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