“Dubious enough! Azzageddi! forever, hereafter, hold thy peace.”
“Ah, my children! I must go back to my Axioms.”
“And what are they?” said old Mohi.
“Of various sorts; which, again, are diverse. Thus: my contrary axioms are Disjunctive, and Subdisjunctive; and so, with the rest. So, too, in degree, with my Syllogisms.”
“And what of them?”
“Did I not just hint what they were, my child? I repeat, they are of various sorts: Connex, and Conjunct, for example.”
“And what of them?” persisted Mohi; while Babbalanja, arms folded, stood serious and mute; a sneer on his lip.
“As with other branches of my dialectics: so, too, in their way, with my Syllogisms. Thus: when I say,—If it be warm, it is not cold:— that’s a simple Sumption. If I add, But it is warm:—that’s an Assumption.”
“So called from the syllogist himself, doubtless;” said Mohi, stroking his beard.
“Poor ignorant babe! no. Listen:—if finally, I say,—Therefore it is not cold that’s the final inference.”