I replied that I was most
grateful
-- that I owed it to Major
André that I had not long ago endured the fate which was now
to be his.
André that I had not long ago endured the fate which was now
to be his.
Warner - World's Best Literature - v17 - Mai to Mom
His death-like whiteness at this time brought out the
regular beauty of his features, as his usual ruddiness of color
never did. I have since seen strong men near to certain death,
but I recall no one who, with a serene and untroubled visage,
was yet as white as was this gentleman.
The captain did not present me; and for a moment I stood
with a kind of choking in the throat, which came, I suppose, of
the great shock André's appearance gave me. He was thus the
first to speak.
“Pardon me,” he said as he rose: “the name escaped me. ”
“Mr. Hugh Wynne,” I said, getting myself pulled together -
it was much needed.
"O Wynne! ” he cried quite joyously: "I did not know you.
How delightful to see a friend; how good of you to come! Sit
down. Our accommodations are slight. Thanks to his Excel-
lency, here are Madeira and Hollands: may I offer you a
glass ? »
“No, no," I said, as we took chairs by the fire; on which he
cast a log, remarking how cold it was. Then he added:
"Well, Wynne, what can I do for you ? ” And then, smiling,
Pshaw! what a thing is habit! What can I do for you, or
indeed, my dear Wynne, for any one ? But Lord! I am as glad
as a child. ”
It was all so sweet and natural that I was again quite over-
come.
“My God! ” I cried, I am so sorry, Mr. André! I came down
from King's Ferry in haste when I heard of this, and have been
three days getting leave to see you. I have never forgotten your
great kindness at the Mischianza. If there be any service I can
render you, I am come to offer it. ”
He smiled and said, “How strange is fate, Mr. Wynne!
Here am I in the same sad trap in which you might have been.
I was thinking this very evening of your happier escape. ” Then
he went on to tell me that he had instantly recognized me at
the ball, and also — what in my confusion at the time I did not
## p. 10132 (#560) ##########################################
10132
S. WEIR MITCHELL
hear - that Miss Peniston had cried out as she was about to
faint, "No, no, Mr. André! » Afterward he had wondered at
what seemed an appeal to him rather than to my cousin.
At last he said it would be a relief to him if he might speak
to me out of ear-shot of the officers. I said as much to these
gentlemen; and after a moment's hesitation, they retired outside
of the still open doorway of the room, leaving us freer to say
what we pleased. He was quiet, and as always, courteous to a
fault; but I did not fail to observe that at times, as we talked
and he spoke a word of his mother, his eyes filled with tears.
In general he was far more composed than I.
He said:-"Mr. Wynne, I have writ a letter, which I am
allowed to send to General Washington. Will you see that he
has it in person ? It asks that I may die a soldier's death. All
else is done. My mother — but no matter. I have wound up
my earthly affairs. I am assured, through the kindness of his
Excellency, that my letters and effects will reach my friends and
those who are still closer to me. I had hoped to see Mr. Hamil-
ton to-night, that I might ask him to deliver to your chief the
letter I now give you. But he has not yet returned, and I must
trust it to you to make sure that it does not fail to be consid-
ered. That is all, I think. ”
I said I would do my best, and was there no more - no
errand of confidence – nothing else?
"No," he replied thoughtfully; "no, I think not.
,
(I
I shall
never forget your kindness. Then he smiled and added, "My
never' is a brief day for me, Wynne, unless God permits us to
remember in the world where I shall be to-morrow. ”
I hardly recall what answer I made. I was ready to cry
like a child, He went on to bid me say to the good Attorney.
General Chew that he had not forgotten his pleasant hospitalities;
and he sent also some amiable message to the women of his
house, and to my aunt, and to the Shippens, speaking with the
ease and unrestraint of a man who looks to meet you at dinner
next week, and merely says a brief good-by.
I promised to charge myself with his messages, and said at
last that many officers desired me to express to him their sorrow
at his unhappy situation; and that all men thought it hard that
the life of an honest soldier was to be taken in place of that of
a villain and coward, who, if he had an atom of honor, would
give himself up.
(
(
)
## p. 10133 (#561) ##########################################
S. WEIR MITCHELL
10133
»
“May I beg of you, sir,” he returned, "to thank these gentle-
I
men of your army? 'Tis all I can do: and as to General Arnold
- no, Wynne, he is not one to do that; I could not expect it. ”
Before I rose to go on his errand I said, - and I was a little
embarrassed, - “May I be pardoned, sir, if I put to you a quite
personal question ? »
"Assuredly,” he returned. «What is it, and how can a poor
devil in my situation oblige you? ”
I said: "I have but of late learned that the exchanges were
all settled when I met my cousin Arthur Wynne at Amboy.
Could it have been that the letter I bore had anything to do
with this treason of General Arnold ? Within a day or two this
thought has come to me. ”
Seeing that he hesitated, I added, “Do not answer me unless
you see fit: it is a matter quite personal to myself. ”
"No," he replied: "I see no reason why I should not. Yes,
it was the first of the letters sent to Sir Henry over General
Arnold's signature. Your cousin suggested you as a messenger,
whose undoubted position and name would insure the safe car-
riage of what meant more to us than its mere contents seemed
to imply. Other messengers had become unsafe; it was needful
at once to find a certain way to reply to us.
The letter you
bore was such as an officer might carry, as it dealt seemingly
with nothing beyond questions of exchange of prisoners. For
these reasons, on a hint from Captain Wynne, you were selected
as a person beyond suspicion. I was ill at the time, as I believe
Mr. Wynne told you. "
“It is only too plain,” said I. It must have been well
known at our headquarters in Jersey that this exchange business
was long since settled. Had I been overhauled by any shrewd
or suspicious officer, the letter might well have excited doubt and
have led to inquiry. ”
“Probably: that was why you were chosen, -as a man of
known character. By the way, sir, I did not know of the selec-
tion, nor how it came about, until my recovery.
I had no part
in it. ”
I thanked him for thus telling me of his having no share in
the matter.
« You were ordered,” he continued, “as I recall it, to avoid
your main army in the Jerseys: you can now see why. There
is no need of further concealment. ”
»
(
a
## p. 10134 (#562) ##########################################
IO134
S. WEIR MITCHELL
It was clear enough. "I owe you,” I said, “my excuses for
intruding a business so personal. "
"And why not? I am glad to serve you.
It is rather a
relief, sir, to talk of something else than my own hopeless case.
Is there anything else? Pray, go on: I am at your service. ”
“ You are most kind. I have but one word to add: Arthur
Wynne was nay, must have been — deep in this business ? »
"Ah, now you have asked too much,” he replied; “but it is I
who am to blame. I had no right to name Captain Wynne. ”
“You must not feel uneasy. I owe him no love, Mr. André;
but I will take care that you do not suffer. His suggestion that
.
I should be made use of, put in peril not my life but my honor.
It is not to my interest that the matter should ever get noised
abroad. "
"I see,” he said. « Your cousin must be a strange person.
Do with what I have said as seems right to you. I shall be - or
rather,” and he smiled quite cheerfully, "I am content. One's
grammar forgets to-morrow sometimes. )
His ease and quiet seemed to me amazing. But it was getting
late, and I said I must go at once.
As I was in act to leave, he took my hand and said: There
are no thanks a man about to die can give that I do not offer
you, Mr. Wynne. Be assured your visit has helped me. It is
much to see the face of a friend. All men have been good to
me and kind, and none more so than his Excellency.
If to-
morrow I could see, as I go to death, one face I have known in
happier hours
it is much to ask — I may count on you, I am
sure. Ah, I see I can! And my letter you will be sure to do
your best ? »
(
“Yes,” I said, not trusting myself to speak further, and only
adding, “Good-by," as I wrung his hand. Then I went out into
the cold October starlight.
It was long after ten when I found Hamilton. I told him
briefly of my interview, and asked if it would be possible for me
to deliver in person to the general Mr. André's letter. I had in
fact that on my mind, which, if but a crude product of despair,
I yet did wish to say where alone it might help or be consid-
ered.
Hamilton shook his head. “I have so troubled his Excellency
as to this poor fellow that I fear I can do no more. Men who
do not know my chief cannot imagine the distress of heart this
c
## p. 10135 (#563) ##########################################
S. WEIR MITCHELL
10135
business has caused. I do not mean, Wynne, that he has or had
the least indecision concerning the sentence, but I can tell you
this,- the signature of approval of the court's finding is tremu-
lous and unlike his usual writing. We will talk of this again.
Will you wait at my quarters ? I will do my best for you. ”
I said I would take a pipe, and walk on the road at the foot
of the slope below the house in which Washington resided. With
this he left me.
The night was clear and beautiful; from the low hills far and
near the camp bugle-calls and the sound of horses neighing filled
the air. Uneasy and restless, I walked to and fro up and down
the road below the little farm-house. Once or twice I fancied I
saw the tall figure of the chief pass across the window-panes. A
hundred yards away was the house I had just left. There sat
a gallant gentleman awaiting death. Here, in the house above
me, was he in whose hands lay his fate. I pitied him too, and
wondered if in his place I could be sternly just. At my feet the
little brook babbled in the night, while the camp noises slowly
died away. Meantime, intent on my purpose, I tried to arrange
in my mind what I would say, or how plead a lost cause. I have
often thus prearranged the mode of saying what some serious
occasion made needful. I always get ready; but when the time
comes I am apt to say things altogether different, and to find,
too, that the wisdom of the minute is apt to be the better wis-
dom.
At last I saw Hamilton approaching me through the gloom.
“Come,” he said. “His Excellency will see you, but I fear it
will be of no use. He himself would agree to a change in the
form of death; but Generals Greene and Sullivan are strongly of
opinion that to do so in the present state of exasperation would
be unwise and impolitic. I cannot say what I should do were
I he. I am glad, Wynne, that it is not I who have to decide. I
lose my sense of the equities of life in the face of so sad a busi-
At least I would give him a gentleman's death.
erals who tried the case say that to condemn a man as a spy, and
not at last to deal with him as Hale was dealt with, would be
impolitic, and unfair to men who were as gallant as the poor
fellow in yonder farm-house. ”
« It is only too clear,” I said.
“Yes, they are right, I suppose; but it is a horrible business. ”
ness.
The gen-
## p. 10136 (#564) ##########################################
10136
S. WEIR MITCHELL
As we discussed, I went with him past the sentinels around
the old stone house and through a hall, and to left into a large
room.
« The general sleeps here,” Hamilton said in a lowered voice.
“We have but these two apartments; across the passage is his
dining-room, which he uses as his office. Wait here;” and so say-
ing, he left me. The room was large, some fifteen by eighteen
feet, and so low-ceiled that the Dutch builder had need to con-
trive a recess in the ceiling to permit of a place for the tall
Dutch clock he had brought from Holland. Around the chimney-
piece were Dutch tiles. Black Billy, the general's servant, sat
asleep in the corner, and two aides slumbered on the floor; tired
out, I fancy. I walked to and fro over the creaking boards, and
watched the Dutch clock. As it struck eleven, the figure of
Time, seated below the dial, swung a scythe and turned a tiny
hour-glass. A bell rang; an orderly came in and woke up an
aide: «Dispatch for West Point, sir, in haste. ” The young fel-
”
low groaned, stuck the paper in his belt, and went out for his
long night ride.
At last my friend returned. « The general will see you pres-
ently, Wynne; but it is a useless errand. Give me André's let- .
ter. ” With this he left me again, and I continued my impatient
walk. In a quarter of an hour he came back. Come,” said he:
“I have done my best, but I have failed as I expected to fail.
Speak your mind freely; he likes frankness. ” I went after him,
and in a moment was in the farther room and alone with the
chief.
A huge fire of logs blazed on the great kitchen hearth; and
at a table covered with maps and papers, neatly set in order, the
general sat 'writing.
He looked up, and with quiet courtesy said, “Take a seat,
Captain Wynne. I must be held excused for a little. I bowed
and sat down, while he continued to write.
His pen moved slowly, and he paused at times, and then
went on apparently with the utmost deliberation. I was favor-
ably placed to watch him without appearing to do so, his face
being strongly lighted by the candles in front of him. He was
dressed with his usual care, in a buff waistcoat and a blue-and-
buff uniform, with powdered hair drawn back to a queue and
carefully tied with black ribbon.
»
C
## p. 10137 (#565) ##########################################
S. WEIR MITCHELL
10137
-
The face, with its light blue eyes, ruddy cheeks, and rather
heavy nose above a strong jaw, was now grave, and I thought,
stern. At least a half-hour went by before he pushed back his
chair and looked up.
I am fortunate as regards this conversation, since on my re-
turn I set it down in a diary; which, however, has many gaps,
and is elsewhere incomplete.
“Captain Wynne,” he said, “I have refused to see several
gentlemen in regard to this sad business; but I learn that Mr.
André was your friend, and I have not forgotten your aunt's
timely aid at a moment when it was sorely needed. For these
reasons, and at the earnest request of Captain Hamilton and the
marquis, I am willing to listen to you. May I ask you to be
brief ? »
He spoke slowly, as if weighing his words.
I replied that I was most grateful -- that I owed it to Major
André that I had not long ago endured the fate which was now
to be his.
“Permit me, sir,” he said, to ask when this occurred. ”
I replied that it was when, at his Excellency's desire, I had
entered Philadelphia as a spy; and then I went on briefly to re-
late what had happened.
“Sir,” he returned, "you owed your danger to folly, not to
what your duty brought. You were false, for the time, to that
duty. But this does not concern us now. It may have served as
a lesson, and I am free to admit that you did your country a
great service. What now can I do for you? As to this unhappy
gentleman, his fate is out of my hands. I have read the letter
which Captain Hamilton gave me. ” As he spoke, he took it
from the table and deliberately read it again, while I watched
him. Then he laid it down and looked up. I saw that his big
patient eyes were over-full as he spoke.
"I regret, sir, to have to refuse this most natural request; I
have told Mr. Hamilton that it is not to be thought of. Neither
shall I reply. It is not fitting that I should do so, nor is it
necessary or even proper that I assign reasons which must
already be plain to every man of sense.
Is that all ? »
I said, “Your Excellency, may I ask but a minute more ?
"I am at your disposal, sir, for so long. What is it ? »
I hesitated, and I suspect, showed plainly in my face my
doubt as to the propriety of what was most on my mind when I
>
## p. 10138 (#566) ##########################################
10138
S. WEIR MITCHELL
(
sought this interview. He instantly guessed that I was embar-
rassed, and said with the gentlest manner and a slight smile:-
"Ah, Mr. Wynne, there is nothing which can be done to save
your friend, nor indeed to alter his fate; but if you desire to say
more, do not hesitate. You have suffered much for the cause
which is dear to us both. Go on, sir. ”
Thus encouraged, I said: "If on any pretext the execution
can be delayed a week, I am ready to go with a friend” – I
counted on Jack — "to enter New York in disguise, and to bring
out General Arnold. I have been his aide, I know all his habits,
and I am confident that we shall succeed if only I can control
near New York a detachment of tried men. I have thought over
my plan, and am willing to risk my life upon it. ”
“You propose a gallant venture, sir, but it would be certain
to fail; the service would lose another brave man, and I should
seem to have been wanting in decision for no just or assignable
cause. ”
I was profoundly disappointed; and in the grief of my failure
I forgot for a moment the august presence which imposed on all
men the respect which no sovereign could have inspired.
"My God! sir,” I exclaimed, "and this traitor must live
unpunished, and a man who did but what he believed to be his
duty must suffer a death of shame! ” Then, half scared, I looked
up, feeling that I had said too much. He had risen before I
spoke, - meaning, no doubt, to bring my visit to an end; and
was standing with his back to the fire, his admirable figure giv-
ing the impression of greater height than was really his.
When, after my passionate speech, I looked up, having of
course also risen, his face wore a look that was more solemn
than any face of man I have ever yet seen in all my length of
years.
“There is a God, Mr. Wynne," he said, "who punishes the
traitor. Let us leave this man to the shame which every year
must bring. Your scheme I cannot consider. I have no wish to
conceal from you or from any gentleman what it has cost me
to do that which, as God lives, I believe to be right. You, sir,
have done your duty to your friend. And now, may I ask of
you not to prolong a too painful interview ? »
I bowed, saying, "I cannot thank your Excellency too much
for the kindness with which you have listened to a rash young
man. ”
## p. 10139 (#567) ##########################################
S. WEIR MITCHELL
10139
son
>
"You have said nothing, sir, which does not do you honor.
Make my humble compliments to Mistress Wynne. ”
I bowed, and backing a pace or two, was about to leave, when
he said,
Permit me to detain you a moment. Ask Mr. Harri-
the secretary to come to me. ”
I obeyed; and then in some wonder stood still, waiting.
"Mr. Harrison, fetch me Captain Wynne's papers. ” A moment
later he sat down, again wrote the free signature, “Geo Wash-
ington,” at the foot of a parchment, and gave it to me, saying,
“That boy Hamilton has been troubling me for a month about
this business. The commission is but now come to hand from
Congress. You will report, at your early convenience, as major,
to the colonel of the Third Pennsylvania foot; I hope it will
gratify your aunt. Ah, Captain Hamilton,” for here the favor-
ite aide entered, “I have just signed Mr. Wynne's commission. ”
Then he put a hand affectionately on the shoulder of the small,
slight figure. “You will see that the orders are all given for the
execution at noon. Not less than eighty files from each wing
must attend. See that none of my staff be present, and that this
house be kept closed to-morrow until night. I shall transact no
business that is not such as to ask instant attention. See, in any
case, that I am alone from eleven until one. Good evening, Mr.
Wynne; I hope that you will shortly honor me with your com-
pany at dinner. Pray remember it, Mr. Hamilton. ”
I bowed and went out, overcome with the kindliness of this
great and noble gentleman.
“He likes young men,” said Hamilton to me long afterward.
“An old officer would have been sent away with small com-
fort. ”
It was now late in the night; and thinking to compose myself,
I walked up and down the road, and at last past the Dutch
church, and up the hill between rows of huts and rarer tents. It
was a clear starlit night, and the noises of the great camp were
for the most part stilled. A gentle slope carried me up the hill,
back of André's prison, and at the top I came out on a space
clear of these camp homes, and stood awhile under the quiet of
the star-peopled sky. I lighted my pipe with help of flint and
steel, and walking to and fro, set myself resolutely to calm the
storm of trouble and helpless dismay in which I had been for
two weary days. At last, as I turned in my walk, I came on
two upright posts with a cross-beam above. It was the gallows.
)
## p. 10140 (#568) ##########################################
10140
S. WEIR MITCHELL
I moved away horror-stricken, and with swift steps went down
the hill and regained Jack's quarters.
Of the horrible scene at noon on the 2d of October I shall
say very little. A too early death never took from earth a more
amiable and accomplished soldier. I asked and had leave to
stand by the door as he came out. He paused, very white in his
scarlet coat, smiled, and said, “Thank you, Wynne; God bless
you! ” and went on, recognizing with a bow the members of the
court, and so with a firm step to his ignoble death. As I had
promised, I fell in behind the sad procession to the top of the
hill. No fairer scene could a man look upon for his last of earth.
The green range of the Piermont hills rose to north. On all
sides, near and far, was the splendor of the autumn-tinted woods,
and to west the land swept downward past the headquarters to
where the cliffs rose above the Hudson. I can see it all now
the loveliness of nature, the waiting thousands, mute and pitiful
I shut my eyes and prayed for this passing soul. A deathful
stillness came upon the assembled multitude. I heard Colonel
Scammel read the sentence. Then there was the rumble of the
cart, a low murmur broke forth, and the sound of moving steps
was heard.
It was over. The great assemblage of farmers and
soldiers went away strangely silent, and many in tears.
The effort I so earnestly desired to make for the capture of
Arnold was afterward made by Sergeant Champe, but failed, as
all men now know. Yet I am honestly of opinion that I should
have succeeded.
Years afterward, I was walking along the Strand in London,
when, looking up, I saw a man and woman approaching. It was
Arnold with his wife. His face was thin and wasted, a counte-
nance writ over with gloom and disappointment. His masculine
vigor was gone. Cain could have borne no plainer marks of vain
remorse. He looked straight before him. As I crossed the way,
with no desire to meet him, I saw the woman look up at him; a
strange, melancholy sweetness in the pale, worn face of our once
beautiful Margaret. Her love was all that time had left him;
poor, broken, shunned, insulted, he was fast going to his grave.
Where now he lies I know not. Did he repent with bitter tears
on that gentle breast? God only knows. I walked on through
the crowded street, and thought of the words of my great chief,
“There is a God who punishes the traitor. ”
## p. 10141 (#569) ##########################################
S. WEIR MITCHELL
10141
[The following poems are all copyrighted by S. Weir Mitchell, and are re-
printed by permission of the Century Company, publishers. ]
LINCOLN
C"
HAINED by stern duty to the rock of State,
His spirit armed in mail of rugged mirth,
Ever above, though ever near to earth,
Yet felt his heart the cruel tongues that sate
Base appetites, and foul with slander, wait
Till the keen lightnings bring the awful hour
When wounds and suffering shall give them power.
Most was he like to Luther, gay and great,
Solemn and mirthful, strong of heart and limb.
Tender and simple too; he was so near
To all things human that he cast out fear,
And, ever simpler, like a little child,
Lived in unconscious nearness unto Him
Who always on earth's little ones hath smiled.
DREAMLAND
U"
PANCHOR! l'p anchor!
Set sail and away!
The ventures of dreamland
Are thine for a day.
Yo, heave ho!
Aloft and alow
Elf sailors are singing
Yo, heave ho!
The breeze that is blowing
So sturdily strong
Shall fill up thy sail
With the breath of a song.
A fay at the mast-head
Keeps watch o'er the sea;
Blown amber of tresses
Thy banner shall be ;
Thy freight the lost laughter
That sad souls have missed,
Thy cargo the kisses
That never were kissed.
And ho, for a fay maid
Born merry in June,
## p. 10142 (#570) ##########################################
10142
S. WEIR MITCHELL
Of dainty red roses
Beneath a red moon.
The star-pearls that midnight
Casts down on the sea,
Dark gold of the sunset,
Her fortune shall be.
And ever she whispers,
More tenderly sweet,
“Love am I, love only,
Love perfect, complete.
The world is my lordship,
The heart is my slave;
I mock at the ages,
I laugh at the grave.
Wilt sail with me ever
A dream-haunted sea,
Whose whispering waters
Shall murmur to thee
The love-haunted lyrics
Dead poets have made
Ere life had a fetter,
Ere love was afraid ? »
Then up with the anchor!
Set sail and away!
The ventures of loveland
Are thine for a day.
SONG
From Francis Drake)
I
WOULD I were an English rose,
In England for to be:
The sweetest maid that Devon knows
Should pick and carry me.
To pluck my leaves be tender quick,
A fortune fair to prove,
And count in love's arithmetic
Thy pretty sum of love.
Oh, Devon's lanes be green o'ergrown,
And blithe her maidens be;
But there be some that walk alone,
And look across the sea.
## p. 10143 (#571) ##########################################
10143
MARY RUSSELL MITFORD
(1787-1855)
He best description of Miss Mitford is given by Mrs. Browning
in a letter to Mr. Horne, where she speaks of her as “our
friend of Three Mile Cross, who wears her heart upon her
sleeve' and shakes out its perfume at every moment. ” And indeed,
like the sun, Miss Mitford shone upon the just and the unjust: her
flowers, her dogs, her servants, neighbors and friends, her devoted
mother, and her handsome, graceless father, all shared alike her
sunny sweet-heartedness.
Mary Russell Mitford was born at Alres-
ford, in the town of Wither, England, De-
cember 16th, 1787, and began her career as
a writer in 1810, publishing then her first
volume, Miscellaneous Poems. In read-
ing the account of her life given in her
own letters, edited by Mr. L'Estrange, it is
impossible not to be touched by the reve-
lation of her pathetically cheerful struggle
to support her parents, as well as provoked
by her unfailing devotion to her good-for-
nothing father. Indeed, so deeply does her
love for him impress the reader, that at MARY R. MITFORD
last it comes near to protecting him from
criticism. Squandering first his own fortune, Dr. Mitford married
Miss Russell, a devoted woman, ten years his senior, whose friends
he proceeded to offend, and whose fortune he promptly dissipated.
At the first touch of pecuniary embarrassment he moved from Alres-
ford to Lynn Regis, where for one year they lived in the greatest
luxury. In Recollections of a Literary Life' Miss Mitford says:
“In that old historical town [Lynn Regis] I spent the eventful year
when the careless happiness of childhood vanished, and the troubles
of the world first dawned upon my heart.
Nobody told
me, but I felt,
I knew, I can't tell how, but I did know
that everything was to be parted with, and everybody paid. ” Then
follows a description of chests being carried away in the night by
faithful servants, and of a dreary journey for herself and her mother,
and of the first touch of dreadful poverty. Settled in lodgings in
London, this incredible father took his little daughter to buy a lottery
•
.
## p. 10144 (#572) ##########################################
10144
MARY RUSSELL MITFORD
»
ticket; she selected one whose added numbers made her age — ten
years — and would have none other. This ticket was bought, and
drew for Dr. Mitford twenty thousand pounds. Once more with a
fortune, he bought a place near Reading, — Bertram House, — and sent
his daughter, of whom he was excessively proud, to school in Lon-
don. It was while at Bertram House that Miss Mitford published her
first volume, following it in 1811 by Christine,' and other smaller
things. In 1820 they move from Bertram House into a tiny cot-
tage at Three Mile Cross, and from this time on it is one long
struggle for money. From this place are written Miss Mitford's most
charming letters, in which we read of her difficulties about her trage-
dies, and how, because of these difficulties, she took up another line
of work as less harassing, and began to write short sketches of the
life about her: sketches which Campbell refused as too light,- which
the world put next to Lamb's Essays, - and which, collected, made
(Our Village.
Between 1823 and 1828 three of her plays, Julien,' Foscari,' and
(Rienzi,' were put upon the stage by Macready and Kemble; “Our
Village' had an enormous success, and Miss Mitford was toasted
and made much of by all the world of London. But as her father
"played a very fine hand at whist,” she could never be very long
away from Three Mile Cross and her writing-table; and she goes
back quite cheerfully to a daily task of from seven to twelve hours
writing. Her work is most voluminous: including plays, poems, 'Dra-
matic Scenes,' (Stories of American Life,' — of which she could not
have known very much, — 'Stories for Children,' and in 1835 another
collection of sketches, called Belford Regis. ' Besides all this, she
contributed to newspapers, magazines, Amulets' and 'Forget-me-nots. '
and edited from 1838 to 1841 Finden's Tableaux; finishing her work
in 1852–4 with Recollections of a Literary Life,' and Atherton and
Other Tales. Driven by want and harassed by debt, she could not
produce much that would live; but the careful reader of Miss Mit-
ford's letters will never criticize Miss Mitford's failures. At Three
Mile Cross, after much ill health, her mother died, and later her
« beloved father); and here she lived until in 1850 the little house
began to fall to pieces; and she moved to Swallowfield, not very far
away, there to finish her life.
Miss Mitford tells us that she delighted in that sort of detail
which permits so intimate a familiarity with the subject of which it
treats,” — and she gives it to us in her work. She describes a cow-
slip ball so accurately that one smells the cowslips and helps her
to tie it; she makes us intimately acquainted with the spreading
hawthorn”; the shower pelts us in wetting her, and we change our
clothes too- or we long to do so— in order to sit down with her near
the fire. She loses her walking-stick, and we go back with her over
((
## p. 10145 (#573) ##########################################
MARY RUSSELL MITFORD
10145
»
the whole expedition to find it; it is a personal loss, and we are
much relieved when the children bring it home again. Frost comes;
and we are out under the solemn white avenue, looking at the “land-
scape of snow,” at the frozen weeds, and becoming friendly with the
little bird tamed by the cold, —“perched in the middle of the hedge,
nestling as it were among the cold bare boughs, seeking, poor pretty
thing, for the warmth it will not find. ” Then the description of the
thaw, not much more than a paragraph, - a dismal thaw, the dreari-
ness of which she fights against quite palpably, stopping so abruptly
that one is sure that she found it too forlorn to dwell upon safely.
But through all the sunny charm of her work, she is conscious of
the shadow of the hopeless struggle she is making; one knows that
she did not dare to tread too heavily on the thin ice of her happi-
ness, and one steps lightly along with her, and makes a conscious
effort to forget the father and his endless folly. When at last she is
alone in the world, and has to move from Three Mile Cross, she
says: “It was a great grief to go. I had associations with those old
walls which endeared them to me more than I can tell. There I
had toiled and striven, and tasted of as bitter anxiety, of fear and
of hope, as often falls to the lot of women. There in the fullness
of age I had lost those whose love had made my home sweet and
precious. ” And one longs to step back fifty years and maul that
delinquent father; not so much, perhaps, because he was selfish, as
because she loved him so. But in the next paragraph her invincible
cheerfulness again comes to the front, and we begin to like Swallow-
field almost as much as Three Mile Cross. A brave soul was Miss
Mitford; and a strange contrast to her beloved young friend” Eliza-
beth Barrett, who in the depth of ease and luxury nursed the one
grief of her life, as if it were the only specimen of sorrow in the
world. A brave and sturdy soul; and her reward is immortality for
the flower that sprang from her heroic self-abnegation-immortality
for her humble home, Our Village. '
THE NEIGHBORHOOD
From Our Village)
O"
F All situations for a constant residence, that which appears
to me most delightful is a little village far in the country;
a small neighborhood, not of fine mansions finely peopled,
but of cottages and cottage-like houses, "messuages or tene-
ments,” as a friend of mine calls such ignoble and nondescript
XVII-635
## p. 10146 (#574) ##########################################
10146
MARY RUSSELL MITFORD
dwellings, with inhabitants whose faces are as familiar to us as
the flowers in our garden; a little world of our own, close-packed
and insulated like ants in an ant-hill, or bees in a hive, or sheep
in a fold, or nuns in a convent, or sailors in a ship; where we
know every one, are known to every one, interested in every one,
and authorized to hope that every one feels an interest in us.
How pleasant it is to slide into these true-hearted feelings from
the kindly and unconscious influence of habit, and to learn to
know and to love the people about us, with all their peculiarities,
just as we learn to know and to love the nooks and turns of the
shady lanes and sunny commons that we pass every day. Even
in books I like confined locality, and so do the critics when they
talk of the unities. Nothing is so tiresome as to be whirled
half over Europe at the chariot-wheels of a hero, to go to sleep
at Vienna and awaken at Madrid; it produces a real fatigue, a
weariness of spirit. On the other hand, nothing is so delightful
as to sit down in a country village in one of Miss Austen's deli-
cious novels, quite sure before we leave it to become intimate
with every spot and every person it contains; or to ramble with
Mr. White over his own parish of Selborne, and form a friendship
with the fields and coppices, as well as with the birds, mice,
squirrels, who inhabit them; or to sail with Robinson Crusoe to
his island, and live there with him and his goats and his man
Friday; — how much we dread any new-comers, any fresh import-
ation of savage or sailor! we never sympathize for a moment in
our hero's want of company, and are quite grieved when he gets
away; - or to be shipwrecked with Ferdinand on that other love.
lier island, - the island of Prospero, and Miranda, and Caliban,
and Ariel, and nobody else, none of Dryden's exotic inventions,-
that is best of all. And a small neighborhood is as good in sober
waking reality as in poetry or prose; a village neighborhood, such
as this Berkshire hamlet in which I write, - a long, straggling,
winding street at the bottom of a fine eminence, with a road
through it, always abounding in carts, horsemen, and carriages,
and lately enlivened by a stage-coach from B- to S—, which
passed through about ten days ago, and will I suppose return
some time or other. There are coaches of all varieties nowa.
days; perhaps this may be intended for a monthly diligence, or a
fortnightly fly. Will you walk with me through our village,
courteous reader? The journey is not long.
regular beauty of his features, as his usual ruddiness of color
never did. I have since seen strong men near to certain death,
but I recall no one who, with a serene and untroubled visage,
was yet as white as was this gentleman.
The captain did not present me; and for a moment I stood
with a kind of choking in the throat, which came, I suppose, of
the great shock André's appearance gave me. He was thus the
first to speak.
“Pardon me,” he said as he rose: “the name escaped me. ”
“Mr. Hugh Wynne,” I said, getting myself pulled together -
it was much needed.
"O Wynne! ” he cried quite joyously: "I did not know you.
How delightful to see a friend; how good of you to come! Sit
down. Our accommodations are slight. Thanks to his Excel-
lency, here are Madeira and Hollands: may I offer you a
glass ? »
“No, no," I said, as we took chairs by the fire; on which he
cast a log, remarking how cold it was. Then he added:
"Well, Wynne, what can I do for you ? ” And then, smiling,
Pshaw! what a thing is habit! What can I do for you, or
indeed, my dear Wynne, for any one ? But Lord! I am as glad
as a child. ”
It was all so sweet and natural that I was again quite over-
come.
“My God! ” I cried, I am so sorry, Mr. André! I came down
from King's Ferry in haste when I heard of this, and have been
three days getting leave to see you. I have never forgotten your
great kindness at the Mischianza. If there be any service I can
render you, I am come to offer it. ”
He smiled and said, “How strange is fate, Mr. Wynne!
Here am I in the same sad trap in which you might have been.
I was thinking this very evening of your happier escape. ” Then
he went on to tell me that he had instantly recognized me at
the ball, and also — what in my confusion at the time I did not
## p. 10132 (#560) ##########################################
10132
S. WEIR MITCHELL
hear - that Miss Peniston had cried out as she was about to
faint, "No, no, Mr. André! » Afterward he had wondered at
what seemed an appeal to him rather than to my cousin.
At last he said it would be a relief to him if he might speak
to me out of ear-shot of the officers. I said as much to these
gentlemen; and after a moment's hesitation, they retired outside
of the still open doorway of the room, leaving us freer to say
what we pleased. He was quiet, and as always, courteous to a
fault; but I did not fail to observe that at times, as we talked
and he spoke a word of his mother, his eyes filled with tears.
In general he was far more composed than I.
He said:-"Mr. Wynne, I have writ a letter, which I am
allowed to send to General Washington. Will you see that he
has it in person ? It asks that I may die a soldier's death. All
else is done. My mother — but no matter. I have wound up
my earthly affairs. I am assured, through the kindness of his
Excellency, that my letters and effects will reach my friends and
those who are still closer to me. I had hoped to see Mr. Hamil-
ton to-night, that I might ask him to deliver to your chief the
letter I now give you. But he has not yet returned, and I must
trust it to you to make sure that it does not fail to be consid-
ered. That is all, I think. ”
I said I would do my best, and was there no more - no
errand of confidence – nothing else?
"No," he replied thoughtfully; "no, I think not.
,
(I
I shall
never forget your kindness. Then he smiled and added, "My
never' is a brief day for me, Wynne, unless God permits us to
remember in the world where I shall be to-morrow. ”
I hardly recall what answer I made. I was ready to cry
like a child, He went on to bid me say to the good Attorney.
General Chew that he had not forgotten his pleasant hospitalities;
and he sent also some amiable message to the women of his
house, and to my aunt, and to the Shippens, speaking with the
ease and unrestraint of a man who looks to meet you at dinner
next week, and merely says a brief good-by.
I promised to charge myself with his messages, and said at
last that many officers desired me to express to him their sorrow
at his unhappy situation; and that all men thought it hard that
the life of an honest soldier was to be taken in place of that of
a villain and coward, who, if he had an atom of honor, would
give himself up.
(
(
)
## p. 10133 (#561) ##########################################
S. WEIR MITCHELL
10133
»
“May I beg of you, sir,” he returned, "to thank these gentle-
I
men of your army? 'Tis all I can do: and as to General Arnold
- no, Wynne, he is not one to do that; I could not expect it. ”
Before I rose to go on his errand I said, - and I was a little
embarrassed, - “May I be pardoned, sir, if I put to you a quite
personal question ? »
"Assuredly,” he returned. «What is it, and how can a poor
devil in my situation oblige you? ”
I said: "I have but of late learned that the exchanges were
all settled when I met my cousin Arthur Wynne at Amboy.
Could it have been that the letter I bore had anything to do
with this treason of General Arnold ? Within a day or two this
thought has come to me. ”
Seeing that he hesitated, I added, “Do not answer me unless
you see fit: it is a matter quite personal to myself. ”
"No," he replied: "I see no reason why I should not. Yes,
it was the first of the letters sent to Sir Henry over General
Arnold's signature. Your cousin suggested you as a messenger,
whose undoubted position and name would insure the safe car-
riage of what meant more to us than its mere contents seemed
to imply. Other messengers had become unsafe; it was needful
at once to find a certain way to reply to us.
The letter you
bore was such as an officer might carry, as it dealt seemingly
with nothing beyond questions of exchange of prisoners. For
these reasons, on a hint from Captain Wynne, you were selected
as a person beyond suspicion. I was ill at the time, as I believe
Mr. Wynne told you. "
“It is only too plain,” said I. It must have been well
known at our headquarters in Jersey that this exchange business
was long since settled. Had I been overhauled by any shrewd
or suspicious officer, the letter might well have excited doubt and
have led to inquiry. ”
“Probably: that was why you were chosen, -as a man of
known character. By the way, sir, I did not know of the selec-
tion, nor how it came about, until my recovery.
I had no part
in it. ”
I thanked him for thus telling me of his having no share in
the matter.
« You were ordered,” he continued, “as I recall it, to avoid
your main army in the Jerseys: you can now see why. There
is no need of further concealment. ”
»
(
a
## p. 10134 (#562) ##########################################
IO134
S. WEIR MITCHELL
It was clear enough. "I owe you,” I said, “my excuses for
intruding a business so personal. "
"And why not? I am glad to serve you.
It is rather a
relief, sir, to talk of something else than my own hopeless case.
Is there anything else? Pray, go on: I am at your service. ”
“ You are most kind. I have but one word to add: Arthur
Wynne was nay, must have been — deep in this business ? »
"Ah, now you have asked too much,” he replied; “but it is I
who am to blame. I had no right to name Captain Wynne. ”
“You must not feel uneasy. I owe him no love, Mr. André;
but I will take care that you do not suffer. His suggestion that
.
I should be made use of, put in peril not my life but my honor.
It is not to my interest that the matter should ever get noised
abroad. "
"I see,” he said. « Your cousin must be a strange person.
Do with what I have said as seems right to you. I shall be - or
rather,” and he smiled quite cheerfully, "I am content. One's
grammar forgets to-morrow sometimes. )
His ease and quiet seemed to me amazing. But it was getting
late, and I said I must go at once.
As I was in act to leave, he took my hand and said: There
are no thanks a man about to die can give that I do not offer
you, Mr. Wynne. Be assured your visit has helped me. It is
much to see the face of a friend. All men have been good to
me and kind, and none more so than his Excellency.
If to-
morrow I could see, as I go to death, one face I have known in
happier hours
it is much to ask — I may count on you, I am
sure. Ah, I see I can! And my letter you will be sure to do
your best ? »
(
“Yes,” I said, not trusting myself to speak further, and only
adding, “Good-by," as I wrung his hand. Then I went out into
the cold October starlight.
It was long after ten when I found Hamilton. I told him
briefly of my interview, and asked if it would be possible for me
to deliver in person to the general Mr. André's letter. I had in
fact that on my mind, which, if but a crude product of despair,
I yet did wish to say where alone it might help or be consid-
ered.
Hamilton shook his head. “I have so troubled his Excellency
as to this poor fellow that I fear I can do no more. Men who
do not know my chief cannot imagine the distress of heart this
c
## p. 10135 (#563) ##########################################
S. WEIR MITCHELL
10135
business has caused. I do not mean, Wynne, that he has or had
the least indecision concerning the sentence, but I can tell you
this,- the signature of approval of the court's finding is tremu-
lous and unlike his usual writing. We will talk of this again.
Will you wait at my quarters ? I will do my best for you. ”
I said I would take a pipe, and walk on the road at the foot
of the slope below the house in which Washington resided. With
this he left me.
The night was clear and beautiful; from the low hills far and
near the camp bugle-calls and the sound of horses neighing filled
the air. Uneasy and restless, I walked to and fro up and down
the road below the little farm-house. Once or twice I fancied I
saw the tall figure of the chief pass across the window-panes. A
hundred yards away was the house I had just left. There sat
a gallant gentleman awaiting death. Here, in the house above
me, was he in whose hands lay his fate. I pitied him too, and
wondered if in his place I could be sternly just. At my feet the
little brook babbled in the night, while the camp noises slowly
died away. Meantime, intent on my purpose, I tried to arrange
in my mind what I would say, or how plead a lost cause. I have
often thus prearranged the mode of saying what some serious
occasion made needful. I always get ready; but when the time
comes I am apt to say things altogether different, and to find,
too, that the wisdom of the minute is apt to be the better wis-
dom.
At last I saw Hamilton approaching me through the gloom.
“Come,” he said. “His Excellency will see you, but I fear it
will be of no use. He himself would agree to a change in the
form of death; but Generals Greene and Sullivan are strongly of
opinion that to do so in the present state of exasperation would
be unwise and impolitic. I cannot say what I should do were
I he. I am glad, Wynne, that it is not I who have to decide. I
lose my sense of the equities of life in the face of so sad a busi-
At least I would give him a gentleman's death.
erals who tried the case say that to condemn a man as a spy, and
not at last to deal with him as Hale was dealt with, would be
impolitic, and unfair to men who were as gallant as the poor
fellow in yonder farm-house. ”
« It is only too clear,” I said.
“Yes, they are right, I suppose; but it is a horrible business. ”
ness.
The gen-
## p. 10136 (#564) ##########################################
10136
S. WEIR MITCHELL
As we discussed, I went with him past the sentinels around
the old stone house and through a hall, and to left into a large
room.
« The general sleeps here,” Hamilton said in a lowered voice.
“We have but these two apartments; across the passage is his
dining-room, which he uses as his office. Wait here;” and so say-
ing, he left me. The room was large, some fifteen by eighteen
feet, and so low-ceiled that the Dutch builder had need to con-
trive a recess in the ceiling to permit of a place for the tall
Dutch clock he had brought from Holland. Around the chimney-
piece were Dutch tiles. Black Billy, the general's servant, sat
asleep in the corner, and two aides slumbered on the floor; tired
out, I fancy. I walked to and fro over the creaking boards, and
watched the Dutch clock. As it struck eleven, the figure of
Time, seated below the dial, swung a scythe and turned a tiny
hour-glass. A bell rang; an orderly came in and woke up an
aide: «Dispatch for West Point, sir, in haste. ” The young fel-
”
low groaned, stuck the paper in his belt, and went out for his
long night ride.
At last my friend returned. « The general will see you pres-
ently, Wynne; but it is a useless errand. Give me André's let- .
ter. ” With this he left me again, and I continued my impatient
walk. In a quarter of an hour he came back. Come,” said he:
“I have done my best, but I have failed as I expected to fail.
Speak your mind freely; he likes frankness. ” I went after him,
and in a moment was in the farther room and alone with the
chief.
A huge fire of logs blazed on the great kitchen hearth; and
at a table covered with maps and papers, neatly set in order, the
general sat 'writing.
He looked up, and with quiet courtesy said, “Take a seat,
Captain Wynne. I must be held excused for a little. I bowed
and sat down, while he continued to write.
His pen moved slowly, and he paused at times, and then
went on apparently with the utmost deliberation. I was favor-
ably placed to watch him without appearing to do so, his face
being strongly lighted by the candles in front of him. He was
dressed with his usual care, in a buff waistcoat and a blue-and-
buff uniform, with powdered hair drawn back to a queue and
carefully tied with black ribbon.
»
C
## p. 10137 (#565) ##########################################
S. WEIR MITCHELL
10137
-
The face, with its light blue eyes, ruddy cheeks, and rather
heavy nose above a strong jaw, was now grave, and I thought,
stern. At least a half-hour went by before he pushed back his
chair and looked up.
I am fortunate as regards this conversation, since on my re-
turn I set it down in a diary; which, however, has many gaps,
and is elsewhere incomplete.
“Captain Wynne,” he said, “I have refused to see several
gentlemen in regard to this sad business; but I learn that Mr.
André was your friend, and I have not forgotten your aunt's
timely aid at a moment when it was sorely needed. For these
reasons, and at the earnest request of Captain Hamilton and the
marquis, I am willing to listen to you. May I ask you to be
brief ? »
He spoke slowly, as if weighing his words.
I replied that I was most grateful -- that I owed it to Major
André that I had not long ago endured the fate which was now
to be his.
“Permit me, sir,” he said, to ask when this occurred. ”
I replied that it was when, at his Excellency's desire, I had
entered Philadelphia as a spy; and then I went on briefly to re-
late what had happened.
“Sir,” he returned, "you owed your danger to folly, not to
what your duty brought. You were false, for the time, to that
duty. But this does not concern us now. It may have served as
a lesson, and I am free to admit that you did your country a
great service. What now can I do for you? As to this unhappy
gentleman, his fate is out of my hands. I have read the letter
which Captain Hamilton gave me. ” As he spoke, he took it
from the table and deliberately read it again, while I watched
him. Then he laid it down and looked up. I saw that his big
patient eyes were over-full as he spoke.
"I regret, sir, to have to refuse this most natural request; I
have told Mr. Hamilton that it is not to be thought of. Neither
shall I reply. It is not fitting that I should do so, nor is it
necessary or even proper that I assign reasons which must
already be plain to every man of sense.
Is that all ? »
I said, “Your Excellency, may I ask but a minute more ?
"I am at your disposal, sir, for so long. What is it ? »
I hesitated, and I suspect, showed plainly in my face my
doubt as to the propriety of what was most on my mind when I
>
## p. 10138 (#566) ##########################################
10138
S. WEIR MITCHELL
(
sought this interview. He instantly guessed that I was embar-
rassed, and said with the gentlest manner and a slight smile:-
"Ah, Mr. Wynne, there is nothing which can be done to save
your friend, nor indeed to alter his fate; but if you desire to say
more, do not hesitate. You have suffered much for the cause
which is dear to us both. Go on, sir. ”
Thus encouraged, I said: "If on any pretext the execution
can be delayed a week, I am ready to go with a friend” – I
counted on Jack — "to enter New York in disguise, and to bring
out General Arnold. I have been his aide, I know all his habits,
and I am confident that we shall succeed if only I can control
near New York a detachment of tried men. I have thought over
my plan, and am willing to risk my life upon it. ”
“You propose a gallant venture, sir, but it would be certain
to fail; the service would lose another brave man, and I should
seem to have been wanting in decision for no just or assignable
cause. ”
I was profoundly disappointed; and in the grief of my failure
I forgot for a moment the august presence which imposed on all
men the respect which no sovereign could have inspired.
"My God! sir,” I exclaimed, "and this traitor must live
unpunished, and a man who did but what he believed to be his
duty must suffer a death of shame! ” Then, half scared, I looked
up, feeling that I had said too much. He had risen before I
spoke, - meaning, no doubt, to bring my visit to an end; and
was standing with his back to the fire, his admirable figure giv-
ing the impression of greater height than was really his.
When, after my passionate speech, I looked up, having of
course also risen, his face wore a look that was more solemn
than any face of man I have ever yet seen in all my length of
years.
“There is a God, Mr. Wynne," he said, "who punishes the
traitor. Let us leave this man to the shame which every year
must bring. Your scheme I cannot consider. I have no wish to
conceal from you or from any gentleman what it has cost me
to do that which, as God lives, I believe to be right. You, sir,
have done your duty to your friend. And now, may I ask of
you not to prolong a too painful interview ? »
I bowed, saying, "I cannot thank your Excellency too much
for the kindness with which you have listened to a rash young
man. ”
## p. 10139 (#567) ##########################################
S. WEIR MITCHELL
10139
son
>
"You have said nothing, sir, which does not do you honor.
Make my humble compliments to Mistress Wynne. ”
I bowed, and backing a pace or two, was about to leave, when
he said,
Permit me to detain you a moment. Ask Mr. Harri-
the secretary to come to me. ”
I obeyed; and then in some wonder stood still, waiting.
"Mr. Harrison, fetch me Captain Wynne's papers. ” A moment
later he sat down, again wrote the free signature, “Geo Wash-
ington,” at the foot of a parchment, and gave it to me, saying,
“That boy Hamilton has been troubling me for a month about
this business. The commission is but now come to hand from
Congress. You will report, at your early convenience, as major,
to the colonel of the Third Pennsylvania foot; I hope it will
gratify your aunt. Ah, Captain Hamilton,” for here the favor-
ite aide entered, “I have just signed Mr. Wynne's commission. ”
Then he put a hand affectionately on the shoulder of the small,
slight figure. “You will see that the orders are all given for the
execution at noon. Not less than eighty files from each wing
must attend. See that none of my staff be present, and that this
house be kept closed to-morrow until night. I shall transact no
business that is not such as to ask instant attention. See, in any
case, that I am alone from eleven until one. Good evening, Mr.
Wynne; I hope that you will shortly honor me with your com-
pany at dinner. Pray remember it, Mr. Hamilton. ”
I bowed and went out, overcome with the kindliness of this
great and noble gentleman.
“He likes young men,” said Hamilton to me long afterward.
“An old officer would have been sent away with small com-
fort. ”
It was now late in the night; and thinking to compose myself,
I walked up and down the road, and at last past the Dutch
church, and up the hill between rows of huts and rarer tents. It
was a clear starlit night, and the noises of the great camp were
for the most part stilled. A gentle slope carried me up the hill,
back of André's prison, and at the top I came out on a space
clear of these camp homes, and stood awhile under the quiet of
the star-peopled sky. I lighted my pipe with help of flint and
steel, and walking to and fro, set myself resolutely to calm the
storm of trouble and helpless dismay in which I had been for
two weary days. At last, as I turned in my walk, I came on
two upright posts with a cross-beam above. It was the gallows.
)
## p. 10140 (#568) ##########################################
10140
S. WEIR MITCHELL
I moved away horror-stricken, and with swift steps went down
the hill and regained Jack's quarters.
Of the horrible scene at noon on the 2d of October I shall
say very little. A too early death never took from earth a more
amiable and accomplished soldier. I asked and had leave to
stand by the door as he came out. He paused, very white in his
scarlet coat, smiled, and said, “Thank you, Wynne; God bless
you! ” and went on, recognizing with a bow the members of the
court, and so with a firm step to his ignoble death. As I had
promised, I fell in behind the sad procession to the top of the
hill. No fairer scene could a man look upon for his last of earth.
The green range of the Piermont hills rose to north. On all
sides, near and far, was the splendor of the autumn-tinted woods,
and to west the land swept downward past the headquarters to
where the cliffs rose above the Hudson. I can see it all now
the loveliness of nature, the waiting thousands, mute and pitiful
I shut my eyes and prayed for this passing soul. A deathful
stillness came upon the assembled multitude. I heard Colonel
Scammel read the sentence. Then there was the rumble of the
cart, a low murmur broke forth, and the sound of moving steps
was heard.
It was over. The great assemblage of farmers and
soldiers went away strangely silent, and many in tears.
The effort I so earnestly desired to make for the capture of
Arnold was afterward made by Sergeant Champe, but failed, as
all men now know. Yet I am honestly of opinion that I should
have succeeded.
Years afterward, I was walking along the Strand in London,
when, looking up, I saw a man and woman approaching. It was
Arnold with his wife. His face was thin and wasted, a counte-
nance writ over with gloom and disappointment. His masculine
vigor was gone. Cain could have borne no plainer marks of vain
remorse. He looked straight before him. As I crossed the way,
with no desire to meet him, I saw the woman look up at him; a
strange, melancholy sweetness in the pale, worn face of our once
beautiful Margaret. Her love was all that time had left him;
poor, broken, shunned, insulted, he was fast going to his grave.
Where now he lies I know not. Did he repent with bitter tears
on that gentle breast? God only knows. I walked on through
the crowded street, and thought of the words of my great chief,
“There is a God who punishes the traitor. ”
## p. 10141 (#569) ##########################################
S. WEIR MITCHELL
10141
[The following poems are all copyrighted by S. Weir Mitchell, and are re-
printed by permission of the Century Company, publishers. ]
LINCOLN
C"
HAINED by stern duty to the rock of State,
His spirit armed in mail of rugged mirth,
Ever above, though ever near to earth,
Yet felt his heart the cruel tongues that sate
Base appetites, and foul with slander, wait
Till the keen lightnings bring the awful hour
When wounds and suffering shall give them power.
Most was he like to Luther, gay and great,
Solemn and mirthful, strong of heart and limb.
Tender and simple too; he was so near
To all things human that he cast out fear,
And, ever simpler, like a little child,
Lived in unconscious nearness unto Him
Who always on earth's little ones hath smiled.
DREAMLAND
U"
PANCHOR! l'p anchor!
Set sail and away!
The ventures of dreamland
Are thine for a day.
Yo, heave ho!
Aloft and alow
Elf sailors are singing
Yo, heave ho!
The breeze that is blowing
So sturdily strong
Shall fill up thy sail
With the breath of a song.
A fay at the mast-head
Keeps watch o'er the sea;
Blown amber of tresses
Thy banner shall be ;
Thy freight the lost laughter
That sad souls have missed,
Thy cargo the kisses
That never were kissed.
And ho, for a fay maid
Born merry in June,
## p. 10142 (#570) ##########################################
10142
S. WEIR MITCHELL
Of dainty red roses
Beneath a red moon.
The star-pearls that midnight
Casts down on the sea,
Dark gold of the sunset,
Her fortune shall be.
And ever she whispers,
More tenderly sweet,
“Love am I, love only,
Love perfect, complete.
The world is my lordship,
The heart is my slave;
I mock at the ages,
I laugh at the grave.
Wilt sail with me ever
A dream-haunted sea,
Whose whispering waters
Shall murmur to thee
The love-haunted lyrics
Dead poets have made
Ere life had a fetter,
Ere love was afraid ? »
Then up with the anchor!
Set sail and away!
The ventures of loveland
Are thine for a day.
SONG
From Francis Drake)
I
WOULD I were an English rose,
In England for to be:
The sweetest maid that Devon knows
Should pick and carry me.
To pluck my leaves be tender quick,
A fortune fair to prove,
And count in love's arithmetic
Thy pretty sum of love.
Oh, Devon's lanes be green o'ergrown,
And blithe her maidens be;
But there be some that walk alone,
And look across the sea.
## p. 10143 (#571) ##########################################
10143
MARY RUSSELL MITFORD
(1787-1855)
He best description of Miss Mitford is given by Mrs. Browning
in a letter to Mr. Horne, where she speaks of her as “our
friend of Three Mile Cross, who wears her heart upon her
sleeve' and shakes out its perfume at every moment. ” And indeed,
like the sun, Miss Mitford shone upon the just and the unjust: her
flowers, her dogs, her servants, neighbors and friends, her devoted
mother, and her handsome, graceless father, all shared alike her
sunny sweet-heartedness.
Mary Russell Mitford was born at Alres-
ford, in the town of Wither, England, De-
cember 16th, 1787, and began her career as
a writer in 1810, publishing then her first
volume, Miscellaneous Poems. In read-
ing the account of her life given in her
own letters, edited by Mr. L'Estrange, it is
impossible not to be touched by the reve-
lation of her pathetically cheerful struggle
to support her parents, as well as provoked
by her unfailing devotion to her good-for-
nothing father. Indeed, so deeply does her
love for him impress the reader, that at MARY R. MITFORD
last it comes near to protecting him from
criticism. Squandering first his own fortune, Dr. Mitford married
Miss Russell, a devoted woman, ten years his senior, whose friends
he proceeded to offend, and whose fortune he promptly dissipated.
At the first touch of pecuniary embarrassment he moved from Alres-
ford to Lynn Regis, where for one year they lived in the greatest
luxury. In Recollections of a Literary Life' Miss Mitford says:
“In that old historical town [Lynn Regis] I spent the eventful year
when the careless happiness of childhood vanished, and the troubles
of the world first dawned upon my heart.
Nobody told
me, but I felt,
I knew, I can't tell how, but I did know
that everything was to be parted with, and everybody paid. ” Then
follows a description of chests being carried away in the night by
faithful servants, and of a dreary journey for herself and her mother,
and of the first touch of dreadful poverty. Settled in lodgings in
London, this incredible father took his little daughter to buy a lottery
•
.
## p. 10144 (#572) ##########################################
10144
MARY RUSSELL MITFORD
»
ticket; she selected one whose added numbers made her age — ten
years — and would have none other. This ticket was bought, and
drew for Dr. Mitford twenty thousand pounds. Once more with a
fortune, he bought a place near Reading, — Bertram House, — and sent
his daughter, of whom he was excessively proud, to school in Lon-
don. It was while at Bertram House that Miss Mitford published her
first volume, following it in 1811 by Christine,' and other smaller
things. In 1820 they move from Bertram House into a tiny cot-
tage at Three Mile Cross, and from this time on it is one long
struggle for money. From this place are written Miss Mitford's most
charming letters, in which we read of her difficulties about her trage-
dies, and how, because of these difficulties, she took up another line
of work as less harassing, and began to write short sketches of the
life about her: sketches which Campbell refused as too light,- which
the world put next to Lamb's Essays, - and which, collected, made
(Our Village.
Between 1823 and 1828 three of her plays, Julien,' Foscari,' and
(Rienzi,' were put upon the stage by Macready and Kemble; “Our
Village' had an enormous success, and Miss Mitford was toasted
and made much of by all the world of London. But as her father
"played a very fine hand at whist,” she could never be very long
away from Three Mile Cross and her writing-table; and she goes
back quite cheerfully to a daily task of from seven to twelve hours
writing. Her work is most voluminous: including plays, poems, 'Dra-
matic Scenes,' (Stories of American Life,' — of which she could not
have known very much, — 'Stories for Children,' and in 1835 another
collection of sketches, called Belford Regis. ' Besides all this, she
contributed to newspapers, magazines, Amulets' and 'Forget-me-nots. '
and edited from 1838 to 1841 Finden's Tableaux; finishing her work
in 1852–4 with Recollections of a Literary Life,' and Atherton and
Other Tales. Driven by want and harassed by debt, she could not
produce much that would live; but the careful reader of Miss Mit-
ford's letters will never criticize Miss Mitford's failures. At Three
Mile Cross, after much ill health, her mother died, and later her
« beloved father); and here she lived until in 1850 the little house
began to fall to pieces; and she moved to Swallowfield, not very far
away, there to finish her life.
Miss Mitford tells us that she delighted in that sort of detail
which permits so intimate a familiarity with the subject of which it
treats,” — and she gives it to us in her work. She describes a cow-
slip ball so accurately that one smells the cowslips and helps her
to tie it; she makes us intimately acquainted with the spreading
hawthorn”; the shower pelts us in wetting her, and we change our
clothes too- or we long to do so— in order to sit down with her near
the fire. She loses her walking-stick, and we go back with her over
((
## p. 10145 (#573) ##########################################
MARY RUSSELL MITFORD
10145
»
the whole expedition to find it; it is a personal loss, and we are
much relieved when the children bring it home again. Frost comes;
and we are out under the solemn white avenue, looking at the “land-
scape of snow,” at the frozen weeds, and becoming friendly with the
little bird tamed by the cold, —“perched in the middle of the hedge,
nestling as it were among the cold bare boughs, seeking, poor pretty
thing, for the warmth it will not find. ” Then the description of the
thaw, not much more than a paragraph, - a dismal thaw, the dreari-
ness of which she fights against quite palpably, stopping so abruptly
that one is sure that she found it too forlorn to dwell upon safely.
But through all the sunny charm of her work, she is conscious of
the shadow of the hopeless struggle she is making; one knows that
she did not dare to tread too heavily on the thin ice of her happi-
ness, and one steps lightly along with her, and makes a conscious
effort to forget the father and his endless folly. When at last she is
alone in the world, and has to move from Three Mile Cross, she
says: “It was a great grief to go. I had associations with those old
walls which endeared them to me more than I can tell. There I
had toiled and striven, and tasted of as bitter anxiety, of fear and
of hope, as often falls to the lot of women. There in the fullness
of age I had lost those whose love had made my home sweet and
precious. ” And one longs to step back fifty years and maul that
delinquent father; not so much, perhaps, because he was selfish, as
because she loved him so. But in the next paragraph her invincible
cheerfulness again comes to the front, and we begin to like Swallow-
field almost as much as Three Mile Cross. A brave soul was Miss
Mitford; and a strange contrast to her beloved young friend” Eliza-
beth Barrett, who in the depth of ease and luxury nursed the one
grief of her life, as if it were the only specimen of sorrow in the
world. A brave and sturdy soul; and her reward is immortality for
the flower that sprang from her heroic self-abnegation-immortality
for her humble home, Our Village. '
THE NEIGHBORHOOD
From Our Village)
O"
F All situations for a constant residence, that which appears
to me most delightful is a little village far in the country;
a small neighborhood, not of fine mansions finely peopled,
but of cottages and cottage-like houses, "messuages or tene-
ments,” as a friend of mine calls such ignoble and nondescript
XVII-635
## p. 10146 (#574) ##########################################
10146
MARY RUSSELL MITFORD
dwellings, with inhabitants whose faces are as familiar to us as
the flowers in our garden; a little world of our own, close-packed
and insulated like ants in an ant-hill, or bees in a hive, or sheep
in a fold, or nuns in a convent, or sailors in a ship; where we
know every one, are known to every one, interested in every one,
and authorized to hope that every one feels an interest in us.
How pleasant it is to slide into these true-hearted feelings from
the kindly and unconscious influence of habit, and to learn to
know and to love the people about us, with all their peculiarities,
just as we learn to know and to love the nooks and turns of the
shady lanes and sunny commons that we pass every day. Even
in books I like confined locality, and so do the critics when they
talk of the unities. Nothing is so tiresome as to be whirled
half over Europe at the chariot-wheels of a hero, to go to sleep
at Vienna and awaken at Madrid; it produces a real fatigue, a
weariness of spirit. On the other hand, nothing is so delightful
as to sit down in a country village in one of Miss Austen's deli-
cious novels, quite sure before we leave it to become intimate
with every spot and every person it contains; or to ramble with
Mr. White over his own parish of Selborne, and form a friendship
with the fields and coppices, as well as with the birds, mice,
squirrels, who inhabit them; or to sail with Robinson Crusoe to
his island, and live there with him and his goats and his man
Friday; — how much we dread any new-comers, any fresh import-
ation of savage or sailor! we never sympathize for a moment in
our hero's want of company, and are quite grieved when he gets
away; - or to be shipwrecked with Ferdinand on that other love.
lier island, - the island of Prospero, and Miranda, and Caliban,
and Ariel, and nobody else, none of Dryden's exotic inventions,-
that is best of all. And a small neighborhood is as good in sober
waking reality as in poetry or prose; a village neighborhood, such
as this Berkshire hamlet in which I write, - a long, straggling,
winding street at the bottom of a fine eminence, with a road
through it, always abounding in carts, horsemen, and carriages,
and lately enlivened by a stage-coach from B- to S—, which
passed through about ten days ago, and will I suppose return
some time or other. There are coaches of all varieties nowa.
days; perhaps this may be intended for a monthly diligence, or a
fortnightly fly. Will you walk with me through our village,
courteous reader? The journey is not long.
