L. It is quite marble. And another singular point in the business, to my mind, is that these stones, which men have been cutting into slabs, for thousands of years, to ornament their principal buildings with,--and which, under the general name of "marble," have been the delight of the eyes, and the wealth of architecture, among all civilized nations,--are precisely those on which the signs and brands of these earth agonies have been chiefly struck; and there is not a purple vein nor flaming zone in them, which is not the record of their ancient torture. What a boundless capacity for sleep, and for serene stupidity, there is in the human mind! Fancy reflective beings, who cut and polish stones for three thousand years, for the sake of the pretty stains upon them; and educate themselves to an art at last (such as it is), of imitating these veins by dexterous painting; and never a curious soul of them, all that while, asks, "What painted the rocks?" (The audience look dejected, and ashamed of themselves.) The fact is, we are all, and always, asleep, through our lives; and it is only by pinching ourselves very hard that we ever come to see, or understand, anything. At least, it is not always we who pinch ourselves; sometimes other people pinch us; which I suppose is very good of them,--or other things, which I suppose is very proper of them. But it is a sad life; made up chiefly of naps and pinches. (Some of the audience, on this, appearing to think that the others require pinching, the LECTURER changes the subject.)