vastation. Amid piles of slain, destroyed by barbarous butchery after they had surrendered, sought distracted women and children, cleansing many dead and distorted faces from the corrugated blood ere they could discern a feature of the husband or the father, the brother or the son, over whom they should mourn while life lasted. And Benedict Arnold had done it. He was seen to point with his glittering sword, and say, "Soldiers, to your duty!"
Ah, stern duty of pitiless war! executed, as we trust, sometimes with compunction, otherwise man would be a fiend. Came there not, in future years, some lingering cry of these widows and orphans into the heart of that bold, bad man, when, bowed with age, he felt in a foreign land the loneliness, neglect, and loathing which are wont to overtake the traitor? We cannot say. Fain would we hope that such remorse was there as led to penitence and God's forgiveness.
Details like these were softened by my father, and not dwelt upon with the stern delight of a soldier. He was not a man of war in his heart, though duty led him to defend his home and hearthstone, and the altars of his native land. He was of a singularly mild nature and unassuming manners. Perseverance in well-doing, regardless of applause or ambition, and a disciplined, trustful, most affectionate spirit, were among the elements of his character. I never remember seeing him,
