have no idea of the wonder of a pirouette. To him a pas de papillon has
been an abstract conception. He has never ascended the summit of a hill.
He has never viewed from any steeple the glories of a metropolis. Heat
has been his mortal enemy. In the dog-days his days have been the
days of a dog. Therein, he has dreamed of flames and suffocation--of
mountains upon mountains--of Pelion upon Ossa. He was short of
breath--to say all in a word, he was short of breath. He thought it
extravagant to play upon wind instruments. He was the inventor of
self-moving fans, wind-sails, and ventilators. He patronized Du Pont the
bellows-maker, and he died miserably in attempting to smoke a cigar. His
was a case in which I feel a deep interest--a lot in which I sincerely
sympathize.

"But here,"--said I--"here"--and I dragged spitefully from its
receptacle a gaunt, tall and peculiar-looking form, whose remarkable
appearance struck me with a sense of unwelcome familiarity--"here is a
wretch entitled to no earthly commiseration." Thus saying, in order
to obtain a more distinct view of my subject, I applied my thumb and
forefinger to its nose, and causing it to assume a sitting position upon
the ground, held it thus, at the length of my arm, while I continued my
soliloquy.

"Entitled," I repeated, "to no earthly commiseration. Who indeed would
think of compassioning a shadow? Besides, has he not had his full
share of the blessings of mortality? He was the originator of tall
monuments--shot-towers--lightning-rods--Lombardy poplars. His treatise
upon "Shades and Shadows" has immortalized him. He edited with
distinguished ability the last edition of "South on the Bones." He
went early to college and studied pneumatics. He then came home, talked
eternally, and played upon the French-horn. He patronized the bagpipes.
Captain Barclay, who walked against Time, would not walk against him.
Windham and Allbreath were his favorite writers,--his favorite artist,
Phiz. He died gloriously while inhaling gas--levique flatu corrupitur,
like the fama pudicitae in Hieronymus. {*1} He was indubitably a"--

"How can you?--how--can--you?"--interrupted the object of my
animadversions, gasping for breath, and tearing off, with a desperate
exertion, the bandage around its jaws--"how can you, Mr. Lackobreath, be
so infernally cruel as to pinch me in that manner by the nose? Did you
not see how they had fastened up my mouth--and you must know--if you
know any t