Here lies THO. TURAR, and MARY, his wife. He was twice Master of the
Company of Bakers, and twice Churchwarden of this parish. He died
March 6, 1654. She died May 8th, 1643.
Like to the baker's oven is the grave,
Wherein the bodyes of the faithful have
A setting in, and where they do remain
In hopes to rise, and to be drawn again;
Blessed are they who in the Lord are dead,
Though set like dough, they shall be drawn like bread.
Here are some witty lines on a carpenter named John Spong, who died 1739,
and is buried in Ockham churchyard:--
Who many a sturdy oak has laid along,
Fell'd by Death's surer hatchet, here lies JOHN SPONG.
Post oft he made, yet ne'er a place could get
And lived by railing, tho' he was no wit.
Old saws he had, although no antiquarian;
And stiles corrected, yet was no grammarian.
Long lived he Ockham's favourite architect,
And lasting as his fame a tomb t' erect,
In vain we seek an artist such as he,
Whose pales and piles were for eternity.
On the tomb of an auctioneer in the churchyard at Corby, in the county of
Lincoln, we have found:--
Beneath this stone, facetious wight
Lies all that's left of Poor Joe Wright;
Few heads with knowledge more informed,
Few hearts with friendship better warmed;
With ready wit and humour broad,
He pleased the peasant, squire, and lord;
Until grim death, with visage queer,
Assumed Joe's trade of Auctioneer,
Made him the Lot to _practise_ on,
With "going, going," and anon
He knocked him down to "Poor Joe's gone!"
In Wimbledon churchyard is the grave of John Martin, a natural son of Don
John Emanuel, King of Portugal. He was sent to this country about the year
1712, to be out of the way of his friends, and after several changes of
circumstances, ultimately became a gardener. It will be seen from the
following epitaph that he won the esteem of his employers:--
To the memory of John Martin, gardener, a native of Portugal, who
cultivated here, with industry and success, the same ground under
three masters, forty years.
Though skilful and experienced,
He was modest and unassuming;
And tho' faithful to his masters,
And with reason esteemed,
He was kind to his fellow-servants,
And was therefore beloved.
His family and neighbours lamented his death,
As he was a careful husband, a tender father,
and an honest man.
This character of him is given to posterity by his last master,
willingly because deservedly, as a lasting testimony of his great
regard for so good a servant.
He died March 30th, 1760. Aged 66 years.
For public service grateful nations raise
Proud structures, which excite to deeds of praise;
While private services, in corners thrown,
Howe'er deserving, never gain a stone.
But are not lilies, which the valleys hide,
Perfect as cedars, tho' the valley's pride?
Let, then, the violets their fragrance breathe,
And pines their ever-verdant branches wreathe
Around his grave, who from their tender birth
Upreared both dwarf and giant sons of earth,
And tho' himself exotic, lived to see
Trees of his raising droop as well as he.
Those were his care, while his own bending age,
His master propp'd and screened from winter's rage,
Till down he gently fell, then with a tear
He bade his sorrowing sons transport him here.
But tho' in weakness planted, as his fruit
Always bespoke the goodness of his root,
The spirit quickening, he in power shall rise
With leaf unfading under happier skies.
The next is on the Tradescants, famous gardeners and botanists at Lambeth.
In 1657 Mr. Tradescant, Junr., presented to the Ashmolean Museum, Oxford,
a remarkable cabinet of curiosities:--
Know, stranger, ere thou pass, beneath this stone
Lye John Tradescant, grandsire, father, son;
The last died in his spring; the other two
Liv'd till they had travell'd art and nature through;
As by their choice collections may appear,
Of what is rare, in land, in sea, in air;
Whilst they (as Homer's Iliad in a nut)
A world of wonders in one closet shut;
These famous antiquarians, that had been
Both gard'ners to the ROSE AND LILY QUEEN,
Transplanted now themselves, sleep here; and when
Angels shall with trumpets waken men,
And fire shall purge the world, these hence shall rise,
And change this garden for a paradise.
We have here an epitaph on a grocer, culled from the Rev. C. W. Bardsley's
"Memorials of St. Anne's Church," Manchester. In a note about the name of
Howard, the author says: "Poor John Howard's friends gave him an
unfortunate epitaph--one, too, that reflected unkindly upon his wife. It
may still be seen in the churchyard.--Here lyeth the body of John Howard,
who died Jan. 2, 1800, aged 84 years; fifty years a respectable grocer,
and an honest man. As it is further stated that his wife died in 1749,
fifty years before, it would seem that her husband's honesty dated from
the day of her decease. Mrs. Malaprop herself, in her happiest moments,
could not have beaten this inscription."