claim, such as it is, upon his hospitality; but, for all that, it has been most liberally extended to us. A family whose hospitality is not exhausted in such a thoroughfare as Frankfort, must have an inexhaustible fountain of humanity. Hospitality in an isolated country residence is the mere gratification of the appetite of a social being; here it is virtue. Our dinner-table was arranged in a manner quite novel to me. In the centre of the table there was a china vase with a magnificent pyramid of flowers, and the whole table was covered with fruits, flowers, wine, and confectionary.
"Fruit of all kinds, in coat |
If you think the confectionary was not quite à la Paradise, remember Milton makes Eve to "temper dulcet creams" "from sweet kernels pressed." Considering her unfortunate love of delicacies, her skill, and the climate, nothing is more probable that in the "fit vessels" which Milton mentions she converted her "dulcet creams" into ice. However that may be, Madame K.'s table looked like a sylvan feast. We had the most delicious atmosphere of fruits and flowers, instead of being stupified with the fumes of meat. There was no bustle of changing dishes, no thrusting in of servant's arms. The meat was carved and brought from an adjoining room. We had one of the very largest pineapples I ever saw, raised in Yorkshire![1]
- ↑ This mode of serving a dinner was, as I have said, quite novel to me; but I am told that within the last few months it has become common in New-York. So easily do we adopt foreign fashions!
