University of Virginia Library

81. CHAPTER LXXXI.

Thus far, through myriad islands, had we searched: of
all, no one pen may write: least, mine;—and still no trace
of Yillah.

But though my hopes revived not from their ashes; yet,
so much of Mardi had we searched, it seemed as if the long
pursuit must, ere many moons, be ended; whether for weal
or woe, my frenzy sometimes recked not.

After its first fair morning flushings, all that day was
overcast. We sailed upon an angry sea, beneath an angry
sky. Deep scowled on deep; and in dun vapors, the blinded
sun went down, unseen; though full toward the West
our three prows were pointed; steadfast as three printed
points upon the compass-card.

“When we set sail from Odo, 'twas a glorious morn in
spring,” said Yoomy; “toward the rising sun we steered.
But now, beneath autumnal night-clouds, we hasten to its
setting.”

“How now?” cried Media; “why is the minstrel
mournful?—He whose place it is to chase away despondency:
not be its minister.”

“Ah, my lord, so thou thinkest. But better can my
verses soothe the sad, than make them light of heart.
Nor are we minstrels so gay of soul as Mardi deems us.
The brook that sings the sweetest, murmurs through the
loneliest woods:

As Yoomy thus sang; unmindful of the lay, with paddle
plying, in low, pleasant tones, thus hummed to himself our
bowsman, a gamesome wight:—

But a sudden splash, and a shrill, gurgling sound, like
that of a fountain subsiding, now broke upon the air. Then
all was still, save the rush of the waves by our keels.

“Save him! Put back!”

From his elevated seat, the merry bowsman, too gleefully
reaching forward, had fallen into the lagoon.

With all haste, our speeding canoes were reversed; but
not till we had darted in upon another darkness than that
in which the bowsman fell.

As, blindly, we groped back, deep Night dived deeper
down in the sea.

“Drop paddles all, and list.”

Holding their breath, over the six gunwales all now leaned;
but the only moans were the wind's.

Long time we lay thus; then slowly crossed and recrossed
our track, almost hopeless; but yet loth to leave him who,
with a song in his mouth, died and was buried in a breath.

“Let us away,” said Media—“why seek more? He is
gone.”

“Ay, gone,” said Babbalanja, “and whither? But a
moment since, he was among us: now, the fixed stars are
not more remote than he. So far off, can he live? Oh,
Oro! this death thou ordainest, unmans the manliest. Say
not nay, my lord. Let us not speak behind Death's back.
Hard and horrible is it to die: blindfold to leap from life's
verge! But thus, in clouds of dust, and with a trampling
as of hoofs, the generations disappear; death driving them
all into his treacherous fold, as wild Indians the bison herds.

Nay, nay, Death is Life's last despair. Hard and horrible is
it to die. Oro himself, in Alma, died not without a groan.
Yet why, why live? Life is wearisome to all: the same
dull round. Day and night, summer and winter, round
about us revolving for aye. One moment lived, is a life.
No new stars appear in the sky; no new lights in the soul.
Yet, of changes there are many. For though, with rapt
sight, in childhood, we behold many strange things beneath
the moon, and all Mardi looks a tented fair—how soon every
thing fades. All of us, in our very bodies, outlive our own
selves. I think of green youth as of a merry playmate
departed; and to shake hands, and be pleasant with my old
age, seems in prospect even harder, than to draw a cold
stranger to my bosom. But old age is not for me. I am
not of the stuff that grows old. This Mardi is not our home.
Up and down we wander, like exiles transported to a planet
afar:—'tis not the world we were born in; not the world
once so lightsome and gay; not the world where we once
merrily danced, dined, and supped; and wooed, and wedded
our long-buried wives. Then let us depart. But whither?
We push ourselves forward—then, start back in affright.
Essay it again, and flee. Hard to live; hard to die; intolerable
suspense! But the grim despot at last interposes;
and with a viper in our winding-sheets, we are dropped in
the sea.”

“To me,” said Mohi, his gray locks damp with night-dews,
“death's dark defile at times seems at hand, with no
voice to cheer. That all have died, makes it not easier for
me to depart. And that many have been quenched in
infancy seems a mercy to the slow perishing of my old age,
limb by limb and sense by sense. I have long been the
tomb of my youth. And more has died out of me, already,
than remains for the last death to finish. Babbalanja says
truth. In childhood, death stirred me not; in middle age,
it pursued me like a prowling bandit on the road; now,
grown an old man, it boldly leads the way; and ushers me

on; and turns round upon me its skeleton gaze: poisoning
the last solaces of life. Maramma but adds to my gloom.”

“Death! death!” cried Yoomy, “must I be not, and
millions be? Must I go, and the flowers still bloom? Oh,
I have marked what it is to be dead;—how shouting boys,
of holidays, hide-and-seek among the tombs, which must
hide all seekers at last.”

“Clouds on clouds!” cried Media, “but away with them
all! Why not leap your graves, while ye may? Time
to die, when death comes, without dying by inches. 'Tis
no death, to die; the only death is the fear of it. I, a
demi-god, fear death not.”

“But when the jackals howl round you?” said Babbalanja.

“Drive them off! Die the demi-god's death! On his
last couch of crossed spears, my brave old sire cried, `Wine,
wine; strike up, conch and cymbal; let the king die to
martial melodies!”'

“More valiant dying, than dead,” said Babbalanja.
“Our end of the winding procession resounds with music,
and flaunts with banners with brave devices:—`Cheer up!'
`Fear not!' `Millions have died before!'—but in the endless
van, not a pennon streams; all there, is silent and
solemn. The last wisdom is dumb.”

Silence ensued; during which, each dip of the paddles in
the now calm water, fell full and long upon the ear.

Anon, lifting his head, Babbalanja thus:—“Yillah still
eludes us. And in all this tour of Mardi, how little have
we found to fill the heart with peace: how much to slaughter
all our yearnings.”

“Croak no more, raven!” cried Media. “Mardi is full
of spring-time sights, and jubilee sounds. I never was sad
in my life.”

“But for thy one laugh, my lord, how many groans!
Were all happy, or all miserable,—more tolerable then, than
as it is. But happiness and misery are so broadly marked,

that this Mardi may be the retributive future of some forgotten
past.—Yet vain our surmises. Still vainer to say,
that all Mardi is but a means to an end; that this life is a
state of probation: that evil is but permitted for a term;
that for specified ages a rebel angel is viceroy.—Nay, nay.
Oro delegates his scepter to none; in his everlasting reign
there are no interregnums; and Time is Eternity; and we
live in Eternity now. Yet, some tell of a hereafter, where
all the mysteries of life will be over; and the sufferings of
the virtuous recompensed. Oro is just, they say.—Then
always,—now, and evermore. But to make restitution implies
a wrong; and Oro can do no wrong. Yet what
seems evil to us, may be good to him. If he fears not, nor
hopes,—he has no other passion; no ends, no purposes.
He lives content; all ends are compassed in Him; He
has no past, no future; He is the everlasting now; which
is an everlasting calm; and things that are,—have been,—
will be. This gloom's enough. But hoot! hoot! the
night-owl ranges through the woodlands of Maramma; its
dismal notes pervade our lives; and when we would fain
depart in peace, that bird flies on before:—cloud-like, eclipsing
our setting suns, and filling the air with dolor.”

“Too true!” cried Yoomy. “Our calms must come by
storms. Like helmless vessels, tempest-tossed, our only
anchorage is when we founder.”

“Our beginnings,” murmured Mohi, “are lost in clouds;
we live in darkness all our days, and perish without an
end.”

“Croak on, cowards!” cried Media, “and fly before the
hideous phantoms that pursue ye.”

“No coward he, who hunted, turns and finds no foe to
fight,” said Babbalanja. “Like the stag, whose brow is
beat with wings of hawks, perched in his heavenward antlers;
so I, blinded, goaded, headlong, rush! this way and
that; nor knowing whither; one forest wide around!”