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ANDRE: 
 
 A TRAGEDY IN FIVE ACTS. 
 
 
 Br 
 
 W. W. LORD. 
 
 /I 
 
 NEW YORK : 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER, 311 & 379 BROADWAY, 
 
 1856. 
 
• » • 
 
 EntebiS), rfcftoMiiiVto'Adt of Obrfg^e^,*!!! fhe'year 1866, by 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER, 
 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the 
 Southern District of New York* 
 
 i^^m \^^\^ ^c^r\<^A\cy\^ 
 
 John F. Tkow, 
 
 Printer, Stereotyper and Electrotyper^ 
 377 & 379 Broadway, N. Y. 
 
PEEF ACE. 
 
 The Author is aware that with many whose eyes fall upon 
 the title of this book, " the attempt and not the deed con- 
 founds" him. But the consciousness that to whatever 
 faculty for such an undertaking he may possess, he has 
 brought a deep interest in the subject, dating back even to 
 his boyhood, gives him confidence to hope that he may find 
 readers ; and amongst them,- some who will be attracted 
 rather than repelled by an attempt to contribute something 
 to our legitimate American and National literature. 
 
 The diflSculty of poetic representation, in regard to the 
 most moving and tragical event in our National history, 
 lies mainly in adapting modern and natural language to 
 the necessities of verse, and to preconceived notions of 
 tragic style. It is believed, however, that there is no 
 essential connection between obsolete forms or terminations 
 of words, and impassioned sentiment, and even harmonious 
 expression. Nor do either rhyme or reason forbid that 
 dramatic verse should now approach as near to our spoken 
 language, as it did in the age of Elizabeth to a now obso- 
 lete but then familiar diction. 
 
 He has, in all material points, preserved a strict fidelity 
 to history, in the province of history, and in that of inven- 
 
 M23992 
 
4 PKEFACE. 
 
 tion a strict consistency with it. Some poetic freedom has 
 been used with respect to two of the minor incidents of the 
 history. The attempt of Champe to abduct Arnold from 
 New York has been placed before, instead of after, the death 
 of Andr6 : and Arnold has been made to land with the 
 British Commissioners, who came to treat with the Ameri- 
 cans in behalf of Andr6. A letter from him was, in fact, 
 read at the meeting, and excited the indignation, which, 
 in the Drama, is attributed to his presence. 
 
 It is hardly necessary to observe that the friendship of 
 Andr6 and Mrs. Arnold, and its bearing upon the destiny 
 both of Arnold and of Andre, by making communication 
 with the enemy easy to the former, and causing the latter 
 to be chosen as the agent in the affair, are historic facts. 
 
 The few directions introduced into the action for com- 
 pleteness of effect, are to be considered as descriptive. The 
 only stage on which the Author contemplates the repre- 
 sentation of his drama is the mind of the reader. 
 
 Eastridge, Sept. 1856. 
 
|m0KS ^t^xmM. 
 
 Arnold, — Major-General in the American Army. 
 
 Andre, — Major, and Adjutant General in the British Army. 
 
 I^Tanlcs ) 
 
 T^ • 7/ f The Aids of Arnold. 
 
 Gen. Green, \ 
 
 Col. Jameson, > American Officers. 
 
 Major Talhnadge, ) 
 
 Ge7i. Rohertson. — A British Officer. 
 
 CoL Robinson. — An American Royalist, 
 
 JSmith. — An American Gentleman, and a friend of Arnold. 
 
 Paulding. 
 Williams. 
 Van Wert. 
 
 Mrs. Arnold, 
 A Chaplain, 
 Women. 
 Soldiers. 
 Countrymen. 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2007 with funding from 
 
 Microsoft Corporation 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/andrtragedyinfOOIordrich 
 
ANDRE 
 
 ACT I. .; . ^ 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 The Landing at West Point, — A boat lying near, — A 
 soldier on guard, — Tallmadge, Franks and Vakick. 
 
 Franks. 
 Sunset ! it will be dark before we leave : 
 The General forgets that you are here. 
 
 Tallmadge. 
 And here at his request ; and for a purpose 
 He has not yet explained : but let us hope 
 The evening gun reminds him to descend 
 From his bleak perch above there ; where, you say, 
 He overlooks the region like an eagle. 
 
8 ANDRE. 
 
 Franks. 
 We left him standing on Bald Kock, that looks 
 Quite o'er the Dunderberg ;* and which, like most 
 Who reach its foot, you did not care to cHmb. 
 
 Varick. 
 Often, of late, he stands there until dark. 
 
 Tallmadge. 
 What takqs Jiim there ? 
 
 .. * .- ,' ' .« Varick. 
 
 Perhaps he plans new works. 
 
 Franks. 
 He cHmbs there like a prisoner to his window ; 
 For to a spirit eager and bold as his, 
 A garrison is a prison. 
 
 Varick. 
 
 Why he asked 
 For a command like this, I cannot guess. 
 His wounds are a pretence, as those should know 
 Who know the man. 
 
 Tallmadge. 
 But many deeper wounds. 
 Not got so nobly, and that take from these 
 
ANDRE. 
 
 The honor and the pain, have struck his heart ; 
 The sentence of the Council last and deepest. 
 
 Franks. 
 Since Pilate's, 'twas the most unjust, the pride 
 And very insolence of armed injustice ; 
 The conscience, the shame rather, of the court 
 Could not, upon the evidence, sustain 
 The charge of peculation, nor their envy 
 Acquit the accused with honor. 
 
 Tallmadge. 
 
 It is strange 
 That charges of this kind should have pursued. 
 Through all his life, a man, who, if not great, 
 Is what he is, despite them. 
 
 Franks. 
 
 Is it strange 
 That fear of his renown, so early gained. 
 Should, early, make the jealous, deedless crowd 
 Of new-made generals and their friends, who saw 
 How far the soldier stood above their reach. 
 Impeach the man ? — and they are well aware 
 That even false and trivial charges sow 
 Doubt and suspicion in the public mind. 
 But it is strange, if you who are his friend — 
 
10 ANDRE. 
 
 Tallmadge. 
 If not his friend, I am at least the author 
 Of my own doubts ; and what I see of him, 
 In his new station, does not make them less. 
 But when some damning fact has seemed to fix 
 My wavering mind, then all his wrongs and merits. 
 His greatness and his daring come before it ; 
 And I must still respect him : and though all 
 They say or hint of him were true — we know 
 That the same man who fleeces his poor soldiers. 
 And makes the very beasts that serve us feel 
 His usury, is capable of deeds 
 As kind as just, and which might almost strike 
 Those charges dumb. 
 
 Franks. 
 
 But his accusers — never ! 
 They know him ; and they know that for their end, 
 His ultimate ruin, they can safely trust 
 A soldier's temper, and a poor man's pride. 
 And wronged one's rashness. 
 
 Tallmadge. 
 
 You have felt, I hear. 
 His soldier's temper. 
 
ANDRE. 11 
 
 Franks. 
 
 And his soldier's heart 
 And generous nature. You, perhaps, have heard 
 That on his field of glory, Saratoga, 
 For some supposed remissness, in the heat 
 Of the excited hour, he struck a man 
 Whom admiration, and not fear, restrained 
 From taking vengeance : from that hour, he still 
 Has kept me with him, honored, and advanced me. 
 
 Tallmadge. 
 I doubt you not : for stronger oft than fear 
 Is the strange spell the brave cast on the brave ; 
 And young and inexperienced awe of men 
 Kenowned in action, is a stronger spell. 
 That of each reckless and successful soldier 
 Can make a hero. 
 
 Franks. 
 Yet I think I see. 
 Without enchantment, that whatever seems 
 Mysterious in this life, is the result 
 Of crimination, not the proof of crime ; 
 And even that this strangest thing of all, 
 In such a man, his moody avarice, 
 But marks the ea^er effort to attain 
 
12 ANDRE. 
 
 That personal independence dear to one 
 
 Whose pride has suffered, and who strives to keep 
 
 His soul erect before his enemies. 
 
 Enter- Arnold. — \The soldier presents arms, 
 
 Arnold. 
 I recollect you ; at Quebec you marched 
 Among the stormers on my left, and once, 
 When my foot slipped upon the broken ice, 
 You saved me from the fall. 
 
 Soldier. 
 
 Yes, General. 
 
 Arnold. 
 I thank you for it now. I know each face 
 That I saw with me in the Wilderness ; 
 I would that those I serve remembered me 
 But half so well. 
 
 {To Tallmadge,) 
 We cross the river late. 
 And His unfortunate ; because I purposed 
 Ere you returned to Northcastle, to meet 
 And speak at leisure with you on the subject 
 Of a great enterprise, designed to end 
 The public troubles : but the open air 
 Chills confidence and dissipates attention. 
 You understand me. 
 
ANDRE. 13 
 
 Tallmadge (aside). 
 
 Yes, your last assertion. 
 
 Arnold. 
 I'll meet you all to-morrow — you are all 
 Each other's friends, and mine. 
 
 Varick (loohing significantly at Tallmadge). 
 Each other's — yes. 
 
 Franks. 
 You do us justice, General ; we are. 
 
 Arnold. 
 When on the heights, did you observe a ship 
 Making her way up from below ? 
 
 Franks. 
 
 We did ; 
 And wondered what could be her purpose here. 
 
 Varick. 
 It is the same that, so mysteriously. 
 Came up the river, and dropped down again — 
 The Yulture. 
 
 Tallmadge. 
 A true Vulture ! but what scent 
 Of prey or coming battle, from the heart 
 2* 
 
14 ANDRE. 
 
 Of the war-region, to this distant part 
 Attracts this grim ill-omened bird of war ? 
 
 Arnold. 
 Ill-omened, yes — in that you may be right : 
 It has been deemed, I think, a bird of omen. 
 
 [Arnold and the officers enter the hoot. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 The deck of the Vulture^ a British Man-of- War, off Tel- 
 ler'' s Point. — The forts at Verplanclc's and Stony 
 Points, and the heights at West Point in sight. 
 
 Enter Kobinson and Andre. 
 
 Andre. 
 They little dream, who see, from these redoubts, 
 Our slender armament, what danger lurks 
 Behind the slight appearance. 
 
 Kobinson. 
 
 Kather say 
 Behind their walls themselves, as far within 
 Eedoubt and rampart, as are we beyond 
 Their cannon's range. But do you think that Arnold 
 Intends to come on board ? 
 
ANDRE. 15 
 
 Andre. 
 
 Intends ! why doubt it ? 
 
 KOBINSON. 
 
 I know the man ; — as cautious in intrigue^ 
 As rash in conflict. I suspect he means 
 That you shall go on shore, and take the hazard, 
 Which else might fall to him. 
 
 Andre. 
 
 I hold the prize 
 Well worth the risk. We shall obtain a fort 
 Which art and nature join their hands to make 
 Impregnable ; the key of all the roads, 
 Northward, and crossing from the east and west. 
 Which this war travels ; and to gain which noWy 
 When Washington at Kingsbridge, and De Ternay 
 At Newport, threaten us by land and sea. 
 Is more important, as it would prevent 
 The junction of the rebels with the French, 
 And end, we hope, the conflict. This, concede. 
 Offers a prospect not to be endangered 
 By any scruples of the when and where 
 Of the transaction : — I will go on shore. 
 
 Kobinson. 
 With my consent you shall not. In this game 
 Sir Henry Clinton would not risk his agent ; 
 
16 ANDRE. 
 
 Although the move^ I grant, could it be made, 
 
 Would take him out of check, and out of fear 
 
 Of being soon checkmated in New York. 
 
 And you I know he would not, if he might 
 
 In conscience, prompt to such a part. As soldiers, 
 
 Danger is our employment ; and to hazard 
 
 Our lives and freedom for the King, a duty ; 
 
 But not our part, where soldiers should be cowards, 
 
 To serve his cause — not ours, I mean, to dare 
 
 The dangers of conspiracy, and risk, 
 
 It may be, honor. 
 
 Andre. 
 There is no such danger 
 In this conspiracy, as you misname it. 
 I do the thing for honor's sake ; and Arnold 
 Is unsuspected, and still has the power 
 Of his high rank and station, to assist 
 The hardihood and subtlety of purpose 
 That you concede to him. 
 
 EOBINSON. 
 
 And hate in him, 
 As in the devil I do ! 
 
 Andre. 
 
 Still hate them there — 
 But not in him in whom they will give back 
 
ANDRE. "17 
 
 A continent to the King, or I shall doubt 
 Your loyalty ; though I so much admired 
 Its firmness, and the strength of that devotion 
 To duty and allegiance, that could lead you 
 To leave your fair domain, and the misguided 
 But gallant men who call you countryman. 
 For my part, I am tempted to suspect 
 That had T first seen light upon this side 
 Of the broad stream which king has never passed, 
 I, too, might be a traitor : 'tis the clime, 
 The unsubdued wild region of their birth. 
 That makes them rebels ; not to law disloyal. 
 But to the laws that rule an older world. 
 
 KOBINSON. 
 
 They were free-bom, and need not be more free 
 Than were their fathers. 
 
 Andre. 
 
 Birthright is not freedom ; 
 Free senses make free souls — and dauntless hearts. 
 And here no court with enervating splendor 
 Shines like a sun upon the dazzled land : 
 No castled heights their feudal shadow cast 
 On the tired reaper's brows, and fields of grain ; 
 No legendary towers, that seem as old 
 As their foundation, from these rocks look down 
 
18 ANDRE. 
 
 Oa the free village, and the humble homes 
 
 And nurseries of men : the people see 
 
 No pageantry to awe, know no prescription. 
 
 Meet no suggestions of antiquity 
 
 To tame their native courage to the hand, 
 
 Far reached, and but too short, to quell rebellion, 
 
 Inspired by every sight and sound in nature, — 
 
 And nature its invincible ally. 
 
 KOBINSON. 
 
 I sometimes have had thoughts like these — but here, 
 Near my own house, and what should be my home, 
 Now the head-quarters of this scheming Arnold, 
 My sympathies are all with loyal men. 
 
 [They enter the cabin. 
 
 SOEISrE III. 
 
 The east side of the river, — A room in Egbinson's house. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Arnold. 
 
 Mrs. Arnold. 
 
 Each day he comes back later, yet too soon. 
 My love is checked, my heart is in its springs. 
 And will not flow : he chills and awes it back 
 With the dark shadow of unspoken thoughts, 
 
ANDRE. 19 
 
 Or terrifies me with unwelcome bursts 
 
 Of momentary transport, that seem madness. 
 
 0, 'twas unlocked for ! yet 'tis woman's fate, 
 
 So ignorant of itself till fixed, and then 
 
 So bound to its unhappiness by chains 
 
 'Gainst which the almost bursting heart beats softly, 
 
 Lest it should break them, while itself is breaking ! 
 
 Enter Arnold. 
 
 Arnold. 
 I was in search of you, and might suppose 
 You sought to avoid me. 
 
 [He regards her for a moment in silence. 
 
 Can it be the same ? 
 How changed ! I know the heat about my heart 
 Is withering and not warming ; still you are 
 My bosom friend, my wife, and you should know 
 Our common fortune, be it good or evil ; 
 And I should have at least one friend with whom 
 A secret would be safe. 
 
 Mrs. Arnold. 
 
 Have you not many ? 
 
 Arnold. 
 0, yes, as close, as faithful, and discreet ones 
 As ever lied by silence, could I make 
 
20 ANDRE. 
 
 My secret theirs^ — if not, my dearest friend. 
 Who thinks I hold him dearest, would reveal it 
 With sleepless haste, and smile to see the knife 
 Drink my full heart out, drop by drop. 
 
 Mrs. Arnold. 
 
 What knife ? 
 What do you mean ? and these dark hints that fall, 
 Since we came hither, darker and more frequent 
 On my pained ear — what ill do they foreshadow ? 
 
 Arnold. 
 Ill to my enemies ! The very shape 
 And substance of the fear w^hich haunts their eyes ; 
 Defeat and shame, felt both in my success 
 And their own ruin ! I shall live to see 
 That haughty Congress, and that politic 
 And truckling Council, who to please a mob 
 Of clamorous and vulture-like civilians, 
 Disgraced a fellow- soldier, and themselves, 
 Sue for an amnesty, beg life and fortune, 
 At a tribunal they abhor like hell ! 
 And my bold Countrymen, who, in their wrongs, 
 Find irresistible and lawful power 
 To right them by whatever means, shall find 
 That in the strength which injuries can give. 
 An injured man is stronger than a people. 
 
ANDRE. 21 
 
 Mrs. Arnold. 
 Did I not know you — had I not before 
 Heard words as frantic, I might think — 
 
 Arnold. 
 
 Well, what ? 
 Speak freely. 
 
 Mrs. Arnold. 
 That a foreign influence 
 Fed these resentments, and to some dark end 
 Directed them. 0, bear with me ! Our child 
 Makes me more sensitive to all that moves 
 And agitates his father. What you are, 
 It seems each moment to my anxious heart, 
 He is to be — you do not listen — 
 
 Arnold. 
 
 —Yes, 
 My son, you fear, is like me — 
 
 Mrs. Arnold. 
 
 This once, hear me ! 
 'Tis the world's thought, that I became your wife 
 Because your rank, and splendid way of life, 
 And consequence as governor of the city 
 Which was my birthplace and my world, allured me. 
 
22 ANDRE. 
 
 Arnold. 
 And you'd not have me think so ? Well — 
 
 Mrs. Arnold. 
 
 0, that 
 
 Was my first grief, to find that you could think 
 
 My love such prostitution, and accept it ! 
 
 I saw in you a brave, deserving soldier, 
 
 Wronged by his country, who with greater zeal 
 
 Devoted him, and with stern passion wooed 
 
 Her cold unfavoring eye ; and for the hopes 
 
 By its unkindly frost cut off and blighted, 
 
 Still won fresh wreaths from her reluctant hand. 
 
 And now to see you, when, with one more efibrt, 
 
 To the best champion she could refuse 
 
 Her heart no longer, falter and give ear 
 
 To her insidious enemies and your own. 
 
 Might almost tempt me to forswear the vow 
 
 That did not only bind me to the man, 
 
 But wed me to his honor. 
 
 Arnold. 
 
 Your conjectures — 
 Speak out — what are they ? 
 
 Mrs. Arnold. 
 
 I have felt a doubt 
 Whether your frequent intercourse with Andre, 
 
ANDRE. 23 
 
 Begun through me^ did not conceal some project 
 You would, but that you dared not, let me know. 
 
 Arnold. 
 Then learn the secret now ; by chance already 
 You know too much to know so little. — I, 
 It may be, am the first, who found a wife's 
 Protracted friendship for a former lover 
 Pleasant or profiting — but so it is : — 
 His fortunes are bound up with mine; through him 
 I gain — what else no matter — my revenge : 
 Through me he will get thanks, and fame ; — a sen- 
 tence 
 In the despatches, and a regiment. 
 
 Mrs. Arnold. 
 What riddle 's this ? I see its darker meaning ; 
 But how can you" and Andre act together ? 
 
 Arnold. 
 He is to conquer me, and by assault 
 Take yonder fortress — aye ! you wonder, — there. 
 Above it, float the continental colors ; 
 And yet it is the King's — and I from Congress 
 Hold my commission, but 'tis for the King. 
 You smile — you think me jesting. — 
 
24 ANDRE. 
 
 Mrs. Arnold. 
 
 Did I smile ? 
 'Twas in despair then. 
 
 Arnold. 
 
 In despair of what ? 
 The plot is sure — fate could not make it stronger. 
 
 Mrs. Arnold. 
 I meant not in despair of your success^ 
 But in despair of you, and of myself : — 
 Yet you will fail. 
 
 Arnold. 
 Had you the smallest knowledge 
 Of military matters — 
 
 Mrs. Arnold. 
 
 You will fail — 
 I speak from higher knowledge — call it faith, 
 Yes, faith in the just cause you would betray, 
 And in the unconquered faith and fortitude 
 Of a free people. You may yield this fort, 
 Though I forebode disaster to the plot ; — 
 But who can to the King deliver up 
 That best stronghold of liberty, the heart 
 Of a great people, garrisoned against him 
 
ANDRE. 25 
 
 By the twin passions, hope and stronger fear, 
 And his injustice ? Hear me, and be warned ! 
 This moment may be free from destiny, — 
 The next, and it will seize, stern, unrelenting, 
 On all your after hfe ; and with success, 
 As surely as defeat, the blighted name 
 Of him who sold his countrymen, will be 
 Its bearer's infamy, and to no child 
 Even by your children shall be given ! 
 
 Arnold. 
 
 Woman ! — 
 
 But I will not be moved ; — though well I might, 
 
 ril not be angered. My rash confidence 
 
 Gave you the privilege to misuse it : Madam, 
 
 Your taught and tragic eloquence was inspired 
 
 By the dull parrots of dead books and men. 
 
 That prate in Congress. Men of action know 
 
 A different creed : one written, not in words. 
 
 But deeds ; and by the cannon's mouth confessed 
 
 And ascertained, at last. And, to predict 
 
 Whether my name or that of Washington, 
 
 Is destined to be pilloried in phrases 
 
 Like renegade and traitor, is to know 
 
 Whether his treason to the King succeed. 
 
 Or mine to him, if to betray a traitor. 
 
 And one in arms against his king be treason. 
 
26 ANDRE. 
 
 Mrs. Arnold. 
 0, flatter not yourself with the injustice 
 Of partial times or men : should his star set, 
 Yours would not rise above it : even they 
 Who should call him a traitor, would think you 
 A double traitor ; and the ill-bought praise 
 Of a whole age, or world, could it be yours. 
 Would be but fuel for the quenchless flame 
 Of a just human instinct, in the end 
 Sure to break forth and blacken you with shame. 
 
 Arnold. 
 Enough ! I'd hear no more ; you have my secret ; 
 Think it your life. I cannot think you will, 
 And yet I half suspect you would, betray me. 
 
 [Fxit 
 
 Mrs. Arnold. 
 I should betray you ! ! let not that woman 
 Think to be surely blest who joins her fate 
 And makes her life one with another being. 
 None can be safe ; let her elect the man 
 Whose office is a virtue, or whose bread 
 Is piety, and she shall find in him 
 Who sits in ermine a most spotted felon, 
 An atheist in him who kneels in lawn. 
 Or let her choose, my heart ! my heart ! that man 
 
ANDRE. 27 
 
 Of men — a soldier, a time-tried and scarred 
 And laurelled soldier, she shall find a traitor ! 
 And all the wretchedness and shame of both 
 The child inherits — yes, my child — 0, wo ! 
 
 [Exit 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 An apartment in JRoblnson'^s house. — Arnold, Tallmadge, 
 Franks and Varick. 
 
 Arnold. 
 And that was why Td not command the left ? 
 The southern army was not offered me ! 
 Well for the country and the coward, Gates, 
 Had I obtained it — but in that they lie ; 
 This is the place I asked for. 
 
 Tallmadge. 
 
 It is plain 
 They do not understand your motives, nor, 
 Permit me to be frank with you, do we. 
 
 Arnold. 
 Once know my wrongs, and you know me ; for I 
 Am all made up of them ; they are my senses. 
 Through which I feel, and hear, and see all objects. 
 They have possession of my brain, and day 
 
28 ANDRE. 
 
 And night they work there, think and act for me ; 
 
 And from my heart they run like a disease 
 
 Through all my blood. All that I loved I hate. 
 
 There is a mockery in the mere respect 
 
 Paid to my rank ; the soldier's prompt salute, 
 
 The deference of subalterns, seem now 
 
 A sarcasm or a favor. The wild stir 
 
 Of field and camp, which pleased me once, is dull, 
 
 And tiresome as^ a town parade ; the shock 
 
 And boom of the near gun, the fife and drum 
 
 And bugle call — are painful to my ears 
 
 As to a branded coward's : and my heart 
 
 Turns even from old friends ; but, in one beat 
 
 Of its most feeble pulse, it has not yet 
 
 Turned from old enemies — not one ! 
 
 Franks. 
 
 It might 
 
 Dismiss them freely, for their enmity 
 
 Is better friendship, in the end, than ours. 
 
 Arnold. 
 What ?—I am dull. 
 
 Franks. 
 The sense of gratitude, 
 Against injustice slowly rises up. 
 And, irrepressibly reacting, bears 
 
ANDRE. 29 
 
 The injured, in the people's mind, above 
 The injurer : if not at once — ^hereafter. 
 
 Arnold. 
 Hereafter — yes, could I be satisfied 
 With that hereafter ; which as yet is not, 
 And, therefore, nothing ; and in which the present 
 Will have become the past, and, therefore, nothing ! 
 It might be something, could my ashes hear 
 My vindication, or could marble feel 
 The flattery of sculpture ; or the voice 
 And hand of retribution reach my dead 
 And buried enemies, lying undisturbed, 
 Invincible and silent in their graves. 
 
 Tallmadgb. 
 And yet this nothing is the test of fame, 
 Namer of men, and ordeal of glory ; 
 And even of the glory gained by war. 
 And the true great, and true heroic minds 
 Most prize posthumous honors ; and have died 
 Poor and in miser}^, that their fame might live 
 In human memory, and their very name. 
 And dust, be more revered than living men. 
 
 Arnold. 
 Let such as find the motive, waste the brain 
 And drain the vital blood, to have their relics 
 3 
 
30 ANDRE. 
 
 Embalmed and honored. 'Tis not my ambition 
 To be a worshipped mummy, but a man 
 Kespected amongst men : and this has been, 
 Since the rash spirit of my boyhood left me, 
 My day and night endeavor, my sole aim. 
 But from that hour when to New Haven came 
 The news of Lexington, and men, unmanned 
 And nerveless, saw the first red drops of war ; 
 And I, while orators stood dumb, turned back 
 The trembling crowd that fled before the shadow 
 Of the dark war-cloud their ow^n breath had raised, 
 And bade them stand, and arm, and^ when aroused, 
 Offered to lead them forth to instant action. 
 Only to hear the authorities who held 
 The keys of the arsenal refuse me arms — 
 From that first check to this late reprimand 
 My whole career has been a studied series 
 Of checks and insults. 
 
 Tallmadge. 
 
 To resist so long 
 An adverse influence, and advance against it, 
 Gives proof of strength, which is itself the pledge 
 Of ultimate success. 
 
ANDRE. 31 
 
 Arnold. 
 
 If I resist. 
 It is but as a swimmer in a stream, 
 Who strikes and gasps for life, and does not think 
 How strong he is, but only in what danger. 
 
 Tallmadge. 
 But it is noble to possess such strength. 
 
 Arnold. 
 'Tis well — but its possessor only feels 
 The stress, the struggle, and exhausting effort 
 That calls it forth ; it is for the beholders 
 To see how noble ; but the real actor 
 In the great scenes of life at which they wonder, 
 Dares and confronts their dangers, not because 
 'Tis noble thus to do, but necessary. 
 
 Tallmadge. 
 Yet there are some at least to whose stern thinking, 
 To dare, is needful when the cause is noble. 
 
 Arnold. 
 I have not met, thus far, with one of them — 
 You'll pardon me — if you be not that one. 
 
 Tallmadge. 
 You jest — but yes, by Heaven ! I am that one. 
 
32 ANDRE. 
 
 Arnold. 
 I have an act in view that has, indeed, 
 The strength of both inducements to persuade 
 To its performance, had it not too much 
 Of the alloy of interest — did it not 
 Promise too much and fair, for men who act 
 From sublimated motives. 
 
 Franks. 
 
 Let us hear : 
 We can best judge of that. 
 
 Arnold. 
 
 Of that ril speak 
 Hereafter ; it is, first of all, important 
 We understand each other in the grounds 
 Of the cooperation I propose : 
 And here Fm confident we shall not differ. 
 You all concede that what with want of men 
 Through short enlistments, a twice bankrupt Con- 
 gress, 
 And late defeats, but for this French alliance 
 We all might ground our arms, and fall to prayers 
 With our good general, George — to be — the First, 
 Who leads us in this war on Greorge the Third. 
 
 Franks. 
 /Tis even so. 
 
ANDRE. 33 
 
 Tallmadge. 
 But I cannot concede this : 
 Not to be vanquished, is success — 
 
 Arnold. 
 
 I know — 
 And know that we have, even, called defeats 
 Successes ; and have turned escapes, retreats, 
 And countermarches into victories, 
 To keep the spirit of the people up. 
 But this you must concede ; — the threadbare words 
 For which we fight in rags, and scarce make out 
 Upon our tattered banners. Liberty 
 And Independence, and the hopeful phrases, 
 Stale as the war, and ancient as the Rump, 
 God for the people's rights, and hope in Heaven, 
 Now changed to France, awake, from year to year, 
 A fainter answer in our hopes and hearts. 
 
 Tallmadge. 
 Why, Danbury and Saratoga, fields 
 Won by yourself, might keep our courage up. 
 
 Arnold. 
 That matters not ; 'tis of the French I'd speak : 
 A few years since they were our enemies. 
 
34 ANDRE. 
 
 Franks. 
 The General himself acquired the credit 
 Through which he has attained his present rank 
 Serving against them. 
 
 Arnold. 
 
 Can we be quite sure 
 That in this family feud it is discreet 
 To drive out friends — 
 
 Tallmadge. 
 — Friends ? 
 
 Arnold. 
 Our own race, at least, 
 And bring in enemies ? You know the fate 
 Of the old Britons who against the Scot 
 Called in the Saxon. Our attempt to gain 
 The independence an usurping Congress, 
 Not the still loyal people, have decreed. 
 May leave us more dependent — may, in fact. 
 Make us a French dependency, than which — 
 Will no one speak the rest ? 
 
 Franks. 
 
 I'd rather wear 
 Hereditary chains. 
 
ANDRE. 35 
 
 Tallmadge. 
 
 I'd rather die ; 
 And rather live dishonored, and the slave 
 Of the remotest and most barbarous race 
 Acknowledged to be human, 'than to see 
 This soil, our native and true mother-land, 
 Again subjected to unnatural England. 
 The ground, which so much filial blood has drunk. 
 To tillage would be barren, and yield thorns : 
 And our proud ancestress, who would usurp 
 A mother's power but cares not for our love, 
 Would give us scornful stripes, too well deserved 
 By voluntary bondmen. 
 
 Arnold. 
 
 Bravely said ! 
 But how, my friend, if to avoid the clutches 
 Of cruel grandam with her rod, we fly 
 To the protection of the wolf ? There's danger, 
 Depend upon it, in these crafty French. 
 
 Tallmadge. 
 Pardon me General, it is difficult 
 To think you quite in earnest : hostile France 
 Would cripple England by sustaining us, 
 Not undertake herself the hopeless task 
 Of our subjection ; and we, un endangered. 
 
36 ANDRE. 
 
 May use their rivalries to our advantage, — 
 With the great ocean for our strong ally 
 Against the stronger ; and, soon, either power 
 Will think it easier to subdue the other, 
 Than either, us. 
 
 [Arnold, who has listened impatiently, ab- 
 ruptly turns, and addresses Franks. 
 
 Arnold. 
 You will find Smith below ; 
 He waits to speak with me. 
 
 [Exeunt Tallmadge, Varick and Franks, ex- 
 pressing in their looks surprise and indig- 
 nation. 
 
 No help from them. 
 I threw the bait too boldly ; it is well 
 That it was into swift and muddy waters. 
 Something they may suspect, but not the truth : 
 That is too strange to dream — above their daring 
 But to conceive of. 
 
 {A pause.) 
 It was not their aid — 
 Although I need it ; 'tis this solitude, 
 In which the uncommunicated mind 
 Loses itself, and grasps the nearest hand 
 To find reality. 'Tis old as treason 
 
A N D B E . 37 
 
 That the most dangerous secret, longest kept. 
 Like the shy serpent, tired of her own coil 
 And her dark cavern dropping deadly dews, 
 Will creep into the light, and seek to bask 
 In some approving smile ; hence the temptation, 
 The mastering impulse, the fatuity. 
 That makes the mind a traitor to itself. 
 
 Enter Smith. 
 
 The agent that would see me for the sale 
 Of Eobinson's estate, must land to-night. 
 
 Smith. 
 I cannot find the men for it ; not one 
 Whom I have sounded likes it ; 'tis a secret, 
 And therefore they suspect a dangerous service. 
 
 Arnold. 
 Bring them to me, and I will find a way 
 To dissipate their scruples. \^Exit Smith. 
 
 [He unlocks a cabinet and takes out a paper 
 which he glances over while speaking. 
 
 — Satisfied ? 
 Why, yes, that I shall get no more. Our straits ! 
 The King's munificence — a petty sum 
 To buy a country and its army : — No ! 
 3* 
 
38 A N D K E . 
 
 ril not be privy to their thoughts : the effect 
 Will be the same to them as if it were 
 The ransom of an empire, but I'll take 
 The fair construction of the case, which makes it 
 A compensation for the loss I suffer 
 In my return to loyalty ; if they 
 Have other thoughts, for my sake, and their own, 
 They'll make the devil their only confidant. 
 I might deceive my countrymen with show 
 Of being taken prisoner ; as, at first, 
 I meditated doing. But the secret 
 Might not be safe ; if kept, would not be ven- 
 geance — 
 Such vengeance as I long for : they must curse me ! 
 But few and brief have been their benedictions ; 
 Their maledictions shall be long and loud. 
 They have not called me yet, with all the terms 
 They hate me in, a beaten General ; 
 And their commiseration would be bitter. 
 They must perceive my hand and curse me ; curses 
 Are never pleasant to the ear — but theirs 
 Will be far sweeter than would be their pity. 
 
 [Exit 
 
ACT II. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 The river side at the Long Clove Mountain. — A dark 
 and stormy night. — Arnold discovered waiting. 
 
 Arnold. 
 Did I hear oars ? — the wind. — They are too late ; 
 The night will hardly cover the transaction 
 If they consume it thus. 
 
 {A pause.) 
 
 This act will place me 
 Entirely in their power ; the deed to do 
 Is as if done ; the future as the past. 
 I have swum back and forth in the smooth waters^ 
 And pleased myself with the alluring motion 
 Outward, in view of the receding shore ; 
 The conscious master of the interval. 
 But now the current seizes me, and strong 
 
40 ANDRE. 
 
 Above my strength to breast it, bears me on, 
 
 And to swim forth with it is safety. Few, 
 
 Blind and irresolute the strokes that brought me 
 
 Across the narrow line which separates 
 
 The rush of action from the calm of thought : 
 
 And lo ! an ocean, an eternity. 
 
 Lies, in effect, between me and the place 
 
 Where will and act were one. One chance I had 
 
 To gain without defection what I seek, — 
 
 One hope, — the offer made me to command 
 
 The left wing of the army. In that case 
 
 My triumph in particular, had been 
 
 That of my enemies, in general ; now 
 
 My triumph is their ruin. 
 
 [He starts and hastily retires. A boat lands, 
 and Andre, wrapped in a cloak, steps on 
 shore. The boat immediately leaves. 
 
 Andre. 
 
 No one here ! 
 They told me he was waiting. How the wind 
 Eoars down this mountain gorge, and on the river 
 Leaps, like a baffled eagle on some swift 
 And powerful serpent, that winds through his 
 
 talons. 
 A time so full of nature's discontent, 
 
ANDRE. 41 
 
 A night like this, so full of mad disquiet^ 
 
 And such a wild and solitary place, 
 
 A painter or tragedian might choose, 
 
 Were a despairing man to meet the devil. 
 
 Ugh ! 'tis an ugly simile ; the more, 
 
 As I am here to play the tempter's part. 
 
 But storm, and gloom, and mystery, might make 
 
 The undesigning deem themselves abroad 
 
 On some conspiracy against the sleep 
 
 Of home-roofed innocence ; and childhood's spell, 
 
 With recollected dread of night, and shapes 
 
 Of haggard fear and secret crimes that came 
 
 With the hushed, featureless, and sable hag, 
 
 Joins deeds of darkness, still, with thoughts of guilt. 
 
 Arnold re-enters. 
 
 Anderson ! 
 
 Gustavus ! 
 
 Are you alone ? 
 The spirit of solitude. 
 
 Arnold. 
 Andre. 
 
 Arnold. 
 
 I heard you speaking. 
 
 Andre. 
 
 I spoke to exorcise 
 
42 ANDRE. 
 
 Arnold. 
 
 A step this way, 
 And we shall be more sheltered. 
 
 Andre. 
 
 If these rockSj 
 That from the mass of darkness their huge crags 
 Thrust forth upon the stumbling sight, have ears, 
 As for conspirators 'tis said they have. 
 They'll hardly catch our secret while the wind 
 Deafens their hollow clefts with his loud story. 
 How strange and wild ! It seems as if there should 
 Be always night here, and unceasing noise. 
 So well they suit the fixed and pictured storm 
 Beheld in the confused and broken lines 
 Of ledge and precipice, which, themselves at rest. 
 Disturb and threaten the unresting eye. 
 
 Arnold. 
 Hem ! — it were well for us if night and storm 
 Might be prolonged an hour or so, at least ; 
 But day is near. 
 
 (Aside.) 
 
 A strange conspirator ! 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
ANDRE. 43 
 
 SCENE I J . 
 A71 apartment in Robinson's house. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Arnold, with a lamp. 
 
 Why did I bring this light ? It is clear day. 
 Night would not let me sleep, nor will the dawn 
 Awake me from this dream of settled horror ! 
 
 ! to be made the sole repository 
 
 Of such a secret, which I cannot break, 
 
 Nor yet can keep. I'll not be seen. I seem 
 
 To every eye that marks me, to reveal it. 
 
 He told me all, as if it eased his heart 
 
 To tell it, even to ears ungratified. 
 
 God of heaven ! This night he was to meet 
 
 A British emissary — now perhaps. 
 
 Plays with the fatal sword whose point, reversed. 
 
 Will drink his blood ! Did aught retard or threaten, 
 
 1 know the house that was to hide them. Thither 
 I might this moment fly. — But wherefore should I ? 
 'Tis Andre that he meets, and I might still 
 Possess some power with him ! But to what end ? 
 
44 ANDRE. 
 
 He acts for others. Yet 1 cannot stay 
 And know that they together work the ruin 
 Of me, and of my child. 'Twill anger Arnold, 
 And show to Andre my unhappiness. 
 But fear like mine is bolder than displeasure ; 
 And grief is more imperious than shame. 
 I see him, in the distance, blindly stumbling 
 Along the desperate edge of the abyss : — 
 Now, madly down the dizzy precipice 
 I see him plunge, and 'tis involuntary 
 To stretch the hand, although it cannot save him. 
 
 [Exit 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 Smith's house. — A gloomy and ill-lighted apartment. — 
 Arnold and Andre discovered sitting at a table strewed 
 with papers. 
 
 Andre. 
 I cannot but be vexed that day surprised us ; 
 And though I felt secure, I could not feel 
 At ease within your outposts. 
 
 Arnold. 
 
 'Twill, at least, 
 Give us more leisure to mature our plan. 
 [He places his finger on a map. 
 
ANDRE. 45 
 
 You will land here ; and, following this ridge^ 
 You gain our rear ; and here you climb the moun- 
 tain. 
 From whose unguarded summit, like a hawk 
 On his unruffled quarry, you look down 
 Upon the luckless Arnold. 
 
 Andre. 
 
 Yes, I see. 
 Your force withdrawn, and in the mountain gorges 
 Expecting us, on this point I march down, 
 Storm it with fife and drum, and with the tune 
 " God save the King '' dumb-strike and take the 
 fortress. 
 
 Arnold. 
 Had I the heart to mar an enterprise 
 Of such devoted daring, your bravado 
 Might almost tempt me to confront you there, 
 And change that loyal litany to prayer 
 For your own safety. 
 
 Andre. 
 
 Ay, I understand, 
 'Tis hard for an old soldier to succumb 
 Without one blow delivered for his fame. 
 As for the challenged flint to hold its fire 
 When struck with iron ; and 'tis natural — 
 
46 ANDRE. 
 
 A colonist, and born American — 
 That you should be in feelings but half loyal. 
 Sir Henry thinks it certain that your wrongs, 
 Rather than change of sentiment, have led you 
 Back to the path of duty ; but I think 
 Your honors and preferments far outweigh 
 Your causes of complaint. 
 
 Arnold. 
 
 It cannot be 
 That you have heard them. 
 
 Andre. 
 
 Some of them I have, 
 And those not slight ; but you have seemed to rise 
 Higher from every fall — 
 
 Arnold. 
 
 To make my next 
 The speedier, deeper, and more infamous. 
 I call to mind, when in the wilderness 
 Through which we forced our way to Canada, 
 The thoughts of Allen's insolence — my shame, 
 And the indifference with which Massachusetts 
 Saw insult heaped on me, and her commission. 
 Still rankling with me ; — as my little band 
 Struggled their inch- won way, while torrents roared, 
 And winter howled against us, and where each 
 
A N D K E . 47 
 
 Was for himself too great a burden, dragged 
 
 The means of life and warfare against streams 
 
 Whose fury made them seem themselves our foes ; 
 
 Then — when I felt and knew myself their soul, 
 
 Their energy, their life, so that it seemed 
 
 Should I but shut my eyes to sleep, they all 
 
 Would fall like dead nien there around me — this—-^ 
 
 Fool ! by the past unteachable — this I said, ^j- 
 
 Envy itself will honor, this accredit 
 
 As zealous service ; and although in vain 
 
 We braved those horrors ; vainly though we burst 
 
 Their wintry barrier, and unlooked for, fell 
 
 Upon our enemies, like men out of heaven ; 
 
 My heart still said, This will win favor ! Did it ? 
 
 Or did I dare and suffer such things ? No ! 
 
 I dreamed, and woke to find myself disgraced, 
 
 Degraded, and four junior officers 
 
 Appointed over me. And when for new 
 
 And signal service I received my rank. 
 
 They held me still degraded, not restoring 
 
 My lost seniority, till on Behmus' heights. 
 
 Fighting without command, and seeking death^ 
 
 I won at length that barren laurel too. 
 
 From the disdainful hand of my just country ; 
 
 To see it trampled on, with all my honors. 
 
 And all my services, trampled in the dust, 
 
 By this late sentence of the army council. 
 
48 ANDRE 
 
 Andre. 
 But so adroitly your high-minded chief 
 Administered their sentence, that it seemed 
 More like a compliment than reprimand. 
 Why, he said nothing — merely praised the service. 
 
 Arnold. 
 Yes, yes, 'twas the chaste service ! My dispraise 
 Was praise of the profession. Let that pass : 
 How view the royalists the accusation ? 
 
 Andre. 
 Why, royally ; and will not think the hand 
 Which holds the best and brightest sword amongst 
 
 you, 
 
 Soiled with dishonest gold. 
 
 Arnold. 
 
 My real crime 
 Was lack of it — was poverty. My hand 
 Held naught but iron, to the state not useless, 
 But to me worthless. My opponents' hands 
 Were stronger armed — with gold. I was a limb. 
 They were the heart and vitals of the war, 
 And could not be denied so slight a thing 
 As my humiliation. 
 
ANDRE. 49 
 
 Andre. 
 
 What to me 
 Seems wonderful, is their determined effort — 
 
 Arnold. 
 But they are dogs, who love to lap the blood 
 Of wounded honor. 
 
 Andre. 
 Their attempt was strange, 
 Not their success in it. Gold has the power 
 In popular counsels fame and honor have 
 In camps and courts : it is in monarchies 
 An aid to tyranny ; in commonwealths 
 'Tis the sole tyrant. 
 
 Arnold. 
 
 It is, everywhere 
 Alike, omnipotent and all-desired. 
 All-dreaded, honored. Greatness ! What is great- 
 ness ? 
 One shall be subtle, noble, strong, and valiant, 
 His name shall never die upon the air 
 For frequent repetition, and the man 
 Not be more powerful with his neighbor, nay. 
 May be the sordid jest of his own servants ; 
 Uncivil cold shall pinch, and hunger starve 
 
50 ANDRE. 
 
 This great man in his empty house ; — the slaves 
 Of his necessities, earth's creeping things, 
 Insult and terrify, till their base nature 
 Infects his own. But gold is present honor, 
 Strength and advantage : — 'tis as if that God, 
 The dream of all the world, for whom they rear 
 And cast down altars ; whom they seek and find 
 But to declare unfound, and seek him still 
 In earth and heaven and hell, — had hid himself. 
 With all his power and most essential splendor. 
 In this bright ore ; that hence compels from all 
 Involuntary adoration. 
 
 Mrs. Arnold enters unperceived. 
 
 Andre. 
 
 Mighty, 
 And even magical its power — divine 
 You say : — Indeed it is a potent idol. 
 Of wider worship than true Deity ; 
 An irreligious god, the superstition 
 Of atheists and scoffers. Yet could I 
 AflSrm of honor things more wonderful ; 
 The reverence that even in shameful death 
 Attends it, when like an apparent angel 
 It strengthens him to brave and graceful patience, 
 Who meets a patriot's or a martyr's fate ; 
 And, more than one pale scene's unbought applause, 
 
ANDRE. 51 
 
 The unwasted wealth of love it treasures up 
 For unborn time, and glory born anew 
 With every human birth, surviving change 
 In man or nature ; to humanity, 
 Forever forth, a feeling, and a thought. 
 Still, on the soul, returning like the sun. 
 Still re-awakening on the ear, like song, — 
 A ray of brightness in the light of day, 
 A breathing of the universal air. 
 
 Mrs. Arnold. 
 Is this the honor that you speak of, this 
 That you now act ? 
 
 [Andre hows to Mrs. Arnold in an embarrassed 
 manner^ and then turns to Arnold as if for 
 explanation. 
 
 Enter Smith. 
 
 Arnold {to Smith). 
 
 Is this your caution. Sir ? 
 
 Smith. 
 I think you will perceive that Mistress Arnold 
 Was not to be subjected to restraint 
 By me, and in this house. 
 
 Arnold. 
 
 This way a moment : 
 They are old friends, indeed a kind of cousins. 
 
52 ANDRE. 
 
 Hark ! I must see what means this noise of firing 
 That comes up from the river. — Will you go ? 
 
 [Exeunt Arnold and Smith. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 Andre approaches Mrs. Arnold respectfully. — She draws 
 hack sorrowfully and somewhat sternly, 
 
 Andre. 
 Dear Madam, by whatever chance it happens 
 That you are here, your coming is to me 
 Most fortunate. 
 
 Mrs. Arnold. 
 
 And yours to me as sad, 
 Fateful, and inauspicious, as the visit 
 Of the executioner to one more happy 
 Than I am at this moment. 
 
 Andre. 
 
 Pardon me, 
 I am at loss — 
 
 Mrs. Arnold. 
 
 I know it all. Oh, Andre \ 
 To you of all men living, as a sister 
 Turns to a brother, with undoubting heart, 
 
ANDRE. 53 
 
 I would have turned in trouble ; from you now 
 rd turn to my worst enemy, if worse 
 I have. God knows I little thought in you 
 To find my husband's tempter — my destroyer. 
 
 Andre. 
 Destroyer ? Madam, this is a strange charge — 
 If I have understood it : if you mean 
 That as an instrument I have been used 
 To advance yourhusband's fortune, give him wealth, 
 And more than recompense whatever loss — 
 
 Mrs. Arnold. 
 Spread not the lying lure before my eyes. 
 What compensation ? Well you know, your gain 
 Will be his infamy : there is no just. 
 No equal bargain made. You buy his fame. 
 His conscience, honor, character, his soul. 
 And give him trash ! It is a murderer's banquet 
 At which you sit with him, already drunk 
 With maddening passion ; and before his eyes, 
 As blind as is your conscience, drug the bowl. 
 And give him poison. 
 
 Andre. 
 
 Would that all my life 
 Might be by Heaven held innocent, or evil, 
 4 
 
54 ANDRE. 
 
 As I am clear of any evil thought 
 Or practice in this thing ! If what he does, 
 He does from a pure motive, it is noble, 
 If not, it rests with him. 
 
 Mrs. Arnold. 
 
 He does not care, 
 And you will not : but I am ominous 
 Of some approaching evil, which you see not, 
 Some great disaster ; not to him alone — 
 Which his success would be — but to yourself 
 And the whole enterprise. Mysterious grief, 
 Felt for the living as if long since dead. 
 Weighs on my heart ; and I conceive misfortunes 
 Less as forebodings, than as memories. 
 Say I am sick or crazed — and I am both, 
 'Tis the despair that fills me, the deep night. 
 Which shows my spirit stars of destiny 
 Hid from your eyes, and which I cannot read. 
 
 Andre. 
 I do not mock at such presentiments ; 
 Soldiers too often see them verified. 
 
 Mrs. Arnold. 
 But you would laugh at dreams ? ! we are wise^^ 
 Or wise can seem, till unconceived events 
 Make wisdom needed ; then it fails us ; awe 
 
ANDRE. 55 
 
 And mystery come dream-like on the soul, 
 
 We know not whence^ and, in despite of reason, 
 
 Make us familiar with om^ earlier thoughts. 
 
 The world we left with childhood, and with all 
 
 Our trembling wonder, and too credulous fear, 
 
 For ever cast behind us as illusion. 
 
 Rises around, and mingles with the present. 
 
 Andre. 
 Sleep is death's image ; but life's shadow — dreams ; 
 And being shadow, are, like shadows, true 
 To their substantial causes, or distorted, 
 Clear, or obscure, as falls the Eeason's light 
 Upon the dark realities that cast them. 
 
 Mrs. Arnold. 
 The ship that brought you here is called the 
 Vulture ? 
 
 • Andre. 
 It is. 
 
 Mrs. Arnold. 
 I stood upon the shore and saw it. 
 At once as ship and bird ; and it flew on 
 Among w41d rocks and hissing whirlpools, guided 
 By you and Arnold, till exult ingly 
 You saw the open haven ; when an eagle 
 
56 ANDRE. 
 
 Kushed^ cloud-like, "^from her watchful cliff, and 
 
 hurled 
 A storm from her broad wings against the ship ; 
 And to the rocks, crouched like huge beasts of prey 
 Beneath the treacherous tide, cast it, to tear 
 And shatter into fragments. Him I saw 
 Swept outward, clinging to the wreck ; — for whom 
 That mighty phantom wheeling, with wild screams, 
 Gazed o'er the sea with eye of fire ; but you 
 The waves washed up, a pale corpse at my feet. 
 
 Andre. 
 A strange wild dream ; and yet most natural, 
 And truthful to its cause : its threatening forms 
 Incongruous, wild, improbable, and yet 
 The distinct shapings of your fear preserved. 
 You dread your husband's ruin and dishonor. 
 But as in my case these seem not to threaten, 
 Your dark forebodings take the shape of death. 
 
 Enter Arnold. 
 
 Arnold. 
 Madam, I am not certain, but suspect 
 That to your interest in me we owe 
 This unexpected visit. Hitherto 
 You shared my confidence, if not my counsel. 
 
ANDRE. 57 
 
 But whether Major Andre would admit 
 A third into his counsel, may be doubtful. 
 
 [Exit Mrs. Arnold. 
 
 The devil is surely privy to our plot ; 
 Beyond all forecast, our fierce patriots here, 
 Have brought a gun to bear, and forced the ship 
 From her position. 
 
 Andre. 
 Ha ! the ship — the Vulture ? 
 Speak out, — she has gone down the river. 
 
 Arnold. 
 
 No! 
 But might as well have gone ; our boatmen swear 
 That they'll not board her where she lies, and 
 
 threats 
 And promises are vain. The stubborn brutes 
 Kefuse to touch an oar. 
 
 Andre. 
 
 What's to be done ? 
 
 Arnold. 
 Nothing with them. You must return by land, 
 And take my passport. 
 
58 ANDRE. 
 
 Andre. 
 Land ! But such a course 
 Was not contemplated. I can, of right, 
 Demand to be returned on board the Vulture. 
 
 Arnold. 
 With all the right on earth you can demand it ; 
 But I shall do no wrong not to perform 
 A thing I cannot. You must go by land. 
 
 [Exit 
 Andre. 
 My mind misgives me. Many unforeseen 
 And cross events have set against me ; first, 
 My visit to the shore, then my detention. 
 Now my return by land, and who can say 
 What things as unexpected yet may happen. 
 
 [Exit 
 
ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 Crojnpond, a small military post. — An irm in the distance, 
 A horse standing, saddled, before it. 
 
 Enter Smith and Andre, the latter wearing a mil- 
 itary cloak over a citizen's dress. — Time, early 
 morning. 
 
 Smith. 
 Farewell ; be satisfied that you will meet 
 No obstacles. Here, at the post, they say, 
 The British scouts have been above the lines ; 
 You may fall in w^ith them. 
 
 Andre. 
 
 Grood day, and thanks 
 For my safe guidance. 
 
 [Exit Smith, 
 
 What a glorious sight ! 
 Now on the dreamy world of sleep and shadow, 
 
60 ANDRE. 
 
 ComeSj god -like, the great summoner of life ; 
 And scatters beamy fire upon the clouds, 
 Which rise like incense at its touch, and dim 
 His day-creating orb with his own splendor : 
 For ever thus, wafting the dawn before him, 
 And weaving light and darkness, thus for ever 
 Shimmering along the hills, as he surmounts 
 Their wood- spired, wavy tops, he climbs the earth ; 
 And never finds its summit : — ever rising 
 Through an eternal morning. Type of glory ! 
 Bright and untired aspirant, hail ! at once 
 Thou risest on my eyes and in my soul ! 
 I, too, am of the morning, full of joy ; 
 My care-worn spirits now are active, subtle. 
 Dewy with feeling, bright with kindling thought, 
 Fresh, lightsome, — I am part of what I see. 
 How many days now have I mined and toiled 
 In the dark world of human thought and passion. 
 And the great world of Nature, hills, and sky. 
 And yonder sun, have for that space looked down 
 Upon a dead man, a mere idiot. 
 Without sight, feeling, sympathy or wonder. 
 Blind, tasteless, and insensible to beauty. — 
 Hush Andre ! If in this plain garb, and here, 
 Among the hills, alone with thy coy muse, 
 In the young making of the day, the devil 
 
ANDRE. 61 
 
 Should tempt thee to turn poet, — friend^ beware ! 
 Thou art a soldier and diplomatist. 
 
 [He retires in the direction of the inn. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 A woody 2>lcice hy the roadside near Tarrytown, 
 
 Enter Paulding, Williams and Van Wert. 
 
 Van Wert. 
 Well, neighbors, we had best go home and sleep : 
 The birds we look for do not fly by daylight. 
 
 Paulding. 
 There ! — hark ! — hide in the bushes, and lie close. 
 
 \11iey hide. Paulding chooses a place luhich 
 gives him a vieio of the road. 
 
 Williams. 
 What is it ? 
 
 Paulding. 
 ^Tis a horseman ; but he rides 
 Too carelessly along for one to think 
 His business any thing but safe and lawful. 
 We'll show ourselves, and question him. 
 
 [Exeunt^ walking rapidly up the road. 
 4* 
 
62 ANDRE, 
 
 (Paulding speaks without.) 
 
 This way ; 
 Look to the horse, there, Williams. Now, this 
 
 way. Sir, 
 A little from the roadside. 
 
 Re-enter Paulding and Van Wert, conducting 
 Andre. 
 
 Andre. 
 
 Now, good Sirs, 
 Please tell me — where do you belong ? 
 
 Paulding. 
 Below. 
 
 Andre. 
 Airs well. I am a British officer. 
 
 [They seize him. 
 
 Andre. 
 Good God ! I must do any thing to get on — 
 Do not delay me. I am glad to find 
 That you belong to us ; ah — I forgot — 
 
 [He presents his passport. 
 
 Van Wert. 
 Paulding, you are a scholar. 
 
ANDRE. 63 
 
 Paulding {taking the passport, reads ;) 
 
 " Permit Mr. John Anderson to pass the guards 
 to the White Plains, or helow, if he chooses, he 
 being on public business by my direction. 
 
 Benedict Arnold/' 
 
 Ah ! I see, 
 
 'Twas a mistake — you thought us Tories. 
 
 Andre. 
 
 Yes. 
 
 Do not delay me in the public business. 
 
 Paulding. 
 What will you give to be released at once ? 
 
 Andre. 
 My purse and this. 
 
 [He offers his ivatch and purse. 
 
 Paulding. 
 A handsome toy, no doubt 
 Good twenty guineas — but the purse is light. 
 It is the same, perhaps, you brought along 
 On purpose for us ; it is not enough. 
 
64 ANDRE. 
 
 Andre. 
 Then say what you demand, and name the place 
 Where you would have it brought, and by my honor 
 As — as — a man, you shall receive it there. 
 
 Paulding. 
 You are what first you said. You heard him, 
 WiUiams ? 
 
 Williams. 
 We're poor, what say you ? He might keep his 
 word. 
 
 Paulding. 
 Yet not so poor but that we love our country. 
 
 {To Andre.) 
 
 We are poor men, all three, whom this long war 
 Makes poorer, and still poorer ; you can see — 
 These are not rich men's clothes ; but Sir, your king 
 Has not red gold enough to buy us better. 
 
 [Exeunt^ with Andre. 
 
ANDRE. 65 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 JVorthcastle, a militm*y post. — A room in the Commander'' s 
 head-quarters. 
 
 Enter at opposite sides Jameson and Tallmadge. 
 
 Jameson. 
 Ha ! Major Tallmadge ! You are well returned, 
 I have on hand a most vexatious business. 
 
 Tallmadge. 
 Thanks, Colonel, for your confidence. What is it ? 
 
 Jameson. 
 A mystery ; our scouts have just brought in 
 A man who seems to be a British spy. 
 
 Tallmadge. 
 Ah ! what's the proof ? 
 
 Jameson. 
 
 He called himself at first 
 A British officer ; supposing them 
 A party from below, and then retracted ; 
 
66 ANDRE. 
 
 But what is most mysterious, we found 
 Papers in Arnold's hand upon his person ; 
 And still more curious, they were views and plans 
 Of West Point Station, with exact details 
 Of all our means and forces. 
 
 Tallmadge. 
 
 Where is he ? 
 
 Strange enough ! 
 
 Jameson. 
 I have sent him on to Arnold. 
 
 Tallmadge. 
 To Arnold ! What could prompt you to this step ? 
 
 Jameson. 
 I thought it a contrivance of the British 
 To blast his fame, and shake the confidence 
 Reposed in our best soldier. 
 
 Tallmadge. 
 
 Confidence ? 
 Judas Iscariot ! Yes, I see it all. 
 Is it too late to bring the prisoner back ? 
 
 Jameson. 
 He has this moment gone — if yet set out, 
 And it might still be done, in case you know 
 
ANDRE. 67 
 
 Aught of the mystery — if you can give 
 Good reasons — 
 
 Tallmadge. 
 
 I know nothing, but suspect — 
 I cannot tell you what. I have not time 
 To shape my thoughts, and give you all my reasons. 
 You know me, Jameson ; will you, on my word 
 That I have reasons for it, call him back ? 
 
 Jameson. 
 Yes, go yourself. 
 
 [Exit Tallmadge. 
 
 What can he mean ? The papers 
 I have despatched to Washington himself. 
 And what harm could it do, in any case. 
 To send the prisoner where, in fact, my duty 
 Kequires me to report him ? Now perhaps 
 Arnold will take offence ; 'tis most vexatious ! 
 There's some accursed mystery at the bottom. 
 
 Re-enter Tallmadge, ivith Andre guarded, 
 
 Andre. 
 Now pray Sir, why am I recalled ? 
 
 Jameson. 
 
 I think 
 This officer has reasons for it. 
 
68 ANDRE. 
 
 Andre. 
 
 You, Sir ? 
 What might they be ? 
 
 Tallmadge. 
 
 Your name is Anderson ; 
 Are you a soldier, or a citizen ? 
 
 Andre. 
 I answer to no questions. I demand 
 That either you permit me to proceed, 
 According to the tenor of my passport, 
 Or take me to head-quarters. 
 
 [ While speaking he loalks up aiid down impatiently. 
 
 Tallmadge {apart to Jameson). 
 Mark him, — look ! — 
 His step, his bearing — he was bred to arms. 
 
 Jameson. 
 Pardon me, Sir, the apparent fickleness. 
 But I have changed my mind. You will remain 
 Till I report you, and receive instructions. 
 
 Andre. 
 In common justice, then, you'll give me leave 
 To write to General Arnold to clear up 
 The mystery, and free me from confinement. 
 
ANDRE. 69 
 
 Jameson. 
 Yes, you may do this. 
 
 Tallmadge. 
 
 But he should not do it. 
 
 Jameson. 
 The devil is in you, Tallmadge : — 'tis but fair 
 That he should have the privilege he asks, 
 And clear himself if possible, — and soon ; 
 For such would be the wish of any man. 
 
 [Exeunt Jameson and Tallmadge, and Andre 
 and his guard, severally. 
 
 SCENE rv. 
 
 A room in Robinson's house, — Mrs. Arnold discovered 
 sitting with her face concealed^ and marks of disorder 
 in her appearance. 
 
 Enter Arnold. 
 
 Arnold. 
 Might I disturb your dream, in which, no doubt. 
 My image plays its usual pleasing part, 
 I would impart some tidings. 
 
 Mrs. Arnold (rising). 
 
 News of Andre ? 
 
70 ANDRE. 
 
 Arnold. 
 
 No. Washington will pass this place to-day. 
 And visit us ; each moment I expect him — 
 
 Heard you ? 
 
 Mrs. Arnold. 
 How can w^e look him in the face ? 
 
 Arnold. 
 Why, for yourself, 'twere well you did not look 
 With that strange countenance you turn on me, 
 Or he'll not know you. I shall look at him 
 As one who may, hereafter, look and say. 
 You, Sir, of all engaged in this rebellion, 
 I found, when of your faction, the most just. 
 The only just, sincere, and generous man ; 
 And to relieve you of the penalties 
 Laid on your head as leader in the war. 
 My claims on royalty are freely yours. 
 
 Mrs. Arnold. 
 What fatal veil wove by your evil spirit. 
 What garland blinding the vowed victim's eyes. 
 What scaffold bandage rather, from your sight 
 Hides the true nature of the thing you do ? 
 'Tis not return to allegiance, but the mode 
 
ANDRE. 71 
 
 Of your return, the bargain, and the sale, 
 The cheapened perfidy, the double acting — 
 All that a man of honor breaking off* 
 As you do, from his party, would avoid — 
 These are the things that make it infamous. 
 I tell you, should, it prove, in the event. 
 As you predict ; the humbled Washington 
 Would rather touch the hangman's hand than 
 
 yours. 
 And sooner lay his head upon the block 
 Than it should nod to you, or bend for favor. 
 
 Arnold. 
 You were my wife ; and I would not forget it ; 
 A woman, which I will not — but, by God ! 
 If my accusing angel should speak thus, 
 I would — would — 
 
 Mrs. Arnold. 
 
 — A blasphemer, too ! 
 
 Arnold. 
 
 A fiend, 
 A devil from hell ! — if you will have it so. 
 How pious always is an angry woman ! 
 If you believe in God and devils, tell me. 
 Do you remember whom you swore to honor ? 
 Whose fortunes to make yours ? 
 
72 ANDRE. 
 
 Mrs. Arnold. 
 
 What noise is that ? 
 Would I were dead ! 
 
 Arnold. 
 
 A thing none ever wished, 
 And lived. What's this — what ails her now.? 
 
 Wife! Wife! 
 Her eyes are fixed and wide — if 'twere a swoon 
 She would sink down. Our guests are at the door. 
 Here, lean upon me ; — do you hear me ? Wife ! 
 The General and his suite are here ; be calm. 
 
 Mrs. Arnold. 
 Yes, they are here. The honest and brave men 
 Will enter their betrayer's house, and meet 
 A friendly welcoming — with swelling hearts 
 Will greet their ancient comrade, and with smiles 
 Grasp the bribed hand that holds their price, in 
 theirs. 
 
 [Exeunt, 
 
ANDRE. 73 
 
 SCENE V. 
 
 An apartment in Rohinsonh house, a repast set out. — Enter 
 Mrs. Arnold, several Officers of rank, and Arnold. 
 
 Arnold. 
 The absence of the General in Chief 
 Deprives us of much honor ; but 'tis like him. 
 Ever regardful of the public service^ 
 Even to neglect of his necessities. 
 I think you said he had gone down the river 
 To examine the redoubts. 
 
 An Officer. 
 
 He has ; but begged 
 That no delay or trouble might result 
 From his remissness. 
 
 Arnold. 
 
 G-entlemen sit down ; 
 You find, I fear, an ill-prepared repast. 
 
 [^As tliey sit down, enter Franks. He presents a 
 letter to Arnold. 
 
74 ANDRE. 
 
 Franks. 
 I take the freedom to present this, brought 
 By a special messenger, and marked, I see, 
 ^^ Important, and ivith haste!' 
 
 Arnold {carelessly). 
 
 From Northcastle. 
 
 [ While he reads, Mrs. Arnold watches his coun- 
 tenance. 
 
 Mrs. Arnold. 
 What is it ? what has happened ? 
 
 Arnold {aside to Mrs, Arnold), 
 Nothing — silence ! 
 
 {To Franks), 
 
 Where is the messenger ? No matter ; — pray 
 Be seated, gentlemen — let what I do 
 Make no confusion — business of importance 
 Kequires my absence, 
 
 [He leads Mrs. Arnold apart. 
 
 Leave that staring look ; 
 Be calm. It is, as you suspect, from Andre, 
 And half an hour of time is worth my life. 
 
ANDRE. 75 
 
 Eyes are upon us ; do not let them see 
 Aught strange in your behavior. For our child's, 
 If not my sake — forgive — forgive ! Farewell 1 
 It may be we shall never meet again. 
 
 [Exit 
 Mrs. Arnold. 
 Stay ! I will go — will follow you. Where is he ? 
 
 \^She turns to the company. 
 
 Pity ! he, and Heaven abandon me. 
 
 An Officer. 
 Quick ! quick ! Look to the lady there, she swoons. * 
 [Franks supports and leads her off. 
 
 Why this is strange ! or, are we dreaming ? — here, 
 This moment, stood our host and hostess, well. 
 And in the act of hospitality ; — 
 And now, — they both are gone ! Tis like a story 
 Of sprited travellers. We shall next see harpies 
 Light on the table, and snatch off the food. 
 
 2d Officer. 
 
 1 do not know — that which is past, at least. 
 Was not a fiction. From the first, she looked 
 Disturbed and strange — and did you see how pale ? 
 
76 "^ ANDRE. 
 
 3d Officer. 
 The table still is here ; but though I feel 
 A fasting hunger, Fve no mind to eat. 
 
 1st Officer. 
 Nor I — let us go meet the General. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE YI. 
 
 The same. 
 
 Enter Franks and Varick. 
 
 Franks. 
 What mystery hangs over us, and casts 
 Its shadow on all faces here ? Our guests 
 Are gone, as strangely as our chief. Their looks, 
 Like his, wei-e dumb, and distant as their voices. 
 Which scarcely said farewell to us. What is it ? 
 Bad tidings from the army ? — or some new 
 Affront to Arnold ? 
 
 Varick. 
 
 After his return. 
 Too long for parting, Washington remained 
 Alone with Mistress Arnold. As he left 
 He met me at the door, and eyed me sternly. 
 
ANDRE. 77 
 
 Then left in silence, with a sad, grave face, 
 Such as one asks no questions of. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Arnold. 
 
 Mrs. Arnold. 
 
 — You here ? 
 I thought, save me, no one attached to him 
 Would stay a moment in this place. 0, tell me, 
 Do they yet know, — the world, does it yet know it ? 
 
 Franks. 
 Madam, as yet we do not know what means 
 This strange excitement. Where is General Ar- 
 nold ? 
 
 Mrs. Arnold. 
 Do you not know, then ? I must not betray him ; 
 For it were treachery to breathe the thing 
 To a new listener's ear, though as a secret. 
 The ignorance of those who not as yet 
 Have heard it, is a moment's respite for him. 
 But 'tis upon the common air already, 
 And the wind waits to whisper it in your ears. 
 You were his friends, and you will call him Traitor, 
 But I will not, though we are the betrayed ones, - 
 I and my child. how could I so long 
 Have left it ! Something mad within my breast 
 5 
 
78 ANDRE. 
 
 Prompts me to wander forth with it, and find 
 
 Some secret cavern, and there live unseen 
 
 By all the world. It looks like him — we called it 
 
 The little General, for it had his smile, 
 
 And in its peevish moments frowned like him — 
 
 And therefore men will hate it. 0, 'tis heir 
 
 To an untold inheritance : the orphan 
 
 Of a surviving father, and my child ! 
 
 \Exit Mrs. Arnold. 
 Enter an Officer. 
 
 Officer. 
 I may congratulate you. We half feared 
 That you were implicated in the plot. 
 But Washington has given me leave to say, 
 Arnold himself exculpates you expressly. 
 In his communication from the ship 
 In which he hides his treason. 
 
 Franks. 
 
 Arnold ! Treason ! 
 
 Officer. 
 What, is it news to you ? He has deserted. 
 And is this moment with the enemy. 
 
ANDRE. 79 
 
 Franks. 
 I hardly seem to hear it ! Did you say, 
 Arnold had carried all his wounds and glory 
 Over to the enemy, and given them back 
 To them he won them of ? 
 
 Officer. 
 
 Not given — sold them ; 
 A messenger from Jameson brought the proof. 
 'Tis not without example that great soldiers 
 Should fail to be great men. The broad- winged 
 
 vulture 
 Has many outward aspects of the eagle, 
 But he will stoop to carrion. 
 
 [Exit 
 Franks. 
 
 He scoffs, 
 But I could weep ; I feel myself disgraced. 
 Oh, Yarick ! When a great man dies, the world 
 Pretends to mourn ; and he is more than dead. 
 That which was great in him, his manhood, strength, 
 And his indomitable soul, and all 
 That was the man, are dead ; and but a man. 
 One of the herd, now trampled by the herd 
 Into the common mire of men, survives him. 
 They will not rest — he was above their heads 
 And is beneath their feet — they will not breathe. 
 
80 ANDRE. 
 
 Nor laugh for joy, till they have called him Villain ! 
 A hundred times have called him Villain ! Traitor ! 
 Now will the meanness, jealousy, and malice 
 Thai dogged his whole career be justified ; 
 Now secret envy from its slimy coil 
 Lift its low head and hiss ; now littleness 
 Be great in its own eyes ; and now, each ass 
 Will bray to deafen Heaven. Deserter ! Traitor ! 
 I shall go mad to hear it — and from them ! 
 Come, curse them with me, Varick ; — drones and 
 
 fops. 
 Mere men of family and feathers — men, 
 Whose whole of life, with all the good and evil 
 From infancy to manhood done by them, 
 Would not make up a single act of his, 
 Will hate and scorn him for the only thing 
 In which they could be like him if they would. 
 
ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 Tajypan^a military post. — A room in the place 0/ Andre's 
 confinement. 
 
 Enter Franks and Tallmadge. 
 
 Tallmadge. 
 And she has followed him ? I cannot say 
 It was not right she should. 
 
 Franks. 
 
 If 'twas a part, 
 'Twas acted well ; — but she has gone to Arnold. 
 What of the prisoner ? Have you learned as yet 
 More than his name and rank ? 
 
 Tallmadge. 
 
 He is, it seems, 
 A man in high repute ; with friends and fortune 
 
82 ANDKE. 
 
 A growing favorite, and has been advanced 
 In rank and trust beyond all precedent. 
 
 Franks. 
 How does he bear the new and startling shape 
 His future has put on ? Is that his voice ? 
 He sings a cheerful air. 
 
 Tallmadge. 
 
 When he had heard 
 Of Arnold's safety, such an instant change 
 Came on his aspect, that 'twas then we seemed 
 To see him first ; and smiling, half in scorn, 
 And with a kind of haughty eagerness 
 He told his name and rank ; and still he seems, 
 Without the least surmise of the black name, 
 And blacker fate, we w^ite against his name, 
 To hold himself a prisoner of war. 
 
 Franks. 
 But he should know the worst. 
 
 Tallmadge. 
 
 And shall be told it ; 
 Deception here is cruelty — not mercy. 
 
 {JEnter Andre at an inner door ; Ms dress 
 that of a British officer. 
 
ANDR]G. 83 
 
 Andre. 
 A captive's welcome to yon, gentlemen. 
 Trust me, I shall think better of your party 
 For having been its prisoner. It might seem, 
 But for these guarded doors, that I was here 
 The willing guest of countrymen and frienda 
 
 Tallmadge. 
 You meet misfortune with a cheerfulness 
 That would disarm severity in tyrants. 
 
 Andre. 
 Why I have been in reasonable temper, 
 Not sad, if not quite gay, since I threw off 
 That irksome and detestable disguise. 
 That like a wet and aguish cloud hung round me. 
 Dripping black melancholy. 
 
 Franks. 
 
 But does not 
 The failure of your enterprise depress you ? 
 
 Andre. 
 No ; why should I of my misfortune make 
 My punishment ? We played for a high stake. 
 And lost it, — that is all. 
 
84 ANDRE. 
 
 Tallmadge. 
 
 Bat I fear not ; 
 I fear that is not all. 
 
 Andre. 
 
 I cannot say 
 What view your countrymen may take of it — 
 
 Tallmadge. 
 Yours have decided for them. Hear the story : 
 We had a man amongst us^ young like you, 
 Like you endowed with every gift that Nature 
 And Fortune, in matched rivalry, bestow. 
 He, like yourself, upon his party's service. 
 Was found disguised among the enemy. 
 I do you no dishonor when I say, 
 His motives were as pure, his aim as high. 
 And his soul noble as your own. That man 
 Was put in fetters, and his youth made old 
 With cruelty ; and when in his dark hour 
 He would have set one last fond word on record 
 For his dear mother's eye, it was denied him. 
 
 Andre. 
 
 The villains ! 
 
 Tallmadge. 
 This, my countrymen to you 
 Will not do, even in revenge ; and yet. 
 
ANDRE. 85 
 
 One thing was done to Hale, which they will do, — 
 I must be open — understand me, — He 
 Was sentenced as a spy, and hanged. 
 
 \A short silence, 
 
 Andre. 
 
 You said 
 He had a mother ? 
 
 Tallmadge. 
 A fond, aged mother, 
 
 . [A longer silence. 
 
 Andre. 
 Pardon me, Sir, I fear your last few words 
 Eeceived but poor attention. I suppose 
 That he was executed. 
 
 Franks (aside to Tallmadge), 
 Let us leave him. 
 In your narration you have touched some chord 
 On which his whole life's music slept ; and now, 
 For the first time, awakes with sounds of pain. 
 
 [Exeunt Franks and Tallmadge. 
 (Andre continues standing in the same attitude.) 
 5* 
 
86 ANDRE. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 The same. — A public room. — A number of General Offi- 
 cers^ constituting the Board of Commissioners met to 
 investigate the case of Andre. — Andre, Tallmadge, 
 and a guard of soldiers, — General Green sitting as 
 President, 
 
 Green. 
 The evidence is before us : if the accused 
 Have aught to say, he has permission now. 
 
 Andre. 
 I have not much to say, and in that little 
 I feel myself prejudged. Your charge is this : 
 That I was near your outposts found disguised, 
 And on my person, some intelligence 
 Of value to our army. This is true. 
 You know the tale too well to make it needful 
 That I should show by what necessity 
 I was thus found. At the request of one 
 High in command with you, I came on shore, 
 And / came undisguised. 
 
ANDRE. 87 
 
 Green. 
 
 Did you conceive 
 Your landing -had the sanction of a flag ? 
 
 Andre. 
 I came at night, and on a secret mission, 
 And yet I came not as a spy. I harbored 
 No thought of treachery,— had no design 
 To palm myself upon you for another, 
 And steal your secrets. When, against my will. 
 Forced to return disguised, the information 
 Found on my person, your own officer 
 Committed to my keeping. And if this. 
 With no intention, of myself, to gain. 
 Or use my borrowed habit to acquire 
 Such information, is to be a spy. 
 Then am I one — if not, then am I not. 
 
 Green. 
 Your noble candor. Sir, concedes the facts 
 That will control our verdict. I will add. 
 That had it been a common British soldier. 
 Who, one of like condition in our army 
 Had aided in betrayal of his trust, 
 And had been found disguised, with written proof 
 Of his own practice and the other's treason 
 
88 ANDRE. 
 
 Concealed about him, — none on either side 
 
 Had hesitated to call liim a spy. 
 
 Where higher rank is compromised, to aid 
 
 In the betrayal of a higher trust, 
 
 The turpitude is greater : and although, 
 
 Without intention, doubtless, to subject 
 
 Yourself to the great danger that now threatens, 
 
 You made yourself the agent, to become 
 
 The victim of another's crime — our duty 
 
 Is to pronounce you an undoubted spy ; 
 
 And subject to be dealt with as the laws 
 
 Of war require ; and our clear conscience adds, 
 
 May God be merciful, where man is just ! 
 
 [The court rises. Exeunt all but Tallmadge, 
 Andre, and the guojrd. 
 
 Andre. 
 Come hither. Major Tallmadge. You have been 
 A kinder keeper to me than your warrant 
 Or my desert could justify ; and yet 
 You owe me something. 'Twas your interference 
 That on my first detention, at the crisis 
 And turning point of all my destiny. 
 Prevented my return to Arnold's quartei's. 
 And so procured my death. 
 
 Tallmadge. 
 
 Was I to blame ? 
 
ANDRE. 89 
 
 Andre. 
 You did as I should do by you. Come near, 
 Survey me. Do you see the marks of fear 
 And weakness in my aspect ?^ Has the blood 
 Betrayed my cheek ? Do I grow pale and tremble 
 At the stern face my, destiny puts on? 
 
 Tallmadge. 
 You look as usual ; and no doubt confront 
 Your natural fears with manly fortitude. 
 
 Andre. 
 But I am weak. Grod ! no child is weaker. 
 
 [He approaches, and leans on Tallmadge. 
 
 Tallmadge, I know your nature stern, and there- 
 fore 
 Believe it strong, and one to lean upon. 
 Yours is a true heart, a true manly heart, 
 I feel — I felt it from the first ; and now. 
 Because you owe me something, as I said. 
 Though I accuse you not, in recompense. 
 Your heart must taste the bitterness of mine. 
 I have — this tightness at the throat prevents — 
 I'd say — 
 
 {He turns to the guard). 
 May these men go ? 
 
90 ANDRE. 
 
 Tallmadge. 
 
 Ketire a moment^ 
 And stand without the door. 
 
 Andre. 
 
 I sought to say- 
 That I have sisters and a mother. Now, 
 Even while I speak, they wait for news of me, 
 And smile, and speak, with hopeful fond conjecture. 
 Of some new honor lighted on the head 
 Of their hearts' idol — whom they've learned to 
 
 think 
 Is that of fortune too. And they will hear — 
 ! were it of my death alone, I might 
 Be cheerful. Had it been my fate to fall 
 In arms and honor on the open field, 
 Where life-blood shed, is a serene libation 
 Poured on a country's altar, in the sight 
 Of all mankind, I had not felt these pangs, 
 This wild disturbance, this keen shuddering chill 
 At the fore-tasted cup of death ; nor they 
 The agony that they will feel to hear 
 The ghastly tidings soon to fall on ears 
 That never more will hear a joyful sound. 
 
 [He turns from Tallmadge, and stands for 
 awhihy as if lost in thought. 
 
ANDRE. 91 
 
 I was obscure and happy ; 0, too happy ! 
 I broke the sacred human ties that bound 
 My wildly restless wishes to a life 
 Of peaceful humble joy. And I have found, 
 
 yes, I may say fame — I shall be famous ! 
 
 A death of shame — a shame that makes death 
 
 mean, 
 A death that makes shame ghastly — is the end 
 Of all my inspirations of success. 
 My hopes that blushed to know themselves for 
 
 hopes. 
 My cautious daring, and my ardent thought. 
 Dreams ! dreams ! It is all darkness now before me, 
 That was so late a scene lit up and splendid 
 With bright deceitful torches, waving on 
 To farther glory. High-aspiring Andre ! 
 One sentence will tell all, and be your record — 
 Hanged as a spy, will be your history ! 
 
 (A pause.) 
 
 They came, they crowded round me, the illusive. 
 The treacherous visions — they allured me on. 
 The blooming spectres ! garlands waved around. 
 And music stirred my pulses. Silently 
 They pointed to the future ; yet methought 
 
 1 read a glorious promise in their eyes. 
 
 But suddenly they change ; each wears a shroud, 
 
92 ANDRE. 
 
 And scowls on me with looks of death ; they crowd, 
 They press upon me from behind, they urge, 
 They thrust me on ; and there, before me, stands — 
 
 Grod ! I cannot speak it, cannot name 
 
 To my own ears, the thing which threatens me 
 With more than pain of dying ; and beneath it 
 
 1 see a felon's coffin ; and beyond, 
 
 A lonely, naked, and dishonored grave. 
 
 [He covers Ms eyes loith Ms hands, and stands 
 motionless. Tallmadge, as if afraid to 
 disturb /^^m, also remains motionless, and 
 regards Mm with a look of sympathy. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 The sa?n€, — A street. 
 
 Enter Franks and Varick. 
 
 Franks. 
 A soldier, of the name of Ohampe, has ventured 
 To go, disguised, into New York ; the plot. 
 Thus far, has prospered. Arnold can be captured 
 By a small number of determined men, 
 Whom Champe will meet there. 
 
ANDRE. 93 
 
 Varick. 
 Now, may Heaven, or Congress, 
 Send him an epaulette ! I'd give my own. 
 Although it was through Arnold that I gained it, 
 To see his frowning face beneath the gallows, 
 Instead of smiling Andre. 
 
 Franks. 
 
 Secret friends, 
 Of both sides, in the city, will assist us. 
 Being assured that by this means alone 
 They can save Andre. Thus, we have discovered 
 The house in which he lodges — are to find 
 A boat moored in the river, and disguised 
 As strolling sailors, favored by the night 
 We shall surprise him, seize, and bind him fast, 
 And bear him off in triumph. 
 
 Enter Tallmadge. 
 
 Varick. 
 
 Here comes one 
 Who should know something of the secret game 
 In which ill-fortuned Andre's life is played. 
 With little doubt, against the higher card. 
 What news of Andre ? — 
 
94 A N D R ^ . 
 
 Tallmadge. 
 
 Washington is steadfast. 
 Commissioners from both sides are to meet : 
 But that you know. 
 
 Franks. 
 And with what hope we know ; 
 There's better even in my hair-brained plot ; 
 And if that fail, why then the hapless Andr6 
 May, as his mood is, frown, or smile, or weep 
 His farewell to the world. I did believe. 
 Nay would have sworn, that Washington would save 
 
 him. 
 But he is much too faultless to feel pity ; 
 Too good and great to be more great and better. 
 He is all justice, rigid, iron justice, 
 Untempered by the gold alloy of mercy. 
 
 Tallmadge. 
 Why, he is merciful to you and me, 
 And to the many thousands of brave men 
 Who venture life and fortune in this war. 
 Before mankind, and Heaven, we have asserted 
 Our independence, — these four bloody years 
 Maintained it with the sword ; and we must show 
 The hesitating world the free commission 
 
ANDRE. 95 
 
 We hold from God, at our own will and peril 
 To do all acts that may pertain to nations. 
 
 Franks. 
 He dies, then, not because his death is just, 
 Although it were so, nor because he ran 
 Intelligently upon danger. No ! 
 We need, state policy demands — a victim. 
 To me, I will confess, this policy 
 Seems but a mean assassin, hired to stab, 
 Where justice hesitates, and feels no strength 
 To lift the sword. No, no. If we must be 
 His executioners, let us say at once, 
 It is because the man himself deserves, 
 Not that we need, his death. 
 
 Tallmadge. 
 
 But policy 
 Did not condemn, although it will not save ; 
 And if it be of force to turn the edge 
 Of a judicial sentence, as it is. 
 In every case of pardon, then why not 
 Of force sufficient to prevent a pardon ? 
 We do not plead the policy of justice. 
 But the impolicy of mercy. 
 
 Franks. 
 
 Oh! 
 
 If it has come to pleading — I am silenced. 
 
96 ANDRE. 
 
 I have no skill in casuistry : compassion 
 
 Is not a function of the brain, nor can 
 
 The wiser heart that leans on its own instincts, 
 
 Eefute the processes, which, of a thread 
 
 Of policy, can spin a cord to kill 
 
 An innocent, brave man. 
 
 Tallmadge. 
 
 The heart that trusts 
 To its own instincts merely, often errs. 
 And mistakes feebleness for strength of feeling. 
 I have no feeling, doubtless, — no compassion 
 To temper sterner thoughts ? And Washington, 
 Who from the very first, because determined 
 By an example it would heed, to quell 
 This British tampering with our discontent, 
 Would never see him, fearing lest at sight 
 Of the brave stripling, his large father's heart 
 Should feel relentings, — he, too, has no pity ! 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
ANDRE. 97 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 New York. — A room in Arnold's quarters. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Arnold. 
 
 Mrs. Arnold. 
 At last ! — and it has come to this : his hands 
 Have raised the gibbet, and prepared the cord. 
 Inhuman laws, as stern and blind as war 
 That made them, claim their victim, and another 
 Must be the sacrifice ! There is one way, 
 Forgive me Heaven that I think of it ! — 
 I do not will it — no ! no ! God, thou knowest 
 I would not have my husband yield himself 
 To save this man ; but I cannot but feel 
 That I would have him capable of this. 
 0, it would wipe out half the infamy ! 
 Truth to humanity, and private ties. 
 Would expiate his treason to the state. 
 And military perfidy ; such stern 
 Fidelity to one, make good the want 
 Of public faith ; and 'gainst the citizen — 
 
98 ANDRE. 
 
 In the severest patriot's heart — the man 
 
 Would rise and plead for him. But will they, then, 
 
 ! can they take his life, thus freely offered 
 
 To save another's ? No ! They will not, cannot. 
 A light breaks in on me — they surely cannot. 
 
 Enter Arnold, in the uniform of a British officer. 
 
 Arnold. 
 Your too prophetic bodings, in the end. 
 Have proved but half inspired. My new allies 
 Seem to conceive that, of myself, I am 
 A full equivalent for what they offered : 
 They give me rank quite equal to my higher. 
 But less substantial title, won from Congress 
 With greater effort. Trust me, you shall find 
 That though the hurricane has torn the oak 
 Out of its rooted place, it has again. 
 By the same wind, been planted broad and deep 
 In firmer soil, and still can give you shelter ; 
 Only upbraid me not, nor think to call 
 The irrevocable back, by tears and frenzy. 
 
 Mrs. Arnold. 
 Because you were my shelter — while the storm 
 Hung doubtful, writhing on the hand of Heaven, 
 Keluctant, and still waiting for repentance, 
 
 1 did accuse and pray. — It has begun 
 
ANDRE. 99 
 
 To unfold its bosom peril, and its lightnings 
 Look in the face of Death, and watch his eye 
 To see on whom it turns : I pray no more. 
 Who ever prayed to Fate ? 
 
 Arnold. 
 
 Prophetic still ! 
 And still a skeptic to my stars, although 
 I stand here safe, where others had been ruined. 
 But if you yet fear evil, you have friends : 
 They hate me in their hearts ; and doubtless, now, 
 They curse me with their lips : return to them ; 
 You will be praised for it. As I have dared, 
 I would bear all — alone. 
 
 Mrs. Arnold. 
 
 And can you bear, 
 Do you bear all alone ? Is there not one 
 Who suffers more ? One, on whose life has fallen 
 The sword that glanced from yours ? One, too, 
 
 whose death 
 Will leave the name of murder to avenge it ? 
 I recollect, when of my native city 
 The British army held possession, he, 
 In his first bloom of youth, scarce soldierly, 
 And yet more hero-like than veterans 
 Scarred in the field, won every heart to him 
 
100 ANDRE. 
 
 By his fair looks and manly courtesy, 
 Tempered with fine and undisdainful pride. 
 It seemed, to look on him, that he might pass, 
 Like a young warlike deity, admired, 
 And praised, through battle, and no hand be found 
 To strike him with disfigurement or death. 
 And now they dig for him a felon's grave ; 
 And he must die a death so much abhorred. 
 It taints the hand that deals it — by a means 
 From which the haggard orphans of all hope. 
 Despair's wild victims, who run eagerly 
 * On self-destruction, would shrink, shuddering, back, 
 And choose to live. 
 
 Arnold. 
 Your fears, then, are for Andre ? 
 But still you start at shadows ; on my life. 
 These threats of the Americans are such. 
 
 Mrs. Arnold. 
 Yes, shadows, fearful, as they will be found 
 Faithful to the dark purposes which shape them. - 
 
 Arnold. 
 Their generals have sentenced him, 'tis true ; 
 And just as plain that 'tis for some advantage 
 They hope to gain by way of compromise. 
 Perhaps — at once, they will demand that I 
 Shall be delivered up to them ! 
 
ANDRE. 101 
 
 Mrs. Arnold. 
 
 And how, 
 If tempted to make void a barren contract, 
 And save a favorite, the commissioners 
 Should listen to thena ? 
 
 Arnold. 
 
 I still wear my sword. 
 It is a toy, here, by my side, at present. 
 But was, and may be more. At Danbury 
 It saved my life, and therefore may well serve 
 To take it ; I might rather say again 
 To save it — more than save it ! Can you dream 
 That I would live to die beneath the eyes 
 Of my old enemies, — and new ones — friends 
 That are no longer friends — I almost die — 
 By the great God in Heaven ! it stops my heart. 
 To think of it ; to save the world, I could not. 
 'Twould be to taste damnation, and not death ! 
 I tremble, but it is not fear. The thought 
 Even of the cord does not unman me — no ! 
 It is the hands that hold it ; 'tis their grasp 
 Upon my throat that makes me weak and faint 
 With hate that is like death. 
 
 6 
 
102 A N D K E , 
 
 Mrs. Arnold. 
 
 But, if you freely 
 Delivered up yourself for Andre's sake, 
 0, could they, would they dare to touch your life ? 
 I will go with you ; Washington is noble, 
 I'll fall down at his feet — 
 
 Arnold. 
 
 You at his feet ? 
 And I — ^it strangles me to speak again 
 The thing you uttered, and my loathing soul 
 Tastes its own poison : What ! It looks well — I, 
 Of him, proud, cold, impassive Washington, 
 A beggar for an hour's existence longer ! 
 
 Mrs. Arnold. 
 But the alternative of this may be 
 A far worse thing. 
 
 Arnold. 
 What worse thing, out of hell ? 
 
 Mrs. Arnold. 
 What more humiliating can be feared 
 Than that which will befall us in the event 
 Of Andre's death ? By that we shall be thrown 
 As life-long pensioners on enemies. 
 
ANDRE. 103 
 
 Whose scorn will be our safety. 0, be warned ! 
 This is your second peril — this the rock 
 On which your new-embarked adventure drives, 
 With fatal swiftness ; the still treacherous pilot, 
 Your evil spirit, laughing in the shrouds, 
 And wild-eyed shipwreck standing by the helm. 
 The living can be met, their life itself, 
 Subjecting them to what they would inflict. 
 Gives power to opposition. But the dead 
 Are dreadful enemies. At every point 
 In your career, some viewless influence 
 Eeaching from Andr6's grave, will thrust you back. 
 Powerless, from fortune. On the very step 
 And threshold of preferment, will your feet 
 Slip in his blood : his name will be a curse, 
 Heard, like a mind-born echo, in all ears 
 At sound of yours — and to your own, his fate 
 Be Heaven's mercy. 
 
 Arnold. 
 
 Feeling takes you far ! 
 I might suspect, aye, and I partly do. 
 That personal motives lead you to prefer 
 My honor to my life. This youth, this Andre, 
 Has claims upon your gratitude, perhaps, 
 Which I have not established, though your hus- 
 band. 
 
104 ANDRE. 
 
 Your family are loyal, very loyal ! 
 And if they, more than ever, hate me now, 
 As I suspect they do, I know 'tis not 
 Because of my defection, but my failure. 
 They doubtless favored him, as you, in heart. 
 Though not in your ambition, may have done. 
 
 Mrs. Arnold. 
 Neither in my ambition nor my heart. 
 Nor in my views. I liked him — not his cause. 
 And saw you both, ere I chose one ; and now, 
 Even for the preference' sake which then I showed, 
 0, save him ! 
 
 Arnold. 
 Were it in some other way ! 
 0, were it but to spring, as T have dreamed. 
 When in my sleep he seemed to call for help. 
 Into the storm-blind sea — what man would dare 
 Leap in before me ? Were it in the field 
 To rescue him, and all my enemies 
 Stood, armed, around him, frowning death and 
 
 shame ; 
 No league of desperate madmen to bring off" 
 Their king or colors, ever dared as I 
 Would dare for him. But now, what can I do ? 
 I have the power, indeed, nor lack the daring 
 
ANDRE. 105 
 
 To do what you advise ; but strong repugnance 
 
 Masters the weaker motive, and the will 
 
 Lies bound in its own chain. And if his death 
 
 Will arm the invisible and restless hands 
 
 Of coward slander 'gainst me, — let them strike ! 
 
 I am no novice in that kind of warfare, 
 
 Not weak, nor imbecile, nor to be hurt 
 
 By such like shadows as they wield, nor wounds 
 
 That words can make ; though they should be 
 
 such sounds 
 As Traitor, Murderer, and like epithets, 
 Whose hateful meanings men like basilisks shoot 
 One at another — their sharp, viewless points 
 Dipped in the killing poison of their nature. 
 
 Mrs. Arnold {aside). 
 His sullen mood is on ; and I but stand 
 Upon the shore of his chafed mind, and see 
 The turbid waters dash themselves in foam. 
 
 [Exit 
 Arnold. 
 Yet she speaks truth ; she is inspired to give 
 A shape to my dim fears ; I see already 
 That Andre is a cloud upon their favor 
 To keep its rays from me. He saved my life ; 
 That is his crime with my old friends, as is 
 My want of power to save him, with my new. 
 
106 ANDRE. 
 
 I pity him : the warning that saved me 
 Has proved his own death-warrant. But to throw 
 The game into their hands ; to give my throat 
 To my own knife ! It is not fear deters me^ 
 No ! I can say to my own hearty not fear. 
 What should I fear ? I shall not seem a wolf 
 With broken fangs^ clutched by the throat and 
 
 strangled, 
 But as a lion that stalks freely in, 
 And dares the amphitheatre. By Heaven ! 
 Tve half a mind to do it. I shall still 
 Be free, because self-offered ; and unconquered, 
 Because I yield myself without constraint. 
 Then, let them seize me, let them pierce and tear, 
 Like Indians, their stake-bound foe ; each blow. 
 Each stab, will give the lie to their fond notions 
 That I am treacherous, selfish ; — and my blood 
 Will blot the record in their lying annals. 
 
 [Exit 
 
ACT V. 
 
 S E N E I. 
 
 Dohhs' Ferry, — A room in an inn, — General Green and 
 other Officers, constituting the American Commis- 
 sion. To these, enter General Robertson, Colonel 
 Robinson, and other officers of his suite ; and, he- 
 hind them, Arnold, wrapped in a military cloak that 
 conceals his person, 
 
 KoBERTSON (to Green), 
 'Tis understood that all who land with me, 
 Are equally protected by the flag. 
 
 Green. 
 It is ; I only wonder at the question. 
 
 EOBERTSON. 
 
 Our powers are ample ; and I think that you 
 Are not such willing executioners, 
 But that some way may be devised to spare 
 Your sense of justice its distasteful office 
 On our young countryman. 
 
108 ANDRE. 
 
 Green. 
 
 Our hands are tied 
 By our commission ; yet we have some hope 
 In your success — which we should feel as ours. 
 
 [Arnold discovers himself, and advances. 
 
 Several American Officers {speaking to each 
 
 other in confusion). 
 What ! He ? Yes— No— So like him ! 
 
 1st Officer. 
 
 It is he. 
 'Tis the King's scarlet that has changed his looks. 
 Heaven ! so unblushingly to wear it here. 
 And flaunt it in our eyes — 
 
 2d Officer. 
 
 It blushes for him. 
 
 1st Officer. 
 But it shall not protect him — ^he's an outlaw. 
 
 Green. 
 To us, but not to them. Eespect the flag. 
 
 Arnold. 
 You, General, I ever have regarded — 
 
ANDRE. 109 
 
 Green {abruptly to Robertson), 
 If that man has a share in this commission, 
 I do not treat with liim. 
 
 ^ Arnold. 
 
 Ha ! When we stood 
 On the same ground, and when our swords might 
 
 reach, 
 You dared not use me thus. 
 
 EoBERTSON {to Amold), 
 
 Have you gone mad ? 
 
 {To Green,) 
 
 We are empowered to give you in exchange 
 For Major Andre any officer, 
 Though of the highest rank, whom we retain 
 A prisoner of war. 
 
 Green. 
 
 There is one man 
 Amongst you, who is not a prisoner. 
 Nor yet one of you ; there he stands, and him. 
 Him only, we are authorized to accept 
 As an equivalent for your countryman. 
 6'^ 
 
110 ANDRE. 
 
 Robertson. 
 To this we cannot listen ; British honor 
 Is dearer, in our eyes, than British life. 
 
 Arnold. 
 And now hear me. For all that Andre did, 
 I only am, of right, responsible 
 To them who sent you hither, — as I am, 
 In some degree, to others, for his safety. 
 What they will do, 'tis not for me to say 
 Although I know that at their mercy lie 
 A multitude of prisoners, whose lives 
 Stand fairly forfeited in this rebellion : 
 But I am to command a British column ; 
 And at the moment Andr6 dies, from me 
 Tell Washington — he knows me — that till then 
 I still retained some sense of ancient ties : 
 But thenceforth I am changed. No foreign wolf 
 That ever from his floating lair leaped down 
 On a defenceless shore, but had more mercy 
 Than I will have on my own countrymen. 
 All shall be held participators ; all — 
 To my own kindred — guilty of the crime. 
 Cities and villages shall burn by daylight 
 Around their silent bells ; and fire shall hiss 
 Along their streets against the stream of slaughter. 
 
ANDRE. Ill 
 
 They would have me, would buy me, life for life ! 
 Go back, and tell these cunning batterers 
 Of their own bloody verdict, — As they write 
 The fate of Andr6 upon this war's record. 
 And in the self-same character, shall all 
 Its history be written : if in blood. 
 Then let them look to see no other color 
 Where'er my hand appears ; and, by my word, 
 Ked shall not seem to stain it ! 
 
 Green. 
 
 What you do, 
 Those whom you serve must justify. To us 
 The daylight howl of the uncaverned wolf 
 Portends no harm ; 'tis night and treachery only 
 That makes him dangerous. 
 
 {To Bohertson.) 
 
 Sir, farewell ; 'tis clear 
 That conference is useless. 
 
 [Exeunt Green and the Americans. 
 
 KOBINSON. 
 
 Wrong ! all wrong ! 
 Oar purpose is to save, not to revenge him ; 
 It was no time for threats. 
 
112 ANDRE. 
 
 Arnold. 
 
 No, nor persuasion. 
 I had a surer means. *Twas my intention, 
 My full determination, when I came — 
 Nor is it now too late — to act a part 
 That Tve rehearsed to no one. But to hear 
 This man make the demand ! 
 
 EOBERTSON. 
 
 But you should first 
 Have seen if 'twas his pleasure to know you, 
 And not addressed him else. 
 
 Arnold. 
 
 And you too think 
 That my return to loyalty degrades me ? 
 This is the blossoming of royal favor, 
 The flower of that sapless parasite. 
 That grew so rank upon me, while my roots 
 Still grasped their native soil, but perishes 
 With my transplanting ! But I find no fault : 
 'Tis well — 'tis natural — it is both royal 
 And human nature. No — no fault, no fault ! 
 
 [Exeunt KoBERTSON and the others : Arnold 
 continues speaking, as if to himself. 
 
ANDRE. ' 113 
 
 It is a child^ whose ignorant impatience 
 Complains of the inevitable — cold. 
 And fickle heat ; and he a weaker child 
 Who rails at human falsehood and injustice. 
 Beasts to each other are more wise : the tiger 
 Knows^ if not loves/ his kind ; and does not start 
 To see the treacherous blood-thirst in the eye 
 Of his own image ; doubtless also serpents 
 Who share one bane, are innocent to each other. 
 
 [Exit, 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 New York, — A street, — Several Persons in the garh of 
 sailors discovered waiting before a house ; with them^ 
 Varick and Franks ; the latter wearing a cloak^ hut 
 not otherwise disguised, — Time, night, 
 
 Franks. 
 I hear a step ! keep back, within the shadow. 
 
 1st Disguise. 
 It moves another way ; it is not he. 
 
 Yarick. 
 I see the break of morning ; if not now 
 Within, he's safe, and only we in danger. 
 
114 ANDRE. 
 
 Franks. 
 'Tis time we knew ; let's try his castle's strength. 
 Make but one stroke of it ; the less we fear 
 The noise we make, the less we make, to fear. 
 
 [They hurst the door, 
 
 Varick. 
 Stand all — Franks only, and myself, will enter. 
 
 [Enter the house Franks and Varick. 
 
 2d Disguise. 
 I would as lieve they did so : I conceive 
 An honest man will sometimes dread to look 
 A villain in the eye, just as a villain 
 Is thought to shun the other's. 
 
 1st Disguise. 
 
 It is so. 
 Your conscience acts for his ; and makes you feel, 
 In virtue of your common nature, shame 
 That he feels not, perhaps, at sight of you. 
 
 Ee-enter Franks and Varick. 
 
 Varick. 
 The game is up : to-day he left the city, 
 Not to return to-nidit. What noise is that ? 
 
ANDRE. 115 
 
 Franks. 
 Fly ! the Philistines ! Each a different way ! 
 
 Enter a British Patrol. 
 
 Several Voices (in confusion). 
 Which way ? I heard them here — this way ! 
 where nov/ ? 
 
 Franks. 
 Here — yonder — every way. I am the hindmost^ 
 And so fulfil the proverb ! I surrender. 
 
 [Exeunt Patrol, with Franks. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 Tappan. — A room in the place of Andre's confinement. — 
 The scene shows a table, on which lies a book, a plumed 
 hat, and a sword. 
 
 Andre (before a window). 
 The sun once more ! — but once ! To others now 
 He rises, but he sets to me. V7hat still 
 Eemains to me of day, is like the pale 
 Imprisoned daylight of a dream — a lamp 
 Within a tomb, a light enclosed in darkness. 
 There is a greater and eternal glory ! 
 
116 ANDRE. 
 
 I know there must be — or this would not be. 
 But still my eyes turn from it to the sun, 
 The bright, warm sun ! And even that is made 
 To act a part in my low, wretched doom. 
 At noon — the time when sentenced murderers die — 
 It silently but certainly will strike 
 A night-hour — strike my hour of death ; and shine, 
 And still shine on ; and earth and sky will smile 
 As brightly as before. Just there to-morrow 
 That line of light will fall as it does now ; 
 And I — darkness ! darkness ! — Death and dark- 
 ness 
 Are but one thing ; and even now the twilight 
 Is on my soul, and I see nothing clear. 
 
 Ente7' a Chaplain, in Ms rohes. 
 
 Chaplain. 
 I trust that, in my absence, you have sought 
 The consolations of this book ; well named 
 The Book of Life ; for it is that alone, 
 Whose words have power against the power of 
 Death. 
 
 Andre. 
 I feel what they express — yes, I would hope 
 All, all they mean. But they are words, though 
 awful — 
 
ANDRE. 117 
 
 ^re still but words ; of which the power and 
 
 meaning 
 Are less than in my thoughts ; or clearer there 
 Than in these ill-seen symbols. 
 
 (A pause.) 
 
 Ah ! how many. 
 With any one of whom to part were pain, 
 And now I part with all ! They little know ; 
 They little dream of it ! The sea, that was 
 A few months' barrier to our meeting, now 
 Is an eternity between us ! Yonder 
 They breathe, they move ; but death has come so 
 
 near, 
 And stands so in my vision, that it throws 
 Shadows on all things. Still they rise before me ; 
 I cannot make them absent when I would : — 
 The past, that Td shut out, blends with the future ; 
 Familiar looks come mingling with strange faces. 
 That with the anticipated spectacle 
 Of shame and death flow in, and stare at me 
 With wonder and with pity. 'Tis not I 
 But they that are to die, if I should trust 
 This feeling of distressful nothingness. 
 This emptiness around me, when I grasp 
 For substance in the forms that paint themselves 
 On the dim air, and bend half-breathing toward me. 
 
118 andr6. 
 
 Enter Tallmadge. 
 
 0, welcome ! What says Washington ? But tell 
 
 me 
 I am to die by any other mode. 
 And you will give me life again. 
 
 Tallmadge. 
 
 I cannot. 
 
 Andre. 
 This is so bitter — so unnecessary ! 
 I did it all in honor — had no thought 
 Except of honor. I could meet, though sentenced, 
 A soldier's death, with soldier's nerve ; but this 
 Is more than death ! 
 
 Tallmadge. 
 The view which makes the thing 
 Seem necessary, also makes the mode. 
 Don't think of it — 'tis nothing : the aversion 
 Men feel for it will not attach to you, 
 But add to the compassion felt by all. 
 
 Andre. 
 'Tis your compassion, my kind friend, that seeks 
 To make me think so. Have you lately heard 
 Of them — of General and Mistress Arnold ? 
 
ANDRE. 119 
 
 Tallmadge {bitterly). 
 He lives^ and prospers ! — but 'tis just to say- 
 Has made great efforts in his way to save you. 
 
 Andre. 
 And she — think you she knows that I saved him ? 
 
 Tallmadge. 
 She doubtless saw your letter ; that, to you, 
 So fatal message ! 
 
 Andre (takes a miniature from his bosom, and puts 
 it in Tallmadge' s hand). 
 
 This is a poor likeness — 
 There — thus — a picture, taken by myself, 
 Of her of whom I told you — of Honora. 
 I lost her. — And I now have lost her name — 
 The name for which I better loved her — Honor ! 
 
 Tallmadge. 
 Your honor is not lost : it lives, untouched. 
 In your pure motives — in itself ! 'Tis like 
 This picture, which is fresh and bright, although 
 The gilded case is tarnished. 
 
 Andre. 
 
 Sadly tarnished ; 
 When wounded once, and taken prisoner, 
 I hid it in my mouth. 
 
120 ANDRE. 
 
 [He takes it bach, and regards it for a moment 
 in silence. 
 
 It is in pity 
 To me, you do not say 'tis fair ! Please see 
 It buried with me. 
 
 [Martial music without, and at a distance, 
 
 Andee. 
 Now^ how soon ? 
 
 Tallmadge. 
 
 An hour. 
 
 Andre. 
 Ah ! I feel wondrous calm : 'tis said^ in drowning, 
 That, at a certain point, the distressed life 
 Gives up the struggle, and the full deep quiet 
 Of death sets in, while one yet lives ; and thus 
 It seems with me. 
 
 Tallmadge. 
 
 Nature is merciful ; 
 'Tis the unwilling soul that makes death painful. 
 
 Andre. 
 0, but not that alone ! It is the love 
 Eesisting death — the unwillingness of others. 
 I had a dream last night, my last, at least 
 My last one with a waking interval. 
 
ANDRE. 121 
 
 I was in England : all was as of old. 
 Too fresh-imagined to seem less than real, 
 Yet for reality too fair ; and I, 
 Glad to be rid of all the cumbrous show 
 And wild excitement of unresting war, 
 Walked homeward through the quiet villages, 
 And praised the blissful and soft face of peace, 
 Unscarred by fire and sword. Joy was full-blown. 
 And like a rose within me ; and sweet fancies 
 Hovered around and fed upon the flower. 
 So I passed on, until the blooming precincts 
 Of home embraced me, and the very air 
 Whispered low welcomings to the wanderer. 
 I saw them, all together, and unchanged, 
 Sisters and mother, and the one I loved. ' • 
 
 They smiled, and all seemed happy, and I said. 
 Ere I could hear them. Now they speak of me ! 
 I entered full of gladness. My fond greeting 
 They did not answer, but gazed strangely on me : 
 I took the hands of her who was my love. 
 Each in a hand of mine ; she shrank from me. 
 And pale, and shuddering, sank down like snow. 
 My sisters turned to stone : only my mother 
 Came slowly toward me, and in sach soft tones 
 As I in childhood heard, and with such sad 
 And questioning eyes, she said to me — My son ! 
 
122 ANDRE. 
 
 What ails my son ? what have they done to thee ? 
 And then I knew it all^ and horror waked me ! 
 
 Tallmadge. 
 You should not think of such things at this mo- 
 ment. 
 It will unman you. I and all — forgive us ! 
 We could not, dared not, trust our hearts in this. 
 
 Chaplain. 
 No, could not ; to be always merciful, 
 Is Heaven's best privilege — might not I say 
 Its sole prerogative, to be always just ? 
 
 Tallmadge. 
 The escort ! — Be prepared. 
 
 Andre {who has not attended to the remarks of 
 Tallmadge and the Chaplain), 
 
 Oh, I have heard it. 
 More often than the jarring axe and hammer. 
 Whose sounds have told me where I am to die — 
 '^What ails my son .? What have they done to 
 thee .? " 
 
 Enter the Officer in command, Green, Jame- 
 son, and other Officers, who approach 
 Andre, and take his proffered hand in si- 
 
ANDRE. 123 
 
 lence. In the meantime^ soldiers enter and 
 Jill the hach-ground. Andre takes up his 
 sword and hat^ as if prepared to go. 
 
 Tallmadge (throwing his arms round Andr^, and 
 
 embracing him), 
 mine is the worsff fortune, in this way 
 To part with you ! 
 
 Andre {returning his embrace). 
 My friend ! — Ah, it is when 
 Life's torch burns clear — though pale, yet strong 
 
 and clear — 
 Against death's shadow, that the shadows vanish 
 Which stood between our spirits, and thenceforth 
 There's no chill in the touch of heart to heart. 
 
 [To the Officer in command. 
 Sir, let me not delay you : shall we go ? 
 
 [As they go out, a plaintive air commences in the 
 street. 
 
124 ANDRE. 
 
 SCENE lY. 
 
 Tappan, — A street. — Enter a number of Women and 
 Countrymen. 
 
 Young Woman. 
 Oh ! and so young he is, and they say the 
 handsomest man ! — and if it were not that Gen- 
 eral Arnold can't be taken, as innocent as the babe 
 unborn ! 
 
 Old Woman. 
 There'll be some disappointment or other, I've 
 made up my mind to it. A pardon, or something 
 of that kind '11 come just at the nick ! If it wasn't 
 for a hangin' or a buryin' now and then. Lord 
 knows, I see little enough of life ! 
 
 3d Woman. 
 Well, I never saw but one man hung, and he 
 had a cap drawn over his face, so 'twas but little 
 good it did me ; but he yerked, and yerked. 
 
ANDRE. 125 
 
 Old Woman. 
 How can you try one's nerves so^ and the hangiri' 
 to go through with ? I warrant you, it makes uie 
 as weak as a cat ! 
 
 Enter 4th Woman. 
 
 4th Woman. 
 0, the young Englishman won't be hanged, after 
 all ! They've got the traitor, they've taken Ar- 
 nold. Up there, now — this moment, they're hang- 
 ing him in the place of Andre. 
 
 Countryman. 
 Up there ? Why the gallows is yonder — there 
 they are hanging Arnold in effigy. 
 
 They pass over, and eriter Paulding, Wil- 
 liams, Van Wert, and several Citizens 
 and Soldiers. 
 
 1st Citizen. 
 To each of you two hundred dollars — faith, 
 A very good reward ! Now, brother Paulding, 
 Show us the medal, come ; it warms my heart 
 To see a poor man's merits thus rewarded. 
 
 Paulding. 
 Well, here it is ; Fidelity on this side-^ 
 
 7 
 
126 ANDRE. 
 
 1st Soldier. 
 Which means that you behaved like honest men ; 
 But on the other side — what's this ? 
 
 Paulding. 
 
 'Tis Latin ; 
 
 And means — eh, "Williams ! that we love our 
 
 country. 
 
 Williams. 
 Yes, so they told us ; and 'tis curious, Paulding, 
 That this should be the very thing you said 
 In answer to the offers Andre made us ; 
 Which shows me that a poor man's words may be 
 Put into Latin, just as a poor man 
 Into fine clothes, and look as grand, and seem 
 As strange to old acquaintances as he. 
 
 Citizen {of Dutch descent). 
 We shall be late ; I see them coming yonder. 
 Poor fellow ! well, a fever might have done it. 
 Some say that he's not English ; make him English, 
 Or make him French — I say that he is Dutch : 
 My wife has cried for him as much to-day. 
 As for our Hendrick, after Saratoga. 
 
 3d Citizen. 
 And mine has been more exercised, I guess. 
 Than she will ever be for Jacob Thomson. 
 
A N D K E . 127 
 
 2d Soldier. 
 Perhaps when you are hanged, she will regret it, 
 Though you are not a soldier ; but to Andre 
 The women are so pitiful, I think 
 In place of him they'd see their husbands hanged. 
 
 \^A drum is heard. 
 
 Eh comrades, hark ! that calls us to the ranks. 
 
 [He looks at Paulding and the others, 
 
 I wish these Minute Men, who have had all 
 The pay and glory, had this business too — 
 This gallows work : I'd rather, for myself. 
 Again be beaten at the Brandywine. 
 
 [Exeunt in the same direction as the others. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 
 The same : an open place. — A gallows in the distance — a 
 company of soldiers drawn up on each side, leaving 
 an interval, through which it is seen from the front, 
 — Behind them a miscellaneous crowd. — Enter to these 
 a body of soldiers, and arrange themselves with the 
 others; then the Officer in Command aTzcZ Andre 
 (in the full dress of a British Officer) walking 
 between Tallmadge and the Chaplain, and accom- 
 panied by Green, Jameson, and other Officers. 
 
128 ANDRE. 
 
 — Behind these,, another small division of soldiers, — 
 As Andre comes in sight of the gallows^ he stops sud- 
 denly/. 
 
 Chaplain. 
 Sir, why this pause ? 
 
 Andre. 
 
 'Twas all in loyalty, 
 All, all in honor — and I die by that I 
 
 Chaplain. 
 We thought you reconciled. 
 
 Andre. 
 
 And so I am : 
 It is not that ; I am reconciled to death, 
 But 0, not to the mode ! 
 
 Officer in Command. 
 
 If Major Andr6 
 Has aught to say — 
 
 Andre (looking firmly around). 
 I would but say, let all 
 Who see my death, when they shall speak of me. 
 Bear witness that I died like a brave man. 
 
 [They move on toward the place of execution. 
 
ANDRE. 129 
 
 SOEKE V I. 
 
 New York. — A room in Arnold's quarters, — Arnold, 
 Robertson and Mrs. Arnold. 
 
 KOBERTSON. 
 
 I still feel hope ; yet their commissioner 
 
 Was plain and frank ; and Washington is noted 
 
 For his direct and open policy. 
 
 Mrs. Arnold. 
 There is no hope. Even from the first, I felt 
 As when one reads a guilty tale, and knows 
 The end is horror. 
 
 Arnold. 
 Fear as frequently 
 Deceives as hope ; though its presentiments 
 Are like religion to the mind of women. 
 
 EOBERTSON. 
 
 Have you no fear ? 
 
 Arnold. 
 Yes ; but the more they threaten, 
 The less I fear. While they've the card in hand, 
 It tells upon the game, — once played, 'tis worthless. 
 
130 ANDRE. 
 
 Robertson. 
 There's reason in that view. 
 
 Enter Robinson. 
 
 Robinson. 
 
 I shall be pardoned 
 My abrupt entrance, if this letter's contents 
 Confirm its bearer's tidings. 
 
 Robertson. 
 
 With your leave. 
 [He reads the letter. 
 He is dead ! 
 
 Mrs. Arnold. 
 Is dead. 
 
 Arnold. 
 Why he is dead then — dead ! 
 And, once again, say dead — then let him rest 
 In silence, and be silently avenged. 
 He died, himself, but once ; and why for us 
 Should he die oftener ? There's no help for death. 
 
 Mrs. Arnold. 
 Nor for the living dead. The end has come — 
 We should be glad. Our evil destiny 
 Is consummated, perfect ; and hereafter 
 
ANDRE. 131 
 
 Has no misfortune for us, and no fear. 
 
 The past makes all the future. — Grod in heaven, 
 
 I do not even ask help of Thee ! 
 
 [/S'Ae sinks down, unnoticed, 
 
 * Arnold. 
 
 He risked, 
 In every petty skirmish, no less danger 
 To do less service. Yet 'twas damnable ! 
 Mere butchery and bloody-mindedness ; 
 A dastard and disguised revenge on me, 
 For my defection. Yes, to sprinkle me 
 With innocent blood, they plunged their hands in it- 
 The hour is theirs — they have a moment's triumph : 
 But in achieving it they have begun — 
 Where tragedies end — a drama whose first act 
 Is murder — but whose last shall be as pale 
 With retribution. They shall have no cause. 
 Like common murderers, to start at spectres. 
 Shapes of substantial evil, real horrors. 
 Shall be the conscience of their homicide. 
 
 EOBERTSON. 
 
 That will not give him life again ; our Andr6 ! 
 The young, and brave ! 
 
132 ANDRE. 
 
 Arnold. 
 
 But, Sir, the royal cause 
 Shall be no loser. It has lost one friend, 
 And gains in me another, pledged to vengeance. 
 
 EOBERTSON. 
 
 Sir, we can judge of that. 'Tis not your office, 
 And ill becomes one in your place, to rate 
 The consequence of Andre's death to us. 
 
 Arnold. 
 But you mistake me ! There lives not the man 
 Who more desired his safety than did I ; 
 And had I once conceived his death so near, 
 Or known it certain, I'd have shown the world 
 That no man cared for it as much as I. 
 It was my full intention, my fixed purpose, 
 To give my life for his, or cast myself 
 Into the hands, at least, of those who seek it. 
 
 KOBERTSON. 
 
 Had we but known it, you should not have wanted 
 Our countenance to the act. 
 
 Mrs. Arnold (rising). 
 
 What stroke like this 
 Has Andre suffered ? This is worse than death ! 
 
 [Exit 
 
ANDRE. 133 
 
 KOBERTSO^. 
 
 'Twere best you understood me, General Arnold, 
 And your position, which you might mistake, 
 If unexplained. Henceforth our intercourse 
 Must be official, simply such ; — Adieu. 
 
 [Exit 
 Arnold. 
 Ha ! am I Arnold still ? or have I changed 
 My nature with my party ? Has my heart 
 Grrown white beneath this scarlet livery. 
 That I should hear these insults, and my sword 
 Eest in its scabbard, and not leap to meet 
 His insolent tongue ! My God — it must be so ! 
 For once my brain seethes, and my blood is cold. 
 He bears the King's commission, and is higher 
 In rank than I am, and has equal power 
 To ruin as insult me, an unfriended 
 And helpless man : but had the King himself 
 Stood in his place, with death upon his lips, 
 I should have struck the dastard who insulted 
 My helpless fortunes ! Coward ! coward ! coward ! 
 I have no courage to resent, no will, no power. 
 They have me at their mercy, and they know it, 
 These old, new enemies ! I am a man 
 Without a home, a country, or a friend. 
 
134 AND R IE. 
 
 Enter Franks. 
 
 Franks ! you ? Why this is strange. A prisoner ? 
 
 Franks. 
 TeSj of my own design I have been taken, 
 Have given my parole^ and now am here ; 
 And to meet you once more was my sole purpose. 
 
 Arnold. 
 My old, tried comrade ! my true friend in need ! 
 Never in all my life felt I such want 
 Of a true-hearted friend. The death of Andr6 
 Has set the stream against me, on whose bosom 
 I trusted all my fortunes. They insult 
 And slight me here : or, if at times more gracious, 
 Their faces are but painted with their smiles. 
 And frowns lie under them. My faithful Franks ! 
 
 [He approaches, and leans on Franks. 
 
 Let my heart feel you, thus ; forgive the weakness : 
 It moves me at this time beyond my nature. 
 To know there's one man who still clings to me. 
 My wife is alienated ; and my path 
 Become a solitude, on which no being 
 Sets willing foot. I needed such a one, 
 One bound by former ties — I will not speak 
 
ANDKE. 135 
 
 Of favors now — who brings unaltered feelings 
 To my reversed condition — and he comes ! 
 
 Fkanks {disengaging himself). 
 Sir — General — Your confidence in me 
 Is^ as w^as mine in you, misplaced. I came — 
 I must out with it — Greneral— I came not 
 To be your confidant. 
 
 Aknold. 
 
 Did you not say 
 You came to meet me ? Of what other man 
 Could I believe this ? but of you I did. 
 
 Fkanks. 
 I came to right myself — but thus to see you — 
 In that red coat, unmans me with mere shame. 
 
 Arnold. 
 Make not all quarrels yours ; but tell me now. 
 What have I done to undo all the past ? 
 I mean — what done to you ? 
 
 Franks. 
 
 At Saratoga 
 You struck me with your sword ; but 'tis not that — 
 
 Arnold. 
 Did I not make amends, and you forgive me ? 
 
136 ANDRE. 
 
 Franks. 
 Yes, the brave soldier fully, freely, did I ; — 
 Not the hired traitor ! 
 
 Arnold. 
 Ha! 
 
 [He draws Ms sioord, and advances a step 
 towards Franks, then drops the point and 
 seems to muse. 
 
 Franks. 
 
 It is not that ; 
 I said it was not that ; although the blow 
 Now seems as vile as once I held it light, 
 Nay, almost honorable ! But it is. 
 That you deceived me— made me the blind tool 
 Of your designs, your dupe, your trumpeter ; 
 Beguiled me, with the fable of your wrongs. 
 To hate just men, whom you had wronged, and 
 
 boast 
 And swagger in your cause, and make myself 
 A fool or villain in the eyes of others. 
 Nor is it only that you cheated me 
 Of admiration, service, and affection, 
 But you have robbed me of my trust in manhood. 
 Undoubtingly I leaned upon your honor — 
 
ANDRE. 137 
 
 With my whole soul. It broke, and wounded me, 
 And I shall halt even to my grave, and find 
 No second man that I can lean upon. 
 
 Arnold. 
 Here, take my sword, and strike ! wipe out the 
 
 blow. 
 And all dishonor ; after all I know — 
 And 'tis a joy — that I meet death from him, 
 Of all who hate me, my least enemy. 
 
 Franks. 
 General — I — I — 
 
 Arnold. 
 Take it, and strike ! Return 
 To loyalty has branded me a traitor ; 
 A death I would have perished to prevent. 
 Stains me with murder, — 'tis but right, my friend 
 Should be my judge and executioner ! 
 
 Franks {s'peoking under strong excitement). 
 Give me the sword. 
 
 [Arnold, with a look of surprise^ but without 
 hesitation^ gives him the sword. 
 
 You stand there firm, undaunted, 
 There is no shrinking in your mien ; your eye 
 
138 ANDRE. 
 
 Is powerful and calm : no one can doubt 
 Your courage^ or the unconquerable force 
 Of a great mind, that ever on itself 
 Built for attainment of its ends ; and yet, 
 A life passed in great deeds, now shows but one 
 Poor, common virtue — that you dare to die ! 
 'Twere no fit vengeance for the death of Andre, 
 That you should fall, self-sentenced, on the sword 
 Grasped by a soldier and a man of honor ; 
 But in my country's name, and in the right 
 Of my untainted honor, as a hireling, 
 A renegade, and traitor — I degrade you. 
 
 [ZTe breaks the sword, and throws down the 
 pieces at the feet of Arnold. 
 
 THE END. 
 
UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
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