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i»5JiSlrSiiasfe= M c GRA W VILLE A FAMILY NEWSPAPER-NEUTRA1 IN POLITICS. vi VOLUME I. Hefcofcfc to HirifaK?, HitoHiuw, ^u^3> $$ittfymk £St«&, ®em$«asjt?, Kdss of pj&jsing Ijfecntss, J^wign anS Sctnegtic InMKgciwe, fee. $re. NUMBER 5. BY S. C. CLISBE, & A. T. BOYNTON. MC'GRAWVIIXE, CORTLAND COUNTY, N. Y. SEPT. 9, 1847. From the Christian Parlor Magazine. The Old Brick Church-Yard. BY THE AUTHOR 01? \KKMIN1SCENCBS OF A COUNTRY CONGREGATION.\ My garret window looks out upon the old Brick Church-yard. Seven '-cars ago when I first climbed into this fifth story, an old board fence was around it, and the old gray stones, thickset within, marked the crowded graves of the fathers who built this venerable church, and dedicated it to the worship of God. Four or five years ago, a neat iron railing was set to guard the sacred enclosure; the falling tomb- stones were taken up and laid in rows, flat upon the ground, with their inscriptions upward, telling that somewhere in these parts the men whose names they wear are buried. This was a decided improvement, and it alters the face of things materially—so much so that a passer by might stop and inquire if this were indeed the veritable spot that in early years was the uptown and almost out-of-town burial-place. But there is the old stone tablet over the door, bearing the venerable record, ERECTED IN THE YEAR OF 01711 LORD 1767. And there stands the walls, time-honored and sacred ; the hammer of the Goth hath not yet smote the sanctuary. How soon it may be the prey of modern av- arice, none may know. Just now I heard the sound of a shov- el on the stones, and looking out of my window, l saw a man anions the tombs, ,. . „„, , . rr>t i,.•I-', . i mat <xi e -i \'' \•• ' hat the winter 1 fin the yard, and the living in the street, on- ' ly a fence between them—en 1 }' a step be- tween them—and those outside, all, all would soon be as the others, and like them forgotten. The carman-exhorter has not been this way lately, and I do not know what has b< come of him. Perhaps, most likely, he has joined the silent assem- bly ! But I hear the shovel again on the stones. The man is hard at wo>'k, and now a long row of stones are cleared, and they tell to heaven, for they cannot be read but by looking down, that there were men and women here fifty or a hundred years ago, and that is the deepest interest they impart to thereat majority who will ever east an eye upon them. Yet it is a sacred duty, and the men are to be honored\ who guard this spot with such holy diligence and care. Keep off the Vandals of modern specula- tion as long as possible. If need be, tie up posterity to the trust, in such legal per- plexities they can never alienate this con- secrated ground. I love the old word for grave-yard, '-GOD'S ACRE.\ It speaks to the soul. The dead are his. Blessed -are they that die in him. Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints. Their dust is precious in his sight. He watches it, and will call it up. \When the great Archangel shakes the creation, 7\cars the strong pilllars of the vault of heaven, Breaks up old marble, the repose of princes,\ these stones will heave, and these buried will come forth. What an uprising then ! Let them sleep till then, I pray, in His name, who alone is the resurrection and the life. Seeing this man at work reminds me of the grave-yard where my forefathers lie. It is on a hill, in the midst of a rural vill- age, from almost any part of which you can see the resting place of those who once walked the streets and lived in the houses In the 'the mariner guides his bark through per- ilous shoals—a narrow promontory, whose extremity pierces Massachusetts Bay, ex posed to all the violence of the Atlantic storms. Even now the shores of Cape Cod, as the first discoverers designated it, and the storm beaten beaches which buffet the tides as far as Gloucester point, are ol't\n strewn with the wrecks of shat- tered vessels, and the bodies of their hap- less crews. Scarcely a tempest rises in violence from the stormy east, that does not leave its dreadful traces upon these dangerous capes ; and many a brave ship, returning from a tedious voyage has found her grave, when the very roofs ot her sailor's homes were visible to their sight, and the ears of expectant friends were open to their drowning cries. And hither, in her pride, came the ship of sunny France, with her freight of brave men and trusting women ; and Thus fell the parting beams upon the outward mantle of Waohusptt. But through the leaves tho-e arrows of light sank with mellow el hues upon the green sward, where the sof, tender carpet of Nature overspread a spot of some twenty yards in width, com- pletely arched and sheltered by the thick branches oflhechesnut trees. It was a chapel of Nature, and the dome of ^reen leaves was more beautiful than frescoed roofing, the mossy trunks of old trees far lovelier than marble columns.— The tinge of twilight's gray crept in from between the waving boughs, and the last glow of the sun stole dimly beautiful from above. It was a chap»l meet for consecration to the pure Father of nature's gifts, and at this holy hour, the voice of woman's prayer went up amid the silence. Upon the green sward knelt three fig- ures, the old man, a youth, and a fair in her wake arose the storm-clouds, and I young girl. The first, by his garb, and before her, crouched the hidden forms of | the crucifix, which he held aloft—seemed unknown reefs. j to be a priest; a man with a placid face and Up, into the blue heavens, arose the | thoughtful eyes ; one of those self-denying swift cloud, while along the surface of\ earnest souls, who first dared the perils of the ocean swelled the moan of the per-' oul ' untrodden wilds, to plant amid deserts dusky brown. But the holy eyes of the < maiden shone through the dimness, and her white hands, clasped in earnestness, gleamed like the pinions of a snowy dove. turbed spirit of the tempest, One of those terrible, sudden storms, that rise at once like an aroused giant, from the bosom of our northern deep, and scatter de- struction around their path, as with 'the seeds of eternal life. 1 I care not who those men were, of what cieed or profession ; but the beauty and sublimity of their characters, as well as their enduring fortitude and unshaken faith, min-hty strides they traverse the vexed staill P their impulses as divine. Holy be wiuers.—one of those awful thrones of lheir memories, whether they were ortho- , . „. ,, i , • i i - , • I njat oic now tenanted by others clearing off he rubb.sli that the winter j, ime of the Revoiution / ly vvai . a detach- had gathered on the prostrate stones and | ment Qf t|]e B|> . (ish for<J £ a took their he was now making the inscriptions leg- ! quarters in this burial-ground: they tore up the grave-stones and used them for ov- nature now shook the mounting billows. And the strange ship bent, like a bowed reed, before the gale. Onward, with head- long speed, she rushed towards her fate.— Vainly were the flapping sails bent to her straining mast ; vainly were the heavy anchors launched into the frothy waters. A crash, a shiver, a straining heave, and then a dull stroke, and the rattle of crack- ing timbers. Then a wailing cry of fear and agony upon the voices of the terror-stricken, call- ing upon Heaven dox or dissenter—holy be their bright ex- ample, for they were true Christians, and their labors, and sufferings, and martyr- doms, were blessed in the sight of Heav- en. i And it was one of th se simple missiona- ries who now knelt upon the heights of Wachusett, and held aloft the symbol of his faith. His brow was clear and unwrinkled, though age and suffering had bleached his reverend head, and set their signet on his sunken cheeks. There was a quiet fire in his blue eye. that spoke of a deep and earn- en bottoms ; sweeping them out after they ! h wag the wh of the ^ the exu were heated, and then placing their bread ingshoiltoftho red Indian , as he marked to be baked on the smooth stones, and when \ lh | „ of the stran „ er . ible by a process more summary than | Old Mortality pursued when he dug out the letters with his chi-;el.- It struck me as a very foolish work the man was a- bout, if he means to restore those rec- ords so that the names will be read and remembered. It is too late for those people. They had their day ; good men and true they were, and their names ought to be held in lasting memory ; they built this Brick Church, and founded this | ' \\ . , , .. - , , ,- , . , , ,, ,. ,, , ' . , ., , I ted to tread on the old rebel every time he i noble congregation, that stands its ground: . „ > . ,,-,, , , a ' , „ B T-i r. .if- Istepped out. the old gentleman was an manfully, while one after another of its,.,,, i ' , „ . • , i i i • • i . ii \. ,. , ., . - i ardent patriot, and by his voice and pen neighbors is traveling upward—that is to, ,, 1 • v r . • . . °. i ,, , • .i •. I had roused a spirit of stern resistance to say, towards tlie upper part ot the city.— .„,.„„ ; , ,1 r , i , ,• , T> ' , , i i • ,. ii , tyrany in the people among whom he lived; But the men who slumber in the old yard!/,,,n i, ,, ' '-, , . , fa ., -r, ... , m , .,, , , J , , and hence the spite which the British ofn- are forgotten, or will be soon, —' * u —' ' But above the surge of dashing waves, est spirit, and upon his lips, now moving in and the roar of the storm, and the cries of voiceless prayer, dwelt a smile of gentle the perishing, arose a shrill demoniac yell, happiness. ' <7 - . ' , Moo I. IT, Near him was a young man whose at- tire, though torn and travel.stained, was yet of costly texture and delicate workman- Alongthedim beech leaped and danced sni P- His embroidered doublet and rich the dusky forms of the veiling savages— vest, his jeweled belt, and the plumed hat with torches hurled aloft, thpy leaped and which lay beside him, as well as the dia- the ears of the wretched white men. side > marked' him as a cavalier of rank, or The ship parted and went down—the perhaps one of those luxurious adventurers the loaves came out, they bore the revers- ed inscriptions of the stones, somewhat in this style, YROMEM EHT OTDERCAS, &c. The ^i colonel pitched his tent directly at the liea.l { ;an\;;;\ n 7;h P Yeked\their\'sVrrill whoop,\\ in '\ond-hilted sword which glittered by his or my grandfather's grave, and gave as hi- ' ' -•-~ ; , '•— '-•\ 1: e — -'- — reason for selecting that spot, that he wuh swamped\boats dashed shivered \upon the who > at the period of which I write, flocked beach, and the wild breakers or the mur- t0 the new world as t0 the certain field of dcrous tomahawk awaited the hapless fortune and renown. wretches who escaped an instant death. I But the facc of the y outh was mam 7 and Ere the sun which, at his setting, kissed expressive. His forehead, on which the the gray streamers of the French ship, had parting light now quivered, was broad, and risen to another course, the wrecked emi- c . lrc } e ' ] Wlth clustering black curls, and his grants were slain, or captive, ur fleeing, they knew not whither, through the dense forests of that unknown land, which after wanderers have called New England. talk boldly when your enemy is six feet underground. But that man is still at work with his shovel, and I will step over while the gate is open, and scrape from those stones some reminicences for the Magazine. From the \Excelsior.\ Legends of the red Men. BY AUGUSTINE J. H. DUGANNE. •., . ..,,./. , , , . lH cer cherished, when he found that a sud- stones that are sill fresh and sound will 1 , , ., , ,' , , ., , ? , , , , . , , . | den death had placed the bones of a brave crumble, and perhaps the very ground in I ,,„•,,• ', c i • • u u • ,.,,,'. ' ' ii- •!! i i ma within reach of his insults. It is easy which the bones are crumbling,wil be des- . ,i , . , , ,. ,•{ , , , ,, , c , f a • to throw stones at a dead lion, or even to ecrated by the march or modern improve- 1 -- - - ment, and be compelled to give up its dead before the trumpet's call- It has been so with others ; and it is not a little strange that the old Brick stands yet. Mammon has his greedy eye on it, and would be glad to set up an altar in the midst of these hallowed courts. I believe the god did make proposals to the. Trustees a few years ago, and holding out a bag of dollars, said, \All these will 1 give you, if you will fall down and worship me;\ but the Board of Trust was true, and Mam- mon went away, and made a bargain elsewhere. But he will come back again and buy them out—not now ; the present genera- tion will not trade away the bones of their fathers, but the next will, and this sacred spot, right here in the heart of the city, a silent, solemn lesson for men to read and think of as they rush along to, or from Wall street, will be covered with stores, and no- body will dream that the dead are here. In that corner, the nearest to Nassau, is alargesquare stone that has a rostrum for preaching. A crpzy carman was in the habit of holding forth daily to the crowds in the streets, and the police interfered, so that he was prevented from preaching in the streets, as it was contrary to the statute. The man climbed the iron railing, and on the monument in the corner, with the neat rail in front of him, declaimed to the ga- ping multitude, who heard him with more attention and in greater numbers, now that he had found a holy spot to stand on There was something rather startling in the sight of a man holding forth from the top of a grave stone ; it was literally a voice.from the tombs, and is told somewhat on the hurrying multitude ; there being no law against hearing in the streets, but only against preaching, the congregation Could not be disturbed, nor the noisy speak- er. I used to throw up my window and listen to the strong tones of his stentorian voice rising above ^the murmur of tlie crowd, and the scene was at times a study for a thinking man. WACHUSETT. CHAPTER 1. The sun was sinking beneath the hori- zon of waters that encircled the shores of IVew England two hundred and thirty years ago, three years before the planters of Plymouth beheld their promised land from the May-Flower's storm beaten decks. And as the retreating beams of day flashs ed upward from the edge of the bright wa- ters, they glanced their parting light upon the tall masts and waving penons of a gak lant ship, which, ploughing her way through the gleaming waters, skirted the strange shore of that new and mystic land. It was a ship of sunny France, a ship freighted with the hearts and hopes of pil- grims for these untried wilds. Grouped upon the decks, and clustering upon the shrouds, and clinging to lofty yards, a hun- dred anxious voyagers hailed the smiling shores. Before them shone the looked-for haven of their rest—green fields and wa- ving wood gleaming in their sight, and from a hundred hearts went up a prayer of thanksgiving, a hymn of gratitude and joy. But they saw not the storm-cloud, rising amidst the declining sunlight ; they heard not the distant murmurings of the ocean's winds, garnered for their sure destruc- tion. There is a dangerous stretch of rocky land enclosing the waves which wash There were the dead | the shores of Plymouth, where even now CHAPTER 11 . The sunsets of Italy are brilliant, glori-1 ous—when the flood of golden light floats down like a magnificent mist, and clothes, < as it were, the earth with its splendor.— There the flashing waters seem like rnir-, rors formed from diamond sands, and the tree summits are like beacons of fire.— There the glittering haze preserves its pur- ple splendor till the mantle of night sinks suddenly upon it, and it dies at once, like beauty stricken in its zenith. But the beauteous sunsets in our north-- em skies need not the painting of Italian hues. Who that has reveled in the long twilight of our Indian summer's eve, can imagine aught more lovely ? The soul drinks in deep draughts of beauty—the in- fluence of Heaven's smile softens his heart and brings tears to dry eyes—there seems to be a tremulous spirit of beauty surroun- ding and- enwrapping us, and our blood ef- fuses, as it were, to the surface of our body as though influenced by a mysterious caps illary attraction of the atmosphere. In the depths of our old forests, where the woodman's axe has scarcely awakened its rude echoes—in the solitude of those mystic temples of nature, where huge mos- sy cliffs overshelve dark, sunless abysses— where syren grottoes and sequestered dells sleep in a strange and holy silence—in such spots, and with a tranquil spirit, let us look upon the great sun sinking to his rising! Wachusett's towering summit was cirs cled with a crown of light, where the con- verging rays of the sun, now level with the far-off ocean, twined and quivered around the mountain trees, in a coronal of crimson fire. And far down the cone-like sides, to the depths of the unbroken shadow at their base swept the deepening hues, fading gently from golden brown to sob?.r green, and dim sepulchral black. dark eyes and chisselled mouth bespoke an ardent soul. He knelt beside the priest, while his right arm supported ihe form of the young girl, who, half reclining on a folded mantle, clung to his neck with her white arms, and prayed aloud with upturns ed gaze. Beautiful at all times is the voice of prayer ; whether it ascends to God in the rough accents of the mariner, struggling with engulghing waves, or the gasping tones of the dying warrior on the battle field ; whether its words are those of the mitred bishop before his gorgeous altar, or the lowly preacher in his simple tent; whether its language be that of our own happy clime, or the tongues of the free Al. pine shepherd, the fettered slave of the cot- ton field, or the simple worshiper beside the I raw add y. Beautiful indeed is prayer, if it be the true prayer of the heart And such was the prayer of the young girl, breathed in the solitude of an Ameri- can forest, ere the foot of an Englishman had sought the shores of Plymouth. For that prayer was in the sweet French tongue and its burden was— \Marie reine du del, j>rie%i>owr nous .'\ And the priest and the young man ech- oed the sweet orison—\Mary Queen of Heaven, pray for us !\ That prayer was the prayer of a dying maiden to the gentle queen of heaven—the virgin mother of heaven's humanity. The blue eyes of the girl were raptured with coming glory ;• before her rose a vision of that home to which her spirit soon should mount., \Oma mere, lien aimee.\ And the old man with white locks, and the youth, in soft response upraised their eyes, and murmured—\0 my mother, well beloved !\ \Marie priez pour nous .'\ \Mary pray for us !\ A solemn and beautiful litany was this, in the deep stillness of a summer's eve up- on a wild New England mountain. The shadows lengthened as the .prayer arose, and the gloom deepened around the wor- shipers. No longer fell the arrowy crim- son from above, and the grey twilight gre> CHAPTER 111. The last thrilling tones of the girl's voice melted into silence, and her cheek sank up. on the bosom of the young man. He bent over her, and kissed her fair brow \My sister ! the good God watches over us ; let us trust him !\ \Yea trust in him who tempers the wind to the shorn lamb,\ solemnly responded the priest. \My brother !\ murmured the young girl, \I must die—I feel the hand of death upon me.\ \Nay my sister! my sister !\ cried the youth ; \O say not thus. You will live —we will be happy. The good Abbe knows the language of these wild red men ; he will guide us, and God will pro. tect us !\ \Man frere !\ Ah, how exquisitely touching were these simple words, falling from the poor girl's lips, as she gazed tear- fully into her brothers face—that brother with whom she had crossed the wild seas, to seek a home in a strange land, \ Mon frere,\ she murmured—''Ah, I must leave thee, for the hand of death is heavy upon me, my brother !\ \Trust in Heaven !\ said the reverend Abbe, \He will desert us not. He remem- bers the orphan, and in the hour of ship- wreck and peril, He forsook us not. Let us trust still, and pray to Tiim.\ The next moment a wild shriek quivered upon the lips of the young girl. She shrank back, as if struck by a serpent, and sank upon the sward- The young man sprang to his feet, and, grasping his sword, drew the glittering blade. But suddenly a fierce, horrible yell resounded through the dim forest. A hun- dred dusky forms darted through J:he crash- ing underwood, and a hurjdred flashing torches threw their fearful blaze upon the scene. Then the cavalier, in the red glare, be- held what had caused the fearful terror of his sister. v A tawny hand was pressed up- on her heaving breast, and above her gleamed the fierce eyes of a.n Indian brave. The young Frenchman sprang forward and leaped upon the savage. He wrenched the tomahawk from the hands that threat- ened his sister's life, and closing with the yelling Indian, dashed him to the earth. But a dozen savages were upon him, ere he could turn in his own defence.— Red arms and flashing knives circled his head, and in vain he strove to shield the dy- ing girl. The Abbe raised the cross to heaven, and knelt beside the maiden, w hile the red men sought to drag the brother from her arms. The woods were alive with the whooping foemen, and a terrible, unearthly chorus of savage, triumph went up to the clear sky. \Mane priez pour nous /\ murmured the priest, raising the form of the girl with in his arms— \EUe est mort !\ She was dead ; the rude grasp of the Indian's hand had banished the life from her heart. And while the despairing brother and the aged priest, were dragged, pinioned, from the beautiful temple, adown through the dim forest aisles, a band of demoniach- al forms surrounded the dead maiden. And when the wretched captives beheld the rays of morning lighting their weary march, their eyes were blasted by a ghastly spectacle^ Before them, borne upon the spear of a dark-skinned Narragansett was a trophy of horrible cruelty. A reeking scalp, with tresses of long black hair, streaming in the wind ! It was the scalp of the young girl !• AN HONEST FELLOW, TRULY.—A good man—he must have been conscientious a'nd verdant also—residing in the country aiid employed as a sort of agricultural laborer having contrived to scrape together fifty dollars, took it to his employer with a re- quest that he would take charge of it for him. The request was complied wifh.^ The year rolled round and the~4aborer aps plied to another friend to know what wo'd be the interest upon it. He was told three dollars- \Well.\ said he, \ I wish you would lend me three dollars for a tew days: My boss has been keeping fifty dollars for mo a year, and I want to pay him the in. terest for it 1\ This is true.—IV. Y. Gonu Adv. A Short Sermon. The tomb is the best source of moralitj Study avarice in the coffin of the Wiser j this is the man who accumulates heap up- on heap, riches upon riches; see a few square boards enclose hifri: Study ambition in the grave of that -en-- terprising man ; see his whole designs, his extended projects, his boundless expedi- ents, are all scattered, and end in\ this fatal gulf of human projects. Approach the grave of the proud man,; and theje investigate pride; see, the mouth that pronounced lofty expression's condemn; ed to eternal silence; the piercing eye that convulsed the world with, fear, covered with a . midnight gloom f ihe formidaDle arm, that disturbed the destinies of man* kind, is now without motion or life. Go to the tomb of the nobleman, and there study quality. Behold, his magnifi- cent titles ; his royal a'neestors ; his flat- tering inscriptions ; his learned gen'e^loK gies, are all gone—or gone to be lost, with himself, in dust- Let us, then, \ So lire that when our summons come* to 1 join The innumerable caravan that moves . ,. L/ . To the pale realm of shade, where each shall take His chamber in the silent halls of death; We go not like the quarry slave at night, Scourged to his dungeon : but sostalnea' »nd* soothed * By an unflattering trust, approach oar pure Like one who wraps the drapery of his- eouch About him, arid lies down to pleasant dreams.\ A DiscRiMiNATiNCf SHOT—Two meti,' Jones and Martin, went deer-hunting. Al- ter remaining together awhile they sepe- rated, and soon Jones, hearing tti'e report of Mr. Martin's gun, went to him. See- ing no game, he asked him if he had shot anything. \ No,\ replied Martin carelessly, \didn't shot anything.\ \ What did you shoot at ?\ asked Jones. , . Martin seemed confused, and evadeff a reply. Jones looked around a little, and saw a calf grazing a short distance off. \ Did you shoot at that calf?\ asked Jones. \ Yes,\ replied' Martin \ I shot at it.\ \ You didn't hit it though,\ remarked Jones. ., . : \ No, I did not hit it,\ and Martin went 1 on to explain—\ You See I was uncertain whetho r it was a. calf or a, deer, aijd I shot so as t6 hit it it it was a deer, and miss' it if it was a calf.\ Judge Wilkes was once asked by f Ro-\ man Catholic gentleman in'a warm dispute upon, \Where #a's your religion before Lu- ther ?\ ., \Did you wash your face this inoi'ning/ rt inquired the facetiduSataerman. \ [ did > sir -\ i„. \Then pray where was you¥ race be. fore it was washed ?\ An Irish Way of putting a Horse luto : a Wagon, . A few days since, a gentleman iii Wos'1 cester county, who employs*several Irish- men in cultivating his grounds, ordered one of his men to put his horse into his wagon. After a short absence, Pat re- turned, exclaiming, \I've got him in sir, but it was a mighty hard job tho' !\ This answer somewhat puzzled the gentleman, who upon going into the yard found his horse actually standing up in the wagon,' trembling with fear at his elevated jposi* j tion. After getting the horse down upr)ft' terra firma, the gentleman instructed Pat as to the proper manner of \putting a horse into a wagon.\ |rj-The first printer in America was Samuel Green. The first thing printed was \The Free man's Oath,\ in 1638; next an almanao, and New England version of ptmlAis, in 1640. A DISCLAIMER'.—General Zarairibjl' had' a very long Polish aa'me. The king hav- ing neartf of it; One day 1 asked him' go6&' humoredly,. , \Pray ZkramD^ what, is your 1 liajiite ?;\ The general repeated'immediately the' whole of his long riame. \Why said'the ki'ng ? \the' devil hinW self never had such\ a long name.\ . , \I should presurrle not,' sir,\ replied the General, \ as he was no relation of mine. A HINT TO LADIES.—Art old-fashibrjed' Writer, who was a great friend and admi- rer of Women, says, \ we kriow df no sit- uation'in which a lady; ap'jJea'rs to more aUv varitage ! 'than in'the care of aeaf'den. Sur. rounded by her plants, with their 1 beautiful blossoms, she-resembles PersapKoiie gatft* ering- flowers, admired' and celebrated in the olden time. Healthful, happy atfd tirt- ostentatious, she combines pleasure and util ity. Could the lailies- onfy imagine how much such exercise adds to their ehaxrtiipf, we should hear less of shawls costing for-, tunes, and more of matrimonial .felicity*'*'
