Here he seems to be the lord of all
Nature. The earth affords him her best metals for his dishes, her
best vegetables and animals for his food; the air and sea supply him
with their choicest birds and fishes; and a great many men who look
like masters attend upon him; and yet, when all this is done, even
all this is but Table d'Hote. It is crowded with people for whom he
cares not--with many parasites, and some spies, with the most
burdensome sort of guests--the endeavourers to be witty.
But everybody pays him great respect, everybody commends his meat--
that is, his money; everybody admires the exquisite dressing and
ordering of it--that is, his clerk of the kitchen, or his cook;
everybody loves his hospitality--that is, his vanity. But I desire
to know why the honest innkeeper who provides a public table for his
profits should be but of a mean profession, and he who does it for
his honour a munificent prince. You'll say, because one sells and
the other gives. Nay, both sell, though for different things--the
one for plain money, the other for I know not what jewels, whose
value is in custom and in fancy. If, then, his table be made a
snare (as the Scripture speaks) to his liberty, where can he hope
for freedom? there is always and everywhere some restraint upon him.
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