Boanerges

The groom is a Boanerges, rants twice as loud and twice as long as my Phoenix, and is, of course, in the estimate of the fanatics, twice as clever a fellow.

I have sat under Boanerges when he has specifically addressed himself to us — us, the infants — and at this present writing I hear his lumbering jocularity (which never amused us, though we basely pretended that it did), and I behold his big round face, and I look up the inside of his outstretched coat-sleeve as if it were a telescope with the stopper on, and I hate him with an unwholesome hatred for two hours.