THE ESSENTIAL MELVILLE - 160+ Titles in One Edition. Герман Мелвилл

rush, this well-fought feast did now wax warm.

      A few royal epicures, however, there were: epicures intent upon concoctions, admixtures, and masterly compoundings; who comported themselves with all due deliberation and dignity; hurrying themselves into no reckless deglutition of the dainties. Ah! admirable conceit, Lake Como: superseding attendants. For, from hand to hand the trenchers sailed; no sooner gaining one port, than dispatched over sea to another.

      Well suited they were for the occasion; sailing high out of water, to resist the convivial swell at times ruffling the sociable sea; and sharp at both ends, still better adapting them to easy navigation.

      But soon, the Morando, in triumphant decanters, went round, reeling like barks before a breeze. But their voyages were brief; and ere long, in certain havens, the accumulation of empty vessels threatened to bridge the lake with pontoons. In those directions, Trade winds were setting. But full soon, cut out were all unladen and unprofitable gourds; and replaced by jolly-bellied calabashes, for a time sailing deep, yawing heavily to the push.

      At last, the whole flotilla of trenchers — wrecks and all — were sent swimming to the further end of Lake Como; and thence removed, gave place to ruddy hillocks of fruit, and floating islands of flowers. Chief among the former, a quince-like, golden sphere, that filled the air with such fragrance, you thought you were tasting its flavor.

      Nor did the wine cease flowing. That day the Juam grape did bleed; that day the tendril ringlets of the vines, did all uncurl and grape by grape, in sheer dismay, the sun ripe clusters dropped. Grape-glad were five-and-twenty kings: five-and-twenty kings were merry.

      Morando’s vintage had no end; nor other liquids, in the royal cellar stored, somewhere secret in the grot. Oh! where’s the endless Niger’s source? Search ye here, or search ye there; on, on, through ravine, vega, vale — no head waters will ye find. But why need gain the hidden spring, when its lavish stream flows by? At three-fold mouths that Delta-grot discharged; rivers golden, white, and red.

      But who may sing for aye? Down I come, and light upon the old and prosy plain.

      Among other decanters set afloat, was a pompous, lordly-looking demijohn, but old and reverend withal, that sailed about, consequential as an autocrat going to be crowned, or a treasure-freighted argosie bound home before the wind. It looked solemn, however, though it reeled; peradventure, far gone with its own potent contents.

      Oh! russet shores of Rhine and Rhone! oh, mellow memories of ripe old vintages! oh, cobwebs in the Pyramids! oh, dust on Pharaoh’s tomb! — all, all recur, as I bethink me of that glorious gourd, its contents cogent as Tokay, itself as old as Mohi’s legends; more venerable to look at than his beard. Whence came it? Buried in vases, so saith the label, with the heart of old Marjora, now dead one hundred thousand moons. Exhumed at last, it looked no wine, but was shrunk into a subtile syrup.

      This special calabash was distinguished by numerous trappings, caparisoned like the sacred bay steed led before the Great Khan of Tartary. A most curious and betasseled network encased it; and the royal lizard was jealously twisted about its neck, like a hand on a throat containing some invaluable secret.

      All Hail, Marzilla! King’s Own Royal Particular! A vinous Percy! Dating back to the Conquest! Distilled of yore from purple berries growing in the purple valley of Ardair! Thrice hail.

      But the imperial Marzilla was not for all; gods only could partake; the Kings and demigods of the isles; excluding left-handed descendants of sad rakes of immortals, in old times breaking heads and hearts in Mardi, bequeathing bars-sinister to many mortals, who now in vain might urge a claim to a cup-full of right regal Marzilla.

      The Royal Particular was pressed upon me, by the now jovial Donjalolo. With his own sceptered hand charging my flagon to the brim, he declared his despotic pleasure, that I should quaff it off to the last lingering globule. No hard calamity, truly; for the drinking of this wine was as the singing of a mighty ode, or frenzied lyric to the soul.

      “Drink, Taji,” cried Donjalolo, “drink deep. In this wine a king’s heart is dissolved. Drink long; in this wine lurk the seeds of the life everlasting Drink deep; drink long: thou drinkest wisdom and valor at every draught. Drink forever, oh Taji, for thou drinkest that which will enable thee to stand up and speak out before mighty Oro himself.”

      “Borabolla,” he added, turning round upon a domed old king at his left, “Was it not the god Xipho, who begged of my great-great-grandsire a draught of this same wine, saying he was about to beget a hero?”

      “Even so. And thy glorious Marzilla produced thrice valiant Ononna, who slew the giants of the reef.”

      “Ha, ha, hear’st that, oh Taji?” And Donjalolo drained another cup.

      Amazing! the flexibility of the royal elbow, and the rigidity of the royal spine! More especially as we had been impressed with a notion of their debility. But, sometimes these seemingly enervated young blades approve themselves steadier of limb, than veteran revelers of very long standing.

      “Discharge the basin, and refill it with wine,” cried Donjalolo. “Break all empty gourds! Drink, kings, and dash your cups at every draught.”

      So saying, he started from his purple mat; and with one foot planted unknowingly upon the skull of Marjora; while all the skeletons grinned at him from the pavement; Donjalolo, holding on high his blood-red goblet, burst forth with the following invocation:—

      Ha, ha, gods and kings; fill high, one and all;

      Drink, drink! shout and drink! mad respond to the call!

      Fill fast, and fill frill; ‘gainst the goblet ne’er sin;

      Quaff there, at high tide, to the uttermost rim:—

      Flood-tide, and soul-tide to the brim!

      Who with wine in him fears? who thinks of his cares?

      Who sighs to be wise, when wine in him flares?

      Water sinks down below, in currents full slow;

      But wine mounts on high with its genial glow:—

      Welling up, till the brain overflow!

      As the spheres, with a roll, some fiery of soul,

      Others golden, with music, revolve round the pole;

      So let our cups, radiant with many hued wines,

      Round and round in groups circle, our Zodiac’s Signs:—

      Round reeling, and ringing their chimes!

      Then drink, gods and kings; wine merriment brings;

      It bounds through the veins; there, jubilant sings.

      Let it ebb, then, and flow; wine never grows dim;

      Drain down that bright tide at the foam beaded rim:—

      Fill up, every cup, to the brim!

      Caught by all present, the chorus resounded again and again. The beaded wine danced on many a beard; the cataract lifted higher its voice; the grotto sent back a shout; the ghosts of the Coral Monarchs seemed starting from their insulted bones. But ha, ha, ha, roared forth the five-and-twenty kings — alive, not dead — holding both hands to their girdles, and baying out their laughter from abysses; like Nimrod’s hounds over some fallen elk.

      Mad and crazy revelers, how ye drank and roared! but kings no more: vestures loosed; and scepters rolling on the ground.

      Glorious agrarian, thou wine! bringing all hearts on a level, and at last all legs to the earth; even those of kings, who, to do them justice, have been much maligned for imputed qualities not theirs. For whoso has touched flagons with monarchs, bear they their back bones never so stiffly on the throne, well know the rascals, to be at bottom royal good fellows; capable of a vinous frankness exceeding that of base-born men. Was not Alexander a boon companion? And daft Cambyses? and what of old Rowley, as good a judge of wine and other matters, as ever sipped claret or kisses.

      If ever Taji joins a club, be it a Beef–Steak Club of