LET me avail myself of your good nature, reader, for I am a man who would not artfully conceal1 truth to the injury of a friend; but I am, at the same time, conscious of the heavy penalty incurred2 in speaking the honest, unembroidered truth of some of our well tailored heroes, who open and shut like sunflowers under a vertical3 sun, and present an excellent object to attract the admiration4 of your fine ladies in Broadway. Heaven knows I appreciate the true hero, and am ready to favor an honest purpose with a joyful5 heart; but your political general of militia6 is a model of coxcombry7, a creature ready to faint when you want service of him, and the best imposture8 known at this day. I, however, hold it not well to turn the wheel too far against men who are harmlessly inclined, and in whose marching and countermarching up Broadway (with the pomp and circumstance of men about to face blood and flames) the juvenile9 and other lighthearted portions of the community find an excellent fund of amusement. Indeed, I remember that others may love what I have no taste to appreciate; and that when fortune turns against me, which is the case at this moment, I had better keep my thumbs out of my neighbor's finger glass. Nor would I knowingly wound with my remarks on General Benthornham's merits as an officer, the pride of one of his many admirers. Suffice it to say, then, (as the learned Doctor Easley would say,) that although his coat had received a rent or two in the back, no sooner was his truant10 horse brought back to him than he mounted with the daring of a book publisher, and, after evincing no small desire to ride over the brigade a dozen times, and putting it through a series of intricate evolutions, which the various regiments11 forming it performed with great credit to themselves, he ordered them dismissed and sent home, there to look well to their good behavior during the rest of the day. And for this last and very kind service, they thought him the bravest general history had any account of. In accordance, then, with this parental12 admonition, they betook themselves home, well fatigued13, but as ready to fight as any good men ought to be when satisfied that arms were necessary to the maintenance of law; which, however much I may blush to acknowledge it, was the case in Gotham, which was in sad disorder-not from any bad spirit between its citizens, but merely the curious antics of a very ambitious mayor. Having made an amende I hope will prove ample, let us turn to the patient at the New York Hotel.
Major Roger Potter, who I forgot to mention had been dubbed14 a General on the preceding evening, lay in a state of stupor15, though with evident signs of life, for some hours. Being the guest of the city, no little anxiety was evinced by the physician, who, after exercising great skill in feeling for broken bones and cracks in his skull16, declared that he could find neither bruises17 nor broken bones; but, if appearances were to be taken, he had received such internal injury as must soon put an end to his usefulness in this world, and send him to a better. He therefore got out his lancet, and, after nearly draining his veins18 of blood, was about to apply a monster plaster to his head, when the patient suddenly opened his eyes and began to give out such extraordinary signs of life that the doctor as suddenly changed his mind, and, laying aside the plaster, at once declared he had the most sanguine19 hopes of his recovery. Meanwhile a report got over the city that Major Roger Potter was thrown from his horse, and lay a corpse20 at the New York Hotel. And the newspapers added to this report by inserting the mournful event as a fact. Indeed, the city fathers, who evinced a strange passion for mournings, were well nigh voting a respectable sum to pay proper respect to his remains21, for they held it no disgrace to vote sums for melancholy22 purposes; which, however, they invariably spend in night suppers, over which they give one another bloody23 noses and black eyes-a distinguishing motto with divers24 hard headed councilmen. But the major was resolved not to be sent to his long account in so mean a style, and remained with his eyes wide open, and so clearly in possession of his rational senses, that the bystanders, who were all gentlemen of quality, (there not being an opera singer among them,) declared that his power of endurance was without bounds. In truth, it was proven that no amount of battering25 and bruising26 could kill so famous a warrior27. But, if he opened his eyes, he spoke28 not a word until the physician was gone, when his lips slowly resumed their power of motion, and he said, in a voice scarcely intelligible29, "Quantibus, moribus, canibus, omnibus, ma dormibus."
"Pray, what does he say?" inquired the bystanders of one another.
"Lambabus, Jehovabus, cananius," resumed the major, following the effort with a deep sigh.
"He speaks Latin," replied one of the bystanders; "and as I have a little of that language at my fingers' ends, I recognize that he says, 'Blessed is he who dies in a noble mission.' Yes, there! he repeats it again, and I have it exactly."
The major continued muttering several incoherent sentences, interlarding them with words of intelligible English, which doubly confused his auditors30, another of whom declared that though he never had read a verse of Latin in his life, he was sure it was not that, but some strange tongue, in which the sufferer, being a profound scholar, desired to make his "dying declaration." They all finally came to this opinion, and agreed that a priest and a parson be called, as they were not quite sure as to his religion, and it was only necessary to have some one who knew Latin by heart. A druggist was suggested by another; but an objection was interposed on the ground that the Latin of druggists was not to be depended upon. Again, it was said the priest and the parson would get to quarreling over some nice point of doctrine31, or as to the exact style of sending him to heaven, which would make it extremely unpleasant for the worldly minded lookers on. "It is just come into my head," spoke a young man of genteel appearance and sympathizing looks, "that there lives in the neighborhood one Orlando Tickler, an Irish gentleman of much ancestry32. He is reputed to be poor, but a profound critic of books; it is also said of him that he can speak numerous tongues." Orlando Tickler was a man of fashionable aspect, and had written various learned essays, largely set with Latin sentences, on subjects connected with high art, for which he affected33 a love equaled only by his contempt for every American who "dabbled34 in it." And, as he was always ready to give proof of his wisdom, he came at the first invitation, and with so grave and solemn a bearing that no man would have dared to dispute his wisdom.
"And now, sir," said he, in a brogue of peculiar35 richness, addressing the prostrate36 hero, "since I see you are dying, and about to leave this world, pray what would you say in respect to yourself?"
The major (now General Roger Potter) fixed37 his eyes upon Mr. Tickler with such intenseness that he turned pale, and repeated his question. Whereupon the prostrate patient again muttered, "Quantibus, moribus, canibus, ma dormebus."
"Faith, and it's as good Latin as my man could speak, which is saying no little for him as a gentleman," said Mr. Tickler, with an air of much wisdom.
"Please, sir, tell us what he says, for we are all impatient, lest the poor man go out of the world with a dying request upon his lips;" interposed one of the bystanders.
"What's that he says, now?" queried38 Mr. Tickler, in reply. "Well, I have it!-he says, (and I think his mind is a little out because he says it,) that this world is all naked vanity, and the quicker a man makes his peace with heaven, the stronger is the proof that he is a man of sense."
They all agreed that this was a very sensible remark for a dying man, when the major, to their utter astonishment39, again opened his lips, and with more vigor40 than before, muttered one of two sentences, which were all of Latin he had ever known in his life, "Apolla Majora canimus."
"See, now!-what is this it is now?" interposed the learned Tickler. "Faith it's hard enough keeping them all in a body's head. Indeed, an' it's come to me quick enough though! He says he gave his energies to his country, and hopes the devil may get his enemies if they say it was otherwise with him."
Mr. Tickler now commenced a dissertation41 on the beauties of the Latin language, the origin of which he traced into the ancient Celtic, which, judging from its Nomic melody, he should say bore a trite42 and common resemblance to that now spoken in Wales, Ireland, and the Highlands of Scotland; and which, notwithstanding the authorities to the contrary, he firmly believed was introduced first into his country by William the Conqueror43. Indeed, he insisted that he had twice debated this point with the learned critic, Easley, (whom he styled the New York executioner of literature,) and beat him with ease; for though Easley was a man of profound knowledge and erudition, he was not a match for him at Latin.
"Omnes codem cogimur, omnium," repeated the major.
"Gentlemen," said the critic, "he has something of great importance to communicate, and, if it please you, desires to be alone for a few minutes." The bystanders were now well convinced that Mr. Tickler was a man of profound learning, and more than up to his reputation. They, therefore, withdrew in silence; and had no sooner disappeared than the major rose to his haunches without the slightest difficulty, and gave visible proof that his tongue was restored to its original usefulness.
"Truly, I am under an obligation to you, sir," said he, addressing himself to the critic; "for you have rendered me a service I much needed. I was only stunned44, and knew that a little sleep would restore me to my natural understanding. But my tongue had lost its power, and I could not sleep with so many about my bed. The nonsense I muttered was for a disguise; for I feared if I came suddenly to my senses they would dry up their sympathies, and not think so well of me. But pray, how comes it, sir, that you made such good Latin of my gibberish? Tell me, kind sir, for I see you are a scholar, and it may be that Latin is a natural gift with me; and when you are done I will order up a little brandy, which we will divide between us; for I apprehend45 it will not embarrass you, since you are a man in whose eye I see wisdom enough for several."
"To be honest with you, friend, I will not reject the brandy, for I took a liking46 to it when I was a strolling player, and believe it does me no harm in my new profession. He here, at the major's request, rang the bell for a waiter. "As to what you said, to tell the truth between ourselves, not a word of it could I make out; for though I can speak many languages, my head is not troubled with a word of Latin, which, I have no doubt, you spoke with great correctness. I would have you know, sir, that it will not do in these pinching times to set up for a critic, unless you have Latin at your finger's ends. And if you have it not, why it serves the same purpose to say you have. With Latin you can enter the Press Club, (which affords you an excellent opportunity of escaping the bills of your tailor,) and if you practice the deception47 with skill, you will be set down for a man of wonderful capacity. But if you knew what a miserable48 thing it is to be a critic, you would, I knew, say a man had better follow the devil with a fife and drum than depend on the tricks of booksellers for his bread, which is come the fashion with critics at this day."
"Upon my soul, Mr. Tickler," replied the major, rising to his feet, as sound a man as ever was seen, "I reverence49 you for your good sense. The truth is, I hold it none the worse of a man that he have not his mouth full of Latin every minute in the day. And as my wife Polly knows, I have languages enough at my tongue's end; but hold it better of a man that he try to get perfect in his own."
"Let us to the priests with the languages," rejoined Mr. Tickler, knowingly; "and let us get to the brandy for here comes the servant." And the servant entered with a bow.
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1
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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incurred
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| [医]招致的，遭受的； incur的过去式 | |
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vertical
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| adj.垂直的，顶点的，纵向的；n.垂直物，垂直的位置 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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militia
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| n.民兵，民兵组织 | |
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coxcombry
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| n.（男子的）虚浮，浮夸，爱打扮 | |
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imposture
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| n.冒名顶替，欺骗 | |
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juvenile
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| n.青少年，少年读物；adj.青少年的，幼稚的 | |
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truant
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| n.懒惰鬼，旷课者；adj.偷懒的，旷课的，游荡的；v.偷懒，旷课 | |
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regiments
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| （军队的）团( regiment的名词复数 )； 大量的人或物 | |
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parental
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| adj.父母的；父的；母的 | |
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fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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dubbed
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| v.给…起绰号( dub的过去式和过去分词 )；把…称为；配音；复制 | |
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stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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bruises
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| n.瘀伤，伤痕，擦伤( bruise的名词复数 ) | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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divers
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| adj.不同的；种种的 | |
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battering
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| n.用坏，损坏v.连续猛击( batter的现在分词 ) | |
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bruising
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| adj.殊死的；十分激烈的v.擦伤(bruise的现在分词形式) | |
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warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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auditors
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| n.审计员，稽核员( auditor的名词复数 )；（大学课程的）旁听生 | |
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doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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ancestry
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| n.祖先，家世 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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dabbled
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| v.涉猎( dabble的过去式和过去分词 )；涉足；浅尝；少量投资 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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queried
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| v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的过去式和过去分词 )；询问 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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vigor
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| n.活力，精力，元气 | |
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dissertation
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| n.（博士学位）论文，学术演讲，专题论文 | |
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trite
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| adj.陈腐的 | |
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conqueror
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| n.征服者，胜利者 | |
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stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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45
apprehend
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| vt.理解，领悟，逮捕，拘捕，忧虑 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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49
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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