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, 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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Dickens, Charles – Reprinted Pieces
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