BY AN AMERICAN ANTIQUARY.

The old town of Ipswich, in the Bay State, exhibits many rare relics of antiquity. Purchased under the title of Agawam, in the early settlement of the colony, and granted in the year 1632 to twelve freeholders who made oath of their 'intention of settlement,' it dates back its origin among the very first townships of New-England. At that time, and for many years afterward, it was the northern frontier of Massachusetts, and was constantly exposed to the attacks of the tribes of Indians in its neighborhood. Though its population was composed mostly of tillers of the soil, the buildings, unlike all other farming towns of the commonwealth, were erected for common safety upon a single street; and even to this day its sturdy yeomanry live in town, though the farms they cultivate are many of them miles distant in the country.

The old street is still in existence, and we venture to say that it has not its parallel in all New-England. Antique domicils, exhibiting the English architectural style of the seventeenth century; sturdy block-houses, erected to defend the early settlers from the hostile incursions of the crafty foe; barns, shops, and crazy wood-sheds, leaning and trembling in extreme decrepitude; and chairs, tables, bureaus, bedsteads, and pictures, all relics of a former age, each one of which would be a gem in the cabinet of an antiquary, daily exposed for sale in the windows of the trucksters or on the counter of the auctioneer; are found in rich profusion through this old street of the Pilgrims. But better than all else is the church-yard, the original burial-place, with its green graves and gray headstones; its turf-sward running far up the hill to the tall elms and luxuriant evergreens that crown the summit; and its nameless hillocks, catching the evening sunlight as it falls in long lines athwart the green-slope, and reflecting it back upon the passer-by with peculiar brightness! I love those old grave-stones, half sunk in the church-yard mould; mid the rudely-carved cherubims with their swollen cheeks and distended wings, or the more frequent emblems of skull and cross-bones, are to my eye far more grateful and appropriate than the modern blazonry upon heavy shafts, on tall, slim marbles.

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

'Stood a-tiptoe when the day was waned,'

to hear the marvellous exploits he had himself performed at the 'taking of Burg'ine.' If you would believe him, the part he had acted brought distinguished honor to the American standard, wherever he chanced to have been, through the whole war; and I doubt if an engagement or skirmish could have been named in which he had not manfully battled for our freedom. He was none of your timorous story-tellers, ever distrusting your faith and doubting how far he should go; but a bold, hearty liar, plunging at once into the very depths of your credulity. Let the turf be piled high on the fire, the hearth be swept, the women-folks be seated on one side of the capacious fire-place, and the host with mug in hand turn round and say, 'Come, uncle Edward, it's dry work talking; take a drink of our old October, and let's have a story about the revolution;' and the old man would reel off such yarns as a veteran from Cape Cod might have envied. Methinks I see him now, his staff standing in the jam, and his gray eye lighting up with the fire of youthful days, as he recounted the feats of arms, in language as clear and copious as one of his own mountain streams. Light lie the turf upon thy ashes, old soldier, and green grow the grass over thy resting-place!

But passing over these, let us come to an enclosure that contains the grave of a father and his twin daughters, sleeping side by side in the church-yard. How quiet is the spot! How beautiful the resting-place of the last of their race! The daisies grow sweetly under the scented thorns that bend over the mounds, and the moss-rose buds, jewelled with dew-drops on summer mornings, are faint emblems of the loveliness of the maidens who rest beneath.

The father, a man high in his country's estimation, and whose name is associated with more than one of her victories upon the ocean, suffering from the effects of a wound received in the engagement of the Hornet, had retired from the navy after the declaration of peace, to reside on his paternal homestead, and superintend in person the education of his daughters. He had known sorrow; for the wife and mother had died and been buried among strangers in a distant land while he was absent upon service; and the children, the only descendants of his own or the maternal race, became more than ever the objects of his fondest idolatry. They had been carefully instructed during his absence; had grown in beauty of person and mind to the maturity of womanhood; and were in every way fitted to increase and bless the affection of the father. Though years have passed away, there are many who still remember the strong love that bound together the inmates of that retired mansion, and the elegance which seemed to attach itself to every thing about them.

To a finished education and a thorough knowledge of the world, Captain A—— added a strong mind, which threw an influence over every one with whom he associated. Upon his daughters, both partaking more of the yielding disposition of the mother than of the father's firmness, it was most manifest; and never in disposition, or mind, or daily duty, were children more moulded to a parent's will. With a love of nature, and a quick perception of the beautiful in all her varieties, they would wander through the wood-lands and pastures, collecting minerals and flowers to arrange and classify and study under his direction. Guided too by him, they would scour the hills for miles around, to trace out the ruined fortifications of the early settlers, or to discover relics of the aboriginal inhabitants; and then, seated on the grass beside him, listen to his teachings. It was a beautiful group, that father and daughters; and whenever you found them, at morning or evening, by hill or brook or sea-shore, they impressed you with a loveliness that seemed too fair for earth.

Thus passed away the winter and summer of a single year. Autumn came again, with its golden hues and soft sunlight days, bringing joy and contentment to the dwellers of Oak-grove. Winter approached, but with it came the symptoms of premature decay. What meant that hectic flush on the cheek of the taller maiden, and why the suppressed cough, and the shrinking and saddened spirit? The father, keenly alive to all that affected the only objects of his life, sought the skill of the ablest physicians, and by their advice determined to try the benefit of a warmer climate. Preparations were instantly made for the voyage; and scarcely a week had elapsed before they were embarked and far away toward the sunny South. There every thing was done which skill and the affection of loving hearts could do, to drive away the approach of the insidious malady. Rides, walks, parties of pleasure, games at home and amusements abroad, every device to exhilarate the mind and fortify the courage of the fair invalid, were tried, repeated, and failed; and on the opening of another summer, the father, broken-hearted and in despair, returned home to lay his loved one in the grave.

That long summer! who of that family can ever forget it? The assiduous attention of sister and parent to the dying one; the slow ride each morning to accustomed resort of brook or tree or hill-side; the room filled with melody or fragrant with flowers; the declining strength, cutting off one by one the enjoyments of the still beautiful sufferer; the hopes, alternately encouraged or depressed, even to the last; and sweeter, better than all, the soft tones of the sister or the manly voice of the father, subdued and often broken, reading page after page of God's Holy Word to the gentle listener, and in the firmness of Christian grace bidding her

and then the death-scene, too sacred to be unfolded to the eyes of strangers, but beautiful as is ever the exit of the believer; are all imprinted upon the hearts of those who witnessed them, never to be effaced.

The spirit of Captain A——, crushed by the heavy blow, clung more closely to the surviving daughter, and in her increased fondness seemed to find a support from utter wretchedness. Alas! that support was also doomed to fail him! The assiduous attention so long rendered to the deceased had proved too much; the same disease had fastened upon her; and ere a twelvemonth had elapsed, she too had sunk, quietly, gently, in the calmness of christian faith, into the same grave. Her parting words, 'I shall not leave you long behind, father!' seemed prophetic of the end; for a month had not gone when he too, borne on the arms of four of his fellow-officers, was laid beside his daughters.

That enclosure in the old burial-place is sacred to many hearts. I have seen the mother sitting beside it, and have heard her, holding the little hands of her child between her's, repeat the tale of sorrow, until it's blue eyes filled with tears at the sad recital. I have listened to the voice of the summer night-wind, as I hung over the rude paling; have watched the stars looking down with their tremulous beams upon the green graves; absorbed in the recollection of the beauty that was laid beneath; and might have listened and watched until they paled in the morning twilight, but for the deep, solemn sound of the old church-clock, warning me of the hour of midnight.