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, greyhaired,
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
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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,
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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-anhour,
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
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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.
A MONUMENT OF FRENCH FOLLY
IT was profoundly observed by a witty member of the Court of Common
Council, in Council assembled in the City of London, in the year of
our Lord one thousand eight hundred and fifty, that the French are
a frog-eating people, who wear wooden shoes.
We are credibly informed, in reference to the nation whom this
choice spirit so happily disposed of, that the caricatures and
stage representations which were current in England some half a
century ago, exactly depict their present condition. For example,
we understand that every Frenchman, without exception, wears a
pigtail and curl-papers. That he is extremely sallow, thin, longfaced,
and lantern-jawed. That the calves of his legs are
invariably undeveloped; that his legs fail at the knees, and that
assured that he rarely tastes any food but soup maigre, and an
onion; that he always says, 'By Gar! Aha! Vat you tell me, sare?'
at the end of every sentence he utters; and that the true generic
name of his race is the Mounseers, or the Parly-voos. If he be not
a dancing-master, or a barber, he must be a cook; since no other
trades but those three are congenial to the tastes of the people,
or permitted by the Institutions of the country. He is a slave, of
course. The ladies of France (who are also slaves) invariably have
their heads tied up in Belcher handkerchiefs, wear long earrings,
carry tambourines, and beguile the weariness of their yoke by
singing in head voices through their noses - principally to barrelorgans.
It may be generally summed up, of this inferior people, that they
have no idea of anything.
Of a great Institution like Smithfield, they are unable to form the
least conception. A Beast Market in the heart of Paris would be
regarded an impossible nuisance. Nor have they any notion of
slaughter-houses in the midst of a city. One of these benighted
frog-eaters would scarcely understand your meaning, if you told him
of the existence of such a British bulwark.
It is agreeable, and perhaps pardonable, to indulge in a little
self-complacency when our right to it is thoroughly established.
At the present time, to be rendered memorable by a final attack on
that good old market which is the (rotten) apple of the
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Corporation's eye, let us compare ourselves, to our
national
delight and pride as to these two subjects of slaughter-house and
beast-market, with the outlandish foreigner.
The blessings of Smithfield are too well understood to need
recapitulation; all who run (away from mad bulls and pursuing oxen)
may read. Any market-day they may be beheld in glorious action.
Possibly the merits of our slaughter-houses are not yet quite so
generally appreciated.
Slaughter-houses, in the large towns of England, are always (with
the exception of one or two enterprising towns) most numerous in
the most densely crowded places, where there is the least
circulation of air. They are often underground, in cellars; they
are sometimes in close back yards; sometimes (as in Spitalfields)
in the very shops where the meat is sold. Occasionally, under good
private management, they are ventilated and clean. For the most
part, they are unventilated and dirty; and, to the reeking walls,
putrid fat and other offensive animal matter clings with a
tenacious hold. The busiest slaughter-houses in London are in the
neighbourhood of Smithfield, in Newgate Market, in Whitechapel, in
Newport Market, in Leadenhall Market, in Clare Market. All these
places are surrounded by houses of a poor description, swarming
with inhabitants. Some of them are close to the worst burialgrounds
in London. When the slaughter-house is below the ground,
it is a common practice to throw the sheep down areas, neck and
crop - which is exciting, but not at all cruel. When it is on the
level surface, it is often extremely difficult of approach. Then,
the beasts have to be worried, and goaded, and pronged, and tailtwisted,
for a long time before they can be got in - which is
entirely owing to their natural obstinacy. When it is not
difficult of approach, but is in a foul condition, what they see
and scent makes them still more reluctant to enter - which is their
natural obstinacy again. When they do get in at last, after no
trouble and suffering to speak of (for, there is nothing in the
previous journey into the heart of London, the night's endurance in
Smithfield, the struggle out again, among the crowded multitude,
the coaches, carts, waggons, omnibuses, gigs, chaises, phaetons,
cabs, trucks, dogs, boys, whoopings, roarings, and ten thousand
other distractions), they are represented to be in a most unfit