A lady came to my house one Sunday morning, and explained that her husband was dreadfully depressed over a fall in stocks or something, and she knew I could be "so amusing" if I chose, and wouldn't I get into her carriage and go with her to amuse said husband, and be a sort of panorama for the poor man?
"I don't want him to be in the panorama," she said, "nor of the panorama; I want you just to be the panorama by yourself." I was forced to decline this singular appeal, glad as I should have been to cheer her dumpy spouse.
Why, oh why is it, that if persons have the slightest power of being what is vaguely called "entertaining," they are expected to be ever on duty at the call of any one who feels a desire for inexpensive diversion?
At one hotel I sat by the side of an odd old man, a retired tobacco merchant of great wealth, who was ready for conversation with all newcomers, and who seemed to feel that I was not doing my full share as an entertainer for the masses.

He also had the unusual habit of speaking his thoughts aloud, whether complimentary or otherwise, in frank soliloquy, like that absent-minded Lord Dudley whom Sydney Smith alludes to, as meeting and greeting him with effusive cordiality, and then saying, _sotto voce_, "I suppose I shall have to ask this man home to dinner." But my friend at my elbow had very little of the _sotto_ in his _voce_.
He began in this way: "Ahem! I hear you can be funny." No response from person addressed.

Then to himself: "I don't much believe she can do anything--don't look like it." To me: "Well, now, if you _can_ be funny, why don't you ?" I could not help laughing then.

"Yes, if you can, you ought to go into the parlor every night and show what you can do, and amuse us.

It is your duty.