was on him; he knew it, and he desired to die near his old home in Versailles.
He was taken there, and there died on the 22d day of September, 1864, with the pathetic words upon his lips: Here I lie in a borrowed house, on a borrowed bed, and under a borrowed blanket.
God pity me!
Mr. Marshall was noted all over this country for the brilliancy of his wit and the quickness of his repartee.
It has been said that one of the neatest retorts ever made by a public speaker was that made by Coleridge to some marks of disapprobation during his democratic lectures at Bristol: I am not at all surprised that when the red-hot prejudices of aristocrats are suddenly plunged into the cool element of reason, they should go off with a hiss.
Happy as was this reply, it was surpassed in overwhelming effect by the somewhat irreverent one made by Mr. Marshall, towards the close of his life, at Buffalo, New York.
He was making a speech to a crowded audience in that city when he was interrupted by a