Part 2

Turn, gentle stranger, and this urn revere, O'er which Hibernia saddens with a tear. 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 Spottiswode, 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 shall 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.

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, And few 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 foxhunter, 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, &c., 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 cross-bow, 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 ætate,' 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 Jeannie 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 the 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 occubuit Anno MDCVIII.

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 the tombstone in a cemetery near Salisbury:--

I bowl'd, I struck, I caught, I stopp'd, Sure life's a game of cricket; I block'd 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 lyes 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.

EPITAPHS ON TRADESMEN.

Many interesting epitaphs are 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.