When no parson is present the divine blessing is omitted, unless it be the Quaker thankfulness--the silence of the heart. In the beginning of the feast fruit, flowers, and sweetmeats grace the table, whilst bread and butter only give a Spartan simplicity to the “first course,” which is composed of a French vegetable soup, and according to the description by those who have tasted it, no soup, foreign or domestic, has ever been known to equal it. It is said to be a little smoother than peacock’s brains, but not quite so exquisitely flavored as a dish of nightingale’s tongues, and yet “Professor Melah” is the only man in the nation who holds in his hands the recipe for this aristocratic stew. The ambrosial soup is followed by a French croquet of meat. Four admirably trained servants remove the plates between each course, and their motions are as perfect as clockwork. These servants are clad in garments of faultless cut, which serve to heighten to the last degree their sable complexion. White kid gloves add the finishing touch to this part of the entertainment. The third “course” of the dinner is composed of a fillet of beef, flanked on each side by potatoes the size of a walnut, with plenty of mushrooms to keep them company. The next course is dainty in the extreme. It is made up entirely of luscious leg of partridges, and baptized by a French name entirely beyond my comprehension. It will readily be seen that a full description of the twenty-nine courses would be altogether too much for the healthy columns of a newspaper to bear, so we pass to the dessert, not omitting to say that the meridian or noon of the feast is marked by the guests being served bountifully with frozen punch. As a general rule, wine is served about every third course. Six wineglasses of different sizes and a small bouquet of flowers are placed before each guest at the beginning. The dessert is inaugurated by the destruction of a rice pudding, but not the kind which prompted the little boy to run away to the North Pole because his mother “would have rice pudding for dinner.” It is not the same dish which our Chinese brethren swallow with the aid of chop-sticks, but it is such a pudding as would make our grandmothers clap their hands with joy. Charles Lamb has made roast pig classic; Professor Melah’s rice pudding is worthy to be embalmed in romance or story, or at least to be illustrated in _Harper’s Weekly_. This Presidential dish cannot be described except by the pen of genius, therefore it can only be added that no plebeian pies or other pastry are allowed to keep its company. After the rice pudding, canned peaches, pears, and quinces are served. Then follow confectionery, nuts, ice-cream, coffee, and chocolate, and with these warm, soothing drinks the Presidential entertainment comes to an end, and the host and his guests repair to the Red Room, and after fifteen minutes spent in conversation the actors in a state dinner rapidly disappear.