Selected Tales (Oxford World's Classics) (12 page)

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 dimunitive 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
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—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 or 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 wonderful 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 out Climax just in my ear, and shaking his fist in my face all the time, in a way that I
could’n
I 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. 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 zéphyr
, ‘Smith?—why, not General John A. B. C? Dreadful business that of the Bugaboos, wasn’t it?—terrible 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
In même cho-n-se
, 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 piecrust—as concise as Tacitus or Montesquieu.