Part 13

The philosopher's amazement did not prevent a narrow scrutiny of the stranger's dress and appearance. The outlines of a figure, exceedingly lean, but much above the common height, were rendered minutely distinct by means of a faded suit of black cloth which fitted tight to the skin, but was otherwise cut very much in the style of a century ago. These garments had evidently been intended _a priori_ for a much shorter person than their present owner. His ankles and wrists were left naked for several inches. In his shoes, however, a pair of very brilliant buckles gave the lie to the extreme poverty implied by the other portions of his dress. His head was bare, and entirely bald, with the exception of the hinder part, from which depended a _queue_ of considerable length. A pair of green spectacles, with side glasses, protected his eyes from the influence of the light, and at the same time prevented our hero from ascertaining either their color or their conformation. About the entire person there was no evidence of a shirt; but a white cravat, of filthy appearance, was tied with extreme precision around the throat, and the ends hanging down formally side by side, gave, although I dare say unintentionally, the idea of an ecclesiastic. Indeed, many other points both in his appearance and demeanor might have very well sustained a conception of that nature. Over his left ear he carried, after the fashion of a modern clerk, an instrument resembling the _stylus_ of the ancients. In a breast-pocket of his coat appeared conspicuously a small black volume fastened with clasps of steel. This book, whether accidentally or not, was so turned outwardly from the person as to discover the words "_Rituel Catholique_" in white letters upon the back. His entire physiognomy was interestingly saturnine--even cadaverously pale. The forehead was lofty and deeply furrowed with the ridges of contemplation. The corners of the mouth were drawn down into an expression of the most submissive humility. There was also a clasping of the hands, as he stepped towards our hero--a deep sigh--and altogether a look of such utter sanctity as could not have failed to be unequivocally prepossessing. Every shadow of anger faded from the countenance of the metaphysician, as, having completed a satisfactory survey of his visiter's person, he shook him cordially by the hand, and conducted him to a seat.

There would however be a radical error in attributing this instantaneous transition of feeling in the philosopher to any one of those causes which might naturally be supposed to have had an influence. Indeed Pierre Bon-Bon, from what I have been able to understand of his disposition, was of all men the least likely to be imposed upon by any speciousness of exterior deportment. It was impossible that so accurate an observer of men and things should have failed to discover, upon the moment, the real character of the personage who had thus intruded upon his hospitality. To say no more, the conformation of his visiter's feet was sufficiently remarkable--there was a tremulous swelling in the hinder part of his breeches--and the vibration of his coat tail was a palpable fact. Judge then with what feelings of satisfaction our hero found himself thrown thus at once into the society of a--of a person for whom he had at all times entertained such unqualified respect. He was, however, too much of the diplomatist to let escape him any intimation of his suspicions, or rather--I should say--his certainty in regard to the true state of affairs. It was not his cue to appear at all conscious of the high honor he thus unexpectedly enjoyed, but by leading his guest into conversation, to elicit some important ethical ideas which might, in obtaining a place in his contemplated publication, enlighten the human race, and at the same time immortalize himself--ideas which, I should have added, his visiter's great age, and well known proficiency in the science of Morals might very well have enabled him to afford.

Actuated by these enlightened views our hero bade the gentleman sit down, while he himself took occasion to throw some faggots upon the fire, and place upon the now re-established table some bottles of the powerful _Vin de Mousseux_. Having quickly completed these operations, he drew his chair _vis a vis_ to his companion's, and waited until he should open the conversation. But plans even the most skilfully matured are often thwarted in the outset of their application, and the _Restaurateur_ found himself entirely _nonplused_ by the very first words of his visiter's speech.

"I see you know me, Bon-Bon,"--said he:--"ha! ha! ha!--he! he! he!--hi! hi! hi!--ho! ho! ho!--hu! hu! hu!"--and the devil, dropping at once the sanctity of his demeanor, opened to its fullest extent a mouth from ear to ear so as to display a set of jagged, and fang-like teeth, and throwing back his head, laughed long, loud, wickedly, and uproariously, while the black dog crouching down upon his haunches joined lustily in the chorus, and the tabby cat, flying off at a tangent stood up on end and shrieked in the farthest corner of the apartment.

Not so the philosopher: he was too much a man of the world either to laugh like the dog, or by shrieks to betray the indecorous trepidation of the cat. It must be confessed, however, that he felt a little astonishment to see the white letters which formed the words "_Rituel Catholique_" on the book in his guest's pocket momentarily changing both their color and their import, and in a few seconds in place of the original title, the words _Regitre des Condamnés_ blaze forth in characters of red. This startling circumstance, when Bon-Bon replied to his visiter's remark, imparted to his manner an air of embarrassment which might not probably have otherwise been observable.

"Why, sir,"--said the philosopher--"why, sir, to speak sincerely--I believe you _are_--upon my word--the d----dest--that is to say I think--I imagine--I _have_ some faint--some _very_ faint idea--of the remarkable honor----"

"Oh!--ah!--yes!--very well!"--interrupted his majesty--"say no more--I see how it is." And hereupon, taking off his green spectacles, he wiped the glasses carefully with the sleeve of his coat, and deposited them in his pocket.

If Bon-Bon had been astonished at the incident of the book, his amazement was now increased to an intolerable degree by the spectacle which here presented itself to view. In raising his eyes, with a strong feeling of curiosity to ascertain the color of his guest's, he found them by no means black, as he had anticipated--nor gray, as might have been imagined--nor yet hazel nor blue--nor indeed yellow, nor red--nor purple--nor white--nor green--nor any other color in the heavens above, or in the earth beneath, or in the waters under the earth. In short Pierre Bon-Bon not only saw plainly that his majesty had no eyes whatsoever, but could discover no indications of their having existed at any previous period, for the space where eyes should naturally have been, was, I am constrained to say, simply a dead level of cadaverous flesh.

It was not in the nature of the metaphysician to forbear making some inquiry into the sources of so strange a phenomenon, and to his surprise the reply of his majesty was at once prompt, dignified, and satisfactory.

"Eyes!--my dear Bon-Bon, eyes! did you say?--oh! ah! I perceive. The ridiculous prints, eh? which are in circulation, have given you a false idea of my personal appearance. Eyes!!--true. Eyes, Pierre Bon-Bon, are very well in their proper place--_that_, you would say, is the head--right--the head of a worm. To _you_ likewise these optics are indispensable--yet I will convince you that my vision is more penetrating than your own. There is a cat, I see, in the corner--a pretty cat!--look at her!--observe her well. Now, Bon-Bon, do you behold the thoughts--the thoughts, I say--the ideas--the reflections--engendering in her pericranium?

"There it is now!--you do not. She is thinking we admire the profundity of her mind. She has just concluded that I am the most distinguished of ecclesiastics, and that you are the most superfluous of metaphysicians. Thus you see I am not altogether blind: but to one of my profession the eyes you speak of would be merely an incumbrance, liable at any time to be put out by a toasting iron or a pitchfork. To you, I allow, these optics are indispensable. Endeavor, Bon-Bon, to use them well--_my_ vision is the soul."

Hereupon the guest helped himself to the wine upon the table, and pouring out a bumper for Bon-Bon, requested him to drink it without scruple, and make himself perfectly at home.

"A clever book that of yours, Pierre"--resumed his majesty, tapping our friend knowingly upon the shoulder, as the latter set down his glass after a thorough compliance with this injunction.

"A clever book that of yours, upon my honor. It's a work after my own heart. Your arrangement of matter, I think, however, might be improved, and many of your notions remind me of Aristotle. That philosopher was one of my most intimate acquaintances. I liked him as much for his terrible ill temper, as for his happy knack at making a blunder. There is only one solid truth in all that he has written, and for that I gave him the hint out of pure compassion for his absurdity. I suppose, Pierre Bon-Bon, you very well know to what divine moral truth I am alluding."

"Cannot say that I----"

"Indeed!--why I told Aristotle that by sneezing men expelled superfluous ideas through the proboscis."

"Which is--hiccup!--undoubtedly the case"--said the metaphysician, while he poured out for himself another bumper of Mousseux, and offered his snuff-box to the fingers of his visiter.

"There was Plato too"--continued his majesty, modestly declining the snuff-box and the compliment--"there was Plato, too, for whom I, at one time, felt all the affection of a friend. You knew Plato, Bon-Bon?--ah! no, I beg a thousand pardons. He met me at Athens, one day, in the Parthenon, and told me he was distressed for an idea. I bade him write down that '_o nous estin augos_.' He said that he would do so, and went home, while I stepped over to the Pyramids. But my conscience smote me for the lie, and, hastening back to Athens, I arrived behind the philosopher's chair as he was inditing the '_augos_.' Giving the gamma a fillip with my finger I turned it upside down. So the sentence now reads '_o nous estin aulos_,' and is, you perceive, the fundamental doctrine of his metaphysics."

"Were you ever at Rome?"--asked the _Restaurateur_ as he finished his second bottle of Mousseux, and drew from the closet a larger supply of Vin de Chambertin.

"But once, Monsieur Bon-Bon--but once. There was a time"--said the devil, as if reciting some passage from a book--"'there was an anarchy of five years during which the republic, bereft of all its officers, had no magistracy besides the tribunes of the people, and these were not legally vested with any degree of executive power'--at that time, Monsieur Bon-Bon--at that time _only_ I was in Rome, and I have no earthly acquaintance, consequently, with any of its philosophy."[1]

[Footnote 1: Ils ecrivalent sur la Philosophie (_Cicero_, _Lucretius_, _Seneca_) mais c'etait la Philosophie Grécque.--_Condorcet_.]

"What do you think of Epicurus?--what do you think of--hiccup!--Epicurus?"

"What do I think of _whom_?"--said the devil in astonishment--"you cannot surely mean to find any fault with Epicurus! What do I think of Epicurus! Do you mean me, sir?--_I_ am Epicurus. I am the same philosopher who wrote each of the three hundred treatises commemorated by Diogenes Laertes."

"That's a lie!"--said the metaphysician, for the wine had gotten a little into his head.

"Very well!--very well, sir!--very well indeed, sir"--said his majesty.

"That's a lie!"--repeated the Restaurateur dogmatically--"that's a--hiccup!--lie!"

"Well, well! have it your own way"--said the devil pacifically: and Bon-Bon, having beaten his majesty at an argument, thought it his duty to conclude a second bottle of Chambertin.

"As I was saying"--resumed the visiter--"as I was observing a little while ago, there are some very _outré_ notions in that book of yours, Monsieur Bon-Bon. What, for instance, do you mean by all that humbug about the soul? Pray, sir, what is the soul?"

"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 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?"

"Why we are sometimes exceedingly pushed for provisions. You must know that in a climate so sultry as mine, it is frequently impossible to keep a spirit 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."

"Hiccup!--hiccup!--good God! how _do_ you manage?"

Here the iron lamp commenced swinging with redoubled violence, and the devil 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, Pierre Bon-Bon, we _must_ have no more swearing."

Bon-Bon swallowed another bumper, and his visiter 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!--hiccup!--the body!!!"--vociferated the philosopher, as he finished a bottle of Sauterne.

"The body, the body--well what of the body?--oh! ah! I perceive. Why, sir, the body is not _at all_ affected by the transaction. I have made innumerable purchases of the kind in my day, and the parties never experienced any inconvenience. There were Cain, and Nimrod, and Nero, and Caligula, and Dionysius, and Pisistratus, and--and a thousand others, who never knew what it was to have a soul during the latter part of their lives; yet, sir, these men adorned society. Why is'nt there A----, now, whom you know as well as I? Is _he_ not in possession of all his faculties, mental and corporeal? Who writes a keener epigram? Who reasons more wittily? Who----but, stay! I have his agreement in my pocket-book."

Thus saying he produced a red leather wallet, and took from it a number of papers. Upon some of these Bon-Bon caught a glimpse of the letters MACHI----, MAZA----, RICH----, and the words CALIGULA and ELIZABETH. His majesty selected a narrow slip of parchment, and from it read aloud the following words:

"In consideration of certain mental endowments which it is unnecessary to specify; and in farther consideration of one thousand _louis d'or_, I, being aged one year and one month, do hereby make over to the bearer of this agreement all my right, title, and appurtenance in the shadow called my soul." (Signed) A----[2] (Here his majesty repeated a name which I do not feel myself justifiable in indicating more unequivocally.)

[Footnote 2: Quære--Arouet?--_Editor_.]

"A clever fellow that A----"--resumed he; "but like you, Monsieur Bon-Bon, he was mistaken about the soul. The soul a shadow truly!--no such nonsense, Monsieur Bon-Bon. The soul a shadow!! ha! ha! ha!--he! he! he!--hu! hu! hu! Only think of a fricasséed shadow!"

"_Only_ think--hiccup!--of a f-r-i-c-a-s-s-e-e-d s-h-a-d-ow!!" echoed our hero, whose faculties were becoming gloriously illuminated by the profundity of his majesty's discourse.

"Only think of a--hiccup!--fricasseed shadow!!! Now damme!--hiccup!--humph!--if _I_ would have been such a--hiccup!--nincompoop! _My_ soul, Mr.--humph!"

"_Your_ soul, Monsieur Bon-Bon?"

"Yes, sir--hiccup!--_my_ soul is"--

"What, sir!"

"_No_ shadow, damme!"

"Did not mean to say"--

"Yes, sir, _my_ soul is--hiccup!--humph!--yes, sir."

"Did not intend to assert"--

"_My_ soul is--hiccup!--peculiarly qualified for--hiccup!--a"--

"What, sir?"

"Stew."

"Ha!"

"Souflée."

"Eh?"

"Fricassée."

"Indeed!"

"Ragout or Fricandeau--and I'll let you have it--hiccup!--a bargain."

"Could'nt think of such a thing," said his majesty calmly, at the same time arising from his seat. The metaphysician stared.

"Am supplied at present," said his majesty.

"Hiccup!--e-h?"--said the philosopher.

"Have no funds on hand."

"What!"

"Besides, very ungentlemanly in me"--

"Sir!"

"To take advantage of"--

"Hiccup!"

"Your present situation."

Here his majesty bowed and withdrew--in what manner the philosopher could not precisely ascertain--but in a well-concerted effort to discharge a bottle at "the villain," the slender chain was severed that depended from the ceiling, and the metaphysician prostrated by the downfall of the lamp.

THE UNITIES.

Aristotle's name is supposed to be authority for the three unities. The only one of which he speaks decisively is the unity of action. With regard to the unity of time he merely throws out an indefinite hint. Of the unity of place not one word does he say.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LINES IN REMEMBRANCE OF THOS. H. WHITE,

Who died in Richmond, Va. October 7, 1832, aged 19 years.

When nations prosper, they grow proud and vain, And give the reins to luxury and pleasure, Spurn their Creator and defy his power: To check their pride, Jehovah from his throne, Scatters his judgments o'er a guilty world. Forth from that idol land, where on the Ganges, The Mother to false Gods devotes her offspring, Or mounts the funeral pile--o'er half the earth Speedeth the Pestilence. Nor cold, nor heat, Mountains nor seasons can its course arrest. Realm after realm hath bowed beneath its power, Till o'er the vast Atlantic to our shores It brings the work of death. In early life I fell a victim to this deadly foe. Thanks to that blessed volume, which hath brought Light, Life and Immortality to Man, Death has no terror to the heir of heaven-- It is the portal to his Father's throne. This world is full of care, and toil, and suff'ring; Its joys are transient, vain and fleeting all, Illusive as a shadow. Happy he At peace with God, who quits it earliest For purer bliss. Rather rejoice than mourn That I so soon have earth exchanged for heaven.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

A MANIAC'S ADDRESS TO THE MOON.

Thou pale!--thou beautiful!--to thee I kneel, Watching thy wandering thro' yon dark blue sky In silent gaze--as if my heart could feel Deep adoration for thee, and was nigh To a bright being that had look'd on me Ev'n from the first days of my infancy.

Is it not so? Near to those yellow shores Where roll my native streams, oh! hast thou not Seen my young pleasures, when our busy oars O'er the cool wave at dusky night would sport On that bright pathway where thy silvery beam Fell beautiful upon the glossy stream.

When thou didst rise at evening's twilight hour, A mighty crescent o'er the broken tower, Then would I wander 'neath the crumbling wall, Or chase my playmates thro' the ruined hall, Nor fearing any Spectre-Knight would play His frightful gambols in thy harmless ray.

Away--away!--and when we there did sweep The deep black billows of the roaring ocean, Still high amid the heavens thou didst keep Steady and bright; and with a wild emotion Guiarra trembling did look up to thee To guide him safely o'er that dismal sea, And kindly light his weary hands to spread The rattling canvass o'er his giddy head.

These skies are foreign, and I tread the ground My fathers saw not: yet while thou art flinging Upon the hills, the woods, the vales around Thy gentle beam, ev'n though my heart be clinging To other lands, still it can hold most dear This stranger home since it can meet thee here.

We'll climb yon hill--we'll wander o'er yon plain-- We'll skim yon lake: Moon! we will roam together Till mother earth call home her child again: Then part we!--part we! fair Moon!--aye, for ever! 'Tis not for a bright thing like thee to glow In the deep shades where the departed go.

Yet thou canst look upon the road that leads To my far dwelling place: there will be flowers And fresh green blades, and moss, and harmless weeds To point the passage. Oh! at midnight hours Wilt thou not smile upon those things that bloom All wild, all heedlessly above my tomb?

I sit, and weave beneath thy gentle light A wreath of cypress and of roses bright, And ere it wither, or its glow be fled, I'll gaily bind it round my dying head. 'Twill still the throbbing of my fever'd brow To wear those flowers pluck'd from the tender stem Where they were springing beautiful--and thou As beautiful wast shining above _them_.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO AN INFANT NEPHEW IN ENGLAND.