Chapter 75

They Visit The Palmy King Abrazza

Night and morn departed; and in the afternoon, we drew nigh to an
island, overcast with shadows; a shower was falling; and pining,
plaintive notes forth issued from the groves: half-suppressed, and
sobbing whisperings of leaves. The shore sloped to the water; thither
our prows were pointed.

"Sheer off! no landing here," cried Media, "let us gain the sunny
side; and like the care-free bachelor Abrazza, who here is king, turn
our back on the isle's shadowy side, and revel in its morning-meads."

"And lord Abrazza:--who is he?" asked Yoomy.

"The one hundred and twentieth in lineal descent from Phipora," said
Mohi; "and connected on the maternal side to the lord seigniors of
Klivonia. His uttermost uncle was nephew to the niece of Queen
Zmiglandi; who flourished so long since, she wedded at the first
Transit of Venus. His pedigree is endless."

"But who is lord Abrazza?"

"Has he not said?" answered Babbalanja. "Why so dull?--Uttermost
nephew to him, who was nephew to the niece of the peerless Queen
Zmiglandi; and the one hundred and twentieth in descent from the
illustrious Phipora."

"Will none tell, who Abrazza is?"

"Can not a man then, be described by running off the catalogue of his
ancestors?" said Babbalanja. "Or must we e'en descend to himself.
Then, listen, dull Yoomy! and know that lord Abrazza is six feet two:
plump thighs; blue eyes; and brown hair; likes his bread-fruit baked,
not roasted; sometimes carries filberts in his crown: and has a
way of winking when he speaks. His teeth are good."

"Are you publishing some decamped burglar," said Media, "that you
speak thus of my royal friend, the lord Abrazza? Go on, sir! and say
he reigns sole king of Bonovona!"

"My lord, I had not ended. Abrazza, Yoomy, is a fine and florid king:
high-fed, and affluent of heart; of speech, mellifluent. And for a
royalty extremely amiable. He is a sceptered gentleman, who does much
good. Kind king! in person he gives orders for relieving those, who
daily dive for pearls, to grace his royal robe; and gasping hard, with
blood-shot eyes, come up from shark-infested depths, and fainting, lay
their treasure at his feet. Sweet lord Abrazza! how he pities those,
who in his furthest woodlands day-long toil to do his bidding. Yet
king-philosopher, he never weeps; but pities with a placid smile; and
that but seldom."

"There seems much iron in your blood," said Media. "But say your say."

"Say I not truth, my lord? Abrazza, I admire. Save his royal pity all
else is jocund