“Let us be eagles, then, indeed, my lord: eagle-like, let us look at this red wine without blinking; let us grow solemn, not boisterous, with good cheer.”
Then, lifting his cup, “My lord, serenely do I pity all who are stirred one jot from their centers by ever so much drinking of this fluid. Ply him hard as you will, through the live-long polar night, a wise man can not be made drunk. Though, toward sunrise, his body may reel, it will reel round its center; and though he make many tacks in going home, he reaches it at last; while scores of over-plied fools are foundering by the way. My lord, when wild with much thought, ’tis to wine I fly, to sober me; its magic fumes breathe over me like the Indian summer, which steeps all nature in repose. To me, wine is no vulgar fire, no fosterer of base passions; my heart, ever open, is opened still wider; and glorious visions are born in my brain; it is then that I have all Mardi under my feet, and the constellations of the firmament in my soul.”
“Superb!” cried Yoomy.
“Pooh, pooh!” said Mohi, “who does not see stars at such times? I see the Great Bear now, and the little one, its cub; and Andromeda, and Perseus’ chain-armor, and Cassiopea in her golden chair, and the bright, scaly Dragon, and the glittering Lyre, and all the jewels in Orion’s sword-hilt.”
“Ay,” cried Media, “the study of astronomy is wonderfully facilitated by wine. Fill up, old Ptolemy, and tell us should you discover a new planet. Methinks this fluid needs stirring. Ho, Vee-Vee, my scepter! be we sociable. But come, Babbalanja, my gold-headed aquila, return to your theme;—the imagination, if you please.”
“Well, then, my lord, I was about to say, that the imagination is the Voli-Donzini; or, to speak plainer, the unical, rudimental, and all- comprehending abstracted essence of the infinite remoteness of things. Without it, we were grass-hoppers.”
“And with it, you mortals are little else; do you not chirp all over, Mohi? By my demi-god soul, were I not what I am, this wine would almost get the better of me.”
“Without it—” continued Babbalanja.
“Without what?” demanded Media, starting to his feet. “This wine? Traitor, I’ll stand by this to the last gasp, you are inebriated, Babbalanja.”
“Perhaps so, my lord; but I was treating of the imagination, may it please you.”