e advanced, and poured forth in elegant French and
broken English, "I am a wanderer, and an exile. I am forced to fly to
the New World without a friend or home. You are an American. Give me,
then, I beseech you, a letter of yours, so that I may be able to earn
my bread." The strange gentleman rose. With a look that Talleyrand
never forgot, he retreated toward the door of the next chamber. He
spoke as he retreated, and his voice was full of suffering: "I am the
only man of the New World who can raise his hand to God and say,
'I have not a friend, not one, in America!'" "Who are you?" he
cried--"your name?" "My name is Benedict Arnold!"

* * *

Wayne, Putnam, Knox and Heath are there,
Steuben, proud Prussia's honored son;
Brave Lafayette from France the fair,
And chief of all our Washington.

_Wallace Bruce._

* * *

Andre's fate on the other hand was widely lamented. He was universally
beloved by his comrades and possessed a rich fund of humor which often
bubbled over in verse. It is a strange coincidence that his best
poetic attempt on one of Anthony Wayne's exploits near Fort Lee,
entitled "The Cow Chase," closed with a graphically prophetic verse:

"And now I've closed my epic strain,
I tremble as I show it,
Lest this same Warrior-Drover Wayne
Should ever catch the poet."

By a singular coincidence he did: General Wayne was in command of the
Tarrytown and Tappan country where Andre was captured and executed. It
is also said that these lines were published by one of the Tory papers
in New York the very day of Andre's capture. One of the old-time
characters on the Hudson, known as Uncle Richard, has recently thrown
new light on the capture of Andre by claiming, with a touch of genuine
humor, that it was entirely due to the "effects" of cider which had
been freely "dispensed" that day by a certain Mr. Horton, a farmer in
the neighborhood.

* * *

In view of all he lost,--his youth, his love,
And possibilities that wait the brave,
Inward and outward bound dim visions move
Like passing sails upon the Hudson's wave.

_Charlotte Fiske Bates._

* * *

It is impossible even in these later years, not to speak of
twenty-five or fifty years ago, to travel along the shores of
Haverstraw Bay or among the passes of the Highlands, without hearing
some old-time stories about Arnold and Andre, and it would be strange
indeed if a little romance had