The Anderson intelligencer. [volume] (Anderson Court House, S.C.) 1860-1914, 1880-03-04
THE REVOLUTIONARY WAR.
and Incidents OF Interest
to the Present Generation.
Sunday Neacs.


runs parallel with the Santee River, and
barely visible from the railroad station
which bears its name, stands the "Old
Brick Church" of st. Stephens. 1t is
weird, gloomy place, that ancient sane
2 tuary, with its heavy, iron-strapped oak.
en- doors ever creaking to the breeze
with its dilapidated windows, and the
swinging shutters tapping out the re-
manning panes of dusty glass. The tall,
old-fashioned pulpit has been untensn.
ted through unremembered years, and
the nocturnal gambols of the rats and
flying squirrels over the high-backed pews
may Be traced by the footprints in the
dust which covers them, without distur-
bauce from any other source. The gnarl-
ed and rugged oaks in the graveyard,
like the stout old families who sleep be.
meath their shadows, have been deprived
by time and adversely of many of their
sturdiest branches, which lie scattered
among the fragments of the tombstones
ethat have been broken by their fall, and
few angular cattle-descendants, per-
haps, of Pbaraoh's lean kine-gather a
scanty subsistence from the rank, unwhole-
someherbage of the graves. The gray
rabbit makes her form in the briar thick
ets, the fox creeps watchfully through
the gaps in the broken fence, and the
wild deer often leads the crying hounds
directly across the once sacred, but now
desolated, enclosure. The owl and the
bat hold undisputed possession of the
old building, except when the autumn
frost drives neighboring colony of black
snakes and moccasins to seek its shelter
during the period of their winter nap.
In short, it requires no very shrewd
observer to see that the Old Brick Church
has long since known its best and hap
piest days. Time was when its echoes
rang with the clinck of jingling spurs
and the clatter Of trailing rapiers over
the red-tiled floor, worn by gallants in
.plun-colored laced coats, crimson satin
wais,coats with huge tapped pockets,
and yellow buckskin breeches--when
stately ladies, in farthingales and won
derful head-attire, rustled proudly up
the broad aisles in all the glory of those
rich heavy brocaded silks which, like the
famous scinetar blades of Damascus, the
world has now forgotten how to make.
Such was the congregation which was
gathered there for worship (and the va
fiods other purposes for which the coun-
try clutches are used) on that memora-
BILE Sunday in ITS when Major Cordes,
of the Continental forces, threw his
Prayer book at the head of. the Loyalist
clergyman who ,Uould pray for the King.
If you desire to know more about them,
you may read it on the escutcheoned
mural tablets still clinging to the walls,
and on the old gray slabs and headstones
in the churchyard. But I can't help
wondering which of fthem is now sleeping
under the piece of moss-grown blue slate
which bears the affecting legend,
Z Behold and see now here Ilye,
AS you are move, so once was 1;
AS an nowe, so you must be,
Therefore prepare to follow me.
And can't.help wondering whose grand
father was the graceless young scamp
who took his pocket knife and scratched
on,the soft stone, Immediately beneath
the epitaph, this suggestive and not un-
thoughtful comment:
To follow you Pm not content,
Unless know the road you went.
Itwas great many years nearer to
our own degenerated times that Squire
Porcher rode up to the window, on fine
moonlight evening after club dinner,
and, upon lookingin saw the parsons
ghost in the pulpit with surplice on
and going back the next day with par
ty to verify the story, killed great white
owl on the top of the sounding-board.
And by the way, while the parson was
yetin the flesh, that same sounding-board,
with the colossal acorn on its apex, must
always have seemed like huge extin-
guisher about to descend and quench the
light of genius with which he was illu-
minating the minds of his hearers. II
wss.even more recently that crazy Josh
Couturier frightened the "runaways" on
the stormy night. Thes tory is this: Josh
was a. rack-brained genius who wandered
over the country, roosting, like the wild
turkeys, wherever night happened to
catch him. One sultry summer evening,
when piles of dark clouds were moving
up the river, Josh TOOK warning from the
distant muttering, and, entering the old
church, stretched himself comfortably
for the night upon the soft bench just
under the pulpit. He had just dropped
asleep when the storm burst with tremen-
dous fury. The wind howled along the
ewes, and hurled great branches from the
oaks upon the leaky roof; the sheeted
rain dashed fiercely through the broken
windows; flash after fash Of the vivid
lightning tore its jagged way through the
clouds, and the crashing peals of thunder
seemed loud enough to wake the dead
Josh was in dry and protected place
and was just congratulating himself upon
his snug quarters and composing himself
for q second nap, when the main door
which he had fastened with splinter
from broken bench, opened violently
and two savage-lookiDg negroes, drip.
ping wet and loaded with plunder, entered
and proceeded to select their nights lodg'
ing.place among the pews on the dry side
of the church. Couturier was by nc
means too crazy to comprehend the un'
pleasant character Of the situation in
which he found himself-especially dis
agreeable. since he recognized, by the
glare ofthe vivid fash, in his unwelcome
acknowledges two notorious outlaws, well
armed, who had long since by their crimes
exhausted the patience and forbearance
of the community. Taking advantage
of the next blaze of light, he suddenly
raised his long, skinny form from the
depth of the pulpit pew, and drawled out
in sepulchral tones, "a stormy nightp
The effect was immediate and all that he
could have wished. The outlaws darted
through the nearest window as if shot
out ofa Columbiad, leaving Josh undis-
puted MASTER of the field and of the spoils
which they left behind them; nor were
they ever again seen within five miles o1
the Old Brick Church.
But if I go on ir this way, chatting o.
the many traditions which cling around
st. Stephens, I shall never get to my