Then rest my Love, while I in vain deplore Thy sudden Fate, and grieve thou art no more. One lone forest-moldy marker can be found, a memorial to a young woman, “Mary Bull, daughter to James and Margaret Cameron of the Island of Antigua in the West Indies,” who died in 1793 at the age of 28. The loving tribute reads: From Pains, from Sorrow, and from Care set free, Rest here secure in thine Integrity. Sutton’s eldest son David (Gordon Jackson) stumbles naively into this twilight world, an act of adolescent rebellion after his stern father has crushed his hopes of marrying his sister’s friend Mary. Allston, I forgive you, may God do the same.’ ” Young Beck’s grave is in the Huguenin cemetery, the tombstone showing his age as 21. There is the pathetic legend centering around a child’s grave in an old weed-grown cemetery of the Robert family and their relatives, near Robertville. Youngest in his family, the child is said to have died after a brief illness. This final blow to the father, ruined financially by the Confederate War, caused the old man to become mentally unbalanced. Because the little fellow had been extremely fond of cake, each year on his birthday anniversary, the grieving, deranged parent would trudge to the cemetery with a plate of cake and a glass of milk, placing them on the little mound. This pitiful custom ceased only when death claimed the father, too. In a book of memoirs by Mrs. N. B. DeSaussure is a story concerning a Bostick relative of hers. The young boy, not yet 16, was anxious to join his brothers in the Confederate army, but was held back for a while by his mother’s tearful pleas. Finally, the urge to enter combat became so strong that he ran away from home and enlisted. Summoning a loyal family servant, the mother entrusted her headstrong son to the care of this faithful black. “Follow him everywhere,” she commanded. “If he falls in battle, it shall be your duty to bring him back to me.” In North Carolina, the young soldier was wounded, dying later in a hospital. The slave placed the body in a rude coffin which he had made, and shouldering the box, began the long journey homeward on foot. Two weeks later, he laid the tragic burden down at the feet of his mistress. Many stories have been told and written of Mrs. Elizabeth Savage Heyward, second wife of Judge Thomas Heyward, Jr., the signer. It is said that she was a great beauty and belle in her youth, but after the death of her husband she became something of a recluse in their enormous “tabby” mansion, White Hall, on Euhaw Creek. As time passed, she became more and more eccentric, content to live there utterly alone, except for her servants, and sometimes a neighborhood child who came to browse in her famous library. In the quaint Schoolcraft volume published about the middle of the nineteenth century, an amusing anecdote is written about the visit of an Episcopal rector to Mrs. Heyward. It seems that this particular divine, being a native of New England and unused to blacks, was unable to overcome his fear and distrust of all Negro slaves. His aversion was known among the plantation owners of St. Luke’s Parish, and discussed with tolerant, private mirth. After partaking of the evening meal with his hostess, the clergyman was conducted through enormous, empty rooms to the one he was to occupy for the night. The ghostly, creaking vastness of the house proved too much for the nervous New Englander. When a manservant came later to the room on a routine, nightly errand, the panicky guest paid the slave to bring in a cot and sleep on it, in close proximity to the pastoral bed. In spite of former antipathy, no doubt black company was preferable, in a pinch, to none at all! The story spread around and was enjoyed heartily, according to Mrs. Schoolcraft. An interesting tale is told in connection with a skirmish at the Huguenin plantation on Bees Creek, during the Federal invasion. By an ironic twist of fate, the Yankee officer who happened to be in charge that day was a Colonel Abram Huguenin. As the flames were consuming the house, the officer learned that it was the home of a distant cousin when he discovered the Huguenin coat-of-arms. Drawing the line at burning out relatives, he at once ordered his men to extinguish the fires, but it was too late. However, by working frantically, they managed to save some of the silver, portraits, and furniture. These the Northern officer took away with him for safekeeping and, at the close of hostilities, returned the poignantly salvaged possessions intact to their owners. Here is one for the detective story writers, and the plot is presented to them gratis. No names can be mentioned, for obvious reasons. Some time in the 1880’s, a Charleston-trained printer from this section went to New York and opened a printing shop. During the visit of an adult son from “The Hill,” the man was found murdered and his little shop was ransacked. Sought by New York police, the son disappeared completely. Never again did he return to his native county or state. Years later, after the turn of the century, news trickled back to relatives here that the fugitive was living in a western city. His nephew, familiar with the story, decided to make the trip out there and see for himself. “It was my uncle, all right,” he reported later. “I knew him from his pictures and by the resemblance to the rest of the family.
They knew a season risk but they did not set a date. “He was the scapegoat,” said Dr. Howard Markel, a University of Michigan medical historian who knew Sencer. “I’d rather have somebody who over-reacted” than someone who didn’t do enough, he said. I have read that they can tolerate temperatures down to 40 degrees Fahrenheit but my own experience taught me not to let these palms ever see a temperature below 60 degrees. Others say 40 degrees is the limit. Today, you can still by sealing wax and a wax seal to do your own letters with this old custom. That night, the poor old mother came, and as she looked upon the prostrate, but still writhing form of her best beloved and handsome son, held down in his agony by four of his friends, exclaimed, ‘Col. But he denied absolutely all relationship, although he treated me with extreme cordiality and seemed to enjoy my visit.” Anyway, a legend is a tale of doubtful certainty. That’s what the dictionary says. GRAVED ON THE STONE “The next with dirges due in sad array Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne– Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.” There is a fascination about old cemeteries. Sometimes, one may walk among the stones and note the fragrance of a blooming shrub that permeates the air. Sometimes, every tree seems waiting for a lone bird’s cry in the sudden hush. Again, one peers through tangled growth to read a verse and sunbeams sharply fall across the ancient script, as if to aid. These places are not lonely. They typify a more expressive time, a time when persons verbalized poetic impulses; wrote out in rhyme their sentiment, admonition, affection, grief; and at times, resentment. As with far-off waves of music, part can be perceived and part imagined. There is the Bostick cemetery, near Brighton and Robertville. In a woodland setting and beautifully kept, its solitary white dignity makes a profound impression on the visitor. In it, only Bosticks and their relatives were supposed to be accorded a spot. Two outsiders, from Connecticut, rest in this cemetery but a slight and careful apology is made upon the tomb of each for this sufferance. “Mrs.
Thy loving Husband in silent Sorrow mourn And all thy Friends in grief weep o’er thy Tomb. In the Strobhar cemetery at Arm Oak, almost every tomb contains a verse suitable to the age of the deceased. 18ct gold signet rings are rich in colour and will darken with age – whatever carat you choose, it will last a lifetime. Because of this, signet rings are often referred to as ‘seal rings’. They are often given as 21st birthday presents, or are worn as wedding rings. Either of the issues you are having, the solution is the same – cool the stamp off. Stamp and leave it to cool for one to two minutes. Health officials became alarmed when cases of a flu virus linked to swine were detected in soldiers at Fort Dix, N.J., including one young man who died. A young matron is thus memorialized: From earth to heaven she takes her flight On faith’s wide wings she mounts afar And through the morning’s purest light She shines an everlasting star. Above a little child is found: Ever sin could blight or sorrow fade Death came with friendly care, The opening bud to Heaven conveyed And bade it blossom there.
Hence we do not set dates but we are very concerned that MAYBE someday soon the foolishness of Harold Camping and the events of the real return of Jesus will overlap and many more will not see because of the sin of Harold. He also says they will never know the day or hour of His return. He was “born in Petersborough, N. H., but lived the last 27 years of his life in this state.” So runs his epitaph : “May he sleep peacefully within this inclosure by the side of his elder brother, shaded by the branches of this spreading oak until that great and terrible day shall arrive when we must all appear before the Judgment seat of Christ to be rewarded according to our Merits.” Could therein be a hint that Mr. Ferguson’s conduct had not quite merited emulation? Where shell-lac cannot be procured, seed lac may be substituted for it.