William Still Underground RR Foundation Inc.
THE CHRONICLE OF AN AMERICAN FIRST FAMILY
THE STILLS HAVE BEEN WITH US FOR 350
YEARS, AND THEIR COMBINATION OF SUFFERING
AND ACCOMPLISHMENT IS ALMOST UNPARALLELED IN OUR HISTORY

By LINN WASHINGTON Jr.
a staff writer for the Philadelphia Daily News

SOMETIME IN THE early 1630s - a full half-century before William Penn founded the city of Philadelphia - a ship sailed up the Delaware River with an African man on board.

Tradition says this man was a "Guinea prince."
Little is known about him. His name may have been Still or something similar. It's said that he had a commanding presence, that he enjoyed the respect of whites, blacks and Indians alike, and that he came ashore near where Gloucester City now stands in the shadow of the Walt Whitman Bridge. Records from later in the century show the presence of many slaves named Still in this part of South Jersey, so it is possible that the Guinea prince was a slave - sold into captivity, perhaps, as a result of some royal intrigue in his African homeland.

Whatever the case, a settlement of black people grew up in this part of Gloucester County, which was called Guineatown, after the Guinea prince. It endured for three centuries. "The last resident of Guineatown," according to local historian James F. McCloy, "was a Mrs. Still, who lived there until the 1930s." Eric Burton Austin with his wife, Bonita Still Austin, and their children, Rodney James Austin and Theresa Lynn Austin.

We don't know what became of the Guinea prince.
We do know that hundreds of his descendants live among us now - especially in the Lawnside, Moorestown, Mount Laurel and Vineland areas of South Jersey. We also know that an astonishing number of Stills have distinguished themselves over the last century and a half - some by excelling in such fields as politics, social reform, business, athletics, and medicine, and others simply by enduring and overcoming conditions of incredible human hardship.

There was William Still, the 19th-century Philadelphia businessman who was called the "Father of the Underground Railroad" and who, after the Civil War, worked successfully for the desegregation of Philadelphia's streetcars and for the appointment of its first black police officers.

There was Peter Still, who made national news in 1850 when, after 40 years in slavery, he completed a Roots-like quest, traveling from Alabama to Philadelphia to be reunited with his mother. Then, after more years of hard effort, he succeeded in purchasing his wife and children from their Alabama masters. His was one of the personal stories that helped awaken a nation to the evils of the Southern slave system.

There was Dr. James Thomas Still Jr., who, in 1871, was the second black person to graduate from Harvard Medical School.

There was his father, a renowned herbalist and one of Medford Township's biggest landowners in the late 19th century. Known as the Black Doctor of the Pines, he gained a wide reputation for prescribing successful remedies for patients whom the best physicians of the day had failed to cure.

There was Lewis Still, who claimed to have invented saltwater taffy. ("When he was dying," says Gloria Still, a family historian, "Lewis said he only had two regrets in life, and one was selling the recipe for saltwater taffy. Lewis never said what his second regret was.")

There were a whole host of Stills whose names appear on the original incorporation papers of many of the oldest black churches and social organizations in South Jersey.

There was Ephraim J. Still, an original founder and a mayor of the town of Lawnside, N.J.

There is Art Still, a Camden High School graduate and now an all-pro defensive end for the Kansas City Chiefs.

There is Valerie Still, a female basketball star now playing in Europe, who holds the all-time career scoring record at the University of Kentucky.

The list goes on and on.


Gentlemen of Still Family

"ALL STILLS ARE NOT wealthy and all Stills are not overachievers," says Gloria Still, "but all of them I have met have this sense of self-esteem . . . this sense of 'you are a Still, after all,' and (that) being a Still is something important." Author George Prowell noticed this trait more than a century ago. In his 1880 book on Camden County, he described the Stills of that day as superior in both stature and mental endowments, noting also that the family "claimed royal descent with their ancestor being a prince in the direct line, when he was captured in Guinea."
Gloria calls herself a "chosen Still," a Still by marriage rather than birth. Researching the family's origins has been her consuming interest for the last 30 years. Every piece of information she uncovers is like a mosaic tile in what has become, especially in recent years, a panoramic reconstruction of one of America's most remarkable family histories.

Gloria Still likes to compare her family's legacy with those of the Kennedys and Rockefellers. It's an especially important tradition, she feels, in an age of such concern about black self-esteem and the viability of black families. Temple University historian Charles Blockson, a staunch Still family booster who attends their annual reunions each summer, concurs. "The Still family," he says, "is something special because it represents strength and stability."
MORE THAN 230 RELAtives, some from as far as Wisconsin and Nebraska, were gathered at the Mount Laurel Hilton one evening in June for the 118th Still Family Reunion banquet dinner. The chitchat at one of the tables centered on whether soul singer Teddy Pendergrass was a Still. It seems Pendergrass had just married a woman named Karin Still. And if she was a member of the family, then so was the heart-stopping T.P. It was an exciting possibility, all agreed. But no one present could confirm it, so the talk soon turned to other things.Ladies of Still Family

This gathering was the first in a series of three reunion events held this summer. After the June banquet came a larger get-together in August, which included a Sunday morning service at the Mount Zion A.M.E. Church and a big picnic in Clarence "Clem" Still's back yard in Lawnside. More than 500 relatives attended.

In September, the string of reunions concluded with a church service and a dinner in Vineland.

The reunions get more elaborate every year. Games are played, some great meals are consumed, and Still Family Reunion T-shirts are purchased. There are guided tours of some of the family's historic sites, such as the grave of James Still, the Black Doctor of the Pines, at the Jacob's Chapel A.M.E. Church in Mount Laurel, and the site where the doctor's stately house once stood near Medford.

In recent years, as the family has grown more conscious of its history, there have been plays and skits dramatizing the old family stories. One of this year's highlights was a skit re-enacting the family's first reunion at Doctor Still's home in 1870. It was written by Bonita Still Austin, a great- great-granddaughter of the Black Doctor, and was acted out, in period costumes on a stage set with period furniture, by direct descendants of the people who were present at that first reunion.

Oldest and Youngest Still

A main purpose of the reunions is to pass on the family history to succeeding generations. "The reunions give the young Stills a sense of belonging and pride of where they came from," said William H. Still of New York City, chairman of the reunion committee, "and that's important in growing up."

"I teach fourth grade," said Sandy Chambers, a descendant of Doctor James Still who not only teaches school but also is a longtime member of the Orlons rock-and-roll singing group, "and when I teach New Jersey studies, I really emphasize the accomplishments of Doctor James Still and William Still, and the kids like it."

The reunions also attract mainstream historians. At this year's affair, researcher George Dutton of Philadelphia's Afro-American Historical and Cultural Museum was conducting interviews with family members as part of the museum's oral-history project. "The Still family is unique," Dutton said. ''This family has traced its history back to the 17th century. They have put their family roots together, and most families haven't done that."

THE STORY OF WILLIAM STILL, ACTIVIST AND ENTREPRENEUR


AS A CHILD, WILLIAM Still once impressed an employer by chopping and stacking a full cord of wood in six hours, no small feat for an average-size youngster known more for his quick mind than his physical strength.

Uncommon accomplishments were to become synonymous with the name William Still. He would become an abolitionist and social activist in the City of Brotherly Love, which had a reputation as the most racist city in 19th-century America. He would also amass a fortune of nearly $1 million as a coal merchant.

Born Oct. 7, 1821, Still grew up in poverty on his family's farm in the Pine Barrens. He was the youngest of 18 children born to Levin and Charity Still, who were former slaves. Levin had purchased his freedom from a Maryland farmer and moved to Burlington County - where some of his relatives lived - around 1807. Charity had twice escaped from the same farmer to join her husband on the homestead near Indian Mills, changing her name (from Sidney) the second time to hide her identity from the slave-catchers.

His parents' experiences inspired in William a desire to dedicate his life to helping his people. He also had a thirst for learning - a thirst he could not satisfy because of the demands of his farm chores and the odd jobs he got chopping wood or working in the nearby cranberry bogs. He got only a few hours a year of formal schooling, so he educated himself. He was an avid reader who consumed every book he could get his hands on.

In 1844, the lure of better opportunities led William to Philadelphia, where two of his older sisters, Mary and Kitturah, already lived. He worked for a wealthy widow named Mrs. E. Langdon Elwyn, waited on tables and labored in a brickyard before making a fateful job change in 1847, the same year he met and married Letitia George. William answered an ad for a clerk's position at the Pennsylvania Anti-Slavery Society office on North Fifth Street in Center City, not far from where the Liberty Bell Pavilion now stands.

During the next 14 years, while he served as the society's clerk and corresponding secretary, William Still was one of America's most active agents for the Underground Railroad, the clandestine network that ferried slaves from bondage in the South to freedom above the Mason-Dixon Line. Still aided as many as 60 runaways a month and kept meticulous, secret records of his activities.

It was perilous work. Fugitive slaves were constantly being hunted down in the streets of Philadelphia. Still often hid runaways in his own home at 832 South Street. He often traveled to Germantown to confer with fellow Underground Railroad operatives, such as the famous Harriet Tubman, at Quaker Samuel Johnson's home, a colonial-era stone house that still stands on the northwest corner of Germantown Avenue and Washington Lane.

Still was involved in some of the most daring exploits of the anti-slavery movement. He helped open the crate containing Henry "Box" Brown, who had escaped slavery by shipping himself inside a sealed wooden box on overland express from Richmond to Philadelphia. And after John Brown's unsuccessful raid on the U.S. Army arsenal at Harpers Ferry in 1859, Still gave aid to several of Brown's accomplices who were seeking arms to supply a nationwide slave revolt. Brown's wife also stayed with William Still for a time. (Brown's daughter, Annie Brown, sent Still a lock of hair from the head of the militant abolitionist. Today, the hair and the gold locket in which it came are part of the Philadelphia Historical Society's William Still Papers collection. The hair was clipped from Brown's head on Dec. 3, 1859, one day after he was hanged for leading the Harpers Ferry insurrection. Along with the hair and locket came a note from Annie: "Mother sends a lock of father's hair which she promised you. She also sends her love to you and your family.")

Still's struggles against racism didn't end with emancipation. The desegregation of Philadelphia's streetcars and the appointments of the city's first black police officers were direct results of his campaigns. Ironically, his struggles against white racism sparked a bitter reaction among some blacks, who were suspicious of his influence and power and jealous of his wealth and prestige. Still's coal yard on Washington Avenue near 12th Street was subjected to boycotts and threats of burning. Still responded to his critics with impassioned speeches and eloquently written pamphlets.

When Still was castigated in 1874 for suggesting that blacks end their blind loyalty to the hostile Republican city administration in favor of a progressive Democratic mayoral candidate, his stirring speeches and letters won converts nationwide. (Still's 1874 argument - that blacks should support candidates, not parties - became the founding principle last year for a group of black Philadelphia-area professionals, led by then-Temple Law Dean Dr. Carl Singley, who organized themselves as The Still Group.)

As a philanthropist, Still served on many boards for local charities aiding black children and the elderly. He was the first president of Philadelphia's oldest black-owned banking institution, the Berean Savings Association, founded in February 1888 by Still's son-in-law, the Rev. Matthew Anderson of the Berean Presbyterian Church. And in 1889, the founding meeting of the Christian Street YMCA, one of the oldest black Y's in America, was held in the living room of Still's home at 244 S. 12th St.

At the 1876 Philadelphia Centennial Exposition, the self-taught farm boy from the Pine Barrens proudly exhibited, in a heavy glass display case, a book he had written, The Underground Railroad. The book became, in its day, the most widely circulated work on the anti-slavery network.

Into his old age, Still stayed active in the struggle for black equality, serving as president of the Pennsylvania Anti-Slavery Society until a year before his death in 1902. He also remained a devoted father to his four children, all of whom were active and successful. His daughter Caroline Virginia was a medical doctor. His son William Wilberforce was a public accountant. His daughter Frances Ellen was one of the city's first kindergarten teachers. And his son Robert George was a journalist who owned a print shop on Pine at 11th.

William Still died of a heart attack at his home at 726 S. 19th St. in South Philadelphia. An obituary in the following day's New York Times described him as a man of wealth, one of the best-educated members of his race, and the "Father of the Underground Railroad."

GLORIA TUGGLE MARRIED into the Still family 30 years ago, after a two-week whirlwind courtship with Kenneth W. Still, a career paratrooper from Lawnside, N.J. Today they have seven children and 10 grandchildren - large families are another Still family tradition.

"The good Lord blessed me with not being born a Still," says Gloria, "so I didn't take this long family heritage for granted." Her fascination with Still family history was sparked by the wonderful stories she heard from her husband's brother, Clem.

"As a young wife coming into this family from the asphalt jungle of Baltimore, I listened to Clem and heard what he said about William Still and Doctor James Still," Gloria says. "I'm the Mouth Of the Family - that's M-O- F - but the keeper of the family history, the person who gathered it all, is Clem Still."

Clem, then, is the family griot. (A griot is a West African wiseman who preserves in his mind hundreds of years of oral history for a particular clan or village. Author Alex Haley reconstructed his family's African roots from the accounts of a Gambian griot who knew the ancestral history of his forefather Kunte Kinte.)

The arrival of the Guinea prince, and William Still's campaign to desegregate the streetcars, were stories Clem Still had heard all his life from his father and other relatives. "My father told me most of the stories," says Clem, a low-key, soft-spoken man. "You heard stories about a lot of different things, which didn't mean much at the time, but as you got older, they meant more."

Clem still resides in Lawnside, not far from the homestead of his grandfather. "Guineatown, the place where the prince once lived, is located about four miles from here," he says.

When Clem was a child, his father would take him to visit sites the family considers shrines. These included the grave site of Doctor James Still at Jacob's Chapel A.M.E. Church and the Christian Street YMCA in Philadelphia. There was also William Still's parlor furniture and silver tea set at Cousin Ella's house in North Philadelphia.

"When I was a teenager, I got curious, and I started reading and collecting stuff on the family," Clem says. Picking up bits and pieces of information was easy, he says, because so much of the history was already written down in books by family members.

"Reading the books about the family was impressive because they gave you something to fall back on. You had a reference and not just the oral history of 'Well, Uncle Joe told me this.' You had something to back up what you were saying."

THE STORY OF PETER STILL: GOT TO BE FREE


PETER STILL WAS STARtled by the kiss and tearful goodbye his mother gave him late one night. The 6-year-old boy had no way of knowing that it would be more than 40 years before he saw his mother again.

As she prepared to embark on her second escape from slavery, Peter's mother, Charity, had made a painful decision - a "Sophie's choice." She had decided to leave her two eldest children, Peter and his brother, Levin, 8, with their grandmother. Charity hoped that by leaving her sons, she and her two daughters, Mahalah and Kitturah, would have a better chance of surviving the dangerous trek north from Maryland to the Jersey Pine Barrens, where her husband, Levin, was already living. Levin had purchased his freedom a year or more earlier.

During Charity's previous escape attempt, she and her four children had nearly starved. Their effort had been a partial success; they'd made it across the Mason-Dixon Line and were even reunited briefly with Levin in New Jersey, but then the slave-catchers got them, and they were sent back to the plantation on Maryland's Eastern Shore.

Now, Charity was trying it again, this time traveling lighter.

When the plantation master, a man named Saunders Griffin, discovered that Charity was gone, he was furious. In retaliation, he sold Peter and Levin to a man named John Fisher, who took the youngsters to Lexington, Ky., to work in his brickyard. After four years, Fisher sold the boys to Nat Gist, another Lexington brickyard owner.

During Peter's teenage years, his resolve to resist the dehumanizing rigors of slavery grew stronger. Determined to make a better life for himself, Peter practiced self-discipline. He abstained from liquor, tobacco and bad language.

Eventually, Peter and Levin ended up on a cotton plantation in Bainbridge, Ala. Levin, who worked as a field hand most of his life, died in Bainbridge when he was unable to recover from a lashing his wife's master gave him for visiting her too often at a neighboring plantation. Levin was whipped 317 times with a rawhide lash.

On the December day in 1831 when Peter buried his brother in the Alabama soil, he made a vow not to die a slave.

Eighteen years later, Peter was sold to a man named Joseph Friedman in Tuscumbia, Ala., who granted Peter's lifelong wish to buy himself out of slavery. Friedman, a moneylender in Tuscumbia, charged Peter $500 for his freedom, which Peter paid in five installments between Jan. 26, 1849, and April 16, 1850.

Once free, Peter's first thought was to find the family he had been torn from four decades earlier. But finding his family meant leaving his wife, Lavinia, and their children, Peter, Levin and Catherine. Peter promised Lavinia that he would return for them soon.

Joseph Friedman's brother Isaac took Peter to Cincinnati in July 1850, to officially set him free, because Alabama law strictly forbade the freeing of slaves under any circumstances. Once in Cincinnati, Peter, now white-haired and in his late 40's, struck out on his life's quest with $80 in his pocket and a worn carpetbag in his hand. Peter traveled by steamer up the Ohio River to Pittsburgh and then by stagecoach to Philadelphia. He was guided by the words of his grandmother, who had told him decades before never to forget that his mother, father and sisters lived up north by the Delaware River.

On arriving in Philadelphia, Peter's plan was to make inquiries at black churches about his family. At one church, he met a Rev. Byas, who on Aug. 1, 1850, took him to the most momentous meeting of his life. It was a scene that would be played out more than a century later in skits at the Still family reunions.

Although Mr. Byas himself could not provide the information Peter sought, he took him to see his friend William Still, the young clerk who ran the office of the Pennsylvania Anti-Slavery Society.

When Peter began telling of his family remembrances, William Still soon realized that this shabbily dressed ex-slave was one of the long-lost brothers his own mother had constantly talked and prayed about.

William Still was amazed. He began pouring out the story, of how his own father - their father - had purchased his way out of slavery. How his mother - their mother - and two sisters, their sisters, Mahalah and Kitturah, had escaped from the Maryland plantation. How they had come north, been reunited with Charity's husband, Levin (who was now eight years dead), and how the couple had subsequently had 11 other children, including not only William but also James (who was already becoming renowned as the Black Doctor of the Pines).

It was more than Peter could believe. His masters in the South had indoctrinated their slaves to be wary of abolitionists, and Peter now feared that the incredible story he was hearing might be some kind of trick. He was not fully persuaded until two days later, when his sister Kitturah, whom he hadn't seen since he was 6, and a younger sister, Mary, and younger brother, James, whom he had never met before, took him to his mother's farm in the Pine Barrens.

At the farm, the plan was to break the news of Peter's return slowly to the infirm Charity. But Peter couldn't wait.

"Momma!" he shouted when he saw her. "It be me - Peter!"

Tears began to roll down the old woman's face. She stretched out her arms to welcome her second-born son.

When Charity asked about her eldest son, Levin, Peter told her, "He be - free," meaning that he was dead. Charity understood. She was saddened by the news, but said, "Thank God Almighty."

Peter stayed with his family for more than a week, marveling at the success of his brothers William and James, whose comfortable life contrasted so sharply with the slave life he had endured.

But now Peter's thoughts turned to his own wife and children back in Alabama. He told his relatives he'd "as soon go out of this world" if he couldn't be reunited with them. Eight days after arriving in Philadelphia, Peter returned to Alabama, determined to find a way to free his wife and children.

He was back in Philadelphia the following November. He had failed to purchase their release.

Desperate now, he reluctantly agreed to a daring plan offered by a white Quaker, Seth Concklin. The story of Peter's miraculous reunion with his mother and siblings in New Jersey had made national headlines, and one of those who had been moved by the story was Concklin, who now volunteered to go to Alabama and rescue Peter's family for him.

Concklin's mission ended in April 1851. He had spirited Lavinia and the children away from Alabama all right, but they were discovered while traveling through Indiana. Concklin was away on an errand when the family was captured. When he found out what had happened, he went to the jail where they were being held and tried to have them released on a writ of habeas corpus. Instead, he was arrested, too.

The family was returned to Alabama. Concklin was murdered by the slave- catchers.

For Peter Still, things now looked more hopeless than ever. Then, on Aug. 6, 1851, William Still got a letter from B. McKiernon, the man who owned Peter's wife and children, saying that he would take $5,000 for the "4 culerd people." For the next four years, Peter worked hard to raise the money, by doing odd jobs and giving anti-slavery speeches and from private donations. He was helped by the fact that he was something of a celebrity by now. A white journalist, Kate Pickard, had interviewed the illiterate freedman extensively and had published a book in 1850, The Kidnapped and the Ransomed, about Peter's life as a slave.

By 1855 Peter Still had the $5,000, and his wife and children had their freedom. He moved them from Alabama to Burlington, N.J., where he bought a 10- acre farm and grew produce for sale in the city of Burlington. His customers included many of the best families - people who knew of his past and sympathized.

Peter and Lavinia Still were among the 11 original organizers of Burlington's Second Baptist Church in 1863, the oldest black Baptist church in the county.

Peter died Jan. 10, 1868, at the approximate age of 68.

FAMILY GRIOT--CLEM STILL


AS FAMILY GRIOT, CLEM STILL HAS been primarily responsible for the Roots- like renaissance now going on in his family. Old and young alike have been drawn into this renaissance, researching old records and writing and performing the historical skits at the annual reunions.

This upsurge of enthusiasm dates from the summer of 1983, at one of the family reunions. It was stimulated by a speech given by Gloria Still, at Clem's urging. Clem wanted to inject a little more substance into the annual gathering, so he asked Gloria to prepare a speech on the family's history, based on the material both had gathered over the decades.

"That particular Sunday morning, the whole family history was presented from the 1600s right up until today, for the first time I can remember," Gloria says. She not only told about the Guinea prince and some of the more famous family members of the 19th century, but she also spoke about some of the lesser-known Stills - such as Levin, the father of William, Peter and James, and how he purchased his freedom from the Maryland slave holder and moved to New Jersey.

She told about Ephraim J. Still, who was an original City Council and school board member of the town of Lawnside (one of the few incorporated, predominately black towns in the nation) when it was officially incorporated in 1926.

And about Lewis Still, the self-described inventor of saltwater taffy.

Gloria's 1983 speech did something that had never been done before. It combined the various threads of family history into a comprehensive narrative - from the Guinea prince right down to the present day. It established connections that few historians had made. For instance, although many reference books on black history list the accomplishments of William Still and Doctor James Still, few have noted the important fact that they were brothers.

Gloria's speech planted seeds of interest that quickly sprouted in other members of the family. One who was especially inspired was Bonita Still Austin of Clementon, N.J. Bonita already had a strong sense of the family's heritage. She is a great-great-granddaughter of the Black Doctor and a sister of Art Still, the pro football player, and of Valerie Still, the basketball star. "I had always heard of Doctor James Still," she says, "but it didn't mean that much, because there were 12 of us (in her immediate family), so it was like 'Stills . . . more Stills!' " But after hearing Gloria's speech, "I became more interested in the family history, and I felt compelled to do more research."

Bonita wrote not only the skit about the first family reunion, but also one about how Peter Still was reunited with his family in 1850. She based it on an account written by William Still.

"This has become a highly personalized experience," she says, "to literally experience what our ancestors left behind. All we're doing is giving our forefathers back what they've done for us. That's where the joy comes. Giving back to them what they've given to us and giving them their proper place in history."

And so, the renaissance spread - from Clem to Gloria, then to Bonita, then from her to some of her sisters, including Francine Still Hicks, an artist who has painted Doctor James Still's portrait, and Franciana Still, who acts in the Peter Still reunion skit. Also to another sister, Jackie Still Neal, who has lived in Lexington, Ky., for the last six years and whose first job there was on the same street as the site of the plantation where the brothers Peter and Levin spent most of their young lives.

Jackie is now doing research on Peter and Levin and also on Seth Concklin, the Quaker who lost his life trying to rescue Peter's family from slavery.

She says the work has given her life new meaning. "When I feel life is rough, I think about these men and all they did, and I get humble. These men did so much."

THE STORY OF JAMES STILL, THE BLACK DOCTOR OF THE PINES


PLAYING DOCTOR WAS THE FAvorite childhood game of James Still. He performed mock vaccinations on his brothers and sisters, using a slender piece of pine bark to simulate the lancet used by the doctor who visited his father's farm.

The dream of becoming a doctor - of riding around the countryside healing people - captivated this son of an ex-slave. "It took deep root in me," Doctor Still wrote in his 1877 autobiography, "so deep that all the drought of poverty or lack of education could not destroy the desire."

James Still traveled a rocky road on the way to a medical career. His early years were dominated by farm chores, chopping wood and picking cranberries. He got only about three months a year of formal education, with the Bible and Comly's Speller as his main study materials.

Times were so lean that the young James once wrestled a piece of meat from the mouth of the family cat.

When he was 21 he left the Pine Barrens and walked to Philadelphia, where he lived with older sister Kitturah and worked at a glue factory for $12 a month. The factory owner was pleased with James' hard work, but the stench from the boiling dead animals eventually became unbearable for the boy, and he returned to the Pine Barrens after less than a year, finding what work he could and saving his earnings.

The happiest period of James Still's life was when he married Angelina Willow in 1835, after a courtship in which he learned love songs to sing to her. The marriage was short. Angelina died in 1838. Their only child, Beulah, died a year later.

James went through a period of intense mourning, seclusion and prayer before he realized the folly of his self-pity. He married a second time, to Henrietta Thomas, and again worked at any odd job he could find.

By 1842 James had saved enough money to purchase a still, which he used to distill extracts from roots and herbs that he gathered near his house. He sold the extracts to pharmacists. With the money he made from the herbal extracts, he bought books on anatomy, physiology, botany and the preparation of medicines.

Soon, his practice of herbal medicine crowded out the distilling business. He built a wagon for making calls, and he carried a cigar box as his medicine chest. He had a far-flung caseload that included whites as well as blacks. ''Patients came long distances to seek his advice, and hundreds attest the benefits of his treatment," the New Jersey Mirror wrote years later, on the occasion of his death. Skin cancer was one of the illnesses he is said to have treated successfully.

As his reputation grew, so did the resentment of white doctors. Here was a black herbalist, with no medical degree, affecting cures that they could not. They ridiculed his remedies and contended that his patients were never really sick in the first place. They also threatened legal action - for practicing without a license. Doctor Still consulted a Mount Holly lawyer, who told him he could not legally collect money for medical services without a license but that he could sell medicine and charge for delivering it. And so, on that basis, his practice continued.

A ringing testament to his skills is found in a letter written by the Rev. John M. Buckley and published in the New Jersey Mirror of March 14, 1882. Mr. Buckley had had a serious infection of his upper jaw, which the best doctors of the time had failed to cure. In desperation, Buckley was about to depart for Paris to be treated by a French specialist when someone suggested he visit the Black Doctor of the Pines.

"At first I spurned the notion but afterwards thought it might do no harm to try," Mr. Buckley wrote. "Dr. Still produced an entire Cure in (4) weeks time, charging less for the cure than the others had charged for examining the diseased part."

As his practice flourished, Doctor Still was able to expand on his small plot of land outside Medford, on Church Road near Route 541. Fine carriages replaced his rustic, homemade wagon. A three-story home was built, with an office next door. He later purchased a nearby tavern (from one of his bitterest detractors), enlarged it, and turned it into a hospital for patients who had traveled a long distance to see him.

By the time he died on March 9, 1882 - a month short of his 70th birthday - Doctor Still was the third-largest land owner in the Medford area.

Although he never attained his dream of a formal medical education, one of his four sons, James Jr., did, graduating with honors from Harvard's School of Medicine in 1871 - the second black to finish there. One of the Black Doctor's four daughters, Lucretia Still, sold medicines made from her father's formulas. And another son, Joseph, followed in his father's footsteps as an herbalist, although his career soon turned sour. The white political establishment, which was solidly Republican in Mount Holly, shunned Joseph in 1892 for backing Democratic presidential candidate Grover Cleveland. Joseph eventually lost his practice, his wealth and his wife, and reportedly was buried in a pauper's grave.

Late in his life, the Black Doctor wrote in his autobiography, "I hope this book may be a stimulus to some poor, dejected fellow man who almost hopelessly sits down and folds his arms, saying, 'I know nothing. I can do nothing.' "

RESEARCHING THE STILL family history is a never-ending task. New bits of information seem to surface every day.

Historian Charles Blockson recently received an 1887 clipping from a Reading, Pa., newspaper containing an obituary for an Aaron L. Still. The clipping described Aaron Still as a fighter for equal rights and "one of the best-known colored men in Pennsylvania."

And during the writing of this article, the grave site of William Still was discovered. The family had been trying to find it for two years, without success. Then, while doing research at the Gloucester County Historical Society, the author of this article ran across a reference to the reinterment of William Still at a cemetery in Darby, Pa. With the information from the Historical Society, cemetery officials were able to provide the location of the grave.

Two days earlier, Bonita Still Austin was at the Mount Laurel grave of Doctor James Still. She remarked to one of her sisters that she could not rest until she found the grave of William.

When she got word of the discovery, she was speechless.

The next morning, Bonita and her family went to the cemetery in Darby. It was closed when they got there, but Bonita climbed the fence, unable to wait for the 8 a.m. opening.

"I felt so overwhelmed the closer I got to the grave," Bonita says. "My heart was just pounding. As I walked up to the grave, I felt William breathe in and out and say: 'Finally.' "

This article by LINN WASHINGTON was Originally published on Sunday, October 11, 1987 in Features Section of Philadelphia Inquirer Text retrieved from archives of (tm) newspaper library system from MediaStream Inc., a Knight-Ridder Inc. company.