AMONG THE LO-GROLLAS.

How to escape from our perilous position on the banks of a pestilential stream, haunted by catawampodes and other fell birds of prey, now became a subject for consideration.  Our object, of course, was to reach the people of the Lo-grollas, through whose region, according to the prophecy, we must pass before finding the Magician that should guide us to the mummy.  Our perplexity was only increased by the discovery that we were surrounded on every side by the walls and houses of a gigantic city.  Stealing out by the canal as we had entered, we found to our comfort that this must be the very city mentioned by Theodolite.  As the seeress had declared, a deep and noisome night always prevailed, only broken here and there as a wanderer scratched one of Bryant & May’s matches and painfully endeavoured to decipher the number on the door of his house.  The streets, moreover, were strewn and interwoven with long strings of iron fallen from the sky.

‘The people who wire themselves with wires,’ whispered Leonora; ’what do you think of my interpretation now?’

‘I shall inquire,’ I answered, and I did inquire for the land of the Lo-grollas, but in vain.

Happily we chanced to meet an old man, clothed in a whitish robe of some unknown substance, not unlike paper.  This fluttering vesture was marked with strange characters, in black and red, which Leonora was able to interpret.  She read them thus.  They were but fragmentary.

On the fragments the words, ‘Tragedy,’ ‘Awful Revelations,’ ‘Purity,’ and other apparently inconsistent hieroglyphics might be deciphered.

He had a large and ragged staff; on his back he carried a vast Budget, and he was always asking everybody, ’Won’t you put something in the Budget?’

‘Father,’ said Leonora, in a respectful tone, ’canst thou tell us the way to the land of the people called Lo-grolla, and the place of the Rolling of Logs.’

He stroked his beautiful white beard, and smiled faintly.

’Indeed, child, we not only know it, but ourselves discovered it and wrote it up ­we mean, sent our representative,’ he answered.

It was a peculiarity of this man that he always spoke, like royalty, in the first person plural.

‘And if a daughter may ask,’ said Leonora, ’what is the name of my father?’

Stedfastly regarding her, he answered, ‘Our name is Pellmelli.’

‘And whither go we, my father?’

’That you shall see ­as soon, that is, as the fog lifts, or as our representative has made interest with a gas company.’

With these words he furnished an unequalled supply of litter, which came, he said, ‘from the office,’ where there was plenty, and we were borne rapidly in a westward direction.

As we journeyed, old Pellmelli gave us a good deal of information about the Lo-grollas, whom he did not seem to like.

They were, he said, a savage and treacherous tribe, inhabiting for the most part the ruined abodes of some kingly race of old.

The names of their chief dwellings, he told us, were still called, in some ancient and long-lost speech,

‘The Academy,’ and ‘The Athenaeum.’

Leonora, whose knowledge of languages was extensive and peculiar, told Pellmelli that these names were derived from the old Greek.

‘Ah,’ said he, ’you have clearly drunk of the wisdom of the past, and thy hands have held the water of the world’s knowledge.  Know you Latin also?’

‘Yes, O Pellmelli,’ replied Leonora, and Pellmelli said he preferred modern tongues, though it would often be useful to him if he did in his dealings with the Lo-grollas.

‘However, if our Greek is a little to seek, our Russian is O.K.,’ he said proudly.

He was very bitter against the Lo-grollas.

The Lo-grollas’ favourite weapon, he told us, was the club, and he even proposed to show us this instrument.

Our litter presently stopped outside a stately palace.

The street was dark, as always in this strange city, but old Pellmelli paused, sniffed, and, bending his ear to the ground, listened intently.

‘I smell the incense,’ he said, ’and hear the melodious Rolling of the Logs.  But they shall know their master!’

Thus speaking, he led us into a vast hall, where the Lo-grollas were sitting or standing, ‘offering each other incense,’ as Pellmelli remarked, from thin tubes of paper, which smoked at one end.

‘Now listen,’ said Pellmelli, and he cried aloud the name of a poet known to the Lo-grollas.

Instantly we heard, from I know not what recess, a rolling fire of applause and admiration, which swept past us with stately and solemn music, like a hymn of praise.

‘There,’ said Pellmelli, ’I told you so.  This is the place of the Rolling of Logs, and yourselves have heard it.’

Leonora said she did not mind how often she heard it, as she quite agreed with the sentiments.

‘Not so!’ said Pellmelli; and he cried aloud another name ­the name of a poetaster ­which was almost strange to us.

Then followed through that vasty hall a sharp and rattling crash, as of the descent of innumerable slates.

‘Great heavens!’ whispered Leonora, ’remember the writing; the place where they slate strangers!’

As we were strangers, and wholly unknown to the Lo-grollas, we thought they might slate us, and, beating a hasty retreat, soon found ourselves with Pellmelli in the dark outer air.

‘They are a desperate lot,’ said he; ’they won’t ever put anything in the Budget.’

He was quivering with indignation; and Leonora, to soothe him, told him the story of our quest for the mummy, and asked him if he could help us.

‘We are your man,’ said he.  ’We propose to-morrow to send our representative to interview a magician who has just arrived in this country.  He is a mysterious character; his name is Asher, and it is said that he is the Wandering Jew, or, at all events, has lived for many centuries.  He, if any one, can direct you in your search.’

He then appointed a place where his representative should meet us next day, and we separated, Pellmelli taking his staff, and going off to lead an excursion against the Ama-Tory, a brutal and licentious tribe.