Sir William has undoubtedly merited a monument; but of what kind, or
with what inscription, where placed or how embellished, is a
question that would puzzle all the heralds of St. James's in the
profoundest mood of historical deliberation. We are at no loss, sir,
to ascertain your real character, but somewhat perplexed how to
perpetuate its identity, and preserve it uninjured from the
transformations of time or mistake. A statuary may give a false
expression to your bust, or decorate it with some equivocal emblems,
by which you may happen to steal into reputation and impose upon the
hereafter traditionary world. Ill nature or ridicule may conspire,
or a variety of accidents combine to lessen, enlarge, or change Sir
William's fame; and no doubt but he who has taken so much pains to
be singular in his conduct, would choose to be just as singular in his
exit, his monument and his epitaph.
The usual honors of the dead, to be sure, are not sufficiently
sublime to escort a character like you to the republic of dust and
ashes; for however men may differ in their ideas of grandeur or of
government here, the grave is nevertheless a perfect republic. Death
is not the monarch of the dead, but of the dying. The moment he
obtains a conquest he loses a subject, and, like the foolish king
you serve, will, in the end, war himself out of all his dominions.
As a proper preliminary towards the arrangement of your funeral
honors, we readily admit of your new rank of knighthood. The title
is perfectly in character, and is your own, more by merit than
creation.
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