liberal neighbor, and a Christian of indomitable fortitude and
inexhaustible patience. After four or five years' extreme bodily
suffering, resulting from a complication of diseases, she died, on the
sixth of March, 1836, aged seventy-six years.
CAPTAIN RICHARDSON SAVED BY HIS WIFE.
Love, lend me wings to make this purpose swift,
As thou hast lent me wit to plot this drift.
SHAKSPEARE.
During the struggle for Independence, Captain Richardson, of Sumter
district, South Carolina, was obliged to conceal himself for a while in
the thickets of the Santee swamp. One day he ventured to visit his
family--a perilous movement, for the British had offered rewards for his
apprehension, and patrolling parties were almost constantly in search of
him.--Before his visit was ended, a small band of soldiers presented
themselves in front of the house. Just as they were entering, with a
great deal of composure and presence of mind, Mrs. Richardson appeared
at the door, and found so much to do there at the moment, as to find it
inconvenient to make room for the uninvited guests to enter. She was so
calm, and appeared so unconcerned, that they did not mistrust the cause
of her wonderful diligence, till her husband had rushed out of the back
door and safely reached the neighboring swamp.
STRIKING INSTANCE OF PATIENCE.
Patience and resignation are the pillars
Of human peace on earth.
YOUNG.
The panegyric of Decker on patience is beautiful:
Patience, my lord! why 'tis the soul of peace:
Of all the virtues 'tis the nearest kin to heaven;
It makes men look like gods.
Not every Christian sufferer wears this garment in its celestial
whiteness, as did the God-man, whom the same writer calls
"the best of men
That e'er wore earth about him."
One of the most patient beings in modern times was Miss Sarah Parbeck,
of Salem, Massachusetts. A lady who visited her in 1845, gives the
following account of the interview:
The door was opened by a very old lady, wrinkled and bowed down with
age, who invited us to enter. The room was so dark, that, before my eyes
were accommodated to the change, I could only see a figure dressed in
white, sitting upon the bed and rocking to and fro. This motion was
attended by a sound like the click of wooden machinery, which arose, as
I afterwards discovered, from the bones, as they worked in their
loosened sockets. As we approached, she extended her hand to my
companion, and said, in a painful but affectionate voice, "Eliza, I am
very glad to see thee;" and then asked my name and place of residence.
She had just given me her hand, when a spasm seized her, and it was
twitched suddenly from my grasp. It flew some four or five times with
the greatest violence against her face, and then, with a sound, which I
can only compare to that made by a child who has been sobbing a long
time, in catching its breath, she threw up both her arms, and with a
deep guttural groan was flung back upon her pillow, with a force
inconceivable to one who has not witnessed it. The instant she touched
the bed, she uttered that piercing shriek again, and sprung back to her
former position, rocking to and fro, with those quick, heart-rending
groans which I had heard while standing at the door. It was several
minutes before she could speak, and then there was none to answer her.
Both my companion and myself were choked with tears. Her poor mother
went to the other side of the bed, and smoothed the coverlid, and
re-arranged the pillows, looking sadly upon her poor child, writhing in
torture which she could not alleviate. I became faint, and trembled with
sudden weakness: a cold perspiration stood upon my face. The objects in
the room began to swim about me, and I was obliged to take hold of the
bedside for support. I have been in our largest hospitals, and have
spent hours in going from room to room with the attending physician. I
have witnessed there almost every form of human suffering, but I had
never beheld any thing to be compared to that now before me. She
afterwards told me, as if in apology for her screams, that when she was
hurled back upon her pillow, both shoulders were dislocated, and as they
sprung back into their sockets, the pain was far beyond endurance, and
extorted from her these shrieks.
Her sentences were broken, uttered with much difficulty, and frequently
interrupted by the terrible spasm I have described above. Yet this was
her "quiet" state; this the time when she suffered _least_. Day after
day, night after night, _fourteen weary years_ have dragged themselves
along, whilst her poor body has been thus racked. No relief; no hope of
relief, except that which death shall give. When I asked her if her
affliction did not at times seem greater than she could bear, "O!
never," she replied. "I cannot thank God enough for having laid his
heavy hand upon me. I was a thoughtless sinner, and had he not, in his
mercy, afflicted me, I should probably have lost my immortal soul. I see
only his kindness and love. The sweet communion I have with my Saviour
more than compensates me for all I suffer. I am permitted to feel, in a
measure, in my poor body, what he suffered to save me, and my soul can
never grow weary in his praise." This last sentence, I must say, gave me
an argument which put doubts of the verity and power of religion to
flight more effectually than all the evidences which the wisdom of man
has arrayed against the skeptic; and I could not but exclaim, "If this
be delusion let me be deluded!"
She spoke in the most tender terms of her Saviour's love. Her
conversation was in heaven, from whence also she looked for her Saviour,
knowing that he should change her body of humiliation, and fashion it
like unto his glorious body. I shall never forget the tones and language
in which she entreated my sobbing companion to give that Saviour her
heart. As she recovered from a spasm, I said to her, "do you not often
desire to depart, and be with the Saviour you love so fervently?" She
had hardly recovered her exhausted breath, but replied with great
decision, "By the grace of God, _I have never had that wish_. Though
death will be a welcome gift when my Father sees fit to bestow it upon
me, yet, thanks to his supporting grace, I can wait his time without
impatience. He sees that there is much dross to refine away, and why
should I wish against his will?"
I remained by her side for more than an hour; such, however, were the
attractions of her discourse, that I was unconscious of the time. I know
not when I have been so drawn towards a fellow Christian, and never had
I been led to such delightful contemplations of our Saviour's
character--his faithfulness and love. I remarked to her, as I turned to
go away, "God has made you a powerful preacher, here upon your bed of
pain." "O," she replied, "if he will make me the instrument of saving
but a single soul, I am willing to live and suffer here until my hair is
gray with age." I noticed some bottles standing upon a small table, and
asked her if she found any relief from opiates. "Through God's
kindness," she answered, "I probably owe the preservation of my life
thus far to an extract made from blackdrop." "Does it enable you to
sleep?" "O no," she replied, "I have not known sleep for a very long
time." "What!" I cried, "do you never rest?" A severe spasm here seized
her, and it was some time before she could answer me; she had been
attacked in this way some twelve or fifteen times whilst conversing with
us, and frequently in the midst of a reply. When she recovered, she said
the physicians thought she obtained rest in her "long spasm," which
lasted for more than an hour. "During that time," she continued, "I am
dead to every thing but a sense of the most extreme anguish. I see and
hear nothing; I only feel as though I was being crushed in pieces by
some immense weight." This was her rest! the rack! Yet, through all this
suffering, the smiles of God penetrated to her heart. She sees him just,
and acknowledges his love.
SUSANNAH ELLIOTT.
----The painted folds thus fly,
And lift their emblems, printed high
On morning mist and sunset sky.
HOLMES.
She showed that her soft sex contains strong mind.
SIR W. DAVENANT.
Susannah Smith, afterwards the wife of Colonel Barnard Elliott, was a
native of South Carolina. Ramsay, in his history of that state, and
other authors, give a glowing account of her presentation of a pair of
colors to the second South Carolina regiment of infantry, commanded by
Col. Moultrie. The ceremony took place on the twenty-eighth of June,
'76, two or three days after the attack on Fort Moultrie, Sullivan's
island. The colors, which were embroidered by her own hand, were
presented in these words: "Your gallant behavior in defence of liberty
and your country, entitles you to the highest honors: accept these two
standards as a reward justly due to your regiment; and I make not the
least doubt, under Heaven's protection, you will stand by them as long
as they can wave in the air of liberty."
Mrs. Elliott had a plantation called "The Hut," and while there she once
had three American gentlemen as guests. These she was obliged to hurry
into a closet one day, on the sudden approach of the enemy; and, opening
a secret door, she showed them a narrow apartment back of the chimney,
which she had contrived expressly for a hiding place. Two of the guests
entered, and were saved, while the third, attempting to flee on
horse-back, was overtaken and slain.
After the British had thoroughly, though ineffectually, searched the
house, and failed, by many threats, to persuade the mistress to disclose
the hiding place of the others, they demanded her silver. Pointing to
some mounds of earth near by, as they made the demand, they asked if the
plate was not buried there.[58] She told them, in reply, that those
mounds were the graves of British soldiers who had died under her roof.
The officers did not believe her, and made two of the soldiers dig till
they came to one of the coffins, which was opened and which verified her
assertion. The enemy then departed, when the two guests came forth,
filled with gratitude to their kind and ingenious hostess for the free
use of this singular apartment.
[58] The silver was buried in a trunk, and remained in a marshy bed till
the close of the war. When disinterred, it had turned black.
ANECDOTES OF ANNA ELLIOTT.
"The spark of noble courage now awake,
And strive your excellent self to excel."
The wife of Charles Elliott, of Charleston, South Carolina, was one of
those dames of Seventy-six who "appeared to concentrate every thought
and every hour of existence to the interests of America." She cheered
the prisoner, befriended the unjustly persecuted, comforted the sick,
fed the hungry, and was humane alike to enemies and friends. Major
Garden has paid her the following compliment: "I do not know an officer
who did not owe to her some essential increase of comfort."
A British officer, whose cruel and persecuting disposition was well
known to Mrs. Elliott, was walking with her in a flower garden one day,
when, pointing to the chamomile he asked, "What is this, madam?" She at
once replied, "The rebel flower." "And why," asked he, "is it called the
rebel flower?" "Because," answered she, "it always flourishes most when
trampled upon."
At another time, while an officer of the royal army was in her house at
Charleston, a French officer, belonging to Pulaski's legion, passed;
and pointing to him, he vociferated, "There, Mrs. Elliott, is one of
your illustrious allies. What a pity the hero is minus his _sword_." The
spirit of the woman was roused, and she replied, "Had two thousand such
men been here to aid in the defence of our city, I should not at this
moment, sir, have been subjected to the insolence of your observation."
When her father, the brave and zealous patriot, Thomas Ferguson, was put
on board a transport ship at Charleston, preparatory to exile, she
hastened from the country, where she chanced to be, and begged
permission to receive his parting blessing. Her request being granted,
she went on board the ship. Just as she entered the cabin, she was
overcome with grief, and fainted. When recovered, she addressed her
father as follows: "Let not oppression shake your fortitude, nor the
hope of gentler treatment cause you for a moment to swerve from strict
duty. Better times are in store for us: the bravery of the Americans,
and the friendly aid of France, will achieve the deliverance of our
country from oppression. We shall meet again, my father, and meet with
joy."[59]
[59] A similar spirit was exhibited by the wife of Isaac Holmes, one of
the number who were sent into exile at St. Augustine. Just as the guard
were separating him from his family, she said to him, "Waver not in your
principles, but be true to your country. Have no fears for your family;
God is good, and will provide for them."
PATRIOTIC STRATAGEM.
What bosom beats not in its country's cause?
POPE.
While the Legislature of Virginia was in session at Charlottesville,
Colonel Tarleton, with his famous band of cavalry, made a secret march
to that place, in order to capture the Governor and some public stores
there collected. Several of the Assembly-men were at the house of
Colonel John Walker, a dozen miles distant, and directly on Tarleton's
route. Colonel Walker was absent on duty in the lower part of the state.
Tarleton came suddenly up to the door, and succeeded in making one or
two prisoners, the other members fleeing to town. He then ordered
breakfast for himself and his whole corps, which the shrewd lady of the
house prepared in the slowest manner possible. This she did in order
that the members who had fled to the capital, might attend to the
removal or concealment of the stores, in the preservation of which she
was deeply interested. Her stratagem succeeded; and, after tarrying a
day or two at Charlottesville, Tarleton went empty away.
INFLUENCE OF A FAITHFUL TEACHER.
Spread out earth's holiest records here.
SPRAGUE.
"About the first of September, 1833, a deep and solemn interest upon the
subject of religion, began to be visible in the Presbyterian church and
congregation of Washingtonville, New York, and particularly in the
Sabbath school. One teacher, feeling deeply the responsibility resting
upon her, and the worth of immortal souls, before the school was
dismissed on the Lord's day, affectionately requested her class,
consisting of little girls about twelve or thirteen years of age, to
remain after the rest of the school had retired. She then began, with an
aching heart and with flowing tears, to reason and plead with them upon
the subject of personal religion. They were deeply affected, and 'wept
bitterly' in view of their lost condition. They then all knelt together
before the Lord, and the teacher prayed for their salvation; and
immediately the scholar next to her commenced praying for herself, and
then the next, and so on, until the whole class, with ardent
supplications, begged for the forgiveness of their sins, and the
salvation of their souls. It would take long to tell the history of this
class, and relate particular instances of conversions, and the happy
changes which took place in the families to which they belonged, and
show the family altars which were established. These scholars, with
their teacher and their fathers and mothers, brothers and sisters, were
ere long seen commemorating a Saviour's dying love together. The revival
extended itself to other towns, and the great day can alone unfold the
astonishing results."
THE WIFE OF THOMAS HEYWARD.
What I will, I will, and there's an end.
SHAKSPEARE.
Immediately after the victory of the British at Guilford, order was
given for the illumination of Charleston, South Carolina. This order,
Major Garden informs us,[60] the wife of Thomas Heyward of that city
refused to obey; and when an officer asked her the reason of her
disobedience, she replied, "Is it possible for me, sir, to feel a spark
of joy? Can I celebrate the victory of your army while my husband
remains a prisoner at St. Augustine?" Enraged at her obstinacy, he told
her she _should_ illuminate. "Not a single light shall be placed, with
my consent, on any occasion, in any window in the house," was her
fearless reply. He then threatened to destroy her house before midnight.
"You have power to destroy, sir," she said, "and seem well disposed to
use it, but over my opinions you possess no control. I disregard your
menaces, and resolutely declare, _I will not illuminate_!" As good as
her word, she _did_ not, nor was her house destroyed.
[60] Revolutionary Anecdotes, First Series
Orders were given, at another time, for an illumination on the
anniversary of the battle and surrender of Charleston,[61] and Mrs.
Heyward again refused to obey. The mob was so indignant as to pelt her
house with brickbats; and while engaged in the mean act, a feeble and
emaciated sister of Mrs. Heyward--Mrs. George A. Hall--expired! When the
town major heard of this painful circumstance, he tried to apologize to
Mrs. Heyward, expressing regret for the indignities and damages, and
offering to repair the building. She received his personal courtesies,
but refused his proffered aid in making repairs, hinting, at the same
time, that it was hardly possible for the authorities, in that way, to
remedy insults the offering of which their baseness had probably
prompted and and which they could and _should_ have prevented.
[61] May twelfth, 1781.
NOBLE DECISION.
We are born to do benefits.
SHAKSPEARE.
When the news was received in Illinois, a few years ago, that, owing to
a deficiency of funds, the Ceylon missionaries had been obliged to
dismiss thousands of pupils from their schools, and that twenty-five
dollars would revive any one of them, a minister of that state laid the
subject before his small and poor church, and between pastor and people
twenty-five dollars were promptly raised. Going home and communicating
the intelligence to his wife, the minister learned that she had been
weighing the subject, and was anxious, in some way, to raise enough
herself alone to resuscitate a school. Her husband told her she could do
it by dispensing with a tomb stone which had been ordered from New York
for a child lately deceased, and which would cost twenty-five dollars.
She promptly consented to have the order countermanded, saying that
"living children demanded her money more than the one that was dead." By
suffering the love of Christ to triumph over maternal feeling, she
re-opened a mission school, and the day of judgment will reveal the
great amount of good thereby accomplished.
A TENNESSEE HEROINE.
It is held
That valor is the chiefest virtue;
Most dignifies the haver: if it be,
The man I speak of cannot in the world
Be singly counterpoised.
SHAKSPEARE.
Milton A. Haynes, Esq., of Tennessee, furnished for Mrs. Ellet's Women
of the Revolution a lengthy and very interesting sketch of Sarah
Buchanan, of East Tennessee. The following anecdotes, extracted
therefrom, exhibit the heroism of her character:
On one occasion, Sarah and a kinswoman named Susan Everett were
returning home from a visit a mile or two distant, careless of danger,
or not thinking of its presence. It was late in the evening, and they
were riding along a path through the open woods, Miss Everett in
advance. Suddenly she stopped her horse, exclaiming, "Look, Sally,
yonder are the red skins!" Not more than a hundred yards ahead was a
party of Indians armed with rifles, directly in their path. There was no
time for counsel, and retreat was impossible, as the Indians might
easily intercept them before they could gain a fort in their rear. To
reach their own block-house, four or five hundred yards distant, was
their only hope of safety. Quick as thought, Sarah whispered to her
companion to follow and do as she did, and then instantly assuming the
position of a man on horseback, in which she was imitated by her
relative, she urged her horse into a headlong gallop. Waving their
bonnets in the air, and yelling like madmen, they came furiously down
upon the savages, who had not seen them, crying out as they came--"Clear
the track, you ---- red skins!" The part was so well acted, that the
Indians took them for the head of a body of troopers, who were making a
deadly charge upon them, and dodging out of the path, fled for very
life--and so did Sally and Susan! Before the savages had recovered from
their fright, the two girls were safe within the gates of the fort,
trembling like frightened fawns at the narrow escape which they had
made.
On another occasion, when her husband and all the men of the fort were
absent, two celebrated horse-thieves, who had taken refuge with the
Indians, came and demanded of Mrs. Buchanan two of the Major's fine
horses. Knowing their lawless character, she pretended acquiescence, and
went with them to the stable, but on arriving at the door she suddenly
drew a large hunting knife from under her apron, and assuming an
attitude of defiance, declared that if either of them dared to enter the
stable, she would instantly cut him down. Struck by her intrepid
bearing, they fell back, and although they tried to overcome her
resolution by threats and bravado, she maintained her ground, and the
marauders were compelled to retire without the horses.
On Sunday night,[62] about the hour of midnight, while the moon was
shining brilliantly, the Indian army under Watts and the Shawnee,
advancing in silence, surrounded Buchanan's station. In order to effect
an entrance into the fort by a _coup de main_, they sent runners to
frighten and drive in the horses and cattle. This was done, and the
animals came dashing furiously towards the fort; but the garrison,
wrapped in slumber, heeded them not. The watchman, John McCrory, at this
instant discovering the savages advancing within fifty yards of the
gates, fired upon them. In an instant the mingled yells of the savage
columns, the crack of their rifles, and the clatter of their hatchets,
as they attempted to cut down the gate, told the little squad of
nineteen men and seven women that the fearful war-cloud, which had been
rising so long, was about to burst upon their devoted heads!
[62] In the autumn of 1792, while the war with the Creeks and Cherokees
was raging in the Cumberland valley.
Aroused suddenly from deep slumber by the terrible war-whoop, every man
and woman felt the horror of their situation. The first impulse with
some was to surrender, and it is related of one woman that she instantly
gathered her five children and attempted to go with them to the gate to
yield themselves to the Indians. Mrs. Buchanan seized her by the
shoulder, and asked her where she was going.
"To surrender myself and children to the Indians--if I don't they'll
kill us, any how," exclaimed the terrified woman. "Come back," said Mrs.
Buchanan, "and let us all fight and die together." An old man, who waked
up as it were in a dream, seemed paralyzed, and exclaimed, in a
plaintive voice--"Oh, we shall all be murdered!"
"Get up then and go to fighting!" exclaimed Mrs. Buchanan; "I'd be
ashamed to sit crouched up there when any one else is fighting. Better
die nobly than live shamefully!"