The Old City Cemetery
Recollections of a Former Houstonian Who Lived Here When the Burying Ground was Being Filled

To the Editor:

Grand Central Depot, Houston, November 15 - Having  missed my train this morning  and being forced to remain here until 10:30 o'clock.  I took advantage of the situation awhile ago and strolled over to the old city cemetery and its surroundings - scenes I have not visited since 1873.  Thirty four years make vast changes in a "live one's" case, but after my visit I am convinced that the changes that take place in the care of the dead are much greater.  Thirty-four years ago, when I last saw the old place, it had begun to put on age and had fallen into decay.  The fences were down here and there and all gave evidence of neglect.  There were fences, however, and hundreds and hundreds of graves which were plainly distinguished as such.  Now all that is changed.  The grass has long since been trampled level and but for two spots there is no evidence of the fact that hundreds upon hundreds of old Houstonians lie buried there.  Near the south fence is an enclosure containing the bodies of three members of an old Houston family.  These three graves are well cared for and each has neat head and foot stones giving dates of birth and death.  Near the center of the yard is an overgrown marble shaft which was placed over some buried fifty-three years ago.  But for these one would never know that the place had ever been used for any other purpose than a thoroughfare, as it is used today.

As I sat on a fallen tree and looked about my memories of the past came crowding thick and fast.  It was here I witnessed my first military funeral.  I am not certain, but I think it was in 1856.   A young man who was a member of the Washington Light Guards, a crack military company of that day (afterwards famous as the Bayou City Guards, or company A, Fifth Texas regiment, Hood's Brigade) had died and the company gave him a military burial.    I can close my eyes now and see the company with their old fashioned flint-lock muskets as they fired the volleys over the grave.  During the war I thought often of that young man who was buried that day and congratulated him on his good luck in beating so many of the company to the graveyard without having to share all their sufferings and hardships on the way.

The next military funeral I attended was far more imposing, and not half so impressive - at least, not with me.  There were infantry, cavalry and artillery fully 5,000 troops present for it was the funeral of a cavalry colonel, who had died for the South - one of the first.  It was a grand spectacle, but I remember no detail of it, and I can remember every detail of the first one, from the solemn commands of Captain Edwards "Make ready, aim, fire"  to the lively tune the fife and drum set up as the company cleared the gate and marched over the grassy hill where the Central depot now stands.

Right out in front to the east of the graveyard among the pine trees was a lone grave long ago.  There was a pine board at the head but with no name.  Nobody knew what name to put there.  It was the grave of a suicide - some poor fellow who had gone down in a deep gully that ran between the graveyard and where the depot now stands and had blown his brains out with an old fashioned single-barrel pistol.  We, in those days, had rather Puritan ideas and the suicide was denied burial in a Christian grave and placed away off by himself.  How he must laugh now when he sees the condition of the more fortunate ones who were given Christian burials half a century ago and who are now brought down to his level by modern progress which begrudges the sainted dead the little four by six feet of earth loving relatives gave them.

I remember that board at the head of the suicide grave, whith three pistol shots through it, planted there by some chap who found it an excellent, ready-made target.  I remember that grave above all others, for it was a bugaboo for us boys when we would go fishing up White Oak bayou and have to pass it when nearly dark on our way home.  Somehow we were not so afraid of the "ghosts" in the grave yard, but we were dreadfully afraid of that lone grave.  We would all get closer and closer together as we approached it and when we got nearly past some one would raise the cry, "There he is" and then would ensue a great stampede and hot-foot race which ended only after the gully, where the suicide had taken place, was passed and we were safe on the other side.  That took place nearly every Saturday evening, for though we realized what agony was in store for us we could never guit fishing so long as the "Goggle eyes" and "Perch" bit and they bit well in those days.

While in the graveyard awhile ago I tried to find the spot on the northwest side where old man Pannel for so many years city sexton, buried so many Yankees in 1867 during the great yellow fever epidemc.  The Federal army of occupation was made up of Northern troops, who had never been exposed to yellow fever and as a consequence they died like sheep.  Strange to say the negroes died not quite as rapidly as the whites, and old man Pannel who was an uncompromising "rebel" kicked a bit on burying negro soldiers.  The result was that a guard was sent for him and the following interview took place between him and the general in command; "Mr. Pannel" said the general, "why do you object to burying some of my soldiers is it true?"

"General", said Mr. Pannel, "That is a damned lie; whoever told you that lies, for I tell you it is the greatest pleasure of my life and I would like to bury every damned one of you."

The result was that "old man" Pannel as every one used to call him went to jail for three weeks and someone took his place as grand burial master.

I looked for this place and found it, but the bones are gone and all traces of graves are obilterated.  The last time I was in the graveyard there was a detail of soldiers removing the bodies to be shipped to some National cemetery, and right here I want to say that when Gabriel blows his horn there is going to be awful confusion around the National Cemetery.