character of the deceased; that his gifts and graces were
remembered in the simplicity in which they ought to be remembered.
The composition and quality of the mind of a virtuous man,
contemplated by the side of the grave where his body is
mouldering, ought to appear, and be felt as something midway
between what he was on earth walking about with his living
frailties, and what he may be presumed to be as a Spirit in
heaven.
It suffices, therefore, that the trunk and the main branches of
the worth of the deceased be boldly and unaffectedly represented.
Any further detail, minutely and scrupulously pursued, especially
if this be done with laborious and antithetic discriminations,
must inevitably frustrate its own purpose; forcing the passing
Spectator to this conclusion,—either that the dead did not
possess the merits ascribed to him, or that they who have raised a
monument to his memory, and must therefore be supposed to have
been closely connected with him, were incapable of perceiving
those merits; or at least during the act of composition had lost
sight of them; for, the understanding having been so busy in its
petty occupation, how could the heart of the mourner be other than
cold? and in either of these cases, whether the fault be on the
part of the buried person or the survivors, the memorial is
unaffecting and profitless.
Much better is it to fall short in discrimination than to pursue
it too far, or to labour it unfeelingly. For in no place are we so
much disposed to dwell upon those points of nature and condition
wherein all men resemble each other, as in the temple where the
universal Father is worshipped, or by the side of the grave which
gathers all human Beings to itself, and “equalises the lofty and
the low.” We suffer and we weep with the same heart; we love and
are anxious for one another in one spirit; our hopes look to the
same quarter; and the virtues by which we are all to be furthered
and supported, as patience, meekness, good-will, justice,
temperance, and temperate desires, are in an equal degree the
concern of us all. Let an Epitaph, then, contain at least these
acknowledgments to our common nature; nor let the sense of their
importance be sacrificed to a balance of opposite qualities or
minute distinctions in individual character; which if they do not
(as will for the most part be the case), when examined, resolve
themselves into a trick of words, will, even when they are true
and just, for the most part be grievously out of place; for, as it
is probable that few only have explored these intricacies of human
nature, so can the tracing of them be interesting only to a few.
But an epitaph is not a proud writing shut up for the studious: it
is exposed to all—to the wise and the most ignorant; it is
condescending, perspicuous, and lovingly solicits regard; its
story and admonitions are brief, that the thoughtless, the busy,
and indolent, may not be deterred, nor the impatient tired: the
stooping old man cons the engraven record like a second horn-
book;—the child is proud that he can read it;—and the stranger
is introduced through its mediation to the company of a friend: it
is concerning all, and for all:—in the churchyard it is open to
the day; the sun looks down upon the stone, and the rains of
heaven beat against it.
Yet, though the writer who would excite sympathy is bound in
this case, more than in any other, to give proof that he himself
has been moved, it is to be remembered that to raise a monument is
a sober and a reflective act; that the inscription which it bears
is intended to be permanent, and for universal perusal; and that,
for this reason, the thoughts and feelings expressed should be
permanent also—liberated from that weakness and anguish of sorrow
which is in nature transitory, and which with instinctive decency
retires from notice. The passions should be subdued, the emotions
controlled; strong, indeed, but nothing ungovernable or wholly
involuntary. Seemliness requires this, and truth requires it also:
for how can the narrator otherwise be trusted? Moreover, a grave
is a tranquillising object: resignation in course of time springs
up from it as naturally as the wild flowers, besprinkling the turf
with which it may be covered, or gathering round the monument by
which it is defended. The very form and substance of the monument
which has received the inscription, and the appearance of the
letters, testifying with what a slow and laborious hand they must
have been engraven, might seem to reproach the author who had
given way upon this occasion to transports of mind, or to quick
turns of conflicting passion; though the same might constitute the
life and beauty of a funeral oration or elegiac poem.
These sensations and judgments, acted upon perhaps
unconsciously, have been one of the main causes why epitaphs so
often personate the deceased, and represent him as speaking from
his own tomb-stone. The departed Mortal is introduced telling you
himself that his pains are gone; that a state of rest is come; and
he conjures you to weep for him no longer. He admonishes with the
voice of one experienced in the vanity of those affections which
are confined to earthly objects, and gives a verdict like a
superior Being, performing the office of a judge, who has no
temptations to mislead him, and whose decision cannot but be
dispassionate. Thus is death disarmed of its sting, and affliction
unsubstantialised. By this tender fiction, the survivors bind
themselves to a sedater sorrow, and employ the intervention of the
imagination in order that the reason may speak her own language
earlier than she would otherwise have been enabled to do. This
shadowy interposition also harmoniously unites the two worlds of
the living and the dead by their appropriate affections. And it
may be observed that here we have an additional proof of the
propriety with which sepulchral inscriptions were referred to the
consciousness of immortality as their primal source.
I do not speak with a wish to recommend that an epitaph should
be cast in this mould preferably to the still more common one, in
which what is said comes from the survivors directly; but rather
to point out how natural those feelings are which have induced
men, in all states and ranks of society, so frequently to adopt
this mode. And this I have done chiefly in order that the laws
which ought to govern the composition of the other may be better
understood. This latter mode, namely, that in which the survivors
speak in their own persons, seems to me upon the whole greatly
preferable, as it admits a wider range of notices; and, above all,
because, excluding the fiction which is the groundwork of the
other, it rests upon a more solid basis.
Enough has been said to convey our notion of a perfect epitaph;
but it must be borne in mind that one is meant which will best
answer the ‘genera
l’ ends of that species of composition.
According to the course pointed out, the worth of private life,
through all varieties of situation and character, will be most
honourably and profitably preserved in memory. Nor would the model
recommended less suit public men in all instances, save of those
persons who by the greatness of their services in the employments
of peace or war, or by the surpassing excellence of their works in
art, literature, or science, have made themselves not only
universally known, but have filled the heart of their country with
everlasting gratitude. Yet I must here pause to correct myself. In
describing the general tenor of thought which epitaphs ought to
hold, I have omitted to say, that if it be the ‘actions’ of a man,
or even some ‘one’ conspicuous or beneficial act of local or
general utility, which have distinguished him, and excited a
desire that he should be remembered, then, of course, ought the
attention to be directed chiefly to those actions or that act: and
such sentiments dwelt upon as naturally arise out of them or it.
Having made this necessary distinction, I proceed.—The mighty
benefactors of mankind, as they are not only known by the
immediate survivors, but will continue to be known familiarly to
latest posterity, do not stand in need of biographic sketches in
such a place; nor of delineations of character to individualise
them. This is already done by their Works, in the memories of men.
Their naked names, and a grand comprehensive sentiment of civic
gratitude, patriotic love, or human admiration—or the utterance
of some elementary principle most essential in the constitution of
true virtue—or a declaration touching that pious humility and
self-abasement, which are ever most profound as minds are most
susceptible of genuine exaltation—or an intuition, communicated
in adequate words, of the sublimity of intellectual power;—these
are the only tribute which can here be paid—the only offering
that upon such an altar would not be unworthy.
“What needs my Shakspeare for his honoured bones
The labour of an age in piled stones,
Or that his hallowed reliques should be hid
Under a star-ypointing pyramid?
Dear Son of Memory, great Heir of Fame,
What need’st thou such weak witness of thy name?
Thou in our wonder and astonishment
Hast built thyself a livelong monument,
And so sepulchred, in such pomp dost lie,
That kings for such a tomb would wish to die.”
BOOK SIXTH
THE CHURCHYARD AMONG THE MOUNTAINS
HAIL to the crown by Freedom shaped—to gird
An English Sovereign’s brow! and to the throne
Whereon he sits! Whose deep foundations lie
In veneration and the people’s love;
Whose steps are equity, whose seat is law.
—Hail to the State of England! And conjoin
With this a salutation as devout,
Made to the spiritual fabric of her Church;
Founded in truth; by blood of Martyrdom
Cemented; by the hands of Wisdom reared 10
In beauty of holiness, with ordered pomp,
Decent and unreproved. The voice, that greets
The majesty of both, shall pray for both;
That, mutually protected and sustained,
They may endure long as the sea surrounds
This favoured Land, or sunshine warms her soil.
And O, ye swelling hills, and spacious plains
Besprent from shore to shore with steeple-towers,
And spires whose ‘silent finger points to heaven;’
Nor wanting, at wide intervals, the bulk 20
Of ancient minster lifted above the cloud
Of the dense air, which town or city breeds
To intercept the sun’s glad beams—may ne’er
That true succession fail of English hearts,
Who, with ancestral feeling, can perceive
What in those holy structures ye possess
Of ornamental interest, and the charm
Of pious sentiment diffused afar,
And human charity, and social love.
—Thus never shall the indignities of time 30
Approach their reverend graces, unopposed;
Nor shall the elements be free to hurt
Their fair proportions; nor the blinder rage
Of bigot zeal madly to overturn;
And, if the desolating hand of war
Spare them, they shall continue to bestow
Upon the thronged abodes of busy men
(Depraved, and ever prone to fill the mind
Exclusively with transitory things)
An air and mien of dignified pursuit; 40
Of sweet civility, on rustic wilds.
The Poet, fostering for his native land
Such hope, entreats that servants may abound
Of those pure altars worthy; ministers
Detached from pleasure, to the love of gain
Superior, insusceptible of pride,
And by ambitious longings undisturbed;
Men, whose delight is where their duty leads
Or fixes them; whose least distinguished day
Shines with some portion of that heavenly lustre 50
Which makes the sabbath lovely in the sight
Of blessed angels, pitying human cares.
—And, as on earth it is the doom of truth
To be perpetually attacked by foes
Open or covert, be that priesthood still,
For her defence, replenished with a band
Of strenuous champions, in scholastic arts
Thoroughly disciplined; nor (if in course
Of the revolving world’s disturbances
Cause should recur, which righteous Heaven avert! 60
To meet such trial) from their spiritual sires
Degenerate; who, constrained to wield the sword
Of disputation, shrunk not, though assailed
With hostile din, and combating in sight
Of angry umpires, partial and unjust;
And did, thereafter, bathe their hands in fire,
So to declare the conscience satisfied:
Nor for their bodies would accept release;
But, blessing God and praising him, bequeathed
With their last breath, from out the smouldering flame, 70
The faith which they by diligence had earned,
Or, through illuminating grace, received,
For their dear countrymen, and all mankind.
O high example, constancy divine!
Even such a Man (inheriting the zeal
And from the sanctity of elder times
Not deviating,—a priest, the like of whom
If multiplied, and in their stations set,
Would o’er the bosom of a joyful land
Spread true religion and her genuine fruits) 80
Before me stood that day; on holy ground
Fraught with the relics of mortality,
Exalting tender themes, by just degrees
To lofty raised; and to the highest, last;
The head and mighty paramount of truths,—
Immortal life, in never-fading worlds,
For mortal creatures, conquered and secured.
That basis laid, those principles of faith
Announced, as a preparatory act
Of reverence done to the spirit of the place, 90
The Pastor cast his eyes upon the ground;
Not, as before, like one oppressed with awe
But w
ith a mild and social cheerfulness;
Then to the Solitary turned, and spake.
“At morn or eve, in your retired domain,
Perchance you not unfrequently have marked
A Visitor—in quest of herbs and flowers;
Too delicate employ, as would appear,
For one, who, though of drooping mien, had yet
From nature’s kindliness received a frame 100
Robust as ever rural labour bred.”
The Solitary answered: “Such a Form
Full well I recollect. We often crossed
Each other’s path; but, as the Intruder seemed
Fondly to prize the silence which he kept,
And I as willingly did cherish mine,
We met, and passed, like shadows. I have heard,
From my good Host, that being crazed in brain
By unrequited love, he scaled the rocks,
Dived into caves, and pierced the matted woods, 110
In hope to find some virtuous herb of power
To cure his malady!”
The Vicar smiled,—
“Alas! before to-morrow’s sun goes down
His habitation will be here: for him
That open grave is destined.”
“Died he then
Of pain and grief?” the Solitary asked,
“Do not believe it; never could that be!”
“He loved,” the Vicar answered, “deeply loved,
Loved fondly, truly, fervently; and dared
At length to tell his love, but sued in vain; 120
Rejected, yea repelled; and, if with scorn
Upon the haughty maiden’s brow, ‘tis but
A high-prized plume which female Beauty wears
In wantonness of conquest, or puts on
To cheat the world, or from herself to hide
Humiliation, when no longer free.
‘That’ he could brook, and glory in;—but when
The tidings came that she whom he had wooed
Was wedded to another, and his heart
Was forced to rend away its only hope; 130
Then, Pity could have scarcely found on earth
An object worthier of regard than he,
In the transition of that bitter hour!
Lost was she, lost; nor could the Sufferer say
That in the act of preference he had been
Unjustly dealt with; but the Maid was gone!
Had vanished from his prospects and desires;
Not by translation to the heavenly choir
Who have put off their mortal spoils—ah no!
She lives another’s wishes to complete,— 140
‘Joy be their lot, and happiness,’ he cried,
‘His lot and hers, as misery must be mine!’
Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth Page 72