“No, no,” said Babbalanja,—­“no Yillah there!—­from yonder promised-land, fewer seekers will return, than go.  Under a gilded guise, happiness is still their instinctive aim.  But vain, Yoomy, to snatch at Happiness.  Of that we may not pluck and eat.  It is the fruit of our own toilsome planting; slow it grows, nourished by many teats, and all our earnest tendings.  Yet ere it ripen, frosts may nip;—­and then, we plant again; and yet again.  Deep, Yoomy, deep, true treasure lies; deeper than all Mardi’s gold, rooted to Mardi’s axis.  But unlike gold, it lurks in every soil,—­all Mardi over.  With golden pills and potions is sickness warded off?—­the shrunken veins of age, dilated with new wine of youth?  Will gold the heart-ache cure? turn toward us hearts estranged? will gold, on solid centers empires fix?  ’Tis toil world-wasted to toil in mines.  Were all the isles gold globes, set in a quicksilver sea, all Mardi were then a desert.  Gold is the only poverty; of all glittering ills the direst.  And that man might not impoverish himself thereby, Oro hath hidden it, with all other banes,—­saltpeter and explosives, deep in mountain bowels, and river-beds.  But man still will mine for it; and mining, dig his doom.—­ Yoomy, Yoomy!—­she we seek, lurks not in the Golden Hills!”

“Lo, a vision!” cried Yoomy, his hands wildly passed across his eyes.  “A vast and silent bay, belted by silent villages:—­gaunt dogs howling over grassy thresholds at stark corpses of old age and infancy; gray hairs mingling with sweet flaxen curls; fields, with turned furrows, choked with briers; arbor-floors strown over with hatchet-helves, rotting in the iron; a thousand paths, marked with foot-prints, all inland leading, none villageward; and strown with traces, as of a flying host.  On:  over forest—­hill, and dale—­and lo! the golden region!  After the glittering spoil, by strange river-margins, and beneath impending cliffs, thousands delve in quicksands; and, sudden, sink in graves of their own making:  with gold dust mingling their own ashes.  Still deeper, in more solid ground, other thousands slave; and pile their earth so high, they gasp for air, and die; their comrades mounting on them, and delving still, and dying—­grave pile on grave!  Here, one haggard hunter murders another in his pit; and murdering, himself is murdered by a third.  Shrieks and groans! cries and curses!  It seems a golden Hell!  With many camels, a sleek stranger comes—­ pauses before the shining heaps, and shows his treasures:  yams and bread-fruit.  ‘Give, give,’ the famished hunters cry—­, ’a thousand shekels for a yam!—­a prince’s ransom for a meal!—­Oh, stranger! on our knees we worship thee:—­take, take our gold; but let us live!’ Yams are thrown them and they fight.  Then he who toiled not, dug not, slaved not, straight loads his caravans with gold; regains the beach, and swift embarks for home.  ‘Home! home!’ the hunters cry, with bursting eyes.  ’With this bright gold, could we but join our waiting wives, who wring their hands on distant shores, all then were well.  But we can not fly; our prows lie rotting on the beach.  Ah! home! thou only happiness!—­better thy silver earnings than all these golden findings.  Oh, bitter end to all our hopes—­we die in golden graves.”