“Sad forebodings shake him as he writes.”
Not only at the festive board is he haunted by chimeras dire of danger—not only does he tremble over the tureen—and faint over the flesh-pot: but even in his chintz night-gown, and red morocco slippers, he is not secure. An imaginary sexton is continually jogging his elbow as he writes, a death’s head and cross bones rise on his library table; and at the end of his sofa he beholds a visionary tomb-stone of the best granite—
ON WHICH ARE INSCRIBED THE DREADFUL WORDS—
Hic Jacet,
FREDRICK ACCUM,
Operative Chemist,
OLD COMPTON STREET,
SOHO.
Since we read his book, our appetite has visibly decreased. At the Celtic club, yesterday, we dined almost entirely on roast beef; Mr. Oman’s London-particular Madeira lost all its relish, and we turned pale in the act of eating a custard, when we recollected the dreadful punishment inflicted on custard-eaters, in page 326 of the present work. We beg to assure our friends, therefore, that at the present moment they may invite us to dinner with the greatest impunity.—Our diet is at present quite similar to that of Parnel’s hermit,
“Our food the fruits, our drink the crystal well;”
though we trust a few days will recover us from our panic, and enable us to resume our former habits of life. Those of our friends, therefore, who have any intention of pasturing us, had better not lose the present opportunity of doing so. So favourable a combination of circumstances must have been quite unhoped for on their part, and most probably will never occur again.[[24]] V. S.
[24]. To save some trouble, we may announce that we are already engaged to dinner, on the 23d, 27th, and 28th of this month, and to evening parties, on the 22d, 23d, 26th, 28th, and 29th, and 3d of March.
Since, by the publication of Mr. Accum’s book, an end has been for ever put to our former blessed state of ignorance, let us arm ourselves with philosophy, and boldly venture to look our danger in the face; or, as the poet beautifully expresses it, in language singularly applicable,