The body of B. Franklin, Printer, like the cover of an old book, its contents torn out, and stripped of its lettering and gilding, lies here, food for worms. But the work shall not be wholly lost, for it will, as he believed, appear once more, in a new and more perfect edition, corrected and amended by the Author. He was born Jan. 6, 1706. Died ------, 17--. B.F. Franklin died on the 17th of April, 1790, aged eighty-four years. After the death of this sturdy patriot and sagacious writer, the following singular sentiment was inscribed to his memory:-- Benjamin Franklin, the * of his profession; the type of honesty; the ! of all; and although the [Symbol: hand] of death put a . to his existence, each § of his life is without a ||. On a plain, flat slab in the burial-ground of Christ-church, Philadelphia, the following simple inscription appears over the remains of the good man and his worthy wife:-- Benjamin } } Franklin. Deborah } February, 1790. The pun on the supersession of an old edition by a new and revised one, has often been worked out, as in the following example, which is that of the Rev. John Cotton, who died in New England, in 1652:-- A living, breathing Bible; tables where Both covenants at large engraven were; Gospel and law in his heart had each its column, His head an index to the sacred volume! His very name a title-page; and, next, His life a commentary on the text. Oh, what a moment of glorious worth, When in a new edition he comes forth! Without errata, we may think 'twill be, In leaves and covers of Eternity. A notable epitaph was that of George Faulkner, the alderman and printer, of Dublin, who died in 1775: Turn, gentle stranger, and this urn revere, O'er which Hibernia saddens with a tear. Here sleeps George Faulkner, printer, once so dear To humorous Swift, and Chesterfield's gay peer; So dear to his wronged country and her laws; So dauntless when imprisoned in her cause; No alderman e'er graced a weighter board, No wit e'er joked more freely with a lord. None could with him in anecdotes confer; A perfect annal-book, in Elzevir. Whate'er of glory life's first sheets presage, Whate'er the splendour of the title-page, Leaf after leaf, though learned lore ensues; Close as thy types and various as thy news; Yet, George, we see that one lot awaits them all, Gigantic folios, or octavos small; One universal finis claims his rank, And every volume closes in a blank. In the churchyard of Bury St. Edmunds, Suffolk, is a good specimen of a typographical epitaph, placed in remembrance of a noted printer, who died in the year 1818. It reads as follows: Here lie the remains of L. GEDGE, Printer. Like a worn-out character, he has returned to the Founder, Hoping that he will be re-cast in a better and more perfect mould.