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 CAVE,

inherited from him a competent estate; and, in gratitude to his benefactor, ordered this monument to perpetuate his memory. He lived a patriarch in his numerous race, And shew'd in charity a Christian's grace : Whate'er a friend or parent feels he knew ; His hand was open, and his heart was true; In what he gain'd and gave, he taught mankind

A grateful always is a generous mind.

Here rests his clay! his soul must ever rest,

Who bless'd when living, dying must be blest.

The well-known blacksmith's epitaph, said to be written by the poet Hayley, may be found in many churchyards in this country. It formed the

subject of a sermon delivered on Sunday, the 27th day of August, 1837, by the then Vicar of Crich, Derbyshire, to a large assembly. We are told that the vicar appeared much excited, and read the prayers in a hurried manner. Without leaving the desk, he proceeded to address his flock for the last time; and the following is the substance thereof: To-morrow, my friends, this living will be vacant, and if any one of you is desirous of becoming my successor he has now an opportunity. Let him use his influence, and who can tell but he may be honoured with the title of Vicar of Crich. As this is my last address, I shall only say, had I been a blacksmith, or a son of Vulcan, the following lines might not have been inappropriate :

My 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 coal is spent, my iron's gone,

My nails are drove, my work is done;

My fire-dried corpse lies here at rest,
And, smoke-like, soars up to be bless'd.

If you expect anything more, you are deceived; for I shall only say, Friends, farewell, farewell!" The effect of this address was too visible to pass unnoticed. Some appeared as if awakened from a

fearful dream, and gazed at each other in silent astonishment; others for whom it was too powerful for their risible nerves to resist, burst into boisterous laughter, while one and all slowly retired from the scene, to exercise their future cogitations on the farewell discourse of their late pastor.

From Silkstone churchyard we have the following on a potter and his wife :

In memory of JOHN TAYLOR, of Silkstone, potter, who departed this life, July 14th, Anno Domini 1815, aged 72 years. Also Hannah, his wife, who departed this life, August 13th. 1815, aged 68 years.

Out of the clay they got their daily bread,

Of clay were also made.

Returned to clay they now lie dead,

Where all that's left must shortly go.

To live without him his wife she tried,

Found the task hard, fell sick, and died.
And now in peace their bodies lay,

Until the dead be called away,

And moulded into spiritual clay.

On a poor woman who kept an earthenware shop at Chester, the following epitaph was composed :

Beneath this stone lies CATHERINE GRAY,
Changed to a lifeless lump of clay;

By earth and clay she got her pelf,

And now she's turned to earth herself,