In less figurative phrase, it is my desire to write, for my amusement, till one of us, the reader or myself, gives in, or gives out, and cries enough. I have a perfect respect for the old proverb, de gustibus, and by no means anticipate the pleasure of pleasing every body—
Men’ moveat cimex Pantilius? aut cruciet, quod
Vellicet absentem Demetrius? aut quod ineptus
Fannius Hermogenis lædat conviva Tigelli?
There are some readers, for example, who seem to look upon a classical quotation, as a personal affront. I conceive this objection to be scarcely equitable, from those, whose hybrid English, it is quite as hard to bear.
There are mortals—offenders in some sort—whom it is difficult to please, like the culprit who cried higher and lower, under the lash, till the Irish drummer’s patience was perfectly exhausted, and he exclaimed—“By Jasus, there’s no plasing ye, strike where I will.”
No. C.
The sayings of eminent men, in a dying hour, are eminently worthy of being gathered together—they are often illustrative of the characters of the dead, and impressive upon the hearts of the living. Not a few of these parting words are scattered, over the breadth and length of history, and might form a volume—a Vade Mecum, for the patriot and the Christian—a casket of imperishable jewels.
As an example of those sayings, to which I refer, nothing can be more apposite, than that of the Chevalier Bayard, while dying upon the field of battle. “He received a wound,” says Robertson, “which he immediately perceived to be mortal, and being unable any longer to continue on horseback, he ordered one of his attendants to place him under a tree, with his face toward the enemy; then fixing his eyes on the guard of his sword, which he held up, instead of a cross, he addressed his prayers to God; and, in this posture, which became his character, both as a soldier and as a Christian, he calmly awaited the approach of death.” Bourbon, who led the foremost of the enemy’s troops, found him in this situation, and expressed regret and pity, at the sight. “Pity not me,” cried the high-spirited chevalier, “I die, as a man of honor ought, in the discharge of my duty; they indeed are objects of pity, who fight against their king, their country, and their oath.”
How significant of the life of that great military phlebotomist, who, from the overthrow of the council of five hundred, in 1799, to his own in 1815, delighted in blood, and in war, were those wild, wandering words of the dying Napoleon—tete d’armee!
We have the last words of consciousness, that were uttered, by the younger Adams, when stricken by the hand of death in the capitol—the last of earth! We have also those of his venerable father, who expired, on the anniversary of that day, which he had so essentially contributed to render glorious, so long as the annals of our country shall continue to be preserved. On the morning of that day, the dying patriot, at the age of ninety-one, was awakened, by the customary pealing of bells, and the roar of artillery. Upon being asked, if he recognized the day, he replied—“it is the glorious Fourth—God bless the day—God bless you all.”