Perhaps, as two negatives make one affirmative, it may be thought that two layers of moonshine might coalesce into one pancake; and two Barmecide banquets might compose one poached egg. Of that the company were the best judges. But probably, as a rump and dozen, in our land of wagers, is construed with a very liberal latitude as to the materials, so Martial's invitation, "to take bread with him at eleven," might be understood by the [Greek: sunetoi] as significant of something better than [Greek: artositos]. Otherwise, in good truth, "moonshine and turn-out" at eleven, A.M., would be even worse than "tea and turn-out" at eight, P.M., which the "fervida juventus" of young England so loudly detests. But however that might be, in this convergement of the several frontiers, and the confusion that ensued, one cannot wonder that, whilst the two bladders collapsed into one idea, they actually expanded into four names, two Latin and two Greek, _gustus_ and _gustatio_, [Greek: geusis], and [Greek: geusma], which all alike express the merely tentative or exploratory act of a _prægustator_ or professional "taster" in a king's household: what, if applied to a fluid, we should denominate sipping. At last, by so many steps all in one direction, things had come to such a pass--the two prelusive meals of the Roman morning, each for itself separately vague from the beginning, had so communicated and interfused their several and joint vaguenesses, that at last no man knew or cared to know what any other man included in his idea of either; how much or how little. And you might as well have hunted in the woods of Ethiopia for Prester John, or fixed the parish of the everlasting Jew,[8] as have attempted to say what "jentaculum" might be, or what "prandium." Only one thing was clear--what they were _not_. Neither was or wished to be anything that people cared for. They were both empty shadows; but shadows as they were, we find from Cicero that they had a power of polluting and profaning better things than themselves. We presume that no rational man will henceforth look for "dinner"--that great idea according to Dr. Johnson--that sacred idea according to Cicero--in a bag of moonshine on one side, or a bag of pollution on the other. _Prandium_, so far from being what our foolish dictionaries pretend--dinner itself--never in its palmiest days was more or other than a miserable attempt at being _luncheon_. It was a _conatus_, what physiologists call a _nisus_, a struggle in a very ambitious spark, or _scintilla_, to kindle into a fire. This _nisus_ went on for some centuries; but finally issued in smoke. If _prandium_ had worked out his ambition, had "the great stream of tendency" accomplished all his wishes, _prandium_ never could have been more than a very indifferent luncheon. But now,