time keeper was sent to Lisbon, and in 1764 his then much improved fourth time-keeper having been sent to Barbadoes, the Commissioners of Longitude certified that he had determined the longitude within one-third of half a degree of a great circle, having not erred more than forty seconds in time. After sixty years’ close application to the above pursuits, he departed this life on the 24th day of March, 1776, aged 83.
In an epitaph in High Wycombe churchyard, life is compared to the working of a clock. It runs thus:—
| Of no distemper, Of no blast he died, But fell, Like Autumn’s fruit, That mellows long, Even wondered at Because he dropt not sooner. Providence seemed to wind him up For fourscore years, Yet ran he nine winters more; Till, like a clock, Worn out with repeating time, The wheels of weary life At last stood still. In Memory of John Abdidge, Alderman. Died 1785. |
We have some curious specimens of engineers’ epitaphs. A good example is copied from the churchyard of Bridgeford-on-the-Hill, Notts:—
Sacred to the memory of John Walker, the only son of Benjamin and Ann Walker, Engineer and Pallisade Maker, died September 22nd, 1832, aged 36 years.
| Farewell, my wife and father dear; My glass is run, my work is done, And now my head lies quiet here. That many an engine I’ve set up, And got great praise from men, I made them work on British ground, And on the roaring seas; My engine’s stopp’d, my valves are bad, And lie so deep within; No engineer could there be found To put me new ones in. But Jesus Christ converted me And took me up above, I hope once more to meet once more, And sing redeeming love. |
Our next is on a railway engine-driver, who died in 1840, and was buried in Bromsgrove churchyard:—
| My engine now is cold and still, No water does my boiler fill; My coke affords its flame no more; My days of usefulness are o’er; My wheels deny their noted speed, No more my guiding hand they need; My whistle, too, has lost its tone, Its shrill and thrilling sounds are gone; My valves are now thrown open wide; My flanges all refuse to guide, My clacks also, though once so strong, Refuse to aid the busy throng: No more I feel each urging breath; My steam is now condensed in death. Life’s railway o’er, each station’s passed, In death I’m stopped, and rest at last. Farewell, dear friends, and cease to weep: In Christ I’m safe; in Him I sleep. |
In the Ludlow churchyard is a headstone to the memory of John Abingdon “who for forty years drove the Ludlow stage to London, a trusty servant, a careful driver, and an honest man.” He died in 1817, and his epitaph is as follows:—
| His labor done, no more to town, His onward course he bends; His team’s unshut, his whip’s laid up, And here his journey ends. Death locked his wheels and gave him rest, And never more to move, Till Christ shall call him with the blest To heavenly realms above. |
The epitaph we next give is on the driver of the coach that ran between Aylesbury and London, by the Rev. H. Bullen, Vicar of Dunton, Bucks, in whose churchyard the man was buried:—
| Parker, farewell! thy journey now is ended, Death has the whip-hand, and with dust is blended; Thy way-bill is examined, and I trust Thy last account may prove exact and just. When he who drives the chariot of the day, Where life is light, whose Word’s the living way, Where travellers, like yourself, of every age, And every clime, have taken their last stage, The God of mercy, and the God of love, Show you the road to Paradise above! |
Lord Byron wrote on John Adams, carrier, of Southwell, Nottinghamshire, an epitaph as follows:—
| John Adams lies here, of the parish of Southwell, A carrier who carried his can to his mouth well; He carried so much, and he carried so fast, He could carry no more—so was carried at last; For the liquor he drank, being too much for one, He could not carry off—so he’s now carri-on. |
On Hobson, the famous University carrier, the following lines were written:—
| Here lies old Hobson: death has broke his girt, And here! alas, has laid him in the dirt; Or else the ways being foul, twenty to one He’s here stuck in a slough and overthrown: ’Twas such a shifter, that, if truth were known, Death was half glad when he had got him down; For he had any time these ten years full, Dodged with him betwixt Cambridge and the Bull; And surely Death could never have prevailed, Had not his weekly course of carriage failed. But lately finding him so long at home, And thinking now his journey’s end was come, And that he had ta’en up his latest inn, In the kind office of a chamberlain Showed him the room where he must lodge that night, Pulled off his boots and took away the light. If any ask for him it shall be said, Hobson has supt and’s newly gone to bed. |
In Trinity churchyard, Sheffield, formerly might be seen an epitaph on a bookseller, as follows:—
| In Memory of Richard Smith, who died April 6th, 1757, aged 52. |
| At thirteen years I went to sea; To try my fortune there, But lost my friend, which put an end To all my interest there. To land I came as ’twere by chance, At twenty then I taught to dance, And yet unsettled in my mind, To something else I was inclined; At twenty-five laid dancing down, To be a bookseller in this town, Where I continued without strife, Till death deprived me of my life. Vain world, to thee I bid farewell, To rest within this silent cell, Till the great God shall summon all To answer His majestic call, Then, Lord, have mercy on us all. |
The following epitaph was written on James Lackington, a celebrated bookseller, and eccentric character:—
| Good passenger, one moment stay, And contemplate this heap of clay; ’Tis Lackington that claims a pause, Who strove with death, but lost his cause: A stranger genius ne’er need be Than many a merry year was he. Some faults he had, some virtues too (the devil himself should have his due); And as dame fortune’s wheel turn’d round, Whether at top or bottom found, He never once forgot his station, Nor e’er disown’d a poor relation; In poverty he found content, Riches ne’er made him insolent. When poor, he’d rather read than eat, When rich books form’d his highest treat, His first great wish to act, with care, The sev’ral parts assigned him here; And, as his heart to truth inclin’d, He studied hard the truth to find. Much pride he had—’twas love of fame, And slighted gold, to get a name; But fame herself prov’d greatest gain, For riches follow’d in her train. Much had he read, and much had thought, And yet, you see, he’s come to nought; Or out of print, as he would say, To be revised some future day: Free from errata, with addition, A new and a complete edition. |
At Rugby, on Joseph Cave, Dr. Hawksworth wrote:—
Near this place lies the body of
Joseph Cave,
Late of this parish;
Who departed this life Nov. 18, 1747,
Aged 79 years.
He was placed by Providence in a humble station; but industry abundantly supplied the wants of nature, and temperance blest him with content and wealth. As he was an affectionate father, he was made happy in the decline of life by the deserved eminence of his eldest son,
Edward Cave,
who, without interest, fortune, or connection, by the native force of his own genius, assisted only by a classical education, which he received at the Grammar School of this town, planned, executed, and established a literary work called
The Gentleman’s Magazine,
whereby he acquired an ample fortune, the whole of which devolved to his family.
Here also lies
The body of William Cave,
second son of the said Joseph Cave, who died May 2, 1757, aged 62 years, and who, having survived his elder brother,
Edward