So, all round we quaffed and quoted.

At last, we talked of old Homeric bards:—those who, ages back, harped,

and begged, and groped their blinded way through all this charitable

Mardi; receiving coppers then, and immortal glory now.

ABRAZZA—How came it, that they all were blind?

BABBALANJA—It was endemical, your Highness. Few grand poets have good

eyes; for they needs blind must be, who ever gaze upon the sun. Vavona

himself was blind: when, in the silence of his secret bower, he said—“I

will build another world. Therein, let there be kings and slaves,

philosophers and wits; whose checkered actions—strange, grotesque, and

merry-sad, will entertain my idle moods.” So, my lord, Vavona played at

kings and crowns, and men and manners; and loved that lonely game to

play.

ABRAZZA—Vavona seemed a solitary Mardian; who seldom went abroad; had

few friends; and shunning others, was shunned by them.

BABBALANJA—But shunned not himself, my lord; like gods, great poets

dwell alone; while round them, roll the worlds they build.

MEDIA—You seem to know all authors:—you must have heard of Lombardo,

Babbalanja; he who flourished many ages since.

BABBALANJA—I have; and his grand Kortanza know by heart.

MEDIA (_to Abrazza._)—A very curious work, that, my lord.

ABRAZZA—Yes, my dearest king. But, Babbalanja, if Lombardo had aught to

tell to Mardi—why choose a vehicle so crazy?

BABBALANJA—It was his nature, I suppose.

ABRAZZA—But so it would not have been, to me.

BABBALANJA—Nor would it have been natural, for my noble lord Abrazza,

to have worn Lombardo’s head:—every man has his own, thank Oro!

ABBRAZZA—A curious work: a very curious work. Babbalanja, are you

acquainted with the history of Lombardo?

BABBALANJA—None better. All his biographies have I read.

ABRAZZA—Then, tell us how he came to write that work. For one, I can

not imagine how those poor devils contrive to roll such thunders

through all Mardi.

MEDIA—Their thunder and lightning seem spontaneous combustibles, my

lord.

ABRAZZA—With which, they but consume themselves, my prince beloved.

BABBALANJA—In a measure, true, your Highness. But pray you, listen; and

I will try to tell the way in which Lombardo produced his great

Kortanza.

MEDIA—But hark you, philosopher! this time no incoherencies; gag that

devil, Azzageddi. And now, what was it that originally impelled

Lombardo to the undertaking?

BABBALANJA—Primus and forever, a full heart:—brimful, bubbling,

sparkling; and running over like the flagon in your hand, my lord.

Secundo, the necessity of bestirring himself to procure his yams.

ABRAZZA—Wanting the second motive, would the first have sufficed,

philosopher?

BABBALANJA—Doubtful. More conduits than one to drain off the soul’s

overflowings. Besides, the greatest fullnesses overflow not

spontaneously; and, even when decanted, like rich syrups, slowly ooze;

whereas, poor fluids glibly flow, wide-spreading. Hence, when great

fullness weds great indolence;—that man, to others, too often proves a

cipher; though, to himself, his thoughts form an Infinite Series,

indefinite, from its vastness; and incommunicable;—not for lack of

power, but for lack of an omnipotent volition, to move his strength.

His own world is full before him; the fulcrum set; but lever there is

none. To such a man, the giving of any boor’s resoluteness, with

tendons braided, would be as hanging a claymore to Valor’s side, before

unarmed. Our minds are cunning, compound mechanisms; and one spring, or

wheel, or axle wanting, the movement lags, or halts. Cerebrum must not

overbalance cerebellum; our brains should be round as globes; and

planted on capacious chests, inhaling mighty morning- inspirations. We

have had vast developments of parts of men; but none of manly wholes.

Before a full-developed man, Mardi would fall down and worship. We are

idiot, younger-sons of gods, begotten in dotages divine; and our

mothers all miscarry. Giants are in our germs; but we are dwarfs,

staggering under heads overgrown. Heaped, our measures burst. We die of

too much life.

MEDIA (_to Abrazza_)—Be not impatient, my lord; he’ll recover

presently. You were talking of Lombardo, Babbalanja.

BABBALANJA—I was, your Highness. Of all Mardians, by nature, he was the

most inert. Hast ever seen a yellow lion, all day basking in the yellow

sun:—in reveries, rending droves of elephants; but his vast loins

supine, and eyelids winking? Such, Lombardo; but fierce Want, the

hunter, came and roused his roar. In hairy billows, his great mane

tossed like the sea; his eyeballs flamed two hells; his paw had stopped

a rolling world.

ABRAZZA—In other words, yams were indispensable, and, poor devil, he

roared to get them.

BABBALANJA (_bowing_)—Partly so, my literal lord. And as with your own

golden scepter, at times upon your royal teeth, indolent tattoos you

beat; then, potent, sway it o’er your isle; so, Lombardo. And ere

Necessity plunged spur and rowel into him, he knew not his own paces.

_That_ churned him into consciousness; and brought ambition, ere then

dormant, seething to the top, till he trembled at himself. No mailed

hand lifted up against a traveler in woods, can so, appall, as we

ourselves. We are full of ghosts and spirits; we are as grave-yards

full of buried dead, that start to life before us. And all our dead

sires, verily, are in us; _that_ is their immortality. From sire to

son, we go on multiplying corpses in ourselves; for all of which, are

resurrections. Every thought’s a soul of some past poet, hero, sage. We

are fuller than a city. Woe it is, that reveals these things. He knows

himself, and all that’s in him, who knows adversity. To scale great

heights, we must come out of lowermost depths. The way to heaven is

through hell. We need fiery baptisms in the fiercest flames of our own

bosoms. We must feel our hearts hot—hissing in us. And ere their fire

is revealed, it must burn its way out of us; though it consume us and

itself. Oh, sleek-cheeked Plenty! smiling at thine own dimples;—vain

for thee to reach out after greatness. Turn! turn! from all your tiers

of cushions of eider-down—turn! and be broken on the wheels of many

woes. At white-heat, brand thyself; and count the scars, like old

war-worn veterans, over camp-fires. Soft poet! brushing tears from

lilies—this way! and howl in sackcloth and in ashes! Know, thou, that

the lines that live are turned out of a furrowed brow. Oh! there is a

fierce, a cannibal delight, in the grief that shrieks to multiply

itself. That grief is miserly of its own; it pities all the happy. Some

damned spirits would not be otherwise, could they.

ABRAZZA (_to Media_)—Pray, my lord, is this good gentleman a devil?

MEDIA.—No, my lord; but he’s possessed by one. His name is Azzageddi.

You may hear more of him. But come, Babbalanja, hast forgotten all

about Lombardo? How set he about that great undertaking, his Kortanza?

ABRAZZA (_to Media_)—Oh, for all the ravings of your Babbalanja,

Lombardo took no special pains; hence, deserves small commendation.

For, genius must be somewhat like us kings,—calm, content, in

consciousness of power. And to Lombardo, the scheme of his Kortanza

must have come full-fledged, like an eagle from the sun.

BABBALANJA—No, your Highness; but like eagles, his thoughts were first

callow; yet, born plumeless, they came to soar.

ABRAZZA—Very fine. I presume, Babbalanja, the first thing he did, was

to fast, and invoke the muses.

BABBALANJA—Pardon, my lord; on the contrary he first procured a ream of

vellum, and some sturdy quills: indispensable preliminaries, my

worshipful lords, to the writing of the sublimest epics.

ABRAZZA—Ah! then the muses were afterward invoked.

BABBALANJA—Pardon again. Lombardo next sat down to a fine plantain

pudding.

YOOMY—When the song-spell steals over me, I live upon olives.

BABBALANJA—Yoomy, Lombardo eschewed olives. Said he, “What fasting

soldier can fight? and the fight of all fights is to write.” In ten

days Lombardo had written—

ABRAZZA—Dashed off, you mean.

BABBALANJA—He never dashed off aught.

ABRAZZA—As you will.

BABBALANJA—In ten days, Lombardo had written full fifty folios; he

loved huge acres of vellum whereon to expatiate.

MEDIA—What then?

BABBALANJA—He read them over attentively; made a neat package of the

whole: and put it into the fire.

ALL—How?

MEDIA—What! these great geniuses writing trash?

ABRAZZA—I thought as much.

BABBALANJA—My lords, they abound in it! more than any other men in

Mardi. Genius is full of trash. But genius essays its best to keep it

to itself; and giving away its ore, retains the earth; whence, the too

frequent wisdom of its works, and folly of its life.

ABRAZZA—Then genius is not inspired, after all. How they must slave in

their mines! I weep to think of it.

BABBALANJA—My lord, all men are inspired; fools are inspired; your

highness is inspired; for the essence of all ideas is infused. Of

ourselves, and in ourselves, we originate nothing. When Lombardo set

about his work, he knew not what it would become. He did not build

himself in with plans; he wrote right on; and so doing, got deeper and

deeper into himself; and like a resolute traveler, plunging through

baffling woods, at last was rewarded for his toils. “In good time,”

saith he, in his autobiography, “I came out into a serene, sunny,

ravishing region; full of sweet scents, singing birds, wild plaints,

roguish laughs, prophetic voices. “Here we are at last, then,” he

cried; “I have created the creative.” And now the whole boundless

landscape stretched away. Lombardo panted; the sweat was on his brow;

he off mantle; braced himself; sat within view of the ocean; his face

to a cool rushing breeze; placed flowers before him; and gave himself

plenty of room. On one side was his ream of vellum—

ABBRAZZA—And on the other, a brimmed beaker.

BABBALANJA—No, your Highness; though he loved it, no wine for Lombardo

while actually at work.

MOHI—Indeed? Why, I ever thought that it was to the superior quality of

Lombardo’s punches, that Mardi was indebted for that abounding humor of

his.

BABBALANJA—Not so; he had another way of keeping himself well braced.

YOOMY—Quick! tell us the secret.

BABBALANJA—He never wrote by rush-light. His lamp swung in heaven.— He

rose from his East, with the sun; he wrote when all nature was alive.

MOHI—Doubtless, then, he always wrote with a grin; and none laughed

louder at his quips, than Lombardo himself.

BABBALANJA—Hear you laughter at the birth of a man child, old man? The

babe may have many dimples; not so, the parent. Lombardo was a hermit

to behold.

MEDIA—What! did Lombardo laugh with a long face?

BABBALANJA—His merriment was not always merriment to him, your

Highness. For the most part, his meaning kept him serious. Then he was

so intensely riveted to his work, he could not pause to laugh.

MOHI—My word for it; but he had a sly one, now and then.

BABBALANJA—For the nonce, he was not his own master: a mere amanuensis

writing by dictation.

YOOMY—Inspiration, that!

BABBALANJA.—Call it as you will, Yoomy, it was a sort of sleep- walking

of the mind. Lombardo never threw down his pen: it dropped from him;

and then, he sat disenchanted: rubbing his eyes; staring; and feeling

faint—sometimes, almost unto death.

MEDIA—But pray, Babbalanja, tell us how he made acquaintance with some

of those rare worthies, he introduces us to, in his Koztanza.

BABBALANJA—He first met them in his reveries; they were walking about

in him, sour and moody: and for a long time, were shy of his advances;

but still importuned, they at last grew ashamed of their reserve;

stepped forward; and gave him their hands. After that, they were frank

and friendly. Lombardo set places for them at his board; when he died,

he left them something in his will.

MEDIA—What! those imaginary beings?

ABRAZZA—Wondrous witty! infernal fine!

MEDIA—But, Babbalanja; after all, the Koztanza found no favor in the

eyes of some Mardians.

ABRAZZA—Ay: the arch-critics Verbi and Batho denounced it.

BABBALANJA—Yes: on good authority, Verbi is said to have detected a

superfluous comma; and Batho declared that, with the materials he could

have constructed a far better world than Lombardo’s. But, didst ever

hear of his laying his axis?

ABRAZZA—But the unities; Babbalanja, the unities! they are wholly

wanting in the Koztanza.

BABBALANJA—Your Highness; upon that point, Lombardo was frank. Saith

he, in his autobiography: “For some time, I endeavored to keep in the

good graces of those nymphs; but I found them so captious, and

exacting; they threw me into such a violent passion with their

fault-findings; that, at last, I renounced them.”

ABRAZZA—Very rash!

BABBALANJA—No, your Highness; for though Lombardo abandoned all

monitors from without; he retained one autocrat within—his crowned and

sceptered instinct. And what, if he pulled down one gross world, and

ransacked the etherial spheres, to build up something of his own—a

composite:—what then? matter and mind, though matching not, are mates;

and sundered oft, in his Koztanza they unite:—the airy waist, embraced

by stalwart arms.

MEDIA—Incoherent again! I thought we were to have no more of this!

BABBALANJA—My lord Media, there are things infinite in the finite; and

dualities in unities. Our eyes are pleased with the redness of the

rose, but another sense lives upon its fragrance. Its redness you must

approach, to view: its invisible fragrance pervades the field. So, with

the Koztanza. Its mere beauty is restricted to its form: its expanding

soul, past Mardi does embalm. Modak is Modako; but fogle-foggle is not

fugle-fi.

MEDIA (_to Abrazza_)—My lord, you start again; but ’tis only another

phase of Azzageeddi; sometimes he’s quite mad. But all this you must

needs overlook.

ABRAZZA—I will, my dear prince; what one can not see through, one must

needs look over, as you say.

YOOMY—But trust me, your Highness, some of those strange things fall

far too melodiously upon the ear, to be wholly deficient in meaning.

ABRAZZA—Your gentle minstrel, _this_ must be, my lord. But Babbalanja,

the Koztanza lacks cohesion; it is wild, unconnected, all episode.

BABBALANJA—And so is Mardi itself:—nothing but episodes; valleys and

hills; rivers, digressing from plains; vines, roving all over; boulders

and diamonds; flowers and thistles; forests and thickets; and, here and

there, fens and moors. And so, the world in the Koztanza.

ABRAZZA—Ay, plenty of dead-desert chapters there; horrible sands to

wade through.

MEDIA—Now, Babbalanja, away with your tropes; and tell us of the work,

directly it was done. What did Lombardo then? Did he show it to any one

for an opinion?

BABBALANJA—Yes, to Zenzori; who asked him where he picked up so much

trash; to Hanto, who bade him not be cast down, it was pretty good; to

Lucree, who desired to know how much he was going to get for it; to

Roddi, who offered a suggestion.

MEDIA—And what was that?

BABBALANJA—That he had best make a faggot of the whole; and try again.

ABRAZZA—Very encouraging.

MEDIA—Any one else?

BABBALANJA—To Pollo; who, conscious his opinion was sought, was thereby

puffed up; and marking the faltering of Lombardo’s voice, when the

manuscript was handed him, straightway concluded, that the man who

stood thus trembling at the bar, must needs be inferior to the judge.

But his verdict was mild. After sitting up all night over the work; and

diligently taking notes:—“Lombardo, my friend! here, take your sheets.

I have run through them loosely. You might have done better; but then

you might have done worse. Take them, my friend; I have put in some

good things for you:”

MEDIA—And who was Pollo?

BABBALANJA—Probably some one who lived in Lombardo’s time, and went by

that name. He is incidentally mentioned, and cursorily immortalized in

one of the posthumous notes to the Koztanza.

MEDIA—What is said of him there?

BABBALANJA—Not much. In a very old transcript of the work—that of

Aldina—the note alludes to a brave line in the text, and runs thus:—

“Diverting to tell, it was this passage that an old prosodist, one

Pollo, claimed for his own. He maintained he made a free-will offering

of it to Lombardo. Several things are yet extant of this Pollo, who

died some weeks ago. He seems to have been one of those, who would do

great things if they could; but are content to compass the small. He

imagined, that the precedence of authors he had established in his

library, was their Mardi order of merit. He condemned the sublime poems

of Vavona to his lowermost shelf. ‘Ah,’ thought he, ‘how we library

princes, lord it over these beggarly authors!’ Well read in the history

of their woes, Pollo pitied them all, particularly the famous; and

wrote little essays of his own, which he read to himself.”

MEDIA—Well: and what said Lombardo to those good friends of his,—

Zenzori, Hanto, and Roddi?

BABBALANJA—Nothing. Taking home his manuscript, he glanced it over;

making three corrections.

ABRAZZA—And what then?

BABBALANJA—Then, your Highness, he thought to try a conclave of

professional critics; saying to himself, “Let them privately point out

to me, now, all my blemishes; so that, what time they come to review me

in public, all will be well.” But curious to relate, those professional

critics, for the most part, held their peace, concerning a work yet

unpublished. And, with some generous exceptions, in their vague,

learned way, betrayed such base, beggarly notions of authorship, that

Lombardo could have wept, had tears been his. But in his very grief, he

ground his teeth. Muttered he, “They are fools. In their eyes, bindings

not brains make books. They criticise my tattered cloak, not my soul,

caparisoned like a charger. He is the great author, think they, who

drives the best bargain with his wares: and no bargainer am I. Because

he is old, they worship some mediocrity of an ancient, and mock at the

living prophet with the live coal on his lips. They are men who would

not be men, had they no books. Their sires begat them not; but the

authors they have read. Feelings they have none: and their very

opinions they borrow. They can not say yea, nor nay, without first

consulting all Mardi as an Encyclopedia. And all the learning in them,

is as a dead corpse in a coffin. Were they worthy the dignity of being

damned, I would damn them; but they are not. Critics?—Asses! rather

mules!—so emasculated, from vanity, they can not father a true thought.

Like mules, too, from dunghills, they trample down gardens of roses:

and deem that crushed fragrance their own.—Oh! that all round the

domains of genius should lie thus unhedged, for such cattle to uproot!

Oh! that an eagle should be stabbed by a goose-quill! But at best, the

greatest reviewers but prey on my leavings. For I am critic and

creator; and as critic, in cruelty surpass all critics merely, as a

tiger, jackals. For ere Mardi sees aught of mine, I scrutinize it

myself, remorseless as a surgeon. I cut right and left; I probe, tear,

and wrench; kill, burn, and destroy; and what’s left after that, the

jackals are welcome to. It is I that stab false thoughts, ere hatched;

I that pull down wall and tower, rejecting materials which would make

palaces for others. Oh! could Mardi but see how we work, it would

marvel more at our primal chaos, than at the round world thence

emerging. It would marvel at our scaffoldings, scaling heaven; marvel

at the hills of earth, banked all round our fabrics ere completed.—How

plain the pyramid! In this grand silence, so intense, pierced by that

pointed mass,—could ten thousand slaves have ever toiled? ten thousand

hammers rung?—There it stands, —part of Mardi: claiming kin with

mountains;—was this thing piecemeal built?—It was. Piecemeal?—atom by

atom it was laid. The world is made of mites.”

YOOMY (_musing._)—It is even so.

ABRAZZA—Lombardo was severe upon the critics; and they as much so upon

him;—of that, be sure.

BABBALANGA—Your Highness, Lombardo never presumed to criticise true

critics; who are more rare than true poets. A great critic is a sultan

among satraps; but pretenders are thick as ants, striving to scale a

palm, after its aerial sweetness. And they fight among themselves.

Essaying to pluck eagles, they themselves are geese, stuck full of

quills, of which they rob each other.

ABRAZZA (_to Media._)—Oro help the victim that falls in Babbalanja’s

hands!

MEDIA.—Ay, my lord; at times, his every finger is a dagger: every

thought a falling tower that whelms! But resume, philosopher—what of

Lombardo now?

BABBALANJA—“For this thing,” said he, “I have agonized over it

enough.—I can wait no more. It has faults—all mine;—its merits all its

own;—but I can toil no longer. The beings knit to me implore; my heart

is full; my brain is sick. Let it go—let it go—and Oro with it.

Somewhere Mardi has a mighty heart—-_that_ struck, all the isles shall

resound!”

ABRAZZA—Poor devil! he took the world too hard.

MEDIA.-As most of these mortals do, my lord. That’s the load, self-

imposed, under which Babbalanja reels. But now, philosopher, ere Mardi

saw it, what thought Lombardo of his work, looking at it objectively,

as a thing out of him, I mean.

ABRAZZA—No doubt, he hugged it.

BABBALANJA—Hard to answer. Sometimes, when by himself, he thought

hugely of it, as my lord Abrazza says; but when abroad, among men, he

almost despised it; but when he bethought him of those parts, written

with full eyes, half blinded; temples throbbing; and pain at the heart—

ABRAZZA—Pooh! pooh!

BABBALANJA—He would say to himself, “Sure, it can not be in vain!” Yet

again, when he bethought him of the hurry and bustle of Mardi,

dejection stole over him. “Who will heed it,” thought he; “what care

these fops and brawlers for me? But am I not myself an egregious

coxcomb? Who will read me? Say one thousand pages—twenty-five lines

each—every line ten words—every word ten letters. That’s two million

five hundred thousand _a_’s, and _i_’s, and _o_’s to read! How many are

superfluous? Am I not mad to saddle Mardi with such a task? Of all men,

am I the wisest, to stand upon a pedestal, and teach the mob? Ah, my

own Kortanza! child of many prayers!—in whose earnest eyes, so

fathomless, I see my own; and recall all past delights and silent

agonies-thou may’st prove, as the child of some fond dotard:— beauteous

to me; hideous to Mardi! And methinks, that while so much slaving

merits that thou should’st not die; it has not been intense, prolonged

enough, for the high meed of immortality. Yet, things immortal have

been written; and by men as me;—men, who slept and waked; and ate; and

talked with tongues like mine. Ah, Oro! how may we know or not, we are

what we would be? Hath genius any stamp and imprint, obvious to

possessors? Has it eyes to see itself; or is it blind? Or do we delude

ourselves with being gods, and end in grubs? Genius, genius?—a thousand

years hence, to be a household-word?—I?— Lombardo? but yesterday cut in

the market-place by a spangled fool!— Lombardo immortal?—Ha, ha,

Lombardo! but thou art an ass, with vast ears brushing the tops of

palms! Ha, ha, ha! Methinks I see thee immortal! ‘Thus great Lombardo

saith; and thus; and thus; and thus:— thus saith he—illustrious

Lombardo!—Lombardo, our great countryman! Lombardo, prince of

poets—Lombardo! great Lombardo!’—Ha, ha, ha!— go, go! dig thy grave,

and bury thyself!”

ABRAZZA—He was very funny, then, at times.

BABBALANJA—Very funny, your Highness:—amazing jolly! And from my

nethermost soul, would to Oro, thou could’st but feel one touch of that

jolly woe! It would appall thee, my Right Worshipful lord Abrazza!

ABRAZZA (_to Media_)—My dear lord, his teeth are marvelously white and

sharp: some she-shark must have been his dam:—does he often grin thus?

It was infernal!

MEDIA—Ah! that’s Azzageddi. But, prithee, Babbalanja, proceed.

BABBALANJA—Your Highness, even in his calmer critic moods, Lombardo was

far from fancying his work. He confesses, that it ever seemed to him

but a poor scrawled copy of something within, which, do what he would,

he could not completely transfer. “My canvas was small,” said he;

“crowded out were hosts of things that came last. But Fate is in it.”

And Fate it was, too, your Highness, which forced Lombardo, ere his

work was well done, to take it off his easel, and send it to be

multiplied. “Oh, that I was not thus spurred!” cried he; “but like many

another, in its very childhood, this poor child of mine must go out

into Mardi, and get bread for its sire.”

ABRAZZA (_with a sigh_)—Alas, the poor devil! But methinks ’twas

wondrous arrogant in him to talk to all Mardi at that lofty rate.—Did

he think himself a god?

BABBALANJA—He himself best knew what he thought; but, like all others,

he was created by Oro to some special end; doubtless, partly answered

in his Koztanza.

MEDIA—And now that Lombardo is long dead and gone—and his work, hooted

during life, lives after him—what think the present company of it?

Speak, my lord Abrazza! Babbalanja! Mohi! Yoomy!

ABRAZZA (_tapping his sandal with his scepter__)—I never read it.

BABBALANJA (_looking upward_)—It was written with a divine intent.

Mohi (_stroking his beard_)—I never hugged it in a corner, and ignored

it before Mardi.

Yoomy (_musing_)—It has bettered my heart.

MEDIA (_rising_)—And I have read it through nine times.

BABBALANJA (_starting up_)—Ah, Lombardo! this must make thy ghost glad!

CHAPTER LXXVII.

They Sup

There seemed something sinister, hollow, heartless, about Abrazza, and

that green-and-yellow, evil-starred crown that he wore.

But why think of that? Though we like not something in the curve of

one’s brow, or distrust the tone of his voice; yet, let us away with

suspicions if we may, and make a jolly comrade of him, in the name of

the gods. Miserable! thrice miserable he, who is forever turning over

and over one’s character in his mind, and weighing by nice avoirdupois,

the pros and the cons of his goodness and badness. For we are all good

and bad. Give me the heart that’s huge as all Asia; and unless a man,

be a villain outright, account him one of the best tempered blades in

the world.

That night, in his right regal hall, King Abrazza received us. And in

merry good time a fine supper was spread.

Now, in thus nocturnally regaling us, our host was warranted by many

ancient and illustrious examples.

For old Jove gave suppers; the god Woden gave suppers; the Hindoo deity

Brahma gave suppers; the Red Man’s Great Spirit gave suppers:— chiefly

venison and game.

And many distinguished mortals besides.

Ahasuerus gave suppers; Xerxes gave suppers; Montezuma gave suppers;

Powhattan gave suppers; the Jews’ Passovers were suppers; the Pharaohs

gave suppers; Julius Caesar gave suppers:—and rare ones they were;

Great Pompey gave suppers; Nabob Crassus gave suppers; and

Heliogabalus, surnamed the Gobbler, gave suppers.

It was a common saying of old, that King Pluto gave suppers; some say

he is giving them still. If so, he is keeping tip-top company, old

Pluto:—Emperors and Czars; Great Moguls and Great Khans; Grand Lamas

and Grand Dukes; Prince Regents and Queen Dowagers:—Tamerlane

hob-a-nobbing with Bonaparte; Antiochus with Solyman the Magnificent;

Pisistratus pledging Pilate; Semiramis eating bon-bons with Bloody

Mary, and her namesake of Medicis; the Thirty Tyrants quaffing three to

one with the Council of Ten; and Sultans, Satraps, Viziers, Hetmans,

Soldans, Landgraves, Bashaws, Doges, Dauphins, Infantas, Incas, and

Caciques looking on.

Again: at Arbela, the conqueror of conquerors, conquering son of

Olympia by Jupiter himself, sent out cards to his captains,—

Hephestion, Antigonus, Antipater, and the rest—to join him at ten,

p.m., in the Temple of Belus; there, to sit down to a victorious

supper, off the gold plate of the Assyrian High Priests. How

majestically he poured out his old Madeira that night!—feeling grand

and lofty as the Himmalehs; yea, all Babylon nodded her towers in his

soul!

Spread, heaped up, stacked with good things; and redolent of citrons

and grapes, hilling round tall vases of wine; and here and there,

waving with fresh orange-boughs, among whose leaves, myriads of small

tapers gleamed like fire-flies in groves,—Abrazza’s glorious board

showed like some banquet in Paradise: Ceres and Pomona presiding; and

jolly Bacchus, like a recruit with a mettlesome rifle, staggering back

as he fires off the bottles of vivacious champagne.

In ranges, roundabout stood living candelabras:—lackeys, gayly

bedecked, with tall torches in their hands; and at one end, stood

trumpeters, bugles at their lips.

“This way, my dear Media!—this seat at my left—Noble Taji!—my right.

Babbalanja!—Mohi—where you are. But where’s pretty Yoomy?— Gone to

meditate in the moonlight? ah!—Very good. Let the banquet begin. A

blast there!”

And charge all did.

The venison, wild boar’s meat, and buffalo-humps, were extraordinary;

the wine, of rare vintages, like bottled lightning; and the first

course, a brilliant affair, went off like a rocket.

But as yet, Babbalanja joined not in the revels. His mood was on him;

and apart he sat; silently eyeing the banquet; and ever and anon

muttering,—“Fogle-foggle, fugle-fi.—”

The first fury of the feast over, said King Media, pouring out from a

heavy flagon into his goblet, “Abrazza, these suppers are wondrous fine

things.”

“Ay, my dear lord, much better than dinners.”

“So they are, so they are. The dinner-hour is the summer of the day:

full of sunshine, I grant; but not like the mellow autumn of supper. A

dinner, you know, may go off rather stiffly; but invariably suppers are

jovial. At dinners, ’tis not till you take in sail, furl the cloth, bow

the lady-passengers out, and make all snug; ’tis not till then, that

one begins to ride out the gale with complacency. But at these

suppers—Good Oro! your cup is empty, my dear demi-god!—But at these

suppers, I say, all is snug and ship-shape before you begin; and when

you begin, you waive the beginning, and begin in the middle. And as for

the cloth,—but tell us, Braid-Beard, what that old king of Franko,

Ludwig the Fat, said of that matter. The cloth for suppers, you know.

It’s down in your chronicles.”

“My lord,”—wiping his beard,—“Old Ludwig was of opinion, that at

suppers the cloth was superfluous, unless on the back of some jolly

good friar. Said he, ‘For one, I prefer sitting right down to the

unrobed table.’”

“High and royal authority, that of Ludwig the Fat,” said Babbalanja,

“far higher than the authority of Ludwig the Great:—the one, only great

by courtesy; the other, fat beyond a peradventure. But they are equally

famous; and in their graves, both on a par. For after devouring many a

fair province, and grinding the poor of his realm, Ludwig the Great has

long since, himself, been devoured by very small worms, and ground into

very fine dust. And after stripping many a venison rib, Ludwig the Fat

has had his own polished and bleached in the Valley of Death; yea, and

his cranium chased with corrodings, like the carved flagon once held to

its jaws.”

“My lord! my lord!”—cried Abrazza to Media—“this ghastly devil of yours

grins worse than a skull. I feel the worms crawling over me!—By Oro we

must eject him!”

“No, no, my lord. Let him sit there, as of old the Death’s-head graced

the feasts of the Pharaohs—let him sit—let him sit—for Death but

imparts a flavor to Life—Go on: wag your tongue without fear,

Azzageddi!—But come, Braid-Beard! let’s hear more of the Ludwigs.”

“Well, then, your Highness, of all the eighteen royal Ludwigs of

Franko—”

“Who like so many ten-pins, all in a row,” interposed Babbalanja— “have

been bowled off the course by grim Death.”

“Heed him not,” said Media—“go on.”

“The Debonnaire, the Pious, the Stammerer, the Do-Nothing, the

Juvenile, the Quarreler:—of all these, I say, Ludwig the Fat was the

best table-man of them all. Such a full orbed paunch was his, that no

way could he devise of getting to his suppers, but by getting right

into them. Like the Zodiac his table was circular, and full in the

middle he sat, like a sun;—all his jolly stews and ragouts revolving

around him.”

“Yea,” said Babbalanja, “a very round sun was Ludwig the Fat. No wonder

he’s down in the chronicles; several ells about the waist, and King of

cups and Tokay. Truly, a famous king: three hundred-weight of lard,

with a diadem on top: lean brains and a fat doublet—a demijohn of a

demi-god!”

“Is this to be longer borne?” cried Abrazza, starting up. “Quaff that

sneer down, devil! on the instant! down with it, to the dregs! This

comes, my lord Media, of having a slow drinker at one’s board. Like an

iceberg, such a fellow frosts the whole atmosphere of a banquet, and is

felt a league off We must thrust him out. Guards!”

“Back! touch him not, hounds!”—cried Media. “Your pardon, my lord, but

we’ll keep him to it; and melt him down in this good wine. Drink! I

command it, drink, Babbalanja!”

“And am I not drinking, my lord? Surely you would not that I should

imbibe more than I can hold. The measure being full, all poured in

after that is but wasted. I am for being temperate in these things, my

good lord. And my one cup outlasts three of yours. Better to sip a

pint, than pour down a quart. All things in moderation are good;

whence, wine in moderation is good. But all things in excess are bad:

whence wine in excess is bad.”

“Away with your logic and conic sections! Drink!—But no, no: I am too

severe. For of all meals a supper should be the most social and free.

And going thereto we kings, my lord, should lay aside our scepters.— Do

as you please Babbalanja.”

“You are right, you are right, after all, my dear demi-god,” said

Abrazza. “And to say truth, I seldom worry myself with the ways of

these mortals; for no thanks do we demi-gods get. We kings should be

ever indifferent. Nothing like a cold heart; warm ones are ever

chafing, and getting into trouble. I let my mortals here in this isle

take heed to themselves; only barring them out when they would thrust

in their petitions. This very instant, my lord, my yeoman-guard is on

duty without, to drive off intruders.—Hark!—what noise is that?—Ho, who

comes?”

At that instant, there burst into the hall, a crowd of spearmen, driven

before a pale, ragged rout, that loudly invoked King Abrazza.

“Pardon, my lord king, for thus forcing an entrance! But long in vain

have we knocked at thy gates! Our grievances are more than we can bear!

Give ear to our spokesman, we beseech!”

And from their tumultuous midst, they pushed forward a tall, grim,

pine-tree of a fellow, who loomed up out of the throng, like the Peak

of Teneriffe among the Canaries in a storm.

“Drive the knaves out! Ho, cowards, guards, turn about! charge upon

them! Away with your grievances! Drive them out, I say, drive them

out!—High times, truly, my lord Media, when demi-gods are thus annoyed

at their wine. Oh, who would reign over mortals!”

So at last, with much difficulty, the ragged rout were ejected; the

Peak of Teneriffe going last, a pent storm on his brow; and muttering

about some black time that was corning.

While the hoarse murmurs without still echoed through the hall, King

Abrazza refilling his cup thus spoke:—“You were saying, my dear lord,

that of all meals a supper is the most social and free. Very true. And

of all suppers those given by us bachelor demi-gods are the best. Are

they not?”

“They are. For Benedict mortals must be home betimes: bachelor

demi-gods are never away.”

“Ay, your Highnesses, bachelors are all the year round at home;” said

Mohi: “sitting out life in the chimney corner, cozy and warm as the

dog, whilome turning the old-fashioned roasting jack.”

“And to us bachelor demi-gods,” cried Media “our to-morrows are as long

rows of fine punches, ranged on a board, and waiting the hand.”

“But my good lords,” said Babbalanja, now brightening with wine; “if,

of all suppers those given by bachelors be the best:—of all bachelors,

are not your priests and monks the jolliest? I mean, behind the scenes?

Their prayers all said, and their futurities securely invested,—who so

carefree and cozy as they? Yea, a supper for two in a friar’s cell in

Maramma, is merrier far, than a dinner for five-and-twenty, in the

broad right wing of Donjalolo’s great Palace of the Morn.”

“Bravo, Babbalanja!” cried Media, “your iceberg is thawing. More of

that, more of that. Did I not say, we would melt him down at last, my

lord?”

“Ay,” continued Babbalanja, “bachelors are a noble fraternity: I’m a

bachelor myself. One of ye, in that matter, my lord demi-gods. And if

unlike the patriarchs of the world, we father not our brigades and

battalions; and send not out into the battles of our country whole

regiments of our own individual raising;—yet do we oftentimes leave

behind us goodly houses and lands; rare old brandies and mountain

Malagas; and more especially, warm doublets and togas, and

spatterdashes, wherewithal to keep comfortable those who survive us;—

casing the legs and arms, which others beget. Then compare not

invidiously Benedicts with bachelors, since thus we make an equal

division of the duties, which both owe to posterity.”

“Suppers forever!” cried Media. “See, my lord, what yours has done for

Babbalanja. He came to it a skeleton; but will go away, every bone

padded!”

“Ay, my lord demi-gods,” said Babbalanja, drop by drop refilling his

goblet. “These suppers are all very fine, very pleasant, and merry. But

we pay for them roundly. Every thing, my good lords, has its price,

from a marble to a world. And easier of digestion, and better for both

body and soul, are a half-haunch of venison and a gallon of mead, taken

under the sun at meridian, than the soft bridal breast of a partridge,

with some gentle negus, at the noon of night!”

“No lie that!” said Mohi. “Beshrew me, in no well-appointed mansion

doth the pantry lie adjoining the sleeping chamber. A good thought:

I’ll fill up, and ponder on it.”

“Let not Azzageddi get uppermost again, Babbalanja,” cried Media. “Your

goblet is only half-full.”

“Permit it to remain so; my lord. For whoso takes much wine to bed with

him, has a bedfellow, more restless than a somnambulist. And though

Wine be a jolly blade at the board, a sulky knave is he under a

blanket. I know him of old. Yet, your Highness, for all this, to many a

Mardian, suppers are still better than dinners, at whatever cost

purchased. Forasmuch, as many have more leisure to sup, than dine. And

though you demi-gods, may dine at your ease; and dine it out into

night: and sit and chirp over your Burgundy, till the morning larks

join your crickets, and wed matins to vespers;—far otherwise, with us

plebeian mortals. From our dinners, we must hie to our anvils: and the

last jolly jorum evaporates in a cark and a care.”

“Methinks he relapses,” said Abrazza.

“It waxes late,” said Mohi; “your Highnesses, is it not time to break

up?”

“No, no!”, cried Abrazza; “let the day break when it will: but no

breakings for us. It’s only midnight. This way with the wine; pass it

along, my dear Media. We are young yet, my sweet lord; light hearts and

heavy purses; short prayers and long rent-rolls. Pass round the Tokay!

We demi-gods have all our old age for a dormitory. Come!—Round and

round with the flagons! Let them disappear like mile-stones on a

race-course!”

“Ah!” murmured Babbalanja, holding his full goblet at arm’s length on

the board, “not thus with the hapless wight, born with a hamper on his

back, and blisters in his palms.—Toil and sleep—sleep and toil, are his

days and his nights; he goes to bed with a lumbago, and wakes with the

rheumatics;—I know what it is;—he snatches lunches, not dinners, and

makes of all life a cold snack! Yet praise be to Oro, though to such

men dinners are scarce worth the eating; nevertheless, praise Oro

again, a good supper is something. Off jack-boots; nay, off shirt, if

you will, and go at it. Hurrah! the fagged day is done: the last blow

is an echo. Twelve long hours to sunrise! And would it were an

Antarctic night, and six months to to-morrow! But, hurrah! the very

bees have their hive, and after a day’s weary wandering, hie home to

their honey. So they stretch out their stiff legs, rub their lame

elbows, and putting their tired right arms in a sling, set the others

to fetching and carrying from dishes to dentals, from foaming flagon to

the demijohn which never pours out at the end you pour in. Ah! after

all, the poorest devil in Mardi lives not in vain. There’s a soft side

to the hardest oak-plank in the world!”

“Methinks I have heard some such sentimental gabble as this before from

my slaves, my lord,” said Abrazza to Media. “It has the old gibberish

flavor.”

“Gibberish, your Highness? Gibberish? I’m full of it—I’m a gibbering

ghost, my right worshipful lord! Here, pass your hand through me— here,

_here_, and scorch it where I most burn. By Oro! King! but I will gibe

and gibber at thee, till thy crown feels like another skull clapped on

thy own. Gibberish? ay, in hell we’ll gibber in concert, king! we’ll

howl, and roast, and hiss together!”

“Devil that thou art, begone! Ho, guards! seize him!”

“Back, curs!” cried Media. “Harm not a hair of his head. I crave

pardon, King Abrazza, but no violence must be done Babbalanja.”

“Trumpets there!” said Abrazza; “so: the banquet is done—lights for

King Media! Good-night, my lord!”

Now, thus, for the nonce, with good cheer, we close. And after many

fine dinners and banquets—through light and through shade; through

mirth, sorrow, and all—drawing nigh to the evening end of these

wanderings wild—meet is it that all should be regaled with a supper.

CHAPTER LXXVIII.

They Embark

Next morning, King Abrazza sent frigid word to Media that the day was

very fine for yachting; but he much regretted that indisposition would

prevent his making one of the party, who that morning doubtless would

depart his isle.

“My compliments to your king,” said Media to the chamberlains, “and say

the royal notice to quit was duly received.”

“Take Azzageddi’s also,” said Babbalanja; “and say, I hope his Highness

will not fail in his appointment with me:—the first midnight after he

dies; at the grave-yard corner;—there I’ll be, and grin again!”

Sailing on, the next land we saw was thickly wooded: hedged round about

by mangrove trees; which growing in the water, yet lifted high their

boughs. Here and there were shady nooks, half verdure and half water.

Fishes rippled, and canaries sung.

“Let us break through, my lord,” said Yoomy, “and seek the shore. Its

solitudes must prove reviving.” “Solitudes they are,” cried Mohi.

“Peopled but not enlivened,” said Babbalanja. “Hard landing here,

minstrel! see you not the isle is hedged?”

“Why, break through, then,” said Media. “Yillah is not here.”

“I mistrusted it,” sighed Yoomy; “an imprisoned island! full of

uncomplaining woes: like many others we must have glided by,

unheedingly. Yet of them have I heard. This isle many pass, marking its

outward brightness, but dreaming not of the sad secrets here embowered.

Haunt of the hopeless! In those inland woods brood Mardians who have

tasted Mardi, and found it bitter—the draught so sweet to

others!—maidens whose unimparted bloom has cankered in the bud; and

children, with eyes averted from life’s dawn—like those new-oped

morning blossoms which, foreseeing storms, turn and close.”

“Yoomy’s rendering of the truth,” said Mohi.

“Why land, then?” said Media. “No merry man of sense—no demi-god like

me, will do it. Let’s away; let’s see all that’s pleasant, or that

seems so, in our circuit, and, if possible, shun the sad.”

“Then we have circled not the round reef wholly,” said Babbalanja, “but

made of it a segment. For this is far from being the first sad land, my

lord, that we have slighted at your instance.”

“No more. I will have no gloom. A chorus! there, ye paddlers! spread

all your sails; ply paddles; breeze up, merry winds!”

And so, in the saffron sunset, we neared another shore.

A gloomy-looking land! black, beetling crags, rent by volcanic clefts;

ploughed up with water-courses, and dusky with charred woods. The beach

was strewn with scoria and cinders; in dolorous soughs, a chill wind

blew; wails issued from the caves; and yellow, spooming surges, lashed

the moaning strand.

“Shall we land?” said Babbalanja.

“Not here,” cried Yoomy; “no Yillah here.”

“No,” said Media. “This is another of those lands far better to avoid.”

“Know ye not,” said Mohi, “that here are the mines of King Klanko,

whose scourged slaves, toiling in their pits, so nigh approach the

volcano’s bowels, they hear its rumblings? ‘Yet they must work on,’

cries Klanko, ‘the mines still yield!’ And daily his slaves’ bones are

brought above ground, mixed with the metal masses.”

“Set all sail there, men! away!”

“My lord,” said Babbalanja; “still must we shun the unmitigated evil;

and only view the good; or evil so mixed therewith, the mixture’s

both?”

Half vailed in misty clouds, the harvest-moon now rose; and in that

pale and haggard light, all sat silent; each man in his own secret

mood: best knowing his own thoughts.

CHAPTER LXXIX.

Babbalanja At The Full Of The Moon

“Ho, mortals! Go we to a funeral, that our paddles seem thus muffled?

Up heart, Taji! or does that witch Hautia haunt thee? Be a demi-god

once more, and laugh. Her flowers are not barbs; and the avengers’

arrows are too blunt to slay. Babbalanja! Mohi! Yoomy! up heart! up

heart!—By Oro! I will debark the whole company on the next land we

meet. No tears for me. Ha, ha! let us laugh. Ho, Vee-Vee! awake; quick,

boy,—some wine! and let us make glad, beneath the glad moon. Look! it

is stealing forth from its clouds. Perdition to Hautia! Long lives, and

merry ones to ourselves! Taji, my charming fellow, here’s to you:—May

your heart be a stone! Ha, ha!—will nobody join me? My laugh is lonely

as his who laughed in his tomb. Come, laugh; will no one quaff wine, I

say? See! the round moon is abroad.”

“Say you so, my lord? then for one, I am with you;” cried Babbalanja.

“Fill me a brimmer. Ah! but this wine leaps through me like a panther.

Ay, let us laugh: let us roar: let us yell! What, if I was sad but just

now? Life is an April day, that both laughs and weeps in a breath. But

whoso is wise, laughs when he can. Men fly from a groan; but run to a

laugh. Vee-Vee! your gourd. My lord, let me help you. Ah, how it

sparkles! Cups, cups, Vee-Vee, more cups! Here, Taji, take that: Mohi,

take that: Yoomy, take that. And now let us drown away grief. Ha! ha!

the house of mourning, is deserted, though of old good cheer kept the

funeral guests; and so keep I mine; here I sit by my dead, and

replenish your wine cups. Old Mohi, your cup: Yoomy, yours: ha! ha! let

us laugh, let us scream! Weeds are put off at a fair; no heart bursts

but in secret; it is good to laugh, though the laugh be hollow; and

wise to make merry, now and for aye. Laugh, and make friends: weep, and

they go. Women sob, and are rid of their grief: men laugh, and retain

it. There is laughter in heaven, and laughter in hell. And a deep

thought whose language is laughter. Though wisdom be wedded to woe,

though the way thereto is by tears, yet all ends in a shout. But wisdom

wears no weeds; woe is more merry than mirth; ’tis a shallow grief that

is sad. Ha! ha! how demoniacs shout; how all skeletons grin; we all die

with a rattle. Laugh! laugh! Are the cherubim grave? Humor, thy laugh

is divine; whence, mirth-making idiots have been revered; and therefore

may I. Ho! let us be gay, if it be only for an hour, and Death hand us

the goblet. Vee-Vee! bring on your gourds! Let us pledge each other in

bumpers!—let us laugh, laugh, laugh it out to the last. All sages have

laughed,—let us; Bardianna laughed, let us; Demorkriti laughed,—let us:

Amoree laughed,—let us; Rabeelee roared,—let us; the hyenas grin, the

jackals yell,—let us.—But you don’t laugh, my lord? laugh away!”

“No, thank you, Azzageddi, not after that infernal fashion; better

weep.”

“He makes me crawl all over, as if I were an ant-hill,” said Mohi.

“He’s mad, mad, mad!” cried Yoomy.

“Ay, mad, mad, mad!—mad as the mad fiend that rides me!—But come, sweet

minstrel, wilt list to a song?—We madmen are all poets, you know:—Ha!

ha!—

Stars laugh in the sky:

Oh fugle-fi I

The waves dimple below:

Oh fugle-fo!

“The wind strikes her dulcimers; the groves give a shout; the hurricane

is only an hysterical laugh; and the lightning that blasts, blasts only

in play. We must laugh or we die; to laugh is to live. Not to laugh is

to have the tetanus. Will you weep? then laugh while you weep. For

mirth and sorrow are kin; are published by identical nerves. Go, Yoomy:

go study anatomy: there is much to be learned from the dead, more than

you may learn from the living and I am dead though I live; and as soon

dissect myself as another; I curiously look into my secrets: and grope

under my ribs. I have found that the heart is not whole, but divided;

that it seeks a soft cushion whereon to repose; that it vitalizes the

blood; which else were weaker than water: I have found that we can not

live without hearts; though the heartless live longest. Yet hug your

hearts, ye handful that have them; ’tis a blessed inheritance! Thus,

thus, my lord, I run on; from one pole to the other; from this thing to

that. But so the great world goes round, and in one Somerset, shows the

sun twenty-five thousand miles of a landscape!”

At that instant, down went the fiery full-moon, and the Dog-Star; and

far down into Media, a Tivoli of wine.

CHAPTER LXXX.

Morning

Life or death, weal or woe, the sun stays not his course. On: over

battle-field and bower; over tower, and town, he speeds,—peers in at

births, and death-beds; lights up cathedral, mosque, and pagan

shrine;—laughing over all;—a very Democritus in the sky; and in one

brief day sees more than any pilgrim in a century’s round.

So, the sun; nearer heaven than we:—with what mind, then, may blessed

Oro downward look.

It was a purple, red, and yellow East;—streaked, and crossed. And down

from breezy mountains, robust and ruddy Morning came,—a plaided

Highlander, waving his plumed bonnet to the isles.

Over the neighboring groves the larks soared high; and soaring, sang in

jubilees; while across our bows, between two isles, a mighty moose swam

stately as a seventy-four; and backward tossed his antlered wilderness

in air.

Just bounding from fresh morning groves, with the brine he mixed the

dew of leaves,—his antlers dripping on the swell, that rippled before

his brown and bow-like chest.

“Five hundred thousand centuries since,” said Babbalanja, “this same

sight was seen. With Oro, the sun is co-eternal; and the same life that

moves that moose, animates alike the sun and Oro. All are parts of One.

In me, in _me_, flit thoughts participated by the beings peopling all

the stars. Saturn, and Mercury, and Mardi, are brothers, one and all;

and across their orbits, to each other talk, like souls. Of these

things what chapters might be writ! Oh! that flesh can not keep pace

with spirit. Oh! that these myriad germ-dramas in me, should so perish

hourly, for lack of power mechanic.—Worlds pass worlds in space, as

men, men,—in thoroughfares; and after periods of thousand years,

cry:—“Well met, my friend, again!”—To me to _me_, they talk in mystic

music; I hear them think through all their zones. —Hail, furthest

worlds! and all the beauteous beings in ye! Fan me, sweet Zenora! with

thy twilight wings!—Ho! let’s voyage to Aldebaran.—Ha! indeed, a ruddy

world! What a buoyant air! Not like to Mardi, this. Ruby columns:

minarets of amethyst: diamond domes! Who is this?—a god? What a

lake-like brow! transparent as the morning air. I see his thoughts like

worlds revolving—and in his eyes—like unto heavens—soft falling stars

are shooting.—How these thousand passing wings winnow away my breath:—I

faint:—back, back to some small asteroid.—Sweet being! if, by Mardian

word I may address thee— speak!—‘I bear a soul in germ within me; I

feel the first, faint trembling, like to a harp-string, vibrate in my

inmost being. Kill me, and generations die.’—So, of old, the unbegotten

lived within the virgin; who then loved her God, as new-made mothers

their babes ere born. Oh, Alma, Alma, Alma!—Fangs off, fiend!—will that

name ever lash thee into foam?—Smite not my face so, forked flames!”

“Babbalanja! Babbalanja! rouse, man! rouse! Art in hell and damned,

that thy sinews so snake-like coil and twist all over thee? Thy brow is

black as Ops! Turn, turn! see yonder moose!”

“Hail! mighty brute!—thou feelest not these things: never canst _thou_

be damned. Moose! would thy soul were mine; for if that scorched thing,

mine, be immortal—so thine; and thy life hath not the consciousness of

death. I read profound placidity—deep—million— violet fathoms down, in

that soft, pathetic, woman eye! What is man’s shrunk form to thine,

thou woodland majesty?—Moose, moose!—my soul is shot again—Oh, Oro!

Oro!”

“He falls!” cried Media.

“Mark the agony in his waning eye,” said Yoomy;—“alas, poor Babbalanja!

Is this thing of madness conscious to thyself? If ever thou art sane

again, wilt thou have reminiscences? Take my robe:— here, I strip me to

cover thee and all thy woes. Oro! by this, thy being’s side, I

kneel:—grant death or happiness to Babbalanja!”

CHAPTER LXXXI.

L’ultima Sera

Thus far, through myriad islands, had we searched: of all, no one pen

may write: least, mine;—and still no trace of Yillah.

But though my hopes revived not from their ashes; yet, so much of Mardi

had we searched, it seemed as if the long pursuit must, ere many moons,

be ended; whether for weal or woe, my frenzy sometimes reeked not.

After its first fair morning flushings, all that day was overcast. We

sailed upon an angry sea, beneath an angry sky. Deep scowled on deep;

and in dun vapors, the blinded sun went down, unseen; though full

toward the West our three prows were pointed; steadfast as three

printed points upon the compass-card.

“When we set sail from Odo, ’twas a glorious morn in spring,” said

Yoomy; “toward the rising sun we steered. But now, beneath autumnal

night-clouds, we hasten to its setting.”

“How now?” cried Media; “why is the minstrel mournful?—He whose place

it is to chase away despondency: not be its minister.”

“Ah, my lord, so _thou_ thinkest. But better can my verses soothe the

sad, than make them light of heart. Nor are we minstrels so gay of soul

as Mardi deems us. The brook that sings the sweetest, murmurs through

the loneliest woods:

The isles hold thee not, thou departed!

From thy bower, now issues no lay:—

In vain we recall perished warblings:

Spring birds, to far climes, wing their way!”

As Yoomy thus sang; unmindful of the lay, with paddle plying, in low,

pleasant tones, thus hummed to himself our bowsman, a gamesome wight:—

Ho! merrily ho! we paddlers sail!

Ho! over sea-dingle, and dale!—

Our pulses fly,

Our hearts beat high,

Ho! merrily, merrily, ho!

But a sudden splash, and a shrill, gurgling sound, like that of a

fountain subsiding, now broke upon the air. Then all was still, save

the rush of the waves by our keels.

“Save him! Put back!”

From his elevated seat, the merry bowsman, too gleefully reaching

forward, had fallen into the lagoon.

With all haste, our speeding canoes were reversed; but not till we had

darted in upon another darkness than that in which the bowsman fell.

As, blindly, we groped back, deep Night dived deeper down in the sea.

“Drop paddles all, and list.”

Holding their breath, over the six gunwales all now leaned; but the

only moans were the wind’s.

Long time we lay thus; then slowly crossed and recrossed our track,

almost hopeless; but yet loth to leave him who, with a song in his

mouth, died and was buried in a breath.

“Let us away,” said Media—“why seek more? He is gone.”

“Ay, gone,” said Babbalanja, “and whither? But a moment since, he was

among us: now, the fixed stars are not more remote than he. So far off,

can he live? Oh, Oro! this death thou ordainest, unmans the manliest.

Say not nay, my lord. Let us not speak behind Death’s back. Hard and

horrible is it to die: blindfold to leap from life’s verge! But thus,

in clouds of dust, and with a trampling as of hoofs, the generations

disappear; death driving them all into his treacherous fold, as wild

Indians the bison herds. Nay, nay, Death is Life’s last despair. Hard

and horrible is it to die. Oro himself, in Alma, died not without a

groan. Yet why, why live? Life is wearisome to all: the same dull

round. Day and night, summer and winter, round about us revolving for

aye. One moment lived, is a life. No new stars appear in the sky; no

new lights in the soul. Yet, of changes there are many. For though,

with rapt sight, in childhood, we behold many strange things beneath

the moon, and all Mardi looks a tented fair— how soon every thing

fades. All of us, in our very bodies, outlive our own selves. I think

of green youth as of a merry playmate departed; and to shake hands, and

be pleasant with my old age, seems in prospect even harder, than to

draw a cold stranger to my bosom. But old age is not for me. I am not

of the stuff that grows old. This Mardi is not our home. Up and down we

wander, like exiles transported to a planet afar:—’tis not the world

_we_ were born in; not the world once so lightsome and gay; not the

world where we once merrily danced, dined, and supped; and wooed, and

wedded our long-buried wives. Then let us depart. But whither? We push

ourselves forward then, start back in affright. Essay it again, and

flee. Hard to live; hard to die; intolerable suspense! But the grim

despot at last interposes; and with a viper in our winding-sheets, we

are dropped in the sea.”

“To me,” said Mohi, his gray locks damp with night-dews, “death’s dark

defile at times seems at hand, with no voice to cheer. That all have

died, makes it not easier for me to depart. And that many have been

quenched in infancy seems a mercy to the slow perishing of my old age,

limb by limb and sense by sense. I have long been the tomb of my youth.

And more has died out of me, already, than remains for the last death

to finish. Babbalanja says truth. In childhood, death stirred me not;

in middle age, it pursued me like a prowling bandit on the road; now,

grown an old man, it boldly leads the way; and ushers me on; and turns

round upon me its skeleton gaze: poisoning the last solaces of life.

Maramma but adds to my gloom.”

“Death! death!” cried Yoomy, “must I be not, and millions be? Must I

go, and the flowers still bloom? Oh, I have marked what it is to be

dead;—how shouting boys, of holidays, hide-and-seek among the tombs,

which must hide all seekers at last.”

“Clouds on clouds!” cried Media, “but away with them all! Why not leap

your graves, while ye may? Time to die, when death comes, without dying

by inches. ’Tis no death, to die; the only death is the fear of it. I,

a demi-god, fear death not.”

“But when the jackals howl round you?” said Babbalanja.

“Drive them off! Die the demi-god’s death! On his last couch of crossed

spears, my brave old sire cried, ‘Wine, wine; strike up, conch and

cymbal; let the king die to martial melodies!’”

“More valiant dying, than dead,” said Babbalanja. “Our end of the

winding procession resounds with music and flaunts with banners with

brave devices: ‘Cheer up!’ ‘Fear not!’ ‘Millions have died before!’—

but in the endless van, not a pennon streams; all there, is silent and

solemn. The last wisdom is dumb.”

Silence ensued; during which, each dip of the paddles in the now calm

water, fell full and long upon the ear.

Anon, lifting his head, Babbalanja thus:—“Yillah still eludes us. And

in all this tour of Mardi, how little have we found to fill the heart

with peace: how much to slaughter all our yearnings.”

“Croak no more, raven!” cried Media. “Mardi is full of spring-time

sights, and jubilee sounds. I never was sad in my life.”

“But for thy one laugh, my lord, how many groans! Were all happy, or

all miserable,—more tolerable then, than as it is. But happiness and

misery are so broadly marked, that this Mardi may be the retributive

future of some forgotten past.—Yet vain our surmises. Still vainer to

say, that all Mardi is but a means to an end; that this life is a state

of probation: that evil is but permitted for a term; that for specified

ages a rebel angel is viceroy.—Nay, nay. Oro delegates his scepter to

none; in his everlasting reign there are no interregnums; and Time is

Eternity; and we live in Eternity now. Yet, some tell of a hereafter,

where all the mysteries of life will be over; and the sufferings of the

virtuous recompensed. Oro is just, they say.—Then always,—now, and

evermore. But to make restitution implies a wrong; and Oro can do no

wrong. Yet what seems evil to us, may be good to him. If he fears not,

nor hopes,—he has no other passion; no ends, no purposes. He lives

content; all ends are compassed in Him; He has no past, no future; He

is the everlasting now; which is an everlasting calm; and things that

are, have been,— will be. This gloom’s enough. But hoot! hoot! the

night-owl ranges through the woodlands of Maramma; its dismal notes

pervade our lives; and when we would fain depart in peace, that bird

flies on before:— cloud-like, eclipsing our setting suns, and filling

the air with dolor.”

“Too true!” cried Yoomy. “Our calms must come by storms. Like helmless

vessels, tempest-tossed, our only anchorage is when we founder.”

“Our beginnings,” murmured Mohi, “are lost in clouds; we live in

darkness all our days, and perish without an end.”

“Croak on, cowards!” cried Media, “and fly before the hideous phantoms

that pursue ye.”

“No coward he, who hunted, turns and finds no foe to fight,” said

Babbalanja. “Like the stag, whose brow is beat with wings of hawks,

perched in his heavenward antlers; so I, blinded, goaded, headlong,

rush! this way and that; nor knowing whither; one forest wide around!”

CHAPTER LXXXII.

They Sail From Night To Day

Ere long the three canoes lurched heavily in a violent swell. Like

palls, the clouds swept to and fro, hooding the gibbering winds. At

every head-beat wave, our arching prows reared up, and shuddered; the

night ran out in rain.

Whither to turn we knew not; nor what haven to gain; so dense the

darkness.

But at last, the storm was over. Our shattered prows seemed gilded. Day

dawned; and from his golden vases poured red wine upon the waters.

That flushed tide rippled toward us; floating from the east, a lone

canoe; in which, there sat a mild, old man; a palm-bough in his hand: a

bird’s beak, holding amaranth and myrtles, his slender prow.

“Alma’s blessing upon ye, voyagers! ye look storm-worn.”

“The storm we have survived, old man; and many more, we yet must ride,”

said Babbalanja.

“The sun is risen; and all is well again. We but need to repair our

prows,” said Media.

“Then, turn aside to Serenia, a pleasant isle, where all are welcome;

where many storm-worn rovers land at last to dwell.”

“Serenia?” said Babbalanja; “methinks Serenia is that land of

enthusiasts, of which we hear, my lord; where Mardians pretend to the

unnatural conjunction of reason with things revealed; where Alma, they

say, is restored to his divine original; where, deriving their

principles from the same sources whence flow the persecutions of

Maramma,—men strive to live together in gentle bonds of peace and

charity;—folly! folly!”

“Ay,” said Media; “much is said of those people of Serenia; but their

social fabric must soon fall to pieces; it is based upon the idlest of

theories. Thanks for thy courtesy, old man, but we care not to visit

thy isle. Our voyage has an object, which, something tells me, will not

be gained by touching at thy shores. Elsewhere we may refit. Farewell!

’Tis breezing; set the sails! Farewell, old man.”

“Nay, nay! think again; the distance is but small; the wind fair,—but

’tis ever so, thither;—come: we, people of Serenia, are most anxious to

be seen of Mardi; so that if our manner of life seem good, all Mardi

may live as we. In blessed Alma’s name, I pray ye, come!”

“Shall we then, my lord?”

“Lead on, old man! We will e’en see this wondrous isle.”

So, guided by the venerable stranger, by noon we descried an island

blooming with bright savannas, and pensive with peaceful groves.

Wafted from this shore, came balm of flowers, and melody of birds: a

thousand summer sounds and odors. The dimpled tide sang round our

splintered prows; the sun was high in heaven, and the waters were deep

below.

“The land of Love!” the old man murmured, as we neared the beach, where

innumerable shells were gently rolling in the playful surf, and

murmuring from their tuneful valves. Behind, another, and a verdant

surf played against lofty banks of leaves; where the breeze, likewise,

found its shore.

And now, emerging from beneath the trees, there came a goodly multitude

in flowing robes; palm-branches in their hands; and as they came, they

sang:—

Hail! voyagers, hail!

Whence e’er ye come, where’er ye rove,

No calmer strand,

No sweeter land,

Will e’er ye view, than the Land of Love!

Hail! voyagers, hail!

To these, our shores, soft gales invite:

The palm plumes wave,

The billows lave,

And hither point fix’d stars of light!

Hail! voyagers, hail!

Think not our groves wide brood with gloom;

In this, our isle,

Bright flowers smile:

Full urns, rose-heaped, these valleys bloom.

Hail! voyagers, hail!

Be not deceived; renounce vain things;

Ye may not find

A tranquil mind,

Though hence ye sail with swiftest wings.

Hail! voyagers, hail!

Time flies full fast; life soon is o’er;

And ye may mourn,

That hither borne,

Ye left behind our pleasant shore.

CHAPTER LXXXIII.

They Land

The song was ended; and as we gained the strand, the crowd embraced us;

and called us brothers; ourselves and our humblest attendants.

“Call ye us brothers, whom ere now ye never saw?”

“Even so,” said the old man, “is not Oro the father of all? Then, are

we not brothers? Thus Alma, the master, hath commanded.”

“This was not our reception in Maramma,” said Media, “the appointed

place of Alma; where his precepts are preserved.”

“No, no,” said Babbalanja; “old man! your lesson of brotherhood was

learned elsewhere than from Alma; for in Maramma and in all its

tributary isles true brotherhood there is none. Even in the Holy Island

many are oppressed; for heresies, many murdered; and thousands perish

beneath the altars, groaning with offerings that might relieve them.”

“Alas! too true. But I beseech ye, judge not Alma by all those who

profess his faith. Hast thou thyself his records searched?”

“Fully, I have not. So long, even from my infancy, have I witnessed the

wrongs committed in his name; the sins and inconsistencies of his

followers; that thinking all evil must flow from a congenial fountain,

I have scorned to study the whole record of your Master’s life. By

parts I only know it.”

“Ah! baneful error! But thus is it, brothers!! that the wisest are set

against the Truth, because of those who wrest it from itself.”

“Do ye then claim to live what your Master hath spoken? Are your

precepts practices?”

“Nothing do we claim: we but earnestly endeavor.”

“Tell me not of your endeavors, but of your life. What hope for the

fatherless among ye?”

“Adopted as a son.”

“Of one poor, and naked?”

“Clothed, and he wants for naught.”

“If ungrateful, he smite you?”

“Still we feed and clothe him.”

“If yet an ingrate?”

“Long, he can not be; for Love is a fervent fire.”

“But what, if widely he dissent from your belief in Alma;—then, surely,

ye must cast him forth?”

“No, no; we will remember, that if he dissent from us, we then equally

dissent from him; and men’s faculties are Oro-given. Nor will we say

that he is wrong, and we are right; for this we know not, absolutely.

But we care not for men’s words; we look for creeds in actions; which

are the truthful symbols of the things within. He who hourly prays to

Alma, but lives not up to world-wide love and charity—that man is more

an unbeliever than he who verbally rejects the Master, but does his

bidding. Our lives are our Amens.”

“But some say that what your Alma teaches is wholly new—a revelation of

things before unimagined, even by the poets. To do his bidding, then,

some new faculty must be vouchsafed, whereby to apprehend aright.”

“So have I always thought,” said Mohi.

“If Alma teaches love, I want no gift to learn,” said Yoomy.

“All that is vital in the Master’s faith, lived here in Mardi, and in

humble dells was practiced, long previous to the Master’s coming. But

never before was virtue so lifted up among us, that all might see;

never before did rays from heaven descend to glorify it, But are Truth,

Justice, and Love, the revelations of Alma alone? Were they never heard

of till he came? Oh! Alma but opens unto us our own hearts. Were his

precepts strange we would recoil—not one feeling would respond;

whereas, once hearkened to, our souls embrace them as with the

instinctive tendrils of a vine.”

“But,” said Babbalanja, “since Alma, they say, was solely intent upon

the things of the Mardi to come—which to all, must seem uncertain—of

what benefit his precepts for the daily lives led here?”

“Would! would that Alma might once more descend! Brother! were the turf

our everlasting pillow, still would the Master’s faith answer a blessed

end;—making us more truly happy _here_. _That_ is the first and chief

result; for holy here, we must be holy elsewhere. ’Tis Mardi, to which

loved Alma gives his laws; not Paradise.”

“Full soon will I be testing all these things,” murmured Mohi.

“Old man,” said Media, “thy years and Mohi’s lead ye both to dwell upon

the unknown future. But speak to me of other themes. Tell me of this

island and its people. From all I have heard, and now behold, I gather

that here there dwells no king; that ye are left to yourselves; and

that this mystic Love, ye speak of, is your ruler. Is it so? Then, are

ye full as visionary, as Mardi rumors. And though for a time, ye may

have prospered,—long, ye can not be, without some sharp lesson to

convince ye, that your faith in Mardian virtue is entirely vain.”

“Truth. We have no king; for Alma’s precepts rebuke the arrogance of

place and power. He is the tribune of mankind; nor will his true faith

be universal Mardi’s, till our whole race is kingless. But think not we

believe in man’s perfection. Yet, against all good, he is not

absolutely set. In his heart, there is a germ. _That_ we seek to

foster. To _that_ we cling; else, all were hopeless!”

“Your social state?”

“It is imperfect; and long must so remain. But we make not the

miserable many support the happy few. Nor by annulling reason’s laws,

seek to breed equality, by breeding anarchy. In all things, equality is

not for all. Each has his own. Some have wider groves of palms than

others; fare better; dwell in more tasteful arbors; oftener renew their

fragrant thatch. Such differences must be. But none starve outright,

while others feast. By the abounding, the needy are supplied. Yet not

by statute, but from dictates, born half dormant in us, and warmed into

life by Alma. Those dictates we but follow in all we do; we are not

dragged to righteousness; but go running. Nor do we live in common. For

vice and virtue blindly mingled, form a union where vice too often

proves the alkali. The vicious we make dwell apart, until reclaimed.

And reclaimed they soon must be, since every thing invites. The sin of

others rests not upon our heads: none we drive to crime. Our laws are

not of vengeance bred, but Love and Alma.”

“Fine poetry all this,” said Babbalanja, “but not so new. Oft do they

warble thus in bland Maramma!”

“It sounds famously, old man!” said Media, “but men are men. Some must

starve; some be scourged.—Your doctrines are impracticable.”

“And are not these things enjoined by Alma? And would Alma inculcate

the impossible? of what merit, his precepts, unless they may be

practiced? But, I beseech ye, speak no more of Maramma. Alas! did Alma

revisit Mardi, think you, it would be among those Morals he would lay

his head?”

“No, no,” said Babbalanja, “as an intruder he came; and an intruder

would he be this day. On all sides, would he jar our social systems.”

“Not here, not here! Rather would we welcome Alma hungry and athirst,

than though he came floating hither on the wings of seraphs; the

blazing zodiac his diadem! In all his aspects we adore him; needing no

pomp and power to kindle worship. Though he came from Oro; though he

did miracles; though through him is life;—not for these things alone,

do we thus love him. We love him from, an instinct in us;—a fond,

filial, reverential feeling. And this would yet stir in our souls, were

death our end; and Alma incapable of befriending us. We love him

because we do.”

“Is this man divine?” murmured Babbalanja. “But thou speakest most

earnestly of adoring Alma:—I see no temples in your groves.”

“Because this isle is all one temple to his praise; every leaf is

consecrated his. We fix not Alma here and there; and say,—‘those groves

for Him, and these broad fields for us.’ It is all his own; and we

ourselves; our every hour of life; and all we are, and have.”

“Then, ye forever fast and pray; and stand and sing; as at long

intervals the censer-bearers in Maramma supplicate their gods.”

“Alma forbid! We never fast; our aspirations are our prayers; our lives

are worship. And when we laugh, with human joy at human things, —_then_

do we most sound great Oro’s praise, and prove the merit of sweet

Alma’s love! Our love in Alma makes us glad, not sad. Ye speak of

temples;—behold! ’tis by not building _them_, that we widen charity

among us. The treasures which, in the islands round about, are lavished

on a thousand fanes;—with these we every day relieve the Master’s

suffering disciples. In Mardi, Alma preached in open fields, —and must

his worshipers have palaces?”

“No temples, then no priests;” said Babbalanja, “for few priests will

enter where lordly arches form not the portal.”

“We have no priests, but one; and he is Alma’s self. We have his

precepts: we seek no comments but our hearts.”

“But without priests and temples, how long will flourish this your

faith?” said Media.

“For many ages has not this faith lived, in spite of priests and

temples? and shall it not survive them? What we believe, we hold

divine; and things divine endure forever.”

“But how enlarge your bounds? how convert the vicious, without

persuasion of some special seers? Must your religion go hand in hand

with all things secular?”

“We hold not, that one man’s words should be a gospel to the rest; but

that Alma’s words should be a gospel to us all. And not by precepts

would we have some few endeavor to persuade; but all, by practice, fix

convictions, that the life we lead is the life for all. We are

apostles, every one. Where’er we go, our faith we carry in our hands,

and hearts. It is our chiefest joy. We do not put it wide away six days

out of seven; and then, assume it. In it we all exult, and joy; as that

which makes us happy here; as that, without which, we could be happy

nowhere; as something meant for this time present, and henceforth for

aye. It is our vital mode of being; not an incident. And when we die,

this faith shall be our pillow; and when we rise, our staff; and at the

end, our crown. For we are all immortal. Here, Alma joins with our own

hearts, confirming nature’s promptings.”

“How eloquent he is!” murmured Babbalanja. “Some black cloud seems

floating from me. I begin to see. I come out in light. The sharp fang

tears me less. The forked flames wane. My soul sets back like ocean

streams, that sudden change their flow. Have I been sane? Quickened in

me is a hope. But pray you, old man—say on—methinks, that in your faith

must be much that jars with reason.”

“No, brother! Right-reason, and Alma, are the same; else Alma, not

reason, would we reject. The Master’s great command is Love; and here

do all things wise, and all things good, unite. Love is all in all. The

more we love, the more we know; and so reversed. Oro we love; this

isle; and our wide arms embrace all Mardi like its reef. How can we

err, thus feeling? We hear loved Alma’s pleading, prompting voice, in

every breeze, in every leaf; we see his earnest eye in every star and

flower.”

“Poetry!” cried Yoomy; “and poetry is truth! He stirs me.”

“When Alma dwelt in Mardi, ’twas with the poor and friendless. He fed

the famishing; he healed the sick; he bound up wounds. For every

precept that he spoke, he did ten thousand mercies. And Alma is our

loved example.”

“Sure, all this is in the histories!” said Mohi, starting.

“But not alone to poor and friendless, did Alma wend his charitable

way. From lowly places, he looked up; and long invoked great chieftains

in their state; and told them all their pride was vanity; and bade them

ask their souls. ‘In _me_,’ he cried, ‘is that heart of mild content,

which in vain ye seek in rank and title. I am Love: love ye then me.’”

“Cease, cease, old man!” cried Media; “thou movest me beyond my

seeming. What thoughts are these? Have done! Wouldst thou unking me?”

“Alma is for all; for high and low. Like heaven’s own breeze, he lifts

the lily from its lowly stem, and sweeps, reviving, through the palmy

groves. High thoughts he gives the sage, and humble trust the simple.

Be the measure what it may, his grace doth fill it to the brim. He lays

the lashings of the soul’s wild aspirations after things unseen; oil he

poureth on the waters; and stars come out of night’s black concave at

his great command. In him is hope for all; for all, unbounded joys.

Fast locked in his loved clasp, no doubts dismay. He opes the eye of

faith and shuts the eye of fear. He is all we pray for, and beyond;

all, that in the wildest hour of ecstasy, rapt fancy paints in bright

Auroras upon the soul’s wide, boundless Orient!”

“Oh, Alma, Alma! prince divine!” cried Babbalanja, sinking on his

knees—“in _thee_, at last, I find repose. Hope perches in my heart a

dove;—a thousand rays illume;—all Heaven’s a sun. Gone, gone! are all

distracting doubts. Love and Alma now prevail. I see with other

eyes:—Are these my hands? What wild, wild dreams were mine;—I have been

mad. Some things there are, we must not think of. Beyond one obvious

mark, all human lore is vain. Where have I lived till now? Had dark

Maramma’s zealot tribe but murmured to me as this old man, long since

had I, been wise! Reason no longer domineers; but still doth speak. All

I have said ere this, that wars with Alma’s precepts, I here recant.

Here I kneel, and own great Oro and his sovereign son.”

“And here another kneels and prays,” cried Yoomy.

“In Alma all my dreams are found, my inner longings for the Love

supreme, that prompts my every verse. Summer is in my soul.”

“Nor now, too late for these gray hairs,” cried Mohi, with devotion.

“Alma, thy breath is on my soul. I see bright light.”

“No more a demigod,” cried Media, “but a subject to our common chief.

No more shall dismal cries be heard from Odo’s groves. Alma, I am

thine.”

With swimming eyes the old man kneeled; and round him grouped king,

sage, gray hairs, and youth.

There, as they kneeled, and as the old man blessed them, the setting

sun burst forth from mists, gilded the island round about, shed rays

upon their heads, and went down in a glory—all the East radiant with

red burnings, like an altar-fire.

CHAPTER LXXXIV.

Babbalanja Relates To Them A Vision

Leaving Babbalanja in the old man’s bower, deep in meditation;

thoughtfully we strolled along the beach, inspiring the musky, midnight

air; the tropical stars glistening in heaven, like drops of dew among

violets.

The waves were phosphorescent, and laved the beach with a fire that

cooled it.

Returning, we espied Babbalanja advancing in his snow-white mantle. The

fiery tide was ebbing; and in the soft, moist sand, at every step, he

left a lustrous foot-print.

“Sweet friends! this isle is full of mysteries,” he said. “I have

dreamed of wondrous things. After I had laid me down, thought pressed

hard upon me. By my eyes passed pageant visions. I started at a low,

strange melody, deep in my inmost soul. At last, methought my eyes were

fixed on heaven; and there, I saw a shining spot, unlike a star.

Thwarting the sky, it grew, and grew, descending; till bright wings

were visible: between them, a pensive face angelic, downward beaming;

and, for one golden moment, gauze-vailed in spangled Berenice’s Locks.

“Then, as white flame from yellow, out from that starry cluster it

emerged; and brushed the astral Crosses, Crowns, and Cups. And as in

violet, tropic seas, ships leave a radiant-white, and fire-fly wake;

so, in long extension tapering, behind the vision, gleamed another

Milky-Way.

“Strange throbbings seized me; my soul tossed on its own tides. But

soon the inward harmony bounded in exulting choral strains. I heard a

feathery rush; and straight beheld a form, traced all over with veins

of vivid light. The vision undulated round me.

“‘Oh! Spirit!! angel! god! whate’er thou art,’—I cried, ‘leave me; I am

but man.’

“Then, I heard a low, sad sound, no voice. It said, or breathed upon

me,—‘Thou hast proved the grace of Alma: tell me what thou’st learned.’

“Silent replied my soul, for voice was gone,—‘This have I learned, oh!

spirit!—In things mysterious, to seek no more; but rest content, with

knowing naught but Love.’

“‘Blessed art thou for that: thrice blessed,’ then I heard, and since

humility is thine, thou art one apt to learn. That which thy own wisdom

could not find, thy ignorance confessed shall gain. Come, and see new

things.’

“Once more it undulated round me; its lightning wings grew dim; nearer,

nearer; till I felt a shock electric,—and nested ’neath its wing.

“We clove the air; passed systems, suns, and moons: what seem from

Mardi’s isles, the glow-worm stars.

“By distant fleets of worlds we sped, as voyagers pass far sails at

sea, and hail them not. Foam played before them as they darted on; wild

music was their wake; and many tracks of sound we crossed, where worlds

had sailed before.

“Soon, we gained a point, where a new heaven was seen; whence all our

firmament seemed one nebula. Its glories burned like thousand

steadfast-flaming lights.

“Here hived the worlds in swarms: and gave forth sweets ineffable.

“We lighted on a ring, circling a space, where mornings seemed forever

dawning over worlds unlike.

“‘Here,’ I heard, ‘thou viewest thy Mardi’s Heaven. Herein each world

is portioned.’

“As he who climbs to mountain tops pants hard for breath; so panted I

for Mardi’s grosser air. But that which caused my flesh to faint, was

new vitality to my soul. My eyes swept over all before me. The spheres

were plain as villages that dot a landscape. I saw most beauteous

forms, yet like our own. Strange sounds I heard of gladness that seemed

mixed with sadness:—a low, sweet harmony of both. Else, I know not how

to phrase what never man but me e’er heard.

“‘In these blest souls are blent,’ my guide discoursed, ‘far higher

thoughts, and sweeter plaints than thine. Rude joy were discord here.

And as a sudden shout in thy hushed mountain-passes brings down the

awful avalanche; so one note of laughter here, might start some white

and silent world.’

“Then low I murmured:—‘Is their’s, oh guide! no happiness supreme?

their state still mixed? Sigh these yet to know? Can these sin?’

“Then I heard:—‘No mind but Oro’s can know all; no mind that knows not

all can be content; content alone approximates to happiness. Holiness

comes by wisdom; and it is because great Oro is supremely wise, that

He’s supremely holy. But as perfect wisdom can be only Oro’s; so,

perfect holiness is his alone. And whoso is otherwise than perfect in

his holiness, is liable to sin.

“‘And though death gave these beings knowledge, it also opened other

mysteries, which they pant to know, and yet may learn. And still they

fear the thing of evil; though for them, ’tis hard to fall. Thus hoping

and thus fearing, then, their’s is no state complete. And since Oro is

past finding out, and mysteries ever open into mysteries beyond; so,

though these beings will for aye progress in wisdom and in good; yet,

will they never gain a fixed beatitude. Know, then, oh mortal Mardian!

that when translated hither, thou wilt but put off lowly temporal

pinings, for angel and eternal aspirations. Start not: thy human joy

hath here no place: no name.

“Still, I mournful mused; then said:—‘Many Mardians live, who have no

aptitude for Mardian lives of thought: how then endure more earnest,

everlasting, meditations?’

“‘Such have their place,’ I heard.

“‘Then low I moaned, ‘And what, oh! guide! of those who, living

thoughtless lives of sin, die unregenerate; no service done to Oro or

to Mardian?’

“‘They, too, have their place,’ I heard; ‘but ’tis not here. And

Mardian! know, that as your Mardian lives are long preserved through

strict obedience to the organic law, so are your spiritual lives

prolonged by fast keeping of the law of mind. Sin is death.’

“‘Ah, then,’ yet lower moan made I; ‘and why create the germs that sin

and suffer, but to perish?’

“‘That,’ breathed my guide; ‘is the last mystery which underlieth all

the rest. Archangel may not fathom it; that makes of Oro the

everlasting mystery he is; that to divulge, were to make equal to

himself in knowledge all the souls that are; that mystery Oro guards;

and none but him may know.’

“Alas! were it recalled, no words have I to tell of all that now my

guide discoursed, concerning things unsearchable to us. My sixth sense

which he opened, sleeps again, with all the wisdom that it gained.

“Time passed; it seemed a moment, might have been an age; when from

high in the golden haze that canopied this heaven, another angel came;

its vans like East and West; a sunrise one, sunset the other. As

silver-fish in vases, so, in his azure eyes swam tears unshed.

“Quick my guide close nested me; through its veins the waning light

throbbed hard.

“‘Oh, spirit! archangel! god! whate’er thou art,’ it breathed; ‘leave

me: I am but blessed, not glorified.’

“So saying, as down from doves, from its wings dropped sounds. Still

nesting me, it crouched its plumes.

“Then, in a snow of softest syllables, thus breathed the greater and

more beautiful:—‘From far away, in fields beyond thy ken, I heard thy

fond discourse with this lone Mardian. It pleased me well; for thy

humility was manifeat; no arrogance of knowing. Come _thou_ and learn

new things.’

“And straight it overarched us with its plumes; which, then, down-

sweeping, bore us up to regions where my first guide had sunk, but for

the power that buoyed us, trembling, both.

“My eyes did wane, like moons eclipsed in overwhelming dawns: such

radiance was around; such vermeil light, born of no sun, but pervading

all the scene. Transparent, fleck-less, calm, all glowed one flame.

“Then said the greater guide This is the night of all ye here behold—

its day ye could not bide. Your utmost heaven is far below.’

“Abashed, smote down, I, quaking, upward gazed; where, to and fro, the

spirits sailed, like broad-winged crimson-dyed flamingos, spiraling in

sunset-clouds. But a sadness glorified, deep-fringed their mystic

temples, crowned with weeping halos, bird-like, floating o’er them,

whereso’er they roamed.

“Sights and odors blended. As when new-morning winds, in summer’s

prime, blow down from hanging gardens, wafting sweets that never pall;

so, from those flowery pinions, at every motion, came a flood of

fragrance.

“And now the spirits twain discoursed of things, whose very terms, to

me, were dark. But my first guide grew wise. For me, I could but

blankly list; yet comprehended naught; and, like the fish that’s mocked

with wings, and vainly seeks to fly;—again I sought my lower element.

“As poised, we hung in this rapt ether, a sudden trembling seized the

four wings now folding me. And afar of, in zones still upward reaching,

suns’ orbits off, I, tranced, beheld an awful glory. Sphere in sphere,

it burned:—the one Shekinah! The air was flaked with fire;—deep in

which, fell showers of silvery globes, tears magnified —braiding the

flame with rainbows. I heard a sound; but not for me, nor my first

guide, was that unutterable utterance. Then, my second guide was swept

aloft, as rises a cloud of red-dyed leaves in autumn whirlwinds.

“Fast clasping me, the other drooped, and, instant, sank, as in a

vacuum; myriad suns’ diameters in a breath;—my five senses merged in

one, of falling; till we gained the nether sky, descending still.

“Then strange things—soft, sad, and faint, I saw or heard; as, when, in

sunny, summer seas, down, down, you dive, starting at pensive phantoms,

that you can not fix.

“‘These,’ breathed my guide, ‘are spirits in their essences; sad, even

in undevelopment. With these, all space is peopled;—all the air is

vital with intelligence, which seeks embodiment. This it is, that

unbeknown to Mardians, causes them to strangely start in solitudes of

night, and in the fixed flood of their enchanted noons. From hence, are

formed your mortal souls; and all those sad and shadowy dreams, and

boundless thoughts man hath, are vague remembrances of the time when

the soul’s sad germ, wide wandered through these realms. And hence it

is, that when ye Mardians feel most sad, then ye feel most immortal.

“Like a spark new-struck from flint, soon Mardi showed afar. It glowed

within a sphere, which seemed, in space, a bubble, rising from vast

depths to the sea’s surface. Piercing it, my Mardian strength returned;

but the angel’s veins once more grew dim.

“Nearing the isles, thus breathed my guide:—‘Loved one, love on! But

know, that heaven hath no roof. To know all is to be all. Beatitude

there is none. And your only Mardian happiness is but exemption from

great woes—no more. Great Love is sad; and heaven is Love. Sadness

makes the silence throughout the realms of space; sadness is universal

and eternal; but sadness is tranquillity; tranquillity the uttermost

that souls may hope for.’

“Then, with its wings it fanned adieu; and disappeared where the sun

flames highest.”

We heard the dream and, silent, sought repose, to dream away our

wonder.

CHAPTER LXXXV.

They Depart From Serenia

At sunrise, we stood upon the beach.

Babbalanja thus:—“My voyage is ended. Not because what we sought is

found; but that I now possess all which may be had of what I sought in

Mardi. Here, tarry to grow wiser still:—then I am Alma’s and the

world’s. Taji! for Yillah thou wilt hunt in vain; she is a phantom that

but mocks thee; and while for her thou madly huntest, the sin thou

didst cries out, and its avengers still will follow. But here they may

not come: nor those, who, tempting, track thy path. Wise counsel take.

Within our hearts is all we seek: though in that search many need a

prompter. Him I have found in blessed Alma. Then rove no more. Gain

now, in flush of youth, that last wise thought, too often purchased, by

a life of woe. Be wise: be wise.

“Media! thy station calls thee home. Yet from this isle, thou earnest

that, wherewith to bless thy own. These flowers, that round us spring,

may be transplanted: and Odo made to bloom with amaranths and myrtles,

like this Serenia. Before thy people act the things, thou here hast

heard. Let no man weep, that thou may’st laugh; no man toil too hard,

that thou may’st idle be. Abdicate thy throne: but still retain the

scepter. None need a king; but many need a ruler.

“Mohi! Yoomy! do we part? then bury in forgetfulness much that hitherto

I’ve spoken. But let not one syllable of this old man’s words be lost.

“Mohi! Age leads thee by the hand. Live out thy life; and die, calm-

browed.

“But Yoomy! many days are thine. And in one life’s span, great circles

may be traversed, eternal good be done. Take all Mardi for thy home.

Nations are but names; and continents but shifting sands.

“Once more: Taji! be sure thy Yillah never will be found; or found,

will not avail thee. Yet search, if so thou wilt; more isles, thou

say’st, are still unvisited; and when all is seen, return, and find thy

Yillah here.

“Companions all! adieu.”

And from the beach, he wended through the woods.

Our shallops now refitted, we silently embarked; and as we sailed away,

the old man blessed us.

For a time, each prow’s ripplings were distinctly heard: ripple after

ripple.

With silent, steadfast eyes, Media still preserved his noble mien; Mohi

his reverend repose; Yoomy his musing mood.

But as a summer hurricane leaves all nature still, and smiling to the

eye; yet, in deep woods, there lie concealed some anguished roots torn

up:—so, with these.

Much they longed, to point our prows for Odo’s isle; saying our search

was over.

But I was fixed as fate.

On we sailed, as when we first embarked; the air was bracing as before.

More isles we visited:—thrice encountered the avengers: but unharmed;

thrice Hautia’s heralds but turned not aside;—saw many checkered

scenes—wandered through groves, and open fields—traversed many

vales—climbed hill-tops whence broad views were gained—tarried in

towns—broke into solitudes—sought far, sought near:—Still Yillah there

was none.

Then again they all would fain dissuade me.

“Closed is the deep blue eye,” said Yoomy.

“Fate’s last leaves are turning, let me home and die,” said Mohi.

“So nigh the circuit’s done,” said Media, “our morrow’s sun must rise

o’er Odo; Taji! renounce the hunt.”

“I am the hunter, that never rests! the hunter without a home! She I

seek, still flies before; and I will follow, though she lead me beyond

the reef; through sunless seas; and into night and death. Her, will I

seek, through all the isles and stars; and find her, whate’er betide!”

Again they yielded; and again we glided on;—our storm-worn prows, now

pointed here, now there;—beckoned, repulsed;—their half-rent sails,

still courting every breeze.

But that same night, once more, they wrestled with me. Now, at last,

the hopeless search must be renounced: Yillah there was none: back must

I hie to blue Serenia.

Then sweet Yillah called me from the sea;—still must I on! but gazing

whence that music seemed to come, I thought I saw the green corse

drifting by: and striking ’gainst our prow, as if to hinder. Then,

then! my heart grew hard, like flint; and black, like night; and

sounded hollow to the hand I clenched. Hyenas filled me with their

laughs; death-damps chilled my brow; I prayed not, but blasphemed.

CHAPTER LXXXVI.

They Meet The Phantoms

That starless midnight, there stole from out the darkness, the Iris

flag of Hautia.

Again the sirens came. They bore a large and stately urn-like flower,

white as alabaster, and glowing, as if lit up within. From its calyx,

flame-like, trembled forked and crimson stamens, burning with intensest

odors.

The phantoms nearer came; their flower, as an urn of burning niter.

Then it changed, and glowed like Persian dawns; or passive, was shot

over by palest lightnings;—so variable its tints.

“The night-blowing Cereus!” said Yoomy, shuddering, “that never blows

in sun-light; that blows but once; and blows but for an hour.—For the

last time I come; now, in your midnight of despair, and promise you

this glory. Take heed! short time hast thou to pause; through me,

perhaps, thy Yillah may be found.”

“Away! away! tempt me not by that, enchantress! Hautia! I know thee

not; I fear thee not; but instinct makes me hate thee. Away! my eyes

are frozen shut; I will not be tempted more.”

“How glorious it burns!” cried Media. I reel with incense:—can such

sweets be evil?”

“Look! look!” cried Yoomy, “its petals wane, and creep; one moment

more, and the night-flower shuts up forever the last, last hope of

Yillah!”

“Yillah! Yillah! Yillah!” bayed three vengeful voices far behind.

“Yillah! Yillah!—dash the urn! I follow, Hautia! though thy lure be

death.”

The Cereus closed; and in a mist the siren prow went on before; we,

following.

When day dawned, three radiant pilot-fish swam in advance: three

ravenous sharks astern.

And, full before us, rose the isle of Hautia.

CHAPTER LXXXVII.

They Draw Nigh To Flozella

As if Mardi were a poem, and every island a canto, the shore now in

sight was called Flozella-a-Nina, or The-Last-Verse-of-the-Song.

According to Mohi, the origin of this term was traceable to the

remotest antiquity.

In the beginning, there were other beings in Mardi besides Mardians;

winged beings, of purer minds, and cast in gentler molds, who would

fain have dwelt forever with mankind. But the hearts of the Mardians

were bitter against them, because of their superior goodness. Yet those

beings returned love for malice, and long entreated to virtue and

charity. But in the end, all Mardi rose up against them, and hunted

them from isle to isle; till, at last, they rose from the woodlands

like a flight of birds, and disappeared in the skies. Thereafter,

abandoned of such sweet influences, the Mardians fell into all manner

of sins and sufferings, becoming the erring things their descendants

were now. Yet they knew not, that their calamities were of their own

bringing down. For deemed a victory, the expulsion of the winged beings

was celebrated in choruses, throughout Mardi. And among other

jubilations, so ran the legend, a pean was composed, corresponding in

the number of its stanzas, to the number of islands. And a band of

youths, gayly appareled, voyaged in gala canoes all round the lagoon,

singing upon each isle, one verse of their song. And Flozella being the

last isle in their circuit, its queen commemorated the circumstance, by

new naming her realm.

That queen had first incited Mardi to wage war against the beings with

wings. She it was, who had been foremost in every assault. And that

queen was ancestor of Hautia, now ruling the isle.

Approaching the dominions of one who so long had haunted me,

conflicting emotions tore up my soul in tornadoes. Yet Hautia had held

out some prospect of crowning my yearnings. But how connected were

Hautia and Yillah? Something I hoped; yet more I feared. Dire

presentiments, like poisoned arrows, shot through me. Had they pierced

me before, straight to Flozella would I have voyaged; not waiting for

Hautia to woo me by that last and victorious temptation. But unchanged

remained my feelings of hatred for Hautia; yet vague those feelings, as

the language of her flowers. Nevertheless, in some mysterious way

seemed Hautia and Yillah connected. But Yillah was all beauty, and

innocence; my crown of felicity; my heaven below;—and Hautia, my whole

heart abhorred. Yillah I sought; Hautia sought me. One, openly beckoned

me here; the other dimly allured me there. Yet now was I wildly

dreaming to find them together. But so distracted my soul, I knew not

what it was, that I thought.

Slowly we neared the land. Flozella-a-Nina!—An omen? Was this isle,

then, to prove the last place of my search, even as it was the Last-

Verse-of-the-Song?

CHAPTER LXXXVIII.

They Land

A jeweled tiara, nodding in spray, looks flowery Flozella, approached

from the sea. For, lo you! the glittering foam all round its white

marge; where, forcing themselves underneath the coral ledge, and up

through its crevices, in fountains, the blue billows gush. While,

within, zone above zone, thrice zoned in belts of bloom, all the isle,

as a hanging-garden soars; its tapering cone blending aloft, with

heaven’s own blue.

“What flies through the spray! what incense is this?” cried Media.

“Ha! you wild breeze! you have been plundering the gardens of Hautia,”

cried Yoomy.

“No sweets can be sweeter,” said Braid-Beard, “but no Upas more

deadly.”

Anon we came nearer; sails idly flapping, and paddles suspended; sleek

currents our coursers. And round about the isle, like winged rainbows,

shoals of dolphins were leaping over floating fragments of wrecks:—

dark-green, long-haired ribs, and keels of canoes. For many shallops,

inveigled by the eddies, were oft dashed to pieces against that flowery

strand. But what cared the dolphins? Mardian wrecks were their homes.

Over and over they sprang: from east to west: rising and setting: many

suns in a moment; while all the sea, like a harvest plain, was stacked

with their glittering sheaves of spray.

And far down, fathoms on fathoms, flitted rainbow hues:—as seines- full

of mermaids; half-screening the bones of the drowned.

Swifter and swifter the currents now ran; till with a shock, our prows

were beached.

There, beneath an arch of spray, three dark-eyed maidens stood;

garlanded with columbines, their nectaries nodding like jesters’ bells;

and robed in vestments blue.

“The pilot-fish transformed!” cried Yoomy.

“The night-eyed heralds three!” said Mohi.

Following the maidens, we now took our way along a winding vale; where,

by sweet-scented hedges, flowed blue-braided brooks; their tributaries,

rivulets of violets, meandering through the meads.

On one hand, forever glowed the rosy mountains with a tropic dawn; and

on the other; lay an Arctic eve;—the white daisies drifted in long

banks of snow, and snowed the blossoms from the orange boughs. There,

summer breathed her bridal bloom; her hill-top temples crowned with

bridal wreaths.

We wandered on, through orchards arched in long arcades, that seemed

baronial halls, hung o’er with trophies:—so spread the boughs in

antlers. This orchard was the frontlet of the isle.

The fruit hung high in air, that only beaks, not hands, might pluck.

Here, the peach tree showed her thousand cheeks of down, kissed often

by the wooing winds; here, in swarms; the yellow apples hived, like

golden bees upon the boughs; here, from the kneeling, fainting trees,

thick fell the cherries, in great drops of blood; and here, the

pomegranate, with cold rind and sere, deep pierced by bills of birds

revealed the mellow of its ruddy core. So, oft the heart, that cold and

withered seems, within yet hides its juices.

This orchard passed, the vale became a lengthening plain, that seemed

the Straits of Ormus bared so thick it lay with flowery gems:

torquoise-hyacinths, ruby-roses, lily-pearls. Here roved the vagrant

vines; their flaxen ringlets curling over arbors, which laughed and

shook their golden locks. From bower to bower, flew the wee bird, that

ever hovering, seldom lights; and flights of gay canaries passed, like

jonquils, winged.

But now, from out half-hidden bowers of clematis, there issued swarms

of wasps, which flying wide, settled on all the buds.

And, fifty nymphs preceding, who now follows from those bowers, with

gliding, artful steps:—the very snares of love!—Hautia. A gorgeous

amaryllis in her hand; Circe-flowers in her ears; her girdle tied with

vervain.

She came by privet hedges, drooping; downcast honey-suckles; she trod

on pinks and pansies, blue-bells, heath, and lilies. She glided on: her

crescent brow calm as the moon, when most it works its evil influences.

Her eye was fathomless.

But the same mysterious, evil-boding gaze was there, which long before

had haunted me in Odo, ere Yillah fled.—Queen Hautia the incognito!

Then two wild currents met, and dashed me into foam.

“Yillah! Yillah!—tell me, queen!” But she stood motionless; radiant,

and scentless: a dahlia on its stalk. “Where? Where?”

“Is not thy voyage now ended?—Take flowers! Damsels, give him wine to

drink. After his weary hunt, be the wanderer happy.”

I dashed aside their cups, and flowers; still rang the vale with

Yillah!

“Taji! did I know her fate, naught would I now disclose; my heralds

pledged their queen to naught. Thou but comest here to supplant thy

mourner’s night-shade, with marriage roses. Damsels! give him wreaths;

crowd round him; press him with your cups!”

Once more I spilled their wine, and tore their garlands. Is not that,

the evil eye that long ago did haunt me? and thou, the Hautia who hast

followed me, and wooed, and mocked, and tempted me, through all this

long, long voyage? I swear! thou knowest all.”

“I am Hautia. Thou hast come at last. Crown him with your flowers!

Drown him in your wine! To all questions, Taji! I am mute.—Away!—

damsels dance; reel round him; round and round!”

Then, their feet made music on the rippling grass, like thousand leaves

of lilies on a lake. And, gliding nearer, Hautia welcomed Media; and

said, “Your comrade here is sad:—be ye gay. Ho, wine!—I pledge ye,

guests!”

Then, marking all, I thought to seem what I was not, that I might learn

at last the thing I sought.

So, three cups in hand I held; drank wine, and laughed; and half-way

met Queen Hautia’s blandishments.

CHAPTER LXXXIX.

They Enter The Bower Of Hautia

Conducted to the arbor, from which the queen had emerged, we came to a

sweet-brier bower within; and reclined upon odorous mats.

Then, in citron cups, sherbet of tamarinds was offered to Media, Mohi,

Yoomy; to me, a nautilus shell, brimmed with a light-like fluid, that

welled, and welled like a fount.

“Quaff, Taji, quaff! every drop drowns a thought!”

Like a blood-freshet, it ran through my veins.

A philter?—How Hautia burned before me! Glorious queen! with all the

radiance, lighting up the equatorial night.

“Thou art most magical, oh queen! about thee a thousand constellations

cluster.”

“They blaze to burn,” whispered Mohi.

“I see ten million Hautias!—all space reflects her, as a mirror.”

Then, in reels, the damsels once more mazed, the blossoms shaking from

their brows; till Hautia, glided near; arms lustrous as rainbows:

chanting some wild invocation.

My soul ebbed out; Yillah there was none! but as I turned round open-

armed, Hautia vanished.

“She is deeper than the sea,” said Media.

“Her bow is bent,” said Yoomy.

“I could tell wonders of Hautia and her damsels,” said Mohi.

“What wonders?”

“Listen; and in his own words will I recount the adventure of the youth

Ozonna. It will show thee, Taji, that the maidens of Hautia are all

Yillahs, held captive, unknown to themselves; and that Hautia, their

enchantress, is the most treacherous of queens.

“‘Camel-like, laden with woe,’ said Ozonna, ‘after many wild rovings in

quest of a maiden long lost—beautiful Ady! and after being repelled in

Maramma; and in vain hailed to land at Serenia, represented as naught

but another Maramma;—with vague promises of discovering Ady, three

sirens, who long had pursued, at last inveigled me to Flozella; where

Hautia made me her thrall. But ere long, in Rea, one of her maidens, I

thought I discovered my Ady transformed. My arms opened wide to

embrace; but the damsel knew not Ozonna. And even, when after hard

wooing, I won her again, she seemed not lost Ady, but Rea. Yet all the

while, from deep in her strange, black orbs, Ady’s blue eyes seemed

pensively looking:—blue eye within black: sad, silent soul within

merry. Long I strove, by fixed ardent gazing, to break the spell, and

restore in Rea my lost one’s Past. But in vain. It was only Rea, not

Ady, who at stolen intervals looked on me now. One morning Hautia

started as she greeted me; her quick eye rested on my bosom; and

glancing there, affrighted, I beheld a distinct, fresh mark, the

impress of Rea’s necklace drop. Fleeing, I revealed what had passed to

the maiden, who broke from my side; as I, from Hautia’s. The queen

summoned her damsels, but for many hours the call was unheeded; and

when at last they came, upon each bosom lay a necklace-drop like Rea’s.

On the morrow, lo! my arbor was strown over with bruised Linden-leaves,

exuding a vernal juice. Full of forbodings, again I sought Rea: who,

casting down her eyes, beheld her feet stained green. Again she fled;

and again Hautia summoned her damsels: malicious triumph in her eye;

but dismay succeeded: each maid had spotted feet. That night Rea was

torn from my side by three masks; who, stifling her cries, rapidly bore

her away; and as I pursued, disappeared in a cave. Next morning, Hautia

was surrounded by her nymphs, but Rea was absent. Then, gliding near,

she snatched from my hair, a jet-black tress, loose-hanging. ‘Ozonna is

the murderer! See! Rea’s torn hair entangled with his!’ Aghast, I swore

that I knew not her fate. ‘Then let the witch Larfee be called!’ The

maidens darted from the bower; and soon after, there rolled into it a

green cocoa-nut, followed by the witch, and all the damsels, flinging

anemones upon it. Bowling this way and that, the nut at last rolled to

my feet.—‘It is he!’ cried all.—Then they bound me with osiers; and at

midnight, unseen and irresistible hands placed me in a shallop; which

sped far out into the lagoon, where they tossed me to the waves; but so

violent the shock, the osiers burst; and as the shallop fled one way,

swimming another, ere long I gained land.

“‘Thus in Flozella, I found but the phantom of Ady, and slew the last

hope of Ady the true.’”

This recital sank deep into my soul. In some wild way, Hautia had made

a captive of Yillah; in some one of her black-eyed maids, the blue-eyed

One was transformed. From side to side, in frenzy, I turned; but in all

those cold, mystical eyes, saw not the warm ray that I sought.

“Hast taken root within this treacherous soil?” cried Media. “Away! thy

Yillah is behind thee, not before. Deep she dwells in blue Serenia’s

groves; which thou would’st not search. Hautia mocks thee; away! The

reef is rounded; but a strait flows between this isle and Odo, and

thither its ruler must return. Every hour I tarry here, some wretched

serf is dying there, for whom, from blest Serenia, _I carry life and

joy. Away!_”

“Art still bent on finding evil for thy good?” cried Mohi.—“How can

Yillah harbor here?—Beware!—Let not Hautia so enthrall thee.”

“Come away, come away,” cried Yoomy. “Far hence is Yillah! and he who

tarries among these flowers, must needs burn juniper.”

“Look on me, Media, Mohi, Yoomy. Here I stand, my own monument, till

Hautia breaks the spell.”

In grief they left me.

Vee-Vee’s conch I heard no more.

CHAPTER XC.

Taji With Hautia

As their last echoes died away down the valley, Hautia glided near;—

zone unbound, the amaryllis in her hand. Her bosom ebbed and flowed;

the motes danced in the beams that darted from her eyes.

“Come! let us sin, and be merry. Ho! wine, wine, wine! and lapfuls of

flowers! let all the cane-brakes pipe their flutes. Damsels! dance;

reel, swim, around me:—I, the vortex that draws all in. Taji! Taji!— as

a berry, that name is juicy in my mouth!—Taji, Taji!” and in choruses,

she warbled forth the sound, till it seemed issuing from her syren

eyes.

My heart flew forth from out its bars, and soared in air; but as my

hand touched Hautia’s, down dropped a dead bird from the clouds.

“Ha! how he sinks!—but did’st ever dive in deep waters, Taji? Did’st

ever see where pearls grow?—To the cave!—damsels, lead on!”

Then wending through constellations of flowers, we entered deep groves.

And thus, thrice from sun-light to shade, it seemed three brief nights

and days, ere we paused before the mouth of the cavern.

A bow-shot from the sea, it pierced the hill-side like a vaulted way;

and glancing in, we saw far gleams of water; crossed, here and there,

by long-flung distant shadows of domes and columns. All Venice seemed

within.

From a stack of golden palm-stalks, the damsels now made torches; then

stood grouped; a sheaf of sirens in a sheaf of frame.

Illuminated, the cavern shone like a Queen of Kandy’s casket: full of

dawns and sunsets.

From rocky roof to bubbling floor, it was columned with stalactites;

and galleried all round, in spiral tiers, with sparkling, coral ledges.

And now, their torches held aloft, into the water the maidens softly

glided; and each a lotus floated; while, from far above, into the air

Hautia flung her flambeau; then bounding after, in the lake, two

meteors were quenched.

Where she dived, the flambeaux clustered; and up among them, Hautia

rose; hands, full of pearls.

“Lo! Taji; all these may be had for the diving; and Beauty, Health,

Wealth, Long Life, and the Last Lost Hope of man. But through me alone,

may these be had. Dive thou, and bring up one pearl if thou canst.”

Down, down! down, down, in the clear, sparkling water, till I seemed

crystalized in the flashing heart of a diamond; but from those

bottomless depths, I uprose empty handed.

“Pearls, pearls! thy pearls! thou art fresh from the mines. Ah, Taji!

for thee, bootless deep diving. Yet to Hautia, one shallow plunge

reveals many Golcondas. But come; dive with me:—join hands—let me show

thee strange things.”

“Show me that which I seek, and I will dive with thee, straight through

the world, till we come up in oceans unknown.”

“Nay, nay; but join hands, and I will take thee, where thy Past shall

be forgotten; where thou wilt soon learn to love the living, not the

dead.”

“Better to me, oh Hautia! all the bitterness of my buried dead, than

all the sweets of the life thou canst bestow; even, were it eternal.”

CHAPTER XCI.

Mardi Behind: An Ocean Before

Returned from the cave, Hautia reclined in her clematis bower,

invisible hands flinging fennel around her. And nearer, and nearer,

stole dulcet sounds dissolving my woes, as warm beams, snow. Strange

languors made me droop; once more within my inmost vault, side by side,

the Past and Yillah lay:—two bodies tranced;—while like a rounding sun,

before me Hautia magnified magnificence; and through her fixed eyes,

slowly drank up my soul.

Thus we stood:—snake and victim: life ebbing out from me, to her.

But from that spell, I burst again, as all the Past smote all the

Present in me.

“Oh Hautia! thou knowest the mystery I die to fathom. I see it

crouching in thine eye:—Reveal!”

“Weal or woe?”

“Life or death!”

“See, see!” and Yillah’s rose-pearl danced before me.

I snatched it from her hand:—“Yillah! Yillah!”

“Rave on: she lies too deep to answer; stranger voices than thine she

hears:—bubbles are bursting round her.”

“Drowned! drowned then, even as she dreamed:—I come, I come!—Ha, what

form is this?—hast mosses? sea-thyme? pearls?—Help, help! I sink!—Back,

shining monster!—-What, Hautia,—is it thou?—Oh vipress, I could slay

thee!”

“Go, go,—and slay thyself: I may not make thee mine;—go,—dead to

dead!—There is another cavern in the hill.” Swift I fled along the

valley-side; passed Hautia’s cave of pearls; and gained a twilight

arch; within, a lake transparent shone. Conflicting currents met, and

wrestled; and one dark arch led to channels, seaward tending.

Round and round, a gleaming form slow circled in the deepest eddies:—

white, and vaguely Yillah.

Straight I plunged; but the currents were as fierce headwinds off

capes, that beat back ships.

Then, as I frenzied gazed; gaining the one dark arch, the revolving

shade darted out of sight, and the eddies whirled as before.

“Stay, stay! let me go with thee, though thou glidest to gulfs of

blackness;—naught can exceed the hell of this despair!—Why beat longer

in this corpse oh, my heart!”

As somnambulists fast-frozen in some horrid dream, ghost-like glide

abroad, and fright the wakeful world; so that night, with death-glazed

eyes, to and fro I flitted on the damp and weedy beach.

“Is this specter, Taji?”—and Mohi and the minstrel stood before me.

“Taji lives no more. So dead, he has no ghost. I am his spirit’s

phantom’s phantom.”

“Nay, then, phantom! the time has come to flee.”

They dragged me to the water’s brink, where a prow was beached. Soon—

Mohi at the helm—we shot beneath the far-flung shadow of a cliff; when,

as in a dream, I hearkened to a voice.

Arrived at Odo, Media had been met with yells. Sedition was in arms,

and to his beard defied him. Vain all concessions then. Foremost stood

the three pale sons of him, whom I had slain, to gain the maiden lost.

Avengers, from the first hour we had parted on the sea, they had

drifted on my track survived starvation; and lived to hunt me round all

Mardi’s reef; and now at Odo, that last threshold, waited to destroy;

or there, missing the revenge they sought, still swore to hunt me round

Eternity.

Behind the avengers, raged a stormy mob, invoking Media to renounce his

rule. But one hand waving like a pennant above the smoke of some

sea-fight, straight through that tumult Media sailed serene: the

rioters parting from before him, as wild waves before a prow

inflexible.

A haven gained, he turned to Mohi and the minstrel:—“Oh, friends! after

our long companionship, hard to part! But henceforth, for many moons,

Odo will prove no home for old age, or youth. In Serenia only, will ye

find the peace ye seek; and thither ye must carry Taji, who else must

soon be slain, or lost. Go: release him from the thrall of Hautia.

Outfly the avengers, and gain Serenia. Reek not of me. The state is

tossed in storms; and where I stand, the combing billows must break

over. But among all noble souls, in tempest-time, the headmost man last

flies the wreck. So, here in Odo will I abide, though every plank

breaks up beneath me. And then,—great Oro! let the king die clinging to

the keel! Farewell!”

Such Mohi’s tale.

In trumpet-blasts, the hoarse night-winds now blew; the Lagoon, black

with the still shadows of the mountains, and the driving shadows of the

clouds. Of all the stars, only red Arcturus shone. But through the

gloom, and on the circumvallating reef, the breakers dashed

ghost-white.

An outlet in that outer barrier was nigh.

“Ah! Yillah! Yillah!—the currents sweep thee ocean-ward; nor will I

tarry behind.—Mardi, farewell!—Give me the helm, old man!”

“Nay, madman! Serenia is our haven. Through yonder strait, for thee,

perdition lies. And from the deep beyond, no voyager e’er puts back.”

“And why put back? is a life of dying worth living o’er again?—Let

_me_, then, be the unreturning wanderer. The helm! By Oro, I will steer

my own fate, old man.—Mardi, farewell!”

“Nay, Taji: commit not the last, last crime!” cried Yoomy.

“He’s seized the helm! eternity is in his eye! Yoomy: for our lives we

must now swim.”

And plunging, they struck out for land: Yoomy buoying Mohi up, and the

salt waves dashing the tears from his pallid face, as through the scud,

he turned it on me mournfully.

“Now, I am my own soul’s emperor; and my first act is abdication! Hail!

realm of shades!”—and turning my prow into the racing tide, which

seized me like a hand omnipotent, I darted through.

Churned in foam, that outer ocean lashed the clouds; and straight in my

white wake, headlong dashed a shallop, three fixed specters leaning

o’er its prow: three arrows poising.

And thus, pursuers and pursued flew on, over an endless sea.

THE END.