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Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1847. 


In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New York. 


" The hills, 
Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun ; — the Tales, 
Stretching in pensive quietness between ; — 
The venerable woods" — 

" and pour'd round all, 
Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste — 
Are but the solemn decorations all, 
Of the great tomb of man." 


It is fifteen years since Mount Auburn, near Boston, was set apart 
as a place of sepulture. It was the first attempt in this country, to 
meet a want which had long been felt. Happily conceived, and well 
executed, it soon led the way to similar enterprises in other cities ; and 
now, there is scarcely a large town which has not, in its neighborhood, 
a rural cemetery. To regard this great movement as merely imitative, 
or fashionable, would be doing it injustice. The impropriety of making 
interments beneath and around churches, and in the festering burial- 
grounds of cities, was generally acknowledged. Injurious to health, 
offensive to the senses, repulsive to the taste of a refined age, the prac- 
tice had become a confessed nuisance, which all desired, but none 
knew how to abate. Long usage, invested capital, the affections them- 
selves, which make us wish to be laid by the side of those we have 
loved, — all combined to perpetuate the evil. 


The idea of a rural cemetery, sufficiently remote to be beyond the 
range of city improvements, yet so near as to be of convenient access, 
seemed to reach, at once, all the necessities of the case. Large enough 
for the wants of many generations, it furnishes, in its guarded enclo- 
sure, full security against those violations of the grave, by which the 
zeal of science or of gain has so often shocked public sentiment, and 
deeply injured the feelings of survivors. The vault, so unpleasant to 
many, might indeed be found here, but it would no longer be the inev- 
itable resting-place of the departed. Hither wounded Affection could 
resort, attracting no notice, and dreading no intrusion. Here Sorrow 
could bring its graceful offerings, and Taste and Art join with Nature 
herself, in adorning the last home of the loved and lost. To its silent 
solitudes the thoughtful would come to meditate ; — here the man of 
business and care would often reassure his hesitating virtue ; — and 
here, amid the thousand witnesses of mortality, and in all the soothing 
influences of the scene, the gay and reckless would read lessons of 
wisdom and piety. 

To the importance of this reform, New York, though somewhat 
slow to move, could not but at length awake. If anywhere the evils 
alluded to were obvious and vast ; if in any city better accommodations 
were imperatively demanded, that city was, emphatically, this great 
and growing metropolis. Again and again, in the progress of improve- 
ment, the fields of the dead had been broken up, to be covered with 
buildings, or converted into open squares. The tables of death showed 
that, already, nearly ten thousand human bodies must be annually 
interred : while calculation made it all but certain that, in half a cen- 
tury more, the aggregate would be told in millions. 

The island of New York presenting no secure, or at least no very 


eligible spot for a cemetery, attention was turned to a large, unoccupied 
tract in Brooklyn, lying near Gowauus Bay. As if providentially de- 
signed and reserved for the very use to which it has been put, it would 
be difficult to name a particular in which these grounds could have 
been better adapted to that use. Within sight of the thronged mart, 
and not three miles from its busiest haunts, Green-Wood enjoys, nev- 
ertheless, perfect seclusion. It is of ample extent, and there is hardly 
a square rod of it which may not be used for burial. Its numerous 
avenues and paths furnish a long and delightful drive, presenting con- 
tinually, scenes of varied beauty. Now you pass over verdant and 
sunny lawns, — now through park-like groves, — and now by the side of 
a tangled, unpruned forest. At one moment, you are in the dell, with 
its still waters, its overhanging shade, and its sweet repose. At the 
next, you look out from the hill-top, on the imperial city, with its 
queenly daughter — on the bay, so beautiful and life-like — down into 
the quiet, rural hamlet — or beyond it, on the distant ocean. 

Green- Wood Cemetery was incorporated in 1838, but from various 
causes, did not commence successful operations till four years later. 
Its charter, with some amendments since made, embraces every desira- 
ble provision for the security, permanence, and proper government of 
the institution. 

It authorizes and directs the land acquired by the corporation, to be 
disposed of and used exclusively for the burial of the dead. 

It exempts such lands forever from assessment, and from all public 
taxes ; and also from all liability to be sold on execution, or for the 
payment of debts by assignment under any insolvent law. 

It requires that, when the payment of the purchase-money of the 
land shall have been made, " the proceeds of all future sales shall be 


applied to the preservation, improvement, and embellishment of the 
said Cemetery, and to the incidental expenses thereof, and to no other 


It authorizes the corporation to hold, upon trust, any donation or 
bequest of property, and to apply the same, or the income thereof, for 
the improvement or embellishment of the Cemetery, or for the erection, 
repair, preservation, or renewal of any tomb, monument, or fence, or 
for the planting and cultivation of trees, shrubs, flowers, or plants, in or 
around any cemetery lot, or for improving the said premises in any 
other form or manner, consistent with the design of the charter, and 
conformably to the terms of such grant or bequest. 

Every proprietor of a lot or parcel of ground containing not less 
than three hundred square feet, may vote at any election for Trustees 
of the Corporation ; and the Trustees, fifteen in number, must in all 
cases be chosen from among the proprietors of the lots. 

Thus it appears that proprietors of lots acquire not merely the privi- 
lege of burial, but the fee-simple of the ground which they purchase ; — 
that, being the sole owners of the Cemetery, they, by their vote in the 
election of Trustees, control, directly, the government of the institu- 
tion ; — that no pecuniary, or other conflicting interest can exist, to 
counteract the general wishes of the lot-owners ; — and that, as the lots 
are not subject to public charge, nor held liable for debts, nor subject 
to assessment by the institution, they can never be forcibly taken from 
the purchasers. 

The grounds comprise about one hundred and eighty-five acres. 
Arrangements for extending these limits are in progress, which will 
give, when completed, an area of two hundred and fifty acres. Al- 
though now much larger than any other of our cemeteries, it will 


scarcely, even in its contemplated increase, be proportioned to the 
wants of the great and fast-augmenting population, which it is designed 
to accommodate. That population is already nearly a half-million ; 
and if the past be prophetic of the future, it will take years only, or 
tens of years, to make New York, in point of magnitude, what centu- 
ries and tens of centuries have made Paris and London. It is then 
but a wise forecast, thus liberally to provide for the sure and fast- 
coming future. The ground will all be wanted — it will be all used. 
Those already exist, who will behold it when it shall have become a 
vast city of the Dead, outnumbering that of the living by its side. 

Only four years have elapsed since Green-Wood was publicly 
opened for interments. Within that time, about fourteen hundred lots 
have been sold. The avenues, which wind gracefully over every part 
of its undulating surface, for an extent of more than ten miles, have 
been put into perfect order. With a judicious regard to both utility 
and effect, the natural conformation of the ground has, in many in- 
stances, been somewhat varied and improved. The trees, a prominent 
feature of the place, have generally been preserved, though here and 
there removed, to open vistas through the copse, and make the grounds 
more available or more picturesque. Much work has been done in 
removing every unsightly object and obstruction, and in enriching and 
beautifying the yet unoccupied space. Of the purchased lots, a large 
proportion are neatly and substantially enclosed by iron paling ; while 
monuments and sepulchral structures, already numerous, and many 
of them new and beautiful in design, consecrate and embellish the 

In one respect Green-Wood differs, it is believed, from every simi- 
lar institution ; — a peculiarity which it owes, partly, to its ample 


accommodations and natural facilities, and still more, to judicious reg- 
ulations adopted at the outset. Reference is made to the appropriation 
of large lots for the use of families and societies. Taking advantage 
of the natural inequalities, the summits and sides of the knolls have 
been enclosed in circles or ellipses, as their shape and position required. 
By the greater size, as well as by the form of these lots, and the intro- 
duction, in some cases, of other figures, much has been done to avoid 
the rigid sameness, which would result from a division of the whole 
surface into equal parallelograms. By giving wider spaces between 
the lots, it tends to prevent crowding and confusion, when funerals are 
numerously attended ; and though some space is lost to purposes of 
interment, it is secured for beauty and for a higher utility. 

But it is the provision which it makes for associated families, and 
for religious and other communities, which gives to this arrangement 
its chief value. Not only may the single family enjoy the solace of 
feeling that they have secured for themselves one guarded and hal- 
lowed spot, but its kindred and afiiliated branches can make common 
cause, and the ties of friendship and consanguinity shall become 
stronger in life, when they shall not seem wholly severed at the 

Again, those whose bond of union has been community of sen- 
timent, — who have been associated in labors of self-improvement and 
of benevolence, — who have listened so often in the same sanctuary, to 
those lessons of faith and hope, which alone can take from death its 
sting, and from the grave its victory, — may here lie down, the rich and 
the poor together, as was the wont of old, in their own church-yard. 

Several religious societies have secured grounds in the Cemetery. 
One church has already enclosed a large and handsome mound, and 


consecrated it to its use with appropriate rites. Around its circumfer- 
ence are the lots of individual members, while an inner circle is re- 
served for the Pastor and for those of humbler means. It was a happy 
and a Christian thought, to provide for their poorer brethren, when the 
toils of life shall be over, an unexpensive resting-place, as respectable 
and beautiful as their own. The example is well worthy of imitation. 


" Enter this wild-wood, 
And view the haunts of Nature. The calm shade 
Shall bring a kindred calm, and the sweet breeze 
That makes the green leaves dance, shall waft a balm 
To thy sick heart." 

Green -Wood occupies a portion of the high ground which separates 
Gowanus Bay from the plains of Flatbush. The most agreeable, 
though not the shortest route, is the ancient road running from Brook- 
lyn along the western shore of Long Island, to Fort Hamilton. At the 
distance of two and a half miles from the South Ferry, a short, straight 
avenue leads from the main street of Gowanus to the gate. 

The entrance is perfectly simple. On the left of the gate is a rustic 
lodge, for the temporary accommodation of visiters. On the right, and 
in the same style, is a small tower, with a bell to summon the Porter. 
These unambitious structures will be found in good keeping with 
each other, and with the position they occupy. They possess beauty 
of form, and of fitness likewise. Perhaps some, accustomed to more 
imposing entrances, may feel disappointed by the modest humility of 
this. But may not the taste at least be questioned, which makes the 
passage-way from one open space to another, through some lofty arch, 
or massive building ? Can such a structure look well, with no support, 
on either side of it, but an ordinary fence l Must it not always lack 


the beauty of adaptation to an end — the essential beauty of usefulness ? 
And if it be, as most frequently, of Grecian or Egyptian model, is it not 
incongruous with the spirit and associations of a Christian cemetery 1 
Of the simple entrance temporarily made for these grounds, we may at / 
least say, that here Art raises no false expectation, nor does it offend 
by unnatural contrasts. But, enter. If the artificial portal be deficient 
in dignity, not so will you find that of Nature. You are now in a ves- 
tibule of her own making. Its floor is a delicious greensward ; its walls 
are the steep hill-side ; lofty trees, with their leafy capitals, form its 
colonnade ; and its ceiling is the azure vault. Here, if alive to gentle 
influences, you will pause a moment. You will shake from your feet 
the city's dust, and leave behind you its care and follies. You are 
within the precinct of a great, primeval temple, now forever set apart 
to pious uses. You have come, 

" Not to the domes where crumbling arch and column 
Attest the feebleness of mortal hand ; 
But to that fane most catholic and solemn, 
Which God hath planned!" 

Explore its aisles and courts, — survey its beauties, — breathe its fresh 
air, — enjoy its quiet, — drink in its music, — and lay to heart its lessons 
of mortality, as well as its higher teachings of faith and love. 


" A voice from ' the Green-Wood !' — a voice ! and it said, 
' Ye have chosen me out as a home for your dead ; 
From the bustle of life ye have render'd me free ; 
My earth ye have hallow'd : henceforth I shall be 
A garden of graves, where your loved ones shall rest !' " 

On the left of the avenue, and just beyond the entrance, stands the 
Keeper's Lodge. It is a cottage in the rustic, pointed style, with four 
gables. The sides are of plank uprights, battened with cedar poles, 
rough from the forest. Its whole exterior is unsmoothed and unpaint- 
ed, — yet it is symmetrical and picturesque. Embowered in the grove, 
and already looking old enough to be coeval with the trees that shade 
it, its entire aspect is in harmony with the place and its associations. 
In such a home, we sometimes imagine, might have been found, long 
ago, near the church-yard of some quiet hamlet in our fatherland, one 
of those immortal sextons, whose occupation and quaint humor geuius 
has loved to depict. 

Hard by, a tower of the same primitive order supports a bell, which 
is rung whenever a funeral train enters the grounds. This is a custom 
hallowed by its own appropriateness, as well as by long and general 
observance. In cities, the tolling of bells for the dead has, as a matter 
of necessity, been long discontinued. In country villages, however, the 
usage still prevails. The deep tones of the bell in Green -Wood, pen- 
etrating its dells, and echoing from its hills, are the only sounds that 


reach the mourner's ear, as he follows some dear object to the tomb. 
Often, we know, at such times, this unexpected but still familiar sound 
has touched the springs of memory and feeling, carrying back the mind 
to the homely scenes, but bright hours of childhood, — to the far-off, 
native vale, — to that knell from the village steeple, which once called 
the reminiscent to weep over some sweet flower, cut down in its morn- 
ing beauty, — and to that humble grave-yard, where, bedewed with 
tears of veneration and love, a father and mother now sleep, side by 

A mournful office is thine, old bell, 
To ring forth naught but the last sad knell 
Of the coffin'd worm, as he passeth by, — 
And thou seemest to say, Ye all must die ! 

No joyful peal dost thou ever ring ; 

But ever and aye, as hither they bring 

The dead to sleep 'neath the " Green- Wood" tree, 

Thy voice is heard, pealing mournfully. 

No glad occasion dost thou proclaim — 
Thy mournful tone is ever the same ; — 
The slow, measured peal, that tells of wo 
Such as those who feel it may only know. 

Had thy tongue the power of speech, old bell, 
Methinks strange stories 'twould often tell ; 
How some are brought hither with tear and moan, 
While others pass by, unmourn'd, alone ; — 

How strangers are hither brought to sleep, 
Whose home, perchance, was beyond the deep, — 
Who, seeking our shore, came but to die, 
And here in this hallow'd spot to lie ; — 

How a wife hath follow'd a husband's bier, — 
How a husband hath follow'd a wife most dear, — 
How brother and sister have come, in turn, 
To shed a tear o'er a parent's urn ; — 


How the victim of sorrow's ceaseless smart 
Hath given up life with a willing heart, 
And thought of this spot with a smiling face, 
Glad at last to find him a resting-place. 

I wonder if thou dost ring, old bell, 
For the rich man a louder, longer knell, 
Than thou dost for the poor who enter here, 
On the humble and unpretending bier? 

And dost thou ring forth a peal less sad 
For the pure and good, than for the bad ! 
Or dost thou toll the same knell for all — 
The rich and the poor, the great and small ? 

Oh, a mournful office is thine, old bell ! 
To ring forth naught but the last sad knell 
Of the coffin'd worm as he passeth by, 
' And thou seemest to say, Prepare to die ! 

Arthur Morrell. 


" From every tree and every bush 
There seems to breathe a soothing hush ; 
While every transient sound but shows 
How deep and still is the repose." 

Sylvan Water is a permanent and deep pond of about four acres. 
The visiter, as he passes along the elevated summit of its northern 
border, catches, through the foliage, occasional glimpses of its bright 
surface. A winding descent soon brings him to its margin, and to a 
scene of beauty and stillness where he will love to linger. Except on 
the western side, the grounds about it are precipitous and high, and all 
round they are closely wooded. The trees and shrubs form, indeed, a 
perfect wall of verdure to this secluded little lake, while 

" The soft wave, as wrapt in slumber, lies 
Beneath the forest-shade." 

He who stands upon its verge sees only water, woods, and sky. He 
hears naught but the notes, plaintive or lively, of scores of birds, which 
haunt this dell, and at times fill it with their music. To the weary and 
worn citizen, it may well seem the very ideal of solitude — a charming 
picture of repose. Ever since he entered these green-wood shades, he 
has been sensibly getting farther and farther away from strife, and 


business, and care ; at every step he has become more and more 
imbued with the gentle spirit of the place. But here he finds the illu- 
sion and the charm complete. A short half-hour ago, he was in the 
midst of a discordant Babel ; he was one of the hurrying, jostling 
crowd ; he was encompassed by the whirl and fever of artificial life. 
Now he stands alone, in Nature's inner court — in her silent, solemn 
sanctuary. Her holiest influences are all around him, and his heart 
whispers, It is good to be here ! 

The monument represented in the plate occupies a small knoll on 
the northern edge of Sylvan Water, and is a tribute paid by friendship 
to the memory of a child of misfortune. " The poor inhabitant below" 
was the possessor of talents which, had his mind and affections been 
better disciplined, might have won for him distinction. But his efforts 
were desultory and unequal. He became an unhappy wanderer, — his 
own and others' dupe, — till at length reason tottered, and life sunk 
under the weight of disappointment. 

" Unskilful he to note the card 
Of prudent lore, 
Till billows raged, and gales blew hard, 
And whelmed him o'er." 

The monument is of white marble — a square block, supporting a 
truncated pyramid. On the northern face of the die is a profile like- 
ness of the poet, in high relief. 

McDonald Clarke was born June 18, 1798, and died March 5, 


* In depth, in height, in circuit, how serene 
The spectacle, how pure ! Of Nature's works 
In earth, and air, and earth-embracing sea, 
A revelation beautiful it seems." 

Tins is one of the most elevated spots in the Cemetery. It occu- 
pies the north-eastern corner of the grounds. Its western and southern 
sides are steep. Towards the east it declines gently to the plain. 
The principal avenue, called the Tour, conducts you to its summit, and 
you find yourself near the northern extremity of a beautiful and com- 
manding ridge. On the north and the south, the prospect is bounded 
by copse-wood. Through the trees on the western side, may be 
caught occasional glimpses of the pleasant lawn which you have just 
crossed. Toward the east the view is unobstructed and wide. From 
the base of the hill stretch far away the plains of Flatbush and New 
Utrecht. Below, a short mile distant, lies the little village of Flat- 
bush, — an image of quiet life, — with its white dwellings and simple 
spire ; the Pavilion at Rockaway, some ten miles off, is clearly seen ; 
while the sea itself, with here and there a sail, terminates the view. 

The beauties of the eminence seem to be appreciated. Most of the 
lots on its summit have been already taken and improved. The 
objects delineated in the plate are those which present themselves to 


one who, having kept along the Tour from the west, has just gained 
the summit of the hill. The monuments and the cottage at once 
arrest the eye, and the agreeable impression which they make is due, 
perhaps, not less to their harmonious grouping, than to their individual 
beauty. Of the three principal monuments here given, the material is 
the same, and the style is so far similar, as to require that they should 
be classed in one family. Yet are they specifically distinct — each 
having its peculiar merit, and forming a study by itself. The two 
which are seen in the foreground, were among the earliest of the erec- 
tions in Green- Wood. The novelty of the designs — their graceful 
outline — and the high finish of the work, united with a height and 
magnitude which give dignity and effect — have drawn to them much 
attention. They set, in this respect, a good example, and they have 
unquestionably had an influence on the taste and style of many subse- 
quent improvements. They showed that there are beautiful and fitting 
forms for sepulchral memorials, besides the obelisk, or even the more 
graceful and classic pillar and sarcophagus. They evinced that a 
pleasing variety in details is consistent with the same scope of general 
design, and that in art, as elsewhere, genius is not confined to one 
idea, nor prone to make fac-similes of its own works. The fault of 
servile imitation in such matters has been far too common, and a tame 
monotony is its inevitable effect. 

The material employed is the compact, red sandstone from New 
Jersey, first brought into use in the erection of Trinity Church. The 
toughness of this stone, and the closeness of its grain, make it, in the 
plastic hand of the carver, almost if not quite equal to the best marble. 
No other stone furnished by our quarries, and of equal or even similar 
facility under the tool, can resist, it is believed, so well, the defacing 


and destructive effects of our humid and frosty atmosphere, and its 
ever-changing temperature. If in its youth the freestone structure be 
less brilliant and attractive than that of marble, it certainly bears itf 
age better. Its surface is less liable to accretions and stains ; and those 
which it does incur, instead of appearing like streaks and patches of 
dirt, sullying the lustre of that which should be clean and bright, are 
but time-honored hues and shades, making it more beautiful. These 
two lots occupy a somewhat salient angle formed by the road, and are, 
in form, spherical triangles. The coping, which supports a low, neat 
paling, and the posts at the corners, are of the same stone with the 
principal structures. The form and finish of these minor parts, and 
even the grading and shaping of the ground, show that minute atten- 
tion to particulars which is so essential to harmony and fulness of 

The monument on the left is a tripod in the Roman style, supported 
on the corners by richly carved, anticpie trusses, and resting on a boldly 
moulded base course. The die has, on each of its faces, a tablet with 
circular head. The mouldings of its cornice are simple but effective, 
and it is surmounted by a well-proportioned urn. Its height is about 
fourteen feet. 

On one of the tablets is recorded the death of a young mother, and 
that of an only and infant child, which occurred not long before her 
own. To this simple statement are appended these words from 
II. Kings, iv. 26 : — "Is it well with thee ? Is it well with the child ? 
And she answered, It is well." 

The right-hand monument rests upon a square base, with prominent 
mouldings. The die diminishes upward by a gentle curve ; its angles 
are enriched by a graceful, scolloped leaf, and its cornice is encircled 


by carved mouldings. Above this, the form changes from square to 
circular, and a fine urn completes the design. 

On the northern side, standing out in strong relief, is a female bust. 
This face, beautifully executed by Mancini, shows admirably the ca- 
pacities of the stone for expressive sculpture ; and though not intended 
as a likeness, it calls strongly up the image of that young wife, who, 
taken from life in the midst of youth, and health, and hope, now rests 


" thou who o'er thy friend's low bier, 

Sheddest the bitter drops like rain, 

Hope that a brighter, happier sphere, 
Will give her to thy arms again." 

The grave of Do-hum-me is under the lofty trees that shade the 
northern border of Sylvan Lake. The earth around it, hard-trodden 
by a thousand feet, bears constant testimony to the sympathy which a 
tale and fate like hers, never fail to awaken. The impression which 
her extraordinary grace and beauty made on those who saw her here, 
is still retained by many, and justifies the glowing picture which is 
given in the following sketch. The description may be relied on, for 
it is furnished by one who knew her in her happiness, and who deserted 
her not when she was sick and dying. Through the same kind instru- 
mentality, a neat marble monument was placed over the dead. On the 
southern side of the die, a figure in relief, of beautiful workmanship, by 
Launitz, represents her bereaved warrior, attempting to hide, while he 
betrays his grief. Upon another side is the record of her parentage : 






A third side is thus inscribed : 





Upon the fourth side is the following inscription : 

D icii 

\ March 9th, 1843, 


" Thou'rt happy now, for thou hast past 
The cold, dark journey of the grave ; 
And in the land of light at last, 
Hast join'd the good, the fair, the brave." 



Do-hum-me, as her monument briefly sets forth, was the daughter of 
a chieftain of the Sacs, and the wife of a young war-chief of the Iowas. 
But from the obscurity which always, to a certain extent, rests over the 
history of individuals of savage nations, her biography, with all the 
aids which have been obtained from those who knew her, must neces- 
sarily be but a meager outline. 

Of her childhood little is known, save that its one great bereavement, 
the death of her mother, left her, at the early age of seven years, cut 
off from all that watchful care, those tender endearments, which make 
childhood so happy, and which none but a mother knows so well how 


to render. But He who seeth the wants of the lowliest of his children, 
knoweth also how to provide for them ; and He awoke in the breast of 
the remaining parent of Do-hum-me, a strange, subduing tenderness, 
which to the Indian warrior is all unwonted ; and the heart of the stern 
old chief, whose necklace numbered more scalplocks than that of any 
other of his tribe, grew soft as a woman's, when he looked upon his 
motherless child, until even the hunting-path and the council-fire were 
forgotten for her sake. No toil was too exhausting, no sacrifice too 
great to be endured for her. 

Thus, under the eye of paternal watchfulness, Do-hum-me, silently 
as the flowers of her own bright prairies, sprang up to womanhood. 
Possessing in an uncommon degree those traits of beauty most prized 
by her race — ever gentle and good-humored — she was the idol of her 
father, and the favorite of her tribe. Monotonous and uneventful her 
life must necessarily have been until her eighteenth year, when a new, 
and, as it eventuated, fatal era occurred in her existence. 

Prompted partly by a desire of adjusting some land difficulties at 
Washington, partly by a curiosity to behold the great cities of the 
white men, and partly by the artful and interested representations of the 
designing and needy, a delegation of the Sacs and lowas came to the 
determination of visiting our Atlantic shores. Do-hum-me, under her 
father's care, with two other females much older than herself, one of 
whom was a niece of the celebrated Black-hawk, accompanied them. 

During their journey from the Far West, an affection sprang up be- 
tween the youthful subject of this sketch and a young chief of the 
lowas, which soon ripened into an intimacy ending in marriage. The 
interesting ceremony which united them, was performed at Paterson, 
according to their own rites, and in the presence of their tribe, and a 


number of white persons who had become interested by the beauty and 
amiable deportment of the youthful couple. Soon after their marriage 
they arrived in New York, where they attracted great attention, not 
less by their beauty and gracefulness, than by their undisguised affection 
for one another. They were never separated; — proud of each other, 
loving and happy, the animated smile of the bridegroom, and the gay, 
musical laugh of the bride, were a joy to all beholders. Gifts were 
showered upon them from all quarters, and the jewelry of Do-hum-me 
might have been coveted by many a fairer-hued bride. 

But a dark cloud arose on the horizon of their wedded bliss, and 
their marriage-torch went suddenly out in darkness. Unaccustomed 
alike to the luxuries of civilized life, which by well-meaning but mis- 
judging friends were too lavishly heaped upon them, and the whirl and 
bustle by which they were continually surrounded, Do-hum-me sudden- 
ly fell a victim to her new and false position. A violent cold, contracted 
one stormy evening to which they were exposed, superadded to indis- 
position produced by the causes already alluded to, at once assumed 
the alarming character of inflammation ; congestion ensued, and in a 
few brief hours, all was over. 

Thus died Do-hum-me, a stranger, and in a strange land. Far away 
from all familiar things and places, in a little more than four weeks 
from her bridal, she passed to her burial. Almost deserted in her death, 
— for the two females who had accompanied her from her home had 
already found a grave, the one dying in a hospital of Philadelphia, the 
other but three weeks before in New York, — and the thousands who 
had come around them to gaze and wonder, at the rumor of a conta- 
gious disease having broken out among the hapless company, had 
without exception taken flight, — one only of her own sex, whose sym- 


patliies were stronger than all fear, stood by her side, to administer to 
her wants, to soothe her last moments, and to close her eyes when all 
was over. 

An attempt to describe this last sad scene, would be utterly futile. 
The helpless bewilderment — the agony, almost despair, of the doting 
father and husband — their piteous wails and sobs — the irrepressible '' 
tears which, unwiped, flowed down their dusky cheeks, altogether 
formed a picture which can never be forgotten, and which forever dis- 
proves the oft-told tale of the Indian's coldness and stoicism. 

In the same gay ornaments with which, with a girlish pride, Do- 
hum-me had adorned herself for her bridal, she was again decked for 
the grave ; and it was with no other feeling than that of reverence and 
grief, that the hand of civilization aided that of the savage, in braiding 
the dark locks, and circling the neck of the bride of death, with the 
sparkling chain and gay and flashing gem. She was followed to her 
last resting-place by those dearest to her in life, as well as by that 
friend whom Providence directed to her bedside in the last bitter hour 
of dissolution. There, in a spot aptly chosen for the grave of the 
forest-girl, she reposes in the last, dreamless slumber. She hears not 
the ocean-winds that sigh around her green-roofed dwelling ; the foot- 
steps of the frequent pilgrim disturb her not ; — for, let us believe that, 
according to her own simple faith, her spirit is lovingly, patiently wait- 
ing, in some far-off but happy sphere, till those she so loved on earth 
shall join her, never more to be separated. 




By the banks of Sylvan Water, 

Where the Green-Wood shadows rest, 
Sleepeth Iowa's young daughter, 

In a mournful mother's breast ! 
In a mother's breast that never 

Groweth harsh, or stern, or cold, — 
Lock'd in arms that will forever 

Tenderly their child enfold ! 

Summer winds above her sighing, 

Softly kiss the drooping flowers ; 
Summer rains, like lutes replying, 

Make sweet music to the hours ! 
Winter snows, around her falling, 

Robe the dell, the copse, and hill ; 
Spirits through the storm are calling — 

But the maiden sleepeth still ! 

In a far-land, where the prairie, 

Stretch'd in boundless beauty, lies, 
Lovely as a woodland fairy, 

Open'd she at first her eyes ; 
Many a sweet flower, round her springing, 

Gladness to her bosom lent ; 
Many a bright bird o'er her winging, 

With her own its carol blent ! 

Eyes that watch'd her sinless childhood, 

Brighter beam'd when she appear'd, 
Hearts that braved for her the wildwood, 

Toil or peril never fear'd ! 
Thus, with sky and forest o'er her, 

Grew to maidenhood the child, 
While the light of love before her, 

On her path in beauty smiled ! 


From that far-land came she hither ; 

Hearts long loved were by her side ; 
But we saw her fade and wither, 

Till, like summer flowers, she died ! 
To her sylvan couch we bore her, 

When the twilight shadows fell ; 
Softly smooth'd the green turf o'er her, 

Where in death she slumbers well ! 

Stricken bride ! amid the places 

Thou didst love, thy grave should be,- 
Here, of all the pale-hued faces, 

Who, save one, has wept for thee 1 
Lo '. I hear a sound of anguish 

From the far Missouri's shore — 
'Tis the voice of those who languish, 

That they see thy face no more ! 

There thy sire all lowly sitteth, 

Weeping sadly and alone ; 
There thy hunter still forgetteth 

Those that live for one that's gone ! 
Peace be round their lonely pillow, 

In that far-off, western wild ! 
Thou, beside the ocean-willow, 

Sweetly sleep, poor Forest-child ! 


" The city bright below ; and far away, 

Sparkling in golden light, his own romantic bay. 


Tall spire, and glittering roof, and battlement, 
And banners floating in the sunny air ; 

And white sails o'er the bright blue waters bent ; 
Green isle, and circling shore, are blended there, 

In wild reality." 

Two of the plates in this number are representations of tombs situa- 
ted near the summit of Bay-grove Hill. The material, the elaborate 
execution, and more than all, the commanding position of these struc- 
tures, make them particularly prominent and attractive. The beautiful 
eminence which they occupy, is not far from the entrance. The view 
from this spot will detain the visitor a moment. An opening on his 
left reveals to him the lower bay, Staten Island, and the Narrows. 
Another, in front, reaches across the harbor, and is bounded by the 
masts, spires, and dwellings of New York and Brooklyn. The little 
dell which he has just passed, with its shady water, is immediately 
below. Here, with a city of the living before him, and another of the 
dead growing up around, the charm of contrast is felt in its power. 
Here arc presented, as it were, side by side, art and nature — bustle and 
repose — life and death ; — while each quiet sail, moving but noiseless, 
seems a fit medium of communication between them. 


" To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, 
And read their history in a nation's eyes." 

The remains of De Witt Clinton repose temporarily in one of the 
tombs on Bay-grove Hill. They were laid here in the expectation that 
they would soon find a final resting-place in some commanding portion 
of the ground, and beneath a monument worthy of his great name, and 
of the city and commonwealth which owe so much to him. But this 
tribute to the memory and services of her most distinguished benefac- 
tor, New York has yet to pay. A beginning, indeed, has been effected 
by the proffer of a few liberal contributions, but no general and earnest 
call has yet been made. To such a call, this great and wealthy com- 
munity will doubtless respond with its wonted liberality. 

As this duty, which has too long remained unfulfilled, may soon be 
urged anew, a brief glance at the services and character of Clinton, 
may serve to remind some, and to inform others, of his pre-eminent 
claims to such commemoration. 

De Witt Clinton was born 1769, at Little Britain, a small town 
in the pastoral valley of the Walkill. His grandfather, Charles Clinton, 
though of English descent, came to this country from Ireland, in 1729. 
At the capture of Fort Frontenac, during the French and Indian war, 
he was at the head of a regiment, while two of his sons, James, the 
father of De Witt, and George, afterward Governor of New York, and 
Vice-president of the United States, held subordinate commands. In 
the war of Independence, James Clinton was a general officer, and 
again did his country service. 

Thus honored in his origin and connections, De Witt gave early 
promise of eminence on his own account. He was one of the first 
class graduated at Columbia College, after it was reopened subse- 

28 GREEN-WOOD illustrated. 

quently to the Revolution. He studied law with the celebrated Samuel 
Jones, and in due course was admitted to the bar. At this conjuncture, 
his uncle, George Clinton, then Governor of New York, proposed to 
him to become his private secretary. Yielding his golden prospects in 
the law, to considerations of duty and gratitude, he accepted the place, 
and thus plunged at once into the restless sea of political life. Adopt- 
ing, from conviction, the anti-federal opinions of his uncle, he defended 
them as a matter of duty ; and it is highly creditable to his power as a 
writer, that he was thought by multitudes to maintain his ground, al- 
though his antagonists were the immortal authors of the "Federalist." 
From 1797 to 1801, he was a member of the state legislature, and the 
acknowledged leader of his party. He was opposed, generally, to the 
national administration of that period, but not with a bitter or undis- 
criminating hostility. In 1801, being only thirty-two years old, he was 
elected senator of the United States. In this august body, he at once 
took high rank as a statesman and debater. In 1803 he was ap- 
pointed mayor of New York, and, with the exception of two years, 
continued to hold that responsible post until 1815. 

By virtue of this office, as then constituted, he was the head of the 
city police, chief judge of the criminal court and common-pleas, and 
chairman of the board of health, with a large patronage at his sole dis- 
posal. In the discharge of these various and onerous duties, his course 
seems to have 'been uniformly firm, and able, and honest. During a 
large portion of the same period, he was also a member of the New 
York legislature. Though sharing largely in the political conflicts of 
those exciting times, he gave to objects of public and lasting utility, his 
great personal and official influence. 

Statesmanship was, with him, no narrow, selfish policy, looking only 


to the advancement of individual interests, or the extension and con- 
solidation of party power. To every scheme of benevolence and 
improvement, well intended and well devised, he lent his willing aid. 
The weather-beaten old sailor, resting at last in his " Snug Harbor," 
with the name of Randall may gratefully join that of Clinton, as hav- 
ing made secure to him his comfortable home. The Bloomingdale 
Asylum for the Insane was founded by grants, which Clinton proposed 
and carried. The first establishment in New York for the encourage- 
ment of the fine arts, obtained its charter through his agency, and was 
ever after an object of his care. Many instances of his benevolence 
and public spirit are of necessity omitted ; but one great benefaction, 
belonging to this period of his life, must not be passed by. The Free 
School Society, which became the seminal principle and the nucleus 
of that great system of public instruction, by which the state now gives 
an education to her million of children, was devised by De Witt Clin- 
ton. By his exertions a charter was obtained — private subscriptions 
were secured — the city corporation was enlisted in its favor — and 
finally, a liberal grant was made by the state. How humble the be- 
ginning, — how magnificent the result ! It may well be doubted whether 
even the far-reaching mind which conceived the plan, ever anticipated 
the mighty issue of this generous endeavor to provide free schools for 
the neglected children of New York. To every wise and well-meant 
effort for human improvement, this example is a perpetual voice of 
cheering and promise. 

Though enough has been adduced hi even these brief details, to show 
that De Witt Clinton might well rank among the great and good, 
it is not on these grounds that his renown chiefly rests. His attention 
seems to have been first turned to the subject of improving the internal 


communications of New York, in 1809. Being at that time the ac- 
knowledged leader of the democratic party in the state senate, he was 
invited by Judge Piatt, who held the same position on the federal side, 
to co-operate in procuring the appointment of a commission for exam- 
ining and surveying the country between the Hudson and Lake Erie, 
with reference to uniting these waters by a canal. He assented, and 
these rival aspirants, — would that such spectacle might be oftener seen ! 
— rising above the selfishness and jealousies of party, joined heart and 
hand in this great undertaking. In the following summer, as one of the 
commissioners, he examined the entire route, and from that time, never 
doubted the importance or feasibility of the work. In 1812, the pros- 
pects of the enterprise, which, up to that time, had been highly auspi- 
cious, were interrupted by the commencement of hostilities with 
England. In 1815 the storm of war had passed away, but the position 
of parties and of individuals was, in many instances, greatly altered. 
The fluctuating tide of popular favor, on whose topmost wave Clinton 
had so long ridden, had now subsided, leaving him stranded on the 
shore. But though out of office — though discarded by the party which 
he had served and led — he possessed still that better influence, which 
high talent, well and steadily devoted to the public good, never fails to 
accpiire. This soon became manifest. He drew up a memorial, ex- 
hibiting the practicability and usefulness of the proposed canal ; the 
expediency of constructing it, though it should yield no revenue ; the 
probable cost, and the unquestionable ability of the state to meet it. 
Its lucid statements and convincing argument, carried conviction every- 
where. Its presentation to the legislature was soon followed by the 
act of 17th April, 1816, "to provide for the improvement of the inter- 
nal navigation of the state." He was appointed one of the five com- 


missioners constituted by this act, and entered forthwith upon the 

The star of Clinton was clearly again in the ascendant. The office 
of governor having become vacant in 1817, he was raised to the chair 
by a vote nearly unanimous. The change was wonderful. Old party 
lines could no longer be found. The golden age had returned. Such 
was the pleasing dream of many who beheld the treacherous calm. 
But not then, assuredly, had parties in New York acquired the grace- 
ful art, 

" To rise with dignity, with temper fall." 

The sweet harmony of consenting voices, which had so lately 
charmed all ears, was soon changed to harsh discord. Discontents 
arose. New combinations of party were formed. Governor Clinton 
and his measures were strongly opposed. Even the canal was not 
spared. Faction, in its frothy violence, could find for this most mag- 
nificent of human enterprises, no worthier designation than that of 
" the big ditch." 

From this acrimonious contest Clinton came out victorious, but 
with a diminished majority. His second term of office was one pro- 
tracted battle. A majority of the legislature was unfriendly. His 
political opponents were able, as well as numerous and active. Weary, 
at length, of the unprofitable struggle and thankless honor, he declined 
a third trial, and retired to private life. 

During all these fluctuations of the political world, the canal, that 
great object of his care and ambition, went steadily forward. His 
able and unpaid services as senior commissioner, had been devoted to 
the work through its whole progress. Yet in 1824, when it was 
nearly completed, — when it had already become a source of revenue 


to the state, and of unexampled prosperity to the regions which it trav- 
ersed, and those which it connected, Clinton, to whom this great 
success was almost wholly due, was removed by a legislative vote, from 
his place as canal commissioner. No want of capacity or fidelity was, 
or could be alleged. Not even a pretext was assigned. It was th^ 
sovereign act of politicians in power, mistaking, for the moment, the 
character and sentiments of a great people. No leading-strings ot 
party could drag them to approve what seemed a manifest injustice. 
The indignation was general. Clinton was immediately put in nomi- 
nation for the chief magistracy ; and his election by an overwhelming 
majority, assured him that gratitude and honor yet survived. 

In October, 1826, the final completion of the Erie canal was cele- 
brated with great rejoicings. It is easier to conceive than to describe 
the emotions which must have swelled the heart of Clinton, during 
that long, triumphal voyage from Buffalo to New, York, when the vir- 
gin Nereid of our great inland seas was conducted to her bridal with 
the Ocean-king. It was the consummation of that enterprise to which, 
for more than fourteen years, he had consecrated his time and strength, 
his pen and voice. To effect it, he had endured not only anxiety and 
fatigue, but even obloquy and proscription. Now, with evidence so 
ample that, at last, those exertions were widely and deeply appreciated, 
the measure of his actual fame might well fill even his great ambition. 
And still he must have known that the benefits of the canal with 
which his name was now inseparably twined, had only begun to be 
felt. Rich as was the freight which it already wafted to the sea, its 
commerce was as yet but the mountain rivulet, which, swelled at 
length by a thousand tributaries, would roll on, a mighty tide, and 
freshen the Atlantic with its Amazon of waters. 


His useful career was now approaching its close. Again elected to 
the chief magistracy, he entered on his last term of office in 1827. In 
the autumn of that year his health began to fail. His disease did not, 
however, prevent him from attending to his official and daily duties, 
down to the very hour of his departure, which occurred suddenly, Feb- 
ruary 15, 1828. No palsied energies, no streams of dotage, marked 
the closing scene. He was still high in station and respect; — still 
cheered by the gratitude and admiration of his countrymen ; — full as 
ever of benevolent and sagacious plans and deeds— when the summons 
came. From that height of undiminished usefulness, of influence, and 
fame, he dropped into the tomb. 

Twenty years have passed since Clinton died. Time, magic healer ! 
has salved the wounds of political strife, and the sober light of historic 
truth, neither dimmed nor deflected by the mists of contemporary pre- 
judice, shines at length upon his life and character. Interested parti- 
sans have ceased to lavish on his name praises not deserved, and 
disappointed enemies no longer denounce it. 

That his abilities were of a high order, was perhaps never ques- 
tioned. The well-contested fields of party strife, — the stations of 
honorable and laborious responsibility which he adorned and digni- 
fiecl, — the enterprises of broad and permanent usefulness which he 
achieved, establish the point. There have been ordinary men of pop- 
ular and plausible talents, who have gained a short-lived reputation for 
greatness. Such was the case with some of Clinton's successful com- 
petitors for power and place! What are they now l Hardly can we 
say, "stat nominis umbra!" But Clinton was of another stamp. His 
ideas were vast, and his works, commensurate with the conceptions in 

which they originated, retain the impress of a master-hand. His re- 


nown, accordingly, was no ephemeral growth. The tree, deep-rooted 
and wide-branching, while it has expanded and grown fairer in the air 
and sunshine, has also been tested and strengthened by the very blasts 
that have shaken it. 

His mind was distinguished by its massive strength, rather than by 
variety or flexibility of power. It could grasp strongly subjects of 
high import and wide extent, retaining and revolving them, until it had 
mastered their minutest details. The cast of his intellect was deci- 
dedly practical. His imagination, if not naturally feeble, had lost its 
activity under early and habitual restraint. All the more, perhaps, was 
his judgment cool and discriminating. His untiring industry enabled 
him to bring to his investigations all that learning could contribute, 
while his power to analyze and recombine, helped him to turn those 
treasures to the most effective account. Hence the wisdom of his 
plans, and his almost prophetic anticipation of results. Hence he had 
none of the dreams of the mere visionary, nor the dazzling schemes 
of an enthusiast. How different might have been the issue of the canal 
enterprise in New York, had not the wild notions and specious elo- 
quence of Gouverneur Morris been counteracted by the clear head, 
and strong good sense of De Witt Clinton ! That vast project, which, 
under favorable auspices, became the boast and wonder of the age, 
might have perished, a still-born folly, or, if attempted, could have 
ended only in utter failure. 

The wisdom which was so conspicuous in selecting the points to be 
connected, and the region to be traversed by the proposed canal, as 
well as in the plan and prosecution of the work, was even more sig- 
nally manifest in that financial basis upon which, through the same 
influence, it was made to rest. To the exertions of Clinton, New York 


owes it, that, adopting the only honest and safe course in such matters, 
she has retained her credit as well as prosperity, — while other states, 
following the example of her improvements, but trusting to the income 
from their works, for the liquidation of their debts, have involved them- 
selves in perplexing and discreditable embarrassment. 

Though eminent as a statesman, — though unequalled in that ability 
which could devise and execute works of public and lasting benefit, — 
his merit was not confined to these departments. He had a strong 
predilection for scientific pursuits, and found time to investigate suc- 
cessfully some of the branches of natural history. His contributions 
on these subjects were made public, and still bear testimony to his zeal 
and assiduity. Of his talents as a writer, evidence remains not only 
in numerous state-papers, but in published addresses, delivered on lit- 
erary and civil occasions. The style of his oratory seems to have par- 
taken of the general character of his mind. He owed something to 
personal appearance, much to his weight of character, still more to the 
substantial merits of his discourse. His elocution, if not particularly 
graceful, was impressive and dignified. 

Clinton's success as a political man, must be ascribed to higher 
merits than affability of manners, or the winning arts of the dema- 
gogue. In his public communications, and in social intercourse, where 
not closely intimate, his habits were stately and reserved. He had 
never studied in the school of modern non-committalism, nor would he 
seek, by an insinuating address, or by chicane and intrigue, the influ- 
ence which argument and right had failed to gain. 

In person he was tall and well-proportioned, while on his Roman 
brow and lip, as of one born to command, sat the firmness of self- 
possession, and the dignity of conscious power. 


But it is when we contemplate Clinton as a man, faithful and true 
in every domestic and social relation ; — as a patriot, self-sacrificing and 
devoted ; — as a statesman and judge, virtuous and incorruptible ; — as a 
benefactor to his own and coming times, rarely surpassed, that his 
name shines most brightly, and will be longest remembered. He was 
not, indeed, faultless. We recall with regret that devotion to party, 
which on the one hand, blinded him to the faults of his political 
friends, and on the other, made him sometimes unjust and uncharitable 
toward his opponents. Through his whole course we discern too 
much, perhaps, of that " sin, by which fell the angels." 

But we must not forget the trying character of those times. The 
tides of party violence ran high. Besides that great strife which agi- 
tated the whole country, and shook the Union to its centre, New York, 
herself " imperium in imperio," was never without some fierce struggle 
of her own. Like Jupiter with his moons, she formed an entire, 
though subordinate planetary system, and her intestine perturbations 
were neither few nor small. To the political pilots of those stormy 
years let us forgive something, if their barks occasionally drifted with 
the currents which they undertook to stem. 

Clinton's hostility as a politician, however severe, was not per- 
sonal. To this point we have the testimony of one of his most illus- 
trious antagonists. When the news of his decease reached Washing- 
ton, the New York delegation in Congress held a meeting, to express 
their sense of the public loss. Mr. Van Buren, then of the senate, of- 
fered the resolutions, and paid the following tribute to his worth — a 
tribute which must have been as affecting as it is just and beautiful. 

" I can," said Mr. V. B., " say nothing of the deceased that is not 
familiar to you all. To all he was personally known, and to many of 


us, intimately and familiarly from our earliest infancy. The high order 
of his talents, the untiring zeal and great success with which those 
talents have, through a series of years, been devoted to the prosecution 
of plans of great public utility, are also known to you all, and by all, I 
am satisfied, duly appreciated. The subject can derive no additional 
interest or importance from any eulogy of mine. All other considera- 
tions out of view, the single fact that the greatest public improvement 
of the age in which we live, was commenced under the guidance of his 
counsels, and splendidly accomplished under his immediate auspices, is 
of itself sufficient to fill the ambition of any man, and to give glory to 
any name. But, as has been justly said, his life, and character, and 
conduct have become the property of the historian ; and there is no 
reason to doubt that history will do him justice. The triumph of his 
talents and patriotism, cannot fail to become monuments of high and 
enduring fame. We cannot, indeed, but remember, that in our public 
career, collisions of opinion and action, at once extensive, earnest, and 
enduring, have arisen between the deceased and many of us. For 
myself, sir, it gives me a deep-felt though melancholy satisfaction to 
know, and more so, to be conscious, that the deceased also felt and 
acknowledged, that our political differences had been wholly free from 
that most venomous and corroding of all poisons, personal hatred. 

" But in other respects, it is now immaterial what was the character 
of those collisions. They have been turned to nothing, and less than 
nothing, by the event we deplore ; and I doubt not that we shall, with 
one voice and one heart, yield to his memory the well-deserved tribute 
of our respect for his name, and our warmest gratitude for his great and 
signal services. For myself, sir, so strong, so sincere, and so engrossing 
is that feeling, that I, who, while he lived, never, no, never envied him 


any thing, now that he is fallen, am greatly tempted to envy him his 
grave, with its honors." 

But there is other and better extenuation for the errors into which 
the heat of political conflict sometimes hurried this great man. Though 
a partisan of the warmest temperament, his devotion to party objects 
was never selfish. Whatever else may be said, he was not of that class 
of narrow men, 

"Who to party give up what was meant for mankind." 

To his praise be it remembered, that personal aggrandizement was 
not the ruling motive of his life. Though his official position gave him 
multiplied opportunities to enrich himself and his family, he resolutely 
scorned them all, and died as he lived, a rare example of Aristidean 
virtue. He contended earnestly for power, but it was the power to do 
good. He was ambitious, but it was ambition in its brightest phase, 
and scarcely can we find it in our hearts to chide the aspiring vice, 
which was so noble in purpose, and so beneficent in act. 

Envy has sometimes denied the paramount merit of Clinton in the 
great enterprise of the Erie Canal. But the question is not, whether 
he first made the suggestion of a navigable communication between the 
lakes and the Hudson. It is a fact of historic certainty, that the adop- 
tion, the prosecution, and the accomplishment of that gigantic under- 
taking, were owing mainly to his convincing statements, his vast 
influence, and indomitable perseverance. What other man was there 
then, or has there been since, who would have accomplished the same? 
Who, that has watched the course of events in New York, and the 
fluctuations of party legislation on this very subject, the canal, — but 
may well question, whether, without the agency just named, it would 


to this day have been began ? To Clinton, then, as an honored instru- 
ment in higher hands, be the praise awarded ! Citizens of this impe- 
rial state, whose numerical power the canal has doubled, and whose 
wealth it has augmented in a ratio that defies estimation, cherish and 
perpetuate his name ! You enjoy the rich fruits which his foresight 
anticipated, and his toils secured. Let him rest no longer in an undis- 
tinguished grave. True, a name like Clinton's cannot die ! It is 
written on that long, deep line with which he channelled the broad 
bosom of his native state ; — it is heard at every watery stair, as the 
floating burden sinks or rises with the gushing stream ; — it is borne on 
each of the thousand boats that make the long, inland voyage ; — and it 
shines, entwined with Fulton's, on all the steam-towed fleets of barges, 
which sweep in almost continuous train, the surface of the Hudson. 
But these are the traces of his own hand. It is your duty and privi- 
lege to record it too. Engrave it, then, in ever-during stone. Embody 
your sense of his merits in the massive pile. From the loftiest height 
of beautiful Green- Wood let the structure rise, a beacon at once to the 
city and the sea. Severe in beauty, and grand in proportions, it should 
be emblematical of the man and of his works. Such a monument will 
be a perpetual remembrancer of Clinton's name, and of his inapprecia- 
ble services ; and will stand for ages, the fit expression of your gratitude 
and of his glory. 



" A voice within us speaks that startling word, 
'Man, thou shalt never die!' Celestial voices 
Hymn it unto our souls : according harps, 
By angel fingers touclvd, when the mild stars 
Of morning sang together, sound forth still 
The song of our great immortality: 
Thick clustering orbs, and this our fair domain, 
The tall, dark mountains, and the deep-toned seas, 
Join in this solemn, universal song. 
Oh, listen ye, our spirits ; drink it in 
From all the air." 

The monument on Oaken Bluff is almost upon the woody brow of 
Sylvan Water. It is composed of the same beautiful brown stone as 
those on Ocean Hill, already described. Its style also is similar, al- 
though somewhat more pyramidal, from the greater breadth of base. 
The corners of the die, and the roof are enriched, and the latter is sur- 
mounted by an urn. 

On the right is seen a tomb-front, of the same material. The detail 
is Roman, and the proportions are massive. A strong pier at each of 
the front corners, terminates in an urn of bold outline. 

Both of these structures present an aspect of great solidity, and a 
promise of permanence, which will doubtless be made good. This 
rare but most important character they derive partly from form and ma- 
terial, and partly from the perfection of the masonry. 


" And those who come because they loved 

The mouldering frame that lies below, 
Shall find their anguish half removed, 

While that sweet spot shall sooth their wo. 
The notes of happy birds alone 

Shall there disturb the silent air, 
And when the cheerful sun goes down, 

His beams shall linger longest there.'* 

The monument on Fern-Hill is an obelisk of unique character. 
The outline diminishes from the base upward, in successive stages of 
slight curvation, and the figure furnishes an agreeable variety in this 
very popular class of sepulchral decorations. The stone is a hard and 
very dark sienitic or trap rock from Staten Island ; it is polished 
throughout, — and its entire aspect is impressive and becoming. The 
workmanship of this structure is admirable. As in the old Athenian 
masonry, the separate stones are so nicely adjusted, that they require 
no intervening cement. This obelisk occupies the centre of a large, 
circular lot, and its position is commanding and beautiful. 



'AVhy call we, then, the square-built monument, 
The upright column, and the low-laid slab, 
Tokens of death, memorials of decay? 
Stand m this solemn, still assembly, man, 
And learn thy proper nature ; for thou seest 
In these shaped stones and letter'd tables, figures 
Of life ; 

— types are these 
Of thine eternity." 

The establishment of rural cemeteries has awakened, by natural 
consequence, a livelier interest in the whole subject of sepulchral mon- 
uments. The feeling which prompts the erection of some memorial 
over the ashes of a friend, is undoubtedly a dictate of our common 
humanity. A great philosophic poet ascribes the custom to that con- 
sciousness of immortality, which he believes to be universal, and which 
is but aided and confirmed by the teachings of religion. Whatever 
the cause, its observance has marked every race and age in man's 
whole history, and appears not less in the " frail memorial," than in the 
gorgeous mausoleum ; in the simple Indian mound, than in the " star-y- 
pointing pyramid." The supposed necessities of city life, or its poor 
and heartless conventionalities, alone have been able to check or divert 
for a time the expression of this spontaneous sentiment. But these 
interments in towns must be discontinued ; and the expectation is not 
preposterous, that the crowded charnel-houses which have so long re- 


ceived the dead to loathsome crypts, and nameless oblivion, will soon 
be closed forever. 

Well, then, may the introduction of the rural cemetery be hailed as 
the revival of a better taste, and the return to more healthy usages. It 
is something — it is much — to have transferred the resting-place of the 
departed from the blank and grim enclosures, the thoughtless and fierce 
turmoil of the city, to some retired and beautiful spot, — even though 
many continue to cling to their old associations, and, notwithstanding 
the necessity has ceased, still retain the tomb. " Dust thou art, and 
unto dust shalt thou return." How shall this inevitable condition be 
fulfilled most completely and naturally, — with the highest degree of 
safety to. the living, and of security from desecration, to the dead ? The 
question, however various may be the practice, admits, it is believed, of 
but one answer. That answer is, by single interments in the free soil. 
Nature, reason, experience, utter the response, and taste reiterates and 
confirms it. To this conviction the public mind seems to be gradually, 
but surely coming. With the progress of this change, we witness an 
increasing attention to commemorative memorials, and evident im- 
provement in their forms and modes of erection. Such improvement 
was greatly needed. Bear witness a thousand grave-yards, but too 
emblematic of decay and dissolution ! Witness ten thousand tablets, 
once bearing the names and virtues of the lamented dead, and fondly 
reared to their " memory," now mossy, mouldering, inclined, or pros- 
trate, puzzling the groping visiter, and sometimes baffling even antiqua- 
rian patience ! Witness especially, those heaps unsightly of brick and 
mortar, formerly veneered with costly marble, now half denuded, or 
entirely fallen, with their recorded " hie jacet" doubly true. It is al- 
most impossible to find a monument composed of several pieces united 


by masonry, which has stood twenty years, without more or less of 
dilapidation and displacement. This evil has been too palpable not 
to be widely felt, and the wonder is, that spectacles so discreditable 
should have been endured so long. 

Of the beautiful cemeteries lately formed among us, we hope better 
things. That the hope be not delusive, will require untiring vigilance 
on the part of those who conduct these establishments, and the use of 
every precaution, by those who occupy the grounds. In the compara- 
tively modern Pere la Chaise, this evil has already become great, and 
even in some of the still more recent English cemeteries, is beginning 
to be matter of complaint. Climate, the main source of the difficulty, 
is probably not more favorable here than it is in France and England. 
We arc subject to the extremes of heat and cold, of moisture and dry- 
ness ; to intense frosts and sudden thaws. No material that can be 
used for monuments, has yet been found perfectly proof against these 
potent influences. But although there is not one, perhaps, of the 
stones in architectural use, which, exposed to the weather, is wholly 
invulnerable, it is certain that they differ widely in respect of durabil- 
ity. Ignorance or disregard of this fact has led to much of the decay 
and unsightliness which have so long characterized our places of sep- 
ulture. This is not, however, the only cause. 

The whole subject of monumental erections, as a question both of 
taste and durability, must interest not only those who contemplate 
making such improvements in Green -Wood, but all who would pre- 
serve from deformities and desolation, a scene of unrivalled, and, as 
yet, undisfigured beauty. 

Regarded as an affair of taste, the subject is one of some delicacy, 
and we venture upon it with becoming deference. We do not forget 


the right of each individual to have his own way in such matters, nor 
those maxims of universal currency, which rest upon the assumption, 
that in all this wide province there are no fundamental principles. We 
set up no invariable standard, nor would we, if in our power, enforce 
uniformity, — variety being essential to pleasing effect. But we have, 
notwithstanding, an unalterable conviction that all considerations of 
this sort rest upon certain laws of fitness and propriety, which cannot 
be violated, without a shock to every mind of just perceptions, and 
powers rightly cultivated. If it be a question of form only, the lines 
of beauty and deformity are not so easily decided. Yet even here 
there is less of latitude than is often supposed. There is a voice — the 
generally harmonious voice of cultivated taste. It has the sanction of 
numbers and of ages, and may not lightly be disregarded. 

The simplest, cheapest form of sepulchral memorial, is the common 
head-stone. This, in its usual character of a thin tabular slab, merely 
inserted in the earth, is not allowed in Green -Wood, for the sufficient 
reason, that it cannot be made to retain an erect position. Particular 
graves are sometimes marked by tablets placed horizontally, and some- 
times by thick stones at the ends, rising but a little from the surface. 
But the head-stone proper is not excluded. To give the required du- 
rability, it needs only be made sufficiently thick to rest firmly upon a 
well-supported base. This class of monuments is susceptible of many 
pleasing forms, and being modest and unexpensive, will be likely to suit 
the taste and means of not a few. 

Of the more elaborate structures it will not be possible to treat in much 
detail. A few suggestions, of a general nature, will alone be attempted. 
In most of our rural cemeteries, the popular taste, ever prone to a ser- 
vile imitation, has shown a strong predilection for pyramidic forms. 


The chief objection is to the multiplication of one thing, producing, 
as it must, a wearisome sameness. We have seen a ground so full of 
pyramids and obelisks, that one could almost fancy it a gigantic cabinet 
of minerals, being all crystals set on end. But there are other consid- 
erations which should weigh in this matter. The great pyramid of 
Gizeh excites emotions of grandeur by its vast height and bulk. Re- 
duce it to a model six feet high : the sublimity is gone, and there is no 
special beauty in the object to compensate for the loss. Those vast 
monolithal, acicular pyramids called obelisks, their summits piercing the 
skies, and their adamantine surfaces embossed with hieroglyphics, 
attract our gaze as marvels of patience and power. But what partic- 
ular atoning charm have our petty and unsuccessful imitations of them, 
that they should usurp and fill so much space 1 

These remarks, it is scarcely necessary to add, urge not the exclu- 
sion of this class of monuments, but only a more sparing and sensible 
use of them. Set here and there among other diversified and grace- 
ful forms, these geometric solids might produce a happy effect. The 
dark conical fir-tree, judiciously planted amid masses of irregular and 
bright foliage, shows well in contrast, and pleases every eye. But who 
would fancy a park of firs 1 

Those whose hearts are set on pyramids and obelisks, will of course 
gratify that taste. While so doing, it may be well to remember, that 
in their angular measures, and in the relative dimensions of the mono- 
lith and pedestal, these seemingly monotonous structures differ very 
considerably, — often betraying, by their clumsiness, the bungling igno- 
rance of those who designed them. In shape and proportions they 
should assuredly be consonant with the best forms of ancient art, unless 
indeed modern genius can improve upon those. 


Among other antique forms still used, the sarcophagus and column 
are prominent. These are more susceptible of variety, and to lines of 
higher beauty, add the charm of classic associations. To the former 
of these, as a monument for the open air, it may perhaps be objected, 
that as commonlly placed, it is too low for impressive effect. Properly 
elevated on a massive base, it could scarcely fail to be imposing. To 
the simple pillar, likewise, as we usually see it, a similar objection 
holds. It is too slender ; it lacks dignity ; it does not fill the eye. To 
give it an effective diameter, would require a height which might be 
inconvenient or too expensive. The short rectangular pillar, or elon- 
gated pedestal, with regular base, die, and cornice, and supporting an 
urn, or some similar ornament, is a much more substantial object. 
This has been long in use among us, and seems to have been often 
resorted to, when it was proposed to have something particularly grand 
in the sepulchral line. Being executed generally in the style of mantel- 
work, the lines are for the most part rectilinear, meager in detail, and 
homely in expression. These monuments, with their brick cores and 
marble skins, are rapidly disappearing. Peace to their ruins ! Let no 
presumptuous mortal attempt to reconstruct them ! 

But this kind of structure becomes a very different affair, when 
reared of solid material, and of stone, which yields to the chisel, and 
can defy the elements. Several monuments of this class, both square 
and tripodal, have been put up in Green-Wood, and have done much 
toward giving the improvements there a character for originality and 
beauty, — evincing, as they do, great capability, in the way of variety, 
of dignity, and of grace. 

Numerous declivities in the grounds greatly facilitate the excavation 
and the use of tombs, and by consequence, render their fronts con- 


spicuous. A cursory observation of the different entrances, is sufficient 
to show that there is, even in these humble facades, considerable scope 
as well as call for architectural skill. The conditions which we would 
see fulfilled, and which are actually attained here in many instances, are 
an appearance of perfect security and strength, — symmetrical propor- 
tions, — and that air of quiet solemnity, which becomes the entrance to 
a house of the dead. 

The subject of monuments and devices strictly symbolical, opens a 
field for consideration, wider than we can now explore. Within the 
whole range of mortuary memorials, there is probably nothing which 
gives so complete satisfaction, as this embodiment of thought in marble 
speech, when it is felicitously conceived, and properly executed. 
.Sculpture has won her greenest and most enduring crown, when, with 
mute eloquence, she tells the story of faith triumphant over mortal 
anguish, — and, with immortality written on her beaming brow, stands 
pointing heavenward. But in proportion to the greatness and gladness 
of that success which rewards the high endeavor, are the disappoint- 
ment and disgrace which tread on the heels of failure. The eve of 
taste and the heart of sensibility are shocked by attempts, which con- 
vert into objects of ridicule and contempt, what ought only to sol- 
emnize and elevate the mind. In reference, then, to all original 
conceptions of a symbolic nature, the path of prudence seems plain. 
He who meditates a work of this description, ought surely to consider 
well before he decides, lest peradventure he record some expensive 
folly, in a material whose durability would then be its greatest misfor- 
tune. Such a work should bring into requisition the choicest talent 
and the highest skill. Genius and piety should furnish the design, and 
judgment and taste should superintend the task. 


For those who, in such matters, are content to copy the notions or 
works of others, the course is easier and safer. The public voice, — 
the voice, perhaps, of centuries, — may be considered as having passed 
sentence of approval on the forms which have been so often repeated 
or imitated. And yet how many even of these significant representa- 
tions, fail to meet the demands of a chastened taste, or lack, the sanc- 
tion of reason and scripture. Angelic forms, for instance, have been 
favorite subjects of monumental sculpture. It could, indeed, hardly be 
otherwise. Our earliest and most cherished associations have accus- 
tomed us to blend some image of cherub or seraph, with every thought 
of the spiritual world. Sacred verse, from the nursery rhyme to the 
lofty epic, has made these winged messengers of heaven seem almost 
familiar to our senses. The Bible itself, through its whole course, 
from the sad, primeval hour, when 

" all in bright array, 
The cherubim descended," 

to close and guard the gate of Paradise, to that night of gladness, in 

" sworded seraphim" 
Were " seen in glittering ranks, with wings display'd, 
Harping in loud and solemn quire, 
With unespressive notes, to heaven's new-born heir ;" — 

is one continuous record of angelic visitations. In no way, perhaps, 
have the painter and sculptor more fully exhibited the power of genius 
and art, than in those happy efforts by which tbey have given to the 
eye these shapes of transcendent beauty and goodness. But such are 
the exceptions. Too often, these attempted personifications in stone, 
or on the canvass, do not even approach the bright conceptions with 



which poetry and inspiration have filled our imaginations. When the 
subject is thus elevated, nothing short of the highest attainment can 
satisfy our expectations ; and with painful disappointment we turn 
away from the grotesque expression or incongruous attitude. 

" Though sculptors, with mistaken art, 
Place weeping angels round the tomb, 
Yet when the great and good depart, 
These shout to bear their conquerors home. 

" Glad they survey their labors o'er, 
And hail them to their native skies ; 
Attend their passage to the shore, 
And with their mounting spirits rise. 

" If, then, the wounded marble bear 
Celestial forms to grace the urn, 
Let triumph in their eyes appear, 
Nor dare to make an angel mourn." 

Of these imitations, the emblems most used are of Greek or Egyptian 
origin. To the dignity of age, some of them add that beauty of device 
and form, which Grecian genius could so well impart. No one can 
doubt that in their own time and place, these symbols were natural 
and appropriate, as well as beautiful. But are they so still ? Seen 
among the cypresses of an Ionian cemetery, or over the ashes of some 
beloved and lamented Athenian youth, the fragmentary column, or the 
torch reversed and going out in darkness, was a fit expression of the 
popular belief, and truly symbolized a sorrow in which hope had 
neither lot nor part. To the mourners of pagan antiquity, death was 
extinction. To them, no voice from heaven had spoken. P'or them, 
no page of revelation shone. No seer divine had taught them those 
lessons of faith, which alone can give to the bereaved and sorrowing, 


assurance of immortality and reunion ; when the broken pillar will be 
more than restored, and the extinguished blaze shall be relumined, 
never to fade again. With some reason might they plant upon the 
tomb, the tokens of crushed affections and hopeless grief. But when 
a Christian weeps for departed loveliness, or would raise some memo- 
rial for one who has died in the faith and peace of the gospel, are 
these the emblems which he should adopt? Shall he upon whose eye 
has beamed the star that first shed a radiance on the grave, and still 
lights up the once dark realms beyond, employ the same symbols with 
the pagan and the infidel ? As a question of religious consistency — 
of simple propriety — of mere taste, even, — has this matter been suffi- 
ciently considered ? We pretend not to suggest the forms which should 
either constitute or embellish the mementoes that rise for the dead in 
a Christian land. Happily there is no lack of those which are both 
beautiful and appropriate. They will readily be found by such as 
seek for them. Those who will use the gloomy hieroglyphics of some 
perished creed, should at least place near them the cheering emblems 
of a living faith. If Death be represented with downcast look and in- 
verted flame, let Immortality, as in the fine group of Thorwaldsen, / 
stand by his side, with torch high blazing, and eyes upturned in love 
and rapture. 

A strong disposition has of late been prevalent, to revive, for civil, 
monumental, and religious purposes, the architecture of the ancient 
world. When man builds for his own accommodation, or for objects 
purely civil and secular, the questions which he is called to settle are 
those of utility and beauty mainly. But when he rears a temple to S 
God, or a memorial for the dead, there are other considerations which 
demand a hearing. In determining the style of erections designed to 


express and to cherish emotions of tenderness and piety, it is not 
wise — it is not safe to disregard those influences which belong to 
associated thought, and to time-hallowed memories. We are creatures 
of sentiment and sympathy. A few, in their superior illumination, 
may profess indifference to the power of circumstances so trivial. 
But these are not " the people." However they may doubt or deny 
the reality, the world yet rolls on, and round, — and causes, not the less 
irresistible that they are unseen and despised, still move the rising and 
retiring tides of human passion. 

It is in disregard of such influences as those above referred to, that 
some modern philanthropists have thought it a good speculation, both 
pecuniary and religious, to purchase theatres, and convert them into 
houses of public worship. Has the experiment worked well ? Not 
so did the early Christians. When Rome was converted from idolatry 
to the religion of the cross, thousands of temples were abandoned 
by their worshippers. Here were structures ready furnished to their 
hands. Did their Grecian symmetry — their pillars of polished marble 
and porphyry — their tesselated floors — or their magnificent cornices 
and colonnades — tempt the followers of Jesus within their walls 1 
Nay, they knew too well the power of old associations, to set up a 
pure and spiritual worship, on pavements lately wet with libations to 
Bacchus and Venus, — where altars had smoked to Jupiter and Mars, 
— and where every familiar object must have been redolent of error 
and impurity. And is Christian architecture so poor and scanty, — is 
modern genius so sterile, that we must seek the models of our churches 
in " superstitious" Athens, and derive the forms of our sepulchral 
monuments, gateways, and chapels, from calf-adoring Egypt ? 

An American writer, who had noticed the strong predilection for 


the antique manifested in the oldest of our cemeteries, has happily 
expounded the principles of taste and feeling which should prevail in 
sepulchral architecture. We quote from the North American Review 
for October, 1836 : 

" It is very doubtful whether the Egyptian style is most appropriate 
to a Christian burial-place. It certainly has no connection with our 
religion. In its characteristics it is anterior to civilization ; and there- 
fore is not beautiful in itself. No one will deny the superiority of the 
Grecian in mere point of beauty. But more than this, Egyptian 
architecture reminds us of the religion which called it into being, — the 
most degraded and revolting paganism which ever existed. It is the 
architecture of embalmed cats and deified crocodiles : solid, stupendous, 
and time-defying, we allow ; but associated in our minds with all that 
is disgusting and absurd in superstition. Now, there is certainly no 
place, not even the church itself, where it is more desirable that our 
religion should be present to the mind, than the cemetery, which must 
be regarded either as the end of all things, — the last, melancholy, 
hopeless resort of perishing humanity, — the sad and fearful portion 
of man, which is to involve body and soul alike in endless night ; or, 
on the other hand, as the gateway to a glorious immortality, — the 
passage to a brighter world, whose splendors beam even upon the dark 
chambers of the tomb. It is from the very brink of the grave, where 
rest in eternal sleep the mortal remains of those whom we have best 
loved, that Christianity speaks to us, in its most triumphant, soul- 
exalting words, of victory over death, and a life to come. Surely, 
then, all that man places over the tomb should, in a measure, speak 
the same language. The monuments of the burial-ground should 
remind us that this is not our final abode : they should, as far as 



possible, recall to us the consolations and promises of our reli- 

For the highest class of monumental tributes, we must resort to the 
studio of the sculptor. Personal representations, whether real or alle- 
gorical, will ever maintain in the world of art a superiority to all other 
forms, not unlike that which belongs to their prototypes in the worlds 
of life and thought. Accordingly, in all ages and lands in which 
art has flourished, monumental sculpture has abounded. In our busy 
country, the era of the fine arts, if in progress, has but just begun. 
As was to be expected, our patronage of the brush and chisel thus 
far has been somewhat characteristic, if not selfish, — amounting to 
little more than orders for portraits and busts, to adorn the domestic 
halls which still rejoice in the presence of the originals. Nor is it 
because they could not be had, that better things have not been more 
generally sought. In the first of these departments American genius 
has for years been distinguished ; and in the latter, it has entered on a 
career which promises to be long and brilliant. To native merit of so 
high order, our countrymen cannot long remain insensible and unjust. 
With increasing wealth and leisure, — with advancing knowledge and 
refinement, — with travel more frequent and extended, the patronage of 
art will undoubtedly keep pace. In that coming and not distant age 
of Phidian splendor, the dead will claim and receive no inconsiderable 
share of the sculptor's skill. Wealth, refined by taste, and quickened 
by the promptings of grief and affection, will delight to preserve in 
breathing marble the loved form which has faded from earth. Through 
the medium of this most expressive art, the language of sorrow and 
of hope may be conveyed to the eye with happiest effect ; and while 
propriety in design might thus go, hand in hand, with sensibility of 


feeling, merit would reap a fostering reward. Large sums have not 
unfrequently been devoted to the erection of huge Egyptian monu- 
ments, — to fanciful tombs below and above ground, — or to piles of 
masonry, which, beyond their expcnsiveness, have little or nothing else 
to boast of. Had these ample means been applied to secure works 
of high art from a Greenough or Power, a Crawford or Brown, how 
different the result, both as to present effect and enduring influence ! 

For all purposes of improvement in the arts — of national reputation 
— of patronized genius, need we say that the former are utterly ineffi- 
cient 1 Were there, on the other hand, in the grounds at Green- 
Wood, a single perfect statue — but one great master-piece of American 
sculpture, to be seen and studied by the hiyriads who annually visit 
the spot, can any one estimate the elements of power which would sit 
enthroned within its fair proportions ] — power to awaken or enhance 
a sensibility to beauty, — power to elevate while it refines the intellect, 
and thus with reflex influence to aid in moulding the manners and the 
heart ? 

But there is one serious obstacle to the introduction of fine sepul- 
cbral statuary, which meets us at the threshold. Only one material, 
if we may believe the concurring voice and practice of artists in all 
ages, is suitable for the highest efforts of the chisel. But to expose 
under the open sky, and to all the rigors of our Scythian climate, the 
snowy marble on which months or years of labor have been expended, 
seems to be little less than barbarous. Those who have observed tbe 
effects of exposure in this country, upon even the hardest and purest 
of the Italian marbles, need not be told in how short a time weather- 
stains, and cracks, and exfoliation, do their ruinous work. If, then, 
we are ever to have in our cemeteries these noblest and most beautiful 


of all sepulchral memorials, some safe and becoming shelter must be 
provided for them. 

The need of a chapel in Green -Wood, for the accommodation of 
those who would prefer to have some religious service on the ground, 
has been felt from the first. Nothing, it is supposed, but expenses 
deemed still more exigent, have prevented the government of the Insti- 
tution from erecting, ere this, such a structure. Whatever of cogency 
there may have been in these reasons, it is respectfully suggested 
whether the chapel be not now the first and highest want of the 
Cemetery. When the great number of interments made in it is con- 
sidered, it cannot be doubted, that there are many families, summoned 
by these mournful errands to the grave, to whom such a building 
would be a great accommodation. Nowhere, certainly, could the last 
rites of love and religion be more decently paid, than in such a place, 
set apart for funereal purposes; while, at the same time, the afflicted 
home might be relieved from what is too often the intrusive bustle 
of a crowded funeral. A cemetery chapel might also, we believe, be 
greatly useful, by furnishing a place where the friends of the deceased 
could, at the appointed hour, privately assemble ; removing thus the 
supposed necessity of providing a long train of carriages, — a custom 
which involves much idle parade, and not unfrequently an oppressive 

But not to dwell on considerations which deserve a separate discus- 
sion, let us return to the thought which brought the chapel before us. 
The idea of using the structure proposed to be erected for burial 
services, to receive, also, and preserve delicate statuary and reliefs, was 
suggested in an article appended to a published statement of the Comp- 
troller for 1845. The considerations then suggested have lost none of 


their weight. Already may be seen upon the ground sculpture of ex- 
quisite delicacy, seeking, as it were, the protection which it cannot find. 
The plan of a chapel for Green -Wood should be of a magnitude com- 
mensurate with the future prospects of this great institution. But the 
whole is not required at first, and we cannot permit ourselves to doubt, 
that a wing or portion of the needed fabric will soon adorn the ground. 
Allusion was made, in the beginning of this essay, to the perishable 
nature of some of the materials used for monuments, and to the 
influence of atmospheric changes upon them all. This point has 
received less attention than its importance merits. Strength and dura- 
bility are indeed proverbial attributes of stone ; but they are possessed, 
by the numerous varieties in use, in widely-differing degrees. In the 
United States, stone has not been employed for architectural purposes 
either so long, or in such variety, as to furnish the means of deciding 
the question of comparative durability, though something may be 
learned from even our limited experience. In the old world the case 
is different. There the influences of time and weather have been fully- 
tested. In the serene skies of southern Europe and of western Asia, 
may be seen many a marble pillar, over which two thousand winters 
have swept, without leaving a spot on their virgin purity, or dimming 
their original polish. But how unlike to this are the effects of northern 
skies ! A few years since, an obelisk brought from Luxor in Egypt, 
was set up in the French capital. The material is a granite of almost 
impracticable hardness, and its highly-wrought pictured surfaces had 
suffered no injury from thirty centuries of African exposure. Already 
it has been found necessary to cover its sides with coatings of caout- 
chouc, to preserve them from the corrosive influence of a Parisian 
atmosphere. In England, the defacement of many stone structures 



from dilapidation gradually going on, has long been a subject of 
remark. A Report, which was made to the Commissioners of Woods 
and Forests, on occasion of selecting the stone for the new Houses 
of Parliament, gives minutely the history and character of all the 
principal building-stones of Great Britain. The results of the inves- 
tigation were remarkable. They show that while some kinds of 
sand-stone and of lime-stone — the materials chiefly used in that 
country — have stood for seven or eight centuries, almost or quite 
uninjured, there are other varieties of the same minerals, which show 
signs of decay, after the lapse of as many years. In several ancient 
structures, where two sorts of stone were used, one of them has 
crumbled like so much wood, while the other continues in good 
preservation. Everywhere it was found that the growth of lichens on 
the surface of the stone, however it may disfigure its appearance, is 
favorable to its duration. The wide and thorough examination thus 
made, ended in the recommendation of a crystalline, magnesian lime- 
stone, or dolomite, as having given, on the whole, the best evidence 
of enduring value. The use of stone, as a building material, is fast 
increasing in our country, — and the facts in this Report are, so far 
as American quarries correspond to those of England, of the highest 

In the selection of a material for sepulchral purposes, regard should 
be had both to looks and durability. The adoption of a dark or 
a light tint, will naturally be determined in part by the style and 
position of the monument — in part by the taste of the proprietor. 
White, or something which approaches to it, has many admirers. 
When fresh it has an air of purity and brilliance, and contrasts happily 
with surrounding verdure. But, unfortunately, under our changeful 


and weeping skies, this beauty is soon tarnished. The fact will, un- 
doubtedly, tend more and more to diminish the use of lime-stone and 
marble, unless some variety should hereafter be found, with powers of 
resistance and endurance superior to any known at present. 

Among the harder and older rocks — granite, sienite, &c. — there arc, 
doubtless, varieties which will satisfy every reasonable demand on the 
score of duration. These unyielding materials are entirely unsuited 
to structures distinguished by curvilinear forms, and carved ornaments, 
— and nothing can be better adapted than they are to those which 
are marked by rigid outlines of massive strength and time-defying 

But one more stone requires a notice here. Of American sand- 
stones there is a large variety, from those which are so coarse and 
friable as to be neither good-looking nor lasting, to those which are 
fine-grained, compact, beautiful, and, in all probability, enduring also. 
Of this last description, is the red sand-stone, from New Jersey, to 
which allusion has more than once been made in the preceding num- 
bers of this work. The quarry, which is at Little Falls, near Newark, 
was first opened for the erection of Trinity Church, in New York. 
In that elaborate edifice, which is built wholly of this material, it is 
wrought iuto every possible form of beauty and strength. The finest 
monuments and tomb-facades in Green -Wood are from the same 
source. It consists of quartz and mica united firmly by an argillaceous 
cement, and slightly colored with oxide of iron. The fineness and 
uniformity of its grain, its comparative hardness and great compact- 
ness, justify the belief that it will long resist the disintegrating 
energies of our varying climate. Should this prove the case, it will, 
as a material for monumental and architectural purposes, combine 


an assemblage of virtues, which belong to no other stone that has yet 
come iuto use among us. 

But the finest of models, and the choicest of materials, will avail 
little, unless the foundation and erection be made with care. The 
monument should rest on a bed of concrete, extending below the 
action of frost and the grave-digger. Each stone should, if possible, 
reach quite across, leaving no vertical joints, — and, if stratified, it 
should invariably be laid so that the planes of lamination shall be 
horizontal. The best of waterproof cement should alone be used as a 
binding material ; and it is still better to make the contiguous surfaces 
so true as to require only an intervening sheet of lead. With the 
careful use of such precautions, perpendicularity and permanence, for 
a long time to come, may be safely guarantied against all the ordinary 
causes of displacement and decay. 



■ And sweetly secure from all pain they shall lie. 
Where the dews gently fall, and still waters are nigh ; 
While the birds sing their hymns, amid air-harps that sound 
Through the boughs of the forest-trees whispering around, 
And flowers, bright as Eden's, at morning shall spread, 
And at eve drop their leaves o'er the slumberer's bed !" 

This beautiful knoll occupies a position in the Cemetery ground, 
very nearly central. It is a gentle eminence of oval shape. From its 
wood-crowned summit one looks out upon smooth lawns of sunny 
brightness. To the visiter approaching it from the east by the prin- 
cipal avenue, the view cannot fail to be pleasing. The warm cleared 
grounds are hedged in by the surrounding copse-wood, while here and 
there a vista invitingly opens, — and one, in particular, beautifully ter- 
minates in the waters of the Bay. A neat iron paling surrounds the 
hill, marking it as the appropriated final home of a large family. 




' I now shall be peopled from life's busy sphere ; 
Ye may roam, but the end of your journey is here. 
I shall call ! I shall call ! and the many will come 
From the heart of your crowds, to so peaceful a home ; 
The great and the good, and the young and the old, 
In death's dreamless slumbers, my mansions will hold." 

The plate presents one of those views of quiet beauty which are 
so numerous in the grounds of this cemetery. The spectator stands 
among the trees on the sharp, western side of Ocean Hill. A glade 
of considerable extent is spread out before him. Its waving border is 
darkly fringed with foliage, — while its gentle declivities of various 
inclination lie warm and bright in the broad eye of day. The Tour, 
winding round in serpentine length and slowness, is lost finally in the 
distant copse. The whole character of the landscape accords perfectly 
with the spirit of the place. Here are rural beauty and repose. No 
human dwelling is within view, if we except the still mansions of the 
dead. Neither sight nor sound is here to remind us of the noisy, living 
world. Not unfrequently the long funereal train, moving on with the 
slow pace of wo, and with phantom-like stillness, gives the picture a 
melancholy but finishing touch. 

vtfth "kto- 


A mansion ! rear'd with cost and care, 
Of quaint device and aspect fair. 
Its walls in rocky strength secure, 
Its massive portal fast and sure : 
And, all intrusion to foreclose, 
Reclining near in grim repose, 
Two guards canine forever wait, 
Cerberean warders of the gate. 
Hold fast, ye stones, your treasured clay, 
Though wasting ages roll away ; 
Cling closely round the honor'd trust, 
Nor yield one particle of dust ! 
Yet ye shall hear a voice at last, 
Quaking beneath a clarion-blast! 
Your dead shall hear that voice and rise, 
And seek, on angel-wings, the skies! 

A monumental tomb in the early English style of Gothic archi- 
tecture. The material is the New Jersey sand-stone, from the quarry 
at Little Falls. Its roof rests upon an arch, and is covered with stone 
tiles, cut and laid diamond-wise. The front is gabled, and a quatre- 
foil in relief, on the stone door, bears the date of erection. The apex 
of the gable is enriched by a bold finial. At each corner is a sup- 
porting buttress, — and the sides are still further sustained by walls that 
keep up the earth. 


This tomb occupies a commanding position in the Tour, being on 
the high bluff over Sylvan Lake. This is one of the earliest tomb- 
fronts, of decided architectural character, erected on the grounds. It 
has attracted particular notice, as a new style for such erections. 
A blending of strength with beauty — an air of solemnity and repose 
— pervade the structure, and render it impressive. 


' Yet not to thine eternal resting-place, 
Shalt thou retire alone : nor couldst thou wish 
Couch more magnificent. 1 ' 

Vista Hill is a gentle elevation, situated on the Tour, in the imme- 
diate vicinity of Cedar Grove. A portion of this hill is enclosed by 
an iron paling, with a handsome gateway opening to the east. The 
spacious enclosure is slightly elliptical. This beautiful spot has been 
secured and set apart for burial purposes, by the Church of the Saviour. 
We have already had occasion to allude to this wise and Christian 
appropriation. Is it not wise to bind more closely together, by the 
solemn and tender associations of the grave, those who meet and wor- 
ship in the same sanctuary ' And is not that a heaven-born charity, 
which not only remembers the poor while living, but, with delicate 
regard to the tenderest feelings of our nature, provides for them such 
sepulture ? Praise to those who designed, and who have accomplished 
the work ! 

One or two other congregations own lots in Green- Wood, but no 
other one has appropriated and enclosed a tract for common occu- 
pancy. The Cemetery still contains spots admirably adapted to such 
a use. Will not some, will not many of the two hundred churches, 
which are destined to make Green- Wood their place of burial, take 


care to secure these choice positions, before they shall be preoccupied 
by individual proprietors 1 That every church should have its own 
burying-ground, is consonant as well to natural fitness and religious 
propriety, as to long experience. The dead may indeed no longer rest 
under or around the sacred walls which were so dear to them in life. 
Yet the place of sepulture may be hallowed by solemn assembly and 
religious rite. As pastor and people — the young and the old — the rich 
and the poor, cluster together there, how precious, how holy will the 
place become ! What more can it need to consecrate and endear it, 
than its own simple charms, associated, as they will then be, with so 
many treasures of the heart, — so many tender memories and consola- 
tory hopes *? 

The enclosure on Vista Hill was consecrated in the presence of a 
large assembly, on the 18th September, 1845. A mild autumnal day 
gave additional beauty and interest to the scene, and to the services. 
From the address delivered on this occasion by the pastor, Rev. Mr. 
Farley, we have been permitted to make the following extracts : — 

" And I rejoice especially that it is here, — here, among these verdant 
groves, and lawns, and solemn shades. How surprising it seems, that 
in some of the older parts of our country, among a people by no 
means wanting in the warm and deep affections of our nature, we can 
find so many instances where ' the bleak hill-side,' or ' bare common, 
without shrub or tree,' is the spot selected as the burial-place of the 
dead ! — nay, more : where no care is given to replacing the falling 
headstones, or repairing the decaying tombs, or even the broken 
fences ! 

" I admit that, despite these apparent and sad intimations of neglect, 


the memory of the dead is there cherished with as much sensibility, at 
least, as ever prompted the erection of the costliest mausoleum, or 
planted and watched the 'forget-me-nots' and 'immortelles,' as they 

bloomed by the graves of the departed. But affection is not exhausted 
or weakened, by giving to it expression, nor the fount of feeling dried 
up, by embodying its appropriate signs; and for one, I confess to a 
good deal of reverence and tender regard, not only for the memory of 
the dead, but for the perishing body — the fleshly tabernacle in which 
the immortal spirit had sojourned. 

"In that, I see the signet of the great and divine Architect, as well 
as on that which inhabited it. It is the dictate of nature to love it. 
We press it to our arms when living ; we seal it with our kisses when 
dead. The dear who are absent, come to our imaginations in the hour 
of revery and solitude, clothed in the material forms which are sn 
familiar ; and in them are the dead who have been buried, remembered. 
Nay, when we think of them in that higher home, to which our 
Christian faith points us, in those spiritual bodies of which the Apostle 
speaks, whatever else be our ideas, the same eye seems to beam on us, 
the same smile to lighten the same features, the same hand to beckon 
us on. Hence, we find the remains of the dead sacred among all 
people ; the violation of the grave, everywhere regarded as sacrilege. 
Hence, our complacency at seeing a portion of the wealth which is 
lavished on palaces for the living, appropriated to provide for, and fitly 
adorn the habitations of the dead. Honor, reverence, affection, we 
would say, then, to that curious, wondrous, beautiful mechanism of 
God, the body, when it has fulfilled its office ! Glad let us be to lay it 
in the virgin soil of this fair spot ! Soft fall the rays of the rising and 
setting sun, as they shine upon the green turf which covers it ! The 


grateful shade of these nohle trees, the odor and beauty of sweet 
flowers, shall add their fragrance and loveliness to the place ; and 
whatever monument, or stone, or marble, may hereafter be raised here, 
we will find our plea for doing it, in the natural and strong promptings 
of the heart. But beyond this, there are high moral uses to be found 
in the place of graves, where that is well-selected and well-ordered. 
It is not only grateful to the mourner in the early freshness of grief, but 
may be full of blessed influences to all the living. I am strongly 
tempted to say, that whoever can come to such a place as this where 
we stand, and the entire Cemetery to which it belongs, and not be im- 
pressed, and impressed deeply, by these influences, must be largely 
wanting in the common seriousness of our nature. I know not the 
place which unites in its natural aspect, and in its great capabilities, 
more fitness at once for the main design for which it was chosen, and 
more fulness of material for instructive and useful lessons to the living, 
as the dwelling-place of the dead, than this fair domain. All that is 
needed to this latter end is, that when we come here, we surrender 
ourselves, in a suitable frame of mind, to the spirit of the place. And 
for this, I do not think it necessary that we should enter it always in 
the funeral train, when the passing bell, solemn and touching as it is, 
chimes out its requiem to the departed. It is enough that the place 
is set apart and secured, as far as human contrivance and law can go, 
for the purposes of a Cemetery, that is, as the word imports, a sleeping 
or resting-place for the dead. 

" In its singular quiet, presenting a striking contrast to the noise and 
stir of the great cities close by ; in its easy access, yet secluded posi- 
tion, almost washed by the solitary sea ; in its diversified surface of hill 
and dale, glen and plain, woodland and copse, land and water; in its 


exquisite natural beauties, and its large extent, it is remarkably fitted in 
itself for these purposes. As year after year passes, and more and 
more of the living who have been accustomed to thread its avenues, 
are gathered within its bosom ; as art and affection, from generation to 
generation, shall combine to do honor to the dead, rich and most affect- 
ing to the soul rightly disposed, will be the associations which shall 
cluster around it. And then to pause amid its still shades and think : — 
Here, indeed, is the place of the dead ! The dust which the living 
have worn, is here mingling again with the dust. As years come and 
go, here will be gathered more and more, ' the mighty congregation of 
the dead.' The voice of spring will be heard in the gentle breeze, or 
the blast of winter will wail among these then naked branches, with 
every opening or dying year, long after the thousands who now throng 
the streets of yonder cities, shall have gone to swell its ranks ! 

" What a lesson is here read to us, by every little mound of earth 
that marks the bed of a sleeper, every monument that tells his name, 
on the folly and vanity of all human designs ! Could the dead that lie 
buried within these graves, now rise and speak to us, how sobered 
should we find the tongue of frivolity ; how careless of human fame 
the ambitious ; how weak the passionate ; how serious the worldling 
and the fop ; how humble and sincere the proud and the pretender ! 

" There is another lesson to be learned here ; and that relates to 
what survives, and is imperishable. The monuments of departed 
heroes, in the groves of the Academia, without the walls of the City of 
Minerva, would not permit Themistocles to sleep, so did the thought 
of their great deeds fire his soul ! How much more should the place 
of the Christian dead, stir and wake us, as we pause amid its shades, to 
a holy emulation of their high and more than heroic graces ! What 


has passed, or is now passing away, is daily of less and less impor- 
tance, — while what remains is imperishable. 

" The affections are immortal. The reunion of Christian friends 
after death, is a truth sanctioned by the entire teaching and spirit of the 
Gospel. Every virtue which graced the character of the departed; 
every pure wish and holy purpose ; every sincere and holy prayer ; 
every disinterested, honest, generous deed, — all that really endeared 
them to our hearts, are now like garlands of amaranth upon their 
tombs, and cannot die. The baptism of death has put them beyond 
the reach of temptation and sin. And when we stand by the spot 
where their dust reposes, we seem adjured, in tones that pierce the 
soul, by motives too mighty to be resisted, to be good, pure, faithful, 
even unto death, that when we too come to die, we, like them, may 
rest from our labors, and our good works follow us. 

"Ever sacred, then, be this spot to the pious uses for which it is set 
apart! Ever precious in presence and in memory, to the mourner! 
Ever blessed and subduing in its influences and associations, to the 
prosperous and the happy ! May it serve, dearly beloved, as a new 
bond to keep us together, a united and Christian flock ! Whenever 
our feet bend their way hither, either to perforin the last offices of 
Christian affection and piety, or to strengthen our spirits amid the 
sober meditations which befit the place, and are inspired by it, may 
we, one and all, be prompted to an increased fidelity to the church and 
cause of Christ while living, that we may share with the sainted dead, 
the heaven he promised ! 

" I must be indulged a word in reference to the entire Cemetery 
around us, since already some of you have a special interest in it be- 
yond this enclosure, and as I value it, beyond all price, as another 


proof of our advancing civilization as a people, and as a most wisely 
selected and beautifully disposed burial-place for the dead, for our own 
and our sister city. It is a word of hope, that these lovely grounds 
may henceforth, throughout their whole extent, wear only those adorn- 
ments which befit or express the Christian's faith. I regret that any 
heathen emblems — emblems rather of a religion of doubt or despair, 
than of one which inspires a well-grounded trust, a joyous expectation, 
— should ever have been blazoned on its monuments and headstones.* 
The inverted torch, the broken column, no more become the cemeteries 
of a Christian people, than some of the sad inscriptions in the famous 
Fere la Chaise, which travellers read there : — ' A husband inconsola- 
ble' — ' A disconsolate wife' — ; Broken-hearted parents :' the appropriate 
language of hopeless grief alone ! I would have words full of hope, 
and confiding faith, and cloudless trust, and filial submission, and a 
serene, cheerful piety. I do not so much object to the obelisk, Egyp- 
tian though it be, and savoring, as some think, of an idolatrous homage 
of the sun ; because its tall shaft, with its pyramidical apex, losing 
itself in the air, and pointing to the sky, may seem to speak to the 
living of the heavenly home which their departed friends have entered. 
But I prefer the cross, the symbol of Christ's victory over death and/ 
the grave. I prefer the words of Holy Scripture, which speak of 'the 
resurrection and the life.' So that, as we wander here to meditate and 
commune with the righteous dead, heaven itself shall seem nearer — the 

* I fear the above remarks may be misconstrued, or give unnecessary pain to some who have 
erected such monuments as are alluded to. Nothing was farther from my intention. As works 
of art only, do I feel that they are open to criticism. It is not they who paid for them, who are 
censured. Unhappily it is too frequently the case, that he who furnishes the design, seeks only 
to meet the eye of the employer, and there is too little consideration with both parties, as to the 
significance of the emblems chosen. 


terrors of the last hour he scattered — the loved who have been taken, 
come back to our remembrance in all their spiritual beauty, — and our 
souls, chastened and sobered, be the better prepared for what remains 
of life's duties, and its last hour." 

The Rev. John Pierpont assisted in these exercises; and the fol- 
lowing words from his pen, — to which we are indebted for many 
Christian lyrics of unsurpassed excellence, — were sung by the assem- 
bly, and most appropriately closed the scene : — 

O God! beneath this Green-Wood shade, — ■ 
Beneath this blue, autumnal sky, 

Would we, by those we love, be laid, 
Whene'er it is our time to die. 

The glory of this woodland scene, — 

These leaves, that came at summer's call, - 

These leaves, so lately young and green, 
Even now begin to fade and fall. 

1 So shall we fade and fall at length : 

Youth's blooming cheek — the silvery hair 
Of reverend age — and manhood's strength, 
Shall here repose ; — Then hear our prayer, 

' Thou, who by thy Son hast said, — 
From fear of death to set us free, — 
' God is the God, not of the dead,' 

That we, for aye, may live in Thee !" 


" They have not perished, — no ! 
Kind words — remember'd voices, once so sweet — 

Smiles radiant long ago — ■ 
And features, the great soul's apparent seat, — 

All shall come back : each tie 
Of pure affection shall be knit again." 

We have in this view an obelisk of considerable height, and in 
some respects peculiar. The shaft is surrounded by several narrow 
lillets slightly raised, and connected with other ornaments. Just above 
the base, on the front side, is a female bust in high relief. A tablet 
below records the name, virtues, and premature decease of a young 
wife and mother. The material is brown stone, and the work is finely 

Hard by, and just seen through the foliage, is a laborer's cottage. 
Two of these structures, unlike in form, but both higbly picturesque, 
already adorn the grounds. Others will from time to time be added, 
until, like a cordon of sentinels, they will surround the Cemetery, 
enhancing at the same time its security and its beauty. 

In happy unison with the immediate scene, and with the thoughts it 
naturally suggests, mark through the leafy openings those unpretending 
churches at Flatbush ! As seen from this solemn high-place, a sort of 

Sabbath stillness seems to rest on and around them ; while themselves 



may be deemed fit emblems of the piety and peace they were reared to 
promote. Still farther to expand and fill the soul, behold where, in the 
dim, blue distance, stretches far away the mighty sea, — 

" boundless, endless, and sublime — 

The image of Eternity!" 

At a short distance from the spot which has just passed under our 
notice, lie the remains of the Rev. David Abeel, and a monument will 
soon rise above them. A brief commemoratory notice in these pages, 
of this distinguished missionary and most exemplary man, will not, it is 
believed, be unacceptable. 

David Abeel was born in New Brunswick, N. J., A. D. 1804. His 
father served as an officer in the American navy during the war of the 
Revolution. The Rev. Dr. Abeel, for many years a distinguished cler- 
gyman of the Dutch Collegiate churches in the city of New York, was 
his uncle. The subject of this sketch was distinguished, even in 
youth, by unflinching firmness of purpose and action. He early be- 
came a keen sportsman, and found health and strength in the exciting 
toil. The medical profession was his first choice ; and he had already 
made some progress in the study, when new views of life and duty in- 
duced him to change his contemplated pursuit, for what he deemed a 
higher sphere of benevolent action. He entered at once upon the 
study of divinity, in the Theological School of his church at New 
Brunswick, and in due time completed the required course, with a 
reputation for learning and piety, which gave promise of high useful- 

He was soon settled as pastor of the Dutch Church, just then formed 
in Athens, N. Y. Here he devoted himself so assiduously to his du- 


ties, that a year had not elapsed before his health gave way under the 
combined exhaustion of excitement and fatigue. To recruit his failing 
powers, and still serve the cause to which he had consecrated them, he 
accepted a proposal to minister, during the winter, to a church of his 
own persuasion in the island of St. Thomas. He returned to the 
United States ; but no entreaties could induce him again to accept a 
permanent station at home. The miserable degradation and spiritual 
wants of the heathen world had fdled his imagination, and more than 
touched his heart. Especially had his sympathies long turned towards 
that mighty empire on the other side of the globe, whose teeming 
provinces contain one-third part of the human race. 

He went first to Canton, in the capacity of chaplain to the nu- 
merous seamen who congregate at that port. Soon after he became a 
regular missionary, under appointment of the board of commissioners 
for foreign missions, and was stationed at Bankok, in Siam. An 
enervating climate, and his own toilsome life, soon compelled him to 
quit his post. After several short voyages for his health, he returned 
to China, and settled at Macao. But his difficulties returned. He 
again tried voyaging in the Indian Archipelago. But this had ceased 
to afTord relief; and he reluctantly consented to set out for home. He 
returned by the way of England. Though so feeble when he sailed, 
as to be conveyed on a couch to the ship, the passage across the At- 
lantic proved highly beneficial. 

With improving health, his zeal and activity returned. He trav- 
ersed the land, a missionary apostle, communicating to multitudes some 
portion of his own earnest benevolence. After a year thus usefully 
employed, he resolved, in despite of all remonstrance, to return to 
China. He arrived at Macao previous to the commencement of hos- 


tilities on the part of England. He was there during the continuance 
of that extraordinary war, and was ready, at its close, to avail himself 
of the strange and new position in which it placed the affairs of China. 
By a succession of events equally rapid and unexpected, he saw pros- 
trated to the ground, the harriers which custom and prejudice had so 
long maintained around that singular people. Whatever might be 
thought of the motive and principles which led to this result, or of the 
means by which it was effected, there seemed no reason to doubt that 
it would be mutually beneficial to China and the world. To the 
Christian philanthropist especially, whose heart had long bled for so 
many millions, "perishing for lack of vision," the event must have 
seemed a most auspicious providence. To none could the occurrence 
have been more welcome than to the devoted Abeel. For years he 
had been laboring almost single-handed. An exhausting climate — im- 
paired health — the acquisition of a difficult language — and more than 
all, the proverbial exclusiveness of the Chinese, were obstacles suffi- 
cient to cool aught but that fervid zeal and love, which the Christian's 
faith can alone inspire. 

He could now write and speak the language. His prudence, his 
conciliatory address and most exemplary character, had given him high 
consideration with many of the natives ; — and now, at length, the 
cannon of the Ocean Queen had been made instrumental in levelling 
what seemed the last, great barrier to missionary enterprise. He sta- 
tioned himself at Amoy, with the intent of entering in earnest on the 
great work for which he had so long been preparing. But it was not 
so to be. He, who needs not our service, and who often teaches man 
a lesson of humility and dependence, as well as of faith and duty, by 
removing the most efficient human instruments, saw fit again to reduce 


him to extreme weakness. Again he was put on board ship, bound for 
America, but with no expectation, on the part of his friends, that he 
would ever reach her shore. He did, however, survive the voyage. 

But little more remains to be told. With a characteristic energy of 
will, which seemed to triumph over physical debility, he visited differ- 
ent and distant parts of the United States. The wannest welcome, 
the kindest attentions, everywhere awaited this meek and worn-out 
soldier of the cross. But change of climate, travel, medical skill, and 
assiduous care, were alike powerless to arrest the progress of disease. 
A nervous irritability, more difficult, perhaps, than even pain to bear, 
was his constant attendant. Yet no disturbance of the material organ- 
ization ruffled his ever even temper, or marred the beauty of his 
Christian graces. His last days were spent at the house of his friend, 
Mr. Van Rensselaer, of Albany ; and there, on the 6th September, 
1846, he quietly expired. 

" Serene, serene, 
lie press'd the crumbling verge of this terrestrial scene ; 
Breathed soft, in childlike trust, 

The parting groan ; 
Gave hack to dust its dust — 

To heaven its own." 

It could have been no common-place character, no ordinary virtues 
of mind and heart, which won for the subject of our memoir, an 
esteem so general and enduring. Intellectually, he was clear and dis- 
criminating, with great readiness and appropriateness of thought. 
Resolute of purpose, and energetic in act, he could accomplish a large 
amount of labor. He was a man of unvarying prudence, and the most 
considerate kindness. The sincerity and warmth of his good-will, 
written on his face, imbodied in words of affection-ice earnestness, and 


breathed in tones of the gentlest persuasion, possessed a logic and 
eloquence that seldom failed to reach the heart. He was distinguished, 
not so much by any one outshining quality, as by the balanced har- 
mony of all his powers. His was that excellent and rare gift of 
Heaven, good sense. All the sweet urbanities of life he knew and prac- 
tised ; and the high virtues of the Christian missionary, certainly lose 
none of their lustre, by being associated, as in his case, with those of 
the gentleman and scholar. 

It must be manifest, that a character and life such as we have de- 
picted, could have been inspired and sustained only by a deep-seated 
and healthy piety. It was this which nerved a sensitive invalid to those 
circumnavigations of charity, — which sustained him under the depress- 
ing fervors of a tropical sun, — which encouraged him along the toil- 
some task of learning the language, — and which, when friends, and 
physicians, and fainting nature herself, counselled retirement and 
repose, carried him again and again from the bed to the field. And 
what but this, amid the disappointment of long-cherished hopes, and 
wearisome infirmities of the flesh, could impart that meek resignation 
and cheerful trust, which made his last hours a scene of perfect peace I 

To human view a death like this seems, at first thought, disastrous 
and premature. It is, however, only the close of a life which should 
be measured by its intensity, rather than duration. And if, 

" To live in hearts we leave behind, 
Is not to die," 

then Abeel still lives ; — lives in those words of his which yet survive 
in memory ; — lives in his great example of self-denial and love, — in 
the very mound that swells above his ashes, — and in each memorial 
that bears his name. 



" Once this soft turf, this rivulet's sands, 
Were trampled by a hurrying crowd, 
And fiery hearts and armed hands, 
Encounter'd in the battle-cloud. 

" Ah ! never shall the land forget, 

How gush'd the life-blood of her brave, — 
fiush'd, warm with hope and courage yet, 
Upon the soil they fought to save." 

Independently of their present and prospective claims to regard, 
Green -Wood and its vicinage must ever possess a strong interest, de- 
rived from the past. In that vicinity, — upon ground traversed in part 
by every visiter to the Cemetery, and lying immediately below and 
around it, — occurred the first serious conflict between the British and 
American troops, on the memorable 26th of August, 1776. There is 
indeed reason to believe, that the very spot presented in tbe plate, was 
stained that day with patriot blood. It seems strange that the events 
of that occasion, and the localities of those events, have commanded so 
little attention. In general, our countrymen have shown any thing but 
indifference to the spots which were hallowed by the struggles and 
blood of their fathers. There was scarcely a petty skirmish in New 
England, which has not had its historian. Every rood of ground trod 
by hostile feet, has been traced and identified. Upon anniversary re- 


turns, thousands have assembled to collect the scattered bones of the 
glorious dead, — to hear their eulogy from eloquent lips,— and to rear 
some enduring monument, that shall transmit their names and deeds. 
What battle, since that of Marathon, has ever concentred upon one 
small spot of earth, an interest like that which, for seventy years, has 
clung round Bunker Hill l How have the historian and the novelist, 
the painter and the architect, the poet and the orator, conspired to en- 
hance its glory ! How many millions have visited the spot, to see 
with their own eyes that "sepulchre of mighty dead," and to press 
with their own feet, the sod which was wet with Warren's gore ! 

In contrast with all this, what a story of neglect is that of the battle- 
ground in Brooklyn ! How few of the vast population in its vicinity, 
know or care aught about it ! How very few could even designate the 
fields where Sullivan and Prescott, until overpowered by an enemy in 
their rear, fought, with their raw levies, the veterans of Europe, not 
less bravely than did Prescott at Charlestown, or Stark at Bennington ! 
Important differences, it is true, distinguish the cases. The engage- 
ment at Brooklyn, like that of Bunker Hill, was a defeat — but not, like 
that, more glorious than most victories. Instead of inspiriting the de- 
fenders of freedom, its consequences were depressing and disastrous ; 
and the day was long thought of, as one of mistakes, if not of disgrace. 
The ground itself came at once into the possession of the British, and 
so continued to the end of the war. The standard of general intelli- 
gence on the island, was neither then, nor for a good while thereafter, 
very high, while that of patriotism was decidedly low. The popular 
enthusiasm, so ardent elsewhere, was here unfelt, or for so long a time 
repressed, that silence and indifference in regard to the matters in 
question became habitual, and have never been disturbed. Such, it is 


believed, are some of the causes of a neglect which is more easily ac- 
counted for than justified. 

It is due to the brave combatants of that day, that their names and 
deeds should be remembered and commemorated, in common with 
many others — more distinguished, only because they were more fortu- 
nate. To this end we contribute our mite. We would induce some 
of the countless visiters of Green-Wood to turn aside, and stand upon 
the spot where their fathers once stood, "shoulder to shoulder in the 
strife for their country." At least we would have them know, as they 
ride along, that the very earth beneath them was reddened in the con- 
flict, which secured to them their great and fair inheritance. 

The unsparing hand of improvement is fast sweeping away, not 
only the vestiges of all the old defences, but the very hills on which 
they were raised, at such expense of treasure and toil. Even the more 
distant grounds, beyond tbc lines of circumvallation, upon which the 
fight occurred, have in some instances been materially changed. 
The actors in those scenes are all gone. Of traditionary informa- 
tion but little cau now be gleaned, and that little will soon have 

That the British would make an early and vigorous effort to obtain 
possession of the waters and city of New York, was anticipated, almost 
at the commencement of the struggle. The difficulty of defending it 
against a powerful army and fleet, which resulted from its position, was 
not diminished by the well-known disaffection to the revolutionary 
cause, that existed among the inhabitants. But the object was regarded 
as of pre-eminent importance. The magnitude of the city itself, — its 
convenient and accessible waters, — and particularly its position of com- 
mand, at one extremity of the great communicating line between tlic 


Atlantic and Canada, — were deemed reasons sufficient for maintaining 
the place at almost any hazard. 

As early as February, 1776, General Lee was ordered, with a small 
force, to New York, to guard against apprehended danger from Sir 
Henry Clinton and the tories. Defensive works were begun under his 
direction, and continued to be prosecuted by Lord Stirling and others, 
until the arrival of Washington in April. For four months more, the 
work of fortifying went on under his eye, and the most strenuous 
efforts were made to provide a sufficient defence against the expected 
attack. At the end of June the British fleet and army began to arrive, 
and took immediate possession of Staten Island. By the first of Au- 
gust, a powerful fleet and thirty thousand men were stationed on and 
around it. It was this strong naval and land armament which the 
American general was expected to oppose and repel. The advautage 
seemed to be greatly on the side of the enemy. An army mostly of 
militia-men, who had seen no service, and knew little of discipline, — 
poorly clothed and ill paid, — with few of the comforts, or even neces- 
saries of the camp, — scantily provided with the arms and munitions 
which such a service requires, and unsupported by a single war-ship, — 
were to make good their ground against numbers greatly superior, — 
accustomed to all the duties of the drill and the field, — and completely 
furnished with the whole materiel of war. 

Being in total uncertainty as to the point of attack, the American 
commander was compelled to scatter his forces, and to man a great 
extent of lines. In addition to the defences on Governor's Island, and 
on both sides of the island of New York, extending up the Hudson and 
East rivers for many miles, it was thought necessary to guard the 
western shore of Long Island, where it approaches and commands the 


city. A series of strong intrenchments stretched from Red Hook quite 
across to the Wallabout. The woody ridge which extends along 
nearly the whole eastern side of Brooklyn, was guarded by detach- 
ments and pickets posted at all the openings. 

Such was the position of affairs when, on the 22d of August, the 
British commenced landing their troops at New Utrecht, near the spot 
where Fort Hamilton now stands. Four days afterward, their centre, 
composed of Hessians, under De Hiester, was at Flatbush ; the right 
wing, commanded by Lords Cornwallis and Percy, extended towards 
Flatlands ; while the left wing, under General Grant, rested on the 
coast. From the American camp the British centre was four miles, 
and each of the wings about six miles distant. Very early in the 
morning of the 27th, two brigades under General Grant, advancing, 
partly along the coast-road, and partly by Martensis' Lane, which now 
forms the southern boundary of Green-wood, drove back the regiment 
stationed in that neighborhood. Lord Stirling, with two regiments of 
southern troops, was dispatched to oppose them. The day broke as 
he came in sight of his foe, whose front, on the Gowanus road, was 
then a little in advance of the present avenue to the Cemetery. The 
regiment under Col. Atlee, which was retiring before the advancing 
column, was immediately stationed on the left of the road, near the 
point where Eighteenth-street intersects it. The other two regiments 
were planted farther to the left, on the hill now included between 
Eighteenth and Twentieth-streets. A company of riflemen was posted, 
partly on the edge of the wood, and partly along a hedge near the foot 
of the hill. Some relics of this temporary shelter may still be seen, — 

" There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose." 


Having made his arrangements, and while momently expecting the 
attack, Lord Stirling thus addressed his men : — " The commander, sol- 
diers, of that advancing column, is Major-general Grant. Not long 
since, I heard him boast, in parliament, that with five thousand men, 
he would undertake to march from one end of the continent to the 
other. He may have," added Lord S., "his five thousand men with 
him now. We are not so many : but I think we are enough to pre- 
vent his advancing farther on his march over the continent, than yon- 
der mill-pond." 

The British having brought forward a body of light troops, to within 
a hundred and fifty yards, opened their fire, which was returned with 
spirit. After two hours' fighting, the light troops retired to the main 
body. The contest was continued by cannonade for several hours 
longer, when the noise of firing in their rear, warned the Americans 
that an immediate retreat had become necessary. 

Unfortunately, a pass on the extreme left of the American lines, had 
been left without any adequate guard. Secret foes, who knew but too 
well the ground, had apprized the enemy of this advantage. In the 
course of the night, the British right wing, making a detour through 
New Lotts, into the road leading from Jamaica to Bedford, was thus 
enabled to throw itself between the American detachments and their 
camp. The troops thus assailed by a fire in front and rear, mostly 
broke and fled. General Sullivan, with about 400 men, was posted on 
the heights immediately west of Flatbush. Though attacked by over- 
whelming forces on both sides, he bravely maintained the conflict for 
nearly three hours, yielding himself a prisoner only when farther resist- 
ance had become utterly futile. 

While this calamitous affair was going on in the American right and 


centre, Lord Cornwallis, with a strong force, was advancing toward 
Gowanus, and had already secured the causeway and bridge at the 
Upper Mills, when Lord Stirling, in his retreat, came in sight. His 
men could get back to the inner lines, only by crossing the marsh, and 
fording or swimming the creek, at some point below. To protect them 
in this difficult and dangerous operation, Stirling advanced against 
Cornwallis with 400 men— ordering all the rest to make their escape 
as best they could. The conflict of this forlorn hope with the veteran 
troops of Cornwallis, was exceedingly fierce, and at one time, all but 
successful. But new and overwhelming reinforcements of the enemy, 
rendered valor and patriotism alike unavailing. The scene of this 
struggle is supposed to have been principally in the neighborhood of 
the ancient Cortelyou house, still standing on the old road to Gowanus, 
with the date, 1699, in large figures on its gable. Numerous skeletons 
disinterred in its immediate vicinity — and some of them quite recentlv 
— leave little doubt respecting the locality. 

Stirling, having by this engagement secured the safety of his main 
body, made an attempt to escape with his small surviving remnant. 
But he was now hemmed completely in, and submitting to his fate, he 
surrendered. Several historians, — and the traditions of the neighbor- 
hood, accredited even to this day, — have affirmed that large numbers 
perished in attempting to cross the marsh. The same statement was 
made by General Howe, in his official dispatch. It is, nevertheless, 
undoubtedly a mistake. A letter is extant, written a few weeks after 
the engagement, by Col. Haslet, who commanded a regiment in Stir- 
ling's brigade, and was one of those who crossed the marsh. He 
states, unequivocally, that the retreat over the marsh " was effected in 
good order, with the loss of one man drowned in passing." 


There is no reason to suppose that there was much fighting within 
what is now the Cemetery enclosure. But sharpshooters are known 
to have been perched in and among the trees, which then covered 
thickly that whole range of hills ; and tradition has it, that one small 
party of riflemen was surrounded and exterminated, on the very emi- 
nence presented in the plate. That these practised marksmen would 
find little mercy at the hands of an enemy, which had experienced the 
fatal precision of their aim, was only to be expected. In one instance, 
at least, a British officer, unwilling to remain the object of their too 
partial attentions, left his post and men, and took shelter in a neigh- 
boring farm-house. 

As the bodies of the victims in this struggle were mostly interred 
where they fell, there can be little doubt that Green-wood is the sleep- 
ing-place of some of them. It is time that a spot were set apart, on 
its most commanding and beautiful eminence, in honor of these early 
martyrs for freedom. Here should be deposited the relics which have 
been, or from time to time shall be, recovered, in the numerous excava- 
tions now going on, within and around these grounds. It may be dif- 
ficult, nay, impossible to distinguish friend from foe. It matters not. 
To the sturdy Briton, who in death remembered his dear island-home; 
— the poor, hired Hessian, whose last thoughts were of his wife and 
children on the far-distant Rhine ; — and the patriot yeoman, whose 
dying hour was sweetened by the reflection that he fell in a righteous 
cause ; — to each and all, an honorable burial. 

" Gather him to his grave again, 
And solemnly and softly lay, 
Beneath the verdure of the plain, 
The warrior's scatter'd bones away." 


And here we may allude to another act of justice and gratitude, 
which ought not longer to be delayed. It is well known that the re- 
mains of the American prisoners, who died in such numbers in the 
British prison-ships, and whose bodies were huddled into the earth on 
a hill in North Brooklyn, were a few years since piously rescued from 
desecration, and consigned to a vault not far from the entrance to the 
United States Navy Yard. This arrangement — the act of one gener- 
ous individual — must, of necessity, be regarded as temporary. The 
spot and structure are destitute not only of security against future mo- 
lestation, but of the dignity and solidity which become such a tomb. 
Some faint efforts have indeed been made to accomplish their removal 
to Green- wood. But why await the tardy action of the General Gov- 
ernment 1 Is there not enough of patriotism and gratitude in these 
two great and wealthy communities, to raise the means for a decent, 
nay, for a noble tribute to those unfortunate men, who died for their 
country as truly, as though they had fallen on the battle-field, and in 
the very hour of victory ? Taken while defending that country's 
cause, were they less to be commiserated while living, or less to be 
honored and deplored in death, — that they were compelled to expe- 
rience the pestilential damps and nauseous horrors of those dismal 
cabins, into which they were crowded like so many sheep 1 How 
many fond husbands and fathers, — how many well-beloved sons, amid 
those appalling scenes of want, sickness, and death, must have sighed 
for the comforts and the solace of the homes, which they were never 
more to see ! But we forbear. Our strongest conception of such a 
scene, how far short must it fall of the stern reality ! In that master- 
piece of reasoning and eloquence, the Oration for the Crown, the in- 
comparable orator, arguing the point, that well-meant endeavor, and not 


success, is the test and proof of merit, reminds his countrymen that 
their funeral honors had ever been paid to all who fell in the service 
of Athens— the unsuccessful as well as the victorious brave. The 
citizens of a great and nourishing state, in the brightest era of civiliza- 
tion and Christianity, should learn a lesson here, from pagan Greece. 
Must some Demosthenes arise, with superhuman power, to explain and 
enforce their duty, before they will hear and obey its dictates ? 

The position assigned to Lord Stirling's troops and General Grant's 
brigade, in the plans of the battle which accompany Marshall's His- 
tory, and Sparks' Washington,— a plan which has been lately copied, 
without correction, in Duer's Life of Stirling,— is very erroneous. On 
those plans, the contending forces are placed about opposite to Yellow 
Hook ; whereas, in fact, Stirling did not advance beyond the middle 
of Gowanus Bay— nor farther south than a hill on Wyckoff 's grounds, 
lying between what, in the future topography of the city, will be 
Eighteenth and Twentieth-streets. There was, however, if we may 
credit tradition, a little fighting in the neighborhood of Yellow Hook— 
a slieht skirmish, not noticed in any of the published accounts, between 


the advancing British and Atlee's retiring regiment, in which a feu 

lives were lost. 

The Knickerbocker Magazine for April, 1839, contains an interest- 
ine article on the battle of Long Island, prepared from a discourse 


originally delivered before the New York Historical Society, by 
Samuel Ward, Jr. It is illustrated by an engraved sketch of the battle- 
ground, which is believed to be, by far, the most accurate of any yet 
published. The plan was drawn by Major D. B. Douglass, formerly 
of the U. S. army, from personal inspection. The major, to whose 
energy and taste Green-wood Cemetery is largely indebted, had 


examined the entire battle-ground, with the eye of a soldier as well as 
surveyor, and the sketch which he furnished, may be relied on as au- 
thentic and complete. 

Much has been written respecting the causes of this defeat. The 
sudden illness of General Greene, who had superintended the fortifica- 
tions, and knew all the circumstances and necessities of the American 
position, — the neglect, consequent, perhaps, on the change of com- 
manders, to guard properly the Jamaica road, — were doubtless the im- 
mediate causes of the surprise, the rout, the capture of two generals, 
and of so many soldiers. 

But had it been otherwise, — had every precaution been taken, — lit- 
tle more could have been done, or was probably expected, than to 
check the advancing foe. The American forces might have retreated 
in good order, with comparatively small loss — -but they must have re- 
treated. Five thousand raw recruits — few of whom had ever been in 
battle, and most of whom must have fought without cover — could not 
long have resisted twenty thousand well-appointed veterans. The real 
wonder is, that they did so well. It was the first fight of the war, 
which took place in the open field. To no greater trial of courage 
could those patriot, but unpractised soldiers have been put. Praise to 
their memories ! — most of them stood well the test. They boldly 
faced, or repeatedly charged the foe — and fled or yielded, only when 
longer resistance would have been madness, and utter extermination. 

There is, perhaps, no period in the revolutionary struggle, to which 
we can recur more profitably, than to the anxious summer and the 
gloomy autumn of 1776. The courage which survived such disasters: 
the hope which lived on amid so many discouragements ; the faith 
which no reverses nor difficulties could shake, and which finally rose 


triumphant over them all, — have long commanded, and must ever com- 
mand the wonder of the world. And shall they not awaken something 
more than admiration in us, to whose benefit they have inured so 
largely ? 

It was while chilled by these blasts of adversity, — while watered, as 
it were, by the tears of those great spirits, who for a long time could 
bring to the suffering cause little besides their own indomitable ener- 
gies, — that, the tree of freedom was sending its roots outward and 
downward, and gathering strength for that rapidly expanding growth, 
which marked the summer of its prosperity. It is not, be it ever remem- 
bered, the magnitude of armies — the masterly tactics by which mighty 
masses are made to march and countermarch — the brilliancy of the 
charge — the steady bravery of the repulse — or all the bloody statistics 
of the most ensanguined conflict, which can attach to military opera- 
tions a true and lasting interest. A hundred terrible battles gave to 
Napoleon a fame unequalled in the annals of war, and that " name at 
which the world grew pale." But they were unconnected with high 
principle, — they were followed by no great, benignant results, — and in 
the sober estimate of future times, will rank, in importance, far below 
those Fabian campaigns which laid the foundations of an empire, that 
already walks, with its rank unchallenged, among the foremost powers 
of earth. 

Not in vain, then, was even the defeat of Brooklyn ; not in vain, the 
anguish with which the usually calm spirit of Washington was that 
day torn. Not in vain were those two anxious days and nights which 
he passed on horseback, and which saved from death or captivity, nine 
thousand men. These, and more, — the reluctant abandonment of the 
city, — the cowardice and desertion of the militia, — the loss of the forts, 


— and that sad retreat of the reduced, discouraged, harefooted, and 
half-naked army through the Jerseys, — were all needed. In the im- 
mortal letters and dispatches of the great commander, and in the pain- 
ful annals of the time, we read the cost and the value of what we arc 
now enjoying. Without these we had not fully known how inherent, 
how enduring and elastic is the power of an earnest and virtuous pa- 
triotism. Without them, even the transcendent name of Washington 
could not have filled the mighty measure of its fame. 


" Some, scarcely parted twice a cable's length 

From those who on the firm earth safely stand, 

Shall madly watch the strain'd, united strength, 
And cheers and wavings of the gallant band, 
Who launch their life-boat with determined hand. 

Ah ! none shall live that zealous aid to thank : 

The wild surge whirls the life-boat back to land, — 

The hazy distance suddenly grows blank, — 

In that last, laboring plunge, the fated vessel sank." 

This structure commemorates the loss of a brave and humane man. 
Thomas Freeborn was one of those hardy mariners, whose profes- 
sional duty keeps them almost perpetually on the sea, and whose 
daring little barks often meet the returning ship, while yet many 
leagues from port. He attempted to bring in the ship John Minturn, 
in the severe storm of the 14th February, 1846. In spite of every 
effort, she was driven upon the Jersey shore, — and Freeborn, with a 
large part of the ship's company, was drowned, though close to the 
beach, and within hail of hundreds, who unfortunately could afford 
them no relief. His brother pilots, with a liberality which does them 
great credit, reared this imposing monument. On a sarcophagus, 
which rests upon a massive base, is placed a ship's capstan, with a 
cable coiled around it. From this rises a mast, whose truncated top 
is surmounted by a small and well-executed statue of Hope, supported 


by her anchor, and pointing to the skies. The front of the sarcopha- 
gus bears, in relief, a ship and a schooner, mutilated by the storm, and 
tossed by the waves. 

Its height and position make the monument a conspicuous object 
from the bay, — and will often arrest the eye of the pilot as he goes and 
comes on his hazardous but responsible errands. If it remind him of 
his own possible fate, — it will assure him also that the faithful discharge 
of duty is never without its encouragement : 

iEternumque locus Palinuri nomen habebit. 

This tempest once blew soft and fair, — 
This storm-gust seem'd bright, pictured air,- 
These torrents, rushing from the sky, 
Were dews below, or clouds on high. 

The fires, in boreal flames that play'd 
So softly o'er last evening's shade, 
Now fierce athwart the darkness glare, 
Riving, with forked bolts, the air. 

These angry waves, that swell and roar, 
Late broke in ripples on the shore, — 
Or where yon sea-dogs rend their prey, 
Calm as a sleeping infant lay. 

Swift and secure the sea-boy glides — 
But ah ! what peril near him hides ; 
Beneath him, or above him cast 
The sunken rock, or furious blast. 

Christian ! thy Pilot walks the wave, 
Full wise to guide — full strong to save ; 
His faintest word shall still the roar 
Of winds, and bear thee safe to shore. 


1 Pilgrims that journey for a certain time, — 

Weak birds of passage crossing stormy seas, 
To reach a better and a brighter clime, — 

We find our parallels and types in these ! 

Meanwhile, since death, and sorrow, and disease, 
Bid helpless hearts a barren pity feel ; 

Why to the Poor should check'd compassion freeze ? 
Brothers, be gentle to that one appeal, — ■ 
Want is the only wo God gives you power to heal !" 

The enclosures presented in this plate, are upon Lawn Avenue. 
One of them is a public lot, where a single grave, at moderate cost, 
can always be had. Another, of about the same size, belongs to sev- 
eral German families. The ardor with which these emigrants cherish 
all the ties of kin and country, is well known. Far away from the 
homes and graveyards of their Fatherland, it is natural that they 
should cling together in life, — and that, in death, they should wish to 
lie side by side. Beyond the Public Lot extend, for a considerable 
distance, the grounds of the Odd-Fellows. Several Lodges of this 
charitable and great fraternity have here made provision for their last 
resting-place. This spot has already become populous ; and hundreds 
of long low mounds, in close juxtaposition, betoken the aspect which, 
through its entire extent, Green-Wood must assume at no distant day. 




Achelis, Thomas 
Ackerman, James M- 
Adams, J. C. 
Agnew, A M. 
Agnew, John T. 
Aldis, Charles J. 
Aldrich, E. T. 
Alford, S. M. 
Allaire, Alexander 
Allen, Francis 
Allen, John 
Anderson, Dr. James 
Anderson, John Jacob 
Anderson, Wm. C. 
Anthony, Thomas R. 
Archer, Mrs. Daniel O. 
Arnold, Dr. Wm. 
Arthur, Edward H. 
Ashley, Dr. James 
Asten, Wm. B. 
Atherton, F. 
Atterbury, Wm. 
Atwater, George M. 
Avery, S. P- 
Ayres, Dr. Daniel 
Ayres, Robert 
Bagioli, Mrs. Antonio 
Bailey, Joseph 

Baker, Miss 

Baker, P. H. 
Baker, Wm. 
Baldwin, N. Andrew 
Banks, Henry W. 
Banks, Wm. 
Bannister, James 
Baptist, Anthony, Jr. 
Barker, Mrs. Abraham 
Barker, Mrs. Eliza 
Barker, J. O. 
Barker, J. Willard 
Barker, Dr. Luke 
Barritt, Charles F. 
Bartow, E. J. 
Bartram, Mrs. Thomas 


Bayles, N. H. 
Bayley, W. A. 
Beale, J. C. 
Beardsl-y, L. T. 
Beebe, Wm. J. 
Bell, John 
Belloni, Louis J. 
Benedict. Caleb S. 
Benson, Charles S. 
Betts, Wm. 
Betts, Wm. W. 
Bill, Edward 
Bird. Clinton G. 
Black, Mrs. Mary 
Blakeley, Mrs. Andrew 
Blatchford, Samuel D. 
Blenis, Mrs. O. 
Blunt, G. B. 
Bogle, James 
Bolmore, B 

Bonnett, Peter R. 
Bookhout, E. 
Booth, Samuel 
Bottomley, John 
Bouton, L. S. 
Boyd, John I. 
Boyd, Robert H. 
Boyle, John C. 
Bowman, Samuel 
Bradbury, J. K. 
Bradish, Mrs. Luther 
Bradshaw, H. B. 
Brady, Archibald C. 
Braisted, Wm. C. 
Brandon, Alexander 
Brandon, George 
Brass, J. D. 

Breek, Miss 

Brennan, G. S. 
Brewer, Merwin R. 
Briggs, James M. 
Briggs, Mrs. John 
Brigham, John Tyler 
Brind, Henry 
Brizee, George M. 
Brock, John 
Brower, John L. 
Brown, Isaac H. 
Brown, John C. 
Brown, John E. 
Brown, J. F. 
Brown, Wm. Smith 
Brown, Geo. Washington 
Bryson, P. M. 
Buchanan, R. M. 
Buck, Wm. C. 
Buckingham, George A. 
Buckley, W. F. 
Bunker, Mrs. B. F. 
Bumap &, Babcock 
Burrill, Wm. B. 
Bushnell, O. 
Busteed, Richard 
Butler, James R. 
Butler, Marcus B. 
Butterworth, J. F. 
Byrd, George J. 
Chase, Nelson 
Cumming, J. P. 
Conger, A. B. 
Clark, Edward P. 
Cotrell, B. S. 
Cannon, Charles James 
Cole, Jacob 
Candee, E. W. 
Cany, Edward 
Cleaveland, J. 
Cook, Zebedee 
Cartwright, A. 
Cutlip, Henry E. 
Collins, George 
Crane, J. J. 
Clarke, T. E. 
Cropsey, J. E. 
Childs, B. F. 
Coe, F. A. 
Carter, James C. 
Carter, R. 

Coddington, Widow Mary 
Crolius, Clarkson 
Clark, L. E. 
Cooke, Thomas W. 
Carpenter, Warren 
Codman, Wm. 
Clark, Wm. Young 
Crane, Augustus 
Crane, Theodore 
Connolly, Charles M. 
Clirehugh, Vair 
Childs, Wm. 
Compton, Mansfield 
Churchill, Wm. E. 
Comstock, D. A. 
Cushing, G. W. B. 
Christman, Charles G. 
Canfield, Edward 
Coles, Francis B. 
Carleton, C. G. 
Clayton, W. A. 
Clayton, James H. 
Carroll, Anthony B. 
Christiansen, Edward T. 
Cliapin, Dr. John R. 
Crocker, Mrs. Eben B. 
Cobb, Alexander 
Classen, James M. 
Cock, Dr. Thomas 
Cortelyou, Peter C. 
Corwin, John 
Chapman, J. G. 
Church, Miss Mary 
Cornell & Jackson 
Campbell, James 
Catlin, Mrs. John S. 
Carroll, J. B. 
Champlin, W. C. 
Colvin, Mis. Andrew J. 
Colman, Mrs. Win. 
Cragin, B. F. 
Clark, Ebenezer 
Cooper, Benson S. 
Charles, Maurice 
Carpenter, Miss Ann A. 
Colgate, Mrs. Sarah 
Carlile, Thomas 
Carlile, N. D. 
Cox, J. F. 

Carpenter, Widow Sarah 
Chescbroniih. E. 
Crosley, C. W. 
Dodge, Hemy S. 
Dickinson, J. J. 
Dowley, John 
Douglas, A. E. 
Day, Thomas 

lie Witt. J. H. 

Dole, Nathaniel L. 
Dickinson, Edwin S. 
Daniel, R. 
Dreyer. F. A., Jr. 
Dole, Win. 
Duryee, Jacob 
Duryee, Mrs. Isaac 
Downs, Mrs. Benjamin F. 
Dashwood, G. L. 
Dunham, Mrs. John B. 

Disbrow, Wm. D. 

Davis, Samuel C. 

Dunkin. Miss Hester 

Dean, Miss Louisa 

Dunham, John 

Dunlap &, Thompson 

Dougherty, Mrs. .Tos'ne T. 

Dayton, James S. 

Day, Charles J. 

Davie, Miss Margaret S. 

Dodge, Wm. 

De Coppett, Edward 

Dolby, Mrs. Wm. 

Durand, A. B. 

Dwight, Edmund 

Duryee, Mrs. Abraham 

Davis, Wm. J. 

Dill, Vincent 

Donohue, James 

Edwards, Jonathan 

Ellis, R. O. 

Edwards, Alfred 

Earnest, James 

Eggert, John 

Elliott, John M. 

Earle, Edward S. 

Edsall, James 

Evans, James 

Erben, Peter 

Elliott, Dr. Samuel M. 

Eagleson, E. 

Erving, Washington 

Erving, Wm. 

Etlson, Clement M. 

Elliott, Alfred 

Field, Wm. 

Franklin, Morris 

Frost, Samuel 

Francis, L. 

Fox, Samuel M. 

Field, Cyrus W. 

Flanders, Benjamin 

Follett, R. F. 

Finn, A. T. 

Fitzgerald, Ezekiel 

Freeman, Charlf? P. 

Fletcher, Oscar B. 

Freeman, Dr. A. 

Fowler, S. P. 

Fairfield, Mrs. S. L. 

Finch, Nathaniel 

Foster, James 

Flanelly, Mrs. Michael 

Farless, Miss 

Floyd, Mrs. Auguste 
Forsyth, John 
Ferris, John H. 
Farre, J. R. 
Fiske, E. W. 
French, Daniel 
Force, John C, 
GifTord, George 
Griffith, (.;. W. 
Gunther, Christian G. 
Gerding. G. F. 
Griffin, John F. 
Gimbrede, G. N. 
Gibson, Lewis 

Goodhue, Jonathan 
Griffin, James 
(in :•-, Win. 
Gill, John 
Green, Mrs. Joseph 
Giles, John S. 
Goss, Mrs. Frances M. 
Goldsmith, Dr. Alban 
Geissenhainer, F. W., Jr 
Gage, Miss S. E. 
Giffin, Francis 
Garner, T. 
Green, Dr. Horace 
Greenwood, Isaac 1. 
Grinnell, Mrs. H. 
Gray, John A. 
GrifTin, Francis 
Gage, H. Nelson 
Gillespie, G. D. H. 
Halliday, Thomas A. 
Hunt, S. B. 
Howe, H. A. 
Hopkins, W. A 
Hopkins, W. A., Jr. 
Hoffman, S. B., Jr. 
Hammond, Samuel 
Holmes, J. E. 
Hoyt, C. 
Hincken, W. W. 
Hoffman, Martin 
Haviland, R. F. 
Harris, J. D. 
Harris, Thomas B. 
Harma, John 
Hyer, Samuel D. 
Hague, John 
Herring, F. W 
Hayes, H. N. 
Hubbard, Samuel N. 
Hubbard, Wm. H. 
Howard, John T. 
Hart, Lucius 
Hoadley, David 
Hunt, Samuel V. 
Hart, Francis 
Henrique, Charles 
Hills, Jarvis H 
Hill, Henry S. 
Hannon, J. 
Hoffman. A. W. 
J hut. J. K. 
Hoyt, Seymour 
Howe, Augustus 
Henderson, Alexander, J- 
Hunt, Thomas 
Hardorp, J. 
Hoeber, W. A. 
Haggertv, Ogden 
Hastie, W. S. 
Hoe, Peter S. 
Hawk, .Miss Mary 
Haviland, Stephen A. 
Hatfield, Amos F. 
Harbeck, John H. 
Horton, R. 
Haywood, G. M 
Holbrook, E. 
Hall, Mrs. A. D 


Hone, Philip 
Haughwout, E. V. 
Heather, Wm. 
Hutchins, George H. 
Heard, James, Jr. 
Havnel, Dr. A. 
Hubbard, N. T. 
Huttoti, Rev. Dr. M. S. 
Hoyt, J. 

Hurlbut, Mrs. H. A. 
Hart, Mrs. R. H. 
Hinshelwood, Robert 
Hall, Henry P. 

Hopkins, Mrs. 

Heroy, J. M. 
Halsey, Mrs. Elinor C. 
Hamilton, Jacob 
Harris, Dennis 
Hudson, Miss Bridget M. 
Hall, Geo. L. 
Hanks, Owen G. 
Haviland, Walter 
Hill, James R. 
Hadden, David 
Hoffman, Mrs. L. M. 
Hewett, Mrs. Thomas 
Horn, A. F. M. 
Holden, H. 
Hall, Charles 
Hampton, Alonzo R 
Hull, J. C. 

Hartshorne, Miss C. C. 
Health, Mrs. Francis 
Handlin, Wm. 
Hassal, John S. 
Haight, Mrs. Charles 
Hill, James A. 
Ives, David S. 
Ironsides, Robert B. 
Ingersoll, C. L. 
Jones, S. T. 
Jenkins, H. B. 
Johnson, Henry W. 
Johnson, Theodore 
Jones, E. 
Johnson, Henry 
Jordan, Conrad 
Johnson, Miss C. J. 
Jaques, J. C. 
Jones, W. 
Jackson, J. A. 
Jenkins, Thomas W. 
Johnson, Miss Sarah 
Johnson, W. S. 
Jackson, Augustus 
Johnson, Mrs. Charles E. 
Jackson, Mrs. Abram W. 
Jones, Mrs. Susan 
Jacobus, David 
Kemble, Wm. 
Kingsland, Miss II. C. 
Kinsman, Israrl 
Kobbe, Wm. 
Kimball, D. S. 
Kissam, A. 
Kearney, J. R. 
Kissam, Win. A. 
Kellogg, W. C. 
King, James L. 
Ketcham, J. 
King, John 
Knapp, S. K. 
Kneeland, Furroan I,. 
Knock, Thomas 
King, Wm. M. 
Kissam, S. 
Kingsland, D. 
Knapp, Stephen II. 
Kingsley, E. M. 
Key, F. C. 

Krebs, Rev. John M. 
Koop, G. H. 
Kcnward, Thomas 
Kimball, Mrs. M. T. C. 
Kee, O. 

Livingston, Crawford 
Lent, Mortimer 
Lyman, John H. 
Lyman, Lewis 
Livingston, A. 
Lasak, Francis W. 
Langley, W. C. 
Lewis, Ezra 
Lethbridge, Robert 
Lord, S. 
Leland, J. A. 
Leeds, Samuel, Jr. 
Locke, John D. 
Lewis, W. H. 
Linen, James 
Lawrence, D. Lysack 
Little, Edward 
Lord, Joseph N. 
Libby, Ira 
Lord, C. H. 
Lothian, George B. 
Lloyd, James O. 
Lang, John 
Lowe, B. 
Lester, Andrew 
Lewis, John Walker 
Ludlam, Miss Eliza 
Lewis, Benedict. Jr. 
Lowrie, Rev. John C. 
Lane, Smith E. 
Leroy, Jacob 
Lane, Miss C. A. 
Lehman, C. H. 
Lockwood, J. B. 
Lewis, George 
Leroy, Peter V. 
Lawrence, Luther M. 
Lossing, Benson J. 
Larue, Isaac 
Lawrence, Wm. S. 
Mottram, M. 
Morewood, J. R. 
Mills, J. W. 
Miller, John H. 
Marvin, R. 
Meserole, Jacob 
Morrison, Alexander 
Morrison, James 
Matthews, J. M. 
Marvin, A. B. 
Mitchell, M. 
Mead, Ralph 
Maey, F. H. 
Mead, J. S. 
Messellier, II. L. 
Marvin, A. S. 
Mead, Walter 
Morrison, David 
Martin, R., Jr. 
Marsh, Win. R. 
Moore, J. T. 
Munson, Robert 
Mercantile Library Assoc' 
Mangain, Daniel 
Mullany, E. B. 
Macy, Miss Elizabeth 
Macy, Miss Martha 
Mead, S. M. 
Miles, W. B. 
Miles, A. 
Merriam, W. B. 
Matthews, J. 
Marsh, J. P. 
Mumford, J. Pai^f 
Moore, Nathaniel F. 

Mott, Dr. Valentine 
Mowbray, Wesley 
Miller, Mrs. George C. 
Malcolm, J. F. 
Mitchell, Mrs. Catharine 
Marshall, Mrs. Wm. H. 
Miller, Mrs. Mary 
Maybie, Abraham P. 
Mason, Rev. Cyrus 
Mather, Miss 
Mortimer, G. T. 
Milnor, Charles E. 
Mace, John 
Mann, Wm. 
Mitchell, Miss Mary 
Meeks, Mrs. Sarah C. 
Morrison, Mrs. Joiin C. 
Martin, Mrs. Wm. 
Martin, Isaac 
Moffat, Miss Mary 
Marsh, Mrs. Willet P. 
Mathews, J. Seymour 
Meakim, Alexander 
Mac Gregor, Daniel 
McCormick, R. 
McLean, J. 
McKesson, John W. 
McCurdy, R. H 
McEvers, Bache 
McNeil, .1 
McBride, Henry 
Mc Lean, Henry 
McNulty, Marvin 
McLaughlin, G. P. 
McGrath, M. 
McChesney, Wm. F. 
Me Knight, Dr. Scott 
McGown, John R. 
McCoon, Mrs. Mary 
McLoay, Thomas W. 
McKce, J. W. 
Ncwbold, George 
Nelson, George P. 
Noyes, Samuel 
Naylor, Joseph 
Niles, George W. 
Noble, John Sanford 
Nivens, Miss Marv F. 
Nolton, Mrs. R. H. 
Noe, M. 

Newell, Wm. E. 
Nicholl, Mrs. Samuel 
Ogden, Richard II. 
Okell, Wm. 
Oakley, Richard 
Ormsbee, J. II , Jr. 
Otten, Hinrich 
Otis, Wm. H. 
Ovington, W. II. 
Oakley, J. W. 
Osborn, Abner 
Osborn, Mrs. Win. 
Oakley, R. S. 
Orr, John W. 
O'Boyce, Miss Phoebe 
Priest, Wm. II. 
Peck, George B. 
n Phalen, James 
Prime, E. 
Phillips, Louis 
Powell, E. S. 
Policy, Grahams 
Piatt, G. W. 
Proctor, G. W. 
Paret, John 
Perry, R. B. 
Polhemus, Theodore 
Peck, Alfred P. 
Poole, Wm. 
Phelps, G. W. 

Pentz, B. 
Protheroe, Robert 
Prentice, J. H. 
Packer, Wm. S. 
Putnam, O. C, 
Puffer, George S. 
Petrie, Miss J. A. 
Polhamus, John 
Phelps, George 
Purdy, Mrs. Wm. T. 

Parsons, Mrs. 

Perry, Mrs. Frances S. 
Piatt, John 
Post, Mrs. Lavinia 
Phyfe, J. M. 
Piatt, Nathaniel C. 
Parish, Henry 
Pierce, Mrs. Edward 
Pell, Wm. W. 
Pritchard, Mrs. A. 
Pope, J. L. 
Prosser, Thomas 
Pomeroy, B., Jr. 
Quintar'el, O. P. 
Ray, Robert 
Richardson, G. 
Ridgway, Charles 
Rose, Wm. W. 
Roe, G. Scott 
Rice, W. W. 
Rothmaler, B. 
Rossiter, C. D., Jr. 
Ritchie, Charles 
Ross, Andrew 
Robinson, B. F. 
Randall, David 
Root, Russell C. 
Rowland, George 
Read, Geo. W. 
Richards, W. W. 
Rozat, Guillaume 
Raper, B. W. 
Richards, Thomas F. 
Robinson, James P. 
Rockwell, Samuel D. 
Root, Albert 
Relyea, Mrs. Peter 
Rowell, Charles S. 
Robson, Dr. Benjamin R. 
Redway, Miss S. 
Reed, John 
Rich, Abraham B. 
Rankin, Win. 
Ridabook, Mrs. M. A. 
Richardson, Mrs. S. 
Reed, Mrs. Sarah 
Rapetti, Mis. Michele 
Ralph, Dr. Joseph 
Selden, Dudley 
Stiles, Samuel 
Smith, James F. 
Smith, Algernon Sidney 
Smillie, W. C. 
Smith, Augustus N. 
Sluyter, James S. 
Stevens, W. H. 
Stebbins, H. G. 
Strong, Geo. W. 
Stout, A. G. 
Smith, Jesse C. 
Spear, George 
Skippon, Robert 
Scrymscr. J. 
Schobel, James 
Seaman, J. A. 
Shaw, James M. 
Smith, Charles II. 
Smallcy, Ceo. C. 
Smith, Thomas V. 
Strong, Damas 


Siffken, Francis E. 
St. Felix, George Edward 
Sand, C. H. 
Schroeder, H. 
Sherman, Bvron 
Schufeldt, W. T. 
Simpson, Frederick 
Smith, James T. 
Southwick, Nathan 
Slote, Henry L. 
Silleck, Daniel C. 
Sadlier, Dennis 
Smith, Andrew A. 
Sus, A. Wm. 
Southwick, G. W. 
Steel, Joseph 
Smith, Hiram 
Smith, Stephen 
Sandford, Charles B. 
Schultz, Mrs. J. S. 
Sands, A. B. 
Shepherd, Thomas S. 
Stebbins, Russell 
Scofield, Mrs. W 
Seymour, W. M. 
Stilwell, James 
Seeley, Richard 
Sitcher, Mrs. Andrew 
Sweet, Ezra B. 
Smith, Miss Elizabeth 
Stone, Samuel B. 
Soulard, B. 
Schermerhorn, A. 
Stout, Theodore 
Schmidt, Mrs. John W. 
Sattathwaite, J. B. 
Sandford, Marcus B. 
Seeley, W. A. 
Swan, John 
Smith, Thomas W. 
Stuart, R. L. 
Smith, Jotham 
Schuchardt, C. W. 
Squire, Charles 
Sears, Robert 
Storm, Isaac A. 
Seymour, Isaac N. 
Seaver, Benjamin F. 
Strong, Edward 
Searl, Lewis F. 
Speidel, Mrs. C. M. 
Schmidt, Dr. John W 
Sickels, W. B. 
Stoneall, J. C. 
Senior, Edward II. 
Thompson, Jonathan, 
Thomas, L W 
Thorn, J. M. 
Taggard, Wm. 
Treadwell, W. E. 
Tomes, Francis 
Titus, S. R. 
Thorbum, James, Jr. 
Talman, W. H. 
Tompkins, E. O. 
Thomas, John 
Timpson, J. H. 
Townsend, John I. 
Townsend, Wm. II. 
Thome, R. J. 
Tavlor, Gordon P. 
Trimble, D. 
Tillou, Charles D. 
Thall, John F. 
Turnure, John L. 
Thompson, Andrew 
Taber, C. C. 
Totnpson, Mrs. Thomas 
Tinson, T. R. 
Taylor, H. S. 




Traphagan, Mrs. C. 
Taylor, J. D. 
Turner, John 
Tucker, Mrs. Joseph 
Tallman, Mrs. George D. 
Teale, John P. 
Trenor, Dr. James 
Taylor, Mrs. John 
To'bitt, Mrs. John H. 
Thompson, H. G. 
Tuffs, Lucien 
Turnure, Abraham 
Totlen, Mrs. J. M. 
Underhill, Daniel 
Unkart, E. 

Van Santvoord, Cornelius 
Vandervoorl, P. H. 
Van Nest, Henry 
Varick, James L. 
Van Rensselaer, H. R. 
Valentine, A. A. 
Vyse, Charles 
Valentine, Richard C. 
Vanderbeck, James 
Van Horn, John 
Vincent, Benjamin 
Van Saun, Mrs. John A. 
Van Raden, Benjamin 
Vandervoorl, David 
Van Wagenen, G. 
Van Antwerp, Mrs. James 
Varick, Dr. T. R. 
Vallance, Mrs. C. 
Van Blarcom, Mrs. A. 
Vermilye, J. D. 
Van Der Werken, Mrs. 
Weed, Nathaniel 
Wright, C, W. 
Winslow, James 
Whitney, Stephen 
Watkiss, C. L. 
Wakeman, Win. 
Webb, Charles I). 
Willeta, Daniel T. 
Wilmol, J. 
Waldron, J. P. 
Wallace. John 
Whitlock, Mrs. T. E 
Ward, Miss 
Woram, John 
Wheeler, Jackson 
Ward, James 
West, Mrs. Joseph I. 
Wilson, Mrs. Nathaniel 
Whitney, Benjamin S. 
Webb, Sirs. Wm. 
Walker, J. N. 
Woodruff, David 
Wilson, Mrs. li. M. 
Wood, Mrs. E. B. 
Wes'ervelt, Daniel 
White, N. 
Williams, E. P. 
Whittemore, .Mrs. S. 
Walsh, Braine 
Wyman, L. B. 
Williams, Mrs. Elizabeth 
Whittemore, Wm. T. 
Winser, John R. 
Watson, Mrs. E. Baker 
Washburn, H. A 
Weed, Wm. C. 
White, F. 
White, Edward 
White, R H. 
Wells, Joseph (' 
Webb, G. 
Weeks, E. A. 
Wenman. J. F. 
Warrin, John 

White, R. Cornell 
Ward, B. 

Wood, George W. 
White, John T. 
Waterbury, II. II. 

Wells, Charles 

Wood, R. E. 
Walsh, George 

Walsh, w. W. 
Wiley, John 
Wyman, R. A. 
Warford, W. K. 
White, W. A. 
Webster, George C. 
White, E. 
Watmough, R. B. 
Whiting, W. E. 
Waller, Alfred 
Wright, E. 
Wesson, David 
Wesson, Andrew 
Wilcomb, J. 
Wood, George S. 
Winter, J. W. 
Youle, John C. B. 
Young, John 
Young, Stephen B. 
Zimmermann, John C. 


Adams, Mrs. B. 
Abraham, George 
Areularius, P. J. 
Atlantic Lodge, No. 50, ) 
I. O. of 0. F. \ 
Atkins, David S. 


Atkins, J. 
Adams, P. 
Bowne, Samuel 
Brooks, T. 
Bennett, Winant J. 
Bullock, M. 

Buck, Mrs. 

Bradford, W. 
Briggs, Mrs. J. 
Blackburne, R. C. 
Butler, James G. 
Bond, Miss 
Bennam, John 
Bellingham, Dr. J. 
Buck, Thomas W. 
Bailey, Robert 
Banks, M. E. 
Brush, J. B. 
Boyd, Miss 
Barney, Hiram 
Bryant, E. W. 
Beman, W. 
Barter, John 
Ballard, L. 
Beam, Gilbert 
Bridge, E. 
Beam, Mrs. 
Berry, John 
Blanch, John 
Bergen, Peter 
Burbank, Mrs. Win. 
Burrill, George 
Bergen, Garrett G. 
Bergen, John 
Bennett, Mrs. Romsen 
Baldwin, B. 
Brower, Samuel 
Bates, J. A. 
Ball, Mrs. Mary 

Bicknell, Miss Henrietta 
Booth, Mrs. R. 
Bigelow, Louisa 
Barkuloo, .Miss M. A. 

Burkuloo, Tunis 
Burtis, 0. D. 
Christianson. Nicholas 

( 'nope, I > . I s ill 

Cox, Henry 
Conklin, Solomon 
Childs, G. C. 
Conklin, H. N. 
Campbell, Alexander 
Cartwright, W. 
Copland, J. M. 
Cortelyon, John 
Cullen, Dr. H. J. 
Craven, Tunis 
Chapman, W. P. 
Cornell, Cbauncey 
Cowing, James A. 
Clark, H. L. 
Cook, Francis 
Cross, J. A. 
Collier, Mrs. Mary 
Dwight, Miss Caroline E. 
Deane, Mrs. Maria 
Dyckman, F. H. 
Davis, Mrs. Margaret 
Davis, B. W. 
Demtning, Miss 
Dodge, Mrs. 
Duryee, Jacob 
Day, Willard 
Decker, Dr. D. 
Demott, Peter 

De Cost, 

De Le Ree, Miss 
Dent, Thomas 
Edey, Henry 


Ellison, Sarah 
Eberle, Mrs. Matilda 
Evans, Wm. 
Eskildson, Mrs. Mary 
Elwell, J. W. 
Eagle Lodge, No. 94, 

I. 0. of O. F. 
Evans, Ira P. 
Field, Charles A. 
Farley, Frederick A. 
Fletcher, H. R. 
Fobes, Mrs. A. 
Graves, R. 
Grade, Mrs. 
Gait, George 
Gardner, Miss Jane E. 
Garrison, J. 
Graham, J. B. 
Giltilland, Dr. George 
< rraham, Augustus 
Greenwood, J. 
Greene, Mrs. Sidney 
Greene, R. H. 
Guy, Samuel S. 
Gansevoort, Mrs. S. II. 
Gratacap, J. L. 
Granger, James 
Gilbert, Joseph 
Giffni, Abraham 
Grove, G. 

Garrison, Dr. Nelson A. 
Herbert, Sidney C. 
Hall, John 
Hall, George 
Harvey, C. A. 
Holt, Mrs. J. P. 
Hartmann, W. 
Humphrey, Mrs. James 
Harrison, Miss Marv 


Hurd, Dr. T. W. 
Hyde, Dr. Lucius 
Harper, Mrs. J. W, 
Hutchins, R. G. 
Hi-tings, George 
Hale, J. L 
Haslett, Dr. John 
Hodgkins, Thomas 
Hatheway, Mis. II. C. 
Hance, W. C. 
Hayes, J. J. 
Hatfield, Wm. 
Hampson, R. J. 
Harnian, Mrs. 
Hath way, Miss s. 
Hillard, John B. 
Isaacs, John S. 
Johnson, S. E. 
Johnson, Mrs. J. 
Jenks, Henry 
Johnson, J. J. 
Johnson, Jeremiah 
King, John B. 
Kellogg, Mrs. 
King, Gamaliel 
Low, A. A. 
Lee, Win. 
Lott, John P. 
Leavitt, Edward 
Lyon, Robert A. 
Lyon, George 
Lewis, Rev. W. II. 
Lefferts, R. 


Leverich, D. T. 
Milne, Peter 
Moody, Henrv 
Morse, Dr. John F. 
Madden, Louisa S. 
Messenger, Thomas 
Mason, Nehemiah 
Morrison, Miss Anna 
Merrifield, Mrs. 
Marvin, Dr. George 
Messenger, H. 
Morgan, Mrs. S. 
Miller, J. E. 
Musterton, W. J. 
Marston, Wm. 
Munn, Wm. 
Morris, Miss 
McGowan, Mrs. E. 
McGeorge, Thomas 
McDonald, W. 
McBurney, Thomas, Jr. 
McClellan, Dr. C. R. 
McKee, J. W. 
Navlor, John 
Nichols, M. C. E. 
Nufeldt, Louisa 
O^iorn, A. II. 

Ostrander, Dr. 

Ostrom, A. P. 
O'Hara, Peter 
Olmstead, W. B. 
Owen, Mrs. 
O-born, J. W. 
Perry, J. A. 
Pierrcpont, H. E. 
Peck, Wm. M. 
Patchen, Henry 
Patrick, Mrs. A 
Parker, Wm. 
Pithladdo, W. 
Pearsall, J. 
Powell, Henry 
Pearsall, S. 
Parralee, Mrs. A. I ' 
Pi. rrepont, Mrs II. B. 
Roberts, J. 

Ritter, Mrs. M. 
I.' dare, Clarkson W. 
Ritter, Mrs. Eleanor 
Rosman, Dr. R. 
Robertson, Wm. 
Rorker, Mrs. C. A. 
Russell, Henrv 
Rogers; Mrs. A. 
Richards, Mrs. A. 
Richards, B. 
Rogers, T. 
Redding, Thomas H. 
Ransom, B. 
Stryker, Francis B. 
Stilwell, G. W. 
Sidell, A. II. 
Stilwell, B. M. 
Storry, Rowland 
Sprague, Wm. E. 
Sneckner, Wm. 
Stryker, B. 
Storry, Robert R. 
Stephenson, Frederick 
Schoonmaker, Mrs. 
Sherman, J. W. 
Sawyer, Miss H. A. 
Smith, J. A. 
Spooner, A. J. 
Smith, J. C. 
Sheldon, Leavitt 
Smith, Lucius 
Smith, C. P. 
Swift, Samuel 
Spies, F. A. 
Stone, Rev. Dr. 
Stebbins, Asa 
Scrimgeour, Wm. 
Spear, Calvin 
Seaman, D. K. 
Spooner, Henry 
Swertcope, John 
Shipley; Thomas 
Shepard, J. H. 
Tomsey, A. 
Tempest, Thomas 
Titus, C. H. 
Tombs," A. 
Thompson, S. 
Taylor, E. E. L. 
Thompson, S. W. 
Talmadge, Thomas G. 
Terry, Henry 
Underhill, J. 
Tiler. Samuel S. 
dull rhill, Alexander 
Underbill, Clarkson 
Volmer, John A. 
Van Dyke, John 
Van Ness, Dr. J. 
Van Brunt, N. 
Voothei s, Judah B. 
Van Voorhees, Miss A. S 
Van Nostrand, A. 
Voorhies, J. 
Van Brunt, W. B. 
Van Brunt, Adriance 
Van Brunt. John A. 
Van Benschoten. Samuel 
Wadsworth.G. B. 
Weeks. Willet 
White, Miss Martha 
White. Edward D 
White, S., Jr. 
Wilkinson, M. 
\\ heelwright, G. 
Whitlock, E. J. 

While, T. 

Wadsworth, Washington 
Wood, C. 


Wilkine, Mrs. Henry 
While, Mrs. H. C. 
Whitman, Alexander A. 
Weed, Mrs. M. 
WyckofT, H. S. 
Wells, Dr. P. P. 
Wyckoff, Van Brunt 
Westervelt, Mrs. J. 
Wilson, Joseph 
Wood, J. G. 
Wilhelmina & Brunson 
Wood, John Jay 
Whittelsey, Elisha 
Webster, Hosea 


Abbott, Dr. S. L.. Jr. 
Alexander, Charles A. 
Adams, Dr. Z. B. 
Atkins, Isaiah 
Appleion, S. 
Appleton, N. 
Appleton, Mrs. T. A. 
Adams, Benjamin 
Allen, Freeman 
Adams, C. F. 
Bowditch, J. Ingersoll 
Brimmer, Martin 
Boles, John 
Boynton, G. W. 
Bush, James P. 
Bradlee, Josiah 
Brigham, Levi 
Burton, Hazen J. 
Blackburn, George 
Bayley, Samuel K. 
Blanchard, Wm. B. 
Brown, Jonathan 
Blanchard, Wm. G. 
Bacon, Daniel C. 
Blanchard, John A. 
Brooks, Edward 
Burgess, B. F. 
Bond, George Wm. 
Barnes, D. W. 
Brewster, J. 
Converse, James C. 
Colley, Benjamin E. 
Carey, Alpheus 
Codman, Edward 
Curtis, Nathan 
Cushing, Thomas P. 
Cary, Isaac H. 
Cochrane, S. Q. 
Cooke, Josiah P. 
Curtis, Samuel S. 
Curtis, J. F. 
Cooper, Robert 
Cotting, Amos 
Carter, R. B. 
Darracott, George 
Dana, A. N. 
Davis, Thomas 
Dexter, Thomas A. 
Dodd, James 
Dana, Samuel 
Davis, Henry 
Dewhurst, Wm. 
Doane, Miss C. 
Dixwell, J. J. 
Davis, J., Jr. 
Eliot, Samuel A. 
Edwards, J. W. 

Eldridge, O. 
Fales, Mrs. Samuel 
Flint, Waldo 
Francis, Nathan 
Fairbanks, H. P. 
Farnham, Henry 
Frothingham, Samuel 
Forbes, F. H. 
Fairfield, John 
Foster, Joseph 
Fletcher, Richard 
Fuller, Henry H. 
Goodwin, Ozias 
Goodrich, Ira 
Gould, James 
Greenough, Wm. 
Goodrich, C. B. 
Gregg, Dr. Samuel 
Gould, B. A. 
Gray, J. C. 
Glover, Henry R. 
Greene, D. 
Heard, Augustine 
Hosmer, Zelotes 
Huntington, L. A. 
Hedge, Frank 
Hunt, N. 
Hanscombe, A. 
Howe, Joseph N, Jr 
Harvey, Peter 
Howe, George 
Hewins, Samuel K 
Hennessey, Edward 
Heard, Mrs. John 
Hooper, Robert 
Howe, I. L. 
Henderson, Charles 
Hall, A. T. 
Inches, Miss 
Jones, Eliphalet 
Jameson, Wm. H. 
Johnson, James B. 
Jones, Cyrus 
Kimball, Daniel 
Kelleher, John 
Karuth, Nathan 
Kendall. Abel 
Kuhn, G. H. 
Lawrence, Abbott 
Lee, Sarah 
Loring, John G. 
Lloyd, Daniel 
Lamson, J. 
Loring. Henry 
Lobdell, T. J. 
Loring, Benjamin 
Lewis, S. S. 
Lovejoy, W. B. 
Locke, Lyman 
Leland, Sherman 
Lothrop, S. K. 
Locke, Charles A. 
Lawrence, Amos A. 
Lincoln, M. S. 
Lawrence, Wm. 
Lewis, Joseph 
Low, Dr. A. S. 
Mayo, Edward R. 
Messenger, G. W. 
May. John 
Mead, Samuel O. 
Miles, Walter 
Mills, Charles 
McBurney, C. 
Norcross, Otis 
Nolen, S., Jr. 
Newhall, D. B. 

Noble, Wm. 
Oliver, Francis J. 
Oxnard, H. P. 
Pope, Lemuel 
Perkins, Mary T. 
Parker, Charles H. 
Parker, John W. 
Pope, H. K. 
Putnam, Catharine 
Parker, Isaac 
Parker, W. H. 
Parker, Peter 
Perry, Thomas 
Parker, Daniel P. 
Prince, John T. 
Richards, Reuben 
Rogers, George 
Robbins, E. H. 
Reynolds, Edwin 
Read & Chadwick 
Russell, James 
Rich, Benjamin 
Rand, L. 
Robinson, J. P. 
Read, Wm. 
Rice, Israel C. 
Raymond, Edward A. 
Rollins, Mrs. E. 
Reed, G. P. 
Reynolds. Wm. 
Sturgis, Russell 
Shattuck, Dr. George C. 
Stearns, Joseph G. 
Snow, H. A. 
Skinner, S. N. 
Smith &. Sumner 
Sewall, S. E. 
Stedman, D. B. 
Shaw, Charles B. 
Stone, Wm. W. 
Snow, Mrs. Thomas 
Stone, Henry B. 
Swett, S. 
Savage, James 
Shaw, Robert G. 
Smart, Mrs. Ann 
Sargent, L. M. 
Sumner, S. A. 
Simpson, M. H. 
Sibley, Henry 
Tudor, Frederick 
Tirrell, Edward C. 
Tappan, John 
Tisdale, M. 
Taylor, Richard 
Thompson, N. A. 
Tucker, John L. 
Throw, Samuel T. 
Trull, John 
Tremlet, Mrs. F. 
Trull, John W. 
Thwing, S. C. 
Thayer, B. W. 
Varney, Mrs. George R. 
Wigglesworth, Mrs. T. 
Williams, Henry L. 
Whiting, Caleb 
Wilder, Marshall P 
Willis, Nathaniel 
Wiiherbee, J. B 
Williams, David \V. 
Weld. John D. 
Whall, Joseph B. 
Winslow, George 
Warren, S. D. 
Walley. Samuel H., Jr. 
Welherell, John 

Whiton, J. P. 
Winsor, N., Jr. 
Welles, Mrs. 
Wolcott, J. H. 
Watts, Miss 
Webb, G. J. 
Whittemore, Augustus 
Winter, F. B. 


R. I. 

Allen, Zachariah 
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Foster, F. F. 
Kent, Dr. J. Emerson 
King, Wm. J. 
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Knight, J. C. 
Lockwood, M. B. 
Mathewson, Miss P. 
Paine, Mrs. Amarancy 
Sawiii, E. D. 
Smith, Richard 
Taylor, Richard B. 
Warren, Russell 
White, Thomas 
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L. I. 

Bogardus, C. S. 
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Green, Wm. H. 
Johnson, David 
Lott, Mrs. Ann M. 
Lott, Mrs. Mary 
Martense, Mrs. Helen 
Murphy, Thomas 

Robinson, Dr. 

Robinson, D. 
Stilenworth, Jacob 
Storer, Edward 
Vanderbilt, John 
Varinn, Charles 
Vanderbilt, John, Jr. 
Willink, J. A. 

Smith, Anthony M 
Spader, John 

L. I. 

Bennett, Winant 
Denier, Jacob 


L. I. 

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L. I. 

Barrow. Lawrence 

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Duncan, F. 
McNeil. J. 
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Wakeman, Walter 
Young, Mrs. J. S. 


L. I. 

Hagner, Henry J. 
Hogan, Mrs. Michael 
Kelsey, Thomas H. 
Mills, N. S. 
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3txaeo ffiftj, 

N. J. 

Chadeayne, Mary J. 
Gregory, J. G. 
Gregory, D. S. 
Henderson, D. 
James, J. B. 
Jordan, Mrs. 
McClelland, R. B. 
Rathbun, H. 


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Ailing. Horace 
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Duncombe, C. T. 
Grant, Charles 
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N. J. 

Van Ilouten, Mrs. 

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