{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_13721/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_13721","id":"gutenberg_13721","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/13721","summary":null,"tags":["Adventure stories","Category: Adventure","Category: American Literature","Category: Novels","Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Category: Science-Fiction & Fantasy","Polynesia -- Description and travel -- Fiction"],"text":"MARDI:\nAND A VOYAGE THITHER\n\nBy Herman Melville\n\nIn Two Volumes\n\nVol. II.\n\n1864\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n MARDI\n CHAPTER I. \u2014 Maramma\n CHAPTER II. \u2014 They land\n CHAPTER III. \u2014 They pass through the Woods\n CHAPTER IV. \u2014 Hivohitee MDCCCXLVIII\n CHAPTER V. \u2014 They visit the great Morai\n CHAPTER VI. \u2014 They discourse of the Gods of Mardi, and Braid-Beard tells of one Foni\n CHAPTER VII. \u2014 They visit the Lake of Yammo\n CHAPTER VIII. \u2014 They Meet The Pilgrims At The Temple Of Oro\n CHAPTER IX. \u2014 They discourse of Alma\n CHAPTER X. \u2014 Mohi tells of one Ravoo, and they land to visit Hevaneva, a flourishing Artisan\n CHAPTER XI. \u2014 A Nursery-tale of Babbalanja\u2019s\n CHAPTER XII. \u2014 Landing to visit Hivohitee the Pontiff, they encounter an extraordinary old Hermit; with whom Yoomy has a confidential Interview, but learns little\n CHAPTER XIII. \u2014 Babbalanja endeavors to explain the Mystery\n CHAPTER XIV. \u2014 Taji receives Tidings and Omens\n CHAPTER XV. \u2014 Dreams\n CHAPTER XVI. \u2014 Media and Babbalanja discourse\n CHAPTER XVII. \u2014 They regale themselves with their Pipes\n CHAPTER XVIII. \u2014 They visit an extraordinary old Antiquary\n CHAPTER XIX. \u2014 They go down into the Catacombs\n CHAPTER XX. \u2014 Babbalanja quotes from an antique Pagan; and earnestly presses it upon the Company, that what he recites is not his but another\u2019s\n CHAPTER XXI. \u2014 They visit a wealthy old Pauper\n CHAPTER XXII. \u2014 Yoomy sings some odd Verses, and Babbalanja quotes from the old Authors right and left\n CHAPTER XXIII. \u2014 What manner of Men the Tapparians were\n CHAPTER XXIV. \u2014 Their adventures upon landing at Pimminee\n CHAPTER XXV. \u2014 A, I, and O\n CHAPTER XXVI. \u2014 A Reception-day at Pimminee\n CHAPTER XXVII. \u2014 Babbalanja falleth upon Pimminee Tooth and Nail\n CHAPTER XXVIII. \u2014 Babbalanja regales the Company with some Sandwiches\n CHAPTER XXIX. \u2014 They still remain upon the Rock\n CHAPTER XXX. \u2014 Behind and Before\n CHAPTER XXXI. \u2014 Babbalanja discourses in the Dark\n CHAPTER XXXII. \u2014 My Lord Media summons Mohi to the Stand\n CHAPTER XXXIII. \u2014 Wherein Babbalanja and Yoomy embrace\n CHAPTER XXXIV. \u2014 Of the Isle of Diranda\n CHAPTER XXXV. \u2014 They visit the Lords Piko and Hello\n CHAPTER XXXVI. \u2014 They attend the Games\n CHAPTER XXXVII. \u2014 Taji still hunted, and beckoned\n CHAPTER XXXVIII. \u2014 They embark from Diranda\n CHAPTER XXXIX. \u2014 Wherein Babbalanja discourses of himself\n CHAPTER XL. \u2014 Of the Sorcerers in the Isle of Minda\n CHAPTER XLI. \u2014 Chiefly of Sing Bello\n CHAPTER XLII. \u2014 Dominora and Vivenza\n CHAPTER XLIII. \u2014 They land at Dominora\n CHAPTER XLIV. \u2014 Through Dominora, they wander after Yillah\n CHAPTER XLV. \u2014 They behold King Bello\u2019s State Canoe\n CHAPTER XLVI. \u2014 Wherein Babbalanja bows thrice\n CHAPTER XLVII. \u2014 Babbalanja philosophizes, and my Lord Media passes round the Calabashes\n CHAPTER XLVIII. \u2014 They sail round an Island without landing; and talk round a Subject without getting at it\n CHAPTER XLIX. \u2014 They draw nigh to Porpheero; where they behold a terrific Eruption\n CHAPTER L. \u2014 Wherein King Media celebrates the Glories of Autumn, the Minstrel, the Promise of Spring\n CHAPTER LI. \u2014 In which Azzageddi seems to use Babbalanja for a Mouth-Piece\n CHAPTER LII. \u2014 The charming Yoomy sings\n CHAPTER LIII. \u2014 They draw nigh unto Land\n CHAPTER LIV. \u2014 They visit the great central Temple of Vivenza\n CHAPTER LV. \u2014 Wherein Babbalanja comments upon the Speech of Alanno\n CHAPTER LVI. \u2014 A Scene in the Land of Warwicks, or King-Makers\n CHAPTER LVII. \u2014 They hearken unto a Voice from the Gods\n CHAPTER LVIII. \u2014 They visit the extreme South of Vivenza\n CHAPTER LIX. \u2014 They converse of the Mollusca, Kings, Toad-Stools and other Matters\n CHAPTER LX. \u2014 Wherein, that gallant Gentleman and Demi-God, King Media, Scepter in Hand, throws himself into the Breach\n CHAPTER LXI. \u2014 They round the stormy Cape of Capes\n CHAPTER LXII. \u2014 They encounter Gold-Hunters\n CHAPTER LXIII. \u2014 They seek through the Isles of Palms; and pass the Isles of Myrrh\n CHAPTER LXIV. \u2014 Concentric, inward, with Mardi\u2019s Reef, they leave their Wake around the World\n CHAPTER LXV. \u2014 Sailing on\n CHAPTER LXVI. \u2014 A flight of Nightingales from Yoomy\u2019s Mouth\n CHAPTER LXVII. \u2014 They visit one Doxodox\n CHAPTER LXVIII. \u2014 King Media dreams\n CHAPTER LXIX. \u2014 After a long Interval, by Night they are becalmed\n CHAPTER LXX. \u2014 They land at Hooloomooloo\n CHAPTER LXXI. \u2014 A Book from the \u201cPonderings of old Bardianna\u201d\n CHAPTER LXXII. \u2014 Babbalanja starts to his Feet\n CHAPTER LXXIII. \u2014 At last, the last Mention is made of old Bardianna; and His last Will and Testament is recited at Length\n CHAPTER LXXIV. \u2014 A Death-cloud sweeps by them, as they sail\n CHAPTER LXXV. \u2014 They visit the palmy King Abrazza\n CHAPTER LXXVI. \u2014 Some pleasant, shady Talk in the Groves, between my Lords Abrazza and Media, Babbalanja, Mohi, and Yoomy\n CHAPTER LXXVII. \u2014 They sup\n CHAPTER LXXVIII. \u2014 They embark\n CHAPTER LXXIX. \u2014 Babbalanja at the Full of the Moon\n CHAPTER LXXX. \u2014 Morning\n CHAPTER LXXXI. \u2014 L\u2019ultima sera\n CHAPTER LXXXII. \u2014 They sail from Night to Day\n CHAPTER LXXXIII. \u2014 They land\n CHAPTER LXXXIV. \u2014 Babbalanja relates to them a Vision\n CHAPTER LXXXV. \u2014 They depart from Serenia\n CHAPTER LXXXVI. \u2014 They meet the Phantoms\n CHAPTER LXXXVII. \u2014 They draw nigh to Flozella\n CHAPTER LXXXVIII. \u2014 They land\n CHAPTER LXXXIX. \u2014 They enter the Bower of Hautia\n CHAPTER XC. \u2014 Taji with Hautia\n CHAPTER XCI. \u2014 Mardi behind: an Ocean before\n\n\n\n\nMARDI\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\nMaramma\n\n\nWe were now voyaging straight for Maramma; where lived and reigned, in\nmystery, the High Pontiff of the adjoining isles: prince, priest, and\ngod, in his own proper person: great lord paramount over many kings in\nMardi; his hands full of scepters and crosiers.\n\nSoon, rounding a lofty and insulated shore, the great central peak of\nthe island came in sight; domineering over the neighboring hills; the\nsame aspiring pinnacle, descried in drawing near the archipelago in the\nChamois.\n\n\u201cTall Peak of Ofo!\u201d cried Babbalanja, \u201chow comes it that thy shadow so\nbroods over Mardi; flinging new shades upon spots already shaded by the\nhill-sides; shade upon shade!\u201d\n\n\u201cYet, so it is,\u201d said Yoomy, sadly, \u201cthat where that shadow falls, gay\nflowers refuse to spring; and men long dwelling therein become shady of\nface and of soul. \u2018Hast thou come from out the shadows of Ofo?\u2019\ninquires the stranger, of one with a clouded brow.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt was by this same peak,\u201d said Mohi, \u201cthat the nimble god Roo, a\ngreat sinner above, came down from the skies, a very long time ago.\nThree skips and a jump, and he landed on the plain. But alas, poor Roo!\nthough easy the descent, there was no climbing back.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo wonder, then,\u201d said Babbalanja, \u201cthat the peak is inaccessible to\nman. Though, with a strange infatuation, many still make pilgrimages\nthereto; and wearily climb and climb, till slipping from the rocks,\nthey fall headlong backward, and oftentimes perish at its base.\u201d\n\n\u201cAy,\u201d said Mohi, \u201cin vain, on all sides of the Peak, various paths are\ntried; in vain new ones are cut through the cliffs and the brambles:\u2014\nOfo yet remains inaccessible.\u201d\n\n\u201cNevertheless,\u201d said Babbalanja, \u201cby some it is believed, that those,\nwho by dint of hard struggling climb so high as to become invisible\nfrom the plain; that these have attained the summit; though others much\ndoubt, whether their becoming invisible is not because of their having\nfallen, and perished by the way.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd wherefore,\u201d said Media, \u201cdo you mortals undertake the ascent at\nall? why not be content on the plain? and even if attainable, what\nwould you do upon that lofty, clouded summit? Or how can you hope to\nbreathe that rarefied air, unfitted for your human lungs?\u201d\n\n\u201cTrue, my lord,\u201d said Babbalanja; \u201cand Bardianna asserts that the plain\nalone was intended for man; who should be content to dwell under the\nshade of its groves, though the roots thereof descend into the darkness\nof the earth. But, my lord, you well know, that there are those in\nMardi, who secretly regard all stories connected with this peak, as\ninventions of the people of Maramma. They deny that any thing is to be\ngained by making a pilgrimage thereto. And for warranty, they appeal to\nthe sayings of the great prophet Alma.\u201d\n\nCried Mohi, \u201cBut Alma is also quoted by others, in vindication of the\npilgrimages to Ofo. They declare that the prophet himself was the first\npilgrim that thitherward journeyed: that from thence he departed to the\nskies.\u201d\n\nNow, excepting this same peak, Maramma is all rolling hill and dale,\nlike the sea after a storm; which then seems not to roll, but to stand\nstill, poising its mountains. Yet the landscape of Maramma has not the\nmerriness of meadows; partly because of the shadow of Ofo, and partly\nbecause of the solemn groves in which the Morais and temples are\nburied.\n\nAccording to Mohi, not one solitary tree bearing fruit, not one\nesculent root, grows in all the isle; the population wholly depending\nupon the large tribute remitted from the neighboring shores.\n\n\u201cIt is not that the soil is unproductive,\u201d said Mohi, \u201cthat these\nthings are so. It is extremely fertile; but the inhabitants say that it\nwould be wrong to make a Bread-fruit orchard of the holy island.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd hence, my lord,\u201d said Babbalanja, \u201cwhile others are charged with\nthe business of their temporal welfare, these Islanders take no thought\nof the morrow; and broad Maramma lies one fertile waste in the lagoon.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\nThey Land\n\n\nComing close to the island, the pennons and trappings of our canoes\nwere removed; and Vee-Vee was commanded to descend from the shark\u2019s\nmouth; and for a time to lay aside his conch. In token of reverence,\nour paddlers also stripped to the waist; an example which even Media\nfollowed; though, as a king, the same homage he rendered, was at times\nrendered himself.\n\nAt every place, hitherto visited, joyous crowds stood ready to hail our\narrival; but the shores of Maramma were silent, and forlorn.\n\nSaid Babbalanja, \u201cIt looks not as if the lost one were here.\u201d\n\nAt length we landed in a little cove nigh a valley, which Mohi called\nUma; and here in silence we beached our canoes.\n\nBut presently, there came to us an old man, with a beard white as the\nmane of the pale horse. He was clad in a midnight robe. He fanned\nhimself with a fan of faded leaves. A child led him by the hand, for he\nwas blind, wearing a green plantain leaf over his plaited brow.\n\nHim, Media accosted, making mention who we were, and on what errand we\ncame: to seek out Yillah, and behold the isle.\n\nWhereupon Pani, for such was his name, gave us a courteous reception;\nand lavishly promised to discover sweet Yillah; declaring that in\nMaramma, if any where, the long-lost maiden must be found. He assured\nus, that throughout the whole land he would lead us; leaving no place,\ndesirable to be searched, unexplored.\n\nAnd so saying, he conducted us to his dwelling, for refreshment and\nrepose.\n\nIt was large and lofty. Near by, however, were many miserable hovels,\nwith squalid inmates. But the old man\u2019s retreat was exceedingly\ncomfortable; especially abounding in mats for lounging; his rafters\nwere bowed down by calabashes of good cheer.\n\nDuring the repast which ensued, blind Pani, freely partaking, enlarged\nupon the merit of abstinence; declaring that a thatch overhead, and a\ncocoanut tree, comprised all that was necessary for the temporal\nwelfare of a Mardian. More than this, he assured us was sinful.\n\nHe now made known, that he officiated as guide in this quarter of the\ncountry; and that as he had renounced all other pursuits to devote\nhimself to showing strangers the island; and more particularly the best\nway to ascend lofty Ofo; he was necessitated to seek remuneration for\nhis toil.\n\n\u201cMy lord,\u201d then whispered Mohi to Media \u201cthe great prophet Alma always\ndeclared, that, without charge, this island was free to all.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat recompense do you desire, old man?\u201d said Media to Pani.\n\n\u201cWhat I seek is but little:\u2014twenty rolls of fine tappa; two score mats\nof best upland grass; one canoe-load of bread-fruit and yams; ten\ngourds of wine; and forty strings of teeth;\u2014you are a large company,\nbut my requisitions are small.\u201d\n\n\u201cVery small,\u201d said Mohi.\n\n\u201cYou are extortionate, good Pani,\u201d said Media. \u201cAnd what wants an aged\nmortal like you with all these things?\u201d\n\n\u201cI thought superfluities were worthless; nay, sinful,\u201d said Babbalanja.\n\n\u201cIs not this your habitation already more than abundantly supplied with\nall desirable furnishings?\u201d asked Yoomy.\n\n\u201cI am but a lowly laborer,\u201d said the old man, meekly crossing his arms,\n\u201cbut does not the lowliest laborer ask and receive his reward? and\nshall I miss mine?\u2014But I beg charity of none. What I ask, I demand; and\nin the dread name of great Alma, who appointed me a guide.\u201d And to and\nfro he strode, groping as he went.\n\nMarking his blindness, whispered Babbalanja to Media, \u201cMy lord,\nmethinks this Pani must be a poor guide. In his journeys inland, his\nlittle child leads him; why not, then, take the guide\u2019s guide?\u201d\n\nBut Pani would not part with the child.\n\nThen said Mohi in a low voice, \u201cMy lord Media, though I am no appointed\nguide; yet, will I undertake to lead you aright over all this island;\nfor I am an old man, and have been here oft by myself; though I can not\nundertake to conduct you up the peak of Ofo, and to the more secret\ntemples.\u201d\n\nThen Pani said: \u201cand what mortal may this be, who pretends to thread\nthe labyrinthine wilds of Maramma? Beware!\u201d\n\n\u201cHe is one with eyes that see,\u201d made answer Babbalanja.\n\n\u201cFollow him not,\u201d said Pani, \u201cfor he will lead thee astray; no Yillah\nwill he find; and having no warrant as a guide, the curses of Alma will\naccompany him.\u201d\n\nNow, this was not altogether without effect; for Pani and his fathers\nbefore him had always filled the office of guide.\n\nNevertheless, Media at last decided, that, this time, Mohi should\nconduct us; which being communicated to Pani, he desired us to remove\nfrom his roof. So withdrawing to the skirt of a neighboring grove, we\nlingered awhile, to refresh ourselves for the journey in prospect.\n\nAs we here reclined, there came up from the sea-side a party of\npilgrims, but newly arrived.\n\nApprised of their coming, Pani and his child went out to meet them; and\nstanding in the path he cried, \u201cI am the appointed guide; in the name\nof Alma I conduct all pilgrims to the temples.\u201d\n\n\u201cThis must be the worthy Pani,\u201d said one of the strangers, turning upon\nthe rest.\n\n\u201cLet us take him, then, for our guide,\u201d cried they; and all drew near.\n\nBut upon accosting him; they were told, that he guided none without\nrecompense.\n\nAnd now, being informed, that the foremost of the pilgrims was one\nDivino, a wealthy chief of a distant island, Pani demanded of him his\nrequital.\n\nBut the other demurred; and by many soft speeches at length abated the\nrecompense to three promissory cocoanuts, which he covenanted to send\nPani at some future day.\n\nThe next pilgrim accosted, was a sad-eyed maiden, in decent but scanty\nraiment; who without seeking to diminish Pani\u2019s demands promptly placed\nin his hands a small hoard of the money of Mardi.\n\n\u201cTake it, holy guide,\u201d she said, \u201cit is all I have.\u201d\n\nBut the third pilgrim, one Fanna, a hale matron, in handsome apparel,\nneeded no asking to bestow her goods. Calling upon her attendants to\nadvance with their burdens, she quickly unrolled them; and wound round\nand round Pani, fold after fold of the costliest tappas; and filled\nboth his hands with teeth; and his mouth with some savory marmalade;\nand poured oil upon his head; and knelt and besought of him a blessing.\n\n\u201cFrom the bottom of my heart I bless thee,\u201d said Pani; and still\nholding her hands exclaimed, \u201cTake example from this woman, oh Divino;\nand do ye likewise, ye pilgrims all.\u201d\n\n\u201cNot to-day,\u201d said Divino.\n\n\u201cWe are not rich, like unto Fauna,\u201d said the rest.\n\nNow, the next pilgrim was a very old and miserable man; stone-blind,\ncovered with rags; and supporting his steps with a staff.\n\n\u201cMy recompense,\u201d said Pani.\n\n\u201cAlas! I have naught to give. Behold my poverty.\u201d\n\n\u201cI can not see,\u201d replied Pani; but feeling of his garments, he said,\n\u201cThou wouldst deceive me; hast thou not this robe, and this staff?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! Merciful Pani, take not my all!\u201d wailed the pilgrim. But his\nworthless gaberdine was thrust into the dwelling of the guide.\n\nMeanwhile, the matron was still enveloping Pani in her interminable\ntappas.\n\nBut the sad-eyed maiden, removing her upper mantle, threw it over the\nnaked form of the beggar.\n\nThe fifth pilgrim was a youth of an open, ingenuous aspect; and with an\neye, full of eyes; his step was light.\n\n\u201cWho art thou?\u201d cried Pani, as the stripling touched him in passing.\n\n\u201cI go to ascend the Peak,\u201d said the boy.\n\n\u201cThen take me for guide.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, I am strong and lithesome. Alone must I go.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut how knowest thou the way?\u201d\n\n\u201cThere are many ways: the right one I must seek for myself.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh, poor deluded one,\u201d sighed Pani; \u201cbut thus is it ever with youth;\nand rejecting the monitions of wisdom, suffer they must. Go on, and\nperish!\u201d\n\nTurning, the boy exclaimed\u2014\u201cThough I act counter to thy counsels, oh\nPani, I but follow the divine instinct in me.\u201d\n\n\u201cPoor youth!\u201d murmured Babbalanja. \u201cHow earnestly he struggles in his\nbonds. But though rejecting a guide, still he clings to that legend of\nthe Peak.\u201d\n\nThe rest of the pilgrims now tarried with the guide, preparing for\ntheir journey inland.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\nThey Pass Through The Woods\n\n\nRefreshed by our stay in the grove, we rose, and placed ourselves under\nthe guidance of Mohi; who went on in advance.\n\nWinding our way among jungles, we came to a deep hollow, planted with\none gigantic palm-shaft, belted round by saplings, springing from its\nroots. But, Laocoon-like, sire and sons stood locked in the serpent\nfolds of gnarled, distorted banians; and the banian-bark, eating into\ntheir vital wood, corrupted their veins of sap, till all those\npalm-nuts were poisoned chalices.\n\nNear by stood clean-limbed, comely manchineels, with lustrous leaves\nand golden fruit. You would have deemed them Trees of Life; but\nunderneath their branches grew no blade of grass, no herb, nor moss;\nthe bare earth was scorched by heaven\u2019s own dews, filtrated through\nthat fatal foliage.\n\nFarther on, there frowned a grove of blended banian boughs,\nthick-ranked manchineels, and many a upas; their summits gilded by the\nsun; but below, deep shadows, darkening night-shade ferns, and\nmandrakes. Buried in their midst, and dimly seen among large leaves,\nall halberd-shaped, were piles of stone, supporting falling temples of\nbamboo. Thereon frogs leaped in dampness, trailing round their slime.\nThick hung the rafters with lines of pendant sloths; the upas trees\ndropped darkness round; so dense the shade, nocturnal birds found there\nperpetual night; and, throve on poisoned air. Owls hooted from dead\nboughs; or, one by one, sailed by on silent pinions; cranes stalked\nabroad, or brooded, in the marshes; adders hissed; bats smote the\ndarkness; ravens croaked; and vampires, fixed on slumbering lizards,\nfanned the sultry air.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\nHivohitee MDCCCXLVIII\n\n\nNow, those doleful woodlands passed, straightway converse was renewed,\nand much discourse took place, concerning Hivohitee, Pontiff of the\nisle.\n\nFor, during our first friendly conversation with Pani, Media had\ninquired for Hivohitee, and sought to know in what part of the island\nhe abode.\n\nWhereto Pani had replied, that the Pontiff would be invisible for\nseveral days to come; being engaged with particular company.\n\nAnd upon further inquiry, as to who were the personages monopolizing\nhis hospitalities, Media was dumb when informed, that they were no\nother than certain incorporeal deities from above, passing the\nCapricorn Solstice at Maramma.\n\nAs on we journeyed, much curiosity being expressed to know more of the\nPontiff and his guests, old Mohi, familiar with these things, was\ncommanded to enlighten the company. He complied; and his recital was\nnot a little significant, of the occasional credulity of chroniclers.\n\nAccording to his statement, the deities entertained by Hivohitee\nbelonged to the third class of immortals. These, however, were far\nelevated above the corporeal demi-gods of Mardi. Indeed, in Hivohitee\u2019s\neyes, the greatest demi-gods were as gourds. Little wonder, then, that\ntheir superiors were accounted the most genteel characters on his\nvisiting list.\n\nThese immortals were wonderfully fastidious and dainty as to the\natmosphere they breathed; inhaling no sublunary air, but that of the\nelevated interior; where the Pontiff had a rural lodge, for the special\naccommodation of impalpable guests; who were entertained at very small\ncost; dinners being unnecessary, and dormitories superfluous.\n\nBut Hivohitee permitted not the presence of these celestial grandees,\nto interfere with his own solid comfort. Passing his mornings in highly\nintensified chat, he thrice reclined at his ease; partaking of a fine\nplantain-pudding, and pouring out from a calabash of celestial old\nwine; meanwhile, carrying on the flow of soul with his guests. And\ntruly, the sight of their entertainer thus enjoying himself in the\nflesh, while they themselves starved on the ether, must have been\nexceedingly provoking to these aristocratic and aerial strangers.\n\nIt was reported, furthermore, that Hivohitee, one of the haughtiest of\nPontiffs, purposely treated his angelical guests thus cavalierly; in\norder to convince them, that though a denizen of earth; a sublunarian;\nand in respect of heaven, a mere provincial; he (Hivohitee) accounted\nhimself full as good as seraphim from the capital; and that too at the\nCapricorn Solstice, or any other time of the year. Strongly bent was\nHivohitee upon humbling their supercilious pretensions.\n\nBesides, was he not accounted a great god in the land? supreme? having\npower of life and death? essaying the deposition of kings? and dwelling\nin moody state, all by himself, in the goodliest island of Mardi?\nThough here, be it said, that his assumptions of temporal supremacy\nwere but seldom made good by express interference with the secular\nconcerns of the neighboring monarchs; who, by force of arms, were too\napt to argue against his claims to authority; however, in theory, they\nbowed to it. And now, for the genealogy of Hivohitee; for eighteen\nhundred and forty-seven Hivohitees were alleged to have gone before\nhim. He came in a right line from the divine Hivohitee I.: the original\ngrantee of the empire of men\u2019s souls and the first swayer of a crosier.\nThe present Pontiff\u2019s descent was unquestionable; his dignity having\nbeen transmitted through none but heirs male; the whole procession of\nHigh Priests being the fruit of successive marriages between uterine\nbrother and sister. A conjunction deemed incestuous in some lands; but,\nhere, held the only fit channel for the pure transmission of elevated\nrank.\n\nAdded to the hereditary appellation, Hivohitee, which simply denoted\nthe sacerdotal station of the Pontiffs, and was but seldom employed in\ncurrent discourse, they were individualized by a distinctive name,\nbestowed upon them at birth. And the degree of consideration in which\nthey were held, may be inferred from the fact, that during the lifetime\nof a Pontiff, the leading sound in his name was banned to ordinary\nuses. Whence, at every new accession to the archiepiscopal throne, it\ncame to pass, that multitudes of words and phrases were either\nessentially modified, or wholly dropped. Wherefore, the language of\nMaramma was incessantly fluctuating; and had become so full of\njargonings, that the birds in the groves were greatly puzzled; not\nknowing where lay the virtue of sounds, so incoherent.\n\nAnd, in a good measure, this held true of all tongues spoken throughout\nthe Archipelago; the birds marveling at mankind, and mankind at the\nbirds; wondering how they could continually sing; when, for all man\nknew to the contrary, it was impossible they could be holding\nintelligent discourse. And thus, though for thousands of years, men and\nbirds had been dwelling together in Mardi, they remained wholly\nignorant of each other\u2019s secrets; the Islander regarding the fowl as a\nsenseless songster, forever in the clouds; and the fowl him, as a\nscreeching crane, destitute of pinions and lofty aspirations.\n\nOver and above numerous other miraculous powers imputed to the Pontiffs\nas spiritual potentates, there was ascribed to them one special\nprivilege of a secular nature: that of healing with a touch the bites\nof the ravenous sharks, swarming throughout the lagoon. With these they\nwere supposed to be upon the most friendly terms; according to popular\naccounts, sociably bathing with them in the sea; permitting them to rub\ntheir noses against their priestly thighs; playfully mouthing their\nhands, with all their tiers of teeth.\n\nAt the ordination of a Pontiff, the ceremony was not deemed complete,\nuntil embarking in his barge, he was saluted High Priest by three\nsharks drawing near; with teeth turned up, swimming beside his canoe.\n\nThese monsters were deified in Maramma; had altars there; it was deemed\nworse than homicide to kill one. \u201cAnd what if they destroy human life?\u201d\nsay the Islanders, \u201care they not sacred?\u201d\n\nNow many more wonderful things were related touching Hivohitee; and\nthough one could not but doubt the validity of many prerogatives\nascribed to him, it was nevertheless hard to do otherwise, than\nentertain for the Pontiff that sort of profound consideration, which\nall render to those who indisputably possess the power of quenching\nhuman life with a wish.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\nThey Visit The Great Morai\n\n\nAs garrulous guide to the party, Braid-Beard soon brought us nigh the\ngreat Morai of Maramma, the burial-place of the Pontiffs, and a rural\npromenade, for certain idols there inhabiting.\n\nOur way now led through the bed of a shallow water-course; Mohi\nobserving, as we went, that our feet were being washed at every step;\nwhereas, to tread the dusty earth would be to desecrate the holy Morai,\nby transferring thereto, the base soil of less sacred ground.\n\nHere and there, thatched arbors were thrown over the stream, for the\naccommodation of devotees; who, in these consecrated waters, issuing\nfrom a spring in the Morai, bathed their garments, that long life might\nensue. Yet, as Braid-Beard assured us, sometimes it happened, that\ndivers feeble old men zealously donning their raiment immediately after\nimmersion became afflicted with rheumatics; and instances were related\nof their falling down dead, in this their pursuit of longevity.\n\nComing to the Morai, we found it inclosed by a wall; and while the rest\nwere surmounting it, Mohi was busily engaged in the apparently childish\noccupation of collecting pebbles. Of these, however, to our no small\nsurprise, he presently made use, by irreverently throwing them at all\nobjects to which he was desirous of directing attention. In this\nmanner, was pointed out a black boar\u2019s head, suspended from a bough.\nFull twenty of these sentries were on post in the neighboring trees.\n\nProceeding, we came to a hillock of bone-dry sand, resting upon the\notherwise loamy soil. Possessing a secret, preservative virtue, this\nsand had, ages ago, been brought from a distant land, to furnish a\nsepulcher for the Pontiffs; who here, side by side, and sire by son,\nslumbered all peacefully in the fellowship of the grave. Mohi declared,\nthat were the sepulcher to be opened, it would be the resurrection of\nthe whole line of High Priests. \u201cBut a resurrection of bones, after\nall,\u201d said Babbalanja, ever osseous in his allusions to the departed.\n\nPassing on, we came to a number of Runic-looking stones, all over\nhieroglyphical inscriptions, and placed round an elliptical aperture;\nwhere welled up the sacred spring of the Morai, clear as crystal, and\nshowing through its waters, two tiers of sharp, tusk-like stones; the\nmouth of Oro, so called; and it was held, that if any secular hand\nshould be immersed in the spring, straight upon it those stony jaws\nwould close.\n\nWe next came to a large image of a dark-hued stone, representing a\nburly man, with an overgrown head, and abdomen hollowed out, and open\nfor inspection; therein, were relics of bones. Before this image we\npaused. And whether or no it was Mohi\u2019s purpose to make us tourists\nquake with his recitals, his revelations were far from agreeable. At\ncertain seasons, human beings were offered to the idol, which being an\nepicure in the matter of sacrifices, would accept of no ordinary fare.\nTo insure his digestion, all indirect routes to the interior were\navoided; the sacrifices being packed in the ventricle itself.\n\nNear to this image of Doleema, so called, a solitary forest-tree was\npointed out; leafless and dead to the core. But from its boughs hang\nnumerous baskets, brimming over with melons, grapes, and guavas. And\ndaily these baskets were replenished.\n\nAs we here stood, there passed a hungry figure, in ragged raiment:\nhollow cheeks, and hollow eyes. Wistfully he eyed the offerings; but\nretreated; knowing it was sacrilege to touch them. There, they must\ndecay, in honor of the god Ananna; for so this dead tree was\ndenominated by Mohi.\n\nNow, as we were thus strolling about the Morai, the old chronicler\nelucidating its mysteries, we suddenly spied Pani and the pilgrims\napproaching the image of Doleema; his child leading the guide.\n\n\u201cThis,\u201d began Pani, pointing to the idol of stone, \u201cis the holy god\nAnanna who lives in the sap of this green and flourishing tree.\u201d\n\n\u201cThou meanest not, surely, this stone image we behold?\u201d said Divino.\n\n\u201cI mean the tree,\u201d said the guide. \u201cIt is no stone image.\u201d\n\n\u201cStrange,\u201d muttered the chief; \u201cwere it not a guide that spoke, I would\ndeny it. As it is, I hold my peace.\u201d\n\n\u201cMystery of mysteries!\u201d cried the blind old pilgrim; \u201cis it, then, a\nstone image that Pani calls a tree? Oh, Oro, that I had eyes to see,\nthat I might verily behold it, and then believe it to be what it is\nnot; that so I might prove the largeness of my faith; and so merit the\nblessing of Alma.\u201d\n\n\u201cThrice sacred Ananna,\u201d murmured the sad-eyed maiden, falling upon her\nknees before Doleema, \u201creceive my adoration. Of thee, I know nothing,\nbut what the guide has spoken. I am but a poor, weak-minded maiden,\njudging not for myself, but leaning upon others that are wiser. These\nthings are above me. I am afraid to think. In Alma\u2019s name, receive my\nhomage.\u201d\n\nAnd she flung flowers before the god.\n\nBut Fauna, the hale matron, turning upon Pani, exclaimed, \u201cReceive more\ngifts, oh guide.\u201d And again she showered them upon him.\n\nUpon this, the willful boy who would not have Pani for his guide,\nentered the Morai; and perceiving the group before the image, walked\nrapidly to where they were. And beholding the idol, he regarded it\nattentively, and said:\u2014\u201cThis must be the image of Doleema; but I am not\nsure.\u201d\n\n\u201cNay,\u201d cried the blind pilgrim, \u201cit is the holy tree Ananna, thou\nwayward boy.\u201d\n\n\u201cA tree? whatever it may be, it is not that; thou art blind, old man.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut though blind, I have that which thou lackest.\u201d\n\nThen said Pani, turning upon the boy, \u201cDepart from the holy Morai, and\ncorrupt not the hearts of these pilgrims. Depart, I say; and, in the\nsacred name of Alma, perish in thy endeavors to climb the Peak.\u201d\n\n\u201cI may perish there in truth,\u201d said the boy, with sadness; \u201cbut it\nshall be in the path revealed to me in my dream. And think not, oh\nguide, that I perfectly rely upon gaining that lofty summit. I will\nclimb high Ofo with hope, not faith; Oh, mighty Oro, help me!\u201d\n\n\u201cBe not impious,\u201d said Pani; \u201cpronounce not Oro\u2019s sacred name too\nlightly.\u201d\n\n\u201cOro is but a sound,\u201d said the boy. \u201cThey call the supreme god, Ati, in\nmy native isle; it is the soundless thought of him, oh guide, that is\nin me.\u201d\n\n\u201cHark to his rhapsodies! Hark, how he prates of mysteries, that not\neven Hivohitee can fathom.\u201d\n\n\u201cNor he, nor thou, nor I, nor any; Oro, to all, is Oro the unknown.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy claim to know Oro, then, better than others?\u201d\n\n\u201cI am not so vain; and I have little to substitute for what I can not\nreceive. I but feel Oro in me, yet can not declare the thought.\u201d\n\n\u201cProud boy! thy humility is a pretense; at heart, thou deemest thyself\nwiser than Mardi.\u201d\n\n\u201cNot near so wise. To believe is a haughty thing; my very doubts\nhumiliate me. I weep and doubt; all Mardi may be light; and I too\nsimple to discern.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe is mad,\u201d said the chief Divino; \u201cnever before heard I such words.\u201d\n\n\u201cThey are thoughts,\u201d muttered the guide.\n\n\u201cPoor fool!\u201d cried Fauna.\n\n\u201cLost youth!\u201d sighed the maiden.\n\n\u201cHe is but a child,\u201d said the beggar. These whims will soon depart;\nonce I was like him; but, praise be to Alma, in the hour of sickness I\nrepented, feeble old man that I am!\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is because I am young and in health,\u201d said the boy, \u201cthat I more\nnourish the thoughts, that are born of my youth and my health. I am\nfresh from my Maker, soul and body unwrinkled. On thy sick couch, old\nman, they took thee at advantage.\u201d\n\n\u201cTurn from the blasphemer,\u201d cried Pani. \u201cHence! thou evil one, to the\nperdition in store.\u201d\n\n\u201cI will go my ways,\u201d said the boy, \u201cbut Oro will shape the end.\u201d\n\nAnd he quitted the Morai.\n\nAfter conducting the party round the sacred inclosure, assisting his\nway with his staff, for his child had left him, Pani seated himself on\na low, mossy stone, grimly surrounded by idols; and directed the\npilgrims to return to his habitation; where, ere long he would rejoin\nthem.\n\nThe pilgrims departed, he remained in profound meditation; while,\nbackward and forward, an invisible ploughshare turned up the long\nfurrows on his brow.\n\nLong he was silent; then muttered to himself, \u201cThat boy, that wild,\nwise boy, has stabbed me to the heart. His thoughts are my suspicions.\nBut he is honest. Yet I harm none. Multitudes must have unspoken\nmeditations as well as I. Do we then mutually deceive? Off masks,\nmankind, that I may know what warranty of fellowship with others, my\nown thoughts possess. Why, upon this one theme, oh Oro! must all\ndissemble? Our thoughts are not our own. Whate\u2019er it be, an honest\nthought must have some germ of truth. But we must set, as flows the\ngeneral stream; I blindly follow, where I seem to lead; the crowd of\npilgrims is so great, they see not there is none to guide.\u2014It hinges\nupon this: Have we angelic spirits? But in vain, in vain, oh Oro! I\nessay to live out of this poor, blind body, fit dwelling for my\nsightless soul. Death, death:\u2014blind, am I dead? for blindness seems a\nconsciousness of death. Will my grave be more dark, than all is now?\u2014\nFrom dark to dark!\u2014What is this subtle something that is in me, and\neludes me? Will it have no end? When, then, did it begin? All, all is\nchaos! What is this shining light in heaven, this sun they tell me of?\nOr, do they lie? Methinks, it might blaze convictions; but I brood and\ngrope in blackness; I am dumb with doubt; yet, \u2019tis not doubt, but\nworse: I doubt my doubt. Oh, ye all-wise spirits in the air, how can ye\nwitness all this woe, and give no sign? Would, would that mine were a\nsettled doubt, like that wild boy\u2019s, who without faith, seems full of\nit. The undoubting doubter believes the most. Oh! that I were he.\nMethinks that daring boy hath Alma in him, struggling to be free. But\nthose pilgrims: that trusting girl.\u2014What, if they saw me as I am?\nPeace, peace, my soul; on, mask, again.\u201d\n\nAnd he staggered from the Morai.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\nThey Discourse Of The Gods Of Mardi, And Braid-Beard Tells Of One Foni\n\n\nWalking from the sacred inclosure, Mohi discoursed of the plurality of\ngods in the land, a subject suggested by the multitudinous idols we had\njust been beholding.\n\nSaid Mohi, \u201cThese gods of wood and of stone are nothing in number to\nthe gods in the air. You breathe not a breath without inhaling, you\ntouch not a leaf without ruffling a spirit. There are gods of heaven,\nand gods of earth; gods of sea and of land; gods of peace and of war;\ngods of rook and of fell; gods of ghosts and of thieves; of singers and\ndancers; of lean men and of house-thatchers. Gods glance in the eyes of\nbirds, and sparkle in the crests of the waves; gods merrily swing in\nthe boughs of the trees, and merrily sing in the brook. Gods are here,\nand there, and every where; you are never alone for them.\u201d\n\n\u201cIf this be so, Braid-Beard,\u201d said Babbalanja, \u201cour inmost thoughts are\noverheard; but not by eaves-droppers. However, my lord, these gods to\nwhom he alludes, merely belong to the semi-intelligibles, the divided\nunities in unity, thin side of the First Adyta.\u201d\n\n\u201cIndeed?\u201d said Media.\n\n\u201cSemi-intelligible, say you, philosopher?\u201d cried Mohi. \u201cThen, prithee,\nmake it appear so; for what you say, seems gibberish to me.\u201d\n\n\u201cBabbalanja,\u201d said Media, \u201cno more of your abstrusities; what know you\nmortals of us gods and demi-gods? But tell me, Mohi, how many of your\ndeities of rock and fen think you there are? Have you no statistical\ntable?\u201d\n\n\u201cMy lord, at the lowest computation, there must be at least three\nbillion trillion of quintillions.\u201d\n\n\u201cA mere unit!\u201d said Babbalanja. \u201cOld man, would you express an infinite\nnumber? Then take the sum of the follies of Mardi for your\nmultiplicand; and for your multiplier, the totality of sublunarians,\nthat never have been heard of since they became no more; and the\nproduct shall exceed your quintillions, even though all their units\nwere nonillions.\u201d\n\n\u201cHave done, Babbalanja!\u201d cried Media; \u201cyou are showing the sinister\nvein in your marble. Have done. Take a warm bath, and make tepid your\ncold blood. But come, Mohi, tell us of the ways of this Maramma;\nsomething of the Morai and its idols, if you please.\u201d\n\nAnd straightway Braid-Beard proceeded with a narration, in substance as\nfollows:\u2014\n\nIt seems, there was a particular family upon the island, whose members,\nfor many generations, had been set apart as sacrifices for the deity\ncalled Doleema. They were marked by a sad and melancholy aspect, and a\ncertain involuntary shrinking, when passing the Morai. And, though,\nwhen it came to the last, some of these unfortunates went joyfully to\ntheir doom, declaring that they gloried to die in the service of holy\nDoleema; still, were there others, who audaciously endeavored to shun\ntheir fate; upon the approach of a festival, fleeing to the innermost\nwilderness of the island. But little availed their flight. For swift on\ntheir track sped the hereditary butler of the insulted god, one Xiki,\nwhose duty it was to provide the sacrifices. And when crouching in some\ncovert, the fugitive spied Xiki\u2019s approach, so fearful did he become of\nthe vengeance of the deity he sought to evade, that renouncing all hope\nof escape, he would burst from his lair, exclaiming, \u201cCome on, and\nkill!\u201d baring his breast for the javelin that slew him.\n\nThe chronicles of Maramma were full of horrors.\n\nIn the wild heart of the island, was said still to lurk the remnant of\na band of warriors, who, in the days of the sire of the present\npontiff, had risen in arms to dethrone him, headed by Foni, an upstart\nprophet, a personage distinguished for the uncommon beauty of his\nperson. With terrible carnage, these warriors had been defeated; and\nthe survivors, fleeing into the interior, for thirty days were pursued\nby the victors. But though many were overtaken and speared, a number\nsurvived; who, at last, wandering forlorn and in despair, like\ndemoniacs, ran wild in the woods. And the islanders, who at times\npenetrated into the wilderness, for the purpose of procuring rare\nherbs, often scared from their path some specter, glaring through the\nfoliage. Thrice had these demoniacs been discovered prowling about the\ninhabited portions of the isle; and at day-break, an attendant of the\nholy Morai once came upon a frightful figure, doubled with age, helping\nitself to the offerings in the image of Doleema. The demoniac was\nslain; and from his ineffaceable tatooing, it was proved that this was\nno other than Foni, the false prophet; the splendid form he had carried\ninto the rebel fight, now squalid with age and misery.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII.\nThey Visit The Lake Of Yammo\n\n\nFrom the Morai, we bent our steps toward an unoccupied arbor; and here,\nrefreshing ourselves with the viands presented by Borabolla, we passed\nthe night. And next morning proceeded to voyage round to the opposite\nquarter of the island; where, in the sacred lake of Yammo, stood the\nfamous temple of Oro, also the great gallery of the inferior deities.\n\nThe lake was but a portion of the smooth lagoon, made separate by an\narm of wooded reef, extending from the high western shore of the\nisland, and curving round toward a promontory, leaving a narrow channel\nto the sea, almost invisible, however, from the land-locked interior.\n\nIn this lake were many islets, all green with groves. Its main-shore\nwas a steep acclivity, with jutting points, each crowned with mossy old\naltars of stone, or ruinous temples, darkly reflected in the green,\nglassy water; while, from its long line of stately trees, the low\nreef-side of the lake looked one verdant bluff.\n\nGliding in upon Yammo, its many islets greeted us like a little Mardi;\nbut ever and anon we started at long lines of phantoms in the water,\nreflections of the long line of images on the shore.\n\nToward the islet of Dolzono we first directed our way; and there we\nbeheld the great gallery of the gods; a mighty temple, resting on one\nhundred tall pillars of palm, each based, below the surface, on the\nburied body of a man; its nave one vista of idols; names carved on\ntheir foreheads: Ogre, Tripoo, Indrimarvoki, Parzillo, Vivivi,\nJojijojorora, Jorkraki, and innumerable others.\n\nCrowds of attendants were new-grouping the images.\n\n\u201cMy lord, you behold one of their principal occupations,\u201d said Mohi.\n\nSaid Media: \u201cI have heard much of the famed image of Mujo, the Nursing\nMother;\u2014can you point it out, Braid-Beard?\u201d\n\n\u201cMy lord, when last here, I saw Mujo at the head of this file; but they\nmust have removed it; I see it not now.\u201d\n\n\u201cDo these attendants, then,\u201d said Babbalanja, \u201cso continually\nnew-marshal the idols, that visiting the gallery to-day, you are at a\nloss to-morrow?\u201d\n\n\u201cEven so,\u201d said Braid-Beard. \u201cBut behold, my lord, this image is Mujo.\u201d\n\nWe stood before an obelisk-idol, so towering, that gazing at it, we\nwere fain to throw back our heads. According to Mohi, winding stairs\nled up through its legs; its abdomen a cellar, thick-stored with gourds\nof old wine; its head, a hollow dome; in rude alto-relievo, its scores\nof hillock-breasts were carved over with legions of baby deities,\nfrog-like sprawling; while, within, were secreted whole litters of\ninfant idols, there placed, to imbibe divinity from the knots of the\nwood.\n\nAs we stood, a strange subterranean sound was heard, mingled with a\ngurgling as of wine being poured. Looking up, we beheld, through\narrow-slits and port-holes, three masks, cross-legged seated in the\nabdomen, and holding stout wassail. But instantly upon descrying us,\nthey vanished deeper into the interior; and presently was heard a\nsepulchral chant, and many groans and grievous tribulations.\n\nPassing on, we came to an image, with a long anaconda-like posterior\ndevelopment, wound round and round its own neck.\n\n\u201cThis must be Oloo, the god of Suicides,\u201d said Babbalanja.\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d said Mohi, \u201cyou perceive, my lord, how he lays violent tail upon\nhimself.\u201d\n\nAt length, the attendants having, in due order, new-deposed the long\nlines of sphinxes and griffins, and many limbed images, a band of them,\nin long flowing robes, began their morning chant.\n\n\u201cAwake Rarni! awake Foloona!\nAwake unnumbered deities!\u201d\n\n\nWith many similar invocations, to which the images made not the\nslightest rejoinder. Not discouraged, however, the attendants now\nseparately proceeded to offer up petitions on behalf of various tribes,\nretaining them for that purpose.\n\nOne prayed for abundance of rain, that the yams of Valapee might not\nwilt in the ground; another for dry sunshine, as most favorable for the\npresent state of the Bread-fruit crop in Mondoldo.\n\nHearing all this, Babbalanja thus spoke:\u2014\u201cDoubtless, my lord Media,\nbesides these petitions we hear, there are ten thousand contradictory\nprayers ascending to these idols. But methinks the gods will not jar\nthe eternal progression of things, by any hints from below; even were\nit possible to satisfy conflicting desires.\u201d\n\nSaid Yoomy, \u201cBut I would pray, nevertheless, Babbalanja; for prayer\ndraws us near to our own souls, and purifies our thoughts. Nor will I\ngrant that our supplications are altogether in vain.\u201d\n\nStill wandering among the images, Mohi had much to say, concerning\ntheir respective claims to the reverence of the devout.\n\nFor though, in one way or other, all Mardians bowed to the supremacy of\nOro, they were not so unanimous concerning the inferior deities; those\nsupposed to be intermediately concerned in sublunary things. Some\nnations sacrificed to one god; some to another; each maintaining, that\ntheir own god was the most potential.\n\nObserving that all the images were more or less defaced, Babbalanja\nsought the reason.\n\nTo which, Braid-Beard made answer, that they had been thus defaced by\nhostile devotees; who quarreling in the great gallery of the gods, and\ngetting beside themselves with rage, often sought to pull down, and\ndemolish each other\u2019s favorite idols.\n\n\u201cBut behold,\u201d cried Babbalanja, \u201cthere seems not a single image\nunmutilated. How is this, old man?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is thus. While one faction defaces the images of its adversaries,\nits own images are in like manner assailed; whence it comes that no\nidol escapes.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo more, no more, Braid-Beard,\u201d said Media. \u201cLet us depart, and visit\nthe islet, where the god of all these gods is enshrined.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII.\nThey Meet The Pilgrims At The Temple Of Oro\n\n\nDeep, deep, in deep groves, we found the great temple of Oro,\nSpreader-of-the-Sky, and deity supreme.\n\nWhile here we silently stood eyeing this Mardi-renowned image, there\nentered the fane a great multitude of its attendants, holding pearl-\nshells on their heads, filled with a burning incense. And ranging\nthemselves in a crowd round Oro, they began a long-rolling chant, a sea\nof sounds; and the thick smoke of their incense went up to the roof.\n\nAnd now approached Pani and the pilgrims; followed, at a distance, by\nthe willful boy.\n\n\u201cBehold great Oro,\u201d said the guide.\n\n\u201cWe see naught but a cloud,\u201d said the chief Divino.\n\n\u201cMy ears are stunned by the chanting,\u201d said the blind pilgrim.\n\n\u201cReceive more gifts, oh guide!\u201d cried Fanna the matron. \u201cOh Oro!\ninvisible Oro! I kneel,\u201d slow murmured the sad-eyed maid.\n\nBut now, a current of air swept aside the eddying incense; and the\nwillful boy, all eagerness to behold the image, went hither and\nthither; but the gathering of attendants was great; and at last he\nexclaimed, \u201cOh Oro! I can not see thee, for the crowd that stands\nbetween thee and me.\u201d\n\n\u201cWho is this babbler?\u201d cried they with the censers, one and all turning\nupon the pilgrims; \u201clet him speak no more; but bow down, and grind the\ndust where he stands; and declare himself the vilest creature that\ncrawls. So Oro and Alma command.\u201d\n\n\u201cI feel nothing in me so utterly vile,\u201d said the boy, \u201cand I cringe to\nnone. But I would as lief _adore_ your image, as that in my heart, for\nboth mean the same; but more, how can I? I love great Oro, though I\ncomprehend him not. I marvel at his works, and feel as nothing in his\nsight; but because he is thus omnipotent, and I a mortal, it follows\nnot that I am vile. Nor so doth he regard me. We do ourselves degrade\nourselves, not Oro us. Hath not Oro made me? And therefore am I not\nworthy to stand erect before him? Oro is almighty, but no despot. I\nwonder; I hope; I love; I weep; I have in me a feeling nigh to fear,\nthat is not fear; but wholly vile I am not; nor can we love and cringe.\nBut Oro knows my heart, which I can not speak.\u201d\n\n\u201cImpious boy,\u201d cried they with the censers, \u201cwe will offer thee up,\nbefore the very image thou contemnest. In the name of Alma, seize him.\u201d\n\nAnd they bore him away unresisting.\n\n\u201cThus perish the ungodly,\u201d said Pani to the shuddering pilgrims.\n\nAnd they quitted the temple, to journey toward the Peak of Ofo.\n\n\u201cMy soul bursts!\u201d cried Yoomy. \u201cMy lord, my lord, let us save the boy.\u201d\n\n\u201cSpeak not,\u201d said Media. \u201cHis fate is fixed. Let Mardi stand.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen let us away from hence, my lord; and join the pilgrims; for, in\nthese inland vales, the lost one may be found, perhaps at the very base\nof Ofo.\u201d\n\n\u201cNot there; not there;\u201d cried Babbalanja, \u201cYillah may have touched\nthese shores; but long since she must have fled.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX.\nThey Discourse Of Alma\n\n\nSailing to and fro in the lake, to view its scenery, much discourse\ntook place concerning the things we had seen; and far removed from the\ncenser-bearers, the sad fate that awaited the boy was now the theme of\nall.\n\nA good deal was then said of Alma, to whom the guide, the pilgrims, and\nthe censer-bearers had frequently alluded, as to some paramount\nauthority.\n\nCalled upon to reveal what his chronicles said on this theme,\nBraid-Beard complied; at great length narrating, what now follows\ncondensed.\n\nAlma, it seems, was an illustrious prophet, and teacher divine; who,\nages ago, at long intervals, and in various islands, had appeared to\nthe Mardians under the different titles of Brami, Manko, and Alma. Many\nthousands of moons had elasped since his last and most memorable\navatar, as Alma on the isle of Maramma. Each of his advents had taken\nplace in a comparatively dark and benighted age. Hence, it was devoutly\nbelieved, that he came to redeem the Mardians from their heathenish\nthrall; to instruct them in the ways of truth, virtue, and happiness;\nto allure them to good by promises of beatitude hereafter; and to\nrestrain them from evil by denunciations of woe. Separated from the\nimpurities and corruptions, which in a long series of centuries had\nbecome attached to every thing originally uttered by the prophet, the\nmaxims, which as Brami he had taught, seemed similar to those\ninculcated by Manko. But as Alma, adapting his lessons to the improved\ncondition of humanity, the divine prophet had more completely unfolded\nhis scheme; as Alma, he had made his last revelation.\n\nThis narration concluded, Babbalanja mildly observed, \u201cMohi: without\nseeking to accuse you of uttering falsehoods; since what you relate\nrests not upon testimony of your own; permit me, to question the\nfidelity of your account of Alma. The prophet came to dissipate errors,\nyou say; but superadded to many that have survived the past, ten\nthousand others have originated in various constructions of the\nprinciples of Alma himself. The prophet came to do away all gods but\none; but since the days of Alma, the idols of Maramma have more than\nquadrupled. The prophet came to make us Mardians more virtuous and\nhappy; but along with all previous good, the same wars, crimes, and\nmiseries, which existed in Alma\u2019s day, under various modifications are\nyet extant. Nay: take from your chronicles, Mohi, the history of those\nhorrors, one way or other, resulting from the doings of Alma\u2019s nominal\nfollowers, and your chronicles would not so frequently make mention of\nblood. The prophet came to guarantee our eternal felicity; but\naccording to what is held in Maramma, that felicity rests on so hard a\nproviso, that to a thinking mind, but very few of our sinful race may\nsecure it. For one, then, I wholly reject your Alma; not so much,\nbecause of all that is hard to be understood in his histories; as\nbecause of obvious and undeniable things all round us; which, to me,\nseem at war with an unreserved faith in his doctrines as promulgated\nhere in Maramma. Besides; every thing in this isle strengthens my\nincredulity; I never was so thorough a disbeliever as now.\u201d\n\n\u201cLet the winds be laid,\u201d cried Mohi, \u201cwhile your rash confession is\nbeing made in this sacred lake.\u201d\n\nSaid Media, \u201cPhilosopher; remember the boy, and they that seized him.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh! I do indeed remember him. Poor youth! in his agony, how my heart\nyearned toward his. But that very prudence which you deny me, my lord,\nprevented me from saying aught in his behalf. Have you not observed,\nthat until now, when we are completely by ourselves, I have refrained\nfrom freely discoursing of what we have seen in this island? Trust me,\nmy lord, there is no man, that bears more in mind the necessity of\nbeing either a believer or a hypocrite in Maramma, and the imminent\nperil of being honest here, than I, Babbalanja. And have I not reason\nto be wary, when in my boyhood, my own sire was burnt for his temerity;\nand in this very isle? Just Oro! it was done in the name of Alma,\u2014what\nwonder then, that, at times, I almost hate that sound. And from those\nflames, they devoutly swore he went to others,\u2014horrible fable!\u201d\n\nSaid Mohi: \u201cDo you deny, then, the everlasting torments?\u201d\n\n\u201c\u2019Tis not worth a denial. Nor by formally denying it, will I run the\nrisk of shaking the faith of, thousands, who in that pious belief find\ninfinite consolation for all they suffer in Mardi.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow?\u201d said Media; \u201care there those who soothe themselves with the\nthought of everlasting flames?\u201d\n\n\u201cOne would think so, my lord, since they defend that dogma more\nresolutely than any other. Sooner will they yield you the isles of\nParadise, than it. And in truth, as liege followers of Alma, they would\nseem but right in clinging to it as they do; for, according to all one\nhears in Maramma, the great end of the prophet\u2019s mission seems to have\nbeen the revealing to us Mardians the existence of horrors, most hard\nto escape. But better we were all annihilated, than that one man should\nbe damned.\u201d\n\nRejoined Media: \u201cBut think you not, that possibly, Alma may have been\nmisconceived? Are you certain that doctrine is his?\u201d\n\n\u201cI know nothing more than that such is the belief in this land. And in\nthese matters, I know not where else to go for information. But, my\nlord, had I been living in those days when certain men are said to have\nbeen actually possessed by spirits from hell, I had not let slip the\nopportunity\u2014as our forefathers did\u2014to cross-question them concerning\nthe place they came from.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, well,\u201d said Media, \u201cyour Alma\u2019s faith concerns not me: I am a\nking, and a demi-god; and leave vulgar torments to the commonality.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut it concerns me,\u201d muttered Mohi; \u201cyet I know not what to think.\u201d\n\n\u201cFor me,\u201d said Yoomy, \u201cI reject it. Could I, I would not believe it. It\nis at variance with the dictates of my heart instinctively my heart\nturns from it, as a thirsty man from gall.\u201d\n\n\u201cHush; say no more,\u201d said Mohi; \u201cagain we approach the shore.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X.\nMohi Tells Of One Ravoo, And They Land To Visit Hevaneva, A Flourishing\nArtisan\n\n\nHaving seen all worth viewing in Yammo, we departed, to complete the\ncircumnavigation of the island, by returning to Uma without reversing\nour prows. As we glided along, we passed many objects of interest,\nconcerning which, Mohi, as usual, was very diffuse.\n\nAmong other things pointed out, were certain little altars, like mile-\nstones, planted here and there upon bright bluffs, running out into the\nlagoon. Dedicated respectively to the guardian spirits of Maramma,\nthese altars formed a chain of spiritual defenses; and here were\npresumed to stand post the most vigilant of warders; dread Hivohitee,\nall by himself, garrisoning the impregnable interior.\n\nBut these sentries were only subalterns, subject to the beck of the\nPontiff; who frequently sent word to them, concerning the duties of\ntheir watch. His mandates were intrusted to one Ravoo, the hereditary\npontifical messenger; a long-limbed varlet, so swift of foot, that he\nwas said to travel like a javelin. \u201cArt thou Ravoo, that thou so pliest\nthy legs?\u201d say these islanders, to one encountered in a hurry.\n\nHivohitee\u2019s postman held no oral communication with the sentries.\nDispatched round the island with divers bits of tappa, hieroglyphically\nstamped, he merely deposited one upon each altar; superadding a stone,\nto keep the missive in its place; and so went his rounds.\n\nNow, his route lay over hill and over dale, and over many a coral rock;\nand to preserve his feet from bruises, he was fain to wear a sort of\nbuskin, or boot, fabricated of a durable tappa, made from the thickest\nand toughest of fibers. As he never wore his buskins except when he\ncarried the mail, Ravoo sorely fretted with his Hessians; though it\nwould have been highly imprudent to travel without them. To make the\nthing more endurable, therefore, and, at intervals, to cool his heated\npedals, he established a series of stopping-places, or stages; at each\nof which a fresh pair of buskins, hanging from a tree, were taken down\nand vaulted into by the ingenious traveler. Those relays of boots were\nexceedingly convenient; next, indeed, to being lifted upon a fresh pair\nof legs.\n\n\u201cNow, to what purpose that anecdote?\u201d demanded Babbalanja of Mohi, who\nin substance related it.\n\n\u201cMarry! \u2019tis but the simple recital of a fact; and I tell it to\nentertain the company.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut has it any meaning you know of?\u201d\n\n\u201cThou art wise, find out,\u201d retorted Braid-Beard. \u201cBut what comes of\nit?\u201d persisted Babbalanja.\n\n\u201cBeshrew me, this senseless catechising of thine,\u201d replied Mohi;\n\u201cnaught else, it seems, save a grin or two.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd pray, what may you be driving at, philosopher?\u201d interrupted Media.\n\n\u201cI am intent upon the essence of things; the mystery that lieth beyond;\nthe elements of the tear which much laughter provoketh; that which is\nbeneath the seeming; the precious pearl within the shaggy oyster. I\nprobe the circle\u2019s center; I seek to evolve the inscrutable.\u201d\n\n\u201cSeek on; and when aught is found, cry out, that we may run to see.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy lord the king is merry upon me. To him my more subtle cogitations\nseem foolishness. But believe me, my lord, there is more to be thought\nof than to be seen. There is a world of wonders insphered within the\nspontaneous consciousness; or, as old Bardianna hath it, a mystery\nwithin the obvious, yet an obviousness within the mystery.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd did I ever deny that?\u201d said Media.\n\n\u201cAs plain as my hand in the dark,\u201d said Mohi.\n\n\u201cI dreamed a dream,\u201d said Yoomy.\n\n\u201cThey banter me; but enough; I am to blame for discoursing upon the\ndeep world wherein I live. I am wrong in seeking to invest sublunary\nsounds with celestial sense. Much that is in me is incommunicable by\nthis ether we breathe. But I blame ye not.\u201d And wrapping round him his\nmantle, Babbalanja retired into its most private folds.\n\nEre coming in sight of Uma, we put into a little bay, to pay our\nrespects to Hevaneva, a famous character there dwelling; who, assisted\nby many journeymen, carried on the lucrative business of making idols\nfor the surrounding isles.\n\nKnow ye, that all idols not made in Maramma, and consecrated by\nHivohitee; and, what is more, in strings of teeth paid down for to\nHevaneva; are of no more account, than logs, stocks, or stones. Yet\ndoes not the cunning artificer monopolize the profits of his vocation;\nfor Hevaneva being but the vassal of the Pontiff, the latter lays claim\nto King Leo\u2019s share of the spoils, and secures it.\n\nThe place was very prettily lapped in a pleasant dell, nigh to the\nmargin of the water; and here, were several spacious arbors; wherein,\nprostrate upon their sacred faces, were all manner of idols, in every\nimaginable stage of statuary development.\n\nWith wonderful industry the journeymen were plying their tools;\u2014some\nchiseling noses; some trenching for mouths; and others, with heated\nflints, boring for ears: a hole drilled straight through the occiput,\nrepresenting the auricular organs.\n\n\u201cHow easily they are seen through,\u201d said Babbalanja, taking a sight\nthrough one of the heads.\n\nThe last finish is given to their godships, by rubbing them all over\nwith dried slips of consecrated shark-skin, rough as sand paper, tacked\nover bits of wood.\n\nIn one of the farther arbors, Hevaneva pointed out a goodly array of\nidols, all complete and ready for the market. They were of every\nvariety of pattern; and of every size; from that of a giant, to the\nlittle images worn in the ears of the ultra devout.\n\n\u201cOf late,\u201d said the artist, \u201cthere has been a lively demand for the\nimage of Arbino the god of fishing; the present being the principal\nseason for that business. For Nadams (Nadam presides over love and\nwine), there has also been urgent call; it being the time of the grape;\nand the maidens growing frolicsome withal, and devotional.\u201d\n\nSeeing that Hevaneva handled his wares with much familiarity, not to\nsay irreverence, Babbalanja was minded to learn from him, what he\nthought of his trade; whether the images he made were genuine or\nspurious; in a word, whether he believed in his gods.\n\nHis reply was curious. But still more so, the marginal gestures\nwherewith he helped out the text.\n\n\u201cWhen I cut down the trees for my idols,\u201d said he, \u201cthey are nothing\nbut logs; when upon those logs, I chalk out the figures of, my images,\nthey yet remain logs; when the chisel is applied, logs they are still;\nand when all complete, I at last stand them up in my studio, even then\nthey are logs. Nevertheless, when I handle the pay, they are as prime\ngods, as ever were turned out in Maramma.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou must make a very great variety,\u201d said Babbalanja.\n\n\u201cAll sorts, all sorts.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd from the same material, I presume.\u201d\n\n\u201cAy, ay, one grove supplies them all. And, on an average, each tree\nstands us in full fifty idols. Then, we often take second-hand images\nin part pay for new ones. These we work over again into new patterns;\ntouching up their eyes and ears; resetting their noses; and more\nespecially new-footing their legs, where they always decay first.\u201d\n\nUnder sanction of the Pontiff, Hevaneva, in addition to his large\ncommerce in idols, also carried on the highly lucrative business of\ncanoe-building; the profits whereof, undivided, he dropped into his\nprivate exchequer. But Mohi averred, that the Pontiff often charged him\nwith neglecting his images, for his canoes. Be that as it may, Hevaneva\ndrove a thriving trade at both avocations. And in demonstration of the\nfact, he directed our attention to three long rows of canoes, upheld by\nwooden supports. They were in perfect order; at a moment\u2019s notice,\nready for launching; being furnished with paddles, out-riggers, masts,\nsails, and a human skull, with a short handle thrust through one of its\neyes, the ordinary bailer of Maramma; besides other appurtenances,\nincluding on the prow a duodecimo idol to match.\n\nOwing to a superstitious preference bestowed upon the wood and work of\nthe sacred island, Hevaneva\u2019s canoes were in as high repute as his\nidols; and sold equally well.\n\nIn truth, in several ways one trade helped the other. The larger images\nbeing dug out of the hollow part of the canoes; and all knotty odds and\nends reserved for the idol ear-rings.\n\n\u201cBut after all,\u201d said the artificer, \u201cI find a readier sale for my\nimages, than for my canoes.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd so it will ever be,\u201d said Babbalanja.\u2014\u201cStick to thy idols, man! a\ntrade, more reliable than the baker\u2019s.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI.\nA Nursery-Tale Of Babbalanja\u2019s\n\n\nHaving taken to our canoes once again, we were silently sailing along,\nwhen Media observed, \u201cBabbalanja; though I seldom trouble myself with\nsuch thoughts, I have just been thinking, how difficult it must be, for\nthe more ignorant sort of people, to decide upon what particular image\nto worship as a guardian deity, when in Maramma, it seems, there exists\nsuch a multitude of idols, and a thousand more are to be heard of.\u201d\n\n\u201cNot at all, your highness. The more ignorant the better. The multitude\nof images distracts them not. But I am in no mood for serious\ndiscourse; let me tell you a story.\u201d\n\n\u201cA story! hear him: the solemn philosopher is desirous of regaling us\nwith a tale! But pray, begin.\u201d\n\n\u201cOnce upon a time, then,\u201d said Babbalanja, indifferently adjusting his\ngirdle, \u201cnine blind men, with uncommonly long noses, set out on their\ntravels to see the great island on which they were born.\u201d\n\n\u201cA precious beginning,\u201d muttered Mohi. \u201cNine blind men setting out to\nsee sights.\u201d\n\nContinued Babbalanja, \u201cStaff in hand, they traveled; one in advance of\nthe other; each man with his palm upon the shoulder next him; and he\nwith the longest nose took the lead of the file. Journeying on in this\nmanner, they came to a valley, in which reigned a king called Tammaro.\nNow, in a certain inclosure toward the head of the valley, there stood\nan immense wild banian tree; all over moss, and many centuries old, and\nforming quite a wood in itself: its thousand boughs striking into the\nearth, and fixing there as many gigantic trunks. With Tammaro, it had\nlong been a question, which of those many trunks was the original and\ntrue one; a matter that had puzzled the wisest heads among his\nsubjects; and in vain had a reward been offered for the solution of the\nperplexity. But the tree was so vast, and its fabric so complex; and\nits rooted branches so similar in appearance; and so numerous, from the\ncircumstance that every year had added to them, that it was quite\nimpossible to determine the point. Nevertheless, no sooner did the nine\nblind men hear that there was a reward offered for discovering the\ntrunk of a tree, standing all by itself, than, one and all, they\nassured Tammaro, that they would quickly settle that little difficulty\nof his; and loudly inveighed against the stupidity of his sages, who\nhad been so easily posed. So, being conducted into the inclosure, and\nassured that the tree was somewhere within, they separated their\nforces, so as at wide intervals to surround it at a distance; when\nfeeling their way, with their staves and their noses, they advanced to\nthe search, crying out\u2014\u2018Pshaw! make room there; let us wise men feel of\nthe mystery.\u2019 Presently, striking with his nose one of the rooted\nbranches, the foremost blind man quickly knelt down; and feeling that\nit struck into the earth, gleefully shouted: Here it is! here it is!\u2019\nBut almost in the same breath, his companions, also, each striking a\nbranch with his staff or his nose, cried out in like manner, \u2018Here it\nis! here it is!\u2019 Whereupon they were all confounded: but directly, the\nman who first cried out, thus addressed the rest: Good friends, surely\nyou\u2019re mistaken. There is but one tree in the place, and here it is.\u2019\n\u2018Very true,\u2019 said the others, \u2018all together; there is only _one_ tree;\nbut _here_ it is.\u2019 \u2018Nay,\u2019 said the others, \u2018it is _here!_\u2019 and so\nsaying, each blind man triumphantly felt of the branch, where it\npenetrated into the earth. Then again said the first speaker: Good\nfriends, if you will not believe what I say, come hither, and feel for\nyourselves.\u2019 \u2018Nay, nay,\u2019 replied they, why seek further? _here_ it is;\nand nowhere else can it be.\u2019 \u2018You blind fools, you, you contradict\nyourselves,\u2019 continued the first speaker, waxing wroth; \u2018how can you\neach have hold of a separate trunk, when there is but one in the\nplace?\u2019 Whereupon, they redoubled their cries, calling each other all\nmanner of opprobrious names, and presently they fell to beating each\nother with their staves, and charging upon each other with their noses.\nBut soon after, being loudly called upon by Tammaro and his people; who\nall this while had been looking on; being loudly called upon, I say, to\nclap their hands on the trunk, they again rushed for their respective\nbranches; and it so happened, that, one and all, they changed places;\nbut still cried out, \u2018_Here_ it is; _here_ it is!\u2019 \u2018Peace! peace! ye\nsilly blind men,\u2019 said Tammaro. \u2018Will ye without eyes presume to see\nmore sharply than those who have them? The tree is too much for us all.\nHence! depart from the valley.\u2019\u201d\n\n\u201cAn admirable story,\u201d cried Media. \u201cI had no idea that a mere mortal,\nleast of all a philosopher, could acquit himself so well. By my\nscepter, but it is well done! Ha, ha! blind men round a banian! Why,\nBabbalanja, no demi-god could surpass it. Taji, could you?\u201d\n\n\u201cBut, Babbalanja, what under the sun, mean you by your blind story!\u201d\ncried Mohi. \u201cObverse, or reverse, I can make nothing out of it.\u201d\n\n\u201cOthers may,\u201d said Babbalanja. \u201cIt is a polysensuum, old man.\u201d\n\n\u201cA pollywog!\u201d said Mohi.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII.\nLanding To Visit Hivohitee The Pontiff, They Encounter An Extraordinary\nOld Hermit; With Whom Yoomy Has A Confidential Interview, But Learns\nLittle\n\n\nGliding on, suddenly we spied a solitary Islander putting out in his\ncanoe from a neighboring cove.\n\nDrawing near, the stranger informed us, that he was just from the face\nof the great Pontiff, Hivohitee, who, having dismissed his celestial\nguests, had retired to his private sanctuary. Upon this, Media resolved\nto land forthwith, and under the guidance of Mohi, proceed inland, and\npay a visit to his Holiness.\n\nQuitting the beach, our path penetrated into the solitudes of the\ngroves. Skirting the way were tall Casaurinas, a species of cypress,\nstanding motionless in the shadows, as files of mutes at a funeral. But\nhere and there, they were overrun with the adventurous vines of the\nConvolvulus, the Morning-glory of the Tropics, whose tendrils, bruised\nby the twigs, dropped milk upon the dragon-like scales of the trees.\n\nThis vine is of many varieties. Lying perdu, and shunning the garish\nsun through the day, one species rises at night with the stars;\nbursting forth in dazzling constellations of blossoms, which close at\ndawn. Others, slumbering through the darkness, are up and abroad with\ntheir petals, by peep of morn; and after inhaling its breath, again\ndrop their lids in repose. While a third species, more capricious,\nrefuse to expand at all, unless in the most brilliant sunshine, and\nupon the very tops of the loftiest trees. Ambitious flowers! that will\nnot blow, unless in high places, with the bright day looking on and\nadmiring.\n\nHere and there, we passed open glades in the woods, delicious with the\nincense of violets. Balsamic ferns, stirred by the breeze, fanned all\nthe air with aromas. These glades were delightful.\n\nJourneying on, we at length came to a dark glen so deftly hidden by the\nsurrounding copses, that were it not for the miasma thence wafted, an\nignorant wayfarer might pass and repass it, time and again, never\ndreaming of its vicinity.\n\nDown into the gloom of this glen we descended. Its sides were mantled\nwith noxious shrubs, whose exhalations, half way down, unpleasantly\nblended with the piny breeze from the uplands. Through its bed ran a\nbrook, whose incrusted margin had a strange metallic luster, from the\npolluted waters here flowing; their source a sulphur spring, of vile\nflavor and odor, where many invalid pilgrims resorted.\n\nThe woods all round were haunted by the dismal cawings of crows; tap,\ntap, the black hawk whetted his bill on the boughs; each trunk stalked\na ghost; and from those trunks, Hevaneva procured the wood for his\nidols.\n\nRapidly crossing this place, Yoomy\u2019s hands to his ears, old Mohi\u2019s to\nhis nostrils, and Babbalanja vainly trying to walk with closed eyes, we\ntoiled among steep, flinty rocks, along a wild, zigzag pathway; like a\nmule-track in the Andes, not so much onward as upward; Yoomy above\nBabbalanja, my lord Media above him, and Braid-Beard, our guide, in the\nair, above all.\n\nStrown over with cinders, the vitreous marl seemed tumbled together, as\nif belched from a volcano\u2019s throat.\n\nPresently, we came to a tall, slender structure, hidden among the\nscenic projections of the cliffs, like a monument in the dark, vaulted\nways of an abbey. Surrounding it, were five extinct craters. The air\nwas sultry and still, as if full of spent thunderbolts.\n\nLike a Hindoo pagoda, this bamboo edifice rose story above story; its\nmany angles and points decorated with pearl-shells suspended by cords.\nBut the uppermost story, some ten toises in the air, was closely\nthatched from apex to floor; which summit was gained by a series of\nascents.\n\nWhat eremite dwelleth here, like St. Stylites at the top of his\ncolumn?\u2014a question which Mohi seemed all eagerness to have answered.\n\nDropping upon his knees, he gave a peculiar low call: no response.\nAnother: all was silent. Marching up to the pagoda, and again dropping\nupon his knees, he shook the bamboos till the edifice rocked, and its\npearl-shells jingled, as if a troop of Andalusian mules, with bells\nround their necks, were galloping along the defile.\n\nAt length the thatch aloft was thrown open, and a head was thrust\nforth. It was that of an old, old man; with steel-gray eyes, hair and\nbeard, and a horrible necklace of jaw-bones.\n\nNow, issuing from the pagoda, Mohi turned about to gain a view of the\nghost he had raised; and no sooner did he behold it, than with King\nMedia and the rest, he made a marked salutation.\n\nPresently, the eremite pointed to where Yoomy was standing; and waved\nhis hand upward; when Mohi informed the minstrel, that it was St.\nStylites\u2019 pleasure, that he should pay him a visit.\n\nWondering what was to come, Yoomy proceeded to mount; and at last\narriving toward the top of the pagoda, was met by an opening, from\nwhich an encouraging arm assisted him to gain the ultimate landing.\n\nHere, all was murky enough; for the aperture from which the head of the\napparition had been thrust, was now closed; and what little twilight\nthere was, came up through the opening in the floor.\n\nIn this dismal seclusion, silently the hermit confronted the minstrel;\nhis gray hair, eyes, and beard all gleaming, as if streaked with\nphosphorus; while his ghastly gorget grinned hideously, with all its\njaws.\n\nMutely Yoomy waited to be addressed; but hearing no sound, and becoming\nalive to the strangeness of his situation, he meditated whether it\nwould not be well to subside out of sight, even as he had come\u2014through\nthe floor. An intention which the eremite must have anticipated; for of\na sudden, something was slid over the opening; and the apparition\nseating itself thereupon, the twain were in darkness complete.\n\nShut up thus, with an inscrutable stranger posted at the only aperture\nof escape, poor Yoomy fell into something like a panic; hardly knowing\nwhat step to take next. As for endeavoring to force his way out, it was\nalarming to think of; for aught he knew, the eremite, availing himself\nof the gloom, might be bristling all over with javelin points.\n\nAt last, the silence was broken.\n\n\u201cWhat see you, mortal?\u201d\n\n\u201cChiefly darkness,\u201d said Yoomy, wondering at the audacity of the\nquestion.\n\n\u201cI dwell in it. But what else see you, mortal?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe dim gleaming of thy gorget.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut that is not me. What else dost thou see?\u201d\n\n\u201cNothing.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen thou hast found me out, and seen all! Descend.\u201d\n\nAnd with that, the passage-way opened, and groping through the\ntwilight, Yoomy obeyed the mandate, and retreated; full of vexation at\nhis enigmatical reception.\n\nOn his alighting, Mohi inquired whether the hermit was not a wonderful\npersonage.\n\nBut thinking some sage waggery lurked in the question; and at present\ntoo indignant to enter into details, the minstrel made some impatient\nreply; and winding through a defile, the party resumed its journey.\n\nStraggling behind, to survey the strange plants and flowers in his\npath, Yoomy became so absorbed, as almost to forget the scene in the\npagoda; yet every moment expected to be nearing the stately abode of\nthe Pontiff.\n\nBut suddenly, the scene around grew familiar; the path seemed that\nwhich had been followed just after leaving the canoes; and at length,\nthe place of debarkation was in sight.\n\nSurprised that the object of our visit should have been thus abandoned,\nthe minstrel ran forward, and sought an explanation.\n\nWhereupon, Mohi lifted his hands in amazement; exclaiming at the\nblindness of the eyes, which had beheld the supreme Pontiff of Maramma,\nwithout knowing it.\n\nThe old hermit was no other than the dread Hivohitee; the pagoda, the\ninmost oracle of the isle.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII.\nBabbalanja Endeavors To Explain The Mystery\n\n\nThis Great Mogul of a personage, then; this woundy Aliasuerus; this man\nof men; this same Hivohitee, whose name rumbled among the mountains\nlike a peal of thunder, had been seen face to face, and taken for\nnaught, but a bearded old hermit, or at best, some equivocal conjuror.\n\nSo great was his wonderment at the time, that Yoomy could not avoid\nexpressing it in words.\n\nWhereupon thus discoursed Babbalanja:\n\n\u201cGentle Yoomy, be not astounded, that Hivohitee is so far behind your\nprevious conceptions. The shadows of things are greater than\nthemselves; and the more exaggerated the shadow, the more unlike to the\nsubstance.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut knowing now, what manner of person Hivohitee is,\u201d said Yoomy,\n\u201cmuch do I long to behold him again.\u201d\n\nBut Mohi assured him it was out of the question; that the Pontiff\nalways acted toward strangers as toward him (Yoomy); and that but one\ndim blink at the eremite was all that mortal could obtain.\n\nDebarred thus from a second and more satisfactory interview with one,\nconcerning whom his curiosity had been violently aroused, the minstrel\nagain turned to Mohi for enlightenment; especially touching that\nmagnate\u2019s Egyptian reception of him in his aerial den.\n\nWhereto, the chronicler made answer, that the Pontiff affected darkness\nbecause he liked it: that he was a ruler of few words, but many deeds;\nand that, had Yoomy been permitted to tarry longer with him in the\npagoda, he would have been privy to many strange attestations of the\ndivinity imputed to him. Voices would have been heard in the air,\ngossiping with Hivohitee; noises inexplicable proceeding from him; in\nbrief, light would have flashed out of his darkness.\n\n\u201cBut who has seen these things, Mohi?\u201d said Babbalanja, \u201chave you?\u201d\n\n\u201cNay.\u201d\n\n\u201cWho then?\u2014Media?\u2014Any one you know?\u201d\n\n\u201cNay: but the whole Archipelago has.\u201d\n\n\u201cThus,\u201d exclaimed Babbalanja, \u201cdoes Mardi, blind though it be in many\nthings, collectively behold the marvels, which one pair of eyes sees\nnot.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV.\nTaji Receives Tidings And Omens\n\n\nSlowly sailing on, we were overtaken by a shallop; whose inmates\ngrappling to the side of Media\u2019s, said they came from Borabolla.\n\nDismal tidings!\u2014My faithful follower\u2019s death.\n\nAbsent over night, that morning early, he had been discovered lifeless\nin the woods, three arrows in his heart. And the three pale strangers\nwere nowhere to be found. But a fleet canoe was missing from the beach.\n\nSlain for me! my soul sobbed out. Nor yet appeased Aleema\u2019s manes; nor\nyet seemed sated the avengers\u2019 malice; who, doubtless, were on my\ntrack.\n\nBut I turned; and instantly the three canoes had been reversed; and\nfull soon, Jarl\u2019s dead hand in mine, had not Media interposed.\n\n\u201cTo death, your presence will not bring life back.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd we must on,\u201d said Babbalanja. \u201cWe seek the living, not the dead.\u201d\n\nThus they overruled me; and Borabolla\u2019s messengers departed.\n\nSoon evening came, and in its shades, three shadows,\u2014Hautia\u2019s heralds.\n\nTheir shallop glided near.\n\nA leaf tri-foiled was first presented; then another, arrow-shaped.\n\nSaid Yoomy, \u201cStill I swiftly follow, behind revenge.\u201d\n\nThen were showered faded, pallid daffodils.\n\nSaid Yoomy, \u201cThy hopes are blighted all.\u201d\n\n\u201cNot dead, but living with the life of life. Sirens! I heed ye not.\u201d\n\nThey would have showered more flowers; but crowding sail we left them.\n\nMuch converse followed. Then, beneath the canopy all sought repose. And\nere long slouched sleep drew nigh, tending dreams innumerable; silent\ndotting all the downs a shepherd with his flock.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV.\nDreams\n\n\nDreams! dreams! golden dreams: endless, and golden, as the flowery\nprairies, that stretch away from the Rio Sacramento, in whose waters\nDanae\u2019s shower was woven;\u2014prairies like rounded eternities: jonquil\nleaves beaten out; and my dreams herd like buffaloes, browsing on to\nthe horizon, and browsing on round the world; and among them, I dash\nwith my lance, to spear one, ere they all flee.\n\nDreams! dreams! passing and repassing, like Oriental empires in\nhistory; and scepters wave thick, as Bruce\u2019s pikes at Bannockburn; and\ncrowns are plenty as marigolds in June. And far in the background, hazy\nand blue, their steeps let down from the sky, loom Andes on Andes,\nrooted on Alps; and all round me, long rushing oceans, roll Amazons and\nOronocos; waves, mounted Parthians; and, to and fro, toss the wide\nwoodlands: all the world an elk, and the forests its antlers.\n\nBut far to the South, past my Sicily suns and my vineyards, stretches\nthe Antarctic barrier of ice: a China wall, built up from the sea, and\nnodding its frosted towers in the dun, clouded sky. Do Tartary and\nSiberia lie beyond? Deathful, desolate dominions those; bleak and wild\nthe ocean, beating at that barrier\u2019s base, hovering \u2019twixt freezing and\nfoaming; and freighted with navies of ice-bergs,\u2014warring worlds\ncrossing orbits; their long icicles, projecting like spears to the\ncharge. Wide away stream the floes of drift ice, frozen cemeteries of\nskeletons and bones. White bears howl as they drift from their cubs;\nand the grinding islands crush the skulls of the peering seals.\n\nBut beneath me, at the Equator, the earth pulses and beats like a\nwarrior\u2019s heart; till I know not, whether it be not myself. And my soul\nsinks down to the depths, and soars to the skies; and comet-like reels\non through such boundless expanses, that methinks all the worlds are my\nkin, and I invoke them to stay in their course. Yet, like a mighty\nthree-decker, towing argosies by scores, I tremble, gasp, and strain in\nmy flight, and fain would cast off the cables that hamper.\n\nAnd like a frigate, I am full with a thousand souls; and as on, on, on,\nI scud before the wind, many mariners rush up from the orlop below,\nlike miners from caves; running shouting across my decks; opposite\nbraces are pulled; and this way and that, the great yards swing round\non their axes; and boisterous speaking-trumpets are heard; and\ncontending orders, to save the good ship from the shoals. Shoals, like\nnebulous vapors, shoreing the white reef of the Milky Way, against\nwhich the wrecked worlds are dashed; strewing all the strand, with\ntheir Himmaleh keels and ribs.\n\nAy: many, many souls are in me. In my tropical calms, when my ship lies\ntranced on Eternity\u2019s main, speaking one at a time, then all with one\nvoice: an orchestra of many French bugles and horns, rising, and\nfalling, and swaying, in golden calls and responses.\n\nSometimes, when these Atlantics and Pacifics thus undulate round me, I\nlie stretched out in their midst: a land-locked Mediterranean, knowing\nno ebb, nor flow. Then again, I am dashed in the spray of these sounds:\nan eagle at the world\u2019s end, tossed skyward, on the horns of the\ntempest.\n\nYet, again, I descend, and list to the concert.\n\nLike a grand, ground swell, Homer\u2019s old organ rolls its vast volumes\nunder the light frothy wave-crests of Anacreon and Hafiz; and high over\nmy ocean, sweet Shakespeare soars, like all the larks of the spring.\nThroned on my seaside, like Canute, bearded Ossian smites his hoar\nharp, wreathed with wild-flowers, in which warble my Wallers; blind\nMilton sings bass to my Petrarchs and Priors, and laureate crown me\nwith bays.\n\nIn me, many worthies recline, and converse. I list to St. Paul who\nargues the doubts of Montaigne; Julian the Apostate cross-questions\nAugustine; and Thomas-a-Kempis unrolls his old black letters for all to\ndecipher. Zeno murmurs maxims beneath the hoarse shout of Democritus;\nand though Democritus laugh loud and long, and the sneer of Pyrrho be\nseen; yet, divine Plato, and Proclus, and, Verulam are of my counsel;\nand Zoroaster whispered me before I was born. I walk a world that is\nmine; and enter many nations, as Mingo Park rested in African cots; I\nam served like Bajazet: Bacchus my butler, Virgil my minstrel, Philip\nSidney my page. My memory is a life beyond birth; my memory, my library\nof the Vatican, its alcoves all endless perspectives, eve-tinted by\ncross-lights from Middle-Age oriels.\n\nAnd as the great Mississippi musters his watery nations: Ohio, with all\nhis leagued streams; Missouri, bringing down in torrents the clans from\nthe highlands; Arkansas, his Tartar rivers from the plain;\u2014so, with all\nthe past and present pouring in me, I roll down my billow from afar.\n\nYet not I, but another: God is my Lord; and though many satellites\nrevolve around me, I and all mine revolve round the great central\nTruth, sun-like, fixed and luminous forever in the foundationless\nfirmament.\n\nFire flames on my tongue; and though of old the Bactrian prophets were\nstoned, yet the stoners in oblivion sleep. But whoso stones me, shall\nbe as Erostratus, who put torch to the temple; though Genghis Khan with\nCambyses combine to obliterate him, his name shall be extant in the\nmouth of the last man that lives. And if so be, down unto death, whence\nI came, will I go, like Xenophon retreating on Greece, all Persia\nbrandishing her spears in his rear.\n\nMy cheek blanches white while I write; I start at the scratch of my\npen; my own mad brood of eagles devours me; fain would I unsay this\naudacity; but an iron-mailed hand clenches mine in a vice, and prints\ndown every letter in my spite. Fain would I hurl off this Dionysius\nthat rides me; my thoughts crush me down till I groan; in far fields I\nhear the song of the reaper, while I slave and faint in this cell. The\nfever runs through me like lava; my hot brain burns like a coal; and\nlike many a monarch, I am less to be envied, than the veriest hind in\nthe land.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI.\nMedia And Babbalanja Discourse\n\n\nOur visiting the Pontiff at a time previously unforeseen, somewhat\naltered our plans. All search in Maramma for the lost one proving\nfruitless, and nothing of note remaining to be seen, we returned not to\nUma; but proceeded with the tour of the lagoon.\n\nWhen day came, reclining beneath the canopy, Babbalanja would fain have\nseriously discussed those things we had lately been seeing, which, for\nall the occasional levity he had recently evinced, seemed very near his\nheart.\n\nBut my lord Media forbade; saying that they necessarily included a\ntopic which all gay, sensible Mardians, who desired to live and be\nmerry, invariably banished from social discourse.\n\n\u201cMeditate as much as you will, Babbalanja, but say little aloud, unless\nin a merry and mythical way. Lay down the great maxims of things, but\nlet inferences take care of themselves. Never be special; never, a\npartisan. In safety, afar off, you may batter down a fortress; but at\nyour peril you essay to carry a single turret by escalade. And if\ndoubts distract you, in vain will you seek sympathy from your fellow\nmen. For upon this one theme, not a few of you free-minded mortals,\neven the otherwise honest and intelligent, are the least frank and\nfriendly. Discourse with them, and it is mostly formulas, or\nprevarications, or hollow assumption of philosophical indifference, or\nurbane hypocrisies, or a cool, civil deference to the dominant belief;\nor still worse, but less common, a brutality of indiscriminate\nskepticism. Furthermore, Babbalanja, on this head, final, last thoughts\nyou mortals have none; nor can have; and, at bottom, your own fleeting\nfancies are too often secrets to yourselves; and sooner may you get\nanother\u2019s secret, than your own. Thus with the wisest of you all; you\nare ever unfixed. Do you show a tropical calm without? then, be sure a\nthousand contrary currents whirl and eddy within. The free, airy robe\nof your philosophy is but a dream, which seems true while it lasts; but\nwaking again into the orthodox world, straightway you resume the old\nhabit. And though in your dreams you may hie to the uttermost Orient,\nyet all the while you abide where you are. Babbalanja, you mortals\ndwell in Mardi, and it is impossible to get elsewhere.\u201d\n\nSaid Babbalanja, \u201cMy lord, you school me. But though I dissent from\nsome of your positions, I am willing to confess, that this is not the\nfirst time a philosopher has been instructed by a man.\u201d\n\n\u201cA demi-god, sir; and therefore I the more readily discharge my mind of\nall seriousness, touching the subject, with which you mortals so vex\nand torment yourselves.\u201d\n\nSilence ensued. And seated apart, on both sides of the barge, solemnly\nswaying, in fixed meditation, to the roll of the waves, Babbalanja,\nMohi, and Yoomy, drooped lower and lower, like funeral plumes; and our\ngloomy canoe seemed a hearse.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII.\nThey Regale Themselves With Their Pipes\n\n\n\u201cHo! mortals! mortals!\u201d cried Media. \u201cGo we to bury our dead? Awake,\nsons of men! Cheer up, heirs of immortality! Ho, Vee-Vee! bring forth\nour pipes: we\u2019ll smoke off this cloud.\u201d\n\nNothing so beguiling as the fumes of tobacco, whether inhaled through\nhookah, narghil, chibouque, Dutch porcelain, pure Principe, or Regalia.\nAnd a great oversight had it been in King Media, to have omitted pipes\namong the appliances of this voyage that we went. Tobacco in rouleaus\nwe had none; cigar nor cigarret; which little the company esteemed.\nPipes were preferred; and pipes we often smoked; testify, oh! Vee-Vee,\nto that. But not of the vile clay, of which mankind and Etruscan vases\nwere made, were these jolly fine pipes of ours. But all in good time.\n\nNow, the leaf called tobacco is of divers species and sorts. Not to\ndwell upon vile Shag, Pig-tail, Plug, Nail-rod, Negro-head, Cavendish,\nand misnamed Lady\u2019s-twist, there are the following varieties:\u2014Gold-\nleaf, Oronoco, Cimaroza, Smyrna, Bird\u2019s-eye, James-river,\nSweet-scented, Honey-dew, Kentucky, Cnaster, Scarfalati, and famed\nShiraz, or Persian. Of all of which, perhaps the last is the best.\n\nBut smoked by itself, to a fastidious wight, even Shiraz is not gentle\nenough. It needs mitigation. And the cunning craft of so mitigating\neven the mildest tobacco was well understood in the dominions of Media.\nThere, in plantations ever covered with a brooding, blue haze, they\nraised its fine leaf in the utmost luxuriance; almost as broad as the\nbroad fans of the broad-bladed banana. The stalks of the leaf\nwithdrawn, the remainder they cut up, and mixed with soft willow-bark,\nand the aromatic leaves of the Betel.\n\n\u201cHo! Vee-Vee, bring forth the pipes,\u201d cried Media. And forth they came,\nfollowed by a quaint, carved cocoa-nut, agate-lidded, containing\nammunition sufficient for many stout charges and primings.\n\nSoon we were all smoking so hard, that the canopied howdah, under which\nwe reclined, sent up purple wreaths like a Michigan wigwam. There we\nsat in a ring, all smoking in council\u2014every pipe a halcyon pipe of\npeace.\n\nAnd among those calumets, my lord Media\u2019s showed like the turbaned\nGrand Turk among his Bashaws. It was an extraordinary pipe, be sure; of\nright royal dimensions. Its mouth-piece an eagle\u2019s beak; its long stem,\na bright, red-barked cherry-tree branch, partly covered with a close\nnetwork of purple dyed porcupine quills; and toward the upper end,\nstreaming with pennons, like a Versailles flag-staff of a coronation\nday. These pennons were managed by halyards; and after lighting his\nprince\u2019s pipe, it was little Vee-Vee\u2019s part to run them up toward the\nmast-head, or mouthpiece, in token that his lord was fairly under\nweigh.\n\nBut Babbalanja\u2019s was of a different sort; an immense, black, serpentine\nstem of ebony, coiling this way and that, in endless convolutions, like\nan anaconda round a traveler in Brazil. Smoking this hydra, Babbalanja\nlooked as if playing upon the trombone.\n\nNext, gentle Yoomy\u2019s. Its stem, a slender golden reed, like musical\nPan\u2019s; its bowl very merry with tassels.\n\nLastly, old Mohi the chronicler\u2019s. Its Death\u2019s-head bowl forming its\nlatter end, continually reminding him of his own. Its shank was an\nostrich\u2019s leg, some feathers still waving nigh the mouth-piece.\n\n\u201cHere, Vee-Vee! fill me up again,\u201d cried Media, through the blue vapors\nsweeping round his great gonfalon, like plumed Marshal Ney, waving his\nbaton in the smoke of Waterloo; or thrice gallant Anglesea, crossing\nhis wooden leg mid the reek and rack of the Apsley House banquet.\n\nVee-Vee obeyed; and quickly, like a howitzer, the pipe-owl was reloaded\nto the muzzle, and King Media smoked on.\n\n\u201cAh! this is pleasant indeed,\u201d he cried. \u201cLook, it\u2019s a calm on the\nwaters, and a calm in our hearts, as we inhale these sedative odors.\u201d\n\n\u201cSo calm,\u201d said Babbalanja; \u201cthe very gods must be smoking now.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd thus,\u201d said Media, \u201cwe demi-gods hereafter shall cross-legged sit,\nand smoke out our eternities. Ah, what a glorious puff! Mortals,\nmethinks these pipe-bowls of ours must be petrifactions of roses, so\nscented they seem. But, old Mohi, you have smoked this many a long\nyear; doubtless, you know something about their material\u2014the\nFroth-of-the-Sea they call it, I think\u2014ere my handicraft subjects\nobtain it, to work into bowls. Tell us the tale.\u201d\n\n\u201cDelighted to do so, my lord,\u201d replied Mohi, slowly disentangling his\nmouth-piece from the braids of his beard. \u201cI have devoted much time and\nattention to the study of pipe-bowls, and groped among many learned\nauthorities, to reconcile the clashing opinions concerning the origin\nof the so-called Farnoo, or Froth-of-the-Sea.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, then, my old centenarian, give us the result of your\ninvestigations. But smoke away: a word and a puff go on.\u201d\n\n\u201cMay it please you, then, my right worshipful lord, this Farnoo is an\nunctuous, argillaceous substance; in its natural state, soft,\nmalleable, and easily worked as the cornelian-red clay from the famous\npipe-quarries of the wild tribes to the North. But though mostly found\nburied in terra-firma, especially in the isles toward the East, this\nFarnoo, my lord, is sometimes thrown up by the ocean; in seasons of\nhigh sea, being plentifully found on the reefs. But, my lord, like\namber, the precise nature and origin of this Farnoo are points widely\nmooted.\u201d\n\n\u201cStop there!\u201d cried Media; \u201cour mouth-pieces are of amber; so, not a\nword more of the Froth-of-the-Sea, until something be said to clear up\nthe mystery of amber. What is amber, old man?\u201d\n\n\u201cA still more obscure thing to trace than the other, my worshipful\nlord. Ancient Plinnee maintained, that originally it must be a juice,\nexuding from balsam firs and pines; Borhavo, that, like camphor, it is\nthe crystalized oil of aromatic ferns; Berzilli, that it is the\nconcreted scum of the lake Cephioris; and Vondendo, against scores of\nantagonists, stoutly held it a sort of bituminous gold, trickling from\nantediluvian smugglers\u2019 caves, nigh the sea.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, old Braid-Beard,\u201d cried Media, placing his pipe in rest, \u201cyou are\nalmost as erudite as our philosopher here.\u201d\n\n\u201cMuch more so, my lord,\u201d said Babbalanja; \u201cfor Mohi has somehow picked\nup all my worthless forgettings, which are more than my valuable\nrememberings.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat say you, wise one?\u201d cried Mohi, shaking his braids, like an\nenraged elephant with many trunks.\n\nSaid Yoomy: \u201cMy lord, I have heard that amber is nothing less than the\ncongealed tears of broken-hearted mermaids.\u201d\n\n\u201cAbsurd, minstrel,\u201d cried Mohi. \u201cHark ye; I know what it is. All other\nauthorities to the contrary, amber is nothing more than gold-fishes\u2019\nbrains, made waxy, then firm, by the action of the sea.\u201d\n\n\u201cNonsense!\u201d cried Yoomy.\n\n\u201cMy lord,\u201d said Braid-Beard, waving his pipe, this thing is just as I\nsay. Imbedded in amber, do we not find little fishes\u2019 fins,\nporpoise-teeth, sea-gulls\u2019 beaks and claws; nay, butterflies\u2019 wings,\nand sometimes a topaz? And how could that be, unless the substance was\nfirst soft? Amber is gold-fishes\u2019 brains, I say.\u201d\n\n\u201cFor one,\u201d said Babbalanja, \u201cI\u2019ll not believe that, till you prove to\nme, Braid-Beard, that ideas themselves are found imbedded therein.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnother of your crazy conceits, philosopher,\u201d replied Mohi,\ndisdainfully; \u201cyet, sometimes plenty of strange black-letter characters\nhave been discovered in amber.\u201d And throwing back his hoary old head,\nhe jetted forth his vapors like a whale.\n\n\u201cIndeed?\u201d cried Babbalanja. \u201cThen, my lord Media, it may be earnestly\ninquired, whether the gentle laws of the tribes before the flood, were\nnot sought to be embalmed and perpetuated between transparent and sweet\nscented tablets of amber.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat, now, is not so unlikely,\u201d said Mohi; \u201cfor old King Rondo the\nRound once set about getting him a coffin-lid of amber; much desiring a\nfamous mass of it owned by the ancestors of Donjalolo of Juam. But no\nnavies could buy it. So Rondo had himself urned in a crystal.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd that immortalized Rondo, no doubt,\u201d said Babbalanja. \u201cHa! ha! pity\nhe fared not like the fat porpoise frozen and tombed in an iceberg; its\nicy shroud drifting south, soon melted away, and down, out of sight,\nsunk the dead.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, so much for amber,\u201d cried Media. \u201cNow, Mohi, go on about\nFarnoo.\u201d\n\n\u201cKnow, then, my lord, that Farnoo is more like ambergris than amber.\u201d\n\n\u201cIs it? then, pray, tell us something on that head. You know all about\nambergris, too, I suppose.\u201d\n\n\u201cEvery thing about all things, my lord. Ambergris is found both on land\nand at sea. But especially, are lumps of it picked up on the spicy\ncoasts of Jovanna; indeed, all over the atolls and reefs in the eastern\nquarter of Mardi.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut what is this ambergris? Braid-Beard,\u201d said Babbalanja.\n\n\u201cAquovi, the chymist, pronounced it the fragments of mushrooms growing\nat the bottom of the sea; Voluto held, that like naptha, it springs\nfrom fountains down there. But it is neither.\u201d\n\n\u201cI have heard,\u201d said Yoomy, \u201cthat it is the honey-comb of bees, fallen\nfrom flowery cliffs into the brine.\u201d\n\n\u201cNothing of the kind,\u201d said Mohi. \u201cDo I not know all about it,\nminstrel? Ambergris is the petrified gall-stones of crocodiles.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat!\u201d cried Babbalanja, \u201ccomes sweet scented ambergris from those\nmusky and chain-plated river cavalry? No wonder, then, their flesh is\nso fragrant; their upper jaws as the visors of vinaigrettes.\u201d\n\n\u201cNay, you are all wrong,\u201d cried King Media.\n\nThen, laughing to himself:\u2014\u201cIt\u2019s pleasant to sit by, a demi-god, and\nhear the surmisings of mortals, upon things they know nothing about;\ntheology, or amber, or ambergris, it\u2019s all the same. But then, did I\nalways out with every thing I know, there would be no conversing with\nthese comical creatures.\n\n\u201cListen, old Mohi; ambergris is a morbid secretion of the Spermaceti\nwhale; for like you mortals, the whale is at times a sort of\nhypochondriac and dyspeptic. You must know, subjects, that in\nantediluvian times, the Spermaceti whale was much hunted by sportsmen,\nthat being accounted better pastime, than pursuing the Behemoths on\nshore. Besides, it was a lucrative diversion. Now, sometimes upon\nstriking the monster, it would start off in a dastardly fright, leaving\ncertain fragments in its wake. These fragments the hunters picked up,\ngiving over the chase for a while. For in those days, as now, a\nquarter-quintal of ambergris was more valuable than a whole ton of\nspermaceti.\u201d\n\n\u201cNor, my lord,\u201d said Babbalanja, \u201cwould it have been wise to kill the\nfish that dropped such treasures: no more than to murder the noddy that\nlaid the golden eggs.\u201d\n\n\u201cBeshrew me! a noddy it must have been,\u201d gurgled Mohi through his\npipe-stem, \u201cto lay golden eggs for others to hatch.\u201d\n\n\u201cCome, no more of that now,\u201d cried Media. \u201cMohi, how long think you,\nmay one of these pipe-bowls last?\u201d\n\n\u201cMy lord, like one\u2019s cranium, it will endure till broken. I have smoked\nthis one of mine more than half a century.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut unlike our craniums, stocked full of concretions,\u201d said\nBabbalanja, our pipe-bowls never need clearing out.\u201d\n\n\u201cTrue,\u201d said Mohi, \u201cthey absorb the oil of the smoke, instead of\nallowing it offensively to incrust.\u201d\n\n\u201cAy, the older the better,\u201d said Media, \u201cand the more delicious the\nflavor imparted to the fumes inhaled.\u201d\n\n\u201cFarnoos forever! my lord,\u201d cried Yoomy. \u201cBy much smoking, the bowl\nwaxes russet and mellow, like the berry-brown cheek of a sunburnt\nbrunette.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd as like smoked hams,\u201d cried Braid-Beard, \u201cwe veteran old smokers\ngrow browner and browner; hugely do we admire to see our jolly noses\nand pipe-bowls mellowing together.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell said, old man,\u201d cried Babbalanja; \u201cfor, like a good wife, a pipe\nis a friend and companion for life. And whoso weds with a pipe, is no\nlonger a bachelor. After many vexations, he may go home to that\nfaithful counselor, and ever find it full of kind consolations and\nsuggestions. But not thus with cigars or cigarrets: the acquaintances\nof a moment, chatted with in by-places, whenever they come handy; their\nexistence so fugitive, uncertain, unsatisfactory. Once ignited, nothing\nlike longevity pertains to them. They never grow old. Why, my lord, the\nstump of a cigarret is an abomination; and two of them crossed are more\nof a _memento-mori_, than a brace of thigh-bones at right angles.\u201d\n\n\u201cSo they are, so they are,\u201d cried King Media. \u201cThen, mortals, puff we\naway at our pipes. Puff, puff, I say. Ah! how we puff! But thus we\ndemi-gods ever puff at our ease.\u201d\n\n\u201cPuff; puff, how we puff,\u201d cried Babbalanja. \u201cbut life itself is a puff\nand a wheeze. Our lungs are two pipes which we constantly smoke.\u201d\n\n\u201cPuff, puff! how we puff,\u201d cried old Mohi. \u201cAll thought is a puff.\u201d\n\n\u201cAy,\u201d said Babbalanja, \u201cnot more smoke in that skull-bowl of yours than\nin the skull on your shoulders: both ends alike.\u201d\n\n\u201cPuff! puff! how we puff,\u201d cried Yoomy. \u201cBut in every puff, there hangs\na wreath. In every puff, off flies a care.\u201d\n\n\u201cAy, there they go,\u201d cried Mohi, \u201cthere goes another\u2014and, there, and\nthere;\u2014this is the way to get rid of them my worshipful lord; puff them\naside.\u201d\n\n\u201cYoomy,\u201d said Media, \u201cgive us that pipe song of thine. Sing it, my\nsweet and pleasant poet. We\u2019ll keep time with the flageolets of ours.\u201d\n\n\u201cSo with pipes and puffs for a chorus, thus Yoomy sang:\u2014\n\nCare is all stuff:\u2014\n    Puff! Puff:\nTo puff is enough:\u2014\n    Puff! Puff!\nMore musky than snuff,\nAnd warm is a puff:\u2014\n    Puff! Puff!\nHere we sit mid our puffs,\nLike old lords in their ruffs,\nSnug as bears in their muffs:\u2014\n    Puff! Puff!\nThen puff, puff, puff;\nFor care is all stuff,\nPuffed off in a puff:\u2014\n    Puff! Puff!\n\n\n\u201cAy, puff away,\u201d cried Babbalanja, \u201cpuff; puff, so we are born, and so\ndie. Puff, puff, my volcanos: the great sun itself will yet go out in a\nsnuff, and all Mardi smoke out its last wick.\u201d\n\n\u201cPuffs enough,\u201d said King Media, \u201cVee-Vee! haul down my flag. There,\nlie down before me, oh Gonfalon! and, subjects, hear,\u2014when I die, lay\nthis spear on my right, and this pipe on my left, its colors at half\nmast; so shall I be ambidexter, and sleep between eloquent symbols.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII.\nThey Visit An Extraordinary Old Antiquary\n\n\n\u201cAbout prows there, ye paddlers,\u201d cried Media. \u201cIn this fog we\u2019ve been\nraising, we have sailed by Padulla, our destination.\u201d\n\nNow Padulla, was but a little island, tributary to a neighboring king;\nits population embracing some hundreds of thousands of leaves, and\nflowers, and butterflies, yet only two solitary mortals; one, famous as\na venerable antiquarian: a collector of objects of Mardian vertu; a\ncognoscenti, and dilettante in things old and marvelous; and for that\nreason, very choice of himself.\n\nHe went by the exclamatory cognomen of \u201cOh-Oh;\u201d a name bestowed upon\nhim, by reason of the delighted interjections, with which he welcomed\nall accessions to his museum.\n\nNow, it was to obtain a glimpse of this very museum, that Media was\nanxious to touch at Padulla.\n\nLanding, and passing through a grove, we were accosted by Oh-Oh\nhimself; who, having heard the shouts of our paddlers, had sallied\nforth, staff in hand.\n\nThe old man was a sight to see; especially his nose; a remarkable one.\nAnd all Mardi over, a remarkable nose is a prominent feature: an ever\nobvious passport to distinction. For, after all, this gaining a name,\nis but the individualizing of a man; as well achieved by an\nextraordinary nose, as by an extraordinary epic. Far better, indeed;\nfor you may pass poets without knowing them. Even a hero, is no hero\nwithout his sword; nor Beelzebub himself a lion, minus that lasso-tail\nof his, wherewith he catches his prey. Whereas, he who is famous\nthrough his nose, it is impossible to overlook. He is a celebrity\nwithout toiling for a name. Snugly ensconced behind his proboscis, he\nrevels in its shadow, receiving tributes of attention wherever he goes.\n\nNot to enter at large upon the topography of Oh-Oh\u2019s nasal organ, all\nmust be content with this; that it was of a singular magnitude, and\nboldly aspiring at the end; an exclamation point in the face of the\nwearer, forever wondering at the visible universe. The eyes of Oh-Oh\nwere like the creature\u2019s that the Jew abhors: placed slanting in his\nhead, and converging their rays toward the mouth; which was no Mouth,\nbut a gash.\n\nI mean not to be harsh, or unpleasant upon thee, Oh-Oh; but I must\npaint thee as thou wert.\n\nThe rest of his person was crooked, and dwarfed, and surmounted by a\nhump, that sat on his back like a burden. And a weary load is a hump,\nHeaven knows, only to be cast off in the grave.\n\nThus old, and antiquated, and gable-ended, was the tabernacle of\nOh-Oh\u2019s soul. But his person was housed in as curious a structure.\nBuilt of old boughs of trees blown down in the groves, and covered over\nwith unruly thatching, it seemed, without, some ostrich nest. But\nwithin, so intricate, and grotesque, its brown alleys and cells, that\nthe interior of no walnut was more labyrinthine.\n\nAnd here, strewn about, all dusty and disordered, were the precious\nantiques, and curios, and obsoletes, which to Oh-Oh were dear as the\napple of his eye, or the memory of departed days.\n\nThe old man was exceedingly importunate, in directing attention to his\nrelics; concerning each of which, he had an endless story to tell. Time\nwould fail; nay, patience, to repeat his legends. So, in order, here\nfollow the most prominent of his rarities:\u2014\n\n\nThe identical Canoe, in which, ages back, the god Unja came from the\nbottom of the sea. (Very ponderous; of lignum-vitae wood).\n\nA stone Flower-pot, containing in the original soil, Unja\u2019s last\nfootprints, when he embarked from Mardi for parts unknown. (One\nfoot-print unaccountably reversed).\n\nThe Jaw-bones of Tooroorooloo, a great orator in the days of Unja.\n(Somewhat twisted).\n\nA quaint little Fish-hook. (Made from the finger-bones of Kravi the\nCunning).\n\nThe mystic Gourd; carved all over with cabalistic triangles, and\nhypogrifs; by study of which a reputed prophet, was said to have\nobtained his inspiration. (Slightly redolent of vineyards).\n\nThe complete Skeleton of an immense Tiger-shark; the bones of a\nPearl-shell-diver\u2019s leg inside. (Picked off the reef at low tide).\n\nAn inscrutable, shapeless block of a mottled-hued, smoke-dried wood.\n(Three unaccountable holes drilled through the middle).\n\nA sort of ecclesiastical Fasces, being the bony blades of nine sword-\nfish, basket-hilted with shark\u2019s jaws, braided round and tasseled with\ncords of human hair. (Now obsolete).\n\nThe mystic Fan with which Unja fanned himself when in trouble. (Woven\nfrom the leaves of the Water-Lily).\n\nA Tripod of a Stork\u2019s Leg, supporting a nautilus shell, containing the\nfragments of a bird\u2019s egg; into which, was said to have been magically\ndecanted the soul of a deceased chief. (Unfortunately crushed in by\natmospheric pressure).\n\nTwo clasped Right Hands, embalmed; being those of twin warriors, who\nthus died on a battle-field. (Impossible to sunder).\n\nA curious Pouch, or Purse, formed from the skin of an Albatross\u2019 foot,\nand decorated with three sharp claws, naturally pertaining to it.\n(Originally the property of a notorious old Tooth-per-Tooth).\n\nA long tangled lock of Mermaid\u2019s Hair, much resembling the curling\nsilky fibres of the finer sea-weed. (Preserved between fins of the\ndolphin).\n\nA Mermaid\u2019s Comb for the toilet. The stiff serrated crest of a Cook\nStorm-petrel (Oh-Oh was particularly curious concerning Mermaids).\n\nFiles, Rasps, and Pincers, all bone, the implements of an eminent\nChiropedist, who flourished his tools before the flood. (Owing to the\nexcessive unevenness of the surface in those times, the diluvians were\npeculiarly liable to pedal afflictions).\n\nThe back Tooth, that Zozo the Enthusiast, in token of grief, recklessly\nknocked out at the decease of a friend. (Worn to a stump and quite\nuseless).\n\n\nThese wonders inspected, Oh-Oh conducted us to an arbor, to show us the\nfamous telescope, by help of which, he said he had discovered an\nant-hill in the moon. It rested in the crotch of a Bread-fruit tree;\nand was a prodigiously long and hollow trunk of a Palm; a scale from a\nsea-kraken its lens.\n\nThen returning to his cabinet, he pointed to a bamboo microscope, which\nhad wonderfully assisted him in his entomological pursuits.\n\n\u201cBy this instrument, my masters,\u201d said he, \u201cI have satisfied myself,\nthat in the eye of a dragon-fly there are precisely twelve thousand\nfive hundred and forty-one triangular lenses; and in the leg of a flea,\nscores on scores of distinct muscles. Now, my masters, how far think\nyou a flea may leap at one spring? Why, two hundred times its own\nlength; I have often measured their leaps, with a small measure I use\nfor scientific purposes.\u201d\n\n\u201cTruly, Oh-Oh,\u201d said Babbalanja, \u201cyour discoveries must ere long result\nin something grand; since you furnish such invaluable data for\ntheorists. Pray, attend, my lord Media. If, at one spring, a flea leaps\ntwo hundred times its own length, then, with the like proportion of\nmuscles in his calves, a bandit might pounce upon the unwary traveler\nfrom a quarter of a mile off. Is it not so, Oh-Oh?\u201d\n\n\u201cIndeed, but it is, my masters. And one of the greatest consolations I\ndraw from these studies, is the ever-strengthening conviction of the\nbeneficent wisdom that framed our Mardi. For did men possess thighs in\nproportion to fleas, verily, the wicked would grievously leap about,\nand curvet in the isles.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut Oh-Oh,\u201d said Babbalanja, \u201cwhat other discoveries have you made?\nHast yet put a usurer under your lens, to find his conscience? or a\nlibertine, to find his heart? Hast yet brought your microscope to bear\nupon a downy peach, or a rosy cheek?\u201d\n\n\u201cI have,\u201d said Oh-Oh, mournfully; \u201cand from the moment I so did, I have\nhad no heart to eat a peach, or salute a cheek.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen dash your lens!\u201d cried Media.\n\n\u201cWell said, my lord. For all the eyes we get beyond our own, but\nminister to infelicity. The microscope disgusts us with our Mardi; and\nthe telescope sets us longing for some other world.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX.\nThey Go Down Into The Catacombs\n\n\nWith a dull flambeau, we now descended some narrow stone steps, to view\nOh-Oh\u2019s collection of ancient and curious manuscripts, preserved in a\nvault.\n\n\u201cThis way, this way, my masters,\u201d cried Oh-Oh, aloft, swinging his dim\ntorch. \u201cKeep your hands before you; it\u2019s a dark road to travel.\u201d\n\n\u201cSo it seems,\u201d said Babbalanja, wide-groping, as he descended lower and\nlower. \u201cMy lord this is like going down to posterity.\u201d\n\nUpon gaining the vault, forth flew a score or two of bats,\nextinguishing the flambeau, and leaving us in darkness, like Belzoni\ndeserted by his Arabs in the heart of a pyramid. The torch at last\nrelumed, we entered a tomb-like excavation, at every step raising\nclouds of dust; and at last stood before long rows of musty, mummyish\nparcels, so dingy-red, and so rolled upon sticks, that they looked like\nstiff sausages of Bologna; but smelt like some fine old Stilton or\nCheshire.\n\nMost ancient of all, was a hieroglyphical Elegy on the Dumps,\nconsisting of one thousand and one lines; the characters,\u2014herons,\nweeping-willows, and ravens, supposed to have been traced by a quill\nfrom the sea-noddy.\n\nThen there were plenty of rare old ballads:\u2014\n\n\u201cKing Kroko, and the Fisher Girl.\u201d\n\u201cThe Fight at the Ford of Spears.\u201d\n\u201cThe Song of the Skulls.\u201d\n\n\nAnd brave old chronicles, that made Mohi\u2019s mouth water:\u2014\n\n\u201cThe Rise and Setting of the Dynasty of Foofoo.\u201d\n\u201cThe Heroic History of the Noble Prince Dragoni; showing how he killed\nten Pinioned Prisoners with his Own Hand.\u201d\n\u201cThe whole Pedigree of the King of Kandidee, with that of his famous\nhorse, Znorto.\u201d\n\n\nAnd Tarantula books:\u2014\n\n\u201cSour Milk for the Young, by a Dairyman.\u201d\n\u201cThe Devil adrift, by a Corsair.\u201d\n\u201cGrunts and Groans, by a Mad Boar.\u201d\n\u201cStings, by a Scorpion.\u201d\n\n\nAnd poetical productions:\u2014\n\n\u201cSuffusions of a Lily in a Shower.\u201d\n\u201cSonnet on the last Breath of an Ephemera.\u201d\n\u201cThe Gad-fly, and Other Poems.\u201d\n\n\nAnd metaphysical treatises:\u2014\n\n\u201cNecessitarian not Predestinarian.\u201d\n\u201cPhilosophical Necessity and Predestination One Thing and The Same.\u201d\n\u201cWhatever is not, is.\u201d\n\u201cWhatever is, is not.\u201d\n\n\nAnd scarce old memoirs:\u2014\n\n\u201cThe One Hundred Books of the Biography of the Great and Good King\nGrandissimo.\u201d\n\u201cThe Life of old Philo, the Philanthropist, in one Chapter.\u201d\n\n\nAnd popular literature:\u2014\n\n\u201cA most Sweet, Pleasant, and Unctuous Account of the Manner in which\nFive-and-Forty Robbers were torn asunder by Swiftly-Going Canoes.\u201d\n\n\nAnd books by chiefs and nobles:\u2014\n\n\u201cThe Art of Making a Noise in Mardi.\u201d\n\u201cOn the Proper Manner of Saluting a Bosom Friend.\u201d\n\u201cLetters from a Father to a Son, inculcating the Virtue of Vice.\u201d\n\u201cPastorals by a Younger Son.\u201d\n\u201cA Catalogue of Chieftains who have been Authors, by a Chieftain, who\ndisdains to be deemed an Author.\u201d\n\u201cA Canto on a Cough caught by my Consort.\u201d\n\u201cThe Philosophy of Honesty, by a late Lord, who died in disgrace.\u201d\n\n\nAnd theological works:\u2014\n\n\u201cPepper for the Perverse.\u201d\n\u201cPudding for the Pious.\u201d\n\u201cPleas for Pardon.\u201d\n\u201cPickles for the Persecuted.\u201d\n\n\nAnd long and tedious romances with short and easy titles:\u2014\n\n\u201cThe Buck.\u201d\n\u201cThe Belle.\u201d\n\u201cThe King and the Cook, or the Cook and the King.\u201d\n\n\nAnd books of voyages:\u2014\n\n\u201cA Sojourn among the Anthropophagi, by One whose Hand was eaten off at\nTiffin among the Savages.\u201d\n\u201cFranko: its King, Court, and Tadpoles.\u201d\n\u201cThree Hours in Vivenza, containing a Full and Impartial Account of\nthat Whole Country: by a Subject of King Bello.\u201d\n\n\nAnd works of nautical poets:\u2014\n\n\u201cSky-Sail-Pole Lyrics.\u201d\n\n\nAnd divers brief books, with panic-striking titles:\u2014\n\n\u201cAre you safe?\u201d\n\u201cA Voice from Below.\u201d\n\u201cHope for none.\u201d\n\u201cFire for all.\u201d\n\n\nAnd pamphlets by retired warriors:\u2014\n\n\u201cOn the Best Gravy for Wild Boar\u2019s Meat.\u201d\n\u201cThree Receipts for Bottling New Arrack.\u201d\n\u201cTo Brown Bread Fruit without Burning.\u201d\n\u201cAdvice to the Dyspeptic.\u201d\n\u201cOn Starch for Tappa.\u201d\n\n\nAll these MSS. were highly prized by Oh-Oh. He averred, that they spoke\nof the mighty past, which he reverenced more than the paltry present,\nthe dross and sediment of what had been.\n\nPeering into a dark crypt, Babbalanja drew forth a few crumbling,\nillegible, black-letter sheets of his favorite old essayist, brave\nBardianna. They seemed to have formed parts of a work, whose title only\nremained\u2014\u201cThoughts, by a Thinker.\u201d\n\nSilently Babbalanja pressed them to his heart. Then at arm\u2019s length\nheld them, and said, \u201cAnd is all this wisdom lost? Can not the divine\ncunning in thee, Bardianna, transmute to brightness these sullied\npages? Here, perhaps, thou didst dive into the deeps of things,\ntreating of the normal forms of matter and of mind; how the particles\nof solids were first molded in the interstices of fluids; how the\nthoughts of men are each a soul, as the lung-cells are each a lung; how\nthat death is but a mode of life; while mid-most is the Pharzi.\u2014 But\nall is faded. Yea, here the Thinker\u2019s thoughts lie cheek by jowl with\nphrasemen\u2019s words. Oh Bardianna! these pages were offspring of thee,\nthought of thy thought, soul of thy soul. Instinct with mind, they once\nspoke out like living voices; now, they\u2019re dust; and would not prick a\nfool to action. Whence then is this? If the fogs of some few years can\nmake soul linked to matter naught; how can the unhoused spirit hope to\nlive when mildewed with the damps of death.\u201d\n\nPiously he folded the shreds of manuscript together, kissed them, and\nlaid them down.\n\nThen approaching Oh-Oh, he besought him for one leaf, one shred of\nthose most precious pages, in memory of Bardianna, and for the love of\nhim.\n\nBut learning who he was, one of that old Ponderer\u2019s commentators, Oh-Oh\ntottered toward the manuscripts; with trembling fingers told them over,\none by one, and said\u2014\u201cThank Oro! all are here.\u2014Philosopher, ask me for\nmy limbs, my life, my heart, but ask me not for these. Steeped in wax,\nthese shall be my cerements.\u201d\n\nAll in vain; Oh-Oh was an antiquary.\n\nTurning in despair, Babbalanja spied a heap of worm-eaten parchment\ncovers, and many clippings and parings. And whereas the rolls of\nmanuscripts did smell like unto old cheese; so these relics did\nmarvelously resemble the rinds of the same.\n\nTurning over this pile, Babbalanja lighted upon something that restored\nhis good humor. Long he looked it over delighted; but bethinking him,\nthat he must have dragged to day some lost work of the collection, and\nmuch desirous of possessing it, he made bold again to ply Oh-Oh;\noffering a tempting price for his discovery.\n\nGlancing at the title\u2014\u201cA Happy Life\u201d\u2014the old man cried\u2014\u201cOh, rubbish!\nrubbish! take it for nothing.\u201d And Babbalanja placed it in his\nvestment.\n\nThe catacombs surveyed, and day-light gained, we inquired the way to\nJi-Ji\u2019s, also a collector, but of another sort; one miserly in the\nmatter of teeth, the money of Mardi.\n\nAt the mention of his name, Oh-Oh flew out into scornful philippics\nupon the insanity of that old dotard, who hoarded up teeth, as if teeth\nwere of any use, but to purchase rarities. Nevertheless, he pointed out\nour path; following which, we crossed a meadow.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX.\nBabbalanja Quotes From An Antique Pagan; And Earnestly Presses It Upon\nThe Company, That What He Recites Is Not His But Another\u2019s\n\n\nJourneying on, we stopped by a gurgling spring, in a beautiful grove;\nand here, we stretched out on the grass, and our attendants unpacked\ntheir hampers, to provide us a lunch.\n\nBut as for that Babbalanja of ours, he must needs go and lunch by\nhimself, and, like a cannibal, feed upon an author; though in other\nrespects he was not so partial to bones.\n\nBringing forth the treasure he had buried in his bosom, he was soon\nburied in it; and motionless on his back, looked as if laid out, to\nkeep an appointment with his undertaker.\n\n\u201cWhat, ho! Babbalanja!\u201d cried Media from under a tree, \u201cdon\u2019t be a\nduck, there, with your bill in the air; drop your metaphysics, man, and\nfall to on the solids. Do you hear?\u201d\n\n\u201cCome, philosopher,\u201d said Mohi, handling a banana, \u201cyou will weigh more\nafter you have eaten.\u201d\n\n\u201cCome, list, Babbalanja,\u201d cried Yoomy, \u201cI am going to sing.\u201d\n\n\u201cUp! up! I say,\u201d shouted Media again. \u201cBut go, old man, and wake him:\nrap on his head, and see whether he be in.\u201d\n\nMohi, obeying, found him at home; and Babbalanja started up.\n\n\u201cIn Oro\u2019s name, what ails you, philosopher? See you Paradise, that you\nlook so wildly?\u201d\n\n\u201cA Happy Life! a Happy Life!\u201d cried Babbalanja, in an ecstasy. \u201cMy\nlord, I am lost in the dream of it, as here recorded. Marvelous book!\nits goodness transports me. Let me read:\u2014\u2018I would bear the same mind,\nwhether I be rich or poor, whether I get or lose in the world. I will\nreckon benefits well placed as the fairest part of my possession, not\nvaluing them by number or weight, but by the profit and esteem of the\nreceiver; accounting myself never the poorer for any thing I give. What\nI do shall be done for conscience, not ostentation. I will eat and\ndrink, not to gratify my palate, but to satisfy nature. I will be\ncheerful to my friends, mild and placable to my enemies. I will prevent\nan honest request, if I can foresee it; and I will grant it, without\nasking. I will look upon the whole world as my country; and upon Oro,\nboth as the witness and the judge of my words and my deeds. I will live\nand die with this testimony: that I loved a good conscience; that I\nnever invaded another man\u2019s liberty; and that I preserved my own. I\nwill govern my life and my thoughts, as if the whole world were to see\nthe one, and to read the other; for what does it signify, to make any\nthing a secret to my neighbor, when to Oro all our privacies are\nopen.\u2019\u201d\n\n\u201cVery fine,\u201d said Media.\n\n\u201cThe very spirit of the first followers of Alma, as recorded in the\nlegends,\u201d said Mohi.\n\n\u201cInimitable,\u201d said Yoomy.\n\nSaid Babbalanja, \u201cListen again:\u2014\u2018Righteousness is sociable and gentle;\nfree, steady, and fearless; full of inexhaustible delights.\u2019 And here\nagain, and here, and here:\u2014The true felicity of life is to understand\nour duty to Oro.\u2019\u2014\u2018True joy is a serene and sober motion.\u2019 And here,\nand here,\u2014my lord, \u2019tis hard quoting from this book;\u2014but listen\u2014\u2018A\npeaceful conscience, honest thoughts, and righteous actions are\nblessings without end, satiety, or measure. The poor man wants many\nthings; the covetous man, all. It is not enough to know Oro, unless we\nobey him.\u2019\u201d\n\n\u201cAlma all over,\u201d cried Mohi; \u201csure, you read from his sayings?\u201d\n\n\u201cI read but odd sentences from one, who though he lived ages ago, never\nsaw, scarcely heard of Alma. And mark me, my lord, this time I\nimprovise nothing. What I have recited, Is here. Mohi, this book is\nmore marvelous than the prophecies. My lord, that a mere man, and a\nheathen, in that most heathenish time, should give utterance to such\nheavenly wisdom, seems more wonderful than that an inspired prophet\nshould reveal it. And is it not more divine in this philosopher, to\nlove righteousness for its own sake, and in view of annihilation, than\nfor pious sages to extol it as the means of everlasting felicity?\u201d\n\n\u201cAlas,\u201d sighed Yoomy, \u201cand does he not promise us any good thing, when\nwe are dead?\u201d\n\n\u201cHe speaks not by authority. He but woos us to goodness and happiness\nhere.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen, Babbalanja,\u201d said Media, \u201ckeep your treasure to yourself.\nWithout authority, and a full right hand, Righteousness better be\nsilent. Mardi\u2019s religion must seem to come direct from Oro, and the\nmass of you mortals endeavor it not, except for a consideration,\npresent or to come.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd call you that righteousness, my lord, which is but the price paid\ndown for something else?\u201d\n\n\u201cI called it not righteousness; it is religion so called. But let us\nprate no more of these things; with which I, a demi-god, have but\nlittle in common. It ever impairs my digestion. No more, Babbalanja.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy lord! my lord! out of itself, Religion has nothing to bestow. Nor\nwill she save us from aught, but from the evil in ourselves. Her one\ngrand end is to make us wise; her only manifestations are reverence to\nOro and love to man; her only, but ample reward, herself. He who has\nthis, has all. He who has this, whether he kneel to an image of wood,\ncalling it Oro; or to an image of air, calling it the same; whether he\nfasts or feasts; laughs or weeps;\u2014that man can be no richer. And this\nreligion, faith, virtue, righteousness, good, whate\u2019er you will, I find\nin this book I hold. No written page can teach me more.\u201d\n\n\u201cHave you that, then, of which you speak, Babbalanja? Are you content,\nthere where you stand?\u201d\n\n\u201cMy lord, you drive me home. I am not content. The mystery of mysteries\nis still a mystery. How this author came to be so wise, perplexes me.\nHow he led the life he did, confounds me. Oh, my lord, I am in\ndarkness, and no broad blaze comes down to flood me. The rays that come\nto me are but faint cross lights, mazing the obscurity wherein I live.\nAnd after all, excellent as it is, I can be no gainer by this book. For\nthe more we learn, the more we unlearn; we accumulate not, but\nsubstitute; and take away, more than we add. We dwindle while we grow;\nwe sally out for wisdom, and retreat beyond the point whence we\nstarted; we essay the Fondiza, and get but the Phe. Of all simpletons,\nthe simplest! Oh! that I were another sort of fool than I am, that I\nmight restore my good opinion of myself. Continually I stand in the\npillory, am broken on the wheel, and dragged asunder by wild horses.\nYes, yes, Bardianna, all is in a nut, as thou sayest; but all my back\nteeth can not crack it; I but crack my own jaws. All round me, my\nfellow men are new-grafting their vines, and dwelling in flourishing\narbors; while I am forever pruning mine, till it is become but a stump.\nYet in this pruning will I persist; I will not add, I will diminish; I\nwill train myself down to the standard of what is unchangeably true.\nDay by day I drop off my redundancies; ere long I shall have stripped\nmy ribs; when I die, they will but bury my spine. Ah! where, where,\nwhere, my lord, is the everlasting Tekana? Tell me, Mohi, where the\nEphina? I may have come to the Penultimate, but where, sweet Yoomy, is\nthe Ultimate? Ah, companions! I faint, I am wordless:- -something,\nnothing, riddles,\u2014does Mardi hold her?\u201d\n\n\u201cHe swoons!\u201d cried Yoomy.\n\n\u201cWater! water!\u201d cried Media.\n\n\u201cAway:\u201d said Babbalanja serenely, \u201cI revive.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI.\nThey Visit A Wealthy Old Pauper\n\n\nContinuing our route to Jiji\u2019s, we presently came to a miserable hovel.\nHalf projecting from the low, open entrance, was a bald overgrown head,\nintent upon an upright row of dark-colored bags:\u2014 pelican\npouches\u2014prepared by dropping a stone within, and suspending them, when\nmoist.\n\nEver and anon, the great head shook with a tremulous motion, as one by\none, to a clicking sound from the old man\u2019s mouth, the strings of teeth\nwere slowly drawn forth, and let fall, again and again, with a rattle.\n\nBut perceiving our approach, the old miser suddenly swooped his pouches\nout of sight; and, like a turtle into its shell, retreated into his\nden. But soon he decrepitly emerged upon his knees, asking what brought\nus thither?\u2014to steal the teeth, which lying rumor averred he possessed\nin abundance? And opening his mouth, he averred he had none; not even a\nsentry in his head.\n\nBut Babbalanja declared, that long since he must have drawn his own\ndentals, and bagged them with the rest.\n\nNow this miserable old miser must have been idiotic; for soon\nforgetting what he had but just told us of his utter toothlessness, he\nwas so smitten with the pearly mouth of Hohora, one of our attendants\n(the same for whose pearls, little King Peepi had taken such a fancy),\nthat he made the following overture to purchase its contents: namely:\none tooth of the buyer\u2019s, for every three of the seller\u2019s. A\nproposition promptly rejected, as involving a mercantile absurdity.\n\n\u201cWhy?\u201d said Babbalanja. \u201cDoubtless, because that proposed to be given,\nis less than that proposed to be received. Yet, says a philosopher,\nthis is the very principle which regulates all barterings. For where\nthe sense of a simple exchange of quantities, alike in value?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhere, indeed?\u201d said Hohora with open eyes, \u201cthough I never heard it\nbefore, that\u2019s a staggering question. I beseech you, who was the sage\nthat asked it?\u201d\n\n\u201cVivo, the Sophist,\u201d said Babbalanja, turning aside.\n\nIn the hearing of Jiji, allusion was made to Oh-Oh, as a neighbor of\nhis. Whereupon he vented much slavering opprobrium upon that miserable\nold hump-back; who accumulated useless monstrosities; throwing away the\nprecious teeth, which otherwise might have sensibly rattled in his own\npelican pouches.\n\nWhen we quitted the hovel, Jiji, marking little Vee-Vee, from whose\nshoulder hung a calabash of edibles, seized the hem of his garment and\nbesought him for one mouthful of food; for nothing had he tasted that\nday.\n\nThe boy tossed him a yam.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII.\nYoomy Sings Some Odd Verses, And Babbalanja Quotes From The Old Authors\nRight And Left\n\n\nSailing from Padulla, after many pleasant things had been said\nconcerning the sights there beheld; Babbalanja thus addressed Yoomy\u2014\n\u201cWarbler, the last song you sung was about moonlight, and paradise, and\nfabulous pleasures evermore: now, have you any hymns about earthly\nfelicity?\u201d\n\n\u201cIf so, minstrel,\u201d said Media, \u201cjet it forth, my fountain, forthwith.\u201d\n\n\u201cJust now, my lord,\u201d replied Yoomy, \u201cI was singing to myself, as I\noften do, and by your leave, I will continue aloud.\u201d\n\n\u201cBetter begin at the beginning, I should think,\u201d said the chronicler,\nboth hands to his chin, beginning at the top to new braid his beard.\n\n\u201cNo: like the roots of your beard, old Mohi, all beginnings are stiff,\u201d\ncried Babbalanja. \u201cWe are lucky in living midway in eternity. So sing\naway, Yoomy, where you left off,\u201d and thus saying he unloosed his\ngirdle for the song, as Apicius would for a banquet.\n\n\u201cShall I continue aloud, then, my lord?\u201d\n\nMy lord nodded, and Yoomy sang:\u2014\n\n\u201cFull round, full soft, her dewy arms,\u2014\nSweet shelter from all Mardi\u2019s harms!\u201d\n\n\n\u201cWhose arms?\u201d cried Mohi.\n\nSang Yoomy:\u2014\n\nDiving deep in the sea,\n    She takes sunshine along:\nDown flames in the sea,\n    As of dolphins a throng.\n\n\n\u201cWhat mermaid is this?\u201d cried Mohi.\n\nSang Yoomy:\u2014\n\nHer foot, a falling sound,\nThat all day long might bound.\n    Over the beach,\n    The soft sand beach,\n    And none would find\n    A trace behind.\n\n\n\u201cAnd why not?\u201d demanded Media, \u201cwhy could no trace be found?\u201d\n\nSaid Braid-Beard, \u201cPerhaps owing, my lord, to the flatness of the\nmermaid\u2019s foot. But no; that can not be; for mermaids are all vertebrae\nbelow the waist.\u201d\n\n\u201cYour fragment is pretty good, I dare say, Yoomy,\u201d observed Media, \u201cbut\nas Braid-Beard hints, rather flat.\u201d\n\n\u201cFlat as the foot of a man with his mind made up,\u201d cried Braid-Beard.\n\u201cYoomy, did you sup on flounders last night?\u201d\n\nBut Yoomy vouchsafed no reply, he was ten thousand leagues off in a\nreverie: somewhere in the Hyades perhaps.\n\nConversation proceeding, Braid-Beard happened to make allusion to one\nRotato, a portly personage, who, though a sagacious philosopher, and\nvery ambitious to be celebrated as such, was only famous in Mardi as\nthe fattest man of his tribe.\n\nSaid Media, \u201cThen, Mohi, Rotato could not pick a quarrel with Fame,\nsince she did not belie him. Fat he was, and fat she published him.\u201d\n\n\u201cRight, my lord,\u201d said Babbalanja, \u201cfor Fame is not always so honest.\nNot seldom to be famous, is to be widely known for what you are not,\nsays Alla-Malolla. Whence it comes, as old Bardianna has it, that for\nyears a man may move unnoticed among his fellows; but all at once, by\nsome chance attitude, foreign to his habit, become a trumpet-full for\nfools; though, in himself, the same as ever. Nor has he shown himself\nyet; for the entire merit of a man can never be made known; nor the sum\nof his demerits, if he have them. We are only known by our names; as\nletters sealed up, we but read each other\u2019s superscriptions.\n\n\u201cSo with the commonalty of us Mardians. How then with those beings who\nevery way are but too apt to be riddles. In many points the works of\nour great poet Vavona, now dead a thousand moons, still remain a\nmystery. Some call him a mystic; but wherein he seems obscure, it is,\nperhaps, we that are in fault; not by premeditation spoke he those\narchangel thoughts, which made many declare, that Vavona, after all,\nwas but a crack-pated god, not a mortal of sound mind. But had he been\nless, my lord, he had seemed more. Saith Fulvi, \u2018Of the highest order\nof genius, it may be truly asserted, that to gain the reputation of\nsuperior power, it must partially disguise itself; it must come down,\nand then it will be applauded for soaring.\u2019 And furthermore, that there\nare those who falter in the common tongue, because they think in\nanother; and these are accounted stutterers and stammerers.\u2019\u201d\n\n\u201cAh! how true!\u201d cried the Warbler.\n\n\u201cAnd what says the archangel Vavona, Yoomy, in that wonderful drama of\nhis, \u2018The Souls of the Sages?\u2019\u2014\u2018Beyond most barren hills, there are\nlandscapes ravishing; with but one eye to behold; which no pencil can\nportray.\u2019 What wonder then, my lord, that Mardi itself is so blind.\n\u2018Mardi is a monster,\u2019 says old Bardianna, \u2018whose eyes are fixed in its\nhead, like a whale\u2019s; it can see but two ways, and those comprising but\na small arc of a perfect vision. Poets, heroes, and men of might, are\nall around this monster Mardi. But stand before me on stilts, or I will\nbehold you not, says the monster; brush back your hair; inhale the wind\nlargely; lucky are all men with dome-like foreheads; luckless those\nwith pippin-heads; loud lungs are a blessing; a lion is no lion that\ncan not roar.\u2019 Says Aldina, \u2018There are those looking on, who know\nthemselves to be swifter of foot than the racers, but are confounded\nwith the simpletons that stare.\u2019\u201d\n\n\u201cThe mere carping of a disappointed cripple,\u201d cried Mold. His\nbiographer states, that Aldina had only one leg.\u201d\n\n\u201cBraid-Beard, you are witty,\u201d said Babbbalanja, adjusting his robe. \u201cMy\nlord, there are heroes without armies, who hear martial music in their\nsouls.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy not blow their trumpets louder, then,\u201d cried Media, that all Mardi\nmay hear?\u201d\n\n\u201cMy lord Media, too, is witty, Babbalanja,\u201d said Mohi.\n\nBreathed Yoomy, \u201cThere are birds of divinest plumage, and most glorious\nsong, yet singing their lyrics to themselves.\u201d\n\nSaid Media, \u201cThe lark soars high, cares for no auditor, yet its sweet\nnotes are heard here below. It sings, too, in company with myriads of\nmates. Your soliloquists, Yoomy, are mostly herons and owls.\u201d\n\nSaid Babbalanja, \u201cVery clever, my lord; but think you not, there are\nmen eloquent, who never babble in the marketplace?\u201d\n\n\u201cAy, and arrant babblers at home. In few words, Babbalanja, you espouse\na bad cause. Most of you mortals are peacocks; some having tails, and\nsome not; those who have them will be sure to thrust their plumes in\nyour face; for the rest, they will display their bald cruppers, and\nstill screech for admiration. But when a great genius is born into\nMardi, he nods, and is known.\u201d\n\n\u201cMore wit, but, with deference, perhaps less truth, my lord. Say what\nyou will, Fame is an accident; merit a thing absolute. But what matter?\nOf what available value reputation, unless wedded to power, dentals, or\nplace? To those who render him applause, a poet\u2019s may seem a thing\ntangible; but to the recipient, \u2019tis a fantasy; the poet never so\nstretches his imagination, as when striving to comprehend what it is;\noften, he is famous without knowing it.\u201d\n\n\u201cAt the sacred games of Lazella,\u201d said Yoomy, \u201cslyly crowned from\nbehind with a laurel fillet, for many hours, the minstrel Jarmi\nwandered about ignorant of the honors he bore. But enlightened at last,\nhe doffed the wreath; then, holding it at arm\u2019s length, sighed\nforth\u2014Oh, ye laurels! to be visible to me, ye must be removed from my\nbrow!\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd what said Botargo,\u201d cried Babbalanja, \u201chearing that his poems had\nbeen translated into the language of the remote island of Bertranda?\u2014\n\u2018It stirs me little; already, in merry fancies, have I dreamed of their\nbeing trilled by the blessed houris in paradise; I can only imagine the\nsame of the damsels of Bertranda.\u2019 Says Boldo, the\nMaterialist,\u2014\u2018Substances alone are satisfactory.\u2019\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd so thought the mercenary poet, Zenzi,\u201d said Yoomy. \u201cUpon receiving\nfourteen ripe yams for a sonnet, one for every line, he said to me,\nYoomy, I shall make a better meal upon these, than upon so many\ncompliments.\u201d\n\n\u201cAy,\u201d cried Babbalanja, \u201c\u2018Bravos,\u2019 saith old Bardianna, but induce\nflatulency.\u2019\u201d\n\nSaid Media, \u201cAnd do you famous mortals, then, take no pleasure in\nhearing your bravos?\u201d\n\n\u201cMuch, my good lord; at least such famous mortals, so enamored of a\nclamorous notoriety, as to bravo for themselves, when none else will\nhuzza; whose whole existence is an unintermitting consciousness of\nself; whose very persons stand erect and self-sufficient as their\ninfallible index, the capital letter I; who relish and comprehend no\nreputation but what attaches to the carcass; who would as lief be\nrenowned for a splendid mustache, as for a splendid drama: who know not\nhow it was that a personage, to posterity so universally celebrated as\nthe poet Vavona, ever passed through the crowd unobserved; who deride\nthe very thunder for making such a noise in Mardi, and yet disdain to\nmanifest itself to the eye.\u201d\n\n\u201cWax not so warm, Babbalanja; but tell us, if to his contemporaries\nVavona\u2019s person was almost unknown, what satisfaction did he derive\nfrom his genius?\u201d\n\n\u201cHad he not its consciousness?\u2014an empire boundless as the West. What to\nhim were huzzas? Why, my lord, from his privacy, the great and good\nLogodora sent liniment to the hoarse throats without. But what said\nBardianna, when they dunned him for autographs?\u2014\u2018Who keeps the register\nof great men? who decides upon noble actions? and how long may ink\nlast? Alas! Fame has dropped more rolls than she displays; and there\nare more lost chronicles, than the perished books of the historian\nLivella.\u2019 But what is lost forever, my lord, is nothing to what is now\nunseen. There are more treasures in the bowels of the earth, than on\nits surface.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh! no gold,\u201d cried Yoomy, \u201cbut that comes from dark mines.\u201d\n\nSaid Babbalanja, \u201cBear witness, ye gods! cries fervent old Bardianna,\nthat besides disclosures of good and evil undreamed of now, there will\nbe other, and more astounding revelations hereafter, of what has passed\nin Mardi unbeheld.\u201d\n\n\u201cA truce to your everlasting pratings of old Bardianna,\u201d said King\nMedia; why not speak your own thoughts, Babbalanja? then would your\ndiscourse possess more completeness; whereas, its warp and woof are of\nall sorts,\u2014Bardianna, Alla-Malolla, Vavona, and all the writers that\never have written. Speak for yourself, mortal!\u201d\n\n\u201cMay you not possibly mistake, my lord? for I do not so much quote\nBardianna, as Bardianna quoted me, though he flourished before me; and\nno vanity, but honesty to say so. The catalogue of true thoughts is but\nsmall; they are ubiquitous; no man\u2019s property; and unspoken, or\nbruited, are the same. When we hear them, why seem they so natural,\nreceiving our spontaneous approval? why do we think we have heard them\nbefore? Because they but reiterate ourselves; they were in us, before\nwe were born. The truest poets are but mouth-pieces; and some men are\nduplicates of each other; I see myself in Bardianna.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd there, for Oro\u2019s sake, let it rest, Babbalanja; Bardianna in you,\nand you in Bardianna forever!\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIII.\nWhat Manner Of Men The Tapparians Were\n\n\nThe canoes sailed on. But we leave them awhile. For our visit to Jiji,\nthe last visit we made, suggests some further revelations concerning\nthe dental money of Mardi.\n\nEre this, it should have been mentioned, that throughout the\nArchipelago, there was a restriction concerning incisors and molars, as\nornaments for the person; none but great chiefs, brave warriors, and\nmen distinguished by rare intellectual endowments, orators, romancers,\nphilosophers, and poets, being permitted to sport them as jewels.\nThough, as it happened, among the poets there were many who had never a\ntooth, save those employed at their repasts; which, coming but seldom,\ntheir teeth almost corroded in their mouths. Hence, in commerce, poets\u2019\nteeth were at a discount.\n\nFor these reasons, then, many mortals blent with the promiscuous mob of\nMardians, who, by any means, accumulated teeth, were fain to assert\ntheir dental claims to distinction, by clumsily carrying their\ntreasures in pelican pouches slung over their shoulders; which pouches\nwere a huge burden to carry about, and defend. Though, in good truth,\nfrom any of these porters, it was harder to wrench his pouches, than\nhis limbs. It was also a curious circumstance that at the slightest\ncasual touch, these bags seemed to convey a simultaneous thrill to the\nowners.\n\nBesides these porters, there were others, who exchanged their teeth for\nrichly stained calabashes, elaborately carved canoes, and more\nespecially, for costly robes, and turbans; in which last, many outshone\nthe noblest-born nobles. Nevertheless, this answered not the end they\nhad in view; some of the crowd only admiring what they wore, and not\nthem; breaking out into laudation of the inimitable handiwork of the\nartisans of Mardi.\n\nAnd strange to relate, these artisans themselves often came to be men\nof teeth and turbans, sporting their bravery with the best. A\ncircumstance, which accounted for the fact, that many of the class\nabove alluded to, were considered capital judges of tappa and\ntailoring.\n\nHence, as a general designation, the whole tribe went by the name of\nTapparians; otherwise, Men of Tappa.\n\nNow, many moons ago, according to Braid-Beard, the Tapparians of a\ncertain cluster of islands, seeing themselves hopelessly confounded\nwith the plebeian race of mortals; such as artificers, honest men,\nbread-fruit bakers, and the like; seeing, in short, that nature had\ndenied them every inborn mark of distinction; and furthermore, that\ntheir external assumptions were derided by so many in Mardi, these\nselfsame Tapparians, poor devils, resolved to secede from the rabble;\nform themselves into a community of their own; and conventionally pay\nthat homage to each other, which universal Mardi could not be prevailed\nupon to render to them.\n\nJointly, they purchased an island, called Pimminee, toward the extreme\nwest of the lagoon; and thither they went; and framing a code of laws-\n-amazingly arbitrary, considering they themselves were the framers\u2014\nsolemnly took the oath of allegiance to the commonwealth thus\nestablished. Regarded section by section, this code of laws seemed\nexceedingly trivial; but taken together, made a somewhat imposing\naggregation of particles.\n\nBy this code, the minutest things in life were all ordered after a\nspecific fashion. More especially one\u2019s dress was legislated upon, to\nthe last warp and woof. All girdles must be so many inches in length,\nand with such a number of tassels in front. For a violation of this\nordinance, before the face of all Mardi, the most dutiful of sons would\ncut the most affectionate of fathers.\n\nNow, though like all Mardi, kings and slaves included, the people of\nPimminee had dead dust for grandsires, they seldom reverted to that\nfact; for, like all founders of families, they had no family vaults.\nNor were they much encumbered by living connections; connections, some\nof them appeared to have none. Like poor Logan the last of his tribe,\nthey seemed to have monopolized the blood of their race, having never a\ncousin to own.\n\nWherefore it was, that many ignorant Mardians, who had not pushed their\ninvestigations into the science of physiology, sagely divined, that the\nTapparians must have podded into life like peas, instead of being\notherwise indebted for their existence. Certain it is, they had a\ncomical way of backing up their social pretensions. When the\nrespectability of his clan was mooted, Paivai, one of their bucks,\ndisdained all reference to the Dooms-day Book, and the ancients. More\nreliable evidence was had. He referred the anxious world to a witness,\nstill alive and hearty,\u2014his contemporary tailor; the varlet who cut out\nhis tappa doublets, and rejoiced his soul with good fits.\n\n\u201cAh!\u201d sighed Babbalanja, \u201chow it quenches in one the thought of\nimmortality, to think that these Tapparians too, will hereafter claim\neach a niche!\u201d\n\nBut we rove. Our visit to Pimminee itself, will best make known the\nways of its denizens.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIV.\nTheir Adventures Upon Landing At Pimminee\n\n\nA long sail over, the island of Pimminee came in sight; one dead fiat,\nwreathed in a thin, insipid vapor.\n\n\u201cMy lord, why land?\u201d said Babbalanja; \u201cno Yillah is here.\u201d\n\n\u201c\u2019Tis my humor, Babbalanja.\u201d\n\nSaid Yoomy, \u201cTaji would leave no isle unexplored.\u201d\n\nAs we neared the beach, the atmosphere became still closer and more\nlanguid. Much did we miss the refreshing balm which breathed in the\nfine breezy air of the open lagoon. Of a slender and sickly growth\nseemed the trees; in the meadows, the grass grew small and mincing.\n\nSaid Media, \u201cTaji, from the accounts which Braid-Beard gives, there\nmust be much to amuse, in the ways of these Tapparians.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d said Babbalanja, \u201ctheir lives are a continual farce,\ngratuitously performed for the diversion of Mardi. My lord, perhaps we\nhad best doff our dignity, and land among them as persons of lowly\ncondition; for then, we shall receive more diversion, though less\nhospitality.\u201d\n\n\u201cA good proposition,\u201d said Media.\n\nAnd so saying, he put off his robe for one less pretentious.\n\nAll followed suit; Yoomy doffing turban and sash; and, at last,\ncompletely metamorphosed, we looked like Hungarian gipsies.\n\nVoyaging on, we entered a bay, where numbers of menials were standing\nin the water, engaged in washing the carved work of certain fantastic\ncanoes, belonging to the Tapparians, their masters.\n\nLanding at some distance, we followed a path that soon conducted us to\na betwisted dwelling of bamboos, where, gently, we knocked for\nadmittance. So doing, we were accosted by a servitor, his portliness\nall in his calves. Marking our appearance, he monopolized the\nthreshold, and gruffly demanded what was wanted.\n\n\u201cStrangers, kind sir, fatigued with travel, and in need of refreshment\nand repose.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen hence with ye, vagabonds!\u201d and with an emphasis, he closed the\nportal in our face.\n\nSaid Babbalanja, turning, \u201cYou perceive, my lord Media, that these\nvarlets take after their masters; who feed none but the well-fed, and\nhouse none but the well-housed.\u201d\n\n\u201cFaith! but they furnish most rare entertainment, nevertheless,\u201d cried\nMedia. \u201cHa! ha! Taji, we had missed much, had we missed Pimminee.\u201d\n\nAs this was said, we observed, at a distance, three menials running\nfrom seaward, as if conveying important intelligence.\n\nHalting here and there, vainly seeking admittance at other habitations,\nand receiving nothing but taunts for our pains, we still wandered on;\nand at last came upon a village, toward which, those from the sea-side\nhad been running.\n\nAnd now, to our surprise, we were accosted by an eager and servile\nthrong.\n\n\u201cObsequious varlets,\u201d said Media, \u201cwhere tarry your masters?\u201d\n\n\u201cRight royal, and thrice worshipful Lord of Odo, do you take us for our\ndomestics? We are Tapparians, may it please your illustrious Highness;\nyour most humble and obedient servants. We beseech you, supereminent\nSir, condescend to visit our habitations, and partake of our cheer.\u201d\n\nThen turning upon their attendants, \u201cAway with ye, hounds! and set our\ndwellings in order.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow know ye me to be king?\u201d asked Media.\n\n\u201cIs it not in your serene Highness\u2019s regal port, and eye?\u201d\n\n\u201c\u2019Twas their menials,\u201d muttered Mohi, \u201cwho from the paddlers in charge\nof our canoes must have learned who my lord was, and published the\ntidings.\u201d\n\nAfter some further speech, Media made a social surrender of himself to\nthe foremost of the Tapparians, one Nimni; who, conducting us to his\nabode, with much deference introduced us to a portly old Begum, and\nthree slender damsels; his wife and daughters.\n\nSoon, refreshments appeared:\u2014green and yellow compounds, and divers\nenigmatical dainties; besides vegetable liqueurs of a strange and\nalarming flavor served in fragile little leaves, folded into cups, and\nvery troublesome to handle.\n\nExcessively thirsty, Babbalanja made bold to inquire for water; which\ncalled forth a burst of horror from the old Begum, and minor shrieks\nfrom her daughters; who declared, that the beverage to which remote\nreference had been made, was far too widely diffused in Mardi, to be at\nall esteemed in Pimminee.\n\n\u201cBut though we seldom imbibe it,\u201d said the old Begum, ceremoniously\nadjusting her necklace of cowrie-shells, \u201cwe occasionally employ it for\nmedicinal purposes.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh, indeed?\u201d said Babbalanja.\n\n\u201cBut oh! believe me; even then, we imbibe not the ordinary fluid of the\nsprings and streams; but that which in afternoon showers softly drains\nfrom our palm-trees into the little hollow or miniature reservoir\nbeneath its compacted roots.\u201d\n\nA goblet of this beverage was now handed Babbalanja; but having a\ncurious, gummy flavor, it proved any thing but palatable.\n\nPresently, in came a company of young men, relatives of Nimni. They\nwere slender as sky-sail-poles; standing in a row, resembled a\npicket-fence; and were surmounted by enormous heads of hair, combed out\nall round, variously dyed, and evened by being singed with a lighted\nwisp of straw. Like milliners\u2019 parcels, they were very neatly done up;\nwearing redolent robes.\n\n\u201cHow like the woodlands they smell,\u201d whispered Yoomy. \u201cAy, marvelously\nlike sap,\u201d said Mohi.\n\nOne part of their garniture consisted of numerous tasseled cords, like\nthose of an aigulette, depending from the neck, and attached here and\nthere about the person. A separate one, at a distance, united their\nankles. These served to measure and graduate their movements; keeping\ntheir gestures, paces, and attitudes, within the prescribed standard of\nTapparian gentility. When they went abroad, they were preceded by\ncertain footmen; who placed before them small, carved boards, whereon\ntheir masters stepped; thus avoiding contact with the earth. The simple\ndevice of a shoe, as a fixture for the foot, was unknown in Pimminee.\n\nBeing told, that Taji was lately from the sun, they manifested not the\nslightest surprise; one of them incidentally observing, however, that\nthe eclipses there, must be a sad bore to endure.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXV.\nA, I, AND O\n\n\nThe old Begum went by the euphonious appellation of\nOhiro-Moldona-Fivona; a name, from its length, deemed highly genteel;\nthough scandal averred, that it was nothing more than her real name\ntransposed; the appellation by which she had been formerly known,\nsignifying a \u201cGetterup-of-Fine-Tappa.\u201d But as this would have let out\nan ancient secret, it was thought wise to disguise it.\n\nHer daughters respectively reveled in the pretty diminutives of A, I,\nand O; which, from their brevity, comical to tell, were considered\nequally genteel with the dame\u2019s.\n\nThe habiliments of the three Vowels must not be omitted. Each damsel\ngarrisoned an ample, circular farthingale of canes, serving as the\nframe-work, whereon to display a gayly dyed robe. Perhaps their charms\nintrenched themselves in these impregnable petticoats, as feeble armies\nfly to fortresses, to hide their weakness, and better resist an onset.\n\nBut polite and politic it is, to propitiate your hostess. So seating\nhimself by the Begum, Taji led off with earnest inquiries after her\nwelfare. But the Begum was one of those, who relieve the diffident from\nthe embarrassment of talking; all by themselves carrying on\nconversation for two. Hence, no wonder that my Lady was esteemed\ninvaluable at all assemblies in the groves of Pimminee; contributing so\nlargely to that incessant din, which is held the best test of the\nenjoyment of the company, as making them deaf to the general nonsense,\notherwise audible.\n\nLearning that Taji had been making the tour of certain islands in\nMardi, the Begum was surprised that he could have thus hazarded his\nlife among the barbarians of the East. She desired to know whether his\nconstitution was not impaired by inhaling the unrefined atmosphere of\nthose remote and barbarous regions. For her part, the mere thought of\nit made her faint in her innermost citadel; nor went she ever abroad\nwith the wind at East, dreading the contagion which might lurk in the\nair.\n\nUpon accosting the three damsels, Taji very soon discovered that the\ntongue which had languished in the presence of the Begum, was now\ncalled into active requisition, to entertain the Polysyllables, her\ndaughters. So assiduously were they occupied in silent endeavors to\nlook sentimental and pretty, that it proved no easy task to sustain\nwith them an ordinary chat. In this dilemma, Taji diffused not his\nremarks among all three; but discreetly centered them upon O. Thinking\nshe might be curious concerning the sun, he made some remote allusion\nto that luminary as the place of his nativity. Upon which, O inquired\nwhere that country was, of which mention was made.\n\n\u201cSome distance from here; in the air above; the sun that gives light to\nPimminee, and Mardi at large.\u201d\n\nShe replied, that if that were the case, she had never beheld it; for\nsuch was the construction of her farthingale, that her head could not\nbe thrown back, without impairing its set. Wherefore, she had always\nabstained from astronomical investigations.\n\nHereupon, rude Mohi laughed out. And that lucky laugh happily relieved\nTaji from all further necessity of entertaining the Vowels. For at so\nvulgar, and in Pimminee, so unwonted a sound, as a genuine laugh, the\nthree startled nymphs fainted away in a row, their round farthingales\nfalling over upon each other, like a file of empty tierces. But they\npresently revived.\n\nMeanwhile, without stirring from their mats, the polite young bucks in\nthe aigulettes did nothing but hold semi-transparent leaves to their\neyes, by the stems; which leaves they directed downward, toward the\ndisordered hems of the farthingales; in wait, perhaps, for the\nrevelation of an ankle, and its accompaniments. What the precise use of\nthese leaves could have been, it would be hard to say, especially as\nthe observers invariably peeped over and under them.\n\nThe calamity of the Vowels was soon followed by the breaking up of the\nparty; when, evening coming on, and feeling much wearied with the labor\nof seeing company in Pimminee, we retired to our mats; there finding\nthat repose which ever awaits the fatigued.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVI.\nA Reception-Day At Pimminee\n\n\nNext morning, Nimni apprized us, that throughout the day he proposed\nkeeping open house, for the purpose of enabling us to behold whatever\nof beauty, rank, and fashion, Pimminee could boast; including certain\nstrangers of note from various quarters of the lagoon, who doubtless\nwould honor themselves with a call.\n\nAs inmates of the mansion, we unexpectedly had a rare opportunity of\nwitnessing the final toilets of the Begum and her daughters,\npreparatory to receiving their guests.\n\nTheir four farthingales were placed standing in the middle of the\ndwelling; when their future inmates, arrayed in rudimental vestments,\nwent round and round them, attaching various articles of finery, dyed\nscarfs, ivory trinkets, and other decorations. Upon the propriety of\nthis or that adornment, the three Vowels now and then pondered apart,\nor together consulted. They talked and they laughed; they were silent\nand sad; now merry at their bravery; now pensive at the thought of the\ncharms to be hidden.\n\nIt was O who presently suggested the expediency of an artful fold in\ntheir draperies, by the merest accident in Mardi, to reveal a\ntantalizing glimpse of their ankles, which were thought to be pretty.\n\nBut the old Begum was more active than any; by far the most\ndisinterested in the matter of advice. Her great object seemed to be to\npile on the finery at all hazards; and she pointed out many as yet\nvacant and unappropriated spaces, highly susceptible of adornment.\n\nAt last, all was in readiness; when, taking a valedictory glance, at\ntheir intrenchments, the Begum and damsels simultaneously dipped their\nheads, directly after emerging from the summit, all ready for\nexecution.\n\nAnd now to describe the general reception that followed. In came the\nRoes, the Fees, the Lol-Lols, the Hummee-Hums, the Bidi-Bidies, and the\nDedidums; the Peenees, the Yamoyamees, the Karkies, the Fanfums, the\nDiddledees, and the Fiddlefies; in a word, all the aristocracy of\nPimminee; people with exceedingly short names; and some all name, and\nnothing else. It was an imposing array of sounds; a circulation of\nciphers; a marshaling of tappas; a getting together of grimaces and\nfurbelows; a masquerade of vapidities.\n\nAmong the crowd was a bustling somebody, one Gaddi, arrayed in much\napparel to little purpose; who, singling out Babbalanja, for some time\nadhered to his side, and with excessive complaisance, enlightened him\nas to the people assembled.\n\n\u201c_That_ is rich Marmonora, accounted a mighty man in Pimminee; his bags\nof teeth included, he is said to weigh upwards of fourteen stone; and\nis much sought after by tailors for his measure, being but slender in\nthe region of the heart. His riches are great. And that old vrow is the\nwidow Roo; very rich; plenty of teeth; but has none in her head. And\n_this_ is Finfi; said to be not very rich, and a maid. Who would\nsuppose she had ever beat tappa for a living?\u201d\n\nAnd so saying, Gaddi sauntered off; his place by Babbalanja\u2019s side\nbeing immediately supplied by the damsel Finfi. That vivacious and\namiable nymph at once proceeded to point out the company, where Gaddi\nhad left off; beginning with Gaddi himself, who, she insinuated, was a\nmere parvenu, a terrible infliction upon society, and not near so rich\nas he was imagined to be.\n\nSoon we were accosted by one Nonno, a sour, saturnine personage. \u201cI\nknow nobody here; not a soul have I seen before; I wonder who they all\nare.\u201d And just then he was familiarly nodded to by nine worthies\nabreast. Whereupon Nonno vanished. But after going the rounds of the\ncompany, and paying court to many, he again sauntered by Babbalanja,\nsaying, \u201cNobody, nobody; nobody but nobodies; I see nobody I know.\u201d\n\nAdvancing, Nimni now introduced many strangers of distinction, parading\ntheir titles after a fashion, plainly signifying that he was bent upon\nconvincing us, that there were people present at this little affair of\nhis, who were men of vast reputation; and that we erred, if we deemed\nhim unaccustomed to the society of the illustrious.\n\nBut not a few of his magnates seemed shy of Media and their laurels.\nEspecially a tall robustuous fellow, with a terrible javelin in his\nhand, much notched and splintered, as if it had dealt many a thrust.\nHis left arm was gallanted in a sling, and there was a patch upon his\nsinister eye. Him Nimni made known as a famous captain, from King\nPiko\u2019s island (of which anon) who had been all but mortally wounded\nsomewhere, in a late desperate though nameless encounter.\n\n\u201cAh,\u201d said Media as this redoubtable withdrew, Fofi is a cunning knave;\na braggart, driven forth, by King Piko for his cowardice. He has blent\nhis tattooing into one mass of blue, and thus disguised, must have\npalmed himself off here in Pimminee, for the man he is not. But I see\nmany more like him.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh ye Tapparians,\u201d said Babbalanja, \u201cnone so easily humbugged as\nhumbugs. Taji: to behold this folly makes one wise. Look, look; it is\nall round us. Oh Pimminee, Pimminee!\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVII.\nBabbalanja Falleth Upon Pimminee Tooth And Nail\n\n\nThe levee over, waiving further civilities, we took courteus leave of\nthe Begum and Nimni, and proceeding to the beach, very soon were\nembarked.\n\nWhen all were pleasantly seated beneath the canopy, pipes in full\nblast, calabashes revolving, and the paddlers quietly urging us along,\nMedia proposed that, for the benefit of the company, some one present,\nin a pithy, whiffy sentence or two, should sum up the character of the\nTapparians; and ended by nominating Babbalanja to that office.\n\n\u201cCome, philosopher: let us see in how few syllables you can put the\nbrand on those Tapparians.\u201d\n\n\u201cPardon me, my lord, but you must permit me to ponder awhile; nothing\nrequires more time, than to be brief. An example: they say that in\nconversation old Bardianna dealt in nothing but trisyllabic sentences.\nHis talk was thunder peals: sounding reports, but long intervals.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe devil take old Bardianna. And would that the grave-digger had\nburied his Ponderings, along with his other remains. Can none be in\nyour company, Babbalanja, but you must perforce make them hob-a-nob\nwith that old prater? A brand for the Tapparians! that is what we\nseek.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou shall have it, my lord. Full to the brim of themselves, for that\nreason, the Tapparians are the emptiest of mortals.\u201d\n\n\u201cA good blow and well planted, Babbalanja.\u201d\n\n\u201cIn sooth, a most excellent saying; it should be carved upon his\ntombstone,\u201d said Mohi, slowly withdrawing his pipe.\n\n\u201cWhat! would you have my epitaph read thus:\u2014\u2018Here lies the emptiest of\nmortals, who was full of himself?\u2019 At best, your words are exceedingly\nambiguous, Mohi.\u201d\n\n\u201cNow have I the philosopher,\u201d cried Yoomy, with glee. \u201cWhat did some\none say to me, not long since, Babbalanja, when in the matter of that\nsleepy song of mine, Braid-Beard bestowed upon me an equivocal\ncompliment? Was I not told to wrest commendation from it, though I\ntortured it to the quick?\u201d\n\n\u201cTake thy own pills, philosopher,\u201d said Mohi.\n\n\u201cThen would he be a great original,\u201d said Media.\n\n\u201cTell me, Yoomy,\u201d said Babbalanja, \u201care you not in fault? Because I\nsometimes speak wisely, you must not imagine that I should always act\nso.\u201d\n\n\u201cI never imagined that,\u201d said Yoomy, \u201cand, if I did, the truth would\nbelie me. It is you who are in fault, Babbalanja; not I, craving your\npardon.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe minstrel\u2019s sides are all edges to-day,\u201d said Media.\n\n\u201cThis, then, thrice gentle Yoomy, is what I would say;\u201d resumed\nBabbalanja, \u201cthat since we philosophers bestow so much wisdom upon\nothers, it is not to be wondered at, if now and then we find what is\nleft in us too small for our necessities. It is from our very abundance\nthat we want.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd from the fool\u2019s poverty,\u201d said Media, \u201cthat he is opulent; for his\nvery simplicity, is sometimes of more account than the wisdom of the\nsage. But we were discoursing of the Tapparians. Babbalanja:\nsententiously you have acquitted yourself to admiration; now amplify,\nand tell us more of the people of Pimminee.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy lord, I might amplify forever.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen, my worshipful lord, let him not begin,\u201d interposed Braid-Beard.\n\n\u201cI mean,\u201d said Babbalanja, \u201cthat all subjects are inexhaustible,\nhowever trivial; as the mathematical point, put in motion, is capable\nof being produced into an infinite line.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut forever extending into nothing,\u201d said Media. \u201cA very bad example\nto follow. Do you, Babbalanja, come to the point, and not travel off\nwith it, which is too much your wont.\u201d\n\n\u201cSince my lord insists upon it then, thus much for the Tapparians,\nthough but a thought or two of many in reserve. They ignore the rest of\nMardi, while they themselves are but a rumor in the isles of the East;\nwhere the business of living and dying goes on with the same\nuniformity, as if there were no Tapparians in existence. They think\nthemselves Mardi in full; whereas, by the mass, they are stared at as\nprodigies; exceptions to the law, ordaining that no Mardian shall\nundertake to live, unless he set out with at least the average quantity\nof brains. For these Tapparians have no brains. In lieu, they carry in\none corner of their craniums, a drop or two of attar of roses; charily\nused, the supply being small. They are the victims of two incurable\nmaladies: stone in the heart, and ossification of the head. They are\nfull of fripperies, fopperies, and finesses; knowing not, that nature\nshould be the model of art. Yet, they might appear less silly than they\ndo, were they content to be the plain idiots which at bottom they are.\nFor there be grains of sense in a simpleton, so long as he be natural.\nBut what can be expected from them? They are irreclaimable Tapparians;\nnot so much fools by contrivance of their own, as by an express, though\ninscrutable decree of Oro\u2019s. For one, my lord, I can not abide them.\u201d\n\nNor could Taji.\n\nIn Pimminee were no hilarious running and shouting: none of the royal\ngood cheer of old Borabolla; none of the mysteries of Maramma; none of\nthe sentiment and romance of Donjalolo; no rehearsing of old legends:\nno singing of old songs; no life; no jolly commotion: in short, no men\nand women; nothing but their integuments; stiff trains and\nfarthingales.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVIII.\nBabbalanja Regales The Company With Some Sandwiches\n\n\nIt was night. But the moon was brilliant, far and near illuminating the\nlagoon.\n\nOver silvery billows we glided.\n\n\u201cCome Yoomy,\u201d said Media, \u201cmoonlight and music for aye\u2014a song! a song!\nmy bird of paradise.\u201d\n\nAnd folding his arms, and watching the sparkling waters, thus Yoomy\nsang:\u2014\n\nA ray of the moon on the dancing waves\n    Is the step, light step of that beautiful maid:\nMardi, with music, her footfall paves,\n    And her voice, no voice, but a song in the glade.\n\n\n\u201cHold!\u201d cried Media, \u201cyonder is a curious rock. It looks black as a\nwhale\u2019s hump in blue water, when the sun shines.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat must be the Isle of Fossils,\u201d said Mohi. \u201cAy, my lord, it is.\u201d\n\n\u201cLet us land, then,\u201d said Babbalanja.\n\nAnd none dissenting, the canoes were put about, and presently we\ndebarked.\n\nIt was a dome-like surface, here and there fringed with ferns,\nsprouting from clefts. But at every tide the thin soil seemed gradually\nwashing into the lagoon.\n\nLike antique tablets, the smoother parts were molded in strange\ndevices:\u2014Luxor marks, Tadmor ciphers, Palenque inscriptions. In long\nlines, as on Denderah\u2019s architraves, were bas-reliefs of beetles,\nturtles, ant-eaters, armadilloes, guanos, serpents, tongueless\ncrocodiles:\u2014a long procession, frosted and crystalized in stone, and\nsilvered by the moon.\n\n\u201cStrange sight!\u201d cried Media. \u201cSpeak, antiquarian Mohi.\u201d\n\nBut the chronicler was twitching his antiquarian beard, nonplussed by\nthese wondrous records. The cowled old father, Piaggi, bending over his\ncalcined Herculanean manuscripts, looked not more at fault than he.\n\nSaid Media, \u201cExpound you, then, sage Babbalanja.\u201d Muffling his face in\nhis mantle, and his voice in sepulchral tones, Babbalanja thus:\u2014\n\n\u201cThese are the leaves of the book of Oro. Here we read how worlds are\nmade; here read the rise and fall of Nature\u2019s kingdoms. From where this\nold man\u2019s furthest histories start, these unbeginning records end.\nThese are the secret memoirs of times past; whose evidence, at last\ndivulged, gives the grim lie to Mohi\u2019s gossipings, and makes a rattling\namong the dry-bone relics of old Maramma.\u201d\n\nBraid-Beard\u2019s old eyes flashed fire. With bristling beard, he cried,\n\u201cTake back the lie you send!\u201d\n\n\u201cPeace! everlasting foes,\u201d cried Media, interposing, with both arms\noutstretched. \u201cPhilosopher, probe not too deep. All you say is very\nfine, but very dark. I would know something more precise. But, prithee,\nghost, unmuffle! chatter no more! wait till you\u2019re buried for that.\u201d\n\n\u201cAy, death\u2019s cold ague will set us all shivering, my lord. We\u2019ll swear\nour teeth are icicles.\u201d\n\n\u201cWill you quit driving your sleet upon us? have done expound these\nrocks.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy lord, if you desire, I\u2019ll turn over these stone tablets till\nthey\u2019re dog-eared.\u201d\n\n\u201cHeaven and Mardi!\u2014Go on, Babbalanja.\u201d\n\n\u201c\u2019Twas thus. These were tombs burst open by volcanic throes; and hither\nhurled from the lowermost vaults of the lagoon. All Mardi\u2019s rocks are\none wide resurrection. But look. Here, now, a pretty story\u2019s told. Ah,\nlittle thought these grand old lords, that lived and roared before the\nflood, that they would come to this. Here, King Media, look and learn.\u201d\n\nHe looked; and saw a picture petrified, and plain as any on the\npediments of Petra.\n\nIt seemed a stately banquet of the dead, where lords in skeletons were\nranged around a board heaped up with fossil fruits, and flanked with\nvitreous vases, grinning like empty skulls. There they sat, exchanging\nrigid courtesies. One\u2019s hand was on his stony heart; his other pledged\na lord who held a hollow beaker. Another sat, with earnest face beneath\na mitred brow. He seemed to whisper in the ear of one who listened\ntrustingly. But on the chest of him who wore the miter, an adder lay,\nclose-coiled in flint.\n\nAt the further end, was raised a throne, its canopy surmounted by a\ncrown, in which now rested the likeness of a raven on an egg.\n\nThe throne was void. But half-concealed by drapery, behind the\ngoodliest lord, sideway leaned a figure diademed, a lifted poniard in\nits hand:\u2014a monarch fossilized in very act of murdering his guest.\n\n\u201cMost high and sacred majesty!\u201d cried Babbalanja, bowing to his feet.\n\nWhile all stood gazing on this sight, there came two servitors of\nMedia\u2019s, who besought of Babbalanja to settle a dispute, concerning\ncertain tracings upon the islet\u2019s other side.\n\nThither we followed them.\n\nUpon a long layer of the slaty stone were marks of ripplings of some\nnow waveless sea; mid which were tri-toed footprints of some huge\nheron, or wading fowl.\n\nPointing to one of which, the foremost disputant thus spoke:\u2014\u201cI\nmaintain that these are three toes.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd I, that it is one foot,\u201d said the other.\n\n\u201cAnd now decide between us,\u201d joined the twain.\n\nSaid Babbalanja, starting, \u201cIs not this the very question concerning\nwhich they made such dire contention in Maramma, whose tertiary rocks\nare chisseled all over with these marks? Yes; this it is, concerning\nwhich they once shed blood. This it is, concerning which they still\ndivide.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhich of us is right?\u201d again demanded the impatient twain.\n\n\u201cUnite, and both are right; divide, and both are wrong. Every unit is\nmade up of parts, as well as every plurality. Nine is three threes; a\nunit is as many thirds; or, if you please, a thousand thousandths; no\nspecial need to stop at thirds.\u201d\n\n\u201cAway, ye foolish disputants!\u201d cried Media. \u201cFull before you is the\nthing disputed.\u201d\n\nStrolling on, many marvels did we mark; and Media said:\u2014\u201cBabbalanja,\nyou love all mysteries; here\u2019s a fitting theme. You have given us the\nhistory of the rock; can your sapience tell the origin of all the\nisles? how Mardi came to be?\u201d\n\n\u201cAh, that once mooted point is settled. Though hard at first, it proved\na bagatelle. Start not my lord; there are those who have measured Mardi\nby perch and pole, and with their wonted lead sounded its utmost\ndepths. Listen: it is a pleasant story. The coral wall which\ncircumscribes the isles but continues upward the deep buried crater of\nthe primal chaos. In the first times this crucible was charged with\nvapors nebulous, boiling over fires volcanic. Age by age, the fluid\nthickened; dropping, at long intervals, heavy sediment to the bottom;\nwhich layer on layer concreted, and at length, in crusts, rose toward\nthe surface. Then, the vast volcano burst; rent the whole mass; upthrew\nthe ancient rocks; which now in divers mountain tops tell tales of what\nexisted ere Mardi was completely fashioned. Hence many fossils on the\nhills, whose kith and kin still lurk beneath the vales. Thus Nature\nworks, at random warring, chaos a crater, and this world a shell.\u201d\n\nMohi stroked his beard.\n\nYoomy yawned.\n\nMedia cried, \u201cPreposterous!\u201d\n\n\u201cMy lord, then take another theory\u2014which you will\u2014the celebrated\nsandwich System. Nature\u2019s first condition was a soup, wherein the\nagglomerating solids formed granitic dumplings, which, wearing down,\ndeposited the primal stratum made up of series, sandwiching strange\nshapes of mollusks, and zoophytes; then snails, and periwinkles:\u2014\nmarmalade to sip, and nuts to crack, ere the substantials came.\n\n\u201cAnd next, my lord, we have the fine old time of the Old Red Sandstone\nsandwich, clapped on the underlying layer, and among other dainties,\nimbedding the first course of fish,\u2014all quite in rule,\u2014sturgeon- forms,\ncephalaspis, glyptolepis, pterichthys; and other finny things, of\nflavor rare, but hard to mouth for bones. Served up with these, were\nsundry greens,\u2014lichens, mosses, ferns, and fungi.\n\n\u201cNow comes the New Red Sandstone sandwich: marly and magnesious, spread\nover with old patriarchs of crocodiles and alligators,\u2014hard carving\nthese,\u2014and prodigious lizards, spine-skewered, tails tied in bows, and\nswimming in saffron saucers.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat next?\u201d cried Media.\n\n\u201cThe Ool, or Oily sandwich:\u2014rare gormandizing then; for oily it was\ncalled, because of fat old joints, and hams, and rounds, and barons of\nsea-beeves and walrusses, which then crowned the stratum-board. All\npiled together, glorious profusion!\u2014fillets and briskets, rumps, and\nsaddles, and haunches; shoulder to shoulder, loin \u2019gainst sirloin, ribs\nrapping knuckles, and quarter to none. And all these sandwiched right\nover all that went before. Course after course, and course on course,\nmy lord; no time to clear the wreck; no stop nor let; lay on and slash;\ncut, thrust, and come.\n\n\u201cNext the Chalk, or Coral sandwich; but no dry fare for that; made up\nof rich side-courses,\u2014eocene, miocene, and pliocene. The first was wild\ngame for the delicate,\u2014bantam larks, curlews, quails, and flying\nweazels; with a slight sprinkling of pilaus,\u2014capons, pullets, plovers,\nand garnished with petrels\u2019 eggs. Very savory, that, my lord. The\nsecond side-course\u2014miocene\u2014was out of course, flesh after fowl: marine\nmammalia,\u2014seals, grampuses, and whales, served up with sea-weed on\ntheir flanks, hearts and kidneys deviled, and fins and flippers\nfriccasied. All very thee, my lord. The third side-course, the\npliocene, was goodliest of all:\u2014whole-roasted elephants, rhinoceroses,\nand hippopotamuses, stuffed with boiled ostriches, condors,\ncassowaries, turkeys. Also barbacued mastodons and megatheriums,\ngallantly served up with fir-trees in their mouths, and tails\ncock-billed.\n\n\u201cThus fared the old diluvians: arrant gormandizers and beef-bolters. We\nMardians famish on the superficial strata of deposits; cracking our\njaws on walnuts, filberts, cocoa-nuts, and clams. My lord, I\u2019ve done.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd bravely done it is. Mohi tells us, that Mardi was made in six\ndays; but you, Babbalanja, have built it up from the bottom in less\nthan six minutes.\u201d\n\n\u201cNothing for us geologists, my lord. At a word we turn you out whole\nsystems, suns, satellites, and asteroids included. Why, my good lord,\nmy friend Annonimo is laying out a new Milky Way, to intersect with the\nold one, and facilitate cross-cuts among the comets.\u201d\n\nAnd so saying, Babbalanja turned aside.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIX.\nThey Still Remain Upon The Rock\n\n\n\u201cGogle-goggle, fugle-fi, fugle-fogle-orum,\u201d so hummed to himself\nBabbalanja, slowly pacing over the fossils. \u201cIs he crazy again?\u201d\nwhispered Yoomy.\n\n\u201cAre you crazy, Babbalanja?\u201d asked Media.\n\n\u201cFrom my very birth have I been so, my lord; am I not possessed by a\ndevil?\u201d\n\n\u201cThen I\u2019ll e\u2019en interrogate him,\u201d cried Media. \u201c\u2014Hark ye, sirrah;\u2014 why\nrave you thus in this poor mortal?\u201d\n\n\u201c\u2019Tis he, not I. I am the mildest devil that ever entered man; in\npropria persona, no antlers do I wear; my tail has lost its barb, as at\nlast your Mardian lions lose their caudal horns.\u201d\n\n\u201cA very sing-song devil this. But, prithee, who are you, sirrah?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe mildest devil that ever entered man; in propria persona, no\nantlers do I wear; my tail has lost its barb, as at last your Mardian\nlions lose their caudal horns.\u201d\n\n\u201cA very iterating devil this. Sirrah! mock me not. Know you aught yet\nunrevealed by Babbalanja?\u201d\n\n\u201cMany things I know, not good to tell; whence they call me Azzageddi.\u201d\n\n\u201cA very confidential devil, this; that tells no secrets. Azzageddi, can\nI drive thee out?\u201d\n\n\u201cOnly with this mortal\u2019s ghost:\u2014together we came in, together we\ndepart.\u201d\n\n\u201cA very terse, and ready devil, this. Whence come you, Azzageddi?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhither my catechist must go\u2014a torrid clime, cut by a hot equator.\u201d\n\n\u201cA very keen, and witty devil, this. Azzageddi, whom have you there?\u201d\n\n\u201cA right down merry, jolly set, that at a roaring furnace sit and toast\ntheir hoofs for aye; so used to flames, they poke the fire with their\nhorns, and light their tails for torches.\u201d\n\n\u201cA very funny devil, this. Azzageddi, is not Mardi a place far\npleasanter, than that from whence you came?\u201d\n\n\u201cAh, home! sweet, sweet, home! would, would that I were home again!\u201d\n\n\u201cA very sentimental devil, this. Azzageddi, would you had a hand, I\u2019d\nshake it.\u201d\n\n\u201cNot so with us; who, rear to rear, shake each other\u2019s tails, and\ncourteously inquire, \u2018Pray, worthy sir, how now stands the great\nthermometer?\u2019\u201d\n\n\u201cThe very prince of devils, this.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow mad our Babbalanja is,\u201d cried Mohi. My lord, take heed; he\u2019ll\nbite.\u201d\n\n\u201cAlas! alas!\u201d sighed Yoomy.\n\n\u201cHark ye, Babbalanja,\u201d cried Media, \u201cenough of this: doff your devil,\nand be a man.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy lord, I can not doff him; but I\u2019ll down him for a time: Azzageddi!\ndown, imp; down, down, down! so: now, my lord, I\u2019m only Babbalanja.\u201d\n\n\u201cShall I test his sanity, my lord?\u201d cried Mohi.\n\n\u201cDo, old man.\u201d\n\n\u201cPhilosopher, our great reef is surrounded by an ocean; what think you\nlies beyond?\u201d\n\n\u201cAlas!\u201d sighed Yoomy, \u201cthe very subject to renew his madness.\u201d\n\n\u201cPeace, minstrel!\u201d said Media. \u201cAnswer, Babbalanja.\u201d\n\n\u201cI will, my lord. Fear not, sweet Yoomy; you see how calm I am. Braid-\nBeard, those strangers, that came to Mondoldo prove isles afar, as a\nphilosopher of old surmised, but was hooted at for his surmisings. Nor\nis it at all impossible, Braid-Beard, that beyond their land may exist\nother regions, of which those strangers know not; peopled with races\nsomething like us Mardians; but perhaps with more exalted faculties,\nand organs that we lack. They may have some better seeing sense than\nours; perhaps, have fins or wings for arms.\u201d\n\n\u201cThis seems not like sanity,\u201d muttered Mohi.\n\n\u201cA most crazy hypothesis, truly,\u201d said Media.\n\n\u201cAnd are all inductions vain?\u201d cried Babbalanja. \u201cHave we mortals\nnaught to rest on, but what we see with eyes? Is no faith to be reposed\nin that inner microcosm, wherein we see the charted universe in little,\nas the whole horizon is mirrored in the iris of a gnat? Alas! alas! my\nlord, is there no blest Odonphi? no Astrazzi?\u201d\n\n\u201cHis devil\u2019s uppermost again, my lord,\u201d cried Braid-Beard.\n\n\u201cHe\u2019s stark, stark mad!\u201d sighed Yoomy.\n\n\u201cAy, the moon\u2019s at full,\u201d said Media. \u201cHo, paddlers! we depart.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXX.\nBehind And Before\n\n\nIt was yet moonlight when we pushed from the islet. But soon, the sky\ngrew dun; the moon went into a cavern among the clouds; and by that\nsecret sympathy between our hearts and the elements, the thoughts of\nall but Media became overcast.\n\nAgain discourse was had of that dark intelligence from Mondoldo,\u2014the\nfell murder of Taji\u2019s follower.\n\nSaid Mohi, \u201cThose specter sons of Aleema must have been the assassins.\u201d\n\n\u201cThey harbored deadly malice,\u201d said Babbalanja.\n\n\u201cWhich poor Jarl\u2019s death must now have sated,\u201d sighed Yoomy.\n\n\u201cThen all the happier for Taji,\u201d said Media. \u201cBut away with gloom!\nbecause the sky is clouded, why cloud your brows? Babbalanja, I grieve\nthe moon is gone. Yet start some paradox, that we may laugh. Say a\nwoman is a man, or you yourself a stork.\u201d\n\nAt this they smiled. When hurtling came an arrow, which struck our\nstern, and quivered. Another! and another! Grazing the canopy, they\ndarted by, and hissing, dived like red-hot bars beneath the waves.\n\nStarting, we beheld a corruscating wake, tracking the course of a low\ncanoe, far flying for a neighboring mountain. The next moment it was\nlost within the mountain\u2019s shadow and pursuit was useless.\n\n\u201cLet us fly!\u201d cried Yoomy\n\n\u201cPeace! What murderers these?\u201d said Media, calmly; \u201cwhom can they\nseek?\u2014you, Taji?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe three avengers fly three bolts,\u201d said Babbalanja. \u201cSee if the\narrow yet remain astern,\u201d cried Media.\n\nThey brought it to him.\n\n\u201cBy Oro! Taji on the barb!\u201d\n\n\u201cThen it missed its aim. But I will not mine. And whatever arrows\nfollow, still will I hunt on. Nor does the ghost, that these pale\nspecters would avenge, at all disquiet me. The priest I slew, but to\ngain her, now lost; and I would slay again, to bring her back. Ah,\nYillah! Yillah.\u201d\n\nAll started.\n\nThen said Babbalanja, \u201cAleema\u2019s sons raved not; \u2019tis true, then, Taji,\nthat an evil deed gained you your Yillah: no wonder she is lost.\u201d\n\nSaid Media, unconcernedly, \u201cPerhaps better, Taji, to have kept your\nsecret; but tell no more; I care not to be your foe.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh, Taji! I had shrank from you,\u201d cried Yoomy, \u201cbut for the mark upon\nyour brow. That undoes the tenor of your words. But look, the stars\ncome forth, and who are these? A waving Iris! ay, again they come:\u2014\nHautia\u2019s heralds!\u201d\n\nThey brought a black thorn, buried in withered rose-balm blossoms, red\nand blue.\n\nSaid Yoomy, \u201cFor that which stings, there is no cure,\u201d\n\n\u201cWho, who is Hautia, that she stabs me thus?\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd this wild sardony mocks your misery.\u201d\n\n\u201cAway! ye fiends.\u201d\n\n\u201cAgain a Venus car; and lo! a wreath of strawberries!\u2014Yet fly to me,\nand be garlanded with joys.\u201d\n\n\u201cLet the wild witch laugh. She moves me not. Neither hurtling arrows\nnor Circe flowers appall.\u201d\n\nSaid Yoomy, \u201cThey wait reply.\u201d\n\n\u201cTell your Hautia, that I know her not; nor care to know. I defy her\nincantations; she lures in vain. Yillah! Yillah! still I hope!\u201d\n\nSlowly they departed; heeding not my cries no more to follow.\n\nSilence, and darkness fell.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXI.\nBabbalanja Discourses In The Dark\n\n\nNext day came and went; and still we onward sailed. At last, by night,\nthere fell a calm, becalming the water of the wide lagoon, and\nbecalming all the clouds in heaven, wailing the constellations. But\nthough our sails were useless, our paddlers plied their broad stout\nblades. Thus sweeping by a rent and hoar old rock, Vee-Vee, impatient\nof the calm, sprang to his crow\u2019s nest in the shark\u2019s mouth, and\nseizing his conch, sounded a blast which ran in and out among the\nhollows, reverberating with the echoes.\n\nBe sure, it was startling. But more so with respect to one of our\npaddlers, upon whose shoulders, elevated Vee-Vee, his balance lost, all\nat once came down by the run. But the heedless little bugler himself\nwas most injured by the fall; his arm nearly being broken.\n\nSome remedies applied, and the company grown composed, Babbalanja\nthus:\u2014\u201cMy lord Media, was there any human necessity for that accident?\u201d\n\n\u201cNone that I know, or care to tell, Babbalanja.\u201d\n\n\u201cVee-Vee,\u201d said Babbalanja, \u201cdid you fall on purpose?\u201d\n\n\u201cNot I,\u201d sobbed little Vee-Vee, slinging his ailing arm in its mate.\n\n\u201cWoe! woe to us all, then,\u201d cried Babbalanja; \u201cfor what direful events\nmay be in store for us which we can not avoid.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow now, mortal?\u201d cried Media; \u201cwhat now?\u201d\n\n\u201cMy lord, think of it. Minus human inducement from without, and minus\nvolition from within, Vee-Vee has met with an accident, which has\nalmost maimed him for life. Is it not terrifying to think of? Are not\nall mortals exposed to similar, nay, worse calamities, ineffably\nunavoidable? Woe, woe, I say, to us Mardians! Here, take my last\nbreath; let me give up this beggarly ghost!\u201d\n\n\u201cNay,\u201d said Media; \u201cpause, Babbalanja. Turn it not adrift prematurely.\nLet it house till midnight; the proper time for you mortals to\ndissolve. But, philosopher, if you harp upon Vee-Vee\u2019s mishap, know\nthat it was owing to nothing but his carelessness.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd what was that owing to, my lord?\u201d\n\n\u201cTo Vee-Vee himself.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen, my lord, what brought such a careless being into Mardi?\u201d\n\n\u201cA long course of generations. He\u2019s some one\u2019s great-great-grandson,\ndoubtless; who was great-great-grandson to some one else; who also had\ngrandsires.\u201d\n\n\u201cMany thanks then to your highness; for you establish the doctrine of\nPhilosophical Necessity.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo. I establish nothing; I but answer your questions.\u201d\n\n\u201cAll one, my lord: you are a Necessitarian; in other words, you hold\nthat every thing takes place through absolute necessity.\u201d\n\n\u201cDo you take me, then, for a fool, and a Fatalist? Pardie! a bad creed\nfor a monarch, the distributor of rewards and punishments.\u201d\n\n\u201cRight there, my lord. But, for all that, your highness is a\nNecessitarian, yet no Fatalist. Confound not the distinct. Fatalism\npresumes express and irrevocable edicts of heaven concerning particular\nevents. Whereas, Necessity holds that all events are naturally linked,\nand inevitably follow each other, without providential interposition,\nthough by the eternal letting of Providence.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, well, Babbalanja, I grant it all. Go on.\u201d\n\n\u201cOn high authority, we are told that in times past the fall of certain\nnations in Mardi was prophesied of seers.\u201d\n\n\u201cMost true, my lord,\u201d said Mohi; \u201cit is all down in the chronicles.\u201d\n\n\u201cHa! ha!\u201d cried Media. \u201cGo on, philosopher.\u201d\n\nContinued Babbalanja, \u201cPrevious to the time assigned to their\nfulfillment, those prophecies were bruited through Mardi; hence,\nprevious to the time assigned to their fulfillment, full knowledge of\nthem may have come to the nations concerned. Now, my lord, was it\npossible for those nations, thus forwarned, so to conduct their\naffairs, as at, the prophesied time, to prove false the events revealed\nto be in store for them?\u201d\n\n\u201cHowever that may be,\u201d said Mohi, \u201ccertain it is, those events did\nassuredly come to pass:\u2014Compare the ruins of Babbelona with book ninth,\nchapter tenth, of the chronicles. Yea, yea, the owl inhabits where the\nseers predicted; the jackals yell in the tombs of the kings.\u201d\n\n\u201cGo on, Babbalanja,\u201d said Media. \u201cOf course those nations could not\nhave resisted their doom. Go on, then: vault over your premises.\u201d\n\n\u201cIf it be, then, my lord, that\u2014\u201d\n\n\u201cMy very worshipful lord,\u201d interposed Mohi, \u201cis not our philosopher\ngetting off soundings; and may it not be impious to meddle with these\nthings?\u201d\n\n\u201cWere it so, old man, he should have known it. The king of Odo is\nsomething more than you mortals.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut are we the great gods themselves,\u201d cried Yoomy, \u201cthat we discourse\nof these things.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, minstrel,\u201d said Babbalanja; \u201cand no need have the great gods to\ndiscourse of things perfectly comprehended by them, and by themselves\nordained. But you and I, Yoomy, are men, and not gods; hence is it for\nus, and not for them, to take these things for our themes. Nor is there\nany impiety in the right use of our reason, whatever the issue. Smote\nwith superstition, shall we let it wither and die out, a dead, limb to\na live trunk, as the mad devotee\u2019s arm held up motionless for years? Or\nshall we employ it but for a paw, to help us to our bodily needs, as\nthe brutes use their instinct? Is not reason subtile as\nquicksilver\u2014live as lightning\u2014a neighing charger to advance, but a\nsnail to recede? Can we starve that noble instinct in us, and hope that\nit will survive? Better slay the body than the soul; and if it be the\ndirest of sins to be the murderers of our own bodies, how much more to\nbe a soul-suicide. Yoomy, we are men, we are angels. And in his\nfaculties, high Oro is but what a man would be, infinitely magnified.\nLet us aspire to all things. Are we babes in the woods, to be scared by\nthe shadows of the trees? What shall appall us? If eagles gaze at the\nsun, may not men at the gods?\u201d\n\n\u201cFor one,\u201d said Media, \u201cyou may gaze at me freely. Gaze on. But talk\nnot of my kinsmen so fluently, Babbalanja. Return to your argument.\u201d\n\n\u201cI go back then, my lord. By implication, you have granted, that in\ntimes past the future was foreknown of Oro; hence, in times past, the\nfuture must have been foreordained. But in all things Oro is immutable.\nWherefore our own future is foreknown and foreordained. Now, if things\nforeordained concerning nations have in times past been revealed to\nthem previous to their taking place, then something similar may be\npresumable concerning individual men now living. That is to say, out of\nall the events destined to befall any one man, it is not impossible\nthat previous knowledge of some one of these events might\nsupernaturally come to him. Say, then, it is revealed to me, that ten\ndays hence I shall, of my own choice, fall upon my javelin; when the\ntime comes round, could I refrain from suicide? Grant the strongest\npresumable motives to the act; grant that, unforewarned, I would slay\nmyself outright at the time appointed: yet, foretold of it, and\nresolved to test the decree to the uttermost, under such circumstances,\nI say, would it be possible for me not to kill myself? If possible,\nthen predestination is not a thing absolute; and Heaven is wise to keep\nsecret from us those decrees, whose virtue consists in secrecy. But if\nnot possible, then that suicide would not be mine, but Oro\u2019s. And, by\nconsequence, not only that act, but all my acts, are Oro\u2019s. In sum, my\nlord, he who believes that in times past, prophets have prophesied, and\ntheir prophecies have been fulfilled; when put to it, inevitably must\nallow that every man now living is an irresponsible being.\u201d\n\n\u201cIn sooth, a very fine argument very finely argued,\u201d said Media. \u201cYou\nhave done marvels, Babbalanja. But hark ye, were I so disposed, I could\ndeny you all over, premises and conclusions alike. And furthermore, my\ncogent philosopher, had you published that anarchical dogma among my\nsubjects in Oro, I had silenced you by my spear-headed scepter, instead\nof my uplifted finger.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen, all thanks and all honor to your generosity, my lord, in\ngranting us the immunities you did at the outset of this voyage. But,\nmy lord, permit me one word more. Is not Oro omnipresent\u2014absolutely\nevery where?\u201d\n\n\u201cSo you mortals teach, Babbalanja.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut so do they _mean_, my lord. Often do we Mardians stick to terms\nfor ages, yet truly apply not their meanings.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, Oro is every where. What now?\u201d\n\n\u201cThen, if that be absolutely so, Oro is not merely a universal\non-looker, but occupies and fills all space; and no vacancy is left for\nany being, or any thing but Oro. Hence, Oro is _in_ all things, and\nhimself _is_ all things\u2014the time-old creed. But since evil abounds, and\nOro is all things, then he can not be perfectly good; wherefore, Oro\u2019s\nomnipresence and moral perfection seem incompatible. Furthermore, my\nlord those orthodox systems which ascribe to Oro almighty and universal\nattributes every way, those systems, I say, destroy all intellectual\nindividualities but Oro, and resolve the universe into him. But this is\na heresy; wherefore, orthodoxy and heresy are one. And thus is it, my\nlord, that upon these matters we Mardians all agree and disagree\ntogether, and kill each other with weapons that burst in our hands. Ah,\nmy lord, with what mind must blessed Oro look down upon this scene!\nThink you he discriminates between the deist and atheist? Nay; for the\nSearcher of the cores of all hearts well knoweth that atheists there\nare none. For in things abstract, men but differ in the sounds that\ncome from their mouths, and not in the wordless thoughts lying at the\nbottom of their beings. The universe is all of one mind. Though my\ntwin-brother sware to me, by the blazing sun in heaven at noon-day,\nthat Oro is not; yet would he belie the thing he intended to express.\nAnd who lives that blasphemes? What jargon of human sounds so puissant\nas to insult the unutterable majesty divine? Is Oro\u2019s honor in the\nkeeping of Mardi?\u2014 Oro\u2019s conscience in man\u2019s hands? Where our warrant,\nwith Oro\u2019s sign-manual, to justify the killing, burning, and\ndestroying, or far worse, the social persecutions we institute in his\nbehalf? Ah! how shall these self-assumed attorneys and vicegerents be\nastounded, when they shall see all heaven peopled with heretics and\nheathens, and all hell nodding over with miters! Ah! let us Mardians\nquit this insanity. Let us be content with the theology in the grass\nand the flower, in seed-time and harvest. Be it enough for us to know\nthat Oro indubitably is. My lord! my lord! sick with the spectacle of\nthe madness of men, and broken with spontaneous doubts, I sometimes see\nbut two things in all Mardi to believe:\u2014that I myself exist, and that I\ncan most happily, or least miserably exist, by the practice of\nrighteousness. All else is in the clouds; and naught else may I learn,\ntill the firmament be split from horizon to horizon. Yet, alas! too\noften do I swing from these moorings.\u201d\n\n\u201cAlas! his fit is coming upon him again,\u201d whispered Yoomy.\n\n\u201cWhy, Babbalanja,\u201d said Media, \u201cI almost pity you. You are too warm,\ntoo warm. Why fever your soul with these things? To no use you mortals\nwax earnest. No thanks, but curses, will you get for your earnestness.\nYou yourself you harm most. Why not take creeds as they come? It is not\nso hard to be persuaded; never mind about believing.\u201d\n\n\u201cTrue, my lord; not very hard; no act is required; only passiveness.\nStand still and receive. Faith is to the thoughtless, doubts to the\nthinker.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen, why think at all? Is it not better for you mortals to clutch\nerror as in a vice, than have your fingers meet in your hand? And to\nwhat end your eternal inquisitions? You have nothing to substitute. You\nsay all is a lie; then out with the truth. Philosopher, your devil is\nbut a foolish one, after all. I, a demi-god, never say nay to these\nthings.\u201d\n\n\u201cYea, my lord, it would hardly answer for Oro himself, were he to come\ndown to Mardi, to deny men\u2019s theories concerning him. Did they not\nstrike at the rash deity in Alma?\u201d\n\n\u201cThen, why deny those theories yourself? Babbalanja, you almost affect\nmy immortal serenity. Must you forever be a sieve for good grain to run\nthrough, while you retain but the chaff? Your tongue is forked. You\nspeak two languages: flat folly for yourself, and wisdom for others.\nBabbalanja, if you have any belief of your own, keep it; but, in Oro\u2019s\nname, keep it secret.\u201d\n\n\u201cAy, my lord, in these things wise men are spectators, not actors; wise\nmen look on, and say \u2018ay.\u2019\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy not say so yourself, then?\u201d\n\n\u201cMy lord, because I have often told you, that I am a fool, and not\nwise.\u201d\n\n\u201cYour Highness,\u201d said Mohi, \u201cthis whole discourse seems to have grown\nout of the subject of Necessity and Free Will. Now, when a boy, I\nrecollect hearing a sage say, that these things were reconcilable.\u201d\n\n\u201cAy?\u201d said Media, \u201cwhat say you to that, now, Babbalanja?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt may be even so, my lord. Shall I tell you a story?\u201d\n\n\u201cAzzageddi\u2019s stirring now,\u201d muttered Mohi.\n\n\u201cProceed,\u201d said Media.\n\n\u201cKing Normo had a fool, called Willi, whom he loved to humor. Now,\nthough Willi ever obeyed his lord, by the very instinct of his\nservitude, he flattered himself that he was free; and this conceit it\nwas, that made the fool so entertaining to the king. One day, said\nNormo to his fool,\u2014\u2018Go, Willi, to yonder tree, and wait there till I\ncome,\u2019 \u2018Your Majesty, I will,\u2019 said Willi, bowing beneath his jingling\nbells; \u2018but I presume your Majesty has no objections to my walking on\nmy hands:\u2014I am free, I hope.\u2019 \u2018Perfectly,\u2019 said Normo, \u2018hands or feet,\nit\u2019s all the same to me; only do my bidding.\u2019 \u2018I thought as much,\u2019 said\nWilli; so, swinging his limber legs into the air, Willi, thumb after\nthumb, essayed progression. But soon, his bottled blood so rushed\ndownward through his neck, that he was fain to turn a somerset and\nregain his feet. Said he, \u2018Though I am free to do it, it\u2019s not so easy\nturning digits into toes; I\u2019ll walk, by gad! which is my other option.\u2019\nSo he went straight forward, and did King Normo\u2019s bidding in the\nnatural way.\u201d\n\n\u201cA curious story that,\u201d said Media; \u201cwhence came it?\u201d\n\n\u201cMy lord, where every thing, but one, is to be had:\u2014within.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou are charged to the muzzle, then,\u201d said Braid-Beard. \u201cYes, Mohi;\nand my talk is my overflowing, not my fullness.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd what may you be so full of?\u201d\n\n\u201cOf myself.\u201d\n\n\u201cSo it seems,\u201d said Mohi, whisking away a fly with his beard.\n\n\u201cBabbalanja,\u201d said Media, \u201cyou did right in selecting this ebon night\nfor discussing the theme you did; and truly, you mortals are but too\napt to talk in the dark.\u201d\n\n\u201cAy, my lord, and we mortals may prate still more in the dark, when we\nare dead; for methinks, that if we then prate at all, \u2019twill be in our\nsleep. Ah! my lord, think not that in aught I\u2019ve said this night, I\nwould assert any wisdom of my own. I but fight against the armed and\ncrested Lies of Mardi, that like a host, assail me. I am stuck full of\ndarts; but, tearing them from out me, gasping, I discharge them whence\nthey come.\u201d\n\nSo saying, Babbalanja slowly drooped, and fell reclining; then lay\nmotionless as the marble Gladiator, that for centuries has been dying.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXII.\nMy Lord Media Summons Mohi To The Stand\n\n\nWhile slowly the night wore on, and the now scudding clouds flown past,\nrevealed again the hosts in heaven, few words were uttered save by\nMedia; who, when all others were most sad and silent, seemed but little\nmoved, or not stirred a jot.\n\nBut that night, he filled his flagon fuller than his wont, and drank,\nand drank, and pledged the stars.\n\n\u201cHere\u2019s to thee, old Arcturus! To thee, old Aldebaran! who ever poise\nyour wine-red, fiery spheres on high. A health to _thee_, my regal\nfriend, Alphacca, in the constellation of the Crown: Lo! crown to\ncrown, I pledge thee! I drink to _ye_, too, Alphard! Markab! Denebola!\nCapella!\u2014to _ye_, too, sailing Cygnus! Aquila soaring!\u2014All round, a\nhealth to all your diadems! May they never fade! nor mine!\u201d\n\nAt last, in the shadowy east, the Dawn, like a gray, distant sail\nbefore the wind, was descried; drawing nearer and nearer, till her\ngilded prow was perceived.\n\nAnd as in tropic gales, the winds blow fierce, and more fierce, with\nthe advent of the sun; so with King Media; whose mirth now breezed up\nafresh. But, as at sunrise, the sea-storm only blows harder, to settle\ndown at last into a steady wind; even so, in good time, my lord Media\ncame to be more decorous of mood. And Babbalanja abated his reveries.\n\nFor who might withstand such a morn!\n\nAs on the night-banks of the far-rolling Ganges, the royal bridegroom\nsets forth for his bride, preceded by nymphs, now this side, now that,\nlighting up all the flowery flambeaux held on high as they pass; so\ncame the Sun, to his nuptials with Mardi:\u2014the Hours going on before,\ntouching all the peaks, till they glowed rosy-red.\n\nBy reflex, the lagoon, here and there, seemed on fire; each curling\nwave-crest a flame.\n\nNoon came as we sailed.\n\nAnd now, citrons and bananas, cups and calabashes, calumets and\ntobacco, were passed round; and we were all very merry and mellow\nindeed. Smacking our lips, chatting, smoking, and sipping. Now a\nmouthful of citron to season a repartee; now a swallow of wine to wash\ndown a precept; now a fragrant whiff to puff away care. Many things did\nbeguile. From side to side, we turned and grazed, like Juno\u2019s white\noxen in clover meads.\n\nSoon, we drew nigh to a charming cliff, overrun with woodbines, on high\nsuspended from flowering Tamarisk and Tamarind-trees. The blossoms of\nthe Tamarisks, in spikes of small, red bells; the Tamarinds,\nwide-spreading their golden petals, red-streaked as with streaks of the\ndawn. Down sweeping to the water, the vines trailed over to the crisp,\ncurling waves,\u2014little pages, all eager to hold up their trains.\n\nWithin, was a bower; going behind it, like standing inside the sheet of\nthe falls of the Genesee.\n\nIn this arbor we anchored. And with their shaded prows thrust in among\nthe flowers, our three canoes seemed baiting by the way, like wearied\nsteeds in a hawthorn lane.\n\nHigh midsummer noon is more silent than night. Most sweet a siesta\nthen. And noon dreams are day-dreams indeed; born under the meridian\nsun. Pale Cynthia begets pale specter shapes; and her frigid rays best\nilluminate white nuns, marble monuments, icy glaciers, and cold tombs.\n\nThe sun rolled on. And starting to his feet, arms clasped, and wildly\nstaring, Yoomy exclaimed\u2014\u201cNay, nay, thou shalt not depart, thou\nmaid!\u2014here, here I fold thee for aye!\u2014Flown?\u2014A dream! Then siestas\nhenceforth while I live. And at noon, every day will I meet thee, sweet\nmaid! And, oh Sun! set not; and poppies bend over us, when next we\nembrace!\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat ails that somnambulist?\u201d cried Media, rising. \u201cYoomy, I say! what\nails thee?\u201d\n\n\u201cHe must have indulged over freely in those citrons,\u201d said Mohi,\nsympathetically rubbing his fruitery. \u201cHo, Yoomy! a swallow of brine\nwill help thee.\u201d\n\n\u201cAlas,\u201d cried Babbalanja, \u201cdo the fairies then wait on repletion? Do\nour dreams come from below, and not from the skies? Are we angels, or\ndogs? Oh, Man, Man, Man! thou art harder to solve, than the Integral\nCalculus\u2014yet plain as a primer; harder to find than the\nphilosopher\u2019s-stone\u2014yet ever at hand; a more cunning compound, than an\nalchemist\u2019s\u2014yet a hundred weight of flesh, to a penny weight of spirit;\nsoul and body glued together, firm as atom to atom, seamless as the\nvestment without joint, warp or woof\u2014yet divided as by a river, spirit\nfrom flesh; growing both ways, like a tree, and dropping thy topmost\nbranches to earth, like thy beard or a banian!\u2014I give thee up, oh Man!\nthou art twain\u2014yet indivisible; all things\u2014yet a poor unit at best.\u201d\n\n\u201cPhilosopher you seem puzzled to account for the riddles of your race,\u201d\ncried Media, sideways reclining at his ease. \u201cNow, do thou, old Mohi,\nstand up before a demi-god, and answer for all.\u2014Draw nigh, so I can eye\nthee. What art thou, mortal?\u201d\n\n\u201cMy worshipful lord, a man.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd what are men?\u201d\n\n\u201cMy lord, before thee is a specimen.\u201d\n\n\u201cI fear me, my lord will get nothing out of that witness,\u201d said\nBabbalanja. \u201cPray you, King Media, let another inquisitor cross-\nquestion.\u201d\n\n\u201cProceed; take the divan.\u201d\n\n\u201cA pace or two farther off, there, Mohi; so I can garner thee all in at\na glance.\u2014Attention! Rememberest thou, fellow-being, when thou wast\nborn?\u201d\n\n\u201cNot I. Old Braid-Beard had no memory then.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhen, then, wast thou first conscious of being?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat time I was teething: my first sensation was an ache.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat dost thou, fellow-being, here in Mardi?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat doth Mardi here, fellow-being, under me?\u201d\n\n\u201cPhilosopher, thou gainest but little by thy questions,\u201d cried Yoomy\nadvancing. \u201cLet a poet endeavor.\u201d\n\n\u201cI abdicate in your favor, then, gentle Yoomy; let me smooth the divan\nfor you;\u2014there: be seated.\u201d\n\n\u201cNow, Mohi, who art thou?\u201d said Yoomy, nodding his bird-of-paradise\nplume.\n\n\u201cThe sole witness, it seems, in this case.\u201d\n\n\u201cTry again minstrel,\u201d cried Babbalanja.\n\n\u201cThen, what art thou, Mohi?\u201d\n\n\u201cEven what thou art, Yoomy.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe is too sharp or too blunt for us all,\u201d cried King Media. \u201cHis devil\nis even more subtle than yours, Babbalanja. Let him go.\u201d\n\n\u201cShall I adjourn the court then, my lord?\u201d said Babbalanja.\n\n\u201cAy.\u201d\n\n\u201cOyez! Oyez! Oyez! All mortals having business at this court, know ye,\nthat it is adjourned till sundown of the day, which hath no to-morrow.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIII.\nWherein Babbalanja And Yoomy Embrace\n\n\n\u201cHow the isles grow and multiply around us!\u201d cried Babbalanja, as\nturning the bold promontory of an uninhabited shore, many distant lands\nbluely loomed into view. \u201cSurely, our brief voyage, may not embrace all\nMardi like its reef?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d said Media, \u201cmuch must be left unseen. Nor every where can Yillah\nbe sought, noble Taji.\u201d\n\nSaid Yoomy, \u201cWe are as birds, with pinions clipped, that in\nunfathomable and endless woods, but flit from twig to twig of one poor\ntree.\u201d\n\n\u201cMore isles! more isles!\u201d cried Babbalanja, erect, and gazing abroad.\n\u201cAnd lo! round all is heaving that infinite ocean. Ah! gods! what\nregions lie beyond?\u201d\n\n\u201cBut whither now?\u201d he cried, as in obedience to Media, the paddlers\nsuddenly altered our course.\n\n\u201cTo the bold shores of Diranda,\u201d said Media.\n\n\u201cAy; the land of clubs and javelins, where the lord seigniors Hello and\nPiko celebrate their famous games,\u201d cried Mohi.\n\n\u201cYour clubs and javelins,\u201d said Media, \u201cremind me of the great battle-\nchant of Narvi\u2014Yoomy!\u201d\u2014turning to the minstrel, gazing abstractedly\ninto the water;\u2014\u201cawake, Yoomy, and give us the lines.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy lord Media, \u2019tis but a rude, clanging thing; dissonant as if the\nnorth wind blew through it. Methinks the company will not fancy lines\nso inharmonious. Better sing you, perhaps, one of my sonnets.\u201d\n\n\u201cBetter sit and sob in our ears, silly Yoomy that thou art!\u2014no! no!\nnone of your sentiment now; my soul is martially inclined; I want\nclarion peals, not lute warblings. So throw out your chest, Yoomy: lift\nhigh your voice; and blow me the old battle-blast.\u2014Begin, sir\nminstrel.\u201d\n\nAnd warning all, that he himself had not composed the odious chant,\nYoomy thus:\u2014\n\nOur clubs! our clubs!\nThe thousand clubs of Narvi!\nOf the living trunk of the Palm-tree made;\nSkull breakers! Brain spatterers!\nWielded right, and wielded left;\nLife quenchers! Death dealers!\nCausing live bodies to run headless!\n\nOur bows! our bows!\nThe thousand bows of Narvi!\nRibs of Tara, god of War!\nFashioned from the light Tola their arrows;\nSwift messengers! Heart piercers!\nBarbed with sharp pearl shells;\nWinged with white tail-plumes;\nTo wild death-chants, strung with the hair of wild maidens!\n\nOur spears! our spears!\nThe thousand spears of Narvi!\nOf the thunder-riven Moo-tree made\nTall tree, couched on the long mountain Lana!\nNo staves for gray-beards! no rods for fishermen!\nTempered by fierce sea-winds,\nSplintered into lances by lightnings,\nLong arrows! Heart seekers!\nToughened by fire their sharp black points!\n\nOur slings! our slings!\nThe thousand slings of Narvi!\nAll tasseled, and braided, and gayly bedecked.\nIn peace, our girdles; in war, our war-nets;\nWherewith catch we heads as fish from the deep!\nThe pebbles they hurl, have been hurled before,\u2014\nHurled up on the beach by the stormy sea!\nPebbles, buried erewhile in the head of the shark:\nTo be buried erelong in the heads of our foes!\nHome of hard blows, our pouches!\nNest of death-eggs!  How quickly they hatch!\n\nUplift, and couch we our spears, men!\nRing hollow on the rocks our war clubs!\nBend we our bows, feel the points of our arrows:\nAloft, whirl in eddies our sling-nets;\nTo the fight, men of Narvi!\nSons of battle! Hunters of men!\nRaise high your war-wood!\nShout Narvi! her groves in the storm!\n\n\n\u201cBy Oro!\u201d cried Media, \u201cbut Yoomy has well nigh stirred up all\nBabbalanja\u2019s devils in me. Were I a mortal, I could fight now on a\npretense. And did any man say me nay, I would charge upon him like a\nspear-point. Ah, Yoomy, thou and thy tribe have much to answer for; ye\nstir up all Mardi with your lays. Your war chants make men fight; your\ndrinking songs, drunkards; your love ditties, fools. Yet there thou\nsittest, Yoomy, gentle as a dove.\u2014What art thou, minstrel, that thy\nsoft, singing soul should so master all mortals? Yoomy, like me, you\nsway a scepter.\u201d\n\n\u201cThou honorest my calling overmuch,\u201d said Yoomy, we minstrels but sing\nour lays carelessly, my lord Media.\u201d\n\n\u201cAy: and the more mischief they make.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut sometimes we poets are didactic.\u201d\n\n\u201cDidactic and dull; many of ye are but too apt to be prosy unless\nmischievous.\u201d\n\n\u201cYet in our verses, my lord Media, but few of us purpose harm.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut when all harmless to yourselves, ye may be otherwise to Mardi.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd are not foul streams often traced to pure fountains, my lord?\u201d\nsaid Babbalanja. \u201cThe essence of all good and all evil is in us, not\nout of us. Neither poison nor honey lodgeth in the flowers on which,\nside by side, bees and wasps oft alight. My lord, nature is an\nimmaculate virgin, forever standing unrobed before us. True poets but\npaint the charms which all eyes behold. The vicious would be vicious\nwithout them.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy lord Media,\u201d impetuously resumed Yoomy, \u201cI am sensible of a\nthousand sweet, merry fancies, limpid with innocence; yet my enemies\naccount them all lewd conceits.\u201d\n\n\u201cThere be those in Mardi,\u201d said Babbalanja, \u201cwho would never ascribe\nevil to others, did they not find it in their own hearts; believing\nnone can be different from themselves.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy lord, my lord!\u201d cried Yoomy. \u201cThe air that breathes my music from\nme is a mountain air! Purer than others am I; for though not a woman, I\nfeel in me a woman\u2019s soul.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh, have done, silly Yoomy,\u201d said Media. \u201cThou art becoming flighty,\neven as Babbalanja, when Azzageddi is uppermost.\u201d\n\n\u201cThus ever: ever thus!\u201d sighed Yoomy. \u201cThey comprehend us not.\u201d\n\n\u201cNor me,\u201d said Babbalanja. \u201cYoomy: poets both, we differ but in\nseeming; thy airiest conceits are as the shadows of my deepest\nponderings; though Yoomy soars, and Babbalanja dives, both meet at\nlast. Not a song you sing, but I have thought its thought; and where\ndull Mardi sees but your rose, I unfold its petals, and disclose a\npearl. Poets are we, Yoomy, in that we dwell without us; we live in\ngrottoes, palms, and brooks; we ride the sea, we ride the sky; poets\nare omnipresent.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIV.\nOf The Isle Of Diranda\n\n\nIn good time the shores of Diranda were in sight. And, introductory to\nlanding, Braid-Beard proceeded to give us some little account of the\nisland, and its rulers.\n\nAs previously hinted, those very magnificent and illustrious lord\nseigniors, the lord seigniors Hello and Piko, who between them divided\nDiranda, delighted in all manner of public games, especially warlike\nones; which last were celebrated so frequently, and were so fatal in\ntheir results, that, not-withstanding the multiplicity of nuptials\ntaking place in the isle, its population remained in equilibrio. But,\nstrange to relate, this was the very object which the lord seigniors\nhad in view; the very object they sought to compass, by instituting\ntheir games. Though, for the most part, they wisely kept the secret\nlocked up.\n\nBut to tell how the lord seigniors Hello and Piko came to join hands in\nthis matter.\n\nDiranda had been amicably divided between them ever since the day they\nwere crowned; one reigning king in the East, the other in the West. But\nKing Piko had been long harassed with the thought, that the\nunobstructed and indefinite increase of his browsing subjects might\neventually denude of herbage his portion of the island. Posterity,\nthought he, is marshaling her generations in squadrons, brigades, and\nbattalions, and ere long will be down upon my devoted empire. Lo! her\nlocust cavalry darken the skies; her light-troop pismires cover the\nearth. Alas! my son and successor, thou wilt inhale choke-damp for air,\nand have not a private corner to say thy prayers.\n\nBy a sort of arithmetical progression, the probability, nay, the\ncertainty of these results, if not in some way averted, was proved to\nKing Piko; and he was furthermore admonished, that war\u2014war to the haft\nwith King Hello\u2014was the only cure for so menacing an evil.\n\nBut so it was, that King Piko, at peace with King Hello, and well\ncontent with, the tranquillity of the times, little relished the idea\nof picking a quarrel with his neighbor, and running its risks, in order\nto phlebotomize his redundant population.\n\n\u201cPatience, most illustrious seignior,\u201d said another of his sagacious\nAhithophels, \u201cand haply a pestilence may decimate the people.\u201d\n\nBut no pestilence came. And in every direction the young men and\nmaidens were recklessly rushing into wedlock; and so salubrious the\nclimate, that the old men stuck to the outside of the turf, and refused\nto go under.\n\nAt last some Machiavel of a philosopher suggested, that peradventure\nthe object of war might be answered without going to war; that\nperadventure King Hello might be brought to acquiesce in an\narrangement, whereby the men of Diranda might be induced to kill off\none another voluntarily, in a peaceable manner, without troubling their\nrulers. And to this end, the games before mentioned were proposed.\n\n\u201cEgad! my wise ones, you have hit it,\u201d cried Piko; \u201cbut will Hello say\nay?\u201d\n\n\u201cTry him, most illustrious seignior,\u201d said Machiavel.\n\nSo to Hello went embassadors ordinary and extraordinary, and ministers\nplenipotentiary and peculiar; and anxiously King Piko awaited their\nreturn.\n\nThe mission was crowned with success.\n\nSaid King Hello to the ministers, in confidence:\u2014\u201cThe very thing, Dons,\nthe very thing I have wanted. My people are increasing too fast. They\nkeep up the succession too well. Tell your illustrious master it\u2019s a\nbargain. The games! the games! by all means.\u201d\n\nSo, throughout the island, by proclamation, they were forthwith\nestablished; succeeding to a charm.\n\nAnd the lord seigniors, Hello and Piko, finding their interests the\nsame, came together like bride and bridegroom; lived in the same\npalace; dined off the same cloth; cut from the same bread-fruit; drank\nfrom the same calabash; wore each other\u2019s crowns; and often locking\narms with a charming frankness, paced up and down in their dominions,\ndiscussing the prospect of the next harvest of heads.\n\nIn his old-fashioned way, having related all this, with many other\nparticulars, Mohi was interrupted by Babbalanja, who inquired how the\npeople of Diranda relished the games, and how they fancied being coolly\nthinned out in that manner.\n\nTo which in substance the chronicler replied, that of the true object\nof the games, they had not the faintest conception; but hammered away\nat each other, and fought and died together, like jolly good fellows.\n\n\u201cRight again, immortal old Bardianna!\u201d cried Babbalanja.\n\n\u201cAnd what has the sage to the point this time?\u201d asked Media.\n\n\u201cWhy, my lord, in his chapter on \u201cCracked Crowns,\u201d Bardianna, after\nmany profound ponderings, thus concludes: In this cracked sphere we\nlive in, then, cracked skulls would seem the inevitable allotments of\nmany. Nor will the splintering thereof cease, till this pugnacious\nanimal we treat of be deprived of his natural maces: videlicet, his\narms. And right well doth man love to bruise and batter all occiputs in\nhis vicinity.\u201d\n\n\u201cSeems to me, our old friend must have been on his stilts that time,\u201d\ninterrupted Mohi.\n\n\u201cNo, Braid-Beard. But by way of apologizing for the unusual rigidity of\nhis style in that chapter, he says in a note, that it was written upon\na straight-backed settle, when he was ill of a lumbago, and a crick in\nthe neck.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat incorrigible Azzageddi again,\u201d said Media, \u201cProceed with your\nquotation, Babbalanja.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhere was I, Braid-Beard?\u201d\n\n\u201cBattering occiputs at the last accounts,\u201d said Mohi.\n\n\u201cAh, yes. And right well doth man love to bruise and batter all\nocciputs in his vicinity; he but follows his instincts; he is but one\nmember of a fighting world. Spiders, vixens, and tigers all war with a\nrelish; and on every side is heard the howls of hyenas, the throttlings\nof mastiffs, the din of belligerant beetles, the buzzing warfare of the\ninsect battalions: and the shrill cries of lady Tartars rending their\nlords. And all this existeth of necessity. To war it is, and other\ndepopulators, that we are beholden for elbow-room in Mardi and for all\nour parks an gardens, wherein we are wont to expatiate. Come on, then,\nplague, war, famine and viragos! Come on, I say, for who shall stay ye?\nCome on, and healthfulize the census! And more especially, oh War! do\nthou march forth with thy bludgeon! Cracked are, our crowns by nature,\nand henceforth forever, cracked shall they be by hard raps.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd hopelessly cracked the skull, that hatched such a tirade of\nnonsense,\u201d said Mohi.\n\n\u201cAnd think you not, old Bardianna knew that?\u201d asked Babbalanja. \u201cHe\nwrote an excellent chapter on that very subject.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat, on the cracks in his own pate?\u201d\n\n\u201cPrecisely. And expressly asserts, that to those identical cracks, was\nhe indebted for what little light he had in his brain.\u201d\n\n\u201cI yield, Babbalanja; your old Ponderer is older than I.\u201d\n\n\u201cAy, ay, Braid-Beard; his crest was a tortoise; and this was the\nmotto:\u2014\u2018I bite, but am not to be bitten.\u2019\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXV.\nThey Visit The Lords Piko And Hello\n\n\nIn good time, we landed at Diranda. And that landing was like landing\nat Greenwich among the Waterloo pensioners. The people were docked\nright and left; some without arms; some without legs; not one with a\ntail; but to a man, all had heads, though rather the worse for wear;\ncovered with lumps and contusions.\n\nNow, those very magnificent and illustrious lord seigniors, the lord\nseigniors Hello and Piko, lived in a palace, round which was a fence of\nthe cane called Malacca, each picket helmed with a skull, of which\nthere were fifty, one to each cane. Over the door was the blended arms\nof the high and mighty houses of Hello and Piko: a Clavicle crossed\nover an Ulna.\n\nEscorted to the sign of the Skull-and-Cross-Bones, we received the very\nbest entertainment which that royal inn could afford. We found our\nhosts Hello and Piko seated together on a dais or throne, and now and\nthen drinking some claret-red wine from an ivory bowl, too large to\nhave been wrought from an elephant\u2019s tusk. They were in glorious good\nspirits, shaking ivory coins in a skull.\n\n\u201cWhat says your majesty?\u201d said Piko. \u201cHeads or tails?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, heads, your majesty,\u201d said Hello.\n\n\u201cAnd heads say I,\u201d said Piko.\n\nAnd heads it was. But it was heads on both sides, so both were sure to\nwin.\n\nAnd thus they were used to play merrily all day long; beheading the\ngourds of claret by one slicing blow with their sickle-shaped scepters.\nWide round them lay empty calabashes, all feathered, red dyed, and\nbetasseled, trickling red wine from their necks, like the decapitated\npullets in the old baronial barn yard at Kenilworth, the night before\nQueen Bess dined with my lord Leicester.\n\nThe first compliments over; and Media and Taji having met with a\nreception suitable to their rank, the kings inquired, whether there\nwere any good javelin-flingers among us: for if that were the case,\nthey could furnish them plenty of sport. Informed, however, that none\nof the party were professional warriors, their majesties looked rather\nglum, and by way of chasing away the blues, called for some good old\nstuff, that was red.\n\nIt seems, this soliciting guests, to keep their spears from decaying,\nby cut and thrust play with their subjects, was a very common thing\nwith their illustrious majesties.\n\nBut if their visitors could not be prevailed upon to spear a subject or\nso, our hospitable hosts resolved to have a few speared, and otherwise\nserved up for our special entertainment. In a word, our arrival\nfurnished a fine pretext for renewing their games; though, we learned,\nthat only ten days previous, upward of fifty combatants had been slain\nat one of these festivals.\n\nBe that as it might, their joint majesties determined upon another one;\nand also upon our tarrying to behold it. We objected, saying we must\ndepart.\n\nBut we were kindly assured, that our canoes had been dragged out of the\nwater, and buried in a wood; there to remain till the games were over.\n\nThe day fixed upon, was the third subsequent to our arrival; the\ninterval being devoted to preparations; summoning from their villages\nand valleys the warriors of the land; and publishing the royal\nproclamations, whereby the unbounded hospitality of the kings\u2019\nhousehold was freely offered to all heroes whatsoever, who for the love\nof arms, and the honor of broken heads, desired to cross battle-clubs,\nhurl spears, or die game in the royal valley of Deddo.\n\nMeantime, the whole island was in a state of uproarious commotion, and\nstrangers were daily arriving.\n\nThe spot set apart for the festival, was a spacious down, mantled with\nwhite asters; which, waving in windrows, lay upon the land, like the\ncream-surf surging the milk of young heifers. But that whiteness, here\nand there, was spotted with strawberries; tracking the plain, as if\nwounded creatures had been dragging themselves bleeding from some\ndeadly encounter. All round the down, waved scarlet thickets of sumach,\nmoaning in the wind, like the gory ghosts environing Pharsalia the\nnight after the battle; scaring away the peasants, who with\nbushel-baskets came to the jewel-harvest of the rings of Pompey\u2019s\nknights.\n\nBeneath the heaped turf of this down, lay thousands of glorious corpses\nof anonymous heroes, who here had died glorious deaths.\n\nWhence, in the florid language of Diranda, they called this field \u201cThe\nField of Glory.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVI.\nThey Attend The Games\n\n\nAt last the third day dawned; and facing us upon entering the plain,\nwas a throne of red log-wood, canopied by the foliage of a red-dyed\nPandannus. Upon this throne, purple-robed, reclined those very\nmagnificent and illustrious lords seigniors, the lord seigniors Hello\nand Piko. Before them, were many gourds of wine; and crosswise, staked\nin the sod, their own royal spears.\n\nIn the middle of the down, as if by a furrow, a long, oval space was\nmargined of about which, a crowd of spectators were seated. Opposite\nthe throne, was reserved a clear passage to the arena, defined by\nair-lines, indefinitely produced from the leveled points of two spears,\nso poised by a brace of warriors.\n\nDrawing near, our party was courteously received, and assigned a\ncommodious lounge.\n\nThe first encounter was a club-fight between two warriors. Nor casque\nof steel, nor skull of Congo could have resisted their blows, had they\nfallen upon the mark; for they seemed bent upon driving each other, as\nstakes, into the earth. Presently, one of them faltered; but his\nadversary rushing in to cleave him down, slipped against a guavarind;\nwhen the falterer, with one lucky blow, high into the air sent the\nstumbler\u2019s club, which descended upon the crown of a spectator, who was\nborne from the plain.\n\n\u201cAll one,\u201d muttered Pike.\n\n\u201cAs good dead as another,\u201d muttered Hello.\n\nThe second encounter was a hugging-match; wherein two warriors, masked\nin Grisly-bear skins, hugged each other to death.\n\nThe third encounter was a bumping-match between a fat warrior and a\ndwarf. Standing erect, his paunch like a bass-drum before a drummer,\nthe fat man was run at, head-a-tilt by the dwarf, and sent spinning\nround on his axis.\n\nThe fourth encounter was a tussle between two-score warriors, who all\nin a mass, writhed like the limbs in Sebastioni\u2019s painting of Hades.\nAfter obscuring themselves in a cloud of dust, these combatants,\nuninjured, but hugely blowing, drew off; and separately going among the\nspectators, rehearsed their experience of the fray.\n\n\u201cBraggarts!\u201d mumbled Piko.\n\n\u201cPoltroons!\u201d growled Hello.\n\nWhile the crowd were applauding, a sober-sided observer, trying to rub\nthe dust out of his eyes, inquired of an enthusiastic neighbor, \u201cPray,\nwhat was all that about?\u201d\n\n\u201cFool! saw you not the dust?\u201d\n\n\u201cThat I did,\u201d said Sober-Sides, again rubbing his eyes, \u201cBut I can\nraise a dust myself.\u201d\n\nThe fifth encounter was a fight of single sticks between one hundred\nwarriors, fifty on a side.\n\nIn a line, the first fifty emerged from the sumachs, their weapons\ninterlocked in a sort of wicker-work. In advance marched a priest,\nbearing an idol with a cracked cocoanut for a head,\u2014Krako, the god of\nTrepans. Preceded by damsels flinging flowers, now came on the second\nfifty, gayly appareled, weapons poised, and their feet nimbly moving in\na martial measure.\n\nMidway meeting, both parties touched poles, then retreated. Very\ncourteous, this; but tantamount to bowing each other out of Mardi; for\nupon Pike\u2019s tossing a javelin, they rushed in, and each striking his\nman, all fell to the ground.\n\n\u201cWell done!\u201d cried Piko.\n\n\u201cBrave fellows!\u201d cried Hello.\n\n\u201cBut up and at it again, my heroes!\u201d joined both. \u201cLo! we kings look\non, and there stand the bards!\u201d\n\nThese bards were a row of lean, sallow, old men, in thread-bare robes,\nand chaplets of dead leaves.\n\n\u201cStrike up!\u201d cried Piko.\n\n\u201cA stave!\u201d cried Hello.\n\nWhereupon, the old croakers, each with a quinsy, sang thus in cracked\nstrains:\u2014\n\nQuack! Quack! Quack!\nWith a toorooloo whack;\nHack away, merry men, hack away.\nWho would not die brave,\nHis ear smote by a stave?\nThwack away, merry men, thwack away!\n\u2019Tis glory that calls,\nTo each hero that falls,\nHack away, merry men, hack away!\nQuack! Quack! Quack!\nQuack! Quack!\nQuack!\n\n\nThus it tapered away.\n\n\u201cHa, ha!\u201d cried Piko, \u201chow they prick their ears at that!\u201d\n\n\u201cHark ye, my invincibles!\u201d cried Hello. \u201cThat pean is for the slain. So\nall ye who have lives left, spring to it! Die and be glorified! Now\u2019s\nthe time!\u2014Strike up again, my ducklings!\u201d\n\nThus incited, the survivors staggered to their feet; and hammering away\nat each others\u2019 sconces, till they rung like a chime of bells going off\nwith a triple-bob-major, they finally succeeded in immortalizing\nthemselves by quenching their mortalities all round; the bards still\nsinging.\n\n\u201cNever mind your music now,\u201d cried Piko.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s all over,\u201d said Hello.\n\n\u201cWhat valiant fellows we have for subjects,\u201d cried Piko.\n\n\u201cHo! grave-diggers, clear the field,\u201d cried Hello.\n\n\u201cWho else is for glory?\u201d cried Piko.\n\n\u201cThere stand the bards!\u201d cried Hello.\n\nBut now there rushed among the crowd a haggard figure, trickling with\nblood, and wearing a robe, whose edges were burned and blacked by fire.\nWielding a club, it ran to and fro, with loud yells menacing all.\n\nA noted warrior this; who, distracted at the death of five sons slain\nin recent games, wandered from valley to valley, wrestling and\nfighting.\n\nWith wild cries of \u201cThe Despairer! The Despairer!\u201d the appalled\nmultitude fled; leaving the two kings frozen on their throne, quaking\nand quailing, their teeth rattling like dice.\n\nThe Despairer strode toward them; when, recovering their senses, they\nran; for a time pursued through the woods by the phantom.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVII.\nTaji Still Hunted, And Beckoned\n\n\nPrevious to the kings\u2019 flight, we had plunged into the neighboring\nwoods; and from thence emerging, entered brakes of cane, sprouting from\nmorasses. Soon we heard a whirring, as if three startled partridges had\ntaken wing; it proved three feathered arrows, from three unseen hands.\n\nGracing us, two buried in the ground, but from Taji\u2019s arm, the third\ndrew blood.\n\nOn all sides round we turned; but none were seen. \u201cStill the avengers\nfollow,\u201d said Babbalanja.\n\n\u201cLo! the damsels three!\u201d cried Yoomy. \u201cLook where they come!\u201d\n\nWe joined them by the sumach-wood\u2019s red skirts; and there, they waved\ntheir cherry stalks, and heavy bloated cactus leaves, their crimson\nblossoms armed with nettles; and before us flung shining, yellow,\ntiger-flowers spotted red.\n\n\u201cBlood!\u201d cried Yoomy, starting, \u201cand leopards on your track!\u201d\n\nAnd now the syrens blew through long reeds, tasseled with their\npanicles, and waving verdant scarfs of vines, came dancing toward us,\nproffering clustering grapes.\n\n\u201cFor all now yours, Taji; and all that yet may come,\u201d cried Yoomy, \u201cfly\nto me! I will dance away your gloom, and drown it in inebriation.\u201d\n\n\u201cAway! woe is its own wine. What may be mine, that will I endure, in\nits own essence to the quick. Let me feel the poniard if it stabs.\u201d\n\nThey vanished in the wood; and hurrying on, we soon gained sun-light,\nand the open glade.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVIII.\nThey Embark From Diranda\n\n\nArrived at the Sign of the Skulls, we found the illustrious lord\nseigniors at rest from their flight, and once more, quaffing their\nclaret, all thoughts of the specter departed. Instead of rattling their\nown ivory iii the heads on their shoulders, they were rattling their\ndice in the skulls in their hands. And still \u201cHeads,\u201d was the cry, and\n\u201cHeads,\u201d was the throw.\n\nThat evening they made known to my lord Media that an interval of two\ndays must elapse ere the games were renewed, in order to reward the\nvictors, bury their dead, and provide for the execution of an Islander,\nwho under the provocation of a blow, had killed a stranger.\n\nAs this suspension of the festivities had been wholly unforeseen, our\nhosts were induced to withdraw the embargo laid upon our canoes.\nNevertheless, they pressed us to remain; saying, that what was to come\nwould far exceed in interest, what had already taken place. The games\nin prospect being of a naval description, embracing certain\nhand-to-hand contests in the water between shoals of web-footed\nwarriors.\n\nHowever, we decided to embark on the morrow.\n\nIt was in the cool of the early morning, at that hour when a man\u2019s face\ncan be known, that we set sail from Diranda; and in the ghostly\ntwilight, our thoughts reverted to the phantom that so suddenly had\ncleared the plain. With interest we hearkened to the recitals of Mohi;\nwho discoursing of the sad end of many brave chieftains in Mardi, made\nallusion to the youthful Adondo, one of the most famous of the chiefs\nof the chronicles. In a canoe-fight, after performing prodigies of\nvalor; he was wounded in the head, and sunk to the bottom of the\nlagoon.\n\n\u201cThere is a noble monody upon the death of Adondo,\u201d said Yoomy. \u201cShall\nI sing it, my lord? It. is very beautiful; nor could I ever repeat it\nwithout a tear.\u201d\n\n\u201cWe will dispense with your tears, minstrel,\u201d said Media, \u201cbut sing it,\nif you will.\u201d\n\nAnd Yoomy sang:\u2014\n\nDeparted the pride and the glory of Mardi:\nThe vaunt of her isles sleeps deep in the sea,\n    That rolls o\u2019er his corpse with a hush.\n    His warriors bend over their spears,\n    His sisters gaze upward and mourn.\n        Weep, weep, for Adondo, is dead!\n    The sun has gone down in a shower;\n    Buried in clouds in the face of the moon;\nTears stand in the eyes of the starry skies,\n    And stand in the eyes of the flowers;\nAnd streams of tears are the trickling brooks,\n    Coursing adown the mountains.\u2014\nDeparted the pride, and the glory of Mardi:\nThe vaunt of her isles sleeps deep in the sea.\nFast falls the small rain on its bosom that sobs.\u2014\n    Not showers of rain, but the tears of Oro.\n\n\n\u201cA dismal time it must have been,\u201d yawned Media, \u201cnot a dry brook then\nin Mardi, not a lake that was not moist. Lachrymose rivulets, and\ninconsolable lagoons! Call you this poetry, minstrel?\u201d\n\n\u201cMohi has something like a tear in his eye,\u201d said Yoomy.\n\n\u201cFalse!\u201d cried Mohi, brushing it aside.\n\n\u201cWho composed that monody?\u201d said Babbalanja. \u201cI have often heard it\nbefore.\u201d\n\n\u201cNone know, Babbalanja but the poet must be still singing to himself;\nhis songs bursting through the turf in the flowers over his grave.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut gentle Yoomy, Adondo is a legendary hero, indefinitely dating\nback. May not his monody, then, be a spontaneous melody, that has been\nwith us since Mardi began? What bard composed the soft verses that our\npalm boughs sing at even? Nay, Yoomy, that monody was not written by\nman.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh! Would that I had been the poet, Babbalanja; for then had I been\nfamous indeed; those lines are chanted through all the isles, by prince\nand peasant. Yes, Adondo\u2019s monody will pervade the ages, like the low\nunder-tone you hear, when many singers do sing.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy lord, my lord,\u201d cried Babbalanja, \u201cbut this were to be truly\nimmortal;\u2014to be perpetuated in our works, and not in our names. Let me,\noh Oro! be anonymously known!\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIX.\nWherein Babbalanja Discourses Of Himself\n\n\nAn interval of silence was at last broken by Babbalanja.\n\nPointing to the sun, just gaining the horizon, he exclaimed, \u201cAs old\nBardianna says\u2014shut your eyes, and believe.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd what may Bardianna have to do with yonder orb?\u201d said Media.\n\nThis much, my lord, the astronomers maintain that Mardi moves round the\nsun; which I, who never formally investigated the matter for myself,\ncan by no means credit; unless, plainly seeing one thing, I blindly\nbelieve another. Yet even thus blindly does all Mardi subscribe to an\nastronomical system, which not one in fifty thousand can astronomically\nprove. And not many centuries back, my lord, all Mardi did equally\nsubscribe to an astronomical system, precisely the reverse of that\nwhich they now believe. But the mass of Mardians have not as much\nreason to believe the first system, as the exploded one; for all who\nhave eyes must assuredly see, that the sun seems to move, and that\nMardi seems a fixture, eternally _here_. But doubtless there are\ntheories which may be true, though the face of things belie them.\nHence, in such cases, to the ignorant, disbelief would seem more\nnatural than faith; though they too often reject the testimony of their\nown senses, for what to them, is a mere hypothesis. And thus, my lord,\nis it, that the mass of Mardians do not believe because they know, but\nbecause they know not. And they are as ready to receive one thing as\nanother, if it comes from a canonical source. My lord, Mardi is as an\nostrich, which will swallow augh you offer, even a bar of iron, if\nplaced endwise. And though the iron be indigestible, yet it serves to\nfill: in feeding, the end proposed. For Mardi must have something to\nexercise its digestion, though that something be forever indigestible.\nAnd as fishermen for sport, throw two lumps of bait, united by a cord,\nto albatrosses floating on the sea; which are greedily attempted to be\nswallowed, one lump by this fowl, the other by that; but forever are\nkept reciprocally going up and down in them, by means of the cord; even\nso, my lord, do I sometimes fancy, that our theorists divert\nthem-selves with the greediness of Mardians to believe.\u201d\n\n\u201cHa, ha,\u201d cried Media, \u201cmethinks this must be Azzageddi who speaks.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, my lord; not long since, Azzageddi received a furlough to go home\nand warm himself for a while. But this leaves me not alone.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow?\u201d\n\n\u201cMy lord,\u2014for the present putting Azzageddi entirely aside,\u2014though I\nhave now been upon terms of close companionship with myself for nigh\nfive hundred moons, I have not yet been able to decide who or what I\nam. To you, perhaps, I seem Babbalanja; but to myself, I seem not\nmyself. All I am sure of, is a sort of prickly sensation all over me,\nwhich they call life; and, occasionally, a headache or a queer conceit\nadmonishes me, that there is something astir in my attic. But how know\nI, that these sensations are identical with myself? For aught I know, I\nmay be somebody else. At any rate, I keep an eye on myself, as I would\non a stranger. There is something going on in me, that is independent\nof me. Many a time, have I willed to do one thing, and another has been\ndone. I will not say by myself, for I was not consulted about it; it\nwas done instinctively. My most virtuous thoughts are not born of my\nmusings, but spring up in me, like bright fancies to the poet;\nunsought, spontaneous. Whence they come I know not. I am a blind man\npushed from behind; in vain, I turn about to see what propels me. As\nvanity, I regard the praises of my friends; for what they commend\npertains not to me, Babbalanja; but to this unknown something that\nforces me to it. But why am I, a middle aged Mardian, less prone to\nexcesses than when a youth? The same inducements and allurements are\naround me. But no; my more ardent passions are burned out; those which\nare strongest when we are least able to resist them. Thus, then, my\nlord, it is not so much outer temptations that prevail over us mortals;\nbut inward instincts.\u201d\n\n\u201cA very curious speculation,\u201d said Media. But Babbalanja, have you\nmortals no moral sense, as they call it?\u201d\n\n\u201cWe have. But the thing you speak of is but an after-birth; we eat and\ndrink many months before we are conscious of thoughts. And though some\nadults would seem to refer all their actions to this moral sense, yet,\nin reality, it is not so; for, dominant in them, their moral sense\nbridles their instinctive passions; wherefore, they do not govern\nthemselves, but are governed by their very natures. Thus, some men in\nyouth are constitutionally as staid as I am now. But shall we pronounce\nthem pious and worthy youths for this? Does he abstain, who is not\nincited? And on the other hand, if the instinctive passions through\nlife naturally have the supremacy over the moral sense, as in extreme\ncases we see it developed in irreclaimable malefactors,\u2014shall we\npronounce such, criminal and detestable wretches? My lord, it is easier\nfor some men to be saints, than for others not to be sinners.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat will do, Babbalanja; you are on the verge, take not the leap! Go\nback whence you set out, and tell us of that other, and still more\nmysterious Azzageddi; him whom you hinted to have palmed himself off on\nyou for you yourself.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, then, my lord,\u2014Azzageddi still set aside,\u2014upon that self-same\ninscrutable stranger, I charge all those past actions of mine, which in\nthe retrospect appear to me such eminent folly, that I am confident, it\nwas not I, Babbalanja, now speaking, that committed them. Nevertheless,\nmy lord, this very day I may do some act, which at a future period may\nseem equally senseless; for in one lifetime we live a hundred lives. By\nthe incomprehensible stranger in me, I say, this body of mine has been\nrented out scores of times, though always one dark chamber in me is\nretained by the old mystery.\u201d\n\n\u201cWill you never come to the mark, Babbalanja? Tell me something direct\nof the stranger. Who, what is he? Introduce him.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy lord, I can not. He is locked up in me. In a mask, he dodges me. He\nprowls about in me, hither and thither; he peers, and I stare. This is\nhe who talks in my sleep, revealing my secrets; and takes me to unheard\nof realms, beyond the skies of Mardi. So present is he always, that I\nseem not so much to live of myself, as to be a mere apprehension of the\nunaccountable being that is in me. Yet all the time, this being is I,\nmyself.\u201d\n\n\u201cBabbalanja,\u201d said Media, \u201cyou have fairly turned yourself inside out.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, my lord,\u201d said Mohi, \u201cand he has so unsettled me, that I begin to\nthink all Mardi a square circle.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow is that, Babbalanja,\u201d said Media, \u201cis a circle square?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, my lord, but ever since Mardi began, we Mardians have been\nessaying our best to square it.\u201d\n\n\u201cCleverly retorted. Now, Babbalanja, do you not imagine, that you may\ndo harm by disseminating these sophisms of yours; which like your devil\ntheory, would seem to relieve all Mardi from moral accountability?\u201d\n\n\u201cMy lord, at bottom, men wear no bonds that other men can strike off;\nand have no immunities, of which other men can deprive them. Tell a\ngood man that he is free to commit murder,\u2014will he murder? Tell a\nmurderer that at the peril of his soul he indulges in murderous\nthoughts,\u2014will that make him a saint?\u201d\n\n\u201cAgain on the verge, Babbalanja? Take not the leap, I say.\u201d\n\n\u201cI can leap no more, my lord. Already I am down, down, down.\u201d\n\n\u201cPhilosopher,\u201d said Media, \u201cwhat with Azzageddi, and the mysterious\nindweller you darkly hint of, I marvel not that you are puzzled to\ndecide upon your identity. But when do you seem most yourself?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhen I sleep, and dream not, my lord.\u201d\n\n\u201cIndeed?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy then, a fool\u2019s cap might be put on you, and you would not know\nit.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe very turban he ought to wear,\u201d muttered Mohi.\n\n\u201cYet, my lord, I live while consciousness is not mine, while to all\nappearances I am a clod. And may not this same state of being, though\nbut alternate with me, be continually that of many dumb, passive\nobjects we so carelessly regard? Trust me, there are more things alive\nthan those that crawl, or fly, or swim. Think you, my lord, there is no\nsensation in being a tree? feeling the sap in one\u2019s boughs, the breeze\nin one\u2019s foliage? think you it is nothing to be a world? one of a herd,\nbison-like, wending its way across boundless meadows of ether? In the\nsight of a fowl, that sees not our souls, what are our own tokens of\nanimation? That we move, make a noise, have organs, pulses, and are\ncompounded of fluids and solids. And all these are in this Mardi as a\nunit. Daily the slow, majestic throbbings of its heart are perceptible\non the surface in the tides of the la-goon. Its rivers are its veins;\nwhen agonized, earthquakes are its throes; it shouts in the thunder,\nand weeps in the shower; and as the body of a bison is covered with\nhair, so Mardi is covered with grasses and vegetation, among which, we\nparasitical things do but crawl, vexing and tormenting the patient\ncreature to which we cling. Nor yet, hath it recovered from the pain of\nthe first foundation that was laid. Mardi is alive to its axis. When\nyou pour water, does it not gurgle? When you strike a pearl shell, does\nit not ring? Think you there is no sensation in being a rock?\u2014To exist,\nis to be; to be, is to be something: to be something, is\u2014\u201d\n\n\u201cGo on,\u201d said Media.\n\n\u201cAnd what is it, to be something?\u201d said Yoomy artlessly. \u201cBethink\nyourself of what went before,\u201d said Media.\n\n\u201cLose not the thread,\u201d said Mohi.\n\n\u201cIt has snapped,\u201d said Babbalanja.\n\n\u201cI breathe again,\u201d said Mohi.\n\n\u201cBut what a stepping-off place you came to then, philosopher,\u201d said\nMedia. \u201cBy the way, is it not old Bardianna who says, that no Mardian\nshould undertake to walk, without keeping one foot foremost?\u201d\n\n\u201cTo return to the vagueness of the notion I have of myself,\u201d said\nBabbalanja.\n\n\u201cAn appropriate theme,\u201d said Media, \u201cproceed.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy lord,\u201d murmured Mohi, \u201cIs not this philosopher like a centipede?\nCut off his head, and still he crawls.\u201d\n\n\u201cThere are times when I fancy myself a lunatic,\u201d resumed Babbalanja.\n\n\u201cAh, now he\u2019s beginning to talk sense,\u201d whispered Mohi.\n\n\u201cSurely you forget, Babbalanja,\u201d said Media. \u201cHow many more theories\nhave you? First, you are possessed by a devil; then rent yourself out\nto the indweller; and now turn yourself into a mad-house. You are\ninconsistent.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd for that very reason, my lord, not inconsistent; for the sum of my\ninconsistencies makes up my consistency. And to be consistent to one\u2019s\nself, is often to be inconsistent to Mardi. Common consistency implies\nunchangeableness; but much of the wisdom here below lives in a state of\ntransition.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh!\u201d murmured Mold, \u201cmy head goes round again.\u201d\n\n\u201cAzzageddi aside, then, my lord, and also, for the nonce, the\nmysterious indweller, I come now to treat of myself as a lunatic. But\nthis last conceit is not so much based upon the madness of particular\nactions, as upon the whole drift of my ordinary and hourly ones; those,\nin which I most resemble all other Mardians. It seems like going\nthrough with some nonsensical whim-whams, destitute of fixed purpose.\nFor though many of my actions seem to have objects, and all of them\nsomehow run into each other; yet, where is the grand result? To what\nfinal purpose, do I walk about, eat, think, dream? To what great end,\ndoes Mohi there, now stroke his beard?\u201d\n\n\u201cBut I was doing it unconsciously,\u201d said Mohi, dropping his hand, and\nlifting his head.\n\n\u201cJust what I would be at, old man. \u2018What we do, we do blindly,\u2019 says\nold Bardianna. Many things we do, we do without knowing,\u2014as with you\nand your beard, Mohi. And many others we know not, in their true\nbearing at least, till they are past. Are not half our lives spent in\nreproaches for foregone actions, of the true nature and consequences of\nwhich, we were wholly ignorant at the time? Says old Bardianna, \u2018Did I\nnot so often feel an appetite for my yams, I should think every thing a\ndream;\u2019\u2014so puzzling to him, seemed the things of this Mardi. But\nAlla-Malolla goes further. Says he, \u2018Let us club together,\nfellow-riddles:\u2014Kings, clowns, and intermediates. We are bundles of\ncomical sensations; we bejuggle ourselves into strange phantasies: we\nare air, wind, breath, bubbles; our being is told in a tick.\u2019\u201d\n\n\u201cNow, then, Babbalanja,\u201d said Media, \u201cwhat have you come to in all this\nrhapsody? You everlastingly travel in a circle.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd so does the sun in heaven, my lord; like me, it goes round, and\ngives light as it goes. Old Bardianna, too, revolved. He says so\nhimself. In his roundabout chapter on Cycles and Epicycles, with Notes\non the Ecliptic, he thus discourseth:\u2014\u2018All things revolve upon some\ncenter, to them, fixed; for the centripetal is ever too much for the\ncentrifugal. Wherefore, it is a perpetual cycling with us, without\nprogression; and we fly round, whether we will or no. To stop, were to\nsink into space. So, over and over we go, and round and round;\ndouble-shuffle, on our axis, and round the sun.\u2019 In an another place,\nhe says:\u2014\u2018There is neither apogee nor perigee, north nor south, right\nnor left; what to-night is our zenith, to-morrow is our nadir; stand as\nwe will, we stand on our heads; essay to spring into the air, and down\nwe come; here we stick; our very bones make glue.\u2019\u201d\n\n\u201cEnough, enough, Babbalanja,\u201d cried Media. \u201cYou are a very wise\nMardian; but the wisest Mardians make the most consummate fools.\u201d\n\n\u201cSo they do, my lord; but I was interrupted. I was about to say, that\nthere is no place but the universe; no limit but the limitless; no\nbottom but the bottomless.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XL.\nOf The Sorcerers In The Isle Of Minda\n\n\n\u201cTiffin! tiffin!\u201d cried Media; \u201ctime for tiffin! Up, comrades! and\nwhile the mat is being spread, walk we to the bow, and inhale the\nbreeze for an appetite. Hark ye, Vee-Vee! forget not that calabash with\nthe sea-blue seal, and a round ring for a brand. Rare old stuff, that,\nMohi; older than you: the circumnavigator, I call it. My sire had a\ncanoe launched for the express purpose of carrying it thrice round\nMardi for a flavor. It was many moons on the voyage; the mariners never\nsailed faster than three knots. Ten would spoil the best wine ever\nfloated.\u201d\n\nTiffin over, and the blue-sealed calabash all but hid in the great\ncloud raised by our pipes, Media proposed to board it in the smoke. So,\ngoblet in hand, we all gallantly charged, and came off victorious from\nthe fray.\n\nThen seated again, and serenely puffing in a circle, the\ncircumnavigator meanwhile pleasantly going the rounds, Media called\nupon Mohi for something entertaining.\n\nNow, of all the old gossips in Mardi, surely our delightful old\nDiodorus was furnished with the greatest possible variety of histories,\nchronicles, anecdotes, memoirs, legends, traditions, and biographies.\nThere was no end to the library he carried. In himself, he was the\nwhole history of Mardi, amplified, not abridged, in one volume.\n\nIn obedience, then, to King Media\u2019s command, Mohi regaled the company\nwith a narrative, in substance as follows:\u2014\n\nIn a certain quarter of the Archipelago was an island called Minda; and\nin Minda were many sorcerers, employed in the social differences and\nanimosities of the people of that unfortunate land. If a Mindarian\ndeemed himself aggrieved or insulted by a countryman, he forthwith\nrepaired to one of these sorcerers; who, for an adequate consideration,\nset to work with his spells, keeping himself in the dark, and directing\nthem against the obnoxious individual. And full soon, by certain\npeculiar sensations, this individual, discovering what was going on,\nwould straightway hie to his own professor of the sable art, who, being\nwell feed, in due time brought about certain counter-charms, so that in\nthe end it sometimes fell out that neither party was gainer or loser,\nsave by the sum of his fees.\n\nBut the worst of it was, that in some cases all knowledge of these\nspells were at the outset hidden from the victim; who, hearing too late\nof the mischief brewing, almost always fell a prey to his foe; which\ncalamity was held the height of the art. But as the great body of\nsorcerers were about matched in point of skill, it followed that the\nparties employing them were so likewise. Hence arose those interminable\ncontests, in which many moons were spent, both parties toiling after\ntheir common destruction.\n\nIndeed, to say nothing of the obstinacy evinced by their employers, it\nwas marvelous, the pertinacity of the sorcerers themselves. To the very\nlast tooth in their employer\u2019s pouches, they would stick to their\nspells; never giving over till he was financially or physically\ndefunct.\n\nBut much as they were vilified, no people in Minda were half so\ndisinterested as they. Certain indispensable conditions secured, some\nof them were as ready to undertake the perdition of one man as another;\ngood, bad, or indifferent, it made little matter.\n\nWhat wonder, then, that such abominable mercenaries should cause a\nmighty deal of mischief in Minda; privately going about, inciting\npeaceable folks to enmities with their neighbors; and with marvelous\nalacrity, proposing themselves as the very sorcerers to rid them of the\nannoyances suggested as existing.\n\nIndeed, it even happened that a sorcerer would be secretly retained to\nwork spells upon a victim, who, from his bodily sensations, suspecting\nsomething wrong, but knowing not what, would repair to that self-same\nsorcerer, engaging him to counteract any mischief that might be\nbrewing. And this worthy would at once undertake the business; when,\nhaving both parties in his hands, he kept them forever in suspense;\nmeanwhile seeing to it well, that they failed not in handsomely\nremunerating him for his pains.\n\nAt one time, there was a prodigious excitement about these sorcerers,\ngrowing out of some alarming revelations concerning their practices. In\nseveral villages of Minda, they were sought to be put down. But\nfruitless the attempt; it was soon discovered that already their spells\nwere so spread abroad, and they themselves so mixed up with the\neveryday affairs of the isle, that it was better to let their vocation\nalone, than, by endeavoring to suppress it, breed additional troubles.\nAh! they were a knowing and a cunning set, those sorcerers; very hard\nto overcome, cajole, or circumvent.\n\nBut in the name of the Magi, what were these spells of theirs, so\npotent and occult? On all hands it was agreed, that they derived their\ngreatest virtue from the fumes of certain compounds, whose\ningredients\u2014horrible to tell\u2014were mostly obtained from the human heart;\nand that by variously mixing these ingredients, they adapted their\nmultifarious enchantments.\n\nThey were a vain and arrogant race. Upon the strength of their dealing\nin the dark, they affected even more mystery than belonged to them;\nwhen interrogated concerning their science, would confound the inquirer\nby answers couched in an extraordinary jargon, employing words almost\nas long as anacondas. But all this greatly prevailed with the common\npeople.\n\nNor was it one of the least remarkable things, that oftentimes two\nsorcerers, contrarily employed upon a Mindarian,\u2014one to attack, the\nother to defend,\u2014would nevertheless be upon the most friendly terms\nwith each other; which curious circumstance never begat the slightest\nsuspicions in the mind of the victim.\n\nAnother phenomenon: If from any cause, two sorcerers fell out, they\nseldom exercised their spells upon each other; ascribable to this,\nperhaps,\u2014that both being versed in the art, neither could hope to get\nthe advantage.\n\nBut for all the opprobrium cast upon these sorcerers, part of which\nthey deserved, the evils imputed to them were mainly, though\nindirectly, ascribable to the very persons who abused them; nay, to the\nvery persons who employed them; the latter being by far the loudest in\ntheir vilifyings; for which, indeed, they had excellent reason.\n\nNor was it to be denied, that in certain respects, the sorcerers were\nproductive of considerable good. The nature of their pursuits leading\nthem deep into the arcana of mind, they often lighted upon important\ndiscoveries; along with much that was cumbersome, accumulated valuable\nexamples concerning the inner working of the hearts of the Mindarians;\nand often waxed eloquent in elucidating the mysteries of iniquity.\n\nYet was all this their lore graven upon so uncouth, outlandish, and\nantiquated tablets, that it was all but lost to the mass of their\ncountrymen; and some old sachem of a wise man is quoted as having said,\nthat their treasures were locked up after such a fashion, that for old\niron, the key was worth more than the chest and its contents.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLI.\nChiefly Of Sing Bello\n\n\n\u201cNow Taji,\u201d said Media, \u201cwith old Bello of the Hump whose island of\nDominora is before us, I am at variance.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh! How so?\u201d\n\n\u201cA dull recital, but you shall have it.\u201d\n\nAnd forthwith his Highness began.\n\nThis princely quarrel originated, it seems, in a slight jostling\nconcerning the proprietorship of a barren islet in a very remote\nquarter of the lagoon. At the outset the matter might have been easily\nadjusted, had the parties but exchanged a few amicable words. But each\ndisdaining to visit the other, to discuss so trivial an affair, the\nbusiness of negotiating an understanding was committed to certain\nplenipos, men with lengthy tongues, who scorned to utter a word short\nof a polysyllable.\n\nNow, the more these worthies penetrated into the difficulty, the wider\nbecame the breach; till what was at first a mere gap, became a yawning\ngulf.\n\nBut that which had perhaps tended more than any thing else to deepen\nthe variance of the kings, was hump-backed Bello\u2019s dispatching to Odo,\nas his thirtieth plenipo, a diminutive little negotiator, who all by\nhimself, in a solitary canoe, sailed over to have audience of Media;\ninto whose presence he was immediately ushered.\n\nDarting one glance at him, the king turned to his chieftains, and\nsaid:\u2014\u201cBy much straining of your eyes, my lords, can you perceive this\ninsignificant manikin? What! are there no tall men in Dominora, that\nKing Bello must needs send this dwarf hither?\u201d\n\nAnd charging his attendents to feed the embassador extraordinary with\nthe soft pap of the cocoanut, and provide nurses during his stay, the\nmonarch retired from the arbor of audience.\n\n\u201cAs I am a man,\u201d shouted the despised plenipo, raising himself on his\ntoes, \u201cmy royal master will resent this affront!\u2014A dwarf, forsooth!\u2014\nThank Oro, I am no long-drawn giant! There is as much stuff in me, as\nin others; what is spread out in their clumsy carcasses, in me is\ncondensed. I am much in little! And that much, thou shalt know full\nsoon, disdainful King of Odo!\u201d\n\n\u201cSpeak not against our lord the king,\u201d cried the attendants.\n\n\u201cAnd speak not ye to me, ye headless spear poles!\u201d\n\nAnd so saying, under sufferance of being small, the plenipo was\npermitted to depart unmolested; for all his bravadoes, fobbing his\ncredentials and affronts.\n\nApprized of his servant\u2019s ignoble reception, the choleric Bello burst\nforth in a storm of passion; issuing orders for, one thousand conch\nshells to be blown, and his warriors to assemble by land and by sea.\n\nBut bethinking him of the hostilities that might ensue, the sagacious\nMedia hit upon an honorable expedient to ward off an event for which he\nwas then unprepared. With all haste he dispatched to the hump-backed\nking a little dwarf of his own; who voyaging over to Dominora in a\ncanoe, sorry and solitary as that of Bello\u2019s plenipo, in like manner,\nreceived the same insults. The effect whereof, was, to strike a balance\nof affronts; upon the principle, that a blow given, heals one received.\n\nNevertheless, these proceedings but amounted to a postponement of\nhostilities; for soon after, nothing prevented the two kings from\nplunging into war, but the following judicious considerations. First:\nMedia was almost afraid of being beaten. Second: Bello was almost\nafraid to conquer. Media, because he was inferior in men and arms;\nBello, because, his aggrandizement was already a subject of warlike\ncomment among the neighboring kings.\n\nIndeed, did the old chronicler Braid-Beard speak truth, there were some\ntribes in Mardi, that accounted this king of Dominora a testy,\nquarrelsome, rapacious old monarch; the indefatigable breeder of\ncontentions and wars; the elder brother of this household of nations,\nperpetually essaying to lord it over the juveniles; and though his\npatrimonial dominions were situated to the north of the lagoon, not the\nslightest misunderstanding took place between the rulers of the most\ndistant islands, than this doughty old cavalier on a throne, forthwith\nthrust his insolent spear into the matter, though it in no wise\nconcerned him, and fell to irritating all parties by his gratuitous\ninterference.\n\nEspecially was he officious in the concerns of Porpheero, a neighboring\nisland, very large and famous, whose numerous broad valleys were\ndivided among many rival kings:\u2014the king of Franko, a small-framed,\npoodle-haired, fine, fiery gallant; finical in his tatooing; much given\nto the dance and glory;\u2014the king of Ibeereea, a tall and stately\ncavalier, proud, generous, punctilious, temperate in wine; one hand\nforever on his javelin, the other, in superstitious homage, lifted to\nhis gods; his limbs all over marks of stakes and crosses;\u2014the king of\nLuzianna; a slender, dark-browed thief; at times wrapped in a moody\nrobe, beneath which he fumbled something, as if it were a dagger; but\notherwise a sprightly troubadour, given to serenades and\nmoonlight;\u2014-the many chiefs of sunny Latianna; minstrel monarchs, full\nof song and sentiment; fiercer in love than war; glorious bards of\nfreedom; but rendering tribute while they sang;\u2014the priest-king of\nVatikanna; his chest marked over with antique tatooings; his crown, a\ncowl; his rusted scepter swaying over falling towers, and crumbling\nmounds; full of the superstitious past; askance, eyeing the suspicious\ntime to come;\u2014the king of Hapzaboro; portly, pleasant; a lover of wild\nboar\u2019s meat; a frequent quaffer from the can; in his better moods, much\nfancying solid comfort;\u2014the eight-and-thirty banded kings, chieftains,\nseigniors, and oligarchies of the broad hill and dale of Tutoni;\nclubbing together their domains, that none might wrest his neighbor\u2019s;\nan earnest race; deep thinkers, deeper drinkers; long pipes, long\nheads; their wise ones given to mystic cogitations, and consultations\nwith the devil;\u2014the twin kings of Zandinavia; hardy, frugal\nmountaineers; upright of spine and heart; clad in skins of bears;\u2014the\nking of Jutlanda; much like their Highnesses of Zandinavia; a seal-skin\ncap his crown; a fearless sailor of his frigid seas;\u2014the king of\nMuzkovi; a shaggy, icicled White-bear of a despot in the north; said to\nreign over millions of acres of glaciers; had vast provinces of\nsnow-drifts, and many flourishing colonies among the floating icebergs.\nAbsolute in his rule as Predestination in metaphysics, did he command\nall his people to give up the ghost, it would be held treason to die\nlast. Very precise and foppish in his imperial tastes was this monarch.\nDisgusted with the want of uniformity in the stature of his subjects,\nhe was said to nourish thoughts of killing off all those below his\nprescribed standard\u2014six feet, long measure. Immortal souls were of no\naccount in his fatal wars; since, in some of his serf-breeding estates,\nthey were daily manufactured to order.\n\nNow, to all the above-mentioned monarchs, old Bello would frequently\ndispatch heralds; announcing, for example, his unalterable resolution,\nto espouse the cause of this king, against that; at the very time,\nperhaps, that their Serene Superfluities, instead of crossing spears,\nwere touching flagons. And upon these occasions, the kings would often\nsend back word to old Bello, that instead of troubling himself with\ntheir concerns, he might far better attend to his own; which, they\nhinted, were in a sad way, and much needed reform.\n\nThe royal old warrior\u2019s pretext for these and all similar proceedings,\nwas the proper adjustment in Porpheero, of what he facetiously styled\nthe \u201cEquipoise of Calabashes;\u201d which he stoutly swore was essential to\nthe security of the various tribes in that country.\n\n\u201cBut who put the balance into thy hands, King Bello?\u201d cried the\nindignant nations.\n\n\u201cOro!\u201d shouted the hump-backed king, shaking his javelin.\n\nSuperadded to the paternal interest which Bello betrayed in the\nconcerns of the kings of Porpheero, according to our chronicler, he\nalso manifested no less interest in those of the remotest islands.\nIndeed, where he found a rich country, inhabited by a people, deemed by\nhim barbarous and incapable of wise legislation, he sometimes relieved\nthem from their political anxieties, by assuming the dictatorship over\nthem. And if incensed at his conduct, they flew to their spears, they\nwere accounted rebels, and treated accordingly. But as old Mohi very\ntruly observed,\u2014herein, Bello was not alone; for throughout Mardi, all\nstrong nations, as well as all strong men, loved to govern the weak.\nAnd those who most taunted King Bello for his political rapacity, were\nopen to the very same charge. So with Vivenza, a distant island, at\ntimes very loud in denunciations of Bello, as a great national brigand.\nNot yet wholly extinct in Vivenza, were its aboriginal people, a race\nof wild Nimrods and hunters, who year by year were driven further and\nfurther into remoteness, till as one of their sad warriors said, after\ncontinual removes along the log, his race was on the point of being\nremorselessly pushed off the end.\n\nNow, Bello was a great geographer, and land surveyor, and gauger of the\nseas. Terraqueous Mardi, he was continually exploring in quest of\nstrange empires. Much he loved to take the altitude of lofty mountains,\nthe depth of deep rivers, the breadth of broad isles. Upon the highest\npinnacles of commanding capes and promontories, he loved to hoist his\nflag. He circled Mardi with his watch-towers: and the distant voyager\npassing wild rocks in the remotest waters, was startled by hearing the\ntattoo, or the reveille, beating from hump-backed Bello\u2019s omnipresent\ndrum. Among Antartic glaciers, his shrill bugle calls mingled with the\nscream of the gulls; and so impressed seemed universal nature with the\nsense of his dominion, that the very clouds in heaven never sailed over\nDominora without rendering the tribute of a shower; whence the air of\nDominora was more moist than that of any other clime.\n\nIn all his grand undertakings, King Bello was marvelously assisted by\nhis numerous fleets of war-canoes; his navy being the largest in Mardi.\nHence his logicians swore that the entire Lagoon was his; and that all\nprowling whales, prowling keels, and prowling sharks were invaders. And\nwith this fine conceit to inspire them, his poets-laureat composed some\nglorious old saltwater odes, enough to make your very soul sing to hear\nthem.\n\nBut though the rest of Mardi much delighted to list to such noble\nminstrelsy, they agreed not with Bello\u2019s poets in deeming the lagoon\ntheir old monarch\u2019s hereditary domain.\n\nOnce upon a time, the paddlers of the hump-backed king, meeting upon\nthe broad lagoon certain canoes belonging to the before-mentioned\nisland of Vivenza; these paddlers seized upon several of their\noccupants; and feeling their pulses, declared them born men of\nDominora; and therefore, not free to go whithersoever they would; for,\nunless they could somehow get themselves born over again, they must\nforever remain subject to Bello. Shed your hair; nay, your skin, if you\nwill, but shed your allegiance you can not; while you have bones, they\nare Bello\u2019s. So, spite of all expostulations and attempts to prove\nalibis, these luckless paddlers were dragged into the canoes of\nDominora, and commanded to paddle home their captors.\n\nWhereof hearing, the men of Vivenza were thrown into a great ferment;\nand after a mighty pow-wow over their council fire, fitting out several\ndouble-keeled canoes, they sallied out to sea, in quest of those, whom\nthey styled the wholesale corsairs of Dominora.\n\nBut lucky perhaps it was, that at this juncture, in all parts of Mardi,\nthe fleets of the hump-backed king, were fighting, gunwale and gunwale,\nalongside of numerous foes; else there had borne down upon the canoes\nof the men of Vivenza so tremendous an armada, that the very swell\nunder its thousand prows might have flooded their scattered proas\nforever out of sight.\n\nAs it was, Bello dispatched a few of his smaller craft to seek out, and\nincidentally run down the enemy; and without returning home,\nstraightway proceed upon more important enterprises.\n\nBut it so chanced, that Bello\u2019s crafts, one by one meeting the foe, in\nmost cases found the canoes of Vivenza much larger than their own; and\nmanned by more men, with hearts bold as theirs; whence, in the\nship-duels that ensued, they were worsted; and the canoes of Vivenza,\nlocking their yard-arms into those of the vanquished, very courteously\ngallanted them into their coral harbors.\n\nSolely imputing these victories to their superior intrepidity and\nskill, the people of Vivenza were exceedingly boisterous in their\ntriumph; raising such obstreperous peans, that they gave themselves\nhoarse throats; insomuch, that according to Mohi, some of the present\ngeneration are fain to speak through their noses.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLII.\nDominora And Vivenza\n\n\nThe three canoes still gliding on, some further particulars were\nnarrated concerning Dominora; and incidentally, of other isles.\n\nIt seems that his love of wide dominion sometimes led the otherwise\nsagacious Bello into the most extravagant actions. If the chance\naccumulation of soil and drift-wood about any detached shelf of coral\nin the lagoon held forth the remotest possibility of the eventual\nexistence of an islet there, with all haste he dispatched canoes to the\nspot, to take prospective possession of the as yet nearly submarine\nterritory; and if possible, eject the zoophytes.\n\nDuring an unusually low tide, here and there baring the outer reef of\nthe Archipelago, Bello caused his royal spear to be planted upon every\nplace thus exposed, in token of his supreme claim thereto.\n\nAnother anecdote was this: that to Dominora there came a rumor, that in\na distant island dwelt a man with an uncommonly large nose; of most\nportentous dimensions, indeed; by the soothsayers supposed to\nforeshadow some dreadful calamity. But disregarding these superstitious\nconceits, Bello forthwith dispatched an agent, to discover whether this\nhuge promontory of a nose was geographically available; if so, to\nsecure the same, by bringing the proprietor back.\n\nNow, by sapient old Mohi, it was esteemed a very happy thing for Mardi\nat large, that the subjects whom Bello sent to populate his foreign\nacquisitions, were but too apt to throw off their vassalage, so soon as\nthey deemed themselves able to cope with him.\n\nIndeed, a fine country in the western part of Mardi, in this very\nmanner, became a sovereign\u2014nay, a republican state. It was the nation\nto which Mohi had previously alluded\u2014Vivenza. But in the flush and\npride of having recently attained their national majority, the men of\nVivenza were perhaps too much inclined to carry a vauntful crest. And\nbecause intrenched in their fastnesses, after much protracted fighting,\nthey had eventually succeeded in repelling the warriors dispatched by\nBello to crush their insurrection, they were unanimous in the opinion,\nthat the hump-backed king had never before been so signally chastised.\nWhereas, they had not so much vanquished Bello, as defended their\nshores; even as a young lion will protect its den against legions of\nunicorns, though, away from home, he might be torn to pieces. In truth,\nBraid-Beard declared, that at the time of this war, Dominora couched\nten long spears for every short javelin Vivenza could dart; though the\njavelins were stoutly hurled as the spears.\n\nBut, superior in men and arms, why, at last, gave over King Bello the\nhope of reducing those truculent men of Vivenza? One reason was, as\nMohi said, that many of his fighting men were abundantly occupied in\nother quarters of Mardi; nor was he long in discovering that fight he\nnever so valiantly, Vivenza\u2014not yet its inhabitants\u2014was wholly\nunconquerable. Thought Bello, Mountains are sturdy foes; fate hard to\ndam.\n\nYet, the men of Vivenza were no dastards; not to lie, coming from\nlion-like loins, they were a lion-loined race. Did not their bards\npronounce them a fresh start in the Mardian species; requiring a new\nworld for their full development? For be it known, that the great land\nof Kolumbo, no inconsiderable part of which was embraced by Vivenza,\nwas the last island discovered in the Archipelago.\n\nIn good round truth, and as if an impartialist from Arcturus spoke it,\nVivenza was a noble land. Like a young tropic tree she stood, laden\ndown with greenness, myriad blossoms, and the ripened fruit\nthick-hanging from one bough. She was promising as the morning.\n\nOr Vivenza might be likened to St. John, feeding on locusts and wild\nhoney, and with prophetic voice, crying to the nations from the\nwilderness. Or, child-like, standing among the old robed kings and\nemperors of the Archipelago, Vivenza seemed a young Messiah, to whose\ndiscourse the bearded Rabbis bowed.\n\nSo seemed Vivenza in its better aspect. Nevertheless, Vivenza was a\nbraggadocio in Mardi; the only brave one ever known. As an army of\nspurred and crested roosters, her people chanticleered at the\nresplendent rising of their sun. For shame, Vivenza! Whence thy\nundoubted valor? Did ye not bring it with ye from the bold old shores\nof Dominora, where there is a fullness of it left? What isle but\nDominora could have supplied thee with that stiff spine of thine?\u2014 That\nheart of boldest beat? Oh, Vivenza! know that true grandeur is too big\nfor a boast; and nations, as well as men, may be too clever to be\ngreat.\n\nBut what more of King Bello? Notwithstanding his territorial\nacquisitiveness, and aversion to relinquishing stolen nations, he was\nyet a glorious old king; rather choleric\u2014a word and a blow\u2014but of a\nright royal heart. Rail at him as they might, at bottom, all the isles\nwere proud of him. And almost in spite of his rapacity, upon the whole,\nperhaps, they were the better for his deeds. For if sometimes he did\nevil with no very virtuous intentions, he had fifty, ways of\naccomplishing good with the best; and a thousand ways of doing good\nwithout meaning it. According to an ancient oracle, the hump-backed\nmonarch was but one of the most conspicuous pieces on a board, where\nthe gods played for their own entertainment.\n\nBut here it must not be omitted, that of late, King Bello had somewhat\nabated his efforts to extend his dominions. Various causes were\nassigned. Some thought it arose from the fact that already he found his\nterritories too extensive for one scepter to rule; that his more remote\ncolonies largely contributed to his tribulations, without\ncorrespondingly contributing to his revenues. Others affirmed that his\nhump was getting too mighty for him to carry; others still, that the\nnations were waving too strong for him. With prophetic solemnity,\nhead-shaking sages averred that he was growing older and older had\npassed his grand climacteric; and though it was a hale old age with\nhim, yet it was not his lusty youth; that though he was daily getting\nrounder, and rounder in girth, and more florid of face, that these,\nhowbeit, were rather the symptoms of a morbid obesity, than of a\nhealthful robustness. These wise ones predicted that very soon poor\nBello would go off in an apoplexy.\n\nBut in Vivenza there were certain blusterers, who often thus prated:\n\u201cThe Hump-back\u2019s hour is come; at last the old teamster will be gored\nby the nations he\u2019s yoked; his game is done,\u2014let him show his hand and\nthrow up his scepter; he cumbers Mardi,\u2014let him be cut down and burned;\nhe stands in the way of his betters,\u2014let him sheer to one side; he has\nshut up many eyes, and now himself grows blind; he hath committed\nhorrible atrocities during his long career, the old sinner! \u2014now, let\nhim quickly say his prayers and be beheaded.\u201d\n\nHowbeit, Bello lived on; enjoying his dinners, and taking his jorums as\nof yore. Ah, I have yet a jolly long lease of life, thought he over his\nwine; and like unto some obstinate old uncle, he persisted in\nflourishing, in spite of the prognostications of the nephew nations,\nwhich at his demise, perhaps hoped to fall heir to odd parts of his\npossessions: Three streaks of fat valleys to one of lean mountains!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLIII.\nThey Land At Dominora\n\n\nAs erewhile recounted, not being on the best terms in Mardi with the\nKing of Dominora, Media saw fit to draw nigh unto his dominions in\nhaughty state; he (Media) being upon excellent terms with himself. Our\nsails were set, our paddles paddling, streamers streaming, and Vee-Vee\nin the shark\u2019s mouth, clamorous with his conch. The din was soon heard;\nand sweeping into a fine broad bay we beheld its margin seemingly\npebbled in the distance with heads; so populous the land.\n\nWinding through a noble valley, we presently came to Bello\u2019s palace,\ncouchant and bristling in a grove. The upright canes composing its\nfront projected above the eaves in a long row of spear-heads fluttering\nwith scarlet pennons; while below, from the intervals of the canes,\nwere slantingly thrust three tiers of decorated lances. A warlike\naspect! The entire structure looking like the broadside of the\nMacedonian phalanx, advancing to the charge, helmeted with a roof.\n\n\u201cAh, Bello,\u201d said Media, \u201cthou dwellest among thy quills like the\nporcupine.\u201d\n\n\u201cI feel a prickly heat coming over me,\u201d cried Mohi, \u201cmy lord Media, let\nus enter.\u201d\n\n\u201cAy,\u201d said Babbalanja, \u201csafer the center of peril, than the\ncircumference.\u201d\n\nPassing under an arch, formed by two pikes crossed, we found ourselves\ntargets in prospective, for certain flingers of javelins, with poised\nweapons, occupying the angles of the palace.\n\nFronting us, stood a portly old warrior, spear in hand, hump on back,\nand fire in eye.\n\n\u201cIs it war?\u201d he cried, pointing his pike, \u201cor peace?\u201d reversing it.\n\n\u201cPeace,\u201d said Media.\n\nWhereupon advancing, King Bello courteously welcomed us.\n\nHe was an arsenal to behold: Upon his head the hereditary crown of\nDominora,\u2014a helmet of the sea-porcupine\u2019s hide, bristling all over with\nspikes, in front displaying a river-horse\u2019s horn, leveled to the\ncharge; thrust through his ears were barbed arrows; and from his dyed\nshark-skin girdle, depended a kilt of strung javelins.\n\nThe broad chest of Bello was the chart of Mardi. Tattooed in sea-blue\nwere all the groups and clusters of the Archipelago; and every time he\nbreathed, rose and fell the isles, as by a tide: Dominora full upon his\nheart.\n\nHis sturdy thighs were his triumphal arch; whereon in numerous\nmedallions, crests, and shields, were blazoned all his victories by sea\nand land.\n\nHis strong right arm was Dominora\u2019s scroll of Fame, where all her\nheroes saw their names recorded.\u2014An endless roll!\n\nOur chronicler avouched, that on the sole of Bello\u2019s dexter foot was\nstamped the crest of Franko\u2019s king, his hereditary foe. \u201cThus, thus,\u201d\ncried Bello, stamping, \u201cthus I hourly crush him.\u201d\n\nIn stature, Bello was a mountaineer; but, as over some tall tower\nimpends the hill-side cliff, so Bello\u2019s Athos hump hung over him. Could\nit be, as many of his nobles held, that the old monarch\u2019s hump was his\nsensorium and source of strength; full of nerves, muscles, ganglions\nand tendons? Yet, year by year it grew, ringed like the bole of his\npalms. The toils of war increased it. But another skirmish with the\nisles, said the wiseacres of Porpheero, and Bello\u2019s mount will crush\nhim.\n\nAgainst which calamity to guard, his medicos and Sangredos sought the\nhump\u2019s reduction. But down it would not come. Then by divers mystic\nrites, his magi tried. Making a deep pit, many teeth they dropped\ntherein. But they could not fill it. Hence, they called it the Sinking\nPit, for bottom it had none. Nevertheless, the magi said, when this pit\nis filled, Bello\u2019s hump you\u2019ll see no more. \u201cThen, hurrah for the\nhump!\u201d cried the nobles, \u201cfor he will never hurl it off. Long life to\nthe hump! By the hump we will rally and die! Cheer up, King Bello!\nStand up, old king!\u201d\n\nBut these were they, who when their sovereign went abroad, with that\nAthos on his back, followed idly in its shade; while Bello leaned\nheavily upon his people, staggering as they went.\n\nAy, sorely did Bello\u2019s goodly stature lean; but though many swore he\nsoon must fall; nevertheless, like Pisa\u2019s Leaning Tower, he may long\nlean over, yet never nod.\n\nVisiting Dominora in a friendly way, in good time, we found King Bello\nvery affable; in hospitality, almost exceeding portly Borabolla:\nOctober-plenty reigned throughout his palace borders.\n\nOur first reception over, a sumptuous repast was served, at which much\nlively talk was had.\n\nOf Taji, Bello sought to know, whether his solar Majesty had yet made a\nprovince of the moon; whether the Astral hosts were of much account as\nterritories, or mere Motoos, as the little tufts of verdure are\ndenominated, here and there clinging to Mardi\u2019s circle reef; whether\nthe people in the sun vilified, him (Bello) as they did in Mardi; and\nwhat they thought of an event, so ominous to the liberties of the\nuniverse, as the addition to his navy of three large canoes.\n\nEre long, so fused in social love we grew, that Bello, filling high his\ncan, and clasping Media\u2019s palm, drank everlasting amity with Odo.\n\nSo over their red cups, the two kings forgot their differences, and\nconcerning the disputed islet nothing more was ever heard; especially,\nas it so turned out, that while they were most hot about it, it had\nsuddenly gone out of sight, being of volcanic origin.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLIV.\nThrough Dominora, They Wander After Yillah\n\n\nAt last, withdrawing from the presence of King Bello, we went forth,\nstill intent on our search.\n\nMany brave sights we saw. Fair fields; the whole island a garden; green\nhedges all round; neat lodges, thick as white mice in the landscape;\nold oak woods, hale and hearty as ever; old temples buried in ivy; old\nshrines of old heroes, deep buried in broad groves of bay trees; old\nrivers laden down with heavy-freighted canoes; humped hills, like\ndroves of camels, piled up with harvests; every sign and token of a\nglorious abundance, every sign and token of generations of renown. Rare\nsight! fine sight! none rarer, none finer in Mardi.\n\nBut roving on through this ravishing region, we passed through a corn-\nfield in full beard, where a haggard old reaper laid down his hook,\nbeseeching charity for the sake of the gods.\u2014\u201cBread, bread! or I die\nmid these sheaves!\u201d\n\n\u201cThrash out your grain, and want not.\u201d\n\n\u201cAlas, masters, this grain is not mine; I plough, I sow, I reap, I\nbind, I stack,\u2014Lord Primo garners.\u201d\n\nRambling on, we came to a hamlet, hidden in a hollow; and beneath\nweeping willows saw many mournful maidens seated on a bank; beside\neach, a wheel that was broken. \u201cLo, we starve,\u201d they cried, \u201cour\ndistaffs are snapped; no more may we weave and spin!\u201d\n\nThen forth issued from vaults clamorous crowds of men, hands tied to\ntheir backs.\u2014\u201cBread! Bread!\u201d they cried. \u201cThe magician hath turned us\nout from our glen, where we labored of yore in the days of the merry\nGreen Queen. He has pinioned us hip and arm that we starve. Like sheep\nwe die off with the rot.\u2014Curse on the magician. A curse on his spell.\u201d\n\nBending our steps toward the glen, roaring down the rocks we descried a\nstream from the mountains. But ere those waters gained the sea, vassal\ntribute they rendered. Conducted through culverts and moats, they\nturned great wheels, giving life to ten thousand fangs and fingers,\nwhose gripe no power could withstand, yet whose touch was soft as the\nvelvet paw of a kitten. With brute force, they heaved down great\nweights, then daintily wove and spun; like the trunk of the elephant,\nwhich lays lifeless a river-horse, and counts the pulses of a moth. On\nall sides, the place seemed alive with its spindles. Round and round,\nround and round; throwing off wondrous births at every revolving;\nceaseless as the cycles that circle in heaven. Loud hummed the loom,\nflew the shuttle like lightning, red roared the grim forge, rung anvil\nand sledge; yet no mortal was seen.\n\n\u201cWhat ho, magician! Come forth from thy cave!\u201d\n\nBut all deaf were the spindles, as the mutes, that mutely wait on the\nSultan.\n\n\u201cSince we are born, we will live!\u201d so we read on a crimson banner,\nflouting the crimson clouds, in the van of a riotous red-bonneted mob,\nracing by us as we came from the glen. Many more followed: black, or\nblood-stained:\u2014.\n\n\u201cMardi is man\u2019s!\u201d\n\n\u201cDown with landholders!\u201d\n\n\u201cOur turn now!\u201d\n\n\u201cUp rights! Down wrongs!\u201d\n\n\u201cBread! Bread!\u201d\n\n\u201cTake the tide, ere it turns!\u201d\n\nWaving their banners, and flourishing aloft clubs, hammers, and\nsickles, with fierce yells the crowd ran on toward the palace of Bello.\nForemost, and inciting the rest by mad outcries and gestures, were six\nmasks; \u201cThis way! This way!\u201d they cried,\u2014\u201cby the wood; by the dark\nwood!\u201d Whereupon all darted into the groves; when of a sudden, the\nmasks leaped forward, clearing a long covered trench, into which fell\nmany of those they led. But on raced the masks; and gaining Bello\u2019s\npalace, and raising the alarm, there sallied from thence a woodland of\nspears, which charged upon the disordered ranks in the grove. A crash\nas of icicles against icebergs round Zembla, and down went the hammers\nand sickles. The host fled, hotly pursued. Meanwhile brave heralds from\nBello advanced, and with chaplets crowned the six masks.\u2014\u201cWelcome,\nheroes! worthy and valiant!\u201d they cried. \u201cThus our lord Bello rewards\nall those, who to do him a service, for hire betray their kith and\ntheir kin.\u201d\n\nStill pursuing our quest, wide we wandered through all the sun and\nshade of Dominora; but nowhere was Yillah found.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLV.\nThey Behold King Bello\u2019s State Canoe\n\n\nAt last, bidding adieu to King Bello; and in the midst of the lowing of\noxen, breaking away from his many hospitalities, we departed for the\nbeach. But ere embarking, we paused to gaze at an object, which long\nfixed our attention.\n\nNow, as all bold cavaliers have ever delighted in special chargers,\ngayly caparisoned, whereon upon grand occasions to sally forth upon the\nplains: even so have maritime potentates ever prided themselves upon\nsome holiday galley, splendidly equipped, wherein to sail over the sea.\n\nWhen of old, glory-seeking Jason, attended by his promising young\nlieutenants, Castor and Pollux, embarked on that hardy adventure to\nColchis, the brave planks of the good ship Argos he trod, its model a\nswan to behold.\n\nAnd when Trojan Aeneas wandered West, and discovered the pleasant land\nof Latium, it was in the fine craft Bis Taurus that he sailed: its\nstern gloriously emblazoned, its prow a leveled spear.\n\nAnd to the sound of sackbut and psaltery, gliding down the Nile, in the\npleasant shade of its pyramids to welcome mad Mark, Cleopatra was\nthroned on the cedar quarter-deck of a glorious gondola, silk and satin\nhung; its silver plated oars, musical as flutes. So, too, Queen Bess\nwas wont to disport on old Thames.\n\nAnd tough Torf-Egill, the Danish Sea-king, reckoned in his stud, a\nslender yacht; its masts young Zetland firs; its prow a seal, dog-like\nholding a sword-fish blade. He called it the Grayhound, so swift was\nits keel; the Sea-hawk, so blood-stained its beak.\n\nAnd groping down his palace stairs, the blind old Doge Dandolo, oft\nembarked in his gilded barge, like the lord mayor setting forth in\ncivic state from Guildhall in his chariot. But from another sort of\nprow leaped Dandolo, when at Constantinople, he foremost sprang ashore,\nand with a right arm ninety years old, planted the standard of St. Mark\nfull among the long chin-pennons of the long-bearded Turks.\n\nAnd Kumbo Sama, Emperor of Japan, had a dragon-beaked junk, a floating\nJuggernaut, wherein he burnt incense to the sea-gods.\n\nAnd Kannakoko, King of New Zealand; and the first Tahitian Pomaree; and\nthe Pelew potentate, each possessed long state canoes; sea-snakes, all;\ncarved over like Chinese card-cases, and manned with such scores of\nwarriors, that dipping their paddles in the sea, they made a commotion\nlike shoals of herring.\n\nWhat wonder then, that Bello of the Hump, the old sea-king of Mardi,\nshould sport a brave ocean-chariot?\n\nIn a broad arbor by the water-side, it was housed like Alp Arsian\u2019s\nwar-horse, or the charger Caligula deified; upon its stern a wilderness\nof sculpture:\u2014shell-work, medal-lions, masques, griffins, gulls, ogres,\nfinned-lions, winged walruses; all manner of sea-cavalry, crusading\ncentaurs, crocodiles, and sharks; and mermen, and mermaids, and Neptune\nonly knows all.\n\nAnd in this craft, Doge-like, yearly did King Bello stand up and wed\nwith the Lagoon. But the custom originated not in the manner of the\nDoge\u2019s, which was as follows; so, at least, saith Ghibelli, who tells\nall about it:\u2014\n\nWhen, in a stout sea-fight, Ziani defeated Barbarossa\u2019s son Otho,\nsending his feluccas all flying, like frightened water-fowl from a\nlake, then did his Holiness, the Pope, present unto him a ring; saying,\n\u201cTake this, oh Ziani, and with it, the sea for thy bride; and every\nyear wed her again.\u201d\n\nSo the Doge\u2019s tradition; thus Bello\u2019s:\u2014\n\nAges ago, Dominora was circled by a reef, which expanding in proportion\nto the extension of the isle\u2019s naval dominion, in due time embraced the\nentire lagoon; and this marriage ring zoned all the world.\n\nBut if the sea was King Bello\u2019s bride, an Adriatic Tartar he wedded;\nwho, in her mad gales of passions, often boxed about his canoes, and\nled his navies a very boisterous life indeed.\n\nAnd hostile prognosticators opined, that ere long she would desert her\nold lord, and marry again. Already, they held, she had made advances in\nthe direction of Vivenza.\n\nBut truly, should she abandon old Bello, he would straight-way after\nher with all his fleets; and never rest till his queen was regained.\n\nNow, old sea-king! look well to thy barge of state: for, peradventure,\nthe dry-rot may be eating into its keel; and the wood-worms exploring\ninto its spars.\n\nWithout heedful tending, any craft will decay; yet, for ever may its\nfirst, fine model be preserved, though its prow be renewed every\nspring, like the horns of the deer, if, in repairing, plank be put for\nplank, rib for rib, in exactest similitude. Even so, then, oh Bello! do\nthou with thy barge.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLVI.\nWherein Babbalanja Bows Thrice\n\n\nThe next morning\u2019s twilight found us once more afloat; and yielding to\nthat almost sullen feeling, but too apt to prevail with some mortals at\nthat hour, all but Media long remained silent.\n\nBut now, a bright mustering is seen among the myriad white Tartar tents\nin the Orient; like lines of spears defiling upon some upland plain,\nthe sunbeams thwart the sky. And see! amid the blaze of banners, and\nthe pawings of ten thousand thousand golden hoofs, day\u2019s mounted\nSultan, Xerxes-like, moves on: the Dawn his standard, East and West his\ncymbals.\n\n\u201cOh, morning life!\u201d cried Yoomy, with a Persian air; \u201cwould that all\ntime were a sunrise, and all life a youth.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh! but these striplings whimper of youth,\u201d said Mohi, caressing his\nbraids, \u201cas if they wore this beard.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut natural, old man,\u201d said Babbalanja. \u201cWe Mardians never seem young\nto ourselves; childhood is to youth what manhood is to age:\u2014something\nto be looked back upon, with sorrow that it is past. But childhood\nreeks of no future, and knows no past; hence, its present passes in a\nvapor.\u201d\n\n\u201cMohi, how\u2019s your appetite this morning?\u201d said Media.\n\n\u201cThus, thus, ye gods,\u201d sighed Yoomy, \u201cis feeling ever scouted. Yet,\nwhat might seem feeling in me, I can not express.\u201d\n\n\u201cA good commentary on old Bardianna, Yoomy,\u201d said Babbalanja, \u201cwho\nsomewhere says, that no Mardian can out with his heart, for his\nunyielding ribs are in the way. And indeed, pride, or something akin\nthereto, often holds check on sentiment. My lord, there are those who\nlike not to be detected in the possession of a heart.\u201d\n\n\u201cVery true, Babbalanja; and I suppose that pride was at the bottom of\nyour old Ponderer\u2019s heartless, unsentimental, bald-pated style.\u201d\n\n\u201cCraving pardon, my lord is deceived. Bardianna was not at all proud;\nthough he had a queer way of showing the absence of pride. In his\nessay, entitled,\u2014\u201cOn the Tendency to curl in Upper Lips,\u201d he thus\ndiscourses. \u201cWe hear much of pride and its sinfulness in this Mardi\nwherein we dwell: whereas, I glory in being brimmed with it;\u2014my sort of\npride. In the presence of kings, lords, palm-trees, and all those who\ndeem themselves taller than myself, I stand stiff as a pike, and will\nabate not one vertebra of my stature. But accounting no Mardian my\nsuperior, I account none my inferior; hence, with the social, I am ever\nready to be sociable.\u201d\n\n\u201cAn agrarian!\u201d said Media; \u201cno doubt he would have made the headsman\nthe minister of equality.\u201d\n\n\u201cAt bottom we are already equal, my honored lord,\u201d said Babbalanja,\nprofoundly bowing\u2014\u201cOne way we all come into Mardi, and one way we\nwithdraw. Wanting his yams a king will starve, quick as a clown; and\nsmote on the hip, saith old Bardianna, he will roar as loud as the next\none.\u201d\n\n\u201cRoughly worded, that, Babbalanja.\u2014Vee-Vee! my crown!\u2014So; now,\nBabbalanja, try if you can not polish Bardianna\u2019s style in that last\nsaying you father upon him.\u201d\n\n\u201cI will, my ever honorable lord,\u201d said Babbalanja, salaming. \u201cThus\nwe\u2019ll word it, then: In their merely Mardian nature, the sublimest\ndemi-gods are subject to infirmities; for struck by some keen shaft,\neven a king ofttimes dons his crown, fearful of future darts.\u201d\n\n\u201cHa, ha!\u2014well done, Babbalanja; but I bade you polish, not sharpen the\narrow.\u201d\n\n\u201cAll one, my thrice honored lord;\u2014to polish is not to blunt.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLVII.\nBabbalanja Philosophizes, And My Lord Media Passes Round The Calabashes\n\n\nAn interval of silence passed; when Media cried, \u201cOut upon thee, Yoomy!\ncurtail that long face of thine.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow can he, my lord,\u201d said Mohi, \u201cwhen he is thinking of furlongs?\u201d\n\n\u201cFathoms you mean, Mohi; see you not he is musing over the gunwale? And\nnow, minstrel, a banana for thy thoughts. Come, tell me how you poets\nspend so many hours in meditation.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy lord, it is because, that when we think, we think so little of\nourselves.\u201d\n\n\u201cI thought as much,\u201d said Mohi, \u201cfor no sooner do I undertake to be\nsociable with myself, than I am straightway forced to beat a retreat.\u201d\n\n\u201cAy, old man,\u201d said Babbalanja, \u201cmany of us Mardians are but sorry\nhosts to ourselves. Some hearts are hermits.\u201d\n\n\u201cIf not of yourself, then, Yoomy, of whom else do you think?\u201d asked\nMedia.\n\n\u201cMy lord, I seldom think,\u201d said Yoomy, \u201cI but give ear to the voices in\nmy calm.\u201d\n\n\u201cDid Babbalanja speak?\u201d said Media. \u201cBut no more of your reveries;\u201d and\nso saying Media gradually sunk into a reverie himself.\n\nThe rest did likewise; and soon, with eyes enchanted, all reclined:\ngazing at each other, witless of what we did.\n\nIt was Media who broke the spell; calling for Vee-Vee our page, his\ncalabashes and cups, and nectarines for all.\n\nEyeing his goblet, Media at length threw himself back, and said:\n\u201cBabbalanja, not ten minutes since, we were all absent-minded; now, how\nwould you like to step out of your body, in reality; and, as a spirit,\nhaunt some shadowy grove?\u201d\n\n\u201cBut our lungs are not wholly superfluous, my lord,\u201d said Babbalanja,\nspeaking loud.\n\n\u201cNo, nor our lips,\u201d said Mohi, smacking his over his wine.\n\n\u201cBut could you really be disembodied here in Mardi, Babbalanja, how\nwould you fancy it?\u201d said Media.\n\n\u201cMy lord,\u201d said Babbalanja, speaking through half of a nectarine,\n\u201cdefer putting that question, I beseech, till after my appetite is\nsatisfied; for, trust me, no hungry mortal would forfeit his palate, to\nbe resolved into the impalpable.\u201d\n\n\u201cYet pure spirits we must all become at last, Babbalanja,\u201d said Yoomy,\n\u201ceven the most ignoble.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, so they say, Yoomy; but if all boors be the immortal sires of\nendless dynasties of immortals, how little do our pious patricians bear\nin mind their magnificent destiny, when hourly they scorn their\ncompanionship. And if here in Mardi they can not abide an equality with\nplebeians, even at the altar; how shall they endure them, side by side,\nthroughout eternity? But since the prophet Alma asserts, that Paradise\nis almost entirely made up of the poor and despised, no wonder that\nmany aristocrats of our isles pursue a career, which, according to some\ntheologies, must forever preserve the social distinctions so sedulously\nmaintained in Mardi. And though some say, that at death every thing\nearthy is removed from the spirit, so that clowns and lords both stand\non a footing; yet, according to the popular legends, it has ever been\nobserved of the ghosts of boors when revisiting Mardi, that invariably\nthey rise in their smocks. And regarding our intellectual equality\nhere, how unjust, my lord, that after whole years of days end nights\nconsecrated to the hard gaining of wisdom, the wisest Mardian of us all\nshould in the end find the whole sum of his attainments, at one leap\noutstripped by the veriest dunce, suddenly inspired by light divine.\nAnd though some hold, that all Mardian lore is vain, and that at death\nall mysteries will be revealed; yet, none the less, do they toil and\nponder now. Thus, their tongues have one mind, and their understanding\nanother.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy lord,\u201d said Mohi, \u201cwe have come to the lees; your pardon,\nBabbalanja.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen, Vee-Vee, another calabash! Fill up, Mohi; wash down wine with\nwine. Your cup, Babbalanja; any lees?\u201d\n\n\u201cPlenty, my lord; we philosophers come to the lees very soon.\u201d\n\n\u201cFlood them over, then; but cease not discoursing; thanks be to the\ngods, your mortal palates and tongues can both wag together; fill up, I\nsay, Babbalanja; you are no philosopher, if you stop at the tenth cup;\nendurance is the test of philosophy all Mardi over; drink, I say, and\nmake us wise by precept and example.\u2014Proceed, Yoomy, you look as if you\nhad something to say.\u201d\n\n\u201cThanks, my lord. Just now, Babbalanja, you flew from the subject;\u2014 you\nspoke of boors; but has not the lowliest peasant an eye that can take\nin the vast horizon at a sweep: mountains, vales, plains, and oceans?\nIs such a being nothing?\u201d\n\n\u201cBut can that eye see itself, Yoomy?\u201d said Babbalanja, winking. \u201cTaken\nout of its socket, will it see at all? Its connection with the body\nimparts to it its virtue.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe questions every thing,\u201d cried Mohi. \u201cPhilosopher, have you a head?\u201d\n\n\u201cI have,\u201d said Babbalanja, feeling for it; \u201cI am finished off at the\nhelm very much as other Mardians, Mohi.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy lord, the first yea that ever came from him.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh, Mohi,\u201d said Media, \u201cthe discourse waxes heavy. I fear me we have\nagain come to the lees. Ho, Vee-Vee, a fresh calabash; and with it we\nwill change the subject. Now, Babbalanja, I have this cup to drink, and\nthen a question to propound. Ah, Mohi, rare old wine this; it smacks of\nthe cork. But attention, Philosopher. Supposing you had a wife\u2014which,\nby the way, you have not\u2014would you deem it sensible in her to imagine\nyou no more, because you happened to stroll out of her sight?\u201d\n\n\u201cHowever that might be,\u201d murmured Yoomy, \u201cyoung Nina bewailed herself a\nwidow, whenever Arhinoo, her lord, was absent from her side.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy lord Media,\u201d said Babbalanja, \u201cDuring my absence, my wife would\nhave more reason to conclude that I was not living, than that I was. To\nthe former supposition, every thing tangible around her would tend; to\nthe latter, nothing but her own fond fancies. It is this imagination of\nours, my lord, that is at the bottom of these things. When I am in one\nplace, there exists no other. Yet am I but too apt to fancy the\nreverse. Nevertheless, when I am in Odo, talk not to me of Ohonoo. To\nme it is not, except when I am there. If it be, prove it. To prove it,\nyou carry me thither but you only prove, that to its substantive\nexistence, as cognizant to me, my presence is indispensable. I say\nthat, to me, all Mardi exists by virtue of my sovereign pleasure; and\nwhen I die, the universe will perish with me.\u201d\n\n\u201cCome you of a long-lived race,\u201d said Mohi, \u201cone free from apoplexies?\nI have many little things to accomplish yet, and would not be left in\nthe lurch.\u201d\n\n\u201cHeed him not, Babbalanja,\u201d said Media. \u201cDip your beak again, my eagle,\nand soar.\u201d\n\n\u201cLet us be eagles, then, indeed, my lord: eagle-like, let us look at\nthis red wine without blinking; let us grow solemn, not boisterous,\nwith good cheer.\u201d\n\nThen, lifting his cup, \u201cMy lord, serenely do I pity all who are stirred\none jot from their centers by ever so much drinking of this fluid. Ply\nhim hard as you will, through the live-long polar night, a wise man can\nnot be made drunk. Though, toward sunrise, his body may reel, it will\nreel round its center; and though he make many tacks in going home, he\nreaches it at last; while scores of over-plied fools are foundering by\nthe way. My lord, when wild with much thought, \u2019tis to wine I fly, to\nsober me; its magic fumes breathe over me like the Indian summer, which\nsteeps all nature in repose. To me, wine is no vulgar fire, no fosterer\nof base passions; my heart, ever open, is opened still wider; and\nglorious visions are born in my brain; it is then that I have all Mardi\nunder my feet, and the constellations of the firmament in my soul.\u201d\n\n\u201cSuperb!\u201d cried Yoomy.\n\n\u201cPooh, pooh!\u201d said Mohi, \u201cwho does not see stars at such times? I see\nthe Great Bear now, and the little one, its cub; and Andromeda, and\nPerseus\u2019 chain-armor, and Cassiopea in her golden chair, and the\nbright, scaly Dragon, and the glittering Lyre, and all the jewels in\nOrion\u2019s sword-hilt.\u201d\n\n\u201cAy,\u201d cried Media, \u201cthe study of astronomy is wonderfully facilitated\nby wine. Fill up, old Ptolemy, and tell us should you discover a new\nplanet. Methinks this fluid needs stirring. Ho, Vee-Vee, my scepter! be\nwe sociable. But come, Babbalanja, my gold-headed aquila, return to\nyour theme;\u2014the imagination, if you please.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, then, my lord, I was about to say, that the imagination is the\nVoli-Donzini; or, to speak plainer, the unical, rudimental, and all-\ncomprehending abstracted essence of the infinite remoteness of things.\nWithout it, we were grass-hoppers.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd with it, you mortals are little else; do you not chirp all over,\nMohi? By my demi-god soul, were I not what I am, this wine would almost\nget the better of me.\u201d\n\n\u201cWithout it\u2014\u201d continued Babbalanja.\n\n\u201cWithout what?\u201d demanded Media, starting to his feet. \u201cThis wine?\nTraitor, I\u2019ll stand by this to the last gasp, you are inebriated,\nBabbalanja.\u201d\n\n\u201cPerhaps so, my lord; but I was treating of the imagination, may it\nplease you.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy lord,\u201d added Mohi, \u201cof the unical, and rudimental fundament of\nthings, you remember.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh! there\u2019s none of them sober; proceed, proceed, Azzageddi!\u201d\n\n\u201cMy lord waves his hand like a banner,\u201d murmured Yoomy.\n\n\u201cWithout imagination, I say, an armless man, born, blind, could not be\nmade to believe, that he had a head of hair, since he could neither see\nit, nor feel it, nor has hair any feeling of itself.\u201d\n\n\u201cMethinks though,\u201d said Mohi, \u201cif the cripple had a Tartar for a wife,\nhe would not remain skeptical long.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou all fly off at tangents,\u201d cried Media, \u201cbut no wonder: your mortal\nbrains can not endure much quaffing. Return to your subject,\nBabbalanja. Assume now, Babbalanja,\u2014assume, my dear prince\u2014assume it,\nassume it, I say!\u2014Why don\u2019t you?\u201d\n\n\u201cI am willing to assume any thing you please, my lord: what is it?\u201d\n\n\u201cAh! yes!\u2014Assume that\u2014that upon returning home, you should find your\nwife had newly wedded, under the\u2014the\u2014the metaphysical presumption, that\nbeing no longer visible, you\u2014_you_ Azzageddi, had departed this life;\nin other words, out of sight, out of mind; what then, my dear prince?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy then, my lord, I would demolish my rival in a trice.\u201d\n\n\u201cWould you?\u2014then\u2014then so much for your metaphysics, Bab\u2014Babbalanja.\u201d\n\nBabbalanja rose to his feet, muttering to himself\u2014\u201cIs this assumed, or\nreal?\u2014Can a demi-god be mastered by wine? Yet, the old mythologies make\nbacchanals of the gods. But he was wondrous keen! He felled me, ere he\nfell himself.\u201d\n\n\u201cYoomy, my lord Media is in a very merry mood to-day,\u201d whispered Mohi,\n\u201cbut his counterfeit was not well done. No, no, a bacchanal is not used\nto be so logical in his cups.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLVIII.\nThey Sail Round An Island Without Landing; And Talk Round A Subject\nWithout Getting At It\n\n\nPurposing a visit to Kaleedoni, a country integrally united to\nDominora, our course now lay northward along the western white cliffs\nof the isle. But finding the wind ahead, and the current too strong for\nour paddlers, we were fain to forego our destination; Babbalanja\nobserving, that since in Dominora we had not found Yillah, then in\nKaleedoni the maiden could not be lurking.\n\nAnd now, some conversation ensued concerning the country we were\nprevented from visiting. Our chronicler narrated many fine things of\nits people; extolling their bravery in war, their amiability in peace,\ntheir devotion in religion, their penetration in philosophy, their\nsimplicity and sweetness in song, their loving-kindness and frugality\nin all things domestic:\u2014running over a long catalogue of heroes,\nmeta-physicians, bards, and good men.\n\nBut as all virtues are convertible into vices, so in some cases did the\nbest traits of these people degenerate. Their frugality too often\nbecame parsimony; their devotion grim bigotry; and all this in a\ngreater degree perhaps than could be predicated of the more immediate\nsubjects of King Bello.\n\nIn Kaleedoni was much to awaken the fervor of its bards. Upland and\nlowland were full of the picturesque; and many unsung lyrics yet lurked\nin her glens. Among her blue, heathy hills, lingered many tribes, who\nin their wild and tattooed attire, still preserved the garb of the\nmightiest nation of old times. They bared the knee, in token that it\nwas honorable as the face, since it had never been bent.\n\nWhile Braid-Beard was recounting these things, the currents were\nsweeping us over a strait, toward a deep green island, bewitching to\nbehold.\n\nNot greener that midmost terrace of the Andes, which under a torrid\nmeridian steeps fair Quito in the dews of a perpetual spring;\u2014not\ngreener the nine thousand feet of Pirohitee\u2019s tall peak, which, rising\nfrom out the warm bosom of Tahiti, carries all summer with it into the\nclouds;\u2014nay, not greener the famed gardens of Cyrus,\u2014than the vernal\nlawn, the knoll, the dale of beautiful Verdanna.\n\n\u201cAlas, sweet isle! Thy desolation is overrun with vines,\u201d sighed Yoomy,\ngazing.\n\n\u201cLand of caitiff curs!\u201d cried Media.\n\n\u201cIsle, whose future is in its past. Hearth-stone, from which its\nchildren run,\u201d said Babbalanja.\n\n\u201cI can not read thy chronicles for blood, Verdanna,\u201d murmured Mohi.\n\nGliding near, we would have landed, but the rolling surf forbade. Then\nthrice we circumnavigated the isle for a smooth, clear beach; but it\nwas not found.\n\nMeanwhile all still conversed.\n\n\u201cMy lord,\u201d said Yoomy, \u201cwhile we tarried with King Bello, I heard much\nof the feud between Dominora and this unhappy shore. Yet is not\nVerdanna as a child of King Bello\u2019s?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, minstrel, a step-child,\u201d said Mohi.\n\n\u201cBy way of enlarging his family circle,\u201d said Babbalanja, \u201can old lion\nonce introduced a deserted young stag to his den; but the stag never\nbecame domesticated, and would still charge upon his foster-brothers.\n\u2014Verdanna is not of the flesh and blood of Dominora, whence, in good\npart, these dissensions.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut Babbalanja, is there no way of reconciling these foes?\u201d\n\n\u201cBut one way, Yoomy:\u2014By filling up this strait with dry land; for,\ndivided by water, we Mardians must ever remain more or less divided at\nheart. Though Kaleedoni was united to Dominora long previous to the\nunion of Verdanna, yet Kaleedoni occasions Bello no disquiet; for,\ngeographically one, the two populations insensibly blend at the point\nof junction. No hostile strait flows between the arms, that to embrace\nmust touch.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut, Babbalanja,\u201d said Yoomy, \u201cwhat asks Verdanna of Dominora, that\nVerdanna so clamors at the denial?\u201d\n\n\u201cThey are arrant cannibals, Yoomy,\u201d said Media, \u201cand desire the\nprivilege of eating each other up.\u201d\n\n\u201cKing Bello\u2019s idea,\u201d said Babbalanja; \u201cbut, in these things, my lord,\nyou demi-gods are ever unanimous. But, whatever be Verdanna\u2019s demands,\nBello persists in rejecting them.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy not grant every thing she asks, even to renouncing all claim upon\nthe isle,\u201d said Mohi; \u201cfor thus, Bello would rid himself of many\nperplexities.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd think you, old man,\u201d said Media, \u201cthat, bane or blessing, Bello\nwill yield his birthright? Will a tri-crowned king resign his triple\ndiadem? And even did Bello what you propose he would only breed still\ngreater perplexities. For if granted, full soon would Verdanna be glad\nto surrender many things she demands. And all she now asks, she has had\nin times past; but without turning it to advantage:\u2014and is she wiser\nnow?\u201d\n\n\u201cDoes she not demand her harvests, my lord?\u201d said Yoomy, \u201cand has not\nthe reaper a right to his sheaf?\u201d\n\n\u201cCant! cant! Yoomy. If you reap for me, the sheaf is mine.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut if the reaper reaps on his own harvest-field, whose then the\nsheaf, my lord?\u201d said Babbalanja.\n\n\u201cHis for whom he reaps\u2014his lord\u2019s!\u201d\n\n\u201cThen let the reaper go with sickle and with sword,\u201d said Yoomy, \u201cwith\none hand, cut down the bearded grain; and with the other, smite his\nbearded lords.\u201d\n\n\u201cThou growest fierce, in thy lyric moods, my warlike dove,\u201d said\n\u2018Media, blandly. \u201cBut for thee, philosopher, know thou, that Verdanna\u2019s\nmen are of blood and brain inferior to Bello\u2019s native race; and the\nbetter Mardian must ever rule.\u201d\n\n\u201cVerdanna inferior to Dominora, my lord!\u2014Has she produced no bards, no\norators, no wits, no patriots? Mohi, unroll thy chronicles! Tell me, if\nVerdanna may not claim full many a star along King Bello\u2019s tattooed arm\nof Fame?\n\n\u201cEven so,\u201d said Mohi. \u201cMany chapters bear you out.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut my lord,\u201d said Babbalanja, \u201cas truth, omnipresent, lurks in all\nthings, even in lies: so, does some germ of it lurk in the calumnies\nheaped on the people of this land. For though they justly boast of many\nlustrous names, these jewels gem no splendid robe. And though like a\nbower of grapes, Verdanna is full of gushing juices, spouting out in\nbright sallies of wit, yet not all her grapes make wine; and here and\nthere, hang goodly clusters mildewed; or half devoured by worms, bred\nin their own tendrils.\u201d\n\n\u201cDrop, drop your grapes and metaphors!\u201d cried Media. \u201cBring forth your\nthoughts like men; let them come naked into Mardi.\u2014What do you mean,\nBabbalanja?\u201d\n\n\u201cThis, my lord, Verdanna\u2019s worst evils are her own, not of another\u2019s\ngiving. Her own hand is her own undoer. She stabs herself with bigotry,\nsuperstition, divided councils, domestic feuds, ignorance, temerity;\nshe wills, but does not; her East is one black storm-cloud, that never\nbursts; her utmost fight is a defiance; she showers reproaches, where\nshe should rain down blows. She stands a mastiff baying at the moon.\u201d\n\n\u201cTropes on tropes!\u201d said. Media. \u201cLet me tell the tale,\u2014straight-\nforward like a line. Verdanna is a lunatic\u2014\u201d\n\n\u201cA trope! my lord,\u201d cried Babbalanja.\n\n\u201cMy tropes are not tropes,\u201d said Media, \u201cbut yours are.\u2014Verdanna is a\nlunatic, that after vainly striving to cut another\u2019s throat, grimaces\nbefore a standing pool and threatens to cut his own. And is such a\nmadman to be intrusted with himself? No; let another govern him, who is\nungovernable to himself Ay, and tight hold the rein; and curb, and rasp\nthe bit. Do I exaggerate?\u2014Mohi, tell me, if, save one lucid interval,\nVerdanna, while independent of Dominora, ever discreetly conducted her\naffairs? Was she not always full of fights and factions? And what first\nbrought her under the sway of Bello\u2019s scepter? Did not her own Chief\nDermoddi fly to Bello\u2019s ancestor for protection against his own\nseditious subjects? And thereby did not her own king unking himself?\nWhat wonder, then, and where the wrong, if Henro, Bello\u2019s conquering\nsire, seized the diadem?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat my lord cites is true,\u201d said Mohi, \u201cbut cite no more, I pray;\nlest, you harm your cause.\u201d\n\n\u201cYet for all this, Babbalanja,\u201d said Media, \u201cBello but holds lunatic\nVerdanna\u2019s lands in trust.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd may the guardian of an estate also hold custody of the ward, my\nlord?\u201d\n\n\u201cAy, if he can. What _can_ be done, may be: that\u2019s the Greed of demi-\ngods.\u201d\n\n\u201cAlas, alas!\u201d cried Yoomy, \u201cwhy war with words over this poor,\nsuffering land. See! for all her bloom, her people starve; perish her\nyams, ere taken from the soil; the blight of heaven seems upon them.\u201d\n\n\u201cNot so,\u201d said Media. \u201cHeaven sends no blights. Verdanna will not\nlearn. And if from one season\u2019s rottenss, rottenness they sow again,\nrottenness must they reap. But Yoomy, you seem earnest in this\nmatter;\u2014come: on all hands it is granted that evils exist in Verdanna;\nnow sweet Sympathizer, what must the royal Bello do to mend them?\u201d\n\n\u201cI am no sage,\u201d said Yoomy, \u201cwhat would my lord Media do?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat would _you_ do, Babbalanja,\u201d said Media.\n\n\u201cMohi, what you?\u201d asked the philosopher.\n\n\u201cAnd what would the company do?\u201d added Mohi.\n\n\u201cNow, though these evils pose us all,\u201d said Babbalanja, \u201cthere lately\ndied in Verdanna, one, who set about curing them in a humane and\npeaceable way, waving war and bloodshed. That man was Konno. Under a\nhuge caldron, he kept a roaring fire.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, Azzageddi, how could that answer his purpose?\u201d asked Media.\n\n\u201cNothing better, my lord. His fire boiled his bread-fruit; and so\nconvinced were his countrymen, that he was well employed, that they\nalmost stripped their scanty orchards to fill his caldron.\u201d\n\n\u201cKonno was a knave,\u201d said Mohi.\n\n\u201cYour pardon, old man, but that is only known to his ghost, not to us.\nAt any rate he was a great man; for even assuming he cajoled his\ncountry, no common man could have done it.\u201d\n\n\u201cBabbalanja,\u201d said Mohi, \u201cmy lord has been pleased to pronounce\nVerdanna crazy; now, may not her craziness arise from the irritating,\ntantalizing practices of Dominora?\u201d\n\n\u201cDoubtless, Braid-Beard, many of the extravagances of Verdanna, are in\ngood part to be ascribed to the cause you mention; but, to be\nimpartial, none the less does Verdanna essay to taunt and provoke\nDominora; yet not with the like result. Perceive you, Braid-Beard, that\nthe trade-wind blows dead across this strait from Dominora, and not\nfrom Verdanna? Hence, when King Bello\u2019s men fling gibes and insults,\nevery missile hits; but those of Verdanna are blown back in its teeth:\nher enemies jeering her again and again.\u201d\n\n\u201cKing Bello\u2019s men are dastards for that,\u201d cried Yoomy. \u201cIt shows\nneither sense, nor spirit, nor humanity,\u201d said Babbalanja.\n\n\u201cAll wide of the mark,\u201d cried Media. \u201cWhat is to be done for Verdanna?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat will she do for herself?\u201d said Babbalanja.\n\n\u201cPhilosopher, you are an extraordinary sage; and since sages should be\nseers, reveal Verdanna\u2019s future.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy lord, you will ever find true prophets, prudent; nor will any\nprophet risk his reputation upon predicting aught concerning this land.\nThe isles are Oro\u2019s. Nevertheless, he who doctors Verdanna aright, will\nfirst medicine King Bello; who in some things is, himself a patient,\nthough he would fain be a physician. However, my lord, there is a demon\nof a doctor in Mardi, who at last deals with these desperate cases. He\nemploys only pills, picked off the Conroupta Quiancensis tree.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd what sort of a vegetable is that?\u201d asked Mohi. \u201cConsult the\nbotanists,\u201d said Babbalanja.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLIX.\nThey Draw Nigh To Porpheero; Where They Behold A Terrific Eruption\n\n\nGliding away from Verdanna at the turn of the tide, we cleared the\nstrait, and gaining the more open lagoon, pointed our prows for\nPorpheero, from whose magnificent monarchs my lord Media promised\nhimself a glorious reception.\n\n\u201cThey are one and all demi-gods,\u201d he cried, \u201cand have the old demi-god\nfeeling. We have seen no great valleys like theirs:\u2014their scepters are\nlong as our spears; to their sumptuous palaces, Donjalolo\u2019s are but\ninns:\u2014their banquetting halls are as vistas; no generations run\nparallel to theirs:\u2014their pedigrees reach back into chaos.\n\n\u201cBabbalanja! here you will find food for philosophy:\u2014the whole land\ncheckered with nations, side by side contrasting in costume, manners,\nand mind. Here you will find science and sages; manuscripts in miles;\nbards singing in choirs.\n\n\u201cMohi! here you will flag over your page; in Porpheero the ages have\nhived all their treasures: like a pyramid, the past shadows over the\nland.\n\n\u201cYoomy! here you will find stuff for your songs:\u2014blue rivers flowing\nthrough forest arches, and vineyards; velvet meads, soft as ottomans:\nbright maidens braiding the golden locks of the harvest; and a\nbackground of mountains, that seem the end of the world. Or if nature\nwill not content you, then turn to the landscapes of art. See! mosaic\nwalls, tattooed like our faces; paintings, vast as horizons; and into\nwhich, you feel you could rush: See! statues to which you could off\nturban; cities of columns standing thick as mankind; and firmanent\ndomes forever shedding their sunsets of gilding: See! spire behind\nspire, as if the land were the ocean, and all Bello\u2019s great navy were\nriding at anchor.\n\n\u201cNoble Taji! you seek for your Yillah;\u2014give over despair! Porpheero\u2019s\nsuch a scene of enchantment, that there, the lost maiden must lurk.\u201d\n\n\u201cA glorious picture!\u201d cried Babbalanja, but turn the medal, my lord;\u2014\nwhat says the reverse?\u201d\n\n\u201cCynic! have done.\u2014But bravo! we\u2019ll ere long be in Franko, the\ngoodliest vale of them all; how I long to take her old king by the\nhand!\u201d\n\nThe sun was now setting behind us, lighting up the white cliffs of\nDominora, and the green capes of Verdanna; while in deep shade lay\nbefore us the long winding shores of Porpheero.\n\nIt was a sunset serene.\n\n\u201cHow the winds lowly warble in the dying day\u2019s ear,\u201d murmured Yoomy.\n\n\u201cA mild, bright night, we\u2019ll have,\u201d said Media.\n\n\u201cSee you not those clouds over Franko, my lord,\u201d said Mohi, shaking his\nhead.\n\n\u201cAh, aged and weather-wise as ever, sir chronicler;\u2014I predict a fair\nnight, and many to follow.\u201d\n\n\u201cPatience needs no prophet,\u201d said Babbalanja. \u201cThe night, is at hand.\u201d\n\nHitherto the lagoon had been smooth: but anon, it grew black, and\nstirred; and out of the thick darkness came clamorous sounds. Soon,\nthere shot into the air a vivid meteor, which bursting at the zenith,\nradiated down the firmament in fiery showers, leaving treble darkness\nbehind.\n\nThen as all held their breath, from Franko there spouted an eruption,\nwhich seemed to plant all Mardi in the foreground.\n\nAs when Vesuvius lights her torch, and in the blaze, the storm-swept\nsurges in Naples\u2019 bay rear and plunge toward it; so now, showed\nFranko\u2019s multitudes, as they stormed the summit where their monarch\u2019s\npalace blazed, fast by the burning mountain.\n\n\u201cBy my eternal throne!\u201d cried Media, starting, \u201cthe old volcano has\nburst forth again!\u201d\n\n\u201cBut a new vent, my lord,\u201d said Babbalanja.\n\n\u201cMore fierce this, than the eruption which happened in my youth,\u201d said\nMohi\u2014\u201cmethinks that Franko\u2019s end has come.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou look pale, my lord,\u201d said Babbalanja, \u201cwhile all other faces\nglow;\u2014Yoomy, doff that halo in the presence of a king.\u201d\n\nOver the waters came a rumbling sound, mixed with the din of warfare,\nand thwarted by showers of embers that fell not, for the whirling\nblasts.\n\n\u201cOff shore! off shore!\u201d cried Media; and with all haste we gained a\nplace of safety.\n\nDown the valley now poured Rhines and Rhones of lava, a fire-freshet,\nflooding the forests from their fastnesses, and leaping with them into\nthe seething sea.\n\nThe shore was lined with multitudes pushing off wildly in canoes.\n\nMeantime, the fiery storm from Franko, kindled new flames in the\ndistant valleys of Porpheero; while driven over from Verdanna came\nfrantic shouts, and direful jubilees. Upon Dominora a baleful glare was\nresting.\n\n\u201cThrice cursed flames!\u201d cried Media. \u201cIs Mardi to be one conflagration?\nHow it crackles, forks, and roars!\u2014Is this our funeral pyre?\u201d\n\n\u201cRecline, recline, my lord,\u201d said Babbalanja. \u201cFierce flames are ever\nbrief\u2014a song, sweet Yoomy! Your pipe, old Mohi! Greater fires than this\nhave ere now blazed in Mardi. Let us be calm;\u2014the isles were made to\nburn;\u2014Braid-Beard! hereafter, in some quiet cell, of this whole scene\nyou will but make one chapter;\u2014come, digest it now.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy face is scorched,\u201d cried Media.\n\n\u201cThe last, last day!\u201d cried Mohi.\n\n\u201cNot so, old man,\u201d said Babbalanja, \u201cwhen that day dawns, \u2019twill dawn\nserene. Be calm, be calm, my potent lord.\u201d\n\n\u201cTalk not of calm brows in storm-time!\u201d cried Media fiercely. \u201cSee! how\nthe flames blow over upon Dominora!\u201d\n\n\u201cYet the fires they kindle there are soon extinguished,\u201d said\nBabbalanja. \u201cNo, no; Dominora ne\u2019er can burn with Franko\u2019s fires; only\nthose of her own kindling may consume her.\u201d\n\n\u201cAway! Away!\u201d cried Media. \u201cWe may not touch Porpheero now.\u2014Up sails!\nand westward be our course.\u201d\n\nSo dead before the blast, we scudded.\n\nMorning broke, showing no sign of land.\n\n\u201cHard must it go with Franko\u2019s king,\u201d said Media, \u201cwhen his people rise\nagainst him with the red volcanoes. Oh, for a foot to crush them! Hard,\ntoo, with all who rule in broad Porpheero. And may she we seek, survive\nthis conflagration!\u201d\n\n\u201cMy lord,\u201d said Babbalanja, \u201cwhere\u2019ere she hide, ne\u2019er yet did Yillah\nlurk in this Porpheero; nor have we missed the maiden, noble Taji! in\nnot touching at its shores.\u201d\n\n\u201cThis fire must make a desert of the land,\u201d said Mohi; \u201cburn up and\nbury all her tilth.\u201d\n\n\u201cYet, Mohi, vineyards flourish over buried villages,\u201d murmured Yoomy.\n\n\u201cTrue, minstrel,\u201d said Babbalanja, \u201cand prairies are purified by fire.\nAshes breed loam. Nor can any skill make the same surface forever\nfruitful. In all times past, things have been overlaid; and though the\nfirst fruits of the marl are wild and poisonous, the palms at last\nspring forth; and once again the tribes repose in shade. My lord, if\ncalms breed storms, so storms calms; and all this dire commotion must\neventuate in peace. It may be, that Perpheero\u2019s future has been cheaply\nwon.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER L.\nWherein King Media Celebrates The Glories Of Autumn, The Minstrel, The\nPromise Of Spring\n\n\n\u201cHo, now!\u201d cried Media, \u201cacross the wide waters, for that New Mardi,\nVivenza! Let us indeed see, whether she who eludes us elsewhere, he at\nlast found in Vivenza\u2019s vales.\u201d\n\n\u201cThere or nowhere, noble Taji,\u201d said Yoomy.\n\n\u201cBe not too sanguine, gentle Yoomy,\u201d said Babbalanja.\n\n\u201cDoes Yillah choose rather to bower in the wild wilderness of Vivenza,\nthan in the old vineyards of Porpheero?\u201d said Braid-Beard.\n\nSang Yoomy:\u2014\nHer bower is not of the vine,\nBut the wild, wild eglantine!\nNot climbing a moldering arch,\nBut upheld by the fir-green larch.\n    Old ruins she flies:\n    To new valleys she hies:\u2014\n    Not the hoar, moss-wood,\n    Ivied trees each a rood\u2014\n    Not in Maramma she dwells,\n    Hollow with hermit cells.\n\n        \u2019Tis a new, new isle!\n        An infant\u2019s its smile,\n            Soft-rocked by the sea.\n        Its bloom all in bud;\n        No tide at its flood,\n            In that fresh-born sea!\n\nSpring! Spring! where she dwells,\nIn her sycamore dells,\nWhere Mardi is young and new:\nIts verdure all eyes with dew.\n\nThere, there! in the bright, balmy morns,\nThe young deer sprout their horns,\nDeep-tangled in new-branching groves,\nWhere the Red-Rover Robin roves,\u2014\n\n            Stooping his crest,\n            To his molting breast\u2014\n        Rekindling the flambeau there!\n    Spring! Spring! where she dwells,\n    In her sycamore dells:\u2014\n    Where, fulfilling their fates,\n    All creatures seek mates\u2014\n        The thrush, the doe, and the hare!\n\n\n\u201cThou art most musical, sweet Yoomy,\u201d said Media. \u201cconcerning this\nspring-land Vivenza. But are not the old autumnal valleys of Porpheero\nmore glorious than those of vernal Vivenza? Vivenza shows no trophies\nof the summer time, but Dominora\u2019s full-blown rose hangs blushing on\nher garden walls; her autumn groves are glory-dyed.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy lord, autumn soon merges in winter, but the spring has all the\nseasons before. The full-blown rose is nearer withering than the bud.\nThe faint morn is a blossom: the crimson sunset the flower.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LI.\nIn Which Azzageddi Seems To Use Babbalanja For A Mouth-Piece\n\n\nPorpheero far astern, the spirits of the company rose. Once again, old\nMohi serenely unbraided, and rebraided his beard; and sitting Turk-wise\non his mat, my lord Media smoking his gonfalon, diverted himself with\nthe wild songs of Yoomy, the wild chronicles of Mohi, or the still\nwilder speculations of Babbalanja; now and then, as from pitcher to\npitcher, pouring royal old wine down his soul.\n\nAmong other things, Media, who at times turned over Babbalanja for an\nencyclopaedia, however unreliable, demanded information upon the\nsubject of neap tides and their alleged slavish vassalage to the moon.\n\nWhen true to his cyclopaediatic nature, Babbalanja quoted from a still\nolder and better authority than himself; in brief, from no other than\neternal Bardianna. It seems that that worthy essayist had discussed the\nwhole matter in a chapter thus headed: \u201cOn Seeing into Mysteries\nthrough Mill-Stones;\u201c and throughout his disquisitions he evinced such\na profundity of research, though delivered in a style somewhat\nequivocal, that the company were much struck by the erudition\ndisplayed.\n\n\u201cBabbalanja, that Bardianna of yours must have been a wonderful\nstudent,\u201d said Media after a pause, \u201cno doubt he consumed whole\nthickets of rush-lights.\u201d\n\n\u201cNot so, my lord.\u2014\u2018Patience, patience, philosophers,\u2019 said Bardianna;\n\u2018blow out your tapers, bolt not your dinners, take time, wisdom will be\nplenty soon.\u2019\u201d\n\n\u201cA notable hint! Why not follow it, Babbalanja?\u201d\n\n\u201cBecause, my lord, I have overtaken it, and passed on.\u201d\n\n\u201cTrue to your nature, Babbalanja; you stay nowhere.\u201d\n\n\u201cAy, keep moving is my motto; but speaking of hard students, did my\nlord ever hear of Midni the ontologist and entomologist?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen, my lord, you shall hear of him now. Midni was of opinion that\nday-light was vulgar; good enough for taro-planting and traveling; but\nwholly unadapted to the sublime ends of study. He toiled by night; from\nsunset to sunrise poring over the works of the old logicans. Like most\nphilosophers, Midni was an amiable man; but one thing invariably put\nhim out. He read in the woods by glow-worm light; insect in hand,\ntracing over his pages, line by line. But glow-worms burn not long: and\nin the midst of some calm intricate thought, at some imminent comma,\nthe insect often expired, and Midni groped for a meaning. Upon such an\noccasion, \u2018Ho, Ho,\u2019 he cried; \u2018but for one instant of sun-light to see\nmy way to a period!\u2019 But sun-light there was none; so Midni sprang to\nhis feet, and parchment under arm, raced about among the sloughs and\nbogs for another glow-worm. Often, making a rapid descent with his\nturban, he thought he had caged a prize; but nay. Again he tried; yet\nwith no better succcess. Nevertheless, at last he secured one; but\nhardly had he read three lines by its light, when out it went. Again\nand again this occurred. And thus he forever went halting and stumbling\nthrough his studies, and plunging through his quagmires after a glim.\u201d\n\nAt this ridiculous tale, one of our silliest paddlers burst into\nuncontrollable mirth. Offended at which breach of decorum, Media\nsharply rebuked him.\n\nBut he protested he could not help laughing.\n\nAgain Media was about to reprimand him, when Babbalanja begged leave to\ninterfere.\n\n\u201cMy lord, he is not to blame. Mark how earnestly he struggles to\nsuppress his mirth; but he can not. It has often been the same with\nmyself. And many a time have I not only vainly sought to check my\nlaughter, but at some recitals I have both laughed and cried. But can\nopposite emotions be simultaneous in one being? No. I wanted to weep;\nbut my body wanted to smile, and between us we almost choked. My lord\nMedia, this man\u2019s body laughs; not the man himself.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut his body is his own, Babbalanja; and he should have it under\nbetter control.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe common error, my lord. Our souls belong to our bodies, not our\nbodies to our souls. For which has the care of the other? which keeps\nhouse? which looks after the replenishing of the aorta and auricles,\nand stores away the secretions? Which toils and ticks while the other\nsleeps? Which is ever giving timely hints, and elderly warnings? Which\nis the most authoritative?\u2014Our bodies, surely. At a hint, you must\nmove; at a notice to quit, you depart. Simpletons show us, that a body\ncan get along almost without a soul; but of a soul getting along\nwithout a body, we have no tangible and indisputable proof. My lord,\nthe wisest of us breathe involuntarily. And how many millions there are\nwho live from day to day by the incessant operation of subtle processes\nin them, of which they know nothing, and care less? Little ween they,\nof vessels lacteal and lymphatic, of arteries femoral and temporal; of\npericranium or pericardium; lymph, chyle, fibrin, albumen, iron in the\nblood, and pudding in the head; they live by the charity of their\nbodies, to which they are but butlers. I say, my lord, our bodies are\nour betters. A soul so simple, that it prefers evil to good, is lodged\nin a frame, whose minutest action is full of unsearchable wisdom.\nKnowing this superiority of theirs, our bodies are inclined to be\nwillful: our beards grow in spite of us; and as every one knows, they\nsometimes grow on dead men.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou mortals are alive, then, when you are dead, Babbalanja.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, my lord; but our beards survive us.\u201d\n\n\u201cAn ingenious distinction; go on, philosopher.\u201d\n\n\u201cWithout bodies, my lord, we Mardians would be minus our strongest\nmotive-passions, those which, in some way or other, root under our\nevery action. Hence, without bodies, we must be something else than we\nessentially are. Wherefore, that saying imputed to Alma, and which, by\nhis very followers, is deemed the most hard to believe of all his\ninstructions, and the most at variance with all preconceived notions of\nimmortality, I Babbalanja, account the most reasonable of his doctrinal\nteachings. It is this;\u2014that at the last day, every man shall rise in\nthe flesh.\u201d\n\n\u201cPray, Babbalanja, talk not of resurrections to a demi-god.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen let me rehearse a story, my lord. You will find it in the \u2018Very\nMerry Marvelings\u2019 of the Improvisitor Quiddi; and a quaint book it is.\nFugle-fi is its finis:\u2014fugle-fi, fugle-fo, fugle-fogle-orum!\u201d\n\n\u201cThat wild look in his eye again,\u201d murmured Yoomy. \u201cProceed,\nAzzageddi,\u201d said Media.\n\n\u201cThe philosopher Grando had a sovereign contempt for his carcass. Often\nhe picked a quarrel with it; and always was flying out in its\ndisparagement. \u2018Out upon you, you beggarly body! you clog, drug, drag!\nYou keep me from flying; I could get along better without you. Out upon\nyou, I say, you vile pantry, cellar, sink, sewer; abominable body! what\nvile thing are you not? And think you, beggar! to have the upper hand\nof me? Make a leg to that man if you dare, without my permission. This\nsmell is intolerable; but turn from it, if you can, unless I give the\nword. Bolt this yam!\u2014it is done. Carry me across yon field!\u2014off we go.\nStop!\u2014it\u2019s a dead halt. There, I\u2019ve trained you enough for to-day; now,\nsirrah, crouch down in the shade, and be quiet.\u2014I\u2019m rested. So, here\u2019s\nfor a stroll, and a reverie homeward:\u2014 Up, carcass, and march.\u2019 So the\ncarcass demurely rose and paced, and the philosopher meditated. He was\nintent upon squaring the circle; but bump he came against a bough. \u2018How\nnow, clodhopping bumpkin! you would take advantage of my reveries,\nwould you? But I\u2019ll be even with you;\u2019 and seizing a cudgel, he laid\nacross his shoulders with right good will. But one of his backhanded\nthwacks injured his spinal cord; the philosopher dropped; but presently\ncame to. \u2018Adzooks! I\u2019ll bend or break you! Up, up, and I\u2019ll run you\nhome for this.\u2019 But wonderful to tell, his legs refused to budge; all\nsensation had left them. But a huge wasp happening to sting his foot,\nnot him, for he felt it not, the leg incontinently sprang into the air,\nand of itself, cut all manner of capers. Be still! Down with you!\u2019 But\nthe leg refused. \u2018My arms are still loyal,\u2019 thought Grando; and with\nthem he at last managed to confine his refractory member. But all\ncommands, volitions, and persuasions, were as naught to induce his\nlimbs to carry him home. It was a solitary place; and five days after,\nGrando the philosopher was found dead under a tree.\u201d\n\n\u201cHa, ha!\u201d laughed Media, \u201cAzzageddi is full as merry as ever.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut, my lord,\u201d continued Babbalanja, \u201csome creatures have still more\nperverse bodies than Grando\u2019s. In the fables of Ridendiabola, this is\nto be found. \u2018A fresh-water Polyp, despising its marine existence;\nlonged to live upon air. But all it could do, its tentacles or arms\nstill continued to cram its stomach. By a sudden preternatural impulse,\nhowever, the Polyp at last turned itself inside out; supposing that\nafter such a proceeding it would have no gastronomic interior. But its\nbody proved ventricle outside as well as in. Again its arms went to\nwork; food was tossed in, and digestion continued.\u2019\u201d\n\n\u201cIs the literal part of that a fact?\u201d asked Mohi.\n\n\u201cTrue as truth,\u201d said Babbalanja; \u201cthe Polyp will live turned inside\nout.\u201d\n\n\u201cSomewhat curious, certainly,\u201d said Media.\u2014\u201cBut me-thinks, Babbalanja,\nthat somewhere I have heard something about organic functions, so\ncalled; which may account for the phenomena you mention; and I have\nheard too, me-thinks, of what are called reflex actions of the nerves,\nwhich, duly considered, might deprive of its strangeness that story of\nyours concerning Grande and his body.\u201d\n\n\u201cMere substitutions of sounds for inexplicable meanings, my lord. In\nsome things science cajoles us. Now, what is undeniable of the Polyp\nsome physiologists analogically maintain with regard to us Mardians;\nthat forasmuch, as the lining of our interiors is nothing more than a\ncontinuation of the epidermis, or scarf-skin, therefore, that in a\nremote age, we too must have been turned wrong side out: an hypothesis,\nwhich, indirectly might account for our moral perversities: and also,\nfor that otherwise nonsensical term\u2014\u2018the coat of the stomach;\u2019 for\noriginally it must have been a surtout, instead of an inner garment.\u201d\n\n\u201cPray, Azzageddi,\u201d said Media, \u201care you not a fool?\u201d\n\n\u201cOne of a jolly company, my lord; but some creatures besides wearing\ntheir surtouts within, sport their skeletons without: witness the\nlobster and turtle, who alive, study their own anatomies.\u201d\n\n\u201cAzzageddi, you are a zany.\u201d\n\n\u201cPardon, my lord,\u201d said Mohi, \u201cI think him more of a lobster; it\u2019s hard\ntelling his jaws from his claws.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, Braid-Beard, I am a lobster, a mackerel, any thing you please;\nbut my ancestors were kangaroos, not monkeys, as old Boddo erroneously\nopined. My idea is more susceptible of demonstration than his. Among\nthe deepest discovered land fossils, the relics of kangaroos are\ndiscernible, but no relics of men. Hence, there were no giants in those\ndays; but on the contrary, kangaroos; and those kangaroos formed the\nfirst edition of mankind, since revised and corrected.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat has become of our finises, or tails, then?\u201d asked Mohi, wriggling\nin his seat.\n\n\u201cThe old question, Mohi. But where are the tails of the tadpoles, after\ntheir gradual metamorphosis into frogs? Have frogs any tails, old man?\nOur tails, Mohi, were worn off by the process of civilization;\nespecially at the period when our fathers began to adopt the sitting\nposture: the fundamental evidence of all civilization, for neither\napes, nor savages, can be said to sit; invariably, they squat on their\nhams. Among barbarous tribes benches and settles are unknown. But, my\nlord Media, as your liege and loving subject I can not sufficiently\ndeplore the deprivation of your royal tail. That stiff and vertebrated\nmember, as we find it in those rustic kinsmen we have disowned, would\nhave been useful as a supplement to your royal legs; and whereas my\ngood lord is now fain to totter on two stanchions, were he only a\nkangaroo, like the monarchs of old, the majesty of Odo would be\ndignified, by standing firm on a tripod.\u201d\n\n\u201cA very witty conceit! But have a care, Azzageddi; your theory applies\nnot to me.\u201d\n\n\u201cBabbalanja,\u201d said Mohi, \u201cyou must be the last of the kangaroos.\u201d\n\n\u201cI am, Mohi.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut the old fashioned pouch or purse of your grandams?\u201d hinted Media.\n\n\u201cMy lord, I take it, that must have been transferred; nowadays our sex\ncarries the purse.\u201d\n\n\u201cHa, ha!\u201d\n\n\u201cMy lord, why this mirth? Let us be serious. Although man is no longer\na kangaroo, he may be said to be an inferior species of plant. Plants\nproper are perhaps insensible of the circulation of their sap: we\nmortals are physically unconscious of the circulation of the blood; and\nfor many ages were not even aware of the fact. Plants know nothing of\ntheir interiors:\u2014three score years and ten we trundle about ours, and\nnever get a peep at them; plants stand on their stalks:\u2014we stalk on our\nlegs; no plant flourishes over its dead root:\u2014dead in the grave, man\nlives no longer above ground; plants die without food:\u2014so we. And now\nfor the difference. Plants elegantly inhale nourishment, without\nlooking it up: like lords, they stand still and are served; and though\ngreen, never suffer from the colic:\u2014whereas, we mortals must forage all\nround for our food: we cram our insides; and are loaded down with\nodious sacks and intestines. Plants make love and multiply; but excel\nus in all amorous enticements, wooing and winning by soft pollens and\nessences. Plants abide in one place, and live: we must travel or die.\nPlants flourish without us: we must perish without them.\u201d\n\n\u201cEnough Azzageddi!\u201d cried Media. \u201cOpen not thy lips till to-morrow.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LII.\nThe Charming Yoomy Sings\n\n\nThe morrow came; and three abreast, with snorting prows, we raced\nalong; our mat-sails panting to the breeze. All present partook of the\nlife of the air; and unanimously Yoomy was called upon for a song. The\ncanoes were passing a long, white reef, sparkling with shells, like a\njeweler\u2019s case: and thus Yoomy sang in the same old strain as of yore;\nbeginning aloud, where he had left off in his soul:\u2014\n\n        Her sweet, sweet mouth!\n    The peach-pearl shell:\u2014\nRed edged its lips,\n    That softly swell,\nJust oped to speak,\nWith blushing cheek,\n    That fisherman\nWith lonely spear\n    On the reef ken,\nAnd lift to ear\nIts voice to hear,\u2014\n    Soft sighing South!\nLike this, like this,\u2014\nThe rosy kiss!\u2014\n    That maiden\u2019s mouth.\nA shell! a shell!\nA vocal shell!\n    Song-dreaming,\nIn its inmost dell!\n\nHer bosom! Two buds half blown, they tell;\nA little valley between perfuming;\n            That roves away,\n            Deserting the day,\u2014\n    The day of her eyes illuming;\u2014\nThat roves away, o\u2019er slope and fell,\nTill a soft, soft meadow becomes the dell.\n\n\nThus far, old Mohi had been wriggling about in his seat, twitching his\nbeard, and at every couplet looking up expectantly, as if he desired\nthe company to think, that he was counting upon that line as the last;\nBut now, starting to his feet, he exclaimed, \u201cHold, minstrel! thy\nmuse\u2019s drapery is becoming disordered: no more!\u201d\n\n\u201cThen no more it shall be,\u201d said Yoomy, \u201cBut you have lost a glorious\nsequel.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LIII.\nThey Draw Nigh Unto Land\n\n\nIn good time, after many days sailing, we snuffed the land from afar,\nand came to a great country, full of inland mountains, north and south\nstretching far out of sight. \u201cAll hail, Kolumbo!\u201d cried Yoomy.\n\nCoasting by a portion of it, which Mohi called Kanneeda, a province of\nKing Bello\u2019s, we perceived the groves rocking in the wind; their\nflexible boughs bending like bows; and the leaves flying forth, and\ndarkening the landscape, like flocks of pigeons.\n\n\u201cThose groves must soon fall,\u201d said Mohi.\n\n\u201cNot so,\u201d said Babbalanja. \u201cMy lord, as these violent gusts are formed\nby the hostile meeting of two currents, one from over the lagoon, the\nother from land; they may be taken as significant of the occasional\nvariances between Kanneeda and Dominora.\u201d\n\n\u201cAy,\u201d said Media, \u201cand as Mohi hints, the breeze from Dominora must\nsoon overthrow the groves of Kanneeda.\u201d\n\n\u201cNot if the land-breeze holds, my lord;\u2014one breeze oft blows another\nhome.\u2014Stand up, and gaze! From cape to cape, this whole main we see, is\nyoung and froward. And far southward, past this Kanneeda and Vivenza,\nare haughty, overbearing streams, which at their mouths dam back the\nocean, and long refuse to mix their freshness with the foreign\nbrine:\u2014so bold, so strong, so bent on hurling off aggression is this\nbrave main, Kolumbo;\u2014last sought, last found, Mardi\u2019s estate, so long\nkept back;\u2014pray Oro, it be not squandered foolishly. Here lie\nplantations, held in fee by stout hearts and arms; and boundless\nfields, that may be had for seeing. Here, your foes are forests, struck\ndown with bloodless maces.\u2014Ho! Mardi\u2019s Poor, and Mardi\u2019s Strong! ye,\nwho starve or beg; seventh-sons who slave for earth\u2019s first-born\u2014here\nis your home; predestinated yours; Come over, Empire-founders! fathers\nof the wedded tribes to come!\u2014abject now, illustrious evermore:\u2014Ho:\nSinew, Brawn, and Thigh!\u201d\n\n\u201cA very fine invocation,\u201d said Media, \u201cnow Babbalanja, be seated; and\ntell us whether Dominora and the kings of Porpheero do not own some\nsmall portion of this great continent, which just now you poetically\npronounced as the spoil of any vagabonds who may choose to settle\ntherein? Is not Kanneeda, Dominora\u2019s?\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd was not Vivenza once Dominora\u2019s also? And what Vivenza now is,\nKanneeda soon must be. I speak not, my lord, as wishful of what I say,\nbut simply as foreknowing it. The thing must come. Vain for Dominora to\nclaim allegiance from all the progeny she spawns. As well might the old\npatriarch of the flood reappear, and claim the right of rule over all\nmankind, as descended from the loins of his three roving sons.\n\n\u201c\u2019Tis the old law:\u2014the East peoples the West, the West the East; flux\nand reflux. And time may come, after the rise and fall of nations yet\nunborn, that, risen from its future ashes, Porpheero shall be the\npromised land, and from her surplus hordes Kolumbo people it.\u201d\n\nStill coasting on, next day, we came to Vivenza; and as Media desired\nto land first at a point midway between its extremities, in order to\nbehold the convocation of chiefs supposed to be assembled at this\nseason, we held on our way, till we gained a lofty ridge, jutting out\ninto the lagoon, a bastion to the neighboring land. It terminated in a\nlofty natural arch of solid trap. Billows beat against its base. But\nabove, waved an inviting copse, wherein was revealed an open temple of\ncanes, containing one only image, that of a helmeted female, the\ntutelar deity of Vivenza.\n\nThe canoes drew near.\n\n\u201cLo! what inscription is that?\u201d cried Media, \u201cthere, chiseled over the\narch?\u201d\n\nStudying those immense hieroglyphics awhile, antiquarian Mohi still\neyeing them, said slowly:\u2014\u201cIn-this-re-publi-can-land-all-men-are-\nborn-free-and-equal.\u201d\n\n\u201cFalse!\u201d said Media.\n\n\u201cAnd how long stay they so?\u201d said Babbalanja.\n\n\u201cBut look lower, old man,\u201d cried Media, \u201cmethinks there\u2019s a small\nhieroglyphic or two hidden away in yonder angle.\u2014Interpret them, old\nman.\u201d\n\nAfter much screwing of his eyes, for those characters were very minute,\nChampollion Mohi thus spoke\u2014\u201d Except-the-tribe-of-Hamo.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat nullifies the other,\u201d cried Media. \u201cAh, ye republicans!\u201d\n\n\u201cIt seems to have been added for a postscript,\u201d rejoined Braid-Beard,\nscrewing his eyes again.\n\n\u201cPerhaps so,\u201d said Babbalanja, \u201cbut some wag must have done it.\u201d\n\nShooting through the arch, we rapidly gained the beach.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LIV.\nThey Visit The Great Central Temple Of Vivenza\n\n\nThe throng that greeted us upon landing were exceedingly boisterous.\n\n\u201cWhence came ye?\u201d they cried. \u201cWhither bound? Saw ye ever such a land\nas this? Is it not a great and extensive republic? Pray, observe how\ntall we are; just feel of our thighs; Are we not a glorious people?\nHere, feel of our beards. Look round; look round; be not afraid; Behold\nthose palms; swear now, that this land surpasses all others. Old\nBello\u2019s mountains are mole-hills to ours; his rivers, rills; his\nempires, villages; his palm-trees, shrubs.\u201d\n\n\u201cTrue,\u201d said Babbalanja. \u201cBut great Oro must have had some hand in\nmaking your mountains and streams.\u2014Would ye have been as great in a\ndesert?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhere is your king?\u201d asked Media, drawing himself up in his robe, and\ncocking his crown.\n\n\u201cHa, ha, my fine fellow! We are all kings here; royalty breathes in the\ncommon air. But come on, come on. Let us show you our great Temple of\nFreedom.\u201d\n\nAnd so saying, irreverently grasping his sacred arm, they conducted us\ntoward a lofty structure, planted upon a bold hill, and supported by\nthirty pillars of palm; four quite green; as if recently added; and\nbeyond these, an almost interminable vacancy, as if all the palms in\nMardi, were at some future time, to aid in upholding that fabric.\n\nUpon the summit of the temple was a staff; and as we drew nigh, a man\nwith a collar round his neck, and the red marks of stripes upon his\nback, was just in the act of hoisting a tappa standard\u2014 correspondingly\nstriped. Other collared menials were going in and out of the temple.\n\nNear the porch, stood an image like that on the top of the arch we had\nseen. Upon its pedestal, were pasted certain hieroglyphical notices;\naccording to Mohi, offering rewards for missing men, so many hands\nhigh.\n\nEntering the temple, we beheld an amphitheatrical space, in the middle\nof which, a great fire was burning. Around it, were many chiefs, robed\nin long togas, and presenting strange contrasts in their style of\ntattooing.\n\nSome were sociably laughing, and chatting; others diligently making\nexcavations between their teeth with slivers of bamboo; or turning\ntheir heads into mills, were grinding up leaves and ejecting their\njuices. Some were busily inserting the down of a thistle into their\nears. Several stood erect, intent upon maintaining striking attitudes;\ntheir javelins tragically crossed upon their chests. They would have\nlooked very imposing, were it not, that in rear their vesture was sadly\ndisordered. Others, with swelling fronts, seemed chiefly indebted to\ntheir dinners for their dignity. Many were nodding and napping. And,\nhere and there, were sundry indefatigable worthies, making a great show\nof imperious and indispensable business; sedulously folding banana\nleaves into scrolls, and recklessly placing them into the hands of\nlittle boys, in gay turbans and trim little girdles, who thereupon fled\nas if with salvation for the dying.\n\nIt was a crowded scene; the dusky chiefs, here and there, grouped\ntogether, and their fantastic tattooings showing like the carved work\non quaint old chimney-stacks, seen from afar. But one of their number\novertopped all the rest. As when, drawing nigh unto old Rome, amid the\ncrowd of sculptured columns and gables, St. Peter\u2019s grand dome soars\nfar aloft, serene in the upper air; so, showed one calm grand forehead\namong those of this mob of chieftains. That head was Saturnina\u2019s. Gall\nand Spurzheim! saw you ever such a brow?\u2014poised like an avalanche,\nunder the shadow of a forest! woe betide the devoted valleys below!\nLavatar! behold those lips,\u2014like mystic scrolls! Those eyes,\u2014 like\npanthers\u2019 caves at the base of Popocatepetl!\n\n\u201cBy my right hand, Saturnina,\u201d cried Babbalanja, \u201cbut thou wert made in\nthe image of thy Maker! Yet, have I beheld men, to the eye as\ncommanding as thou; and surmounted by heads globe-like as thine, who\nnever had thy caliber. We must measure brains, not heads, my lord;\nelse, the sperm whale, with his tun of an occiput, would transcend us\nall.\u201d\n\nNear by, were arched ways, leading to subterranean places, whence\nissued a savory steam, and an extraordinary clattering of calabashes,\nand smacking of lips, as if something were being eaten down there by\nthe fattest of fat fellows, with the heartiest of appetites, and the\nmost irresistible of relishes. It was a quaffing, guzzling, gobbling\nnoise. Peeping down, we beheld a company, breasted up against a board,\ngroaning under numerous viands. In the middle of all, was a mighty\ngreat gourd, yellow as gold, and jolly round like a pumpkin in October,\nand so big it must have grown in the sun. Thence flowed a tide of red\nwine. And before it, stood plenty of paunches being filled therewith\nlike portly stone jars at a fountain. Melancholy to tell, before that\nfine flood of old wine, and among those portly old topers, was a lean\nman; who occasionally ducked in his bill. He looked like an ibis\nstanding in the Nile at flood tide, among a tongue-lapping herd of\nhippopotami.\n\nThey were jolly as the jolliest; and laughed so uproariously, that\ntheir hemispheres all quivered and shook, like vast provinces in an\nearthquake. Ha! ha! ha! how they laughed, and they roared. A deaf man\nmight have heard them; and no milk could have soured within a\nforty-two-pounder ball shot of that place.\n\nNow, the smell of good things is no very bad thing in itself. It is the\nsavor of good things beyond; proof positive of a glorious good meal. So\nsnuffing up those zephyrs from Araby the blest, those boisterous gales,\nblowing from out the mouths of baked boars, stuffed with bread-fruit,\nbananas, and sage, we would fain have gone down and partaken.\n\nBut this could not be; for we were told that those worthies below, were\na club in secret conclave; very busy in settling certain weighty state\naffairs upon a solid basis, They were all chiefs of immense\ncapacity:\u2014how many gallons, there was no finding out.\n\nBe sure, now, a most riotous noise came up from those catacombs, which\nseemed full of the ghosts of fat Lamberts; and this uproar it was, that\nheightened the din above-ground.\n\nBut heedless of all, in the midst of the amphitheater, stood a tall,\ngaunt warrior, ferociously tattooed, with a beak like a buzzard; long\ndusty locks; and his hands full of headless arrows. He was laboring\nunder violent paroxysms; three benevolent individuals essaying to hold\nhim. But repeatedly breaking loose, he burst anew into his delirium;\nwhile with an absence of sympathy, distressing to behold, the rest of\nthe assembly seemed wholly engrossed with themselves; nor did they\nappear to care how soon the unfortunate lunatic might demolish himself\nby his frantic proceedings.\n\nToward one side of the amphitheatrical space, perched high upon an\nelevated dais, sat a white-headed old man with a tomahawk in his hand:\nearnestly engaged in overseeing the tumult; though not a word did he\nsay. Occasionally, however, he was regarded by those present with a\nmysterious sort of deference; and when they chanced to pass between him\nand the crazy man, they invariably did so in a stooping position;\nprobably to elude the atmospheric grape and cannister, continually\nflying from the mouth of the lunatic.\n\n\u201cWhat mob is this?\u201d cried Media.\n\n\u201c\u2019Tis the grand council of Vivenza,\u201d cried a bystander. \u201cHear ye not\nAlanno?\u201d and he pointed to the lunatic.\n\nNow coming close to Alanno, we found, that with incredible volubility,\nhe was addressing the assembly upon some all-absorbing subject\nconnected with King Bello, and his presumed encroachments toward the\nnorthwest of Vivenza.\n\nOne hand smiting his hip, and the other his head, the lunatic thus\nproceeded; roaring like a wild beast, and beating the air like a\nwindmill:\u2014\n\n\u201cI have said it! the thunder is flashing, the lightning is crashing!\nalready there\u2019s an earthquake in Dominora! Full soon will old Bello\ndiscover that his diabolical machinations against this ineffable land\nmust soon come to naught. Who dare not declare, that we are not\ninvincible? I repeat it, we are. Ha! ha! Audacious Bello must bite the\ndust! Hair by hair, we will trail his gory gray beard at the end of our\nspears! Ha, ha! I grow hoarse; but would mine were a voice like the\nwild bulls of Bullorom, that I might be heard from one end of this\ngreat and gorgeous land to its farthest zenith; ay, to the uttermost\ndiameter of its circumference. Awake! oh Vivenza. The signs of the\ntimes are portentous; nay, extraordinary; I hesitate not to add,\npeculiar! Up! up! Let us not descend to the bathos, when we should soar\nto the climax! Does not all Mardi wink and look on? Is the great sun\nitself a frigid spectator? Then let us double up our mandibles to the\ndeadly encounter. Methinks I see it now. Old Bello is crafty, and his\noath is recorded to obliterate us! Across this wide lagoon he casts his\nserpent eyes; whets his insatiate bill; mumbles his barbarous tusks;\nlicks his forked tongues; and who knows when we shall have the shark in\nour midst? Yet be not deceived; for though as yet, Bello has forborn\nmolesting us openly, his emissaries are at work; his infernal sappers,\nand miners, and wet-nurses, and midwives, and grave- diggers are busy!\nHis canoe-yards are all in commotion! In navies his forests are being\nlaunched upon the wave; and ere long typhoons, zephyrs, white-squalls,\nbalmy breezes, hurricanes, and besoms will be raging round us!\u201d\n\nHis philippic concluded, Alanno was conducted from the place; and being\nnow quite exhausted, cold cobble-stones were applied to his temples,\nand he was treated to a bath in a stream.\n\nThis chieftain, it seems, was from a distant western valley, called\nHio-Hio, one of the largest and most fertile in Vivenza, though but\nrecently settled. Its inhabitants, and those of the vales adjoining,\u2014 a\nright sturdy set of fellows,\u2014were accounted the most dogmatically\ndemocratic and ultra of all the tribes in Vivenza; ever seeking to push\non their brethren to the uttermost; and especially were they bitter\nagainst Bello. But they were a fine young tribe, nevertheless. Like\nstrong new wine they worked violently in becoming clear. Time, perhaps,\nwould make them all right.\n\nAn interval of greater uproar than ever now ensued; during which, with\nhis tomahawk, the white-headed old man repeatedly thumped and pounded\nthe seat where he sat, apparently to augment the din, though he looked\nanxious to suppress it.\n\nAt last, tiring of his posture, he whispered in the ear of a chief, his\nfriend; who, approaching a portly warrior present, prevailed upon him\nto rise and address the assembly. And no sooner did this one do so,\nthan the whole convocation dispersed, as if to their yams; and with a\ngrin, the little old man leaped from his seat, and stretched his legs\non a mat.\n\nThe fire was now extinguished, and the temple deserted.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LV.\nWherein Babbalanja Comments Upon The Speech Of Alanno\n\n\nAs we lingered in the precincts of the temple after all others had\ndeparted, sundry comments were made upon what we had seen; and having\nremarked the hostility of the lunatic orator toward Dominora,\nBabbalanja thus addressed Media:\u2014\n\n\u201cMy lord, I am constrained to believe, that all Vivenza can not be of\nthe same mind with the grandiloquent chief from Hio-Hio. Nevertheless,\nI imagine, that between Dominora and this land, there exists at bottom\na feeling akin to animosity, which is not yet wholly extinguished;\nthough but the smoldering embers of a once raging fire. My lord, you\nmay call it poetry if you will, but there are nations in Mardi, that to\nothers stand in the relation of sons to sires. Thus with Dominora and\nVivenza. And though, its majority attained, Vivenza is now its own\nmaster, yet should it not fail in a reverential respect for its parent.\nIn man or nation, old age is honorable; and a boy, however tall, should\nnever take his sire by the beard. And though Dominora did indeed ill\nmerit Vivenza\u2019s esteem, yet by abstaining from criminations, Vivenza\nshould ever merit its own. And if in time to come, which Oro forbid,\nVivenza must needs go to battle with King Bello, let Vivenza first\ncross the old veteran\u2019s spear with all possible courtesy. On the other\nhand, my lord, King Bello should never forget, that whatever be\nglorious in Vivenza, redounds to himself. And as some gallant old lord\nproudly measures the brawn and stature of his son; and joys to view in\nhis noble young lineaments the likeness of his own; bethinking him,\nthat when at last laid in his tomb, he will yet survive in the long,\nstrong life of his child, the worthy inheritor of his valor and renown;\neven so, should King Bello regard the generous promise of this young\nVivenza of his own lusty begetting. My lord, behold these two states!\nOf all nations in the Archipelago, they alone are one in blood.\nDominora is the last and greatest Anak of Old Times; Vivenza, the\nforemost and goodliest stripling of the Present. One is full of the\npast; the other brims with the future. Ah! did this sire\u2019s old heart\nbut beat to free thoughts, and back his bold son, all Mardi would go\ndown before them. And high Oro may have ordained for them a career,\nlittle divined by the mass. Methinks, that as Vivenza will never cause\nold Bello to weep for his son; so, Vivenza will not, this many a long\nyear, be called to weep over the grave of its sire. And though King\nBello may yet lay aside his old-fashioned cocked hat of a crown, and\ncomply with the plain costume of the times; yet will his, frame remain\nsturdy as of yore, and equally grace any habiliments he may don. And\nthose who say, Dominora is old and worn out, may very possibly err. For\nif, as a nation, Dominora be old\u2014her present generation is full as\nyoung as the youths in any land under the sun. Then, Ho! worthy twain!\nEach worthy the other, join hands on the instant, and weld them\ntogether. Lo! the past is a prophet. Be the future, its prophecy\nfulfilled.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LVI.\nA Scene In The Land Of Warwicks, Or King-Makers\n\n\nWending our way from the temple, we were accompanied by a fluent,\nobstreperous wight, one Znobbi, a runaway native of Porpheero, but now\nan enthusiastic inhabitant of Vivenza.\n\n\u201cHere comes our great chief!\u201d he cried. \u201cBehold him! It was _I_ that\nhad a hand in making him what he is!\u201d\n\nAnd so saying, he pointed out a personage, no way distinguished, except\nby the tattooing on his forehead\u2014stars, thirty in number; and an\nuncommonly long spear in his hand. Freely he mingled with the crowd.\n\n\u201cBehold, how familiar I am with him!\u201d cried Znobbi, approaching, and\npitcher-wise taking him by the handle of his face.\n\n\u201cFriend,\u201d said the dignitary, \u201cthy salute is peculiar, but welcome. I\nreverence the enlightened people of this land.\u201d\n\n\u201cMean-spirited hound!\u201d muttered Media, \u201cwere I him, I had impaled that\naudacious plebeian.\u201d\n\n\u201cThere\u2019s a Head-Chief for you, now, my fine fellow!\u201d cried Znobbi.\n\u201cHurrah! Three cheers! Ay, ay! All kings here\u2014all equal. Every thing\u2019s\nin common.\u201d\n\nHere, a bystander, feeling something grazing his side, looked down; and\nperceived Znobbi\u2019s hand in clandestine vicinity to the pouch at his\ngirdle-end.\n\nWhereupon the crowd shouted, \u201cA thief! a thief!\u201d And with a loud voice\nthe starred chief cried\u2014\u201cSeize him, people, and tie him to yonder\ntree.\u201d\n\nAnd they seized, and tied him on the spot.\n\n\u201cAh,\u201d said Media, \u201cthis chief has something to say, after all; he\npinions a king at a word, though a plebeian takes him by the nose.\nBeshrew me, I doubt not, that spear of his, though without a tassel, is\nlonger and sharper than mine.\u201d\n\n\u201cThere\u2019s not so much freedom here as these freemen think,\u201d said\nBabbalanja, turning; \u201cI laugh and admire.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LVII.\nThey Hearken Unto A Voice From The Gods\n\n\nNext day we retraced our voyage northward, to visit that section of\nVivenza.\n\nIn due time we landed.\n\nTo look round was refreshing. Of all the lands we had seen, none looked\nmore promising. The groves stood tall and green; the fields spread\nflush and broad; the dew of the first morning seemed hardly vanished\nfrom the grass. On all sides was heard the fall of waters, the swarming\nof bees, and the rejoicing hum of a thriving population.\n\n\u201cHa, ha!\u201d laughed Yoomy, \u201cLabor laughs in this land; and claps his\nhands in the jubilee groves! methinks that Yillah will yet be found.\u201d\n\nGenerously entertained, we tarried in this land; till at length, from\nover the Lagoon, came full tidings of the eruption we had witnessed in\nFranko, with many details. The conflagration had spread through\nPorpheero and the kings were to and fro hunted, like malefactors by\nblood-hounds; all that part of Mardi was heaving with throes.\n\nWith the utmost delight, these tidings were welcomed by many; yet\nothers heard them with boding concern.\n\nThose, too, there were, who rejoiced that the kings were cast down; but\nmourned that the people themselves stood not firmer. A victory, turned\nto no wise and enduring account, said they, is no victory at all. Some\nvictories revert to the vanquished.\n\nBut day by day great crowds ran down to the beach, in wait for canoes\nperiodically bringing further intelligence.\n\nEvery hour new cries startled the air. \u201cHurrah! another, kingdom is\nburnt down to the earth\u2019s edge; another demigod is unhelmed; another\nrepublic is dawning. Shake hands, freemen, shake hands! Soon will we\nhear of Dominora down in the dust; of hapless Verdanna free as\nourselves; all Porpheero\u2019s volcanoes are bursting! Who may withstand\nthe people? The times tell terrible tales to tyrants! Ere we die,\nfreemen, all Mardi will be free.\u201d\n\nOverhearing these shouts, Babbalanja thus addressed Media:\u2014\u201cMy lord, I\ncan not but believe, that these men, are far more excited than those\nwith whom they so ardently sympathize. But no wonder. The single\ndischarges which are heard in Porpheero; here come condensed in one\ntremendous report. Every arrival is a firing off of events by\nplatoons.\u201d\n\nNow, during this tumultuous interval, King Media very prudently kept\nhimself exceedingly quiet. He doffed his regalia; and in all things\ncarried himself with a dignified discretion. And many hours he absented\nhimself; none knowing whither he went, or what his employment.\n\nSo also with Babbalanja. But still pursuing our search, at last we all\njourneyed into a great valley, whose inhabitants were more than\ncommonly inflated with the ardor of the times.\n\nRambling on, we espied a clamorous crowd gathered about a conspicuous\npalm, against which, a scroll was fixed.\n\nThe people were violently agitated; storming out maledictions against\nthe insolent knave, who, over night must have fixed there, that\nscandalous document. But whoever he may have been, certain it was, he\nhad contrived to hood himself effectually.\n\nAfter much vehement discussion, during which sundry inflammatory\nharangues were made from the stumps of trees near by, it was proposed,\nthat the scroll should be read aloud, so that all might give ear.\n\nSeizing it, a fiery youth mounted upon the bowed shoulders of an old\nman, his sire; and with a shrill voice, ever and anon interrupted by\noutcries, read as follows:\u2014\n\n\u201cSovereign-kings of Vivenza! it is fit you should hearken to wisdom.\nBut well aware, that you give ear to little wisdom except of your own;\nand that as freemen, you are free to hunt down him who dissents from\nyour majesties; I deem it proper to address you anonymously.\n\n\u201cAnd if it please you, you may ascribe this voice to the gods: for\nnever will you trace it to man.\n\n\u201cIt is not unknown, sovereign-kings! that in these boisterous days, the\nlessons of history are almost discarded, as superseded by present\nexperiences. And that while all Mardi\u2019s Present has grown out of its\nPast, it is becoming obsolete to refer to what has been. Yet,\nperadventure, the Past is an apostle.\n\n\u201cThe grand error of this age, sovereign-kings! is the general\nsupposition, that the very special Diabolus is abroad; whereas, the\nvery special Diabolus has been abroad ever since Mardi began.\n\n\u201cAnd the grand error of your nation, sovereign-kings! seems this:\u2014The\nconceit that Mardi is now in the last scene of the last act of her\ndrama; and that all preceding events were ordained, to bring about the\ncatastrophe you believe to be at hand,\u2014a universal and permanent\nRepublic.\n\n\u201cMay it please you, those who hold to these things are fools, and not\nwise.\n\n\u201cTime is made up of various ages; and each thinks its own a novelty.\nBut imbedded in the walls of the pyramids, which outrun all\nchronologies, sculptured stones are found, belonging to yet older\nfabrics. And as in the mound-building period of yore, so every age\nthinks its erections will forever endure. But as your forests grow\napace, sovereign-kings! overrunning the tumuli in your western vales;\nso, while deriving their substance from the past, succeeding\ngenerations overgrow it; but in time, themselves decay.\n\n\u201cOro decrees these vicissitudes.\n\n\u201cIn chronicles of old, you read, sovereign kings! that an eagle from\nthe clouds presaged royalty to the fugitive Taquinoo; and a king,\nTaquinoo reigned; No end to my dynasty, thought he.\n\n\u201cBut another omen descended, foreshadowing the fall of Zooperbi, his\nson; and Zooperbi returning from his camp, found his country a fortress\nagainst him. No more kings would she have. And for five hundred\ntwelve-moons the Regifugium or King\u2019s-flight, was annually celebrated\nlike your own jubilee day. And rampant young orators stormed out\ndetestation of kings; and augurs swore that their birds presaged\nimmortality to freedom.\n\n\u201cThen, Romara\u2019s free eagles flew over all Mardi, and perched on the\ntopmost diadems of the east.\n\n\u201cEver thus must it be.\n\n\u201cFor, mostly, monarchs are as gemmed bridles upon the world, checking\nthe plungings of a steed from the Pampas. And republics are as vast\nreservoirs, draining down all streams to one level; and so, breeding a\nfullness which can not remain full, without overflowing. And thus,\nRomara flooded all Mardi, till scarce an Ararat was left of the lofty\nkingdoms which had been.\n\n\u201cThus, also, did Franko, fifty twelve-moons ago. Thus may she do again.\nAnd though not yet, have you, sovereign-kings! in any large degree done\nlikewise, it is because you overflow your redundancies within your own\nmighty borders; having a wild western waste, which many shepherds with\ntheir flocks could not overrun in a day. Yet overrun at last it will\nbe; and then, the recoil must come.\n\n\u201cAnd, may it please you, that thus far your chronicles had narrated a\nvery different story, had your population been pressed and packed, like\nthat of your old sire-land Dominora. Then, your great experiment might\nhave proved an explosion; like the chemist\u2019s who, stirring his mixture,\nwas blown by it into the air.\n\n\u201cFor though crossed, and recrossed by many brave quarterings, and\nboasting the great Bull in your pedigree; yet, sovereign-kings! you are\nnot meditative philosophers like the people of a small republic of old;\nnor enduring stoics, like their neighbors. Pent up, like them, may it\nplease you, your thirteen original tribes had proved more turbulent,\nthan so many mutinous legions. Free horses need wide prairies; and\nfortunate for you, sovereign-kings! that you have room enough, wherein\nto be free.\n\n\u201cAnd, may it please you, you are free, partly, because you are young.\nYour nation is like a fine, florid youth, full of fiery impulses, and\nhard to restrain; his strong hand nobly championing his heart. On all\nsides, freely he gives, and still seeks to acquire. The breath of his\nnostrils is like smoke in spring air; every tendon is electric with\ngenerous resolves. The oppressor he defies to his beard; the high walls\nof old opinions he scales with a bound. In the future he sees all the\ndomes of the East.\n\n\u201cBut years elapse, and this bold boy is transformed. His eyes open not\nas of yore; his heart is shut up as a vice. He yields not a groat; and\nseeking no more acquisitions, is only bent on preserving his hoard. The\nmaxims once trampled under foot, are now printed on his front; and he\nwho hated oppressors, is become an oppressor himself.\n\n\u201cThus, often, with men; thus, often, with nations. Then marvel not,\nsovereign-kings! that old states are different from yours; and think\nnot, your own must forever remain liberal as now.\n\n\u201cEach age thinks its own is eternal. But though for five hundred\ntwelve-moons, all Romara, by courtesy of history, was republican; yet,\nat last, her terrible king-tigers came, and spotted themselves with\ngore.\n\n\u201cAnd time was, when Dominora was republican, down to her sturdy back-\nbone. The son of an absolute monarch became the man Karolus; and his\ncrown and head, both rolled in the dust. And Dominora had her patriots\nby thousands; and lusty Defenses, and glorious Areopagiticas were\nwritten, not since surpassed; and no turban was doffed save in homage\nof Oro.\n\n\u201cYet, may it please you, to the sound of pipe and tabor, the second\nKing Karolus returned in good time; and was hailed gracious majesty by\nhigh and low.\n\n\u201cThroughout all eternity, the parts of the past are but parts of the\nfuture reversed. In the old foot-prints, up and down, you mortals go,\neternally traveling your Sierras. And not more infallible the\nponderings of the Calculating Machine than the deductions from the\ndecimals of history.\n\n\u201cIn nations, sovereign-kings! there is a transmigration of souls; in\nyou, is a marvelous destiny. The eagle of Romara revives in your own\nmountain bird, and once more is plumed for her flight. Her screams are\nanswered by the vauntful cries of a hawk; his red comb yet reeking with\nslaughter. And one East, one West, those bold birds may fly, till they\nlock pinions in the midmost beyond.\n\n\u201cBut, soaring in the sky over the nations that shall gather their\nbroods under their wings, that bloody hawk may hereafter be taken for\nthe eagle.\n\n\u201cAnd though crimson republics may rise in constellations, like fiery\nAldebarans, speeding to their culminations; yet, down must they sink at\nlast, and leave the old sultan-sun in the sky; in time, again to be\ndeposed.\n\n\u201cFor little longer, may it please you, can republics subsist now, than\nin days gone by. For, assuming that Mardi is wiser than of old;\nnevertheless, though all men approached sages in intelligence, some\nwould yet be more wise than others; and so, the old degrees be\npreserved. And no exemption would an equality of knowledge furnish,\nfrom the inbred servility of mortal to mortal; from all the organic\ncauses, which inevitably divide mankind into brigades and battalions,\nwith captains at their head.\n\n\u201cCivilization has not ever been the brother of equality. Freedom was\nborn among the wild eyries in the mountains; and barbarous tribes have\nsheltered under her wings, when the enlightened people of the plain\nhave nestled under different pinions.\n\n\u201cThough, thus far, for you, sovereign-kings! your republic has been\nfruitful of blessings; yet, in themselves, monarchies are not utterly\nevil. For many nations, they are better than republics; for many, they\nwill ever so remain. And better, on all hands, that peace should rule\nwith a scepter, than than the tribunes of the people should brandish\ntheir broadswords. Better be the subject of a king, upright and just;\nthan a freeman in Franko, with the executioner\u2019s ax at every corner.\n\n\u201cIt is not the prime end, and chief blessing, to be politically free.\nAnd freedom is only good as a means; is no end in itself Nor, did man\nfight it out against his masters to the haft, not then, would he\nuncollar his neck from the yoke. A born thrall to the last, yelping out\nhis liberty, he still remains a slave unto Oro; and well is it for the\nuniverse, that Oro\u2019s scepter is absolute.\n\n\u201cWorld-old the saying, that it is easier to govern others, than\noneself. And that all men should govern themselves as nations, needs\nthat all men be better, and wiser, than the wisest of one-man rulers.\nBut in no stable democracy do all men govern themselves. Though an army\nbe all volunteers, martial law must prevail. Delegate your power, you\nleagued mortals must. The hazard you must stand. And though unlike King\nBello of Dominora, your great chieftain, sovereign-kings! may not\ndeclare war of himself; nevertheless, has he done a still more imperial\nthing:\u2014gone to war without declaring intentions. You yourselves were\nprecipitated upon a neighboring nation, ere you knew your spears were\nin your hands.\n\n\u201cBut, as in stars you have written it on the welkin, sovereign-kings!\nyou are a great and glorious people. And verily, yours is the best and\nhappiest land under the sun. But not wholly, because you, in your\nwisdom, decreed it: your origin and geography necessitated it. Nor, in\ntheir germ, are all your blessings to be ascribed to the noble sires,\nwho of yore fought in your behalf, sovereign-kings! Your nation enjoyed\nno little independence before your Declaration declared it. Your\nancient pilgrims fathered your liberty; and your wild woods harbored\nthe nursling. For the state that to-day is made up of slaves, can not\nto-morrow transmute her bond into free; though lawlessness may\ntransform them into brutes. Freedom is the name for a thing that is\n_not_ freedom; this, a lesson never learned in an hour or an age. By\nsome tribes it will never be learned.\n\n\u201cYet, if it please you, there may be such a thing as being free under\nCaesar. Ages ago, there were as many vital freemen, as breathe vital\nair to-day.\n\n\u201cNames make not distinctions; some despots rule without swaying\nscepters. Though King Bello\u2019s palace was not put together by yoked men;\nyour federal temple of freedom, sovereign-kings! was the handiwork of\nslaves.\n\n\u201cIt is not gildings, and gold maces, and crown jewels alone, that make\na people servile. There is much bowing and cringing among you\nyourselves, sovereign-kings! Poverty is abased before riches, all Mardi\nover; any where, it is hard to be a debtor; any where, the wise will\nlord it over fools; every where, suffering is found.\n\n\u201cThus, freedom is more social than political. And its real felicity is\nnot to be shared. _That_ is of a man\u2019s own individual getting and\nholding. It is not, who rules the state, but who rules me. Better be\nsecure under one king, than exposed to violence from twenty millions of\nmonarchs, though oneself be of the number.\n\n\u201cBut superstitious notions you harbor, sovereign kings! Did you visit\nDominora, you would not be marched straight into a dungeon. And though\nyou would behold sundry sights displeasing, you would start to inhale\nsuch liberal breezes; and hear crowds boasting of their privileges; as\nyou, of yours. Nor has the wine of Dominora, a monarchical flavor.\n\n\u201cNow, though far and wide, to keep equal pace with the times, great\nreforms, of a verity, be needed; nowhere are bloody revolutions\nrequired. Though it be the most certain of remedies, no prudent invalid\nopens his veins, to let out his disease with his life. And though all\nevils may be assuaged; all evils can not be done away. For evil is the\nchronic malady of the universe; and checked in one place, breaks forth\nin another.\n\n\u201cOf late, on this head, some wild dreams have departed.\n\n\u201cThere are many, who erewhile believed that the age of pikes and\njavelins was passed; that after a heady and blustering youth, old Mardi\nwas at last settling down into a serene old age; and that the Indian\nsummer, first discovered in your land, sovereign kings! was the hazy\nvapor emitted from its tranquil pipe. But it has not so proved. Mardi\u2019s\npeaces are but truces. Long absent, at last the red comets have\nreturned. And return they must, though their periods be ages. And\nshould Mardi endure till mountain melt into mountain, and all the isles\nform one table-land; yet, would it but expand the old battle-plain.\n\n\u201cStudents of history are horror-struck at the massacres of old; but in\nthe shambles, men are being murdered to-day. Could time be reversed,\nand the future change places with the past, the past would cry out\nagainst us, and our future, full as loudly, as we against the ages\nforegone. All the Ages are his children, calling each other names.\n\n\u201cHark ye, sovereign-kings! cheer not on the yelping pack too furiously:\nHunters have been torn by their hounds. Be advised; wash your hands.\nHold aloof. Oro has poured out an ocean for an everlasting barrier\nbetween you and the worst folly which other republics have perpetrated.\nThat barrier hold sacred. And swear never to cross over to Porpheero,\nby manifesto or army, unless you traverse dry land.\n\n\u201cAnd be not too grasping, nearer home. It is not freedom to filch.\nExpand not your area too widely, now. Seek you proselytes? Neighboring\nnations may be free, without coming under your banner. And if you can\nnot lay your ambition, know this: that it is best served, by waiting\nevents.\n\n\u201cTime, but Time only, may enable you to cross the equator; and give you\nthe Arctic Circles for your boundaries.\u201d\n\nSo read the anonymous scroll; which straightway, was torn into shreds.\n\n\u201cOld tory, and monarchist!\u201d they shouted, \u201cPreaching over his benighted\nsermons in these enlightened times! Fool! does he not know that all the\nPast and its graves are being dug over?\u201d\n\nThey were furious; so wildly rolling their eyes after victims, that\nwell was it for King Media, he wore not his crown; and in silence, we\nmoved unnoted from out the crowd.\n\n\u201cMy lord, I am amazed at the indiscretion of a demigod,\u201d said\nBabbalanja, as we passed on our way; \u201cI recognized your sultanic style\nthe very first sentence. This, then, is the result of your hours of\nseclusion.\u201d\n\n\u201cPhilosopher! I am astounded at your effrontery. I detected your\nphilosophy the very first maxim. Who posted that parchment for you?\u201d\n\nSo, each charged the other with its authorship: and there was no\nfinding out, whether, indeed, either knew aught of its origin.\n\nNow, could it have been Babbalanja? Hardly. For, philosophic as the\ndocument was, it seemed too dogmatic and conservative for him. King\nMedia? But though imperially absolute in his political sentiments,\nMedia delivered not himself so boldly, when actually beholding the\neruption in Franko.\n\nIndeed, the settlement of this question must be left to the\ncommentators on Mardi, some four or five hundred centuries hence.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LVIII.\nThey Visit The Extreme South Of Vivenza\n\n\nWe penetrated further and further into the valleys around; but, though,\nas elsewhere, at times we heard whisperings that promised an end to our\nwanderings;\u2014we still wandered on; and once again, even Yoomy abated his\nsanguine hopes.\n\nAnd now, we prepared to embark for the extreme south of the land.\n\nBut we were warned by the people, that in that portion of Vivenza,\nwhither we were going, much would be seen repulsive to strangers. Such\nthings, however, indulgent visitors overlooked. For themselves, they\nwere well aware of those evils. Northern Vivenza had done all it could\nto assuage them; but in vain; the inhabitants of those southern valleys\nwere a fiery, and intractable race; heeding neither expostulations, nor\nentreaties. They were wedded to their ways. Nay, they swore, that if\nthe northern tribes persisted in intermeddlings, they would dissolve\nthe common alliance, and establish a distinct confederacy among\nthemselves.\n\nOur coasting voyage at an end, our keels grated the beach among many\nprostrate palms, decaying, and washed by the billows. Though part and\nparcel of the shore we had left, this region seemed another land. Fewer\nthriving thingswere seen; fewer cheerful sounds were heard.\n\n\u201cHere labor has lost his laugh!\u201d cried Yoomy.\n\nIt was a great plain where we landed; and there, under a burning sun,\nhundreds of collared men were toiling in trenches, filled with the taro\nplant; a root most flourishing in that soil. Standing grimly over\nthese, were men unlike them; armed with long thongs, which descended\nupon the toilers, and made wounds. Blood and sweat mixed; and in great\ndrops, fell.\n\n\u201cWho eat these plants thus nourished?\u201d cried Yoomy. \u201cAre these men?\u201d\nasked Babbalanja.\n\n\u201cWhich mean you?\u201d said Mohi.\n\nHeeding him not, Babbalanja advanced toward the fore-most of those with\nthe thongs,\u2014one Nulli: a cadaverous, ghost-like man; with a low ridge\nof forehead; hair, steel-gray; and wondrous eyes;\u2014bright, nimble, as\nthe twin Corposant balls, playing about the ends of ships\u2019 royal-yards\nin gales.\n\nThe sun passed under a cloud; and Nulli, darting at Babbalanja those\nwondrous eyes, there fell upon him a baleful glare.\n\n\u201cHave they souls?\u201d he asked, pointing to the serfs.\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d said Nulli, \u201ctheir ancestors may have had; but their souls have\nbeen bred out of their descendants; as the instinct of scent is killed\nin pointers.\u201d\n\nApproaching one of the serfs, Media took him by the hand, and felt of\nit long; and looked into his eyes; and placed his ear to his side; and\nexclaimed, \u201cSurely this being has flesh that is warm; he has Oro in his\neye; and a heart in him that beats. I swear he is a man.\u201d\n\n\u201cIs this our lord the king?\u201d cried Mohi, starting.\n\n\u201cWhat art thou,\u201d said Babbalanja to the serf. \u201cDost ever feel in thee a\nsense of right and wrong? Art ever glad or sad?\u2014They tell us thou art\nnot a man:\u2014speak, then, for thyself; say, whether thou beliest thy\nMaker.\u201d\n\n\u201cSpeak not of my Maker to me. Under the lash, I believe my masters, and\naccount myself a brute; but in my dreams, bethink myself an angel. But\nI am bond; and my little ones;\u2014their mother\u2019s milk is gall.\u201d\n\n\u201cJust Oro!\u201d cried Yoomy, \u201cdo no thunders roll,\u2014no lightnings flash in\nthis accursed land!\u201d\n\n\u201cAsylum for all Mardi\u2019s thralls!\u201d cried Media.\n\n\u201cIncendiaries!\u201d cried he with the wondrous eyes, \u201ccome ye, firebrands,\nto light the flame of revolt? Know ye not, that here are many serfs,\nwho, incited to obtain their liberty, might wreak some dreadful\nvengeance? Avaunt, thou king! _thou_ horrified at this? Go back to Odo,\nand right her wrongs! These serfs are happier than thine; though thine,\nno collars wear; more happy as they are, than if free. Are they not\nfed, clothed, and cared for? Thy serfs pine for food: never yet did\nthese; who have no thoughts, no cares.\u201d\n\n\u201cThoughts and cares are life, and liberty, and immortality!\u201d cried\nBabbalanja; \u201cand are their souls, then, blown out as candles?\u201d\n\n\u201cRanter! they are content,\u201d cried Nulli. \u201cThey shed no tears.\u201d\n\n\u201cFrost never weeps,\u201d said Babbalanja; \u201cand tears are frozen in those\nfrigid eyes.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh fettered sons of fettered mothers, conceived and born in manacles,\u201d\ncried Yoomy; \u201cdragging them through life; and falling with them,\nclanking in the grave:\u2014oh, beings as ourselves, how my stiff arm\nshivers to avenge you! \u2019Twere absolution for the matricide, to strike\none rivet from your chains. My heart outswells its home!\u201d\n\n\u201cOro! Art thou?\u201d cried Babbalanja; \u201cand doth this thing exist? It\nshakes my little faith.\u201d Then, turning upon Nulli, \u201cHow can ye abide to\nsway this curs\u2019d dominion?\u201d\n\n\u201cPeace, fanatic! Who else may till unwholesome fields, but these? And\nas these beings are, so shall they remain; \u2019tis right and righteous!\nMaramma champions it!\u2014I swear it! The first blow struck for them,\ndissolves the union of Vivenza\u2019s vales. The northern tribes well know\nit; and know me.\u201d\n\nSaid Media, \u201cYet if\u2014\u201d\n\n\u201cNo more! another word, and, king as thou art, thou shalt be\ndungeoned:\u2014here, there is such a law; thou art not among the northern\ntribes.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd this is freedom!\u201d murmured Media; \u201cwhen heaven\u2019s own voice is\nthrottled. And were these serfs to rise, and fight for it; like dogs,\nthey would be hunted down by her pretended sons!\u201d\n\n\u201cPray, heaven!\u201d cried Yoomy, \u201cthey may yet find a way to loose their\nbonds without one drop of blood. But hear me, Oro! were there no other\nway, and should their masters not relent, all honest hearts must cheer\nthis tribe of Hamo on; though they cut their chains with blades thrice\nedged, and gory to the haft! \u2019Tis right to fight for freedom, whoever\nbe the thrall.\u201d\n\n\u201cThese South savannahs may yet prove battle-fields,\u201d said Mohi;\ngloomily, as we retraced our steps.\n\n\u201cBe it,\u201d said Yoomy. \u201cOro will van the right.\u201d\n\n\u201cNot always has it proved so,\u201d said Babbalanja. \u201cOft-times, the right\nfights single-handed against the world; and Oro champions none. In all\nthings, man\u2019s own battles, man himself must fight. Yoomy: so far as\nfeeling goes, your sympathies are not more hot than mine; but for these\nserfs you would cross spears; yet, I would not. Better present woes for\nsome, than future woes for all.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo need to fight,\u201d cried Yoomy, \u201cto liberate that tribe of Hamo\ninstantly; a way may be found, and no irretrievable evil ensue.\u201d\n\n\u201cPoint it out, and be blessed, Yoomy.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat is for Vivenza; but the head is dull, where the heart is cold.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy lord,\u201d said Babbalanja, \u201cyou have startled us by your kingly\nsympathy for suffering; say thou, then, in what wise manner it shall be\nrelieved.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat is for Vivenza,\u201d said Media.\n\n\u201cMohi, you are old: speak thou.\u201d\n\n\u201cLet Vivenza speak,\u201d said Mohi.\n\n\u201cThus then we all agree; and weeping all but echo hard-hearted Nulli.\nTears are not swords and wrongs seem almost natural as rights. For the\nrighteous to suppress an evil, is sometimes harder than for others to\nuphold it. Humanity cries out against this vast enormity:\u2014 not one man\nknows a prudent remedy. Blame not, then, the North; and wisely judge\nthe South. Ere, as a nation, they became responsible, this thing was\nplanted in their midst. Such roots strike deep. Place to-day those\nserfs in Dominora; and with them, all Vivenza\u2019s Past;\u2014 and serfs, for\nmany years, in Dominora, they would be. Easy is it to stand afar and\nrail. All men are censors who have lungs. We can say, the stars are\nwrongly marshaled. Blind men say the sun is blind. A thousand muscles\nwag our tongues; though our tongues were housed, that they might have a\nhome. Whose is free from crime, let him cross himself\u2014but hold his\ncross upon his lips. That he is not bad, is not of him. Potters\u2019 clay\nand wax are all, molded by hands invisible. The soil decides the man.\nAnd, ere birth, man wills not to be born here or there. These southern\ntribes have grown up with this thing; bond-women were their nurses, and\nbondmen serve them still. Nor are all their serfs such wretches as\nthose we saw. Some seem happy: yet not as men. Unmanned, they know not\nwhat they are. And though, of all the south, Nulli must stand almost\nalone in his insensate creed; yet, to all wrong-doers, custom backs the\nsense of wrong. And if to every Mardian, conscience be the awarder of\nits own doom; then, of these tribes, many shall be found exempted from\nthe least penalty of this sin. But sin it is, no less;\u2014a blot, foul as\nthe crater-pool of hell; it puts out the sun at noon; it parches all\nfertility; and, conscience or no conscience\u2014ere he die\u2014let every master\nwho wrenches bond-babe from mother, that the nipple tear; unwreathes\nthe arms of sisters; or cuts the holy unity in twain; till apart fall\nman and wife, like one bleeding body cleft:\u2014let that master thrice\nshrive his soul; take every sacrament; on his bended knees give up the\nghost;\u2014yet shall he die despairing; and live again, to die forever\ndamned. The future is all hieroglyphics. Who may read? But, methinks\nthe great laggard Time must now march up apace, and somehow befriend\nthese thralls. It can not be, that misery is perpetually entailed;\nthough, in a land proscribing primogeniture, the first-born and last of\nHamo\u2019s tribe must still succeed to all their sires\u2019 wrongs. Yes.\nTime\u2014all-healing Time\u2014Time, great Philanthropist!\u2014Time must befriend\nthese thralls!\u201d\n\n\u201cOro grant it!\u201d cried Yoomy \u201cand let Mardi say, amen!\u201d\n\n\u201cAmen! amen! amen!\u201d cried echoes echoing echoes.\n\nWe traversed many of these southern vales; but as in Dominora,\u2014so,\nthroughout Vivenza, North and South,\u2014Yillah harbored not.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LIX.\nThey Converse Of The Mollusca, Kings, Toad-Stools And Other Matters\n\n\nOnce more embarking, we gained Vivenza\u2019s southwestern side and there,\nbeheld vast swarms of laborers discharging from canoes, great loads of\nearth; which they tossed upon the beach.\n\n\u201cIt is true, then,\u201d said Media \u201cthat these freemen are engaged in\ndigging down other lands, and adding them to their own, piece-meal. And\nthis, they call extending their dominions agriculturally, and\npeaceably.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy lord, they pay a price for every canoe-load,\u201d said Mohi.\n\n\u201cAy, old man, holding the spear in one hand, and striking the bargain\nwith the other.\u201d\n\n\u201cYet charge it not upon all Vivenza,\u201d said Babbalanja. \u201cSome of her\ntribes are hostile to these things: and when their countryman fight for\nland, are only warlike in opposing war.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd therein, Babbalanja, is involved one of those anomalies in the\ncondition of Vivenza,\u201d said Media, \u201cwhich I can hardly comprehend. How\ncomes it, that with so Many things to divide them, the valley-tribes\nstill keep their mystic league intact?\u201d\n\n\u201cAll plain, it is because the model, whence they derive their union, is\none of nature\u2019s planning. My lord, have you ever observed the\nmysterious federation subsisting among the molluscs of the Tunicata\norder,\u2014in other words, a species of cuttle-fish, abounding at the\nbottom of the lagoon?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes: in clear weather about the reefs, I have beheld them time and\nagain: but never with an eye to their political condition.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh! my lord king, we should not cut off the nervous communication\nbetween our eyes, and our cerebellums.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat were you about to say concerning the Tunicata order of mollusca,\nsir philosopher?\u201d\n\n\u201cMy very honorable lord, I hurry to conclude. They live in a compound\nstructure; but though connected by membranous canals, freely\ncommunicating throughout the league\u2014each member has a heart and stomach\nof its own; provides and digests its own dinners; and grins and bears\nits own gripes, without imparting the same to its neighbors. But if a\nprowling shark touches one member, it ruffles all. Precisely thus now\nwith Vivenza. In that confederacy, there are as many consciences as\ntribes; hence, if one member on its own behalf, assumes aught\nafterwards repudiated, the sin rests on itself alone; is not\nparticipated.\u201d\n\n\u201cA very subtle explanation, Babbalanja. You must allude, then, to those\nrecreant tribes; which, while in their own eyes presenting a sublime\nmoral spectacle to Mardi,\u2014in King Bello\u2019s, do but present a hopeless\nexample of bad debts. And these, the tribes that boast of boundless\nwealth.\u201d\n\n\u201cMost true, my lord. But Bello errs, when for this thing, he\nstigmatizes all Vivenza, as a unity.\u201d\n\n\u201cBabbalanja, you yourself are made up of members:\u2014then, if you be sick\nof a lumbago,\u2014\u2019tis not _you_ that are unwell; but your spine.\u201d\n\n\u201cAs you will, my lord. I have said. But to speak no more on that head\n\u2014what sort of a sensation, think you, life is to such creatures as\nthose mollusca?\u201d\n\n\u201cAnswer your own question, Babbalanja.\u201d\n\n\u201cI will; but first tell me what sort of a sensation life is to you,\nyourself, my lord.\u201d\n\n\u201cPray answer that along with the other, Azzageddi.\u201d\n\n\u201cDirectly; but tell me, if you will, my lord, what sort of a sensation\nlife is to a toad-stool.\u201d\n\n\u201cPray, Babbalanja put all three questions together; and then, do what\nyou have often done before, pronounce yourself a lunatic.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy lord, I beseech you, remind me not of that fact so often. It is\ntrue, but annoying. Nor will any wise man call another a fool.\u201d\n\n\u201cDo you take me for a mere man, then, Babbalanja, that you talk to me\nthus?\u201d\n\n\u201cMy demi-divine lord and master, I was deeply concerned at your\nindisposition last night:\u2014may a loving subject inquire, whether his\nprince is completely recovered from the effect of those guavas?\u201d\n\n\u201cHave a care, Azzageddi; you are far too courteous, to be civil. But\nproceed.\u201d\n\n\u201cI obey. In kings, mollusca, and toad-stools, life is one thing and the\nsame. The Philosopher Dumdi pronounces it a certain febral vibration of\norganic parts, operating upon the vis inertia of unorganized matter.\nBut Bardianna says nay. Hear him. \u2018Who put together this marvelous\nmechanism of mine; and wound it up, to go for three score years and\nten; when it runs out, and strikes Time\u2019s hours no more? And what is\nit, that daily and hourly renews, and by a miracle, creates in me my\nflesh and my blood? What keeps up the perpetual telegraphic\ncommunication between my outpost toes and digits, and that domed\ngrandee up aloft, my brain?\u2014It is not I; nor you; nor he; nor it. No;\nwhen I place my hand to that king muscle my heart, I am appalled. I\nfeel the great God himself at work in me. Oro is life.\u2019\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd what is death?\u201d demanded Media.\n\n\u201cDeath, my lord!\u2014it is the deadest of all things.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LX.\nWherein, That Gallant Gentleman And Demi-God, King Media, Scepter In\nHand, Throws Himself Into The Breach\n\n\nSailing south from Vivenza, not far from its coast, we passed a cluster\nof islets, green as new fledged grass; and like the mouths of floating\ncornucopias, their margins brimmed over upon the brine with flowers. On\nsome, grew stately roses; on others stood twin-pillars; across others,\ntri-hued rainbows rested.\n\nCried Babbalanja, pointing to the last, \u201cFranko\u2019s pledge of peace! with\nthat, she loudly vaunts she\u2019ll span the reef!\u2014Strike out all hues but\nred,\u2014and the token\u2019s nearer truth.\u201d\n\nAll these isles were prolific gardens; where King Bello, and the\nPrinces of Porpheero grew their most delicious fruits,\u2014nectarines and\ngrapes.\n\nBut, though hard by, Vivenza owned no garden here; yet longed and\nlusted; and her hottest tribes oft roundly swore, to root up all roses\nthe half-reef over; pull down all pillars; and dissolve all rainbows.\n\u201cMardi\u2019s half is ours;\u201d said they. Stand back invaders! Full of vanity;\nand mirroring themselves in the future; they deemed all reflected\nthere, their own.\n\n\u2019Twas now high noon.\n\n\u201cMethinks the sun grows hot,\u201d said Media, retreating deeper under the\ncanopy. \u201cHo! Vee-Vee; have you no cooling beverage? none of that golden\nwine distilled from torrid grapes, and then sent northward to be\ncellared in an iceberg? That wine was placed among our stores. Search,\nsearch the crypt, little Vee-Vee! Ha, I see it!\u2014that yellow\ngourd!\u2014Come: drag it forth, my boy. Let\u2019s have the amber cups: so: pass\nthem round;\u2014fill all! Taji! my demi-god, up heart! Old Mohi, my babe,\nmay you live ten thousand centuries! Ah! this way you mortals have of\ndying out at three score years and ten, is but a craven habit. So,\nBabbalanja! may you never die. Yoomy! my sweet poet, may you live to\nsing to me in Paradise. Ha, ha! would that we floated in this glorious\nstuff, instead of this pestilent brine.\u2014Hark ye! were I to make a Mardi\nnow, I\u2019d have every continent a huge haunch of venison; every ocean a\nwine-vat! I\u2019d stock every cavern with choice old spirits, and make\nthree surplus suns to ripen the grapes all the year round. Let\u2019s drink\nto that!\u2014Brimmers! So: may the next Mardi that\u2019s made, be one entire\ngrape; and mine the squeezing!\u201d\n\n\u201cLook, look! my lord,\u201d cried Yoomy, \u201cwhat a glorious shore we pass.\u201d\n\nSallying out into the high golden noon, with golden-beaming goblets\nsuspended, we gazed.\n\n\u201cThis must be Kolumbo of the south,\u201d said Mohi.\n\nIt was a long, hazy reach of land; piled up in terraces, traced here\nand there with rushing streams, that worked up gold dust alluvian, and\nseemed to flash over pebbled diamonds. Heliotropes, sun-flowers,\nmarigolds gemmed, or starred the violet meads, and vassal-like, still\nsunward bowed their heads. The rocks were pierced with grottoes,\nblazing with crystals, many-tinted.\n\nIt was a land of mints and mines; its east a ruby; west a topaz.\nInland, the woodlands stretched an ocean, bottomless with foliage; its\ngreen surges bursting through cable-vines; like Xerxes\u2019 brittle chains\nwhich vainly sought to bind the Hellespont. Hence flowed a tide of\nforest sounds; of parrots, paroquets, macaws; blent with the howl of\njaguars, hissing of anacondas, chattering of apes, and herons\nscreaming.\n\nOut from those depths up rose a stream.\n\nThe land lay basking in the world\u2019s round torrid brisket, hot with\nsolar fire.\n\n\u201cNo need here to land,\u201d cried Yoomy, \u201cYillah lurks not here.\u201d\n\n\u201cHeat breeds life, and sloth, and rage,\u201d said Babbalanja. \u201cHere live\nbastard tribes and mongrel nations; wrangling and murdering to prove\ntheir freedom.\u2014Refill, my lord.\u201d\n\n\u201cMethinks, Babbalanja, you savor of the mysterious parchment, in\nVivenza read:\u2014Ha? Yes, philosopher, these are the men, who toppled\ncastles to make way for hovels; these, they who fought for freedom, but\nfind it despotism to rule themselves. These, Babbalanja, are of the\nrace, to whom a tyrant would prove a blessing.\u201d So saying he drained\nhis cup.\n\n\u201cMy lord, that last sentiment decides the authorship of the scroll.\nBut, with deference, tyrants seldom can prove blessings; inasmuch as\nevil seldom eventuates in good. Yet will these people soon have a\ntyrant over them, if long they cleave to war. Of many javelins, one\nmust prove a scepter; of many helmets, one a crown. It is but in the\nwearing.\u2014Refill, my lord.\u201d\n\n\u201cFools, fools!\u201d cried Media, \u201cthese tribes hate us kings; yet know not,\nthat Peace is War against all kings. We seldom are undone by spears,\nwhich are our ministers.\u2014This wine is strong.\u201d\n\n\u201cHa, now\u2019s the time! In his cups learn king-craft from a king. Ay, ay,\nmy lord, your royal order will endure, so long as men will fight. Break\nthe spears, and free the nations. Kings reap the harvests that wave on\nbattle-fields. And oft you kings do snatch the aloe-flower, whose slow\nblossoming mankind watches for a hundred years.\u2014Say on, my lord.\u201d\n\n\u201cAll this I know; and, therefore, rest content. My children\u2019s children\nwill be kings; though, haply, called by other titles. Mardi grows\nfastidious in names: we royalties will humor it. The steers would burst\ntheir yokes, but have not hands. The whole herd rears and plunges, but\nsoon will bow again: the old, old way!\u201d\n\n\u201cYet, in Porpheero, strong scepters have been wrested from anointed\nhands. Mankind seems in arms.\u201d\n\n\u201cLet them arm on. They hate us:\u2014good;\u2014they always have; yet still we\u2019ve\nreigned, son after sire. Sometimes they slay us, Babbalanja; pour out\nour marrow, as I this wine; but they spill no kinless blood. \u2019Twas\njustly held of old, that but to touch a monarch, was to strike at\nOro.\u2014Truth. The palest vengeance is a royal ghost; and regicides but\nfather slaves. Thrones, not scepters, have been broken. Mohi, what of\nthe past? Has it not ever proved so?\u201d\n\n\u201cPardon, my lord; the times seem changed. \u2019Tis held, that demi-gods no\nmore rule by right divine. In Vivenza\u2019s land, they swear the last kings\nnow reign in Mardi.\u201d\n\n\u201cIs the last day at hand, old man? Mohi, your beard is gray; but,\nYoomy, listen. When you die, look around; mark then if any mighty\nchange be seen. Old kingdoms may be on the wane; but new dynasties\nadvance. Though revolutions rise to high spring-tide, monarchs will\nstill drown hard;\u2014monarchs survived the flood!\u201d\n\n\u201cAre all our dreams, then, vain?\u201d sighed Yoomy. \u201cIs this no dawn of day\nthat streaks the crimson East! Naught but the false and flickering\nlights which sometimes mock Aurora in the north! Ah, man, my brother!\nhave all martyrs for thee bled in vain; in vain we poets sang, and\nprophets spoken? Nay, nay; great Mardi, helmed and mailed, strikes at\nOppression\u2019s shield, and challenges to battle! Oro will defend the\nright, and royal crests must roll.\u201d\n\n\u201cThus, Yoomy, ages since, you mortal poets sang; but the world may not\nbe moved from out the orbit in which first it rolled. On the map that\ncharts the spheres, Mardi is marked \u2018the world of kings.\u2019 Round\ncenturies on centuries have wheeled by:\u2014has all this been its nonage?\nNow, when the rocks grow gray, does man first sprout his beard? Or, is\nyour golden time, your equinoctial year, at hand, that your race fast\npresses toward perfection; and every hand grasps at a scepter, that\nkings may be no more?\u201d\n\n\u201cBut free Vivenza! Is she not the star, that must, ere long, lead up\nthe constellations, though now unrisen? No kings are in Vivenza; yet,\nspite her thralls, in that land seems more of good than elsewhere. Our\nhopes are not wild dreams: Vivenza cheers our hearts. She is a rainbow\nto the isles!\u201d\n\n\u201cAy, truth it is, that in Vivenza they have prospered. But thence it\ncomes not, that all men may be as they. Are all men of one heart and\nbrain; one bone and sinew? Are all nations sprung of Dominora\u2019s loins?\nOr, has Vivenza yet proved her creed? Yoomy! the years that prove a\nman, prove not a nation. But two kings\u2019-reigns have passed since\nVivenza was a monarch\u2019s. Her climacteric is not come; hers is not yet a\nnation\u2019s manhood even; though now in childhood, she anticipates her\nyouth, and lusts for empire like any czar. Yoomy! judge not yet. Time\nhath tales to tell. Many books, and many long, long chapters, are\nwanting to Vivenza\u2019s history; and whet history but is full of blood?\u201d\n\n\u201cThere stop, my lord,\u201d said Babbalanja, \u201cnor aught predict. Fate laughs\nat prophets; and of all birds, the raven is a liar!\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXI.\nThey Round The Stormy Cape Of Capes\n\n\nLong leagues, for weary days, we voyaged along that coast, till we came\nto regions where we multiplied our mantles.\n\nThe sky grew overcast. Each a night, black storm-clouds swept the\nwintry sea; and like Sahara caravans, which leave their sandy wakes\u2014\nso, thick and fleet, slanted the scud behind. Through all this rack and\nmist, ten thousand foam-flaked dromedary-humps uprose.\n\nDeep among those panting, moaning fugitives, the three canoes raced on.\n\nAnd now, the air grew nipping cold. The clouds shed off their fleeces;\na snow-hillock, each canoe; our beards, white-frosted.\n\nAnd so, as seated in our shrouds, we sailed in among great mountain\npasses of ice-isles; from icy ledges scaring shivering seals, and white\nbears, musical with icicles, jingling from their shaggy ermine.\n\nFar and near, in towering ridges, stretched the glassy Andes; with\ntheir own frost, shuddering through all their domes and pinnacles.\nIce-splinters rattled down the cliffs, and seethed into the sea.\n\nBroad away, in amphitheaters undermined by currents, whole cities of\nice-towers, in crashes, toward one center, fell.\u2014In their earthquakes,\nLisbon and Lima never saw the like. Churned and broken in the boiling\ntide, they swept off amain;\u2014over and over rolling; like porpoises to\nvessels tranced in calms, bringing down the gale.\n\nAt last, rounding an antlered headland, that seemed a moose at bay\u2014ere\nlong, we launched upon blue lake-like waters, serene as Windermere, or\nHoricon. Thus, from the boisterous storms of youth, we glide upon\nsenility.\n\nBut as we northward voyaged, another aspect wore the sea.\n\nIn far-off, endless vistas, colonnades of water-spouts were seen: all\nheaven\u2019s dome upholding on their shafts: and bright forms gliding up\nand down within. So at Luz, in his strange vision, Jacob saw the\nangels.\n\nA boundless cave of stalactites, it seemed; the cloud-born vapors\ndownward spiraling, till they met the whirlpool-column from the sea;\nthen, uniting, over the waters stalked, like ghosts of gods. Or midway\nsundered\u2014down, sullen, sunk the watery half; and far up into heaven,\nwas drawn the vapory. As, at death, we mortals part in twain; our\nearthy half still here abiding; but our spirits flying whence they\ncame.\n\nIn good time, we gained the thither side of great Kolumbo of the South;\nand sailing on, long waited for the day; and wondered at the darkness.\n\n\u201cWhat steadfast clouds!\u201d cried Yoomy, \u201cyonder! far aloft: that ridge,\nwith many points; it fades below, but shows a faint white crest.\u201d\n\n\u201cNot clouds, but mountains,\u201d said Babbalanja, \u201cthe vast spine, that\ntraverses Kolumbo; spurring off in ribs, that nestle loamy valleys,\nveined with silver streams, and silver ores.\u201d\n\nIt was a long, embattled line of pinnacles. And high posted in the\nEast, those thousand bucklered peaks stood forth, and breasted back the\nDawn. Before their purple bastions bold, Aurora long arrayed her\nspears, and clashed her golden shells. The summons dies away. But now,\nher lancers charge the steep, and gain its crest a-glow;\u2014their\nglittering spears and blazoned shields triumphant in the morn.\n\nBut ere that sight, we glided on for hours in twilight; when, on those\nmountains\u2019 farther side, the hunters must have been abroad, morning-\nglories all astir.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXII.\nThey Encounter Gold-Hunters\n\n\nNow, northward coasting along Kolumbo\u2019s Western shore, whence came the\nsame wild forest-sounds, as from the Eastern; and where we landed not,\nto seek among those wrangling tribes;\u2014after many, many days, we spied\nprow after prow, before the wind all northward bound: sails\nwide-spread, and paddles plying: scaring the fish from before them.\n\nTheir inmates answered not our earnest hail.\n\nBut as they sped, with frantic glee, in one long chorus thus they\nsang:\u2014\n\n                        We rovers bold,\n                    To the land of Gold,\n                Over bowling billows are gliding:\n                    Eager to toil,\n                    For the golden spoil,\n                And every hardship biding.\n                        See! See!\n                Before our prows\u2019 resistless dashes,\n                The gold-fish fly in golden flashes!\n                    \u2019Neath a sun of gold,\n                    We rovers bold,\n                On the golden land are gaining;\n                And every night,\n                We steer aright,\n            By golden stars unwaning!\n        All fires burn a golden glare:\n        No locks so bright as golden hair!\n    All orange groves have golden gushings:\n    All mornings dawn with golden flushings!\nIn a shower of gold, say fables old,\nA maiden was won by the god of gold!\n    In golden goblets wine is beaming:\n    On golden couches kings are dreaming!\n    The Golden Rule dries many tears!\n    The Golden Number rules the spheres!\nGold, gold it is, that sways the nations:\nGold! gold! the center of all rotations!\n    On golden axles worlds are turning:\n    With phosphorescence seas are burning!\n    All fire-flies flame with golden gleamings:\n    Gold-hunters\u2019 hearts with golden dreamings!\n    With golden arrows kings are slain:\n    With gold we\u2019ll buy a freeman\u2019s name!\nIn toilsome trades, for scanty earnings,\nAt home we\u2019ve slaved, with stifled yearnings:\nNo light! no hope! Oh, heavy woe!\nWhen nights fled fast, and days dragged slow.\n            But joyful now, with eager eye,\n            Fast to the Promised Land we fly:\n                Where in deep mines,\n                The treasure shines;\n            Or down in beds of golden streams,\n            The gold-flakes glance in golden gleams!\n                How we long to sift,\n                That yellow drift!\n            Rivers! Rivers! cease your going!\n                Sand-bars! rise, and stay the tide!\n            \u2019Till we\u2019ve gained the golden flowing;\n                And in the golden haven ride!\n\n\n\u201cQuick, quick, my lord,\u201d cried Yoomy, \u201clet us follow them; and from the\ngolden waters where she lies, our Yillah may emerge.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, no,\u201d said Babbalanja,\u2014\u201cno Yillah there!\u2014from yonder promised-land,\nfewer seekers will return, than go. Under a gilded guise, happiness is\nstill their instinctive aim. But vain, Yoomy, to snatch at Happiness.\nOf that we may not pluck and eat. It is the fruit of our own toilsome\nplanting; slow it grows, nourished by many teats, and all our earnest\ntendings. Yet ere it ripen, frosts may nip;\u2014and then, we plant again;\nand yet again. Deep, Yoomy, deep, true treasure lies; deeper than all\nMardi\u2019s gold, rooted to Mardi\u2019s axis. But unlike gold, it lurks in\nevery soil,\u2014all Mardi over. With golden pills and potions is sickness\nwarded off?\u2014the shrunken veins of age, dilated with new wine of youth?\nWill gold the heart-ache cure? turn toward us hearts estranged? will\ngold, on solid centers empires fix? \u2019Tis toil world-wasted to toil in\nmines. Were all the isles gold globes, set in a quicksilver sea, all\nMardi were then a desert. Gold is the only poverty; of all glittering\nills the direst. And that man might not impoverish himself thereby, Oro\nhath hidden it, with all other banes,\u2014saltpeter and explosives, deep in\nmountain bowels, and river-beds. But man still will mine for it; and\nmining, dig his doom.\u2014 Yoomy, Yoomy!\u2014she we seek, lurks not in the\nGolden Hills!\u201d\n\n\u201cLo, a vision!\u201d cried Yoomy, his hands wildly passed across his eyes.\n\u201cA vast and silent bay, belted by silent villages:\u2014gaunt dogs howling\nover grassy thresholds at stark corpses of old age and infancy; gray\nhairs mingling with sweet flaxen curls; fields, with turned furrows,\nchoked with briers; arbor-floors strown over with hatchet-helves,\nrotting in the iron; a thousand paths, marked with foot-prints, all\ninland leading, none villageward; and strown with traces, as of a\nflying host. On: over forest\u2014hill, and dale\u2014and lo! the golden region!\nAfter the glittering spoil, by strange river-margins, and beneath\nimpending cliffs, thousands delve in quicksands; and, sudden, sink in\ngraves of their own making: with gold dust mingling their own ashes.\nStill deeper, in more solid ground, other thousands slave; and pile\ntheir earth so high, they gasp for air, and die; their comrades\nmounting on them, and delving still, and dying\u2014grave pile on grave!\nHere, one haggard hunter murders another in his pit; and murdering,\nhimself is murdered by a third. Shrieks and groans! cries and curses!\nIt seems a golden Hell! With many camels, a sleek stranger comes\u2014\npauses before the shining heaps, and shows _his_ treasures: yams and\nbread-fruit. \u2018Give, give,\u2019 the famished hunters cry\u2014, \u2018a thousand\nshekels for a yam!\u2014a prince\u2019s ransom for a meal!\u2014Oh, stranger! on our\nknees we worship thee:\u2014take, take our gold; but let us live!\u2019 Yams are\nthrown them and they fight. Then he who toiled not, dug not, slaved\nnot, straight loads his caravans with gold; regains the beach, and\nswift embarks for home. \u2018Home! home!\u2019 the hunters cry, with bursting\neyes. \u2018With this bright gold, could we but join our waiting wives, who\nwring their hands on distant shores, all then were well. But we can not\nfly; our prows lie rotting on the beach. Ah! home! thou only\nhappiness!\u2014better thy silver earnings than all these golden findings.\nOh, bitter end to all our hopes\u2014we die in golden graves.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXIII.\nThey Seek Through The Isles Of Palms; And Pass The Isles Of Myrrh\n\n\nNow, our prows we turned due west, across the blue lagoon.\n\nSoon, no land appeared. Far as the eye could sweep, one azure plain;\nall over flaked with foamy fleeces:\u2014a boundless flock upon a boundless\nmead!\n\nAgain, all changed. Like stars in multitude, bright islets multiplied\naround. Emerald-green, they dotted shapes fantastic: circles, arcs, and\ncrescents;\u2014atolls all, or coral carcanets, begemmed and flashing in the\nsun.\n\nBy these we glided, group after group; and through the foliage, spied\nsweet forms of maidens, like Eves in Edens ere the Fall, or Proserpines\nin Ennas. Artless airs came from the shore; and from the\ncenser-swinging roses, a bloom, as if from Hebe\u2019s cheek.\n\n\u201cHere, at last, we find sweet Yillah!\u201d murmured Yoomy. \u201cHere must she\nlurk in innocence! Quick! Let us land and search.\u201d\n\n\u201cIf here,\u201d said Babbalanja, \u201cYillah will not stay our coming, but fly\nbefore us through the groves. Wherever a canoe is beached, see you not\nthe palm-trees pine? Not so, where never keel yet smote the strand. In\nmercy, let us fly from hence. I know not why, but our breath here, must\nprove a blight.\u201d\n\nThese regions passed, we came to savage islands, where the glittering\ncoral seemed bones imbedded, bleaching in the sun. Savage men stood\nnaked on the strand, and brandished uncouth clubs, and gnashed their\nteeth like boars.\n\nThe full red moon was rising; and, in long review there passed before\nit, phantom shapes of victims, led bound to altars through the groves.\nDeath-rattles filled the air. But a cloud descended, and all was gloom.\n\nAgain blank water spread before us; and after many days, there came a\ngentle breeze, fraught with all spicy breathings; cinnamon aromas; and\nin the rose-flushed evening air, like glow worms, glowed the islets,\nwhere this incense burned.\n\n\u201cSweet isles of myrh! oh crimson groves,\u201d cried Yoomy. \u201cWoe, woe\u2019s your\nfate! your brightness and your bloom, like musky fire-flies,\ndouble-lure to death! On ye, the nations prey like bears that gorge\nthemselves with honey.\u201d\n\nSwan-like, our prows sailed in among these isles; and oft we landed;\nbut in vain; and leaving them, we still pursued the setting sun.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXIV.\nConcentric, Inward, With Mardi\u2019s Reef, They Leave Their Wake Around The\nWorld\n\n\nWest, West! West, West! Whitherward point Hope and prophet-fingers;\nwhitherward, at sun-set, kneel all worshipers of fire; whitherward in\nmid-ocean, the great whales turn to die; whitherward face all the\nMoslem dead in Persia; whitherward lie Heaven and Hell!\u2014West, West!\nWhitherward mankind and empires\u2014flocks, caravans, armies, navies;\nworlds, suns, and stars all wend!\u2014West, West!\u2014Oh boundless boundary!\nEternal goal! Whitherward rush, in thousand worlds, ten thousand\nthousand keels! Beacon, by which the universe is steered!\u2014Like the\nnorth-star, attracting all needles! Unattainable forever; but forever\nleading to great things this side thyself!\u2014Hive of all sunsets!\u2014\nGabriel\u2019s pinions may not overtake thee!\n\nOver balmy waves, still westward sailing! From dawn till eve, the\nbright, bright days sped on, chased by the gloomy nights; and, in glory\ndying, lent their luster to the starry skies. So, long the radiant\ndolphins fly before the sable sharks but seized, and torn in\nflames\u2014die, burning:\u2014their last splendor left, in sparkling scales that\nfloat along the sea.\n\nCymbals, drums and psalteries! the air beats like a pulse with music!\n\u2014High land! high land! and moving lights, and painted lanterns!\u2014What\ngrand shore is this?\n\n\u201cReverence we render thee, Old Orienda!\u201d cried Media, with bared brow,\n\u201cOriginal of all empires and emperors!\u2014a crowned king salutes thee!\u201d\n\n\u201cMardi\u2019s father-land!\u201d cried Mohi, \u201cgrandsire of the nations,\u2014hail!\u201d\n\n\u201cAll hail!\u201d cried Yoomy. \u201cKings and sages hither coming, should come\nlike palmers,\u2014scrip and staff! Oh Orienda! thou wert our East, where\nfirst dawned song and science, with Mardi\u2019s primal mornings! But now,\nhow changed! the dawn of light become a darkness, which we kindle with\nthe gleam of spears! On the world\u2019s ancestral hearth, we spill our\nbrothers\u2019 blood!\u201d\n\n\u201cHerein,\u201d said Babbalanja, \u201chave many distant tribes proved parricidal.\nIn times gone by, Luzianna hither sent her prom; Franko, her scores of\ncaptains; and the Dykemen, their peddler hosts, with yard-stick spears!\nBut thou, oh Bello! lord of the empire lineage! Noah of the moderns.\nSire of the long line of nations yet in germ!\u2014 thou, Bello, and thy\nlocust armies, are the present curse of Orienda. Down ancient streams,\nfrom holy plains, in rafts thy murdered float! The pestilence that\nthins thy armies here, is bred of corpses, made by thee. Maramma\u2019s\npriests, thy pious heralds, loud proclaim that of all pagans, Orienda\u2019s\nmost resist the truth!\u2014ay! vain all pious voices, that speak from\nclouds of war! The march of conquest through wild provinces, may be the\nmarch of Mind; but not the march of Love.\u201d\n\n\u201cThou, Bello!\u201d cried Yoomy, \u201cwould\u2019st wrest the crook from Alma\u2019s hand,\nand place in it a spear. But vain to make a conqueror of him, who put\noff the purple when he came to Mardi; and declining gilded miters,\nentered the nations meekly on an ass.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh curse of commerce!\u201d cried Babbalanja, \u201cthat it barters souls for\ngold. Bello! with opium, thou wouldst drug this land, and murder it in\nsleep!\u2014And what boot thy conquests here? Seed sown by spears but seldom\nsprings; and harvests reaped thereby, are poisoned by the sickle\u2019s\nedge.\u201d\n\nYet on, and on we coasted; counting not the days.\n\n\u201cOh, folds and flocks of nations! dusky tribes innumerable!\u201d cried\nYoomy, \u201ccamped on plains and steppes; on thousand mountains, worshiping\nthe stars; in thousand valleys, offering up first-fruits, till all the\nforests seem in flames;\u2014where, in fire, the widow\u2019s spirit mounts to\nmeet her lord!\u2014Oh, Orienda, in thee \u2019tis vain to seek our Yillah!\u201d\n\n\u201cHow dark as death the night!\u201d said Mohi, shaking the dew from his\nbraids, \u201cthe Heavens blaze not here with stars, as over Dominora\u2019s\nland, and broad Vivenza.\u201d\n\nOne only constellation was beheld; but every star was brilliant as the\none, that promises the morning. That constellation was the Crux-\nAustralis,\u2014the badge, and type of Alma.\n\nAnd now, southwest we steered, till another island vast, was reached;\n\u2014Hamora! far trending toward the Antarctic Pole.\n\nCoasting on by barbarous beaches, where painted men, with spears,\ncharged on all attempts to land, at length we rounded a mighty bluff,\nlit by a beacon; and heard a bugle call:\u2014Bello\u2019s! hurrying to their\nquarters, the World-End\u2019s garrison.\n\nHere, the sea rolled high, in mountain surges: mid which, we toiled and\nstrained, as if ascending cliffs of Caucasus.\n\nBut not long thus. As when from howling Rhoetian heights, the traveler\nspies green Lombardy below, and downward rushes toward that pleasant\nplain; so, sloping from long rolling swells, at last we launched upon\nthe calm lagoon.\n\nBut as we northward sailed, once more the storm-trump blew, and\ncharger-like, the seas ran mustering to the call; and in battalions\ncrouched before a towering rock, far distant from the main. No moon,\neclipsed in Egypt\u2019s skies, looked half so lone. But from out that\ndarkness, on the loftiest peak, Bello\u2019s standard waved.\n\n\u201cOh rifled tomb!\u201d cried Babbalanja. \u201cWherein lay the Mars and Moloch of\nour times, whose constellated crown, was gemmed with diadems. Thou god\nof war! who didst seem the devouring Beast of the Apocalypse; casting\nso vast a shadow over Mardi, that yet it lingers in old Franko\u2019s vale;\nwhere still they start at thy tremendous ghost; and, late, have hailed\na phantom, King! Almighty hero-spell! that after the lapse of half a\ncentury, can so bewitch all hearts! But one drop of hero-blood will\ndeify a fool.\n\n\u201cFranko! thou wouldst be free; yet thy free homage is to the buried\nashes of a King; thy first choice, the exaltation of his race. In\nfurious fires, thou burn\u2019st Ludwig\u2019s throne; and over thy new-made\nchieftain\u2019s portal, in golden letters print\u2019st\u2014\u2018The Palace of our\nLord!\u2019 In thy New Dispensation, thou cleavest to the exploded Law. And\non Freedom\u2019s altar\u2014ah, I fear\u2014still, may slay thy hecatombs. But\nFreedom turns away; she is sick with burnt blood of offerings. Other\nrituals she loves; and like Oro, unseen herself, would be worshiped\nonly by invisibles. Of long drawn cavalcades, pompous processions,\nfrenzied banners, mystic music, marching nations, she will none. Oh,\nmay thy peaceful Future, Franko, sanctify thy bloody Past. Let not\nhistory say; \u2018To her old gods, she turned again.\u2019\u201d\n\nThis rocky islet passed, the sea went down; once more we neared\nHamora\u2019s western shore. In the deep darkness, here and there, its\nmargin was lit up by foam-white, breaking billows rolled over from\nVivenza\u2019s strand, and down from northward Dominora; marking places\nwhere light was breaking in, upon the interior\u2019s jungle-gloom.\n\nIn heavy sighs, the night-winds from shore came over us.\n\n\u201cAh, vain to seek sweet Yillah here,\u201d cried Yoomy.\u2014\u201cPoor land! curst of\nman, not Oro! how thou faintest for thy children, torn from thy soil,\nto till a stranger\u2019s. Vivenza! did these winds not spend their plaints,\nere reaching thee, thy every vale would echo them. Oh, tribe of Hamo!\nthy cup of woe so brims, that soon it must overflow upon the land which\nholds ye thralls. No misery born of crime, but spreads and poisons\nwide. Suffering hunteth sin, as the gaunt hound the hare, and tears it\nin the greenest brakes.\u201d\n\nStill on we sailed: and after many tranquil days and nights, a storm\ncame down, and burst its thousand bombs. The lightnings forked and\nflashed; the waters boiled; our three prows lifted themselves in\nsupplication; but the billows smote them as they reared.\n\nSaid Babbalanja, bowing to the blast: \u201cThus, oh Vivenza! retribution\nworks! Though long delayed, it comes at last\u2014Judgment, with all her\nbolts.\u201d\n\nNow, a current seized us, and like three darts, our keels sped\neastward, through a narrow strait, far in, upon a smooth expanse, an\ninland ocean, without a throb.\n\nOn our left, Porpheero\u2019s southwest point, a mighty rock, long tiers of\ngalleries within, deck on deck; and flag-staffs, like an admiral\u2019s\nmasts: a line-of-battle-ship, all purple stone, and anchored in the\nsea. Here Bello\u2019s lion crouched; and, through a thousand port-holes,\neyed the world.\n\nOn our right, Hamora\u2019s northern shore gleamed thick with crescents;\nnumerous as the crosses along the opposing strand.\n\n\u201cHow vain to say, that progress is the test of truth, my lord,\u201d said\nBabbalanja, \u201cwhen, after many centuries, those crescents yet unwaning\nshine, and count a devotee for every worshiper of yonder crosses. Truth\nand Merit have other symbols than success; and in this mortal race, all\ncompetitors may enter; and the field is clear for all. Side by side,\nLies run with Truths, and fools with wise; but, like geometric lines,\nthough they pierce infinity, never may they join.\u201d\n\nOver that tideless sea we sailed; and landed right, and landed left;\nbut the maiden never found; till, at last, we gained the water\u2019s limit;\nand inland saw great pointed masses, crowned with halos.\n\n\u201cGranite continents,\u201d cried Babbalanja, \u201cthat seem created like the\nplanets, not built with human hands. Lo, Landmarks! upon whose flanks\nTime leaves its traces, like old tide-rips of diluvian seas.\u201d\n\nAs, after wandering round and round some purple dell, deep in a\nboundless prairie\u2019s heart, the baffled hunter plunges in; then,\ndespairing, turns once more to gain the open plain; even so we seekers\nnow curved round our keels; and from that inland sea emerged. The\nuniverse again before us; our quest, as wide.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXV.\nSailing On\n\n\nMorning dawned upon the same mild, blue Lagoon as erst; and all the\nlands that we had passed, since leaving Piko\u2019s shore of spears, were\nfaded from the sight.\n\nPart and parcel of the Mardian isles, they formed a cluster by\nthemselves; like the Pleiades, that shine in Taurus, and are eclipsed\nby the red splendor of his fiery eye, and the thick clusterings of the\nconstellations round.\n\nAnd as in Orion, to some old king-astronomer,\u2014say, King of Rigel, or\nBetelguese,\u2014this Earth\u2019s four quarters show but four points afar; so,\nseem they to terrestrial eyes, that broadly sweep the spheres.\n\nAnd, as the sun, by influence divine, wheels through the Ecliptic;\nthreading Cancer, Leo, Pisces, and Aquarius; so, by some mystic impulse\nam I moved, to this fleet progress, through the groups in white-reefed\nMardi\u2019s zone.\n\nOh, reader, list! I\u2019ve chartless voyaged. With compass and the lead, we\nhad not found these Mardian Isles. Those who boldly launch, cast off\nall cables; and turning from the common breeze, that\u2019s fair for all,\nwith their own breath, fill their own sails. Hug the shore, naught new\nis seen; and \u201cLand ho!\u201d at last was sung, when a new world was sought.\n\nThat voyager steered his bark through seas, untracked before; ploughed\nhis own path mid jeers; though with a heart that oft was heavy with the\nthought, that he might only be too bold, and grope where land was none.\n\nSo I.\n\nAnd though essaying but a sportive sail, I was driven from my course,\nby a blast resistless; and ill-provided, young, and bowed to the brunt\nof things before my prime, still fly before the gale;\u2014hard have I\nstriven to keep stout heart.\n\nAnd if it harder be, than e\u2019er before, to find new climes, when now our\nseas have oft been circled by ten thousand prows,\u2014much more the glory!\n\nBut this new world here sought, is stranger far than his, who stretched\nhis vans from Palos. It is the world of mind; wherein the wanderer may\ngaze round, with more of wonder than Balboa\u2019s band roving through the\ngolden Aztec glades.\n\nBut fiery yearnings their own phantom-future make, and deem it present.\nSo, if after all these fearful, fainting trances, the verdict be, the\ngolden haven was not gained;\u2014yet, in bold quest thereof, better to sink\nin boundless deeps, than float on vulgar shoals; and give me, ye gods,\nan utter wreck, if wreck I do.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXVI.\nA Flight Of Nightingales From Yoomy\u2019s Mouth\n\n\nBy noon, down came a calm.\n\n\u201cOh Neeva! good Neeva! kind Neeva! thy sweet breath, dear Neeva!\u201d\n\nSo from his shark\u2019s-mouth prayed little Vee-Vee to the god of Fair\nBreezes. And along they swept; till the three prows neighed to the\nblast; and pranced on their path, like steeds of Crusaders.\n\nNow, that this fine wind had sprung up; the sun riding joyously in the\nheavens; and the Lagoon all tossed with white, flying manes; Media\ncalled upon Yoomy to ransack his whole assortment of songs:\u2014warlike,\namorous, and sentimental,\u2014and regale us with something inspiring for\ntoo long the company had been gloomy.\n\n\u201cThy best,\u201d he cried.\n\nThen will I e\u2019en sing you a song, my lord, which is a song-full of\nsongs. I composed it long, long since, when Yillah yet bowered in Odo.\nEre now, some fragments have been heard. Ah, Taji! in this my lay, live\nover again your happy hours. Some joys have thousand lives; can never\ndie; for when they droop, sweet memories bind them up.\u2014My lord, I deem\nthese verses good; they came bubbling out of me, like live waters from\na spring in a silver mine. And by your good leave, my lord, I have much\nfaith in inspiration. Whoso sings is a seer.\u201d\n\n\u201cTingling is the test,\u201d said Babbalanja, \u201cYoomy, did you tingle, when\nthat song was composing?\u201d\n\n\u201cAll over, Babbalanja.\u201d\n\n\u201cFrom sole to crown?\u201d\n\n\u201cFrom finger to finger.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy life for it! true poetry, then, my lord! For this self-same\ntingling, I say, is the test.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd infused into a song,\u201d cried Yoomy, \u201cit evermore causes it so to\nsparkle, vivify, and irradiate, that no son of man can repeat it\nwithout tingling himself. This very song of mine may prove what I say.\u201d\n\n\u201cModest youth!\u201d sighed Media.\n\n\u201cNot more so, than sincere,\u201d said Babbalanja. \u201cHe who is frank, will\noften appear vain, my lord. Having no guile, he speaks as freely of\nhimself, as of another; and is just as ready to honor his own merits,\neven if imaginary, as to lament over undeniable deficiencies. Besides,\nsuch men are prone to moods, which to shallow-minded, unsympathizing\nmortals, make their occasional distrust of themselves, appear but as a\nphase of self-conceit. Whereas, the man who, in the presence of his\nvery friends, parades a barred and bolted front,\u2014that man so highly\nprizes his sweet self, that he cares not to profane the shrine he\nworships, by throwing open its portals. He is locked up; and Ego is the\nkey. Reserve alone is vanity. But all mankind are egotists. The world\nrevolves upon an I; and we upon ourselves; for we are our own\nworlds:\u2014all other men as strangers, from outlandish, distant climes,\ngoing clad in furs. Then, whate\u2019er they be, let us show our worlds; and\nnot seek to hide from men, what Oro knows.\u201d\n\n\u201cTruth, my lord,\u201d said Yoomy, \u201cbut all this applies to men in mass; not\nspecially, to my poor craft. Of all mortals, we poets are most subject\nto contrary moods. Now, heaven over heaven in the skies; now layer\nunder layer in the dust. This, the penalty we pay for being what we\nare. But Mardi only sees, or thinks it sees, the tokens of our\nself-complacency: whereas, all our agonies operate unseen. Poets are\nonly seen when they soar.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe song! the song!\u201d cried Media. \u201cNever mind the metaphysics of\ngenius.\u201d\n\nAnd Yoomy, thus clamorously invoked, hemmed thrice, tuning his voice\nfor the air.\n\nBut here, be it said, that the minstrel was miraculously gifted with\nthree voices; and, upon occasions, like a mocking-bird, was a concert\nof sweet sounds in himself. Had kind friends died, and bequeathed him\ntheir voices? But hark! in a low, mild tenor, he begins:\u2014\n\n        Half-railed above the hills, yet rosy bright,\n    Stands fresh, and fair, the meek and blushing morn!\nSo Yillah looks! her pensive eyes the stars,\n    That mildly beam from out her cheek\u2019s young dawn!\n\n                But the still meek Dawn,\n                Is not aye the form\n                Of Yillah nor Morn!\n                    Soon rises the sun,\n                    Day\u2019s race to run:\n                His rays abroad,\n                Flash each a sword,\u2014\n                    And merrily forth they flare!\n                    Sun-music in the air!\n                So Yillah now rises and flashes!\n                Rays shooting from ont her long lashes,\u2014\n                    Sun-music in the air!\n\n                    Her laugh! How it bounds!\n                    Bright cascade of sounds!\n                Peal after peal, and ringing afar,\u2014\n                Ringing of waters, that silvery jar,\n                    From basin to basin fast falling!\n                    Fast falling, and shining, and streaming:\u2014\n                Yillah\u2019s bosom, the soft, heaving lake,\n                Where her laughs at last dimple, and flake!\n\nOh beautiful Yillah! Thy step so free!\u2014\n    Fast fly the sea-ripples,\nRevealing their dimples,\n    When forth, thou hi\u2019st to the frolicsome sea!\n\n                 All the stars laugh,\n                     When upward she looks:\n                All the trees chat\n                     In their woody nooks:\n                All the brooks sing;\n                All the caves ring;\n                All the buds blossom;\n                    All the boughs bound;\n                All the birds carol;\n                    And leaves turn round,\n                    Where Yillah looks!\n\nLight wells from her soul\u2019s deep sun\nCausing many toward her to run!\nVines to climb, and flowers to spring;\nAnd youths their love by hundreds bring!\n\n\n\u201cProceed, gentle Yoomy,\u201d said Babbalanja.\n\n\u201cThe meaning,\u201d said Mohi.\n\n\u201cThe sequel,\u201d said Media.\n\n\u201cMy lord, I have ceased in the middle; the end is not yet.\u201d\n\n\u201cMysticism!\u201d cried Babbalanja. \u201cWhat, minstrel; must nothing ultimate\ncome of all that melody? no final and inexhaustible meaning? nothing\nthat strikes down into the soul\u2019s depths; till, intent upon itself, it\npierces in upon its own essence, and is resolved into its pervading\noriginal; becoming a thing constituent of the all embracing deific;\nwhereby we mortals become part and parcel of the gods; our souls to\nthem as thoughts; and we privy to all things occult, ineffable, and\nsublime? Then, Yoomy, is thy song nothing worth. Alla Mollolla saith,\n\u2018That is no true, vital breath, which leaves no moisture behind.\u2019 I\nmistrust thee, minstrel! that thou hast not yet been impregnated by the\narcane mysteries; that thou dost not sufficiently ponder on the Adyta,\nthe Monads, and the Hyparxes; the Dianoias, the Unical Hypostases, the\nGnostic powers of the Psychical Essence, and the Supermundane and\nPleromatic Triads; to say nothing of the Abstract Noumenons.\u201d\n\n\u201cOro forbid!\u201d cried Yoomy; \u201cthe very sound of thy words affrights me.\u201d\nThen, whispering to Mohi\u2014\u201cIs he daft again?\u201d\n\n\u201cMy brain is battered,\u201d said Media. \u201cAzzageddi! you must diet, and be\nbled.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh!\u201d sighed Babbalanja, turning; \u201chow little they ween of the\nRudimental Quincunxes, and the Hecatic Spherula!\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXVII.\nThey Visit One Doxodox\n\n\nNext morning, we came to a deep, green wood, slowly nodding over the\nwaves; its margin frothy-white with foam. A charming sight!\n\nWhile delighted, all our paddlers gazed, Media, observing Babbalanja\nplunged in reveries, called upon him to awake; asking what might so\nabsorb him.\n\n\u201cAh, my lord! what seraphic sounds have ye driven from me!\u201d\n\n\u201cSounds! Sure, there\u2019s naught heard but yonder murmuring surf; what\nother sound heard you?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe thrilling of my soul\u2019s monochord, my lord. But prick not your ears\nto hear it; that divine harmony is overheard by the rapt spirit alone;\nit comes not by the auditory nerves.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo more, Azzageddi! No more of that. Look yonder!\u201d\n\n\u201cA most lovely wood, in truth. And methinks it is here the sage\nDoxodox, surnamed the Wise One, dwells.\u201d\n\n\u201cHark, I hear the hootings of his owls,\u201d said Mohi.\n\n\u201cMy lord, you must have read of him. He is said to have penetrated from\nthe zoned, to the unzoned principles. Shall we seek him out, that we\nmay hearken to his wisdom? Doubtless he knows many things, after which\nwe pant.\u201d\n\nThe lagoon was calm, as we landed; not a breath stirred the plumes of\nthe trees; and as we entered the voiceless shades, lifting his hand,\nBabbalanja whispered:\u2014\u201cThis silence is a fit introduction to the\nportals of Telestic lore. Somewhere, beneath this moss, lurks the\nmystic stone Mnizuris; whereby Doxodox hath attained unto a knowledge\nof the ungenerated essences. Nightly, he bathes his soul in\narchangelical circumlucencies. Oh, Doxodox! whip me the Strophalunian\ntop! Tell o\u2019er thy Jynges!\u201d\n\n\u201cDown, Azzageddi! down!\u201d cried Media. \u201cBehold: there sits the Wise One;\nnow, for true wisdom!\u201d\n\nFrom the voices of the party, the sage must have been aware of our\napproach: but seated on a green bank, beneath the shade of a red\nmulberry, upon the boughs of which, many an owl was perched, he seemed\nintent upon describing divers figures in the air, with a jet-black\nwand.\n\nAdvancing with much deference and humility, Babbalanja saluted him.\n\n\u201cOh wise Doxodox! Drawn hither by thy illustrious name, we seek\nadmittance to thy innermost wisdom. Of all Mardian, thou alone\ncomprehendest those arcane combinations, whereby to drag to day the\nmost deftly hidden things, present and to come. Thou knowest what we\nare, and what we shall be. We beseech thee, evoke thy Tselmns!\u201d\n\n\u201cTetrads; Pentads; Hexads; Heptads; Ogdoads:\u2014meanest thou those?\u201d\n\n\u201cNew terms all!\u201d\n\n\u201cFoiled at thy own weapons,\u201d said Media.\n\n\u201cThen, if thou comprehendest not my nomenclature:\u2014how my science? But\nlet me test thee in the portico.\u2014Why is it, that as some things extend\nmore remotely than others; so, Quadammodotatives are larger than\nQualitatives; forasmuch, as Quadammodotatives extend to those things,\nwhich include the Quadammodotatives themselves.\u201d\n\n\u201cAzzageddi has found his match,\u201d said Media.\n\n\u201cStill posed, Babbalanja?\u201d asked Mohi.\n\n\u201cAt a loss, most truly! But I beseech thee, wise Doxodox! instruct me\nin thy dialectics, that I may embrace thy more recondite lore.\u201d\n\n\u201cTo begin then, my child:\u2014all Dicibles reside in the mind.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut what are Dicibles?\u201d said Media.\n\n\u201cMeanest thou, Perfect or Imperfect Dicibles?\u201d Any kind you please;\u2014\nbut what are they?\u201d\n\n\u201cPerfect Dicibles are of various sorts: Interrogative; Percontative;\nAdjurative; Optative; Imprecative; Execrative; Substitutive;\nCompellative; Hypothetical; and lastly, Dubious.\u201d\n\n\u201cDubious enough! Azzageddi! forever, hereafter, hold thy peace.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh, my children! I must go back to my Axioms.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd what are they?\u201d said old Mohi.\n\n\u201cOf various sorts; which, again, are diverse. Thus: my contrary axioms\nare Disjunctive, and Subdisjunctive; and so, with the rest. So, too, in\ndegree, with my Syllogisms.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd what of them?\u201d\n\n\u201cDid I not just hint what they were, my child? I repeat, they are of\nvarious sorts: Connex, and Conjunct, for example.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd what of them?\u201d persisted Mohi; while Babbalanja, arms folded,\nstood serious and mute; a sneer on his lip.\n\n\u201cAs with other branches of my dialectics: so, too, in their way, with\nmy Syllogisms. Thus: when I say,\u2014If it be warm, it is not cold:\u2014 that\u2019s\na simple Sumption. If I add, But it is warm:\u2014that\u2019s an _Ass_umption.\u201d\n\n\u201cSo called from the syllogist himself, doubtless;\u201d said Mohi, stroking\nhis beard.\n\n\u201cPoor ignorant babe! no. Listen:\u2014if finally, I say,\u2014Therefore it is not\ncold that\u2019s the final inference.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd a most triumphant one it is!\u201d cried Babbalanja. \u201cThrice profound,\nand sapient Doxodox! Light of Mardi! and Beacon of the Universe! didst\never hear of the Shark-Syllogism?\u201d\n\n\u201cThough thy epithets be true, my child, I distrust thy sincerity. I\nhave not yet heard of the syllogism to which thou referrest.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt was thus. A shark seized a swimmer by the leg; addressing him:\n\u2018Friend, I will liberate you, if you truly answer whether you think I\npurpose harm.\u2019 Well knowing that sharks seldom were magnanimous, he\nreplied: Kind sir, you mean me harm; now go your ways.\u2019 \u2018No, no; my\nconscience forbids. Nor will I falsify the words of so veracious a\nmortal. You were to answer truly; but you say I mean you harm:\u2014so harm\nit is:\u2014here goes your leg.\u2019\u201d\n\n\u201cProfane jester! Would\u2019st thou insult me with thy torn-foolery?\nBegone\u2014all of ye! tramp! pack! I say: away with ye!\u201d and into the woods\nDoxodox himself disappeared.\n\n\u201cBravely done, Babbalanja!\u201d cried Media. \u201cYou turned the corner to\nadmiration.\u201d\n\n\u201cI have hopes of our Philosopher yet,\u201d said Mohi.\n\n\u201cOutrageous impostor! fool, dotard, oaf! Did he think to bejuggle me\nwith his preposterous gibberish? And is this shallow phraseman the\nrenowned Doxodox whom I have been taught so highly to reverence? Alas,\nalas\u2014Odonphi there is none!\u201d\n\n\u201cHis fit again,\u201d sighed Yoomy.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXVIII.\nKing Media Dreams\n\n\nThat afternoon was melting down to eve; all but Media broad awake; yet\nall motionless, as the slumberer upon the purple mat. Sailing on, with\nopen eyes, we slept the wakeful sleep of those, who to the body only\ngive repose, while the spirit still toils on, threading her mountain\npasses.\n\nKing Media\u2019s slumbers were like the helmed sentry\u2019s in the saddle. From\nthem, he started like an antlered deer, bursting from out a copse. Some\nsaid he never slept; that deep within himself he but intensified the\nhour; or, leaving his crowned brow in marble quiet, unseen, departed to\nfar-off councils of the gods. Howbeit, his lids never closed; in the\nnoonday sun, those crystal eyes, like diamonds, sparkled with a fixed\nlight.\n\nAs motionless we thus reclined, Media turned and muttered:\u2014\u201cBrother\ngods, and demi-gods, it is not well. These mortals should have less or\nmore. Among my subjects is a man, whose genius scorns the common\ntheories of things; but whose still mortal mind can not fathom the\nocean at his feet. His soul\u2019s a hollow, wherein he raves.\u201d\n\n\u201cList, list,\u201d whispered Yoomy\u2014\u201cour lord is dreaming; and what a royal\ndream.\u201d\n\n\u201cA very royal and imperial dream,\u201d said Babbalanja\u2014\u201che is arraigning me\nbefore high heaven;\u2014ay, ay; in dreams, at least, he deems himself a\ndemi-god.\u201d\n\n\u201cHist,\u201d said Mohi\u2014\u201che speaks again.\u201d\n\n\u201cGods and demi-gods! With one gesture all abysses we may disclose; and\nbefore this Mardi\u2019s eyes, evoke the shrouded time to come. Were this\nwell? Like lost children groping in the woods, they falter through\ntheir tangled paths; and at a thousand angles, baffled, start upon each\nother. And even when they make an onward move, \u2019tis but an endless\nvestibule, that leads to naught. In my own isle of Odo\u2014Odo! Odo! How\nrules my viceroy there?\u2014Down, down, ye madding mobs! Ho, spearmen,\ncharge! By the firmament, but my halberdiers fly!\u201d\n\n\u201cHis dream has changed,\u201d said Babbalanja. \u201cHe is in Odo, whither his\nanxieties impel him.\u201d\n\n\u201cHist, hist,\u201d said Yoomy.\n\n\u201cI leap upon the soil! Render thy account, Almanni! Where\u2019s my throne?\nMohi, am I not a king? Do not thy chronicles record me? Yoomy, am I not\nthe soul of some one glorious song? Babbalanja, speak.\u2014Mohi! Yoomy!\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat is it, my lord? thou dost but dream.\u201d\n\nStaring wildly; then calmly gazing round, Media smiled. \u201cHa! how we\nroyalties ramble in our dreams! I\u2019ve told no secrets?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhile he seemed to sleep, my lord spoke much,\u201d said Mohi.\n\n\u201cI knew it not, old man; nor would now; but that ye tell me.\u201d\n\n\u201cWe dream not ourselves,\u201d said Babbalanja, \u201cbut the thing within us.\u201d\n\n\u201cAy?\u2014good-morrow Azzageddi!\u2014But come; no more dreams: Vee-Vee! wine.\u201d\n\nAnd straight through that livelong night, immortal Media plied the can.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXIX.\nAfter A Long Interval, By Night They Are Becalmed\n\n\nNow suns rose, and set; moons grew, and waned; till, at last, the star\nthat erewhile heralded the dawn, presaged the eve; to us, sad token!\u2014\nwhile deep within the deepest heart of Mardi\u2019s circle, we sailed from\nsea to sea; and isle to isle; and group to group;\u2014vast empires\nexplored, and inland valleys, to their utmost heads; and for every ray\nin heaven, beheld a king.\n\nNeedless to recount all that then befell; what tribes and caravans we\nsaw; what vast horizons; boundless plains: and sierras, in their every\nintervale, a nation nestling.\n\nEnough that still we roamed.\n\nIt was evening; and as the red sun, magnified, launched into the wave,\nonce more, from a wild strand, we launched our three canoes.\n\nSoon, from her clouds, hooded Night, like a nun from a convent, drew\nnigh. Rustled her train, yet no spangles were there. But high on her\nbrow, still shone her pale crescent; haloed by bandelets\u2014violet, red,\nand yellow. So looked the lone watcher through her rainbow-iris; so\nsad, the night without stars.\n\nThe winds were laid; the lagoon, still, as a prairie of an August noon.\n\n\u201cLet us dream out the calm,\u201d said Media. \u201cOne of ye paddlers, watch: Ho\ncompanions! who\u2019s for Cathay?\u201d\n\nSleep reigned throughout the canoes, sleeping upon the waters. But\nnearer and nearer, low-creeping along, came mists and vapors, a\nthousand; spotted with twinklings of Will-o-Wisps from neighboring\nshores. Dusky leopards, stealing on by crouches, those vapors seemed.\n\nHours silently passed. When startled by a cry, Taji sprang to his feet;\nagainst which something rattled; then, a quick splash! and a dark form\nbounded into the lagoon.\n\nThe dozing watcher had called aloud; and, about to stab, the assassin,\ndropping his stiletto, plunged.\n\nPeering hard through those treacherous mists, two figures in a shallop,\nwere espied; dragging another, dripping, from the brine.\n\n\u201cFoiled again, and foiled forever. No foe\u2019s corpse was I.\u201d\n\nAs we gazed, in the gloom quickly vanished the shallop; ere ours could\nbe reversed to pursue.\n\nThen, from the opposite mists, glided a second canoe; and beneath the\nIris round the moon, shone now another:\u2014Hautia\u2019s flowery flag!\n\nVain to wave the sirens off; so still they came.\n\nOne waved a plant of sickly silver-green.\n\n\u201cThe Midnight Tremmella!\u201d cried Yoomy; \u201cthe falling-star of flowers!\u2014\nStill I come, when least foreseen; then flee.\u201d\n\nThe second waved a hemlock top, the spike just tapering its final\npoint. The third, a convolvulus, half closed. \u201cThe end draws nigh, and\nall thy hopes are waning.\u201d Then they proffered grapes.\n\nBut once more waved off, silently they vanished.\n\nAgain the buried barb tore, at my soul; again Yillah was invoked, but\nHautia made reply.\n\nSlowly wore out the night. But when uprose the sun, fled clouds, and\nfled sadness.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXX.\nThey Land At Hooloomooloo\n\n\n\u201cKeep all three prows, for yonder rock.\u201d cried Media; \u201cNo sadness on\nthis merry morn! And now for the Isle of Cripples,\u2014even Hooloomooloo.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe Isle of Cripples?\u201d\n\n\u201cAy; why not? Mohi, tell how they came to club.\u201d In substance, this was\nthe narration.\n\nAverse to the barbarous custom of destroying at birth all infants not\nsymmetrically formed; but equally desirous of removing from their sight\nthose unfortunate beings; the islanders of a neighboring group had long\nago established an asylum for cripples; where they lived, subject to\ntheir own regulations; ruled by a king of their own election; in short,\nforming a distinct class of beings by themselves.\n\nOne only restriction was placed upon them: on no account must they quit\nthe isle assigned them. And to the surrounding islanders, so unpleasant\nthe sight of a distorted mortal, that a stranger landing at\nHooloomooloo, was deemed a prodigy. Wherefore, respecting any knowledge\nof aught beyond them, the cripples were well nigh as isolated, as if\nHooloomooloo was the only terra-firma extant.\n\nDwelling in a community of their own, these unfortunates, who otherwise\nhad remained few in number, increased and multiplied greatly. Nor did\nsuccessive generations improve in symmetry upon those preceding them.\n\nSoon, we drew nigh to the isle.\n\nHeaped up, and jagged with rocks; and, here and there, covered with\ndwarfed, twisted thickets, it seemed a fit place for its denizens.\n\nLanding, we were surrounded by a heterogeneous mob; and thus escorted,\ntook our way inland, toward the abode of their lord, King Yoky.\n\nWhat a scene!\n\nHere, helping himself along with two crotched roots, hobbled a dwarf\nwithout legs; another stalked before, one arm fixed in the air, like a\nlightning rod; a third, more active than any, seal-like, flirted a pair\nof flippers, and went skipping along; a fourth hopped on a solitary\npin, at every bound, spinning round like a top, to gaze; while still\nanother, furnished with feelers or fins, rolled himself up in a ball,\nbowling over the ground in advance.\n\nWith curious instinct, the blind stuck close to our side; with their\nchattering finger, the deaf and the dumb described angles, obtuse and\nacute in the air; and like stones rolling down rocky ravines, scores of\nstammerers stuttered. Discord wedded deformity. All asses\u2019 brays were\nnow harmonious memories; all Calibans, as angels.\n\nYet for every stare we gave them, three stares they gave us.\n\nAt last, we halted before a tenement of rude stones; crooked Banian\nboughs its rafters, thatched with fantastic leaves. So rambling and\nirregular its plan, it seemed thrown up by the eruption, according to\nsage Mohi, the origin of the isle itself.\n\nEntering, we saw King Yoky.\n\nAh! sadly lacking was he, in all the requisites of an efficient ruler.\nDeaf and dumb he was; and save arms, minus every thing but an\nindispensable trunk and head. So huge his all-comprehensive mouth, it\nseemed to swallow up itself.\n\nBut shapeless, helpless as was Yoky,\u2014as king of Hooloomooloo, he was\ncompetent; the state being a limited monarchy, of which his Highness\nwas but the passive and ornamental head.\n\nAs his visitors advanced, he fell to gossiping with his fingers: a\nservitor interpreting. Very curious to note the rapidity with which\nmotion was translated into sound; and the simultaneousness with which\nmeaning made its way through four successive channels to the mind\u2014hand,\nsight, voice, and tympanum.\n\nMuch amazement His Highness now expressed; horrified his glances.\n\n\u201cWhy club such frights as ye? Herd ye, to keep in countenance; or are\nafraid of your own hideousness, that ye dread to go alone? Monsters!\nspeak.\u201d\n\n\u201cGreat Oro!\u201d cried Mohi, \u201care we then taken for cripples, by the very\nKing of the Cripples? My lord, are not our legs and arms all right?\u201d\n\n\u201cComelier ones were never turned by turners, Mohi. But royal Yoky! in\nsooth we feel abashed before thee.\u201d\n\nSome further stares were then exchanged; when His Highness sought to\nknow, whether there were any Comparative Anatomists among his visitors.\n\n\u201cComparative Anatomists! not one.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd why may King Yoky ask that question?\u201d inquired Babbalanja.\n\nThen was made the following statement.\n\nDuring the latter part of his reign, when he seemed fallen into his\ndotage, the venerable predecessor of King Yoky had been much attached\nto an old gray-headed Chimpanzee, one day found meditating in the\nwoods. Rozoko was his name. He was very grave, and reverend of aspect;\nmuch of a philosopher. To him, all gnarled and knotty subjects were\nfamiliar; in his day he had cracked many a crabbed nut. And so in love\nwith his Timonean solitude was Rozoko, that it needed many bribes and\nbland persuasions, to induce him to desert his mossy, hillside,\nmisanthropic cave, for the distracting tumult of a court.\n\nBut ere long, promoted to high offices, and made the royal favorite,\nthe woodland sage forgot his forests; and, love for love, returned the\naged king\u2019s caresses. Ardent friends they straight became; dined and\ndrank together; with quivering lips, quaffed long-drawn, sober bumpers;\ncomparing all their past experiences; and canvassing those hidden\nthemes, on which octogenarians dilate.\n\nFor when the fires and broils of youth are passed, and Mardi wears its\ntruer aspect\u2014then we love to think, not act; the present seems more\nunsubstantial than the past; then, we seek out gray-beards like\nourselves; and hold discourse of palsies, hearses, shrouds, and tombs;\nappoint our undertakers; our mantles gather round us, like to\nwinding-sheets; and every night lie down to die. Then, the world\u2019s\ngreat bubble bursts; then, Life\u2019s clouds seem sweeping by, revealing\nheaven to our straining eyes; then, we tell our beads, and murmur\npater-nosters; and in trembling accents cry\u2014\u201cOro! be merciful.\u201d\n\nSo, the monarch and Rozoko.\n\nBut not always were they thus. Of bright, cheerful mornings, they took\nslow, tottering rambles in the woods; nodding over grotesque walking-\nsticks, of the Chimpanzee\u2019s handiwork. For sedate Rozoko was a\ndilletante-arborist: an amateur in canes. Indeed, canes at last became\nhis hobby. For half daft with age, sometimes he straddled his good\nstaff and gently rode abroad, to take the salubrious evening air;\ndeeming it more befitting exercise, at times, than walking. Into this\nmenage, he soon initiated his friend, the king; and side by side they\noften pranced; or, wearying of the saddle, dismounted; and paused to\nponder over prostrate palms, decaying across the path. Their mystic\nrings they counted; and, for every ring, a year in their own calendars.\n\nNow, so closely did the monarch cleave to the Chimpanzee, that, in good\ntime, summoning his subjects, earnestly he charged it on them, that at\ndeath, he and his faithful friend should be buried in one tomb.\n\nIt came to pass, the monarch died; and Poor Rozoko, now reduced to\nsecond childhood, wailed most dismally:\u2014no one slept that night in\nHooloomooloo. Never did he leave the body; and at last, slowly going\nround it thrice, he laid him down; close nestled; and noiselessly\nexpired.\n\nThe king\u2019s injunctions were remembered; and one vault received them\nboth.\n\nMoon followed moon; and wrought upon by jeers and taunts, the people of\nthe isle became greatly scandalized, that a base-born baboon should\nshare the shroud of their departed lord; though they themselves had\ntucked in the aged AEneas fast by the side of his Achates.\n\nThey straight resolved, to build another vault; and over it, a lofty\ncairn; and thither carry the remains they reverenced.\n\nBut at the disinterring, a sad perplexity arose. For lo surpassing Saul\nand Jonathan, not even in decay were these fast friends divided. So\nmingled every relic,\u2014ilium and ulna, carpus and metacarpus;\u2014and so\nsimilar the corresponding parts, that like the literary remains of\nBeaumont and of Fletcher, which was which, no spectacles could tell.\nTherefore, they desisted; lest the towering monument they had reared,\nmight commemorate an ape, and not a king.\n\nSuch the narration; hearing which, my lord Media kept stately silence.\nBut in courtly phrase, as beseemed him, Babbalanja, turban in hand,\nthus spoke:\u2014\n\n\u201cMy concern is extreme, King Yoky, at the embarrassment into which your\nisland is thrown. Nor less my grief, that I myself am not the man, to\nput an end to it. I could weep that Comparative Anatomists are not so\nnumerous now, as hereafter they assuredly must become; when their\nservices shall be in greater request; when, at the last, last day of\nall, millions of noble and ignoble spirits will loudly clamor for lost\nskeletons; when contending claimants shall start up for one poor,\ncarious spine; and, dog-like, we shall quarrel over our own bones.\u201d\n\nThen entered dwarf-stewards, and major-domos; aloft bearing twisted\nantlers; all hollowed out in goblets, grouped; announcing dinner.\n\nLoving not, however, to dine with misshapen Mardians, King Media was\nloth to move. But Babbalanja, quoting the old proverb\u2014\u201cStrike me in the\nface, but refuse not my yams,\u201d induced him to sacrifice his\nfastidiousness.\n\nSo, under a flourish of ram-horn bugles, court and company proceeded to\nthe banquet.\n\nCentral was a long, dislocated trunk of a wild Banian; like a huge\ncentipede crawling on its hundred branches, sawn of even lengths for\nlegs. This table was set out with wry-necked gourds; deformities of\ncalabashes; and shapeless trenchers, dug out of knotty woods.\n\nThe first course was shrimp-soup, served in great clampshells; the\nsecond, lobsters, cuttle-fish, crabs, cockles, cray-fish; the third,\nhunchbacked roots of the Taro-plant\u2014plantains, perversely curling at\nthe end, like the inveterate tails of pertinacious pigs; and for\ndessert, ill-shaped melons, huge as idiots\u2019 heads, plainly suffering\nfrom water in the brain.\n\nNow these viands were commended to the favorable notice of all guests;\nnot only for their delicacy of flavor, but for their symmetry.\n\nAnd in the intervals of the courses, we were bored with hints to admire\nnumerous objects of vertu: bow-legged stools of mangrove wood; zig-zag\nrapiers of bone; armlets of grampus-vertebrae; outlandish tureens of\nthe callipees of terrapin; and cannakins of the skulls of baboons.\n\nThe banquet over, with many congees, we withdrew.\n\nReturning to the water-side, we passed a field, where dwarfs were\nlaboring in beds of yams, heaping the soil around the roots, by\nscratching it backward; as a dog.\n\nAll things in readiness, Yoky\u2019s valet, a tri-armed dwarf, treated us to\na glorious start, by giving each canoe a vigorous triple-push, crying,\n\u201caway with ye, monsters!\u201d\n\nNor must it be omitted that just previous to embarking, Vee-Vee, spying\na curious looking stone, turned it over, and found a snake.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXXI.\nA Book From The \u201cPonderings Of Old Bardianna\u201d\n\n\n\u201cNow,\u201d said Babbalanja, lighting his trombone as we sailed from the\nisle, \u201cwho are the monsters, we or the cripples?\u201d\n\n\u201cYou yourself are a monster, for asking the question,\u201d said Mohi.\n\n\u201cAnd so, to the cripples I am; though not, old man, for the reason you\nmention. But I am, as I am; whether hideous, or handsome, depends upon\nwho is made judge. There is no supreme standard yet revealed, whereby\nto judge of ourselves; \u2018Our very instincts are prejudices,\u2019 saith Alla\nMallolla; \u2018Our very axioms, and postulates are far from infallible.\u2019\n\u2018In respect of the universe, mankind is but a sect,\u2019 saith Diloro: \u2018and\nfirst principles but dogmas.\u2019 What ethics prevail in the Pleiades? What\nthings have the synods in Sagittarius decreed?\u201d\n\n\u201cNever mind your old authors,\u201d said Media. \u201cStick to the cripples;\nenlarge upon them.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut I have done with them now, my lord; the sermon is not the text.\nGive ear to old Bardianna. I know him by heart. Thus saith the sage in\nBook X. of the Ponderings, \u2018Zermalmende,\u2019 the title: \u2018Je pense,\u2019 the\nmotto:\u2014\u2018My supremacy over creation, boasteth man, is declared in my\nnatural attitude:\u2014I stand erect! But so do the palm-trees; and the\ngiraffes that graze off their tops. And the fowls of the air fly high\nover our heads; and from the place where we fancy our heaven to be,\ndefile the tops of our temples. Belike, the eagles, from their eyries\nlook down upon us Mardians, in our hives, even as upon the beavers in\ntheir dams, marveling at our incomprehensible ways. And cunning though\nwe be, some things, hidden from us, may not be mysteries to them.\nHaving five keys, hold we all that open to knowledge? Deaf, blind, and\ndeprived of the power of scent, the bat will steer its way\nunerringly:\u2014could we? Yet man is lord of the bat and the brute; lord\nover the crows; with whom, he must needs share the grain he garners. We\nsweat for the fowls, as well as ourselves. The curse of labor rests\nonly on us. Like slaves, we toil: at their good leisure they glean.\n\n\u201c\u2018Mardi is not wholly ours. We are the least populous part of creation.\nTo say nothing of other tribes, a census of the herring would find us\nfar in the minority. And what life is to us,\u2014sour or sweet,\u2014so is it to\nthem. Like us, they die, fighting death to the last; like us, they\nspawn and depart. We inhabit but a crust, rough surfaces, odds and ends\nof the isles; the abounding lagoon being its two-thirds, its grand\nfeature from afar; and forever unfathomable.\n\n\u201c\u2018What shaft has yet been sunk to the antipodes? What underlieth the\ngold mines?\n\n\u201c\u2018But even here, above-ground, we grope with the sun at meridian.\nVainly, we seek our Northwest Passages,\u2014old alleys, and thoroughfares\nof the whales.\n\n\u201c\u2018Oh men! fellow men! we are only what we are; not what we would be;\nnor every thing we hope for. We are but a step in a scale, that reaches\nfurther above us than below. We breathe but oxygen. Who in Arcturus\nhath heard of us? They know us not in the Milky Way. We prate of\nfaculties divine: and know not how sprouteth a spear of grass; we go\nabout shrugging our shoulders: when the firmament-arch is over us; we\nrant of etherealities: and long tarry over our banquets; we demand\nEternity for a lifetime: when our mortal half-hours too often prove\ntedious. We know not of what we talk. The Bird of Paradise out-flies\nour flutterings. What it is to be immortal, has not yet entered into\nour thoughts. At will, we build our futurities; tier above tier, all\ngalleries full of laureates: resounding with everlasting oratorios!\nPater-nosters forever, or eternal Misereres! forgetting that in Mardi,\nour breviaries oft fall from our hands. But divans there are, some say,\nwhereon we shall recline, basking in effulgent suns, knowing neither\nOrient nor Occident. Is it so? Fellow men! our mortal lives have an\nend; but that end is no goal: no place of repose. Whatever it may be,\nit will prove but as the beginning of another race. We will hope, joy,\nweep, as before; though our tears may be such as the spice-trees shed.\nSupine we can only be, annihilated.\n\n\u201c\u2018The thick film is breaking; the ages have long been circling.\nFellow-men! if we live hereafter, it will not be in lyrics; nor shall\nwe yawn, and our shadows lengthen, while the eternal cycles are\nrevolving. To live at all, is a high vocation; to live forever, and run\nparallel with Oro, may truly appall us. Toil we not here? and shall we\nbe forever slothful elsewhere? Other worlds differ not much from this,\nbut in degree. Doubtless, a pebble is a fair specimen of the universe.\n\n\u201c\u2018We point at random. Peradventure at this instant, there are beings\ngazing up to this very world as their future heaven. But the universe\nis all over a heaven: nothing but stars on stars, throughout infinities\nof expansion. All we see are but a cluster. Could we get to Bootes, we\nwould be no nearer Oro, than now he hath no place; but is here.\nAlready, in its unimaginable roamings, our system may have dragged us\nthrough and through the spaces, where we plant cities of beryl and\njasper. Even now, we may be inhaling the ether, which we fancy seraphic\nwings are fanning. But look round. There is much to be seen here, and\nnow. Do the archangels survey aught more glorious than the\nconstellations we nightly behold? Continually we slight the wonders, we\ndeem in reserve. We await the present. With marvels we are glutted,\ntill we hold them no marvels at all. But had these eyes first opened\nupon all the prodigies in the Revelation of the Dreamer, long\nfamiliarity would have made them appear, even as these things we see.\nNow, _now_, the page is out-spread: to the simple, easy as a primer; to\nthe wise, more puzzling than hieroglyphics. The eternity to come, is\nbut a prolongation of time present: and the beginning may be more\nwonderful than the end.\n\n\u201c\u2018Then let us be wise. But much of the knowledge we seek, already we\nhave in our cores. Yet so simple it is, we despise it; so bold, we fear\nit.\n\n\u201c\u2018In solitude, let us exhume our ingots. Let us hear our own thoughts.\nThe soul needs no mentor, but Oro; and Oro, without proxy. Wanting Him,\nit is both the teacher and the taught. Undeniably, reason was the first\nrevelation; and so far as it tests all others, it has precedence over\nthem. It comes direct to us, without suppression or interpolation; and\nwith Oro\u2019s indisputable imprimatur. But inspiration though it be, it is\nnot so arrogant as some think. Nay, far too humble, at times it submits\nto the grossest indignities. Though in its best estate, not infallible;\nso far as it goes, for us, it is reliable. When at fault, it stands\nstill. We speak not of visionaries. But if this our first revelation\nstops short of the uttermost, so with all others. If, often, it only\nperplexes: much more the rest. They leave much unexpounded; and\ndisclosing new mysteries, add to the enigma. Fellow-men; the ocean we\nwould sound is unfathomable; and however much we add to our line, when\nit is out, we feel not the bottom. Let us be truly lowly, then; not\nlifted up with a Pharisaic humility. We crawl not like worms; nor wear\nwe the liveries of angels.\n\n\u201c\u2018The firmament-arch has no key-stone; least of all, is man its prop.\nHe stands alone. We are every thing to ourselves, but how little to\nothers. What are others to us? Assure life everlasting to this\ngeneration, and their immediate forefathers\u2014and what tears would flow,\nwere there no resurrection for the countless generations from the first\nman to five cycles since? And soon we ourselves shall have fallen in\nwith the rank and file of our sires. At a blow, annihilate some distant\ntribe, now alive and jocund\u2014and what would we reck? Curiosity apart, do\nwe really care whether the people in Bellatrix are immortal or no?\n\n\u201c\u2018Though they smite us, let us not turn away from these things, if they\nbe really thus.\n\n\u201c\u2018There was a time, when near Cassiopeia, a star of the first\nmagnitude, most lustrous in the North, grew lurid as a fire, then dim\nas ashes, and went out. Now, its place is a blank. A vast world, with\nall its continents, say the astronomers, blazing over the heads of our\nfathers; while in Mardi were merry-makings, and maidens given in\nmarriage. Who now thinks of that burning sphere? How few are aware that\never it was?\n\n\u201c\u2018These things are so.\n\n\u201c\u2018Fellow-men! we must go, and obtain a glimpse of what we are from the\nBelts of Jupiter and the Moons of Saturn, ere we see ourselves aright.\nThe universe can wax old without us; though by Oro\u2019s grace we may live\nto behold a wrinkle in the sky. Eternity is not ours by right; and,\nalone, unrequited sufferings here, form no title thereto, unless\nresurrections are reserved for maltreated brutes. Suffering is\nsuffering; be the sufferer man, brute, or thing.\n\n\u201c\u2018How small;\u2014how nothing, our deserts! Let us stifle all vain\nspeculations; we need not to be told what righteousness is; we were\nborn with the whole Law in our hearts. Let us do: let us act: let us\ndown on our knees. And if, after all, we should be no more forever;\u2014\nfar better to perish meriting immortality, than to enjoy it\nunmeritorious. While we fight over creeds, ten thousand fingers point\nto where vital good may be done. All round us, Want crawls to her\nlairs; and, shivering, dies unrelieved. Here, _here_, fellow-men, we\ncan better minister as angels, than in heaven, where want and misery\ncome not.\n\n\u201c\u2018We Mardians talk as though the future was all in all; but act as\nthough the present was every thing. Yet so far as, in our theories, we\ndwarf our Mardi; we go not beyond an archangel\u2019s apprehension of it,\nwho takes in all suns and systems at a glance. Like pebbles, were the\nisles to sink in space, Sirius, the Dog-star, would still flame in the\nsky. But as the atom to the animalculae, so Mardi to us. And lived\naright, these mortal lives are long; looked into, these souls,\nfathomless as the nethermost depths.\n\n\u201c\u2018Fellow-men; we split upon hairs; but stripped, mere words and phrases\ncast aside, the great bulk of us are orthodox. None who think, dissent\nfrom the grand belief. The first man\u2019s thoughts were as ours. The\nparamount revelation prevails with us; and all that clashes therewith,\nwe do not so much believe, as believe that we can not disbelieve.\nCommon sense is a sturdy despot; that, for the most part, has its own\nway. It inspects and ratifies much independent of it. But those who\nthink they do wholly reject it, are but held in a sly sort of bondage;\nunder a semblance of something else, wearing the old yoke.\u2019\u201d\n\n\u201cCease, cease, Babbalanja,\u201d said Media, \u201cand permit me to insinuate a\nword in your ear. You have long been in the habit, philosopher, of\nregaling us with chapters from your old Bardianna; and with infinite\ngusto, you have just recited the longest of all. But I do not observe,\noh, Sage! that for all these things, you yourself are practically the\nbetter or wiser. You live not up to Bardianna\u2019s main thought. Where he\nstands, he stands immovable; but you are a Dog-vane. How is this?\u201d\n\n\u201cGogle-goggle, fugle-fi, fugle-fogle-orum!\u201d\n\n\u201cMad, mad again,\u201d cried Yoomy.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXXII.\nBabbalanja Starts To His Feet\n\n\nFor twenty-four hours, seated stiff, and motionless, Babbalanja spoke\nnot a word; then, almost without moving a muscle, muttered thus:\u2014\u201cAt\nbanquets surfeit not, but fill; partake, and retire; and eat not again\ntill you crave. Thereby you give nature time to work her magic\ntransformings; turning all solids to meat, and wine into blood. After a\nbanquet you incline to repose:\u2014do so: digestion commands. All this\nfollow those, who feast at the tables of Wisdom; and all such are they,\nwho partake of the fare of old Bardianna.\u201d\n\n\u201cArt resuscitated, then, Babbalanja?\u201d said Media. \u201cAy, my lord, I am\njust risen from the dead.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd did Azzageddi conduct you to their realms?\u201d\n\n\u201cFangs off! fangs off! depart, thou fiend!\u2014unhand me! or by Oro, I will\ndie and spite thee!\u201d\n\n\u201cQuick, quick, Mohi! let us change places,\u201d cried Yoomy.\n\n\u201cHow now, Babbalanja?\u201d said Media.\n\n\u201cOh my lord man\u2014not _you_ my lord Media!\u2014high and mighty Puissance!\ngreat King of Creation!\u2014thou art but the biggest of braggarts! In every\nage, thou boastest of thy valorous advances:\u2014flat fools, old dotards,\nand numskulls, our sires! All the Past, wasted time! the Present knows\nall! right lucky, fellow-beings, we live now! every man an author!\nbooks plenty as men! strike a light in a minute! teeth sold by the\npound! all the elements fetching and carrying! lightning running on\nerrands! rivers made to order! the ocean a puddle!\u2014 But ages back they\nboasted like us; and ages to come, forever and ever, they\u2019ll boast.\nAges back they black-balled the past, thought the last day was come; so\nwise they were grown. Mardi could not stand long; have to annex one of\nthe planets; invade the great sun; colonize the moon;\u2014conquerors sighed\nfor new Mardis; and sages for heaven\u2014 having by heart all the primers\nhere below. Like us, ages back they groaned under their books; made\nbonfires of libraries, leaving ashes behind, mid which we reverentially\ngrope for charred pages, forgetting we are so much wiser than they.\u2014But\namazing times! astounding revelations; preternatural divulgings!\u2014How\nnow?\u2014more wonderful than all our discoveries is this: that they never\nwere discovered before. So simple, no doubt our ancestors overlooked\nthem; intent on deeper things\u2014the deep things of the soul. All we\ndiscover has been with us since the sun began to roll; and much we\ndiscover, is not worth the discovering. We are children, climbing trees\nafter birds\u2019 nests, and making a great shout, whether we find eggs in\nthem or no. But where are our wings, which our fore-fathers surely had\nnot? Tell us, ye sages! something worth an archangel\u2019s learning;\ndiscover, ye discoverers, something new. Fools, fools! Mardi\u2019s not\nchanged: the sun yet rises in its old place in the East; all things go\non in the same old way; we cut our eye-teeth just as late as they did,\nthree thousand years ago.\u201d\n\n\u201cYour pardon,\u201d said Mohi, \u201cfor beshrew me, they are not yet all cut. At\nthreescore and ten, here have I a new tooth coming now.\u201d\n\n\u201cOld man! it but clears the way for another. The teeth sown by the\nalphabet-founder, were eye-teeth, not yet all sprung from the soil.\nLike spring-wheat, blade by blade, they break ground late; like\nspring-wheat, many seeds have perished in the hard winter glebe. Oh, my\nlord! though we galvanize corpses into St. Vitus\u2019 dances, we raise not\nthe dead from their graves! Though we have discovered the circulation\nof the blood, men die as of yore; oxen graze, sheep bleat, babies bawl,\nasses bray\u2014loud and lusty as the day before the flood. Men fight and\nmake up; repent and go at it; feast and starve; laugh and weep; pray\nand curse; cheat, chaffer, trick, truckle, cozen, defraud, fib, lie,\nbeg, borrow, steal, hang, drown\u2014as in the laughing and weeping,\ntricking and truckling, hanging and drowning times that have been.\nNothing changes, though much be new-fashioned: new fashions but\nrevivals of things previous. In the books of the past we learn naught\nbut of the present; in those of the present, the past. All Mardi\u2019s\nhistory\u2014beginning middle, and finis\u2014was written out in capitals in the\nfirst page penned. The whole story is told in a title- page. An\nexclamation point is entire Mardi\u2019s autobiography.\u201d\n\n\u201cWho speaks now?\u201d said Media, \u201cBardianna, Azzageddi, or Babbalanja?\u201d\n\n\u201cAll three: is it not a pleasant concert?\u201d\n\n\u201cVery fine: very fine.\u2014Go on; and tell us something of the future.\u201d\n\n\u201cI have never departed this life yet, my lord.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut just now you said you were risen from the dead.\u201d \u201cFrom the buried\ndead within me; not from myself, my lord.\u201d\n\n\u201cIf you, then, know nothing of the future\u2014did Bardianna?\u201d\n\n\u201cIf he did, naught did he reveal. I have ever observed, my lord, that\neven in their deepest lucubrations, the profoundest, frankest,\nponderers always reserve a vast deal of precious thought for their own\nprivate behoof. They think, perhaps, that \u2019tis too good, or too bad;\ntoo wise, or too foolish, for the multitude. And this unpleasant\nvibration is ever consequent upon striking a new vein of ideas in the\nsoul. As with buried treasures, the ground over them sounds strange and\nhollow. At any rate, the profoundest ponderer seldom tells us all he\nthinks; seldom reveals to us the ultimate, and the innermost; seldom\nmakes us open our eyes under water; seldom throws open the\ntotus-in-toto; and never carries us with him, to the unconsubsistent,\nthe ideaimmanens, the super-essential, and the One.\u201d\n\nConfusion! Remember the Quadammodatatives!\u201d\n\n\u201cAh!\u201d said Braid-Beard, \u201cthat\u2019s the crack in his calabash, which all\nthe Dicibles of Doxdox will not mend.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd from that crazy calabash he gives us to drink, old Mohi.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut never heed his leaky gourd nor its contents, my lord. Let these\nphilosophers muddle themselves as they will, we wise ones refuse to\npartake.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd fools like me drink till they reel,\u201d said Babbalanja. \u201cBut in\nthese matters one\u2019s calabash must needs go round to keep afloat.\nFogle-orum!\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXXIII.\nAt Last, The Last Mention Is Made Of Old Bardianna; And His Last Will\nAnd Testament Is Recited At Length\n\n\nThe day was waning. And, as after many a tale of ghosts, around their\nforest fire, Hungarian gipsies silent sit; watching the ruddy glow\nkindling each other\u2019s faces;\u2014so, now we solemn sat; the crimson West\nour fire; all our faces flushed.\n\n\u201cTestators!\u201d then cried Media, when your last wills are all round\nsettled, speak, and make it known!\u201d\n\n\u201cMine, my lord, has long been fixed,\u201d said Babbalanja.\n\n\u201cAnd how runs it?\u201d\n\n\u201cFugle-fogle\u2014\u201d\n\n\u201cHark ye, intruding Azzageddi! rejoin thy merry mates below;\u2014go there,\nand wag thy saucy tail; or I will nail it to our bow, till ye roar for\nliberation. Begone, I say.\u201d\n\n\u201cDown, devil! deeper down!\u201d rumbled Babbalanja.\n\n\u201cMy lord, I think he\u2019s gone. And now, by your good leave, I\u2019ll repeat\nold Bardianna\u2019s Will. It\u2019s worth all Mardi\u2019s hearing; and I have so\nstudied it, by rote I know it.\u201d\n\n\u201cProceed then; but I mistrust that Azzageddi is not yet many thousand\nfathoms down.\u201d\n\n\u201cAttend my lord:\u2014\u2018Anno Mardis 50,000,000, o.s. I, Bardianna, of the\nisland of Vamba, and village of the same name, having just risen from\nmy yams, in high health, high spirits, and sound mind, do hereby\ncheerfully make and ordain this my last will and testament.\n\n\u201c\u2018Imprimis:\n\n\u201c\u2018All my kith and kin being well to do in Mardi, I wholly leave them\nout of this my will.\n\n\u201c\u2018Item. Since, in divers ways, verbally and otherwise, my good friend\nPondo has evinced a strong love for me, Bardianna, as the owner and\nproprietor of all that capital messuage with the appurtenances, in\nVamba aforesaid, called \u2018The Lair,\u2019 wherein I now dwell; also for all\nmy Bread-fruit orchards, Palm-groves, Banana-plantations, Taro-patches,\ngardens, lawns, lanes, and hereditaments whatsoever, adjoining the\naforesaid messuage;\u2014I do hereby give and bequeath the same to Bomblum\nof the island of Adda; the aforesaid Bomblum having never expressed any\nregard for me, as a holder of real estate.\n\n\u201c\u2018Item. My esteemed neighbor Lakreemo having since the last lunar\neclipse called daily to inquire after the state of my health: and\nhaving nightly made tearful inquiries of my herb-doctor, concerning the\nstate of my viscera;\u2014I do hereby give and bequeath to the aforesaid\nLakreemo all and sundry those vegetable pills, potions, powders,\naperients, purgatives, expellatives, evacuatives, tonics, emetics,\ncathartics, clysters, injections, scarifiers, cataplasms, lenitives,\nlotions, decoctions, washes, gargles, and phlegmagogues; together with\nall the jars, calabashes, gourds, and galipots, thereunto pertaining;\nsituate, lying, and being, in the west-by-north corner of my\neast-southeast crypt, in my aforesaid tenement known as \u2018The Lair.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Item. The woman Pesti; a native of Vamba, having oftentimes hinted\nthat I, Bardianna, sorely needed a spouse, and having also intimated\nthat she bore me a conjugal affection; I do hereby give and bequeath to\nthe aforesaid Pesti:\u2014my blessing; forasmuch, as by the time of the\nopening of this my last will and testament, I shall have been forever\ndelivered from the aforesaid Pesti\u2019s persecutions.\n\n\u201c\u2018Item. Having a high opinion of the probity of my worthy and excellent\nfriend Bidiri, I do hereby entirely, and wholly, give, will, grant,\nbestow, devise, and utterly hand over unto the said Bidiri, all that\ntenement where my servant Oram now dwelleth; with all the lawns,\nmeadows, uplands and lowlands, fields, groves, and gardens, thereunto\nbelonging:\u2014IN TRUST NEVERTHELESS to have and to hold the same for the\nsole use and benefit of Lanbranka Hohinna, spinster, now resident of\nthe aforesaid island of Vamba.\n\n\u201c\u2018Item. I give and bequeath my large carved drinking gourd to my good\ncomrade Topo.\n\n\u201c\u2019Item. My fast friend Doldrum having at sundry times, and in sundry\nplaces, uttered the prophecy, that upon my decease his sorrow would be\ngreat; I do hereby give and bequeath to the aforesaid Doldrum, ten\nyards of my best soft tappa, to be divided into handkerchiefs for his\nsole benefit and behoof.\n\n\u201c\u2019Item. My sensible friend Solo having informed me, that he intended to\nremain a bachelor for life; I give and devise to the aforesaid Solo,\nthe mat for one person, whereon I nightly repose.\n\n\u201c\u2019Item. Concerning my private Arbor and Palm-groves, adjoining, lying,\nand being in the isle of Vamba, I give and devise the same, with all\nappurtenances whatsoever, to my friend Minta the Cynic, to have and to\nhold, in trust for the first through-and-through honest man, issue of\nmy neighbor Mondi; and in default of such issue, for the first\nthrough-and-through honest man, issue of my neighbor Pendidda; and in\ndefault of such issue, for the first through-and-through honest man,\nissue of my neighbor Wynodo: and in default of such issue, to any\nthrough-and-through honest man, issue of any body, to be found through\nthe length and breadth of Mardi.\n\n\u201c\u2019Item. My friend Minta the Cynic to be sole judge of all claims to the\nabove-mentioned devise; and to hold the said premises for his own use,\nuntil the aforesaid person be found.\n\n\u201c\u2019Item. Knowing my devoted scribe Marko to be very sensitive touching\nthe receipt of a favor; I willingly spare him that pain; and hereby\nbequeath unto the aforesaid scribe, three milk-teeth, not as a\npecuniary legacy, but as a very slight token of my profound regard.\n\n\u201c\u2019Item. I give to the poor of Vamba the total contents of my\nred-labeled bags of bicuspids and canines (which I account\nthree-fourths of my whole estate); to my body servant Fidi, my staff,\nall my robes and togas, and three hundred molars in cash; to that\ndiscerning and sagacious philosopher my disciple Krako, one complete\nset of denticles, to buy him a vertebral bone ring; and to that pious\nand promising youth Vangi, two fathoms of my best kaiar rope, with the\nprivilege of any bough in my groves.\n\n\u201c\u2019All the rest of my goods, chattels and household stuff whatsoever;\nand all my loose denticles, remaining after my debts and legacies are\npaid, and my body is out of sight, I hereby direct to be distributed\namong the poor of Vamba.\n\n\u201c\u2019Ultimo. I give and bequeath to all Mardi this my last advice and\ncounsel:\u2014videlicet: live as long as you can; close your own eyes when\nyou die.\n\n\u201c\u2019I have no previous wills to revoke; and publish this to be my first\nand last.\n\n\u201c\u2019In witness whereof, I have hereunto set my right hand; and hereunto\nhave caused a true copy of the tattooing on my right temple to be\naffixed, during the year first above written.\n\n\u201c\u2019By me, BARDIANNA.\u2019\u201d\n\n\u201cBabbalanja, that\u2019s an extraordinary document,\u201d said Media.\n\n\u201cBardianna was an extraordinary man, my lord.\u201d\n\n\u201cWere there no codicils?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe will is all codicils; all after-thoughts; Ten thoughts for one\nact, was Bardianna\u2019s motto.\u201d\n\n\u201cLeft he nothing whatever to his kindred?\u201d\n\n\u201cNot a stump.\u201d\n\n\u201cProm his will, he seems to have lived single.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes: Bardianna never sought to improve upon nature; a bachelor he was\nborn, and a bachelor he died.\u201d\n\n\u201cAccording to the best accounts, how did he depart, Babbalanja?\u201d asked\nMohi.\n\n\u201cWith a firm lip, and his hand on his heart, old man.\u201d\n\n\u201cHis last words?\u201d\n\n\u201cCalmer, and better!\u201d\n\n\u201cWhere think you, he is now?\u201d\n\n\u201cIn his Ponderings. And those, my lord, we all inherit; for like the\ngreat chief of Romara, who made a whole empire his legatee; so, great\nauthors have all Mardi for an heir.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXXIV.\nA Death-Cloud Sweeps By Them, As They Sail\n\n\nNext day, a fearful sight!\n\nAs in Sooloo\u2019s seas, one vast water-spout will, sudden, form: and\nwhirling, chase the flying Malay keels; so, before a swift-winged\ncloud, a thousand prows sped by, leaving braided, foaming wakes; their\ncrowded inmates\u2019 arms, in frenzied supplications wreathed; like tangled\nforest-boughs.\n\n\u201cSee, see,\u201d cried Yoomy, \u201chow the Death-cloud flies! Let us dive down\nin the sea.\u201d\n\n\u201cNay,\u201d said Babbalanja. \u201cAll things come of Oro; if we must drown, let\nOro drown us.\u201d\n\n\u201cDown sails: drop paddles,\u201d said Media: \u201chere we float.\u201d\n\nLike a rushing bison, sweeping by, the Death-cloud grazed us with its\nfoam; and whirling in upon the thousand prows beyond, sudden burst in\ndeluges; and scooping out a maelstrom, dragged down every plank and\nsoul.\n\nLong we rocked upon the circling billows, which expanding from that\ncenter, dashed every isle, till, moons after-ward, faint, they laved\nall Mardi\u2019s reef.\n\n\u201cThanks unto Oro,\u201d murmured Mohi, \u201cthis heart still beats.\u201d\n\nThat sun-flushed eve, we sailed by many tranquil harbors, whence fled\nthose thousand prows. Serene, the waves ran up their strands; and\nchimed around the unharmed stakes of palm, to which the thousand prows\nthat morning had been fastened.\n\n\u201cFlying death, they ran to meet it,\u201d said Babbalanja. \u201cBut tie not that\nthey fled, they died; for maelstroms, of these harbors, the Death-cloud\nmight have made. But they died, because they might not longer live.\nCould we gain one glimpse of the great calendar of eternity, all our\nnames would there be found, glued against their dates of death. We die\nby land, and die by sea; we die by earthquakes, famines, plagues, and\nwars; by fevers, agues; woe, or mirth excessive. This mortal air is one\nwide pestilence, that kills us all at last. Whom the Death-cloud\nspares, sleeping, dies in silent watches of the night. He whom the\nspears of many battles could not slay, dies of a grape-stone, beneath\nthe vine-clad bower he built, to shade declining years. We die, because\nwe live. But none the less does Babbalanja quake. And if he flies not,\n\u2019tis because he stands the center of a circle; its every point a\nleveled dart; and every bow, bent back:\u2014a twang, and Babbalanja dies.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXXV.\nThey Visit The Palmy King Abrazza\n\n\nNight and morn departed; and in the afternoon, we drew nigh to an\nisland, overcast with shadows; a shower was falling; and pining,\nplaintive notes forth issued from the groves: half-suppressed, and\nsobbing whisperings of leaves. The shore sloped to the water; thither\nour prows were pointed.\n\n\u201cSheer off! no landing here,\u201d cried Media, \u201clet us gain the sunny side;\nand like the care-free bachelor Abrazza, who here is king, turn our\nback on the isle\u2019s shadowy side, and revel in its morning-meads.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd lord Abrazza:\u2014who is he?\u201d asked Yoomy.\n\n\u201cThe one hundred and twentieth in lineal descent from Phipora,\u201d said\nMohi; \u201cand connected on the maternal side to the lord seigniors of\nKlivonia. His uttermost uncle was nephew to the niece of Queen\nZmiglandi; who flourished so long since, she wedded at the first\nTransit of Venus. His pedigree is endless.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut who is lord Abrazza?\u201d\n\n\u201cHas he not said?\u201d answered Babbalanja. \u201cWhy so dull?\u2014Uttermost nephew\nto him, who was nephew to the niece of the peerless Queen Zmiglandi;\nand the one hundred and twentieth in descent from the illustrious\nPhipora.\u201d\n\n\u201cWill none tell, who Abrazza is?\u201d\n\n\u201cCan not a man then, be described by running off the catalogue of his\nancestors?\u201d said Babbalanja. \u201cOr must we e\u2019en descend to himself. Then,\nlisten, dull Yoomy! and know that lord Abrazza is six feet two: plump\nthighs; blue eyes; and brown hair; likes his bread-fruit baked, not\nroasted; sometimes carries filberts in his crown: and has a way of\nwinking when he speaks. His teeth are good.\u201d\n\n\u201cAre you publishing some decamped burglar,\u201d said Media, \u201cthat you speak\nthus of my royal friend, the lord Abrazza? Go on, sir! and say he\nreigns sole king of Bonovona!\u201d\n\n\u201cMy lord, I had not ended. Abrazza, Yoomy, is a fine and florid king:\nhigh-fed, and affluent of heart; of speech, mellifluent. And for a\nroyalty extremely amiable. He is a sceptered gentleman, who does much\ngood. Kind king! in person he gives orders for relieving those, who\ndaily dive for pearls, to grace his royal robe; and gasping hard, with\nblood-shot eyes, come up from shark-infested depths, and fainting, lay\ntheir treasure at his feet. Sweet lord Abrazza! how he pities those,\nwho in his furthest woodlands day-long toil to do his bidding. Yet\nking-philosopher, he never weeps; but pities with a placid smile; and\nthat but seldom.\u201d\n\n\u201cThere seems much iron in your blood,\u201d said Media. \u201cBut say your say.\u201d\n\n\u201cSay I not truth, my lord? Abrazza, I admire. Save his royal pity all\nelse is jocund round him. He loves to live for life\u2019s own sake. He vows\nhe\u2019ll have no cares; and often says, in pleasant reveries,\u2014 \u2018Sure, my\nlord Abrazza, if any one should be care-free, \u2019tis thou; who strike\ndown none, but pity all the fallen!\u2019 Yet none he lifteth up.\u201d\n\nAt length we gained the sunny side, and shoreward tended. Vee-Vee\u2019s\nhorn was sonorous; and issuing from his golden groves, my lord Abrazza,\nlike a host that greets you on the threshold, met us, as we keeled the\nbeach.\n\n\u201cWelcome! fellow demi-god, and king! Media, my pleasant guest!\u201d\n\nHis servitors salamed; his chieftains bowed; his yeoman-guard, in\nmeadow-green, presented palm-stalks,\u2014royal tokens; and hand in hand,\nthe nodding, jovial, regal friends, went up a lane of salutations;\ndragging behind, a train of envyings.\n\nMuch we marked Abrazza\u2019s jeweled crown; that shot no honest blaze of\nruddy rubies; nor looked stern-white like Media\u2019s pearls; but cast a\ngreen and yellow glare; rays from emeralds, crossing rays from many a\ntopaz. In those beams, so sinister, all present looked cadaverous:\nAbrazza\u2019s cheek alone beamed bright, but hectic.\n\nUpon its fragrant mats a spacious hall received the kings; and\ngathering courtiers blandly bowed; and gushing with soft flatteries,\nbreathed idol-incense round them.\n\nThe hall was terraced thrice; its elevated end was curtained; and\nthence, at every chime of words, there burst a girl, gay scarfed, with\nnaked bosom, and poured forth wild and hollow laughter, as she raced\ndown all the terraces, and passed their merry kingships.\n\nWide round the hall, in avenues, waved almond-woods; their whiteness\nfrosted into bloom. But every vine-clad trunk was hollow-hearted;\nhollow sounds came from the grottos: hollow broke the billows on the\nshore: and hollow pauses filled the air, following the hollow laughter.\n\nGuards, with spears, paced the groves, and in the inner shadows, oft\nwere seen to lift their weapons, and backward press some ugly phantom,\nsaying, \u201cSubjects! haunt him not; Abrazza would be merry; Abrazza\nfeasts his guests.\u201d\n\nSo, banished from our sight seemed all things uncongenial; and pleasant\ntimes were ours, in these dominions. Not a face passed by, but smiled;\nmocking-birds perched on the boughs; and singing, made us vow the woods\nwere warbling forth thanksgiving, with a thousand throats! The stalwart\nyeomen grinned beneath their trenchers, heaped with citrons\npomegrantes, grapes; the pages tittered, pouring out the wine; and all\nthe lords loud laughed, smote their gilded spears, and swore the isle\nwas glad.\n\nSuch the isle, in which we tarried; but in our rambles, found no\nYillah.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXXVI.\nSome Pleasant, Shady Talk In The Groves, Between My Lords Abrazza And\nMedia, Babbalanja, Mohi, And Yoomy\n\n\nAbrazza had a cool retreat\u2014a grove of dates; where we were used to\nlounge of noons, and mix our converse with the babble of the rills; and\nmix our punches in goblets chased with grapes. And as ever, King\nAbrazza was the prince of hosts.\n\n\u201cYour crown,\u201d he said to Media; and with his own, he hung it on a\nbough.\n\n\u201cBe not ceremonious:\u201d and stretched his royal legs upon the turf.\n\n\u201cWine!\u201d and his pages poured it out.\n\nSo on the grass we lounged; and King Abrazza, who loved his antique\nancestors; and loved old times; and would not talk of moderns;\u2014bade\nYoomy sing old songs; bade Mohi rehearse old histories; bade Babbalanja\ntell of old ontologies; and commanded all, meanwhile, to drink his old,\nold wine.\n\nSo, all round we quaffed and quoted.\n\nAt last, we talked of old Homeric bards:\u2014those who, ages back, harped,\nand begged, and groped their blinded way through all this charitable\nMardi; receiving coppers then, and immortal glory now.\n\nABRAZZA\u2014How came it, that they all were blind?\n\nBABBALANJA\u2014It was endemical, your Highness. Few grand poets have good\neyes; for they needs blind must be, who ever gaze upon the sun. Vavona\nhimself was blind: when, in the silence of his secret bower, he said\u2014\u201cI\nwill build another world. Therein, let there be kings and slaves,\nphilosophers and wits; whose checkered actions\u2014strange, grotesque, and\nmerry-sad, will entertain my idle moods.\u201d So, my lord, Vavona played at\nkings and crowns, and men and manners; and loved that lonely game to\nplay.\n\nABRAZZA\u2014Vavona seemed a solitary Mardian; who seldom went abroad; had\nfew friends; and shunning others, was shunned by them.\n\nBABBALANJA\u2014But shunned not himself, my lord; like gods, great poets\ndwell alone; while round them, roll the worlds they build.\n\nMEDIA\u2014You seem to know all authors:\u2014you must have heard of Lombardo,\nBabbalanja; he who flourished many ages since.\n\nBABBALANJA\u2014I have; and his grand Kortanza know by heart.\n\nMEDIA (_to Abrazza._)\u2014A very curious work, that, my lord.\n\nABRAZZA\u2014Yes, my dearest king. But, Babbalanja, if Lombardo had aught to\ntell to Mardi\u2014why choose a vehicle so crazy?\n\nBABBALANJA\u2014It was his nature, I suppose.\n\nABRAZZA\u2014But so it would not have been, to me.\n\nBABBALANJA\u2014Nor would it have been natural, for my noble lord Abrazza,\nto have worn Lombardo\u2019s head:\u2014every man has his own, thank Oro!\n\nABBRAZZA\u2014A curious work: a very curious work. Babbalanja, are you\nacquainted with the history of Lombardo?\n\nBABBALANJA\u2014None better. All his biographies have I read.\n\nABRAZZA\u2014Then, tell us how he came to write that work. For one, I can\nnot imagine how those poor devils contrive to roll such thunders\nthrough all Mardi.\n\nMEDIA\u2014Their thunder and lightning seem spontaneous combustibles, my\nlord.\n\nABRAZZA\u2014With which, they but consume themselves, my prince beloved.\n\nBABBALANJA\u2014In a measure, true, your Highness. But pray you, listen; and\nI will try to tell the way in which Lombardo produced his great\nKortanza.\n\nMEDIA\u2014But hark you, philosopher! this time no incoherencies; gag that\ndevil, Azzageddi. And now, what was it that originally impelled\nLombardo to the undertaking?\n\nBABBALANJA\u2014Primus and forever, a full heart:\u2014brimful, bubbling,\nsparkling; and running over like the flagon in your hand, my lord.\nSecundo, the necessity of bestirring himself to procure his yams.\n\nABRAZZA\u2014Wanting the second motive, would the first have sufficed,\nphilosopher?\n\nBABBALANJA\u2014Doubtful. More conduits than one to drain off the soul\u2019s\noverflowings. Besides, the greatest fullnesses overflow not\nspontaneously; and, even when decanted, like rich syrups, slowly ooze;\nwhereas, poor fluids glibly flow, wide-spreading. Hence, when great\nfullness weds great indolence;\u2014that man, to others, too often proves a\ncipher; though, to himself, his thoughts form an Infinite Series,\nindefinite, from its vastness; and incommunicable;\u2014not for lack of\npower, but for lack of an omnipotent volition, to move his strength.\nHis own world is full before him; the fulcrum set; but lever there is\nnone. To such a man, the giving of any boor\u2019s resoluteness, with\ntendons braided, would be as hanging a claymore to Valor\u2019s side, before\nunarmed. Our minds are cunning, compound mechanisms; and one spring, or\nwheel, or axle wanting, the movement lags, or halts. Cerebrum must not\noverbalance cerebellum; our brains should be round as globes; and\nplanted on capacious chests, inhaling mighty morning- inspirations. We\nhave had vast developments of parts of men; but none of manly wholes.\nBefore a full-developed man, Mardi would fall down and worship. We are\nidiot, younger-sons of gods, begotten in dotages divine; and our\nmothers all miscarry. Giants are in our germs; but we are dwarfs,\nstaggering under heads overgrown. Heaped, our measures burst. We die of\ntoo much life.\n\nMEDIA (_to Abrazza_)\u2014Be not impatient, my lord; he\u2019ll recover\npresently. You were talking of Lombardo, Babbalanja.\n\nBABBALANJA\u2014I was, your Highness. Of all Mardians, by nature, he was the\nmost inert. Hast ever seen a yellow lion, all day basking in the yellow\nsun:\u2014in reveries, rending droves of elephants; but his vast loins\nsupine, and eyelids winking? Such, Lombardo; but fierce Want, the\nhunter, came and roused his roar. In hairy billows, his great mane\ntossed like the sea; his eyeballs flamed two hells; his paw had stopped\na rolling world.\n\nABRAZZA\u2014In other words, yams were indispensable, and, poor devil, he\nroared to get them.\n\nBABBALANJA (_bowing_)\u2014Partly so, my literal lord. And as with your own\ngolden scepter, at times upon your royal teeth, indolent tattoos you\nbeat; then, potent, sway it o\u2019er your isle; so, Lombardo. And ere\nNecessity plunged spur and rowel into him, he knew not his own paces.\n_That_ churned him into consciousness; and brought ambition, ere then\ndormant, seething to the top, till he trembled at himself. No mailed\nhand lifted up against a traveler in woods, can so, appall, as we\nourselves. We are full of ghosts and spirits; we are as grave-yards\nfull of buried dead, that start to life before us. And all our dead\nsires, verily, are in us; _that_ is their immortality. From sire to\nson, we go on multiplying corpses in ourselves; for all of which, are\nresurrections. Every thought\u2019s a soul of some past poet, hero, sage. We\nare fuller than a city. Woe it is, that reveals these things. He knows\nhimself, and all that\u2019s in him, who knows adversity. To scale great\nheights, we must come out of lowermost depths. The way to heaven is\nthrough hell. We need fiery baptisms in the fiercest flames of our own\nbosoms. We must feel our hearts hot\u2014hissing in us. And ere their fire\nis revealed, it must burn its way out of us; though it consume us and\nitself. Oh, sleek-cheeked Plenty! smiling at thine own dimples;\u2014vain\nfor thee to reach out after greatness. Turn! turn! from all your tiers\nof cushions of eider-down\u2014turn! and be broken on the wheels of many\nwoes. At white-heat, brand thyself; and count the scars, like old\nwar-worn veterans, over camp-fires. Soft poet! brushing tears from\nlilies\u2014this way! and howl in sackcloth and in ashes! Know, thou, that\nthe lines that live are turned out of a furrowed brow. Oh! there is a\nfierce, a cannibal delight, in the grief that shrieks to multiply\nitself. That grief is miserly of its own; it pities all the happy. Some\ndamned spirits would not be otherwise, could they.\n\nABRAZZA (_to Media_)\u2014Pray, my lord, is this good gentleman a devil?\n\nMEDIA.\u2014No, my lord; but he\u2019s possessed by one. His name is Azzageddi.\nYou may hear more of him. But come, Babbalanja, hast forgotten all\nabout Lombardo? How set he about that great undertaking, his Kortanza?\n\nABRAZZA (_to Media_)\u2014Oh, for all the ravings of your Babbalanja,\nLombardo took no special pains; hence, deserves small commendation.\nFor, genius must be somewhat like us kings,\u2014calm, content, in\nconsciousness of power. And to Lombardo, the scheme of his Kortanza\nmust have come full-fledged, like an eagle from the sun.\n\nBABBALANJA\u2014No, your Highness; but like eagles, his thoughts were first\ncallow; yet, born plumeless, they came to soar.\n\nABRAZZA\u2014Very fine. I presume, Babbalanja, the first thing he did, was\nto fast, and invoke the muses.\n\nBABBALANJA\u2014Pardon, my lord; on the contrary he first procured a ream of\nvellum, and some sturdy quills: indispensable preliminaries, my\nworshipful lords, to the writing of the sublimest epics.\n\nABRAZZA\u2014Ah! then the muses were afterward invoked.\n\nBABBALANJA\u2014Pardon again. Lombardo next sat down to a fine plantain\npudding.\n\nYOOMY\u2014When the song-spell steals over me, I live upon olives.\n\nBABBALANJA\u2014Yoomy, Lombardo eschewed olives. Said he, \u201cWhat fasting\nsoldier can fight? and the fight of all fights is to write.\u201d In ten\ndays Lombardo had written\u2014\n\nABRAZZA\u2014Dashed off, you mean.\n\nBABBALANJA\u2014He never dashed off aught.\n\nABRAZZA\u2014As you will.\n\nBABBALANJA\u2014In ten days, Lombardo had written full fifty folios; he\nloved huge acres of vellum whereon to expatiate.\n\nMEDIA\u2014What then?\n\nBABBALANJA\u2014He read them over attentively; made a neat package of the\nwhole: and put it into the fire.\n\nALL\u2014How?\n\nMEDIA\u2014What! these great geniuses writing trash?\n\nABRAZZA\u2014I thought as much.\n\nBABBALANJA\u2014My lords, they abound in it! more than any other men in\nMardi. Genius is full of trash. But genius essays its best to keep it\nto itself; and giving away its ore, retains the earth; whence, the too\nfrequent wisdom of its works, and folly of its life.\n\nABRAZZA\u2014Then genius is not inspired, after all. How they must slave in\ntheir mines! I weep to think of it.\n\nBABBALANJA\u2014My lord, all men are inspired; fools are inspired; your\nhighness is inspired; for the essence of all ideas is infused. Of\nourselves, and in ourselves, we originate nothing. When Lombardo set\nabout his work, he knew not what it would become. He did not build\nhimself in with plans; he wrote right on; and so doing, got deeper and\ndeeper into himself; and like a resolute traveler, plunging through\nbaffling woods, at last was rewarded for his toils. \u201cIn good time,\u201d\nsaith he, in his autobiography, \u201cI came out into a serene, sunny,\nravishing region; full of sweet scents, singing birds, wild plaints,\nroguish laughs, prophetic voices. \u201cHere we are at last, then,\u201d he\ncried; \u201cI have created the creative.\u201d And now the whole boundless\nlandscape stretched away. Lombardo panted; the sweat was on his brow;\nhe off mantle; braced himself; sat within view of the ocean; his face\nto a cool rushing breeze; placed flowers before him; and gave himself\nplenty of room. On one side was his ream of vellum\u2014\n\nABBRAZZA\u2014And on the other, a brimmed beaker.\n\nBABBALANJA\u2014No, your Highness; though he loved it, no wine for Lombardo\nwhile actually at work.\n\nMOHI\u2014Indeed? Why, I ever thought that it was to the superior quality of\nLombardo\u2019s punches, that Mardi was indebted for that abounding humor of\nhis.\n\nBABBALANJA\u2014Not so; he had another way of keeping himself well braced.\n\nYOOMY\u2014Quick! tell us the secret.\n\nBABBALANJA\u2014He never wrote by rush-light. His lamp swung in heaven.\u2014 He\nrose from his East, with the sun; he wrote when all nature was alive.\n\nMOHI\u2014Doubtless, then, he always wrote with a grin; and none laughed\nlouder at his quips, than Lombardo himself.\n\nBABBALANJA\u2014Hear you laughter at the birth of a man child, old man? The\nbabe may have many dimples; not so, the parent. Lombardo was a hermit\nto behold.\n\nMEDIA\u2014What! did Lombardo laugh with a long face?\n\nBABBALANJA\u2014His merriment was not always merriment to him, your\nHighness. For the most part, his meaning kept him serious. Then he was\nso intensely riveted to his work, he could not pause to laugh.\n\nMOHI\u2014My word for it; but he had a sly one, now and then.\n\nBABBALANJA\u2014For the nonce, he was not his own master: a mere amanuensis\nwriting by dictation.\n\nYOOMY\u2014Inspiration, that!\n\nBABBALANJA.\u2014Call it as you will, Yoomy, it was a sort of sleep- walking\nof the mind. Lombardo never threw down his pen: it dropped from him;\nand then, he sat disenchanted: rubbing his eyes; staring; and feeling\nfaint\u2014sometimes, almost unto death.\n\nMEDIA\u2014But pray, Babbalanja, tell us how he made acquaintance with some\nof those rare worthies, he introduces us to, in his Koztanza.\n\nBABBALANJA\u2014He first met them in his reveries; they were walking about\nin him, sour and moody: and for a long time, were shy of his advances;\nbut still importuned, they at last grew ashamed of their reserve;\nstepped forward; and gave him their hands. After that, they were frank\nand friendly. Lombardo set places for them at his board; when he died,\nhe left them something in his will.\n\nMEDIA\u2014What! those imaginary beings?\n\nABRAZZA\u2014Wondrous witty! infernal fine!\n\nMEDIA\u2014But, Babbalanja; after all, the Koztanza found no favor in the\neyes of some Mardians.\n\nABRAZZA\u2014Ay: the arch-critics Verbi and Batho denounced it.\n\nBABBALANJA\u2014Yes: on good authority, Verbi is said to have detected a\nsuperfluous comma; and Batho declared that, with the materials he could\nhave constructed a far better world than Lombardo\u2019s. But, didst ever\nhear of his laying his axis?\n\nABRAZZA\u2014But the unities; Babbalanja, the unities! they are wholly\nwanting in the Koztanza.\n\nBABBALANJA\u2014Your Highness; upon that point, Lombardo was frank. Saith\nhe, in his autobiography: \u201cFor some time, I endeavored to keep in the\ngood graces of those nymphs; but I found them so captious, and\nexacting; they threw me into such a violent passion with their\nfault-findings; that, at last, I renounced them.\u201d\n\nABRAZZA\u2014Very rash!\n\nBABBALANJA\u2014No, your Highness; for though Lombardo abandoned all\nmonitors from without; he retained one autocrat within\u2014his crowned and\nsceptered instinct. And what, if he pulled down one gross world, and\nransacked the etherial spheres, to build up something of his own\u2014a\ncomposite:\u2014what then? matter and mind, though matching not, are mates;\nand sundered oft, in his Koztanza they unite:\u2014the airy waist, embraced\nby stalwart arms.\n\nMEDIA\u2014Incoherent again! I thought we were to have no more of this!\n\nBABBALANJA\u2014My lord Media, there are things infinite in the finite; and\ndualities in unities. Our eyes are pleased with the redness of the\nrose, but another sense lives upon its fragrance. Its redness you must\napproach, to view: its invisible fragrance pervades the field. So, with\nthe Koztanza. Its mere beauty is restricted to its form: its expanding\nsoul, past Mardi does embalm. Modak is Modako; but fogle-foggle is not\nfugle-fi.\n\nMEDIA (_to Abrazza_)\u2014My lord, you start again; but \u2019tis only another\nphase of Azzageeddi; sometimes he\u2019s quite mad. But all this you must\nneeds overlook.\n\nABRAZZA\u2014I will, my dear prince; what one can not see through, one must\nneeds look over, as you say.\n\nYOOMY\u2014But trust me, your Highness, some of those strange things fall\nfar too melodiously upon the ear, to be wholly deficient in meaning.\n\nABRAZZA\u2014Your gentle minstrel, _this_ must be, my lord. But Babbalanja,\nthe Koztanza lacks cohesion; it is wild, unconnected, all episode.\n\nBABBALANJA\u2014And so is Mardi itself:\u2014nothing but episodes; valleys and\nhills; rivers, digressing from plains; vines, roving all over; boulders\nand diamonds; flowers and thistles; forests and thickets; and, here and\nthere, fens and moors. And so, the world in the Koztanza.\n\nABRAZZA\u2014Ay, plenty of dead-desert chapters there; horrible sands to\nwade through.\n\nMEDIA\u2014Now, Babbalanja, away with your tropes; and tell us of the work,\ndirectly it was done. What did Lombardo then? Did he show it to any one\nfor an opinion?\n\nBABBALANJA\u2014Yes, to Zenzori; who asked him where he picked up so much\ntrash; to Hanto, who bade him not be cast down, it was pretty good; to\nLucree, who desired to know how much he was going to get for it; to\nRoddi, who offered a suggestion.\n\nMEDIA\u2014And what was that?\n\nBABBALANJA\u2014That he had best make a faggot of the whole; and try again.\n\nABRAZZA\u2014Very encouraging.\n\nMEDIA\u2014Any one else?\n\nBABBALANJA\u2014To Pollo; who, conscious his opinion was sought, was thereby\npuffed up; and marking the faltering of Lombardo\u2019s voice, when the\nmanuscript was handed him, straightway concluded, that the man who\nstood thus trembling at the bar, must needs be inferior to the judge.\nBut his verdict was mild. After sitting up all night over the work; and\ndiligently taking notes:\u2014\u201cLombardo, my friend! here, take your sheets.\nI have run through them loosely. You might have done better; but then\nyou might have done worse. Take them, my friend; I have put in some\ngood things for you:\u201d\n\nMEDIA\u2014And who was Pollo?\n\nBABBALANJA\u2014Probably some one who lived in Lombardo\u2019s time, and went by\nthat name. He is incidentally mentioned, and cursorily immortalized in\none of the posthumous notes to the Koztanza.\n\nMEDIA\u2014What is said of him there?\n\nBABBALANJA\u2014Not much. In a very old transcript of the work\u2014that of\nAldina\u2014the note alludes to a brave line in the text, and runs thus:\u2014\n\u201cDiverting to tell, it was this passage that an old prosodist, one\nPollo, claimed for his own. He maintained he made a free-will offering\nof it to Lombardo. Several things are yet extant of this Pollo, who\ndied some weeks ago. He seems to have been one of those, who would do\ngreat things if they could; but are content to compass the small. He\nimagined, that the precedence of authors he had established in his\nlibrary, was their Mardi order of merit. He condemned the sublime poems\nof Vavona to his lowermost shelf. \u2018Ah,\u2019 thought he, \u2018how we library\nprinces, lord it over these beggarly authors!\u2019 Well read in the history\nof their woes, Pollo pitied them all, particularly the famous; and\nwrote little essays of his own, which he read to himself.\u201d\n\nMEDIA\u2014Well: and what said Lombardo to those good friends of his,\u2014\nZenzori, Hanto, and Roddi?\n\nBABBALANJA\u2014Nothing. Taking home his manuscript, he glanced it over;\nmaking three corrections.\n\nABRAZZA\u2014And what then?\n\nBABBALANJA\u2014Then, your Highness, he thought to try a conclave of\nprofessional critics; saying to himself, \u201cLet them privately point out\nto me, now, all my blemishes; so that, what time they come to review me\nin public, all will be well.\u201d But curious to relate, those professional\ncritics, for the most part, held their peace, concerning a work yet\nunpublished. And, with some generous exceptions, in their vague,\nlearned way, betrayed such base, beggarly notions of authorship, that\nLombardo could have wept, had tears been his. But in his very grief, he\nground his teeth. Muttered he, \u201cThey are fools. In their eyes, bindings\nnot brains make books. They criticise my tattered cloak, not my soul,\ncaparisoned like a charger. He is the great author, think they, who\ndrives the best bargain with his wares: and no bargainer am I. Because\nhe is old, they worship some mediocrity of an ancient, and mock at the\nliving prophet with the live coal on his lips. They are men who would\nnot be men, had they no books. Their sires begat them not; but the\nauthors they have read. Feelings they have none: and their very\nopinions they borrow. They can not say yea, nor nay, without first\nconsulting all Mardi as an Encyclopedia. And all the learning in them,\nis as a dead corpse in a coffin. Were they worthy the dignity of being\ndamned, I would damn them; but they are not. Critics?\u2014Asses! rather\nmules!\u2014so emasculated, from vanity, they can not father a true thought.\nLike mules, too, from dunghills, they trample down gardens of roses:\nand deem that crushed fragrance their own.\u2014Oh! that all round the\ndomains of genius should lie thus unhedged, for such cattle to uproot!\nOh! that an eagle should be stabbed by a goose-quill! But at best, the\ngreatest reviewers but prey on my leavings. For I am critic and\ncreator; and as critic, in cruelty surpass all critics merely, as a\ntiger, jackals. For ere Mardi sees aught of mine, I scrutinize it\nmyself, remorseless as a surgeon. I cut right and left; I probe, tear,\nand wrench; kill, burn, and destroy; and what\u2019s left after that, the\njackals are welcome to. It is I that stab false thoughts, ere hatched;\nI that pull down wall and tower, rejecting materials which would make\npalaces for others. Oh! could Mardi but see how we work, it would\nmarvel more at our primal chaos, than at the round world thence\nemerging. It would marvel at our scaffoldings, scaling heaven; marvel\nat the hills of earth, banked all round our fabrics ere completed.\u2014How\nplain the pyramid! In this grand silence, so intense, pierced by that\npointed mass,\u2014could ten thousand slaves have ever toiled? ten thousand\nhammers rung?\u2014There it stands, \u2014part of Mardi: claiming kin with\nmountains;\u2014was this thing piecemeal built?\u2014It was. Piecemeal?\u2014atom by\natom it was laid. The world is made of mites.\u201d\n\nYOOMY (_musing._)\u2014It is even so.\n\nABRAZZA\u2014Lombardo was severe upon the critics; and they as much so upon\nhim;\u2014of that, be sure.\n\nBABBALANGA\u2014Your Highness, Lombardo never presumed to criticise true\ncritics; who are more rare than true poets. A great critic is a sultan\namong satraps; but pretenders are thick as ants, striving to scale a\npalm, after its aerial sweetness. And they fight among themselves.\nEssaying to pluck eagles, they themselves are geese, stuck full of\nquills, of which they rob each other.\n\nABRAZZA (_to Media._)\u2014Oro help the victim that falls in Babbalanja\u2019s\nhands!\n\nMEDIA.\u2014Ay, my lord; at times, his every finger is a dagger: every\nthought a falling tower that whelms! But resume, philosopher\u2014what of\nLombardo now?\n\nBABBALANJA\u2014\u201cFor this thing,\u201d said he, \u201cI have agonized over it\nenough.\u2014I can wait no more. It has faults\u2014all mine;\u2014its merits all its\nown;\u2014but I can toil no longer. The beings knit to me implore; my heart\nis full; my brain is sick. Let it go\u2014let it go\u2014and Oro with it.\nSomewhere Mardi has a mighty heart\u2014-_that_ struck, all the isles shall\nresound!\u201d\n\nABRAZZA\u2014Poor devil! he took the world too hard.\n\nMEDIA.-As most of these mortals do, my lord. That\u2019s the load, self-\nimposed, under which Babbalanja reels. But now, philosopher, ere Mardi\nsaw it, what thought Lombardo of his work, looking at it objectively,\nas a thing out of him, I mean.\n\nABRAZZA\u2014No doubt, he hugged it.\n\nBABBALANJA\u2014Hard to answer. Sometimes, when by himself, he thought\nhugely of it, as my lord Abrazza says; but when abroad, among men, he\nalmost despised it; but when he bethought him of those parts, written\nwith full eyes, half blinded; temples throbbing; and pain at the heart\u2014\n\nABRAZZA\u2014Pooh! pooh!\n\nBABBALANJA\u2014He would say to himself, \u201cSure, it can not be in vain!\u201d Yet\nagain, when he bethought him of the hurry and bustle of Mardi,\ndejection stole over him. \u201cWho will heed it,\u201d thought he; \u201cwhat care\nthese fops and brawlers for me? But am I not myself an egregious\ncoxcomb? Who will read me? Say one thousand pages\u2014twenty-five lines\neach\u2014every line ten words\u2014every word ten letters. That\u2019s two million\nfive hundred thousand _a_\u2019s, and _i_\u2019s, and _o_\u2019s to read! How many are\nsuperfluous? Am I not mad to saddle Mardi with such a task? Of all men,\nam I the wisest, to stand upon a pedestal, and teach the mob? Ah, my\nown Kortanza! child of many prayers!\u2014in whose earnest eyes, so\nfathomless, I see my own; and recall all past delights and silent\nagonies-thou may\u2019st prove, as the child of some fond dotard:\u2014 beauteous\nto me; hideous to Mardi! And methinks, that while so much slaving\nmerits that thou should\u2019st not die; it has not been intense, prolonged\nenough, for the high meed of immortality. Yet, things immortal have\nbeen written; and by men as me;\u2014men, who slept and waked; and ate; and\ntalked with tongues like mine. Ah, Oro! how may we know or not, we are\nwhat we would be? Hath genius any stamp and imprint, obvious to\npossessors? Has it eyes to see itself; or is it blind? Or do we delude\nourselves with being gods, and end in grubs? Genius, genius?\u2014a thousand\nyears hence, to be a household-word?\u2014I?\u2014 Lombardo? but yesterday cut in\nthe market-place by a spangled fool!\u2014 Lombardo immortal?\u2014Ha, ha,\nLombardo! but thou art an ass, with vast ears brushing the tops of\npalms! Ha, ha, ha! Methinks I see thee immortal! \u2018Thus great Lombardo\nsaith; and thus; and thus; and thus:\u2014 thus saith he\u2014illustrious\nLombardo!\u2014Lombardo, our great countryman! Lombardo, prince of\npoets\u2014Lombardo! great Lombardo!\u2019\u2014Ha, ha, ha!\u2014 go, go! dig thy grave,\nand bury thyself!\u201d\n\nABRAZZA\u2014He was very funny, then, at times.\n\nBABBALANJA\u2014Very funny, your Highness:\u2014amazing jolly! And from my\nnethermost soul, would to Oro, thou could\u2019st but feel one touch of that\njolly woe! It would appall thee, my Right Worshipful lord Abrazza!\n\nABRAZZA (_to Media_)\u2014My dear lord, his teeth are marvelously white and\nsharp: some she-shark must have been his dam:\u2014does he often grin thus?\nIt was infernal!\n\nMEDIA\u2014Ah! that\u2019s Azzageddi. But, prithee, Babbalanja, proceed.\n\nBABBALANJA\u2014Your Highness, even in his calmer critic moods, Lombardo was\nfar from fancying his work. He confesses, that it ever seemed to him\nbut a poor scrawled copy of something within, which, do what he would,\nhe could not completely transfer. \u201cMy canvas was small,\u201d said he;\n\u201ccrowded out were hosts of things that came last. But Fate is in it.\u201d\nAnd Fate it was, too, your Highness, which forced Lombardo, ere his\nwork was well done, to take it off his easel, and send it to be\nmultiplied. \u201cOh, that I was not thus spurred!\u201d cried he; \u201cbut like many\nanother, in its very childhood, this poor child of mine must go out\ninto Mardi, and get bread for its sire.\u201d\n\nABRAZZA (_with a sigh_)\u2014Alas, the poor devil! But methinks \u2019twas\nwondrous arrogant in him to talk to all Mardi at that lofty rate.\u2014Did\nhe think himself a god?\n\nBABBALANJA\u2014He himself best knew what he thought; but, like all others,\nhe was created by Oro to some special end; doubtless, partly answered\nin his Koztanza.\n\nMEDIA\u2014And now that Lombardo is long dead and gone\u2014and his work, hooted\nduring life, lives after him\u2014what think the present company of it?\nSpeak, my lord Abrazza! Babbalanja! Mohi! Yoomy!\n\nABRAZZA (_tapping his sandal with his scepter__)\u2014I never read it.\n\nBABBALANJA (_looking upward_)\u2014It was written with a divine intent.\n\nMohi (_stroking his beard_)\u2014I never hugged it in a corner, and ignored\nit before Mardi.\n\nYoomy (_musing_)\u2014It has bettered my heart.\n\nMEDIA (_rising_)\u2014And I have read it through nine times.\n\nBABBALANJA (_starting up_)\u2014Ah, Lombardo! this must make thy ghost glad!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXXVII.\nThey Sup\n\n\nThere seemed something sinister, hollow, heartless, about Abrazza, and\nthat green-and-yellow, evil-starred crown that he wore.\n\nBut why think of that? Though we like not something in the curve of\none\u2019s brow, or distrust the tone of his voice; yet, let us away with\nsuspicions if we may, and make a jolly comrade of him, in the name of\nthe gods. Miserable! thrice miserable he, who is forever turning over\nand over one\u2019s character in his mind, and weighing by nice avoirdupois,\nthe pros and the cons of his goodness and badness. For we are all good\nand bad. Give me the heart that\u2019s huge as all Asia; and unless a man,\nbe a villain outright, account him one of the best tempered blades in\nthe world.\n\nThat night, in his right regal hall, King Abrazza received us. And in\nmerry good time a fine supper was spread.\n\nNow, in thus nocturnally regaling us, our host was warranted by many\nancient and illustrious examples.\n\nFor old Jove gave suppers; the god Woden gave suppers; the Hindoo deity\nBrahma gave suppers; the Red Man\u2019s Great Spirit gave suppers:\u2014 chiefly\nvenison and game.\n\nAnd many distinguished mortals besides.\n\nAhasuerus gave suppers; Xerxes gave suppers; Montezuma gave suppers;\nPowhattan gave suppers; the Jews\u2019 Passovers were suppers; the Pharaohs\ngave suppers; Julius Caesar gave suppers:\u2014and rare ones they were;\nGreat Pompey gave suppers; Nabob Crassus gave suppers; and\nHeliogabalus, surnamed the Gobbler, gave suppers.\n\nIt was a common saying of old, that King Pluto gave suppers; some say\nhe is giving them still. If so, he is keeping tip-top company, old\nPluto:\u2014Emperors and Czars; Great Moguls and Great Khans; Grand Lamas\nand Grand Dukes; Prince Regents and Queen Dowagers:\u2014Tamerlane\nhob-a-nobbing with Bonaparte; Antiochus with Solyman the Magnificent;\nPisistratus pledging Pilate; Semiramis eating bon-bons with Bloody\nMary, and her namesake of Medicis; the Thirty Tyrants quaffing three to\none with the Council of Ten; and Sultans, Satraps, Viziers, Hetmans,\nSoldans, Landgraves, Bashaws, Doges, Dauphins, Infantas, Incas, and\nCaciques looking on.\n\nAgain: at Arbela, the conqueror of conquerors, conquering son of\nOlympia by Jupiter himself, sent out cards to his captains,\u2014\nHephestion, Antigonus, Antipater, and the rest\u2014to join him at ten,\np.m., in the Temple of Belus; there, to sit down to a victorious\nsupper, off the gold plate of the Assyrian High Priests. How\nmajestically he poured out his old Madeira that night!\u2014feeling grand\nand lofty as the Himmalehs; yea, all Babylon nodded her towers in his\nsoul!\n\nSpread, heaped up, stacked with good things; and redolent of citrons\nand grapes, hilling round tall vases of wine; and here and there,\nwaving with fresh orange-boughs, among whose leaves, myriads of small\ntapers gleamed like fire-flies in groves,\u2014Abrazza\u2019s glorious board\nshowed like some banquet in Paradise: Ceres and Pomona presiding; and\njolly Bacchus, like a recruit with a mettlesome rifle, staggering back\nas he fires off the bottles of vivacious champagne.\n\nIn ranges, roundabout stood living candelabras:\u2014lackeys, gayly\nbedecked, with tall torches in their hands; and at one end, stood\ntrumpeters, bugles at their lips.\n\n\u201cThis way, my dear Media!\u2014this seat at my left\u2014Noble Taji!\u2014my right.\nBabbalanja!\u2014Mohi\u2014where you are. But where\u2019s pretty Yoomy?\u2014 Gone to\nmeditate in the moonlight? ah!\u2014Very good. Let the banquet begin. A\nblast there!\u201d\n\nAnd charge all did.\n\nThe venison, wild boar\u2019s meat, and buffalo-humps, were extraordinary;\nthe wine, of rare vintages, like bottled lightning; and the first\ncourse, a brilliant affair, went off like a rocket.\n\nBut as yet, Babbalanja joined not in the revels. His mood was on him;\nand apart he sat; silently eyeing the banquet; and ever and anon\nmuttering,\u2014\u201cFogle-foggle, fugle-fi.\u2014\u201d\n\nThe first fury of the feast over, said King Media, pouring out from a\nheavy flagon into his goblet, \u201cAbrazza, these suppers are wondrous fine\nthings.\u201d\n\n\u201cAy, my dear lord, much better than dinners.\u201d\n\n\u201cSo they are, so they are. The dinner-hour is the summer of the day:\nfull of sunshine, I grant; but not like the mellow autumn of supper. A\ndinner, you know, may go off rather stiffly; but invariably suppers are\njovial. At dinners, \u2019tis not till you take in sail, furl the cloth, bow\nthe lady-passengers out, and make all snug; \u2019tis not till then, that\none begins to ride out the gale with complacency. But at these\nsuppers\u2014Good Oro! your cup is empty, my dear demi-god!\u2014But at these\nsuppers, I say, all is snug and ship-shape before you begin; and when\nyou begin, you waive the beginning, and begin in the middle. And as for\nthe cloth,\u2014but tell us, Braid-Beard, what that old king of Franko,\nLudwig the Fat, said of that matter. The cloth for suppers, you know.\nIt\u2019s down in your chronicles.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy lord,\u201d\u2014wiping his beard,\u2014\u201cOld Ludwig was of opinion, that at\nsuppers the cloth was superfluous, unless on the back of some jolly\ngood friar. Said he, \u2018For one, I prefer sitting right down to the\nunrobed table.\u2019\u201d\n\n\u201cHigh and royal authority, that of Ludwig the Fat,\u201d said Babbalanja,\n\u201cfar higher than the authority of Ludwig the Great:\u2014the one, only great\nby courtesy; the other, fat beyond a peradventure. But they are equally\nfamous; and in their graves, both on a par. For after devouring many a\nfair province, and grinding the poor of his realm, Ludwig the Great has\nlong since, himself, been devoured by very small worms, and ground into\nvery fine dust. And after stripping many a venison rib, Ludwig the Fat\nhas had his own polished and bleached in the Valley of Death; yea, and\nhis cranium chased with corrodings, like the carved flagon once held to\nits jaws.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy lord! my lord!\u201d\u2014cried Abrazza to Media\u2014\u201cthis ghastly devil of yours\ngrins worse than a skull. I feel the worms crawling over me!\u2014By Oro we\nmust eject him!\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, no, my lord. Let him sit there, as of old the Death\u2019s-head graced\nthe feasts of the Pharaohs\u2014let him sit\u2014let him sit\u2014for Death but\nimparts a flavor to Life\u2014Go on: wag your tongue without fear,\nAzzageddi!\u2014But come, Braid-Beard! let\u2019s hear more of the Ludwigs.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, then, your Highness, of all the eighteen royal Ludwigs of\nFranko\u2014\u201d\n\n\u201cWho like so many ten-pins, all in a row,\u201d interposed Babbalanja\u2014 \u201chave\nbeen bowled off the course by grim Death.\u201d\n\n\u201cHeed him not,\u201d said Media\u2014\u201cgo on.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe Debonnaire, the Pious, the Stammerer, the Do-Nothing, the\nJuvenile, the Quarreler:\u2014of all these, I say, Ludwig the Fat was the\nbest table-man of them all. Such a full orbed paunch was his, that no\nway could he devise of getting to his suppers, but by getting right\ninto them. Like the Zodiac his table was circular, and full in the\nmiddle he sat, like a sun;\u2014all his jolly stews and ragouts revolving\naround him.\u201d\n\n\u201cYea,\u201d said Babbalanja, \u201ca very round sun was Ludwig the Fat. No wonder\nhe\u2019s down in the chronicles; several ells about the waist, and King of\ncups and Tokay. Truly, a famous king: three hundred-weight of lard,\nwith a diadem on top: lean brains and a fat doublet\u2014a demijohn of a\ndemi-god!\u201d\n\n\u201cIs this to be longer borne?\u201d cried Abrazza, starting up. \u201cQuaff that\nsneer down, devil! on the instant! down with it, to the dregs! This\ncomes, my lord Media, of having a slow drinker at one\u2019s board. Like an\niceberg, such a fellow frosts the whole atmosphere of a banquet, and is\nfelt a league off We must thrust him out. Guards!\u201d\n\n\u201cBack! touch him not, hounds!\u201d\u2014cried Media. \u201cYour pardon, my lord, but\nwe\u2019ll keep him to it; and melt him down in this good wine. Drink! I\ncommand it, drink, Babbalanja!\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd am I not drinking, my lord? Surely you would not that I should\nimbibe more than I can hold. The measure being full, all poured in\nafter that is but wasted. I am for being temperate in these things, my\ngood lord. And my one cup outlasts three of yours. Better to sip a\npint, than pour down a quart. All things in moderation are good;\nwhence, wine in moderation is good. But all things in excess are bad:\nwhence wine in excess is bad.\u201d\n\n\u201cAway with your logic and conic sections! Drink!\u2014But no, no: I am too\nsevere. For of all meals a supper should be the most social and free.\nAnd going thereto we kings, my lord, should lay aside our scepters.\u2014 Do\nas you please Babbalanja.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou are right, you are right, after all, my dear demi-god,\u201d said\nAbrazza. \u201cAnd to say truth, I seldom worry myself with the ways of\nthese mortals; for no thanks do we demi-gods get. We kings should be\never indifferent. Nothing like a cold heart; warm ones are ever\nchafing, and getting into trouble. I let my mortals here in this isle\ntake heed to themselves; only barring them out when they would thrust\nin their petitions. This very instant, my lord, my yeoman-guard is on\nduty without, to drive off intruders.\u2014Hark!\u2014what noise is that?\u2014Ho, who\ncomes?\u201d\n\nAt that instant, there burst into the hall, a crowd of spearmen, driven\nbefore a pale, ragged rout, that loudly invoked King Abrazza.\n\n\u201cPardon, my lord king, for thus forcing an entrance! But long in vain\nhave we knocked at thy gates! Our grievances are more than we can bear!\nGive ear to our spokesman, we beseech!\u201d\n\nAnd from their tumultuous midst, they pushed forward a tall, grim,\npine-tree of a fellow, who loomed up out of the throng, like the Peak\nof Teneriffe among the Canaries in a storm.\n\n\u201cDrive the knaves out! Ho, cowards, guards, turn about! charge upon\nthem! Away with your grievances! Drive them out, I say, drive them\nout!\u2014High times, truly, my lord Media, when demi-gods are thus annoyed\nat their wine. Oh, who would reign over mortals!\u201d\n\nSo at last, with much difficulty, the ragged rout were ejected; the\nPeak of Teneriffe going last, a pent storm on his brow; and muttering\nabout some black time that was corning.\n\nWhile the hoarse murmurs without still echoed through the hall, King\nAbrazza refilling his cup thus spoke:\u2014\u201cYou were saying, my dear lord,\nthat of all meals a supper is the most social and free. Very true. And\nof all suppers those given by us bachelor demi-gods are the best. Are\nthey not?\u201d\n\n\u201cThey are. For Benedict mortals must be home betimes: bachelor\ndemi-gods are never away.\u201d\n\n\u201cAy, your Highnesses, bachelors are all the year round at home;\u201d said\nMohi: \u201csitting out life in the chimney corner, cozy and warm as the\ndog, whilome turning the old-fashioned roasting jack.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd to us bachelor demi-gods,\u201d cried Media \u201cour to-morrows are as long\nrows of fine punches, ranged on a board, and waiting the hand.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut my good lords,\u201d said Babbalanja, now brightening with wine; \u201cif,\nof all suppers those given by bachelors be the best:\u2014of all bachelors,\nare not your priests and monks the jolliest? I mean, behind the scenes?\nTheir prayers all said, and their futurities securely invested,\u2014who so\ncarefree and cozy as they? Yea, a supper for two in a friar\u2019s cell in\nMaramma, is merrier far, than a dinner for five-and-twenty, in the\nbroad right wing of Donjalolo\u2019s great Palace of the Morn.\u201d\n\n\u201cBravo, Babbalanja!\u201d cried Media, \u201cyour iceberg is thawing. More of\nthat, more of that. Did I not say, we would melt him down at last, my\nlord?\u201d\n\n\u201cAy,\u201d continued Babbalanja, \u201cbachelors are a noble fraternity: I\u2019m a\nbachelor myself. One of ye, in that matter, my lord demi-gods. And if\nunlike the patriarchs of the world, we father not our brigades and\nbattalions; and send not out into the battles of our country whole\nregiments of our own individual raising;\u2014yet do we oftentimes leave\nbehind us goodly houses and lands; rare old brandies and mountain\nMalagas; and more especially, warm doublets and togas, and\nspatterdashes, wherewithal to keep comfortable those who survive us;\u2014\ncasing the legs and arms, which others beget. Then compare not\ninvidiously Benedicts with bachelors, since thus we make an equal\ndivision of the duties, which both owe to posterity.\u201d\n\n\u201cSuppers forever!\u201d cried Media. \u201cSee, my lord, what yours has done for\nBabbalanja. He came to it a skeleton; but will go away, every bone\npadded!\u201d\n\n\u201cAy, my lord demi-gods,\u201d said Babbalanja, drop by drop refilling his\ngoblet. \u201cThese suppers are all very fine, very pleasant, and merry. But\nwe pay for them roundly. Every thing, my good lords, has its price,\nfrom a marble to a world. And easier of digestion, and better for both\nbody and soul, are a half-haunch of venison and a gallon of mead, taken\nunder the sun at meridian, than the soft bridal breast of a partridge,\nwith some gentle negus, at the noon of night!\u201d\n\n\u201cNo lie that!\u201d said Mohi. \u201cBeshrew me, in no well-appointed mansion\ndoth the pantry lie adjoining the sleeping chamber. A good thought:\nI\u2019ll fill up, and ponder on it.\u201d\n\n\u201cLet not Azzageddi get uppermost again, Babbalanja,\u201d cried Media. \u201cYour\ngoblet is only half-full.\u201d\n\n\u201cPermit it to remain so; my lord. For whoso takes much wine to bed with\nhim, has a bedfellow, more restless than a somnambulist. And though\nWine be a jolly blade at the board, a sulky knave is he under a\nblanket. I know him of old. Yet, your Highness, for all this, to many a\nMardian, suppers are still better than dinners, at whatever cost\npurchased. Forasmuch, as many have more leisure to sup, than dine. And\nthough you demi-gods, may dine at your ease; and dine it out into\nnight: and sit and chirp over your Burgundy, till the morning larks\njoin your crickets, and wed matins to vespers;\u2014far otherwise, with us\nplebeian mortals. From our dinners, we must hie to our anvils: and the\nlast jolly jorum evaporates in a cark and a care.\u201d\n\n\u201cMethinks he relapses,\u201d said Abrazza.\n\n\u201cIt waxes late,\u201d said Mohi; \u201cyour Highnesses, is it not time to break\nup?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, no!\u201d, cried Abrazza; \u201clet the day break when it will: but no\nbreakings for us. It\u2019s only midnight. This way with the wine; pass it\nalong, my dear Media. We are young yet, my sweet lord; light hearts and\nheavy purses; short prayers and long rent-rolls. Pass round the Tokay!\nWe demi-gods have all our old age for a dormitory. Come!\u2014Round and\nround with the flagons! Let them disappear like mile-stones on a\nrace-course!\u201d\n\n\u201cAh!\u201d murmured Babbalanja, holding his full goblet at arm\u2019s length on\nthe board, \u201cnot thus with the hapless wight, born with a hamper on his\nback, and blisters in his palms.\u2014Toil and sleep\u2014sleep and toil, are his\ndays and his nights; he goes to bed with a lumbago, and wakes with the\nrheumatics;\u2014I know what it is;\u2014he snatches lunches, not dinners, and\nmakes of all life a cold snack! Yet praise be to Oro, though to such\nmen dinners are scarce worth the eating; nevertheless, praise Oro\nagain, a good supper is something. Off jack-boots; nay, off shirt, if\nyou will, and go at it. Hurrah! the fagged day is done: the last blow\nis an echo. Twelve long hours to sunrise! And would it were an\nAntarctic night, and six months to to-morrow! But, hurrah! the very\nbees have their hive, and after a day\u2019s weary wandering, hie home to\ntheir honey. So they stretch out their stiff legs, rub their lame\nelbows, and putting their tired right arms in a sling, set the others\nto fetching and carrying from dishes to dentals, from foaming flagon to\nthe demijohn which never pours out at the end you pour in. Ah! after\nall, the poorest devil in Mardi lives not in vain. There\u2019s a soft side\nto the hardest oak-plank in the world!\u201d\n\n\u201cMethinks I have heard some such sentimental gabble as this before from\nmy slaves, my lord,\u201d said Abrazza to Media. \u201cIt has the old gibberish\nflavor.\u201d\n\n\u201cGibberish, your Highness? Gibberish? I\u2019m full of it\u2014I\u2019m a gibbering\nghost, my right worshipful lord! Here, pass your hand through me\u2014 here,\n_here_, and scorch it where I most burn. By Oro! King! but I will gibe\nand gibber at thee, till thy crown feels like another skull clapped on\nthy own. Gibberish? ay, in hell we\u2019ll gibber in concert, king! we\u2019ll\nhowl, and roast, and hiss together!\u201d\n\n\u201cDevil that thou art, begone! Ho, guards! seize him!\u201d\n\n\u201cBack, curs!\u201d cried Media. \u201cHarm not a hair of his head. I crave\npardon, King Abrazza, but no violence must be done Babbalanja.\u201d\n\n\u201cTrumpets there!\u201d said Abrazza; \u201cso: the banquet is done\u2014lights for\nKing Media! Good-night, my lord!\u201d\n\nNow, thus, for the nonce, with good cheer, we close. And after many\nfine dinners and banquets\u2014through light and through shade; through\nmirth, sorrow, and all\u2014drawing nigh to the evening end of these\nwanderings wild\u2014meet is it that all should be regaled with a supper.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXXVIII.\nThey Embark\n\n\nNext morning, King Abrazza sent frigid word to Media that the day was\nvery fine for yachting; but he much regretted that indisposition would\nprevent his making one of the party, who that morning doubtless would\ndepart his isle.\n\n\u201cMy compliments to your king,\u201d said Media to the chamberlains, \u201cand say\nthe royal notice to quit was duly received.\u201d\n\n\u201cTake Azzageddi\u2019s also,\u201d said Babbalanja; \u201cand say, I hope his Highness\nwill not fail in his appointment with me:\u2014the first midnight after he\ndies; at the grave-yard corner;\u2014there I\u2019ll be, and grin again!\u201d\n\nSailing on, the next land we saw was thickly wooded: hedged round about\nby mangrove trees; which growing in the water, yet lifted high their\nboughs. Here and there were shady nooks, half verdure and half water.\nFishes rippled, and canaries sung.\n\n\u201cLet us break through, my lord,\u201d said Yoomy, \u201cand seek the shore. Its\nsolitudes must prove reviving.\u201d \u201cSolitudes they are,\u201d cried Mohi.\n\n\u201cPeopled but not enlivened,\u201d said Babbalanja. \u201cHard landing here,\nminstrel! see you not the isle is hedged?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, break through, then,\u201d said Media. \u201cYillah is not here.\u201d\n\n\u201cI mistrusted it,\u201d sighed Yoomy; \u201can imprisoned island! full of\nuncomplaining woes: like many others we must have glided by,\nunheedingly. Yet of them have I heard. This isle many pass, marking its\noutward brightness, but dreaming not of the sad secrets here embowered.\nHaunt of the hopeless! In those inland woods brood Mardians who have\ntasted Mardi, and found it bitter\u2014the draught so sweet to\nothers!\u2014maidens whose unimparted bloom has cankered in the bud; and\nchildren, with eyes averted from life\u2019s dawn\u2014like those new-oped\nmorning blossoms which, foreseeing storms, turn and close.\u201d\n\n\u201cYoomy\u2019s rendering of the truth,\u201d said Mohi.\n\n\u201cWhy land, then?\u201d said Media. \u201cNo merry man of sense\u2014no demi-god like\nme, will do it. Let\u2019s away; let\u2019s see all that\u2019s pleasant, or that\nseems so, in our circuit, and, if possible, shun the sad.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen we have circled not the round reef wholly,\u201d said Babbalanja, \u201cbut\nmade of it a segment. For this is far from being the first sad land, my\nlord, that we have slighted at your instance.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo more. I will have no gloom. A chorus! there, ye paddlers! spread\nall your sails; ply paddles; breeze up, merry winds!\u201d\n\nAnd so, in the saffron sunset, we neared another shore.\n\nA gloomy-looking land! black, beetling crags, rent by volcanic clefts;\nploughed up with water-courses, and dusky with charred woods. The beach\nwas strewn with scoria and cinders; in dolorous soughs, a chill wind\nblew; wails issued from the caves; and yellow, spooming surges, lashed\nthe moaning strand.\n\n\u201cShall we land?\u201d said Babbalanja.\n\n\u201cNot here,\u201d cried Yoomy; \u201cno Yillah here.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d said Media. \u201cThis is another of those lands far better to avoid.\u201d\n\n\u201cKnow ye not,\u201d said Mohi, \u201cthat here are the mines of King Klanko,\nwhose scourged slaves, toiling in their pits, so nigh approach the\nvolcano\u2019s bowels, they hear its rumblings? \u2018Yet they must work on,\u2019\ncries Klanko, \u2018the mines still yield!\u2019 And daily his slaves\u2019 bones are\nbrought above ground, mixed with the metal masses.\u201d\n\n\u201cSet all sail there, men! away!\u201d\n\n\u201cMy lord,\u201d said Babbalanja; \u201cstill must we shun the unmitigated evil;\nand only view the good; or evil so mixed therewith, the mixture\u2019s\nboth?\u201d\n\nHalf vailed in misty clouds, the harvest-moon now rose; and in that\npale and haggard light, all sat silent; each man in his own secret\nmood: best knowing his own thoughts.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXXIX.\nBabbalanja At The Full Of The Moon\n\n\n\u201cHo, mortals! Go we to a funeral, that our paddles seem thus muffled?\nUp heart, Taji! or does that witch Hautia haunt thee? Be a demi-god\nonce more, and laugh. Her flowers are not barbs; and the avengers\u2019\narrows are too blunt to slay. Babbalanja! Mohi! Yoomy! up heart! up\nheart!\u2014By Oro! I will debark the whole company on the next land we\nmeet. No tears for me. Ha, ha! let us laugh. Ho, Vee-Vee! awake; quick,\nboy,\u2014some wine! and let us make glad, beneath the glad moon. Look! it\nis stealing forth from its clouds. Perdition to Hautia! Long lives, and\nmerry ones to ourselves! Taji, my charming fellow, here\u2019s to you:\u2014May\nyour heart be a stone! Ha, ha!\u2014will nobody join me? My laugh is lonely\nas his who laughed in his tomb. Come, laugh; will no one quaff wine, I\nsay? See! the round moon is abroad.\u201d\n\n\u201cSay you so, my lord? then for one, I am with you;\u201d cried Babbalanja.\n\u201cFill me a brimmer. Ah! but this wine leaps through me like a panther.\nAy, let us laugh: let us roar: let us yell! What, if I was sad but just\nnow? Life is an April day, that both laughs and weeps in a breath. But\nwhoso is wise, laughs when he can. Men fly from a groan; but run to a\nlaugh. Vee-Vee! your gourd. My lord, let me help you. Ah, how it\nsparkles! Cups, cups, Vee-Vee, more cups! Here, Taji, take that: Mohi,\ntake that: Yoomy, take that. And now let us drown away grief. Ha! ha!\nthe house of mourning, is deserted, though of old good cheer kept the\nfuneral guests; and so keep I mine; here I sit by my dead, and\nreplenish your wine cups. Old Mohi, your cup: Yoomy, yours: ha! ha! let\nus laugh, let us scream! Weeds are put off at a fair; no heart bursts\nbut in secret; it is good to laugh, though the laugh be hollow; and\nwise to make merry, now and for aye. Laugh, and make friends: weep, and\nthey go. Women sob, and are rid of their grief: men laugh, and retain\nit. There is laughter in heaven, and laughter in hell. And a deep\nthought whose language is laughter. Though wisdom be wedded to woe,\nthough the way thereto is by tears, yet all ends in a shout. But wisdom\nwears no weeds; woe is more merry than mirth; \u2019tis a shallow grief that\nis sad. Ha! ha! how demoniacs shout; how all skeletons grin; we all die\nwith a rattle. Laugh! laugh! Are the cherubim grave? Humor, thy laugh\nis divine; whence, mirth-making idiots have been revered; and therefore\nmay I. Ho! let us be gay, if it be only for an hour, and Death hand us\nthe goblet. Vee-Vee! bring on your gourds! Let us pledge each other in\nbumpers!\u2014let us laugh, laugh, laugh it out to the last. All sages have\nlaughed,\u2014let us; Bardianna laughed, let us; Demorkriti laughed,\u2014let us:\nAmoree laughed,\u2014let us; Rabeelee roared,\u2014let us; the hyenas grin, the\njackals yell,\u2014let us.\u2014But you don\u2019t laugh, my lord? laugh away!\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, thank you, Azzageddi, not after that infernal fashion; better\nweep.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe makes me crawl all over, as if I were an ant-hill,\u201d said Mohi.\n\n\u201cHe\u2019s mad, mad, mad!\u201d cried Yoomy.\n\n\u201cAy, mad, mad, mad!\u2014mad as the mad fiend that rides me!\u2014But come, sweet\nminstrel, wilt list to a song?\u2014We madmen are all poets, you know:\u2014Ha!\nha!\u2014\n\nStars laugh in the sky:\n    Oh fugle-fi I\nThe waves dimple below:\n    Oh fugle-fo!\n\n\n\u201cThe wind strikes her dulcimers; the groves give a shout; the hurricane\nis only an hysterical laugh; and the lightning that blasts, blasts only\nin play. We must laugh or we die; to laugh is to live. Not to laugh is\nto have the tetanus. Will you weep? then laugh while you weep. For\nmirth and sorrow are kin; are published by identical nerves. Go, Yoomy:\ngo study anatomy: there is much to be learned from the dead, more than\nyou may learn from the living and I am dead though I live; and as soon\ndissect myself as another; I curiously look into my secrets: and grope\nunder my ribs. I have found that the heart is not whole, but divided;\nthat it seeks a soft cushion whereon to repose; that it vitalizes the\nblood; which else were weaker than water: I have found that we can not\nlive without hearts; though the heartless live longest. Yet hug your\nhearts, ye handful that have them; \u2019tis a blessed inheritance! Thus,\nthus, my lord, I run on; from one pole to the other; from this thing to\nthat. But so the great world goes round, and in one Somerset, shows the\nsun twenty-five thousand miles of a landscape!\u201d\n\nAt that instant, down went the fiery full-moon, and the Dog-Star; and\nfar down into Media, a Tivoli of wine.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXXX.\nMorning\n\n\nLife or death, weal or woe, the sun stays not his course. On: over\nbattle-field and bower; over tower, and town, he speeds,\u2014peers in at\nbirths, and death-beds; lights up cathedral, mosque, and pagan\nshrine;\u2014laughing over all;\u2014a very Democritus in the sky; and in one\nbrief day sees more than any pilgrim in a century\u2019s round.\n\nSo, the sun; nearer heaven than we:\u2014with what mind, then, may blessed\nOro downward look.\n\nIt was a purple, red, and yellow East;\u2014streaked, and crossed. And down\nfrom breezy mountains, robust and ruddy Morning came,\u2014a plaided\nHighlander, waving his plumed bonnet to the isles.\n\nOver the neighboring groves the larks soared high; and soaring, sang in\njubilees; while across our bows, between two isles, a mighty moose swam\nstately as a seventy-four; and backward tossed his antlered wilderness\nin air.\n\nJust bounding from fresh morning groves, with the brine he mixed the\ndew of leaves,\u2014his antlers dripping on the swell, that rippled before\nhis brown and bow-like chest.\n\n\u201cFive hundred thousand centuries since,\u201d said Babbalanja, \u201cthis same\nsight was seen. With Oro, the sun is co-eternal; and the same life that\nmoves that moose, animates alike the sun and Oro. All are parts of One.\nIn me, in _me_, flit thoughts participated by the beings peopling all\nthe stars. Saturn, and Mercury, and Mardi, are brothers, one and all;\nand across their orbits, to each other talk, like souls. Of these\nthings what chapters might be writ! Oh! that flesh can not keep pace\nwith spirit. Oh! that these myriad germ-dramas in me, should so perish\nhourly, for lack of power mechanic.\u2014Worlds pass worlds in space, as\nmen, men,\u2014in thoroughfares; and after periods of thousand years,\ncry:\u2014\u201cWell met, my friend, again!\u201d\u2014To me to _me_, they talk in mystic\nmusic; I hear them think through all their zones. \u2014Hail, furthest\nworlds! and all the beauteous beings in ye! Fan me, sweet Zenora! with\nthy twilight wings!\u2014Ho! let\u2019s voyage to Aldebaran.\u2014Ha! indeed, a ruddy\nworld! What a buoyant air! Not like to Mardi, this. Ruby columns:\nminarets of amethyst: diamond domes! Who is this?\u2014a god? What a\nlake-like brow! transparent as the morning air. I see his thoughts like\nworlds revolving\u2014and in his eyes\u2014like unto heavens\u2014soft falling stars\nare shooting.\u2014How these thousand passing wings winnow away my breath:\u2014I\nfaint:\u2014back, back to some small asteroid.\u2014Sweet being! if, by Mardian\nword I may address thee\u2014 speak!\u2014\u2018I bear a soul in germ within me; I\nfeel the first, faint trembling, like to a harp-string, vibrate in my\ninmost being. Kill me, and generations die.\u2019\u2014So, of old, the unbegotten\nlived within the virgin; who then loved her God, as new-made mothers\ntheir babes ere born. Oh, Alma, Alma, Alma!\u2014Fangs off, fiend!\u2014will that\nname ever lash thee into foam?\u2014Smite not my face so, forked flames!\u201d\n\n\u201cBabbalanja! Babbalanja! rouse, man! rouse! Art in hell and damned,\nthat thy sinews so snake-like coil and twist all over thee? Thy brow is\nblack as Ops! Turn, turn! see yonder moose!\u201d\n\n\u201cHail! mighty brute!\u2014thou feelest not these things: never canst _thou_\nbe damned. Moose! would thy soul were mine; for if that scorched thing,\nmine, be immortal\u2014so thine; and thy life hath not the consciousness of\ndeath. I read profound placidity\u2014deep\u2014million\u2014 violet fathoms down, in\nthat soft, pathetic, woman eye! What is man\u2019s shrunk form to thine,\nthou woodland majesty?\u2014Moose, moose!\u2014my soul is shot again\u2014Oh, Oro!\nOro!\u201d\n\n\u201cHe falls!\u201d cried Media.\n\n\u201cMark the agony in his waning eye,\u201d said Yoomy;\u2014\u201calas, poor Babbalanja!\nIs this thing of madness conscious to thyself? If ever thou art sane\nagain, wilt thou have reminiscences? Take my robe:\u2014 here, I strip me to\ncover thee and all thy woes. Oro! by this, thy being\u2019s side, I\nkneel:\u2014grant death or happiness to Babbalanja!\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXXXI.\nL\u2019ultima Sera\n\n\nThus far, through myriad islands, had we searched: of all, no one pen\nmay write: least, mine;\u2014and still no trace of Yillah.\n\nBut though my hopes revived not from their ashes; yet, so much of Mardi\nhad we searched, it seemed as if the long pursuit must, ere many moons,\nbe ended; whether for weal or woe, my frenzy sometimes reeked not.\n\nAfter its first fair morning flushings, all that day was overcast. We\nsailed upon an angry sea, beneath an angry sky. Deep scowled on deep;\nand in dun vapors, the blinded sun went down, unseen; though full\ntoward the West our three prows were pointed; steadfast as three\nprinted points upon the compass-card.\n\n\u201cWhen we set sail from Odo, \u2019twas a glorious morn in spring,\u201d said\nYoomy; \u201ctoward the rising sun we steered. But now, beneath autumnal\nnight-clouds, we hasten to its setting.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow now?\u201d cried Media; \u201cwhy is the minstrel mournful?\u2014He whose place\nit is to chase away despondency: not be its minister.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh, my lord, so _thou_ thinkest. But better can my verses soothe the\nsad, than make them light of heart. Nor are we minstrels so gay of soul\nas Mardi deems us. The brook that sings the sweetest, murmurs through\nthe loneliest woods:\n\nThe isles hold thee not, thou departed!\n    From thy bower, now issues no lay:\u2014\nIn vain we recall perished warblings:\n    Spring birds, to far climes, wing their way!\u201d\n\n\nAs Yoomy thus sang; unmindful of the lay, with paddle plying, in low,\npleasant tones, thus hummed to himself our bowsman, a gamesome wight:\u2014\n\nHo! merrily ho! we paddlers sail!\nHo! over sea-dingle, and dale!\u2014\n    Our pulses fly,\n    Our hearts beat high,\nHo! merrily, merrily, ho!\n\n\nBut a sudden splash, and a shrill, gurgling sound, like that of a\nfountain subsiding, now broke upon the air. Then all was still, save\nthe rush of the waves by our keels.\n\n\u201cSave him! Put back!\u201d\n\nFrom his elevated seat, the merry bowsman, too gleefully reaching\nforward, had fallen into the lagoon.\n\nWith all haste, our speeding canoes were reversed; but not till we had\ndarted in upon another darkness than that in which the bowsman fell.\n\nAs, blindly, we groped back, deep Night dived deeper down in the sea.\n\n\u201cDrop paddles all, and list.\u201d\n\nHolding their breath, over the six gunwales all now leaned; but the\nonly moans were the wind\u2019s.\n\nLong time we lay thus; then slowly crossed and recrossed our track,\nalmost hopeless; but yet loth to leave him who, with a song in his\nmouth, died and was buried in a breath.\n\n\u201cLet us away,\u201d said Media\u2014\u201cwhy seek more? He is gone.\u201d\n\n\u201cAy, gone,\u201d said Babbalanja, \u201cand whither? But a moment since, he was\namong us: now, the fixed stars are not more remote than he. So far off,\ncan he live? Oh, Oro! this death thou ordainest, unmans the manliest.\nSay not nay, my lord. Let us not speak behind Death\u2019s back. Hard and\nhorrible is it to die: blindfold to leap from life\u2019s verge! But thus,\nin clouds of dust, and with a trampling as of hoofs, the generations\ndisappear; death driving them all into his treacherous fold, as wild\nIndians the bison herds. Nay, nay, Death is Life\u2019s last despair. Hard\nand horrible is it to die. Oro himself, in Alma, died not without a\ngroan. Yet why, why live? Life is wearisome to all: the same dull\nround. Day and night, summer and winter, round about us revolving for\naye. One moment lived, is a life. No new stars appear in the sky; no\nnew lights in the soul. Yet, of changes there are many. For though,\nwith rapt sight, in childhood, we behold many strange things beneath\nthe moon, and all Mardi looks a tented fair\u2014 how soon every thing\nfades. All of us, in our very bodies, outlive our own selves. I think\nof green youth as of a merry playmate departed; and to shake hands, and\nbe pleasant with my old age, seems in prospect even harder, than to\ndraw a cold stranger to my bosom. But old age is not for me. I am not\nof the stuff that grows old. This Mardi is not our home. Up and down we\nwander, like exiles transported to a planet afar:\u2014\u2019tis not the world\n_we_ were born in; not the world once so lightsome and gay; not the\nworld where we once merrily danced, dined, and supped; and wooed, and\nwedded our long-buried wives. Then let us depart. But whither? We push\nourselves forward then, start back in affright. Essay it again, and\nflee. Hard to live; hard to die; intolerable suspense! But the grim\ndespot at last interposes; and with a viper in our winding-sheets, we\nare dropped in the sea.\u201d\n\n\u201cTo me,\u201d said Mohi, his gray locks damp with night-dews, \u201cdeath\u2019s dark\ndefile at times seems at hand, with no voice to cheer. That all have\ndied, makes it not easier for me to depart. And that many have been\nquenched in infancy seems a mercy to the slow perishing of my old age,\nlimb by limb and sense by sense. I have long been the tomb of my youth.\nAnd more has died out of me, already, than remains for the last death\nto finish. Babbalanja says truth. In childhood, death stirred me not;\nin middle age, it pursued me like a prowling bandit on the road; now,\ngrown an old man, it boldly leads the way; and ushers me on; and turns\nround upon me its skeleton gaze: poisoning the last solaces of life.\nMaramma but adds to my gloom.\u201d\n\n\u201cDeath! death!\u201d cried Yoomy, \u201cmust I be not, and millions be? Must I\ngo, and the flowers still bloom? Oh, I have marked what it is to be\ndead;\u2014how shouting boys, of holidays, hide-and-seek among the tombs,\nwhich must hide all seekers at last.\u201d\n\n\u201cClouds on clouds!\u201d cried Media, \u201cbut away with them all! Why not leap\nyour graves, while ye may? Time to die, when death comes, without dying\nby inches. \u2019Tis no death, to die; the only death is the fear of it. I,\na demi-god, fear death not.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut when the jackals howl round you?\u201d said Babbalanja.\n\n\u201cDrive them off! Die the demi-god\u2019s death! On his last couch of crossed\nspears, my brave old sire cried, \u2018Wine, wine; strike up, conch and\ncymbal; let the king die to martial melodies!\u2019\u201d\n\n\u201cMore valiant dying, than dead,\u201d said Babbalanja. \u201cOur end of the\nwinding procession resounds with music and flaunts with banners with\nbrave devices: \u2018Cheer up!\u2019 \u2018Fear not!\u2019 \u2018Millions have died before!\u2019\u2014\nbut in the endless van, not a pennon streams; all there, is silent and\nsolemn. The last wisdom is dumb.\u201d\n\nSilence ensued; during which, each dip of the paddles in the now calm\nwater, fell full and long upon the ear.\n\nAnon, lifting his head, Babbalanja thus:\u2014\u201cYillah still eludes us. And\nin all this tour of Mardi, how little have we found to fill the heart\nwith peace: how much to slaughter all our yearnings.\u201d\n\n\u201cCroak no more, raven!\u201d cried Media. \u201cMardi is full of spring-time\nsights, and jubilee sounds. I never was sad in my life.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut for thy one laugh, my lord, how many groans! Were all happy, or\nall miserable,\u2014more tolerable then, than as it is. But happiness and\nmisery are so broadly marked, that this Mardi may be the retributive\nfuture of some forgotten past.\u2014Yet vain our surmises. Still vainer to\nsay, that all Mardi is but a means to an end; that this life is a state\nof probation: that evil is but permitted for a term; that for specified\nages a rebel angel is viceroy.\u2014Nay, nay. Oro delegates his scepter to\nnone; in his everlasting reign there are no interregnums; and Time is\nEternity; and we live in Eternity now. Yet, some tell of a hereafter,\nwhere all the mysteries of life will be over; and the sufferings of the\nvirtuous recompensed. Oro is just, they say.\u2014Then always,\u2014now, and\nevermore. But to make restitution implies a wrong; and Oro can do no\nwrong. Yet what seems evil to us, may be good to him. If he fears not,\nnor hopes,\u2014he has no other passion; no ends, no purposes. He lives\ncontent; all ends are compassed in Him; He has no past, no future; He\nis the everlasting now; which is an everlasting calm; and things that\nare, have been,\u2014 will be. This gloom\u2019s enough. But hoot! hoot! the\nnight-owl ranges through the woodlands of Maramma; its dismal notes\npervade our lives; and when we would fain depart in peace, that bird\nflies on before:\u2014 cloud-like, eclipsing our setting suns, and filling\nthe air with dolor.\u201d\n\n\u201cToo true!\u201d cried Yoomy. \u201cOur calms must come by storms. Like helmless\nvessels, tempest-tossed, our only anchorage is when we founder.\u201d\n\n\u201cOur beginnings,\u201d murmured Mohi, \u201care lost in clouds; we live in\ndarkness all our days, and perish without an end.\u201d\n\n\u201cCroak on, cowards!\u201d cried Media, \u201cand fly before the hideous phantoms\nthat pursue ye.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo coward he, who hunted, turns and finds no foe to fight,\u201d said\nBabbalanja. \u201cLike the stag, whose brow is beat with wings of hawks,\nperched in his heavenward antlers; so I, blinded, goaded, headlong,\nrush! this way and that; nor knowing whither; one forest wide around!\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXXXII.\nThey Sail From Night To Day\n\n\nEre long the three canoes lurched heavily in a violent swell. Like\npalls, the clouds swept to and fro, hooding the gibbering winds. At\nevery head-beat wave, our arching prows reared up, and shuddered; the\nnight ran out in rain.\n\nWhither to turn we knew not; nor what haven to gain; so dense the\ndarkness.\n\nBut at last, the storm was over. Our shattered prows seemed gilded. Day\ndawned; and from his golden vases poured red wine upon the waters.\n\nThat flushed tide rippled toward us; floating from the east, a lone\ncanoe; in which, there sat a mild, old man; a palm-bough in his hand: a\nbird\u2019s beak, holding amaranth and myrtles, his slender prow.\n\n\u201cAlma\u2019s blessing upon ye, voyagers! ye look storm-worn.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe storm we have survived, old man; and many more, we yet must ride,\u201d\nsaid Babbalanja.\n\n\u201cThe sun is risen; and all is well again. We but need to repair our\nprows,\u201d said Media.\n\n\u201cThen, turn aside to Serenia, a pleasant isle, where all are welcome;\nwhere many storm-worn rovers land at last to dwell.\u201d\n\n\u201cSerenia?\u201d said Babbalanja; \u201cmethinks Serenia is that land of\nenthusiasts, of which we hear, my lord; where Mardians pretend to the\nunnatural conjunction of reason with things revealed; where Alma, they\nsay, is restored to his divine original; where, deriving their\nprinciples from the same sources whence flow the persecutions of\nMaramma,\u2014men strive to live together in gentle bonds of peace and\ncharity;\u2014folly! folly!\u201d\n\n\u201cAy,\u201d said Media; \u201cmuch is said of those people of Serenia; but their\nsocial fabric must soon fall to pieces; it is based upon the idlest of\ntheories. Thanks for thy courtesy, old man, but we care not to visit\nthy isle. Our voyage has an object, which, something tells me, will not\nbe gained by touching at thy shores. Elsewhere we may refit. Farewell!\n\u2019Tis breezing; set the sails! Farewell, old man.\u201d\n\n\u201cNay, nay! think again; the distance is but small; the wind fair,\u2014but\n\u2019tis ever so, thither;\u2014come: we, people of Serenia, are most anxious to\nbe seen of Mardi; so that if our manner of life seem good, all Mardi\nmay live as we. In blessed Alma\u2019s name, I pray ye, come!\u201d\n\n\u201cShall we then, my lord?\u201d\n\n\u201cLead on, old man! We will e\u2019en see this wondrous isle.\u201d\n\nSo, guided by the venerable stranger, by noon we descried an island\nblooming with bright savannas, and pensive with peaceful groves.\n\nWafted from this shore, came balm of flowers, and melody of birds: a\nthousand summer sounds and odors. The dimpled tide sang round our\nsplintered prows; the sun was high in heaven, and the waters were deep\nbelow.\n\n\u201cThe land of Love!\u201d the old man murmured, as we neared the beach, where\ninnumerable shells were gently rolling in the playful surf, and\nmurmuring from their tuneful valves. Behind, another, and a verdant\nsurf played against lofty banks of leaves; where the breeze, likewise,\nfound its shore.\n\nAnd now, emerging from beneath the trees, there came a goodly multitude\nin flowing robes; palm-branches in their hands; and as they came, they\nsang:\u2014\n\n        Hail! voyagers, hail!\nWhence e\u2019er ye come, where\u2019er ye rove,\n    No calmer strand,\n    No sweeter land,\nWill e\u2019er ye view, than the Land of Love!\n\n    Hail! voyagers, hail!\nTo these, our shores, soft gales invite:\n    The palm plumes wave,\n    The billows lave,\nAnd hither point fix\u2019d stars of light!\n\n    Hail! voyagers, hail!\nThink not our groves wide brood with gloom;\n    In this, our isle,\n    Bright flowers smile:\nFull urns, rose-heaped, these valleys bloom.\n\n    Hail! voyagers, hail!\nBe not deceived; renounce vain things;\n    Ye may not find\n    A tranquil mind,\nThough hence ye sail with swiftest wings.\n\n    Hail! voyagers, hail!\nTime flies full fast; life soon is o\u2019er;\n    And ye may mourn,\n    That hither borne,\nYe left behind our pleasant shore.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXXXIII.\nThey Land\n\n\nThe song was ended; and as we gained the strand, the crowd embraced us;\nand called us brothers; ourselves and our humblest attendants.\n\n\u201cCall ye us brothers, whom ere now ye never saw?\u201d\n\n\u201cEven so,\u201d said the old man, \u201cis not Oro the father of all? Then, are\nwe not brothers? Thus Alma, the master, hath commanded.\u201d\n\n\u201cThis was not our reception in Maramma,\u201d said Media, \u201cthe appointed\nplace of Alma; where his precepts are preserved.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, no,\u201d said Babbalanja; \u201cold man! your lesson of brotherhood was\nlearned elsewhere than from Alma; for in Maramma and in all its\ntributary isles true brotherhood there is none. Even in the Holy Island\nmany are oppressed; for heresies, many murdered; and thousands perish\nbeneath the altars, groaning with offerings that might relieve them.\u201d\n\n\u201cAlas! too true. But I beseech ye, judge not Alma by all those who\nprofess his faith. Hast thou thyself his records searched?\u201d\n\n\u201cFully, I have not. So long, even from my infancy, have I witnessed the\nwrongs committed in his name; the sins and inconsistencies of his\nfollowers; that thinking all evil must flow from a congenial fountain,\nI have scorned to study the whole record of your Master\u2019s life. By\nparts I only know it.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh! baneful error! But thus is it, brothers!! that the wisest are set\nagainst the Truth, because of those who wrest it from itself.\u201d\n\n\u201cDo ye then claim to live what your Master hath spoken? Are your\nprecepts practices?\u201d\n\n\u201cNothing do we claim: we but earnestly endeavor.\u201d\n\n\u201cTell me not of your endeavors, but of your life. What hope for the\nfatherless among ye?\u201d\n\n\u201cAdopted as a son.\u201d\n\n\u201cOf one poor, and naked?\u201d\n\n\u201cClothed, and he wants for naught.\u201d\n\n\u201cIf ungrateful, he smite you?\u201d\n\n\u201cStill we feed and clothe him.\u201d\n\n\u201cIf yet an ingrate?\u201d\n\n\u201cLong, he can not be; for Love is a fervent fire.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut what, if widely he dissent from your belief in Alma;\u2014then, surely,\nye must cast him forth?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, no; we will remember, that if he dissent from us, we then equally\ndissent from him; and men\u2019s faculties are Oro-given. Nor will we say\nthat he is wrong, and we are right; for this we know not, absolutely.\nBut we care not for men\u2019s words; we look for creeds in actions; which\nare the truthful symbols of the things within. He who hourly prays to\nAlma, but lives not up to world-wide love and charity\u2014that man is more\nan unbeliever than he who verbally rejects the Master, but does his\nbidding. Our lives are our Amens.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut some say that what your Alma teaches is wholly new\u2014a revelation of\nthings before unimagined, even by the poets. To do his bidding, then,\nsome new faculty must be vouchsafed, whereby to apprehend aright.\u201d\n\n\u201cSo have I always thought,\u201d said Mohi.\n\n\u201cIf Alma teaches love, I want no gift to learn,\u201d said Yoomy.\n\n\u201cAll that is vital in the Master\u2019s faith, lived here in Mardi, and in\nhumble dells was practiced, long previous to the Master\u2019s coming. But\nnever before was virtue so lifted up among us, that all might see;\nnever before did rays from heaven descend to glorify it, But are Truth,\nJustice, and Love, the revelations of Alma alone? Were they never heard\nof till he came? Oh! Alma but opens unto us our own hearts. Were his\nprecepts strange we would recoil\u2014not one feeling would respond;\nwhereas, once hearkened to, our souls embrace them as with the\ninstinctive tendrils of a vine.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut,\u201d said Babbalanja, \u201csince Alma, they say, was solely intent upon\nthe things of the Mardi to come\u2014which to all, must seem uncertain\u2014of\nwhat benefit his precepts for the daily lives led here?\u201d\n\n\u201cWould! would that Alma might once more descend! Brother! were the turf\nour everlasting pillow, still would the Master\u2019s faith answer a blessed\nend;\u2014making us more truly happy _here_. _That_ is the first and chief\nresult; for holy here, we must be holy elsewhere. \u2019Tis Mardi, to which\nloved Alma gives his laws; not Paradise.\u201d\n\n\u201cFull soon will I be testing all these things,\u201d murmured Mohi.\n\n\u201cOld man,\u201d said Media, \u201cthy years and Mohi\u2019s lead ye both to dwell upon\nthe unknown future. But speak to me of other themes. Tell me of this\nisland and its people. From all I have heard, and now behold, I gather\nthat here there dwells no king; that ye are left to yourselves; and\nthat this mystic Love, ye speak of, is your ruler. Is it so? Then, are\nye full as visionary, as Mardi rumors. And though for a time, ye may\nhave prospered,\u2014long, ye can not be, without some sharp lesson to\nconvince ye, that your faith in Mardian virtue is entirely vain.\u201d\n\n\u201cTruth. We have no king; for Alma\u2019s precepts rebuke the arrogance of\nplace and power. He is the tribune of mankind; nor will his true faith\nbe universal Mardi\u2019s, till our whole race is kingless. But think not we\nbelieve in man\u2019s perfection. Yet, against all good, he is not\nabsolutely set. In his heart, there is a germ. _That_ we seek to\nfoster. To _that_ we cling; else, all were hopeless!\u201d\n\n\u201cYour social state?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is imperfect; and long must so remain. But we make not the\nmiserable many support the happy few. Nor by annulling reason\u2019s laws,\nseek to breed equality, by breeding anarchy. In all things, equality is\nnot for all. Each has his own. Some have wider groves of palms than\nothers; fare better; dwell in more tasteful arbors; oftener renew their\nfragrant thatch. Such differences must be. But none starve outright,\nwhile others feast. By the abounding, the needy are supplied. Yet not\nby statute, but from dictates, born half dormant in us, and warmed into\nlife by Alma. Those dictates we but follow in all we do; we are not\ndragged to righteousness; but go running. Nor do we live in common. For\nvice and virtue blindly mingled, form a union where vice too often\nproves the alkali. The vicious we make dwell apart, until reclaimed.\nAnd reclaimed they soon must be, since every thing invites. The sin of\nothers rests not upon our heads: none we drive to crime. Our laws are\nnot of vengeance bred, but Love and Alma.\u201d\n\n\u201cFine poetry all this,\u201d said Babbalanja, \u201cbut not so new. Oft do they\nwarble thus in bland Maramma!\u201d\n\n\u201cIt sounds famously, old man!\u201d said Media, \u201cbut men are men. Some must\nstarve; some be scourged.\u2014Your doctrines are impracticable.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd are not these things enjoined by Alma? And would Alma inculcate\nthe impossible? of what merit, his precepts, unless they may be\npracticed? But, I beseech ye, speak no more of Maramma. Alas! did Alma\nrevisit Mardi, think you, it would be among those Morals he would lay\nhis head?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, no,\u201d said Babbalanja, \u201cas an intruder he came; and an intruder\nwould he be this day. On all sides, would he jar our social systems.\u201d\n\n\u201cNot here, not here! Rather would we welcome Alma hungry and athirst,\nthan though he came floating hither on the wings of seraphs; the\nblazing zodiac his diadem! In all his aspects we adore him; needing no\npomp and power to kindle worship. Though he came from Oro; though he\ndid miracles; though through him is life;\u2014not for these things alone,\ndo we thus love him. We love him from, an instinct in us;\u2014a fond,\nfilial, reverential feeling. And this would yet stir in our souls, were\ndeath our end; and Alma incapable of befriending us. We love him\nbecause we do.\u201d\n\n\u201cIs this man divine?\u201d murmured Babbalanja. \u201cBut thou speakest most\nearnestly of adoring Alma:\u2014I see no temples in your groves.\u201d\n\n\u201cBecause this isle is all one temple to his praise; every leaf is\nconsecrated his. We fix not Alma here and there; and say,\u2014\u2018those groves\nfor Him, and these broad fields for us.\u2019 It is all his own; and we\nourselves; our every hour of life; and all we are, and have.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen, ye forever fast and pray; and stand and sing; as at long\nintervals the censer-bearers in Maramma supplicate their gods.\u201d\n\n\u201cAlma forbid! We never fast; our aspirations are our prayers; our lives\nare worship. And when we laugh, with human joy at human things, \u2014_then_\ndo we most sound great Oro\u2019s praise, and prove the merit of sweet\nAlma\u2019s love! Our love in Alma makes us glad, not sad. Ye speak of\ntemples;\u2014behold! \u2019tis by not building _them_, that we widen charity\namong us. The treasures which, in the islands round about, are lavished\non a thousand fanes;\u2014with these we every day relieve the Master\u2019s\nsuffering disciples. In Mardi, Alma preached in open fields, \u2014and must\nhis worshipers have palaces?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo temples, then no priests;\u201d said Babbalanja, \u201cfor few priests will\nenter where lordly arches form not the portal.\u201d\n\n\u201cWe have no priests, but one; and he is Alma\u2019s self. We have his\nprecepts: we seek no comments but our hearts.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut without priests and temples, how long will flourish this your\nfaith?\u201d said Media.\n\n\u201cFor many ages has not this faith lived, in spite of priests and\ntemples? and shall it not survive them? What we believe, we hold\ndivine; and things divine endure forever.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut how enlarge your bounds? how convert the vicious, without\npersuasion of some special seers? Must your religion go hand in hand\nwith all things secular?\u201d\n\n\u201cWe hold not, that one man\u2019s words should be a gospel to the rest; but\nthat Alma\u2019s words should be a gospel to us all. And not by precepts\nwould we have some few endeavor to persuade; but all, by practice, fix\nconvictions, that the life we lead is the life for all. We are\napostles, every one. Where\u2019er we go, our faith we carry in our hands,\nand hearts. It is our chiefest joy. We do not put it wide away six days\nout of seven; and then, assume it. In it we all exult, and joy; as that\nwhich makes us happy here; as that, without which, we could be happy\nnowhere; as something meant for this time present, and henceforth for\naye. It is our vital mode of being; not an incident. And when we die,\nthis faith shall be our pillow; and when we rise, our staff; and at the\nend, our crown. For we are all immortal. Here, Alma joins with our own\nhearts, confirming nature\u2019s promptings.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow eloquent he is!\u201d murmured Babbalanja. \u201cSome black cloud seems\nfloating from me. I begin to see. I come out in light. The sharp fang\ntears me less. The forked flames wane. My soul sets back like ocean\nstreams, that sudden change their flow. Have I been sane? Quickened in\nme is a hope. But pray you, old man\u2014say on\u2014methinks, that in your faith\nmust be much that jars with reason.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, brother! Right-reason, and Alma, are the same; else Alma, not\nreason, would we reject. The Master\u2019s great command is Love; and here\ndo all things wise, and all things good, unite. Love is all in all. The\nmore we love, the more we know; and so reversed. Oro we love; this\nisle; and our wide arms embrace all Mardi like its reef. How can we\nerr, thus feeling? We hear loved Alma\u2019s pleading, prompting voice, in\nevery breeze, in every leaf; we see his earnest eye in every star and\nflower.\u201d\n\n\u201cPoetry!\u201d cried Yoomy; \u201cand poetry is truth! He stirs me.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhen Alma dwelt in Mardi, \u2019twas with the poor and friendless. He fed\nthe famishing; he healed the sick; he bound up wounds. For every\nprecept that he spoke, he did ten thousand mercies. And Alma is our\nloved example.\u201d\n\n\u201cSure, all this is in the histories!\u201d said Mohi, starting.\n\n\u201cBut not alone to poor and friendless, did Alma wend his charitable\nway. From lowly places, he looked up; and long invoked great chieftains\nin their state; and told them all their pride was vanity; and bade them\nask their souls. \u2018In _me_,\u2019 he cried, \u2018is that heart of mild content,\nwhich in vain ye seek in rank and title. I am Love: love ye then me.\u2019\u201d\n\n\u201cCease, cease, old man!\u201d cried Media; \u201cthou movest me beyond my\nseeming. What thoughts are these? Have done! Wouldst thou unking me?\u201d\n\n\u201cAlma is for all; for high and low. Like heaven\u2019s own breeze, he lifts\nthe lily from its lowly stem, and sweeps, reviving, through the palmy\ngroves. High thoughts he gives the sage, and humble trust the simple.\nBe the measure what it may, his grace doth fill it to the brim. He lays\nthe lashings of the soul\u2019s wild aspirations after things unseen; oil he\npoureth on the waters; and stars come out of night\u2019s black concave at\nhis great command. In him is hope for all; for all, unbounded joys.\nFast locked in his loved clasp, no doubts dismay. He opes the eye of\nfaith and shuts the eye of fear. He is all we pray for, and beyond;\nall, that in the wildest hour of ecstasy, rapt fancy paints in bright\nAuroras upon the soul\u2019s wide, boundless Orient!\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, Alma, Alma! prince divine!\u201d cried Babbalanja, sinking on his\nknees\u2014\u201cin _thee_, at last, I find repose. Hope perches in my heart a\ndove;\u2014a thousand rays illume;\u2014all Heaven\u2019s a sun. Gone, gone! are all\ndistracting doubts. Love and Alma now prevail. I see with other\neyes:\u2014Are these my hands? What wild, wild dreams were mine;\u2014I have been\nmad. Some things there are, we must not think of. Beyond one obvious\nmark, all human lore is vain. Where have I lived till now? Had dark\nMaramma\u2019s zealot tribe but murmured to me as this old man, long since\nhad I, been wise! Reason no longer domineers; but still doth speak. All\nI have said ere this, that wars with Alma\u2019s precepts, I here recant.\nHere I kneel, and own great Oro and his sovereign son.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd here another kneels and prays,\u201d cried Yoomy.\n\n\u201cIn Alma all my dreams are found, my inner longings for the Love\nsupreme, that prompts my every verse. Summer is in my soul.\u201d\n\n\u201cNor now, too late for these gray hairs,\u201d cried Mohi, with devotion.\n\u201cAlma, thy breath is on my soul. I see bright light.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo more a demigod,\u201d cried Media, \u201cbut a subject to our common chief.\nNo more shall dismal cries be heard from Odo\u2019s groves. Alma, I am\nthine.\u201d\n\nWith swimming eyes the old man kneeled; and round him grouped king,\nsage, gray hairs, and youth.\n\nThere, as they kneeled, and as the old man blessed them, the setting\nsun burst forth from mists, gilded the island round about, shed rays\nupon their heads, and went down in a glory\u2014all the East radiant with\nred burnings, like an altar-fire.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXXXIV.\nBabbalanja Relates To Them A Vision\n\n\nLeaving Babbalanja in the old man\u2019s bower, deep in meditation;\nthoughtfully we strolled along the beach, inspiring the musky, midnight\nair; the tropical stars glistening in heaven, like drops of dew among\nviolets.\n\nThe waves were phosphorescent, and laved the beach with a fire that\ncooled it.\n\nReturning, we espied Babbalanja advancing in his snow-white mantle. The\nfiery tide was ebbing; and in the soft, moist sand, at every step, he\nleft a lustrous foot-print.\n\n\u201cSweet friends! this isle is full of mysteries,\u201d he said. \u201cI have\ndreamed of wondrous things. After I had laid me down, thought pressed\nhard upon me. By my eyes passed pageant visions. I started at a low,\nstrange melody, deep in my inmost soul. At last, methought my eyes were\nfixed on heaven; and there, I saw a shining spot, unlike a star.\nThwarting the sky, it grew, and grew, descending; till bright wings\nwere visible: between them, a pensive face angelic, downward beaming;\nand, for one golden moment, gauze-vailed in spangled Berenice\u2019s Locks.\n\n\u201cThen, as white flame from yellow, out from that starry cluster it\nemerged; and brushed the astral Crosses, Crowns, and Cups. And as in\nviolet, tropic seas, ships leave a radiant-white, and fire-fly wake;\nso, in long extension tapering, behind the vision, gleamed another\nMilky-Way.\n\n\u201cStrange throbbings seized me; my soul tossed on its own tides. But\nsoon the inward harmony bounded in exulting choral strains. I heard a\nfeathery rush; and straight beheld a form, traced all over with veins\nof vivid light. The vision undulated round me.\n\n\u201c\u2018Oh! Spirit!! angel! god! whate\u2019er thou art,\u2019\u2014I cried, \u2018leave me; I am\nbut man.\u2019\n\n\u201cThen, I heard a low, sad sound, no voice. It said, or breathed upon\nme,\u2014\u2018Thou hast proved the grace of Alma: tell me what thou\u2019st learned.\u2019\n\n\u201cSilent replied my soul, for voice was gone,\u2014\u2018This have I learned, oh!\nspirit!\u2014In things mysterious, to seek no more; but rest content, with\nknowing naught but Love.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Blessed art thou for that: thrice blessed,\u2019 then I heard, and since\nhumility is thine, thou art one apt to learn. That which thy own wisdom\ncould not find, thy ignorance confessed shall gain. Come, and see new\nthings.\u2019\n\n\u201cOnce more it undulated round me; its lightning wings grew dim; nearer,\nnearer; till I felt a shock electric,\u2014and nested \u2019neath its wing.\n\n\u201cWe clove the air; passed systems, suns, and moons: what seem from\nMardi\u2019s isles, the glow-worm stars.\n\n\u201cBy distant fleets of worlds we sped, as voyagers pass far sails at\nsea, and hail them not. Foam played before them as they darted on; wild\nmusic was their wake; and many tracks of sound we crossed, where worlds\nhad sailed before.\n\n\u201cSoon, we gained a point, where a new heaven was seen; whence all our\nfirmament seemed one nebula. Its glories burned like thousand\nsteadfast-flaming lights.\n\n\u201cHere hived the worlds in swarms: and gave forth sweets ineffable.\n\n\u201cWe lighted on a ring, circling a space, where mornings seemed forever\ndawning over worlds unlike.\n\n\u201c\u2018Here,\u2019 I heard, \u2018thou viewest thy Mardi\u2019s Heaven. Herein each world\nis portioned.\u2019\n\n\u201cAs he who climbs to mountain tops pants hard for breath; so panted I\nfor Mardi\u2019s grosser air. But that which caused my flesh to faint, was\nnew vitality to my soul. My eyes swept over all before me. The spheres\nwere plain as villages that dot a landscape. I saw most beauteous\nforms, yet like our own. Strange sounds I heard of gladness that seemed\nmixed with sadness:\u2014a low, sweet harmony of both. Else, I know not how\nto phrase what never man but me e\u2019er heard.\n\n\u201c\u2018In these blest souls are blent,\u2019 my guide discoursed, \u2018far higher\nthoughts, and sweeter plaints than thine. Rude joy were discord here.\nAnd as a sudden shout in thy hushed mountain-passes brings down the\nawful avalanche; so one note of laughter here, might start some white\nand silent world.\u2019\n\n\u201cThen low I murmured:\u2014\u2018Is their\u2019s, oh guide! no happiness supreme?\ntheir state still mixed? Sigh these yet to know? Can these sin?\u2019\n\n\u201cThen I heard:\u2014\u2018No mind but Oro\u2019s can know all; no mind that knows not\nall can be content; content alone approximates to happiness. Holiness\ncomes by wisdom; and it is because great Oro is supremely wise, that\nHe\u2019s supremely holy. But as perfect wisdom can be only Oro\u2019s; so,\nperfect holiness is his alone. And whoso is otherwise than perfect in\nhis holiness, is liable to sin.\n\n\u201c\u2018And though death gave these beings knowledge, it also opened other\nmysteries, which they pant to know, and yet may learn. And still they\nfear the thing of evil; though for them, \u2019tis hard to fall. Thus hoping\nand thus fearing, then, their\u2019s is no state complete. And since Oro is\npast finding out, and mysteries ever open into mysteries beyond; so,\nthough these beings will for aye progress in wisdom and in good; yet,\nwill they never gain a fixed beatitude. Know, then, oh mortal Mardian!\nthat when translated hither, thou wilt but put off lowly temporal\npinings, for angel and eternal aspirations. Start not: thy human joy\nhath here no place: no name.\n\n\u201cStill, I mournful mused; then said:\u2014\u2018Many Mardians live, who have no\naptitude for Mardian lives of thought: how then endure more earnest,\neverlasting, meditations?\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Such have their place,\u2019 I heard.\n\n\u201c\u2018Then low I moaned, \u2018And what, oh! guide! of those who, living\nthoughtless lives of sin, die unregenerate; no service done to Oro or\nto Mardian?\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018They, too, have their place,\u2019 I heard; \u2018but \u2019tis not here. And\nMardian! know, that as your Mardian lives are long preserved through\nstrict obedience to the organic law, so are your spiritual lives\nprolonged by fast keeping of the law of mind. Sin is death.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Ah, then,\u2019 yet lower moan made I; \u2018and why create the germs that sin\nand suffer, but to perish?\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018That,\u2019 breathed my guide; \u2018is the last mystery which underlieth all\nthe rest. Archangel may not fathom it; that makes of Oro the\neverlasting mystery he is; that to divulge, were to make equal to\nhimself in knowledge all the souls that are; that mystery Oro guards;\nand none but him may know.\u2019\n\n\u201cAlas! were it recalled, no words have I to tell of all that now my\nguide discoursed, concerning things unsearchable to us. My sixth sense\nwhich he opened, sleeps again, with all the wisdom that it gained.\n\n\u201cTime passed; it seemed a moment, might have been an age; when from\nhigh in the golden haze that canopied this heaven, another angel came;\nits vans like East and West; a sunrise one, sunset the other. As\nsilver-fish in vases, so, in his azure eyes swam tears unshed.\n\n\u201cQuick my guide close nested me; through its veins the waning light\nthrobbed hard.\n\n\u201c\u2018Oh, spirit! archangel! god! whate\u2019er thou art,\u2019 it breathed; \u2018leave\nme: I am but blessed, not glorified.\u2019\n\n\u201cSo saying, as down from doves, from its wings dropped sounds. Still\nnesting me, it crouched its plumes.\n\n\u201cThen, in a snow of softest syllables, thus breathed the greater and\nmore beautiful:\u2014\u2018From far away, in fields beyond thy ken, I heard thy\nfond discourse with this lone Mardian. It pleased me well; for thy\nhumility was manifeat; no arrogance of knowing. Come _thou_ and learn\nnew things.\u2019\n\n\u201cAnd straight it overarched us with its plumes; which, then, down-\nsweeping, bore us up to regions where my first guide had sunk, but for\nthe power that buoyed us, trembling, both.\n\n\u201cMy eyes did wane, like moons eclipsed in overwhelming dawns: such\nradiance was around; such vermeil light, born of no sun, but pervading\nall the scene. Transparent, fleck-less, calm, all glowed one flame.\n\n\u201cThen said the greater guide This is the night of all ye here behold\u2014\nits day ye could not bide. Your utmost heaven is far below.\u2019\n\n\u201cAbashed, smote down, I, quaking, upward gazed; where, to and fro, the\nspirits sailed, like broad-winged crimson-dyed flamingos, spiraling in\nsunset-clouds. But a sadness glorified, deep-fringed their mystic\ntemples, crowned with weeping halos, bird-like, floating o\u2019er them,\nwhereso\u2019er they roamed.\n\n\u201cSights and odors blended. As when new-morning winds, in summer\u2019s\nprime, blow down from hanging gardens, wafting sweets that never pall;\nso, from those flowery pinions, at every motion, came a flood of\nfragrance.\n\n\u201cAnd now the spirits twain discoursed of things, whose very terms, to\nme, were dark. But my first guide grew wise. For me, I could but\nblankly list; yet comprehended naught; and, like the fish that\u2019s mocked\nwith wings, and vainly seeks to fly;\u2014again I sought my lower element.\n\n\u201cAs poised, we hung in this rapt ether, a sudden trembling seized the\nfour wings now folding me. And afar of, in zones still upward reaching,\nsuns\u2019 orbits off, I, tranced, beheld an awful glory. Sphere in sphere,\nit burned:\u2014the one Shekinah! The air was flaked with fire;\u2014deep in\nwhich, fell showers of silvery globes, tears magnified \u2014braiding the\nflame with rainbows. I heard a sound; but not for me, nor my first\nguide, was that unutterable utterance. Then, my second guide was swept\naloft, as rises a cloud of red-dyed leaves in autumn whirlwinds.\n\n\u201cFast clasping me, the other drooped, and, instant, sank, as in a\nvacuum; myriad suns\u2019 diameters in a breath;\u2014my five senses merged in\none, of falling; till we gained the nether sky, descending still.\n\n\u201cThen strange things\u2014soft, sad, and faint, I saw or heard; as, when, in\nsunny, summer seas, down, down, you dive, starting at pensive phantoms,\nthat you can not fix.\n\n\u201c\u2018These,\u2019 breathed my guide, \u2018are spirits in their essences; sad, even\nin undevelopment. With these, all space is peopled;\u2014all the air is\nvital with intelligence, which seeks embodiment. This it is, that\nunbeknown to Mardians, causes them to strangely start in solitudes of\nnight, and in the fixed flood of their enchanted noons. From hence, are\nformed your mortal souls; and all those sad and shadowy dreams, and\nboundless thoughts man hath, are vague remembrances of the time when\nthe soul\u2019s sad germ, wide wandered through these realms. And hence it\nis, that when ye Mardians feel most sad, then ye feel most immortal.\n\n\u201cLike a spark new-struck from flint, soon Mardi showed afar. It glowed\nwithin a sphere, which seemed, in space, a bubble, rising from vast\ndepths to the sea\u2019s surface. Piercing it, my Mardian strength returned;\nbut the angel\u2019s veins once more grew dim.\n\n\u201cNearing the isles, thus breathed my guide:\u2014\u2018Loved one, love on! But\nknow, that heaven hath no roof. To know all is to be all. Beatitude\nthere is none. And your only Mardian happiness is but exemption from\ngreat woes\u2014no more. Great Love is sad; and heaven is Love. Sadness\nmakes the silence throughout the realms of space; sadness is universal\nand eternal; but sadness is tranquillity; tranquillity the uttermost\nthat souls may hope for.\u2019\n\n\u201cThen, with its wings it fanned adieu; and disappeared where the sun\nflames highest.\u201d\n\nWe heard the dream and, silent, sought repose, to dream away our\nwonder.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXXXV.\nThey Depart From Serenia\n\n\nAt sunrise, we stood upon the beach.\n\nBabbalanja thus:\u2014\u201cMy voyage is ended. Not because what we sought is\nfound; but that I now possess all which may be had of what I sought in\nMardi. Here, tarry to grow wiser still:\u2014then I am Alma\u2019s and the\nworld\u2019s. Taji! for Yillah thou wilt hunt in vain; she is a phantom that\nbut mocks thee; and while for her thou madly huntest, the sin thou\ndidst cries out, and its avengers still will follow. But here they may\nnot come: nor those, who, tempting, track thy path. Wise counsel take.\nWithin our hearts is all we seek: though in that search many need a\nprompter. Him I have found in blessed Alma. Then rove no more. Gain\nnow, in flush of youth, that last wise thought, too often purchased, by\na life of woe. Be wise: be wise.\n\n\u201cMedia! thy station calls thee home. Yet from this isle, thou earnest\nthat, wherewith to bless thy own. These flowers, that round us spring,\nmay be transplanted: and Odo made to bloom with amaranths and myrtles,\nlike this Serenia. Before thy people act the things, thou here hast\nheard. Let no man weep, that thou may\u2019st laugh; no man toil too hard,\nthat thou may\u2019st idle be. Abdicate thy throne: but still retain the\nscepter. None need a king; but many need a ruler.\n\n\u201cMohi! Yoomy! do we part? then bury in forgetfulness much that hitherto\nI\u2019ve spoken. But let not one syllable of this old man\u2019s words be lost.\n\n\u201cMohi! Age leads thee by the hand. Live out thy life; and die, calm-\nbrowed.\n\n\u201cBut Yoomy! many days are thine. And in one life\u2019s span, great circles\nmay be traversed, eternal good be done. Take all Mardi for thy home.\nNations are but names; and continents but shifting sands.\n\n\u201cOnce more: Taji! be sure thy Yillah never will be found; or found,\nwill not avail thee. Yet search, if so thou wilt; more isles, thou\nsay\u2019st, are still unvisited; and when all is seen, return, and find thy\nYillah here.\n\n\u201cCompanions all! adieu.\u201d\n\nAnd from the beach, he wended through the woods.\n\nOur shallops now refitted, we silently embarked; and as we sailed away,\nthe old man blessed us.\n\nFor a time, each prow\u2019s ripplings were distinctly heard: ripple after\nripple.\n\nWith silent, steadfast eyes, Media still preserved his noble mien; Mohi\nhis reverend repose; Yoomy his musing mood.\n\nBut as a summer hurricane leaves all nature still, and smiling to the\neye; yet, in deep woods, there lie concealed some anguished roots torn\nup:\u2014so, with these.\n\nMuch they longed, to point our prows for Odo\u2019s isle; saying our search\nwas over.\n\nBut I was fixed as fate.\n\nOn we sailed, as when we first embarked; the air was bracing as before.\nMore isles we visited:\u2014thrice encountered the avengers: but unharmed;\nthrice Hautia\u2019s heralds but turned not aside;\u2014saw many checkered\nscenes\u2014wandered through groves, and open fields\u2014traversed many\nvales\u2014climbed hill-tops whence broad views were gained\u2014tarried in\ntowns\u2014broke into solitudes\u2014sought far, sought near:\u2014Still Yillah there\nwas none.\n\nThen again they all would fain dissuade me.\n\n\u201cClosed is the deep blue eye,\u201d said Yoomy.\n\n\u201cFate\u2019s last leaves are turning, let me home and die,\u201d said Mohi.\n\n\u201cSo nigh the circuit\u2019s done,\u201d said Media, \u201cour morrow\u2019s sun must rise\no\u2019er Odo; Taji! renounce the hunt.\u201d\n\n\u201cI am the hunter, that never rests! the hunter without a home! She I\nseek, still flies before; and I will follow, though she lead me beyond\nthe reef; through sunless seas; and into night and death. Her, will I\nseek, through all the isles and stars; and find her, whate\u2019er betide!\u201d\n\nAgain they yielded; and again we glided on;\u2014our storm-worn prows, now\npointed here, now there;\u2014beckoned, repulsed;\u2014their half-rent sails,\nstill courting every breeze.\n\nBut that same night, once more, they wrestled with me. Now, at last,\nthe hopeless search must be renounced: Yillah there was none: back must\nI hie to blue Serenia.\n\nThen sweet Yillah called me from the sea;\u2014still must I on! but gazing\nwhence that music seemed to come, I thought I saw the green corse\ndrifting by: and striking \u2019gainst our prow, as if to hinder. Then,\nthen! my heart grew hard, like flint; and black, like night; and\nsounded hollow to the hand I clenched. Hyenas filled me with their\nlaughs; death-damps chilled my brow; I prayed not, but blasphemed.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXXXVI.\nThey Meet The Phantoms\n\n\nThat starless midnight, there stole from out the darkness, the Iris\nflag of Hautia.\n\nAgain the sirens came. They bore a large and stately urn-like flower,\nwhite as alabaster, and glowing, as if lit up within. From its calyx,\nflame-like, trembled forked and crimson stamens, burning with intensest\nodors.\n\nThe phantoms nearer came; their flower, as an urn of burning niter.\nThen it changed, and glowed like Persian dawns; or passive, was shot\nover by palest lightnings;\u2014so variable its tints.\n\n\u201cThe night-blowing Cereus!\u201d said Yoomy, shuddering, \u201cthat never blows\nin sun-light; that blows but once; and blows but for an hour.\u2014For the\nlast time I come; now, in your midnight of despair, and promise you\nthis glory. Take heed! short time hast thou to pause; through me,\nperhaps, thy Yillah may be found.\u201d\n\n\u201cAway! away! tempt me not by that, enchantress! Hautia! I know thee\nnot; I fear thee not; but instinct makes me hate thee. Away! my eyes\nare frozen shut; I will not be tempted more.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow glorious it burns!\u201d cried Media. I reel with incense:\u2014can such\nsweets be evil?\u201d\n\n\u201cLook! look!\u201d cried Yoomy, \u201cits petals wane, and creep; one moment\nmore, and the night-flower shuts up forever the last, last hope of\nYillah!\u201d\n\n\u201cYillah! Yillah! Yillah!\u201d bayed three vengeful voices far behind.\n\n\u201cYillah! Yillah!\u2014dash the urn! I follow, Hautia! though thy lure be\ndeath.\u201d\n\nThe Cereus closed; and in a mist the siren prow went on before; we,\nfollowing.\n\nWhen day dawned, three radiant pilot-fish swam in advance: three\nravenous sharks astern.\n\nAnd, full before us, rose the isle of Hautia.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXXXVII.\nThey Draw Nigh To Flozella\n\n\nAs if Mardi were a poem, and every island a canto, the shore now in\nsight was called Flozella-a-Nina, or The-Last-Verse-of-the-Song.\n\nAccording to Mohi, the origin of this term was traceable to the\nremotest antiquity.\n\nIn the beginning, there were other beings in Mardi besides Mardians;\nwinged beings, of purer minds, and cast in gentler molds, who would\nfain have dwelt forever with mankind. But the hearts of the Mardians\nwere bitter against them, because of their superior goodness. Yet those\nbeings returned love for malice, and long entreated to virtue and\ncharity. But in the end, all Mardi rose up against them, and hunted\nthem from isle to isle; till, at last, they rose from the woodlands\nlike a flight of birds, and disappeared in the skies. Thereafter,\nabandoned of such sweet influences, the Mardians fell into all manner\nof sins and sufferings, becoming the erring things their descendants\nwere now. Yet they knew not, that their calamities were of their own\nbringing down. For deemed a victory, the expulsion of the winged beings\nwas celebrated in choruses, throughout Mardi. And among other\njubilations, so ran the legend, a pean was composed, corresponding in\nthe number of its stanzas, to the number of islands. And a band of\nyouths, gayly appareled, voyaged in gala canoes all round the lagoon,\nsinging upon each isle, one verse of their song. And Flozella being the\nlast isle in their circuit, its queen commemorated the circumstance, by\nnew naming her realm.\n\nThat queen had first incited Mardi to wage war against the beings with\nwings. She it was, who had been foremost in every assault. And that\nqueen was ancestor of Hautia, now ruling the isle.\n\nApproaching the dominions of one who so long had haunted me,\nconflicting emotions tore up my soul in tornadoes. Yet Hautia had held\nout some prospect of crowning my yearnings. But how connected were\nHautia and Yillah? Something I hoped; yet more I feared. Dire\npresentiments, like poisoned arrows, shot through me. Had they pierced\nme before, straight to Flozella would I have voyaged; not waiting for\nHautia to woo me by that last and victorious temptation. But unchanged\nremained my feelings of hatred for Hautia; yet vague those feelings, as\nthe language of her flowers. Nevertheless, in some mysterious way\nseemed Hautia and Yillah connected. But Yillah was all beauty, and\ninnocence; my crown of felicity; my heaven below;\u2014and Hautia, my whole\nheart abhorred. Yillah I sought; Hautia sought me. One, openly beckoned\nme here; the other dimly allured me there. Yet now was I wildly\ndreaming to find them together. But so distracted my soul, I knew not\nwhat it was, that I thought.\n\nSlowly we neared the land. Flozella-a-Nina!\u2014An omen? Was this isle,\nthen, to prove the last place of my search, even as it was the Last-\nVerse-of-the-Song?\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXXXVIII.\nThey Land\n\n\nA jeweled tiara, nodding in spray, looks flowery Flozella, approached\nfrom the sea. For, lo you! the glittering foam all round its white\nmarge; where, forcing themselves underneath the coral ledge, and up\nthrough its crevices, in fountains, the blue billows gush. While,\nwithin, zone above zone, thrice zoned in belts of bloom, all the isle,\nas a hanging-garden soars; its tapering cone blending aloft, with\nheaven\u2019s own blue.\n\n\u201cWhat flies through the spray! what incense is this?\u201d cried Media.\n\n\u201cHa! you wild breeze! you have been plundering the gardens of Hautia,\u201d\ncried Yoomy.\n\n\u201cNo sweets can be sweeter,\u201d said Braid-Beard, \u201cbut no Upas more\ndeadly.\u201d\n\nAnon we came nearer; sails idly flapping, and paddles suspended; sleek\ncurrents our coursers. And round about the isle, like winged rainbows,\nshoals of dolphins were leaping over floating fragments of wrecks:\u2014\ndark-green, long-haired ribs, and keels of canoes. For many shallops,\ninveigled by the eddies, were oft dashed to pieces against that flowery\nstrand. But what cared the dolphins? Mardian wrecks were their homes.\nOver and over they sprang: from east to west: rising and setting: many\nsuns in a moment; while all the sea, like a harvest plain, was stacked\nwith their glittering sheaves of spray.\n\nAnd far down, fathoms on fathoms, flitted rainbow hues:\u2014as seines- full\nof mermaids; half-screening the bones of the drowned.\n\nSwifter and swifter the currents now ran; till with a shock, our prows\nwere beached.\n\nThere, beneath an arch of spray, three dark-eyed maidens stood;\ngarlanded with columbines, their nectaries nodding like jesters\u2019 bells;\nand robed in vestments blue.\n\n\u201cThe pilot-fish transformed!\u201d cried Yoomy.\n\n\u201cThe night-eyed heralds three!\u201d said Mohi.\n\nFollowing the maidens, we now took our way along a winding vale; where,\nby sweet-scented hedges, flowed blue-braided brooks; their tributaries,\nrivulets of violets, meandering through the meads.\n\nOn one hand, forever glowed the rosy mountains with a tropic dawn; and\non the other; lay an Arctic eve;\u2014the white daisies drifted in long\nbanks of snow, and snowed the blossoms from the orange boughs. There,\nsummer breathed her bridal bloom; her hill-top temples crowned with\nbridal wreaths.\n\nWe wandered on, through orchards arched in long arcades, that seemed\nbaronial halls, hung o\u2019er with trophies:\u2014so spread the boughs in\nantlers. This orchard was the frontlet of the isle.\n\nThe fruit hung high in air, that only beaks, not hands, might pluck.\n\nHere, the peach tree showed her thousand cheeks of down, kissed often\nby the wooing winds; here, in swarms; the yellow apples hived, like\ngolden bees upon the boughs; here, from the kneeling, fainting trees,\nthick fell the cherries, in great drops of blood; and here, the\npomegranate, with cold rind and sere, deep pierced by bills of birds\nrevealed the mellow of its ruddy core. So, oft the heart, that cold and\nwithered seems, within yet hides its juices.\n\nThis orchard passed, the vale became a lengthening plain, that seemed\nthe Straits of Ormus bared so thick it lay with flowery gems:\ntorquoise-hyacinths, ruby-roses, lily-pearls. Here roved the vagrant\nvines; their flaxen ringlets curling over arbors, which laughed and\nshook their golden locks. From bower to bower, flew the wee bird, that\never hovering, seldom lights; and flights of gay canaries passed, like\njonquils, winged.\n\nBut now, from out half-hidden bowers of clematis, there issued swarms\nof wasps, which flying wide, settled on all the buds.\n\nAnd, fifty nymphs preceding, who now follows from those bowers, with\ngliding, artful steps:\u2014the very snares of love!\u2014Hautia. A gorgeous\namaryllis in her hand; Circe-flowers in her ears; her girdle tied with\nvervain.\n\nShe came by privet hedges, drooping; downcast honey-suckles; she trod\non pinks and pansies, blue-bells, heath, and lilies. She glided on: her\ncrescent brow calm as the moon, when most it works its evil influences.\n\nHer eye was fathomless.\n\nBut the same mysterious, evil-boding gaze was there, which long before\nhad haunted me in Odo, ere Yillah fled.\u2014Queen Hautia the incognito!\nThen two wild currents met, and dashed me into foam.\n\n\u201cYillah! Yillah!\u2014tell me, queen!\u201d But she stood motionless; radiant,\nand scentless: a dahlia on its stalk. \u201cWhere? Where?\u201d\n\n\u201cIs not thy voyage now ended?\u2014Take flowers! Damsels, give him wine to\ndrink. After his weary hunt, be the wanderer happy.\u201d\n\nI dashed aside their cups, and flowers; still rang the vale with\nYillah!\n\n\u201cTaji! did I know her fate, naught would I now disclose; my heralds\npledged their queen to naught. Thou but comest here to supplant thy\nmourner\u2019s night-shade, with marriage roses. Damsels! give him wreaths;\ncrowd round him; press him with your cups!\u201d\n\nOnce more I spilled their wine, and tore their garlands. Is not that,\nthe evil eye that long ago did haunt me? and thou, the Hautia who hast\nfollowed me, and wooed, and mocked, and tempted me, through all this\nlong, long voyage? I swear! thou knowest all.\u201d\n\n\u201cI am Hautia. Thou hast come at last. Crown him with your flowers!\nDrown him in your wine! To all questions, Taji! I am mute.\u2014Away!\u2014\ndamsels dance; reel round him; round and round!\u201d\n\nThen, their feet made music on the rippling grass, like thousand leaves\nof lilies on a lake. And, gliding nearer, Hautia welcomed Media; and\nsaid, \u201cYour comrade here is sad:\u2014be ye gay. Ho, wine!\u2014I pledge ye,\nguests!\u201d\n\nThen, marking all, I thought to seem what I was not, that I might learn\nat last the thing I sought.\n\nSo, three cups in hand I held; drank wine, and laughed; and half-way\nmet Queen Hautia\u2019s blandishments.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXXXIX.\nThey Enter The Bower Of Hautia\n\n\nConducted to the arbor, from which the queen had emerged, we came to a\nsweet-brier bower within; and reclined upon odorous mats.\n\nThen, in citron cups, sherbet of tamarinds was offered to Media, Mohi,\nYoomy; to me, a nautilus shell, brimmed with a light-like fluid, that\nwelled, and welled like a fount.\n\n\u201cQuaff, Taji, quaff! every drop drowns a thought!\u201d\n\nLike a blood-freshet, it ran through my veins.\n\nA philter?\u2014How Hautia burned before me! Glorious queen! with all the\nradiance, lighting up the equatorial night.\n\n\u201cThou art most magical, oh queen! about thee a thousand constellations\ncluster.\u201d\n\n\u201cThey blaze to burn,\u201d whispered Mohi.\n\n\u201cI see ten million Hautias!\u2014all space reflects her, as a mirror.\u201d\n\nThen, in reels, the damsels once more mazed, the blossoms shaking from\ntheir brows; till Hautia, glided near; arms lustrous as rainbows:\nchanting some wild invocation.\n\nMy soul ebbed out; Yillah there was none! but as I turned round open-\narmed, Hautia vanished.\n\n\u201cShe is deeper than the sea,\u201d said Media.\n\n\u201cHer bow is bent,\u201d said Yoomy.\n\n\u201cI could tell wonders of Hautia and her damsels,\u201d said Mohi.\n\n\u201cWhat wonders?\u201d\n\n\u201cListen; and in his own words will I recount the adventure of the youth\nOzonna. It will show thee, Taji, that the maidens of Hautia are all\nYillahs, held captive, unknown to themselves; and that Hautia, their\nenchantress, is the most treacherous of queens.\n\n\u201c\u2018Camel-like, laden with woe,\u2019 said Ozonna, \u2018after many wild rovings in\nquest of a maiden long lost\u2014beautiful Ady! and after being repelled in\nMaramma; and in vain hailed to land at Serenia, represented as naught\nbut another Maramma;\u2014with vague promises of discovering Ady, three\nsirens, who long had pursued, at last inveigled me to Flozella; where\nHautia made me her thrall. But ere long, in Rea, one of her maidens, I\nthought I discovered my Ady transformed. My arms opened wide to\nembrace; but the damsel knew not Ozonna. And even, when after hard\nwooing, I won her again, she seemed not lost Ady, but Rea. Yet all the\nwhile, from deep in her strange, black orbs, Ady\u2019s blue eyes seemed\npensively looking:\u2014blue eye within black: sad, silent soul within\nmerry. Long I strove, by fixed ardent gazing, to break the spell, and\nrestore in Rea my lost one\u2019s Past. But in vain. It was only Rea, not\nAdy, who at stolen intervals looked on me now. One morning Hautia\nstarted as she greeted me; her quick eye rested on my bosom; and\nglancing there, affrighted, I beheld a distinct, fresh mark, the\nimpress of Rea\u2019s necklace drop. Fleeing, I revealed what had passed to\nthe maiden, who broke from my side; as I, from Hautia\u2019s. The queen\nsummoned her damsels, but for many hours the call was unheeded; and\nwhen at last they came, upon each bosom lay a necklace-drop like Rea\u2019s.\nOn the morrow, lo! my arbor was strown over with bruised Linden-leaves,\nexuding a vernal juice. Full of forbodings, again I sought Rea: who,\ncasting down her eyes, beheld her feet stained green. Again she fled;\nand again Hautia summoned her damsels: malicious triumph in her eye;\nbut dismay succeeded: each maid had spotted feet. That night Rea was\ntorn from my side by three masks; who, stifling her cries, rapidly bore\nher away; and as I pursued, disappeared in a cave. Next morning, Hautia\nwas surrounded by her nymphs, but Rea was absent. Then, gliding near,\nshe snatched from my hair, a jet-black tress, loose-hanging. \u2018Ozonna is\nthe murderer! See! Rea\u2019s torn hair entangled with his!\u2019 Aghast, I swore\nthat I knew not her fate. \u2018Then let the witch Larfee be called!\u2019 The\nmaidens darted from the bower; and soon after, there rolled into it a\ngreen cocoa-nut, followed by the witch, and all the damsels, flinging\nanemones upon it. Bowling this way and that, the nut at last rolled to\nmy feet.\u2014\u2018It is he!\u2019 cried all.\u2014Then they bound me with osiers; and at\nmidnight, unseen and irresistible hands placed me in a shallop; which\nsped far out into the lagoon, where they tossed me to the waves; but so\nviolent the shock, the osiers burst; and as the shallop fled one way,\nswimming another, ere long I gained land.\n\n\u201c\u2018Thus in Flozella, I found but the phantom of Ady, and slew the last\nhope of Ady the true.\u2019\u201d\n\nThis recital sank deep into my soul. In some wild way, Hautia had made\na captive of Yillah; in some one of her black-eyed maids, the blue-eyed\nOne was transformed. From side to side, in frenzy, I turned; but in all\nthose cold, mystical eyes, saw not the warm ray that I sought.\n\n\u201cHast taken root within this treacherous soil?\u201d cried Media. \u201cAway! thy\nYillah is behind thee, not before. Deep she dwells in blue Serenia\u2019s\ngroves; which thou would\u2019st not search. Hautia mocks thee; away! The\nreef is rounded; but a strait flows between this isle and Odo, and\nthither its ruler must return. Every hour I tarry here, some wretched\nserf is dying there, for whom, from blest Serenia, _I carry life and\njoy. Away!_\u201d\n\n\u201cArt still bent on finding evil for thy good?\u201d cried Mohi.\u2014\u201cHow can\nYillah harbor here?\u2014Beware!\u2014Let not Hautia so enthrall thee.\u201d\n\n\u201cCome away, come away,\u201d cried Yoomy. \u201cFar hence is Yillah! and he who\ntarries among these flowers, must needs burn juniper.\u201d\n\n\u201cLook on me, Media, Mohi, Yoomy. Here I stand, my own monument, till\nHautia breaks the spell.\u201d\n\nIn grief they left me.\n\nVee-Vee\u2019s conch I heard no more.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XC.\nTaji With Hautia\n\n\nAs their last echoes died away down the valley, Hautia glided near;\u2014\nzone unbound, the amaryllis in her hand. Her bosom ebbed and flowed;\nthe motes danced in the beams that darted from her eyes.\n\n\u201cCome! let us sin, and be merry. Ho! wine, wine, wine! and lapfuls of\nflowers! let all the cane-brakes pipe their flutes. Damsels! dance;\nreel, swim, around me:\u2014I, the vortex that draws all in. Taji! Taji!\u2014 as\na berry, that name is juicy in my mouth!\u2014Taji, Taji!\u201d and in choruses,\nshe warbled forth the sound, till it seemed issuing from her syren\neyes.\n\nMy heart flew forth from out its bars, and soared in air; but as my\nhand touched Hautia\u2019s, down dropped a dead bird from the clouds.\n\n\u201cHa! how he sinks!\u2014but did\u2019st ever dive in deep waters, Taji? Did\u2019st\never see where pearls grow?\u2014To the cave!\u2014damsels, lead on!\u201d\n\nThen wending through constellations of flowers, we entered deep groves.\nAnd thus, thrice from sun-light to shade, it seemed three brief nights\nand days, ere we paused before the mouth of the cavern.\n\nA bow-shot from the sea, it pierced the hill-side like a vaulted way;\nand glancing in, we saw far gleams of water; crossed, here and there,\nby long-flung distant shadows of domes and columns. All Venice seemed\nwithin.\n\nFrom a stack of golden palm-stalks, the damsels now made torches; then\nstood grouped; a sheaf of sirens in a sheaf of frame.\n\nIlluminated, the cavern shone like a Queen of Kandy\u2019s casket: full of\ndawns and sunsets.\n\nFrom rocky roof to bubbling floor, it was columned with stalactites;\nand galleried all round, in spiral tiers, with sparkling, coral ledges.\n\nAnd now, their torches held aloft, into the water the maidens softly\nglided; and each a lotus floated; while, from far above, into the air\nHautia flung her flambeau; then bounding after, in the lake, two\nmeteors were quenched.\n\nWhere she dived, the flambeaux clustered; and up among them, Hautia\nrose; hands, full of pearls.\n\n\u201cLo! Taji; all these may be had for the diving; and Beauty, Health,\nWealth, Long Life, and the Last Lost Hope of man. But through me alone,\nmay these be had. Dive thou, and bring up one pearl if thou canst.\u201d\n\nDown, down! down, down, in the clear, sparkling water, till I seemed\ncrystalized in the flashing heart of a diamond; but from those\nbottomless depths, I uprose empty handed.\n\n\u201cPearls, pearls! thy pearls! thou art fresh from the mines. Ah, Taji!\nfor thee, bootless deep diving. Yet to Hautia, one shallow plunge\nreveals many Golcondas. But come; dive with me:\u2014join hands\u2014let me show\nthee strange things.\u201d\n\n\u201cShow me that which I seek, and I will dive with thee, straight through\nthe world, till we come up in oceans unknown.\u201d\n\n\u201cNay, nay; but join hands, and I will take thee, where thy Past shall\nbe forgotten; where thou wilt soon learn to love the living, not the\ndead.\u201d\n\n\u201cBetter to me, oh Hautia! all the bitterness of my buried dead, than\nall the sweets of the life thou canst bestow; even, were it eternal.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XCI.\nMardi Behind: An Ocean Before\n\n\nReturned from the cave, Hautia reclined in her clematis bower,\ninvisible hands flinging fennel around her. And nearer, and nearer,\nstole dulcet sounds dissolving my woes, as warm beams, snow. Strange\nlanguors made me droop; once more within my inmost vault, side by side,\nthe Past and Yillah lay:\u2014two bodies tranced;\u2014while like a rounding sun,\nbefore me Hautia magnified magnificence; and through her fixed eyes,\nslowly drank up my soul.\n\nThus we stood:\u2014snake and victim: life ebbing out from me, to her.\n\nBut from that spell, I burst again, as all the Past smote all the\nPresent in me.\n\n\u201cOh Hautia! thou knowest the mystery I die to fathom. I see it\ncrouching in thine eye:\u2014Reveal!\u201d\n\n\u201cWeal or woe?\u201d\n\n\u201cLife or death!\u201d\n\n\u201cSee, see!\u201d and Yillah\u2019s rose-pearl danced before me.\n\nI snatched it from her hand:\u2014\u201cYillah! Yillah!\u201d\n\n\u201cRave on: she lies too deep to answer; stranger voices than thine she\nhears:\u2014bubbles are bursting round her.\u201d\n\n\u201cDrowned! drowned then, even as she dreamed:\u2014I come, I come!\u2014Ha, what\nform is this?\u2014hast mosses? sea-thyme? pearls?\u2014Help, help! I sink!\u2014Back,\nshining monster!\u2014-What, Hautia,\u2014is it thou?\u2014Oh vipress, I could slay\nthee!\u201d\n\n\u201cGo, go,\u2014and slay thyself: I may not make thee mine;\u2014go,\u2014dead to\ndead!\u2014There is another cavern in the hill.\u201d Swift I fled along the\nvalley-side; passed Hautia\u2019s cave of pearls; and gained a twilight\narch; within, a lake transparent shone. Conflicting currents met, and\nwrestled; and one dark arch led to channels, seaward tending.\n\nRound and round, a gleaming form slow circled in the deepest eddies:\u2014\nwhite, and vaguely Yillah.\n\nStraight I plunged; but the currents were as fierce headwinds off\ncapes, that beat back ships.\n\nThen, as I frenzied gazed; gaining the one dark arch, the revolving\nshade darted out of sight, and the eddies whirled as before.\n\n\u201cStay, stay! let me go with thee, though thou glidest to gulfs of\nblackness;\u2014naught can exceed the hell of this despair!\u2014Why beat longer\nin this corpse oh, my heart!\u201d\n\nAs somnambulists fast-frozen in some horrid dream, ghost-like glide\nabroad, and fright the wakeful world; so that night, with death-glazed\neyes, to and fro I flitted on the damp and weedy beach.\n\n\u201cIs this specter, Taji?\u201d\u2014and Mohi and the minstrel stood before me.\n\n\u201cTaji lives no more. So dead, he has no ghost. I am his spirit\u2019s\nphantom\u2019s phantom.\u201d\n\n\u201cNay, then, phantom! the time has come to flee.\u201d\n\nThey dragged me to the water\u2019s brink, where a prow was beached. Soon\u2014\nMohi at the helm\u2014we shot beneath the far-flung shadow of a cliff; when,\nas in a dream, I hearkened to a voice.\n\nArrived at Odo, Media had been met with yells. Sedition was in arms,\nand to his beard defied him. Vain all concessions then. Foremost stood\nthe three pale sons of him, whom I had slain, to gain the maiden lost.\nAvengers, from the first hour we had parted on the sea, they had\ndrifted on my track survived starvation; and lived to hunt me round all\nMardi\u2019s reef; and now at Odo, that last threshold, waited to destroy;\nor there, missing the revenge they sought, still swore to hunt me round\nEternity.\n\nBehind the avengers, raged a stormy mob, invoking Media to renounce his\nrule. But one hand waving like a pennant above the smoke of some\nsea-fight, straight through that tumult Media sailed serene: the\nrioters parting from before him, as wild waves before a prow\ninflexible.\n\nA haven gained, he turned to Mohi and the minstrel:\u2014\u201cOh, friends! after\nour long companionship, hard to part! But henceforth, for many moons,\nOdo will prove no home for old age, or youth. In Serenia only, will ye\nfind the peace ye seek; and thither ye must carry Taji, who else must\nsoon be slain, or lost. Go: release him from the thrall of Hautia.\nOutfly the avengers, and gain Serenia. Reek not of me. The state is\ntossed in storms; and where I stand, the combing billows must break\nover. But among all noble souls, in tempest-time, the headmost man last\nflies the wreck. So, here in Odo will I abide, though every plank\nbreaks up beneath me. And then,\u2014great Oro! let the king die clinging to\nthe keel! Farewell!\u201d\n\nSuch Mohi\u2019s tale.\n\nIn trumpet-blasts, the hoarse night-winds now blew; the Lagoon, black\nwith the still shadows of the mountains, and the driving shadows of the\nclouds. Of all the stars, only red Arcturus shone. But through the\ngloom, and on the circumvallating reef, the breakers dashed\nghost-white.\n\nAn outlet in that outer barrier was nigh.\n\n\u201cAh! Yillah! Yillah!\u2014the currents sweep thee ocean-ward; nor will I\ntarry behind.\u2014Mardi, farewell!\u2014Give me the helm, old man!\u201d\n\n\u201cNay, madman! Serenia is our haven. Through yonder strait, for thee,\nperdition lies. And from the deep beyond, no voyager e\u2019er puts back.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd why put back? is a life of dying worth living o\u2019er again?\u2014Let\n_me_, then, be the unreturning wanderer. The helm! By Oro, I will steer\nmy own fate, old man.\u2014Mardi, farewell!\u201d\n\n\u201cNay, Taji: commit not the last, last crime!\u201d cried Yoomy.\n\n\u201cHe\u2019s seized the helm! eternity is in his eye! Yoomy: for our lives we\nmust now swim.\u201d\n\nAnd plunging, they struck out for land: Yoomy buoying Mohi up, and the\nsalt waves dashing the tears from his pallid face, as through the scud,\nhe turned it on me mournfully.\n\n\u201cNow, I am my own soul\u2019s emperor; and my first act is abdication! Hail!\nrealm of shades!\u201d\u2014and turning my prow into the racing tide, which\nseized me like a hand omnipotent, I darted through.\n\nChurned in foam, that outer ocean lashed the clouds; and straight in my\nwhite wake, headlong dashed a shallop, three fixed specters leaning\no\u2019er its prow: three arrows poising.\n\nAnd thus, pursuers and pursued flew on, over an endless sea.\n\n THE END.","title":"Mardi, and a voyage thither, Vol. 2 (of 2)","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":101096}