e he sniffed at it deeply, being, like all
his kind, enraptured with perfume, 'and that much of it is, I grant, the
real thing.'

"'Now tell me,' inquired Flaxius, 'truly--_religiose testimonium
dicere_--by thy great ancestress Diana and her sister-double Herodias and
her Nine Cats, by the Moon and the eternal Shadow, Endamone, and the word
which Bergoia whispered into the ear of the Ox, and the Lamia whom thou
lovest--what is it makes a man? Is it his soul or his body?'

"'Man of mystery and master of the hidden lore,' replied the awe-struck
goblin, 'it is his _soul_.'

"'And is not the perfume of the rose its _soul_--that which breathes its
life, in which it speaks to fairies or to men? Is not the voice in song
or sweetened words the perfume of the spirit, ever true? Is not--'

"'I give it up,' replied the goblin. 'The priest may turn in now for a
long, long nap. Here, take his gold, and _ne gioire tutto
d'allegrezza_--may you have a merry time with it. There is a great deal
of good drinking in a thousand crowns; and if you ever try to _ludere
latrunculis vel aleis_, or shake the bones or dice, I promise you three
sixes. By the way, I'll just keep this rose to remember you by.
_Addio--a rivederlei_!'

"So the bedesman slept amid his ashes cold, and the good Flaxius, who was
a stout carl for the nonce, with a broad back and a great beard,
returned, bearing a mighty sack of ancient gold, which stood him in good
stead for many a day. And the goblin is still there in the tower."

"_Haec fabula docet_," wrote Flaxius as he revised the proof with a
red-lead pencil, for which he had paid a penny in the Calzolaio. "This
tale teaches that in this life there is naught which hath not its ideal
side or inner soul, which may raise us to higher reflection or greater
profit, if we will but seek it. The lower the man the lower he looks,
but it is all to his loss in the end. Now every chapter in this book, O
my son--or daughter--may seem to thee only a rose of silk, yet do not
stop at that, but try to find therein a perfume. For thou art thyself, I
doubt not, such a rose, even if thy threads (as in most of us) be
somewhat worn, torn, or faded, yet with a soul far better than many deem
who see thee only afar off. And this my book is written for the perfume,
not the silk of my reader. And there is no person who is better than
what the world deems him or her to be who will not find in it marvellous
comfort, solace, an