ting and wine, and
intend to pay a visit to Le Morvan, I would give this piece of advice,
and I would say to them, place it in the secret drawer of your memory;
nay, carry it written, and, if necessary, painted on your knapsack or
scratched upon your gun--fail not to make the acquaintance of the _cure_
the darling _cures_. Ask who are they that love the best _cuisine_--who
dote upon the most delicious morsels--who will have the oldest, purest,
and most generous wines?--you will be answered, the _cures_. For whom
are destined the largest trout, the fattest capons, and the best parts
of the venison?--for whom the softest and most choice liqueurs, wine of
the best _bouquet_, the largest truffles, the most luscious honey, the
best vegetables, and finest fruits?--for the _cures_. And the most
clever men-cooks, the happiest receipts, and latest culinary
inventions--for whom are they? the answer is always, _for messieurs les
cures_. Forget them not, therefore, for they are really worth
remembering; besides, they have excellent hearts and are capital
fellows, boon companions, full of _bonhommie_ and good-nature: in fact,
such _cures_ it is impossible to find anywhere else.

But the great Architect of the universe has said, nothing is
perfect--everything human has its weak point. Well, it cannot be helped,
and it must be told, the _cures_ of Le Morvan have their weak points;
trifles, to be sure--mere bagatelles--but still they have them. They are
rather _too_ fond of old wine and good cheer. These two charming little
defects excepted,--you have in the Morvinian _cure_ goodness double
distilled, and the essence of generosity, and, be it said, abnegation.
This love of the bottle they imbibe from their dear colleagues of
Burgundy; for it is well known, and has never been disputed, that the
Burgundian _cures_ are the greatest exterminators, uncorkers, and
emptiers of wine-bottles in all Christendom. The first thing these
jovial clergymen think of when they open their eyes in the morning, is
an invocation to Bacchus, somewhat in the following strain: "O Bacchus!
son of Semele, divine wine-presser! O vineyards! full of the purple
grape! O wine-press! inestimable machine!" &c. Their second movement is
to extend the right arm, and clasp within their digits a flask of old
Pouilli, the contents of which they swallow without once stopping to
take breath. "An infallible remedy," say they, "against the devil and
all future indigestions."