skilful designer, Major Douglas, U.S.E., completed the laying out of the Mount Hermon grounds, when a strong desire was manifested in all quarters to do away with _intra mural_ burials. In a very short time, the Roman Catholics had selected as a cemetery the lovely old seat of the late Mr. Justice P. Panet, on the banks of the St. Charles, whilst a few years later the shady groves of Belmont, on the Ste. Foye road, were required for a similar object. 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. Henry Edmund Baines, Royal Artillery, whose death was occasioned by his noble efforts to arrest the progress of the calamitous fire which, on the 14th Oct., 1866 destroyed a large portion of the city. Born at Shrewsbury, England, April 4, 1840 Died at Quebec Oct. 27, 1866

Surmounting the epitaph is the coat of arms of the Royal Artillery, chiselled out of the solid block by the hands of a finished artist, with the motto of the regiment in a scroll underneath--"_Quo fas et gloria ducunt_' The erection of this, monument to the memory of the brave but unfortunate young officer is a noble tribute of gratitude on the part of our citizens, and in entrusting its execution to our talented fellow-townsman, Mr. Morgan, the committee has shown a wise, discretion that makes the completion of their task one upon which they may heartily congratulate themselves.

A VOICE FROM MOUNT HERMON

DEDICATED TO MRS. BAINES, BY MRS. A. CAMPBELL

My dust lies sleeping here, Mother dear! In this, far off distant land, Away from your little band, And the touch of loving hand, Your boy lies sleeping here, Mother dear!

The Ocean rolls between Mother dear! You and your own boy's grave, And the distant rush of waves On the pebbly shore to lave, Is the requiem sung between, Mother dear!

Mine is a sweet green spot. Mother dear! And the song of the bird Is ever heard In the trees that gird Us, in this quiet spot Mother dear!

And echo answers here Mother dear! The tinkle of chapel bell, And the murmur of its knell And the mourners "_It is well_,' Echo answers here, Mother dear!

To picture my last home, Mother dear! I am laid me down to rest, Where "Our Father" saw 'twas best, In this quiet little nest, For my last home, Mother dear!

And my spirit is with Him, Mother dear! In the precious home above, Where all is light and love, There rests your own dear dove, Now with Him, Mother dear!

Through Jesus' blood I'm here, Mother dear! In this happy, heavenly land, One of a glorious band, Touched by His healing hand, Through Jesus I am here, Mother dear!

So dry that bitter tear, Mother dear! 'Twill not be very long Ere with Jesus you'll sing the song, Sung by those who to Him belong, And wipe that bitter tear-- Mother dear!

BARDFIELD

THE LATE BISHOP MOUNTAIN'S COUNTRY SEAT.

"Far from me and my friends be that frigid philosophy, which can make us pass unmoved over any scenes which have been consecrated by virtue, by valour, or by wisdom."--JOHNSON.

Pleasant the memories of our rustic homes! 'Tis pleasant, after December's