University of Virginia Library

58. CHAPTER LVIII.

We penetrated further and further into the valleys around;
but, though, as elsewhere, at times we heard whisperings
that promised an end to our wanderings;—we still wandered
on; and once again, even Yoomy abated his sanguine
hopes.

And now, we prepared to embark for the extreme south
of the land.

But we were warned by the people, that in that portion
of Vivenza, whither we were going, much would be seen
repulsive to strangers. Such things, however, indulgent
visitors overlooked. For themselves, they were well aware
of those evils. Northern Vivenza had done all it could to
assuage them; but in vain; the inhabitants of those southern
valleys were a fiery, and intractable race; heeding
neither expostulations, nor entreaties. They were wedded
to their ways. Nay, they swore, that if the northern tribes
persisted in intermeddlings, they would dissolve the common
alliance, and establish a distinct confederacy among themselves.

Our coasting voyage at an end, our keels grated the
beach among many prostrate palms, decaying, and washed
by the billows. Though part and parcel of the shore we
had left, this region seemed another land. Fewer thriving
things were seen; fewer cheerful sounds were heard

“Here labor has lost his laugh!” cried Yoomy.

It was a great plain where we landed; and there, under
a burning sun, hundreds of collared men were toiling in

trenches, filled with the taro plant; a root most flourishing
in that soil. Standing grimly over these, were men unlike
them; armed with long thongs, which descended upon the
toilers, and made wounds. Blood and sweat mixed; and
in great drops, fell.

“Who eat these plants thus nourished?” cried Yoomy.

“Are these men?” asked Babbalanja.

“Which mean you?” said Mohi.

Heeding him not, Babbalanja advanced toward the foremost
of those with the thongs,—one Nulli: a cadaverous,
ghost-like man; with a low ridge of forehead; hair, steel-gray;
and wondrous eyes;—bright, nimble, as the twin Corposant
balls, playing about the ends of ships' royal-yards in gales.

The sun passed under a cloud; and Nulli, darting at
Babbalanja those wondrous eyes, there fell upon him a
baleful glare.

“Have they souls?” he asked, pointing to the serfs.

“No,” said Nulli, “their ancestors may have had; but
their souls have been bred out of their descendants; as the
instinct of scent is killed in pointers.”

Approaching one of the serfs, Media took him by the
hand, and felt of it long; and looked into his eyes; and
placed his ear to his side; and exclaimed, “Surely this
being has flesh that is warm; he has Oro in his eye; and
a heart in him that beats. I swear he is a man.”

“Is this our lord the king?” cried Mohi, starting.

“What art thou,” said Babbalanja to the serf. “Dost
ever feel in thee a sense of right and wrong? Art ever
glad or sad?—They tell us thou art not a man:—speak,
then, for thyself; say, whether thou beliest thy Maker.”

“Speak not of my Maker to me. Under the lash, I believe
my masters, and account myself a brute; but in my
dreams, bethink myself an angel. But I am bond; and my
little ones;—their mother's milk is gall.”

“Just Oro!” cried Yoomy, “do no thunders roll,—no
lightnings flash in this accursed land!”

“Asylum for all Mardi's thralls!” cried Media.

“Incendiaries!” cried he with the wondrous eyes, “come
ye, firebrands, to light the flame of revolt? Know ye not,
that here are many serfs, who, incited to obtain their liberty,
might wreak some dreadful vengeance? Avaunt, thou
king! thou horrified at this? Go back to Odo, and right
her wrongs! These serfs are happier than thine; though
thine, no collars wear; more happy as they are, than if free.
Are they not fed, clothed, and cared for? Thy serfs pine
for food: never yet did these; who have no thoughts, no
cares.”

“Thoughts and cares are life, and liberty, and immortality!”
cried Babbalanja; “and are their souls, then, blown
out as candles?”

“Ranter! they are content,” cried Nulli. “They shed
no tears.”

“Frost never weeps,” said Babbalanja; “and tears are
frozen in those frigid eyes.”

“Oh fettered sons of fettered mothers, conceived and born
in manacles,” cried Yoomy; “dragging them through life;
and falling with them, clanking in the grave:—oh, beings
as ourselves, how my stiff arm shivers to avenge you!
'Twere absolution for the matricide, to strike one rivet from
your chains. My heart outswells its home!”

“Oro! Art thou?” cried Babbalanja; “and doth this
thing exist? It shakes my little faith.” Then, turning
upon Nulli, “How can ye abide to sway this curs'd dominion?”

“Peace, fanatic! Who else may till unwholesome fields,
but these? And as these beings are, so shall they remain;
'tis right and righteous! Maramma champions it!—I
swear it! The first blow struck for them, dissolves the
union of Vivenza's vales. The northern tribes well know
it; and know me.”

Said Media, “Yet if—”

“No more! another word, and, king as thou art, thou

shalt be dungeoned:—here, there is such a law; thou art
not among the northern tribes.”

“And this is freedom!” murmured Media; “when heaven's
own voice is throttled. And were these serfs to rise,
and fight for it; like dogs, they would be hunted down by
her pretended sons!”

“Pray, heaven!” cried Yoomy, “they may yet find a
way to loose their bonds without one drop of blood. But
hear me, Oro! were there no other way, and should their
masters not relent, all honest hearts must cheer this tribe of
Hamo on; though they cut their chains with blades thrice
edged, and gory to the haft! 'Tis right to fight for freedom,
whoever be the thrall.”

“These South savannahs may yet prove battle-fields,”
said Mohi, gloomily, as we retraced our steps.

“Be it,” said Yoomy. “Oro will van the right.”

“Not always has it proved so,” said Babbalanja. “Ofttimes,
the right fights single-handed against the world; and
Oro champions none. In all things, man's own battles, man
himself must fight. Yoomy: so far as feeling goes, your
sympathies are not more hot than mine; but for these serfs
you would cross spears; yet, I would not. Better present
woes for some, than future woes for all.”

“No need to fight,” cried Yoomy, “to liberate that tribe
of Hamo instantly; a way may be found, and no irretrievable
evil ensue.”

“Point it out, and be blessed, Yoomy.”

“That is for Vivenza; but the head is dull, where the heart is cold.”

“My lord,” said Babbalanja, “you have startled us by
your kingly sympathy for suffering;—say thou, then, in what
wise manner it shall be relieved.”

“That is for Vivenza,” said Media.

“Mohi, you are old: speak thou.”

“Let Vivenza speak,” said Mohi.

Thus, then, we all agree; and weeping, all but echo

hard-hearted Nulli. Tears are not swords; and wrongs
seem almost natural as rights. For the righteous to suppress
an evil, is sometimes harder than for others to uphold
it. Humanity cries out against this vast enormity:—not
one man knows a prudent remedy. Blame not, then, the
North; and wisely judge the South. Ere, as a nation, they
became responsible, this thing was planted in their midst.
Such roots strike deep. Place to-day those serfs in Dominora;
and with them, all Vivenza's Past;—and serfs, for
many years, in Dominora, they would be. Easy is it to
stand afar and rail. All men are censors who have lungs.
We can say, the stars are wrongly marshaled. Blind men
say the sun is blind. A thousand muscles wag our tongues;
though our tongues were housed, that they might have a
home. Whoso is free from crime, let him cross himself—
but hold his cross upon his lips. That he is not bad, is not
of him. Potters' clay and wax are all, molded by hands
invisible. The soil decides the man. And, ere birth, man
wills not to be born here or there. These southern tribes
have grown up with this thing; bond-women were their
nurses, and bondmen serve them still. Nor are all their
serfs such wretches as those we saw. Some seem happy:
yet not as men. Unmanned, they know not what they are.
And though, of all the south, Nulli must stand almost alone
in his insensate creed; yet, to all wrong-doers, custom backs
the sense of wrong. And if to every Mardian, conscience
be the awarder of its own doom; then, of these tribes, many
shall be found exempted from the least penalty of this sin.
But sin it is, no less;—a blot, foul as the crater-pool of
hell; it puts out the sun at noon; it parches all fertility;
and, conscience or no conscience—ere he die—let every
master who wrenches bond-babe from mother, that the nipple
tear; unwreathes the arms of sisters; or cuts the holy
unity in twain; till apart fall man and wife, like one bleeding
body cleft:—let that master thrice shrive his soul; take
every sacrament; on his bended knees give up the ghost;— yet shall he die despairing; and live again, to die forever
damned. The future is all hieroglyphics. Who may read?
But, methinks the great laggard Time must now march up
apace, and somehow befriend these thralls. It can not be,
that misery is perpetually entailed; though, in a land proscribing
primogeniture, the first-born and last of Hamo's
tribe must still succeed to all their sires' wrongs. Yes:
Time—all-healing Time—Time, great Philanthropist!—
Time must befriend these thralls!”

“Oro grant it!” cried Yoomy “and let Mardi say,
amen!”

“Amen! amen! amen!” cried echoes echoing echoes.

We traversed many of these southern vales; but as in
Dominora,—so, throughout Vivenza, North and South,—
Yillah harbored not.