If there were no other argument against this insane system of monster dinner-parties, the frightful state of discomfort into which the family of the giver of the feast is thrown by the coming event, would alone be sufficient to prove our case. Unless the establishment be on a scale proportionable to that of the individual who, on finding the number of his guests exceeded the means of conveyance provided for them, coolly ordered round “more phaetons!” anarchy and confusion reign predominant throughout the devoted mansion for at least four-and-twenty hours before the affair comes off. In the first place the servants, male and female, all go mad; if you give an order, the recipient stares you vacantly in the face, and does something else immediately; if you lay down a book, or any similar article, in its proper place, somebody instantly removes it and hides it in an improper one, where you are fortunate if you stumble upon it by accident in the course of the following six months. The lunacy of the servants reacts upon their betters--everybody is a little out of temper, everybody is over-officious, and has a way of his or her own for doing everything diametrically opposed to the variously diverging ways of everybody else. From the earliest dawn the very garrets are redolent of “making soup,” which odour remains in possession of the house till about the time at which luncheon should be, but of course is not, forthcoming, when it is superseded, and retires _vice_ the venison put down to roast, which we would rather decree should be “put down” as a nuisance--at least, as far as regards our olfactory nerves. But it were an endless task to attempt to sum up all the miseries incidental to the preparations for celebrating one of those “feasts of _un_-reason,” nor do we expect very many of the gentle public to sympathise in our views; for in every society which we have as yet frequented, “_L’Amphitryon où l’on dine_,” though he be heavy as his own dinners, is certain to be a popular man. However this may be, one thing is certain, that Harry Coverdale, on the morning preceding the dinner-party at the Grange, experiencing in his proper person many of the inconveniences alluded to, and having made several attempts to improve his position, by seeking to induce somebody to do something sensible or agreeable, all of which proved abortive, by reason of the impossibility of extracting even Alice from the vortex of preparation--Harry Coverdale, thus victimised, _faute de mieux_, mounted his good steed, and set off to ride away from the blue devils; but the remedy did not succeed--the devils followed him, and grew bluer and bluer with every mile he passed over, and, at last, the bluest of them all assumed the likeness of Mr. Crane!