figure, seated, is that of Abraham Lincoln, our Martyr President, whom some one has happily described as 'first in war, first in peace, and first in the hearts of his countrymen!' He was a great man, and posterity will reverence his memory. The one sitting near him is," etc., etc., etc.
And thus I am bored, and secretly gnash the teeth of my wrath upon Bigauger and wish myself emancipated of him and his party.
Why will such men run riot in society, stupidly thinking themselves luminaries, when they are in fact the darkest kind of dark lanterns? I don't know; but I'd like to see some condign punishment inflicted on them. Really, something ought to be done with them—fine and imprisonment, with penitentiary for the second offence, or something which would be equally efficacious. They are a most troublesome tribe of social guerillas, watching till they catch you off your guard, and then pouncing down on you like a hawk on a chicken. And, once they fasten their fangs on you, there is no escape. They are creatures of infinite talk, and are bound to toss about their brains, such as they have. You might as well try to dam Niagara as to put them down. The more you try to protest that you are perfectly well acquainted with what they are talking about, the louder and faster will they talk. Interrupt them you can't; they will deluge you with words, and capture your ears, will ye, nil ye, till your whole mental being is on edge, as if with the filing of saws.[1] And if Bigauger only knew how many thousand people he has inspired with the wholesome desire to kick him!
Listen to him again; observe him as he fastens himself on young Lieutenant Smallboy, who is lately home from the war, less an arm.
"Ah, lieutenant," says Bigauger, smiling fiendishly, at the prospect of a new victim, "glad to see you. Where did you leave your arm?"
"At Gettysburg," replies the soldier, sadly.
"Ah, indeed! Gettysburg was the great battle—one of the most momentous, if not the most momentous and significant of the battles of the war. It was fought—"
"I think I told you I was there," says the soldier. And Bigauger rushes on, caring never a straw for the broad hint.
"—In July, 1863, near the Maryland border, between the armies of Meade and Lee. It continued for three days, and the fate of the nation hung trembling in the balance, when—" etc., etc., etc.
Would Smallboy be censurable for wishing, just then, that Bigauger was in a similar condition? I think not.
Hear him again, briefly. "Where shall you go this summer. Miss Dashley?" he inquires of the belle of the evening.
"To Saratoga," answers the unsuspecting innocent.
"A most agreeable summer resort," begins Bigauger, enthusiastically. "Some of the first families of the country go there regularly. The world of fashion is especially fond of Saratoga. The hops are charming, and—"
"Pardon me, sir. I have been there two seasons." Unhappy girl—what of it What does this social vampire care for that?
"Where was I when you interrupted me? Ah—I was telling you about Saratoga. As a summer resort it is unequalled on the Continent. Its waters—" etc., etc., etc.
- ↑ We infer that Turveydrop means "wise saws and modern instances."
