“My lord, you drive me home. I am not content. The mystery of mysteries

is still a mystery. How this author came to be so wise, perplexes me.

How he led the life he did, confounds me. Oh, my lord, I am in

darkness, and no broad blaze comes down to flood me. The rays that come

to me are but faint cross lights, mazing the obscurity wherein I live.

And after all, excellent as it is, I can be no gainer by this book. For

the more we learn, the more we unlearn; we accumulate not, but

substitute; and take away, more than we add. We dwindle while we grow;

we sally out for wisdom, and retreat beyond the point whence we

started; we essay the Fondiza, and get but the Phe. Of all simpletons,

the simplest! Oh! that I were another sort of fool than I am, that I

might restore my good opinion of myself. Continually I stand in the

pillory, am broken on the wheel, and dragged asunder by wild horses.

Yes, yes, Bardianna, all is in a nut, as thou sayest; but all my back

teeth can not crack it; I but crack my own jaws. All round me, my

fellow men are new-grafting their vines, and dwelling in flourishing

arbors; while I am forever pruning mine, till it is become but a stump.

Yet in this pruning will I persist; I will not add, I will diminish; I

will train myself down to the standard of what is unchangeably true.

Day by day I drop off my redundancies; ere long I shall have stripped

my ribs; when I die, they will but bury my spine. Ah! where, where,

where, my lord, is the everlasting Tekana? Tell me, Mohi, where the

Ephina? I may have come to the Penultimate, but where, sweet Yoomy, is

the Ultimate? Ah, companions! I faint, I am wordless:- -something,

nothing, riddles,—does Mardi hold her?”

“He swoons!” cried Yoomy.

“Water! water!” cried Media.

“Away:” said Babbalanja serenely, “I revive.”

CHAPTER XXI.

They Visit A Wealthy Old Pauper

Continuing our route to Jiji’s, we presently came to a miserable hovel.

Half projecting from the low, open entrance, was a bald overgrown head,

intent upon an upright row of dark-colored bags:— pelican

pouches—prepared by dropping a stone within, and suspending them, when

moist.

Ever and anon, the great head shook with a tremulous motion, as one by

one, to a clicking sound from the old man’s mouth, the strings of teeth

were slowly drawn forth, and let fall, again and again, with a rattle.

But perceiving our approach, the old miser suddenly swooped his pouches

out of sight; and, like a turtle into its shell, retreated into his

den. But soon he decrepitly emerged upon his knees, asking what brought

us thither?—to steal the teeth, which lying rumor averred he possessed

in abundance? And opening his mouth, he averred he had none; not even a

sentry in his head.

But Babbalanja declared, that long since he must have drawn his own

dentals, and bagged them with the rest.

Now this miserable old miser must have been idiotic; for soon

forgetting what he had but just told us of his utter toothlessness, he

was so smitten with the pearly mouth of Hohora, one of our attendants

(the same for whose pearls, little King Peepi had taken such a fancy),

that he made the following overture to purchase its contents: namely:

one tooth of the buyer’s, for every three of the seller’s. A

proposition promptly rejected, as involving a mercantile absurdity.

“Why?” said Babbalanja. “Doubtless, because that proposed to be given,

is less than that proposed to be received. Yet, says a philosopher,

this is the very principle which regulates all barterings. For where

the sense of a simple exchange of quantities, alike in value?”

“Where, indeed?” said Hohora with open eyes, “though I never heard it

before, that’s a staggering question. I beseech you, who was the sage

that asked it?”

“Vivo, the Sophist,” said Babbalanja, turning aside.

In the hearing of Jiji, allusion was made to Oh-Oh, as a neighbor of

his. Whereupon he vented much slavering opprobrium upon that miserable

old hump-back; who accumulated useless monstrosities; throwing away the

precious teeth, which otherwise might have sensibly rattled in his own

pelican pouches.

When we quitted the hovel, Jiji, marking little Vee-Vee, from whose

shoulder hung a calabash of edibles, seized the hem of his garment and

besought him for one mouthful of food; for nothing had he tasted that

day.

The boy tossed him a yam.

CHAPTER XXII.

Yoomy Sings Some Odd Verses, And Babbalanja Quotes From The Old Authors

Right And Left

Sailing from Padulla, after many pleasant things had been said

concerning the sights there beheld; Babbalanja thus addressed Yoomy—

“Warbler, the last song you sung was about moonlight, and paradise, and

fabulous pleasures evermore: now, have you any hymns about earthly

felicity?”

“If so, minstrel,” said Media, “jet it forth, my fountain, forthwith.”

“Just now, my lord,” replied Yoomy, “I was singing to myself, as I

often do, and by your leave, I will continue aloud.”

“Better begin at the beginning, I should think,” said the chronicler,

both hands to his chin, beginning at the top to new braid his beard.

“No: like the roots of your beard, old Mohi, all beginnings are stiff,”

cried Babbalanja. “We are lucky in living midway in eternity. So sing

away, Yoomy, where you left off,” and thus saying he unloosed his

girdle for the song, as Apicius would for a banquet.

“Shall I continue aloud, then, my lord?”

My lord nodded, and Yoomy sang:—

“Full round, full soft, her dewy arms,—

Sweet shelter from all Mardi’s harms!”

“Whose arms?” cried Mohi.

Sang Yoomy:—

Diving deep in the sea,

She takes sunshine along:

Down flames in the sea,

As of dolphins a throng.

“What mermaid is this?” cried Mohi.

Sang Yoomy:—

Her foot, a falling sound,

That all day long might bound.

Over the beach,

The soft sand beach,

And none would find

A trace behind.

“And why not?” demanded Media, “why could no trace be found?”

Said Braid-Beard, “Perhaps owing, my lord, to the flatness of the

mermaid’s foot. But no; that can not be; for mermaids are all vertebrae

below the waist.”

“Your fragment is pretty good, I dare say, Yoomy,” observed Media, “but

as Braid-Beard hints, rather flat.”

“Flat as the foot of a man with his mind made up,” cried Braid-Beard.

“Yoomy, did you sup on flounders last night?”

But Yoomy vouchsafed no reply, he was ten thousand leagues off in a

reverie: somewhere in the Hyades perhaps.

Conversation proceeding, Braid-Beard happened to make allusion to one

Rotato, a portly personage, who, though a sagacious philosopher, and

very ambitious to be celebrated as such, was only famous in Mardi as

the fattest man of his tribe.

Said Media, “Then, Mohi, Rotato could not pick a quarrel with Fame,

since she did not belie him. Fat he was, and fat she published him.”

“Right, my lord,” said Babbalanja, “for Fame is not always so honest.

Not seldom to be famous, is to be widely known for what you are not,

says Alla-Malolla. Whence it comes, as old Bardianna has it, that for

years a man may move unnoticed among his fellows; but all at once, by

some chance attitude, foreign to his habit, become a trumpet-full for

fools; though, in himself, the same as ever. Nor has he shown himself

yet; for the entire merit of a man can never be made known; nor the sum

of his demerits, if he have them. We are only known by our names; as

letters sealed up, we but read each other’s superscriptions.

“So with the commonalty of us Mardians. How then with those beings who

every way are but too apt to be riddles. In many points the works of

our great poet Vavona, now dead a thousand moons, still remain a

mystery. Some call him a mystic; but wherein he seems obscure, it is,

perhaps, we that are in fault; not by premeditation spoke he those

archangel thoughts, which made many declare, that Vavona, after all,

was but a crack-pated god, not a mortal of sound mind. But had he been

less, my lord, he had seemed more. Saith Fulvi, ‘Of the highest order

of genius, it may be truly asserted, that to gain the reputation of

superior power, it must partially disguise itself; it must come down,

and then it will be applauded for soaring.’ And furthermore, that there

are those who falter in the common tongue, because they think in

another; and these are accounted stutterers and stammerers.’”

“Ah! how true!” cried the Warbler.

“And what says the archangel Vavona, Yoomy, in that wonderful drama of

his, ‘The Souls of the Sages?’—‘Beyond most barren hills, there are

landscapes ravishing; with but one eye to behold; which no pencil can

portray.’ What wonder then, my lord, that Mardi itself is so blind.

‘Mardi is a monster,’ says old Bardianna, ‘whose eyes are fixed in its

head, like a whale’s; it can see but two ways, and those comprising but

a small arc of a perfect vision. Poets, heroes, and men of might, are

all around this monster Mardi. But stand before me on stilts, or I will

behold you not, says the monster; brush back your hair; inhale the wind

largely; lucky are all men with dome-like foreheads; luckless those

with pippin-heads; loud lungs are a blessing; a lion is no lion that

can not roar.’ Says Aldina, ‘There are those looking on, who know

themselves to be swifter of foot than the racers, but are confounded

with the simpletons that stare.’”

“The mere carping of a disappointed cripple,” cried Mold. His

biographer states, that Aldina had only one leg.”

“Braid-Beard, you are witty,” said Babbbalanja, adjusting his robe. “My

lord, there are heroes without armies, who hear martial music in their

souls.”

“Why not blow their trumpets louder, then,” cried Media, that all Mardi

may hear?”

“My lord Media, too, is witty, Babbalanja,” said Mohi.

Breathed Yoomy, “There are birds of divinest plumage, and most glorious

song, yet singing their lyrics to themselves.”

Said Media, “The lark soars high, cares for no auditor, yet its sweet

notes are heard here below. It sings, too, in company with myriads of

mates. Your soliloquists, Yoomy, are mostly herons and owls.”

Said Babbalanja, “Very clever, my lord; but think you not, there are

men eloquent, who never babble in the marketplace?”

“Ay, and arrant babblers at home. In few words, Babbalanja, you espouse

a bad cause. Most of you mortals are peacocks; some having tails, and

some not; those who have them will be sure to thrust their plumes in

your face; for the rest, they will display their bald cruppers, and

still screech for admiration. But when a great genius is born into

Mardi, he nods, and is known.”

“More wit, but, with deference, perhaps less truth, my lord. Say what

you will, Fame is an accident; merit a thing absolute. But what matter?

Of what available value reputation, unless wedded to power, dentals, or

place? To those who render him applause, a poet’s may seem a thing

tangible; but to the recipient, ’tis a fantasy; the poet never so

stretches his imagination, as when striving to comprehend what it is;

often, he is famous without knowing it.”

“At the sacred games of Lazella,” said Yoomy, “slyly crowned from

behind with a laurel fillet, for many hours, the minstrel Jarmi

wandered about ignorant of the honors he bore. But enlightened at last,

he doffed the wreath; then, holding it at arm’s length, sighed

forth—Oh, ye laurels! to be visible to me, ye must be removed from my

brow!”

“And what said Botargo,” cried Babbalanja, “hearing that his poems had

been translated into the language of the remote island of Bertranda?—

‘It stirs me little; already, in merry fancies, have I dreamed of their

being trilled by the blessed houris in paradise; I can only imagine the

same of the damsels of Bertranda.’ Says Boldo, the

Materialist,—‘Substances alone are satisfactory.’”

“And so thought the mercenary poet, Zenzi,” said Yoomy. “Upon receiving

fourteen ripe yams for a sonnet, one for every line, he said to me,

Yoomy, I shall make a better meal upon these, than upon so many

compliments.”

“Ay,” cried Babbalanja, “‘Bravos,’ saith old Bardianna, but induce

flatulency.’”

Said Media, “And do you famous mortals, then, take no pleasure in

hearing your bravos?”

“Much, my good lord; at least such famous mortals, so enamored of a

clamorous notoriety, as to bravo for themselves, when none else will

huzza; whose whole existence is an unintermitting consciousness of

self; whose very persons stand erect and self-sufficient as their

infallible index, the capital letter I; who relish and comprehend no

reputation but what attaches to the carcass; who would as lief be

renowned for a splendid mustache, as for a splendid drama: who know not

how it was that a personage, to posterity so universally celebrated as

the poet Vavona, ever passed through the crowd unobserved; who deride

the very thunder for making such a noise in Mardi, and yet disdain to

manifest itself to the eye.”

“Wax not so warm, Babbalanja; but tell us, if to his contemporaries

Vavona’s person was almost unknown, what satisfaction did he derive

from his genius?”

“Had he not its consciousness?—an empire boundless as the West. What to

him were huzzas? Why, my lord, from his privacy, the great and good

Logodora sent liniment to the hoarse throats without. But what said

Bardianna, when they dunned him for autographs?—‘Who keeps the register

of great men? who decides upon noble actions? and how long may ink

last? Alas! Fame has dropped more rolls than she displays; and there

are more lost chronicles, than the perished books of the historian

Livella.’ But what is lost forever, my lord, is nothing to what is now

unseen. There are more treasures in the bowels of the earth, than on

its surface.”

“Ah! no gold,” cried Yoomy, “but that comes from dark mines.”

Said Babbalanja, “Bear witness, ye gods! cries fervent old Bardianna,

that besides disclosures of good and evil undreamed of now, there will

be other, and more astounding revelations hereafter, of what has passed

in Mardi unbeheld.”

“A truce to your everlasting pratings of old Bardianna,” said King

Media; why not speak your own thoughts, Babbalanja? then would your

discourse possess more completeness; whereas, its warp and woof are of

all sorts,—Bardianna, Alla-Malolla, Vavona, and all the writers that

ever have written. Speak for yourself, mortal!”

“May you not possibly mistake, my lord? for I do not so much quote

Bardianna, as Bardianna quoted me, though he flourished before me; and

no vanity, but honesty to say so. The catalogue of true thoughts is but

small; they are ubiquitous; no man’s property; and unspoken, or

bruited, are the same. When we hear them, why seem they so natural,

receiving our spontaneous approval? why do we think we have heard them

before? Because they but reiterate ourselves; they were in us, before

we were born. The truest poets are but mouth-pieces; and some men are

duplicates of each other; I see myself in Bardianna.”

“And there, for Oro’s sake, let it rest, Babbalanja; Bardianna in you,

and you in Bardianna forever!”

CHAPTER XXIII.

What Manner Of Men The Tapparians Were

The canoes sailed on. But we leave them awhile. For our visit to Jiji,

the last visit we made, suggests some further revelations concerning

the dental money of Mardi.

Ere this, it should have been mentioned, that throughout the

Archipelago, there was a restriction concerning incisors and molars, as

ornaments for the person; none but great chiefs, brave warriors, and

men distinguished by rare intellectual endowments, orators, romancers,

philosophers, and poets, being permitted to sport them as jewels.

Though, as it happened, among the poets there were many who had never a

tooth, save those employed at their repasts; which, coming but seldom,

their teeth almost corroded in their mouths. Hence, in commerce, poets’

teeth were at a discount.

For these reasons, then, many mortals blent with the promiscuous mob of

Mardians, who, by any means, accumulated teeth, were fain to assert

their dental claims to distinction, by clumsily carrying their

treasures in pelican pouches slung over their shoulders; which pouches

were a huge burden to carry about, and defend. Though, in good truth,

from any of these porters, it was harder to wrench his pouches, than

his limbs. It was also a curious circumstance that at the slightest

casual touch, these bags seemed to convey a simultaneous thrill to the

owners.

Besides these porters, there were others, who exchanged their teeth for

richly stained calabashes, elaborately carved canoes, and more

especially, for costly robes, and turbans; in which last, many outshone

the noblest-born nobles. Nevertheless, this answered not the end they

had in view; some of the crowd only admiring what they wore, and not

them; breaking out into laudation of the inimitable handiwork of the

artisans of Mardi.

And strange to relate, these artisans themselves often came to be men

of teeth and turbans, sporting their bravery with the best. A

circumstance, which accounted for the fact, that many of the class

above alluded to, were considered capital judges of tappa and

tailoring.

Hence, as a general designation, the whole tribe went by the name of

Tapparians; otherwise, Men of Tappa.

Now, many moons ago, according to Braid-Beard, the Tapparians of a

certain cluster of islands, seeing themselves hopelessly confounded

with the plebeian race of mortals; such as artificers, honest men,

bread-fruit bakers, and the like; seeing, in short, that nature had

denied them every inborn mark of distinction; and furthermore, that

their external assumptions were derided by so many in Mardi, these

selfsame Tapparians, poor devils, resolved to secede from the rabble;

form themselves into a community of their own; and conventionally pay

that homage to each other, which universal Mardi could not be prevailed

upon to render to them.

Jointly, they purchased an island, called Pimminee, toward the extreme

west of the lagoon; and thither they went; and framing a code of laws-

-amazingly arbitrary, considering they themselves were the framers—

solemnly took the oath of allegiance to the commonwealth thus

established. Regarded section by section, this code of laws seemed

exceedingly trivial; but taken together, made a somewhat imposing

aggregation of particles.

By this code, the minutest things in life were all ordered after a

specific fashion. More especially one’s dress was legislated upon, to

the last warp and woof. All girdles must be so many inches in length,

and with such a number of tassels in front. For a violation of this

ordinance, before the face of all Mardi, the most dutiful of sons would

cut the most affectionate of fathers.

Now, though like all Mardi, kings and slaves included, the people of

Pimminee had dead dust for grandsires, they seldom reverted to that

fact; for, like all founders of families, they had no family vaults.

Nor were they much encumbered by living connections; connections, some

of them appeared to have none. Like poor Logan the last of his tribe,

they seemed to have monopolized the blood of their race, having never a

cousin to own.

Wherefore it was, that many ignorant Mardians, who had not pushed their

investigations into the science of physiology, sagely divined, that the

Tapparians must have podded into life like peas, instead of being

otherwise indebted for their existence. Certain it is, they had a

comical way of backing up their social pretensions. When the

respectability of his clan was mooted, Paivai, one of their bucks,

disdained all reference to the Dooms-day Book, and the ancients. More

reliable evidence was had. He referred the anxious world to a witness,

still alive and hearty,—his contemporary tailor; the varlet who cut out

his tappa doublets, and rejoiced his soul with good fits.

“Ah!” sighed Babbalanja, “how it quenches in one the thought of

immortality, to think that these Tapparians too, will hereafter claim

each a niche!”

But we rove. Our visit to Pimminee itself, will best make known the

ways of its denizens.

CHAPTER XXIV.

Their Adventures Upon Landing At Pimminee

A long sail over, the island of Pimminee came in sight; one dead fiat,

wreathed in a thin, insipid vapor.

“My lord, why land?” said Babbalanja; “no Yillah is here.”

“’Tis my humor, Babbalanja.”

Said Yoomy, “Taji would leave no isle unexplored.”

As we neared the beach, the atmosphere became still closer and more

languid. Much did we miss the refreshing balm which breathed in the

fine breezy air of the open lagoon. Of a slender and sickly growth

seemed the trees; in the meadows, the grass grew small and mincing.

Said Media, “Taji, from the accounts which Braid-Beard gives, there

must be much to amuse, in the ways of these Tapparians.”

“Yes,” said Babbalanja, “their lives are a continual farce,

gratuitously performed for the diversion of Mardi. My lord, perhaps we

had best doff our dignity, and land among them as persons of lowly

condition; for then, we shall receive more diversion, though less

hospitality.”

“A good proposition,” said Media.

And so saying, he put off his robe for one less pretentious.

All followed suit; Yoomy doffing turban and sash; and, at last,

completely metamorphosed, we looked like Hungarian gipsies.

Voyaging on, we entered a bay, where numbers of menials were standing

in the water, engaged in washing the carved work of certain fantastic

canoes, belonging to the Tapparians, their masters.

Landing at some distance, we followed a path that soon conducted us to

a betwisted dwelling of bamboos, where, gently, we knocked for

admittance. So doing, we were accosted by a servitor, his portliness

all in his calves. Marking our appearance, he monopolized the

threshold, and gruffly demanded what was wanted.

“Strangers, kind sir, fatigued with travel, and in need of refreshment

and repose.”

“Then hence with ye, vagabonds!” and with an emphasis, he closed the

portal in our face.

Said Babbalanja, turning, “You perceive, my lord Media, that these

varlets take after their masters; who feed none but the well-fed, and

house none but the well-housed.”

“Faith! but they furnish most rare entertainment, nevertheless,” cried

Media. “Ha! ha! Taji, we had missed much, had we missed Pimminee.”

As this was said, we observed, at a distance, three menials running

from seaward, as if conveying important intelligence.

Halting here and there, vainly seeking admittance at other habitations,

and receiving nothing but taunts for our pains, we still wandered on;

and at last came upon a village, toward which, those from the sea-side

had been running.

And now, to our surprise, we were accosted by an eager and servile

throng.

“Obsequious varlets,” said Media, “where tarry your masters?”

“Right royal, and thrice worshipful Lord of Odo, do you take us for our

domestics? We are Tapparians, may it please your illustrious Highness;

your most humble and obedient servants. We beseech you, supereminent

Sir, condescend to visit our habitations, and partake of our cheer.”

Then turning upon their attendants, “Away with ye, hounds! and set our

dwellings in order.”

“How know ye me to be king?” asked Media.

“Is it not in your serene Highness’s regal port, and eye?”

“’Twas their menials,” muttered Mohi, “who from the paddlers in charge

of our canoes must have learned who my lord was, and published the

tidings.”

After some further speech, Media made a social surrender of himself to

the foremost of the Tapparians, one Nimni; who, conducting us to his

abode, with much deference introduced us to a portly old Begum, and

three slender damsels; his wife and daughters.

Soon, refreshments appeared:—green and yellow compounds, and divers

enigmatical dainties; besides vegetable liqueurs of a strange and

alarming flavor served in fragile little leaves, folded into cups, and

very troublesome to handle.

Excessively thirsty, Babbalanja made bold to inquire for water; which

called forth a burst of horror from the old Begum, and minor shrieks

from her daughters; who declared, that the beverage to which remote

reference had been made, was far too widely diffused in Mardi, to be at

all esteemed in Pimminee.

“But though we seldom imbibe it,” said the old Begum, ceremoniously

adjusting her necklace of cowrie-shells, “we occasionally employ it for

medicinal purposes.”

“Ah, indeed?” said Babbalanja.

“But oh! believe me; even then, we imbibe not the ordinary fluid of the

springs and streams; but that which in afternoon showers softly drains

from our palm-trees into the little hollow or miniature reservoir

beneath its compacted roots.”

A goblet of this beverage was now handed Babbalanja; but having a

curious, gummy flavor, it proved any thing but palatable.

Presently, in came a company of young men, relatives of Nimni. They

were slender as sky-sail-poles; standing in a row, resembled a

picket-fence; and were surmounted by enormous heads of hair, combed out

all round, variously dyed, and evened by being singed with a lighted

wisp of straw. Like milliners’ parcels, they were very neatly done up;

wearing redolent robes.

“How like the woodlands they smell,” whispered Yoomy. “Ay, marvelously

like sap,” said Mohi.

One part of their garniture consisted of numerous tasseled cords, like

those of an aigulette, depending from the neck, and attached here and

there about the person. A separate one, at a distance, united their

ankles. These served to measure and graduate their movements; keeping

their gestures, paces, and attitudes, within the prescribed standard of

Tapparian gentility. When they went abroad, they were preceded by

certain footmen; who placed before them small, carved boards, whereon

their masters stepped; thus avoiding contact with the earth. The simple

device of a shoe, as a fixture for the foot, was unknown in Pimminee.

Being told, that Taji was lately from the sun, they manifested not the

slightest surprise; one of them incidentally observing, however, that

the eclipses there, must be a sad bore to endure.

CHAPTER XXV.

A, I, AND O

The old Begum went by the euphonious appellation of

Ohiro-Moldona-Fivona; a name, from its length, deemed highly genteel;

though scandal averred, that it was nothing more than her real name

transposed; the appellation by which she had been formerly known,

signifying a “Getterup-of-Fine-Tappa.” But as this would have let out

an ancient secret, it was thought wise to disguise it.

Her daughters respectively reveled in the pretty diminutives of A, I,

and O; which, from their brevity, comical to tell, were considered

equally genteel with the dame’s.

The habiliments of the three Vowels must not be omitted. Each damsel

garrisoned an ample, circular farthingale of canes, serving as the

frame-work, whereon to display a gayly dyed robe. Perhaps their charms

intrenched themselves in these impregnable petticoats, as feeble armies

fly to fortresses, to hide their weakness, and better resist an onset.

But polite and politic it is, to propitiate your hostess. So seating

himself by the Begum, Taji led off with earnest inquiries after her

welfare. But the Begum was one of those, who relieve the diffident from

the embarrassment of talking; all by themselves carrying on

conversation for two. Hence, no wonder that my Lady was esteemed

invaluable at all assemblies in the groves of Pimminee; contributing so

largely to that incessant din, which is held the best test of the

enjoyment of the company, as making them deaf to the general nonsense,

otherwise audible.

Learning that Taji had been making the tour of certain islands in

Mardi, the Begum was surprised that he could have thus hazarded his

life among the barbarians of the East. She desired to know whether his

constitution was not impaired by inhaling the unrefined atmosphere of

those remote and barbarous regions. For her part, the mere thought of

it made her faint in her innermost citadel; nor went she ever abroad

with the wind at East, dreading the contagion which might lurk in the

air.

Upon accosting the three damsels, Taji very soon discovered that the

tongue which had languished in the presence of the Begum, was now

called into active requisition, to entertain the Polysyllables, her

daughters. So assiduously were they occupied in silent endeavors to

look sentimental and pretty, that it proved no easy task to sustain

with them an ordinary chat. In this dilemma, Taji diffused not his

remarks among all three; but discreetly centered them upon O. Thinking

she might be curious concerning the sun, he made some remote allusion

to that luminary as the place of his nativity. Upon which, O inquired

where that country was, of which mention was made.

“Some distance from here; in the air above; the sun that gives light to

Pimminee, and Mardi at large.”

She replied, that if that were the case, she had never beheld it; for

such was the construction of her farthingale, that her head could not

be thrown back, without impairing its set. Wherefore, she had always

abstained from astronomical investigations.

Hereupon, rude Mohi laughed out. And that lucky laugh happily relieved

Taji from all further necessity of entertaining the Vowels. For at so

vulgar, and in Pimminee, so unwonted a sound, as a genuine laugh, the

three startled nymphs fainted away in a row, their round farthingales

falling over upon each other, like a file of empty tierces. But they

presently revived.

Meanwhile, without stirring from their mats, the polite young bucks in

the aigulettes did nothing but hold semi-transparent leaves to their

eyes, by the stems; which leaves they directed downward, toward the

disordered hems of the farthingales; in wait, perhaps, for the

revelation of an ankle, and its accompaniments. What the precise use of

these leaves could have been, it would be hard to say, especially as

the observers invariably peeped over and under them.

The calamity of the Vowels was soon followed by the breaking up of the

party; when, evening coming on, and feeling much wearied with the labor

of seeing company in Pimminee, we retired to our mats; there finding

that repose which ever awaits the fatigued.

CHAPTER XXVI.

A Reception-Day At Pimminee

Next morning, Nimni apprized us, that throughout the day he proposed

keeping open house, for the purpose of enabling us to behold whatever

of beauty, rank, and fashion, Pimminee could boast; including certain

strangers of note from various quarters of the lagoon, who doubtless

would honor themselves with a call.

As inmates of the mansion, we unexpectedly had a rare opportunity of

witnessing the final toilets of the Begum and her daughters,

preparatory to receiving their guests.

Their four farthingales were placed standing in the middle of the

dwelling; when their future inmates, arrayed in rudimental vestments,

went round and round them, attaching various articles of finery, dyed

scarfs, ivory trinkets, and other decorations. Upon the propriety of

this or that adornment, the three Vowels now and then pondered apart,

or together consulted. They talked and they laughed; they were silent

and sad; now merry at their bravery; now pensive at the thought of the

charms to be hidden.

It was O who presently suggested the expediency of an artful fold in

their draperies, by the merest accident in Mardi, to reveal a

tantalizing glimpse of their ankles, which were thought to be pretty.

But the old Begum was more active than any; by far the most

disinterested in the matter of advice. Her great object seemed to be to

pile on the finery at all hazards; and she pointed out many as yet

vacant and unappropriated spaces, highly susceptible of adornment.

At last, all was in readiness; when, taking a valedictory glance, at

their intrenchments, the Begum and damsels simultaneously dipped their

heads, directly after emerging from the summit, all ready for

execution.

And now to describe the general reception that followed. In came the

Roes, the Fees, the Lol-Lols, the Hummee-Hums, the Bidi-Bidies, and the

Dedidums; the Peenees, the Yamoyamees, the Karkies, the Fanfums, the

Diddledees, and the Fiddlefies; in a word, all the aristocracy of

Pimminee; people with exceedingly short names; and some all name, and

nothing else. It was an imposing array of sounds; a circulation of

ciphers; a marshaling of tappas; a getting together of grimaces and

furbelows; a masquerade of vapidities.

Among the crowd was a bustling somebody, one Gaddi, arrayed in much

apparel to little purpose; who, singling out Babbalanja, for some time

adhered to his side, and with excessive complaisance, enlightened him

as to the people assembled.

“_That_ is rich Marmonora, accounted a mighty man in Pimminee; his bags

of teeth included, he is said to weigh upwards of fourteen stone; and

is much sought after by tailors for his measure, being but slender in

the region of the heart. His riches are great. And that old vrow is the

widow Roo; very rich; plenty of teeth; but has none in her head. And

_this_ is Finfi; said to be not very rich, and a maid. Who would

suppose she had ever beat tappa for a living?”

And so saying, Gaddi sauntered off; his place by Babbalanja’s side

being immediately supplied by the damsel Finfi. That vivacious and

amiable nymph at once proceeded to point out the company, where Gaddi

had left off; beginning with Gaddi himself, who, she insinuated, was a

mere parvenu, a terrible infliction upon society, and not near so rich

as he was imagined to be.

Soon we were accosted by one Nonno, a sour, saturnine personage. “I

know nobody here; not a soul have I seen before; I wonder who they all

are.” And just then he was familiarly nodded to by nine worthies

abreast. Whereupon Nonno vanished. But after going the rounds of the

company, and paying court to many, he again sauntered by Babbalanja,

saying, “Nobody, nobody; nobody but nobodies; I see nobody I know.”

Advancing, Nimni now introduced many strangers of distinction, parading

their titles after a fashion, plainly signifying that he was bent upon

convincing us, that there were people present at this little affair of

his, who were men of vast reputation; and that we erred, if we deemed

him unaccustomed to the society of the illustrious.

But not a few of his magnates seemed shy of Media and their laurels.

Especially a tall robustuous fellow, with a terrible javelin in his

hand, much notched and splintered, as if it had dealt many a thrust.

His left arm was gallanted in a sling, and there was a patch upon his

sinister eye. Him Nimni made known as a famous captain, from King

Piko’s island (of which anon) who had been all but mortally wounded

somewhere, in a late desperate though nameless encounter.

“Ah,” said Media as this redoubtable withdrew, Fofi is a cunning knave;

a braggart, driven forth, by King Piko for his cowardice. He has blent

his tattooing into one mass of blue, and thus disguised, must have

palmed himself off here in Pimminee, for the man he is not. But I see

many more like him.”

“Oh ye Tapparians,” said Babbalanja, “none so easily humbugged as

humbugs. Taji: to behold this folly makes one wise. Look, look; it is

all round us. Oh Pimminee, Pimminee!”

CHAPTER XXVII.

Babbalanja Falleth Upon Pimminee Tooth And Nail

The levee over, waiving further civilities, we took courteus leave of

the Begum and Nimni, and proceeding to the beach, very soon were

embarked.

When all were pleasantly seated beneath the canopy, pipes in full

blast, calabashes revolving, and the paddlers quietly urging us along,

Media proposed that, for the benefit of the company, some one present,

in a pithy, whiffy sentence or two, should sum up the character of the

Tapparians; and ended by nominating Babbalanja to that office.

“Come, philosopher: let us see in how few syllables you can put the

brand on those Tapparians.”

“Pardon me, my lord, but you must permit me to ponder awhile; nothing

requires more time, than to be brief. An example: they say that in

conversation old Bardianna dealt in nothing but trisyllabic sentences.

His talk was thunder peals: sounding reports, but long intervals.”

“The devil take old Bardianna. And would that the grave-digger had

buried his Ponderings, along with his other remains. Can none be in

your company, Babbalanja, but you must perforce make them hob-a-nob

with that old prater? A brand for the Tapparians! that is what we

seek.”

“You shall have it, my lord. Full to the brim of themselves, for that

reason, the Tapparians are the emptiest of mortals.”

“A good blow and well planted, Babbalanja.”

“In sooth, a most excellent saying; it should be carved upon his

tombstone,” said Mohi, slowly withdrawing his pipe.

“What! would you have my epitaph read thus:—‘Here lies the emptiest of

mortals, who was full of himself?’ At best, your words are exceedingly

ambiguous, Mohi.”

“Now have I the philosopher,” cried Yoomy, with glee. “What did some

one say to me, not long since, Babbalanja, when in the matter of that

sleepy song of mine, Braid-Beard bestowed upon me an equivocal

compliment? Was I not told to wrest commendation from it, though I

tortured it to the quick?”

“Take thy own pills, philosopher,” said Mohi.

“Then would he be a great original,” said Media.

“Tell me, Yoomy,” said Babbalanja, “are you not in fault? Because I

sometimes speak wisely, you must not imagine that I should always act

so.”

“I never imagined that,” said Yoomy, “and, if I did, the truth would

belie me. It is you who are in fault, Babbalanja; not I, craving your

pardon.”

“The minstrel’s sides are all edges to-day,” said Media.

“This, then, thrice gentle Yoomy, is what I would say;” resumed

Babbalanja, “that since we philosophers bestow so much wisdom upon

others, it is not to be wondered at, if now and then we find what is

left in us too small for our necessities. It is from our very abundance

that we want.”

“And from the fool’s poverty,” said Media, “that he is opulent; for his

very simplicity, is sometimes of more account than the wisdom of the

sage. But we were discoursing of the Tapparians. Babbalanja:

sententiously you have acquitted yourself to admiration; now amplify,

and tell us more of the people of Pimminee.”

“My lord, I might amplify forever.”

“Then, my worshipful lord, let him not begin,” interposed Braid-Beard.

“I mean,” said Babbalanja, “that all subjects are inexhaustible,

however trivial; as the mathematical point, put in motion, is capable

of being produced into an infinite line.”

“But forever extending into nothing,” said Media. “A very bad example

to follow. Do you, Babbalanja, come to the point, and not travel off

with it, which is too much your wont.”

“Since my lord insists upon it then, thus much for the Tapparians,

though but a thought or two of many in reserve. They ignore the rest of

Mardi, while they themselves are but a rumor in the isles of the East;

where the business of living and dying goes on with the same

uniformity, as if there were no Tapparians in existence. They think

themselves Mardi in full; whereas, by the mass, they are stared at as

prodigies; exceptions to the law, ordaining that no Mardian shall

undertake to live, unless he set out with at least the average quantity

of brains. For these Tapparians have no brains. In lieu, they carry in

one corner of their craniums, a drop or two of attar of roses; charily

used, the supply being small. They are the victims of two incurable

maladies: stone in the heart, and ossification of the head. They are

full of fripperies, fopperies, and finesses; knowing not, that nature

should be the model of art. Yet, they might appear less silly than they

do, were they content to be the plain idiots which at bottom they are.

For there be grains of sense in a simpleton, so long as he be natural.

But what can be expected from them? They are irreclaimable Tapparians;

not so much fools by contrivance of their own, as by an express, though

inscrutable decree of Oro’s. For one, my lord, I can not abide them.”

Nor could Taji.

In Pimminee were no hilarious running and shouting: none of the royal

good cheer of old Borabolla; none of the mysteries of Maramma; none of

the sentiment and romance of Donjalolo; no rehearsing of old legends:

no singing of old songs; no life; no jolly commotion: in short, no men

and women; nothing but their integuments; stiff trains and

farthingales.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

Babbalanja Regales The Company With Some Sandwiches

It was night. But the moon was brilliant, far and near illuminating the

lagoon.

Over silvery billows we glided.

“Come Yoomy,” said Media, “moonlight and music for aye—a song! a song!

my bird of paradise.”

And folding his arms, and watching the sparkling waters, thus Yoomy

sang:—

A ray of the moon on the dancing waves

Is the step, light step of that beautiful maid:

Mardi, with music, her footfall paves,

And her voice, no voice, but a song in the glade.

“Hold!” cried Media, “yonder is a curious rock. It looks black as a

whale’s hump in blue water, when the sun shines.”

“That must be the Isle of Fossils,” said Mohi. “Ay, my lord, it is.”

“Let us land, then,” said Babbalanja.

And none dissenting, the canoes were put about, and presently we

debarked.

It was a dome-like surface, here and there fringed with ferns,

sprouting from clefts. But at every tide the thin soil seemed gradually

washing into the lagoon.

Like antique tablets, the smoother parts were molded in strange

devices:—Luxor marks, Tadmor ciphers, Palenque inscriptions. In long

lines, as on Denderah’s architraves, were bas-reliefs of beetles,

turtles, ant-eaters, armadilloes, guanos, serpents, tongueless

crocodiles:—a long procession, frosted and crystalized in stone, and

silvered by the moon.

“Strange sight!” cried Media. “Speak, antiquarian Mohi.”

But the chronicler was twitching his antiquarian beard, nonplussed by

these wondrous records. The cowled old father, Piaggi, bending over his

calcined Herculanean manuscripts, looked not more at fault than he.

Said Media, “Expound you, then, sage Babbalanja.” Muffling his face in

his mantle, and his voice in sepulchral tones, Babbalanja thus:—

“These are the leaves of the book of Oro. Here we read how worlds are

made; here read the rise and fall of Nature’s kingdoms. From where this

old man’s furthest histories start, these unbeginning records end.

These are the secret memoirs of times past; whose evidence, at last

divulged, gives the grim lie to Mohi’s gossipings, and makes a rattling

among the dry-bone relics of old Maramma.”

Braid-Beard’s old eyes flashed fire. With bristling beard, he cried,

“Take back the lie you send!”

“Peace! everlasting foes,” cried Media, interposing, with both arms

outstretched. “Philosopher, probe not too deep. All you say is very

fine, but very dark. I would know something more precise. But, prithee,

ghost, unmuffle! chatter no more! wait till you’re buried for that.”

“Ay, death’s cold ague will set us all shivering, my lord. We’ll swear

our teeth are icicles.”

“Will you quit driving your sleet upon us? have done expound these

rocks.”

“My lord, if you desire, I’ll turn over these stone tablets till

they’re dog-eared.”

“Heaven and Mardi!—Go on, Babbalanja.”

“’Twas thus. These were tombs burst open by volcanic throes; and hither

hurled from the lowermost vaults of the lagoon. All Mardi’s rocks are

one wide resurrection. But look. Here, now, a pretty story’s told. Ah,

little thought these grand old lords, that lived and roared before the

flood, that they would come to this. Here, King Media, look and learn.”

He looked; and saw a picture petrified, and plain as any on the

pediments of Petra.

It seemed a stately banquet of the dead, where lords in skeletons were

ranged around a board heaped up with fossil fruits, and flanked with

vitreous vases, grinning like empty skulls. There they sat, exchanging

rigid courtesies. One’s hand was on his stony heart; his other pledged

a lord who held a hollow beaker. Another sat, with earnest face beneath

a mitred brow. He seemed to whisper in the ear of one who listened

trustingly. But on the chest of him who wore the miter, an adder lay,

close-coiled in flint.

At the further end, was raised a throne, its canopy surmounted by a

crown, in which now rested the likeness of a raven on an egg.

The throne was void. But half-concealed by drapery, behind the

goodliest lord, sideway leaned a figure diademed, a lifted poniard in

its hand:—a monarch fossilized in very act of murdering his guest.

“Most high and sacred majesty!” cried Babbalanja, bowing to his feet.

While all stood gazing on this sight, there came two servitors of

Media’s, who besought of Babbalanja to settle a dispute, concerning

certain tracings upon the islet’s other side.

Thither we followed them.

Upon a long layer of the slaty stone were marks of ripplings of some

now waveless sea; mid which were tri-toed footprints of some huge

heron, or wading fowl.

Pointing to one of which, the foremost disputant thus spoke:—“I

maintain that these are three toes.”

“And I, that it is one foot,” said the other.

“And now decide between us,” joined the twain.

Said Babbalanja, starting, “Is not this the very question concerning

which they made such dire contention in Maramma, whose tertiary rocks

are chisseled all over with these marks? Yes; this it is, concerning

which they once shed blood. This it is, concerning which they still

divide.”

“Which of us is right?” again demanded the impatient twain.

“Unite, and both are right; divide, and both are wrong. Every unit is

made up of parts, as well as every plurality. Nine is three threes; a

unit is as many thirds; or, if you please, a thousand thousandths; no

special need to stop at thirds.”

“Away, ye foolish disputants!” cried Media. “Full before you is the

thing disputed.”

Strolling on, many marvels did we mark; and Media said:—“Babbalanja,

you love all mysteries; here’s a fitting theme. You have given us the

history of the rock; can your sapience tell the origin of all the

isles? how Mardi came to be?”

“Ah, that once mooted point is settled. Though hard at first, it proved

a bagatelle. Start not my lord; there are those who have measured Mardi

by perch and pole, and with their wonted lead sounded its utmost

depths. Listen: it is a pleasant story. The coral wall which

circumscribes the isles but continues upward the deep buried crater of

the primal chaos. In the first times this crucible was charged with

vapors nebulous, boiling over fires volcanic. Age by age, the fluid

thickened; dropping, at long intervals, heavy sediment to the bottom;

which layer on layer concreted, and at length, in crusts, rose toward

the surface. Then, the vast volcano burst; rent the whole mass; upthrew

the ancient rocks; which now in divers mountain tops tell tales of what

existed ere Mardi was completely fashioned. Hence many fossils on the

hills, whose kith and kin still lurk beneath the vales. Thus Nature

works, at random warring, chaos a crater, and this world a shell.”

Mohi stroked his beard.

Yoomy yawned.

Media cried, “Preposterous!”

“My lord, then take another theory—which you will—the celebrated

sandwich System. Nature’s first condition was a soup, wherein the

agglomerating solids formed granitic dumplings, which, wearing down,

deposited the primal stratum made up of series, sandwiching strange

shapes of mollusks, and zoophytes; then snails, and periwinkles:—

marmalade to sip, and nuts to crack, ere the substantials came.

“And next, my lord, we have the fine old time of the Old Red Sandstone

sandwich, clapped on the underlying layer, and among other dainties,

imbedding the first course of fish,—all quite in rule,—sturgeon- forms,

cephalaspis, glyptolepis, pterichthys; and other finny things, of

flavor rare, but hard to mouth for bones. Served up with these, were

sundry greens,—lichens, mosses, ferns, and fungi.

“Now comes the New Red Sandstone sandwich: marly and magnesious, spread

over with old patriarchs of crocodiles and alligators,—hard carving

these,—and prodigious lizards, spine-skewered, tails tied in bows, and

swimming in saffron saucers.”

“What next?” cried Media.

“The Ool, or Oily sandwich:—rare gormandizing then; for oily it was

called, because of fat old joints, and hams, and rounds, and barons of

sea-beeves and walrusses, which then crowned the stratum-board. All

piled together, glorious profusion!—fillets and briskets, rumps, and

saddles, and haunches; shoulder to shoulder, loin ’gainst sirloin, ribs

rapping knuckles, and quarter to none. And all these sandwiched right

over all that went before. Course after course, and course on course,

my lord; no time to clear the wreck; no stop nor let; lay on and slash;

cut, thrust, and come.

“Next the Chalk, or Coral sandwich; but no dry fare for that; made up

of rich side-courses,—eocene, miocene, and pliocene. The first was wild

game for the delicate,—bantam larks, curlews, quails, and flying

weazels; with a slight sprinkling of pilaus,—capons, pullets, plovers,

and garnished with petrels’ eggs. Very savory, that, my lord. The

second side-course—miocene—was out of course, flesh after fowl: marine

mammalia,—seals, grampuses, and whales, served up with sea-weed on

their flanks, hearts and kidneys deviled, and fins and flippers

friccasied. All very thee, my lord. The third side-course, the

pliocene, was goodliest of all:—whole-roasted elephants, rhinoceroses,

and hippopotamuses, stuffed with boiled ostriches, condors,

cassowaries, turkeys. Also barbacued mastodons and megatheriums,

gallantly served up with fir-trees in their mouths, and tails

cock-billed.

“Thus fared the old diluvians: arrant gormandizers and beef-bolters. We

Mardians famish on the superficial strata of deposits; cracking our

jaws on walnuts, filberts, cocoa-nuts, and clams. My lord, I’ve done.”

“And bravely done it is. Mohi tells us, that Mardi was made in six

days; but you, Babbalanja, have built it up from the bottom in less

than six minutes.”

“Nothing for us geologists, my lord. At a word we turn you out whole

systems, suns, satellites, and asteroids included. Why, my good lord,

my friend Annonimo is laying out a new Milky Way, to intersect with the

old one, and facilitate cross-cuts among the comets.”

And so saying, Babbalanja turned aside.

CHAPTER XXIX.

They Still Remain Upon The Rock

“Gogle-goggle, fugle-fi, fugle-fogle-orum,” so hummed to himself

Babbalanja, slowly pacing over the fossils. “Is he crazy again?”

whispered Yoomy.

“Are you crazy, Babbalanja?” asked Media.

“From my very birth have I been so, my lord; am I not possessed by a

devil?”

“Then I’ll e’en interrogate him,” cried Media. “—Hark ye, sirrah;— why

rave you thus in this poor mortal?”

“’Tis he, not I. I am the mildest devil that ever entered man; in

propria persona, no antlers do I wear; my tail has lost its barb, as at

last your Mardian lions lose their caudal horns.”

“A very sing-song devil this. But, prithee, who are you, sirrah?”

“The mildest devil that ever entered man; in propria persona, no

antlers do I wear; my tail has lost its barb, as at last your Mardian

lions lose their caudal horns.”

“A very iterating devil this. Sirrah! mock me not. Know you aught yet

unrevealed by Babbalanja?”

“Many things I know, not good to tell; whence they call me Azzageddi.”

“A very confidential devil, this; that tells no secrets. Azzageddi, can

I drive thee out?”

“Only with this mortal’s ghost:—together we came in, together we

depart.”

“A very terse, and ready devil, this. Whence come you, Azzageddi?”

“Whither my catechist must go—a torrid clime, cut by a hot equator.”

“A very keen, and witty devil, this. Azzageddi, whom have you there?”

“A right down merry, jolly set, that at a roaring furnace sit and toast

their hoofs for aye; so used to flames, they poke the fire with their

horns, and light their tails for torches.”

“A very funny devil, this. Azzageddi, is not Mardi a place far

pleasanter, than that from whence you came?”

“Ah, home! sweet, sweet, home! would, would that I were home again!”

“A very sentimental devil, this. Azzageddi, would you had a hand, I’d

shake it.”

“Not so with us; who, rear to rear, shake each other’s tails, and

courteously inquire, ‘Pray, worthy sir, how now stands the great

thermometer?’”

“The very prince of devils, this.”

“How mad our Babbalanja is,” cried Mohi. My lord, take heed; he’ll

bite.”

“Alas! alas!” sighed Yoomy.

“Hark ye, Babbalanja,” cried Media, “enough of this: doff your devil,

and be a man.”

“My lord, I can not doff him; but I’ll down him for a time: Azzageddi!

down, imp; down, down, down! so: now, my lord, I’m only Babbalanja.”

“Shall I test his sanity, my lord?” cried Mohi.

“Do, old man.”

“Philosopher, our great reef is surrounded by an ocean; what think you

lies beyond?”

“Alas!” sighed Yoomy, “the very subject to renew his madness.”

“Peace, minstrel!” said Media. “Answer, Babbalanja.”

“I will, my lord. Fear not, sweet Yoomy; you see how calm I am. Braid-

Beard, those strangers, that came to Mondoldo prove isles afar, as a

philosopher of old surmised, but was hooted at for his surmisings. Nor

is it at all impossible, Braid-Beard, that beyond their land may exist

other regions, of which those strangers know not; peopled with races

something like us Mardians; but perhaps with more exalted faculties,

and organs that we lack. They may have some better seeing sense than

ours; perhaps, have fins or wings for arms.”

“This seems not like sanity,” muttered Mohi.

“A most crazy hypothesis, truly,” said Media.

“And are all inductions vain?” cried Babbalanja. “Have we mortals

naught to rest on, but what we see with eyes? Is no faith to be reposed

in that inner microcosm, wherein we see the charted universe in little,

as the whole horizon is mirrored in the iris of a gnat? Alas! alas! my

lord, is there no blest Odonphi? no Astrazzi?”

“His devil’s uppermost again, my lord,” cried Braid-Beard.

“He’s stark, stark mad!” sighed Yoomy.

“Ay, the moon’s at full,” said Media. “Ho, paddlers! we depart.”

CHAPTER XXX.

Behind And Before

It was yet moonlight when we pushed from the islet. But soon, the sky

grew dun; the moon went into a cavern among the clouds; and by that

secret sympathy between our hearts and the elements, the thoughts of

all but Media became overcast.

Again discourse was had of that dark intelligence from Mondoldo,—the

fell murder of Taji’s follower.

Said Mohi, “Those specter sons of Aleema must have been the assassins.”

“They harbored deadly malice,” said Babbalanja.

“Which poor Jarl’s death must now have sated,” sighed Yoomy.

“Then all the happier for Taji,” said Media. “But away with gloom!

because the sky is clouded, why cloud your brows? Babbalanja, I grieve

the moon is gone. Yet start some paradox, that we may laugh. Say a

woman is a man, or you yourself a stork.”

At this they smiled. When hurtling came an arrow, which struck our

stern, and quivered. Another! and another! Grazing the canopy, they

darted by, and hissing, dived like red-hot bars beneath the waves.

Starting, we beheld a corruscating wake, tracking the course of a low

canoe, far flying for a neighboring mountain. The next moment it was

lost within the mountain’s shadow and pursuit was useless.

“Let us fly!” cried Yoomy

“Peace! What murderers these?” said Media, calmly; “whom can they

seek?—you, Taji?”

“The three avengers fly three bolts,” said Babbalanja. “See if the

arrow yet remain astern,” cried Media.

They brought it to him.

“By Oro! Taji on the barb!”

“Then it missed its aim. But I will not mine. And whatever arrows

follow, still will I hunt on. Nor does the ghost, that these pale

specters would avenge, at all disquiet me. The priest I slew, but to

gain her, now lost; and I would slay again, to bring her back. Ah,

Yillah! Yillah.”

All started.

Then said Babbalanja, “Aleema’s sons raved not; ’tis true, then, Taji,

that an evil deed gained you your Yillah: no wonder she is lost.”

Said Media, unconcernedly, “Perhaps better, Taji, to have kept your

secret; but tell no more; I care not to be your foe.”

“Ah, Taji! I had shrank from you,” cried Yoomy, “but for the mark upon

your brow. That undoes the tenor of your words. But look, the stars

come forth, and who are these? A waving Iris! ay, again they come:—

Hautia’s heralds!”

They brought a black thorn, buried in withered rose-balm blossoms, red

and blue.

Said Yoomy, “For that which stings, there is no cure,”

“Who, who is Hautia, that she stabs me thus?”

“And this wild sardony mocks your misery.”

“Away! ye fiends.”

“Again a Venus car; and lo! a wreath of strawberries!—Yet fly to me,

and be garlanded with joys.”

“Let the wild witch laugh. She moves me not. Neither hurtling arrows

nor Circe flowers appall.”

Said Yoomy, “They wait reply.”

“Tell your Hautia, that I know her not; nor care to know. I defy her

incantations; she lures in vain. Yillah! Yillah! still I hope!”

Slowly they departed; heeding not my cries no more to follow.

Silence, and darkness fell.

CHAPTER XXXI.

Babbalanja Discourses In The Dark

Next day came and went; and still we onward sailed. At last, by night,

there fell a calm, becalming the water of the wide lagoon, and

becalming all the clouds in heaven, wailing the constellations. But

though our sails were useless, our paddlers plied their broad stout

blades. Thus sweeping by a rent and hoar old rock, Vee-Vee, impatient

of the calm, sprang to his crow’s nest in the shark’s mouth, and

seizing his conch, sounded a blast which ran in and out among the

hollows, reverberating with the echoes.

Be sure, it was startling. But more so with respect to one of our

paddlers, upon whose shoulders, elevated Vee-Vee, his balance lost, all

at once came down by the run. But the heedless little bugler himself

was most injured by the fall; his arm nearly being broken.

Some remedies applied, and the company grown composed, Babbalanja

thus:—“My lord Media, was there any human necessity for that accident?”

“None that I know, or care to tell, Babbalanja.”

“Vee-Vee,” said Babbalanja, “did you fall on purpose?”

“Not I,” sobbed little Vee-Vee, slinging his ailing arm in its mate.

“Woe! woe to us all, then,” cried Babbalanja; “for what direful events

may be in store for us which we can not avoid.”

“How now, mortal?” cried Media; “what now?”

“My lord, think of it. Minus human inducement from without, and minus

volition from within, Vee-Vee has met with an accident, which has

almost maimed him for life. Is it not terrifying to think of? Are not

all mortals exposed to similar, nay, worse calamities, ineffably

unavoidable? Woe, woe, I say, to us Mardians! Here, take my last

breath; let me give up this beggarly ghost!”

“Nay,” said Media; “pause, Babbalanja. Turn it not adrift prematurely.

Let it house till midnight; the proper time for you mortals to

dissolve. But, philosopher, if you harp upon Vee-Vee’s mishap, know

that it was owing to nothing but his carelessness.”

“And what was that owing to, my lord?”

“To Vee-Vee himself.”

“Then, my lord, what brought such a careless being into Mardi?”

“A long course of generations. He’s some one’s great-great-grandson,

doubtless; who was great-great-grandson to some one else; who also had

grandsires.”

“Many thanks then to your highness; for you establish the doctrine of

Philosophical Necessity.”

“No. I establish nothing; I but answer your questions.”

“All one, my lord: you are a Necessitarian; in other words, you hold

that every thing takes place through absolute necessity.”

“Do you take me, then, for a fool, and a Fatalist? Pardie! a bad creed

for a monarch, the distributor of rewards and punishments.”

“Right there, my lord. But, for all that, your highness is a

Necessitarian, yet no Fatalist. Confound not the distinct. Fatalism

presumes express and irrevocable edicts of heaven concerning particular

events. Whereas, Necessity holds that all events are naturally linked,

and inevitably follow each other, without providential interposition,

though by the eternal letting of Providence.”

“Well, well, Babbalanja, I grant it all. Go on.”

“On high authority, we are told that in times past the fall of certain

nations in Mardi was prophesied of seers.”

“Most true, my lord,” said Mohi; “it is all down in the chronicles.”

“Ha! ha!” cried Media. “Go on, philosopher.”

Continued Babbalanja, “Previous to the time assigned to their

fulfillment, those prophecies were bruited through Mardi; hence,

previous to the time assigned to their fulfillment, full knowledge of

them may have come to the nations concerned. Now, my lord, was it

possible for those nations, thus forwarned, so to conduct their

affairs, as at, the prophesied time, to prove false the events revealed

to be in store for them?”

“However that may be,” said Mohi, “certain it is, those events did

assuredly come to pass:—Compare the ruins of Babbelona with book ninth,

chapter tenth, of the chronicles. Yea, yea, the owl inhabits where the

seers predicted; the jackals yell in the tombs of the kings.”

“Go on, Babbalanja,” said Media. “Of course those nations could not

have resisted their doom. Go on, then: vault over your premises.”

“If it be, then, my lord, that—”

“My very worshipful lord,” interposed Mohi, “is not our philosopher

getting off soundings; and may it not be impious to meddle with these

things?”

“Were it so, old man, he should have known it. The king of Odo is

something more than you mortals.”

“But are we the great gods themselves,” cried Yoomy, “that we discourse

of these things.”

“No, minstrel,” said Babbalanja; “and no need have the great gods to

discourse of things perfectly comprehended by them, and by themselves

ordained. But you and I, Yoomy, are men, and not gods; hence is it for

us, and not for them, to take these things for our themes. Nor is there

any impiety in the right use of our reason, whatever the issue. Smote

with superstition, shall we let it wither and die out, a dead, limb to

a live trunk, as the mad devotee’s arm held up motionless for years? Or

shall we employ it but for a paw, to help us to our bodily needs, as

the brutes use their instinct? Is not reason subtile as

quicksilver—live as lightning—a neighing charger to advance, but a

snail to recede? Can we starve that noble instinct in us, and hope that

it will survive? Better slay the body than the soul; and if it be the

direst of sins to be the murderers of our own bodies, how much more to

be a soul-suicide. Yoomy, we are men, we are angels. And in his

faculties, high Oro is but what a man would be, infinitely magnified.

Let us aspire to all things. Are we babes in the woods, to be scared by

the shadows of the trees? What shall appall us? If eagles gaze at the

sun, may not men at the gods?”

“For one,” said Media, “you may gaze at me freely. Gaze on. But talk

not of my kinsmen so fluently, Babbalanja. Return to your argument.”

“I go back then, my lord. By implication, you have granted, that in

times past the future was foreknown of Oro; hence, in times past, the

future must have been foreordained. But in all things Oro is immutable.

Wherefore our own future is foreknown and foreordained. Now, if things

foreordained concerning nations have in times past been revealed to

them previous to their taking place, then something similar may be

presumable concerning individual men now living. That is to say, out of

all the events destined to befall any one man, it is not impossible

that previous knowledge of some one of these events might

supernaturally come to him. Say, then, it is revealed to me, that ten

days hence I shall, of my own choice, fall upon my javelin; when the

time comes round, could I refrain from suicide? Grant the strongest

presumable motives to the act; grant that, unforewarned, I would slay

myself outright at the time appointed: yet, foretold of it, and

resolved to test the decree to the uttermost, under such circumstances,

I say, would it be possible for me not to kill myself? If possible,

then predestination is not a thing absolute; and Heaven is wise to keep

secret from us those decrees, whose virtue consists in secrecy. But if

not possible, then that suicide would not be mine, but Oro’s. And, by

consequence, not only that act, but all my acts, are Oro’s. In sum, my

lord, he who believes that in times past, prophets have prophesied, and

their prophecies have been fulfilled; when put to it, inevitably must

allow that every man now living is an irresponsible being.”

“In sooth, a very fine argument very finely argued,” said Media. “You

have done marvels, Babbalanja. But hark ye, were I so disposed, I could

deny you all over, premises and conclusions alike. And furthermore, my

cogent philosopher, had you published that anarchical dogma among my

subjects in Oro, I had silenced you by my spear-headed scepter, instead

of my uplifted finger.”

“Then, all thanks and all honor to your generosity, my lord, in

granting us the immunities you did at the outset of this voyage. But,

my lord, permit me one word more. Is not Oro omnipresent—absolutely

every where?”

“So you mortals teach, Babbalanja.”

“But so do they _mean_, my lord. Often do we Mardians stick to terms

for ages, yet truly apply not their meanings.”

“Well, Oro is every where. What now?”

“Then, if that be absolutely so, Oro is not merely a universal

on-looker, but occupies and fills all space; and no vacancy is left for

any being, or any thing but Oro. Hence, Oro is _in_ all things, and

himself _is_ all things—the time-old creed. But since evil abounds, and

Oro is all things, then he can not be perfectly good; wherefore, Oro’s

omnipresence and moral perfection seem incompatible. Furthermore, my

lord those orthodox systems which ascribe to Oro almighty and universal

attributes every way, those systems, I say, destroy all intellectual

individualities but Oro, and resolve the universe into him. But this is

a heresy; wherefore, orthodoxy and heresy are one. And thus is it, my

lord, that upon these matters we Mardians all agree and disagree

together, and kill each other with weapons that burst in our hands. Ah,

my lord, with what mind must blessed Oro look down upon this scene!

Think you he discriminates between the deist and atheist? Nay; for the

Searcher of the cores of all hearts well knoweth that atheists there

are none. For in things abstract, men but differ in the sounds that

come from their mouths, and not in the wordless thoughts lying at the

bottom of their beings. The universe is all of one mind. Though my

twin-brother sware to me, by the blazing sun in heaven at noon-day,

that Oro is not; yet would he belie the thing he intended to express.

And who lives that blasphemes? What jargon of human sounds so puissant

as to insult the unutterable majesty divine? Is Oro’s honor in the

keeping of Mardi?— Oro’s conscience in man’s hands? Where our warrant,

with Oro’s sign-manual, to justify the killing, burning, and

destroying, or far worse, the social persecutions we institute in his

behalf? Ah! how shall these self-assumed attorneys and vicegerents be

astounded, when they shall see all heaven peopled with heretics and

heathens, and all hell nodding over with miters! Ah! let us Mardians

quit this insanity. Let us be content with the theology in the grass

and the flower, in seed-time and harvest. Be it enough for us to know

that Oro indubitably is. My lord! my lord! sick with the spectacle of

the madness of men, and broken with spontaneous doubts, I sometimes see

but two things in all Mardi to believe:—that I myself exist, and that I

can most happily, or least miserably exist, by the practice of

righteousness. All else is in the clouds; and naught else may I learn,

till the firmament be split from horizon to horizon. Yet, alas! too

often do I swing from these moorings.”

“Alas! his fit is coming upon him again,” whispered Yoomy.

“Why, Babbalanja,” said Media, “I almost pity you. You are too warm,

too warm. Why fever your soul with these things? To no use you mortals

wax earnest. No thanks, but curses, will you get for your earnestness.

You yourself you harm most. Why not take creeds as they come? It is not

so hard to be persuaded; never mind about believing.”

“True, my lord; not very hard; no act is required; only passiveness.

Stand still and receive. Faith is to the thoughtless, doubts to the

thinker.”

“Then, why think at all? Is it not better for you mortals to clutch

error as in a vice, than have your fingers meet in your hand? And to

what end your eternal inquisitions? You have nothing to substitute. You

say all is a lie; then out with the truth. Philosopher, your devil is

but a foolish one, after all. I, a demi-god, never say nay to these

things.”

“Yea, my lord, it would hardly answer for Oro himself, were he to come

down to Mardi, to deny men’s theories concerning him. Did they not

strike at the rash deity in Alma?”

“Then, why deny those theories yourself? Babbalanja, you almost affect

my immortal serenity. Must you forever be a sieve for good grain to run

through, while you retain but the chaff? Your tongue is forked. You

speak two languages: flat folly for yourself, and wisdom for others.

Babbalanja, if you have any belief of your own, keep it; but, in Oro’s

name, keep it secret.”

“Ay, my lord, in these things wise men are spectators, not actors; wise

men look on, and say ‘ay.’”

“Why not say so yourself, then?”

“My lord, because I have often told you, that I am a fool, and not

wise.”

“Your Highness,” said Mohi, “this whole discourse seems to have grown

out of the subject of Necessity and Free Will. Now, when a boy, I

recollect hearing a sage say, that these things were reconcilable.”

“Ay?” said Media, “what say you to that, now, Babbalanja?”

“It may be even so, my lord. Shall I tell you a story?”

“Azzageddi’s stirring now,” muttered Mohi.

“Proceed,” said Media.

“King Normo had a fool, called Willi, whom he loved to humor. Now,

though Willi ever obeyed his lord, by the very instinct of his

servitude, he flattered himself that he was free; and this conceit it

was, that made the fool so entertaining to the king. One day, said

Normo to his fool,—‘Go, Willi, to yonder tree, and wait there till I

come,’ ‘Your Majesty, I will,’ said Willi, bowing beneath his jingling

bells; ‘but I presume your Majesty has no objections to my walking on

my hands:—I am free, I hope.’ ‘Perfectly,’ said Normo, ‘hands or feet,

it’s all the same to me; only do my bidding.’ ‘I thought as much,’ said

Willi; so, swinging his limber legs into the air, Willi, thumb after

thumb, essayed progression. But soon, his bottled blood so rushed

downward through his neck, that he was fain to turn a somerset and

regain his feet. Said he, ‘Though I am free to do it, it’s not so easy

turning digits into toes; I’ll walk, by gad! which is my other option.’

So he went straight forward, and did King Normo’s bidding in the

natural way.”

“A curious story that,” said Media; “whence came it?”

“My lord, where every thing, but one, is to be had:—within.”

“You are charged to the muzzle, then,” said Braid-Beard. “Yes, Mohi;

and my talk is my overflowing, not my fullness.”

“And what may you be so full of?”

“Of myself.”

“So it seems,” said Mohi, whisking away a fly with his beard.

“Babbalanja,” said Media, “you did right in selecting this ebon night

for discussing the theme you did; and truly, you mortals are but too

apt to talk in the dark.”

“Ay, my lord, and we mortals may prate still more in the dark, when we

are dead; for methinks, that if we then prate at all, ’twill be in our

sleep. Ah! my lord, think not that in aught I’ve said this night, I

would assert any wisdom of my own. I but fight against the armed and

crested Lies of Mardi, that like a host, assail me. I am stuck full of

darts; but, tearing them from out me, gasping, I discharge them whence

they come.”

So saying, Babbalanja slowly drooped, and fell reclining; then lay

motionless as the marble Gladiator, that for centuries has been dying.

CHAPTER XXXII.

My Lord Media Summons Mohi To The Stand

While slowly the night wore on, and the now scudding clouds flown past,

revealed again the hosts in heaven, few words were uttered save by

Media; who, when all others were most sad and silent, seemed but little

moved, or not stirred a jot.

But that night, he filled his flagon fuller than his wont, and drank,

and drank, and pledged the stars.

“Here’s to thee, old Arcturus! To thee, old Aldebaran! who ever poise

your wine-red, fiery spheres on high. A health to _thee_, my regal

friend, Alphacca, in the constellation of the Crown: Lo! crown to

crown, I pledge thee! I drink to _ye_, too, Alphard! Markab! Denebola!

Capella!—to _ye_, too, sailing Cygnus! Aquila soaring!—All round, a

health to all your diadems! May they never fade! nor mine!”

At last, in the shadowy east, the Dawn, like a gray, distant sail

before the wind, was descried; drawing nearer and nearer, till her

gilded prow was perceived.

And as in tropic gales, the winds blow fierce, and more fierce, with

the advent of the sun; so with King Media; whose mirth now breezed up

afresh. But, as at sunrise, the sea-storm only blows harder, to settle

down at last into a steady wind; even so, in good time, my lord Media

came to be more decorous of mood. And Babbalanja abated his reveries.

For who might withstand such a morn!

As on the night-banks of the far-rolling Ganges, the royal bridegroom

sets forth for his bride, preceded by nymphs, now this side, now that,

lighting up all the flowery flambeaux held on high as they pass; so

came the Sun, to his nuptials with Mardi:—the Hours going on before,

touching all the peaks, till they glowed rosy-red.

By reflex, the lagoon, here and there, seemed on fire; each curling

wave-crest a flame.

Noon came as we sailed.

And now, citrons and bananas, cups and calabashes, calumets and

tobacco, were passed round; and we were all very merry and mellow

indeed. Smacking our lips, chatting, smoking, and sipping. Now a

mouthful of citron to season a repartee; now a swallow of wine to wash

down a precept; now a fragrant whiff to puff away care. Many things did

beguile. From side to side, we turned and grazed, like Juno’s white

oxen in clover meads.

Soon, we drew nigh to a charming cliff, overrun with woodbines, on high

suspended from flowering Tamarisk and Tamarind-trees. The blossoms of

the Tamarisks, in spikes of small, red bells; the Tamarinds,

wide-spreading their golden petals, red-streaked as with streaks of the

dawn. Down sweeping to the water, the vines trailed over to the crisp,

curling waves,—little pages, all eager to hold up their trains.

Within, was a bower; going behind it, like standing inside the sheet of

the falls of the Genesee.

In this arbor we anchored. And with their shaded prows thrust in among

the flowers, our three canoes seemed baiting by the way, like wearied

steeds in a hawthorn lane.

High midsummer noon is more silent than night. Most sweet a siesta

then. And noon dreams are day-dreams indeed; born under the meridian

sun. Pale Cynthia begets pale specter shapes; and her frigid rays best

illuminate white nuns, marble monuments, icy glaciers, and cold tombs.

The sun rolled on. And starting to his feet, arms clasped, and wildly

staring, Yoomy exclaimed—“Nay, nay, thou shalt not depart, thou

maid!—here, here I fold thee for aye!—Flown?—A dream! Then siestas

henceforth while I live. And at noon, every day will I meet thee, sweet

maid! And, oh Sun! set not; and poppies bend over us, when next we

embrace!”

“What ails that somnambulist?” cried Media, rising. “Yoomy, I say! what

ails thee?”

“He must have indulged over freely in those citrons,” said Mohi,

sympathetically rubbing his fruitery. “Ho, Yoomy! a swallow of brine

will help thee.”

“Alas,” cried Babbalanja, “do the fairies then wait on repletion? Do

our dreams come from below, and not from the skies? Are we angels, or

dogs? Oh, Man, Man, Man! thou art harder to solve, than the Integral

Calculus—yet plain as a primer; harder to find than the

philosopher’s-stone—yet ever at hand; a more cunning compound, than an

alchemist’s—yet a hundred weight of flesh, to a penny weight of spirit;

soul and body glued together, firm as atom to atom, seamless as the

vestment without joint, warp or woof—yet divided as by a river, spirit

from flesh; growing both ways, like a tree, and dropping thy topmost

branches to earth, like thy beard or a banian!—I give thee up, oh Man!

thou art twain—yet indivisible; all things—yet a poor unit at best.”

“Philosopher you seem puzzled to account for the riddles of your race,”

cried Media, sideways reclining at his ease. “Now, do thou, old Mohi,

stand up before a demi-god, and answer for all.—Draw nigh, so I can eye

thee. What art thou, mortal?”

“My worshipful lord, a man.”

“And what are men?”

“My lord, before thee is a specimen.”

“I fear me, my lord will get nothing out of that witness,” said

Babbalanja. “Pray you, King Media, let another inquisitor cross-

question.”

“Proceed; take the divan.”

“A pace or two farther off, there, Mohi; so I can garner thee all in at

a glance.—Attention! Rememberest thou, fellow-being, when thou wast

born?”

“Not I. Old Braid-Beard had no memory then.”

“When, then, wast thou first conscious of being?”

“What time I was teething: my first sensation was an ache.”

“What dost thou, fellow-being, here in Mardi?”

“What doth Mardi here, fellow-being, under me?”

“Philosopher, thou gainest but little by thy questions,” cried Yoomy

advancing. “Let a poet endeavor.”

“I abdicate in your favor, then, gentle Yoomy; let me smooth the divan

for you;—there: be seated.”

“Now, Mohi, who art thou?” said Yoomy, nodding his bird-of-paradise

plume.

“The sole witness, it seems, in this case.”

“Try again minstrel,” cried Babbalanja.

“Then, what art thou, Mohi?”

“Even what thou art, Yoomy.”

“He is too sharp or too blunt for us all,” cried King Media. “His devil

is even more subtle than yours, Babbalanja. Let him go.”

“Shall I adjourn the court then, my lord?” said Babbalanja.

“Ay.”

“Oyez! Oyez! Oyez! All mortals having business at this court, know ye,

that it is adjourned till sundown of the day, which hath no to-morrow.”

CHAPTER XXXIII.

Wherein Babbalanja And Yoomy Embrace

“How the isles grow and multiply around us!” cried Babbalanja, as

turning the bold promontory of an uninhabited shore, many distant lands

bluely loomed into view. “Surely, our brief voyage, may not embrace all

Mardi like its reef?”

“No,” said Media, “much must be left unseen. Nor every where can Yillah

be sought, noble Taji.”

Said Yoomy, “We are as birds, with pinions clipped, that in

unfathomable and endless woods, but flit from twig to twig of one poor

tree.”

“More isles! more isles!” cried Babbalanja, erect, and gazing abroad.

“And lo! round all is heaving that infinite ocean. Ah! gods! what

regions lie beyond?”

“But whither now?” he cried, as in obedience to Media, the paddlers

suddenly altered our course.

“To the bold shores of Diranda,” said Media.

“Ay; the land of clubs and javelins, where the lord seigniors Hello and

Piko celebrate their famous games,” cried Mohi.

“Your clubs and javelins,” said Media, “remind me of the great battle-

chant of Narvi—Yoomy!”—turning to the minstrel, gazing abstractedly

into the water;—“awake, Yoomy, and give us the lines.”

“My lord Media, ’tis but a rude, clanging thing; dissonant as if the

north wind blew through it. Methinks the company will not fancy lines

so inharmonious. Better sing you, perhaps, one of my sonnets.”

“Better sit and sob in our ears, silly Yoomy that thou art!—no! no!

none of your sentiment now; my soul is martially inclined; I want

clarion peals, not lute warblings. So throw out your chest, Yoomy: lift

high your voice; and blow me the old battle-blast.—Begin, sir

minstrel.”

And warning all, that he himself had not composed the odious chant,

Yoomy thus:—

Our clubs! our clubs!

The thousand clubs of Narvi!

Of the living trunk of the Palm-tree made;

Skull breakers! Brain spatterers!

Wielded right, and wielded left;

Life quenchers! Death dealers!

Causing live bodies to run headless!

Our bows! our bows!

The thousand bows of Narvi!

Ribs of Tara, god of War!

Fashioned from the light Tola their arrows;

Swift messengers! Heart piercers!

Barbed with sharp pearl shells;

Winged with white tail-plumes;

To wild death-chants, strung with the hair of wild maidens!

Our spears! our spears!

The thousand spears of Narvi!

Of the thunder-riven Moo-tree made

Tall tree, couched on the long mountain Lana!

No staves for gray-beards! no rods for fishermen!

Tempered by fierce sea-winds,

Splintered into lances by lightnings,

Long arrows! Heart seekers!

Toughened by fire their sharp black points!

Our slings! our slings!

The thousand slings of Narvi!

All tasseled, and braided, and gayly bedecked.

In peace, our girdles; in war, our war-nets;

Wherewith catch we heads as fish from the deep!

The pebbles they hurl, have been hurled before,—

Hurled up on the beach by the stormy sea!

Pebbles, buried erewhile in the head of the shark:

To be buried erelong in the heads of our foes!

Home of hard blows, our pouches!

Nest of death-eggs! How quickly they hatch!

Uplift, and couch we our spears, men!

Ring hollow on the rocks our war clubs!

Bend we our bows, feel the points of our arrows:

Aloft, whirl in eddies our sling-nets;

To the fight, men of Narvi!

Sons of battle! Hunters of men!

Raise high your war-wood!

Shout Narvi! her groves in the storm!

“By Oro!” cried Media, “but Yoomy has well nigh stirred up all

Babbalanja’s devils in me. Were I a mortal, I could fight now on a

pretense. And did any man say me nay, I would charge upon him like a

spear-point. Ah, Yoomy, thou and thy tribe have much to answer for; ye

stir up all Mardi with your lays. Your war chants make men fight; your

drinking songs, drunkards; your love ditties, fools. Yet there thou

sittest, Yoomy, gentle as a dove.—What art thou, minstrel, that thy

soft, singing soul should so master all mortals? Yoomy, like me, you

sway a scepter.”

“Thou honorest my calling overmuch,” said Yoomy, we minstrels but sing

our lays carelessly, my lord Media.”

“Ay: and the more mischief they make.”

“But sometimes we poets are didactic.”

“Didactic and dull; many of ye are but too apt to be prosy unless

mischievous.”

“Yet in our verses, my lord Media, but few of us purpose harm.”

“But when all harmless to yourselves, ye may be otherwise to Mardi.”

“And are not foul streams often traced to pure fountains, my lord?”

said Babbalanja. “The essence of all good and all evil is in us, not

out of us. Neither poison nor honey lodgeth in the flowers on which,

side by side, bees and wasps oft alight. My lord, nature is an

immaculate virgin, forever standing unrobed before us. True poets but

paint the charms which all eyes behold. The vicious would be vicious

without them.”

“My lord Media,” impetuously resumed Yoomy, “I am sensible of a

thousand sweet, merry fancies, limpid with innocence; yet my enemies

account them all lewd conceits.”

“There be those in Mardi,” said Babbalanja, “who would never ascribe

evil to others, did they not find it in their own hearts; believing

none can be different from themselves.”

“My lord, my lord!” cried Yoomy. “The air that breathes my music from

me is a mountain air! Purer than others am I; for though not a woman, I

feel in me a woman’s soul.”

“Ah, have done, silly Yoomy,” said Media. “Thou art becoming flighty,

even as Babbalanja, when Azzageddi is uppermost.”

“Thus ever: ever thus!” sighed Yoomy. “They comprehend us not.”

“Nor me,” said Babbalanja. “Yoomy: poets both, we differ but in

seeming; thy airiest conceits are as the shadows of my deepest

ponderings; though Yoomy soars, and Babbalanja dives, both meet at

last. Not a song you sing, but I have thought its thought; and where

dull Mardi sees but your rose, I unfold its petals, and disclose a

pearl. Poets are we, Yoomy, in that we dwell without us; we live in

grottoes, palms, and brooks; we ride the sea, we ride the sky; poets

are omnipresent.”

CHAPTER XXXIV.

Of The Isle Of Diranda

In good time the shores of Diranda were in sight. And, introductory to

landing, Braid-Beard proceeded to give us some little account of the

island, and its rulers.

As previously hinted, those very magnificent and illustrious lord

seigniors, the lord seigniors Hello and Piko, who between them divided

Diranda, delighted in all manner of public games, especially warlike

ones; which last were celebrated so frequently, and were so fatal in

their results, that, not-withstanding the multiplicity of nuptials

taking place in the isle, its population remained in equilibrio. But,

strange to relate, this was the very object which the lord seigniors

had in view; the very object they sought to compass, by instituting

their games. Though, for the most part, they wisely kept the secret

locked up.

But to tell how the lord seigniors Hello and Piko came to join hands in

this matter.

Diranda had been amicably divided between them ever since the day they

were crowned; one reigning king in the East, the other in the West. But

King Piko had been long harassed with the thought, that the

unobstructed and indefinite increase of his browsing subjects might

eventually denude of herbage his portion of the island. Posterity,

thought he, is marshaling her generations in squadrons, brigades, and

battalions, and ere long will be down upon my devoted empire. Lo! her

locust cavalry darken the skies; her light-troop pismires cover the

earth. Alas! my son and successor, thou wilt inhale choke-damp for air,

and have not a private corner to say thy prayers.

By a sort of arithmetical progression, the probability, nay, the

certainty of these results, if not in some way averted, was proved to

King Piko; and he was furthermore admonished, that war—war to the haft

with King Hello—was the only cure for so menacing an evil.

But so it was, that King Piko, at peace with King Hello, and well

content with, the tranquillity of the times, little relished the idea

of picking a quarrel with his neighbor, and running its risks, in order

to phlebotomize his redundant population.

“Patience, most illustrious seignior,” said another of his sagacious

Ahithophels, “and haply a pestilence may decimate the people.”

But no pestilence came. And in every direction the young men and

maidens were recklessly rushing into wedlock; and so salubrious the

climate, that the old men stuck to the outside of the turf, and refused

to go under.

At last some Machiavel of a philosopher suggested, that peradventure

the object of war might be answered without going to war; that

peradventure King Hello might be brought to acquiesce in an

arrangement, whereby the men of Diranda might be induced to kill off

one another voluntarily, in a peaceable manner, without troubling their

rulers. And to this end, the games before mentioned were proposed.

“Egad! my wise ones, you have hit it,” cried Piko; “but will Hello say

ay?”

“Try him, most illustrious seignior,” said Machiavel.

So to Hello went embassadors ordinary and extraordinary, and ministers

plenipotentiary and peculiar; and anxiously King Piko awaited their

return.

The mission was crowned with success.

Said King Hello to the ministers, in confidence:—“The very thing, Dons,

the very thing I have wanted. My people are increasing too fast. They

keep up the succession too well. Tell your illustrious master it’s a

bargain. The games! the games! by all means.”

So, throughout the island, by proclamation, they were forthwith

established; succeeding to a charm.

And the lord seigniors, Hello and Piko, finding their interests the

same, came together like bride and bridegroom; lived in the same

palace; dined off the same cloth; cut from the same bread-fruit; drank

from the same calabash; wore each other’s crowns; and often locking

arms with a charming frankness, paced up and down in their dominions,

discussing the prospect of the next harvest of heads.

In his old-fashioned way, having related all this, with many other

particulars, Mohi was interrupted by Babbalanja, who inquired how the

people of Diranda relished the games, and how they fancied being coolly

thinned out in that manner.

To which in substance the chronicler replied, that of the true object

of the games, they had not the faintest conception; but hammered away

at each other, and fought and died together, like jolly good fellows.

“Right again, immortal old Bardianna!” cried Babbalanja.

“And what has the sage to the point this time?” asked Media.

“Why, my lord, in his chapter on “Cracked Crowns,” Bardianna, after

many profound ponderings, thus concludes: In this cracked sphere we

live in, then, cracked skulls would seem the inevitable allotments of

many. Nor will the splintering thereof cease, till this pugnacious

animal we treat of be deprived of his natural maces: videlicet, his

arms. And right well doth man love to bruise and batter all occiputs in

his vicinity.”

“Seems to me, our old friend must have been on his stilts that time,”

interrupted Mohi.

“No, Braid-Beard. But by way of apologizing for the unusual rigidity of

his style in that chapter, he says in a note, that it was written upon

a straight-backed settle, when he was ill of a lumbago, and a crick in

the neck.”

“That incorrigible Azzageddi again,” said Media, “Proceed with your

quotation, Babbalanja.”

“Where was I, Braid-Beard?”

“Battering occiputs at the last accounts,” said Mohi.

“Ah, yes. And right well doth man love to bruise and batter all

occiputs in his vicinity; he but follows his instincts; he is but one

member of a fighting world. Spiders, vixens, and tigers all war with a

relish; and on every side is heard the howls of hyenas, the throttlings

of mastiffs, the din of belligerant beetles, the buzzing warfare of the

insect battalions: and the shrill cries of lady Tartars rending their

lords. And all this existeth of necessity. To war it is, and other

depopulators, that we are beholden for elbow-room in Mardi and for all

our parks an gardens, wherein we are wont to expatiate. Come on, then,

plague, war, famine and viragos! Come on, I say, for who shall stay ye?

Come on, and healthfulize the census! And more especially, oh War! do

thou march forth with thy bludgeon! Cracked are, our crowns by nature,

and henceforth forever, cracked shall they be by hard raps.”

“And hopelessly cracked the skull, that hatched such a tirade of

nonsense,” said Mohi.

“And think you not, old Bardianna knew that?” asked Babbalanja. “He

wrote an excellent chapter on that very subject.”

“What, on the cracks in his own pate?”

“Precisely. And expressly asserts, that to those identical cracks, was

he indebted for what little light he had in his brain.”

“I yield, Babbalanja; your old Ponderer is older than I.”

“Ay, ay, Braid-Beard; his crest was a tortoise; and this was the

motto:—‘I bite, but am not to be bitten.’”

CHAPTER XXXV.

They Visit The Lords Piko And Hello

In good time, we landed at Diranda. And that landing was like landing

at Greenwich among the Waterloo pensioners. The people were docked

right and left; some without arms; some without legs; not one with a

tail; but to a man, all had heads, though rather the worse for wear;

covered with lumps and contusions.

Now, those very magnificent and illustrious lord seigniors, the lord

seigniors Hello and Piko, lived in a palace, round which was a fence of

the cane called Malacca, each picket helmed with a skull, of which

there were fifty, one to each cane. Over the door was the blended arms

of the high and mighty houses of Hello and Piko: a Clavicle crossed

over an Ulna.

Escorted to the sign of the Skull-and-Cross-Bones, we received the very

best entertainment which that royal inn could afford. We found our

hosts Hello and Piko seated together on a dais or throne, and now and

then drinking some claret-red wine from an ivory bowl, too large to

have been wrought from an elephant’s tusk. They were in glorious good

spirits, shaking ivory coins in a skull.

“What says your majesty?” said Piko. “Heads or tails?”

“Oh, heads, your majesty,” said Hello.

“And heads say I,” said Piko.

And heads it was. But it was heads on both sides, so both were sure to

win.

And thus they were used to play merrily all day long; beheading the

gourds of claret by one slicing blow with their sickle-shaped scepters.

Wide round them lay empty calabashes, all feathered, red dyed, and

betasseled, trickling red wine from their necks, like the decapitated

pullets in the old baronial barn yard at Kenilworth, the night before

Queen Bess dined with my lord Leicester.

The first compliments over; and Media and Taji having met with a

reception suitable to their rank, the kings inquired, whether there

were any good javelin-flingers among us: for if that were the case,

they could furnish them plenty of sport. Informed, however, that none

of the party were professional warriors, their majesties looked rather

glum, and by way of chasing away the blues, called for some good old

stuff, that was red.

It seems, this soliciting guests, to keep their spears from decaying,

by cut and thrust play with their subjects, was a very common thing

with their illustrious majesties.

But if their visitors could not be prevailed upon to spear a subject or

so, our hospitable hosts resolved to have a few speared, and otherwise

served up for our special entertainment. In a word, our arrival

furnished a fine pretext for renewing their games; though, we learned,

that only ten days previous, upward of fifty combatants had been slain

at one of these festivals.

Be that as it might, their joint majesties determined upon another one;

and also upon our tarrying to behold it. We objected, saying we must

depart.

But we were kindly assured, that our canoes had been dragged out of the

water, and buried in a wood; there to remain till the games were over.

The day fixed upon, was the third subsequent to our arrival; the

interval being devoted to preparations; summoning from their villages

and valleys the warriors of the land; and publishing the royal

proclamations, whereby the unbounded hospitality of the kings’

household was freely offered to all heroes whatsoever, who for the love

of arms, and the honor of broken heads, desired to cross battle-clubs,

hurl spears, or die game in the royal valley of Deddo.

Meantime, the whole island was in a state of uproarious commotion, and

strangers were daily arriving.

The spot set apart for the festival, was a spacious down, mantled with

white asters; which, waving in windrows, lay upon the land, like the

cream-surf surging the milk of young heifers. But that whiteness, here

and there, was spotted with strawberries; tracking the plain, as if

wounded creatures had been dragging themselves bleeding from some

deadly encounter. All round the down, waved scarlet thickets of sumach,

moaning in the wind, like the gory ghosts environing Pharsalia the

night after the battle; scaring away the peasants, who with

bushel-baskets came to the jewel-harvest of the rings of Pompey’s

knights.

Beneath the heaped turf of this down, lay thousands of glorious corpses

of anonymous heroes, who here had died glorious deaths.

Whence, in the florid language of Diranda, they called this field “The

Field of Glory.”

CHAPTER XXXVI.

They Attend The Games

At last the third day dawned; and facing us upon entering the plain,

was a throne of red log-wood, canopied by the foliage of a red-dyed

Pandannus. Upon this throne, purple-robed, reclined those very

magnificent and illustrious lords seigniors, the lord seigniors Hello

and Piko. Before them, were many gourds of wine; and crosswise, staked

in the sod, their own royal spears.

In the middle of the down, as if by a furrow, a long, oval space was

margined of about which, a crowd of spectators were seated. Opposite

the throne, was reserved a clear passage to the arena, defined by

air-lines, indefinitely produced from the leveled points of two spears,

so poised by a brace of warriors.

Drawing near, our party was courteously received, and assigned a

commodious lounge.

The first encounter was a club-fight between two warriors. Nor casque

of steel, nor skull of Congo could have resisted their blows, had they

fallen upon the mark; for they seemed bent upon driving each other, as

stakes, into the earth. Presently, one of them faltered; but his

adversary rushing in to cleave him down, slipped against a guavarind;

when the falterer, with one lucky blow, high into the air sent the

stumbler’s club, which descended upon the crown of a spectator, who was

borne from the plain.

“All one,” muttered Pike.

“As good dead as another,” muttered Hello.

The second encounter was a hugging-match; wherein two warriors, masked

in Grisly-bear skins, hugged each other to death.

The third encounter was a bumping-match between a fat warrior and a

dwarf. Standing erect, his paunch like a bass-drum before a drummer,

the fat man was run at, head-a-tilt by the dwarf, and sent spinning

round on his axis.

The fourth encounter was a tussle between two-score warriors, who all

in a mass, writhed like the limbs in Sebastioni’s painting of Hades.

After obscuring themselves in a cloud of dust, these combatants,

uninjured, but hugely blowing, drew off; and separately going among the

spectators, rehearsed their experience of the fray.

“Braggarts!” mumbled Piko.

“Poltroons!” growled Hello.

While the crowd were applauding, a sober-sided observer, trying to rub

the dust out of his eyes, inquired of an enthusiastic neighbor, “Pray,

what was all that about?”

“Fool! saw you not the dust?”

“That I did,” said Sober-Sides, again rubbing his eyes, “But I can

raise a dust myself.”

The fifth encounter was a fight of single sticks between one hundred

warriors, fifty on a side.

In a line, the first fifty emerged from the sumachs, their weapons

interlocked in a sort of wicker-work. In advance marched a priest,

bearing an idol with a cracked cocoanut for a head,—Krako, the god of

Trepans. Preceded by damsels flinging flowers, now came on the second

fifty, gayly appareled, weapons poised, and their feet nimbly moving in

a martial measure.

Midway meeting, both parties touched poles, then retreated. Very

courteous, this; but tantamount to bowing each other out of Mardi; for

upon Pike’s tossing a javelin, they rushed in, and each striking his

man, all fell to the ground.

“Well done!” cried Piko.

“Brave fellows!” cried Hello.

“But up and at it again, my heroes!” joined both. “Lo! we kings look

on, and there stand the bards!”

These bards were a row of lean, sallow, old men, in thread-bare robes,

and chaplets of dead leaves.

“Strike up!” cried Piko.

“A stave!” cried Hello.

Whereupon, the old croakers, each with a quinsy, sang thus in cracked

strains:—

Quack! Quack! Quack!

With a toorooloo whack;

Hack away, merry men, hack away.

Who would not die brave,

His ear smote by a stave?

Thwack away, merry men, thwack away!

’Tis glory that calls,

To each hero that falls,

Hack away, merry men, hack away!

Quack! Quack! Quack!

Quack! Quack!

Quack!

Thus it tapered away.

“Ha, ha!” cried Piko, “how they prick their ears at that!”

“Hark ye, my invincibles!” cried Hello. “That pean is for the slain. So

all ye who have lives left, spring to it! Die and be glorified! Now’s

the time!—Strike up again, my ducklings!”

Thus incited, the survivors staggered to their feet; and hammering away

at each others’ sconces, till they rung like a chime of bells going off

with a triple-bob-major, they finally succeeded in immortalizing

themselves by quenching their mortalities all round; the bards still

singing.

“Never mind your music now,” cried Piko.

“It’s all over,” said Hello.

“What valiant fellows we have for subjects,” cried Piko.

“Ho! grave-diggers, clear the field,” cried Hello.

“Who else is for glory?” cried Piko.

“There stand the bards!” cried Hello.

But now there rushed among the crowd a haggard figure, trickling with

blood, and wearing a robe, whose edges were burned and blacked by fire.

Wielding a club, it ran to and fro, with loud yells menacing all.

A noted warrior this; who, distracted at the death of five sons slain

in recent games, wandered from valley to valley, wrestling and

fighting.

With wild cries of “The Despairer! The Despairer!” the appalled

multitude fled; leaving the two kings frozen on their throne, quaking

and quailing, their teeth rattling like dice.

The Despairer strode toward them; when, recovering their senses, they

ran; for a time pursued through the woods by the phantom.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

Taji Still Hunted, And Beckoned

Previous to the kings’ flight, we had plunged into the neighboring

woods; and from thence emerging, entered brakes of cane, sprouting from

morasses. Soon we heard a whirring, as if three startled partridges had

taken wing; it proved three feathered arrows, from three unseen hands.

Gracing us, two buried in the ground, but from Taji’s arm, the third

drew blood.

On all sides round we turned; but none were seen. “Still the avengers

follow,” said Babbalanja.

“Lo! the damsels three!” cried Yoomy. “Look where they come!”

We joined them by the sumach-wood’s red skirts; and there, they waved

their cherry stalks, and heavy bloated cactus leaves, their crimson

blossoms armed with nettles; and before us flung shining, yellow,

tiger-flowers spotted red.

“Blood!” cried Yoomy, starting, “and leopards on your track!”

And now the syrens blew through long reeds, tasseled with their

panicles, and waving verdant scarfs of vines, came dancing toward us,

proffering clustering grapes.

“For all now yours, Taji; and all that yet may come,” cried Yoomy, “fly

to me! I will dance away your gloom, and drown it in inebriation.”

“Away! woe is its own wine. What may be mine, that will I endure, in

its own essence to the quick. Let me feel the poniard if it stabs.”

They vanished in the wood; and hurrying on, we soon gained sun-light,

and the open glade.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

They Embark From Diranda

Arrived at the Sign of the Skulls, we found the illustrious lord

seigniors at rest from their flight, and once more, quaffing their

claret, all thoughts of the specter departed. Instead of rattling their

own ivory iii the heads on their shoulders, they were rattling their

dice in the skulls in their hands. And still “Heads,” was the cry, and

“Heads,” was the throw.

That evening they made known to my lord Media that an interval of two

days must elapse ere the games were renewed, in order to reward the

victors, bury their dead, and provide for the execution of an Islander,

who under the provocation of a blow, had killed a stranger.

As this suspension of the festivities had been wholly unforeseen, our

hosts were induced to withdraw the embargo laid upon our canoes.

Nevertheless, they pressed us to remain; saying, that what was to come

would far exceed in interest, what had already taken place. The games

in prospect being of a naval description, embracing certain

hand-to-hand contests in the water between shoals of web-footed

warriors.

However, we decided to embark on the morrow.

It was in the cool of the early morning, at that hour when a man’s face

can be known, that we set sail from Diranda; and in the ghostly

twilight, our thoughts reverted to the phantom that so suddenly had

cleared the plain. With interest we hearkened to the recitals of Mohi;

who discoursing of the sad end of many brave chieftains in Mardi, made

allusion to the youthful Adondo, one of the most famous of the chiefs

of the chronicles. In a canoe-fight, after performing prodigies of

valor; he was wounded in the head, and sunk to the bottom of the

lagoon.

“There is a noble monody upon the death of Adondo,” said Yoomy. “Shall

I sing it, my lord? It. is very beautiful; nor could I ever repeat it

without a tear.”

“We will dispense with your tears, minstrel,” said Media, “but sing it,

if you will.”

And Yoomy sang:—

Departed the pride and the glory of Mardi:

The vaunt of her isles sleeps deep in the sea,

That rolls o’er his corpse with a hush.

His warriors bend over their spears,

His sisters gaze upward and mourn.

Weep, weep, for Adondo, is dead!

The sun has gone down in a shower;

Buried in clouds in the face of the moon;

Tears stand in the eyes of the starry skies,

And stand in the eyes of the flowers;

And streams of tears are the trickling brooks,

Coursing adown the mountains.—

Departed the pride, and the glory of Mardi:

The vaunt of her isles sleeps deep in the sea.

Fast falls the small rain on its bosom that sobs.—

Not showers of rain, but the tears of Oro.

“A dismal time it must have been,” yawned Media, “not a dry brook then

in Mardi, not a lake that was not moist. Lachrymose rivulets, and

inconsolable lagoons! Call you this poetry, minstrel?”

“Mohi has something like a tear in his eye,” said Yoomy.

“False!” cried Mohi, brushing it aside.

“Who composed that monody?” said Babbalanja. “I have often heard it

before.”

“None know, Babbalanja but the poet must be still singing to himself;

his songs bursting through the turf in the flowers over his grave.”

“But gentle Yoomy, Adondo is a legendary hero, indefinitely dating

back. May not his monody, then, be a spontaneous melody, that has been

with us since Mardi began? What bard composed the soft verses that our

palm boughs sing at even? Nay, Yoomy, that monody was not written by

man.”

“Ah! Would that I had been the poet, Babbalanja; for then had I been

famous indeed; those lines are chanted through all the isles, by prince

and peasant. Yes, Adondo’s monody will pervade the ages, like the low

under-tone you hear, when many singers do sing.”

“My lord, my lord,” cried Babbalanja, “but this were to be truly

immortal;—to be perpetuated in our works, and not in our names. Let me,

oh Oro! be anonymously known!”

CHAPTER XXXIX.

Wherein Babbalanja Discourses Of Himself

An interval of silence was at last broken by Babbalanja.

Pointing to the sun, just gaining the horizon, he exclaimed, “As old

Bardianna says—shut your eyes, and believe.”

“And what may Bardianna have to do with yonder orb?” said Media.

This much, my lord, the astronomers maintain that Mardi moves round the

sun; which I, who never formally investigated the matter for myself,

can by no means credit; unless, plainly seeing one thing, I blindly

believe another. Yet even thus blindly does all Mardi subscribe to an

astronomical system, which not one in fifty thousand can astronomically

prove. And not many centuries back, my lord, all Mardi did equally

subscribe to an astronomical system, precisely the reverse of that

which they now believe. But the mass of Mardians have not as much

reason to believe the first system, as the exploded one; for all who

have eyes must assuredly see, that the sun seems to move, and that

Mardi seems a fixture, eternally _here_. But doubtless there are

theories which may be true, though the face of things belie them.

Hence, in such cases, to the ignorant, disbelief would seem more

natural than faith; though they too often reject the testimony of their

own senses, for what to them, is a mere hypothesis. And thus, my lord,

is it, that the mass of Mardians do not believe because they know, but

because they know not. And they are as ready to receive one thing as

another, if it comes from a canonical source. My lord, Mardi is as an

ostrich, which will swallow augh you offer, even a bar of iron, if

placed endwise. And though the iron be indigestible, yet it serves to

fill: in feeding, the end proposed. For Mardi must have something to

exercise its digestion, though that something be forever indigestible.

And as fishermen for sport, throw two lumps of bait, united by a cord,

to albatrosses floating on the sea; which are greedily attempted to be

swallowed, one lump by this fowl, the other by that; but forever are

kept reciprocally going up and down in them, by means of the cord; even

so, my lord, do I sometimes fancy, that our theorists divert

them-selves with the greediness of Mardians to believe.”

“Ha, ha,” cried Media, “methinks this must be Azzageddi who speaks.”

“No, my lord; not long since, Azzageddi received a furlough to go home

and warm himself for a while. But this leaves me not alone.”

“How?”

“My lord,—for the present putting Azzageddi entirely aside,—though I

have now been upon terms of close companionship with myself for nigh

five hundred moons, I have not yet been able to decide who or what I

am. To you, perhaps, I seem Babbalanja; but to myself, I seem not

myself. All I am sure of, is a sort of prickly sensation all over me,

which they call life; and, occasionally, a headache or a queer conceit

admonishes me, that there is something astir in my attic. But how know

I, that these sensations are identical with myself? For aught I know, I

may be somebody else. At any rate, I keep an eye on myself, as I would

on a stranger. There is something going on in me, that is independent

of me. Many a time, have I willed to do one thing, and another has been

done. I will not say by myself, for I was not consulted about it; it

was done instinctively. My most virtuous thoughts are not born of my

musings, but spring up in me, like bright fancies to the poet;

unsought, spontaneous. Whence they come I know not. I am a blind man

pushed from behind; in vain, I turn about to see what propels me. As

vanity, I regard the praises of my friends; for what they commend

pertains not to me, Babbalanja; but to this unknown something that

forces me to it. But why am I, a middle aged Mardian, less prone to

excesses than when a youth? The same inducements and allurements are

around me. But no; my more ardent passions are burned out; those which

are strongest when we are least able to resist them. Thus, then, my

lord, it is not so much outer temptations that prevail over us mortals;

but inward instincts.”

“A very curious speculation,” said Media. But Babbalanja, have you

mortals no moral sense, as they call it?”

“We have. But the thing you speak of is but an after-birth; we eat and

drink many months before we are conscious of thoughts. And though some

adults would seem to refer all their actions to this moral sense, yet,

in reality, it is not so; for, dominant in them, their moral sense

bridles their instinctive passions; wherefore, they do not govern

themselves, but are governed by their very natures. Thus, some men in

youth are constitutionally as staid as I am now. But shall we pronounce

them pious and worthy youths for this? Does he abstain, who is not

incited? And on the other hand, if the instinctive passions through

life naturally have the supremacy over the moral sense, as in extreme

cases we see it developed in irreclaimable malefactors,—shall we

pronounce such, criminal and detestable wretches? My lord, it is easier

for some men to be saints, than for others not to be sinners.”

“That will do, Babbalanja; you are on the verge, take not the leap! Go

back whence you set out, and tell us of that other, and still more

mysterious Azzageddi; him whom you hinted to have palmed himself off on

you for you yourself.”

“Well, then, my lord,—Azzageddi still set aside,—upon that self-same

inscrutable stranger, I charge all those past actions of mine, which in

the retrospect appear to me such eminent folly, that I am confident, it

was not I, Babbalanja, now speaking, that committed them. Nevertheless,

my lord, this very day I may do some act, which at a future period may

seem equally senseless; for in one lifetime we live a hundred lives. By

the incomprehensible stranger in me, I say, this body of mine has been

rented out scores of times, though always one dark chamber in me is

retained by the old mystery.”

“Will you never come to the mark, Babbalanja? Tell me something direct

of the stranger. Who, what is he? Introduce him.”

“My lord, I can not. He is locked up in me. In a mask, he dodges me. He

prowls about in me, hither and thither; he peers, and I stare. This is

he who talks in my sleep, revealing my secrets; and takes me to unheard

of realms, beyond the skies of Mardi. So present is he always, that I

seem not so much to live of myself, as to be a mere apprehension of the

unaccountable being that is in me. Yet all the time, this being is I,

myself.”

“Babbalanja,” said Media, “you have fairly turned yourself inside out.”

“Yes, my lord,” said Mohi, “and he has so unsettled me, that I begin to

think all Mardi a square circle.”

“How is that, Babbalanja,” said Media, “is a circle square?”

“No, my lord, but ever since Mardi began, we Mardians have been

essaying our best to square it.”

“Cleverly retorted. Now, Babbalanja, do you not imagine, that you may

do harm by disseminating these sophisms of yours; which like your devil

theory, would seem to relieve all Mardi from moral accountability?”

“My lord, at bottom, men wear no bonds that other men can strike off;

and have no immunities, of which other men can deprive them. Tell a

good man that he is free to commit murder,—will he murder? Tell a

murderer that at the peril of his soul he indulges in murderous

thoughts,—will that make him a saint?”

“Again on the verge, Babbalanja? Take not the leap, I say.”

“I can leap no more, my lord. Already I am down, down, down.”

“Philosopher,” said Media, “what with Azzageddi, and the mysterious

indweller you darkly hint of, I marvel not that you are puzzled to

decide upon your identity. But when do you seem most yourself?”

“When I sleep, and dream not, my lord.”

“Indeed?”