Of last words, none is more final than an epitaph: a definitive moment of self-congratulation, a conclusive opportunity to commend oneself to the Almighty, or simply a chance to settle old scores in stone.

Epitaphs have fallen out of fashion over the past half-century - which is a pity, for the English epitaph is often a thing of beauty and sly wit. The late Robin Cook is the only modern personality I can think of with a memorable epitaph: “I may not have succeeded in halting the war, but I did secure the right of Parliament to decide on war.” In its self-justification, precision with words, and slightly rebarbative tone of superiority, it perfectly reflects the man.

As J.P.G.Taylor writes in his fascinating collection of English epitaphs, the epitaph “frequently informs in a way that modern inscriptions rarely do”. Epitaphs are not supposed to be true. The epitaph is a single pithy statement, either by or about the lately departed. There are few words more carefully crafted and carved out of the language: the epitaph writer has a very small page, and only a few words to play with.

“That's all, Folks!” reads the inscription on the headstone of Mel Blanc, the voice of Bugs Bunny. Spike Milligan's grave memorably insists: “I told you I was ill.” Distinct from the one-liners are the exhortatory epitaphs: “Here lies the body of Jonathan Swift... where savage indignation can tear his heart no more. Go, traveller, and if you can, imitate one who with his utmost strength protected liberty.” W.B.Yeats considered Swift's “the greatest epitaph in history”.

My favourite epitaphs are those that tell a story. In most instances the events behind the headstone can never be fully known, but the few words leave the taste of a mystery part-obscured.

Take, for example, the gravestone of Donald Robertson at Hillswick in the Shetland Islands, who died on June 4, 1847. “A peaceable, quiet man, and to all appearances a sincere Christian... his death was caused by the stupidity of Laurence Tulloch, who sold him nitre instead of Epsom salts, by which he was killed in the space of five hours after taking a dose of it.” Why do I feel that there is more to this story than Tulloch's chemical confusion? Perhaps it is the phrase “to all appearances”. If I were investigating Robertson's death, I would start by interviewing whoever paid for his gravestone, which fingers Tulloch but is unable to resist a small moral jab at the deceased.

An epitaph can offer an entire play in a few words, like that of Ellen Shannon in Nova Scotia, “Who was fatally burned March 21, 1879, by the explosion of a lamp filled with RE Danforth's Non-Explosive Burning Fluid”. I can find no other reference to Danforth's fluid. Shannon's gravestone appears to be the only place it was ever written down: in attempting to damn Danforth's Non-Explosive Burning Fluid from beyond the grave, Ellen Shannon gave this fatally misleading product eternal life.

All epitaphs are, in a way, warnings, but some read like health and safety announcements. Elizabeth Picket of Stoke Newington, her headstone proclaims, died in 1781 at the age of 23, “in consequence of her clothes taking fire”. The stone warns: “Reader if you ever should witness such an affecting scene; recollect that the only method to extinguish the flame is to stifle it by an immediate covering.”

The grave of the three Atwood sisters offers similarly grave counsel. The sisters “were poisoned by eating funguous vegetables mistaken for champignons” in 1808: “Let it be a solemn warning that in our most grateful enjoyments even in our necessary food may lurk deadly poison.” There is something rather touching about the sisters heading Heavenward with a severe mushroom warning attached.

While most epitaphs speak of piety and uxorious love, a few echo with resentment, recrimination and adultery. Charles Ward's grave of 1770 carried an addendum: “This stone was not erected by SUSAN his wife. She erected a stone to JOHN SLATER her second husband, forgetting the affection of CHARLES WARD her first Husband.” So there.

The widow of John Barnes, in a Vancouver cemetery, did put up a stone for her late husband, which reads like a “situation vacant” notice: “Sacred to the memory of my husband, John Barnes, who died January 3, 1803. His comely young widow, aged 23, has many qualifications of a good wife, and yearns to be comforted.” But the greatest untold story in an epitaph is that on a casket in Madeley, Shropshire, which simply reads: “Mary Tooth, died November 15th 1843, Aged 65 years The Beloved Companion, Faithful friend and zealous Successor of the late Mrs Fletcher of blessed memory.” Did Mary Tooth succeed her friend in the affections of Mr Fletcher?

Exactly how zealous was she? And what unspoken warfare existed between these two bosom friends? Mary Tooth's grave is silent, but her epitaph speaks volumes.

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