“Mysticism!” cried Babbalanja. “What, minstrel; must nothing ultimate come of all that melody? no final and inexhaustible meaning? nothing that strikes down into the soul’s depths; till, intent upon itself, it pierces in upon its own essence, and is resolved into its pervading original; becoming a thing constituent of the all embracing deific; whereby we mortals become part and parcel of the gods; our souls to them as thoughts; and we privy to all things occult, ineffable, and sublime? Then, Yoomy, is thy song nothing worth. Alla Mollolla saith, ‘That is no true, vital breath, which leaves no moisture behind.’ I mistrust thee, minstrel! that thou hast not yet been impregnated by the arcane mysteries; that thou dost not sufficiently ponder on the Adyta, the Monads, and the Hyparxes; the Dianoias, the Unical Hypostases, the Gnostic powers of the Psychical Essence, and the Supermundane and Pleromatic Triads; to say nothing of the Abstract Noumenons.”
“Oro forbid!” cried Yoomy; “the very sound of thy words affrights me.” Then, whispering to Mohi—“Is he daft again?”
“My brain is battered,” said Media. “Azzageddi! you must diet, and be bled.”
“Ah!” sighed Babbalanja, turning; “how little they ween of the Rudimental Quincunxes, and the Hecatic Spherula!”
CHAPTER LXVII.
They Visit One Doxodox
Next morning, we came to a deep, green wood, slowly nodding over the waves; its margin frothy-white with foam. A charming sight!
While delighted, all our paddlers gazed, Media, observing Babbalanja plunged in reveries, called upon him to awake; asking what might so absorb him.
“Ah, my lord! what seraphic sounds have ye driven from me!”
“Sounds! Sure, there’s naught heard but yonder murmuring surf; what other sound heard you?”
“The thrilling of my soul’s monochord, my lord. But prick not your ears to hear it; that divine harmony is overheard by the rapt spirit alone; it comes not by the auditory nerves.”