ehind." But one day, in the voracity of his shark-like appetite, he
unfortunately undertook too large a contract for the retirement of an
immense slice of ham. It scraped its way down his rebellious esophagus
for about two inches, and lodged as tightly as a bullet in a rusty gun.
His prodigious Adam's apple suddenly shot up to his chin; his eyes
protruded, and his purple neck craned and shortened by turns, like a
trombone in full blast. He scrambled from the table and pranced about
the room like a horse with blind staggers. My grandfather sprang at him
and dealt him blow after blow in the back, which sounded like the blows
of a mallet on a dry hide; but the ham wouldn't budge. The old man ran
out into the yard and seized a plank about three feet long, and rushed
into the room with it drawn.

"Now William," said he, "get down on your all-fours." William got down.
"Now William, when I hit, you swallow." He hit, and it popped like a
Winchester rifle.

William shot into the corner of the room like a shell from a mortar, but
in a moment he was seated at his place at the table again, with a broad
grin on his face. "Is it down William?" shouted the old man. "Yes, Mr.
Haynes, the durned thing's gone,--please pass the ham."

[Illustration: "WHEN I HIT, YOU SWALLOW."]

I thought how vividly that old glutton illustrated the fools who, in
their effort to gulp down the sensual pleasures of this world, choke the
soul, and nothing but the clap-board of hard experience, well laid on,
can dislodge the ham, and restore the equilibrium.

PHANTOMS OF THE WINE CUP.

[Illustration]

A little below the glutton lies the plane of the drunkard whose visions
and dreams are bounded by the horizon of a still tub. "A little wine for
the stomach's sake is good," but in the trembling hand of a drunkard,
every crimson drop that glows in the cup is crushed from the roses that
once bloomed on the cheeks of some helpless woman. Every phantom of
beauty that dances in it is a devil; and yet, millions quaff, and with
a hideous laugh, go staggering to the grave.

[Illustration]

THE MISSING LINK.

A little below the plane of the drunkard is the dude, that missing link
between monkey and man, whose dream of happiness is a single eye-glass,
a kangaroo strut, and three hours of conversation without a sensible
sentence; whose only conception of life is to splurge, and flirt, and
spend his father's fortune.

"Out of the fullness of hi