ateful forms. In truth, before I had attained my
seventh year, I was familiar with the history of the partisan warfare
waged between Whig and Tory in North and South Carolina, from 1776 to
1782, from this good but garrulous old lady. I am not so certain she
was good: she had a temper of her own, and a will and a way of her
own; and was good-natured only when permitted this way without
opposition, or cross. Perhaps I retain a more vivid memory of these
peculiar traits than of any others characterizing her. She permitted
no contradiction, and exacted implicit obedience, and this was well
understood by everything about her. She was strict and exacting, and
had learned from Solomon that to "spare the rod was to spoil the
child." She read the Bible only; and it was the only book in the
house. This Bible is still in existence; it was brought by my
grandfather from Europe, and is now covered with the skin of a fish
which he harpooned on his return voyage, appropriating the skin to
this purpose in 1750. She had use for no other book, not even for an
almanac, for at any moment she could tell the day of the month, the
phase of the moon and the day General Washington captured Cornwallis;
as also the day on which Washington died. Her reverence for the memory
of my grandfather was idolatry. His cane hung with his hat just where
he had habitually placed them during his latter days. His saddle and
great sea-chest were preserved with equal care, and remained
undisturbed from 1798 to 1817, precisely as he left them. I ventured
to remove the cane upon one occasion; and, with a little negro or two,
was merrily riding it around in the great lumber-room of the house,
where scarcely any one ever went, when she came in and caught me. The
pear-tree sprouts were immediately put into requisition, and the whole
party most mercilessly thrashed. From that day forward the old
buckhorn-headed cane was an awful reminder of my sufferings. She was
careful not to injure the clothing of her victims, and made her
appeals to the unshielded cuticle, and with a heavy hand for a small
woman.

It was an ill-fashioned but powerfully-built house, and remains a
monument to this day of sound timber and faithful work, braving time
and the storm for eighty-two years. It was the first framed house
built in the county, and I am sure, upon the poorest spot of land
within fifty miles of where it stands. Here was born my uncle,
Robertus Love, who was the first white chil