And theological works:—­
    “Pepper for the Perverse.” 
    “Pudding for the Pious.” 
    “Pleas for Pardon.” 
    “Pickles for the Persecuted.”

And long and tedious romances with short and easy titles:—­
    “The Buck.” 
    “The Belle.” 
    “The King and the Cook, or the Cook and the King.”

And books of voyages:—­
    “A Sojourn among the Anthropophagi, by One whose Hand was
        eaten off at Tiffin among the Savages.” 
    “Franko:  its King, Court, and Tadpoles.” 
    “Three Hours in Vivenza, containing a Full and Impartial Account
        of that Whole Country:  by a Subject of King Bello.”

And works of nautical poets:—­
    “Sky-Sail-Pole Lyrics.”

And divers brief books, with panic-striking titles:—­
    “Are you safe?”
    “A Voice from Below.” 
    “Hope for none.” 
    “Fire for all.”

And pamphlets by retired warriors:—­
    “On the Best Gravy for Wild Boar’s Meat.” 
    “Three Receipts for Bottling New Arrack.” 
    “To Brown Bread Fruit without Burning.” 
    “Advice to the Dyspeptic.” 
    “On Starch for Tappa.”

All these MSS. were highly prized by Oh-Oh.  He averred, that they spoke of the mighty past, which he reverenced more than the paltry present, the dross and sediment of what had been.

Peering into a dark crypt, Babbalanja drew forth a few crumbling, illegible, black-letter sheets of his favorite old essayist, brave Bardianna.  They seemed to have formed parts of a work, whose title only remained—­“Thoughts, by a Thinker.”

Silently Babbalanja pressed them to his heart.  Then at arm’s length held them, and said, “And is all this wisdom lost?  Can not the divine cunning in thee, Bardianna, transmute to brightness these sullied pages?  Here, perhaps, thou didst dive into the deeps of things, treating of the normal forms of matter and of mind; how the particles of solids were first molded in the interstices of fluids; how the thoughts of men are each a soul, as the lung-cells are each a lung; how that death is but a mode of life; while mid-most is the Pharzi.—­ But all is faded.  Yea, here the Thinker’s thoughts lie cheek by jowl with phrasemen’s words.  Oh Bardianna! these pages were offspring of thee, thought of thy thought, soul of thy soul.  Instinct with mind, they once spoke out like living voices; now, they’re dust; and would not prick a fool to action.  Whence then is this?  If the fogs of some few years can make soul linked to matter naught; how can the unhoused spirit hope to live when mildewed with the damps of death.”

Piously he folded the shreds of manuscript together, kissed them, and laid them down.

Then approaching Oh-Oh, he besought him for one leaf, one shred of those most precious pages, in memory of Bardianna, and for the love of him.

But learning who he was, one of that old Ponderer’s commentators, Oh-Oh tottered toward the manuscripts; with trembling fingers told them over, one by one, and said-"Thank Oro! all are here.—­Philosopher, ask me for my limbs, my life, my heart, but ask me not for these.  Steeped in wax, these shall be my cerements.”