Part 4
Here lies, retired from busy scenes, A first lieutenant of Marines, Who lately lived in gay content On board the brave ship "Diligent." Now stripp'd of all his warlike show, And laid in box of elm below, Confined in earth in narrow borders, He rises not till further orders.
The next is from Dartmouth churchyard:--
THOMAS GOLDSMITH, who died 1714.
He commanded the "Snap Dragon," as Privateer belonging to this port, in the reign of Queen Anne, in which vessel he turned pirate, and amass'd much riches.
Men that are virtuous serve the Lord; And the Devil's by his friends ador'd; And as they merit get a place Amidst the bless'd or hellish race; Pray then, ye learned clergy show Where can this brute, Tom Goldsmith, go? Whose life was one continued evil, Striving to cheat God, Man, and Devil.
We find the following at Woodbridge on Joseph Spalding, master mariner, who departed this life Sept. 2nd, 1796, aged 55:--
Embark'd in life's tempestuous sea, we steer 'Midst threatening billows, rocks and shoals; But Christ by faith, dispels each wavering fear, And safe secures the anchor of our souls.
In Selby churchyard, the following is on John Edmonds, master mariner, who died 5th Aug., 1767:--
Tho' Boreas, with his blustering blasts Has tost me to and fro, Yet by the handiwork of God, I'm here enclosed below. And in this silent bay I lie With many of our fleet, Until the day that I set sail My Saviour Christ to meet.
Another, on the south side of Selby churchyard:--
The boisterous main I've travers'd o'er, New seas and lands explored, But now at last, I'm anchor'd fast, In peace and silence moor'd.
In the churchyard, Selby, near the north porch, in memory of William Whittaker, mariner, who died 22nd Oct., 1797, we read--
Oft time in danger have I been Upon the raging main, But here in harbour safe at rest Free from all human pain.
Southill Church, Bedfordshire, contains a plain monument to the memory of Admiral Byng, who was shot at Portsmouth:--
To the perpetual disgrace of public justice, The Honourable JOHN BYNG, Vice-Admiral of the Blue, fell a martyr to political persecution, March 14, in the year 1757; when bravery and loyalty were insufficient securities for the life and honour of a naval officer.
The following epitaph, inscribed on a stone in Putney churchyard, is nearly obliterated:--
Lieut. ALEX. DAVIDSON Royal Navy has Caus'd this Stone to be Erected to the Memory of HARRIOT his dearly beloved Wife who departed this Life Jan 24 1808 Aged 38 Years.
I have crossed this Earth's Equator Just sixteen times And in my Country's cause have brav'd far distant climes In Howe's Trafalgar and several Victories more Firm and unmov'd I heard the Fatal Cannons roar Trampling in human blood I felt not any fear Nor for my Slaughter'd gallant Messmates shed A tear But of A dear Wife by Death unhappily beguil'd Even the British Sailor must become A child Yet when from this Earth God shall my soul unfetter I hope we'll meet in Another World and a better.
Some time ago a correspondent of the _Spectator_ stated: "As you are not one to despise 'unconsidered trifles' when they have merit, perhaps you will find room for the following epitaph, on a Deal boatman, which I copied the other day from a tombstone in a churchyard in that town:--
In memory of GEORGE PHILLPOT, Who died March 22nd, 1850, aged 74 years.
Full many a life he saved With his undaunted crew; _He put his trust in Providence_, AND CARED NOT HOW IT BLEW.
A hero; his heroic life and deeds, and the philosophy of religion, perfect both in theory and practice, which inspired them, all described in four lines of graphic and spirited verse! Would not 'rare Ben' himself have acknowledged this a good specimen of 'what verse can say in a little?' Whoever wrote it was a poet 'with the name.'
"There is another in the same churchyard which, though weak after the above, and indeed not uncommon, I fancy, in seaside towns, is at least sufficiently quaint:--
Memory of JAMES EPPS BUTTRESS, who, in rendering assistance to the French Schooner, "Vesuvienne," was drowned, December 27th, 1852, aged 39.
Though Boreas' blast and Neptune's wave Did toss me to and fro, In spite of both, by God's decree, I harbour here below; And here I do at anchor ride With many of our fleet, Yet once again I must set sail, Our Admiral, Christ, to meet.
Also two sons, who died in infancy, &c.
The 'human race' typified by '_our fleet_,' excites vague reminiscences of Goethe and Carlyle, and 'our Admiral Christ' seems not remotely associated in sentiment with the 'We fight that fight for our fair father Christ,' and 'The King will follow Christ and we the King,' of our grand poet. So do the highest and the lowest meet. But the heartiness, the vitality, nay, almost vivacity, of some of these underground tenantry is surprising. There is more life in some of our dead folk than in many a living crowd."
The following five epitaphs are from Hessle Road Cemetery, Hull:--
WILLIAM EASTON, Who was lost at sea, In the fishing smack Martha, In the gale of January, 1865. Aged 30 years.
When through the torn sail the wild tempest is streaming; When o'er the dark wave the red lightning is gleaming, No hope lends a ray the poor fisher to cherish. Oh hear, kind Jesus; save, Lord, or we perish!
In affectionate remembrance of THOMAS CRACKLES, Humber Pilot, who was drowned off The Lincolnshire Coast, During the gale, October 19th, 1869. Aged 24 years.
How swift the torrent rolls That hastens to the sea; How strong the tide that bears our souls On to Eternity.
In affectionate remembrance of DAVID COLLISON, Who was drowned in the "Spirit of the Age," Off Scarborough, Jan. 6th, 1864. Aged 36 years.
I cannot bend over his grave, He sleeps in the secret sea; And not one gentle whisp'red wave Can tell that place to me.
Although unseen by human eyes, And mortal know'd it not; Yet Christ knows where his body lies, And angels guard the spot.
ROBERT PICKERING, who was Drowned from the smack "Satisfaction," On the Dutch coast, May 7, 1869. Aged 18 years.
The waters flowed on every side, No chance was there to save; At last compelled, he bowed and died, And found a watery grave.
In affectionate remembrance of WILLIAM HARRISON, 53 years Mariner of Hull, Who died October 5th, 1864. Aged 70 years.
Long time I ploughed the ocean wide, A life of toil I spent; But now in harbour safe arrived From care and discontent.
My anchor's cast, my sails are furled, And now I am at rest. Of all the parts throughout the world, Sailors, this is the best.
Our next example is from a stone in Castle Street burial-ground, Hull, which is so fast decaying that already some parts of the inscription are obliterated:--
Sacred to the memory of WILLIAM WALKER, . . . . . r of the Sloop Janatt, . . . . . . . who was unfortunately drowned off Flamborough Head, 17th April, 1823. Aged 41 years.
This stone was Erected by his Countrymen in remembrance of his Death.
I have left the troubled ocean, And now laid down to sleep, In hopes I shall set sail Our Saviour Christ to meet.
A gravestone in Horncastle churchyard, Lincolnshire, has this epitaph:--
My helm was gone, My sails were rent, My mast went by the board, My hull it struck upon a rock, Receive my soul, O Lord!
On a sailor's gravestone in the burial-ground at Hamilton, we are told:--
The seas he ploughed for twenty years, Without the smallest dread or fears: And all that time was never known To strike upon a bank or stone.
Epitaphs on Musicians and Actors.
A few epitaphs relating to music and the drama now claim our attention. Our first example is to be found in the cathedral at Norwich:--
Here WILLIAM INGLOTT, organist, doth rest, Whose art in musick this Cathedral blest; For descant most, for voluntary all, He past on organ, song, and virginall. He left this life at age of sixty-seven, And now 'mongst angels all sings St. in Heaven; His fame flies far, his name shall never die, See, art and age here crown his memorie. _Non digitis, Inglotte, tuis terrestria tangis, Tangis nunc digitis organa celsa poli._
Anno Dom. 1621.
Buried the last day This erected the 15th of December, 1621. day of June, 1622.
In Wakefield Parish Church a tablet bears an inscription as follows:--
In memory of HENRY CLEMETSHAW, upwards of fifty years organist of this church, who died May 7, 1821, aged 68 years.
Now, like an organ, robb'd of pipes and breath, Its keys and stops are useless made by death, Tho' mute and motionless in ruins laid; Yet when re-built, by more than mortal aid, This instrument, new voiced, and tuned, shall raise, To God, its builder, hymns of endless praise.
We copy the following from a monument in Holy Trinity Church, Hull:--
In memory of GEORGE LAMBERT, late Organist of this Church, which office he held upwards of 40 years, performing its duties with ability and assiduity rarely exceeded, affording delight to the lovers of Sacred Harmony, This Tablet is erected by his Musical and private Friends, aided by the brothers of the Humber and Minerva Lodges of Free Masons of this Town (being a member of the latter Lodge), That they might place on record the high sense they entertained of his personal and professional merit. He died Feb. 19th, 1838, aged 70 years, And his Remains were interred at the Parish Church of St. John in Beverley.
Tho' like an Organ now in ruins laid, Its stops disorder'd, and its frame decay'd, This instrument ere long new tun'd shall raise To God, its Builder, notes of endless praise.
From a churchyard in Wales we obtain the following curious epitaph on an organ blower:--
Under this stone lies MEREDITH MORGAN, Who blew the bellows of our church organ. Tobacco he hated, to smoke most unwilling, Yet never so pleased as when _pipes_ he was filling. No reflection on him for rude speech could be cast, Though he gave our old organ many a blast! No puffer was he, though a capital blower; He could blow double G., and now lies a note lower.
Our next epitaph records the death of a fiddler, who appears to have been so much attached to his wife that upon the day of her death he, too, yielded to the grim tyrant. Of this pair, buried in Flixton churchyard, it may be truly said: "In life united, and in death not parted." The inscription is as follows:--
To the Memory of JOHN BOOTH, of Flixton, who died 16th March, 1778, aged 43 years; on the same day and within a few hours of the death of his wife HANNAH, who was buried with him in the same grave, leaving seven children behind them.
Reader, have patience, for a Moment Stay, Nor grudge the Tribute of a friendly tear, For John, who once made all our Village gay, Has taken up his Clay-cold Lodging here.
Suspended now his fiddle lies asleep, That once with Musick us'd to charm the Ear. Not for his Hannah long reserv'd to weep, John yields to Fate with his companion dear.
So tenderly he loved his dearer part, His Fondness could not bear a stay behind; And Death through Kindness seem'd to throw the dart To ease his sorrow, as he knew his mind.
In cheerful Labours all their Time they spent, Their happy Lives in Length of Days acquir'd; But Hand in Hand to Nature's God they went, And just lay down to sleep when they were tir'd.
The Relicks of this faithful, honest Pair One little Space of Mother Earth contains. Let Earth protect them with a Mother's Care, And Constant Verdure grace her for her pains.
The Pledges of their tender love remain, For seven fine children bless'd their nuptial State. Behold them, neighbours! nor behold in vain, But heal their Sorrows and their lost Estate.
In the Old Cemetery, Newport, Monmouthshire, on a Scotch piper, the following appears:--
To the memory of Mr. JOHN MACBETH late piper to His Grace the Duke of Sutherland, and a native of the Highlands of Scotland:
Died April 24th, 1852, Aged 46 years.
Far from his native land, beneath this stone, Lies JOHN MACBETH, in prime of manhood gone; A kinder husband never yet did breathe, A firmer friend ne'er trod on Albyn's heath; His selfish aims were all in heart and hand, To be an honour to his native land, As real Scotchmen wish to fall or stand. A handsome _Gael_ he was, of splendid form, Fit for a siege, or for the Northern Storm. Sir Walter Scott remarked at Inverness, "How well becomes Macbeth the Highland dress!" His mind was stored with ancient Highland lore; Knew Ossian's songs, and many bards of yore; But music was his chief, and soul's delight. And oft he played, with Amphion's skill and might, His Highland pipe, before our Gracious Queen! 'Mong Ladies gay, and Princesses serene! His magic chanter's strains pour'd o'er their hearts, With thrilling rapture soft as Cupid's darts! Like Shakespeare's witches, scarce they drew the breath, But wished, like them, to say, "All hail, Macbeth!" The Queen, well pleased, gave him by high command, A splendid present from her Royal hand; But nothing aye could make him vain or proud, He felt alike at Court or in a crowd; With high and low his nature was to please, Frank with the Peasant, with the Prince at ease. Beloved by thousands till his race was run, Macbeth had ne'er a foe beneath the sun; And now he plays among the Heavenly bands, A diamond chanter never made with hands.
In the church at Ashover, Derbyshire, a tablet contains this inscription:--
To the Memory of DAVID WALL, whose superior performance on the bassoon endeared him to an extensive musical acquaintance. His social life closed on the 4th Dec., 1796, in his 57th year.
The next is copied from a gravestone in Stoney Middleton churchyard:--
In memory of GEORGE, the son of GEORGE and MARGARET SWIFT, of Stoney Middleton, who departed this life August the 21st, 1759, in the 20th year of his age.
We the Quoir of Singers of this Church have erected this stone.
He's gone from us, in more seraphick lays In Heaven to chant the Great Jehovah's praise; Again to join him in those courts above, Let's here exalt God's name with mutual love.
The following was written in memory of Madame Malibran, who died September 23rd, 1836:--
"The beautiful is vanished, and returns not."
'Twas but as yesterday, a mighty throng, Whose hearts, as one man's heart, thy power could bow, Amid loud shoutings hailed thee queen of song, And twined sweet summer flowers around thy brow; And those loud shouts have scarcely died away, And those young flowers but half forgot thy bloom, When thy fair crown is changed for one of clay-- Thy boundless empire for a narrow tomb! Sweet minstrel of the heart, we list in vain For music now; THY melody is o'er; _Fidelio_ hath ceased o'er hearts to reign, _Somnambula_ hath slept to wake no more! Farewell! thy sun of life too soon hath set, But memory shall reflect its brightness yet.
Garrick's epitaph, in Westminster Abbey, reads:--
To paint fair Nature by divine command, Her magic pencil in his glowing hand, A SHAKESPEARE rose; then, to expand his fame Wide o'er the breathing world, a GARRICK came: Tho' sunk in death, the forms the poet drew The actor's genius bade them breathe anew; Tho', like the bard himself, in night they lay, Immortal GARRICK call'd them back to day; And till eternity, with power sublime, Shall mark the mortal hour of hoary time, SHAKESPEARE and GARRICK, like twin stars shall shine, And earth irradiate with beams divine.
A monument placed in Westminster to the memory of Mrs. Pritchard states:--
This Tablet is here placed by a voluntary subscription of those who admired and esteemed her. She retired from the stage, of which she had long been the ornament, in the month of April, 1768; and died at Bath in the month of August following, in the 57th year of her age.
Her comic vein had every charm to please, 'Twas nature's dictates breath'd with nature's ease; Ev'n when her powers sustain'd the tragic load, Full, clear, and just, the harmonious accents flow'd, And the big passions of her feeling heart Burst freely forth, and show'd the mimic art. Oft, on the scene, with colours not her own, She painted vice, and taught us what to shun; One virtuous track her real life pursu'd, That nobler part was uniformly good; Each duty there to such perfection wrought, That, if the precepts fail'd, the example taught.
On a comedian named John Hippisley, interred in the churchyard of Clifton, Gloucestershire, we have the following:--
When the Stage heard that death had struck her John, Gay Comedy her Sables first put on; Laughter lamented that her Fav'rite died, And Mirth herself, ('tis strange) laid down and cry'd. Wit droop'd his head, e'en Humour seem'd to mourn, And solemnly sat pensive o'er his urn.
Garrick's epitaph to the memory of James Quin, at Bath, is very fine:--
That tongue, which set the table in a roar, And charm'd the public ear, is heard no more; Closed are those eyes, the harbingers of wit, Which spoke, before the tongue, what Shakespeare writ; Cold are those hands, which, living, were stretch'd forth, At friendship's call, to succour modest worth. Here is JAMES QUIN! Deign, reader, to be taught, Whate'er thy strength of body, force of thought, In Nature's happiest mould however cast, "To this complexion thou must come at last."
Several actors are buried in the churchyard of St. Peter of Mancroft, Norwich. On Henrietta Maria Bray, who died in 1737, aged sixty years, is the following epitaph:--
Here, Reader, you may plainly see, That Wit nor Humour here could be A Proof against Mortality.
Anne Roberts died in 1743, aged thirty, and on her gravestone is a couplet as follows:--
The World's a Stage, at Birth our Plays begun, And all find Exits when their Parts are done.
The Norwich actors, says Mr. James Hooper, were celebrated in their day, and their services were in great request. They used to play annually at the great Stourbridge Fair, at Cambridge, so vividly described by De Foe in his "Tour through the whole Island of Great Britain" (1722). The University Dons mustered in force to see the Norwich mummers, and part of the pit, known as "The Critics' Row," was reserved for Dr. Farmer of Emanuel, and his friends, George Stevens, Malone, and others, who never thought it _infra dig._ to applaud rapturously--a circumstance which shows Puritan Emanuel in a new light.[1]
In St. Mary's Church, Beverley, a tablet is placed in remembrance of a notable Yorkshire actor:--
In Memory of SAMUEL BUTLER, A poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more. Obt. June 15th, 1812. Æt. 62.
Butler's gifted son, Samuel William, was buried in Ardwick Cemetery, Manchester. A gravestone placed to his memory bears the following eloquent inscription by Charles Swain:--
Here rest the mortal remains of SAMUEL WILLIAM BUTLER, Tragedian. In him the stage lost a highly-gifted and accomplished actor, one by whose tongue the noblest creations of the poet found truthful utterance. After long and severe suffering he departed this life the 17th day of July, in the year of our Lord 1845. Aged 41 years.
Whence this ambition, whence this proud desire, This love of fame, this longing to aspire? To gather laurels in their greenest bloom, To honour life and sanctify the tomb? 'Tis the Divinity that never dies, Which prompts the soul of genius still to rise. Though fades the Laurel, leaf by leaf away, The soul hath prescience of a fadeless day; And God's eternal promise, like a star, From faded hopes still points to hopes afar; Where weary hearts for consolation trust, And bliss immortal quickens from the dust. On this great hope, the painter, actor, bard, And all who ever strove for Fame's reward, Must rest at last: and all that earth have trod Still need the grace of a forgiving God!
An interesting sketch of the life of Butler, from the pen of John Evans, is given in the "Papers of the Manchester Literary Club," vol. iii., published 1877.
In the Necropolis, Glasgow, is a monument representing the stage and proscenium of a theatre, placed to the memory of John Henry Alexander, of the Theatre Royal, Glasgow. He was a native of Dunse, Berwickshire, and was born July 31st, 1796. At an early age, says Dr. Rogers, his parents removed to Glasgow, where, in his thirteenth year, he was apprenticed to a hosier. With a remarkable taste for mimicry he practised private theatricals; and having attracted the notice of the managers of Queen Street Theatre, he obtained an opportunity of publicly exhibiting his gifts. In his sixteenth year he adopted the histrionic profession. For some seasons he was employed in a theatre at Newcastle; he subsequently performed at Carlisle, and afterwards in the Theatre Royal, Edinburgh. At Edinburgh his successful impersonations of Dandie Dinmont and other characters of the Waverley novels gained him the friendship of Sir Walter Scott. After some changes he accepted the managership of the Dunlop Street Theatre, Glasgow, of which he became proprietor in 1829. He rebuilt the structure in 1840; it was partially destroyed by fire on the 17th February, 1849, when sixty-five persons unhappily perished. The shock which he experienced on this occasion seriously affected his health, and in 1851 he found it expedient to retire from his profession. He died on the 15th December, 1851, aged fifty-five. On his tombstone are inscribed these lines from the pen of Mr. James Hedderwick, the editor of the _Glasgow Citizen_:--
Fallen is the curtain, the last scene is o'er, The favourite actor treads life's stage no more. Oft lavish plaudits from the crowd he drew, And laughing eyes confessed his humour true; Here fond affection rears this sculptured stone, For virtues not enacted, but his own. A constancy unshaken unto death, A truth unswerving, and a Christian's faith; Who knew him best have cause to mourn him most. Oh, weep the man, more than the actor lost! Unnumbered parts he play'd yet to the end, His best were those of husband, father, friend.
In many collections of epitaphs the following is stated to be inscribed on a gravestone at Gillingham, but we are informed by the Vicar that no such epitaph is to be found, nor is there any trace of it having been placed there at any time:--
Sacred To the memory of THOMAS JACKSON, Comedian,
Who was engaged 21st of December, 1741, to play a comic cast of characters, in this great theatre--the world; for many of which he was prompted by nature to excel.
The season being ended, his benefit over, the charges all paid, and his account closed, he made his exit in the tragedy of Death, on the 17th of March, 1798, in full assurance of being called once more to rehearsal; where he hopes to find his forfeits all cleared, his cast of parts bettered, and his situation made agreeable, by Him who paid the great stock-debt, for the love He bore to performers in general.