overflowed at what they read. Why are we reluctant to confess a not ignoble
weakness, such as is, after all, only the heart's confession of what is
best in life? What becomes of the tears of age?

This is but a wearisome introduction, and yet necessary, for I desire to
use freely my friend's journal, and this without perpetual mention of his
name, save as one of the actors who played, as I did, a modest part in the
tumult of the war, in which my own fortunes and his were so deeply
concerned. To tell of my own life without speaking freely of the course of
a mighty story would be quite impossible. I look back, indeed, with honest
comfort on a struggle which changed the history of three nations, but I am
sure that the war did more for me than I for it. This I saw in others. Some
who went into it unformed lads came out strong men. In others its
temptations seemed to find and foster weaknesses of character, and to
cultivate the hidden germs of evil. Of all the examples of this influence,
none has seemed to me so tragical as that of General Arnold, because, being
of reputable stock and sufficient means, generous, in every-day life
kindly, and a free-handed friend, he was also, as men are now loath to
believe, a most gallant and daring soldier, a tender father, and an
attached husband. The thought of the fall of this man fetches back to me,
as I write, the remembrance of my own lesser temptations, and with a
thankful heart I turn aside to the uneventful story of my boyhood and its
surroundings.

I was born in the great city Governor William Penn founded, in
Pennsylvania, on the banks of the Delaware, and my earliest memories are of
the broad river, the ships, the creek before our door, and of grave
gentlemen in straight-collared coats and broad-brimmed beaver hats.

I began life in a day of stern rule, and among a people who did not concern