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and beyond this, with one word of the record inscribed in italic letters, is a column—
"Sacred to the memory of Francis, the only child of Derwentwater and Lela Anne Radcliffe."
What a depth of meaning—what a gush of agony—what a sense of loneliness and bereavement, are in that word only, so inscribed!
Do you note that tomb, coffin-shaped, on which is written—"Edwin, the eldest son!" Now glance further down the South Walk!—the walk, not dreary, not desolate—oh no! beautiful, and arched with rainbows, in spite of these evidences of mourning—and observe the plain, flat stone, which bears these words, and these alone—"Sacred to the memory of a beloved mother." How touchingly does the parental tenderness in one place harmonize with the filial delicacy and devotion in the other!
It was a beautiful conception, to illustrate, by a broken shaft, a column, rising in strength and snapped midway—the sudden cessation of life in its prime and vigour-cut off where its ties were strongest, and the pride of health gave promise of length of days. There are several of these images in the Cemetery.
A plain stone pillar, bearing a cushion of white marble, on which rests a soldier's hat and various insignia, marks the burial-place of
"Col. Gorrequer, who served upwards of forty years in the army;"
and at a little distance is an ivy-circled tomb of white marble, the home of
"Frederick Augustus Rosen, a profound Oriental scholar."
Above the ashes of John Kennedy, Holywood House, county Down, as an affecting inscription states—
To cover his remains, and wait her own."
The resignation here expressed is intimated also, though in a very different manner, over the grave of two young sisters, named Jenks—
Thy parents still live who supported thy heads;
And though you have left them they cannot repine,
Aware that no bliss can be greater than thine."
Whatever feelings these lines may suggest, we find the simple "J. L. H.," or "W. A. H. ," which appear on infant graves close by, at least as touching.
More suggestive and mysterious still is the spell with which we linger round the turf that covers some fair but unnamed being; some "Helen," some "Caroline," with whose spirits we seem to hold a more intimate communion, in virtue of the very obscurity that wraps their ashes. We are struck with the blank in the record,—with the vacuity which at first appeals to the imagination to supply a name and then invites the feeling to join in sweeter intercourse with theirs who withheld it. We would not hear the other name if we might—it would chill us with the intelligence that a stranger's dust is beside us. The peculiar charm would bebroken, the subtle tie would instantly dissolve. As it is, how closely are we united to the deceased! "Helen" contains a little history; "Caroline" is somebody that we knew. The very familiarity wins our sympathies; and knowing so little of the dwellers below, we feel that we know more than can ever be known of the stranger. Sacred is the sentiment that dictated the scanty record; sweet be the sleep of the lamented; and silver-lined, like the cloud in "Comus," the grief that hangs over the mourners!
Affecting is the character of the plain pillar, and the mignonette which marks where lies "Eliza Locke, aged 20." This is one of the many that contrasts with the handsome square granite monument, inscribed with names once associated with a gayer scene in St. James's-street—names that having lived through various report, are now linked with the "nil nisi bonum," of the sepulchre—
Robert Bond, Esq. , beloved and lamented. Ephraim Bond, brother to the above. He was a man, and nothing that relates to a man was foreign to his feelings.
He might have fill'd high honour's palmy seat,
And with a heart benevolent and kind;
Where haply rank and genius joy to meet."