Thus speaking, he led us into a vast hall, where the Lo-grollas were sitting or standing, 'offering each other incense,' as Pellmelli remarked, from thin tubes of paper, which smoked at one end.
'Now listen,' said Pellmelli, and he cried aloud the name of a poet known to the Lo-grollas.
Instantly we heard, from I know not what recess, a rolling fire of applause and admiration, which swept past us with stately and solemn music, like a hymn of praise.
'There,' said Pellmelli, 'I told you so. This is the place of the Rolling of Logs, and yourselves have heard it.'
Leonora said she did not mind how often she heard it, as she quite agreed with the sentiments.
'Not so!' said Pellmelli; and he cried aloud another name—the name of a poetaster—which was almost strange to us.
Then followed through that vasty hall a sharp and rattling crash, as of the descent of innumerable slates.
'Great heavens!' whispered Leonora, 'remember the writing; the place where they slate strangers!'
As we were strangers, and wholly unknown to the Lo-grollas, we thought they might slate us, and, beating a hasty retreat, soon found ourselves with Pellmelli in the dark outer air.
'They are a desperate lot,' said he; 'they won't ever put anything in the Budget.'