The Physiology of Taste by Brillat Savarin (suggested reading .TXT) 📕

France, the sole

fault of which I know you guilty.

 

FRIEND. (Seriously.) What do you mean?

 

AUTHOR. An habitual fault which no persuasion can correct.

 

FRIEND. Tell me what you mean! Why torment me?

 

AUTHOR. You eat too quickly.

 

(Here, the friend takes up his hat and leaves, fancying that he

has made a convert.)

 

BIOGRAPHY

 

The Doctor I have introduced into the dialogue we have just read,

is not a creature of imagination like the Chloris of other days,

but a real living Doctor. Those who know me, will remember

RICHERAND.

 

When I thought of him I could not but have reference to those who

preceded him, and I saw with pride that from Belley, from the

department of Ain, my native soil, for a long time physicians of

the greatest distinction had come. I could not resist the

temptation to erect a brief monument to them.

 

During the regency Doctors Genin and Civoct were in full

possession of practice, and expended in their country a wealth

they had honorably acquired. The first was altogether

HIPPOCRATITE; he proceeded secundum artem; the second was almost

monopolized by women, and had as his device, as Tacitus would have

said, res novas molientem.

 

About 1780 Chapelle became distinguished in the dangerous career

of a military surgeon. About 1781 Doctor Dubois had great success

in sundry maladies, then very much a la mode, and in nervous

diseases. The success he obtained was really wonderful.

 

Unfortunately he inherited a fortune and became idle, and was

satisfied to be a good story-teller. He was very amusing, and

contrived to survive the dinners of the new and old regime.

[Footnote: I smiled when I wrote the above, for it recalled to me

an Academician, the eulogium of whom Fontenelle undertook. The

deceased knew only how to play at all games. Fontenelle made a

very decent oration, however, about him.] About the end of the

reign of Louis XV., Dr. Coste, a native of Chatillon came to

Paris; he had a letter from Voltaire to the Duc de Choiseuil, the

good wishes of whom he gained as soon as he had seen him.

 

Protected by this nobleman, and by the Duchess of Grammont, his

sister, young Coste advanced rapidly, and in a short time became

one of the first physicians of Paris.

 

The patronage he had received took him from a profitable career to

place him at the head of the medical department of the army which

France sent to the United States, who then were contending for

their independence.

 

Having fulfilled his mission, Coste returned to France, and almost

unseen lived through the evil days of 1793. He was elected maire

of Versailles, and even now the memory of his administration, at

once mild, gentle and paternal, has been preserved.

 

The Directors now recalled him to the charge of the medical

department of the army. Bonaparte appointed him one of the three

Inspectors General of the service; the Doctor was always the

friend, protector, and patron of the young men who selected that

service. He was at last appointed Physician of the Invalides, and

discharged the duties until he died.

 

Such service the Bourbons could not neglect, and Louis XVIII.

granted to Doctor Coste the cordon of Saint Michel.

 

Doctor Coste died a few years since, leaving behind kind

recollections, and a daughter married to M. Lalot, who

distinguished himself in the Chamber of Deputies by his eloquent

and profound arguments.

 

One day when we had dined with M. Favre, the Cure of St. Laurent,

Doctor Coste told me of a difficulty he had, the day before, with

the Count de Le Cessac, then a high officer of the ministry of

war, about a certain economy which the latter proposed as a means

of paying his court Napoleon.

 

The economy consisted in retrenching the allowances of hospital,

so as to restrict men who had wounds from the comforts they were

entitled to.

 

Doctor Coste said such measures were abominable, and he became

angry.

 

I do not know what the result was, but only that the sick soldiers

had their usual allowances, and that no change was made.

 

He was appointed Professor of the Faculty of Medicine. His style

was simple and his addresses were plain and fruitful. Honors were

crowded on him. He was appointed Physician to the Empress Marie

Louise. He did not, however, fill that place long, the Emperor was

swept away, and the Doctor himself succumbed to a disease of the

leg, to which he had long been subject.

 

Bordier was of a calm disposition, kind and reliable.

 

About the 18th century appeared Bichat, all of the writings of

whom bear the impress of genius. He expended his life in toil to

advance science, and joined the patience of restricted minds to

enthusiasm. He died at the age of thirty, and public honors were

decreed to his memory.

 

At a later day came Doctor Montegre, who carried philosophy into

clinics. He was the editor of the Gazette de Sante, and at the age

of forty died in the Antilles whither he had gone to complete his

book on the Vomite Negro.

 

At the present moment Richerand stands on the highest degree of

operative medicine, and his Elements of Physiology have been

translated into every language. Appointed at an early date a

Professor of the Faculty of Paris, he made all rely fully on him.

He is the keenest, gentlest, and quickest operator in the world.

 

Recamier, a professor of the same faculty, sits by his side.

 

The present being thus assured, the future expands itself before

us! Under the wings of these mighty Professors arise young men of

the same land, who seek to follow their honorable examples.

 

Janin and Manjot already crush the pavement of Paris. Manjot

devotes himself to the diseases of children; he has happy

inspirations, and soon will tell the public what he has

discovered.

 

I trust my readers will pardon this digression of an old man, who,

during an absence of thirty years, has neither forgotten his

country nor his countrymen. I could not however omit all those

physicians, the memory of whom is yet preserved in their birth-place, and who, though not conspicuous, had not on that account

the less merit or worth. [Footnote: The translator thinks several

have made world-renowned names.]

 

PREFACE.

 

In offering to the public the work I now produce, I have

undertaken no great labor. I have only put in order materials I

had collected long ago. The occupation was an amusing one, which I

reserved for my old age.

 

When I thought of the pleasures of the table, under every point of

view, I saw that something better than a common cookery book could

be made out of it, and that much might be said about essential and

continuous things, which have a direct influence on health,

happiness, and even on business.

 

When I had once gotten hold of the idea, all the rest came

naturally. I looked around, took notes, and amidst the most

sumptuous festivals looked at the guests. Thus I escaped many of

the dangers of conviviality.

 

To do what I have undertaken, one need not be a physician,

chemist, physiologist, or even a savant. All I learned, I learned

without the least idea that I would ever be an author. I was

impressed by a laudable curiosity, by the fear of remaining behind

my century, and by an anxiety to be able to sit at table on equal

terms with the savants I used to meet.

 

I am essentially an amateur medecin, and this to me is almost a

mania. Among the happiest days of my life, when with the

Professors, I went to hear the thesis of Doctor Cloquet; I was

delighted when I heard the murmur of the students’ voices, each of

whom asked who was the foreign professor who honored the College

with his presence.

 

One other day is, I think, almost as dear to me. I refer to the

meeting of the society for the encouragement of national industry,

when I presented the irrorator, an instrument of my own invention,

which is neither more nor less than a forcing pump filled with

perfumes.

 

I had an apparatus fully charged in my pocket. I turned the cock,

and thence pressed out a perfume which filled the whole room.

 

Then I saw, with inexpressible pleasure, the wisest heads of the

capital bend beneath my irrigation, and I was glad to see that

those who received most, were the happiest.

 

Thinking sometimes of the grave lucubrations to which I was

attracted by my subject, I really as afraid that I would be

troublesome. I have often read very stupid books.

 

I did all that I could to escape this reproach. I have merely

hovered over subjects which presented themselves to me; I have

filled my book with anecdotes, some of which to a degree are

personal. I have omitted to mention many strange and singular

things, which critical judgment induced me to reject, and I

recalled popular attention to certain things which savants seemed

to have reserved to themselves. If, in spite of all these efforts,

I have not presented to my readers a science rarely understood, I

shall sleep just as calmly, being certain that the MAJORITY will

acquit me of all evil intention.

 

It may perhaps be said that sometimes I wrote too rapidly, and

that sometimes I became garrulous. Is it my fault that I am old?

Is it my fault that, like Ulysses, I have seen the manners and

customs of many cities? Am I therefore blamable for writing a

little bit of autobiography? Let the reader, however, remember

that I do not inflict my political memoirs on him, which he would

have to read, as he has many others, since during the last thirty

years I have been exactly in the position to see great men and

great things.

 

Let no one assign me a place among compilers; had I been reduced

thus low, I would have laid down my pen, and would not have lived

less happily.

 

I said, like Juvenal:

 

“Semper ego auditor tantum! nunquamne reponam!”

 

and those who know me will easily see that used to the tumult of

society and to the silence of the study I had to take advantage of

both one and the other of these positions.

 

I did too many things which pleased me particularly; I was able to

mention many friends who did not expect me to do so, and recalled

some pleasant memories; I seized on others which would have

escaped, and, as we say familiarly, took my coffee.

 

It may be a single reader may in some category exclaim,–-“I

wished to know if–-.” “What was he thinking of,” etc., etc. I am

sure, though, the others will make him be silent and receive with

kindness the effusions of a praiseworthy sentiment.

 

I have something to say about my style, which, as Buffon says, is

all the man.

 

Let none think I come to ask for a favor which is never granted to

those who need it. I wish merely to make an explanation.

 

I should write well, for Voltaire, Jean Jacques, Fenelon, Buffon,

and Cochin and Aguesseau were my favorite authors. I knew them by

heart.

 

It may be though, that the gods ordered otherwise; if so, this is

the cause of the will of the gods.

 

I know five languages which now are spoken, which gives me an

immense refectory of words.

 

When I need a word and do not find it in French, I select it from

other tongues, and the reader has