CHAPTER XCI. — Mardi behind: an Ocean before

MARDI

CHAPTER I.

Maramma

We were now voyaging straight for Maramma; where lived and reigned, in

mystery, the High Pontiff of the adjoining isles: prince, priest, and

god, in his own proper person: great lord paramount over many kings in

Mardi; his hands full of scepters and crosiers.

Soon, rounding a lofty and insulated shore, the great central peak of

the island came in sight; domineering over the neighboring hills; the

same aspiring pinnacle, descried in drawing near the archipelago in the

Chamois.

“Tall Peak of Ofo!” cried Babbalanja, “how comes it that thy shadow so

broods over Mardi; flinging new shades upon spots already shaded by the

hill-sides; shade upon shade!”

“Yet, so it is,” said Yoomy, sadly, “that where that shadow falls, gay

flowers refuse to spring; and men long dwelling therein become shady of

face and of soul. ‘Hast thou come from out the shadows of Ofo?’

inquires the stranger, of one with a clouded brow.”

“It was by this same peak,” said Mohi, “that the nimble god Roo, a

great sinner above, came down from the skies, a very long time ago.

Three skips and a jump, and he landed on the plain. But alas, poor Roo!

though easy the descent, there was no climbing back.”

“No wonder, then,” said Babbalanja, “that the peak is inaccessible to

man. Though, with a strange infatuation, many still make pilgrimages

thereto; and wearily climb and climb, till slipping from the rocks,

they fall headlong backward, and oftentimes perish at its base.”

“Ay,” said Mohi, “in vain, on all sides of the Peak, various paths are

tried; in vain new ones are cut through the cliffs and the brambles:—

Ofo yet remains inaccessible.”

“Nevertheless,” said Babbalanja, “by some it is believed, that those,

who by dint of hard struggling climb so high as to become invisible

from the plain; that these have attained the summit; though others much

doubt, whether their becoming invisible is not because of their having

fallen, and perished by the way.”

“And wherefore,” said Media, “do you mortals undertake the ascent at

all? why not be content on the plain? and even if attainable, what

would you do upon that lofty, clouded summit? Or how can you hope to

breathe that rarefied air, unfitted for your human lungs?”

“True, my lord,” said Babbalanja; “and Bardianna asserts that the plain

alone was intended for man; who should be content to dwell under the

shade of its groves, though the roots thereof descend into the darkness

of the earth. But, my lord, you well know, that there are those in

Mardi, who secretly regard all stories connected with this peak, as

inventions of the people of Maramma. They deny that any thing is to be

gained by making a pilgrimage thereto. And for warranty, they appeal to

the sayings of the great prophet Alma.”

Cried Mohi, “But Alma is also quoted by others, in vindication of the

pilgrimages to Ofo. They declare that the prophet himself was the first

pilgrim that thitherward journeyed: that from thence he departed to the

skies.”

Now, excepting this same peak, Maramma is all rolling hill and dale,

like the sea after a storm; which then seems not to roll, but to stand

still, poising its mountains. Yet the landscape of Maramma has not the

merriness of meadows; partly because of the shadow of Ofo, and partly

because of the solemn groves in which the Morais and temples are

buried.

According to Mohi, not one solitary tree bearing fruit, not one

esculent root, grows in all the isle; the population wholly depending

upon the large tribute remitted from the neighboring shores.

“It is not that the soil is unproductive,” said Mohi, “that these

things are so. It is extremely fertile; but the inhabitants say that it

would be wrong to make a Bread-fruit orchard of the holy island.”

“And hence, my lord,” said Babbalanja, “while others are charged with

the business of their temporal welfare, these Islanders take no thought

of the morrow; and broad Maramma lies one fertile waste in the lagoon.”

CHAPTER II.

They Land

Coming close to the island, the pennons and trappings of our canoes

were removed; and Vee-Vee was commanded to descend from the shark’s

mouth; and for a time to lay aside his conch. In token of reverence,

our paddlers also stripped to the waist; an example which even Media

followed; though, as a king, the same homage he rendered, was at times

rendered himself.

At every place, hitherto visited, joyous crowds stood ready to hail our

arrival; but the shores of Maramma were silent, and forlorn.

Said Babbalanja, “It looks not as if the lost one were here.”

At length we landed in a little cove nigh a valley, which Mohi called

Uma; and here in silence we beached our canoes.

But presently, there came to us an old man, with a beard white as the

mane of the pale horse. He was clad in a midnight robe. He fanned

himself with a fan of faded leaves. A child led him by the hand, for he

was blind, wearing a green plantain leaf over his plaited brow.

Him, Media accosted, making mention who we were, and on what errand we

came: to seek out Yillah, and behold the isle.

Whereupon Pani, for such was his name, gave us a courteous reception;

and lavishly promised to discover sweet Yillah; declaring that in

Maramma, if any where, the long-lost maiden must be found. He assured

us, that throughout the whole land he would lead us; leaving no place,

desirable to be searched, unexplored.

And so saying, he conducted us to his dwelling, for refreshment and

repose.

It was large and lofty. Near by, however, were many miserable hovels,

with squalid inmates. But the old man’s retreat was exceedingly

comfortable; especially abounding in mats for lounging; his rafters

were bowed down by calabashes of good cheer.

During the repast which ensued, blind Pani, freely partaking, enlarged

upon the merit of abstinence; declaring that a thatch overhead, and a

cocoanut tree, comprised all that was necessary for the temporal

welfare of a Mardian. More than this, he assured us was sinful.

He now made known, that he officiated as guide in this quarter of the

country; and that as he had renounced all other pursuits to devote

himself to showing strangers the island; and more particularly the best

way to ascend lofty Ofo; he was necessitated to seek remuneration for

his toil.

“My lord,” then whispered Mohi to Media “the great prophet Alma always

declared, that, without charge, this island was free to all.”

“What recompense do you desire, old man?” said Media to Pani.

“What I seek is but little:—twenty rolls of fine tappa; two score mats

of best upland grass; one canoe-load of bread-fruit and yams; ten

gourds of wine; and forty strings of teeth;—you are a large company,

but my requisitions are small.”

“Very small,” said Mohi.

“You are extortionate, good Pani,” said Media. “And what wants an aged

mortal like you with all these things?”

“I thought superfluities were worthless; nay, sinful,” said Babbalanja.

“Is not this your habitation already more than abundantly supplied with

all desirable furnishings?” asked Yoomy.

“I am but a lowly laborer,” said the old man, meekly crossing his arms,

“but does not the lowliest laborer ask and receive his reward? and

shall I miss mine?—But I beg charity of none. What I ask, I demand; and

in the dread name of great Alma, who appointed me a guide.” And to and

fro he strode, groping as he went.

Marking his blindness, whispered Babbalanja to Media, “My lord,

methinks this Pani must be a poor guide. In his journeys inland, his

little child leads him; why not, then, take the guide’s guide?”

But Pani would not part with the child.

Then said Mohi in a low voice, “My lord Media, though I am no appointed

guide; yet, will I undertake to lead you aright over all this island;

for I am an old man, and have been here oft by myself; though I can not

undertake to conduct you up the peak of Ofo, and to the more secret

temples.”

Then Pani said: “and what mortal may this be, who pretends to thread

the labyrinthine wilds of Maramma? Beware!”

“He is one with eyes that see,” made answer Babbalanja.

“Follow him not,” said Pani, “for he will lead thee astray; no Yillah

will he find; and having no warrant as a guide, the curses of Alma will

accompany him.”

Now, this was not altogether without effect; for Pani and his fathers

before him had always filled the office of guide.

Nevertheless, Media at last decided, that, this time, Mohi should

conduct us; which being communicated to Pani, he desired us to remove

from his roof. So withdrawing to the skirt of a neighboring grove, we

lingered awhile, to refresh ourselves for the journey in prospect.

As we here reclined, there came up from the sea-side a party of

pilgrims, but newly arrived.

Apprised of their coming, Pani and his child went out to meet them; and

standing in the path he cried, “I am the appointed guide; in the name

of Alma I conduct all pilgrims to the temples.”

“This must be the worthy Pani,” said one of the strangers, turning upon

the rest.

“Let us take him, then, for our guide,” cried they; and all drew near.

But upon accosting him; they were told, that he guided none without

recompense.

And now, being informed, that the foremost of the pilgrims was one

Divino, a wealthy chief of a distant island, Pani demanded of him his

requital.

But the other demurred; and by many soft speeches at length abated the

recompense to three promissory cocoanuts, which he covenanted to send

Pani at some future day.

The next pilgrim accosted, was a sad-eyed maiden, in decent but scanty

raiment; who without seeking to diminish Pani’s demands promptly placed

in his hands a small hoard of the money of Mardi.

“Take it, holy guide,” she said, “it is all I have.”

But the third pilgrim, one Fanna, a hale matron, in handsome apparel,

needed no asking to bestow her goods. Calling upon her attendants to

advance with their burdens, she quickly unrolled them; and wound round

and round Pani, fold after fold of the costliest tappas; and filled

both his hands with teeth; and his mouth with some savory marmalade;

and poured oil upon his head; and knelt and besought of him a blessing.

“From the bottom of my heart I bless thee,” said Pani; and still

holding her hands exclaimed, “Take example from this woman, oh Divino;

and do ye likewise, ye pilgrims all.”

“Not to-day,” said Divino.

“We are not rich, like unto Fauna,” said the rest.

Now, the next pilgrim was a very old and miserable man; stone-blind,

covered with rags; and supporting his steps with a staff.

“My recompense,” said Pani.

“Alas! I have naught to give. Behold my poverty.”

“I can not see,” replied Pani; but feeling of his garments, he said,

“Thou wouldst deceive me; hast thou not this robe, and this staff?”

“Oh! Merciful Pani, take not my all!” wailed the pilgrim. But his

worthless gaberdine was thrust into the dwelling of the guide.

Meanwhile, the matron was still enveloping Pani in her interminable

tappas.

But the sad-eyed maiden, removing her upper mantle, threw it over the

naked form of the beggar.

The fifth pilgrim was a youth of an open, ingenuous aspect; and with an

eye, full of eyes; his step was light.

“Who art thou?” cried Pani, as the stripling touched him in passing.

“I go to ascend the Peak,” said the boy.

“Then take me for guide.”

“No, I am strong and lithesome. Alone must I go.”

“But how knowest thou the way?”

“There are many ways: the right one I must seek for myself.”

“Ah, poor deluded one,” sighed Pani; “but thus is it ever with youth;

and rejecting the monitions of wisdom, suffer they must. Go on, and

perish!”

Turning, the boy exclaimed—“Though I act counter to thy counsels, oh

Pani, I but follow the divine instinct in me.”

“Poor youth!” murmured Babbalanja. “How earnestly he struggles in his

bonds. But though rejecting a guide, still he clings to that legend of

the Peak.”

The rest of the pilgrims now tarried with the guide, preparing for

their journey inland.

CHAPTER III.

They Pass Through The Woods

Refreshed by our stay in the grove, we rose, and placed ourselves under

the guidance of Mohi; who went on in advance.

Winding our way among jungles, we came to a deep hollow, planted with

one gigantic palm-shaft, belted round by saplings, springing from its

roots. But, Laocoon-like, sire and sons stood locked in the serpent

folds of gnarled, distorted banians; and the banian-bark, eating into

their vital wood, corrupted their veins of sap, till all those

palm-nuts were poisoned chalices.

Near by stood clean-limbed, comely manchineels, with lustrous leaves

and golden fruit. You would have deemed them Trees of Life; but

underneath their branches grew no blade of grass, no herb, nor moss;

the bare earth was scorched by heaven’s own dews, filtrated through

that fatal foliage.

Farther on, there frowned a grove of blended banian boughs,

thick-ranked manchineels, and many a upas; their summits gilded by the

sun; but below, deep shadows, darkening night-shade ferns, and

mandrakes. Buried in their midst, and dimly seen among large leaves,

all halberd-shaped, were piles of stone, supporting falling temples of

bamboo. Thereon frogs leaped in dampness, trailing round their slime.

Thick hung the rafters with lines of pendant sloths; the upas trees

dropped darkness round; so dense the shade, nocturnal birds found there

perpetual night; and, throve on poisoned air. Owls hooted from dead

boughs; or, one by one, sailed by on silent pinions; cranes stalked

abroad, or brooded, in the marshes; adders hissed; bats smote the

darkness; ravens croaked; and vampires, fixed on slumbering lizards,

fanned the sultry air.

CHAPTER IV.

Hivohitee MDCCCXLVIII

Now, those doleful woodlands passed, straightway converse was renewed,

and much discourse took place, concerning Hivohitee, Pontiff of the

isle.

For, during our first friendly conversation with Pani, Media had

inquired for Hivohitee, and sought to know in what part of the island

he abode.

Whereto Pani had replied, that the Pontiff would be invisible for

several days to come; being engaged with particular company.

And upon further inquiry, as to who were the personages monopolizing

his hospitalities, Media was dumb when informed, that they were no

other than certain incorporeal deities from above, passing the

Capricorn Solstice at Maramma.

As on we journeyed, much curiosity being expressed to know more of the

Pontiff and his guests, old Mohi, familiar with these things, was

commanded to enlighten the company. He complied; and his recital was

not a little significant, of the occasional credulity of chroniclers.

According to his statement, the deities entertained by Hivohitee

belonged to the third class of immortals. These, however, were far

elevated above the corporeal demi-gods of Mardi. Indeed, in Hivohitee’s

eyes, the greatest demi-gods were as gourds. Little wonder, then, that

their superiors were accounted the most genteel characters on his

visiting list.

These immortals were wonderfully fastidious and dainty as to the

atmosphere they breathed; inhaling no sublunary air, but that of the

elevated interior; where the Pontiff had a rural lodge, for the special

accommodation of impalpable guests; who were entertained at very small

cost; dinners being unnecessary, and dormitories superfluous.

But Hivohitee permitted not the presence of these celestial grandees,

to interfere with his own solid comfort. Passing his mornings in highly

intensified chat, he thrice reclined at his ease; partaking of a fine

plantain-pudding, and pouring out from a calabash of celestial old

wine; meanwhile, carrying on the flow of soul with his guests. And

truly, the sight of their entertainer thus enjoying himself in the

flesh, while they themselves starved on the ether, must have been

exceedingly provoking to these aristocratic and aerial strangers.

It was reported, furthermore, that Hivohitee, one of the haughtiest of

Pontiffs, purposely treated his angelical guests thus cavalierly; in

order to convince them, that though a denizen of earth; a sublunarian;

and in respect of heaven, a mere provincial; he (Hivohitee) accounted

himself full as good as seraphim from the capital; and that too at the

Capricorn Solstice, or any other time of the year. Strongly bent was

Hivohitee upon humbling their supercilious pretensions.

Besides, was he not accounted a great god in the land? supreme? having

power of life and death? essaying the deposition of kings? and dwelling

in moody state, all by himself, in the goodliest island of Mardi?

Though here, be it said, that his assumptions of temporal supremacy

were but seldom made good by express interference with the secular

concerns of the neighboring monarchs; who, by force of arms, were too

apt to argue against his claims to authority; however, in theory, they

bowed to it. And now, for the genealogy of Hivohitee; for eighteen

hundred and forty-seven Hivohitees were alleged to have gone before

him. He came in a right line from the divine Hivohitee I.: the original

grantee of the empire of men’s souls and the first swayer of a crosier.

The present Pontiff’s descent was unquestionable; his dignity having

been transmitted through none but heirs male; the whole procession of

High Priests being the fruit of successive marriages between uterine

brother and sister. A conjunction deemed incestuous in some lands; but,

here, held the only fit channel for the pure transmission of elevated

rank.

Added to the hereditary appellation, Hivohitee, which simply denoted

the sacerdotal station of the Pontiffs, and was but seldom employed in

current discourse, they were individualized by a distinctive name,

bestowed upon them at birth. And the degree of consideration in which

they were held, may be inferred from the fact, that during the lifetime

of a Pontiff, the leading sound in his name was banned to ordinary

uses. Whence, at every new accession to the archiepiscopal throne, it

came to pass, that multitudes of words and phrases were either

essentially modified, or wholly dropped. Wherefore, the language of

Maramma was incessantly fluctuating; and had become so full of

jargonings, that the birds in the groves were greatly puzzled; not

knowing where lay the virtue of sounds, so incoherent.

And, in a good measure, this held true of all tongues spoken throughout

the Archipelago; the birds marveling at mankind, and mankind at the

birds; wondering how they could continually sing; when, for all man

knew to the contrary, it was impossible they could be holding

intelligent discourse. And thus, though for thousands of years, men and

birds had been dwelling together in Mardi, they remained wholly

ignorant of each other’s secrets; the Islander regarding the fowl as a

senseless songster, forever in the clouds; and the fowl him, as a

screeching crane, destitute of pinions and lofty aspirations.

Over and above numerous other miraculous powers imputed to the Pontiffs

as spiritual potentates, there was ascribed to them one special

privilege of a secular nature: that of healing with a touch the bites

of the ravenous sharks, swarming throughout the lagoon. With these they

were supposed to be upon the most friendly terms; according to popular

accounts, sociably bathing with them in the sea; permitting them to rub

their noses against their priestly thighs; playfully mouthing their

hands, with all their tiers of teeth.

At the ordination of a Pontiff, the ceremony was not deemed complete,

until embarking in his barge, he was saluted High Priest by three

sharks drawing near; with teeth turned up, swimming beside his canoe.

These monsters were deified in Maramma; had altars there; it was deemed

worse than homicide to kill one. “And what if they destroy human life?”

say the Islanders, “are they not sacred?”

Now many more wonderful things were related touching Hivohitee; and

though one could not but doubt the validity of many prerogatives

ascribed to him, it was nevertheless hard to do otherwise, than

entertain for the Pontiff that sort of profound consideration, which

all render to those who indisputably possess the power of quenching

human life with a wish.

CHAPTER V.

They Visit The Great Morai

As garrulous guide to the party, Braid-Beard soon brought us nigh the

great Morai of Maramma, the burial-place of the Pontiffs, and a rural

promenade, for certain idols there inhabiting.

Our way now led through the bed of a shallow water-course; Mohi

observing, as we went, that our feet were being washed at every step;

whereas, to tread the dusty earth would be to desecrate the holy Morai,

by transferring thereto, the base soil of less sacred ground.

Here and there, thatched arbors were thrown over the stream, for the

accommodation of devotees; who, in these consecrated waters, issuing

from a spring in the Morai, bathed their garments, that long life might

ensue. Yet, as Braid-Beard assured us, sometimes it happened, that

divers feeble old men zealously donning their raiment immediately after

immersion became afflicted with rheumatics; and instances were related

of their falling down dead, in this their pursuit of longevity.

Coming to the Morai, we found it inclosed by a wall; and while the rest

were surmounting it, Mohi was busily engaged in the apparently childish

occupation of collecting pebbles. Of these, however, to our no small

surprise, he presently made use, by irreverently throwing them at all

objects to which he was desirous of directing attention. In this

manner, was pointed out a black boar’s head, suspended from a bough.

Full twenty of these sentries were on post in the neighboring trees.

Proceeding, we came to a hillock of bone-dry sand, resting upon the

otherwise loamy soil. Possessing a secret, preservative virtue, this

sand had, ages ago, been brought from a distant land, to furnish a

sepulcher for the Pontiffs; who here, side by side, and sire by son,

slumbered all peacefully in the fellowship of the grave. Mohi declared,

that were the sepulcher to be opened, it would be the resurrection of

the whole line of High Priests. “But a resurrection of bones, after

all,” said Babbalanja, ever osseous in his allusions to the departed.

Passing on, we came to a number of Runic-looking stones, all over

hieroglyphical inscriptions, and placed round an elliptical aperture;

where welled up the sacred spring of the Morai, clear as crystal, and

showing through its waters, two tiers of sharp, tusk-like stones; the

mouth of Oro, so called; and it was held, that if any secular hand

should be immersed in the spring, straight upon it those stony jaws

would close.

We next came to a large image of a dark-hued stone, representing a

burly man, with an overgrown head, and abdomen hollowed out, and open

for inspection; therein, were relics of bones. Before this image we

paused. And whether or no it was Mohi’s purpose to make us tourists

quake with his recitals, his revelations were far from agreeable. At

certain seasons, human beings were offered to the idol, which being an

epicure in the matter of sacrifices, would accept of no ordinary fare.

To insure his digestion, all indirect routes to the interior were

avoided; the sacrifices being packed in the ventricle itself.

Near to this image of Doleema, so called, a solitary forest-tree was

pointed out; leafless and dead to the core. But from its boughs hang

numerous baskets, brimming over with melons, grapes, and guavas. And

daily these baskets were replenished.

As we here stood, there passed a hungry figure, in ragged raiment:

hollow cheeks, and hollow eyes. Wistfully he eyed the offerings; but

retreated; knowing it was sacrilege to touch them. There, they must

decay, in honor of the god Ananna; for so this dead tree was

denominated by Mohi.

Now, as we were thus strolling about the Morai, the old chronicler

elucidating its mysteries, we suddenly spied Pani and the pilgrims

approaching the image of Doleema; his child leading the guide.

“This,” began Pani, pointing to the idol of stone, “is the holy god

Ananna who lives in the sap of this green and flourishing tree.”

“Thou meanest not, surely, this stone image we behold?” said Divino.

“I mean the tree,” said the guide. “It is no stone image.”

“Strange,” muttered the chief; “were it not a guide that spoke, I would

deny it. As it is, I hold my peace.”

“Mystery of mysteries!” cried the blind old pilgrim; “is it, then, a

stone image that Pani calls a tree? Oh, Oro, that I had eyes to see,

that I might verily behold it, and then believe it to be what it is

not; that so I might prove the largeness of my faith; and so merit the

blessing of Alma.”

“Thrice sacred Ananna,” murmured the sad-eyed maiden, falling upon her

knees before Doleema, “receive my adoration. Of thee, I know nothing,

but what the guide has spoken. I am but a poor, weak-minded maiden,

judging not for myself, but leaning upon others that are wiser. These

things are above me. I am afraid to think. In Alma’s name, receive my

homage.”

And she flung flowers before the god.

But Fauna, the hale matron, turning upon Pani, exclaimed, “Receive more

gifts, oh guide.” And again she showered them upon him.

Upon this, the willful boy who would not have Pani for his guide,

entered the Morai; and perceiving the group before the image, walked

rapidly to where they were. And beholding the idol, he regarded it

attentively, and said:—“This must be the image of Doleema; but I am not

sure.”

“Nay,” cried the blind pilgrim, “it is the holy tree Ananna, thou

wayward boy.”

“A tree? whatever it may be, it is not that; thou art blind, old man.”

“But though blind, I have that which thou lackest.”

Then said Pani, turning upon the boy, “Depart from the holy Morai, and

corrupt not the hearts of these pilgrims. Depart, I say; and, in the

sacred name of Alma, perish in thy endeavors to climb the Peak.”

“I may perish there in truth,” said the boy, with sadness; “but it

shall be in the path revealed to me in my dream. And think not, oh

guide, that I perfectly rely upon gaining that lofty summit. I will

climb high Ofo with hope, not faith; Oh, mighty Oro, help me!”

“Be not impious,” said Pani; “pronounce not Oro’s sacred name too

lightly.”

“Oro is but a sound,” said the boy. “They call the supreme god, Ati, in

my native isle; it is the soundless thought of him, oh guide, that is

in me.”

“Hark to his rhapsodies! Hark, how he prates of mysteries, that not

even Hivohitee can fathom.”

“Nor he, nor thou, nor I, nor any; Oro, to all, is Oro the unknown.”

“Why claim to know Oro, then, better than others?”

“I am not so vain; and I have little to substitute for what I can not

receive. I but feel Oro in me, yet can not declare the thought.”

“Proud boy! thy humility is a pretense; at heart, thou deemest thyself

wiser than Mardi.”

“Not near so wise. To believe is a haughty thing; my very doubts

humiliate me. I weep and doubt; all Mardi may be light; and I too

simple to discern.”

“He is mad,” said the chief Divino; “never before heard I such words.”

“They are thoughts,” muttered the guide.

“Poor fool!” cried Fauna.

“Lost youth!” sighed the maiden.

“He is but a child,” said the beggar. These whims will soon depart;

once I was like him; but, praise be to Alma, in the hour of sickness I

repented, feeble old man that I am!”

“It is because I am young and in health,” said the boy, “that I more

nourish the thoughts, that are born of my youth and my health. I am

fresh from my Maker, soul and body unwrinkled. On thy sick couch, old

man, they took thee at advantage.”

“Turn from the blasphemer,” cried Pani. “Hence! thou evil one, to the

perdition in store.”

“I will go my ways,” said the boy, “but Oro will shape the end.”

And he quitted the Morai.

After conducting the party round the sacred inclosure, assisting his

way with his staff, for his child had left him, Pani seated himself on

a low, mossy stone, grimly surrounded by idols; and directed the

pilgrims to return to his habitation; where, ere long he would rejoin

them.

The pilgrims departed, he remained in profound meditation; while,

backward and forward, an invisible ploughshare turned up the long

furrows on his brow.

Long he was silent; then muttered to himself, “That boy, that wild,

wise boy, has stabbed me to the heart. His thoughts are my suspicions.

But he is honest. Yet I harm none. Multitudes must have unspoken

meditations as well as I. Do we then mutually deceive? Off masks,

mankind, that I may know what warranty of fellowship with others, my

own thoughts possess. Why, upon this one theme, oh Oro! must all

dissemble? Our thoughts are not our own. Whate’er it be, an honest

thought must have some germ of truth. But we must set, as flows the

general stream; I blindly follow, where I seem to lead; the crowd of

pilgrims is so great, they see not there is none to guide.—It hinges

upon this: Have we angelic spirits? But in vain, in vain, oh Oro! I

essay to live out of this poor, blind body, fit dwelling for my

sightless soul. Death, death:—blind, am I dead? for blindness seems a

consciousness of death. Will my grave be more dark, than all is now?—

From dark to dark!—What is this subtle something that is in me, and

eludes me? Will it have no end? When, then, did it begin? All, all is

chaos! What is this shining light in heaven, this sun they tell me of?

Or, do they lie? Methinks, it might blaze convictions; but I brood and

grope in blackness; I am dumb with doubt; yet, ’tis not doubt, but

worse: I doubt my doubt. Oh, ye all-wise spirits in the air, how can ye

witness all this woe, and give no sign? Would, would that mine were a

settled doubt, like that wild boy’s, who without faith, seems full of

it. The undoubting doubter believes the most. Oh! that I were he.

Methinks that daring boy hath Alma in him, struggling to be free. But

those pilgrims: that trusting girl.—What, if they saw me as I am?

Peace, peace, my soul; on, mask, again.”

And he staggered from the Morai.

CHAPTER VI.

They Discourse Of The Gods Of Mardi, And Braid-Beard Tells Of One Foni

Walking from the sacred inclosure, Mohi discoursed of the plurality of

gods in the land, a subject suggested by the multitudinous idols we had

just been beholding.

Said Mohi, “These gods of wood and of stone are nothing in number to

the gods in the air. You breathe not a breath without inhaling, you

touch not a leaf without ruffling a spirit. There are gods of heaven,

and gods of earth; gods of sea and of land; gods of peace and of war;

gods of rook and of fell; gods of ghosts and of thieves; of singers and

dancers; of lean men and of house-thatchers. Gods glance in the eyes of

birds, and sparkle in the crests of the waves; gods merrily swing in

the boughs of the trees, and merrily sing in the brook. Gods are here,

and there, and every where; you are never alone for them.”

“If this be so, Braid-Beard,” said Babbalanja, “our inmost thoughts are

overheard; but not by eaves-droppers. However, my lord, these gods to

whom he alludes, merely belong to the semi-intelligibles, the divided

unities in unity, thin side of the First Adyta.”

“Indeed?” said Media.

“Semi-intelligible, say you, philosopher?” cried Mohi. “Then, prithee,

make it appear so; for what you say, seems gibberish to me.”

“Babbalanja,” said Media, “no more of your abstrusities; what know you

mortals of us gods and demi-gods? But tell me, Mohi, how many of your

deities of rock and fen think you there are? Have you no statistical

table?”

“My lord, at the lowest computation, there must be at least three

billion trillion of quintillions.”

“A mere unit!” said Babbalanja. “Old man, would you express an infinite

number? Then take the sum of the follies of Mardi for your

multiplicand; and for your multiplier, the totality of sublunarians,

that never have been heard of since they became no more; and the

product shall exceed your quintillions, even though all their units

were nonillions.”

“Have done, Babbalanja!” cried Media; “you are showing the sinister

vein in your marble. Have done. Take a warm bath, and make tepid your

cold blood. But come, Mohi, tell us of the ways of this Maramma;

something of the Morai and its idols, if you please.”

And straightway Braid-Beard proceeded with a narration, in substance as

follows:—

It seems, there was a particular family upon the island, whose members,

for many generations, had been set apart as sacrifices for the deity

called Doleema. They were marked by a sad and melancholy aspect, and a

certain involuntary shrinking, when passing the Morai. And, though,

when it came to the last, some of these unfortunates went joyfully to

their doom, declaring that they gloried to die in the service of holy

Doleema; still, were there others, who audaciously endeavored to shun

their fate; upon the approach of a festival, fleeing to the innermost

wilderness of the island. But little availed their flight. For swift on

their track sped the hereditary butler of the insulted god, one Xiki,

whose duty it was to provide the sacrifices. And when crouching in some

covert, the fugitive spied Xiki’s approach, so fearful did he become of

the vengeance of the deity he sought to evade, that renouncing all hope

of escape, he would burst from his lair, exclaiming, “Come on, and

kill!” baring his breast for the javelin that slew him.

The chronicles of Maramma were full of horrors.

In the wild heart of the island, was said still to lurk the remnant of

a band of warriors, who, in the days of the sire of the present

pontiff, had risen in arms to dethrone him, headed by Foni, an upstart

prophet, a personage distinguished for the uncommon beauty of his

person. With terrible carnage, these warriors had been defeated; and

the survivors, fleeing into the interior, for thirty days were pursued

by the victors. But though many were overtaken and speared, a number

survived; who, at last, wandering forlorn and in despair, like

demoniacs, ran wild in the woods. And the islanders, who at times

penetrated into the wilderness, for the purpose of procuring rare

herbs, often scared from their path some specter, glaring through the

foliage. Thrice had these demoniacs been discovered prowling about the

inhabited portions of the isle; and at day-break, an attendant of the

holy Morai once came upon a frightful figure, doubled with age, helping

itself to the offerings in the image of Doleema. The demoniac was

slain; and from his ineffaceable tatooing, it was proved that this was

no other than Foni, the false prophet; the splendid form he had carried

into the rebel fight, now squalid with age and misery.

CHAPTER VII.

They Visit The Lake Of Yammo

From the Morai, we bent our steps toward an unoccupied arbor; and here,

refreshing ourselves with the viands presented by Borabolla, we passed

the night. And next morning proceeded to voyage round to the opposite

quarter of the island; where, in the sacred lake of Yammo, stood the

famous temple of Oro, also the great gallery of the inferior deities.

The lake was but a portion of the smooth lagoon, made separate by an

arm of wooded reef, extending from the high western shore of the

island, and curving round toward a promontory, leaving a narrow channel

to the sea, almost invisible, however, from the land-locked interior.

In this lake were many islets, all green with groves. Its main-shore

was a steep acclivity, with jutting points, each crowned with mossy old

altars of stone, or ruinous temples, darkly reflected in the green,

glassy water; while, from its long line of stately trees, the low

reef-side of the lake looked one verdant bluff.

Gliding in upon Yammo, its many islets greeted us like a little Mardi;

but ever and anon we started at long lines of phantoms in the water,

reflections of the long line of images on the shore.

Toward the islet of Dolzono we first directed our way; and there we

beheld the great gallery of the gods; a mighty temple, resting on one

hundred tall pillars of palm, each based, below the surface, on the

buried body of a man; its nave one vista of idols; names carved on

their foreheads: Ogre, Tripoo, Indrimarvoki, Parzillo, Vivivi,

Jojijojorora, Jorkraki, and innumerable others.

Crowds of attendants were new-grouping the images.

“My lord, you behold one of their principal occupations,” said Mohi.

Said Media: “I have heard much of the famed image of Mujo, the Nursing

Mother;—can you point it out, Braid-Beard?”

“My lord, when last here, I saw Mujo at the head of this file; but they

must have removed it; I see it not now.”

“Do these attendants, then,” said Babbalanja, “so continually

new-marshal the idols, that visiting the gallery to-day, you are at a

loss to-morrow?”

“Even so,” said Braid-Beard. “But behold, my lord, this image is Mujo.”

We stood before an obelisk-idol, so towering, that gazing at it, we

were fain to throw back our heads. According to Mohi, winding stairs

led up through its legs; its abdomen a cellar, thick-stored with gourds

of old wine; its head, a hollow dome; in rude alto-relievo, its scores

of hillock-breasts were carved over with legions of baby deities,

frog-like sprawling; while, within, were secreted whole litters of

infant idols, there placed, to imbibe divinity from the knots of the

wood.

As we stood, a strange subterranean sound was heard, mingled with a

gurgling as of wine being poured. Looking up, we beheld, through

arrow-slits and port-holes, three masks, cross-legged seated in the

abdomen, and holding stout wassail. But instantly upon descrying us,

they vanished deeper into the interior; and presently was heard a

sepulchral chant, and many groans and grievous tribulations.

Passing on, we came to an image, with a long anaconda-like posterior

development, wound round and round its own neck.

“This must be Oloo, the god of Suicides,” said Babbalanja.

“Yes,” said Mohi, “you perceive, my lord, how he lays violent tail upon

himself.”

At length, the attendants having, in due order, new-deposed the long

lines of sphinxes and griffins, and many limbed images, a band of them,

in long flowing robes, began their morning chant.

“Awake Rarni! awake Foloona!

Awake unnumbered deities!”

With many similar invocations, to which the images made not the

slightest rejoinder. Not discouraged, however, the attendants now

separately proceeded to offer up petitions on behalf of various tribes,

retaining them for that purpose.

One prayed for abundance of rain, that the yams of Valapee might not

wilt in the ground; another for dry sunshine, as most favorable for the

present state of the Bread-fruit crop in Mondoldo.

Hearing all this, Babbalanja thus spoke:—“Doubtless, my lord Media,

besides these petitions we hear, there are ten thousand contradictory

prayers ascending to these idols. But methinks the gods will not jar

the eternal progression of things, by any hints from below; even were

it possible to satisfy conflicting desires.”

Said Yoomy, “But I would pray, nevertheless, Babbalanja; for prayer

draws us near to our own souls, and purifies our thoughts. Nor will I

grant that our supplications are altogether in vain.”

Still wandering among the images, Mohi had much to say, concerning

their respective claims to the reverence of the devout.

For though, in one way or other, all Mardians bowed to the supremacy of

Oro, they were not so unanimous concerning the inferior deities; those

supposed to be intermediately concerned in sublunary things. Some

nations sacrificed to one god; some to another; each maintaining, that

their own god was the most potential.

Observing that all the images were more or less defaced, Babbalanja

sought the reason.

To which, Braid-Beard made answer, that they had been thus defaced by

hostile devotees; who quarreling in the great gallery of the gods, and

getting beside themselves with rage, often sought to pull down, and

demolish each other’s favorite idols.

“But behold,” cried Babbalanja, “there seems not a single image

unmutilated. How is this, old man?”

“It is thus. While one faction defaces the images of its adversaries,

its own images are in like manner assailed; whence it comes that no

idol escapes.”

“No more, no more, Braid-Beard,” said Media. “Let us depart, and visit

the islet, where the god of all these gods is enshrined.”

CHAPTER VIII.

They Meet The Pilgrims At The Temple Of Oro

Deep, deep, in deep groves, we found the great temple of Oro,

Spreader-of-the-Sky, and deity supreme.

While here we silently stood eyeing this Mardi-renowned image, there

entered the fane a great multitude of its attendants, holding pearl-

shells on their heads, filled with a burning incense. And ranging

themselves in a crowd round Oro, they began a long-rolling chant, a sea

of sounds; and the thick smoke of their incense went up to the roof.

And now approached Pani and the pilgrims; followed, at a distance, by

the willful boy.

“Behold great Oro,” said the guide.

“We see naught but a cloud,” said the chief Divino.

“My ears are stunned by the chanting,” said the blind pilgrim.

“Receive more gifts, oh guide!” cried Fanna the matron. “Oh Oro!

invisible Oro! I kneel,” slow murmured the sad-eyed maid.

But now, a current of air swept aside the eddying incense; and the

willful boy, all eagerness to behold the image, went hither and

thither; but the gathering of attendants was great; and at last he

exclaimed, “Oh Oro! I can not see thee, for the crowd that stands

between thee and me.”

“Who is this babbler?” cried they with the censers, one and all turning

upon the pilgrims; “let him speak no more; but bow down, and grind the

dust where he stands; and declare himself the vilest creature that

crawls. So Oro and Alma command.”

“I feel nothing in me so utterly vile,” said the boy, “and I cringe to

none. But I would as lief _adore_ your image, as that in my heart, for

both mean the same; but more, how can I? I love great Oro, though I

comprehend him not. I marvel at his works, and feel as nothing in his

sight; but because he is thus omnipotent, and I a mortal, it follows

not that I am vile. Nor so doth he regard me. We do ourselves degrade

ourselves, not Oro us. Hath not Oro made me? And therefore am I not

worthy to stand erect before him? Oro is almighty, but no despot. I

wonder; I hope; I love; I weep; I have in me a feeling nigh to fear,

that is not fear; but wholly vile I am not; nor can we love and cringe.

But Oro knows my heart, which I can not speak.”

“Impious boy,” cried they with the censers, “we will offer thee up,

before the very image thou contemnest. In the name of Alma, seize him.”

And they bore him away unresisting.

“Thus perish the ungodly,” said Pani to the shuddering pilgrims.

And they quitted the temple, to journey toward the Peak of Ofo.

“My soul bursts!” cried Yoomy. “My lord, my lord, let us save the boy.”

“Speak not,” said Media. “His fate is fixed. Let Mardi stand.”

“Then let us away from hence, my lord; and join the pilgrims; for, in

these inland vales, the lost one may be found, perhaps at the very base

of Ofo.”

“Not there; not there;” cried Babbalanja, “Yillah may have touched

these shores; but long since she must have fled.”

CHAPTER IX.

They Discourse Of Alma

Sailing to and fro in the lake, to view its scenery, much discourse

took place concerning the things we had seen; and far removed from the

censer-bearers, the sad fate that awaited the boy was now the theme of

all.

A good deal was then said of Alma, to whom the guide, the pilgrims, and

the censer-bearers had frequently alluded, as to some paramount

authority.

Called upon to reveal what his chronicles said on this theme,

Braid-Beard complied; at great length narrating, what now follows

condensed.

Alma, it seems, was an illustrious prophet, and teacher divine; who,

ages ago, at long intervals, and in various islands, had appeared to

the Mardians under the different titles of Brami, Manko, and Alma. Many

thousands of moons had elasped since his last and most memorable

avatar, as Alma on the isle of Maramma. Each of his advents had taken

place in a comparatively dark and benighted age. Hence, it was devoutly

believed, that he came to redeem the Mardians from their heathenish

thrall; to instruct them in the ways of truth, virtue, and happiness;

to allure them to good by promises of beatitude hereafter; and to

restrain them from evil by denunciations of woe. Separated from the

impurities and corruptions, which in a long series of centuries had

become attached to every thing originally uttered by the prophet, the

maxims, which as Brami he had taught, seemed similar to those

inculcated by Manko. But as Alma, adapting his lessons to the improved

condition of humanity, the divine prophet had more completely unfolded

his scheme; as Alma, he had made his last revelation.

This narration concluded, Babbalanja mildly observed, “Mohi: without

seeking to accuse you of uttering falsehoods; since what you relate

rests not upon testimony of your own; permit me, to question the

fidelity of your account of Alma. The prophet came to dissipate errors,

you say; but superadded to many that have survived the past, ten

thousand others have originated in various constructions of the

principles of Alma himself. The prophet came to do away all gods but

one; but since the days of Alma, the idols of Maramma have more than

quadrupled. The prophet came to make us Mardians more virtuous and

happy; but along with all previous good, the same wars, crimes, and

miseries, which existed in Alma’s day, under various modifications are

yet extant. Nay: take from your chronicles, Mohi, the history of those

horrors, one way or other, resulting from the doings of Alma’s nominal

followers, and your chronicles would not so frequently make mention of

blood. The prophet came to guarantee our eternal felicity; but

according to what is held in Maramma, that felicity rests on so hard a

proviso, that to a thinking mind, but very few of our sinful race may

secure it. For one, then, I wholly reject your Alma; not so much,

because of all that is hard to be understood in his histories; as

because of obvious and undeniable things all round us; which, to me,

seem at war with an unreserved faith in his doctrines as promulgated

here in Maramma. Besides; every thing in this isle strengthens my

incredulity; I never was so thorough a disbeliever as now.”

“Let the winds be laid,” cried Mohi, “while your rash confession is

being made in this sacred lake.”

Said Media, “Philosopher; remember the boy, and they that seized him.”

“Ah! I do indeed remember him. Poor youth! in his agony, how my heart

yearned toward his. But that very prudence which you deny me, my lord,

prevented me from saying aught in his behalf. Have you not observed,

that until now, when we are completely by ourselves, I have refrained

from freely discoursing of what we have seen in this island? Trust me,

my lord, there is no man, that bears more in mind the necessity of

being either a believer or a hypocrite in Maramma, and the imminent

peril of being honest here, than I, Babbalanja. And have I not reason

to be wary, when in my boyhood, my own sire was burnt for his temerity;

and in this very isle? Just Oro! it was done in the name of Alma,—what

wonder then, that, at times, I almost hate that sound. And from those

flames, they devoutly swore he went to others,—horrible fable!”

Said Mohi: “Do you deny, then, the everlasting torments?”

“’Tis not worth a denial. Nor by formally denying it, will I run the

risk of shaking the faith of, thousands, who in that pious belief find

infinite consolation for all they suffer in Mardi.”

“How?” said Media; “are there those who soothe themselves with the

thought of everlasting flames?”

“One would think so, my lord, since they defend that dogma more

resolutely than any other. Sooner will they yield you the isles of

Paradise, than it. And in truth, as liege followers of Alma, they would

seem but right in clinging to it as they do; for, according to all one

hears in Maramma, the great end of the prophet’s mission seems to have

been the revealing to us Mardians the existence of horrors, most hard

to escape. But better we were all annihilated, than that one man should

be damned.”

Rejoined Media: “But think you not, that possibly, Alma may have been

misconceived? Are you certain that doctrine is his?”

“I know nothing more than that such is the belief in this land. And in

these matters, I know not where else to go for information. But, my

lord, had I been living in those days when certain men are said to have

been actually possessed by spirits from hell, I had not let slip the

opportunity—as our forefathers did—to cross-question them concerning

the place they came from.”

“Well, well,” said Media, “your Alma’s faith concerns not me: I am a

king, and a demi-god; and leave vulgar torments to the commonality.”

“But it concerns me,” muttered Mohi; “yet I know not what to think.”

“For me,” said Yoomy, “I reject it. Could I, I would not believe it. It

is at variance with the dictates of my heart instinctively my heart

turns from it, as a thirsty man from gall.”

“Hush; say no more,” said Mohi; “again we approach the shore.”

CHAPTER X.

Mohi Tells Of One Ravoo, And They Land To Visit Hevaneva, A Flourishing

Artisan

Having seen all worth viewing in Yammo, we departed, to complete the

circumnavigation of the island, by returning to Uma without reversing

our prows. As we glided along, we passed many objects of interest,

concerning which, Mohi, as usual, was very diffuse.

Among other things pointed out, were certain little altars, like mile-

stones, planted here and there upon bright bluffs, running out into the

lagoon. Dedicated respectively to the guardian spirits of Maramma,

these altars formed a chain of spiritual defenses; and here were

presumed to stand post the most vigilant of warders; dread Hivohitee,

all by himself, garrisoning the impregnable interior.

But these sentries were only subalterns, subject to the beck of the

Pontiff; who frequently sent word to them, concerning the duties of

their watch. His mandates were intrusted to one Ravoo, the hereditary

pontifical messenger; a long-limbed varlet, so swift of foot, that he

was said to travel like a javelin. “Art thou Ravoo, that thou so pliest

thy legs?” say these islanders, to one encountered in a hurry.

Hivohitee’s postman held no oral communication with the sentries.

Dispatched round the island with divers bits of tappa, hieroglyphically

stamped, he merely deposited one upon each altar; superadding a stone,

to keep the missive in its place; and so went his rounds.

Now, his route lay over hill and over dale, and over many a coral rock;

and to preserve his feet from bruises, he was fain to wear a sort of

buskin, or boot, fabricated of a durable tappa, made from the thickest

and toughest of fibers. As he never wore his buskins except when he

carried the mail, Ravoo sorely fretted with his Hessians; though it

would have been highly imprudent to travel without them. To make the

thing more endurable, therefore, and, at intervals, to cool his heated

pedals, he established a series of stopping-places, or stages; at each

of which a fresh pair of buskins, hanging from a tree, were taken down

and vaulted into by the ingenious traveler. Those relays of boots were

exceedingly convenient; next, indeed, to being lifted upon a fresh pair

of legs.

“Now, to what purpose that anecdote?” demanded Babbalanja of Mohi, who

in substance related it.

“Marry! ’tis but the simple recital of a fact; and I tell it to

entertain the company.”

“But has it any meaning you know of?”

“Thou art wise, find out,” retorted Braid-Beard. “But what comes of

it?” persisted Babbalanja.

“Beshrew me, this senseless catechising of thine,” replied Mohi;

“naught else, it seems, save a grin or two.”

“And pray, what may you be driving at, philosopher?” interrupted Media.

“I am intent upon the essence of things; the mystery that lieth beyond;

the elements of the tear which much laughter provoketh; that which is

beneath the seeming; the precious pearl within the shaggy oyster. I

probe the circle’s center; I seek to evolve the inscrutable.”

“Seek on; and when aught is found, cry out, that we may run to see.”

“My lord the king is merry upon me. To him my more subtle cogitations

seem foolishness. But believe me, my lord, there is more to be thought

of than to be seen. There is a world of wonders insphered within the

spontaneous consciousness; or, as old Bardianna hath it, a mystery

within the obvious, yet an obviousness within the mystery.”

“And did I ever deny that?” said Media.

“As plain as my hand in the dark,” said Mohi.

“I dreamed a dream,” said Yoomy.

“They banter me; but enough; I am to blame for discoursing upon the

deep world wherein I live. I am wrong in seeking to invest sublunary

sounds with celestial sense. Much that is in me is incommunicable by

this ether we breathe. But I blame ye not.” And wrapping round him his

mantle, Babbalanja retired into its most private folds.

Ere coming in sight of Uma, we put into a little bay, to pay our

respects to Hevaneva, a famous character there dwelling; who, assisted

by many journeymen, carried on the lucrative business of making idols

for the surrounding isles.

Know ye, that all idols not made in Maramma, and consecrated by

Hivohitee; and, what is more, in strings of teeth paid down for to

Hevaneva; are of no more account, than logs, stocks, or stones. Yet

does not the cunning artificer monopolize the profits of his vocation;

for Hevaneva being but the vassal of the Pontiff, the latter lays claim

to King Leo’s share of the spoils, and secures it.

The place was very prettily lapped in a pleasant dell, nigh to the

margin of the water; and here, were several spacious arbors; wherein,

prostrate upon their sacred faces, were all manner of idols, in every

imaginable stage of statuary development.

With wonderful industry the journeymen were plying their tools;—some

chiseling noses; some trenching for mouths; and others, with heated

flints, boring for ears: a hole drilled straight through the occiput,

representing the auricular organs.

“How easily they are seen through,” said Babbalanja, taking a sight

through one of the heads.

The last finish is given to their godships, by rubbing them all over

with dried slips of consecrated shark-skin, rough as sand paper, tacked

over bits of wood.

In one of the farther arbors, Hevaneva pointed out a goodly array of

idols, all complete and ready for the market. They were of every

variety of pattern; and of every size; from that of a giant, to the

little images worn in the ears of the ultra devout.

“Of late,” said the artist, “there has been a lively demand for the

image of Arbino the god of fishing; the present being the principal

season for that business. For Nadams (Nadam presides over love and

wine), there has also been urgent call; it being the time of the grape;

and the maidens growing frolicsome withal, and devotional.”

Seeing that Hevaneva handled his wares with much familiarity, not to

say irreverence, Babbalanja was minded to learn from him, what he

thought of his trade; whether the images he made were genuine or

spurious; in a word, whether he believed in his gods.

His reply was curious. But still more so, the marginal gestures

wherewith he helped out the text.

“When I cut down the trees for my idols,” said he, “they are nothing

but logs; when upon those logs, I chalk out the figures of, my images,

they yet remain logs; when the chisel is applied, logs they are still;

and when all complete, I at last stand them up in my studio, even then

they are logs. Nevertheless, when I handle the pay, they are as prime

gods, as ever were turned out in Maramma.”

“You must make a very great variety,” said Babbalanja.

“All sorts, all sorts.”

“And from the same material, I presume.”

“Ay, ay, one grove supplies them all. And, on an average, each tree

stands us in full fifty idols. Then, we often take second-hand images

in part pay for new ones. These we work over again into new patterns;

touching up their eyes and ears; resetting their noses; and more

especially new-footing their legs, where they always decay first.”

Under sanction of the Pontiff, Hevaneva, in addition to his large

commerce in idols, also carried on the highly lucrative business of

canoe-building; the profits whereof, undivided, he dropped into his

private exchequer. But Mohi averred, that the Pontiff often charged him

with neglecting his images, for his canoes. Be that as it may, Hevaneva

drove a thriving trade at both avocations. And in demonstration of the

fact, he directed our attention to three long rows of canoes, upheld by

wooden supports. They were in perfect order; at a moment’s notice,

ready for launching; being furnished with paddles, out-riggers, masts,

sails, and a human skull, with a short handle thrust through one of its

eyes, the ordinary bailer of Maramma; besides other appurtenances,

including on the prow a duodecimo idol to match.

Owing to a superstitious preference bestowed upon the wood and work of

the sacred island, Hevaneva’s canoes were in as high repute as his

idols; and sold equally well.

In truth, in several ways one trade helped the other. The larger images

being dug out of the hollow part of the canoes; and all knotty odds and

ends reserved for the idol ear-rings.

“But after all,” said the artificer, “I find a readier sale for my

images, than for my canoes.”

“And so it will ever be,” said Babbalanja.—“Stick to thy idols, man! a

trade, more reliable than the baker’s.”

CHAPTER XI.

A Nursery-Tale Of Babbalanja’s

Having taken to our canoes once again, we were silently sailing along,

when Media observed, “Babbalanja; though I seldom trouble myself with

such thoughts, I have just been thinking, how difficult it must be, for

the more ignorant sort of people, to decide upon what particular image

to worship as a guardian deity, when in Maramma, it seems, there exists

such a multitude of idols, and a thousand more are to be heard of.”

“Not at all, your highness. The more ignorant the better. The multitude

of images distracts them not. But I am in no mood for serious

discourse; let me tell you a story.”

“A story! hear him: the solemn philosopher is desirous of regaling us

with a tale! But pray, begin.”

“Once upon a time, then,” said Babbalanja, indifferently adjusting his

girdle, “nine blind men, with uncommonly long noses, set out on their

travels to see the great island on which they were born.”

“A precious beginning,” muttered Mohi. “Nine blind men setting out to

see sights.”

Continued Babbalanja, “Staff in hand, they traveled; one in advance of

the other; each man with his palm upon the shoulder next him; and he

with the longest nose took the lead of the file. Journeying on in this

manner, they came to a valley, in which reigned a king called Tammaro.

Now, in a certain inclosure toward the head of the valley, there stood

an immense wild banian tree; all over moss, and many centuries old, and

forming quite a wood in itself: its thousand boughs striking into the

earth, and fixing there as many gigantic trunks. With Tammaro, it had

long been a question, which of those many trunks was the original and

true one; a matter that had puzzled the wisest heads among his

subjects; and in vain had a reward been offered for the solution of the

perplexity. But the tree was so vast, and its fabric so complex; and

its rooted branches so similar in appearance; and so numerous, from the

circumstance that every year had added to them, that it was quite

impossible to determine the point. Nevertheless, no sooner did the nine

blind men hear that there was a reward offered for discovering the

trunk of a tree, standing all by itself, than, one and all, they

assured Tammaro, that they would quickly settle that little difficulty

of his; and loudly inveighed against the stupidity of his sages, who

had been so easily posed. So, being conducted into the inclosure, and

assured that the tree was somewhere within, they separated their

forces, so as at wide intervals to surround it at a distance; when

feeling their way, with their staves and their noses, they advanced to

the search, crying out—‘Pshaw! make room there; let us wise men feel of

the mystery.’ Presently, striking with his nose one of the rooted

branches, the foremost blind man quickly knelt down; and feeling that

it struck into the earth, gleefully shouted: Here it is! here it is!’

But almost in the same breath, his companions, also, each striking a

branch with his staff or his nose, cried out in like manner, ‘Here it

is! here it is!’ Whereupon they were all confounded: but directly, the

man who first cried out, thus addressed the rest: Good friends, surely

you’re mistaken. There is but one tree in the place, and here it is.’

‘Very true,’ said the others, ‘all together; there is only _one_ tree;

but _here_ it is.’ ‘Nay,’ said the others, ‘it is _here!_’ and so

saying, each blind man triumphantly felt of the branch, where it

penetrated into the earth. Then again said the first speaker: Good

friends, if you will not believe what I say, come hither, and feel for

yourselves.’ ‘Nay, nay,’ replied they, why seek further? _here_ it is;

and nowhere else can it be.’ ‘You blind fools, you, you contradict

yourselves,’ continued the first speaker, waxing wroth; ‘how can you

each have hold of a separate trunk, when there is but one in the

place?’ Whereupon, they redoubled their cries, calling each other all

manner of opprobrious names, and presently they fell to beating each

other with their staves, and charging upon each other with their noses.

But soon after, being loudly called upon by Tammaro and his people; who

all this while had been looking on; being loudly called upon, I say, to

clap their hands on the trunk, they again rushed for their respective

branches; and it so happened, that, one and all, they changed places;

but still cried out, ‘_Here_ it is; _here_ it is!’ ‘Peace! peace! ye

silly blind men,’ said Tammaro. ‘Will ye without eyes presume to see

more sharply than those who have them? The tree is too much for us all.

Hence! depart from the valley.’”

“An admirable story,” cried Media. “I had no idea that a mere mortal,

least of all a philosopher, could acquit himself so well. By my

scepter, but it is well done! Ha, ha! blind men round a banian! Why,

Babbalanja, no demi-god could surpass it. Taji, could you?”

“But, Babbalanja, what under the sun, mean you by your blind story!”

cried Mohi. “Obverse, or reverse, I can make nothing out of it.”

“Others may,” said Babbalanja. “It is a polysensuum, old man.”

“A pollywog!” said Mohi.

CHAPTER XII.

Landing To Visit Hivohitee The Pontiff, They Encounter An Extraordinary

Old Hermit; With Whom Yoomy Has A Confidential Interview, But Learns

Little

Gliding on, suddenly we spied a solitary Islander putting out in his

canoe from a neighboring cove.

Drawing near, the stranger informed us, that he was just from the face

of the great Pontiff, Hivohitee, who, having dismissed his celestial

guests, had retired to his private sanctuary. Upon this, Media resolved

to land forthwith, and under the guidance of Mohi, proceed inland, and

pay a visit to his Holiness.

Quitting the beach, our path penetrated into the solitudes of the

groves. Skirting the way were tall Casaurinas, a species of cypress,

standing motionless in the shadows, as files of mutes at a funeral. But

here and there, they were overrun with the adventurous vines of the

Convolvulus, the Morning-glory of the Tropics, whose tendrils, bruised

by the twigs, dropped milk upon the dragon-like scales of the trees.

This vine is of many varieties. Lying perdu, and shunning the garish

sun through the day, one species rises at night with the stars;

bursting forth in dazzling constellations of blossoms, which close at

dawn. Others, slumbering through the darkness, are up and abroad with

their petals, by peep of morn; and after inhaling its breath, again

drop their lids in repose. While a third species, more capricious,

refuse to expand at all, unless in the most brilliant sunshine, and

upon the very tops of the loftiest trees. Ambitious flowers! that will

not blow, unless in high places, with the bright day looking on and

admiring.

Here and there, we passed open glades in the woods, delicious with the

incense of violets. Balsamic ferns, stirred by the breeze, fanned all

the air with aromas. These glades were delightful.

Journeying on, we at length came to a dark glen so deftly hidden by the

surrounding copses, that were it not for the miasma thence wafted, an

ignorant wayfarer might pass and repass it, time and again, never

dreaming of its vicinity.

Down into the gloom of this glen we descended. Its sides were mantled

with noxious shrubs, whose exhalations, half way down, unpleasantly

blended with the piny breeze from the uplands. Through its bed ran a

brook, whose incrusted margin had a strange metallic luster, from the

polluted waters here flowing; their source a sulphur spring, of vile

flavor and odor, where many invalid pilgrims resorted.

The woods all round were haunted by the dismal cawings of crows; tap,

tap, the black hawk whetted his bill on the boughs; each trunk stalked

a ghost; and from those trunks, Hevaneva procured the wood for his

idols.

Rapidly crossing this place, Yoomy’s hands to his ears, old Mohi’s to

his nostrils, and Babbalanja vainly trying to walk with closed eyes, we

toiled among steep, flinty rocks, along a wild, zigzag pathway; like a

mule-track in the Andes, not so much onward as upward; Yoomy above

Babbalanja, my lord Media above him, and Braid-Beard, our guide, in the

air, above all.

Strown over with cinders, the vitreous marl seemed tumbled together, as

if belched from a volcano’s throat.

Presently, we came to a tall, slender structure, hidden among the

scenic projections of the cliffs, like a monument in the dark, vaulted

ways of an abbey. Surrounding it, were five extinct craters. The air

was sultry and still, as if full of spent thunderbolts.

Like a Hindoo pagoda, this bamboo edifice rose story above story; its

many angles and points decorated with pearl-shells suspended by cords.

But the uppermost story, some ten toises in the air, was closely

thatched from apex to floor; which summit was gained by a series of

ascents.

What eremite dwelleth here, like St. Stylites at the top of his

column?—a question which Mohi seemed all eagerness to have answered.

Dropping upon his knees, he gave a peculiar low call: no response.

Another: all was silent. Marching up to the pagoda, and again dropping

upon his knees, he shook the bamboos till the edifice rocked, and its

pearl-shells jingled, as if a troop of Andalusian mules, with bells

round their necks, were galloping along the defile.

At length the thatch aloft was thrown open, and a head was thrust

forth. It was that of an old, old man; with steel-gray eyes, hair and

beard, and a horrible necklace of jaw-bones.

Now, issuing from the pagoda, Mohi turned about to gain a view of the

ghost he had raised; and no sooner did he behold it, than with King

Media and the rest, he made a marked salutation.

Presently, the eremite pointed to where Yoomy was standing; and waved

his hand upward; when Mohi informed the minstrel, that it was St.

Stylites’ pleasure, that he should pay him a visit.

Wondering what was to come, Yoomy proceeded to mount; and at last

arriving toward the top of the pagoda, was met by an opening, from

which an encouraging arm assisted him to gain the ultimate landing.

Here, all was murky enough; for the aperture from which the head of the

apparition had been thrust, was now closed; and what little twilight

there was, came up through the opening in the floor.

In this dismal seclusion, silently the hermit confronted the minstrel;

his gray hair, eyes, and beard all gleaming, as if streaked with

phosphorus; while his ghastly gorget grinned hideously, with all its

jaws.

Mutely Yoomy waited to be addressed; but hearing no sound, and becoming

alive to the strangeness of his situation, he meditated whether it

would not be well to subside out of sight, even as he had come—through

the floor. An intention which the eremite must have anticipated; for of

a sudden, something was slid over the opening; and the apparition

seating itself thereupon, the twain were in darkness complete.

Shut up thus, with an inscrutable stranger posted at the only aperture

of escape, poor Yoomy fell into something like a panic; hardly knowing

what step to take next. As for endeavoring to force his way out, it was

alarming to think of; for aught he knew, the eremite, availing himself

of the gloom, might be bristling all over with javelin points.

At last, the silence was broken.

“What see you, mortal?”

“Chiefly darkness,” said Yoomy, wondering at the audacity of the

question.

“I dwell in it. But what else see you, mortal?”

“The dim gleaming of thy gorget.”

“But that is not me. What else dost thou see?”

“Nothing.”

“Then thou hast found me out, and seen all! Descend.”

And with that, the passage-way opened, and groping through the

twilight, Yoomy obeyed the mandate, and retreated; full of vexation at

his enigmatical reception.

On his alighting, Mohi inquired whether the hermit was not a wonderful

personage.

But thinking some sage waggery lurked in the question; and at present

too indignant to enter into details, the minstrel made some impatient

reply; and winding through a defile, the party resumed its journey.

Straggling behind, to survey the strange plants and flowers in his

path, Yoomy became so absorbed, as almost to forget the scene in the

pagoda; yet every moment expected to be nearing the stately abode of

the Pontiff.

But suddenly, the scene around grew familiar; the path seemed that

which had been followed just after leaving the canoes; and at length,

the place of debarkation was in sight.

Surprised that the object of our visit should have been thus abandoned,

the minstrel ran forward, and sought an explanation.

Whereupon, Mohi lifted his hands in amazement; exclaiming at the

blindness of the eyes, which had beheld the supreme Pontiff of Maramma,

without knowing it.

The old hermit was no other than the dread Hivohitee; the pagoda, the

inmost oracle of the isle.

CHAPTER XIII.

Babbalanja Endeavors To Explain The Mystery

This Great Mogul of a personage, then; this woundy Aliasuerus; this man

of men; this same Hivohitee, whose name rumbled among the mountains

like a peal of thunder, had been seen face to face, and taken for

naught, but a bearded old hermit, or at best, some equivocal conjuror.

So great was his wonderment at the time, that Yoomy could not avoid

expressing it in words.

Whereupon thus discoursed Babbalanja:

“Gentle Yoomy, be not astounded, that Hivohitee is so far behind your

previous conceptions. The shadows of things are greater than

themselves; and the more exaggerated the shadow, the more unlike to the

substance.”

“But knowing now, what manner of person Hivohitee is,” said Yoomy,

“much do I long to behold him again.”

But Mohi assured him it was out of the question; that the Pontiff

always acted toward strangers as toward him (Yoomy); and that but one

dim blink at the eremite was all that mortal could obtain.

Debarred thus from a second and more satisfactory interview with one,

concerning whom his curiosity had been violently aroused, the minstrel

again turned to Mohi for enlightenment; especially touching that

magnate’s Egyptian reception of him in his aerial den.

Whereto, the chronicler made answer, that the Pontiff affected darkness

because he liked it: that he was a ruler of few words, but many deeds;

and that, had Yoomy been permitted to tarry longer with him in the

pagoda, he would have been privy to many strange attestations of the

divinity imputed to him. Voices would have been heard in the air,

gossiping with Hivohitee; noises inexplicable proceeding from him; in

brief, light would have flashed out of his darkness.

“But who has seen these things, Mohi?” said Babbalanja, “have you?”

“Nay.”

“Who then?—Media?—Any one you know?”

“Nay: but the whole Archipelago has.”

“Thus,” exclaimed Babbalanja, “does Mardi, blind though it be in many

things, collectively behold the marvels, which one pair of eyes sees

not.”

CHAPTER XIV.

Taji Receives Tidings And Omens

Slowly sailing on, we were overtaken by a shallop; whose inmates

grappling to the side of Media’s, said they came from Borabolla.

Dismal tidings!—My faithful follower’s death.

Absent over night, that morning early, he had been discovered lifeless

in the woods, three arrows in his heart. And the three pale strangers

were nowhere to be found. But a fleet canoe was missing from the beach.

Slain for me! my soul sobbed out. Nor yet appeased Aleema’s manes; nor

yet seemed sated the avengers’ malice; who, doubtless, were on my

track.

But I turned; and instantly the three canoes had been reversed; and

full soon, Jarl’s dead hand in mine, had not Media interposed.

“To death, your presence will not bring life back.”

“And we must on,” said Babbalanja. “We seek the living, not the dead.”

Thus they overruled me; and Borabolla’s messengers departed.

Soon evening came, and in its shades, three shadows,—Hautia’s heralds.

Their shallop glided near.

A leaf tri-foiled was first presented; then another, arrow-shaped.

Said Yoomy, “Still I swiftly follow, behind revenge.”

Then were showered faded, pallid daffodils.

Said Yoomy, “Thy hopes are blighted all.”

“Not dead, but living with the life of life. Sirens! I heed ye not.”

They would have showered more flowers; but crowding sail we left them.

Much converse followed. Then, beneath the canopy all sought repose. And

ere long slouched sleep drew nigh, tending dreams innumerable; silent

dotting all the downs a shepherd with his flock.

CHAPTER XV.

Dreams

Dreams! dreams! golden dreams: endless, and golden, as the flowery

prairies, that stretch away from the Rio Sacramento, in whose waters

Danae’s shower was woven;—prairies like rounded eternities: jonquil

leaves beaten out; and my dreams herd like buffaloes, browsing on to

the horizon, and browsing on round the world; and among them, I dash

with my lance, to spear one, ere they all flee.

Dreams! dreams! passing and repassing, like Oriental empires in

history; and scepters wave thick, as Bruce’s pikes at Bannockburn; and

crowns are plenty as marigolds in June. And far in the background, hazy

and blue, their steeps let down from the sky, loom Andes on Andes,

rooted on Alps; and all round me, long rushing oceans, roll Amazons and

Oronocos; waves, mounted Parthians; and, to and fro, toss the wide

woodlands: all the world an elk, and the forests its antlers.

But far to the South, past my Sicily suns and my vineyards, stretches

the Antarctic barrier of ice: a China wall, built up from the sea, and

nodding its frosted towers in the dun, clouded sky. Do Tartary and

Siberia lie beyond? Deathful, desolate dominions those; bleak and wild

the ocean, beating at that barrier’s base, hovering ’twixt freezing and

foaming; and freighted with navies of ice-bergs,—warring worlds

crossing orbits; their long icicles, projecting like spears to the

charge. Wide away stream the floes of drift ice, frozen cemeteries of

skeletons and bones. White bears howl as they drift from their cubs;

and the grinding islands crush the skulls of the peering seals.

But beneath me, at the Equator, the earth pulses and beats like a

warrior’s heart; till I know not, whether it be not myself. And my soul

sinks down to the depths, and soars to the skies; and comet-like reels

on through such boundless expanses, that methinks all the worlds are my

kin, and I invoke them to stay in their course. Yet, like a mighty

three-decker, towing argosies by scores, I tremble, gasp, and strain in

my flight, and fain would cast off the cables that hamper.

And like a frigate, I am full with a thousand souls; and as on, on, on,

I scud before the wind, many mariners rush up from the orlop below,

like miners from caves; running shouting across my decks; opposite

braces are pulled; and this way and that, the great yards swing round

on their axes; and boisterous speaking-trumpets are heard; and

contending orders, to save the good ship from the shoals. Shoals, like

nebulous vapors, shoreing the white reef of the Milky Way, against

which the wrecked worlds are dashed; strewing all the strand, with

their Himmaleh keels and ribs.

Ay: many, many souls are in me. In my tropical calms, when my ship lies

tranced on Eternity’s main, speaking one at a time, then all with one

voice: an orchestra of many French bugles and horns, rising, and

falling, and swaying, in golden calls and responses.

Sometimes, when these Atlantics and Pacifics thus undulate round me, I

lie stretched out in their midst: a land-locked Mediterranean, knowing

no ebb, nor flow. Then again, I am dashed in the spray of these sounds:

an eagle at the world’s end, tossed skyward, on the horns of the

tempest.

Yet, again, I descend, and list to the concert.

Like a grand, ground swell, Homer’s old organ rolls its vast volumes

under the light frothy wave-crests of Anacreon and Hafiz; and high over

my ocean, sweet Shakespeare soars, like all the larks of the spring.

Throned on my seaside, like Canute, bearded Ossian smites his hoar

harp, wreathed with wild-flowers, in which warble my Wallers; blind

Milton sings bass to my Petrarchs and Priors, and laureate crown me

with bays.

In me, many worthies recline, and converse. I list to St. Paul who

argues the doubts of Montaigne; Julian the Apostate cross-questions

Augustine; and Thomas-a-Kempis unrolls his old black letters for all to

decipher. Zeno murmurs maxims beneath the hoarse shout of Democritus;

and though Democritus laugh loud and long, and the sneer of Pyrrho be

seen; yet, divine Plato, and Proclus, and, Verulam are of my counsel;

and Zoroaster whispered me before I was born. I walk a world that is

mine; and enter many nations, as Mingo Park rested in African cots; I

am served like Bajazet: Bacchus my butler, Virgil my minstrel, Philip

Sidney my page. My memory is a life beyond birth; my memory, my library

of the Vatican, its alcoves all endless perspectives, eve-tinted by

cross-lights from Middle-Age oriels.

And as the great Mississippi musters his watery nations: Ohio, with all

his leagued streams; Missouri, bringing down in torrents the clans from

the highlands; Arkansas, his Tartar rivers from the plain;—so, with all

the past and present pouring in me, I roll down my billow from afar.

Yet not I, but another: God is my Lord; and though many satellites

revolve around me, I and all mine revolve round the great central

Truth, sun-like, fixed and luminous forever in the foundationless

firmament.

Fire flames on my tongue; and though of old the Bactrian prophets were

stoned, yet the stoners in oblivion sleep. But whoso stones me, shall

be as Erostratus, who put torch to the temple; though Genghis Khan with

Cambyses combine to obliterate him, his name shall be extant in the

mouth of the last man that lives. And if so be, down unto death, whence

I came, will I go, like Xenophon retreating on Greece, all Persia

brandishing her spears in his rear.

My cheek blanches white while I write; I start at the scratch of my

pen; my own mad brood of eagles devours me; fain would I unsay this

audacity; but an iron-mailed hand clenches mine in a vice, and prints

down every letter in my spite. Fain would I hurl off this Dionysius

that rides me; my thoughts crush me down till I groan; in far fields I

hear the song of the reaper, while I slave and faint in this cell. The

fever runs through me like lava; my hot brain burns like a coal; and

like many a monarch, I am less to be envied, than the veriest hind in

the land.

CHAPTER XVI.

Media And Babbalanja Discourse

Our visiting the Pontiff at a time previously unforeseen, somewhat

altered our plans. All search in Maramma for the lost one proving

fruitless, and nothing of note remaining to be seen, we returned not to

Uma; but proceeded with the tour of the lagoon.

When day came, reclining beneath the canopy, Babbalanja would fain have

seriously discussed those things we had lately been seeing, which, for

all the occasional levity he had recently evinced, seemed very near his

heart.

But my lord Media forbade; saying that they necessarily included a

topic which all gay, sensible Mardians, who desired to live and be

merry, invariably banished from social discourse.

“Meditate as much as you will, Babbalanja, but say little aloud, unless

in a merry and mythical way. Lay down the great maxims of things, but

let inferences take care of themselves. Never be special; never, a

partisan. In safety, afar off, you may batter down a fortress; but at

your peril you essay to carry a single turret by escalade. And if

doubts distract you, in vain will you seek sympathy from your fellow

men. For upon this one theme, not a few of you free-minded mortals,

even the otherwise honest and intelligent, are the least frank and

friendly. Discourse with them, and it is mostly formulas, or

prevarications, or hollow assumption of philosophical indifference, or

urbane hypocrisies, or a cool, civil deference to the dominant belief;

or still worse, but less common, a brutality of indiscriminate

skepticism. Furthermore, Babbalanja, on this head, final, last thoughts

you mortals have none; nor can have; and, at bottom, your own fleeting

fancies are too often secrets to yourselves; and sooner may you get

another’s secret, than your own. Thus with the wisest of you all; you

are ever unfixed. Do you show a tropical calm without? then, be sure a

thousand contrary currents whirl and eddy within. The free, airy robe

of your philosophy is but a dream, which seems true while it lasts; but

waking again into the orthodox world, straightway you resume the old

habit. And though in your dreams you may hie to the uttermost Orient,

yet all the while you abide where you are. Babbalanja, you mortals

dwell in Mardi, and it is impossible to get elsewhere.”

Said Babbalanja, “My lord, you school me. But though I dissent from

some of your positions, I am willing to confess, that this is not the

first time a philosopher has been instructed by a man.”

“A demi-god, sir; and therefore I the more readily discharge my mind of

all seriousness, touching the subject, with which you mortals so vex

and torment yourselves.”

Silence ensued. And seated apart, on both sides of the barge, solemnly

swaying, in fixed meditation, to the roll of the waves, Babbalanja,

Mohi, and Yoomy, drooped lower and lower, like funeral plumes; and our

gloomy canoe seemed a hearse.

CHAPTER XVII.

They Regale Themselves With Their Pipes

“Ho! mortals! mortals!” cried Media. “Go we to bury our dead? Awake,

sons of men! Cheer up, heirs of immortality! Ho, Vee-Vee! bring forth

our pipes: we’ll smoke off this cloud.”

Nothing so beguiling as the fumes of tobacco, whether inhaled through

hookah, narghil, chibouque, Dutch porcelain, pure Principe, or Regalia.

And a great oversight had it been in King Media, to have omitted pipes

among the appliances of this voyage that we went. Tobacco in rouleaus

we had none; cigar nor cigarret; which little the company esteemed.

Pipes were preferred; and pipes we often smoked; testify, oh! Vee-Vee,

to that. But not of the vile clay, of which mankind and Etruscan vases

were made, were these jolly fine pipes of ours. But all in good time.

Now, the leaf called tobacco is of divers species and sorts. Not to

dwell upon vile Shag, Pig-tail, Plug, Nail-rod, Negro-head, Cavendish,

and misnamed Lady’s-twist, there are the following varieties:—Gold-

leaf, Oronoco, Cimaroza, Smyrna, Bird’s-eye, James-river,

Sweet-scented, Honey-dew, Kentucky, Cnaster, Scarfalati, and famed

Shiraz, or Persian. Of all of which, perhaps the last is the best.

But smoked by itself, to a fastidious wight, even Shiraz is not gentle

enough. It needs mitigation. And the cunning craft of so mitigating

even the mildest tobacco was well understood in the dominions of Media.

There, in plantations ever covered with a brooding, blue haze, they

raised its fine leaf in the utmost luxuriance; almost as broad as the

broad fans of the broad-bladed banana. The stalks of the leaf

withdrawn, the remainder they cut up, and mixed with soft willow-bark,

and the aromatic leaves of the Betel.

“Ho! Vee-Vee, bring forth the pipes,” cried Media. And forth they came,

followed by a quaint, carved cocoa-nut, agate-lidded, containing

ammunition sufficient for many stout charges and primings.

Soon we were all smoking so hard, that the canopied howdah, under which

we reclined, sent up purple wreaths like a Michigan wigwam. There we

sat in a ring, all smoking in council—every pipe a halcyon pipe of

peace.

And among those calumets, my lord Media’s showed like the turbaned

Grand Turk among his Bashaws. It was an extraordinary pipe, be sure; of

right royal dimensions. Its mouth-piece an eagle’s beak; its long stem,

a bright, red-barked cherry-tree branch, partly covered with a close

network of purple dyed porcupine quills; and toward the upper end,

streaming with pennons, like a Versailles flag-staff of a coronation

day. These pennons were managed by halyards; and after lighting his

prince’s pipe, it was little Vee-Vee’s part to run them up toward the

mast-head, or mouthpiece, in token that his lord was fairly under

weigh.

But Babbalanja’s was of a different sort; an immense, black, serpentine

stem of ebony, coiling this way and that, in endless convolutions, like

an anaconda round a traveler in Brazil. Smoking this hydra, Babbalanja

looked as if playing upon the trombone.

Next, gentle Yoomy’s. Its stem, a slender golden reed, like musical

Pan’s; its bowl very merry with tassels.

Lastly, old Mohi the chronicler’s. Its Death’s-head bowl forming its

latter end, continually reminding him of his own. Its shank was an

ostrich’s leg, some feathers still waving nigh the mouth-piece.

“Here, Vee-Vee! fill me up again,” cried Media, through the blue vapors

sweeping round his great gonfalon, like plumed Marshal Ney, waving his

baton in the smoke of Waterloo; or thrice gallant Anglesea, crossing

his wooden leg mid the reek and rack of the Apsley House banquet.

Vee-Vee obeyed; and quickly, like a howitzer, the pipe-owl was reloaded

to the muzzle, and King Media smoked on.

“Ah! this is pleasant indeed,” he cried. “Look, it’s a calm on the

waters, and a calm in our hearts, as we inhale these sedative odors.”

“So calm,” said Babbalanja; “the very gods must be smoking now.”

“And thus,” said Media, “we demi-gods hereafter shall cross-legged sit,

and smoke out our eternities. Ah, what a glorious puff! Mortals,

methinks these pipe-bowls of ours must be petrifactions of roses, so

scented they seem. But, old Mohi, you have smoked this many a long

year; doubtless, you know something about their material—the

Froth-of-the-Sea they call it, I think—ere my handicraft subjects

obtain it, to work into bowls. Tell us the tale.”

“Delighted to do so, my lord,” replied Mohi, slowly disentangling his

mouth-piece from the braids of his beard. “I have devoted much time and

attention to the study of pipe-bowls, and groped among many learned

authorities, to reconcile the clashing opinions concerning the origin

of the so-called Farnoo, or Froth-of-the-Sea.”

“Well, then, my old centenarian, give us the result of your

investigations. But smoke away: a word and a puff go on.”

“May it please you, then, my right worshipful lord, this Farnoo is an

unctuous, argillaceous substance; in its natural state, soft,

malleable, and easily worked as the cornelian-red clay from the famous

pipe-quarries of the wild tribes to the North. But though mostly found

buried in terra-firma, especially in the isles toward the East, this

Farnoo, my lord, is sometimes thrown up by the ocean; in seasons of

high sea, being plentifully found on the reefs. But, my lord, like

amber, the precise nature and origin of this Farnoo are points widely

mooted.”

“Stop there!” cried Media; “our mouth-pieces are of amber; so, not a

word more of the Froth-of-the-Sea, until something be said to clear up

the mystery of amber. What is amber, old man?”

“A still more obscure thing to trace than the other, my worshipful

lord. Ancient Plinnee maintained, that originally it must be a juice,

exuding from balsam firs and pines; Borhavo, that, like camphor, it is

the crystalized oil of aromatic ferns; Berzilli, that it is the

concreted scum of the lake Cephioris; and Vondendo, against scores of

antagonists, stoutly held it a sort of bituminous gold, trickling from

antediluvian smugglers’ caves, nigh the sea.”

“Why, old Braid-Beard,” cried Media, placing his pipe in rest, “you are

almost as erudite as our philosopher here.”

“Much more so, my lord,” said Babbalanja; “for Mohi has somehow picked

up all my worthless forgettings, which are more than my valuable

rememberings.”

“What say you, wise one?” cried Mohi, shaking his braids, like an

enraged elephant with many trunks.

Said Yoomy: “My lord, I have heard that amber is nothing less than the

congealed tears of broken-hearted mermaids.”

“Absurd, minstrel,” cried Mohi. “Hark ye; I know what it is. All other

authorities to the contrary, amber is nothing more than gold-fishes’

brains, made waxy, then firm, by the action of the sea.”

“Nonsense!” cried Yoomy.

“My lord,” said Braid-Beard, waving his pipe, this thing is just as I

say. Imbedded in amber, do we not find little fishes’ fins,

porpoise-teeth, sea-gulls’ beaks and claws; nay, butterflies’ wings,

and sometimes a topaz? And how could that be, unless the substance was

first soft? Amber is gold-fishes’ brains, I say.”

“For one,” said Babbalanja, “I’ll not believe that, till you prove to

me, Braid-Beard, that ideas themselves are found imbedded therein.”

“Another of your crazy conceits, philosopher,” replied Mohi,

disdainfully; “yet, sometimes plenty of strange black-letter characters

have been discovered in amber.” And throwing back his hoary old head,

he jetted forth his vapors like a whale.

“Indeed?” cried Babbalanja. “Then, my lord Media, it may be earnestly

inquired, whether the gentle laws of the tribes before the flood, were

not sought to be embalmed and perpetuated between transparent and sweet

scented tablets of amber.”

“That, now, is not so unlikely,” said Mohi; “for old King Rondo the

Round once set about getting him a coffin-lid of amber; much desiring a

famous mass of it owned by the ancestors of Donjalolo of Juam. But no

navies could buy it. So Rondo had himself urned in a crystal.”

“And that immortalized Rondo, no doubt,” said Babbalanja. “Ha! ha! pity

he fared not like the fat porpoise frozen and tombed in an iceberg; its

icy shroud drifting south, soon melted away, and down, out of sight,

sunk the dead.”

“Well, so much for amber,” cried Media. “Now, Mohi, go on about

Farnoo.”

“Know, then, my lord, that Farnoo is more like ambergris than amber.”

“Is it? then, pray, tell us something on that head. You know all about

ambergris, too, I suppose.”

“Every thing about all things, my lord. Ambergris is found both on land

and at sea. But especially, are lumps of it picked up on the spicy

coasts of Jovanna; indeed, all over the atolls and reefs in the eastern

quarter of Mardi.”

“But what is this ambergris? Braid-Beard,” said Babbalanja.

“Aquovi, the chymist, pronounced it the fragments of mushrooms growing

at the bottom of the sea; Voluto held, that like naptha, it springs

from fountains down there. But it is neither.”

“I have heard,” said Yoomy, “that it is the honey-comb of bees, fallen

from flowery cliffs into the brine.”

“Nothing of the kind,” said Mohi. “Do I not know all about it,

minstrel? Ambergris is the petrified gall-stones of crocodiles.”

“What!” cried Babbalanja, “comes sweet scented ambergris from those

musky and chain-plated river cavalry? No wonder, then, their flesh is

so fragrant; their upper jaws as the visors of vinaigrettes.”

“Nay, you are all wrong,” cried King Media.

Then, laughing to himself:—“It’s pleasant to sit by, a demi-god, and

hear the surmisings of mortals, upon things they know nothing about;

theology, or amber, or ambergris, it’s all the same. But then, did I

always out with every thing I know, there would be no conversing with

these comical creatures.

“Listen, old Mohi; ambergris is a morbid secretion of the Spermaceti

whale; for like you mortals, the whale is at times a sort of

hypochondriac and dyspeptic. You must know, subjects, that in

antediluvian times, the Spermaceti whale was much hunted by sportsmen,

that being accounted better pastime, than pursuing the Behemoths on

shore. Besides, it was a lucrative diversion. Now, sometimes upon

striking the monster, it would start off in a dastardly fright, leaving

certain fragments in its wake. These fragments the hunters picked up,

giving over the chase for a while. For in those days, as now, a

quarter-quintal of ambergris was more valuable than a whole ton of

spermaceti.”

“Nor, my lord,” said Babbalanja, “would it have been wise to kill the

fish that dropped such treasures: no more than to murder the noddy that

laid the golden eggs.”

“Beshrew me! a noddy it must have been,” gurgled Mohi through his

pipe-stem, “to lay golden eggs for others to hatch.”

“Come, no more of that now,” cried Media. “Mohi, how long think you,

may one of these pipe-bowls last?”

“My lord, like one’s cranium, it will endure till broken. I have smoked

this one of mine more than half a century.”

“But unlike our craniums, stocked full of concretions,” said

Babbalanja, our pipe-bowls never need clearing out.”

“True,” said Mohi, “they absorb the oil of the smoke, instead of

allowing it offensively to incrust.”

“Ay, the older the better,” said Media, “and the more delicious the

flavor imparted to the fumes inhaled.”

“Farnoos forever! my lord,” cried Yoomy. “By much smoking, the bowl

waxes russet and mellow, like the berry-brown cheek of a sunburnt

brunette.”

“And as like smoked hams,” cried Braid-Beard, “we veteran old smokers

grow browner and browner; hugely do we admire to see our jolly noses

and pipe-bowls mellowing together.”

“Well said, old man,” cried Babbalanja; “for, like a good wife, a pipe

is a friend and companion for life. And whoso weds with a pipe, is no

longer a bachelor. After many vexations, he may go home to that

faithful counselor, and ever find it full of kind consolations and

suggestions. But not thus with cigars or cigarrets: the acquaintances

of a moment, chatted with in by-places, whenever they come handy; their

existence so fugitive, uncertain, unsatisfactory. Once ignited, nothing

like longevity pertains to them. They never grow old. Why, my lord, the

stump of a cigarret is an abomination; and two of them crossed are more

of a _memento-mori_, than a brace of thigh-bones at right angles.”

“So they are, so they are,” cried King Media. “Then, mortals, puff we

away at our pipes. Puff, puff, I say. Ah! how we puff! But thus we

demi-gods ever puff at our ease.”

“Puff; puff, how we puff,” cried Babbalanja. “but life itself is a puff

and a wheeze. Our lungs are two pipes which we constantly smoke.”

“Puff, puff! how we puff,” cried old Mohi. “All thought is a puff.”

“Ay,” said Babbalanja, “not more smoke in that skull-bowl of yours than

in the skull on your shoulders: both ends alike.”

“Puff! puff! how we puff,” cried Yoomy. “But in every puff, there hangs

a wreath. In every puff, off flies a care.”

“Ay, there they go,” cried Mohi, “there goes another—and, there, and

there;—this is the way to get rid of them my worshipful lord; puff them

aside.”

“Yoomy,” said Media, “give us that pipe song of thine. Sing it, my

sweet and pleasant poet. We’ll keep time with the flageolets of ours.”

“So with pipes and puffs for a chorus, thus Yoomy sang:—

Care is all stuff:—

Puff! Puff:

To puff is enough:—

Puff! Puff!

More musky than snuff,

And warm is a puff:—

Puff! Puff!

Here we sit mid our puffs,

Like old lords in their ruffs,

Snug as bears in their muffs:—

Puff! Puff!

Then puff, puff, puff;

For care is all stuff,

Puffed off in a puff:—

Puff! Puff!

“Ay, puff away,” cried Babbalanja, “puff; puff, so we are born, and so

die. Puff, puff, my volcanos: the great sun itself will yet go out in a

snuff, and all Mardi smoke out its last wick.”

“Puffs enough,” said King Media, “Vee-Vee! haul down my flag. There,

lie down before me, oh Gonfalon! and, subjects, hear,—when I die, lay

this spear on my right, and this pipe on my left, its colors at half

mast; so shall I be ambidexter, and sleep between eloquent symbols.”

CHAPTER XVIII.

They Visit An Extraordinary Old Antiquary

“About prows there, ye paddlers,” cried Media. “In this fog we’ve been

raising, we have sailed by Padulla, our destination.”

Now Padulla, was but a little island, tributary to a neighboring king;

its population embracing some hundreds of thousands of leaves, and

flowers, and butterflies, yet only two solitary mortals; one, famous as

a venerable antiquarian: a collector of objects of Mardian vertu; a

cognoscenti, and dilettante in things old and marvelous; and for that

reason, very choice of himself.

He went by the exclamatory cognomen of “Oh-Oh;” a name bestowed upon

him, by reason of the delighted interjections, with which he welcomed

all accessions to his museum.

Now, it was to obtain a glimpse of this very museum, that Media was

anxious to touch at Padulla.

Landing, and passing through a grove, we were accosted by Oh-Oh

himself; who, having heard the shouts of our paddlers, had sallied

forth, staff in hand.

The old man was a sight to see; especially his nose; a remarkable one.

And all Mardi over, a remarkable nose is a prominent feature: an ever

obvious passport to distinction. For, after all, this gaining a name,

is but the individualizing of a man; as well achieved by an

extraordinary nose, as by an extraordinary epic. Far better, indeed;

for you may pass poets without knowing them. Even a hero, is no hero

without his sword; nor Beelzebub himself a lion, minus that lasso-tail

of his, wherewith he catches his prey. Whereas, he who is famous

through his nose, it is impossible to overlook. He is a celebrity

without toiling for a name. Snugly ensconced behind his proboscis, he

revels in its shadow, receiving tributes of attention wherever he goes.

Not to enter at large upon the topography of Oh-Oh’s nasal organ, all

must be content with this; that it was of a singular magnitude, and

boldly aspiring at the end; an exclamation point in the face of the

wearer, forever wondering at the visible universe. The eyes of Oh-Oh

were like the creature’s that the Jew abhors: placed slanting in his

head, and converging their rays toward the mouth; which was no Mouth,

but a gash.

I mean not to be harsh, or unpleasant upon thee, Oh-Oh; but I must

paint thee as thou wert.

The rest of his person was crooked, and dwarfed, and surmounted by a

hump, that sat on his back like a burden. And a weary load is a hump,

Heaven knows, only to be cast off in the grave.

Thus old, and antiquated, and gable-ended, was the tabernacle of

Oh-Oh’s soul. But his person was housed in as curious a structure.

Built of old boughs of trees blown down in the groves, and covered over

with unruly thatching, it seemed, without, some ostrich nest. But

within, so intricate, and grotesque, its brown alleys and cells, that

the interior of no walnut was more labyrinthine.

And here, strewn about, all dusty and disordered, were the precious

antiques, and curios, and obsoletes, which to Oh-Oh were dear as the

apple of his eye, or the memory of departed days.

The old man was exceedingly importunate, in directing attention to his

relics; concerning each of which, he had an endless story to tell. Time

would fail; nay, patience, to repeat his legends. So, in order, here

follow the most prominent of his rarities:—

The identical Canoe, in which, ages back, the god Unja came from the

bottom of the sea. (Very ponderous; of lignum-vitae wood).

A stone Flower-pot, containing in the original soil, Unja’s last

footprints, when he embarked from Mardi for parts unknown. (One

foot-print unaccountably reversed).

The Jaw-bones of Tooroorooloo, a great orator in the days of Unja.

(Somewhat twisted).

A quaint little Fish-hook. (Made from the finger-bones of Kravi the

Cunning).

The mystic Gourd; carved all over with cabalistic triangles, and

hypogrifs; by study of which a reputed prophet, was said to have

obtained his inspiration. (Slightly redolent of vineyards).

The complete Skeleton of an immense Tiger-shark; the bones of a

Pearl-shell-diver’s leg inside. (Picked off the reef at low tide).

An inscrutable, shapeless block of a mottled-hued, smoke-dried wood.

(Three unaccountable holes drilled through the middle).

A sort of ecclesiastical Fasces, being the bony blades of nine sword-

fish, basket-hilted with shark’s jaws, braided round and tasseled with

cords of human hair. (Now obsolete).

The mystic Fan with which Unja fanned himself when in trouble. (Woven

from the leaves of the Water-Lily).

A Tripod of a Stork’s Leg, supporting a nautilus shell, containing the

fragments of a bird’s egg; into which, was said to have been magically

decanted the soul of a deceased chief. (Unfortunately crushed in by

atmospheric pressure).

Two clasped Right Hands, embalmed; being those of twin warriors, who

thus died on a battle-field. (Impossible to sunder).

A curious Pouch, or Purse, formed from the skin of an Albatross’ foot,

and decorated with three sharp claws, naturally pertaining to it.

(Originally the property of a notorious old Tooth-per-Tooth).

A long tangled lock of Mermaid’s Hair, much resembling the curling

silky fibres of the finer sea-weed. (Preserved between fins of the

dolphin).

A Mermaid’s Comb for the toilet. The stiff serrated crest of a Cook

Storm-petrel (Oh-Oh was particularly curious concerning Mermaids).

Files, Rasps, and Pincers, all bone, the implements of an eminent

Chiropedist, who flourished his tools before the flood. (Owing to the

excessive unevenness of the surface in those times, the diluvians were

peculiarly liable to pedal afflictions).

The back Tooth, that Zozo the Enthusiast, in token of grief, recklessly

knocked out at the decease of a friend. (Worn to a stump and quite

useless).

These wonders inspected, Oh-Oh conducted us to an arbor, to show us the

famous telescope, by help of which, he said he had discovered an

ant-hill in the moon. It rested in the crotch of a Bread-fruit tree;

and was a prodigiously long and hollow trunk of a Palm; a scale from a

sea-kraken its lens.

Then returning to his cabinet, he pointed to a bamboo microscope, which

had wonderfully assisted him in his entomological pursuits.

“By this instrument, my masters,” said he, “I have satisfied myself,

that in the eye of a dragon-fly there are precisely twelve thousand

five hundred and forty-one triangular lenses; and in the leg of a flea,

scores on scores of distinct muscles. Now, my masters, how far think

you a flea may leap at one spring? Why, two hundred times its own

length; I have often measured their leaps, with a small measure I use

for scientific purposes.”

“Truly, Oh-Oh,” said Babbalanja, “your discoveries must ere long result

in something grand; since you furnish such invaluable data for

theorists. Pray, attend, my lord Media. If, at one spring, a flea leaps

two hundred times its own length, then, with the like proportion of

muscles in his calves, a bandit might pounce upon the unwary traveler

from a quarter of a mile off. Is it not so, Oh-Oh?”

“Indeed, but it is, my masters. And one of the greatest consolations I

draw from these studies, is the ever-strengthening conviction of the

beneficent wisdom that framed our Mardi. For did men possess thighs in

proportion to fleas, verily, the wicked would grievously leap about,

and curvet in the isles.”

“But Oh-Oh,” said Babbalanja, “what other discoveries have you made?

Hast yet put a usurer under your lens, to find his conscience? or a

libertine, to find his heart? Hast yet brought your microscope to bear

upon a downy peach, or a rosy cheek?”

“I have,” said Oh-Oh, mournfully; “and from the moment I so did, I have

had no heart to eat a peach, or salute a cheek.”

“Then dash your lens!” cried Media.

“Well said, my lord. For all the eyes we get beyond our own, but

minister to infelicity. The microscope disgusts us with our Mardi; and

the telescope sets us longing for some other world.”

CHAPTER XIX.

They Go Down Into The Catacombs

With a dull flambeau, we now descended some narrow stone steps, to view

Oh-Oh’s collection of ancient and curious manuscripts, preserved in a

vault.

“This way, this way, my masters,” cried Oh-Oh, aloft, swinging his dim

torch. “Keep your hands before you; it’s a dark road to travel.”

“So it seems,” said Babbalanja, wide-groping, as he descended lower and

lower. “My lord this is like going down to posterity.”

Upon gaining the vault, forth flew a score or two of bats,

extinguishing the flambeau, and leaving us in darkness, like Belzoni

deserted by his Arabs in the heart of a pyramid. The torch at last

relumed, we entered a tomb-like excavation, at every step raising

clouds of dust; and at last stood before long rows of musty, mummyish

parcels, so dingy-red, and so rolled upon sticks, that they looked like

stiff sausages of Bologna; but smelt like some fine old Stilton or

Cheshire.

Most ancient of all, was a hieroglyphical Elegy on the Dumps,

consisting of one thousand and one lines; the characters,—herons,

weeping-willows, and ravens, supposed to have been traced by a quill

from the sea-noddy.

Then there were plenty of rare old ballads:—

“King Kroko, and the Fisher Girl.”

“The Fight at the Ford of Spears.”

“The Song of the Skulls.”

And brave old chronicles, that made Mohi’s mouth water:—

“The Rise and Setting of the Dynasty of Foofoo.”

“The Heroic History of the Noble Prince Dragoni; showing how he killed

ten Pinioned Prisoners with his Own Hand.”

“The whole Pedigree of the King of Kandidee, with that of his famous

horse, Znorto.”

And Tarantula books:—

“Sour Milk for the Young, by a Dairyman.”

“The Devil adrift, by a Corsair.”

“Grunts and Groans, by a Mad Boar.”

“Stings, by a Scorpion.”

And poetical productions:—

“Suffusions of a Lily in a Shower.”

“Sonnet on the last Breath of an Ephemera.”

“The Gad-fly, and Other Poems.”

And metaphysical treatises:—

“Necessitarian not Predestinarian.”

“Philosophical Necessity and Predestination One Thing and The Same.”

“Whatever is not, is.”

“Whatever is, is not.”

And scarce old memoirs:—

“The One Hundred Books of the Biography of the Great and Good King

Grandissimo.”

“The Life of old Philo, the Philanthropist, in one Chapter.”

And popular literature:—

“A most Sweet, Pleasant, and Unctuous Account of the Manner in which

Five-and-Forty Robbers were torn asunder by Swiftly-Going Canoes.”

And books by chiefs and nobles:—

“The Art of Making a Noise in Mardi.”

“On the Proper Manner of Saluting a Bosom Friend.”

“Letters from a Father to a Son, inculcating the Virtue of Vice.”

“Pastorals by a Younger Son.”

“A Catalogue of Chieftains who have been Authors, by a Chieftain, who

disdains to be deemed an Author.”

“A Canto on a Cough caught by my Consort.”

“The Philosophy of Honesty, by a late Lord, who died in disgrace.”

And theological works:—

“Pepper for the Perverse.”

“Pudding for the Pious.”

“Pleas for Pardon.”

“Pickles for the Persecuted.”

And long and tedious romances with short and easy titles:—

“The Buck.”

“The Belle.”

“The King and the Cook, or the Cook and the King.”

And books of voyages:—

“A Sojourn among the Anthropophagi, by One whose Hand was eaten off at

Tiffin among the Savages.”

“Franko: its King, Court, and Tadpoles.”

“Three Hours in Vivenza, containing a Full and Impartial Account of

that Whole Country: by a Subject of King Bello.”

And works of nautical poets:—

“Sky-Sail-Pole Lyrics.”

And divers brief books, with panic-striking titles:—

“Are you safe?”

“A Voice from Below.”

“Hope for none.”

“Fire for all.”

And pamphlets by retired warriors:—

“On the Best Gravy for Wild Boar’s Meat.”

“Three Receipts for Bottling New Arrack.”

“To Brown Bread Fruit without Burning.”

“Advice to the Dyspeptic.”

“On Starch for Tappa.”

All these MSS. were highly prized by Oh-Oh. He averred, that they spoke

of the mighty past, which he reverenced more than the paltry present,

the dross and sediment of what had been.

Peering into a dark crypt, Babbalanja drew forth a few crumbling,

illegible, black-letter sheets of his favorite old essayist, brave

Bardianna. They seemed to have formed parts of a work, whose title only

remained—“Thoughts, by a Thinker.”

Silently Babbalanja pressed them to his heart. Then at arm’s length

held them, and said, “And is all this wisdom lost? Can not the divine

cunning in thee, Bardianna, transmute to brightness these sullied

pages? Here, perhaps, thou didst dive into the deeps of things,

treating of the normal forms of matter and of mind; how the particles

of solids were first molded in the interstices of fluids; how the

thoughts of men are each a soul, as the lung-cells are each a lung; how

that death is but a mode of life; while mid-most is the Pharzi.— But

all is faded. Yea, here the Thinker’s thoughts lie cheek by jowl with

phrasemen’s words. Oh Bardianna! these pages were offspring of thee,

thought of thy thought, soul of thy soul. Instinct with mind, they once

spoke out like living voices; now, they’re dust; and would not prick a

fool to action. Whence then is this? If the fogs of some few years can

make soul linked to matter naught; how can the unhoused spirit hope to

live when mildewed with the damps of death.”

Piously he folded the shreds of manuscript together, kissed them, and

laid them down.

Then approaching Oh-Oh, he besought him for one leaf, one shred of

those most precious pages, in memory of Bardianna, and for the love of

him.

But learning who he was, one of that old Ponderer’s commentators, Oh-Oh

tottered toward the manuscripts; with trembling fingers told them over,

one by one, and said—“Thank Oro! all are here.—Philosopher, ask me for

my limbs, my life, my heart, but ask me not for these. Steeped in wax,

these shall be my cerements.”

All in vain; Oh-Oh was an antiquary.

Turning in despair, Babbalanja spied a heap of worm-eaten parchment

covers, and many clippings and parings. And whereas the rolls of

manuscripts did smell like unto old cheese; so these relics did

marvelously resemble the rinds of the same.

Turning over this pile, Babbalanja lighted upon something that restored

his good humor. Long he looked it over delighted; but bethinking him,

that he must have dragged to day some lost work of the collection, and

much desirous of possessing it, he made bold again to ply Oh-Oh;

offering a tempting price for his discovery.

Glancing at the title—“A Happy Life”—the old man cried—“Oh, rubbish!

rubbish! take it for nothing.” And Babbalanja placed it in his

vestment.

The catacombs surveyed, and day-light gained, we inquired the way to

Ji-Ji’s, also a collector, but of another sort; one miserly in the

matter of teeth, the money of Mardi.

At the mention of his name, Oh-Oh flew out into scornful philippics

upon the insanity of that old dotard, who hoarded up teeth, as if teeth

were of any use, but to purchase rarities. Nevertheless, he pointed out

our path; following which, we crossed a meadow.

CHAPTER XX.

Babbalanja Quotes From An Antique Pagan; And Earnestly Presses It Upon

The Company, That What He Recites Is Not His But Another’s

Journeying on, we stopped by a gurgling spring, in a beautiful grove;

and here, we stretched out on the grass, and our attendants unpacked

their hampers, to provide us a lunch.

But as for that Babbalanja of ours, he must needs go and lunch by

himself, and, like a cannibal, feed upon an author; though in other

respects he was not so partial to bones.

Bringing forth the treasure he had buried in his bosom, he was soon

buried in it; and motionless on his back, looked as if laid out, to

keep an appointment with his undertaker.

“What, ho! Babbalanja!” cried Media from under a tree, “don’t be a

duck, there, with your bill in the air; drop your metaphysics, man, and

fall to on the solids. Do you hear?”

“Come, philosopher,” said Mohi, handling a banana, “you will weigh more

after you have eaten.”

“Come, list, Babbalanja,” cried Yoomy, “I am going to sing.”

“Up! up! I say,” shouted Media again. “But go, old man, and wake him:

rap on his head, and see whether he be in.”

Mohi, obeying, found him at home; and Babbalanja started up.

“In Oro’s name, what ails you, philosopher? See you Paradise, that you

look so wildly?”

“A Happy Life! a Happy Life!” cried Babbalanja, in an ecstasy. “My

lord, I am lost in the dream of it, as here recorded. Marvelous book!

its goodness transports me. Let me read:—‘I would bear the same mind,

whether I be rich or poor, whether I get or lose in the world. I will

reckon benefits well placed as the fairest part of my possession, not

valuing them by number or weight, but by the profit and esteem of the

receiver; accounting myself never the poorer for any thing I give. What

I do shall be done for conscience, not ostentation. I will eat and

drink, not to gratify my palate, but to satisfy nature. I will be

cheerful to my friends, mild and placable to my enemies. I will prevent

an honest request, if I can foresee it; and I will grant it, without

asking. I will look upon the whole world as my country; and upon Oro,

both as the witness and the judge of my words and my deeds. I will live

and die with this testimony: that I loved a good conscience; that I

never invaded another man’s liberty; and that I preserved my own. I

will govern my life and my thoughts, as if the whole world were to see

the one, and to read the other; for what does it signify, to make any

thing a secret to my neighbor, when to Oro all our privacies are

open.’”

“Very fine,” said Media.

“The very spirit of the first followers of Alma, as recorded in the

legends,” said Mohi.

“Inimitable,” said Yoomy.

Said Babbalanja, “Listen again:—‘Righteousness is sociable and gentle;

free, steady, and fearless; full of inexhaustible delights.’ And here

again, and here, and here:—The true felicity of life is to understand

our duty to Oro.’—‘True joy is a serene and sober motion.’ And here,

and here,—my lord, ’tis hard quoting from this book;—but listen—‘A

peaceful conscience, honest thoughts, and righteous actions are

blessings without end, satiety, or measure. The poor man wants many

things; the covetous man, all. It is not enough to know Oro, unless we

obey him.’”

“Alma all over,” cried Mohi; “sure, you read from his sayings?”

“I read but odd sentences from one, who though he lived ages ago, never

saw, scarcely heard of Alma. And mark me, my lord, this time I

improvise nothing. What I have recited, Is here. Mohi, this book is

more marvelous than the prophecies. My lord, that a mere man, and a

heathen, in that most heathenish time, should give utterance to such

heavenly wisdom, seems more wonderful than that an inspired prophet

should reveal it. And is it not more divine in this philosopher, to

love righteousness for its own sake, and in view of annihilation, than

for pious sages to extol it as the means of everlasting felicity?”

“Alas,” sighed Yoomy, “and does he not promise us any good thing, when

we are dead?”

“He speaks not by authority. He but woos us to goodness and happiness

here.”

“Then, Babbalanja,” said Media, “keep your treasure to yourself.

Without authority, and a full right hand, Righteousness better be

silent. Mardi’s religion must seem to come direct from Oro, and the

mass of you mortals endeavor it not, except for a consideration,

present or to come.”

“And call you that righteousness, my lord, which is but the price paid

down for something else?”

“I called it not righteousness; it is religion so called. But let us

prate no more of these things; with which I, a demi-god, have but

little in common. It ever impairs my digestion. No more, Babbalanja.”

“My lord! my lord! out of itself, Religion has nothing to bestow. Nor

will she save us from aught, but from the evil in ourselves. Her one

grand end is to make us wise; her only manifestations are reverence to

Oro and love to man; her only, but ample reward, herself. He who has

this, has all. He who has this, whether he kneel to an image of wood,

calling it Oro; or to an image of air, calling it the same; whether he

fasts or feasts; laughs or weeps;—that man can be no richer. And this

religion, faith, virtue, righteousness, good, whate’er you will, I find

in this book I hold. No written page can teach me more.”

“Have you that, then, of which you speak, Babbalanja? Are you content,

there where you stand?”