"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."
"My lord," added Mohi, "of the unical, and rudimental fundament of things, you remember."
"Ah! there's none of them sobe
