rather invidious to name the other hundred guests; not to be there was
to be nowhere in literature. Near me there sat Lord LYTTON, TOM HUGHES,
PREVOST PARADOL, EDMOND ABOUT, CHARLES KINGSLEY, PAUL FEVAL, and the
Rev. JOHN CUMMING.

Asking, in a whisper, of Mr. PUNCH how the latter very staid individual
came to be there, I understood that, of all the absurd men of this
century, he was selected as the most representatively preposterous. The
PRINCE OF WALES was not asked, lest his morals might be hurt by
something that was said. And it is so important, you know, for the
British nation--(for the rest, see the _Saturday Review_.) And then
Madame GEORGE SAND was to be there, who sometimes wears trowsers.

MATTHEW ARNOLD was spoken to about it; but he replied gruffly,

"PUNCHINELLO is Goliath of the Philistines!" and declined.

JOHN STUART MILL was too busy over his next book, which is to be "On the
Subjection of Horses." But every body else was there, so we did not miss
these grave and reverend seigniors.

How the twenty-five courses came on and went off, from the ox-tail soup
and salmon to the dessert, it would need the tongue or pen of SOYER or
PIERRE BLOT to narrate; as it needed the capacity of a FALSTAFF to do
justice to them. And then, when the cover was removed, came the time of
trial to your correspondent. "The Queen" and "the President" were drunk
with all the honors. Then Mr. PUNCH called out, through his magnificent
old nose, so that you might have heard him across the Channel, "Health
and long life to PUNCHINELLO!"