nocent babe but one year of age sleeping in the cradle. He sprang to his horse, made all speed for the river, by a steep path little used, and still called Arnold's Path. At Beverly Dock he entered a boat, and directed the six oarsmen to pull out into the middle of the stream. He quickened their activity by promises of

BEVERLY DOCK.

reward, and by saying he was in haste to board the Vulture with a flag, and return in time to meet General Washington. He ordered them to pull direct for that vessel. As they approached King's Ferry, Arnold held up a white handkerchief, which answered Colonel Livingston and the Vulture for a flag of truce. The boat reached the vessel in safety, and Arnold getting on board introduced himself to Captain Sutherland, and informed the

oarsmen they were prisoners. They indignantly asserted their freedom, seeing they had come on board under the protection of a flag. But Arnold was inexorable, and they were forced to remain. The captain, however, despising Arnold's baseness in this matter, set the coxswain on shore on his parole, and they were all subsequently released by Sir Henry Clinton.

Washington reached Robinson House soon after Arnold left; took a hasty breakfast, and concluded to proceed to West Point, and meet Arnold there. Hamilton remained behind, and all expected to return to dinner. No salute greeted the commander-in-chief as he approached the shore; and Colonel Lamb, on seeing him, expressed his surprise, and apologized for the neglect, saying, in answer to a question of the chief, that General Arnold had not been there for two days.

Washington was surprised, but proceeded to examine the works, and at about noon returned to Beverly Dock. While ascending from the river, Hamilton was seen approaching in a hurried and anxious manner, and whispering to the general, they both retired for a time. It seems that, during their absence, the dispatch from Colonel Jameson had arrived, and also Andrè's

letter, and that Hamilton had read them. There was now the clearest evidence of Arnold's guilt; and the first thing was, if possible, to intercept the traitor; but he had several hours' start, and all effort was vain. All necessary precautionary measures were at once taken.

Washington was calm. Ignorant of the extent of the treason, he kept his own counsel, except as he advised with La Fayette and Knox. At dinner time he said, "Come, gentlemen, since Mrs. Arnold is unwell, and the general is absent, let us sit down without ceremony." He had, however, been greatly affected by the sufferings of Mrs. Arnold, who, no doubt, had been up to this hour ignorant of her husband's guilt. "She, for a considerable time," says Hamilton, in a vivid description of the scene, entirely lost herself. The general went up to see her. She upbraided him with being in a plot

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to murder her child. One moment she raved; another, she melted into tears. Sometimes she pressed her infant to her bosom, and lamented its fate, occasioned by the imprudence of its father, in a manner that would have pierced insensibility itself. All the sweetness of beauty, all the loveliness of innocence, all the tenderness of a wife, and all the fondness of a mother, showed themselves in her appearance and conduct."

Washington received during the day a most insolent letter from the traitor, written on board the Vulture, asking protection for his babe, and wife, whom he declared to be "as innocent as an angel." Then came also a letter from Beverly Robinson, in relation to Andrè, demanding his release-claiming that he went on shore under a flag of truce, and had a permit from General Arnold to return to NewYork; but the chief could not be terrified or moved from duty.

Colonel Jameson received orders to send Andrè to the Robinson House, and although the orders arrived at midnight, and it was very dark, and raining fast, yet Andrè was aroused, and with a strong guard under Major Tallmadge, set off immediately. They arrived by the dawn, and rested for the day. At evening he was taken over to West Point, and on the morning of the 28th was conveyed under a strong escort of cavalry to Tappan. Of these journeys Tallmadge has left a minute account. On the way Andrè conversed freely, and seemed to be anxious to know how Washington would view his case, and absolutely propounded to Tallmadge that unpleasant question. He was VOL. III, No. 5.-EE

"That Major Andrè, adjutant-general of the British army, ought to be considered as a spy from the enemy, and that, agreeably to the law and usage of nations, it is their opinion he ought to suffer death."

"HEAD-QUARTERS, Sept. 30, 1780. "The commander-in-chief approves of the opinion of the Board of general officers respect ing Major Andrè, and orders that the execution of Major Andrè take place to-morrow, at five o'clock, P. M."

The youth and noble bearing of the prisoner made a deep impression upon the court, and their feelings would have prompted his release; but there could be no question of the equity of the verdict or sentence. There was, indeed, a general desire to save his life, both on the part of the British and Americans. The only mode possible to the Americans was to exchange him for Arnold, and hold the traitor responsible for all the acts of his victim. This was informally suggested to the British; but the high sense of honor which was characteristic of Sir Henry Clinton, could not allow it to be entertained. The British employed all possible efforts. Sir Henry wrote to General Washington, and a deputation was sent to confer with him. Arnold himself wrote a letter, which it was hoped might help the case, but really injured it. It was full of language most hypocritical and malignant-even threatening a terrible revenge if Andrè were executed, and charging Washington with torrents of blood that would flow in consequence. The letter could meet with only disgust and contempt; but had it been consistent with duty, the nobleness of Andrè, and his pitiable situation, would have obtained the clemency of Washington; but duty was plain, and he was unwavering.

Andrè betrayed all this while no fear of death, but the manner exceedingly distressed him. When the sentence was communicated to him, he betrayed no emotion, only remarking, that since he was to die, there was yet a choice in the mode. He could not bear the thought of hanging as a spy-he was anxious to be shot, and thus die the death of a soldier-and for this privilege he earnestly besought Wash

procured his military suit, and calmly awaited the hour of his fate. On the last morning he sketched with a pen a likeness of himself, sitting by a table, the original of which is in the Trumbull gallery, Yale College: the likeness is good. On the second of October, 1780, at twelve o'clock, he suffered death at Tappan. The spot is now designated by a stone, about three feet in length, placed here a few years since by a citizen of New-York, on which is chiseled, "ANDRE, EXECUTED OCT. 2, 1780."

1780
OCT. 2

EXECUTED
ANDRE

The scene was one of most affecting

interest. Doctor Thacher, then a surgeon in the Continental army, has left us the following account:

"Major Andrè is no more among the living. I have just witnessed his exit. It was a tragical scene of the deepest interest. . . . . The principal guard-officer, who was constantly in the room with the prisoner, relates, that when the hour of execution was announced to him in and, while all present were affected with silent the morning, he received it without emotion, gloom, he retained a firm countenance, with calmness and composure of mind. Observing his servant enter his room in tears, he exclaimed, Leave me, until you can show yourself more manly.' His breakfast being sent to him from the table of General Washington, which had been done every day of his confinement, he partook of it as usual, and, having shaved and dressed himself, he placed his hat on the table, and cheerfully said to the guardofficers, 'I am ready at any moment, gentlemen, to wait on you.' The fatal hour having arrived, a large detachment of troops was paraded, and Almost all our general and field officers, exan immense concourse of people assembled. cepting his excellency and his staff, were present on horseback. Melancholy and gloom

pervaded all ranks, and the scene was awfully affecting. I was so near, during the solemn march to the fatal spot, as to observe every movement, and to participate in every emotion the melancholy scene was calculated to produce. Major Andrè walked from the stone house in which he had been confined between two of our subaltern officers, arm-in-arm. The eyes of the

immense multitude were fixed on him, who, rising superior to the fears of death, appeared as if conscious of the dignified deportment he displayed. He betrayed no want of fortitude, but retained a complacent smile on his countenance, and politely bowed to several gentlemen whom he knew, which was respectfully returned. It was his earnest desire to be shot, as being the mode of death most conformable to the feelings of a military man, and he had indulged the hope that his request would be granted. At the moment, therefore, when suddenly he came in view of the gallows, he involuntarily started backward and made a pause. Why this emotion, sir?' said an officer by his side. Instantly recovering his composure, he said, 'I am reconciled to my death, but I detest the mode.' While waiting, and standing near the gallows, I observed some degree of trepidation -placing his foot on a stone and rolling it over, and choking in his throat as if attempting to swallow. So soon, however, as he perceived that things were in readiness, he stepped quickly into the wagon, and at this moment he appeared to shrink; but, instantly elevating his head with firmness, he said, 'It will be but a momentary pang;' and, taking from his pocket two white handkerchiefs, the provost marshal, with one, loosely pinioned his arms, and with the other the victim. after taking off his hat and stock, bandaged his own eyes with perfect firmness, which melted the hearts and moistened the cheeks not only of his servant, but of the throng of spectators. The rope being appended to the gallows, he slipped the noose over his head, and adjusted it to his neck, without the assistance of the awkward executioner. Colonel Scammel now informed him that he had an opportunity to speak, if he desired it. He raised the handkerchief from his eyes, and said, 'I pray you to bear me witness that I meet my fate like a brave man.' The wagon being now removed from under him, he was suspended, and instantly expired. It proved, indeed, but a momentary pang.' He was dressed in his royal regimentals and boots. His remains, in the same dress, were placed in an ordinary coffin and interred at the foot of the gallows. "Thus died, in the bloom of life, the accomplished Major Andrè, the pride of the royal army, and the valued friend of Sir Henry Clinton. In 1831, by command of the Duke of York, his remains were disinterred."

Every possible honor was paid to the memory of Andrè. His memory has been embalmed in verse by his friend Miss Seward, and his king has caused to be erected a beautiful monument to his honor in West

"On opening the grave, the moldering coffin was found about three feet below the surface. The roots of a peach-tree, which some sympathizing hand had planted at the head of his grave, had twined like a net-work around the young hero's skull."

minster Abbey. A pension was settled upon his family, and his brother received the honor of knighthood.

Arnold received, as the price of his treason, an office lower than his rank in the American army and about $50,000. He lived to be loathed by all that knew him, and abhorred by himself. At the close of the war he went to England, where none but the necessary attentions were shown him, and insults were frequent. What his situation and feelings in after life must have been the following scene will tell :

"Pursued by the blood-hounds of the Reign of Terror, stripped of every wreck of property or power, Talleyrand was about going, a beggar and a wanderer, to a strange land.

"Is there an American staying at your house?' he asked the landlord of his hotel.

The landlord hesitated a moment, and said: "There is a gentleman up stairs, but whether an American or Englishman I cannot tell.'

"He pointed the way, and Talleyrand, who in life was bishop, prince, and prime minister, ascended the stairs. A miserable suppliant, he stood before the stranger's door, knocked and entered.

"In the far corner of the dimly-lighted room sat a gentleman of some fifty years, his arms folded, and his head bowed on his breast. From a window directly opposite a flood of light poured over his forehead. His eyes, looking from beneath the downcast brows, gazed in Talleyrand's face with a peculiar and searching expression.

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Talleyrand advanced, stated that he was a fugitive, and under the impression that the gentleman before him was an American, he solicited his kind feeling and offices, pouring forth his history in eloquent French and broken English.

"I am a wanderer-an exile! I am forced to fly to the New World, without a friend or hope. You are an American. Give me, I beseech you, a letter of yours, so that I may be able to earn my bread. I am willing to toil in any manner. You will give me a letter to one of your friends. A gentleman like you has doubtless many friends.'

"The strange gentleman rose. With a look that Talleyrand never forgot, he retreated toward the door of the next chamber, his head still downcast his eyes looking still from behind his darkened brow. He spoke as he retreated backward-his voice was full of meaning.

"I am the only man born in the New World who can raise his hand to God and say, I have not a friend, not one, in all America!'

"Who are you?' he cried, as the strange gentleman retreated toward the next room.

Your name?'

T%

10 any one who has once cast his eyes on Dr. Choules, it will be no information to say that he is a remarkable man. He shows at once that he is a hearty, cheerful, and benevolent Englishman, thoroughly Americanized. With a head and brow not unlike those of Webster, he has an eye which, even through his spectacles, can pierce you through and through; and when he looks over his spectacles, evidently meaning to read your thoughts, he will make any rogue in the world tremble. He is just the man whose benevolent countenance invites a poor fellow-being to stop him in the street that he may tell his troubles; and he is, too, just the man to hear the whole tale, and then to study day and night to make the poor fellow happy; nor will he cease thinking till the object be accomplished. We could detail half a dozen cases within our own knowledge where he has taken poor lads who had not a friend on earth, educated and prepared them for life, and rejoiced in making them gentlemen. But we can scarcely give him credit for these kindnesses, for to him all this is perfectly natural; and in performing acts of kindness, especially those which can never be repaid, he only acts out the natural instincts of his heart. We never knew a man more devoid of self. He labors in

cessantly, but almost always for others; and will assuredly die without wealth, excepting the conscious feeling of having greatly served the Church and the world.

We have spoken of the Doctor as an Englishman. He was the son of pious Methodist parents who resided at Bristol. They were the personal friends of such men as Adam Clarke, Miles, Pawson, Bradburn, Reece, and other honored and kindred spirits, who have now passed away from earth. We need not say that the parents of John O. Choules were distinguished for piety; for at the houses of those who were not so, the good old-fashioned men of whom we have spoken would not have been frequent visitors. The early years of John were spent among the Christian people to whom his parents belonged; but by the time he had reached the age of twelve years, both those parents had "passed into the skies," and he became identified with the family of his maternal uncle, Henry Overton Wills, Esq., a wealthy merchant of Bristol, eminent for his active piety, and a manager of the Whitefield Tabernacle of that city. Of the paternal kindness of this guardian of his youth, we have heard the Doctor speak with tearful gratitude.

His uncle wisely determined to give him the best education which that noble