The following is a transcript of a story written by George
Andrew Anderson in 1943, about his father, John Quinton:
Dr. John Quinton Anderson, my
father, was the most handsome man that I ever saw. He
had a massive figure, straight as an American Indian. His
eyes were keen and bright. He wore a beard on his chin
which he always trimmed with scrupulous neatness. He always
was neat in his personal appearance, and when he came riding
down the lane at the old Anderson homestead, astride his
gray horse Medley, he loked the very incarnation of Robert
E. Lee.
His ancestors came from the highlands
of Scotland and he inherited all the fearlessness of the scottish
blood. He was a man of the finest culture and to this he
added his native refinement. Educated at the University of Pennsylvania,
he began the practice of medicine at the age of 21, and
for more than fifty years he rode his horse over the red hills
of Caswell.
His was a practice of great success
and he attained a wonderfun popularity. He volunteered
as a surgeon in the Civil War, however this service was
refused by Governor Zebulon Vance, who told him that, "Dr.
Anderson, your place is up there in Caswell where you may
give attention to the returning Confederate soldiers, their
widows or orphans." He gave this service without a
let or utterance. He loved the home life and was never
happier than when he sat under the big oaks at Anderson or joined
in the chase for the wily foxes, which ran in south Caswell.
While the most prudent of his kind,
still he was the most fearless man that I ever knew. To
him, fear was a stranger. There is a story representing
this in Reconstruction days. General George T. Kirke, of infamous
memory, found his way with his army to Anderson one night
in the seventies. My father had been out late that night giving
service to one of his patients and when he returned home, he
was informed by my mother that General Kirke and Lieutenant Burgin
was in the chamber upstairs. Then this incident occured.
It was at breakfast hour and the two soldiers sat down
to their morning meal. General Kirke competently sipped
his coffee and turning to Lieutenant Burgin, said, "Don't
you detect something unusual about this coffee? Something
in the aroma or the taste that suggests burnt almonds or peach
kernals." My father became infuriated and thundered,
"you need not speculate sir, for there is enough prussic
acid in that cup of coffee to kill every cut throat in your army."
Then General Kirke rose to his proudest height and said,
"In proof, sir, of the confidence I hold in
your statement, I drink to our health." And
he quaffed the cup. He was nearly 80 years old when he died,
a wonderfully perserved man.
His death was full of the sweetest pathos.
He died so peacfully, and with a smile on his face
he passed to the great beyond. We had called in Dr. John
McCauley who was a life-long friend and associate of my father.
He stood at the foot of the bed. he saw that my father
was rapidly passing and then while he watched him die, repeated
those well known lines of Burns:
"John Anderson, my
jo John,
We clamb the hill tho gither,
And many a canty John.
We've had both one and hither,
But now we maun totter down,
John.
But hand in hand we'll go
And rest together at the foot,
John Anderson, my jo."
