ABRAZZA—Yes, my dearest king. But, Babbalanja, if Lombardo had aught to tell to Mardi—why choose a vehicle so crazy? BABBALANJA—It was his nature, I suppose. ABRAZZA—But so it would not have been, to me. BABBALANJA—Nor would it have been natural, for my noble lord Abrazza, to have worn Lombardo’s head:—every man has his own, thank Oro! ABBRAZZA—A curious work: a very curious work. Babbalanja, are you acquainted with the history of Lombardo? BABBALANJA—None better. All his biographies have I read. ABRAZZA—Then, tell us how he came to write that work. For one, I can not imagine how those poor devils contrive to roll such thunders through all Mardi. MEDIA—Their thunder and lightning seem spontaneous combustibles, my lord. ABRAZZA—With which, they but consume themselves, my prince beloved. BABBALANJA—In a measure, true, your Highness. But pray you, listen; and I will try to tell the way in which Lombardo produced his great Kortanza. MEDIA—But hark you, philosopher! this time no incoherencies; gag that devil, Azzageddi. And now, what was it that originally impelled Lombardo to the undertaking? BABBALANJA—Primus and forever, a full heart:—brimful, bubbling, sparkling; and running over like the flagon in your hand, my lord. Secundo, the necessity of bestirring himself to procure his yams. ABRAZZA—Wanting the second motive, would the first have sufficed, philosopher? BABBALANJA—Doubtful. More conduits than one to drain off the soul’s overflowings. Besides, the greatest fullnesses overflow not spontaneously; and, even when decanted, like rich syrups, slowly ooze; whereas, poor fluids glibly flow, wide-spreading. Hence, when great fullness weds great indolence;—that man, to others, too often proves a cipher; though, to himself, his thoughts form an Infinite Series, indefinite, from its vastness; and incommunicable;—not for lack of power, but for lack of an omnipotent volition, to move his strength. His own world is full before him; the fulcrum set; but lever there is none. To such a man, the giving of any boor’s resoluteness, with tendons braided, would be as hanging a claymore to Valor’s side, before unarmed. Our minds are cunning, compound mechanisms; and one spring, or wheel, or axle wanting, the movement lags, or halts. Cerebrum must not overbalance cerebellum; our brains should be round as globes; and planted on capacious chests, inhaling mighty morning- inspirations. We have had vast developments of parts of men; but none of manly wholes. Before a full-developed man, Mardi would fall down and worship. We are idiot, younger-sons of gods, begotten in dotages divine; and our mothers all miscarry. Giants are in our germs; but we are dwarfs, staggering under heads overgrown. Heaped, our measures burst. We die of too much life. MEDIA (_to Abrazza_)—Be not impatient, my lord; he’ll recover presently. You were talking of Lombardo, Babbalanja.