I have
already said what 'Queen Sarah' thought of the latter, and, for the
rest, those who care to read the nonsense on the walls of Westminster
Abbey can decide for themselves as to the honour the poet received from
his titled friend.
The latter days of William Congreve were passed in wit and gout: the
wine, which warmed the one, probably brought on the latter. After a
course of ass's milk, which does not seem to have done him much good,
the ex-dramatist retired to Bath, a very fashionable place for departing
life in, under easy and elegant circumstances. But he not only drank of
the springs beloved of King Bladud, of apocryphal memory, but even went
so far as to imbibe the snail-water, which was then the last species of
quack cure in vogue. This, probably, despatched him. But it is only just
to that disagreeable little reptile that infests our gardens, and whose
slime was supposed to possess peculiarly strengthening properties, to
state that his death was materially hastened by being overturned when
driving in his chariot. He was close upon sixty, had long been blind
from cataracts in his eyes, and as he was no longer either useful or
ornamental to the world in general, he could perhaps be spared.
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