Short Fiction Edgar Allan Poe (books for men to read .txt) 📖

xml:lang="la">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. 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