Part 4
I do not, as a rule, care for being present at either ceremony, but had accepted an invitation to a marriage the other day; and as I am not famous for punctuality, various friends wrote reminding me that the hour was 2.30 sharp, so I determined to surprise them by being in time, allowing myself half an hour to go from Haymarket Station to Newington. Happening to notice a train at the platform, I rushed downstairs without taking time to get a ticket in case I should miss it, and thinking it would be quicker and cheaper than a cab. I sat fully ten minutes beside two gentlemen, who seemed as impatient as myself, judging by the number of times they looked at their watches. "We'll never catch it," said one. I knew I would catch it if I stayed any longer, and asked a passing guard when the train was to start. "As soon as the signal's down," he said.
I had still about a quarter of an hour to spare, so I got out and took a car along Princes Street. The car was full, but that was no concern of the driver's. He stopped for every lady who hailed him; and after the conductor had explained to each one that the car was full, and that he was not going her way at any rate, and when she would get a car, and that she would know it was for Portobello by the name on the notice-board, we proceeded. By the time we got to Frederick Street my patience and time were about exhausted, and I now saw the folly of not walking, as I had originally intended.
I was despairing of being in time, but got a hansom, trusting to the ceremony being a little late, paying the driver on the way in order to save time, and the moment he drew up I hurried into the house.
I am rather absent-minded; and when the girl showed me to the room, I felt the driver had put me down at the wrong number. I had been too hurried to notice it, and had evidently come to a house where a funeral company had met. The girl had that "don't-make-a-noise" sort of air about her. She pointed, Quaker-like, to where I was to deposit my hat, and then opened the room door quietly. I entered on tip-toe, and was confirmed in my surmise. The company were standing round the room looking at the carpet. I noticed a vacant place, and took it, placing my hands at my back like the others, and helping to do the carpet-staring, all the time wondering what I should do. I should explain my mistake and retire, but I did not like to break the silence. My thoughts were broken by a friend coming over and shaking hands, and I was glad to recognise him, as I knew he was to be at the marriage too. "What are we to do?" I asked, hoping he would see a way out of the difficulty and the house. "You should shake hands with the hostess," he said, pointing at my back. I turned and saw a group of ladies, and was glad to find I was in the right house.
The bride was just expected in, hence the silence. She came in leaning on her father's arm, looking very pale, and trembling as if she was being led to execution; but her father did not seem to care much, and I noticed as he passed that his tie was creeping up the back of his head, but had been brought to a halt by his ears. I sympathised with him, as I often wear mine there. I envy men who are always tidy about the neck, and have bought every patent I have seen, but can't keep my ties in subjection. The bow of a dress-tie will not remain in the centre, but if I allow it to nestle under my ear it will remain there all right. The ladies tell me I should get a wife, but I shall try some more patents first. I have been asked by ladies several times since the marriage what the bride had on, and they seem annoyed that all I can remember is that she wore a large white bouquet. That tie occupied too much of my attention, with the maker's name on a label just over the bump of philo-progenitiveness.
The bridesmaids followed in the procession, and then the minister, with papers in his hand, like the warrant for execution. After the principal parties had got into position, the minister began in deep tones, "We are met on this solemn occasion" (all the company seemed to feel it, for they still looked at the carpet as if they had dropped a pin and could not be happy till they found it), and concluded by asking if any of the company objected to the marriage. There being no objections, he then asked the bride and bridegroom if they were willing to take each other as they stood, as if he didn't know that was why he was there. During the ceremony the bride was sobbing, and perhap she thought she wanted to back out of it. I don't understand what she was crying about, as I happen to know she had been looking forward to the marriage for two years. The couple, having assented to the marriage, were told to join hands; and here a slight hitch occurred which I have noticed before at marriages. The bride and bridegroom had on gloves, and both seemed too nervous to be able to take them off themselves, and had to get it done for them.
I thought it stupid of them wearing gloves indoors, and said so to the person next me; but he said, "They must wear gloves, because the groomsman and bridesmaid have to take them off." "But why?" I asked. "Just because it's always done," he replied in a tone which seemed conclusive.
I now remembered that the gentleman who shook hands with me on entering had on gloves, and I had asked him if he had a sore hand; and I now observed that all the guests wore gloves, and seemed uncomfortable in them, as if they did not fit about the joints, and that they appeared to be greatly relieved when the cake and wine were passed round and they could take them off. Everyone seemed to think they could now change their funereal face for a more natural one, and the bride was passed round to be kissed. She was quite bright now, though there were still two little diamond tears trembling on her eyelids.
The minister was asked to take a refreshment, but said "No; the bread I will take, but the wine I will not touch." I thought he might have had sense enough to know the difference between bride's cake and bread, and wondered if he refused the wine thinking it might be of the kind supplied at sacraments. As soon as the minister left, the company indulged in a general clatter. It must be nice to be a minister, and know you are awing the company with your presence. And yet I don't know: I believe I would as soon remain as I am, and receive the friendly slap on the shoulder, and hear the informal words, "Hullo! old man, what a' ye gonny have?"
The bridegroom replied briefly to his toast, as the brougham was waiting to take his bride and him to the station, and of course he managed to say "My wife and myself," as if it were an old affair; and the conclusion of the speech seemed to be the signal for the production of rice, which was poured liberally about them,--a barbarous joke, not possessing even the quality of originality.
One can imagine the couple in a railway carriage trying to look as if nothing had happened, and their discomfort on observing side looks, smiles, and whisperings from those on the opposite seat, who have noticed some rice which has trickled down his trousers to the floor. With guards and porters, I believe, subterfuge is useless: the new trunks, &c., tell too plainly, and they have to be liberally tipped.
The floor of the dining-room was covered with rice, and an idea occurred to me which might be taken up profitably. We see forms, &c., advertised for balls: why should not poulterers announce, "Hens supplied for marriages!" They would clean the carpet in a few minutes.
Human nature is a strange thing. A hearse, or a brougham with a slipper tied behind, will collect all the women in the neighbourhood, except the better-bred ones, who are peeping out from behind the curtains. A man takes no interest in either, but there will be a crowd from morning till night when a gas pipe or telegraph wire is being laid.
Well, each to his taste: Dress for the ladies, a drain for the men, the bride for the bridegroom, and may they be happy!
AFTER-DINNER SPEECHES WITH HINTS
No one of a philanthropic nature can think but with pity and sympathy of the mental sufferings of those who have toasts to propose or reply to. True, there are some who could not go home happy from a meeting unless they had aired their eloquence; but they are a small minority. Ministers are usually swift in getting on their feet, and slow to sit down; and though they have "the gift o' the gab," to some, if not all, it is an infliction--not less probably than to their brethren in the laity--to have to speak, as they know that something better will be expected of them. Talking with a country minister recently, he said:
"I was once at a Burns Dinner in Edinburgh, and when we were at the soup I got a note handed from the chair, saying I had been put down for a toast in place of some one who was absent. Well, sir, I laid down my spoon and never touched my dinner." (This was said in a tone of sad reflection.) "But," he added, brightening up, "I picked on two lines of quotation the chairman had left out, and I gave them twenty minutes of it,"--the cheery expression of his face showing that the lengthened speech was not given as revenge for the loss of a dinner, but with pride in his "gift."
There are "Practical Letter Writers" and books on Etiquette, but no one seems to be bold enough to publish a book of Speeches suitable for the many exigencies of those who "go out." The "Practical" or "Complete" Letter Writer usually was filled with such subjects as "To a Duchess on refusing an Invitation," or "From the Same to the Same," and has of course long since retired to a well-merited oblivion; but a "Practical" Speech Maker would be sure to go into many editions, and relieve many a sufferer from one of the chief miseries of civilisation. In the meantime, however, as we are now into "the season," a few hints may be found useful.
Be careful, then, not to pause after saying "Mr. Chairman," as, when it is followed by "and gentlemen," it might seem an invidious and undesirable distinction.
Begin by saying, "The toast which has been entrusted to me" or "put into my hands"--both expressions being classic--"is perhaps the most important on the list." This will command attention, especially from those who have to speak after you, as they naturally look on theirs as the most important; and though they may afterwards claim the distinction, you will have gained your object.
Should your name be on the toast-list, say you "could have wished the 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.