It does not require to be ruined, by having a supply of tepid water added to it after it has been poured in to your cup; nor does it come on table a tasteless slops, at which even a four-footed animal, unmentionable to ears polite, would utter a grunt of dissent if presented to it. No. Commend me to one of those tea-tables. The muffins also, are so hot, so “just done;” or the toast without being burned to a cinder, or hardened to a board, is crisp and delightful as the most fastidious could require. The cream, too—please do not mention it—the same milk-man may serve her next door neighbor, but in her mansion no skim-milk is mixed therewith, to eke out to a large family the amount required in the compound used therein, and which is called by courtesy, tea. And then the sugar, sparkling as so many diamonds in the antique silver bowl in which it rests; no “broken-topped” or “crushed,” but “Stewart’s” or “Lovering’s extra loaf” is alone used here. It sometimes happens that a “_petit souper_” is substituted for the tea-table. The oysters, Morris river coves, when they can be had, certainly: the terrapins, none but the genuine Egg-harbors ever enter her doors, and the inimitable John Irwin has exhausted on them all the resources of his skill. All the appliances of her table are in keeping, and as you admire the dignified courtesy with which she attends to the wants of each guest, or leads the conversation into channels she thinks most acceptable to those around her, the mind involuntarily recurs to the days of hoops and hair-powder, trains and high-heeled shoes.