When you dine with my Lord Mayor the question is always asked, will you have a feeder, or will you not?
If you say 'Yes,' you pay your half-guinea, and get him.

He is generally a grave old gentleman like myself, and much resembles a beneficed clergyman.

He stands behind your chair throughout the feast, and delicately suggests what it is best for you to eat, to drink, and to avoid.

'No; _no_ salmon,' he murmurs, if you have had turbot already; and, '_Now_, a glass of Burgundy, _if_ you please, Sir;' or, '_Now_, a glass of sherry.' If an indigestible or ill-compounded _entree_ is handed, he will whisper 'No, Sir: neither now nor never,' with quite an outburst of honest indignation; nor will he suffer you to take Gruyere cheese, nor port with your Stilton.

The consequence is, that the next morning you feel as lively as though you had not feasted on the previous evening, and convinced that you made a good investment of your half-guinea in securing his services.