fellow than he looked. Waiters are always
ready to talk if permitted, and, for my part, I
would sooner learn the views of a waiter on
passing events than take a silent dinner. We
lose a great deal by too much reserve also.
I think it was Johnson (in one of those pithy
dialogues chronicled by Boswell) who used to
say "Sir, I am always ready to talk to
anybody; if he is better than me I shall be
improved by it, if otherwise I may hope to
improve him." While living abroad I once
dined every day for three months at the same
table with another gentleman, without either
of us having ever exchanged a word. It
certainly was not my fault, and he told me,
for I knew him very intimately subsequently,
that it was not his. It was probably mere
acquired reserve on both sides. As a rule,
single men, not in high official positions, should
be always ready to talk to everybody. I have
made the chance acquaintance of some of the
celebrities of history while dining at hotels.
It was so that I first saw Godoy, the famous
Prince of the Peace, and Washington Irving.

Food should be varied as much as possible.
It was the silliest thing ever devised to give
the same dinners at public institutions every
day. Neither need persons who can afford it
fear to eat of many different things at the
same dinner. It is pleasant, however, to
think that the poor man's piece of boiled
rusty bacon contains as much or more nourishment
than the epicure's ortolan, and certainly
tastes sweeter to him. There are very few
things, indeed, in which wealth has any real
advantage over poverty. The best tonic
indeed I know of, is having in one's children
after dinner, and, in this respect, poor men
are frequently better off than rich ones. In
the first place, because they want no tonic to
digest their well-earned food; and, in the
next, because they have it if they do; – a
pleasant example of the embarrassment of
riches.

The French have a proverb that "Night
brings counsel." I prefer, however, the
saying of Sancho Panza, "There is wisdom in
olives." One takes a much easier common-
sense view of things after dinner than before.
Juvenal says, coarsely, "No man reasons on
a full stomach." I forgive Juvenal, who was
by no means a man after my heart, but
I cannot agree with him. I think it is
precisely then that one does reason well,
charitably, and forgivingly. No man ever
knew how to dine properly who could shut
his heart afterwards to the distresses of one
human being. It is all very well putting on
a stern face, Mr. Bull, but you really cannot
button up your pockets to your poor relation
after all that turtle soup and iced punch, that
whitebait and roast sweetbread, so it's of no
use trying. If you had wanted to play the
hard man with him any longer, you should not
have asked him to dinner. There is no
resisting the energy and eloquence given to
him by so much good cheer.

How many useful inventions, how much
happy thought and pleasant wisdom, how
many good resolutions, how much hope, and
love, and truth, and kindness, have been born
of a good dinner! How keen an insight into
character may be had in an after-dinner
conversation. If I wanted really to judge the
capacity or the heart of any one, I would
sooner see him at dinner than at any hour of
the twenty-four.

England is the most dinner-giving nation
in the world. Then Russia; latterly, the
French have begun to give a good many
dinners; but Germany, Spain, and Italy, are still
benighted in this particular. In Denmark and
Sweden a good deal of rough coarse hospitality
goes on, and the Turks even can and do give
good dinners, when they do not attempt to
serve them in the European style. A good
rule in giving dinners is never to have more
guests or more dishes than you know how to
manage. A roast saddle of Welsh mutton,
two sorts of vegetables, and a tart, is a dinner
for a prince; but then there should not be
more than four princes or princesses to eat it.
It is the best dinner a young housewife,
whose husband has five hundred pounds a
year can, or ought, to put upon the table, and
much better than any possible abominations
contrived by the pastry-cook round the corner.

The mistress of a small household should
never be above giving an eye to the maid;
nobody will think any the worse of her.
A very dear and near friend of mine, who
is now a man of mark enough in the world
to be recognised by some who read these
pages, used to give charming little dinners;
and many a time have we all gone to the
kitchen, a "merry three," and dressed a little
impromptu feast a philosopher and an epicure
might alike envy. My friend was a dab at
an omelette, and piqued himself rather upon
it; his wife made a bread-and-butter pudding
that made one's mouth water to think about;
and I beat up the sauce, and did the looking-
on part. Surely, surely, never were there
such merry dinners. I don't think it ever
occurred to any of us to regret we had not a
cook, or above the pay of a good City clerk in
a bank among the three of us.

In France it is customary to drink a glass
of vermuth or some bitter liqueur before
dinner, and a farewell in coffee after it, as
digesters. In Russia, at Hamburg, in
Denmark and Sweden, and in most of the
northern countries of Europe, an epicure
begins his dinner with a glass of fiery spirits;
and I have found it a good plan to follow
the customs of any country in which I might
be living. In southern countries, however,
where the atmosphere is dry, this practice
would be an easy and familiar introduction
to the doctor. In Spain, Italy, Turkey, &c.,
all fermented liquors should be avoided by
a man who does not wish to be in a perpetual
fever. One cup of well-made coffee is also
enough for anybody.