performs no _ceremony_ at all. He goes through all the
complicated duties of the scene, as if he were "to the manner
born."

Some persons, who cannot draw the nice distinction between
too much and too little, desiring to be particularly
respectable, make a point of appearing unconcerned and quite
indifferent to enjoyment at dinner. Such conduct not only
exhibits a want of sense and a profane levity, but is in the
highest degree rude to your obliging host. He has taken a
great deal of trouble to give you pleasure, and it is your
business to be, or at least to appear, pleased. It is one
thing, indeed, to stare and wonder, and to ask for all the
delicacies on the table in the style of a person who had
lived all his life behind a counter, but it is quite another
to throw into your manner the spirit and gratified air of a
man who is indeed not unused to such matters, but who yet
esteems them at their fall value.

When the Duke of Wellington was at Paris, as commander of the
allied armies, he was invited to dine with Cambaceres, one of
the most distinguished statesmen and _gourmands_ of the time
of Napoleon. In the course of the dinner, his host having
helped him to some particularly _recherche_ dish, expressed a
hope that he found it agreeable. "Very good," said the hero
of Waterloo, who was probably speculating upon what he would
have done if Blucher had not come up: "Very good; but I
really do not care what I eat." "Good God!" exclaimed
Cambaceres,--as he started back and dropped his fork, quite
"frighted from his propriety,"--"Don't care what you eat!