November 18, 2025 • 28 mins
Step into Old Gray Cemetery with The Grim as host Kristin explores Knoxville's most atmospheric Victorian burial ground—where feuds, tragedy, and restless spirits linger beneath ancient trees.
Founded in 1850 and named for poet Thomas Gray, this 13-acre garden cemetery holds the stories of Tennessee's most influential figures: Governor William "Parson" Brownlow, diplomat Horace Maynard, suffragist Lizzie Crozier French, and General Lawrence D. Tyson. But tragedy also marks these grounds—from the 1854 cholera epidemic to the devastating 1904 New Market train collision.
Discover the haunting legends: the Lady in White, the ominous Black Aggie, dueling gunmen whose spirits never made peace, and the restless dead of Knoxville's most notorious feuds.
A journey through Appalachian ghost lore, Civil War conflict, and Victorian mourning art—where history and haunting walk hand in hand.
📍 Old Gray Cemetery, Knoxville TN
⚰️ Founded: 1850
👻 Haunted by: The Lady in White, Black Aggie, feuding spirits
Perfect for: Southern Gothic enthusiasts, Tennessee history lovers, Civil War buffs, Victorian cemetery tourists
🎧 Enter the gates with The Grim.
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Transcript
Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
Kristin (00:13):
Grim morning and welcome to the Grim.
I'm your host, Kristin.
On today's episode, we'll beopening the gate and entering
Old Grey Cemetery, located inKnoxville, Tennessee.
The aroma of coffee mingles inthe air.
The gates stand open.
Step carefully.
It's time to descend into thehauntings of history.
(00:34):
I realized the other day thatwe've actually never wandered
into a Tennessee graveyard onthe Grim.
And honestly, it's about time.
I've covered so many places,I'm not sure how Old Grey
slipped past me, but today we'refixing that.
Knoxville sitting right at thegateway to the great smoky
mountains feels like the perfectplace to start.
Avalanche lore is thick in thisregion.
(00:55):
Ghost stories sink into thesoil here, and Old Grey standing
at the threshold does notdisappoint.
Old Grey Cemetery isKnoxville's second oldest
resting ground.
The time has draped it in mucholder sorrow.
It feels ancient.
An island of quiet grief formarble angels weather beneath
Tennessee skies.
(01:15):
Founded in 1850, its 13 acrescradle the remains of statesmen
and soldiers, painters andreformers, voices that once
shaped the city and now lingeronly in stone and shadow.
Victorian-era sculptures riselike frozen warners, their
carved robes and folded wingssoftened by a century and a half
of rain.
(01:36):
In 1996, this solemn garden wasadded to the National Register
of Historic Places, though thedead never needed a title to
justify their significance.
The grounds were named forafter the poet Thomas Gray,
whose ology written in a countrychurchyard seemed to whisper
its way across the ocean.
Olgray has a quintessentialgarden cemetery.
(01:56):
These were burial groundsdesigned to be as much for the
living as the dead.
They were peaceful, spacious,unverling at the edges of town,
where churchyard crowding gaveway to winding paths and quiet
trees.
Unlike its tight predecessor,First Presbyterian Cemetery,
Olgray was designed to havebreathing room, broad plots,
(02:17):
sweeping shade, and monumentsthat reach heavenward like
marble prayers.
Tennessee Williams found enoughmelancholy here to slip it into
the man in the overstuffedchair, and Peter Taylor echoed
its presence in the Tennesseecountry.
For decades, though, it wassimply Grey Cemetery, until a
newer counterpart opened a mileaway in 1892, leaving this one
(02:39):
with the elder name, the elderbones, and the elder shadows.
It became the ancestral ghostof Knoxville's burying grounds,
older in spirit than its years.
But how did this gardencemetery in Tennessee take
shape?
In the 1840s, Pierre Lichetcast its long theatrical shadow
across Europe and America, andKnoxville began yearning for a
(03:01):
necropolis worthy of its ownsorrows.
Fear over the quiet architectof cemeteries took hold when
whispers claimed that the firstPresbyterian church cemetery had
birthed the deadly epidemic of1838.
Whether rumor or truth, thefear was enough to turn the city
outward.
So in 1850, guided by WilliamB.
Reese, a port of trusteessought land where silence
(03:24):
gathered naturally, a placewhere they could both be near
the living and wholly claimed bythe dead.
The plot chosen was once openpasture land just beyond
Knoxville's northwest limits.
Close enough for a briskcarriage ride, yet far enough to
feel like a refuge from thecity's bustle.
It was peaceful ground, thekind of place where the wind
seemed to move with intention.
(03:45):
Landscape architect FrederickDouglass shaped that com into
soft curves and winding paths,and it was Reese's wife
Henrietta, who added the finaltouch of poetry by suggesting
the cemetery bear the nameThomas Gray.
But the dead didn't wait fordedications or speeches.
The first burial came in Julyof 1851, when William Martin was
(04:07):
killed by a cannon explosionduring the city's Independence
Day celebration.
His grave went unmarked, thougha small memorial stone now
stands discreetly in thenorthwest corner, a quiet
reminder that Old Grey's storybegan not with ceremony but with
catastrophe.
In the summer of 1854,Knoxville found itself in the
grip of a cholera epidemic.
(04:29):
The kind of terror that movedfaster than any noose could
travel and struck harder thanany storm.
Cholera didn't linger.
It arrived suddenly withoutceremony, hitching a ride in
contaminated wells and sharedcups, invisible until it wasn't.
One moment a person felt fine,and then hours later they were
slipping away, dehydrated beyondsaving, their families
(04:51):
powerless to stop it.
Knoxville was no stranger tohardship, but cholera brought a
new kind of panic to the citythat had never been seen.
Entire households were struckin a matter of days.
Doctors still operating underthe hazy medical understanding
of the era worked frantically,but remedies were few and hope
even fewer.
The disease claimed people fromall walks of life, labors,
(05:15):
mothers, children, and evenprominent citizens, until the
city's little churchyards couldno longer keep pace with the
dead.
And Soul Hull Grey, still inits infancy, became the city's
refuge for the fallen.
Wagon after wagon arrived atits gates, each bearing another
sudden loss.
Though there was no time forelaborate mourning, no space for
(05:36):
prolonged ritual, burialsneeded to be swift, both for
public health and the emotionalsurvival of the living.
The cemetery's earliest rowshold those victims still.
Knoxvilleans whose final dayswere marked by fear and fever,
who found their rest here longbefore Old Grey grew into the
stately sanctuary it wouldbecome.
(05:56):
The epidemic carved its nameinto the cemetery's history, a
first communal grief settlingover the grounds like a low
lingering fog.
But Zaro returned again, indifferent form, this time,
though more violent in scale.
On September morning in 1904,when two Southern Railway
passenger trains met head-onnear the small town of New
(06:18):
Market, just east of Knoxville.
Trains were symbols of progressthen, iron arteries stitching
the south together, carryingfamilies, soldiers, businessmen,
dreamers.
But on that day,miscommunication and human error
aligned with tragic precision.
One train, number 15 local, wasmeant to pull aside into a
(06:40):
siding.
Messages were delayed, warningswere missed, and the Carolina
Special, barreling forward withsteam pressured high and
passengers unaware, continuedstraight into disaster.
Witnesses said you could hearthe collision miles away.
Two locomotives, eachthundering forward at full
speed, collided with such forcethat one engine was hurled into
(07:03):
the air.
Wooden passenger cars crumbledinstantly beneath the weight of
this steel.
Survivors described clouds ofsplintered boards and the hiss
of scalding steam with criesrising from a tanglement of
metal and smoke.
More than 50 people diedinstantly, and over a hundred
were injured.
It was one of the worst realdisasters Tennessee had ever
(07:25):
seen.
Relief trains rushed theinjured to Knoxville General
Hospital nearby, and others werebrought directly to Old Grey,
some identified, some not, allcarried gently through the
cemetery gates by solemn hands.
Families arrived stunned, theirdays suddenly split into before
and after.
Ministers spoke hurriedprayers, and Old Grey, which had
(07:46):
already weathered an epidemicsorrow, opened the arms once
again to tragedy.
Today the victims of New Marketlie in several clusters
throughout the cemetery.
Their gravestone's quiettestimonies to a disaster still
remembered in local lore.
Old Grey's layout carries thesame strange poetry as its
history.
Its borders form an awkwardpentagon, the main entrance
(08:10):
opening toward Broadway likeboth an invitation and a
warning.
The paths follow the land'snatural rise and fall rather
than cutting against it, roadscurling, graves tilting gently
with air's contours, treesleaning close as if listening,
iron gates, marble posts, and alow stone wall embrace the
grounds, while the historic St.
(08:31):
John's Lutheran Church keepsvigil across the street.
Beyond the gate, the centralroad splits into a circle where
the Albers Fountain once rose 20feet into the air, its water
long stilled.
To the northwest, Oldgrayshares a boundary with
Knoxville's National Cemetery, anarrow, solemn divide between
two realms of the departed.
(08:52):
Unlike modern cemeteries thatfavor granite's hard permanence,
Olgrave remains a kingdom ofmarble, soft, luminous, and
tender to time.
Its monuments weather likeslipping memories, names blur,
wings soften, faces grow faintas though the years are gently
erasing their grief.
Yet that same fragility allowedVictorian sculptures to cry of
(09:16):
emotion deeply into stone,folded robes, bowed heads,
sorrow etched into everydowncast gaze.
These angels stand everywhere,guardians of Knoxville's
forgotten dead, theirexpressions mellowed by rain and
moss.
Hobusks punctuate the landscapelike exclamation marks from
another century, rising toward asky that has changed far more
(09:39):
than they have.
In their day they symbolizedendurance and aspiration,
slender needles of remembrancefashionably in the late 19th
century.
Among them stand strangersilhouettes, the woodman of the
world monuments.
At first glance, they seem likerough, uncut tree trunks, bark
textured, limbs severed, butthey're actually marble, carved
(10:02):
to resemble the stumps of felledlives, provided to the members
of the fraternal order as afinal benefit.
Scattered across the grounds,they form a ghostly grove of
stone.
Crosses are plentiful too, withsaltic knots looping endlessly
in circles of life, death, andreturn.
The Horn Monument features anear-life-sized Confederate
(10:27):
soldier carved in marble,standing in turtle watch over
William and John Horn.
His face is solemn, his posturestiff, more a ghost than an
actual guardian.
Nearby, an elegant figure by anItalian sculptor Antonio
Babalotti, keeps visual of theparents of art collector Eleanor
Swan Ajodi, a whisper of Romanartistry resting quietly in
(10:50):
Tennessee soil.
And towering above many plotsis the obusque of Frank S.
Meade, carved by Knoxvillesculptor D.
H.
Jedz, once used inadvertisements for Meade's
Marble Company, and now servesas both a memorial and this
stone signature of a man whobuilt his livelihood from the
earth beneath his feet.
Olgray's monuments do more thanmark graves.
(11:13):
They shape the atmosphereitself, turning the cemetery
into a landscape where art,memory, and mourning blend
beneath the shifting Tennesseeclouds.
For generations, visitors havewhispered about the uneasy
company kept beneath this soil.
Here lie enemies close enoughto see one another across the
grass, proximity bestowed onlyby death's indifferent hand.
(11:36):
Among those most infamous areJoseph Alexander May Jr.
and his son, Joseph MayburyIII, and banker Thomas
O'Connell, Vinsu's bitter feudserupted into an 1882 gunfight.
The Mayor O'Connell feud wasone of Knoxville's bloodiest and
most sensational publicconflicts.
So dramatic, in fact, that MarkTwain devoted an entire chapter
(11:59):
to it in life in theMississippi.
But before Bluitz flew acrossGay Street in the afternoon in
1882, the two families werealready locked into a downward
spiral of lawsuits, humiliation,and violence.
It began with Joseph AlexanderMayberry Jr., a wealthy
landowner and a Confederatequartermaster, whose postmore
(12:20):
reputation was checkered byfinancial ruin and political
maneuvering.
His son Joseph Mayberry IIIcarried his father's temper like
a badge.
Opposing them was ThomasO'Connor, a respectable banker
and businessman, whose risingsuccess came to grade against
the Maybury's declininginfluence.
Their feud erupted when MayburyJr.
accused O'Connor ofmanipulating business dealings
(12:43):
and damaging his reputation.
O'Connor in turn believed theMaybries were threatening him.
Tensions escalated intolawsuits, duels challenged and
withdrawn, and the ugly publicarguments until finally it
boiled over.
On December 24th, 1882, thefeud reached its violent climax.
Father and son confrontedO'Connor on Gay Street.
(13:05):
Accounts differ, but what'sagreed upon is that shots rang
out almost immediately.
O'Connor firing to defendhimself and the Mayberys firing
back.
When the smoke cleared, allthree men lay dead: Mayberry
Jr., Mayberry III, and ThomasO'Connor.
Crowds gathered, newspapersdevoured the story.
Twain later described theshootout with a mixture of
(13:28):
fascination and horror.
Today their graves form atriangle of uneasy quiet in Old
Grey, close enough that no onecould imagine, each man still
watching the other, locked in astandoff that death never
resolved.
Tensions in Old Grey doesn'tbelong solely to gunfighters.
It also lingers in the spacescarved by politics and war.
(13:48):
On one side lies William ParsonBrownlow, the Firebrand
Methodist preacher, editor ofthe Knoxville Whig, and one of
Tennessee's most polarizedfigures.
He attacked secessionists,slaveholders, and anyone who
threatened the Union with wordsso blistering that Confederate
authorities arrested him andbanished him during the Civil
(14:08):
War.
In April 1865, just days beforethe Confederacy officially
surrendered, Brownlow becamegovernor of Tennessee, stepping
into power at a moment when thestate was fractured and raw.
As Governor reintegratedTennessee into the Union with a
mixture of moral fever andpolitical ruthlessness, he
disenfranchised formerConfederates, marshaled state
(14:31):
laws against Ku Klux Klanviolence, and worked to extend
civil and political rights toblack Tennesseans, helping
secure the right to vote underthe 1865 Constitution.
Brownlow's methods werecontroversial, but his impact
was undeniable.
He reshaped the state'spolitics and left a legacy that
still echoes in East Tennessee.
(14:53):
Opposite Brownlow rests JohnHervey Crozer, lawyer,
congressman, and steadfastConfederate sympathizer.
Crozer embodied the oldSouthern Order, calm, measured,
and unwavering in his loyalty tohis state and its traditions.
Their animosity wasn't merelypersonal.
It reflected the very soul of adivided Tennessee.
(15:13):
Brownlow's pen clashed withCrozer's reasoned defenses of
the Confederacy acrossnewspapers, street corners, and
private correspondence.
Brownlow's editors skewerCrozer and men like him with
relentless fever.
Crozer responded with pointed,gentle critiques, never backing
down.
They sparred over succession,slavery, reconstruction, and the
(15:36):
power of federal government.
Both learned to see the war'saftermath, but they never saw
reconciliation.
Now their family plots liewithin a stone's throw of each
other, separated only by anarrow roadway.
For visitors walking the pathsof Old Grey, it's easy to
imagine the tension stilllingering between these two men,
whose words wouldn't shape thedestiny of Tennessee.
(15:57):
In life they word with ink andideology.
In death, they lay as permanentneighbors, the rivalry
preserved in stone.
But perhaps the most chillingof Old Grey's uneasy pairings
belongs to Union Major AldedCicero Camp and Confederate
Colonel Henry Marshall Ashby,two Civil War veterans whose
bitterness survived long pastappomatics.
(16:20):
Ashby, a cavalry commanderunder General Joseph Wheeler,
had a reputation for daringraids and fierce loyalty to the
Confederate cause.
Camp, who served with the Unionforces, carried the scars,
physical and otherwise, of a warthat reshaped his beliefs in
the sense of justice.
The two men clashed repeatedlyafter the war.
(16:40):
Accusations circulated.
Some say Camp had previouslyarrested Ashby.
Others claimed Ashby hadthreatened him.
Whatever the cause, animositysimmered until January 9, 1868,
when Fate placed them on thesame Knoxville street.
What happened next was fast,violent, and witnessed by
several bystanders.
(17:01):
The men argued, their wordsturning sharp, old tensions
igniting, and suddenly shotswere fired.
Ashby fell mortally wounded.
Camp claims self-defense, ajury agreed with him, but the
verdict little to ease thebitterness his act left behind.
And now both lie in the samecemetery, not side by side, but
(17:22):
close enough that the weight oftheir conflict, unfinished,
hangs thick in the air.
One can almost imagine themfrozen in their final
confrontation, their argumentechoing faintly through the
trees.
But not all of Old Grey'sstories are forged in violence.
Some belong to voices thatshaped American literature.
Cornelius Coffin Williams,father of playwright Tennessee
(17:45):
Williams, rests here, hisfuneral forever captured in the
writer's story, The Man in theOverstuffed Chair.
Eliza Bon Hodginson, mother ofFrancis Hodgson Burnham, is also
buried in these grounds aswell.
Her grave one of the fewsurviving traces of the author's
early life in Knoxville, afaint thread connecting the city
to the secret garden.
(18:05):
Author Peter Taylor drew uponOld Grey's atmosphere too,
describing a 1916 funeral inKnoxville Cemetery, in the
Tennessee country.
Many believe he was invokingthe grand procession held for
his own grandfather, GovernorRobert Love Taylor, whose 1912
burial drew tens of thousands.
(18:25):
Whether factual orfictionalized, Olgray's shadows
seeped into Taylor's work, justas they have seeped into the
city's collective memory.
As they move beyond the gravesof feuding families, of fiery
politicians, and men who meteach other in smoke and blood,
Olgray begins to tell adifferent story, one of
ambition, intellect, and quietinfluence.
(18:47):
The cemetery is not just aresting place for grudges and
vengeance.
It's also home to men and womenwho shaped Knoxville and the
wider world through diplomacy,education, and civic courage.
Just on the hill risk EbenezerAlexander, ambassador, educator,
and early a champion of themodern Olympic Games, a man who
took lessons from the past andgave them in life to the
(19:10):
present.
Near the entrance lies HoraceMayard, the loyal unionist and
diplomat who refused to abandonhis post when Tennessee
succeeded, lending his effortsto history as far afield as the
ruins of Troy.
And not far from them is LizzieCrozer French, who transformed
personal loss into publicactivism, raising her child
(19:30):
alone while fighting tirelesslyfor women's rights, living to
see every vote she had longdemanded become a law.
Towering above them all is theobelisk of the Tyson family,
commemorating military service,civic duty, and the weight of
parental grief turned a legacy.
General Lawrence Davis Tyson,celebrated for his leadership in
(19:50):
World War I, rests here besidehis son, Lieutenant McGee Tyson,
a young aviator who died inservice during this same war.
McGee's mother Betty completesthe family plot, where ambition,
sacrifice, and memory riseabove the trees, their stone
reaching skyward like a silentcall to remembrance.
The name should sound familiarto many who flowed into
(20:12):
Knoxville, as the city's airportbears McGee Tyson's name in his
honor.
Many of Old Grey's monumentsstand apart from the typical
stones of the 19th century, eachcarving telling a story that
reaches beyond the name and dateat Chedon marble.
Even more arresting is thegrave of D.
H.
Holloway, whose death was assudden as it was dramatic.
He perished when a railwaybridge collapsed beneath his
(20:35):
train, sending the engine andcars plunging into the ravine
below.
His tombstone immortalizes thedisaster in stark relief, the
bridge giving way, thelocomotive tilting into its
fall, a chilling memorial and apermanent witness to a
life-ending in catastrophe.
Just beyond one of Old Grey'swinding lanes stands a marble
(20:57):
statue of a little girl,delicate and solemn.
Her gaze cast downward as iflost in thought.
Locals call her the LillianGaines statue, but her true
identity remains shrouded inuncertainty.
In the stillness of thecemetery, visitors often lay
flowers in her lap, offeringcomfort to a child who seems
eternally waiting.
(21:18):
As Jack Neely, co-author of TheMarble City, once remarked, the
Lillian Gaines statue tears meup every time I see it.
Whether she was truly namedLillian Gaines, or whether the
name rose from a whisperedlegend, no surviving records
confirm who she is.
And yet the statue endures, asymbol of innocence, loss, and
(21:38):
the unspoken stories Old Greykeeps tucked among its trees and
shadows.
Not far from Lillian rests thegrave of Lazarus C.
Shepherd, crowned by a hollowmonument that gained a peculiar
noty during the Prohibition era,reputedly serving as a discreet
job-off point for bootleggedliquor, an echo of defiance
carved into stone.
(21:58):
The cemetery also holds thegrave of Frank S.
Meade, the first president ofthe Ross Republic Marble
Company, a reminder ofKnoxville's once thriving marble
industry.
Much of the tombstones andmonuments across the city were
carved from native Tennesseemarble, turning the very
landscape into a memorial ofcraftsmanship and commerce.
(22:19):
In the 1890s, H.
V.
Maxwell wrote in the Chacanoogabase tradesman, describing
Knoxville as the marble city ofthe Union, a city built
literally and figuratively fromstone, or even the dead rest
among monuments to humanambition and artistry.
I'm in the winding paths andshaded groves of Old Grey
(22:39):
Cemetery, once at a monument ofgrief and devotion, unlike any
other, the Albers Fountain,dedicated in 1890 in memory of
Ella King Albers.
It rose 20 feet in theKnoxville sky, cast in iron and
crowned with statues of mourningwomen, their faces etched with
sorrow that never faded.
Water once spilled from itsbasins, murmuring like whispers
(23:02):
of prayers among the stones, alullaby for those who have gone
before us.
But time and war would not letit stand.
During the stark years of WorldWar II, the fountain was
dismantled, its iron claimed forthe machinery of conflict, its
voices silenced.
For decades, only the emptymarble circles remained, a
ghostly memory of love and loss,a echo where grief once flowed.
(23:27):
In the 21st century, Old Grey'scaretakers brought new life
into the long-lost monument.
Using old photographs and theoriginal iron casting that had
been preserved, they were ableto faithfully rebuild the
fountain.
Today, with water flowing fromits upper basin again, the
fountain feels less like a relicand more like a welcome part of
the cemetery's landscape.
(23:48):
It stands as a reminder of thepeople who came before, of their
grief, their memories, and thehope they had carried.
Standing beside it, you couldalmost imagine the mourning
women who once gathered here,and perhaps even feel Ella's
presence, quietly watching overa place that had always been
part of her story.
Olgury is not merely a restingplace for the dead.
(24:10):
It's a city of shadows, wherethe living occasionally brush
against what lingers beyond theveil.
Among its winding paths andshaded groves, the air seems
thick with memory, grief, andsomething else, something
unquiet.
One of the most enduringfigures is the Lady in White.
Pale and urethral, she driftssilently among the stones, her
(24:31):
gaze cast downward, as ifmourning a loss, the time is not
diminished.
Some say she's Mary CrushWoody, widow of the prominent
brickmaker Martin Woody.
Others whisper her name isAnnie Lowe, a woman bound to
tragedy and scandal.
Witnesses have described seeingher lean against trees or
wander the past at twilight,searching for what never can
(24:52):
return.
On full moon nights, she's saidto appear beyond even the
gates, gliding into thesurrounding woods like a sigh of
the past.
Then there is Black Aggie, theshadowy sentinel of old gray.
Cloaked in darkness, he movessilently among the headstones,
his presence heavier than thenight itself.
Some claim to hear whispers ofhis name, or feel a chilling
(25:14):
touch as they pause among thegraves.
Photographs taken at duskreveal his distorted silhouette,
an imprint of grief or ragethat refuses to fade.
Whether he's a man, a spirit,or a fragment of the cemetery
itself, Black Aggie has become aliving legend, a reminder that
some souls linger long after thebody rests.
The cemetery is no strangerthough to violent ends.
(25:37):
Herb Evers, killed inKnoxhold's only recorded duel,
is said to haunt the groundstill to this day.
His anger, humiliation, and theabruptness of his death cling
to the shadows, giving pause tothose who wander near his
unmarked resting place.
An Abner Baker, lynched byUnion soldiers, is said to
whisper on windswept nights, arestless presence reminding
(25:59):
visitors that even some deathsare never at peace.
Within Old Grey, the air feelsotherworldly, just as the
Victorians intended.
Its timeless gates, once builtto welcome carriages, now open
onto a world that seems pausedbetween centuries.
There's a subtle sense of beingwatched, of something lingering
(26:19):
just beyond the edges ofvision.
But the historians of Knoxvilleare quick to remind visitors
that this isn't how they wishthe cemetery to be seen.
One YouTube clip captures alocal historian declaring he
refuses to conduct tours inOctober, when the association
with spookiness is strongest,understandably so.
How many would enter the gatesof an old cemetery if it were
(26:41):
simply old, serene, and solemn?
Yet when ghost tales andapparitions circulate, the foot
traffic rises, vandalism creepsin, and that quietery charm
risks being lost.
Here in the Grim we revel in agood haunting, but we know that
history must always takeprecedence over the lore.
Yet the lore can't becontained.
(27:02):
It seeps into the cracks ofmemory and stone, into whispered
conversations, into therestless imagination of the
living.
Unlike the carefully recordedevents of the past, it resists
order.
It refuses to be catalogued,but it can't be erased.
In all gray history andhaunting coexist, sometimes
(27:22):
clashing in an uneasy tension,sometimes intertwined in perfect
harmony, both are woven intothe very fabric of the cemetery,
making every path, everymonument, every shadow an
unforgettable journey, into thepast and into the unseen.
For now, the stories of oldGrey slip back into stone, and
(27:42):
the dead return to their uneasyrest, yet they're never silent
for long.
Thank you for walking with usthrough the veil into Old Grey
Cemetery, descending once moreinto the hauntings of history.
The gate is sealed, the veildrawn, yet death keeps no
calendar, and so we shallreturn, as we always do, on the
(28:03):
grim.
Grim morning and welcome to the Grim.
I'm your host, Kristin.
On today's episode, we'll beopening the gate and entering
Old Grey Cemetery, located inKnoxville, Tennessee.
The aroma of coffee mingles inthe air.
The gates stand open.
Step carefully.
It's time to descend into thehauntings of history.
(00:34):
I realized the other day thatwe've actually never wandered
into a Tennessee graveyard onthe Grim.
And honestly, it's about time.
I've covered so many places,I'm not sure how Old Grey
slipped past me, but today we'refixing that.
Knoxville sitting right at thegateway to the great smoky
mountains feels like the perfectplace to start.
Avalanche lore is thick in thisregion.
(00:55):
Ghost stories sink into thesoil here, and Old Grey standing
at the threshold does notdisappoint.
Old Grey Cemetery isKnoxville's second oldest
resting ground.
The time has draped it in mucholder sorrow.
It feels ancient.
An island of quiet grief formarble angels weather beneath
Tennessee skies.
(01:15):
Founded in 1850, its 13 acrescradle the remains of statesmen
and soldiers, painters andreformers, voices that once
shaped the city and now lingeronly in stone and shadow.
Victorian-era sculptures riselike frozen warners, their
carved robes and folded wingssoftened by a century and a half
of rain.
(01:36):
In 1996, this solemn garden wasadded to the National Register
of Historic Places, though thedead never needed a title to
justify their significance.
The grounds were named forafter the poet Thomas Gray,
whose ology written in a countrychurchyard seemed to whisper
its way across the ocean.
Olgray has a quintessentialgarden cemetery.
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These were burial groundsdesigned to be as much for the
living as the dead.
They were peaceful, spacious,unverling at the edges of town,
where churchyard crowding gaveway to winding paths and quiet
trees.
Unlike its tight predecessor,First Presbyterian Cemetery,
Olgray was designed to havebreathing room, broad plots,
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sweeping shade, and monumentsthat reach heavenward like
marble prayers.
Tennessee Williams found enoughmelancholy here to slip it into
the man in the overstuffedchair, and Peter Taylor echoed
its presence in the Tennesseecountry.
For decades, though, it wassimply Grey Cemetery, until a
newer counterpart opened a mileaway in 1892, leaving this one
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with the elder name, the elderbones, and the elder shadows.
It became the ancestral ghostof Knoxville's burying grounds,
older in spirit than its years.
But how did this gardencemetery in Tennessee take
shape?
In the 1840s, Pierre Lichetcast its long theatrical shadow
across Europe and America, andKnoxville began yearning for a
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necropolis worthy of its ownsorrows.
Fear over the quiet architectof cemeteries took hold when
whispers claimed that the firstPresbyterian church cemetery had
birthed the deadly epidemic of1838.
Whether rumor or truth, thefear was enough to turn the city
outward.
So in 1850, guided by WilliamB.
Reese, a port of trusteessought land where silence
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gathered naturally, a placewhere they could both be near
the living and wholly claimed bythe dead.
The plot chosen was once openpasture land just beyond
Knoxville's northwest limits.
Close enough for a briskcarriage ride, yet far enough to
feel like a refuge from thecity's bustle.
It was peaceful ground, thekind of place where the wind
seemed to move with intention.
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Landscape architect FrederickDouglass shaped that com into
soft curves and winding paths,and it was Reese's wife
Henrietta, who added the finaltouch of poetry by suggesting
the cemetery bear the nameThomas Gray.
But the dead didn't wait fordedications or speeches.
The first burial came in Julyof 1851, when William Martin was
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killed by a cannon explosionduring the city's Independence
Day celebration.
His grave went unmarked, thougha small memorial stone now
stands discreetly in thenorthwest corner, a quiet
reminder that Old Grey's storybegan not with ceremony but with
catastrophe.
In the summer of 1854,Knoxville found itself in the
grip of a cholera epidemic.
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The kind of terror that movedfaster than any noose could
travel and struck harder thanany storm.
Cholera didn't linger.
It arrived suddenly withoutceremony, hitching a ride in
contaminated wells and sharedcups, invisible until it wasn't.
One moment a person felt fine,and then hours later they were
slipping away, dehydrated beyondsaving, their families
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powerless to stop it.
Knoxville was no stranger tohardship, but cholera brought a
new kind of panic to the citythat had never been seen.
Entire households were struckin a matter of days.
Doctors still operating underthe hazy medical understanding
of the era worked frantically,but remedies were few and hope
even fewer.
The disease claimed people fromall walks of life, labors,
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mothers, children, and evenprominent citizens, until the
city's little churchyards couldno longer keep pace with the
dead.
And Soul Hull Grey, still inits infancy, became the city's
refuge for the fallen.
Wagon after wagon arrived atits gates, each bearing another
sudden loss.
Though there was no time forelaborate mourning, no space for
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prolonged ritual, burialsneeded to be swift, both for
public health and the emotionalsurvival of the living.
The cemetery's earliest rowshold those victims still.
Knoxvilleans whose final dayswere marked by fear and fever,
who found their rest here longbefore Old Grey grew into the
stately sanctuary it wouldbecome.
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The epidemic carved its nameinto the cemetery's history, a
first communal grief settlingover the grounds like a low
lingering fog.
But Zaro returned again, indifferent form, this time,
though more violent in scale.
On September morning in 1904,when two Southern Railway
passenger trains met head-onnear the small town of New
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Market, just east of Knoxville.
Trains were symbols of progressthen, iron arteries stitching
the south together, carryingfamilies, soldiers, businessmen,
dreamers.
But on that day,miscommunication and human error
aligned with tragic precision.
One train, number 15 local, wasmeant to pull aside into a
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siding.
Messages were delayed, warningswere missed, and the Carolina
Special, barreling forward withsteam pressured high and
passengers unaware, continuedstraight into disaster.
Witnesses said you could hearthe collision miles away.
Two locomotives, eachthundering forward at full
speed, collided with such forcethat one engine was hurled into
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the air.
Wooden passenger cars crumbledinstantly beneath the weight of
this steel.
Survivors described clouds ofsplintered boards and the hiss
of scalding steam with criesrising from a tanglement of
metal and smoke.
More than 50 people diedinstantly, and over a hundred
were injured.
It was one of the worst realdisasters Tennessee had ever
(07:25):
seen.
Relief trains rushed theinjured to Knoxville General
Hospital nearby, and others werebrought directly to Old Grey,
some identified, some not, allcarried gently through the
cemetery gates by solemn hands.
Families arrived stunned, theirdays suddenly split into before
and after.
Ministers spoke hurriedprayers, and Old Grey, which had
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already weathered an epidemicsorrow, opened the arms once
again to tragedy.
Today the victims of New Marketlie in several clusters
throughout the cemetery.
Their gravestone's quiettestimonies to a disaster still
remembered in local lore.
Old Grey's layout carries thesame strange poetry as its
history.
Its borders form an awkwardpentagon, the main entrance
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opening toward Broadway likeboth an invitation and a
warning.
The paths follow the land'snatural rise and fall rather
than cutting against it, roadscurling, graves tilting gently
with air's contours, treesleaning close as if listening,
iron gates, marble posts, and alow stone wall embrace the
grounds, while the historic St.
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John's Lutheran Church keepsvigil across the street.
Beyond the gate, the centralroad splits into a circle where
the Albers Fountain once rose 20feet into the air, its water
long stilled.
To the northwest, Oldgrayshares a boundary with
Knoxville's National Cemetery, anarrow, solemn divide between
two realms of the departed.
(08:52):
Unlike modern cemeteries thatfavor granite's hard permanence,
Olgrave remains a kingdom ofmarble, soft, luminous, and
tender to time.
Its monuments weather likeslipping memories, names blur,
wings soften, faces grow faintas though the years are gently
erasing their grief.
Yet that same fragility allowedVictorian sculptures to cry of
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emotion deeply into stone,folded robes, bowed heads,
sorrow etched into everydowncast gaze.
These angels stand everywhere,guardians of Knoxville's
forgotten dead, theirexpressions mellowed by rain and
moss.
Hobusks punctuate the landscapelike exclamation marks from
another century, rising toward asky that has changed far more
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than they have.
In their day they symbolizedendurance and aspiration,
slender needles of remembrancefashionably in the late 19th
century.
Among them stand strangersilhouettes, the woodman of the
world monuments.
At first glance, they seem likerough, uncut tree trunks, bark
textured, limbs severed, butthey're actually marble, carved
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to resemble the stumps of felledlives, provided to the members
of the fraternal order as afinal benefit.
Scattered across the grounds,they form a ghostly grove of
stone.
Crosses are plentiful too, withsaltic knots looping endlessly
in circles of life, death, andreturn.
The Horn Monument features anear-life-sized Confederate
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soldier carved in marble,standing in turtle watch over
William and John Horn.
His face is solemn, his posturestiff, more a ghost than an
actual guardian.
Nearby, an elegant figure by anItalian sculptor Antonio
Babalotti, keeps visual of theparents of art collector Eleanor
Swan Ajodi, a whisper of Romanartistry resting quietly in
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Tennessee soil.
And towering above many plotsis the obusque of Frank S.
Meade, carved by Knoxvillesculptor D.
H.
Jedz, once used inadvertisements for Meade's
Marble Company, and now servesas both a memorial and this
stone signature of a man whobuilt his livelihood from the
earth beneath his feet.
Olgray's monuments do more thanmark graves.
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They shape the atmosphereitself, turning the cemetery
into a landscape where art,memory, and mourning blend
beneath the shifting Tennesseeclouds.
For generations, visitors havewhispered about the uneasy
company kept beneath this soil.
Here lie enemies close enoughto see one another across the
grass, proximity bestowed onlyby death's indifferent hand.
(11:36):
Among those most infamous areJoseph Alexander May Jr.
and his son, Joseph MayburyIII, and banker Thomas
O'Connell, Vinsu's bitter feudserupted into an 1882 gunfight.
The Mayor O'Connell feud wasone of Knoxville's bloodiest and
most sensational publicconflicts.
So dramatic, in fact, that MarkTwain devoted an entire chapter
(11:59):
to it in life in theMississippi.
But before Bluitz flew acrossGay Street in the afternoon in
1882, the two families werealready locked into a downward
spiral of lawsuits, humiliation,and violence.
It began with Joseph AlexanderMayberry Jr., a wealthy
landowner and a Confederatequartermaster, whose postmore
(12:20):
reputation was checkered byfinancial ruin and political
maneuvering.
His son Joseph Mayberry IIIcarried his father's temper like
a badge.
Opposing them was ThomasO'Connor, a respectable banker
and businessman, whose risingsuccess came to grade against
the Maybury's declininginfluence.
Their feud erupted when MayburyJr.
accused O'Connor ofmanipulating business dealings
(12:43):
and damaging his reputation.
O'Connor in turn believed theMaybries were threatening him.
Tensions escalated intolawsuits, duels challenged and
withdrawn, and the ugly publicarguments until finally it
boiled over.
On December 24th, 1882, thefeud reached its violent climax.
Father and son confrontedO'Connor on Gay Street.
(13:05):
Accounts differ, but what'sagreed upon is that shots rang
out almost immediately.
O'Connor firing to defendhimself and the Mayberys firing
back.
When the smoke cleared, allthree men lay dead: Mayberry
Jr., Mayberry III, and ThomasO'Connor.
Crowds gathered, newspapersdevoured the story.
Twain later described theshootout with a mixture of
(13:28):
fascination and horror.
Today their graves form atriangle of uneasy quiet in Old
Grey, close enough that no onecould imagine, each man still
watching the other, locked in astandoff that death never
resolved.
Tensions in Old Grey doesn'tbelong solely to gunfighters.
It also lingers in the spacescarved by politics and war.
(13:48):
On one side lies William ParsonBrownlow, the Firebrand
Methodist preacher, editor ofthe Knoxville Whig, and one of
Tennessee's most polarizedfigures.
He attacked secessionists,slaveholders, and anyone who
threatened the Union with wordsso blistering that Confederate
authorities arrested him andbanished him during the Civil
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War.
In April 1865, just days beforethe Confederacy officially
surrendered, Brownlow becamegovernor of Tennessee, stepping
into power at a moment when thestate was fractured and raw.
As Governor reintegratedTennessee into the Union with a
mixture of moral fever andpolitical ruthlessness, he
disenfranchised formerConfederates, marshaled state
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laws against Ku Klux Klanviolence, and worked to extend
civil and political rights toblack Tennesseans, helping
secure the right to vote underthe 1865 Constitution.
Brownlow's methods werecontroversial, but his impact
was undeniable.
He reshaped the state'spolitics and left a legacy that
still echoes in East Tennessee.
(14:53):
Opposite Brownlow rests JohnHervey Crozer, lawyer,
congressman, and steadfastConfederate sympathizer.
Crozer embodied the oldSouthern Order, calm, measured,
and unwavering in his loyalty tohis state and its traditions.
Their animosity wasn't merelypersonal.
It reflected the very soul of adivided Tennessee.
(15:13):
Brownlow's pen clashed withCrozer's reasoned defenses of
the Confederacy acrossnewspapers, street corners, and
private correspondence.
Brownlow's editors skewerCrozer and men like him with
relentless fever.
Crozer responded with pointed,gentle critiques, never backing
down.
They sparred over succession,slavery, reconstruction, and the
(15:36):
power of federal government.
Both learned to see the war'saftermath, but they never saw
reconciliation.
Now their family plots liewithin a stone's throw of each
other, separated only by anarrow roadway.
For visitors walking the pathsof Old Grey, it's easy to
imagine the tension stilllingering between these two men,
whose words wouldn't shape thedestiny of Tennessee.
(15:57):
In life they word with ink andideology.
In death, they lay as permanentneighbors, the rivalry
preserved in stone.
But perhaps the most chillingof Old Grey's uneasy pairings
belongs to Union Major AldedCicero Camp and Confederate
Colonel Henry Marshall Ashby,two Civil War veterans whose
bitterness survived long pastappomatics.
(16:20):
Ashby, a cavalry commanderunder General Joseph Wheeler,
had a reputation for daringraids and fierce loyalty to the
Confederate cause.
Camp, who served with the Unionforces, carried the scars,
physical and otherwise, of a warthat reshaped his beliefs in
the sense of justice.
The two men clashed repeatedlyafter the war.
(16:40):
Accusations circulated.
Some say Camp had previouslyarrested Ashby.
Others claimed Ashby hadthreatened him.
Whatever the cause, animositysimmered until January 9, 1868,
when Fate placed them on thesame Knoxville street.
What happened next was fast,violent, and witnessed by
several bystanders.
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The men argued, their wordsturning sharp, old tensions
igniting, and suddenly shotswere fired.
Ashby fell mortally wounded.
Camp claims self-defense, ajury agreed with him, but the
verdict little to ease thebitterness his act left behind.
And now both lie in the samecemetery, not side by side, but
(17:22):
close enough that the weight oftheir conflict, unfinished,
hangs thick in the air.
One can almost imagine themfrozen in their final
confrontation, their argumentechoing faintly through the
trees.
But not all of Old Grey'sstories are forged in violence.
Some belong to voices thatshaped American literature.
Cornelius Coffin Williams,father of playwright Tennessee
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Williams, rests here, hisfuneral forever captured in the
writer's story, The Man in theOverstuffed Chair.
Eliza Bon Hodginson, mother ofFrancis Hodgson Burnham, is also
buried in these grounds aswell.
Her grave one of the fewsurviving traces of the author's
early life in Knoxville, afaint thread connecting the city
to the secret garden.
(18:05):
Author Peter Taylor drew uponOld Grey's atmosphere too,
describing a 1916 funeral inKnoxville Cemetery, in the
Tennessee country.
Many believe he was invokingthe grand procession held for
his own grandfather, GovernorRobert Love Taylor, whose 1912
burial drew tens of thousands.
(18:25):
Whether factual orfictionalized, Olgray's shadows
seeped into Taylor's work, justas they have seeped into the
city's collective memory.
As they move beyond the gravesof feuding families, of fiery
politicians, and men who meteach other in smoke and blood,
Olgray begins to tell adifferent story, one of
ambition, intellect, and quietinfluence.
(18:47):
The cemetery is not just aresting place for grudges and
vengeance.
It's also home to men and womenwho shaped Knoxville and the
wider world through diplomacy,education, and civic courage.
Just on the hill risk EbenezerAlexander, ambassador, educator,
and early a champion of themodern Olympic Games, a man who
took lessons from the past andgave them in life to the
(19:10):
present.
Near the entrance lies HoraceMayard, the loyal unionist and
diplomat who refused to abandonhis post when Tennessee
succeeded, lending his effortsto history as far afield as the
ruins of Troy.
And not far from them is LizzieCrozer French, who transformed
personal loss into publicactivism, raising her child
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alone while fighting tirelesslyfor women's rights, living to
see every vote she had longdemanded become a law.
Towering above them all is theobelisk of the Tyson family,
commemorating military service,civic duty, and the weight of
parental grief turned a legacy.
General Lawrence Davis Tyson,celebrated for his leadership in
(19:50):
World War I, rests here besidehis son, Lieutenant McGee Tyson,
a young aviator who died inservice during this same war.
McGee's mother Betty completesthe family plot, where ambition,
sacrifice, and memory riseabove the trees, their stone
reaching skyward like a silentcall to remembrance.
The name should sound familiarto many who flowed into
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Knoxville, as the city's airportbears McGee Tyson's name in his
honor.
Many of Old Grey's monumentsstand apart from the typical
stones of the 19th century, eachcarving telling a story that
reaches beyond the name and dateat Chedon marble.
Even more arresting is thegrave of D.
H.
Holloway, whose death was assudden as it was dramatic.
He perished when a railwaybridge collapsed beneath his
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train, sending the engine andcars plunging into the ravine
below.
His tombstone immortalizes thedisaster in stark relief, the
bridge giving way, thelocomotive tilting into its
fall, a chilling memorial and apermanent witness to a
life-ending in catastrophe.
Just beyond one of Old Grey'swinding lanes stands a marble
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statue of a little girl,delicate and solemn.
Her gaze cast downward as iflost in thought.
Locals call her the LillianGaines statue, but her true
identity remains shrouded inuncertainty.
In the stillness of thecemetery, visitors often lay
flowers in her lap, offeringcomfort to a child who seems
eternally waiting.
(21:18):
As Jack Neely, co-author of TheMarble City, once remarked, the
Lillian Gaines statue tears meup every time I see it.
Whether she was truly namedLillian Gaines, or whether the
name rose from a whisperedlegend, no surviving records
confirm who she is.
And yet the statue endures, asymbol of innocence, loss, and
(21:38):
the unspoken stories Old Greykeeps tucked among its trees and
shadows.
Not far from Lillian rests thegrave of Lazarus C.
Shepherd, crowned by a hollowmonument that gained a peculiar
noty during the Prohibition era,reputedly serving as a discreet
job-off point for bootleggedliquor, an echo of defiance
carved into stone.
(21:58):
The cemetery also holds thegrave of Frank S.
Meade, the first president ofthe Ross Republic Marble
Company, a reminder ofKnoxville's once thriving marble
industry.
Much of the tombstones andmonuments across the city were
carved from native Tennesseemarble, turning the very
landscape into a memorial ofcraftsmanship and commerce.
(22:19):
In the 1890s, H.
V.
Maxwell wrote in the Chacanoogabase tradesman, describing
Knoxville as the marble city ofthe Union, a city built
literally and figuratively fromstone, or even the dead rest
among monuments to humanambition and artistry.
I'm in the winding paths andshaded groves of Old Grey
(22:39):
Cemetery, once at a monument ofgrief and devotion, unlike any
other, the Albers Fountain,dedicated in 1890 in memory of
Ella King Albers.
It rose 20 feet in theKnoxville sky, cast in iron and
crowned with statues of mourningwomen, their faces etched with
sorrow that never faded.
Water once spilled from itsbasins, murmuring like whispers
(23:02):
of prayers among the stones, alullaby for those who have gone
before us.
But time and war would not letit stand.
During the stark years of WorldWar II, the fountain was
dismantled, its iron claimed forthe machinery of conflict, its
voices silenced.
For decades, only the emptymarble circles remained, a
ghostly memory of love and loss,a echo where grief once flowed.
(23:27):
In the 21st century, Old Grey'scaretakers brought new life
into the long-lost monument.
Using old photographs and theoriginal iron casting that had
been preserved, they were ableto faithfully rebuild the
fountain.
Today, with water flowing fromits upper basin again, the
fountain feels less like a relicand more like a welcome part of
the cemetery's landscape.
(23:48):
It stands as a reminder of thepeople who came before, of their
grief, their memories, and thehope they had carried.
Standing beside it, you couldalmost imagine the mourning
women who once gathered here,and perhaps even feel Ella's
presence, quietly watching overa place that had always been
part of her story.
Olgury is not merely a restingplace for the dead.
(24:10):
It's a city of shadows, wherethe living occasionally brush
against what lingers beyond theveil.
Among its winding paths andshaded groves, the air seems
thick with memory, grief, andsomething else, something
unquiet.
One of the most enduringfigures is the Lady in White.
Pale and urethral, she driftssilently among the stones, her
(24:31):
gaze cast downward, as ifmourning a loss, the time is not
diminished.
Some say she's Mary CrushWoody, widow of the prominent
brickmaker Martin Woody.
Others whisper her name isAnnie Lowe, a woman bound to
tragedy and scandal.
Witnesses have described seeingher lean against trees or
wander the past at twilight,searching for what never can
(24:52):
return.
On full moon nights, she's saidto appear beyond even the
gates, gliding into thesurrounding woods like a sigh of
the past.
Then there is Black Aggie, theshadowy sentinel of old gray.
Cloaked in darkness, he movessilently among the headstones,
his presence heavier than thenight itself.
Some claim to hear whispers ofhis name, or feel a chilling
(25:14):
touch as they pause among thegraves.
Photographs taken at duskreveal his distorted silhouette,
an imprint of grief or ragethat refuses to fade.
Whether he's a man, a spirit,or a fragment of the cemetery
itself, Black Aggie has become aliving legend, a reminder that
some souls linger long after thebody rests.
The cemetery is no strangerthough to violent ends.
(25:37):
Herb Evers, killed inKnoxhold's only recorded duel,
is said to haunt the groundstill to this day.
His anger, humiliation, and theabruptness of his death cling
to the shadows, giving pause tothose who wander near his
unmarked resting place.
An Abner Baker, lynched byUnion soldiers, is said to
whisper on windswept nights, arestless presence reminding
(25:59):
visitors that even some deathsare never at peace.
Within Old Grey, the air feelsotherworldly, just as the
Victorians intended.
Its timeless gates, once builtto welcome carriages, now open
onto a world that seems pausedbetween centuries.
There's a subtle sense of beingwatched, of something lingering
(26:19):
just beyond the edges ofvision.
But the historians of Knoxvilleare quick to remind visitors
that this isn't how they wishthe cemetery to be seen.
One YouTube clip captures alocal historian declaring he
refuses to conduct tours inOctober, when the association
with spookiness is strongest,understandably so.
How many would enter the gatesof an old cemetery if it were
(26:41):
simply old, serene, and solemn?
Yet when ghost tales andapparitions circulate, the foot
traffic rises, vandalism creepsin, and that quietery charm
risks being lost.
Here in the Grim we revel in agood haunting, but we know that
history must always takeprecedence over the lore.
Yet the lore can't becontained.
(27:02):
It seeps into the cracks ofmemory and stone, into whispered
conversations, into therestless imagination of the
living.
Unlike the carefully recordedevents of the past, it resists
order.
It refuses to be catalogued,but it can't be erased.
In all gray history andhaunting coexist, sometimes
(27:22):
clashing in an uneasy tension,sometimes intertwined in perfect
harmony, both are woven intothe very fabric of the cemetery,
making every path, everymonument, every shadow an
unforgettable journey, into thepast and into the unseen.
For now, the stories of oldGrey slip back into stone, and
(27:42):
the dead return to their uneasyrest, yet they're never silent
for long.
Thank you for walking with usthrough the veil into Old Grey
Cemetery, descending once moreinto the hauntings of history.
The gate is sealed, the veildrawn, yet death keeps no
calendar, and so we shallreturn, as we always do, on the
(28:03):
grim.
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