[HANNA ARNETT.]
By Mrs. Mary Lockwood.
The days were dark and hopeless, the hearts of our forefathers were heavy and cast down. Deep, dark despondency had settled upon them. Defeat after defeat had followed our army until it was demoralized, and despair had taken possession of them. Lord Cornwallis, after his victory at Fort Lee, had marched his army to Elizabethtown, New Jersey, and there encamped. This was in that memorable December, 1776. The Howe brothers had already issued their celebrated proclamation, that offered protection to all that would seek refuge under the British flag within sixty days and declare themselves British subjects, and take an oath binding themselves to not take up arms against the mother country or induce others to do so.
In one of the many spacious homes of the town, there had assembled a goodly number of the foremost men of the time to discuss the feasibility of accepting the proffered proclamation. We are much inclined to the belief that enthusiasm, bravery, indomitable courage and patriotism were attributes that took possession of our forefathers and held on to them until they became canonized beatitudes, upon which the sires alone had a corner, but we find on close scrutiny that there were times when manly hearts wavered, and to courage was added a prefix, and this was one of them.
For hours the council went on, the arguments were sincere, grave but faltering. Some thought that the time had fully come to accept the clemency offered—others shook their heads, but the talk went on until every soul in the room had become of one mind, courage, bravery, patriotism, hope, honor, all were swept away by the flood-tide of disaster.
There was one listener from whom the council had not heard. In an adjoining room sat Hannah Arnett, the wife of the host. She had listened to the debate, and when the final vote was reached she could no longer constrain herself. She sprang to her feet and, throwing open the parlor door, in her majesty confronted that group of counsels.
Picture a large room with a low ceiling, furnished with the heavily-carved furniture of those days, dimly lighted by wax candles, and a fire in the huge fire-place. Around a table sat a group of anxious disheartened-looking men. Before them stood the fair dame in the antique costume of the day. Imagination will picture her stately bearing as she entered into their august presence. The indignant scorn upon her lips, the flash of her blue eyes, her commanding figure and dignified presence brought every man to his feet.
Consternation and amazement for the moment ruled supreme. The husband advanced toward her, shocked and chagrined that his wife had so forgotten herself; that she should come into the midst of a meeting where politics and the questions of the hour were being discussed. He would shield her now. The reproof he would give later on, and so he was quickly at her side, and whispering, said to her:
"Hannah! Hannah! this is no place for you. We do not want you here just now."