He relapsed the May following at Terragana, whither he removed with his regiment; and going to the above mentioned waters, the benefit whereof he had already experienced, he fell into one of those fainting fits, to which he had for some time been subject, in a small village, and was utterly destitute of all the necessaries of life, ’till some charitable fathers of a Bernardine convent, offered him what assistance their house afforded.  The duke accepted their kind proposal, upon which they removed him to their convent, and administered all the relief in their power.  Under this hospitable roof, after languishing a week, died the duke of Wharton, without one friend, or acquaintance to close his eyes.  His funeral was performed in the same manner in which the fathers inter those of their own fraternity.

Thus we have endeavoured to exhibit an adequate picture of the duke of Wharton, a man whose life was as strongly chequered with the vicissitudes of fortune, as his abilities were various and astonishing.  He is an instance of the great imbecility of intellectual powers, when once they spurn the dictates of prudence, and the maxims of life.  With all the lustre of his understanding, when his fortune was wasted, and his circumstances low, he fell into contempt; they who formerly worshipped him, fled from him, and despised his wit when attended with poverty.  So true is it that,

  Want is the scorn of every wealthy fool,
  And wit in rags is turn’d to ridicule.

The duke of Wharton seems to have lived as if the world should be new modelled for him; for he would conform to none of the rules, by which the little happiness the world can yield, is to be attained.  But we shall not here enlarge on his character, as we can present it to the reader, drawn in the most lively manner, by the masterly touches of Pope, who in one of his familiar epistles, thus characterizes him.

  POPE’s Epistle on the knowledge
  and characters of men.

  Wharton, the scorn and wonder of our days,
  Whose darling passion was the lust of praise: 
  Born with whate’er could win it from the wise,
  Women and fools must like him, or he dies;
  Tho’ wond’ring senates hung on all he spoke,
  The club must hail him master of the joke. 
  Shall parts so various aim at nothing new? 
  He’ll shine a Tully and a Wilmot too;
  Then turns repentant, and his God adores,
  With the same spirit that he drinks and whores;
  Enough if all around him but admire,
  And now the Punk applaud, and now the Friar. 
  Thus with each gift of nature and of art,
  And wanting nothing but an honest heart;
  Grown all to all, from no one vice exempt;
  And most contemptible, to shun contempt;
  His passion still to covet gen’ral praise,
  His life, to forfeit it a thousand ways;
  A constant bounty which no friend has made;
  An angel tongue which no man can persuade;