My meditations were interrupted, perhaps not unpleasantly. It was the waiter with my dinner. I am not unsocial--I am eminently the reverse--I may say, like most men who feel themselves conversationally gifted, I like company, I see that my gifts have in such gatherings their natural ascendancy,--and yet, with all this, I have always felt that to dine splendidly, all alone, was a very grand thing. Mind, I don't say it is pleasant or jolly or social, but simply that it is grand to see all that table equipage of crystal and silver spread out for _you_ alone; to know that the business of that gorgeous candelabrum is to light _you_; that the two decorous men in black--archdeacons they might be, from the quiet dignity of their manners--are there to wait upon _you_; that the whole sacrifice, from the caviare to the cheese, was a hecatomb to _your_ greatness. I repeat, these are all grand and imposing considerations, and there have been times when I have enjoyed these _Lucullus cum Lucullo_ festivals more than convivial assemblages. This day was one of these: I lingered over my dinner in delightful dalliance. I partook of nearly every dish, but, with a supreme refinement, ate little of any, as though to imply, “I am accustomed to a very different _cuisine_ from this; it is not thus that I fare habitually.” And yet I was blandly forgiving, accepting even such humble efforts to please as if they had been successes. The Cliquot was good, and I drank no other wine, though various flasks with tempting titles stood around me. Dinner over and coffee served, I asked the waiter what resources the place possessed in the way of amusement. He looked blank and even distressed at my question: he had all his life imagined that the Falls sufficed for everything; he had seen the tide of travel halt there to view them for years. Since he was a boy, he had never ceased to witness the yearly recurring round of tourists who came to see, and sketch, and scribble about them, and so he faintly muttered out a remonstrance,-- “Monsieur has not yet visited the Falls.” “The Falls! why, I see them from this, and if I open the window I am stunned with their uproar.” I was really sorry at the pain my hasty speech gave him, for he looked suddenly faint and ill, and after a moment gasped out,-- “But monsieur is surely not going away without a visit to the cataract? The guide-books give two hours as the very shortest time to see it effectually.” “I only gave ten minutes to Niagara, my good friend,” said I, “and would not have spared even that, but that I wanted to hold a sprained ankle under the fall.” He staggered, and had to hold a chair to support himself. “There is, besides, the Laufen Schloss--” “As to castles,” broke I in, “I have no need to leave my own to see all that mediaeval architecture can boast. No, no,” sighed I out, “if I am to have new sensations, they must come through some other channel than sight. Have you no theatre?” “No, sir. None.”