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"Then--hic-cup!--pray, sir--what--what is it?"
"That is neither here nor there, Monsieur Bon-Bon," replied his Majesty,
musingly. "I have tasted--that is to say, I have known some very bad
souls, and some too--pretty good ones." Here he smacked his lips, and,
having unconsciously let fall his hand upon the volume in his pocket,
was seized with a violent fit of sneezing.
He continued.
"
There was the soul of Cratinus--passable: Aristophanes--racy:
Plato--exquisite--not your Plato, but Plato the comic poet; your Plato
would have turned the stomach of Cerberus--faugh! Then let me see! there
were Naevius, and Andronicus, and Plautus, and Terentius. Then there
were Lucilius, and Catullus, and Naso, and Quintus Flaccus,--dear
Quinty! as I called him when he sung a seculare for my amusement, while
I toasted him, in pure good humor, on a fork. But they want flavor,
these Romans. One fat Greek is worth a dozen of them, and besides will
keep, which cannot be said of a Quirite.--Let us taste your Sauterne."
Bon-Bon had by this time made up his mind to nil admirari and endeavored
to hand down the bottles in question. He was, however, conscious of a
strange sound in the room like the wagging of a tail. Of this,
although extremely indecent in his Majesty, the philosopher took no
notice:--simply kicking the dog, and requesting him to be quiet. The
visiter continued:
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