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- 2026-01-30T20:48:09.931Z
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- text
- “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. Whose 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.
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