“So with the commonalty of us Mardians.  How then with those beings who every way are but too apt to be riddles.  In many points the works of our great poet Vavona, now dead a thousand moons, still remain a mystery.  Some call him a mystic; but wherein he seems obscure, it is, perhaps, we that are in fault; not by premeditation spoke he those archangel thoughts, which made many declare, that Vavona, after all, was but a crack-pated god, not a mortal of sound mind.  But had he been less, my lord, he had seemed more.  Saith Fulvi, ’Of the highest order of genius, it may be truly asserted, that to gain the reputation of superior power, it must partially disguise itself; it must come down, and then it will be applauded for soaring.’  And furthermore, that there are those who falter in the common tongue, because they think in another; and these are accounted stutterers and stammerers.’”

“Ah! how true!” cried the Warbler.

“And what says the archangel Vavona, Yoomy, in that wonderful drama of his, ’The Souls of the Sages?’—­’Beyond most barren hills, there are landscapes ravishing; with but one eye to behold; which no pencil can portray.’  What wonder then, my lord, that Mardi itself is so blind.  ‘Mardi is a monster,’ says old Bardianna, ’whose eyes are fixed in its head, like a whale’s; it can see but two ways, and those comprising but a small arc of a perfect vision.  Poets, heroes, and men of might, are all around this monster Mardi.  But stand before me on stilts, or I will behold you not, says the monster; brush back your hair; inhale the wind largely; lucky are all men with dome-like foreheads; luckless those with pippin-heads; loud lungs are a blessing; a lion is no lion that can not roar.’  Says Aldina, ’There are those looking on, who know themselves to be swifter of foot than the racers, but are confounded with the simpletons that stare.’”

“The mere carping of a disappointed cripple,” cried Mold.  His biographer states, that Aldina had only one leg.”

“Braid-Beard, you are witty,” said Babbbalanja, adjusting his robe.  “My lord, there are heroes without armies, who hear martial music in their souls.”

“Why not blow their trumpets louder, then,” cried Media, that all Mardi may hear?”

“My lord Media, too, is witty, Babbalanja,” said Mohi.

Breathed Yoomy, “There are birds of divinest plumage, and most glorious song, yet singing their lyrics to themselves.”

Said Media, “The lark soars high, cares for no auditor, yet its sweet notes are heard here below.  It sings, too, in company with myriads of mates.  Your soliloquists, Yoomy, are mostly herons and owls.”

Said Babbalanja, “Very clever, my lord; but think you not, there are men eloquent, who never babble in the marketplace?”

“Ay, and arrant babblers at home.  In few words, Babbalanja, you espouse a bad cause.  Most of you mortals are peacocks; some having tails, and some not; those who have them will be sure to thrust their plumes in your face; for the rest, they will display their bald cruppers, and still screech for admiration.  But when a great genius is born into Mardi, he nods, and is known.”