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

EPITAPHS ON MUSICIANS AND ACTORS

Afew 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 of December, 1621.

This erected the 15th 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

 
Far from his native land, beneath this stone,
Lies John Macbeth, in prime of manhood gone;
A kinder husband never yet did breathe,
A firmer friend ne’er trod on Albyn’s heath;
His selfish aims were all in heart and hand,
To be an honour to his native land,
As real Scotchmen wish to fall or stand.
A handsome Gael he was, of splendid form,
Fit for a siege, or for the Northern Storm.
Sir Walter Scott remarked at Inverness,
“How well becomes Macbeth the Highland dress!”
His mind was stored with ancient Highland lore;
Knew Ossian’s songs, and many bards of yore;
But music was his chief, and soul’s delight.
And oft he played, with Amphion’s skill and might,
His Highland pipe, before our Gracious Queen!
’Mong Ladies gay, and Princesses serene!
His magic chanter’s strains pour’d o’er their hearts,
With thrilling rapture soft as Cupid’s darts!
Like Shakespeare’s witches, scarce they drew the breath,
But wished, like them, to say, “All hail, Macbeth!”
The Queen, well pleased, gave him by high command,
A splendid present from her Royal hand!
But nothing aye could make him vain or proud,
He felt alike at Court or in a crowd;
With high and low his nature was to please,
Frank with the Peasant, with the Prince at ease.
Beloved by thousands till his race was run,
Macbeth had ne’er a foe beneath the sun;
And now he plays among the Heavenly bands,
A diamond chanter never made with hands.
 

In the church of Ashover, Derbyshire, a tablet contains this inscription: —

To the Memory of

David Wall,

whose superior performance on the

bassoon endeared him to an

extensive musical acquaintance

His social life closed on the

4th Dec., 1796, in his 57th year

The next is copied from a gravestone in Stoney Middleton churchyard: —

In memory of George, the son of George and Margaret Swift, of Stoney Middleton, who departed this life August the 21st, 1759, in the 20th year of his age.

We the Quoir of Singers of this Church have erected this stone.

 
He’s gone from us, in more seraphick lays
In Heaven to chant the Great Jehovah’s praise;
Again to join him in those courts above,
Let’s here exalt God’s name with mutual love.
 

The following was written in memory of Madame Malibran, who died September 23rd, 1836: —

 
“The beautiful is vanished, and returns not.”
 
 
’Twas but as yesterday, a mighty throng,
Whose hearts, as one man’s heart, thy power could bow,
Amid loud shoutings hailed thee queen of song,
And twined sweet summer flowers around thy brow;
And those loud shouts have scarcely died away,
And those young flowers but half forgot thy bloom,
When thy fair crown is changed for one of clay —
Thy boundless empire for a narrow tomb!
Sweet minstrel of the heart, we list in vain
For music now; THY melody is o’er;
Fidelio hath ceased o’er hearts to reign,
Somnambula hath slept to wake no more!
Farewell! thy sun of life too soon hath set,
But memory shall reflect its brightness yet.
 

Garrick’s epitaph in Westminster Abbey, reads: —

 
To paint fair Nature by divine command,
Her magic pencil in his glowing hand,
A Shakespeare rose; then, to expand his fame
Wide o’er the breathing world, a Garrick came:
Tho’ sunk in death, the forms the poet drew
The actor’s genius bade them breathe anew;
Tho’, like the bard himself, in night they lay,
Immortal Garrick call’d them back to day;
And till eternity, with power sublime,
Shall mark the mortal hour of hoary time,
Shakespeare and Garrick, like twin stars shall shine,
And earth irradiate with beams divine.
 

A monument placed in Westminster to the memory of Mrs. Pritchard states: —

This Tablet is here placed by a voluntary subscription of those who admired and esteemed her. She retired from the stage, of which she had long been the ornament, in the month of April, 1768: and died at Bath in the month of August following, in the 57th year of her age.

 
Her comic vein had every charm to please,
’Twas nature’s dictates breath’d with nature’s ease;
Ev’n when her powers sustain’d the tragic load,
Full, clear, and just, the harmonious accents flow’d,
And the big passions of her feeling heart
Burst freely forth, and show’d the mimic art.
Oft, on the scene, with colours not her own,
She painted vice, and taught us what to shun;
One virtuous tract her real life pursu’d,
That nobler part was uniformly good;
Each duty there to such perfection wrought,
That, if the precepts fail’d, the example taught.
 

On a comedian named John Hippisley, interred in the churchyard of Clifton, Gloucestershire, we have the following: —

 
When the Stage heard that death had struck her John,
Gay Comedy her Sables first put on;
Laughter lamented that her Fav’rite died,
And Mirth herself, (’tis strange) laid down and cry’d.
Wit droop’d his head, e’en Humour seem’d to mourn,
And solemnly sat pensive o’er his urn.
 

Garrick’s epitaph to the memory of James Quin, in Bath Cathedral, is very fine: —

 
That tongue, which set the table in a roar,
And charm’d the public ear, is heard no more;
Closed are those eyes, the harbingers of wit,
Which spoke, before the tongue, what Shakespeare writ;
Cold are those hands, which, living, were stretch’d forth,
At friendship’s call, to succour modest worth.
Here is James Quin! Deign, reader to be taught,
Whate’er thy strength of body, force of thought,
In Nature’s happiest mould however cast,
“To this complexion thou must come at last.”
 

We next give an actor’s epitaph on an artist. In Chiswick churchyard is Garrick’s epitaph on William Hogarth, (died Oct. 29, 1764, aged 67 years) as follows: —

 
Farewell, great painter of mankind,
Who reach’d the noblest point of art,
Whose pictured morals charm the mind,
And thro’ the eye correct the heart.
 
 
If genius fire thee, reader, stay;
If nature touch thee, drop a tear;
If neither move thee, turn away,
For Hogarth’s honour’d dust lies here.
 
 
No marble pomp, or monumental praise,
My tomb, this dial – epitaph, these lays;
Pride and low mouldering clay but ill agree;
Death levels me to beggars – Kings to me.
 
 
Alive, instruction was my work each day;
Dead, I persist instruction to convey;
Here, reader, mark, perhaps now in thy prime,
The stealthy steps of never-standing Time:
Thou’lt be what I am – catch the present hour,
Employ that well, for that’s within thy power.
 

In St. Mary’s Church, Beverley, a tablet is placed in remembrance of a notable Yorkshire actor: —

In Memory of

Samuel Butler,

A poor player that struts and

frets his hour upon the stage, and

then is heard no more

Obt. June 15th 1812,

Æt. 62

Butler’s gifted son, Samuel William, was buried in Ardwick cemetery, Manchester. A gravestone placed to his memory bears the following eloquent inscription by Charles Swain: —

Here rest the

mortal remains of

Samuel William Butler,

Tragedian

In him the stage lost a highly-gifted and accomplished actor,

one whose tongue the noblest creations

of the poet found truthful utterance

After long and severe suffering he departed

this life the 17th day of July, in the year of

our Lord 1845. Aged 41 years

 
Whence this ambition, whence this proud desire,
This love of fame, this longing to aspire?
To gather laurels in their greenest bloom,
To honour life and sanctify the tomb?
’Tis the Divinity that never dies,
Which prompts the soul of genius still to rise.
Though fade the Laurel, leaf by leaf away,
The soul hath prescience of a fadeless day;
And God’s eternal promise, like a star,
From faded hopes still points to hopes afar;
Where weary hearts for consolation trust,
And bliss immortal quickens from the dust.
On this great hope, the painter, actor, bard,
And all who ever strove for Fame’s reward,
Must rest at last; and all that earth have trod
Still need the grace of a forgiving God!
 

A very interesting sketch of the life of Butler, from the pen of John Evans, is given in the “Papers of the Manchester Literary Club” vol. iii, published 1877.

In many collections of epitaphs the following is stated to be inscribed on a gravestone at Gillingham, but we are informed by the Vicar that no such epitaph is to be found, nor is there any trace of it having been placed there at any time: —

Sacred

To the Memory of

Thomas Jackson, Comedian,

Who was engaged 21st of December, 1741, to play a comic cast of

characters, in this great theatre – the world; for many of which

he was prompted by nature to excel

The season being ended, his benefit over, the charges all paid, and his account closed, he made his exit in the tragedy of Death, on the 17th of March, 1798, in full assurance of being called once more to rehearsal; where he hopes to find his forfeits all cleared, his cast of parts bettered, and his situation made agreeable, by Him who paid the great stock-debt, for the love He bore to performers in general.

The following epitaph was written by Swift on Dicky Pearce, who died 1728, aged 63 years. He was a famous fool, and his name carries us back to the time when kings and noblemen employed jesters for the delectation of themselves and their friends. It is from Beckley, and reads as follows: —

 
Here lies the Earl of Suffolk’s Fool,
Men call him Dicky Pearce;
His folly serv’d to make men laugh,
When wit and mirth were scarce.
Poor Dick, alas! is dead and gone,
What signifies to cry?
Dickys enough are still behind
To laugh at by and by.
 

In our “Historic Romance,” published 1883, by Hamilton, Adams, and Co., London, will be found an account of “Fools and Jesters of the English Sovereigns,” and we therein state that the last recorded instance of a fool being kept by an English family, is that of John Hilton’s Fool, retained at Hilton Castle, Durham, who died in 1746.

The following epitaph is inscribed on a tombstone in the churchyard of St. Mary Friars, Shrewsbury, on Cadman, a famous “flyer” on the rope, immortalised by Hogarth, and who broke his neck descending from a steeple in Shrewsbury, in 1740: —

 
Let this small monument record the name
Of Cadman, and to future times proclaim
How, by an attempt to fly from this high spire,
Across the Sabrine stream, he did acquire
His fatal end. ’Twas not for want of skill,
Or courage to perform the task, he fell;
No, no, – a faulty cord being drawn too tight
Hurried his soul on high to take her flight,
Which bid the body here beneath, good-night.
 

Joe Miller, of facetious memory, next claims our attention. We find it stated in Chambers’s “Book of Days” (issued 1869), as follows: Miller was interred in the burial-ground of the parish of St. Clement Danes, in Portugal Street, where a tombstone was erected to his memory. About ten years ago, that burial-ground, by the removal of the mortuary remains, and the demolition of the monuments, was converted into a site for King’s College Hospital. Whilst this not unnecessary, yet undesirable, desecration was in progress, the writer saw Joe’s tombstone lying on the ground; and being told that it would be broken up and used as materials for the new building, he took an exact copy of the inscription, which was as follows:

Here lye the Remains of

Honest Jo: Miller,

who was

a tender Husband, a sincere Friend,

a facetious Companion,

and an excellent Comedian

He departed this Life the 15th day of

August 1738, aged 54 years

 
If humour, wit, and honesty could save
The humourous, witty, honest, from the grave,
The grave had not so soon this tenant found,
Whom honesty, and wit, and humour, crowned;
Could but esteem, and love preserve our breath,
And guard us longer from the stroke of Death,
The stroke of Death on him had later fell,
Whom all mankind esteemed and loved so well.
 

S. Duck,

From respect to social worth,

mirthful qualities, and histrionic excellence,

commemorated by poetic talent in humble life

The above inscription, which Time

had nearly obliterated, has been preserved

and transferred to this Stone, by order of

Mr. Jarvis Buck, Churchwarden,

A.D. 1816

An interesting sketch of the life of Joe Miller will be found in the “Book of Days,” vol. II., page 216, and in the same informing and entertaining work, the following notes are given respecting the writer of the foregoing epitaph: “The ‘S. Duck,’ whose name figures as author of the verses on Miller’s tombstone, and who is alluded to on the same tablet, by Mr. Churchwarden Buck, as an instance of ‘poetic talent in humble life,’ deserves a short notice. He was a thresher in the service of a farmer near Kew, in Surrey. Imbued with an eager desire for learning, he, under most adverse circumstances, managed to obtain a few books, and educate himself to a limited degree. Becoming known as a rustic rhymer, he attracted the attention of Caroline, queen of George II., who, with her accustomed liberality, settled on him a pension of £30 per annum; she made him a Yeoman of the Guard, and installed him as keeper of a kind of museum she had in Richmond Park, called Merlin’s Cave. Not content with these promotions, the generous, but perhaps inconsiderate queen, caused Duck to be admitted to holy orders, and preferred to the living of Byfleet, in Surrey, where he became a popular preacher among the lower classes, chiefly through the novelty of being the ‘Thresher Parson.’ This gave Swift occasion to write the following quibbling epigram: —

 
“The thresher Duck could o’er the queen prevail;
The proverb says, – ‘No fence against a flail.’
From threshing corn, he turns to thresh his brains,
For which her Majesty allows him grains;
Though ’tis confest, that those who ever saw
His poems, think ’em all not worth a straw.
Thrice happy Duck! employed in threshing stubble!
Thy toil is lessened, and thy profits double.
 

“One would suppose the poor thresher to have been beneath Swift’s notice, but the provocation was great, and the chastisement, such as it was, merited. For though few men had ever less pretensions to poetical genius than Duck, yet the Court party actually set him up as a rival – nay, as superior – to Pope. And the saddest part of the affair was that Duck, in his utter simplicity and ignorance of what really constituted poetry, was led to fancy himself the greatest poet of the age. Consequently, considering that his genius was neglected, and that he was not rewarded according to his poetical deserts by being made the clergyman of an obscure village, he fell into a state of melancholy, which ended in suicide; affording another to the numerous instances of the very great difficulty of doing good. If the well-meaning queen had elevated Duck to the position of farm-bailiff, he might have led a long and happy life, amongst the scenes and the classes of society in which his youth had passed, and thus been spared the pangs of disappointed vanity and misdirected ambition.”

Says a thoughtful writer, if truth, perspicuity, wit, gravity, and every property pertaining to the ancient or modern epitaph, were ever united in one of terse brevity, it was that made for Burbage, the tragedian, in the days of Shakespeare: —

“Exit Burbage.”

Jerrold, perhaps, with that brevity, which is the soul of wit, trumped the above by his anticipatory epitaph on that excellent man and distinguished historian, Charles Knight: —

“Good Knight.”

EPITAPHS ON NOTABLE PERSONS

We have under this heading some curious graveyard gleanings on remarkable men and women. Our first is from a tombstone erected in the churchyard of Spofforth, at the cost of Lord Dundas, telling the remarkable career of John Metcalf, better known as “Blind Jack of Knaresborough”: —

Here lies John Metcalf, one whose infant sight

 
Felt the dark pressure of an endless night;
Yet such the fervour of his dauntless mind,
His limbs full strung, his spirits unconfined,
That, long ere yet life’s bolder years began,
The sightless efforts marked th’ aspiring man;
Nor marked in vain – high deeds his manhood dared,
And commerce, travel, both his ardour shared.
’Twas his a guide’s unerring aid to lend —
O’er trackless wastes to bid new roads extend;
And, when rebellion reared her giant size,
’Twas his to burn with patriot enterprise;
For parting wife and babes, a pang to feel,
Then welcome danger for his country’s weal.
Reader, like him, exert thy utmost talent given!
Reader, like him, adore the bounteous hand of Heaven.
 

He died on the 26th of April, 1801, in the 93rd year of his age.

A few jottings respecting Metcalf, will probably be read with interest. At the age of six years he lost his sight by an attack of small-pox. Three years later he joined the boys in their bird-nesting exploits, and climbed trees to share the plunder. When he had reached thirteen summers he was taught music, and soon became a proficient performer; he also learned to ride and swim, and was passionately fond of field-sports. At the age of manhood it is said his mind possessed a self-dependence rarely enjoyed by those who have the perfect use of their faculties; his body was well in harmony with his mind, for when twenty-one years of age he was six feet one and a-half inches in height, strong and robust in proportion. At the age of twenty-five, he was engaged as a musician at Harrogate. About this time he was frequently employed during the dark nights as a guide over the moors and wilds, then abundant in the neighbourhood of Knaresborough. He was a lover of horse-racing, and often rode his own animals. His horses he so tamed that when he called them by their respective names they came to him, thus enabling him to find his own amongst any number and without trouble. Particulars of the marriage of this individual read like a romance. A Miss Benson, daughter of an innkeeper, reciprocated the affections of our hero; however, the suitor did not please the parents of the “fair lady,” and they selected a Mr. Dickinson as her future husband. Metcalf, hearing that the object of his affection was to be married the following day to the young man selected by her father, hastened to free her by inducing the damsel to elope with him. Next day they were made man and wife, to the great surprise of all who knew them, and to the disappointment of the intended son-in-law. To all it was a matter of wonder how a handsome woman as any in the country, the pride of the place, could link her future with ‘Blind Jack,’ and, for his sake, reject the many good offers made her. But the bride set the matter at rest by declaring: “His actions are so singular, and his spirit so manly and enterprising, that I could not help it.”

It is worthy of note that he was the first to set up, for the public accommodation of visitors to Harrogate, a four-wheeled chaise and a one-horse chair; these he kept for two seasons. He next bought horses and went to the coast for fish, which he conveyed to Leeds and Manchester. In 1745, when the rebellion broke out in Scotland, he joined a regiment of volunteers raised by Colonel Thornton, a patriotic gentleman, for the defence of the House of Hanover. Metcalf shared with his comrades all the dangers of the campaign. He was defeated at Falkirk, and victorious at Culloden. He was the first to set up (in 1754) a stage-waggon between York and Knaresborough, which he conducted himself twice a week in summer, and once a week in winter. This employment he followed until he commenced contracting for road-making. His first contract was for making three miles of road between Minskip and Ferrensby. He afterwards erected bridges and houses, and made hundreds of miles of roads in Yorkshire, Lancashire, Cheshire, and Derbyshire. He was a dealer in timber and hay, of which he measured and calculated the solid contents by a peculiar method of his own. The hay he always measured with his arms, and, having learned the height, he could tell the number of square yards in the stack. When he went out, he always carried with him a stout staff some inches taller than himself, which was of great service both in his travels and measurements. In 1778 he lost his wife, after thirty-nine years of conjugal felicity, in the sixty-first year of her age. She was interred at Stockport. Four years later he left Lancashire, and settled at the pleasant rural village of Spofforth, not far distant from the town of his nativity. With a daughter, he resided on a small farm until he died, in 1801. At the time of his decease, his descendants were four children, twenty grandchildren, and ninety great-grandchildren.

[In one of our articles in Chambers’s Journal we furnished the foregoing sketch, and it has since been reproduced in many newspapers and in several volumes.]

In “Yorkshire Longevity,” compiled by Mr. William Grainge, of Harrogate, a most painstaking writer on local history, will be found an interesting account of Henry Jenkins, a celebrated Yorkshireman. It is stated: “In the year 1743, a monument was erected, by subscription, in Bolton churchyard, to the memory of Jenkins; it consists of a square base of freestone, four feet four inches on each side, by four feet six inches in height, surmounted by a pyramid eleven feet high. On the east side is inscribed: —

This monument was

erected by contribution,

in ye year 1743, to ye memory

of Henry Jenkins

On the west side: —

Henry Jenkins,

Aged 169

In the church, on a mural tablet of black marble, is inscribed the following epitaph, composed by Dr. Thomas Chapman, Master of Magdalen College, Cambridge: —

Blush not, marble,

to rescue from oblivion

the memory of

Henry Jenkins:

a person obscure in birth,

but of a life truly memorable;

for

he was enriched

with the goods of nature,

if not of fortune, and happy

in the duration, if not variety,

of his enjoyments:

and,

tho’ the partial world despised and

disregarded his low and humble state,

the equal eye of Providence

beheld, and blessed it

with a patriarch’s health and length of days:

to teach mistaken man,

these blessings were entailed on temperance,

or, a life of labour and a mind at ease

He lived to the amazing age of 169;

was interred here, Dec. 6, (or 9,) 1670,

and had this justice done to his memory 1743

This inscription is a proof that learned men, and masters of colleges, are not always exempt from the infirmity of writing nonsense. Passing over the modest request to the black marble not to blush, because it may feel itself degraded by bearing the name of the plebeian Jenkins, when it ought only to have been appropriated to kings and nobles, we find but questionable philosophy in this inappropriate composition.

The multitude of great events which took place during the lifetime of this man are truly wonderful and astonishing. He lived under the rule of nine sovereigns of England – Henry VII.; Henry VIII.; Edward VI.; Mary; Elizabeth; James I.; Charles I.; Oliver Cromwell; and Charles II. He was born when the Roman Catholic religion was established by law. He saw the dissolution of the monasteries, and the faith of the nation changed – Popery established a second time by Queen Mary – Protestantism restored by Elizabeth – the Civil War between Charles and the Parliament begun and ended – Monarchy abolished – the young Republic of England, arbiter of the destinies of Europe – and the restoration of Monarchy under the libertine Charles II. During his time, England was invaded by the Scots; a Scottish King was slain, and a Scottish Queen beheaded in England; a King of Spain and a King of Scotland were Kings in England; three Queens and one King were beheaded in England in his days; and fire and plague alike desolated London. His lifetime appears like that of a nation, more than an individual, so long was it extended and so crowded was it with such great events.”

The foregoing many incidents remind us of the well-known Scottish epitaph on Marjory Scott, who died February 26th, 1728, at Dunkeld, at the extreme age of one hundred years. According to Chambers’s “Domestic Annals of Scotland,” the following epitaph was composed for her by Alexander Pennecuik, but never inscribed, and it has been preserved by the reverend statist of the parish, as a whimsical statement of historical facts comprehended within the life of an individual: —

 
Stop, passenger, until my life you read,
The living may get knowledge from the dead.
Five times five years I led a virgin life,
Five times five years I was a virtuous wife;
Ten times five years I lived a widow chaste,
Now tired of this mortal life I rest.
Betwixt my cradle and my grave hath been
Eight mighty kings of Scotland and a queen.
Full twice five years the Commonwealth I saw.
Ten times the subjects rise against the law;
And, which is worse than any civil war,
A king arraigned before the subject’s bar.
Swarms of sectarians, hot with hellish rage,
Cut off his royal head upon the stage.
Twice did I see old prelacy pulled down,
And twice the cloak did sink beneath the gown.
I saw the Stuart race thrust out; nay, more,
I saw our country sold for English ore;
Our numerous nobles, who have famous been,
Sunk to the lowly number of sixteen.
Such desolation in my days have been,
I have an end of all perfection seen!
 

A foot-note states: “The minister’s version is here corrected from one of the Gentleman’s Magazines for January 1733; but both are incorrect, there having been during 1728 and the one hundred preceding years no more than six kings of Scotland.”

In Scott’s “Tales of a Grandfather,” there is an account of the Battle of Lillyard’s Edge, which was fought in 1545. The spot on which the battle occurred is so called from an Amazonian Scottish woman, who is reported, by tradition, to have distinguished herself in the fight. An inscription which was placed on her tombstone was legible within the present century, and is said to have run thus: —

 
Fair Maiden Lillyard lies under this stane,
Little was her stature, but great was her fame;
Upon the English louns she laid many thumps,
And when her legs were cutted off, she fought upon her stumps.
 

The tradition says that a beautiful young lady, called Lillyard, followed her lover from the little village of Maxton, and when she saw him fall in battle, rushed herself into the heat of the fight, and was killed, after slaying several of the English.

On one of the buttresses on the south side of St. Mary’s Church, at Beverley, is an oval tablet, to commemorate the fate of two Danish soldiers, who, during their voyage to Hull, to join the service of the Prince of Orange, in 1689, quarrelled, and having been marched with the troops to Beverley, during their short stay there sought a private meeting to settle their differences by the sword. Their melancholy end is recorded in a doggerel epitaph, of which we give an illustration.