all,
men are not too fine to have the plate-warmer in the room, the deficiency
of hot plates proving fatal to many a fine feast. It was evident that Puff
prided himself on his table. His linen was the finest and whitest, his
glass the most elegant and transparent, his plate the brightest, and his
wines the most costly and _recherche_. Like many people, however, who are
not much in the habit of dinner-giving, he was anxious and fussy, too
intent upon making people comfortable to allow of their being so, and too
anxious to get victuals and drink down their throats to allow of their
enjoying either.

He not only produced a tremendous assortment of wines--Hock, Sauterne,
Champagne, Barsack, Burgundy, but descended into endless varieties of
sherries and Madeiras. These he pressed upon people, always insisting that
the last sample was the best.

In these hospitable exertions Puffington was ably assisted by Captain
Guano, who, being fond of wine, came in for a good quantity; first of all
by asking everyone to take wine with him, and then in return every one
asking him to do the same with them. The present absurd non-asking system
was not then in vogue. The great captain, noisy and talkative at all times,
began to be boisterous almost before the cloth was drawn.

Puffington was equally promiscuous with his after-dinner wines. He had all
sorts of clarets, and 'curious old ports.' The party did not seem to have
any objection to spoil their digestions for the next day, and took whatever
he produced with great alacrity. Lengthened were the candle examinations,
solemn the sips, and sounding the smacks that preceded the delivery of
their Campbell-like judgements.

The conversation, which at first was altogether upon wine, gradually
diverged upon sporting, and they presently brewed up a very considerable
cry. Foremost among the noisy ones was Captain Guano. He seemed inclined to
take the shine out of everybody.

'Oh! if they could but find a good fox that would give them a run of ten
miles--say, ten miles--just ten miles would satisfy him--say, from
Barnesley Wold to Chingforde Wood, or from Carleburg Clump to Wetherden
Head. He was going to ride his famous horse Jack-a-Dandy--the finest horse
that ever was foaled! No day too long for him--no pace too great for
him--no fence too stiff for him--no brook too broad for him.'

Tom Washball, too, talked as if wearing a red coat was not the only purpose
for which he hunted; and altoge