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.