Half a Century | Page 5

but a
thickly peopled graveyard, which adjoined that of the First Presbyterian
Church, on the corner of Sixth and Wood. These were above the level
of the street, and were protected by a worm-fence that ran along the top
of a green bank on which we played and gathered flowers.
Grandmother took me sometimes to walk in these graveyards at night,
and there talked to me about God and heaven and the angels. I was
sufficiently interested in these, but especially longed to see the ghosts,
and often went to look for them. We had a bachelor uncle who
delighted in telling us tales of the supernatural, and he peopled these
graveyards with ghosts, in which I believed as implicitly as in the
Revelations made to John on the Isle of Patmos, which were my
favorite literature.
When the congregation concluded to abandon the "Round Church,"
which stood on the triangle between Liberty, Wood and Sixth streets,
and began to dig for a foundation for Trinity, where it now stands, there
was great desecration of graves. One day a thrill of excitement and
stream of talk ran through the neighborhood, about a Mrs. Cooper,
whose body had been buried three years, and was found in a wonderful
state of preservation, when the coffin was laid open by the diggers. It
was left that the friends might remove it, and that night I felt would be
the time for ghosts. So I went over alone, and while I crouched by the
open grave, peering in, a cloud passed, and the moon poured down a
flood of light, by which I could see the quiet sleeper, with folded hands,
taking her last, long rest.
It was inexpressibly grand, solemn and sad. There were no gaslights, no
paved street near, no one stirring. Earth was far away and heaven near
at hand, but no ghost came, and I went home disappointed. Afterwards
I had a still more disheartening adventure.
I had gone an errand to cousin Alexander's, on Fifth street, stayed late,
and coming home, found Wood street deserted. The moon shone
brightly, but on the graveyard side were heavy shadows, except in the
open space opposite the church. I was on the other side, and there was
the office of the Democratic paper, and over the door the motto "Our
country, right or wrong." This had long appeared to be an uncanny spot,
owing to the wickedness of this sentiment, and I was thinking of the
possibility of seeing Auld Nick guarding his property, when my

attention was attracted to a tall, white figure in the bright moonlight,
outside the graveyard fence.
I stopped an instant, in great surprise, and listened for footsteps, but no
sound accompanied the motion. It did not walk, but glided, and must
have risen out of the ground, for only a moment before there was
nothing visible. I clasped my hands in mute wonder, but my ghost was
getting away, and to make its acquaintance I must hurry. Crossing the
street I ran after and gained on it. It passed into the shadow of the
engine house, on across Sixth street, into the moonlight, then into the
shadow, before I overtook it, when lo! it was a mortal woman, barefoot,
in a dress which was probably a faded print. Most prints faded then,
and this was white, long and scant, making a very ghostly robe, while
on her head she carried a bundle tied up in a sheet. She had, of course,
come out of Virgin alley, where many laundresses lived, and had just
passed out of the shadow when I saw her. We exchanged salutations,
and I went home to lie and brood over the unreliable nature of ghosts.
I was trying to get into a proper frame of mind for saying my prayers,
but I doubt if they were said that night, as we were soon aroused by the
cries of fire. Henry Clay was being burned, in effigy, on the corner of
Sixth and Wood streets, to show somebody's disapproval of his course
in the election of John Quincy Adams. The Democratic editor,
McFarland, was tried and found guilty of the offense, and took revenge
in ridiculing his opponents. Charles Glenn, a fussy old gentleman,
member of our church, was an important witness for the prosecution,
and in the long, rhyming account published by the defendant, he was
thus remembered:
"Then in came Glenn, that man of peace, And swore to facts as sleek as
grease; By all his Uncle Aleck's geese, McFarland burnt the tar-barrel."
It was before this time that Lafayette revisited Pittsburg, and people
went wild to do him honor. The schools paraded for his inspection, and
ours was ranged along the pavement in front of the First Presbyterian
church, the boys