Don't understand at all.
Secondly. That an odd little dwarf and bottle conjurer, both of whose ears, for some misdemeanor, have been cut off close to his head, has been missing for several days from the neighboring city of Bruges.
Well—what of that?
Thirdly. That the newspapers which were stuck all over the little balloon were newspapers of Holland, and therefore could not have been made in the moon. They were dirty papers—very dirty—and Gluck, the printer, would take his bible oath to their having been printed in Rotterdam.
He was mistaken—undoubtedly—mistaken.
Fourthly. That Hans Phaall himself, the drunken villain, and the three very idle gentlemen styled his creditors, were all seen, no longer than two or three days ago, in the tippling house in the suburbs, having just returned, with money in their pockets, from a trip beyond the sea.
Don't believe it—don't believe a word of it.
Lastly. That it is an opinion very generally received, or which ought to be generally received, that the College of Astronomers in the city of Rotterdam—as well as all other Colleges in all other parts of the world—not to mention Colleges and Astronomers in general—are, to say the least of the matter, not a whit better, nor greater, nor wiser than they ought to be.
The d——l, you say! Now that's too bad. Why, hang the people, they should be prosecuted for a libel. I tell you, gentlemen, you know nothing about the business. You are ignorant of Astronomy—and of things in general. The voyage was made—it was indeed—and made, too, by Hans Phaall. I wonder, for my part, you do not perceive at once that the letter—the document—is intrinsically—is astronomically true—and that it carries upon its very face the evidence of its own authenticity.