"Children in the water, you strange little duck?" said the
professor.

"Yes," said Ellie. "I know there used to be children in the water,
and mermaids too, and mermen. I saw them all in a picture at home,
of a beautiful lady sailing in a car drawn by dolphins, and babies
flying round her, and one sitting in her lap; and the mermaids
swimming and playing, and the mermen trumpeting on conch-shells;
and it is called 'The Triumph of Galatea;' and there is a burning
mountain in the picture behind. It hangs on the great staircase,
and I have looked at it ever since I was a baby, and dreamt about
it a hundred times; and it is so beautiful, that it must be true."

But the professor had not the least notion of allowing that things
were true, merely because people thought them beautiful. For at
that rate, he said, the Baltas would be quite right in thinking it
a fine thing to eat their grandpapas, because they thought it an
ugly thing to put them underground. The professor, indeed, went
further, and held that no man was forced to believe anything to be
true, but what he could see, hear, taste, or handle.

He held very strange theories about a good many things. He had
even got up once at the British Association, and declared that apes
had hippopotamus majors in their brains just as men have. Which
was a shocking thing to say; for, if it were so, what would become
of the faith, hope, and charity of immortal millions? You may
think that there are other more important differences between you
and an ape, such as being able to speak, and make machines, and
know right from wrong, and say your prayers, and other little