Truly a hard case, and one far surpassing the paltry picturing of Eugène Sue. There is a vagueness of mind and a senile bewilderment manifested in this poem, which is indeed remarkable.
One fine day, some time ago, Savin and Pidgeon were walking down Fifth avenue to their offices.
A funeral was starting from No. —. On the door plate was the word Irving.
'Such is life,' said Savin. 'All that is mortal of the great essayist is being borne to the grave: in fact, the cold and silent tomb.'
A tear came to Pidgeon's eye. Pidgeon has an enthusiastic veneration for genius. He adores literary talent.
'Savin,' said he, 'there is a seat vacant in this carriage. I will enter it, and pay my last tribute of respect to the illustrious departed. But I thought he had a place up the river.'
'This was his town house,' said Savin. 'How I should like to join with you in your thoughtful remembrance, and in your somewhat unceleritous journey to the churchyard! But, no, the case of Blackbridge vs. Bridgeblack will be called at twelve, and I have no time to lose.'
Pidgeon entered the carriage. There was a large man on the seat, but Pigeon found room beside him. The carriage slowly moved off. Pidgeon put his handkerchief to his eyes; the large man coughed and took a chew of tobacco.
Presently said Pidgeon: