- description
- # CHAPTER LXXX. Morning
## Overview
This is a chapter titled "CHAPTER LXXX. Morning" from the novel [Mardi: And a Voyage Thither](arke:01KG8AJ8ZNB03D0FWFP362WQEN) by Herman Melville. The chapter appears in volume 2 of the novel. It was extracted from the file [mardi_vol2.txt](arke:01KG89J1954N2G0NAERBNJXEX9) and is part of the [Melville Complete Works](arke:01KG89HMDZKNY753EZE1CJ8HZW) collection.
## Context
The chapter is positioned between [CHAPTER LXXIX. Babbalanja At The Full Of The Moon](arke:01KG8AJW03QE4B21RZN4ATXFY1) and [CHAPTER LXXXI. L’ultima Sera](arke:01KG8AJWK41W0P7JYW27FK0XVM) within the novel's structure.
## Contents
The chapter describes a morning scene and features the character Babbalanja in a state of apparent madness or religious ecstasy. The text includes descriptions of the sunrise, a moose swimming, and Babbalanja's disjointed philosophical and spiritual pronouncements. He references Oro, a deity, and expresses a desire to voyage to Aldebaran. He also speaks of souls, the interconnectedness of worlds, and has a vision of a divine being. The chapter concludes with Babbalanja collapsing, prompting concern from Media and Yoomy.
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- CHAPTER LXXX. Morning
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- 2026-01-30T20:47:38.723Z
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- CHAPTER LXXX.
Morning
Life or death, weal or woe, the sun stays not his course. On: over
battle-field and bower; over tower, and town, he speeds,—peers in at
births, and death-beds; lights up cathedral, mosque, and pagan
shrine;—laughing over all;—a very Democritus in the sky; and in one
brief day sees more than any pilgrim in a century’s round.
So, the sun; nearer heaven than we:—with what mind, then, may blessed
Oro downward look.
It was a purple, red, and yellow East;—streaked, and crossed. And down
from breezy mountains, robust and ruddy Morning came,—a plaided
Highlander, waving his plumed bonnet to the isles.
Over the neighboring groves the larks soared high; and soaring, sang in
jubilees; while across our bows, between two isles, a mighty moose swam
stately as a seventy-four; and backward tossed his antlered wilderness
in air.
Just bounding from fresh morning groves, with the brine he mixed the
dew of leaves,—his antlers dripping on the swell, that rippled before
his brown and bow-like chest.
“Five hundred thousand centuries since,” said Babbalanja, “this same
sight was seen. With Oro, the sun is co-eternal; and the same life that
moves that moose, animates alike the sun and Oro. All are parts of One.
In me, in _me_, flit thoughts participated by the beings peopling all
the stars. Saturn, and Mercury, and Mardi, are brothers, one and all;
and across their orbits, to each other talk, like souls. Of these
things what chapters might be writ! Oh! that flesh can not keep pace
with spirit. Oh! that these myriad germ-dramas in me, should so perish
hourly, for lack of power mechanic.—Worlds pass worlds in space, as
men, men,—in thoroughfares; and after periods of thousand years,
cry:—“Well met, my friend, again!”—To me to _me_, they talk in mystic
music; I hear them think through all their zones. —Hail, furthest
worlds! and all the beauteous beings in ye! Fan me, sweet Zenora! with
thy twilight wings!—Ho! let’s voyage to Aldebaran.—Ha! indeed, a ruddy
world! What a buoyant air! Not like to Mardi, this. Ruby columns:
minarets of amethyst: diamond domes! Who is this?—a god? What a
lake-like brow! transparent as the morning air. I see his thoughts like
worlds revolving—and in his eyes—like unto heavens—soft falling stars
are shooting.—How these thousand passing wings winnow away my breath:—I
faint:—back, back to some small asteroid.—Sweet being! if, by Mardian
word I may address thee— speak!—‘I bear a soul in germ within me; I
feel the first, faint trembling, like to a harp-string, vibrate in my
inmost being. Kill me, and generations die.’—So, of old, the unbegotten
lived within the virgin; who then loved her God, as new-made mothers
their babes ere born. Oh, Alma, Alma, Alma!—Fangs off, fiend!—will that
name ever lash thee into foam?—Smite not my face so, forked flames!”
“Babbalanja! Babbalanja! rouse, man! rouse! Art in hell and damned,
that thy sinews so snake-like coil and twist all over thee? Thy brow is
black as Ops! Turn, turn! see yonder moose!”
“Hail! mighty brute!—thou feelest not these things: never canst _thou_
be damned. Moose! would thy soul were mine; for if that scorched thing,
mine, be immortal—so thine; and thy life hath not the consciousness of
death. I read profound placidity—deep—million— violet fathoms down, in
that soft, pathetic, woman eye! What is man’s shrunk form to thine,
thou woodland majesty?—Moose, moose!—my soul is shot again—Oh, Oro!
Oro!”
“He falls!” cried Media.
“Mark the agony in his waning eye,” said Yoomy;—“alas, poor Babbalanja!
Is this thing of madness conscious to thyself? If ever thou art sane
again, wilt thou have reminiscences? Take my robe:— here, I strip me to
cover thee and all thy woes. Oro! by this, thy being’s side, I
kneel:—grant death or happiness to Babbalanja!”
- title
- CHAPTER LXXX. Morning