Part 7

These blethers were not original inventions, but merely varnished repetitions. The blethering idiot is most dangerous as well as most disagreeable. In this respect, he even surpasses the haverer, whose annoyances terminate in themselves, in the irritations and inconveniences of the moment. But the bletherer is a dangerous friend, an inveterate foe, and a most unsafe neighbour. Will Webster was the intimate friend of poor James Johnston. James was a lad of honest intentions, fair talents, and warm feelings. He was educated as an engineer, and had already acquired a certain status and character in that capacity. His friend Webster had been accidentally a school companion, from the proximity of their dwellings and the intimacy of their parents. Webster had studied law, and was about to pass advocate, when he came to meet his friend, and spend a harvest vacation with him at Castledykes, in the parish of Tynron, Dumfries-shire. The two young men were in the bloom and strength of youth, being both some months under twenty-one. Georgina Gordon was the daughter of a small neighbouring proprietor (a Dunscore laird), an only daughter, her father's prop (her mother having died at her birth), and the admiration of everybody who merely saw her at church on Sunday, or who knew her intimately. I should have mentioned before, that this beautiful flower had been named Georgina, with the view of perpetuating the name of a brother whose fate had been involved in obscurity. He had betaken himself early to sea, and the vessel in which he sailed had never more, during several years before Georgina's birth, been heard of. All possible inquiries had been made, but without effect. The Thunderer, Captain Morris, had been seen off the coast of South America; but no more was known. James Johnston was already in the way of making reasonable proposals to any one; but his heart had long been fixed at Castledykes. He used to wander for hours and days along the glen of the cairn, and within sight of the old family abode. Georgina, however, had already many lovers, and was reported to have, in fact, made a selection. It was again and again reported by Will Webster to his friend Johnston, and to everybody who took any interest in the report, that he had seen Georgina enter the Kelpie Cave in company with a lover, and that he had even seen them fondly embracing each other. At first Johnston gave no heed to Will's _blethers_; but still they gradually made an impression upon him. He became, at last, decidedly jealous, when, led and guided by his friend Will, he beheld with his own eyes a male figure, closely wrapped up in a plaid, holding secret converse with the lovely Miss Gordon. What will not jealousy, goaded on by officious and injudicious friendship, do? Unknown to any one, he met and accosted the figure in the dark: a struggle and a contest with lethal weapons took place, and the stranger fell. No sooner had the deed been done, than James saw and repented of his rashness. The wound which he had inflicted was bound up, and the fainting man, help being procured, conveyed to Castledykes. James Johnston was not the man to fly, even should death prove the consequence of his rashness. A curious denouement now took place: the person whom James had wounded was no other than the long-lost George Gordon. The vessel in which he had sailed had not been wrecked, as was supposed, but had been taken, scuttled, and sunk, by Spanish privateers, who then infested the Leeward Islands. He had been bound and fettered in the hold, till he came under a solemn promise neither to desert nor abandon his colours in the hour of battle. Under such discipline, it was no wonder that, in a few years, George Gordon (now taking the Spanish name of Joan Paraiso) should be habituated to all manner of rapine and bloodshed. From less to more, by acts of heroism, he became second, and ultimately first, in command of a Spanish privateer.

England, having viewed this growing evil with a suitable indignation, sent out her armaments to the west; and the Don Savallo, Joan Paraiso, commander, was taken. The prisoners were conveyed to Britain; and it being discovered that Paraiso was originally a British subject, he was thrown into prison to abide his trial. From this he escaped, almost by a miracle, and wandering over the kingdom in another domino, or assumed name, he came at last, as if by the law of force and attraction, to his native glen. But he durst not yet discover himself, for he was an outlaw, and the papers were filled with rewards for his apprehension. In this situation he discovered himself, under the most dreadful oaths of secresy, even from his own father (at least for a time), to his sister. The rest, up to the period of his wound, which was by no means dangerous, is easily understood. What follows will be necessary to complete the narrative:--James Johnston having learned all this from Georgina, who, in a moment of excitement, discovered that it was not a lover but a brother over whom she hung, he again met his blethering friend Webster--acquainted him with the history, and, in a few days, Joan Paraiso was arrested in his bed, and carried to Plymouth, to undergo his trial. The grief and horror of all may be easily conceived. All, save the origin of the evil, were thunderstruck and overpowered with grief and vexation. "But for your long tongue and empty head," said Johnston, taking him one day by the throat, "my dear Georgina had been mine--her brother had lived, and all had been well." The guilty man struggled, and was dashed against a stone wall with tremendous violence. A concussion of the brain followed, and poor unhappy James Johnston was himself on trial for murder. It is true that he was acquitted, as the surgeon would not positively affirm that the dead person had not died from a natural stroke of apoplexy; and it is likewise true, that Joan Paraiso, _alias_ George Gordon, was acquitted, as he had been compelled, from fear of death, to act as he had done. But Georgina was no longer an heiress, and the mercenary laird of Clatchet-Knowe, who had all but obtained her consent to a marriage, became suddenly cooled in his fervour. Johnston hearing of this, and having, after some months, recovered his spirits, made his addresses, and was accepted. Georgina Johnston is now, or was lately, a happy wife and mother. Her husband has purchased the farm of Kirkcudbright, in that neighbourhood, and they live in comfort and respectability. So much as a specimen of the achievements and fate of a bletherer. But who waits there?

"THE AFFECTED IDIOT.

Let him enter. What a thing! But it is not with the tailor-work that we have to deal; we leave that to the titter and ridicule of every sensible person in the company, and to the compassion of the rest.

"In man or woman, but far most in man, I hate all affectation."

So says good-hearted Cowper. But, hating affectation, he must in some degree hate a large section of the male, and a still larger proportion of the female sex. In fact, we are all more or less affected--I in writing this article in such an easy, off-hand, after-dinner manner, and the publisher of the "Border Tales" in affecting not to be affected by so many favourable notices in so many papers. I don't like the word--I hate it ever since Lord Brougham (who once was so great) made use of the one half of it, when speaking of Sugden; but, notwithstanding, I must out with it--"_humbug_" is the go, and everybody knows it, and yet everybody does it. Was there ever such a queer world, ma'am? I _wish_--well, I will tell you, madam, what I wish--I wish I had a new tack of "this world," with all its nonsense. This thing we call "life" is to me exceeding amusing; but I am off, on the very velocipede of affectation, and must "'bout ship."

The affectation of no affectation is the most unsupportable of all. Simple Johnnie comes into the room, throwing about, from side to side, both his elbows. He immediately, in the simplicity of his nature, lets you know that he never was up to the ordinary methods of society; in testimony of which he sits down beside you on a sofa--plaits his legs, and passes his hand along his leg, from heel to knee, and _vice versa_. You talk of anything and everything. He is sure you are right. He never could remember anything. He is sure you are right; but he cannot say, it is so long since he read about it. He tells you at once that people call him "Simple Johnnie;" that he once tumbled into a river, whilst reading a book; that he is _so_ absent, you have no notion; that he has forgotten his own name, and only remembered it, after having given a penny to a boy, saying, "Now, my boy, do you know who gave you that?" He puts on a blue stocking and a grey, and wonders that people observe it; he pushes through the market, snuffing, snorting, and repeating almost aloud, Thomson's "Seasons;" he is called a good sort of a body, and tells you so; but he knows in reality that he is an excellent classical scholar, and a writer of no mean degree. Affectation, however, hangs over him, like a mist; and his real merits, which are great, are greatly obscured by the medium through which they are seen.

Let us change the sex!--A farmer's daughter married to an earl--no, not an earl--a laird--a country gentleman. She is all _gentility_--talks of nothing beneath dukes and marquises; asks you if there is anybody of note in India; never saw fish eaten without a silver fork; and considers that Queen Victoria has never seen good company! After a', wha cares? This is a precious rag of feminality; nobody can hurt her feelings, or destroy her equanimity. You mention, in her company, that Lady Louisa Russell, her most intimate friend, of whom she talks daily, and to everybody, has left the town without calling; she assumes an air of supreme indifference, and exclaims--"Well! after a', wha cares?"

A bluestocking!--No, I will not spend ink and paper on the subject--it is literally _thread_-bare--not a loop in the stocking but may be seen by a man of ninety without spectacles. A fop!--faugh!--who cares for anything of the dandy or exquisite species?--A braggadocio--another Munchausen! who kills trouts by the gross, and men by the dozen--who shoots on the wing--_e.g._ Two individuals of this description once met in my own presence. They had been in India, and were Indianising for the benefit and entertainment of the company. Shooting came on the carpet, and their various achievements were stated. Colonel A---- had shot more than a dozen water-fowl at one shot.

"I am sure," said he, appealing to his Indian friend--"I am sure, general, you know it to be true."

"Twelve dozen, by God!" was the emphatic response.

"Who has not heard of my father, the colonel?"--viz., Colonel Cloud--and yet this colonel proved to be nothing more than plain Mr B----, from the grand town of Forfar. Oh, how shall I overtake the varied forms that rise up before me!--as well might I essay to catch and fix every butterfly from the Emperor of Morocco down to the blue wing. "Upwards and downwards, thwarting and convolved," the myriads of insects dance away their hour, and are forgot. And who art thou who thus speakest of others? A solitary fly! A large blue-bottom, madam, as insignificant and ephemeral as any amongst them. But of this enough. Let us now introduce another actor, or rather speaker.

"Well, sir, I am glad I have met you; for I was just going to call upon you, to tell you that my son John, poor fellow--you know John?--that he has got a step--what they call a step in the service, and that he has had a severe fever, but is now quite well; and that he writes to his sister--such a letter--but I have it here, sir, in my pocket. Pray do, sir, sit down for a little, and I will read it to you; it is such a funny letter--you have no notion--and so full of inquiries for everybody, amongst the rest for yourself, whom it is wonderful that he remembers--he has such a memory, my Johnnie, and always had. I remember, when just a little thing not higher than this parasol. But, bless me, sir, you are not listening!"

"No, ma'am; I beg your pardon; but I have an engagement." (Exit.)

And who does not see, at once, that this is a

"PROSING IDIOT?"

"I was up, yes--yes--up--up--yes, I was up by five yesterday--yes--yes--yesterday morning. When do you rise, ma'am? I always rise--yes--yes--rise--I always rise by six--true--true--quite true--by six, ma'am--it is good--so good--yes--yes--very good, ma'am, for the health--the health--yes--the health."

Such is the drivel which we have often heard oozing, drop by drop, from a male creature of the prosy kind.

"THE BLAZING IDIOT."

The blazing idiot is all over self and wonderment. He has done--what has he not done? He can do--what can he not do? One of this character was one day entertaining old Quin with the account of an encounter with a furious bull, in which the blazer had proved too much for the horner, and held him, in spite of his neck, till he roared for a truce.

"Oh," said Quin, looking around him knowingly on the company, "that is nothing at all to what I once experienced myself."

The original blazer looked amazement.

"Yes," says Quin, "I--even I, have managed the bull exercise in a higher style than you, sir. You only held the bull's head down by the horns, but I twisted his head from his neck, and threw it after his departing hind-quarters!"

This produced a roar at the idiot's expense, and he shrunk out, to announce his achievements somewhere else.

Is he a traveller?--Why, then, Munchausen is a fool to him. He has undergone, achieved, seen, heard, tasted, more wonders than a thousand Gullivers.

"The bats of Madagascar are large, assuredly, and almost exclude the sunlight by the breadth of their hairy wings. But the bats are nothing, sir, to the bees."

"What kind of bees have they?"

"Why, sir, the bees are, 'pon honour, sir, they are as large as your sheep in this country."

"Why, then, one would require to keep a pretty sharp look-out ahead, in case of a near encounter with such a winged monster."

"Not at all, sir. They make such a roaring noise, sir, with their wings, that you can hear them, like the bulls of Bashan, a full mile distant."

"Terrible! But are they numerous?"

"Oh, exceedingly!"

"And what kind of flowers have they to feed on?"

"Why, just ordinary flowers. They cover them all over, and insert their proboscis into a thousand, without stirring from their position."

"Yes! And what kind of skeps have they?"

"Oh, just ordinary skeps, like ours in this country."

"Yes! And how do these bees get into the skeps?"

"Oh, _just let them see to that_!"

But these may be termed the magnificent blazers. There is an animal of this species of very reduced dimensions; and yet, from its numbers and activity, it is not less provoking and annoying than the giant race. You cannot mention a long walk which you have taken, but it out-walks you by at least ten miles. You cannot drink your three bottles at a sitting, but it empties five. You made, whilst a boy, some hairbreadth escapes, but they are nothing to what it has escaped. You have had a very bad fever, and lay a whole week insensible; this creature roared a whole month. You have broken your tendon Achilles; this unfortunate has cut all the arteries and tendons of the leg. Go where you will, the land has been travelled before you. Do what you may, the thing has been done, and much better done, already. In fact, you are only the copy of the original before you; a shaping out of a web; a degenerate branch of a vine in full growth; an Italian alphabet in the presence of a Roman. "I thought my master a wise man; but this man makes my master a fool," says the housemaid in Dean Swift; and it is thus that the emmet Blazer befools you, turn where you may. Whom have we next in this our show-box of rarities? Step in, sir. Don't stumble on the doorway, like Protesilaus in setting out for Troy. Oh, I ask your pardon--

"THE BLUNDERING IDIOT."

Sit down there, sir--no, not on that sofa--with your dirty garments, and shoes bemired; but on that arm-chair, where you may roll about to your heart's content. Now, sir, be silent; for I see you are about to blunder out whatever comes uppermost (and that is generally froth and scum), and listen to me. I am going to read you a lecture. It was owing to your blundering interference that I am not the Laird of Peatie's Mill at this moment. You went to my uncle, and, by the way of recommending his nephew, told him that I was an intimate acquaintance of yours, and that you and I had many a happy night together at Johnnie Dowie's. Now, you ought to have known my uncle's views and habits--in short, his character--and that he had all his life long an utter abhorrence of anything approaching to dissipation. My uncle instituted inquiry, and found that what you stated was true, at least to a certain extent; and, in consequence, cut me off with a shilling, leaving Peatie's Mill to a miserly, mean fellow, who had once informed him of the approaching failure of one who owed him money. You need not make any apology now, the thing is done, and cannot be undone. When I was on the point of being married to an heiress, with a good person and a fine property, you came again as my evil genius, denying a report, which I had myself propagated, of my early indiscretions, and assuring her cousin that I was totally incapable of anything of the kind; that I was a perfect Nathaniel, or Joseph, or what not; and, in short, so disgusted the lady with your praises of me, that she immediately cut me, and married the master of a coasting vessel. I know what you are going to say; but I know, too, that you had no business to pop your nose into other people's business. Besides, at last election, did not you assure the members to whom you, amongst others, applied in my favour, that I was at heart a Tory, though I had assumed Whig colours of late; and all this because you knew his own father had been a violent Tory in old times. This so disgusted my patron, that I lost the stamps by it. Your blundering idiocy, sir--without any bad motive to arm it to mischief--has done more injury to yourself, as well as to others, than would be the very worst intentions and the most malevolent endeavours. But I spare you--convinced, as I am, that nothing which I can say will ever drain the blundering propensity out of your nature. But whom have we here?--

"A BORN IDIOT."

"Well, ma'am, let me have your own story from your own lips."

"Why, sir, do you use no more ceremony with me, knowing who I am, sir? When your ancestors, sir, were working on the queen's highways, and breaking stones----"

"I beg your pardon, madam; but it is but a short time since Macadamising was introduced, and my ancestors happened to live at a period prior to the breaking of stones on high-roads as a business."

"Well, sir, but you have interrupted me, and I forgot what I was going to say. Oh ay! I was going to tell you that my ancestors rode in coaches, when yours drove carts; that mine spent thousands upon thousands, whilst yours were dealing in tarry-woo and candle grease; and yet you, sir--you now sit in this cottage of yours (as you must needs call it)--you have the audacity, and the impertinence, and the presumption, forsooth, to call my son to account for shooting a few of your dirty birds over your poor, paltry acres."

"Ma'am, I only warned him off my preserves, and did it in civil language, too; but your son, taking his cue, I have no doubt, from so accomplished a parent, used improper and ungentlemanly language to me, and threatened to horsewhip me; so I thought it was only justice to myself to put him into the hands of my man of business."

"Your man of business, sir! And who gave you, or your father's son, a man of business, pray? What business may you have to manage, which a servant lass may not conduct to a favourable conclusion with a three-pronged grape?"

"Madam, I will stand this no longer. This house is my own. Depart!"

There she goes, wagging her tail and tossing her head, the Born Idiot!

But here comes a change of person, in

"THE CANTING IDIOT."

But, hush! I hear the voice of psalmody. She has taken to what she terms a "sweet psalm," and must not on any account be disturbed.

It is true that there are odd stories abroad of her early life, and some rather suspicious reports respecting a certain serjeant of a certain regiment. Suspicions, too, have been entertained of her being concerned in the burning of a certain will, by which her husband became possessed of property to a comfortable extent; but she has no family, and of late years has taken to religion, and, some say, occasionally to a less safe stimulant. Be that as it may, Mrs Glaiks is at the head of all manner of female associations of a religious character. She is a perfect adept in judging of young preachers and evangelical discourses. If she pronounce her verdict, the matter is settled; there is no appeal, not even to her poor henpecked husband, whose conscience, every now and then, requires all her care and eloquence to soothe. She has already taken possession of this world by a _trick_, and she means to take the next by _force_. She is urgent with the Lord, in season and out of season, and has been at great pains in converting a handsome young man, who was addicted to wine and its usual accompaniments. She says that she has been the unworthy instrument, in God's hand, of his soul's salvation; and meets with him more frequently in private than John Glaiks approves of. Pass on, Mrs Glaiks--

"If honest worth to heaven rise, Ye'll mend ere ye come near it."

But what a mighty fuss is here! The door flies wide open, till the hinges crack again, as _in_ there rolls, in all the majesty of a new suit of clothes, and a mighty self.

"THE POMPOUS IDIOT."

Reader! it is not Samuel Johnson, nor his Leader Bozzie. These were both pompous enough, God knows; but they were not idiots--it is "my Uncle Thomas." My Uncle Thomas was once a colonel in the Galloway Militia, and has long retired in single blessedness, to live upon a small family inheritance, which is scarcely sufficient to support himself, with a _man in livery_ and a servant girl, to work his means, and act as chambermaid. My uncle rises every morning at seven, rings his bell, and calls his servant to shave and dress him. All this is done in solemn silence; for it would be presumption in John to utter a word, unless he be spoken to. My uncle, having surveyed his full, round person in the glass, takes possession of his arm-chair, then pokers the fire; looks out at his window; scolds a turkey-cock for spreading his feathers and keeping up a row in the back court; rings the bell again, and says--

"Why, sir, what do you stare at? Let me have breakfast."