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Editor.—It is mentioned, Father, that the present
Fort does not occupy the site of that of Revolutionary
memory.

Abbot.—I suppose not. It is understood to be
recessed; probably in consequence of that gradual
gain of the sea upon the land, which, of late days,
grew so imminent a danger. How many fortresses
preceded the present, it is scarcely possible to
say. I myself have seen the debris of an older
structure, of brick, which we know did not constitute
the material of the original fort which Moultrie
defended. It is probable that, when the successful
defence was made in 1775, the fort rose
greatly in public opinion, and money was expended
upon it. It was finished, and possibly enlarged in
plan, and improved in other respects. When, in
1780, the Island fell into the possession of the
British, it is not unlikely that they attached sufficient
importance to it, to add still farther to the
strength of the works. These opinions must rest
wholly upon conjecture. No details have been
preserved. As a place of summer resort, I have
my doubts whether the British made much use of
it, while they were in possession of the State. It
may have been used as a sort of Lazaretto or Hospital,
or Quarantine refuge, as was Haddrell's—
perhaps, like Haddrell's, as a deposit for prisoners;—
but being in possession of a good Cavalry,
their favorite places of evening resort, ride, and
recreation, were “Up the Road”—the “Quarter

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House,” below Izard's camp, being the usual
terminus of their wanderings. It was rather unsafe
to venture beyond this point, and even here,
towards the conclusion of the war, they were frequently
picked up by the Partizans.

Editor.—Have you ever been within the present
structure, Father?

Abbot.—A thousand times, my son, while under
different commands. Recently, I had much pleasure
in mounting the ramparts, and looking abroad
upon the glorious prospect.

Editor.—The place is admirably kept, Father.

Abbot.—It is; the Garrison orderly, civil, and
wearing those looks of brightness and intelligence,
which show great subordination, without despotism.
This is highly creditable to their officers,
none of whom have I the pleasure to know.

Editor—You should know, them, Father.—
They are all fine gentlemen—intelligent and graceful;
soldiers who have served honorably in Mexico,
and wear their laurels modestly at home.

Abbot.—The school is a good one, my son, for
social as well as soldier-training. A military man,
where the service is an honorable one, must always
be a gentleman. The prestige of the service compels
it, and society recognizes him. Where the
great body of a people are fighting men—valor
being the common property, and cowardice the
melancholy exception—high refinement, the result
of intelligence and polish, must inevitably belong
to the officer, since, otherwise, there would be
nothing to elevate or distinguish him above his
men. He who does not feel this and act upon it,

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becomes rapidly degraded, and passes out of sight,
if not out of the service. The day is gone by,
when a rough and surly monster—a drinking,
swearing, strutting animal, who had nothing but
brute courage and his epaulettes to mark him as a
soldier—could pass muster in society. We undoubtedly
owe a great deal to the Military School
at West Point. I am free to say that the South
should have such an institution also. I would
plant it somewhere, looking down at once on the
Gulf and Atlantic, among the mountain ranges of
North Carolina or Tennessee.

Beauclerk.—I can conceive of no greater injustice,
Father, than that which, in our popular histories,
gives so much credit to Charles Lee, for his
share in the action of Fort Moultrie.

Abbot.—There could be no greater. Lee's
share in the defence was really none at all; or what
there was, was discreditable to his judgment, if
not his manhood. The credit is due to John Rutledge,
William Moultrie, and his brave companions—
the sons of the soil all of them—who took
their stations at the guns with but one feeling—the
conviction that they had to fight. Lee was not
willing to fight, steadily opposed the defence, and,
being an Englishman, with the most perfect faith
in a British fleet, swore bloody oaths, that the fortress
was a mere slaughter pen, which the British
broadsides would `knock about the heads of the
garrison in half an hour. He would have abandoned
it had the Governor permitted. Rutledge
swore, that before he would write such an order,
his right hand should be stricken from his body.

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Moultrie's temper, on the occasion, was not a whit
more yielding: “If they knock the Fort about our
ears, we can still fight them behind the ruins,”
was his language. Subsequently he said: “I
never imagined that the enemy could force the
post. I always considered myself able to defend
it.”

Editor.—And he did!

Abbot.—Admirably; it was one of the greatest
actions of the war, and preceded the Declaration of
Independence, which was made six days afterwards.
We do not know the fact, but where was
the impossibility of having the news of this event
expressed in five or six days to Philadelphia? If
the fact was known by Congress, it doubtless contributed
to the firmness of that body on that memorable
anniversary. We know that the express,
bringing the news of the battle of Lexington, took
a much longer time in compassing the same distance;
but, at that period, no previous arrangements
had been made for expressing intelligence.
Routes had not been opened, nor emisaries employed
before hand; and these were the most
substantial difficulties in such a performance. But
we have no reason to suppose that, with the whole
seaboard anxious in regard to events in daily progress,
the public authorities would have neglected
the necessary organization of expresses. Besides,
it was known that a powerful British fleet had left
New-York, as it was supposed, for South-Carolina
or Georgia. How natural that the American Congress
should employ all its agencies to ascertain
its destination and the result. I repeat, it is not

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impossible that something of the battle of Fort
Moultrie was known in Philadelphia on the 4th
July ensuing; and the effect must have been sensibly
felt. It was, in truth, a most bloody battle.
It has been shown that, for the number of troops
which they had engaged, the British loss was
greater, by far, than it was in the terrible victory
at Trafalgar.

Editor.—Yet how the account of this affair is
slurred over in our Northern histories.

Abbot.—How every thing Southern is slurred
over in Northern histories. We hear, for example,
in never ending declamations, of the Tea which
was emptied into the harbor of Boston. It is
scarcely known, even to our own people, that the
same thing was done in the harbor of Charleston.
New England claims to have done every thing,
first to last, in the Revolution! yet she did very
little. Her writers may well begrudge us the
great battles fought within our borders. Recently,
a most impudent attempt has been made to show
that these battles were fought by New England
troops; but the absurdity of the claim defeats itself;
and, fortunately, they have not been able to
destroy the records. It is curious that, even before
the Revolution, this tendency of New England to
usurpation (a characteristic always of the Puritans)
was emphatically dwelt upon by persons in Carolina,
to discourage the progress to union of the
several colonies against the mother country. They
distinctly predicted the pretensions of our Yankee
brethren. Josiah Quincy, who was sent from Boston
to Charleston, as an emisary to foment the

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occasion for quarrel, states that one of a dinner
party, at the residence of Miles Brewton, urged
that “the Massachusetts were aiming at sovereignty
over the other provinces; that they now took
the lead; were assuming dictatorial authority,
&c.” To this Mr. Josiah Quincy put in a modest
disclaimer, as a matter of course. The other replied,
however: “You may depend upon it, if
the Colonies shake themselves free of Britain, you
will have your Governor from Boston. When it
comes to the test, Boston will give the other provinces
the shell and the shadow, and keep the substance.
Take away the power and superintendence
of Britain, and the Colonies must submit to
the next power.” If New England did not succeed
in this desire, or design, it was not because of
the infirmity of her ambition. She got the better
part of the Major Generals and Brigadiers at the
beginning of the war, and cursed the military of
the country with a most incompetent crew of Captains,
Deacons, and others fit only to be Deacons.
How much of the prediction might have been verified,
subsequently, had not New-York been more
favorably situated, not simply for commerce, but
for connection with the South? Let the South
once set up for herself, and where will be New-York?

Editor.—I heard it stated some time ago,
Father, that, when the battle was actually in progress
at Fort Moultrie, the Priest at St. Michael's
prayed for the success of the assailants, to the
wives and daughters of the garrison; who left the
Church in a body, accordingly.

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Abbot.—The story, I suppose, is true. I have
not only heard it repeatedly, from old persons, but
I have seen it somewhere in print. I don't know
but what you may find it in Dalcho, together with
the name of the officiating minister. It must not
be forgotten, however, that the Church was a State
establishment, under the control of the Church of
England, and most of the Divines of that period
were sent to us from abroad. These matters deserve
the attention of our antiqueries. I wish we
could persuade some of them into giving us a series
of walks about Charleston. I do not know
any city in the Union, which might be found more
abundantly rich in antiquities. How many trials
by storm and fire hath she undergone—by siege
and battle! how many adventurous enterprises
hath she undertaken! Her people were always
military. She carried her arms to the banks of the
Mississippi, and fought the French in their own
colonies. Her troops traversed the waters of the
St. John's, and the Mauvilla, (Mobile) and her harbor
has been penetrated by French, Spanish, and
piratical assailants. Thrice has she been besieged,
and in no instance hath she been dishonored, even
when overthrown.

Editor.—The chronicle is a beautiful and extensive
one, which records the patriotism of our
women of Charleston. There is one item, however,
Father, which comes from good authority—
that of one of the oldest inhabitants—which has
never been in print. When Charleston was in
possession of the British, the women of the place
would frequently procure passes to go to their

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farms or plantations in the country. They seized
these occasions for carrying forth supplies of cloth,
linen, and even gunpowder and shot, to their
countrymen in the Brigade of Marion. These
commodities were concealed beneath their garments;
and, in preparation for their departure, the
dimensions of the good women were observed sensibly
to increase. At length it was noticed by the
officers on guard, that the lady, who, when she
left the city, was of enormous bulk—of absolute
dropsical physique—would return reduced to a
shadow. Strange suspicions naturally ran in their
heads as to the causes of a change so surprising;
and these suspicions were not always creditable to
the fair fame of the lady. But other notions, less
unfavorable to her virtue, began to prevail, and at
the expense of her safety; and it was arranged
accordingly to subject the emigrating parties, hereafter,
to a test, which should infallibly exhibit the
nature of a disease which had such curious results.
Accordingly a jury of spinsters was provided, and
the fat ladies were taken into custody. The discovery
was awful in the last degree—bales of blue
broadcloth were unrolled from about the slenderists
waists; and swan and duck shot, and gunpowder
and ball, rolls of duck and cotton flannels, and
Heaven knows what besides, appeared from beneath
the ample petticoats, attesting the patriotism
of the sex. This put a stop to their growth, as
well as their peregrinations.

Abbot.—No doubt a world of anecdote is yet
forthcoming, My venerable friend, Dr. Johnson,
has a great variety of stores of this sort, which

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should make their way to the public. A Stranger's
Guide Book through the city—and this
might include the Parishes—which, at that period
were in singular and close connection with the
city—would be as full of interest as a popular
novel. The habits, manners, customs, sports, trials,
troubles, adventures, anecdotes of life in peculiar
forms, and society under the most various
circumstances, are still to be gathered and described,
in regard to Charleston, if the subject is
seized upon now, and before the present generation
passes. Another race will know nothing of
these things.

Editor.—Such a book would need be published
by subscription, otherwise it would scarcely pay.

Abbot.—True, we are exceedingly patriotic,
but don't like to pay for it. True patriotism
would say, that such a volume—every volume,
indeed, which illustrates the deeds and virtues of
our people—should be a family book. It should
be in every library; and yet — but the subject
is an ungracious one.

Editor.—Will it ever be any better?

Abbot.—Yes, when our individuality stops
short of mere egötism, and, in the development of
a peculiar nature, is yet modest enough to remember
all its debt of gratitude—equally to the past
and the present. Hearken, my son. We have
been discoursing of Moultrie and his public services.
His is one of those names by which we
swear. He constitutes a portion of that sectional
capital of character, of which we may boast to our
neighbors, and to foreign nations. He is ours,

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and, therefore, we boast. Now, listen. It is now
fully a year, since I read in the columns of the
Charleston Mercury, a communication, from an
anonymous source, which pointed out to our public
the fact, that this same Moultrie was reported,
annually to the Legislature, as a bankrupt debtor
to the State, to the amount of some five hundred
dollars! The writer of the article proffered to
join with others in a subscription to efface this offensive
and ungracious record from the books!—
In vain! I am glad the suggestion was not adopted.
It is an act which the Legislature itself should
perform, for its own credit, and to save the State
from shame. As it is, the only monument to
Moultrie's memory, which we keep in repair, is
one to his reproach and shame! Moultrie was
poor, and died so. His virtues and honesty have
never been impeached. Let our people boast no
more of the memory of this man, until the State
shall have written against his name, in the language
of Loredano, “L'ha pagata!” He has
more than paid her. Something will be always
due to him, which the future can only acknowledge!

Beauclerk.—Our Poet and Painter seem asleep,
Father.

Abbot.—Not they! I never rouse them when
they dream. I know that we shall get the benefit
of all their dreaming hereafter.

Editor.—See, they bestir themselves.

Abbot.—We will join them. Ho! Son of Apollo,
arouse you! We are in our moment of exstase,
and you have doubtless passed through yours.—

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Give us the fruits of your inspirations. I see that
the Muse has been with you. You would else
have never been so quiet. Come, my son, the
Poem. Let us taste the quality of your fruits.

Beauclerk.—A sentence! a sentence!

Poet.—But, Father! extemporaneous verse, as
you well know —

Abbot.—Is no verse at all, you would say. No
matter. We are indulgent. “Leave off your
damnable faces and begin.” Is this a time for
affectations? Speak, sir, the Poem! It is a decree
of the Brotherhood.

Poet.—I obey. (Recites.)

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