- end_line
- 4472
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T20:48:09.927Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 4389
- text
- henceforth while I live. And at noon, every day will I meet thee, sweet
maid! And, oh Sun! set not; and poppies bend over us, when next we
embrace!”
“What ails that somnambulist?” cried Media, rising. “Yoomy, I say! what
ails thee?”
“He must have indulged over freely in those citrons,” said Mohi,
sympathetically rubbing his fruitery. “Ho, Yoomy! a swallow of brine
will help thee.”
“Alas,” cried Babbalanja, “do the fairies then wait on repletion? Do
our dreams come from below, and not from the skies? Are we angels, or
dogs? Oh, Man, Man, Man! thou art harder to solve, than the Integral
Calculus—yet plain as a primer; harder to find than the
philosopher’s-stone—yet ever at hand; a more cunning compound, than an
alchemist’s—yet a hundred weight of flesh, to a penny weight of spirit;
soul and body glued together, firm as atom to atom, seamless as the
vestment without joint, warp or woof—yet divided as by a river, spirit
from flesh; growing both ways, like a tree, and dropping thy topmost
branches to earth, like thy beard or a banian!—I give thee up, oh Man!
thou art twain—yet indivisible; all things—yet a poor unit at best.”
“Philosopher you seem puzzled to account for the riddles of your race,”
cried Media, sideways reclining at his ease. “Now, do thou, old Mohi,
stand up before a demi-god, and answer for all.—Draw nigh, so I can eye
thee. What art thou, mortal?”
“My worshipful lord, a man.”
“And what are men?”
“My lord, before thee is a specimen.”
“I fear me, my lord will get nothing out of that witness,” said
Babbalanja. “Pray you, King Media, let another inquisitor cross-
question.”
“Proceed; take the divan.”
“A pace or two farther off, there, Mohi; so I can garner thee all in at
a glance.—Attention! Rememberest thou, fellow-being, when thou wast
born?”
“Not I. Old Braid-Beard had no memory then.”
“When, then, wast thou first conscious of being?”
“What time I was teething: my first sensation was an ache.”
“What dost thou, fellow-being, here in Mardi?”
“What doth Mardi here, fellow-being, under me?”
“Philosopher, thou gainest but little by thy questions,” cried Yoomy
advancing. “Let a poet endeavor.”
“I abdicate in your favor, then, gentle Yoomy; let me smooth the divan
for you;—there: be seated.”
“Now, Mohi, who art thou?” said Yoomy, nodding his bird-of-paradise
plume.
“The sole witness, it seems, in this case.”
“Try again minstrel,” cried Babbalanja.
“Then, what art thou, Mohi?”
“Even what thou art, Yoomy.”
“He is too sharp or too blunt for us all,” cried King Media. “His devil
is even more subtle than yours, Babbalanja. Let him go.”
“Shall I adjourn the court then, my lord?” said Babbalanja.
“Ay.”
“Oyez! Oyez! Oyez! All mortals having business at this court, know ye,
that it is adjourned till sundown of the day, which hath no to-morrow.”
- title
- Chunk 2