Chapter IX: Prologue (4)

History does not record how the boasting Briton received the onslaught of the Irishman, but we can readily imagine that his face lengthened a little, as he heard the laughs on every side. Still it is quite possible that he did not see the joke until the following week. Someway, that march of Burgoyne and his army, always struck me as humorous to a certain extent. While there was the sadness caused by the loss of many lives, and while the battle of Saratoga was one of the great battles of the world, still Burgoyne himself, with his verbosity and his pomposity, was so ludicrous a figure oft times, that he gave a humorous tinge to the entire campaign.

The saying of General Starke at Bennington which has come down to us with such pleasing patriotism: "Here come the Red Coats and we must beat them to-day, or Mollie Starke is a widow," was not a humorous saying, nor was the battle of Bennington a humorous incident. But Bill Nye, the immortal, has written something exceedingly funny concerning both. Nye said, "This little remark of Starke's made an instantaneous hit, and when they counted up their prisoners at night they found they had six hundred souls and a Hessian." Nye's description of Burgoyne's surrender is well worth repeating. He wrote: "A council was now held in Burgoyne's tent and on the question of renewing the fight, stood six to six, when an eighteen pound hot shot went through the tent, knocking a stylograph pen out of Burgoyne's hand. Almost at once he decided to surrender, and the entire army of 6999 men was surrendered, together with arms, portable bath tubs and leather hat boxes."

Nearly all of our American soldiers were brave; that goes without saying. One of the bravest of these was Lieutenant Manning. His deeds of prowess were many and great. He was hero in one extremely humorous incident at the battle of Eutaw. After the British line had been broken, the "Old Buffs" started to run. This particular regiment was as boastful as General Burgoyne. Manning knew this and he was delighted to follow hard after them with his platoon. Excited in his pursuit he did not notice that he was getting away from his men, until he found himself surrounded by British soldiers and not an American in sight. Something must be done at once and Manning was the man to do it. He siezed a British officer standing near, and much to that officer's amazement he not only felt himself violently handled, but he heard the stentorian voice of the American shouting--"You are my prisoner." His sword was wrested from his grasp, and he was made a human shield for this preposterously impudent American. But instead of making a break for liberty, he began to relate his various titles to Manning. "I am sir," he said, "Sir Henry Barry, Deputy Adjutant General of the British Army, Captain in the 52d Regiment, Secretary to the Commandant of Charleston."

"Enough Sir," said Manning, "You are just the man I have been looking for. Fear nothing; you shall screen me from danger and I will take special care of you," which he did, holding the astonished man of title in front of him, until he reached the Americans and handed him over as a prisoner.

Colonel Peter Horry was another brave man of the south. He was afflicted by an impediment in his speech and at one time the impediment nearly worked disaster for him. He was ordered to await in ambuscade with his regiment for a British detachment, and he soon had them completely within his power; but when he tried to command his men to fire, his speech failed him. In vain he corrugated his brows and twisted his jaws; the word would not come out. "Fi, fi, fi, fi," he shouted, but could get no further. Finally in his desperation he howled, "shoot, blank you, shoot. You know very well what I would say. Shoot and be blanked to you." Horry was a determined character. At one time in battle a brother officer called to him:

"I am wounded, Colonel." "Think no more of it, Baxter, but stand to your post," called back Horry. "But I can't stand, Colonel, I am wounded a second time." "Then lie down, Baxter, but quit not your post." "Colonel," cried the suffering man, "they have shot me again, and if I remain longer here I shall be shot to pieces." "Be it so Baxter," returned Horry, "but stir not."

The part that women took in the Revolution has been sung by poets and made the nucleus of writers' efforts for a hundred years and more. Those Revolutionary women had brawn as well as brain. They were able to defend their homes from the depredations of the Royalists; they could bid the Indian begone, not only by word of mouth but at the musket's end. They could plow and sow and reap; they could care for their families and they could take up arms in liberty's cause if the need arose. Oh, those women of the American Revolution! What a history of bravery and fortitude and endurance they bequeathed to their descendants! There is some humor, too, in the stories left to us in record of their heroism.

It was the fashion among certain circles of Whig women, during the dark days of the Revolution, to wear deep mourning as an indication of their feelings. The black typified the darkness of the times and was worn by the town ladies who could afford it. One of these ladies, a Mrs. Brewton, was walking along Broad street in Charleston one morning, when she was joined by an insolently familiar British officer. At that very moment, the crepe flounce on her dress was accidently torn off. She quickly picked it up and passing just at that time the house of the absent Governor, John Rutledge, she sprang up the steps before the astonished eyes of the officer and decked the door with crepe, saying in ringing tones, "Where are you, dearest Governor? Surely the magnanimous Britons will not deem it a crime if I cause your house as well as your friends to mourn your absence." Colonel Moncrief, the English engineer, was occupying the house at the time, and his feelings were hurt at the action of Mrs. Brewton, as were those of the officer who had been with her, and she was arrested a few hours afterward and sent to Philadelphia.

One of the most marked women of the Revolution, a woman who figured in many a ludicrous as well as serious incident, was Nancy Hart, of Georgia. Nancy had a frightful temper, a big ungainly body, and she suffered from a most marked obliquity of sight. In fact Nancy was so cross-eyed, that her own children never could tell when their mother was looking at them and were perhaps better behaved on that very account. One time a party of Tories entered her modest home on food intent. They had taken the precaution of providing food for themselves, shooting Nancy's last remaining gobbler. Mrs. Hart had her head muffled up and no one had noticed her cross-eyes. The soldiers stacked their arms within reach and Nancy passed between them and the table, assiduous in her attention to the diners. The party had a jug, of course, and when they were becoming right merry, Nancy suddenly tore the mufflers from her head and snatching up one of the guns, swore that she would kill every last man who tried to get his gun or who delayed in getting out of the cabin. The men looked at Nancy's eyes and each man thinking she was aiming at him only, made a hasty and determined exit. But the terrible woman killed three Tories that day with her own hands. One day Nancy was boiling soap. As she industriously stirred, one of her eyes caught a glimpse of a Tory peeking through a chink in the cabin. Stirring busily away, Nancy kept one eye on the soap and the other on the chink. When the spy again appeared she let drive full at the chink, a good big ladle full of hot soap. A scream satisfied her that she had hit the mark, and she finished her soap-making with great satisfaction. This woman was termed by one of the patriots: "A honey of a patriot, but the devil of a wife."

The Revolutionary woman's resources were indeed great, and the strategy she employed was as satisfactory as it was many times humorous. A Whig woman of New York State, a Mrs. Fisher, was one morning surprised by the hurried entrance of a Whig neighbor, who begged of her to conceal him as the Tories were pursuing him. Just outside her door was an ash heap four or five feet high. Seizing a shovel, Mrs. Fisher immediately excavated a place in the ashes and buried her friend in it. But first she had taken precaution to place a number of quills one in the other and extend them from the prisoner's mouth to the air, that he might breathe, and there he remained snugly ensconced until the Tories had come and gone, and even though they ran over the ash heap, they never suspected what lay beneath it.

Equally resourceful was that woman of the Revolution, who when her husband was pursued by Tories, hustled him down cellar and into a meat barrel partially filled with brine and meat. The Tories went into the cellar and even peered into the barrel, but they did not discover the man, who at the risk of terribly inflamed eyes, ducked his head beneath the brine, when he heard the soldiers' hands on the head of the barrel. Inflamed eyes were easier to bear than imprisonment in the hands of the British.

Bill Nye's description of the close of the war is as humorous as it is correct. Nye wrote: "The country was free and independent, but oh, how ignorant it was about the science of government. The author does not wish to be personal when he states that the country at that time did not know enough about affairs to carry water for a circus elephant. It was heavily in debt, with no power to raise money. New England refused to pay tribute to King George and he in turn directed his hired men to overturn the government; but a felon broke out on his thumb and before he could put it down, the crisis was averted and the country saved."

And so it goes; the sad and the humorous are blended on every side in life's struggles either in war or peace. Fortunate is the man or woman who can halt a little by the wayside and for a few moments laugh dull care away.--Compiled from _Federation Magazine_.

A COLONIAL STORY.

A long time ago, before the hand of progress had stamped the land with a net work of steel, or commerce and trade had blackened the skies of blue, John Hamilton and Tabitha Thweatt were married. There was no cutting of Dutchess satin or charmeuse draped with shadow lace, for it took time in those days to prepare for a wedding. Silk worms had to be raised, thread spun and woven into cloth before the bride's clothes could be fashioned. Waiting was no bar to happiness; the bride-to-be sang merrily while spinning or weaving at her loom and as the shuttles went in and out her day dreams were inter-mingled with the weaving of her wedding garments.

In the year of our Lord, 1770, the making of silk in the colonies was a new industry and when Mistress Tabitha decided on silk for her wedding dress she had to plant mulberry twigs and wait for them to grow. She had to pick the leaves to feed the worms until they wrapped themselves in their silken cocoons and as soon as the cocoons would web they were baked to keep them from cutting the raw silk. It took one hundred cocoons to make one strand of silk. After all these preparations this colonial girl's dream of a silken wedding gown grew into a realization. She not only raised the silk worms, but spun the silk that they had webbed and wove it into shimmering cloth, from which her wedding gown was made. She also knit her wedding stockings of silk; but only one pair of silk went into her trousseau for the rest were knit of cotton.

The family records say that this couple had no worldly goods except what their own hands had wrought. They were God-fearing people of the Puritan type. He felled the trees and sawed them into logs out of which their home was constructed. The logs that went toward the building of their home were mortised and pinned together with wooden pegs. The floors were puncheon flat slabs split from whole tree trunks and the doors and windows were made of oak and were swung on great wooden hinges. The chimney was of "stick and dirt" and across the broad fire place hung the crane from which were suspended the cooking utensils.

John Hamilton was a member of one of Virginia's most distinguished families. He possessed an iron will that defied adversity; he blazed the way through his state and was brave enough to "hew down forests and live on crumbs." Mistress Tabitha was a help-meet to her pioneer husband. She not only cooked his meals but carried them to him when he worked in the field. He had the honor, and in those days it was indeed an honor, to be elected as a representative from his state to Congress. The frugal and beautiful Tabitha accompanied him to Washington. Her preparation for the replenishing of her ward-robe was quite as elaborate as those formerly made for her wedding. With deft hands she carded from the snowy cotton piles of rolls that were spun into thread and she wove many yards of cloth from which she made her underwear. From carefully carded bats of cotton she spun many spindles of fine smooth thread that was woven into fine cream cotton goods, some of which were dyed with copperas. Some was spread day and night on the grass where the dew would fall to bleach it. From the bleached cotton this industrious woman made her dresses and the snowy whiteness of some of her gowns was the envy of her neighbors. She also carried in her little hair trunk to Washington, not only many well made cotton garments, but was the proud possessor of one black silk dress and two black silk aprons. The dress was afterward described as being so heavy that it could "stand alone." Mistress Tabitha, although a little overworked, was not too weary after reaching Washington to attend the Presidential ball and dance the minuet with the gallant Washington and the noted LaFayette.

John and Tabitha Hamilton had eleven children. All were born in Virginia except one, who came after they moved to Hancock County, near Sparta, Georgia, in 1791. Their home was destroyed twice by the Tories and once by a Tornado. Mr. Hamilton had just completed a nice dwelling for his family when the memorable tornado and cyclone passed over that portion of Georgia in April, 1805. All of the family except Jack and Everard were away from home. There was but one small house left on the place, their new house having been blown away, none of it left standing. Some of the doors were found six miles off in an adjoining county. Clothing, books and papers were carried promiscuously away. Jack was much bruised, having been struck by many things. His booksack was blown away, and his "Ovid" was found forty miles over in Baldwin County and returned to him. This book is now in possession of one of his descendants. Everard was carried into the air and lodged in a swamp about a quarter of a mile away, where he was caught up by the whirl wind. Madame Hamilton took this misfortune as coming from God and helped her husband to collect anew his scattered fortune. Later we read of them as living on their plantation surrounded by their servants, who ministered to their comforts and attended their broad fields.

In reading about the women who lived in the early days of Georgia, their splendid lives stand as a beacon to the reckless and extravagant ones of today. They not only spun the thread and wove the cloth used in their homes, but they made all of the clothes their children wore, and reared them to be God-fearing men and women. They visited their neighbors for thirty miles away and extended a glad welcome and cordial hospitality for any and every guest. One with impunity may ask the question: "Are they pleased with their descendants, these women of Georgia's pioneer days?"--MRS. J. L. WALKER, Lyman Hall Chapter, D. A. R.

MOLLY PITCHER FOR HALL OF FAME.

The movement to place in the hall of fame a bust of Molly Pitcher, the only woman sergeant in the United States army, has the enthusiastic support of former Senator Chauncey M. Depew.

It was in the important movements of the year 1778 that at the battle of Monmouth Molly Pitcher was carrying water to her husband, who was a gunner of a battery at one piece of artillery. He was disabled and the lieutenant proposed to remove the piece out of danger, when Molly said, "I can do everything my husband could," and she performed her husband's duties at his old gun better than he could have done.

The next morning she was taken before General Washington, her wonderful act was reported and its influence upon the outcome of the battle, which was a victory, and Washington made her at once a sergeant in the army to stand on the rolls in that rank as long as she would.

It seems appropriate now for us to place among the immortals and in the hall of fame this only woman sergeant of the United States army, who won her title fighting for her country upon the field of battle.--_National Magazine._

REVOLUTIONARY RELICS.

Great grandmother's spinning wheel stands in the hall,
That is her portrait there;
Great grandfather's sword hangs near on the wall,
What do you girlies care,
That in seventeen hundred and seventy-six,
One bitter winter's night,
When the air was full of sleet and snow,
And the kitchen fire burned bright.

He stood with a face so thoughtful and sad
With his hand on her hair,
"Asenath, I start at the break of day,"
Oh, that bride was so fair!
But country was dearer than home and wife,
Proudly she lifted her head,
"Go, David, and stay till is ended the strife,
God keep you, dear," she said.

Toward the loom in the kitchen she drew,
She had finished that day,
A beautiful blanket of brown and blue,
"Was it plaided this way?"
It was just like this but faded and worn,
And full of holes and stain,
When our soldier grandsire came back one morn,
To wife and child again.

When his eyes were dim and her hair was white,
Waiting the Master's call,
She finished this blanket one winter's night,
That hangs here on the wall.
And dreaming of fifty years before,
When she stood by that wheel,
And that cradle creaked on the kitchen floor,
By that swift and reel.
There's a rare old plate with a portrait in blue,
Of England's George the Third,
A porringer small and a stain shoe,
That five brave hearts has stirred,
There's an ancient gun all covered with rust,
A clock, a bible worn,
"Fox Book of Martyrs" and "Holy Wars,"
A brass tipped powder horn.

Great grandfather sat in that old arm chair,
Grandmother rocked by his side,
Till the Master called through the sweet June air,
They both went out with the tide.

--_Florence I. W. Burnham in American Monthly Magazine._

TRAGEDY OF THE REVOLUTION OVERLOOKED BY HISTORIANS.

BY T. H. DREHER, M. D.

Before the William Thompson Chapter, D. A. R., invaded this neck of the moral vineyard and put its delicate, historical fingers upon the tendrils of local happenings, there was no blare of trumpets over a foul and bloody deed which occurred near the "Metts Cross-Roads," in this county, during the Revolutionary war. But the gruesome case was never without intense interest to those concerned in the episodes of a past age. The strange and mysterious always throws an additional halo over our heroes. This feeling is intensified, in this case, by virtue of the fact that the same blood which ran in the veins of the victim of the "cross-roads plot," now pulsates in the arteries of many lineal, living descendants who are part and parcel of Calhoun County's sturdy citizenship.

The malignant, cruel and cowardly feature of this dastardly crime, garbed in a plausible and hypocritical cloak, make it unique, even in the gory annals of criminal warfare and harks our memories back to the murder of Duncan, King of Scotland. Here, as there, we have no doubt, but that souls grew faint over the details of the foul conspiracy and "their seated hearts knocked at their ribs" until spurred to the "sticking place" by the evil eloquence of some overpowering and unnatural genius, like unto Lady Macbeth. John Adams Treutlen (for that was the name of our hero) is in his grave.

"After life's fitful fever, he sleeps well,
Treason has done his worst; nor steel nor poison,
Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing,
Can touch him further."

That is true. The cold pen of a true chronicler, however, must again allude to the utter negligence and gross indifference of an earlier age to a proper appreciation of significant events. That a noted Governor of Georgia should be brutally done to death by revengeful Tories because of the intense Whig fires which consumed his very soul; that children, and children's children, should grow up around the scene of his untimely taking-off, and still his home and his grave should be, today, unidentified spots on the map of Calhoun County force us to exclaim with Mark Antony: "But yesterday the word of Caesar might have stood against the world. Now lies he there and none so poor to do him reverence."

The salient facts in the life of Treutlen are interesting. Born in Berectsgaden, 1726, as a German Salzburger, he was brought to this country in a boat load of Salzburgers that landed at Savannah in 1734. If early impressions count for anything, there is no wonder that the spirit of liberty and independence sank deep into the very inmost recesses of his soul. His father, along with thousands of other German Protestants, was exiled by a fanatical decree of Archbishop Leopold, which drove out from his domain all who would not accept the Catholic faith. It was this Salzburger strain and religion which was unterrified and unwashed, amid the raging tempests of an angry sea, while others aboard, including John Wesley, trembled for life, and confessed to a livelier awakening to the rejuvenating and sustaining power of God upon frail humanity.

Some 25 miles from Savannah these brave and devout pilgrims, after singing a psalm "set up a rock and in the spirit of the pious Samuel, named the place Ebenezer (stone of help) 'for hitherto hath the Lord helped us.'" Amid these crude but inspiring surroundings the young Treutlen received a splendid education, for that day, under the strict tutelage of his scholarly Lutheran pastors, Bolzius and Gronau. Thus it was that, when the red gloom of impending war was already visible on the distant horizon, and the Provincials had gathered at Savannah to take steps against the high-handed measures of England, John Adam Treutlen answered the roll-call from the Ebenezer country and was one of its leading and most aggressive spirits. Thus it was that, in the teeth of strong Tory influence and friends he espoused the patriot cause with all the ardor of a Knight Templar, thus becoming the chief object of Loyalist hatred and vengeance, his property being confiscated, and his home, with many of its treasures, burned to ashes.

Elected first Governor of Georgia under an independent Constitution by the Legislature, in 1777, there was not as yet the fearful carnage and bloody battles which were still to come, and which were to make the South and its manhood a synonym for courage and endurance the world over. It is true that the immortal conflict on Sullivan's Island had been fought and won, but Clinton and Parker, still hopeful under drooping plumes, had shifted the scene to the North.

The "blue bloods" of the Palmetto State--with the exception of Charleston's brave firebrand, Christopher Gadsden, were still praying for that peace, borne of wealth, intelligence and luxurious ease. Georgia, now perched upon the top-most round of empire--pre-eminence--was then weak in its swaddling clothes and viewed only as a promising child to be brought up in the aristocratic South Carolina Sunday School. With a cool and calculating diplomacy which smacked somewhat suggestively of the rising Talleyrand, we are told that the gentle ripples on the waters little betokened the torpedoes which were being laid beneath. Bludgeons, not the velvety hand of artful diplomacy, were calculated to narcotize the grim-visaged ruler of the satrapy across the Savannah, as all accounts agree that Treutlen was a somewhat "stormy petrel," a sort of pocket edition of Oliver Cromwell, the greatest civilized dictator that the world has ever produced--who could rout a parliament of sitting members, lock the door and put the key in his pocket.

And so it came to pass that, when the Governor heard of the so-called "Machiavellian scheme" to annex his little kingdom to the great Palmetto Commonwealth, by a coup d'etat, he pounded the floor viciously with his "condemnatory hoof" and shot a fiery proclamation over the official mahogany, denouncing the conspiracy in bitter vein and offering a heavy reward for the chief emissary--Drayton. When the Georgia patriot Government fell in 1779, Treutlen, along with hundreds of others, took British protection and fled to St. Matthews Parish, in the present County of Calhoun; and the road he travelled was a thornier path than that from Jerusalem to Jerico with

"Injuns on the upper way,
And death upon the lower."

It is not for me to split fine hairs over the principle involved in conditional agreements during the days of war, when every man is showing his teeth and reaching at the throat of his enemy. Suffice to say, that he chafed under the Tory bit and would have none of it. A born fighter and a man of rugged individuality, it was impossible for him to hug both sides of any fence. A dictator by instinct (and by Georgia statute,) well educated, and fresh from the Gubernatorial eiderdown he would naturally bring around his head swarms of bitter enemies, in times of war, and he was a marked man. He met his doom on a dreary night in 1780 under peculiarly atrocious conditions.

It is said that a small band of vindictive Tories went to his home during that fateful evening, and enticed him out, on a treacherous plea of surrender on certain plausible conditions. As he emerged from his door, he was seized, and not only brutally butchered, but, (all traditions agree,) literally hacked to pieces. The exact spot where the fragments of his dismembered body were buried will probably never be known. But there is every reason to believe that his bones rest in the vicinity of his home, from the fact that his tenure of life in this section was short; that he was without relatives beyond his family circle, and those relatives continued to live in the neighborhood. The mere fact that a Governor of Georgia could come here and be brutally and foully murdered by Tories, in the heat of war passions, and not a line recorded about it, in any South Carolina history or newspaper bearing upon that period, should open our eyes to the danger of swallowing the spurious pill offered to us by the Emily Geiger exterminators.

But for the Georgia records and a straight line of descendants, hereabouts, the Treutlen individuality and tradition would be tabooed as a "myth" and fabrication from beginning to end. Through the laudable efforts of the local D. A. R.--and particularly its regent, Mrs. F. C. Cain--a "marker" has been promised from the quartermaster general's office, Washington, D. C. It will stand in the vicinity of the "Metts Crossroads" and will remind the passerby of as true and loyal a Whig as lived during those perilous days.

Treutlen's general appearance, even in repose, as exhibited in an old photograph now in the possession of a descendant, is interesting. The orthodox military coat, unbottoned and spread abroad over his shoulders, brings into bold relief a "dicky" shirt front, emerging into a high and ferocious collar, which nestles snugly and smugly under his lower jaws. There is a profuse shock of hair, futilely bombarding an obstinate "cow-lick," the whole showing little or no subserviency to comb and brush. His large, piercing eyes, fringed by shaggy brows, with a drooping upper lid, produces a sad, if not sinister, aspect. The nose has a Roman slant, which meets a bold, intellectual forehead in an almost unbroken line. Marked cheek bones and a thin face ease down, more or less hastily, to a sharp and angular chin. A pair of thin lips, closely plastered to each other, bespeak firm determination; and his whole contour impresses one, forcibly, that he was not a safe man to take too many liberties with.

As intimated at the outset, there is an interesting ramification of descendants from the Treutlen family, many of whom are still living in Calhoun County. Some have gained prominence in Alabama, Washington, D. C., and other places, but I will note only those of local (and some, at least, of state-wide) interest. There were three sons and three daughters: John Adam Treutlen, Jr., Christian, Depew, Mary, Elizabeth and Hannah. Mary married Edward Dudley. From this union was born Mary Dudley, who married Adam Amaker, February 10, 1820, and from the latter was born Adam Perry Amaker, who married Augusta Zimmerman, and they, in turn, were the parents of Perry and T. A. Amaker, now living--the former of Denver, Col., and the latter a leading business man of St. Matthews. Amanda Amaker (alive) married Major Whitmarsh Seabrook Murray, of Edisto Island, who recently died here. They moved to this place after the war and leave many descendants.

Elizabeth Treutlen, another daughter, married William Kennedy and from them descended John W. Kennedy, who resided here for years, and now at Tyron, N. C. His only daughter, Vernon, married Dr. A. McQueen Salley, originally of Orangeburg, and a son of the present sheriff of that county, now of Saluda, N. C. John Adam Treutlen, Jr., married Margaret Miller. Their son, Gabriel, married Ann Connor and to them was born Caroline Treutlen, who married Jacob Dantzler. Their son, Col. O. M. Dantzler, of Confederate war fame, was the father of O. M. Dantzler, the popular sheriff of Calhoun County, who recently died; Fred and Thos. W., of St. Matthews; Mortimer O., of Orangeburg and Charles G., an eminent jurist (deceased.)

Rachael Treutlen, daughter of John Adam Treutlen, Jr., married the Rev. J. J. Wannamaker, of St. Matthews. From this union were born Mary Ann (who first married Joel Butler and later William Reeves) and W. W. Wannamaker, deceased, who for many years was a leading physician of this community, and who married Adelia Keitt. To the last couple was born Agelina, who married the Rev. Artemus B. Watson, a well known minister of the Methodist Church, who died recently. Their son, Whitfield W. Watson, married May, daughter of the Hon. Samuel J. Dibble, and a daughter Adele Watson, deceased, married A. C. Hane, Fort Motte. Other children of Dr. W. W. Wannamaker were: John Keitt, who married Chloe Watson, both dead. He bequeathed $20,000 for a Methodist Church here. W. W. Wannamaker, a successful farmer of this community, who married Lou Banks, deceased. A son bears the honored patronymic of "Treutlen." Mary B. Wannamaker, deceased, who married Dr. W. T. C. Bates, of St. Matthews, the well known ex-State Treasurer.

Emma C., a daughter of Rev. J. J. Wannamaker, married Dr. W. L. Pou, an eminent physician of St. Matthews, now 84 years old, and who has been actively practicing his profession for over 60 years. A daughter of Dr. and Mrs. Pou, Emma, deceased, married A. K. Smoke, a prominent and influential citizen of this town, while Blanche, another daughter, is living, and the joy and pride of her aged parents. A son of Rev. J. J. Wannamaker and Rachael Treutlen, his wife, was Capt. Francis M., deceased, a noted lawyer in his day, who married Eleanor Bellinger, of Bamberg. From the last couple were born the following: Jennie B., who married J. B. Tyler, of Georgia, both dead; Mary B., deceased, who married J. H. Henagan, of St. Matthews; Rachael Treutlen, who married H. A. Raysor, a successful merchant and prominent citizen of St. Matthews; J. S. Kottowe, a leading banker and merchant of St. Matthews, who married Lillian Salley, of Orangeburg; Francis M., who married the writer; William H., professor of German in Trinity College, N. C., who married Isabella Stringfellow, of Chester, and Olin M., professor of English in the Alabama Polytechnic College at Auburn, who married Katherine Hume, of New Haven, Conn.

JOHN MARTIN.

When quite a little boy in his home in Caroline County, Virginia, John Martin adopted as his motto: "I will do my best." It helped him even in childhood to have this motto, for whenever he had any difficult task to perform, either at home or school, he remembered his motto and did his best.

In his veins flowed the blood of a noble ancestry and many sterling merited qualities helped him in the formation of a manly character.

He was born in 1751, amid turbulent scenes in Virginia, for the Indians were frequently incited by the French to commit deeds of violence and cruelty upon the English colonists, and in consequence of this, his early impressions were of preparations for war. At a tender age John witnessed the departure of his father, Abner Martin, to join Colonel Washington on his way to Fort Duquesne. He saw him buckle on his sword and sabre and mount his charger and set his face towards the Ohio Valley. And after that parting he experienced some of the horrors of war, for in the silent hour of night, the stealthy tread of the Indian noiselessly approached the Martin plantation and applied the torch to the barns and outhouses, and morning found them in ruins. He shared the general feeling of uneasiness and insecurity that had settled down upon the home circle in consequence of his father's absence, and his grandfather's illness. His mother at this time was for him his tower of strength, and his ark of safety, for she it was who devised means for their protection and safety. As he grew older and thought upon these stirring scenes, no wonder that his martial spirit was stirred within him and that he resolved "some day I'll go too, and I can if I do my best," and he did.

About 1768, the Martin family removed from Virginia to South Carolina and settled at Edgefield. The sons were sent to Virginia to be educated, and it was there that John formed a close personal friendship for George Washington, which ripened with the coming years. When the war for American Independence was declared, John Martin, and his seven brothers, all officers, had his life's desire fulfilled, and following the footsteps of his father saw service in the defence of his country. He also served with distinction in the state legislature and afterward was made General in command of the South Carolina state troops. He married Elizabeth, the daughter of Colonel Nathaniel Terry, of Virginia. Many years later General John Martin was on a visit to his son Marshall Martin, in Meriwether County, Georgia at the time when Georgia was called upon to furnish her quota of troops for the war of 1812. John Martin was then 70 years old and still the fires of patriotism were not extinguished nor the love of battle front subdued.

The talk of another war with England made him forget his years, and his infirmities, and as his son Marshall recounted the probabilities of renewed encounters, and spoke of his own enlistment, the old "war horse sniffing the battle from afar," exclaimed excitedly, "My son let me go in your stead."

After this visit John Martin returned to his Edgefield home, where he died in 1820.

Boys and girls who would develop fine character must have high ideals even in childhood. "Sow a thought and you reap a habit, sow a habit and you reap a character, sow a character and you reap a destiny"--M. M. PARK, David Meriwether Chapter, D. A. R., Greenville.

JOHN STARK, REVOLUTIONARY SOLDIER.

The victory of the little band of patriots at Bennington early in the Revolutionary War made John Stark famous, and shortly afterward he was christened "Old Bennington," first by the soldiers and then by the American colonists generally. At the time of the victory Stark was close to fifty years of age, and had had a long and distinguished career as an Indian fighter.

In early life John Stark was a New Hampshire farmer, and in that state he was born of Irish parents, and there he died in 1822, at the advanced age of 94. His farm was located in the wildest part of the forest country of New Hampshire, and Indian fighting was a hobby with him. Several years prior to the Revolution he and his little band of frontiersmen had succeeded in driving the Indians from their neighborhood, so that they were no longer troubled with them. Then for several years Stark settled down to the enjoyment of farm life. At this vocation he continued until tidings reached him of the battle of Lexington.

Promptly upon the receipt of this news he mounted his horse, and at the head of several hundred of his neighbors, set out to join the Colonial Army at Cambridge. Upon his arrival there he was appointed a colonel, and in one day he had organized a regiment of 800 hardy backswoodsmen.

Then came the memorable Bunker Hill day. Stark and his men were stationed a few miles away from the scene of this conflict, but in full sight of both Bunker and Breed's hills. Seeing that a battle was inevitable, he waited for no orders, but set out at once for the ground, which he reached just before the conflict began. He led his men into the fight saying: "Boys aim at their waistbands," an order that has become historical.

In the heat of this action a soldier came to Stark with the report that his son, a youth of 16, who was with him on the field had been killed.

"This is not the moment to talk of private affairs," was the grim reply; "go back to your post."

As it proved, the report was false, and young Stark served as a staff officer through the war.

After the patriots were compelled to evacuate Boston, Stark marched with his regiment to New York, but was shortly directed to take part in the ill-starred expedition against Canada. The retreating army reached Ticonderoga on the 7th of July. Here on the following day the Declaration of Independence reached the soldiers in the field and Col. Stark had the satisfaction, on the scene of his former exploits, to hear the proclamation read to his cheering troops.

Then Gen. Stark proceeded south to assist Washington and to gain his full share of applause in the battle of Trenton. In March, 1777, he returned to his native state to recruit the ranks of his regiment, and while there news came to him that a new list of promotions had been made in which his name was omitted, while younger officers had been advanced in rank. This injustice he bitterly resented and resigned from the army and retired to his farm.

But Stark was still the patriot and when the information reached him that the enemy were moving south from Canada, and that Gen. St. Clair had retreated and that Ticonderoga had been captured, New Hampshire flew to arms and called for Stark to command her troops.

Stark was at Bennington when he learned that a detachment of six hundred men under Col. Baum had been dispatched by Burgoyne on a foraging expedition in that section, sending a party of Indians in advance on a scouting raid. Upon learning of this Stark sent out expresses to call in the militia of the neighborhood, he marched out to meet Baum, who entrenched himself in a strong position about six miles from Bennington.

This was on the 14th of August. A few miles out he met Lieut.-Col. Gregg retreating, with the enemy close at hand. Stark at once halted and drew up his men in order of battle. The enemy, seeing this, at once stopped also and entrenched themselves. Thus the armies remained for two days, contenting themselves with skirmishing, in which the Americans had much the best of the game. Baum's Indians began to desert, saying that "the woods were filled with Yankees."

On the morning of the sixteenth Stark prepared for an attack. Before advancing he addressed his men with that brief but telling address which has made his name historic: "There are the red coats; we must beat them to-day or to-night Molly Stark sleeps a widow."

They beat them and "Molly" had the satisfaction of long enjoying the fame that came to John, instead of wearing the widow's weeds. The victory was decisive and by a band of raw militia, poorly armed and without discipline, but led by one of the most fearless men of the revolution.

Of the one thousand British soldiers engaged in this fight, not more than a hundred escaped, and it was this victory of "Old Bennington" which led ultimately to the surrender of Burgoyne at Saratoga. Col. Baum, who was mortally wounded, said of the provisionals, "They fought more like hell-hounds than like soldiers." Washington spoke of the engagement as "the great stroke struck by Gen. Stark near Bennington" and Baroness Riedessel, then in the British camp, wrote: "This unfortunate event paralyzed our operations."

"Old Bennington" was a splendid type of the class of men who gave success to the American Revolution. Congress, after Bennington, hastened to repair its former action by appointing Stark a brigadier-general, and he continued in the army till the end of the war. He lived to see the country firmly established, and when he died in 1822 he was buried on the banks of the Merrimac River at Manchester.

BENJAMIN FRANKLIN.

BY GEORGE FITCH.

Benjamin Franklin was an ordinary man with an extraordinary supply of common sense who flourished in the eighteenth century and is still regarded as one of the finest of American products.

Franklin was born in Boston, but was one of the few Boston wise men to succeed in getting away from that city. His family was not distinguished and when he left Boston, after having run a newspaper with more brilliance than success, no committee of city officials appeared to bid him goodbye.

Franklin arrived in Philadelphia with enough money left to buy two rolls of bread and paraded the town wearing one loaf under his arm and eating the other. This successfully quarantined him from Philadelphia society and he was enabled to put all his time into the printing business with such success that he was sent to London in 1824 by the governor to get a printing outfit. He worked for eighteen months in a London printing house and was probably the most eminent employee that London Journalism ever had, though England has not yet waked up to this fact.

Franklin then returned to Philadelphia and purchased _The Gazette_, which he began to edit with such success that he frequently had to spend all day making change for eager subscribers. It might be well to mention here that at this time he was only 23 years old, having been born January 17, 1706, and having been a full-fledged editor at the age of 15. Genius often consists in getting an early start and keeping started.

At the age of 26 Franklin's "Poor Richard's Almanac," the sayings of a wise old man, had the largest circulation of anything printed in the Colonies, and people sought his advice on everything from love to chicken raising. At the age of 31 he was a member of the Pennsylvania Assembly. At 40 he had diagnosed lightning and had exhibited the first electricity ever in captivity in a bottle, having caught it with a kite string and a key. He had also charted the course of North American storms, and explained the gulf stream.

Franklin helped the Colonies to declare their independence and secured the treaty of alliance with France. At 79 he was elected governor of Pennsylvania. At 82 he helped write the Constitution of the United States. He also devised the American postal system. He died at the age of 84, and Philadelphia is prouder of his tombstone than she is of the Liberty Bell.

Through all his long and busy life Franklin never had time to dress up and adopt the social usages of his day. But this did not prevent him from dazzling the exquisite court of France at its most brilliant and useless period. He was one of the few men who gave to the earth more wisdom than he absorbed from it, but he never was a bonanza for the tailors. Had he spent his youth keeping four tailors and three haberdashers in affluence, Franklin relics would probably not command the high price which they now do.

CAPTAIN MUGFORD RAN THE BRITISH BLOCKADE AND CAPTURED POWDER SHIP.

Had Great Britain made peace with the American colonies after the British army had been driven from Boston, James Mugford would be a popular hero today. But Great Britain continued the war for eight long years, and so many heroes were made that the name of James Mugford, "the world forgetting, and by the world forgot," was lost.

Mugford died in 1776. He and his 27 companions were attacked by 200 British marines. They fought most all night, and the British were whipped, but the gallant captain was killed by a pike thrust.

The British under General Gage evacuated Boston, in March, 1776. The British fleet remained behind in Boston to blockade the port. General Washington hurried to New York with the main Colonial army to dispute the proposed British landing there. General Artemas Ward was left in command of a pretty sizeable American army around Boston; but Washington had taken all the powder and most of the guns.

The Americans were at the mercy of the British ships, only the British didn't know it. General Ward zealously guarded the fact that his powder supply was nil, and planned to fill his magazines at the invader's expense.

Accordingly two small ships, the schooners Hancock and Franklin, were outfitted and ordered to sea for the purpose of capturing a supply ship. Captain Samuel Tucker commanded the Hancock. James Mugford, a citizen of Marblehead, Mass., was appointed master of the Franklin. His vessel carried a crew of 21, including himself.

On May 7 Captain Tucker captured two brigs laden with valuable supplies; but no powder. He took his prizes to Lynn. General Ward communicated with Captain Mugford and explained to him the desperate straits the army was fronting.

"I'll get some powder," said the short-spoken Marblehead. And he did.

The British ship Hope, carrying war munitions for the British, was due. It had powder for the fleet. Captain Mugford heard of its expected arrival and put to sea.

Almost within sight of the British fleet he met the Hope and captured it. But how to land the prize? He didn't have men enough to take it to Lynn or any other port very distant. The British fleet lay between him and the American army in Boston.

Captain Mugford chose to run the British blockade and fight the whole fleet of a dozen ships or more, if necessary. He put a few of his best men aboard the Hope and made the British crew sail it. Then, in the Franklin, he arrogantly sailed toward the British fleet and dropped a few cannon balls its way.

The British were astounded. What could this crazy skipper mean by attacking a fleet with one dinky little schooner? They would teach him a lesson. The whole fleet maneuvered round to blow the Franklin off the bay. Meanwhile the Hope sneaked in the harbor, and then Captain Mugford outsailed the British fleet and got in himself. In the hold of the Hope the Americans found 75 tons of powder and other war stores needed just then more than men or gold. Mugford had made good his word.

Very naturally the British were angry. The admiral issued an order that James Mugford was to be captured by any hook or crook and promptly killed. Somebody told Captain Mugford about the order.

"Oh, piffle!" he said, or something like that. "I'll run by his derned old fleet every day in the week and twice on Sunday if I want."

The Sunday following, May 19, 1776, Captain Mugford, in the Franklin, with 21 men, and Captain Cunningham, in the privateer Lady Washington, a vessel carrying seven men and a few small swivel guns, started to puncture the British blockade again. They would have succeeded, but the Franklin grounded. A flotilla of small boats from the fleet, carrying 200 well-armed men, started for the attack. Captain Cunningham refused to leave his companion, so both he and Captain Mugford prepared for battle.

It was a fiercely fought contest and lasted the better part of the night. On May 20 General Ward made the following report of the engagement:

"Captain Mugford was very fiercely attacked by 12 or 13 boats full of men, but he and his men exerted themselves with remarkable bravery, beat off the enemy, sunk several of their boats and killed a number of their men; it is supposed they lost 60 or 70. The intrepid Captain Mugford fell a little before the enemy left his schooner. He was run through with a lance while he was cutting off the hands of the pirates as they were attempting to board him, and it is said that with his own hands he cut off five pairs of theirs. No other man was killed or wounded on the Franklin."--_Kansas City Star._

GOVERNOR JOHN CLARKE.

Among the historical sketches penned by Miss Annie M. Lane for the American Journal of History, that touching the life of Governor John Clarke, received the highest award, and through the kindness of the author we are permitted to reproduce it.

"Why are the dead not dead? Who can undo
What time has done? Who can win back the wind?
Beckon lost music from a broken lute?
Renew the redness of a last year's rose?
Or dig the sunken sun-set from the deep?"

I sometimes think there are more interesting things and people under the ground than above it, yet we who are above it do not want to go below it to get acquainted with them, but if we can find out anything from the outside we enjoy it. In a previous article, I said there was no spot in Georgia so full of buried romance as Wilkes County, and no manuscript so fascinating as the musty and yellow old records of a hundred years ago, which lie unmolested in our courthouse, especially those of 1777.

One cannot but feel after reading these books that he has been face to face with the grand old gentlemen of Revolutionary days: the men who walked our streets with their ruffled shirts--three-cornered hats and dangling swords--yet so different are they in personality and character that the weaving together of their lives makes to me a grand and beautiful fabric, "a tapestry of reminiscent threads." Some rich, some dark and sombre in shade, making a background so fitting for the crimson and purple and gold--for the conspicuous, inflaming color of impetuous natures, toned down with characters as white and cool as the snowflakes which fall upon our Southern violets.

You have but to close your eyes to the scene of today to recall ex-Governor Talbot, Governor Matthews, General Clarke, together with Jesse Mercer, Mr. Springer and Duncan C. Campbell, who were familiar figures once upon the streets of Washington.

In the painting of character sketches we would not do the individual justice if we did not remember his environments, and above all his inherited nature, for are we not all bound by heredity? My last sketch was of Jesse Mercer, now it is of John Clarke. How striking the contrast. The life of Jesse Mercer was as quiet and majestic as was his nature. John Clarke just three years his senior, born and reared at no great distance had a life of adventure. He was the son of our stalwart General Elijah Clarke and his wife, Hannah, and was the youngest soldier whose name appears upon the roster of Kettle Creek, being 13 years of age. (Battle of Kettle Creek, 1779, John Clarke, born 1766.)