Some singular epitaphs are to be found over the remains of men who either manufactured, dispensed, or loved the social glass. In the churchyard of Newhaven, Sussex, the following may be seen on the grave of a brewer:— To the memory of
Thomas Tipper who
departed this life May the 14th
1785 Aged 54 Years. | Reader, with kind regard this Grave survey
Nor heedless pass where Tipper’s ashes lay,
Honest he was, ingenuous, blunt, and kind;
And dared do, what few dare do, speak his mind,
Philosophy and History well he knew,
Was versed in Physick and in Surgery too,
The best old Stingo he both brewed and sold,
Nor did one knavish act to get his Gold.
He played through Life a varied comic part,
And knew immortal Hudibras by heart.
Reader, in real truth, such was the Man,
Be better, wiser, laugh more if you can. | The next, on John Scott, a Liverpool brewer, is rather rich in puns:— Poor John Scott lies buried here;
Although he was both hale and stout
Death stretched him on the bitter bier.
In another world he hops about. | On a butler in Ollerton churchyard is the following curious epitaph:— Beneath the droppings of this spout,
Here lies the body once so stout,
Of Francis Thompson.
A soul this carcase once possess’d,
Which of its virtues was caress’d,
By all who knew the owner best.
The Ruffords records can declare,
His action who, for seventy year,
Both drew and drank its potent beer;
Fame mentions not in all that time,
In this great Butler the least crime,
To stain his reputation.
To envy’s self we now appeal,
If aught of fault she can reveal,
To make her declaration.
Here rest good shade, nor hell nor vermin fear,
Thy virtues guard thy soul, thy body good strong beer.
He died July 6th, 1739. | We will next give a few epitaphs on publicans. Our first is from Pannal churchyard; it is on Joseph Thackerey, who died on the 26th of November, 1791:— In the year of our Lord 1740
I came to the Crown;
In 1791 they laid me down. | The following is from the graveyard of Upton-on-Severn, and placed to the memory of a publican. The lines, it will be seen, are a dexterous weaving of the spiritual with the temporal:— Beneath this stone, in hope of Zion,
Doth lie the landlord of the “Lion,”
His son keeps on the business still,
Resign’d unto the Heavenly will. | In 1789 passed away the landlady of the “Pig and Whistle,” Greenwich, and the following lines were inscribed to her memory:— Assign’d by Providence to rule a tap,
My days pass’d glibly, till an awkward rap,
Some way, like bankruptcy, impell’d me down.
But up I got again and shook my gown
In gamesome gambols, quite as brisk as ever,
Blithe as the lark and gay as sunny weather;
Composed with creditors, at five in pound,
And frolick’d on till laid beneath this ground.
The debt of nature must, you know, be paid,
No trust from her—God grant extent in aid. | On an innkeeper in Stockbridge, the next may be seen:— In memory of
John Buckett,
Many year’s landlord of the King’s
Head Inn, in this Borough,
Who departed this life Nov. 2, 1802.
Aged 67 years. | And is, alas! poor Buckett gone?
Farewell, convivial, honest John.
Oft at the well, by fatal stroke,
Buckets, like pitchers, must be broke.
In this same motley shifting scene,
How various have thy fortunes been!
Now lifted high—now sinking low.
To-day thy brim would overflow,
Thy bounty then would all supply,
To fill and drink, and leave thee dry;
To-morrow sunk as in a well,
Content, unseen, with truth to dwell:
But high or low, or wet or dry,
No rotten stave could malice spy.
Then rise, immortal Buckett, rise,
And claim thy station in the skies;
’Twixt Amphora and Pisces shine,
Still guarding Stockbridge with thy sign. | From the “Sportive Wit; the Muses’ Merriment,” issued in 1656, we extract the following lines on John Taylor, “the Water Poet,” who was a native of Gloucester, and died in Phoenix Alley, London, in the 75th year of his age. You may find him, if the worms have not devoured him, in Covent Garden churchyard:— Here lies John Taylor, without rime or reason,
For death struck his muse in so cold a season,
That Jack lost the use of his scullers to row:
The chill pate rascal would not let his boat go.
Alas, poor Jack Taylor! this ’tis to drink ale
With nutmegs and ginger, with a taste though stale,
It drencht thee in rimes. Hadst thou been of the pack
With Draiton and Jonson to quaff off thy sack,
They’d infus’d thee a genius should ne’er expire,
And have thaw’d thy muse with elemental fire.
Yet still, for the honour of thy sprightly wit,
Since some of thy fancies so handsomely hit.
The nymphs of the rivers for thy relation
Sirnamed thee the water-poet of the nation.
Who can write more of thee let him do’t for me.
A —— take all rimers, Jack Taylor, but thee.
Weep not, reader, if thou canst chuse,
Over the stone of so merry a muse. | Robert Burns wrote the following epitaph on John Dove, innkeeper, Mauchline:— Here lies Johnny Pigeon:
What was his religion?
Whae’er desires to ken,
To some other warl’
Maun follow the carl,
For here Johnny had none!
Strong ale was ablution—
Small beer persecution,
A dram was memento mori;
But a full flowing bowl
Was the saving of his soul,
And port was celestial glory. | We extract, from a collection of epitaphs, the following on a publican:— A jolly landlord once was I,
And kept the Old King’s Head hard by,
Sold mead and gin, cider and beer,
And eke all other kinds of cheer,
Till Death my license took away,
And put me in this house of clay:
A house at which you all must call,
Sooner or later, great or small. | It is stated in Mr. J. Potter Briscoe’s entertaining volume, “Nottinghamshire Facts and Fictions,” that in the churchyard of Edwalton is a gravestone to the memory of Mrs. Freland, a considerable landowner, who died in 1741; but who, it would appear from the inscription, was a very free liver, for her memorial says:— She drank good ale, strong punch and wine,
And lived to the age of ninety-nine. | A gravestone in Darenth churchyard, near Dartford, bears the following epitaph:— Oh, the liquor he did love, but never will no more
For what he lov’d did turn his foe;
For on the 28th of January 1741, that fatal day,
The Debt he owed he then did pay. | At Chatham, on a drunkard, good advice is given:— Weep not for him, the warmest tear that’s shed
Falls unavailing o’er the unconscious dead;
Take the advice these friendly lines would give,
Live not to drink, but only drink to live. | From Tonbridge churchyard we glean the following:— Hail!
This stone marks the spot
Where a notorious sot
Doth lie;
Whether at rest or not
It matters not
To you or I.
Oft to the “Lion” he went to fill his horn,
Now to the “Grave” he’s gone to get it warm. | Beered by public subscription by his hale and stout companions, who deeply lament his absence. From St. Peter’s Mancroft, Norwich, are the following lines on Sarah Byfield, who died in 1719, comparing life to a market:— Death is a market where all must meet,
It’s found in every city, town, and street.
If we our lives like merchandise could buy,
The rich would ever live, the poor alone must die. | On a gravestone in the churchyard of Eton, placed to the memory of an innkeeper, it is stated:— Life’s an inn; my house will shew it:
I thought so once, but now I know it.
Man’s life is but a winter’s day;
Some only breakfast and away;
Others to dinner stop, and are full fed;
The oldest man but sups and then to bed:
Large is his debt who lingers out the day;
He who goes soonest has the least to pay. | Similar epitaphs to the foregoing may be found in many graveyards in this country. In Micklehurst churchyard, an inscription runs thus:— Life is an Inn, where all men bait,
The waiter, Time, the landlord, Fate;
Death is the score by all men due,
I’ve paid my shot—and so must you. | In the old burial-ground in Castle Street, Hull, on the gravestone of a boy, a slightly different version of the rhyme appears:— In memory of
John, the son of John and
Ann Bywater, died 25th January,
1815, aged 14 years. | Life’s like an Inn, where Travellers stay,
Some only breakfast and away;
Others to dinner stay and are full fed;
The oldest only sup and go to bed;
Long is the bill who lingers out the day,
Who goes the soonest has the least to pay. | The churchyard of Melton Mowbray furnishes another rendering of the lines:— This world’s an Inn, and I her guest:
I’ve eat and drank and took my rest
With her awhile, and now I pay
Her lavish bill and go my way. | The foregoing inscriptions, comparing life to a house, remind us of a curious inscription in Folkestone churchyard:— In memory of
Rebecca Rogers,
who died Aug. 22, 1688,
Aged 44 years. | A house she hath, it’s made of such good fashion,
A tenant ne’er shall pay for reparation,
Nor will her landlord ever raise the rent,
Or turn her out of doors for non-payment;
From chimney money, too, this call is free,
To such a house, who would not tenant be. | In “Chronicles of the Tombs,” by Thomas Joseph Pettigrew, published in 1857, it is stated respecting the foregoing epitaph: “Smoke money or chimney money is now collected at Battle, in Sussex, each householder paying one penny to the Lord of the Manor. It is also levied upon the inhabitants of the New Forest, in Hants, for the right of cutting peat and turf for fuel. And from ‘Audley’s Companion to the Almanac,’ page 76, we learn that ‘anciently, even in England, Whitsun farthings, or smoke farthings, were a composition for offerings made in the Whitsun week, by every man who occupied a house with a chimney, to the cathedral of the diocese in which he lived.’ The late Mr. E. B. Price has observed, in Notes and Queries (Vol. ii., p. 379), that there is a church at Northampton, upon which is an inscription recording that the expense of repairing it was defrayed by a grant of chimney money for, I believe, seven years, temp. Charles II.” SIGN OF THE BOAR’S HEAD. In bygone times the “Boar’s Head” was a common tavern sign, and this is not surprising for the animal figures in English history, poetry, romance and popular pastimes. The most famous inn bearing the title of the “Boar’s Head” was that in Eastcheap, London. The earliest mention of this tavern occurs in the testament of William Warden in the days of Richard II., who gave “all that tenement called the Boar’s Head in Eastcheap to a college of priests, or chaplain, founded by Sir William Walworth, the Lord Mayor, in the adjoining church of St. Michael, Crooked Lane.” It was here that Prince Hal and “honest Jack Falstaff” played their pranks. At the door of the house until the Great Fire were carved figures of the two worthies. In the works of Goldsmith will be found a charming chapter called “Reflections in the Boar’s Head Tavern, Eastcheap”; anyone interested in this old place should not fail to read it. In his pleasant day-dreams he forgets the important fact that the original house perished in the Great Fire. In the Guildhall Library is preserved the stone sign from the old house, which was pulled down in 1831 to make way for the streets leading to the new London Bridge. We give a picture of this old-time sign on the opposite page. A famous waiter of this tavern was buried in the graveyard of St. Michael’s Church, hard by, and a monument of Purbeck stone was placed to his memory bearing an interesting inscription. We give a picture of the gravestone, which has been removed to the yard of St. Magnus the Martyr. PRESTON’S TOMBSTONE AT ST. MAGNUS THE MARTYR. The next example from Abesford, on an exciseman, is entitled to a place among Bacchanalian epitaphs:— No supervisor’s check he fears—
Now no commissioner obeys;
He’s free from cares, entreaties, tears,
And all the heavenly oil surveys. | In the churchyard of North Wingfield, Derbyshire, a gravestone bears the following inscription: In memory of Thomas, son of John and Mary Clay, who departed this life December 16th, 1724, in the 40th year of his age. What though no mournful kindred stand
Around the solemn bier,
No parents wring the trembling hand,
Or drop the silent tear.
No costly oak adorned with art
My weary limbs inclose;
No friends impart a winding sheet
To deck my last repose. | The cause of the foregoing curious epitaph is thus explained. Thomas Clay was a man of intemperate habits, and at the time of his death was indebted to the village innkeeper, named Adlington, to the amount of twenty pounds. The publican resolved to seize the body; but the parents of the deceased carefully kept the door locked until the day appointed for the funeral. As soon as the door was opened, Adlington rushed into the house, seized the corpse, and placed it on a form in the open street in front of the residence of the parents of the departed. Clay’s friends refused to discharge the publican’s account. After the body had been exposed for several days, Adlington committed it to the ground in a bacon chest. We conclude this class of epitaphs with the following from Winchester Cathedral yard:— In memory of
Thomas Thetcher,
a Grenadier in the North Regiment of Hants Militia,
who died of a violent fever contracted by drinking small
beer when hot
the 12th of May, 1764, aged 26 years.
In grateful remembrance of whose universal goodwill
towards his comrades this stone is placed here at their expense, as
a small testimony of their regard and concern. | Here sleeps in peace a Hampshire Grenadier,
Who caught his death by drinking cold small beer;
Soldiers, be wise from his untimely fall,
And when ye’re hot drink strong, or none at all. | This memorial, being decayed, was restored by the officers of the garrison, A.D. 1781:— An honest soldier never is forgot,
Whether he die by musket or by pot. | This stone was placed by the North Hants Militia, when disembodied at Winchester, on 26th April, 1802, in consequence of the original stone being destroyed. THETCHER’S TOMBSTONE, WINCHESTER. From a Photo by F. A. Grant.
|
  |
