It chanced that the two Doctors had held some discourse together upon the folly of abstaining from feeding on the testaceous creatures of the land, while those of the sea were considered as delicacies. Wherefore not eat snails? they are known to be nutritious and wholesome, and even sanative in some cases. The epicures of old praised them among the richest delicacies, and the Italians still esteem them. In short, it was determined that a gastronomic experiment should be made at the expense of the snails. The snails were procured, dieted for a time, and then stewed for the benefit of the two philosophers, who had either invited no guests to their banquet, or found none who relished in prospect the _pièce de resistance_. A huge dish of snails was placed before them: still, philosophers are but men, after all; and the stomachs of both doctors began to revolt against the experiment. Nevertheless, if they looked with disgust on the snails, they retained their awe for each other, so that each, conceiving the symptoms of internal revolt peculiar to himself, began, with infinite exertion, to swallow, in very small quantities, the mess which he internally loathed. Dr. Black, at length, showed the white feather, but in a very delicate manner, as if to sound the opinion of his messmate. "Doctor," he said, in his precise and quiet manner--"Doctor--do you not think that they taste a little--a very little, green?" "D----d green! d----d green! indeed--tak' them awa',--tak' them awa'!" vociferated Dr. Hutton, starting up from table, and giving full vent to his feelings of abhorrence. So ended all hopes of introducing snails into the modern _cuisine_; and thus philosophy can no more cure a nausea than honour can set a broken limb.--_Sir Walter Scott._ * * * * * CURRAN'S IMAGINATION. "Curran!" (says Lord Byron) "Curran's the man who struck me most. Such imagination!--there never was anything like it that I ever heard of. His _published_ life--his published speeches, give you no idea of the man--none at all. He was a _machine_ of imagination, as some one said that Prior was an epigrammatic machine." Upon another occasion, Byron said, "the riches of Curran's Irish imagination were exhaustless. I have heard that man speak more poetry than I have ever seen written--though I saw him seldom, and but occasionally. I saw him presented to Madame de Stael, at Mackintosh's--it was the grand confluence between the Rhone and the Saone; they were both so d----d ugly, that I could not help wondering how the best intellects of France and Ireland could have taken up respectively such residences." * * * * * COWLEY AT CHERTSEY. The poet Cowley died at the Porch House, Chertsey, on the 21st of July, 1667. There is a curious letter preserved of his condition when he removed here from Barn Elms. It is addressed to Dr. Sprat, dated Chertsey, 21 May, 1665, and is as follows:--