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Called hence at the same age, and ministering haply in the same angelic service, may Rosina Johnson be, whose ashes lie at a short distance, beneath heartsease and forget-me-not, honeysuckle and yew—
"As a flower, beautiful in form, she came forth, and was cut down; and like fragrance rich and grateful was the amiability of her disposition to all who knew her."
Passing a striking tomb, with rich corner ornaments, in honour of "John Campbell," the arms sculptured, with the impressive motto, "Follow me!" we stop to notice one of those inscriptions, of which the Cemetery contains several—records of grateful respect for the services of faithful dependents:—
"To the memory of Eleanor Anderson this stone is raised, as a tribute to long and faithful services, and as a testimony of attachment and regard, by the Duchess of Sutherland and her children."
If, for a contrast to such honourable tributes, for a touching evidence of the grateful remembrance in which the employer may hold the employed, we turn to a distant walk, we find one upon a simple stone, at whose foot spring a few evergreens—
"To Richard Stanton, M.D., erected by Sarah Towers, for many years his confidential housekeeper."
Returning, we find over the dust of William Henry Doggett, a verse which none but a doting mother could have ever dreamed of writing—
Long shall we bathe thy memory with a tear;
Farewell, too promising on earth to dwell!
Sweetest of fondlings-best of babes, farewell!"
And if rapturous affection sometimes run into eccentricity, who can help pitying while they smile! Little William Brown is made to say of himself—
Pride of my parent's hearts,
Who soothed my sorrow when I cried,
And press'd me to their breast."
From the graves of the early-nipp'd, reminding us that no medicine can avail, we passed to an imposing mausoleum, inscribed "James Morison, the Hygeist;” and were immediately afterwards stopped, as by the touch of an angel, where the remains of the youthful Elizabeth Hermitage are covered with a plain stone, on which a handful of flowers had been newly scattered. A sister had been there!
Around us are testimonies of affection hallowing every degree of relationship. Mark a niece's intensity of love struggling to express itself in a tribute to Mrs. Ball—
A dear and affectionate friend;
To me she will never return,
To her I hope to ascend.
Can nature do less than weep?
Oh no, for my tears flow so fast,
No bounds my poor nature can keep."
Pause, reader! and contemplate this square tomb of fine white veined marble. What elegant scholarship, what intellectual energy, what various knowledge of books and men, what practical skill above all, perhaps, what kindliness of heart and steadiness of friendship, have gone down to it! It is erected
"In memory of Thomas Barnes , M.A., of Pembroke College, Cambridge, and editor of the Times journal, died 7th of May, 1841 , aged 55 years.
"He was a man of eminent service to his country, and his death, to a numerous circle of friends, was a personal misfortune. As a politician, he conducted public opinion with great moral courage, inflexible integrity, and genuine patriotism; while he was distinguished by fine talents and a graceful elocution. Learning in him was united with facility, criticism with taste, and elegance with ease. The nation found in him a mind familiar with our native manners and institutions, and acquainted, through every grade, with the vast fabric of our social system. He was noble by being beneficial to others and disinterested in himself. In magnanimity above the vicissitudes of the world, he was a generous spirit—amiable in his domestic relations, and in his social qualities without an equal."
We must not pass the quaint lines inscribed on the tomb of Edward Hewson—
Some only breakfast and away;
Others to dine, and are well fed;—
The oldest man but sups and goes to bed.
Larger his debts who lingers out the day—
Who goes the soonest has the least to pay!"
Before we enter the Colonnade adorned with beautiful tablets, or inspect the Catacombs over which we now walk, shall we turn off towards the Circle, whither so many splendid and interesting objects attract us? And here as we wander, the eye glancing from the flower-circled tomb to the lofty column, from the delicate marble to the massive granite, by what a name is it suddenly arrested! "Charlotte Sophia Lockhart, daughter of Sir Walter Scott, of Abbotsford, Bart.;" while an inscription on the other side records that her sister, Anne Scott, reposes there also, having perished in her thirtieth year. What mourners