Some very hungry painter, I suppose, had wrought these subjects of
still-life, heightening his imagination with his appetite, and
earning, it is to be hoped, the privilege of a daily dinner off
whichever of his pictorial viands he liked best.
Then there was a fine old cheese, in which you could almost discern
the mites; and some sardines, on a small plate, very richly done,
and looking as if oozy with the oil in which they had been smothered.
All these things were so perfectly imitated, that you seemed to have
the genuine article before you, and yet with an indescribable, ideal
charm; it took away the grossness from what was fleshiest and fattest,
and thus helped the life of man, even in its earthliest relations, to
appear rich and noble, as well as warm, cheerful, and substantial.
There were pictures, too, of gallant revellers, those of the old time,
Flemish, apparently, with doublets and slashed sleeves, drinking
their wine out of fantastic, long-stemmed glasses; quaffing joyously,
quaffing forever, with inaudible laughter and song; while the
champagne bubbled immortally against their moustaches, or the purple
tide of Burgundy ran inexhaustibly down their throats.
But, in an obscure corner of the saloon, there was a little Picture
excellently done, moreover of a ragged, bloated, New England toper,
stretched out on a bench, in the heavy, apoplectic sleep of
drunkenness. The death-in-life was too well portrayed. You smelt
the fumy liquor that had brought on this syncope.
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