wizened, groggy little octogenarian came to be in a few years one of the best-known figures of the University.
His death in 1730 was an event of such general interest that it drew forth a whole galaxy of humorous verse. Some of these productions were distinctly clever, even by present standards. One, an anonymous “Epitaph,” made a neat double-barrelled hit at his ignorance and his intemperance:
’T is true indeed he could not read;
He lived not by the letter,
Because he found while on this ground
The spirit was much better.
Another, an “Elegy,” might almost have emanated from the Villa at Twickenham. After extolling his campaigns against dust and cobwebs, the writer proceeds,—
But cruel Death, less Cleanly and less Kind,
Swept off his Soul and left the Dust behind.
Now hills of Grief in every Chamber grow,
And rising Dirt proclaims our rising Woe.
Others of these mortuary effusions were of less merit. The feeblest of all was “Father Abbey’s Will,” ascribed to John Seccombe of the class of 1728.[1] The opening lines give the measure of the whole:
- ↑ Seccombe seems to have perpetrated other poetical atrocities, also much admired. See Hall, College Words and Customs, 508.
