circulation and wide influence declared that "the malignity with
which the people about Tappaan regard Mr. Field's monument to André
appears to be settled and permanent." To this grave indictment of
the inhabitants of a portion of Rockland County as participants in
the crime, that people responded by resolutions unanimously adopted
at an indignation meeting held at the Reformed Church at Tappaan on
the evening of the 9th. They denounced the charge as utterly untrue,
expressed their belief that no person in the vicinity had "the remotest
connection" with the crime; that it was desirable to have the place
of André's execution indicated by a memorial-stone with a suitable
inscription, and commended Mr. Field for his zeal in perpetuating
events of the Revolution in such a manner.[64]
In the foregoing narrative I have endeavored to present a brief, plain,
and truthful story of the memorial at Tappaan, about which so much has
been said and written. I have fashioned it from trustworthy materials.
I have simply recorded the facts, and leave the readers to form their
own conclusions.
The monument at Tarrytown has been alluded to. It was erected in
1853, on the spot where tradition says Major André was captured, to
commemorate that event. It bore upon a tablet the following inscription:
[Illustration: Monument and Statue at Tarrytown.]
"On this spot, the 23d of September, 1780, the spy, Major John André,
Adjutant-General of the British Army, was captured by John Paulding,
David Williams, and Isaac Van Wart, all natives of this county. History
has told the rest.
"The people of Westchester County have erected this monument as well to
commemorate a great event as to testify their high estimation of that
integrity and patriotism which, rejecting every temptation, rescued the
United States from most imminent peril by baffling the acts of a spy
and the plots of a traitor. Dedicated October 7, 1853."
The citizens of Westchester County, desirous of giving more
significance to this monument, caused its conical shaft to be removed,
and in its place erected a bronze statue of a captor--a young volunteer
soldier. This statue is the work of the accomplished sculptor, Mr.
O'Donovan, of New York.
The monument and statue were unveiled in the presence of thousands of
spectators on the centennial of the event commemorated--the 23d of
September, 1880. On that occasion Samuel J. Tilden presided. A prayer
was offered by the venerable son of one of the captors, Isaac Van Wart,
and an oration was pronounced by Chauncey M. Depew. General James
Husted was the marshal of the day.
On one face of the monument is the old inscription, and upon another,
next to the highway, is a fine bronze _bas-relief_ representing the
scene of the capture. This also is from the _atelier_ of Mr. O'Donovan.
An excellent picture of this work of art and of the statue may be found
in the "Memorial Souvenir of the Monument Association," prepared by Dr.
Nathaniel C. Husted, secretary of the association.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 56: The original drawing from which the engraving was made
was received from London in 1849 by the author of this little work,
together with a copy of a profile likeness of André--simply the head
and shoulders--said to have been drawn by himself.]
[Footnote 57: Upon a panel is the following inscription: "Sacred to the
memory of Major JOHN ANDRÉ, who, raised to the rank of Adjutant-General
of the British Army in America, and employed in an important and
hazardous enterprise, fell a sacrifice to his zeal for his king and
country, on the 2d of October, A.D. 1780, eminently beloved and
esteemed by the army in which he served, and lamented even by his foes.
His gracious sovereign, King George the Third, has caused this monument
to be erected."
After the removal of André's remains to Westminster Abbey, as mentioned
in the text, the following inscription was cut upon the base of the
pedestal:
"The remains of Major JOHN ANDRÉ were, on the 10th of August, 1821,
removed from Tappaan by James Buchanan, Esq., his Majesty's Consul at
New York, under instructions from his Royal Highness the Duke of York,
and, with the permission of the Dean and Chapter, finally deposited in
a grave contiguous to this monument on the 28th of November, 1821."]
[Footnote 58: It was chiefly through the liberality and personal
influence of Mr. Lee that the funds were raised for procuring the fine
bronze equestrian statue of Washington, by H.K. Brown, at Union Square,
New York. That was the first statue erected in the open air in that
city, and is not surpassed in artistic merit by any since set up there.]
[Footnote 59: Mr. Whittemore had procured this identification fully six
months before the visit of Mr. Field and his guests, with the view to
have a memorial-stone placed upon the spot. He had consulted with the
owner of the land about it. The latter believed it would enhance the
value of his property, and favored the project.]
[Footnote 60: Above may be seen a _fac-simile_ of the last paragraph of
Dean Stanley's letter.]
[Footnote 61: The letter of Mr. Field conveying his generous offer
to the New York Historical Society (September, 1880) was referred
to the Executive Committee. They warmly recommended its favorable
consideration by the society. In their report, referring to the event
commemorated by the memorial-stone at Tappaan, the committee said it
was an "event which, perhaps, more signally than any other act of
his life, illustrates the wisdom and firmness of Washington under
circumstances of peculiar trial, in which even his devoted followers
were disposed to question his humanity, if not his justice, and almost
to fall in with the sentimental calumny of the day, which has been so
often reviewed and refuted as to become ridiculous. The memorial-stone
of André's execution is a monument to Washington."]
[Footnote 62: The engraving is from the original drawing of the
architect. Just below the inscription, at the bottom of the shaft, is
cut "Arthur Penrhyn Stanley, Dean of Westminster."]
[Footnote 63: It was ascertained that the perpetrator of the crime was
a "crank"--a printer, in the city of New York--who, after eluding the
officers of the law for some time, finally died.]
[Footnote 64: A petition addressed to the Governor of the State, asking
him to assist in an effort to discover the perpetrator of the crime,
was signed by a large number of the most respectable citizens of
Rockland County.]
MONODY ON MAJOR ANDRÉ.
[Illustration: Anna Seward.]
THE AUTHOR OF THE MONODY.
Anna Seward, the abiding friend and ever-faithful correspondent of
Major André until his death, was a daughter of Thomas Seward, the
canon-resident of Lichfield Cathedral. She was born at Eyam, in
Derbyshire, England, in 1747. Her education, superior to that of most
girls of her time, was superintended by her father, who was a graduate
of Oxford, a man of great moral worth, and noted for his scholarship.
Miss Seward evinced a taste and a genius for poetic composition at a
very early age, and before she reached the period of young womanhood
she attracted the attention of local literary characters. She became
a great favorite of Dr. Samuel Johnson, who was a native of Lichfield
and was a frequent guest at the house of her father. On one occasion,
when she was about fourteen years of age, she wrote a clever poetical
address of welcome to Dr. Johnson, which greatly pleased the recipient.
Miss Seward is often incidentally mentioned in Boswell's "Life of
Johnson." Writing of a visit at Mr. Seward's in 1775, when Anna was
twenty-eight years of age, Boswell, Johnson's shadow, says, "And
now, for the first time, I had the pleasure of seeing his celebrated
daughter, Miss Anna Seward, to whom I have since been indebted for many
civilities."
Miss Seward's first acquaintance with young André, her interest in
his love-affair with Honora Sneyd, and her pleasant epistolary and
personal intercourse with him until his departure for America, have
been referred to in the early portions of the brief notice of that
young soldier's career contained in this volume. During his service in
America she was his constant correspondent; and she first informed him
of the death of Honora a short time before his own tragic exit from
earth.
The circumstances attending the death of her friend inspired Miss
Seward to write her most notable and most admired poem, "Monody on
Major André." She was then thirty-three years old. It was printed
for the author at Lichfield early in 1781. Being consonant in its
utterances with the feelings of the British public at that time, it
had a large sale, and produced a powerful sensation. She received
congratulatory letters from literary people and others in various parts
of the kingdom. No man was more delighted with it than was Dr. Johnson,
"the colossus of English literature."
Johnson was a fierce Tory, and hated the Americans with a spirit of
savage ferocity. On one occasion, while at Lichfield, he said, "I am
willing to love all mankind, excepting an American." He called them
"rascals," "robbers and pirates," and angrily exclaimed, "I'd burn
and destroy them!" Boswell says Miss Seward, who was present at this
outburst of passion, and whose feelings were favorable to the American
cause, boldly rebuked Johnson, saying, "Sir, this is an instance that
we are most violent against those we have most injured." This delicate
but keen reproach irritated Johnson still more, and, says Boswell,
"he roared out another tremendous volley, which one might fancy could
be heard across the Atlantic." But Johnson and Anna Seward remained
good friends until a short time before the death of the former. They
corresponded with each other, and frequently met in social circles.
I have said Dr. Johnson was delighted by Miss Seward's "Monody."
He exhibited that delight in the most public manner by writing and
publishing in the "Gentleman's Magazine," over his own signature, the
following poetic epistle to the author:
"To Miss Seward, on her Monody on Major André:
"Above the frigid etiquette of form,
With the same animated feelings warm,
I come, fair maid, enamored of thy lays,
With tribute verse, to swell the note of praise.
Nor let the gentle Julia's[65] hand disclaim
The bold intrusion of an honest strain.
Nor is it mine alone--'tis the full voice
Of such as honor with no vulgar choice,[66]
Of such as feel each glowing line along
Once the bright subject of an humble song.[67]
The treasures of the female heart make known
By copying the soft movements of her own.
Woman should walk arrayed in her own robe,
The hope, the boast, the blessing of the globe.
"_Shrewsbury._ S. Johnson."
Miss Seward's "Monody" was dedicated to Sir Henry Clinton. To it were
appended three letters written to her by young André immediately after
his betrothal to and personal separation from Honora Sneyd. These I
have appended to the "Monody," The printed copy of that poem, before
me, bears the autograph signature of Anna Seward at the end.
It was not long after Johnson's poetical epistle to the author of the
"Monody" appeared before an interruption of the goodly feeling between
him and his fair friend occurred. In 1782 Johnson's "Lives of the
British Poets" appeared, in which he severely criticised the poetry of
her cherished friend Thomas Hayley. Ever ready and prompt to defend
heroically those she had learned to esteem, she instantly took fire at
the attack, and she wrote letters to her friends which were far from
complimentary to Johnson. To Hayley she wrote:
"You have seen Dr. Johnson's 'Lives of the Poets.' They have excited
your generous indignation. A heart like Hayley's would shrink
astonished to perceive a mind so enriched with the power of genius
capable of such cool malignity. Yet the 'Gentleman's Magazine' praised
these unworthy efforts to blight the laurels of undoubted fame. Oh,
that the venom may fall where it ought!"
Animadversions by Miss Seward more severe than this found their way,
without her consent, into the public prints, and deeply offended Dr.
Johnson. The breach thus made was never healed. Miss Seward refused to
retract a word, but persisted in her utterances. Sometimes, even after
the death of Dr. Johnson, in 1784, they were spiced with attacks upon
his personal character. These attacks drew from Boswell a defense of
his dead friend, whom he almost adored, and in 1793 he and Miss Seward
carried on a spirited controversy in the "Gentleman's Magazine."
Miss Seward's writings in verse and prose were quite voluminous. The
latter, consisting of her literary correspondence from 1784 to 1807,
was published in six volumes in the latter year. Her poetical works,
with extracts from her literary correspondence, edited by Sir Walter
Scott, were published in three volumes in 1810. Next to her "Monody,"
in point of excellence and popularity, was her "Elegy on Captain James
Cook," the famous circumnavigator of the globe. Of this performance Sir
Walter Scott said, "It conveyed a high impression of the original power
of the author."
The literary fame of Anna Seward has not been enduring, and she, who
was a conspicuous figure in the world of letters in England during
the last quarter of the eighteenth century, is now almost forgotten.
Her known social relations to Major André, and her "Monody," have
perpetuated her memory in the minds of Americans. It is said that,
when she was fully informed of all the circumstances connected with
the death of André, she was satisfied that she had been unjust toward
Washington in her animadversions upon his character in her poem, and
expressed a regret that she had so misjudged him.
Miss Seward, in a letter to her friend Miss Ponsonby, related that
several years after the peace a friend of Washington's, an American
officer, introduced himself to her (Miss Seward), saying he was
commissioned by General Washington to call upon her and assure her that
no circumstance of his life had been so mortifying as to be censured
in the "Monody" on André as the pitiless author of his ignominious
fate; that he had labored to save him; and that he requested his friend
to leave with Miss Seward a package of papers which he had sent,
consisting of copies of the records of the court-martial, etc. "The
American officer referred to," says Sargent, "is supposed to have been
Colonel Humphreys."
Various opinions have been expressed concerning the writings of Miss
Seward. The literary circle of Lichfield, of which she was the
central figure, appears to have been a mutual-admiration society. The
productions of each member appear to have been eulogized by every
other member. Her friend, the celebrated Dr. Erasmus Darwin, declared
that she was "the inventress of epic elegy"; the eccentric philosopher
Day called her a "prodigy of genius"; while the wits of London gently
ridiculed the pretensions of the literary Lichfieldians. Horace Walpole
wrote: "Misses Seward and Williams, and a half a dozen more of these
harmonious virgins, have no imagination, no novelty. Their thoughts
and phrases are like their gowns--old remnants cut and turned." The
Rev. Alexander Dyce wrote: "She was endowed with considerable genius,
and with an ample portion of that fine enthusiasm which sometimes may
be taken for it; but her taste was far from good, and her numerous
productions (a few excepted) are disfigured by florid ornament and
elaborate magnificence."
After Miss Seward's death, in 1809, there was published a small volume
with the title of "The Beauties of Anna Seward." She died a maiden. The
portrait preceding this brief memoir is a carefully drawn copy with pen
and ink of an engraving by A. Carden, from the original picture painted
in 1763, when she was sixteen years of age, by Tilly Kettle, an English
portrait-painter of note, who was then only about twenty-three years of
age.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 65: André in his correspondence with Miss Seward on the topic
of Honora addressed her as "Julia."]
[Footnote 66: A reading society at Shrewsbury is here alluded to.]
[Footnote 67: Alluding to an "Essay on Woman," written by Johnson.]
MONODY
ON
MAJOR ANDRÉ.
By Miss SEWARD,
(AUTHOR OF THE ELEGY ON CAPTAIN COOK.)
TO WHICH ARE ADDED
LETTERS ADDRESSED TO HER
By MAJOR ANDRÉ,
IN THE YEAR 1769.
LICHFIELD:
PRINTED AND SOLD BY J. JACKSON, FOR THE AUTHOR;
SOLD ALSO BY ROBINSON, PATER-NOSTER ROW; CADELL AND EVANS, IN THE
STRAND, LONDON; PRINCE, OXFORD; MERRILL, CAMBRIDGE;
AND PRATT AND CLINCH, BATH.
M.DCC.LXXXI.
[_Price, Two-Shillings-and-Six-Pence._]
TO
HIS EXCELLENCY,
SIR HENRY CLINTON,
KNIGHT OF THE BATH.
Sir: _With the zeal of a religious Enthusiast to his murdered Saint,
the Author of this mournful Eulogium consecrates it to the Memory of
Major André, who fell a Martyr in the Cause of his King and Country,
with the firm Intrepidity of a Roman, and the amiable Resignation of a
Christian Hero._
_Distant Awe and Reverence prevent her offering these Effusions of
Gratitude to the Beneficent and Royal Patron of the André Family. May
Mr. André's illustrious General, the Guardian of his injured Honour,
his conspicuous and personal Friend, deign to accept them from One who
was once happy in the Friendship of the_ Glorious Sufferer.
_Your Excellency's_
_Most obedient humble Servant_,
Anna Seward.
MONODY
ON
MAJOR ANDRÉ.
Loud howls the storm! the vex'd Atlantic roars!
Thy Genius, Britain, wanders on its shores!
Hears cries of horror, wafted from afar,
And groans of Anguish, mid the shrieks of War!
Hears the deep curses of the Great and Brave,
Sigh in the wind, and murmur on the wave!
O'er his damp brow the sable crape he binds,
And throws his victor-garland[68] to the winds;
Bids haggard Winter, in her drear sojourn,
Tear the dim foliage from her drizzling urn;
With sickly yew unfragrant cypress twine,
And hang the dusky wreath round Honour's shrine.
Bids steel-clad valour chace his dove-like Bride,
Enfeebling Mercy, from his awful side;
Where long she sat, and check'd the ardent rein,
As whirl'd his chariot o'er th' embattled plain;
Gilded with sunny smile her April tear,
Rais'd her white arm and stay'd th' uplifted spear;
Then, in her place, bid Vengeance mount the car,
And glut with gore th' insatiate Dogs of War!--
With one pale hand the bloody scroll[69] he rears,
And bids his nations blot it with their tears;
And one, extended o'er th' Atlantic wave,
Points to his André's ignominious grave!
And shall the Muse, that marks the solemn scene,
"As busy Fancy lifts the veil between,"
Refuse to mingle in the awful train,
Nor breathe with glowing zeal the votive strain?
From public fame shall admiration fire
The boldest numbers of her raptur'd lyre
To hymn a Stranger?--and with ardent lay
Lead the wild mourner round her Cook's morai,
While André fades upon his dreary bier,
And Julia's[70] only tribute is her tear?
Dear, lovely Youth! whose gentle virtues stole
Thro' Friendship's soft'ning medium on her soul!
Ah no!--with every strong resistless plea,
Rise the recorded days she pass'd with thee,
While each dim shadow of o'erwhelming years,
With Eagle-glance reverted, Mem'ry clears.
Belov'd companion of the fairest hours
That rose for her in joy's resplendent bow'rs,
How gaily shone on thy bright Morn of Youth
The Star of Pleasure, and the Sun of Truth!
Full from their Source descended on thy mind
Each gen'rous virtue, and each taste refin'd.
Young Genius led thee to his varied fane,
Bade thee ask[71] all his gifts, nor ask in vain;
Hence novel thoughts, in ev'ry lustre drest
Of pointed wit, that diamond of the breast;
Hence glow'd thy fancy with poetic ray,
Hence music warbled in thy sprightly lay;
And hence thy pencil, with his colours warm,
Caught ev'ry grace, and copied ev'ry charm,
Whose transient glories beam on Beauty's cheek,
And bid the glowing Ivory breathe and speak.
Blest pencil! by kind Fate ordain'd to save
Honora's semblance from[72]her early grave,
Oh! while on[73]Julia's arm it sweetly smiles,
And each lorn thought, each long regret beguiles,
Fondly she weeps the hand, which form'd the spell,
Now shroudless mould'ring in its earthy cell!
But sure the Youth, whose ill-starr'd passion strove
With all the pangs of inauspicious Love,
Full oft' deplor'd the Fatal Art, that stole
The jocund freedom of its Master's soul!
While with nice hand he mark'd the living grace,
And matchless sweetness of Honora's face,
Th' enamour'd Youth the faithful traces blest,
That barb'd the dart of Beauty in his breast;
Around his neck th' enchanting Portrait hung,
While a warm vow burst ardent from his tongue,
That from his bosom no succeeding day,
No chance should bear that Talisman away.
'Twas thus[74]Apelles bask'd in Beauty's blaze,
And felt the mischief of the steadfast gaze;
Trac'd with disorder'd hand Campaspe's charms,
And as their beams the kindling Canvas warms,
Triumphant Love, with still superior art,
Engraves their wonders on the Painter's heart.
Dear lost Companion! ever-constant Youth!
That Fate had smil'd propitious on thy Truth!
Nor bound th' ensanguin'd laurel on that brow
Where Love ordain'd his brightest wreath to glow!
Then Peace had led thee to her softest bow'rs,
And Hymen strew'd thy path with all his flow'rs;
Drawn to thy roof, by Friendship's silver cord,
Each social Joy had brighten'd at thy board;
Science, and soft Affection's blended rays
Had shone unclouded on thy lengthen'd days;
From hour to hour thy taste, with conscious pride,
Had mark'd new talents in thy lovely Bride;
Till thou hadst own'd the magic of her face
Thy fair Honora's least engaging grace.
Dear lost Honora! o'er thy early bier
Sorrowing the Muse still sheds her sacred tear!
The blushing Rose-bud in its vernal bed,
By Zephyrs fann'd, by glist'ring Dew-drops fed,
In June's gay morn that scents the ambient air,
Was not more sweet, more innocent or fair.
Oh! when such Pairs their kindred Spirit find,
When Sense and Virtue deck each spotless Mind,
Hard is the doom that shall the union break,
And Fate's dark billow rises o'er the wreck.
Now Prudence, in her cold and thrifty care,
Frown'd on the Maid, and bade the Youth despair,
For Pow'r Parental sternly saw, and strove
To tear the lily-bands of plighted love;
Nor strove in vain;--but while the Fair-One's sighs
Disperse, like April storms in sunny skies,
The firmer Lover, with unswerving truth,
To his first passion consecrates his Youth;
Tho' four long years a night of absence prove,
Yet Hope's soft Star shone trembling on his Love;
Till[75]hov'ring Rumour chas'd the pleasing dream
And veil'd with Raven-wing the silver beam.
"Honora lost! my happy Rival's Bride!
"Swell ye full Sails! and roll thou mighty Tide!
"O'er the dark Waves forsaken André bear
"Amid the vollying Thunders of the War!
"To win bright Glory from my Country's foes,
"E'en in this ice of Love, my bosom glows.
"Voluptuous London! in whose gorgeous bow'rs
"The frolic Pleasures lead the dancing Hours,
"From Orient-vales Sabean-odours bring,
"Nor ask her roses of the tardy Spring;
"Where Paintings burn the Grecian Meed to claim
"From the high Temple of immortal Fame,
"Bears to the radiant Goal, with ardent pace,
"Her Kauffman's Beauty, and her Reynolds' Grace;
"Where Music floats the glitt'ring roofs among,
"And with meand'ring cadence swells the Song,
"While sun-clad Poesy the Bard inspires,
"And foils the Grecian Harps, the Latian Lyres.
"Ye soft'ning Luxuries! ye polish'd Arts!
"Bend your enfeebling rays on tranquil Hearts!
"I quit the Song, the Pencil, and the Lyre,
"White robes of Peace, and Pleasure's soft Attire,
"To seize the Sword, to mount the rapid Car,
"In all the proud habiliments of War.--
"Honora lost! I woo a sterner Bride,
"The arm'd Bellona calls me to her side;
"Harsh is the music of our marriage strain!
"It breathes in thunder from the Western plain!
"Wide o'er the wat'ry world its echoes roll,
"And rouse each latent ardour of my soul.
"And tho' unlike the soft melodious lay,
"That gaily wak'd Honora's nuptial day,
"Its deeper tones shall whisper, e'er they cease,
"More genuine transport, and more lasting peace!
"Resolv'd I go!--nor from that fatal bourne
"To these gay scenes shall André's step return!
"Set is the Star of Love, that ought to guide
"His refluent Bark across the mighty Tide!--
"But while my Country's Foes, with impious hand,
"Hurl o'er the blasted plains the livid brand
"Of dire Sedition!--Oh! let Heav'n ordain,
"While André lives, he may not live in vain!
"Yet without one kind farewell, could I roam
"Far from my weeping Friends, my peaceful home,
"The best affections of my heart must cease,
"And gratitude be lost, with hope, and peace!
My lovely Sisters! who were wont to twine
"Your Souls' soft feeling with each wish of mine,
"Shall, when this breast beats high at Glory's call,
"From your mild eyes the show'rs of Sorrow fall?--
"The light of Excellence, that round you glows,
"Decks with reflected beam your Brother's brows.
"Oh! may his Fame, in some distinguish'd day,
"Pour on that Excellence the brightest ray!
"Dim clouds of woe! ye veil each sprightly grace
"That us'd to sparkle in Maria's face.--
"My[76]tuneful Anna to her lute complains,
"But Grief's fond throbs arrest the parting strains.--
"Fair as the silver blossom on the thorn,
"Soft as the spirit of the vernal morn,
"Louisa, chace those trembling fears, that prove
"Th' ungovern'd terrors of a Sister's love.
"They bend thy sweet head, like yon lucid flow'r,
"That shrinks and fades beneath the summer's show'r--
"Oh! smile, my Sisters, on this destin'd day,
"And with the radiant omen gild my way!
"And thou, my Brother, gentle as the gale,
"Whose breath perfumes anew the blossom'd vale,
"Yet quick of Spirit, as th' electric beam,
"When from the clouds its darting lightnings stream,
"Soothe with incessant care our Mother's woes,
"And hush her anxious sighs to soft repose.--
"And be ye sure, when distant far I stray
"To share the dangers of the arduous day,
"Your tender faithful amity shall rest
"The[77] last dear record of my grateful breast.
"Oh! graceful Priestess at the fane of Truth,
"Friend of my Soul! and Guardian of my Youth!
"Skill'd to convert the duty to the choice,
"My gentle Mother!--in whose melting voice
"The virtuous precept, that perpetual flow'd,
"With music warbled, and with beauty glow'd,
"Thy Tears!--ah Heav'n!--not drops of molten lead,
"Pour'd on thy hapless Son's devoted head,
"With keener smart had each sensation torn!--
"They wake the nerve where agonies are born!
"But oh! restrain me not!--thy tender strife,
"What wou'd it save?--alas!--thy André's life!
"Oh! what a weary pilgrimage 'twill prove
"Strew'd with the thorns of disappointed Love!
"Ne'er can he break the charm, whose fond controul,
"By habit rooted, lords it o'er his soul,
"If here he languish in inglorious ease,
"Where Science palls, and Pleasures cease to please.
"'Tis Glory only, with her potent ray,
"Can chace the clouds that darken all his way.
"Then dry those pearly drops that wildly flow,
"Nor snatch the laurel from my youthful brow!--
"The Rebel Standard blazes to the noon!
"And Glory's path is bright before thy Son!
"Then join thy voice! and thou with Heav'n ordain
"While André lives, he may not live in vain!"
He says!--and sighing seeks the busy strand,
Where anchor'd Navies wait the wish'd command.
To the full gale the nearer billows roar,
And proudly lash the circumscribing shore;
While furious on the craggy coast they rave,
All calm and lovely rolls the distant wave;
For onward, as th' unbounded waters spread,
Deep sink the rocks in their capacious bed,
And all their pointed terror's utmost force
But gently interrupts the billow's course.
So on his present hour rude Passion preys!
So smooth the prospect of his future days!
Unconscious of the Storm, that grimly sleeps,
To wreck its fury on th' unshelter'd Deeps!
Now yielding Waves divide before the prow,
The white sails bend, the streaming pennants glow;
And swiftly waft him to the Western plain,
Where fierce Bellona rages o'er the slain.
Firm in their strength, opposing Legions stand,
Prepar'd to drench with blood the thirsty Land.
Now Carnage hurls her flaming bolts afar,
And Desolation groans amid the War.
As bleed the Valiant, and the Mighty yield,
Death stalks, the only Victor, o'er the field.
Foremost in all the horrors of the day,
Impetuous André[78] leads the glorious way;
Till, rashly bold, by numbers forc'd to yield,
They drag him captive from the long-fought field.--
Around the Hero crowd th' exulting Bands,
And seize the spoils of war with bloody hands,
Snatch the dark plumage from his awful crest,
And tear the golden crescent from his breast;
The sword, the tube, that wings the death from far,
And all the fatal implements of War!
Silent, unmov'd the gallant Youth survey'd
The lavish spoils triumphant Ruffians made.
The idle ornament, the useless spear
He little recks, but oh! there is a fear
Pants with quick throb, while yearning sorrows dart
Thro' his chill frame, and tremble at his heart:
"What tho' Honora's voice no more shall charm!
"No more her beamy smile my bosom warm!
"Yet from these eyes shall force for ever tear
"The sacred Image of that Form so dear?--
"Shade of my Love![79]--tho' mute and cold thy charms,
"Ne'er hast thou blest my happy Rival's arms!
"To my sad heart each Dawn has seen thee prest!
"Each Night has laid thee pillow'd on my breast!
"Force shall not tear thee from thy faithful shrine;
"Shade of my Love! thou shalt be ever mine!
"'Tis fix'd!--these lips shall resolute enclose
"The precious Soother of my ceaseless woes.
"And shou'd relentless Violence invade
"This last retreat, by frantic Fondness made,
"One way remains!--Fate whispers to my Soul
"Intrepid[80]Portia and her burning coal!
"So shall the throbbing Inmate of my breast
"From Love's sole gift meet everlasting rest!"
While these sad thoughts in swift succession fire
The smother'd embers of each fond desire,
Quick to his mouth his eager hands removes
The beauteous semblance of the Form he loves.
That darling treasure safe, resign'd he wears
The sordid robe, the scanty viand shares;
With cheerful fortitude content to wait
The barter'd ransom of a kinder Fate.
Now many a Moon in her pale course had shed
The pensive beam on André's captive head.
At length the Sun rose jocund, to adorn
With all his splendour the enfranchis'd Morn.
Again the Hero joins the ardent Train
That pours its thousands on the tented plain;
And shines distinguish'd in the long Array,
Bright as the silver Star that leads the Day!
His modest temperance, his wakeful heed,
His silent diligence, his ardent speed,
Each Warrior-duty to the Veteran taught,
Shaming the vain Experience Time had brought.
Dependence scarcely feels his gentle sway,
He shares each want, and smiles each grief away;
And to the virtues of a noble Heart,
Unites the talents of inventive Art.
Thus from his swift and faithful pencil flow
The Lines, the Camp, the Fortress of the Foe;
Serene to counteract each deep design,
Points the dark Ambush, and the springing Mine;
Till, as a breathing Incense, André's name
Pervades the Host, and swells the loud acclaim.
The Chief no virtue views with cold regard,
Skill'd to discern, and generous to reward;
Each tow'ring hope his honour'd smiles impart,
As near his Person, and more near his Heart
The graceful Youth he draws,--and round his brow
Bids Rank and Pow'r their mingled brilliance throw.
Oh! hast thou seen a blooming Morn of May
In crystal beauty shed the modest ray,
And with its balmy dews' refreshing show'r
Swell the young grain, and ope the purple flow'r,
In brightening lustre reach its radiant Noon,
Rob'd in the gayest mantle of the Sun?
Then 'mid the splendours of its azure skies,
Oh! hast thou seen the cruel Storm arise,
In sable horror shroud each dazzling charm,
And dash their glories back with icy arm?
Thus lowr'd the deathful cloud amid the blaze
Of André's rising hopes,--and quench'd their rays!
Ah, fatal Embassy!--thy hazards dire
His kindling Soul with ev'ry ardour fire;
Great Clinton gives it to the courage prov'd,
And the known wisdom of the Friend he lov'd.
As fair Euryalus, to meet his Fate,
With Nysus rushes from the Dardan gate,
Relentless Fate! whose fury scorns to spare
The snowy breast, red lip, and shining hair,
So polish'd André launches on the waves,
Where[81]Hudson's tide its dreary confine laves.
With firm intrepid foot the Youth explores
Each dangerous pathway of the hostile shores;
But on no Veteran-Chief his step attends,
As silent round the gloomy Wood he wends;
Alone he meets the brave repentant Foe,
Sustains his late resolve, receives his vow,
With ardent skill directs the doubtful course,
Seals the firm bond, and ratifies its force.
'Tis thus, America, thy Generals fly,
And wave new banners in their native sky!
Sick of the mischiefs artful Gallia pours,
In friendly semblance on thy ravag'd shores.
Unnatural compact!--shall a Race of Slaves
Sustain the ponderous standard Freedom waves?
No! while their feign'd Protection spreads the toils,
The Vultures hover o'er the destin'd spoils!
How fade Provincial-glories, while ye run
To court far deeper bondage than ye shun!
Is this the generous active rising Flame,
That boasted Liberty's immortal name,
Blaz'd for its rights infring'd, its trophies torn,
And taught the Wife the dire mistake to mourn,
When haughty Britain, in a luckless hour,
With rage inebriate, and the lust of pow'r,
To fruitless conquest, and to countless graves,
Led her gay Legions o'er the Western waves?
The Friend of Discord, cow'ring at the prow,
Sat darkly smiling at th' impending woe!
Long did my Soul the wretched strife survey,
And wept the horrors of the deathful day;
Thro' rolling Years saw undecisive War
Drag bleeding Wisdom at his iron Car;
Exhaust my Country's treasure, pour her gore
In fruitless conflict on the distant shore;
Saw the firm Congress all her might oppose,
And while I mourn'd her fate, rever'd her Foes.
But when, repentant of her prouder aim,
She gently waives the long-disputed claim;
Extends the Charter with your Rights restor'd,
And hides in olive-wreaths the blood-stain'd sword,
Then to reject her peaceful wreaths, and throw
Your Country's Freedom to our mutual Foe!--
Infatuate Land!--from that detested day
Distracted Councils, and the thirst of Sway,
Rapacious Avarice, Superstition vile,
And all the _Frenchman_ dictates in his guile
Disgrace your Congress!--Justice drops her scale!
And radiant Liberty averts her sail!
They fly indignant the polluted plain,
Where Truth is scorn'd, and Mercy pleads in vain.
That she does plead in vain, thy witness bear,
Accursed Hour!--thou darkest of the Year!
That with Misfortune's deadliest venom fraught,
To Tappan's Wall the gallant André brought.
Oh Washington! I thought thee great and good,
Nor knew thy Nero-thirst of guiltless blood!
Severe to use the pow'r that Fortune gave,
Thou cool determin'd Murderer of the Brave!
Lost to each fairer Virtue, that inspires
The genuine fervor, of the patriot fires!
And You, the base Abettors of the doom,
That sunk his blooming honors in the tomb,
Th' opprobrious tomb your harden'd hearts decreed,
While all he ask'd was as the Brave to Bleed!
Nor other boon the glorious Youth implor'd
Save the cold Mercy of the Warrior-Sword!
O dark, and pitiless! your impious hate
O'er-whelm'd the Hero in the Ruffian's fate!
Stopt with the[82]Felon-cord the rosy breath!
And venom'd with disgrace the darts of Death!
Remorseless Washington! the day shall come
Of deep repentance for this barb'rous doom!
When injur'd André's memory shall inspire
A kindling Army with resistless fire;
Each falchion sharpen that the Britons wield,
And lead their fiercest Lion to the field!
Then, when each hope of thine shall set in night,
When dubious dread, and unavailing flight
Impel your Host, thy guilt-upbraided Soul
Shall wish untouch'd the sacred Life you stole!
And when thy Heart appall'd and vanquish'd Pride
Shall vainly ask the mercy they deny'd,
With horror shalt thou meet the fate they gave,
Nor Pity gild the darkness of thy grave!
For Infamy, with livid hand shall shed
Eternal mildew on the ruthless head!
Less cruel far than thou, on Ilium's plain
Achilles, raging for Patroclus slain!
When hapless Priam bends the aged knee,
To deprecate the Victor's dire decree,
The nobler Greek, in melting pity spares
The lifeless Hector to his Father's prayers,
Fierce as he was;--'tis _Cowards_ only know
Persisting vengeance o'er a _fallen_ Foe.
But no intreaty wakes the soft remorse,
Oh, murder'd André! for thy sacred Corse;
Vain were an army's, vain its Leader's sighs!--
Damp in the Earth on Hudson's shore it lies!
Unshrouded welters in the wintry storm,
And gluts the riot of the[83]Tappan Worm!
But oh! its dust, like Abel's blood, shall rise,
And call for justice from the angry skies!
What tho' the Tyrants, with malignant pride,
To thy pale Corse each decent rite deny'd!
Thy graceful limbs in no kind covert laid,
Nor with the Christian Requiem sooth'd thy shade!
Yet on thy grass-green Bier soft April-show'rs
Shall earliest wake the sweet spontaneous Flow'rs,
Bid the blue Hare-bell and the Snow-drop there
Hang their cold cup, and drop the pearly tear!
And oft, at pensive Eve's ambiguous gloom,
Imperial Honour, bending o'er thy tomb,
With solemn strains shall lull thy deep repose,
And with his deathless Laurels shade thy brows!
Lamented Youth! while with inverted spear
The British Legions pour th' indignant tear!
Round the dropt arm the[84]funeral scarf entwine,
And in their heart's deep core thy worth enshrine,
While my weak Muse, in fond attempt and vain,
But feebly pours a perishable strain,
Oh! ye distinguish'd Few! whose glowing lays
Bright Phœbus kindles with his purest rays,
Snatch from its radiant source the living fire,
And light with[85]Vestal flame your André's Hallow'd Pyre.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 68: Victor-garland--alluding to the conquest by Lord
Cornwallis.]
[Footnote 69: Bloody scroll. The court-martial decree, signed at
Tappan, for Major André's execution.]
[Footnote 70: _Julia_--the name by which Mr. André addressed the author
in his correspondence with her.]
[Footnote 71: _All his gifts._--Mr. André has conspicuous talents for
Poetry, Music, and Painting. The newspapers mentioned a satiric poem
of his upon Americans, which was supposed to have stimulated this
barbarity towards him ["The Cow-Chase"].--Of his wit and vivacity, the
letters subjoined to this work afford ample proof.--They were addressed
to the author by Mr. André when he was a youth of eighteen.]
[Footnote 72: _Early grave._--Miss Honora S. [Honora Sneyd], to whom
Mr. André's attachment was of such singular constancy, died in a
consumption a few months before he suffer'd death at Tappan. She had
married another Gentleman [Richard Lovell Edgeworth] four years after
her engagement with Mr. André had been dissolved by parental authority.]
[Footnote 73: _Julia's arm._--Mr. André drew two miniature pictures of
Miss Honora S. on his first acquaintance with her at Buxton, in the
year 1769, one for himself, the other for the author of this poem.]
[Footnote 74: _'Twas thus Apelles._--Prior is very elegant upon this
circumstance in an Ode to his Friend, Mr. Howard the Painter.]
[Footnote 75: _Hov'ring Rumour._--The tidings of Honora's Marriage.
Upon that event Mr. André quitted his Profession as a Merchant and
join'd our Army in America.]
[Footnote 76: _Tuneful Anna._--Miss Anna André has a poetical talent.]
[Footnote 77: _Last dear record._--"I have a Mother, and three Sisters,
to whom the value of my commission wou'd be an object, as the loss
of Grenada has much affected their income. It is needless to be more
explicit on this subject, I know your Excellency's goodness."--See
Major André's last letter to General Clinton, publish'd in the Gazette.]
[Footnote 78: _Impetuous André._--It is in this passage only that
fiction has been employ'd thro' the narrative of the poem. Mr. André
was a prisoner in America, soon after his arrival there, but the Author
is unacquainted with the circumstances of the action in which he was
taken.]
[Footnote 79: _Shade of my Love._--The miniature of Honora. A letter
from Major André to one of his Friends, written a few years ago,
contained the following sentence: "I have been taken prisoner by the
Americans and stript of everything except the picture of Honora,
which I concealed in my mouth. Preserving that, I yet think myself
fortunate."]
[Footnote 80:
_Intrepid Portia._--"_Brutus_.] Impatient of my absence,
"And grieved that young Octavius with Mark Antony
"Had made themselves so strong, she grew distracted,
"And, her Attendants absent, swallow'd fire.
"_Cassius._] And dy'd so?
"_Brutus._] Even so!"
See Shakespear's Play of Julius Cæsar, Act IV., Scene IV.]
[Footnote 81: _Hudson's tide._--Major André came up the Hudson River to
meet General Arnold. On his return by Land he fell into the hands of
the Enemy.]
[Footnote 82: _Felon-cord._--"As I suffer in the defence of my Country,
I must consider this hour as the most glorious of my life.--Remember
that I die as becomes a British Officer, while the manner of my death
must reflect disgrace on your Commander." See Major André's last words,
inserted in the General Evening Post, for Tuesday, November the 14,
1780.]
[Footnote 83: _Tappan._--The place where Major André was executed.]
[Footnote 84: _Funeral scarf._--Our whole Army in America went into
mourning for Major André, a distinguish'd tribute to his merit.]
[Footnote 85: _Vestal flame._--The Vestal fire was kept perpetually
burning, and originally kindled from the rays of the Sun.]
LETTERS
ADDRESSED TO THE AUTHOR OF THE FOREGOING POEM, BY MAJOR ANDRÉ, WHEN HE
WAS A YOUTH OF EIGHTEEN.
LETTER I.
Clapton, _October 3, 1769_.
From their agreeable excursion to Shrewsbury, my dearest friends are
by this time returned to their thrice-beloved Lichfield. Once again
have they beheld those fortunate _spires_, the constant witnesses of
all their pains and pleasures. I can well conceive the emotions of joy
which their first appearance, from the neighboring hills, excites after
absence; they seem to welcome you home, and invite you to reiterate
those hours of happiness, of which they are a species of monument. I
shall have an eternal love and reverence for them. Never shall I forget
the joy that danced in Honora's eyes, when she first showed them to me
from Needwood Forest on our return with you from Buxton to Lichfield.
I remember she called them the _Ladies of the Valley_--their lightness
and elegance deserve the title. Oh, how I loved them from that instant!
My enthusiasm concerning them is carried farther even than yours and
Honora's, for every object that has a pyramidal form recalls them to my
recollection, with a sensation that brings the tear of pleasure into my
eyes.
How happy must you have been at Shrewsbury! only that you tell me,
alas! that dear Honora was not so well as you wished during your stay
there. I always hope the best. My impatient spirit rejects every
obtruding idea which I have not fortitude to support. Dr. Darwin's
skill and your tender care will remove that sad pain in her side,
which makes writing troublesome and injurious to her; which robs her
poor _cher Jean_[86] of those precious pages with which, he flatters
himself, she would otherwise have indulged him. So your happiness
at Shrewsbury scorned to be indebted to public amusements. Five
virgins, united in the soft bonds of friendship! how I should have
liked to have made the sixth! But you surprise me by such an absolute
exclusion of the beaux. I certainly thought that when five wise virgins
were watching at midnight, it must have been in expectation of the
bridegroom's coming. _We_ are at this instant five virgins, writing
round the same table--my three sisters, Mr. Ewer, and myself. I beg no
reflections injurious to the honor of poor _cher Jean_. My mother is
gone to pay a visit, and has left us in possession of the old coach;
but as for nags, we can boast only of two long-tails, and my sisters
say they are sorry cattle, being no other than my friend Ewer and
myself, who, to say the truth, have enormous pig-tails.
My dear Boissier is come to town; he has brought a little of the
soldier with him, but he is the same honest, warm, intelligent friend I
always found him. He sacrifices the town diversions, since I will not
partake of them.
We are jealous of your correspondents, who are so numerous. Yet, write
to the Andrés often, my dear Julia, for who are they that will value
your letters quite so much as we value them?
The least scrap of a letter will be received with the greatest joy.
Write, therefore, though it were only to give us the comfort of
having a piece of paper which has recently passed through your hands;
Honora will put in a little postscript, were it only to tell me that
she is _my very sincere friend_, who will neither give me love nor
comfort--very short, indeed, Honora, was thy last postscript! But I
am too presumptuous; I will not scratch out, but I _un_say. From the
little there _was_ I received more joy than I deserve. This _cher Jean_
is an impertinent fellow, but he will grow discreet in time. You must
consider him as a poor novice of _eighteen_, who, for all the sins he
may commit, is sufficiently punished in the single evil of being one
hundred and twenty miles from Lichfield.
My mother and sisters will go to Putney in a few days, to stay some
time. We none of us like Clapton. _I_ need not care, for I am all
day long in town, but it is avoiding Scylla to fall into Charybdis.
You paint to me the pleasant vale of Stow in the richest autumnal
coloring. In return, I must tell you that my zephyrs are wafted through
cracks in the wainscot; for murmuring streams I have dirty kennels;
for bleating flocks, grunting pigs; and squalling cats for birds that
incessantly warble. I have said something of this sort in my letter to
Miss Spearman, and am twinged with the idea of these epistles being
confronted, and that I shall recall to your memory the fat knight's
love-letters to Mrs. Ford and Mrs. Page.
Julia, perhaps thou fanciest I am merry--alas! But I do not wish to
make you as doleful as myself; and besides, when I would express
the tender feelings of my soul, I have no language which does them
justice; if I had, I should regret that you could not have it fresher,
and that whatever one communicates by letter must go such a roundabout
way before it reaches one's correspondent--from the writer's heart,
through his head, arm, hand, pen, ink, paper, over many a weary hill
and dale, to the eye, head, and heart of the reader. I have often
regretted our not possessing a sort of faculty which should enable
our sensations, remarks, etc., to arise from their source in a sort
of exaltations, and fall upon our paper in words and phrases properly
adapted to express them, without passing through an imagination whose
operations so often fail to second those of the heart. Then what a
metamorphose should we see in people's style! How eloquent those who
are truly attached! how stupid they who falsely profess affection!
Perhaps the former had never been able to express half their regard;
while the latter, by their flowers of rhetoric, had made us believe
a thousand times more than they ever felt--but this is whimsical
moralizing.
My sisters Penserosas were dispersed on their arrival in town, by the
joy of seeing Louisa and their dear little brother Billy again, our
kind and excellent Uncle Giradot, and Uncle Lewis André. I was glad to
see them, but they complained, not without reason, of the gloom upon my
countenance. Billy wept for joy that we were returned, while poor _cher
Jean_ was ready to weep for sorrow. Louisa is grown still handsomer
since we left her. Our sisters, Mary and Anne, knowing your partiality
to beauty, are afraid that, when they introduce her to you, she will
put their noses out of joint. Billy is not old enough for me to be
afraid of in the rival-way, else I should keep him aloof, for his heart
is formed of those affectionate materials so dear to the ingenuous
taste of Julia and her Honora.
I sympathize in your resentment against the canonical dons who stumpify
the heads of those good green[87] people, beneath whose friendly
shade so many of your happiest hours have glided away--but they defy
them; let them stumpify as much as they please, time will repair the
mischief; their verdant arms will again extend and invite you to their
shelter.
The evenings grow long. I hope your conversation round the fire will
sometimes fall on the Andrés; it will be a great comfort that they are
remembered. We chink our glasses to your healths at every meal. "Here's
to our Lichfieldian friends," says Nanny. "Oh-h!" says Mary. "With all
my soul, say I." "_Allons!_" cries my mother--and the draught seems
nectar. The libation made, we begin our uncloying theme, and so beguile
the gloomy evening.
Mr. and Mrs. Seward will accept my most affectionate respects. My male
friend at Lichfield will join in your conversation on the Andrés.
Among the numerous good qualities he is possessed of, he certainly has
gratitude, and then he can not forget those who so sincerely love and
esteem him. I, in particular, shall always recall with pleasure the
happy hours I have passed in his company. My friendship for him, and
for your family, has diffused itself, like the precious ointment from
Aaron's beard, on everything which surrounds you; therefore I beg you
would give my amities to the whole town. Persuade Honora to forgive the
length and ardor of the enclosed, and believe me truly,
Your affectionate and faithful friend,
J. André.
LETTER II.
London, _October 19, 1769_.
From the midst of books, papers, bills, and other implements of gain,
let me lift up my drowsy head awhile to converse with dear Julia. And
first, as I know she has a fervent wish to see me a quill-driver, I
must tell her that I begin, as people are wont to do, to look upon
my future profession with great partiality. I no longer see it in
so disadvantageous a light. Instead of figuring a merchant as a
middle-aged man, with a bob-wig, a rough beard, in snuff-colored
clothes, grasping a guinea in his red hand, I conceive a comely young
man, with a tolerable pig-tail, wielding a pen with all the noble
fierceness of the Duke of Marlborough brandishing a truncheon upon
a sign-post, surrounded with types and emblems, and canopied with
cornucopias that disembogue their stores upon his head; Mercuries
reclined upon bales of goods; Genii playing with pens, ink, and paper;
while in perspective, his gorgeous vessels, "launched on the bosom of
the silver Thames," are wafting to distant lands the produce of this
commercial nation. Thus all the mercantile glories crowd on my fancy,
emblazoned in the most refulgent coloring of an ardent imagination.
Borne on her soaring pinions, I wing my flight to the time when Heaven
shall have crowned my labors with success and opulence. I see sumptuous
palaces rising to receive me. I see orphans, and widows, and painters,
and fiddlers, and poets, and builders, protected and encouraged; and
when the fabric is pretty nearly finished by my shattered pericranium,
I cast my eyes around and find John André by a small coal-fire, in a
gloomy compting-house in Warnford Court, nothing so little as what he
has been making himself, and in all probability never to be much more
than he is at present. But oh, my dear Honora! it is for thy sake only
I wish for wealth. You say she was somewhat better at the time you
wrote last. I must flatter myself that she will soon be without any
remains of this threatening disease.
It is seven o'clock. You and Honora, with two or three more select
friends, are now probably encircling your dressing-room fireplace. What
would I not give to enlarge that circle! The idea of a clean hearth,
and a snug circle round it, formed by a few sincere friends, transports
me. You seem combined together against the inclemency of the weather,
the hurry, bustle, ceremony, censoriousness, and envy of the world. The
purity, the warmth, the kindly influence of fire, to all for whom it
is kindled, is a good emblem of the friendship of such amiable minds
as Julia's and her Honora's. Since I can not be there in reality, pray
imagine me with you; admit me to your _conversaziones_; think how I
wish for the blessing of joining them!--and be persuaded that I take
part in all your pleasures, in the dear hope that e'er it be very long
your blazing hearth will burn again for me. Pray keep me a place; let
the poker, tongs, or shovel, represent me; but you have Dutch tiles,
which are infinitely better; so let Moses, or Aaron, or Balaam's ass,
be my representative.
But time calls me to Clapton. I quit you abruptly till to-morrow,
when, if I do not tear the nonsense I have been writing, I may perhaps
increase its quantity. Signora Cynthia is in clouded majesty. Silvered
with her beams, I am about to jog to Clapton upon my own stumps;
musing as I homeward plod my way--ah! need I name the subject of my
contemplations?
_Thursday._
I had a sweet walk home last night, and found the Claptonians, with
their fair guest, a Miss Mourgue, very well. My sisters send their
_amitiés_, and will write in a few days.
This morning I returned to town. It has been the finest day imaginable.
A solemn mildness was diffused throughout the blue horizon; its light
was clear and distinct rather than dazzling. The serene beams of the
autumnal sun, gilded hills, variegated woods, glittering spires,
ruminating herds, bounding flocks, all combined to enchant the eyes,
expand the heart, and
"Chace all sorrow but despair."
In the midst of such a scene no lesser grief can prevent our sympathy
with Nature. A calmness, a benevolent disposition seizes us with sweet,
insinuating power. The very brute creation seems sensible of these
beauties; there is a species of mild cheerfulness in the face of a lamb
which I have but indifferently expressed in a corner of my paper, and a
demure, contented look in an ox, which, in the fear of expressing still
worse, I leave unattempted.
Business calls me away. I must dispatch my letter. Yet what does it
contain?--no matter. You like anything better than news. Indeed, you
never told me so; but I have an intuitive knowledge upon the subject,
from the sympathy which I have constantly perceived in the taste of
Julia and _cher Jean_. What is it to you or me--
If here in the city we have nothing but riot,
If the Spital-field weavers can't be kept quiet,
If the weather is fine, or the streets should be dirty,
Or if Mr. Dick Wilson died aged of thirty?
But if I was to hearken to the versifying grumbling I feel within me,
I should fill my paper and not have room left to entreat that you
would plead my cause to Honora more eloquently than the enclosed letter
has the power of doing. Apropos of verses, you desire me to recollect
my random description of the engaging appearance of the charming Mrs.
----. Here it is, at your service:
Then rustling and bustling the lady comes down,
With a flaming red face, and a broad yellow gown,
And a hobbling out-of-breath gait, and a frown.
This little French cousin of ours, Delarise, was my sister Mary's
playfellow at Paris. His sprightliness engages my sisters extremely.
Doubtless they talk much of him to you in their letters. How sorry I am
to bid you adieu! Oh, let me not be forgot by the friends most dear to
you at Lichfield! _Lichfield!_ Ah! of what magic letters is that little
word composed! How graceful it looks when it is written! Let nobody
talk to me of its original meaning,[88] "The field of blood!" Oh, no
such thing! It is the field of joy! "The beautiful city that lifts her
fair head in the valley and says, I _am_, and there is none beside me!"
Who says she is vain? Julia will not say so, nor yet Honora, and least
of all their devoted
J. André.
LETTER III.
Clapton, _November 1, 1769_.
My ears still ring with the sounds of "O Jack! O Jack! How do the
dear Lichfieldians? What do they say? What are they about? What
did _you_ do while you were with them?" Have patience, said I, good
people! and began my story, which they devoured with as much joyful
avidity as Adam did Gabriel's tidings of heaven. My mother and sisters
are all very well, and delighted with their little Frenchman, who is
a very agreeable lad. Surely you applaud the fortitude with which
I left you! Did I not come off with flying colors? It was a great
effort, for, alas! this recreant heart did _not second_ the smiling
courage of the _countenance_; nor is it yet as it ought to be, from
the hopes that it may reasonably entertain of seeing you all again
e'er the winter's dreary hours are past. Julia, my dear Julia, gild
them with tidings of our beloved Honora! Oh, that you may be able to
tell me that she regains her health, and her charming vivacity! Your
sympathizing heart partakes all the joys and pains of your friends.
Never can I forget its kind offices, which were of such moment to my
peace! _Mine_ is formed for friendship, and I am blessed in being able
to place so _well_ the purest passion of an ingenuous mind! How am I
honored in Mr. and Mrs. Seward's attachment to me! Charming were the
anticipations which beguiled the long tracts of hill, and dale, and
plain that divide London from Lichfield! With what delight my eager
eyes _drank_ their first view of the dear spires! What rapture did
I not feel on entering your gates! in flying up the hall steps! in
rushing into the dining-room! in meeting the gladdened eyes of dear
Julia and her enchanting friend! That instant convinced me of the truth
of Rousseau's observation, that "there are _moments_ worth ages."
Shall not those moments return? Ah, Julia! the cold hand of absence is
heavy upon the heart of your poor _cher Jean_. He is forced to hammer
into it perpetually every consoling argument that the magic wand of
hope can conjure up, viz., that every moment of industrious absence
advances his journey, you know whither. I may sometimes make excursions
to Lichfield, and bask in the light of my Honora's eyes! Sustain me,
Hope!--nothing on my part shall be wanting which may induce thee to
_fulfill_ thy blossoming promises.
The happy social circle--Julia, Honora, Miss S----n, Miss B----n,
her brother, Mr. S----e, Mr. R----n, etc., etc.--are now, perhaps,
enlivening your dressing-room, the dear _blue region_, as Honora calls
it, with the sensible observation, the tasteful criticism, or the
elegant song; dreading the iron-tongue of the nine-o'clock bell, which
disperses the beings whom friendship and kindred virtues had drawn
together. My imagination attaches itself to _all_, even the _inanimate_
objects which surround Honora and her Julia; that have beheld their
graces and virtues expand and ripen--my dear Honora's--from their
infant bud.
The sleepy Claptonian train are gone to bed, somewhat wearied with
their excursion to Enfield, whither they have this day carried their
favorite little Frenchman, so _great_ a favorite; the parting was quite
tragical. I walked hither from town, as usual, to-night; no hour of
the twenty-four is so precious to me as that devoted to this solitary
walk. O my friend! I am far from possessing the patient frame of mind
which I so continually invoke! Why is Lichfield an hundred and twenty
miles from me? There is no _moderation_ in the distance! Fifty or sixty
miles had been a great deal too much, but _then_ there would have been
less opposition from _authority_ to my frequent visits. I conjure you,
supply the want of these blessings by frequent _letters_. I must not,
will not ask them of Honora, since the use of the pen is forbid to her
declining health; I will content myself, as usual, with a postscript
from her in your epistle. My sisters are charmed with the packet which
arrived yesterday, and which they will answer soon.
As yet I have said nothing of our journey. We met an entertaining Irish
gentleman at Dunchurch, and, being fellow-sufferers in cold and hunger,
joined interests, ordered four horses, and stuffed three in a chaise.
It is not to _you_--I need not apologize for talking in rapture of an
higgler whom we met on our road. His cart had passed us, and was at a
considerable distance, when, looking back, he perceived that our chaise
had stopped, and that the driver seemed mending something. He ran up
to him, and with a face full of honest anxiety, pity, good-nature, and
every sweet affection under heaven, asked him if we wanted anything;
that he had plenty of nails, ropes, etc., in his cart. That wretch of a
postillion made no other reply than "We want nothing, master." From the
same impulse the good Irishman, Mr. Till, and myself, thrust our heads
instantly out of the chaise, and tried to recompense to the honest
creature by forcing upon him a little pecuniary tribute. My benevolence
will be the warmer, while I live, for the treasured remembrance of this
higgler's countenance.
'I know you interest yourself in my destiny. I have now completely
subdued my aversion to the profession of a merchant, and hope in time
to acquire an inclination for it; yet God forbid I should ever love
what I am to make the object of my attention!--that vile trash, which
I care not for, but only as it may be the future means of procuring
the blessing of my soul. Thus all my mercantile calculations go to
the tune of _dear Honora_. When an impertinent consciousness whispers
in my ear that I am not of the right stuff for a merchant, I draw my
Honora's picture from my bosom, and the sight of that dear talisman so
inspirits my industry that no toil appears oppressive.
The poetic talk you set me in is a sad method. My head and heart are
too full of other matters to be engrossed by a draggle-tailed wench of
the Heliconian puddle. I am going to try my interest in Parliament.
How you stare!--it is to procure a frank. Be so good as to give
the enclosed to Honora; _it_ will speak to _her_. And do _you_ say
everything that is kind for me to every _other_ distinguished friend of
the dressing-room circle; encourage them in their obliging desire of
scribbling in your letters, but don't let them take Honora's corner of
the sheet.
Adieu! May you all possess that cheerfulness denied to your _cher
Jean_. I fear it hurts my mother to see my musing moods, but I can
neither help nor overcome them. The near hopes of another excursion to
Lichfield could alone disperse every gloomy vapor of my imagination.
Again, and yet again, adieu!
J. André.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 86: name of kindness, by which Mr. André was often called by
his mother and sisters, and generally adopted by the persons mentioned
in these letters.]
[Footnote 87: The trees in the cathedral-walk in Lichfield.]
[Footnote 88: _Field of blood._--Here is a small mistake. Lichfield is
not the field of blood, but "the field of dead bodies," alluding to
the battle fought between the Romans and the British Christians in the
Diocletian persecution, when the latter were massacred. Three slain
kings, with their burying-place, now Barrowcop Hill, and the cathedral
in miniature, form the city arms. Lich is still a word in use. The
church-yard gates, through which funerals pass, are often called
Lich-gates, vulgarly Light-gates.]
INDEX.
A
Adams, Alice, Hale's affianced, 21 (_note_).
Alexander, William, Lord Stirling, 71 (_note_).
American army on Manhattan Island, condition of, 11;
on Harlem Heights--perils menacing the, 12.
American cause, gloomy prospects for the, 79.
Anderson, the fictitious name of Major André, 65.
André, John, birth, parentage, education, and family of, 37;
at Lichfield with Anna Seward, 38;
personal appearance of--betrothed to Honora Sneyd--paints a miniature
portrait of her--correspondence of, with Anna Seward, 40, 41;
enters the British army--alleged presages of his death, 42, 43;
goes to America--his observations there, 43, 44;
made a prisoner, exchanged, and promoted by General Howe, 44, 45;
social position of, in Philadelphia, 45, 46;
writes "Yankee Doodle's Expedition to Rhode Island"--aide-de-camp to
General Clinton, 61;
genius of, displayed--goes with Clinton up the Hudson River, 62;
letters of, to Mrs. Benedict Arnold, 63;
secret correspondence of, with General Arnold, 65;
a spy at Charleston--made adjutant-general of the British forces
in America, 66;
writes "The Cow-Chase," 68;
at a dinner-party given by Colonel Williams--sadness of, 80;
sings a campaign song--important mission of, 81;
meets Arnold near Haverstraw--goes to Smith's house--bargain with
Arnold, 83, 84;
attempts to return to New York through the American lines--disguise
of, 84;
conceals papers received from Arnold in his boots--journey of, toward
New York, 85;
arrest of, 86;
suspected of being a spy, 87, 88;
tries to bribe his captors--taken to an American post, 88;
confession of, 91;
letter of, to Washington, 91-93;
sent to West Point, 97;
sent to Tappaan in charge of Major Tallmadge, 97, 98;
sympathy for, 99, 105, 106;
effect of the news of capture of, 99;
trial and sentence of, 100, 101;
exertions to save the life of, 101;
letter of, to Washington, on the mode of his death, 102;
letters of, to friends--drawings of, 103 (_note_);
execution of, 103-105;
monument in honor of, in Westminster Abbey, 106;
remains of, removed to the abbey, 106 (_note_);
place of execution of, marked by memorial-stones, 108, 109.
André Brook, the, 117.
Arnold, Benedict, life of, in Philadelphia--charges against, 63;
urges an investigation, 64;
treasonable correspondence of, 64, 65;
secret correspondence of, with Major André--disguised handwriting
of, 65;
in command at West Point, 78;
tries to meet André in disguise, 79;
plans of, for consummating treason, 83, 84;
meets André near Haverstraw, 83;
takes André to Smith's house--finishes his bargain to betray his
country--gives André important papers, 84;
receives notice of the arrest of André, 93;
hurried interview with his wife--escapes to the _Vulture_--patriotism
of his barge crew, 94;
attempts to arrest, 96;
impudent letter of, to Washington, 101 (_note_).
Arnold, Mrs., distress of, 94;
Washington's kindness to, 96.
Austin, Henry, designer of the Hale Monument at Coventry, 27.
B
Babcock, J.S., poetic tribute of, to the memory of Nathan Hale, 29.
Boothby, Sir Richard, a literary friend of Anna Seward, 38.
Boudinot, Elias, concerning the arrest and execution of André, 99.
British army near New York, condition of the, 11.
Buchanan, James, assists in the removal of André's remains to
England, 108.
C
Caldwell, Rev. James, 77 (_note_).
Captors of André, 85;
rewarded, 89.
Carleton, Governor of Canada, 43.
Cathcart, Captain, and Miss Eliot, 51 (_note_).
"Cedars, The," and the Widow Chichester, 16.
Chichester, the Widow, and the Tories, 16.
Clinton, Sir Henry, 43;
succeeds Howe, 46;
in command of the British army--flight of, across New Jersey--fights
at Monmouth Court-House, 60;
headquarters of, at New York, 61, 62, 83;
letter of, to Washington--André's letter to, 101.
Court of inquiry in the case of André, 100.
"Cow-Chase, The," a satire by Major André, 67-78.
Cunningham, William, character of, 24 (_note_), 25.
D
Darwin, Erasmus, 38.
De Lancey, Oliver, assists André in art-work--marries Miss Franks
56 (_note_).
Demorest, Rev. John, assists at the disinterment of the remains of
Major André--silver cup sent to, by André's sisters, 108.
Depew, Chauncey M., oration by, at Tarrytown, 121.
D'Estaing, with French fleet, goes to Rhode Island, 61.
Dobb's Ferry, 84;
conference at, 101.
Dream, a singular, concerning André, 42.
E
Edgeworth, Richard Lovell, marries Honora Sneyd, 38, 41.
Eliot, Miss, and Captain Cathcart, 51.
F
Field, Cyrus W., erects a memorial-stone at the place of André's
execution, 109-115;
proposes to erect a monument in memory of Nathan Hale at his own
expense, 113, 114;
letter of, on the subject, to the New York Historical Society, 114;
contribution of, to the Hale monument at Coventry, 114;
generous designs of, for the benefit of the Rockland County
Historical and Forestry Society, 118.
Finch, Francis M., poem on Nathan Hale by, 29.
Fort Hale, 28.
G
Gibbs, George, epitaph for Hale's tomb, written by, 84.
Grey, General, marauding expedition of, to New Bedford, 61.
Greene, General Nathanael, in command at Tappaan, proclaims Arnold's
treason, 98.
"Gustavus," the fictitious name of Arnold, 61.
H
Hale and André, character and motives of, iv.
Hale, Edward Everett, 4.
Hale, Enoch, 4.
Hale, Nathan, childhood and youth of--personal appearance and vigor
of--enters Yale College, 4;
Dr. E. Munson's recollections of, 5;
letter of, to Dr. Munson, 6 (_note_);
a school-teacher at East Haddam and New London, 7;
patriotism of, aroused--speech of, 8;
a volunteer soldier at the siege of Boston--patriotism
displayed--commissioned captain--daring feat of, at New York, 9;
generosity of--in the battle of Long Island and the retreat--illness
of, 10;
volunteers for the secret service, and resists the dissuasions of his
friends--ideas of, concerning secret service, 14, 15;
receives instructions from Washington--departure of, on secret
service, 15;
goes to Long Island and enters the British camps in disguise--methods
of, as a spy, 16;
arrest of, 17;
character of, discovered, 18;
at General Howe's headquarters at the Beekman mansion--confined in a
greenhouse, 19;
interview of, with General Howe, 20;
treatment of, by Cunningham, 21, 22;
last words of, 23;
place of execution of, 23 (_note_);
execution of--sympathy for--neglect of memory of, 24;
memorials of, 25;
monument erected in memory of, 27, 28;
poem written concerning, 27-31;
and André compared, 31;
proposed monument in memory of, at New York--statue of,
contemplated, 33;
epitaph for tomb of, 34;
monument to, proposed, 111, 113, 114.
Hale, Richard and Elizabeth, parents of Nathan Hale, 3.
Hayley, Thomas, an English poet, 38.
Hamilton, Alexander, 73, 93, 96, 100, 102.
Harrison, Richard, 73 (_note_).
Hempstead, Stephen, 15.
Hillhouse, James, a classmate with Hale, 7.
Howe, General William, succeeded by Sir Henry Clinton, 46;
_fête_ given in honor of, 46-59;
estimate of the character of, 59.
Hull, Lieutenant William, and Nathan Hale, 14.
Huntington, Rev. Dr., fits Hale for college, 4.
Husted, General James, marshal at the dedication of the monument at
Tarrytown, 121.
Husted, Dr. Nathaniel C., author of a "Memorial Souvenir," 121.
I
Irvines, the two, 71 (_note_).
J
Jameson, Lieutenant-Colonel, and Major André, 90.
Johnson, Jeremiah, concerning the place of Hale's execution, 23.
K
Knowlton, Lieutenant-Colonel, and Nathan Hale, 13;
death of, 16 (_note_).
L
Lafayette with Washington at West Point, 93.
Laurance, John, Judge Advocate-General, 100.
Lawrence, William, 21 (_note_).
Lee, Charles, and Colonel Hamilton, 73 (_note_).
Lee, Henry ("Legion Harry"), 67.
Lee, James, marks the spot where André was executed, 108, 110;
statue of Washington in New York, 108 (_note_).
Lionian Society of Yale College, 29.
Livingston, Susannah, 77 (_note_).
M
Memorial-stone near Tappaan, unveiling of the, 113;
description of, and inscription upon the, 115;
what the stone commemorates, 116, 117;
attempts to destroy the, 117-119.
Military execution, method of, 23 (_note_).
Mischianza, the, description of, by Major André, 46-58;
criticism of the, 59;
the, deplored, 60.
Monmouth, battle of, 60.
Munson, Dr. Eneas, relates his personal recollections of
Nathan Hale, 5.
Monody on Major André, 135.
Murray, Robert, Washington at house of, 12.
N
Neutral ground, the, and its inhabitants, 85.
New York City, great conflagration at, 20.
O
O'Donovan, sculptor, author of a statue at Tarry town, 121.
P
Paulding, John, a captor of André, 85-89.
Philadelphia, British army in, and its demoralization, 45;
flight of British from--American troops and Congress enter, 60.
R
Raymond, Henry J., oration of, at Tarrytown, 31-33.
Reed, General Joseph, and General Arnold, 63.
Ripley, Eleazar, 21 (_note_).
Robertson, General, and General Greene at Dobb's Ferry--bears a letter
from Arnold to Washington, 101.
Robinson, Beverly, letter of, 64;
and André and Arnold, 79;
with André on the _Vulture_, 81;
letter of, to Washington, 95.
S
Samson, Ezra, 7.
Seward, Anna, literary friends of, 38;
biographical sketch of, 125;
Major André's letters to, 152.
Seward, Rev. Thomas, father of Anna Seward, 38.
Smith, J.H., and Arnold and André, 82-84.
Sneyd, Honora, betrothed to André, 40;
marries Richard Lovell Edgeworth, and death of, 41.
Sparks, Dr., on André, 64.
Spies, character of, defined, iii.
Sprague, Rev. W.B., 68.
Stanley, Rev. Arthur Penrhyn, Dean of Westminster, visits the place of
André's execution, 110;
writes an inscription for a memorial-stone placed on the spot--letter
to Mr. Whittemore concerning the inscription, 112;
inscription by, 115.
Stuart's biography of Hale, 28.
T
Tallmadge, Benjamin, and Nathan Hale, at college, 7;
pronounces André a spy, 90;
custodian of and frank conversation with André, 98.
Tappaan, allusion to, in "The Cow-Chase," 69;
André taken to, 99;
André executed near, 103;
memorial-stone near, erected by Mr. Field, 113;
indignation meeting at, 119.
Tarrytown, monument at, 119-121.
Thacher, Dr., on André's execution, 105, 106.
Tilden, Samuel J., presides at the dedication of a monument at
Tarrytown, 121.
U
Union Grammar-School at New London taught by Hale, 7.
V
Van Wart, Isaac, a captor of André, 85-87.
_Vulture_, the, sloop-of-war, bears André up the Hudson River, 81.
W
Washington asks and receives instructions from Congress, 11, 12;
at Murray's house, 12;
instructions of, for obtaining information, 12;
calls a council of war--desires a trustworthy man for secret
service, 13;
in conference with French officers, 79;
at West Point and Arnold's quarters--discovers Arnold's
treason--kindness to Mrs. Arnold, 96, 97.
Watson, J.F., and relics of the _Mischianza_, 48 (_note_).
Wayne, General Anthony, expedition of, 67.
Webb, Colonel Charles, 9.
West Point, surrender of, contemplated, 67;
and arranged for, 79, 80.
Wharton, Thomas, house of, the scene of the _Mischianza_, 46.
Whittemore, Henry, and the Field memorial-stone at Tappaan, 111-113.
Willard, Solomon, architect of the Bunker Hill Monument, 27.
Williams, David, a captor of André, 85.
Williams, Colonel, gives a dinner-party to Sir Henry Clinton, 80.
Windt, John de, 99 (_note_).
Wood, E.S., sculptor, 34 (_note_).
Wright, Ansel, Hale's trusty servant, 15.
Y
"Yankee Doodle's Expedition to Rhode Island," by André, 61.
Yerks, John, a captor of André, 85.
York, Duke of, causes the remains of André to be removed to England,
106 (_note_);
sends a snuff-box to Rev. J. Demorest, 108.
Monody on Major André, 135.
André's letters to Miss Seward, 152.
THE END.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Two Spies, by Benson J. Lossing and Anna Seward