vility, and pondered long without finding out
the real substance of the celestial utensil. By reason of turning it
and twisting it about, studying it, looking at it, feeling it,
emptying it, knocking it in an interrogatory manner, smacking it down,
standing it up straight, standing it on one side, and turning it
upside down, he read backwards _Eva_. Who is _Eva_, if not all women
in one? Therefore by the Voice Divine was it said to the author:

Think of women; woman will heal thy wound, stop the waste-hole in thy
bag of tricks. Woman is thy wealth; have but one woman, dress,
undress, and fondle that women, make use of the woman--woman is
everything--woman has an inkstand of her own; dip thy pen in that
bottomless inkpot. Women like love; make love to her with the pen
only, tickle her phantasies, and sketch merrily for her a thousand
pictures of love in a thousand pretty ways. Woman is generous, and all
for one, or one for all, must pay the painter, and furnish the hairs
of the brush. Now, muse upon that which is written here. _Ave_, Hail,
_Eva_, woman; or _Eva_, woman, _Ave_, Hail. Yes, she makes and
unmakes. Heigh, then, for the inkstand! What does woman like best?
What does she desire? All the special things of love; and woman is
right. To have children, to produce an imitation, of nature, which is
always in labour. Come to me, then, woman!--come to me, Eva!

With this the author began to dip into that fertile inkpot, where
there was a brain-fluid, concocted by virtues from on high in a
talismanic fashion. From one cup there came serious things, which
wrote themselves in brown ink; and from the other trifling things,
which merely gave a roseate hue to the pages of the manuscript. The
poor author has often, from carelessness, mixed the inks, now here,
now there; but as soon as the heavy sentences, difficult to smooth,
polish, and brighten up, of some work suitable to the taste of the day
are finished, the author, eager to amuse himself, in spite of the
small amount of merry ink remaining in the left cup, steals and bears
eagerly therefrom a few penfuls with great delight. These said penfuls
are, indeed, these same Droll Tales, the authority on which is above
suspicion, because it flows from a divine source, as is shown in this
the author's naive confession.

Certain evil-disposed people will still cry out at this; but can you
find a man perfectly contented on this lump of mud? Is it not a shame?
In this the author h