"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! - absorption of a pill-box!" - and the philosopher dropped a tear.

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

"How so?"

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