"From finger to finger."

"My life for it! true poetry, then, my lord! For this self-same
tingling, I say, is the test."

"And infused into a song," cried Yoomy, "it evermore causes it so to
sparkle, vivify, and irradiate, that no son of man can repeat it
without tingling himself. This very song of mine may prove what I
say."

"Modest youth!" sighed Media.

"Not more so, than sincere," said Babbalanja. "He who is frank, will
often appear vain, my lord. Having no guile, he speaks as freely of
himself, as of another; and is just as ready to honor his own merits,
even if imaginary, as to lament over undeniable deficiencies. Besides,
such men are prone to moods, which to shallow-minded, unsympathizing
mortals, make their occasional distrust of themselves, appear but as a
phase of self-conceit. Whereas, the man who, in the presence of his
very friends, parades a barred and bolted front,--that man so highly
prizes his sweet self, that he cares not to profane the shrine he
worships, by throwing open its portals. He is locked up; and Ego is
the key. Reserve alone is vanity. But all mankind are egotists. The
world revolves upon an I; and we upon ourselves; for we are our own
worlds:--all other men as strangers, from outlandish, distant climes,
going clad in furs. Then, whate'er they be, let us show our worlds;
and not seek to hide from men, what Oro knows."

"Truth, my lord," said Yoomy, "but all this applies to men in mass;