and ham, would as assuredly succeed as darkness after day.

Whilst these never ending pieces de resistance were occupying the table,
what were called French dishes were, for custom's sake, added to the
solid abundance. The French, or side dishes, consisted of very mild
but very abortive attempts at Continental cooking, and I have always
observed that they met with the neglect and contempt that they merited.
The universally adored and ever popular boiled potato, produced at the
very earliest period of the dinner, was eaten with everything, up to
the moment when sweets appeared. Our vegetables, the best in the world,
were never honoured by an accompanying sauce, and generally came to
the table cold. A prime difficulty to overcome was the placing on your
fork, and finally in your mouth, some half-dozen different eatables
which occupied your plate at the same time. For example, your plate
would contain, say, a slice of turkey, a piece of stuffing, a sausage,
pickles, a slice of tongue, cauliflower, and potatoes. According to
habit and custom, a judicious and careful selection from this little
bazaar of good things was to be made, with an endeavour to place a portion
of each in your mouth at the same moment. In fact, it appeared to me
that we used to do all our compound cookery between our jaws. The dessert
- generally ordered at Messrs. Grange's, or at Owen's, in Bond Street
- if for a dozen people, would cost at least as many pounds. The wines
were chiefly port, sherry, and hock; claret, and even Burgundy, being
then designated "poor, thin, washy stuff." A perpetual thirst seemed
to come over people, both men and women, as soon as they had tasted
their soup; as from that moment everybody was taking wine with everybody
else till the close of the dinner; and such wine as produced that class
of cordiality which frequently wanders into stupefaction. How all this
sort of eating and drinking ended was obvious, from the prevalence of
gout, and the necessity of everyone making the pill-box their constant