At the University, breakfast with “the Head” or any other “Don” was a rather solemn function. The table well and plentifully laid, and the host hospitality itself, but occasionally, nay, frequently, occupied with other thoughts. A departed friend used to tell a story of a breakfast of this description. He was shaken warmly by the hand by his host, who afterwards lapsed into silence. My friend, to “force the running,” ventured on the observation—
“It’s a remarkably fine morning, sir, is it not?”
No reply came. In fact, the great man’s thoughts were so preoccupied with Greek roots, and other defunct horrors, that he spoke not a word during breakfast. But when, an hour or so afterwards, the time came for his guest to take leave, the “Head” shook him by the hand warmly once more, and remarked abstractedly—
“D’you know, Mr. Johnson, I don’t think that was a particularly original remark of yours?”
[CHAPTER IV]
LUNCHEON
“’Tis a custom
More honoured in the breach than the observance.”
Why lunch?—Sir Henry Thompson on overdoing it—The children’s dinner—City lunches—Ye Olde Cheshyre Cheese—Doctor Johnson—Ye pudding—A great fall in food—A snipe pudding—Skirt, not rump steak—Lancashire hot pot—A Cape “brady.”