I Am Not Accustomed To Take My

The Universe Is Nothing Without The Things That Live In It, And Everything That Lives, Eats.

Gastronomers Of The Year 1825, Who Find Sateity In The Lap Of Abundance, And Dream Of Some Newly-made Dishes, You Will Not Enjoy The Discoveries Which Science Has In Store For The Year 1900, Such As Foods Drawn From The Mineral Kingdom, Liqueurs Produced By The Pressure Of A Hundred Atmospheres; You Will Never See The Importations Which Travelers Yet Unborn Will Bring To You From That Half Of The Globe Which Has Still To Be Discovered Or Explored. How I Pity You!

Sight And Touch, Being Thus Increased In Capacity, Might Belong To Some Species Far Superior To Man; Or Rather The Human Species Would Be Far Different Had All The Senses Been Thus Improved.

Food Is All Those Substances Which, Submitted To The Action Of The Stomach, Can Be Assimilated Or Changed Into Life By Digestion, And Can Thus Repair The Losses Which The Human Body Suffers Through The Act Of Living.

Seating Themselves On The Greensward, They Eat While The Corks Fly And There Is Talk, Laughter And Merriment, And Perfect Freedom, For The Universe Is Their Drawing Room And The Sun Their Lamp. Besides, They Have Appetite, Nature's Special Gift, Which Lends To Such A Meal A Vivacity Unknown Indoors, However Beautiful The Surroundings.