Chapter LXXXVII: Act I: Scene 2. New York, towards the end of the summer of 1780 (18)

{689} Having described three distinct and separate orders of mind, remarkable for different kinds of associations, and all widely differing in the possession of that information suited to social converse, I come now to compare the sexes together, in relation to the second point essential to conversation, the power of communicating our knowledge pleasantly and attractively to others. He undoubtedly is the most pleasing companion in the social circle whose mind is of that capacious, well stored kind that is capable of ranging at will through the various classes of associations just pointed out, giving you at one time connections and relations of abstract principles, or philosophical deductions--at another, of analogies between objects, effects, and emotions--and at another, interesting and circumstantial details of the common events of every day life. "Conversation," says a modern writer, "may be compared to a lyre with seven chords--philosophy, art, poetry, politics, love, scandal, and the weather. There are some professors who, like Paganini, 'can discourse most eloquent music' upon one string only, and some who can grasp the whole instrument, and with a master's hand, sound it from the top to the bottom of its compass." Such individuals as these are very rare. Perhaps Dr. Johnson,[13] McIntosh and Coleridge might be cited as specimens in England, and Schlegel in Germany. Individuals of this character are very rare, because in the first place, there are very few whose minds are capable of ranging through the whole extent of knowledge; and secondly, it does by no means follow, that those possessing the information, might be able to communicate it to others with that brilliancy of diction, and judgment in the selection of matter and its quantity, which will insure complete success in the social circle.

[Footnote 13: Johnson's style in conversation must have been too grandiloquent and studied, to have admitted of that variety and ease so necessary to the social circle.]

I will make a few promiscuous remarks on these two points. Men of deeply philosophic minds, are almost sure, from the character of their speculations, to glide imperceptibly into habits of abstraction, and to withdraw their attention from the scenes and occurrences transpiring around them, to the contemplation of that world of thought in which they dwell. Their thoughts are not the thoughts of other men; the world in which they live is not the world of others. A Newton, while wrapt in these philosophic visions, can sit for hours in the cold, half dressed, eyes fixed, unconscious of all around him; he can forget to dine; he can, in fine, forget himself, his friends, and the world in which he lives. An Adam Smith, while studying the great laws which regulate the accumulation, distribution, and consumption of wealth, can so far forget himself and the world, as to mimic with his cane, a soldier, who presents arms to him through respect, and march after him when he moves off; he can be present when toasts are drunk, and know nothing of what is passing.[14] Minds of this order are almost sure to neglect associations of a lighter character. They fail to acquire that species of information which is most pleasing in conversation. And, moreover, they are apt to have what are called _slow_ memories; they cannot call up their knowledge quick, and utter it with volubility. The process by which they hive their wisdom is slow and tedious, depending on patient thought, and persevering reflection. Such a mind has been compared, in the social circle, to a ship of the line run a ground in a creek. It is too massive and ponderous for the element and space in which it floats. It is said that Newton was rather slow and dull in conversation even upon philosophical subjects. Many an individual in Europe, of far inferior genius, was more brilliant in conversation than himself, even upon his own discoveries. Descartes, whose mind was of the first order, was silent in mixed company. It was said that he received his intellectual wealth from nature in _solid bars_, not in _current coin_.[15] Men like these are better pleased with the contemplation of the solid wealth in their possession, than with the means of making it glitter and attract the gaze of the world. They value ideas more than words--knowledge more than the _media_ of communication. They think it better, as Spurzheim on Education says, to have two ideas with one mode of expressing them, than one idea with two modes of expression. Such men as these then are apt, unless stimulated by very peculiar circumstances, to be deficient, first, in that variety requisite for agreeable conversation, and secondly, in the style and power of communicating their ideas to others.

[Footnote 14: It is said that Dr. Smith was one day present, when the toast to "absent friends" was drank by the company. A friend who sat by the Doctor, told him that he had just been toasted, whereupon he thanked the company for the honor, and apologised for his absence of mind, very much of course to the amusement of his friends so well aware of his habits of abstraction.]

[Footnote 15: The character of Oliver Cromwell in this respect is well known. He did not, during his whole parliamentary career, make one single lucid, perspicuous speech. In fact, his speaking was almost unintelligible; and yet his course of conduct, although that of an usurper and tyrant, marks most generally, clearness of judgment, and great decision of character. Of course I am not here considering his moral character, which was detestable.]

Again, men of poetic or miscellaneous minds, possessing that varied store of knowledge and thought so well calculated to form the staple of conversation, may nevertheless, from various causes, be unable to make any display in the social circle. They may write beautifully whilst they converse badly. Addison's dulness in company is well known. Peter Corneille, who has been called the Shakspeare of France, it is said, did not _speak_ correctly that language of which he was so perfect a master in his composition. His answer to his friends, when laughing at his spoken language was, "_I am not the less Peter Corneille!_" Virgil is said to have been dull in the social circle. La Fontaine, whose writing was the very model of poetry, was coarse, heavy, and stupid in conversation. Chaucer's silence was said to be much more agreeable than his talking. And Dryden says of himself, "My conversation is slow and dull, my humor saturnine and reserved." Thus do we find that it is not only necessary that the mind should be stored with pleasing and varied knowledge, in order that we may converse well; but we must have besides the power of communicating that knowledge agreeably to others--a power which is by no means universally coupled with the knowledge.

Let us then for a moment examine into the character of woman in this respect. We have already seen that she has more of the _proper materiel_ for conversation than {690} man. If then her power and manner of communicating be better, she may certainly be pronounced his superior in the social circle. In the first place I would remark, that she has in general much less professional bias than man. When men arrive at the age of maturity, they generally engage in some one profession or occupation, which employs most of their time and exertion. Their intellectual characters are, to a very great degree, modelled by their employments. Hence an inaptitude to acquire what does not belong to one's business--an indocility upon all subjects not strictly professional. I recollect once to have been a member of a country debating society, in which we had divines, lawyers, doctors, farmers, schoolmasters, &c., and upon all topics discussed, it was easy to determine at once the profession of the speaker. You saw immediately the professional bias and the professional language and knowledge. Woman is in general, except so far as affected by her husband, free from this influence, which is so unfavorable to that varied and brilliant conversation suited to promiscuous society.

Again, the social circle is the field in which woman wins her trophies, displays her accomplishments, and achieves her conquests. The art of pleasing by conversation is all and all to her. The power of colloquial display is her greatest accomplishment--her most irresistible weapon. Hence, while man in general aims to make himself plain and perspicuous, woman endeavors not only to be understood, but to delight and fascinate the hearer at the same time by her style and manner. "Man in conversation," says Rousseau, "has need of knowledge--woman of taste." We are instructed profoundly in a _few things_ by the conversation of an intelligent man. The conversation of woman embraces _many things_, and though we may not be profoundly instructed in any, yet we have a living and moving panoramic view presented to the mind, which sooths and charms it by the beauty, variety, and brilliancy of the parts. Rousseau was so struck with the differences between the sexes in conversation, that he seems (I think erroneously) to imagine a natural difference in this respect between them. "Women," says he, "have a more flexible tongue: they speak sooner, more easily, and more agreeably than men. They are accused of speaking more. That is just as it should be; this should be considered an ornament of the sex, and not a reproach. Their mouth and eyes have the same activity, and for the same reason."

The occupations of women are generally of such a character as to allow full scope for their conversational talents, while their work is advancing. Knitting, sewing, &c. invite to a free use of the tongue, while the occupations of men will generally allow of no such indulgence. Moreover, the business of woman is oftener social; it can be carried on in society; whereas that of man cannot, being generally much more solitary. This difference in the occupations of the two, produces a much greater effect on the social differences between the sexes than most persons are aware of. Lastly, the greater _docility_ of woman, her greater susceptibility to impression, have a tendency to generate more conversational talent than is developed in man. Woman, as we have frequently remarked, is made physically weaker than man; she is, therefore, dependent on him, and looks up to him as a protector. Man is the governing member of the human family all over the world. Woman submits to his guidance and direction. She adapts herself to him, and endeavors to conform to his nature. Hence a quiet submissiveness on the part of the weaker sex to control and dictation, even when very intelligent, and able to act for themselves. I have known intelligent women look up to their husbands for direction in most matters, and with pleasure submit to their will, when it was evident to the whole world that they were vastly superior in intellectual endowments to those whose dictation and direction they thus seemed to court. All a woman's ambition is for the promotion of her husband. Her own elevation is generally a secondary matter, because always derived from his. Shakspeare makes even the fiendish acts of Lady Macbeth, to proceed from a desire to elevate her own husband rather than herself. This condition of woman makes her more docile and susceptible of impression. Her nature becomes more pliant and flexible. At one period of her life she may be the wife of a divine, at another of a lawyer, and at a third of a physician: and she can quickly conform to these different natures with which she has to deal. Her docility is far superior to that of man. Mr. Stewart thinks that women learn languages even with greater quickness, and pronounce them much better than men. He says Fox spoke French better than any Englishman of his acquaintance, but he knew many females who spoke it better than he.

Now this greater docility and susceptibility of impression, while it admirably adapts the weaker to the stronger sex, at the same time improves greatly the conversational powers of woman. She is alive to all that is passing around; she sees what our duller eyes fail to behold. She thus gathers more, and details it more vividly and impressively. While we are gathering general and stale news, she collects that which is more special and impressive. Every one who has ever been in the habit of paying what are called morning visits, with intelligent ladies, must have remarked the great difference between the sexes in this respect.

Before leaving the subject of conversation, I shall take leave to make a few remarks on the practice so prevalent among the married and elderly gentlemen, of separating themselves from the rest of the company at dinner parties and evening gatherings, to talk among themselves on those topics more congenial to their feelings and business. Such an abstraction as this leaves the young to themselves, and frees them from a restraint which may sometimes be irksome, but is almost always salutary. The elderly portion are in the habit of excusing themselves, by saying the conversation of the young is too frivolous for their attention; that their tastes have changed, and they take now no pleasure in the gaieties, pastimes, and frivolities of youth. But they should recollect that this division is calculated to produce that very frivolity of which they complain. Separate the old and intelligent from the young and thoughtless, and you immediately give a loose to all the wild, buoyant feelings of youth. Lycurgus could never have succeeded in Sparta in enforcing so completely his celebrated system of laws, but for the public tables, which brought the old and young, intelligent and simple together. The young learned modesty in the presence of the old, and the ignorant imbibed wisdom from the instruction of the intelligent. If our most intelligent {691} men would always mingle in the social circle, they would elevate the character of the topics discussed, while they would stimulate the young to more thought and intellectual exertion. The young would be improved by the instruction they would receive, and the laudable ambition that would be exerted by the example of the old and intelligent; and the latter would be compensated by the great improvement which social intercourse produces on all our finer feelings, tastes, and emotions, by the cultivation of talents which would otherwise become dormant and useless, and the consequent opening of new sources of enjoyment. But duty to the rising generation--particularly to that portion for whom we feel the warmest solicitude, because the weaker and more dependent--absolutely demands this intercourse. It would elevate the intellectual character of the sex, and thereby improve the general condition of society. Our wives and daughters would become fit companions for intelligent husbands, and the social circle would lose its unmeaning conversation and reckless frivolity in the presence of age and intelligence.

The social circles of France are greatly improved by the free and unrestrained intercourse of all ages together. There is no man in Paris, it matters not what is his standing or intelligence, but has social ambition; he aims at distinction in conversation, at reputation in the social circle, no less than he does at winning trophies in the field, or fame in the senate chamber. The consequence is, that, frivolous as we consider that people as a nation, they far excel us in the social circle, both in the dignity of the topics discussed, and the ability displayed by both sexes, especially by the females, in conversation. Women who enjoy the society and conversation of the wittiest and greatest men of their country will themselves become witty and clever. "I was talking," says Bulwer in his France, "one evening with the master of the house where I had been dining, on some subject of trade and politics, which I engaged in unwillingly in the idea that it was not very likely to interest the lady. I was soon rather astonished, I confess, to find her enter into conversation with a knowledge of detail and a right perception of general principles which I did not expect. 'How do you think,' said she, when I afterward expressed my surprise, 'that I could meet my husband every evening at dinner, if I were not able to talk on the topics on which he has been employed in the morning.'" Let us then at least imitate the French in this particular, certain that it will in the process of time be productive of the most marked and happy result.

For the same reason that woman surpasses man in conversation, she is superior to him in epistolary composition. Her letters are generally more varied, more lively and impressive, more replete with interesting facts and details, than those of our sex. A gentleman, in writing a mere letter of friendship, is engaged in a business which rather breaks in on his habits, and interrupts for a time the accustomed routine of his thoughts and tastes. He is very apt to run off upon the general news of the day, and commence prosing upon some subject which we would find perhaps infinitely better handled in the public prints than in his letter. He has no variety; he forgets to tell us of our friends, and of what they are doing and saying. He forgets that we have hearts, and thinks only of our heads. He omits to mention trifles, because he considers them "light as air," when some of these trifles might touch a chord that would vibrate to the heart, and fill the soul with joy and gratitude. When Mr. Dacre writes to the Duke of Fitzjames, in the Young Duke, and says in conclusion, "_Mary_ desires me to present her regards to you"--this was worth all the letter besides to the young duke; 'twas this he read over and over again, and forgot his estates and his debts, while his heart was reeling with gratitude for just this little kindness from _her_ whom he loved so devotedly. With woman, letter writing is in complete unison with her condition in society. The details of most interest to her correspondents are precisely those with which she is most conversant. She presents no mutilated picture; she gives that which delights. She is apt to know, too, the little Goshen of our hearts, and to pay all due attention to it. And she is sure to tell, as if by accident, precisely the _sweetest_ things in the world to _us_. She writes with ease, variety, and interest--because she pursues the course of the celebrated Madame de Sévigné, (who has never perhaps had an equal in our sex for epistolary composition.) "Il faut un peu entre bons amis," says Madame de S. "laisser trotter les plumes comme elles veulent, la mienne a toujours la bride sur le cou."

I had intended, before concluding my remarks on the intellectual differences of the sexes, to offer some considerations in favor of improving the system of female education; but my number has already expanded to a size greatly beyond my anticipations when I commenced it. This subject I must therefore postpone for the present, and resume it in my next, if my time and occupations will permit me.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO F----.

And could'st thou F---- then believe
That I had thought thy guileless heart
Would prompt thee meanly to deceive,
And stoop to play a treacherous part?

No, lady no!--I saw thee move,
Artless in unsuspecting youth;
That heart I saw had learn'd to love
The hallowed sanctity of _truth_.

Could F----'s throbbing bosom beat
Victims on victims to ensnare:
Point to the lovers at her feet,
And proudly count the captives there?

No, lady no! to honor true,
Thou would'st not--could'st not thus appear--
Triumphs like these would seem to you,
Too dearly purchased to be dear.

These, these are arts alone allied
To spirits yet akin to earth;
The generous soul with nobler pride
Spurns the poor trick, and trusts to worth.

Yes, lady yes! such worth as thine,
Which kindred worth and genius rules,
To baser spirits may resign
The mad idolatry of fools.

H.

{692}

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO MARY.

_Tune_.--Gramachree.

The vernal month comes on with flowers
To deck the plains around,
No more the frown of winter lowers,
Or chills the fertile ground.

The snow-white lily, nature's pride,
Now blooms in every vale,
The rose breathes fragrance far and wide,
And perfumes every gale.

The vocal thrush pours forth her note
To hail the gladsome morn,
And every warbler strains his throat,
From garden, brake, and thorn.

Come then, dear Mary, let us fly
To join the impassioned lay,
And pluck each flower whose modest eye
Just opens into day.

And whilst we view the sweetest charms
That grace the new born year,
I'll fold thee gently in my arms,
And crush each budding care.

I'll say the blush upon thy cheek
Outvies the rose's hue,
The lily blooming o'er the vale,
No purer is than you.

But soon kind nature's sweetest flowers
Will wither and decay,
And that bright glow which decks thy cheek,
Like them will fade away:

But let not this alarm thy peace,
Nor tremble at thy doom,
For though the flush of youth will cease,
Thy soul shall ever bloom.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

SONG.

I will twine me a wreath of life's withering flowers,
And bind with their brightness this aching heart,
And wear a smile through the long, long hours,
As if in their gladness I bore a part.

I will seek mid the gay and festive throng,
To check each thought of the love I cherished,
And playfully murmur his favorite song,
As if not a tone of its sweetness had perished.

Tho' the flowers of feeling are fallen and faded,
Yet the fragrance of memory may still remain:--
And the heart by their withered leaves o'ershaded,
May hide the wound though it nurse the pain.

And if ever we meet upon earth again,
He shall not know it by word or by token:
For the eye shall still sparkle, though only with pain,
And the lip wear a smile, while the heart may be broken.

MORNA.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

REMEMBER ME, LOVE.

By the late Mrs. ANN ROY, of Mathews county, Virginia.

When afar thou art roaming love,
In sunny climes where maidens' eyes
Beam bright as their own glowing skies,
Where lofty domes and scented bowers
Gleam with the golden orange flowers;
And many a column and fallen fane
Tell of Italia's buried fame:
Oh! then remember me, love!

When woo'd by the proud and gay, love,
And mirthful smiles and voices sweet,
As angel's lutes united meet
Thy eager ear, thy raptured glance,
As they pass thee by in the joyous dance,
Ah pause and think of the _lonely_ one,
Whose bosom throbs for _thee_ alone:
Oh! then remember me, love!

Fame's glittering wreath allures thee, love;
Ah, when thou bindest it round thy brow,
And heartless crowds around thee bow;
When stern ambition's meed is won,
Ah, think of her who urged thee on
To climb the proudest height of fame,
And carve thyself a deathless name:
Oh! then remember me, love!

And should grief or death assail me, love,
While thou art o'er the dark blue wave,
And carest not to soothe or save,
My latest sigh shall be breathed for thee,
On my fading lips thy name shall be,
And my dying words shall be a prayer
To heaven that thou mayest love me there:
Oh! then remember me, love!

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO SARAH.

When melancholy and alone,
I sit on some moss-covered stone
Beside a murm'ring stream;
I think I hear thy voice's sound
In every tuneful thing around,
Oh! what a pleasant dream.

The silvery streamlet gurgling on,
The mock-bird chirping on the thorn,
Remind me, love, of thee.
They seem to whisper thoughts of love,
As thou didst when the stars above
Witnessed thy vows to me;--

The gentle zephyr floating by,
In chorus to my pensive sigh,
Recalls the hour of bliss,
When from thy balmy lips I drew
Fragrance as sweet as Hermia's dew,
And left the first fond kiss.

In such an hour, when are forgot,
The world, its cares, and my own lot,
Thou seemest then to be,
A gentle guardian spirit given
To guide my wandering thoughts to heaven,
If they should stray from thee.

SYLVIO.

{693}

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

BON-BON--A TALE.

BY EDGAR A. POE.

"Notre Gulliver"--dit le Lord Bolingbroke--"a de telles fables."--_Voltaire_.

That Pierre Bon-Bon was a Restaurateur of uncommon qualifications, no man who, during the reign of ----, frequented the little Câfé 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 _Patés à 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 _literateur_ of that day would not have given twice as much for an '_Idée de Bon-Bon_' as for all the trash of all the '_Idées_' of all the rest of the _savants_? Bon-Bon had ransacked libraries which no other man had ransacked--had read 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 entire 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 not indeed 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 _fricassée_, 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 Trebizond. He believed in Bossarion. 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 duplicate profession he took the greater pride. In his opinion the powers of the mind held intimate connection with the capabilities of the stomach. 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 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. Bon-Bon could never let slip an opportunity of making a bargain.

Not that Bon-Bon 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 that Restaurateur 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 of 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 impossible 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_. 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. In his seclusions the Vin de Bourgogne had its allotted hour, and there were appropriate moments for the Côtes du Rhone. 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, however singular it may seem, appeared deeply tinctured with the grotesque _diablerie_ of his favorite German studies.

To enter the little _Café_ 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-cuisinier_ in Rouen, who could not have told you that Bon-Bon was a man of genius. His very cat knew it, and forbore 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 {694} appearance of the metaphysician. A distinguished exterior will, I am constrained to say, have its weight 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 filagreed, 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 the rather a very Paradise of perfection."

I have said that "to enter the _Café_ 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 _Paté_. On the back were visible in large letters the words _Æuvres 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 _Café_ in the _Cul-de-Sac_ Le Febvre. In a corner of the apartment stood the bed of the metaphysician. An array of curtains, together with a canopy _à la Gréque_ gave it an air at once classic and comfortable. In the corner diagonally opposite appeared, in direct and friendly communion, the properties of the kitchen and the _bibliothéque_. A dish of polemics stood peacefully upon the dresser. Here lay an oven-full of the latest ethics--there a kettle of duodecimo _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 cotemporary manuscripts were filed away upon the spit.

In other respects the _Café_ de Bon-Bon might be said to differ little from the _Cafés_ of the period. A gigantic fire-place yawned opposite the door. On the right of the fire-place an open cupboard displayed a formidable array of labelled bottles. There Mousseux, Chambertin, St. George, Richbourg, Bordeaux, Margaux, Haubrion, Leonville, Medoc, Sauterne, Bârac, Preignac, Grave, Lafitte, and St. Peray contended with many other names of lesser celebrity for the honor of being quaffed. From the ceiling, suspended by a chain of very long slender links, swung a fantastic iron lamp, throwing a hazy light over the room, and relieving in some measure the placidity of the scene.

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

It was one of those terrific nights which are only met with once or twice during a century. The snow drifted down bodily in enormous masses, and the _Café_ de Bon-Bon tottered to its very 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 Paté-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.

I have said that it was in no very placid temper 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 Æufs à la Princesse_ he had unfortunately perpetrated an _Omelette à 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 a 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 towards those distant recesses of the apartment whose inexorable shadows not even the red fire-light itself could more than partially succeed in overcoming.

Having completed a scrutiny whose exact purpose was perhaps unintelligible to himself, Bon-Bon drew closer 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.

{695} "I am in no hurry, Monsieur Bon-Bon"--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 Bon-Bon's interrogatories--"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 under tone; and arising quickly from the bed he made a single step towards our hero, while the iron lamp overhead 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 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 {696} 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.

{697} "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?"