returned home I counted their withered stems: there were twenty of them,
and over my lips there passed the gentle warmth of my loved one's twenty
kisses.


And now from violets I must, with a brutality akin to that which M.
Zola himself displays in some of his transitions, pass to very different
things, for some time back a well-known English poet and essayist wrote
of the present work that it was redolent of pork, onions, and cheese.
To one of his sensitive temperament, with a muse strictly nourished on
sugar and water, such gross edibles as pork and cheese and onions were
peculiarly offensive. That humble plant the onion, employed to flavour
wellnigh every savoury dish, can assuredly need no defence; in most
European countries, too, cheese has long been known as the poor man's
friend; whilst as for pork, apart from all other considerations, I can
claim for it a distinct place in English literature. A greater essayist
by far than the critic to whom I am referring, a certain Mr. Charles
Lamb, of the India House, has left us an immortal page on the origin of
roast pig and crackling. And, when everything is considered, I should
much like to know why novels should be confined to the aspirations of
the soul, and why they should not also treat of the requirements of
our physical nature? From the days of antiquity we have all known what
befell the members when, guided by the brain, they were foolish enough
to revolt against the stomach. The latter plays a considerable part not
only in each individual organism, but also in the life of the world.
Over and over again--I could adduce a score of historical examples--it
has thwarted the mightiest designs of the human mind. We mortals are
much addicted to talking of our minds and our souls and treating our
bodies as mere dross. But I hold--it is a personal opinion--that in the
vast majority of cases the former are largely governed by the last. I