ABRAZZA—­I thought as much.

BABBALANJA—­My lords, they abound in it! more than any other men in Mardi.  Genius is full of trash.  But genius essays its best to keep it to itself; and giving away its ore, retains the earth; whence, the too frequent wisdom of its works, and folly of its life.

ABRAZZA—­Then genius is not inspired, after all.  How they must slave in their mines!  I weep to think of it.

BABBALANJA—­My lord, all men are inspired; fools are inspired; your highness is inspired; for the essence of all ideas is infused.  Of ourselves, and in ourselves, we originate nothing.  When Lombardo set about his work, he knew not what it would become.  He did not build himself in with plans; he wrote right on; and so doing, got deeper and deeper into himself; and like a resolute traveler, plunging through baffling woods, at last was rewarded for his toils.  “In good time,” saith he, in his autobiography, “I came out into a serene, sunny, ravishing region; full of sweet scents, singing birds, wild plaints, roguish laughs, prophetic voices.  “Here we are at last, then,” he cried; “I have created the creative.”  And now the whole boundless landscape stretched away.  Lombardo panted; the sweat was on his brow; he off mantle; braced himself; sat within view of the ocean; his face to a cool rushing breeze; placed flowers before him; and gave himself plenty of room.  On one side was his ream of vellum—­

ABBRAZZA—­And on the other, a brimmed beaker.

BABBALANJA—­No, your Highness; though he loved it, no wine for
Lombardo while actually at work.

MOHI—­Indeed?  Why, I ever thought that it was to the superior quality of Lombardo’s punches, that Mardi was indebted for that abounding humor of his.

BABBALANJA—­Not so; he had another way of keeping himself well braced.

YOOMY—­Quick! tell us the secret.

BABBALANJA—­He never wrote by rush-light.  His lamp swung in heaven.—­ He rose from his East, with the sun; he wrote when all nature was alive.

MOHI—­Doubtless, then, he always wrote with a grin; and none laughed louder at his quips, than Lombardo himself.

BABBALANJA—­Hear you laughter at the birth of a man child, old man?  The babe may have many dimples; not so, the parent.  Lombardo was a hermit to behold.

MEDIA—­What! did Lombardo laugh with a long face?

BABBALANJA—­His merriment was not always merriment to him, your Highness.  For the most part, his meaning kept him serious.  Then he was so intensely riveted to his work, he could not pause to laugh.

MOHI—­My word for it; but he had a sly one, now and then.

BABBALANJA—­For the nonce, he was not his own master:  a mere amanuensis writing by dictation.

YOOMY—­Inspiration, that!

BABBALANJA.—­Call it as you will, Yoomy, it was a sort of sleep-walking of the mind.  Lombardo never threw down his pen:  it dropped from him; and then, he sat disenchanted:  rubbing his eyes; staring; and feeling faint—­sometimes, almost unto death.