ging to
him. He is a dark, mysterious personage; all connected with him is a
mystery, especially his language; but I believe that his language is
doomed to solve a great philological problem--Mr. Petulengro--"

"You appear agitated," said the Armenian; "take another glass of wine;
you possess a great deal of philological knowledge, but it appears to me
that the language of this Petulengro is your foible: but let us change
the subject; I feel much interested in you, and would fain be of service
to you. Can you cast accounts?"

I shook my head.

"Keep books?"

"I have an idea that I could write books," said I; "but, as to keeping
them--" and here again I shook my head.

The Armenian was silent some time; all at once, glancing at one of the
wire cases, with which, as I have already said, the walls of the room
were hung, he asked me if I was well acquainted with the learning of the
Haiks. "The books in these cases," said he, "contain the masterpieces of
Haik learning."

"No," said I, "all I know of the learning of the Haiks is their
translation of the Bible."

"You have never read Z---?"

"No," said I, "I have never read Z---"

"I have a plan," said the Armenian; "I think I can employ you agreeably
and profitably; I should like to see Z--- in an English dress; you shall
translate Z---. If you can read the Scriptures in Armenian, you can
translate Z---. He is our Esop, the most acute and clever of all our
moral writers--his philosophy--"

"I will have nothing to do with him," said I.

"Wherefore?" said the Armenian.

"There is an old proverb," said I, "that 'a burnt child avoids the fire'.
I have burnt my hands sufficiently with attempting to translate
philosophy, to make me cautious of venturing upon it again;" and then I
told the Armenian how I had been persuaded by the publisher to translate
his philosophy into German, and what sorry thanks I had received; "and
who knows," said I, "but the attempt to translate Armenian philosophy
into English might be attended with yet more disagreeable consequences."

The Armenian smiled. "You would find me very different from the
publisher."

"In many points I have no doubt I should," I replied; "but at the present
moment I feel like a bird which has escaped from a cage, and, though
hungry, feels no disposition to return. Of what nation is the dark man
below stairs, whom I saw writing at the desk?"

"He is a Moldave," said the Armenian; "the dog (and here his