1899.] on Epitaphs. 33 



It would bo hard to beat an epitaph in tbe great cemetery at 

 Delhi, belonging to a religion which we do not generally associate 

 with the gentler virtues : — 



Let no rich marble cover my grave 

 This grass i s sufficient covering 

 For tlie tomb of the poor in spirit^ 

 The humble, the transitory Jehanara 

 The disciple of the holy men of Cheest 

 The daughter of the Emperor Shah Jehan. 



Many of my hearers will remember that the Emperor Shah Jehan 

 was the builder of the Taj, beyond all comparison the most beautiful 

 monument ever raised by the hand of the architect in memory of the 

 departed. The thought of it takes me to Boury in Normandy, where 

 most of those lie interred whose lives formed the subject of the ' Recit 

 d'une Soeur,' the only literary monument to those who have passed 

 away which quite deserves to rank with the marvellous creation of the 

 Mogul. The epitaphs on those graves are not particularly striking, 

 mostly texts from the Vulgate. Over all of them stands up the great 

 marble cross, erected by Princess Lapoukyn, who, strange to say, sur- 

 vived her daughter by about a quarter of a century. It bears the 

 inscription : — 



Jenseits ist meine Hoffmmg. 



I do not know what epitaph they have put in Paris over the 

 grave of Ernest Penan, but they certainly could not have put a more 

 appropriate one than that which he suggested for himself in the noble 

 passage in which he expressed the wish that he could be buried in 

 the cloisters of the Cathedral of Treguier : — 



Veritatem dilexi. 



I wonder whether before the year 2000 the Great Church will have 

 come to the conclusion that he was not so far wrong when he said, 

 " that his criticism had done more to support religion than all the 

 Apologists." If such ideas are dreams, they are at least agreeable 

 ones. 



I see, however, that the sands of my hour are nearly run out, and 

 I will conclude with two epitaphs, the one concentrating the deepest 

 religious feeling, the other expressing the most legitimate pride in 

 unequalled earthly achievement. 



Chiabrera, after publishing many volumes of poems, summed up 

 the experience of his long life, for he lived I think to over eighty, in 

 his epitaph, still to be read in S. Giacomo at Savona. This was the 

 epitaph which so much struck Frederick Eaber, who saw in it, I 

 apprehend, a prophecy of his own later years, for when he determined 

 to devote himself to the Church, Wordsworth wrote to him : " I cannot 

 say that you are wrong, but England loses a poet." It runs as 

 follows : — 



Vol. XVI. (No. 93.) d 



