* * * The Grave Of
Those We Loved - What A Place For Meditation.
There it is that we call
up in long review the whole history of virtue and gentleness, and the
Thousand endearments lavished upon us almost unheeded in the daily
intercourse of intimacy; there it is that we dwell upon the
tenderness, the solemn, awful tenderness of the parting scene; the bed
of death with all its stifled grief; its noiseless attendants; its
mute, watchful assiduities; the last testimonies of expiring love; the
feeble, faltering, thrilling (oh, how thrilling!) pressure of the
hand; the last fond look of the glazing eye, turning upon us from the
threshold of existence; the faint, faltering accents struggling in
death to give once more assurance of affection! aye, go to the grave
of buried love and meditate! There settle the account with thy
conscience for every past benefit unrequited, every past endearment
unregarded of that being who can never, never, never return to be
soothed by thy contrition. If thou art a child and hast ever added a
sorrow to the soul, or a furrow to the silvered brow of an
affectionate parent; if thou art a husband and hast ever caused the
fond bosom that ventured its whole happiness in thy arms to doubt one
moment of thy kindness or thy truth; if thou art a friend and hast
ever wronged in thought, word or deed the spirit that generously
confided in thee; if thou art a lover and hast ever given one
unmerited pang to that true heart that now lies cold and still beneath
thy feet, then be sure that every unkind look, every ungracious word,
every ungentle action will come thronging back upon thy memory and
knocking dolefully at thy soul....
Then weave that chaplet of flowers and strew the beauties of nature
about the grave; console thy broken spirit if thou canst with these
tender, though futile, tributes of regret; but take warning over the
dead, and be more faithful and affectionate in the discharge of thy
duties to the living." Reader, allow not pensive September to close in
without visiting Mount Hermon, linger under its silent shades, go
partake of the joy of grief, and meditate at the grave of a buried
love.
"MONUMENT TO LIEUT. BAINES, R.A. - Few of our readers but recollect and
cherish the name of Lieut. Baines, who unfortunately lost his life
while gallantly endeavoring to arrest the progress of the
conflagration which destroyed the greater portion of St. Roch's
suburbs in October, 1866. His gallant devotion to duty, and his zeal
in one of the most praiseworthy and charitable objects that ever
engaged the attention of man, has caused his memory to be cherished
with love and respect by every one of our citizens. Last year the
ladies of the General Hospital sent a tribute of their gratitude to
his widowed mother in England, worked by their own hands. Now the
citizens of Quebec have completed their share of the grateful task.
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