CHAPTER, VI 
METEMPSYCHOSIS 
H, if there is really a metempsychosis, has not 
the soul of Bardolph gone into an oyster-catcher, 
or at least has not his nose, which was his soul— 
Shakespeare, at any rate, has made it the most im- 
mortal part of him—gone into an oyster-catcher’s 
bill? I believe it has, and it burns there, now, just 
as brightly, with nothing but the salt sea to drink. 
It is that bill, that wonderful bill, which makes the 
oyster-catcher a handsome bird. The ruby eye, the 
pale pink legs, and the gaily-chequered plumage, all 
help ; but they are but adjuncts, and by themselves 
would work but small effect. This is well seen when 
the bird, having before been running actively about 
on the foreshore, becomes, all at once, oppressed 
with somnolence, stands still, turns its head over its 
shoulder, and thrusts its long, fierce, fiery tube amidst 
the plumage of the back. The transition from some- 
thing showy to something plain, from brilliancy to 
mediocrity, is then quite remarkable ; and equally so 
is it the other way when, for some imperative pur- 
pose, or in a wakeful moment, the red ray flashes out 
again. Every now and again come these swift confla- 
grations, and, between them, the bird stands like 
a little lighthouse, in the intervals between the flashes 
of the revolving light. 
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