Cemetery wasn’t in UVa plans

First of a three-part series.

Midway through 1828 a deadly typhoid epidemic swept through Charlottesville, mercilessly striking down young and old.

John Temple, a University of Virginia student from King and Queen County, was one of its victims. Perhaps he first thought his severe headache was caused by too much studying.

The popular student likely sensed it was more serious than that when his temperature began to climb and pain wracked his body. By the time pink spots erupted on his body, he had sunk into delirium and then expired on July 19, 1828.

Brothers in arms

Within hours of Temple’s passing, his fellow students gathered in the Rotunda, “for the purpose of testifying their respect for the memory of their departed friend and fellow student.” The downcast students and teachers resolved to wear black crepe on their left arms for 30 days in honor and remembrance of their departed friend.

At 6 p.m. that evening students and faculty members again gathered to form a procession to escort “the remains of the deceased to the place of interment.” That place was soon to evolve into the University of Virginia Cemetery.

When Thomas Jefferson designed the school, he hadn’t included a cemetery. The epidemic made one necessary.

Fortunately, an unused piece of land between the Rotunda and Observatory Hill was available. When the university had purchased the 153-acre parcel from John M. Perry on May 9, 1825, for the princely sum of $6,600.93, it was to ensure reliable access to a water supply.

Price of water

The school got its water from a nearby reservoir, and the pipes that carried the water were buried on the property. School officials worried that Perry could remove the pipes, thereby cutting them off from the essential resource.

The Board of Visitors initially balked when they learned of the steep asking price. But after much discussion, board members realized the land was a key element in the future of the school.

Reluctantly the board authorized Arthur S. Brockenbrough, the university’s first proctor, to pay Perry his asking price. It soon would prove to be a wise decision.

When the pallbearers carried Temple’s casket to the field that is now flanked by Alderman and McCormick roads, there was a fresh grave already there. Dr. Henry William Tucker has the distinction of being the first person buried in the cemetery.

Tucker was the younger

brother of professor George Tucker, who taught moral philosophy at the school. The physician also had succumbed to typhoid and was buried near what is now the west wall of the old cemetery.

As the hot summer wore on, new mounds of recently turned red soil extended the line of graves. Other UVa students, including Henry Townsend Conway and Laban J. Hoyle, fell prey to disease and were buried there.

Just as the typhoid epidemic began to flag, university students started to come down with measles and dysentery. The one-two punch caused the Rev. William Meade to stand at his pulpit and warn his congregation that the maladies that were taking so many lives were an admonition from God that the new university should be more accepting of him.

Where the minister would have laid the blame for death by misadventure isn’t known. Nonetheless, that was the fate of UVa student John A. Glover.

The particulars of Glover’s tragic death were saved for posterity in an 1897 letter written by Col. C.C. Wertenbaker, son of the university’s first librarian, William Wertenbaker. The correspondence was a reply to a query from J.A. Harrison about the early history of the cemetery.

The incident that resulted in Glover’s death occurred on April 9, 1846. A circus was in town, and he and some of his fellow students went to see it.

The circus specialized in animal acts, and one of the most dangerous involved a lion pulling a cart with an animal trainer in it. The performance called for the trainer to be completely focused on keeping the lion under control and moving forward.

Just before the act the audience was asked not to do anything during the performance that might spook the cat. For whatever reason, Glover ignored the request and flicked a smoldering cigar at the lion.

The cigar flew between the bars and, when it landed near the lion in a spray of sparks, the large feline went ballistic. During the ensuing uproar the enraged trainer managed to get out of the cage without being mauled.

The trainer had seen Glover toss the cigar, and now blind with rage he started toward the student. Along the way he picked a large tent peg off the ground and used it to deliver a tremendous blow against Glover’s head.

The victim went down in a heap, and the situation quickly descended into chaos. Students went on a rampage, destroying every piece of circus equipment and baggage they could find.

The trainer fled for his life, and was never seen again. When Glover died two days later, the circus owner was put on trial for murder, but was eventually acquitted.

By the time of Glover’s death, the graveyard was little bigger than the family cemeteries that could be found on many local farms. That would all change when the blood of Civil War began to turn the soil of Virginia an even deeper red.

Next: War comes to the university.