Brooklyn Daily Eagle 29 May 1887

A FORLORN GRAVEYARD How Methodists Neglected the Historic Sands Street Ground. Old Boots, Garbage, Tomato Cans and Refuse Scattered About the Place Where Lie the Remains of the Rev. John SUMMERFIELD and Others. How many of the busy throng who daily travel to and from New York by way of the big bridge have any idea that behind the antique church which stands almost opposite the entrance to the structure is an old time graveyard? And of those who know of the existence of such a graveyard, what do they care? Beneath the sod, peacefully sleeping for nearly a hundred years, are the remains of many foremost citizens of Brooklyn. Sands street Methodist Church was among the first edifices erected in this city. The original church was built in 1794, and shortly after interments were made in the yard adjoining. Many old headstones are still standing, but it is with difficulty that the epitaphs upon them can be deciphered. To the antiquarian all that part of Sands street, and especially the church edifice and yard, are subjects for deep study. The very ground is historical. Here have taken place some of the most noted ecclesiastical revivals that have ever occurred in Brooklyn. Adjoining the church on High street stands the parsonage. Until recent years it was occupied by long lines of Methodist preachers of various attainments. It is now occupied by three or four families, and consequently is catalogued as a tenement house. I visited the churchyard one day last week, and after much difficulty gained an entrance by scaling the fence leading to High street. The neighbors in the vicinity have evidently thought the yard the proper receptacle for refuse. In one corner was seen a pair of old boots much the worse for wear, while another was occupied by garbage and tomato cans. It would appear that the janitor has little respect for the dead. Half filled ash barrels lean against ancient headstones, many of which are fast crumbling to dust. Within a dozen yards are two saloons. In one the click of the billiard balls are heard, while occasionally a callow youth will appear at one of the open windows and pass some idle test at the expense of the dead who lived their little lives many years before he was born. To the studious the scene is one for thought. To be sure there are hundreds of elder cemeteries in Brooklyn and on Long Island, but few which are situated in the midst of a never ceasing crowd. It was not in such a place that Grey's Elegy was written. The country churchyard is always quiet and serene. The robins build their nests in the deep foliage of the trees which overhang the graves, while a nicely trimmed hedge and possibly a few evergreens are to be seen. And then there are evidence about that some loving hand has recently visited the resting place of a dear one, perhaps a husband, a wife, or a mother. The birds sing gaily, for they have the free open air and know nothing of death. At dusk the tiny bell far up in the belfry tower calls the villagers to worship. Your country sexton, too, is unlike the church sexton of the city. He is old and knows and is known to every man, woman, and child for miles around. Unlike the first gravedigger in "Hamlet," he does not sing at his work, for the one for whom he is digging a grave may be a dear friend or a comrade. What a contrast the country graveyard is to a burial place in the heart of a great city. Deserted and forlorn the forgotten dead sleeps amidst an uproar and confusion. Sands street Church was erected when Brooklyn was but a village. The good burghers, members of the church, did not think that the then struggling hamlet would become the third city in the Union, and consequently built a place of worship in what was known at that time as down town. Military Garden, situated on the site where the Court House now stands, was fifty years ago, considered as being in the country. It can then be clearly seen that the original members of the church aren't responsible for the rude manner in which their remains and the remains of their friends have been treated by later generations. At all hours of the day and night, the sanctity of the graveyard is disturbed by the puffing and rumble of bridge engines and cars, and the constant noise of traffic in the streets. The horse cars merry jingle of the bells awake the stillness of the night, while occasionally the fire engine belonging to a company on High street, opposite the church, will, with a great deal of noise and bustle, be driven rapidly up the street. Often the sounds of revelry, loud oaths, and now and then noises attendant on a midnight broil will be wafted over into the churchyard where sleep so many of the early citizens of Brooklyn. On moonlight nights, a soft mellow light is shed upon the decaying marble slabs, the tomato cans, the old shoes and other refuse which are to be found in the yard. During the long Summer evenings the main members of surrounding sit on their back stoops, and, pipe in hand gaze stoically at the historical ground, neither knowing and perhaps not caring what manner of men were those who now occupy their allotted six feet of earth. "Thus runs the world away." The walls of the present edifice are moss grown with age, and the under work of the Sunday school is crumbling and sadly in need of repair. The church has, if fact, lost must of its former prestige. Like the marble slabs in the now neglected yard adjoining, it is old, and to the minds of the young and thoughtless the past goes for nothing, for is not there the glorious future? Imbedded deep in the earth are nearby headstones bearing indistinct epitaphs. It was more popular fifty years ago than now to inscribe on the stone of a deceased relative or friend his or her chief virtues. Nearly every stone contains some allusion to the deceased who lies beneath. On the day of my visit the sun shone brightly, the birds sang merrily and Nature was doing her level best to gladden the hearts of the living. To the worldling such a scene could not fail to have its effect. The neglected and forgotten dead, actors and actresses of a former age and stage, gave no sign that they appreciated the lonely and deplorable condition of things. Here is an inscription on a stone lying against the church wall : Sacred to the memory of the Rev. John SUMMERFIELD, A. M., age. 27 ; a preacher of the Methodist connection, born in England--born again in Ireland ; by the first a child of genius, by the second a child of God : called to Preach the gospel at the age of nineteen, in England, Ireland and America, himself the spiritual father of a Numerous and happy family. At this tomb genius, Eloquence and religion mingle their tears. Holy in Life, ardent in love and incessant in labor, he was to The church a pattern, to sinful man an angel of mercy, To the world a blessing. In him were rarely combined Gentleness and energy, by the one attracting universal Love, by the other diffusing happiness around him. Singular sweetness and simplicity of manners, inimit- able eloquence in the pulpit, natural graceful and for- Vent, rendered him the charm of the social circle and The idol of the popular assembly. Upon the lips that Moulder beneath this marble thousands hung in silent Wonder. His element was not the breath of fame, but the communion and favor of God. He closed a scene of Patient suffering, and slept in Jesus, in the City of New York, on the 13th of June, 1825. By faith he lived on Earth, in hope he died, by love he lives in heaven. In many respects Dr. Summerfield was a remarkable man. He was born in Devonshire, England, on April 12, 1770, and came to this country when quite young. His body reposed in the yard attached to the Sands street Church for many years, but in 1856 or thereabouts the remains were moved by friends. Dr. SUMMERFIELD was to his day what the late Mr. BEECHER was to his. A forcible speaker and a man of high intellectuality, he carried his audience with him. I find nothing to show that he was ever connected with the Sands street Church as its pastor. Reference is made to him in Dr. WARRINER'S history of the church and in STILES' Brooklyn. Here is the inscription on another stone: SACRED To the Memory Of John MOORE, Who died April 24, 1796. Aged 17 years, 7 months and 7 days. A white stone badly crumbled bears this inscription: SACRED To The Memory of John CORNELLSON, Who departed this life Nov. 2, 1810. Aged 75 years, 1 month, 11 months. Underneath the above is the following verse: 'Tis Finished, 'tis done, the spirit has fled, The prisoner is gone, the chained one is dead. The Christian is living through Jesus' love And gladly reigning a kingdom above." Still another as follow: SACRED To Anna BURT In the year 1854 Aged 23 years. A. E. B. M. M. B. Back to CEMETERY INDEX Back to CEMETERY INDEX Back to BROOKLYN Page Main