“‘Mercy!’ cries Helluo.  ’Mercy on my soul! 
Is there no hope?  Alas!—­then bring the jowl.’”

A great peer, who had expended a large fortune, summoned his heir to his death-bed, and told him that he had a secret of great importance to impart to him, which might be some compensation for the injury he had done him.  The secret was that crab sauce was better than lobster sauce.

“Persicos odi,” “I hate all your Frenchified fuss.”

   “But a nice leg of mutton, my Lucy,
      I prithee get ready by three;
   Have it smoking, and tender, and juicy,
      And, what better meat can there be? 
   And when it has served for the master,
      ’Twill amply suffice for the maid;
   Meanwhile I will smoke my canaster,
      And tipple my ale in the shade.”

Can anything be more awful than a public dinner—­the waste, the extravagance, the outrageous superfluity of everything, the enormous waste of time, the solemn gorging, as if the whole end and aim of life were turtle and venison.  I do not know whether to dignify such proceedings by the name of luxury.  But what shall I say of gentlemen’s clubs.  They are the very hotbed of luxury.  By merely asking for it you obtain almost anything you require in the way of luxury.  I am aware that many men at clubs live more carefully and frugally, but I am aware also that a great many acquire habits of self-indulgence which produce idleness and selfish indifference to the wants of others.  In a still more pernicious fashion, I think that refreshment bars at railway stations minister to luxury; at least I am sure they foster a habit of drinking more than is necessary, or desirable; and that is one form of luxury, and a very bad one.  The fellows of a Camford college are reported to have met on one occasion and voted that we do sell our chapel organ; and the next motion, carried nem. con., was that we do have a dinner.  As to ornaments for the dinner table what affectation and expense do we see.  But in the days of Walpole it was not amiss.  “The last branch of our fashion into which the close observation of nature has been introduced is our desserts.  Jellies, biscuits, sugar plums, and creams have long since given way to harlequins, gondoliers, Turks, Chinese, and shepherdesses of Saxon china.  Meadows of cattle spread themselves over the table.  Cottages in sugar, and temples in barley sugar, pigmy Neptunes in cars of cockle shells trampling over oceans of looking glass or seas of silver tissue.  Gigantic figures succeed to pigmies; and it is known that a celebrated confectioner complained that, after having prepared a middle dish of gods and goddesses eighteen feet high, his lord would not cause the ceiling of his parlour to be demolished to facilitate their entree. “Imaginez-vous,” said he, “que milord n’a pas vouler faire oter le plafond!”