If a man's sensibility is all in his palate he can't in
course have much in his heart. Makin' oneself miserable, fastin' in
sackcloth and ashes, ain't a bit more foolish than makin' oneself
wretched in the midst of plenty, because the sea, the air, and the
earth won't give him the dainties he wants, and Providence won't send
the cook to dress them. To spend one's life in eating, drinking, and
sleeping, or like a bullock, in ruminating on food, reduces a man to
the level of an ox or an ass. The stomach is the kitchen, and a very
small one too, in a general way, and broiling, simmering, stewing,
baking, and steaming, is a goin' on there night and day. The
atmosphere is none of the pleasantest neither, and if a man chooses to
withdraw into himself and live there, why I don't see what earthly
good he is to society, unless he wants to wind up life by writin' a
cookery-book. I hate them--that's just the tarm, and I like tarms that
express what I mean.
I shall never forget when I was up to Michelimackinic. A thunderin'
long word, ain't it? We call it Mackinic now for shortness. But
perhaps you wouldn't understand it spelt that way, no more than I did
when I was to England that Brighton means Brighthelmeston, or
Sissiter, Cirencester, for the English take such liberties with words,
they can't afford to let others do the same; so I give it to you both
ways.
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