Braid-Beard Rehearses The Origin Of The Isle Of Rogues
Judge not things by their names. This, the maxim illustrated respecting
the isle toward which we were sailing.
Ohonoo was its designation, in other words the Land of Rogues. So what
but a nest of villains and pirates could one fancy it to be: a
downright Tortuga, swarming with “Brethren of the coast,”—such as
Montbars, L’Ollonais, Bartolomeo, Peter of Dieppe, and desperadoes of
that kidney. But not so. The men of Ohonoo were as honest as any in
Mardi. They had a suspicious appellative for their island, true; but
not thus seemed it to them. For, upon nothing did they so much plume
themselves as upon this very name. Why? Its origin went back to old
times; and being venerable they gloried therein; though they disclaimed
its present applicability to any of their race; showing, that words are
but algebraic signs, conveying no meaning except what you please. And
to be called one thing, is oftentimes to be another.
But how came the Ohonoose by their name?
Listen, and Braid-Beard, our Herodotus, will tell.
Long and long ago, there were banished to Ohonoo all the bucaniers,
flibustiers, thieves, and malefactors of the neighboring islands; who,
becoming at last quite a numerous community, resolved to make a stand
for their dignity, and number one among the nations of Mardi. And even
as before they had been weeded out of the surrounding countries; so
now, they went to weeding out themselves; banishing all objectionable
persons to still another island.
These events happened at a period so remote, that at present it was
uncertain whether those twice banished, were thrust into their second
exile by reason of their superlative knavery, or because of their
comparative honesty. If the latter, then must the residue have been a
precious enough set of scoundrels.
However it was, the commonwealth of knaves now mustered together their
gray-beards, and wise-pates, and knowing-ones, of which last there was
a plenty, chose a king to rule over them, and went to political
housekeeping for themselves.
And in the fullness of time, this people became numerous and mighty.
And the more numerous and mighty they waxed, by so much the more did
they take pride and glory in their origin, frequently reverting to it
with manifold boastings. The proud device of their monarch was a hand
with the forefinger crooked, emblematic of the peculatory propensities
of his ancestors.
And all this, at greater length, said Mohi.
“It would seem, then, my lord,” said Babbalanja, reclining, “as if
these men of Ohonoo had canonized the derelictions of their
progenitors, though the same traits are deemed scandalous among
themselves. But it is time that makes the difference. The knave of a
thousand years ago seems a fine old fellow full of spirit and fun,
little malice in his soul; whereas, the knave of to-day seems a sour-
visaged wight, with nothing to redeem him. Many great scoundrels of our
Chronicler’s chronicles are heroes to us:—witness, Marjora the usurper.
Ay, time truly works wonders. It sublimates wine; it sublimates fame;
nay, is the creator thereof; it enriches and darkens our spears of the
Palm; enriches and enlightens the mind; it ripens cherries and young
lips; festoons old ruins, and ivies old heads; imparts a relish to old
yams, and a pungency to the Ponderings of old Bardianna; of fables
distills truths; and finally, smooths, levels, glosses, softens, melts,
and meliorates all things. Why, my lord, round Mardi itself is all the
better for its antiquity, and the more to be revered; to the
cozy-minded, more comfortable to dwell in. Ah! if ever it lay in embryo
like a green seed in the pod, what a damp, shapeless thing it must have
been, and how unpleasant from the traces of its recent creation. The
first man, quoth old Bardianna, must have felt like one going into a
new habitation, where the bamboos are green. Is there not a legend in
Maramma, that his family were long troubled with influenzas and
catarrhs?”
“Oh Time, Time, Time!” cried Yoomy—“it is Time, old midsummer Time,
that has made the old world what it is. Time hoared the old mountains,
and balded their old summits, and spread the old prairies, and built
the old forests, and molded the old vales. It is Time that has worn
glorious old channels for the glorious old rivers, and rounded the old
lakes, and deepened the old sea! It is Time—”
“Ay, full time to cease,” cried Media. “What have you to do with
cogitations not in verse, minstrel? Leave prose to Babbalanja, who is
prosy enough.”
“Even so,” said Babbalanja, “Yoomy, you have overstepped your province.
My lord Media well knows, that your business is to make the metal in
you jingle in tags, not ring in the ingot.”