LETTER XXV.

August 4, 1842.

Last week, for a single day, I hid myself in the green sanctuary of Nature; and from the rising of the sun till the going down of the moon, took no more thought of cities, than if such excrescences never existed on the surface of the globe. A huge wagon, traversing our streets, under the midsummer sun, bearing in immense letters, the words, ICE FROM ROCKLAND LAKE, had frequently attracted my attention, and become associated with images of freshness and romantic beauty. Therefore, in seeking the country for a day, I said our course should be up the Hudson, to Rockland Lake. The noontide sun was scorching; and our heads were dizzy with the motion of the boat; but these inconveniences, so irksome at the moment, are faintly traced on the tablet of memory. She engraves only the beautiful in lasting characters; for beauty alone is immortal and divine.

We stopped at Piermont, on the widest part of Tappan bay, where the Hudson extends itself to the width of three miles. On the opposite side, in full view from the Hotel, is Tarrytown, where poor Andre was captured. Tradition says, that a very large white-wood tree, under which he was taken, was struck by lightning on the very day that news of Arnold's death was received at Tarrytown. As I sat gazing on the opposite woods, dark in the shadows of moonlight, I thought upon how very slight a circumstance often depends the fate of individuals, and the destiny of nations. In the autumn of 1780, a farmer chanced to be making cider at a mill, on the east bank of the Hudson, near that part of Haverstraw Bay, called 'Mother's Lap.' Two young

men, carrying muskets, as usual in those troubled times, stopped for a draught of sweet cider, and seated themselves on a log to wait for it. The farmer found them looking very intently on some distant object, and inquired what they saw. 'Hush! hush!' they replied; 'the red-coats are yonder, just within the Lap,' pointing to an English gun-boat, with twenty-four men, lying on their oars. Behind the shelter of a rock they fired into the boat, and killed two persons. The British returned a random shot; but ignorant of the number of their opponents, and seeing that it was useless to waste ammunition on a hidden foe, they returned whence they came, with all possible speed. This boat had been sent to convey Major Andre to the British sloop-of-war, Vulture, then lying at anchor off Teller's point. Shortly after, Andre arrived, and finding the boat gone, he, in attempting to proceed through the interior, was captured. Had not those men stopped to drink sweet cider, it is probable that Andre would not have been hung; the American revolution might have terminated in quite different fashion; men now deified as heroes, might have been handed down to posterity as traitors; our citizens might be proud of claiming descent from tories; and slavery have been abolished eight years ago, by virtue of our being British colonies. So much may depend on á draught of cider! But would England herself have abolished slavery, had it not been for the impulse given to free principles by the American revolution? Probably It is not easy to calculate the consequences involved even in a draught of cider; for no fact stands alone; each has infinite relations.

not.

A very pleasant ride at sunset brought us to Orangetown, to the lone field where Major Andre was executed. It is planted with potatoes, but the plough spares the spot on which was once his gallows and his grave. A rude heap of stones, with the remains of a dead fir tree in the midst, are all that mark it;

but tree and stones are covered with names. It is on an eminence, commanding a view of the country for miles. I gazed on the surrounding woods, and remembered that on this self-same spot, the beautiful and accomplished young man walked back and forth, a few minutes preceding his execution, taking an earnest farewell look of earth and sky. My heart was sad within me. Our guide pointed to a house in full view, at half a mile's distance, which he told us was at that time the head-quarters of General Washington. I turned my back suddenly upon it. The last place on earth where I would wish to think of Washington, is at the grave of Andre. I know that military men not only sanction, but applaud the deed; and reasoning according to the maxims of war, I am well aware how much can be said in its defence. That Washington considered it a duty, the discharge of which was most painful to him, I doubt not. But, thank God, the instincts of my childhood are unvitiated by any such maxims. From the first hour I read of the deed, until the present day, I never did, and never could, look upon it as otherwise than cool, deliberate murder. That the theory and practice of war commends the transaction, only serves to prove the infernal nature of war itself.

Milton (stern moralist as he was, in many respects) maintains, in his 'Christian Doctrine,' that falsehoods are sometimes not only allowable, but necessary. It is scarcely possible,' says he, to execute any of the artifices of war without openly uttering the greatest untruths, with the undisputable intention of deceiving.' And because war requires lies, we are told by a Christian moralist that lies must, therefore, be lawful! It is observable that Milton is obliged to defend the necessity of falsehoods in the same way that fighting is defended; he makes many references to the Jewish scriptures, but none to the Christian. Having established his position, that wilful. deliber

ate deception was a necessary ingredient of war, it is strange, indeed, that his enlightened mind did not at once draw the inference that war itself must be evil. It would have been so, had not the instincts of heart and conscience been perverted by the maxims of men, and the customs of that fierce period.

The soul may be brought into military drill service, like the limbs of the body; and such a one, perchance, might stand on Andre's grave, and glory in his capture; but I would rather suffer his inglorious death, than attain to such a state of mind.

A few years ago, the Duke of York requested the British consul to send the remains of Major Andre to England. At that time, two thriving firs were found near the grave, and a peach tree, which a lady in the neighbourhood had planted there, in the kindness of her heart. The farmers, who came to witness the interesting ceremony, generally evinced the most respectful tenderness for the memory of the unfortunate dead; and many of the women and children wept. A few loafers, educated by militia trainings, and Fourth of July declamation, began to murmur that the memory of General Washington was insulted by any respect shown to the remains of Andre; but the offer of a treat lured them to the tavern, where they soon became too drunk to guard the character of Washington. It was a beautiful day: and these disturbing spirits being removed, the impressive ceremony proceeded in solemn silence. The coffin was in good preservation, and contained all the bones, with a small quantity of dust. The roots of the peach tree had entirely interwoven the skull with their fine network. His hair, so much praised for its uncommon beauty, was tied, on the day of his execution, according to the fashion of the times. When his grave was opened, half a century afterward, the ribbon was found in perfect preservation, and sent to his sister in England. When it was known that the sarcophagus, containing his remains, had arrived in

New-York, on its way to London, many ladies sent garlands, and emblematic devices, to be wreathed around it, in memory of the 'beloved and lamented Andre.' In their compassionate hearts, the teachings of nature were unperverted by maxims of war, or that selfish jealousy, which dignifies itself with the name of patriotism. Blessed be God, that custom forbids women to electioneer or fight. May the sentiment remain, till war and politics have passed away. Had not women and children been kept free from their polluting influence, the medium of communication between earth and heaven would have been completely cut off.

At the foot of the eminence where the gallows had been erected, we found an old Dutch farm-house, occupied by a man who witnessed the execution, and whose father often sold peaches to the unhappy prisoner. He confirmed the accounts of Andre's uncommon personal beauty; and had a vivid remembrance of the pale, but calm, heroism with which he met his untimely death. Everything about this dwelling was antiquated. Two prim pictures of George III. and his homely queen, taken at the period when we owed allegiance to them, as the government ordained of God,' marked plainly the progress of Art since that period; for the portraits of Victoria on our cottonspools, are graceful in comparison. An ancient clock, which has ticked uninterrupted good time on the same ground for more than a hundred years, stood in one corner of the little parlour. It was brought from the East Indies, by an old Dutch sea captain, great grandfather of the present owner. In those nations, where opinions are transmitted unchanged, the outward forms and symbols of thought remain so likewise. The gilded figures, which entirely cover the body of this old clock, are precisely the same, in perspective, outline, and expression, as East India figures of the present day.