IT is unnecessary to say that we keep a bore. Everybody does. But, the
bore whom we have the pleasure and honour of enumerating among our
particular friends, is such a generic bore, and has so many traits (as it
appears to us) in common with the great bore family, that we are tempted
to make him the subject of the present notes. May he be generally
accepted!
Our bore is admitted on all hands to be a good-hearted man. He may put
fifty people out of temper, but he keeps his own. He preserves a sickly
solid smile upon his face, when other faces are ruffled by the perfection
he has attained in his art, and has an equable voice which never travels
out of one key or rises above one pitch. His manner is a manner of
tranquil interest. None of his opinions are startling. Among his
deepest-rooted convictions, it may be mentioned that he considers the air
of England damp, and holds that our lively neighbours—he always calls the
French our lively neighbours—have the advantage of us in that particular.
Nevertheless he is unable to forget that John Bull is John Bull all the
world over, and that England with all her faults is England still.
Our bore has travelled. He could not possibly be a complete bore without
having travelled. He rarely speaks of his travels without introducing,
sometimes on his own plan of construction, morsels of the language of the
country—which he always translates. You cannot name to him any little
remote town in France, Italy, Germany, or Switzerland but he knows it
well; stayed there a fortnight under peculiar circumstances. And talking
of that little place, perhaps you know a statue over an old fountain, up
a little court, which is the second—no, the third—stay—yes, the third
turning on the right, after you come out of the Post-house, going up the
hill towards the market? You _don’t_ know that statue? Nor that
fountain? You surprise him! They are not usually seen by travellers
(most extraordinary, he has never yet met with a single traveller who
knew them, except one German, the most intelligent man he ever met in his
life!) but he thought that YOU would have been the man to find them out.
And then he describes them, in a circumstantial lecture half an hour
long, generally delivered behind a door which is constantly being opened
from the other side; and implores you, if you ever revisit that place,
now do go and look at that statue and fountain!
Our bore, in a similar manner, being in Italy, made a discovery of a
dreadful picture, which has been the terror of a large portion of the
civilized world ever since. We have seen the liveliest men paralysed by
it, across a broad dining-table. He was lounging among the mountains,
sir, basking in the mellow influences of the climate, when he came to
_una piccola chiesa_—a little church—or perhaps it would be more correct
to say _una piccolissima cappella_—the smallest chapel you can possibly
imagine—and walked in. There was nobody inside but a _cieco_—a blind
man—saying his prayers, and a _vecchio padre_—old friar-rattling a
money-box. But, above the head of that friar, and immediately to the
right of the altar as you enter—to the right of the altar? No. To the
left of the altar as you enter—or say near the centre—there hung a
painting (subject, Virgin and Child) so divine in its expression, so pure
and yet so warm and rich in its tone, so fresh in its touch, at once so
glowing in its colour and so statuesque in its repose, that our bore
cried out in ecstasy, ‘That’s the finest picture in Italy!’ And so it
is, sir. There is no doubt of it. It is astonishing that that picture
is so little known. Even the painter is uncertain. He afterwards took
Blumb, of the Royal Academy (it is to be observed that our bore takes
none but eminent people to see sights, and that none but eminent people
take our bore), and you never saw a man so affected in your life as Blumb
was. He cried like a child! And then our bore begins his description in
detail—for all this is introductory—and strangles his hearers with the
folds of the purple drapery.
By an equally fortunate conjunction of accidental circumstances, it
happened that when our bore was in Switzerland, he discovered a Valley,
of that superb character, that Chamouni is not to be mentioned in the
same breath with it. This is how it was, sir. He was travelling on a
mule—had been in the saddle some days—when, as he and the guide, Pierre
Blanquo: whom you may know, perhaps?—our bore is sorry you don’t, because
he’s the only guide deserving of the name—as he and Pierre were
descending, towards evening, among those everlasting snows, to the little
village of La Croix, our bore observed a mountain track turning off
sharply to the right. At first he was uncertain whether it _was_ a track
at all, and in fact, he said to Pierre, ‘_Qu’est que c’est donc_, _mon
ami_?—What is that, my friend? ‘_Où_, _monsieur_?’ said Pierre—‘Where,
sir?’ ‘_Là_!—there!’ said our bore. ‘_Monsieur_, _ce n’est rien de
tout_—sir, it’s nothing at all,’ said Pierre. ‘_Allons_!—Make haste.
_Il va neiget_—it’s going to snow!’ But, our bore was not to be done in
that way, and he firmly replied, ‘I wish to go in that direction—_je veux
y aller_. I am bent upon it—_je suis déterminé_. _En avant_!—go ahead!’
In consequence of which firmness on our bore’s part, they proceeded, sir,
during two hours of evening, and three of moonlight (they waited in a
cavern till the moon was up), along the slenderest track, overhanging
perpendicularly the most awful gulfs, until they arrived, by a winding
descent, in a valley that possibly, and he may say probably, was never
visited by any stranger before. What a valley! Mountains piled on
mountains, avalanches stemmed by pine forests; waterfalls, chalets,
mountain-torrents, wooden bridges, every conceivable picture of Swiss
scenery! The whole village turned out to receive our bore. The peasant
girls kissed him, the men shook hands with him, one old lady of
benevolent appearance wept upon his breast. He was conducted, in a
primitive triumph, to the little inn: where he was taken ill next
morning, and lay for six weeks, attended by the amiable hostess (the same
benevolent old lady who had wept over night) and her charming daughter,
Fanchette. It is nothing to say that they were attentive to him; they
doted on him. They called him in their simple way, _l’Ange Anglais_—the
English Angel. When our bore left the valley, there was not a dry eye in
the place; some of the people attended him for miles. He begs and
entreats of you as a personal favour, that if you ever go to Switzerland
again (you have mentioned that your last visit was your twenty-third),
you will go to that valley, and see Swiss scenery for the first time.
And if you want really to know the pastoral people of Switzerland, and to
understand them, mention, in that valley, our bore’s name!
Our bore has a crushing brother in the East, who, somehow or other, was
admitted to smoke pipes with Mehemet Ali, and instantly became an
authority on the whole range of Eastern matters, from Haroun Alraschid to
the present Sultan. He is in the habit of expressing mysterious opinions
on this wide range of subjects, but on questions of foreign policy more
particularly, to our bore, in letters; and our bore is continually
sending bits of these letters to the newspapers (which they never
insert), and carrying other bits about in his pocket-book. It is even
whispered that he has been seen at the Foreign Office, receiving great
consideration from the messengers, and having his card promptly borne
into the sanctuary of the temple. The havoc committed in society by this
Eastern brother is beyond belief. Our bore is always ready with him. We
have known our bore to fall upon an intelligent young sojourner in the
wilderness, in the first sentence of a narrative, and beat all confidence
out of him with one blow of his brother. He became omniscient, as to
foreign policy, in the smoking of those pipes with Mehemet Ali. The
balance of power in Europe, the machinations of the Jesuits, the gentle
and humanising influence of Austria, the position and prospects of that
hero of the noble soul who is worshipped by happy France, are all easy
reading to our bore’s brother. And our bore is so provokingly
self-denying about him! ‘I don’t pretend to more than a very general
knowledge of these subjects myself,’ says he, after enervating the
intellects of several strong men, ‘but these are my brother’s opinions,
and I believe he is known to be well-informed.’
The commonest incidents and places would appear to have been made
special, expressly for our bore. Ask him whether he ever chanced to
walk, between seven and eight in the morning, down St. James’s Street,
London, and he will tell you, never in his life but once. But, it’s
curious that that once was in eighteen thirty; and that as our bore was
walking down the street you have just mentioned, at the hour you have
just mentioned—half-past seven—or twenty minutes to eight. No! Let him
be correct!—exactly a quarter before eight by the palace clock—he met a
fresh-coloured, grey-haired, good-humoured looking gentleman, with a
brown umbrella, who, as he passed him, touched his hat and said, ‘Fine
morning, sir, fine morning!’—William the Fourth!
Ask our bore whether he has seen Mr. Barry’s new Houses of Parliament,
and he will reply that he has not yet inspected them minutely, but, that
you remind him that it was his singular fortune to be the last man to see
the old Houses of Parliament before the fire broke out. It happened in
this way. Poor John Spine, the celebrated novelist, had taken him over
to South Lambeth to read to him the last few chapters of what was
certainly his best book—as our bore told him at the time, adding, ‘Now,
my dear John, touch it, and you’ll spoil it!’—and our bore was going back
to the club by way of Millbank and Parliament Street, when he stopped to
think of Canning, and look at the Houses of Parliament. Now, you know
far more of the philosophy of Mind than our bore does, and are much
better able to explain to him than he is to explain to you why or
wherefore, at that particular time, the thought of fire should come into
his head. But, it did. It did. He thought, What a national calamity if
an edifice connected with so many associations should be consumed by
fire! At that time there was not a single soul in the street but
himself. All was quiet, dark, and solitary. After contemplating the
building for a minute—or, say a minute and a half, not more—our bore
proceeded on his way, mechanically repeating, What a national calamity if
such an edifice, connected with such associations, should be destroyed
by—A man coming towards him in a violent state of agitation completed the
sentence, with the exclamation, Fire! Our bore looked round, and the
whole structure was in a blaze.
In harmony and union with these experiences, our bore never went anywhere
in a steamboat but he made either the best or the worst voyage ever known
on that station. Either he overheard the captain say to himself, with
his hands clasped, ‘We are all lost!’ or the captain openly declared to
him that he had never made such a run before, and never should be able to
do it again. Our bore was in that express train on that railway, when
they made (unknown to the passengers) the experiment of going at the rate
of a hundred to miles an hour. Our bore remarked on that occasion to the
other people in the carriage, ‘This is too fast, but sit still!’ He was
at the Norwich musical festival when the extraordinary echo for which
science has been wholly unable to account, was heard for the first and
last time. He and the bishop heard it at the same moment, and caught
each other’s eye. He was present at that illumination of St. Peter’s, of
which the Pope is known to have remarked, as he looked at it out of his
window in the Vatican, ‘_O Cielo_! _Questa cosa non sara fatta_, _mai
ancora_, _come questa_—O Heaven! this thing will never be done again,
like this!’ He has seen every lion he ever saw, under some remarkably
propitious circumstances. He knows there is no fancy in it, because in
every case the showman mentioned the fact at the time, and congratulated
him upon it.
At one period of his life, our bore had an illness. It was an illness of
a dangerous character for society at large. Innocently remark that you
are very well, or that somebody else is very well; and our bore, with a
preface that one never knows what a blessing health is until one has lost
it, is reminded of that illness, and drags you through the whole of its
symptoms, progress, and treatment. Innocently remark that you are not
well, or that somebody else is not well, and the same inevitable result
ensues. You will learn how our bore felt a tightness about here, sir,
for which he couldn’t account, accompanied with a constant sensation as
if he were being stabbed—or, rather, jobbed—that expresses it more
correctly—jobbed—with a blunt knife. Well, sir! This went on, until
sparks began to flit before his eyes, water-wheels to turn round in his
head, and hammers to beat incessantly, thump, thump, thump, all down his
back—along the whole of the spinal vertebræ. Our bore, when his
sensations had come to this, thought it a duty he owed to himself to take
advice, and he said, Now, whom shall I consult? He naturally thought of
Callow, at that time one of the most eminent physicians in London, and he
went to Callow. Callow said, ‘Liver!’ and prescribed rhubarb and
calomel, low diet, and moderate exercise. Our bore went on with this
treatment, getting worse every day, until he lost confidence in Callow,
and went to Moon, whom half the town was then mad about. Moon was
interested in the case; to do him justice he was very much interested in
the case; and he said, ‘Kidneys!’ He altered the whole treatment,
sir—gave strong acids, cupped, and blistered. This went on, our bore
still getting worse every day, until he openly told Moon it would be a
satisfaction to him if he would have a consultation with Clatter. The
moment Clatter saw our bore, he said, ‘Accumulation of fat about the
heart!’ Snugglewood, who was called in with him, differed, and said,
‘Brain!’ But, what they all agreed upon was, to lay our bore upon his
back, to shave his head, to leech him, to administer enormous quantities
of medicine, and to keep him low; so that he was reduced to a mere
shadow, you wouldn’t have known him, and nobody considered it possible
that he could ever recover. This was his condition, sir, when he heard
of Jilkins—at that period in a very small practice, and living in the
upper part of a house in Great Portland Street; but still, you
understand, with a rising reputation among the few people to whom he was
known. Being in that condition in which a drowning man catches at a
straw, our bore sent for Jilkins. Jilkins came. Our bore liked his eye,
and said, ‘Mr. Jilkins, I have a presentiment that you will do me good.’
Jilkins’s reply was characteristic of the man. It was, ‘Sir, I mean to
do you good.’ This confirmed our bore’s opinion of his eye, and they
went into the case together—went completely into it. Jilkins then got
up, walked across the room, came back, and sat down. His words were
these. ‘You have been humbugged. This is a case of indigestion,
occasioned by deficiency of power in the Stomach. Take a mutton chop in
half-an-hour, with a glass of the finest old sherry that can be got for
money. Take two mutton chops to-morrow, and two glasses of the finest
old sherry. Next day, I’ll come again.’ In a week our bore was on his
legs, and Jilkins’s success dates from that period!
Our bore is great in secret information. He happens to know many things
that nobody else knows. He can generally tell you where the split is in
the Ministry; he knows a great deal about the Queen; and has little
anecdotes to relate of the royal nursery. He gives you the judge’s
private opinion of Sludge the murderer, and his thoughts when he tried
him. He happens to know what such a man got by such a transaction, and
it was fifteen thousand five hundred pounds, and his income is twelve
thousand a year. Our bore is also great in mystery. He believes, with
an exasperating appearance of profound meaning, that you saw Parkins last
Sunday?—Yes, you did.—Did he say anything particular?—No, nothing
particular.—Our bore is surprised at that.—Why?—Nothing. Only he
understood that Parkins had come to tell you something.—What about?—Well!
our bore is not at liberty to mention what about. But, he believes you
will hear that from Parkins himself, soon, and he hopes it may not
surprise you as it did him. Perhaps, however, you never heard about
Parkins’s wife’s sister?—No.—Ah! says our bore, that explains it!
Our bore is also great in argument. He infinitely enjoys a long humdrum,
drowsy interchange of words of dispute about nothing. He considers that
it strengthens the mind, consequently, he ‘don’t see that,’ very often.
Or, he would be glad to know what you mean by that. Or, he doubts that.
Or, he has always understood exactly the reverse of that. Or, he can’t
admit that. Or, he begs to deny that. Or, surely you don’t mean that.
And so on. He once advised us; offered us a piece of advice, after the
fact, totally impracticable and wholly impossible of acceptance, because
it supposed the fact, then eternally disposed of, to be yet in abeyance.
It was a dozen years ago, and to this hour our bore benevolently wishes,
in a mild voice, on certain regular occasions, that we had thought better
of his opinion.
The instinct with which our bore finds out another bore, and closes with
him, is amazing. We have seen him pick his man out of fifty men, in a
couple of minutes. They love to go (which they do naturally) into a slow
argument on a previously exhausted subject, and to contradict each other,
and to wear the hearers out, without impairing their own perennial
freshness as bores. It improves the good understanding between them, and
they get together afterwards, and bore each other amicably. Whenever we
see our bore behind a door with another bore, we know that when he comes
forth, he will praise the other bore as one of the most intelligent men
he ever met. And this bringing us to the close of what we had to say
about our bore, we are anxious to have it understood that he never
bestowed this praise on us.