" cried Media, that all
Mardi may hear?"

"My lord Media, too, is witty, Babbalanja," said Mohi.

Breathed Yoomy, "There are birds of divinest plumage, and most
glorious song, yet singing their lyrics to themselves."

Said Media, "The lark soars high, cares for no auditor, yet its sweet
notes are heard here below. It sings, too, in company with myriads of
mates. Your soliloquists, Yoomy, are mostly herons and owls."

Said Babbalanja, "Very clever, my lord; but think you not, there are
men eloquent, who never babble in the marketplace?"

"Ay, and arrant babblers at home. In few words, Babbalanja, you
espouse a bad cause. Most of you mortals are peacocks; some having
tails, and some not; those who have them will be sure to thrust their
plumes in your face; for the rest, they will display their bald
cruppers, and still screech for admiration. But when a great genius is
born into Mardi, he nods, and is known."

"More wit, but, with deference, perhaps less truth, my lord. Say what
you will, Fame is an accident; merit a thing absolute. But what
matter? Of what available value reputation, unless wedded to power,
dentals, or place? To those who render him applause, a poet's may seem
a thing tangible; but to the recipient, 'tis a fantasy; the poet never
so stretches his imagination, as when striving to comprehend what it
is; often, he is famous without knowing it."

"At the sacred games of Lazella," said Yoomy, "slyly crowned from
behind with a laurel fillet, for many hours, the minstrel Jarmi
wandered about ignorant of the honors he bore. But enlightened at
last, he doffed the wreath; then, holding it at arm's length, sighed
forth--Oh, ye laurels! to be visible to me, ye must be removed from my
brow!"

"And what said Botargo," cried Babbalanja, "hearing that his poems had
been translated into the language of the remote island of Bertranda?--
'It stirs me little; already, in merry fancies, have I dreamed of
their being trilled by the blessed houris in paradise; I can only
imagine the same of the damsels of Bertranda.' Says Boldo, the
Materialist,--'Substances alone are satisfactory.'"

"And so thought the mercenary poet, Zenzi," said Yoomy. "Upon
receiving fourteen ripe yams for a sonnet, one for every line, he said
to me, Yoomy, I shall make a better meal upon these, than upon so many
compliments."

"Ay," cried Babbalanja, "'Bravos,' saith old Bardianna, but induce
flatulency.'"

Said Media, "And do you famous mo