From Sharp's Magazine.

By F. Lawrence.

The best epitaphs, according to our notion, are generally the shortest and the plainest. In no description of composition is elaborate and ornate phraseology so much out of place. Where a world-wide reputation has been achieved, the name alone, with the addition perhaps of a date, is often calculated to produce a more impressive effect than an ostentatious inscription. It has been observed that the simple words—

Catherine the Great to Peter the First,

inscribed on the monument erected by the Empress Catherine to the memory of her husband, arrogant as they are, contain the essence of the sublime. And, in like manner, among the most impressive memorials in Westminster Abbey are the words, "O rare Ben Jonson," chiselled beneath the great play-wright's bust, and the name of J. Dryden, with the date of his birth and death, and the simple statement, that the tomb was erected, in 1720, by John Sheffield, Duke of Buckingham. We doubt whether the effect of the latter would have been improved by the addition of the couplet written for it by Pope, admirable as it is:

This Sheffield raised: the sacred dust below

Was Dryden once—the rest who does not know?

Among the best epitaphs in the Poet's Corner, we are inclined to number that on Spenser, which combines in an eminent degree dignity and simplicity, and possesses a character which at once attracts attention. The[pg 214] monument on which it appears had been originally erected by Anne, Countess of Dorset, and having fallen into decay, was restored, in 1768, precisely in its old form:

Heare lyes (expecting the second

Comminge of our Savior Christ

Jesus) the body of Edmond Spencer,

The Prince of Poets in his tyme,

Other witnesse than the works

Which he left behinde him.

He was borne in London in the yeare 1553,

And died in the year 1598.

The epitaph of Michael Drayton, another of the Elizabethan poets, said by some to be the composition of Ben Jonson, and by others to be by Quarles, has also a species of quaint beauty and solemnity which raises it above the ordinary level. It was originally in gilt letters:

Michael Draiton, Esq.

A memorable poet of this age, Exchanged his laurell for a crowne of glorye, Ao. 1631.

Doe, pious Marble! let thy readers knowe

What they and what their children owe

To Draiton's name, whose sacred dust

We recommend unto thy trust:

Protect his memory, and preserve his storye,

Remaine a lastinge monument of his glorye;

And when thy ruines shall disclaime

To be the treas'rer of his name,

His name that cannot fade shall be

An everlasting monument to thee.

We cannot say that the Latin compositions of this sort in Westminster Abbey are much to our taste. One however, we cannot pass over—that to the memory of Goldsmith, by Dr. Johnson—a scholar-like production, dictated by affection, and full of grace and tenderness. In the delineation of the personal and literary character of his friend, we recognize all the grander traits of the honest giant's loving heart and powerful pen. Nothing can be in better taste than his commendation of Goldsmith's genius:

Affectuum potens et lenis Dominator;

Ingenio sublimis—vividus, versatilis,

Oratione grandis, nitidus, venustus—

Of the English epitaphs, one of the most remarkable for elegance and simplicity is that on Purcell, the composer, reputed, on the authority of Malone, to be by Dryden, It certainly is not unworthy of his pen:

Here lyes

Henry Purcell, Esq.

Who left this life,

And is gone to that blessed place

Where only his Harmony

Can be exceeded.

Obiit 21 die Novembris

Anno Ætatis suæ 37

Annoque Domini 1695.

Among more modern inscriptions, those on the great engineers, Watt and Telford, are particularly worthy of notice. The former is from the pen of Lord Brougham:

Not to perpetuate a name,

Which must endure while the peaceful arts flourish,

But to show

That mankind have learned to know those

Who best deserve their gratitude,

The King,

His ministers, and many of the nobles

And commoners of the realm

Raised this monument to

James Watt,

Who, directing the force of an original genius,

Early exercised in philosophic research,

To the improvement of the Steam Engine,

Enlarged the resources of his country,

Increased the power of man,

And rose to eminent place

Among the most illustrious followers of science,

And the real benefactors of the world.

The inscription on Telford's monument is equally chaste and beautiful. It presents this noble summary of his life and character:

The orphan son of a shepherd, self-educated,

He raised himself,

By his extraordinary talents and integrity,

From the humble condition of an operative mason,

And became one of the

Most eminent Civil Engineers of the age.

This marble has been erected near the spot

Where his remains are deposited,

By the friends who revered his virtues,

But his noblest monuments are to be found amongst

The great public works of his country.

Every visitor will reverently pause before the magnificent cenotaph of the great Earl of Chatham, which, though somewhat too confused and elaborate in its decorations, is not unworthy of the greatest of English ministers. Having achieved a higher reputation as a statesman and orator than any other public man which his country had produced, and having fallen, as it were, in her service, the national gratitude was displayed in an unprecedented manner by honors paid his memory. His body lay in state three days in the painted chamber in the House of Lords—his public funeral exceeded in splendor the obsequies of princes—his debts were paid by the nation—and finally, the stately tomb to which we have drawn attention, was placed over his remains. The inscription whilst exceedingly plain and simple, is impressive and appropriate:

Erected by the King and Parliament

As a testimonial to

The Virtues and Ability

of

William Pitt, Earl of Chatham,

During whose administration, in the reigns of

George II. and George III.

Divine Providence

Exalted Great Britain

To a height of Prosperity and Glory

Unknown in any former age.

Of poetical epitaphs in the Abbey some of the most important are by Pope. Like everything else from his pen, they are carefully written, but viewed as monumental inscriptions, not distinguished for any striking excellence. Among the best of them is that on the Honourable James Craggs, a secretary of state, rather discreditably mixed up with the South Sea Bubble:—

Statesman, yet friend to truth! of soul sincere,

In action faithful, yet in honour clear!

Who broke no promise, served no private end,

Who gained no title, and who lost no friend;

Ennobled by Himself, by all approved,

Praised, wept, and honored by the Muse he loved.

The one on Gay is interesting as a tribute of friendship, and as a faithful portrait of that pleasing and amiable poet, the simplicity of whose character is admirably delineated in the first couplet:—

Of manners gentle, and affections mild,

In wit a man, simplicity a child.

Altogether it is a beautiful and appropriate[pg 215] composition, and we cannot but regret that the monument on which it appears should be disfigured by the doggerel, said to have been written by Gay himself, and inscribed on the ledge just above Pope's epitaph;

Life is a jest, and all things show it;

I thought so once, but now I know it.

That of Nicholas Rowe, the dramatist (also by Pope), has been admired for the pathos of the concluding lines, the beauty of which, however, it is a matter of notoriety, was considerably marred by a prosaic circumstance, which proves the danger of assuming facts even in poetical compositions. The monument is commemorative of the poet and of his only daughter, the wife of Henry Fane. His widow survived him, and her inconsolable affliction was beautifully depicted:-

To these so mourned in death, so loved in life,

The childless parent and the widowed wife,

With tears inscribes this monumental stone,

That holds their ashes, and expects her own.

Almost, however, before "the monumental stone" was finished, the disconsolate widow dried her eyes, and married a gallant colonel of dragoons, without considering that she was spoiling the beauty of her husband's epitaph.

Among the most flagrant instances of false taste, we must specify that on the tomb of David Garrick. The tomb itself has been described as "a theatrical conceit, of which the design exhibits neither taste nor invention." The epitaph was the production of Pratt, author of Harvest Home and other lucubrations which have long since been consigned to the tomb of the Capulets; and both epitaph and monument are thus spoken of by Charles Lamb in the Essays of Elia. Alluding principally to the eccentric attitude of the actor's effigy, he observes, "Though I would not go so far, with some good Catholics abroad, as to shut players altogether out of consecrated ground, yet I own I was not a little scandalized at the introduction of theatrical airs and gestures into a place set apart to remind us of the saddest realities. Going nearer, I found inscribed under this burlesque figure a farrago of false thought and nonsense." The farrago in question is in verse, and represents Shakspeare and Garrick as "twin stars," who as long as time shall last are to "irradiate earth with a beam divine."

There are but few epitaphs in St. Paul's Cathedral—the other great resting-place of illustrious dead—worthy of remark or reproduction. The best in the whole edifice, and one of the most perfect compositions of its kind, is the well-known inscription commemorative of its renowned architect, Sir Christopher Wren:

Subditus conditur hujus Ecelesiæ at Urbis

Conditor, Christopherus Wren, qui vixit

Annos ultra nonaginta, non sibi, sed

Bono publico. Lector, si monumentum requiris,

Circumspice.

We need not point out the beauties of this celebrated epitaph:—its terseness of phraseology (to which no translation could do justice)—its suggestiveness, grandeur and dignity. Another Latin inscription in St. Paul's is also deserving notice, both on account of its merit, and the individual it commemorates—that on Dr. Samuel Johnson, written by the famous Dr. Parr. Of English inscriptions in this Cathedral, the most striking is that on the monument of John Howard. It concludes with the well-known sentence: "He trod an open and unfrequented path,to immortality, in the ardent and unremitting exercise of Christian charity. May this tribute to his fame excite an emulation of his truly glorious achievements."

It is no very easy matter to produce a good epitaph. Great practice in composition is required—great power of condensation—and the exercise of judgment and discrimination. In efforts at epitaph-writing, few English poets have appeared to advantage. One or two perfect specimens, indeed, we possess, but the success of a single writer must be set against the failure of a great many. Of our good epitaphs, the very best, in our opinion, is that on the Countess Dowager of Pembroke, the sister of Sir Philip Sidney, by Ben Jonson. Although it has been often quoted, we cannot exclude it from this paper:

Underneath this sable hearse

Lies the subject of all verse,

Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother:

Death, ere thou hast slain another,

Fair, and wise, and good as she,

Time shall throw his dart at thee.

Another of Jonson's epitaphs, although more rugged in versification, is also deserving of quotation;

Underneath this stone doth lie

As much virtue as could die;

Which, when alive, did vigor give

To as much beauty as could live.

If she had a single fault,

Leave it buried in this vault.

Not a few of Pope's epitaphs, as we have before hinted, appear tame, insipid, and characterized by a false taste. We except the well-known couplet for the monument of Sir Isaac Newton, in which there are dignity of language and boldness of conception:

Nature and nature's laws lay hid in night;—

God said, "Let Newton be!" and all was light.

David Garrick is the author of some very good and characteristic epitaphs. The best, is that on Claudius Philips, the musician, who lived and died in great poverty. It was some time ascribed to Dr. Johnson, but is now known to be the production of Garrick:

Philips, whose touch harmonious could remove

The pangs of guilty power and hapless love,

Rest here, distress'd by poverty no more,

Here find that calm thou gav'st so oft before;

Sleep undisturbed within this peaceful shrine,

Till angels wake thee with a note like thine.

Another of Garnet's epitaphs, is that on Mr. Havard, the comedian, who died in 1778. It is described by the author as a tribute "to the memory of a character he long knew and respected." Whatever its merits as a composition, the professional metaphor introduced is sadly out of place:

[pg 216]

"An honest man's the noblest work of God."

Havard, from sorrow rest beneath this stone;

An honest man—beloved as soon as known;

Howe'er defective in the mimic art,

In real life he justly played his part!

The noblest character he acted well,

And heaven applauded when the curtain fell.

The one on William Hogarth, in Chiswick Churchyard, by Garrick, is in better taste:

Farewell, great painter of mankind,

Who reach'd the noblest point of art;

Whose pictur'd morals charm the mind,

And through the eye correct the heart!

If genius fire thee, reader, stay;

If nature touch thee, drop a tear:-

If neither move thee, turn away,

For Hogarth's honor'd dust lies here.

Some distinguished men have amused themselves, while living, by inditing epitaphs for themselves. Franklin, and the great lawyer and orientalist, Sir William Jones, have left characteristic performances of this kind in prose, and from Matthew Prior we have a mock-serious one in verse. The latter has been often quoted, but it will bear repetition:

Nobles and heralds, by your leave,

Here lie the bones of Matthew Prior:

The son of Adam and of Eve,

Can Bourbon or Nassau go higher?

In the same spirit, but superior in tone and quality, is the following, the authorship of which is unknown, "on a poor but honest man:"

Stop, reader, here, and deign to look

On one without a name,

Ne'er enter'd in the ample book

Of fortune or of fame.

Studious of peace, he hated strife;

Meek virtues fill'd his breast;

His coat of arms, "a spotless life,"

"An honest heart" his crest.

Quarter'd therewith was innocence,

And thus his motto ran:

"A conscience void of all offence,

Before both God and man."

In the great day of wrath, through pride

Now scorns his pedigree,

Thousands shall wish they'd been allied

To this great family.

The thought in Prior's is ludicrously expressed in the following, from a monument erected in 1703, in the New Church burying-ground, Dundee, to the memory of J. R.

Here lies a Man,

Com'd of Adam and Eve;

If any will climb higher,

I give him leave.

Amongst poetical epitaphs, of the more elaborate class, we must notice two by Mason; one to the memory of his mother, in Bristol Cathedral, and the other on a young lady named Drummond, in the church of Brodsworth, Yorkshire. We have space for only the latter.

Here sleeps what once was beauty, once was grace;

Grace, that with tenderness and sense combined

To form that harmony of soul and face,

Where brainy shines the mirror of the mind.

Such was the maid that, in the morn of youth,

In virgin innocence, in nature's pride,

Blest with each art that owes its charms to truth,

Sank in her father's fond embrace, and died.

He weeps; O venerate the holy tear!

Faith lends her aid to ease affliction's load;

The parent mourns his child upon the bier,

The Christian yields an angel to his God.

Of whimsical and satirical epitaphs—some actually inscribed on tombstones, and others intended for pasquinades—a large collection might be made. We have little taste for these anomalous compositions, nor do we consider it creditable to the national character, that so many English churchyards can be pointed out where they occur. But there are those who will make even the tomb a subject of pleasant humors. The epitaph for the tomb of Sir John Vanbrugh, distinguished as a dramatist and architect, and reflecting on his achievements in the latter capacity, is as follows:

Lie heavy on him, Earth, for he

Laid many a heavy load on thee.

The original of the following is among the epigrams of Boileau:—

Here lies my wife; there let her lie;

She is at rest—and so am I.

We do not suppose that this was ever engraved on a tombstone, either in French or English; but the following lines are said to have been copied from a slab in an English church:—

Here lies the body of Sarah Sexton,

Who as a wife did never vex one;

We can't say that for her at the next stone.

The next specimen is also known to have appeared on a tomb in Essex:—

Here lies the man Richard,

And Mary his wife;

Their surname was Pritchard;

They lived without strife;

And the reason was plain;

They abounded in riches,

They no care had nor pain,

And the wife wore the breeches.

We will not multiply examples of these compositions. Lines of the description we have quoted have often found their way into print, and we have selected one or two of the least offensive as examples of eccentricity.