ON READING ONE'S OWN OBITUARY.

Evening Star, Issue 18291, 2 June 1923, Page 2

ON READING ONE'S OWN OBITUARY.

We have sometimes wondered, as we wandered through cemeteries, what would bo the effect on the departed if they could oomo back and read tbs inscriptions on their tombstones. There was some point in the child’s question as to where all the bad people were buried. .There are none in the graveyards if we are to believe what is inscribed there. Or if those who have lived much in the public could return and read the eulogies of them in the newspapers or in funeral sermons, how would they feel? It is a wise and gracious thing, no doubt, to speak no evil of the dead; but would it not be an equally wise and gracious thing to let them know something of what we think of them- before they depart? Lot us consider. » -K- * * Recently in our reading wo came on two illustrations of the effect produced on people by reading their own biography—one in fiction and one in fact. Tho imaginary one occurs in that charming story by Joseph C. Lincoln, ‘The Portygco.’ It is a delight to come on a clean, sweet novel like this—a delight to find- one writer who can produce the highest effects without the evil-smelling savor of sexuality nnd abnormal tragedies reeking from his pages. The hero of tho storv appears at first as a youth with a good strain of vanity streaking his character. Ho has a high opinion of himself-—flunks he could write poetry, tides, is gladdened to see his productions in the poet’s corner of the country paper, and then to have some accepted by magazines. Ho is flattered by tho gilds of the little town where ho had como to live, falls in love, and seems on tho fair way to ho spoilt. Then comes the war. Ho enlists, distinguishes himself in tho first engagement, is supposed to be killed in the forlorn hope of trying to rescue a wounded comrade. Then the eulogies appear in tho newspapers at home and tho magazines that had published his poems. “His leaf has perished in the green." Bub tho world has not been deaf to his might bavo boons. On tho contrary, it talks of his heroic deeds and of all the great things ho would have accomplished had he lived. A volume of his poetry- was published, and the reviewers wont into ecstasies over it as they set it in the background of his heroic career on the battlefield. But, as it turned out, he was not killed. He was taken prisoner, remained so till near the end of the war, when he escaped and came back to America and read tho stuff that had been written about him ; but it was now nauseous. His vanity was all gone. He was humble, silent about his merits, and he drew himself bright from the doubtful lights of hia youth, and resolved to be worthy of tho opinions that had been formed of him. That is the story in fiction. Tho story of fact, of real life, corresponds. An American ship’s captain ran away from home when young. He had been a wild youth, but • bad prospered in, bis Seafaring life. His ship was wrecked, and some of the survivors of tho crew reported him dead. But they told great yarns about his courage and character. A memorial service was held in tho local church, a sermon preached and reported in the paper. His mother clipped out all the nice things that wore said about him , and kept them, as mothers do. Then one day ho suddenly turned up. lie came back thinking that lie would have a high old time as of yore—-read what was said of him in his mother’s scrap book, thought over tho matter seriously, changed Ids mind, and determined to live up to the people’s view of him now. •5 *" * ■» These aro pleasant stories and end happily. But it is given to very few to return and read their obituary notices ; which leads us to suggest that, as a rule, it would be well not to wait to break our boxes of ointment on tombstones. It would bo better to spend a little of it during life. Sometimes this might not work out well. But wc think that the failure to do it is much more likely to turn out badly. Parents, for instance, sometimes fail to give commendation to their children, though if death took tho latter their faults would ho forgotten. Sometimes it is tho other way about. Children do not show that gratitude and love to fathers and mothers, and when conscience wakes they try to atone for their neglect by post mortem eulogies in their talk or on their tombstones. There is truth in Disraeli’s remark that “Custom blunts the fineness of psychological study; those with whom wo have lived long and early are apt to blind our 'essential and accidental qualities in quo bewildering association.” The same thing is true in the relations of husband and wife. Irove is a tender, sensitive plant, and it needs to bo watched and tended with care. , It will wither in an atmosphere of indifference. A well-known writer says that he and his wife amuso themselves sometimes by watching “man and woman pairs” in cafes, trains, hotels, and guessing whether or not they are mar-, tied. “ When wo see them keyed up, attentive, broking eagerly at each other, and generally on tiro wo assume that they are not married—at least to each other. And when wo notice indifference, the man turning his back to her and reading a newspaper, or she rather boredlooking, we conclude they are manned and done. Lovo will die without its courtiers.’’ And it is poor consolation to, read its obituary, no matter how finely turned and tuned in its phrases and sentiments. When wo look into tho history of literature, what pathetic and tragic issues wo have there, because recognitions of worth camo too lata! Tho stories of men like Keats, Burns, Wordsworth, Browning, and scores of lesser names are sad reading. That rare poetic genius, Emily Dickenson, has a touching little poem, entitled 1 Too Late,’ suggested by one whose fate.it was. lame arrived just as sire was dying. Could she have guessed that it would be! Could but a crier of tho glee Have climbed tho distant hill; Had not the bliss so slow a pace— Who knows but this surrendered face Were undefeated still '!

So it will bo wise for ua to try to bo encouragers of those living rather than write their memorials when they are gone. A great bicycle race was on. Crowds were watching; some cheering, others indifferent. A luckless contestant came a cropper. Friends gathered round him, ‘brushed the blood and dust off him. As ho stood, shaky and disappointed, the friend - that stieketh closer than a brother rushed forward and shouted “ Hi, Jimmy, here’s my wheel! Go on; you can do it yet. Go on!” And the crowd took up the shout of encouragement : “ Go on; go on!” and Jimmy did, and ho won a prize. It was not tho first, but still it was a prize. And in tho great race of life there are lots stumbling, crippled, hurt, down in the dust. What is needed is not to stand by as spectators, but to come forward as helpers. Sometimes a word will do it; sometimes money may be needed. But always sympathy, always encouragement. Everywhere we are discussing tho social problem and how society is to be set right. In its simplest terms the social problem is just tho hurt and helpless man. and the man who conics to his aid with cheer and assistance. It is just the old story of the Jericho road and tho Good Samaritan. There never has been, there never will bo, any other way to the millennium, which wo all so much desire. Erasmus gives a fine summary of tho character of his friend, Sir Thomas Moore : “ Elevation has not elated him or made him forgetful of Ilia humble friends. He is always kind, always generous. Some ho helps with money, some with influence; when he can give nothing else, he gives good advice. He is patron-general of all poor devils.” Patron-general of all poor devils! What a splendid obituary! What a fine inscription if it could be truthfully put on one’s tombstone! * * # » And what blessings have oomo to the world 'because of those who have not waited to do post mortem kindnesses. They have done them when they were needed—in life. It has been well said; “ There are natures in which, if they love us, wo are conscious of having a sort of 'baptism and consecration. They bind us over to reticence and purity by their pure belief about us, and our sins become the worst kind of sacrilege which tears down the invisible altar of trust.” The Church is sometimes blamed for its inconsidcrateness of erring members. It is pleasant to have on record an illustration of tho opposite kind such as this. Dr George Matheson, who died not long ago, tells that “at one time, with a great thrill of horror, I found myself an absolute Atheist. After being ordained in Indian, I believed nothing, neither God ,nor immortality. I tendered my resignation to tho Presbytery. They said I was a young man, and would change. I have changed.” Clerics, especially Scotch ones, are so often charged with antipathy to and) even persecution of heretics that it is good to come on a story like that. And what a reward they had for their trust and considerateness! They saved to religion and life a man who afterwards became one of its foremost defenders, as well as the writer of some of its most beautiful hymns and poems, to say nothing of the heroic example he set in his life by overcoming tho handicap of blindness. So we never know how much we achieve by breaking our box of ointment on the living instead of the dead. But we do know something of the sorrow and remorse that fills many a heart because of its failure in doing this. “Oh, the anguish of that .thought tliat we can never atone to our dead for tho. stinted affection we gave them, for tho light answer we returned to their plaints and their pleadings, for the little reverence we showed to that sacred human soul that lived so close to us, and was the divinest thing that God had given us to know.” Wo think, perhaps, that if they were with us now it would be different. Maybe it would, and then maybe it would not. Anyway we can’t make our subtraction right if wo have done our addition wrong. And that is the bitterest drop in the pang of remorse. A character in one of George Macdonald's novels says that he once shot a bird for no good reason, but just to shoot at something. It fell dead, a little heap of rutiled feathers. Ho could never get it out of his head; “and the worst of it is that to all eternity I can never make atonement.” His friend' said : “ But God will forgive you.” “What do I care for that,” lie rejoined almost fiercely, “ when the little bird cannot forgive me!” That's the trouble; and eVen Divine forgiveness, if it is no more than a mere word or wipe of the slate, is felt by the conscience when it is alive to be little short of an impertinence.

There must be some way of reparation, otherwise wo arc. no further on than the old Persian poet of centuries ago; The -Moving Finger writes, and, having writ, ‘ Moves on ; nor all your piety or wit Si lid 1 ur o it. back to cancel half a line Kor all your tears wash cut a word of it, * * * # And so we arrive at our final point—the wisdom of conducting cue’s own funeral, that is the title oi an essay lu one of Mr Borcham’e books. Tho idea is that it is a wise and good tiling to look forward to tire end and read our own obituary. Wo can do it pretty accurately if wo only take time to consider; certainly much more accurately than anybody else can do it for us. There aro some things • wo should 1 surely not like to bo included 1 in it and some others 'that we just as surely would like. So it ■vy.ill bo good for us to bury, while wo live, the former, even though wo are tho only mourner at the funeral. Mr Bo re ham, in the essay to which wc have referred tells over again the story of St, Francis of Assisi. Francis longed to bo a Liar, but he loved a sweet and gracious woman. Ho could not have both. Ho wrestled long in agony which to choose. Tho brethren of the monastery saw him rise one night, go out into the ■grounds, fashion snow images of wife and children and servants, arrange them in a circle, and in imagination tasted for one delicious hour the delights of hearth and homo, of life and love. Then lie kissed them all a tearful and final farewell. Tho

dream was over. The choice was made. That night Francis wrote his own obituary and read hia own funeral service. And we have all to do something of that sort in our lives. What we have said already may suggest some of those things which it will bo Well for us to exclude from our obitua'ry. The obituary which others may write of us we shall not sec; and perhaps it is as well for our peace of mind that it shall be ed. But what others write is of small account. It is what we ourselves choose to write that matters most. It is what we ourselves choose to- bury or preserve that determines our real obituary when death clarifies the eyes and we see as wo are seen. Wo began by wondering what would be the effect on folks if they could come bade from the shades of the Invisible and read their epitaphs or hear the verdicts of others upon their character and work. But is there not a sense in which we may actually do this? Most of us are professedly Christians. If we believe that Christ’s teachings and judgments upon human life have the value of God, then anyone who wishes can determine from this what will bo the character of his obituary hero and hereafter. And in the reception given to this we already know the effects of reading our own obituary. These effects arc diverse upon diverse people. Some are, quite unconcerned in tie matter. Others they induce, as with St. Francis, to conduct their own funerals. These are the only one who will be able to confront unashamedly the post mortem judgments of friend or foe.