“Stop there!” cried Media; “our mouth-pieces are of amber; so, not a word more of the Froth-of-the-Sea, until something be said to clear up the mystery of amber.  What is amber, old man?”

“A still more obscure thing to trace than the other, my worshipful lord.  Ancient Plinnee maintained, that originally it must be a juice, exuding from balsam firs and pines; Borhavo, that, like camphor, it is the crystalized oil of aromatic ferns; Berzilli, that it is the concreted scum of the lake Cephioris; and Vondendo, against scores of antagonists, stoutly held it a sort of bituminous gold, trickling from antediluvian smugglers’ caves, nigh the sea.”

“Why, old Braid-Beard,” cried Media, placing his pipe in rest, “you are almost as erudite as our philosopher here.”

“Much more so, my lord,” said Babbalanja; “for Mohi has somehow picked up all my worthless forgettings, which are more than my valuable rememberings.”

“What say you, wise one?” cried Mohi, shaking his braids, like an enraged elephant with many trunks.

Said Yoomy:  “My lord, I have heard that amber is nothing less than the congealed tears of broken-hearted mermaids.”

“Absurd, minstrel,” cried Mohi.  “Hark ye; I know what it is.  All other authorities to the contrary, amber is nothing more than gold-fishes’ brains, made waxy, then firm, by the action of the sea.”

“Nonsense!” cried Yoomy.

“My lord,” said Braid-Beard, waving his pipe, this thing is just as I say.  Imbedded in amber, do we not find little fishes’ fins, porpoise-teeth, sea-gulls’ beaks and claws; nay, butterflies’ wings, and sometimes a topaz?  And how could that be, unless the substance was first soft?  Amber is gold-fishes’ brains, I say.”

“For one,” said Babbalanja, “I’ll not believe that, till you prove to me, Braid-Beard, that ideas themselves are found imbedded therein.”

“Another of your crazy conceits, philosopher,” replied Mohi, disdainfully; “yet, sometimes plenty of strange black-letter characters have been discovered in amber.”  And throwing back his hoary old head, he jetted forth his vapors like a whale.

“Indeed?” cried Babbalanja.  “Then, my lord Media, it may be earnestly inquired, whether the gentle laws of the tribes before the flood, were not sought to be embalmed and perpetuated between transparent and sweet scented tablets of amber.”

“That, now, is not so unlikely,” said Mohi; “for old King Rondo the Round once set about getting him a coffin-lid of amber; much desiring a famous mass of it owned by the ancestors of Donjalolo of Juam.  But no navies could buy it.  So Rondo had himself urned in a crystal.”

“And that immortalized Rondo, no doubt,” said Babbalanja.  “Ha! ha! pity he fared not like the fat porpoise frozen and tombed in an iceberg; its icy shroud drifting south, soon melted away, and down, out of sight, sunk the dead.”

“Well, so much for amber,” cried Media.  “Now, Mohi, go on about Farnoo.”