No More Learning

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 filigreed, 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 rather a very Paradise of perfection. " I might, I say,
expatiate upon all these points if I pleased,--but I forbear, merely
personal details may be left to historical novelists,--they are beneath
the moral dignity of matter-of-fact.

I have said that "to enter the Cafe 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 pate. On the back
were visible in large letters Oeuvres 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 Cafe. In
a corner of the apartment stood the bed of the metaphysician. An army
of curtains, together with a canopy a la Grecque, 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
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 contemporary
manuscripts were filed away upon the spit.

In other respects the Cafe 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
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 a la Princesse, he had
unfortunately perpetrated an omelette a 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.