Then returning to his cabinet, he pointed to a bamboo microscope, which had wonderfully assisted him in his entomological pursuits. “By this instrument, my masters,” said he, “I have satisfied myself, that in the eye of a dragon-fly there are precisely twelve thousand five hundred and forty-one triangular lenses; and in the leg of a flea, scores on scores of distinct muscles. Now, my masters, how far think you a flea may leap at one spring? Why, two hundred times its own length; I have often measured their leaps, with a small measure I use for scientific purposes.” “Truly, Oh-Oh,” said Babbalanja, “your discoveries must ere long result in something grand; since you furnish such invaluable data for theorists. Pray, attend, my lord Media. If, at one spring, a flea leaps two hundred times its own length, then, with the like proportion of muscles in his calves, a bandit might pounce upon the unwary traveler from a quarter of a mile off. Is it not so, Oh-Oh?” “Indeed, but it is, my masters. And one of the greatest consolations I draw from these studies, is the ever-strengthening conviction of the beneficent wisdom that framed our Mardi. For did men possess thighs in proportion to fleas, verily, the wicked would grievously leap about, and curvet in the isles.” “But Oh-Oh,” said Babbalanja, “what other discoveries have you made? Hast yet put a usurer under your lens, to find his conscience? or a libertine, to find his heart? Hast yet brought your microscope to bear upon a downy peach, or a rosy cheek?” “I have,” said Oh-Oh, mournfully; “and from the moment I so did, I have had no heart to eat a peach, or salute a cheek.” “Then dash your lens!” cried Media. “Well said, my lord. For all the eyes we get beyond our own, but minister to infelicity. The microscope disgusts us with our Mardi; and the telescope sets us longing for some other world.” CHAPTER XIX. They Go Down Into The Catacombs With a dull flambeau, we now descended some narrow stone steps, to view Oh-Oh’s collection of ancient and curious manuscripts, preserved in a vault. “This way, this way, my masters,” cried Oh-Oh, aloft, swinging his dim torch. “Keep your hands before you; it’s a dark road to travel.” “So it seems,” said Babbalanja, wide-groping, as he descended lower and lower. “My lord this is like going down to posterity.” Upon gaining the vault, forth flew a score or two of bats, extinguishing the flambeau, and leaving us in darkness, like Belzoni deserted by his Arabs in the heart of a pyramid. The torch at last relumed, we entered a tomb-like excavation, at every step raising clouds of dust; and at last stood before long rows of musty, mummyish parcels, so dingy-red, and so rolled upon sticks, that they looked like stiff sausages of Bologna; but smelt like some fine old Stilton or Cheshire.