I held in my hand a morsel of real solid joy: not a dream, not an image of the brain, not one of those shadowy chances imagination pictures, and on which humanity starves but cannot live; not a mess of that manna I drearily eulogized awhile ago--which, indeed, at first melts on the lips with an unspeakable and preternatural sweetness, but which, in the end, our souls full surely loathe; longing deliriously for natural and earth-grown food, wildly praying Heaven's Spirits to reclaim their own spirit-dew and essence--an aliment divine, but for mortals deadly.

It was neither sweet hail nor small coriander-seed--neither slight wafer, nor luscious honey, I had lighted on; it was the wild, savoury mess of the hunter, nourishing and salubrious meat, forest-fed or desert-reared, fresh, healthful, and life-sustaining.

It was what the old dying patriarch demanded of his son Esau, promising in requital the blessing of his last breath.

It was a godsend; and I inwardly thanked the God who had vouchsafed it.

Outwardly I only thanked man, crying, "Thank you, thank you, Monsieur!" Monsieur curled his lip, gave me a vicious glance of the eye, and strode to his estrade.