Aristabulus had never before sat down to as brilliant a table, and
for the first time in his life, he saw candles lighted at a dinner;
but he was not a man to be disconcerted at a novelty. Had he been a
European of the same origin and habits, awkwardness would have
betrayed him fifty times, before the dessert made its appearance;
but, being the man he was, one who overlooked a certain prurient
politeness that rather illustrated his deportment, might very well
have permitted him to pass among the _oi polloi_ of the world, were
it not for a peculiar management in the way of providing for himself.
It is true, he asked every one near him to eat of every thing he
could himself reach, and that he used his knife as a coal-heaver uses
a shovel; but the company he was in, though fastidious in its own
deportment, was altogether above the silver-forkisms, and this
portion of his demeanour, if it did not escape undetected, passed
away unnoticed. Not so, however, with the peculiarity already
mentioned as an exception. This touch of deportment, (or management,
perhaps, is the better word,) being characteristic of the man, it
deserves to be mentioned a little in detail.

The service at Mr. Effingham's table was made in the quiet, but
thorough manner that distinguishes a French dinner. Every dish was
removed, carved by the domestics, and handed in turn to each guest.
But there were a delay and a finish in this arrangement that
suited neither Aristabulus's go-a-head-ism, nor his organ of
acquisitiveness. Instead of waiting, therefore, for the more
graduated movements of the domestics, he began to take care of
himself, an office that he performed with a certain dexterity that he
had acquired by frequenting ordinaries--a school, by the way, in
which he had obtained most of his notions of the proprieties of the
table. One or two slices were obtained in the usual manner, or by