It is as bad as drinking alone-an incongruous and unwholesome thing. The petals of the mind may be closed at breakfast time, but under the bright and cheery beams of dinner they expand like a convolvulus at noon. What about the hour to dine? A very important question. Dagentree. I desire not to be dogmatic on that matter, but to dine at dinner time, and be content. Nevertheless, I greatly incline to the supper of the ancients, or dinner of the moderns, because therewith ends the working day. The storms and struggles of the day-corroding Care,

Grim-visaged comfortless Despair, And Sorrow's piercing dart, which beset the furrowed brow, in the counting-house or the study, vanish at the sound of the dinner gong. There is nothing left to do but to dine. No vista of vexing duty, no background of distasteful toil, bounds the genial prospect. It is the epilogue, and then the curtain drops over the weary players. An eight o'clock dinner therefore I recommend, and I do it every day. But whatever be the dinner hour, punctuality is the soul of it. There is no greater impertinence which a man can commit than being too late for dinner.

Pemberton. Excepting being too

soon.

Doctor. Ah! that 'too soon' has had its own share of luck in the world. Why should 'too late' be chalked up on melancholy walls, and made the burden of howling ditties, while 'too soon' is to escape altogether? What has 'too late' ever done which too soon has not also to answer for? Despair seizes you if you are too late for the train, but you take no account of that large portion of human life wholly consumed on miserable platforms by too soon.' If you had waited, perhaps your old flame would have put aside her weeds and accepted you. But you must needs

be in a hurry, and 'too soon' has extinguished your chance for ever.

Dagentree. Or you have stalked a monarch of the forest, through a long weary day, grovelling on your hands and knees after a long-legged kilted gillie, through morass and fen over rocks and boulders, crawling through the long tangled heather, and at last you are close to him. 'Not yet,' says Donald, but 'now' says 'too soon: crack goes your rifle, and off goes the stag. Your whole day's labour has been lost, through the influence of the dæmon.

Doctor. Talking of dinner, did I ever tell you how Phelim O'Carroll did not dine with the Archbishop? If not, perhaps you will not object to a true tale of

TOO SOON.

Phelim O'Carroll is now a reverend dean in a cathedral town in Ireland, and may be a bishop or an archbishop himself some day. But when Phelim was in deacon's orders, he went to London on a jaunt, and

took with him a letter to the Archbishop-he is dead years ago,—and he left it and his card, as in duty bound, in Upper Brook Street, and the Archbishop sent him an invitation to dinner.

Now the Archbishop, though a grave decorous dignified prelate, and somewhat stern of aspect when on duty, was as full of fun and frolic in his heart as any Phelim among them, and was the last man to play the bashaw or starch his neckcloths in his own house. But Phelim was in the clouds with delight and glory when he got that card. For a fortnight before the appointed day did he worship it, carrying it about with him wherever he went, and looking at the august name in close proximity to his own with a devoted awe, mingled with a sense of coming greatness. The day before the event was to come off, however, as he was reading the magic scroll in a hansom cab, a gust of wind blew it

from his grasp, and he saw it no

more.

Next morning, as he lay thinking that the revolving earth had brought round the great day at last, the question suddenly flashed on him. What was the dinner hour? Phelim had never dined with a great man before. His father, the Galway squireen, was of Hibernian and primitive habits; and although he had read the mystic number over and over again, he had read it until he had forgotten it. The only impression it had made was that it was something so unusual as to be quite in keeping with the tremendous nature of the rest of the communication. Was it six, or was it half-past six, or could it be seven? He found no end in wandering mazes lost. He might call and ask, but that would look rustic and careless, so he compromised the matter, and knocked boldly at his grace's door at half-past six.

He had to wait some minutes before he was admitted; and the opening of the door was preceded by a scuffling and tittering in the passage. A footman with one arm in his coat, and the other in the act of entering the sleeve, bestowed on him such a look of freezing insolence as a West-end flunkey alone can bestow. Phelim's heart sank somewhat within him: but he was not the sort of fellow to be brow-beat by a flunkey; so he walked in as if he was master of the house, and was shown, unannounced, into the drawing-room. A housemaid of doubtful tidiness was in the act of lighting the fire; and on his approach, gathered up her insignia hastily, and scuttled away like a startled rat. The door was shut; and the fatal fact was only too plain-he had come too soon.'

It was a bitter evening in London April, with a pinching east wind, fog, and every atmospheric misery. The windows were open, and Phelim did not dare to shut his grace's

windows; round and round his cage he walked, learned three or four pictures by heart; counted the medallions on the carpet one way, then counted them the other; peered into a bowl of gold fish on the table, and turned over every book he could find. Twice, with a beating heart, did he hear the drawingroom door open; but it was only to admit an inquisitive head, which on the pretence of ignorance that there was any one there, wanted to see what was shut up in the drawingroom. At last, he heard a sound of merry voices and rapid steps-the door burst open and in rushed, at full speed, a young lady, with an elderly gentleman at her heels, in uproarious frolic. The lady as she fled, with her head averted, came plump into Phelim's arms, who in his turn capsized the gold fish, and with his superincumbent burden fell, crashing the bowl in his de-.

scent.

How he escaped from the house he never could explain; but it is. certain that he did not dine with the Archbishop, and that he was laid up for a week in Manchester Buildings with troublesome glass cuts.

Many years afterwards, as he was dining with a barrister in Dublin, and sitting next the lady of the house, she turned to her other neighbour, and asked him to help the salmon, for,' she said, with a smile, 'Mr. O'Carroll is unlucky with fish.' Then she reminded him of his disaster, and told the story with great point, softening some of the incidents, however, to spare Phelim's blushes and her own. And a man who heard it told it to me.

eating and drinking part of it I am comparatively, not positively, indif ferent, and would rather not dine at all than talk about or criticise my food; so that the edible be hot, and the potable be sound, I am content; although, to tell the truth, these simple requisites are of the rarest. Still they are not nearly so rare as well-assorted guests. A party of eight or ten intelligent men and pretty women is a very refreshing way of ending a day of industry, whether the toil has consisted in using time, or in killing it. Why pretty women? you may ask. Not for their good looks, I assure you: but pretty women generally converse with more ease than plain women. They are more accustomed to their position, and have more confidence in themselves.

Doctor. I do not agree with you in that proposition, and when you are as old as I am you will change your opinion. It may be true among boys and girls, but not with men and women. A plain girl, talking to a parti like you, is often depressed and shy. But a woman of sense, whose looks are not attractive, lays herself out to make up for it by other advantages; and many of the pleasantest women I have ever known had features which, but for their intelligence, had nothing to recommend them. For my part, I like to watch the play of an animated ugly face. The earnest and intelligent spirit breaks through the ungenial tenement of clay, and lights it up with a marvellous radiance.

Dagentree. Each to his taste; mine inclines to beauty, and married beauty, for a dinner party; for marriage gives dignity and ease. But it is sad to think how few men -diners out especially-try to be agreeable without reference to what others may think of them.

Pemberton. As far as my scanty experience goes, I think the French

man is our superior in that respect. He studies the art of pleasing, not that his self-love may be flattered by your good opinion, but as a part of the science of living. If a stranger feels awkward, or ill at ease, he feels his own credit at stake; he has failed in a duty, and hastens to repair his fault. Whereas, if your Englishman does exert himself to please, it is frequently to feed his own self-complacency, to think how well he is talking, and how pleasant the party must think him.

Doctor. By one sure symptom you may with certainty detect the lurking vanity in the breast of the dinerout. If you find him anxious to promote conversation in others, then he is of the true metal. If he is impatient of the voices of those around him, set him down for an impostor who only cares for the sound of his own.

Dagentree. I hate lions, unless they are very big ones; your scientific lion of the smaller breed most of all, especially when dashed with a spice of infidelity. What a bore such a one can be. How he twists and turns the topics of the table, that he may find a stepping-stone to mount his hobby from, and how wearily he rides it, jolting over the stony ground, until, in sheer exhaustion, the party leave the road clear. Of course, in the best circles, such intruders are duly punished; for they always find some wellbred man who knows more than they do, and who inserts, without an effort and with a quiet smile on his face, his sharp stiletto under the fifth rib. I have seen the victim of the operation writhe like a beetle with a pin through its back, during the rest of the evening, transfixed by the fatal dart. But in the more ordinary rounds to which you and I belong, these pedants are asked for their roaring, and we are expected to

Wonder with a foolish look of praise.

Doctor. Dinner talk is a great science. In my time I have known some of its great professors, in whose hands it was a charming power. I have met Macaulay, and listened to him by the hour, as if he was the genie just ascended from his copper case, pouring forth all the stores of thought he had accumulated during his sojourn there. It was magnificent if it was not quite conversation, and sent you home with your mind inebriated with imagery, and with a profound conviction of your own littleness. Of Sydney Smith I may say, 'Virgilium vidi tantum ;' he probably was the greatest of all-and Rogers also I once encountered. Some of our living great ones too I have known. But these were like going to the play, and were too exciting for ordinary consumption. I like a man with a quiet well modulated voice, with a quick but refined sense of the ridiculous, a rapid insight into his neighbour's brain, and a real love of humouring and playing into his neighbour's current of thought who takes up unimportant topics, and returns them with a point with out a barb-who can talk and eat at the same time, and who never seems to ask you to listen to him. Such a man, if well-informed, with cultivated tastes, reading, and knowledge of the world, is he in whose company I should wish to dine.

Dagentree. It is an offence and an impertinence in any but the giants of the world to attempt to predominate at the dinner table. He who would rule there must never seem to rule. I love, when I encounter a self-sufficient talker, who thinks he has a talent for the kind of thing, to watch my opportunity when he is fairly under weigh, and drive my lumbering vehicle right across his donkey cart, by introducing in a voice loud, but unconscious, some common-place on a subject far remote. It is ill-bred, I admit, and the sinner must be noto

rious to justify it; but covert smiles from an emancipated circle have often rewarded me for the discipline. The man who acquires real power over that empire must be true, kindly, and genial, anxious to give pleasure, desirous to avoid all that can give pain-inspired in short with a wish to be happy in the enjoyment of those around him. I am not sure that I know such a man.

Pemberton. I have known some clever men eminently disagreeable companions after dinner, from an underbred idea that the soul of wit is to make your friend uncomfortable. Of course, when assailed, one must return the thrust; but such contests are bad for digestion, and the offender, who is generally a parvenu, should not

be asked again.

Dagentree. Perhaps he may be a lawyer. But far from the altar of dinner be disputation. I never heard a proposition at such a time I would not willingly concede rather than dispute about it. I would believe all things, or surrender all things, sooner than brush the surface by what Cowper calls an animated 'No.' Controversy is for the morning, or for the House of Commons. The dining-room is a Conciliation Hall, into which contention never should enter.

Let the curtain fall-the play is played out.

CHAPTER XII.

PHOTOGRAPHY.

Next day we were to make our respective expeditions: Dagentree to lunch at Wendover, and I to dine, and meet the redoubtable widow at the Dashwoods'.

In the morning I was much amused with my friend's struggle between shyness and philosophythe grandeur of his air of indifference, and the sneaking complacency at the prospect. I tried a little gentle banter on the charms of the

fair Sophia, but found that the attempt inspired an amount of solemn dignity which warned me off the ground. So I turned to my own prospects, and began to speculate on whom the Dashwoods might have to meet me.

'I explained to you the resources of the country yesterday,' said my host. 'A stray man from town, like yourself a pursebound sporting man, or a wandering judge of assize, will be the garnish: but the substantial part of the feast will be provided from the materials we surveyed from Praslington Common.'

If they furnish anything as pleasant as the Wendover croquet party,' said I, ‘I shall be fortunate. To a man who only dines in the Temple, and surveys no one but his brethren from morning to night, you cannot imagine what attraction there is in meeting, not lawyers, but the rest of mankind.'

And then the mysterious widow. Are you sure she did not come from the Salt Lake ?'

'You at least know nothing of her. Remember how nearly I brought the showman to grief yesterday. You must learn that part better before you play it again.'

'I shall take an hour or two with the rod before I ride over. There must be mighty trout up. So good digestion to you, and good temper with it, which, as far as I see, is much required.'

With these gruff words, but with his wonted open smile, he left me. I had resolved on devoting the day to the great work in which I was engaged, illustrative of the interesting and exciting topics contained in the History, Theory, and Practice of the Law of Real Property.

My labours made progress as they generally do, in such circumstances. I read Lord St. Leonards, and wrote the thoughts of Pemberton thereon for upwards of an hour; disturbed only by the hum of the bees around the window, and

the song of the blackbird and thrush outside. After that, my attention and industry began to flag, and my thoughts to wander. I began to scrawl, With you, Mr. Pemton. Mr. Pemberton, with papers, 50 gas, Pemberton, Q.C., Sir Eustace Pemberton, Rt. Hon. Lord Pemberton,' and a variety of other daydreams, on the blotting-paper. I then, in deep meditation, sketched a variety of well-known legal heads

among which, indiscriminately interspersed, appeared sundry profiles not unlike Sophia Wendover. I was roused from this interesting reverie by the respectable head of Briggs, informing me that his master had started, and inquiring when I should like to have lunch. I flung away my blotting-paper in convicted shame; but too much perturbed to settle down to my work, I began to make a survey of the library. Well it repaid me. The editions were scarce, the condition perfect, the bindings ecstatic. There was the true Elzevir Virgil, with the red letters, and the miscounted page, and with a margin of wonderful width. There was the large paper Homer of the Foulis. There were all the Baskerville classics, unstained, in sumptuous morocco. There was the Chiromancy of Albertus Magnus, and Michael Scott, and the first edition of Drunken Barnaby, and a host of bibliographical marvels beside. At last I came on a priceless Rabelais, and sat down on the top round of the library ladder to read him, Lord St. Leonards and contingent remainders being utterly banished from memory.

Happening to cast up my eyes, or rather from the elevation at which I sat, to cast them down, I perceived a figure standing among the flower-beds beneath, and looking with an air, half-abashed,_and half-impudent, at the house. I descended from my altitude, and on going to the window thought I