THE FESTIVE SEASON. A SCOTCH NIGHT.
AN EVENING FROM HOME.
There used to appear daily—and it may be appearing daily now, for aught I know, only, speaking on oath, I haven't lately noticed it—a question addressed by Everybody in General, or by Nobody in Particular to Everybody Else, which took this form: "Where shall we dine to-day?" I forget what the answer was, but, as a rule, the domesticated man, with a good cook in his own kitchen, could answer it offhand by saying to himself, "'Where shall we dine to-day?' Why, at home, of course—where better?—and catch me moving out afterwards." But, if he were contemplating the unpleasant certainty of having post-prandially to leave his hearth and home in order to visit some theatre, opera, or concert, then it might occur to him that he could do the thing well, and give his party a novel treat, if, in French fashion, he took them somewhere to dine, previous to doing their play. Thus it occurred to Yours truly, Y Ti-Bullus Bibulus, a day or two ago, when, dressed in his classical evening Togaryii in a Currus Pulcher (with a Cursor alongside anticipating denarii, and risking the sharp rebuke of a probable Cursor inside the vehicle) he was passing the Oxford Music Hall, and a brightly decorated Restauration caught his observant eye. Was it new, or was it a Restauration restored? Its name, in large letters, "Frascati." This seemed at once to lend itself to a familiar jingle, and I found myself humming,—
Oh, did you never hear of Frascati?
'Tis not far from Rome, eh my hearty?
The place looks so fine,
I will there go and dine,