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PARK AND CEMETERY 
Green Mountains to Burlington where the 
excursion steamer Ticonderoga had been 
chartered for the afternoon. Lake Cham- 
plain, the pride of all Vermonters, was at 
its best, and the six hours ride over its 
waters was enjoyed immensely. The com- 
mittee had prepared a splendid basket 
lunch that was much appreciated. An or- 
chestra furnished music throughout the 
afternoon. Upon the return to Burlington 
the party, numbering approximately 400, 
marched up through the streets of the city 
headed by the headquarters band of the 
First Vermont regiment. This company 
was recruited from Barre and was sta- 
tioned at Fort Ethan Allen. A banquet 
provided by the Barre committee was 
served at the Hotel Sherwood, and the re- 
turn trip brought everybody back to Barre 
at about midnight. 
The only unpleasant feature of the en- 
tire week was in the heavy rain which 
greeted the people when the\' woke up 
Thursday morning. In spite of this, how- 
ever, the scheduled trip to the Barre gran- 
ite quarries was made in a special train 
over the “Sky Route," which is the steepest 
railroad in operation east of the Rocky 
Mountains. The rain kept some at home, 
but there were nearly 30l) who participated 
in the trip and were greatly impressed 
with the magnitude of the Barre granite 
industry. 
Thursday afternoon and evening were 
taken up with addresses. We are unable 
to find space in this issue for all the excel- 
lent papers that were read, but will use 
them later. 
“Uniform Cemetery Laws” was the sub- 
ject discussed by Walter Puckett of Bir- 
mingham, Alabama. This is printed on an- 
other page in this issue. 
James Currie of Milwaukee made a fine 
address on “The Crematory as an Adjunct 
to the Modern Cemetery.” This is re- 
served for publication in full in a later 
issue. 
S. Hollister Jackson of Barre read the 
following paper on “Epitaphs” : 
EPITAPHS. 
By S. Hollister Jackson. 
Some years ago at college I wrote, memorized 
and delivered a declamation on epitaphs. The 
declamation was involuntary, but the choice of 
the subject voluntary. After my effort one of the 
professors upbraided me for “trying to be face- 
tious,” he said, wuth an irritating emphasis on 
the word “trying.” In fact. I wasn’t trying to 
be facetious, and that was the funny part of it, 
and the hardest part of it. From that day to 
this I have hardly dared to look an epitaph or 
a professor in the face; and you can’t blame me 
for concluding that, given a choice between an 
epitaph and a professor. I would choose an epi- 
taph every time. It is the more kindly and 
intelligent of the two. I felt then, as I feel now, 
more so now, that there is a deeper philosophy 
in an epitaph than in a professor, more humor in 
it than in Mark Twain’s “Jumping Frog,” more 
sentiment in it than in the manufacture of a 
monument. 
An epitaph is a link between life, death and the 
great hereafter. It speaks from “the garden of 
sleep” its message of character, faith, hope and 
love. It lays stress upon the value of a good 
character and encourages emulation; it is a token 
of the abiding faith of our fathers, the sacrificial 
love of our mothers; and withal bids us hope at 
a time and in a place where hope, too, seems 
THEIR ONLY QUIET MOMENT. 
Left to right: John Keller, Geo. Fainter, W. 
D. MacDonald, FI. C. Whitaker, Alex. 
Hanton, W. B. Jones and C. F. Millar. 
dead. \Yhere material accomplishment marks suc- 
cess, the epitaph descends to do its teaching. 
Christopher Wren imagined St. Paul’s cathedral 
drew its lines with “brushes of comet's hair,” and 
was buried under its stately dome. As you 
enter the cathedral you are confronted with this 
inscription: “Si monumentum reipiiris, circum- 
spice” — “if you seek a monument, look about 
you.” or as a bright verger pur it — he was try- 
ing to be facetious — “if you seek a monument, 
sir, come, spy, see.” As you look about, that 
epitaph grips you with an ever growing power 
and mingled with your adoration of Him. for 
whom the cathedral was conceived and built, is 
your admiration of him w’ho planned it. What 
better message of a good life, of faith and hope, 
has been expressed than in the epitaph to Dean 
Afford — “The inn of a traveler on his way to 
Jerusalem.” 
It is with such thoughts as these that I 
broach the old and thread-bare subject of epi- 
taphs. If, incidentally, I touch a lighter note, 
you will apjireciate. I hope, that it is not for 
the purpose of “trying to be facetious,” but for 
illustration only. You superintendents of our 
cemeteries could out-<lo any effort of mine in 
recalling the smiling epitaphs which are to be 
found in almost every cemetery. They act as 
a safety-valve to sombre surroundings, and per- 
mit you, in your trying occupation, occasionally 
t<) steal a smile and break that professional look 
of sadness, which the undertakers impose upon 
you. 
“CAUGHT IN THE’ ACT.” 
Left to right: Mrs. Youden of Pittsburgh, 
Geo. Painter of Philadelphia and Mrs. 
W. B. Jones of Pittsburgh. 
Let me give just three illustrations of this 
class of epitaphs; a class, which I mention 
only for the purpose of contrast and exclusion. 
For an example of an Irish bull, who could im- 
prove on this: 
“Here lies the body of John Rounds, 
Who was lost at sea and never found.” 
And this example of the pun, found in Bath 
Abbey upon the tombstone of a woman, whose 
name was Mann: 
“Here lies Anne Mann; she lived an old maid 
and died an old Mann.” 
And this expression, in doggerel, of that tired 
feeling which Shakespeare more elegantly ex- 
pressed in his “After life’s fitful fever, he sleeps 
well” : 
“Here lies an old woman who always was tired, 
She lived in a house where no help was hired. 
Her last words on earth were: ‘Dear friends, 
I’m going 
Where cleaning ain’t done, nor sweeping nor 
sewing: 
And everything there will be just to my wishes. 
For where they don’t eat there’s no washing 
of dishes. 
Don't mourn for me now; don’t mourn for me 
never, 
For I'm going to do nothing forever and ever.’ ” 
This is not the kind of epitaph that I have in 
mind, nor from them do I draw the thought, which 
I seek today to impress upon the minds of you, 
who are guardians of the portals that lead to the 
monuments. 
They say that epitaphs have gone out of style; 
that they are not considered “good form,” and 
that one can see them today only in the oldest 
cemeteries. They say, too, that the classics are 
going out of fashion, and they speak of Latin 
and Greek as “tlie dead languages.” Dead lan- 
guages! when nearly every English sentence con- 
tains a Latin or a Greek word, and often both. 
Dead languages! when the thoughts we utter, 
as well as the words with which we clothe them, 
pulsate with the spirit of those ancient peoples. 
Epitaphs out of style! As well might Tve say 
that monuments should go out of style, for a 
monument is an unwritten epitaph to him for 
whom it was erected. Tlie.v have not yet tabooed 
the simple words “father,” “mother.” What 
memories surge when we see them ! How much 
more they mean than “John Brown”! Have we 
become such a prey to “good form,” have, we 
become so hard-hearted, as hard as the granite 
of our cemeteries, that we cannot bare our 
hearts and soften tlie stone by inscribing thereon 
some simple virtue of the sleeper? 
Go you to the fashionable cemetery. You will 
see handsome memorials; mausoleums, whose 
lines and massiveness compel your artistic sense. 
You see names beantitully carved thereon; just 
names, names. You are duly impressed with the 
magnificence of it all. But there is a coldness, 
a chill, about these fashionable homes of the dead. 
Something is lacking; and that something you 
cannot find amidst these memorials. 
Go you now to the older plot. Here you find 
small, inartistic stones, roughly hewn, poorly set, 
with names all but obliterated. Yet you stoop 
close and read; on this one the simple word 
“Farewell”; on that one “He sleeps”; on a wife’s 
tablet “Till he comes”; there, “He was a good 
husband and father”; and again, “He left a widow 
and eighty-seven children, grandchildren and 
great grandchildren’' — truly one of our forefathers. 
And you are reminded of that family inscription 
in Warwick: “All the sons were brave and all 
the daughters virtuous.” Here you find the 
something you missed in the more modern, more 
fashionable portion of the cemetery. Here you 
find sentiment. Here you find love, faith and 
hope; all the inspirations and aspirations of life. 
Here is the resting place of real-red-blooded peo- 
ple, who not only followed the blessed rule of 
speaking no ill of the dead, but found time to 
write well of them upon their monuments. You 
love those old inscriptions and do not stop to 
wonder whether they were true or false. And 
you experience a contentment, a fullness, which 
all the magnificence of the modern memorial 
could not give you. You slowly turn away and 
discover that you have spent nearly all your 
time among the dear old monuments and epitaphs 
of a by -gone day; and you pass out of the old 
cemetery, from its sunlight and warmth, through 
the cold, moonlit avenues of stately spires and 
'^arved sarcophagi, giving them but a glance. 
Vou are thinking of the things you have read in 
that old cemetery and a tender smile is upon 
your face. 
Epitaphs out of style! Then let us bring them 
back into style. Let us put a little sentiment 
into and upon our monuments. Let us add to the 
