In a recent tour on the Wye and among the villages of Herefordshire and Monmouthshire, I have often stopped to examine the Epitaphs in the churchyards. It is sad to see bow unsuitable, how almost ludicrous, many of them are. It is not only that they are devoid of beauty, but that they are calculated to drag down the minds of the survivors; chaining them to the recollection of the sufferings which their departed friends endured in their lifetime, harrowing them by the repetition, and in the end holding out no lesson to be learnt, no comfort to look to, no hope of rest in another world.
The chief variety upon these inscriptions is usually a catalogue of the virtues of the deceased, which would belong rather to heathen morality than to Christian humility.
It is strange that amidst the most beautiful scenery, where all nature combines to praise the Maker and Creator of all things, the home of the dead—a place where so many lessons may be learnt, so many solemn warnings given, so many
