"Most true, my lord. But Bello errs, when for this thing, he stigmatizes all Vivenza, as a unity."
"Babbalanja, you yourself are made up of members:-then, if you be sick of a lumbago, — 'tis not you that are unwell; but your spine."
"As you will, my lord. I have said. But to speak no more on that head — what sort of a sensation, think you, life is to such creatures as those mollusca?"
"Answer your own question, Babbalanja."
"I will; but first tell me what sort of a sensation life is to you, yourself, my lord."
"Pray answer that along with the other, Azzageddi."
"Directly; but tell me, if you will, my lord, what sort of a sensation life is to a toad-stool."
"Pray, Babbalanja put all three questions together; and then, do what you have often done before, pronounce yourself a lunatic."
"My lord, I beseech you, remind me not of that fact so often. It is true, but annoying. Nor will any wise man call another a fool."
"Do you take me for a mere man, then, Babbalanja, that you talk to me thus?"
"My demi-divine lord and master, I was deeply concerned at your indisposition last night:-may a loving subject inquire, whether his prince is completely recovered from the effect of those guavas?"
"Have a care, Azzageddi; you are far too courteous, to be civil. But proceed."
"I obey. In kings, mollusca, and toad-stools, life is one thing and the same. The Philosopher Dumdi pronounces it a certain febral vibration of organic parts, operating upon the vis inertia of unorganized matter. But Bardianna says nay. Hear him. 'Who put together this marvelous mechanism of mine; and wound it up, to go for three score years and ten; when it runs out, and strikes Time's hours no more? And what is it, that daily and hourly renews, and by a miracle, creates in me my flesh and my blood? What keeps up the perpetual telegraphic communication between my outpost toes and digits, and that domed grandee up aloft, my brain? — It is not I; nor you; nor he; nor it. No; when I place my hand to that king muscle my heart, I am appalled. I feel the great God himself at work in me. Oro is life.'"
"And what is death?" demanded Media.
"Death, my lord! — it is the deadest of all things."
CHAPTER LX
Wherein, That Gallant Gentleman And Demi-God, King Media, Scepter In Hand, Throws Himself Into The Breach
Sailing south from Vivenza, not far from its coast, we passed a cluster of islets, green as new fledged grass; and like the mouths of floating cornucopias, their margins brimmed over upon the brine with flowers. On some, grew stately roses; on others stood twin-pillars; across others, tri-hued rainbows rested.
Cried Babbalanja, pointing to the last, "Franko's pledge of peace! with that, she loudly vaunts she'll span the reef! — Strike out all hues but red, — and the token's nearer truth."
All these isles were prolific gardens; where King Bello, and the Princes of Porpheero grew their most delicious fruits, — nectarines and grapes.
But, though hard by, Vivenza owned no garden here; yet longed and lusted; and her hottest tribes oft roundly swore, to root up all roses the half-reef over; pull down all pillars; and dissolve all rainbows.
"Mardi's half is ours;" said they. Stand back invaders! Full of vanity; and mirroring themselves in the future; they deemed all reflected there, their own.
'Twas now high noon.
"Methinks the sun grows hot," said Media, retreating deeper under the canopy. "Ho! Vee-Vee; have you no cooling beverage? none of that golden wine distilled from torrid grapes, and then sent northward to be cellared in an iceberg? That wine was placed among our stores. Search, search the crypt, little Vee-Vee! Ha, I see it! — that yellow gourd! — Come: drag it forth, my boy. Let's have the amber cups: so: pass them round;-fill all! Taji! my demi-god, up heart! Old Mohi, my babe, may you live ten thousand centuries! Ah! this way you mortals have of dying out at three score years and ten, is but a craven habit.
So, Babbalanja! may you never die. Yoomy! my sweet poet, may you live to sing to me in Paradise. Ha, ha! would that we floated in this glorious stuff, instead of this pestilent brine.-Hark ye! were I to make a Mardi now, I'd have every continent a huge haunch of venison; every ocean a wine-vat! I'd stock every cavern with choice old spirits, and make three surplus suns to ripen the grapes all the year round. Let's drink to that! — Brimmers! So: may the next Mardi that's made, be one entire grape; and mine the squeezing!"
"Look, look! my lord," cried Yoomy, "what a glorious shore we pass."
Sallying out into the high golden noon, with golden-beaming goblets suspended, we gazed.
"This must be Kolumbo of the south," said Mohi.
It was a long, hazy reach of land; piled up in terraces, traced here and there with rushing streams, that worked up gold dust alluvian, and seemed to flash over pebbled diamonds. Heliotropes, sun-flowers, marigolds gemmed, or starred the violet meads, and vassal-like, still sunward bowed their heads. The rocks were pierced with grottoes, blazing with crystals, many-tinted.
It was a land of mints and mines; its east a ruby; west a topaz.
Inland, the woodlands stretched an ocean, bottomless with foliage; its green surges bursting through cable-vines; like Xerxes' brittle chains which vainly sought to bind the Hellespont. Hence flowed a tide of forest sounds; of parrots, paroquets, macaws; blent with the howl of jaguars, hissing of anacondas, chattering of apes, and herons screaming.
Out from those depths up rose a stream.
The land lay basking in the world's round torrid brisket, hot with solar fire.
"No need here to land," cried Yoomy, "Yillah lurks not here."
"Heat breeds life, and sloth, and rage," said Babbalanja. "Here live bastard tribes and mongrel nations; wrangling and murdering to prove their freedom.-Refill, my lord."
"Methinks, Babbalanja, you savor of the mysterious parchment, in Vivenza read:-Ha? Yes, philosopher, these are the men, who toppled castles to make way for hovels; these, they who fought for freedom, but find it despotism to rule themselves. These, Babbalanja, are of the race, to whom a tyrant would prove a blessing." So saying he drained his cup.
"My lord, that last sentiment decides the authorship of the scroll.
But, with deference, tyrants seldom can prove blessings; inasmuch as evil seldom eventuates in good. Yet will these people soon have a tyrant over them, if long they cleave to war. Of many javelins, one must prove a scepter; of many helmets, one a crown. It is but in the wearing.-Refill, my lord."
"Fools, fools!" cried Media, "these tribes hate us kings; yet know not, that Peace is War against all kings. We seldom are undone by spears, which are our ministers.-This wine is strong."
"Ha, now's the time! In his cups learn king-craft from a king. Ay, ay, my lord, your royal order will endure, so long as men will fight.
Break the spears, and free the nations. Kings reap the harvests that wave on battle-fields. And oft you kings do snatch the aloe-flower, whose slow blossoming mankind watches for a hundred years.-Say on, my lord."
"All this I know; and, therefore, rest content. My children's children will be kings; though, haply, called by other titles. Mardi grows fastidious in names: we royalties will humor it. The steers would burst their yokes, but have not hands. The whole herd rears and plunges, but soon will bow again: the old, old way!"