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 :

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."

Epitaphs on Sportsmen.

HE stirring lives of sportsmen have suggested

TH

spirited lines for their tombstones, as will be seen from the examples we bring under the notice of our readers.

The first epitaph is from Morville churchyard, near Bridgnorth, on John Charlton, Esq., who was for many years Master of the Wheatland Foxhounds, and died January 20th, 1843, aged 63 years; regretted by all who knew him :

Of this world's pleasure I have had my share,
A few of the sorrows I was doomed to bear.
How oft have I enjoy'd the noble chase
Of hounds and foxes striving for the race!
But hark! the knell of death calls me away,
So sportsmen, all, farewell! I must obey.

Our next is written on Mills, the huntsman :--

Here lies JOHN MILLS, who over the hills

Pursued the hounds with hallo:

The leap though high, from earth to sky,
The huntsman we must follow.

A short, rough, but pregnant epitaph is placed over the remains of Robert Hackett, a keeper of

Hardwick Park, who died in 1703, and was buried in Ault Hucknall churchyard :

Long had he chased

The Red and Fallow Deer,

But Death's cold dart

At last has fix'd him here.

George Dixon, a noted fox-hunter, is buried in Luton churchyard, and on his gravestone the following appears :

Stop, passenger, and thy attention fix on,

That true-born, honest, fox-hunter, GEORGE Dixon,

Who, after eighty years' unwearied chase,

Now rests his bones within this hallow'd place.

A gentle tribute of applause bestow,

And give him, as you pass, one tally-ho!
Early to cover, brisk he rode each morn,
In hopes the brush his temple might adorn;
The view is now no more, the chase is past,
And to an earth, poor George is run at last.

On a stone in the graveyard of Mottram the following inscription appears :

In the memory of GEORGE NEWTON,
of Stalybridge,

who died August 7th, 1871,

in the 94th year of his age.

Though he liv'd long, the old man has gone at last,
No more he'll hear the huntsman's stirring blast;
Though fleet as Reynard in his youthful prime,
At last he's yielded to the hand of Time.

Blithe as a lark, dress'd in his coat of green,
With hounds and horn the old man was seen.

But ah! Death came, worn out and full of years, He died in peace, mourn'd by his offsprings' tears. "Let us run with patience the race that is set before us."

In the churchyard of Ecclesfield, may be read the following epitaph :

In memory of THOMAS RIDGE,

the Ecclesfield huntsman,

who died 13th day of January, 1871,
Aged 77 years.

Though fond of sport, devoted of the chase,
And with his fellow-hunters first in place,
He always kept the Lord's appointed day,
Never from church or Sunday-school away.
And now his body rests beneath the sod,
His soul relying in the love of God.

Of the many epitaphs on sportsmen to be seen in Nottinghamshire, we cull a few of the choicest. Our first is a literal copy from a weather-worn stone in Eakring churchyard, placed to the memory of Henry Cartwright, senior keeper to his Grace the Duke of Kingston for fifty-five years, who died February 13th, 1773, aged eighty years, ten months, and three weeks:

My gun discharged, my ball is gone
My powder's spent, my work is done,
those panting deer I have left behind,
May now have time to Gain their wind,

Who I have oft times Chass'd them ore

the burial Plains, but now no more.

We next present particulars of a celebrated deer-stealer. According to a notice furnished in the "Nottingham Date Book," the deeds of Tom Booth were for many years after his death a never-failing subject of conversational interest in Nottingham. It is stated that no modern deerstealer was anything like so popular. Thorsby relates one exploit as follows:-"In Nottingham Park, at one time, was a favourite fine deer, a chief ranger, on which Tom and his wily companions had often cast their eyes; but how to deceive the keeper while they killed it was a task of difficulty. The night, however, in which they accomplished their purpose-whether by any settled plan or not is not known-they found the keeper at watch, as usual, in a certain place in the park. One of them, therefore, went in an opposite direction in the park, and fired his gun to make the keeper believe he had shot a deer; upon which away goes the keeper, in haste, to the spot, which was at a very considerable distance from the place where the favourite deer was, and near which Tom Booth was skulking. Tom, waiting a proper time, when he thought the