e great and good deeds, Babbalanja, of which the
philosophers so often discourse: must it not be sweet to believe that
their memory will long survive us; and we ourselves in them?"

"I speak now," said Babbalanja, "of the ravening for fame which even
appeased, like thirst slaked in the desert, yields no felicity, but
only relief; and which discriminates not in aught that will satisfy
its cravings. But let me resume. Not an hour ago, Braid-Beard was
telling us that story of prince Ottimo, who inodorous while living,
expressed much delight at the prospect of being perfumed and
embalmed, when dead. But was not Ottimo the most eccentric of
mortals? For few men issue orders for their shrouds, to inspect their
quality beforehand. Far more anxious are they about the texture of
the sheets in which their living limbs lie. And, my lord, with some
rare exceptions, does not all Mardi, by its actions, declare, that it
is far better to be notorious now, than famous hereafter?"

"A base sentiment, my lord," said Yoomy. "Did not poor Bonja, the
unappreciated poet, console himself for the neglect of his
contemporaries, by inspiriting thoughts of the future?"

"In plain words by bethinking him of the glorious harvest of bravos
his ghost would reap for him," said Babbalanja; "but Banjo,--Bonjo,--
Binjo,--I never heard of him."

"Nor I," said Mohi.

"Nor I," said Media.

"Poor fellow!" cried Babbalanja; "I fear me his harvest is not yet
ripe."

"Alas!" cried Yoomy; "he died more than a century ago."

"But now that you speak of unappreciated poets, Yoomy," said
Babbalanja, "Shall I give you a piece of my mind?" "Do," said Mohi,
stroking his beard.

"He, who on all hands passes for a cypher to-day, if at all
remembered hereafter, will be sure to pass for the same. For there is
more likelihood of being overrated while living, than of being
underrated when dead. And to insure your fame, you must die."

"A rather discouraging thought for your race. But answer: I assume
that King Media is but a mortal like you; now, how may I best
perpetuate my name?"

Long pondered Babbalanja; then said, "Carve it, my lord, deep into a
ponderous stone, and sink it, face downward, into the sea; for the
unseen foundations of the deep are more enduring than the palpable
tops of the mountains."

Sailing past Pella, we gained a view of its farther side; and seated
in a lofty cleft, beheld a lonely fisherman; solitary as a seal on an
iceberg; his mot