“The battle of the Nile,
I was there all the while,”[[6]]
in endless repetition, sung to a slow, droning tune. James had no voice and little ear, though he loved music. He would begin in a lifeless, indifferent manner, hardly raising his head, while we all sat quietly round him. Presently W.S. would join with his deep bass, then a clear soprano or a tenor would be heard, and so on, one after another dropping in, until in the end the whole circle would be on their feet, singing at the top of their voices, James leading them with all the airs and graces of a finished conductor. Then James would call upon my father for his favorite song,—
“In a mouldering cave where
The wretched retreat,
Britannia sat wasted with care.
She wept for her Wolfe”—
and at this point the whole party were expected to break out into dolorous weeping. Then came songs and glees, in the choruses of which we all heartily joined. Or M.W. would repeat “Binnorie, oh Binnorie,” or W.S. sing “A Life on the Ocean Wave,” or some of the party sing and act for us the oratorio of the “Skeptic,” with one awful chorus, “Tremble Whipstick,” in which we were all expected to show violent signs of trembling fear. It was all nonsense, but delightful nonsense, the bubbling over of these gay young spirits.
But this is only a sketch of the lighter hours of the Band. We had our serious times, when everything in heaven or on earth was discussed with the airy audacity that belongs to youth, when all the questions of the day—art, politics, poetry, ethics, religion, philosophy—were bowled down by our light balls, with easy certainty that we were quite able to settle the affairs of the world. There was great variety of character and opinion among us, so that our discussions did not lack spice and vigor; but for the short time he was with us, when wit met wit in the bright mêlée, there was no keener lance in rest among the “Knights of the Round Table” than James Lowell’s.