The pleasures of the table,—a very luscious bowl of the liquid which bore the mysterious epithet of “Thumbo-rig,” and which was a concoction of the genus punch, spiced, sugared, and iced to a degree that concealed its awful tendency to anti-Mathewism; bright eyes that were no churls of their glances; merry converse; and that wondrous “magnetism of the board” which we call good fellowship,—made the time pass rapidly. Toasts and sentiments of every fashion went round, and we were political, literary, arbitrary, amatory, sentimental, and satiric by turns. They were pleasant varlets! and in their very diversity of humors there was that clash and collision of mind and metal that tell more effectively than the best packed party of choice wits who ever sat and watched each other.
Then, there was a jolly jumbling up of bad English, bad Dutch, bad French, Italian, Spanish, and Portuguese, that would drive a sober listener clean mad. Stories begun in one tongue merged into another; and so into a third; while explanations, mistakes, and corrections ran alongside of the narrative, often far more amusing than the story to which they were attached. Personalities, too, abounded, but with a most unqualified good temper; and, on the whole, I never beheld a merrier set.
M. Palamede alone did not relish the scene. He himself was nobody at such a moment, and he longed for the ballroom and the dance; and it was only after repeated summonses of his bell that we at last arose and entered the saloon, where we found him standing, fiddle in hand, while, rapping smartly a couple of times with his bow, he called out,—
“Places! places! Monsieur le Duc de Gubbins, to your place. Ladies, I beg attention. Madame la Marquise, dans la bonne société on ne donne jamais un soufflet.”
“Ah, here's old Rosin again!” cried several of the party, who, with all this familiarity, appeared to view him with no small respect.
“Shall I find you a partner, Monsieur de Congreganne?” said he to me.
“Thanks,” said I; “but, with your permission, I'll not dance just yet.”
“As you please, it is but a contre-danse,” said he shrugging his shoulders, while he moved away to arrange the figures.
I had not perceived before that a kind of orchestra, consisting of two fiddles, a flute, and a tambourine, was stationed in a long gallery over the door by which we entered; Monsieur Palamede being, however, director, not alone of the music, but of the entire entertainment. The band now struck up a well-known English country-dance, and away went the couples, flying down the room to the merry measure; Monsieur de Rosanne arranging the figures, beating the time, preserving order, and restraining irregularities, with the energy of one possessed.
“Ah, Monsieur le Capitaine de Cocks, c'en est trop. Mademoiselle de Spicer, pas si haut! de arms graceful! Ladies, no keep your hands under * your—what ye call him—jupe—apron—ha! ha! Black man—negro—no talk so loud when you make punch!”