The Works of John Hall-Stevenson :: :: University of Virginia Library

A celebrated humorist, well known in the great and little world, and all the world over. He was a great friend of the owner, and had a great love for Crazy Castle: the place, and the company he was

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sure to meet there, were perfectly sutied to his humour and turn of thinking. He died at Florence; and the following epitaph, which was made in his life-time, he ordered to be put upon his gravestone. It was wrote by one of his Italian companions, an abbaté, in Monkish Latin.

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EPITAPH
[_]

TRANSLATED.

COVER'D with turf, in a vile chest,
Old Hewet lies amongst the dead,
Just as well off as those that rest
With piles of marble o'er their head,
On Arno, Tiber, and the Rhone,
To every Vettorino known.
At Rome, in Roman manners vers'd,
He walk'd with publicans and sinners,
And churchmen keen, that hunger and thirst,
For want of news and want of dinners.—
In Turkey Hewet was a Turk:
Like Aristippus or Saint Paul,

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He went the shortest way to work,
And made himself all things to all.
He could the traveller's hours beguile
In Trac-Schuts creeping in the dark,
Or dragg'd through sloughs of many a mile
In tumbrils huge, like Noah's ark.
On foot, as good with strollers strolling,
As a machine to laugh and roll in.
A guest delightful to the great,
The great in virtue as in sin,
And as well pleas'd, nor less a treat,
At a gargotte or carrier's inn.
Let not his friends therefore be griev'd;
He's happy, that's enough to know,
Sure to be always well receiv'd,
Either above stairs or below.
A welcome inmate, with his merits,
Either to good or wicked spirits.

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It is not only love you'll find,
You must not mind what poets say,
All our strong passions are as blind,
Our weakest scarce can see their way.
A tale will tell you what I mean:
Enter Arsinoe, the queen.
Her favourite son, a puny chick,
Once on a time was taken sick.
Doctors were sent for into Greece,
A humour seiz'd upon his bum,
He might at least have died in peace,
If these Greek Doctors had not come.
After they had given him the question,
With every kind of racking pain,
After they had burnt and cut Hephestion,
And burnt and cut him o'er again,

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At last the Doctors let him go,
And left the Queen in frantic woe.
Her eyes were fix'd, her talk was wild,
Like Niobe, she stood amazed;
She wonder'd death durst strike her child,
And all her people thought her crazed.
For she had seven sons beside;
The worst of all was he that died.
Ten thousand workmen were employ'd,
For twenty years, I do suppose,
To give his corpse a royal dwelling;
Ten thousand oxen were destroy'd,
Each day to feast her darling's nose,
As all his pleasure lay in smelling.
Her courtiers, to preserve their places,
Forgot to shew their teeth and smile;
They came with undertakers faces,
And adulation new and vile.
Just such a court, for cant and snivel,
As when priest-ridden Lewis doated,
Frighten'd with stories of the devil,
Maintenon'd, be-petticoated,

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Married his nurse; and, what was worse,
The devil always in his head,
He durst not lie without his nurse,
And always piss'd his nurse's bed.—
Physic had done the worst it could;
At length philosophy was brought;
A Brachman cry'd, I have a thought
May do your Majesty much good.
The Queen afforded him her ear,
And he proceeded as you'll hear.—
The Gods, dispers'd through various nations,
Were summon'd, by Jove's bounteous call;
Beyond their hopes and expectations,
The Gods were portion'd, great and small,
With riches, power, the gift of healing,
The art of war, and art of stealing;
The scientific art of drinking,
The art of music and of metre,
The art of living without thinking,
An art in my opinion sweeter;
The art of pleasing, the completest,
The art of love, by far the sweetest.

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Amongst the Gods assembled then,
Dame Sorrow was not to be found;
Sorrow was fretting in some den,
Or lying sulky under ground.
Whether or no he did not care,
Or out of sight she slipp'd his mind,
Sorrow got nothing for her share,
In any shape, of any kind.
At last, however, with her cries,
She mov'd the ruler of the skies.
Sorrow, said Jove, is always waking;
You heard my summons, like the rest,
Scarce any thing remains worth taking:
I have dispos'd of all the best:
And yet I think there are a few
Choice rarities, will do for you.
Now, as your ladyship loves whimpering,
And has a mortal hate to Hebe,
Euphrosyne, and wanton Phebe—
Girls that love tittering and simpering—
I give to you and your assigns
All lamentations, sobs, and whines;

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Urns full of bones burnt to a coal;
And, to refresh your grievous soul,
As I am in a cue for giving,
Pitchers of tears, both mild and stale,
Bestow'd by people that are living
On folks as dead as a door nail;
And with each pitcher a full pot
Of rich lachrymatory snot.
And to these gifts so rare, so many,
I give you tenderness in plenty,
To be bestow'd like many a dainty,
On those that have no need of any.
Just as the pious Romans treat
Their dead with plenty of nice food,
Although they grudge them all they eat,
As long as eating does them good;
And after you have blown your nose,
Said Jove, and are prepar'd for this,
I give you dead men's eyes to close,
And give you dead men's lips to kiss,
And finally, all funeral rites,
Wherever practis'd and profess'd,

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Whether perform'd by Blacks or Whites,
With all the fooleries annex'd,
Of which, continued the grave Don,
I think the pyramid is one.
Any great edifice of stone,
Any great prison for the dead,
But more especially the cone,
And the rotund with a round head,
Are fooleries; but the most clever
Are pyramids, I'll tell you why;
They are contriv'd to last for ever,
Great fooleries that never die:
And therefore none but Kings and Queens,
The Powers above and Powers infernal,
Can find materials, ways, and means,
To make a foolery eternal.
This pyramid's majestic gloom
To sorrow properly belongs,
With its funereal music-room,
For dirges and sepulchral songs.
Here Sorrow, and her handmaid Spleen,
Shall be lock'd up, by my consent,

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And, in harmonious discontent,
Dwell here, and never more be seen.
Had not you plague enough in making it?
Relinquish it, if you are wise,
And thank her too for taking it;
This is the best I can advise;
For from that instant, be assur'd,
Your sacred Majesty is cur'd.
Pyramids, pitchers, pots, and urn,
Plac'd in so comical a light,
Gave the Queen's fancy a new turn,
Brought her about, and set her right.
The Queen began to taste repose,
Then call'd for cards, and won at play:
And then came joy, couleur de rose,
And all the court again was gay.

This Gentleman was William Hewet, Esq. a sensible old Gentleman, but much of a humourist. He died in 1767, at the house of Vanini, in Florence. Being taken with a suppression of urine, he resolved, in imitation of Pomponius Atticus to take himself off by abstinence; and this resolution he executed like an ancient Roman. He saw company to the last—cracked his jokes—conversed freely—and entertained his guests with musick. On the third day of his fast he found himself entirely freed of his complaint; but refused taking sustenance. He said the most disagreeable part of the voyage was past, and he should be a cursed fool indeed to put about ship when he was just entering the harbour. In these sentiments he persisted without any marks of affectation; and thus finished his course with such ease and serenity as would have done honour to the firmest stoick of antiquity. Several anecdotes of this Gentleman are in Smollett's Expedition of Humphry Clinker, vol. II. p. 141. See also Hollis's Memoirs, vol. I. p. 324.

University of Virginia Library

ARSINOE:

OR, PASSION OVERSTRAINED. OLD HEWET'S TALE;

TALE VIII.

EPITAPH[_] TRANSLATED.

EPITAPH
[_]

TRANSLATED.