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- “And, no doubt, like many others, they made that sepul for themselves.
They sleep sound, my word for it, old man. But I very much question,
if, were the rock rent, any ashes would be found. Mohi, I deny that
those kings ever had any bones to bury.”
“Why, Babbalanja,” said Media, “since you intimate that they never had
ghosts to give up, you ignore them in toto; denying the very fact of
their being even defunct.”
“Ten thousand pardons, my lord, no such discourtesy would I do the
anonymous memory of the illustrious dead. But whether they ever lived
or not, it is all the same with them now. Yet, grant that they lived;
then, if death be a deaf-and-dumb death, a triumphal procession over
their graves would concern them not. If a birth into brightness, then
Mardi must seem to them the most trivial of reminiscences. Or, perhaps,
theirs may be an utter lapse of memory concerning sublunary things; and
they themselves be not themselves, as the butterfly is not the larva.”
Said Yoomy, “Then, Babbalanja, you account that a fit illustration of
the miraculous change to be wrought in man after death?”
“No; for the analogy has an unsatisfactory end. From its chrysalis
state, the silkworm but becomes a moth, that very quickly expires. Its
longest existence is as a worm. All vanity, vanity, Yoomy, to seek in
nature for positive warranty to these aspirations of ours. Through all
her provinces, nature seems to promise immortality to life, but
destruction to beings. Or, as old Bardianna has it, if not against us,
nature is not for us.”
Said Media, rising, “Babbalanja, you have indeed put aside the
courtier; talking of worms and caterpillars to me, a king and a demi-
god! To renown, for your theme: a more agreeable topic.”
“Pardon, once again, my lord. And since you will, let us discourse of
that subject. First, I lay it down for an indubitable maxim, that in
itself all posthumous renown, which is the only renown, is valueless.
Be not offended, my lord. To the nobly ambitious, renown hereafter may
be something to anticipate. But analyzed, that feverish typhoid feeling
of theirs may be nothing more than a flickering fancy, that now, while
living, they are recognized as those who will be as famous in their
shrouds, as in their girdles.”
Said Yoomy, “But those great and good deeds, Babbalanja, of which the
philosophers so often discourse: must it not be sweet to believe that
their memory will long survive us; and we ourselves in them?”
“I speak now,” said Babbalanja, “of the ravening for fame which even
appeased, like thirst slaked in the desert, yields no felicity, but
only relief; and which discriminates not in aught that will satisfy its
cravings. But let me resume. Not an hour ago, Braid-Beard was telling
us that story of prince Ottimo, who inodorous while living, expressed
much delight at the prospect of being perfumed and embalmed, when dead.
But was not Ottimo the most eccentric of mortals? For few men issue
orders for their shrouds, to inspect their quality beforehand. Far more
anxious are they about the texture of the sheets in which their living
limbs lie. And, my lord, with some rare exceptions, does not all Mardi,
by its actions, declare, that it is far better to be notorious now,
than famous hereafter?”
“A base sentiment, my lord,” said Yoomy. “Did not poor Bonja, the
unappreciated poet, console himself for the neglect of his
contemporaries, by inspiriting thoughts of the future?”
“In plain words by bethinking him of the glorious harvest of bravos his
ghost would reap for him,” said Babbalanja; “but Banjo,—Bonjo,—Binjo,—I
never heard of him.”
“Nor I,” said Mohi.
“Nor I,” said Media.
“Poor fellow!” cried Babbalanja; “I fear me his harvest is not yet
ripe.”
“Alas!” cried Yoomy; “he died more than a century ago.”
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