Полная версияQuaint Epitaphs
Various
Quaint Epitaphs
INTRODUCTION
This collection of epitaphs was started in a very modest fashion about thirty-five years ago, when the compiler found great pleasure in searching all the graveyards near her Vermont home for quaint inscriptions upon old tombstones. It was neither a morbid curiosity nor a spirit of melancholy that attracted her to the weather-beaten slabs of marble and slate, but rather a fondness for studying human eccentricity as revealed in whimsical epitaphs. In almost every graveyard one can find
"Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked"
and these have given many hours of pleasure to one who finds in such sombre elegies of the dead most interesting reflections of the living.
As the only purpose of carrying on such odd researches was to satisfy a fondness for freakish ingenuity, much less interest was found in the thousands of amusing epitaphs that are penned by writers for comic papers or by wags in general. Fictitious inscriptions lack the charm of authenticity, which in the case of epitaphs is decidedly more desirable than imagination. All selections which could not be definitely located are classed by themselves, but many of these are known to have actually existed, though for varying reasons the collector is unable to vouch for their exact locality.
In a few instances the names have been changed, where it was thought that verbatim copies of the epitaphs might prove invidious to the relatives or friends of the dead. It is hoped that the division into localities will prove a convenience to a majority of readers, who naturally will not care to read such a book through at one sitting, but rather to pick it up now and then when in the mood for such light entertainment as it can afford. The spelling has necessarily been changed at times from the antiquated and almost hieroglyphic forms which would defy the most careful typography; but in general the orthography and punctuation are copied verbatim from the originals.
The compiler trusts that it is not an act of unreasonable presumption to publish a book of epitaphs when so many already exist. In fact it was partly because of the numerous requests for an examination of her collection that the plan of publishing it was adopted. Such an ambitious consummation of her pleasant labor never occurred to her until her original note-books became badly worn and torn in their travels from friend to friend, from town to town, and it is hardly an exaggeration to say that they have been from Portland to Portland, from Augusta to Augusta, in response to the urgent requests of those who have in some manner heard of their existence. If her collection is as kindly received in book form as it has been in its less pretentious condition, the editor will feel that its publication was not due to an immoderate confidence in its variety and general interest.
SUSAN DARLING SAFFORD.
Boston, Mass., April 6, 1895.
MAINE
Winslow.
Here lies the body of Richard Thomas, an Englishman by birth, a Whig of '76—a Cooper by trade, now food for worms. Like an old rum puncheon whose staves are all marked and numbered he will be raised and put together again by his Maker.
Here lies the body of John MoundLost at sea and never found.Here lies one Wood enclosed in wood,One Wood within another.The outer wood is very good,We cannot praise the other.Portland.
The little hero that lies hereWas conquered by the diarrhœa.Gridiwokag—1635.
Beneath this stone now dead to griefLies Grid the famous Wokag chief.Pause here and think you learned prig,This man was once an Indian big.Consider this, ye lowly one,This man was once a big in—jun.Now he lies here, you too must rot,As sure as pig shall go to pot.In the same churchyardHere Betsy Brown her body lies.Her soul is flying in the skies.While here on earth she oftimes spunSix hundred skeins from sun to sun,And wove one day, her daughter brags,Two hundred pounds of carpet rags.Eastport.
"Transplanted"Kittery—1803.
I lost my life in the raging seasA sovereign God does as he please.The Kittery friends did then appear,And my remains they buried here.We can but mourn our loss,Though wretched was his life.Death took him from the cross,Erected by his wife.Bath.
Our life is but a Winter's day.Some breakfast and away.Others to dinner stay and are well fed.The oldest sups and goes to bed.Large is his debt who lingers out the day,Who goes the soonest has the least to pay.John PhillipsAccidentally shot as a mark of affection by his brother.After life's fever, I sleep well.NEW HAMPSHIRE
Hollis.
Here the old man liesNo one laughs and no one criesWhere he's gone or how he faresNo one knows and no one cares.But his brother James and his wife EmelineThey were his friends all the time.Here lies our young and blooming daughter—Murdered by the cruel and relentless Henry.When coming home from school he met her,And with a six self shooter, shot her.Here lies Cynthia, Stevens' wifeShe lived six years in calms and strife.Death came at last and set her free.I was glad and so was she.In youth he was a scholar bright.In learning he took great delight.He was a major's only son.It was by love he was undone.Here lies old Caleb Ham,By trade a bum.When he died the devil cried,Come, Caleb, come.Peak Cemetery.
Thomas CulbertThe voice of a stepfather beneath thisStone is to rest one, shamefully robbedIn life by his wife's son, and Esq TomAnd David Learys wife(The above is a verbatim copy.)Guilford.
Josiah HainesHe was a blessing to the saints,To sinners rich and poor,He was a kind and worthy man,He's gone to be no more.He kept the faith unto the endAnd left the world in peace.He did not for a doctor sendNor for a hireling priest.Mrs. Josiah HainesHere beneath these marble stonesSleeps the dust and rests the bonesOf one who lived a Christian lifeT'was Haines's—Josiah's wife.She was a woman full of truthAnd feared God from early youth.And priests and elders did her fightBecause she brought her deeds to light.Pembroke.
Here lies a man never beat by a plan,Straight was his aim and sure of his game,Never was a lover but invented a revolver.Jaffrey.
A free negro, Amos Fortune, settled in Jaffrey more than one hundred years ago, though warned off as a possible pauper, and left one quaint bit of history—his estate, to the town. Part of it bought the communion service still in use (1895.) On the gravestone of his wife is this inscription:—
Sacred to the memory of Violate, by purchase the Slave of Amos Fortune, by marriage his wife, by fidelity his companion and solace, and by his death his widow.
VERMONT
Our little Jacob has been taken away to bloom in a superior flower pot above.
My wife lies here.All my tears cannot bring her back;Therefore, I weep.This little buttercup was bound to join the heavenly choirBurlington.
Beneath this stone our baby laysHe neither crys or hollers.He lived just one and twenty days,And cost us forty dollars.Charity wife of Gideon BlighUnderneath this stone doth lieNaught was she e'er known to doThat her husband told her to.Here lies the wife of brother Thomas,Whom tyrant death has torn from us,Her husband never shed a tear,Until his wife was buried here.And then he made a fearful rout,For fear she might find her way out.He first departed, she a little tried to live without him. Liked it not and died.
His illness lay not in one partBut o'er his frame it spread.The fatal disease was in his heartAnd water in his head.In memory of Elizabeth TaylorCould blooming years and modesty and all thats pleasing to the eye,
Against grim death been a defence,
Elizabeth had not gone hence.
Died when young and full of promiseOf whooping cough our Thomas.She lived with her husband fifty yearsAnd died in the confident hope of a better life.Stop dear parent cast your eye,And here you see your children lie.Though we are gone one day before,You may be cold in a minute more.Little Teddy, fare thee well,Safe from earth in Heaven to dwell.Almost Cherub here below,Altogether angel now.On a tombstone for man and wifeIn sunny days and stormy weather,In youth, and age, we clung together.We lived and loved, laughed and criedTogether—and almost together died.Windsor.
Behold! I come as a thiefDeath loves a shining mark.In this case he had it.Stowe.
Erected by a widower in memory of his two wivesThis double call is laid to all,Let none surprise or wonder.But to the youth it speaks a truth,In accents loud as thunder.Stranger pause as you pass by;My thirteen children with me lie.See their faces how they shineLike blossoms on a fruitful vine.A rum cough carried him offHere lies the body of old Uncle David,Who died in the hope of being sa-ved.Where he's gone or how he fares,Nobody knows and nobody cares.The body that lies buried hereBy lightning fell, death's sacrifice,To him Elijah's fate was givenHe rode on flames of fire to heaven.Stay, reader, drop upon this stoneOne pitying tear and then be gone:A handsome pile of flesh and bloodIs here sunk down in its first mud.I was somebody—who? is no business of yoursMy wife from me departedAnd robbed me like a knave;Which caused me broken heartedTo sink into this grave.My children took an active part,To doom me did contrive;Which stuck a dagger in my heartThat I could not survive.PiousOpen thine eyes LordI come! I come!Sacred to the memory of three twinsMy glass is run; yours is running.Remember death and judgment coming.This stone was got to keep this lot.Her father bought. Dig not too near.Grim death took little Jerry,The son of Joseph and Sereno Howells,Seven days he wrestled with the dysenteryAnd then he perished in his little bowels.Newfane
.
Oh, little Lavina she has goneTo James and Charles and Eliza Ann.Arm in arm they walk aboveSinging the Redeemer's love.MASSACHUSETTS
Malden
.
Phebe SpragueIn the sixteenth year of her age,Natively quick and spryAs all young people be,When God commands them down to dust,How quick they drop you see.Melrose
.
When I am dead and in my graveAnd all my bones are rotten,If this you see, remember me,Nor let me be forgotton.Wendell
.
Mary Hardy Goss Hill SawinOrphan of affection and grief, adopted by aunt and grandsire, nurse of their hospital home.Wife and widow of Dea John Hills.Happy wife in rural home of Thomas Sawin eight years.Often prisinor of calamity and pain.Exhile of inherited melancholy fifteen years.Patient waiter on decay and death.Lover of all who love Jesus.Here lies the body of Samuel ProctorWho lived and died without a doctor.Under these stones lies three children dear;Two are burried at Taunton and I lie here.Bromfield
.
In memory of Stephen PynchonOne truth is certain when this life is o'er,Man dies to live and lives to die no more.Marshfield
.
Julia Webster Appleton"Let me go for the day breaketh."Mt. Auburn
.
"An eclipse at meridian."Here lies one John Witherbee,A Boston gallant chap was he.God had no use for such as he,The devil rejected Witherbee.Here lies a man beneath this sod,Who slandered all except his God,And him he would have slandered too,But that his God he never knew.Plymouth
.
Here lies the body of Thomas Vernon,The only surviving son of Admiral Vernon.Here lies the bones of Richard LawtonWhose death alas! was strangely brought on.Trying his corns one day to mow off.His razor slipped and cut his toe off.His toe or rather what it grew to,An inflimation quickly flew to.Which took alas! to mortifyingAnd was the cause of Richards dying.Harvard
.
Dea Lemuel WillardDied in 1821When present useful, absent wantedLived respected, died lamented.Bishop JewelHe wrote learnedly, preached painfully, lived piously, died peacefullyJohn SaffordCrushed as a moth beneath Thy handsWe moulder back to dust.Our feeble frames cannot withstandAnd all our beauty's lost.This mortal life decays apaceHow soon the bubble's broke.Adam and all his numerous raceAre vanity and smoke.John DabyTis but a few whole days amountTo three score years and ten;And all beyond that short accountIs sorrow toil and pain.Our vitals with laborious strifeBear up the crazy load,And drag these poor remains of lifeAlong the toilsome road.Boston
. (Granary Burying Ground.)
Here I lie bereft of breathBecause a cough carried me off;Then a coffin they carried me off in.Dorchester
.
This world's a city, full of crooked streets;And Death the market place where all men meets.If life were merchandize that men could buyThe rich would live and none but poor would die.Of pneumonia supervening consumption complicated with other diseases, the main symptom of which was insanity.
Submit, submitted to her heavenly KingBeing a flower of the etheral Spring—Near three years old she died—In Heaven to waitThe year was sixteen hundred forty eight.Rowley
.
Ezekiel Rogers, MinisterDied in 1660With the youth he took great pains, and was a tree of knowledge laden with fruit which the children could reach.
Epitaph of Rev. Jonathan Mitchel, pastor of the first church in Cambridge. Died July 9, 1668.
Here lies the darling of his timeMitchel expired in his prime.Who four years short of forty sevenWas found full ripe and plucked for Heaven.South Dennis
.
Of seven sons the Lord his father gave,He was the fourth who found a watery grave.Fifteen days had passed since the circumstance occurred,When his body was found and decently interred.Vineyard Haven
.
John and Lydia, that blooming pair,A whale killed him and her body lies here.Chatham
.
There were three brothers went to seaWho were never known to wrangleHolmes Hole—cedar poleCrinkle, crinkle crangle.Three brothers started for Holmes Hole in an open boat for cedar poles, and on the passage were killed by lightning, represented by the crinkle, crinkle, crangle.
Time was I stood as thou doest nowAnd viewed the dead as thou doest me.E'er long thou'l lie as low as IAnd others stand to look on thee.Norton
.
A blacksmith's epitaph composed by himselfMy sledge and hammer lie reclined,My bellows too have lost their wind,My fire's extinct, my forge decayed,And in the dust my vice is laid.My iron spent, my coal is gone,My nails are drove—my work is done.Brockton
.
Indulgent world I bid adieu.Farewell, dear friends, farewell to you.No more kindness can I show,To any creature here below.I am invited to my tomb,To sleep awhile till Jesus come.Wayland
.
Here lies the body of Dr Hayward,A man who never voted.Of such is the kingdom of Heaven.Chelsea
.
Agreeable to the memory ofMrs Alinda TewksburyShe was not a beleiver in the Christian idolitryEast Wareham
.
Erected by the creditors of a bachelor IrishmanHibernia's son himself exiled,Without an inmate, wife or child,He lived alone.And when he died, his purse, though small,Contained enough to pay us all,And buy this stone.Rebecca NourseYarmouth Eng 1621Salem Mass 1692Accused of witchcraft she declared "I am innocent and God will clear my innocency." Once acquitted yet falsely condemned she suffered death July 19th, 1692.
O Christian Martyr who for truth could die,When all about thee owned the hideous lieThe world redeemed from superstition's sway,Is breathing freer for thy sake to-day.CONNECTICUT
New Haven.
Composed by the deceasedPartridge ThacherRest here, my body, till the Archangel's voice more sonorous far than nine fold thunder, wakes the sleeping dead; then rise to thy just sphere and be my house immortal.
On a babe four days oldSince I so very soon was done forI wonder what I was begun for.Here lies the body of Obadiah WilkinsonAnd Ruth, his wife.Their warfare is accomplished.Franklin WhiteHere lies Frank a shining lightWhose name, life, actions all were white.Reader pass on. Don't waste your timeOn bad biography and bitter rhyme.For what I am this crumbling clay assures,And what I was is no affair of yours.God works a wonder now and then,He though a lawyer was an honest man.Dr. SomerbyAt length a grave spots for him provided,Where all through him so many of us died did.Early, bright, chaste as morning dew,She sparkled, was exalted and went to heaven.Norfolk.
Lieut. Nathan DavisDied in 1781Death is a debt that's justly due,That I have paid and so must you.Elizabeth, wife of Nathan DavisDied 1786This debt I owe is justly due,And I am come to sleep with you.NEW YORK
Skaneateles.
Underneath this pile of stonesLie's all thats left of Sally Jones.Her name was Lord it was not Jones.But Jones was used to ryme with stones.Mary Drummond SmithNeuralgia worked on Mrs. Smith'Till neath the sod it laid her.She was a worthy MethodistAnd served as a crusader.Wyoming County.
She was in health at 11.30 a. m.And left for Heaven at 3.30 p. m.East Thompson.
Here lies one who never sacrificed his reason to superstitious God, nor ever believed that Jonah swallowed the whale.
New York City.
Trinity Churchyard1767Tho' Boreas' blasts and boisterous wavesHave tossed me to and fro,In spite of both by God's decreeI harbor here below;Where I do now at anchor rideWith many of our fleet,Yet once again I must set sail,My Admiral Christ to meet.Alden WhiteGrim death took me without any warning,I was well one day, and stone dead next morning.Madeline WhiteGod takes the good too good on earth to stay,God leaves the bad too bad to take away.Sarah Thomas is dead and that's enoughThe candle is out and so is the snuffHer soul is in Heaven you need not fearAnd all that's left is buried here.Ithaca.
The pale consumption gave the mortal blow.The fate was certain although the event was slow.While on earth my knee was lame,I had to nurse and heed it.But now I'm at a better place,Where I don't even need it.Her blooming cheeks were no defenceAgainst the scarlet fever.In five day's time she was cut down,To dwell with Christ forever.Moses WhiteHis grand excellence was that he was genuineFather and Mother and IChoose to be buried asunder.Father and Mother here,And I buried yonder.Julia KingI go to meet my brotherJohn Daleand his two wivesA period's come to all their toilsome lives,The good man's quiet—still are both his wives.Greenwood.
Grieve not for me my Harriet dearFor I am better off,You know what were my sufferingsAnd what a dreadful cough.David StuartA loving father and companion,Follow me as I have—Jesus.Orange County.
Underneath this stone doeth lieAs much virtue as could die;Which when alive did vigor giveTo as much of beauty as could live.Amos Judge(Coal dealer.)He gave full weight to all t'is saidAnd did it without vaunting;When in the ballance he is weighedHe will not be found wanting.William NewhallHe 'rose in health at early dawnTo hail the new born year:Before the evening shade came onHe finished his career.He was a man of invention greatAbove all who he lived nigh;But he could not invent to liveWhen God called him to die.A thousand ways cut short our days,None are exempt from death.A honey-bee by stinging meDid stop my mortal breath.He got a fish bone in his throatAnd then he sang an angel's note.Orange County.
Here lies a kind and loving wife,A tender nursing mother;A neighbor free from brawl and strife,A pattern for all others.To the memory ofSusan MumSilence is wisdomThis corpseisPhebe ThorpsNeal KevenHis accounts were found square to a centA Watch-maker's EpitaphCopied from a tomb-stone in Wales by old Sexton Brown, the once famous sexton of Grace Church, N. Y.
Here lies in a horizontal position the outside case of George Rutlege watch-maker, whose abilities in that line were an honor to his profession.
Integrity was the main-spring of all the actions of his life. Humane, honest and industrious his hands never stopped until they had relieved distress.
He had the art of disposing of his time in such a way that he never went wrong except when set agoing by persons who did not know his key, and even then was easily set right again.
He departed this life wound up in the hope of being taken in hand by his Maker, thoroughly cleaned, regulated and repaired and set going in the world to come.
IN THE SOUTH
Philadelphia.
Christ's Churchyard.
(Written by himself when twenty-three years of age.)
The body of Benjamen Franklin, printer like the cover of an old book its contents torn out and stripped of its lettering and gilding, lies here food for worms.
Yet the work itself shall not be lost for it will, as he believed, appear once more in a new and more beautiful edition corrected and amended by the author.
Carved on a little stone in a Maryland churchyard, after the name of the dead.
"He held the pall at the funeral of Shakspeare."Bayfield, Miss.
(On a child struck by lightning.)Struck by thunderStranger pause my tale attend,And learn the cause of Hannah's end.Across the world the wind did blow,She ketched a cold that laid her low.We shed a lot of tears 'tis true,But life is short—aged 82.Here lies my wife in earthly mould,Who when she lived did naught but scold.Peace! wake her not, for now she's still,She had; but now I have my will.Alexandria, Va.
To the memory of a female stranger whoes mortal sufferings ended Oct. 14th 1816.
How valued, how loved once, avails thee notTo whom related, or by whom begot.A heap of dust alone remains of thee,Tis all thou art and all the proud shall be.Peter Letig was his name,Heaven I hope his station,Baltimore was his dwelling placeAnd Christ is his salvation.The milk of human kindness was my own dear cherub wifeI'll never find another one as good in all my life.She bloomed, she blossomed, she decayed,And under this tree her body we laid.Mr. James Danner, late of Louisville, having been laid by the side of his four wives, received this touching epitaph:
An excellent husband was this Mr. Danner,He lived in a thoroughly honorable manner.He may have had troubles,But they burst like bubbles,He's at peace, now with Mary, Jane, Susan and Hannah.Maryland.
Henrietta thou was mild and lovely,Gentle as a summer breeze;Pleasant as the air of evening,When it floats among the trees.With triumph on her tongueWith radiance on her brow,She passed to that exalted throngAnd shares their glory now.They were two loving sisters,Who in this dust do lie.The very day Annie was buriedElizabeth did die.My father and mother were both insaneI inherited the terrible stain.My grandfather, grandmother, aunts and unclesWere lunatics all, and yet died of carbuncles.Here lies the bones of David Jones,Laid both dead and dumb.He read a law and plead a causeBut died from drinking rum.Over the grave of a brave engineerUntil the brakes are turned on time,Life's throttle-valve shut down,He works to pilot in the crewThat wears the martyr's crown.On schedule time, on upper gradeAlong the homeward section,He lands his train in God's roundhouseThe morn of resurrection.His time is full, no wages docked,His name on God's pay roll,And transportation through to HeavenA free pass for his soul.Elizabeth Scott lies buried here.She was born Nov 20th 1785,according to the best of her recollection.Tennessee.
She lived a life of virtue and died of the cholera morbus, caused by eating green fruit in hope of a blessed immortality.
Reader, go thou and do likewise.
Sacred to the memory of Henry Harris who died from a kick by a colt in his bowells.
Peacable and quiet, a friend to his father and mother, respected by all who knew him—gone to the world where horses don't kick, where sorrow and weeping are no more.
Here lies my twins as dead as nitsOne died of fever the other of fits.Some have children others none,Here lies the mother of twenty one.Yazoo City.
Here lie two grandsons ofJohn Hancock, first signer of theDeclaration of Independence.(Their names are respectively Geo. M.and John H. Hancock)and their eminence hangs ontheir having had a grandfather.UNLOCATED
Beneath this stone, a lump of clay,Lies Arabella Young,Who on the twenty first of MayBegan to hold her tongue.Ebenezer Dockwood aged forty seven,A miser and a hypocrite and never went to Heaven.Within this grave do lie.Back to back my wife and I.When the last trump the air shall fill,If she gets up I'll just lie still.Mammy and I together lived,Just three years and a half.She went first, I followed next,The cow before the calf.A man had cremated four wives, and the ashes, kept in four urns, being overturned and fallen together, were buried at last and had this droll inscription: