The state dining-room, and its state dinners, are controlled entirely by “Steward Melah, the silver-voiced Italian,” who was graduated from the Everett House, the Astor House, and the St. Charles, New Orleans, to the higher estate of superintending “goodies” for the palates of Diplomatists, Princes, and Members of Congress in the White House at Washington. The government pays Professor Melah for his services, but the President pays for the dinners, and he is expected to continue giving them till every foreign dignitary and home functionary, from the highest Diplomat to the most obscure Member of Congress, is invited. Mrs. Lincoln’s presuming to abolish the time-honored but costly state-dinner of the White House, increased her personal unpopularity to an intense degree. The average state-dinner costs about seven hundred dollars, the special state dinner may cost fifteen hundred dollars. The one given to Prince Arthur, of England, cost that sum, without including the wines and other beverages. The dinner proper consisted of twenty-nine courses. The President puts a sum of money into the hands of the steward, and his expenditure is supposed to be in proportion to the official rank and grandeur of the invited guests. It is said that Professor Melah wrings his hands in distress when he is about to set the State table for a supreme occasion, and exclaims to the lady of the White House, who may be looking on: “Why Madam, there is not silver enough in the White House to set a respectable free-lunch table.” At a state dinner the table is always profusely decorated with flowers, and the “first course” is invariably a soup of French vegetables, which Miss Grundy says has “never been equalled by any other soup, foreign or domestic.” “It is said to be a little smoother than peacock’s brains, but not quite so exquisitely flavored as a dish of nightingales’ tongues; and Professor Melah is the only man in the nation who holds in his hands the receipt for this aristocratic stew.” No general conversation prevails at the state dinner. If the lady and gentleman elected to go in together happen to be agreeable to each other, they have a “nice time.” If not, they have a stiff and tiresome one. Exquisite _finesse_ is needed to fitly pair these mentally incongruous diners. Mike Walsh once horrified the shrinking and saintly Mrs. Franklin Pierce at a state-dinner by the story of his going “a fishing on Sunday;” while Hon. Mr. Mudsill, of Mudtown, has been known to regale dainty Madame Mimosa, of Mignonnette Manor, between the courses, with his hatred of flummeries and French dishes, and his devotion to pork and beans and slapjacks.