Visit of Hon. William Wirt in August 1821

This letter, written to Mr. Wirt's brother-in-law, Pope, is, perhaps, one of the most charming and racy letters of the whole of this series, but whoever has read Wirt's "Life of Patrick Henry" would not expect anything otherwise from him.

"Washington, Aug. 29, 1821

MY DEARLY BELOVED BROTHER:

On returning from Lake George we fell upon Burgoyne's track at Sandy Hill, a beautiful little village on a high and commanding site on the North river. Thence going down the river on the eastern bank, two miles and a half, we came to old Fort Edward. At this place there is a little village, and while our horses were watering I procured a Revolutionary bullet or two which had been got out of the wall of the fort.

We arrived at the village of Saratoga [this was "old Saratoga," now Schuylerville, and not the famous watering-place] to dinner the field on which Burgoyne laid down his arms, being immediately before us, about half a mile, and now a beautiful piece of meadow land at the junction of Fish-creek with the North river, which you can see on the map. I have some relics also from this field for you. You remember that Burgoyne was on his retreat, endeavoring to get back to Fort Edward, and thence into Canada, where, finding his retreat cut off, he surrendered on this plain, so, in following his track down we came to the field of surrender before we came to the battle grounds, where he had for the first time become convinced of the erroneous estimate he had made of the American character.

Having walked over the Field of Surrender and pulled some boughs from a tree near the spot at which Burgoyne's Marquee was pitched, we moved down the river in the evening, and about an hour by sun came to the house in which the celebrated General Fraser breathed his last [here follows in the letter the often quoted and well-known account of Fraser's death by Madame Riedesel, to whom the writer acknowledges his indebtedness].

Well, sir, as I was saying, we arrived at this same house at about an hour by the sun, and as good fortune would have it, before we alighted another traveler rode up, having just returned from reviewing the battle-fields accompanied by old Ezra Buel, who had been a guide to the American army in both the battles of the 19th September and the 7th of October, and was with our troops until the surrender.

He is now seventy-seven years of age, and his usual gait of riding is twelve miles per hour on a very hard riding horse. You will see honorable mention made of him by Silliman. Not at all fatigued with the excursion from which he had just returned, he wheeled about again and accompanied us with the utmost alacrity. There, you should have been with me, my dear Pope, to walk over the fields which had been the theatre of such desperate strife -- where the great cause of liberty, too, was staked on the issue.

"And so," thought I, "this is the field on which the famous battles of Stillwater were fought four and forty years ago. Here did these grounds swarm with armed men!"

"Here Morgan was posted," said the old man, interrupting my meditations. "Here was Arnold, then a patriot and an excellent soldier, etc. And so the old gentleman arranged the field and conjured up before my eyes the whole host. Then he painted the battles with great spirit -- showed by what accidents they had commenced on both occasions, and how they became general -- depicted the struggle in particular parts of the field, and enabled me to imagine at times that I saw and heard all the tumult, agitation, shouting, thunder and fury of a long and wellcontested field. Good heavens, what a warming illusion! Morgan's eye of fire and bugle voice! Arnold's maniac and irresistible impetuosity! *

(* In this connection the following extract from the Diary of Captain Wakefield," entitled "Unpublished Recollections of 1777," is in point:

"I shall never forget the opening scene of the first day's conflict. The riflemen and light infantry were ordered forward to clear the woods of the Indians. Arnold rode up, and with his sword pointing to the enemy emerging from the woods into an opening partially cleared, covered with stumps and fallen timber, addressing Morgan, he said, 'Colonel Morgan, you and I have seen too many red-skins to be deceived by that garb of paint and feathers ; they are asses in lions' skins - Canadians and Tories; let your riflemen cure them of their borrowed plumes.'

"And so they did, for in less than fifteen minutes the 'Wagon Boy,' with his Virginia riflemen, sent the painted devils with a howl back to the British lines. Morgan was in his glory, catching the inspiration of Arnold, as he thrilled his men ; when he hurled them against the enemy he astonished the English and Germans with the deadly fire of his rifles. Nothing could exceed the bravery of Arnold on this day; he seemed the very genius of war, infuriated by the conflict and maddened by Gates' refusal to send reinforcements, which he repeatedly called for, and knowing he was meeting the brunt of the battle, he seemed inspired with the fury of a demon.

Riding in front of the line, his eyes flashing, pointing with his sword to the advancing foe, with a voice that rung clear as a trumpet and electrified the line he called upon the men to follow him to the charge, and then dashing forward, closely followed by his troops, he hurled them like a tornado on the British line and swept it away. There seemed to shoot out from him a magnetic flame that electrified his men and made heroes of all within his influence.

"Arnold was not only the hero of the field, but he had won the admiration of the whole army. There was not a man, officer or private who participated in the battle, or who witnessed the conflict who did not believe that if Gates had sent reinforcements, as Arnold again and again begged him to do, he would have utterly routed the whole British army. So general was this belief, and so damaging to Gates, that as an excuse to save himself from reproaches coming from every side he gave out as the reason that the store of powder and ball in the camp was exhausted, and that the supplies of ammunition from Albany had not arrived. No one could dispute this, yet no one believed it.")

The rattling of musketry, the sharp cracking of the rifles, the deafening roar of the artillery, the animating shout of the soldiery, the war-whoop of the Indians, the encouraging and applauding cries of the officers, the charge, the retreat, the rapid and regular evolution at one point, the disorderly movement at another, the headlong confusion, the groans of the dying, the cry for quarter, ghastly and bleeding wounds, the severed limbs, men and horses mingled on the plain in one wide scene of indiscriminate blood and carnage! Oh, what an uproar then! How still and quiet now!! Where are they all!

"What is that your plow is turning up?"

"Only a skeleton."

"What, yet to this day?"

"Even yet our plows are constantly striking against cannon balls or dead men's bones, or turning up grape-shot or bullets."

"Then, I guess the people were not idle on that day?"

"You may depend, friend, they were busy." *

(* Had old " Ezra " lived at the present time, his reply doubtless would have been in the slang of our day: "You may bet, boss, they were busy." I call attention to this particularly to show how greatly our colloquial language has deteriorated within the last fifty years. Notice, also, the respectful attitude all through, of the guide - so different from the guides of the present day on the battlefields of the late Civil War.)

"I believe it, but I have a friend in Virginia who would be glad to have some of the bullets that were fired in those great battles -- battles that gave the first decided turn to the American Revolution."

"To be sure, there is a ball which has been rolling about the yard for some time; you shall have it, and the bullets, too ; and you, John, go up into the loft and bring down that skull."

"Thank you," said I.

"Excuse me from the skull -- it will not be convenient to carry it -- but the ball and the bullets I will gladly take," and so I did.

We went to several other houses which have all been built since, for it was then entirely wood, except "Freeman's farm," which you will see mentioned in the books, and at all these houses bullets and bones were offered -- even the little children handling and offering the human bones with as total an absence from all emotion as if they were chickens' bones or dry sticks.*

(* Even at the present day (1895) the tourist experiences the same incidents. In 1877 judge Chs. S. Lester, C. C. Lester, Willard Lester, the late Joseph G. Cook and myself, while on a visit to the battle grounds, were badgered by little children offering such relics for sale. Nor were these, like those relics of the battle of Waterloo, bogus -- they were genuine relics. In fact, judge Lester and our companions on this visit, picked up some bones and cannon balls and also a gilt button of the 21st Highlanders -- the latter on the site of the famous defense of the mound attacked by Dearborn, Poor and Cilley. That this was done at this late day is not, however, surprising, as we knew that near the spot where Fraser was wounded, some forty soldiers, after being stripped of their clothing by the women of the camp, were buried in one trench, a mere layer of earth being cast upon them. See, also, Neilson's account in appendix. In this connection we quote the following:

Revolutionary Relics We were last week shown about 200 canister shot and bullets, a broken bayonet and a silver shoe buckle which were plowed up during the present season on the Saratoga battle ground at Bemis' Heights. Many of the bullets were much battered and some of them split, occasioned doubtless by their having come in contact with a harder substance after their discharge ; the bayonet bore evident marks of having been violently broken off, probably during the conflict, and the buckle unquestionably belonged to an officer, it being the fashion of that day, and weighing about five-eighths of an ounce. Several of the bullets, the bayonet and buckle havebeenleft at the reading-rooms for inspection.

The annual resort to this consecrated spot having much increased of late years, we are told that preparations are now going forward for the erection of a good public house for the convenience of visitants. Such an establishment has been much needed, and we have no doubt will obtain a handsome support." -From an old Saratoga county paper of Aug 5, 1834

An Interesting Relic Mr. Henry A. Near, of Bemis' Heights, while sowing wheat a few days ago on his farm near the old battle ground, picked up a large lead bullet which, besides bearing the marks of more than one hundred years of time, is scarred with thirteen clearly-cut stars, doubtless made by some hero of the Revolutionary war, and suggested by the flag which, bearing the stars and stripes, was first unfurled there. It is an interesting relic.-- Saratoga Sun, September 25, 1879.

In 1823 Ebenezer Leggett, a son of Isaac, came from Westchester county to the old Freeman farm, and on his first plowing he not only turned up a number of skeletons, rifle and cannon balls, but also the well-preserved skeleton of an officer, a part of his red uniform being entire, the color even being unchanged. When, in 1846, he repaired an old barn on the premises, occupying the site of Balcarras' redoubt, he found some money in gold and silver to the amount of $90, apparently carried in belts. The neighbors, however, insisted that the sum thus found was much larger. In this connection see note ante about Congdon's gold, found on nearly the same place by a laborer in the employ of Leggett.)

Having examined the battle grounds of both days and walked, listened to my guide, and sighed till my heart was full and heavy, I returned to my quarters* and slept very little; to my honor, without dreaming, for I was too much fatigued to sleep fancifully.

(*The house thus indicated was undoubtedly the "Old Walker Homestead" built by Walker, who was in the battles, and which is situated some few rods north of the basswood tree under which Fraser was shot. It is still (1895) standing and owned by Joseph Rogers, and has been since the beginning of the present century the place where all visitors stop over night on their visits to the battle grounds. In this house is still to be seen the old register book where one can yet recognize the signatures of John Quincy Adams, Calhoun, Clay, Webster, Silliman, Dwight, Wirt, and others nearly equally distinguished, showing that amidst all the turmoil incident to political life they had still a corner left in their hearts for their country's dead.

In this connection, the following letter from Daniel Webster, penned immediately after his visit to the battle grounds, is of interest ; nor can the observant reader fail to notice in it the same spirit which actuated Dr. Johnson in the account of "His visit to the Hebrides," "Far from me and my friends be such frigid philosophy, etc."

WEBSTER'S LETTER
Boston, Oct. 11, '28.

"My DEAR FRIEND. - I thank you for your letter of Sept. 20, detailing the incidents of your tour. It has enabled me to go pretty accurately over your track, and I have followed you, by the means of it, repeatedly from Boston, 'round by the west and home to Bangor. I well understand how you should feel excited by visiting such places as Kingsbridge, White Plains, Bemis Heights.

I never knew a man yet, nor a woman either, with a sound head and a good heart, that was not more or less under the power which those local associations exercise. It is true that place in these things is originally accidental ; battles might have been fought elsewhere, as well as at Saratoga or Bennington; nevertheless here they were fought, and nature does not allow us to pass over the scene of such events with indifference, unless we have a good share of bluntness and stupidity, or unless the scenes themselves have become familiar by frequent visits to them.

For my part I love them all, and all such as they. An old drum hangs up in the Senate chamber of Massachusetts, taken from the Hessians at Bennington, and I do not think I ever went into the room without turning to look at it. And that reminds me to say that I have a pair of silver sleeve buttons, the material of which my father picked up on and brought away from that same field of Bennington. If I thought either of my boys would not value them fifty years hence, if he should live so long, I believe I would begin to flog him now.

But I must stop or I shall write a sermon. Adieu. I have not written so tediously long a letter in a twelvemonth.

"Give every good wish of my heart to your wife, and, as we Yorkers say, 'the same to yourself.'

Yours very truly,
DANL. WEBSTER.

)

The next morning I took another ride with old Ezra to see the American encampment, and above all, Gates' headquarters. The house is still standing. It is a small, red, hip- roofed, one-storied old house that has quite a revolutionary look.*

(This house, known before the battles as well as up to the present time, as the "old Neilson house," is still (1895) standing in a very fair state of preservation. As stated in the text, it was the headquarters of Gates during both battles, a tablet -- as mentioned in the appendix -- standing in the yard now, tells its history. The builder of the house, Neilson, was an old Colonial Revolutionary guide. See his son's anecdotes in the appendix to this volume.)

"And here," the old man said, the general remained during both of the battles, which were fought at least a mile from this house, and certainly out of sight. "This," the old guide said, " he was told was right, as it was the general's business to be at one place always to receive information and give ideas." Yet the old fellow's look had a glimpse of passing cunning, as much as to say," A bad excuse is better than none." *

(* The old guide's ideas of the personal poltroonery of Gates are fully corroborated by his contemporaries. Gates was really an arrant coward. See my "Burgoyne's Campaign" and "Ballads," where this subject is treated in full.)

I could not help thinking, myself, that it was not exactly in the style of Napoleon.

But what do you think of these armies resting here in the opposite encampments -their sentinels within hail of each other for seven days without striking a blow, and at last the first action (the 19th Sept.) being brought on by accident! Gates had a good motive for the delay- for his army was continually gathering strength ; but that Burgoyne, in the spirit of proud and contemptuous invasion -- with such an army and so appointed -should have sat down so quietly and so foolishly, while his enemies were hourly increasing in strength, satisfies me that he was no Bonaparte. But the Bonaparte style of daring was not the order of that day. But enough of judging men a posteriore. At that time and in their place we might have done the same or worse.

Poor Gates! this was his first and last field of glory! What a triumphant opening of his military career in America! What a reverse was he doomed to experience in one short year! And for poor Burgoyne, it was his " last and dying speech as a soldier." So that both to victor and to vanquished, it was the prelude only to misfortune. Such is the passing glory of this world.

Now, as to Burgoyne! Pray, my dear brother, did you ever read the sentimental comedy of "The Heiress," or "The Maid of the Oaks," or did you ever hear the tender and elegant songs of "Anna's Urn" or "For Tenderness Found?"

These were written by Burgoyne ; and although our printers, our Revolutionary officers in their letters, and our song inditers of that day, used to charge him with bombast, I do think that he was one of the most classical and elegant writers which the English nation has produced.*

(* The writer's estimate of Burgoyne's literary merit is entirely correct. "The Heiress" was welcomed on its first appearance by crowded audiences with the applause it so well merited. Indeed, the sale of ten editions in one year bore ample testimony to its merits as a chaste, a spirited and polished composition. For an account, also, under which the song "Anna's Urn" was written, as well as for a full life of Burgoyne, see my "Ballads of Burgoyne's Campaign.")

If Burgoyne had been born to the wealth of Byron he would have pitched the poetic bar beyond him by many a league. War was not his proper element. While upon the fields of his battles and final surrender, and remembering, the beautiful and pathetic effusions of genius to which I have alluded, I could not help pitying such a man, whose mistake of his own character had put him at the head of a band of merciless, tomahawking, scalping savages, and " damned Hessians, Hanovarians, Auspachers, Waldenchers and Wolfenbuttles." From these fields my mind followed these British prisoners to their barracks near Charlottesville [Va.], and then came the recollections of your and Bullock's anecdotes of that place, the temporary theatre and the acting of plays by the British officers.*

(*For an account of these plays, etc., see my "Revolutionary Letters," Joel Munsell & Sons, Albany, N.Y., 1893.)

This is a pretty long letter, and it is time to stop.

The relics will be addressed to the care of John Gamble. They have no value, except from the associated sentiments you will give them; and, perhaps, the associated image of

Your friend,
WILLIAM WIRT.