Some diners have wine too upon the table, and in the pauses of
thinking what a divine mystery dinner is, they eat.

For dinner IS a mystery,--a mystery of which even the greatest
chef knows but little, as a poet knows not,


"with all his lore,
Wherefore he sang,
or whence the mandate sped."


"Even our digestion is governed by angels," said Blake; and if
you will resist the trivial inclination to substitute "bad
angels," is there really any greater mystery than the process by
which beef is turned into brains, and beer into beauty? Every
beautiful woman we see has been made out of beefsteaks. It is a
solemn thought,--and the finest poem that was ever written came
out of a grey pulpy mass such as we make brain sauce of.

And with these grave thoughts for grace let us sit down to
dinner.

Dinner!



CHAPTER VIII