opinion, when curious old epitaphs were concerned, my charity was "too wide, and covered too many sins." Whether my charity be too wide or not is a matter I do not care to discuss, but my readers may judge for themselves, if they be so minded and care to take the trouble to refer to a former work of mine, Across England in a Dog-cart, page 386.
GRAVEYARD LITERATURE Our search in the churchyard at Spalding for any curious epitaphs was unrewarded by any "finds"; we discovered nothing but dreary commonplaces. Graveyard literature is becoming—has become, rather should I say—very proper, very same, yet very sad. Somehow those quaint old-time inscriptions appeal to me; when I read them I seem to understand what manner of man lies sleeping below; they bring the dead to life again, and rescue forgotten traits from total oblivion. It seems to us now strange that our ancestors should have treated death in this lighter strain, though perhaps not stranger than some of the coarse jokes in carvings that the presumably devout monkish medieval sculptor introduced into the churches of the period. Each age sees things from its own standpoint, and I am inclined to think that we take both life and death more seriously than our ancestors:—
Each century somewhat new
Is felt and thought of death—the problem strange
With newer knowledge seems to change,
It changes, as we change our point of view.
And in this age when over much is known,
When Science summons from the deep
Dim past the centuries that sleep,
When Thought is crowned for ruler, Thought alone,
We gaze at Death with saddest eyes.
