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- 6423
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T20:48:09.927Z
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- 6344
- text
- “I thought as much,” said Mohi, “for no sooner do I undertake to be
sociable with myself, than I am straightway forced to beat a retreat.”
“Ay, old man,” said Babbalanja, “many of us Mardians are but sorry
hosts to ourselves. Some hearts are hermits.”
“If not of yourself, then, Yoomy, of whom else do you think?” asked
Media.
“My lord, I seldom think,” said Yoomy, “I but give ear to the voices in
my calm.”
“Did Babbalanja speak?” said Media. “But no more of your reveries;” and
so saying Media gradually sunk into a reverie himself.
The rest did likewise; and soon, with eyes enchanted, all reclined:
gazing at each other, witless of what we did.
It was Media who broke the spell; calling for Vee-Vee our page, his
calabashes and cups, and nectarines for all.
Eyeing his goblet, Media at length threw himself back, and said:
“Babbalanja, not ten minutes since, we were all absent-minded; now, how
would you like to step out of your body, in reality; and, as a spirit,
haunt some shadowy grove?”
“But our lungs are not wholly superfluous, my lord,” said Babbalanja,
speaking loud.
“No, nor our lips,” said Mohi, smacking his over his wine.
“But could you really be disembodied here in Mardi, Babbalanja, how
would you fancy it?” said Media.
“My lord,” said Babbalanja, speaking through half of a nectarine,
“defer putting that question, I beseech, till after my appetite is
satisfied; for, trust me, no hungry mortal would forfeit his palate, to
be resolved into the impalpable.”
“Yet pure spirits we must all become at last, Babbalanja,” said Yoomy,
“even the most ignoble.”
“Yes, so they say, Yoomy; but if all boors be the immortal sires of
endless dynasties of immortals, how little do our pious patricians bear
in mind their magnificent destiny, when hourly they scorn their
companionship. And if here in Mardi they can not abide an equality with
plebeians, even at the altar; how shall they endure them, side by side,
throughout eternity? But since the prophet Alma asserts, that Paradise
is almost entirely made up of the poor and despised, no wonder that
many aristocrats of our isles pursue a career, which, according to some
theologies, must forever preserve the social distinctions so sedulously
maintained in Mardi. And though some say, that at death every thing
earthy is removed from the spirit, so that clowns and lords both stand
on a footing; yet, according to the popular legends, it has ever been
observed of the ghosts of boors when revisiting Mardi, that invariably
they rise in their smocks. And regarding our intellectual equality
here, how unjust, my lord, that after whole years of days end nights
consecrated to the hard gaining of wisdom, the wisest Mardian of us all
should in the end find the whole sum of his attainments, at one leap
outstripped by the veriest dunce, suddenly inspired by light divine.
And though some hold, that all Mardian lore is vain, and that at death
all mysteries will be revealed; yet, none the less, do they toil and
ponder now. Thus, their tongues have one mind, and their understanding
another.”
“My lord,” said Mohi, “we have come to the lees; your pardon,
Babbalanja.”
“Then, Vee-Vee, another calabash! Fill up, Mohi; wash down wine with
wine. Your cup, Babbalanja; any lees?”
“Plenty, my lord; we philosophers come to the lees very soon.”
“Flood them over, then; but cease not discoursing; thanks be to the
gods, your mortal palates and tongues can both wag together; fill up, I
say, Babbalanja; you are no philosopher, if you stop at the tenth cup;
endurance is the test of philosophy all Mardi over; drink, I say, and
make us wise by precept and example.—Proceed, Yoomy, you look as if you
had something to say.”
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