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 impatie