“Judith! Judith! where lingerest thou? Marble of Pentelicus! foam-flake of the wine dark main! lily of the Mareotic lake! You accursed black Andromeda, if you don’t bring the breakfast this moment, I’ll cut you in two!”
The inner door opened, and in bustled, trembling, her hands full of dishes, a tall lithe negress, dressed in true negro fashion, in a snow-white cotton shift, a scarlet cotton petticoat, and a bright yellow turban of the same, making a light in that dark place which would have served as a landmark a mile off. She put the dishes down, and the porter majestically waved Philammon to a stool; while she retreated, and stood humbly waiting on her lord and master, who did not deign to introduce to his guest the black beauty which composed his whole seraglio. … But, indeed, such an act of courtesy would have been needless; for the first morsel of fish was hardly safe in poor Philammon’s mouth, when the regress rushed upon him, caught him by the head, and covered him with rapturous kisses.
Up jumped the little man with a yell, brandishing a knife in one hand and a leek in the other; while Philammon, scarcely less scandalised, jumped up too, and shook himself free of the lady, who, finding it impossible to vent her feelings further on his head, instantly changed her tactics, and, wallowing on the floor, began frantically kissing his feet.
“What is this? before my face! Up, shameless baggage, or thou diest the death!” and the porter pulled her up upon her knees.
“It is the monk! the young man I told you of, who saved me from the Jews the other night! What good angel sent him here that I might thank him?” cried the poor creature, while the tears ran down her black shining face.
“I am that good angel,” said the porter, with a look of intense self-satisfaction. “Rise, daughter of Erebus; thou art pardoned, being but a female. What says the poet?—
“ ‘Woman is passion’s slave, while rightful lord
O’er her and passion, rules the nobler male.’ ”
Youth! to my arms! Truly say the philosophers, that the universe is magical in itself, and by mysterious sympathies links like to like. The prophetic instinct of thy future benefits towards me drew me to thee as by an invisible warp, hawser, or chain-cable, from the moment I beheld thee. Thou went a kindred spirit, my brother, though thou knewest it not. Therefore I do not praise thee—no, nor thank thee in the least, though thou hast preserved for me the one palm which shadows my weary steps—the single lotus-flower (in this case black, not white) which blooms for me above the mud-stained ocean wastes of the Hylic Borboros. That which thou hast done, thou hast done by instinct—by divine compulsion—thou couldst no more help it than thou canst help eating that fish, and art no more to be praised for it.”
“Thank you,” said Philammon.
“Comprehend me. Our theory in the schools for such cases is this—has been so at least for the last six months; similar particles, from one original source, exist in you and me. Similar causes produce similar effects; our attractions, antipathies, impulses, are therefore, in similar circumstances, absolutely the same; and therefore you did the other night exactly what I should have done in your case.”
Philammon thought the latter part of the theory open to question, but he had by no means stopped eating when he rose, and his mouth was much too full of fish to argue.
“And therefore,” continued the little man, “we are to consider ourselves henceforth as one soul in two bodies. You may have the best of the corporeal part of the division … yet it is the soul which makes the person. You may trust me, I shall not disdain my brotherhood. If anyone insults you henceforth, you have but to call me; and if I be within hearing, why, by this right arm—”
And he attempted a pat on Philammon’s head, which, as there was a head and shoulder’s difference between them, might on the whole have been considered, from a theatric point of view, as a failure. Whereon the little man seized the calabash of beer, and filling therewith a cow’s horn, his thumb on the small end, raised it high in the air.
“To the Tenth Muse, and to your interview with her!”
And removing his thumb, he sent a steady jet into his open mouth, and having drained the horn without drawing breath, licked his lips, handed it to Philammon, and flew ravenously upon the fish and onions.
Philammon, to whom the whole was supremely absurd, had no invocation to make, but one which he felt too sacred for his present temper of mind: so he attempted to imitate the little man’s feat, and, of course, poured the beer into his eyes, and up his nose, and in his bosom, and finally choked himself black in the face, while his host observed smilingly—
“Aha, rustic! unacquainted with the ancient and classical customs preserved in this centre of civilisation by the descendants of Alexander’s heroes? Judith! clear the table. Now to the sanctuary of the Muses!”
Philammon rose, and finished his meal by a monkish grace. A gentle and reverent “Amen” rose from the other end of the room. It was the negress. She saw him look up at her, dropped her eyes modestly, and bustled away with the remnants, while Philammon and his host started for Hypatia’s lecture-room.
“Your wife is a Christian?” asked he when they were outside the door.
“Ahem—! The
