"No, sir! the soul is no such thing." (Here the philosopher finished 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 the devil licked his lips, and, having unconsciously let fall his hand upon the volume in his pocket, was seized with a violent fit of sneezing. His majesty 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 Noevius, and Andronicus, and Plautus, and Terentius. Then there were Lucilius, and Catullus, and Naso, and Quintius 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 the _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 black water 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 Livy 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--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--hic-cup!--abortion of a pill-box!"--and the philosopher dropped a tear. "After all"--continued the visiter--"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?"