The Treason and Death of Benedict Arnold: A Play for a Greek Theatre — Edition Insights

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In Category - Fantasy Juvenile Worlds

Authors: Chapman, John Jay, 1862-1933 Digital Source: Project Gutenberg Gutenberg Release Year: 2008 First Publication Year: Not confirmed

Key Word: Arnold, Benedict, 1741-1801 -- Drama; United States -- History -- Revolution, 1775-1783 -- Drama Target Reader: Readers of public-domain and historical texts

Book Edition: Project Gutenberg digital edition Book Language: en

Edition facts

Words 12,688

Reading time 56 min

Text sections 2

Before opening The Treason and Death of Benedict Arnold: A Play for a Greek Theatre — Edition Insights, the edition data offers a quick orientation: 12,688 words, 56 min estimated reading time, and 2 detected text sections.

The text analysis averages about 13.4 words per sentence, while the detected sections provide another way to judge how the source is divided.

Project Gutenberg metadata also associates the work with “Arnold, Benedict, 1741-1801 -- Drama,” connecting these edition facts with the source record’s subject description.

Source: Project Gutenberg record #27670

John Jay Chapman's 1910 verse drama uses a Greek chorus and river-god Father Hudson to stage Benedict Arnold's treason and death, focusing on psychological torment and the gap between public infamy and private suffering.

Editorial Edition Score 4.5/5

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Description quality20 pts
Title & short description10 pts
Source metadata20 pts
Text length15 pts
Chapters / structure15 pts
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Edition quality

File: pg27670

Read the Text

But had he been a man, and sought reward, Had he been banged about this rocking world As I have, holding terror by the horns, Could he not ask a pittance?--Leave me, friend. I am exhausted, taking all the brunt And getting kicks for pay. Nay, leave me, Sir, The argument is over. Let me rest.

[_Sits down and tries to sleep._]

_Treason_. I'll watch beside thee.

_Father Hudson_. Can ye not calm him somewhat in his sleep?

_Leader of Men_. [_To_ Treason.] Will you not leave the man and let him rest?

_Treason_. His sleep is mine. When waking let him rest.

_Father Hudson_. [_To_ Treason.] This is a cruel fate ye mete him out.

_Treason_. Be it your province to be merciful.

_Father Hudson_. When will ye leave the man, thou empty ghost?

_Treason_. When Treason in the flesh shall come to meet him.

_Both Choruses_. Surely it is a good thing for a hero to die in his youth; for then is he perfect. The bark is not broken on the wand nor the neck worn by the yoke.

Surely young men are better than old; and we praise them deservedly. This man, a few years since, could endure reverse; but now he is broken and worn away: his soul bows down; he cannot hold out longer.

It is a good thing when a young hero dies; for so is he safe. His immortality is meted to him. O spare us a trial like this man's who is on the brink of great misfortune.

_Arnold_. [_Starting up._] They have betrayed me! Who goes there?

[_Enter_ Joshua Smith. _Exit_ Treason.]

_Joshua Smith_. A friend!

_Joshua Smith_. Joshua Smith. And yours?

_Arnold_. Arnold, my man. Good God! you startled me. I must have slept. What news? Will André come?

_Joshua Smith_. He's just behind me. All is as we planned. The British sloop-of-war hangs in the tide. The _Vulture_ brought him, and she waits for him Not two miles to the south. I boarded her. With every point Raised in your letters André is agreed; And back of him, Sir Henry Clinton stands; And back of _him_,--ye'll hear it now?--King George! Packt, stamped upon, agreed, and understood, The bargain's struck. Your hand, my Lord! Sir Benedict! Lord Ruler Benedict, The Lord Protector of the Colonies, And Duke of,--what you will. Young André follows. I chased ahead to find you. Put it high! You'll put the figure high?--I'm out of breath--

_Arnold_. I'll put it high enough to help a friend.-- No fear of that, my lad. Go rest awhile: Stand sentinel upon the shore below.

[_Exit_ Smith. _As he goes out he indicates_ Arnold _to_ André _by a gesture. Enter_ André. _His slender, refined, almost girlish youth is in contrast with_ Arnold's _battle-worn, gigantic figure._]

_Arnold_. [_Aside._] At last my arrows strike! [_To_ André.] What! Major André! This is a crazy meeting,--somewhat strange After your jigging nights in Philadelphia,-- A _Mischianza_, where we play a masque, And act a drama fraught with consequence More serious than any since the Duke Brought back King Charles. Two true-born Englishmen, If you'll accept my hand, shall this day place A jewel in old England's diadem, Which some rash spirits would shake out of it.

_André_. Have you the papers ready?

_Arnold_. They are here; The plans of all the out-posts to the dot, And every man on duty in the Fortress.

_André_. The general is in Hartford?

_Arnold_. And returns Not for some days. Our garrison I'll post Distributively on the distant hills; While from the _Vulture_ half a thousand men Land in the darkness. Thus without a blow, But with the magic of a countersign, West Point becomes your own.

_André_. Is there some house Or tavern, where with more deliberate mind We may o'erlook the papers, and make note Of our exacter meanings?

_Arnold_. Close at hand, The mansion of my agent, Joshua Smith.

_André_. Good, we'll go there. O Arnold, death is nothing; Our lives are forfeit to our country's cause. Which of us would not quit the world in peace After some act that scaled the walls of time, And stood on the rampart?

_Arnold_. Right, and bravely said! I've given my life As many times as I have mounted horse To reconnoitre--

_André_. But this is different, Arnold.

_Arnold_. Different, ay different! it saves men's lives: Without a drop of blood it ends a war.

_André_. You are a veteran, and know the feel Of imminent death. I could die bravely, too.

Continue Reading →

John Jay Chapman's The Treason and Death of Benedict Arnold: A Play for a Greek Theatre (1910) opens not with the title character but with Father Hudson, a river-god who reclines onstage as part of the scenery. The stage directions specify that he is "so painted and disposed as not to attract attention" initially—a deliberate blurring of human actor and natural backdrop. This choice signals Chapman's method: the Hudson River and its landscape become active presences, not mere settings. The first picket's speech, with its strained syntax and vulture imagery, establishes a tone of anxious foreboding that the play sustains through formal verse and choral interludes. The catalog subjects list Arnold and the Revolutionary War, but the excerpts reveal a work more concerned with psychological isolation and the slow corrosion of reputation than with military action.

A Chorus of Waves and Clouds

Chapman adopts the structure of Greek tragedy, complete with a Chorus of Waves (men) and a Chorus of Clouds (women). This is not decorative classicism: the choruses comment on events from a natural, almost elemental perspective. In the first act, the Chorus of Waves likely speaks from the river margin, while Father Hudson mediates between them and the human characters. The play's subtitle is literal—it is designed for a Greek theatre, not a proscenium stage. The orchestral level represents the river shore, and the characters perform on a raised bank. This spatial arrangement forces the audience to view Arnold's story through a double lens: the historical narrative and the timeless, impersonal forces of nature and fate. The choruses do not appear in the excerpts, but their presence is structurally central, framing the action as a ritual reenactment rather than a naturalistic drama.

Arnold's Voice: Guilt and Self-Awareness

In Act II, set in England in 1801, Arnold speaks directly of his treason. When his wife insists he "was the noblest hero of them all," he responds with devastating simplicity: "I was a traitor." The line is quiet, unadorned—a stark contrast to the elaborate verse around it. Chapman gives Arnold a sharp self-awareness that undercuts any heroic or villainous posturing. He describes himself as "a Tantalus set in a lake of thirst," unable to reach the wars that continue without him. The play does not dramatize the treason itself; instead, it shows the aftermath: twenty years of waiting, of being ignored in British ante-rooms, of watching former comrades pass by. Arnold's physical decline is mirrored in his wife's prematurely white hair and in the allegorical figures Treason and Death who hover at the edges of the scene. The excerpts suggest that Chapman's interest lies less in the act of betrayal than in its long, undramatic consequences.

The Stage as Moral Landscape

Chapman's stage directions treat the setting as a moral and psychological space. Father Hudson is both a character and a piece of scenery, blending into the river bank. The flag fluttering on Fort Putnam is mentioned twice in the first picket's speech, linking the physical landscape to the cause of liberty. The picket's fear that "some foul play is in the mountains" personifies the terrain as complicit in the coming betrayal. This technique extends to the allegorical figures Treason and Death, who appear in Act II as visible presences that only Arnold and the audience can see—his wife passes by Death "without seeing him." The play thus operates on multiple levels: natural, historical, and supernatural. The catalog subject "United States -- History -- Revolution, 1775-1783 -- Drama" is accurate but incomplete; the excerpts show a work that uses the Revolution as a backdrop for a meditation on guilt, time, and the gap between public reputation and private experience.

Readers should approach this play as a poetic experiment rather than a historical reenactment. Chapman's Arnold is a figure of pathos, not grandeur, and the Greek framework invites reflection on fate and moral accountability. The verse demands careful reading—the picket's opening speech, with its convoluted syntax, rewards attention to rhythm and imagery. Those expecting a conventional drama about Benedict Arnold may be surprised by the static, introspective second act. The play's power lies in its silences and its willingness to let a traitor speak his own condemnation.

Reading through Chapman’s play, I kept thinking about how our worst moments can become the only thing anyone sees of us. Arnold’s private anguish felt like a hidden room nobody wanted to enter. That same quiet ache lives in Ibsen’s Ellida, caught between longing and belonging. The Lady from the Sea — A Closer Reading left me sitting still afterward, thinking about all the choices we never speak aloud.