IX. THE CHRISTMAS CROSS. IN MEMORIAM 1866. ON Christmas Eve, before the sacred altar, While through the dim church voices rose and rang, Amid strange merriment, untimely folly, On Christmas morn, when the glad bells were voicing Looked on what we had wrought. The preacher told again the ancient story Through some high trefoil, blazoned red and yellow, Fall on the Cross and rest. Amid our mirth, our darkness, and our sorrow, Albeit there grows through night a good to-morrow, In reading a current periodical of the day, I frequently met with the word Bore. Turning to Webster's Dictionary, to see his definition of the word, I found "BORE, n., a person or thing that wearies by iteration." That led me into a train of thought, and carried me back to the companionship of many bores. The number and names I have forgotten, but the characteristics of many will remain. I meet daily some one of that numerous class, reminding me that all are not dead. Bore, figuratively, to pierce. Bore, a tyrant who inflicts upon a company the capital punishment of his tediousness. One who lacks the faculty of perceiving the point at which attention succumbs to lassitude. An excruciation. The number and variety of bores are incalculable; in her supply of that class of creation, Nature has been liberal, and, though one season may be remarkable for a deficiency of fruit, another of fish, and so on, one has never heard of a season remarkable for a scanty supply of bores. The varieties of that particular biped are so numerous, to catalogue them would be difficult. I will notice a few of them. The Twattling Bore, Indicating Bore, the Singing Bore, the Prosing Bore, Story-telling Bore, the Military Bore, Complaining Bore, Superficial Bore. The Twattling Bore is one whose only faculty lies in the use of his tongue. He delights in what he calls conversation. His memory (which for power is fully equal to his tongue) is stored with an immoderate quantity of trash and trivialities; and these he deals out to his unfortunate listener with unmerciful profusion. His stock in trade is a collection of threadbare Joe Millers. He recollects every thing HE ever said to everybody, and all that everybody ever said to him; how he dined with such an one; what he had for his dinner on each occasion; when he was introduced to such a person; to what family they belonged; how connected, and to whom married, with an entire history of the male and female branches of the family. A good listener to Twattle is all in all. It matters but little to him on whom he inflicts the punishment. It has frequently occurred to me that the death penalty by hanging is a more merciful end than being talked to death. The man who should propose such a sentence would be stigmatized as brutal and inhuman; and yet many a poor victim, as if for some unexpiated sin, has to suffer the horrible torture. The Indicating Bore is one that will not permit you to see, hear, taste, smell, or touch, but insists on your following the guidance of his senses in preference to your own. He knows all the sights; can point out all the celebrated persons who pass up and down Broadway. Go with him to the theater. Booth plays Hamlet. "The principal part in the play," says Indicator, "in fact, Booth's great part, is where he jumps into the grave with Laertes, and says, This is I, Hamlet, the Dane.' I will give you notice when we come to that; never mind the rest." In fact, he will not let you enjoy any portion but of his choosing. Finally the scene approaches. "Now it's coming-stop-not yet— wait-now for it; isn't that splendid?" and he digs his elbow in your ribs as a reminder. On your summer tour you meet with Indicator; immediately he's your guide. You must admire nothing but of his showing; he allows you to turn neither to the right nor left, but proceeds instanter to the point of sight. He takes you to some commanding view. In your progress, your eye is caught by some accidental beauty in the distance; you stop. "Come on-nobody stops to look at that; I'll tell you when to look. Oh, don't stop to look at that-that's nothing; here, turn to the right. There! now what do you think of that? What do you say now? That is what I brought you to see!" and, unless you fly into raptures, he is disappointed, and thinks your taste wants cultivation. He points to places and objects-tells you the distance by road, and as the crow flies. You find Indicator at the National Academy of Design. There he will not allow you the gratification of discovering the excellence of any work; he must point them out to you. You are admiring a picture by Bierstadt, or Church; you are taken by the arm abruptly, and dragged away to admire the exact resemblance of a brick in a piece of painted wall. Then you are whisked off to see the beautiful finish of a fly on a peach. If he knew any thing of paintings, you might put up with his interruptions. Indicator is present at a dinner-table. Unfortunately, you are his next neighbor. He recommends this and that. You dislike catsup-he insists that you try it; no matter if the smell of it makes you shudder; he persists. "Now, try catsup-do-you must-you shall; you have no notion how good it is; but let me give you the proper quantity. There! I'm sure you'll like it." No alternative is left but to be bored to death, or poisoned with catsup. The Singing Bore is an enthusiast in music, a delighted singer, and a tolerable performer on several instruments. He knows Mozart's operas by heart; Bellini's, Cherubini's, and others. The works of the great composers are at his fingers' ends. Verdi is his favorite among the present masters. He can sing the "Trovatore," from the first bar to the last. Request him to favor you with "Stride la Vampa," and he will not let you off for less than the whole; and fortunate you may consider yourself if he does not whistle the overture into the bargain. He is not "The bird that can sing and won't sing;" he is not coy, not chary of the exercise of his talent; no, he is ever eager for the fray, and alive to the slightest provocation. Ask him if he admires Handel. "HANDEL! the Sublime! What oratorios! Grand! Massive! I know them by heart; could sing them in my sleep. The Messiah of course you have heard that?-it opens with 'Comfort ye, my people,"" which he sings, and, if you have the patience to listen, he will sing the entire oratorio. So fond is he of what he calls exercising his voice, that you would not feel surprised to see him singing to a deaf man through an ear trumpet. The Prosing Bore is a long-winded animal. Ask him the time of day at nine in the morning, and ten to one it will be eleven ere you receive the information. Inquire after the health of his aunt (who, by-the-by, has been very ill); the chances are he will see some one across the street, and asks, "Do you know that person yonder?-that is so and so." I was walking down town with "Prosey," and when we got to Tenth street" By-the-by, have you looked in at Goupil's lately?" "You did not answer my question: "how is your aunt?"" "Ah! wait a minute; I just want to stop here." "How is your aunt? I heard she had been very unwell." "One moment, and I will be with you." He joins you again. You repeat the question, how is your aunt? "Why, to give you a short answer, she is as well as can be expected." The Story-telling Bore will amuse you with any number of stories and anecdotes; nor does he tell them badly; but his 64 fault lies in an unlucky choice of time and occasion for telling them. It is not so much that he wants the tact to know when it is time to leave off doing something, as when it is the proper time to do it. He is always on the qui vive for a hint, and the slightest will serve his purpose. "Ah! that reminds me," and "Apropos to that," are phrases ever on the tip of his tongue. Talk of the graceful dancing of a lady friend of yours, he will squeeze in a story of a dancing bear. Discuss the merits of a picture by Page, and that will remind him of a devilish good anecdote of a man who painted one of Barnum's signs. Should he be in company, where an unfortunate individual has a humpback, he has a capital story to tell about an Irishman seeing a man with a humpback, and telling him what a fine, full-chested fellow he would be were the hump in front. If the afflicted seems hurt, Story-teller begs ten thousand pardons, and assures him he did not mean his. The Military Bore. The Major is always glad to see you, but has only a minute or two to spare, and would like to say a few words to you. The Major hints you are not looking well this morning. You inform him you are suffering from the toothache. "A toothache! I'll tell you in two words a certain remedy for it, the simplest thing in the world: In 1863, when our regiment, down at Fort Hamilton, was preparing to embark for duty at Fortress Monroe, one morning about six, or a quarter past—I think it was on the seventh of September-I was seized with the most violent toothache I ever had in my life. Well, I complained of it to Straps, who was a lieutenant in our regiment. I was only a lieutenant myself at that time. I complained of it to Straps-he was afterwards killed at Gettysburg-his widow married Captain Strutt. Well, shortly after the marriage, Strutt was removed to Florida." But, Major, the cure for the toothache. "Oh, I'm coming to that. One day Captain Croal at mess was carving a turkey, and splashed some gravy over Strutt, who was a fiery sort of a fellow-I was dining with the mess that day--well, there was a terrible row. Now, in my opinion, I could see no reason for it; it was pure accident." But Major, the remedy? "Well, that is what I am coming to. As I was saying-I said, Straps, I've a bad toothache; the worst I |