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- CHAPTER LX.
Belshazzar On The Bench
Now, Media was king of Odo. And from the simplicity of his manners
hitherto, and his easy, frank demeanor toward ourselves, had we
foolishly doubted that fact, no skepticism could have survived an
illustration of it, which this very day we witnessed at noon.
For at high noon, Media was wont to don his dignity with his symbols of
state; and sit on his judgment divan or throne, to hear and try all
causes brought before him, and fulminate his royal decrees.
This divan was elevated at one end of a spacious arbor, formed by an
avenue of regal palms, which in brave state, held aloft their
majestical canopy.
The crown of the island prince was of the primitive old Eastern style;
in shape, similar, perhaps, to that jauntily sported as a foraging cap
by his sacred majesty King Nimrod, who so lustily followed the hounds.
It was a plaited turban of red tappa, radiated by the pointed and
polished white bones of the Ray-fish. These diverged from a bandeau or
fillet of the most precious pearls; brought up from the sea by the
deepest diving mermen of Mardi. From the middle of the crown rose a
tri-foiled spear-head. And a spear- headed scepter graced the right
hand of the king.
Now, for all the rant of your democrats, a fine king on a throne is a
very fine sight to behold. He looks very much like a god. No wonder
that his more dutiful subjects so swore, that their good lord and
master King Media was demi-divine.
A king on his throne! Ah, believe me, ye Gracchi, ye Acephali, ye
Levelers, it is something worth seeing, be sure; whether beheld at
Babylon the Tremendous, when Nebuchadnezzar was crowned; at old Scone
in the days of Macbeth; at Rheims, among Oriflammes, at the coronation
of Louis le Grand; at Westminster Abbey, when the gentlemanly George
doffed his beaver for a diadem; or under the soft shade of palm trees
on an isle in the sea.
Man lording it over man, man kneeling to man, is a spectacle that
Gabriel might well travel hitherward to behold; for never did he behold
it in heaven. But Darius giving laws to the Medes and the Persians, or
the conqueror of Bactria with king-cattle yoked to his car, was not a
whit more sublime, than Beau Brummel magnificently ringing for his
valet.
A king on his throne! It is Jupiter nodding in the councils of Olympus;
Satan, seen among the coronets in Hell.
A king on his throne! It is the sun over a mountain; the sun over
law-giving Sinai; the sun in our system: planets, duke-like, dancing
attendance, and baronial satellites in waiting.
A king on his throne! After all, but a gentleman seated. And thus sat
the good lord, King Media.
Time passed. And after trying and dismissing several minor affairs,
Media called for certain witnesses to testify concerning one Jiromo, a
foolhardy wight, who had been silly enough to plot against the majesty
now sitting judge and jury upon him.
His guilt was clear. And the witnesses being heard, from a bunch of
palm plumes Media taking a leaf, placed it in the hand of a runner or
pursuivant, saying, “This to Jiromo, where he is prisoned; with his
king’s compliments; say we here wait for his head.”
It was doffed like a turban before a Dey, and brought back on the
instant.
Now came certain lean-visaged, poverty-stricken, and hence
suspicious-looking varlets, grumbling and growling, and amiable as
Bruin. They came muttering some wild jargon about “bulwarks,”
“bulkheads,” “cofferdams,” “safeguards,” “noble charters,” “shields,”
and “paladiums,” “great and glorious birthrights,” and other
unintelligible gibberish.
Of the pursuivants, these worthies asked audience of Media.
“Go, kneel at the throne,” was the answer.
“Our knee-pans are stiff with sciatics,” was the rheumatic reply.
“An artifice to keep on your legs,” said the pursuivants.
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