let’s see you treat it like a philosopher—­the wire is off, so you’ve nothing to do but cut the string, and press the cork on one side with your thumb.—­Nay! you’ve cut both sides!” Fizz, pop, bang, and away went the cork close past the ear of an old deaf general, and bounded against the wall.—­“Come, there’s no mischief done, so pour out the wine.—­Your good health, old boy, may you live for a thousand years, and I be there to count them! —­Now, that’s what I call good,” observed the Yorkshireman, holding up his glass, “see how it dulls the glass, even to the rim—­champagne isn’t worth a copper unless it’s iced—­is it, Colonel?” “Vy, I don’t know—­carn’t say I like it so werry cold; it makes my teeth chatter, and cools my courage as it gets below—­champagne certainly gives one werry gentlemanly ideas, but for a continuance, I don’t know but I should prefer mild hale.”  “You’re right, old boy, it does give one very gentlemanly ideas, so take another glass, and you’ll fancy yourself an emperor.—­Your good health again.”  “The same to you, sir.  And now wot do you call this chap?” “That is a quail, the other a snipe—­which will you take?” “Vy, a bit of both, I think; and do you eat these chaps with them?” “Yes, nothing nicer—­artichokes a la sauce blanche; you get the real eating part, you see, by having them sent up this way, instead of like haystacks, as they come in England, diving and burning your fingers amid an infinity of leaves.”  “They are werry pretty eating, I must confess; and this upper Binjamin of ham the birds are cooked in is delicious.  I’ll trouble you for another plateful.”  “That’s right, Colonel, you are yourself again.  I always thought you would come back into the right course; and now you are good for a glass of claret of light Hermitage.  Come, buck up, and give a loose to pleasure for once.”  “For once, ay, that’s what you always say; but your once comes so werry often.”  “Say no more.—­Garcon! un demi-bouteille de St. Julien; and here, J——­, is a dish upon which I will stake my credit as an experienced caterer—­a Charlotte de pommes—­upon my reputation it is a fine one, the crust is browned to a turn, and the rich apricot sweet-meat lies ensconced in the middle, like a sleeping babe in its cradle.  If ever man deserved a peerage and a pension it is this cook.”  “It’s werry delicious—­order another.”  “Oh, your eyes are bigger than your stomach, Mr. J——.  According to all mathematical calculations, this will more than suffice.  Ay, I thought so—­you are regularly at a stand-still.  Take a glass of whatever you like.  Good—­I’ll drink Chablis to your champagne.  And now, that there may be no mistake as to our country, we will have some cheese—­fromage de Roquefort, Gruyere, Neufchatel, or whatever you like—­and a beaker of Burgundy after, and then remove the cloth, for I hate dabbling in dowlas after dinner is done.”  “Rum beggars these French,” said Mr. Jorrocks to himself, laying down the newspaper, and taking a sip of Churchman’s chocolate, as on the Sunday morning he sat with the Countess Benvolio, discussing rolls and butter, with Galignani’s Messenger, for breakfast.