whether Pan perceived the impression produced on me by this denizen of the sewers, but he felt bound to assure us as to its descent.
"Be kind enough to explain to your friends," he said to Callery, "that this animal comes from the rice-fields inundated by the Tchou-kiang: he was caught far from the centre of population; far from the muddy gutters of cities. In his infancy he played at the feet of the banana-trees and litchis, and, at a later period, fed on the sweet stalks and farinaceous grains of rice. At good tables, these rural and innocent rats are the only ones served up: the city rats, defiled with mud and living on stagnant waters, are left for the coolies and porters. It is the same with cats: a gastronomist eats wild cats, but despises the familiar inmates of our houses, that lie on our roofs and burrow in our cellars."
As we see, it is the everlasting story of tame rabbits and wild rabbits, although the one are no better than the other. I know there are people who, while eating them, console themselves with these subtile distinctions. However, we had no need to be so completely edified on the descent of the rodent to induce us to taste it; we were free from prejudice. We took some on our plates, and unanimously thought it very bad. Was its age the cause? I do not know. But this did not prevent us from doing honour to the eccentric dish, and, when there was
