is a mere hypothesis. And thus, my
lord, is it, that the masts of Mardians do not believe because they
know, but because they know not. And they are as ready to receive one
thing as another, if it comes from a canonical source. My lord, Mardi
is as an ostrich, which will swallow augh you offer, even a bar of
iron, if placed endwise. And though the iron be indigestible, yet it
serves to fill: in feeding, the end proposed. For Mardi must have
something to exercise its digestion, though that something be forever
indigestible. And as fishermen for sport, throw two lumps of bait,
united by a cord, to albatrosses floating on the sea; which are
greedily attempted to be swallowed, one lump by this fowl, the other
by that; but forever are kept reciprocally going up and down in them,
by means of the cord; even so, my lord, do I sometimes fancy, that our
theorists divert them-selves with the greediness of Mardians to
believe."

"Ha, ha," cried Media, "methinks this must be Azzageddi who speaks."

"No, my lord; not long since, Azzageddi received a furlough to go home
and warm himself for a while. But this leaves me not alone."

"How?"

"My lord,--for the present putting Azzageddi entirely aside,--though I
have now been upon terms of close companionship with myself for nigh
five hundred moons, I have not yet been able to decide who or what I
am. To you, perhaps, I seem Babbalanja; but to myself, I seem not
myself. All I am sure of, is a sort of prickly sensation all over me,
which they call life; and, occasionally, a headache or a queer conceit
admonishes me, that there is something astir in my attic. But how know
I, that these sensations are identical with myself? For aught I know,
I may be somebody else. At any rate, I keep an eye on myself, as I
would on a stranger. There is something going on in me, that is
independent of me. Many a time, have I willed to do one thing, and
another has been done. I will not say by myself, for I was not
consulted about it; it was done instinctively. My most virtuous
thoughts are not born of my musings, but spring up in me, like bright
fancies to the poet; unsought, spontaneous. Whence they come I know
not. I am a blind man pushed from behind; in vain, I turn about to see
what propels me. As vanity, I regard the praises of my friends; for
what they commend pertains not to me, Babbalanja; but to this unknown
something that forces me to it. But why am I, a middle aged Mardian,
less prone to exce