Now, if we were created only a _little_ lower than the angels, there certainly should be a wider space between us and the inferior animals than such a state of gormandism denotes. Not that the pleasures of eating are to be wholly despised. There is, after all, a relationship between us and the brutes; and we need not be ashamed to own our kindred, or to share in their enjoyments. Besides, these grains, fruits, vegetables, &c., which we are called to meet three times a day, are all our relations, on the mother’s side (Mother Nature’s), and should by no means be regarded with contempt, especially as it is their destiny to be worked up into human beings, actually made bone of our bone, and flesh of our flesh. I believe in festival days with all my heart, which is the very best way of believing. I think we should sometimes call our friends together, and gratify the whole of them (not meaning all of them, but the whole nature of each one),--give them bright thoughts for the intellect, friendliness for the heart, and good things for the palate, keeping, as regards the last, within the bounds of common-sense and healthfulness. The palate craves enjoyment; and that craving, being a natural one, must be recognized as such. But what I insist upon is this; namely, that gratifying the palate shall not rank among the chief occupations or the chief enjoyments of life, for it has usurped those positions long enough. And not only is it an usurper, crowding out better and more ennobling aims, but it makes slaves of women, and seriously affects their peace of mind. I have a bright-eyed young cousin, whose one idea, during the first half of the day at least, is to prepare a dinner which shall please the fastidious taste of her husband. For this end she works, plans, ponders, experiments, contrives, invents, and consults cook-books and cooks; and, this end attained, she is happy. But I have seen her at mealtime, when he has criticised unfavorably a dish on which she had spent much labor and more anxiety,--have seen her flush up, leave the table on some pretended errand, and (this is actual truth) brush tears from those bright eyes of hers. Another case. An elderly woman of this village died recently, the chief end and aim of whose whole married life had been, so people say who know, to cook in such a manner as exactly to please her husband. She succeeded. That husband made the remark, in this very house, and within this very week, that he hadn’t tasted a decent piece of custard-pie since his wife died. Among the wealthier classes it is just the same. I believe that Mrs. Manchester goes to her dinner-table every day with fear and trembling. Perhaps her case is worse than that of my cousin, as, with Mrs. Manchester, success or failure depends on the uncertain capabilities of Irish help. The blame, however, if blame there be, rests on Mrs. Manchester; and I have seen that the sarcastic manner in which Mr. Manchester blames, sometimes cuts into the quick.