ever had in my life; and Straps said, ah! I'll tell you what will cure it. You know Straps's father was a dentist in Cincinnati, where he succeeded Pullem, who was a sort of connection of mine; for my cousin, Bob Long-" Good heavens, Major! the remedy; I'm suffering tortures. "Just how I suf fered, my dear boy. You knew Bob Long, Colonel in the Tenth Infantry!" But, Major, the remedy. "Oh! ah! yes! Why, saltpeter-but I must tell you how to use it!" Back again to Fort Hamilton went the Major-what he said to Straps and Straps's friends-and would have taken you through the war, if your patience had not wearied and the toothache stopped.

The Complaining Bore is never happy but when he is miserable. A grievance to him is like the air he breathes, and without it he would die. The smallest will serve his purpose, but a grievance he must have; and, if it will afford a slight pretext for a correspondence, he is the happiest miserable dog alive.

The Superficial Bore. It is said, "A little knowledge is a dangerous thing," but certain it is that a little knowledge is sometimes made to be an insufferably disagreeable thing. The Superficial Bore is an intrepid disputant in theology, having read a number of Spurgeon's sermons. He studies "Every Man his own Lawyer," and can decide the most important law case instanter. He talks knowingly about hydrogen, oxygen, nitrates, muriates, carbonates, and sulphates; the gases, the acids, and alkalies; though not always, perhaps, applying the terms with the exactness of a chemist. He disagrees with many philosophers concerning the nature of the electric fluid, and has made up his mind as to the true cause of magnetic attraction. He has qualified himself in Astronomy by an attendance at two lectures. He bandies the sun, moon, and stars, as if they were so many boys' marbles. He differs from Newton concerning the principle of gravitation. He has read many abridged histories— will tell you the true cause of the decline of the Roman empire, and talk by the hour on the policy of Prussia-show you the only practicable way of bringing in the late seceded States. He is tolerably well read in many of the school

readers, and, thus prepared, he will criticise all the authors therein in a dashing, off-hand style. Byron, Campbell, Hemans, Washington Irving, Longfellow, Shakspeare, Scott, Tennyson, and Wordsworth, are at the end of his tongue. He has read an account of those gems of art in the Louvre, Vatican, and other European galleries. He will tell you of Raphael, Titian, Correggio, Claude, Rembrant, and others; talk to you of color, and chiaro-oscuro, breadth, depth, light and shade, with all the intrepidity of ignorance.

The phrase "bored to death" is more than a mere manner of speaking, for it involves a possibility. To be "bored to madness" is absolutely literal. Here is a case in proof:

Some years ago, an old German appeared at the Jefferson Market Police Court, with a boy about twelve boy about twelve years of age, in charge of a policeman. The boy was placed at the bar, and the old man desired to state his complaint. He trembled from head to foot, and, shaking his clenched hands, stared wildly around him: "Please your Worship, I'm going mad!"

"I am sorry for you," said the Justice, "but this is not the place you ought to come to. What have you to say against the boy?"

"That's it! that's it, your Worship; he's driving me mad!" "Driving you mad! What does he do to you?" "Your Worship, he calls me Glassputin! Glassputin !" Of course they all laughed, as who would not?

"If this is all you have to say against the boy," said the Justice, "it is a very foolish piece of business."

"Foolish, your Worship! What, when he calls me Glassputin? Oh! your Worship, you can't feel for me if you have never been called Glassputin. He has called me Glassputin every day-many times a day-now going on for four months, and I can't bear it any longer. I shall go mad! I shall go mad !"

"He is a bad boy; all I can do for you is to advise you to keep out of his way."

"I can't, your Worship. I would if I could; but he lives in our street, and I can't keep out of his way."

“The next time he annoys you, give him a good flogging, and see what effect that will have."

"It's of no use, your Worship. I have licked him many times, but he only calls me Glassputin the more for it." "Now, my good man, you must go away." "One moment," said the old man, I want law; all I want is law, your Worship.' "Nonsense, the law cannot help you."

only one moment.

The poor old man stared incredulously and said, with some astonishment:

"What! I am being called Glassputin till it's driving me mad, and the law can do nothing to help me! Can't it? are you sure it can't, your Worship? Then God must help me, or I must go the madhouse."

This is no fiction; nor is it difficult to conceive the total derangement of a weak mind by the irritating power of a petty but oft-repeated annoyance. The strongest intellects are not always bore-proof.

One or most of the bores I have named are met by some or all of us in everyday life. One I did not name, for the reason that you have had a fair opportunity to pronounce the writer a bore—and the paper on bores the worst of bores.

XI.

VOICES OF NATURE.

Contributed to the NEW JERSEY MAGAZINE by the Irving Literary Union of Irvington-written by one of its Members when recently in England.

I DREAMED youth's days had come again-
That, by a bough-arched, verdant lane,

I sat awhile to rest.

I thought that I had wandered far,
And that Apollo's golden car
Was speeding down the West.

A bubbling stream meandered by,
Journeying on right cheerily
Along its mossy way;

Sparkling beneath the sunset sheen,
It seemed the life of all the scene,

A fairy elf at play.

She ceased and waved her arm on high, Which gleamed through misty drapery. Then fixed on me her gaze;

Her eyeballs seemed of topaz hue,
O'erlaid with drops of glistening dew-
All else was silvery haze.

Upward I looked, but when again.
I thought to see her, 'twas in vain
I searched, for she had fled;

But far away methought I noted

A lucid mist, which downward floated,
Along the streamlet bed.

A fitful breeze sobbed through the grove,

Then came a rustling from above,

Caused by the trembling leaves.

The sound within an aged oak
Grew into speech, and thus it spoke,

Bending its arched eaves:

"I am a hardy English oak,

Of lineage old and free;

Beneath my sire the Druid's lyre
Oft sounded solemnly.

"Mid a green primeval forest,

66

In the far-off British days,

Unseen his birth, from the womb of earth,
Save by the gentle fays.

At length upon his stalwart sides

Did the Norman steel resound,

And, wailing loud, the champion proud
Lay prone upon the ground.

"Long time I mourned his hapless fate-
Now, full of strength and years,
I hold the place he long did grace
Among his forest peers.

"But as heritage he left me

This lesson stern and true :

That richest dower of grace and power
May prove destruction too."

Then silently his head he bowed,

And down the forest aisles there flowed

A low responsive note;

And softly, in a liquid tone,

A violet that grew alone

Sang from its vibrant throat.

"Amid a goodly train,

In Second William's reign,
A youthful knight,

Of worth and might,

Sailed o'er the stormy main.

"It was to Palestine

This knight of noble line

Went forth to fight
For his Lord's right,

And for his holy shrine.

"In Acre's blood-red streets,

While Christians victory greets,

The knight was slain,

Yet ne'er shall wane

The luster of his feats.

"From merry England came

A proud and noble dame,
With prayer and dole
For that knight's soul

Who left such burnished fame.