{"id":"01KG8AKNPZ73NV3MP1MQR7GYJE","cid":"bafkreigqsa5xwcluvftypbilwbnnph53ealzgyi7nbd4e5qxsm6tuvjwfy","type":"chunk","properties":{"end_line":2591,"extracted_at":"2026-01-30T20:48:09.927Z","extracted_by":"structure-extraction-lambda","label":"Chunk 2","source_file":"01KG89J1954N2G0NAERBNJXEX9","start_line":2499,"text":"“Three Hours in Vivenza, containing a Full and Impartial Account of\r\nthat Whole Country: by a Subject of King Bello.”\r\n\r\n\r\nAnd works of nautical poets:—\r\n\r\n“Sky-Sail-Pole Lyrics.”\r\n\r\n\r\nAnd divers brief books, with panic-striking titles:—\r\n\r\n“Are you safe?”\r\n“A Voice from Below.”\r\n“Hope for none.”\r\n“Fire for all.”\r\n\r\n\r\nAnd pamphlets by retired warriors:—\r\n\r\n“On the Best Gravy for Wild Boar’s Meat.”\r\n“Three Receipts for Bottling New Arrack.”\r\n“To Brown Bread Fruit without Burning.”\r\n“Advice to the Dyspeptic.”\r\n“On Starch for Tappa.”\r\n\r\n\r\nAll these MSS. were highly prized by Oh-Oh. He averred, that they spoke\r\nof the mighty past, which he reverenced more than the paltry present,\r\nthe dross and sediment of what had been.\r\n\r\nPeering into a dark crypt, Babbalanja drew forth a few crumbling,\r\nillegible, black-letter sheets of his favorite old essayist, brave\r\nBardianna. They seemed to have formed parts of a work, whose title only\r\nremained—“Thoughts, by a Thinker.”\r\n\r\nSilently Babbalanja pressed them to his heart. Then at arm’s length\r\nheld them, and said, “And is all this wisdom lost? Can not the divine\r\ncunning in thee, Bardianna, transmute to brightness these sullied\r\npages? Here, perhaps, thou didst dive into the deeps of things,\r\ntreating of the normal forms of matter and of mind; how the particles\r\nof solids were first molded in the interstices of fluids; how the\r\nthoughts of men are each a soul, as the lung-cells are each a lung; how\r\nthat death is but a mode of life; while mid-most is the Pharzi.— But\r\nall is faded. Yea, here the Thinker’s thoughts lie cheek by jowl with\r\nphrasemen’s words. Oh Bardianna! these pages were offspring of thee,\r\nthought of thy thought, soul of thy soul. Instinct with mind, they once\r\nspoke out like living voices; now, they’re dust; and would not prick a\r\nfool to action. Whence then is this? If the fogs of some few years can\r\nmake soul linked to matter naught; how can the unhoused spirit hope to\r\nlive when mildewed with the damps of death.”\r\n\r\nPiously he folded the shreds of manuscript together, kissed them, and\r\nlaid them down.\r\n\r\nThen approaching Oh-Oh, he besought him for one leaf, one shred of\r\nthose most precious pages, in memory of Bardianna, and for the love of\r\nhim.\r\n\r\nBut learning who he was, one of that old Ponderer’s commentators, Oh-Oh\r\ntottered toward the manuscripts; with trembling fingers told them over,\r\none by one, and said—“Thank Oro! all are here.—Philosopher, ask me for\r\nmy limbs, my life, my heart, but ask me not for these. Steeped in wax,\r\nthese shall be my cerements.”\r\n\r\nAll in vain; Oh-Oh was an antiquary.\r\n\r\nTurning in despair, Babbalanja spied a heap of worm-eaten parchment\r\ncovers, and many clippings and parings. And whereas the rolls of\r\nmanuscripts did smell like unto old cheese; so these relics did\r\nmarvelously resemble the rinds of the same.\r\n\r\nTurning over this pile, Babbalanja lighted upon something that restored\r\nhis good humor. Long he looked it over delighted; but bethinking him,\r\nthat he must have dragged to day some lost work of the collection, and\r\nmuch desirous of possessing it, he made bold again to ply Oh-Oh;\r\noffering a tempting price for his discovery.\r\n\r\nGlancing at the title—“A Happy Life”—the old man cried—“Oh, rubbish!\r\nrubbish! take it for nothing.” And Babbalanja placed it in his\r\nvestment.\r\n\r\nThe catacombs surveyed, and day-light gained, we inquired the way to\r\nJi-Ji’s, also a collector, but of another sort; one miserly in the\r\nmatter of teeth, the money of Mardi.\r\n\r\nAt the mention of his name, Oh-Oh flew out into scornful philippics\r\nupon the insanity of that old dotard, who hoarded up teeth, as if teeth\r\nwere of any use, but to purchase rarities. Nevertheless, he pointed out\r\nour path; following which, we crossed a meadow.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r","title":"Chunk 2"},"relationships":[{"peer":"01KG8AJQT1BDEB9CENNW36B4J3","peer_type":"chapter","predicate":"in"},{"peer":"01KG89J1954N2G0NAERBNJXEX9","peer_type":"file","predicate":"extractedFrom"},{"peer":"01KG89HMDZKNY753EZE1CJ8HZW","peer_type":"collection","predicate":"collection"},{"peer":"01KG8AKN25WVGP8C66EDFTJDY9","peer_type":"chunk","predicate":"prev"}],"ver":2,"created_at":"2026-01-30T20:48:11.999Z","ts":"2026-01-30T20:48:20.763Z","edited_by":{"method":"manual","user_id":"01KFF0H3YRP9ZSM033AM0QJ47H"}}