To some resplendent fane is led in state,
With garlands crown'd through shouting crowds proceeds,
And, dress'd in fatal pomp, magnificently bleeds.'
No. 209. The 'World.'—Dec. 30, 1756.
'The Last of Mr. FitzAdam.
'Before these lines can reach the press, that truly great and amiable gentleman, Mr. FitzAdam, will, in all probability, be no more. An event so sudden and unexpected, and in which the public are so deeply interested, cannot fail to excite the curiosity of every reader. I shall, therefore, relate it in the most concise manner I am able.
'The reader may remember that in the first number of the "World," and in several succeeding papers, the good old gentleman flattered himself that the profits of his labours would some time or other enable him to make a genteel figure in the world, and seat himself at last in his one-horse chair. The death of Mrs. FitzAdam, which happened a few months since, as it relieved him from the great expense of housekeeping, made him in a hurry to set up his equipage; and as the sale of his paper was even beyond his expectations, I was one of the first of his friends that advised him to purchase it. The equipage was accordingly bespoke and sent home; and as he had all along promised that his first visit in it should be to me, I expected him last Tuesday at my country-house at Hoxton. The poor gentleman was punctual to his appointment; and it was with great delight that I saw him from my window driving up the road that leads to my house. Unfortunately for him, his eye caught mine; and hoping (as I suppose) to captivate me by his great skill in driving, he made two or three flourishes with his whip, which so frightened the horse that he ran furiously away with the carriage, dashed it against a post, and threw the driver from his seat with a violence hardly to be conceived. I screamed out to my maid, "Lord bless me!" says I, "Mr. FitzAdam is killed!" and away we ran to the spot where he lay. At first I imagined that his head was off, but upon drawing nearer I found it was his hat! He breathed, indeed, which gave me hopes that he was not quite dead; but for signs of life, he had positively none.
'In this condition, with the help of some neighbours, we brought him into the house, where a warm bed was quickly got ready for him; which, together with bleeding and other helps, brought him by degrees to life and reason. He looked round about him for some time, and at last, seeing and knowing me, inquired after his chaise. I told him it was safe, though a good deal damaged. "No matter, madam," he replied; "it has done my business; it has carried me a journey from this world to the next. I shall have no use for it again. The 'World' is now at an end! I thought it destined to last a longer period; but the decrees of fate are not to be resisted. It would have pleased me to have written the last paper myself, but that task, madam, must be yours; and, however painful it may be to your modesty, I conjure you to undertake it.... My epitaph, if the public might be so satisfied, I would have decent and concise. It would offend my modesty if, after the name of FitzAdam, more were to be added than these words:—
'"He was the deepest Philosopher,
The wittiest Writer,
AND
The greatest Man
Of this Age or Nation."'