“Ladies and gentlemen, this is Mrs. Betsy Pease, who departed this life May ye 8, 1797, in ye 21st year of her age. Mrs. Betsy Pease was the wife of Mr. Isaac Pease, daughter of Mr. Thaddeous Bald. Mrs. Pease, ladies and gentlemen.” The lady began her recital in a very sing-song voice: “With pangs severe strangling in blood, She soon became a lifeless clod; The summons of her God she obeyed, She closes life and ends her days.” With a low courtesy, not altogether devoid of grace, she sat down, evidently as much pleased as an elocutionist after she has recited Curfew shall not ring tonight. The applause was fainter, but she appeared satisfied. The master of ceremonies again stood up to introduce Miss Mary Hunter, who died in 1782, aged 17. She arose to her feet, and as she did so she seemed to stretch out like the gates to a ferry boat until she reached her full height, which must have been at least six feet. She had a harsh, rasping voice, and in a slow and impressive manner she said: “She is not here, ‘tis but a veil of clay That molders into dust beneath this stone; Mary herself in realms of fadeless glory Has put a robe of fadeless glory on. This monumental urn is not designed To tell of beauties withering in the tomb, Her brightest charms were centered in her mind Which still prevail and will forever bloom. Her conscious soul Allied to angels hails the glorious change, And joins the blest societies above In all the freshness of immortal love. There is a world of bliss hereafter, else Why are the bad above, the good beneath The green grass of the grave?” This whole performance was so irresistibly comical that the unfortunate young man had such a sudden fit of strangling that two of the most muscular ghosts smote him on the back until he was in danger of having his spinal column dislocated, while the beauteous Mary sat down with an air of pride, which was quite natural when one considered the difficulty under which she labored. As she sat down she seemed to double up like a jackknife or a two-foot rule. There were murmurs of commiseration over the length of this epitaph, and the reporter thought to himself that it was rather a queer idea to contrast the robes of fadeless glory with the few rotting remnants of her cerements. Scarcely had she taken her seat when a woman stood up, and as if she feared she would not get a chance to recite her effusion, she began and rattled it off in one string without punctuation, though to be sure this seemed to be a common fault with these ladies. She said: “Mary Jane Smith, died Feb. 1st, 1752, age 43. Affliction sore long time she bore, Physician's art was vain, Till God did please that death should seize And ease me of my pain. Farewell my husband and my children, Farewell to all on earth, I hope to meet you all in heaven, Where parting is no more.”