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?