rather than seem to favour one side, sent a committee to New Jersey to meet the rebel commander and escort him through the town, and immediately thereafter paid a similar attention to the royal governor.  One of those who had what they considered the honour of riding behind Mr. Washington a part of his way (he came accompanied by a troop of horse from Philadelphia, and made a fine, commanding figure, I grant) was Philip Winwood.  When he returned from Kingsbridge, I, pretending I had not gone out of my way to see the rebel generalissimo pass, met him with a smile, as if to make a joke of all the rebel preparations: 

“Well,” says I, “what manner of hero is your illustrious chief?  A very Julius Caesar, I make no doubt.”

“A grave and modest gentleman,” says Phil, “and worthy of all the admiration you used to have for him when we would talk of the French War.  I remember you would say he was equal to all the regular English officers together; and how you declared Governor Shirley was a fool for not giving him a king’s commission.”

“Well,” said I, “’tis a thousand to one, that if Colonel Washington hadn’t been disappointed of a king’s commission, he wouldn’t now be leader of the king’s enemies.”  I knew I had no warrant the slightest for attributing Mr. Washington’s patriotism to such a petty motive as a long-cherished resentment of royal neglect; and years afterward, in London, I was to chastise an equally reckless speaker for a similar slander; but I was young and partisan, and being nettled by the reminder of my inconsistency, spoke to irritate.

“That is a lie!” said Phil, quietly, looking me straight in the face.

Such a word from Philip made me stare in amazement; but it did not improve my temper, or incline me to acknowledge the injustice I had uttered.  My face burned, my fingers clenched.  But it was Philip that had spoken; and a thing or two flashed into my mind in the pause; and, controlling myself, I let out a long breath, opened my fists, and, with the best intentions in the world, and with the quietest voice, gave him a blow far more severe than a blow of the fist had been.

“I will take that from you, Phil,” said I:  “God knows, your stand in this rebellion has caused you enough unhappiness.”

He winced, and sent me a startled look, stung at my alluding to the estrangement of his wife.  I know not whether he took it as a taunt from so dear a friend, or whether the mere mention of so delicate a sorrow was too much for him; but his face twitched, and he gave a swallow, and was hard put to it to hold back the tears.

“Forgive me,” I said, stricken to the heart at sight of this.  “I am your friend always, Phil.”  I put a hand upon his shoulder, and his face turned to a kindly expression of pardon, a little short of the smile he dared not yet trust himself to attempt.