Why did he, according to the epitaph, merely “die”? Surely, from the point of view of an incorrigibly eccentric epitaph-writer, a man not only named Gun, but spelling his name with one “n,” and dying so suddenly, should have “gone off.” We are sadly compelled to acknowledge this particular wag to be an incompetent. If Mr. Walter Gun had been more careful and abstemious, he might have emulated the subject of our next example, and completed a half-century of inn-keeping, as did John Wigglesworth, of Whalley, who, as under, seems to have been a burning and a shining light and exemplar: HERE LIES THE BODY OF JOHN WIGGLESWORTH, More than fifty years he was the perpetual innkeeper in this Town. Notwithstanding the temptations of that dangerous calling, he maintained good order in his House, kept the Sabbath Day Holy, frequented the Public Worship with his family, induced his guests to do the same, and regularly partook of the Holy Communion. He was also bountiful to the Poor, in private, as well as in public, and by the blessings of Providence on a life so spent, died possessed of competent Wealth, Feb. 28, 1813, Aged 77 years. This was written by Dr. Whittaker, the historian of Whalley, who seems, according to the last line of this tremendous effort, to have been considerably impressed by the innkeeper’s “competent wealth,” even to the extent of reckoning it among the virtues. At Barnwell All Saints, near Oundle, Northants, we read this epitaph on an innkeeper: Man’s life is like a winter’s day, Some only breakfast, and away; Others to dinner stay, and are full fed: The oldest man but sups, and goes to bed. Large is his debt who lingers out the day, Who goes the soonest has the least to pay. Death is the waiter, some few run on tick, And some, alas! must pay the bill to Nick! Tho’ I owed much, I hope long trust is given, And truly mean to pay all debts in heaven. Worldly creditors might well look askance at such a resolution as that expressed in the last line, for there is no parting there. In the churchyard of the deserted old church of Stockbridge, Hampshire, the curious may still, with some difficulty, find the whimsical epitaph of John Bucket, landlord of the “King’s Head” in that little town, who died, aged 67, in 1802: