His Majesty selected a narrow slip of parchment, and from it
      read aloud the following words:

      “In consideration of certain mental endowments which it is unnecessary to
      specify, and in further consideration of one thousand louis d’or, I being
      aged one year and one month, do hereby make over to the bearer of this
      agreement all my right, title, and appurtenance in the shadow called my
      soul. (Signed) A....” {*4} (Here His Majesty repeated a name which I did
      not feel justified in indicating more unequivocally.) {*4} Quere-Arouet? “A clever fellow that,” resumed he; “but like you, Monsieur Bon-Bon, he
      was mistaken about the soul. The soul a shadow, truly! The soul a shadow;
      Ha! ha! ha!—he! he! he!—hu! hu! hu! Only think of a fricasseed
      shadow!”


      “_Only_ think—hiccup!—of a fricasséed shadow!” exclaimed our
      hero, whose faculties were becoming much illuminated by the profundity of
      his Majesty’s discourse. “Only think of a hiccup!—fricasséed shadow!! Now, damme!—hiccup!—humph! If _I_ would have been such a—hiccup!—nincompoop! _My_ soul, Mr.—humph!”


      “_Your_ soul, Monsieur Bon-Bon?”


      “Yes, sir—hiccup!—_my_ soul is—”


      “What, sir?”


      “_No_ shadow, damme!”


      “Did you mean to say—”


      “Yes, sir, my soul is—hiccup!—humph!—yes, sir.”


      “Did you not intend to assert—”


      “My soul is—hiccup!—peculiarly qualified for—hiccup!—a—”


      “What, sir?”


      “Stew.”


      “Ha!”


      “Soufflee.”


      “Eh!”


      “Fricassee.”


      “Indeed!”


      “Ragout and fricandeau—and see here, my good fellow! I’ll let you
      have it—hiccup!—a bargain.” Here the philosopher slapped his
      Majesty upon the back. “Couldn’t think of such a thing,” said the latter calmly, at the same time
      rising from his seat. The metaphysician stared. “Am supplied at present,” said his Majesty. “Hiccup!—e-h?” said the philosopher. “Have no funds on hand.”


      “What?”


      “Besides, very unhandsome in me—”


      “Sir!”


      “To take advantage of—”


      “Hiccup!”


      “Your present disgusting and ungentlemanly situation.”


      Here the visitor bowed and withdrew—in what manner could not
      precisely be ascertained—but in a well-concerted effort to discharge
      a bottle at “the villain,” the slender chain was severed that depended
      from the ceiling, and the metaphysician prostrated by the downfall of the
      lamp. SOME WORDS WITH A MUMMY. The _symposium_ of the preceding evening had been a little too much
      for my nerves. I had a wretched headache, and was desperately drowsy. Instead of going out therefore to spend the evening as I had proposed, it
      occurred to me that I could not do a wiser thing than just eat a mouthful
      of supper and go immediately to bed. A light supper of course. I am exceedingly fond of Welsh rabbit. More than
      a pound at once, however, may not at all times be advisable. Still, there
      can be no material objection to two. And really between two and three,
      there is merely a single unit of difference. I ventured, perhaps, upon
      four. My wife will have it five;—but, clearly, she has confounded
      two very distinct affairs. The abstract number, five, I am willing to
      admit; but, concretely, it has reference to bottles of Brown Stout,
      without which, in the way of condiment, Welsh rabbit is to be eschewed. Having thus concluded a frugal meal, and donned my night-cap, with the
      serene hope of enjoying it till noon the next day, I placed my head upon
      the pillow, and, through the aid of a capital conscience, fell into a
      profound slumber forthwith. But when were the hopes of humanity fulfilled? I could not have completed
      my third snore when there came a furious ringing at the street-door bell,
      and then an impatient thumping at the knocker, which awakened me at once. In a minute afterward, and while I was still rubbing my eyes, my wife
      thrust in my face a note, from my old friend, Doctor Ponnonner. It ran
      thus:


“Come to me, by all means, my dear good friend, as soon as you receive
this. Come and help us to rejoice. At last, by long persevering diplomacy, I
have gained the assent of the Directors of the City Museum, to my examination
of the Mummy—you know the one I mean. I have permission to unswathe it
and open it, if desirable. A few friends only will be present—you, of
course. The Mummy is now at my house, and we shall begin to unroll it at eleven
to-night. “Yours, ever,
                   PONNONNER. By the time I had reached the “Ponnonner,” it struck me that I was as wide
      awake as a man need be. I leaped out of bed in an ecstacy, overthrowing
      all in my way; dressed myself with a rapidity truly marvellous; and set
      off, at the top of my speed, for the doctor’s. There I found a very eager company assembled. They had been awaiting me
      with much impatience; the Mummy was extended upon the dining-table; and
      the moment I entered its examination was commenced. It was one of a pair brought, several years previously, by Captain Arthur
      Sabretash, a cousin of Ponnonner’s from a tomb near Eleithias, in
      the Lybian mountains, a considerable distance above Thebes on the Nile. The grottoes at this point, although less magnificent than the Theban
      sepulchres, are of higher interest, on account of affording more numerous
      illustrations of the private life of the Egyptians. The chamber from
      which our specimen was taken, was said to be very rich in such
      illustrations—the walls being completely covered with fresco
      paintings and bas-reliefs, while statues, vases, and Mosaic work of rich
      patterns, indicated the vast wealth of the deceased. The treasure had been deposited in the Museum precisely in the same
      condition in which Captain Sabretash had found it—that is to say,
      the coffin had not been disturbed. For eight years it had thus stood,
      subject only externally to public inspection. We had now, therefore, the
      complete Mummy at our disposal; and to those who are aware how very rarely
      the unransacked antique reaches our shores, it will be evident, at once
      that we had great reason to congratulate ourselves upon our good fortune. Approaching the table, I saw on it a large box, or case, nearly seven feet
      long, and perhaps three feet wide, by two feet and a half deep. It was
      oblong—not coffin-shaped. The material was at first supposed to be
      the wood of the sycamore (_platanus_), but, upon cutting into it, we
      found it to be pasteboard, or, more properly, _papier mache_,
      composed of papyrus.