No, one, however
familiar with the words, will find fault with me for quoting
them here:
That tongue which set the table on a roar
And charmed the public ear is heard no more.
Closed are those eyes, the harbingers of wit,
Which spake before the tongue what Shakespeare writ.
Cold is that hand which living was stretched forth
At friendship's call to succor modest worth.
Here lies James Quin, deign readers to be taught
Whate'er thy strength of body, force of thought,
In Nature's happiest mood however cast,
To this complexion thou must come at last.
Quin's monument strikes one as the greatest there because of
Garrick's living words, but there is another very much more
beautiful.
I first noticed this memorial on the wall at a distance of
about three yards, too far to read anything in the inscription
except the name of Sibthorpe, which was strange to me, but
instead of going nearer to read it I remained standing to
admire it at that distance. The tablet was of white marble,
and on it was sculptured the figure of a young man with curly
head and classic profile. He was wearing sandals and a loose
mantle held to his breast with one hand, while in the other
hand he carried a bunch of leaves and flowers. He appeared in
the act of stepping ashore from a boat of antique shape, and
the artist had been singularly successful in producing the
idea of free and vigorous motion in the figure as well as of
some absorbing object in his mind.
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