Posts Tagged ‘Frederick MD’

Out of a Frederick Window

December 4, 2012

TP Fall Snow SA 1

Image from

Out Of A Frederick Window.

Out of a Frederick window — a glimpse of a far off hill
Out of a Frederick window — a vale and a rippling rill;
Out of a Frederick window — a mountain with crown of snow,
And a long, white road through the valley that sweeps like a bowl below;
Out of a Frederick window — the fields of the winter wheat,
And over it all Catcoctin, with the town at its green-girt feet!

Out of a Frederick window — a window that looks to the west,
The beautiful blue hills dreaming the dream of the wintry rest;
Snow-crowned gleaming and splendid, somber when dusk drifts down
And the bells of the twilight echo from the spires of the beautiful town;
Out of a Frederick window — the old pike winding far,
The vales and the bending river, the peaks and the evening star!

Out of a Frederick window — a glimpse of the naked trees,
Braddock upon the summit, and the echo of melodies
When the bees in the summer orchards and the hillside birds set fire
To the heart of the listening dreamers as they sang in a sweetheart choir;
Out of a Frederick window — the meadows of furzo and bloom,
And love in a faded garden with her foot on a silver loom!

Out of a Frederick window — a car climbs over the hill,
The steel wires sing in the valley and cows come down to the rill;
The phantoms of old, sweet faces, the shadows of old friends, glide,
And a great dream breaks into morning with a young heart by my side;
Out of a Frederick window — the valleys, and there they lie,
The peaks of the loved Catoctin in the blue of a wintry sky!

— The Bentztown Bard in The Baltimore Sun.

The News (Frederick, Maryland) Dec 15, 1915

Mistress Kimball’s Inn

July 6, 2011

Frederick, Maryland image from the Son of the South website


When Mistress Kimball kept the inn on Patrick street, due west,
In all the country side about it was the first and best.
Before her stoop each day there paused the coaches, drawn by four,
That up the dusty highway came with rattle and with roar.
While passengers, with beaming smiles, were happy to alight
And test the good dame’s famed cuisine or spend the winter night.

Full many a curtsy greeted them, the foaming steeds were ta’en
To sip the water from the trough, and fresh, with  curried main,
Pranced back to take the Westward way, while far the music rang
Of gay postilions as some snatch of airy song they sang.
It was a good y hostelry, and there full many a time
The statesmen of the old regime held forth in courtly prime.

With kerchief folded o’er her breast, and cap of glossy white,
She gave the mark of matron grace, attentive and polite.
Her table’s snowy linen shone, the glass was polished clear,
And on her ancient willow ware she doted fond and dear.
The punch bowl held its ample state, and there the toddy drew
Its sparkling comfort fit to warm the weary travellers through.

There came the Colonel Washington, to take h’s meals and rest;
And then at Mistress Kimball’s inn, on Patrick Street due West,
The grace of all her goodly skill came forth on such a day
To set her cheery house in trim with adequate display.
Dame Barbara’s borrowed service helped to set the table forth,
And there, my lords, the gentlemen, proclaimed her trusty worth.

Her heart with fluttering pride best loud’ her house was honored true,
And to and fro among her guests the gentle lady flew.
The roast, the baked potatoes brown, the turkey stuffed with spice,
The cookies and the crullers baked with art both fine and nice,
The punch in which Jamaica’s gem of rich distilling dwelt,
Not only flavored to the taste, but so it seemed and smelt.

Ah, happy days that came and went and now she’ll come no more,
When footsteps of the Nation’s great trod o’er her sanded floor,
When laud the hoofs of prancing steeds down dusty highways rang,
The couriers sped, the stage coach came, with rumble and with clang,
To pause for dinner or for rest, or changing mail and steeds,
In times when all the country grew to greatness and great deeds.

Ah, happy days, when inns were kept and statesmen rode about
In rambling vehicles that rolled along the unsoiled route.
When Franklin, with his beaming eyes, and Washington, rode up
To test the service, dine and rest and drink a jocund cup.
When of all inns the favorite, first, the goodliest and the best
Was kept by Mistress Kimball, fair, on Patrick street due West.

— The Bentztown Bard.

The News (Frederick, Maryland) Oct 30, 1897

Image from The Historical Marker Database

From the City of Frederick website (PDF link):

In 1806 the Thomas Jefferson administration began the construction of a federal highway that would lead to the newly acquired Louisiana Purchase lands comprising most of the central portion of the United States. The “National Road” began in Cumberland, Maryland and led to Wheeling in Virginia (West Virginia) and later on to Terre Haute, Indiana. The main wagon road from Baltimore to Cumberland, a collection of privately owned and operated turnpike segments, was eventually upgraded and consolidated to become part of the National Road.

Frederick-Town’s location and importance as a regional center assured its place along the “National Road.” Actually a section of the Frederick and Baltimore Turnpike, a privately financed toll road, part of the series of routes connecting to the National Road at Cumberland, the road passed through the center of Frederick-Town along Patrick Street. Chartered in 1805, the Frederick and Baltimore Turnpike was completed by 1808….

The National Road became one of the most heavily traveled east-west routes in America with traffic passing all hours of the day and night. Stage coaches, freight wagons, herds of swine, geese and cattle headed to market, plus individual traffic passed along the pike. Taverns, inns and hotels were an important part of the travel-generated economy. Also important were blacksmith shops, wagon shops, and leather and harness shops.

Indeed, Frederick-Town, already known for its inns and taverns, developed a number of hotel establishments that would define the character of Patrick Street for decades. Mrs. Kimball’s tavern, located on the corner of Patrick and Court (Public) Street had probably been in operation for decades when Anne Royall visited in 1828, calling it “the oldest and best stand in Maryland….”47 That same year, Joseph Talbott, already established as a Frederick innkeeper, purchased Mrs. Kimball’s tavern, changing the name to Talbott’s Hotel. The hotel was best known as the City Hotel, under which name it continued to operate as late as the 1897 Sanborn Insurance Co. map and was eventually replaced by the Francis Scott Key Hotel in the twentieth century.

The Old Graveyard: Frederick, Maryland

January 30, 2010


A Spot of Peculiar Historical Interest.

There is a great deal of historic interest attached to the old Presbyterian graveyard which has lately been purchased by the Salvation Army. In 1782 the first Presbyterian church ever built in this county was here erected. It was a very plain stucture of bricks, supposed to have been brought from England. It had a brick floor, high backed pews and a very lofty pulpit. The congregation was composed of Scotch settlers from Pennsylvania with a considerable German element; the first pastor was Rev. S.B. Balch, who was followed by Revs. David Baird and Cunningham Sample. Next came Rev. Samuel Knox from Ireland, a man of rare literary talents, who during his pastorate here was president of the Fred[er]ick Academy. He was the great grandfather of Rev. Wm. Ould, the present incumbent of the church. He was connected by marriage with the McCleery family of this city, who about two years ago removed the bodies of Mr. Knor [Knox?] and wife to Mt. Olivet cemetery. Rev. Patrick Davidson came next who was also president of the Frederick Academy, and it was during his pastorate that a new church was contemplated.

The present site was purchased about the year 1819, though the edifice was not commenced until 1825 and dedicated in 1827. To go back to the old churchyard with its fallen gravestones and sunken graves overrun with myrtle, we find that Rev. Mr. Davi[d]son was buried here in 1825. Among the sleeping dead were members of our prominent families whose sacred dust has just been carefully reinterred in Mt. Olivet. It has been told by an old resident, that Episcopalians and Presbyterians worshipped together in this old church, and their Sunday schools were united until the pastorate of Rev. Dr. Hamner.

Gov. Thomas Johnson (Image from

One of the most historical events celebrated in this antique church occurred February 22nd, 1800, when Thomas Johnson, first Governor of Maryland, delivered a funeral oration in memory of George Washington.

George Washington (Image from

Eight thousand persons were in attendance. It was one of those masterly orations which have been handed down to posterity. Gov. Johnson was a personal friend of Gen. Washington, and this oration was the last official act of his life. He said: “So strongly was Washington’s dear image imprinted on my memory, that I can now see the manly form and graceful attitude, his piercing blue eyes softened by modesty, innate sweetness and harmony of soul. Let us imitate his example, remember his patriotism, his courage on the field of battle and death, and like him to render up our swords to the country from which we receive them. We are professing Christians, let us live so that at death we may say like Washington, ‘I am not afraid to die.'”

The News (Frederick, Maryland) May 9, 1887

The Presbyterian Church image from: (Google Book LINK – limited preview) “Historical Sketch of the Presbyterian Church 1780-1910” starts on page 448

Title   History of Frederick County, Maryland, Volume 1
Authors    Thomas John Chew Williams, Folger McKinsey
Edition    reprint
Publisher Genealogical Publishing Com, 1979
ISBN    0806379731, 9780806379739
Length    1724 pages


More About Samuel Knox by Bernard C. Steiner in the Maryland Historical Magazine – vol.4; 1909 (Google Books LINK) pg. 276

Freedom’s Teacup

December 16, 2009


— The 16th of December, being the Centennial anniversary of the great Boston Tea Party, when the Pioneers of American Liberty steeped British tea in the briny waters of the Atlantic, the ladies of the Presbyterian Church of this city purpose giving on that evening a Memorial Tea Drinking.

All in whom the patriotic pulse still beats time to liberty’s song of one hundred years ago, are most heartily invited to participate with them on this occasion. There will be addresses and songs, and an abundant supply of the refreshing beverage, so dearly prized, and yet so willingly sacrificed by our noble forefathers, that we might drink of the cup and eat of the fruit of Liberty.

The Portsmouth Times (Portsmouth, Ohio) Nov 29, 1873

A Center of Patriotism.

The convention which voted not to drink a drop of tea that was brought to Maryland in English ships and taxed to support the British crown, was held in Frederick, where an intense spirit of patriotism prevailed throughout the entire period of the colonial struggle.

The indignation of the people of the colony against oppressive taxation reached its climax at Annapolis, where the brig “Peggy Stewart,” loaded with tea, was burned by her owner in compliance with the threats of the people. This occurred 119 years ago, and the descendants of American revolutionary fathers in Baltimore yesterday celebrated the anniversary of an event that was of equal import with the Boston tea party.

There is no doubt the liberty-impregnated atmosphere of Frederick and the hatred of oppression which prevailed among her people had great influence upon the convention that assembled here to discuss the problem of taxation without representation. That spirit of patriotism to the nation has never flagged. It has made Frederick a center out of which the spirit of loyalty has constantly emanated.

The Boston tea party attracted the attention of poets, romancers and historians, but the burning of the Peggy Stewart and the previous convention that incited the deed were far more striking and original examples of the righteous indignation of an oppressed people seeking to throw off the yoke.

The News (Frederick, Maryland) Oct 15, 1893

A Ballad of the Boston Tea-Party
By Oliver Wendell Holmes

No! never such a draught was poured
Since Hebe served with nectar
The bright Olympians and their Lord,
Her over-kind protector,–
Since Father Noah squeezed the grape
And took to such behaving
As would have shamed our grandsire ape
Before the days of shaving,–
No! ne’er was mingled such a draught
In palace, hall, or arbor,
As freemen brewed and tyrants quaffed
That night in Boston Harbor!
It kept King George so long awake
His brain at last got addled,
It made the nerves of Britain shake,
With sevenscore millions saddled;
Before that bitter cup was drained,
Amid the roar of cannon,
The Western war-cloud’s crimson stained
The Thames, the Clyde, the Shannon;
Full many a six-foot grenadier
The flattened grass had measured,
And many a mother many a year
Her tearful memories treasured;
Fast spread the tempest’s darkening pall,
The mighty realms were troubled,
The storm broke loose, bnt first of all
The Boston teapot bubbled!

An evening party,– only that,
No formal invitation,
No gold-laced coat, no stiff cravat,
No feast in contemplation,
No silk-robed dames, no fiddling band,
No flowers, no songs, no dancing,–
A tribe of red men, axe in hand,–
Behold the guests advancing!
How fast the stragglers join the throng,
From stall and workshop gathered!
The lively barber skips along
And leaves a chin half-lathered;
The smith has flung his hammer down,–
The horseshoe still is glowing;
The truant tapster at the Crown
Has left a beer-cask flowing;
The cooper’s boys have dropped the adze,
And trot behind their master;
Up run the tarry ship-yard lads,–
The crowd is hurrying faster,–
Out from the Millpond’s purlieus gush
The streams of white-faced millers,
And down their slippery alleys rush
The lusty young Fort-Hillers;
The rope walk lends its ‘prentice crew,–
The tories seize the omen:
“Ay, boys, you’ll soon have work to do
For England’s rebel foemen,
‘King Hancock,’ Adams, and their gang,
That fire the mob with treason,–
When these we shoot and those we hang
The town will come to reason.”

On– on to where the tea-ships ride!
And now their ranks are forming,–
A rush, and up the Dartmouth’s side
The Mohawk band is swarming!
See the fierce natives! What a glimpse
Of paint and fur and feather,
As all at once the full-grown imps
Light on the deck together!
A scarf the pigtail’s secret keeps,
A blanket hides the breeches,–
And out the cursèd cargo leaps,
And overboard it pitches!
O woman, at the evening board
So gracious, sweet, and purring,
So happy while the tea is poured,
So blest while spoons are stirring,
What martyr can compare with thee,
The mother, wife, or daughter,
That night, instead of best Bohea,
Condemned to milk and water!

Ah, little dreams the quiet dame
Who plies with rock and spindle
The patient flax, how great a flame
Yon little spark shall kindle!
The lurid morning shall reveal
A fire no king can smother
Where British flint and Boston steel
Have clashed against each other!
Old charters shrivel in its track,
His Worship’s bench has crumbled,
It climbs and clasps the union-jack,
Its blazoned pomp is humbled,
The flags go down on land and sea
Like corn before the reapers;
So burned the fire that brewed the tea
That Boston served her keepers!

The waves that wrought a century’s wreck
Have rolled o’er whig and tory;
The Mohawks on the Dartmouth’s deck
Still live in song and story;
The waters in the rebel bay
Have kept the tea-leaf savor;
Our old North-Enders in their spray
Still taste a Hyson flavor;
And Freedom’s teacup still o’erflows
With ever fresh libations,
To cheat of slumber all her foes
And cheer the wakening nations!

Edwardsville Intelligencer (Edwardsville, Illinois) Feb 5, 1874

Quantrill Reminiscences

May 29, 2009

Illustration for "Barbara Friechie"

Illustration for "Barbara Friechie"

Image from: John Greenleaf Whittier, Essex County’s Famous Son

The poem, “Barbara Freitchie” here and at the image link.


His Family in Maryland, and Incidents of His Ante-bellum Life —

How the “Good Quaker Poet” Cheated a Quantrell Woman Out of Glory and Fame.

Barbara Freitche an Imposter, and the Story of Her Flag and Her Old Grayhead a Pure Invention —

Quantrell’s Escape to Texas After the War and His Refuge in Hunt County — Uncertainty as to His Death.
{Special Correspondence of The News.}

WASHINGTON, September 29. — Much has been written about the alleged mistake of Whittier in making a heroine out of Barbara Freitche for waving the Union colors in the face of Stonewall Jackson and his followers as they marched through Frederick, Md. There are some interesting facts, however, connected with this conspicuous blunder which have never before been published. These have been furnished to your correspondent by Mr. Joseph Walker, the son-in-law of Mrs. Quantrell, who was the real heroine on that occasion. Mr. Walker is connected with the well-known paper-house of Morrison & Co., on D street, in this city, and is entirely familiar with the dramatic scene in which Dame Barbara “howed with her four score years and ten,” is supposed to have flaunted the silken scarf of patriotism from the window-sill and exclaimed:

“Shoot, if you must, this old gray head,
But spare your country’s flag!” (she said).

It was Byron who defined military glory as a going to the wars, getting killed, and having your name misspelled in the Gazette. So Mrs. Quantrell and her little daughter, after having the stars and stripes cut from their hand, suffered the melancholy injustice of seeing the valorous feat ascribed to a helpless old woman who lived a block and a half away, out of sight of the procession, and who was so deaf and blind that she could not have told the boom of a cannon from the blow of a horn, or the starry emblem of the Union from a striped bandanna.

“I’ll tell you the exact particulars,” said Mr. Walker, “and they have never before been correctly given. I have never given my account of that affair. None of the versions heretofore published are accurate. In the first place, there was none of the poetic incidents mentioned by Whittier. There was no window-sill, and no old woman about it.

Mrs. Mary A. Quantrell was at that time a woman of ?2, [32 ot 52] black-haired, and though she did become my mother-in-law afterward, I must say that she was very pretty. Her husband was then at work as a compositer on the National Intelligencer, in this city, and Mrs. Quantrell was living in Frederick with her children.

1860 Census - Quantrill family in DC

1860 Census - Quantrill family in DC

*Interesting note: On the census, A.R. Quantrill (Archibald) is listed as being one of the following: deaf, dumb, blind, insane, pauper or convict. It doesn’t specify, just has a check in the box.

On the day that Jackson and his army passed through Frederick she and her little daughter, Virgie Quantrell, who is now the wife of Mr. Perry Brown, at present an employe of the Government Printing office, were standing at the gate. They had several small Union flags, which they brought there to wave as the Confederates marched by. Mrs. Quantrell was enthusiastically loyal, and she, womanlike, simply took advantage of the occasion to show her devotion to the Union. They stood within a few feet of the line of march. Virgie was waving a very small flag, such as children play with on patriotic days. Many of the rebel soldiers had called out, “Throw down that flag!” but the little girl kept waving it. Suddenly a lieutenant drew his sword and cut the staff in two, the flag falling to the ground, The little girl then took another small flag and waved it, and this in turn was cut from her hand. Then Mrs. Quantrell displayed a larger flag and waved it in a conspicuous manner. This she continued to do until Stonewall Jackson and his men had all marched past her house. She was not molested in the least. In fact many of the officers and men treated her with marked courtesy. Some of the officers raised their hats and said: “To you, madam; not to your flag.”

Mr. Walker expressed his indignation that his mother-in-law should have been robbed of the credit of this patriotic performance. He gave a diagram of hte streets in that portion of Frederick, abowing that Barbara Freitche did not live on Jackson’s line of march, that her house was a block and a half away around the corner, and so situated that she could not have gotten a sight of the Confederates without leaving her premises; that the good old dame never claimed the honor of having waved a flag on that day; and that all Frederick knew that it was Mrs. Mary A. Quantrell, and not Barbara Freitche, who should have been immortalized in verse by the Quaker poet laureate.

The Quantrell family are now in possession of three letters from Whittier acknowledging his mistake and the injustice that had been done the real heroine, or rather the two heroines, as it would seem that the little Virgie was as much entitled to a niche in the temple of fame as her patriotic mother. These letters Mr. Walker offered to show your correspondent if he would accompany him to his home. In one of them Mr. Whittier says he derived his information as to Barbara Freitche from Mrs. E.D.N. Southworth, the manufacturer of sensational literature, who wrote him a letter detailing the incident and suggesting that it afforded material for a masterful poem; whereupon he sat down and evolved the thrilling story of the nonagenarian dame who had planted the stars and the stripes in the face of rebel invaders. Mr. Whittier admits that Mrs. Southworth made a mistake but says the poem has become so “widespread” that a correction of the name would be impossible. The Quantrells evidently failed to appreciate the force of Mr. Whittier’s logic, as they are unable to see how it is too late to correct such an egregious blunder.

Mrs. Quantrell was for several years a teacher in Frederick, and was a lady of unusual accomplishments. She was a frequent contributor to the press, the York (Pa.) Evening Herald, having printed many of her poems and other literary efforts. She was a Miss Lands [should  be Sands], whose brother, George W. Lands [Sands], was a member of the Maryland legislature, and a United States collector of internal revenue by appointment of President Lincoln, and was succeeded in that office by the now Senator Gorman. The trouble of Collector Lands were notorious a few years ago. The government claimed that he was in arrears to the extent of $14,000, his property was seized and sold to satisfy the deficit, and his bondsmen were called upon to pay an unsatisfied balance. Lands always asserted that he was the victim of injustice, and Collector Gorman, who succeeded him, bore testimony that the books of the office showed that the shoe was on the other foot, and that the government really owed him. Four or five years ago a bill was introduced reciting the wrong that had been done Lands and providing for his relief, but Senator Ben Hill and others violently opposed the measure and it was slaughtered in the Senate. For which the Lands [Sands] and the Quantrells do not hold the name of Ben Hill in grateful memory.

Mrs. Quantrell died about three years ago. It is said that she always felt keenly the injustice that had been done her by Whittier. She was proud and ambitious, just the sort of woman who yearned for the glory of posthumous fame. Her niece and namesake, Mary A. Quantrell, is now a clerk in the treasury department. Her daughter and co-heroine, now Mrs. Perry Brown, also living here, has inherited her mother’s talent and has a decided literary turn.

Image from the book Quantrill and the Border Wars

Image from the book Quantrill and the Border Wars

It is a little singular that a family which furnished such an exponent of the loyal sentiment of the country should also have supplied a champion of the confederate cause whose very name carried with it terror and consternation. John Quantrell, the famous guerilla, was a nephew of Archibald Quantrell, the husband of Mary A., whom Whittier should have immortalized, but did not. The Quantrells belonged in Hagerstown, Md., and were generally noted for their intelligence and bravery. Archibald’s brother James moved to Ohio at an early day, and settled in the Monongahela valley, where he became a college professor. His son John was born there, and at the beginning of the war was teaching school at Canaldover, on the Monongahela.

Members of his family here describe the young man as a person of slight figure, almost feminine in appearance, with the soft speech and gentleness of a woman, manifestly built by nature to fit the Byronic description of “as mild a mannered man as ever scuttled shop or cut a throat.” The dawn of sectional troubles furnished this palid young man an early opportunity to show that he was made of sterner stuff than his neighbors suspected. In the village of Canaldover he was almost the only person who sympathized with the South. Furthermore, he was open in his sympathy, and boldly said if it came to a fight he would give up his little school and go on the warpath. This aroused the loyal people around Canaldover to such an extent that they notified Quantrell that he must quit talking or “take the consequences.”

But the young man defied them, and kept on talking and teaching school. So a mob gathered one night and went out to the suburban cottage where Quantrell lived. They had a bucket of tar and a bag of feathers. The pallid young man did not scare at all. The mob found the doors and windows barred, but through a crack the piping voice of Quantrell called out that he was in his castle and the first man who put his hand on the latch would fall dead. The mob laughed, held up the tar and feathers, and invited the environed school teacher to come out and on “a new coat that would stick to him like a poor relative.”

A flash through the crack was the response to this, and the leader fell dead on the step. Then there was a rush of the crowd for the door, but a second flash and the dying shriek of another leader caused the mob to fall back. The men who carried the tar and the feathers had fallen at the first two shots. Before the crowd had began to recover from the confusion into which it had been thrown by these tragedies there was a third flash at the crack, and another man jumped high into the air and fell dead with a groan. Then a panic seized the mob, and in a moment every intruder had disappeared in the darkness, leaving their three dead comrades in the front yard.

An hour later Quantrell was ten miles away, mounted on his magnificent black horse, who bore him at a sweeping gallop toward the Ohio river. A few months later, at the head of a band of 100 desperadoes, he fell upon an encamped federal regiment and annihilated it, and his name speedily became the synonym for cruel and remorseless warfare. Like the James and Younger boys, Quantrell’s effectiveness as a guerrilla arose from the extraordinary accuracy of his aim. He used a Sharp’s rifle, which will kill a man a mile away if the ball hits in the right place.

It is said that on the day of the battle of Oak Hill, in Missouri, Quantrell stationed himself on the branches of a tree which afforded him a full view of the federal line, 1400 yards away. In two hours he had picked off thirty-eight men, so perfect were his aim and nerve. For a long time Quantrell’s ambition was to lead a raid through Ohio, and he was particularly anxious to pay a visit to his old friends at Canaldover, but the confederate officials declined to approve a movement which afterward proved so disastrous under the leadership of John Morgan.

More or less mystery surrounds the wanderings and fate of Quantrell after the war. The end of the war found him near Springfield, Mo., wounded in both legs and the right shoulder. There was a price on his head, and his friends did not dare to let the authorities know who he was. He was hastily placed in a two-horse wagon and driven as rapidly as his condition would permit through Arkansas into Texas. He found a resting-place at the home of Mr. Imboden, in Hunt county; near the town of Greenville.

Quantrell was in an almost dying condition when he reached Imboden’s house. Imboden was a Mason and so was Quantrell, and it is said that on this consideration the hunted guerilla was made comfortable and was furnished with the best surgical attention afforded in that country. During Quantrell’s stay at Imboden’s house he received remittance of money from St. Louis, raised by his followers who had settled in that city.

In six weeks he had so improved that he was able to mount a horse and ride away from Imboden’s house. Since that time nothing has been definitely known of the terrible bushwhacker. It was said that he died in New Orleans, but his relatives here say that this is not certainly known. They believe he is dead, but do not positively know it. They are quite sure he is dead, chiefly because the character of his wounds was such that he could not have survived all these years.

A curious illustration of the mutations of life is furnished in the fact that a man, once a daring young desperado in Western Missouri, who followed Quantrell through the entire way, and who, like all of Quantrell’s men, was noted for his savage fighting qualities, is now a patient, humdrum governance clerk in this city scantily supporting a family of eight children on the pay drawn from a fourth class place. He is a sealed book on his guerilla experience, though it is said his body is scarred with divers bullet holes.

Moreover, he is a good loyal Republican, a little dried up old man, cadaverous and timid looking, and few people who know him suspect that he was once an active and redoubtable agent in the business of death.

The Quantrell family, of Maryland, lays claim to several squares of public ground in Cincinnati, taking in a long strip of the river wharf. The claim is placed at $5,000,000 in value, and is now in the hands of Ben Butler for prosecution. Butler says the claim is a good one, and has made the Quantrells feel very hopeful about its final outcome.

Galveston Daily News (Galveston, Texas) Oct 4, 1884

I think the John Quantrell in this article may have been William Clarke Quantrill. The article also states his father was James Quantrill, but the information I can find states his father was Thomas Quantrill, which is supported by the 1850 census record of Dover, OH, as it lists William C. Quantrill as a 13 year-old son of Thomas and Caroline.

You can find Quantrill and the Border Wars online: (Google books link)

Page 22 Mary A. Quantrill is mentioned, and towards the bottom of page 23 it states that Barbara Freitche was actually a supporter of the confederacy, according to her family.

Regarding the Mr. Imboden mentioned: It appears he may have been John D (or James) Imboden, a lawyer. He had a son,  Leonard (provided I have found the correct family), who is listed on the 1900 census, occupation: banker, but a prisoner in the county jail in Kansas City, MO.

According to the book linked above, Quantrill died in KY (if I understood it correctly, as I only skimmed it) after being wounded and captured. Death chapter starts on page 480, the chapter before that deals with the last battle, where he was wounded.