- end_line
- 2048
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T20:48:09.927Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 1971
- text
- baton in the smoke of Waterloo; or thrice gallant Anglesea, crossing
his wooden leg mid the reek and rack of the Apsley House banquet.
Vee-Vee obeyed; and quickly, like a howitzer, the pipe-owl was reloaded
to the muzzle, and King Media smoked on.
“Ah! this is pleasant indeed,” he cried. “Look, it’s a calm on the
waters, and a calm in our hearts, as we inhale these sedative odors.”
“So calm,” said Babbalanja; “the very gods must be smoking now.”
“And thus,” said Media, “we demi-gods hereafter shall cross-legged sit,
and smoke out our eternities. Ah, what a glorious puff! Mortals,
methinks these pipe-bowls of ours must be petrifactions of roses, so
scented they seem. But, old Mohi, you have smoked this many a long
year; doubtless, you know something about their material—the
Froth-of-the-Sea they call it, I think—ere my handicraft subjects
obtain it, to work into bowls. Tell us the tale.”
“Delighted to do so, my lord,” replied Mohi, slowly disentangling his
mouth-piece from the braids of his beard. “I have devoted much time and
attention to the study of pipe-bowls, and groped among many learned
authorities, to reconcile the clashing opinions concerning the origin
of the so-called Farnoo, or Froth-of-the-Sea.”
“Well, then, my old centenarian, give us the result of your
investigations. But smoke away: a word and a puff go on.”
“May it please you, then, my right worshipful lord, this Farnoo is an
unctuous, argillaceous substance; in its natural state, soft,
malleable, and easily worked as the cornelian-red clay from the famous
pipe-quarries of the wild tribes to the North. But though mostly found
buried in terra-firma, especially in the isles toward the East, this
Farnoo, my lord, is sometimes thrown up by the ocean; in seasons of
high sea, being plentifully found on the reefs. But, my lord, like
amber, the precise nature and origin of this Farnoo are points widely
mooted.”
“Stop there!” cried Media; “our mouth-pieces are of amber; so, not a
word more of the Froth-of-the-Sea, until something be said to clear up
the mystery of amber. What is amber, old man?”
“A still more obscure thing to trace than the other, my worshipful
lord. Ancient Plinnee maintained, that originally it must be a juice,
exuding from balsam firs and pines; Borhavo, that, like camphor, it is
the crystalized oil of aromatic ferns; Berzilli, that it is the
concreted scum of the lake Cephioris; and Vondendo, against scores of
antagonists, stoutly held it a sort of bituminous gold, trickling from
antediluvian smugglers’ caves, nigh the sea.”
“Why, old Braid-Beard,” cried Media, placing his pipe in rest, “you are
almost as erudite as our philosopher here.”
“Much more so, my lord,” said Babbalanja; “for Mohi has somehow picked
up all my worthless forgettings, which are more than my valuable
rememberings.”
“What say you, wise one?” cried Mohi, shaking his braids, like an
enraged elephant with many trunks.
Said Yoomy: “My lord, I have heard that amber is nothing less than the
congealed tears of broken-hearted mermaids.”
“Absurd, minstrel,” cried Mohi. “Hark ye; I know what it is. All other
authorities to the contrary, amber is nothing more than gold-fishes’
brains, made waxy, then firm, by the action of the sea.”
“Nonsense!” cried Yoomy.
“My lord,” said Braid-Beard, waving his pipe, this thing is just as I
say. Imbedded in amber, do we not find little fishes’ fins,
porpoise-teeth, sea-gulls’ beaks and claws; nay, butterflies’ wings,
and sometimes a topaz? And how could that be, unless the substance was
first soft? Amber is gold-fishes’ brains, I say.”
“For one,” said Babbalanja, “I’ll not believe that, till you prove to
me, Braid-Beard, that ideas themselves are found imbedded therein.”
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