But the great Architect of the universe has said, nothing is perfect--everything human has its weak point. Well, it cannot be helped, and it must be told, the _curés_ of Le Morvan have their weak points; trifles, to be sure--mere bagatelles--but still they have them. They are rather _too_ fond of old wine and good cheer. These two charming little defects excepted,--you have in the Morvinian _curé_ goodness double distilled, and the essence of generosity, and, be it said, abnegation. This love of the bottle they imbibe from their dear colleagues of Burgundy; for it is well known, and has never been disputed, that the Burgundian _curés_ are the greatest exterminators, uncorkers, and emptiers of wine-bottles in all Christendom. The first thing these jovial clergymen think of when they open their eyes in the morning, is an invocation to Bacchus, somewhat in the following strain: "O Bacchus! son of Semele, divine wine-presser! O vineyards! full of the purple grape! O wine-press! inestimable machine!" &c. Their second movement is to extend the right arm, and clasp within their digits a flask of old Pouilli, the contents of which they swallow without once stopping to take breath. "An infallible remedy," say they, "against the devil and all future indigestions." Fortified thus with this their first orison, they throw on their cassock, and descend to the cellar, to count the bottles, or tap and taste the barrels of some doubtful vintage. The thorough-bred Burgundian _curé_, particularly one who has lived and got old and fat in the solitude of a retired presbytery,--whose rubicund nose reveals his admiration for the vineyards of his native province, and whose three chins tell you that with pullets, and venison, and clouted cream he has lined his scrip,--is certainly one of the most jovial and best of men.