Strangers are apt to wonder first at the longevity common in the parish—then at the humour of the thing—and go away both contented and deceived. For some time it was not uncommon to quote a grave passage from Shakespeare, with decent omission of the author’s name; when, however, a revolutionist not only published “Shakespeare” on a headstone, but “Romeo and Juliet” too, the vicar was approached, the sexton ran a risk every day, the inn-keeper, the J.P. was approached. The bereaved person had in the meantime erased the offending words, and until recently you might read—
“God rest his soul! He was a merry man,”
beneath which the curious eye may still discover “Kings iii.” placed there in homage to parish prejudice. The storm almost raised by the introduction of two lines by Robert Burns—“a poet as well as a drunkard,” according to village rumour—is still remembered. The parish clerk having doubted whether it was in “Ancient and Modern” took refuge in the book of Ecclesiastes, until a confidant (a fearless thinker and a friend of Chartists) swore it was written by a lord. The vicar was questioned. Opening a book whose cover was well known to the doubter, and repeating with nasal unction the offending words, he drew tears and apologies from the man. After that comparative freedom of choice was enjoyed, and some went bravely back to
“Afflictions sore long years I bore,”
as recently as 1885. Tennyson was in favour at that time; no one grumbled since he was the author of
“That good man, the clergyman.”
But when I brush aside the leaves and flowers of herb honesty, growing by the older graves, although I am willing to admit that the village view of death has become more solemn, I cannot but wish back again the author of
“This world has lost old John the sexton,
What business has he in the next one?”