MEDIA—What then?
BABBALANJA—He read them over attentively; made a neat package of the whole: and put it into the fire.
ALL—How?
MEDIA—What! these great geniuses writing trash?
ABRAZZA—I thought as much.
BABBALANJA—My lords, they abound in it! more than any other men in Mardi. Genius is full of trash. But genius essays its best to keep it to itself; and giving away its ore, retains the earth; whence, the too frequent wisdom of its works, and folly of its life.
ABRAZZA—Then genius is not inspired, after all. How they must slave in their mines! I weep to think of it.
BABBALANJA—My lord, all men are inspired; fools are inspired; your highness is inspired; for the essence of all ideas is infused. Of ourselves, and in ourselves, we originate nothing. When Lombardo set about his work, he knew not what it would become. He did not build himself in with plans; he wrote right on; and so doing, got deeper and deeper into himself; and like a resolute traveler, plunging through baffling woods, at last was rewarded for his toils. “In good time,” saith he, in his autobiography, “I came out into a serene, sunny, ravishing region; full of sweet scents, singing birds, wild plaints, roguish laughs, prophetic voices. “Here we are at last, then,” he cried; “I have created the creative.” And now the whole boundless landscape stretched away. Lombardo panted; the sweat was on his brow; he off mantle; braced himself; sat within view of the ocean; his face to a cool rushing breeze; placed flowers before him; and gave himself plenty of room. On one side was his ream of vellum—
ABBRAZZA—And on the other, a brimmed beaker.
BABBALANJA—No, your Highness; though he loved it, no wine for Lombardo while actually at work.