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{{1842-02:
 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 {{1840-01:
— // 1842-02: ; }} at some public meeting, I
know very
well {{1840-01: — // 1842-02: ; }}
held about something of great importance, no doubt {{1840-01: — // 1842-02: ; }} and
at some
place
or other, of this I feel convinced — whose name I have unaccountably
forgotten.
The truth is {{1840-01: — }}
that the introduction was attended, upon my part, with a
degree of anxious and tremulous embarrassment which operated to prevent
any definite impressions of either time or place. I am constitutionally
nervous {{1840-01: — // 1842-02:
; }} 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 [page
60:] express my full meaning — about the entire
individuality
of the personage in question. What this something was, however, I found
it impossible to say. 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 {{1840-01: — //
1842-02: ; }} nothing could be more richly flowing,
or
possess
a brighter gloss. It was of a jetty black {{1840-01:
— // 1842-02: ; }} 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, my acquaintance was, also, preeminently 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 [page
61:] 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. His arms altogether were admirably modelled, and
the fact of his wearing the right in a sling, gave a greater decision
of
beauty to the left. Nor were the lower limbs less marvellously 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 {{1840-01: — // 1842-02: ; }}
yet [page
62:] 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 petite 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 dimension, 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, at the instant, 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 {{1840-01: — showed //
1842-02: . 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 placed his forefinger to the side of his nose, and opened his
eyes to some extent.) Bless my soul! — [page 63:]
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 companian [[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 {{1840-01: — // 1842-02:
; }} 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 forbore, 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 [page 64:] 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 application 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
— grasshoppers — like grasshoppers, Mr. Thompson — about us and — ah {{1842-02: — 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 [page 65:] himself,
and
particularly respecting the tremendous events in which he performed so
conspicuous a part — 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 down the pulpit
about our ears; "man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to
live {{1840-01: — // 1842-02: ; }}
he cometh up and is cut down like a [page 66:]
flower!"
I started to the extremity of the pew, and perceived by the animated
looks
of the divine, that the wrath which had proved so nearly fatal to the
pulpit
had been excited by the whispers of the lady and myself. There was no
help
for it {{1840-01: — // 1842-02: ;
}} so I submitted with a good grace, and
listened, in all the
martyrdom
of a dignified silence, to the balance of that very capital discourse. Next evening found me a somewhat late {{1840-01:
visitor //
1842-02: visiter }} 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, however, 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 to 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!" [page 67:] "Or a more delicate sense of the true
beauties of
Shakspeare? 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, was'nt 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" ——
here roared out 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, and went behind the scenes {{1842-01: forthwith, }} {{1840-01: for the purpose of giving the scoundrel a sound thrashing. // and gave the beggarly scoundrel such a thrasing as I make no doubt he will remember to the day of his death. }} At the soirée of the
lovely widow,
Mrs. Kathleen O'Trump, I was very 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 partner, than I propounded those
questions
whose solution had become a matter so essential to my peace. [page
68:] "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! {{1840-01: — }}
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. Smith. Still, I consoled myself with the
reflection that
the tide of ill luck would not run against me for ever, 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? — terrible creatures, those [page
69:] 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 {{1840-01: tell // 1842-02:
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 any body 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 for
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 {{1840-01: — // 1842-02:
; }} 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-o-os, was'nt it? Say! don't
[page 70:] 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 Mann?" "Captain Mann be d——d!" said I,
"please to go on
with your story." "Hem! — oh well! — toute 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-o-on." This reply I considered a pointed and
positive
insult,
and I 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. [page 71:] 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 humour 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, the weakest, and altogether the
funniest
little voices, between a squeak and a whistle, that ever I heard in all
the days of my existence. "Ahem! rather civil that, I should
observe!" {{1840-01: — // 1842-02:
[[A new paragraph begins here, with appropriate indentation]] }}
I
fairly shouted with terror, and made off at a tangent, into the
farthest
extremity of the room. "God bless me, my dear fellow," {{1840-01:
here // 1842-02: Here }}
again
whistled
the bundle, "what — what — what — why, what is the matter? I
really
believe you don't know me at all." "No — no — no!" said I,
getting as close
to
the wall as possible, and holding up both hands in the way of
expostulation;
"don't know you — know you — know you — don't know you at all! Where's
your master?" here I gave an impatient squint towards the negro, still
keeping a tight eye upon the bundle. [page 72:] "He! he! he! he-aw! he-aw!"
cachinnated that
delectable
specimen of the human family, with his mouth fairly extended from ear
to
ear, and with his forefinger held up close to his face, and levelled at
the object of my apprehension, as if he was taking aim at it with a
pistol. "He! he! he! {{1842-02: — }}
he-aw! he-aw! he-aw! —
what? you
want
Mass Smif? Why, dar's him!" What could I say to all this
— what could
I?" [[sic]] 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 bundle, 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, all ready dressed, which it screwed on in a trice, and then
it
stood upright before my eyes. Devil the word could I say. "And a bloody action it was,"
continued
the
thing, as if in a soliloquy; "but then one musn'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; he lives in Race street, No. 79 — stop, I'll give
you
his card; but if you should ever want an arm, my dear fellow, you [page
73:] 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! {{1842-02: ! }} — my eye! {{1842-02: !! }} "
"O yes, by the by, my eye — here,
Pompey, you
scamp,
screw it in! Those Kickapoos are not so very slow at a gouge {{1840-01: — // 1842-02: ; }}
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 or 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. [page 74:] "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 whole expression of the countenance of the General was
instantaneous
and surprising. When he again spoke, his voice had resumed the whole of
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 this kindness in my
best manner,
and
now took leave of my friend at once, with a perfect understanding of
the
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.
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