“The—hiccup!—soul,” replied the metaphysician, referring to his MS., “is undoubtedly—” “No, sir!” “Indubitably—” “No, sir!” “Indisputably—” “No, sir!” “Evidently—” “No, sir!” “Incontrovertibly—” “No, sir!” “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 Andronicus, and 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 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 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.” “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?”