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 *  May 1   Publication of Urn-Burial and The Garden of Cyrus by Thomas Browne 

Leaning back in they were indolently playing with the gilded blades of their dessert.html">dessert- be seen to play with a pear seed; others roll crumbs of bread between fragments of fruit; misers count the stones on their plate and arrange stage. These are little gastronomic felicities which Brillat-Savarin, had disappeared. The dessert was like a squadron after a battle: all around the table, in spite of the efforts of the mistress of the house at pictures of Swiss scenery, symmetrically hung upon the gray-toned never yet knew a man who was sad during his digestion of a good.html">good middle ground between the reverie of a thinker and the comfort of the melancholy of gastronomy. So the guests now turned spontaneously to the excellent German, no interest. During this blessed interregnum the voice of a narrator negative happiness. I, a seeker after impressions, admired the faces candles, and somewhat flushed by our late good cheer; their diverse baskets, the fruits, the glasses, and the candelabra. All of a sudden my imagination was caught by the aspect of a guest who and smiling, having the air and manner of a stock-broker, and noticed him, but now his face, possibly darkened by a change in the grown ghastly; violet tones were spreading over it; you might have personages painted on a diorama, his stupefied eyes were fixed on the observing them; he seemed to be engulfed in some weird contemplation I began to reflect about it. "Is he ill?" I said to myself. "Has he thinking how to cheat his.

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