Part 18 (1/2)
She is very beautiful, so we call her the _Swamp Angel_, and her husband's counting-house, _Araby the Blest_. Her children we have christened _Findings_, the youngest being always spoken of as the _last_. We have numerous jokes, of course, about the _cobbler sticking to his last_, the _best quality of calf_, and so on. She is very good-natured, and enjoys our badinage heartily, having a healthy vein of fun of her own, which trans.m.u.tes all the little events of domestic life into the most refined humor. We like humor in a woman, or we should rather say in a gentlewoman; her culture and the natural tact peculiar to her s.e.x, seem to eliminate any of those grosser particles which the coa.r.s.e sensibilities of a man would not detect. Humor is as fascinating in a woman as sarcasm is abominable; it requires the very highest breeding to make the latter quality moderately safe in the hands of young women. For our own part, we would rather see a woman chew tobacco than hear her say sharp things. However, this is a digression. Mrs.
Crofton, as we said, is very fond of fun, and in her house there is that perfect ease and abandon which can only be enjoyed by well-bred people; whoever visits there is at home; and a favored few, of whom the writer has the honor of being one, are treated quite as _enfants de famille_.
If, on calling, we find the heads of the house from home, we know where the claret and cigars are kept. Cicero, the negro waiter, obeying standing orders, promptly serves up some repast, and presses the hospitality of the house upon us with all the aplomb and grace for which his race are remarkable.
We drop into breakfast whenever we feel so disposed, and invite ourselves to dinner or tea as freely as though our friends kept a hotel; indeed we jocularly call their mansion by various public names: ”The Crofton House,” ”Fifth Avenue Hotel,” ”The Shoe and Leather House,”
etc., etc. We have perpetrated more sheer, downright nonsense in their saloons than any forty strait-laced country school-children ever condescended to commit in their rural play-ground.
One day during the holidays, when some fourteen or fifteen friends had dropped in _quite promiscuous_, and were playing all kinds of tricks, a certain gentleman, imported from England, an officer in the Guards, genus Swell, ”pwoposed” that we should play the _m.u.f.fin man_. As none of us had ever heard of this gentleman or the m.u.f.fin business, there was a general cry for light.
”Oh, its vewy jolly, I a.s.shua yaw. We all sit wound in a wing, yaw know, and one of us, yaw know, sings:
”'Do yaw know the m.u.f.fin man, Do yaw know his name, Do yaw know the m.u.f.fin man, That lives in Cwumpet Lane.'
Then the next person answers:
”'Oh, yes, I know the m.u.f.fin man, Oh, yes, I know the m.u.f.fin man, Oh, yes, I know the m.u.f.fin man, Who lives in Cwumpet[3] Lane.'
Then he turns to the next person, and when each person has sung his verse, yaw know, he then joins in the cawus,[4] until it has gone all wound;[5] then, yaw know, we all sing together:
”'We all know the m.u.f.fin man, We all know his name; We all know the m.u.f.fin man, Who lives in Cwumpet Lane.'
The game is, yaw know, to keep a gwave[6] face all the time. If yaw laugh yaw pay a forfeit.”
”The m.u.f.fin man, the m.u.f.fin man,” echoed half a dozen voices; ”let us play the m.u.f.fin man.”
[3] This word means Crumpet.
[4] This word means Chorus.
[5] Round.
[6] Grave.
The proposition being carried _nem. con._, we all sat ”wound in a wing,”
or round in a ring, a circle of individuals of every age from three up to seventy. The Englishman, as head instigator, started the game, but before he got half through his verse we were all in convulsions of laughter; the next person took it up, but it was utterly useless to think of collecting the forfeits; we were all, in spite of every effort, like a party of maniacs reeling in our seats with merriment. There was something so utterly idiotic and absurd in a large party of respectable, rational beings, congratulating themselves in song that they ”knew the m.u.f.fin man of Crumpet Lane.”
The English swell was immediately made an honorary member of our order, which is, as yet, without a name.
As we had all laughed our throats dry, Mr. Crofton invited us into the next room to _see a man_, as the Immortal Artemus delicately expresses it, so we all went in and saw the man. Some of us saw him in ice claret, some in hot punch, and some in cool champagne. One of Crofton's children, a maiden aged three years, whom they called Toney, as the diminutive of her Christian name, Antonia, came toddling in with the rest and said:
”Me, Nooni, want see man.” Whereupon her father gave her a goblet of lemonade. She just tasted it, and handed it back with supreme contempt, saying:
”Me, Nooni, want banny wa.s.ser;” which being translated into English means:
”Me, Toney, wants brandy and water.”
The little voluptuary was satisfied with a gla.s.s of weak claret punch.
During this conversation, Bub, a patriarch of five years, who had been looking on with a very patronizing air, now came forward, and laying his hand on his sister's shoulder, lisped out: