t it
was. The doctor probably would smile at the statement of such trifles
to his professional ear; the Judge would smile in his turn; and meeting
one another's eyes, they would enjoy a hearty laugh together! But a fig
for medical advice. The Judge will never need it.

Pray, pray, Judge Pyncheon, look at your watch, Now! What--not a
glance! It is within ten minutes of the dinner hour! It surely cannot
have slipped your memory that the dinner of to-day is to be the most
important, in its consequences, of all the dinners you ever ate. Yes,
precisely the most important; although, in the course of your somewhat
eminent career, you have been placed high towards the head of the
table, at splendid banquets, and have poured out your festive eloquence
to ears yet echoing with Webster's mighty organ-tones. No public
dinner this, however. It is merely a gathering of some dozen or so of
friends from several districts of the State; men of distinguished
character and influence, assembling, almost casually, at the house of a
common friend, likewise distinguished, who will make them welcome to a
little better than his ordinary fare. Nothing in the way of French
cookery, but an excellent dinner, nevertheless. Real turtle, we
understand, and salmon, tautog, canvas-backs, pig, English mutton, good
roast beef, or dainties of that serious kind, fit for substantial
country gentlemen, as these honorable persons mostly are. The
delicacies of the season, in short, and flavored by a brand of old
Madeira which has been the pride of many seasons. It is the Juno
brand; a glorious wine, fragrant, and full of gentle might; a
bottled-up happiness, put by for use; a golden liquid, worth more than
liquid gold; so rare and admirable, that veteran wine-bibbers count it
among their epochs to have tasted it! It drives away the heart-ache,
and substitutes no head-ache! Could the Judge but quaff a glass, it
might enable him to shake off the unaccountable lethargy which (for the
ten intervening minutes, and five to boot, are already past) has made
him such a laggard at this momentous dinner. It would all but revive a
dead man! Would you like to sip it now, Judge Pyncheon?

Alas, this dinner. Have you really forgotten its true object? Then
let us whisper it, that you may start at once out of the oaken chair,
which really seems to be enchanted, like the one in Comus, or that in
which Moll Pitcher imprisoned your own grandfather. But ambition is a