toast had been put into better hands," and pause to allow the company
to say "No, no; not at all"; but should you be informed during the
evening of the toast expected of you, say "I had no idea when I came
into the room that I should be called upon to," &c. This is also
classic, and affords an ample opportunity of showing your powers as
an extempore speaker. Borrow a piece of paper and a pencil from your
neighbour, and during dinner jot down a few ideas on the subject; and
when you have said, "The toast which I have to propose," pause, then
say, "is--ah--" then lift the card as if you had given the subject no
thought, and could speak on any topic at a moment's notice, whereas
in reality the menu is to hide your notes.
It would require a clever statistician to give an approximate idea of
the number of times speakers will begin a sentence without seeing
their way to the end, trying to conclude with, "And thanking you all,
gentlemen, for the kind way my health has been proposed and
received,--" only to find they are in a corner, with no way out
except by saying, "Shall sit down," which is not a graceful finish.
Some, no doubt, wriggle out by saying, "Can only thank you again,"--a
tautological weakness.
In returning thanks, the speaker, after gaining a character for
modesty by alluding to the "too flattering terms in which my health
has been proposed," can trade on it by praising himself still
further. No doubt, the conclusion of a speech is the difficult part,
but it can be got rid of by thinking of a subject or person omitted,
and saying, "I beg to propose a toast which should have been given
earlier in the evening," and then handing the difficulty on to other
shoulders.
If a speaker before you has made a joke which has taken well, repeat
it, and get up a second laugh in your own favour, and the originator
is flattered at being quoted, while you share the honours with him.
Should you be in the position of finding that your ideas have flown,
or that they have not arrived, fix on the one who has made the best
speech, and say he has anticipated you in everything you were about
to observe. This will arouse sympathy for you under the trying
circumstances, reflect credit on you as a speaker, and exonerate you
from further remarks.
As your toast will probably be pretty well down the list, the company
will not be difficult to please, or critical, so you need not let
your nominative trouble you. I have often felt the deepest sympathy
for the poor reporters who have to take home the tangled mass of some
great man's speech and unravel it into grammatical order; and one is
often astonished next morning to read an interesting speech extracted
from chaos.
If some distinguished person--say, Sir Henry Irving--accepts an
invitation to sup with a club, it will be the duty of the committee
to see that a full toast-list is prepared, as, after the strong
mental strain he has just come through, it will be a relief and a
rest to him to have his mind diverted to such subjects as "The
Provost and Magistrates of Edinburgh," "Our Educational Interests,"
"Our Mercantile Interests," "The Clergy," &c., and you can afterwards
give your friends an idea of the splendid night you had by saying you
"kept it up till three in the morning."
The one who has to propose "The Provost and Town Council" must allude
to our beautiful, our own romantic and historic town, giving the
Council all credit, and say that no one has the interest of our city
more at heart than ----, whoever is to reply. He may have acted as
if he had mistaken the Council Chambers for the House of Commons or a
licensed grocer's back parlour; he may have been active in bringing
Edinburgh into ridicule, so that, like the inhabitant of another town
when from home, we feel we should say, "I belong to Edinburgh, but,
as share's death, I couldna help it." Still, the classic expression
must be used; and whoever replies will say with all the earnestness
of an original expression, "There is no one who has the interest of
the city of Edinburgh more at heart than I have," and thereby confirm
the truth of your assertion.
If the phrase "Proudest moment of my life" is used, the speaker
should try to get up a suitable expression, as it is sometimes said
in such melancholy tones as would lead the audience to doubt the
assertion, or give them a humble opinion of previous proud moments.
But if the proposing of or replying to a toast should destroy one's
enjoyment of a dinner, how much more serious is it for the chairman,
who has several toasts to propose; and yet if he has listened as he
ought to have done to others in a similar position, the difficulties
will diminish. He will remember that when the toast of "The Queen"
was given, the chairman said, "I am sure there is no body of men more
loyal than ----," whatever the company happened to be composed of.
In giving "The Navy, Army, and Volunteers," the chairman always
begins by saying, "With regard to."
"With regard to our Navy, you all know what our tars have done in the
past; and though our wooden walls have been superseded by ironclads,
still the same 'hearts of oak,'"--the rest of the sentence is
immaterial, as it is always drowned in applause.
"With regard to our Army, you all know what our soldiers have done in
the past." This, of course, is a repetition; still it is flattering
to the company to give them the credit of being posted in our great
battles. "And should the day ever come, though I hope it is far
distant"--(pause for "Hear, hear")--"I am sure they will give a good
account of themselves." Changing his tone of voice, he then says:
"With regard to our Volunteers, I have no doubt that, should the day
ever come," &c. (see remarks on the Army).
Should your health be proposed in a strange town, you will make a hit
by discovering some special reason for liking the place,--the best,
of course, being that you were born there; and in this respect one of
our eminent statesmen is a master,--he seems not only to have been
born again, but several times. If no personal reason can be found,
the speaker must fall back on some historical incident or person or
thing, saying, "Of course we have all a warm side to a town so
closely associated with Sir Walter Scott," or Burns or Wallace, as
the case may be, though this only gives you a claim shared in by all
Scotsmen, and is to be resorted to only when the personal element
cannot be introduced.
A free and easy style of speech should be cultivated, and perhaps
there is no better way of appearing at ease than by playing with a
wine glass, a fruit knife, or the watch chain. If done successfully,
the speech may seem to occupy a secondary position in your thoughts.
To timid people it is especially useful, as, by bending the head down
while drawing imaginary designs on the tablecloth, your remarks will
not be heard, and mistakes will pass unobserved; and should there be
an apparent dearth of subject in your toast, you can draw it out to
the length you fancy desirable by introducing a story, _apropos_ if
possible, or by encroaching on some of the other subjects. The
speaker who follows may justly complain that you have taken the wind
out of his sails, but you can leave him to raise the wind for himself.
Like Lady Jane in "The Mikado," the occupancy of the chair is an
acquired taste, and many a one who has had to be pushed into the
position has developed an abnormal love for making speeches.
Three winters ago one of this description presided at a curling-club
dinner; and as he took up the toasts one by one, whispers went round
the company that he was the very man to represent his ward in the
Town Council. And he seemed to be of the same opinion, for after he
had gone through the toast-list he toasted individually every one of
the company who had been omitted, and, as a last resort, when they
were used up, he had the landlord of the hotel brought in, and made
an eloquent speech on the way the dinner had been served, making the
beef and greens appear a royal banquet, and, as a proof of the
landlord's worth, mentioned that he had known him for the last thirty
years. The eloquence seems to have had the desired effect, if
speech-making is a _sine quâ non_ for our Council, as he is now a
Councillor.
It is no doubt extremely annoying to remember, after you have
finished your toast, that you have forgotten the best part of
it,--the joke you intended to crack, or the story you meant to
tell,--and the only way to relieve your feelings in this case, and to
ensure a good night's sleep, is to secure as many as you can in the
cloak-room, and have an adjournment, where you can take an
opportunity to let it off.
The number of times the foregoing classic expressions have been used
will only be exceeded by the number of times they will be used; and
by making free use of them no one need despair of occupying a chair
in the Council Chambers, and going down honoured and respected by all
who knew him.
"HOW D'YE DO?"
Everybody is apt to say of every cold he has, that it is "the worst I
ever had"; but I think I can truthfully say that the one from which I
am now suffering beats all its predecessors.
I am often told that I should be more careful of myself; but who
would think of getting such a cold as I have, by simply saying to an
old lady, "How d'ye do?" I had just returned from a month in the
country, braced up, as I thought, for the coming winter; and now I am
weaker and less fit for work than before I went away, and all through
asking the simple question, which means nothing. The old Scotch
manner of "Hoo are ye?" replied to by "Thank ye for speirin'; hoo are
ye yersel'?" showed that our sensible forefathers knew the formality
of the question, and did not consider it worth replying to. But that
does not seem to be the opinion of my lady friend.
On the way home I made the acquaintance of a young Englishman, who
said he intended spending a few days in Edinburgh before returning
south; and when, on the Sunday morning, he said he should like to
hear one of our celebrated divines, I offered to accompany him. And
if my friend wished to get an idea of what a Scotch sermon was like,
we could not have been more fortunate: the text was soon lost sight
of, and the preacher warmed to his task. Taking it for granted that
his apparently respectable congregation was of the worst possible
order, he worked himself into a passion, telling his hearers of their
fearful future, dealing out revenge in copious quantities, and
ignoring anything like love, mercy, or even justice.
The heat of the sermon had worked me into a perspiration, and when on
the way out my friend said, "Do you pay your ministers to insult you
in that way?" I could not think of a reply, feeling he was looking
down on us from a higher civilisation, and was glad of the excuse to
say "How d'ye do?" to the old lady who had just caught my eye.
Mrs. Fraser is an Aberdonian, and, though she has been half a century
in Edinburgh, she has lost none of her northern accent, much to the
annoyance of her daughters.
"Oh, I'm nae weel at a'," she replied. "I'm nae sae young as I've
been, an' I seem tae be a' breakin' up thegither."
"Oh, I'm very sorry," I said; "but I hope you'll soon be bet----"
"I'm fair lame wi' thae rheumatics i' the knee, an' I've tried
a'thing I can think o'. I'm share, the siller I've spent on
liniments an' medicines wad--I dinna ken what: an' jist thrown awa'.
An' as for rubbin'----"
Before she could find a simile for the useless effects of rubbing, I
said, "Well, I'll bid you good----"
"Ye micht as weel--I dinna ken what," she said, finding her suitable
expression. "An' then, my back's aye troublin' me: it's an awfu'
thing, that lumbagie; but ye'll ken naething aboot that; an' the
doctors dinna seem tae be able tae dae me ony guid."
I took advantage of her coughing, to say "My friend is waiting on me,
so I'll say----"
"Not a bit o' guid: hot flannels, an' ironin' an' I dinna ken what
a'; an' ye micht jist as weel--I dinna ken what."
"Well, I'll not keep you standing in the cold," I said, as if I had
been detaining her, though I was beginning to shiver after the hot
time we had been treated to inside; but she did not seem to hear me,
and continued:
"An' then I was three weeks nursin' Mr. Fraser. Ye wad see aboot it
in the papers----"
"Yes, I was very sorry to----"
"Never had my claes aff, ye may say, for it was jist het watter an'
laud'num cloths day an' nicht. 'Peritonitis' the doctors ca'd it,
but I ken better: it was jist inflammation in 's inside, wi' a chill."
"In--deed!" I said, with as much sympathy of expression as I could
throw into the word. "Well, I am afraid I'm keeping you in the cold,
and my friend is----"
"Ay, he was jist worn awa' tae skin an' bane. I'm share he was an
awfu'-like ticket; but I'm wonderfu', considering an' I have a lot
tae be thankfu' for, after a'. Diabetes, an' indyspepsy, an' a'
their fancy names! but it's naething mair nor less than indisgestion,
an' bad enough it is at that."
[Illustration: "I'M FAIR LAME WI' THAE RHEUMATICS" _By W. Grant
Stevenson, R.S.A._]
I was now chilled through, and had been standing for ten minutes
holding out my hand like a railway signal at the angle of "caution,"
ready to shake hands and get away. The crowd which had (as is usual
on leaving church) blocked up the pavement for a considerable time,
had all dispersed, and my friend was gesticulating wildly for me to
"come on." He had whispered to me, in his Cockney style, when the
sermon was finished, "A pint of beer will go down fizzing after that;
that's a hot 'un, that is," and I knew he was now impatient to
realise his wish. Still he was better off than I was; he was walking
about to keep himself warm, while I was shivering beside one who
forcibly brought to mind Outram's picture:
"But her! expose her onywhere,
She'll ca' for her annuity";
and I could not help admiring her constitution and indifference to
temperature, though I should have been better content without proof
of it. At last, getting desperate, I caught her hand and hurriedly
said, "Good-bye."
"Well, good-bye," she said; "I'm rale gled tae see ye; an' hoo's yer
mither?"
"Oh, she's quite well, thank you; good-bye."
"Good-bye; remember me tae her, an' be share an' tell her I was
speirin' for her, an'----"
"Yes, thanks; I'll tell her; good-bye."
"Say I was jist thinkin' aboot her the ither day, an' sayin' tae
Maggie I mun ca' sune."
"She'll be very pleased to see you, I'm sure," I said, edging away;
and before she had time to reply, I lifted my hat and hurried off,
and began to apologise to my friend; but he said, "It's all right,
old man; I was sorry for you. I know the sort; but if you've any
regard for your own health, you'll not ask after hers again on a cold
day. I was smiling when I saw you make a grab at her hand; and when
she kept a hold, and went on saying 'Good-bye,' I was afraid you were
in for more of it. It reminded me of a quiet boy who once called on
us; and when I asked him, 'How's your father?' he said, 'He's quite
well, thank you.'
"'And your mother?'
"'She's quite well, thank you.'
"'And your uncle?'
"'He's quite well, thank you."
"'Big handsome fellow your uncle, isn't he?"
"'I haven't got an uncle.'
"I had mistaken the boy.--I say, by Jove, you're as white's a sheet;
let's hurry to my hotel."
A week has now crept slowly by, and I have not been able to get warm.
I shiver as if I had ague; and blankets and hot drinks seem useless.
My eyes water when I try to read; and I pass the time studying the
wall-paper. I seem to have got mesmerised with it,--discovering
faces, figures, and animals among the flowers, only to lose them and
search for them again. Wallpapers are diabolical affairs. It never
struck me before how barbaric they are; though I remember of being
afraid, when I was a little boy, to sit at the right of my
grandfather's fire for an ugly demon with long yellow and white legs
on the imitation marble mantelpiece. We may call ourselves Liberals,
Radicals, or Conservatives, but we are all conservative by nature.
The first fiend who designed a wall-paper made the roses run in
diagonal lines, and all his successors have followed him in this
respect without considering the reason.
Why should we have flowers on wall-paper? And if we must submit to
flowers, why should they not be natural? Why should not the tired
eye be able to rest when we are in bed? Simply because the first
fiend who designed wall-papers fixed it on his conservative
disciples; he evidently "had them bad" at the time, or was just
recovering from a second or third attack, and it is a great pity he
had not died under the first.
The flowers on my bedroom wall are evidently meant for
chrysanthemums; but they are on a colossal scale, and afford every
opportunity for one who has the leisure I have had this week of
discovering a variety of subjects. There is the head of an old woman
with a long nose; but I am annoyed when I look at her, as I want to
get up and correct the drawing of her left eye, and, as there are
hundreds of her round the room in every repetition of the pattern, I
feel I would require a lot of paint. Then I turn away from her and
look for the dancing negro, whom I only discovered on Thursday. He
is difficult to find, as I am not so familiar with the place. The
old woman keeps looking at me from every diamond; and I see the dog's
head, with the ears formed by two leaves. But where is the negro? I
think, "This is the wall-paper: where is the negro?" and "He won't be
happy till he gets it." And when I do find it, my eyes are so tired
that I look to the ceiling for a rest; but the negro floats on the
ceiling,--only he is green instead of brown, and the old woman is
purple. I shut my eyes, but they still float in changing colours. I
am certain the first designer had _delirium tremens_.
"If I had the designing of wall-papers, I would make them different,"
I think; but perhaps I am like the gentleman who said, "Give me the
making of a country's songs, and I don't care who makes its laws."
He never wrote any songs, though no one had the contract.
Last spring the house-painter insisted on my selecting this paper as
being from the latest book of patterns; but I had no idea of the
mysterious and unsatisfactory figures it contained. One has to study
it for a week to discover all there is in it, and there was not time
then, or I might have said, "The woman's eyes are not the same size;
the negro has one leg longer than the other; and the dog's nose is
not at the right angle."
When I am able to get out of bed, I shall have paper of a simple tint
put on, and I shall be careful to whom I say "How d'ye do?"
M'CRANKY'S BRACE OF GROUSE
The M'Crankys have had a few friends to dinner, but though the viands
and wine were faultless, three of the four couples who sat down, left
with the disagreeable feeling of being 'found out' in a little bit of
pardonable deception.
M'Cranky had gone, as usual on the Twelfth, to his friend's shooting
on the Lugate, only thinking of the pleasure of inhaling the
invigorating air and the delightful sensation of hearing the birds
fall with a thud. A shooting season makes one forget the drawbacks
in the shape of climbing a hill, only to find that we have to go down
the other side to climb another; then there are the interminable
"hags," so easy to slide into and so difficult to climb out of, as
one sinks over the boots in the wet peaty earth.
None of the party having M.P. at the end of his name, it was arranged
that they should go out on the 11th and have a look over the ground;
the weather did not look promising, but Gilfillan the keeper tried to
inspire hope by saying that "it micht clear up by the morn," adding,
as if to himself, "if the wind wad only change." Carts of provisions
were arriving, and the white-washed house seemed to be preparing for
a lengthened siege. The night was passed pleasantly, each one
recalling the good shooting he had done last season.
"Do you remember the blackcock I brought down after you had fired at
it, up by the shepherd's house? it was a long way out."
"Yes, but that gun of mine carries a long way. I killed a hare on
the moor, dead on the spot, and paced it, eighty-two paces.
Gilfillan saw it."
No one required to be called in the morning; and as each one got up,
he went to the window to find a leaden sky and a drizzling rain,
which looked as if it meant to stay a few days.
During breakfast there were many glances out of the window in the
hope of seeing a clear streak of sky rising behind the hill, and when
the repast was over and pipes lit, there was a general saunter round
to the kennels to hear Gilfillan's opinion.
"I canna just say I like the look o't; be quiet, wumman; they dowgs
is just daft to get oot. I wadna wonder, though, if it clears up by
the efternoon. The dowgs ken fine what's up when they see you
gentlemen; bit as lang's ye keep on the move, a drap rain'll no hurt
ye, though the birds'll no sit sae weel."
The dogs seemed to throw some of their eagerness into the company,
and it was resolved to make a start--the first few shots almost
making them forget the rain, further than in keeping their cartridges
dry. Half an hour, however, brought back to M'Cranky's memory the
unpleasant aspect of the sport; the exercise and excitement kept his
heart thumping with extra violence, his feet were soaking, and every
step made a slushy sound. There is as much inspiration, however, in
following a dog as there is in "the sound of the drum," and M'Cranky
persevered, wiping rain and perspiration from his face.
The following days were much the same, and as the birds were wild and
the bags not large, M'Cranky would not take more than a brace of
birds and a hare on leaving.
"No, no," he said, in reply to his host insisting on his taking more,
"I like game well enough, but the sport better."
"Is that all you've brought home," said Mrs. M'Cranky. "I
thought----"
"I wouldn't take any more; we had bad sport."
"I'll tell you what we'll do then; we'll send them to Mrs. Wallace.
You know she----"
"You'll do nothing of the sort, by jingo! Those birds have cost me,"
but M'Cranky suddenly remembered he had better not mention the sum,
as his wife would immediately think of the dress which could have
been got for the money--her usual idea of comparison. So he changed
his sentence to--"It's not every day I can go to shoot."
"You had a good deal of shooting last season," said Mrs. M'Cranky,
not in a tone of reproach, but to put her husband in the good humour
she wished, and set him on pleasant reminiscences.
"Well, you know," he said, with a smile of satisfaction with himself,
"I couldn't help it; they were always wanting me to give them a hand
when they wanted a bag."
"And we can have some lovely hare soup," continued Mrs. M'Cranky,
taking the gift of grouse for granted. Generosity, no doubt, was her
principal feeling, though there was an under-current of satisfaction
in the knowledge that the gift would be understood to reflect credit
on her husband as a sportsman, and he was not long out of the house
till the birds were despatched to "Mrs. Wallace, with Mr. M'Cranky's
compliments."
"What do you think I've got?" said Mrs. Wallace, in the usual
enigmatical fashion of females. "A brace of grouse from the
M'Crankys. I like the parcel post, but I just hate telegrams; I'm
always afraid to open them in case some one's dead."
"I know," said Mr. Wallace, "it's a failing of the sex; you would
like the boy to tell you what's inside before you open the envelope."
"And we've got an invitation to go over and stay with Nell for a few
days, so I was just thinking we might send the grouse to Mrs. Clark.
I want to take the bounce out of her, at any rate, and let her know
we have swell friends, too; you can't talk to her five minutes till
she is on to her 'county friends,' her 'West End friends,' and her
'carriage people.' I know she won't like taking grouse from me, so
I'll just send them."
"You're a rum lot, you women; I've to want the grouse to satisfy your
stupid idea, I suppose."
"They were addressed to me, and you can get plenty later on; but I
wouldn't miss this chance for anything. She'll perhaps think you've
been at the shooting, and she'll be just wild."
"That'll be nice," said Mr. Wallace, with mild sarcasm; but he had
more sense than to argue the subject, and the grouse were passed on
to "Mrs. Clark, with Mr. Wallace's compliments."
Mrs. Clark put on a careless air when the grouse were brought in, as
if she were expecting a few more similar parcels from her various
"county friends"; but when she read, "With Mr. Wallace's
compliments," the expression on her face changed.
"The i--dea," she said. "Well, I never! Set them up! Mrs. Wallace
either wants me to think her husband has been shooting, or that they
have got more from their country friends than they can use. I'll
have to write and thank her--perfectly annoying."
Mrs. Clark gave vent to her feelings while writing: