And so, having arranged time, place, and implements, I sat down to read a chapter of Bell on Wounds. I thought of my vitals, of injuries in the abdomen and thorax, generally fatal, as my author remarked; of my Puritanical friends with their antiphlogistic principles; of weeping rel atives and stereotyped obituaries; but then I thought of honor and gallantry, and the blood sprang like an arrow from my heart. Suppose, however, I should be so miserable as to hit my antagonist-then think of the law; and the noose, that "mortal coil" which no man can "shuffle off;" and the scaffold, one drop of which is a dose more sedative than all the "drowsy sirups of the east ;" and the Galvanic experiments, twitching and puckering one's leaden features, as if they would Create a soul under the ribs of death! When I thought of all these things, most devoutly did I wish I had kept my verses in the silly brain that hatched them, or had them printed and bound with the poems of one of my interesting friends, or disposed of them in any way, so that they might have died unread, or evaporated unwritten. To provide against what is commonly called an accident, I made the following Will. I take the liberty, as I have done throughout, of avoiding names, dates, localities, and technicalities. "Knowing the frailty of our bodily organization, and the peculating disposition of domestics, I give and bequeath the following articles to the following persons. "My note book, containing a list of all persons who walk in public, with personal remarks, to the Female Charitable Society. "To the person marked 44, in the note book, a green coat and a hat somewhat worn, recommending him to wear them occasionally, by way of a change. "To the person marked 19, in the note book, a clean shirt, requesting him to keep it as a curiosity. "To the same person, a small box, containing an article manufactured at Windsor, to which I have added directions for its use. "To the lady marked 113, a yard of tolerably thick cloth, to be disposed of as apparel, and applied where it is most needed. "To my great uncle, a pistol flint, with a knife to skin it. "To my stationer, an unfinished novel, The One-eyed Militia Man,' an excellent thing, as far as it goes. "To my long suffering creditors, my blessing. "To the world, my memory, begging them to be careful of it." And now, having set all these matters in order, I practised pistol shooting two whole days at a little cock-chicken of my landlady's, and was awakened on the third morning by a vigorous crow from the intangible obstinate. It is now some time since this affair has all blown over, and I am unwilling to dwell upon the particulars. I will only say, that a few days after my unsuccessful attempts upon the chicken, my tailor declared the left leg of my gray trowsers was beyond the aid of any thing but a patch, and as he assured me that no gentleman of figure wore patches, I requested him to measure me on the spot for a pair of black broadcloth pantaloons. O. W. H. |