wine tray was restored to its former place.
The stock of subjects of common interest was
getting low, and, in spite of our good-will
long stretches of silence occurred, producing
a stillness which made our host nervously
attack the fire, and stir it up to a yet greater
glow of intense heat; and the hostess
invariably rose at such times, and urged us to
"eat another maccaroon." The first I revelled
in, the second I enjoyed, the third I got
through, the fourth I sighed over, the fifth
reminded me uncomfortably of that part of
Sterne's Sentimental Journey, where he
feeds a donkey with maccaroons,—and when,
at the sight of the sixth, I rose to come away,
a burst of imploring, indignant surprise
greeted me: "You are surely never going
before supper!" I stopped. I ate that
supper. Hot jugged hare, hot roast turkey,
hot boiled ham, hot apple-tart, hot toasted
cheese. No wonder I am old before my
time. Now these good people were really
striving, and taking pains, and laying out
money, to make the evening pass agreeably,
but the only way they could think of
to amuse their guests, was, giving them
plenty to eat. If they had asked one of
their children they could doubtless have
suggested half-a-dozen games, which we
could all have played at when our subjects of
common interest failed, and which would
have carried us over the evening quietly
and simply, if not brilliantly. But in many
a small assemblage of people, where the
persons collected are incongruous, where
talking cannot go on through so many hours,
without becoming flat or laboured, why
have we not oftener recourse to games of
some kind.

Wit, Advice, Bout-rimés, Lights, Spanish
merchant, Twenty Questions—every one
knows these, and many more, if they would
only not think it beneath them to be called
upon by a despairing hostess to play at them.
Of course to play them well requires a little
more exertion of intellect than quoting other
people's sense and wisdom, or misquoting
science. But I do not think it takes as much
thought and memory, and consideration, as it
does to be "up" in the science of good eating
and drinking. A profound knowledge of this
branch of learning seems in general to have
absorbed all the faculties before it could be
brought to anything like perfection. So I do
not consider games as entailing so much
mental fatigue as a man must undergo before
he is qualified to decide upon dishes. I once
noticed the worn and anxious look of a
famous diner-out, when called upon by his no
less anxious host to decide upon the merits of
a salad, mixed by no hands, as you may guess,
but those of the host in question. The guest,
doctor of the art of good living, tasted,
paused, tasted again, and then, with gentle
solemnity, gave forth his condemnatory
opinion. I happened to be his next neighbour,
and slowly turning his meditative full-
moon face round to me, he gave me the valuable
information that to eat a salad in perfection
some one should be racing from lettuce to
shalot, from shalot to endive, and so on, all
the time that soup and fish were being
eaten; that the vegetables should be gathered,
washed, sliced, blended, eaten, all in a
quarter of an hour. I bowed as in the
presence of a master; and felt, no wonder his
head was bald, and his face heavily wrinkled.

I have said nothing of books. Yet I am
sure that if Madame de Sablé lived now, they
would be seen in her salon as part of its
natural indispensable furniture; not brought
out, and strewed here and there when
"company was coming," but as habitual
presences in her room, wanting which, she
would want a sense of warmth and comfort
and companionship. Patting out books as a
sort of preparation for an evening, as a means
for making it pass agreeably, is running a
great risk. In the first place, books are by
such people, and on such occasions, chosen
more for their outside than their inside.
And in the next, they are the "mere
material with which wisdom (or wit) builds;"
and if persons don't know how to use the
material, they will suggest nothing. I imagine
Madame de Sablé would have the volumes
she herself was reading, or those which, being
new, contained any matter of present interest,
left about, as they would naturally be. I
could also fancy that her guests would not
feel bound to talk continually, whether they
had anything to say or not, but that there
might be pauses of not unpleasant silence—a
quiet darkness out of which they might be
certain that the little stars would glimmer
soon. I can believe that in such pauses of
repose, some one might open a book, and
catching on a suggestive sentence, might dash
off again into the full now of conversation.
But I cannot fancy any grand preparations
for what was to be said among people, each
of whom brought the best dish in bringing
himself; and whose own store of living,
individual thought and feeling, and mother-wit,
would be infinitely better than any cut-and-
dry determination to devote the evening to
mutual improvement. If people are really
good and wise, their goodness and their
wisdom flow out unconsciously, and benefit
like sunlight. So, books for reference, books
for impromptu suggestion, but never books to
serve for texts to a lecture. Engravings fall
under something like the same rules. To
some they say everything; to ignorant and
unprepared minds nothing. I remember
noticing this in watching how people looked
at a very valuable portfolio belonging to an
acquaintance of mine, which contained
engraved and authentic portraits of almost
every possible person; from king and kaiser
down to notorious beggars, and criminals;
including all the celebrated men, women,
and actors whose likenesses could be
obtained. To some, this portfolio gave food for