No More Learning

Goodfellow had, since the death of Mr.
Shuttleworthy, given over all expectation of ever receiving the promised
Chateau-Margaux; and he, therefore, looked upon it now as a sort
of especial dispensation of Providence in his behalf. He was highly
delighted, of course, and in the exuberance of his joy invited a large
party of friends to a petit souper on the morrow, for the purpose of
broaching the good old Mr. Shuttleworthy's present. Not that he said
any thing about "the good old Mr. Shuttleworthy" when he issued the
invitations. The fact is, he thought much and concluded to say nothing
at all. He did not mention to any one--if I remember aright--that he had
received a present of Chateau-Margaux. He merely asked his friends to
come and help him drink some, of a remarkable fine quality and rich
flavour, that he had ordered up from the city a couple of months ago,
and of which he would be in the receipt upon the morrow. I have often
puzzled myself to imagine why it was that "Old Charley" came to the
conclusion to say nothing about having received the wine from his
old friend, but I could never precisely understand his reason for the
silence, although he had some excellent and very magnanimous reason, no
doubt.

The morrow at length arrived, and with it a very large and highly
respectable company at Mr. Goodfellow's house. Indeed, half the borough
was there,--I myself among the number,--but, much to the vexation of the
host, the Chateau-Margaux did not arrive until a late hour, and when
the sumptuous supper supplied by "Old Charley" had been done very ample
justice by the guests. It came at length, however,--a monstrously big
box of it there was, too--and as the whole party were in excessively
good humor, it was decided, nem. con. , that it should be lifted upon the
table and its contents disembowelled forthwith.

No sooner said than done. I lent a helping hand; and, in a trice we had
the box upon the table, in the midst of all the bottles and glasses, not
a few of which were demolished in the scuffle. "Old Charley," who was
pretty much intoxicated, and excessively red in the face, now took a
seat, with an air of mock dignity, at the head of the board, and thumped
furiously upon it with a decanter, calling upon the company to keep
order "during the ceremony of disinterring the treasure. "

After some vociferation, quiet was at length fully restored, and, as
very often happens in similar cases, a profound and remarkable silence
ensued. Being then requested to force open the lid, I complied, of
course, "with an infinite deal of pleasure. " I inserted a chisel, and
giving it a few slight taps with a hammer, the top of the box flew
suddenly off, and at the same instant, there sprang up into a sitting
position, directly facing the host, the bruised, bloody, and nearly
putrid corpse of the murdered Mr. Shuttleworthy himself. It gazed for a
few seconds, fixedly and sorrowfully, with its decaying and lack-lustre
eyes, full into the countenance of Mr. Goodfellow; uttered slowly,
but clearly and impressively, the words--"Thou art the man! " and then,
falling over the side of the chest as if thoroughly satisfied, stretched
out its limbs quiveringly upon the table.

The scene that ensued is altogether beyond description. The rush for the
doors and windows was terrific, and many of the most robust men in the
room fainted outright through sheer horror. But after the first wild,
shrieking burst of affright, all eyes were directed to Mr. Goodfellow.
If I live a thousand years, I can never forget the more than mortal
agony which was depicted in that ghastly face of his, so lately rubicund
with triumph and wine. For several minutes he sat rigidly as a statue
of marble; his eyes seeming, in the intense vacancy of their gaze, to
be turned inward and absorbed in the contemplation of his own miserable,
murderous soul. At length their expression appeared to flash suddenly
out into the external world, when, with a quick leap, he sprang from his
chair, and falling heavily with his head and shoulders upon the table,
and in contact with the corpse, poured out rapidly and vehemently a
detailed confession of the hideous crime for which Mr. Pennifeather was
then imprisoned and doomed to die.

What he recounted was in substance this:--He followed his victim to the
vicinity of the pool; there shot his horse with a pistol; despatched
its rider with the butt end; possessed himself of the pocket-book, and,
supposing the horse dead, dragged it with great labour to the
brambles by the pond. Upon his own beast he slung the corpse of Mr.
Shuttleworthy, and thus bore it to a secure place of concealment a long
distance off through the woods.

The waistcoat, the knife, the pocket-book, and bullet, had been placed
by himself where found, with the view of avenging himself upon Mr.
Pennifeather. He had also contrived the discovery of the stained
handkerchief and shirt.

Towards the end of the blood-churning recital the words of the guilty
wretch faltered and grew hollow. When the record was finally exhausted,
he arose, staggered backward from the table, and fell-dead.

*****

The means by which this happily-timed confession was extorted, although
efficient, were simple indeed. Mr. Goodfellow's excess of frankness had
disgusted me, and excited my suspicions from the first. I was present
when Mr. Pennifeather had struck him, and the fiendish expression which
then arose upon his countenance, although momentary, assured me that his
threat of vengeance would, if possible, be rigidly fulfilled. I was thus
prepared to view the manoeuvering of "Old Charley" in a very different
light from that in which it was regarded by the good citizens of
Rattleborough. I saw at once that all the criminating discoveries arose,
either directly or indirectly, from himself. But the fact which clearly
opened my eyes to the true state of the case, was the affair of
the bullet, found by Mr. G. in the carcass of the horse. I had not
forgotten, although the Rattleburghers had, that there was a hole where
the ball had entered the horse, and another where it went out. If it
were found in the animal then, after having made its exit, I saw clearly
that it must have been deposited by the person who found it. The bloody
shirt and handkerchief confirmed the idea suggested by the bullet; for
the blood on examination proved to be capital claret, and no more.
When I came to think of these things, and also of the late increase of
liberality and expenditure on the part of Mr. Goodfellow, I entertained
a suspicion which was none the less strong because I kept it altogether
to myself.

In the meantime, I instituted a rigorous private search for the corpse
of Mr. Shuttleworthy, and, for good reasons, searched in quarters as
divergent as possible from those to which Mr. Goodfellow conducted his
party. The result was that, after some days, I came across an old dry
well, the mouth of which was nearly hidden by brambles; and here, at the
bottom, I discovered what I sought.

Now it so happened that I had overheard the colloquy between the two
cronies, when Mr. Goodfellow had contrived to cajole his host into the
promise of a box of Chateaux-Margaux. Upon this hint I acted. I procured
a stiff piece of whalebone, thrust it down the throat of the corpse,
and deposited the latter in an old wine box-taking care so to double
the body up as to double the whalebone with it. In this manner I had
to press forcibly upon the lid to keep it down while I secured it with
nails; and I anticipated, of course, that as soon as these latter were
removed, the top would fly off and the body up.

Having thus arranged the box, I marked, numbered, and addressed it
as already told; and then writing a letter in the name of the wine
merchants with whom Mr. Shuttleworthy dealt, I gave instructions to my
servant to wheel the box to Mr. Goodfellow's door, in a barrow, at a
given signal from myself. For the words which I intended the corpse to
speak, I confidently depended upon my ventriloquial abilities; for their
effect, I counted upon the conscience of the murderous wretch.

I believe there is nothing more to be explained. Mr. Pennifeather was
released upon the spot, inherited the fortune of his uncle, profited by
the lessons of experience, turned over a new leaf, and led happily ever
afterward a new life.




WHY THE LITTLE FRENCHMAN WEARS HIS HAND IN A SLING

IT'S on my visiting cards sure enough (and it's them that's all o'
pink satin paper) that inny gintleman that plases may behould the
intheristhin words, "Sir Pathrick O'Grandison, Barronitt, 39 Southampton
Row, Russell Square, Parrish o' Bloomsbury. " And shud ye be wantin' to
diskiver who is the pink of purliteness quite, and the laider of the hot
tun in the houl city o' Lonon--why it's jist mesilf. And fait that same
is no wonder at all at all (so be plased to stop curlin your nose), for
every inch o' the six wakes that I've been a gintleman, and left aff
wid the bogthrothing to take up wid the Barronissy, it's Pathrick that's
been living like a houly imperor, and gitting the iddication and the
graces. Och! and wouldn't it be a blessed thing for your spirrits if ye
cud lay your two peepers jist, upon Sir Pathrick O'Grandison, Barronitt,
when he is all riddy drissed for the hopperer, or stipping into the
Brisky for the drive into the Hyde Park. But it's the illigant big
figgur that I ave, for the rason o' which all the ladies fall in love
wid me. Isn't it my own swate silf now that'll missure the six fut, and
the three inches more nor that, in me stockins, and that am excadingly
will proportioned all over to match? And it is ralelly more than three
fut and a bit that there is, inny how, of the little ould furrener
Frinchman that lives jist over the way, and that's a oggling and
a goggling the houl day, (and bad luck to him,) at the purty widdy
Misthress Tracle that's my own nixt-door neighbor, (God bliss her! )
and a most particuller frind and acquaintance? You percave the little
spalpeen is summat down in the mouth, and wears his lift hand in a
sling, and it's for that same thing, by yur lave, that I'm going to give
you the good rason.

The truth of the houl matter is jist simple enough; for the very first
day that I com'd from Connaught, and showd my swate little silf in the
strait to the widdy, who was looking through the windy, it was a
gone case althegither with the heart o' the purty Misthress Tracle.
I percaved it, ye see, all at once, and no mistake, and that's God's
truth. First of all it was up wid the windy in a jiffy, and thin she
threw open her two peepers to the itmost, and thin it was a little gould
spy-glass that she clapped tight to one o' them and divil may burn me
if it didn't spake to me as plain as a peeper cud spake, and says it,
through the spy-glass: "Och! the tip o' the mornin' to ye, Sir Pathrick
O'Grandison, Barronitt, mavourneen; and it's a nate gintleman that ye
are, sure enough, and it's mesilf and me forten jist that'll be at yur
sarvice, dear, inny time o' day at all at all for the asking. " And it's
not mesilf ye wud have to be bate in the purliteness; so I made her
a bow that wud ha' broken yur heart altegither to behould, and thin I
pulled aff me hat with a flourish, and thin I winked at her hard wid
both eyes, as much as to say, "True for you, yer a swate little crature,
Mrs. Tracle, me darlint, and I wish I may be drownthed dead in a bog,
if it's not mesilf, Sir Pathrick O'Grandison, Barronitt, that'll make a
houl bushel o' love to yur leddyship, in the twinkling o' the eye of a
Londonderry purraty. "

And it was the nixt mornin', sure, jist as I was making up me mind
whither it wouldn't be the purlite thing to sind a bit o' writin' to the
widdy by way of a love-litter, when up com'd the delivery servant wid
an illigant card, and he tould me that the name on it (for I niver could
rade the copperplate printin on account of being lift handed) was all
about Mounseer, the Count, A Goose, Look--aisy, Maiter-di-dauns, and
that the houl of the divilish lingo was the spalpeeny long name of the
little ould furrener Frinchman as lived over the way.

And jist wid that in cum'd the little willian himself, and then he made
me a broth of a bow, and thin he said he had ounly taken the liberty
of doing me the honor of the giving me a call, and thin he went on to
palaver at a great rate, and divil the bit did I comprehind what he wud
be afther the tilling me at all at all, excipting and saving that he
said "pully wou, woolly wou," and tould me, among a bushel o' lies, bad
luck to him, that he was mad for the love o' my widdy Misthress Tracle,
and that my widdy Mrs. Tracle had a puncheon for him.

At the hearin' of this, ye may swear, though, I was as mad as a
grasshopper, but I remimbered that I was Sir Pathrick O'Grandison,
Barronitt, and that it wasn't althegither gentaal to lit the anger git
the upper hand o' the purliteness, so I made light o' the matter and
kipt dark, and got quite sociable wid the little chap, and afther a
while what did he do but ask me to go wid him to the widdy's, saying he
wud give me the feshionable inthroduction to her leddyship.

"Is it there ye are? " said I thin to mesilf, "and it's thrue for you,
Pathrick, that ye're the fortunittest mortal in life. We'll soon see
now whither it's your swate silf, or whither it's little Mounseer
Maiter-di-dauns, that Misthress Tracle is head and ears in the love
wid. "

Wid that we wint aff to the widdy's, next door, and ye may well say it
was an illigant place; so it was. There was a carpet all over the floor,
and in one corner there was a forty-pinny and a Jew's harp and the divil
knows what ilse, and in another corner was a sofy, the beautifullest
thing in all natur, and sitting on the sofy, sure enough, there was the
swate little angel, Misthress Tracle.

"The tip o' the mornin' to ye," says I, "Mrs. Tracle," and thin I made
sich an illigant obaysance that it wud ha quite althegither bewildered
the brain o' ye.

"Wully woo, pully woo, plump in the mud," says the little furrenner
Frinchman, "and sure Mrs. Tracle," says he, that he did, "isn't this
gintleman here jist his reverence Sir Pathrick O'Grandison, Barronitt,
and isn't he althegither and entirely the most particular frind and
acquaintance that I have in the houl world? "

And wid that the widdy, she gits up from the sofy, and makes the swatest
curthchy nor iver was seen; and thin down she sits like an angel;
and thin, by the powers, it was that little spalpeen Mounseer
Maiter-di-dauns that plumped his silf right down by the right side of
her. Och hon! I ixpicted the two eyes o' me wud ha cum'd out of my head
on the spot, I was so dispirate mad! Howiver, "Bait who! " says I, after
awhile. "Is it there ye are, Mounseer Maiter-di-dauns? " and so down I
plumped on the lift side of her leddyship, to be aven with the willain.
Botheration! it wud ha done your heart good to percave the illigant
double wink that I gived her jist thin right in the face with both eyes.

But the little ould Frinchman he niver beginned to suspict me at all
at all, and disperate hard it was he made the love to her leddyship.
"Woully wou," says he, "Pully wou," says he, "Plump in the mud," says he.

"That's all to no use, Mounseer Frog, mavourneen," thinks I; and I
talked as hard and as fast as I could all the while, and throth it was
mesilf jist that divarted her leddyship complately and intirely, by
rason of the illigant conversation that I kipt up wid her all about the
dear bogs of Connaught. And by and by she gived me such a swate smile,
from one ind of her mouth to the ither, that it made me as bould as a
pig, and I jist took hould of the ind of her little finger in the most
dillikitest manner in natur, looking at her all the while out o' the
whites of my eyes.

And then ounly percave the cuteness of the swate angel, for no sooner
did she obsarve that I was afther the squazing of her flipper, than she
up wid it in a jiffy, and put it away behind her back, jist as much as
to say, "Now thin, Sir Pathrick O'Grandison, there's a bitther chance
for ye, mavourneen, for it's not altogether the gentaal thing to be
afther the squazing of my flipper right full in the sight of that little
furrenner Frinchman, Mounseer Maiter-di-dauns. "

Wid that I giv'd her a big wink jist to say, "lit Sir Pathrick alone for
the likes o' them thricks," and thin I wint aisy to work, and you'd have
died wid the divarsion to behould how cliverly I slipped my right arm
betwane the back o' the sofy, and the back of her leddyship, and there,
sure enough, I found a swate little flipper all a waiting to say, "the
tip o' the mornin' to ye, Sir Pathrick O'Grandison, Barronitt. " And
wasn't it mesilf, sure, that jist giv'd it the laste little bit of a
squaze in the world, all in the way of a commincement, and not to be too
rough wid her leddyship? and och, botheration, wasn't it the gentaalest
and dilikittest of all the little squazes that I got in return? "Blood
and thunder, Sir Pathrick, mavourneen," thinks I to mesilf, "fait it's
jist the mother's son of you, and nobody else at all at all, that's the
handsomest and the fortunittest young bog-throtter that ever cum'd out
of Connaught! " And with that I givd the flipper a big squaze, and a big
squaze it was, by the powers, that her leddyship giv'd to me back. But
it would ha split the seven sides of you wid the laffin' to
behould, jist then all at once, the consated behavior of Mounseer
Maiter-di-dauns. The likes o' sich a jabbering, and a smirking, and a
parley-wouing as he begin'd wid her leddyship, niver was known before
upon arth; and divil may burn me if it wasn't me own very two peepers
that cotch'd him tipping her the wink out of one eye. Och, hon! if it
wasn't mesilf thin that was mad as a Kilkenny cat I shud like to be
tould who it was!

"Let me infarm you, Mounseer Maiter-di-dauns," said I, as purlite as
iver ye seed, "that it's not the gintaal thing at all at all, and not
for the likes o' you inny how, to be afther the oggling and a goggling
at her leddyship in that fashion," and jist wid that such another squaze
as it was I giv'd her flipper, all as much as to say, "isn't it Sir
Pathrick now, my jewel, that'll be able to the proticting o' you, my
darlint? " and then there cum'd another squaze back, all by way of the
answer. "Thrue for you, Sir Pathrick," it said as plain as iver a squaze
said in the world, "Thrue for you, Sir Pathrick, mavourneen, and it's
a proper nate gintleman ye are--that's God's truth," and with that she
opened her two beautiful peepers till I belaved they wud ha' cum'd out
of her hid althegither and intirely, and she looked first as mad as a
cat at Mounseer Frog, and thin as smiling as all out o' doors at mesilf.

"Thin," says he, the willian, "Och hon! and a wolly-wou, pully-wou," and
then wid that he shoved up his two shoulders till the divil the bit of
his hid was to be diskivered, and then he let down the two corners of
his purraty-trap, and thin not a haporth more of the satisfaction could
I git out o' the spalpeen.

Belave me, my jewel, it was Sir Pathrick that was unreasonable mad thin,
and the more by token that the Frinchman kipt an wid his winking at the
widdy; and the widdy she kept an wid the squazing of my flipper, as much
as to say, "At him again, Sir Pathrick O'Grandison, mavourneen:" so I
just ripped out wid a big oath, and says I;

"Ye little spalpeeny frog of a bog-throtting son of a bloody noun! "--and
jist thin what d'ye think it was that her leddyship did? Troth she
jumped up from the sofy as if she was bit, and made off through
the door, while I turned my head round afther her, in a complate
bewilderment and botheration, and followed her wid me two peepers. You
percave I had a reason of my own for knowing that she couldn't git down
the stares althegither and intirely; for I knew very well that I had
hould of her hand, for the divil the bit had I iver lit it go. And says
I; "Isn't it the laste little bit of a mistake in the world that ye've
been afther the making, yer leddyship? Come back now, that's a darlint,
and I'll give ye yur flipper. " But aff she wint down the stairs like a
shot, and thin I turned round to the little Frinch furrenner. Och hon!
if it wasn't his spalpeeny little paw that I had hould of in my own--why
thin--thin it wasn't--that's all.

And maybe it wasn't mesilf that jist died then outright wid the laffin',
to behold the little chap when he found out that it wasn't the widdy at
all at all that he had had hould of all the time, but only Sir Pathrick
O'Grandison. The ould divil himself niver behild sich a long face as he
pet an! As for Sir Pathrick O'Grandison, Barronitt, it wasn't for
the likes of his riverence to be afther the minding of a thrifle of a
mistake. Ye may jist say, though (for it's God's thruth), that afore I
left hould of the flipper of the spalpeen (which was not till afther her
leddyship's futman had kicked us both down the stairs), I giv'd it such a
nate little broth of a squaze as made it all up into raspberry jam.

"Woully wou," says he, "pully wou," says he--"Cot tam! "

And that's jist the thruth of the rason why he wears his lift hand in a
sling.



BON-BON.

Quand un bon vin meuble mon estomac,
Je suis plus savant que Balzac-- Plus sage que Pibrac;
Mon brass seul faisant l'attaque
De la nation Coseaque,
La mettroit au sac;
De Charon je passerois le lac,
En dormant dans son bac;
J'irois au fier Eac,
Sans que mon c? ur fit tic ni tac,
Presenter du tabac.
French Vaudeville

THAT Pierre Bon-Bon was a _restaurateur_ of uncommon qualifications,
no man who, during the reign of----, frequented the little Cafe in the
cul-de-sac Le Febvre at Rouen, will, I imagine, feel himself at liberty
to dispute. That Pierre Bon-Bon was, in an equal degree, skilled in
the philosophy of that period is, I presume, still more especially
undeniable. His _pates a la fois_ were beyond doubt immaculate; but
what pen can do justice to his essays _sur la Nature_--his thoughts sur
_l'Ame_--his observations _sur l'Esprit? _ If his _omelettes_--if his
_fricandeaux_ were inestimable, what _litterateur_ of that day would not
have given twice as much for an "_Idee de Bon-Bon_" as for all the trash
of "_Idees_" of all the rest of the _savants? _ Bon-Bon had ransacked
libraries which no other man had ransacked--had more than any other
would have entertained a notion of reading--had understood more than
any other would have conceived the possibility of understanding; and
although, while he flourished, there were not wanting some authors at
Rouen to assert "that his _dicta_ evinced neither the purity of the
Academy, nor the depth of the Lyceum"--although, mark me, his doctrines
were by no means very generally comprehended, still it did not follow
that they were difficult of comprehension. It was, I think, on account
of their self-evidency that many persons were led to consider them
abstruse. It is to Bon-Bon--but let this go no farther--it is to Bon-Bon
that Kant himself is mainly indebted for his metaphysics. The former was
indeed not a Platonist, nor strictly speaking an Aristotelian--nor did
he, like the modern Leibnitz, waste those precious hours which might
be employed in the invention of a _fricasee_ or, _facili gradu_, the
analysis of a sensation, in frivolous attempts at reconciling the
obstinate oils and waters of ethical discussion. Not at all. Bon-Bon was
Ionic--Bon-Bon was equally Italic. He reasoned _a priori_--He reasoned
also _a posteriori_. His ideas were innate--or otherwise. He believed in
George of Trebizonde--He believed in Bossarion [Bessarion]. Bon-Bon was
emphatically a--Bon-Bonist.

I have spoken of the philosopher in his capacity of _restaurateur_. I
would not, however, have any friend of mine imagine that, in fulfilling
his hereditary duties in that line, our hero wanted a proper estimation
of their dignity and importance. Far from it. It was impossible to say
in which branch of his profession he took the greater pride. In his
opinion the powers of the intellect held intimate connection with the
capabilities of the stomach. I am not sure, indeed, that he greatly
disagreed with the Chinese, who held that the soul lies in the abdomen.
The Greeks at all events were right, he thought, who employed the same
words for the mind and the diaphragm. (*1) By this I do not mean to
insinuate a charge of gluttony, or indeed any other serious charge
to the prejudice of the metaphysician. If Pierre Bon-Bon had his
failings--and what great man has not a thousand? --if Pierre Bon-Bon,
I say, had his failings, they were failings of very little
importance--faults indeed which, in other tempers, have often been
looked upon rather in the light of virtues. As regards one of these
foibles, I should not even have mentioned it in this history but for the
remarkable prominency--the extreme _alto relievo_--in which it jutted
out from the plane of his general disposition. He could never let slip
an opportunity of making a bargain.

{*1} MD

Not that he was avaricious--no. It was by no means necessary to the
satisfaction of the philosopher, that the bargain should be to his own
proper advantage. Provided a trade could be effected--a trade of any
kind, upon any terms, or under any circumstances--a triumphant smile
was seen for many days thereafter to enlighten his countenance, and a
knowing wink of the eye to give evidence of his sagacity.

At any epoch it would not be very wonderful if a humor so peculiar as
the one I have just mentioned, should elicit attention and remark.
At the epoch of our narrative, had this peculiarity not attracted
observation, there would have been room for wonder indeed. It was soon
reported that, upon all occasions of the kind, the smile of Bon-Bon was
wont to differ widely from the downright grin with which he would laugh
at his own jokes, or welcome an acquaintance. Hints were thrown out of
an exciting nature; stories were told of perilous bargains made in
a hurry and repented of at leisure; and instances were adduced of
unaccountable capacities, vague longings, and unnatural inclinations
implanted by the author of all evil for wise purposes of his own.

The philosopher had other weaknesses--but they are scarcely worthy our
serious examination. For example, there are few men of extraordinary
profundity who are found wanting in an inclination for the bottle.
Whether this inclination be an exciting cause, or rather a valid proof
of such profundity, it is a nice thing to say. Bon-Bon, as far as I can
learn, did not think the subject adapted to minute investigation;--nor
do I. Yet in the indulgence of a propensity so truly classical, it
is not to be supposed that the restaurateur would lose sight of that
intuitive discrimination which was wont to characterize, at one and the
same time, his essais and his omelettes. In his seclusions the Vin de
Bourgogne had its allotted hour, and there were appropriate moments for
the Cotes du Rhone. With him Sauterne was to Medoc what Catullus was to
Homer. He would sport with a syllogism in sipping St. Peray, but unravel
an argument over Clos de Vougeot, and upset a theory in a torrent of
Chambertin. Well had it been if the same quick sense of propriety
had attended him in the peddling propensity to which I have formerly
alluded--but this was by no means the case. Indeed to say the truth,
that trait of mind in the philosophic Bon-Bon did begin at length to
assume a character of strange intensity and mysticism, and appeared
deeply tinctured with the diablerie of his favorite German studies.

To enter the little Cafe in the cul-de-sac Le Febvre was, at the period
of our tale, to enter the sanctum of a man of genius. Bon-Bon was a man
of genius. There was not a sous-cusinier in Rouen, who could not have
told you that Bon-Bon was a man of genius. His very cat knew it, and
forebore to whisk her tail in the presence of the man of genius. His
large water-dog was acquainted with the fact, and upon the approach
of his master, betrayed his sense of inferiority by a sanctity of
deportment, a debasement of the ears, and a dropping of the lower jaw
not altogether unworthy of a dog. It is, however, true that much of this
habitual respect might have been attributed to the personal appearance
of the metaphysician. A distinguished exterior will, I am constrained to
say, have its way even with a beast; and I am willing to allow much
in the outward man of the restaurateur calculated to impress the
imagination of the quadruped. There is a peculiar majesty about the
atmosphere of the little great--if I may be permitted so equivocal an
expression--which mere physical bulk alone will be found at all times
inefficient in creating.
If, however, Bon-Bon was barely three feet in
height, and if his head was diminutively small, still it was impossible
to behold the rotundity of his stomach without a sense of magnificence
nearly bordering upon the sublime. In its size both dogs and men
must have seen a type of his acquirements--in its immensity a fitting
habitation for his immortal soul.

I might here--if it so pleased me--dilate upon the matter of habiliment,
and other mere circumstances of the external metaphysician. I might
hint that the hair of our hero was worn short, combed smoothly over
his forehead, and surmounted by a conical-shaped white flannel cap and
tassels--that his pea-green jerkin was not after the fashion of those
worn by the common class of restaurateurs at that day--that the sleeves
were something fuller than the reigning costume permitted--that the
cuffs were turned up, not as usual in that barbarous period, with
cloth of the same quality and color as the garment, but faced in a more
fanciful manner with the particolored velvet of Genoa--that his slippers
were of a bright purple, curiously filigreed, and might have been
manufactured in Japan, but for the exquisite pointing of the toes, and
the brilliant tints of the binding and embroidery--that his breeches
were of the yellow satin-like material called aimable--that his sky-blue
cloak, resembling in form a dressing-wrapper, and richly bestudded all
over with crimson devices, floated cavalierly upon his shoulders like
a mist of the morning--and that his tout ensemble gave rise to the
remarkable words of Benevenuta, the Improvisatrice of Florence, "that
it was difficult to say whether Pierre Bon-Bon was indeed a bird of
Paradise, or rather a very Paradise of perfection. " I might, I say,
expatiate upon all these points if I pleased,--but I forbear, merely
personal details may be left to historical novelists,--they are beneath
the moral dignity of matter-of-fact.

I have said that "to enter the Cafe in the cul-de-sac Le Febvre was to
enter the sanctum of a man of genius"--but then it was only the man
of genius who could duly estimate the merits of the sanctum. A sign,
consisting of a vast folio, swung before the entrance. On one side of
the volume was painted a bottle; on the reverse a pate. On the back
were visible in large letters Oeuvres de Bon-Bon. Thus was delicately
shadowed forth the two-fold occupation of the proprietor.

Upon stepping over the threshold, the whole interior of the building
presented itself to view. A long, low-pitched room, of antique
construction, was indeed all the accommodation afforded by the Cafe. In
a corner of the apartment stood the bed of the metaphysician. An army
of curtains, together with a canopy a la Grecque, gave it an air at once
classic and comfortable. In the corner diagonary opposite, appeared,
in direct family communion, the properties of the kitchen and the
bibliotheque. A dish of polemics stood peacefully upon the dresser.
Here lay an ovenful of the latest ethics--there a kettle of dudecimo
melanges. Volumes of German morality were hand and glove with
the gridiron--a toasting-fork might be discovered by the side of
Eusebius--Plato reclined at his ease in the frying-pan--and contemporary
manuscripts were filed away upon the spit.

In other respects the Cafe de Bon-Bon might be said to differ little
from the usual restaurants of the period. A fireplace yawned opposite
the door. On the right of the fireplace an open cupboard displayed a
formidable array of labelled bottles.

It was here, about twelve o'clock one night during the severe winter
the comments of his neighbours upon his singular propensity--that Pierre
Bon-Bon, I say, having turned them all out of his house, locked the door
upon them with an oath, and betook himself in no very pacific mood to
the comforts of a leather-bottomed arm-chair, and a fire of blazing
fagots.

It was one of those terrific nights which are only met with once or
twice during a century. It snowed fiercely, and the house tottered to
its centre with the floods of wind that, rushing through the crannies
in the wall, and pouring impetuously down the chimney, shook awfully the
curtains of the philosopher's bed, and disorganized the economy of his
pate-pans and papers. The huge folio sign that swung without, exposed to
the fury of the tempest, creaked ominously, and gave out a moaning sound
from its stanchions of solid oak.

It was in no placid temper, I say, that the metaphysician drew up his
chair to its customary station by the hearth. Many circumstances of a
perplexing nature had occurred during the day, to disturb the serenity
of his meditations. In attempting des oeufs a la Princesse, he had
unfortunately perpetrated an omelette a la Reine; the discovery of a
principle in ethics had been frustrated by the overturning of a stew;
and last, not least, he had been thwarted in one of those admirable
bargains which he at all times took such especial delight in bringing
to a successful termination. But in the chafing of his mind at these
unaccountable vicissitudes, there did not fail to be mingled some degree
of that nervous anxiety which the fury of a boisterous night is so well
calculated to produce. Whistling to his more immediate vicinity the
large black water-dog we have spoken of before, and settling himself
uneasily in his chair, he could not help casting a wary and unquiet eye
toward those distant recesses of the apartment whose inexorable shadows
not even the red firelight itself could more than partially succeed in
overcoming. Having completed a scrutiny whose exact purpose was perhaps
unintelligible to himself, he drew close to his seat a small table
covered with books and papers, and soon became absorbed in the task
of retouching a voluminous manuscript, intended for publication on the
morrow.

He had been thus occupied for some minutes when "I am in no hurry,
Monsieur Bon-Bon," suddenly whispered a whining voice in the apartment.

"The devil! " ejaculated our hero, starting to his feet, overturning the
table at his side, and staring around him in astonishment.

"Very true," calmly replied the voice.

"Very true! --what is very true? --how came you here? " vociferated the
metaphysician, as his eye fell upon something which lay stretched at
full length upon the bed.

"I was saying," said the intruder, without attending to the
interrogatives,--"I was saying that I am not at all pushed for
time--that the business upon which I took the liberty of calling, is of
no pressing importance--in short, that I can very well wait until you
have finished your Exposition. "

"My Exposition! --there now! --how do you know? --how came you to
understand that I was writing an Exposition? --good God! "

"Hush! " replied the figure, in a shrill undertone; and, arising quickly
from the bed, he made a single step toward our hero, while an iron lamp
that depended over-head swung convulsively back from his approach.

The philosopher's amazement did not prevent a narrow scrutiny of the
stranger's dress and appearance. The outlines of his 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 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 a 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 toward our hero--a deep sigh--and altogether a
look of such utter sanctity as could not have failed to be unequivocally
preposessing. 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--he maintained lightly upon his head an
inordinately tall hat--there was a tremulous swelling about 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 person for whom he had
at all times entertained the most unqualified respect. He was, however,
too much of the diplomatist to let escape him any intimation of his
suspicions 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 the 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 visitor'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 fagots upon the fire,
and place upon the now re-established table some bottles of Mousseux.
Having quickly completed these operations, he drew his chair vis-a-vis
to his companion's, and waited until the latter 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 nonplussed 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, loudly, 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, he felt a little astonishment to see
the white letters which formed the words "Rituel Catholique" on the
book in his guest's pocket, momently changing both their color and their
import, and in a few seconds, in place of the original title the words
Regitre des Condamnes blazed 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 probably might, not otherwise
have been observed.

"Why sir," said the philosopher, "why sir, to speak sincerely--I 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 much increased 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 flesh.

It was not in the nature of the metaphysician to forbear making some
inquiry into the sources of so strange a phenomenon, and 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--which are
being engendered in her pericranium? There it is, now--you do not! She
is thinking we admire the length of her tail and the profundity of
her mind. She has just concluded that I am the most distinguished of
ecclesiastics, and that you are the most superficial 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
optical affairs 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 put down his glass
after a thorough compliance with his visiter's injunction. "A clever
book that of yours, upon my honor. It's a work after my own heart. Your
arrangement of the 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 it was I who 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 it implied--"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 aulos. He said that he would do so,
and went home, while I stepped over to the pyramids. But my conscience
smote me for having uttered a truth, even to aid a friend, and hastening
back to Athens, I arrived behind the philosopher's chair as he was
inditing the 'aulos. '"

"Giving the lambda a fillip with my finger, I turned it upside down. So
the sentence now read 'o nous estin augos', and is, you perceive, the
fundamental doctrines in 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
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 a time when occurred
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. " (*2)

{*2} Ils ecrivaient sur la Philosophie (_Cicero, Lucretius,
Seneca_) mais c'etait la Philosophie Grecque. --_Condorcet_.

"What do you think of--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,
apparently much flattered.

"That's a lie! " repeated the restaurateur, dogmatically; "that's
a--hiccup! --a lie! "

"Well, well, have it your own way! " said the devil, pacifically, and
Bon-Bon, having beaten his Majesty at 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 outre 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, 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 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.