Marble, Myths & Mourning

Grim Mourning and welcome to The Grim. I'm your host Kristin. On today's episode will be opening the gate entering Green Mount Cemetery located in Montpelier, Vermont. So grab your favorite mug, cozy up, and let's take a dig in history. An estate were known for its natural beauty, mountain resorts and charming small towns bustling with fall tourists. Montpelier, Vermont, welcomes its fair share of visitors to its picturesque New England scenery is not only sweetened by its famous maple syrup, but also complemented by its stunning cemeteries. With a town nestled into the mountains and church steeples punctuating its skyline, the tourist appeal is undeniable. For those with an appreciation for historic burial grounds, Vermont offers everything a Tafa file could desire. Greenmount Cemetery, with its striking Vermont marble entrance, leaves a lasting impression on all those who passed through its gates. Established in the fall of 1855, Greenmount Cemetery embodies the 19th century world garden style. A popular design of its time spanning 35 acres. It features remarkable gravestone art and offers a serene, contemplative atmosphere as the city's first park. Like burial ground. Greenmount followed the trend of cemeteries doubling as a landscaped public space. Many earlier burials in town were originally located on Elm Street and then later reinterred within its grounds. After the cemeteries establishment, the main gate of Greenmount Cemetery, though striking, is not original to the grounds. It was bequeathed by Montpelier scion John Hubbard in 1904 to 1905. His contributions didn't stop there, though. He also commissioned a gothic style chapel constructed from the same Vermont marble designed to accommodate up to 60 guests. The chapel served as a practical purpose during Vermont's harsh winters, as its vaults were used to store bodies until the ground thawed in the spring, allowing burials to resume. The cemetery itself is a tranquil retreat with two and a half miles of winding roads, towering trees and lush shrubs, making it an ideal place for a reflective afternoon walk. Among the cemetery's most captivating features is his distinctive gravestone art. With many headstones custom designed to reflect the lives of those they commemorate. One particularly unique monument is a hand-carved stone staircase, a bearing to send into the air. The striking piece was created in 1897 for William Stone, well, a manager of Montpelier and Wells River Railway, carved from a single slab of blue gray stone. The staircase was meticulously shaped by Civil War veteran Charles B Bailey, who used only a hammer and chisel the knowledge that each step was painstakingly crafted by hand as an extra layer of intrigue above the memorial for visitors. Like many historic cemeteries, Greenmount is also home to its fair share of dramatic stories. One such tale surrounds the statue of Margaret Pitkin, known as the Little Margaret. Parker was the only child to the prominent Pitkin family owners, Amanpour's lean shops. She was described as a bright and winsome little girl, beloved by everyone in town. Like many children of her day, her life was cut short due to meningitis in 1899, Commissioned by her family and sculpted by local artist Henry J. Bertoli. The memorial was meant to depict Margaret in a lifelike manner based on her photograph provided by her relatives. Only meticulously recreated every detail down to the exact arrangement of her clothing. However, when the statue was unveiled, the family was outraged to discover that one button was missing from Margaret's boot. They had initially refused to pay for the piece, only to realize that the missing button was in fact present and the original photographed. Bertoli had followed their instructions to the letter, ensuring that even the smallest imperfection was faithfully reproduced. In the end, the Pitkin family paid for the memorial, and to this day, visitors can still see the missing button on Little Margaret's shoe. A small but poignant detail in Greenmount Cemetery is rich history. Greenmount also has a dedicated children's lot within. This is for the remains of infants and young children who died tragically young. This law was free for families who unexpectedly lost children and were unable to provide adequate burials due to lack of funds or were unprepared. The lot shows visitors in the present how perilous life fragile. Even in the late 1890 as life still were. The most infamous memorial in Greenmount Cemetery, though, belongs to John Hubbard, a man whose name is etched into Montclair's history not just in stone, but in scandal. At first glance, he appears to be a generous benefactor, a man who gave back to the very town though that turned against him. But beneath the surface, his story is one of betrayal, greed and an eerie attempt to control his own legacy beyond the grave. Among the quiet rows of headstones, his monument stands apart, a bronze figure seated with its head throwback body wrapped in a billowing shroud. The expression is haunting, the posture, unsettling. It's as if the figure is caught between worlds neither fully at rest nor entirely alive. Visitors who stumble upon it have a feeling of unease creeping over them. Who was this man and why does his memorial feel so wrong? Etched into the stone is a name that lingers and month here. Mom, player Hubbard Park, the Kellogg Hubbard Library. But the man behind it spent his final years not as a revered philanthropist, but as a pariah. John Veracious Hubbard was once a respected businessman, but in the 1890s, his name became tainted with controversy. This all began with his aunt Franny Kellogg in 1990, she died, leaving a vast fortune to Montclair funds meant for a public library and a cemetery chapel. But Hubbard, expecting to inherit, had other plans contesting her will. To the people in Montclair, they felt this was unforgivable. A mark against his respectability. The town turned against him, branding him as selfish and greedy. He fought for years, dragging the legal battle through the courts, clinging to his claim on his aunt's wealth. Though a compromise was reached, Hubbard agreed to fund the library while keeping the rest. His reputation was irreparably damaged. But here's where the story takes an interesting turn. And one of the people of Montclair didn't see coming. Hubbard died in 1899, just before his 52nd birthday. The town discovered something unexpected in his own will. He left Montclair everything. His aunt had intended the money for the library, plan for the park, and even the funds for the cemetery chapel. And in his final act of self-importance, he allocated $10,000 for his own monument, a desperate attempt to reshape how he would be remembered. The monument, sculpted by Austrian sculptor Karl Bitar, remains one of the most unsettling in the cemetery. The figure's closed eyes parted lips and flowing drapery, making it feel almost alive. not a comforting memorial. It's an enigma, a reminder of a man who refused to be forgotten. Carved into the stone is a passage from William Cohen. Bryant's thin octopus logo. Not like the quarry slave at night, scorched to his dungeon, but sustained and smooth by an unfaltering trust. Words that speak of dignity in death. But for Hubbard, there's an irony in the inscription. Did he die truly at peace? Or was it just another way to manipulate his story? the end, Hubbard got his wish. His name is still spoken in Montpelier. His contribution still shaped the city, but his memorial, cloaked in shadow and secrecy, ensures this legacy is never quite at rest. Those who visit Greenmount Cemetery may find themselves staring at the memorial, feeling the weight of his story and wondering, did John Hubbard ever escape the judgment of a town he so desperately wanted to win over? Or does he still linger, caught between guilt and redemption? Watching as the living passing by the statue known as Black Agnes carries its own eerie legends. Sculptor Karl Bitar, immensely proud of his creation. The Deity of Death, first showcased it at the 1904 World's Fair in St Louis before it found its permanent home in Greenmount Cemetery. Locals gave the statue its ominous nickname due to the dark hue of the stone, but its reputation goes beyond mere. But parents whispers warn of those who dare sit in her lap inviting a streak of misfortune isn't a lingering echo of Hopper's own ill fated life marked by scandal and betrayal, or an unsettling aura of a statue itself, enough to stir the unease in those who linger too long around it. Either way, Black Agnes remains a chilling presence among the graves, a silent guardian of Montclair's most infamous soul and one of its most famous reasons to visit. The Greenmount Cemetery is reserved for human burials. One memorial stands out a tribute to a beloved canine companion at the foot of Fred Stephens grave lies not just his own marker, but that of his loyal dog, Ned. A Civil War hero, Stephens rests alongside his wife, Mary, and their cherished pup. Rumor has it that Mary, a devoted women's suffragist, once declared that she thought more of that dog than she did of anyone in Montpelier, a sentiment many millennials might find relatable today. statue of Ned, a touching tribute to an unwavering loyal canine, remains a favorite among visitors. down, the winding paths, another grave demands attention. The final resting place of Frederick Deeter. Little is known about Deeter himself, but his monument speaks volumes. A breathtaking, yet unsettling, lifelike sculpture depicts a lifeless, emancipated Christ. His hollow eyes staring into the void, ribs jutting sharply beneath his skin. Kneeling beside him, Mary tends to his broken body. Her expression heavy with sorrow. The details are stark. The wounds numerous, and the scene almost too raw to behold. There's no clear inscription explaining its meaning, only the silence of stone and the weight of interpretation left each visitor for those who stumble upon it. The statue is more than a work of art. It's a chilling, unexpected confrontation with morality, suffering and devotion. Thomas Waterman Wood, a man of artistry and legacy, rests beneath the solemn canopy of Greenmount Cemetery. But his story lingers far beyond his grave. Born in Montpelier in 1823, Watt's life was steeped in craftsmanship and history and a relentless pursuit of artistic excellence. His father, a cabinetmaker and artillery captain, instilled in him both discipline and a deep connection to his roots. journey took him far from Vermont, across Europe to the great art capitals of London, Paris, Rome and Florence. He honed his craft in Boston and painted portraits in the grand halls of Washington and Baltimore. was his return to the United States and his haunting depictions in the Civil War that secured his place in history. His most famous work, the Contraband recruit and veteran, captured the brutal transition from slavery to freedom. The weariness of battle and the weight of the new life carved from hardship. painting, now held by the Metropolitan Museum of Art, stands as a stark testament to the course of history, a frozen moment of struggle and survival. despite his prominence was life was not without turmoil. A lawsuit over a missile painting cast a shadow over his early career, a bitter battle that dreamed both time and fortune. reputation grew, so did the weight of expectation. He was not just an artist, but a figure of power. President of the American Watercolor Society. Vice president of the National Academy of Design. And then later, its leader. But even in the grandeur of New York City, Vermont called him home. Each year, he returned to Mount Pierre, a pilgrim to his past. final act of devotion came not in brushstrokes, but in brick and mortar. A gift of Mont Pears, Art Gallery, a house of memory and masterpieces. His portrait staring back from the frames still haunting the halls of Vermont's institutions. Silent echoes of a man who refuses to be forgotten. died in 1903, was not the city that claimed him, but the quiet embrace of Greenmount Cemetery. His grave, nestled among the rolling hills, is more than a resting place. It's a reminder that even in death, an artist's vision lingers, waiting to be seen. also feature the soldiers light and airy, maintained by the United States Department of Veterans Affairs or known as the VA. lot is a 450 square foot donation by my pair citizens that was given during the American Revolution. Originally, it was intended for burials of Union Army soldiers who died in battle, but instead holds the remains of six union veterans. due to its size, is one of the smallest burial facilities maintained by the VA today for soldiers. Ironically, not buried in the soldiers lead but with in Green Mount are several recipients of the Medal of Honor. John W Clark, Dean P Clark, Robert J. Coffee and Steve Thomas. Also within Greenmount is Colonel Jonathan Pacman Miller, a warrior abolitionists and a man who walked the line between heroism and defiance. But his story is far from buried. Dubbed the American Daredevil, Miller lived up to his name, throwing himself into the fires of war and revolution from the blood soaked battlefields of the Greek War of Independence to the shadowy resistance of the Underground Railroad. His life was one of relentless rebellion. A soldier by training, he fought against oppression wherever he found it, willing not just weapons, but words, lore and sheer defiance. 1824 Miller left the quiet hills of Vermont to join Greece's fight against the Ottoman Empire. He wasn't just a soldier, but he became a leader, earning the rank of colonel and guerrilla warfare. When he returned to America, he brought with him not just war stories, but a child called Lucas, a four year old Greek orphan who he raised as his own. But even after leaving the battlefield, his war was far from over. Back in Vermont, Miller turned his sights to a different type of war the fight to end slavery. With his wife, Sarah arms Miller, he transformed their home into a station of the Underground Railroad. Hiding and ferrying fugitive slaves to freedom. He wasn't just content to work in the shadows. He stood before the Vermont legislator in the 1830s demanding for the abolition of slavery in Washington, DC. He battled hostile crowds to defend abolitionist speakers. He raised his voice in the 1840 World Anti-Slavery Convention, arguing for the inclusion of women into the movement, knowing that the fight for freedom could not be waged by men alone. But Miller's defiance came at a cost. His radical views made enemies. His actions inviting danger and his relentless fight for justice was a heavy burden. When he died in 1847, his war was not yet won, but his legacy was carved into the bones of Vermont's abolitionist movement. Today, his grave is in Green. Mount Cemetery is more than a resting place. It's a monument to defiance, a quiet but unyielding reminder that the fight for justice is rarely easy, never clean, but always necessary. John William Burgess, a man whose name once loomed large in the halls of Columbia University, now rests in Greenmount Cemetery. His legacy a twisted reflection of progress and prejudice. Hailed as the father of American political science, Burgess helped shape the study of governance in the United States, carving the first graduate program in political science into the bones of academia. But his influence was a double edged sword. Born into the Tennessee planter aristocracy in 1844, Burgess was raised in a family that held slaves and saw unionism as not a path to freedom, but as a safeguard for the institution of slavery itself. He spent his early years dodging confederates, conscription only to enlist in the Union Army on his own terms, swearing allegiance to not the cause of abolition, but of personal survival. His education led him across the Atlantic to Germany, where he absorbed the rigorous research methods of European scholars. Returning to America, he embedded these methods into Columbia University, founding its Graduate School of Political Science in 1880. He was a builder scholar, a man who laid the foundation for modern political thought in the United States. And yet, beneath his achievement lurked a darker ideology. Burgess was not just a scholar of governments. He was an architect of racial hierarchy. He viewed reconstruction as a mistake. The enfranchisement of black Americans, a society ill. His writings dipped with the arrogance of white supremacy, dismissing black intellect, justifying slavery and advocating for a Teutonic superiority. His influence poisoned the generations, laying the groundwork for the Dunning School, which painted the South's postwar redemption as a noble cause and the suffering of freed slaves as an unfortunate necessity. Even his vision of an American empire was tainted by selective kinship. He championed close relations between the U.S., Britain and Germany, claiming an ethnic affinity that excluded those he deemed lesser. defense of Southern slavery was not just academic, it was personal. He denied the horrors of Uncle Tom's Cabin, claiming it was an exaggeration, a distortion of what he saw as a system of contented servitude. For decades, his name adorned Columbia's Butler Library, a homage to his impact of political science. But time has its way of unraveling legacies. The tide of history washed away his honors, leaving behind a spectre of influence that scholars now dissect with unease and the cold embrace of Greenmount Cemetery, Burgess lies silent. His name remembered not for what he built, but for the ghosts he left behind. For those who dared to walk its grounds after dark. They speak of a presence that lingers within a relentless energy woven into the very air. As with any burial ground worth its ghost stories, Green Mount hosts the unusual phantoms swirling mists that coral its spectral fingers, shadowy figures flickering between headstones and orbs that dance in the midnight gloom. But there are other hauntings here. Once more chilling or more sorrowful. One of the most unsettling of these are children. Palin flickering like candlelight. They appear in the dead of night, laughing softly. Their voices carried on. The wind they gather near craves, locked into eternal game, their joy tinged with the weight of loss. From 10 p.m. to 4 p.m., they dance their feet never quite touching the earth, their eyes hollow with something indescribable. For those who've seen them, they say that this sight is enough to break their hearts. And then there's the shadow. A figure without a name, without identity. Only a shape moving through the darkness. Unlike the playful spirits of the children, this one carries a weight of malice. It doesn't drift aimlessly at watches, and it follows visitors. For those who have encountered it, they speak of an unbearable sorrow, a crushing sense of despair that grips them with its presence only to vanish the moment it's gone. Whenever roams Green Mount Cemetery and night never seems to find rest. But should you choose to visit in an attempt to glimpse those who linger beyond the veil, please remember to respect the cemeteries visiting policies. If its history doesn't call to you, but the allure of ghosts and the serene beauty of a lush, sprawling ground does then Green Mount Cemetery is undoubtedly worth your time. Take a stroll through its 35 acres and let the quiet mystery unfold before you. The grave. Crying for Green Mount Cemetery was a honey cinnamon reprieve from Birchgrove Bakery. For more honorary grinds in the area, please visit the-grim.com. For now, we're closing the gate on Green Mount Cemetery. We hope you enjoyed our dig into history. If you did subscribe today. Join us next time when we open the gate on The Grim