Spirit of Jefferson. [volume] (Charles Town, Va. [W. Va.]) 1844-1948, 1898-02-22

blue-topped mountains. He loves our |
present and he loves our past, and such a
love is as eloquent as it is beautiful, as
strong as the adament and as gentle as
woman's And he has shown this love
in most substantial manner
When the neglected old fence around
Mt Hebron's honored dead had become
ruined mass and a disgrace to the town,
the generosity of Mr. Rouss provided a
lasting and an ornamental enclosure
When the people of great portion of our
town were suffering from an insufficient
supply of water, another gift veined our
streets with iron pipes and sent the cool
crystal waters of the new system every
where. But the gifts that have been most
appreciated, the gifts that will ever be
gratefully remembered are those with
which he has honored our firemen. When
the dilapidated hand engines had become
buildings of our town against the ravages
of fire, Mr.. Rouss stretched out the hand
of generosity towards our needs, and three
magnificent steam engines were the re-
suit. And when the Friendship Fire
Company needed new home his thou
sands made possible the beautiful build
ing that they now possess. And when
the Union Fire Company cramped and
crowded in the little hall, with something
of the pluck and nerve so characteristic
of Mr.. Rouss himself, left their small
quarters and built one of the handsomest
and most costly engine houses in the
United States to-day, the five thousand
dollar check that came to their aid bore
the signature of Charles Broadway Rouss.
Some years ago when the reaper Death
entered the home of our friend and bore
away a part of his own lite itself, the
broken hearted father, as if to show his
greater and his higher love for old Win
chester, brought his beloved dead to Vir-
ginia's beautiful Valley and laid them to
sleep among the daisies of Mt Hebron
And standing over the pure and unpol-
luted grave of his darling boy he mourn
fully asks in the language of the great
agnostic: "Will life's drama have an
end Will the curtain fall atlast2 Will
it rise again upon another scene? Rea-
son says perhaps; hope still whispers,
yes" Let us trust that from beyond the
azure skies and the bright stars, from be-
yond where Arcturus leads his sons and
Orion bathes in his sea of tinted light,
will come a healing answer, satisfying the
longings of reason and fulfilling the whis-
pers of hope--the answer that deaths
pathetic dust will one day thrill and throb
with life again"
Numerous and as generous as have
been hepublic gifts of Mr.. Rouss to Win
chester, to Virginia, and to the South
these are not alone his glory. Wherever
within his reach poverty and pain have
taken up their abode, wherever want and
penury have left their sickly touch in
the damp cellar, where the hungry cry
for bread; in the rude garnet, where the
wretched lie; wherever widows groans
are heard and orphans tears are seen
there the kindness and the benevolence
of Rou5s have been felt, comforting the
sorrowing, ameliorating and assuaging
the pain of the suffering, binding up the
worlds crnel wounds, while no human
hand recorded the good deed, no human
eye. save that of the receiver, saw the act
of love. But if the theory be true that
the air is one vast library, on whose pages
is forever written all that man ever said
or woman whispered, that not a word has
ever escaped from mortal lips, but is reg
istered indelibIy on the atmosphere we
breathe, more certainly and sublimely
true it is that the human heart is a vast
storehouse, in whose inmost recesses lie
hidden unknown treasures of love re-
ceived of kindness given, of friendships
influences. And when the great Keeper
shall reveal these secrets and these treas
ures, among those whose offerings and
whose influences shall have helped and
shaped the lives of hundreds will appear
the friend of the poor, the friend of the
friendless, Charles Broadway Rouss.
In all ages man has erected monuments.
These sentinels of the past, towering
heavenward and dipping their tops into
the blue skies, tell the story of by-gone
days. Upon their cold, silent marble we
read the history of races disappeared, the