"And on your tomb inscribed shall be,
In letters of your favorite brass,
Here lies, O Lord! we grieve to see,
A man in form, in head an ass."
He arched his brow, and, without speaking, retired. An hour after, he
came to me, and said: "Suppose you write no more poetry. I shall stop.
You can call me a villain, a knave, a great rascal: every gentleman
have dat said about him. Mr. Clay, Mr. Webster, General Jackson, all
have been call so. You can say dat; but I tell you, sir, I not like to
be call ass."
He was the aggressor, and, though offended, was too chivalrous to
quarrel. He had fought nineteen duels, and I did not want to quarrel
either.
For many of his latter years he was destitute and miserable. He had
seen all his compeers pass away, and he felt that he was in the way of
a generation who knew nothing of him, or his history, and who cared
nothing for either. At nearly ninety years of age he died in extreme
poverty. Nature had done much for Bernard Marigny. His mind was of no
ordinary stamp. He was a natural orator, abounding in humor and wit,
and was the life of society.
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