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CHAPTER XXXVI.
WHICH RELATES HOW THE MAJOR WAS RESTORED TO CONSCIOUSNESS; AND OF
THE STORY OF AN ECCENTRIC CRITIC.
LET me avail myself of your good nature, reader, for I am a man who
would not artfully conceal truth to the injury of a friend; but I
am, at the same time, conscious of the heavy penalty incurred in
speaking the honest, unembroidered truth of some of our well
tailored heroes, who open and shut like sunflowers under a vertical
sun, and present an excellent object to attract the admiration of
your fine ladies in Broadway. Heaven knows I appreciate the true
hero, and am ready to favor an honest purpose with a joyful heart;
but your political general of militia is a model of coxcombry, a
creature ready to faint when you want service of him, and the best
imposture 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 juvenile 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 truant 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
regiments 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 parental admonition, they
betook themselves home, well fatigued, 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 dubbed a
General on the preceding evening, lay in a state of stupor, 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
skull, declared that he could find neither bruises 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 veins 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 sanguine hopes of his recovery. Meanwhile a
report got over the city that Major Roger Potter was thrown from his
horse, and lay a corpse 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 remains, for they held it no disgrace to vote sums
for melancholy purposes; which, however, they invariably spend in
night suppers, over which they give one another bloody noses and
black eyes-a distinguishing motto with divers 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 battering
and bruising could kill so famous a warrior. But, if he opened his
eyes, he spoke not a word until the physician was gone, when his
lips slowly resumed their power of motion, and he said, in a voice
scarcely intelligible, "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 auditors, 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 doctrine, 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 ancestry. 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 affected a love
equaled only by his contempt for every American who "dabbled 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 peculiar richness,
addressing the prostrate 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) fixed 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?" queried 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 astonishment, again opened his
lips, and with more vigor 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 dissertation 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
trite 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 Conqueror. 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 stunned, 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 apprehend 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 liking 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 deception with skill,
you will be set down for a man of wonderful capacity. But if you
knew what a miserable 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 reverence 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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Babbitt by Sinclair Lewis
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