Unless a gentleman is himself familiar with the air, let him not, on "mounting guard beside the piano," volunteer to turn over the pages for the lady who is playing. He will certainly turn them over too soon or too late, and therefore annoy and confuse her. Still worse, let him not attempt to accompany her with his voice, unless he is an excellent musician, or accustomed to singing with her.
For the hearers to crowd closely round the instrument, is smothering to the vocalist. Let them keep at a proper distance, and she will sing the better, and they will hear the better. It is so rude to talk during a song, that it is never done in company; but a little low conversation is sometimes tolerated in the adjoining room, during the performance of one of those interminable pieces of instrumental music, whose chief merit lies in its difficulty, and which (at least to the ears of the uninitiated,) is rather a bore than a pleasure. We have read a French novel, in which the only child of a farmer has just come home from a provincial boarding-school, and the seigneur, or lord of the manor, has volunteered a visit to these his respected tenants. The mother, amidst all the bustle of preparing a great dinner for the occasion, comes in to remind Annette that if the seigneur should ask her to play for him, she is to curtsey very low, and thank him for the honour. "And then, Annette," adds the good old dame, "be sure to play that tune which your father and I hate so much!"
By the bye, it is very old fashioned to return thanks to a lady for her singing, or to tell her she is very kind to oblige the company so often. If she is conscious of really singing well, and sees that she delights her hearers, she will not feel sensible of fatigue—at least till the agreeable excitement of conscious success is over.
It is ill-mannered, when a lady has just finished a song, for another lady to exclaim in her hearing—"Mary Jones sings that delightfully!"—or—"How charmingly Susan Smith gives us that ballad!" Let the glories of Mary Jones and Susan Smith rest, for that evening, within the limits of their own circle.
Do not ask any lady for a song that has already been sung on this very evening by another person.
People who have no idea of music sometimes make strange blunders in their requests. We know of a female who, at a large party, hearing a young lady accompany her voice on the national instrument of Spain, became very urgent to have the Battle of Prague performed on the guitar.
It is sometimes fashionable, when the company is not too large for what is called "a sitting party," to vary the amusements of the evening by introducing some of the numerous plays or games which are always the delight of fine children, and which, by way of variety, frequently afford much diversion to adults. It is not necessary that all these plays should become "a keen encounter of the wits," or that all the players should be persons of talent. But it is certainly desirable that the majority of the company should have some tact, and some quickness of parts; that they should have read some books, and mixed somewhat with the world—otherwise, they will not be clever even at playing plays. Those who are incapable of understanding, or entering into the spirit of a play, would do well to excuse themselves from joining in it, and prefer sitting by as spectators. Many young ladies can play nothing beyond "How do you like it?" and are not great at that—saying, when the question is put to them—"Me! I am sure I don't know how I like it—can't you pass me by?" You may as well take her at her word, pass her by, and proceed on to her next neighbour; for if she does concoct an answer, it will probably, if the word is "brush" be liked "to sweep the hearth with;" or if "Hat" is the word, it will be liked "of Beaver"—or something equally palpable.
Such plays as The Lawyer, and The Secret Word, are very entertaining in good hands, but complete failures when attempted by the dull or illiterate. The amusing game of Proverbs had best be given up for that evening, if, on trial, it is found that few of the ladies have any knowledge of those true, though homely aphorisms, that have been aptly called "the concentrated wisdom of nations."
We know a very ingenious gentleman who, in playing the Secret Word, contrives to introduce that word in some very short and very humorous anecdote.
A family, on one side of European origin, made a visit to the transatlantic continent, where they found, still living in a certain great city, a relative connected with an ancient branch of nobility. This rendered them more genteel than ever—and when, covered with glory, they returned to this poor republic of ours, the names of nobles, and even of princes, with whom they had associated, were "familiar in their mouths as household words." At a party where these personages were so engaged in talking, that they forgot to keep the run of the plays; a new game was commenced by a young gentleman slipping out of the room, and then returning with a very lugubrious visage, and announcing, in a melancholy tone, the death of a certain monarch, whom all the company were immediately to unite in lamenting loudly, on pain of paying forfeits unless they steadily persisted in their dismal faces. On the sad intelligence being proclaimed—"The king of Bohemia is dead!"—one of our travelled ladies mistaking it for a solemn truth, turned to her daughter with—"Ah! Caroline! did you hear that? The dear good king of Bohemia, who was so kind to us whenever we attended his court!" "Oh! mamma!" replied Caroline, putting her handkerchief to her eyes—"the news is really heart-breaking. He paid us so much attention all the time we were in ——, in his dominions. It will be long before we cease grieving for the king of Bohemia."