a moment of repose, no pause for
enjoyment; eventually, a feeling of satiety, without satisfaction, and
of repletion without sustenance; till, at night, gradually recovering
from the whirl of the anomalous repast, famished yet incapable of
flavour, the tortured memory can only recall with an effort, that it has
dined off pink champagne and brown bread and butter!

What a ceremony to be presided over by Tancred of Montacute; who, if
he deigned to dine at all, ought to have dined at no less a round table
than that of King Arthur. What a consummation of a sublime project!
What a catastrophe of a spiritual career! A Greenwich party and a tavern
bill!

All the world now is philosophical, and therefore they can account for
this disaster. Without doubt we are the creatures of circumstances; and,
if circumstances take the shape of a charming woman, who insists upon
sailing in your yacht, which happens to to be at Blackwall or Greenwich,
it is not easy to discover how the inevitable consequences can be
avoided. It would hardly do, off the Nore, to present your mistress
with a sea-pie, or abruptly remind your farewell friends and sorrowing
parents of their impending loss by suddenly serving up soup hermetically
sealed, and roasting the embalmed joint, which ought only to have smoked
amid the ruins of Thebes or by the cataracts of Nubia.

There are, however, two sides of every picture; a party may be pleasant,
and even a fish dinner not merely a whirl of dishes and a clash of
plates. The guests may be not too numerous, and well assorted; the
attendance not too devoted, yet regardful; the weather may be charming,
which is a great thing, and the giver of the dinner may be charmed, and
that is everything.

The party to see the Basilisk was not only the most agreeable of the
season, but the most agreeable ever known. They all said so when they
came back. Mr. Vavasour, who was there, went to all his evening parties;
to the assembly by the wife of a minister in Carlton Terrace; to a rout
by the wife of the leader of opposition in Whitehall; to a literary
soiree in Westminster, and a brace of balls in Portman and Belgrave
Squares; and told them all that they were none of them to be compared
to the party of the morning, to which, it must be owned, he had greatly
contributed by his good humour and merry wit. Mrs. Coningsby declared to
every one that, if Lord Monta-cute would take her, she was quite ready
to go to Jerusalem; such a per