Not a man, woman, or child in ten miles round Guildhall, who really believes this saying. The inventor of it did not believe it himself. It was made in revenge by somebody, who was disappointed of a regale. It is a vile cold-scrag-of-mutton sophism; a lie palmed upon the palarｅａd.99ｃｓw.ｃomte, which knows better things. If nothing else could be said for a feast, this is sufficient, that from the superflux there is usually something left for the next day. Morally interpreted, it belongs to a class of proverbs, which have a tendency to make us under九-九-藏-書value money. Of this cast are those notable observations, that money is not health; riches cannot purchase every thing: the metaphor which makes gold to be mere muck, with the morality which traces fine clothing to the sheeps back, and denounces pearl as the unhandsome ex九-九-藏-書cretion of an oyster. Hence, too, the phrase which imputes dirt to acres -- a sophistry so barefaced, that even the literal sense of it is true only in a wet season. This, and abundance of similar sage saws assuming to inculcate content, we verily believe to have been the ihｔtps://read•9９cｓｗ.cｏmnvention of some cunning borrower, who had designs upon the purse of his wealthier neighbour, which he could only hope to carry by force of these verbal jugglings. Translate any one of these sayings out of the artful metonyme which envelops it, and the trick is apparent. Goodly leｈｔｔｐｓ://ｒead.９９cｓｗ•coｍgs and shoulders of mutton, exhilarating cordials, books, pictures, the opportunities of seeing foreign countries, independence, hearts ease, a mans own time to himself, are not much -- however we may be pleased to scandalise with that appellation the faithful metal that provides them for us.