It is now many years since I began these memoirs. I wrote fully a third
of them, and then put them aside, having found increasing difficulties
as I went on with my task. These arose out of the constant need to use
the first person in a narrative of adventure and incidents which chiefly
concern the writer, even though it involve also the fortunes of many in
all ranks of life. Having no gift in the way of composition, I knew not
how to supply or set forth what was outside of my own knowledge, nor how
to pretend to that marvellous insight, as to motives and thoughts, which
they affect who write books of fiction. This has always seemed to me
absurd, and so artificial that, with my fashion of mind, I have never
been able to enjoy such works nor agreeably to accept their claim to
such privilege of insight. In a memoir meant for my descendants, it was
fitting and desirable that I should at times speak of my own appearance,
and, if possible, of how I seemed as child or man to others. This, I
found, I did not incline to do, even when I myself knew what had been
thought of me by friend or foe. And so, as I said, I set the task aside,
with no desire to take it up again.
Some years later my friend, John Warder, died, leaving to my son, his
namesake, an ample estate, and to me all his books, papers, plate, and
wines. Locked in a desk, I found a diary, begun when a lad, and kept,
with more or less care, during several years of the great war. It
contained also recollections of our youthful days, and was very full
here and there of thoughts, comments, and descriptions concerning events
of the time, and of people whom we both had known. It told of me much
that I could not otherwise have willingly set down, even if the matter
had appeared to me as it did to him, which was not always the case; also
my friend chanced to have been present at scenes which deeply concerned
me, but which, without his careful setting forth, would never have come
to my knowledge.
A kindly notice, writ nine years before, bade me use his journal as
seemed best to me. When I read this, and came to see how full and clear
were his statements of much that I knew, and of some things which I
did not, I felt ripely inclined to take up again the story I had left
unfinished; and now I have done so, and have used my friend as the third
person, whom I could permit to say what he thought of me from time to
time, and to tell of incidents I did not see, or record impressions and
emotions of his own. This latter privilege pleases me because I shall,
besides my own story, be able to let those dear to me gather from the
confessions of his journal, and from my own statements, what manner
of person was the true gentleman and gallant soldier to whom I owed so
much.
I trust this tale of an arduous struggle by a new land against a great
empire will make those of my own blood the more desirous to serve their
country with honour and earnestness, and with an abiding belief in the
great Ruler of events.
In my title of this volume I have called myself a “Free Quaker.” The
term has no meaning for most of the younger generation, and yet
it should tell a story of many sad spiritual struggles, of much
heart-searching distress, of brave decisions, and of battle and of camp.
At Fifth and Arch streets, on an old gable, is this record:
BY GENERAL SUBSCRIPTION,
FOR THE FREE QUAKERS.
ERECTED A.D. 1783,
OF THE EMPIRE, 8.
In the burying-ground across the street, and in and about the sacred
walls of Christ Church, not far away, lie Benjamin Franklin, Francis
Hopkinson, Peyton Randolph, Benjamin Rush, and many a gallant soldier
and sailor of the war for freedom. Among them, at peace forever, rest
the gentle-folks who stood for the king--the gay men and women who were
neutral, or who cared little under which George they danced or gambled
or drank their old Madeira. It is a neighbourhood which should be
forever full of interest to those who love the country of our birth.
I
A child’s early life is such as those who rule over him make it; but
they can only modify what he is. Yet, as all know, after their influence
has ceased, the man himself has to deal with the effects of blood and
breed, and, too, with the consequences of the mistakes of his elders in
the way of education. For these reasons I am pleased to say something of
myself in the season of my green youth.
The story of the childhood of the great is often of value, no matter
from whom they are “ascended,” as my friend Warder used to say; but even
in the lives of such lesser men as I, who have played the part of simple
pawns in a mighty game, the change from childhood to manhood is not
without interest.
I have often wished we could have the recorded truth of a child’s life
as it seemed to him day by day, but this can never be. The man it is who
writes the life of the boy, and his recollection of it is perplexed by
the sittings of memory, which let so much of thought and feeling escape,
keeping little more than barren facts, or the remembrance of periods of
trouble or of emotion, sometimes quite valueless, while more important
moral events are altogether lost.
As these pages will show, I have found it agreeable, and at times
useful, to try to understand, as far as in me lay, not only the men who
were my captains or mates in war or in peace, but also myself. I have
often been puzzled by that well-worn phrase as to the wisdom of knowing
thyself, for with what manner of knowledge you know yourself is a
grave question, and it is sometimes more valuable to know what is
truly thought of you by your nearest friends than to be forever teasing
yourself to determine whether what you have done in the course of your
life was just what it should have been.
I may be wrong in the belief that my friend Warder saw others more
clearly than he saw himself. He was of that opinion, and he says in one
place that he is like a mirror, seeing all things sharply except that
he saw not himself. Whether he judged me justly or not, I must leave to
others to decide. I should be glad to think that, in the great account,
I shall be as kindly dealt with as in the worn and faded pages which
tell brokenly of the days of our youth. I am not ashamed to say that my
eyes have filled many times as I have lingered over these records of
my friend, surely as sweet and true a gentleman as I have ever known.
Perhaps sometimes they have even 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 themselves greatly as to a child’s having that inheritance of
happiness with which we like to credit childhood. Who my people were
had much to do with my own character, and what those people were and had
been it is needful to say before I let my story run its natural and, I
hope, not uninteresting course.
In my father’s bedroom, over the fireplace, hung a pretty picture done
in oils, by whom I know not. It is now in my library. It represents a
pleasant park, and on a rise of land a gray Jacobean house, with, at
either side, low wings curved forward, so as to embrace a courtyard shut
in by railings and gilded gates. There is also a terrace with urns and
flowers. I used to think it was the king’s palace, until, one morning,
when I was still a child, Friend Pemberton came to visit my father
with William Logan and a very gay gentleman, Mr. John Penn, he who was
sometime lieutenant-governor of the province, and of whom and of
his brother Richard great hopes were conceived among Friends. I was
encouraged by Mr. Penn to speak more than was thought fitting for
children in those days, and because of his rank I escaped the reproof I
should else have met with.
He said to my father, “The boy favours thy people.” Then he added,
patting my head, “When thou art a man, my lad, thou shouldst go and see
where thy people came from in Wales. I have been at Wyncote. It is a
great house, with wings in the Italian manner, and a fine fountain in
the court, and gates which were gilded when Charles II came to see the
squire, and which are not to be set open again until another king comes
thither.”
Then I knew this was the picture upstairs, and much pleased I said
eagerly:
“My father has it in his bedroom, and our arms below it, all painted
most beautiful.”
“Thou art a clever lad,” said the young lieutenant-governor, “and I must
have described it well. Let as have a look at it, Friend Wynne.”
But my mother, seeing that William Logan and Friend Pemberton were
silent and grave, and that my father looked ill pleased, made haste to
make excuse, because it was springtime and the annual house-cleaning was
going on.
Mr. Penn cried out merrily, “I see that the elders are shocked at thee,
Friend Wynne, because of these vanities of arms and pictures; but there
is good heraldry on the tankard out of which I drank James Pemberton’s
beer yesterday. Fie, fie, Friend James!” Then he bowed to my mother very
courteously, and said to my father, “I hope I have not got thy boy into
difficulties because I reminded him that he is come of gentles.”
“No, no,” said my mother.
“I know the arms, madam, and well too: quarterly, three eagles displayed
in fesse, and--”
“Thou wilt pardon me, Friend Penn,” said my father, curtly. “These are
the follies of a world which concerns not those of our society. The
lad’s aunt has put enough of such nonsense into his head already.”
“Let it pass, then,” returned the young lieutenant-governor, with good
humour; “but I hope, as I said, that I have made no trouble for this
stout boy of thine.”
My father replied deliberately, “There is no harm done.” He was too
proud to defend himself, but I heard long after that he was taken to
task by Thomas Scattergood and another for these vanities of arms and
pictures. He told them that he put the picture where none saw it but
ourselves, and, when they persisted, reminded them sharply, as Mr. Penn
had done, of the crests on their own silver, by which these Friends of
Welsh descent set much store.
I remember that, when the gay young lieutenant-governor had taken his
leave, my father said to my mother, “Was it thou who didst tell the
boy this foolishness of these being our arms and the like, or was it my
sister Gainor?”
Upon this my mother drew up her brows, and spread her palms out,--a
French way she had,--and cried, “Are they not thy arms? Wherefore should
we be ashamed to confess it?”
I suppose this puzzled him, for he merely added, “Too much may be made
of such vanities.”
All of this I but dimly recall. It is one of the earliest recollections
of my childhood, and, being out of the common, was, I suppose, for that
reason better remembered.
I do not know how old I was when, at this time, Mr. Penn, in a neat
wig with side rolls, and dressed very gaudy, aroused my curiosity as
to these folks in Wales, It was long after, and only by degrees, that
I learned the following facts, which were in time to have a great
influence on my own life and its varied fortunes.
In or about the year 1671, and of course before Mr. Penn, the
proprietary, came over, my grandfather had crossed the sea, and settled
near Chester on lands belonging to the Swedes. The reason of his coming
was this: about 1669 the Welsh of the English church and the magistrates
were greatly stirred to wrath against the people called Quakers, because
of their refusal to pay tithes. Among these offenders was no small
number of the lesser gentry, especially they of Merionethshire.
My grandfather, Hugh Wynne, was the son and successor of Godfrey Wynne,
of Wyncote. How he chanced to be born among these hot-blooded Wynnes I
do not comprehend. He is said to have been gay in his early days, but in
young manhood to have become averse to the wild ways of his breed,
and to have taken a serious and contemplative turn. Falling in with
preachers of the people called Quakers, he left the church of the
establishment, gave up hunting, ate his game-cocks, and took to straight
collars, plain clothes, and plain talk. When he refused to pay the
tithes he was fined, and at last cast into prison in Shrewsbury Gate
House, where he lay for a year, with no more mind to be taxed for a
hireling ministry at the end of that time than at the beginning.
His next brother, William, a churchman as men go, seems to have loved
him, although he was himself a rollicking fox-hunter; and, seeing that
Hugh would die if left in this duress, engaged him to go to America.
Upon his agreeing to make over his estate to William, those in authority
readily consented to his liberation, since William had no scruples as
to the matter of tithes, and with him there would be no further trouble.
Thus it came about that my grandfather Hugh left Wales. He had with
him, I presume, enough of means to enable him to make a start in
Pennsylvania. It could not have been much. He carried also, what no
doubt he valued, a certificate of removal from the Quarterly Meeting
held at Tyddyn y Garreg. I have this singular document. In it is said of
him and of his wife, Ellin (“for whom it may concern”), that “they are
faithfull and beloved Friends, well known to be serviceable unto Friends
and brethren, since they have become convinced; of a blameless and
savory conversation. Also are P’sons Dearly beloved of all Souls. His
testimony sweet and tender, reaching to the quicking seed of life; we
cannot alsoe but bemoan the want of his company, for that in difficult
occasion he was sted-fast--nor was one to be turned aside. He is now
seasonable in intention for the Plantations, in order into finding his
way clear, and freedom in the truth according to the measure manifested
unto him,” etc. And so the strong-minded man is commended to Friends
across the seas. In the records of the meetings for sufferings in
England are certain of his letters from the jail. How his character
descended to my sterner parent, and, through another generation, to me,
and how the coming in of my mother’s gentler blood helped in after-days,
and amid stir of war, to modify in me, this present writer, the ruder
qualities of my race, I may hope to set forth.
William died suddenly in 1679 without children, and was succeeded by
the third brother, Owen. This gentleman lived the life of his time, and,
dying in 1700 of much beer and many strong waters, left one son, Owen, a
minor. What with executors and other evils, the estate now went from
ill to worse. Owen Wynne 2d was in no haste, and thus married as late
as somewhere about 1740, and had issue, William, and later, in 1744, a
second son, Arthur, and perhaps others; but of all this I heard naught
until many years after, as I have already said.
It may seem a weak and careless thing for a man thus to cast away
his father’s lands as my ancestor did; but what he gave up was a poor
estate, embarrassed with mortgages and lessened by fines, until the
income was, I suspect, but small. Certain it is that the freedom to
worship God as he pleased was more to him than wealth, and assuredly
not to be set against a so meagre estate, where he must have lived among
enmities, or must have diced, drunk, and hunted with the rest of his
kinsmen and neighbours.
I have a faint memory of my aunt, Gainor Wynne, as being fond of
discussing the matter, and of how angry this used to make my father. She
had a notion that my father knew more than he was willing to say, and
that there had been something further agreed between the brothers,
although what this was she knew not, nor ever did for many a day. She
was given, however, to filling my young fancy with tales about the
greatness of these Wynnes, and of how the old homestead, rebuilded in
James I.’s reign, had been the nest of Wynnes past the memory of man.
Be all this as it may, we had lost Wyncote for the love of a freer air,
although all this did not much concern me in the days of which I now
write.
Under the mild and just rule of the proprietary, my grandfather Hugh
prospered, and in turn his son John, my father, to a far greater extent.
Their old home in Wales became to them, as time went on, less and less
important. Their acres here in Merion and Bucks were more numerous and
more fertile. I may add that the possession of many slaves in Maryland,
and a few in Pennsylvania, gave them the feeling of authority and
position, which the colonial was apt to lose in the presence of his
English rulers, who, being in those days principally gentlemen of the
army, were given to assuming airs of superiority.
In a word, my grandfather, a man of excellent wits and of much
importance, was of the council of William Penn, and, as one of his
chosen advisers, much engaged in his difficulties with the Lord
Baltimore as to the boundaries of the lands held of the crown. Finally,
when, as Penn says, “I could not prevail with my wife to stay, and
still less with Tishe,” which was short for Laetitia, his daughter, an
obstinate wench, it was to men like Logan and my grandfather that he
gave his full confidence and delegated his authority; so that Hugh Wynne
had become, long before his death, a person of so much greater condition
than the small squires to whom he had given up his estate, that he was
like Joseph in this new land. What with the indifference come of large
means, and disgust for a country where he had been ill treated, he
probably ceased to think of his forefathers’ life in Wales as of a thing
either desirable or in any way suited to his own creed.
Soon the letters, which at first were frequent, that is, coming twice a
year, when the London packet arrived or departed, became rare; and if,
on the death of my great-uncle William, they ceased, or if any passed
later between us and the next holder of Wyncote, I never knew. The
Welsh squires had our homestead, and we our better portion of wealth and
freedom in this new land. And so ended my knowledge of this matter for
many a year.
You will readily understand that the rude life of a fox-hunting
squire or the position of a strict Quaker on a but moderate estate in
Merionethshire would have had little to tempt my father. Yet one thing
remained with him awhile as an unchanged inheritance, to which, so far
as I remember, he only once alluded. Indeed, I should never have guessed
that he gave the matter a thought but for that visit of Mr. John Penn,
and the way it recurred to me in later days in connection with an
incident concerning the picture and the blazoned arms.
I think he cared less and less as years went by. In earlier days he may
still have liked to remember that he might have been Wynne of Wyncote;
but this is a mere guess on my part. Pride spiritual is a master
passion, and certain it is that the creed and ways of Fox and Penn
became to him, as years created habits, of an importance far beyond the
pride which values ancient blood or a stainless shield.
The old house, which was built much in the same fashion as the great
mansion of my Lord Dysart on the Thames near to Richmond, but smaller,
was, after all, his family home. The picture and the arms were hid away
in deference to opinions by which in general he more and more sternly
abided. Once, when I was older, I went into his bedroom, and was
surprised to find him standing before the hearth, his hands crossed
behind his back, looking earnestly at the brightly coloured shield
beneath the picture of Wyncote. I knew too well to disturb him in these
silent moods, but hearing my steps, he suddenly called me to him.
I obeyed with the dread his sternness always caused me. To my
astonishment, his face was flushed and his eyes were moist. He laid his
hand on my shoulder, and clutched it hard as he spoke. He did not turn,
but, still looking up at the arms, said, in a voice which paused between
the words and sounded strange:
“I have been insulted to-day, Hugh, by the man Thomas Bradford. I
thank God that the Spirit prevailed with me to answer him in Christian
meekness. He came near to worse things than harsh words. Be warned,
my son. It is a terrible set-back from right living to come of a
hot-blooded breed like these Wynnes.”
I looked up at Mm as he spoke. He was smiling, “But not all bad, Hugh,
not all bad. Remember that it is something, in this nest of disloyal
traders, to have come of gentle blood.”
Then he left gazing on the arms and the old home of our people, and said
severely, “Hast thou gotten thy tasks to-day?”
“Yes.”
“It has not been so of late. I hope thou hast considered before
speaking. If I hear no better of thee soon thou wilt repent it. It is
time thou shouldst take thy life more seriously. What I have said is for
no ear but thine.”
I went away with a vague feeling that I had suffered for Mr. Bradford,
and on account of my father’s refusal to join in resistance to the Stamp
Act; for this was in November, 1765, and I was then fully twelve years
of age.
My father’s confession, and all he had said following it, made upon me
one of those lasting impressions which are rare in youth, but which
may have a great influence on the life of a man. Now all the boys were
against the Stamp Act, and I had at the moment a sudden fear at being
opposed to my father. I had, too, a feeling of personal shame because
this strong man, whom I dreaded on account of his severity, should have
been so overwhelmed by an insult. There was at this period, and later,
much going on in my outer life to lessen the relentless influence of the
creed of conduct which prevailed in our home for me, and for all of our
house. I had even then begun to suspect at school that non-resistance
did not add permanently to the comfort of life. I was sorry that my
father had not resorted to stronger measures with Mr. Bradford, a
gentleman whom, in after-years, I learned greatly to respect.
More than anything else, this exceptional experience as to my father
left me with a great desire to know more of these Wynnes, and with a
certain share of that pride of race, which, to my surprise, as I think
it over now, was at that time in my father’s esteem a possession of
value. I am bound to add that I also felt some self-importance at being
intrusted with this secret, for such indeed it was.
Before my grandfather left Wales he had married a distant cousin, Ellin
Owen, and on her death, childless, he took to wife, many years later,
her younger sister, Gainor [Footnote: Thus early we shed the English
prejudice against marriage with a deceased wife’s sister.] for these
Owens, our kinsmen, had also become Friends, and had followed my
grandfather’s example in leaving their home in Merionethshire. To this
second marriage, which occurred in 1713, were born my aunt, Gainor
Wynne, and, two years later, my father, John Wynne. I have no
remembrance of either grandparent. Both lie in the ground at Merion
Meeting-house, under nameless, unmarked graves, after the manner of
Friends. I like it not.
My father, being a stern and silent man, must needs be caught by his
very opposite, and, according to this law of our nature, fell in love
with Marie Beauvais, the orphan of a French gentleman who had become a
Quaker, and was of that part of France called the Midi. Of this marriage
I was the only surviving offspring, my sister Ellin dying when I was an
infant. I was born in the city of Penn, on January 9, 1753, at 9 P.M.