Entering, we saw King Yoky.

Ah! sadly lacking was he, in all the requisites of an efficient ruler.  Deaf and dumb he was; and save arms, minus every thing but an indispensable trunk and head.  So huge his all-comprehensive mouth, it seemed to swallow up itself.

But shapeless, helpless as was Yoky,—­as king of Hooloomooloo, he was competent; the state being a limited monarchy, of which his Highness was but the passive and ornamental head.

As his visitors advanced, he fell to gossiping with his fingers:  a servitor interpreting.  Very curious to note the rapidity with which motion was translated into sound; and the simultaneousness with which meaning made its way through four successive channels to the mind—­hand, sight, voice, and tympanum.

Much amazement His Highness now expressed; horrified his glances.

“Why club such frights as ye?  Herd ye, to keep in countenance; or are afraid of your own hideousness, that ye dread to go alone?  Monsters! speak.”

“Great Oro!” cried Mohi, “are we then taken for cripples, by the very King of the Cripples?  My lord, are not our legs and arms all right?”

“Comelier ones were never turned by turners, Mohi.  But royal Yoky! in sooth we feel abashed before thee.”

Some further stares were then exchanged; when His Highness sought to know, whether there were any Comparative Anatomists among his visitors.

“Comparative Anatomists! not one.”

“And why may King Yoky ask that question?” inquired Babbalanja.

Then was made the following statement.

During the latter part of his reign, when he seemed fallen into his dotage, the venerable predecessor of King Yoky had been much attached to an old gray-headed Chimpanzee, one day found meditating in the woods.  Rozoko was his name.  He was very grave, and reverend of aspect; much of a philosopher.  To him, all gnarled and knotty subjects were familiar; in his day he had cracked many a crabbed nut.  And so in love with his Timonean solitude was Rozoko, that it needed many bribes and bland persuasions, to induce him to desert his mossy, hillside, misanthropic cave, for the distracting tumult of a court.

But ere long, promoted to high offices, and made the royal favorite, the woodland sage forgot his forests; and, love for love, returned the aged king’s caresses.  Ardent friends they straight became; dined and drank together; with quivering lips, quaffed long-drawn, sober bumpers; comparing all their past experiences; and canvassing those hidden themes, on which octogenarians dilate.

For when the fires and broils of youth are passed, and Mardi wears its truer aspect—­then we love to think, not act; the present seems more unsubstantial than the past; then, we seek out gray-beards like ourselves; and hold discourse of palsies, hearses, shrouds, and tombs; appoint our undertakers; our mantles gather round us, like to winding-sheets; and every night lie down to die.  Then, the world’s great bubble bursts; then, Life’s clouds seem sweeping by, revealing heaven to our straining eyes; then, we tell our beads, and murmur pater-nosters; and in trembling accents cry—­“Oro! be merciful.”