"THE HAVERING IDIOT."
Horace gives a most correct idea of this class in these well-known lines:—
"Hunc neque dira venena, nec hosticus auferet ensis
Nec laterum dolor, aut tussis aut tarda podagra,
Garrulus hunc quando consumet."
Galt, too, has hit off the character, under a feminine aspect, in his "Wearifu Woman;" but we have no occasion to ask Horace for his spectacles, or Galt for his microscope, in order to discover the features of this most numerous and annoying class. Midges, in a new-mown meadow, are terribly teasing; so are peas in one's shoes—particularly if unboiled. There is a certain cutaneous disease which is said to give exercise at once to the nails and to patience. Who would not fret if placed naked, all face over, in a whin bush? To be teased and tormented with grammar rules is vastly provoking; and to get the proof questions by heart cannot be deemed anything but annoying. A showery day, when you have set out on a long-meditated "pic-nic," will vex the most patient soul into spleen; and marriage-settlements are frequently great sources of heartburnings and delays. To be told that your house is on fire, when your messenger is on his way to effect an insurance, may possibly give pain; and to find that every pipe is frozen, so that there is not a drop of water for the engine, may probably add to your chagrin. All these, and a thousand other miseries to which human flesh is heir, may, nay must, be borne; but the torment of coming into ear-shot of a "havering idiot" is a thousand and a thousand times more insupportable. You are placed beside him at table, and in a mixed company of men of literature and science, whom probably you may never see again. A subject is started, which, from peculiar reasons, happens to be not only of itself curious, but exceedingly interesting to you, professionally in particular. Professor Pillans is discussing education, or Combe is manipulating heads; Sir David Brewster is describing the polarisation of light, or Tom Campbell is thrilling every heart with poetic quotations;—no matter, you are unfortunately in juxtaposition to a "havering idiot," and about five removes from the focus of general conversation. He will not let you rest for a moment, but is ever whispering into your ear some grand thing which he said last evening at Lady Whirligig's ball. You push your dish forward, and fix your eyes upon the intelligent speaker. He observes, and mistakes, or seems to mistake, your movement and your motive, and immediately hopes he may help you to the dish you are after. You are fairly dished; and unless you knock him down with your fist in the first place, and shoot him afterwards, you have no resource but to repeat the lines of Horace, already quoted, and submit to your fate.
His stories are infinite and inextricable; but, unlike the epic, they have neither a beginning, a middle, nor an end. When he starts with "I'll tell you a good thing," you listen for an instant, but immediately perceive that you are on the wrong scent; and, as he advances, he is ever admonishing you with his elbow of the many hits he is making; and having heard him out—if that be possible!—you immediately exclaim, "Well!" thinking assuredly the cream of the joke is yet awaiting you.
"But, sir, you are making no meal at all. You must try some of that fine honeycomb; it is most excellent; it is of our own making; for, I may say, we have almost everything within ourselves. The bees, last season, did not do well at all; but they have done better this, sir. You are a natural philosopher, sir—can you tell me how the bees see their way back again to their houses, when they go far away in search of flowers and honey?"
"Just the way, I suppose, ma'am, that they see their way a-field."
"Oh, ay—I ken that; but I hae a book here—(go away, Jeanie, and bring me the book on natural history; the Cyclopædia, ye ken). Now, sir, this book tells me that, from the shape of their eye, the bees canna see an inch before them—how then do they travel miles and miles, and never lose their road?—but bless me, sir, you're no making a meal at no rate. Ay, here's 'the article,' as it is called. Read that, sir, just at the bottom of the 196th page," &c. &c.