CHAPTER XXIX.
BEWARE OF BIOLOGY, THE SCIENCE OF THE LIFE OF MAN.[1]
(The old man relates a story as an object lesson.)
"But you have not lived up to the promise; you have evaded part of the bargain," I continued. "While you have certainly performed some curious experiments in physics which seem to be unique, yet, I am only an amateur in science, and your hydrostatic illustrations play be repetitions of investigations already recorded, that have escaped the attention of the scientific gentlemen to whom I have hitherto applied."
"Man's mind is a creature of doubts and questions," he observed. "Answer one query, and others rise. His inner self is never satisfied, and you are not to blame for wishing for a sign, as all self-conscious conditions of your former existence compel. Now that I have brushed aside the more prominent questionings, you insist upon those omitted, and appeal to me to"—he hesitated.
"To what?" I asked, curious to see if he had intuitively grasped my unspoken sentence.
"To exhibit to you your own brain," he replied.
"That is it exactly," I said; "you promised it, and you shall be held strictly to your bargain. You agreed to show me my own brain, and it seems evident that you have purposely evaded the promise."
"That I have made the promise and deferred its completion can not be denied, but not by reason of an inability to fulfill the contract. I will admit that I purposely deferred the exhibition, hoping on your own account that you would forget the hasty promise. You would better release me from the promise; you do not know what you ask."
"I believe that I ask more than you can perform," I answered, "and that you know it."
- ↑ The reader is invited to skip this chapter of horrors.—J. U. L.
