her good-bye, told her he was a ruined man and a traitor, kissed his little boy in the cradle, rode to Beverley Dock, and ordered his men to pull off and go down the river.  The “Vulture,” an English man-of-war, was near Teller’s Point, and received a traitor, whose miserable treachery branded him with eternal infamy on both continents.  It is said that he lived long enough to be hissed in the House of Commons, as he once took his seat in the gallery, and he died friendless and despised.  It is also said, when Talleyrand arrived in Havre on foot from Paris, in the darkest hour of the French Revolution, pursued by the bloodhounds of the reign of terror, and was about to secure a passage to the United States, he asked the landlord of the hotel whether any Americans were staying at his house, as he was going across the water, and would like a letter to a person of influence in the New World.  “There is a gentleman up-stairs from Britain or America,” was the response.  He pointed the way, and Talleyrand ascended the stairs.  In a dimly lighted room sat a man of whom the great minister of France was to ask a favor.  He 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.