by a large assemblage of friends of all shades of political opinion; nor were the compositors and pressmen of the Courier office, headed by their foreman, the late Mr Andrew Tough, the least interesting part of that procession. The body was borne to the ground on men's shoulders, and the pall-bearers were—head, Mr C. A. Motherwell, his nephew; foot, Mr—now Sir James Campbell; sides, Mr Whyte, Mr M'Laren, Mr M'Arthur, Mr Philip Ramsay, Captain Andrew Hamilton, Sheriff Campbell.[1]
Motherwell's death was deeply regretted by the citizens of Glasgow generally, and with unaffected sorrow by his more immediate relatives, friends, and associates. Its suddenness invested it with a melancholy interest, and in the presence of that dread messenger whose approach no 'eye can detect, and whose stern impartiality makes no distinction of age, sex, or condition, it was felt that the tempest of political warfare should be stilled, and that those hollow differences which so often separate kindred spirits in life should be buried in that grave which now contained
- ↑ It is painful to be obliged to state that Motherwell's grave cannot be discovered without the assistance of a guide, not being marked by even a headstone and the initials W. M. This is not as it should be, and I am sure that it is only necessary to call the attention of his surviving friends to a circumstance so little creditable to all of us, to have this reproach immediately removed. The grave is situated at the north-eastern corner of the burying-ground, and at the bend of the road which leads up the hill, to the right hand. It is a little triangular space covered with weeds, lying between the tombs of Mr Wm. Sloan, on the right, and Mr Alex. Patrick, on the left.
D
