of all, we must mention the Schmelze-avanturine,
when patches or globules of gold vein
the blue and brown surface of the Schmelze,
while in the Avanturine, in the melted glass of
which levigated leaf gold or metallic filings
have been mixed, sparkles of gold are suspended
in the glass. Sometimes, Venetian glass
is of a smoky brown, or has a blackish tinge,
which connoisseurs admire as they do the
coffee-colour of old lace. The latter glass has
often the fillets, margins, or entire stems, coloured;
or it is decorated with bands and fillets
of imbricated work in gold, pearl, or jewel
enamel. Not unfrequently, a shield of arms is
enamelled in the centre of the bowl of the tazza,
or there are medallions of classical subjects.
We have seen Venetian glass frosted; now and
then it takes the vivacious form of a ship, rigging,
masts, and all complete; we have seen
it spring into leaping chimeras, dragons, and
winged monsters.

There were no bounds to the vigorous and
original genius of those old glass-workers in
that beautiful city by the sea. They enchanted
the glass; they made their wine-glasses like
nautilus shells, with wings of blue. We remember
a lobster with blue claws, glasses
with syphons inside the bowls, and tiny
stems crocketted all the way up with little
coloured ornamental spikes, and red and white
flowers in the stem. Such glasses are sometimes,
but not always, fragile, and they might
often be brought on by the host himself for
Tokay, or any specially rare wine. After
having been used, admired, and discussed, they
might be removed to a place of safety, and
next day washed by the lady of the house with
her own fair hands.

At the end of the second course, a certain
luxurious alderman used always to call for “a
cold chair,” and upon that fell to at the feast with
renewed vigour. Now, there is much more to be
said about chairs than we have room to say. The
Voltaire chair, the curule chair, the old Venetian
chair, the pseudo-classical chair of the First
Consulate, with gilt legs; the old splay-legged
Queen Anne chair, the wide-backed Molière chair;
all have their admirers; but they are nearly all
deficient in some one or more essentials of
beauty and comfort. Some have not back
enough, some have too much, some feel insecure,
others are too cumbrous. A good dining-room
chair should be portable and yet substantial;
the seat neither too soft nor too hard; the
back firm and supporting; it should move
on casters, so as to roll quickly and without
labour. There should be no hard wooden ornaments
at the back to cut one’s coat and hurt
one’s spinal vertebræ. It should be graceful in
form and yet also cozy. Away with the old
conventions of upholsterers, the absurd lions’
feet, the wearisome leg ornaments, the everlasting
acanthus leaves! Can no fresh type be
invented?

Table linen should always be studied. Nothing
can be better of its kind than the old
Dutch linen, with quaint figures of the old
Duke of Marlborough sort of generals, worked
in a shade of white that only shows in certain
lights.

We want more mind about our table furniture.
If we must have few ideas, let them
be repetitions of some fine type, like the Greek
chair, the Greek tripod lamp, or the Greek
amphora—let them be at least repetitions of
beauty, not of dulness and ugliness. By all
means use fine works of antiquity when practicable.
The beautiful always assimilates, and
Palissy and Majolica dishes would not lose, even
by contrast with Sèvres plates. Buy harlequin
suits; the variety is always pleasant. Designs
from Raphael are more intellectual than
barbaric wealth of mere gold or silver plate.
Besides, metal is not pleasant to eat off. What
we want in England is, not to produce a few
masterpieces of art every year, but a better average
of the ordinarily manufactured art articles.
Mr. Cole did good work in this direction, but
there is a vast deal still to do before a man of
taste of the present day can dine surrounded
by plates, cups, dishes, and glasses of beautiful
shape and colour.

This deficiency ought not to exist. Our wealth
is great, and our countrymen who have taste
as well as means are numerous. The demand
for tasteful table furniture is great. If our
workmen cannot invent, let them imitate. In
the fifteenth century, men had time to think,
and patience to execute—they had love for their
work, and spared no labour in thinking it out.
Labour costs more now, but there are plenty
who will pay labour. If material be dear, there
are plenty who can afford to buy material. But
there must be far more education of the eye,
or people will still abound who will wish for
nothing more beautiful than willow plates, stucco
cornices, and tea-tray landscapes.

AT A LITTLE DINNER-PARTY.

FIRST OLD HUMBUG.

DEAR brother Brown, if we could take,
     Such liberty with Time,
As just to back his fatal clock
     To mark our early prime.
When we were barely twenty-three,
     And prodigal of Youth,
And thought all women were divine,
     All men the souls of truth:—
If we could feel as then we felt,
     And know what now we know,
We’d take more pleasure than we did,
     Twice twenty years ago.

SECOND OLD HUMBUG.

Dear Brother Smith, I’m not so sure,
     ’Tis heart that keeps us young,
And heart was ever ignorant,
     Since Eve and Adam sprung.
And if we knew in youthful days
     As much as when we’re old,
I fear that heart would turn to stone,
     And blood run very cold.
Yet none the less, for sake of life,
     Though life should bring me woe,
I’d gladly be the fool I was
     Twice twenty years ago.