Chapter VII: Part 7

As our distance from the wreck rapidly increased, the madman (for
as such only could we regard him) was seen to emerge from the
companion—way, up which by dint of strength that appeared
gigantic, he dragged, bodily, the oblong box. While we gazed in
the extremity of astonishment, he passed, rapidly, several turns
of a three-inch rope, first around the box and then around his
body. In another instant both body and box were in the
sea—disappearing suddenly, at once and forever.

We lingered awhile sadly upon our oars, with our eyes riveted
upon the spot. At length we pulled away. The silence remained
unbroken for an hour. Finally, I hazarded a remark.

“Did you observe, captain, how suddenly they sank? Was not that
an exceedingly singular thing? I confess that I entertained some
feeble hope of his final deliverance, when I saw him lash himself
to the box, and commit himself to the sea.”

“They sank as a matter of course,” replied the captain, “and that
like a shot. They will soon rise again, however—but not till the
salt melts.”

“The salt!” I ejaculated.

“Hush!” said the captain, pointing to the wife and sisters of the
deceased. “We must talk of these things at some more appropriate
time.”

We suffered much, and made a narrow escape; but fortune
befriended us, as well as our mates in the long-boat. We landed,
in fine, more dead than alive, after four days of intense
distress, upon the beach opposite Roanoke Island. We remained
here a week, were not ill-treated by the wreckers, and at length
obtained a passage to New York.

About a month after the loss of the “Independence,” I happened to
meet Captain Hardy in Broadway. Our conversation turned,
naturally, upon the disaster, and especially upon the sad fate of
poor Wyatt. I thus learned the following particulars.

The artist had engaged passage for himself, wife, two sisters and
a servant. His wife was, indeed, as she had been represented, a
most lovely, and most accomplished woman. On the morning of the
fourteenth of June (the day in which I first visited the ship),
the lady suddenly sickened and died. The young husband was
frantic with grief—but circumstances imperatively forbade the
deferring his voyage to New York. It was necessary to take to her
mother the corpse of his adored wife, and, on the other hand, the
universal prejudice which would prevent his doing so openly was
well known. Nine-tenths of the passengers would have abandoned
the ship rather than take passage with a dead body.

In this dilemma, Captain Hardy arranged that the corpse, being
first partially embalmed, and packed, with a large quantity of
salt, in a box of suitable dimensions, should be conveyed on
board as merchandise. Nothing was to be said of the lady’s
decease; and, as it was well understood that Mr. Wyatt had
engaged passage for his wife, it became necessary that some
person should personate her during the voyage. This the deceased
lady’s-maid was easily prevailed on to do. The extra state-room,
originally engaged for this girl during her mistress’ life, was
now merely retained. In this state-room the pseudo-wife, slept,
of course, every night. In the daytime she performed, to the best
of her ability, the part of her mistress—whose person, it had
been carefully ascertained, was unknown to any of the passengers
on board.

My own mistake arose, naturally enough, through too careless, too
inquisitive, and too impulsive a temperament. But of late, it is
a rare thing that I sleep soundly at night. There is a
countenance which haunts me, turn as I will. There is an
hysterical laugh which will forever ring within my ears.

LOSS OF BREATH

O breathe not, etc.
—Moore’s _Melodies_

The most notorious ill-fortune must in the end yield to the
untiring courage of philosophy—as the most stubborn city to the
ceaseless vigilance of an enemy. Shalmanezer, as we have it in
holy writings, lay three years before Samaria; yet it fell.
Sardanapalus—see Diodorus—maintained himself seven in Nineveh;
but to no purpose. Troy expired at the close of the second
lustrum; and Azoth, as Aristaeus declares upon his honour as a
gentleman, opened at last her gates to Psammetichus, after having
barred them for the fifth part of a century....

“Thou wretch!—thou vixen!—thou shrew!” said I to my wife on the
morning after our wedding; “thou witch!—thou hag!—thou
whippersnapper—thou sink of iniquity!—thou fiery-faced
quintessence of all that is abominable!—thou—thou—” here standing
upon tiptoe, seizing her by the throat, and placing my mouth
close to her ear, I was preparing to launch forth a new and more
decided epithet of opprobrium, which should not fail, if
ejaculated, to convince her of her insignificance, when to my
extreme horror and astonishment I discovered that I had lost my
breath.

The phrases “I am out of breath,” “I have lost my breath,” etc.,
are often enough repeated in common conversation; but it had
never occurred to me that the terrible accident of which I speak
could _bona fide_ and actually happen! Imagine—that is if you
have a fanciful turn—imagine, I say, my wonder—my
consternation—my despair!

There is a good genius, however, which has never entirely
deserted me. In my most ungovernable moods I still retain a sense
of propriety, _et le chemin des passions me conduit_—as Lord
Edouard in the “Julie” says it did him—_à la philosophie
véritable_.

Although I could not at first precisely ascertain to what degree
the occurrence had affected me, I determined at all events to
conceal the matter from my wife, until further experience should
discover to me the extent of this my unheard of calamity.
Altering my countenance, therefore, in a moment, from its
bepuffed and distorted appearance, to an expression of arch and
coquettish benignity, I gave my lady a pat on the one cheek, and
a kiss on the other, and without saying one syllable (Furies! I
could not), left her astonished at my drollery, as I pirouetted
out of the room in a _pas de zephyr_.

Behold me then safely ensconced in my private boudoir, a fearful
instance of the ill consequences attending upon
irascibility—alive, with the qualifications of the dead—dead,
with the propensities of the living—an anomaly on the face of the
earth—being very calm, yet breathless.

Yes! breathless. I am serious in asserting that my breath was
entirely gone. I could not have stirred with it a feather if my
life had been at issue, or sullied even the delicacy of a mirror.
Hard fate!—yet there was some alleviation to the first
overwhelming paroxysm of my sorrow. I found, upon trial, that the
powers of utterance which, upon my inability to proceed in the
conversation with my wife, I then concluded to be totally
destroyed, were in fact only partially impeded, and I discovered
that had I, at that interesting crisis, dropped my voice to a
singularly deep guttural, I might still have continued to her the
communication of my sentiments; this pitch of voice (the
guttural) depending, I find, not upon the current of the breath,
but upon a certain spasmodic action of the muscles of the throat.

Throwing myself upon a chair, I remained for some time absorbed
in meditation. My reflections, be sure, were of no consolatory
kind. A thousand vague and lachrymatory fancies took possession
of my soul—and even the idea of suicide flitted across my brain;
but it is a trait in the perversity of human nature to reject the
obvious and the ready, for the far-distant and equivocal. Thus I
shuddered at self-murder as the most decided of atrocities while
the tabby cat purred strenuously upon the rug, and the very
water-dog wheezed assiduously under the table, each taking to
itself much merit for the strength of its lungs, and all
obviously done in derision of my own pulmonary incapacity.

Oppressed with a tumult of vague hopes and fears, I at length
heard the footsteps of my wife descending the staircase. Being
now assured of her absence, I returned with a palpitating heart
to the scene of my disaster.

Carefully locking the door on the inside, I commenced a vigorous
search. It was possible, I thought, that, concealed in some
obscure corner, or lurking in some closet or drawer, might be
found the lost object of my inquiry. It might have a vapory—it
might even have a tangible form. Most philosophers, upon many
points of philosophy, are still very unphilosophical. William
Godwin, however, says in his “Mandeville,” that “invisible things
are the only realities,” and this, all will allow, is a case in
point. I would have the judicious reader pause before accusing
such asseverations of an undue quantum of absurdity. Anaxagoras,
it will be remembered, maintained that snow is black, and this I
have since found to be the case.

Long and earnestly did I continue the investigation: but the
contemptible reward of my industry and perseverance proved to be
only a set of false teeth, two pair of hips, an eye, and a bundle
of billets-doux from Mr. Windenough to my wife. I might as well
here observe that this confirmation of my lady’s partiality for
Mr. W. occasioned me little uneasiness. That Mrs. Lackobreath
should admire anything so dissimilar to myself was a natural and
necessary evil. I am, it is well known, of a robust and corpulent
appearance, and at the same time somewhat diminutive in stature.
What wonder, then, that the lath-like tenuity of my acquaintance,
and his altitude, which has grown into a proverb, should have met
with all due estimation in the eyes of Mrs. Lackobreath. But to
return.

My exertions, as I have before said, proved fruitless. Closet
after closet—drawer after drawer—corner after corner—were
scrutinized to no purpose. At one time, however, I thought myself
sure of my prize, having, in rummaging a dressing-case,
accidentally demolished a bottle of Grandjean’s Oil of
Archangels—which, as an agreeable perfume, I here take the
liberty of recommending.

With a heavy heart I returned to my boudoir—there to ponder upon
some method of eluding my wife’s penetration, until I could make
arrangements prior to my leaving the country, for to this I had
already made up my mind. In a foreign climate, being unknown, I
might, with some probability of success, endeavor to conceal my
unhappy calamity—a calamity calculated, even more than beggary,
to estrange the affections of the multitude, and to draw down
upon the wretch the well-merited indignation of the virtuous and
the happy. I was not long in hesitation. Being naturally quick, I
committed to memory the entire tragedy of “Metamora.” I had the
good fortune to recollect that in the accentuation of this drama,
or at least of such portion of it as is allotted to the hero, the
tones of voice in which I found myself deficient were altogether
unnecessary, and the deep guttural was expected to reign
monotonously throughout.

I practised for some time by the borders of a well frequented
marsh;—herein, however, having no reference to a similar
proceeding of Demosthenes, but from a design peculiarly and
conscientiously my own. Thus armed at all points, I determined to
make my wife believe that I was suddenly smitten with a passion
for the stage. In this, I succeeded to a miracle; and to every
question or suggestion found myself at liberty to reply in my
most frog-like and sepulchral tones with some passage from the
tragedy—any portion of which, as I soon took great pleasure in
observing, would apply equally well to any particular subject. It
is not to be supposed, however, that in the delivery of such
passages I was found at all deficient in the looking asquint—the
showing my teeth—the working my knees—the shuffling my feet—or in
any of those unmentionable graces which are now justly considered
the characteristics of a popular performer. To be sure they spoke
of confining me in a strait-jacket—but, good God! they never
suspected me of having lost my breath.

Having at length put my affairs in order, I took my seat very
early one morning in the mail stage for ——, giving it to be
understood, among my acquaintances, that business of the last
importance required my immediate personal attendance in that
city.

The coach was crammed to repletion; but in the uncertain twilight
the features of my companions could not be distinguished. Without
making any effectual resistance, I suffered myself to be placed
between two gentlemen of colossal dimensions; while a third, of a
size larger, requesting pardon for the liberty he was about to
take, threw himself upon my body at full length, and falling
asleep in an instant, drowned all my guttural ejaculations for
relief, in a snore which would have put to blush the roarings of
the bull of Phalaris. Happily the state of my respiratory
faculties rendered suffocation an accident entirely out of the
question.

As, however, the day broke more distinctly in our approach to the
outskirts of the city, my tormentor, arising and adjusting his
shirt-collar, thanked me in a very friendly manner for my
civility. Seeing that I remained motionless (all my limbs were
dislocated and my head twisted on one side), his apprehensions
began to be excited; and arousing the rest of the passengers, he
communicated, in a very decided manner, his opinion that a dead
man had been palmed upon them during the night for a living and
responsible fellow-traveller; here giving me a thump on the right
eye, by way of demonstrating the truth of his suggestion.

Hereupon all, one after another (there were nine in company),
believed it their duty to pull me by the ear. A young practising
physician, too, having applied a pocket-mirror to my mouth, and
found me without breath, the assertion of my persecutor was
pronounced a true bill; and the whole party expressed a
determination to endure tamely no such impositions for the
future, and to proceed no farther with any such carcasses for the
present.

I was here, accordingly, thrown out at the sign of the “Crow” (by
which tavern the coach happened to be passing), without meeting
with any farther accident than the breaking of both my arms,
under the left hind wheel of the vehicle. I must besides do the
driver the justice to state that he did not forget to throw after
me the largest of my trunks, which, unfortunately falling on my
head, fractured my skull in a manner at once interesting and
extraordinary.

The landlord of the “Crow,” who is a hospitable man, finding that
my trunk contained sufficient to indemnify him for any little
trouble he might take in my behalf, sent forthwith for a surgeon
of his acquaintance, and delivered me to his care with a bill and
receipt for ten dollars.

The purchaser took me to his apartments and commenced operations
immediately. Having cut off my ears, however, he discovered signs
of animation. He now rang the bell, and sent for a neighboring
apothecary with whom to consult in the emergency. In case of his
suspicions with regard to my existence proving ultimately
correct, he, in the meantime, made an incision in my stomach, and
removed several of my viscera for private dissection.

The apothecary had an idea that I was actually dead. This idea I
endeavored to confute, kicking and plunging with all my might,
and making the most furious contortions—for the operations of the
surgeon had, in a measure, restored me to the possession of my
faculties. All, however, was attributed to the effects of a new
galvanic battery, wherewith the apothecary, who is really a man
of information, performed several curious experiments, in which,
from my personal share in their fulfillment, I could not help
feeling deeply interested. It was a course of mortification to
me, nevertheless, that although I made several attempts at
conversation, my powers of speech were so entirely in abeyance,
that I could not even open my mouth; much less, then, make reply
to some ingenious but fanciful theories of which, under other
circumstances, my minute acquaintance with the Hippocratian
pathology would have afforded me a ready confutation.

Not being able to arrive at a conclusion, the practitioners
remanded me for farther examination. I was taken up into a
garret; and the surgeon’s lady having accommodated me with
drawers and stockings, the surgeon himself fastened my hands, and
tied up my jaws with a pocket-handkerchief—then bolted the door
on the outside as he hurried to his dinner, leaving me alone to
silence and to meditation.

I now discovered to my extreme delight that I could have spoken
had not my mouth been tied up with the pocket-handkerchief.
Consoling myself with this reflection, I was mentally repeating
some passages of the “Omnipresence of the Deity,” as is my custom
before resigning myself to sleep, when two cats, of a greedy and
vituperative turn, entering at a hole in the wall, leaped up with
a flourish a la Catalani, and alighting opposite one another on
my visage, betook themselves to indecorous contention for the
paltry consideration of my nose.

But, as the loss of his ears proved the means of elevating to the
throne of Cyrus, the Magian or Mige-Gush of Persia, and as the
cutting off his nose gave Zopyrus possession of Babylon, so the
loss of a few ounces of my countenance proved the salvation of my
body. Aroused by the pain, and burning with indignation, I burst,
at a single effort, the fastenings and the bandage. Stalking
across the room I cast a glance of contempt at the belligerents,
and throwing open the sash to their extreme horror and
disappointment, precipitated myself, very dexterously, from the
window.

The mail-robber W——, to whom I bore a singular resemblance, was
at this moment passing from the city jail to the scaffold erected
for his execution in the suburbs. His extreme infirmity and long
continued ill health had obtained him the privilege of remaining
unmanacled; and habited in his gallows costume—one very similar
to my own,—he lay at full length in the bottom of the hangman’s
cart (which happened to be under the windows of the surgeon at
the moment of my precipitation) without any other guard than the
driver, who was asleep, and two recruits of the sixth infantry,
who were drunk.

As ill-luck would have it, I alit upon my feet within the
vehicle. W——, who was an acute fellow, perceived his opportunity.
Leaping up immediately, he bolted out behind, and turning down an
alley, was out of sight in the twinkling of an eye. The recruits,
aroused by the bustle, could not exactly comprehend the merits of
the transaction. Seeing, however, a man, the precise counterpart
of the felon, standing upright in the cart before their eyes,
they were of the opinion that the rascal (meaning W——) was after
making his escape, (so they expressed themselves), and, having
communicated this opinion to one another, they took each a dram,
and then knocked me down with the butt-ends of their muskets.

It was not long ere we arrived at the place of destination. Of
course nothing could be said in my defence. Hanging was my
inevitable fate. I resigned myself thereto with a feeling half
stupid, half acrimonious. Being little of a cynic, I had all the
sentiments of a dog. The hangman, however, adjusted the noose
about my neck. The drop fell.

I forbear to depict my sensations upon the gallows; although
here, undoubtedly, I could speak to the point, and it is a topic
upon which nothing has been well said. In fact, to write upon
such a theme it is necessary to have been hanged. Every author
should confine himself to matters of experience. Thus Mark Antony
composed a treatise upon getting drunk.

I may just mention, however, that die I did not. My body was, but
I had no breath to be, suspended; and but for the knot under my
left ear (which had the feel of a military stock) I dare say that
I should have experienced very little inconvenience. As for the
jerk given to my neck upon the falling of the drop, it merely
proved a corrective to the twist afforded me by the fat gentleman
in the coach.

For good reasons, however, I did my best to give the crowd the
worth of their trouble. My convulsions were said to be
extraordinary. My spasms it would have been difficult to beat.
The populace encored. Several gentlemen swooned; and a multitude
of ladies were carried home in hysterics. Pinxit availed himself
of the opportunity to retouch, from a sketch taken upon the spot,
his admirable painting of the “Marsyas flayed alive.”

When I had afforded sufficient amusement, it was thought proper
to remove my body from the gallows;—this the more especially as
the real culprit had in the meantime been retaken and recognized,
a fact which I was so unlucky as not to know.

Much sympathy was, of course, exercised in my behalf, and as no
one made claim to my corpse, it was ordered that I should be
interred in a public vault.

Here, after due interval, I was deposited. The sexton departed,
and I was left alone. A line of Marston’s “Malcontent”—

Death’s a good fellow and keeps open house—

struck me at that moment as a palpable lie.

I knocked off, however, the lid of my coffin, and stepped out.
The place was dreadfully dreary and damp, and I became troubled
with ennui. By way of amusement, I felt my way among the numerous
coffins ranged in order around. I lifted them down, one by one,
and breaking open their lids, busied myself in speculations about
the mortality within.

“This,” I soliloquized, tumbling over a carcass, puffy, bloated,
and rotund—“this has been, no doubt, in every sense of the word,
an unhappy—an unfortunate man. It has been his terrible lot not
to walk but to waddle—to pass through life not like a human
being, but like an elephant—not like a man, but like a
rhinoceros.

“His attempts at getting on have been mere abortions, and his
circumgyratory proceedings a palpable failure. Taking a step
forward, it has been his misfortune to take two toward the right,
and three toward the left. His studies have been confined to the
poetry of Crabbe. He can have no idea of the wonder of a
pirouette. To him a pas de papillon has been an abstract
conception. He has never ascended the summit of a hill. He has
never viewed from any steeple the glories of a metropolis. Heat
has been his mortal enemy. In the dog-days his days have been the
days of a dog. Therein, he has dreamed of flames and
suffocation—of mountains upon mountains—of Pelion upon Ossa. He
was short of breath—to say all in a word, he was short of breath.
He thought it extravagant to play upon wind instruments. He was
the inventor of self-moving fans, wind-sails, and ventilators. He
patronized Du Pont the bellows-maker, and he died miserably in
attempting to smoke a cigar. His was a case in which I feel a
deep interest—a lot in which I sincerely sympathize.

“But here,”—said I—“here”—and I dragged spitefully from its
receptacle a gaunt, tall and peculiar-looking form, whose
remarkable appearance struck me with a sense of unwelcome
familiarity—“here is a wretch entitled to no earthly
commiseration.” Thus saying, in order to obtain a more distinct
view of my subject, I applied my thumb and forefinger to its
nose, and causing it to assume a sitting position upon the
ground, held it thus, at the length of my arm, while I continued
my soliloquy.

“Entitled,” I repeated, “to no earthly commiseration. Who indeed
would think of compassioning a shadow? Besides, has he not had
his full share of the blessings of mortality? He was the
originator of tall monuments—shot-towers—lightning-rods—Lombardy
poplars. His treatise upon “Shades and Shadows” has immortalized
him. He edited with distinguished ability the last edition of
“South on the Bones.” He went early to college and studied
pneumatics. He then came home, talked eternally, and played upon
the French-horn. He patronized the bagpipes. Captain Barclay, who
walked against Time, would not walk against him. Windham and
Allbreath were his favorite writers,—his favorite artist, Phiz.
He died gloriously while inhaling gas—levique flatu corrupitur,
like the fama pudicitae in Hieronymus. {*1} He was indubitably
a—”

“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”?