Barring some of the band and the populace, I am doubtless the Sole
Survivor, for Madame has for a number of years had a permanent engagement
Above, and my faith in Divine Justice does not permit me to think that the
servile wretch who cast down the mighty from their seat among the Sons of
Hope was suffered to live out the other half of his days.
* * * * *
A dinner of seven in an old London tavern--a good dinner, the memory
whereof is not yet effaced from the tablets of the palate. A soup, a plate
of white-bait be-lemoned and red-peppered with exactness, a huge joint of
roast beef, from which we sliced at will, flanked by various bottles of
old dry Sherry and crusty Port--such Port! (And we are expected to be
patriots in a country where it cannot be procured! And the Portuguese are
expected to love the country which, having it, sends it away!) That was
the dinner--there was Stilton cheese; it were shameful not to mention the
Stilton. Good, wholesome, and toothsome it was, rich and nutty. The
Stilton that we get here, clouted in tin-foil, is monstrous poor stuff,
hardly better than our American sort. After dinner there were walnuts and
coffee and cigars. I cannot say much for the cigars; they are not
over-good in England: too long at sea, I suppose.
On the whole, it was a memorable dinner. Even its non-essential features
were satisfactory. The waiter was fascinatingly solemn, the floor snowily
sanded, the company sufficiently distinguished in literature and art for
me to keep track of them through the newspapers.
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