And it did. From that day forth I have never enjoyed a meal, and I never expect to do so again. I have always been particular to deal at respectable establishments, and to pay a fair price, in the hope of insuring a good article. I have, or had, a very tolerable appetite, and till that dreadful microscope came into the house, I used to get a good deal of enjoyment out of life. But now all is changed. My analyst began by undermining my faith in our baker. Now, if there was one of our tradesmen in whom, more than another, I had confidence, it was the baker, who supplied what seemed to me a good, solid, satisfying article, with no nonsense about it. But one day, shortly after the conversation I have recorded, my analyst remarked at breakfast-time: ‘We had a turn at bread yesterday at the laboratory—examined five samples; and found three of ’em adulterated. And do you know’—holding up a piece of our own bread and smelling it critically—‘I rather fancy this of ours is rather dicky.’ ‘Nonsense!’ I cried. ‘It’s very good bread—capital bread!’ ‘_You_ may think so,’ he continued calmly; ‘but you’re not an analyst. I shall take a sample of this to the laboratory, and you shall have my report upon it.’ ‘Take it, by all means. But if you find anything wrong about that bread, I’ll eat my hat!’ ‘Better not make rash promises. I’ll take a good big sample, and you shall have my report on it to-night.’ On his return home in the evening, he began: ‘I’ve been having a go-in at your bread. It’s not pure, of course; but there isn’t very much the matter with it. There’s a little potato, and a little rice, and a little alum; and with those additions, it takes up a good deal more water than it ought, so you don’t get your proper weight.’ ‘Ahem!’ I said, ‘if that’s the case, we’ll change our baker. I’m not going to pay for a mixture of potatoes and water, and call it bread. But as for alum, that’s all nonsense. If they put _that_ in, we should taste it.’ ‘O no; you wouldn’t. When alum is put in bread, it decomposes and forms sulphate of potash, an aperient salt. It disagrees with you, of course, but you don’t taste it. As for changing your baker, the next fellow you tried might be a jolly sight worse; _he_ might put in bone-dust, or plaster of Paris, or sulphate of copper. And besides, half the adulterations are in the flour already, before it reaches the baker. Of course, that doesn’t prevent his doing a little more on his own account.’ And with that the matter dropped, so far as the bread was concerned; but my confidence was rudely shaken.