by James Hannay (uncredited).
Originally published in Household Words (Bradbury & Evans) vol.6 #134 (16 Oct 1852).
It has happened to be my fortune to live during these summer months in the near neighbourhood of one of our London Cemeteries, within range of the odours of the roses, the mignonette, and other flowers that sustain by their presence there, thoughts of beauty and hope in the minds of those who choose to wander among the gravestones. Close to London it is pleasant and soothing to compare this tranquil, ornate ground with those wretched PLACES OF SKULLS which disfigure and disgrace the great town. Death seems quite a different thing, in comparison; indeed, only in such really becoming places is the sacredness of death and burial at all recognised. The unhappy burial-places in the city destroy and disgrace their own object. The original object of all interment under the walls of churches was of course natural enough; for it added sacredness to the grave. In that churchyard of St. Clement Danes, for example, how stood such considerations of old? To-day, the flat-beaten stones are lifted up now and then, disclosing a whity earth which tells far too clear a story, and a body is thrust in. But, once on a time—when Danes and all manner of sailors and foreign settlers were laid here under the protection of St. Clement—the space about was clear, and no thick rows of houses intercepted the sight of the flow of the river along its damp and pebbly Strand, as the funeral party grouped together near the church, and Father Anselm or Father Hugo spoke the Latin prayers. Now, the effect of the ceremony is precisely reversed: the church does not sanctify the burial, and the burial disgraces the church.
Cemeteries express the feelings, and meet the wants of an altered time. God's acre (to use the old German name) must not be a miserable tenth of an acre, where you sow death, and reap pestilence and fees. Burial must be made beautiful and sacred again. In various directions round London, as estates change hands and conveniences occur, pieces of spacious ground fall into the possession of societies. Yew trees, willow trees speckle them, walls encircle them. Temples are erected, and due consecration performed, that those whose creeds are different may each have for his remains the form of rite which his fathers professed. Groups of children, knots of decorous wanderers may be seen strolling in the sunshine among grass, and trees, and flowers. To such a place the new summer brings its fresh revival of beauty, as it does to the garden or the forest.
In strolling through a country churchyard, who does not stop to read the records?—and how profoundly natural it is! Every man has one chance of being "read;" he may hope to have a reader for his gravestone. The instinct of humanity draws you to his grave's foot: the thought stirring in you, what experience he has had different from yours, how long he lived, even. A trivial little fact about him will set you musing; a reflection, there, that seems generally to embody his sentiments or experience, will linger in your memory like music. How far are epitaphs liable to what we call criticism? How far can the law be laid down regarding writings of such a peculiar and exceptional character? An epitaph is strictly a publication. This, which seems so obvious, is really the most neglected consideration possible. An epitaph publishes itself in open sunshine to all the world; and, indeed, has a far better chance of being read, than one book out of every five hundred. It professes always to inform, to instruct, to warn, to describe. It is one of those things which everybody thinks himself competent to compose; yet a good epitaph is one of the rarest things in literature. Hence it is that the epitaph in the abstract passes proverbially for something even mendacious:
"Believe a woman or an epitaph,"
says Byron. I hesitate not to profess my sincere willingness to believe both!
But, I expect in exchange for this courtesy, that the reader will join with me in a somewhat strict scrutiny of our modern epitaphs.
To begin with: what should be our ideal of an epitaph? The name implies, in its simplicity, an inscription on a tomb. That idea implies the preservation of the memory of the dead. From the builder of a funeral pyramid to the erector of a wooden plank supported by two posts in a country churchyard, all such architects have the memory of the dead person in view. But there are infinite varieties of worth, and character, and adventure, and importance, to be recorded; and the epitaph soon becomes a portion of literature. The Scandinavian chief in one age has his place of rest indicated by a huge mound; a thousand years later, a similar hero of the same race is laid in a cathedral, and his memory is preserved in writing. Intellectual culture has become the supreme honour since his day; so, his memory owes its celebrity to the literary record of it. Hence, the epitaph of the great man will be no common composition. Hence, it has been felt that pre-eminent worth should be recorded in language of dignity and excellence, to express the harmony between the eminence achieved, and the culture of the age which records its admiration of it.
It is, therefore, natural that the epitaph should become, in time, somewhat elaborated. A simple, rude people see in the mound of this great man a symbol of his greatness that strikes at once on the imagination. The wanderer from a distant part of the province sees it, and feels the same. There is little communication between distant people in these ages. In a cultivated age, what is written of the great man serves the mound's purpose. It is present to the popular imagination everywhere. Thus, a good modern epitaph on a great man ought to be the very essence of all that the literature of his time will say about him; something to circulate in a compact form, like his likeness on a medal. Let me give examples of what I mean. Does not Dr. Johnson beautifully hit off Goldsmith's felicity of natural genius, when he says, that he "touched nothing which he did not adorn?" Or, look at the line on Franklin, "He snatched the lightning from heaven, and the sceptre from kings." This is the poetry of his life's action in a line. If posterity, again, knew nothing of Ben Jonson but that somebody expressed the general feeling about him, by "O rare Ben Jonson," they would carry away a capital idea of him. These are strict epitaphs. You cannot write a detailed narrative of a man's exploits and character on his tombstone. Neither, in the case of a notable man, is it needful. But it is right and natural that the place where his bones lie should have an appropriate inscription. The epitaph gathers, as it were, the very honey out of the flowers that compose his crown, and gives it to the world. So, to my mind, the writer of a fine epitaph not only does a graceful literary performance, but does a service of importance to the world. It is impossible to calculate the good done to a society at large, by the circulation of brief, terse sayings, carrying wisdom in them. And if wisdom is in its place anywhere, surely it is on a monument. An epitaph which preserves a man's memory embalmed in its beauty, should be written with the care and the reverence becoming the spot and the object for which it is intended. Dr. Johnson very naturally objects to "fiction" there; meaning, in this case, fantastic inventions, even merely literary. "Let us," says he, "be serious over the grave."
This remark awakens the question, how far literary ornament is becoming in this species of composition? Who can doubt that the most open sincerity and nature are the first requisites? All mere ingenuity and fantasy I take to be offensive. You would not think of going to a funeral with a flower in your button-hole? All torturing of literary ingenuity to produce anything in the way of sentiment that looks "smart" is to be avoided. But let us make due distinctions. There is a natural and an unnatural style of ornament; the essential distinction lying in the sincerity or the want of sincerity visible. A certain splendour is proper here, as elsewhere. A man is not supposed to have lost his faculties because he has lost his friend; and he may express his admiration and regret with such force or beauty as nature has endowed him with. Jeremy Taylor is no whit less pious or touching, because he preaches with the charm of the loves, the graces, and the muses. Take, for instance, two famous epitaphs of old Ben Jonson's:--the one, on the Countess Dowager of Pembroke,
"Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother,"
of whom he says:—
"Death, 'ere thou hast slain another,
Fair, and good, and learned as she,
Time shall throw a dart at thee."
The other, the well known
"Underneath this stone doth lie
As much beauty as could die,
Which in life did harbour give
To more virtue than doth live."
It would be harsh to object to these an ingenuity well deserved, suited to the age of their production, and quite compatible with loyal affection and admiration. At the same time, I don't blame Cowley for saying of Sir Henry Wotton:—
"Who had so many languages in store,
That only fame shall speak of him in more."
It was natural in Cowley to say this, and Wotton's memory deserved wit, and wit was not out of place in an epitaph on Wotton. But I should look with much contempt on anything that looked like imitation of these, in an epitaph by one ordinary person upon another.
It is quite true, however, that Point has too much reigned in the composition of the epitaph. This has been probably caused, in part, by the use of the Latin language, which is extremely well suited to pointed expression. Many of the best modern epitaphs have been written in Latin; for the practice began when it was the common language of the literati of Europe, and was continued by the influence of tradition, and the prejudices of scholars. Pope's epitaph on Sir Isaac Newton is partly in Latin; and the English portion:—
"Nature and Nature's laws lay hid in night,
God said, 'Let Newton be,' and all was light,"
is as bad as any very clever thing can be. Surely, the becoming is the first consideration in every composition; and what can be more out of place in an epitaph, than a reminder that the author of it was a very clever fellow? This is the painful effect of such epitaphs as the above; in which you see a wit's face looking out from the tombstone.
In truth, this kind of objection can be made with justice to Pope's epitaphs generally, where the aim is to surprise. The epitaph should not surprise, and set you tingling, like an epigram. Who wants to be reminded of Martial in a parish church? This reflection spoils one's pleasure in even such an excellent composition as Pope's epitaph on Harcourt, the son of the Lord Chancellor. It begins with a simple statement of the death of a certain youth,—
"Who ne'er knew joy, but friendship might divide,
Or gave his father grief, but when he died."
This last hacknied line owes its origin to a Roman epitaph in Gratian's Inscriptiones, where the thought is to be found. But note how strategically the next effect is produced:—
"How vain is reason, eloquence how weak!
If Pope must tell what Harcourt cannot speak."
One result of a "hit" like this is, that the person to be commemorated is completely sunk into the position of an object of the writer's ingenuity. You lose sight of him altogether, in the blaze of the writer's wit. In looking at his monument, you think only of the statuary. Apropos of this class of ingenious epitaphs, I must quote the perfect one of Doctor Johnson, on Philipps, the musician. It was actually an impromptu, composed by the great old Doctor when at tea in company with Garrick. Garrick speaks of the musician, and of some common-place lines that have been written on him. The Doctor relapses into a few minutes silence, playing absently with his spoon, and then looks up, the light of intellect shining on that rough, seamed face, and repeats:—
"Philipps, whose touch harmonious could remove
The pangs of guilty power or hapless love,
Rest here, disturbed by poverty no more,
Here find the calm thou gav'st so oft before.
Sleep undisturbed within this peaceful shrine,
Till angels wake thee, with a note like thine!
Few men have left such graceful compliments on record as the noble old writer, whom ignorance loves to call "a bear!"
Undoubtedly, however, the simple epitaph (but with no affectation in the simplicity) is the most perfect. An epitaph should be touching, before anything, as in the following:—
MARTINO LUIGI
IMPLORA PACE:—
which falls on one as with the coldness of death, and startles the humanity in you, in your very heart's core. And, again, in the Latin epitaph which Swift wrote for himself, in which he represents himself as lying "where bitter indignation can no longer lacerate his heart," we feel all the painfulness of Swift's life gathered into bitter brevity. We learn from such as these, that the one thing to be avoided is conventionalism and the mere mimicry of literary epitaphs. Of the mechanical part of sorrow, there is too much as it is in the arrangements of our funerals. Why perpetuate it on our tombs?
But, let us now turn into the walks of the cemetery, and apply our reflections to the monuments we see there. Large and spacious grounds have an advantage as burial-places, beautifully touched by Wordsworth, where he tells us that "nothing can compensate for the want of the soothing influences of Nature, and for the absence of types of renovation and decay." There is a harmony there to be felt, between the sentiment that death inspires, and the hope which Nature does; and every season brings its due and special consolation. Our attention, therefore, is due in such a place, that what we do for the service of the departed there be as beautiful and becoming as that which Nature does. Yet I fear we shall not find it so. Evidence enough we shall find of care shown, expense lavished, to pay offerings to the dead; but we shall find many instances of bad taste, affectation, and even vulgarity. One distinct and ridiculous phenomenon in all London cemeteries is what I must call "heathenism."
Why, surely, this is above everything a Christian churchyard? Well, note that little naked figure with the inverted torch;—what does he here? He is the "Genius" of the Pagan religion—a certain demon supposed to belong peculiarly to you from birth—whom you, as an ancient worshipper, made proper sacrifice to, especially on your birthday. The torch is the symbol of your life, and a natural and beautiful symbol of its cessation is the lowering of it in the hand of the Genius. But what has all this to do with us, on our monuments; where the many cannot understand it? It impresses no awe, it is meaningless, except to a few, and, truly, is only a Cockney parody on the ancient mythology, and as much out of its place as a page of
Tibullus would be in a hymn-book.
Again, inside that stone canopy supported by the pillars is a little "urn"—a sham urn, I am sorry to say; and on it is put a girl's name. I would not let the name I loved stay in that false and affected position. The old urns, of which it is an imitation, did contain the sacred ashes: but poor little Annabel is lying a dozen feet below, wrapped in her Christian shroud. Why should I, as it were, localise her image by putting the cherished name on that chimney ornament? Here is a radical error in taste, for see what you do by it: you attract passers-by, not to pause reverently and merely to look, but to stare in a dilettante fashion, as if they were in a wax show. This "classicality" is transmitted, I suppose, from generation to generation of the "statuaries" who manufacture these things; but of course they are not prepared—or concocted, rather—without the persons who are most interested in the matter having an opportunity of supervising them.
Another affectation is, that of such monuments as elaborate broken columns, with the artfully shattered fragments affectédly scattered about in a laboriously desolate way! There is something sadder than the grave, almost, in all this. Sorrow or solemnity, surely, are not suggested by such trickery in stone. People should consider that a graveyard has its laws of propriety as well as any other public place, and where can anything unnatural and untrue be more repelling and painful?
Trees and flowers are always proper, and may be relied on for their gracefulness. Nor do I know any more becoming way of arranging a grave than that simple one of a plain white stone, an inclosed railing, and a flower-bed. An image as old as the world, and which never can go out of fashion, speaks of the grave as a "resting-place;" and in this way the isolation, the tranquillity, the helplessness are expressed in the arrangement. Above all, suitableness should be considered. Let there be something modest and graceful in the disposition of the grave of a maiden; let the monument harmonise with the name on it. It may be right to give to the tomb of an artist some appropriate symbolism; to the tomb of a scholar an inscription in latinity; to a great noble, something becoming his means and rank:— but how absurd is a monument that symbolises nothing but the statuary's bill.
The influence of France is occasionally visible in our cemeteries. The French are remarkable for the ingenuity they display in these matters; often their epitaphs are so ingeniously sorrowful, that they drive away sorrow altogether. There is a most notable specimen in Père la Chaise. Two tombstones, standing together, emit two hands, which, join affectionately: one tombstone records the husband's death, the other the names of the surviving wife. And what think you is written on the husband's tombstone? "J'attends ma femme! I await my wife." There is a graceful French epitaph which one may render thus:—(it is written by a surviving lover)—
"HAST THOU FOUND THE HEAVEN
THAT I HAVE LOST?"
And to them I believe we owe, whatever may be the obligation, such epitaphs now becoming very common—as, MY MOTHER! and solitary utterances of names, as, ADELINE—JENNY. Far be it from me to suspect any man's sincerity; but I confess I love not this mode of epitaphial record. Once or twice you might take it to be what it pretends;—the outburst of a sorrow which feels that it has uttered all in uttering the name of the lost person: but how can you believe this when you see that in most instances it must be merely an act of imitation?
The heathenism of the monuments has its parallel too often in that of the inscriptions. I must take leave to enter a modest objection to all such phrases as Requiescat, or prayers that the earth may lie light, or even prayers for peace to the ashes. We do not believe, in this century, in the possibility of the Manes of a friend being disturbed or restless. We believe that the body has returned to the earth of which it is made, and the spirit returned to God who gave it. This is the basis of our convictions regarding the state of the dead; and all use of hacknied phrases which imply, when examined, quite different views to those of our national religion are out of place, not to say impious and nonsensical.
Wordsworth is of opinion that a "distinct conception should be given of the individual lamented." This remark touches the very heart of the question. One must have constantly observed in our cemeteries a use of certain conventional epitaphial phrases applicable to one person as much as to another; or rather, perhaps, transferred from some notable epitaph to a dozen ordinary tombs. This is our most prevailing fault. It makes a burial ground precisely what it should never be, common-place. The simplest, rudest phrase that seems to come from the heart affects you more than the most ingenious lines applied indiscriminately; which, indeed, read like an irrelevant quotation. Dr. Johnson makes an objection, which also I ought to preserve here. He says "that it is improper to address the epitaph to the passenger." This is very just. The Romans addressed a "Siste, viator! Stop, traveller," to a traveller; for they had their monuments along the Great Appian and Flaminian ways—their public roads. The effect was moral, and in the highest degree beautiful and natural. But we depart from Nature when we imitate the Romans, and so miss all due effect altogether.
It is, perhaps, a minor question whether the inscription ought to read as addressed to you by the dead, or by the survivor. The use of the first of these, is, indeed, as Wordsworth observes, a "tender fiction." It grew up naturally enough. But I may note that this particular form is abused too frequently, in a peculiar way. It is made the vehicle of the most extraordinary presumption too often. What think you, reader, of a "GONE HOME!" stuck briefly under a name, like the "return directly" on a lawyer's door? Or, what say you to warning those who read, to imitate the deceased person, in a stern dictatorial way, when nothing has been said of the deceased but a lump of commonplace laudation? These are not the offences of ignorance, but of something worse. Correlative to these is the fault of impertinence, to speak strictly: the statement of matters unsuited to the occasion. For example, I once saw a monument of handsome and costly exterior, where you were informed that the young lady buried there had died from a cold brought on "by the misconduct of the people where she was at school." A gravestone is no place for anger, or for taking your revenge for misconduct. The epitaph, properly considered, has not to deal with the accidental side of the death, as caused by this or the other mishap. It deals properly with death under its religious aspect, on the side of it as a mystical and transcendental fact, over which we can only wonder, and weep, and hope. The composition should be elevated above all vulgarity.
I object to a statement of common-place matter, such as the survivor's address, profession, or trade. The mention that the deceased was the son, or wife, &c. of John So-and-so, "Pork Butcher in Smith Street," is intolerable. What business has an advertisement in such a place? In the same way too great length in the detail of ordinary matters is absurd: as, that the defunct was Chairman of the Pigwiggin Committee; many years Secretary to the Turnip Society; a Member of the Early Rising Club; and so on. This provokes laughter. If we are to have laughter, we might at once be professedly comic, like the French husband, with his
Here lies my wife,
A fact that must tell
For her repose—
And for mine as well?"
Comic and satirical epitaphs do not belong to my present subject. But, when we consider how much our national taste is impeached in so many matters, and that one cannot stroll along in our beautiful suburban cemeteries without seeing too great reason for it, I hope that my remarks may help to pave the way to something of a reform in a very interesting and important matter.