All the necessary arrangements for his lecturing
tour had been made without troubling him with any of the details. He
arrived on a frosty November evening, and went directly to the Tremont
House, where rooms had been engaged for him. I remember his delight in
getting off the sea, and the enthusiasm with which he hailed the
announcement that dinner would be ready shortly. A few friends were
ready to sit down with him, and he seemed greatly to enjoy the novelty
of an American repast. In London he had been very curious in his
inquiries about American oysters, as marvellous stories, which
he did not believe, had been told him of their great size. We
apologized--although we had taken care that the largest specimens to be
procured should startle his unwonted vision when he came to the
table--for what we called the extreme _smallness_ of the oysters,
promising that we would do better next time. Six bloated Falstaffian
bivalves lay before him in their shells. I noticed that he gazed at them
anxiously with fork upraised; then he whispered to me, with a look of
anguish, "How shall I do it?" I described to him the simple process by
which the free-born citizens of America were accustomed to accomplish
such a task. He seemed satisfied that the thing was feasible, selected
the smallest one in the half-dozen (rejecting a large one, "because," he
said, "it resembled the High Priest's servant's ear that Peter cut off")
and then bowed his head as if he were saying grace.
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