In Descent From Pocahontas
Sunday, July 15
Tully Lake Park, New York
I am visiting my daughter, Mollie. I came to Atlanta after the terrible fire May 20, 1917. My experience was terrible and my loss great. So with sad heart I shall try to record on these pages what I remember of my life. I had records, the family Bible and diaries of both my husband and myself, besides many valuable letters in a trunk which was burned in my daughter’s home in Atlanta, 383 North Avenue, Atlanta, Georgia.
I am past seventy-six and nearly blind, but will try to transcribe here what I remember at seventy-six for those who wish to know of this family.
Anna Clayton Logan
What I remember at seventy-six years of age, I hope those who read these pages will remember that I am seventy-six and nearly blind. I shall first give the lineage of my parents as I may lose my sight any day and that is most important.
My father lived to be eighty-nine in full possession of all faculties, only a little deaf the last few years. A lovely old age was granted and it was my privilege to have lived with him always. We were separated only the last three months of his life. I was in very feeble health and was ordered south by my physician. He went from my home to stay with my brother while I paid a visit to Sadie, who then lived in New Orleans. He was very well, in much better health than I was. In March, a telegram came announcing a stroke of paralysis. I went at once to Salem and found my dear father alive but speechless. He recognized me with a loving smile, and for two days he lived and was apparently better, but on the third afternoon he breathed his last. Of all his children and many grandchildren, only one daughter was unable to reach his bedside. My brothers were all there. It was about sunset. My brother, Mercer, read the last service of our prayer book as we kneeled around his bed praying. He breathed his last, and as the last ray of the sun crossed his bed we arose and his soul had departed. I felt sorely bereaved and will ever mourn his loss. He loved me more than anyone has ever done, and I often thank him. Now perhaps he may know how much I appreciate his true affection and today as I write this, I thank you dear father. I may not have deserved it but I am glad you loved me.
This affection is now one of my treasured memories as I sit feeble, blind and deaf. I thank God for that and many other blessings.
My mother died at seventy-four after ten days illness. Their separation was most sad and pathetic. They were married early in life. They had twelve children, had been married over fifty years, had celebrated their Golden Wedding in my home. How well I remember that. If my eyes last me, I will write of that, too.
I must hurry to Genealogies. My father was distinctly Scotch on the Logan side. On the Dandridge (his Mother’s) side, English. Also, English on his grandmother’s side, and Indian, Anne Bolling being 4th in descent from Pocahontas, the Indian princess. In my father’s family, the three genealogies: Logan, Dandridge and Spotswood (or Spottiswode, as it is often written.) Alexander Spotswood married Jean Butler. There were four children. Two sons: John M. Dandridge and Robert, killed at Fort Duquesne. Two daughters: Catherine, married to Bernard More, progenitors of Carter and Lee families and Dorothea, married to Nathaniel West Dandridge, great grandmother and father of my father, James William Logan, son of Joseph D. Logan and Jean Butler Dandridge, daughter of William Dandridge and Anne Bolling, who was fourth in descent from Pocahontas. (See “Pocahontas and her Descendants”)