Philip Winwood | Page 2

such case, at the hour of dawn, in a glade near the
Bowery lane, a little way out of New York. And I might have
continued to vindicate my friend's character so: either with pistols, as at
Weehawken across the Hudson, soon after the war, I vindicated the

motives of us Englishmen of American birth who stood for the king in
the war of Independence; or with rapiers, as I defended the name of our
admired enemy, Washington, against a certain defamer, one morning in
Hyde Park, after I had come to London. But it has occurred to me that I
can better serve Winwood's reputation by the spilling of ink with a quill
than of blood with a sword or pistol. This consideration, which is far
from a desire to compete with the young gentlemen who strive for
farthings and fame, in Grub Street, is my apology for profaning with
my unskilled hand the implement ennobled by the use of a Johnson and
a Goldsmith, a Fielding and an Addison.
My acquaintance with the Captain's life, from the vantage of an
eye-witness and comrade, goes back to the time when all of us
concerned were children; to the very day, in truth, when Philip, a pale
and slender lad of eleven years, first set foot in New York, and first set
eye on Margaret Faringfield.
As I think of it, it seems but yesterday, and myself a boy again: but it
was, in fact, in the year 1763; and late in the afternoon of a sunny
Summer day. I remember well how thick and heavy the green leaves
hung upon the trees that thrust their branches out over the garden walls
and fences of our quiet street.
Tired from a day's play, or perchance lazy from the heat, I sprawled
upon the front step of our house, which was next the residence of the
Faringfields, in what was then called Queen Street. I believe the name
of that, as of many another in New York, has been changed since the
war, having savoured too much of royalty for republican taste.[1] The
Faringfield house, like the family, was one of the finest in New York;
and there were in that young city greater mansions than one would have
thought to find in a little colonial seaport--a rural-looking provincial
place, truly, which has been likened to a Dutch town almost wholly
transformed into the semblance of some secondary English town, or
into a tiny, far-off imitation of London. It lacked, of course, the grand,
gray churches, the palaces and historic places, that tell of what a past
has been London's; but it lacked, too, the begriming smoke and fog that
are too much of London's present. Indeed, never had any town a clearer

sky, or brighter sunshine, than are New York's.
From the Summer power of this sunshine, our part of Queen Street was
sheltered by the trees of gardens and open spaces; maple, oak, chestnut,
linden, locust, willow, what not? There was a garden, wherein the
breeze sighed all day, between our house and the Faringfield mansion,
to which it pertained. That vast house, of red and yellow brick, was two
stories and a garret high, and had a doubly-sloping roof pierced with
dormer windows. The mansion's lower windows and wide front door
were framed with carved wood-work, painted white. Its garden gate,
like its front door, opened directly to the street; and in the garden
gateway, as I lounged on our front step that Summer evening, Madge
Faringfield stood, running her fingers through the thick white and
brown hair of her huge dog at her side.
The dog's head was almost on a level with hers, for she was then but
eight years old, a very bright and pretty child. She turned her quick
glance down the street as she stood; and saw me lying so lazy; and at
once her gray eyes took on a teasing and deriding light, and I felt I was
in for some ironical, quizzing speech or other. But just then her look
fell upon something farther down the way, toward Hanover Square, and
lingered in a half-amused kind of curiosity. I directed my own gaze to
see what possessed hers, and this is what we both beheld together, little
guessing what the years to come should bring to make that moment
memorable in our minds.
A thin but well-formed boy of eleven; with a pleasant, kindly face,
somewhat too white, in which there was a look--as there was evidence
in his walk also--of his being tired from prolonged exertion or
endurance. He was decently, though not expensively, clad in black
cloth, his three-cornered felt hat, wide-skirted coat, and ill-fitting
knee-breeches, being all of the same solemn hue. I was to perceive later
that his clothes