If, however, I looked for activity in the army, I was greatly mistaken. Sir Henry held New York; our own people had the Jerseys. A great chain of forts limited the movements of the British on the Hudson. Our general seemed to me to have a paralysing influence on whatever British commander was matched against him. As it had been with Gage in Boston and with Howe in Philadelphia, so was it now with Clinton in New York. From Danbury in Connecticut to Elizabeth in New Jersey, a thin line watched the pent-up enemy, who to seaward was guarded by a great fleet. North of the Potomac he held New York alone, but on the frontier a savage contest raged, and in the South the war everywhere went against us. Occasional skirmishes, incessant drill, and a life of expedients to shelter, clothe, and feed my men, filled the tedious winter of ‘79 and ‘80, but affords me nothing of interest to add to the story of my life. In August General Arnold passed through our forces to take command of the forts at West Point, having declined a command in the field on account, as he said, of continued suffering from his wounded leg. I fear it was a mere pretence. We were lying about Middlebrook, New Jersey, when, a few days later, Colonel Alexander Hamilton came to my quarters, evidently much amused. He said the videttes had captured a batch of letters, mostly of no moment, but some too mischievous to be let to pass. “Here,” he said, “is one which concerns you, Wynne. You need have no scruple as to the reading of it. It has much entertained the mess of the headquarters guard.” He sat down with Jack and a pipe to keep off the Tory mosquitos, while I fell to reading the letter. The same buzzing Tories were busy about me also with bugle and beak, but when, as I glanced at the letter, I caught Darthea’s name on the second page, I forgot them and hesitated. “Still,” thought I, “others have read it, and it may be well that I should do so.” It was no longer private. I went on to learn what it said. It was from Miss Franks in New York to some young woman of her set in my own city, but to whom was not clear, as an outer cover seemed to have been lost or cast away. “MY DEAR PUSSY,” it began: “I hope you will get this despite the rebels, else you will lose much that is useful in the warfare with our dear enemy, the unfair sex.” After this was an amusing record of the latest modes and much about gowns, pincushion hoops, and face-patches. “Also the gentlemen of New York wear two watches, which with you is not considered genteel, and the admiral has introduced the fashion of dining by candle-light at four. It is very becoming, I do assure you. “How is the pretty boy-captain? Does he still blush?” This was clearly Jack, but who was Pussy? “And Mr. Wynne--not Darthea’s Mr. Wynne, but the perverted Quaker with the blue eyes?” It was plain who this was.