Chapter 25 (11)

“How can you?—how—can—you?”—interrupted the object of my animadversions, gasping for breath, and tearing off, with a desperate exertion, the bandage around its jaws—“how can you, Mr. Lackobreath, be so infernally cruel as to pinch me in that manner by the nose? Did you not see how they had fastened up my mouth—and you must know—if you know any thing—how vast a superfluity of breath I have to dispose of! If you do not know, however, sit down and you shall see. In my situation it is really a great relief to be able to open ones mouth—to be able to expatiate—to be able to communicate with a person like yourself, who do not think yourself called upon at every period to interrupt the thread of a gentleman’s discourse. Interruptions are annoying and should undoubtedly be abolished—don’t you think so?—no reply, I beg you,—one person is enough to be speaking at a time.—I shall be done by and by, and then you may begin.—How the devil sir, did you get into this place?—not a word I beseech you—been here some time myself—terrible accident!—heard of it, I suppose?—awful calamity!—walking under your windows—some short while ago—about the time you were stage-struck—horrible occurrence!—heard of “catching one’s breath,” eh?—hold your tongue I tell you!—I caught somebody else’s!—had always too much of my own—met Blab at the corner of the street—wouldn’t give me a chance for a word—couldn’t get in a syllable edgeways—attacked, consequently, with epilepsis—Blab made his escape—damn all fools!—they took me up for dead, and put me in this place—pretty doings all of them!—heard all you said about me—every word a lie—horrible!—wonderful!—outrageous!—hideous!—incomprehensible!—et cetera—et cetera—et cetera—et cetera—”

It is impossible to conceive my astonishment at so unexpected a
discourse, or the joy with which I became gradually convinced
that the breath so fortunately caught by the gentleman (whom I
soon recognized as my neighbor Windenough) was, in fact, the
identical expiration mislaid by myself in the conversation with
my wife. Time, place, and circumstances rendered it a matter
beyond question. I did not, however, immediately release my hold
upon Mr. W.’s proboscis—not at least during the long period in
which the inventor of Lombardy poplars continued to favor me with
his explanations.

In this respect I was actuated by that habitual prudence which
has ever been my predominating trait. I reflected that many
difficulties might still lie in the path of my preservation which
only extreme exertion on my part would be able to surmount. Many
persons, I considered, are prone to estimate commodities in their
possession—however valueless to the then proprietor—however
troublesome, or distressing—in direct ratio with the advantages
to be derived by others from their attainment, or by themselves
from their abandonment. Might not this be the case with Mr.
Windenough? In displaying anxiety for the breath of which he was
at present so willing to get rid, might I not lay myself open to
the exactions of his avarice? There are scoundrels in this world,
I remembered with a sigh, who will not scruple to take unfair
opportunities with even a next door neighbor, and (this remark is
from Epictetus) it is precisely at that time when men are most
anxious to throw off the burden of their own calamities that they
feel the least desirous of relieving them in others.

Upon considerations similar to these, and still retaining my
grasp upon the nose of Mr. W., I accordingly thought proper to
model my reply.

“Monster!” I began in a tone of the deepest indignation—“monster
and double-winded idiot!—dost thou, whom for thine iniquities it
has pleased heaven to accurse with a two-fold respimtion—dost
thou, I say, presume to address me in the familiar language of an
old acquaintance?—‘I lie,’ forsooth! and ‘hold my tongue,’ to be
sure!—pretty conversation indeed, to a gentleman with a single
breath!—all this, too, when I have it in my power to relieve the
calamity under which thou dost so justly suffer—to curtail the
superfluities of thine unhappy respiration.”

Like Brutus, I paused for a reply—with which, like a tornado, Mr.
Windenough immediately overwhelmed me. Protestation followed upon
protestation, and apology upon apology. There were no terms with
which he was unwilling to comply, and there were none of which I
failed to take the fullest advantage.

Preliminaries being at length arranged, my acquaintance delivered
me the respiration; for which (having carefully examined it) I
gave him afterward a receipt.

I am aware that by many I shall be held to blame for speaking in
a manner so cursory, of a transaction so impalpable. It will be
thought that I should have entered more minutely, into the
details of an occurrence by which—and this is very true—much new
light might be thrown upon a highly interesting branch of
physical philosophy.

To all this I am sorry that I cannot reply. A hint is the only
answer which I am permitted to make. There were circumstances—but
I think it much safer upon consideration to say as little as
possible about an affair so delicate—so delicate, I repeat, and
at the time involving the interests of a third party whose
sulphurous resentment I have not the least desire, at this
moment, of incurring.

We were not long after this necessary arrangement in effecting an
escape from the dungeons of the sepulchre. The united strength of
our resuscitated voices was soon sufficiently apparent. Scissors,
the Whig editor, republished a treatise upon “the nature and
origin of subterranean noises.” A reply—rejoinder—confutation—and
justification—followed in the columns of a Democratic gazette. It
was not until the opening of the vault to decide the controversy,
that the appearance of Mr. Windenough and myself proved both
parties to have been decidedly in the wrong.

I cannot conclude these details of some very singular passages in
a life at all times sufficiently eventful, without again
recalling to the attention of the reader the merits of that
indiscriminate philosophy which is a sure and ready shield
against those shafts of calamity which can neither be seen, felt
nor fully understood. It was in the spirit of this wisdom that,
among the ancient Hebrews, it was believed the gates of Heaven
would be inevitably opened to that sinner, or saint, who, with
good lungs and implicit confidence, should vociferate the word
“Amen!” It was in the spirit of this wisdom that, when a great
plague raged at Athens, and every means had been in vain
attempted for its removal, Epimenides, as Laërtius relates, in
his second book, of that philosopher, advised the erection of a
shrine and temple “to the proper God.”

LYTTLETON BARRY.

THE MAN THAT WAS USED UP

A TALE OF THE LATE BUGABOO AND KICKAPOO CAMPAIGN.

_Pleurez, pleurez, mes yeux, et fondez vous en eau!_
_La moitié 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 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, 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 down-right 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—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 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 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 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 owd’st 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 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
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-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 _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-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 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 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 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 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! 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 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—was _the man
that was used up_.

THE BUSINESS MAN

Method is the soul of business.—OLD SAYING.

I am a business man. I am a methodical man. Method is the thing,
after all. But there are no people I more heartily despise than
your eccentric fools who prate about method without understanding
it; attending strictly to its letter, and violating its spirit.
These fellows are always doing the most out-of-the-way things in
what they call an orderly manner. Now here, I conceive, is a
positive paradox. True method appertains to the ordinary and the
obvious alone, and cannot be applied to the _outré_. What
definite idea can a body attach to such expressions as
“methodical Jack o’ Dandy,” or “a systematical Will o’ the Wisp”?

My notions upon this head might not have been so clear as they
are, but for a fortunate accident which happened to me when I was
a very little boy. A good-hearted old Irish nurse (whom I shall
not forget in my will) took me up one day by the heels, when I
was making more noise than was necessary, and swinging me round
two or three times, d—d my eyes for “a skreeking little
spalpeen,” and then knocked my head into a cocked hat against the
bedpost. This, I say, decided my fate, and made my fortune. A
bump arose at once on my sinciput, and turned out to be as pretty
an organ of order as one shall see on a summer’s day. Hence that
positive appetite for system and regularity which has made me the
distinguished man of business that I am.

If there is any thing on earth I hate, it is a genius. Your
geniuses are all arrant asses—the greater the genius the greater
the ass—and to this rule there is no exception whatever.
Especially, you cannot make a man of business out of a genius,
any more than money out of a Jew, or the best nutmegs out of
pine-knots. The creatures are always going off at a tangent into
some fantastic employment, or ridiculous speculation, entirely at
variance with the “fitness of things,” and having no business
whatever to be considered as a business at all. Thus you may tell
these characters immediately by the nature of their occupations.
If you ever perceive a man setting up as a merchant or a
manufacturer, or going into the cotton or tobacco trade, or any
of those eccentric pursuits; or getting to be a drygoods dealer,
or soap-boiler, or something of that kind; or pretending to be a
lawyer, or a blacksmith, or a physician—any thing out of the
usual way—you may set him down at once as a genius, and then,
according to the rule-of-three, he’s an ass.

Now I am not in any respect a genius, but a regular business man.
My day-book and ledger will evince this in a minute. They are
well kept, though I say it myself; and, in my general habits of
accuracy and punctuality, I am not to be beat by a clock.
Moreover, my occupations have been always made to chime in with
the ordinary habitudes of my fellowmen. Not that I feel the least
indebted, upon this score, to my exceedingly weak-minded parents,
who, beyond doubt, would have made an arrant genius of me at
last, if my guardian angel had not come, in good time, to the
rescue. In biography the truth is every thing, and in
autobiography it is especially so—yet I scarcely hope to be
believed when I state, however solemnly, that my poor father put
me, when I was about fifteen years of age, into the
counting-house of what be termed “a respectable hardware and
commission merchant doing a capital bit of business!” A capital
bit of fiddlestick! However, the consequence of this folly was,
that in two or three days, I had to be sent home to my
button-headed family in a high state of fever, and with a most
violent and dangerous pain in the sinciput, all around about my
organ of order. It was nearly a gone case with me then—just
touch-and-go for six weeks—the physicians giving me up and all
that sort of thing. But, although I suffered much, I was a
thankful boy in the main. I was saved from being a “respectable
hardware and commission merchant, doing a capital bit of
business,” and I felt grateful to the protuberance which had been
the means of my salvation, as well as to the kindhearted female
who had originally put these means within my reach.

The most of boys run away from home at ten or twelve years of
age, but I waited till I was sixteen. I don’t know that I should
have gone even then, if I had not happened to hear my old mother
talk about setting me up on my own hook in the grocery way. The
grocery way!—only think of that! I resolved to be off forthwith,
and try and establish myself in some decent occupation, without
dancing attendance any longer upon the caprices of these
eccentric old people, and running the risk of being made a genius
of in the end. In this project I succeeded perfectly well at the
first effort, and by the time I was fairly eighteen, found myself
doing an extensive and profitable business in the Tailor’s
Walking-Advertisement line.

I was enabled to discharge the onerous duties of this profession,
only by that rigid adherence to system which formed the leading
feature of my mind. A scrupulous method characterized my actions
as well as my accounts. In my case it was method—not money—which
made the man: at least all of him that was not made by the tailor
whom I served. At nine, every morning, I called upon that
individual for the clothes of the day. Ten o’clock found me in
some fashionable promenade or other place of public amusement.
The precise regularity with which I turned my handsome person
about, so as to bring successively into view every portion of the
suit upon my back, was the admiration of all the knowing men in
the trade. Noon never passed without my bringing home a customer
to the house of my employers, Messrs. Cut & Comeagain. I say this
proudly, but with tears in my eyes—for the firm proved themselves
the basest of ingrates. The little account, about which we
quarreled and finally parted, cannot, in any item, be thought
overcharged, by gentlemen really conversant with the nature of
the business. Upon this point, however, I feel a degree of proud
satisfaction in permitting the reader to judge for himself. My
bill ran thus:

_Messrs. Cut & Comeagain, Merchant Tailors. To Peter Proffit, Walking Advertiser,_ Drs.

July 10. to promenade, as usual and customer brought home $00 25 July 11. To do do do 25 July 12. To one lie, second class; damaged black cloth sold for invisible green 25 July 13. To one lie, first class, extra quality and size; recommended milled satinet as broadcloth, 75 July 20. To purchasing bran new paper shirt collar or dickey, to set off gray Petersham 02 Aug. 15. To wearing double-padded bobtail frock, (thermometer 106 in the shade) 25 Aug. 16. Standing on one leg three hours, to show off new-style strapped pants at 12 1/2 cents per leg per hour 37½ Aug. 17. To promenade, as usual, and large customer brought (fat man) 50 Aug. 18. To do do (medium size) 25 Aug. 19. To do do (small man and bad pay) 6 TOTAL $2 95½

The item chiefly disputed in this bill was the very moderate
charge of two pennies for the dickey. Upon my word of honor, this
was not an unreasonable price for that dickey. It was one of the
cleanest and prettiest little dickeys I ever saw; and I have good
reason to believe that it effected the sale of three Petershams.
The elder partner of the firm, however, would allow me only one
penny of the charge, and took it upon himself to show in what
manner four of the same sized conveniences could be got out of a
sheet of foolscap. But it is needless to say that I stood upon
the principle of the thing. Business is business, and should be
done in a business way. There was no system whatever in swindling
me out of a penny—a clear fraud of fifty per cent—no method in
any respect. I left at once the employment of Messrs. Cut &
Comeagain, and set up in the Eye-Sore line by myself—one of the
most lucrative, respectable, and independent of the ordinary
occupations.

My strict integrity, economy, and rigorous business habits, here
again came into play. I found myself driving a flourishing trade,
and soon became a marked man upon “Change.” The truth is, I never
dabbled in flashy matters, but jogged on in the good old sober
routine of the calling—a calling in which I should, no doubt,
have remained to the present hour, but for a little accident
which happened to me in the prosecution of one of the usual
business operations of the profession. Whenever a rich old hunks
or prodigal heir or bankrupt corporation gets into the notion of
putting up a palace, there is no such thing in the world as
stopping either of them, and this every intelligent person knows.
The fact in question is indeed the basis of the Eye-Sore trade.
As soon, therefore, as a building-project is fairly afoot by one
of these parties, we merchants secure a nice corner of the lot in
contemplation, or a prime little situation just adjoining, or
tight in front. This done, we wait until the palace is half-way
up, and then we pay some tasty architect to run us up an
ornamental mud hovel, right against it; or a Down-East or Dutch
Pagoda, or a pig-sty, or an ingenious little bit of fancy work,
either Esquimau, Kickapoo, or Hottentot. Of course we can’t
afford to take these structures down under a bonus of five
hundred per cent upon the prime cost of our lot and plaster. Can
we? I ask the question. I ask it of business men. It would be
irrational to suppose that we can. And yet there was a rascally
corporation which asked me to do this very thing—this very thing!
I did not reply to their absurd proposition, of course; but I
felt it a duty to go that same night, and lamp-black the whole of
their palace. For this the unreasonable villains clapped me into
jail; and the gentlemen of the Eye-Sore trade could not well
avoid cutting my connection when I came out.

The Assault-and-Battery business, into which I was now forced to
adventure for a livelihood, was somewhat ill-adapted to the
delicate nature of my constitution; but I went to work in it with
a good heart, and found my account here, as heretofore, in those
stern habits of methodical accuracy which had been thumped into
me by that delightful old nurse—I would indeed be the basest of
men not to remember her well in my will. By observing, as I say,
the strictest system in all my dealings, and keeping a
well-regulated set of books, I was enabled to get over many
serious difficulties, and, in the end, to establish myself very
decently in the profession. The truth is, that few individuals,
in any line, did a snugger little business than I. I will just
copy a page or so out of my Day-Book; and this will save me the
necessity of blowing my own trumpet—a contemptible practice of
which no high-minded man will be guilty. Now, the Day-Book is a
thing that don’t lie.

“Jan. 1.—New Year’s Day. Met Snap in the street, groggy.
Mem—he’ll do. Met Gruff shortly afterward, blind drunk. Mem—he’ll
answer, too. Entered both gentlemen in my Ledger, and opened a
running account with each.

“Jan. 2.—Saw Snap at the Exchange, and went up and trod on his
toe. Doubled his fist and knocked me down. Good!—got up again.
Some trifling difficulty with Bag, my attorney. I want the
damages at a thousand, but he says that for so simple a knock
down we can’t lay them at more than five hundred. Mem—must get
rid of Bag—no system at all.

“Jan. 3.—Went to the theatre, to look for Gruff. Saw him sitting
in a side box, in the second tier, between a fat lady and a lean
one. Quizzed the whole party through an opera-glass, till I saw
the fat lady blush and whisper to G. Went round, then, into the
box, and put my nose within reach of his hand. Wouldn’t pull
it—no go. Blew it, and tried again—no go. Sat down then, and
winked at the lean lady, when I had the high satisfaction of
finding him lift me up by the nape of the neck, and fling me over
into the pit. Neck dislocated, and right leg capitally
splintered. Went home in high glee, drank a bottle of champagne,
and booked the young man for five thousand. Bag says it’ll do.

“Feb. 15.—Compromised the case of Mr. Snap. Amount entered in
Journal—fifty cents—which see.

“Feb. 16.—Cast by that ruffian, Gruff, who made me a present of
five dollars. Costs of suit, four dollars and twenty-five cents.
Nett profit,—see Journal,—seventy-five cents.”

Now, here is a clear gain, in a very brief period, of no less
than one dollar and twenty-five cents—this is in the mere cases
of Snap and Gruff; and I solemnly assure the reader that these
extracts are taken at random from my Day-Book.

It’s an old saying, and a true one, however, that money is
nothing in comparison with health. I found the exactions of the
profession somewhat too much for my delicate state of body; and,
discovering, at last, that I was knocked all out of shape, so
that I didn’t know very well what to make of the matter, and so
that my friends, when they met me in the street, couldn’t tell
that I was Peter Proffit at all, it occurred to me that the best
expedient I could adopt was to alter my line of business. I
turned my attention, therefore, to Mud-Dabbling, and continued it
for some years.

The worst of this occupation is, that too many people take a
fancy to it, and the competition is in consequence excessive.
Every ignoramus of a fellow who finds that he hasn’t brains in
sufficient quantity to make his way as a walking advertiser, or
an eye-sore prig, or a salt-and-batter man, thinks, of course,
that he’ll answer very well as a dabbler of mud. But there never
was entertained a more erroneous idea than that it requires no
brains to mud-dabble. Especially, there is nothing to be made in
this way without method. I did only a retail business myself, but
my old habits of system carried me swimmingly along. I selected
my street-crossing, in the first place, with great deliberation,
and I never put down a broom in any part of the town but that. I
took care, too, to have a nice little puddle at hand, which I
could get at in a minute. By these means I got to be well known
as a man to be trusted; and this is one-half the battle, let me
tell you, in trade. Nobody ever failed to pitch me a copper, and
got over my crossing with a clean pair of pantaloons. And, as my
business habits, in this respect, were sufficiently understood, I
never met with any attempt at imposition. I wouldn’t have put up
with it, if I had. Never imposing upon any one myself, I suffered
no one to play the possum with me. The frauds of the banks of
course I couldn’t help. Their suspension put me to ruinous
inconvenience. These, however, are not individuals, but
corporations; and corporations, it is very well known, have
neither bodies to be kicked nor souls to be damned.

I was making money at this business when, in an evil moment, I
was induced to merge it in the Cur-Spattering—a somewhat
analogous, but, by no means, so respectable a profession. My
location, to be sure, was an excellent one, being central, and I
had capital blacking and brushes. My little dog, too, was quite
fat and up to all varieties of snuff. He had been in the trade a
long time, and, I may say, understood it. Our general routine was
this:—Pompey, having rolled himself well in the mud, sat upon end
at the shop door, until he observed a dandy approaching in bright
boots. He then proceeded to meet him, and gave the Wellingtons a
rub or two with his wool. Then the dandy swore very much, and
looked about for a boot-black. There I was, full in his view,
with blacking and brushes. It was only a minute’s work, and then
came a sixpence. This did moderately well for a time;—in fact, I
was not avaricious, but my dog was. I allowed him a third of the
profit, but he was advised to insist upon half. This I couldn’t
stand—so we quarrelled and parted.

I next tried my hand at the Organ-Grinding for a while, and may
say that I made out pretty well. It is a plain, straightforward
business, and requires no particular abilities. You can get a
music-mill for a mere song, and to put it in order, you have but
to open the works, and give them three or four smart raps with a
hammer. It improves the tone of the thing, for business purposes,
more than you can imagine. This done, you have only to stroll
along, with the mill on your back, until you see tanbark in the
street, and a knocker wrapped up in buckskin. Then you stop and
grind; looking as if you meant to stop and grind till doomsday.
Presently a window opens, and somebody pitches you a sixpence,
with a request to “Hush up and go on,” etc. I am aware that some
grinders have actually afforded to “go on” for this sum; but for
my part, I found the necessary outlay of capital too great to
permit of my “going on” under a shilling.

At this occupation I did a good deal; but, somehow, I was not
quite satisfied, and so finally abandoned it. The truth is, I
labored under the disadvantage of having no monkey—and American
streets are so muddy, and a Democratic rabble is so obstrusive,
and so full of demnition mischievous little boys.

I was now out of employment for some months, but at length
succeeded, by dint of great interest, in procuring a situation in
the Sham-Post. The duties, here, are simple, and not altogether
unprofitable. For example:—very early in the morning I had to
make up my packet of sham letters. Upon the inside of each of
these I had to scrawl a few lines on any subject which occurred
to me as sufficiently mysterious—signing all the epistles Tom
Dobson, or Bobby Tompkins, or anything in that way. Having folded
and sealed all, and stamped them with sham postmarks—New Orleans,
Bengal, Botany Bay, or any other place a great way off—I set out,
forthwith, upon my daily route, as if in a very great hurry. I
always called at the big houses to deliver the letters, and
receive the postage. Nobody hesitates at paying for a
letter—especially for a double one—people are such fools—and it
was no trouble to get round a corner before there was time to
open the epistles. The worst of this profession was, that I had
to walk so much and so fast; and so frequently to vary my route.
Besides, I had serious scruples of conscience. I can’t bear to
hear innocent individuals abused—and the way the whole town took
to cursing Tom Dobson and Bobby Tompkins was really awful to
hear. I washed my hands of the matter in disgust.

My eighth and last speculation has been in the Cat-Growing way. I
have found that a most pleasant and lucrative business, and,
really, no trouble at all. The country, it is well known, has
become infested with cats—so much so of late, that a petition for
relief, most numerously and respectably signed, was brought
before the Legislature at its late memorable session. The
Assembly, at this epoch, was unusually well-informed, and, having
passed many other wise and wholesome enactments, it crowned all
with the Cat-Act. In its original form, this law offered a
premium for cat-heads (fourpence a-piece), but the Senate
succeeded in amending the main clause, so as to substitute the
word “tails” for “heads.” This amendment was so obviously proper,
that the House concurred in it nem. con.

As soon as the governor had signed the bill, I invested my whole
estate in the purchase of Toms and Tabbies. At first I could only
afford to feed them upon mice (which are cheap), but they
fulfilled the scriptural injunction at so marvellous a rate, that
I at length considered it my best policy to be liberal, and so
indulged them in oysters and turtle. Their tails, at a
legislative price, now bring me in a good income; for I have
discovered a way, in which, by means of Macassar oil, I can force
three crops in a year. It delights me to find, too, that the
animals soon get accustomed to the thing, and would rather have
the appendages cut off than otherwise. I consider myself,
therefore, a made man, and am bargaining for a country-seat on
the Hudson.

THE LANDSCAPE GARDEN

The garden like a lady fair was cut
That lay as if she slumbered in delight,
And to the open skies her eyes did shut;
The azure fields of heaven were ’sembled right
In a large round set with flow’rs of light:
The flowers de luce and the round sparks of dew
That hung upon their azure leaves, did show
Like twinkling stars that sparkle in the ev’ning blue.
—GILES FLETCHER

No more remarkable man ever lived than my friend, the young
Ellison. He was remarkable in the entire and continuous profusion
of good gifts ever lavished upon him by fortune. From his cradle
to his grave, a gale of the blandest prosperity bore him along.
Nor do I use the word Prosperity in its mere wordly or external
sense. I mean it as synonymous with happiness. The person of whom
I speak, seemed born for the purpose of foreshadowing the wild
doctrines of Turgot, Price, Priestley, and Condorcet—of
exemplifying, by individual instance, what has been deemed the
mere chimera of the perfectionists. In the brief existence of
Ellison, I fancy, that I have seen refuted the dogma—that in
man’s physical and spiritual nature, lies some hidden principle,
the antagonist of Bliss. An intimate and anxious examination of
his career, has taught me to understand that, in general, from
the violation of a few simple laws of Humanity, arises the
Wretchedness of mankind; that, as a species, we have in our
possession the as yet unwrought elements of Content,—and that
even now, in the present blindness and darkness of all idea on
the great question of the Social Condition, it is not impossible
that Man, the individual, under certain unusual and highly
fortuitous conditions, may be happy.

With opinions such as these was my young friend fully imbued; and
thus is it especially worthy of observation that the
uninterrupted enjoyment which distinguished his life was in great
part the result of preconcert. It is, indeed evident, that with
less of the instinctive philosophy which, now and then, stands so
well in the stead of experience, Mr. Ellison would have found
himself precipitated, by the very extraordinary successes of his
life, into the common vortex of Unhappiness which yawns for those
of preeminent endowments. But it is by no means my present object
to pen an essay on Happiness. The ideas of my friend may be
summed up in a few words. He admitted but four unvarying laws, or
rather elementary principles, of Bliss. That which he considered
chief, was (strange to say!) the simple and purely physical one
of free exercise in the open air. “The health,” he said,
“attainable by other means than this is scarcely worth the name.”
He pointed to the tillers of the earth—the only people who, as a
class, are proverbially more happy than others—and then he
instanced the high ecstasies of the fox-hunter. His second
principle was the love of woman. His third was the contempt of
ambition. His fourth was an object of unceasing pursuit; and he
held that, other things being equal, the extent of happiness was
proportioned to the spirituality of this object.