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Washington that had not seen him as we

did, at that dark hour of the struggle. It seemed as if that man never
slept. All day he was planning, directing, contriving; and all night long
he would write--write--write; letters to Congress, begging them to give
him full powers, and all would go well, for he did not want power for
himself, but only power to serve them; letters to the generals in the
north, warning, comforting, and advising them; letters to his family and
friends, bidding them look at him and do as he did; letters to influential
men every where, entreating them to enlist men and money for the holy
cause.
He never rested; and, with the cold gray dawning, would order out his
horse and ride through and around the miserable tents, and where we
often slept under the bare heavens, and every heart was of bolder and
better cheer as he passed.
His look never changed. It was just the same steady face, whatever
went on before it; whether he saw us provincials beaten back, or
watched a thousand British regulars pile their arms after the victory at
Trenton.
He looked as he does in the great picture in Faneuil Hall, on the right,
as you stand before the rostrum. He stands there, by his horse, just as I
saw him before the passage of the Delaware, with the steady, serious,
immovable look that puts difficulties out of countenance. It is the look
of a man of sense and judgment, who has come to the determination to
save the country, and means to transact that piece of business without
fail.
I never saw that quiet, iron look change but once. I will tell you about it.
It was one of those days after the battle of Trenton, when he tried to
concentrate the troops that he had scattered over the country, to bring
them to bear upon the British. His object was to show the enemy that
they could not keep their foothold.
Between Trenton and Princeton he ordered the assault. The Virginians
were broken at the enemy's first charge, and could not be rallied a
second time against the British bayonets. General Washington
commanded and threatened and entreated in vain.

We of New England saw the crisis, marched rapidly up, and poured in
our fire at the exact moment, Judah Loring and I in the very front.
The British could not stand the fire. We gave it to them plenty, I tell
you. Judah Loring loaded, and I fired over and over and over again, till
it seemed as if he and I were one creature.
A musket, I should explain to you, feels nothing of itself, but only
receives a double share of the nature of the man who carries it.
I felt ALIVE that day. Judah was hot, but I was hotter; and, before the
cartridge box was empty, he pulled down his homespun blue and white
frock sleeve over his wrist, and rested me upon it when he took aim. He
was a gentle-hearted fellow, though as brave as his musket.
"She's so hot," says he, doubling his sleeve into his palm, "that I can't
hold her; but I can't stop firing NOW!"
I met his wishes exactly, I knew by that word; for he always called
every thing he liked, SHE. The sun was SHE; so was his father's old
London-made watch; so was the Continental Congress.
General Washington saw the whole;--the enemy, driven back before
our fire, could never be brought to look us in the face again. We held
the ground;--the Virginia troops rallied; --General Washington took off
his cocked hat, and lifted it high, like a finished gentleman, as he was.
"Hurrah!" he shouted, "God bless the New England troops! God bless
the Massachusetts line!" [Footnote: This was all fact, related by one
who was present.] And his steady face flamed and gave way like
melting metal.
Ah, what a set of men were those! I felt the firm trip-hammer of all
their pulses beat through the whole fight, for we stood in platoon,
shoulder to shoulder. I felt my kindred with every one of them. They
had more steel in their nerves and more iron in their blood than other
men. Not a man cared a straw for his life, so he saved from wrong and
bondage the lives of them that should come after him.

That day's work raised hope in every man's heart through the land. Said
I not well that it was the most glorious of my life?
I have but little more to say. I have said more than I meant to, more
perhaps than was wise to say of my own glory. But the thought of those
brave days of old makes one too talkative.
I