"How? why if you've brains enough to understand, I'll tell you. The learned before his day were called ΣΟΦΟΣ, that is, wise, what they really were; but professing not to like the appellation, and through my instrumentality I must confess, for I suggested it, proposed that they should be called ΦΙΛΟΣ the friend, ΣΟΦΙΑΣ of learning, hence the word philosopher: but it's no difference; names are arbitrary at any rate, and I like Pythagoras about as well as any of his cotemporaries; they were all deceitful, fond of flattery, and as jealous a set of villains as ever tried to rival each other out of fame. Did'nt they all imitate each other in some things, and at the same time swear that they differed, and each was the founder of his own especial system, which was distinct and separate from the rest, when the real truth was, they had all only parts of the same system; and by their rivalry and meanness in keeping the parts distinct, for fear of losing a little of what they thought was glory, they have prevented the world from understanding them ever since. I like hypocrisy, but I like it on a large scale. Your grovelling hypocrite has'nt a soul big enough to burn. Man is only a half-made creature at best. If I had the making of him, I'd—but you're asleep," said he, looking up at Farragio who was nodding over his wine. "My long discourse has wearied you."
Farragio started. "No—O! no—not—not asleep. I was thinking that—thinking how that—I wondered how you liked the wine."
"Very much, very much; that's good wine—here, try this, it's better than yours." Farragio drank of the little gentleman's glass, and soon felt the effects of the draught upon his brain. He fancied himself a lord: his guest persuaded him he was one, and a far better man than his master. "Yes," said he, springing upon his feet at the mention of his master's name—"and I swear by all the horrors of my servitude, that I will soon convince him of my superiority." The effort was too much for his relaxed muscles, and he fell full length upon the floor. The little gentleman very carefully assisted him in rising, and handing him to a chair, presented another glass to his lips. He pledged his soul in the bumper, and reeled a second time to the floor. It was now past midnight, and the little gentleman thought he had better retire; he did so, during the insensibility of Farragio, and left him to repose "alone in his glory."
In the morning Farragio awoke sober, but his head ached violently; the lamp was still burning, and was the first thing to remind him of his last night's revel. After his surprise had abated, he examined the apartment to ascertain if the little gentleman had taken any thing away with him; he had left many of his master's fine dishes, and some silver spoons, in the kitchen, and felt anxious for their safety. Every thing was safe, and he pronounced the little stranger honest. In looking around he discovered a strange impression upon the floor, the print of a foot, circular, except at one point, where it branched out into four distinct toes, all of a size—the foot was about three inches in diameter. "Hang the rascal," he exclaimed, "I knew he had one short leg, but had I known he was barefoot I would have given him lodgings in the sewer."—"In the sewer" was audibly echoed, and Farragio rushed from the room. The bell of his master's chamber rang. It reminded him that he was still a slave, and he went up cursing his fate and vowing an eternity of revenge.
For two or three days the little gentleman kept his distance, and Farragio bore the wine and its etceteras to his master's table unmolested, save by the discontented spirit that struggled in his bosom, and brooded over the deadly purpose it had given birth to. Farragio felt himself to be the meanest of slaves, but he possessed an ambition superior to his servitude. His intercourse with his little mysterious visiter, if it had failed to teach him the meaning of philosophy, had learned him to philosophize. "If," said he, "I am to wear the chain that binds me to my master's service, why do the feelings of my bosom prompt me to despise it? When I was young, I was happy in the yoke I wore, but years have brought another feeling, and I despise the yoke, and hate—hate the hand that fixed it on me. My curses cannot reach the mother that was so heartless as to make merchandize of her child, but my revenge shall fall on Incholese, my master—master, despicable word—and if it must exist, I'll be master and Incholese, aye Incholese, shall be my slave; the hand of death can hold him passive at my feet. Deep and deadly as my hate, shall be the revenge I seek—and by my soul I swear!"—A voice repeated "thy soul!" and the little gentleman in black was before him. Farragio, provoked beyond endurance at his intrusion, bit the blood from his lip with rage, and attempted to hurl him from his presence; thrice he essayed to seize him by the throat, but thrice he eluded the grasp, and the foaming Farragio beat upon the empty air; wearied with his exertion he sought a moment's respite and sunk upon a chair.
"It's my turn now," said the little gentleman, "and your fury, my dear fellow, will quickly give place to repentance. Go—faithless to thy oath—wait still upon thy master." For three days and nights the figure of the little gentleman, perfect in all its parts, kept before him; it was beside him at his meals, and floated in the wine he carried to the hall. In every drop that sparkled in the goblet the little figure swam—his threadbare coat and club foot were outlined in admirable distinctness, and the contumelious smile that followed the threat he made in the kitchen, played upon his lips in insupportable perfection: the figure was shadowed in the tea he drank and seemed tangible in the empty dish; it clung like vermin to his clothes, was under his feet at every step, dangled pendulous from his nose and was snugly stowed away in both its nostrils. Farragio felt him continually crawling upon the epidermis of his arms and legs, and carried him between his fingers and his toes. The figure danced in visible shadow upon the very expressions that fell from his lips, and roosted in number as an army upon the tester of his bed. Did the bell of his master summon him to his chamber or the hall, the figure, large as life, was in the door way to impede his passage; if he went to either place, it was between him and his master or with whomsoever else he was engaged. His goings out and his comings in, his lyings down and his risings up, were all molested by this singular Protean thing, which, though always the same figure, accommodated itself to any size. If he laid his hand upon any of the furniture of his kitchen, or felt in his pocket for his penknife or his toothpick, his fingers were sure to encounter the elastic contour of his accommodating but most uncomfortable companion. On the third day his torment was excruciating, and the poor wretch seemed about to expire in unsufferable misery.
"Wretch that I am!" he exclaimed, when alone in his nether apartment—"Wretch that I am, born to misfortune and tormented while living by the execrable brood of hell." "Execrable brood of hell!" sang the little gentleman with a most musical sneer, as he rolled from all parts of the body of his victim and appeared in propria persona before him.
"I meant no offence," roared the affrighted Farragio.
"Nor is it taken as such," replied his polite tormentor, who appeared to be in a very pleasant humor, accompanying every word with a most condescending smile. Farragio stammered out "I was—you know when—sir—you are acquain—that is you—you remember—remember the advice you gave me on the night when—I sa—you said I ought to be re—re—rev"—
"Revenged."