LITMIR.BIZ

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one very justly observed, meaning ‘auyos.’ But, to tell the truth, it was very little better at any time. The fact is, Garcia,” here the stranger’s voice dropped to a whisper, “men know nothing about these matters. Your doctrines, however, come nearer to the point than any with which I am acquainted. I like your doctrines, Signor Pedro, and have come a long way to tell you so.”

      The philosopher’s eyes sparkled, and he fumbled, in great haste, among the rubbish on the floor, for his overthrown MSS. Having found it, he took, from an ivory escrutoire, a flask of the delightful wine of Sauterne, and placing them, with the sable-bound volume, on the alabaster stand, wheeled it before the visitor, and reseated himself at his elbow.

      Here, if the reader should wish to know why our hero troubled himself to place upon the stand any thing so ominous as that book in sable binding, I reply that Pedro Garcia was, by no means, a fool; no man ever accused him of being a fool. He had, accordingly, very soon arrived at the conclusion that his knowing friend was neither more nor less than his August and Satanic Majesty. Now, although persons of greater height have been frightened at less serious circumstances, and although under certain dispensations of Providence (such as the visitation of a spider, a rat, or a physician) Pedro did not always evince the philosopher, yet fear of the devil never once entered his imagination. – To tell the truth, he was rather gratified, than otherwise, at a visit from a gentleman whom he so highly respected. He flattered himself with spending an agreeable hour; and it was with the air of being ‘up to snuff’ that he accommodated his visitor with a volume best suited to his acquirements and literary taste.

      “But I must say,” continued the stranger, without noticing Pedro’s arrangements, “I must say that, upon some points, you are wrong, my friend, wrong; totally out, as that rogue Sanconiathon used to say – ha! ha! ha! – poor Sanconiathon!”

      “Pray, sir, how old – may – you – call yourself?” inquired the metaphysician, with a cut of his eye.

      “Old? Sir? Eh? Oh! a mere trifle. As I was saying, you have certain very outre notions in that book of yours. Now, what do you mean by all that humbug about the soul? Pray, sir, what is the soul?”

      “The soul,” replied Pedro, referring to his MSS., “is undoubtedly —”

      “No, sir!”

      “Indubitably —”

      “No, sir!”

      “Evidently —”

      “No, sir!”

      “And beyond all question —”

      “No, sir! – the soul is no such thing.”

      “Then what is it?”

      “That is neither here nor there, Signor Pedro,” replied the stranger, musing, “I have tasted – that is I mean I have known some very bad souls and some pretty good ones.”

      Here the stranger licked his lips; and having, unconsciously, let fall his hand upon the sable volume, was seized with a violent fit of sneezing upon which our hero, reaching his common-place book, inserted the follow memorandum: —

      N. B. – Divorum inferorum cachinnatio sternutamentis mortalium verisimillima est.

      The stranger 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 Catullus, and Naso, and Plautus, and Quinty – dear Quinty, as I called him when he sung a ‘seculare’ for my amusement, while I toasted him good-humouredly on a fork. But they want flavour, these Romans, one fat Greek is worth a dozen of them, and, besides, will keep, which cannot be said of a Quirite. – Terence, however, was an exception – firm as an Esquimaux, and juicy as a German – the very recollection of the dog makes my mouth water. – Let us taste your Sauterne.”

      Our hero had, by this time, made up his mind to the ‘nil admirari,’ and merely filled his visitor’s glass. He was, however, conscious of a strange sound in the chamber, like the wagging of a tail, but of this he took no notice, simply kicking the large water-dog that lay asleep under his chair, and requesting him to be quiet. – The stranger proceeded.

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

      “Shelled?”

      “I mean taken out of the body.”

      “What do you think of a physician?”

      “Don’t mention them,” here the stranger retched violently, “ugh! I never tried but one, that rascal – (ugh!) – Hippocrates. Smelt of asafetida – (ugh! ugh!) – took particular pains with the villain too – caught a wretched cold washing him in the Styx – and, after all, he gave me the cholera morbus.”

      “The wretch! the abortion of a pill box!” ejaculated Pedro, dropping a tear, and, reaching another bottle of Sauterne, he swallowed three bumpers in rapid succession. The stranger followed his example.

      “After all, Signor Pedro,” said he, “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.”

      “How so?”

      “Why we are, sometimes, exceedingly pushed for provisions. You ought to know that, in a climate so sultry as mine, it is frequently impossible to keep a soul alive for more than two or three hours; and after death, unless pickled immediately, (and a pickled spirit is not good) they will smell – you understand – eh? Putrefaction is always to be apprehended when the spirits are consigned to us in the usual way.”

      “Good God! how do you manage?”

      Here the Arabesque lamp commenced swinging with redoubled violence, and the stranger half started from his seat; however, with a slight sigh, he recovered his composure; merely saying to our hero, in a low tone: – “I tell you what, Pedro Garcia, once for all, we must have no more swearing.”

      Pedro swallowed another bumper, and his visitor continued.

      “Why there are several ways of managing. – The most of us starve. Some put up with the pickle. For my part, I purchase my spirits vivente corpore, in which case I find they keep very well.”

      “But the body, my dear sir, the body!” vociferated the philosopher, for the wine had gotten a little into his head. Here he reached another bottle of Sauterne.

      “The body! – well, what of the body? oh! ah! I perceive – why the body is not all affected by the transaction. I have made innumerable purchases of the kind in my day, and the parties never experience any inconvenience. There was Cain, and Nimrod, and Nero, and Caligula, and Dionysius, and Pisistratus, and – and the Jew – and – and a thousand others, all very good men in their way, who never knew what a soul was during the latter part of their lives. Yet these men adorned society. Why isn’t there V—, now? – whom you know as well as I – is he not in full possession of his faculties, mental and corporeal? Who writes a keener epigram? Who reasons more wittily? Who – but I have his agreement in my pocket book.” Thus saying, he drew, from the luminous bag, a book with clasps of cornelian, and, from the book, a bundle of papers, upon some of which Pedro caught a glimpse of the letters MACHIA, MAZA, RICHEL, and the words DOMITIAN and ELIZABETH. From these papers he selected a narrow slip of parchment, and, from it, read aloud the following words: —

      In consideration of certain mental endowments, which it would be unnecessary to specify, and in farther consideration of the sum of one thousand Louis d’or, I, being aged one year and one month, do, hereby, from this date, make over, to the bearer of this bond, all my right, title, and appurtenance in the shadow called ‘my soul.’

      Done at Paris, this – day of —, in the year of our Lord —, FRANCOIS MARIE AROUET.

      “A clever fellow that,”

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