The complexion of this young girl was, as the poets would say, of lilies
and roses; never was there a form more celestial, or one more gifted with
life and vigour.
Arrived at this stage, so fatal to the existence of females, the young
girl sickened, lost her colour, and those cheeks, but yesterday so
brilliant, were dull and heavy. "Travelling," said one; "a husband," said
another; "coffee, coffee," replied a doctor. Coffee flowed in abundance,
and then the drooping flower revived, and flourished again.
O! all ye who have essayed at rhyme, say if you have not often derived
your happiest thoughts from this inspiring beverage. Delille has some
beautiful lines, and Berchoux, in his poem of _Gastronomie_, has a
pompous eulogium on its virtues.
Coffee occupies a grand place in the life and pursuits of the
_gastronomer_. Oft-times on leaving table his head aches and becomes
heavy; he rises with pain; the savoury smells of viands, the flame of
wax-lights, and the imperceptible gases which escape from innumerable
wines and liqueurs, have produced around him a kind of mist or shade,
equal to what the poet calls darkness visible. Coffee is quickly brought;
our _gastronomer_ inhales the aroma, sips drop by drop this ambrosian
beverage, and his head already lightened, he walks with his accustomed
vigour.
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