this time to make ready for some special function to
follow; for every evening at the Horn mansion had
its separate festivity. On Mondays small whist-tables
that unfolded or let down or evolved from half-moons
into circles, their tops covered with green cloth, were
pulled out or moved around so as to form the centres
of cosey groups. Some extra sticks of hickory would
be brought in and piled on the andirons, and the huge
library-table, always covered with the magazines of
the day--Littell's, Westminster, Blackwood's, and the
Scientific Review, would be pushed back against the
wall to make room.

On Wednesdays there would be a dinner at six
o'clock, served without pretence or culinary assistance
from the pastry-cook outside--even the ices were prepared
at home. To these dinners any distinguished
strangers who were passing through the city were
sure to be invited. Malachi in his time had served
many famous men--Charles Dickens, Ole Bull,
Macready, and once the great Mr. Thackeray himself
with a second glass of "that pale sherry, if you
please," and at the great man's request, too. An
appreciation which, in the case of Mr. Thackeray, had
helped to mollify Malachi's righteous wrath over the
immortal novelist's ignorance of Southern dishes:

"Dat fat gemman wid de gold specs dat dey do
say is so mighty great, ain't eat nuffin yet but soup
an' a li'l mite o' 'tater," he said to Aunt Hannah on