Mardi And a Voyage Thither II
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MARDI: AND A VOYAGE THITHER
back invaders! Full of vanity; and mirroring themselves in the future; they deemed all reflected there, their own.
’Twas now high noon.
“Methinks the sun grows hot,” said Media, retreating deeper under the canopy. “Ho! Vee–Vee; have you no cooling beverage? none of that golden wine distilled from torrid grapes, and then sent northward to be cellared in an iceberg? That wine was placed among our stores. Search, search the crypt, little Vee–Vee! Ha, I see it! – that yellow gourd! – Come: drag it forth, my boy. Let’s have the amber cups: so: pass them round; – fill all! Taji! my demi-god, up heart! Old Mohi, my babe, may you live ten thousand centuries! Ah! this way you mortals have of dying out at three score years and ten, is but a craven habit. So, Babbalanja! may you never die. Yoomy! my sweet poet, may you live to sing to me in Paradise. Ha, ha! would that we floated in this glorious stuff, instead of this pestilent brine. – Hark ye! were I to make a MardI now, I’d have every continent a huge haunch of venison; every ocean a wine-vat! I’d stock every cavern with choice old spirits, and make three surplus suns to ripen the grapes all the year round. Let’s drink to that! – Brimmers! So: may the next MardI that’s made, be one entire grape; and mine the squeezing!”
“Look, look! my lord,” cried Yoomy, “what a glorious shore we pass.”
Sallying out into the high golden noon, with golden-beam- ing goblets suspended, we gazed.
“This must be Kolumbo of the south,” said Mohi.
It was a long, hazy reach of land; piled up in terraces, traced here and there with rushing streams, that worked up gold dust
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alluvian, and seemed to flash over pebbled diamonds. Heliotropes, sun-flowers, marigolds gemmed, or starred the violet meads, and vassal-like, still sunward bowed their heads. The rocks were pierced with grottoes, blazing with crystals, manytinted.
It was a land of mints and mines; its east a ruby; west a topaz. Inland, the woodlands stretched an ocean, bottomless with foliage; its green surges bursting through cable-vines; like Xerxes’ brittle chains which vainly sought to bind the Hellespont. Hence flowed a tide of forest sounds; of parrots, paroquets, macaws; blent with the howl of jaguars, hissing of anacondas, chattering of apes, and herons screaming.
Out from those depths up rose a stream.
The land lay basking in the world’s round torrid brisket, hot with solar fire.
“No need here to land,” cried Yoomy, “Yillah lurks not here.”
“Heat breeds life, and sloth, and rage,” said Babbalanja. “Here live bastard tribes and mongrel nations; wrangling and murdering to prove their freedom. – Refill, my lord.”
“Methinks, Babbalanja, you savor of the mysterious parchment, in Vivenza read: – Ha? Yes, philosopher, these are the men, who toppled castles to make way for hovels; these, they who fought for freedom, but find it despotism to rule themselves. These, Babbalanja, are of the race, to whom a tyrant would prove a blessing.” So saying he drained his cup.
“My lord, that last sentiment decides the authorship of the scroll. But, with deference, tyrants seldom can prove blessings; inasmuch as evil seldom eventuates in good. Yet will these
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people soon have a tyrant over them, if long they cleave to war. Of many javelins, one must prove a scepter; of many helmets, one a crown. It is but in the wearing. – Refill, my lord.”
“Fools, fools!” cried Media, “these tribes hate us kings; yet know not, that Peace is War against all kings. We seldom are undone by spears, which are our ministers. – This wine is strong.”
“Ha, now’s the time! In his cups learn king-craft from a king. Ay, ay, my lord, your royal order will endure, so long as men will fight. Break the spears, and free the nations. Kings reap the harvests that wave on battle-fields. And oft you kings do snatch the aloe-flower, whose slow blossoming mankind watches for a hundred years. – Say on, my lord.”
“All this I know; and, therefore, rest content. My children’s children will be kings; though, haply, called by other titles. MardI grows fastidious in names: we royalties will humor it. The steers would burst their yokes, but have not hands. The whole herd rears and plunges, but soon will bow again: the old, old way!”
“Yet, in Porpheero, strong scepters have been wrested from anointed hands. Mankind seems in arms.”
“Let them arm on. They hate us: – good; – they always have; yet still we’ve reigned, son after sire. Sometimes they slay us, Babbalanja; pour out our marrow, as I this wine; but they spill no kinless blood. ’Twas justly held of old, that but to touch a monarch, was to strike at Oro. – Truth. The palest vengeance is a royal ghost; and regicides but father slaves. Thrones, not scepters, have been broken. Mohi, what of the past? Has it not ever proved so?”
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“Pardon, my lord; the times seem changed. ’Tis held, that demi-gods no more rule by right divine. In Vivenza’s land, they swear the last kings now reign in Mardi.”
“Is the last day at hand, old man? Mohi, your beard is gray; but, Yoomy, listen. When you die, look around; mark then if any mighty change be seen. Old kingdoms may be on the wane; but new dynasties advance. Though revolutions rise to high spring-tide, monarchs will still drown hard; – monarchs survived the flood!”
“Are all our dreams, then, vain?” sighed Yoomy. “Is this no dawn of day that streaks the crimson East! Naught but the false and flickering lights which sometimes mock Aurora in the north! Ah, man, my brother! have all martyrs for thee bled in vain; in vain we poets sang, and prophets spoken? Nay, nay; great Mardi, helmed and mailed, strikes at Oppression’s shield, and challenges to battle! Oro will defend the right, and royal crests must roll.”
“Thus, Yoomy, ages since, you mortal poets sang; but the world may not be moved from out the orbit in which first it rolled. On the map that charts the spheres, MardI is marked ‘the world of kings.’ Round centuries on centuries have wheeled by: – has all this been its nonage? Now, when the rocks grow gray, does man first sprout his beard? Or, is your golden time, your equinoctial year, at hand, that your race fast presses toward perfection; and every hand grasps at a scepter, that kings may be no more?”
“But free Vivenza! Is she not the star, that must, ere long, lead up the constellations, though now unrisen? No kings are in Vivenza; yet, spite her thralls, in that land seems more of
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good than elsewhere. Our hopes are not wild dreams: Vivenza cheers our hearts. She is a rainbow to the isles!”
“Ay, truth it is, that in Vivenza they have prospered. But thence it comes not, that all men may be as they. Are all men of one heart and brain; one bone and sinew? Are all nations sprung of Dominora’s loins? Or, has Vivenza yet proved her creed? Yoomy! the years that prove a man, prove not a nation. But two kings’-reigns have passed since Vivenza was a monarch’s. Her climacteric is not come; hers is not yet a nation’s manhood even; though now in childhood, she anticipates her youth, and lusts for empire like any czar. Yoomy! judge not yet. Time hath tales to tell. Many books, and many long, long chapters, are wanting to Vivenza’s history; and whet history but is full of blood?”
“There stop, my lord,” said Babbalanja, “nor aught predict. Fate laughs at prophets; and of all birds, the raven is a liar!”
CHAPTER LXI
THEY ROUND THE STORMY
CAPE OF CAPES
Long leagues, for weary days, we voyaged along that coast, till we came to regions where we multiplied our mantles.
The sky grew overcast. Each a night, black storm-clouds swept the wintry sea; and like Sahara caravans, which leave their sandy wakes – so, thick and fleet, slanted the scud behind. Through all this rack and mist, ten thousand foam-flaked dromedary-humps uprose.
Deep among those panting, moaning fugitives, the three canoes raced on.
And now, the air grew nipping cold. The clouds shed off their fleeces; a snow-hillock, each canoe; our beards, whitefrosted.
And so, as seated in our shrouds, we sailed in among great mountain passes of ice-isles; from icy ledges scaring shivering seals, and white bears, musical with icicles, jingling from their shaggy ermine.
Far and near, in towering ridges, stretched the glassy Andes; with their own frost, shuddering through all their domes and pinnacles. Ice-splinters rattled down the cliffs, and seethed into the sea.
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Broad away, in amphitheaters undermined by currents, whole cities of ice-towers, in crashes, toward one center, fell. – In their earthquakes, Lisbon and Lima never saw the like. Churned and broken in the boiling tide, they swept off amain; – over and over rolling; like porpoises to vessels tranced in calms, bringing down the gale.
At last, rounding an antlered headland, that seemed a moose at bay – ere long, we launched upon blue lake-like waters, serene as Windermere, or Horicon. Thus, from the boisterous storms of youth, we glide upon senility.
But as we northward voyaged, another aspect wore the sea. In far-off, endless vistas, colonnades of water-spouts were seen: all heaven’s dome upholding on their shafts: and bright forms gliding up and down within. So at Luz, in his strange vi-
sion, Jacob saw the angels.
A boundless cave of stalactites, it seemed; the cloud-born vapors downward spiraling, till they met the whirlpool-col- umn from the sea; then, uniting, over the waters stalked, like ghosts of gods. Or midway sundered – down, sullen, sunk the watery half; and far up into heaven, was drawn the vapory. As, at death, we mortals part in twain; our earthy half still here abiding; but our spirits flying whence they came.
In good time, we gained the thither side of great Kolumbo of the South; and sailing on, long waited for the day; and wondered at the darkness.
“What steadfast clouds!” cried Yoomy, “yonder! far aloft: that ridge, with many points; it fades below, but shows a faint white crest.”
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“Not clouds, but mountains,” said Babbalanja, “the vast spine, that traverses Kolumbo; spurring off in ribs, that nestle loamy valleys, veined with silver streams, and silver ores.”
It was a long, embattled line of pinnacles. And high posted in the East, those thousand bucklered peaks stood forth, and breasted back the Dawn. Before their purple bastions bold, Aurora long arrayed her spears, and clashed her golden shells. The summons dies away. But now, her lancers charge the steep, and gain its crest a-glow; – their glittering spears and blazoned shields triumphant in the morn.
But ere that sight, we glided on for hours in twilight; when, on those mountains’ farther side, the hunters must have been abroad, morning-glories all astir.
CHAPTER LXII
THEY ENCOUNTER
GOLD–HUNTERS
Now, northward coasting along Kolumbo’s Western shore, whence came the same wild forest-sounds, as from the Eastern; and where we landed not, to seek among those wrangling tribes; – after many, many days, we spied prow after prow, before the wind all northward bound: sails wide-spread, and paddles plying: scaring the fish from before them.
Their inmates answered not our earnest hail.
But as they sped, with frantic glee, in one long chorus thus they sang: –
We rovers bold,
To the land of Gold,
Over bowling billows are gliding: Eager to toil,
For the golden spoil,
And every hardship biding. See! See!
Before our prows’ resistless dashes, The gold-fish fly in golden flashes! ‘Neath a sun of gold,
We rovers bold,
On the golden land are gaining; And every night,
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We steer aright,
By golden stars unwaning! All fires burn a golden glare:
No locks so bright as golden hair!
All orange groves have golden gushings: All mornings dawn with golden flushings! In a shower of gold, say fables old,
A maiden was won by the god of gold! In golden goblets wine is beaming:
On golden couches kings are dreaming! The Golden Rule dries many tears! The Golden Number rules the spheres! Gold, gold it is, that sways the nations: Gold! gold! the center of all rotations! On golden axles worlds are turning:
With phosphorescence seas are burning! All fire-flies flame with golden gleamings:
Gold-hunters’ hearts with golden dreamings! With golden arrows kings are slain:
With gold we’ll buy a freeman’s name! In toilsome trades, for scanty earnings,
At home we’ve slaved, with stifled yearnings: No light! no hope! Oh, heavy woe!
When nights fled fast, and days dragged slow. But joyful now, with eager eye,
Fast to the Promised Land we fly: Where in deep mines,
The treasure shines;
Or down in beds of golden streams,
The gold-flakes glance in golden gleams! How we long to sift,
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