When the guests arrived, and the dire news communicated, the gentlemen in spite of themselves looked terrifically glum, as if they anticipated a dull evening; and the bright countenances of the ladies were overcast, though as usual, sweet creatures! they tried to look delightful under all visitations. In this dilemma one of the beaux suddenly recollected that “he had seen a piper coming into the village that evening; and he thought it was probable he would stop for the night at one of the public-houses.” Hope instantly illuminated all faces, and a messenger was forthwith dispatched for the man of music. For my part, whenever I heard _a piper_ mentioned, I knew who was full before me. “What sort of person is your piper?” asked I of the gentleman that had introduced the subject. “A tall, stout, rather drowsy-looking fellow,” was the reply. “Oh!” cried I, “it is the Inimitable!--it is Tim Callaghan!” I was eagerly asked if he were a good performer; and as I could not venture to reply with any degree of gravity, one other person present, who knew honest Timothy and his ways, with admirable composure answered, “That under the shield of Miss Edgeworth’s mighty name he would decline trumpeting the praises of any one, she having expressly declared in her novel of ‘Ennui,’ that ‘whoever enters thus announced appears to disadvantage;’ and therefore,” said my friend, “we leave Tim Callaghan’s musical merit to speak for itself.” Nothing could be better than this, and the effect Tim produced was corresponding. While the messenger is away for our piper, I must relate an anecdote of another servant, and a rustic one too, once sent on a similar errand. John’s master had friends spending the evening with him, and he desired his servant to procure a musician for the young folks for love or money. In about half an hour John returned after a fruitless search; and instead of saying in the usual style that “he could not find one,” he flung open the drawing-room door, and announced his unsuccess in the following impromptu,[1] spoken with all due emphasis and discretion-- “I searched the city’s cir-cum-fe-rence round, And not a musician is there to be found! I fear for music you’ll be at a loss, For the fiddler has taken the road to Ross!” and then made his bow and retired. The _city_, by the way, was a village of some half-dozen houses. So much for John, and now for Tim Callaghan.