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- CHAPTER LXXVI.
Some Pleasant, Shady Talk In The Groves, Between My Lords Abrazza And
Media, Babbalanja, Mohi, And Yoomy
Abrazza had a cool retreat—a grove of dates; where we were used to
lounge of noons, and mix our converse with the babble of the rills; and
mix our punches in goblets chased with grapes. And as ever, King
Abrazza was the prince of hosts.
“Your crown,” he said to Media; and with his own, he hung it on a
bough.
“Be not ceremonious:” and stretched his royal legs upon the turf.
“Wine!” and his pages poured it out.
So on the grass we lounged; and King Abrazza, who loved his antique
ancestors; and loved old times; and would not talk of moderns;—bade
Yoomy sing old songs; bade Mohi rehearse old histories; bade Babbalanja
tell of old ontologies; and commanded all, meanwhile, to drink his old,
old wine.
So, all round we quaffed and quoted.
At last, we talked of old Homeric bards:—those who, ages back, harped,
and begged, and groped their blinded way through all this charitable
Mardi; receiving coppers then, and immortal glory now.
ABRAZZA—How came it, that they all were blind?
BABBALANJA—It was endemical, your Highness. Few grand poets have good
eyes; for they needs blind must be, who ever gaze upon the sun. Vavona
himself was blind: when, in the silence of his secret bower, he said—“I
will build another world. Therein, let there be kings and slaves,
philosophers and wits; whose checkered actions—strange, grotesque, and
merry-sad, will entertain my idle moods.” So, my lord, Vavona played at
kings and crowns, and men and manners; and loved that lonely game to
play.
ABRAZZA—Vavona seemed a solitary Mardian; who seldom went abroad; had
few friends; and shunning others, was shunned by them.
BABBALANJA—But shunned not himself, my lord; like gods, great poets
dwell alone; while round them, roll the worlds they build.
MEDIA—You seem to know all authors:—you must have heard of Lombardo,
Babbalanja; he who flourished many ages since.
BABBALANJA—I have; and his grand Kortanza know by heart.
MEDIA (_to Abrazza._)—A very curious work, that, my lord.
ABRAZZA—Yes, my dearest king. But, Babbalanja, if Lombardo had aught to
tell to Mardi—why choose a vehicle so crazy?
BABBALANJA—It was his nature, I suppose.
ABRAZZA—But so it would not have been, to me.
BABBALANJA—Nor would it have been natural, for my noble lord Abrazza,
to have worn Lombardo’s head:—every man has his own, thank Oro!
ABBRAZZA—A curious work: a very curious work. Babbalanja, are you
acquainted with the history of Lombardo?
BABBALANJA—None better. All his biographies have I read.
ABRAZZA—Then, tell us how he came to write that work. For one, I can
not imagine how those poor devils contrive to roll such thunders
through all Mardi.
MEDIA—Their thunder and lightning seem spontaneous combustibles, my
lord.
ABRAZZA—With which, they but consume themselves, my prince beloved.
BABBALANJA—In a measure, true, your Highness. But pray you, listen; and
I will try to tell the way in which Lombardo produced his great
Kortanza.
MEDIA—But hark you, philosopher! this time no incoherencies; gag that
devil, Azzageddi. And now, what was it that originally impelled
Lombardo to the undertaking?
BABBALANJA—Primus and forever, a full heart:—brimful, bubbling,
sparkling; and running over like the flagon in your hand, my lord.
Secundo, the necessity of bestirring himself to procure his yams.
ABRAZZA—Wanting the second motive, would the first have sufficed,
philosopher?
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