THE WIFE OF GOVERNOR GRISWOLD.
Happy the man, and happy sure he was,
So wedded.
Hurdis.
The residence of the first Governor of Connecticut, was at Blackhall, near Long Island Sound. While British ships were lying at anchor in these waters on a certain occasion, a party of marines in pursuit of his Excellency, presented themselves at the door. It being impossible for him to escape by flight, his affectionate and thoughtful wife secreted him in a large new meat barrel or tierce—for although he was somewhat corpulent, he could not vie in physical rotundity with the early and honored Knickerbocker magistrates. He was cleverly packed away in the future home of doomed porkers, just as the soldiers entered and commenced their search. Not finding him readily, they asked his quick-witted wife one or two hard questions, but received no very enlightening answer. The Legislature had convened a day or two before at Hartford, and she intimated that he was or ought to be at the capital. Unsuccessful in their search, the soldiers took their boat and returned to the ship. Before they had reached the latter, his unpacked Honor was on a swift steed, galloping to Gubernatorial head-quarters.
BOLD EXPLOIT OF A YOUNG GIRL.
Some god impels with courage not thy own.
Pope's Homer.
Robert Gibbes was the owner of a splendid mansion on John's Island, a few miles from Charleston, South Carolina, known, during the Revolution, as the "Peaceful Retreat." On his plantation the British encamped on a certain occasion; and the American authorities sent two galleys up the Stono river, on which the mansion stood, to dislodge them. Strict injunctions had been given to the men not to fire on the house, but Mr. Gibbes not being aware of this fact, when the firing commenced, thought it advisable to take his family to some remote place for shelter. They accordingly started in a cold and drizzly rain and in a direction ranging with the fire of the American guns. Shot struck the trees and cut the bushes beside their path for some distance. When about a mile from the mansion, and out of danger, reaching the huts occupied by the negroes on the plantation, Mrs. Gibbes, being chilled and exhausted, was obliged to lie down. Here, when they supposed all were safe, and began to rejoice over their fortunate escape, to their great astonishment, they discovered that a boy named Fenwick, a member of the family, had been left behind.[50] It was still raining, was very dark, and imminent danger must attend an effort to rescue the lad. And who would risk life in attempting it? The servants refused. Mr. Gibbes was gouty and feeble, and prudence forbade him to again venture out. At length, the oldest daughter of the family, Mary Ann, only thirteen years old, offers to go alone. She hastens off; reaches the house, still in possession of the British; begs the sentinel to let her enter; and though repeatedly repulsed, she doubles the earnestness of her entreaties, and finally gains admittance. She finds the child in the third story; clasps him in her arms; hastens down stairs, and, passing the sentry, flees with the shot whizzing past her head; and herself and the child are soon with the rest of the family.