49. CHAPTER XLIX.
THEY DRAW NIGH TO PORPHEERO; WHERE THEY BEHOLD
A TERRIFIC ERUPTION.
Gliding away from Verdanna at the turn of the tide, we
cleared the strait, and gaining the more open lagoon,
pointed our prows for Porpheero, from whose magnificent
monarchs my lord Media promised himself a glorious reception.
“They are one and all demi-gods,” he cried, “and have
the old demi-god feeling. We have seen no great valleys
like theirs:—their scepters are long as our spears; to their
sumptuous palaces, Donjalolo's are but inns:—their banquetting
halls are as vistas; no generations run parallel to
theirs:—their pedigrees reach back into chaos.
“Babbalanja! here you will find food for philosophy:—
the whole land checkered with nations, side by side contrasting
in costume, manners, and mind. Here you will find
science and sages; manuscripts in miles; bards singing in
choirs.
“Mohi! here you will flag over your page; in Porpheero
the ages have hived all their treasures: like a pyramid, the
past shadows over the land.
“Yoomy! here you will find stuff for your songs:—blue
rivers flowing through forest arches, and vineyards; velvet
meads, soft as ottomans: bright maidens braiding the
golden locks of the harvest; and a background of mountains,
that seem the end of the world. Or if nature will not
content you, then turn to the landscapes of art. See!
mosaic walls, tattooed like our faces; paintings, vast as
horizons; and into which, you feel you could rush: See!
statues to which you could off turban; cities of columns
standing thick as mankind; and firmanent domes forever
shedding their sunsets of gilding: See! spire behind spire,
as if the land were the ocean, and all Bello's great navy
were riding at anchor.
“Noble Taji! you seek for your Yillah;—give over
despair! Porpheero's such a scene of enchantment, that
there, the lost maiden must lurk.”
“A glorious picture!” cried Babbalanja, “but turn the
medal, my lord;—what says the reverse?”
“Cynic! have done.—But bravo! we'll ere long be in
Franko, the goodliest vale of them all; how I long to take
her old king by the hand!”
The sun was now setting behind us, lighting up the white
cliffs of Dominora, and the green capes of Verdanna; while
in deep shade lay before us the long winding shores of
Porpheero.
It was a sunset serene.
“How the winds lowly warble in the dying day's ear,”
murmured Yoomy.
“A mild, bright night, we'll have,” said Media.
“See you not those clouds over Franko, my lord,” said
Mohi, shaking his head.
“Ah, aged and weather-wise as ever, sir chronicler;—I
predict a fair night, and many to follow.”
“Patience needs no prophet,” said Babbalanja. “The
night is at hand.”
Hitherto the lagoon had been smooth: but anon, it grew
black, and stirred; and out of the thick darkness came
clamorous sounds. Soon, there shot into the air a vivid
meteor, which bursting at the zenith, radiated down the
firmament in fiery showers, leaving treble darkness behind.
Then, as all held their breath, from Franko there spouted
an eruption, which seemed to plant all Mardi in the foreground.
As when Vesuvius lights her torch, and in the blaze, the
storm-swept surges in Naples' bay rear and plunge toward
it; so now, showed Franko's multitudes, as they stormed
the summit where their monarch's palace blazed, fast by the
burning mountain.
“By my eternal throne!” cried Media, starting, “the
old volcano has burst forth again!”
“But a new vent, my lord,” said Babbalanja.
“More fierce this, than the eruption which happened in my
youth,” said Mohi—“methinks that Franko's end has come.”
“You look pale, my lord,” said Babbalanja, “while all
other faces glow;—Yoomy, doff that halo in the presence
of a king.”
Over the waters came a rumbling sound, mixed with the
din of warfare, and thwarted by showers of embers that fell
not, for the whirling blasts.
“Off shore! off shore!” cried Media; and with all haste
we gained a place of safety.
Down the valley now poured Rhines and Rhones of lava,
a fire-freshet, flooding the forests from their fastnesses, and
leaping with them into the seething sea.
The shore was lined with multitudes pushing off wildly
in canoes.
Meantime, the fiery storm from Franko, kindled new
flames in the distant valleys of Porpheero; while driven
over from Verdanna came frantic shouts, and direful jubilees.
Upon Dominora a baleful glare was resting.
“Thrice cursed flames!” cried Media. “Is Mardi to
be one conflagration? How it crackles, forks, and roars!—
Is this our funeral pyre?”
“Recline, recline, my lord,” said Babbalanja. “Fierce
flames are ever brief—a song, sweet Yoomy! Your pipe,
old Mohi! Greater fires than this have ere now blazed in
Mardi. Let us be calm;—the isles were made to burn;—
Braid-Beard! hereafter, in some quiet cell, of this whole
scene you will but make one chapter;—come, digest it now.”
“My face is scorched,” cried Media.
“The last, last day!” cried Mohi.
“Not so, old man,” said Babbalanja, “when that day
dawns, 'twill dawn serene. Be calm, be calm, my potent
lord.”
“Talk not of calm brows in storm-time!” cried Media
fiercely. “See! how the flames blow over upon Dominora!”
“Yet the fires they kindle there are soon extinguished,”
said Babbalanja. “No, no; Dominora ne'er can burn
with Franko's fires; only those of her own kindling may
consume her.”
“Away! Away!” cried Media. “We may not touch
Porpheero now.—Up sails! and westward be our course.”
So dead before the blast, we scudded.
Morning broke, showing no sign of land.
“Hard must it go with Franko's king,” said Media,
“when his people rise against him with the red volcanoes.
Oh, for a foot to crush them! Hard, too, with all who rule
in broad Porpheero. And may she we seek, survive this
conflagration!”
“My lord,” said Babbalanja, “where'ere she hide, ne'er
yet did Yillah lurk in this Porpheero; nor have we missed
the maiden, noble Taji! in not touching at its shores.”
“This fire must make a desert of the land,” said Mohi;
“burn up and bury all her tilth.”
“Yet, Mohi, vineyards flourish over buried villages,”
murmured Yoomy.
“True, minstrel,” said Babbalanja, “and prairies are
purified by fire. Ashes breed loam. Nor can any skill
make the same surface forever fruitful. In all times past,
things have been overlaid; and though the first fruits of the
marl are wild and poisonous, the palms at last spring forth;
and once again the tribes repose in shade. My lord, if
calms breed storms, so storms calms; and all this dire
commotion must eventuate in peace. It may be, that Porpheero's
future has been cheaply won.”
