Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque — 1840, volume I — reading text

the Misses Cognoscenti immediately, and went behind the scenes for the purpose of giving the scoundrel a sound thrashing. At the soirée of the lovely widow, Mrs. Kathleen O’Trump, I was very confident that I should meet with no similar disappointment. Accordingly, I was no sooner seated at the card table, with my pretty hostess for a partner, than I propounded those questions whose solution had become a matter so essential to my peace. “Smith?” said my partner, “why, not General John A. B. C.? Horrid affair that, wasn't it? — diamonds, did you say? — terrible wretches, those Kickapoos! — we are playing whist, if you please, Mr. Tattle — however, this is the age of invention, most certainly — the age, one may say — the age par excellence — speak French? — oh, quite a hero — perfect desperado! — no hearts, Mr. Tattle! — I don't believe it — immortal renown and all that — prodigies of valor! Never heard!! — why, bless me, he's the man” —— “Mann? — Captain Mann?” here screamed some little feminine interloper from the farthest corner of the room. “Are you talking about Captain Mann and the duel? — oh, I must hear — do tell — go on, Mrs. O’Trump! — do now go on!” And go on Mrs. O’Trump did — all about a certain Captain Mann who was either shot or hung, or should have been both shot and hung. Yes! Mrs. O’Trump, she went on, and I — I went off. There was no chance of hearing anything farther that evening in regard to Brevet Brigadier General John A. B. C. Smith. Still, I consoled myself with the reflection that the tide of ill luck would not run against me for ever, and so determined to make a bold push for information at the rout of that bewitching little angel, the graceful Mrs. Pirouette. “Smith?” said Mrs. P., as we twirled about together in a pas de zephyr, “Smith? — why not General John A. B. C.? Dreadful business that of the Bugaboos, wasn't it? — terrible creatures, those 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 tell you — Smith! why he's the man” —— “Man-fred, I tell you!” here bawled out Miss Bas-Bleu, as I led Mrs. Pirouette to a seat. “Did ever any body hear the like? It's Man-fred, I say, and not at all by any means Man-Friday.” Here Miss Bas-Bleu beckoned to me in a very peremptory manner; and I was obliged, will I nill I, to leave Mrs. P. for the purpose of deciding a dispute touching the title of a certain poetical drama of Lord Byron's. Although I pronounced, with great promptness, that the true title was Man-Friday, and not by any means Man-fred, yet when I returned to seek for Mrs. Pirouette she was not to be discovered, and I made my retreat from the house in a very bitter spirit of animosity against the whole race of the Bas-Bleus. Matters had now assumed a really serious aspect, and I resolved to call at once upon my particular friend, Mr. Theodore Sinivate — for I knew that here at least I should get something like definite information. “Smith?” said he, in his well known peculiar way of drawling out his syllables; “Smith? — why, not General John A — B — C.? Savage affair that with the Kickapo-o-o-o-os, was'nt it? Say! don't 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 Mann?” “Captain Mann be d——d!” said I, “please to go on with your story.” “Hem! — oh well! — toute la même cho-o-ose, as we say in France. Smith, eh? Brigadier General John A — B — C.? I say — (here Mr. S. thought proper to put his finger to the side of his nose) — I say, you don't mean to insinuate now, really, and truly, and conscientiously, that you don't know all about that affair of Smith's as well as I do, eh? Smith? John A — B — C.? Why, bless me, he's the ma-a-an” —— “Mr. Sinivate,” said I, imploringly, “is he the man in the mask?” “No-o-o!” said he, looking wise, “nor the man in the mo-o-o-on.” This reply I considered a pointed and positive insult, and I left the house at once in high dudgeon, with a firm resolve to call my friend, Mr. Sinivate, to a speedy account for his ungentlemanly conduct and ill breeding. In the meantime, however, I had no notion of being thwarted touching the information I desired. There was one resource left me yet. I would go to the fountain head. I would call forthwith upon the General himself, and demand, in explicit terms, a solution of this abominable piece of mystery. Here at least there should be no chance for equivocation. 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 humour in the world, I gave it a kick out of the way. “Hem! ahem! rather civil that, I should say!” said the bundle, in one of the smallest, the weakest, and altogether the funniest little voices, between a squeak and a whistle, that ever I heard in all the days of my existence. “Ahem! rather civil that, I should observe!” — I fairly shouted with terror, and made off at a tangent, into the farthest extremity of the room. “God bless me, my dear fellow,” here again whistled the bundle, “what — what — what — why, what is the matter? I really believe you don't know me at all.” “No — no — no!” said I, getting as close to the wall as possible, and holding up both hands in the way of expostulation; “don't know you — know you — know you — don't know you at all! Where's your master?” here I gave an impatient squint towards the negro, still keeping a tight eye upon the bundle. “He! he! he! he-aw! he-aw!” cachinnated that delectable specimen of the human family, with his mouth fairly extended from ear to ear, and with his forefinger held up close to his face, and levelled at the object of my apprehension, as if he was taking aim at it with a pistol. “He! he! he! he-aw! he-aw! he-aw! — what? you want Mass Smif? Why, dar's him!” What could I say to all this — what could I?” I staggered into an arm-chair, and, with staring eyes and open mouth, awaited the solution of the wonder. “Strange you shouldn't know me though, isn't it?” presently re-squeaked the bundle, which I now perceived was performing, upon the floor, some inexplicable evolution, very analogous to the drawing on of a stocking. There was only a single leg, however, apparent. “Strange you shouldn't know me, though, isn't it? Pompey, bring me that leg!” Here Pompey handed the bundle a very capital cork leg, all ready dressed, which it screwed on in a trice, and then it stood upright before my eyes. Devil the word could I say. “And a bloody action it was,” continued the thing, as if in a soliloquy; “but then one musn't fight with the Bugaboos and Kickapoos, and think of coming off with a mere scratch. Pompey, I'll thank you now for that arm. Thomas (turning to me) is decidedly the best hand at a cork leg; he lives in Race street, No. 79 — stop, I'll give you his card; but if you should ever want an arm, my dear fellow, you 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 or less than my new acquaintance, Brevet Brigadier General John A. B. C. Smith. The manipulations of Pompey had made, I must confess, a very striking difference in the appearance of the personal man. The voice, however, still puzzled me no little; but even this apparent mystery was speedily cleared up. “Pompey, you black rascal,” squeaked the General, “I really do believe you would let me go out without my palate.” Hereupon the negro, grumbling out an apology, went up to his master, opened his mouth with the knowing air of a horse-jockey, and adjusted therein a somewhat singular looking machine, in a very dexterous manner that I could not altogether comprehend. The alteration, however, in the whole expression of the countenance of the General was instantaneous and surprising. When he again spoke, his voice had resumed the whole of that rich melody and strength which I had noticed upon our original introduction. “D—n the vagabonds!” said he, in so clear a tone that I positively started at the change, “d—n the vagabonds! they not only knocked in the roof of my mouth, but took the trouble to cut off at least seven-eighths of my tongue. There isn't Bonfanti's equal, however, in America, for really good articles of this description. I can recommend you to him with confidence, (here the General bowed,) and assure you that I have the greatest pleasure in so doing.” I acknowledged this kindness in my best manner, and now took leave of my friend at once, with a perfect understanding of the state of affairs — with a full comprehension of the mystery which had troubled me so long. It was evident. It was a clear case. Brevet Brigadier General John A. B. C. Smith was the man —— was THE MAN THAT WAS USED UP. THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER. DURING the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless day in the autumn of the year, when the clouds hung oppressively low in the heavens, I had been passing alone, on horseback, through a singularly dreary tract of country; and at length found myself, as the shades of the evening drew on, within view of the melancholy House of Usher. I know not how it was — but, with the first glimpse of the building, a sense of insufferable gloom pervaded my spirit. I say insufferable; for the feeling was unrelieved by any of that half-pleasurable, because poetic, sentiment, with which the mind usually receives even the sternest natural images of the desolate or terrible. I looked upon the scene before me — upon the mere house, and the simple landscape features of the domain — upon the bleak walls — upon the vacant eye-like windows — upon a few rank sedges — and upon a few white trunks of decayed trees — with an utter depression of soul which I can compare to no earthly sensation more properly than to the after-dream of the reveller upon opium — the bitter lapse into common life — the hideous dropping off of the veil. There was an iciness, a sinking, a sickening of the heart — an unredeemed dreariness of thought which no goading of the imagination could torture into aught of the sublime. What was it — I paused to think — what was it that so unnerved me in the contemplation of the House of Usher? It was a mystery all insoluble; nor could I grapple with the shadowy fancies that crowded upon me as I pondered. I was forced to fall back upon the unsatisfactory conclusion, that while, beyond doubt, there are