Epitaphs on Musicians and Actors. |
A few 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 dayThis erected the 15th
of December, 1621.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 love 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 at 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 track 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, at Bath, 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.” | Several actors are buried in the churchyard of St. Peter of Mancroft, Norwich. On Henrietta Maria Bray, who died in 1737, aged sixty years, is the following epitaph:— Here, Reader, you may plainly see,
That Wit nor Humour here could be
A Proof against Mortality. | Anne Roberts died in 1743, aged thirty, and on her gravestone is a couplet as follows:— The World’s a Stage, at Birth our Plays begun,
And all find Exits when their Parts are done. | The Norwich actors, says Mr. James Hooper, were celebrated in their day, and their services were in great request. They used to play annually at the great Stourbridge Fair, at Cambridge, so vividly described by De Foe in his “Tour through the whole Island of Great Britain” (1722). The University Dons mustered in force to see the Norwich mummers, and part of the pit, known as “The Critics’ Row,” was reserved for Dr. Farmer of Emanuel, and his friends, George Stevens, Malone, and others, who never thought it infra dig. to applaud rapturously—a circumstance which shows Puritan Emanuel in a new light.[1] 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 by 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 fades 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! | An 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 the Necropolis, Glasgow, is a monument representing the stage and proscenium of a theatre, placed to the memory of John Henry Alexander, of the Theatre Royal, Glasgow. He was a native of Dunse, Berwickshire, and was born July 31st, 1796. At an early age, says Dr. Rogers, his parents removed to Glasgow, where, in his thirteenth year, he was apprenticed to a hosier. With a remarkable taste for mimicry he practised private theatricals; and having attracted the notice of the managers of Queen Street Theatre, he obtained an opportunity of publicly exhibiting his gifts. In his sixteenth year he adopted the histrionic profession. For some seasons he was employed in a theatre at Newcastle; he subsequently performed at Carlisle, and afterwards in the Theatre Royal, Edinburgh. At Edinburgh his successful impersonations of Dandie Dinmont and other characters of the Waverley novels gained him the friendship of Sir Walter Scott. After some changes he accepted the managership of the Dunlop Street Theatre, Glasgow, of which he became proprietor in 1829. He rebuilt the structure in 1840; it was partially destroyed by fire on the 17th February, 1849, when sixty-five persons unhappily perished. The shock which he experienced on this occasion seriously affected his health, and in 1851 he found it expedient to retire from his profession. He died on the 15th December, 1851, aged fifty-five. On his tombstone are inscribed these lines from the pen of Mr. James Hedderwick, the editor of the Glasgow Citizen:— Fallen is the curtain, the last scene is o’er,
The favourite actor treads life’s stage no more.
Oft lavish plaudits from the crowd he drew,
And laughing eyes confessed his humour true;
Here fond affection rears this sculptured stone,
For virtues not enacted, but his own.
A constancy unshaken unto death,
A truth unswerving, and a Christian’s faith;
Who knew him best have cause to mourn him most.
Oh, weep the man, more than the actor lost!
Unnumbered parts he play’d yet to the end,
His best were those of husband, father, friend. | 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 next 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?
Dicky’s 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. | JOE MILLER’S TOMBSTONE, ST. CLEMENT DANES CHURCHYARD, LONDON. “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.”
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