Methinks this fluid needs stirring.

Ho, Vee-Vee, my scepter! be we sociable.

But come, Babbalanja, my gold-headed aquila, return to your theme;--the imagination, if you please." "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 sober; proceed, proceed, Azzageddi!" "My lord waves his hand like a banner," murmured Yoomy.
"Without imagination, I say, an armless man, born, blind, could not be made to believe, that he had a head of hair, since he could neither see it, nor feel it, nor has hair any feeling of itself." "Methinks though," said Mohi, "if the cripple had a Tartar for a wife, he would not remain skeptical long." "You all fly off at tangents," cried Media, "but no wonder: your mortal brains can not endure much quaffing.

Return to your subject, Babbalanja.