Thy calling, vagrant though it be, shall not stand in the way of a good toast. What say you, my friends, to a loving cup with the harper, to Dick Tarlton, and Merrie England? The cup went round; and as the harper brushed his lips after the spicy draught, so did his right mustachio!
Uncle Timothy did not notice this peculiarity.
“Might I once more presume, my noble masters,” said the harper. “I would humbly——”
“Thou art Lord of Misrule for to-night,” replied Uncle Timothy. “Go on presuming.”
“The memory of the immortal Twenty-nine, and their patron, Holy Saint Thomas of Canterbury!”
And the minstrel bowed his head reverently, crossed his hands over his breast, and rising to his harp, struck a chord that made every bosom thrill again.
“Thy touch hath a finish, and thy voice a harmony that betoken cultivation and science.”
As the middle-aged gentleman made this observation, the mustachio that had taken a downward curve, fell to the ground; its companion, (some conjuror's heir-loom,) played at follow my leader; and the solitary imperial was left alone in its glory.
The harper, to hide his confusion, hummed Lo-doiska.
Uncle Timothy, espying the phenomenon, fixed his wondering eyes full in the strange man's face, and exclaimed, “Who, and what art thou?”