we walked toward the south. on this side, giphantia ends in a point, and forms a little promontory, from whence there is a large prospect. this promontory is covered all over with a plant, whose boughs descend and creep every way. this is the production of the second kernel. the plant never bears either leaves or blossoms, or fruit: it is formed by an infinite number of very thin small fibres, which branch out of one another.

view carefully the fibres (says the prefect to me.) dost thou see at their 240extremity, little longish bodies, which move so briskly? they are small maggots, which this plant breeds; whether vegetation, carried beyond its usual bounds, produces them; or whether there comes at the extremity of the fibres, a sort of corruption, by which they are engendered. in time, these maggots waste away so as to become invisible: but withal they get wings, and growing flies, they disperse themselves over the earth. there, they stick fast to men, and cease not to infest them with a sting given them by nature. and as the tarantula, with the poison which she leaves in the wound she has made, inspires an immoderate desire to leap and dance, just so these small insects cause, according to their different kinds, different itchings. such are the itch 241of talking, the itch of writing, the itch of knowing, the itch of shining, the itch of being known, with a hundred others. hence, all the motions, men put themselves into, all the efforts they make, all the passions that stir them.

the sensation they feel on these occasions, is so manifestly such as we are describing, that when any one is seen in an uncommon agitation of body or mind, it is very usual to say, what fly stings? what maggot bites? though nothing can be seen, it is perceived that the cause of so many motions is a stinging: a man often finds it by experience, and knows what it is owing to.

when once men are troubled with these restless prickings, they cannot be quiet. he, for instance, that is stung 242with the itch of talking, is continually discoursing with every body, correcting those that do not need it, informing those that know more than himself. his visage opens, lengthens, and shortens at pleasure: he laughs with those that laugh, weeps with those that weep, without sharing the joy of the one, or the grief of the other. if by chance he gives you room to say any thing, speak fast and stop not; for, in an instant, he would begin again, and take care not to be interrupted. never does he lend an ear to any one; and even when he seems to hold his tongue, he is still muttering to himself. he despises nothing so much as those silent animals, who hear little and speak still less; and he thinks no men more worthy of envy than those, who have the talent 243of drawing a circle of admirers, of raising the voice in the midst of them, and of saying nothings incessantly applauded.

sometimes the itch of talking is turned into the itch of writing; which comes to the same thing; for writing, is talking to the whole world. then those torrents of words, which flow from the mouth, change their course and flow from the pen ... what numbers of bablers in these silent libraries! oh how must those who have ears, and run over these immense collections, be stunned with what they hear! they are like great fairs, where each author cries up his wares to the utmost of his power, and spares nothing to promote the sale. come (says an antient) come and learn 244of me to practice virtue and become happy; come and draw from these pure fountains, whose streams are polluted by the corruption of men.... come rather to me (cries a modern) time and observation have opened our eyes; we see things, and only want to show them to you.... mind them not (says a romancer) seek not truth there; truth still lies in the bottom of democritus’s well. come therefore to me for amusement, and i will help you to it. come and read the life and exploits of the duke of * * * *, the model of the court; he never attacked a girl without debauching her; he has embroiled above fifty families, and thrown whole towns into confusion: he must, it is plain, be one of the most accomplished men of the age.... i have 245things to offer you, much more interesting than all this, (says a versifier) i have the prettiest odes and finest songs in the world, little soft verses, nosegays for iris, and a complete collection of all the riddles and symbolical letters, which for these ten years have puzzled the sagacity of the strongest heads in babylon.... away with those trifles (says a tragic poet) and come to me: i manage the passions as i please: i will force tears from your eyes, transport you out of your senses, and make your hair stand an end.... that is very kind indeed, (says a comic poet) but i believe, it will be better to come to me, who will make you laugh at all others and even at yourselves. i pity you all, (says a man-hater) burn me all those books there and mine too; and let 246there be no mention of learning, arts, sciences, and the like wretched things; for it is i that tell you, as long as you have any reason, you shall have neither wisdom, nor conduct, nor happiness.

i say nothing of the itch of knowledge, which should always precede that of writing, and which commonly follows it at a good distance, and often never comes at all.

at babylon, the itch of being singular, is like an epidemical disease. it is pretty well known wherein the babylonians are alike, but it would be the work of an age, to say wherein they differ. every one distinguishes himself by some remarkable stroke. hence comes the mode of portraits, and the facility of drawing them. draw them by fancy, 247you are sure they will meet with a likeness; draw them after nature, you will never fail of originals. there are some for the pulpit, for the use of the orators who want grace, there are some for the theatre, for the use of poets who want genius, there are some for writings of all kinds, for the use of the authors who want ideas.

the most troublesome of all the itches produced by these insects, is the itch of being known. thou canst not conceive, what efforts are made by all the men stung with this itch. i say all the men; for, who has not a view to reputation and fame? the artisan shows his work, the gamester his calculations, the poet his images, the orator his grand strokes, the scholar his discoveries, the general 248his campaigns, the minister his schemes. and even he that sees the nothingness of this chim?ra, still contemplates its charms, and sighs after it: just so a lover, with a troubled heart, strives to abandon a faithless mistress, from whom he cannot bear to part. what designs, what efforts of imagination to make one’s self talked of! how many things attempted and dropt! what hopes, fears, cares, and follies of every kind!