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CURIOUS EPITAPHS.
[Illustration: MARTYRS' MONUMENT, EDINBURGH.]
Curious Epitaphs
Collected and Edited with Notes
By William Andrews
LONDON:
WILLIAM ANDREWS & CO., 5, FARRINGDON AVENUE, E.C.
1899.
THIS BOOK IS
DEDICATED TO THE MEMORY OF
CUTHBERT BEDE, B.A.,
_Author of "Verdant Green," etc._,
AS A TOKEN OF GRATITUDE FOR
LITERARY ASSISTANCE AND SYMPATHY
GIVEN IN YEARS AGONE,
BUT NOT FORGOTTEN.
W. A.
Preface.
This work first appeared in 1883 and quickly passed out of print. Some
important additions are made in the present volume. It is hoped that in
its new form the book may find favour with the public and the press.
WILLIAM ANDREWS.
THE HULL PRESS,
_May Day, 1899_.
Contents.
PAGE
EPITAPHS ON TRADESMEN 1
TYPOGRAPHICAL EPITAPHS 24
GOOD AND FAITHFUL SERVANTS 35
EPITAPHS ON SOLDIERS AND SAILORS 49
EPITAPHS ON MUSICIANS AND ACTORS 73
EPITAPHS ON SPORTSMEN 92
BACCHANALIAN EPITAPHS 105
EPITAPHS ON PARISH CLERKS AND SEXTONS 119
PUNNING EPITAPHS 134
MANXLAND EPITAPHS 141
EPITAPHS ON NOTABLE PERSONS 149
MISCELLANEOUS EPITAPHS 209
INDEX 235
CURIOUS EPITAPHS.
Epitaphs on Tradesmen.
Many interesting epitaphs have been placed to the memory of tradesmen.
Often they are not of an elevating character, nor highly poetical, but
they display the whims and oddities of men. We will first present a few
relating to the watch and clock-making trade. The first specimen is from
Lydford churchyard, on the borders of Dartmoor:--
Here lies, in horizontal position,
the outside case of
GEORGE ROUTLEIGH, Watchmaker;
Whose abilities in that line were an honour
to his profession.
Integrity was the Mainspring, and prudence the
Regulator,
of all the actions of his life.
Humane, generous, and liberal,
his Hand never stopped
till he had relieved distress.
So nicely regulated were all his motions,
that he never went wrong,
except when set a-going
by people
who did not know his Key;
even then he was easily
set right again.
He had the art of disposing his time so well,
that his hours glided away
in one continual round
of pleasure and delight,
until an unlucky minute put a period to
his existence.
He departed this life
Nov. 14, 1802,
aged 57:
wound up,
in hopes of being taken in hand
by his Maker;
and of being thoroughly cleaned, repaired,
and set a-going
in the world to come.
In the churchyard of Uttoxeter, a monument is placed to the memory of
Joseph Slater, who died November 21st, 1822, aged 49 years:--
Here lies one who strove to equal time,
A task too hard, each power too sublime;
Time stopt his motion, o'erthrew his balance-wheel,
Wore off his pivots, tho' made of hardened steel;
Broke all his springs, the verge of life decayed,
And now he is as though he'd ne'er been made.
Such frail machine till time's no more shall rust,
And the archangel wakes our sleeping dust;
Then in assembled worlds in glory join,
And sing--"The hand that made us is divine."
Our next is from Berkeley, Gloucestershire:--
Here lyeth THOMAS PEIRCE, whom no man taught,
Yet he in iron, brass, and silver wrought;
He jacks, and clocks, and watches (with art) made
And mended, too, when others' work did fade.
Of Berkeley, five times Mayor this artist was,
And yet this Mayor, this artist, was but grass.
When his own watch was down on the last day,
He that made watches had not made a key
To wind it up; but useless it must lie,
Until he rise again no more to die.
Died February 25th, 1665, aged 77.
The following is from Bolsover churchyard, Derbyshire:--
Here
lies, in a horizontal position, the outside
case of
THOMAS HINDE,
Clock and Watch-maker,
Who departed this life, wound up in hope of
being taken in hand by his Maker, and being
thoroughly cleaned, repaired, and set a-going
in the world to come,
On the 15th of August, 1836,
In the 19th year of his age.
Respecting the next example, Mr. Edward Walford, M.A., wrote to the
_Times_ as follows: Close to the south-western corner of the parish
churchyard of Hampstead there has long stood a square tomb, with a
scarcely decipherable inscription, to the memory of a man of science of
the last century, whose name is connected with the history of practical
navigation. The tomb, having stood there for more than a century, had
become somewhat dilapidated, and has lately undergone a careful
restoration at the cost and under the supervision of the Company of
Clock-makers, and the fact is recorded in large characters on the upper
face. The tops of the upright iron railings which surround the tomb have
been gilt, and the restored inscription runs as follows:--
In memory of Mr. JOHN HARRISON, late of Red Lion-square, London,
inventor of the time-keeper for ascertaining the longitude at sea. He
was born at Foulby, in the county of York, and was the son of a
builder of that place, who brought him up to the same profession.
Before he attained the age of 21, he, without any instruction,
employed himself in cleaning and repairing clocks and watches, and
made a few of the former, chiefly of wood. At the age of 25 he
employed his whole time in chronometrical improvements. He was the
inventor of the gridiron pendulum, and the method of preventing the
effects of heat and cold upon time-keepers by two bars fixed together;
he introduced the secondary spring, to keep them going while winding
up, and was the inventor of most (or all) the improvements in clocks
and watches during his time. In the year 1735 his first time keeper
was sent to Lisbon, and in 1764 his then much improved fourth
time-keeper having been sent to Barbadoes, the Commissioners of
Longitude certified that he had determined the longitude within
one-third of half a degree of a great circle, having not erred more
than forty seconds in time. After sixty years' close application to
the above pursuits, he departed this life on the 24th day of March,
1776, aged 83.
In an epitaph in High Wycombe churchyard, life is compared to the working
of a clock. It runs thus:--
Of no distemper,
Of no blast he died,
But fell,
Like Autumn's fruit,
That mellows long,
Even wondered at
Because he dropt not sooner.
Providence seemed to wind him up
For fourscore years,
Yet ran he nine winters more;
Till, like a clock,
Worn out with repeating time,
The wheels of weary life
At last stood still.
In Memory of JOHN ABDIDGE, Alderman.
Died 1785.
We have some curious specimens of engineers' epitaphs. A good example is
copied from the churchyard of Bridgeford-on-the-Hill, Notts:--
Sacred to the memory of JOHN WALKER, the only son of Benjamin and Ann
Walker, Engineer and Pallisade Maker, died September 22nd, 1832, aged
36 years.
Farewell, my wife and father dear;
My glass is run, my work is done,
And now my head lies quiet here.
That many an engine I've set up,
And got great praise from men,
I made them work on British ground,
And on the roaring seas;
My engine's stopp'd, my valves are bad,
And lie so deep within;
No engineer could there be found
To put me new ones in.
But Jesus Christ converted me
And took me up above,
I hope once more to meet once more,
And sing redeeming love.
Our next is on a railway engine-driver, who died in 1840, and was buried
in Bromsgrove churchyard:--
My engine now is cold and still,
No water does my boiler fill;
My coke affords its flame no more;
My days of usefulness are o'er;
My wheels deny their noted speed,
No more my guiding hand they need;
My whistle, too, has lost its tone,
Its shrill and thrilling sounds are gone;
My valves are now thrown open wide;
My flanges all refuse to guide,
My clacks also, though once so strong,
Refuse to aid the busy throng:
No more I feel each urging breath;
My steam is now condensed in death.
Life's railway o'er, each station's passed,
In death I'm stopped, and rest at last.
Farewell, dear friends, and cease to weep:
In Christ I'm safe; in Him I sleep.
In the Ludlow churchyard is a headstone to the memory of John Abingdon
"who for forty years drove the Ludlow stage to London, a trusty servant, a
careful driver, and an honest man." He died in 1817, and his epitaph is as
follows:--
His labor done, no more to town,
His onward course he bends;
His team's unshut, his whip's laid up,
And here his journey ends.
Death locked his wheels and gave him rest,
And never more to move,
Till Christ shall call him with the blest
To heavenly realms above.
The epitaph we next give is on the driver of the coach that ran between
Aylesbury and London, by the Rev. H. Bullen, Vicar of Dunton, Bucks, in
whose churchyard the man was buried:--
PARKER, farewell! thy journey now is ended,
Death has the whip-hand, and with dust is blended;
Thy way-bill is examined, and I trust
Thy last account may prove exact and just.
When he who drives the chariot of the day,
Where life is light, whose Word's the living way,
Where travellers, like yourself, of every age,
And every clime, have taken their last stage,
The God of mercy, and the God of love,
Show you the road to Paradise above!
Lord Byron wrote on John Adams, carrier, of Southwell, Nottinghamshire, an
epitaph as follows:--
JOHN ADAMS lies here, of the parish of Southwell,
A carrier who carried his can to his mouth well;
He carried so much, and he carried so fast,
He could carry no more--so was carried at last;
For the liquor he drank, being too much for one,
He could not carry off--so he's now carri-on.
On Hobson, the famous University carrier, the following lines were
written:--
Here lies old HOBSON: death has broke his girt,
And here! alas, has laid him in the dirt;
Or else the ways being foul, twenty to one
He's here stuck in a slough and overthrown:
'Twas such a shifter, that, if truth were known,
Death was half glad when he had got him down;
For he had any time these ten years full,
Dodged with him betwixt Cambridge and the Bull;
And surely Death could never have prevailed,
Had not his weekly course of carriage failed.
But lately finding him so long at home,
And thinking now his journey's end was come,
And that he had ta'en up his latest inn,
In the kind office of a chamberlain
Showed him the room where he must lodge that night,
Pulled off his boots and took away the light.
If any ask for him it shall be said,
Hobson has supt and's newly gone to bed.
In Trinity churchyard, Sheffield, formerly might be seen an epitaph on a
bookseller, as follows:--
In Memory of
RICHARD SMITH, who died
April 6th, 1757, aged 52.
At thirteen years I went to sea;
To try my fortune there,
But lost my friend, which put an end
To all my interest there.
To land I came as 'twere by chance,
At twenty then I taught to dance,
And yet unsettled in my mind,
To something else I was inclined;
At twenty-five laid dancing down,
To be a bookseller in this town,
Where I continued without strife,
Till death deprived me of my life.
Vain world, to thee I bid farewell,
To rest within this silent cell,
Till the great God shall summon all
To answer His majestic call,
Then, Lord, have mercy on us all.
The following epitaph was written on James Lackington, a celebrated
bookseller, and eccentric character:--
Good passenger, one moment stay,
And contemplate this heap of clay;
'Tis LACKINGTON that claims a pause,
Who strove with death, but lost his cause:
A stranger genius ne'er need be
Than many a merry year was he.
Some faults he had, some virtues too
(the devil himself should have his due);
And as dame fortune's wheel turn'd round,
Whether at top or bottom found,
He never once forgot his station,
Nor e'er disown'd a poor relation;
In poverty he found content,
Riches ne'er made him insolent.
When poor, he'd rather read than eat,
When rich books form'd his highest treat,
His first great wish to act, with care,
The sev'ral parts assigned him here;
And, as his heart to truth inclin'd,
He studied hard the truth to find.
Much pride he had,--'twas love of fame,
And slighted gold, to get a name;
But fame herself prov'd greatest gain,
For riches follow'd in her train.
Much had he read, and much had thought,
And yet, you see, he's come to nought;
Or out of print, as he would say,
To be revised some future day:
Free from errata, with addition,
A new and a complete edition.
At Rugby, on Joseph Cave, Dr. Hawksworth wrote:--
Near this place lies the body of
JOSEPH CAVE,
Late of this parish;
Who departed this life Nov. 18, 1747,
Aged 79 years.
He was placed by Providence in a humble station; but industry
abundantly supplied the wants of nature, and temperance blest him with
content and wealth. As he was an affectionate father, he was made
happy in the decline of life by the deserved eminence of his eldest
son,
EDWARD CAVE,
who, without interest, fortune, or connection, by the native force of
his own genius, assisted only by a classical education, which he
received at the Grammar School of this town, planned, executed, and
established a literary work called
_The Gentleman's Magazine_,
whereby he acquired an ample fortune, the whole of which devolved to
his family.
Here also lies
The body of WILLIAM CAVE,
second son of the said JOSEPH CAVE, who died May 2, 1757, aged 62
years, and who, having survived his elder brother,
EDWARD CAVE,
inherited from him a competent estate; and, in gratitude to his
benefactor, ordered this monument to perpetuate his memory.
He lived a patriarch in his numerous race,
And shew'd in charity a Christian's grace:
Whate'er a friend or parent feels he knew;
His hand was open, and his heart was true;
In what he gain'd and gave, he taught mankind
A grateful always is a generous mind.
Here rests his clay! his soul must ever rest,
Who bless'd when living, dying must be blest.
The well-known blacksmith's epitaph, said to be written by the poet
Hayley, may be found in many churchyards in this country. It formed the
subject of a sermon delivered on Sunday, the 27th day of August, 1837, by
the then Vicar of Crich, Derbyshire, to a large assembly. We are told that
the vicar appeared much excited, and read the prayers in a hurried manner.
Without leaving the desk, he proceeded to address his flock for the last
time; and the following is the substance thereof: "To-morrow, my friends,
this living will be vacant, and if any one of you is desirous of becoming
my successor he has now an opportunity. Let him use his influence, and who
can tell but he may be honoured with the title of Vicar of Crich. As this
is my last address, I shall only say, had I been a blacksmith, or a son of
Vulcan, the following lines might not have been inappropriate:--
My sledge and hammer lie reclined,
My bellows, too, have lost their wind;
My fire's extinct, my forge decayed,
And in the dust my vice is laid.
My coal is spent, my iron's gone,
My nails are drove, my work is done;
My fire-dried corpse lies here at rest,
And, smoke-like, soars up to be bless'd.
If you expect anything more, you are deceived; for I shall only say,
Friends, farewell, farewell!" The effect of this address was too visible
to pass unnoticed. Some appeared as if awakened from a fearful dream,
and gazed at each other in silent astonishment; others for whom it was too
powerful for their risible nerves to resist, burst into boisterous
laughter, while one and all slowly retired from the scene, to exercise
their future cogitations on the farewell discourse of their late pastor.
From Silkstone churchyard we have the following on a potter and his
wife:--
In memory of JOHN TAYLOR, of Silkstone, potter, who departed this
life, July 14th, Anno Domini 1815, aged 72 years.
Also Hannah, his wife, who departed this life, August 13th. 1815, aged
68 years.
Out of the clay they got their daily bread,
Of clay were also made.
Returned to clay they now lie dead,
Where all that's left must shortly go.
To live without him his wife she tried,
Found the task hard, fell sick, and died.
And now in peace their bodies lay,
Until the dead be called away,
And moulded into spiritual clay.
On a poor woman who kept an earthenware shop at Chester, the following
epitaph was composed:--
Beneath this stone lies CATHERINE GRAY,
Changed to a lifeless lump of clay;
By earth and clay she got her pelf,
And now she's turned to earth herself.
Ye weeping friends, let me advise,
Abate your tears and dry your eyes;
For what avails a flood of tears?
Who knows but in a course of years,
In some tall pitcher or brown pan,
She in her shop may be again.
Our next is from the churchyard of Aliscombe, Devonshire:--
Here lies the remains of JAMES PADY, brickmaker, late of this parish,
in hope that his clay will be re-moulded in a workmanlike manner, far
superior to his former perishable materials.
Keep death and judgment always in your eye,
Or else the devil off with you will fly,
And in his kiln with brimstone ever fry:
If you neglect the narrow road to seek,
Christ will reject you, like a half-burnt brick!
In the old churchyard of Bullingham, on the gravestone of a builder, the
following lines appear:--
This humble stone is o'er a builder's bed,
Tho' raised on high by fame, low lies his head.
His rule and compass are now locked up in store.
Others may build, but he will build no more.
His house of clay so frail, could hold no longer--
May he in heaven be tenant of a stronger!
In Colton churchyard, Staffordshire, is a mason's tombstone decorated with
carving of square and compass, in relief, and bearing the following
characteristic inscription:--
Sacred to the memory of
JAMES HEYWOOD,
Who died May 4th, 1804, in the 55th
year of his age.
The corner-stone I often times have dress'd;
In Christ, the corner-stone, I now find rest.
Though by the Builder he rejected were,
He is my God, my Rock, I build on here.
In the churchyard of Longnor, the following quaint epitaph is placed over
the remains of a carpenter:--
IN
Memory of SAMUEL
BAGSHAW late of Har-
ding-Booth who depar-
ted this life June the
5th 1787 aged 71 years.
Beneath lie mouldering into Dust
A Carpenter's Remains.
A man laborious, honest, just: his Character sustains.
In seventy-one revolving Years
He sow'd no Seeds of Strife;
With Ax and Saw, Line, Rule and Square, employed his careful life.
But Death who view'd his peaceful Lot
His Tree of Life assail'd
His Grave was made upon this spot, and his last Branch he nail'd.
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.
Our next is from Hessle, near Hull, and is said to have been inscribed on
a tombstone placed over the remains of George Prissick, plumber and
glazier:--
Adieu, my friend, my thread of life is spun;
The diamond will not cut, the solder will not run;
My body's turned to ashes, my grief and troubles past,
I've left no one to worldly care--and I shall rise at last.
On a dyer, from the church of St. Nicholas, Yarmouth, we have as
follows:--
Here lies a man who first did dye,
When he was twenty-four,
And yet he lived to reach the age,
Of hoary hairs, fourscore.
But now he's gone, and certain 'tis
He'll not dye any more.
In Sleaford churchyard, on Henry Fox, a weaver, the following lines are
inscribed:--
Of tender thread this mortal web is made,
The woof and warp and colours early fade;
When power divine awakes the sleeping dust,
He gives immortal garments to the just.
Our next epitaph, from Weston, is placed over the remains of a useful
member of society in his time:--
Here lies entomb'd within this vault so dark,
A tailor, cloth-drawer, soldier, and parish clerk;
Death snatch'd him hence, and also from him took
His needle, thimble, sword, and prayer-book.
He could not work, nor fight,--what then?
He left the world, and faintly cried, "Amen!"
On an Oxford bellows-maker, the following lines were written:--
Here lyeth JOHN CRUKER, a maker of bellowes,
His craftes-master and King of good fellowes;
Yet when he came to the hour of his death,
He that made bellowes, could not make breath.
The next epitaph, on Joseph Blakett, poet and shoemaker of Seaham, is said
to be from Byron's pen:--
Stranger! behold interr'd together
The souls of learning and of leather.
Poor Joe is gone, but left his awl--
You'll find his relics in a stall.
His work was neat, and often found
Well-stitched and with morocco bound.
Tread lightly--where the bard is laid
We cannot mend the shoe he made;
Yet he is happy in his hole,
With verse immortal as his sole.
But still to business he held fast,
And stuck to Phoebus to the last.
Then who shall say so good a fellow
Was only leather and prunella?
For character--he did not lack it,
And if he did--'twere shame to Black it!
The following lines are on a cobbler:--
Death at a cobbler's door oft made a stand,
But always found him on the mending hand;
At length Death came, in very dirty weather,
And ripp'd the soul from off the upper leather:
The cobbler lost his awl,--Death gave his last,
And buried in oblivion all the past.
Respecting Robert Gray, a correspondent writes: He was a native of
Taunton, and at an early age he lost his parents, and went to London to
seek his fortune. Here, as an errand boy, he behaved so well, that his
master took him apprentice, and afterwards set him up in business, by
which he made a large fortune. In his old age he retired from trade and
returned to Taunton, where he founded a hospital. On his monument is the
following inscription:--
Taunton bore him; London bred him;
Piety train'd him; Virtue led him;
Earth enrich'd him; Heaven possess'd him;
Taunton bless'd him; London bless'd him:
This thankful town, that mindful city,
Share his piety and pity,
What he gave, and how he gave it,
Ask the poor, and you shall have it.
Gentle reader, may Heaven strike
Thy tender heart to do the like;
And now thy eyes have read his story,
Give him the praise, and God the glory.
He died at the age of 65 years, in 1635.
In Rotherham churchyard the following is inscribed on a miller:--
In memory of
EDWARD SWAIR,
who departed this life, June 16, 1781.
Here lies a man which Farmers lov'd
Who always to them constant proved;
Dealt with freedom, Just and Fair--
An honest miller all declare.
On a Bristol baker we have the following:--
Here lie 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.
On the tomb of an auctioneer in the churchyard at Corby, in the county of
Lincoln, is the following:--
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, then 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."
Typographical Epitaphs.
The trade of printer is rich in technical terms available for the writer
of epitaphs, as will be seen from the following examples.
Our first inscription is from St. Margaret's Church, Westminster, placed
in remembrance of England's benefactor, the first English printer:--
To the memory of
WILLIAM CAXTON,
who first introduced into Great Britain
the Art of Printing;
And who, A.D. 1477 or earlier, exercised that art in the
Abbey of Westminster.
This Tablet,
In remembrance of one to whom the literature of this
country is so largely indebted, was raised,
anno Domini MDCCCXX.,
by the Roxburghe Club,
Earl Spencer, K.G., President.
In St. Giles' Cathedral Church, Edinburgh, is the Chepman aisle, founded
by the man who introduced printing into North Britain. Dr. William
Chambers, by whose munificence this stately church was restored, had
placed in the aisle, bearing Chepman's name, a brass tablet having the
following inscription:--
To the Memory of
WALTER CHEPMAN,
designated the Scottish Caxton,
who under the auspices of James IV.
and his Queen, Margaret, introduced
the art of printing into Scotland
1507 [symbol] founded this aisle in
honour of the King, Queen, and
their family, 1513. Died 1532.
This tablet is gratefully inscribed by
WILLIAM CHAMBERS, LL.D.
The next is in memory of one Edward Jones, _ob._ 1705, _aet._ 53. He was
the "Gazette" Printer of the Savoy, and the following epitaph was appended
to an elegy, entitled, "The Mercury Hawkers in Mourning," and published on
the occasion of his death:--
Here lies a Printer, famous in his time,
Whose life by lingering sickness did decline.
He lived in credit, and in peace he died,
And often had the chance of Fortune tried.
Whose smiles by various methods did promote
Him to the favour of the Senate's vote;
And so became, by National consent,
The only Printer of the Parliament.
Thus, by degrees, so prosp'rous was his fate,
He left his heirs a very good estate.
It has been truthfully said that the life of Benjamin Franklin is stranger
than fiction. He was a self-made man, gaining distinction as a printer,
journalist, author, electrician, natural philosopher, statesman, and
diplomatist. The "Autobiography and Letters of Benjamin Franklin" has been
extensively circulated, and must ever remain a popular book; young men and
women cannot fail to peruse its pages without pleasure and profit.
In collections of epitaphs and books devoted to literary curiosities, a
quaint epitaph said to have been written by Franklin frequently finds a
place. He was not, however, the original composer of the epitaph, but
imitated it for himself. Jacob Tonson, a famous bookseller, died in 1735,
and a Latin epitaph was written on him by an Eton scholar. It is printed
in the _Gentleman's Magazine_, February, 1736, with a diffuse paraphrase
in English verse. The following is at all events a conciser version:--
The volume
of
his life being finished
here is the end of
JACOB TONSON.
Weep authors and break your pens;
Your Tonson effaced from the book,
is no more,
but print the last inscription on the title
page of death,
for fear that delivered to the press
of the grave
the Editor should want a title:
Here lies a bookseller,
The leaf of his life being finished,
Awaiting a new edition,
Augmented and corrected.
The following is Franklin's epitaph for himself:
The body
of
BENJAMIN FRANKLIN,
Printer
(Like the cover of an old book,
its contents torn out,
And stript of its lettering and gilding),
Lies here, food for worms.
But the work itself shall not be lost,
For it will, as he believed, appear once more,
In a new and more elegant edition,
Revised and corrected
By
The Author.
But it is not at all certain that Franklin was not the earlier writer, for
the epitaph was certainly a production of the first years of
manhood--probably 1727. There are other epitaphs from which he may have
taken the idea; that, on the famous John Cotton at Boston, for instance,
in which he is likened to a Bible:--
A living, breathing Bible; tables where
Both covenants at large engraven were;
Gospel and law in his heart had each its column,
His head an index to the sacred volume!
His very name a title-page; and, next,
His life a commentary on the text.
Oh, what a moment of glorious worth,
When in a new edition he comes forth!
Without errata, we may think 'twill be,
In leaves and covers of Eternity.
There is a similar conceit in the epitaph on John Foster, the Boston
printer. Franklin would probably have seen both of these.
On the 17th April, 1790, at the age of eighty-four years, passed away the
sturdy patriot and sagacious writer. His mortal remains rest with those of
his wife in the burial-ground of Christ Church, Philadelphia. A plain flat
stone covers the grave, bearing the following simple inscription:--
BENJAMIN }
AND } FRANKLIN.
DEBORAH }
1790.
This is the inscription which he directed, in his will, to be placed on
his tomb. We give a picture of the quiet corner where the good man and
his worthy wife are buried. English as well as American visitors to the
city usually wend their way to the last resting-place of the famous man we
delight to honour.
[Illustration: FRANKLIN'S GRAVE.]
A printer's sentiment inscribed to the memory of Franklin is worth
reproducing:--
BENJAMIN FRANKLIN, the * of his profession; the type of honesty; the !
of all; and although the [symbol: pointing hand] of death put a . to
his existence, each Sec. of his life is without a ||.
Dr. Franklin's parents were buried in one grave in the old Grancey
Cemetery, beside Park Street Church, Boston, Mass. He placed a marble
monument to their memory, bearing the following inscription:--
JOSIAH FRANKLIN
and
ABIAH, his wife,
Lie here interred.
They lived lovingly together, in wedlock,
Fifty-five years;
And without an estate, or any gainful employment,
By constant labour and honest industry
(With God's blessing),
Maintained a large family comfortably;
And brought up thirteen children and seven
grand-children
Reputably.
From this instance, reader,
Be encouraged to diligence in thy calling,
And distrust not Providence.
He was a pious and prudent man,
She a discreet and virtuous woman.
Their youngest son,
In filial regard to their memory,
Places this stone.
J. F., Born 1655; Died 1744 AET 89.
A. F., Born 1667; Died 1752 AET 85.
It is satisfactory to learn that, when the stone became dilapidated, the
citizens of Boston replaced it with a granite obelisk.
A notable epitaph was that of George Faulkner, alderman and printer, of
Dublin, who died in 1775:--
Here sleeps GEORGE FAULKNER, printer, once so dear
To humorous Swift, and Chesterfield's gay peer;
So dear to his wronged country and her laws;
So dauntless when imprisoned in her cause;
No alderman e'er graced a weighter board,
No wit e'er joked more freely with a lord.
None could with him in anecdotes confer;
A perfect annal-book, in Elzevir.
Whate'er of glory life's first sheets presage,
Whate'er the splendour of the title-page,
Leaf after leaf, though learned lore ensues;
Close as thy types and various as thy news;
Yet, George, we see that one lot awaits them all,
Gigantic folios, or octavos small;
One universal finis claims his rank,
And every volume closes in a blank.
In the churchyard of Bury St. Edmunds, Suffolk, is a good specimen of a
typographical epitaph, placed in remembrance of a noted printer, who died
in the year 1818. It reads as follows:--
Here lie the remains of L. GEDGE, Printer.
Like a worn-out character, he has returned to the Founder,
Hoping that he will be re-cast in a better and
more perfect mould.
Our next example is profuse of puns, some of which are rather obscure to
younger readers, owing to the disuse of the old wooden press. It is the
epitaph of a Scotch printer:--
Sacred to the memory of
ADAM WILLIAMSON,
Pressman-printer, in Edinburgh,
Who died Oct. 3, 1832,
Aged 72 years.
All my stays are loosed;
My cap is thrown off; my head is worn out;
My box is broken;
My spindle and bar have lost their power;
My till is laid aside;
Both legs of my crane are turned out of their path;
My platen can make no impression;
My winter hath no spring;
My rounce will neither roll out nor in;
Stone, coffin, and carriage have all failed;
The hinges of my tympan and frisket are immovable;
My long and short ribs are rusted;
My cheeks are much worm-eaten and mouldering
away:
My press is totally down:
The volume of my life is finished,
Not without many errors;
Most of them have arisen from bad composition, and
are to be attributed more to the chase than the
press;
There are also a great number of my own;
Misses, scuffs, blotches, blurs, and bad register;
But the true and faithful Superintendent has undertaken
to correct the whole.
When the machine is again set up
(incapable of decay),
A new and perfect edition of my life will appear,
Elegantly bound for duration, and every way fitted
for the grand Library of the Great Author.
The next specimen is less satisfactory, because devoid of the hope that
should encircle the death of the Christian. It is the epitaph which
Baskerville, the celebrated Birmingham printer and type founder, directed
to be placed upon a tomb of masonry in the shape of a cone, and erected
over his remains:--
Stranger
Beneath this cone, in unconsecrated ground,
A friend to the liberties of mankind
Directed his body to be inurned.
May the example contribute to emancipate thy mind
from the idle fears of superstition, and the
wicked arts of priestcraft.
It is recorded that "The tomb has long since been overturned, and even the
remains of the man himself desecrated and dispersed till the final day of
resurrection, when the atheism which in his later years he professed will
receive assuredly so complete and overwhelming a refutation."
In 1599 died Christopher Barker, one of the most celebrated of the
sixteenth century typographers, printer to Queen Elizabeth--to whom, in
fact, the present patent held by Eyre and Spottiswoode can be traced back
in unbroken succession.
Here BARKER lies, once printer to the Crown,
Whose works of art acquired a vast renown.
Time saw his worth, and spread around his fame,
That future printers might imprint the same.
But when his strength could work the press no more
And his last sheets were folded into store,
Pure faith, with hope (the greatest treasure given),
Opened their gates, and bade him pass to heaven.
We will bring to a close our examples of typographical epitaphs with the
following, copied from the graveyard of St. Michael's, Coventry, on a
worthy printer who was engaged over sixty years as a compositor on the
_Coventry Mercury_:--
Here
lies inter'd
the mortal remains
of
JOHN HULM,
Printer,
who, like an old, worn-out type,
battered by frequent use,
reposes in the grave.
But not without a hope that at some future time
he might be cast in the mould of righteousness,
And safely locked-up
in the chase of immortality.
He was distributed from the board of life
on the 9th day of Sept., 1827,
Aged 75.
Regretted by his employers,
and respected by his fellow artists.
Good and Faithful Servants.
Our graveyards contain many tombstones inscribed to the memory of old
servants. Frequently these memorials have been raised by their employers
to show appreciation for faithful discharge of duty and good conduct of
life. A few specimens of this class of epitaph can hardly fail to interest
the reader.
Near to Chatsworth, Derbyshire, the seat of the Duke of Devonshire, is the
model village of Edensor, with its fine church, from the design of Sir
Gilbert Scott, reared on the site of an old structure. The church and
graveyard contain numerous touching memorials to the memory of noblemen
and their servants. In remembrance of the latter the following are of
interest. The first is engraved on a brass plate near the chancel arch:--
Here lies ye Body of MR. IOHN PHILLIPS some-
time Housekeeper of Chatsworth, who de-
parted this life on ye 28th of May 1735, in ye
73rd year of his age, and 60th of his service in
ye Most Noble family of His Grace the Duke
of Devonshire.
Pray let my Bones together lie
Until that sad and joyful Day,
When from above a Voice shall say,
Rise, all ye dead, lift up your Eyes,
Your great Creator bids you rise;
Then do I hope with all ye Just
To shake off my polluted dust,
And in new Robes of Glory Drest
To have access amongst ye Bless'd.
Which God in his infinite Mercy Grant
For the sake & through ye merits of my
Redeemer Jesus Christ ye Righteous.
Amen.
A tombstone in the churchyard to the memory of James Brousard, who died in
1762, aged seventy-six years, states:--
Ful forty years as Gardener to ye D. of Devonshire,
to propigate ye earth with plants it was his ful desire;
but then thy bones, alas, brave man, earth did no rest afoard,
but now wee hope ye are at rest with Jesus Christ our Lord.
On a gravestone over the remains of William Mather, 1818, are the
following lines:--
When he that day with th' Waggon went,
He little thought his Glass was spent;
But had he kept his Plough in Hand,
He might have longer till'd the Land.
We obtain from a memorial stone at Disley Church a record of longevity:--
Here Lyeth Interred the
Body of JOSEPH WATSON, Bur-
ied June the third 1753,
Aged 104 years. He was
Park Keeper at Lyme more
than 64 years, and was ye First
that Perfected the art of Dri-
ving ye Stags. Here also Lyeth
the Body of Elizabeth his
wife, Aged 94 years, to whom
He had been married 73 years.
Reader take Notice, the Long-
est Life is Short.
On the authority of Mr. J. P. Earwaker, the historian of East Cheshire, it
is recorded of the above that "in the 103rd year of his age he was at the
hunting and killed a buck with the honourable George Warren, in his Park
at Poynton, whose activity gave pleasure to all the spectators there
present. Sir George was the fifth generation of the Warren family he had
performed that diversion with in Poynton Park."
We have from Petersham, Surrey, the next example:--
Near the tomb of
a Worthy Family
lies the Body of
SARAH ABERY,
who departed this life
The 3rd day of August 1795
Aged 83 Years.
Having lived in the Service
of that Family
Sixty Years.
She was a good Christian
an Honest Woman
and
a faithful Servant.
At Great Marlow a stone states that Mary Whitty passed sixty-three years
as a faithful servant in one family. She died in 1795 at the age of
eighty-two years.
Our next example is from Burton-on-Trent:--
Sacred
to the memory of
SAMPSON ADDERLY
An Honest, Sober, Modest Man
(A Character how rarely found;)
Whose peaceful Life a circle ran
More hallow'd makes this hallow'd ground
In Service thirty years he spent
And Dying left his well got gains;
To feed and cloth, a Mother bent
By Age's slow consuming pains:
A tender Master, Mistress kind,
And Friends, (for many a friend had he)
Lament the loss, but time will find
His gain through blest Eternity
He was near thirty Years
a Servant in the Cotton Family
and died in its attendance at Buxton
the 30th of September 1760 Aged 48.
Also adjoining to him
was laid his Aged Parent
who died the 21st of February following.
From a gravestone at Sutton Coldfield we have a record of a long and
industrious life:--
Sacred
to the memory of
JOHN FISHER, day labourer,
who died May 17th in the Year 1806
in the 91st Year of his Age,
having served two Masters at Moore Hall
in this Parish, upwards of fifty years,
Faithfully, Industriously, and Cheerfully.
He was in his Imployment
eight weeks before he died.
This Stone is inscribed to his Memory
by his last Master, as a pattern to Posterity.
Our next inscription is from Eltham, Kent:--
Here
lie the Remains of
MR. JAMES TAPPY
who departed this life on the 8th of
September 1818, Aged 84.
After a faithful Service of
60 years in one Family,
by each individual in which,
He lived respected,
And died lamented
by the sole Survivor.
At Besford, Worcestershire, is a gravestone to the memory of Nathaniel
Bell and his wife, both of whom lived over sixty years each in the
Sebright family.
At Kempsey, Worcestershire, is a tombstone on which appears the remarkable
record of seventy-seven years in the service of one family:--
To the Memory of
MRS. SARAH ARMISON,
who died on the 27th of April
1817
Aged 88 years.
77 of which she passed in the
Service of the Family
of Mrs. Bell
Justly and deservedly lamented
by them,
for integrity, rectitude
of Conduct, and Amiable
Disposition.
We have not noted a more extended period than the foregoing passed in
domestic service.
At Tidmington, Worcestershire, is a gravestone to the memory of Sarah
Lanchbury, who died at the age of seventy-seven years; she was the servant
of one gentleman fifty-six years.
A stone in the old abbey church at Pershore, in the same county, bears an
inscription as follows:--
To
the Memory
of
SARAH ANDREWS: a faithful Domestic
of
Mr. Herbert Woodward
of this Place
In whose Service she died
on the 10th Feby, 1814
Aged 80
having filled the Duties of her humble
Station with unblemished Integrity
for the long Period
of
52 Years.
From Petworth, Sussex, we have the following:--
In Memory
of SARAH BETTS, widow,
who passed nearly 50 Years in one Service
and died January 2, 1792
Aged 75.
Farewell! dear Servant! since thy heavenly Lord
Summons thy worth to its supreme reward.
Thine was a spirit that no toil could tire,
"When Service sweat for duty, not for hire."
From him whose childhood cherished by thy care,
Weathered long years of sickness and despair,
Take what may haply touch the best above,
Truth's tender praise! and tears of grateful love.
In the year 1807, died, at the age of eighty-five years, Mary Baily. She
was buried at Epsom, and her gravestone says: "She passed sixty years of
her life in the faithful discharge of her duties in the service of one
family, by whom she was honoured, respected, and beloved."
A gravestone at Beckenham, Kent, bears testimony to long and faithful
service:--
In memory
of
JOHN KING
who departed this Life 29th of
December 1774 aged 75 years.
He was 61 years Servant
to
Mr. Francis Valentine,
Joseph
Valentine, and Paul
Valentine,
from Father to Son,
without ever
Quitting their Service,
Neglecting
his Duty, or being
Disguised
in Liquor.
From the same graveyard the next inscription is copied:--
Sacred to the Memory of
WILLIAM CHAPMAN
of this Parish,
who died December the
25th 1793
Aged 77 years.
Sixty years of his life were passed under the Burrell Family, three
successive Generations of which he served with such Intelligence and
fidelity, as to obtain from each the sincerest respect and Friendship,
leaving behind him at his Death the Character of a truly Honest and
good Man.
The poet Pope caused to be placed on the outside of Twickenham Church a
tablet bearing the following inscription:--
To the Memory of
MARY BEACH
Who died Nov. 5th 1725,
Aged 78.
Alexander Pope
whom she nursed in his infancy
and constantly attended for
38 years, in gratitude
to a faithful old
servant
erected this Stone.
When George III. was king, Jenny Gaskoin taught a Dames' School at Great
Limber, a rural Lincolnshire village. From the stories respecting her
which have come down to us it would appear that her qualifications for the
position of teacher were somewhat limited. It is related that in the
children's reading lessons words often occurred which the good lady was
unable to pronounce or explain. She was too politic, however, to confess
her ignorance on such occasions, and had resource to the artful evasion of
saying, "Never mind it, bairns; it is a bad word; skip it."
Dame Gaskoin had a son who obtained the situation of a "helper" in the
royal stables. For a slight offence the youth was whipped by the Prince of
Wales, when in a momentary fit of anger. It would appear that the Prince
regretted his conduct, for he promoted the boy to give him redress for the
dressing he had bestowed. Young Gaskoin had the good fortune to be able to
introduce his sister Mary into the service of the princesses. By exemplary
conduct she obtained the esteem of the royal family. The maiden on one
occasion ventured to observe that the rye-bread of Lincolnshire, such as
her mother made, was far superior to that which was used at court. This
caused the request to be made, or rather a command given, that some of the
aforesaid bread should be forwarded as a specimen. The order was complied
with, and gave complete satisfaction. The good schoolmistress was
afterwards desired to send periodically up to town bread for the royal
table.
During a visit to the metropolis to see her daughter the old lady had the
honour of an interview with the princesses. She wore a mob cap of simple
form, which took the fancy of the royal ladies to such a degree that it
was introduced at court under the name of "Gaskoin Mob-Cap."
We have little to add, save that the daughter remained in the royal
service, attending especially upon the person of the Princess Amelia, and
the labour and anxiety she underwent in ministering to the princess in her
last illness, combined with sorrow for her death, caused her to follow her
royal mistress to the grave after a short interval. In the cloisters of
St. George's Chapel, Windsor, is a memorial creditable to the monarch who
erected it, and the humble handmaid whom it commemorates:--
KING GEORGE 3{d}
caused to be interred
near this place the body of
MARY GASKOIN,
Servant to the late P{ss} Amelia
And this tablet to be erected
In testimony of
His grateful sense of
the faithful services
And attachment of
An amiable young woman
to his beloved Daughter
Whom she survived
Only three Months
She died the 19th of February 1811
Aged 31 years.