Pittsburg dispatch. [volume] (Pittsburg [Pa.]) 1880-1923, 1890-01-13
PICTURES OF IhE PAST.
A Visit TO No Mans Land In the Heart Of
Pittaburg and abe Visions It Calls Up
Trinity Churchyard TOmbs-A Pilgrims


But yesterday in Pittsburgs crowded streets
there was one who went forth upon pilgrim
age. Neither cookie hat nor staff of sturdy
oak did he carry; no patriarchal beard fell
over his rugged bosom no sandal graced his
way-worn feet. And yet upon pilgrimage
was he bound, and a pilgrimage. too. to mo
Mans Land" Who can tell where ''No Mans
Land" lies Not in Kissing, halnmering Pitts
burg of surety. Not amid the roar Of the
engine and the ceaseIess tramp of feet. It is
impossible, so say you, my friends, one and all /;
and SO saying. one and all, you are wrong
mo Mans Land" is in Pittsburg-one No
Mans Land, at least. It lies in the heart of
the great city-where you pass upon your busi-
ness or your pleasure day by day, and week by
week, and year by year.
There is No Mans Land in your very midst;
and you. too. I make no doubt, have often been
pilgrim thither.
To this land was my pilgrim bound when 1
met him in the crowds Of Fifth avenue, and
his journey was neither very difficult nor very
long. He came to the great iron gates and
passed up the granite steps, while high over his
head lowered old Trinity Church, and around
on every side lofty buildings looked down on
! the little patch Of sward toward which he was
Fastening.
| THE reader has discovered No Mans Landi
1t lies between Trinity and the First Pres
byterian Churches. and 1t is nothing more than
an old graveyard.
A stretch Of level green, bounded by sad
hued walls; encroaching far in this direction,
abruptly curtailed in that A few trees grow
ing here and there some old, some young all
bare and leahess all funereal looking in the
dull winter light, Fallen leaves scattered
avarvuvh ora. nuap the vnan,or;aI ofnoao obn,,t
the short grass at the feet of the trees. All
around windows staring down upon the small
inclosure, which had refused to be citifed.
Such was this No Mans Land to the eyes of the
pilgrim, when first he turned aside into its soli-
tude.
No, not solitude! There was sparrow sitting
on an upright tomb near the small chapel, and
twittering pleasantly. Itisa favorite sojourn-
ing place Of the sparrow tribe this green oasis
in desert of paVements. Is it the grass they
love; or do they come hither to brood over their
sins-their Innumerable tnefts-their many
other shortcomings7
This sparrow sat very composedlY above the
Ormsby tombs and presently hoped down
upon the pioneers tombstone and whispered a
little there before it few away. To the old
tomb stepped the pilgrim. Half hidden in
blown leaves it is the first of seven such tombs;
seven brother fagstones, some broken across,
some chipped and cracked, some almost wholly
defaced by time and thoughtless feet. Under
the first, we are told. lies the bones of John
Ormsby and Jane, his wife, of whom John died
in 1906, aged IS, and Jane in 1873, aged %. No
tinsel panegyric covers the tombstone Of this
worthy couple. Simple and straightforward is
the history given of old Johns life. 1t reads:
He migrated to Fort Du Quesne about the time
hiatt fHo ffah Nnok al
time he was Oommissary Of Provisions and Pay
master Of DISBURSEMENTS (sic) for the erection of
Fort Pitt. Subsequently he entered laudably into
the Indian trade, and in the year 1853 was plumb
cred of all his property, his people murdered and
himself shut up in Fort Pitt during the siege.
WHAT field for the novelist, the lives Of
= this old citizen, and his family opens upl
The long, low room, with its walls roughly
plastered; the broad table, sparkling with
glasses, and set around with the jovial red faces
of the British officers and their friends. Here
sits Commissary John Ormsby, smiling merrfly.
Then comes the flask that Mynheer Van Dunck
brought all the way from Holland; and the
company chuckle as the generous liquor gushes
from its stone prison, to mingle with the other
ingredients of the mighty brew. Then every
body rises to his feet. while THE King-GOd |
bless himr' is toasted with enthusiasm, and |
cQ6eTeQ Ie-eCnO
sounds Perchance, up in the woods along |
Mount Washington, the lurking savages hear |
those shouts, and peer down upon the little
settlement to see what the white man is about
But stayI Is all this fine picture devolved
from simple, unpretentious grave in the silent
Goods Acre" by Trinity Church? How know
we whether John Ormsby was such a man as
this? How know we that the little garrison of |
Fort Pitt thus reveled in the olden time? Well,
one'of that garrison was Captain John Blanch-
vile, and he left diary behind him, which the
writer has seen. He was an Irishman. and he
chronicles those old days with good deal of
raciness. In these memoirs John 0rmsby not
unfrequently crops up, and the Captain de-
clares that John was "a good fellow and
could drink his Is tumblers-moreover. a very
pleasant man, and full of jest" From which
it would seem that our picture was no unlikely
one.
&c A LAS, poor Yorickp' Alas, poor John
Ormsbyl This. fellow of infinite JEST
lies under sod and stone, very far away from
the last resting place of his friend, the Cap
tain. Captain BlanchYille sleeps on a green
hillside, under a ruined church tower, in a GER
tain fair spot Of his native Ireland. His
quondam boon companion is buried in the
shade of Trinity Church, not so many stone
CASTS from the spot where he once drank ''his
16 tumblers."
Johns son Oliver, a prominent citizen Of
early Pittsburg, and many of his relatives, lie
buried beside the patriarch of Western Penn
sylvania."
A little to the east another pioneer lies-an
earlier pioneer, perhaps, than even John
0rmsby. for Patrick Murphy, of Pittsburg,"
died in 1877. ''at an advanced age"
I'd Iira ~ ,Iz
the bones of several families. Under the first
two are buried John Wrenshall and Anne, his
wife. Mr.. Wrenshall was, if 1 mistake not, a
noted Methodist preacher in his time, and
hailed from Yorkshire. He probably came
subsequent to the gay times down at the Fort,
when the settlement had become more sedate.
BETWEEN the two old hagstones of the Reed
and Montooth families in the direction of
Sixth avenue, young chestnut tree has
sDrouted This new life rising from the tomb
has broken the prisoning stones across, and
forced its way out into the light and the sun
shine. What pity it is to see these old tombs
20 badly keptl The decayed leaves have covered
them, layer upon layer. and it il almost impos-
;ible to decipher the histories of the dead en-
craven upon their unswept surfaces. Young
trees are growing everywhere. In the summer
his old churchyard is a pleasant place, and
children and Dlrds are 1ond otllngerlng beneath
,he bending branches. When the milk-white
blossoms are out upon the chestnut trees and
The green mantle is cast over the naked boughs,
hen the old graveyard becomes quite another
,lace, and even the walls Of the surrounding
become gay with dancing sunbeams.
,
THERE is tomb in the graveyard which al
ways makes one sad. It is simple, and the
,pitaph short enough, for this is all 1t tells:
EMELIA.
Touch not this little monnd of earth.
Beneath 1t lies grain of immortality.
Who was Emelia? Was she dearly loved
laughter. or sister, or wife? Many know, no
Ioubt, but know not. Yet that tombstone
ouches the heart, and impresses itself upon
he mind. and we cannot help painting Amelia {
s each one imagines her to have been, in her I
appy or sorrowful life. Brennan t