akes me to
unheard of realms, beyond the skies of Mardi. So present is he always,
that I seem not so much to live of myself, as to be a mere
apprehension of the unaccountable being that is in me. Yet all the
time, this being is I, myself."

"Babbalanja," said Media, "you have fairly turned yourself inside out."

"Yes, my lord," said Mohi, "and he has so unsettled me, that I begin
to think all Mardi a square circle."

"How is that, Babbalanja," said Media, "is a circle square?"

"No, my lord, but ever since Mardi began, we Mardians have been
essaying our best to square it."

"Cleverly retorted. Now, Babbalanja, do you not imagine, that you may
do harm by disseminating these sophisms of yours; which like your
devil theory, would seem to relieve all Mardi from moral
accountability?"

"My lord, at bottom, men wear no bonds that other men can strike off;
and have no immunities, of which other men can deprive them. Tell a
good man that he is free to commit murder,--will he murder? Tell a
murderer that at the peril of his soul he indulges in murderous
thoughts,--will that make him a saint?"

"Again on the verge, Babbalanja? Take not the leap, I say."

"I can leap no more, my lord. Already I am down, down, down."

"Philosopher," said Media, "what with Azzageddi, and the mysterious
indweller you darkly hint of, I marvel not that you are puzzled to
decide upon your identity. But when do you seem most yourself?"

"When I sleep, and dream not, my lord."

"Indeed?"

"Why then, a fool's cap might be put on you, and you would not know it."

"The very turban he ought to wear," muttered Mohi.

"Yet, my lord, I live while consciousness is not mine, while to all
appearances I am a clod. And may not this same state of being, though
but alternate with me, be continually that of many dumb, passive
objects we so carelessly regard? Trust me, there are more things alive
than those that crawl, or fly, or swim. Think you, my lord, there is
no sensation in being a tree? feeling the sap in one's boughs, the
breeze in one's foliage? think you it is nothing to be a world? one of
a herd, bison-like, wending its way across boundless meadows of ether?
In the sight of a fowl, that sees not our souls, what are our own
tokens of animation? That we move, make a noise, have organs, pulses,
and are compounded of fluids and solids. And all these are in this
Mardi as a unit. Daily the slow, majestic throbbings of its heart are
perceptible on t