 | Tales of the grotesque and arabesque |  |
THE MAN THAT WAS USED UP.
A TALE OF THE LATE BUGABOO AND KICKAPOO CAMPAIGN.
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—and at some place or other, of this
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
and tremulous 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
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—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, 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
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—yet
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—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!—
—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 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
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
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—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
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—he cometh up and is cut down like a
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—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 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, 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!”
“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”—
Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world,
Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep
Which thou owd'st yesterday!”
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
for the purpose of giving the scoundrel a sound
thrashing.
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.
“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. 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
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 tell 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—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
'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.
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!”—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.”
“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.
“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! 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?” 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
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 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.
“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
| Tales of the grotesque and arabesque | |