To Hounslow Heath I point, and Banstead Down;
   Thence comes your mutton, and these chicks my own,
   From yon old walnut tree a show’r shall fall,
   And grapes, long lingering on my only wall,
   And figs from standard and espalier join—­
   The deuce is in you if you cannot dine.”

Now, however, the whole world is put under contribution to supply our daily meals, and the palate is being constantly stimulated, and in some degree impaired by a variety of food and wine.  And I am sure that the effect of this is to produce a distaste for wholesome food.  I daresay we have all heard of the Scotchman who had drunk too much whisky.  He said, “I can’t drink water; it turns sae acid on the stomach.”  This increase of the luxuries of the table, beyond what was the habit of our fathers, is shown chiefly, I think, when we are at home and alone; but if one is visiting or entertaining others, how often is one perfectly bored by the quantity of food and drink which is handed round.  Things in season and out of season, perhaps ill assorted, ill cooked, cold, and calculated to make one extremely ill, but no doubt costing a great deal of money, time, and anxiety to the givers of the feast.  Then we fall to grumbling, and are discontented with having too much, but having acquired a habit of expecting it we grumble still more if there is not as much as usual provided.

   “He knows to live, who keeps the middle state,
   And neither leans on this side or on that;
   Nor stops, for one bad cork, his butler’s pay;
   Swears, like Albutius, a good cook away;
   Nor lets, like Nevius, every error pass—­
   The musty wine, foul cloth, or greasy glass.”

But what is the modern idea of a dinner?—­

“After oysters Sauterne; then sherry, champagne,
E’er one bottle goes comes another again;
Fly up, thou bold cork, to the ceiling above,
And tell to our ears in the sounds that they love,
How pleasant it is to have money,
Heigh ho;
How pleasant it is to have money!

Your Chablis is acid, away with the hock;
Give me the pure juice of the purple Medoc;
St. Peray is exquisite; but, if you please,
Some Burgundy just before tasting the cheese. 
So pleasant it is to have money,
Heigh ho;
So pleasant it is to have money!

Fish and soup and omelette and all that—­but the deuce—­
There were to be woodcocks and not Charlotte Russe,
And so suppose now, while the things go away,
By way of a grace, we all stand up and say—­
How pleasant it is to have money,
Heigh ho;
How pleasant it is to have money!

This, of course, is meant to be satirical; but no doubt many persons regard the question of “good living” as much more important than “high thinking.”  “My dear fellow,” said Thackeray, when a dish was served at the Rocher de Cancalle, “don’t let us speak a word till we have finished this dish.”