Curious Epitaphs. Various

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      On a dyer, from the church of St. Nicholas, Yarmouth, we have as follows:—

Here lies a man who first did dye, When he was twenty-four, And yet he lived to reach the age, Of hoary hairs, fourscore. But now he’s gone, and certain ’tis He’ll not dye any more.

      In Sleaford churchyard, on Henry Fox, a weaver, the following lines are inscribed:—

Of tender thread this mortal web is made, The woof and warp and colours early fade; When power divine awakes the sleeping dust, He gives immortal garments to the just.

      Our next epitaph, from Weston, is placed over the remains of a useful member of society in his time:—

Here lies entomb’d within this vault so dark, A tailor, cloth-drawer, soldier, and parish clerk; Death snatch’d him hence, and also from him took His needle, thimble, sword, and prayer-book. He could not work, nor fight—what then? He left the world, and faintly cried, “Amen!”

      On an Oxford bellows-maker, the following lines were written:—

Here lyeth John Cruker, a maker of bellowes, His craftes-master and King of good fellowes; Yet when he came to the hour of his death, He that made bellowes, could not make breath.

      The next epitaph, on Joseph Blakett, poet and shoemaker of Seaham, is said to be from Byron’s pen:—

Stranger! behold interr’d together The souls of learning and of leather. Poor Joe is gone, but left his awl— You’ll find his relics in a stall. His work was neat, and often found Well-stitched and with morocco bound. Tread lightly—where the bard is laid We cannot mend the shoe he made; Yet he is happy in his hole, With verse immortal as his sole. But still to business he held fast, And stuck to Phœbus to the last. Then who shall say so good a fellow Was only leather and prunella? For character—he did not lack it, And if he did—’twere shame to Black it!

      The following lines are on a cobbler:—

Death at a cobbler’s door oft made a stand, But always found him on the mending hand; At length Death came, in very dirty weather, And ripp’d the soul from off the upper leather: The cobbler lost his awl—Death gave his last, And buried in oblivion all the past.

      Respecting Robert Gray, a correspondent writes: He was a native of Taunton, and at an early age he lost his parents, and went to London to seek his fortune. Here, as an errand boy, he behaved so well, that his master took him apprentice, and afterwards set him up in business, by which he made a large fortune. In his old age he retired from trade and returned to Taunton, where he founded a hospital. On his monument is the following inscription:—

      

Taunton bore him; London bred him; Piety train’d him; Virtue led him; Earth enrich’d him; Heaven possess’d him; Taunton bless’d him; London bless’d him: This thankful town, that mindful city, Share his piety and pity, What he gave, and how he gave it, Ask the poor, and you shall have it. Gentle reader, may Heaven strike Thy tender heart to do the like; And now thy eyes have read his story, Give him the praise, and God the glory.

      He died at the age of 65 years, in 1635.

      In Rotherham churchyard the following is inscribed on a miller:—

In memory of Edward Swair, who departed this life, June 16, 1781.

Here lies a man which Farmers lov’d Who always to them constant proved; Dealt with freedom, Just and Fair— An honest miller all declare.

      On a Bristol baker we have the following:—

      Here lie Tho. Turar, and Mary, his wife. He was twice Master of the Company of Bakers, and twice Churchwarden of this parish. He died March 6, 1654. She died May 8th, 1643.

Like to the baker’s oven is the grave, Wherein the bodyes of the faithful have A setting in, and where they do remain In hopes to rise, and to be drawn again; Blessed are they who in the Lord are dead, Though set like dough, they shall be drawn like bread.

      On the tomb of an auctioneer in the churchyard at Corby, in the county of Lincoln, is the following:—

Beneath this stone, facetious wight Lies all that’s left of poor Joe Wright; Few heads with knowledge more informed, Few hearts with friendship better warmed; With ready wit and humour broad, He pleased the peasant, squire, and lord; Until grim death, with visage queer, Assumed Joe’s trade of Auctioneer, Made him the Lot to practise on, With “going, going,” and anon He knocked him down to “Poor Joe’s gone!”

      In Wimbledon churchyard is the grave of John Martin, a natural son of Don John Emanuel, King of Portugal. He was sent to this country about the year 1712, to be out of the way of his friends, and after several changes of circumstances, ultimately became a gardener. It will be seen from the following epitaph that he won the esteem of his employers:—

      To the memory of John Martin, gardener, a native of Portugal, who cultivated here, with industry and success, the same ground under three masters, forty years.

Though skilful and experienced, He was modest and unassuming; And tho’ faithful to his masters, And with reason esteemed, He was kind to his fellow-servants, And was therefore beloved. His family and neighbours lamented his death, As he was a careful husband, a tender father, and an honest man.

      This character of him is given to posterity by his last master, willingly because deservedly, as a lasting testimony of his great regard for so good a servant.

      He died March 30th, 1760. Aged 66 years.

For public service grateful nations raise Proud structures, which excite to deeds of praise; While private services, in corners thrown, Howe’er deserving, never gain a stone. But are not lilies, which the valleys hide, Perfect as cedars, tho’ the valley’s pride? Let, then, the violets their fragrance breathe, And pines their ever-verdant branches wreathe Around his grave, who from their tender birth Upreared both dwarf and giant sons of earth, And tho’ himself exotic, lived to see Trees of his raising droop as well as he. Those were his care, while his own bending age, His master propp’d and screened from winter’s rage, Till down he gently fell, then with a tear He bade his sorrowing sons transport him here. But tho’ in weakness planted, as his fruit Always bespoke the goodness of his root, The spirit quickening, he in power shall rise With leaf unfading under happier skies.

      The next is on the Tradescants, famous gardeners and botanists at Lambeth. In 1657 Mr. Tradescant, junr., presented to the Ashmolean Museum, Oxford, a remarkable cabinet of curiosities:—

Know, stranger, ere thou pass, beneath this stone Lye John Tradescant, grandsire, father, son; The last died in his spring; the other two Liv’d till they had travell’d art and nature through; As by their choice collections may appear, Of what is rare, in land, in sea, in air; Whilst they (as Homer’s Iliad in a nut) A world of wonders in one closet shut; These famous antiquarians, that had been Both gard’ners to the ROSE AND LILY QUEEN, Transplanted now themselves, sleep here; and when Angels shall with trumpets waken men, And fire shall purge the world, then hence shall rise, And change this garden for a paradise.

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