Part 5

"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:--

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 and 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.

South-hill 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 insufficent 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 to 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:--

In 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."

We copied the following five epitaphs 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 copied from a stone 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.

PUNNING EPITAPHS.

Puns in epitaphs have been very common, and may be found in Greek and Latin, and still more plentifully in our English compositions. In the French, Italian, Spanish, Portuguese, Dutch, and other languages, examples may also be found. Empedrocles wrote an epitaph containing the paronomasia, or pun, on a physician named Pausanias, and it has by Merivale been happily translated:--

Pausanias--not so nam'd without a cause, As one who oft has giv'n to pain a pause, Blest son of Æsculapius, good and wise, Here, in his native Gela, buried lies; Who many a wretch once rescu'd by his charms From dark Persephone's constraining arms.

In Holy Trinity Church, Hull, is an example of a punning epitaph. It is on a slab in the floor of the north aisle of the nave, to the memory of "The Worshipful Joseph Field, twice Mayor of this town, and Merchant Adventurer." He died in 1627, aged 63 years:--

Here is a Field sown, that at length must sprout, And 'gainst the ripening harvest's time break out, When to that Husband it a crop shall yield Who first did dress and till this new-sown Field; Yet ere this Field you see this crop can give, The seed first dies, that it again may live. _Sit Deus amicus, Sanctis, vel in Sepulchris spes est._

On Bishop Theophilus Field, in Hereford Cathedral, ob. 1636, is another specimen:--

The Sun that light unto three churches gave Is set; this Field is buried in a grave. This Sun shall rise, this Field renew his flowers, This sweetness breathe for ages, not for hours.

He was successively Bishop of Llandaff, St. David's, and Hereford.

The following rather singular epitaph, with a play upon the name, occurs in the chancel of Checkley Church, Staffordshire:--

To the Memory of the Reverend JAMES WHITEHALL, Rector of this place twenty and five years, who departed this life the second daie of March, 1644.

White was his name, and whiter than this stone. In hope of joyfole resurrection Here lies that orthodox, that grave divine, In wisdom trve, vertve did soe clearly shine; One that could live and die as he hath done Suffer'd not death but a translation. Bvt ovt of charitie I'll speake no more, Lest his friends pine with sighs, with teares the poor.

From Hornsea Church we have the epitaph of Will Day, gentleman; he lived 34 years, died May 22nd, 1616:--

If that man's life be likened to a day, One here interr'd in youth did lose a day, By death, and yet no loss to him at all, For he a threefold day gain'd by his fall; One day of rest is bliss celestial, Two days on earth by gifts terrestryall-- Three pounds at Christmas, three at Easter Day, Given to the poure until the world's last day, This was no cause to heaven; but, consequent, Who thither will, must tread the steps he went. For why? Faith, Hope, and Christian Charity, Perfect the house framed for eternity.

On the east wall of the Chancel of Kettlethorpe Church, co. Lincoln, is a tablet to the memory of "Johannes Becke, quondam Rector istius ecclesiæ," who died 1597, with the following lines in old English characters:--

I am a BECKE, or river as you know, And wat'red here ye church, ye schole, ye pore, While God did make my springes here for to flow: But now my fountain stopt, it runs no more; From Church and schole mi life ys now bereft, But no ye pore four poundes I yearly left.

We may add that the stream of his charity still flows, and is yearly distributed amongst the poor of Kettlethorpe.

Bishop Sanderson, in his "Survey of Lincoln Cathedral," gives the following epitaph of Dr. William Cole, Dean of Lincoln, who died in 1600. The upper part of the stone, with Dr. Cole's arms, is, or was lately, in the Cathedral, but the epitaph has been lost:--

Reader, behold the pious pattern here Of true devotion and of holy fear. He sought God's glory and the churches good. Idle idol worship he withstood. Yet dyed in peace, whose body here doth lie In expectation of eternity. And when the latter trump of heaven shall blow Cole, now rak'd up in ashes, then shall glow.

Here is another from Lincoln Cathedral, on Dr. Otwell Hill:--

'Tis OTWELL HILL, a holy Hill, And truly, sooth to say, Upon this Hill be praised still The Lord both night and day. Upon this Hill, this HILL did cry Aloud the scripture letter, And strove your wicked villains by Good conduct to make better. And now this HILL, tho' under stones, Has the Lord's Hill to lie on; For Lincoln Hill has got his bones, His soul the Hill of Sion.

The _Guardian_, for 3rd Dec., 1873, gives the following epitaph as being in Lillington Church, Dorset, on the grave of a man named Cole, who died in 1669:--

Reader, you have within this grave A Cole rak'd up in dust. His courteous Fate saw it was Late, And that to Bed he must. Soe all was swept up to be Kept Alive until the day The Trump shall blow it up and shew The Cole but sleeping lay. Then do not doubt the Coles not out Though it in ashes lyes, That little sparke now in the Darke Will like the Phoenyx rise.

Our next example was inscribed in Peterborough Cathedral, to the memory of Sir Richard Worme, ob. 1589:--

Does Worm eat Worme? Knight Worme this truth confirms, For here, with worms, lies Worme, a dish for worms. Does worm eat Worme? sure Worme will this deny, For Worme with worms, a dish for worms don't lie. 'Tis so, and 'tis not so, for free from worms 'Tis certain Worme is blest without his worms.

On a person named Cave, at Barrow-on-Soar, Leicestershire, we have the following epitaph:

Here, in this Grave, there lies a Cave. We call a Cave a Grave: If Cave be Grave, and Grave be Cave, Then, reader, judge, I crave, Whether doth Cave here lie in Grave Or Grave here lie in Cave: If Grave in Cave here buried lie, Then Grave, where is thy victory? Go reader, and report, here lies a Cave, Who conquers Death, and buries his own Grave.

In Bletchley, ob. 1615, on Mrs. Rose Sparke:--

Sixty-eight years a fragrant Rose she lasted, Noe vile reproach her virtues ever blasted; Her autume past expects a glorious springe, A second better life more flourishing.

Hearken unto me, ye holy children, and bud forth as a Rose.--Eccles. XXXIX., 13.

From several punning epitaphs on the name of Rose we give one more specimen. It is from Tawton Church, ob. 1652, on Rose Dart:--

A Rose springing Branch no sooner bloom'd, By Death's impartial Dart lyes here entombed. Tho' wither'd be the Bud, the stock relyes On Christ, both sure by Faith and Hope to rise.

In Barnstaple Church, ob. 1627, on Grace Medford, is an epitaph as follows:--

Scarce seven years old this Grace in glory ends, Nature condemns, but Grace the change commends; For Gracious children, tho' they die at seven, Are heirs-apparent to the Court of Heaven. Then grudge not nature at so short a Race; Tho' short, yet sweet, for surely 'twas God's Grace.

On a punster the following was written:--

Beneath the gravel and these stones, Lies poor JACK TIFFEY'S skin and bones; His flesh I oft have heard him say, He hoped in time would make good hay; Quoth I, "How can that come to pass?" And he replied, "All flesh is grass!"

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 loves 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.