But the sons of the land which the freeman tills, To their cabin homes 'midst the deep green hills, There were songs and festal fires THE DINNER-PARTY AT FRASER'S. [From "More Happy Thoughts." By F. C. BURNAND.] Painful attitude it is to stand in, with your head in the air, and trying all the while to see what a mischievous child is doing with your watch. Done at last. White tie won't come right. Dash it, let it come wrong. Rush down to the drawing-room. Obliged to leave horrid boy in my room. I stop on the stairs. Forgotten my watch. Run up again. Rescue it from boy, who was going to examine the works with the aid of my gold pin. Luckily one of his nurses appears. I leave them to fight it out, and rush down-stairs again. At drawing-room door standing on mat to button my waistcoat, which, in my hurry, I had left undone. Door opens. Every one is coming out. APPY Thought while | takes. Lost a stud. Can't find it anywhere. This is an- Happy Thought.-Always be careful to finish dressing before one makes a public appearance. Apologies from Master and Mistress of the house. Large party all paired, except myself and a youth from school, about fourteen years old, in jackets. I don't know him at all, but he wants to be sportive, and says, "I s'pose you'll take me in." I snub him. I think the servants are laughing at something he's doing. Hate boys of this age. It was a smaller one than this who made faces at me from the window. Dinner.-Seated next to the Lady of the House. Miss Harding on the other side. I mentally note as not at all a happy thought, that if there's anything to carve I shall have to do it. I hope the old gentleman on the other side of Mrs. Fraser will offer first. She introduces us across. He is an American general. On being told by Mrs. Fraser of my literary fame, he only says, "Oh! indeed," and appears surprised. I wish she wouldn't say anything about it. have my pocket-book ready for short-hand notes, as he'll be full of information. Dinner goes on. I At Dinner. In consequence of having to listen to several whispered observations on the company present from Mrs. Plyte Fraser, who tells me who every one is, and how clever they all are, I find myself left alone eating fish. I make three picks at my fish and finish. The butler and footman are both in the room, but neither will catch my eye, and I can't get my plate removed. The coachman who comes in to wait occasionally, and is very hot and uncomfortable all the time, does catch my eye, and sees me pointing to my plate. He looks in a frightened manner at me, as though begging me not to ask him to do anything on his own account. He is evidently debating with himself whether he oughtn't to tell the butler that I'm making signs. I should say that this coachman is snubbed by the others. His rule for waiting appears to be, when in doubt play the lobster sauce; which he hands with everything. Mrs. Fraser whispers to me to draw the American General out. "He was in the war," she says behind her fan. I say "Oh, indeed!" and commence the process of drawing out. It's a difficult art. The first question is everything. I ask him, diffidently, "How he liked the war?" Before he can reply, Mrs. Fraser informs the company, as if she were exhibiting the military hero, "Ah! General Duncammon was in all the great engagements—- The General shuts his eyes and nods towards a salt-cellar. He knew," she continues, still exhibiting him, "all the leading men there- "The General looks round the table cautiously to see, perhaps, if anybody else did," and he was in the very centre of the battle, where he received a dreadful sabre wound, at-at -" she looks for assistance to the General, who seems rather more staggered than he probably did in the battle, and Plyte Fraser from the top of the table, supplies, "Bull's Run." "Bull's Run," repeats Mrs. Fraser to the General, as if challenging him to contradict if he dares. "General Duncammon's property," she goes on, still lecturing on him as a kind of mechanical wax-work figure, was all-all-all-dear me, what's the word I want?" she turns to me abruptly. I don't know. The General doesn't know. Perhaps he never had any property. Everybody being appealed to, separately, "has the word on the tip of his tongue!" "You," says Mrs. Fraser to me, "of course have quite a storehouse of words. I never can imagine an author without a perfect magazine of words. It must be so delightful always to be able to say what you want, you know. Now what is the word I'm waiting for? You know when a man has all his property taken by Governmenttaken away-not 'compromised'-no-dear me All eyes are upon me. Of course I know. Boldly but with a nervous feeling that I am not quite right yet, I say "Sequestered," and lean back in my chair somewhat hot. 66 Happy Thought.-Sequestered. Mrs. Fraser adopts it. "Sequestered by Government." Miss Harding goes into a fit of laughing. I see the mistake, so does Mrs. Fraser, so does every one. Every one laughs. They all think it's my joke, and Mrs. Fraser taps me on the hand with her fan, and explains to the General "sequestrated." Every one laughs again except Miss Harding, who, Mrs. Fraser keeps whispering to me, is "such a clever girl, so well read. Draw her out." She won't be drawn out any more than the General. The party I subsequently find has been asked expressly to meet me, and the Frasers do their best to give everything a literary turn. Odd; I don't feel a bit brilliant this evening. Very disappointing this must be to the guests. I can't even talk to Miss Harding. In consequence of what is expected of me, I can't stoop to talk about the weather, or what one's "been doing today." After the haunch of venison I am going to begin to Miss Harding about "the Human Mind in its several aspects," when she says, "I thought you authors were full of conversation and sparkling wit." It's rather rude of her, but Mrs. Fraser shouldn't lead her to expect so much. I can only say, "Did you?" As an afterthought I ask "Why?" -" I am She replies, "Well, one reads of the meetings of such men as Sheridan, Burke, Grattan, Dr. Johnson, and they seem to have said witty things every moment." I feel that I am called upon to defend the literary character for esprit in the present day. I reply, "Well you see," deliberately, "it's so different now, it's in fact more—interrupted by a gentleman, on the other side, in a white waistcoat and iron grey whiskers, "No wits now-a-days," he says. Why, I recollect Coleridge, Count D'Orsay, Scott, Southey, and Tommy Moore, with old Maginn, sir, at one table. Then, sir, there was poor Hook, and Mathews, and Yates. I'm talking of a time before you were born or thought of He says this as if he'd done something clever in being born when he was, and as if I'd made an entire mistake in choosing my time for an existence. Every one is attending to the gentleman in the white waistcoat, who defies. contradiction, because all his stories are of a time before any one at the table "was born or thought of." It is very annoying that there should ever have been such a period. Happy Thought.-In Chap. 10, Book IX. of Typical Developments, "The Vanity of Existence." From Literature he gets to Drama. He seems to remember every actor. According to him, no one ever did anything in literature or art, without asking his advice. His name is Brounton, and he speaks of himself in the third person as Harry. I try to speak to Miss Harding, but she is listening to a story from Brounton about "Old Mathews." "You didn't know old Mathews," he says to Fraser, who humbly admits he didn't. Ah, I recollect, before he ever thought of giving his entertainment, his coming to me and saying, 66 off a song and an accompaniment impromptu. You 'Harry, my boy'-he always called me Harry-dore Hook sitting down to the piano and dashing 'Harry, my boy,' says he, 'I'd give a hundred pounds to be able to sing and speak like you.' 'I wish I could lend it you, Matty,' I said to him-I used to call him Matty-but Harry Brounton wouldn't part with his musical ear for '". Here a diversion is created by the entrance of the children. I see the one who made faces at me from the window. Ugly boy. The child who would bother me when I was dressing is between Mrs. Fraser and myself. I give him grapes and fruit to propitiate him great point to make friends with juveniles. He whispers to me presently, "You don't know what me and Conny's done." I say, cheerfully, "No, I can't guess." He whispers, "We've been playing at going out of town with your box." I should like to pinch him. He continues, whispering, "I say, it's in your room, you know we've got such a lot of things in it." I don't like to tell Mrs. Fraser, who says "There, Dolly, don't be troublesome." I am distracted. The boy on the side of Mrs. Fraser (he was the nuisance in the croquet ground), says, pointing at me, “Oh, he's got such a funny hat," and is immediately silenced. I should like to hear more about this hat. I ask Dolly, who whispers, "the nurse took it away from him, 'cos she said he'd hurt himself." The little Frasers had evidently been smashing my gibus. The ladies rise and the children go with them. "You won't stop long," says Mrs. Fraser, persuasively. "No, no," answers Fraser. "Because I've allowed the children to sit up on purpose," continues Mrs. Fraser, looking at "All right," returns Fraser; "we'll just have one glass of wine and then we'll come into the drawing-room, and "-smiling upon me "he'll give us 'The Little Pig Jumped,' with squeak and all." me. Here I find all the people who have been invited in the evening. I should like to be taken ill. The children are at me at once. "Ma says you're to sing." Little brutes! The elder Miss Symperson, who will be happy to play for me, is seated near the piano. She is half a head taller than I am, and peculiarly elegant and ladylike. My last chance is trying to frighten her out of accompanying me. I tell her the tune is difficult to catch. Will I hum it to her? I hum it to her. In humming it is difficult to choose any words but "rum tum tum," and very difficult to convey a right notion of the tune. Two children standing by the piano give their version of it. I say, "hush" to them and lose the tune. Miss Symperson does catch it, and chooses a key for me. I find that all the guests have been asked Fraser, thinking the song is beginning, says, expressly to hear me sing this: I also find that "Silence," and interrupts Brounton in a loud there are a great many people coming in the story about his remembering "Old Mathews evening for the same special purpose. I haven't singing a song about a pig-he was inimitable, done it for years. Fraser seems to think that any Mathews was "-when I have to explain that man who writes is merely a buffoon. I only we're not ready to begin yet. The conversation wonder that he doesn't ask me dance a saraband is resumed: Mrs. Fraser seats herself on an ottofor the amusement of his friends. I am astonished man with her two very youngest children, who at Mrs. Fraser. I tell Fraser I've forgotten the are fidgety, near the piano; the other two insist song. He won't hear of it: he says, You'll reon standing just in front of me by the piano. member it as you go on." I say I can't get on Miss Harding takes a small chair quite close to without a good accompaniment. He returns that me; by her sits a Captain someone, who has come the elder Miss Symperson plays admirably. in the evening with his sister. I feel that she Everyone says, "Oh, you must sing." The despises buffoonery, but if the Pig-song is to be American General who speaks for the first anything at all, it must be done with good deal time, now says, "He's come ten miles to hear of facial expression. The Captain is evidently it." Brounton supposes I don't recollect Old joking with her at my expense. Don't know him, Mathews' At Home?" I don't, and he has me at a but hate him because it's very ungentlemanly. disadvantage. and unfair to laugh at you, just when you're going to sing a comic song. I tell Fraser, apologetically, that I really am afraid I shall break down. 66 He goes on to ask me if I accompany myself. No, I don't. "Ah!" says he, "I recollect Theo a Brounton says, "Never mind-improvise." Miss "A little pig lived on the best of straw, And the idea flashed across my mind what an ass I'm making of myself. At the "hee-haw," the pianist has to do six notes up and down, like a donkey braying. This is one of the points of the song. Miss Symperson doesn't do it. I hear afterwards, that she thought it vulgar and omitted it purposely. I go on "Lillibullero, lillibullero, lillibullero, My daddy's a bonny wee man." I feel it is idiotic. Miss Symperson plays a bar too much. She didn't know I finished there. I beg she won't apologise. Next verse "This little pig's mother she was the old sow, I feel it's more idiotic than ever. Here I see Miss Harding exchange glances with the Captain, and Mrs. Fraser with several ladies; they raise their eyebrows and look grim. I suddenly recollect I've got some rather broad verses coming. The idea also occurs to me for the first time that when Fraser did hear me sing it, years ago, it was amongst a party of bachelors after supper. I go on with lillibullero, and have half a mind to give it up altogether : "The Farmer's wife went out for a walk 'I fancy,' says she, 'a slice of good pork.”” I This I used to do, I remember, with a wink and making a face like a Clown. I risk it. I feel I don't do it with spirit, and nobody laughs. see Brounton whisper behind his hand to the American General, and I am sure that he's " seen old Mathews do this very thing," or something of that sort. Getting desperate, I make more hideous faces in the Lillibullero chorus. Miss Harding looks down; the ladies regard one another curiously-I believe they think I've had too much wine; the ugly boy by the piano begins to imitate my faces, and the youngest in arms bursts into a violent fit of tears. Miss Symperson stops. The child won't be comforted. Mrs. Fraser tells the wretched little brat "the gentleman won't make any more ugly faces, he won't," and turning to me, asks me to sing without the grimaces: "They can't," she argues, "be a necessity;" and Fraser reminds me, reprovingly, that when I sang it before, I didn't make those faces. I have half a mind to ask him (being rather nettled) what faces I did make? The result is, however, to set the two boys off making faces at their little sisters, for which they are very nearly being ordered off to bed instantly. Miss Symperson asks me, "Shall I go on?" I say despondently, "yes, if you please, we may as well." "The farmer's wife was fond of a freak, Eak, eak, eak, and shandiddleak, And she made the little pig squeak, squeak, squeak." 66 Here used to follow the imitation. I think it better not to do it now, and am proceeding with the next verse, when Fraser says, Hallo! I say, do the squeak." I tell him I can't, I don't feel up to it. He says, Oh, do try." I hear Miss Harding say, "Oh, do try." The Captain too remarks, (I see his eye) "He hopes I'll try," and Brounton hopes the same thing, and then tells something about Hook (probably) behind his hand to the General. I say "Very well," and yield. I begin squeaking: I shut my eyes and squeak: I open them and squeak. I try it four times, but am obliged to own publicly, "that there is no fun in it unless you are in cue for it." No one seems in cue for it. The children begin squeaking and are packed off to bed. People begin to resume the conversation. I say to Fraser I don't think there's any use in going on with the song. He answers, "Oh, yes, do-do by all means." But as he is not by any means enthusiastic about it, I thank Miss Symperson, who acknowledges it very stiffly and coldly, and cuts me for the remainder of the evening. Brounton comes up and tells me loudly, "That he remembers old Mathews doing that song, or something exactly like it, years ago: it was admirable." Miss Florelly asks me quietly, "If I'd written many songs." I disown the authorship of the pig. The Captain sings a sentimental ballad about "Meet me where the Flow'ret droops" to Miss Harding's accompaniment, and every one is charmed. Happy Thought.-Bed-time. I'll never sing again as long as I live. |