But if any one reading the tale of these wilful dwellings should soberly doubt the common interests of the people, let him climb the rocky eminence in their midst to the old graveyard, where stood the little church, the oldest of all; here the first settlers worshipped, and here, in comforting nearness, they buried their dead, within the niches spared them by the rock. It was set thus high, this homely tabernacle of faith, to overlook land and water, that no stealthy Indian band might creep upon the worshippers unaware,—for those were the days of the church militant in more than a poetic sense. An admirable spot this for the antiquary, wherein to pursue his loving labor of coaxing forward a reluctant past! Ancient headstones will salute his eye, and of these said one local lingerer, garrulous as he who discoursed on Yorick’s skull, “I can tell the date of ’em all, jest as I could a buildin’, by the architectur’!” But let him not conclude that in scanning the slabs erected two centuries ago he has seen all,—for here lies many an unrecorded grave. “They had to send to England for their stones then,” said the Oldest Inhabitant. “Poor folks couldn’t afford that, an’ most of ’em went without.”
