Curious Epitaphs Part 8

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 G.o.d they went, And just lay down to sleep when they were tir'd.

The Relicks of this faithful, honest Pair One little s.p.a.ce 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 ba.s.soon 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 G.o.d'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 h.o.a.ry 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 pa.s.sions 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 n.o.bler 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 circ.u.mstance 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.

aet. 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 n.o.blest 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 G.o.d'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 G.o.d!