every way are but too apt to be riddles. In many points the works of
our great poet Vavona, now dead a thousand moons, still remain a
mystery. Some call him a mystic; but wherein he seems obscure, it is,
perhaps, we that are in fault; not by premeditation spoke he those
archangel thoughts, which made many declare, that Vavona, after all,
was but a crack-pated god, not a mortal of sound mind. But had he been
less, my lord, he had seemed more. Saith Fulvi, 'Of the highest order
of genius, it may be truly asserted, that to gain the reputation of
superior power, it must partially disguise itself; it must come down,
and then it will be applauded for soaring.' And furthermore, that
there are those who falter in the common tongue, because they think in
another; and these are accounted stutterers and stammerers.'"

"Ah! how true!" cried the Warbler.

"And what says the archangel Vavona, Yoomy, in that wonderful drama of
his, 'The Souls of the Sages?'--'Beyond most barren hills, there are
landscapes ravishing; with but one eye to behold; which no pencil can
portray.' What wonder then, my lord, that Mardi itself is so blind.
'Mardi is a monster,' says old Bardianna, 'whose eyes are fixed in its
head, like a whale's; it can see but two ways, and those comprising
but a small arc of a perfect vision. Poets, heroes, and men of might,
are all around this monster Mardi. But stand before me on stilts, or I
will behold you not, says the monster; brush back your hair; inhale
the wind largely; lucky are all men with dome-like foreheads; luckless
those with pippin-heads; loud lungs are a blessing; a lion is no lion
that can not roar.' Says Aldina, 'There are those looking on, who know
themselves to be swifter of foot than the racers, but are confounded
with the simpletons that stare.'"