“Why then, a fool’s cap might be put on you, and you would not know

it.”

“The very turban he ought to wear,” muttered Mohi.

“Yet, my lord, I live while consciousness is not mine, while to all

appearances I am a clod. And may not this same state of being, though

but alternate with me, be continually that of many dumb, passive

objects we so carelessly regard? Trust me, there are more things alive

than those that crawl, or fly, or swim. Think you, my lord, there is no

sensation in being a tree? feeling the sap in one’s boughs, the breeze

in one’s foliage? think you it is nothing to be a world? one of a herd,

bison-like, wending its way across boundless meadows of ether? In the

sight of a fowl, that sees not our souls, what are our own tokens of

animation? That we move, make a noise, have organs, pulses, and are

compounded of fluids and solids. And all these are in this Mardi as a

unit. Daily the slow, majestic throbbings of its heart are perceptible

on the surface in the tides of the la-goon. Its rivers are its veins;

when agonized, earthquakes are its throes; it shouts in the thunder,

and weeps in the shower; and as the body of a bison is covered with

hair, so Mardi is covered with grasses and vegetation, among which, we

parasitical things do but crawl, vexing and tormenting the patient

creature to which we cling. Nor yet, hath it recovered from the pain of

the first foundation that was laid. Mardi is alive to its axis. When

you pour water, does it not gurgle? When you strike a pearl shell, does

it not ring? Think you there is no sensation in being a rock?—To exist,

is to be; to be, is to be something: to be something, is—”

“Go on,” said Media.

“And what is it, to be something?” said Yoomy artlessly. “Bethink

yourself of what went before,” said Media.

“Lose not the thread,” said Mohi.

“It has snapped,” said Babbalanja.

“I breathe again,” said Mohi.

“But what a stepping-off place you came to then, philosopher,” said

Media. “By the way, is it not old Bardianna who says, that no Mardian

should undertake to walk, without keeping one foot foremost?”

“To return to the vagueness of the notion I have of myself,” said

Babbalanja.

“An appropriate theme,” said Media, “proceed.”

“My lord,” murmured Mohi, “Is not this philosopher like a centipede?

Cut off his head, and still he crawls.”

“There are times when I fancy myself a lunatic,” resumed Babbalanja.

“Ah, now he’s beginning to talk sense,” whispered Mohi.

“Surely you forget, Babbalanja,” said Media. “How many more theories

have you? First, you are possessed by a devil; then rent yourself out

to the indweller; and now turn yourself into a mad-house. You are

inconsistent.”

“And for that very reason, my lord, not inconsistent; for the sum of my

inconsistencies makes up my consistency. And to be consistent to one’s

self, is often to be inconsistent to Mardi. Common consistency implies

unchangeableness; but much of the wisdom here below lives in a state of

transition.”

“Ah!” murmured Mold, “my head goes round again.”

“Azzageddi aside, then, my lord, and also, for the nonce, the

mysterious indweller, I come now to treat of myself as a lunatic. But

this last conceit is not so much based upon the madness of particular

actions, as upon the whole drift of my ordinary and hourly ones; those,

in which I most resemble all other Mardians. It seems like going

through with some nonsensical whim-whams, destitute of fixed purpose.

For though many of my actions seem to have objects, and all of them

somehow run into each other; yet, where is the grand result? To what

final purpose, do I walk about, eat, think, dream? To what great end,

does Mohi there, now stroke his beard?”

“But I was doing it unconsciously,” said Mohi, dropping his hand, and

lifting his head.

“Just what I would be at, old man. ‘What we do, we do blindly,’ says

old Bardianna. Many things we do, we do without knowing,—as with you

and your beard, Mohi. And many others we know not, in their true

bearing at least, till they are past. Are not half our lives spent in

reproaches for foregone actions, of the true nature and consequences of

which, we were wholly ignorant at the time? Says old Bardianna, ‘Did I

not so often feel an appetite for my yams, I should think every thing a

dream;’—so puzzling to him, seemed the things of this Mardi. But

Alla-Malolla goes further. Says he, ‘Let us club together,

fellow-riddles:—Kings, clowns, and intermediates. We are bundles of

comical sensations; we bejuggle ourselves into strange phantasies: we

are air, wind, breath, bubbles; our being is told in a tick.’”

“Now, then, Babbalanja,” said Media, “what have you come to in all this

rhapsody? You everlastingly travel in a circle.”

“And so does the sun in heaven, my lord; like me, it goes round, and

gives light as it goes. Old Bardianna, too, revolved. He says so

himself. In his roundabout chapter on Cycles and Epicycles, with Notes

on the Ecliptic, he thus discourseth:—‘All things revolve upon some

center, to them, fixed; for the centripetal is ever too much for the

centrifugal. Wherefore, it is a perpetual cycling with us, without

progression; and we fly round, whether we will or no. To stop, were to

sink into space. So, over and over we go, and round and round;

double-shuffle, on our axis, and round the sun.’ In an another place,

he says:—‘There is neither apogee nor perigee, north nor south, right

nor left; what to-night is our zenith, to-morrow is our nadir; stand as

we will, we stand on our heads; essay to spring into the air, and down

we come; here we stick; our very bones make glue.’”

“Enough, enough, Babbalanja,” cried Media. “You are a very wise

Mardian; but the wisest Mardians make the most consummate fools.”

“So they do, my lord; but I was interrupted. I was about to say, that

there is no place but the universe; no limit but the limitless; no

bottom but the bottomless.”

CHAPTER XL.

Of The Sorcerers In The Isle Of Minda

“Tiffin! tiffin!” cried Media; “time for tiffin! Up, comrades! and

while the mat is being spread, walk we to the bow, and inhale the

breeze for an appetite. Hark ye, Vee-Vee! forget not that calabash with

the sea-blue seal, and a round ring for a brand. Rare old stuff, that,

Mohi; older than you: the circumnavigator, I call it. My sire had a

canoe launched for the express purpose of carrying it thrice round

Mardi for a flavor. It was many moons on the voyage; the mariners never

sailed faster than three knots. Ten would spoil the best wine ever

floated.”

Tiffin over, and the blue-sealed calabash all but hid in the great

cloud raised by our pipes, Media proposed to board it in the smoke. So,

goblet in hand, we all gallantly charged, and came off victorious from

the fray.

Then seated again, and serenely puffing in a circle, the

circumnavigator meanwhile pleasantly going the rounds, Media called

upon Mohi for something entertaining.

Now, of all the old gossips in Mardi, surely our delightful old

Diodorus was furnished with the greatest possible variety of histories,

chronicles, anecdotes, memoirs, legends, traditions, and biographies.

There was no end to the library he carried. In himself, he was the

whole history of Mardi, amplified, not abridged, in one volume.

In obedience, then, to King Media’s command, Mohi regaled the company

with a narrative, in substance as follows:—

In a certain quarter of the Archipelago was an island called Minda; and

in Minda were many sorcerers, employed in the social differences and

animosities of the people of that unfortunate land. If a Mindarian

deemed himself aggrieved or insulted by a countryman, he forthwith

repaired to one of these sorcerers; who, for an adequate consideration,

set to work with his spells, keeping himself in the dark, and directing

them against the obnoxious individual. And full soon, by certain

peculiar sensations, this individual, discovering what was going on,

would straightway hie to his own professor of the sable art, who, being

well feed, in due time brought about certain counter-charms, so that in

the end it sometimes fell out that neither party was gainer or loser,

save by the sum of his fees.

But the worst of it was, that in some cases all knowledge of these

spells were at the outset hidden from the victim; who, hearing too late

of the mischief brewing, almost always fell a prey to his foe; which

calamity was held the height of the art. But as the great body of

sorcerers were about matched in point of skill, it followed that the

parties employing them were so likewise. Hence arose those interminable

contests, in which many moons were spent, both parties toiling after

their common destruction.

Indeed, to say nothing of the obstinacy evinced by their employers, it

was marvelous, the pertinacity of the sorcerers themselves. To the very

last tooth in their employer’s pouches, they would stick to their

spells; never giving over till he was financially or physically

defunct.

But much as they were vilified, no people in Minda were half so

disinterested as they. Certain indispensable conditions secured, some

of them were as ready to undertake the perdition of one man as another;

good, bad, or indifferent, it made little matter.

What wonder, then, that such abominable mercenaries should cause a

mighty deal of mischief in Minda; privately going about, inciting

peaceable folks to enmities with their neighbors; and with marvelous

alacrity, proposing themselves as the very sorcerers to rid them of the

annoyances suggested as existing.

Indeed, it even happened that a sorcerer would be secretly retained to

work spells upon a victim, who, from his bodily sensations, suspecting

something wrong, but knowing not what, would repair to that self-same

sorcerer, engaging him to counteract any mischief that might be

brewing. And this worthy would at once undertake the business; when,

having both parties in his hands, he kept them forever in suspense;

meanwhile seeing to it well, that they failed not in handsomely

remunerating him for his pains.

At one time, there was a prodigious excitement about these sorcerers,

growing out of some alarming revelations concerning their practices. In

several villages of Minda, they were sought to be put down. But

fruitless the attempt; it was soon discovered that already their spells

were so spread abroad, and they themselves so mixed up with the

everyday affairs of the isle, that it was better to let their vocation

alone, than, by endeavoring to suppress it, breed additional troubles.

Ah! they were a knowing and a cunning set, those sorcerers; very hard

to overcome, cajole, or circumvent.

But in the name of the Magi, what were these spells of theirs, so

potent and occult? On all hands it was agreed, that they derived their

greatest virtue from the fumes of certain compounds, whose

ingredients—horrible to tell—were mostly obtained from the human heart;

and that by variously mixing these ingredients, they adapted their

multifarious enchantments.

They were a vain and arrogant race. Upon the strength of their dealing

in the dark, they affected even more mystery than belonged to them;

when interrogated concerning their science, would confound the inquirer

by answers couched in an extraordinary jargon, employing words almost

as long as anacondas. But all this greatly prevailed with the common

people.

Nor was it one of the least remarkable things, that oftentimes two

sorcerers, contrarily employed upon a Mindarian,—one to attack, the

other to defend,—would nevertheless be upon the most friendly terms

with each other; which curious circumstance never begat the slightest

suspicions in the mind of the victim.

Another phenomenon: If from any cause, two sorcerers fell out, they

seldom exercised their spells upon each other; ascribable to this,

perhaps,—that both being versed in the art, neither could hope to get

the advantage.

But for all the opprobrium cast upon these sorcerers, part of which

they deserved, the evils imputed to them were mainly, though

indirectly, ascribable to the very persons who abused them; nay, to the

very persons who employed them; the latter being by far the loudest in

their vilifyings; for which, indeed, they had excellent reason.

Nor was it to be denied, that in certain respects, the sorcerers were

productive of considerable good. The nature of their pursuits leading

them deep into the arcana of mind, they often lighted upon important

discoveries; along with much that was cumbersome, accumulated valuable

examples concerning the inner working of the hearts of the Mindarians;

and often waxed eloquent in elucidating the mysteries of iniquity.

Yet was all this their lore graven upon so uncouth, outlandish, and

antiquated tablets, that it was all but lost to the mass of their

countrymen; and some old sachem of a wise man is quoted as having said,

that their treasures were locked up after such a fashion, that for old

iron, the key was worth more than the chest and its contents.

CHAPTER XLI.

Chiefly Of Sing Bello

“Now Taji,” said Media, “with old Bello of the Hump whose island of

Dominora is before us, I am at variance.”

“Ah! How so?”

“A dull recital, but you shall have it.”

And forthwith his Highness began.

This princely quarrel originated, it seems, in a slight jostling

concerning the proprietorship of a barren islet in a very remote

quarter of the lagoon. At the outset the matter might have been easily

adjusted, had the parties but exchanged a few amicable words. But each

disdaining to visit the other, to discuss so trivial an affair, the

business of negotiating an understanding was committed to certain

plenipos, men with lengthy tongues, who scorned to utter a word short

of a polysyllable.

Now, the more these worthies penetrated into the difficulty, the wider

became the breach; till what was at first a mere gap, became a yawning

gulf.

But that which had perhaps tended more than any thing else to deepen

the variance of the kings, was hump-backed Bello’s dispatching to Odo,

as his thirtieth plenipo, a diminutive little negotiator, who all by

himself, in a solitary canoe, sailed over to have audience of Media;

into whose presence he was immediately ushered.

Darting one glance at him, the king turned to his chieftains, and

said:—“By much straining of your eyes, my lords, can you perceive this

insignificant manikin? What! are there no tall men in Dominora, that

King Bello must needs send this dwarf hither?”

And charging his attendents to feed the embassador extraordinary with

the soft pap of the cocoanut, and provide nurses during his stay, the

monarch retired from the arbor of audience.

“As I am a man,” shouted the despised plenipo, raising himself on his

toes, “my royal master will resent this affront!—A dwarf, forsooth!—

Thank Oro, I am no long-drawn giant! There is as much stuff in me, as

in others; what is spread out in their clumsy carcasses, in me is

condensed. I am much in little! And that much, thou shalt know full

soon, disdainful King of Odo!”

“Speak not against our lord the king,” cried the attendants.

“And speak not ye to me, ye headless spear poles!”

And so saying, under sufferance of being small, the plenipo was

permitted to depart unmolested; for all his bravadoes, fobbing his

credentials and affronts.

Apprized of his servant’s ignoble reception, the choleric Bello burst

forth in a storm of passion; issuing orders for, one thousand conch

shells to be blown, and his warriors to assemble by land and by sea.

But bethinking him of the hostilities that might ensue, the sagacious

Media hit upon an honorable expedient to ward off an event for which he

was then unprepared. With all haste he dispatched to the hump-backed

king a little dwarf of his own; who voyaging over to Dominora in a

canoe, sorry and solitary as that of Bello’s plenipo, in like manner,

received the same insults. The effect whereof, was, to strike a balance

of affronts; upon the principle, that a blow given, heals one received.

Nevertheless, these proceedings but amounted to a postponement of

hostilities; for soon after, nothing prevented the two kings from

plunging into war, but the following judicious considerations. First:

Media was almost afraid of being beaten. Second: Bello was almost

afraid to conquer. Media, because he was inferior in men and arms;

Bello, because, his aggrandizement was already a subject of warlike

comment among the neighboring kings.

Indeed, did the old chronicler Braid-Beard speak truth, there were some

tribes in Mardi, that accounted this king of Dominora a testy,

quarrelsome, rapacious old monarch; the indefatigable breeder of

contentions and wars; the elder brother of this household of nations,

perpetually essaying to lord it over the juveniles; and though his

patrimonial dominions were situated to the north of the lagoon, not the

slightest misunderstanding took place between the rulers of the most

distant islands, than this doughty old cavalier on a throne, forthwith

thrust his insolent spear into the matter, though it in no wise

concerned him, and fell to irritating all parties by his gratuitous

interference.

Especially was he officious in the concerns of Porpheero, a neighboring

island, very large and famous, whose numerous broad valleys were

divided among many rival kings:—the king of Franko, a small-framed,

poodle-haired, fine, fiery gallant; finical in his tatooing; much given

to the dance and glory;—the king of Ibeereea, a tall and stately

cavalier, proud, generous, punctilious, temperate in wine; one hand

forever on his javelin, the other, in superstitious homage, lifted to

his gods; his limbs all over marks of stakes and crosses;—the king of

Luzianna; a slender, dark-browed thief; at times wrapped in a moody

robe, beneath which he fumbled something, as if it were a dagger; but

otherwise a sprightly troubadour, given to serenades and

moonlight;—-the many chiefs of sunny Latianna; minstrel monarchs, full

of song and sentiment; fiercer in love than war; glorious bards of

freedom; but rendering tribute while they sang;—the priest-king of

Vatikanna; his chest marked over with antique tatooings; his crown, a

cowl; his rusted scepter swaying over falling towers, and crumbling

mounds; full of the superstitious past; askance, eyeing the suspicious

time to come;—the king of Hapzaboro; portly, pleasant; a lover of wild

boar’s meat; a frequent quaffer from the can; in his better moods, much

fancying solid comfort;—the eight-and-thirty banded kings, chieftains,

seigniors, and oligarchies of the broad hill and dale of Tutoni;

clubbing together their domains, that none might wrest his neighbor’s;

an earnest race; deep thinkers, deeper drinkers; long pipes, long

heads; their wise ones given to mystic cogitations, and consultations

with the devil;—the twin kings of Zandinavia; hardy, frugal

mountaineers; upright of spine and heart; clad in skins of bears;—the

king of Jutlanda; much like their Highnesses of Zandinavia; a seal-skin

cap his crown; a fearless sailor of his frigid seas;—the king of

Muzkovi; a shaggy, icicled White-bear of a despot in the north; said to

reign over millions of acres of glaciers; had vast provinces of

snow-drifts, and many flourishing colonies among the floating icebergs.

Absolute in his rule as Predestination in metaphysics, did he command

all his people to give up the ghost, it would be held treason to die

last. Very precise and foppish in his imperial tastes was this monarch.

Disgusted with the want of uniformity in the stature of his subjects,

he was said to nourish thoughts of killing off all those below his

prescribed standard—six feet, long measure. Immortal souls were of no

account in his fatal wars; since, in some of his serf-breeding estates,

they were daily manufactured to order.

Now, to all the above-mentioned monarchs, old Bello would frequently

dispatch heralds; announcing, for example, his unalterable resolution,

to espouse the cause of this king, against that; at the very time,

perhaps, that their Serene Superfluities, instead of crossing spears,

were touching flagons. And upon these occasions, the kings would often

send back word to old Bello, that instead of troubling himself with

their concerns, he might far better attend to his own; which, they

hinted, were in a sad way, and much needed reform.

The royal old warrior’s pretext for these and all similar proceedings,

was the proper adjustment in Porpheero, of what he facetiously styled

the “Equipoise of Calabashes;” which he stoutly swore was essential to

the security of the various tribes in that country.

“But who put the balance into thy hands, King Bello?” cried the

indignant nations.

“Oro!” shouted the hump-backed king, shaking his javelin.

Superadded to the paternal interest which Bello betrayed in the

concerns of the kings of Porpheero, according to our chronicler, he

also manifested no less interest in those of the remotest islands.

Indeed, where he found a rich country, inhabited by a people, deemed by

him barbarous and incapable of wise legislation, he sometimes relieved

them from their political anxieties, by assuming the dictatorship over

them. And if incensed at his conduct, they flew to their spears, they

were accounted rebels, and treated accordingly. But as old Mohi very

truly observed,—herein, Bello was not alone; for throughout Mardi, all

strong nations, as well as all strong men, loved to govern the weak.

And those who most taunted King Bello for his political rapacity, were

open to the very same charge. So with Vivenza, a distant island, at

times very loud in denunciations of Bello, as a great national brigand.

Not yet wholly extinct in Vivenza, were its aboriginal people, a race

of wild Nimrods and hunters, who year by year were driven further and

further into remoteness, till as one of their sad warriors said, after

continual removes along the log, his race was on the point of being

remorselessly pushed off the end.

Now, Bello was a great geographer, and land surveyor, and gauger of the

seas. Terraqueous Mardi, he was continually exploring in quest of

strange empires. Much he loved to take the altitude of lofty mountains,

the depth of deep rivers, the breadth of broad isles. Upon the highest

pinnacles of commanding capes and promontories, he loved to hoist his

flag. He circled Mardi with his watch-towers: and the distant voyager

passing wild rocks in the remotest waters, was startled by hearing the

tattoo, or the reveille, beating from hump-backed Bello’s omnipresent

drum. Among Antartic glaciers, his shrill bugle calls mingled with the

scream of the gulls; and so impressed seemed universal nature with the

sense of his dominion, that the very clouds in heaven never sailed over

Dominora without rendering the tribute of a shower; whence the air of

Dominora was more moist than that of any other clime.

In all his grand undertakings, King Bello was marvelously assisted by

his numerous fleets of war-canoes; his navy being the largest in Mardi.

Hence his logicians swore that the entire Lagoon was his; and that all

prowling whales, prowling keels, and prowling sharks were invaders. And

with this fine conceit to inspire them, his poets-laureat composed some

glorious old saltwater odes, enough to make your very soul sing to hear

them.

But though the rest of Mardi much delighted to list to such noble

minstrelsy, they agreed not with Bello’s poets in deeming the lagoon

their old monarch’s hereditary domain.

Once upon a time, the paddlers of the hump-backed king, meeting upon

the broad lagoon certain canoes belonging to the before-mentioned

island of Vivenza; these paddlers seized upon several of their

occupants; and feeling their pulses, declared them born men of

Dominora; and therefore, not free to go whithersoever they would; for,

unless they could somehow get themselves born over again, they must

forever remain subject to Bello. Shed your hair; nay, your skin, if you

will, but shed your allegiance you can not; while you have bones, they

are Bello’s. So, spite of all expostulations and attempts to prove

alibis, these luckless paddlers were dragged into the canoes of

Dominora, and commanded to paddle home their captors.

Whereof hearing, the men of Vivenza were thrown into a great ferment;

and after a mighty pow-wow over their council fire, fitting out several

double-keeled canoes, they sallied out to sea, in quest of those, whom

they styled the wholesale corsairs of Dominora.

But lucky perhaps it was, that at this juncture, in all parts of Mardi,

the fleets of the hump-backed king, were fighting, gunwale and gunwale,

alongside of numerous foes; else there had borne down upon the canoes

of the men of Vivenza so tremendous an armada, that the very swell

under its thousand prows might have flooded their scattered proas

forever out of sight.

As it was, Bello dispatched a few of his smaller craft to seek out, and

incidentally run down the enemy; and without returning home,

straightway proceed upon more important enterprises.

But it so chanced, that Bello’s crafts, one by one meeting the foe, in

most cases found the canoes of Vivenza much larger than their own; and

manned by more men, with hearts bold as theirs; whence, in the

ship-duels that ensued, they were worsted; and the canoes of Vivenza,

locking their yard-arms into those of the vanquished, very courteously

gallanted them into their coral harbors.

Solely imputing these victories to their superior intrepidity and

skill, the people of Vivenza were exceedingly boisterous in their

triumph; raising such obstreperous peans, that they gave themselves

hoarse throats; insomuch, that according to Mohi, some of the present

generation are fain to speak through their noses.

CHAPTER XLII.

Dominora And Vivenza

The three canoes still gliding on, some further particulars were

narrated concerning Dominora; and incidentally, of other isles.

It seems that his love of wide dominion sometimes led the otherwise

sagacious Bello into the most extravagant actions. If the chance

accumulation of soil and drift-wood about any detached shelf of coral

in the lagoon held forth the remotest possibility of the eventual

existence of an islet there, with all haste he dispatched canoes to the

spot, to take prospective possession of the as yet nearly submarine

territory; and if possible, eject the zoophytes.

During an unusually low tide, here and there baring the outer reef of

the Archipelago, Bello caused his royal spear to be planted upon every

place thus exposed, in token of his supreme claim thereto.

Another anecdote was this: that to Dominora there came a rumor, that in

a distant island dwelt a man with an uncommonly large nose; of most

portentous dimensions, indeed; by the soothsayers supposed to

foreshadow some dreadful calamity. But disregarding these superstitious

conceits, Bello forthwith dispatched an agent, to discover whether this

huge promontory of a nose was geographically available; if so, to

secure the same, by bringing the proprietor back.

Now, by sapient old Mohi, it was esteemed a very happy thing for Mardi

at large, that the subjects whom Bello sent to populate his foreign

acquisitions, were but too apt to throw off their vassalage, so soon as

they deemed themselves able to cope with him.

Indeed, a fine country in the western part of Mardi, in this very

manner, became a sovereign—nay, a republican state. It was the nation

to which Mohi had previously alluded—Vivenza. But in the flush and

pride of having recently attained their national majority, the men of

Vivenza were perhaps too much inclined to carry a vauntful crest. And

because intrenched in their fastnesses, after much protracted fighting,

they had eventually succeeded in repelling the warriors dispatched by

Bello to crush their insurrection, they were unanimous in the opinion,

that the hump-backed king had never before been so signally chastised.

Whereas, they had not so much vanquished Bello, as defended their

shores; even as a young lion will protect its den against legions of

unicorns, though, away from home, he might be torn to pieces. In truth,

Braid-Beard declared, that at the time of this war, Dominora couched

ten long spears for every short javelin Vivenza could dart; though the

javelins were stoutly hurled as the spears.

But, superior in men and arms, why, at last, gave over King Bello the

hope of reducing those truculent men of Vivenza? One reason was, as

Mohi said, that many of his fighting men were abundantly occupied in

other quarters of Mardi; nor was he long in discovering that fight he

never so valiantly, Vivenza—not yet its inhabitants—was wholly

unconquerable. Thought Bello, Mountains are sturdy foes; fate hard to

dam.

Yet, the men of Vivenza were no dastards; not to lie, coming from

lion-like loins, they were a lion-loined race. Did not their bards

pronounce them a fresh start in the Mardian species; requiring a new

world for their full development? For be it known, that the great land

of Kolumbo, no inconsiderable part of which was embraced by Vivenza,

was the last island discovered in the Archipelago.

In good round truth, and as if an impartialist from Arcturus spoke it,

Vivenza was a noble land. Like a young tropic tree she stood, laden

down with greenness, myriad blossoms, and the ripened fruit

thick-hanging from one bough. She was promising as the morning.

Or Vivenza might be likened to St. John, feeding on locusts and wild

honey, and with prophetic voice, crying to the nations from the

wilderness. Or, child-like, standing among the old robed kings and

emperors of the Archipelago, Vivenza seemed a young Messiah, to whose

discourse the bearded Rabbis bowed.

So seemed Vivenza in its better aspect. Nevertheless, Vivenza was a

braggadocio in Mardi; the only brave one ever known. As an army of

spurred and crested roosters, her people chanticleered at the

resplendent rising of their sun. For shame, Vivenza! Whence thy

undoubted valor? Did ye not bring it with ye from the bold old shores

of Dominora, where there is a fullness of it left? What isle but

Dominora could have supplied thee with that stiff spine of thine?— That

heart of boldest beat? Oh, Vivenza! know that true grandeur is too big

for a boast; and nations, as well as men, may be too clever to be

great.

But what more of King Bello? Notwithstanding his territorial

acquisitiveness, and aversion to relinquishing stolen nations, he was

yet a glorious old king; rather choleric—a word and a blow—but of a

right royal heart. Rail at him as they might, at bottom, all the isles

were proud of him. And almost in spite of his rapacity, upon the whole,

perhaps, they were the better for his deeds. For if sometimes he did

evil with no very virtuous intentions, he had fifty, ways of

accomplishing good with the best; and a thousand ways of doing good

without meaning it. According to an ancient oracle, the hump-backed

monarch was but one of the most conspicuous pieces on a board, where

the gods played for their own entertainment.

But here it must not be omitted, that of late, King Bello had somewhat

abated his efforts to extend his dominions. Various causes were

assigned. Some thought it arose from the fact that already he found his

territories too extensive for one scepter to rule; that his more remote

colonies largely contributed to his tribulations, without

correspondingly contributing to his revenues. Others affirmed that his

hump was getting too mighty for him to carry; others still, that the

nations were waving too strong for him. With prophetic solemnity,

head-shaking sages averred that he was growing older and older had

passed his grand climacteric; and though it was a hale old age with

him, yet it was not his lusty youth; that though he was daily getting

rounder, and rounder in girth, and more florid of face, that these,

howbeit, were rather the symptoms of a morbid obesity, than of a

healthful robustness. These wise ones predicted that very soon poor

Bello would go off in an apoplexy.

But in Vivenza there were certain blusterers, who often thus prated:

“The Hump-back’s hour is come; at last the old teamster will be gored

by the nations he’s yoked; his game is done,—let him show his hand and

throw up his scepter; he cumbers Mardi,—let him be cut down and burned;

he stands in the way of his betters,—let him sheer to one side; he has

shut up many eyes, and now himself grows blind; he hath committed

horrible atrocities during his long career, the old sinner! —now, let

him quickly say his prayers and be beheaded.”

Howbeit, Bello lived on; enjoying his dinners, and taking his jorums as

of yore. Ah, I have yet a jolly long lease of life, thought he over his

wine; and like unto some obstinate old uncle, he persisted in

flourishing, in spite of the prognostications of the nephew nations,

which at his demise, perhaps hoped to fall heir to odd parts of his

possessions: Three streaks of fat valleys to one of lean mountains!

CHAPTER XLIII.

They Land At Dominora

As erewhile recounted, not being on the best terms in Mardi with the

King of Dominora, Media saw fit to draw nigh unto his dominions in

haughty state; he (Media) being upon excellent terms with himself. Our

sails were set, our paddles paddling, streamers streaming, and Vee-Vee

in the shark’s mouth, clamorous with his conch. The din was soon heard;

and sweeping into a fine broad bay we beheld its margin seemingly

pebbled in the distance with heads; so populous the land.

Winding through a noble valley, we presently came to Bello’s palace,

couchant and bristling in a grove. The upright canes composing its

front projected above the eaves in a long row of spear-heads fluttering

with scarlet pennons; while below, from the intervals of the canes,

were slantingly thrust three tiers of decorated lances. A warlike

aspect! The entire structure looking like the broadside of the

Macedonian phalanx, advancing to the charge, helmeted with a roof.

“Ah, Bello,” said Media, “thou dwellest among thy quills like the

porcupine.”

“I feel a prickly heat coming over me,” cried Mohi, “my lord Media, let

us enter.”

“Ay,” said Babbalanja, “safer the center of peril, than the

circumference.”

Passing under an arch, formed by two pikes crossed, we found ourselves

targets in prospective, for certain flingers of javelins, with poised

weapons, occupying the angles of the palace.

Fronting us, stood a portly old warrior, spear in hand, hump on back,

and fire in eye.

“Is it war?” he cried, pointing his pike, “or peace?” reversing it.

“Peace,” said Media.

Whereupon advancing, King Bello courteously welcomed us.

He was an arsenal to behold: Upon his head the hereditary crown of

Dominora,—a helmet of the sea-porcupine’s hide, bristling all over with

spikes, in front displaying a river-horse’s horn, leveled to the

charge; thrust through his ears were barbed arrows; and from his dyed

shark-skin girdle, depended a kilt of strung javelins.

The broad chest of Bello was the chart of Mardi. Tattooed in sea-blue

were all the groups and clusters of the Archipelago; and every time he

breathed, rose and fell the isles, as by a tide: Dominora full upon his

heart.

His sturdy thighs were his triumphal arch; whereon in numerous

medallions, crests, and shields, were blazoned all his victories by sea

and land.

His strong right arm was Dominora’s scroll of Fame, where all her

heroes saw their names recorded.—An endless roll!

Our chronicler avouched, that on the sole of Bello’s dexter foot was

stamped the crest of Franko’s king, his hereditary foe. “Thus, thus,”

cried Bello, stamping, “thus I hourly crush him.”

In stature, Bello was a mountaineer; but, as over some tall tower

impends the hill-side cliff, so Bello’s Athos hump hung over him. Could

it be, as many of his nobles held, that the old monarch’s hump was his

sensorium and source of strength; full of nerves, muscles, ganglions

and tendons? Yet, year by year it grew, ringed like the bole of his

palms. The toils of war increased it. But another skirmish with the

isles, said the wiseacres of Porpheero, and Bello’s mount will crush

him.

Against which calamity to guard, his medicos and Sangredos sought the

hump’s reduction. But down it would not come. Then by divers mystic

rites, his magi tried. Making a deep pit, many teeth they dropped

therein. But they could not fill it. Hence, they called it the Sinking

Pit, for bottom it had none. Nevertheless, the magi said, when this pit

is filled, Bello’s hump you’ll see no more. “Then, hurrah for the

hump!” cried the nobles, “for he will never hurl it off. Long life to

the hump! By the hump we will rally and die! Cheer up, King Bello!

Stand up, old king!”

But these were they, who when their sovereign went abroad, with that

Athos on his back, followed idly in its shade; while Bello leaned

heavily upon his people, staggering as they went.

Ay, sorely did Bello’s goodly stature lean; but though many swore he

soon must fall; nevertheless, like Pisa’s Leaning Tower, he may long

lean over, yet never nod.

Visiting Dominora in a friendly way, in good time, we found King Bello

very affable; in hospitality, almost exceeding portly Borabolla:

October-plenty reigned throughout his palace borders.

Our first reception over, a sumptuous repast was served, at which much

lively talk was had.

Of Taji, Bello sought to know, whether his solar Majesty had yet made a

province of the moon; whether the Astral hosts were of much account as

territories, or mere Motoos, as the little tufts of verdure are

denominated, here and there clinging to Mardi’s circle reef; whether

the people in the sun vilified, him (Bello) as they did in Mardi; and

what they thought of an event, so ominous to the liberties of the

universe, as the addition to his navy of three large canoes.

Ere long, so fused in social love we grew, that Bello, filling high his

can, and clasping Media’s palm, drank everlasting amity with Odo.

So over their red cups, the two kings forgot their differences, and

concerning the disputed islet nothing more was ever heard; especially,

as it so turned out, that while they were most hot about it, it had

suddenly gone out of sight, being of volcanic origin.

CHAPTER XLIV.

Through Dominora, They Wander After Yillah

At last, withdrawing from the presence of King Bello, we went forth,

still intent on our search.

Many brave sights we saw. Fair fields; the whole island a garden; green

hedges all round; neat lodges, thick as white mice in the landscape;

old oak woods, hale and hearty as ever; old temples buried in ivy; old

shrines of old heroes, deep buried in broad groves of bay trees; old

rivers laden down with heavy-freighted canoes; humped hills, like

droves of camels, piled up with harvests; every sign and token of a

glorious abundance, every sign and token of generations of renown. Rare

sight! fine sight! none rarer, none finer in Mardi.

But roving on through this ravishing region, we passed through a corn-

field in full beard, where a haggard old reaper laid down his hook,

beseeching charity for the sake of the gods.—“Bread, bread! or I die

mid these sheaves!”

“Thrash out your grain, and want not.”

“Alas, masters, this grain is not mine; I plough, I sow, I reap, I

bind, I stack,—Lord Primo garners.”

Rambling on, we came to a hamlet, hidden in a hollow; and beneath

weeping willows saw many mournful maidens seated on a bank; beside

each, a wheel that was broken. “Lo, we starve,” they cried, “our

distaffs are snapped; no more may we weave and spin!”

Then forth issued from vaults clamorous crowds of men, hands tied to

their backs.—“Bread! Bread!” they cried. “The magician hath turned us

out from our glen, where we labored of yore in the days of the merry

Green Queen. He has pinioned us hip and arm that we starve. Like sheep

we die off with the rot.—Curse on the magician. A curse on his spell.”

Bending our steps toward the glen, roaring down the rocks we descried a

stream from the mountains. But ere those waters gained the sea, vassal

tribute they rendered. Conducted through culverts and moats, they

turned great wheels, giving life to ten thousand fangs and fingers,

whose gripe no power could withstand, yet whose touch was soft as the

velvet paw of a kitten. With brute force, they heaved down great

weights, then daintily wove and spun; like the trunk of the elephant,

which lays lifeless a river-horse, and counts the pulses of a moth. On

all sides, the place seemed alive with its spindles. Round and round,

round and round; throwing off wondrous births at every revolving;

ceaseless as the cycles that circle in heaven. Loud hummed the loom,

flew the shuttle like lightning, red roared the grim forge, rung anvil

and sledge; yet no mortal was seen.

“What ho, magician! Come forth from thy cave!”

But all deaf were the spindles, as the mutes, that mutely wait on the

Sultan.

“Since we are born, we will live!” so we read on a crimson banner,

flouting the crimson clouds, in the van of a riotous red-bonneted mob,

racing by us as we came from the glen. Many more followed: black, or

blood-stained:—.

“Mardi is man’s!”

“Down with landholders!”

“Our turn now!”

“Up rights! Down wrongs!”

“Bread! Bread!”

“Take the tide, ere it turns!”

Waving their banners, and flourishing aloft clubs, hammers, and

sickles, with fierce yells the crowd ran on toward the palace of Bello.

Foremost, and inciting the rest by mad outcries and gestures, were six

masks; “This way! This way!” they cried,—“by the wood; by the dark

wood!” Whereupon all darted into the groves; when of a sudden, the

masks leaped forward, clearing a long covered trench, into which fell

many of those they led. But on raced the masks; and gaining Bello’s

palace, and raising the alarm, there sallied from thence a woodland of

spears, which charged upon the disordered ranks in the grove. A crash

as of icicles against icebergs round Zembla, and down went the hammers

and sickles. The host fled, hotly pursued. Meanwhile brave heralds from

Bello advanced, and with chaplets crowned the six masks.—“Welcome,

heroes! worthy and valiant!” they cried. “Thus our lord Bello rewards

all those, who to do him a service, for hire betray their kith and

their kin.”

Still pursuing our quest, wide we wandered through all the sun and

shade of Dominora; but nowhere was Yillah found.

CHAPTER XLV.

They Behold King Bello’s State Canoe

At last, bidding adieu to King Bello; and in the midst of the lowing of

oxen, breaking away from his many hospitalities, we departed for the

beach. But ere embarking, we paused to gaze at an object, which long

fixed our attention.

Now, as all bold cavaliers have ever delighted in special chargers,

gayly caparisoned, whereon upon grand occasions to sally forth upon the

plains: even so have maritime potentates ever prided themselves upon

some holiday galley, splendidly equipped, wherein to sail over the sea.

When of old, glory-seeking Jason, attended by his promising young

lieutenants, Castor and Pollux, embarked on that hardy adventure to

Colchis, the brave planks of the good ship Argos he trod, its model a

swan to behold.

And when Trojan Aeneas wandered West, and discovered the pleasant land

of Latium, it was in the fine craft Bis Taurus that he sailed: its

stern gloriously emblazoned, its prow a leveled spear.

And to the sound of sackbut and psaltery, gliding down the Nile, in the

pleasant shade of its pyramids to welcome mad Mark, Cleopatra was

throned on the cedar quarter-deck of a glorious gondola, silk and satin

hung; its silver plated oars, musical as flutes. So, too, Queen Bess

was wont to disport on old Thames.

And tough Torf-Egill, the Danish Sea-king, reckoned in his stud, a

slender yacht; its masts young Zetland firs; its prow a seal, dog-like

holding a sword-fish blade. He called it the Grayhound, so swift was

its keel; the Sea-hawk, so blood-stained its beak.

And groping down his palace stairs, the blind old Doge Dandolo, oft

embarked in his gilded barge, like the lord mayor setting forth in

civic state from Guildhall in his chariot. But from another sort of

prow leaped Dandolo, when at Constantinople, he foremost sprang ashore,

and with a right arm ninety years old, planted the standard of St. Mark

full among the long chin-pennons of the long-bearded Turks.

And Kumbo Sama, Emperor of Japan, had a dragon-beaked junk, a floating

Juggernaut, wherein he burnt incense to the sea-gods.

And Kannakoko, King of New Zealand; and the first Tahitian Pomaree; and

the Pelew potentate, each possessed long state canoes; sea-snakes, all;

carved over like Chinese card-cases, and manned with such scores of

warriors, that dipping their paddles in the sea, they made a commotion

like shoals of herring.

What wonder then, that Bello of the Hump, the old sea-king of Mardi,

should sport a brave ocean-chariot?

In a broad arbor by the water-side, it was housed like Alp Arsian’s

war-horse, or the charger Caligula deified; upon its stern a wilderness

of sculpture:—shell-work, medal-lions, masques, griffins, gulls, ogres,

finned-lions, winged walruses; all manner of sea-cavalry, crusading

centaurs, crocodiles, and sharks; and mermen, and mermaids, and Neptune

only knows all.

And in this craft, Doge-like, yearly did King Bello stand up and wed

with the Lagoon. But the custom originated not in the manner of the

Doge’s, which was as follows; so, at least, saith Ghibelli, who tells

all about it:—

When, in a stout sea-fight, Ziani defeated Barbarossa’s son Otho,

sending his feluccas all flying, like frightened water-fowl from a

lake, then did his Holiness, the Pope, present unto him a ring; saying,

“Take this, oh Ziani, and with it, the sea for thy bride; and every

year wed her again.”

So the Doge’s tradition; thus Bello’s:—

Ages ago, Dominora was circled by a reef, which expanding in proportion

to the extension of the isle’s naval dominion, in due time embraced the

entire lagoon; and this marriage ring zoned all the world.

But if the sea was King Bello’s bride, an Adriatic Tartar he wedded;

who, in her mad gales of passions, often boxed about his canoes, and

led his navies a very boisterous life indeed.

And hostile prognosticators opined, that ere long she would desert her

old lord, and marry again. Already, they held, she had made advances in

the direction of Vivenza.

But truly, should she abandon old Bello, he would straight-way after

her with all his fleets; and never rest till his queen was regained.

Now, old sea-king! look well to thy barge of state: for, peradventure,

the dry-rot may be eating into its keel; and the wood-worms exploring

into its spars.

Without heedful tending, any craft will decay; yet, for ever may its

first, fine model be preserved, though its prow be renewed every

spring, like the horns of the deer, if, in repairing, plank be put for

plank, rib for rib, in exactest similitude. Even so, then, oh Bello! do

thou with thy barge.

CHAPTER XLVI.

Wherein Babbalanja Bows Thrice

The next morning’s twilight found us once more afloat; and yielding to

that almost sullen feeling, but too apt to prevail with some mortals at

that hour, all but Media long remained silent.

But now, a bright mustering is seen among the myriad white Tartar tents

in the Orient; like lines of spears defiling upon some upland plain,

the sunbeams thwart the sky. And see! amid the blaze of banners, and

the pawings of ten thousand thousand golden hoofs, day’s mounted

Sultan, Xerxes-like, moves on: the Dawn his standard, East and West his

cymbals.

“Oh, morning life!” cried Yoomy, with a Persian air; “would that all

time were a sunrise, and all life a youth.”

“Ah! but these striplings whimper of youth,” said Mohi, caressing his

braids, “as if they wore this beard.”

“But natural, old man,” said Babbalanja. “We Mardians never seem young

to ourselves; childhood is to youth what manhood is to age:—something

to be looked back upon, with sorrow that it is past. But childhood

reeks of no future, and knows no past; hence, its present passes in a

vapor.”

“Mohi, how’s your appetite this morning?” said Media.

“Thus, thus, ye gods,” sighed Yoomy, “is feeling ever scouted. Yet,

what might seem feeling in me, I can not express.”

“A good commentary on old Bardianna, Yoomy,” said Babbalanja, “who

somewhere says, that no Mardian can out with his heart, for his

unyielding ribs are in the way. And indeed, pride, or something akin

thereto, often holds check on sentiment. My lord, there are those who

like not to be detected in the possession of a heart.”

“Very true, Babbalanja; and I suppose that pride was at the bottom of

your old Ponderer’s heartless, unsentimental, bald-pated style.”

“Craving pardon, my lord is deceived. Bardianna was not at all proud;

though he had a queer way of showing the absence of pride. In his

essay, entitled,—“On the Tendency to curl in Upper Lips,” he thus

discourses. “We hear much of pride and its sinfulness in this Mardi

wherein we dwell: whereas, I glory in being brimmed with it;—my sort of

pride. In the presence of kings, lords, palm-trees, and all those who

deem themselves taller than myself, I stand stiff as a pike, and will

abate not one vertebra of my stature. But accounting no Mardian my

superior, I account none my inferior; hence, with the social, I am ever

ready to be sociable.”

“An agrarian!” said Media; “no doubt he would have made the headsman

the minister of equality.”

“At bottom we are already equal, my honored lord,” said Babbalanja,

profoundly bowing—“One way we all come into Mardi, and one way we

withdraw. Wanting his yams a king will starve, quick as a clown; and

smote on the hip, saith old Bardianna, he will roar as loud as the next

one.”

“Roughly worded, that, Babbalanja.—Vee-Vee! my crown!—So; now,

Babbalanja, try if you can not polish Bardianna’s style in that last

saying you father upon him.”

“I will, my ever honorable lord,” said Babbalanja, salaming. “Thus

we’ll word it, then: In their merely Mardian nature, the sublimest

demi-gods are subject to infirmities; for struck by some keen shaft,

even a king ofttimes dons his crown, fearful of future darts.”

“Ha, ha!—well done, Babbalanja; but I bade you polish, not sharpen the

arrow.”

“All one, my thrice honored lord;—to polish is not to blunt.”

CHAPTER XLVII.

Babbalanja Philosophizes, And My Lord Media Passes Round The Calabashes

An interval of silence passed; when Media cried, “Out upon thee, Yoomy!

curtail that long face of thine.”

“How can he, my lord,” said Mohi, “when he is thinking of furlongs?”

“Fathoms you mean, Mohi; see you not he is musing over the gunwale? And

now, minstrel, a banana for thy thoughts. Come, tell me how you poets

spend so many hours in meditation.”

“My lord, it is because, that when we think, we think so little of

ourselves.”

“I thought as much,” said Mohi, “for no sooner do I undertake to be

sociable with myself, than I am straightway forced to beat a retreat.”

“Ay, old man,” said Babbalanja, “many of us Mardians are but sorry

hosts to ourselves. Some hearts are hermits.”

“If not of yourself, then, Yoomy, of whom else do you think?” asked

Media.

“My lord, I seldom think,” said Yoomy, “I but give ear to the voices in

my calm.”

“Did Babbalanja speak?” said Media. “But no more of your reveries;” and

so saying Media gradually sunk into a reverie himself.

The rest did likewise; and soon, with eyes enchanted, all reclined:

gazing at each other, witless of what we did.

It was Media who broke the spell; calling for Vee-Vee our page, his

calabashes and cups, and nectarines for all.

Eyeing his goblet, Media at length threw himself back, and said:

“Babbalanja, not ten minutes since, we were all absent-minded; now, how

would you like to step out of your body, in reality; and, as a spirit,

haunt some shadowy grove?”

“But our lungs are not wholly superfluous, my lord,” said Babbalanja,

speaking loud.

“No, nor our lips,” said Mohi, smacking his over his wine.

“But could you really be disembodied here in Mardi, Babbalanja, how

would you fancy it?” said Media.

“My lord,” said Babbalanja, speaking through half of a nectarine,

“defer putting that question, I beseech, till after my appetite is

satisfied; for, trust me, no hungry mortal would forfeit his palate, to

be resolved into the impalpable.”

“Yet pure spirits we must all become at last, Babbalanja,” said Yoomy,

“even the most ignoble.”

“Yes, so they say, Yoomy; but if all boors be the immortal sires of

endless dynasties of immortals, how little do our pious patricians bear

in mind their magnificent destiny, when hourly they scorn their

companionship. And if here in Mardi they can not abide an equality with

plebeians, even at the altar; how shall they endure them, side by side,

throughout eternity? But since the prophet Alma asserts, that Paradise

is almost entirely made up of the poor and despised, no wonder that

many aristocrats of our isles pursue a career, which, according to some

theologies, must forever preserve the social distinctions so sedulously

maintained in Mardi. And though some say, that at death every thing

earthy is removed from the spirit, so that clowns and lords both stand

on a footing; yet, according to the popular legends, it has ever been

observed of the ghosts of boors when revisiting Mardi, that invariably

they rise in their smocks. And regarding our intellectual equality

here, how unjust, my lord, that after whole years of days end nights

consecrated to the hard gaining of wisdom, the wisest Mardian of us all

should in the end find the whole sum of his attainments, at one leap

outstripped by the veriest dunce, suddenly inspired by light divine.

And though some hold, that all Mardian lore is vain, and that at death

all mysteries will be revealed; yet, none the less, do they toil and

ponder now. Thus, their tongues have one mind, and their understanding

another.”

“My lord,” said Mohi, “we have come to the lees; your pardon,

Babbalanja.”

“Then, Vee-Vee, another calabash! Fill up, Mohi; wash down wine with

wine. Your cup, Babbalanja; any lees?”

“Plenty, my lord; we philosophers come to the lees very soon.”

“Flood them over, then; but cease not discoursing; thanks be to the

gods, your mortal palates and tongues can both wag together; fill up, I

say, Babbalanja; you are no philosopher, if you stop at the tenth cup;

endurance is the test of philosophy all Mardi over; drink, I say, and

make us wise by precept and example.—Proceed, Yoomy, you look as if you

had something to say.”

“Thanks, my lord. Just now, Babbalanja, you flew from the subject;— you

spoke of boors; but has not the lowliest peasant an eye that can take

in the vast horizon at a sweep: mountains, vales, plains, and oceans?

Is such a being nothing?”

“But can that eye see itself, Yoomy?” said Babbalanja, winking. “Taken

out of its socket, will it see at all? Its connection with the body

imparts to it its virtue.”

“He questions every thing,” cried Mohi. “Philosopher, have you a head?”

“I have,” said Babbalanja, feeling for it; “I am finished off at the

helm very much as other Mardians, Mohi.”

“My lord, the first yea that ever came from him.”

“Ah, Mohi,” said Media, “the discourse waxes heavy. I fear me we have

again come to the lees. Ho, Vee-Vee, a fresh calabash; and with it we

will change the subject. Now, Babbalanja, I have this cup to drink, and

then a question to propound. Ah, Mohi, rare old wine this; it smacks of

the cork. But attention, Philosopher. Supposing you had a wife—which,

by the way, you have not—would you deem it sensible in her to imagine

you no more, because you happened to stroll out of her sight?”

“However that might be,” murmured Yoomy, “young Nina bewailed herself a

widow, whenever Arhinoo, her lord, was absent from her side.”

“My lord Media,” said Babbalanja, “During my absence, my wife would

have more reason to conclude that I was not living, than that I was. To

the former supposition, every thing tangible around her would tend; to

the latter, nothing but her own fond fancies. It is this imagination of

ours, my lord, that is at the bottom of these things. When I am in one

place, there exists no other. Yet am I but too apt to fancy the

reverse. Nevertheless, when I am in Odo, talk not to me of Ohonoo. To

me it is not, except when I am there. If it be, prove it. To prove it,

you carry me thither but you only prove, that to its substantive

existence, as cognizant to me, my presence is indispensable. I say

that, to me, all Mardi exists by virtue of my sovereign pleasure; and

when I die, the universe will perish with me.”

“Come you of a long-lived race,” said Mohi, “one free from apoplexies?

I have many little things to accomplish yet, and would not be left in

the lurch.”

“Heed him not, Babbalanja,” said Media. “Dip your beak again, my eagle,

and soar.”

“Let us be eagles, then, indeed, my lord: eagle-like, let us look at

this red wine without blinking; let us grow solemn, not boisterous,

with good cheer.”

Then, lifting his cup, “My lord, serenely do I pity all who are stirred

one jot from their centers by ever so much drinking of this fluid. Ply

him hard as you will, through the live-long polar night, a wise man can

not be made drunk. Though, toward sunrise, his body may reel, it will

reel round its center; and though he make many tacks in going home, he

reaches it at last; while scores of over-plied fools are foundering by

the way. My lord, when wild with much thought, ’tis to wine I fly, to

sober me; its magic fumes breathe over me like the Indian summer, which

steeps all nature in repose. To me, wine is no vulgar fire, no fosterer

of base passions; my heart, ever open, is opened still wider; and

glorious visions are born in my brain; it is then that I have all Mardi

under my feet, and the constellations of the firmament in my soul.”

“Superb!” cried Yoomy.

“Pooh, pooh!” said Mohi, “who does not see stars at such times? I see

the Great Bear now, and the little one, its cub; and Andromeda, and

Perseus’ chain-armor, and Cassiopea in her golden chair, and the

bright, scaly Dragon, and the glittering Lyre, and all the jewels in

Orion’s sword-hilt.”

“Ay,” cried Media, “the study of astronomy is wonderfully facilitated

by wine. Fill up, old Ptolemy, and tell us should you discover a new

planet. Methinks this fluid needs stirring. Ho, Vee-Vee, my scepter! be

we sociable. But come, Babbalanja, my gold-headed aquila, return to

your theme;—the imagination, if you please.”

“Well, then, my lord, I was about to say, that the imagination is the

Voli-Donzini; or, to speak plainer, the unical, rudimental, and all-

comprehending abstracted essence of the infinite remoteness of things.

Without it, we were grass-hoppers.”

“And with it, you mortals are little else; do you not chirp all over,

Mohi? By my demi-god soul, were I not what I am, this wine would almost

get the better of me.”

“Without it—” continued Babbalanja.

“Without what?” demanded Media, starting to his feet. “This wine?

Traitor, I’ll stand by this to the last gasp, you are inebriated,

Babbalanja.”

“Perhaps so, my lord; but I was treating of the imagination, may it

please you.”

“My lord,” added Mohi, “of the unical, and rudimental fundament of

things, you remember.”

“Ah! there’s none of them sober; proceed, proceed, Azzageddi!”

“My lord waves his hand like a banner,” murmured Yoomy.

“Without imagination, I say, an armless man, born, blind, could not be

made to believe, that he had a head of hair, since he could neither see

it, nor feel it, nor has hair any feeling of itself.”

“Methinks though,” said Mohi, “if the cripple had a Tartar for a wife,

he would not remain skeptical long.”

“You all fly off at tangents,” cried Media, “but no wonder: your mortal

brains can not endure much quaffing. Return to your subject,

Babbalanja. Assume now, Babbalanja,—assume, my dear prince—assume it,

assume it, I say!—Why don’t you?”

“I am willing to assume any thing you please, my lord: what is it?”

“Ah! yes!—Assume that—that upon returning home, you should find your

wife had newly wedded, under the—the—the metaphysical presumption, that

being no longer visible, you—_you_ Azzageddi, had departed this life;

in other words, out of sight, out of mind; what then, my dear prince?”

“Why then, my lord, I would demolish my rival in a trice.”

“Would you?—then—then so much for your metaphysics, Bab—Babbalanja.”

Babbalanja rose to his feet, muttering to himself—“Is this assumed, or

real?—Can a demi-god be mastered by wine? Yet, the old mythologies make

bacchanals of the gods. But he was wondrous keen! He felled me, ere he

fell himself.”

“Yoomy, my lord Media is in a very merry mood to-day,” whispered Mohi,

“but his counterfeit was not well done. No, no, a bacchanal is not used

to be so logical in his cups.”

CHAPTER XLVIII.

They Sail Round An Island Without Landing; And Talk Round A Subject

Without Getting At It

Purposing a visit to Kaleedoni, a country integrally united to

Dominora, our course now lay northward along the western white cliffs

of the isle. But finding the wind ahead, and the current too strong for

our paddlers, we were fain to forego our destination; Babbalanja

observing, that since in Dominora we had not found Yillah, then in

Kaleedoni the maiden could not be lurking.

And now, some conversation ensued concerning the country we were

prevented from visiting. Our chronicler narrated many fine things of

its people; extolling their bravery in war, their amiability in peace,

their devotion in religion, their penetration in philosophy, their

simplicity and sweetness in song, their loving-kindness and frugality

in all things domestic:—running over a long catalogue of heroes,

meta-physicians, bards, and good men.

But as all virtues are convertible into vices, so in some cases did the

best traits of these people degenerate. Their frugality too often

became parsimony; their devotion grim bigotry; and all this in a

greater degree perhaps than could be predicated of the more immediate

subjects of King Bello.

In Kaleedoni was much to awaken the fervor of its bards. Upland and

lowland were full of the picturesque; and many unsung lyrics yet lurked

in her glens. Among her blue, heathy hills, lingered many tribes, who

in their wild and tattooed attire, still preserved the garb of the

mightiest nation of old times. They bared the knee, in token that it

was honorable as the face, since it had never been bent.

While Braid-Beard was recounting these things, the currents were

sweeping us over a strait, toward a deep green island, bewitching to

behold.

Not greener that midmost terrace of the Andes, which under a torrid

meridian steeps fair Quito in the dews of a perpetual spring;—not

greener the nine thousand feet of Pirohitee’s tall peak, which, rising

from out the warm bosom of Tahiti, carries all summer with it into the

clouds;—nay, not greener the famed gardens of Cyrus,—than the vernal

lawn, the knoll, the dale of beautiful Verdanna.

“Alas, sweet isle! Thy desolation is overrun with vines,” sighed Yoomy,

gazing.

“Land of caitiff curs!” cried Media.

“Isle, whose future is in its past. Hearth-stone, from which its

children run,” said Babbalanja.

“I can not read thy chronicles for blood, Verdanna,” murmured Mohi.

Gliding near, we would have landed, but the rolling surf forbade. Then

thrice we circumnavigated the isle for a smooth, clear beach; but it

was not found.

Meanwhile all still conversed.

“My lord,” said Yoomy, “while we tarried with King Bello, I heard much

of the feud between Dominora and this unhappy shore. Yet is not

Verdanna as a child of King Bello’s?”

“Yes, minstrel, a step-child,” said Mohi.

“By way of enlarging his family circle,” said Babbalanja, “an old lion

once introduced a deserted young stag to his den; but the stag never

became domesticated, and would still charge upon his foster-brothers.

—Verdanna is not of the flesh and blood of Dominora, whence, in good

part, these dissensions.”

“But Babbalanja, is there no way of reconciling these foes?”

“But one way, Yoomy:—By filling up this strait with dry land; for,

divided by water, we Mardians must ever remain more or less divided at

heart. Though Kaleedoni was united to Dominora long previous to the

union of Verdanna, yet Kaleedoni occasions Bello no disquiet; for,

geographically one, the two populations insensibly blend at the point

of junction. No hostile strait flows between the arms, that to embrace

must touch.”

“But, Babbalanja,” said Yoomy, “what asks Verdanna of Dominora, that

Verdanna so clamors at the denial?”

“They are arrant cannibals, Yoomy,” said Media, “and desire the

privilege of eating each other up.”

“King Bello’s idea,” said Babbalanja; “but, in these things, my lord,

you demi-gods are ever unanimous. But, whatever be Verdanna’s demands,

Bello persists in rejecting them.”

“Why not grant every thing she asks, even to renouncing all claim upon

the isle,” said Mohi; “for thus, Bello would rid himself of many

perplexities.”

“And think you, old man,” said Media, “that, bane or blessing, Bello

will yield his birthright? Will a tri-crowned king resign his triple

diadem? And even did Bello what you propose he would only breed still

greater perplexities. For if granted, full soon would Verdanna be glad

to surrender many things she demands. And all she now asks, she has had

in times past; but without turning it to advantage:—and is she wiser

now?”

“Does she not demand her harvests, my lord?” said Yoomy, “and has not

the reaper a right to his sheaf?”

“Cant! cant! Yoomy. If you reap for me, the sheaf is mine.”

“But if the reaper reaps on his own harvest-field, whose then the

sheaf, my lord?” said Babbalanja.

“His for whom he reaps—his lord’s!”

“Then let the reaper go with sickle and with sword,” said Yoomy, “with

one hand, cut down the bearded grain; and with the other, smite his

bearded lords.”

“Thou growest fierce, in thy lyric moods, my warlike dove,” said

‘Media, blandly. “But for thee, philosopher, know thou, that Verdanna’s

men are of blood and brain inferior to Bello’s native race; and the

better Mardian must ever rule.”

“Verdanna inferior to Dominora, my lord!—Has she produced no bards, no

orators, no wits, no patriots? Mohi, unroll thy chronicles! Tell me, if

Verdanna may not claim full many a star along King Bello’s tattooed arm

of Fame?

“Even so,” said Mohi. “Many chapters bear you out.”

“But my lord,” said Babbalanja, “as truth, omnipresent, lurks in all

things, even in lies: so, does some germ of it lurk in the calumnies

heaped on the people of this land. For though they justly boast of many

lustrous names, these jewels gem no splendid robe. And though like a

bower of grapes, Verdanna is full of gushing juices, spouting out in

bright sallies of wit, yet not all her grapes make wine; and here and

there, hang goodly clusters mildewed; or half devoured by worms, bred

in their own tendrils.”

“Drop, drop your grapes and metaphors!” cried Media. “Bring forth your

thoughts like men; let them come naked into Mardi.—What do you mean,

Babbalanja?”

“This, my lord, Verdanna’s worst evils are her own, not of another’s

giving. Her own hand is her own undoer. She stabs herself with bigotry,

superstition, divided councils, domestic feuds, ignorance, temerity;

she wills, but does not; her East is one black storm-cloud, that never

bursts; her utmost fight is a defiance; she showers reproaches, where

she should rain down blows. She stands a mastiff baying at the moon.”

“Tropes on tropes!” said. Media. “Let me tell the tale,—straight-

forward like a line. Verdanna is a lunatic—”

“A trope! my lord,” cried Babbalanja.

“My tropes are not tropes,” said Media, “but yours are.—Verdanna is a

lunatic, that after vainly striving to cut another’s throat, grimaces

before a standing pool and threatens to cut his own. And is such a

madman to be intrusted with himself? No; let another govern him, who is

ungovernable to himself Ay, and tight hold the rein; and curb, and rasp

the bit. Do I exaggerate?—Mohi, tell me, if, save one lucid interval,

Verdanna, while independent of Dominora, ever discreetly conducted her

affairs? Was she not always full of fights and factions? And what first

brought her under the sway of Bello’s scepter? Did not her own Chief

Dermoddi fly to Bello’s ancestor for protection against his own

seditious subjects? And thereby did not her own king unking himself?

What wonder, then, and where the wrong, if Henro, Bello’s conquering

sire, seized the diadem?”

“What my lord cites is true,” said Mohi, “but cite no more, I pray;

lest, you harm your cause.”

“Yet for all this, Babbalanja,” said Media, “Bello but holds lunatic

Verdanna’s lands in trust.”

“And may the guardian of an estate also hold custody of the ward, my

lord?”

“Ay, if he can. What _can_ be done, may be: that’s the Greed of demi-

gods.”

“Alas, alas!” cried Yoomy, “why war with words over this poor,

suffering land. See! for all her bloom, her people starve; perish her

yams, ere taken from the soil; the blight of heaven seems upon them.”

“Not so,” said Media. “Heaven sends no blights. Verdanna will not

learn. And if from one season’s rottenss, rottenness they sow again,

rottenness must they reap. But Yoomy, you seem earnest in this

matter;—come: on all hands it is granted that evils exist in Verdanna;

now sweet Sympathizer, what must the royal Bello do to mend them?”

“I am no sage,” said Yoomy, “what would my lord Media do?”

“What would _you_ do, Babbalanja,” said Media.

“Mohi, what you?” asked the philosopher.

“And what would the company do?” added Mohi.

“Now, though these evils pose us all,” said Babbalanja, “there lately

died in Verdanna, one, who set about curing them in a humane and

peaceable way, waving war and bloodshed. That man was Konno. Under a

huge caldron, he kept a roaring fire.”

“Well, Azzageddi, how could that answer his purpose?” asked Media.

“Nothing better, my lord. His fire boiled his bread-fruit; and so

convinced were his countrymen, that he was well employed, that they

almost stripped their scanty orchards to fill his caldron.”

“Konno was a knave,” said Mohi.

“Your pardon, old man, but that is only known to his ghost, not to us.

At any rate he was a great man; for even assuming he cajoled his

country, no common man could have done it.”

“Babbalanja,” said Mohi, “my lord has been pleased to pronounce

Verdanna crazy; now, may not her craziness arise from the irritating,

tantalizing practices of Dominora?”

“Doubtless, Braid-Beard, many of the extravagances of Verdanna, are in

good part to be ascribed to the cause you mention; but, to be

impartial, none the less does Verdanna essay to taunt and provoke

Dominora; yet not with the like result. Perceive you, Braid-Beard, that

the trade-wind blows dead across this strait from Dominora, and not

from Verdanna? Hence, when King Bello’s men fling gibes and insults,

every missile hits; but those of Verdanna are blown back in its teeth:

her enemies jeering her again and again.”

“King Bello’s men are dastards for that,” cried Yoomy. “It shows

neither sense, nor spirit, nor humanity,” said Babbalanja.

“All wide of the mark,” cried Media. “What is to be done for Verdanna?”

“What will she do for herself?” said Babbalanja.

“Philosopher, you are an extraordinary sage; and since sages should be

seers, reveal Verdanna’s future.”

“My lord, you will ever find true prophets, prudent; nor will any

prophet risk his reputation upon predicting aught concerning this land.

The isles are Oro’s. Nevertheless, he who doctors Verdanna aright, will

first medicine King Bello; who in some things is, himself a patient,

though he would fain be a physician. However, my lord, there is a demon

of a doctor in Mardi, who at last deals with these desperate cases. He

employs only pills, picked off the Conroupta Quiancensis tree.”

“And what sort of a vegetable is that?” asked Mohi. “Consult the

botanists,” said Babbalanja.

CHAPTER XLIX.

They Draw Nigh To Porpheero; Where They Behold A Terrific Eruption

Gliding away from Verdanna at the turn of the tide, we cleared the

strait, and gaining the more open lagoon, pointed our prows for

Porpheero, from whose magnificent monarchs my lord Media promised

himself a glorious reception.

“They are one and all demi-gods,” he cried, “and have the old demi-god

feeling. We have seen no great valleys like theirs:—their scepters are

long as our spears; to their sumptuous palaces, Donjalolo’s are but

inns:—their banquetting halls are as vistas; no generations run

parallel to theirs:—their pedigrees reach back into chaos.

“Babbalanja! here you will find food for philosophy:—the whole land

checkered with nations, side by side contrasting in costume, manners,

and mind. Here you will find science and sages; manuscripts in miles;

bards singing in choirs.

“Mohi! here you will flag over your page; in Porpheero the ages have

hived all their treasures: like a pyramid, the past shadows over the

land.

“Yoomy! here you will find stuff for your songs:—blue rivers flowing

through forest arches, and vineyards; velvet meads, soft as ottomans:

bright maidens braiding the golden locks of the harvest; and a

background of mountains, that seem the end of the world. Or if nature

will not content you, then turn to the landscapes of art. See! mosaic

walls, tattooed like our faces; paintings, vast as horizons; and into

which, you feel you could rush: See! statues to which you could off

turban; cities of columns standing thick as mankind; and firmanent

domes forever shedding their sunsets of gilding: See! spire behind

spire, as if the land were the ocean, and all Bello’s great navy were

riding at anchor.

“Noble Taji! you seek for your Yillah;—give over despair! Porpheero’s

such a scene of enchantment, that there, the lost maiden must lurk.”

“A glorious picture!” cried Babbalanja, but turn the medal, my lord;—

what says the reverse?”

“Cynic! have done.—But bravo! we’ll ere long be in Franko, the

goodliest vale of them all; how I long to take her old king by the

hand!”

The sun was now setting behind us, lighting up the white cliffs of

Dominora, and the green capes of Verdanna; while in deep shade lay

before us the long winding shores of Porpheero.

It was a sunset serene.

“How the winds lowly warble in the dying day’s ear,” murmured Yoomy.

“A mild, bright night, we’ll have,” said Media.

“See you not those clouds over Franko, my lord,” said Mohi, shaking his

head.

“Ah, aged and weather-wise as ever, sir chronicler;—I predict a fair

night, and many to follow.”

“Patience needs no prophet,” said Babbalanja. “The night, is at hand.”

Hitherto the lagoon had been smooth: but anon, it grew black, and

stirred; and out of the thick darkness came clamorous sounds. Soon,

there shot into the air a vivid meteor, which bursting at the zenith,

radiated down the firmament in fiery showers, leaving treble darkness

behind.

Then as all held their breath, from Franko there spouted an eruption,

which seemed to plant all Mardi in the foreground.

As when Vesuvius lights her torch, and in the blaze, the storm-swept

surges in Naples’ bay rear and plunge toward it; so now, showed

Franko’s multitudes, as they stormed the summit where their monarch’s

palace blazed, fast by the burning mountain.

“By my eternal throne!” cried Media, starting, “the old volcano has

burst forth again!”

“But a new vent, my lord,” said Babbalanja.

“More fierce this, than the eruption which happened in my youth,” said

Mohi—“methinks that Franko’s end has come.”

“You look pale, my lord,” said Babbalanja, “while all other faces

glow;—Yoomy, doff that halo in the presence of a king.”

Over the waters came a rumbling sound, mixed with the din of warfare,

and thwarted by showers of embers that fell not, for the whirling

blasts.

“Off shore! off shore!” cried Media; and with all haste we gained a

place of safety.

Down the valley now poured Rhines and Rhones of lava, a fire-freshet,

flooding the forests from their fastnesses, and leaping with them into

the seething sea.

The shore was lined with multitudes pushing off wildly in canoes.

Meantime, the fiery storm from Franko, kindled new flames in the

distant valleys of Porpheero; while driven over from Verdanna came

frantic shouts, and direful jubilees. Upon Dominora a baleful glare was

resting.

“Thrice cursed flames!” cried Media. “Is Mardi to be one conflagration?

How it crackles, forks, and roars!—Is this our funeral pyre?”

“Recline, recline, my lord,” said Babbalanja. “Fierce flames are ever

brief—a song, sweet Yoomy! Your pipe, old Mohi! Greater fires than this

have ere now blazed in Mardi. Let us be calm;—the isles were made to

burn;—Braid-Beard! hereafter, in some quiet cell, of this whole scene

you will but make one chapter;—come, digest it now.”

“My face is scorched,” cried Media.

“The last, last day!” cried Mohi.

“Not so, old man,” said Babbalanja, “when that day dawns, ’twill dawn

serene. Be calm, be calm, my potent lord.”

“Talk not of calm brows in storm-time!” cried Media fiercely. “See! how

the flames blow over upon Dominora!”

“Yet the fires they kindle there are soon extinguished,” said

Babbalanja. “No, no; Dominora ne’er can burn with Franko’s fires; only

those of her own kindling may consume her.”

“Away! Away!” cried Media. “We may not touch Porpheero now.—Up sails!

and westward be our course.”

So dead before the blast, we scudded.

Morning broke, showing no sign of land.

“Hard must it go with Franko’s king,” said Media, “when his people rise

against him with the red volcanoes. Oh, for a foot to crush them! Hard,

too, with all who rule in broad Porpheero. And may she we seek, survive

this conflagration!”

“My lord,” said Babbalanja, “where’ere she hide, ne’er yet did Yillah

lurk in this Porpheero; nor have we missed the maiden, noble Taji! in

not touching at its shores.”

“This fire must make a desert of the land,” said Mohi; “burn up and

bury all her tilth.”

“Yet, Mohi, vineyards flourish over buried villages,” murmured Yoomy.

“True, minstrel,” said Babbalanja, “and prairies are purified by fire.

Ashes breed loam. Nor can any skill make the same surface forever

fruitful. In all times past, things have been overlaid; and though the

first fruits of the marl are wild and poisonous, the palms at last

spring forth; and once again the tribes repose in shade. My lord, if

calms breed storms, so storms calms; and all this dire commotion must

eventuate in peace. It may be, that Perpheero’s future has been cheaply

won.”

CHAPTER L.

Wherein King Media Celebrates The Glories Of Autumn, The Minstrel, The

Promise Of Spring

“Ho, now!” cried Media, “across the wide waters, for that New Mardi,

Vivenza! Let us indeed see, whether she who eludes us elsewhere, he at

last found in Vivenza’s vales.”

“There or nowhere, noble Taji,” said Yoomy.

“Be not too sanguine, gentle Yoomy,” said Babbalanja.

“Does Yillah choose rather to bower in the wild wilderness of Vivenza,

than in the old vineyards of Porpheero?” said Braid-Beard.

Sang Yoomy:—

Her bower is not of the vine,

But the wild, wild eglantine!

Not climbing a moldering arch,

But upheld by the fir-green larch.

Old ruins she flies:

To new valleys she hies:—

Not the hoar, moss-wood,

Ivied trees each a rood—

Not in Maramma she dwells,

Hollow with hermit cells.

’Tis a new, new isle!

An infant’s its smile,

Soft-rocked by the sea.

Its bloom all in bud;

No tide at its flood,

In that fresh-born sea!

Spring! Spring! where she dwells,

In her sycamore dells,

Where Mardi is young and new:

Its verdure all eyes with dew.

There, there! in the bright, balmy morns,

The young deer sprout their horns,

Deep-tangled in new-branching groves,

Where the Red-Rover Robin roves,—

Stooping his crest,

To his molting breast—

Rekindling the flambeau there!

Spring! Spring! where she dwells,

In her sycamore dells:—

Where, fulfilling their fates,

All creatures seek mates—

The thrush, the doe, and the hare!

“Thou art most musical, sweet Yoomy,” said Media. “concerning this

spring-land Vivenza. But are not the old autumnal valleys of Porpheero

more glorious than those of vernal Vivenza? Vivenza shows no trophies

of the summer time, but Dominora’s full-blown rose hangs blushing on

her garden walls; her autumn groves are glory-dyed.”

“My lord, autumn soon merges in winter, but the spring has all the

seasons before. The full-blown rose is nearer withering than the bud.

The faint morn is a blossom: the crimson sunset the flower.”

CHAPTER LI.

In Which Azzageddi Seems To Use Babbalanja For A Mouth-Piece

Porpheero far astern, the spirits of the company rose. Once again, old

Mohi serenely unbraided, and rebraided his beard; and sitting Turk-wise

on his mat, my lord Media smoking his gonfalon, diverted himself with

the wild songs of Yoomy, the wild chronicles of Mohi, or the still

wilder speculations of Babbalanja; now and then, as from pitcher to

pitcher, pouring royal old wine down his soul.

Among other things, Media, who at times turned over Babbalanja for an

encyclopaedia, however unreliable, demanded information upon the

subject of neap tides and their alleged slavish vassalage to the moon.

When true to his cyclopaediatic nature, Babbalanja quoted from a still

older and better authority than himself; in brief, from no other than

eternal Bardianna. It seems that that worthy essayist had discussed the

whole matter in a chapter thus headed: “On Seeing into Mysteries

through Mill-Stones;“ and throughout his disquisitions he evinced such

a profundity of research, though delivered in a style somewhat

equivocal, that the company were much struck by the erudition

displayed.

“Babbalanja, that Bardianna of yours must have been a wonderful

student,” said Media after a pause, “no doubt he consumed whole

thickets of rush-lights.”

“Not so, my lord.—‘Patience, patience, philosophers,’ said Bardianna;

‘blow out your tapers, bolt not your dinners, take time, wisdom will be

plenty soon.’”

“A notable hint! Why not follow it, Babbalanja?”

“Because, my lord, I have overtaken it, and passed on.”

“True to your nature, Babbalanja; you stay nowhere.”

“Ay, keep moving is my motto; but speaking of hard students, did my

lord ever hear of Midni the ontologist and entomologist?”

“No.”

“Then, my lord, you shall hear of him now. Midni was of opinion that

day-light was vulgar; good enough for taro-planting and traveling; but

wholly unadapted to the sublime ends of study. He toiled by night; from

sunset to sunrise poring over the works of the old logicans. Like most

philosophers, Midni was an amiable man; but one thing invariably put

him out. He read in the woods by glow-worm light; insect in hand,

tracing over his pages, line by line. But glow-worms burn not long: and

in the midst of some calm intricate thought, at some imminent comma,

the insect often expired, and Midni groped for a meaning. Upon such an

occasion, ‘Ho, Ho,’ he cried; ‘but for one instant of sun-light to see

my way to a period!’ But sun-light there was none; so Midni sprang to

his feet, and parchment under arm, raced about among the sloughs and

bogs for another glow-worm. Often, making a rapid descent with his

turban, he thought he had caged a prize; but nay. Again he tried; yet

with no better succcess. Nevertheless, at last he secured one; but

hardly had he read three lines by its light, when out it went. Again

and again this occurred. And thus he forever went halting and stumbling

through his studies, and plunging through his quagmires after a glim.”

At this ridiculous tale, one of our silliest paddlers burst into

uncontrollable mirth. Offended at which breach of decorum, Media

sharply rebuked him.

But he protested he could not help laughing.

Again Media was about to reprimand him, when Babbalanja begged leave to

interfere.

“My lord, he is not to blame. Mark how earnestly he struggles to

suppress his mirth; but he can not. It has often been the same with

myself. And many a time have I not only vainly sought to check my

laughter, but at some recitals I have both laughed and cried. But can

opposite emotions be simultaneous in one being? No. I wanted to weep;

but my body wanted to smile, and between us we almost choked. My lord

Media, this man’s body laughs; not the man himself.”

“But his body is his own, Babbalanja; and he should have it under

better control.”

“The common error, my lord. Our souls belong to our bodies, not our

bodies to our souls. For which has the care of the other? which keeps

house? which looks after the replenishing of the aorta and auricles,

and stores away the secretions? Which toils and ticks while the other

sleeps? Which is ever giving timely hints, and elderly warnings? Which

is the most authoritative?—Our bodies, surely. At a hint, you must

move; at a notice to quit, you depart. Simpletons show us, that a body

can get along almost without a soul; but of a soul getting along

without a body, we have no tangible and indisputable proof. My lord,

the wisest of us breathe involuntarily. And how many millions there are

who live from day to day by the incessant operation of subtle processes

in them, of which they know nothing, and care less? Little ween they,

of vessels lacteal and lymphatic, of arteries femoral and temporal; of

pericranium or pericardium; lymph, chyle, fibrin, albumen, iron in the

blood, and pudding in the head; they live by the charity of their

bodies, to which they are but butlers. I say, my lord, our bodies are

our betters. A soul so simple, that it prefers evil to good, is lodged

in a frame, whose minutest action is full of unsearchable wisdom.

Knowing this superiority of theirs, our bodies are inclined to be

willful: our beards grow in spite of us; and as every one knows, they

sometimes grow on dead men.”

“You mortals are alive, then, when you are dead, Babbalanja.”

“No, my lord; but our beards survive us.”

“An ingenious distinction; go on, philosopher.”

“Without bodies, my lord, we Mardians would be minus our strongest

motive-passions, those which, in some way or other, root under our

every action. Hence, without bodies, we must be something else than we

essentially are. Wherefore, that saying imputed to Alma, and which, by

his very followers, is deemed the most hard to believe of all his

instructions, and the most at variance with all preconceived notions of

immortality, I Babbalanja, account the most reasonable of his doctrinal

teachings. It is this;—that at the last day, every man shall rise in

the flesh.”

“Pray, Babbalanja, talk not of resurrections to a demi-god.”

“Then let me rehearse a story, my lord. You will find it in the ‘Very

Merry Marvelings’ of the Improvisitor Quiddi; and a quaint book it is.

Fugle-fi is its finis:—fugle-fi, fugle-fo, fugle-fogle-orum!”

“That wild look in his eye again,” murmured Yoomy. “Proceed,

Azzageddi,” said Media.

“The philosopher Grando had a sovereign contempt for his carcass. Often

he picked a quarrel with it; and always was flying out in its

disparagement. ‘Out upon you, you beggarly body! you clog, drug, drag!

You keep me from flying; I could get along better without you. Out upon

you, I say, you vile pantry, cellar, sink, sewer; abominable body! what

vile thing are you not? And think you, beggar! to have the upper hand

of me? Make a leg to that man if you dare, without my permission. This

smell is intolerable; but turn from it, if you can, unless I give the

word. Bolt this yam!—it is done. Carry me across yon field!—off we go.

Stop!—it’s a dead halt. There, I’ve trained you enough for to-day; now,

sirrah, crouch down in the shade, and be quiet.—I’m rested. So, here’s

for a stroll, and a reverie homeward:— Up, carcass, and march.’ So the

carcass demurely rose and paced, and the philosopher meditated. He was

intent upon squaring the circle; but bump he came against a bough. ‘How

now, clodhopping bumpkin! you would take advantage of my reveries,

would you? But I’ll be even with you;’ and seizing a cudgel, he laid

across his shoulders with right good will. But one of his backhanded

thwacks injured his spinal cord; the philosopher dropped; but presently

came to. ‘Adzooks! I’ll bend or break you! Up, up, and I’ll run you

home for this.’ But wonderful to tell, his legs refused to budge; all

sensation had left them. But a huge wasp happening to sting his foot,

not him, for he felt it not, the leg incontinently sprang into the air,

and of itself, cut all manner of capers. Be still! Down with you!’ But

the leg refused. ‘My arms are still loyal,’ thought Grando; and with

them he at last managed to confine his refractory member. But all

commands, volitions, and persuasions, were as naught to induce his

limbs to carry him home. It was a solitary place; and five days after,

Grando the philosopher was found dead under a tree.”

“Ha, ha!” laughed Media, “Azzageddi is full as merry as ever.”

“But, my lord,” continued Babbalanja, “some creatures have still more

perverse bodies than Grando’s. In the fables of Ridendiabola, this is

to be found. ‘A fresh-water Polyp, despising its marine existence;

longed to live upon air. But all it could do, its tentacles or arms

still continued to cram its stomach. By a sudden preternatural impulse,

however, the Polyp at last turned itself inside out; supposing that

after such a proceeding it would have no gastronomic interior. But its

body proved ventricle outside as well as in. Again its arms went to

work; food was tossed in, and digestion continued.’”

“Is the literal part of that a fact?” asked Mohi.

“True as truth,” said Babbalanja; “the Polyp will live turned inside

out.”

“Somewhat curious, certainly,” said Media.—“But me-thinks, Babbalanja,

that somewhere I have heard something about organic functions, so

called; which may account for the phenomena you mention; and I have

heard too, me-thinks, of what are called reflex actions of the nerves,

which, duly considered, might deprive of its strangeness that story of

yours concerning Grande and his body.”

“Mere substitutions of sounds for inexplicable meanings, my lord. In

some things science cajoles us. Now, what is undeniable of the Polyp

some physiologists analogically maintain with regard to us Mardians;

that forasmuch, as the lining of our interiors is nothing more than a

continuation of the epidermis, or scarf-skin, therefore, that in a

remote age, we too must have been turned wrong side out: an hypothesis,

which, indirectly might account for our moral perversities: and also,

for that otherwise nonsensical term—‘the coat of the stomach;’ for

originally it must have been a surtout, instead of an inner garment.”

“Pray, Azzageddi,” said Media, “are you not a fool?”

“One of a jolly company, my lord; but some creatures besides wearing

their surtouts within, sport their skeletons without: witness the

lobster and turtle, who alive, study their own anatomies.”

“Azzageddi, you are a zany.”

“Pardon, my lord,” said Mohi, “I think him more of a lobster; it’s hard

telling his jaws from his claws.”

“Yes, Braid-Beard, I am a lobster, a mackerel, any thing you please;

but my ancestors were kangaroos, not monkeys, as old Boddo erroneously

opined. My idea is more susceptible of demonstration than his. Among

the deepest discovered land fossils, the relics of kangaroos are

discernible, but no relics of men. Hence, there were no giants in those

days; but on the contrary, kangaroos; and those kangaroos formed the

first edition of mankind, since revised and corrected.”

“What has become of our finises, or tails, then?” asked Mohi, wriggling

in his seat.

“The old question, Mohi. But where are the tails of the tadpoles, after

their gradual metamorphosis into frogs? Have frogs any tails, old man?

Our tails, Mohi, were worn off by the process of civilization;

especially at the period when our fathers began to adopt the sitting

posture: the fundamental evidence of all civilization, for neither

apes, nor savages, can be said to sit; invariably, they squat on their

hams. Among barbarous tribes benches and settles are unknown. But, my

lord Media, as your liege and loving subject I can not sufficiently

deplore the deprivation of your royal tail. That stiff and vertebrated

member, as we find it in those rustic kinsmen we have disowned, would

have been useful as a supplement to your royal legs; and whereas my

good lord is now fain to totter on two stanchions, were he only a

kangaroo, like the monarchs of old, the majesty of Odo would be

dignified, by standing firm on a tripod.”

“A very witty conceit! But have a care, Azzageddi; your theory applies

not to me.”

“Babbalanja,” said Mohi, “you must be the last of the kangaroos.”

“I am, Mohi.”

“But the old fashioned pouch or purse of your grandams?” hinted Media.

“My lord, I take it, that must have been transferred; nowadays our sex

carries the purse.”

“Ha, ha!”

“My lord, why this mirth? Let us be serious. Although man is no longer

a kangaroo, he may be said to be an inferior species of plant. Plants

proper are perhaps insensible of the circulation of their sap: we

mortals are physically unconscious of the circulation of the blood; and

for many ages were not even aware of the fact. Plants know nothing of

their interiors:—three score years and ten we trundle about ours, and

never get a peep at them; plants stand on their stalks:—we stalk on our

legs; no plant flourishes over its dead root:—dead in the grave, man

lives no longer above ground; plants die without food:—so we. And now

for the difference. Plants elegantly inhale nourishment, without

looking it up: like lords, they stand still and are served; and though

green, never suffer from the colic:—whereas, we mortals must forage all

round for our food: we cram our insides; and are loaded down with

odious sacks and intestines. Plants make love and multiply; but excel

us in all amorous enticements, wooing and winning by soft pollens and

essences. Plants abide in one place, and live: we must travel or die.

Plants flourish without us: we must perish without them.”

“Enough Azzageddi!” cried Media. “Open not thy lips till to-morrow.”

CHAPTER LII.

The Charming Yoomy Sings

The morrow came; and three abreast, with snorting prows, we raced

along; our mat-sails panting to the breeze. All present partook of the

life of the air; and unanimously Yoomy was called upon for a song. The

canoes were passing a long, white reef, sparkling with shells, like a

jeweler’s case: and thus Yoomy sang in the same old strain as of yore;

beginning aloud, where he had left off in his soul:—

Her sweet, sweet mouth!

The peach-pearl shell:—

Red edged its lips,

That softly swell,

Just oped to speak,

With blushing cheek,

That fisherman

With lonely spear

On the reef ken,

And lift to ear

Its voice to hear,—

Soft sighing South!

Like this, like this,—

The rosy kiss!—

That maiden’s mouth.

A shell! a shell!

A vocal shell!

Song-dreaming,

In its inmost dell!

Her bosom! Two buds half blown, they tell;

A little valley between perfuming;

That roves away,

Deserting the day,—

The day of her eyes illuming;—

That roves away, o’er slope and fell,

Till a soft, soft meadow becomes the dell.

Thus far, old Mohi had been wriggling about in his seat, twitching his

beard, and at every couplet looking up expectantly, as if he desired

the company to think, that he was counting upon that line as the last;

But now, starting to his feet, he exclaimed, “Hold, minstrel! thy

muse’s drapery is becoming disordered: no more!”

“Then no more it shall be,” said Yoomy, “But you have lost a glorious

sequel.”

CHAPTER LIII.

They Draw Nigh Unto Land

In good time, after many days sailing, we snuffed the land from afar,

and came to a great country, full of inland mountains, north and south

stretching far out of sight. “All hail, Kolumbo!” cried Yoomy.

Coasting by a portion of it, which Mohi called Kanneeda, a province of

King Bello’s, we perceived the groves rocking in the wind; their

flexible boughs bending like bows; and the leaves flying forth, and

darkening the landscape, like flocks of pigeons.

“Those groves must soon fall,” said Mohi.

“Not so,” said Babbalanja. “My lord, as these violent gusts are formed

by the hostile meeting of two currents, one from over the lagoon, the

other from land; they may be taken as significant of the occasional

variances between Kanneeda and Dominora.”

“Ay,” said Media, “and as Mohi hints, the breeze from Dominora must

soon overthrow the groves of Kanneeda.”

“Not if the land-breeze holds, my lord;—one breeze oft blows another

home.—Stand up, and gaze! From cape to cape, this whole main we see, is

young and froward. And far southward, past this Kanneeda and Vivenza,

are haughty, overbearing streams, which at their mouths dam back the

ocean, and long refuse to mix their freshness with the foreign

brine:—so bold, so strong, so bent on hurling off aggression is this

brave main, Kolumbo;—last sought, last found, Mardi’s estate, so long

kept back;—pray Oro, it be not squandered foolishly. Here lie

plantations, held in fee by stout hearts and arms; and boundless

fields, that may be had for seeing. Here, your foes are forests, struck

down with bloodless maces.—Ho! Mardi’s Poor, and Mardi’s Strong! ye,

who starve or beg; seventh-sons who slave for earth’s first-born—here

is your home; predestinated yours; Come over, Empire-founders! fathers

of the wedded tribes to come!—abject now, illustrious evermore:—Ho:

Sinew, Brawn, and Thigh!”

“A very fine invocation,” said Media, “now Babbalanja, be seated; and

tell us whether Dominora and the kings of Porpheero do not own some

small portion of this great continent, which just now you poetically

pronounced as the spoil of any vagabonds who may choose to settle

therein? Is not Kanneeda, Dominora’s?”

“And was not Vivenza once Dominora’s also? And what Vivenza now is,

Kanneeda soon must be. I speak not, my lord, as wishful of what I say,

but simply as foreknowing it. The thing must come. Vain for Dominora to

claim allegiance from all the progeny she spawns. As well might the old

patriarch of the flood reappear, and claim the right of rule over all

mankind, as descended from the loins of his three roving sons.

“’Tis the old law:—the East peoples the West, the West the East; flux

and reflux. And time may come, after the rise and fall of nations yet

unborn, that, risen from its future ashes, Porpheero shall be the

promised land, and from her surplus hordes Kolumbo people it.”

Still coasting on, next day, we came to Vivenza; and as Media desired

to land first at a point midway between its extremities, in order to

behold the convocation of chiefs supposed to be assembled at this

season, we held on our way, till we gained a lofty ridge, jutting out

into the lagoon, a bastion to the neighboring land. It terminated in a

lofty natural arch of solid trap. Billows beat against its base. But

above, waved an inviting copse, wherein was revealed an open temple of

canes, containing one only image, that of a helmeted female, the

tutelar deity of Vivenza.

The canoes drew near.

“Lo! what inscription is that?” cried Media, “there, chiseled over the

arch?”

Studying those immense hieroglyphics awhile, antiquarian Mohi still

eyeing them, said slowly:—“In-this-re-publi-can-land-all-men-are-

born-free-and-equal.”

“False!” said Media.

“And how long stay they so?” said Babbalanja.

“But look lower, old man,” cried Media, “methinks there’s a small

hieroglyphic or two hidden away in yonder angle.—Interpret them, old

man.”

After much screwing of his eyes, for those characters were very minute,

Champollion Mohi thus spoke—” Except-the-tribe-of-Hamo.”

“That nullifies the other,” cried Media. “Ah, ye republicans!”

“It seems to have been added for a postscript,” rejoined Braid-Beard,

screwing his eyes again.

“Perhaps so,” said Babbalanja, “but some wag must have done it.”

Shooting through the arch, we rapidly gained the beach.

CHAPTER LIV.

They Visit The Great Central Temple Of Vivenza

The throng that greeted us upon landing were exceedingly boisterous.

“Whence came ye?” they cried. “Whither bound? Saw ye ever such a land

as this? Is it not a great and extensive republic? Pray, observe how

tall we are; just feel of our thighs; Are we not a glorious people?

Here, feel of our beards. Look round; look round; be not afraid; Behold

those palms; swear now, that this land surpasses all others. Old

Bello’s mountains are mole-hills to ours; his rivers, rills; his

empires, villages; his palm-trees, shrubs.”

“True,” said Babbalanja. “But great Oro must have had some hand in

making your mountains and streams.—Would ye have been as great in a

desert?”

“Where is your king?” asked Media, drawing himself up in his robe, and

cocking his crown.

“Ha, ha, my fine fellow! We are all kings here; royalty breathes in the

common air. But come on, come on. Let us show you our great Temple of

Freedom.”

And so saying, irreverently grasping his sacred arm, they conducted us

toward a lofty structure, planted upon a bold hill, and supported by

thirty pillars of palm; four quite green; as if recently added; and

beyond these, an almost interminable vacancy, as if all the palms in

Mardi, were at some future time, to aid in upholding that fabric.

Upon the summit of the temple was a staff; and as we drew nigh, a man

with a collar round his neck, and the red marks of stripes upon his

back, was just in the act of hoisting a tappa standard— correspondingly

striped. Other collared menials were going in and out of the temple.

Near the porch, stood an image like that on the top of the arch we had

seen. Upon its pedestal, were pasted certain hieroglyphical notices;

according to Mohi, offering rewards for missing men, so many hands

high.

Entering the temple, we beheld an amphitheatrical space, in the middle

of which, a great fire was burning. Around it, were many chiefs, robed

in long togas, and presenting strange contrasts in their style of

tattooing.

Some were sociably laughing, and chatting; others diligently making

excavations between their teeth with slivers of bamboo; or turning

their heads into mills, were grinding up leaves and ejecting their

juices. Some were busily inserting the down of a thistle into their

ears. Several stood erect, intent upon maintaining striking attitudes;

their javelins tragically crossed upon their chests. They would have

looked very imposing, were it not, that in rear their vesture was sadly

disordered. Others, with swelling fronts, seemed chiefly indebted to

their dinners for their dignity. Many were nodding and napping. And,

here and there, were sundry indefatigable worthies, making a great show

of imperious and indispensable business; sedulously folding banana

leaves into scrolls, and recklessly placing them into the hands of

little boys, in gay turbans and trim little girdles, who thereupon fled

as if with salvation for the dying.

It was a crowded scene; the dusky chiefs, here and there, grouped

together, and their fantastic tattooings showing like the carved work

on quaint old chimney-stacks, seen from afar. But one of their number

overtopped all the rest. As when, drawing nigh unto old Rome, amid the

crowd of sculptured columns and gables, St. Peter’s grand dome soars

far aloft, serene in the upper air; so, showed one calm grand forehead

among those of this mob of chieftains. That head was Saturnina’s. Gall

and Spurzheim! saw you ever such a brow?—poised like an avalanche,

under the shadow of a forest! woe betide the devoted valleys below!

Lavatar! behold those lips,—like mystic scrolls! Those eyes,— like

panthers’ caves at the base of Popocatepetl!

“By my right hand, Saturnina,” cried Babbalanja, “but thou wert made in

the image of thy Maker! Yet, have I beheld men, to the eye as

commanding as thou; and surmounted by heads globe-like as thine, who

never had thy caliber. We must measure brains, not heads, my lord;

else, the sperm whale, with his tun of an occiput, would transcend us

all.”

Near by, were arched ways, leading to subterranean places, whence

issued a savory steam, and an extraordinary clattering of calabashes,

and smacking of lips, as if something were being eaten down there by

the fattest of fat fellows, with the heartiest of appetites, and the

most irresistible of relishes. It was a quaffing, guzzling, gobbling

noise. Peeping down, we beheld a company, breasted up against a board,

groaning under numerous viands. In the middle of all, was a mighty

great gourd, yellow as gold, and jolly round like a pumpkin in October,

and so big it must have grown in the sun. Thence flowed a tide of red

wine. And before it, stood plenty of paunches being filled therewith

like portly stone jars at a fountain. Melancholy to tell, before that

fine flood of old wine, and among those portly old topers, was a lean

man; who occasionally ducked in his bill. He looked like an ibis

standing in the Nile at flood tide, among a tongue-lapping herd of

hippopotami.

They were jolly as the jolliest; and laughed so uproariously, that

their hemispheres all quivered and shook, like vast provinces in an

earthquake. Ha! ha! ha! how they laughed, and they roared. A deaf man

might have heard them; and no milk could have soured within a

forty-two-pounder ball shot of that place.

Now, the smell of good things is no very bad thing in itself. It is the

savor of good things beyond; proof positive of a glorious good meal. So

snuffing up those zephyrs from Araby the blest, those boisterous gales,

blowing from out the mouths of baked boars, stuffed with bread-fruit,

bananas, and sage, we would fain have gone down and partaken.

But this could not be; for we were told that those worthies below, were

a club in secret conclave; very busy in settling certain weighty state

affairs upon a solid basis, They were all chiefs of immense

capacity:—how many gallons, there was no finding out.

Be sure, now, a most riotous noise came up from those catacombs, which

seemed full of the ghosts of fat Lamberts; and this uproar it was, that

heightened the din above-ground.

But heedless of all, in the midst of the amphitheater, stood a tall,

gaunt warrior, ferociously tattooed, with a beak like a buzzard; long

dusty locks; and his hands full of headless arrows. He was laboring

under violent paroxysms; three benevolent individuals essaying to hold

him. But repeatedly breaking loose, he burst anew into his delirium;

while with an absence of sympathy, distressing to behold, the rest of

the assembly seemed wholly engrossed with themselves; nor did they

appear to care how soon the unfortunate lunatic might demolish himself

by his frantic proceedings.

Toward one side of the amphitheatrical space, perched high upon an

elevated dais, sat a white-headed old man with a tomahawk in his hand:

earnestly engaged in overseeing the tumult; though not a word did he

say. Occasionally, however, he was regarded by those present with a

mysterious sort of deference; and when they chanced to pass between him

and the crazy man, they invariably did so in a stooping position;

probably to elude the atmospheric grape and cannister, continually

flying from the mouth of the lunatic.

“What mob is this?” cried Media.

“’Tis the grand council of Vivenza,” cried a bystander. “Hear ye not

Alanno?” and he pointed to the lunatic.

Now coming close to Alanno, we found, that with incredible volubility,

he was addressing the assembly upon some all-absorbing subject

connected with King Bello, and his presumed encroachments toward the

northwest of Vivenza.

One hand smiting his hip, and the other his head, the lunatic thus

proceeded; roaring like a wild beast, and beating the air like a

windmill:—

“I have said it! the thunder is flashing, the lightning is crashing!

already there’s an earthquake in Dominora! Full soon will old Bello

discover that his diabolical machinations against this ineffable land

must soon come to naught. Who dare not declare, that we are not

invincible? I repeat it, we are. Ha! ha! Audacious Bello must bite the

dust! Hair by hair, we will trail his gory gray beard at the end of our

spears! Ha, ha! I grow hoarse; but would mine were a voice like the

wild bulls of Bullorom, that I might be heard from one end of this

great and gorgeous land to its farthest zenith; ay, to the uttermost

diameter of its circumference. Awake! oh Vivenza. The signs of the

times are portentous; nay, extraordinary; I hesitate not to add,

peculiar! Up! up! Let us not descend to the bathos, when we should soar

to the climax! Does not all Mardi wink and look on? Is the great sun

itself a frigid spectator? Then let us double up our mandibles to the

deadly encounter. Methinks I see it now. Old Bello is crafty, and his

oath is recorded to obliterate us! Across this wide lagoon he casts his

serpent eyes; whets his insatiate bill; mumbles his barbarous tusks;

licks his forked tongues; and who knows when we shall have the shark in

our midst? Yet be not deceived; for though as yet, Bello has forborn

molesting us openly, his emissaries are at work; his infernal sappers,

and miners, and wet-nurses, and midwives, and grave- diggers are busy!

His canoe-yards are all in commotion! In navies his forests are being

launched upon the wave; and ere long typhoons, zephyrs, white-squalls,

balmy breezes, hurricanes, and besoms will be raging round us!”

His philippic concluded, Alanno was conducted from the place; and being

now quite exhausted, cold cobble-stones were applied to his temples,

and he was treated to a bath in a stream.

This chieftain, it seems, was from a distant western valley, called

Hio-Hio, one of the largest and most fertile in Vivenza, though but

recently settled. Its inhabitants, and those of the vales adjoining,— a

right sturdy set of fellows,—were accounted the most dogmatically

democratic and ultra of all the tribes in Vivenza; ever seeking to push

on their brethren to the uttermost; and especially were they bitter

against Bello. But they were a fine young tribe, nevertheless. Like

strong new wine they worked violently in becoming clear. Time, perhaps,

would make them all right.

An interval of greater uproar than ever now ensued; during which, with

his tomahawk, the white-headed old man repeatedly thumped and pounded

the seat where he sat, apparently to augment the din, though he looked

anxious to suppress it.

At last, tiring of his posture, he whispered in the ear of a chief, his

friend; who, approaching a portly warrior present, prevailed upon him

to rise and address the assembly. And no sooner did this one do so,

than the whole convocation dispersed, as if to their yams; and with a

grin, the little old man leaped from his seat, and stretched his legs

on a mat.

The fire was now extinguished, and the temple deserted.

CHAPTER LV.

Wherein Babbalanja Comments Upon The Speech Of Alanno

As we lingered in the precincts of the temple after all others had

departed, sundry comments were made upon what we had seen; and having

remarked the hostility of the lunatic orator toward Dominora,

Babbalanja thus addressed Media:—

“My lord, I am constrained to believe, that all Vivenza can not be of

the same mind with the grandiloquent chief from Hio-Hio. Nevertheless,

I imagine, that between Dominora and this land, there exists at bottom

a feeling akin to animosity, which is not yet wholly extinguished;

though but the smoldering embers of a once raging fire. My lord, you

may call it poetry if you will, but there are nations in Mardi, that to

others stand in the relation of sons to sires. Thus with Dominora and

Vivenza. And though, its majority attained, Vivenza is now its own

master, yet should it not fail in a reverential respect for its parent.

In man or nation, old age is honorable; and a boy, however tall, should

never take his sire by the beard. And though Dominora did indeed ill

merit Vivenza’s esteem, yet by abstaining from criminations, Vivenza

should ever merit its own. And if in time to come, which Oro forbid,

Vivenza must needs go to battle with King Bello, let Vivenza first

cross the old veteran’s spear with all possible courtesy. On the other

hand, my lord, King Bello should never forget, that whatever be

glorious in Vivenza, redounds to himself. And as some gallant old lord

proudly measures the brawn and stature of his son; and joys to view in

his noble young lineaments the likeness of his own; bethinking him,

that when at last laid in his tomb, he will yet survive in the long,

strong life of his child, the worthy inheritor of his valor and renown;

even so, should King Bello regard the generous promise of this young

Vivenza of his own lusty begetting. My lord, behold these two states!

Of all nations in the Archipelago, they alone are one in blood.

Dominora is the last and greatest Anak of Old Times; Vivenza, the

foremost and goodliest stripling of the Present. One is full of the

past; the other brims with the future. Ah! did this sire’s old heart

but beat to free thoughts, and back his bold son, all Mardi would go

down before them. And high Oro may have ordained for them a career,

little divined by the mass. Methinks, that as Vivenza will never cause

old Bello to weep for his son; so, Vivenza will not, this many a long

year, be called to weep over the grave of its sire. And though King

Bello may yet lay aside his old-fashioned cocked hat of a crown, and

comply with the plain costume of the times; yet will his, frame remain

sturdy as of yore, and equally grace any habiliments he may don. And

those who say, Dominora is old and worn out, may very possibly err. For

if, as a nation, Dominora be old—her present generation is full as

young as the youths in any land under the sun. Then, Ho! worthy twain!

Each worthy the other, join hands on the instant, and weld them

together. Lo! the past is a prophet. Be the future, its prophecy

fulfilled.”

CHAPTER LVI.

A Scene In The Land Of Warwicks, Or King-Makers

Wending our way from the temple, we were accompanied by a fluent,

obstreperous wight, one Znobbi, a runaway native of Porpheero, but now

an enthusiastic inhabitant of Vivenza.

“Here comes our great chief!” he cried. “Behold him! It was _I_ that

had a hand in making him what he is!”

And so saying, he pointed out a personage, no way distinguished, except

by the tattooing on his forehead—stars, thirty in number; and an

uncommonly long spear in his hand. Freely he mingled with the crowd.

“Behold, how familiar I am with him!” cried Znobbi, approaching, and

pitcher-wise taking him by the handle of his face.

“Friend,” said the dignitary, “thy salute is peculiar, but welcome. I

reverence the enlightened people of this land.”

“Mean-spirited hound!” muttered Media, “were I him, I had impaled that

audacious plebeian.”

“There’s a Head-Chief for you, now, my fine fellow!” cried Znobbi.

“Hurrah! Three cheers! Ay, ay! All kings here—all equal. Every thing’s

in common.”

Here, a bystander, feeling something grazing his side, looked down; and

perceived Znobbi’s hand in clandestine vicinity to the pouch at his

girdle-end.

Whereupon the crowd shouted, “A thief! a thief!” And with a loud voice

the starred chief cried—“Seize him, people, and tie him to yonder

tree.”

And they seized, and tied him on the spot.

“Ah,” said Media, “this chief has something to say, after all; he

pinions a king at a word, though a plebeian takes him by the nose.

Beshrew me, I doubt not, that spear of his, though without a tassel, is

longer and sharper than mine.”

“There’s not so much freedom here as these freemen think,” said

Babbalanja, turning; “I laugh and admire.”

CHAPTER LVII.

They Hearken Unto A Voice From The Gods

Next day we retraced our voyage northward, to visit that section of

Vivenza.

In due time we landed.

To look round was refreshing. Of all the lands we had seen, none looked

more promising. The groves stood tall and green; the fields spread

flush and broad; the dew of the first morning seemed hardly vanished

from the grass. On all sides was heard the fall of waters, the swarming

of bees, and the rejoicing hum of a thriving population.

“Ha, ha!” laughed Yoomy, “Labor laughs in this land; and claps his

hands in the jubilee groves! methinks that Yillah will yet be found.”

Generously entertained, we tarried in this land; till at length, from

over the Lagoon, came full tidings of the eruption we had witnessed in

Franko, with many details. The conflagration had spread through

Porpheero and the kings were to and fro hunted, like malefactors by

blood-hounds; all that part of Mardi was heaving with throes.

With the utmost delight, these tidings were welcomed by many; yet

others heard them with boding concern.

Those, too, there were, who rejoiced that the kings were cast down; but

mourned that the people themselves stood not firmer. A victory, turned

to no wise and enduring account, said they, is no victory at all. Some

victories revert to the vanquished.

But day by day great crowds ran down to the beach, in wait for canoes

periodically bringing further intelligence.

Every hour new cries startled the air. “Hurrah! another, kingdom is

burnt down to the earth’s edge; another demigod is unhelmed; another

republic is dawning. Shake hands, freemen, shake hands! Soon will we

hear of Dominora down in the dust; of hapless Verdanna free as

ourselves; all Porpheero’s volcanoes are bursting! Who may withstand

the people? The times tell terrible tales to tyrants! Ere we die,

freemen, all Mardi will be free.”

Overhearing these shouts, Babbalanja thus addressed Media:—“My lord, I

can not but believe, that these men, are far more excited than those

with whom they so ardently sympathize. But no wonder. The single

discharges which are heard in Porpheero; here come condensed in one

tremendous report. Every arrival is a firing off of events by

platoons.”

Now, during this tumultuous interval, King Media very prudently kept

himself exceedingly quiet. He doffed his regalia; and in all things

carried himself with a dignified discretion. And many hours he absented

himself; none knowing whither he went, or what his employment.

So also with Babbalanja. But still pursuing our search, at last we all

journeyed into a great valley, whose inhabitants were more than

commonly inflated with the ardor of the times.

Rambling on, we espied a clamorous crowd gathered about a conspicuous

palm, against which, a scroll was fixed.

The people were violently agitated; storming out maledictions against

the insolent knave, who, over night must have fixed there, that

scandalous document. But whoever he may have been, certain it was, he

had contrived to hood himself effectually.

After much vehement discussion, during which sundry inflammatory

harangues were made from the stumps of trees near by, it was proposed,

that the scroll should be read aloud, so that all might give ear.

Seizing it, a fiery youth mounted upon the bowed shoulders of an old

man, his sire; and with a shrill voice, ever and anon interrupted by

outcries, read as follows:—

“Sovereign-kings of Vivenza! it is fit you should hearken to wisdom.

But well aware, that you give ear to little wisdom except of your own;

and that as freemen, you are free to hunt down him who dissents from

your majesties; I deem it proper to address you anonymously.

“And if it please you, you may ascribe this voice to the gods: for

never will you trace it to man.

“It is not unknown, sovereign-kings! that in these boisterous days, the

lessons of history are almost discarded, as superseded by present

experiences. And that while all Mardi’s Present has grown out of its

Past, it is becoming obsolete to refer to what has been. Yet,

peradventure, the Past is an apostle.

“The grand error of this age, sovereign-kings! is the general

supposition, that the very special Diabolus is abroad; whereas, the

very special Diabolus has been abroad ever since Mardi began.

“And the grand error of your nation, sovereign-kings! seems this:—The

conceit that Mardi is now in the last scene of the last act of her

drama; and that all preceding events were ordained, to bring about the

catastrophe you believe to be at hand,—a universal and permanent

Republic.

“May it please you, those who hold to these things are fools, and not

wise.

“Time is made up of various ages; and each thinks its own a novelty.

But imbedded in the walls of the pyramids, which outrun all

chronologies, sculptured stones are found, belonging to yet older

fabrics. And as in the mound-building period of yore, so every age

thinks its erections will forever endure. But as your forests grow

apace, sovereign-kings! overrunning the tumuli in your western vales;

so, while deriving their substance from the past, succeeding

generations overgrow it; but in time, themselves decay.

“Oro decrees these vicissitudes.

“In chronicles of old, you read, sovereign kings! that an eagle from

the clouds presaged royalty to the fugitive Taquinoo; and a king,

Taquinoo reigned; No end to my dynasty, thought he.

“But another omen descended, foreshadowing the fall of Zooperbi, his

son; and Zooperbi returning from his camp, found his country a fortress

against him. No more kings would she have. And for five hundred

twelve-moons the Regifugium or King’s-flight, was annually celebrated

like your own jubilee day. And rampant young orators stormed out

detestation of kings; and augurs swore that their birds presaged

immortality to freedom.

“Then, Romara’s free eagles flew over all Mardi, and perched on the

topmost diadems of the east.

“Ever thus must it be.

“For, mostly, monarchs are as gemmed bridles upon the world, checking

the plungings of a steed from the Pampas. And republics are as vast

reservoirs, draining down all streams to one level; and so, breeding a

fullness which can not remain full, without overflowing. And thus,

Romara flooded all Mardi, till scarce an Ararat was left of the lofty

kingdoms which had been.