Contributor.

Southern Cross, Volume 2, Issue 39, 22 December 1894, Page 5

Contributor.

THE SOUTHERN CEMETERY, DUNEDIN. This is the oldest burying place in Dunedin. At one time there was a tiny cemetery, enclosed with a stone dyke, at the corner of Rattray and Arthur streets, but the pioneers of the settlement are laid to rest in the Southern Cemetery. Let us wmlk through it—we may find something which may interest us. Passing up the central path we come to atall monument in the shape of a spire, erected to the memory of Mr St. John Branigan, the first Commissioner of Police on the goldfields. His office was, I should think, no sinecure in those stirring days. Immediately opposite® stands the vault of the Jones family. ‘ Johnnie’ Jones, as he was familiarly called, was an old whaler in the early days of the settlement. . ‘ Fernhill Club’ was built by him. There is a neat obelisk mounted on an octagon of marble. This stone bears a sad history on its face. Mr Campbell the first Rector of the High School, was bringing his wife and family from the Old Country. Two servant girls were with them, and they were on the eve of arriving in Dunedin, their long and perilous journey all but over, and full of hope and vigour, to start life in the new colony. All was well on board the ‘Pride of the Yarra.’ Mr Campbell had one little child on his knee, one of the servants had another, the rest w r ere asleep when there was an awful crash, and without a moments warning they were all launched into eternity. Another vessel coming from Dunedin had run the steamer down. She sank immediately and all who were below at the time perished. The bodies were sought for burial, and there were tears in strong men’s eyes when the went down and found the little family sitting just as death had overtaken them. The names of Mr and Mrs Campbell and those of their five children are all on one stone, and a very neat cross is erected to the memory of the servants. Could there be a sadder history? Think of them coming so far only to find a grave in a lonely land, away from friends and kindred. Then there is a grave. No stone marks the spot, but daisies and othe lowly flowers show that kindly hands are prompted by loving hearts to keep it neat as a last tribute of respect to the dead. Yonder is a grave over which, perhaps, somebody bent in her woe, wondering if the sun could ever shine again. Yet here it is, the grass level with the fence, and the tombstone lying face down. Where are the mourners ? Ah, who can tell ? Across the sea, may be ; perhaps (for this is an old stone) dead themselves, and lying far from their loved one. There is Dr. Stuart’s grave. It is many years since he laid his wife to rest here, and since then two sons

and now he, too, rest from the labor and heat of the day* 2 —he who so often uttered the comforting words of the Resurrection, to mourners within these grounds. How strange a thing is death! Here we see the name of an infant, there of a young man or woman cut down in their youth, and here again that of some one full of years. The call is imperative —there is no waiting to cross the river. Here is a stone with several names on it, but one in particular attracts our attention —“ To the memory of one buried at sea.” We can fancy we see that funeral. The throb of the engines cease, and a silence reigns all over the vessel. Slowly the coffin is brought forward, covered with a flag’. The weeping friends follow to the gangway, and the service begins. How solemn sounds the splash which accompanies the sinking of the coffin in the hungry waters, till “ the sea shall give up its dead. On this tombstone is inscribed those beautiful lines of Mrs Hemans’ : “ The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one. He lies where pearls lie deep ; He was the loved of all, yet none O’er his low bed may weep.” Did you ever hear the term a God’s Acre ” applied to a burial place P I like it. It seems appropriate to the ground where so many are lying waiting for the last trump which will proclaim the coming of Christ to judge the quick and the dead. E. E. S.