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.  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.