if you were in heaven. You are all admiration; everything you see
done throws you into ecstasies. It is all so new and strange! The waiters
stare at you, the company watch your movements. Nor is the host without
curiosity. Some of his servants have instructions to observe you
narrowly, lest your glance should fall too often on his wife or children.
The other guests' men perceive your amazement at the novel scene, and
exchange jesting asides. From the fact that you do not know what to make
of your napkin, they conclude that this is your first experience of
dining-out. You perspire with embarrassment; not unnaturally. You are
thirsty, but you dare not ask for wine, lest you should be thought a
tippler. The due connexion between the various dishes which make their
appearance is beyond you: which ought you to take first? which next?
There is nothing for it but to snatch a side glance at your neighbour, do
as he does, and learn to dine in sequence. On the whole, your feelings
are mingled, your spirit perturbed, and stricken with awe. One moment you
are envying your host his gold, his ivory, and all his magnificence; the
next, you are pitying yourself,--that miserable nonentity which calls its
existence life; and then at intervals comes the thought, 'how happy shall
I be, sharing in these splendours, enjoying them as if they were my own!'
For you conceive of your future life as one continual feast; and the
smiling attendance of gracious Ganymedes gives a charming finish to the
picture. That line of Homer keeps coming to your lips: Small blame to
Trojan or to greaved Achaean, if such happiness as this was to be the
reward of their toils and sufferings. Presently healths are drunk. The
host calls for a large beaker, and drinks to 'the Professor,' or whatever
your title is to be. You, in your innocence, do not know that you ought
to say something in reply; you receive the cup in silence, and are set
down as a boor.

Apart from this, your host's pledge has secured you the enmity of many of