FullReads

“—– 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.