Chapter II: Part 2

Here lies
POOR SAMBO,
A faithful negro, who
(Attending his master from the West Indies),
Died on his arrival at Sunderland.

For sixty years the angry winter's wave
Has, thundering, dashed this bleak and barren shore,
Since Sambo's head laid in this lonely grave,
Lies still, and ne'er will hear their turmoil more.
Full many a sand-bird chirps upon the sod,
And many a moonlight elfin round him trips,
Full many a summer sunbeam warms the clod,
And many a teeming cloud upon him drips.
But still he sleeps, till the awakening sounds
Of the archangel's trump new life impart;
Then the Great Judge, His approbation founds
Not on man's colour, but his worth of heart.
H. Bell, del. (1796.)

Epitaphs on Soldiers and Sailors.

We give a few of the many curious epitaphs placed to the memory of soldiers and sea-faring men. Our initial epitaph is taken from Longnor churchyard, Staffordshire, and it tells the story of an extended and eventful life:--

In memory of WILLIAM BILLINGE, who was Born in a Corn Field at
Fawfield head, in this Parish, in the year 1679. At the age of 23
years he enlisted into His Majesty's service under Sir George Rooke,
and was at the taking of the Fortress of Gibralter in 1704. He
afterwards served under the Duke of Marlborough at Ramillies, fought
on the 23rd of May, 1706, where he was wounded by a musket-shot in his
thigh. Afterwards returned to his native country, and with manly
courage defended his sovereign's rights in the Rebellion in 1715 and
1745. He died within the space of 150 yards of where he was born, and
was interred here the 30th January, 1791, aged 112 years.

Billeted by death, I quartered here remain,
And when the trumpet sounds I'll rise and march again.

On a Chelsea Hospital veteran we have the following interesting epitaph:--

Here lies WILLIAM HISELAND,
A Veteran, if ever Soldier was,
Who merited well a Pension,
If long service be a merit,
Having served upwards of the days of Man.
Ancient, but not superannuated;
Engaged in a Series of Wars,
Civil as well as Foreign,
Yet maimed or worn out by neither.
His complexion was Fresh and Florid;
His Health Hale and Hearty;
His memory Exact and Ready.
In Stature
He exceeded the Military Size;
In Strength
He surpassed the Prime of Youth;
And
What rendered his age still more Patriarchal,
When above a Hundred Years old
He took unto him a Wife!
Read! fellow Soldiers, and reflect
That there is a Spiritual Warfare,
As well as a Warfare _Temporal_.
Born the 1st August, 1620,
Died the 17th of February, 1732,
Aged One Hundred and Twelve.

At Bremhill, Wiltshire, the following lines are placed to the memory of a soldier who reached the advanced age of 92 years:--

A poor old soldier shall not lie unknown,
Without a verse and this recording stone.
'Twas his, in youth, o'er distant lands to stray,
Danger and death companions of his way.
Here, in his native village, stealing age
Closed the lone evening of his pilgrimage.
Speak of the past--of names of high renown,
Or brave commanders long to dust gone down,
His look with instant animation glow'd,
Tho' ninety winters on his head had snow'd.
His country, while he lived, a boon supplied,
And Faith her shield held o'er him when he died.

The following inscription is engraved on a piece of copper affixed to one of the pillars in Winchester Cathedral:--

A MEMORIALL.
For the renowned Martialist RICHARD BOLES of y{e}
Right Worshypful family of the Boles, in
Linckhorne Sheire: Colonell of a Ridgment of Foot
of 1300, who for his Gratious King Charles y{e} First
did wounders at the Battell of Edge Hill; his last
Action, to omit all others was att Alton in the
County of Southampton, was surprised by five or
Six Thousand of the Rebells, who caught him there
Quartered to fly to the church, with near fourscore
of his men who there fought them six or seven
Houers, and then the Rebells breaking in upon them
he slew with his sword six or seven of them, and
then was slayne himself, with sixty of his men aboute
him
1641.
His Gratious Sovereign hearing of his death, gave
him his high comendation in y{s} pationate expression,
Bring me a moorning scarffe, i have lost
One of the best Commanders in this Kingdome.
Alton will tell you of his famous fight
Which y{s} man made and bade the world good night
His verteous life feared not Mortality
His body must his vertues cannot Die.
Because his Bloud was there so nobly spent,
This is his Tomb, that church his monument.

Ricardus Boles in Art. Mag.
Composuit, Posuitque, Dolens,
An. Dm. 1689.

On one of the buttresses on the south side of St. Mary's Church, at Beverley, is an oval tablet, to commemorate the fate of two Danish soldiers, who, during their voyage to Hull, to join the service of the Prince of Orange, in 1689, quarrelled, and having been marched with the troops to Beverley, during their short stay there sought a private meeting to settle their differences by the sword. Their melancholy end is recorded in a doggerel epitaph, of which we give an illustration.

In the parish registers the following entries occur:--

1689, December 16.--Daniel Straker, a Danish trooper buried.

" December 23.--Johannes Frederick Bellow, a Danish
trooper, beheaded for killing the other,
buried.

"The mode of execution was," writes the Rev. Jno. Pickford, M.A., "it may be presumed, by a broad two-handed sword, such a one as Sir Walter Scott has particularly described in 'Anne of Geierstein,' as used at the decapitation of Sir Archibald de Hagenbach, and which the executioner is described as wielding with such address and skill. The Danish culprit was, like the oppressive knight, probably bound and seated in a chair; but such swords as those depicted on the tablet could not well have been used for the purpose, for they are long, narrow in the blade, and perfectly straight."

We have in the diary of Abraham de la Pryme, the Yorkshire antiquary, some very interesting particulars respecting the Danes. Writing in 1689, the diarist tells us: "Towards the latter end of the aforegoing year, there landed at Hull about six or seven thousand Danes, all stout fine men, the best equip'd and disciplin'd of any that was ever seen. They were mighty godly and religious. You would seldom or never hear an oath or ugly word come out of their mouths. They had a great many ministers amongst them, whome they call'd pastours, and every Sunday almost, ith' afternoon, they prayed and preach'd as soon as our prayers was done. They sung almost all their divine service, and every ministre had those that made up a quire whom the rest follow'd. Then there was a sermon of about half-an-houre's length, all _memoratim_, and then the congregation broke up. When they administered the sacrament, the ministre goes into the church and caused notice to be given thereof, then all come before, and he examined them one by one whether they were worthy to receive or no. If they were he admitted them, if they were not he writ their names down in a book, and bid them prepare against the next Sunday. Instead of bread in the sacrament, I observed that they used wafers about the bigness and thickness of a sixpence. They held it no sin to play at cards upon Sundays, and commonly did everywhere where they were suffered; for indeed in many places the people would not abide the same, but took the cards from them. Tho' they loved strong drink, yet all the while I was amongst them, which was all this winter, I never saw above five or six of them drunk."

The diarist tells us that the strangers liked this country. It appears they worked for the farmers, and sold tumblers, cups, spoons, etc., which they had imported, to the English. They acted in the courthouse a play in their own language, and realised a good sum of money by their performances. The design of the piece was "Herod's Tyranny--The Birth of Christ--The Coming of the Wise Men."

A correspondent states that in Battersea Church there is a handsome monument to Sir Edward Wynter, a captain in the East India Company's service in the reign of Charles II., which records that in India, where he had passed many years of his life, he was

A rare example, and unknown to most,
Where wealth is gain'd, and conscience is not lost;
Nor less in martial honour was his name,
Witness his actions of immortal fame.
Alone, unharm'd, a tiger he opprest,
And crush'd to death the monster of a beast.
Thrice twenty mounted Moors he overthrew,
Singly, on foot, some wounded, some he slew,
Dispersed the rest,--what more could Samson do?
True to his friends, a terror to his foes,
Here now in peace his honour'd bones repose.

Below, in bas-relief, he is represented struggling with the tiger, both the combatants appearing in the attitude of wrestlers. He is also depicted in the performance of the yet more wonderful achievement, the discomfiture of the "thrice twenty mounted Moors," who are all flying before him.

In Yarmouth churchyard, a monumental inscription tells a painful story as follows:--

To the memory of GEORGE GRIFFITHS, of the Shropshire Militia, who died
Feb. 26th, 1807, in consequence of a blow received in a quarrel with
his comrade.

Time flies away as nature on its wing,
I in a battle died (not for my King).
Words with my brother soldier did take place,
Which shameful is, and always brings disgrace.
Think not the worse of him who doth remain,
For he as well as I might have been slain.

We have also from Yarmouth the next example:--

To the memory of ISAAC SMITH, who died March 24th, 1808, and SAMUEL
BODGER, who died April 2nd, 1808, both of the Cambridgeshire Militia.

The tyrant Death did early us arrest,
And all the magazines of life possest:
No more the blood its circling course did run,
But in the veins like icicles it hung;
No more the hearts, now void of quickening heat,
The tuneful march of vital motion beat;
Stiffness did into every sinew climb,
And a short death crept cold through every limb.

The next example is from Bury St. Edmunds:--

WILLIAM MIDDLEDITCH,
Late Serjeant-Major of the Grenadier Guards,
Died Nov. 13, 1834, aged 53 years.

A husband, father, comrade, friend sincere,
A British soldier brave lies buried here.
In Spain and Flushing, and at Waterloo,
He fought to guard our country from the foe;
His comrades, Britons, who survive him, say
He acted nobly on that glorious day.

Edward Parr died in 1811, at the age of 38 years, and was buried in North Scarle churchyard. His epitaph states:--

A soldier once I was, as you may see,
My King and Country claim no more from me.
In battle I receiv'd a dreadful ball
Severe the blow, and yet I did not fall.
When God commands, we all must die it's true
Farewell, dear Wife, Relations all, adieu.

A tablet in Chester Cathedral reads as follows:--

To the Memory of
JOHN MOORE NAPIER
Captain in Her Majesty's 62nd Regiment
Who died of Asiatic Cholera
in Scinde
on the 7th of July, 1846
Aged 29 years.

The tomb is no record of high lineage;
His may be traced by his name;
His race was one of soldiers.
Among soldiers he lived; among them he died;
A soldier falling, where numbers fell with him,
In a barbarous land.
Yet there was none died more generous,
More daring, more gifted, or more religious.
On his early grave
Fell the tears of stern and hardy men,
As his had fallen on the graves of others.

A British soldier lies buried under the shadow of the fine old Minster of Beverley. He died in 1855, and his epitaph states:--

A soldier lieth beneath the sod,
Who many a field of battle trod:
When glory call'd, his breast he bar'd,
And toil and want, and danger shar'd.
Like him through all thy duties go;
Waste not thy strength in useless woe,
Heave thou no sigh and shed no tear,
A British soldier slumbers here.

The stirring lives of many female soldiers have furnished facts for several important historical works, and rich materials for the writers of romance. We give an illustration of the stone erected by public subscription in Brighton churchyard over the remains of a notable female warrior, named Phoebe Hessel. The inscription tells the story of her long and eventful career. The closing years of her life were cheered by the liberality of George IV. During a visit to Brighton, when he was Prince Regent, he met old Phoebe, and was greatly interested in her history. He ascertained that she was supported by a few benevolent townsmen, and the kind-hearted Prince questioned her respecting the amount that would be required to enable her to pass the remainder of her days in comfort. "Half-a-guinea a week," said Phoebe Hessel, "will make me as happy as a princess." That amount by order of her royal benefactor was paid to her until the day of her death. She told capital stories, had an excellent memory, and was in every respect most agreeable company. Her faculties remained unimpaired to within a few hours of her death. On September 22nd, 1821, she was visited by a person of some literary taste, and the following particulars were obtained respecting her life. The writer states:--"I have seen to-day an extraordinary character in the person of Phoebe Hessel, a poor woman stated to be 108 years of age. It appears that she was born in March, 1715, and at fifteen formed a strong attachment to Samuel Golding, a private in the regiment called Kirk's Lambs, which was ordered to the West Indies. She determined to follow her lover, enlisted into the 5th regiment of foot, commanded by General Pearce, and embarked after him. She served there five years without discovering herself to anyone. At length they were ordered to Gibraltar. She was likewise at Montserrat, and would have been in action, but her regiment did not reach the place till the battle was decided. Her lover was wounded at Gibraltar and sent to Plymouth; she then waited on the General's lady at Gibraltar, disclosed her sex, told her story, and was immediately sent home. On her arrival, Phoebe went to Samuel Golding in the hospital, nursed him there, and when he came out, married and lived with him for twenty years; he had a pension from Chelsea. After Golding's death, she married Hessel, has had many children, and has been many years a widow. Her eldest son was a sailor with Admiral Norris; he afterwards went to the East Indies, and, if he is now alive, must be nearly seventy years of age. The rest of the family are dead. At an advanced age she earned a scanty livelihood at Brighton by selling apples and gingerbread on the Marine Parade.

"I saw this woman to-day in her bed, to which she is confined from having lost the use of her limbs. She has even now, old and withered as she is, a characteristic countenance, and, I should judge from her present appearance, must have had a fine, though perhaps a masculine style of head when young. I have seen many a woman at the age of sixty or seventy look older than she does under the load of 108 years of human life. Her cheeks are round and seem firm, though ploughed with many a small wrinkle. Her eyes, though their sight is gone, are large and well formed. As soon as it was announced that somebody had come to see her, she broke the silence of her solitary thoughts and spoke. She began in a complaining tone, as if the remains of a strong and restless spirit were impatient of the prison of a decaying and weak body. 'Other people die, and I cannot,' she said. Upon exciting her recollection of former days, her energy seemed roused, and she spoke with emphasis. Her voice was strong for an old person; and I could easily believe her when, upon being asked if her sex was not in danger of being detected by her voice, she replied that she always had a strong and manly voice. She appeared to take a pride in having kept her secret, declaring that she told it to no man, woman, or child, during the time she was in the army; 'for you know, Sir, a drunken man and a child always tell the truth. But,' said she, 'I told my secret to the ground. I dug a hole that would hold a gallon, and whispered it there.' While I was with her, the flies annoyed her extremely; she drove them away with a fan, and said they seemed to smell her out as one that was going to the grave. She showed me a wound she had received in her elbow by a bayonet. She lamented the error of her former ways, but excused it by saying, 'When you are at Rome, you must do as Rome does.' When she could not distinctly hear what was said, she raised herself in the bed and thrust her head forward with impatient energy. She said when the king saw her, he called her 'a jolly old fellow.' Though blind, she could discern a glimmering light, and I was told would frequently state the time of day by the effect of light."

The next is copied from a time-worn stone in Weem churchyard, near Aberfeldy, Perthshire:--

In memory of Captain JAMES CARMICHAEL, of Bockland's Regiment.--Died
25th Nov. 1758:

Where now, O Son of Mars, is Honour's aim?
What once thou wast or wished, no more's thy claim.
Thy tomb, Carmichael, tells thy Honour's Roll,
And man is born, as thee, to be forgot.
But virtue lives to glaze thy honours o'er,
And Heaven will smile when brittle stone's no more.

The following is inscribed on a gravestone in Fort William Cemetery:--

Sacred
To the Memory of
Captain Patrick Campbell,
Late of the 42nd Regiment,
Who died on the xiii of December,
MDCCCXVI.,
Aged eighty-three years,
A True Highlander,
A Sincere Friend,
And the best deerstalker
Of his day.

A gravestone in Barwick-in-Elmet, Yorkshire, states:--

Here lies, retired from busy scenes,
A first lieutenant of Marines,
Who lately lived in gay content
On board the brave ship "Diligent."
Now stripp'd of all his warlike show,
And laid in box of elm below,
Confined in earth in narrow borders,
He rises not till further orders.

The next is from Dartmouth churchyard:--

THOMAS GOLDSMITH, who died 1714.

He commanded the "Snap Dragon," as Privateer belonging to this port,
in the reign of Queen Anne, in which vessel he turned pirate, and
amass'd much riches.

Men that are virtuous serve the Lord;
And the Devil's by his friends ador'd;
And as they merit get a place
Amidst the bless'd or hellish race;
Pray then, ye learned clergy show
Where can this brute, Tom Goldsmith, go?
Whose life was one continued evil,
Striving to cheat God, Man, and Devil.

We find the following at Woodbridge on Joseph Spalding, master mariner, who departed this life Sept. 2nd, 1796, aged 55:--

Embark'd in life's tempestuous sea, we steer
'Midst threatening billows, rocks and shoals;
But Christ by faith, dispels each wavering fear,
And safe secures the anchor of our souls.

In Selby churchyard, the following is on John Edmonds, master mariner, who died 5th Aug., 1767:--

Tho' Boreas, with his blustering blasts
Has tost me to and fro,
Yet by the handiwork of God,
I'm here enclosed below.
And in this silent bay I lie
With many of our fleet,
Until the day that I set sail
My Saviour Christ to meet.

Another, on the south side of Selby churchyard:--

The boisterous main I've travers'd o'er,
New seas and lands explored,
But now at last, I'm anchor'd fast,
In peace and silence moor'd.

In the churchyard, Selby, near the north porch, in memory of William Whittaker, mariner, who died 22nd Oct., 1797, we read--

Oft time in danger have I been
Upon the raging main,
But here in harbour safe at rest
Free from all human pain.

Southill Church, Bedfordshire, contains a plain monument to the memory of Admiral Byng, who was shot at Portsmouth:--

To the perpetual disgrace of public justice,
The Honourable JOHN BYNG, Vice-Admiral of the Blue,
fell a martyr to political persecution, March 14,
in the year 1757;
when bravery and loyalty were insufficient securities for
the life and honour of a naval officer.

The following epitaph, inscribed on a stone in Putney churchyard, is nearly obliterated:--

Lieut. ALEX. DAVIDSON
Royal Navy has Caus'd this Stone
to be Erected to the Memory of
HARRIOT his dearly beloved Wife
who departed this Life Jan 24 1808
Aged 38 Years.

I have crossed this Earth's Equator Just sixteen times
And in my Country's cause have brav'd far distant climes
In Howe's Trafalgar and several Victories more
Firm and unmov'd I heard the Fatal Cannons roar
Trampling in human blood I felt not any fear
Nor for my Slaughter'd gallant Messmates shed A tear
But of A dear Wife by Death unhappily beguil'd
Even the British Sailor must become A child
Yet when from this Earth God shall my soul unfetter
I hope we'll meet in Another World and a better.

Some time ago a correspondent of the _Spectator_ stated: "As you are not one to despise 'unconsidered trifles' when they have merit, perhaps you will find room for the following epitaph, on a Deal boatman, which I copied the other day from a tombstone in a churchyard in that town:--

In memory of GEORGE PHILLPOT,
Who died March 22nd, 1850, aged 74 years.

Full many a life he saved
With his undaunted crew;
_He put his trust in Providence_,
AND CARED NOT HOW IT BLEW.

A hero; his heroic life and deeds, and the philosophy of religion, perfect both in theory and practice, which inspired them, all described in four lines of graphic and spirited verse! Would not 'rare Ben' himself have acknowledged this a good specimen of 'what verse can say in a little?' Whoever wrote it was a poet 'with the name.'

"There is another in the same churchyard which, though weak after the above, and indeed not uncommon, I fancy, in seaside towns, is at least sufficiently quaint:--

Memory of JAMES EPPS BUTTRESS, who, in rendering assistance to the
French Schooner, "Vesuvienne," was drowned, December 27th, 1852, aged
39.

Though Boreas' blast and Neptune's wave
Did toss me to and fro,
In spite of both, by God's decree,
I harbour here below;
And here I do at anchor ride
With many of our fleet,
Yet once again I must set sail,
Our Admiral, Christ, to meet.

Also two sons, who died in infancy, &c.

The 'human race' typified by '_our fleet_,' excites vague reminiscences of Goethe and Carlyle, and 'our Admiral Christ' seems not remotely associated in sentiment with the 'We fight that fight for our fair father Christ,' and 'The King will follow Christ and we the King,' of our grand poet. So do the highest and the lowest meet. But the heartiness, the vitality, nay, almost vivacity, of some of these underground tenantry is surprising. There is more life in some of our dead folk than in many a living crowd."

The following five epitaphs are from Hessle Road Cemetery, Hull:--

WILLIAM EASTON,
Who was lost at sea,
In the fishing smack Martha,
In the gale of January, 1865.
Aged 30 years.

When through the torn sail the wild tempest is streaming;
When o'er the dark wave the red lightning is gleaming,
No hope lends a ray the poor fisher to cherish.
Oh hear, kind Jesus; save, Lord, or we perish!

In affectionate remembrance of
THOMAS CRACKLES,
Humber Pilot, who was drowned off
The Lincolnshire Coast,
During the gale, October 19th, 1869.
Aged 24 years.

How swift the torrent rolls
That hastens to the sea;
How strong the tide that bears our souls
On to Eternity.

In affectionate remembrance of
DAVID COLLISON,
Who was drowned in the "Spirit of the Age,"
Off Scarborough, Jan. 6th, 1864.
Aged 36 years.

I cannot bend over his grave,
He sleeps in the secret sea;
And not one gentle whisp'red wave
Can tell that place to me.

Although unseen by human eyes,
And mortal know'd it not;
Yet Christ knows where his body lies,
And angels guard the spot.

ROBERT PICKERING, who was
Drowned from the smack "Satisfaction,"
On the Dutch coast, May 7, 1869.
Aged 18 years.

The waters flowed on every side,
No chance was there to save;
At last compelled, he bowed and died,
And found a watery grave.

In affectionate remembrance of
WILLIAM HARRISON,
53 years Mariner of Hull,
Who died October 5th, 1864.
Aged 70 years.

Long time I ploughed the ocean wide,
A life of toil I spent;
But now in harbour safe arrived
From care and discontent.

My anchor's cast, my sails are furled,
And now I am at rest.
Of all the parts throughout the world,
Sailors, this is the best.

Our next example is from a stone in Castle Street burial-ground, Hull, which is so fast decaying that already some parts of the inscription are obliterated:--

Sacred
to the memory
of
WILLIAM WALKER,
. . . . . r of the Sloop Janatt,
. . . . . . . who was unfortunately
drowned off Flamborough Head,
17th April, 1823.
Aged 41 years.

This stone was Erected by
his Countrymen in
remembrance of his Death.

I have left the troubled ocean,
And now laid down to sleep,
In hopes I shall set sail
Our Saviour Christ to meet.

A gravestone in Horncastle churchyard, Lincolnshire, has this epitaph:--

My helm was gone,
My sails were rent,
My mast went by the board,
My hull it struck upon a rock,
Receive my soul, O Lord!

On a sailor's gravestone in the burial-ground at Hamilton, we are told:--

The seas he ploughed for twenty years,
Without the smallest dread or fears:
And all that time was never known
To strike upon a bank or stone.

Epitaphs on Musicians and Actors.

A few epitaphs relating to music and the drama now claim our attention. Our first example is to be found in the cathedral at Norwich:--

Here WILLIAM INGLOTT, organist, doth rest,
Whose art in musick this Cathedral blest;
For descant most, for voluntary all,
He past on organ, song, and virginall.
He left this life at age of sixty-seven,
And now 'mongst angels all sings St. in Heaven;
His fame flies far, his name shall never die,
See, art and age here crown his memorie.
_Non digitis, Inglotte, tuis terrestria tangis,
Tangis nunc digitis organa celsa poli._

Anno Dom. 1621.

Buried the last day This erected the 15th
of December, 1621. day of June, 1622.

In Wakefield Parish Church a tablet bears an inscription as follows:--

In memory of
HENRY CLEMETSHAW,
upwards of fifty years organist
of this church, who died
May 7, 1821, aged 68 years.

Now, like an organ, robb'd of pipes and breath,
Its keys and stops are useless made by death,
Tho' mute and motionless in ruins laid;
Yet when re-built, by more than mortal aid,
This instrument, new voiced, and tuned, shall raise,
To God, its builder, hymns of endless praise.

We copy the following from a monument in Holy Trinity Church, Hull:--

In memory of
GEORGE LAMBERT,
late Organist of this Church,
which office he held upwards of 40 years,
performing its duties with ability
and assiduity rarely exceeded,
affording delight to the lovers
of Sacred Harmony,
This Tablet is erected
by his Musical and private Friends,
aided by the brothers of the Humber
and Minerva Lodges of Free Masons of this Town
(being a member of the latter Lodge),
That they might place on record
the high sense they entertained
of his personal and professional merit.
He died Feb. 19th, 1838, aged 70 years,
And his Remains were interred at the
Parish Church of St. John in Beverley.

Tho' like an Organ now in ruins laid,
Its stops disorder'd, and its frame decay'd,
This instrument ere long new tun'd shall raise
To God, its Builder, notes of endless praise.

From a churchyard in Wales we obtain the following curious epitaph on an organ blower:--

Under this stone lies MEREDITH MORGAN,
Who blew the bellows of our church organ.
Tobacco he hated, to smoke most unwilling,
Yet never so pleased as when _pipes_ he was filling.
No reflection on him for rude speech could be cast,
Though he gave our old organ many a blast!
No puffer was he, though a capital blower;
He could blow double G., and now lies a note lower.

Our next epitaph records the death of a fiddler, who appears to have been so much attached to his wife that upon the day of her death he, too, yielded to the grim tyrant. Of this pair, buried in Flixton churchyard, it may be truly said: "In life united, and in death not parted." The inscription is as follows:--

To the Memory of JOHN BOOTH, of Flixton, who died 16th March, 1778,
aged 43 years; on the same day and within a few hours of the death of
his wife HANNAH, who was buried with him in the same grave, leaving
seven children behind them.

Reader, have patience, for a Moment Stay,
Nor grudge the Tribute of a friendly tear,
For John, who once made all our Village gay,
Has taken up his Clay-cold Lodging here.

Suspended now his fiddle lies asleep,
That once with Musick us'd to charm the Ear.
Not for his Hannah long reserv'd to weep,
John yields to Fate with his companion dear.

So tenderly he loved his dearer part,
His Fondness could not bear a stay behind;
And Death through Kindness seem'd to throw the dart
To ease his sorrow, as he knew his mind.

In cheerful Labours all their Time they spent,
Their happy Lives in Length of Days acquir'd;
But Hand in Hand to Nature's God they went,
And just lay down to sleep when they were tir'd.

The Relicks of this faithful, honest Pair
One little Space of Mother Earth contains.
Let Earth protect them with a Mother's Care,
And Constant Verdure grace her for her pains.

The Pledges of their tender love remain,
For seven fine children bless'd their nuptial State.
Behold them, neighbours! nor behold in vain,
But heal their Sorrows and their lost Estate.

In the Old Cemetery, Newport, Monmouthshire, on a Scotch piper, the following appears:--

To the memory of Mr. JOHN MACBETH late piper to His Grace the Duke of
Sutherland, and a native of the Highlands of Scotland:

Died April 24th, 1852, Aged 46 years.

Far from his native land, beneath this stone,
Lies JOHN MACBETH, in prime of manhood gone;
A kinder husband never yet did breathe,
A firmer friend ne'er trod on Albyn's heath;
His selfish aims were all in heart and hand,
To be an honour to his native land,
As real Scotchmen wish to fall or stand.
A handsome _Gael_ he was, of splendid form,
Fit for a siege, or for the Northern Storm.
Sir Walter Scott remarked at Inverness,
"How well becomes Macbeth the Highland dress!"
His mind was stored with ancient Highland lore;
Knew Ossian's songs, and many bards of yore;
But music was his chief, and soul's delight.
And oft he played, with Amphion's skill and might,
His Highland pipe, before our Gracious Queen!
'Mong Ladies gay, and Princesses serene!
His magic chanter's strains pour'd o'er their hearts,
With thrilling rapture soft as Cupid's darts!
Like Shakespeare's witches, scarce they drew the breath,
But wished, like them, to say, "All hail, Macbeth!"
The Queen, well pleased, gave him by high command,
A splendid present from her Royal hand;
But nothing aye could make him vain or proud,
He felt alike at Court or in a crowd;
With high and low his nature was to please,
Frank with the Peasant, with the Prince at ease.
Beloved by thousands till his race was run,
Macbeth had ne'er a foe beneath the sun;
And now he plays among the Heavenly bands,
A diamond chanter never made with hands.

In the church at Ashover, Derbyshire, a tablet contains this inscription:--

To the Memory of
DAVID WALL,
whose superior performance on the
bassoon endeared him to an
extensive musical acquaintance.
His social life closed on the
4th Dec., 1796, in his 57th year.

The next is copied from a gravestone in Stoney Middleton churchyard:--

In memory of GEORGE, the son of GEORGE and MARGARET SWIFT, of Stoney
Middleton, who departed this life August the 21st, 1759, in the 20th
year of his age.

We the Quoir of Singers of this Church have erected this stone.

He's gone from us, in more seraphick lays
In Heaven to chant the Great Jehovah's praise;
Again to join him in those courts above,
Let's here exalt God's name with mutual love.

The following was written in memory of Madame Malibran, who died September 23rd, 1836:--

"The beautiful is vanished, and returns not."

'Twas but as yesterday, a mighty throng,
Whose hearts, as one man's heart, thy power could bow,
Amid loud shoutings hailed thee queen of song,
And twined sweet summer flowers around thy brow;
And those loud shouts have scarcely died away,
And those young flowers but half forgot thy bloom,
When thy fair crown is changed for one of clay--
Thy boundless empire for a narrow tomb!
Sweet minstrel of the heart, we list in vain
For music now; THY melody is o'er;
_Fidelio_ hath ceased o'er hearts to reign,
_Somnambula_ hath slept to wake no more!
Farewell! thy sun of life too soon hath set,
But memory shall reflect its brightness yet.

Garrick's epitaph, in Westminster Abbey, reads:--

To paint fair Nature by divine command,
Her magic pencil in his glowing hand,
A SHAKESPEARE rose; then, to expand his fame
Wide o'er the breathing world, a GARRICK came:
Tho' sunk in death, the forms the poet drew
The actor's genius bade them breathe anew;
Tho', like the bard himself, in night they lay,
Immortal GARRICK call'd them back to day;
And till eternity, with power sublime,
Shall mark the mortal hour of hoary time,
SHAKESPEARE and GARRICK, like twin stars shall shine,
And earth irradiate with beams divine.

A monument placed in Westminster to the memory of Mrs. Pritchard states:--

This Tablet is here placed by a voluntary subscription of those who
admired and esteemed her. She retired from the stage, of which she had
long been the ornament, in the month of April, 1768; and died at Bath
in the month of August following, in the 57th year of her age.

Her comic vein had every charm to please,
'Twas nature's dictates breath'd with nature's ease;
Ev'n when her powers sustain'd the tragic load,
Full, clear, and just, the harmonious accents flow'd,
And the big passions of her feeling heart
Burst freely forth, and show'd the mimic art.
Oft, on the scene, with colours not her own,
She painted vice, and taught us what to shun;
One virtuous track her real life pursu'd,
That nobler part was uniformly good;
Each duty there to such perfection wrought,
That, if the precepts fail'd, the example taught.

On a comedian named John Hippisley, interred in the churchyard of Clifton, Gloucestershire, we have the following:--

When the Stage heard that death had struck her John,
Gay Comedy her Sables first put on;
Laughter lamented that her Fav'rite died,
And Mirth herself, ('tis strange) laid down and cry'd.
Wit droop'd his head, e'en Humour seem'd to mourn,
And solemnly sat pensive o'er his urn.

Garrick's epitaph to the memory of James Quin, at Bath, is very fine:--

That tongue, which set the table in a roar,
And charm'd the public ear, is heard no more;
Closed are those eyes, the harbingers of wit,
Which spoke, before the tongue, what Shakespeare writ;
Cold are those hands, which, living, were stretch'd forth,
At friendship's call, to succour modest worth.
Here is JAMES QUIN! Deign, reader, to be taught,
Whate'er thy strength of body, force of thought,
In Nature's happiest mould however cast,
"To this complexion thou must come at last."

Several actors are buried in the churchyard of St. Peter of Mancroft, Norwich. On Henrietta Maria Bray, who died in 1737, aged sixty years, is the following epitaph:--

Here, Reader, you may plainly see,
That Wit nor Humour here could be
A Proof against Mortality.

Anne Roberts died in 1743, aged thirty, and on her gravestone is a couplet as follows:--

The World's a Stage, at Birth our Plays begun,
And all find Exits when their Parts are done.

The Norwich actors, says Mr. James Hooper, were celebrated in their day, and their services were in great request. They used to play annually at the great Stourbridge Fair, at Cambridge, so vividly described by De Foe in his "Tour through the whole Island of Great Britain" (1722). The University Dons mustered in force to see the Norwich mummers, and part of the pit, known as "The Critics' Row," was reserved for Dr. Farmer of Emanuel, and his friends, George Stevens, Malone, and others, who never thought it _infra dig._ to applaud rapturously--a circumstance which shows Puritan Emanuel in a new light.[1]

In St. Mary's Church, Beverley, a tablet is placed in remembrance of a notable Yorkshire actor:--

In Memory of
SAMUEL BUTLER,
A poor player that struts and
frets his hour upon the stage, and
then is heard no more.
Obt. June 15th, 1812.
AEt. 62.

Butler's gifted son, Samuel William, was buried in Ardwick Cemetery, Manchester. A gravestone placed to his memory bears the following eloquent inscription by Charles Swain:--

Here rest the
mortal remains of
SAMUEL WILLIAM BUTLER,
Tragedian.
In him the stage lost a highly-gifted and accomplished actor,
one by whose tongue the noblest creations
of the poet found truthful utterance.
After long and severe suffering he departed
this life the 17th day of July, in the year of
our Lord 1845. Aged 41 years.

Whence this ambition, whence this proud desire,
This love of fame, this longing to aspire?
To gather laurels in their greenest bloom,
To honour life and sanctify the tomb?
'Tis the Divinity that never dies,
Which prompts the soul of genius still to rise.
Though fades the Laurel, leaf by leaf away,
The soul hath prescience of a fadeless day;
And God's eternal promise, like a star,
From faded hopes still points to hopes afar;
Where weary hearts for consolation trust,
And bliss immortal quickens from the dust.
On this great hope, the painter, actor, bard,
And all who ever strove for Fame's reward,
Must rest at last: and all that earth have trod
Still need the grace of a forgiving God!

An interesting sketch of the life of Butler, from the pen of John Evans, is given in the "Papers of the Manchester Literary Club," vol. iii., published 1877.

In the Necropolis, Glasgow, is a monument representing the stage and proscenium of a theatre, placed to the memory of John Henry Alexander, of the Theatre Royal, Glasgow. He was a native of Dunse, Berwickshire, and was born July 31st, 1796. At an early age, says Dr. Rogers, his parents removed to Glasgow, where, in his thirteenth year, he was apprenticed to a hosier. With a remarkable taste for mimicry he practised private theatricals; and having attracted the notice of the managers of Queen Street Theatre, he obtained an opportunity of publicly exhibiting his gifts. In his sixteenth year he adopted the histrionic profession. For some seasons he was employed in a theatre at Newcastle; he subsequently performed at Carlisle, and afterwards in the Theatre Royal, Edinburgh. At Edinburgh his successful impersonations of Dandie Dinmont and other characters of the Waverley novels gained him the friendship of Sir Walter Scott. After some changes he accepted the managership of the Dunlop Street Theatre, Glasgow, of which he became proprietor in 1829. He rebuilt the structure in 1840; it was partially destroyed by fire on the 17th February, 1849, when sixty-five persons unhappily perished. The shock which he experienced on this occasion seriously affected his health, and in 1851 he found it expedient to retire from his profession. He died on the 15th December, 1851, aged fifty-five. On his tombstone are inscribed these lines from the pen of Mr. James Hedderwick, the editor of the _Glasgow Citizen_:--

Fallen is the curtain, the last scene is o'er,
The favourite actor treads life's stage no more.
Oft lavish plaudits from the crowd he drew,
And laughing eyes confessed his humour true;
Here fond affection rears this sculptured stone,
For virtues not enacted, but his own.
A constancy unshaken unto death,
A truth unswerving, and a Christian's faith;
Who knew him best have cause to mourn him most.
Oh, weep the man, more than the actor lost!
Unnumbered parts he play'd yet to the end,
His best were those of husband, father, friend.

In many collections of epitaphs the following is stated to be inscribed on a gravestone at Gillingham, but we are informed by the Vicar that no such epitaph is to be found, nor is there any trace of it having been placed there at any time:--

Sacred
To the memory of
THOMAS JACKSON, Comedian,

Who was engaged 21st of December, 1741, to play a comic cast of
characters, in this great theatre--the world; for many of which he was
prompted by nature to excel.

The season being ended, his benefit over, the charges all paid, and
his account closed, he made his exit in the tragedy of Death, on the
17th of March, 1798, in full assurance of being called once more to
rehearsal; where he hopes to find his forfeits all cleared, his cast
of parts bettered, and his situation made agreeable, by Him who paid
the great stock-debt, for the love He bore to performers in general.

The next epitaph was written by Swift on Dicky Pearce, who died 1728, aged 63 years. He was a famous fool, and his name carries us back to the time when kings and noblemen employed jesters for the delectation of themselves and their friends. It is from Beckley, and reads as follows:--

Here lies the Earl of Suffolk's Fool,
Men call him DICKY PEARCE;
His folly serv'd to make men laugh,
When wit and mirth were scarce.
Poor Dick, alas! is dead and gone,
What signifies to cry?
Dicky's enough are still behind
To laugh at by and by.

In our "Historic Romance," published 1883, by Hamilton, Adams, and Co., London, will be found an account of "Fools and Jesters of the English Sovereigns," and we therein state that the last recorded instance of a fool being kept by an English family is that of John Hilton's fool, retained at Hilton Castle, Durham, who died in 1746.

The following epitaph is inscribed on a tombstone in the churchyard of St. Mary Friars, Shrewsbury, on Cadman, a famous "flyer" on the rope, immortalised by Hogarth, and who broke his neck descending from a steeple in Shrewsbury, in 1740.

Let this small monument record the name
Of CADMAN, and to future times proclaim
How, by an attempt to fly from this high spire,
Across the _Sabrine_ stream, he did acquire
His fatal end. 'Twas not for want of skill,
Or courage to perform the task, he fell;
No, no,--a faulty cord being drawn too tight
Hurried his soul on high to take her flight,
Which bid the body here beneath, good-night.

Joe Miller, of facetious memory, next claims our attention. We find it stated in Chambers's "Book of Days" (issued 1869) as follows: Miller was interred in the burial-ground of the parish of St. Clement Danes, in Portugal Street, where a tombstone was erected to his memory. About ten years ago that burial-ground, by the removal of the mortuary remains, and the demolition of the monuments, was converted into a site for King's College Hospital. Whilst this not unnecessary, yet undesirable, desecration was in progress, the writer saw Joe's tombstone lying on the ground; and being told that it would be broken up and used as materials for the new building, he took an exact copy of the inscription, which was as follows:--

Here lye the Remains of
Honest JO: MILLER,
who was
a tender Husband,
a sincere Friend,
a facetious Companion,
and an excellent Comedian.
He departed this Life the 15th day of
August 1738, aged 54 years.

If humour, wit, and honesty could save
The humourous, witty, honest, from the grave,
The grave had not so soon this tenant found,
Whom honesty, and wit, and humour, crowned;
Could but esteem, and love preserve our breath,
And guard us longer from the stroke of Death,
The stroke of Death on him had later fell,
Whom all mankind esteemed and loved so well.

S. DUCK,

From respect to social worth,
mirthful qualities, and histrionic excellence,
commemorated by poetic talent in humble life.

The above inscription, which Time
had nearly obliterated, has been preserved
and transferred to this Stone, by order of
Mr. Jarvis Buck, Churchwarden,
A.D. 1816.

An interesting sketch of the life of Joe Miller will be found in the "Book of Days," vol. ii., page 216, and in the same informing and entertaining work, the following notes are given respecting the writer of the foregoing epitaph: "The 'S. Duck,' whose name figures as author of the verses on Miller's tombstone, and who is alluded to on the same tablet, by Mr. Churchwarden Buck, as an instance of 'poetic talent in humble life,' deserves a short notice. He was a thresher in the service of a farmer near Kew, in Surrey. Imbued with an eager desire for learning, he, under most adverse circumstances, managed to obtain a few books, and educate himself to a limited degree. Becoming known as a rustic rhymer, he attracted the attention of Caroline, queen of George II., who, with her accustomed liberality, settled on him a pension of L30 per annum; she made him a Yeoman of the Guard, and installed him as keeper of a kind of museum she had in Richmond Park, called Merlin's Cave. Not content with these promotions, the generous, but perhaps inconsiderate, queen caused Duck to be admitted to holy orders, and preferred to the living of Byfleet, in Surrey, where he became a popular preacher among the lower classes, chiefly through the novelty of being the 'Thresher Parson.' This gave Swift occasion to write the following quibbling epigram:--

The thresher Duck could o'er the queen prevail;
The proverb says,--"No fence against a flail."
From threshing corn, he turns to thresh his brains,
For which her Majesty allows him grains;
Though 'tis confest, that those who ever saw
His poems, think 'em all not worth a straw.
Thrice happy Duck! employed in threshing stubble!
Thy toil is lessened, and thy profits double.

"One would suppose the poor thresher to have been beneath Swift's notice, but the provocation was great, and the chastisement, such as it was, merited. For though few men had ever less pretensions to poetical genius than Duck, yet the Court party actually set him up as a rival--nay, as superior--to Pope. And the saddest part of the affair was that Duck, in his utter simplicity and ignorance of what really constituted poetry, was led to fancy himself the greatest poet of the age. Consequently, considering that his genius was neglected, and that he was not rewarded according to his poetical deserts by being made the clergyman of an obscure village, he fell into a state of melancholy, which ended in suicide; affording another to the numerous instances of the very great difficulty of doing good. If the well-meaning queen had elevated Duck to the position of farm-bailiff, he might have led a long and happy life, amongst the scenes and the classes of society in which his youth had passed, and thus been spared the pangs of disappointed vanity and misdirected ambition."

Says a thoughtful writer, if truth, perspicuity, wit, gravity, and every property pertaining to the ancient or modern epitaph, were ever united in one of terse brevity, it was that made for Burbage, the tragedian, in the days of Shakespeare:--

"Exit BURBAGE."

Jerrold, perhaps, with that brevity which is the soul of wit, trumped the above by his anticipatory epitaph on that excellent man and distinguished historian, Charles Knight:--

"Good KNIGHT."

Epitaphs on Sportsmen.

The stirring lives of sportsmen have suggested spirited lines for their tombstones, as will be seen from the examples we bring under the notice of our readers.

The first epitaph is from Morville churchyard, near Bridgnorth, on John Charlton, Esq., who was for many years Master of the Wheatland Foxhounds, and died January 20th, 1843, aged 63 years; regretted by all who knew him:--

Of this world's pleasure I have had my share,
A few of the sorrows I was doomed to bear.
How oft have I enjoy'd the noble chase
Of hounds and foxes striving for the race!
But hark! the knell of death calls me away,
So sportsmen, all, farewell! I must obey.

Our next is written on Mills, the huntsman:--

Here lies JOHN MILLS, who over the hills
Pursued the hounds with hallo:
The leap though high, from earth to sky,
The huntsman we must follow.

A short, rough, but pregnant epitaph is placed over the remains of Robert Hackett, a keeper of Hardwick Park, who died in 1703, and was buried in Ault Hucknall churchyard:--

Long had he chased
The Red and Fallow Deer,
But Death's cold dart
At last has fix'd him here.

George Dixon, a noted fox-hunter, is buried in Luton churchyard, and on his gravestone the following appears:--

Stop, passenger, and thy attention fix on,
That true-born, honest, fox-hunter, GEORGE DIXON,
Who, after eighty years' unwearied chase,
Now rests his bones within this hallow'd place.
A gentle tribute of applause bestow,
And give him, as you pass, one _tally-ho_!
Early to cover, brisk he rode each morn,
In hopes the _brush_ his temple might adorn;
The view is now no more, the chase is past,
And to an earth, poor George is run at last.

On a stone in the graveyard of Mottram the following inscription appears:--

In the memory of GEORGE NEWTON,
of Stalybridge,
who died August 7th, 1871,
in the 94th year of his age.

Though he liv'd long, the old man has gone at last,
No more he'll hear the huntsman's stirring blast;
Though fleet as Reynard in his youthful prime,
At last he's yielded to the hand of Time.

Blithe as a lark, dress'd in his coat of green,
With hounds and horn the old man was seen.
But ah! Death came, worn out and full of years,
He died in peace, mourn'd by his offsprings' tears.

"Let us run with patience the race that is set before us."

In the churchyard of Ecclesfield, may be read the following epitaph:--

In memory of THOMAS RIDGE,
the Ecclesfield huntsman,
who died 13th day of January, 1871,
Aged 77 years.

Though fond of sport, devoted of the chase,
And with his fellow-hunters first in place,
He always kept the Lord's appointed day,
Never from church or Sunday-school away.
And now his body rests beneath the sod,
His soul relying in the love of God.

Of the many epitaphs on sportsmen to be seen in Nottinghamshire, we cull a few of the choicest. Our first is a literal copy from a weather-worn stone in Eakring churchyard, placed to the memory of Henry Cartwright, senior keeper to his Grace the Duke of Kingston for fifty-five years, who died February 13th, 1773, aged eighty years, ten months, and three weeks:--

My gun discharged, my ball is gone
My powder's spent, my work is done,
those panting deer I have left behind,
May now have time to Gain their wind,
Who I have oft times Chass'd them ore
the burial Plains, but now no more.

We next present particulars of a celebrated deer-stealer. According to a notice furnished in the "Nottingham Date Book," the deeds of Tom Booth were for many years after his death a never-failing subject of conversational interest in Nottingham. It is stated that no modern deer-stealer was anything like so popular. Thorsby relates one exploit as follows:--"In Nottingham Park, at one time, was a favourite fine deer, a chief ranger, on which Tom and his wily companions had often cast their eyes; but how to deceive the keeper while they killed it was a task of difficulty. The night, however, in which they accomplished their purpose--whether by any settled plan or not is not known--they found the keeper at watch, as usual, in a certain place in the park. One of them, therefore, went in an opposite direction in the park, and fired his gun to make the keeper believe he had shot a deer; upon which away goes the keeper, in haste, to the spot, which was at a very considerable distance from the place where the favourite deer was, and near which Tom Booth was skulking. Tom, waiting a proper time, when he thought the keeper at a sufficient distance for accomplishing his purpose, fired and killed the deer, and dragged it through the river Leen undiscovered." Booth was a stout man, and by trade a whitesmith. The stone marking the place of his interment is still in good preservation, and stands in St. Nicholas' burial-ground, against the southern wall of the church. It bears the following inscription: