Scip. I mean go on with it in one piece, and don’t hang on so many tails to it as to make it look like a polypus.

Berg. Speak correctly, Scipio:  one does not say the tails but the arms of a polypus.  But to my story:  my evil fortune, not content with having torn me from my studies, and from the calm and joyous life I led amid them; not content with having fastened me up behind a door, and transferred me from the liberality of the students to the stinginess of the negress, resolved to rob me of the little ease and comfort I still enjoyed.  Look ye, Scipio, you may set it down with me for a certain fact, that ill luck will hunt out and find the unlucky one, though he hides in the uttermost parts of the earth.  I have reason to say this; for the negress was in love with a negro, also belonging to the house, who slept in the porch between the street-door and the inner one behind which I was fastened, and they could only meet at night, to which end they had stolen the keys or got false ones.  Every night the negress came down stairs, and stopping my mouth with a piece of meat or cheese, opened the door for the negro.  For some days, the woman’s bribes kept my conscience asleep; for but for them, I began to fear that my ribs would come together, and that I should be changed from a mastiff to a greyhound.  But my better nature coming at last to my aid, I bethought me of what was due to my master, whose bread I ate; and that I ought to act as becomes not only honest dogs, but all who have masters to serve.

Scip. There now, Berganza, you have spoken what I call true philosophy; but go on.  Do not make too long a yarn—­not to say tail of your history.

Berg. But, first of all, pray tell me if you know what is the meaning of the word philosophy?  For though I use it, I do not know what the thing really is, only I guess that it is something good.

Scip. I will tell you briefly.  The word is compounded of two Greek words, philo, love, and sophia, wisdom; so that it means love of wisdom, and philosopher a lover of wisdom.

Berg. What a deal you know, Scipio.  Who the deuce taught you Greek words?

Scip. Truly you are a simpleton, Berganza, to make so much of a matter that is known to every schoolboy; indeed, there are many persons who pretend to know Greek, though they are ignorant of it, just as is the case with Latin.

Berg. I believe it, Scipio; and I would have such persons put under a press, as the Portuguese do with the negroes of Guinea, and have all the juice of their knowledge well squeezed out of them, so that they might no more cheat the world with their scraps of broken Greek and Latin.

Scip. Now indeed, Berganza, you may bite your tongue, and I may do the same; for we do nothing but rail in every word.