to the whole world in every dull detail, regardless of the right of other men to get an occasional word in edgewise—­these are the true marks of the genuine bore.  He must know that you take no interest in him or his story.  Even if you did, his manner of telling it would flatten you, yet he fascinates you with that glassy stare, that self-conscious and self-admiring smirk, and distils his tale into your ears at the very moment when you are burning to talk over old College-days with CHALMERS, or to discuss an article in the Field with SHABRACK.

I remember once finding myself, by some freak of mocking destiny, in a house in which two bores had established fortified camps.  On the first night, we all became so dazed with intolerable dulness, that our powers of resistance faded away to the vanishing point.  Both bores sallied out from their ramparts, laid our little possessions waste, and led, each his tale of captives back with him, gagged, bound, and incapable of struggle.

  So next day, when the accustomed train
  Of things grew round our sense again,

we agreed together, those of us, I mean, who had suffered on the previous night, that something must be done.  What it was to be we could not at first decide.  We should have preferred “something lingering, with boiling oil in it,” but at last we decided on the brilliant suggestion of SHABRACK, who was of the party, that we should endeavour by some means or other to bring the two bores, as it were, face to face in a kind of boring-competition in the smoking-room that very night, to engage them in warfare against one another and ourselves to sit by and watch them mutually extinguishing one another; a result that, we were certain, could not fail to be brought about, owing to the deadly nature of the weapons with which each was provided.  Both the bores, I may observe, shot execrably during the day.  In the evening, after a short preliminary skirmish, from which SHABRACK the hussar extricated us with but little loss, that which we desired came to pass.  It was a terrible spectacle.  In a moment both these magnificent animals, their bristles erect, and all their tusks flashing fiercely in the lamp-light, were locked in the death-grapple.  Every detail of the memorable struggle is indelibly burnt into my brain.  Even at this distance of time, I can remember how we all looked on, silent, awestruck, fascinated, as the dreadful fight proceeded to its inevitable close.  For the benefit of others, let me attempt to describe it in the appropriate language of the Ring.

GREAT FIGHT BETWEEN THE KENTISH PROSER AND THE HAMPSHIRE DULLARD.

Round I.—­Both men advanced, confident, but cautious.  After sparring for an opening, the Proser landed lightly on the jaw with,—­“When the Duke of DASHBURY did me the honour to ask me to his Grace’s noble deer-forest.”  He ducked to avoid the return, but the Hampshire Champion would not be denied, and placed two heavy fish-stories fair in the bread-basket.  The Proser swung round a vicious right-hander anecdote about a stag shot at 250 yards, but the blow fell short, and he was fairly staggered by two in succession ("the tree-climbing rabbit,” and “the Marquis of DULLFIELD’S gaiters"), delivered straight on the mouth.  First blood for the Dullard.  After some hard exchanges they closed, and fell, the Dullard underneath.