MOHI—Indeed? Why, I ever thought that it was to the superior quality of Lombardo’s punches, that Mardi was indebted for that abounding humor of his.
BABBALANJA—Not so; he had another way of keeping himself well braced.
YOOMY—Quick! tell us the secret.
BABBALANJA—He never wrote by rush-light. His lamp swung in heaven.— He rose from his East, with the sun; he wrote when all nature was alive.
MOHI—Doubtless, then, he always wrote with a grin; and none laughed louder at his quips, than Lombardo himself.
BABBALANJA—Hear you laughter at the birth of a man child, old man? The babe may have many dimples; not so, the parent. Lombardo was a hermit to behold.
MEDIA—What! did Lombardo laugh with a long face?
BABBALANJA—His merriment was not always merriment to him, your Highness. For the most part, his meaning kept him serious. Then he was so intensely riveted to his work, he could not pause to laugh.
MOHI—My word for it; but he had a sly one, now and then.
BABBALANJA—For the nonce, he was not his own master: a mere amanuensis writing by dictation.