I hear somebody exclaim,—­Would you have Christians sit down at table, like hogs to their troughs, without remembering the Giver?—­no—­I would have them sit down as Christians, remembering the Giver, and less like hogs.  Or if their appetites must run riot, and they must pamper themselves with delicacies for which east and west are ransacked, I would have them postpone their benediction to a fitter season, when appetite is laid; when the still small voice can be heard, and the reason of the grace returns—­with temperate diet and restricted dishes.  Gluttony and surfeiting are no proper occasions for thanksgiving.  When Jeshurun waxed fat, we read that he kicked.  Virgil knew the harpy-nature better, when he put into the mouth of Celasno any thing but a blessing.  We may be gratefully sensible of the deliciousness of some kinds of food beyond others, though that is a meaner and inferior gratitude:  but the proper object of the grace is sustenance, not relishes; daily bread, not delicacies; the means of life, and not the means of pampering the carcass.  With what frame or composure, I wonder, can a city chaplain pronounce his benediction at some great Hall feast, when he knows that his last concluding pious word—­and that, in all probability, the sacred name which he preaches—­is but the signal for so many impatient harpies to commence their foul orgies, with as little sense of true thankfulness (which is temperance) as those Virgilian fowl!  It is well if the good man himself does not feel his devotions a little clouded, those foggy sensuous steams mingling with and polluting the pure altar sacrifice.

The severest satire upon full tables and surfeits is the banquet which Satan, in the Paradise Regained, provides for a temptation in the wilderness: 

  A table richly spread in regal mode,
  With dishes piled, and meats of noblest sort
  And savour; beasts of chase, or fowl of game,
  In pastry built, or from the spit, or boiled,
  Gris-amber-steamed; all fish from sea or shore,
  Freshet or purling brook, for which was drained
  Pontus, and Lucrine bay, and Afric coast.

The Tempter, I warrant you, thought these cates would go down without the recommendatory preface of a benediction.  They are like to be short graces where the devil plays the host.—­I am afraid the poet wants his usual decorum in this place.  Was he thinking of the old Roman luxury, or of a gaudy day at Cambridge?  This was a temptation fitter for a Heliogabalus.  The whole banquet is too civic and culinary, and the accompaniments altogether a profanation of that deep, abstracted, holy scene.  The mighty artillery of sauces, which the cook-fiend conjures up, is out of proportion to the simple wants and plain hunger of the guest.  He that disturbed him in his dreams, from his dreams might have been taught better.  To the temperate fantasies of the famished Son of God, what sort of feasts presented themselves?—­He dreamed indeed,