The Duke of St. James gave a water party, and the astounded Thames
swelled with pride as his broad breast bore on the ducal barges. St.
Maurice, who was in the Guards, secured his band; and Lord Squib, who,
though it was July, brought a furred great coat, secured himself. Lady
Afy looked like Amphitrite, and Lady Caroline looked in love. They
wandered in gardens like Calypso's; they rambled over a villa which
reminded them of Baise; they partook of a banquet which should have been
described by Ariosto. All were delighted; they delivered themselves to
the charms of an unrestrained gaiety. Even Charles Annesley laughed and
romped.
This is the only mode in which public eating is essentially agreeable.
A banqueting-hall is often the scene of exquisite pleasure; but that is
not so much excited by the gratification of a delicate palate as by
the magnificent effect of light and shade; by the beautiful women, the
radiant jewels, the graceful costume, the rainbow glass, the glowing
wines, the glorious plate. For the rest, all is too hot, too crowded,
and too noisy, to catch a flavour; to analyse a combination, to dwell
upon a gust.
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