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, And such was his. What more? almost a blot! Even on his laurelled head with doubt we gaze; And _fancy_ best his lineaments portrays. Thus like an Indian deity enshrined, In mystery is his image; whilst the mind To us bequeathed, belongs to all mankind. Yet here he lived; his manly high career Of strange vicissitude, was measured here. Not his the envied privilege to hail The Eternal City! or in Tempe’s vale Breathe inspiration with luxurious sighs, And dream of Heaven beneath unclouded skies. His sphere was bounded, and we almost trace His daily haunts, where he was wont to chase Unwelcome cares, or visions fair recall; His breath still lingers on the cloistral wall, With gloom congenial to his spirit fraught; And thou, O Thames, his lonely sighs hast caught. When one, the rhyming Charon of his day, Who tugged the oar, yet conned a merry lay, Full oft unconscious of the freight he bore, Transferred the musing bard from shore to shore. Too careless _Taylor!_ hadst thou well divined The marvellous man to thy frail skiff consigned, Thou shouldst have craved one tributary line, To blend his glorious destiny with thine! Nor vain the prayer!--who generous homage pays To genius, wins the second meed of praise.[388]