The stocking-basket was set aside, the gingerbread nuts
were neglected, and the noise of constant crunching, as of bones, came
no more from my dragon's den; nor yet the smell of Stilton cheese and
porter, wherewith she had so frequently regaled herself and nauseated me
between-meals, and in the night-season. I used to call her a chronic
eater--a symptom, I believe, of the worst sort of dyspepsia, as well as
too often its occasion.
I prefer, myself, the Indian notion of eating, seldom, and enough at a
time. After all, is there any despot equal to the stomach and its
requisitions? What an injustice it seems to all the rest of the organs,
the royal brain especially, that this selfish, sensual sybarite should
exact tribute, and even enforce concession, whenever denied its
customary demands!
There are human beings, the poor of the earth, as we know, who pass
their whole lives, merge their immortal souls in ministering to its
absolute necessities, who go cold, ill-clad, and ignorant, to keep off
the pangs of hunger; who sacrifice pride and affection at its miserable
altar. There are others, fewer in number, it is true, but scarcely less
to be pitied, who exceed this enforced servility in the most abject
fashion of voluntary adulation; who flatter, persuade, and bring rich
tribute to this smiling Moloch, only waiting his own time to turn upon
and destroy his idolaters.
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