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- text
- “They are. For Benedict mortals must be home betimes: bachelor
demi-gods are never away.”
“Ay, your Highnesses, bachelors are all the year round at home;” said
Mohi: “sitting out life in the chimney corner, cozy and warm as the
dog, whilome turning the old-fashioned roasting jack.”
“And to us bachelor demi-gods,” cried Media “our to-morrows are as long
rows of fine punches, ranged on a board, and waiting the hand.”
“But my good lords,” said Babbalanja, now brightening with wine; “if,
of all suppers those given by bachelors be the best:—of all bachelors,
are not your priests and monks the jolliest? I mean, behind the scenes?
Their prayers all said, and their futurities securely invested,—who so
carefree and cozy as they? Yea, a supper for two in a friar’s cell in
Maramma, is merrier far, than a dinner for five-and-twenty, in the
broad right wing of Donjalolo’s great Palace of the Morn.”
“Bravo, Babbalanja!” cried Media, “your iceberg is thawing. More of
that, more of that. Did I not say, we would melt him down at last, my
lord?”
“Ay,” continued Babbalanja, “bachelors are a noble fraternity: I’m a
bachelor myself. One of ye, in that matter, my lord demi-gods. And if
unlike the patriarchs of the world, we father not our brigades and
battalions; and send not out into the battles of our country whole
regiments of our own individual raising;—yet do we oftentimes leave
behind us goodly houses and lands; rare old brandies and mountain
Malagas; and more especially, warm doublets and togas, and
spatterdashes, wherewithal to keep comfortable those who survive us;—
casing the legs and arms, which others beget. Then compare not
invidiously Benedicts with bachelors, since thus we make an equal
division of the duties, which both owe to posterity.”
“Suppers forever!” cried Media. “See, my lord, what yours has done for
Babbalanja. He came to it a skeleton; but will go away, every bone
padded!”
“Ay, my lord demi-gods,” said Babbalanja, drop by drop refilling his
goblet. “These suppers are all very fine, very pleasant, and merry. But
we pay for them roundly. Every thing, my good lords, has its price,
from a marble to a world. And easier of digestion, and better for both
body and soul, are a half-haunch of venison and a gallon of mead, taken
under the sun at meridian, than the soft bridal breast of a partridge,
with some gentle negus, at the noon of night!”
“No lie that!” said Mohi. “Beshrew me, in no well-appointed mansion
doth the pantry lie adjoining the sleeping chamber. A good thought:
I’ll fill up, and ponder on it.”
“Let not Azzageddi get uppermost again, Babbalanja,” cried Media. “Your
goblet is only half-full.”
“Permit it to remain so; my lord. For whoso takes much wine to bed with
him, has a bedfellow, more restless than a somnambulist. And though
Wine be a jolly blade at the board, a sulky knave is he under a
blanket. I know him of old. Yet, your Highness, for all this, to many a
Mardian, suppers are still better than dinners, at whatever cost
purchased. Forasmuch, as many have more leisure to sup, than dine. And
though you demi-gods, may dine at your ease; and dine it out into
night: and sit and chirp over your Burgundy, till the morning larks
join your crickets, and wed matins to vespers;—far otherwise, with us
plebeian mortals. From our dinners, we must hie to our anvils: and the
last jolly jorum evaporates in a cark and a care.”
“Methinks he relapses,” said Abrazza.
“It waxes late,” said Mohi; “your Highnesses, is it not time to break
up?”
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