The reader may feel inclined to smile at my vulgar and unpoetic proportions, nevertheless, let me remind him that God has so framed the world, that in the rudest and most unlikely forms among men and beasts repose the sublimest attributes. Thus human genius is seldom found mated with bodies of herculean type. So the sentiment of a love-sick Penguin can never be estimated by the appearance of its too solid body. V. “Suspense becomes intolerable, I can no longer bear it,” I said, and cast myself into the sea to drown my sorrow in its mournful waves. VI. Unfortunately, I discovered how to swim, so my history does not end here. VII. When I rose to the surface—one always rises two or three times before drowning—yielding to my passion for soliloquies, I inquired what right had I thus to seek to destroy myself; if the world would not be just one Penguin worse off, had I met my end, &c. My soliloquy was long. I was drifting many leagues straight ahead; now and again diving with the dire resolve of going to the bottom and {63} remaining there. But for some reason I always found myself coming to the surface, and, to tell the truth, the air seemed all the more refreshing after each dip. Just as my seventh attempt at suicide had miscarried, I rose to find myself side by side with a creature whose simple unaffectedness won my heart at first sight. “What were you after below there, Mr. Penguin? and where are you going?” he inquired, bowing profoundly. “I hardly know,” I replied. “Well,” said he, “suppose we go together.” I willingly agreed, and on the way related my misfortunes to him. When I had finished, he asked me if I had formed any plans for the future. “No,” I said, “not any, still I have half a mind to travel in search of my lady-love, the Gull.” [Illustration] “How came you to love a Gull? You look a large solid bird enough. Why don’t you devote your affections to one of your own decent stay-at-home kind? Depend upon it, the Gull, could you wed her, would only bring grief. She is puffed out with feathers, and ever on the wing; she would soon desert you for one of her own kind.” This seemed severe, and I replied testily, “There’s no accounting either for tastes or for love. It came upon me like a sunbeam from heaven.” “From heaven!” said my companion. “Lovers’ language! A {64} strong light, this light of love; and it has left a shadow of pitchy darkness somewhere, has it not?” “Ah! sir,” I said, “you look dejected. My story, perchance, stirred up old memories.” He said nothing, but wrapped in profound melancholy ascended a rock left dry by the tide, and I followed. There was such an air of profundity about him that I inquired what he was thinking about. “Nothing,” he replied. “But who are you, whose silence is so eloquent?” “I am of the Palmiped family, and my name is Fool.” “You, Fool!” I cried. “Come!”