And ſhall I paſs thee o'er, thou gentle ſpirit?—Was there ought in thy propenſions—or in thy way of journeying through the windings of this ſad world?—Was there ought unfilial in thy feelings?—ought un⯑deſerving or forbidding, that ſhould incline me to overlook thee?—Ah; No—no—Truſt me, gentle YORICK, I more than lov'd thee—There was a cour⯑teſy in thy demeanor—a milky and humane tempera⯑ture about thy pulſes—and a compaſſion in the turn of thy mind—however excurſive—however retrograde—however digreſſive—that awaken the moſt tender recollection — A recollection which hurries the blood into the moſt affectionate extremities.—Gracious God, what a throb was there!—As I live—and as I love thee—and by the ſoul of thy venerable relation, the [24] tears are bathing my eye-laſhes, while I am talking of thee—And could'ſt thou—(Oh that Death ſhould have made it neceſſary to cry Alas! in a parentheſis)—could'ſt thou, YORICK, at this moment, lay thy hand upon my heart—the violence of the motion about the center, would confeſs the mother—and the tumult of the veſſels, together with the rebounds of the pulſation, might aſſure thee, how thou art rank'd in my eſtima⯑tion—Eſtimation!—hear me, YORICK, there is an⯑other Alas for thee—Thou can'ſt not hear—GENIUS has much to ſay of thee—Thou wert nothing elſe—Thy heart, and head, and every delicate appendage, were the conſtant champions of all the Charities—all the Civilities.—Thou had'ſt not indeed any parade—any oſtenſibility—or religious prudery about thee—but yet haſt thou done more to the cauſe of Virtue, than if thou hadſt gone ſcowling through life.—In all thy excurſions—and whimſical meanders—SENSI⯑BILITY took thee by the hand—by the heart I might have ſaid—and made thee acceſſible to every tender intreaty—every ſoft petition found its way into thy pocket—the thing was irreſiſtable—PITY ſeconded the requeſt, SYMPATHY thirded it—and if thou haply hadſt nothing to beſtow—why it was an hard caſe, and would coſt thee a tear—a drop of diſappointment—an elixir to the ſorrowing ſoul—a treaſure riſing from the [25] fulneſs of a rich heart, and it was given without grudging—ſo would it had it been chryſtal.—I ho⯑noured thy ſentiments, and I venerate thy memory—thou would'ſt not ſuffer a nettle to grow upon the grave of an enemy—nor ſhall GENIUS ever ſuffer a weed to grow upon thine.—Peace—peace to thy ſhade.—

Nor, in lamenting the havock, which Death hath triumphantly made (continued GENIUS) in the letter'd generation, can HAWKESWORTH, be forgotten: A name which is particularly endear'd to me, by the affection which its owner bore to virtue and to ſcience. [31] Every ſtroke of his pen, correſponding with every idea of his mind, however playful, or however pa⯑thetic, always terminated in the moſt uſeful know⯑ledge: that knowledge which might regulate the conduct of life, or afford tranquillity and quietude at the hour of expiration. The ardour which uniformly animated his endeavours, gave conſtant vigour to his thought, activity to his powers, and dignity to his ſentiment: Nor did his excellence ariſe ſo much from the ambition which panted after fame, and aim'd at popularity—which appeal'd to the acclamations of the mob, or ſought the diſtinctions of this world; as from the hearty hope of contributing, in whatever degree, to the inveſtigation of truth, the amendment of man⯑ners, and the rectitude of the mind. Of thoſe who have acquir'd a literary immortality, there are few who could diſpute with my HAWKESWORTH, ſtrength of ſenſe, or elevation of expreſſion; and ſtill fewer have given to the world ſo valuable, or ſo copious a fund of virtuous entertainment. Amidſt all the efforts of his intellect, whether his inſtructions were prepared in the dreſs of hiſtory — or convey'd in the vehicle of fabulous narration—whether they aſſum'd the graver ſtyle of argumentative profundity, or whether they adopted the ſtill deeper reſearches of philoſophical raciocination; —their conſtant greatneſs of deſign was equally appa⯑rent, [32] and the promotion of virtue was always ſtrongly mark'd in the language of the writer. My dear, my re⯑gretted HAWKESWORTH, was indeed never long ſeduc'd by any temptations, or abſtracted by any ſcientific allurements, from thoſe views which are alone of in⯑trinſic importance, and which he well knew, would retain that importance, when all, that now flutters to the fancy, plays upon the paſſions, and faſcinates the heart, ſhall confeſs their inſignificance, and fly like the atom, that is driven before the tempeſt.