The Ornamentation Of A Necropolis Must Naturally
Be A Work Of Time, Trees Do Not Spring Up In One Summer,
Nor do lawns
clothe themselves with a soft, green velvety surface in one season, and if
the flowers in Mount
Hermon are so beautiful and so well attended to, the
secret in a measure possibly rests with the landscape gardener located at
the entrance, and who professes to furnish flowers for the adornment of
cemetery lots, and to plant and keep them fresh during the summer. The St.
Charles, St. Patrick and Belmont Cemeteries, which do not enjoy in the
same measure these facilities, cannot be expected to possess all the
rustic adornments of their elder brother. One may safely predict that ere
many summers go by, our public cemeteries, by their natural beauty, are
likely to attract crowds of strangers, as Greenwood and Mount Auburn do in
the States. Chaste monumental marbles, on which can be detected the chisel
of English, Scotch and Canadian artists, are at present noticeable all
over the grounds, tastefully laid out and smiling parterres of annuals
and perennials throw a grateful fragrance over the tomb where sleeps
mayhap a beloved parent, a kind sister, an affectionate brother, a true
friend, a faithful lover. How forcibly all this was brought to our minds
recently on strolling through the shady walks of Mount Hermon. Under the
umbrageous trees, perfumed by roses and lilies, tombs, [239] silent,
innumerable tombs on all sides, on marble, the names of friends, kindred,
acquaintances, solemn stillness all round us, at our feet the placid
course of our majestic flood. There were indeed many friends round us,
though invisible, nay, on counting over the slumberers, we found we had
more, though not dearer friends, in this abode of peace than within the
walls of yonder city. Overpowered by mournful, though soothing thoughts,
we walked along pondering over those truthful reflections of Washington
Irving: -
"There is a voice from the tomb sweeter than song, there is a
recollection of the dead to which we turn ever from the charms of the
living Oh, the grave! the grave! It buries every error, covers every
defect, extinguishes every resentment. From its peaceful bosom spring
none but fond regrets and tender recollections. * * * 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. We
had the mournful pleasure yesterday of viewing one of the most chaste
and graceful monuments that adorn Mount Hermon Cemetery, erected by
public subscription, and placed over the grave of one whose memory is
so dearly cherished by all. The monument is of the Egyptian style of
architecture, an obelisk 18 feet in height, with a base of 4 feet 10
inches, designed and modelled by our talented fellow-citizen, Mr. F.
Morgan, sculptor, St. John street, so many of whose classic memorials
of the dead grace Mount Hermon. It is cut from a solid block of
imported sandstone, and in chasteness of design or execution is not
excelled on this continent. It bears the following inscription: -
Erected by the citizens of Quebec
To preserve the memory
and to record their gratitude for the
gallant services of
Lieut.
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