perience does not enable me to speak quite so favorably of choking. By
means of the latter, my bright career was, on the very first of this
series of festivities, nearly brought to a premature close. But as upon
that occasion it was impossible for me to stop laughing, so likewise was
it impossible for me to stop living. Some sort of action of the lungs
was kept up, and complete asphyxia prevented; and, having smiled myself
nearly to death, I smiled myself back to life again. Ever since, my
_convives_, apprised of this mortal frailty of mine, time their remarks
more prudently, and allow me to take alternately a joke and a morsel.

Sir Walter Scott always sits at the farther end of the table. He is the
best talker that I ever heard, but not so good for dinner as he is for
luncheon, because what he says is too interesting, and takes away one's
appetite; nor for supper either, because he makes one dream. I always
contrive that the more plethoric of my guests shall take their seats
near him.

_I_ could never be tired of Macaulay; but he contradicts people, and
once made two ladies cry. They were introduced to me by an author to
whom I owe much enjoyment, Miss Wetherell, of the State of New York. One
was the bride of the Reverend John Humphreys, and the other Mrs. Guy
Carleton. To be sure, I did not see why they should cry--unless from
habit; but still, he ought not to have made them.

After dinner, those who show no signs of having talked themselves out,
are rewarded and encouraged by being privately invited to prolong their
stay, and meet a few other guests in the library.

Shakspeare always appears there among the first, collected and calm, but
whether happy or not, his manner does not show. With regard both to his
past and present life, his reserve is impenetrable. Like a mocking bird,
he utters himself in so many different strains, that I can seldom make
out which is most his own, except when he will sing one of his little
lyrics; when, I must say, I never heard so sweet and rich a voice but
that of Milton on such occasions, or those of Shelley's skylark and
cloud. But yet, whether this voice of his own says that the heart out of
which it comes is most glad or sad, I never can distinguish.

Dante comes with him, as tall, and, I think, as strong a man; but 'Pace'
is still upon his lips and not upon his brow. He complains that heaven
is a melancholy place to him. He has become better acquainted with
Beatrice, and finds