“John Cartwright, residing in Burton Crescent, 26th Jan., 1824.”
The Major died on the 23rd of September this year, at his house in Burton Crescent, at the venerable age of eighty-four.[386]
1825.
An author, in whose real character I was for many years deceived, frequently importuned me to caricature literary females. But this malicious advice, being repugnant to my feelings, I never could listen to, nor is it my intention even to make public a memory-sketch now in my possession of the adviser, when he was stooping over and pretending to kiss the putrid corpse of him a portion of whose vast property he is in possession of, and, I was going to say, happily enjoys.[387] Profoundly learned as the person above alluded to considers himself to be, the reader will, after perusing the following lines, written purposely for my album, be convinced that jealousy towards the fair sex must be that man’s master-passion.
IMPROMPTU LINES BY MISS BENGER, ON THE PAUCITY OF INFORMATION RESPECTING THE LIFE AND CHARACTER OF SHAKSPEARE.
Lives there, redeemed from dull oblivion’s waste,
One cherished line that Shakspeare’s hand has traced?
Vain search! though glory crowns the poet’s bust,
His story sleeps with his unconscious dust.
Born—wedded—buried! Such the common lot,