It is the last
resting-place of the Rosebrook family, which their negroes,
partaking of that contentment so characteristic of the family, have
planted with flowers they nurture with tenderest care. There is
something touching in the calm beauty of the spot; something
breathing of rural contentment. It is something to be buried in a
pretty grave-to be mourned by a slave-to be loved by the untutored.
How abject the slave, and yet how true his affection! how dear his
requiem over a departed friend! "God bless master-receive his
spirit!" is heard mingling with the music of the gentle breeze, as
Harry, sitting at the head of the grave, looks upward to heaven,
while earth covers from sight the mortal relics of a once kind
master.
It has been a day of sadness at the villa-a day of mourning and
tribulation. How different the scene in the city! There, men whisper
strange regrets. Sympathy is let loose, and is expanding itself to
an unusual degree. Who was there that did not know Marston's
generous, gushing soul! Who was there that would not have stretched
forth the helping hand, had they known his truly abject condition!
Who that was not, and had not been twenty times, on the very brink
of wresting him from the useless tyranny of his obdurate creditors!
Who that had not waited from day to day, with purse-strings open,
ready to pour forth the unmistakeable tokens of friendship! How many
were only restrained from doing good-from giving vent to the
fountains of their hospitality-through fear of being contaminated
with that scandal rumour had thrown around his decline! Over his
death hath sprung to life that curious fabric of living generosity,
so ready to bespread a grave with unneeded bounties,--so emblematic
of how many false mourners hath the dead.
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