold was confined to his room, in the city of New
Haven, with the wounds of Saratoga.
The other scene occurred more than two years afterwards, when Benedict
Arnold was in command at West Point.
Yonder, on the outskirts of Philadelphia, stands an old house, with the
marks of decay about its roofs, its windows and walls. An old house, with
scattered tenements and broken commons all around it. Not long ago,
fallen into utter neglect, it was occupied as a coach-shop; now it is crowded
with the young faces, the busy hum of a common school.
There was a time, when that old house was a lordly palace, with one
wide green lawn stretching away from the hall-door for half a mile, away
to the brink of the broad Delaware.
There was a night when that house shook to the tread of warriors, and
the steps of dancers—when every tree along that wide lawn shone with
lights on every bough. Yes, a night, a banquet was given there by the
officers of Sir William Howe, in honor of his glorious victory! Victory?
Yes, in honor of the fact that he hadn't been worse beaten, by Mister
Washington.
Ah, it was a glorious night. A midnight sky above, and light and glitter
below. Then gondolas, freighted with beauty, glided over the waters,
flashing streams of light along the dark waves. Then the gallant officers
put off their red coats to put on armor and helmet, like knights of old, and
a gay tournament, with heralds, and plumes, and steeds, and banners, flashed
over the wide lawn.
Let us for a moment look upon this tournament.
In yonder balcony, on the southern side of the lawn—that balcony, overhung
with the blood-red banner, festooned with flowers—is croweded one
living mass of womanly beauty. Blue eyes and hazel, eyes dark as midnight,
or soft and languishing as June, there mingle these glances in one
blaze of light. There you behold the tender forms of girlhood, the mature
bust of womanhood, there crowded into one view, you see all that is like
the ruby or the rose on woman's lip, like the summer dawn on her cheek,
like the deep stars of night in her eye.
These are the flowers of the aristocracy, assembled in one group of loveliness,
to grace the Meschianza of Sir William Howe.
Meschianza? That is a strange word, what does it mean? I cannot
tell you, but my mind is somewhat impressed with the fancy of its Hindoo
origin. Yes, it is possibly derived from some Sancrit word, and signifies,
to be glad at not being worse beaten, to be exceedingly joyful on limited
victories, to be thankful that one's neck is safe. That is the only derivation
I could ever find for Mechianza.
Below the balcony spreads the scene of the tournament. There, at one
end, through the trees, you see the palace, flaming like a funeral pyre, with
lights, and yonder, far down the lawn, the broad Delaware glimmers into
view.
Hush every whisper; the Tournament is ready to begin.
From these groups of Knights at either end of the lists, two cavaliers
sally forth and confront each other. One in armour of plated gold, mounted
on a dark steed, with a black plume shadowing his brow. The other, on
that milk-white steed, is cased from head to foot, in an armour of azure
steel. A white plume tosses from his brow.
Now hold your breath, for they come thundering on. On, on, over the
green lawn, on to each other's breasts, on with the levelled lance.
There is a pause—they crash together—now there is a moment of doubt
—but now—look! How the white scarfs from yon gallery wave like
snow-flakes on the air.
The Knight on the dark steed is down; but the Knight in armour of
azure steel, mounted on the milk-white steed, rides round the lists in
triumph, with his snowy plume tossing as he goes.
Oh, this is a glorious show, a grand Tournament, a splendid display of
lovely women, and oh, for a swelling word from the vocabulary of adjectives
—a Meschianza; and all in honor of Sir William Howe, who is so glad
that he is not worse beaten by Mister Washington.
Yonder fair girl bending from the gallery, lets fall upon the brow of that
white-plumed Knight, a chaplet of laurel, woven with lilies and roses.
His dark hazel eyes upraised catch the smile as it speaks from her lips.
The Queen of Beauty crowns the Victor of the Tournament. It is a
lovely picture. Let us look upon a lovelier.
Yonder, in the deep shadows of the grove, where the lights glare flickering
and indistinct, over the tufted sward, a knight cased in glittering armour
kneels at the feet of a lovely girl.
For she is lovely, even into that towering head-dress that lays back her
golden hair from her white brow, in a mass of powder and pearls; she is
lovely in that gorgeous dress, trailing in luxurious folds upon the ground, its
jewels and satin and gold, hiding the matchless outline of her form. Yes,
she is lovely, for that deep, yet wild and languishing eye, that laughing lip,
would be more beautiful, were the form girded in a peasant garb, instead of
being veiled in the royal robes of a Queen.
And tell me, as that fair girl, extending her hand, half turns her head
away, the blush ripening over her cheek, while the lover looks up with glad
and grateful eyes, tell me, is it not as lovely a picture as artist ever drew?
Now change the scene. Let the Tournament pass. Let Sir William
Howe go home to England. Let the gay Knights of the Blended Roses
and Burning Lances go to the battle-field again, there to be beaten by Mad
Anthony, that Knight of the Iron-Hand; or George Washington, the Knight
without Fear and without Reproach.
Now let us go to West Point.
In the Southern window of the mansion, opposite that fortress stands a
beautiful woman, with her long hair all scattered in disorder about her shoulders,
while her blue eye, glaring with a look like madness, is fixed on the
Southern sky.
In that beautiful woman, you recognize the lovely girl of the Meschianza.
That woman is now the wife of Benedict Arnold, who fled from West
Point but a few brief days ago, in the British ship Vulture. That child
laughing on her bosom, is the child of a Traitor.
Yes, she has linked her fate with the destiny of Arnold. Yet, still after
her marriage, she continues her correspondence with the Knight of the
Meschianza, who dwells in New York, the favorite of Sir Henry Clinton.
In those letters, the first letters of Arnold to Clinton, signed Gustavus,
and speaking Treason, were enclosed. Thus, the letters of the Wife, to
the gallant Knight, were the vehicles of her Husband's dishonor.—
Why does she gaze so earnestly toward the South? She looks for the
Knight of the Tournament!
There on that piece of table-land, which looks down upon the Hudson,
where its waters sweep in their broadest flow—at Tappan Zee—there
under the light of the noon-day sun, a dense crowd is gathered near a small
stone house; not a murmur is heard in that crowd; all is silent as the clay
cold lips of the dead.
Ere we look upon the sight which chills the crowd into such deep
silence, let us go back to the daybreak hour.
Day was breaking over the broad Hudson, over the hills crowned with
gorgeous autumnal foliage, over yon solitary stone house and along the level
space, when two figures came hither with spades in their hands.
They were rough men, embrued in life-long deeds of blood, but as they
sunk two holes in the sod, with the distance of a few feet between, they
were at first silent; then a scalding drop of moisture stole from the eyes of
that rough man, while his comrade cursed him for crying, as his own eye
was wet with a tear.
It must have been a dark matter indeed to make men like these, shed tears.
When those holes were dug, then they brought two thick pieces of
scantling, and placed them in the cavities; then another piece at the top
connected these upright timbers; and last of all, a rope was brought, and
then behold—the Gallows!
It was around this gallows as the hour of noon came on, that a dense
crowd gathered. There were blue and gold uniforms, and there the brown
dress of the farmer. That high-browed man, whom you see yonder,
among the crowd of officers, bears the great name, which the nation always
loved to repeat—Alexander Hamilton.
It is noon—and look! From yonder stone-house comes a young man,
in a magnificent scralet uniform; a young man, with glossy brown hair and
a deep hazel eye.
As he comes through the lane, made by the parting of the crowd, you
can see that cart moving slowly at his heels; that cart in which crouches a
grim figure, sitting on a pine box, with crape over its face.
Does this spectacle interest you? Then look in that young man's face,
and behold the Knight of the Tournament. When we beheld him last, a
fair lady dropped laurel on his brow, a chaplet of laurel and roses. To-day,
that grim figure will crown him with a chaplet of death!
He draws near the foot of the gallows. For a moment, he stands, rolling
over a little stone with his foot, as he tries to smother that choking sensation
in his throat.
There is silence in that crowd.
Look! the cart waits for him under the dangling rope—that grim figure
lays the pine coffin upon the ground—and then binds his arms lightly with
a handkerchief.
The silence is deeper.
Now the young man turns very pale. With his half-pinioned arms, he
arranges the frill of the ruffle around his wrist; he binds the handkerchief
over his face.
Oh, father of souls, that look! Yes, ere he winds the handkerchief
around his brow, he casts one glance, one deep and yearning look over the
faces of men, the river, the sky, the mountains.
That look is his farewell to earth!
Why do those stout men cry like little children? Heads bowed on their
breasts, faces turned away, showering tears—the sun shines on them all.
The young man leaps lightly into the cart—Does'n't it make your blood
run cold to see the rough hangman wind that rope around his neck, so fair,
so like a woman's?
Now, there is silence, and tears, and veiled faces, in that crowd.
—At this moment let us look yonder, in that quiet room, away in England.
A mother and two fair sisters sit there, embroidering a scarf, for the
son and brother, who is now in a far land.
“Hark!” exclaims the dark-haired sister; “it is not his footstep?”
And as she goes to the door, trembling with suspense and joy, and looks
out for her brother—Here, that brother stands, upon the death-cart, with
the hangman's rope about his neck!
Even as the sister looks forth from her home, to behold his form —
Ah, at the very moment the hangman speaks to his horse, the cart moves
on—look!
There is a human being dangling at the end of a rope, plunging and
quivering in the air. Behold it, nor shudder at the sight! That blackened
face, livid, blue, purple at turns, those starting eyes,—Oh, hide the
horrid vision! What, hide the Poetry of the Gallows?
Hide it you may, but still the thick, gurgling groan of that dying man
breaks on your ear.
That is the Music of the Gallows.
Ah, can that loathsome corse, with the distorted face, can that be the
gallant Knight who fell at the feet of the lovely girl, in the gay Tournament?
While he hangs quivering on the gallows, yonder in New York, before a
glittering mirror, stands Benedict Arnold, surveying his proud form, attired
for the first time, in that hangman's dress—a scarlet uniform.
Yonder—even while the last tremor shakes his form—yonder, alone,
kneels George Washington, in prayer with his God.
And now, as they thrust his young form—scarcely cold—into the pine
coffin, his mother and sisters, in that far English town, have done embrodiering
the scarf—nay, that one dark-eyed sister has even worked his name
in the corner—
“My Brother * * * * John Andre.”
From that Gibbet of John Andre, the fairest flowers of Poetry and
Romance wave fragrantly from the night of ages.
Around that hideous thing of evil, whose blackened timbers rise before
us from the twilight of sixty-seven years, are clustered the brightest and
the darkest memories, like a mingled crowd of fiends and angels.
His fate was very dark, yet on the very darkness of the cloud that hung
over his setting sun, his name has been written in characters of light.
All that can melt the heart in pathos, all that can make the blood run
cold in tragedy, scenes of tender beauty, memories of immeasurable horror,
are grouped beside the dishonored grave of John Andre.
A volume might be filled, with the incidents connected with his closing
hour; the long winter night passed unheeded away, ere the narrator could
tell but half the Legends that hover round his tomb.
There was that in his fate, which made his friends stand palzied with
horror, his very enemies shed tears for him. The contempt, which all
honorable men feel for one who undertakes the lacquey work of Treason,
and plays the part of a Spy, was lost in the unmeasured scorn which all
men felt for Benedict Arnold.
Behold the Legends that hover above the grave of Andre the Spy.
