The rocks were pierced with grottoes, blazing with crystals, many-tinted.
It was a land of mints and mines; its east a ruby; west a topaz.
Inland, the woodlands stretched an ocean, bottomless with foliage; its green surges bursting through cable-vines; like Xerxes' brittle chains which vainly sought to bind the Hellespont.

Hence flowed a tide of forest sounds; of parrots, paroquets, macaws; blent with the howl of jaguars, hissing of anacondas, chattering of apes, and herons screaming.
Out from those depths up rose a stream.
The land lay basking in the world's round torrid brisket, hot with solar fire.
"No need here to land," cried Yoomy, "Yillah lurks not here." "Heat breeds life, and sloth, and rage," said Babbalanja.

"Here live bastard tribes and mongrel nations; wrangling and murdering to prove their freedom .-- Refill, my lord." "Methinks, Babbalanja, you savor of the mysterious parchment, in Vivenza read:--Ha?
Yes, philosopher, these are the men, who toppled castles to make way for hovels; these, they who fought for freedom, but find it despotism to rule themselves.

These, Babbalanja, are of the race, to whom a tyrant would prove a blessing." So saying he drained his cup.
"My lord, that last sentiment decides the authorship of the scroll.
But, with deference, tyrants seldom can prove blessings; inasmuch as evil seldom eventuates in good.

Yet will these people soon have a tyrant over them, if long they cleave to war.