University of Virginia Library

76. CHAPTER LXXVI.

Abrazza had a cool retreat—a grove of dates; where
we were used to lounge of noons, and mix our converse with
the babble of the rills; and mix our punches in goblets
chased with grapes. And as ever, King Abrazza was the
prince of hosts.

“Your crown,” he said to Media; and with his own, he
hung it on a bough.

“Be not ceremonious:” and stretched his royal legs upon
the turf.

“Wine!” and his pages poured it out.

So on the grass we lounged; and King Abrazza, who
loved his antique ancestors; and loved old times; and would
not talk of moderns;—bade Yoomy sing old songs; bade
Mohi rehearse old histories; bade Babbalanja tell of old
ontologies; and commanded all, meanwhile, to drink his
old, old wine.

So, all round we quaffed and quoted.

At last, we talked of old Homeric bards:—those who,
ages back, harped, and begged, and groped their blinded way
through all this charitable Mardi; receiving coppers then,
and immortal glory now.

Abrazza.—How came it, that they all were blind?

Babbalanja.—It was endemical, your Highness. Few
grand poets have good eyes; for they needs blind must be,
who ever gaze upon the sun. Vavona himself was blind;

when, in the silence of his secret bower, he said—“I will
build another world. Therein, let there be kings and slaves,
philosophers and wits; whose checkered actions—strange,
grotesque, and merry-sad, will entertain my idle moods.”
So, my lord, Vavona played at kings and crowns, and men
and manners; and loved that lonely game to play.

Abrazza.—Vavona seemed a solitary Mardian; who
seldom went abroad; had few friends; and shunning others,
was shunned by them.

Babbalanja.—But shunned not himself, my lord; like
gods, great poets dwell alone; while round them, roll the
worlds they build.

Media.—You seem to know all authors:—you must have
heard of Lombardo, Babbalanja; he who flourished many
ages since.

Babbalanja.—I have; and his grand Koztanza know
by heart.

Media (to Abrazza.)—A very curious work, that, my
lord.

Abrazza.—Yes, my dearest king. But, Babbalanja, if
Lombardo had aught to tell to Mardi—why choose a vehicle
so crazy?

Babbalanja.—It was his nature, I suppose.

Abrazza.—But so it would not have been, to me.

Babbalanja.—Nor would it have been natural, for my
noble lord Abrazza, to have worn Lombardo's head:—every
man has his own, thank Oro!

Abrazza.—A curious work: a very curious work. Babbalanja,
are you acquainted with the history of Lombardo?

Babbalanja.—None better. All his biographies have I
read.

Abrazza.—Then, tell us how he came to write that
work. For one, I can not imagine how those poor devils
contrive to roll such thunders through all Mardi.

Media.—Their thunder and lightning seem spontaneous
combustibles, my lord.

Abrazza.—With which, they but consume themselves,
my prince beloved.

Babbalanja.—In a measure, true, your Highness. But
pray you, listen; and I will try to tell the way in which
Lombardo produced his great Koztanza.

Media.—But hark you, philosopher! this time no incoherencies;
gag that devil, Azzageddi. And now, what was
it that originally impelled Lombardo to the undertaking?

Babbalanja.—Primus and forever, a full heart:—brimful,
bubbling, sparkling; and running over like the flagon in
your hand, my lord. Secundo, the necessity of bestirring
himself to procure his yams.

Abrazza.—Wanting the second motive, would the first
have sufficed, philosopher?

Babbalanja.—Doubtful. More conduits than one to drain
off the soul's overflowings. Besides, the greatest fullnesses
overflow not spontaneously; and, even when decanted, like
rich syrups, slowly ooze; whereas, poor fluids glibly flow,
wide-spreading. Hence, when great fullness weds great in-dolence;—that
man, to others, too often proves a cipher;
though, to himself, his thoughts form an Infinite Series, indefinite,
from its vastness; and incommunicable;—not for
lack of power, but for lack of an omnipotent volition, to move
his strength. His own world is full before him; the fulcrum
set; but lever there is none. To such a man, the giving of
any boor's resoluteness, with tendons braided, would be as
hanging a claymore to Valor's side, before unarmed. Our
minds are cunning, compound mechanisms; and one spring,
or wheel, or axle wanting, the movement lags, or halts.
Cerebrum must not overbalance cerebellum; our brains
should be round as globes; and planted on capacious chests,
inhaling mighty morning-inspirations. We have had vast
developments of parts of men; but none of manly wholes.
Before a full-developed man, Mardi would fall down and
worship. We are idiot, younger-sons of gods, begotten in
dotages divine; and our mothers all miscarry. Giants are

in our germs; but we are dwarfs, staggering under heads
overgrown. Heaped, our measures burst. We die of too
much life.

Media (to Abrazza).—Be not impatient, my lord; he'll
recover presently. You were talking of Lombardo, Babbalanja.

Babbalanja.—I was, your Highness. Of all Mardians, by
nature, he was the most inert. Hast ever seen a yellow lion,
all day basking in the yellow sun:—in reveries, rending droves
of elephants; but his vast loins supine, and eyelids winking?
Such, Lombardo; but fierce Want, the hunter, came and
roused his roar. In hairy billows, his great mane tossed
like the sea; his eyeballs flamed two hells; his paw had
stopped a rolling world,

Abrazza.—In other words, yams were indispensable, and,
poor devil, he roared to get them.

Babbalanja (bowing).—Partly so, my literal lord. And
as with your own golden scepter, at times upon your royal
teeth, indolent tattoos you beat; then, potent, sway it o'er
your isle; so, Lombardo. And ere Necessity plunged spur
and rowel into him, he knew not his own paces. That
churned him into consciousness; and brought ambition, ere
then dormant, seething to the top, till he trembled at himself.
No mailed hand lifted up against a traveler in woods,
can so appall, as we ourselves. We are full of ghosts and
spirits; we are as grave-yards full of buried dead, that start
to life before us. And all our dead sires, verily, are in us;
that is their immortality. From sire to son, we go on multiplying
corpses in ourselves; for all of which, are resurrections.
Every thought's a soul of some past poet, hero, sage.
We are fuller than a city. Woe it is, that reveals these
things. He knows himself, and all that's in him, who
knows adversity. To scale great heights, we must come
out of lowermost depths. The way to heaven is through
hell. We need fiery baptisms in the fiercest flames of our
own bosoms. We must feel our hearts hot—hissing in us.

And ere their fire is revealed, it must burn its way out of
us; though it consume us and itself. Oh, sleek-cheeked
Plenty! smiling at thine own dimples;—vain for thee to
reach out after greatness. Turn! turn! from all your tiers
of cushions of eider-down—turn! and be broken on the wheels
of many woes. At white-heat, brand thyself; and count the
scars, like old war-worn veterans, over camp-fires. Soft
poet! brushing tears from lilies—this way! and howl in
sackcloth and in ashes! Know, thou, that the lines that
live are turned out of a furrowed brow. Oh! there is a
fierce, a cannibal delight, in the grief that shrieks to multiply
itself. That grief is miserly of its own; it pities all the
happy. Some damned spirits would not be otherwise, could
they.

Abrazza (to Media).—Pray, my lord, is this good gentleman
a devil?

Media.—No, my lord; but he's possessed by one. His
name is Azzageddi. You may hear more of him. But
come, Babbalanja, hast forgotten all about Lombardo?
How set he about that great undertaking, his Koztanza?

Abrazza (to Media).—Oh, for all the ravings of your
Babbalanja, Lombardo took no special pains; hence, deserves
small commendation. For, genius must be somewhat
like us kings,—calm, content, in consciousness of power.
And to Lombardo, the scheme of his Koztanza must have
come full-fledged, like an eagle from the sun.

Babbalanja.—No, your Highness; but like eagles, his
thoughts were first callow; yet, born plumeless, they came
to soar.

Abrazza.—Very fine. I presume, Babbalanja, the first
thing he did, was to fast, and invoke the muses.

Babbalanja.—Pardon, my lord; on the contrary he first
procured a ream of vellum, and some sturdy quills: indispensable
preliminaries, my worshipful lords, to the writing
of the sublimest epics.

Abrazza.—Ah! then the muses were afterward invoked.

Babbalanja.—Pardon again. Lombardo next sat down
to a fine plantain pudding.

Yoomy.—When the song-spell steals over me, I live upon
olives.

Babbalanja.—Yoomy, Lombardo eschewed olives. Said
he, “What fasting soldier can fight? and the fight of all
fights is to write.” In ten days Lombardo had written—

Abrazza.—Dashed off, you mean.

Babbalanja.—He never dashed off aught.

Abrazza.—As you will.

Babbalanja.—In ten days, Lombardo had written full
fifty folios; he loved huge acres of vellum whereon to
expatiate.

Media.—What then?

Babbalanja.—He read them over attentively; made a
neat package of the whole: and put it into the fire.

All.—How?

Media.—What! these great geniuses writing trash?

Abrazza.—I thought as much.

Babbalanja.—My lords, they abound in it! more than
any other men in Mardi. Genius is full of trash. But
genius essays its best to keep it to itself; and giving away its
ore, retains the earth; whence, the too frequent wisdom of
its works, and folly of its life.

Abrazza.—Then genius is not inspired, after all. How
they must slave in their mines! I weep to think of it.

Babbalanja.—My lord, all men are inspired; fools are
inspired; your highness is inspired; for the essence of all
ideas is infused. Of ourselves, and in ourselves, we originate
nothing. When Lombardo set about his work, he knew
not what it would become. He did not build himself in
with plans; he wrote right on; and so doing, got deeper and
deeper into himself; and like a resolute traveler, plunging
through baffling woods, at last was rewarded for his toils.
“In good time,” saith he, in his autobiography, “I came out
into a serene, sunny, ravishing region; full of sweet scents,

singing birds, wild plaints, roguish laughs, prophetic voices.
“Here we are at last, then,” he cried; “I have created the
creative.” And now the whole boundless landscape stretched
away. Lombardo panted; the sweat was on his brow;
he off mantle; braced himself; sat within view of the
ocean; his face to a cool rushing breeze; placed flowers
before him; and gave himself plenty of room. On one side
was his ream of vellum—

Abrazza.—And on the other, a brimmed beaker.

Babbalanja.—No, your Highness; though he loved it,
no wine for Lombardo while actually at work.

Mohi.—Indeed? Why, I ever thought that it was to
the superior quality of Lombardo's punches, that Mardi
was indebted for that abounding humor of his.

Babbalanja.—Not so; he had another way of keeping
himself well braced.

Yoomy.—Quick! tell us the secret.

Babbalanja.—He never wrote by rush-light. His lamp
swung in heaven.—He rose from his East, with the sun;
he wrote when all nature was alive.

Mohi.—Doubtless, then, he always wrote with a grin;
and none laughed louder at his quips, that Lombardo himself.

Babbalanja.—Hear you laughter at the birth of a man
child, old man? The babe may have many dimples; not
so, the parent. Lombardo was a hermit to behold.

Media.—What! did Lombardo laugh with a long face?

Babbalanja.—His merriment was not always merriment
to him, your Highness. For the most part, his meaning
kept him serious. Then he was so intensely riveted to his
work, he could not pause to laugh.

Mohi.—My word for it; but he had a sly one, now
and then.

Babbalanja.—For the nonce, he was not his own master:
a mere amanuensis writing by dictation.

Yoomy.—Inspiration, that!

Babbalanja.—Call it as you will, Yoomy, it was a sort
of sleep-walking of the mind. Lombardo never threw down
his pen: it dropped from him; and then, he sat disenchanted:
rubbing his eyes; staring; and feeling faint—sometimes,
almost unto death.

Media.—But pray, Babbalanja, tell us how he made acquaintance
with some of those rare worthies, he introduces
us to, in his Koztanza.

Babbalanja.—He first met them in his reveries; they
were walking about in him, sour and moody: and for a long
time, were shy of his advances; but still importuned, they
at last grew ashamed of their reserve; stepped forward;
and gave him their hands. After that, they were frank
and friendly. Lombardo set places for them at his board;
when he died, he left them something in his will.

Media.—What! those imaginary beings?

Abrazza.—Wondrous witty! infernal fine!

Media.—But, Babbalanja; after all, the Koztanza found
no favor in the eyes of some Mardians.

Abrazza.—Ay: the arch-critics Verbi and Batho denounced
it.

Babbalanja.—Yes: on good authority, Verbi is said to
have detected a superfluous comma; and Batho declared
that, with the materials he could have constructed a far
better world than Lombardo's. But, didst ever hear of his
laying his axis?

Abrazza.—But the unities; Babbalanja, the unities! they
are wholly wanting in the Koztanza.

Babbalanja.—Your Highness; upon that point, Lombardo
was frank. Saith he, in his autobiography: “For
some time, I endeavored to keep in the good graces of those
nymphs; but I found them so captious, and exacting; they
threw me into such a violent passion with their fault-findings;
that, at last, I renounced them.”

Abrazza.—Very rash!

Babbalanja.—No, your Highness; for though Lombardo

abandoned all monitors from without; he retained one auto-crat
within—his crowned and sceptered instinct. And
what, if he pulled down one gross world, and ransacked the
etherial spheres, to build up something of his own—a composite:—what
then? matter and mind, though matching
not, are mates; and sundered oft, in his Koztanza they
unite:—the airy waist, embraced by stalwart arms.

Media.—Incoherent again! I thought we were to have
no more of this!

Babbalanja.—My lord Media, there are things infinite
in the finite; and dualities in unities. Our eyes are pleased
with the redness of the rose, but another sense lives upon its
fragrance. Its redness you must approach, to view: its
invisible fragrance pervades the field. So, with the Koztanza.
Its mere beauty is restricted to its form: its expanding
soul, past Mardi does embalm. Modak is Modako;
but fogle-foggle is not fugle-fi.

Media (to Abrazza).—My lord, you start again; but
'tis only another phase of Azzageddi; sometimes he's quite
mad. But all this you must needs overlook.

Abrazza.—I will, my dear prince; what one can not see
through, one must needs look over, as you say.

Yoomy.—But trust me, your Highness, some of those
strange things fall far too melodiously upon the ear, to be
wholly deficient in meaning.

Abrazza.—Your gentle minstrel, this must be, my lord.
But Babbalanja, the Koztanza lacks cohesion; it is wild, un-connected,
all episode.

Babbalanja.—And so is Mardi itself:—nothing but
episodes; valleys and hills; rivers, digressing from plains;
vines, roving all over; boulders and diamonds; flowers and
thistles; forests and thickets; and, here and there, fens and
moors. And so, the world in the Koztanza.

Abrazza.—Ay, plenty of dead-desert chapters there;
horrible sands to wade through.

Media.—Now, Babbalanja, away with your tropes; and

tell us of the work, directly it was done. What did Lombardo
then? Did he show it to any one for an opinion?

Babbalanja.—Yes, to Zenzori; who asked him where
he picked up so much trash; to Hanto, who bade him not be
cast down, it was pretty good; to Lucree, who desired to
know how much he was going to get for it; to Roddi, who
offered a suggestion.

Media.—And what was that?

Babbalanja.—That he had best make a faggot of the
whole; and try again.

Abrazza.—Very encouraging.

Media.—Any one else?

Babbalanja.—To Pollo; who, conscious his opinion was
sought, was thereby puffed up; and marking the faltering
of Lombardo's voice, when the manuscript was handed him,
straightway concluded, that the man who stood thus trembling
at the bar, must needs be inferior to the judge. But
his verdict was mild. After sitting up all night over the
work; and diligently taking notes:—“Lombardo, my friend!
here, take your sheets. I have run through them loosely.
You might have done better; but then you might have
done worse. Take them, my friend; I have put in some
good things for you.”

Media.—And who was Pollo?

Babbalanja.—Probably some one who lived in Lombardo's
time, and went by that name. He is incidentally
mentioned, and cursorily immortalized in one of the posthumous
notes to the Koztanza.

Media.—What is said of him there?

Babbalanja.—Not much. In a very old transcript of
the work—that of Aldina—the note alludes to a brave line
in the text, and runs thus:—“Diverting to tell, it was this
passage that an old prosodist, one Pollo, claimed for his own.
He maintained he made a free-will offering of it to Lombardo.
Several things are yet extant of this Pollo, who
died some weeks ago. He seems to have been one of those,

who would do great things if they could; but are content
to compass the small. He imagined, that the precedence
of authors he had established in his library, was their Mardi
order of merit. He condemned the sublime poems of Vavona
to his lowermost shelf. `Ah,' thought he, `how we library
princes, lord it over these beggarly authors!' Well read in
the history of their woes, Pollo pitied them all, particularly
the famous; and wrote little essays of his own, which he
read to himself.”

Media.—Well: and what said Lombardo to those good
friends of his,—Zenzori, Hanto, and Roddi?

Babbalanja.—Nothing. Taking home his manuscript,
he glanced it over; making three corrections.

Abrazza.—And what then?

Babbalanja.—Then, your Highness, he thought to try a
conclave of professional critics; saying to himself, “Let them
privately point out to me, now, all my blemishes; so that,
what time they come to review me in public, all will be
well.” But curious to relate, those professional critics, for
the most part, held their peace, concerning a work yet
unpublished. And, with some generous exceptions, in their
vague, learned way, betrayed such base, beggarly notions of
authorship, that Lombardo could have wept, had tears been
his. But in his very grief, he ground his teeth. Muttered
he, “They are fools. In their eyes, bindings not brains make
books. They criticise my tattered cloak, not my soul,
caparisoned like a charger. He is the great author, think
they, who drives the best bargain with his wares: and no
bargainer am I. Because he is old, they worship some
mediocrity of an ancient, and mock at the living prophet
with the live coal on his lips. They are men who would
not be men, had they no books. Their sires begat them
not; but the authors they have read. Feelings they have
none: and their very opinions they borrow. They can not
say yea, nor nay, without first consulting all Mardi as an
Encyclopedia. And all the learning in them, is as a dead

corpse in a coffin. Were they worthy the dignity of being
damned, I would damn them; but they are not. Critics?
—Asses! rather mules!—so emasculated, from vanity, they
can not father a true thought. Like mules, too, from
dunghills, they trample down gardens of roses: and deem
that crushed fragrance their own.—Oh! that all round the
domains of genius should lie thus unhedged, for such cattle
to uproot! Oh! that an eagle should be stabbed by a
goose-quill! But at best, the greatest reviewers but prey
on my leavings. For I am critic and creator; and as
critic, in cruelty surpass all critics merely, as a tiger, jackals.
For ere Mardi sees aught of mine, I scrutinize it
myself, remorseless as a surgeon. I cut right and left; I
probe, tear, and wrench; kill, burn, and destroy; and
what's left after that, the jackals are welcome to. It is I
that stab false thoughts, ere hatched; I that pull down
wall and tower, rejecting materials which would make
palaces for others. Oh! could Mardi but see how we work,
it would marvel more at our primal chaos, than at the
round world thence emerging. It would marvel at our
scaffoldings, scaling heaven; marvel at the hills of earth,
banked all round our fabrics ere completed.—How plain the
pyramid! In this grand silence, so intense, pierced by that
pointed mass,—could ten thousand slaves have ever toiled?
ten thousand hammers rung?—There it stands,—part of
Mardi: claiming kin with mountains;—was this thing
piecemeal built?—It was. Piecemeal?—atom by atom it
was laid. The world is made of mites.”

Yoomy (musing.)—It is even so.

Abrazza.—Lombardo was severe upon the critics; and
they as much so upon him;—of that, be sure.

Babbalanja.—Your Highness, Lombardo never presumed
to criticise true critics; who are more rare than true poets.
A great critic is a sultan among satraps; but pretenders
are thick as ants, striving to scale a palm, after its aerial
sweetness. And they fight among themselves. Essaying to

pluck eagles, they themselves are geese, stuck full of quills,
of which they rob each other.

Abrazza (to Media.)—Oro help the victim that falls in
Babbalanja's hands!

Media.—Ay, my lord; at times, his every finger is a
dagger: every thought a falling tower that whelms! But
resume, philosopher—what of Lombardo now?

Babbalanja.—“For this thing,” said he, “I have agonized
over it enough.—I can wait no more. It has faults—all
mine;—its merits all its own;—but I can toil no longer.
The beings knit to me implore; my heart is full; my brain
is sick. Let it go—let it go—and Oro with it. Somewhere
Mardi has a mighty heart—that struck, all the isles shall
resound!”

Abrazza.—Poor devil! he took the world too hard.

Media.—As most of these mortals do, my lord. That's
the load, self-imposed, under which Babbalanja reels. But
now, philosopher, ere Mardi saw it, what thought Lombardo
of his work, looking at it objectively, as a thing out of him,
I mean.

Abrazza.—No doubt, he hugged it.

Babbalanja.—Hard to answer. Sometimes, when by
himself, he thought hugely of it, as my lord Abrazza says;
but when abroad, among men, he almost despised it; but
when he bethought him of those parts, written with full
eyes, half blinded; temples throbbing; and pain at the
heart—

Abrazza.—Pooh! pooh!

Babbalanja.—He would say to himself, “Sure, it can
not be in vain!” Yet again, when he bethought him of the
hurry and bustle of Mardi, dejection stole over him. “Who
will heed it,” thought he; “what care these fops and brawlers
for me? But am I not myself an egregious coxcomb?
Who will read me? Say one thousand pages—twenty-five
lines each—every line ten words—every word ten letters.
That's two million five hundred thousand a's, and i's, and

o's to read! How many are superfluous? Am I not mad
to saddle Mardi with such a task? Of all men, am I the
wisest, to stand upon a pedestal, and teach the mob? Ah,
my own Koztanza! child of many prayers!—in whose earnest
eyes, so fathomless, I see my own; and recall all past
delights and silent agonies—thou may'st prove, as the child
of some fond dotard:—beauteous to me; hideous to Mardi!
And methinks, that while so much slaving merits that thou
should'st not die; it has not been intense, prolonged enough,
for the high meed of immortality. Yet, things immortal
have been written; and by men as me;—men, who slept
and waked; and ate; and talked with tongues like mine.
Ah, Oro! how may we know or not, we are what we would
be? Hath genius any stamp and imprint, obvious to possessors?
Has it eyes to see itself; or is it blind? Or do
we delude ourselves with being gods, and end in grubs?
Genius, genius?—a thousand years hence, to be a household-word?—I?—Lombardo?
but yesterday cut in the marketplace
by a spangled fool!—Lombardo immortal?—Ha, ha,
Lombardo! but thou art an ass, with vast ears brushing
the tops of palms! Ha, ha, ha! Methinks I see thee
immortal! `Thus great Lombardo saith; and thus; and
thus; and thus:—thus saith he—illustrious Lombardo!—
Lombardo, our great countryman! Lombardo, prince of
poets—Lombardo! great Lombardo!'—Ha, ha, ha!—go,
go! dig thy grave, and bury thyself!”

Abrazza.—He was very funny, then, at times.

Babbalanja.—Very funny, your Highness:—amazing
jolly! And from my nethermost soul, would to Oro, thou
could'st but feel one touch of that jolly woe! It would
appall thee, my Right Worshipful lord Abrazza!

Abrazza (to Media).—My dear lord, his teeth are marvelously
white and sharp: some she-shark must have been
his dam:—does he often grin thus? It was infernal!

Media.—Ah! that's Azzageddi. But, prithee, Babbalanja,
proceed.

Babbalanja.—Your Highness, even in his calmer critic
moods, Lombardo was far from fancying his work. He confesses,
that it ever seemed to him but a poor scrawled copy
of something within, which, do what he would, he could not
completely transfer. “My canvas was small,” said he;
“crowded out were hosts of things that came last. But
Fate is in it.” And Fate it was, too, your Highness, which
forced Lombardo, ere his work was well done, to take it off
his easel, and send it to be multiplied. Oh, that I was not
thus spurred!” cried he; “but like many another, in its
very childhood, this poor child of mine must go out into
Mardi, and get bread for its sire.”

Abrazza (with a sigh).—Alas, the poor devil! But
methinks 'twas wondrous arrogant in him to talk to all Mardi
at that lofty rate.—Did he think himself a god?

Babbalanja.—He himself best knew what he thought;
but, like all others, he was created by Oro to some special
end; doubtless, partly answered in his Koztanza.

Media.—And now that Lombardo is long dead and gone
—and his work, hooted during life, lives after him—what
think the present company of it? Speak, my lord Abrazza!
Babbalanja! Mohi! Yoomy!

Abrazza (tapping his sandal with his scepter).—I never
read it.

Babbalanja (looking upward).—It was written with a
divine intent.

Mohi (stroking his beard).—I never hugged it in a corner,
and ignored it before Mardi.

Yoomy (musing).—It has bettered my heart.

Media (rising).—And I have read it through nine times.

Babbalanja (starting up).—Ah, Lombardo! this must
make thy ghost glad!