When Lombardo set
about his work, he knew not what it would become. He did not build
himself in with plans; he wrote right on; and so doing, got deeper and
deeper into himself; and like a resolute traveler, plunging through
baffling woods, at last was rewarded for his toils. "In good time,"
saith he, in his autobiography, "I came out into a serene, sunny,
ravishing region; full of sweet scents, singing birds, wild
plaints, roguish laughs, prophetic voices. "Here we are at last,
then," he cried; "I have created the creative." And now the whole
boundless landscape stretched away. Lombardo panted; the sweat was on
his brow; he off mantle; braced himself; sat within view of the ocean;
his face to a cool rushing breeze; placed flowers before him; and gave
himself plenty of room. On one side was his ream of vellum--

ABBRAZZA--And on the other, a brimmed beaker.

BABBALANJA--No, your Highness; though he loved it, no wine for
Lombardo while actually at work.

MOHI--Indeed? Why, I ever thought that it was to the superior quality
of Lombardo's punches, that Mardi was indebted for that abounding
humor of his.

BABBALANJA--Not so; he had another way of keeping himself well
braced.

YOOMY--Quick! tell us the secret.

BABBALANJA--He never wrote by rush-light. His lamp swung in heaven.--
He rose from his East, with the sun; he wrote when all nature was
alive.

MOHI--Doubtless, then, he always wrote with a grin; and none laughed
louder at his quips, than Lombardo himself.

BABBALANJA--Hear you laughter at the birth of a man child, old man?
The babe may have many dimples; not so, the parent. Lombardo was a
hermit to behold.

MEDIA--What! did Lombardo laugh with a long face?

BABBALANJA--His merriment was not always merriment to him, your
Highness. For the most part, his meaning kept him serious. Then he was
so intensely riveted to his work, he could not pause to laugh.

MOHI--My word for it; but he had a sly one, now and then.

BABBALANJA--For the nonce, he was not his own master: a mere
amanuensis writing by dictation.

YOOMY--Inspiration, that!

BABBALANJA.--Call it as you will, Yoomy, it was a sort of sleep-
walking of the mind. Lombardo never threw down his pen: it dropped
from him; and then, he sat disenchanted: rubbing his eyes; staring;
and feeling faint--sometimes, almost unto death.

MEDIA--But pray, Babbalanja, tell us how he made acquaintance with
some of those rare worthies, he introduces us to, in his