It was a match to the mine, that umgh-umgh eulogistic, and the explosion
was tremendous; for my grandfather’s toddy-bowl, though wide and deep,
was now nearly empty. In an instant every man was on his feet, cheering
at the top of his voice. Such hats as were available, seized without
regard to ownership, were frantically whirling in the air; tumblers went
round in dizzy circles; centrifugal toddy was splashing in every
direction; while the rear ranks of the colored cohorts were scrambling
over the backs of those in front, to catch a glimpse of the scene. In
the midst of it all, the honest Herr was to be seen rushing to and fro,
lustily shouting out some proposition as to the health of the stranger.
He was brandishing his goblet, which he had managed to fill,
notwithstanding the confusion, and offering to chink glasses with any
and all comers, when, as ill luck would have it, he ran into one of the
students as enthusiastic as himself, and the twain suddenly found
themselves holding in their hands nothing but the stems of their
goblets.
“Ah, mein freund,” said he, with a glance at his soaked shirt-front,
“vot for a poonch vas dat!”
“Very good, very good!” cried the student, with a rousing slap on his
shoulder; for a vague feeling came over the young man that one of the
Herr’s puns was lurking somewhere in the mist.
But the most striking figure in tableau No. 2 was that of my
grandfather. As soon as Uncle Dick’s applauding grunt had broken the
spell that held the company, and while all were cheering lustily, he
rushed up to the Don, and placed his hands in an impressive way on his
shoulders. The cheering suddenly ceased, and all listened intently save
the Herr and his student, who, having found fresh tumblers, were busy
scooping up the last of the punch.
“My friend,” said my grandfather, “Charley and I are but two in this big
house,”—and there was a simple pathos in his manner and tones.—“Won’t
you live with us—for good?”
Tremendous applause greeted this rather thorough-going invitation; and
tableau No. 2 dissolved in confusion; in the midst of which stood the
Don, bowing and laughing, and wisely holding high above his head the
precious violin.
“Ah, dere spoke de Barrone!” quoth the Herr, balancing himself, and
clinking half-filled glasses with his student.
“Good for Uncle Tom!” echoed the latter.
“So!” chimed in the Herr, blinking at the ceiling through the bottom of
his tumbler.
“I am in downright earnest, I assure you,” urged Mr. Whacker, on
remarking the pleased merriment of the Don. “Eh, Charley?”
“So say we all of us!” said Charley, with jovial earnestness, and
shaking, with great cordiality, the stranger’s right hand, whence I had
removed the bow.
Uncle Dick now came to the fore again. Uncle Richard was a humorist,
and, with all the tact of his race, knew perfectly well, how, while
preserving a severe decorum of form, to make his little hit. So now,
turning to Aunt Polly, with a look on his face of childlike simplicity,
beneath which lurked a studied unconsciousness, he asked, in the most
artless stage-whisper,—
“Polly, whar’s Marse William Jones?” And rising on his toes and letting
his under jaw drop, as one will when peering over the heads of a crowd
in search of a friend’s face, he ran his eyes, with a kind of
unobtrusive curiosity, over group after group, till they met Marse
William’s; then instantly dropped them as if he simply desired to be
assured that his Marse William was there. ’Twas perfect art, and the
effect electric. In an instant all eyes were fixed on Billy. Uproarious
laughter burst forth from the company, in the midst of which the
students made a rush for the unhappy fiddler. He had hardly one second’s
time given him to decide what to do; but before his friends reached him
he had bowed himself, and, with one leap, sprung far under the table,
where he lay flat upon the floor, with his face buried in his hands,
convulsed with almost hysterical laughter.
“Haul him out! haul him out!” rose on all sides, and—
But just here I must permit myself a philosophical reflection, the truth
of which will be readily acknowledged by all publicans and sinners, and
such other disreputable persons as, in company with those like-minded
with themselves, have looked upon the wine when it was red. It is this:
That fun is literally intoxicating, At a wine-party of young men, for
example, all things will go on smoothly for hours. Conversation is going
forward pleasantly, or speeches heard with decorum. A pleasant
exhilaration is to be observed, but nothing more. Then there will arise,
by chance, some one, who, we will say, shall sing a capital new comic
song, calling on the company to join in the chorus. At the close of that
song you shall wonder what has happened to everybody. Why does your
right-hand neighbor throw his arm across your shoulder and call you old
boy? What sudden and inexplicable thirst is this that has seized upon
the man on your left, that he should be calling for champagne so
lustily? What is that little fellow, at the other end of the table,
doing there, standing up in his chair, and waving his glass? What
strange glow is this that has flashed through _your_ frame, bearing
along with it the conviction that you are all glorious fellows and
having a glorious time?
“Haul him out! haul him out!” And instantly the students dived,
pell-mell, under the table. It would be simply impossible to describe
the scene that followed. Under the table there was an inextricably
entangled mass of vigorous young fellows, some on their heads, others on
their backs, with their heels in the air, tugging away with might and
main at each other’s arms and legs; for safety, as to the Greeks at
Salamis, had arisen for Jones from the very numbers of his foes.
Meantime the table danced and bumped over the floor, rocking and tossing
above this human earthquake; while around it there arose such peals of
uproarious laughter as one could not expect to hear twice in a
life-time.
“Mein Gott!” gasped the Herr, falling up against the piano, and wiping
his streaming eyes, “mein Gott, how many funs!”
But the scene did not last half so long as I have been in painting it.
It was the middle-aged fat gentleman that, in the twinkling of an eye,
put an end to all this tumultuous laughter, or, at any rate, drew its
brunt upon himself.
The M. A. F. G., as above stated, was tilting back in one of my
grandfather’s slender chairs, in front of the fire, balancing himself on
tiptoe, and rocking to and fro with uncontrollable laughter. In front of
him a student was backing out from under the table, all doubled up, his
head not yet free from its edge, and tugging away manfully at the leg of
a comrade. Suddenly the foot he held resigned its boot to his keeping.
The M. A. F. G. could hardly tell, afterwards, what it was that, like a
battering-ram of old, smote him at the junction of vest and trousers;
but it would seem to have been that student’s head. Up flew his heels,
crash went the chair, and, quicker than thought, he was sprawling upon
his back in the midst of that roaring hickory fire. A dozen hands seized
and dragged him forth. Jones and his fiddle were forgotten; and he and
his young friends emerged from under the table to join in the shouts of
laughter that greeted the M. A. F. G., as he capered briskly about,
brushing the coals and ashes from his broad back, and belabored by his
friends, who were assisting him in saving his coat.
“Tausendteufels! vot for a shbree!” And the Herr sank exhausted upon the
piano-stool.[1]
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[1] It will doubtless surprise the reader to be informed that this whole
scene actually occurred, substantially as I have described it,—even the
last seemingly extravagant detail having been witnessed, not invented,
by the author.