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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, soto 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” —