living, but from much more tangible reasons
unable to indulge his taste. On a search for
a dinner at some one's expense, our wily Gascon
one day entered a restaurant where a pompous
gourmand of the parvenu kind was just finishing
a solitary but elaborate dinner, and sat
surrounded by trophies of the strength of his
jaws. The gourmand was just then annoyed
at some doubts of the power of his appetite.

"Eh bien, gentlemen," he said, carefully
selecting a toothpick. "My waistcoat strings
are ready to fly, and yet I could recommence
now, if any one would offer me a wager."

The Gascon leaped at him. "I accept the
wager, monsieur," he cried, throwing down the
carte he had been hungrily scanning. "I'll
meet you, though I had formed a project of
fasting for a week, for only three days ago I
began at a tremendous wedding feast, which has
lasted from then till now."

The gourmand, either through politeness or
pride, inquired no more, feeling sure of victory
in whatever condition his adversary might be.
The bet was made. Whoever gave up first was
to pay for both dinners. The Gascon ate like
a lion. He was a goinfre at the soup, a goulu
at the fish, a gourmand at the entremets, a
gourmet at the wine, a friand at the dessert.
Unfortunately, his stomach, like a dry balloon,
could not expand quite quick enough. The
Gascon felt there was something going wrong
internally, but on he plunged, a hero to the last,
and knowing that, victorious or defeated, he
could not pay, he ate until he fell in a swoon of
repletion.

The waiters felt that here was the beaten man,
to whom they had to look for the bill. They
surrounded the prostrate champion, partly to find
his address, partly to sound his purse, and make
sure of their money, but, alas! the Gascon
had not enough even to pay Charon for the
ferry over the gloomy river. The restaurateur,
in his despair, appealed to the witnesses whether
the living ought not to pay for the dead.
Gourmands are generally good-natured easy
people. This epicure, delighted at his victory,
though it had ended in the death of his terrible
opponent, drew out his purse, and smiling
blandly at the prostrate Gascon, quietly paid.

The generous creature had hardly left, before
the Gascon, who had remained forgotten in a
corner, came to himself, and comprehending
from a few words dropped by the nearest
waiters that the bill was settled, was so
overjoyed that he began to move, which instantly
brought every one round him. The universal
cry was, "Give him an emetic!" "Bring a
stomach pump!"

The poor wretch turned pale, pulled himself
together, and, with one bolt, dashed like a
harlequin through the glass doors into the street.

"I am all right," he said, when he was safe;
"Cadedis, I'll take good care of myself, for I
am cured now for a good week more."

That Gascon was evidently a great
undeveloped epicure, who only wanted a good
income to have sipped his ortolan soup with
the best. We can scarcely doubt that in the
old Greek times he would have worn his tongue
in a little case, like the Sybarite mentioned by
Athenaeus, who was anxious to preserve the
purity and sensitiveness of that useful and
favoured organ.

But Captain A., of Chantilly, to judge from
the epicurean records of Paris in the year 1805,
was not much behind the Gascon in his
appreciation of at least the quantity of food. Captain
A. had been in the cavalry, but he quitted that
service, on account of having grown so
extremely corpulent that no horse could be found
strong enough to bear his ponderous weight.
Yet, fat as he grew, he preserved his splendid
appetite in its first bloom.

The regiment in which Captain A. had long
served, happening to pass Chantilly, the officers
resolved to give a dinner to their old
comrade. His oldest friend, who knew the
captain's appetite best, asserted that though only
twelve men were to sit down, dinner must be
ordered for four-and-twenty. A pert young
lieutenant replied that surely with a good
dinner for twelve they could entertain one
person more; but the old captain assured them
that if Captain A. chose, Captain A. could eat
the whole dinner himself. A bet was made of
fifty louis by all the mess against the old
captain, who instantly started in search of
Captain A., to bring him at once to the spot.

He found his man at table. When he heard
the cause of the visit, the captain seemed sorry.

"You've chosen a bad time, old friend," he
said, with a half sigh, partly of regret, partly
of repletion. "I have already taken three
basins of purée, and have eaten this boiled leg of
mutton, of which you see only the white handle.
But, as I have long held you in esteem, I'll
try and do something for you. Here, boy, my
hat. Dear sir, I am at your service. At what
inn are you?"

Arrived at the inn, Captain A. soon hid away
the first and second course. The hostess then
entered to say that a very fine pike had just
arrived.

"Cook it, madam," said Captain A., with the
utmost gravity. "Cook it. And since,
gentlemen, in your bet it was stipulated there
should be no dessert, this pike can take its
place."

The officers shrugged their shoulders, and
seeing they had hopelessly lost, dispensed with
this final proof of the captain's complaisance,
secretly vowing, if they passed through
Chantilly, never again to make experiments on this
intrepid eater.

This reminds us of a story of those rude
days of Figg and Broughton, cock-fighting, and
bull-baiting, when spendthrift noblemen used
to bet on eating matches. The trainer of one
of these champion eaters, on one occasion having
to write to Lord Sandwich, or whoever the
backer was, and report progress, wrote thus:

"The Norfolk Chicken is a leg of pork and
a goose-pie ahead; but we shall pick up when
we take to our pickles."