Crosby 2 2 6 Alas! the major's inscription and the foregoing "accomp." are hollow mockeries to the thirsty traveller, for there is neither rum nor "flyp" to be had; the bar is dry as an old cork; the door of the cupboard into which the jovial Howes were wont to stick the awl with which they opened bottles still hangs, worn completely through by the countless jabs, a melancholy reminder of the convivial hours of other days.

The restrictions of more abstemious times have relegated the ancient bar to dust, the idle awl to slow-consuming rust.
It is amazing how thirsty one gets in the presence of musty associations of a convivial character.

The ghost of a spree is a most alluring fellow; it is the dust on the bottle that flavors the wine; a musty bin is the soul's delight; we drink the vintage and not the wine.
Drinking is a lost art, eating a forgotten ceremony.

The pendulum has swung from Trimalchio back to Trimalchio.

Quality is lost in quantity.