Out of Countenance

"I am, unluckily, one of those who have an antipathy to a cat, so that I am uneasy when in the room with one; and I own, I frequently suffered a good deal from the presence of this same Hodge. I recollect him one day scrambling up Dr. Johnson's breast, apparently with much satisfaction, while my friend smiling and half-whistling, rubbed down his back, and pulled him by the tail; and when I observed he was a fine cat, saying, 'Why yes, Sir, but I have had cats whom I liked better than this;' and then as if perceiving Hodge to be out of countenance, adding, 'but he is a very fine cat, a very fine cat indeed."

-BOSWELL, The Life of Samuel Johnson, L.L.D.

On the penultimate night of August, yr humble correspondent stood on Charlottesville's Rugby Rd, peering at the night-clouds, curled and orange. The echoes of a house party up the Street bounced off the Unitarian building next door, silent and empty . A pale lamplight cast a ghoulish glow on its prognathous Porch; another Rotunda derivative, making a Skeleton's Grin at midnight.

Under this grim sign did I make my way home. So scrambled were my impressions that I had little Sense; I ate of my Host's blue-corn tortilla Chips, and betook myself to a nap.

For two hrs peculiar Fancies occupied my mind. The esteem'd Wm. Byrd has written that tho' sleep may disorder our intellect, and sacrifices some of our alloted on this Earth, it gives us Dreams. For which we may be thankful, for Dreams are our payment for sleep. As there are divers kinds of coin, so divers sorts of dreams in which our Creator rewards our daily Sabbath.

Some are night visions, which dis-cover a cryptic solution, as yet unforeseen. So August Kekulé, who was given the chemical structure of Benzene in a reverie. However, so Delphic is the signification of dreams, that Kekulé only saw a Snake swallowing its own tail. While the noble art of historical philosophy calls this Ouroboros, in America the Indians tell of a certain Hoop-Snake, which, when given a fright, or pursued by a Predator, holds its tail fast in its jaws and rolls away, quite as the hoops on a hogshead.

And thus we roll to another dream-type, the Visitation. Here our domestick Fancy proves her sparkling grace. She entertains guests, - pulls out chairs, offers tea, a compliment of victuals, and when clear'd of our appetite, she allows us intercourse with divers persons. Some perhaps dead, some long-since disappeared from our familiar round, some only taken in a Moment's glance. Thus do our Impressions and Memories participate in a great Family Reunion, conversing in unlikely company, though all linked by relation to Ourselves.

The above shou'd include those peculiar Intrigues which sometimes occupy an overheated Fancy, and even also those dreams, such as visited on authors &c. who find themselve given over to a narrative or tale. These disconnected epiphanies dance 'round the knotted minds of poets - how else to explain the Metamorphoses of Ovidius? Or the petulant insistence of Samuel Butler, that perhaps Nausikaa did write for Homer, he having already nodded off?

There can be no easy Dividing-Line betwixt these types, as Aeneas found when the mangled body of the hero Hector, his fallen cousin, appeared over his bed. As the flames licked the highest spires of Ilion, and the blood of Troy already spatter'd the ankles of raging Neoptolemus, Hector speaks:

'heu fuge, nate dea, teque his' ait 'eripe flammis.hostis habet muros; ruit alto a culmine Troia. sat patriae Priamoque datum: si Pergama dextradefendi possent, etiam hac defensa fuissent.sacra suosque tibi commendat Troia penatis;hos cape fatorum comites, his moenia quaeremagna pererrato statues quae denique ponto.'

‘Ah, flee, goddess-born,’ he cries, ‘and escape from these flames. The foe holds our walls; Troy falls from her lofty height. All claims are paid to king and country; if Troy’s towers could be saved by strength of hand, by mine, too, had they been saved. Troy entrusts to you her holy things and household gods; take them to share your fortunes: seek for them the mighty city, which, when you have wandered over the deep, you shall at last establish!’

Thus Hector, his once-noble form torn, blackened with bood and dust, his feet ripped open by the ropes of Achilles' chariot.

So deep does Fancy drive us within our Recollections and Visions that we are only wakened with difficulty. Indeed, the fire of Imagination consumes our other senses, melting them into the single alloy of its use. In this camera obscura, that hidden Room where some harmless drudge attends to the secret work of our mental Processes, sight, sound, taste, smell, even touch are subdued, twist'd and hammer'd to the shape of Imagination's vision. No longer will they work their peculiar Tasks - the senses, as we, are dead.

Which makes last night's sudden awake all the more perturbing. I was aroused from commodious ease by the most pungent, horrific Scent ever dreamt by King Intestine. Nay, it was not a scent - nor any of the other minor Imps, yr bouquets, fragrances and aromas.

In my sleep the Indolent Reek had settled its grotesque Rump upon my face and refus'd to budge. Foolish vanity supposed that exhaustion wou'd overwhelm me, defeating my disgust. But the Stench stalked about the room, capering and cavorting with Fiendish grimaces. With every step it unveiled a new Spice, a new Vantage on its wretched visage. It seems that in my sleep the cats had been at large, and perhaps in a kind of vengeance upon me, for my benign Apathy to their Charms, they had committed a felonious raid on the Litter Box, not a pace from the Foot of my Bed.

I assayed a Chemical Treatment upon the Beastly Effluvium, but not even the official spray of the National Foot-ball League cou'd do more than anger the emanation. I had only Irritated the beast, and encouraged it to do me still Greater Trespass with a new, brimstonish humor - one that I cou'd only compare, perhaps, with a half-digested Blood Sausage, retrieved from the bottom of a Latrine pit on the night of a climactic Barbecque, as we provide on the Chesapeke Coast of Virginia.

In retrieving a Mechanickal lighter, I passed by the Mothers of that satanish Stink, who meowed with sardonic glee at my Predicament. I admit, that in my vomitous State, I did hurl some Imprecations at them such as wou'd not well-acquit a Gentleman. But they are vile ass-hussies, and cats, to Boot.

Having kept a nauseous vigil for 1/2 hr at a vanilla candle, I set aside my book, a long-forgotten (because always-mentioned) novel, glared disconsolately at the grey muck of Filth across the room, and blew out the light.

"This reminds me of the ludicrous account which he gave Mr Langton, of the despicable state of a young Gentleman of good family. 'Sir, when I heard of him last, he was running about town shooting cats.' And then in a sort of kindly reverie, he bethought himself of his own favourite cat, and said, 'But Hodge shan't be shot; no, no, Hodge shall not be shot.'"