that in the eye of a dragon-fly there are precisely twelve thousand five hundred and forty-one triangular lenses; and in the leg of a flea, scores on scores of distinct muscles. Now, my masters, how far think you a flea may leap at one spring? Why, two hundred times its own length; I have often measured their leaps, with a small measure I use for scientific purposes.”
“Truly, Oh–Oh,” said Babbalanja, “your discoveries must ere long result in something grand; since you furnish such invaluable data for theorists. Pray, attend, my lord Media. If, at one spring, a flea leaps two hundred times its own length, then, with the like proportion of muscles in his calves, a bandit might pounce upon the unwary traveler from a quarter of a mile off. Is it not so, Oh–Oh?”
“Indeed, but it is, my masters. And one of the greatest consolations I draw from these studies, is the ever-strengthening conviction of the beneficent wisdom that framed our Mardi. For did men possess thighs in proportion to fleas, verily, the wicked would grievously leap about, and curvet in the isles.”
“But Oh–Oh,” said Babbalanja, “what other discoveries have you made? Hast yet put a usurer under your lens, to find his conscience? or a libertine, to find his heart? Hast yet brought your microscope to bear upon a downy peach, or a rosy cheek?”
“I have,” said Oh–Oh, mournfully; “and from the moment I so did, I have had no heart to eat a peach, or salute a cheek.”
“Then dash your lens!” cried Media.
“Well said, my lord. For all the eyes we get beyond our own, but minister to infelicity. The microscope disgusts us with our Mardi; and the telescope sets us longing for some other world.”
CHAPTER 19
THEY GO DOWN INTO THE CATACOMBS
With a dull flambeau, we now descended some narrow stone steps, to view Oh–Oh’s collection of ancient and curious manuscripts, preserved in a vault.
“This way, this way, my masters,” cried Oh–Oh, aloft, swinging his dim torch. “Keep your hands before you; it’s a dark road to travel.”
“So it seems,” said Babbalanja, wide-groping, as he descended lower and lower. “My lord this is like going down to posterity.”
Upon gaining the vault, forth flew a score or two of bats, extinguishing the flambeau, and leaving us in darkness, like Belzoni deserted by his Arabs in the heart of a pyramid. The torch at last relumed, we entered a tomb-like excavation, at every step raising clouds of dust; and at last stood before long rows of musty, mummyish parcels, so dingy-red, and so rolled upon sticks, that they looked like stiff sausages of Bologna; but smelt like some fine old Stilton or Cheshire.
Most ancient of all, was a hieroglyphical Elegy on the Dumps, consisting of one thousand and one lines; the characters — herons, weeping-willows, and ravens, supposed to have been traced by a quill from the sea-noddy.
Then there were plenty of rare old ballads:—
“King Kroko, and the Fisher Girl.”
“The Fight at the Ford of Spears.”
“The Song of the Skulls.”
And brave old chronicles, that made Mohi’s mouth water:—
“The Rise and Setting of the Dynasty of Foofoo.”
“The Heroic History of the Noble Prince Dragoni; showing
how he killed ten Pinioned Prisoners with his Own Hand.”
“The whole Pedigree of the King of Kandidee, with that of his
famous horse, Znorto.”
And Tarantula books:—
“Sour Milk for the Young, by a Dairyman.”
“The Devil adrift, by a Corsair.”
“Grunts and Groans, by a Mad Boar.”
“Stings, by a Scorpion.”
And poetical productions:—
“Suffusions of a Lily in a Shower.”
“Sonnet on the last Breath of an Ephemera.”
“The Gad-fly, and Other Poems.”
And metaphysical treatises:—
“Necessitarian not Predestinarian.”
“Philosophical Necessity and Predestination One Thing and The
Same.”
“Whatever is not, is.”
“Whatever is, is not.”
And scarce old memoirs:—
“The One Hundred Books of the Biography of the Great and
Good King Grandissimo.”
“The Life of old Philo, the Philanthropist, in one Chapter.”
And popular literature:—
“A most Sweet, Pleasant, and Unctuous Account of the Manner
in which Five-and-Forty Robbers were torn asunder by
Swiftly–Going Canoes.”
And books by chiefs and nobles:—
“The Art of Making a Noise in Mardi.”
“On the Proper Manner of Saluting a Bosom Friend.”
“Letters from a Father to a Son, inculcating the Virtue of Vice.”
“Pastorals by a Younger Son.”
“A Catalogue of Chieftains who have been Authors, by a Chieftain,
who disdains to be deemed an Author.”
“A Canto on a Cough caught by my Consort.”
“The Philosophy of Honesty, by a late Lord, who died in disgrace.”
And theological works:—
“Pepper for the Perverse.”
“Pudding for the Pious.”
“Pleas for Pardon.”
“Pickles for the Persecuted.”
And long and tedious romances with short and easy titles:—
“The Buck.”
“The Belle.”
“The King and the Cook, or the Cook and the King.”
