which was to be
pursued, of surprises and escapes, of self-denial and endurance, of
the watchful, unyielding virtue of Marion and his men. They took post
in an island fortress of wooded swamp land, at the junction of the
Pedee and Lynch's Creek, known as the "camp of Marion," where he
recruited his forces, husbanded his strength, and sallied forth on his
raids against the foe. This is the spot where the popular admiration
of Marion finds its home and centre. "His career as a partisan," says
his faithful biographer, the novelist Simms, "in the thickets and
swamps of Carolina, is abundantly distinguished by the picturesque;
but it was while he held his camp at Snow's Island that it received
its highest colors of romance. In this snug and impenetrable fortress,
he reminds us very much of the ancient feudal baron of France and
Germany, who, perched on a castled eminence, looked down with the
complacency of an eagle from his eyrie, and marked all below him for
his own. The resemblance is good in all respects but one. The plea and
justification of Marion are complete. His warfare was legitimate." It
is in this place the scene is laid of an interview with the British
officer, so familiar to the public in popular narratives and pictorial
illustration. A flag from the enemy, at the neighboring post of
Georgetown, is received with the design of an exchange of prisoners.
The officer is admitted blindfold into the encampment, and on the
bandage being taken from his eyes, is surprised equally at the
diminutive size of the General and the simplicity of his quarters. He
had expected, it is said, to see some formidable personage of the sons
of Anak of the standard military figure, which, as Mr. Simms remarks,
averaged, in the opposing generals during the war, more than two
hundred pounds. On the contrary, he saw "a swarthy, smoke-dried
little man, with scarcely enough of threadbare homespun to cover his
nakedness, and instead of tall ranks of gay-dressed soldiers, a
handful of sunburnt, yellow-legged militiamen, some roasting potatoes,
and some asleep, with their black firelocks and powder-horns lying by
them on the logs." This is Weems's narrative, a little colored with
his full brush, but true enough as to detail. The improvement which he
works up from the plain potato presented as a dinner to the officer,
is equally sound as a moral, though we will not vouch for the exact
expression of the sentiment. As a specimen of Weems, it is
ch