Part 3

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.

Over the remains of freed slaves we have read several interesting inscriptions. A running footman was buried in the churchyard of Henbury, near Bristol. The poor fellow, a negro, as the tradition says, died of consumption incurred as a consequence of running from London!

"Here Lieth the Body of SCIPIO AFRICANUS Negro Servant to ye Right Honourable Charles William Earl of Suffolk and Brandon who died ye 21 December 1720, aged 18 years."

On the footstone are these lines:--

"I, who was born a Pagan and a Slave, Now sweetly sleep, a Christian in my grave. What though my hue was dark, my Saviour's sight Shall change this darkness into radiant light. Such grace to me my Lord on earth has given To recommend me to my Lord in Heaven, Whose glorious second coming here I wait With saints and angels him to celebrate."

Our next is from Hillingdon, near Uxbridge:--

Here lyeth TOBY PLESANT An African Born.

He was early in life rescued from West Indian Slavery by a Gentleman of this Parish which he ever gratefully remembered and whom he continued to serve as a Footman honestly and faithfully to the end of his Life. He died the 2d of May 1784 Aged about 45 years.

Many visitors to Morecambe pay a pilgrimage to Sambo's grave. A correspondent kindly furnishes us with the following particulars of poor Sambo, who is buried far from his native land. Sunderland Point, he says, a village on the coast near Lancaster, was, before the advent of Liverpool, the port for Lancaster, and is credited with having received the first cargo of West India cotton which reached this country. Some rather large warehouses were built there about a century ago, now adapted to fishermen's cottages for the few fisher folk who still linger about the little port. Near the ferry landing on the Morecambe side there is a strange looking tree, which tradition says was raised from a seed brought from the West Indies, and the natives call it the cotton tree, because every year it strews the ground with its white blossoms. Close to the shore, with only a low stone wall dividing it from the restless sea, is a solitary grave in the corner of a field, which is called "Sambo's grave." Poor Sambo came over to this country with a cotton cargo, fell ill at Sunderland Point, and died; and there being no churchyard near, he was laid in mother earth in an adjoining field. The house is still pointed out in which the negro died, and some sixty years afterwards it occurred to Mr. James Watson that the fact of this dark-skinned brother dying so far from home among strangers was sufficiently pathetic to warrant a memorial. Accordingly he caused the following to be inscribed on a large stone laid flat on the grave, which indicates that he was a slave of probably an English master about a century before the days of negro emancipation in the colonies:--

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:--