Cherokee phoenix. (New Echota [Ga.]) 1828-1829, October 08, 1828, Image 1

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Cherokee phoenix., October 08, 1828, Image 1

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Newspaper Page Text*>■ VOL. I. owy CHEROKEE JcfJJFCKa PHOENIX. SEW ECIIOTA, WEDNESDAY OCTOBER 8, 1828. r-.-. j—rMfr i.rr~rr-r. mt NO. 32. 4JDITED BY ELIAS BOUDINOTT. PRINTED WEEKLY I1Y ISAAC II. HARRIS, FOR THE CHEROKEE NATION. A.t 82 50 if paid in advance, $8 in si* •months, or $S 50 if paid at the end of the year. To^subscribers who can read only the Ctlrokec language the price will be 82,00 4a advance, or 82,50 to be paid within the year! Every .subscription will be considered as continued unless subscribers give notice to the contrary before the commencement ofn Ocw year. Any person procuring six subscribers, and becoming responsible for the payment, shall receive a seventh gratis. . Advertisements will be inserted at seven- ’ty-five cents per square for the first inser tion, and thirty-seven and a half cents for each continuance; longer ones in propor tion. SCF’All letters addressed to the Editor, post paid, will receive due attention. owy AD TiSiJF.Ci.OJr. TAAtf” JIufBAJC I'-4oiUC. b©jie aiiu.-ijjey ktji d^p ‘o°0jb.i tctz TEjaO“T > nejAoepJSJ. tTCTZ VBP ToSC-A TB D0J>?>o»P'o*Jt, KT *>^■<1 O’OJB-I D?U»S>«!EZ tb y*v »0J» 1 5k*Ii'o?U, oyALT D^P O°0JB»I P4o?A. awyz &>c,R M\&K*ay, vrr*r cyoJBa zv4i^a v , *-iBr», tctz tEiWot’ do* ktjiz d^p y\v «b cpsanA - YMK DOJ/SSDP'c^.I. AGENTS FOR THE CHEROKEE PHCENIX. The following'persons are authorized to Receive subscriptions and payments for the Gherokee Phoenix. Henrt Him., Esq. Treasurer of the A. ,B. C. F. M. Boston, Mass. George M. Tract, Agent of the A. B. C. F. M. New York.. Rev. A- D. Eddy, Canandaigua, N. Y. Thomas Hastings, Utica, N. Y. JPollard &l Converse, Richmond, Va. Rev. James Campbell, Beaufort, S. C. William Moultrie Reid, Charleston, •*. c. Col Georgf, Smith, Statesville, W. T. William M. Combs, Nashville Ten. Rev. Bennet Roberts—Powal Me. Mr. Thos. R. Gold, (un itinerant Gen tleman.) Jeremiah Austii,, Mobile Ala. THE SEXTON OF COLOGNE. In the year 1571 there lived at Co logne a rich burgomaster, whose wife, Adelaide, then in the prime of her youth and beauty, fell sick and tiled. They had lived very happily together, and, throughout her fatal illness, the doating husbaud scarcely quitted her bedside for an instant. During the latter period of,her sickness, she did not Buffer greatly; but the fainting fits grew more and more frequent and. of increasing duration, till at length they became incessant, aud she finally sunk under them. It is well known that the Cologne is a city which, as far as respects reli gion, may compare itself with Rome; on which account it was called, even in the middle ages, Roma Germanica, and sometimes the Sacred City. It seemed as if, in after-times, it wished to compensate by piety the misfortune •f having the birth-place of the abom inable Agrippipa. v For many years nothing else was seen but priests, stu dents, and mendicant monks; while the bells were ringing and tolling from norning till night. Even now you may count in it as many churches and <»loisters as the year has days. , The principal church is the cathe dral of St. Peter, one of the hand somest building in all Germany, though still not so complete as it was proba bly iutended by the architect. The •hoir alone is arched. The chief al tar is a single block of black marble, brought along the Rhine to Cologne, from Namur upon the Maas. In the aacistry an ivory rod is shown, sard to have belonged to the apostle Petfer; and in a chapel stands a gilded coffin, with the names of the holy Three Kings inscribed. Their skulls are vis ible through the opening, two being white, as belonging to Casper and Bel- lesar; the third black, for Melchoir.- ^ is easy te be understood that these remarkable relicks, rendered sacred by time, make a deep impression on the imagination of the Catholics; and that the three skulls with their jewels and silver setting, are convincing proofs of genuineness to religious feel ings, though a glance at history is suf ficient to show their spuriousness. It was in this church that Adelaide was buried with great splendor. In the spirit of that age, which had more feeling for the solid than real taste, more devotion and confidence than un believing fear, she was dressed as a bride in flowered silk, a motely gar land upon her head, and her pale fin gers covered with costly rings; in which state she was conveyed to the vault of a little chapel, directly un der the choir, in a coffin with glass windows. Many of her forefathers tvere already resting here, all em balmed and with their mummy forms, offering a strange contrast to the sil ver and gold with which they were decorated, and teaching, in a pecu liar fashion, the difference between the perishable and the imperial able The custom of embalming was, in the present instance, given up; the place was full; and when Adelaide was bu ried, it was settled that no one else should he laid there for the future. With heavy heart had Adolph fol lowed his wife to her final resting- place. The turret-bells of two hun dred and twenty hundred weight, lift ed up tbeir deep voices, and spread the sounds of mourning through the wide city; while the monks, carrying tapers, and scattering incense, sang requiems from their huge vellum fo lios, which were spread upon the mu sic desks in the choir. But the ser vice was now over; the dead lay a- lone with the dead; the immense clock, which is only wound up once a year, and shows the course of the planets, as well as the hours of the day, was the only thing that bad sound or motion in the whole cathedral. Its monotonous ticking seemed to mock the silent grave. It was a stormy November evening, when Petier Bolt-, the sexton of St. Peter’s, was returning home after this splendid funeral. The poor man, who had been marvied four years, had one child, a daughter, which his \Vife brought him in the second year of their marriage, and was again expect ing her confinement. It was, there fore, with a heavy heart, that he had left the church for his cottage, which lay damp and « old on the banks of a river, and which, at this dull season, looked more gloomy than ever. At the door he was met by the little Ma ria, who called out with great delight, “you must not go up, stairs, father; the stork has been here, and brought Maria a little brother!” a piece of information more expected than a- greeable, and which was soon after confirmed by the appearance of his sister-in-law, with a healthy infant in her arms. His wi'e, however, had suffered much and was .n a state that required assistance far beyond his means to supply. In this distress he bethought himself of the Jew, Isaac, who lately advanced him a trifle on his old watch; but now unfortunately, he had nothing more to pledge, and was forced to ground all his hopes on the Jew’s compassion—a very unsafe an chorage. With doubtful steps he sought the house of the miser, and told him his tale amidst tears and sighs; to all of which Isaac listened with great patience—so much so, indeed, that Bolt began to flatter himself with a favorable answer to his petition.— But he was disappointed; the Jew, having heard him out, coolly replied, “that he could lend no monies on a child—it was no good pledge.” With bitter execrations on the u- surer’s hard-heartedness, poor Bolt rushed from bis door; when, to aggra vate his situation, the first snow of the season began to fall, and that so thick and fast, that, in a very short time, the hoyse tops presented a single field of white# Immersed in his grief; he missed his way across the market place, and, when he least expected such a thing, found himself in the front of the cathedral. Tie great clock chimed three-quarters; it wanted then a quarter of twelve. Where was he to look for assistance »t such an hour, or, at any hour? He had already ap plied to the rich prelates, and got from them all that their charity was likely to give. Suddenly a thought struck him like lightning; he saw his little Maria crying for food he could not give her, his sick wife, lying in bed, with the infant on her exhausted bosom; and then Adelaide, in her splendid coffin, and her hand glittering with jewels that it could nut grasp.— “Of what use are diamonds to her now? said he to himself. “Is there any sin in robbing the dead to give to the living for myself if I were starv ing; no, Heaven forbid? But for my wife and child—-ah that’s quite anoth er matter. Quieting his conscience, as well as be could, with bis opiate, he hurried home to get the necessary imple ments; but, by the time he reached his own door, his resolution began to Waver. The sight, however, of his wife’s distress wrought him up again to the stinking-place; and having pro vided himself with a dark lantern, the church keys, and a claw to break o- pen the coffin, he set out for the ca thedral. On the way, all seemed to shake from under him, it was the tot tering of his own limbs; a figure seem ed to sign him back, it was the shade thrown from some column, that waved ♦ o and fro as the lamp-light flickered in the night wind. But still the tho’t of home drove him on; and even the badness of the weather carried away his consolation with it, he was the more likely to find the streets clear, and escape detection. He had now reached the cathedral. For a moment he paused on the steps, and then taking heart, put the huge key into the lock. To bis fancy, it had never opened with such readiness before. The bolt shot back at the light touch of the key, and he stood alone in the church, trembling from head to foot. Still it was requisite to close the door behind him,- lest its being open it should be seen by any one passing by, and give rise to suspi cion; and, as ho did so, the story came across his mind of the man who bad visited a church at midnight to show bis courage. For a sign that be had really been there, he was to stick his knife into a coffin; but, in his hurry and trepidation, he struck it through the skirt of his coat without being aware of it, and, supposing himself held back by some supernatural agency, dropt down dead from terror. Full of these unpleasant recollec tions, he tottered up the nave; and, as the light successively flashed upon the sculptused marbles, it seemed to him as if the pale figures frowned ominous ly upon him. But desperation sup plied the place of courage. He kept on his way to the choir, descended the steps, passed through the long, narrow passage, with the dead heap ed up on either side, opened Adel aide’s chapel, and stood at once be fore her coffin. There she lay, stiff and pale, the wreath in hair, and the jewels on her fingers, gleaming strangely in the dim light of the lan tern. He even fancied that he al ready smelt the pestilential breath of decay, though it was full early for corruption to have begun its work.— A sickness seized him at the thought; and he leaned for support against one of the columns, with his eyes fixed on the coffin; when—was it real, or was it illusion? a change came over the face of the dead! He started back; and that change, so indiscrible, had passed away in an instant, leaving a darker shadow on the features. “If I had only time,” he said to him self, “If I had only time, I would ra ther break open one of the other cof fins, and leave the lady Adelaide in quiet; Age baa destroyed all that h human in these mummies; they have lost resemblance to life, which makes the dead so terrible, and I should no more mind handling them than so ma ny dry boges. It’s all noncsense, though; one is as harmless as the oth er, and since the lady Adelaide’s house is the easiest for my work, I must e’en set about it.” But the coffin did not offer the fa cilities he reckoned upon so much certainty. The glass-windows were secured inwardly with iron wire, lea ving no space for the admission of the : hand, so that he found himself obliged to break the lid to pieces, a task that, with his imperfect implements, cost time and labor. As the wood splint ered and cracked under the heavy blows of the iron, the cold perspira tion poured in streams down his face, the sound assuring him more than all the rest that he was committing sacri lege. Before, it was only the place, with its dark associations, that had terrified him; now he began to be a- fraid ol himself, and would without doubt, have given up the business al together, if the lid had not suddenly flown to pieces. Alarmed at his very success, he started round, as if ex pecting to see some one behind watch ing his sacrilege, and ready to clutch him; and so strong had been the illu sion, that when he found that this was not the case,' he fell upon his knees before the coffin, exclaiming, “for give me, dear lady if I take from you what is of no use to yourself, while a single diamond will make a poor fami ly so happy. It is not for myself— Oh, no! it is for my wife and children. He thought the dead looked more kindly at him as he spoke thus, and certainly the livid shadow had passed away from her face. Without more delay, he raised the cold hand to draw the rings from its finger; but what was his horror when the dead returned his grasp! his hand was clutched, aye firmly clutched, though that rigid face and form lay there as fixed and mo tionless as ever. With a cry of hor ror he burst away, not retaining so much presence of mind as to think of the light, which he left burning by the coffin. This, however, was of little consequence; fear can find its way in the dark, and he rushed through the vaulted passage, up to the steps, through the choir, and would have found his way out, had he not in his reckless hurry, forgotten the stone, called the DeviVs Stone, which lies in the middle of ihe church,' and which, according to the legend, was cast there by the Devil. Thus much is certain, it has fallen from the arch, and they show a hole above, through which it is said to have been hurled. Against this stone the unlucky sex ton stumbled, just as the turret-clock struck twelve, and immediately he fell to the earth in a deathlike 9woon. The cold, however, soon brought him to himself, and on recovering his sens es he again fled, winged by terrour, and fully convinced that he had no hope of escaping the vengeance of the dead, except by the confession of his crime, and gaining the forgiveness of her fami ly. With this view he hurried across the market-place to the burgomaster’s house, where he had to knock long be fore he could attract any notice. The whole house-hold lay in a profound sleep, with the exception of the un happy Adolph, who was now sitting a- lone on the same sofa where he had so often sat with his Adelaide. Her pic ture hung on the wall opposite to him, though it might rather be said to feed his grief than to afford him any conso lation. And yet, as most would do under such circumstances, he dwelt upon it the more intently even from the pain it gave him, and it was not till the sexton had knocked repeatedly that he awoke from his melancholy dreams. Roused at last, he opened the window, and inquired what it was that disturbed him at such an unsea sonable hour? “It is only I, Mr. Bur gomaster,” was the answer. “And who are yxm?” aga’us asked Adolph. “Bolt, the sexton of St. Peter’s, Mr- Burgomaster; I have a thing of too utmost importance to discover to you.” Naturally associating the idea ot Ade laide with the sexton of the church where she was buried, Adolph was immediately anxious to know some thing more of the matter, and, taking up a wax-light, he hastened dowa stairs, and himself opened the door to Bolt. “What have you to say to me?” he exclaimed. “Not here Mr. Burgo master,” replied the anxious sexton; “not here; we may be overheard.” Adolph, though wondering at this affectation of mystery, motioned him in and closed the door; when Bolt, throwing himself at his feet, confess ed all that had happened. The anger of Adolph waa mixed with compassion at the strange recital; nor could he refuse to Bolt the absolution which the poor fellow deemed so essential to his future security from the venge ance of the dead. At the same time he cautioned him to maintain a pro found silence on the subject towards every one else, as otherwise the sac rilege might be attended with serious consequences—it not being likely t> at the ecelesiasticks, to whom the judg ment of such matters belonged, would vi«v his fault with equal indulgence. He even resolved to go himself to the church with Bolt, that he might inves tigate the affair more thoroughly. But to this proposition the sexton gave a prompt and positive denial. “I would rather,” he exclaimed, “I would rather bo dragged to the scaf fold than again disturb the repose of the dead.” This declaration, so ill- timed, confounded Adolph. On the one hand, he felt an undefined curiosi ty to look more narrowly into this mys terious business; on the other he could not help feeling compassion for the sexton, who, it was evident, was la bouring under the influence of a delu sion which he was utterly unable to subdue. The poor fellow trembled over, as if shaken by an ague fit, and painted the situation of his wife and his pressing poverty with such a pale face and such despair in his eyes, that he might himself have passed for a church-yard spectre. The burgomas ter again admonished him to be silent for fear of the consequences, and, giv ing him a couple of dollars to relieve his immediate wants, sent him home to his wife and family. Being thus deprived of his most natural ally on this occasion, Adolph summoned an old and confidential ser vant, of whose secrecy he could have no doubt. To his question of“DoyoQ fear the dead?” Hans stoutly replied, “They are not half so dangerous as the living.” “Indeed!” said the burgomaster.— “Do you think, then, that you have courage enough to go into the church at night?” “In the way of my duty, yes,” replied Hans; “not otherwise. It is not right to trifle with holy mat ters.” “Do you believe in ghosts, Hans?*’ continued Adolph. “Yes, Mr. Bur gomaster.” “Do you fear them?” “No, Mr. Burgomaster. I jiold by God, and lie holds me up; and God is the strong est.” “Will you go with me to the cathe dral, Hans? I have had a strange dream to-night: it seemed to me ns if my deceased wife called to me from the steeple-window.” “I see how it is,” answered Hans: “the sex ton has been with you, and put this whim into your head, Mr. Burgomas ter. These grave-diggers are alwayv seeing ghosts. ’ “Put a light into your lantern,” said Adolph, avoiding a direct reply to this observation of the old man. “Be si lent and follow nie.” “If you bid me,” said Hans, “I must of course, obey; for you are my magistrate as well u my master.” Herewith he lit the candle in thp lantern, and followed his jnaBter out further BpposiCioA A.: