er-plied
fools are foundering by the way. My lord, when wild with much thought,
'tis to wine I fly, to sober me; its magic fumes breathe over me like
the Indian summer, which steeps all nature in repose. To me, wine is
no vulgar fire, no fosterer of base passions; my heart, ever open, is
opened still wider; and glorious visions are born in my brain; it is
then that I have all Mardi under my feet, and the constellations of
the firmament in my soul."

"Superb!" cried Yoomy.

"Pooh, pooh!" said Mohi, "who does not see stars at such times? I see
the Great Bear now, and the little one, its cub; and Andromeda, and
Perseus' chain-armor, and Cassiopea in her golden chair, and the
bright, scaly Dragon, and the glittering Lyre, and all the jewels in
Orion's sword-hilt."

"Ay," cried Media, "the study of astronomy is wonderfully facilitated
by wine. Fill up, old Ptolemy, and tell us should you discover a new
planet. Methinks this fluid needs stirring. Ho, Vee-Vee, my scepter!
be we sociable. But come, Babbalanja, my gold-headed aquila, return to
your theme;--the imagination, if you please."

"Well, then, my lord, I was about to say, that the imagination is the
Voli-Donzini; or, to speak plainer, the unical, rudimental, and all-
comprehending abstracted essence of the infinite remoteness of things.
Without it, we were grass-hoppers."

"And with it, you mortals are little else; do you not chirp all over,
Mohi? By my demi-god soul, were I not what I am, this wine would
almost get the better of me."

"Without it--" continued Babbalanja.

"Without what?" demanded Media, starting to his feet. "This
wine? Traitor, I'll stand by this to the last gasp, you are
inebriated, Babbalanja."

"Perhaps so, my lord; but I was treating of the imagination, may it
please you."

"My lord," added Mohi, "of the unical, and rudimental fundament of
things, you remember."

"Ah! there's none of them sober; proceed, proceed, Azzageddi!"

"My lord waves his hand like a banner," murmured Yoomy.

"Without imagination, I say, an armless man, born, blind, could not be
made to believe, that he had a head of hair, since he could neither
see it, nor feel it, nor has hair any feeling of itself."

"Methinks though," said Mohi, "if the cripple had a Tartar for a wife,
he would not remain skeptical long."

"You all fly off at tangents," cried Media, "but no wonder: your
mortal brains can not endure much quaffing. Return to your subject,
Babbalanja. As