Curious Epitaphs, Collected from the Graveyards of Great Britain and Ireland. Andrews William

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.

       Table of Contents

      

he 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