Her mother assented, and she read the following story: —
THE INJURED ASS.
A king made a law that if any body injured another, the injured person should ring a bell that was placed in the metropolis.
Time passed away, the bell became rusty; the rotten paling which surrounded it was overgrown with grass and weeds, when the unaccustomed sound of the bell was heard. The inhabitants of the city surrounded the place, and, to their utmost surprise they beheld a grey worn-out ass, who had coma there to crop the grass, and by chance entangled his feet in the chain of the bell. The king ordered the crier to command the owner of the ass to appear.
At length a tailor came forward and said, that he knew the ass, and that it had been very serviceable to him in its youth; but that it was of no use to him now, and eat more than it was worth, so he turned it loose to pick up a living in the mountains and commons, and it strayed here, he supposed; but, luckily for itself, though not for me, he has rung the bell that is the cause of my misfortunes.
The king not only pardoned, but rewarded the tailor for his candor.
‘That’s the end of the story, mother,’ said Rosamond, and she talked for sometime about it to her mother, and the half hour seemed to to have passed away very quickly — so very quickly, that she was surprised when ha’’
THOUGHTS ON BORES.
A bore is a biped, but not always unplumed. There be of both kinds; — the female frequently plumed, the male-military plumed, helmed, or crested, and whisker-faced, hairy, Dandy bore, ditto, ditto, ditto. — There are bores unplumed, capped, or hatted, curled or uncurled, bearded and beardless.
The bore is not a ruminating animal, — carnivorous, not sagacious — prosing — long-winded — tenacious of life, though not vivacious. The bore is good for promoting sleep; but though he causeth sleep in others, it is uncertain whether he ever sleeps himself; as few can keep awake in his company long enough to see. It is supposed that when he sleeps it is with his mouth open.
The bore is usually considered a harmless creature, or of that class of irrational bipeds who hurt only themselves. To such, however, I would not advise trusting too much. The bore is harmless, no doubt, as long as you listen to him; but disregarded, or stopped in mid-career, he will turn upon you. It is a fatal, if not a vulgar error, to presume that the bore belongs to that class of animals that have no gall; of which Pliny gives a list (much disputed by Sir Thomas Browne and others). That bores have gall, many have proved to their cost, as some now living, peradventure, can attest. The milk of human kindness is said to abound naturally in certain of the gentler bore kind; but it is apt to grow sour if the animal be crossed — not in love, but in talk. Though I cannot admit to a certainty that all bores have not gall, yet assuredly they have no tact, and they are one and all deficient in sympathy.
A bore is a heavy animal, and his weight has this peculiarity, that it increases every moment he stays near you. The French describe this property in one word, which, though French, I may be permitted to quote, because untranslatable, il s’appesantit — Touch and go, it is not in the nature of a bore to do — whatever he touches turns to lead.
Much learning might be displayed, and much time wasted, on an inquiry into the derivation, descent, and etymology of the animal under consideration. Suffice it to say, that for my own part, diligence hath not been wanting in the research. Johnson’s Dictionary and old Bailey, have been ransacked; but neither the learned Johnson, nor the recondite Bailey, throw much light upon this matter. The Slang Dictionary, to which I should in the first place have directed my attention, was unfortunately not within my reach. The result of all my inquiries amounts to this — that bore, boor, and boar, are all three spelt indifferently, and consequently are derived from one common stock, — what stock, remains to be determined. I could give a string of far-fetched derivations, each of them less to the purpose than the other; but I prefer, according to the practice of our great lexicographer, taking refuge at once in the Coptic.
Of one point there can be little doubt — that bores existed in ancient as well as in modern times, though the deluge has unluckily swept away all traces of the antediluvian bore — a creature which analogy leads us to believe must have been of formidable power.
We find them for certain in the days of Horace. That plague, worse, as he describes, than asthma or rheumatism, that prating, praising thing which caught him in the street, stuck to him wherever he went — of which, stopping or running, civil or rude, shirking or cutting, he could never rid himself — what was he but a bore?
In Pope I find the first description in English poetry of the animal — whether imitated from Horace, or a drawing from life, may be questioned. But what could that creature be but a bore, from whom he says no walls could guard him, and no shades could hide; who pierced his thickets; glided into his grotto; stopped his chariot; boarded his barge; from whom no place was sacred — not the church free; and against whom John was ordered to tie up the knocker?
Through the indexes to Milton and Shakspeare I have not neglected to hunt; but unfortunately, I have found nothing to my purpose in Milton, and in all Shakspeare no trace of a bore; except it be that thing, that popinjay, who so pestered Hotspur, that day when he, faint with toil and dry with rage, was leaning on his sword after the battle — all that bald, disjointed talk, to which Hotspur, past his patience, answered neglectingly, he knew not what, and that sticking to him with questions even when his wounds were cold. It must have been a bore of foreign breed, not the good downright English bore.
All the classes, orders, genera, and species of the animal, I pretend not to enumerate. Heaven forefend! — but some of those most commonly met with in England, I may mention, and a few of the most curious, describe.
In the first place, there is the mortal great bore, confined to the higher classes of society. A celebrated wit, who, from his long and extensive acquaintance with the fashionable and political world, has had every means of forming his opinion on this subject, lays it down as an axiom, that none but a rich man, or a great man, can be a great bore; others are not endured long enough in society, to come to the perfection of tiresomeness.
Of these there is the travelled and the untravelled kind. The travelled, formerly rare, is now dreadfully common in these countries. The old travelling bore was, as I find him aptly described—”A pretender to antiquities, roving, majestic-headed, and sometimes little better than crazed; and being exceedingly credulous, he would stuff his many letters with fooleries and misinformations” — vide a life published by Hearne — Thomas Hearne — him to whom Time said, “Whatever I forget, you learn.”
The modern travelled bore is a garrulous creature. His talk, chiefly of himself, of all that he has seen that is incredible; and all that he remembers which is not worth remembering. His tongue is neither English, French, Italian, or German, but a leash, and more than a leash, of languages at once. Besides his having his quantum of the ills that flesh is subject to, he has some peculiar to himself, and rather extraordinary. He is subject, for instance, to an indigestion of houses and churches, pictures and statues. Moreover, he is troubled with fits of what may be called the cold enthusiasm; he babbles of Mont Blanc and the picturesque; and when the fit is on, he raves of Raphael and Correggio, Rome, Athens, Paestum, and Jerusalem. He despises England, and has no home; or at least loves none.
But I have been already guilty of an error of arrangement; I should have given precedence to the old original English bore; which should perhaps be more properly spelt boor; indeed it was so, as late as the time of Mrs. Cowley, who, in the Belle’s Stratagem, talks of man’s being boored.
The boor is now rare in England, though there are specimens of him still to be seen in remote parts of the country. He is untravelled always, not apt to be found straying, or stirring from home. His covering is home-spun, his drink home-brewed, his meat home-fed, and himself home-bred. In general, he is a wonderfully silent animal. But there are talking ones; and their talk is of bulloc
ks. Talking or silent, the indigenous English bore is somewhat sulky, surly, seemingly morose; yet really good-natured, inoffensive, if kindly used and rightly taken; convivial, yet not social. It is curious, that though addicted to home, he is not properly domestic — bibulous — said to be despotic with the female.
The parliamentary bore comes next in order. Fond of high places; but not always found in them. His civil life is but short, never extending above seven years at the utmost; seldom so long. His dissolution often occurs, we are told, prematurely; but he revives another and the same. — Mode of life: — during five or six months of the year these bores inhabit London — are to be seen every where, always looking as if they were out of their element. About June or July they migrate to the country — to watering places — or to their own places; where they shoot partridges, pheasants, and wild ducks; hunt hares and foxes, cause men to be imprisoned or transported who do the same without licence; and frank letters — some illegibly.
The parliamentary bore is not considered a sagacious animal, except in one particular. It is said that he always knows which way the wind blows, quick as any of the four-footed swinish multitude. Report says also that he has the instinct of a rat in quitting a falling house. An incredible power was once attributed to him, by one from Ireland, of being able at pleasure to turn his back upon himself. But this may well be classed among vulgar errors.
Of the common parliamentary bore there be two orders; the silent, and the speechifying. The silent is not absolutely deprived of utterance; he can say “Yes” or “No” — but regularly in the wrong place, unless well tutored and well paid. The talking parliamentary bore can outwatch the Bear. He reiterates eternally with the art peculiar to the rational creature of using many words and saying nothing. The following are some of the cries by which this class is distinguished.
“Hear! Hear! Hear! — Hear him! Hear him! Hear him! — Speaker! Speaker! Speaker! Speaker! — Order! Order! Order! — Hear the honourable member!”
He has besides certain set phrases, which, if repeated with variations, might give the substance of what are called his speeches; some of these are common to both sides of the house, others sacred to the ministerial, or popular on the opposition benches.
To the ministerial belong—”The dignity of this house”—”The honour of this country”—”The contentment of our allies”—”Strengthening the hands of government”—”Expediency”—”Inexpediency”—”Imperious necessity”—”Bound in duty” — with a good store of evasives, as “Cannot at present bring forward such a measure”—”Too late”—”Too early in the session”—”His majesty’s ministers cannot be responsible for”—”Cannot take it upon me to say”—”But the impression left upon my mind is”—”Cannot undertake to answer exactly that question”—”Cannot yet make up my mind” (an expression borrowed from the laundress).
On the opposition side the phrases chiefly in use amongst the bores are, “The constitution of this country”—”Reform in Parliament”—”The good of the people”—”Inquiry should be set on foot”—”Ministers should be answerable with their heads”—”Gentlemen should draw together”—”Independence” — and “Consistency.”
Approved beginnings of speeches as follows — for a raw bore:
“Unused as I am to public speaking, Mr. Speaker, I feel myself on the present occasion called upon not to give a silent vote.”
For old stagers:
“In the whole course of my parliamentary career, never did I rise with such diffidence.”
In reply, the bore begins with:
“It would be presumption in me, Mr. Speaker, after the able, luminous, learned, and eloquent speech you have just heard, to attempt to throw any new light; but, &c. &c.”
For a premeditated harangue of four hours or upwards he regularly commences with
“At this late hour of the night, I shall trouble the house with only a few words, Mr. Speaker.”
The Speaker of the English House of Commons is a man destined to be bored. Doomed to sit in a chair all night long — night after night — month after month — year after year — being bored. No relief for him but crossing and uncrossing his legs from time to time. No respite. If he sleep, it must be with his eyes open, fixed in the direction of the haranguing bore. He is not, however, bound, bonâ fide to hear all that is said. This, happily, was settled in the last century. “Mr. Speaker, it is your duty to hear me, — it is the undoubted privilege, Sir, of every member of this house to be heard,” said a bore of the last century to the then Speaker of the House of Commons. “Sir,” replied the Speaker, “I know that it is the undoubted right of every member of this house to speak, but I was not aware that it was his privilege to be always heard.”
The courtier-bore has sometimes crept into the English parliament. — But is common on the continent: infinite varieties, as le courtisan propre, courtisan homme d’état, and le courtisan philosophe — a curious but not a rare kind in France, of which M. de Voltaire was one of the finest specimens.
Attempts had been made to naturalize some of the varieties of the philanthropic and sentimental French and German bores in England, but without success. Some ladies had them for favourites or pets; but they were found mischievous and dangerous. Their morality was easy, — but difficult to understand; compounded of three-fourths sentiment — nine-tenths selfishness, twelve-ninths instinct, self-devotion, metaphysics, and cant. ’Twas hard to come at a common denominator. John Bull, with his four rules of vulgar arithmetic, could never make it out; altogether he never could abide these foreign bores. Thought ’em confounded dull too — Civilly told them so, and half asleep bid them “prythee begone” — They not taking the hint, but lingering with the women, at last John wakening out-right, fell to in earnest, and routed them out of the island.
They still flourish abroad, often seen at the tables of the great. The demi-philosophe-moderne-politico-legislativo-metaphysico-non-logico-grand philanthrope still scribbles, by the ream, pièces justificatives, projets de loi, and volumes of metaphysical sentiment, to be seen at the fair of Leipzig, or on ladies’ tables. The greater bore, the courtisan propre, is still admired at little serene courts, where, well-dressed and well-drilled — his back much bent with Germanic bows; not a dangerous creature — would only bore you to death.
We come next to our own blue bores — the most dreaded of the species, — the most abused — sometimes with reason, sometimes without. This species was formerly rare in Britain — indeed all over the world. — Little known from the days of Aspasia and Corinna to those of Madame Dacier and Mrs. Montague. Mr. Jerningham’s blue worsted stockings, as all the world knows, appearing at Mrs. Montague’s conversaziones, had the honour or the dishonour of giving the name of blue stockings to all the race; and never did race increase more rapidly than they have done from that time to this. There might be fear that all the daughters of the land should turn blue. — But as yet John Bull — thank Heaven! retains his good old privilege of “choose a wife and have a wife.”
The common female blue is indeed intolerable as a wife — opinionative and opinionated; and her opinion always is that her husband is wrong. John certainly has a rooted aversion to this whole class. There is the deep blue and the light; the light blues not esteemed — not admitted at Almacks. The deep-dyed in the nine times dyed blue — is that with which no man dares contend. The blue chatterer is seen and heard every where; it no man will attempt to silence by throwing the handkerchief.
The next species — the mock blue — is scarcely worth noticing; gone to ladies’ maids, dress-makers, milliners, &c., found of late behind counters, and in the oddest places. The blue mocking bird (it must be noted, though nearly allied to the last sort) is found in high as well as in low company; it is a provoking creature. The only way to silence it, and to prevent it from plaguing all neighbours and passengers, is never to mind it, or to look as if you minded it; when it stares at you, stare and pass on.
The conversazione blue, or bure
au d’esprit blue. It is remarkable that in order to designate this order we are obliged to borrow from two foreign languages. — a proof that it is not natural to England; but numbers of this order have been seen of late years, chiefly in London and Bath, during the season. The bureau d’esprit, or conversazione blue, is a most hard-working creature — the servant of the servants of the public. — If a dinner-giving blue (and none others succeed well or long), Champagne and ice and the best of fish are indispensable. She may then be at home once a week in the evening, with a chance of having her house fuller than it can hold, of all the would-be wits and three or four of the leaders of London. Very thankful she must be for the honour of their company. She had need to have all the superlatives, in and out of the English language, at her tongue’s end; and when she has exhausted these, then she must invent new. She must have tones of admiration, and looks of ecstasy, for every occasion. At reading parties, — especially at her own house, she must cry—”charming!”—”delightful!” “quite original!” in the right places even in her sleep. — Awake or asleep she must read every thing that comes out that has a name, or she must talk as if she had — at her peril — to the authors themselves, — the irritable race! — She must know more especially every article in the Edinburgh and Quarterly Reviews; and at her peril too, must talk of these so as not to commit herself, so as to please the reviewer abusing, and the author abused; she must keep the peace between rival wits; — she must swallow her own vanity — many fail in this last attempt — choke publicly, and give it up.
I am sorry that so much has been said about the blues; sorry I mean that such a hue and cry has been raised against them all, good, bad, and indifferent. John Bull would have settled it best in his quiet way by just letting them alone, leaving the disagreeable ones to die off in single blessedness. But people got about John, and made him set up one of his “No popery” cries; and when becomes to that pitch be loses his senses and his common sense completely. “No blues!” “Down with the blues!” — now what good has all that done? only made the matter ten times worse. In consequence of this universal hubbub a new order of things has arisen.
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