Chapter 48

They Sail Round An Island Without Landing; And Talk Round A Subject
Without Getting At It

Purposing a visit to Kaleedoni, a country integrally united to
Dominora, our course now lay northward along the western white cliffs
of the isle. But finding the wind ahead, and the current too strong
for our paddlers, we were fain to forego our destination; Babbalanja
observing, that since in Dominora we had not found Yillah, then in
Kaleedoni the maiden could not be lurking.

And now, some conversation ensued concerning the country we were
prevented from visiting. Our chronicler narrated many fine things of
its people; extolling their bravery in war, their amiability in peace,
their devotion in religion, their penetration in philosophy, their
simplicity and sweetness in song, their loving-kindness and frugality
in all things domestic:--running over a long catalogue of heroes,
meta-physicians, bards, and good men.

But as all virtues are convertible into vices, so in some cases did
the best traits of these people degenerate. Their frugality too often
became parsimony; their devotion grim bigotry; and all this in a
greater degree perhaps than could be predicated of the more immediate
subjects of King Bello.

In Kaleedoni was much to awaken the fervor of its bards. Upland and
lowland were full of the picturesque; and many unsung lyrics yet
lurked in her glens. Among her blue, heathy hills, lingered many
tribes, who in their wild and tattooed attire, still preserved the
garb of the mightiest nation of old times. They bared the knee, in
token that it was honorable as the face, since it had never been bent.

While Braid-Beard was recounting these things, the currents were
sweeping us over a strait, toward a deep green island, bewitching to
behold.

Not greener that midmost terrace of the Andes, which under a torrid
meridian steeps fair Quito in the dews of a perpetual spring;--not
greener the nine thousand feet of Pirohitee's tall peak, which, rising
from out the warm bosom of Tahiti, carries all summer with it into the
clouds;--nay, not greener the famed gardens of Cyrus,--than the vernal
lawn, the knoll, the dale of beautiful Verdanna.

"Alas, sweet isle! Thy desolation is overrun with vines," sighed
Yoomy, gazing.

"Land of caitiff curs!" cried Media.

"Isle, whose future is in its past. Hearth-stone, from which its
children run," said Babbalanja.

"I can not read thy chronicles for blood, Verdanna," murmured Mohi.

Gliding near, we would have landed, but the rolling surf forbade. Then
thrice we circumnavigated the isle for a smooth, clear beach; but it
was not found.

Meanwhile all still conversed.