" said Babbalanja, "whose bones
were thought worthy of so noble and enduring as urn. Pray, Mohi,
their names and terrible deeds."

"Alas! their sepulcher only remains."

"And, no doubt, like many others, they made that sepul for
themselves. They sleep sound, my word for it, old man. But I
very much question, if, were the rock rent, any ashes would be found.
Mohi, I deny that those kings ever had any bones to bury."

"Why, Babbalanja," said Media, "since you intimate that they never
had ghosts to give up, you ignore them in toto; denying the very fact
of their being even defunct."

"Ten thousand pardons, my lord, no such discourtesy would I do the
anonymous memory of the illustrious dead. But whether they ever lived
or not, it is all the same with them now. Yet, grant that they lived;
then, if death be a deaf-and-dumb death, a triumphal procession over
their graves would concern them not. If a birth into brightness, then
Mardi must seem to them the most trivial of reminiscences. Or,
perhaps, theirs may be an utter lapse of memory concerning sublunary
things; and they themselves be not themselves, as the butterfly is
not the larva."

Said Yoomy, "Then, Babbalanja, you account that a fit illustration of
the miraculous change to be wrought in man after death?"

"No; for the analogy has an unsatisfactory end. From its chrysalis
state, the silkworm but becomes a moth, that very quickly expires.
Its longest existence is as a worm. All vanity, vanity, Yoomy, to
seek in nature for positive warranty to these aspirations of ours.
Through all her provinces, nature seems to promise immortality to
life, but destruction to beings. Or, as old Bardianna has it, if not
against us, nature is not for us."

Said Media, rising, "Babbalanja, you have indeed put aside the
courtier; talking of worms and caterpillars to me, a king and a demi-
god! To renown, for your theme: a more agreeable topic."

"Pardon, once again, my lord. And since you will, let us discourse of
that subject. First, I lay it down for an indubitable maxim, that in
itself all posthumous renown, which is the only renown, is valueless.
Be not offended, my lord. To the nobly ambitious, renown hereafter
may be something to anticipate. But analyzed, that feverish
typhoid feeling of theirs may be nothing more than a flickering
fancy, that now, while living, they are recognized as those who will
be as famous in their shrouds, as in their girdles."

Said Yoomy, "But thos