89. CHAPTER LXXXIX.
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 over-stepped
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.”
