But not only do the epitaphs suggest that life below is a snare; they are by no means too encouraging about the life above. The spirit they proclaim is a very poor one. Nothing can make death attractive; but even if some golden-mouthed advocate should arise whose eloquence half persuaded, the churchyard would beat him: the damp of it, the gloom of it, the mouldiness of it, the pathetic unconvincing efforts at resignation which the slabs record! We ought to be braver; more heartening to others. A rector who allowed none but cheerful epitaphs would be worth his tithes.
Would there be any very impossible impropriety in such an inscription as this—
Here Lies
JOHN SMITH
Who found earth pleasant and
rejoiced in its beauties and enjoyed
its savours; who loved
and was loved; and who would
fain go on living. He died
reluctantly, but wishes well to
all who survive him.
Carpe diem.
Reading that, the stranger would not necessarily (I hope) be transformed into a detrimental Hedonist.
And now and then a human foible might be recorded by the stonemason without risk of undermining society's foundations. When our friends are dead why should we not disclose a little? Some secrets are better out. Here for example—
Here Lies
(in no expectation of immortality)
THOMAS BROWN
He was no Friend of the
Church, but he paid his way,
interfered with none of his
neighbours, and his word was
his bond.
What would happen if Thomas Brown's friends paid for such lapidary style as that? Would the world totter? Again—
Here Lies
MARY JONES
The wife of William Jones.
Honour her memory, for she
was lenient when her husband
was in liquor.
I should also like to see memorial verses beginning: