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.