It is well worth the visit of many a long mile, to walk in that ancient cemetery, and read the rustic epitaphs that would teach us to live and die. There side by side,
'Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,'
lie the old puritans, the rude forefathers of the hamlet, who fled from the father-land in search of freedom to worship God; and though they may have possessed grievous faults, yet who does not venerate their unyielding firmness and holy piety? There too sleep the early pastors of the American churches; the men of rare endowments and ripest learning, who turned their backs upon the livings of the old country, that they might plant the standard of the cross in this distant wilderness. And there too rest the loved and venerated of our own day, for whom, even now that so many long years have fled, one feels as if it were impiety so utterly to have ceased to weep, so seldom to remember! One there was, whose voice was sweet to my ear in childhood; whose eyes, bedimmed into a pathetic beauty, never restrained the glee that sparkled in the orbs of those about her; her, who had so long heard the voice that called her, whispering in her ear, that she could smile at its accents, and feel those silent words to be cheerful as angel's tones.
In one corner of the cemetery, where a low sunken fence separates it from a neighboring court-yard, is the grave of Richard Shatswell, the first deacon of Ipswich church. In his first and only place of residence until he emigrated, the city of Ipswich, England, he was a man of considerable importance, having for several successive years borne the honor of mayor of that town. But the unjust laws against the dissenters hampered him: he could not take the oaths of office; he would not make the sacrifice of principle to personal honor or private emolument: and popular dissensions bearing hard upon his refusal to recant his sentiments, he fled his country, and became one of the first freeholders of Agawam. It is remarkable, that on the very spot where the good man pitched his tent and cleared his land; on the very farm where he sowed his grain and raised his crops; lives and labors the only descendant in the sixth generation who bears the name of Shatswell. He is now an old man, and retains in his face and character strong impress of his puritanical descent, as indeed does every thing about him the mark of family antiquity. The house is one of those substantial old mansions which our ancestors delighted to rear; and though now far advanced in its second century, its stanch oak timbers, and heavy mouldings, and massive ballustrades, bid fair to last for many generations. Every article of furniture which the house contains carries you far back into olden time. The andirons in the broad fire-place, bearing the mark of 1596; the high-backed, spinster-looking chairs; the fantastic legs of the upright bureau; the ponderous bellows and painted china; all are but epistles of the habits of our sires. Better than all, however, are the family pictures ranged along the walls, where our grandmothers vie in broad hoops and stiff stomachers, with the more unassuming costume of their daughters.
I found there were connected, as usual, with these old paintings many anecdotes of the past. At the time of the war of the revolution, the lady of the manor was a descendant of Simon Bradstreet, one of the early governors of the province, whom Mather calls the 'Nestor of New-England.' Her husband was a stanch whig, a leader of one of the classes into which the town was divided; and though the good lady coincided fully in his political sentiments, she did not much like the infringement upon domestic luxuries which many of the patriotic resolutions of the meetings contemplated. In short, Madame Shatswell loved her cup of tea, and as a large store had been provided for family use before the tax, she saw no harm in using it as usual upon the table. There were in those days, as there are now, certain busy-bodies who kindly take upon themselves the oversight of their neighbors' affairs, and through them the news of the treason spread over the town. A committee from the people immediately called at the house to protest against the drinking of tea. The good lady received their visit kindly, informed them of the circumstances of the case, and dismissed them perfectly satisfied. Some months passed away, and one Sabbath Madame Shatswell's daughter, a bright-eyed, coquettish damsel, appeared at church in a new bonnet. This was a new cause of excitement, and the committee came again to administer reproof. The lady satisfied them again, however; and they, finding that the hat contained no treason to the people's cause, again departed. Two years of the war had now passed away, and mean while the daughter, Jeanette, had found a lover. It was the beginning of winter; the army had just gone into winter quarters; and the young suitor was daily expected home. Wishing to appear well in his eyes, the maiden had spun and woven with her own hands a new linen dress, from flax raised upon the homestead; and some old ribands, long laid aside, having been washed and ironed to trim it withal, the damsel appeared in it at church on the Sunday after her lover's arrival. Here was fresh cause of alarm, and forthwith on Monday morning came the officious committee, to remonstrate against the extravagance. The old lady's spirit was now aroused, and she could contain herself no longer. 'Do you come here,' was her well-remembered reply, 'do you come here to take me to task, because my daughter wore a gown she spun and wove with her own hands? Three times have you interfered with my family affairs. Three times have you come to tell me that my husband would be turned out of his office. Now mark me! There is the door! As you came in, so you may go out! But if you ever cross my threshold again, you shall find that calling Hannah Bradstreet a tory will not make her a coward!' It is needless to add that Madame Shatswell's family affairs were thereafter left to her own guidance.
But they are all gone, mother and daughter, sire and son; and the five generations of the old family sleep side by side in the church-yard.
A little farther up the hill, just under the shade of that stunted sycamore, rises the humbler grave-stone of 'Joseph Smith, a patriot in the revolution,' who is more familiarly remembered in town, however, as 'Serjeant Joe.' Mr. Smith was one of those persons whose characters are formed by the times in which they live; and as he lived in the war of the revolution, and then mostly by stealing provisions for his mess, the times may be said to have made him a thief. And yet how hard a name to give to Serjeant Joe, for a kinder heart than his never beat in any man's bosom. Indeed, his very pilfering propensities may be said to have arisen from an excess of sympathy for human wretchedness. For his own advantage he would have scorned to wrong a man of a single farthing; but for the poor or the suffering, his morals were not stern enough to resist the temptation. Indeed, he often said that he 'couldn't help it, when he know'd poor folks was suffering; and that they shouldn't suffer as long as he had any hands to provide for them!' And so it was. If the long winter had almost consumed the widow's fuel, the serjeant's hand-sled, piled with wood, helped marvellously to eke it out. If a sick child pined for a roasted apple, the serjeant's capacious pockets unloaded golden stores of russets and gilliflowers. Indeed, if poverty of any kind pinched neighbor or friend, the kind old serjeant was ever ready with relief; so that at last he began to be considered by both thrifty and needy as the almoner of the town's bounty, and his peccadilloes were regarded as the eccentricities only of a benevolent heart.
The serjeant's continuance in the army was for the whole duration of the war. At the very first exhibition of American courage which proved so fatal to the British troops in their excursion to Lexington and Concord, Serjeant Smith showed himself a skilful marksman. Learning from the rumor, which seemed to have spread that night with a speed almost miraculous, the destination of the detachment, he arose from his bed, equipped himself with cartridges and a famous rifle he had used at Lovell's fight at Fryeburgh, saddled his horse, and started for Lexington meeting-house. Meeting with a variety of hindrances, and twice escaping narrowly from some straggling parties of the red-coats, it was late when he arrived on the ground, and the troops were already on their rapid retreat toward Boston. Learning that the people were all abroad, lining the fences and woods to keep up the fire upon the enemy, he started in pursuit, and in the course of a few miles, on riding up a hill, he found the detachment just before him. Throwing the reins upon his horse and starting him to full speed, he rode within a close rifle shot, and fired at one of the leading officers. The officer fell; and the serjeant, retreating to a safe distance, loaded his rifle again, and again rode up and fired, with equal success. He pursued the same course a third time, when the leader of the retreating body ordered a platoon to fire upon him. It was unavailing, however; and a fourth, fifth, and sixth time, the old rifle had picked off its man, while its owner retreated in safety. 'D—n the man!' exclaimed the officer, 'give me a musket, and I'll see if he bears a charmed life, if he comes in sight again!' It was but a moment, and again the old white horse came over the brow of a hill. The officer fired, but in vain; and before the smoke of his charge had cleared away, he too had fallen before the unerring marksman, and was left behind by his flying troops. When the day had closed, the wounded were collected by the neighbors upon the road, and every kindness rendered to them. The officer was not dead, and on being laid upon a bed where his wounds could be examined, his first question, even under the apprehension of immediate death, was, 'Who was that old fellow on the white horse?'
By his side sleeps his brother soldier, Ensign Edward Ross, whose stories of 'flood and field' beguiled many a winter evening at the farmer's fireside. How well I remember those tales of 'Saratogue' with which the veteran used to surprise us, and my boyish wonder