‘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.
It was early when I called, and the General was dressing; but I pleaded urgent business, and was shown at once into his bed-room by an old negro valet, who remained in attendance during my visit. As I entered the chamber, I looked about, of course, for the occupant, but did not immediately perceive him. There was a large and exceedingly odd-looking bundle of something which lay close by my feet on the floor, and, as I was not in the best humor in the world, I gave it a kick out of the way.
‘Hem! ahem! rather civil that, I should say!’ said the bundle, in one of the smallest, and altogether the funniest little voices, between a squeak and a whistle, that I ever heard in all the days of my existence.
‘Ahem! rather civil that, I should observe.’
I fairly shouted with terror, and made off, at a tangent, into the farthest extremity of the room.
‘God bless me! my dear fellow,’ here again whistled the bundle, ‘what—what—what—why, what is the matter? I really believe you don’t know me at all.’
What could I say to all this—what could I? I staggered into an 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 re-squeaked the nondescript, which I now perceived was performing, upon the floor, some inexplicable evolution, very analogous to the drawing on of a stocking. There was only a single leg, however, apparent.
‘Strange you shouldn’t know me, though, isn’t it? Pompey, bring me that leg!’ Here Pompey handed the bundle, a very capital cork leg, already dressed, which it screwed on in a trice; and then it stood up before my eyes.
‘And a bloody action it was,’ continued the thing, as if in a soliloquy; ‘but then one 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; but if you should ever want an arm, my dear fellow, you must really let me recommend you to Bishop.’ Here Pompey screwed on an arm.
‘We had rather hot work of it, that you may say. Now, you dog, slip on my shoulders and bosom! Pettitt makes the best shoulders, but for a bosom you will have to go to Ducrow.’
‘Bosom!’said I.
‘Pompey, will you neve be ready with that wig? Scalping is a rough process after all; but then you can procure such a capital scratch at De L’Orme’s.’*
‘Scratch!’
‘Now, you nigger, my teeth! For a good set of these you had better go to Parmly’s at once; high prices, but excellent work. I swallowed some very capital articles, though, when the big Bugaboo rammed me down with the butt end of his rifle.’
‘Butt end! ram down!! my eye!!’
‘O yes, by-the-by, my eye—here, Pompey, you scamp, screw it in! Those Kickapoos are not so very slow at a gouge; but he’s a belied man, that Dr Williams, after all; you can’t imagine how well I see with the eyes of his make.’
I now began very clearly to perceive that the object before me was nothing more nor less than my new acquaintance, Brevet Brigadier General John A. B. C. Smith. The manipulations of Pompey had made, I must confess, a very striking difference in the appearance of the personal man. The voice, however, still puzzled me no little; but even this apparent mystery was speedily cleared up.
‘Pompey, you black rascal,’ squeaked the General, ‘I really do believe you would let me go out without my palate.’
Hereupon the negro, grumbling out an apology, went up to his master, opened his mouth with the knowing air of a horse-jockey, and adjusted therein a somewhat singular-looking machine, in a very dexterous manner, that I could not altogether comprehend. The alteration, however, in the entire expression of the General’s countenance was instantaneous and surprising. When he again spoke, his voice had resumed all that rich melody and strength which I had noticed upon our original production.
‘D—n the vagabonds!’ said he, in so clear a tone that I positively started at the change, ‘D—n the vagabonds! they not only knocked in the roof of my mouth, but took the trouble to cut off at least seven-eighths of my tongue. There isn’t Bonfanti’s equal, however, in America, for really good articles of this description. I can recommend you to him with confidence,’ [here the General bowed,] ‘and assure you that I have the greatest pleasure in so doing.’
I acknowledged his kindness in my best manner, and took leave of him at once, with a perfect understanding of the true state of affairs—with a full comprehension of the mystery which had troubled me so long. It was evident. It was a clear case. Brevet Brigadier General John A. B. C. Smith was the man—was the man that was used up.
THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER*
Son cœur est un luth suspendu;
Sitôt qu’on lc touchc il résonne.
De Béranger*
DURING the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless day in the autumn of the year, when the clouds
hung oppressively low in the heavens, I had been passing alone, on horseback, through a singularly dreary tract of country; and at length found myself, as the shades of the evening drew on, within view of the melancholy House of Usher. I know not how it was—but, with the first glimpse of the building, a sense of insufferable gloom pervaded my spirit. I say insufferable; for the feeling was unrelieved by any of that half-pleasurable, because poetic, sentiment, with which the mind usually receives even the sternest natural images of the desolate or terrible. I looked upon the scene before me—upon the mere house, and the simple landscape features of the domain—upon the bleak walls—upon the vacant eye-like windows—upon a few rank sedges—and upon a few white trunks of decayed trees—with an utter depression of soul which I can compare to no earthly sensation more properly than to the after-dream of the reveller upon opium—the bitter lapse into every-day life—the hideous dropping off of the veil. There was an iciness, a sinking, a sickening of the heart—an unredeemed dreariness of thought which no goading of the imagination could torture into aught of the sublime. What was it—I paused to think—what was it that so unnerved me in the contemplation of the House of Usher? It was a mystery all insoluble; nor could I grapple with the shadowy fancies that crowded upon me as I pondered. I was forced to fall back upon the unsatisfactory conclusion, that while, beyond doubt, there are combinations of very simple natural objects which have the power of thus affecting us, still the analysis of this power lies among considerations beyond our depth. It was possible, I reflected, that a mere different arrangement of the particulars of the scene, of the details of the picture, would be sufficient to modify, or perhaps to annihilate its capacity for sorrowful impression; and, acting upon this idea, I reined my horse to the precipitous brink of a black and lurid tarn that lay in unruffled lustre by the dwelling, and gazed down—but with a shudder even more thrilling than before—upon the remodelled and inverted images of the gray sedge, and the ghastly tree-stems, and the vacant and eye-like windows.
Selected Tales (Oxford World's Classics) Page 9
