AN EQUERRY ON THE COURT CONCERT.
Dec. 26—Colonel Goldsworthy ran on, till General Bude reminded him it was time they should appear in the concert-room.
“Ay,” cried he, reluctantly, “now for the fiddlers! There I go, plant myself against the side of the chimney, stand first on one foot, then on the other, hear over and over again all that fine squeaking, and then fall fast asleep, and escape by mere miracle from flouncing down plump in all their faces.”
“What would the queen say if you did that?”
“O, ma'am, the queen would know nothing of the matter; she'd only suppose it some old double bass that tumbled.”
“Why, could not she see what it was?”
“O no! ma'am, we are never in the room with the queen! that's the drawing-room, beyond, where the queen sits; we go no farther than the fiddling-room. As to the queen, we don't see her week after week sometimes. The king, indeed, comes there to us, between whiles, though that's all as it happens, now Price is gone. He used to play at backgammon with Price.”
“Then what do you do there?”
“Just what I tell you—nothing at all, but stand as furniture. But the worst is, sometimes, when my poor eye-peepers are not quite closed, I look to the music-books to see what's coming; and there I read 'Chorus of Virgins:' so then, when they begin, I look about me. A chorus of virgins, indeed! why, there's nothing but ten or a dozen fiddlers! not a soul beside! it's as true as I'm alive! So then, when we've stood supporting the chimney-piece about two hours, why then, if I'm not called upon, I shuffle back out of the room, make a profound bow to the harpsichord, and I'm off.”