Kitabı oku: «Curious Epitaphs, Collected from the Graveyards of Great Britain and Ireland.», sayfa 4
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 Phœbe 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 Phœbe, 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 Phœbe 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 Phœbe 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, Phœbe 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: —
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 Phœnyx 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!”
