Philip Winwood - A Sketch of the Domestic History of an American Captain in the War of Independence; Embracing Events that Occurred between and during the Years 1763 and 1786, in New York and London: written by His Enemy in War, Herbert Russell, Lieutenant in the Loyalist Forces.
176 pages
English

Philip Winwood - A Sketch of the Domestic History of an American Captain in the War of Independence; Embracing Events that Occurred between and during the Years 1763 and 1786, in New York and London: written by His Enemy in War, Herbert Russell, Lieutenant in the Loyalist Forces.

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176 pages
English
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The Project Gutenberg eBook, Philip Winwood, by Robert Neilson Stephens, Illustrated by E. W. D. Hamilton This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at w w w . g u t e n b e r g . n e t Title: Philip Winwood A Sketch of the Domestic History of an American Captain in the War of Independence; Embracing Events that Occurred between and during the Years 1763 and 1786, in New York and London: written by His Enemy in War, Herbert Russell, Lieutenant in the Loyalist Forces. Author: Robert Neilson Stephens Release Date: March 30, 2005 [eBook #15506] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 ***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PHILIP WINWOOD*** E-text prepared by Audrey Longhurst and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team Front cover PHILIP WINWOOD "The bravest are the tenderest." BAYARD TAYLOR. Works of ROBERT NEILSON STEPHENS An Enemy to the King (Twenty-sixth Thousand) The Continental Dragoon (Seventeenth Thousand) The Road to Paris (Sixteenth Thousand) A Gentleman Player (Thirty-fifth Thousand) Philip Winwood (Fiftieth Thousand) L.C. PAGE AND COMPANY, Publishers (Incorporated) 212 Summer St., Boston, Mass.

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Publié le 08 décembre 2010
Nombre de lectures 22
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The Project Gutenberg eBook, Philip
Winwood, by Robert Neilson
Stephens, Illustrated by E. W. D.
Hamilton
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at w w w . g u t e n b e r g . n e t
Title: Philip Winwood
A Sketch of the Domestic History of an American Captain in the War of
Independence; Embracing Events that Occurred between and during the Years
1763 and 1786, in New York and London: written by His Enemy in War, Herbert
Russell, Lieutenant in the Loyalist Forces.
Author: Robert Neilson Stephens
Release Date: March 30, 2005 [eBook #15506]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PHILIP WINWOOD***
E-text prepared by Audrey Longhurst
and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading
TeamFront cover
PHILIP WINWOOD
"The bravest are the tenderest."
BAYARD TAYLOR.

Works of ROBERT NEILSON STEPHENS
An Enemy to the King
(Twenty-sixth Thousand)
The Continental Dragoon
(Seventeenth Thousand)
The Road to Paris
(Sixteenth Thousand)
A Gentleman Player
(Thirty-fifth Thousand)
Philip Winwood
(Fiftieth Thousand)
L.C. PAGE AND COMPANY, Publishers (Incorporated)
212 Summer St., Boston, Mass.
CAPTAIN PHILIP WINWOOD
CAPTAIN PHILIP WINWOOD
PHILIP WINWOOD
A Sketch of the Domestic History of an American Captain in the War of
Independence; Embracing Events that Occurred between and during the
Years 1763 and 1786, in New York and London: written by His Enemy in
War, Herbert Russell, Lieutenant in the Loyalist Forces.
Presented Anew by
Robert Neilson Stephens
Author of "A Gentleman Player," "An Enemy to the King," "The Continental
Dragoon," "The Road to Paris," etc.
Illustrated by
E. W. D. HamiltonBoston : L.C. PAGE & COMPANY (Incorporated) Mdcccc
1900

CONTENTS.
CHAPTER
I. PHILIP'S ARRIVAL IN NEW YORK
II. THE FARINGFIELDS
III. WHEREIN 'TIS SHOWN THAT BOYS ARE BUT BOYS
IV. HOW PHILIP AND I BEHAVED AS RIVALS IN LOVE
V. WE HEAR STARTLING NEWS, WHICH BRINGS ABOUT A FAMILY
"SCENE"
VI. NED COMES BACK, WITH AN INTERESTING TALE OF A FORTUNATE
IRISHMAN
VII. ENEMIES IN WAR
VIII. I MEET AN OLD FRIEND IN THE DARK
IX. PHILIP'S ADVENTURES—CAPTAIN FALCONER COMES TO TOWN
X. A FINE PROJECT
XI. WINWOOD COMES TO SEE HIS WIFE
XII. THEIR INTERVIEW
XIII. WHEREIN CAPTAIN WINWOOD DECLINES A PROMOTION
XIV. THE BAD SHILLING TURNS UP ONCE MORE IN QUEEN STREET
XV. IN WHICH THERE IS A FLIGHT BY SEA, AND A DUEL BY MOONLIGHT
XVI. FOLLOWS THE FORTUNES OF MADGE AND NED
XVII. I HEAR AGAIN FROM WINWOOD
XVIII. PHILIP COMES AT LAST TO LONDON
XIX. WE MEET A PLAY-ACTRESS THERE
XX. WE INTRUDE UPON A GENTLEMAN AT A COFFEE-HOUSE
XXI. THE LAST, AND MOST EVENTFUL, OF THE HISTORY

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
CAPTAIN PHILIP WINWOOD
"OUR MOTIONS, AS WE TOUCHED OUR LIPS WITH THEM, WERE SO IN
UNISON THAT MARGARET LAUGHED"
"SHE WAS INDEED THE TOAST OF THE ARMY"
"'HE IS A—AN ACQUAINTANCE'"
"HE FINALLY DREW BACK TO GIVE HER A MORE EFFECTUAL BLOW"
"IT WAS PHILIP'S CUSTOM, AT THIS TIME, TO ATTEND FIRST NIGHTS AT THE
PLAYHOUSES"
PHILIP WINWOOD.
CHAPTER I.
Philip's Arrival in New York.
'Tis not the practice of writers to choose for biography men who have made no
more noise in the world than Captain Winwood has; nor the act of gentlemen, in
ordinary cases, to publish such private matters as this recital will present. But I
consider, on the one hand, that Winwood's history contains as much of interest,
and as good an example of manly virtues, as will be found in the life of many a
hero more renowned; and, on the other, that his story has been so partially
known, and so distorted, it becomes indeed the duty of a gentleman, when that
gentleman was his nearest friend, to put forth that story truly, and so give the lie
for ever to the detractors of a brave and kindly man.
There was a saying in the American army, proceeding first from Major Harry
Lee, of their famous Light Horse, that Captain Winwood was in America, in the
smaller way his modesty permitted, what the Chevalier Bayard was in France,
and Sir Philip Sidney in England. This has been received more than once (such
is the malice of conscious inferiority) with derisive smiles or supercilious sneers;
and not only by certain of his own countrymen, but even in my presence, when
my friendship for Winwood, though I had been his rival in love and his enemy in
war, was not less known than was my quickness to take offence and avenge it. I
dealt with one 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
[1]for republican taste. 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 ofLondon. 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 were old and carefully mended. Hi

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