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:
Here lies a marksman, who with art and skill,
When young and strong, fat bucks and does did kill.
Now conquered by grim Death (go, reader, tell it!)
He's now took leave of powder, gun, and pellet.
A fatal dart, which in the dark did fly,
Has laid him down, among the dead to lie.
If any want to know the poor slave's name,
'Tis old TOM BOOTH,--ne'er ask from whence he came.
Old Tom was so highly pleased with the epitaph, which was written before
his death, that he had it engraved on the stone some months before its
services were required. In addition to the epitaph itself, the head-stone
was made to include Booth's name, etc., and also that of his wife, blank
places being left in each case for the age and time of death. Booth's
compartment of the stone was in due course properly filled up; but the
widow, disliking the exhibition of her name on a tombstone while living,
resolved that such stone should never indicate her resting-place when
dead; she accordingly left an injunction that her body be interred
elsewhere, and the inscription is incomplete to this day.
Some time before Amos Street, a celebrated Yorkshire huntsman, died, a
stone was obtained, and on it engraved the following lines:--
This is to the memory of OLD AMOS,
Who was when alive for hunting famous;
But now his chases are all o'er
And here he's earth'd, of years four score.
Upon this tomb he's often sat
And tried to read his epitaph;
And thou who dost so at this moment
Shall ere long like him be dormant.
Poor "Old Amos" passed away on October 3rd, 1777, and was buried in
Birstal churchyard. The foregoing inscription may still be read.
The Rev. R. H. Whitworth tells us: "There is an old monument in the south
aisle of Blidworth Church, to the memory of Thomas Leake, Esq., who was
killed at Blidworth Rocking, in A.D. 1598. He may be regarded as the last
of the race who sat in Robin Hood's seat, if those restless Forest Chiefs,
typified under that name, can be supposed ever to have sat at all. Leake
held office under the Crown, but was as wild a freebooter as ever drew
bow. His character is portrayed in his epitaph:--
Here rests T. LEAKE, whose vertues weere so knowne
In all these parts that this engraved stone
Needs navght relate bvt his vntimely end
Which was in single fight: wylst youth did lend
His ayde to valor, hee wth ease orepast
Many slyght dangers, greater then this last
Bvt willfvlle fate in these things governs all
Hee towld ovt threescore years before his fall
Most of wch tyme he wasted in this wood
Mvch of his wealth and last of all his blood.
The border of this monument is rudely panelled, each panel having some
forest hunting subject in relief. There are hounds getting scent, and a
hound pursuing an antlered stag; a hunting horn, ribboned; plunging and
flaying knives, a crossbow, a forest-bow, two arrows, and two hunters'
belts with arrows inserted. This is his register--
THOMAS LEAKE, esquire, buried the
4th February, 1598.
There is a captivating bit of romance connected with Leake's death, which
occurred at Archer's Water. Although somewhat 'provectus in aetate,' he had
won the affections of the landlady's daughter, much to the annoyance of
the mother. Archer's Water was on the old driftroad by Blidworth, from
Edinburgh to London, that by which Jeanie Deans travelled, and over which
Dick Turpin rode. Hundreds of thousands of Scotch cattle went by this way
to town, and there was a difficulty connected with a few of them in which
Leake was concerned, and a price being set upon his head, his
mother-in-law, that was to be, betrayed him to two young soldiers anxious
to secure the reward, one of whom was, in the mother's eyes, the more
favoured lover. Tom was always attended by two magnificent dogs, and went
well armed. Thrown off his guard he left his dogs in an outhouse, and
entering the inn laid aside his weapons, when he was set upon and
overpowered, and, like many better men before him, slain. The name of a
Captain Salmond of the now extinct parish or manor of Salterford is
connected with this transaction. The date of the combat is 2nd February,
being the festival of the Presentation of Christ in the Temple, with which
the highly interesting and historical observance of Blidworth _Rocking_ is
connected. Within the memory of living men, a baby decked with such
flowers as the season afforded was placed in a cradle and carried about
from house to house by an old man, who received a present on the
occasion. As the church is dedicated to St. Mary in connection with the
Purification, the 2nd of February being the Feast Day, this is probably an
interesting reminiscence of some old species of Miracle Play, or
observance connected with the foundation. Anciently people from all
neighbouring counties used to attend this season. Forest games were
played, and amid the attendant licence and confusion, Leake came to his
last grief. Not only in this church does this Ranger of the Blidworth
Wood, for this was his office, possess a memorial. A large cross was
erected, now standing at Fountain Dale, thus inscribed:--
Hoc crucis fragmen
Traditum a sylvicolis monumentum
Loci ubi in singulari certamine
Gladiator ille insignis
THO. LEAKE
Mori occubui
Anno MDXCVIII.
Ab antiqua sede remotum
H. P. C.
Joannes Downall
Prid. Non Sext. MDCCCXXXVI.
What became of the daughter tradition sayeth not. Doubtless she died, as
Tom Leake's intended bride ought, of grief, and was buried under some
grand old oak in Blidworth Forest."
Let us direct attention to another class of sportsmen. At Bunney, a
monument is erected to Sir Thomas Parkyns, the well-known wrestler. It
bears four lines in Latin, which have been translated thus:--
At length he falls, the long contest's o'er,
And Time has thrown whom none e'er threw before;
Yet boast not (Time) thy victory, for he
At last shall rise again and conquer thee.
The next is copied from a stone in St. Michael's churchyard, Coventry, on
a famous fencing master:--
To the memory of Mr. JOHN PARKES,
A native of this City
He was a man of mild disposition,
A Gladiator by profession;
Who after having fought 350 battles,
In the principal parts of Europe,
With honour and applause,
At length quitted the stage, sheathed his sword,
And with Christian resignation,
Submitted to the Grand Victor
In the 52nd year of his age
Anno Domini 1733.
An old stone bearing the foregoing inscription was replaced by a new one
some years ago at the expense of the late S. Carter, Esq., formerly Member
of Parliament for Coventry. In the pages of the _Spectator_ honourable
mention is made of John Parkes.
In the churchyard of Hanslope is buried Sandy M'Kay, the Scottish giant,
who was killed in a prize fight with Simon Byrne. A headstone bears the
following inscription:--
Sacred to the memory of
ALEX. M'KAY,
(Late of Glasgow),
Who died 3rd June, 1834,
Aged 26 years.
Strong and athletic was my frame;
Far from my native home I came,
And manly fought with Simon Byrne;
Alas! but lived not to return.
Reader, take warning of my fate,
Lest you should rue your case too late;
If you ever have fought before,
Determine now to fight no more.
We are informed that Byrne was killed shortly afterwards, whilst engaged
in fighting.
From the prize-ring let us turn to the more satisfactory amusement of
cricket. In Highgate Cemetery, Lillywhite, the celebrated cricketer, is
buried, and over his remains is placed a monument with the significant
emblem of a wicket being upset with a ball.
The following lines are said to be copied from a tombstone in a cemetery
near Salisbury:--
I bowl'd, I struck, I caught, I stopp'd,
Sure life's a game of cricket,
I blocked with care, with caution popp'd,
Yet Death has hit my wicket.
The tennis ball is introduced in an epitaph placed in St. Michael's
Church, Coventry. It reads thus:--
Here lyes the Body of Captain GERVASE SCROPE, of the Family of
Scropes, of Bolton, in the County of York, who departed this life the
26th day of August, Anno Domini, 1705.
AN EPITAPH WRITTEN BY HIMSELF IN THE AGONY AND
DOLOROUS PAINES OF THE GOUT, AND DYED SOON
AFTER.
Here lies an Old Toss'd Tennis Ball,
Was Racketted from Spring to Fall
With so much heat, and so much hast,
Time's arm (for shame) grew tyr'd at last,
Four Kings in Camps he truly seru'd,
And from his Loyalty ne'r sweru'd.
Father ruin'd, the Son slighted,
And from the Crown ne'r requited,
Loss of Estate, Relations, Blood,
Was too well Known, but did no good,
With long Campaigns and paines of th' Govt,
He cou'd no longer hold it out:
Always a restless life he led,
Never at quiet till quite dead,
He marry'd in his latter dayes,
One who exceeds the com'on praise,
But wanting breath still to make Known
Her true Affection and his Own,
Death kindly came, all wants supply'd
By giuing Rest which life deny'd.
We conclude this class of epitaphs with a couple of piscatorial examples.
The first is from the churchyard of Hythe:--
His net old fisher George long drew,
Shoals upon shoals he caught,
'Till Death came hauling for his due,
And made poor George his draught.
Death fishes on through various shapes,
In vain it is to fret;
Nor fish nor fisherman escapes
Death's all-enclosing net.
In the churchyard of Great Yarmouth, under date of 1769, an epitaph runs
thus:--
Here lies doomed,
In this vault so dark,
A soldier weaver, _angler_, and clerk;
Death snatched him hence, and from him took
His gun, his shuttle, fish-rod, and hook,
He could not weave, nor fish, nor fight, so then
He left the world, and faintly cried--Amen.
Bacchanalian Epitaphs.
Some singular epitaphs are to be found over the remains of men who either
manufactured, dispensed, or loved the social glass. In the churchyard of
Newhaven, Sussex, the following may be seen on the grave of a brewer:--
To the memory of
THOMAS TIPPER who
departed this life May the 14th
1785 Aged 54 Years.
READER, with kind regard this GRAVE survey
Nor heedless pass where TIPPER'S ashes lay,
Honest he was, ingenuous, blunt, and kind;
And dared do, what few dare do, speak his mind,
PHILOSOPHY and HISTORY well he knew,
Was versed in PHYSICK and in Surgery too,
The best old STINGO he both brewed and sold,
Nor did one knavish act to get his Gold.
He played through Life a varied comic part,
And knew immortal HUDIBRAS by heart.
READER, in real truth, such was the Man,
Be better, wiser, laugh more if you can.
The next, on John Scott, a Liverpool brewer, is rather rich in puns:--
Poor JOHN SCOTT lies buried here;
Although he was both hale and stout
Death stretched him on the bitter bier.
In another world he hops about.
On a butler in Ollerton churchyard is the following curious epitaph:--
Beneath the droppings of this spout,
Here lies the body once so stout,
Of FRANCIS THOMPSON.
A soul this carcase once possess'd,
Which of its virtues was caress'd,
By all who knew the owner best.
The Ruffords records can declare,
His action who, for seventy year,
Both drew and drank its potent beer;
Fame mentions not in all that time,
In this great Butler the least crime,
To stain his reputation.
To envy's self we now appeal,
If aught of fault she can reveal,
To make her declaration.
Here rest good shade, nor hell nor vermin fear,
Thy virtues guard thy soul, thy body good strong beer.
He died July 6th, 1739.
We will next give a few epitaphs on publicans. Our first is from Pannal
churchyard; it is on Joseph Thackerey, who died on the 26th of November,
1791:--
In the year of our Lord 1740
I came to the Crown;
In 1791 they laid me down.
The following is from the graveyard of Upton-on-Severn, and placed to the
memory of a publican. The lines, it will be seen, are a dexterous weaving
of the spiritual with the temporal:--
Beneath this stone, in hope of Zion,
Doth lie the landlord of the "Lion,"
His son keeps on the business still,
Resign'd unto the Heavenly will.
In 1789 passed away the landlady of the "Pig and Whistle," Greenwich, and
the following lines were inscribed to her memory:--
Assign'd by Providence to rule a tap,
My days pass'd glibly, till an awkward rap,
Some way, like bankruptcy, impell'd me down.
But up I got again and shook my gown
In gamesome gambols, quite as brisk as ever,
Blithe as the lark and gay as sunny weather;
Composed with creditors, at five in pound,
And frolick'd on till laid beneath this ground.
The debt of nature must, you know, be paid,
No trust from her--God grant _extent in aid_.
On an innkeeper in Stockbridge, the next may be seen:--
In memory of
JOHN BUCKETT,
Many year's landlord of the King's
Head Inn, in this Borough,
Who departed this life Nov. 2, 1802.
Aged 67 years.
And is, alas! poor Buckett gone?
Farewell, convivial, honest John.
Oft at the well, by fatal stroke,
Buckets, like pitchers, must be broke.
In this same motley shifting scene,
How various have thy fortunes been!
Now lifted high--now sinking low.
To-day thy brim would overflow,
Thy bounty then would all supply,
To fill and drink, and leave thee dry;
To-morrow sunk as in a well,
Content, unseen, with truth to dwell:
But high or low, or wet or dry,
No rotten stave could malice spy.
Then rise, immortal Buckett, rise,
And claim thy station in the skies;
'Twixt Amphora and Pisces shine,
Still guarding Stockbridge with thy sign.
From the "Sportive Wit; the Muses' Merriment," issued in 1656, we extract
the following lines on John Taylor, "the Water Poet," who was a native of
Gloucester, and died in Phoenix Alley, London, in the 75th year of his
age. You may find him, if the worms have not devoured him, in Covent
Garden churchyard:--
Here lies JOHN TAYLOR, without rime or reason,
For death struck his muse in so cold a season,
That JACK lost the use of his scullers to row:
The chill pate rascal would not let his boat go.
Alas, poor JACK TAYLOR! this 'tis to drink ale
With nutmegs and ginger, with a taste though stale,
It drencht thee in rimes. Hadst thou been of the pack
With Draiton and Jonson to quaff off thy sack,
They'd infus'd thee a genius should ne'er expire,
And have thaw'd thy muse with elemental fire.
Yet still, for the honour of thy sprightly wit,
Since some of thy fancies so handsomely hit.
The nymphs of the rivers for thy relation
Sirnamed thee the _water-poet_ of the nation.
Who can write more of thee let him do't for me.
A ---- take all rimers, JACK TAYLOR, but thee.
Weep not, reader, if thou canst chuse,
Over the stone of so merry a muse.
Robert Burns wrote the following epitaph on John Dove, innkeeper,
Mauchline:--
Here lies JOHNNY PIGEON:
What was his religion?
Whae'er desires to ken,
To some other warl'
Maun follow the carl,
For here Johnny had none!
Strong ale was ablution--
Small beer persecution,
A dram was _memento mori_;
But a full flowing bowl
Was the saving of his soul,
And port was celestial glory.
We extract, from a collection of epitaphs, the following on a publican:--
A jolly landlord once was I,
And kept the Old King's Head hard by,
Sold mead and gin, cider and beer,
And eke all other kinds of cheer,
Till Death my license took away,
And put me in this house of clay:
A house at which you all must call,
Sooner or later, great or small.
It is stated in Mr. J. Potter Briscoe's entertaining volume,
"Nottinghamshire Facts and Fictions," that in the churchyard of Edwalton
is a gravestone to the memory of Mrs. Freland, a considerable landowner,
who died in 1741; but who, it would appear from the inscription, was a
very free liver, for her memorial says:--
She drank good ale, strong punch and wine,
And lived to the age of ninety-nine.
A gravestone in Darenth churchyard, near Dartford, bears the following
epitaph:--
Oh, the liquor he did love, but never will no more
For what he lov'd did turn his foe;
For on the 28th of January 1741, that fatal day,
The Debt he owed he then did pay.
At Chatham, on a drunkard, good advice is given:--
Weep not for him, the warmest tear that's shed
Falls unavailing o'er the unconscious dead;
Take the advice these friendly lines would give,
Live not to drink, but only drink to live.
From Tonbridge churchyard we glean the following:--
Hail!
This stone marks the spot
Where a notorious sot
Doth lie;
Whether at rest or not
It matters not
To you or I.
Oft to the "Lion" he went to fill his horn,
Now to the "Grave" he's gone to get it warm.
_Beered by public subscription by his hale and stout companions, who
deeply lament his absence._
From St. Peter's Mancroft, Norwich, are the following lines on Sarah
Byfield, who died in 1719, comparing life to a market:--
Death is a market where all must meet,
It's found in every city, town, and street.
If we our lives like merchandise could buy,
The rich would ever live, the poor alone must die.
On a gravestone in the churchyard of Eton, placed to the memory of an
innkeeper, it is stated:--
Life's an inn; my house will shew it:
I thought so once, but now I know it.
Man's life is but a winter's day;
Some only breakfast and away;
Others to dinner stop, and are full fed;
The oldest man but sups and then to bed:
Large is his debt who lingers out the day;
He who goes soonest has the least to pay.
Similar epitaphs to the foregoing may be found in many graveyards in this
country. In Micklehurst churchyard, an inscription runs thus:--
Life is an Inn, where all men bait,
The waiter, Time, the landlord, Fate;
Death is the score by all men due,
I've paid my shot--and so must you.
In the old burial-ground in Castle Street, Hull, on the gravestone of a
boy, a slightly different version of the rhyme appears:--
In memory of
JOHN, the son of JOHN and
ANN BYWATER, died 25th January,
1815, aged 14 years.
Life's like an Inn, where Travellers stay,
Some only breakfast and away;
Others to dinner stay and are full fed;
The oldest only sup and go to bed;
Long is the bill who lingers out the day,
Who goes the soonest has the least to pay.
The churchyard of Melton Mowbray furnishes another rendering of the
lines:--
This world's an Inn, and I her guest:
I've eat and drank and took my rest
With her awhile, and now I pay
Her lavish bill and go my way.
The foregoing inscriptions, comparing life to a house, remind us of a
curious inscription in Folkestone churchyard:--
In memory of
REBECCA ROGERS,
who died Aug. 22, 1688,
Aged 44 years.
A house she hath, it's made of such good fashion,
A tenant ne'er shall pay for reparation,
Nor will her landlord ever raise the rent,
Or turn her out of doors for non-payment;
From chimney money, too, this call is free,
To such a house, who would not tenant be.