Pinto passed a yellow bandanna handkerchief over his awful white teeth, and kept his glass eye steadily fixed on me.  “Sir Joshua’s friend?” said he (you perceive, eluding my direct question).  “Is not every one that knows his pictures Reynolds’s friend?  Suppose I tell you that I have been in his painting room scores of times, and that his sister The has made me tea, and his sister Toffy has made coffee for me?  You will only say I am an old ombog.” (Mr. Pinto, I remarked, spoke all languages with an accent equally foreign.) “Suppose I tell you that I knew Mr. Sam Johnson, and did not like him? that I was at that very ball at Madame Cornelis’, which you have mentioned in one of your little—­what do you call them?—­bah! my memory begins to fail me—­in one of your little Whirligig Papers?  Suppose I tell you that Sir Joshua has been here, in this very room?”

“Have you, then, had these apartments for—­more—­than—­seventy years?” I asked.

“They look as if they had not been swept for that time—­don’t they?  Hey?  I did not say that I had them for seventy years, but that Sir Joshua has visited me here.”

“When?” I asked, eying the man sternly, for I began to think he was an impostor.

He answered me with a glance still more stern:  “Sir Joshua Reynolds was here this very morning, with Angelica Kaufmann and Mr. Oliver Goldschmidt.  He is still very much attached to Angelica, who still does not care for him.  Because he is dead (and I was in the fourth mourning coach at his funeral) is that any reason why he should not come back to earth again?  My good sir, you are laughing at me.  He has sat many a time on that very chair which you are occupying.  There are several spirits in the room now, whom you cannot see.  Excuse me.”  Here he turned round as if he was addressing somebody, and began rapidly speaking a language unknown to me.  “It is Arabic,” he said; “a bad patois I own.  I learned it in Barbary, when I was a prisoner amongst the Moors.  In anno 1609, bin ick aldus ghekledt gheghaen.  Ha! you doubt me:  look at me well.  At least I am like—­”

Perhaps some of my readers remember a paper of which the figure of a man carrying a barrel formed the initial letter,* and which I copied from an old spoon now in my possession.  As I looked at Mr. Pinto I do declare he looked so like the figure on that old piece of plate that I started and felt very uneasy.  “Ha!” said he, laughing through his false teeth (I declare they were false—­I could see utterly toothless gums working up and down behind the pink coral), “you see I wore a beard den; I am shafed now; perhaps you tink I am A spoon.  Ha, ha!” And as he laughed he gave a cough which I thought would have coughed his teeth out, his glass eye out, his wig off, his very head off; but he stopped this convulsion by stumping across the room and seizing a little bottle of bright pink medicine, which, being opened, spread a singular acrid aromatic odor through