Part 4

One can imagine the couple in a railway carriage trying to look as if nothing had happened, and their discomfort on observing side looks, smiles, and whisperings from those on the opposite seat, who have noticed some rice which has trickled down his trousers to the floor. With guards and porters, I believe, subterfuge is useless: the new trunks, &c., tell too plainly, and they have to be liberally tipped.

The floor of the dining-room was covered with rice, and an idea occurred to me which might be taken up profitably. We see forms, &c., advertised for balls: why should not poulterers announce, "Hens supplied for marriages!" They would clean the carpet in a few minutes.

Human nature is a strange thing. A hearse, or a brougham with a slipper tied behind, will collect all the women in the neighbourhood, except the better-bred ones, who are peeping out from behind the curtains. A man takes no interest in either, but there will be a crowd from morning till night when a gas pipe or telegraph wire is being laid.

Well, each to his taste: Dress for the ladies, a drain for the men, the bride for the bridegroom, and may they be happy!

AFTER-DINNER SPEECHES WITH HINTS

No one of a philanthropic nature can think but with pity and sympathy of the mental sufferings of those who have toasts to propose or reply to. True, there are some who could not go home happy from a meeting unless they had aired their eloquence; but they are a small minority. Ministers are usually swift in getting on their feet, and slow to sit down; and though they have "the gift o' the gab," to some, if not all, it is an infliction--not less probably than to their brethren in the laity--to have to speak, as they know that something better will be expected of them. Talking with a country minister recently, he said:

"I was once at a Burns Dinner in Edinburgh, and when we were at the soup I got a note handed from the chair, saying I had been put down for a toast in place of some one who was absent. Well, sir, I laid down my spoon and never touched my dinner." (This was said in a tone of sad reflection.) "But," he added, brightening up, "I picked on two lines of quotation the chairman had left out, and I gave them twenty minutes of it,"--the cheery expression of his face showing that the lengthened speech was not given as revenge for the loss of a dinner, but with pride in his "gift."

There are "Practical Letter Writers" and books on Etiquette, but no one seems to be bold enough to publish a book of Speeches suitable for the many exigencies of those who "go out." The "Practical" or "Complete" Letter Writer usually was filled with such subjects as "To a Duchess on refusing an Invitation," or "From the Same to the Same," and has of course long since retired to a well-merited oblivion; but a "Practical" Speech Maker would be sure to go into many editions, and relieve many a sufferer from one of the chief miseries of civilisation. In the meantime, however, as we are now into "the season," a few hints may be found useful.

Be careful, then, not to pause after saying "Mr. Chairman," as, when it is followed by "and gentlemen," it might seem an invidious and undesirable distinction.

Begin by saying, "The toast which has been entrusted to me" or "put into my hands"--both expressions being classic--"is perhaps the most important on the list." This will command attention, especially from those who have to speak after you, as they naturally look on theirs as the most important; and though they may afterwards claim the distinction, you will have gained your object.

Should your name be on the toast-list, say you "could have wished the toast had been put into better hands," and pause to allow the company to say "No, no; not at all"; but should you be informed during the evening of the toast expected of you, say "I had no idea when I came into the room that I should be called upon to," &c. This is also classic, and affords an ample opportunity of showing your powers as an extempore speaker. Borrow a piece of paper and a pencil from your neighbour, and during dinner jot down a few ideas on the subject; and when you have said, "The toast which I have to propose," pause, then say, "is--ah--" then lift the card as if you had given the subject no thought, and could speak on any topic at a moment's notice, whereas in reality the menu is to hide your notes.

It would require a clever statistician to give an approximate idea of the number of times speakers will begin a sentence without seeing their way to the end, trying to conclude with, "And thanking you all, gentlemen, for the kind way my health has been proposed and received,--" only to find they are in a corner, with no way out except by saying, "Shall sit down," which is not a graceful finish. Some, no doubt, wriggle out by saying, "Can only thank you again,"--a tautological weakness.

In returning thanks, the speaker, after gaining a character for modesty by alluding to the "too flattering terms in which my health has been proposed," can trade on it by praising himself still further. No doubt, the conclusion of a speech is the difficult part, but it can be got rid of by thinking of a subject or person omitted, and saying, "I beg to propose a toast which should have been given earlier in the evening," and then handing the difficulty on to other shoulders.

If a speaker before you has made a joke which has taken well, repeat it, and get up a second laugh in your own favour, and the originator is flattered at being quoted, while you share the honours with him.

Should you be in the position of finding that your ideas have flown, or that they have not arrived, fix on the one who has made the best speech, and say he has anticipated you in everything you were about to observe. This will arouse sympathy for you under the trying circumstances, reflect credit on you as a speaker, and exonerate you from further remarks.

As your toast will probably be pretty well down the list, the company will not be difficult to please, or critical, so you need not let your nominative trouble you. I have often felt the deepest sympathy for the poor reporters who have to take home the tangled mass of some great man's speech and unravel it into grammatical order; and one is often astonished next morning to read an interesting speech extracted from chaos.

If some distinguished person--say, Sir Henry Irving--accepts an invitation to sup with a club, it will be the duty of the committee to see that a full toast-list is prepared, as, after the strong mental strain he has just come through, it will be a relief and a rest to him to have his mind diverted to such subjects as "The Provost and Magistrates of Edinburgh," "Our Educational Interests," "Our Mercantile Interests," "The Clergy," &c., and you can afterwards give your friends an idea of the splendid night you had by saying you "kept it up till three in the morning."

The one who has to propose "The Provost and Town Council" must allude to our beautiful, our own romantic and historic town, giving the Council all credit, and say that no one has the interest of our city more at heart than ----, whoever is to reply. He may have acted as if he had mistaken the Council Chambers for the House of Commons or a licensed grocer's back parlour; he may have been active in bringing Edinburgh into ridicule, so that, like the inhabitant of another town when from home, we feel we should say, "I belong to Edinburgh, but, as share's death, I couldna help it." Still, the classic expression must be used; and whoever replies will say with all the earnestness of an original expression, "There is no one who has the interest of the city of Edinburgh more at heart than I have," and thereby confirm the truth of your assertion.

If the phrase "Proudest moment of my life" is used, the speaker should try to get up a suitable expression, as it is sometimes said in such melancholy tones as would lead the audience to doubt the assertion, or give them a humble opinion of previous proud moments.

But if the proposing of or replying to a toast should destroy one's enjoyment of a dinner, how much more serious is it for the chairman, who has several toasts to propose; and yet if he has listened as he ought to have done to others in a similar position, the difficulties will diminish. He will remember that when the toast of "The Queen" was given, the chairman said, "I am sure there is no body of men more loyal than ----," whatever the company happened to be composed of. In giving "The Navy, Army, and Volunteers," the chairman always begins by saying, "With regard to."

"With regard to our Navy, you all know what our tars have done in the past; and though our wooden walls have been superseded by ironclads, still the same 'hearts of oak,'"--the rest of the sentence is immaterial, as it is always drowned in applause.

"With regard to our Army, you all know what our soldiers have done in the past." This, of course, is a repetition; still it is flattering to the company to give them the credit of being posted in our great battles. "And should the day ever come, though I hope it is far distant"--(pause for "Hear, hear")--"I am sure they will give a good account of themselves." Changing his tone of voice, he then says:

"With regard to our Volunteers, I have no doubt that, should the day ever come," &c. (see remarks on the Army).

Should your health be proposed in a strange town, you will make a hit by discovering some special reason for liking the place,--the best, of course, being that you were born there; and in this respect one of our eminent statesmen is a master,--he seems not only to have been born again, but several times. If no personal reason can be found, the speaker must fall back on some historical incident or person or thing, saying, "Of course we have all a warm side to a town so closely associated with Sir Walter Scott," or Burns or Wallace, as the case may be, though this only gives you a claim shared in by all Scotsmen, and is to be resorted to only when the personal element cannot be introduced.

A free and easy style of speech should be cultivated, and perhaps there is no better way of appearing at ease than by playing with a wine glass, a fruit knife, or the watch chain. If done successfully, the speech may seem to occupy a secondary position in your thoughts. To timid people it is especially useful, as, by bending the head down while drawing imaginary designs on the tablecloth, your remarks will not be heard, and mistakes will pass unobserved; and should there be an apparent dearth of subject in your toast, you can draw it out to the length you fancy desirable by introducing a story, _apropos_ if possible, or by encroaching on some of the other subjects. The speaker who follows may justly complain that you have taken the wind out of his sails, but you can leave him to raise the wind for himself.

Like Lady Jane in "The Mikado," the occupancy of the chair is an acquired taste, and many a one who has had to be pushed into the position has developed an abnormal love for making speeches.

Three winters ago one of this description presided at a curling-club dinner; and as he took up the toasts one by one, whispers went round the company that he was the very man to represent his ward in the Town Council. And he seemed to be of the same opinion, for after he had gone through the toast-list he toasted individually every one of the company who had been omitted, and, as a last resort, when they were used up, he had the landlord of the hotel brought in, and made an eloquent speech on the way the dinner had been served, making the beef and greens appear a royal banquet, and, as a proof of the landlord's worth, mentioned that he had known him for the last thirty years. The eloquence seems to have had the desired effect, if speech-making is a _sine quâ non_ for our Council, as he is now a Councillor.

It is no doubt extremely annoying to remember, after you have finished your toast, that you have forgotten the best part of it,--the joke you intended to crack, or the story you meant to tell,--and the only way to relieve your feelings in this case, and to ensure a good night's sleep, is to secure as many as you can in the cloak-room, and have an adjournment, where you can take an opportunity to let it off.

The number of times the foregoing classic expressions have been used will only be exceeded by the number of times they will be used; and by making free use of them no one need despair of occupying a chair in the Council Chambers, and going down honoured and respected by all who knew him.

"HOW D'YE DO?"

Everybody is apt to say of every cold he has, that it is "the worst I ever had"; but I think I can truthfully say that the one from which I am now suffering beats all its predecessors.

I am often told that I should be more careful of myself; but who would think of getting such a cold as I have, by simply saying to an old lady, "How d'ye do?" I had just returned from a month in the country, braced up, as I thought, for the coming winter; and now I am weaker and less fit for work than before I went away, and all through asking the simple question, which means nothing. The old Scotch manner of "Hoo are ye?" replied to by "Thank ye for speirin'; hoo are ye yersel'?" showed that our sensible forefathers knew the formality of the question, and did not consider it worth replying to. But that does not seem to be the opinion of my lady friend.

On the way home I made the acquaintance of a young Englishman, who said he intended spending a few days in Edinburgh before returning south; and when, on the Sunday morning, he said he should like to hear one of our celebrated divines, I offered to accompany him. And if my friend wished to get an idea of what a Scotch sermon was like, we could not have been more fortunate: the text was soon lost sight of, and the preacher warmed to his task. Taking it for granted that his apparently respectable congregation was of the worst possible order, he worked himself into a passion, telling his hearers of their fearful future, dealing out revenge in copious quantities, and ignoring anything like love, mercy, or even justice.

The heat of the sermon had worked me into a perspiration, and when on the way out my friend said, "Do you pay your ministers to insult you in that way?" I could not think of a reply, feeling he was looking down on us from a higher civilisation, and was glad of the excuse to say "How d'ye do?" to the old lady who had just caught my eye.

Mrs. Fraser is an Aberdonian, and, though she has been half a century in Edinburgh, she has lost none of her northern accent, much to the annoyance of her daughters.

"Oh, I'm nae weel at a'," she replied. "I'm nae sae young as I've been, an' I seem tae be a' breakin' up thegither."

"Oh, I'm very sorry," I said; "but I hope you'll soon be bet----"

"I'm fair lame wi' thae rheumatics i' the knee, an' I've tried a'thing I can think o'. I'm share, the siller I've spent on liniments an' medicines wad--I dinna ken what: an' jist thrown awa'. An' as for rubbin'----"

Before she could find a simile for the useless effects of rubbing, I said, "Well, I'll bid you good----"

"Ye micht as weel--I dinna ken what," she said, finding her suitable expression. "An' then, my back's aye troublin' me: it's an awfu' thing, that lumbagie; but ye'll ken naething aboot that; an' the doctors dinna seem tae be able tae dae me ony guid."

I took advantage of her coughing, to say "My friend is waiting on me, so I'll say----"

"Not a bit o' guid: hot flannels, an' ironin' an' I dinna ken what a'; an' ye micht jist as weel--I dinna ken what."

"Well, I'll not keep you standing in the cold," I said, as if I had been detaining her, though I was beginning to shiver after the hot time we had been treated to inside; but she did not seem to hear me, and continued:

"An' then I was three weeks nursin' Mr. Fraser. Ye wad see aboot it in the papers----"

"Yes, I was very sorry to----"

"Never had my claes aff, ye may say, for it was jist het watter an' laud'num cloths day an' nicht. 'Peritonitis' the doctors ca'd it, but I ken better: it was jist inflammation in 's inside, wi' a chill."

"In--deed!" I said, with as much sympathy of expression as I could throw into the word. "Well, I am afraid I'm keeping you in the cold, and my friend is----"

"Ay, he was jist worn awa' tae skin an' bane. I'm share he was an awfu'-like ticket; but I'm wonderfu', considering an' I have a lot tae be thankfu' for, after a'. Diabetes, an' indyspepsy, an' a' their fancy names! but it's naething mair nor less than indisgestion, an' bad enough it is at that."

I was now chilled through, and had been standing for ten minutes holding out my hand like a railway signal at the angle of "caution," ready to shake hands and get away. The crowd which had (as is usual on leaving church) blocked up the pavement for a considerable time, had all dispersed, and my friend was gesticulating wildly for me to "come on." He had whispered to me, in his Cockney style, when the sermon was finished, "A pint of beer will go down fizzing after that; that's a hot 'un, that is," and I knew he was now impatient to realise his wish. Still he was better off than I was; he was walking about to keep himself warm, while I was shivering beside one who forcibly brought to mind Outram's picture:

"But her! expose her onywhere, She'll ca' for her annuity";

and I could not help admiring her constitution and indifference to temperature, though I should have been better content without proof of it. At last, getting desperate, I caught her hand and hurriedly said, "Good-bye."

"Well, good-bye," she said; "I'm rale gled tae see ye; an' hoo's yer mither?"

"Oh, she's quite well, thank you; good-bye."

"Good-bye; remember me tae her, an' be share an' tell her I was speirin' for her, an'----"

"Yes, thanks; I'll tell her; good-bye."

"Say I was jist thinkin' aboot her the ither day, an' sayin' tae Maggie I mun ca' sune."

"She'll be very pleased to see you, I'm sure," I said, edging away; and before she had time to reply, I lifted my hat and hurried off, and began to apologise to my friend; but he said, "It's all right, old man; I was sorry for you. I know the sort; but if you've any regard for your own health, you'll not ask after hers again on a cold day. I was smiling when I saw you make a grab at her hand; and when she kept a hold, and went on saying 'Good-bye,' I was afraid you were in for more of it. It reminded me of a quiet boy who once called on us; and when I asked him, 'How's your father?' he said, 'He's quite well, thank you.'

"'And your mother?'

"'She's quite well, thank you.'

"'And your uncle?'

"'He's quite well, thank you."

"'Big handsome fellow your uncle, isn't he?"

"'I haven't got an uncle.'

"I had mistaken the boy.--I say, by Jove, you're as white's a sheet; let's hurry to my hotel."

A week has now crept slowly by, and I have not been able to get warm. I shiver as if I had ague; and blankets and hot drinks seem useless. My eyes water when I try to read; and I pass the time studying the wall-paper. I seem to have got mesmerised with it,--discovering faces, figures, and animals among the flowers, only to lose them and search for them again. Wallpapers are diabolical affairs. It never struck me before how barbaric they are; though I remember of being afraid, when I was a little boy, to sit at the right of my grandfather's fire for an ugly demon with long yellow and white legs on the imitation marble mantelpiece. We may call ourselves Liberals, Radicals, or Conservatives, but we are all conservative by nature. The first fiend who designed a wall-paper made the roses run in diagonal lines, and all his successors have followed him in this respect without considering the reason.

Why should we have flowers on wall-paper? And if we must submit to flowers, why should they not be natural? Why should not the tired eye be able to rest when we are in bed? Simply because the first fiend who designed wall-papers fixed it on his conservative disciples; he evidently "had them bad" at the time, or was just recovering from a second or third attack, and it is a great pity he had not died under the first.

The flowers on my bedroom wall are evidently meant for chrysanthemums; but they are on a colossal scale, and afford every opportunity for one who has the leisure I have had this week of discovering a variety of subjects. There is the head of an old woman with a long nose; but I am annoyed when I look at her, as I want to get up and correct the drawing of her left eye, and, as there are hundreds of her round the room in every repetition of the pattern, I feel I would require a lot of paint. Then I turn away from her and look for the dancing negro, whom I only discovered on Thursday. He is difficult to find, as I am not so familiar with the place. The old woman keeps looking at me from every diamond; and I see the dog's head, with the ears formed by two leaves. But where is the negro? I think, "This is the wall-paper: where is the negro?" and "He won't be happy till he gets it." And when I do find it, my eyes are so tired that I look to the ceiling for a rest; but the negro floats on the ceiling,--only he is green instead of brown, and the old woman is purple. I shut my eyes, but they still float in changing colours. I am certain the first designer had _delirium tremens_.

"If I had the designing of wall-papers, I would make them different," I think; but perhaps I am like the gentleman who said, "Give me the making of a country's songs, and I don't care who makes its laws." He never wrote any songs, though no one had the contract.

Last spring the house-painter insisted on my selecting this paper as being from the latest book of patterns; but I had no idea of the mysterious and unsatisfactory figures it contained. One has to study it for a week to discover all there is in it, and there was not time then, or I might have said, "The woman's eyes are not the same size; the negro has one leg longer than the other; and the dog's nose is not at the right angle."

When I am able to get out of bed, I shall have paper of a simple tint put on, and I shall be careful to whom I say "How d'ye do?"

M'CRANKY'S BRACE OF GROUSE

The M'Crankys have had a few friends to dinner, but though the viands and wine were faultless, three of the four couples who sat down, left with the disagreeable feeling of being 'found out' in a little bit of pardonable deception.

M'Cranky had gone, as usual on the Twelfth, to his friend's shooting on the Lugate, only thinking of the pleasure of inhaling the invigorating air and the delightful sensation of hearing the birds fall with a thud. A shooting season makes one forget the drawbacks in the shape of climbing a hill, only to find that we have to go down the other side to climb another; then there are the interminable "hags," so easy to slide into and so difficult to climb out of, as one sinks over the boots in the wet peaty earth.

None of the party having M.P. at the end of his name, it was arranged that they should go out on the 11th and have a look over the ground; the weather did not look promising, but Gilfillan the keeper tried to inspire hope by saying that "it micht clear up by the morn," adding, as if to himself, "if the wind wad only change." Carts of provisions were arriving, and the white-washed house seemed to be preparing for a lengthened siege. The night was passed pleasantly, each one recalling the good shooting he had done last season.

"Do you remember the blackcock I brought down after you had fired at it, up by the shepherd's house? it was a long way out."