Our Bore
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? 'Ou, MONSIEUR!' said Pierre - 'Where,
sir?' ' La! - 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
DETERMINE. 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
vertebrae. 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.
-THE END-
Charles Dickens' short story: Our Bore
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