Part 4

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, the Sussex, 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 church-yard 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 Rufford records can declare, His actions, 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 gibly, 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 inn-keeper in Stockbridge, the next may be seen:--

In memory of JOHN BUCKETT, Many years 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 Johnson 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 land-owner, 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 Darneth 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._

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 churchyards 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 The 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.

In "Chronicles of the Tombs," by Thomas Joseph Pettigrew, published in 1857, it is stated respecting the foregoing epitaph: "Smoke money or chimney money is now collected at Battle, in Sussex, each householder paying one penny to the Lord of the Manor. It is also levied upon the inhabitants of the New Forest, in Hants, for the right of cutting peat and turf for fuel. And from 'Audley's Companion to the Almanac,' page 76, we learn that 'anciently, even in England, Whitsun farthings, or smoke farthings, were a composition for offerings made in the Whitsun week, by every man who occupied a house with a chimney, to the cathedral of the diocese in which he lived.' The late Mr. E. B. Price has observed, in _Notes and Queries_, (Vol. ii. p. 379), that there is a church at Northampton, upon which is an inscription recording that the expense of repairing it was defrayed by a grant of chimney money for, I believe, seven years, temp. Charles II."

In the burial-ground of St. Michael's Church, London, was interred one of the waiters of the famous Boar's Head Tavern:--

Here lieth the bodye of ROBERT PRESTON, late Drawer at the Boar's Head Tavern, Great Eastcheap, who departed this Life, March 16, Anno Domini 1730, aged 27 years.

Bacchus, to give the topeing world surprize, Produc'd one sober son, and here he lies. Tho' nurs'd among full Hogsheads, he defy'd The charm of wine and ev'ry vice beside. O Reader, if to Justice thou'rt inclined, Keep Honest Preston daily in thy Mind. He drew good wine, took care to fill his pots, Had sundry virtues that outweighed his fauts, (_sic_) You that on Bacchus have the like dependence, Pray copy Bob, in measure and attendance.

The next example from Abesford, on an exciseman, is entitled to a place among Bacchanalian epitaphs:--

No supervisor's check he fears-- Now no commissioner obeys; He's free from cares, entreaties, tears, And all the heavenly oil surveys.

In the churchyard of North Wingfield, Derbyshire, a gravestone bears the following inscription:--

In Memory of THOMAS, son of JOHN and MARY CLAY, who departed this life December 16th 1724, in the 40th year of his age.

What though no mournful kindred stand Around the solemn bier, No parents wring the trembling hand, Or drop the silent tear.

No costly oak adorned with art My weary limbs inclose; No friends impart a winding-sheet To deck my last repose.

The cause of the foregoing curious epitaph is thus explained. Thomas Clay was a man of intemperate habits, and at the time of his death was indebted to the village innkeeper, named Adlington, to the amount of twenty pounds. The publican resolved to seize the body; but the parents of the deceased carefully kept the door locked until the day appointed for the funeral. As soon as the door was opened, Adlington rushed into the house, seized the corpse, and placed it on a form in the open street in front of the residence of the parents of the departed. Clay's friends refused to discharge the publican's account. After the body had been exposed for several days, Adlington committed it to the ground in a _bacon chest_.

We conclude this class of epitaphs with the following from Winchester churchyard:--

In memory of Thomas Thetcher, a Grenadier in the North Regiment of Hants Militia, who died of a violent fever contracted by drinking small beer when hot the 12th of May, 1764, aged 26 years. In grateful remembrance of whose universal goodwill towards his comrades this stone is placed here at their expense, as a small testimony of their regard and concern.

Here sleeps in peace a Hampshire Grenadier, Who caught his death by drinking cold small beer; Soldiers, be wise from his untimely fall, And when ye're hot drink strong, or none at all.

This memorial, being decayed, was restored by the officers of the garrison, A.D. 1781:--

An honest soldier never is forgot, Whether he die by musket or by pot.

This stone was placed by the North Hants Militia, when disembodied at Winchester, on 26th April, 1802, in consequence of the original stone being destroyed.

EPITAPHS ON SOLDIERS AND SAILORS.

We give a few of the many curious epitaphs placed to the memory of soldiers and seafaring 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.

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 at 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 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 unimpared to within a few hours of her death. On September 22, 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 106 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.