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Edgar Allan Poe: The Man That Was Used Up
Up to the EServer | The Complete Works of Edgar Allan
Poe
THE MAN THAT WAS USED UP
A Tale of the Late Bugaboo and Kickapoo Campaign
by Edgar Allan Poe
1850
Pleurez, pleurez, mes yeux, et fondez vous en eau!
La moitie 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 distingue
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
downright 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 tete-a-tete, 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-mantraps 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 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 any thing 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,
soto voce, a brisk tete-a-tete.
"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 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 ow'dst 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 till the
day of his death.
At the soiree 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-a-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 any thing farther that
evening in regard to Brevet Brigadier General John A. B. C. Smith.
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-digies 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 meme 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 bedroom 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 armchair,
and, with staring eyes and open mouth, awaited the solution of the
wonder.
"Strange you shouldn't know me though, isn't it?" presently resqueaked
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 upright 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. Pettit 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 way, 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–the man that was used up.
THE END
Edgar Allan Poe: The Man That Was Used Up
Up to the EServer | The Complete Works of Edgar Allan
Poe
THE MAN THAT WAS USED UP
A Tale of the Late Bugaboo and Kickapoo Campaign
by Edgar Allan Poe
1850
Pleurez, pleurez, mes yeux, et fondez vous en eau!
La moitie 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 distingue
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
downright 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 tete-a-tete, 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-mantraps 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 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 any thing 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,
soto voce, a brisk tete-a-tete.
"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 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 ow'dst 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 till the
day of his death.
At the soiree 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-a-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 any thing farther that
evening in regard to Brevet Brigadier General John A. B. C. Smith.
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-digies 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 meme 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 bedroom 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 armchair,
and, with staring eyes and open mouth, awaited the solution of the
wonder.
"Strange you shouldn't know me though, isn't it?" presently resqueaked
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 upright 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. Pettit 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 way, 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–the man that was used up.
THE END
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