“And with it, you mortals are little else; do you not chirp all over, Mohi?  By my demi-god soul, were I not what I am, this wine would almost get the better of me.”

“Without it—­” continued Babbalanja.

“Without what?” demanded Media, starting to his feet.  “This wine?  Traitor, I’ll stand by this to the last gasp, you are inebriated, Babbalanja.”

“Perhaps so, my lord; but I was treating of the imagination, may it please you.”

“My lord,” added Mohi, “of the unical, and rudimental fundament of things, you remember.”

“Ah! there’s none of them sober; proceed, proceed, Azzageddi!”

“My lord waves his hand like a banner,” murmured Yoomy.

“Without imagination, I say, an armless man, born, blind, could not be made to believe, that he had a head of hair, since he could neither see it, nor feel it, nor has hair any feeling of itself.”

“Methinks though,” said Mohi, “if the cripple had a Tartar for a wife, he would not remain skeptical long.”

“You all fly off at tangents,” cried Media, “but no wonder:  your mortal brains can not endure much quaffing.  Return to your subject, Babbalanja.  Assume now, Babbalanja,—­assume, my dear prince—­assume it, assume it, I say!—­Why don’t you?”

“I am willing to assume any thing you please, my lord:  what is it?”

“Ah! yes!—­Assume that—­that upon returning home, you should find your wife had newly wedded, under the—­the—­the metaphysical presumption, that being no longer visible, you—­you Azzageddi, had departed this life; in other words, out of sight, out of mind; what then, my dear prince?”

“Why then, my lord, I would demolish my rival in a trice.”

“Would you?—­then—­then so much for your metaphysics, Bab—­Babbalanja.”

Babbalanja rose to his feet, muttering to himself—­“Is this assumed, or real?—­Can a demi-god be mastered by wine?  Yet, the old mythologies make bacchanals of the gods.  But he was wondrous keen!  He felled me, ere he fell himself.”

“Yoomy, my lord Media is in a very merry mood to-day,” whispered Mohi, “but his counterfeit was not well done.  No, no, a bacchanal is not used to be so logical in his cups.”

CHAPTER XLVIII
They Sail Round An Island Without Landing; And Talk Round A Subject
Without Getting At It

Purposing a visit to Kaleedoni, a country integrally united to Dominora, our course now lay northward along the western white cliffs of the isle.  But finding the wind ahead, and the current too strong for our paddlers, we were fain to forego our destination; Babbalanja observing, that since in Dominora we had not found Yillah, then in Kaleedoni the maiden could not be lurking.

And now, some conversation ensued concerning the country we were prevented from visiting.  Our chronicler narrated many fine things of its people; extolling their bravery in war, their amiability in peace, their devotion in religion, their penetration in philosophy, their simplicity and sweetness in song, their loving-kindness and frugality in all things domestic:—­running over a long catalogue of heroes, meta-physicians, bards, and good men.