Chapter 66

A Flight Of Nightingales From Yoomy's Mouth

By noon, down came a calm.

"Oh Neeva! good Neeva! kind Neeva! thy sweet breath, dear Neeva!"

So from his shark's-mouth prayed little Vee-Vee to the god of Fair
Breezes. And along they swept; till the three prows neighed to the
blast; and pranced on their path, like steeds of Crusaders.

Now, that this fine wind had sprung up; the sun riding joyously in the
heavens; and the Lagoon all tossed with white, flying manes; Media
called upon Yoomy to ransack his whole assortment of songs:--warlike,
amorous, and sentimental,--and regale us with something inspiring for
too long the company had been gloomy.

"Thy best,", he cried.

Then will I e'en sing you a song, my lord, which is a song-full of
songs. I composed it long, long since, when Yillah yet bowered in Odo.
Ere now, some fragments have been heard. Ah, Taji! in this my lay,
live over again your happy hours. Some joys have thousand lives; can
never die; for when they droop, sweet memories bind them up.--My lord,
I deem these verses good; they came bubbling out of me, like live
waters from a spring in a silver mine. And by your good leave, my
lord, I have much faith in inspiration. Whoso sings is a seer."

"Tingling is the test," said Babbalanja, "Yoomy, did you tingle, when
that song was composing?"

"All over, Babbalanja."

"From sole to crown?"

"From finger to finger."

"My life for it! true poetry, then, my lord! For this self-same
tingling, I say, is the test."

"And infused into a song," cried Yoomy, "it evermore causes it so to
sparkle, vivify, and irradiate, that no son of man can repeat it
without tingling himself. This very song of mine may prove what I
say."

"Modest youth!" sighed Media.

"Not more so, than sincere," said Babbalanja. "He who is frank, will
often appear vain, my lord. Having no guile, he speaks as freely of
himself, as of another; and is just as ready to honor his own merits,
even if imaginary, as to lament over undeniable deficiencies. Besides,
such men are prone to moods, which to shallow-minded, unsympathizing
mortals, make their occasional distrust of themselves, appear but as a
phase of self-conceit. Whereas, the man who, in the presence of his
very friends, parades a barred and bolted front,--that man so highly
prizes his sweet self, that he cares not to profane the shrine he
worships, by throwing open its portals. He is locked up; and Ego is
the key. Reserve alone is vanity. But all mankind are egotists. The
world revolves upon an I; and we upon ourselves; for we are our own