“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--hiccup!--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 Andronicus, and Plautus, and Terentius. Then there were Lucilius, and Catullus, and Naso, and Quintus Flaccus,--dear Quinty! as I called him when he sang a _saeculare_ for my amusement, while I toasted him, in pure good humour, 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. Let us taste your Sauterne.” Bon-Bon had by this time made up his mind to the _nil admirari_, and endeavoured 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 visitor 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.” “Hiccup!” 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--hiccup!--physician?” “_Don’t_ mention them!--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--hiccup!--abortion 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.” “How so?”