A TALE OF THE LATE BUGABOO AND KICKAPOO CAMPAIGN.
Pleurez, pleurez, mes yeux, et fondez vous en eau!
La moitié de ma vie a mis l’ autre au tombeau.
—CORNEILLE.
I cannot just now remember when or where I first made the
acquaintance of that truly fine-looking fellow, Brevet Brigadier
General John A. B. C. Smith. Some one did introduce me to the
gentleman, I am sure—at some public meeting, I know very
well—held about something of great importance, no doubt—at some
place or other, I feel convinced,—whose name I have unaccountably
forgotten. The truth is—that the introduction was attended, upon
my part, with a degree of anxious embarrassment which operated to
prevent any definite impressions of either time or place. I am
constitutionally nervous—this, with me, is a family failing, and
I can’t help it. In especial, the slightest appearance of
mystery—of any point I cannot exactly comprehend—puts me at once
into a pitiable state of agitation.
There was something, as it were, remarkable—yes, remarkable,
although this is but a feeble term to express my full
meaning—about the entire individuality of the personage in
question. He was, perhaps, six feet in height, and of a presence
singularly commanding. There was an air distingué pervading the
whole man, which spoke of high breeding, and hinted at high
birth. Upon this topic—the topic of Smith’s personal appearance—I
have a kind of melancholy satisfaction in being minute. His head
of hair would have done honor to a Brutus; nothing could be more
richly flowing, or possess a brighter gloss. It was of a jetty
black;—which was also the color, or more properly the no color of
his unimaginable whiskers. You perceive I cannot speak of these
latter without enthusiasm; it is not too much to say that they
were the handsomest pair of whiskers under the sun. At all
events, they encircled, and at times partially overshadowed, a
mouth utterly unequalled. Here were the most entirely even, and
the most brilliantly white of all conceivable teeth. From between
them, upon every proper occasion, issued a voice of surpassing
clearness, melody, and strength. In the matter of eyes, also, my
acquaintance was pre-eminently endowed. Either one of such a pair
was worth a couple of the ordinary ocular organs. They were of a
deep hazel, exceedingly large and lustrous; and there was
perceptible about them, ever and anon, just that amount of
interesting obliquity which gives pregnancy to expression.
The bust of the General was unquestionably the finest bust I ever
saw. For your life you could not have found a fault with its
wonderful proportion. This rare peculiarity set off to great
advantage a pair of shoulders which would have called up a blush
of conscious inferiority into the countenance of the marble
Apollo. I have a passion for fine shoulders, and may say that I
never beheld them in perfection before. The arms altogether were
admirably modelled. Nor were the lower limbs less superb. These
were, indeed, the ne plus ultra of good legs. Every connoisseur
in such matters admitted the legs to be good. There was neither
too much flesh, nor too little,—neither rudeness nor fragility. I
could not imagine a more graceful curve than that of the _os
femoris_, and there was just that due gentle prominence in the
rear of the fibula which goes to the conformation of a properly
proportioned calf. I wish to God my young and talented friend
Chiponchipino, the sculptor, had but seen the legs of Brevet
Brigadier General John A. B. C. Smith.
But although men so absolutely fine-looking are neither as plenty
as reasons or blackberries, still I could not bring myself to
believe that the remarkable something to which I alluded just
now,—that the odd air of je ne sais quoi which hung about my
new acquaintance,—lay altogether, or indeed at all, in the
supreme excellence of his bodily endowments. Perhaps it might be
traced to the manner;—yet here again I could not pretend to be
positive. There was a primness, not to say stiffness, in his
carriage—a degree of measured, and, if I may so express it, of
rectangular precision, attending his every movement, which,
observed in a more diminutive figure, would have had the least
little savor in the world, of affectation, pomposity or
constraint, but which noticed in a gentleman of his undoubted
dimensions, was readily placed to the account of reserve,
hauteur—of a commendable sense, in short, of what is due to the
dignity of colossal proportion.
The kind friend who presented me to General Smith whispered in my
ear some few words of comment upon the man. He was a remarkable
man—a very remarkable man—indeed one of the most remarkable
men of the age. He was an especial favorite, too, with the
ladies—chiefly on account of his high reputation for courage.
“In that point he is unrivalled—indeed he is a perfect
desperado—a down-right fire-eater, and no mistake,” said my
friend, here dropping his voice excessively low, and thrilling me
with the mystery of his tone.
“A downright fire-eater, and no mistake. Showed that, I
should say, to some purpose, in the late tremendous swamp-fight
away down South, with the Bugaboo and Kickapoo Indians.” [Here my
friend opened his eyes to some extent.] “Bless my soul!—blood and
thunder, and all that!—prodigies of valor!—heard of him of
course?—you know he’s the man—”
“Man alive, how do you do? why, how are ye? very glad to
see ye, indeed!” here interrupted the General himself, seizing my
companion by the hand as he drew near, and bowing stiffly, but
profoundly, as I was presented. I then thought, (and I think so
still,) that I never heard a clearer nor a stronger voice, nor
beheld a finer set of teeth: but I must say that I was sorry
for the interruption just at that moment, as, owing to the
whispers and insinuations aforesaid, my interest had been greatly
excited in the hero of the Bugaboo and Kickapoo campaign.
However, the delightfully luminous conversation of Brevet
Brigadier General John A. B. C. Smith soon completely dissipated
this chagrin. My friend leaving us immediately, we had quite a
long tête-à-tête, and I was not only pleased but
really—instructed. I never heard a more fluent talker, or a man
of greater general information. With becoming modesty, he
forebore, nevertheless, to touch upon the theme I had just then
most at heart—I mean the mysterious circumstances attending the
Bugaboo war—and, on my own part, what I conceive to be a proper
sense of delicacy forbade me to broach the subject; although, in
truth, I was exceedingly tempted to do so. I perceived, too, that
the gallant soldier preferred topics of philosophical interest,
and that he delighted, especially, in commenting upon the rapid
march of mechanical invention. Indeed, lead him where I would,
this was a point to which he invariably came back.
“There is nothing at all like it,” he would say; “we are a
wonderful people, and live in a wonderful age. Parachutes and
rail-roads—man-traps and spring-guns! Our steam-boats are upon
every sea, and the Nassau balloon packet is about to run regular
trips (fare either way only twenty pounds sterling) between
London and Timbuctoo. And who shall calculate the immense
influence upon social life—upon arts—upon commerce—upon
literature—which will be the immediate result of the great
principles of electro-magnetics! Nor, is this all, let me assure
you! There is really no end to the march of invention. The most
wonderful—the most ingenious—and let me add, Mr.—Mr.—Thompson, I
believe, is your name—let me add, I say, the most useful—the
most truly useful—mechanical contrivances, are daily springing
up like mushrooms, if I may so express myself, or, more
figuratively, like—ah—grasshoppers—like grasshoppers, Mr.
Thompson—about us and ah—ah—ah—around us!”
Thompson, to be sure, is not my name; but it is needless to say
that I left General Smith with a heightened interest in the man,
with an exalted opinion of his conversational powers, and a deep
sense of the valuable privileges we enjoy in living in this age
of mechanical invention. My curiosity, however, had not been
altogether satisfied, and I resolved to prosecute immediate
inquiry among my acquaintances touching the Brevet Brigadier
General himself, and particularly respecting the tremendous
events quorum pars magna fuit, during the Bugaboo and Kickapoo
campaign.
The first opportunity which presented itself, and which
(horresco referens) I did not in the least scruple to seize,
occurred at the Church of the Reverend Doctor Drummummupp, where
I found myself established, one Sunday, just at sermon time, not
only in the pew, but by the side, of that worthy and
communicative little friend of mine, Miss Tabitha T. Thus seated,
I congratulated myself, and with much reason, upon the very
flattering state of affairs. If any person knew anything about
Brevet Brigadier General John A. B. C. Smith, that person, it was
clear to me, was Miss Tabitha T. We telegraphed a few signals,
and then commenced, sotto voce, a brisk tête-à-tête.
“Smith!” said she, in reply to my very earnest inquiry;
“Smith!—why, not General John A. B. C.? Bless me, I thought you
knew all about him! This is a wonderfully inventive age!
Horrid affair that!—a bloody set of wretches, those
Kickapoos!—fought like a hero—prodigies of valor—immortal renown.
Smith!—Brevet Brigadier General John A. B. C.! why, you know he’s
the man—”
“Man,” here broke in Doctor Drummummupp, at the top of his voice,
and with a thump that came near knocking the pulpit about our
ears—“man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live;
he cometh up and is cut down like a flower!” I started to the
extremity of the pew, and perceived by the animated looks of the
divine, that the wrath which had nearly proved fatal to the
pulpit had been excited by the whispers of the lady and myself.
There was no help for it; so I submitted with a good grace, and
listened, in all the martyrdom of dignified silence, to the
balance of that very capital discourse.
Next evening found me a somewhat late visitor at the Rantipole
Theatre, where I felt sure of satisfying my curiosity at once, by
merely stepping into the box of those exquisite specimens of
affability and omniscience, the Misses Arabella and Miranda
Cognoscenti. That fine tragedian, Climax, was doing Iago to a
very crowded house, and I experienced some little difficulty in
making my wishes understood; especially, as our box was next the
slips, and completely overlooked the stage.
“Smith!” said Miss Arabella, as she at length comprehended the
purport of my query; “Smith!—why, not General John A. B. C.?”
“Smith!” inquired Miranda, musingly. “God bless me, did you ever
behold a finer figure?”
“Never, madam, but do tell me—”
“Or so inimitable grace?”
“Never, upon my word!—But pray inform me—”
“Or so just an appreciation of stage effect?”
“Madam!”
“Or a more delicate sense of the true beauties of Shakespeare? Be
so good as to look at that leg!”
“The devil!” and I turned again to her sister.
“Smith!” said she, “why, not General John A. B. C.? Horrid affair
that, wasn’t it?—great wretches, those Bugaboos—savage and so
on—but we live in a wonderfully inventive age!—Smith!—O yes!
great man!—perfect desperado!—immortal renown!—prodigies of
valor! Never heard!” [This was given in a scream.] “Bless my
soul! why, he’s the man—”
“——mandragora
Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world
Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep
Which thou owd’st yesterday!”
here roared our Climax just in my ear, and shaking his fist in my
face all the time, in a way that I couldn’t stand, and I
wouldn’t. I left the Misses Cognoscenti immediately, went
behind the scenes forthwith, and gave the beggarly scoundrel such
a thrashing as I trust he will remember to the day of his death.
At the soirée of the lovely widow, Mrs. Kathleen O’Trump, I was
confident that I should meet with no similar disappointment.
Accordingly, I was no sooner seated at the card-table, with my
pretty hostess for a vis-à-vis, than I propounded those
questions the solution of which had become a matter so essential
to my peace.
“Smith!” said my partner, “why, not General John A. B. C.? Horrid
affair that, wasn’t it?—diamonds, did you say?—terrible wretches
those Kickapoos!—we are playing whist, if you please, Mr.
Tattle—however, this is the age of invention, most certainly
the age, one may say—the age par excellence—speak
French?—oh, quite a hero—perfect desperado!—no hearts, Mr.
Tattle? I don’t believe it.—immortal renown and all
that!—prodigies of valor! Never heard!!—why, bless me, he’s the
man—”
“Mann!—Captain Mann?” here screamed some little feminine
interloper from the farthest corner of the room. “Are you talking
about Captain Mann and the duel?—oh, I must hear—do tell—go on,
Mrs. O’Trump!—do now go on!” And go on Mrs. O’Trump did—all about
a certain Captain Mann, who was either shot or hung, or should
have been both shot and hung. Yes! Mrs. O’Trump, she went on, and
I—I went off. There was no chance of hearing anything farther
that evening in regard to Brevet Brigadier General John A. B. C.
Still I consoled myself with the reflection that the tide of ill
luck would not run against me forever, and so determined to make
a bold push for information at the rout of that bewitching little
angel, the graceful Mrs. Pirouette.
“Smith!” said Mrs. P., as we twirled about together in a _pas de
zephyr_, “Smith!—why, not General John A. B. C.? Dreadful
business that of the Bugaboos, wasn’t it?—dreadful creatures,
those Indians!—do turn out your toes! I really am ashamed of
you—man of great courage, poor fellow!—but this is a wonderful
age for invention—O dear me, I’m out of breath—quite a
desperado—prodigies of valor—never heard!—can’t believe it—I
shall have to sit down and enlighten you—Smith! why, he’s the
man—”
“Man-Fred, I tell you!” here bawled out Miss Bas-Bleu, as I led
Mrs. Pirouette to a seat. “Did ever anybody hear the like? It’s
Man-Fred, I say, and not at all by any means Man-Friday.”
Here Miss Bas-Bleu beckoned to me in a very peremptory manner;
and I was obliged, will I nill I, to leave Mrs. P. for the
purpose of deciding a dispute touching the title of a certain
poetical drama of Lord Byron’s. Although I pronounced, with great
promptness, that the true title was Man-Friday, and not by any
means Man-Fred, yet when I returned to seek Mrs. Pirouette she
was not to be discovered, and I made my retreat from the house in
a very bitter spirit of animosity against the whole race of the
Bas-Bleus.
Matters had now assumed a really serious aspect, and I resolved
to call at once upon my particular friend, Mr. Theodore Sinivate;
for I knew that here at least I should get something like
definite information.
“Smith!” said he, in his well-known peculiar way of drawling out
his syllables; “Smith!—why, not General John A. B. C.? Savage
affair that with the Kickapo-o-o-os, wasn’t it? Say! don’t you
think so?—perfect despera-a-ado—great pity, ‘pon my
honor!—wonderfully inventive age!—pro-o-odigies of valor! By the
by, did you ever hear about Captain Ma-a-a-a-n?”
“Captain Mann be d—d!” said I; “please to go on with your story.”
“Hem!—oh well!—quite la même cho-o-ose, as we say in France.
Smith, eh? Brigadier-General John A.—B.—C.? I say”—[here Mr. S.
thought proper to put his finger to the side of his nose]—“I say,
you don’t mean to insinuate now, really and truly, and
conscientiously, that you don’t know all about that affair of
Smith’s, as well as I do, eh? Smith? John A—B—C.? Why, bless me,
he’s the ma-a-an—”
“Mr. Sinivate,” said I, imploringly, “is he the man in the
mask?”
“No-o-o!” said he, looking wise, “nor the man in the mo-o-on.”
This reply I considered a pointed and positive insult, and so
left the house at once in high dudgeon, with a firm resolve to
call my friend, Mr. Sinivate, to a speedy account for his
ungentlemanly conduct and ill-breeding.
In the meantime, however, I had no notion of being thwarted
touching the information I desired. There was one resource left
me yet. I would go to the fountain-head. I would call forthwith
upon the General himself, and demand, in explicit terms, a
solution of this abominable piece of mystery. Here, at least,
there should be no chance for equivocation. I would be plain,
positive, peremptory—as short as pie-crust—as concise as Tacitus
or Montesquieu.
It was early when I called, and the General was dressing; but I
pleaded urgent business, and was shown at once into his bed-room
by an old negro valet, who remained in attendance during my
visit. As I entered the chamber, I looked about, of course, for
the occupant, but did not immediately perceive him. There was a
large and exceedingly odd-looking bundle of something which lay
close by my feet on the floor, and, as I was not in the best
humor in the world, I gave it a kick out of the way.
“Hem! ahem! rather civil that, I should say!” said the bundle, in
one of the smallest, and altogether the funniest little voices,
between a squeak and a whistle, that I ever heard in all the days
of my existence.
“Ahem! rather civil that, I should observe.”
I fairly shouted with terror, and made off, at a tangent, into
the farthest extremity of the room.
“God bless me! my dear fellow,” here again whistled the bundle,
“what—what—what—why, what is the matter? I really believe you
don’t know me at all.”
What could I say to all this—what could I? I staggered into
an arm-chair, and, with staring eyes and open mouth, awaited the
solution of the wonder.
“Strange you shouldn’t know me though, isn’t it?” presently
re-squeaked the nondescript, which I now perceived was
performing, upon the floor, some inexplicable evolution, very
analogous to the drawing on of a stocking. There was only a
single leg, however, apparent.
“Strange you shouldn’t know me, though, isn’t it? Pompey, bring
me that leg!” Here Pompey handed the bundle, a very capital cork
leg, already dressed, which it screwed on in a trice; and then it
stood up before my eyes.
“And a bloody action it was,” continued the thing, as if in a
soliloquy; “but then one mustn’t fight with the Bugaboos and
Kickapoos, and think of coming off with a mere scratch. Pompey,
I’ll thank you now for that arm. Thomas” [turning to me] “is
decidedly the best hand at a cork leg; but if you should ever
want an arm, my dear fellow, you must really let me recommend you
to Bishop.” Here Pompey screwed on an arm.
“We had rather hot work of it, that you may say. Now, you dog,
slip on my shoulders and bosom! Pettitt makes the best shoulders,
but for a bosom you will have to go to Ducrow.”
“Bosom!” said I.
“Pompey, will you never be ready with that wig? Scalping is a
rough process after all; but then you can procure such a capital
scratch at De L’Orme’s.”
“Scratch!”
“Now, you nigger, my teeth! For a good set of these you had
better go to Parmly’s at once; high prices, but excellent work. I
swallowed some very capital articles, though, when the big
Bugaboo rammed me down with the butt end of his rifle.”
“Butt end! ram down!! my eye!!”
“O yes, by-the-by, my eye—here, Pompey, you scamp, screw it in !
Those Kickapoos are not so very slow at a gouge; but he’s a
belied man, that Dr. Williams, after all; you can’t imagine how
well I see with the eyes of his make.”
I now began very clearly to perceive that the object before me
was nothing more nor less than my new acquaintance, Brevet
Brigadier General John A. B. C. Smith. The manipulations of
Pompey had made, I must confess, a very striking difference in
the appearance of the personal man. The voice, however, still
puzzled me no little; but even this apparent mystery was speedily
cleared up.
“Pompey, you black rascal,” squeaked the General, “I really do
believe you would let me go out without my palate.”
Hereupon, the negro, grumbling out an apology, went up to his
master, opened his mouth with the knowing air of a horse-jockey,
and adjusted therein a somewhat singular-looking machine, in a
very dexterous manner, that I could not altogether comprehend.
The alteration, however, in the entire expression of the
General’s countenance was instantaneous and surprising. When he
again spoke, his voice had resumed all that rich melody and
strength which I had noticed upon our original introduction.
“D—n the vagabonds!” said he, in so clear a tone that I
positively started at the change, “D—n the vagabonds! they not
only knocked in the roof of my mouth, but took the trouble to cut
off at least seven-eighths of my tongue. There isn’t Bonfanti’s
equal, however, in America, for really good articles of this
description. I can recommend you to him with confidence,” [here
the General bowed,] “and assure you that I have the greatest
pleasure in so doing.”
I acknowledged his kindness in my best manner, and took leave of
him at once, with a perfect understanding of the true state of
affairs—with a full comprehension of the mystery which had
troubled me so long. It was evident. It was a clear case. Brevet
Brigadier General John A. B. C. Smith was the man—was _the man
that was used up_.
A TALE OF THE LATE BUGABOO AND KICKAPOO CAMPAIGN.
Pleurez, pleurez, mes yeux, et fondez vous en eau!
La moitié de ma vie a mis l’ autre au tombeau.
—CORNEILLE.
I cannot just now remember when or where I first made the
acquaintance of that truly fine-looking fellow, Brevet Brigadier
General John A. B. C. Smith. Some one did introduce me to the
gentleman, I am sure—at some public meeting, I know very
well—held about something of great importance, no doubt—at some
place or other, I feel convinced,—whose name I have unaccountably
forgotten. The truth is—that the introduction was attended, upon
my part, with a degree of anxious embarrassment which operated to
prevent any definite impressions of either time or place. I am
constitutionally nervous—this, with me, is a family failing, and
I can’t help it. In especial, the slightest appearance of
mystery—of any point I cannot exactly comprehend—puts me at once
into a pitiable state of agitation.
There was something, as it were, remarkable—yes, remarkable,
although this is but a feeble term to express my full
meaning—about the entire individuality of the personage in
question. He was, perhaps, six feet in height, and of a presence
singularly commanding. There was an air distingué pervading the
whole man, which spoke of high breeding, and hinted at high
birth. Upon this topic—the topic of Smith’s personal appearance—I
have a kind of melancholy satisfaction in being minute. His head
of hair would have done honor to a Brutus; nothing could be more
richly flowing, or possess a brighter gloss. It was of a jetty
black;—which was also the color, or more properly the no color of
his unimaginable whiskers. You perceive I cannot speak of these
latter without enthusiasm; it is not too much to say that they
were the handsomest pair of whiskers under the sun. At all
events, they encircled, and at times partially overshadowed, a
mouth utterly unequalled. Here were the most entirely even, and
the most brilliantly white of all conceivable teeth. From between
them, upon every proper occasion, issued a voice of surpassing
clearness, melody, and strength. In the matter of eyes, also, my
acquaintance was pre-eminently endowed. Either one of such a pair
was worth a couple of the ordinary ocular organs. They were of a
deep hazel, exceedingly large and lustrous; and there was
perceptible about them, ever and anon, just that amount of
interesting obliquity which gives pregnancy to expression.
The bust of the General was unquestionably the finest bust I ever
saw. For your life you could not have found a fault with its
wonderful proportion. This rare peculiarity set off to great
advantage a pair of shoulders which would have called up a blush
of conscious inferiority into the countenance of the marble
Apollo. I have a passion for fine shoulders, and may say that I
never beheld them in perfection before. The arms altogether were
admirably modelled. Nor were the lower limbs less superb. These
were, indeed, the ne plus ultra of good legs. Every connoisseur
in such matters admitted the legs to be good. There was neither
too much flesh, nor too little,—neither rudeness nor fragility. I
could not imagine a more graceful curve than that of the _os
femoris_, and there was just that due gentle prominence in the
rear of the fibula which goes to the conformation of a properly
proportioned calf. I wish to God my young and talented friend
Chiponchipino, the sculptor, had but seen the legs of Brevet
Brigadier General John A. B. C. Smith.
But although men so absolutely fine-looking are neither as plenty
as reasons or blackberries, still I could not bring myself to
believe that the remarkable something to which I alluded just
now,—that the odd air of je ne sais quoi which hung about my
new acquaintance,—lay altogether, or indeed at all, in the
supreme excellence of his bodily endowments. Perhaps it might be
traced to the manner;—yet here again I could not pretend to be
positive. There was a primness, not to say stiffness, in his
carriage—a degree of measured, and, if I may so express it, of
rectangular precision, attending his every movement, which,
observed in a more diminutive figure, would have had the least
little savor in the world, of affectation, pomposity or
constraint, but which noticed in a gentleman of his undoubted
dimensions, was readily placed to the account of reserve,
hauteur—of a commendable sense, in short, of what is due to the
dignity of colossal proportion.
The kind friend who presented me to General Smith whispered in my
ear some few words of comment upon the man. He was a remarkable
man—a very remarkable man—indeed one of the most remarkable
men of the age. He was an especial favorite, too, with the
ladies—chiefly on account of his high reputation for courage.
“In that point he is unrivalled—indeed he is a perfect
desperado—a down-right fire-eater, and no mistake,” said my
friend, here dropping his voice excessively low, and thrilling me
with the mystery of his tone.
“A downright fire-eater, and no mistake. Showed that, I
should say, to some purpose, in the late tremendous swamp-fight
away down South, with the Bugaboo and Kickapoo Indians.” [Here my
friend opened his eyes to some extent.] “Bless my soul!—blood and
thunder, and all that!—prodigies of valor!—heard of him of
course?—you know he’s the man—”
“Man alive, how do you do? why, how are ye? very glad to
see ye, indeed!” here interrupted the General himself, seizing my
companion by the hand as he drew near, and bowing stiffly, but
profoundly, as I was presented. I then thought, (and I think so
still,) that I never heard a clearer nor a stronger voice, nor
beheld a finer set of teeth: but I must say that I was sorry
for the interruption just at that moment, as, owing to the
whispers and insinuations aforesaid, my interest had been greatly
excited in the hero of the Bugaboo and Kickapoo campaign.
However, the delightfully luminous conversation of Brevet
Brigadier General John A. B. C. Smith soon completely dissipated
this chagrin. My friend leaving us immediately, we had quite a
long tête-à-tête, and I was not only pleased but
really—instructed. I never heard a more fluent talker, or a man
of greater general information. With becoming modesty, he
forebore, nevertheless, to touch upon the theme I had just then
most at heart—I mean the mysterious circumstances attending the
Bugaboo war—and, on my own part, what I conceive to be a proper
sense of delicacy forbade me to broach the subject; although, in
truth, I was exceedingly tempted to do so. I perceived, too, that
the gallant soldier preferred topics of philosophical interest,
and that he delighted, especially, in commenting upon the rapid
march of mechanical invention. Indeed, lead him where I would,
this was a point to which he invariably came back.
“There is nothing at all like it,” he would say; “we are a
wonderful people, and live in a wonderful age. Parachutes and
rail-roads—man-traps and spring-guns! Our steam-boats are upon
every sea, and the Nassau balloon packet is about to run regular
trips (fare either way only twenty pounds sterling) between
London and Timbuctoo. And who shall calculate the immense
influence upon social life—upon arts—upon commerce—upon
literature—which will be the immediate result of the great
principles of electro-magnetics! Nor, is this all, let me assure
you! There is really no end to the march of invention. The most
wonderful—the most ingenious—and let me add, Mr.—Mr.—Thompson, I
believe, is your name—let me add, I say, the most useful—the
most truly useful—mechanical contrivances, are daily springing
up like mushrooms, if I may so express myself, or, more
figuratively, like—ah—grasshoppers—like grasshoppers, Mr.
Thompson—about us and ah—ah—ah—around us!”
Thompson, to be sure, is not my name; but it is needless to say
that I left General Smith with a heightened interest in the man,
with an exalted opinion of his conversational powers, and a deep
sense of the valuable privileges we enjoy in living in this age
of mechanical invention. My curiosity, however, had not been
altogether satisfied, and I resolved to prosecute immediate
inquiry among my acquaintances touching the Brevet Brigadier
General himself, and particularly respecting the tremendous
events quorum pars magna fuit, during the Bugaboo and Kickapoo
campaign.
The first opportunity which presented itself, and which
(horresco referens) I did not in the least scruple to seize,
occurred at the Church of the Reverend Doctor Drummummupp, where
I found myself established, one Sunday, just at sermon time, not
only in the pew, but by the side, of that worthy and
communicative little friend of mine, Miss Tabitha T. Thus seated,
I congratulated myself, and with much reason, upon the very
flattering state of affairs. If any person knew anything about
Brevet Brigadier General John A. B. C. Smith, that person, it was
clear to me, was Miss Tabitha T. We telegraphed a few signals,
and then commenced, sotto voce, a brisk tête-à-tête.
“Smith!” said she, in reply to my very earnest inquiry;
“Smith!—why, not General John A. B. C.? Bless me, I thought you
knew all about him! This is a wonderfully inventive age!
Horrid affair that!—a bloody set of wretches, those
Kickapoos!—fought like a hero—prodigies of valor—immortal renown.
Smith!—Brevet Brigadier General John A. B. C.! why, you know he’s
the man—”
“Man,” here broke in Doctor Drummummupp, at the top of his voice,
and with a thump that came near knocking the pulpit about our
ears—“man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live;
he cometh up and is cut down like a flower!” I started to the
extremity of the pew, and perceived by the animated looks of the
divine, that the wrath which had nearly proved fatal to the
pulpit had been excited by the whispers of the lady and myself.
There was no help for it; so I submitted with a good grace, and
listened, in all the martyrdom of dignified silence, to the
balance of that very capital discourse.
Next evening found me a somewhat late visitor at the Rantipole
Theatre, where I felt sure of satisfying my curiosity at once, by
merely stepping into the box of those exquisite specimens of
affability and omniscience, the Misses Arabella and Miranda
Cognoscenti. That fine tragedian, Climax, was doing Iago to a
very crowded house, and I experienced some little difficulty in
making my wishes understood; especially, as our box was next the
slips, and completely overlooked the stage.
“Smith!” said Miss Arabella, as she at length comprehended the
purport of my query; “Smith!—why, not General John A. B. C.?”
“Smith!” inquired Miranda, musingly. “God bless me, did you ever
behold a finer figure?”
“Never, madam, but do tell me—”
“Or so inimitable grace?”
“Never, upon my word!—But pray inform me—”
“Or so just an appreciation of stage effect?”
“Madam!”
“Or a more delicate sense of the true beauties of Shakespeare? Be
so good as to look at that leg!”
“The devil!” and I turned again to her sister.
“Smith!” said she, “why, not General John A. B. C.? Horrid affair
that, wasn’t it?—great wretches, those Bugaboos—savage and so
on—but we live in a wonderfully inventive age!—Smith!—O yes!
great man!—perfect desperado!—immortal renown!—prodigies of
valor! Never heard!” [This was given in a scream.] “Bless my
soul! why, he’s the man—”
“——mandragora
Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world
Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep
Which thou owd’st yesterday!”
here roared our Climax just in my ear, and shaking his fist in my
face all the time, in a way that I couldn’t stand, and I
wouldn’t. I left the Misses Cognoscenti immediately, went
behind the scenes forthwith, and gave the beggarly scoundrel such
a thrashing as I trust he will remember to the day of his death.
At the soirée of the lovely widow, Mrs. Kathleen O’Trump, I was
confident that I should meet with no similar disappointment.
Accordingly, I was no sooner seated at the card-table, with my
pretty hostess for a vis-à-vis, than I propounded those
questions the solution of which had become a matter so essential
to my peace.
“Smith!” said my partner, “why, not General John A. B. C.? Horrid
affair that, wasn’t it?—diamonds, did you say?—terrible wretches
those Kickapoos!—we are playing whist, if you please, Mr.
Tattle—however, this is the age of invention, most certainly
the age, one may say—the age par excellence—speak
French?—oh, quite a hero—perfect desperado!—no hearts, Mr.
Tattle? I don’t believe it.—immortal renown and all
that!—prodigies of valor! Never heard!!—why, bless me, he’s the
man—”
“Mann!—Captain Mann?” here screamed some little feminine
interloper from the farthest corner of the room. “Are you talking
about Captain Mann and the duel?—oh, I must hear—do tell—go on,
Mrs. O’Trump!—do now go on!” And go on Mrs. O’Trump did—all about
a certain Captain Mann, who was either shot or hung, or should
have been both shot and hung. Yes! Mrs. O’Trump, she went on, and
I—I went off. There was no chance of hearing anything farther
that evening in regard to Brevet Brigadier General John A. B. C.
Still I consoled myself with the reflection that the tide of ill
luck would not run against me forever, and so determined to make
a bold push for information at the rout of that bewitching little
angel, the graceful Mrs. Pirouette.
“Smith!” said Mrs. P., as we twirled about together in a _pas de
zephyr_, “Smith!—why, not General John A. B. C.? Dreadful
business that of the Bugaboos, wasn’t it?—dreadful creatures,
those Indians!—do turn out your toes! I really am ashamed of
you—man of great courage, poor fellow!—but this is a wonderful
age for invention—O dear me, I’m out of breath—quite a
desperado—prodigies of valor—never heard!—can’t believe it—I
shall have to sit down and enlighten you—Smith! why, he’s the
man—”
“Man-Fred, I tell you!” here bawled out Miss Bas-Bleu, as I led
Mrs. Pirouette to a seat. “Did ever anybody hear the like? It’s
Man-Fred, I say, and not at all by any means Man-Friday.”
Here Miss Bas-Bleu beckoned to me in a very peremptory manner;
and I was obliged, will I nill I, to leave Mrs. P. for the
purpose of deciding a dispute touching the title of a certain
poetical drama of Lord Byron’s. Although I pronounced, with great
promptness, that the true title was Man-Friday, and not by any
means Man-Fred, yet when I returned to seek Mrs. Pirouette she
was not to be discovered, and I made my retreat from the house in
a very bitter spirit of animosity against the whole race of the
Bas-Bleus.
Matters had now assumed a really serious aspect, and I resolved
to call at once upon my particular friend, Mr. Theodore Sinivate;
for I knew that here at least I should get something like
definite information.
“Smith!” said he, in his well-known peculiar way of drawling out
his syllables; “Smith!—why, not General John A. B. C.? Savage
affair that with the Kickapo-o-o-os, wasn’t it? Say! don’t you
think so?—perfect despera-a-ado—great pity, ‘pon my
honor!—wonderfully inventive age!—pro-o-odigies of valor! By the
by, did you ever hear about Captain Ma-a-a-a-n?”
“Captain Mann be d—d!” said I; “please to go on with your story.”
“Hem!—oh well!—quite la même cho-o-ose, as we say in France.
Smith, eh? Brigadier-General John A.—B.—C.? I say”—[here Mr. S.
thought proper to put his finger to the side of his nose]—“I say,
you don’t mean to insinuate now, really and truly, and
conscientiously, that you don’t know all about that affair of
Smith’s, as well as I do, eh? Smith? John A—B—C.? Why, bless me,
he’s the ma-a-an—”
“Mr. Sinivate,” said I, imploringly, “is he the man in the
mask?”
“No-o-o!” said he, looking wise, “nor the man in the mo-o-on.”
This reply I considered a pointed and positive insult, and so
left the house at once in high dudgeon, with a firm resolve to
call my friend, Mr. Sinivate, to a speedy account for his
ungentlemanly conduct and ill-breeding.
In the meantime, however, I had no notion of being thwarted
touching the information I desired. There was one resource left
me yet. I would go to the fountain-head. I would call forthwith
upon the General himself, and demand, in explicit terms, a
solution of this abominable piece of mystery. Here, at least,
there should be no chance for equivocation. I would be plain,
positive, peremptory—as short as pie-crust—as concise as Tacitus
or Montesquieu.
It was early when I called, and the General was dressing; but I
pleaded urgent business, and was shown at once into his bed-room
by an old negro valet, who remained in attendance during my
visit. As I entered the chamber, I looked about, of course, for
the occupant, but did not immediately perceive him. There was a
large and exceedingly odd-looking bundle of something which lay
close by my feet on the floor, and, as I was not in the best
humor in the world, I gave it a kick out of the way.
“Hem! ahem! rather civil that, I should say!” said the bundle, in
one of the smallest, and altogether the funniest little voices,
between a squeak and a whistle, that I ever heard in all the days
of my existence.
“Ahem! rather civil that, I should observe.”
I fairly shouted with terror, and made off, at a tangent, into
the farthest extremity of the room.
“God bless me! my dear fellow,” here again whistled the bundle,
“what—what—what—why, what is the matter? I really believe you
don’t know me at all.”
What could I say to all this—what could I? I staggered into
an arm-chair, and, with staring eyes and open mouth, awaited the
solution of the wonder.
“Strange you shouldn’t know me though, isn’t it?” presently
re-squeaked the nondescript, which I now perceived was
performing, upon the floor, some inexplicable evolution, very
analogous to the drawing on of a stocking. There was only a
single leg, however, apparent.
“Strange you shouldn’t know me, though, isn’t it? Pompey, bring
me that leg!” Here Pompey handed the bundle, a very capital cork
leg, already dressed, which it screwed on in a trice; and then it
stood up before my eyes.
“And a bloody action it was,” continued the thing, as if in a
soliloquy; “but then one mustn’t fight with the Bugaboos and
Kickapoos, and think of coming off with a mere scratch. Pompey,
I’ll thank you now for that arm. Thomas” [turning to me] “is
decidedly the best hand at a cork leg; but if you should ever
want an arm, my dear fellow, you must really let me recommend you
to Bishop.” Here Pompey screwed on an arm.
“We had rather hot work of it, that you may say. Now, you dog,
slip on my shoulders and bosom! Pettitt makes the best shoulders,
but for a bosom you will have to go to Ducrow.”
“Bosom!” said I.
“Pompey, will you never be ready with that wig? Scalping is a
rough process after all; but then you can procure such a capital
scratch at De L’Orme’s.”
“Scratch!”
“Now, you nigger, my teeth! For a good set of these you had
better go to Parmly’s at once; high prices, but excellent work. I
swallowed some very capital articles, though, when the big
Bugaboo rammed me down with the butt end of his rifle.”
“Butt end! ram down!! my eye!!”
“O yes, by-the-by, my eye—here, Pompey, you scamp, screw it in !
Those Kickapoos are not so very slow at a gouge; but he’s a
belied man, that Dr. Williams, after all; you can’t imagine how
well I see with the eyes of his make.”
I now began very clearly to perceive that the object before me
was nothing more nor less than my new acquaintance, Brevet
Brigadier General John A. B. C. Smith. The manipulations of
Pompey had made, I must confess, a very striking difference in
the appearance of the personal man. The voice, however, still
puzzled me no little; but even this apparent mystery was speedily
cleared up.
“Pompey, you black rascal,” squeaked the General, “I really do
believe you would let me go out without my palate.”
Hereupon, the negro, grumbling out an apology, went up to his
master, opened his mouth with the knowing air of a horse-jockey,
and adjusted therein a somewhat singular-looking machine, in a
very dexterous manner, that I could not altogether comprehend.
The alteration, however, in the entire expression of the
General’s countenance was instantaneous and surprising. When he
again spoke, his voice had resumed all that rich melody and
strength which I had noticed upon our original introduction.
“D—n the vagabonds!” said he, in so clear a tone that I
positively started at the change, “D—n the vagabonds! they not
only knocked in the roof of my mouth, but took the trouble to cut
off at least seven-eighths of my tongue. There isn’t Bonfanti’s
equal, however, in America, for really good articles of this
description. I can recommend you to him with confidence,” [here
the General bowed,] “and assure you that I have the greatest
pleasure in so doing.”
I acknowledged his kindness in my best manner, and took leave of
him at once, with a perfect understanding of the true state of
affairs—with a full comprehension of the mystery which had
troubled me so long. It was evident. It was a clear case. Brevet
Brigadier General John A. B. C. Smith was the man—was _the man
that was used up_.