“Never mind your old authors,” said Media.  “Stick to the cripples; enlarge upon them.”

“But I have done with them now, my lord; the sermon is not the text.  Give ear to old Bardianna.  I know him by heart.  Thus saith the sage in Book X. of the Ponderings, ‘Zermalmende,’ the title:  ‘Je pense,’ the motto:—­’My supremacy over creation, boasteth man, is declared in my natural attitude:—­I stand erect!  But so do the palm-trees; and the giraffes that graze off their tops.  And the fowls of the air fly high over our heads; and from the place where we fancy our heaven to be, defile the tops of our temples.  Belike, the eagles, from their eyries look down upon us Mardians, in our hives, even as upon the beavers in their dams, marveling at our incomprehensible ways.  And cunning though we be, some things, hidden from us, may not be mysteries to them.  Having five keys, hold we all that open to knowledge?  Deaf, blind, and deprived of the power of scent, the bat will steer its way unerringly:—­could we?  Yet man is lord of the bat and the brute; lord over the crows; with whom, he must needs share the grain he garners.  We sweat for the fowls, as well as ourselves.  The curse of labor rests only on us.  Like slaves, we toil:  at their good leisure they glean.

“’Mardi is not wholly ours.  We are the least populous part of creation.  To say nothing of other tribes, a census of the herring would find us far in the minority.  And what life is to us,—­sour or sweet,—­so is it to them.  Like us, they die, fighting death to the last; like us, they spawn and depart.  We inhabit but a crust, rough surfaces, odds and ends of the isles; the abounding lagoon being its two-thirds, its grand feature from afar; and forever unfathomable.

“’What shaft has yet been sunk to the antipodes?  What underlieth the gold mines?

“’But even here, above-ground, we grope with the sun at meridian.  Vainly, we seek our Northwest Passages,—­old alleys, and thoroughfares of the whales.

“’Oh men! fellow men! we are only what we are; not what we would be; nor every thing we hope for.  We are but a step in a scale, that reaches further above us than below.  We breathe but oxygen.  Who in Arcturus hath heard of us?  They know us not in the Milky Way.  We prate of faculties divine:  and know not how sprouteth a spear of grass; we go about shrugging our shoulders:  when the firmament-arch is over us; we rant of etherealities:  and long tarry over our banquets; we demand Eternity for a lifetime:  when our mortal half-hours too often prove tedious.  We know not of what we talk.  The Bird of Paradise out-flies our flutterings.  What it is to be immortal, has not yet entered into our thoughts.  At will, we build our futurities; tier above tier, all galleries full of laureates:  resounding with everlasting oratorios!  Pater-nosters forever, or eternal Misereres! forgetting that in Mardi, our breviaries oft fall from our hands.  But divans there are, some say, whereon we shall recline, basking in effulgent suns, knowing neither Orient nor Occident.  Is it so?  Fellow men! our mortal lives have an end; but that end is no goal:  no place of repose.  Whatever it may be, it will prove but as the beginning of another race.  We will hope, joy, weep, as before; though our tears may be such as the spice-trees shed.  Supine we can only be, annihilated.