made before our house, our room, or our
lodgings, can be made to receive society. Of
course I am not meaning the preparations
needed for dancing or musical evenings. I
am taking those parties which have pleasant
conversation and happy social intercourse for
their affirmed intention. They may be
dinners, suppers, tea—I don't care what they are
called, provided their end is defined. If your
friends have not dined, and it suits you to
give them a dinner, in the name of Lucullus,
let them dine; but take care that there shall
be something besides the mere food and wine
to make their fattening agreeable at the time
and pleasant to remember, otherwise you had
better pack up for each his portions of the
dainty dish, and send it separately, in hot-
water trays, so that he can eat comfortably
behind a door, like Sancho Panza, and have
done with it. And yet I don't see why we
should be like ascetics; I fancy there is a
grace of preparation, a sort of festive trumpet-
call, that is right and proper to distinguish
the day on which we receive our friends
from common days, unmarked by such white
stones. The thought and care we take for
them to set before them of our best, may
imply some self-denial on our less fortunate
days. I have been in houses where all, from
the scullion maid upward, worked double-
tides gladly, because "Master's friends"
were coming; and everything must be nice,
and good, and all the rooms must look bright
and clean, and pretty. And, as "a merry
heart goes all the way," preparations made
in this welcoming, hospitable spirit never
seem to tire anyone half so much as where
servants instinctively feel that it has been said
in the parlour, "We must have so-and-so,"
or, "Oh dear! we have never had the so-and-
so's." Yes, I like a little pomp, and luxury,
and stateliness, to mark our happy days of
receiving friends as a festival; but I do not
think I would throw my power of procuring
luxuries solely into the eating and drinking
line.

My friends would probably be surprised
(some wear caps, and some wigs) if I
provided them with garlands of flowers, after the
manner of the ancient Greeks; but, put flowers
on the table (none of your shams, wax or
otherwise; I prefer an honest wayside root
of primroses, in a common vase of white ware,
to the grandest bunch of stiff-rustling artificial
rarities in a silver épergne). A flower or
two by the side of each person's plate would
not be out of the way, as to expense, and
would be a very agreeable pretty piece of
mute welcome. Cooks and scullion-maids,
acting in the sympathetic spirit I have
described, would do their very best, from boiling
the potatoes well, to sending in all the
dishes in the best possible order. I think I
would have every imaginary dinner sent up
on the Original Mr. Walker's plan; each
dish separately, hot and hot. I have an idea
that when I go to live in Utopia (not before
next Christmas), I will have a kind of hot-
water sideboard, such as I think I have seen
in great houses, and that nothing shall appear
on the table but what is pleasant to the eye.
However simple the food, I would do it, and
my friends (and may I not add the Giver?)
the respect of presenting it at table as well-
cooked, as eatable, as wholesome as my poor
means allowed; and to this end, rather
than to a variety of dishes, would I direct
my care. We have no associations with beef
and mutton; geese may remind us of the
Capitol; and peacocks of Juno; a pigeon-
pie of "the simplicity of Venus' doves," but
who thinks of the leafy covert which has
been her home in life, when he sees a roasted
hare? Now, flowers as an ornament, do lead
our thoughts away from their present beauty
and fragrance. I am almost sure Madame de
Sablé had flowers in her salon, and as she
was fond of dainties herself, I can fancy her
smooth benevolence of character, taking
delight in some personal preparations made in
the morning for the anticipated friends of the
evening. I can fancy her stewing sweet-
breads in a silver saucepan, or dressing salad
with her delicate, plump, white hands; not
that I ever saw a silver saucepan. I was
formerly ignorant enough to think that they
were only used in the Sleeping Beauty's
kitchen, or in the preparations for the
marriage of Riquet-with-the-Tuft; but I have
been assured that there are such things, and
that they impart a most delicate flavour, or
no flavour to the victuals cooked therein; so
I assert again, Madame de Sablé cooked sweet-
breads for her friends in a silver saucepan;
but never to fatigue herself with those
previous labours. She knew the true taste of
her friends too well; they cared for her
firstly, as an element in their agreeable evening
—the silver saucepan in which they were
all to meet; the oil in which their several
ingredients were to be softened of what was
harsh or discordant—very secondary would
be their interest in her sweetbreads.

Of sweetbreads they'll get mony an ane,
Of Sablé ne'er anither.

But part of my care beforehand should go
to the homely article of waiting. I should
not mind having none at all; a dumb waiter,
pepper, salt, bread, and condiments within
the reach or by the side of all. Little kindly
attentions from one guest to another tend to
take off the selfish character of the mere act
of eating; and, besides, the guests would (or
should) be too well educated, too delicate of
tact, to interrupt a burst of wit, or feeling, or
eloquence, as a mere footman often does with
the perpetual "Sherry, or Madeira?" or with
the names of those mysterious entremets
that always remind me of a white kid glove
that I once ate with Vsechamel sauce, and
found very tender and good, under the name
of Oreilles de Veau à-la-something, but
which experiment I never wish to repeat.