Chapter IV: Front Matter (4)

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 a
corner of the apartment stood the bed of the metaphysician. An army of
curtains, together with a canopy _à la Grècque_, 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
_mélanges_. 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 _Café 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 of ——, that Pierre Bon-Bon, after having listened to
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 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 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 visitor’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 visitor’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-à-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 visitor’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 _Régitre des
Condamnes_ blazed forth in characters of red. This startling circumstance,
when Bon-Bon replied to his visitor’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 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 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 visitor’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 visitor.

“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 δ
υοῦς εστιν
αυλος. 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 ‘αυλος.’

“Giving the lambda a fillip with my finger, I turned it upside down. So
the sentence now read ‘δ
υοῦς εστιν
αυγος’, 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 visitor—“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, looking
daggers, took occasion to make an end, upon the spot, of his third bottle
of Chambertin.)

“Then—hic-cup!—pray, sir—what—what is it?”

“That is neither here nor there, Monsieur Bon-Bon,” replied his Majesty,
musingly. “I have tasted—that is to say, I have known some very bad
souls, and some too—pretty good ones.” Here he smacked his lips,
and, having unconsciously let fall his hand upon the volume in his pocket,
was seized with a violent fit of sneezing.

He continued.

“There was the soul of Cratinus—passable: Aristophanes—racy:
Plato—exquisite—not _your_ Plato, but Plato the comic poet; your
Plato would have turned the stomach of Cerberus—faugh! Then let me
see! there were Naevius, and Andronicus, and Plautus, and Terentius. Then
there were Lucilius, and Catullus, and Naso, and Quintus Flaccus,—dear
Quinty! as I called him when he sung a _seculare_ for my amusement, while I
toasted him, in pure good humor, on a fork. But they want _flavor_, these
Romans. One fat Greek is worth a dozen of them, and besides will _keep_,
which cannot be said of a Quirite. Let us taste your Sauterne.”

Bon-Bon had by this time made up his mind to the _nil admirari_ and endeavored
to hand down the bottles in question. He was, however, conscious of a
strange sound in the room like the wagging of a tail. Of this, although
extremely indecent in his Majesty, the philosopher took no notice:—simply
kicking the dog, and requesting him to be quiet. The visitor continued:

“I found that Horace tasted very much like Aristotle;—you know I am
fond of variety. Terentius I could not have told from Menander. Naso, to
my astonishment, was Nicander in disguise. Virgilius had a strong twang of
Theocritus. Martial put me much in mind of Archilochus—and Titus
Livius was positively Polybius and none other.”

“Hic-cup!” here replied Bon-Bon, and his majesty proceeded:

“But if I have a penchant, Monsieur Bon-Bon—if I have a penchant, it
is for a philosopher. Yet, let me tell you, sir, it is not every dev—I
mean it is not every gentleman who knows how to choose a philosopher. Long
ones are not good; and the best, if not carefully shelled, are apt to be a
little rancid on account of the gall!”

“Shelled!”

“I mean taken out of the carcass.”

“What do you think of a—hic-cup!—physician?”

“Don’t mention them!—ugh! ugh! ugh!” (Here his Majesty retched
violently.) “I never tasted but one—that rascal Hippocrates!—smelt
of asafoetida—ugh! ugh! ugh!—caught a wretched cold washing
him in the Styx—and after all he gave me the cholera morbus.”

“The—hiccup!—wretch!” ejaculated Bon-Bon, “the—hic-cup!—abortion
of a pill-box!”—and the philosopher dropped a tear.

“After all,” continued the visitor, “after all, if a dev—if a
gentleman wishes to live, he must have more talents than one or two; and
with us a fat face is an evidence of diplomacy.”

“How so?”

“Why, we are sometimes exceedingly pushed for provisions. You must know
that, in a climate so sultry as mine, it is frequently impossible to keep
a spirit alive for more than two or three hours; and after death, unless
pickled immediately (and a pickled spirit is not good), they will—smell—you
understand, eh? Putrefaction is always to be apprehended when the souls
are consigned to us in the usual way.”

“Hiccup!—hiccup!—good God! how do you manage?”

Here the iron lamp commenced swinging with redoubled violence, and the
devil half started from his seat;—however, with a slight sigh, he
recovered his composure, merely saying to our hero in a low tone: “I tell
you what, Pierre Bon-Bon, we must have no more swearing.”

The host swallowed another bumper, by way of denoting thorough
comprehension and acquiescence, and the visitor continued.

“Why, there are several ways of managing. The most of us starve: some put
up with the pickle: for my part I purchase my spirits vivente corpore, in
which case I find they keep very well.”

“But the body!—hiccup!—the body!”

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

Thus saying, he produced a red leather wallet, and took from it a number
of papers. Upon some of these Bon-Bon caught a glimpse of the letters
_Machi—Maza—Robesp_—with the words _Caligula, George,
Elizabeth_. His Majesty selected a narrow slip of parchment, and from it
read aloud the following words:

“In consideration of certain mental endowments which it is unnecessary to
specify, and in further consideration of one thousand louis d’or, I being
aged one year and one month, do hereby make over to the bearer of this
agreement all my right, title, and appurtenance in the shadow called my
soul. (Signed) A....” {*4} (Here His Majesty repeated a name which I did
not feel justified in indicating more unequivocally.)

{*4} Quere-Arouet?

“A clever fellow that,” resumed he; “but like you, Monsieur Bon-Bon, he
was mistaken about the soul. The soul a shadow, truly! The soul a shadow;
Ha! ha! ha!—he! he! he!—hu! hu! hu! Only think of a fricasseed
shadow!”

“_Only_ think—hiccup!—of a fricasséed shadow!” exclaimed our
hero, whose faculties were becoming much illuminated by the profundity of
his Majesty’s discourse.

“Only think of a hiccup!—fricasséed shadow!! Now, damme!—hiccup!—humph!
If _I_ would have been such a—hiccup!—nincompoop! _My_ soul, Mr.—humph!”

“_Your_ soul, Monsieur Bon-Bon?”

“Yes, sir—hiccup!—_my_ soul is—”

“What, sir?”

“_No_ shadow, damme!”

“Did you mean to say—”

“Yes, sir, my soul is—hiccup!—humph!—yes, sir.”

“Did you not intend to assert—”

“My soul is—hiccup!—peculiarly qualified for—hiccup!—a—”

“What, sir?”

“Stew.”

“Ha!”

“Soufflee.”

“Eh!”

“Fricassee.”

“Indeed!”

“Ragout and fricandeau—and see here, my good fellow! I’ll let you
have it—hiccup!—a bargain.” Here the philosopher slapped his
Majesty upon the back.

“Couldn’t think of such a thing,” said the latter calmly, at the same time
rising from his seat. The metaphysician stared.

“Am supplied at present,” said his Majesty.

“Hiccup!—e-h?” said the philosopher.

“Have no funds on hand.”

“What?”

“Besides, very unhandsome in me—”

“Sir!”

“To take advantage of—”

“Hiccup!”

“Your present disgusting and ungentlemanly situation.”

Here the visitor bowed and withdrew—in what manner could not
precisely be ascertained—but in a well-concerted effort to discharge
a bottle at “the villain,” the slender chain was severed that depended
from the ceiling, and the metaphysician prostrated by the downfall of the
lamp.

SOME WORDS WITH A MUMMY.

The _symposium_ of the preceding evening had been a little too much
for my nerves. I had a wretched headache, and was desperately drowsy.
Instead of going out therefore to spend the evening as I had proposed, it
occurred to me that I could not do a wiser thing than just eat a mouthful
of supper and go immediately to bed.

A light supper of course. I am exceedingly fond of Welsh rabbit. More than
a pound at once, however, may not at all times be advisable. Still, there
can be no material objection to two. And really between two and three,
there is merely a single unit of difference. I ventured, perhaps, upon
four. My wife will have it five;—but, clearly, she has confounded
two very distinct affairs. The abstract number, five, I am willing to
admit; but, concretely, it has reference to bottles of Brown Stout,
without which, in the way of condiment, Welsh rabbit is to be eschewed.

Having thus concluded a frugal meal, and donned my night-cap, with the
serene hope of enjoying it till noon the next day, I placed my head upon
the pillow, and, through the aid of a capital conscience, fell into a
profound slumber forthwith.

But when were the hopes of humanity fulfilled? I could not have completed
my third snore when there came a furious ringing at the street-door bell,
and then an impatient thumping at the knocker, which awakened me at once.
In a minute afterward, and while I was still rubbing my eyes, my wife
thrust in my face a note, from my old friend, Doctor Ponnonner. It ran
thus:

“Come to me, by all means, my dear good friend, as soon as you receive this. Come and help us to rejoice. At last, by long persevering diplomacy, I have gained the assent of the Directors of the City Museum, to my examination of the Mummy—you know the one I mean. I have permission to unswathe it and open it, if desirable. A few friends only will be present—you, of course. The Mummy is now at my house, and we shall begin to unroll it at eleven to-night.

“Yours, ever,
PONNONNER.

By the time I had reached the “Ponnonner,” it struck me that I was as wide
awake as a man need be. I leaped out of bed in an ecstacy, overthrowing
all in my way; dressed myself with a rapidity truly marvellous; and set
off, at the top of my speed, for the doctor’s.

There I found a very eager company assembled. They had been awaiting me
with much impatience; the Mummy was extended upon the dining-table; and
the moment I entered its examination was commenced.

It was one of a pair brought, several years previously, by Captain Arthur
Sabretash, a cousin of Ponnonner’s from a tomb near Eleithias, in
the Lybian mountains, a considerable distance above Thebes on the Nile.
The grottoes at this point, although less magnificent than the Theban
sepulchres, are of higher interest, on account of affording more numerous
illustrations of the private life of the Egyptians. The chamber from
which our specimen was taken, was said to be very rich in such
illustrations—the walls being completely covered with fresco
paintings and bas-reliefs, while statues, vases, and Mosaic work of rich
patterns, indicated the vast wealth of the deceased.

The treasure had been deposited in the Museum precisely in the same
condition in which Captain Sabretash had found it—that is to say,
the coffin had not been disturbed. For eight years it had thus stood,
subject only externally to public inspection. We had now, therefore, the
complete Mummy at our disposal; and to those who are aware how very rarely
the unransacked antique reaches our shores, it will be evident, at once
that we had great reason to congratulate ourselves upon our good fortune.

Approaching the table, I saw on it a large box, or case, nearly seven feet
long, and perhaps three feet wide, by two feet and a half deep. It was
oblong—not coffin-shaped. The material was at first supposed to be
the wood of the sycamore (_platanus_), but, upon cutting into it, we
found it to be pasteboard, or, more properly, _papier mache_,
composed of papyrus. It was thickly ornamented with paintings,
representing funeral scenes, and other mournful subjects—interspersed
among which, in every variety of position, were certain series of
hieroglyphical characters, intended, no doubt, for the name of the
departed. By good luck, Mr. Gliddon formed one of our party; and he had no
difficulty in translating the letters, which were simply phonetic, and
represented the word _Allamistakeo_.

We had some difficulty in getting this case open without injury; but
having at length accomplished the task, we came to a second,
coffin-shaped, and very considerably less in size than the exterior one,
but resembling it precisely in every other respect. The interval between
the two was filled with resin, which had, in some degree, defaced the
colors of the interior box.

Upon opening this latter (which we did quite easily), we arrived at a
third case, also coffin-shaped, and varying from the second one in no
particular, except in that of its material, which was cedar, and still
emitted the peculiar and highly aromatic odor of that wood. Between the
second and the third case there was no interval—the one fitting
accurately within the other.

Removing the third case, we discovered and took out the body itself. We
had expected to find it, as usual, enveloped in frequent rolls, or
bandages, of linen; but, in place of these, we found a sort of sheath,
made of papyrus, and coated with a layer of plaster, thickly gilt and
painted. The paintings represented subjects connected with the various
supposed duties of the soul, and its presentation to different divinities,
with numerous identical human figures, intended, very probably, as
portraits of the persons embalmed. Extending from head to foot was a
columnar, or perpendicular, inscription, in phonetic hieroglyphics, giving
again his name and titles, and the names and titles of his relations.

Around the neck thus ensheathed, was a collar of cylindrical glass beads,
diverse in color, and so arranged as to form images of deities, of the
scarabaeus, etc., with the winged globe. Around the small of the waist
was a similar collar or belt.

Stripping off the papyrus, we found the flesh in excellent preservation,
with no perceptible odor. The color was reddish. The skin was hard,
smooth, and glossy. The teeth and hair were in good condition. The eyes
(it seemed) had been removed, and glass ones substituted, which were very
beautiful and wonderfully life-like, with the exception of somewhat too
determined a stare. The fingers and the nails were brilliantly gilded.

Mr. Gliddon was of opinion, from the redness of the epidermis, that the
embalmment had been effected altogether by asphaltum; but, on scraping the
surface with a steel instrument, and throwing into the fire some of the
powder thus obtained, the flavor of camphor and other sweet-scented gums
became apparent.

We searched the corpse very carefully for the usual openings through which
the entrails are extracted, but, to our surprise, we could discover none.
No member of the party was at that period aware that entire or unopened
mummies are not infrequently met. The brain it was customary to withdraw
through the nose; the intestines through an incision in the side; the body
was then shaved, washed, and salted; then laid aside for several weeks,
when the operation of embalming, properly so called, began.

As no trace of an opening could be found, Doctor Ponnonner was preparing
his instruments for dissection, when I observed that it was then past two
o’clock. Hereupon it was agreed to postpone the internal examination until
the next evening; and we were about to separate for the present, when some
one suggested an experiment or two with the Voltaic pile.

The application of electricity to a mummy three or four thousand years old
at the least, was an idea, if not very sage, still sufficiently original,
and we all caught it at once. About one-tenth in earnest and nine-tenths
in jest, we arranged a battery in the Doctor’s study, and conveyed thither
the Egyptian.

It was only after much trouble that we succeeded in laying bare some
portions of the temporal muscle which appeared of less stony rigidity than
other parts of the frame, but which, as we had anticipated, of course,
gave no indication of galvanic susceptibility when brought in contact with
the wire. This, the first trial, indeed, seemed decisive, and, with a
hearty laugh at our own absurdity, we were bidding each other good night,
when my eyes, happening to fall upon those of the Mummy, were there
immediately riveted in amazement. My brief glance, in fact, had sufficed
to assure me that the orbs which we had all supposed to be glass, and
which were originally noticeable for a certain wild stare, were now so far
covered by the lids, that only a small portion of the _tunica albuginea_
remained visible.

With a shout I called attention to the fact, and it became immediately
obvious to all.

I cannot say that I was alarmed at the phenomenon, because “alarmed” is,
in my case, not exactly the word. It is possible, however, that, but for
the Brown Stout, I might have been a little nervous. As for the rest of
the company, they really made no attempt at concealing the downright
fright which possessed them. Doctor Ponnonner was a man to be pitied. Mr.
Gliddon, by some peculiar process, rendered himself invisible. Mr. Silk
Buckingham, I fancy, will scarcely be so bold as to deny that he made his
way, upon all fours, under the table.

After the first shock of astonishment, however, we resolved, as a matter
of course, upon further experiment forthwith. Our operations were now
directed against the great toe of the right foot. We made an incision over
the outside of the exterior _os sesamoideum pollicis pedis_, and thus
got at the root of the abductor muscle. Readjusting the battery, we now
applied the fluid to the bisected nerves—when, with a movement of
exceeding life-likeness, the Mummy first drew up its right knee so as to
bring it nearly in contact with the abdomen, and then, straightening the
limb with inconceivable force, bestowed a kick upon Doctor Ponnonner,
which had the effect of discharging that gentleman, like an arrow from a
catapult, through a window into the street below.

We rushed out _en masse_ to bring in the mangled remains of the
victim, but had the happiness to meet him upon the staircase, coming up in
an unaccountable hurry, brimful of the most ardent philosophy, and more
than ever impressed with the necessity of prosecuting our experiment with
vigor and with zeal.

It was by his advice, accordingly, that we made, upon the spot, a profound
incision into the tip of the subject’s nose, while the Doctor himself,
laying violent hands upon it, pulled it into vehement contact with the
wire.

Morally and physically—figuratively and literally—was the
effect electric. In the first place, the corpse opened its eyes and winked
very rapidly for several minutes, as does Mr. Barnes in the pantomime; in
the second place, it sneezed; in the third, it sat upon end; in the
fourth, it shook its fist in Doctor Ponnonner’s face; in the fifth,
turning to Messieurs Gliddon and Buckingham, it addressed them, in very
capital Egyptian, thus:

“I must say, gentlemen, that I am as much surprised as I am mortified at
your behavior. Of Doctor Ponnonner nothing better was to be expected. He
is a poor little fat fool who knows no better. I pity and forgive him. But
you, Mr. Gliddon—and you, Silk—who have travelled and resided
in Egypt until one might imagine you to the manor born—you, I say
who have been so much among us that you speak Egyptian fully as well, I
think, as you write your mother tongue—you, whom I have always been
led to regard as the firm friend of the mummies—I really did
anticipate more gentlemanly conduct from you. What am I to think of your
standing quietly by and seeing me thus unhandsomely used? What am I to
suppose by your permitting Tom, Dick, and Harry to strip me of my coffins,
and my clothes, in this wretchedly cold climate? In what light (to come to
the point) am I to regard your aiding and abetting that miserable little
villain, Doctor Ponnonner, in pulling me by the nose?”

It will be taken for granted, no doubt, that upon hearing this speech
under the circumstances, we all either made for the door, or fell into
violent hysterics, or went off in a general swoon. One of these three
things was, I say, to be expected. Indeed each and all of these lines of
conduct might have been very plausibly pursued. And, upon my word, I am at
a loss to know how or why it was that we pursued neither the one nor the
other. But, perhaps, the true reason is to be sought in the spirit of the
age, which proceeds by the rule of contraries altogether, and is now
usually admitted as the solution of every thing in the way of paradox and
impossibility. Or, perhaps, after all, it was only the Mummy’s exceedingly
natural and matter-of-course air that divested his words of the terrible.
However this may be, the facts are clear, and no member of our party
betrayed any very particular trepidation, or seemed to consider that any
thing had gone very especially wrong.

For my part I was convinced it was all right, and merely stepped aside,
out of the range of the Egyptian’s fist. Doctor Ponnonner thrust his hands
into his breeches’ pockets, looked hard at the Mummy, and grew excessively
red in the face. Mr. Glidden stroked his whiskers and drew up the collar
of his shirt. Mr. Buckingham hung down his head, and put his right thumb
into the left corner of his mouth.

The Egyptian regarded him with a severe countenance for some minutes and
at length, with a sneer, said:

“Why don’t you speak, Mr. Buckingham? Did you hear what I asked you, or
not? Do take your thumb out of your mouth!”

Mr. Buckingham, hereupon, gave a slight start, took his right thumb out of
the left corner of his mouth, and, by way of indemnification inserted his
left thumb in the right corner of the aperture above-mentioned.

Not being able to get an answer from Mr. B., the figure turned peevishly
to Mr. Gliddon, and, in a peremptory tone, demanded in general terms what
we all meant.

Mr. Gliddon replied at great length, in phonetics; and but for the
deficiency of American printing-offices in hieroglyphical type, it would
afford me much pleasure to record here, in the original, the whole of his
very excellent speech.

I may as well take this occasion to remark, that all the subsequent
conversation in which the Mummy took a part, was carried on in primitive
Egyptian, through the medium (so far as concerned myself and other
untravelled members of the company)—through the medium, I say, of
Messieurs Gliddon and Buckingham, as interpreters. These gentlemen spoke
the mother tongue of the Mummy with inimitable fluency and grace; but I
could not help observing that (owing, no doubt, to the introduction of
images entirely modern, and, of course, entirely novel to the stranger)
the two travellers were reduced, occasionally, to the employment of
sensible forms for the purpose of conveying a particular meaning. Mr.
Gliddon, at one period, for example, could not make the Egyptian
comprehend the term “politics,” until he sketched upon the wall, with a
bit of charcoal a little carbuncle-nosed gentleman, out at elbows,
standing upon a stump, with his left leg drawn back, right arm thrown
forward, with his fist shut, the eyes rolled up toward Heaven, and the
mouth open at an angle of ninety degrees. Just in the same way Mr.
Buckingham failed to convey the absolutely modern idea “wig,” until (at
Doctor Ponnonner’s suggestion) he grew very pale in the face, and
consented to take off his own.

It will be readily understood that Mr. Gliddon’s discourse turned chiefly
upon the vast benefits accruing to science from the unrolling and
disembowelling of mummies; apologizing, upon this score, for any
disturbance that might have been occasioned him, in particular, the
individual Mummy called Allamistakeo; and concluding with a mere hint (for
it could scarcely be considered more) that, as these little matters were
now explained, it might be as well to proceed with the investigation
intended. Here Doctor Ponnonner made ready his instruments.

In regard to the latter suggestions of the orator, it appears that
Allamistakeo had certain scruples of conscience, the nature of which I did
not distinctly learn; but he expressed himself satisfied with the
apologies tendered, and, getting down from the table, shook hands with the
company all round.

When this ceremony was at an end, we immediately busied ourselves in
repairing the damages which our subject had sustained from the scalpel. We
sewed up the wound in his temple, bandaged his foot, and applied a square
inch of black plaster to the tip of his nose.

It was now observed that the Count (this was the title, it seems, of
Allamistakeo) had a slight fit of shivering—no doubt from the cold.
The Doctor immediately repaired to his wardrobe, and soon returned with a
black dress coat, made in Jennings’ best manner, a pair of sky-blue plaid
pantaloons with straps, a pink gingham chemise, a flapped vest of brocade,
a white sack overcoat, a walking cane with a hook, a hat with no brim,
patent-leather boots, straw-colored kid gloves, an eye-glass, a pair of
whiskers, and a waterfall cravat. Owing to the disparity of size between
the Count and the doctor (the proportion being as two to one), there was
some little difficulty in adjusting these habiliments upon the person of
the Egyptian; but when all was arranged, he might have been said to be
dressed. Mr. Gliddon, therefore, gave him his arm, and led him to a
comfortable chair by the fire, while the Doctor rang the bell upon the
spot and ordered a supply of cigars and wine.

The conversation soon grew animated. Much curiosity was, of course,
expressed in regard to the somewhat remarkable fact of Allamistakeo’s
still remaining alive.

“I should have thought,” observed Mr. Buckingham, “that it is high time
you were dead.”

“Why,” replied the Count, very much astonished, “I am little more than
seven hundred years old! My father lived a thousand, and was by no means
in his dotage when he died.”

Here ensued a brisk series of questions and computations, by means of
which it became evident that the antiquity of the Mummy had been grossly
misjudged. It had been five thousand and fifty years and some months since
he had been consigned to the catacombs at Eleithias.

“But my remark,” resumed Mr. Buckingham, “had no reference to your age at
the period of interment (I am willing to grant, in fact, that you are
still a young man), and my illusion was to the immensity of time during
which, by your own showing, you must have been done up in asphaltum.”

“In what?” said the Count.

“In asphaltum,” persisted Mr. B.

“Ah, yes; I have some faint notion of what you mean; it might be made to
answer, no doubt—but in my time we employed scarcely any thing else
than the Bichloride of Mercury.”

“But what we are especially at a loss to understand,” said Doctor
Ponnonner, “is how it happens that, having been dead and buried in Egypt
five thousand years ago, you are here to-day all alive and looking so
delightfully well.”

“Had I been, as you say, dead,” replied the Count, “it is more than
probable that dead, I should still be; for I perceive you are yet in the
infancy of Galvanism, and cannot accomplish with it what was a common
thing among us in the old days. But the fact is, I fell into catalepsy,
and it was considered by my best friends that I was either dead or should
be; they accordingly embalmed me at once—I presume you are aware of
the chief principle of the embalming process?”

“Why, not altogether.”

“Ah, I perceive—a deplorable condition of ignorance! Well I cannot
enter into details just now: but it is necessary to explain that to embalm
(properly speaking), in Egypt, was to arrest indefinitely all the animal
functions subjected to the process. I use the word ‘animal’ in its widest
sense, as including the physical not more than the moral and vital being.
I repeat that the leading principle of embalmment consisted, with us, in
the immediately arresting, and holding in perpetual abeyance, all the
animal functions subjected to the process. To be brief, in whatever
condition the individual was, at the period of embalmment, in that
condition he remained. Now, as it is my good fortune to be of the blood of
the Scarabaeus, I was embalmed alive, as you see me at present.”

“The blood of the Scarabaeus!” exclaimed Doctor Ponnonner.

“Yes. The Scarabaeus was the insignium or the ‘arms,’ of a very
distinguished and very rare patrician family. To be ‘of the blood of the
Scarabaeus,’ is merely to be one of that family of which the Scarabaeus is
the insignium. I speak figuratively.”

“But what has this to do with you being alive?”

“Why, it is the general custom in Egypt to deprive a corpse, before
embalmment, of its bowels and brains; the race of the Scarabaei alone did
not coincide with the custom. Had I not been a Scarabeus, therefore, I
should have been without bowels and brains; and without either it is
inconvenient to live.”

“I perceive that,” said Mr. Buckingham, “and I presume that all the entire
mummies that come to hand are of the race of Scarabaei.”

“Beyond doubt.”

“I thought,” said Mr. Gliddon, very meekly, “that the Scarabaeus was one
of the Egyptian gods.”

“One of the Egyptian _what?”_ exclaimed the Mummy, starting to its
feet.

“Gods!” repeated the traveller.

“Mr. Gliddon, I really am astonished to hear you talk in this style,” said
the Count, resuming his chair. “No nation upon the face of the earth has
ever acknowledged more than one god. The Scarabaeus, the Ibis, etc., were
with us (as similar creatures have been with others) the symbols, or
media, through which we offered worship to the Creator too august to be
more directly approached.”

There was here a pause. At length the colloquy was renewed by Doctor
Ponnonner.

“It is not improbable, then, from what you have explained,” said he, “that
among the catacombs near the Nile there may exist other mummies of the
Scarabaeus tribe, in a condition of vitality?”

“There can be no question of it,” replied the Count; “all the Scarabaei
embalmed accidentally while alive, are alive now. Even some of those
purposely so embalmed, may have been overlooked by their executors, and
still remain in the tomb.”

“Will you be kind enough to explain,” I said, “what you mean by ‘purposely
so embalmed’?”

“With great pleasure!” answered the Mummy, after surveying me leisurely
through his eye-glass—for it was the first time I had ventured to
address him a direct question.

“With great pleasure,” he said. “The usual duration of man’s life, in my
time, was about eight hundred years. Few men died, unless by most
extraordinary accident, before the age of six hundred; few lived longer
than a decade of centuries; but eight were considered the natural term.
After the discovery of the embalming principle, as I have already
described it to you, it occurred to our philosophers that a laudable
curiosity might be gratified, and, at the same time, the interests of
science much advanced, by living this natural term in installments. In the
case of history, indeed, experience demonstrated that something of this
kind was indispensable. An historian, for example, having attained the age
of five hundred, would write a book with great labor and then get himself
carefully embalmed; leaving instructions to his executors pro tem., that
they should cause him to be revivified after the lapse of a certain period—say
five or six hundred years. Resuming existence at the expiration of this
time, he would invariably find his great work converted into a species of
hap-hazard note-book—that is to say, into a kind of literary arena
for the conflicting guesses, riddles, and personal squabbles of whole
herds of exasperated commentators. These guesses, etc., which passed under
the name of annotations, or emendations, were found so completely to have
enveloped, distorted, and overwhelmed the text, that the author had to go
about with a lantern to discover his own book. When discovered, it was
never worth the trouble of the search. After re-writing it throughout, it
was regarded as the bounden duty of the historian to set himself to work
immediately in correcting, from his own private knowledge and experience,
the traditions of the day concerning the epoch at which he had originally
lived. Now this process of re-scription and personal rectification,
pursued by various individual sages from time to time, had the effect of
preventing our history from degenerating into absolute fable.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Doctor Ponnonner at this point, laying his hand
gently upon the arm of the Egyptian—“I beg your pardon, sir, but may
I presume to interrupt you for one moment?”

“By all means, sir,” replied the Count, drawing up.

“I merely wished to ask you a question,” said the Doctor. “You mentioned
the historian’s personal correction of traditions respecting his own
epoch. Pray, sir, upon an average what proportion of these Kabbala were
usually found to be right?”

“The Kabbala, as you properly term them, sir, were generally discovered to
be precisely on a par with the facts recorded in the un-re-written
histories themselves;—that is to say, not one individual iota of
either was ever known, under any circumstances, to be not totally and
radically wrong.”

“But since it is quite clear,” resumed the Doctor, “that at least five
thousand years have elapsed since your entombment, I take it for granted
that your histories at that period, if not your traditions were
sufficiently explicit on that one topic of universal interest, the
Creation, which took place, as I presume you are aware, only about ten
centuries before.”

“Sir!” said the Count Allamistakeo.

The Doctor repeated his remarks, but it was only after much additional
explanation that the foreigner could be made to comprehend them. The
latter at length said, hesitatingly:

“The ideas you have suggested are to me, I confess, utterly novel. During
my time I never knew any one to entertain so singular a fancy as that the
universe (or this world if you will have it so) ever had a beginning at
all. I remember once, and once only, hearing something remotely hinted, by
a man of many speculations, concerning the origin _of the human race;_
and by this individual, the very word _Adam_ (or Red Earth), which
you make use of, was employed. He employed it, however, in a generical
sense, with reference to the spontaneous germination from rank soil (just
as a thousand of the lower genera of creatures are germinated)—the
spontaneous germination, I say, of five vast hordes of men, simultaneously
upspringing in five distinct and nearly equal divisions of the globe.”

Here, in general, the company shrugged their shoulders, and one or two of
us touched our foreheads with a very significant air. Mr. Silk Buckingham,
first glancing slightly at the occiput and then at the sinciput of
Allamistakeo, spoke as follows:

“The long duration of human life in your time, together with the
occasional practice of passing it, as you have explained, in installments,
must have had, indeed, a strong tendency to the general development and
conglomeration of knowledge. I presume, therefore, that we are to
attribute the marked inferiority of the old Egyptians in all particulars
of science, when compared with the moderns, and more especially with the
Yankees, altogether to the superior solidity of the Egyptian skull.”

“I confess again,” replied the Count, with much suavity, “that I am
somewhat at a loss to comprehend you; pray, to what particulars of science
do you allude?”

Here our whole party, joining voices, detailed, at great length, the
assumptions of phrenology and the marvels of animal magnetism.

Having heard us to an end, the Count proceeded to relate a few anecdotes,
which rendered it evident that prototypes of Gall and Spurzheim had
flourished and faded in Egypt so long ago as to have been nearly
forgotten, and that the manoeuvres of Mesmer were really very contemptible
tricks when put in collation with the positive miracles of the Theban
savans, who created lice and a great many other similar things.

I here asked the Count if his people were able to calculate eclipses. He
smiled rather contemptuously, and said they were.

This put me a little out, but I began to make other inquiries in regard to
his astronomical knowledge, when a member of the company, who had never as
yet opened his mouth, whispered in my ear, that for information on this
head, I had better consult Ptolemy (whoever Ptolemy is), as well as one
Plutarch de facie lunae.