dst of his brightest
'Varietes' he has incongruously inserted a dolorous little poem, the
burden of each verse being "Je vais mourir." The 'Physiologic du Gout'
is now accessible to English readers in the versions of R.E. Anderson
(London, 1877), and in a later one published in New York; but there is a
subtle flavor to the original which defies translation.

FROM THE 'PHYSIOLOGY OF TASTE'

THE PRIVATIONS

First parents of the human species, whose gormandizing is historic, you
who fell for the sake of an apple, what would you not have done for a
turkey with truffles? But there were in the terrestrial Paradise neither
cooks nor confectioners.

How I pity you!

Mighty kings, who laid proud Troy in ruins, your valor will be handed
down from age to age; but your table was poor. Reduced to a rump of beef
and a chine of pork, you were ever ignorant of the charms of the
_matelote_ and the delights of a fricassee of chicken.

How I pity you!

Aspasia, Chloe, and all of you whose forms the chisel of the Greeks
immortalized, to the despair of the belles of to-day, never did your
charming mouths enjoy the smoothness of a meringue _a la vanille_ or _a
la rose_; hardly did you rise to the height of a spice-cake.

How I pity you!

Gentle priestesses of Vesta, at one and the same time burdened with so
many honors and menaced with such horrible punishments, would that you
might at least have tasted those agreeable syrups which refresh the
soul, those candied fruits which brave the seasons, those perfumed
creams, the marvel of our day!

How I pity you!

Roman financiers, who made the whole known universe pay tribute, never
did your far-famed banquet-halls witness the appearance of those
succulent jellies, the delight of the indolent, nor those varied ices
whose cold would brave the torrid zone.

How I pity you!

Invincible paladins, celebrated by flattering minstrels, when you had
cleft in twain the giants, set free the ladies, and exterminated armies,
never, alas! never did a dark-eyed captive offer you the sparkling
champagne, the malmsey of Madeira, the liqueurs, creation of this great
century: you were reduced to ale or to some cheap herb-flavored wine.

How I pity you!

Crosiered and mitred abbots, dispensers of the favors of heaven; and
you, terrible Templars, who donned your armor for the extermination of
the Saracens,--you knew not the sweetness of chocolate which restores,
nor the Arabian bean which prom