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- CHAPTER XIX.
They Go Down Into The Catacombs
With a dull flambeau, we now descended some narrow stone steps, to view
Oh-Oh’s collection of ancient and curious manuscripts, preserved in a
vault.
“This way, this way, my masters,” cried Oh-Oh, aloft, swinging his dim
torch. “Keep your hands before you; it’s a dark road to travel.”
“So it seems,” said Babbalanja, wide-groping, as he descended lower and
lower. “My lord this is like going down to posterity.”
Upon gaining the vault, forth flew a score or two of bats,
extinguishing the flambeau, and leaving us in darkness, like Belzoni
deserted by his Arabs in the heart of a pyramid. The torch at last
relumed, we entered a tomb-like excavation, at every step raising
clouds of dust; and at last stood before long rows of musty, mummyish
parcels, so dingy-red, and so rolled upon sticks, that they looked like
stiff sausages of Bologna; but smelt like some fine old Stilton or
Cheshire.
Most ancient of all, was a hieroglyphical Elegy on the Dumps,
consisting of one thousand and one lines; the characters,—herons,
weeping-willows, and ravens, supposed to have been traced by a quill
from the sea-noddy.
Then there were plenty of rare old ballads:—
“King Kroko, and the Fisher Girl.”
“The Fight at the Ford of Spears.”
“The Song of the Skulls.”
And brave old chronicles, that made Mohi’s mouth water:—
“The Rise and Setting of the Dynasty of Foofoo.”
“The Heroic History of the Noble Prince Dragoni; showing how he killed
ten Pinioned Prisoners with his Own Hand.”
“The whole Pedigree of the King of Kandidee, with that of his famous
horse, Znorto.”
And Tarantula books:—
“Sour Milk for the Young, by a Dairyman.”
“The Devil adrift, by a Corsair.”
“Grunts and Groans, by a Mad Boar.”
“Stings, by a Scorpion.”
And poetical productions:—
“Suffusions of a Lily in a Shower.”
“Sonnet on the last Breath of an Ephemera.”
“The Gad-fly, and Other Poems.”
And metaphysical treatises:—
“Necessitarian not Predestinarian.”
“Philosophical Necessity and Predestination One Thing and The Same.”
“Whatever is not, is.”
“Whatever is, is not.”
And scarce old memoirs:—
“The One Hundred Books of the Biography of the Great and Good King
Grandissimo.”
“The Life of old Philo, the Philanthropist, in one Chapter.”
And popular literature:—
“A most Sweet, Pleasant, and Unctuous Account of the Manner in which
Five-and-Forty Robbers were torn asunder by Swiftly-Going Canoes.”
And books by chiefs and nobles:—
“The Art of Making a Noise in Mardi.”
“On the Proper Manner of Saluting a Bosom Friend.”
“Letters from a Father to a Son, inculcating the Virtue of Vice.”
“Pastorals by a Younger Son.”
“A Catalogue of Chieftains who have been Authors, by a Chieftain, who
disdains to be deemed an Author.”
“A Canto on a Cough caught by my Consort.”
“The Philosophy of Honesty, by a late Lord, who died in disgrace.”
And theological works:—
“Pepper for the Perverse.”
“Pudding for the Pious.”
“Pleas for Pardon.”
“Pickles for the Persecuted.”
And long and tedious romances with short and easy titles:—
“The Buck.”
“The Belle.”
“The King and the Cook, or the Cook and the King.”
And books of voyages:—
“A Sojourn among the Anthropophagi, by One whose Hand was eaten off at
Tiffin among the Savages.”
“Franko: its King, Court, and Tadpoles.”
“Three Hours in Vivenza, containing a Full and Impartial Account of
that Whole Country: by a Subject of King Bello.”
And works of nautical poets:—
“Sky-Sail-Pole Lyrics.”
And divers brief books, with panic-striking titles:—
“Are you safe?”
“A Voice from Below.”
“Hope for none.”
“Fire for all.”
And pamphlets by retired warriors:—
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