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- 2026-01-30T20:48:09.927Z
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- 6815
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- CHAPTER XLIX.
They Draw Nigh To Porpheero; Where They Behold A Terrific Eruption
Gliding away from Verdanna at the turn of the tide, we cleared the
strait, and gaining the more open lagoon, pointed our prows for
Porpheero, from whose magnificent monarchs my lord Media promised
himself a glorious reception.
“They are one and all demi-gods,” he cried, “and have the old demi-god
feeling. We have seen no great valleys like theirs:—their scepters are
long as our spears; to their sumptuous palaces, Donjalolo’s are but
inns:—their banquetting halls are as vistas; no generations run
parallel to theirs:—their pedigrees reach back into chaos.
“Babbalanja! here you will find food for philosophy:—the whole land
checkered with nations, side by side contrasting in costume, manners,
and mind. Here you will find science and sages; manuscripts in miles;
bards singing in choirs.
“Mohi! here you will flag over your page; in Porpheero the ages have
hived all their treasures: like a pyramid, the past shadows over the
land.
“Yoomy! here you will find stuff for your songs:—blue rivers flowing
through forest arches, and vineyards; velvet meads, soft as ottomans:
bright maidens braiding the golden locks of the harvest; and a
background of mountains, that seem the end of the world. Or if nature
will not content you, then turn to the landscapes of art. See! mosaic
walls, tattooed like our faces; paintings, vast as horizons; and into
which, you feel you could rush: See! statues to which you could off
turban; cities of columns standing thick as mankind; and firmanent
domes forever shedding their sunsets of gilding: See! spire behind
spire, as if the land were the ocean, and all Bello’s great navy were
riding at anchor.
“Noble Taji! you seek for your Yillah;—give over despair! Porpheero’s
such a scene of enchantment, that there, the lost maiden must lurk.”
“A glorious picture!” cried Babbalanja, but turn the medal, my lord;—
what says the reverse?”
“Cynic! have done.—But bravo! we’ll ere long be in Franko, the
goodliest vale of them all; how I long to take her old king by the
hand!”
The sun was now setting behind us, lighting up the white cliffs of
Dominora, and the green capes of Verdanna; while in deep shade lay
before us the long winding shores of Porpheero.
It was a sunset serene.
“How the winds lowly warble in the dying day’s ear,” murmured Yoomy.
“A mild, bright night, we’ll have,” said Media.
“See you not those clouds over Franko, my lord,” said Mohi, shaking his
head.
“Ah, aged and weather-wise as ever, sir chronicler;—I predict a fair
night, and many to follow.”
“Patience needs no prophet,” said Babbalanja. “The night, is at hand.”
Hitherto the lagoon had been smooth: but anon, it grew black, and
stirred; and out of the thick darkness came clamorous sounds. Soon,
there shot into the air a vivid meteor, which bursting at the zenith,
radiated down the firmament in fiery showers, leaving treble darkness
behind.
Then as all held their breath, from Franko there spouted an eruption,
which seemed to plant all Mardi in the foreground.
As when Vesuvius lights her torch, and in the blaze, the storm-swept
surges in Naples’ bay rear and plunge toward it; so now, showed
Franko’s multitudes, as they stormed the summit where their monarch’s
palace blazed, fast by the burning mountain.
“By my eternal throne!” cried Media, starting, “the old volcano has
burst forth again!”
“But a new vent, my lord,” said Babbalanja.
“More fierce this, than the eruption which happened in my youth,” said
Mohi—“methinks that Franko’s end has come.”
“You look pale, my lord,” said Babbalanja, “while all other faces
glow;—Yoomy, doff that halo in the presence of a king.”
Over the waters came a rumbling sound, mixed with the din of warfare,
and thwarted by showers of embers that fell not, for the whirling
blasts.
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