The party filed into the dining-room, Mr. Beecher behind, turning his cuffs end for end as he walked. In this room was a palatable show,—a big, fat goose, entrenched in gravy, and flanked by all kinds of vegetables, slept the final sleep in the centre of the table. Everything necessary accompanied the star of the feast.
“Dark meat, Miss Terry?” asked the reverend gentleman as he grasped the carver.
“If you please, with plenty of stuffing,” returned the little lady.
All were helped from the generous goose, and Mr. Beecher sat down to enjoy his reward. He is very fond of onion stuffing, and had taken care that it was not all gone before his turn came.
“This goose,” began Mr. Beecher, the bird’s biographer, “has a history. She is the seventh goose of a seventh”—
Just what the reverend gentleman was going to attribute to the goose will not be known, as just then he tasted the stuffing. There was no onion in it. A stern look came over his face, and he was on the point of saying something when he caught the warning glance from his wife’s eyes and kept quiet. Nothing was heard for ten minutes besides the tuneful play of knives, forks, and dishes. The dinner was topped off with mince and pumpkin pies, in whose favor the guests could not say too much. After dinner a quiet, enjoyable talk was indulged in. Mr. Beecher neglected his Sunday school to entertain the artists. He highly complimented Irving by telling him that he was a born preacher.
“If I were not pastor of Plymouth Church, I would be Henry Irving,” said Mr. Beecher.
“You are a born actor,” said Mr. Irving. “As for myself, there is no one I feel more inclined to envy than the pastor of Plymouth Church.”
Miss Terry was not slighted much in Mr. Beecher’s meed of praise. The topics of discussion momentarily changed from America to England and back again, both of the leading gentlemen having well-stored minds that relieved them from “talking shop.”