University of Virginia Library

66. CHAPTER LXVI.

By noon, down came a calm.

“Oh Neeva! good Neeva! kind Neeva! thy sweet breath,
dear Neeva!”

So from his shark's-mouth prayed little Vee-Vee to the
god of Fair Breezes. And along they swept; till the three
prows neighed to the blast; and pranced on their path, like
steeds of Crusaders.

Now, that this fine wind had sprung up; the sun riding
joyously in the heavens; and the Lagoon all tossed with
white, flying manes; Media called upon Yoomy to ransack
his whole assortment of songs:—warlike, amorous, and
sentimental,—and regale us with something inspiring; for
too long the company had been gloomy.

“Thy best,” he cried.

“Then will I e'en sing you a song, my lord, which is a
song-full of songs. I composed it long, long since, when
Yillah yet bowered in Odo. Ere now, some fragments
have been heard. Ah, Taji! in this my lay, live over
again your happy hours. Some joys have thousand lives;
can never die; for when they droop, sweet memories bind
them up.—My lord, I deem these verses good; they came
bubbling out of me, like live waters from a spring in a
silver mine. And by your good leave, my lord, I have
much faith in inspiration. Whoso sings is a seer.”

“Tingling is the test,” said Babbalanja, “Yoomy, did
you tingle, when that song was composing?”

“All over, Babbalanja.”

“From sole to crown?”

“From finger to finger.”

“My life for it! true poetry, then, my lord! For this
self-same tingling, I say, is the test.”

“And infused into a song,” cried Yoomy, “it evermore
causes it so to sparkle, vivify, and irradiate, that no son of
man can repeat it without tingling himself. This very
song of mine may prove what I say.”

“Modest youth!” sighed Media.

“Not more so, than sincere,” said Babbalanja. “He
who is frank, will often appear vain, my lord. Having no
guile, he speaks as freely of himself, as of another; and is
just as ready to honor his own merits, even if imaginary,
as to lament over undeniable deficiencies. Besides, such
men are prone to moods, which to shallow-minded, unsympathizing
mortals, make their occasional distrust of themselves,
appear but as a phase of self-conceit. Whereas, the
man who, in the presence of his very friends, parades a
barred and bolted front,—that man so highly prizes his
sweet self, that he cares not to profane the shrine he worships,
by throwing open its portals. He is locked up; and
Ego is the key. Reserve alone is vanity. But all mankind
are egotists. The world revolves upon an I; and we
upon ourselves; for we are our own worlds:—all other
men as strangers, from outlandish, distant climes, going
clad in furs. Then, whate'er they be, let us show
our worlds; and not seek to hide from men, what Oro
knows.”

“Truth, my lord,” said Yoomy, “but all this applies to
men in mass; not specially, to my poor craft. Of all mortals,
we poets are most subject to contrary moods. Now,
heaven over heaven in the skies; now layer under layer in
the dust. This, the penalty we pay for being what we are.
But Mardi only sees, or thinks it sees, the tokens of our self-complacency:
whereas, all our agonies operate unseen.
Poets are only seen when they soar.”

“The song! the song!” cried Media. “Never mind
the metaphysics of genius.”

And Yoomy, thus clamorously invoked, hemmed thrice,
tuning his voice for the air.

But here, be it said, that the minstrel was miraculously
gifted with three voices; and, upon occasions, like a mocking-bird,
was a concert of sweet sounds in himself. Had
kind friends died, and bequeathed him their voices? But
hark! in a low, mild tenor, he begins:—

“Proceed, gentle Yoomy,” said Babbalanja.

“The meaning,” said Mohi.

“The sequel,” said Media.

“My lord, I have ceased in the middle; the end is not yet.”

“Mysticism!” cried Babbalanja. “What, minstrel;
must nothing ultimate come of all that melody? no final
and inexhaustible meaning? nothing that strikes down into
the soul's depths; till, intent upon itself, it pierces in upon
its own essence, and is resolved into its pervading original;
becoming a thing constituent of the all embracing deific;
whereby we mortals become part and parcel of the gods;
our souls to them as thoughts; and we privy to all things
occult, ineffable, and sublime? Then, Yoomy, is thy song
nothing worth. Alla Mollolla saith, `That is no true, vital
breath, which leaves no moisture behind.' I mistrust thee,
minstrel! that thou hast not yet been impregnated by the
arcane mysteries; that thou dost not sufficiently ponder on
the Adyta, the Monads, and the Hyparxes; the Dianoias,
the Unical Hypostases, the Gnostic powers of the Psychical
Essence, and the Supermundane and Pleromatic Triads;
to say nothing of the Abstract Noumenons.”

“Oro forbid!” cried Yoomy; “the very sound of thy
words affrights me.” Then, whispering to Mohi—“Is he
daft again?”

“My brain is battered,” said Media. “Azzageddi! you
must diet, and be bled.”

“Ah!” sighed Babbalanja, turning; “how little they
ween of the Rudimental Quincunxes, and the Hecatic
Spherula!”