Here is the day come round—­for everything here is done with the utmost regularity:—­intellectual labor, sixteen hours; meals, thirty-two minutes; exercise, a hundred and forty-eight minutes; conversation with the family, chiefly literary, and about the housekeeping, one hour and four minutes; sleep, three hours and fifteen minutes (at the end of the month, when the Magazine is complete, I own I take eight minutes more); and the rest for the toilette and the world.  Well, I say, the Roundabout Paper Day being come, and the subject long since settled in my mind, an excellent subject—­a most telling, lively, and popular subject—­I go to breakfast determined to finish that meal in 9 3/4 minutes, as usual, and then retire to my desk and work, when—­oh, provoking!—­here in the paper is the very subject treated, on which I was going to write!  Yesterday another paper which I saw treated it—­and of course, as I need not tell you, spoiled it.  Last Saturday, another paper had an article on the subject; perhaps you may guess what it was—­but I won’t tell you.  Only this is true, my favorite subject, which was about to make the best paper we have had for a long time:  my bird, my game that I was going to shoot and serve up with such a delicate sauce, has been found by other sportsmen; and pop, pop, pop, a half-dozen of guns have banged at it, mangled it, and brought it down.

“And can’t you take some other text?” say you.  All this is mighty well.  But if you have set your heart on a certain dish for dinner, be it cold boiled veal, or what you will, and they bring you turtle and venison, don’t you feel disappointed?  During your walk you have been making up your mind that that cold meat, with moderation and a pickle, will be a very sufficient dinner:  you have accustomed your thoughts to it; and here, in place of it, is a turkey, surrounded by coarse sausages, or a reeking pigeon-pie or a fulsome roast-pig.  I have known many a good and kind man made furiously angry by such a contretemps.  I have known him lose his temper, call his wife and servants names, and a whole household made miserable.  If, then, as is notoriously the case, it is too dangerous to balk a man about his dinner, how much more about his article?  I came to my meal with an ogre-like appetite and gusto.  Fee, faw, fum!  Wife, where is that tender little Princekin?  Have you trussed him, and did you stuff him nicely, and have you taken care to baste him and do him, not too brown, as I told you?  Quick!  I am hungry!  I begin to whet my knife, to roll my eyes about, and roar and clap my huge chest like a gorilla; and then my poor Ogrina has to tell me that the little princes have all run away, whilst she was in the kitchen, making the paste to bake them in!  I pause in the description.  I won’t condescend to report the bad language, which you know must ensue, when an ogre, whose mind is ill regulated, and whose habits of self-indulgence are notorious, finds himself disappointed of his greedy hopes.  What treatment of his wife, what abuse and brutal behavior to his children, who, though ogrillons, are children!  My dears, you may fancy, and need not ask my delicate pen to describe, the language and behavior of a vulgar, coarse, greedy, large man with an immense mouth and teeth, which are too frequently employed in the gobbling and crunching of raw man’s meat.