be otherwise: if you and I, my dear fellow, were to have a course of
that place, we should become beautiful too. They live in an atmosphere
of the most delicious pine-apples, blanc-manges, creams, (some whipt,
and some so good that of course they don't want whipping,) jellies,
tipsy-cakes, cherry-brandy--one hundred thousand sweet and lovely
things. Look at the preserved fruits, look at the golden ginger, the
outspreading ananas, the darling little rogues of China oranges, ranged
in the gleaming crystal cylinders. Mon Dieu! Look at the strawberries
in the leaves. Each of them is as large nearly as a lady's reticule, and
looks as if it had been brought up in a nursery to itself. One of those
strawberries is a meal for those young ladies, behind the counter; they
nibble off a little from the side, and if they are very hungry,
which can scarcely ever happen, they are allowed to go to the crystal
canisters and take out a rout-cake or macaroon. In the evening they sit
and tell each other little riddles out of the bonbons; and when they
wish to amuse themselves, they read the most delightful remarks, in the
French language, about Love, and Cupid, and Beauty, before they place
them inside the crackers. They always are writing down good things into
Mr. Fubsby's ledgers. It must be a perfect feast to read them. Talk of
the Garden of Eden! I believe it was nothing to Mr. Fubsby's house; and
I have no doubt that after those young ladies have been there a certain
time, they get to such a pitch of loveliness at last, that they become
complete angels, with wings sprouting out of their lovely shoulders,
when (after giving just a preparatory balance or two) they fly up to the
counter and perch there for a minute, hop down again, and affectionately
kiss the other young ladies, and say, "Good-by, dears! We shall meet
again la haut." And then with a whir of their deliciously scented wings,
away they fly for good, whisking over the trees of Brobdingnag Square,
and up into the sky, as the policeman touches his hat.