Stole, ere we could effect them."
Now,—his scythe, tube, and hour-glass being broken, his progress is ended! his sinews are unstrung! his hour of dissolution arrived!—and with those five capital letters that have concluded the labours of so many learned authors, and which conjoined form the word FINIS,—
"He ends his mortal coil, and breathes his last!"
By his will,—The great globe itself, and all which it inherits, is bequeathed to Chaos,—appointed sole executor;—and this, his last act, is witnessed by the Parcæ.
The print of "The Times," that gave rise to so much unmerited abuse of this wonderful painter and excellent man, is in a blaze. The palette on which he spread the varying tints of many-coloured life—broken;—the whip of satire, armed with which he
"Dar'd the rage
Of the bad men of this degenerate age,"
and scourged those that were safe from the law, and laughed at the gospel;—the whip of satire—divested of its lash, lies unheeded on the earth.
The book of Nature, in which he was so deeply read, and from whence he drew all his images, is open at the last page. The characters that compose his pictured tragi-comedies have passed in review before us, and with the words engraven on the last leaf of that volume which he so well studied, I will conclude this—