- end_line
- 9153
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T20:48:18.539Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 9082
- text
- A few royal epicures, however, there were: epicures intent upon
concoctions, admixtures, and masterly compoundings; who comported
themselves with all due deliberation and dignity; hurrying themselves
into no reckless deglutition of the dainties. Ah! admirable conceit,
Lake Como: superseding attendants. For, from hand to hand the trenchers
sailed; no sooner gaining one port, than dispatched over sea to
another.
Well suited they were for the occasion; sailing high out of water, to
resist the convivial swell at times ruffling the sociable sea; and
sharp at both ends, still better adapting them to easy navigation.
But soon, the Morando, in triumphant decanters, went round, reeling
like barks before a breeze. But their voyages were brief; and ere long,
in certain havens, the accumulation of empty vessels threatened to
bridge the lake with pontoons. In those directions, Trade winds were
setting. But full soon, cut out were all unladen and unprofitable
gourds; and replaced by jolly-bellied calabashes, for a time sailing
deep, yawing heavily to the push.
At last, the whole flotilla of trenchers—wrecks and all—were sent
swimming to the further end of Lake Como; and thence removed, gave
place to ruddy hillocks of fruit, and floating islands of flowers.
Chief among the former, a quince-like, golden sphere, that filled the
air with such fragrance, you thought you were tasting its flavor.
Nor did the wine cease flowing. That day the Juam grape did bleed; that
day the tendril ringlets of the vines, did all uncurl and grape by
grape, in sheer dismay, the sun ripe clusters dropped. Grape-glad were
five-and-twenty kings: five-and-twenty kings were merry.
Morando’s vintage had no end; nor other liquids, in the royal cellar
stored, somewhere secret in the grot. Oh! where’s the endless Niger’s
source? Search ye here, or search ye there; on, on, through ravine,
vega, vale—no head waters will ye find. But why need gain the hidden
spring, when its lavish stream flows by? At three-fold mouths that
Delta-grot discharged; rivers golden, white, and red.
But who may sing for aye? Down I come, and light upon the old and prosy
plain.
Among other decanters set afloat, was a pompous, lordly-looking
demijohn, but old and reverend withal, that sailed about, consequential
as an autocrat going to be crowned, or a treasure- freighted argosie
bound home before the wind. It looked solemn, however, though it
reeled; peradventure, far gone with its own potent contents.
Oh! russet shores of Rhine and Rhone! oh, mellow memories of ripe old
vintages! oh, cobwebs in the Pyramids! oh, dust on Pharaoh’s tomb!—all,
all recur, as I bethink me of that glorious gourd, its contents cogent
as Tokay, itself as old as Mohi’s legends; more venerable to look at
than his beard. Whence came it? Buried in vases, so saith the label,
with the heart of old Marjora, now dead one hundred thousand moons.
Exhumed at last, it looked no wine, but was shrunk into a subtile
syrup.
This special calabash was distinguished by numerous trappings,
caparisoned like the sacred bay steed led before the Great Khan of
Tartary. A most curious and betasseled network encased it; and the
royal lizard was jealously twisted about its neck, like a hand on a
throat containing some invaluable secret.
All Hail, Marzilla! King’s Own Royal Particular! A vinous Percy! Dating
back to the Conquest! Distilled of yore from purple berries growing in
the purple valley of Ardair! Thrice hail.
But the imperial Marzilla was not for all; gods only could partake; the
Kings and demigods of the isles; excluding left-handed descendants of
sad rakes of immortals, in old times breaking heads and hearts in
Mardi, bequeathing bars-sinister to many mortals, who now in vain might
urge a claim to a cup-full of right regal Marzilla.
- title
- Chunk 3