The celebrated David Hartley entertained, at his apartments in Merton
College, of which he was fellow, a party of his friends; they all dined
well, _comme de raison_; and there was every likelihood that the evening
would conclude with the utmost festivity, when a letter was brought to
the naturalist; after due apology, he opened and read it; then starting
up, he rushed out of the room. He soon returned, with horror on his face
and a basketful of feathers in his hand; "Gentlemen, what do you think
we have been eating?" Some of the guests began to fear they had been
poisoned; even the boldest felt qualms. "Oh! that the letter had but
arrived before the bird!" Then holding up some of the feathers, and
letting them fall into the basket to display them to the company, he
relieved their apprehensions, while he revealed the cause of his own
grief, "we have eaten a nondescript." Though no blame could attach to
him, there was something in all appearance so disreputable in the
untoward accident by which, under his auspices, a scientific object had
been treated in so vulgar a manner, that Hartley did not quickly recover
from the mortification.
* * * * *