Barnett Child Captured By Indians

Pennsylvania Genealogies: Chiefly Scotch-Irish and German by Henry Egle
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I. John Barnett  b. 1678, in the neighborhood of Londonderry, Ireland.  In company with his brother William Barnett, emigrated with his family to Pennsylvania prior to 1730, locating in Hanover township, then Lancaster County, being among the earliest settlers in that township.  He died in September 1734, his will being probated at Lancaster on the first day of October following.  John Barnett left a wife, Jennett and the following children, all born in county Derry, Ireland :
i. Robert  b. 1701 ; m. and removed to Virginia .
ii. James  b. 1703 ; m. and went to Virginia with his brother; from them most of the names in the South have sprung. (direct ancestor)
3. iii. John  b. 1705 ; m. Margaret Roan
iv. Joseph  b. 1708 .
v. Mary  b. 1710 .
vi. Jennett  b. 1713 ; d. in 1787 ; unm.
vii. Jean b. 1715  m. Moses Swan; (see Swan record in PA genealogies)
II. William Barnett, brother of the foregoing, b. in Londonderry, Ireland came to America with his brother John; he died in February 1762, leaving a wife, Margaret  and children, beside other daughters:
i. Joseph .
ii. Sarah .
III. John Barnett 2 (John 1)  b. 1705, in County Derry, Ireland ;  d. in January 1785 in Paxtang township, Lancaster, now Dauphin county, Pa.; came to America with his father, having previously married Margaret Roan; b. 1710, in Greenshaw, Ireland; d. January 1790 in Paxtang .
They had issue:  My ancestors
4. i. William  b. 1729 ; m. Rebecca .
ii. [a son]  whose wife was Agnes, and had Joseph .
5. iii. Samuel  b. 1733 ; m. Martha .
6. iv. Joseph   b. 1726 ; m. Elizabeth Graham .
v. Sarah   b. 1737 ; m. Curry .
7. vi. Ann  b. 1739 ; m. James Johnston .
vii. Margaret   b. 1741 ; m. William Patterson , and had John and Andrew .
viii. Andrew  b. 1743 .
ix. John, b. 1745 .
x. Jennett , b. 1747 ; d. March, 1788 ; unm.
IV. William Barnett ,3 (John ,2 John ,1) b. 1729 ; d. in September, 1764 , in Hanover , leaving a wife, Rebecca and issue as follows:
i. John   b. 1754 ; d. September 2, 1797 ; m. Jean Crain ; b. December 22, 1762 ; d. May 9, 1830 .
ii. William   b. 1756 .
iii. Mary  b. 1758 .
iv. Rebecca  b. 1760 .
v. Isabel   b. 1762 .
vi. John   b. 1763 .
V. Samuel Barnett  3 (John, 2 John,1) b. 1733 in County Derry, Ireland; d. August 1758; was twice married; second wife Martha survived her husband. There was probably issue by both:
i. Samuel  b. 1746 ; d. s. p.
8. ii. Elizabeth  b. 1748 ; m. William Moorhead .
iii. Martha  b. 1750 ; d. s. p.
9. iv. John  b. 1753 ; m. Rachel Crosby .
v. Sarah  b. 1755 .
vi. Rebecca  b. 1757 .
VI. Joseph Barnett, 3 (John, 2 John,1) b. 1726 in County Derry, Ireland.  He married in 1749 Elizabeth Graham. Concerning him and his family, we have these incidents of pioneer life in 1757, communicated in a letter by the late Samuel Barnett, of Springfield, Ohio. "Mr. Barnett 's son William, with a son of Mr. Mackey, a neighbor of Hanover were taken prisoners by a band of prowling Indians. The parents of the boys tried in vain to raise a party to pursue the savages, and rescue the captives, but could obtain no assistance.  Mr. Barnett and Mr. Mackey however, armed with rifles, mounted their horses and went in pursuit.  They came up to the Indians, several in number, between Hugh Grimes ' (Graham's) farm and Beaver creek, likely not more than three-fourths of a mile from Hugh Grimes, immediately in the neighborhood of where Thomas Bell, Squire Wilson, and grandfather Allen lived.  They fired on the Indians, who returned it briskly.  Mr. Barnett and Mr. Mackey were near together.  Mackey in putting down the bullet in his rifle observed that he run down the bullitt hard to kill dead.  By this time the savages were close on them, and just as Mackey presented his gun a bullet passed through his arm, and his rifle fell to the ground. At this moment an Indian near by picked up his gun and shot Mackey dead. By this time Mr. Barnett had received a shot in his arm and one in the shoulder.  This bullet he carried with him to the grave.  So Mr. Barnett retreated.  By this time he reached a little east of where Mr. Grimes lived, and between his house and Robert Elder's, he got faint from loss of blood.  He dismounted and hid  in a field of buckwheat.  I give the names of Grimes and Elde, as they occupied these farms in my day. Grandfather Barnett resided east of these farms.  His horse ran home, and the neighborhood turned out. As they passed along the road Mr. Barnett got out of his hiding and resting place. He had but little use of his arm the rest of his days.  I will continue the history of the captive boys.  The Indians had left their encampment before they were sighted by the party who went in pursuit. They passed up Beaver creek toward the mountain, then through an orchard once owned by Andrew Kerr, afterwards Samuel Finney . The Indians told the boys to take plenty of apples as they were the last they would get for a length of time.  They then took to the mountain and this was the last of the boys.  Tedious days, nights, and years passed away.  For nearly seven years a kind Providence, who hears and answers the prayers of his children, watched over the boys.  It appears the Indians had their cabins on or near the head waters of the Allegheny river, on a branch called something like Miskelitas.  At length an Indian trader discovered the party who held William Barnett and Mackey.  They, with the boys, had been several times across what is now the State of Ohio to Detroit . This Indian trader was employed by Grandfather Barnett to procure William , for which he was to give the trader an elegant horse. * * * * It was with some difficulty the traders got him away, William not being very willing to leave at first, and the squaw who had him to part with him. At last he succeeded, and was returning with him. Mr. Barnett went to Carlisle , on his way to meet them, and stopped at the same tavern which his son had reached the early part of the evening. The boy was tired traveling, and had retired. When this became known Mr. Barnett desired to see him, but the landlord at first objected; but a fond father, who had not beheld his son for seven years, who had been the subject of anxious thoughts and prayers, now answered, could not be put off until the morrow. The son awakened from his sleep knew his father and embraced him. As may be readily supposed there was great rejoicing in Hanover , not only in the houses of the Barnetts , but all through the country, at the return of the captive. Young Mackey was sold to a Frenchman at Detroit , afterwards taken to England , and at the outset of the war of the Revolution came over with the British troops, and subsequently reached his home in old Hanover . His mother was yet living; but she insisted that her son was killed by the Indians, and would not own him. He assured her that he was her boy; when, at length, she told him that if he was her son he had a scar on his leg from a cut, that she would know. This was shown her, when she acknowledged that he was her long-lost child." There is extant an extended account of this thrilling episode in frontier life; but Mr. Barnett 's simple story differs little in detail thereof. Joseph Barnett , d. November, 1808 , in Allegheny county, Pa. , and was buried in Lebanon churchyard, ten miles from Pittsburgh . His wife, Elizabeth , d. a few years subsequent and was interred in old Hanover graveyard. They had issue:
10. i. William  b. 1750 ; m. Mary Eshercombe .
11. ii. John  b. August 29, 1752 ; m. Mary McEwen .
12. iii. Joseph   b. 1760 ; m. Sarah Dickson .
13. iv. James  b. 1762 ; m. Mary Allen .
14. v. Thomas   b. 1758 ; m. Jane Finney .
15. vi. Elizabeth  b. 1761 ; m. Samuel Sherer .
16. vii. Moses  b. November 24, 1764 ; m. Martha Snodgrass .
VII. Ann Barnett 3 (John,2  John,1) b., about 1735  in Hanover township, Dauphin county, Pa.  m. first, James Johnston, who was killed by the Indians in 1755.  They had issue (surname Johnston
i. Joseph .
ii. Margaret .
iii. Jane .
Mrs. Johnston  m. secondly, William McIlhenny.  They had issue (surname McIlhenny ):
i. Thomas
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Isaac Moorhead was the grandson of Elizabeth Barnett born 1748, granddaughter of John born 1705, son of John born 1678 in Ireland. 
A glimpse into the lives of our forefathers:

I found this while Googling something else, the Google book is available for download in PDF form.  I also have found this on Ancestry.com.  The original book, located at The Library of Congress, contains 90 pages on our Barnetts.
There are errors due to OCR, so there are mistakes in words and there are blank spaces.

Selections from the history of the Barnett family.
Old Hanover church.
Classifications Library of Congress F159.E7 M8
The Physical Object Pagination iv p., 1 l., 258 p.
Number of pages 258
ID Numbers Open Library OL23322505M
LC Control Number 15009290
Internet Archive occasionalwritin00moor

http://www.archive.org/stream/occasionalwritin00moor/occasionalwritin00moor_djvu.txt

From my earliest recollection until July, 1837, I was much of my time with my Grandfather and Grandmother in Fairview Township, Erie County, Pennsylvania, and heard from them very much about Dauphin County, Hanover Church, and numerous persons whose names appear between the lids of this book. When a little boy I made the resolve, if life was spared to me, to visit Hanover and Hanover Church, Beaver Creek, the Swatara and Mauada. After a lapse of thirty years I have made good my resolution, and in doing so have gained some items not wholly devoid of interest to our connection. While we are considering the characteristics, the habits and the accomplishments of the men of the past age, not born to fortune and position, great allowance must be made in all cases for the day, and particularly the place, in which they lived. Our ancestors, driven from the homes of their forefathers and the scenes of their childhood, took refuge in the North of Ireland.

Restless and dissatisfied, the Barnett Family embarked in 1734 for America.  William Penn had landed in this country in 1682. He had sent a party ahead, however, who settled at Upland, now Chester, Dec. 11th, 1681. Penn had procured his lands by treaty and actual purchase from the Indians. His sons followed the same praiseworthy example. His deeds were from the Susquehanaghs, the Conestogas and the Five Nations. Peace, prosperity and happiness came to Penn's settlement, and he returned to England, dying in Buckinghamshire in 1718, having lived beyond the allotted life of man.  John Harris, a native of Yorkshire, England, settled near an Indian village named Peixtan, at or near the present site of Harrisburg, about 1725. In these early years, colonies of Swiss Mennonites, French Huguenots, Germans and Scotch-Irish were formed in various parts of lower Pennsylvania.

The name of the original Barnett of this family that came to America is unknown. He is buried in Hanover church-yard with his wife, but no inscribed stone marks his resting-place. They belonged to the army of Scotch-Irish Presbyterians who began to arrive in this country in numbers about 1719. They came direct from the North of Ireland, and landing in Philadelphia, and pushing across the fertile plains of Derry — leaving these fine unoccupied lands behind them because in that day they were utterly destitute of timber — they located directly at the base of the Blue Mountain, where timber, water and stone were to be had in abundance — advantages particularly attractive to emigrants from an old settled country.
Here Mr. Barnett bought a large tract, reaching from the forks of Beaver Creek to the top of the Blue Mountain, overlooking “the land of the Philistines." Here, in the Forks of Beaver Creek he built a — for that day — large log house, which stands firm and solid to-day. Uncle Richard Barnett says his grandfather, father and all his father's children were born in that log house. Here he lived and reared his family, giving them such meagre advantages of education as were afforded in the wilderness to farmers' sons.

I have heard my Grandfather tell of the old Scotch-Irish school-masters of his day,— stern, severe old fellows, who made the birch the principal persuader to the paths of rectitude and application. I remember one or two school-day incidents. A small boy was to be punished; he was mounted upon the back of a larger one, who stood up while the birch was well laid on. The denouement will not do for the pages of this book. One day, in cutting the hair of his son Richard, the son said, "shear me close, daddy, shear me close, so the master can't get a grup of me !"

I have beard my Grandfather tell of the return of his brother William from his captivity among the Indians. He was exceedingly loth to give up his Indian dress; was quiet and morose, and would go alone to unoccupied rooms, and sing in a low tone his wild Indian songs. He was sober, sedate, straight as an arrow, and quick in running and jumping as a cat. He died and was buried in Philadelphia.  After he and young Mackey were captured, the elder Mackey's horse was secured and the boys tied upon him with thongs of leather-wood bark. They were carried away to Presque-Isle and thence to Sandusky; "and I have often," said my Grandfather to me, " thought that my feet might have pressed the same earth here in Erie County as did the feet of my poor little captive brother." 

In the early life of my Grandfather in Dauphin County, the carrying trade was all done by the great Pennslyvania wagons with five and six horses attached; and he frequently told me of trips made by him to Philadelphia, Pittsburgh, and down the valley in Virginia. He often spoke of Winchester, Staunton and the Natural Bridge. He spoke with much enthusiasm of the grandeur of the Natural Bridge, and the fine, open, hearty character of the people in all that region, many of whom went there from Pennsylvania. I have often heard him speak of a trip he made down there with a cargo of nails to sell. Between Winchester and Staunton he fell short of money, and finding no sale for his nails was in a strait as to how to get on. He stopped one night at a tavern, determined to pledge his ''fifth horse," the leader, for his bill. As he sat in the barroom a black man came in. The landlord enquired of him: Is the granary locked?" “Yes." ''Is the smoke-house locked ?" '' Yes." " Is the spring-house locked ?"  "Yes." Turning to the landlord, Grandfather said : " Landlord, do you think I am come to rob you ? " " Oh, no," said he ; " but the ______are such great thieves we have to lock everything up." " I see you have a whipping-post in the yard," said Grandfather. "Yes," said the landlord, "but it is seldom used; and they don't mind it long." Grandfather then told the landlord his pecuniary condition.  A stranger present, hearing the story, enquired how much money he wanted. Grandfather thought about twenty dollars. "Come with me to my Housesaid he, " and I will lend you the money." He went, received the amount and offered some of his nails in pledge. The Virginian declined them. He then offered his note. He declined that also, saying : "I see you are not a Yankee, and I'll trust you. If you mean to cheat me, you'll do it in any event." Grandfather went on, and in a few days sold his cargo of nails, and coming back he called at the house of his Virginia friend, which was a little off the road. "Well, my friend," said he, "I am not going to cheat you this time” — and repaid him; at the same time thanking him, and remarking that probably he never would have an opportunity to do him a favor. "Well," said the Virginian, "do it to somebody else! " Grandfather would always wipe his eyes at the conclusion of this story. 

My recollections of the time when Grandfather lived in the old, old house in Fairview are very indistinct. I think I remember, when a little child, of being at the old house and seeing a deer driven into the yard, hunted by men and dogs. The new house, where Grandfather lived when I remember best concerning him, had but three rooms on the ground floor. The east room was the sleeping room, and in it was a large, open Franklin stove. In the west room there was a great box stove, and in the north room or kitchen an open Fireplace.  Grandfather always rose early in the morning, and proceeded with some deliberation and nicety to dress himself He was always dressed in blue cloth — would wrap his handkerchief about his shirt sleeve, hold the ends in his hand, and then put on his coat. This was done after tying an immense black handkerchief of silk twice about his neck. He then proceeded to smoke a single pipe of tobacco, always before breakfast, which he enjoyed with great gusto, but never again indulging during the day excepting when unwell, which was always indicated by his wearing his broad-brimmed beaver hat, made by John Morris.  I remember him in the happy old days of 1835-8 as a great reader of "Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress” ''Buck's Theological Dictionary," “Dick's Works," "Knox's Essays” "The Fool of Quality"— but particularly "Scott's Family Bible" places in its several volumes marked with bits of paper, "old man” rose leaves, &c. I read often to him from the Bible, and after listening with rapt attention, leaning forward in that old arm chair, made by George Landen, he would bring his hand down with great emphasis upon the arm of the chair, saying to me, "Now, Major Pilgore, give us the 'Practical Observations!' "I cannot remember why he called me by that name, but he did so as long as he lived.  We had a large Scotch terrier named "Torry Mc Curtell," and a great mastiff named "Bose." Torry was death on mice and rats, and many a pile of boards and stones did Torry and I overturn to get at field-mice, which we destroyed in quantities. After being "out of sorts" for a day, Grandfather would rise the next morning very cheerful, and standing erect would say, "Major, I am all right this morning; I feel as though the Swatara had run through me." After breakfast he would take a stiff drink of cider, laced with ginger, and then would, at my request often, tell me the stories of his boyhood. At this time he had passed the three score years and ten — "the days of our years." I walked with him often about the farm. He always insisted on my walking in advance of him, and would give me sharp directions about walking properly holding up my head, throwing back the shoulders, &c.; and always was very particular that my clothes were clean and in perfect order. He had a rare stock of laughable stories on hand which he frequently related. His son Richard inherited this peculiarity. He and his wife Martha joined the Presbyterian church in West Hanover, under the ministration of the Rev. Mr. Snodgrass, in October, 1793.
I remember the great earnestness of his prayers. I have often seen him nearly overcome with emotion at such times. When he broke up house-keeping and went to live in Harborcreek with his daughter Matilda, his passion for a horse did not forsake him, and he announced that while he lived he would own a horse. The last one he parted with was an elegant black. I have two letters written by Grandfather in 1840 and addressed to me when I was a boy. He died at the house of his son-in-law, *George Moorhead, in Harborcreek, Nov. 19th, 1848, aged 84.

*George Moorhead was Isaac’s father.

Mrs. Rebecca Barnett, my Grandmother, died in July 1837. Although young at the time of her death, I can remember it well. My mother had been absent most of the summer nursing her, and one July day news came that she was gone. I went with my father to Fairview, and was soon face to face with the great grief of my childliood; for in my earliest recollection her image was blended with that of my mother. She entered finally into all my childish joys and sorrows, and indulged me but too freely in all my idle whims and vagaries.  I can see her now, sitting in the old hickory- split seated chair, in the middle room, at the west window, in her cap and spectacles. She is dressed in brown, — something like the merino of this day — with binding about the ends of the sleeves at the wrists, of velvet of the same color. A blue kerchief — light blue with orange spots — covers her neck and breast, crossed in front and pinned on the waist at her side. Fastened at her side is a quill inserted in cloth, to retain the end of a knitting- needle. Her snuffbox is on the stand before her. Upon her knee is her basket of work. Her scissors hang at her side attached by a green tape of worsted. She loosens the fastenings from wonderfully neat-looking little pacquet books of morocco and silk, displaying the treasures within. I seize some- tliing, and holding it up, desire to be the possessor of it. Turning her dark smiling face toward me, I read in her soft, chestnut-colored eyes of unutterable beauty the answer framed with her lips, "You can have it in welcome." She was the daughter of Col. Timothy Green, and was born in 1763, in West Hanover, Dauphin county, Pennylvania. I here insert two extracts from my log book as pertinent to what has been written. May 27, 1867. Caroline, Ruth, Max and I at Fairview. I walked to the cemetery near the village, and visited the graves of my Grandfather and Grandmother. It was thirty years since I had stood, a little boy, and seen my Grandmother's remains placed in the ground. How plainly it all came back to me to-day — the long procession of wagons winding over the hills and across Walnut Creek (the church was near Swan's and the yard adjoined it); the prayers by Rev. Lewis — the sermon by the pastor, Mr. Eaton, from the text "the days of our years are three score years and ten, but if by reason of strength", etc. I had spent a great portion of my life with my Grandmother. Losing her was my first great grief. It was the keenest and deepest sorrow of my life. I have scarce felt anything since more desolating. Perry procured a wagon, and I started with the children on the old road to Grandfather Barnett's. The children were on the _____ when they learned that we were going to the old place where I had lived when a little boy, and the scene of so many of the stories I had told them. I stood upon the large stone at the front door, with two little palms in mine, those of my children. In a moment they faded from my presence and I was a child again. The years rolled back. I recognized every vein and seam in that graywacke stepping-stone. The door was open. Grandfather sits in the door where the sun can shine upon his limbs. He would always say, “Major, the sun in the spring of the year does one's bones so much more good than the fire." Grandmother is in the west window beside her work table, her slight figure a picture* of neatness and order. I turn, and the little hands are again in mine. I look toward the east for the view down the road. A great fir, high as the house, has grown in the way of my view since I was here. It seems not near so far from the door to the gate on the road as it did thirty years ago. Down to the springhouse — up in the loft, the stairs grown fearfully rickety now — under the monstrous grape-vine — over to the spring with the wild red plum-tree beside it, — is it the same frog that goes clamp to the bottom of its pure waters? — then into and through he house.  0, the blessed, bright and happy memories of childhood! What a weary round I have gone since my feet crossed this threshold. I am past the middle of life; all the children have grown to man's estate; Father and Mother "sleep the sleep that knows no waking;" and here I stand, with two sweet, sober little faces looking with deep interest into mine as I tell them of the past, and point out to them the exact scenes of so many stories of that bright and happy time.

Uncle Joseph informed me that they had glorious times at Erie. The town was full of officers and soldiers, and the place even at that early date boasted much good society. The principal loitering place was on French street, and the center of attraction was always about the corners at the intersection of French and Fifth streets. For two years Erie was a great gathering place for the officers, and General Harrison, Commodores Perry and Elliot, and hosts of others sauntered up and down French street, or strayed along the banks of the lake to the block-house and fort. Here Sen at died a victim to the accursed code duello, and Bird fell at a volley of our own men for desertion. Along these banks the Jesuit Fathers, De la Roche and Braboeuf, had raised the banner of the cross before the curious eyes of the warlike Fries; and Morang, Derpontency and Legardeur de St. Pierre, knights of the order of St. Louis, had unfurled to the breeze the lilies of France. Then men of another race came to Presque Isle; but the Indian war-whoop was heard, the garrison all scalped save one, and the "meteor flag of England" carried in triumph to the Indian encampment at the Cascade.

The Forsters and the Wallaces and the Wilsons, from Dauphin County, were settled here, and with Mr. Barnett had come as a soldier to the Lake region with the troops from Dauphin county during the war of 1812.
The Duncans and other families made a gay society at Erie. I have heard uncle speak of dancing on the long upper porch of the old Forster house on French street. He said that after Timothy Allen's* death he found in his possession — indeed under his pillow — a lady's handkerchief with a name upon it. It was that of one of the daughters of Col. Forster to whom he paid great attention while the army lay at Erie. Col. Thomas Forster, the younger, in his life-time, said to me that if Timothy Allen had lived he would have been his brother-in-law.  One day's march from Erie to Buffalo always brought the detachment to Moorhead's, my Grandfather's. When the battalion to which the Chambersburg company belonged moved towards Buffalo, it was known along the road in advance, the fame of their soldierly appearance having preceded them. I have heard my father's oldest sister say that the young ladies of that region gathered at the inn kept by my Grandfather, and crowded the porch, waving their handkerchiefs as the company arrived in the evening. She remembered Timothy Allen very well. They had heard of him while he was in Erie, and she spoke in admiration of his very gentlemanly appearance.
(Timothy Allen was the son of Rebecca Green Allen, wife of Col. Wm. Allen, an officer in the Revolution. After her husbands death she married Moses Barnett, and became the mother of Rebecca Barnett, Isaac Moorhead's mother. Ed.)
Prior to leaving Erie, Timothy Allen made his will leaving a portion of his estate to a little fairhaired sister of six years, far away in Dauphin County. At this first camp from Erie he saw a boy of nine years — the Innkeeper's son — gleaning a harvest of sixpences in the camp by furnishing tow to the soldiers to clean their firelocks. The little girl found her way to the shores of the great lake, grew to womanhood, and married the Inn- keeper's son ; and I who write these notes call them Father and Mother.  I detail now the account given me by Aunt Jane Barnett: "After a wearisome march of hardship and exposure they reached the village of Buffalo. Your Uncle Allen sickened with cold, and camp fever ensued. Your Uncle Joseph in vain tried to get shelter for him in Buffalo. The place was small and the accommodations few. He took him out on the Williamsville road to Landis's tavern, about eight or ten miles from Buffalo. They came to the house and found only Mrs. Landis at home. That young man is sick,' said she, pointing to your Uncle Allen; ' and I think he is going to die.' You can't stay here,' she added.  "Uncle Joseph announced that they were ready to pay for everything in gold, and that they had no place to go. The woman steadily refused permission to remain. The man of the house came; the woman met him in the outer room and Uncle heard the muttered discussion between them. Both came in, and the man, on being appealed to, peremptorily and gruffly said that he had no accomodations for soldiers, and they must leave. Uncle followed the man out of the house pressing his suit and urging with all his eloquence the dying condition of the young Pennsylvania gentleman, who had come so far to help to defend Landis and his neighbors on the frontier. But Landis was inexorable. Uncle Joseph turned on the man and said, ^ Mr. Landis, we are going to stay here whether you are willing or not.' Who are thou, sir,' said Landis, turning fiercely upon the stripling in years, ' that you dare to talk so to a man of my age and upon my own soil? ' Looking him full in the face your Uncle said, 'I am the son of 3Iajor John Barnett, and that dying young men in the house is the son of Col. William Allen of Hanover, Dauphin County, Pennsylvania.''  "Landis, amazed beyond measure, placed both of Uncle's hands within his own, and his eyes filling with tears, he said, in a very humble manner, 'You shall stay, both of you, as long as you wish;' and immediately they re-entered the house, and Landis welcomed the sick soldier and his attendant, Brigade Surgeon Culbertson, to his home. ''The secret of this sudden change of treatment was, that in the days of the Revolution, Landis resided in Dauphin County, Pennsylvania, and was a tory, and Col. William Allen and Maj. John Barnett rescued him, at great hazard, from the hands of his infuriated neighbors, who had the rope about his neck and were in the act of hanging him. Tie fled the country and came out to this faraway place, within sight of British soil, where he became a man of wealth. Surgeon Culbertson attended your uncle faithfully during his last sickness, and Landis's wife prepared the body for the grave. Your Uncle never loved a man as he did Timothy Allen, not even those of his own blood, and thirty-five years after his death he visited his grave. I was with him. I never saw him so much overcome with grief as he was on that day. We were in the room where he died, and saw the woman who prepared his dress for the grave. Timothy Allen's tombstone was cut in Pennsylvania and sent out to George Rogers, a cousin of my father's living near, who set it up and watched and cared for the grave."  What a tumultous tide of thought came upon me as I scanned this somehow strangely familiar landscape.* I felt myself saying "I'm back again."
The memory of all that I had heard of these places came fresh, and it seemed to me that I had returned to scenes and grounds familiar to me long years before by actual presence, and I felt as though I What follows immediately is taken from Mr. Moorhead's account of his visit, in the winter of 18_8, to the home of his ancestors in Dauphin County — introduced into the Barnett History. Ed.  I would like to take a whip and drive out this mongrel race that have possessed themselves of this fair heritage, and cry with a voice that would reach to the Northern Lakes, to the far and broad savannas of all the west, to the golden sands of the Pacific, — aye, the voice must reach to the white walls of a South American city,* and traversing the seas fall upon the ear of one who is in that city hard by the Pyramids — whose projecting balconies crowd the narrow, curved streets chittered with humanity, — directed by infinite goodness-and mercy, as he believes, to bring light to souls darker than the tawny bodies in which they dwelt. Oh, wondrous power of faith and trust in God! to leave home, friends, ease — all and walk the streets of barbarous cities; to mingle with those of an alien tongue and race; to meet disease continually in that great pest-house of the East; to see everywhere the scowl of hatred upon the swarthy faces of superstitious devotees! But in lines of living light to him, though dim and clouded to us, he reads the promise, *'I will never leave thee nor forsake thee;" and as he remains during the long years, until the silent messenger beckons him to the shore of the dark river, the eyes, which first saw the light here at the base of the Blue Mountain in Old Hanover, will grow dim in death as Mr. Simonton, Missionary in Brazil, James Barnett, Cairo, Egypt. They rest upon the purple of the mountains of the Holy Land.* ''It matters not : In a little while our lips are dumb.". — Fathers! Mothers ! Friends! come back to the hills of old Hanover ! Aye, let them pass in review ! Come back, Grandfather Moses Barnett, with your tall, erect, well-made form, in your suit of blue cloth, your coat and vest trimmed with brass buttons, your shoes well polished, your hands covered with buckskin gloves, a cane with ivory top whereon was a crack forming an elongated and fantastic letter 0, a red handkerchief with light-colored spots upon it hanging partly out from the flapped coat-pocket upon your "bench," — one of your eyes a little crooked, and inflamed by reason of small-pox. Your children — here they are; Richard, Ann, Margaret, Matilda, Rebecca and Moses. Your young wife, Martha Snodgrass — she was dead at twenty-nine — lies in Hanover churchyard. But a widow, with oh such beautiful, dark, chestnut-colored eyes, came along one day riding her elegant horse "Hotspur," and as he stooped and slaked his thirst in the clear waters of Beaver Creek, those beautiful eyes charmed you so that you got on the horse with her, and rode, maybe, as far as that stately house of stone upon the hill which was her home. The rumor goes, old Grandfather, that you asked her that day to come and live with you on his charge extends to Mount Lebanon. Beaver Creek, and widow-like she consented; and in her brown silk dress she came down to your house, in due time, a bride, and your children filed in one by one and met their new mother, and her children doubtless made mouths at her for what they considered her strange desertion of them. *********  Hark ! Hear the deep bay of the hounds upon the Blue Mountain. How it echoes back from these hills! Away they go with the fleetness of the wind toward Mauada Gap. That noted fox-hunter, Major John Barnett, mounted upon his favorite horse "Pad," is out this morning with his friends and his hounds. Here stand his family. At the head are Joseph, John and James — James the brilliant one, whose light burned the more intensely by reason of the shortness of its duration; John, of great energy but hard fortune; Joseph — here he stands beside Timothy Green Allen. Both are in the uniform of their country — ruffles at their wrists and their breasts. It is the fashion of the year 1812. The bloom of youth is upon their faces, the light of battle is in their eyes; their faces are turned to the north, toward the great lakes.  Farewell, young men ! Tearful eyes follow them. Mother, from that stone house upon the hill, let your eyes look long upon your son; ___ will never rest upon him again in this world. Major John, reign up a moment and look upon your boy. As your record in the revolntion was noble, so will your son's be in this second war with the old enemy.
Old Timothy Allen, look upon your grandson. He remembers the record of his father in the Revolution, and yours, Col. Green, in the same war and in the old Indian and French wars, and he never will disgrace you.  Thank God, the future was unknown to you then. Hands, then unformed, oh young man, gathered your bones* tenderly more than half a century later, and placed them beside your mother — the widow in the stone house upon the hill. Lips, then unformed, do continually bless the name of your soldier companion, and thank God that a man of so much nobleness and generosity was permitted to live out nearly the allotted life of man, and leave an example so worthy to be followed.  Robert Rogers's name I learned to love by reason of the tenderness with which it was always mentioned by my mother. Come back with your wife with her loving liquid eyes, inherited by her daughter Jane,— come back with Rebecca and Jane and Effie and all of them. And don't- forget David, though far away; bring him, and he and I will sit down and talk about the girls in the Miami Valley in 1846. David Ferguson, come upon your horse "Hunter." It is a long, long ride to return. You must come from beyond the shores* of the great river. Bat did you not ride on "Hunter” with Grandmother upon ''Hotspur," once upon a time, from Hanover to Phladelphia in a day? Come back. Dr. Simonton, and battle with the rider of the white horse. The "King of Terrors" has conquered nearly, all of us here in Hanover. Why do you remain so long away? Come back, Mr. Snodgrass, to your old pulpit in Hanover. True, the pieces of it are scattered throughout the land, but we will gather them together again and cement them with our love.  Some such idle vagaries as these flitted through my brain as I sat beside Robert Stewart on that hill, and I thanked God that I sprang from a race of such blessed memories. To Robert Rogers's noble-looking old house, with its ancient paper on the walls, its heavy and plentiful locks of polished brass, and all the taste and elegance of a house of the olden time, with its single Lombardy poplar standing like a sentinel guarding the spot, we went. "In that room", said Mr. Stewart, "poor Andrew died." Twice to-day, how tenderly he spoke of "poor Andrew"!  We went to the grand residence of David Ferguson — a house that will stand for centuries. Nothing short of an earthquake can overthrow it. It pained me greatly to know that this kind, amiable man — this friend of the widow and the fatherless, this healer of divisions and settler of disputes — was forced by reason of his very goodness of heart to leave this delightful spot ; and died nearly alone, with none of liis kindred near him, and but few of his friends to perform for him the last sad offices of affection. But great is his reward in Heaven. He lives in a ''house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens." Mr. Stewart pointed out the room in which they used to be catechised by Mr. Snodgrass.

We went then to the large old stone house of my Grandmother, built in the last century, standing on the hill, with its bell upon the gable in a little turret, and the rope attached, hanging within reach of the kitchen. To the noble old house I went, and through it to the very garret. The wonderful doors, locks, and hinges  I felt as though I would like to relieve John Kramer of his tenantry, put it in order, and live there the remainder of my days. I returned to my friend's house charmed beyond measure, and yet saddened with the thoughts and sights of the day.  I really begin to believe you are a Presbyterian and Hanoverian in good account; but what do you propose to do?''— Bob Hoy. "Far from me and from my fireside be such frigid philosophy as may conduct us indifferent and unmoved over any ground which has been dignified by wisdom, bravery or virtue." — Dr. Johnson.

My little collection of facts and incidents would be very imperfect without some description of Old Hanover Church. Here all the affections of our people centered, and here they were taught those wholesome truths, and treasured up and carried away those faithful teachings of Mr. Snodgrass, for erudition and practice during the intervals of public worship. During the last century this church was very large in numbers. We have definite information that at one time there were one hundred and twenty families in the congregation. Situated in Dauphin County, Pennsylvania.  Wm. Penn gave lands, usually one hundred and sixty acres, to the Scotch-Irish Presbyterians, upon which were erected a church, a school house, which was also the minister's study, and a manse. This piece of ground was always known as the Glebe. The Scotch Manse is neither so handsome nor 80 luxurious in its appointments as the English Rectory, but is yet far superior to the home of an Episcopalian curate. The landed proprietors are bound by law in Scotland to build and keep in repair a church, a school, and a manse, and also to secure a portion of land or glebe for the minister of the established church, which in Scotland is Presbyterian." These Presbyterians were warlike, having been educated in fighting for generations for their faith in Scotland and Irehind. The wily Quakers in authority, and the quarrelsome and crafty Council of Pennsylvania, pushed these people to their frontiers as a barrier and protection to them from the Indians. A vagrant race of Redemptionists from the south of Ireland were spewed upon the new land and sent up along the Susquehanna. Logan, himself an Irishman, writes to Watson : "I must own, from my own experience in the Land office that the settlement of five of these families gave me more trouble than fifty of any other people." Many debauched Irish came in from Cork in 1741. Richard Peters, Logan's successor, makes the same complaint, and gives the names of those engaged in the troubles about bind in 1743. The names are unmistakably Irish. Cumberland County was created in 1750, and the proprietaries, "In consequence of the frequent disturbances between the German and Irish settlers, gave orders to their agents to sell no lands in either York or Lancaster to the Irish." Advantageous offers of removal were made to the Irish settlers of Paxton, Swatara, and Donegal, and were accepted by many.  Councils turned a deaf ear generally to all complaints of the Scotch-Irish on the frontier. __ fostering hand was held out to protect them from the vagabonds sent among them, nor from the savages. But that neglect made them self-reliant, and developed those noble characteristics which are evident everywhere, and moulded and shaped most that is of good report in the centre, south and southwest of this land.

Uncle Richard Barnett, of Girard, in a letter to me dated February 15th, 1868, says : " My first recollection of Hanover Church was when my mother took me to her side in the seat. I asked in a whisper, 'how the man got up in there.' 'Hush!' ' Could not see where he got up so high.' Little pulpit not much larger than a tub. The congregation was large at that time ; the church on ordinary occasions was pretty well filled; on Sacrament days the house was crowded." Mr. Sharon of Derry generally assisted Mr. Snodgrass on such occasions, and many of his congregation would be there. In early times Mr. Snodgrass wore a three-cocked hat. So did the squire of that day, being a badge of distinction and authority The bounds of the congregation were over twelve miles east and west. On the south it reached to Swatara creek, on the north it extended to the '4ands of the Philistines," or north of the Blue mountains. Mr. Snododrass's salary was at that time $400. He was a practical farmer and owned two farms and had them well tilled. The trustees settled up every first Year's day, on which occasion they always partook of good cheer at his house, and the guests would often speak in praise of the good old apple and peach brandy, and other good things. He had his tailoring done by one of his members, and once, upon presenting his bill, it was thought pretty high by the old gentleman. Mr. Robinson remarked ' it was paying for preaching and was a truck deal — truck for truck."

About the year 1810 the congregation began to diminish. Several large families removed to Ohio, and nearly every year afterward by removed and death the congregation became smaller and smaller, until there were none. I copy from my own notes as follows : Monday, Dec. 31st, 1866. At 9 A. M., Rev. Mr. Robinson and I started in a close carriage for the country. Today I am to see Old Hanover Church and the " forks of Beaver Creek" for the first time. For thirty years I have looked forward to this day. Soon we are in the country, within sight of the bank barns and substantial establishments of Pennsylvania. Ahead of us is the Blue Mountain. We pass through Singlestown; how familiar the name! Here we received directions for finding Mr. Robert Stewart's. Mrs. S. was a daughter of Thomas Barnett. Mr. Stuart and Mr. Barnett had gone to Harrisburg. The daylight was short, our time of course limited, but when they found who I was I was utterly unable to get away. "John, here John, put out them horses and feed them.'' "You, you shall not go a step." "The like of it! — From Erie county — Rebecca Barnett's son — not to eat in this house !" — "Yes, yes, — take off your coats. John will go with you to the old place. You must stay all night. We'll go with you to the old church to-morrow and take you back to Harrisburg when you wish." My friend nodded assent, and down we sat beside a stove — such a stove as was in the middle room at Grandfather's in Fairview thirty years ago; and on the stove were the words "Mauada Furnace." Mauada ! how familiar was that name twenty-five or thirty years ago. --

"Yes, John will go over and show you where Grandpap Barnett was shot and where Uncle William was carried off by the Indians. — You must go out and look at the old house. Grandpap Robert Stewart lived there; it's more than a hundred years old. There are portholes in it to fire on the Indians. Oh what times they had then. If you could only have heard the old people tell how they bid other good bye after prayers when they lay down to sleep ! Tlie Indians were all about then." We entered the old log house. Door of double thickness and cut horizontally, like a mill door. The fire-place was the most extraordinary I had ever seen. There were nine feet of clear fire-place and immense jambs on either side. We stepped into it and looked up the broad, open-mouthed chimney to the clouds drifting overhead.  Nothing but fire could reduce such a house. Indian arrows and bullets would avail nothing against such logs. After going through the house I stopped again on the hearth, and I thought how many feet had rested upon those well worn stones, — all of my Grandfather's and Great-grandfather's people, and all of their numerous friends and relatives in this region, and many, many others whose names I shall read to-day in Hanover church-yard. Our kind relative and entertainer spoke of the old church. We are," said she, The last family of the congregation left in Hanover."  We were called to dinner, and such a dinner I have not seen in many a day. Everything that was good and in abundance. Mr. Robinson gave thanks before and after the meal. After dinner they produced the communion service of the old church — four plates, three goblets and server. The fourth goblet is in possession of Scott Rogers, of Dayton, Ohio. Aunt Jane Barnett has the christening bowl. I thought of the hands that had carried and the lips that had pressed these sacred vessels — nearly all of them now the dust of the earth.  They are of heavy britannia, or some such ware. Upon the backs of the plates was a crown, with the words "Joseph Spackman, Cornhill, London— made in London." Then Mrs. Stewart produced the old church books of record kept by Mr.Snodgrass. Time was pressing; we bade these kind friends of unbounded hospitality good bye, and about a mile away we forded Beaver Creek, and in the forks of Beaver Creek was our old, old home, the house still standing where Grandfather and Mother and Aunt Matilda and Uncles Richard and Moses were born. It was a large, high-storied, old log house, built more than a hundred years ago. Holes had been cut in places convenient for defence against the Indians. The door had heavy wrought hinges of iron, reaching the entire width of it. The stairs were much worn with the tramping of feet for a century.But we must go; we had to move rapidly — six miles farther to ride to reach Hanover Church.
On we went; we crossed Mauada Creek, and at four o'clock, this last day of 1866, we stepped from the carriage in front of Hanover Church.  The building is of stone and has been out of use for a score of years. The old forest trees stand thickly around the deserted building as they did a century ago. The old church books give minutes of a meeting held in 178 — in which it was resolved that the then old church was insufficient, and, by reason of age, unsafe, and a new one was necessary. Then resulted this now old church. The window shutters were all closed — the door locked. In a near house upon the old glebe we procured the keys of the church and church-yard. The steps of red sandstone to the several doors had tumbled down but we clambered in. Leaving the door open we stepped to the centre of the old church. A portion of the roof had decayed and the ceiling of wood overhead was broken through by the elements, and pieces of boards were hanging down from above; the cornice was perfect and entire all about the inside. The church was paved with bricks. The pulpit and clerk's desk had tumbled through the floor and were a wreck. Nothing remained of the old sounding board but the iron which had supported it, which still hung in its place. The old stove lay upon its side. All -the light we had came from the broken roof and the door left ajar. The old weather-beaten, faded shutters to the windows were closed. Various ruminations of visitors were penciled on the walls. I went to Grandfather's old pew and sat in it, although it was lying half down on its side. I cut the number (26) from the end of the pew and brought it away. We also possessed ourselves of a portion of the pulpit. The feeling in this place was one of desolation. Here on this spot for a century had gathered an intelligent, prosperous, happy and godly people. The father and the mother came with their families. Here Grandfather and Grandmother and my Mother, with so many others dear to me, had been borne in maternal arms and baptized in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost. They grew up and entered these doors as blushing brides and happy grooms, and here many were brought in their winding-sheets to be laid away in the church-yard adjacent. And now of all that great throng of people but one family remains and they worship in Paxton Church. We experienced a feeling of relief on re-crossing the threshold of this house of the Most High, now deserted and in ruins, and breathing once more the outer air. Unlocking the gate of the church-yard we entered. There was not a track to be seen. The pure white snow covered the resting-place of the dead. A heavy stone wall surrounded the yard, the top surmounted with a moss-covered roof. One large tree grew in the center of the place, and there were two or three smaller ones scattered about. At the lower end of the ground were very many graves with simple stones and no inscription. These, Mr. Robinson said, were doubtless the very old people of Hanover, our great-great-grand-parents. It was sundown of this last day of the year when we locked the church-yard gates and turned our faces towards Harrisburg. There was much friendship and sympathetic intercourse between the people of Hanover and Derry. Derry lay immediately between Hanover and Donegal, and the people enjoyed in common the blessed privilege of that charming intercourse so common between neighboring congregations at communion time in the early history of the Presbyterian Church in this country. For some days prior to Communion Sunday, preparatory meetings were held. The minds of the people were drawn by the dear pastor away from the business of the hour and lived with great solemnity upon the approaching celebration of that wonder inspiring, always interesting, never to be fully comprehended sacrifice made by Our Lord for man. Friday and Saturday arrived, and with these days came the dear friends from Derry, welcomed by the good people of Hanover to their bed and board. Each one entitled to partake in the great celebration on the approaching Sabbath was provided by his pastor with a little metallic piece having the letter "D" upon it, as a proper evidence of his worthiness to sit at the Lord's Table. These meet- in srs have been described to me as accompanied with deep solemnity and searching self-examination. The subjects discussed were generally the amazing love and mercy of God..."