d to a page of history by the stern old Puritan, and then placed, as a curious study, in the cabinet of human imbecilities forevermore.
By way of a contrast, if for no other reason, he deserves a separate chapter here — does H. Clay Pate, of Black Jack and Virginia.
Pate, by birth a Virginian, first sought to find fame and fortune in the city of Cincinnati.
He published a thin volume of collegiate sketches, and several pointless, bombastically written stories, which, we are told, was embeDragoons, with their prisoners, encamped on Middle Ottawa Creek, while Pate went on with his men to the Santa Fe road, near Hickory Point.
On the evening of Saturday, the 31st of May, he encamped on the head of a small branch or ravine, called Black Jack, from the kind of timber growing there.
As soon as Captain Pate had reached the ground that was destined to witness his failure as a military man, and, at the same time, with a humor almost puritanic in its grimness, to satisfy his longings
design of the Missourians, we marched upon Franklin on the night of the 2d of June,--only a few days after the fight at Black Jack,--and, after two or three hours of firing, chiefly in the dark, drove the ruffians out and captured their provisions.
he invading forces.
Mr. Cantroll was murdered by a ruffian named Forman, one of Captain Pate's men, who was wounded at Black Jack, carefully nursed at Prairie City, and dismissed by his captors uninjured.
Of such were the Southern companies.
So rapidly and unexpectedly did the thing occur, that there was no opportunity to secure the arms and horses taken at Black Jack.
Only fifteen of Brown's men were in the camp at the moment they entered it;
Among them was John E. Cook, who, a fality.
On the 4th of July, 1856, the crowning victory of the South was gained — not by their own cowardly forces, whom Black Jack, Franklin, and a series of successful guerilla fights had inspired with a salutary aversion to battles, but by compani