Weekly Trinity journal., 1868-11-28
The Poetry of Death.

A short time ago, benevolent man in San
Francisco, took an invalid from the hospital, and
had him cared for and restored to health in his
own house. The good man had beautiful
daughter of some fourteen years, and the inva-
lid having been much in her society and under
her gentle care, fell incontrollably in love. But
the young girl meant only the kindness of hu-
manity, and could make no return of his pas
sion. His attentions were forbidden, and, as the
tragic sequel proved, the young mans reason
was overthrown. Having first attempted to
poison the whole family, he crept to the girls
room in the night and having murdered the OBJ
ject of his idolatry, blew out his own brains
1t is of course, impossible to think that Lau-
rentz Jacobson was in his right senses when the
terrible crime committed and it would re-
quire the analytical genius of the opium-eating
author of '' Murder as a Fine Art, to follow the
operations of his mind from the inception of the
dreadful purpose to its tragic and appalling con-
summation. Suffice it to say that we have never
read, either of reality or romance, anything
more shocking to human sensibilities, or more
deeply melancholy in its associations. 1t seems
that which at first may have been pure and fer
vent love, became transformed to ghastly muir
der in the horrid laboratory of despair.
The poor girl survived her assassin some
twenty-four hours, and she spoke only once
saying, "Pa, | am cold" But amid all that
had been SO sorrowful, so heart-breaking, SO un-
SDeakaDly crushing III LudI uOuScuOiuj tHCiC DO-
fel an incident, there came something memor-
ably beautiful-shapes like the descent of angels
to vale of shadows. The school companions
of the little sufferer gathered about the house,
and the physician not permitting them to enter
the room where she was lying, they remained
outside all day, and some of them all night and
when she was dead, hundreds of sympathetic
young friends accompanied her body to the
grave Such a mournful cortege of youth,
beauty and purity had never been seen in that
city of impulse and passion. And so, borne
away to Lone Mountain, as it were in the white,
round arms of girlish affection, and pressed in
thought to snowy bosoms heaving in impetuous
sorrow for her misfortunes, the hapless Miss
Mcdonald was buried in the very Poetry of
Death.
We are reminded of Colonel Bakers words at
the dedication of Lone Mountain Cemetery, ring
ing like silver trumpet in the Valley and
Shadow of Death " Hither shall come the pale
maiden from the stricken homes of affection
hther shall come the grim warrior, all CORY from
the field of strife" Has it not been? And 60
ing before none of these melancholy professions
has there been any speeches. traveller more
beautiful than she who has so sadly fulfilled the
prophecy, no warrior so glorious so lamented
and immortal as he who uttered it. But, solemn
and dirge-like as the voices are that come up
from the troubled ocean, ghostly and pall-lke as
the shadows that overcast those sorrowful
heights, all is not gloomy and hopeless and chill
ing to the heart 1t cannot be that God has
created one SO beautiful so innocent so good, tc
be lost forever in the dreadful votex of Annihi.
lation? The gentlest flower that is cut down by
the frost. the serest leaf that is whirled in the
gales of Autumn, is restored at the next corona.
tion of the year; and though this Scottish Glass
o. Gowrie" will be found no more among the
heather-blooms around her fathers house, she
will be found all radiant and expectant on the
farther shore, not pale and disfgured by the
cruel implements of murder, but glorious and
exultant in the vgor and beauty of eternal life
Oakland Transcript.