"Not a stump."
"Prom his will, he seems to have lived single."
"Yes: Bardianna never sought to improve upon nature; a bachelor he was born, and a bachelor he died."
"According to the best accounts, how did he depart, Babbalanja?" asked Mohi.
"With a firm lip, and his hand on his heart, old man."
"His last words?"
"Calmer, and better!"
"Where think you, he is now?"
"In his Ponderings. And those, my lord, we all inherit; for like the great chief of Romara, who made a whole empire his legatee; so, great authors have all Mardi for an heir."
CHAPTER LXXIV
A Death-Cloud Sweeps By Them, As They Sail
Next day, a fearful sight!
As in Sooloo's seas, one vast water-spout will, sudden, form: and whirling, chase the flying Malay keels; so, before a swift-winged cloud, a thousand prows sped by, leaving braided, foaming wakes; their crowded inmates' arms, in frenzied supplications wreathed; like tangled forest-boughs.
"See, see," cried Yoomy, "how the Death-cloud flies! Let us dive down in the sea."
"Nay," said Babbalanja. "All things come of Oro; if we must drown, let Oro drown us."
"Down sails: drop paddles," said Media: "here we float."
Like a rushing bison, sweeping by, the Death-cloud grazed us with its foam; and whirling in upon the thousand prows beyond, sudden burst in deluges; and scooping out a maelstrom, dragged down every plank and soul.
Long we rocked upon the circling billows, which expanding from that center, dashed every isle, till, moons after-ward, faint, they laved all Mardi's reef.
"Thanks unto Oro," murmured Mohi, "this heart still beats."
That sun-flushed eve, we sailed by many tranquil harbors, whence fled those thousand prows. Serene, the waves ran up their strands; and chimed around the unharmed stakes of palm, to which the thousand prows that morning had been fastened.
"Flying death, they ran to meet it," said Babbalanja. "But 'tie not that they fled, they died; for maelstroms, of these harbors, the Death-cloud might have made. But they died, because they might not longer live. Could we gain one glimpse of the great calendar of eternity, all our names would there be found, glued against their dates of death. We die by land, and die by sea; we die by earthquakes, famines, plagues, and wars; by fevers, agues; woe, or mirth excessive.
This mortal air is one wide pestilence, that kills us all at last.
Whom the Death-cloud spares, sleeping, dies in silent watches of the night. He whom the spears of many battles could not slay, dies of a grape-stone, beneath the vine-clad bower he built, to shade declining years. We die, because we live. But none the less does Babbalanja quake. And if he flies not, 'tis because he stands the center of a circle; its every point a leveled dart; and every bow, bent back:-a twang, and Babbalanja dies."
CHAPTER LXXV
They Visit The Palmy King Abrazza
Night and morn departed; and in the afternoon, we drew nigh to an island, overcast with shadows; a shower was falling; and pining, plaintive notes forth issued from the groves: half-suppressed, and sobbing whisperings of leaves. The shore sloped to the water; thither our prows were pointed.
"Sheer off! no landing here," cried Media, "let us gain the sunny side; and like the care-free bachelor Abrazza, who here is king, turn our back on the isle's shadowy side, and revel in its morning-meads."
"And lord Abrazza:-who is he?" asked Yoomy.
"The one hundred and twentieth in lineal descent from Phipora," said Mohi; "and connected on the maternal side to the lord seigniors of Klivonia. His uttermost uncle was nephew to the niece of Queen Zmiglandi; who flourished so long since, she wedded at the first Transit of Venus. His pedigree is endless."
"But who is lord Abrazza?"
"Has he not said?" answered Babbalanja. "Why so dull? — Uttermost nephew to him, who was nephew to the niece of the peerless Queen Zmiglandi; and the one hundred and twentieth in descent from the illustrious Phipora."
"Will none tell, who Abrazza is?"
"Can not a man then, be described by running off the catalogue of his ancestors?" said Babbalanja. "Or must we e'en descend to himself.
Then, listen, dull Yoomy! and know that lord Abrazza is six feet two: plump thighs; blue eyes; and brown hair; likes his bread-fruit baked, not roasted; sometimes carries filberts in his crown: and has a way of winking when he speaks. His teeth are good."
"Are you publishing some decamped burglar," said Media, "that you speak thus of my royal friend, the lord Abrazza? Go on, sir! and say he reigns sole king of Bonovona!"
"My lord, I had not ended. Abrazza, Yoomy, is a fine and florid king: high-fed, and affluent of heart; of speech, mellifluent. And for a royalty extremely amiable. He is a sceptered gentleman, who does much good. Kind king! in person he gives orders for relieving those, who daily dive for pearls, to grace his royal robe; and gasping hard, with blood-shot eyes, come up from shark-infested depths, and fainting, lay their treasure at his feet. Sweet lord Abrazza! how he pities those, who in his furthest woodlands day-long toil to do his bidding. Yet king-philosopher, he never weeps; but pities with a placid smile; and that but seldom."
"There seems much iron in your blood," said Media. "But say your say."
"Say I not truth, my lord? Abrazza, I admire. Save his royal pity all else is jocund round him. He loves to live for life's own sake. He vows he'll have no cares; and often says, in pleasant reveries, — 'Sure, my lord Abrazza, if any one should be care-free, 'tis thou; who strike down none, but pity all the fallen!' Yet none he lifteth up."
At length we gained the sunny side, and shoreward tended. Vee-Vee's horn was sonorous; and issuing from his golden groves, my lord Abrazza, like a host that greets you on the threshold, met us, as we keeled the beach.
"Welcome! fellow demi-god, and king! Media, my pleasant guest!"
His servitors salamed; his chieftains bowed; his yeoman-guard, in meadow-green, presented palm-stalks, — royal tokens; and hand in hand, the nodding, jovial, regal friends, went up a lane of salutations; dragging behind, a train of envyings.
Much we marked Abrazza's jeweled crown; that shot no honest blaze of ruddy rubies; nor looked stern-white like Media's pearls; but cast a green and yellow glare; rays from emeralds, crossing rays from many a topaz. In those beams, so sinister, all present looked cadaverous:
Abrazza's cheek alone beamed bright, but hectic.
Upon its fragrant mats a spacious hall received the kings; and gathering courtiers blandly bowed; and gushing with soft flatteries, breathed idol-incense round them.
The hall was terraced thrice; its elevated end was curtained; and thence, at every chime of words, there burst a girl, gay scarfed, with naked bosom, and poured forth wild and hollow laughter, as she raced down all the terraces, and passed their merry kingships.
Wide round the hall, in avenues, waved almond-woods; their whiteness frosted into bloom. But every vine-clad trunk was hollow-hearted; hollow sounds came from the grottos: hollow broke the billows on the shore: and hollow pauses filled the air, following the hollow laughter.
Guards, with spears, paced the groves, and in the inner shadows, oft were seen to lift their weapons, and backward press some ugly phantom, saying, "Subjects! haunt him not; Abrazza would be merry; Abrazza feasts his guests."
So, banished from our sight seemed all things uncongenial; and pleasant times were ours, in these dominions. Not a face passed by, but smiled; mocking-birds perched on the boughs; and singing, made us vow the woods were warbling forth thanksgiving, with a thousand throats! The stalwart yeomen grinned beneath their trenchers, heaped with citrons pomegrantes, grapes; the pages tittered, pouring out the wine; and all the lords loud laughed, smote their gilded spears, and swore the isle was glad.
Such the isle, in which we tarried; but in our rambles, found no Yillah.
CHAPTER LXXVI
Some Pleasant, Shady Talk In The Groves, Between My Lords Abrazza And Media, Babb
alanja, Mohi, And Yoomy
Abrazza had a cool retreat-a grove of dates; where we were used to lounge of noons, and mix our converse with the babble of the rills; and mix our punches in goblets chased with grapes. And as ever, King Abrazza was the prince of hosts.
"Your crown," he said to Media; and with his own, he hung it on a bough.
"Be not ceremonious: " and stretched his royal legs upon the turf.
"Wine!" and his pages poured it out.
So on the grass we lounged; and King Abrazza, who loved his antique ancestors; and loved old times; and would not talk of moderns;-bade Yoomy sing old songs; bade Mohi rehearse old histories; bade Babbalanja tell of old ontologies; and commanded all, meanwhile, to drink his old, old wine.
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 morninginspirations. 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.
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