was near my own house, and reached it before the thing became fatal; but
only think, had I wandered too far when he met me! at my time of life,
the shock would have been too great; I should certainly have perished in
a fit. I hope, at least, they would have put the cause of my death in my
epitaph--'Died, of an Englishman, John Russelton, Esq., aged,' Pah! You
are not engaged, Mr. Pelham; dine with me to-day; Willoughby and his
umbrella are coming."

"Volontiers," said I, "though I was going to make observations on men and
manners at the table d'hote of my hotel."

"I am most truly grieved," replied Mr. Russelton, "at depriving you of so
much amusement. With me you will only find some tolerable Lafitte, and an
anomalous dish my cuisiniere calls a mutton chop. It will be curious to
see what variation in the monotony of mutton she will adopt to-day. The
first time I ordered "a chop," I thought I had amply explained every
necessary particular; a certain portion of flesh, and a gridiron: at
seven o'clock, up came a cotelette panee, faute de mieux. I swallowed the
composition, drowned as it was, in a most pernicious sauce. I had one
hour's sleep, and the nightmare, in consequence. The next day, I imagined
no mistake could be made: sauce was strictly prohibited; all extra
ingredients laid under a most special veto, and a natural gravy gently
recommended: the cover was removed, and lo! a breast of mutton, all bone
and gristle, like the dying gladiator! This time my heart was too full
for wrath; I sat down and wept! To-day will be the third time I shall
make the experiment, if French cooks will consent to let one starve upon
nature. For my part, I have no stomach left now for art: I wore out my
digestion in youth, swallowing Jack St. Leger's suppers, and Sheridan's
promises to pay. Pray, Mr. Pelham, did you try Staub when you were at
Paris?"