odorous employment for the silver spoon, was unknown. Should the
knowledge of his loss reach him in the fields of Elysium, will not his
steps be incontinently turned towards the borders of the Styx--his
plaintive voice hail the grim ferryman, while in his most persuasive
tones he cries--

"Row me back--row me back,"

that he may enjoy, for a brief space, this untasted pleasure? Ye gods!
in our mind's eye we behold the heartless and unfeeling Charon refuse his
earnest prayer, and see his languid spirit--diluted by disappointment to
insipidity--wandering over the enamelled meads, as flat and shallow as an
overflow in the dank fens of Lincoln.

His imagination gloats upon the fragrant invention, and he gulps at the
cheating shadow until Elysium becomes a perfect Hades to his tortured
spirit.

Mellow, rich, and toothsome compound! Toothsome did we say? Nay, even
those who have lost their 'molares, incisores,' canine teeth, 'dentes
sapientiae,' and all can masticate and inwardly digest thee!

Racy and recherche relish!

Thou art--

As delicate as first love--
As white and red as a maiden's cheek--
As palateable as well-timed flattery--
As light and filling as the gas of a balloon--