y have eaten."

"But there is this advantage to society," said Rudolph,--"it helps us
young physicians. What would the physicians do if parties were
abolished? Take all the colds that are caught by our fair friends with
low necks and short sleeves, all the troubles from dancing in tight
dresses and inhaling bad air, and all the headaches and indigestion
from the _melange_ of lobster salad, two or three kinds of ice-cream,
cake, and coffee on delicate stomachs, and our profession gets a
degree of encouragement that is worthy to be thought of."

"But the question arises," said my wife, "whether there are not ways
of promoting social feeling less expensive, more simple and natural
and rational. I am inclined to think that there are."

"Yes," said Theophilus Thoro; "for large parties are not, as a general
thing, given with any wish or intention of really improving our
acquaintance with our neighbors. In many cases they are openly and
avowedly a general tribute paid at intervals to society, for and in
consideration of which you are to sit with closed blinds and doors and
be let alone for the rest of the year. Mrs. Bogus, for instance, lives
to keep her house in order, her closets locked, her silver counted and
in the safe, and her china-closet in undisturbed order. Her 'best
things' are put away with such admirable precision, in so many
wrappings and foldings, and secured with so many a twist and twine,
that to get them out is one of the seven labors of Hercules, not to
be lightly or unadvisedly taken in hand, but reverently, discreetly,
and once for all, in an annual or biennial party. Then says Mrs.
Bogus, 'For Heaven's sake, let's have every creature we can think of,
and have 'em all over with at once. For pity's sake, let's have no
driblets left that we shall have to be inviting to dinner or to tea.
No matter whether they can come or not,--only send them the
invitation, and our part is done; and, thank Heaven! we shall be free
for a year.'"

"Yes," said my wife; "a great stand-up party bears just the same
relation towards the offer of real hospitality and good will as Miss
Sally Brass's offer of meat to the little hungry Marchioness, when,
with a bit uplifted on the end of a fork, she addressed her, 'Will you
have this piece of meat? No? Well, then, remember and don't say you
haven't had meat _offered_ to you!' You are invited to a general jam,
at the risk of your life and health; and if you refuse, don't say you
ha