Produced by Nicholas Tomaiuolo and Al Haines







THE TREASON & DEATH

OF

BENEDICT ARNOLD


A PLAY FOR A GREEK THEATRE


BY

JOHN JAY CHAPMAN




MOFFAT, YARD & COMPANY

1910




Copyright, 1911

By John Jay Chapman




CHARACTERS


BENEDICT ARNOLD.

JOSHUA SMITH.

MAJOR ANDRÉ.

MRS. ARNOLD.

WILLIAM ARNOLD, _A Boy of Eight, Son to Benedict_.

FATHER HUDSON.

CHORUS OF WAVES (_Men_).

CHORUS OF CLOUDS (_Women_).

CHORUS-LEADER OF MEN.

CHORUS-LEADER OF WOMEN.

TREASON.

DEATH.

TWO PICKETS.

A SERVANT.




SCENE

ACT I. THE SHORE OF THE HUDSON NEAR WEST POINT.

ACT II. SITTING-ROOM OF BENEDICT ARNOLD IN ENGLAND IN 1801.



  _The Acts are Separated by
  a Short Vocal Intermezzo._




TREASON AND DEATH

OF BENEDICT ARNOLD


ACT I

_The margin of the Hudson at West Point.  Fort Putnam and the Highlands
in the distance.  A flag is fluttering on the fort.  The orchestra
represents the level of the river shore, upon which level the_ Chorus
_will enter.  The characters of the drama appear on a bank or platform,
slightly raised above the orchestra and_ Chorus.  _At the opening of
the play_ Father Hudson _is upon the scene.  He reclines in the centre
of the stage in the attitude of a river-god.  The nook or couch in
which he rests is situated between the two levels, as it were in an
angle of the river bank.  His position is such that he can, by turning
his head, either watch the personages on the stage, or address the_
Chorus _on the river margin.  He is so painted and disposed as not to
attract attention when the play opens, but to appear rather as a part
of the scenery and decoration._


_First Picket_.  Uneasy has been my watch.  Dark have been my
forebodings, standing first on one foot and then on the other, through
the night hours, preyed upon by visions, holding my eyelids open by my
will, while strange thoughts like vultures over their carrion, wheeling
about above me, assail me, tear me with their beaks and talons.  Dark
looms the cloud bank through the black portals of the river.  The fog
holds the bleared eyes of the morning.  And I, stiff with watching,
suspect some evil.  Some foul play is in the mountains, stalking in the
shadows of the dawn.  Would God the releasing trumpet would blow and
the flag flutter on the mountain side, and that I might find all well!
General Washington is on a journey.  Would God he were returned!  [_The
sound of a bugle is heard._]  Blow, blessed bugle!  Blow to the rising
Sun!  Blow to the dayspring of Liberty, to the new nation rising calmly
above the dangers that beset her dawn.  Blow bugle, and scatter the
night-thoughts of terror!

[_Enter the relieving_ Picket.] Who goes there?

_Second Picket_.  A friend and thy relief.
  Our post is changed;
  The pickets are extended up the hills,
  And this low post abandoned.

_First Picket_.          That is strange,
  To leave the river front without a watch!
  If we expect attack, attack must come
  Along the river,----

_Second Picket_.     Comrade, spare your brains,
  And take your orders.  [_Exeunt_ Pickets.]

_Father Hudson_.  Daughters of the sky, ye clouds of the morning,
  Replenishers of my veins, ye purple, wandering clouds!
  And you, ye waves that lap my feet, far-traveling,
      restless, endlessly moving!
  Thralls of the circling ocean, waves of the sea--
  Attend your Father Hudson, the Ageless, the Majestic!
  Calling to you, his sons and daughters, summoning you at his need.
  Stoop, daughters of ether, ye clouds of the mountains!
  Rise, sons of the sea, most ancient retainers,
  Flow towards your father's need! the River calls--
  Father Hudson summons his children.

[_Enter simultaneously_ Chorus of Waves, (_men_) _on one side, and on
the other,_ Chorus of Clouds (_women_).  _They flock slowly into the
orchestra, approaching each other, and sing as they assemble._]

_Both Choruses_.  Father Hudson, we are coming, we are streaming,
      we are foaming
  From the sky and from the earth,
    Down the mountains,
    Through the fountains,
  We are streaming, steaming forth;
    We, the children of your will,
    Born to serve you, and to fill
  All your banks and all your margin
    With the fulness of enlarging,
    With the plentitude of rivers,
    We, the generous water-givers,
  Overflowing, bubbling, swelling,
  Feed you with our rich upwelling.

_Chorus of Men_.  From Monadnock and Mount Washington--
  And where the haughty deer on Hudson's Bay
  Sniffs the north wind, We bring you Mist.

_Chorus of Women_.  From the rank lowlands of the Delaware,
  And from the even margin of low sand,
  Where the Atlantic smites the continent, We bring you Salt.

_Chorus of Men_.  From Sicily and the Cumaean Cave,
  And from the mountains where Apollo's shafts
  Whitened the hillsides once, We bring you Thought.

_Chorus of Women_.  From the dark heart of man that scorns the light,
  From Wisdom, found in Meekness through Despair, We bring you Grief.

_Both Choruses_.  Haste to where our father dwells!
  We the movers, we the rovers,
  Come to your eternal dwelling.
  Ancient father, we will bring
  News and thought of everything,
  From the mossy citadels,
  And the cities of the sea;
  Timeworn tales of prophecy
  We are bringing in our singing
  To your newer Majesty.
  To your destiny belated,
  Young and unsophisticated,
  We, the children of the ages,
  Bring the solemn heritages,--
  Force and Woe and Human Fate,--
  Embittering your god-like state.
  Bitter is life!
  Bitter, bitter even to the gods, is life!

_Father Hudson_.  Sons and daughters, sole feeders of my life,
  By these new-coming white men I am destroyed.
  My feet are burned in Manhattan, my thighs in the Mohawk,
  While in the Adirondacks they blaze enduring ruin.

[_The leaders speak, not sing, except as otherwise noted._]

_Leader of Men_.  Alas! little knows he that his kingdom is of nothing
but of change and pain.

_Leader of Women_.  Foolish god that must await the baptism of humanity!

_Leader of Men_.  Father! these things must be: therefore endure.  Lo,
thy old trees are as grass; thy ancient summits as fresh ant-hills.
Chaldea sends thee this message, father; Egypt salutes thee; Greece
sends thee this song; a song of tribulation.  For there is no short cut
to Antiquity: therefore endure.

_Father Hudson_.  Woe, woe, woe is me!

_Leader of Men_.  Untutored God!  Mind ragged as thy hills, thou must
accept the refining pain.

_Father Hudson_.  Woe, woe, woe is me!

_Leader of Women_.  Peace, Father!  Do not whine.  Because thou hast
been spared thou art soft-minded.  Because thou wast spared thou art a
child.

_Leader of Men_.  When thy hills shall have been steeped for a thousand
years in history, then thou wilt be patient.

_Leader of Women_.  What thou feelest is not the axe nor the
fire-brand, but the Spirit of Man moving in thy demesnes.

_Leader of Men_.  Lo, where it comes!  Lo, where the shadow falls!

[_Enter_ Benedict Arnold.  _He is in the Uniform of an American
General.  He limps._]

_Both Choruses_.  A light thing is man and his suffering very little.

If he can but endure for a short time, death saves him.  Lo, his
release cometh and his happiness is long.

Fame forever follows in the steps of the just man: an unending life
springs up behind him.

Children follow him: a good father's life is a lamp that burns in the
heart of the son.

How short is the struggle of the greatest hero, and how long his fame!
Save me from pride and from the expectation of praise from men.

_Arnold_.  He may not come.--
  What if it were a ruse to capture me?--
  The whole proceeding cloaked in infamy,
  And no faith in the matter?
  André should be here.  André is a man
  Of sterling honor, and will keep his faith.
  My secret's in his hand.--My change of heart
  Must to His Majesty have long been known,
  And he will praise me for it.  Civil war
  Knows no such thing as treason; change of sides,
  The victory of reason in the heart,
  Makes Loyalist turn Whig.  Montgomery,
  Richard Montgomery, was honor's darling;
  And when his body fell, scaling Quebec,
  Down the sheer rock it left a track of light
  Which sped in opposition towards the stars
  Bearing his fame.  He was an officer
  In the King's army ere he found our own.
  Did conscience fret the gallant Irishman
  To think what uniform was on his back
  When he so died?  What if in that assault
  I had died too, my name had ranked with his
  In song and monument; unfading laurels
  Had shed their brazen lustre o'er our brows,
  And we, like demigods, had lived forever.
  Was it enough for _him_, to scale the sky
  Against the slippery adamant of Fame,
  And, giving youth, give all?  I have done more.
  All of his early prowess was mine too:
  In everything I match him; and to me
  Remains the hell of glory on the Lakes,
  When with my hand I stopped the British fleet,--
  Stayed them a year: they dreaded to come on.
  And I had done it.  There remain my fights
  At Ridgefield, and those shortened days
  At Saratoga, when the fit came on
  And I knew nothing but the act of war,
  And victory coming down, Victory, Victory!
  'Twas I that saved them!  Yes, 'twas I that saved you--
  Ye little wranglers with the name of war!
  I beat Burgoyne, I saved the continent,
  The Continental Army and the Cause,
  Washington, Congress, and the whole of you,
  I saved ye,--saved ye,--and I had for it--
  It chokes me still to say it--had for it--
  It wakes me in the night with leaping hatred,--
  Out of my bed I leap to think of it,--
  Hitting me in my sleep the poison comes
  And fangs my heart.--I had a _Reprimand_!
  I, reprimanded by a sorry crew
  Of politicians--I, I, I----!
  Thus, in my heart for sixteen months of hurt,
  Burns the injustice, clamors the revenge.
  No, no revenge! but justice,
  Nothing but justice--I'll have justice!

_Both Choruses_.  Foolish is the man who thinks upon his wrongs though
they be great.  The sting is in him; the poison is in himself.

Lo, he accuses others, and the deed of his death is done with his own
hand.

_Father Hudson_.  What is the man disturbed about, my children?

_Leader of Men_.  He is a hero and a battle-god:
  The spoils and the rewards he justly won,
  Others have seized, and left his haughty heart
  A withered laurel.

_Father Hudson_.    Surely it was wrong;
  The hero should receive the hero's meed.

_Leader of Men_.  The gods that made him hero had left out
  The drop of meekness which preserves the rest
  From self-destruction.

_Father Hudson_.     Will he kill himself?

_Leader of Men_.  More than a suicide.--
  A living death
  Takes up its habitation in his heart.

_Father Hudson_.  Little I understand, but greatly pity.
  You, who have mastered all philosophy,
  Can surely soothe him.

_Leader of Men_.      None can reach the man.
  He is beyond the boundaries of speech,
  And goes the paths of blindness.
  Would'st thou, O Father, see the invisible,
  And know what agitates your placid mind?

_Father Hudson_.  Show me: I can receive it.

[_The following Invocation is sung by the_ Leader of the Women _in a
clear contralto voice._]

_Leader of Women_.  Spirit of the unseen habitation,
  Walking distress,
  Blighting presence, Nemesis, Evil,
  Good-in-Darkness,
  Passing from breast to breast,
  Reaching easily all men,
  And the vine in the orchard,
  And the thick clusters of the grape,
  And the bending branches of the young peach trees,
  When the south wind blows death upon their pride,--
  O intimate undoing!  In what form walkest thou here?

_Treason_.  [_Without._]       Who calls?

_Leader of Men_.  One who knows thee well enough: thou need'st not hide.

[_Enter_ Treason.]

_Leader of Men_.  [_To_ Father Hudson.]
  Behold the unsleeping fiend that lives in him!
  His name is Treason.

_Treason_.  Art thou there, Benedict?

_Arnold_.  [_Aside._]  Why not?  'Tis Fame,
  Reward, wealth, power, revenge and simple justice
  All at a clap.  They'll make a Lord of me,--
  Pacificator of the Colonies,--
  Restorer of an erring people's love
  To their forgiving Sovereign.  At a clap!
  The key to all of this is in my hand,--
  West Point; and in my other hand,
  Sir Henry's promises,--money in sums,
  To weigh the unweighed treasures I have sunk
  For these damned ingrates.

_Treason_.  Art thou there, Benedict?

_Arnold_.  [_Still aside._] They took my all,
  Engulfed my freely-given wealth, paid out
  For their salvation; now they count the cost,
  File my accounts and give me promises,--
  Hopes for next year.  Twas not in coin like that
  I paid at Saratoga!

_Treason_.             Benedict!

_Arnold._  Who art thou, spirit of the inner world?
  I cannot see thee.

_Treason_.        And yet you called me.

_Arnold_.  No, I called thee not.  I called to mind
  My bullet-shattered thigh, and the hot thirst
  Of fever.  Did not Washington himself
  Send me the sword-knots he received from France,
  And Congress vote a horse caparisoned
  To bear me proudly?

_Treason_.              Ay; they kept back that
  Which all out-weighed the rest.

_Arnold_.                My rank!
  My rank!
  Five brigadiers promoted over me!

_Treason_.  They paid with compliment.

_Arnold_.                A soldier's rank
  Is, as his guiding genius in the sky,
  A holy thing.  That rank which I had earned
  They gave to striplings.

_Treason_.               Pay them well for it!

_Arnold_.  Leave me: I do desire to be alone.

_Treason_.  Without me, Arnold, thou art not alone.
  I am beside thee till thy dying breath:
  When Treason leaves, he hands thee unto Death.

_Arnold_.  It is not treason to preserve one's life
  Among wild beasts; nor treason to demand
  The reasonable payment of a debt;
  Nor treason for the savior of a land--
  Listen:--There was a stripling in the town
  Where I was born; and this rash vigorous boy
  Seized by the nose a bull, that in a fright
  Had rushed aboard a crowded ferry-boat,
  And held him through his plunges till he fell,
  Subdued by pain.  The boy for no reward,
  But for the devil in him, did the thing.
  But had he been a man, and sought reward,
  Had he been banged about this rocking world
  As I have, holding terror by the horns,
  Could he not ask a pittance?--Leave me, friend.
  I am exhausted, taking all the brunt
  And getting kicks for pay.  Nay, leave me, Sir,
  The argument is over.  Let me rest.

[_Sits down and tries to sleep._]

_Treason_.  I'll watch beside thee.

_Father Hudson_.  Can ye not calm him somewhat in his sleep?

_Leader of Men_.  [_To_ Treason.]  Will you not leave the man and let
him rest?

_Treason_.  His sleep is mine.  When waking let him rest.


_Father Hudson_.  [_To_ Treason.] This is a cruel fate ye mete him out.

_Treason_.  Be it your province to be merciful.

_Father Hudson_.  When will ye leave the man, thou empty ghost?

_Treason_.  When Treason in the flesh shall come to meet him.

_Both Choruses_.  Surely it is a good thing for a hero to die in his
youth; for then is he perfect.  The bark is not broken on the wand nor
the neck worn by the yoke.

Surely young men are better than old; and we praise them deservedly.
This man, a few years since, could endure reverse; but now he is broken
and worn away: his soul bows down; he cannot hold out longer.

It is a good thing when a young hero dies; for so is he safe.  His
immortality is meted to him.  O spare us a trial like this man's who is
on the brink of great misfortune.


_Arnold_.  [_Starting up._]  They have betrayed me!  Who goes there?

[_Enter_ Joshua Smith.  _Exit_ Treason.]

_Joshua Smith_.  A friend!

_Arnold._                  His name?

_Joshua Smith_.  Joshua Smith.  And yours?

_Arnold_.  Arnold, my man.  Good God! you startled me.  I must have
slept.  What news?  Will André come?

_Joshua Smith_.  He's just behind me.
  All is as we planned.
  The British sloop-of-war hangs in the tide.
  The _Vulture_ brought him, and she waits for him
  Not two miles to the south.  I boarded her.  With every point
  Raised in your letters André is agreed;
  And back of him, Sir Henry Clinton stands;
  And back of _him_,--ye'll hear it now?--King George!
  Packt, stamped upon, agreed, and understood,
  The bargain's struck.  Your hand, my Lord!  Sir Benedict!
  Lord Ruler Benedict, The Lord Protector of the Colonies,
  And Duke of,--what you will.  Young André follows.
  I chased ahead to find you.  Put it high!
  You'll put the figure high?--I'm out of breath--

_Arnold_.  I'll put it high enough to help a friend.--
  No fear of that, my lad.  Go rest awhile:
  Stand sentinel upon the shore below.

[_Exit_ Smith.  _As he goes out he indicates_ Arnold _to_ André _by a
gesture.  Enter_ André.  _His slender, refined, almost girlish youth is
in contrast with_ Arnold's _battle-worn, gigantic figure._]

_Arnold_.  [_Aside._]  At last my arrows strike!
      [_To_ André.] What!  Major André!
  This is a crazy meeting,--somewhat strange
  After your jigging nights in Philadelphia,--
  A _Mischianza_, where we play a masque,
  And act a drama fraught with consequence
  More serious than any since the Duke
  Brought back King Charles.  Two true-born Englishmen,
  If you'll accept my hand, shall this day place
  A jewel in old England's diadem,
  Which some rash spirits would shake out of it.

_André_.  Have you the papers ready?

_Arnold_.                They are here;
  The plans of all the out-posts to the dot,
  And every man on duty in the Fortress.

_André_.  The general is in Hartford?

_Arnold_.                  And returns
  Not for some days.  Our garrison I'll post
  Distributively on the distant hills;
  While from the _Vulture_ half a thousand men
  Land in the darkness.  Thus without a blow,
  But with the magic of a countersign,
  West Point becomes your own.

_André_.                        Is there some house
  Or tavern, where with more deliberate mind
  We may o'erlook the papers, and make note
  Of our exacter meanings?

_Arnold_.                 Close at hand,
  The mansion of my agent, Joshua Smith.

_André_.   Good, we'll go there.  O Arnold, death is nothing;
  Our lives are forfeit to our country's cause.
  Which of us would not quit the world in peace
  After some act that scaled the walls of time,
  And stood on the rampart?

_Arnold_.  Right, and bravely said!  I've given my life
  As many times as I have mounted horse
  To reconnoitre--

_André_.           But this is different, Arnold.

_Arnold_.   Different, ay different! it saves men's lives:
  Without a drop of blood it ends a war.

_André_.  You are a veteran, and know the feel
  Of imminent death.  I could die bravely, too.

_Arnold_.  Of course you could.  All fear is bookish talk
  Cooked up by writers out of literature,
  To give the shudder to dyspeptic girls.
  Dying is easy.  Come along, my friend!
  A glass of port shall cure us of such fears;
  Moments like this make mirth in after years.

[_Exeunt_ Arnold _and_ André.]

_Father Hudson_.  Is there no way to stop them; can ye not
  Bring pause to these excited rushing men?

_Leader of Men_.  Pause is unknown, as to your moving waters,
  That take their God-directed, downward course,
  Deaf to beseechment.

_Father Hudson_.      'Tis most pitiful.

_Both Choruses_.  No, not to mirth can my voice be tuned, while these
two men converse.  Often their story comes to me in the night, and
causes weeping.

One, the young troubadour, the boy poet, beloved by all, burning for
fame; and, in his innocence, he performs the mean work of a spy.

And the other, the old hero, seven times baptized with
immortality-in-action, who betrays his country out of foolishness.

To the first, death by hanging: to the second, one and twenty years of
dishonored life.

Which of them shall have most of pity?  Which of them could we see
again with gladness, or greet with a gay demeanor?

The fate of the young man I deem the better; because he is young, and
because death took him in his beauty.

Strange it is what souls are woven together by destiny; and out of what
substance life is wrought.

All men become something incredible to themselves; for they are unwound
like a cocoon, and know not which way the thread doth run.

They dance like motes in the sunbeam for a moment, and then are
illumined no more.  Legend takes some of them, and they become
pictures; and the rest, it would seem, enter again into nothingness.

Grant me to know the desire of mine own heart beforehand; that I may
not be deceived.  Give me not much, but a true thing, and one that
lasts forever.

[_The distant sound of cannonading is heard._]

_Father Hudson_.  Surely I hear a sound disquieting--

_Leader of Men_.  Wait: you shall know the cause.


[_Enter hurriedly, and meeting,_ Arnold _and_ André _on one side,_
Joshua Smith _on the other._]

_Joshua Smith_.  General Arnold!  Major André!

_Arnold_.  What is it?  What has happened?

_Joshua Smith_.  Colonel Livingston's redoubts on the eastern bank.  He
has fired on the _Vulture_.  They are exchanging shots; and the
_Vulture_ is dropping down stream.  She cannot bear the fire.

_Major André_.  We are lost!

_Arnold_.  No, no, no; not lost, not lost.  You have only to drop down
stream also.  Mr. Smith goes with you; and you shall be put aboard the
vessel a few miles below.  Eh, Smith?

_Joshua Smith_.  Not for the world, General!  It is daylight now, and
if I should be seen taking this gentleman to the _Vulture_, the Yankees
would shoot both of us.

_Arnold_.  Some truth in that.  But what can we do?

_Joshua Smith_.  Go the other way, General.  You must give a pass to
both Major André and me, allowing us to cross the river, and so on to
New York.  I'll go with the Major till we reach the British lines.
It's a plain road to safety.

_André_.  But my uniform--

_Arnold_.  It is a case for a change of coats.

_André_.   But the countrymen are swarming in every highway--

_Joshua Smith_.  They are all my friends.  Every rebel is my
friend;--and--harkee,--every Tory is my friend--from Peekskill to New
York!  You'll be as safe as the General himself,--and much more
comfortable,--till you reach the British Headquarters.

_Arnold_.  [_To_ André.]  He's right, André, he's right.  It's a safer
way than the other when all's said.  He knows every lane in the
country.  [_More firing._] Here, take the papers.  And God bless you!
There's no time to lose.  This pass covers all routes.  The patriots
know my hand and respect it.  Off with you to King's Ferry, Peekskill,
and White Plains!  Off with you both!  Smith has mounts for both of
you; and you'll be in the city in twelve hours.  All the words have
been said: the rest is action.

_André_.  [_Shaking hands with_ Arnold.]  Till we meet again.

_Arnold_.  [_With a gesture._]  There in the fort!
      Sir Henry on his horse,
  And André like a Genius at his side,
  Guiding the host!  That flag shall fall
  When next we meet: up run the British colors!
  England forever!  Heart, take heart, my lad!
  We cannot fail.  The rest is counting gains.

_André_.  I think this exploit shall make England glad
  When I'm in the grave.

_Arnold_.  Odso!  Our names shall chronicle the hills,
  And school-boys learn us.  Go in haste, good André!
  Keep your mouth shut.  Let Smith do all the talking.
  These papers make you seem some Britisher,
  An agent or a spy.  You will be safe.
  In every war are trusted underlings
  Who pass from camp to camp like contraband;
  Always suspected and yet always safe.

_André_.  I like not such protection.  Must I creep
  Beneath so mean a shelter,--seem a spy?
  I would to Heaven my purposes were known
  To every noble nature in the earth!

_Arnold_.  Off!  And the nearest way!

[Smith _changes_ André's _coat._]

Success is virtue; and we mean to win.

[_Exit_ André _and _Smith.]

[_Aside._] If we should fail, good youth, for history's eye,
  They'd write us up,--the traitor and the spy.
  Would God some power to telescope the hours
  Were lent me now!  With André in New York
  I am revenged, rich, powerful, respected, everything
  My enemies begrudge.  It cannot fail.
  O for a battle now to dry this sweat
  Of simple waiting!  Sure, he cannot miss!
  My passes run the river up and down;
  And every day some messenger of mine
  Reaches New York; then why not he?
  If they should take him?  But they _will_ not take him.
  All these long months of waiting,--
  And not a soul to speak to; I could roar,--
  Sound it against the mountains,--that these peaks
  Should bandy my intentions back and forth;
  Or tell it to the talking cataracts
  To ease my need of speech.  An hour's patience,
  Which seems as long as the preceding year,
  And I shall know.  [_He sits down and
falls into a contemplation; then into a doze.  As he falls asleep,
enter quietly_ Treason.]

_Arnold_.  [_Speaking as if out of his sleep._]
      Leave me alone.  Thou thing of little might!
  Thou painted bogey!  I am conscience-proof,
  And care no more what names I may be called.
  If thou cans't make this hour glide more swift,
  With idle chat of owls and haunted men,
  I'll take thee for a gossip.  Sit you there
  And hide the hour-glass.  There was a time
  In early boyhood, when a thing like thee
  Seemed horrible, but now my mouth is dry
  With other terror.  Thou art a cap and bells:
  Play me a ditty on a tambourine.
  [_Starting up._] Who goes there?
  [_Rushes to_ Smith, _who enters._]
  Tell me that he is safe!

Joshua Smith.       Within the lines,--
  Almost within the lines,--I left the youth.
  He's safe in British hands; and by his time,
  Is telling his adventures to Sir Henry.

_Arnold_.  Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!  Is it not a joke, Joshua?
  Ha, ha, ha!
  This is a joke that shall run crackling through
  America, like Samson's burning foxes.
  Ha, ha, ha!--André is in New York!
  A spasm of joy; and yet it pains my leg.
  Your hand, my friend.  The laughter comes again--
  Ha, ha, ha!  Now let them vote!  Brigadier Generals
  May rain on this accursed land of pain
  As fast as Congress spawns them!  Now, ye rats!
  Who shall squirm last, I ask ye?
  [_To_ Smith.]                   Safe, you say?
  You saw him with the British?

_Smith_.                     Not quite so;
  But at their outposts.

_Arnold_.             It will take a day
  Before I can believe it.  I am drunk
  With the intoxication of revenge,
  Sweeter than wine.  A day of jubilee
  Shall follow all our torments, Joshua Smith.
  Out on ye, pack of curs!  I have ye now,
  Where ye'll not yelp so freely.--Ha, ha, ha--
  Ha, ha, ha, ha!--And God I thank thee, too.
  Justice is in the world.
  Help me to the fortress.  Mercy, how it pains!
  Justice!  Revenge!  And, Joshua,--what a joke!

[_Exeunt_ Arnold _and_ Smith.]


_Father Hudson_.  My heart is moved with sorrow: the sins of men enter
into me and I am constrained.  Why was this man chosen for suffering;
and what balm is there for his seed?

_Both Choruses_.  Fear God and seek not thine own advantage.  Pluck not
the grape thyself; for who knows whether it be intended for thee?

I will weep freely and lift up my voice for the sorrows of men.  There
is none that shall comfort me.

Come, Father, let us weep together and add our tears to thy streams;
for so only can the medicine of this grief flow down to the children of
men.




INTERMEZZO

_Father Hudson_.  Is it finished?

_Leader of Men_.  No; it is begun.

_Father Hudson_.  His pain enters into me.  I must endure these things.
Woe is me that ever I was born of the brooks or received by the
meadows!  The pains of new birth get hold on me, and I see that life is
sorrow.  Why could ye not let me alone, ye pangs of knowledge; or go by
on the other side, ye piercings of understanding?  Must I be bound up
forever with sin, and feel the hand of unevenness on my loins?

_Both Choruses_.  So it is with all creatures of a deep spirit.  They
are caught with the net; they are frozen in the ice of God; they are
very helpless, and cry for relief day and night.

Accept thy pains, for they are good.  Reason not against fate but lay
down thy will in earnest.

_Father Hudson_.  Will the man come again?

_Leader of Men_.  Once more shalt thou see him, and remember him
forever.  Lo, now he comes as the wounded lion, as the tiger bereft of
his prey and wounded by the hunter.  [_Enter_ Arnold, _a pistol in one
hand, a letter clutched in the other.  During this speech he crosses
the stage._] His plot has failed and his iniquity is as a broken toy.
Wrecked is all his life.  He flees like a robber from his own land.
Hills look your last upon Benedict!  Ye Highlands, filled with clouds,
and ye little streams that jet along the crags, this is your general.
Will he remember you in his dreams, think you, or find himself back
among you in his reveries?  In his lone island, in his long years of
silence, ye will return to him.  Bid him adieu without bitterness, thou
rocky castle!  For his punishment shall be within himself day by day.
[_Exit_ Arnold.]  Behold, [_Shades his eyes with his hand as if
observing_ Arnold] he is on the shore; his barge of eight oars obeys
the signal; he stands in the prow; the rowers smite the water.  With
fury they row, for he commands them; with fury and terrible ire they
row, for they fear the man.  He has drawn a white handkerchief from his
breast, though his pistol never leaves his hand.  The prow of the
British sloop of war looms above his barge.  They see his signal.  They
are letting down the gangway.  They are taking him up into the British
vessel.

_Chorus of Men_.  So down the torrent of infamy,
  So into the bosom of Hell,
  O _Vulture_, thou bearest him!

_Chorus of Women_.  Naught brings he in hand to his captors;
  Naught but the coin of his soul;
  Empty-handed goeth he.

_Chorus of Men_.  The great cheater here is cheated;
  The great traitor here betrayed:
  Where is his bargain?

_Chorus of Women_.  Bare life he saves by the purchase,
  Merely the breath of life;
  Merely the fountain of pain.

_Chorus of Men_.  Yea, out of the lips of aversion,
  Yea, out of the hand of contempt,
  He receiveth his price.

_Chorus of Women_.  Pride is the hero's undoing,
  Pride is the sin of the great.
  Lo, he licketh the crumbs!

_Both Choruses_.  So down the torrent of infamy,
  So into the bosom of Hell;
  O _Vulture_, thou bearest him!

_Father Hudson_.  Is all treason punished like this among men?

_Leader of Men_.  Father, thou askest things no man can answer.

_Father Hudson_.  If these things could be known, what man would follow
his own desires?  Fear overtaketh me in thinking of them.  I thank the
gods that my channel is laid, I cannot change it.  The man seems to me
like one who should place a lake on a hilltop and cry to it, Stay
there!  He hath wrestled against thunder.  He would lift the rocks with
his back; and he lies crushed beneath them.  Can he not repent?  Shall
he never find out that fire is hot?  Must he die still unapprised of
his own foolishness?

_Leader of Men_.  The future is a hard thing to know.

_Father Hudson_.  Are there not charms that open mountain sides,
  And show what shall come forth?

_Leader of Men_.  All things to come
  Are come already,--save the power to see them.

_Father Hudson_.  Would I might know the ending of that man,
  Whose fate and story clinging to my name
  Do make me human!

_Leader of Men_.    Human was his end,
  And very moving.  Wouldst thou wait awhile,
  Or see the story now?

_Father Hudson_.     Now, now, my son!

_Invocation_.  [_Sung in contralto voice, as before,
      by the_ Leader of Women.]
  Storm-shadowed, precipitous valley,
  And ye threatening towers of stone that hold back the mountains,
  Letting the dark stream pass; Storm King, and Donderberg,
      homes of reverberant thunder;
  Thou steep theatre, where his story trod its stage,
  And where the circling thought of it returns
  With ever profounder, ever accumulating echoes,
  Calling to Humanity, compelling attention, provoking the
      unexpected tear,--
  Open yet once again your treasured legend;
  Out of the encrusted box, the precious parchment,
  Out of the vestment-chambers, the hallowed rags.

[_As the verse now changes its form, the music also slightly changes
character._]

  Lo, now, our holiday calls on the past for its lessons,
    Lo, while the flame of the frost-bite fingers the dale,
  Lo, in the lambent blaze of autumnal quiescence,
    Flows Father Hudson, at peace, through his populous vale.

  Fruit trees garland his margins,--vines, and the brazen
    Hillocks of billowy rye o'er the undulous deep
  Stretch to the Berkshires, proclaiming the conquering season;
    Dash on the Catskills, repulsed by the envious steep.

  Woe, royal river!  In grief I gaze on thy harvest,
    Anxious to me my thought as thy riches unroll.
  Mortal, beware lest in riotous plenty thou starvest!
    Give me the fruits of the spirit, the songs of the soul.

_Father Hudson_.  A sweet voice but sad,--trembling sad.

_Leader of Men_.  Hush, it invokes the craggy wilderness,
  And seeks an entrance for its piercing cry.

_Leader of Women_.  [_Sings.  The music again changing with the metre._]
  Give up the scene, give up, ye sordid rocks,
  The last of Arnold in his English home,
  Which in your bosom lives for evermore,
  A deathless picture; England cast it out
  Not being English, and it shivered on,
  Coiling about the world, till it was caught
  And locked into your rocky fastnesses
  Where it lives ever; and your mountain ribs
  Ache with the imposition.




ACT II


[_The centre of the stage slowly opens, disclosing a sitting-room.  A
writing-table covered with letters.  Somewhere in the foreground a sofa
or low couch: An engraved portrait of George III.  _Arnold_ is sitting
at the table, but his arm-chair is turned away.  He is in a profound
reverie, gazing at the floor.  He is dressed in the uniform of a
British officer.  His hair is gray and his face worn.  At the back of
the stage at one side of the door, sits _Treason_, somewhat in the
attitude of a sheriff's officer keeping guard._]

_Treason_.  [_To_ Arnold.]
  What are you muttering, comrade?  Go to sleep!
  And yet sleep not too sound; there's work ahead!
  With all the world against us.  What of that?
  We ne'er were beaten yet.  Get money first:
  A fortune in your fist.  With honest luck,
  Your hand against the world!  But money first.
  [_Aside._] He breaks apace, and I await each day
  The knock of Death--
  [_Knocking_.]           No, no, not yet, Sir Death!
  There's life in him and, mayhap, years of grief.
  Leave me to tousle him.  He's strong as hemp
  And bears his ragging well.
  [_More knocking._]      Not yet, not yet!

[_Enter_ Death.]

_Treason_.  You are unjust to come before the time.

_Death_.  The moment and myself are on the stroke.

_Treason_.  Thou deemest that this man is soon to die?

_Death_.  Death is already in him.

_Treason_.            Yea, his body.--
  His mind is brighter than it was before.

_Death_.  My shadow lights his mind; but it is Death.

_Treason_.  How hast thou entered him without a struggle?

_Death_.  The struggle was thy work.

_Treason_.      Give me some moments.

_Death_.  [_Pointing to the door with great dignity._]
  The man is mine.  Hence!  Silence!  Obey!

[_Exit_ Treason.  Death_ takes _Treason's_ place by the door._]

_Arnold_.  [_Waking._] They deny me the opportunity of honorable death.
  This is the twentieth year of sodden waiting.
  Fighting by land and sea and soldier's work,
  As hot as heart could wish,--boy generals,--
  Wars on all hands, in Holland, France, and Spain,
  With military honors falling thick;--
  And I, a Tantalus set in a lake of thirst,
  Up to my neck in battles all about,
  Without the power to reach them!

[_Enter_ Mrs. Arnold.  _She has a youthful face, and her hair is
prematurely white.  She passes by_ Death _without seeing him.  A
gesture of surprise and pity as she sees _Arnold_.  She kisses him on
his forehead, and sits down next him on a lower chair._]

_Mrs. Arnold_.  Surely, my husband you have not been forth!
  After the sullen fever you have had
  'Twas most unwise.--
  [_Pause._]
  You have been grieved, and wear the ashen look.

_Arnold_.  Age, and the chafing of a few stern thoughts.

_Mrs. Arnold_.  Have I not earned the right to know them?

_Arnold_.  Indeed, thou hast!  An angel from the sky
  Accepting the bad bargain of a man,
  Could not have found a worse.  You took me up
  A battered piece of ordnance, broken in spirit,
  Accursed to myself and to my kind;
  And underneath me thou hast held an arm
  Sustaining as the seraph's upward look
  Askance against Apollyon.

_Mrs. Arnold_.        Benedict!
  You shall not talk so.--

_Arnold_.           Next, your mother's heart
  Became the mother to my three grown boys,
  Giving them such devotion and such love
  As rarely flows from out a mother's hope
  To her own children.

_Mrs. Arnold_.  Benedict, your words
  Cut me like knives.  Why, why this catalogue?

_Arnold_.  Something compels me.--

_Mrs. Arnold_.  Where have you been?
  Has some insulting taunt
  Cast by a coward in a public place
  Where you could not resent it, stung your patience?
  These are the pebbles small men throw at great.

_Arnold_.  No.  'Tis the season for my wounds to ache;
  And with them aches the rest.--

_Mrs. Arnold_.  Where have you been?

_Arnold_.  Three hours in his Lordship's ante-room.

_Mrs. Arnold_.  The War Office?  And what has been decided?

_Arnold_.  I could not see his Lordship. Three hours late.
  They sent me word his Lordship was not in.
  It is the iteration wears me down.
  Year after year,--year after leaden year,--
  Kicking my heels in England's ante-rooms,
  Where proud men pass me by: and now and then
  I catch a glimpse of some American,--
  A former pal, a former enemy;--
  It is the same, both pal and enemy
  Give me a fit of trembling.  'Twas not so;
  Yet as the years decline our nerves grow sick:
  I dread it more and more.

_Mrs. Arnold_.          O Benedict,
  This is the mood that kills us.  Have we not
  A thousand times resolved it, made all plain?
  You in your right of conscience chose a course
  Beside your King, recanting many errors,
  And following the only light you knew.
  The king himself accepted your return
  And raised you with his hand.

_Arnold_.  [_Very quietly._]      I was a traitor.

_Mrs. Arnold_.  [_With great vehemence._]  No, no, no!
  You were the noblest hero of them all!

_Arnold_.  And now they do not trust me.

_Mrs. Arnold_.  Is there a soldier in the British Isles
  That has a list of battles like your own?

_Arnold_.  It may be not.

_Mrs. Arnold_.  Then make allowances for jealousy.
  To Englishmen, their battles are a sport,
  With every post of danger dearly prized,
  Like the crack stations in the shooting field,--
  Never enough for all.  They bribe and jockey,--
  Knife their own brothers to get near the spoil.
  And would they not repel a foreigner,--
  One they had cause to envy?  Englishmen
  Are very unforgiving of defeat.
  It is your glory, the impediment:
  So gluttonous are soldiers of reward--
  So sporting-keen are Englishmen for fame.

_Arnold_.  It may be so.

_Mrs. Arnold_.  Your temperament is of colossal mould,
  And sees too simply.

_Arnold_.           I was a traitor.

_Mrs. Arnold_.  Are you a man to take the common talk,
  And be its dupe?  How often have we spoke
  Of the returning wars that shall restore
  The lustred fame and power that is your due?
  Belated are they; yet to reason's eye
  Certain to come.  God keeps such eminence
  As in your soul exists, to show mankind
  The height of heroes.

_Arnold_.           Error: it is gone out.

_Mrs. Arnold_.  Never such light goes out!  No smoke of the world--
  Sin, error, evil, anguish, touch it not.
  It burns forever with ethereal force
  Beyond pollution.  I can see your soul;
  And never has its aspect been more bright
  Than on this morn.

_Arnold_.  You are not used to talk to me like this.

_Mrs. Arnold_.  Nor you to tell me that you are a traitor.

_Arnold_.  Perhaps some change is coming over us.

_Mrs. Arnold_.  It may be freedom from the load of thought.

_Arnold_.  It may be death.

[_She kneels by him in silent anguish._]


_Both Choruses_.  Surely truth is not born except through pain; and the
long delay increaseth it.

It is a happiness for a young man to see his error.  But for an old,
only death remains.  He hath no strength for new things.  Let him die
in his old ways, yea, though they be evil.

Very sad is repentance when it is too late; when the blight has fallen,
and no fruit cometh thereafter.  Very sad is the grief of an old man.
I cannot lay hold of it.  There is no comfort to be given him, for he
knoweth the world.

_Father Hudson_.  What causes the man to see these things now?

_Leader of Men_.  What causes thy waters to pour down in March, or the
leaf upon your banks to sprout in April?  It is because the season
fulfils itself; and what is to be, cometh forth, and no one may stop it.

_Both Choruses_.  Now may I say that no man is made of iron, or lives
beyond the stroke of reproach.

The arrows strike him when he shows it not.  The scornful glance of a
friend reaches his quick.  He suffers very much.

In his last days he betrayeth the havoc.  In his fall his wounds are
laid bare.  The secret of his heart becomes an open book, and a child
may read it.


_Arnold_.  I would not speak; but the sea-bottom of me
  Is being raked to the surface.  Hold you still;
  You are the daughter of good Tory folk,
  And common talk on King and loyalty
  Had in your ears a meaning and a place
  Quite strange to mine.  For my Rhode Island stock,
  Grown far afield, and long acclimated,
  Had dropped all meanings for the name of King,
  Of Church, of mother country.  Such appeals
  Were like a tinsel fringe of superstition,
  Alien imposture.  It was all a fraud.

[_He walks across the room, takes the portrait of George III and throws
it, not savagely, but with deliberate contempt, into the corner, where
it lies shattered._  Mrs. Arnold _remains on her knees and raises her
hands in helpless supplication._]

  There lies the dog that bit me.  Now desist:
  It is not easy; yet it must come out.
  A letter that I wrote to this same King,
  Or to his secretary, George Germain,--
  Imploring favors for my villainy--
  If I appear unmanned, it's physical,
  And needs no moment's thought--The letter's here,
  [_Takes a letter from his pocket._]
  And through its hell of shame as through a gate
  I see Elysian fields, peopled with comrades.

_Mrs. Arnold_.  [_Aside._]  God have mercy upon us!

_Arnold_.  I'll not read all, but phrases here and there.

[Arnold _reads from the letter with some difficulty and with
pauses--but very distinctly._]

"... conscious of the rectitude of my intentions.... that I may be
restored to the favor of my most Gracious Sovereign--... cheerfully
cast myself at his feet imploring his Royal Grace and Protection....
the unalterable attachment to the Person, Family, and Interests of my
Sovereign, and to the Glory of his reign.--..."

[_He throws the letter quietly on the table.  To_ Mrs. Arnold.]

  West Point I did deliberately betray:
  I begged the post intending to betray it.
  All was conceived before I married you.

_Mrs. Arnold_.  [_As before._]  God have mercy upon us!

_Arnold_.       They must pet me then,
  To show that loyal treason reaps reward.
  'Twas policy, not liking for my face,
  That made King George so sweet.
  What in this world of savage Englishmen,
  Strange monsters that they are, have you and I
  Found of a country?  Friends, good hearts and true;
  But alien as the mountains of the moon,
  More unrelated than the Polander,
  Are Englishmen to us.  They are a race,
  A selfish, brawling family of hounds,
  Holding a secret contract on each fang,
  'For us,' 'for us,' 'for us.'  They'll fawn about;
  But when the prey's divided;--Keep away!
  I have some beef about me and bear up
  Against an insolence as basely set
  As mine own infamy; yet I have been
  Edged to the outer cliff.  I have been weak,
  And played too much the lackey.  What am I
  In this waste, empty, cruel, land of England,
  Save an old castaway,--a buccaneer,--
  The hull of derelict Ambition,--
  Without a mast or spar, the rudder gone,
  A danger to mankind!

[_He sits down upon the couch._  Mrs. Arnold _throws herself on his
knees and sobs convulsively._]


_Both Choruses_.  Who shall praise a woman, save He that made her, save
God that understandeth all things?

I will sing a song of woman, and magnify the wife of a man's soul.  His
goodness she has discerned when no man else can find it: his crimes are
known to her, yet is he not in them: she seeketh his soul among many.

She divineth salvation out of hell; and bringeth water from the desert.
Who shall praise a woman save He that made her; save God who
understandeth all things?

_Father Hudson_.  Sorrow is erecting a tomb for this man in my heart.
Whence comes the peculiar pang, my children?  Whence comes this pity
that will not be denied, but bedews your faces?

_Leader of Men_.  From the greatness of the man, comes it Father; and
from his ignorance of himself.

_Father Hudson_.  Is it true that he was a hero?

_Leader of Men_.  Such a hero as antiquity can show, towering,
magnificent, made of cloud and thunder, made of lightning and glory, a
god among fighting men, a Hector or Mars appearing from the bosom of
the sky on the day of battle, bringing victory.

No one had seen his like before; nor since him has one like him come.
To his country he gave the column of his strength.  In her need he
sustained her.  He planted her high.  His name became bulwark: many
times gave he his strength.  Yea, his life also grudged he not.

_Father Hudson_.  Would he had died in his glory, would he had been
struck down and died long ago!  So had he been spared this humiliation.
On my shores he belongs: the memory of his infamy and of his fame
covers me: Saratoga knew him, and West Point acknowledges him.  No tomb
shall he have; yet shall the hills remember him.  His glory is eaten up
in shame; and yet shall mercy say her word.  See, he begins again.
What new anguish will he reveal?

Arnold.  [_He has now recovered his composure._]
  Where are the boys?  If death be soon to come
  I'd gladly see them.  Is it not most strange
  That one possessing nothing to bequeath
  Of all those things men covet for their sons,
  Should have so many?  For what rank or name,
  Honor or fatherland, or worldly goods,
  All that men sweat for,--have I here to leave?
  Country I've none.  My land was over there
  Where my first honors sprouted.  And my boys
  Are foreigners,--young Englishmen--brought up
  Upon King George's bounty.  When he bought
  My loyalty he took my children, too.
  Ben, he is dead, my eldest,--he was killed
  In the West Indies, fighting for the King.
  Sir Grenville Temple brought me back his sword.
  (God bless him for it!)  Send and fetch down Ben's sword.

[Mrs. Arnold _rings.  Enter servant.  She speaks to servant in
dumb-show.  Exit servant._]

  Richard and Henry, your two foster sons,
  Settled in Canada on royal grants.
  And our four sons,--your Edward, Robert, George
  And little William,--are all pensioners,
  Assisted servants of the English crown.
  Where are they?  I must see them.  It is strange
  That I, remembering them, can yet not think
  Quite plainly where they are.

_Mrs. Arnold_.         My dearest Lord
  There's fever in your cheek.  The day's distress
  Has worked some downfall to your shattered brain,
  You're very sick.--

_Arnold_.            The boys, I asked about--
  Are they away, or here?

_Mrs. Arnold_.          The elder three
  At school and college, and our little Will
  Just home from school.

_Arnold_.             I pray you let him come;
  My blessings on them all must fall through him;
  Nor will they wait: the passage of an hour
  May find me gone.--Stay; there is yet one son.

_Mrs. Arnold_.  No, Benedict, you have described them all.

_Arnold_.  Ay, but there is one, born in Canada,
  My natural son, whose mother is no more;
  And yet my son,--and brother to the rest,
  And ever at my cost I've brought him up.
  I cannot leave him out.  He is of age
  And elder than your boys.

_Mrs. Arnold_.               A son of yours--

_Arnold_.  A natural son of mine, whose bringing up
  Is at my charge.  I cannot cut him off.
  Though of my name I scanted him the curse,
  I ever sent him help.

[_Gives her a paper._]

_Mrs. Arnold_.      You have done right
  To count him in; and I accept him,
  And will provide a portion like the rest
  Though at my children's cost.

_Arnold_.                    Send William here:
  The time grows short.

[_Enter servant bringing the sword which_ Mrs. Arnold _takes and gives
to_ Arnold.]

_Mrs. Arnold_.  [_To servant._]  Send Master William here.

[_Exit servant.  Enter_ William Arnold, _a boy of eight._]

_Arnold_.  William, you are a soldier:--
  This old sword
  Was once your brother Ben's,--my eldest boy.
  He served his God, his Country, and his King,
  And found a soldier's death.  It is a record
  We may be proud of in the family.
  You and your brothers, Edward, George, and Robert,
  Are dedicated soldiers to the King.
  England, to all of you, is generous
  To overflowing: See ye pay her back
  In overflowing measure with your lives.
  You are a soldier, Sir, and understand
  The duties of a soldier; when you grow
  A little older you will read, perhaps,
  Something about your father; for his name
  Is written on a page of history;
  You cannot miss it.  When you find it there,
  Remember only all the soldier part;
  The soldier part he leaves you: all the rest
  Was something suffered, that was meant for him
  But not for you.  There, go my boy; good-bye.
  You must to all your brothers tell this news,
  And say I blessed them.  They will understand,
  Each in his measure, on the appointed day,
  My message to them.  See you bear it safe.
  It is a charge of honor and becomes you.

[Arnold _kisses the little boy, and gives him the sword with which he
walks toward the door.  The child feels that something very serious is
happening, although he does not entirely understand it.  When near the
door he turns, runs back and embraces the old man again; and then
exit._]


_Both Choruses_.  Now will I say that children add to life a glory not
belonging to it; and a pang beyond the pain of this world.

In them is pain; in their birth, danger; and in their tender years, a
care; thereafter, sorrow or joy, too keen, too keen, too poignant, too
sharp,--cutting the heart in twain.

Happy are they who know it not.  Happy are the childless; for the great
sufferings are kept from them.  Blessed are they: I will praise and
envy them always.


_Arnold_.  Now is my burden lightened.
  One adieu,--
  The worst, remains; and then,--I know not what,--some relaxation
  Or sweetness of the grave.
  [_To_ Mrs. Arnold.]  Good-bye, great soul;
  I leave thee sorrows, many-pointed cares,
  The stress of growing sons and straightening means;
  Yet one great blackness passes from your life,
  Unshadowing you all.  I see ye stand
  Safe in the port,--as on a margent shore
  Clustered in sunlight,--while my bark moves on.
  I am not of ye; I am far away
  And long ago; one of those Argonauts
  That in the western seas, with sturdy oar,
  Urging their venturesome and sacred bark,
  Steered a new course,--a band, a brotherhood,--
  And, though a Judas, I was one of them.
  Get me my uniform.  I wore it last
  On that last day on which my sun went down.
  And I, descending now to seek the sun,
  Must put it on.

_Mrs. Arnold_.  Dear Benedict, your uniform?
  You have it on.

_Arnold_.      No, no! not this, not this!
  Ring; call a servant!

_Mrs. Arnold_.  [_Rings.  To servant._]
  Whate'er he asks for, get it quickly for him,
  But make no questions.

[Arnold _speaks to servant in dumb-show.  Exit servant._]

_Arnold_.  The very coat I did the treason in,
  By accident preserved, and then,--and then--
  I could not cast it off: it clung to me--
  Waiting this day.  It lay there like a dog,
  Patient against a master's drunkenness,
  Watching his face.

[_Enter servant with the coat of the American uniform, and the
sword-knots._]

  Thou one unbroken link with all the men
  I walked with on the mountain heights of youth,
  When glory shone, and trumpets heralded,
  And drums were rolling!  We were patriots then,
  Warren, and Putnam, Lincoln, Knox, and Schuyler,
  Morgan, and Stark, Montgomery, Sullivan--
  And scores of faces burnished by the winds,
  That shone with glory--

[_He takes off the coat of his British uniform, the servant assisting,
and puts on the coat of his old American uniform._]

                Never weep, dear wife.
  I seek the truth you teach me.  It is thus
  Your thoughts do guide me;--and I must go back
  To where I lost the way.
  [_Showing sword-knots._]  That ornament
  Washington gave me,--with such words of praise
  As must preserve it till the judgment day
  Against corruption.  Should I meet that man,
  Will his reluctant and offended shade
  Pass sadly on?  Or will he greet me there,--
  There, but not here.  There, there, but never here!
  On toward that shadowy spot I blindly go,
  Claiming the past.

[_He lies down on the couch, and_ Mrs. Arnold _kneels by his side.
Exit_ Death.]


_Both Choruses_.  Surely the past must be allowed to all men; and not
to him alone.  What good there was in us cannot be lost.

God forgets not the virtue of those who have failed; and why should man
seek to judge them?  Verily all courage is immortal: the man himself
cannot kill it.

Lo, what great things are done through even bad men; and this man had
in him much goodness.

[_A pause.  Distant military music.  Four young boys dressed in white,
and bearing tall spears with little banners attached to the tips, enter
and stand each at one corner of the couch.  The arrangement suggests a
medieval church tomb, of which_ Mrs. Arnold's _kneeling figure forms a
part._]


_Both Choruses_.  Not on the shores of America--
  Not on our shuddering strand,
    Can Arnold's tomb be laid.

  Nor in his land of illusions--
  Britain's contemptuous Isle,
    Can stone be added to stone.

  Yet in a corner of Memory,
  Hallowed by terrible pain,
    Stand the stones of his grave.

  There, his trophies of victory,
  Piled in marshal array,
    Gorgeous, perennial--

  Spoils, heroic, tumultuous,
  Emblems, worthy remembrance--
    Marking a hero's grave.


[_While this is being sung there enters a procession of youths dressed
in white, each carrying a gigantic wreath, inscribed with one of_
Arnold's _victories:--The Maine Wilderness, Quebec, Valcour's Island,
St. John's, Ridgefield, Bemis Heights, Saratoga, etc.  They circle the
group, and pile the wreaths about the couch, then stand about in
symmetry._]

_Father Hudson_.  Enough, my children, I understand.  Leave me awhile.
Let there be no loud praises.  Go silently.

[_A dead march is played._  Father Hudson _resumes the plastic,
immobile, and almost invisible attitude which he occupied at the
opening of the play.  The_ Choruses _file silently out, one on each
side of the orchestra._]




THE END




Books by John Jay Chapman


EMERSON AND OTHER ESSAYS

CAUSES AND CONSEQUENCES

PRACTICAL AGITATION

FOUR PLAYS FOR CHILDREN

THE MAID'S FORGIVENESS, a play

A SAUSAGE FROM BOLOGNA, a play

LEARNING AND OTHER ESSAYS

THE TREASON AND DEATH OF BENEDICT ARNOLD, a play for a Greek theatre


Moffat, Yard & Co.,

NEW YORK