humanities" or not, I am unable to say,
but certainly in my then humour, I should not have exchanged my position
for one of much greater pretensions to elegance and ton. There was first
a general onslaught upon the viands, crashing of plates, jingling of
knives, mingling with requests for "more beef," "the hard side of the
salmon," or "another slice of ham." Then came a dropping fire of
drinking wine, which quickly increased, the decanters of sherry for about
ten minutes resting upon the table, about as long as Taglioni touches
this mortal earth in one of her flying ballets. Acquaintances were
quickly formed between the members of the bar and myself, and I found
that my momentary popularity was likely to terminate in my downfall; for,
as each introduction was followed by a bumper of strong sherry, I did not
expect to last till the end of the feast. The cloth at length
disappeared, and I was just thanking Providence for the respite from
hob-nobbing which I imagined was to follow, when a huge, square decanter
of whiskey appeared, flanked by an enormous jug of boiling water, and
renewed preparations for drinking upon a large scale seriously
commenced. It was just at this moment that I, for the first time,
perceived the rather remarkable figure who had waited upon us at dinner,
and who, while I chronicle so many things of little import, deserves a
slight mention. He was a little old man of about fifty-five or sixty
years, wearing upon his head a barrister's wig, and habited in clothes
which originally had been the costume of a very large and bulky person,
and which, consequently, added much to the drollery of his appearance.
He had been, for forty years, the servant of Judge Vandeleur, and had
entered his present service rather in the light of a preceptor than a
menial, invariably dictating to the worthy justice upon every occasion
of etiquette or propriety, by a reference to what "the judge himself"
did, which always sufficed to carry the day in Nicholas's favour,
opposition to so correct a standard, never being thought of by the
justice.

"That's Billy Crow's own whiskey, the 'small still,'" said Nicholas,
placing the decanter upon the table, "make much of it, for there isn't
such dew in the county."

With this commendation upon the liquor, Nicholas departed, and we
proceeded to fill our glasses.

I cannot venture--perhaps it is so much the better that I cannot--to give
any idea of the conversation which at once br