ne and exaggerated intemperance?--would it not be to the last
degree ungrateful to the great source of our enjoyment, to overload it
with a weight which would oppress it with languor, or harass it with
pain; and finally to drench away the effects of our impiety with some
nauseous potation which revolts it, tortures it, convulses, irritates,
enfeebles it, through every particle of its system? How wrong in us to
give way to anger, jealousy, revenge, or any evil passion; for does not
all that affects the mind operate also upon the stomach; and how can we
be so vicious, so obdurate, as to forget, for a momentary indulgence,
our debt to what you have so justly designated our perpetual
benefactor?"

"Right," said Lord Guloseton, "a bumper to the morality of the stomach."

The desert was now on the table. "I have dined well," said Guloseton,
stretching his legs with an air of supreme satisfaction; "but--" and
here my philosopher sighed deeply--"we cannot dine again till to-morrow!
Happy, happy, happy common people, who can eat supper! Would to Heaven,
that I might have one boon--perpetual appetite--a digestive Houri,
which renewed its virginity every time it was touched. Alas! for the
instability of human enjoyment. But now that we have no immediate hope
to anticipate, let us cultivate the pleasures of memory. What thought
you of the veau a la Dauphine?"

"Pardon me if I hesitate at giving my opinion, till I have corrected my
judgment by yours."

"Why, then, I own I was somewhat displeased--disappointed as it
were--with that dish; the fact is, veal ought to be killed in its very
first infancy; they suffer it to grow to too great an age. It becomes a
sort of hobbydehoy, and possesses nothing of veal, but its insipidity,
or of beef, but its toughness."

"Yes," said I, "it is only in their veal, that the French surpass us;
their other meats want the ruby juices and elastic freshness of ours.
Monsieur L--allowed this truth, with a candour worthy of his vast mind.
Mon Dieu! what claret!--what a body! and, let me add, what a soul,
beneath it! Who would drink wine like this? it is only made to taste. It
is like first love--too pure for the eagerness of enjoyment; the rapture
it inspires is in a touch, a kiss. It is a pity, my lord, that we do
not serve perfumes at dessert: it is their appropriate place. In
confectionary (delicate invention of the Sylphs,) we imitate the forms
of the rose and the jessamine; why not their odours t