BABBALANJA—­Doubtful.  More conduits than one to drain off the soul’s overflowings.  Besides, the greatest fullnesses overflow not spontaneously; and, even when decanted, like rich syrups, slowly ooze; whereas, poor fluids glibly flow, wide-spreading.  Hence, when great fullness weds great indolence;—­that man, to others, too often proves a cipher; though, to himself, his thoughts form an Infinite Series, indefinite, from its vastness; and incommunicable;—­not for lack of power, but for lack of an omnipotent volition, to move his strength.  His own world is full before him; the fulcrum set; but lever there is none.  To such a man, the giving of any boor’s resoluteness, with tendons braided, would be as hanging a claymore to Valor’s side, before unarmed.  Our minds are cunning, compound mechanisms; and one spring, or wheel, or axle wanting, the movement lags, or halts.  Cerebrum must not overbalance cerebellum; our brains should be round as globes; and planted on capacious chests, inhaling mighty morning-inspirations.  We have had vast developments of parts of men; but none of manly wholes.  Before a full-developed man, Mardi would fall down and worship.  We are idiot, younger-sons of gods, begotten in dotages divine; and our mothers all miscarry.  Giants are in our germs; but we are dwarfs, staggering under heads overgrown.  Heaped, our measures burst.  We die of too much life.

MEDIA (to Abrazza)—­Be not impatient, my lord; he’ll recover presently.  You were talking of Lombardo, Babbalanja.

BABBALANJA—­I was, your Highness.  Of all Mardians, by nature, he was the most inert.  Hast ever seen a yellow lion, all day basking in the yellow sun:—­in reveries, rending droves of elephants; but his vast loins supine, and eyelids winking?  Such, Lombardo; but fierce Want, the hunter, came and roused his roar.  In hairy billows, his great mane tossed like the sea; his eyeballs flamed two hells; his paw had stopped a rolling world.

ABRAZZA—­In other words, yams were indispensable, and, poor devil, he roared to get them.

BABBALANJA (bowing)—­Partly so, my literal lord.  And as with your own golden scepter, at times upon your royal teeth, indolent tattoos you beat; then, potent, sway it o’er your isle; so, Lombardo.  And ere Necessity plunged spur and rowel into him, he knew not his own paces. That churned him into consciousness; and brought ambition, ere then dormant, seething to the top, till he trembled at himself.  No mailed hand lifted up against a traveler in woods, can so, appall, as we ourselves.  We are full of ghosts and spirits; we are as grave-yards full of buried dead, that start to life before us.  And all our dead sires, verily, are in us; that is their immortality.  From sire to son, we go on multiplying corpses in ourselves; for all of which, are resurrections.  Every thought’s a soul of some past poet, hero, sage.  We are fuller than a city.  Woe it is, that reveals these things.