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“Hiccup! —”

“No, sir!”

“And beyond all question, a —”

“No sir, the soul is no such thing!” (Here the philosopher, looking daggers, took occasion to make an end, upon the spot, of his third bottle of Chambertin.)

“Then – hic-cup! – pray, sir – what – what is it?”

“That is neither here nor there, Monsieur Bon-Bon,” replied his Majesty, musingly. “I have tasted – that is to say, I have known some very bad souls, and some too – pretty good ones.” Here he smacked his lips, and, having unconsciously let fall his hand upon the volume in his pocket, was seized with a violent fit of sneezing.

He continued.

“There was the soul of Cratinus – passable: Aristophanes – racy: Plato – exquisite – not your Plato, but Plato the comic poet; your Plato would have turned the stomach of Cerberus – faugh! Then let me see! there were Naevius, and Andronicusand Plautus, and Terentius. Then there were Lucilius, and Catullus, and Naso, and Quintus Flaccus, – dear Quinty! as I called him when he sung a seculare for my amusement, while I toasted him, in pure good humor, on a fork. But they want flavor, these Romans. One fat Greek is worth a dozen of them, and besides will keep, which cannot be said of a Quirite. – Let us taste your Sauterne.”

Bon-Bon had by this time made up his mind to nil admirari and endeavored to hand down the bottles in question. He was, however, conscious of a strange sound in the room like the wagging of a tail. Of this, although extremely indecent in his Majesty, the philosopher took no notice: – simply kicking the dog, and requesting him to be quiet. The visiter continued:

“I found that Horace tasted very much like Aristotle; – you know I am fond of variety. Terentius I could not have told from Menander. Naso, to my astonishment, was Nicander in disguise. Virgilius had a strong twang of Theocritus. Martial put me much in mind of Archilochus – and Titus Livius was positively Polybius and none other.”

“Hic-cup!” here replied Bon-Bon, and his majesty proceeded:

“But if I have a penchant, Monsieur Bon-Bon – if I have a penchant, it is for a philosopher. Yet, let me tell you, sir, it is not every dev – I mean it is not every gentleman who knows how to choose a philosopher. Long ones are not good; and the best, if not carefully shelled, are apt to be a little rancid on account of the gall!”

“Shelled!”

“I mean taken out of the carcass.”

“What do you think of a – hic-cup! – physician?”

“Don’t mention them! – ugh! ugh! ugh!” (Here his Majesty retched violently.) “I never tasted but one – that rascal Hippocrates! – smelt of asafoetida – ugh! ugh! ugh! – caught a wretched cold washing him in the Styx – and after all he gave me the cholera morbus.”

“The – hiccup – wretch!” ejaculated Bon-Bon, “the – hic-cup! – absorption of a pill-box!” – and the philosopher dropped a tear.

“After all,” continued the visitor, “after all, if a dev – if a gentleman wishes to live, he must have more talents than one or two; and with us a fat face is an evidence of diplomacy.”