288 Sonnet. 



saluted Arnold briefly, and stepped into the barge. In crossing, he 

 observed the sloop with the English flag, and taking a spy-glass from 

 one of his aides-du-camp^he examined her attentively for some time, 

 then turning to an attendant he gave, in a low voice, according to 

 his usuarmanner, an order, probably of little consequence, but which 

 Arnold's guilty fears construed into a proof that Washington had 

 been acquainted with the circumstance of the flag of truce. In order, 

 therefore, to lull his suspicions by a show of unreserved honesty, he 

 produced the two letters he had received, and asked Washington's 

 advice as to what course he should pursue respecting them. The 

 general, in the presence of several persons, directed him to give for 

 answer to Robinson that the business he had written upon was one 

 solely for the consideration of the civil power, at the same time point- 

 ing- out to him the impropriety of giving that officer an interview. 

 The boat touched the shore as this conversation terminated, and 

 Washington, whose cold recognition of Arnold on their meeting had 

 been caused by the abstraction of his mind at the moment, pressed 

 by a thousand distracting care?, now warmly grasping his hand, 

 mounted his horse and took his way to Hartford. Thus was the main 

 obstacle to the prosecution of the plot removed, but Arnold's over 

 cautious tactics had involved the conspirators in another unforeseen 

 dilemma. The positive opinions uttered by Washington respecting 

 the conference with Robinson had been overheard by too many 

 officers for Arnold to attempt granting him an interview publicly, 

 which he might otherwise have done under sanction of a flag of truce. 



(To be concluded in our next.) 



SONNET. 



SHALL this dreaming never know an end, 

 This lingering over the uncancell'd past, 

 Will it for ever in this sick soul last 1 

 Will that one colour never softly blend 

 Into the distance, while I onward wend 

 My solitary way? Must I still gaze 

 Through tears that robe all other things in haze, 

 While to these hours they do false beauty lend, 

 Making my soul sick with such longings wild, 

 As a lone mother hath toward her dead child? 

 Yes I am mad to hope I may forget, 



1 must be calmer, and not turn away, 

 There is an ending to the longest day, 

 And on its brink I know my grave is set. 



K. 



