landscape evolves before your eyes, from broad and rural to narrow and urban, from the rolling hills of Cobbett's boyhood to the sulfurous cities of his jail-cell nightmares. But it was out here in the countryside, far from the madness of London, that Cobbett was going to build a monument to his former enemy. And as his nation's greatest gardener, Cobbett even had a fitting procession planned for him: twenty wagonloads of flowers, "brought to strew the road before the hearse."
It did not quite work out that way.
Patrons shook their heads in the Fleet Street coffeehouses, holding the latest newspaper in their hands: Digging up the fellow claiming you'll raise a monument to him? Who ever heard of such a thing!
Actually, some of the old men had. About thirty years before, the parishioners over at St. Giles on Cripplegate had the bright idea of erecting a monument to their most famous permanent residentâJohn Milton. True, the old poet's Areopagitica kept turning up in coffeehouse and courtroom defenses of that wretched infidel Tom Paine, but still . . . surely the man who'd also penned Paradise Lost warranted some sort of honor. Tradition held that Milton had been buried in 1674 under the clerk's desk in the chancel. But before parishioners went to the trouble of putting up a monument on the spot, a few thought that . . . well, maybe they should make sure he really was there.
Workmen began digging on August 3, 1790, and soon enough they struck a corroded lead coffin lid on the north side of the chancel. Could this be it? It was hard to tell, so the industrious sextons brushed off and then washed the coffin lid in a futile effort to find an inscription. A wooden coffin was now visible underneath the lead oneâMilton's father, probablyâbut by now the day was getting late and the workmen were ordered to cover the whole thing back up. There was a pair of likely-looking coffins in more or less the right place, and that was good enough. He could be reburied now, and the gravediggers were left that night to get back to work.
So they got good and drunk.
Why don't we look inside and see Milton? came the inevitable suggestion. A mallet and hammer were produced, and the lid smashed open.
"Upon first view of the body," reported a witness, "it appeared perfect, and completely in the shroud, which was of many folds; the ribs standing up regularly. When they disturbed the shroud, the ribs fell."
Well, now the poet's physique was ruined anyway: might as well finish the job. Sensing some fine opportunities, two fellows ran home and fetched scissors to clip off locks of the bard's hair, though their trip was wasted: upon returning they discovered the hair came out in clumps with no effort. Another laborer decided that maybe Milton's five remaining teeth would come out as easily. To his surprise, they did not, so he cleverly applied a rock to Milton's skull. Then the teeth came out. In fact, the whole jaw came out in the hand of another fellow, though he thought better of it and tossed it back into the coffin. He yanked a leg bone out, too, but once again had second thoughts and threw that back in as well. But the teeth, rather more practical as souvenirs, were happily distributed among the merry workmen.
But morning would soon come; people would want to get into the church . . . then what? Now, sobering a little, the gravediggers decided it was time to get to business. They carefully barred the doors of the church, and pious locals arriving were thereupon informed that they could enter and see the body , but only if they would "pay the price of a pot of beer for entrance." And so the faithful parishioners of Cripplegate dutifully lined up, paid the cover charge, and filed past the coffin of their poet.
They left with an awe born of Milton's mortality. Also, they left with his ribs, his fingers, his hair, and numerous shilling-sized pieces of skin. When those were gone, they also surreptitiously snapped off little chunks of
It did not quite work out that way.
Patrons shook their heads in the Fleet Street coffeehouses, holding the latest newspaper in their hands: Digging up the fellow claiming you'll raise a monument to him? Who ever heard of such a thing!
Actually, some of the old men had. About thirty years before, the parishioners over at St. Giles on Cripplegate had the bright idea of erecting a monument to their most famous permanent residentâJohn Milton. True, the old poet's Areopagitica kept turning up in coffeehouse and courtroom defenses of that wretched infidel Tom Paine, but still . . . surely the man who'd also penned Paradise Lost warranted some sort of honor. Tradition held that Milton had been buried in 1674 under the clerk's desk in the chancel. But before parishioners went to the trouble of putting up a monument on the spot, a few thought that . . . well, maybe they should make sure he really was there.
Workmen began digging on August 3, 1790, and soon enough they struck a corroded lead coffin lid on the north side of the chancel. Could this be it? It was hard to tell, so the industrious sextons brushed off and then washed the coffin lid in a futile effort to find an inscription. A wooden coffin was now visible underneath the lead oneâMilton's father, probablyâbut by now the day was getting late and the workmen were ordered to cover the whole thing back up. There was a pair of likely-looking coffins in more or less the right place, and that was good enough. He could be reburied now, and the gravediggers were left that night to get back to work.
So they got good and drunk.
Why don't we look inside and see Milton? came the inevitable suggestion. A mallet and hammer were produced, and the lid smashed open.
"Upon first view of the body," reported a witness, "it appeared perfect, and completely in the shroud, which was of many folds; the ribs standing up regularly. When they disturbed the shroud, the ribs fell."
Well, now the poet's physique was ruined anyway: might as well finish the job. Sensing some fine opportunities, two fellows ran home and fetched scissors to clip off locks of the bard's hair, though their trip was wasted: upon returning they discovered the hair came out in clumps with no effort. Another laborer decided that maybe Milton's five remaining teeth would come out as easily. To his surprise, they did not, so he cleverly applied a rock to Milton's skull. Then the teeth came out. In fact, the whole jaw came out in the hand of another fellow, though he thought better of it and tossed it back into the coffin. He yanked a leg bone out, too, but once again had second thoughts and threw that back in as well. But the teeth, rather more practical as souvenirs, were happily distributed among the merry workmen.
But morning would soon come; people would want to get into the church . . . then what? Now, sobering a little, the gravediggers decided it was time to get to business. They carefully barred the doors of the church, and pious locals arriving were thereupon informed that they could enter and see the body , but only if they would "pay the price of a pot of beer for entrance." And so the faithful parishioners of Cripplegate dutifully lined up, paid the cover charge, and filed past the coffin of their poet.
They left with an awe born of Milton's mortality. Also, they left with his ribs, his fingers, his hair, and numerous shilling-sized pieces of skin. When those were gone, they also surreptitiously snapped off little chunks of
Similar Books
