A QUAINT EPITAPH. (TO THE EDITOR OF THE "SPECTATOR."] SIR,—As
you are not one to despise "unconsidered trill" when they have merit, perhaps you will find room for the following epitaph, on a Deal boatman, which I copied the other day from a tombstone in a churchyard in that town :— " In memory of George Phillpot, Who died March 22nd, 1850, aged 74 years.
Full many a life he saved With his undaunted crew ; He put his trust in Providence,
AND CARED NOT HOW IT BLEW,"
—a hero ; his heroic life and deeds, and the philosophy or religign, perfect both in theory and practice, which inspired them, all de- scribed in four short lines of graphic and spirited verse ! Would not "rare Ben" himself have acknowledged this a good specimen of "what verse can say in a little?" Whoever wrote it was a poet "without the name."
There is another in the same churchyard, which, though weak after the above, and indeed not uncommon, I fancy, in sea-side towns, is at least sufficiently quaint :—
" In memory of James Epps Buttress, who, in rendering assistance to
the French schooner Vesuvienne,' was drowned, December 27th, 1852, aged 39.
Though Boreas' blast and Neptune's wave Did toss me to and fro, In spite of both, by God's decree,
I harbour here below ;
And here I do at anchor ride With many of our fleet, Yet once again I must set sail, Our Admiral, Christ, to meet.
Also two Sons, who died in infancy, Bo."
The human race' typified by "our fleet" excites vague reminis- cences of Goethe and Carlyle, and "our Admiral Christ" seems not remotely associated in sentiment with the "We that fight for our fair father Christ," and "The king will follow Christ, and we the King," of our grand poet. So do the highest and the lowest meet. But the heartiness, the vitality, nay, almost vivacity, of some of these underground tenantry is surprising. There is more
life in some of our dead folk than in many a living crowd.—! am,
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