without exception spend too much on what may be called luxuries.  A very marked change in this respect has been noticed by every one who studies the movements of society.  Among people

whose fathers regarded champagne as a devout Aryan might have regarded the Soma juice—viz., as a beverage reserved for the gods and for millionaires—the foaming grape of Eastern France is now habitually consumed. . . .”  He goes on, “The luxuries of the poor are few, and chiefly consist of too much beer, and of little occasional dainties.  What pleasures but the grossest does the State provide for the artisan’s leisure?”  “It does not do,” says the writer, “to be hard upon them, but it is undeniable that this excess of expenditure on what in no sense profits them is enormous in the mass.”

Not long ago a great outcry was heard about the extravagance and luxury of the working man.  It was stated often, and certainly not without foundation, that the best of everything in the markets in the way of food was bought at the highest prices by workmen or their wives; and although the champagne was not perhaps so very freely indulged in, nor so pure as might be wished, yet, that the working men indulged themselves in more drink than was good for their stomachs, and in more expensive drinks than was good for their purses, no man can doubt.

If this increase of luxury is observable in the lower classes, how much more easily can it be discerned in the middle classes.  Take for instance the pleasures of the table.  I do not speak of great entertainments or life in palaces or great houses, which do not so much vary from one age to another, but of the ordinary life of people like ourselves.  Spenser says:—

“The antique world excess and pryde did hate,
Such proud luxurious pomp is swollen up of late.”

How many more dishes and how many more wines do

we put on the table than our ancestors afforded.  Pope writes of Balaam’s housekeeping:—

“A single dish the week day meal affords,
An added pudding solemnized the Lord’s.”

Then when he became rich:—

“Live like yourself was soon my lady’s word,
And lo, two puddings smoked upon the board!”

Then his description of his own table is worth noting:—

“Content with little, I can manage here
On brocoli and mutton round the year,
’Tis true no turbots dignify my boards,
But gudgeons, flounders, what my Thames affords.

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.”

“‘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.