CHAPTER LXV
Sailing On
Morning dawned upon the same mild, blue Lagoon as erst; and all the lands that we had passed, since leaving Piko's shore of spears, were faded from the sight.
Part and parcel of the Mardian isles, they formed a cluster by themselves; like the Pleiades, that shine in Taurus, and are eclipsed by the red splendor of his fiery eye, and the thick clusterings of the constellations round.
And as in Orion, to some old king-astronomer, — say, King of Rigel, or Betelguese, — this Earth's four quarters show but four points afar; so, seem they to terrestrial eyes, that broadly sweep the spheres.
And, as the sun, by influence divine, wheels through the Ecliptic; threading Cancer, Leo, Pisces, and Aquarius; so, by some mystic impulse am I moved, to this fleet progress, through the groups in white-reefed Mardi's zone.
Oh, reader, list! I've chartless voyaged. With compass and the lead, we had not found these Mardian Isles. Those who boldly launch, cast off all cables; and turning from the common breeze, that's fair for all, with their own breath, fill their own sails. Hug the shore, naught new is seen; and "Land ho!" at last was sung, when a new world was sought.
That voyager steered his bark through seas, untracked before; ploughed his own path mid jeers; though with a heart that oft was heavy with the thought, that he might only be too bold, and grope where land was none.
So I.
And though essaying but a sportive sail, I was driven from my course, by a blast resistless; and ill-provided, young, and bowed to the brunt of things before my prime, still fly before the gale;-hard have I striven to keep stout heart.
And if it harder be, than e'er before, to find new climes, when now our seas have oft been circled by ten thousand prows, — much more the glory!
But this new world here sought, is stranger far than his, who stretched his vans from Palos. It is the world of mind; wherein the wanderer may gaze round, with more of wonder than Balboa's band roving through the golden Aztec glades.
But fiery yearnings their own phantom-future make, and deem it present. So, if after all these fearful, fainting trances, the verdict be, the golden haven was not gained;-yet, in bold quest thereof, better to sink in boundless deeps, than float on vulgar shoals; and give me, ye gods, an utter wreck, if wreck I do.
CHAPTER LXVI
A Flight Of Nightingales From Yoomy's Mouth
By noon, down came a calm.
"Oh Neeva! good Neeva! kind Neeva! thy sweet breath, dear Neeva!"
So from his shark's-mouth prayed little Vee-Vee to the god of Fair Breezes. And along they swept; till the three prows neighed to the blast; and pranced on their path, like steeds of Crusaders.
Now, that this fine wind had sprung up; the sun riding joyously in the heavens; and the Lagoon all tossed with white, flying manes; Media called upon Yoomy to ransack his whole assortment of songs:-warlike, amorous, and sentimental, — and regale us with something inspiring for too long the company had been gloomy.
"Thy best,", he cried.
Then will I e'en sing you a song, my lord, which is a song-full of songs. I composed it long, long since, when Yillah yet bowered in Odo.
Ere now, some fragments have been heard. Ah, Taji! in this my lay, live over again your happy hours. Some joys have thousand lives; can never die; for when they droop, sweet memories bind them up.-My lord, I deem these verses good; they came bubbling out of me, like live waters from a spring in a silver mine. And by your good leave, my lord, I have much faith in inspiration. Whoso sings is a seer."
"Tingling is the test," said Babbalanja, "Yoomy, did you tingle, when that song was composing?"
"All over, Babbalanja."
"From sole to crown?"
"From finger to finger."
"My life for it! true poetry, then, my lord! For this self-same tingling, I say, is the test."
"And infused into a song," cried Yoomy, "it evermore causes it so to sparkle, vivify, and irradiate, that no son of man can repeat it without tingling himself. This very song of mine may prove what I say."
"Modest youth!" sighed Media.
"Not more so, than sincere," said Babbalanja. "He who is frank, will often appear vain, my lord. Having no guile, he speaks as freely of himself, as of another; and is just as ready to honor his own merits, even if imaginary, as to lament over undeniable deficiencies. Besides, such men are prone to moods, which to shallow-minded, unsympathizing mortals, make their occasional distrust of themselves, appear but as a phase of self-conceit. Whereas, the man who, in the presence of his very friends, parades a barred and bolted front, — that man so highly prizes his sweet self, that he cares not to profane the shrine he worships, by throwing open its portals. He is locked up; and Ego is the key. Reserve alone is vanity. But all mankind are egotists. The world revolves upon an I; and we upon ourselves; for we are our own worlds:-all other men as strangers, from outlandish, distant climes, going clad in furs. Then, whate'er they be, let us show our worlds; and not seek to hide from men, what Oro knows."
"Truth, my lord," said Yoomy, "but all this applies to men in mass; not specially, to my poor craft. Of all mortals, we poets are most subject to contrary moods. Now, heaven over heaven in the skies; now layer under layer in the dust. This, the penalty we pay for being what we are. But Mardi only sees, or thinks it sees, the tokens of our self-complacency: whereas, all our agonies operate unseen. Poets are only seen when they soar."
"The song! the song!" cried Media. "Never mind the metaphysics of genius."
And Yoomy, thus clamorously invoked, hemmed thrice, tuning his voice for the air.
But here, be it said, that the minstrel was miraculously gifted with three voices; and, upon occasions, like a mocking-bird, was a concert of sweet sounds in himself. Had kind friends died, and bequeathed him their voices? But hark! in a low, mild tenor, he begins:- Half-railed above the hills, yet rosy bright, Stands fresh, and fair, the meek and blushing morn!
So Yillah looks! her pensive eyes the stars, That mildly beam from out her cheek's young dawn!
But the still meek Dawn,
Is not aye the form
Of Yillah nor Morn!
Soon rises the sun,
Day's race to run:
His rays abroad,
Flash each a sword, — And merrily forth they flare!
Sun-music in the air!
So Yillah now rises and flashes!
Rays shooting from ont her long lashes, — Sun-music in the air!
Her laugh! How it bounds!
Bright cascade of sounds!
Peal after peal, and ringing afar, — Ringing of waters, that silvery jar, From basin to basin fast falling!
Fast falling, and shining, and streaming:- Yillah's bosom, the soft, heaving lake, Where her laughs at last dimple, and flake!
Oh beautiful Yillah! Thy step so free! — Fast fly the sea-ripples, Revealing their dimples, When forth, thou hi'st to the frolicsome sea!
All the stars laugh,
When upward she looks:
All the trees chat
In their woody nooks:
All the brooks sing;
All the caves ring;
All the buds blossom;
All the boughs bound;
All the birds carol;
And leaves turn round,
Where Yillah looks!
Light wells from her soul's deep sun
Causing many toward her to run!
Vines to climb, and flowers to spring;
And youths their love by hundreds bring!
"Proceed, gentle Yoomy," said Babbalanja.
"The meaning," said Mohi.
"The sequel," said Media.
"My lord, I have ceased in the middle; the end is not yet."
"Mysticism!" cried Babbalanja. "What, minstrel; must nothing ultimate come of all that melody? no final and inexhaustible meaning? nothing that strikes down into the soul's depths; till, intent upon itself, it pierces in upon its own essence, and is resolved into its p
ervading original; becoming a thing constituent of the all embracing deific; whereby we mortals become part and parcel of the gods; our souls to them as thoughts; and we privy to all things occult, ineffable, and sublime? Then, Yoomy, is thy song nothing worth. Alla Mollolla saith, 'That is no true, vital breath, which leaves no moisture behind.' I mistrust thee, minstrel! that thou hast not yet been impregnated by the arcane mysteries; that thou dost not sufficiently ponder on the Adyta, the Monads, and the Hyparxes; the Dianoias, the Unical Hypostases, the Gnostic powers of the Psychical Essence, and the Supermundane and Pleromatic Triads; to say nothing of the Abstract Noumenons."
"Oro forbid!" cried Yoomy; "the very sound of thy words affrights me."
Then, whispering to Mohi-"Is he daft again?"
"My brain is battered," said Media. "Azzageddi! you must diet, and be bled."
"Ah!" sighed Babbalanja, turning; "how little they ween of the Rudimental Quincunxes, and the Hecatic Spherula!"
CHAPTER LXVII
They Visit One Doxodox
Next morning, we came to a deep, green wood, slowly nodding over the waves; its margin frothy-white with foam. A charming sight!
While delighted, all our paddlers gazed, Media, observing Babbalanja plunged in reveries, called upon him to awake; asking what might so absorb him.
"Ah, my lord! what seraphic sounds have ye driven from me!"
"Sounds! Sure, there's naught heard but yonder murmuring surf; what other sound heard you?"
"The thrilling of my soul's monochord, my lord. But prick not your ears to hear it; that divine harmony is overheard by the rapt spirit alone; it comes not by the auditory nerves."
"No more, Azzageddi! No more of that. Look yonder!"
"A most lovely wood, in truth. And methinks it is here the sage Doxodox, surnamed the Wise One, dwells."
"Hark, I hear the hootings of his owls," said Mohi.
"My lord, you must have read of him. He is said to have penetrated from the zoned, to the unzoned principles. Shall we seek him out, that we may hearken to his wisdom? Doubtless he knows many things, after which we pant."
The lagoon was calm, as we landed; not a breath stirred the plumes of the trees; and as we entered the voiceless shades, lifting his hand, Babbalanja whispered:-"This silence is a fit introduction to the portals of Telestic lore. Somewhere, beneath this moss, lurks the mystic stone Mnizuris; whereby Doxodox hath attained unto a knowledge of the ungenerated essences. Nightly, he bathes his soul in archangelical circumlucencies. Oh, Doxodox! whip me the Strophalunian top! Tell o'er thy Jynges!"
"Down, Azzageddi! down!" cried Media. "Behold: there sits the Wise One; now, for true wisdom!"
From the voices of the party, the sage must have been aware of our approach: but seated on a green bank, beneath the shade of a red mulberry, upon the boughs of which, many an owl was perched, he seemed intent upon describing divers figures in the air, with a jet-black wand.
Advancing with much deference and humility, Babbalanja saluted him.
"Oh wise Doxodox! Drawn hither by thy illustrious name, we seek admittance to thy innermost wisdom. Of all Mardian, thou alone comprehendest those arcane combinations, whereby to drag to day the most deftly hidden things, present and to come. Thou knowest what we are, and what we shall be. We beseech thee, evoke thy Tselmns!"
"Tetrads; Pentads; Hexads; Heptads; Ogdoads:-meanest thou those?"
"New terms all!"
"Foiled at thy own weapons," said Media.
"Then, if thou comprehendest not my nomenclature:-how my science? But let me test thee in the portico.-Why is it, that as some things extend more remotely than others; so, Quadammodotatives are larger than Qualitatives; forasmuch, as Quadammodotatives extend to those things, which include the Quadammodotatives themselves."
"Azzageddi has found his match," said Media.
"Still posed, Babbalanja?" asked Mohi.
"At a loss, most truly! But I beseech thee, wise Doxodox! instruct me in thy dialectics, that I may embrace thy more recondite lore."
"To begin then, my child:-all Dicibles reside in the mind."
"But what are Dicibles?" said Media.
"Meanest thou, Perfect or Imperfect Dicibles?" Any kind you please;-but what are they?"
"Perfect Dicibles are of various sorts: Interrogative; Percontative;
Adjurative; Optative; Imprecative; Execrative; Substitutive;
Compellative; Hypothetical; and lastly, Dubious."
"Dubious enough! Azzageddi! forever, hereafter, hold thy peace."
"Ah, my children! I must go back to my Axioms."
"And what are they?" said old Mohi.
"Of various sorts; which, again, are diverse. Thus: my contrary axioms are Disjunctive, and Subdisjunctive; and so, with the rest. So, too, in degree, with my Syllogisms."
"And what of them?"
"Did I not just hint what they were, my child? I repeat, they are of various sorts: Connex, and Conjunct, for example."
"And what of them?" persisted Mohi; while Babbalanja, arms folded, stood serious and mute; a sneer on his lip.
"As with other branches of my dialectics: so, too, in their way, with my Syllogisms. Thus: when I say, — If it be warm, it is not cold:-that's a simple Sumption. If I add, But it is warm:-that's an Assumption."
"So called from the syllogist himself, doubtless;" said Mohi, stroking his beard.
"Poor ignorant babe! no. Listen:-if finally, I say, — Therefore it is not cold that's the final inference."
"And a most triumphant one it is!" cried Babbalanja. "Thrice profound, and sapient Doxodox! Light of Mardi! and Beacon of the Universe! didst ever hear of the Shark-Syllogism?"
"Though thy epithets be true, my child, I distrust thy sincerity. I have not yet heard of the syllogism to which thou referrest."
"It was thus. A shark seized a swimmer by the leg; addressing him: 'Friend, I will liberate you, if you truly answer whether you think I purpose harm.' Well knowing that sharks seldom were magnanimous, he replied: Kind sir, you mean me harm; now go your ways.' 'No, no; my conscience forbids. Nor will I falsify the words of so veracious a mortal. You were to answer truly; but you say I mean you harm:-so harm it is:-here goes your leg.'"
"Profane jester! Would'st thou insult me with thy torn-foolery?
Begone-all of ye! tramp! pack! I say: away with ye!" and into the woods Doxodox himself disappeared.
"Bravely done, Babbalanja!" cried Media. "You turned the corner to admiration."
"I have hopes of our Philosopher yet," said Mohi.
"Outrageous impostor! fool, dotard, oaf! Did he think to bejuggle me with his preposterous gibberish? And is this shallow phraseman the renowned Doxodox whom I have been taught so highly to reverence? Alas, alas-Odonphi there is none!"
"His fit again," sighed Yoomy.
CHAPTER LXVIII
King Media Dreams
That afternoon was melting down to eve; all but Media broad awake; yet all motionless, as the slumberer upon the purple mat. Sailing on, with open eyes, we slept the wakeful sleep of those, who to the body only give repose, while the spirit still toils on, threading her mountain passes.
King Media's slumbers were like the helmed sentry's in the saddle.
From them, he started like an antlered deer, bursting from out a copse. Some said he never slept; that deep within himself he but intensified the hour; or, leaving his crowned brow in marble quiet, unseen, departed to far-off councils of the gods. Howbeit, his lids never closed; in the noonday sun, those crystal eyes, like diamonds, sparkled with a fixed light.
As motionless we thus reclined, Media turned and muttered:-"Brother gods, and demi-gods, it is not well. These mortals should have less or more. Among my subjects is a man, whose genius scorns the common theories of things; but whose still mortal mind can not fathom the ocean at his feet. His soul's a hollow, wherein he raves."
"List, list," whispered Yoomy-"our lord is dreaming; and what a royal dream."
"A very royal and imperial dream," said
Babbalanja-"he is arraigning me before high heaven;-ay, ay; in dreams, at least, he deems himself a demi-god."
"Hist," said Mohi-"he speaks again."
"Gods and demi-gods! With one gesture all abysses we may disclose; and before this Mardi's eyes, evoke the shrouded time to come. Were this well? Like lost children groping in the woods, they falter through their tangled paths; and at a thousand angles, baffled, start upon each other. And even when they make an onward move, 'tis but an endless vestibule, that leads to naught. In my own isle of Odo-Odo!
Odo! How rules my viceroy there? — Down, down, ye madding mobs! Ho, spearmen, charge! By the firmament, but my halberdiers fly!"
"His dream has changed," said Babbalanja. "He is in Odo, whither his anxieties impel him."
"Hist, hist," said Yoomy.
"I leap upon the soil! Render thy account, Almanni! Where's my throne?
Mohi, am I not a king? Do not thy chronicles record me? Yoomy, am I not the soul of some one glorious song? Babbalanja, speak.-Mohi! Yoomy!"
"What is it, my lord? thou dost but dream."
Staring wildly; then calmly gazing round, Media smiled. "Ha! how we royalties ramble in our dreams! I've told no secrets?"
"While he seemed to sleep, my lord spoke much," said Mohi.
"I knew it not, old man; nor would now; but that ye tell me."
"We dream not ourselves," said Babbalanja, "but the thing within us."
"Ay? — good-morrow Azzageddi! — But come; no more dreams: Vee-Vee! wine."
And straight through that livelong night, immortal Media plied the can.
CHAPTER LXIX
After A Long Interval, By Night They Are Becalmed
Now suns rose, and set; moons grew, and waned; till, at last, the star that erewhile heralded the dawn, presaged the eve; to us, sad token! — while deep within the deepest heart of Mardi's circle, we sailed from sea to sea; and isle to isle; and group to group;-vast empires explored, and inland valleys, to their utmost heads; and for every ray in heaven, beheld a king.
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