contained as he was before he had looked at it, and then casting his
eyes towards his host he saw him smile at his disappointment.
“You cannot guess,” said he, “what there is in that small vase, can
you?”
“No, I really cannot.”
“Well, then, that green preserve is nothing less than the ambrosia which
Hebe served at the table of Jupiter.”
“But,” replied Franz, “this ambrosia, no doubt, in passing through
mortal hands has lost its heavenly appellation and assumed a human name;
in vulgar phrase, what may you term this composition, for which, to tell
the truth, I do not feel any particular desire?”
“Ah, thus it is that our material origin is revealed,” cried Sinbad; “we
frequently pass so near to happiness without seeing, without regarding
it, or if we do see and regard it, yet wit
