After having examined his body, I examined his mind, speaking to him in Greek, Hebrew, Turkish, Indian, and even in the Mexican tongue. He answered me always very appropriately in Spanish, which convinced me that he was in truth possessed with a devil; for although he spake not all languages, he nevertheless understood them, which could not naturally happen without study or travel. His relations assured me he had done neither the one nor the other. I demanded of the demon, what name he had in hell? He answered, “that he had no other appellation than that of the employment which he exercised in the world: that he had been for a long time in the service of an alguazil, in whom he inspired all the chicanery and wickedness with which he plagued poor people.” Let us remark here, that the word _alguazil_ is borrowed from the Moresco tongue, and signifies in Spanish, a constable, a cryer, a clerk, or other subaltern of justice. “Why,” said I to the demon, “are you entered into the body of this man?” “Because he was himself an alguazil, and a person of a licentious life. After having been banished from his paternal home, finding himself necessitous, he associated with alguazils to extort money, under pretence of executing the decrees of justice, and in the arrest of bodies, which he often abandoned for small sums. It was in the execution of this business, that he stole a silver cup from the house of a country curate, and subtracted a purse of one hundred ducats from the pocket of a man, who, for the stuff, was delivered from the hands of justice.” I asked him if there were many of these people in hell? “Very many,” answered he: “the constables have neither honour nor conscience; they drive their trade whether they know any thing of the matter or not: in that particular they resemble the poets. You shall scarcely find in hell, a single poet, who will not tell you that he was sent there on account of the versified lies he told in praise of some beauty. The poetic spirit hath its origin in the disposition of the heart, to receive tender impressions: it is the lover of heroism and romance; and to sustain this character, must necessarily make use of much artifice. The old poets serve as secretaries to young lovers; the young ones are ambitious of blazing as the heroes of their own compositions. There are so many poets in hell, that it can hardly fail of aggrandizing their quarter. I wish to speak in such a manner, that you may comprehend the nature of their occupations and torments there; but of which you cannot have an adequate idea, unless I shall here adduce some examples:—