Aristarchus of the South Seas

'ARISTARCHUS is charming: how full of knowledge, of sense, of sentiment. You get him with difficulty to your supper; and after having delighted everybody and himself for a few hours, he is obliged to return home; - he is finishing his treatis, to prove that unhappiness is the portion of man.'
-Richard Fulke Greville, Maxims, Characters, and Reflections

'Mr. Melville was probably quite as entertaining and somewhat less abstruse, when his communications were by word of mouth. Mrs. Hawthorne used to tell of one evening, when he came in, and presently began to relate the story of a fight which he had seen in the Pacific, between some savages, and the prodigies of valor one of them performed with a heavy club. The narrative was extremely graphic; and when Melville had gone, and Mr. and Mrs. Hawthorne were talking over his visit, the latter said, "Where is that club which Mr. Melville was laying about him so?" Mr. Hawthorne thought he must have taken it with him; Mrs. Hawthorne thought he had put it in the corner; but it was not to be found. The next time Melville came, they asked him about it; whereupon it appeared that the club was still in the Pacific island, if it were anywhere."
-Julian Hawthorne, Nat. Hawthorne & his Wife, a Biography; Vol. 1

'Melville, as he always does, began to reason of Providence and futurity, and of everything that lies beyond human ken, and informed me that he had "pretty much made up his mind to be annihilated;" but still he does not seem to rest in that anticipation; and, I think, will never rest until he gets hold of a definite belief. It is strange how he persists - and has persisted ever since I knew him, and probably long before - in wandering to and fro over these deserts, as dismal and monotonous as the sand hills amid which we were sitting. He can neither believe, nor be comfortable in his unbelief; and he is too honest and courageous not to try to do one or the other. If he were a religious man, he would be one of the most truly religious and reverential; he has a very high and noble nature, and better worth immortality than most of us."
-Hawthorne, Journal, Nov. 12 1856

'An agreeable day. Took a long walk by the sea. Sands & grass. Wild & desolate. A strong wind. Good talk."
-Melville, Journal, Nov. 12 1856

The Land of Eden

"We're tired of trees. We should stop believing in trees, roots, and radicles."
-Gilles Deleuze, Anti-Oedipus

On the morrow I journey to the Land of Eden, my home-stretch, where the noble Dan River flows quiet 'neath the trees. My two years amongst the Germans & Sauvages, have barrister'd & lawyered away at my Conscience, till I can no longer stand to be apart from my beloved red clay.

Half the delight of any Journey derives from the anticipatory pleazure. We recall the roads & byways, speckled with the gold & green shadows of summer. We hope for a flagon of dark Mexican beer & a great Dish of Pollo Mole. We imagine the faces of Friends, so long unseen that they seem to have been Characters in a dream. They may only be revived by offering yourself, in the flesh.

Homer gives us a type of this, when Odysseus must pour hot sacrificial blood on the ground, to attract the hungry Shades. We forget the wide distance between ourselves. Gadgetry & Mechanistickal devices - the Cell-Phone - allow us to appear in Effigy, or to breathe a few words into remote ears. But, being good Pagans in heart if not in mind, we prefer always the flesh, to the spirit.

See what grievous loss Departure wreaks: Dido's lovely flesh, burning on the Carthaginian ramparts, after Mercury tugged Aeneas' spirit onward to Italy; poor Fitzgerald, maintaining his mad wife Zelda, who became only a mannequin of her self. For that matter, wou'd not Troy's high walls stand forever, if not for Helen's duplicitous escape?

But Herodotus tells us otherwise, that Helen hid in Egypt, and it was only an image of Helen in Troy. Indeed, no matter how much she was shamed, and whored by the Heroes & Princes of the Mediterranean, always she was reverenced as pure, indeed as a Virgin. Helen escapes from Menelaus, as she later escapes from Paris & the burning Walls of Ilion - by remaining ghostly, uncommitted. There will always be some part of Helen that survives; like a Tree, ever so harshly scoured by Winter & fire, yet blooming in Spring.

The virgins worshipp'd Helen under the sycamores, near Sparta. & it was fruit from the fig-sycamore, the Mulberry, that Eve ate, that expell'd our noble line from perpetuall Happiness. Who can say what spirit they relinquish'd in that garden? Who cou'd say what spirit we have gain'd, by the Toils of our unhappy flesh?

But now it is time to put away recondite Musings, & attend to my tree-dreams.

Overheard, from Tables

-O, I can hoodoo you!
***
-I have learn'd, that there are women who simply enjoy coition. As soon they have stopp'd drinking, depend on it, they will attach themselves to a man. Certainly, they will find many willing to oblige their appetites, which are positively ravenous.
***
-I have seen these slippers before, but never in lavender.
-But you have that pair - is't not the same?
-Nay, I look'd far for these, and found them finally in a warren of Myrtle Beach.
***
-I hope that I can calm my twitches before I go to Pennsylvania. The savages are monstrous fierce.
***
-The subdivisions are fabulous. So beautiful. I go there, and I query myself, where I cou'd find a tie to match these beautiful homes?

A Tincture of Pokeweed-Sense

We have now pass'd a full Day since the suppos'd, predicted end of the World, on May 21st, 2011.

It will be quick enough to guess the Counters offer'd by the True-believers of this Profecy. "Perhaps it was no end of this world, but rather the Beginning of the Tribulation, where all our Mettles shall be tested!"

"Perhaps the holy are already disappear'd, and the Wicked discover'd by their continual Residence on Earth."

"Perhaps there are yet geologick Distempers brewing in the molten Innards of our country - ye need look only to the volcanic Belch, again spewing from Iceland's hoary beard!"

Perhaps ministers & schoolmasters enough are convinc'd of this folly, that the next Generation will grow into a fearful & wither'd State, forever apprehensive of their own Failings. Impending Doom will bend the spines of our proud Country, & scolioted Virginia shall have a Hunchback Governor.

But when I hear these easy-enough Cries, promising the Long Grim Slide, I can only give in Echo four-fold Laughter. If there is this God that tends the trees and watches over each Flock after its kind, to what end this general Conflagration, so eagerly awaited by his Followers?

Why wou'd he allow the trees to bend under their darkening greens? Why wou'd he swell the Gerando River with all the rich silt of a Nile, or Tiber? Why wou'd he allow the wheat-fields to whisper with the softness of distant Surf, and yet in a moment peel back the Rind of the earth, to melt & eternally singe us all?

I put my faith in the downy yellow Ducklings that trundle after their mother, near the nest she made of nettles and twigs. I put my faith in the grackle that makes her nest in a Gutter, high above my head, so that I may only know of her young by the squawks that emerge from my roof. I put my faith in the clay-red calf I saw yesterday in the Fort Valley, running after his mother with all the joy of one who has only just discover'd running.

These are better signs indeed than Disorder in the Middle East, which has ever been a blazing, bloody ground, or the misdoings of a few miscreant Politickos. What cou'd a just God care about a politician, when his eye apprehends as well the Duckling?

What a cruel God He is to these Apocalyptites, that they must live another day on the bounteous Earth. Indeed, to such Unrulies as wish the end of the world, What better punishment than a beautiful weekend, such as this?

The Old Man is Snoring

I don't care if we spend
the night at your mansion

Prodigious Rain. Never before, in the Historie of Virginia, have I seen such torrential pourings. The Gulf has been a whirl-wind all to its own this year, and some few of their offspring have climbed up the Appalachians to menace the Gerando Valley & its settlements.

It wou'd be easy to imagine falsely that the Mountains afford some protection. But these aged Ramparts cannot prevent a Cyclone from entering our valley, and furthermore, they trap the storm within their Bounds, so that that tornadick twisting will bounce & volley all across the poor Farmland.

Thus the Mountains betray us to another Foe. For the Indians have no reason to pass thro' this Land, but only are funnel'd along our Roads & into our Yards by that Appalachian Highway, the Warrior's Path.

I myself was near frighten'd out my Skin by tornadick Action, a mere few weeks ago. In the midst of darkness, Molly, my wife's Irish wench, sprung into my bedroom. Ah, I thought, the bonny hungers for a Frolick - for oft has this pock'd Aphrodite assum'd the office of her Mistress, when it comes to bed-labor.

"Sir! Sir! Master Bainton! There is no time for such ninnery. There is a tornado about!"

"Well," sd I, thinking this a peculiar phantasy of hers, "perhaps we shou'd spend our last minutes in the fullest ripeness!," and rush'd my Hand to her Quickness!

There was a great scuffing, & unseemly Noises proceeded from my Chambers - this I must admit. But, as soon as I understood the full Import of the Slut's importunity, I struggled like a very Laocoon to free myself from her petticoats! "We must needs retreat! Let us away, to the Cellar!"

But here, I was pinn'd by a most troubling Query: What to take with me? Shou'd I grab my compleat Pliny, or my gilt volumes of Ruskin's letters to the workingmen? Shou'd I remove to my underground Lair with a homey copy of Ulysses, or with Djuna Barnes, or Charles Doughty?

For what profit the Man his Library, if it be scatter'd to wind-blown & wet pages, or torn to flecks & Bits? What profit a Millionaire his Mansion, if the compress'd wood lies again in mulch'd chips, and the christall Chandelier now only shards that may slice his children's Feet?

In the end I threw my Manuscripts into a bag from the Food Lion, & hoped. Molly & I pass'd a diverting, if not altogether Joyfull night in the double-door'd Cellar. The Cellar stank to Heaven, which is fitting, as the stench is an augur of Rain. And in the morning, when my watch told that I shou'd go to my Surveyor, we emerg'd to find the World green, twigg'd & branch'd, but alltogether whole, thank God.

"They pursued their march through the Isle of Wight, and observed a most dreadful havoc made by a late hurricane, which happened in August 1726. The violence of it had not reached above a quarter of a mile in breadth, but within that compass had levelled all before it. Both trees and houses were levelled flat on the ground, and severall things hurled to an incredible distance. It is happy such violent gusts are confined to so a narrow channel, because they carry desolation wherever they go.
-W. Byrd, History of the Div. Line

The Chironomia of Place

"I think," said I, "I may infer from all this that you too are a Virginian."
"Of course, I would not suppose you could doubt it. There is a sort of Freemasonry among us, by which we know each other..."
--George Balcombe, Nathaniel Beverley Tucker

Flagpole Sitta

Met today with a sullen Platonist, who told me that beneath all the sundry Pratings & wildnesses of Man, he cou'd discern but one Idea: LOVE.

"Does not the Mantuan swan tell us that amor omnia vincit?" he asked, with a positively Olympian grandeur. "Does not the peripatetic Master -"

"Halt there, my good man," I said. "If love be all, and infuse all with its grandeur & strength, where then wou'd the Love be when no life breath'd on the earth? What wou'd this love be, when the Blue Ridge rumpled to Life like a folding Carpet? What wou'd the loving Heart be, that gaz'd on vast & measureless wastes, with no Breath upon it but the most vile & noxious of gasses?"

The Platonist sigh'd, as tho' I were but a Stripling that needed thorough Correction. "Sir, the love is of course God's."

"But can we call the mind of God by those same words used of man?"

"Of course not." Again, he beam'd with the assurance of a divine.

"Ah. Just yesterday, my Sappony man Ned Bearskin hopp'd into my tent to tell me that his son has taken a Wife. The poor native considers himself in love. Now, tell me, how can your God look upon the Rocks with a swelling tumescence? How can his trousers inflate at the sight of an airless rock, bald of the greenery that fills our hills? What manner of rotten flagpole sitter is this, that wou'd shun the hot doings of a young Sappony & his wife?"

"Oh, M'syer Bainton - you do try my patience. Oh - piss off, sir!"


And thus we parted on the warmest terms of Love

From the Raskolnikov Correspondence

In a gentleman's perambulations, he comes to acquaintance with many of the Eminents of his time. However, he also comes to meet the drudges, the hanged men, the shellfish-dregs of Humanity that silt up the river-bottoms of common Society.

A peculiar passage of Lucian, which made reference to Sanchuniathon, in whose researches into the cult of Ba'al I was most intrigued. So, determined to find a pagan Idoll, I found a heathen of the Schoolroom - a most desiccated example, Dr. Sledge. This Sledge cou'd not be persuaded to hand me any of the materials I requested. He pluck'd & tugg'd at the flecks of Tobacco on his lips, apparently a Residue of a recent chew, and nibbl'd excitedly at a stack of Potatoe-wedges when I ask'd him of his students. He hurriedly retriev'd a folder, and gave me this paper, telling me that it wou'd explain Idol-ism better than any Canaanite.

Thus, I introduce the following, into the record, as a measure of the present aera. Of it, I may only say that I have never met, nor encounter'd in sundry readings & investigations of the world, so bold a braggart, so defiant a liar.:

"Dear M. :

I am sorry that I looked at Sparknotes and then wrote my paper. I did not intentionally have the same materials as was on Sparknotes. I read the book several times but I wanted a clearer understanding of the characters. I felt that something I was reading aref [sic] something important. I just started typing and couldn't stop until I finished. I did not realize that I just remember things once I read it so I say that I have a photographic memory.

"I visualize things in my mind so I can see what would happen if I did a certain thing. My mind knows what another persons [sic] going to do because of their tendencies. I have an understanding of the human mind and what people are going to do before they do it. I always have a plan when I do something, and once it is set into motion the result never changes even if I try to change some instances.

"I've been having black outs for a while and I completely lost consciouness [sic] in church beto [sic], but I thought it went away...I started to lose my memory and had trouble remembering things sometimes and I knew that something was um [sic].

"I didn't want to say anything because I didn't want to let the team down...my brain hurt when I had a thought. I could not focus and my head was killing me...

"When writhe [sic] the paper, I wesaw [sic] satisfied with just one so I wrote several essays. I used to write all the time, and I could write about anything. I did not make different copies as joke [sic], I did it because I love writing, and I love learning about Shakespeare plays.

"I still don't think that I plagiarized because I believe plagiarizing is copying and pasting someone [sic] work and calling it your own. I'm sorry for having the same thing as Sparknotes, I didn't do it intentionally. My paper looks like I just plagiarized, and I admit some words are used, but I honestly don't believe I plagiarized.

"I can't say I plagiarized even when I'm faced with all the facts because I believed I did not plagiarize. I do not lie because I see no need to, I am a person who believes that he don't [sic] need to copy anyone's work because my work is perfect. I apologize for how responded [sic] to you Monday, I'm still recuperating and I just got back and I reacted. What you saw as a threat. This is the reason I was malicous [sic]. I am at fault for this an I am sorry."
+++

What can one say to a prodigy of memory & Forgetfulness? To such a son of Mnemosyne and Lethe?

Verses Writ with a Diamond

In her Imprisonment at Woodstock, these verses she wrote with her diamond in a glass window:

Much suspected by me,
Nothing proved be.
Quod Elizabeth the prisoner.

"And, behold, here cometh a chariot of men..."

Who cou'd have expected, that the Nile might have waters richer than the Potomack?

Hollow House, part 2

or, the Concluding Part, of the foregoing.

"People of the same trade seldom meet together, even for merriment and diversion, but the conversation ends in a conspiracy against the public..."
Adam Smith, Wealth of Nations

I have call'd on the Professors of physic; I have no hesitation, when the bloody Inevitable looms over my people. But I am the exception; the most of my neighbors are now afflict'd by that Rottenness, Pilamania.

There are now scores of Pills, each coat'd with a slight Layer of sugar, so that it may rest easily on a tender Tongue. The Tablet, bone-white, of the size of a baby's digit, usually has enscrib'd upon its surface some inscrutable pink Writing; no doubt part of the Apothecary's arcane Arts.

I met Teuffeldreck's beloved Apothecary just yesterday, as I was requir'd to visit town for a most distressing Complaint. I found that, seemingly without connexion to my comestibles, my Buttocks had begun to erupt most fearfully.

I had ignor'd the Problem, and done my best to ignore the complications attendant upon such Issue, in polite Society; that is, I found myself treating my Gas as a kind of Bastard, an offspring unbidden, unwant'd, that I tried my best to pass off as another's Child, all the while nursing a secret, eager Pride. I cou'd stand the grimaces of my serving-People , and the mutters & wafting Paws of Mme. Bainton; but I knew that the End was near, when dear Ned Bearskin ask'd me, Epaph, have ye consum'd the Bear-fat? Or have you been hoodoo'd again, by King Bettie?

This was warning enough, so I took myself to the Dispensary, under the guise of asking for my Wife(which I thought an able disguise). I question'd the counter-man:

-If one was to be unduly troubl'd by wind, what might one do?
-Sir, perhaps eat earlier? For it troubles me mightily to take a meal and then lie abed, and my wife says that I stench up the bed awfully in such cases...
-Yes, yes; but if 'twere more than just a passing fancy - if it appear'd almost as a gaining occupation?
-Sir, there can be no such permanent Flatulence, for it fades, and passes, easy as it comes!
-I tell you, you must needs offer me a Remedy!

And here I slapp'd the counter, with a most grievous Consequence. The Apothecary, reclus'd in a hidden room, leapt forth. "Are ye distemper'd, sir? Are ye troubl'd by the complaint? Dearth of lusty tales? Need ye more Concentration?

He wink'd most lasciviously at me, as tho' I myself were the object of these suggestions, rather than the subject. I told him that I had no such issues, but Issues of a much different kind, that troubl'd me. He grinn'd at me, his leering lip split by a sore, "but surely - sire, - you wou'd find yourself better equipp'd to tackle the Day with a clearer head?"

-I know not what you mean, sirrah. I want only a remedy for my Wife, who is taken to bed with Wind.
-Taken to bed, ma-hah! (here he snuffed at his wrist, and appear'd to lick his cuff, which I believe held the remnants of his sup;)
-She is! I must needs help her!
-You can help her, Sire, by adjusting yr diseas'd Temper! Plainly, you have not flux'd yrself enough of that most perilous bile...

Here he gestur'd me over, but I refus'd, at which time he made various grunting Insinuations, about the wandering Uterus, and the necessity of periodically riding a See-saw, and of mucus collecting in the Brain, because not expell'd via the nostril.

I made neither head nor tail of it, but it was his haggling manner, that most attract'd my attention. He would let himself run riot, and then most disconcertingly quell his tongue, so that I found myself finishing his sentences in my Mind, most uncouth tho' they were. Even the counter-man, who had ample chance to tire of this Hectoring, listen'd rapt, as the Apothecary dispens'd wisdom on:
-the perils of self-abuse;
-inattention, as a valuable trait;
-inattention, as a disgusting canker that must needs medicative adjustment;
-bile, the lava that most overheats the heart;
-creativity, alloy of tar-bile & inattention (ergo, Tho. Jefferson, Geo. Washington, Col. Parke)
-women, a kind of cosmic bile - the primeval ether given appealing shape, so as to encourage unification with it, which we avoid at our peril.

I return'd most dissatisfied. Judging by his disquisition, I assum'd that Mrs. T. would soon discuss with him the dirty books my servants had been passing about, and that soon, he wou'd call at my house, pushing bottles of herbed Honey, & Dates rubb'd in the Waters of the James Flu., as a Panacea for dissolution. For, in such a world, where men candy the pills & dole them as Treats, will the Placebo be mistook for the Panacea.

At night, Mme. Bainton lay with me, reading the penultimate volume of some feminine epic - the disordering of the Curtains by the villainous Miss Mopsley results in, etc., or, the True & disordering Tale of a Poor innocent Handsome Braggart, betray'd by various Harpies who, etc. She is as obscure to me as the far side of the Mountain.

-Epaph, did you visit today the Apothecary?
-Aye (I was at this time translating Propertius into hexameters - a proposition less pleasing, certainly, than pentameter, but one assign'd me by some Freak of will). I ask'd & receiv'd.
-Well, I trust we shall have a calm and pleasing night. Oh, Lord save us - what is that Stench!

Hollow House, part 1

Or, the Lure of Pornography; & sundry Comments relating.

"Do you think I meant country matters?"
Shakespeare, Hamlet, III.2

A little Scum of dirty snow; a blasting, whorish wind. Only the slow erection of the Sun cou'd remind us, that soon enough He will stand upright and the leaves bustle again in the trees.

In this season when Persephone carts from her wormy home, Love most frequent visits the Bainton estate. Altho' servants will never exhaust their internecine intrigues, and the burghers and townsmen have fill'd my Ears to the brimming with tales of wintry Scandal, SPRING gives a new tenor & Complexion to the general Flux of emotion. The longer day will rejuvenate the trees; the increased heat will clot the skies with clouds; the grey, ice salt dust will disappear, and the streams fill again, beneath the burst of rain-storms.

But often enough the rain makes for a swampy mire, too. Yest., around four o' the clock, I had ensconc'd myself in the Publick House, attending to correspondence, doodling my tepid imitations of Lucian onto spare pages, et other such nonsense. In the midst of such dawdling repast, I saw enter thro' the door a grievous Couple, the Teuffeldrecks.

Herr T., more commonly Manfred, has been an invaluable Conduit between my fields & the bartering Lines of Norfolk. He keeps a pretty accounting House, uptown of myself, where the rooms are filled with Ledgers, thick & heavy as slabs of granite. His fasitidious habits extend to his quills, which he arranges in various orders (length of feather, thickness of point, speckle of feather, etc.), and sharpens their points every night before returning to his Rooms, back of his business.

There waits for him, Olga. She & I have manag'd a most remarkable peace these past months, & I fully intend to maintain the amity. Thus shall I present my tale without adornment, or comment:

The family T. sat at my Table, Manfred draped at Olga's elbow, despite having a good eight inches above her.

"Well, Epaph," she said, "I see you are busy as ever." She waved her knobby fingers that so emetically remind one of pigs' feet.

"Aye, I have much in the way of corrections to be made here. I apologize that I cannot better amuse refined palates such as yrs." Here, Manfred winced. I am sorry for that now.

"T'would take no refin'd palate for this fare, Epaph. Merely a sturdy Stomach, for when you start spouting your bile." Her lips, rippled like the curdlings of Cheese, jiggl'd in triumph. I had no appettite for this pinioning.

"Ah, ah - Tell me, Epaph, sir - Ah, do you find your Goodman Stubb well?" Manfred pluck'd at his snuffy nose with a stiff cloth. "I haven't chance to speak to him on the Market Days, but I repine most for his company, in this winter." Olga cast a rheumy eye on this comment, blinking with bovine scorn.

"Stubb keeps himself well. It is not Stubb that occupies my thoughts before sleep; 'tis his loutish cousin, Lester Jacob. I have hired him out for these next two years, & his sole industry has been corrupting the ears of my maids. Always & ever I stumble on him, hand buried in a petticoat, himself grumbling lascivious at an innocent ear."

"Oh I'm sure they are not so innocent as you say. Certainly you wou'd have taught them to know something of the world."

The thousand injuries of this beefy matron I could bear no longer. "Aye, worldly enough are they. But I only wish he would not spend himself on such pregnable women - I have trouble enough without children. I do wonder why he speaks of those pornographies so much."

I had said this in passing, but the report from her lips was as if I had skinn'd her back with my Buck-knife. "Why, indecent writings! Speaking of such a thing! We must needs send him away - for Physic!"

On Disgust, Considered as One of the Fine Arts

"He was fundamentally and outwardly abject, as other men are markedly of a generous, distinguished, or venerable appearance. It was the element of his nature which permeated all his acts and passions and emotions; he raged abjectly, smiled abjectly, was abjectly sad; his civilities and his indignations were alike abject. I am sure his love would have been the most abject of sentiments - but can one imagine a loathsome insect in love? And his loathsomeness, too, was abject, so that a simply disgusting person would have appeared noble by his side."
--Joseph Conrad, Lord Jim, Ch. 29

In our Dominion, we are much dispos'd to laud & venerate good intentions. Let me pry an example from its native Granite, and set it in a golden Band, as an exemplum

Far from WILLIAMSBURGH, the most candy'd corner of Virginia, there are odious tasks to be done, with daily regularity. One of these is the making of syrup, and the further refining of the maple-tree's Sap till it come to pounds of Sugar. Thus, Saponi Ned & I oft take to the Woods, finding ourselves in the darkest Crevices & Hollows. Here, Dame Nature turns a pale Shoulder to the Sun's warming caress, and the ground holds a monstrous chill through the Seasons. Here we tap the Sap as it rises, and gather the sticky Resin while we may.

Yet, I betook myself 'round Joseph Stauber's fields, passing thro' his wife's Kitchen to enjoy the Biscuits she avails, and cross'd the Ridge back to my lands. Here, I find a line of trees quite Rott'd thro', the branches falling apart of their own, like the blacken'd Limbs of a Corpse.

When I queried Mme. Bainton & Ned about this most unusual development, they gave me a most mournful Stare, and then took a close Study of the Floorboards.

"Well?" ask'd I, "what reason cd be for the pestilential death?"

Ned unseat'd himself from his Haunches, and rose. "Epaph., 'twas my young man, Hyco, who belted the trees. They drain'd little sap, but have died in the year since. He is a boy with more enterprise than sense."

"Epaph., do not fly to one of yr Colics; he is but a boy, and that was another season. And, aside, he only had the best of intentions."

****
What a mockery of Sense! What counterfeit of Courtesy! Allow Folly to go uncorrect'd - and watch the Land become Waste. I have a hillside now, decorat'd & scour'd with the black Hulks of decaying wood, mold'd o'er with glowing fungus & the writhing bodies of Larvae. Anyone may stand at the Foot of Stauber's Oldfield, and watch scores of good American pounds rot before their very eyes!

An edifying Specktacle, and one produc'd all for the Benefit & instruction of the following sermon: that it is not the Result of an Action, but the Aim, that shou'd be consider'd most in judging its moral Worth. Thus, with a pretty Sentiment, we may fill our Bellies, even tho' we starve, by Error. But, all in good Faith!

Thus, I propose, amidst the Rot, a Revival. I open my Tent to the Mean, that I may give measure to their meanness; I give a path to the shiftless & Imbecile, that I may blast their loping step; I unbar my door to the Vain, that I may strike down their pride. I declare, that I will be an Artist, in Disgust!

Of Signs and Wonders

"There was another method of capnomancy which consisted of observing the smoke arising from poppy and jessamin seeds cast on burning coals."
---John Bumpus, Demonologia, 1827

"I been watchin' the roads, I been studyin' the dust."
--- B. Dylan

Just this night, I took myself en promenade to the Stadium, to do my dance in the chill Evening. While Exercises give enjoyment enough, trimming the Belly & quickening my sluggish Blood, the viscous & frigid Air adds a piquancy all its own. For what man does not enjoy the Shadow of his own breath on the ground? That most insubstantial part of him, made thick enough to catch light in its twirling curlicues? Or perhaps the razor-sharp thrill of a harsh Breeze, blown south by way of the Great Lakes?

I shudder to think that those self-same breezes that brush my branches have also touched a redoubt of Ft. Duquesne, or jolted an Acadian into watchfulness. Some nights, I think that I can see the very Eyes through the trees - as tho' a baleful visage appeared in the Face of the Appalachians, and mouth'd its Gallic nonsense at me.

My father was a great Interpreter of signs; he studied most prodigiously the Dents of Traffick-signs, the Colours of horse-Mucus, the arrays of Pine-needles, the emissions of Pocosins, and most especially what Wrinkles & stains happen'd to the rare English Pound he cou'd find. But his friends, esp. the noble Doctor Wigham Dodd, wou'd counsel him, ye have but little wisdom in ye, if ye wou'd seek the word of God in the flecks & Daubs of a fallen World!

But my father held it different; that just as Christ liv'd with the Sinners, so too he would betake his Intelligence to the meagerest Figures of God's creation; so he would seek the natural Philosophy in the Crannies. Sic, on the subject: Epaph, the world is a glorious, whirring Machine; the Great God wou'd have us check its parts & manage well the Grease.

& it is true that the Ancients held their mancies & Predictions in the highest. For who appears most as Wisdom's body in the Greek Dramatists, but sexless Tiresias, teller of hidden Truth? Who gives the Ides for Caesar's death, but a broken old Hag? And what gave Rome the sign of Caesar's Ascension, but a streaking Comet?

It wou'd appear that, tho' lacking a Caesar, the Heavens nonetheless offer Wonders. First in California, that distant shore of unparalleled Villainy; then in New York, quagmire of that peculiar business-wisdom, that pretends to Vision, but only by vast Ignorance. For ne'er have I met a Trader, dealer or worker of the Docks generally that did not boast eagerly of his Ignorance - that did not make it a very Badge of his manhood.
& this from them that would deal most with the Work of the World! But here we revisit a Common-place, that a professor of Literature hath no Ear for Poetry, and that a Engineer wou'd ignore an aqueduct, that a man wou'd sooner gaze upon a fresh Beauty than on his long-practic'd Wife - no matter how lovely she may be.

But so it is with the world, that Beauty, in the sense of the Philosophers, disappears when we stand too close to her. We must make a hard Journey past siren & Cyclops before we may see Ithaca afresh. It is no accident that Pausanias shows us an instance of divination with a Mirror - Captroptomancy - for it shows us the world again.

Thus it may well benefit the be-numb'd soul to have ghostly Strands, or fiery Comets, or phantom Missiles running thro' the skies, if only to bolden the glass and stone Skyline. Tho' the threat of Gallic duplicity & Weroance-wickedness has no mean weight, I wou'd not sacrifice the Wonder of a water-fall for the safe Trickle of a Creek.

When I walk'd across the Macadam-path that lines the Sherando Valley, to the Stadium for a moment of Exertion, I saw a Comet break through the heavenly Spheres like a flaming Pearl.

July, July!

This invention will produce forgetfulness in the minds of those who learn to use it, because they will not practice their memory. --Phaedrus, Plato.

The Life of a country Parson cou'd have no greater Distractions & attendancies than mine; for every night I must spend in divers Quandries, Plans, and Executions. The bed 'pon which I recline offers the Figure of Mme. Bainton, taken to Complaint, crouch'd thro' her morning Hours above a Basin, heaving; the Candle by which I compose my Post-mails recalls Goodman's false Promise to retrieve newe Wax from Winchester, suppos'd to burn with a nigh-perpetual Flame; the open Window, by which a Breeze replenishes the starch'd Air, is yet fill'd with the groaning Murmur of Cattle, and the whisper'd Urgencies of fitful Loves that betray my Estate's Harmony with a Kiss.

Thus do I carp & moan. I took myself to walking about, a pasttime Mme Bainton has had me surrender, as my legs have creak'd more than an old leather Strap. Beneath my Knees a mysterious Fiber has been strain'd; the Physick's Counsel, thusly:

"Ye are sturdy & well-built. But Keep ye apprized, Sir, that eatin hevvy of the Hamm-hock, & then pursuin the Duckk in the feld, will only bring sorrow to ye. You must give mor rest to yr jints than ye have, for runnin and walkin cross these hilltops, and dinin in as uncommon a way as Ye do, ye must in time break yr poor body's heart. Remember, sir, a man is only so rich, as he can learn to let things in this world alone."

My Physic, tho' intention'd well, for it is true that I frequent those Siam & Indian Currees, that I delight my Tongue with the rich Flesh of the Duck, and that I have of a time stout'd myself with Drink, is yet not to be mistaken with a Galen. His Note came yesterday, while I was travailing the country with Ned Bearskin; &, like a meddlesome Beau, it had kept Company with my wife all the while, so that, besteam'd with Exertion & pleas'd with Spoil, I must needs revert to Contrition, lest Mme. Bainton threaten again to spatter my poor Frame with buckshot.

& so it was with some Risk that I took myself down the Plank-road to peer at the Moon, risen waxing over Massanutten Ridge. A pair of tiny Lights implied a Jett headed to the Federal City, as the flash of silver Earrings in a Garden hints at a demoiselle. The Interstate, usually a river of Commerce, lay silent as a Brook in August, dried up to bare Sand.

There is a Story, of this already storied Day, that in Albermarle Co. there liv'd an Enthusiastic Democrat, who believ'd Jefferson had "rais'd himself and his party one step higher in the temple of fame," by dying on the anniversary of Independence. When inform'd that Adams had died as well this die, he wou'd not credit such, and in the end wou'd only admit a "damn Yankee trick!"
***

"[Jefferson] remark'd on the tendency of his mind to recur back to the events of the Revolution. Many incidents he wou'd relate...he remarked that the curtains of his bed had been purchased from the first cargo that arriv'd after the peace of 1782." - Col. Randolph, grandson, of the deathbed.

It was a scene of Augury. George Wythe Randolph, who wou'd later chew up Pages of oratory in favor of Secession & dividing his grandfather's Country, was then only 8, & stood uncomprehending at the Old Sage's bedside. Old Tho. utter'd his advice, his admonitions, his final testaments to his grandchildren, & seeing the namesake of his old teacher so befuddled, he smiled, that "George does not understand what all this means."

Tho' much business is usually made of Old Tom's insistence that his Gravestone be simple, and no mention of his vaunt'd Presidency, Vice-Presidency, &c., be made, the more peculiar was this Command in his Instructions: that the Stone be hewn from the same Rock as his coarse Columns, that no one be tempt'd to destroy it for the value of the materials.

How well had Tom taken the Temper of his new Citizens! For sure as he said, his Countrymen have chopp'd at the Past, taking as little Reverence for an old Building as a Ploughman has for an uncut Field. For tho' a woodpile provides plenty enough warmth in Winter, in Summer it is only a dusty Refuge for Rattlesnakes. & thus have we treat'd our Patrimony, that we shou'd only make it a cold & zoned Museum, girdled apart from human Intercourse; or, that it should be slic'd up & grill'd, for the better Delectation of an Asphalt Impressario.

Up the Seaboard John Adams turn'd to Death in Peacefield. Thus did two Lights whisper, flicker, & vanish.
***

End, then, this copybook Post-Mail, with a copybook entry. Tho sat by his wife, who was sickly & dying. She cou'd no longer read, so she began to copy, in regular school-book Hand, these Lines from Sterne's Tristram Shandy:

"Time wastes too fast: every letter I trace tells me with what rapidity life follows my pen. The days and hours of it are flying over our heads like clouds of a windy day never to return - more every thing presses on -" [and here her Pen dropp'd, & Tho finish'd with] "and every time I kiss thy hand to bid adieu, every absence which follows it, are preludes to the eternal separation which we are shortly to make!"

Beneath, in another hand, written by Jefferson, alone:

"...quo fata trahunt retrahuntque sequamurquidquid erit, superanda omnis fortuna ferendo est." -Aeneid V.709.

"let us follow, where the fates take us or take us back: whatever will be, every Turne of Fate can be overcome, by Endurance."

Under the Volcano

Once again, wild Eyjafjallajokull has burbl'd his Indigestion 'cross Europe. Not since John Rolfe, our fair State's Aeneas, sent back to England his Tobacco Roote, & made a curing-house of the Colony, has this Monster stirred from its icy Bounds. Like Loki, strapp'd & chain'd to the Misery of dripping Death, the Volcanoe has shiver'd, & left a mighty Tremble in its Wake.

& such grievous Consequence, for poor Europa! How shall her Parcels & Communiques travel from point to point, without the continual work of Posts? How shall the rich community of Scholars, the easy & liberal Discourse of Minds tutor'd in humane studies, continue unimpeded, when a Cape of ash clouds out the Sun? How shall burnish'd Britons, already inconvenienc'd by the noisome Unrest in Siam, ever return to their Couches in commodious time, ever sip again the cocoa-Spring of dulcetted Coffee, ever rest their confidence on the Wings of weary Transit, drain'd of vigor?

Such miserable Circumstance, such unmitigat'd Suffering, stretches my Hand to that worn Volume of Plinius Secundus' Epistulae, a font of Wisdom & experience:

"A cloud, from which mountain was uncertain, at this distance (but it was found afterwards to come from Mount Vesuvius), was ascending, the appearance of which I cannot give you a more exact description of than by likening it to that of a pine tree, for it shot up to a great height in the form of a very tall trunk, which spread itself out at the top into a sort of branches; occasioned, I imagine, either by a sudden gust of air that impelled it, the force of which decreased as it advanced upwards, or the cloud itself being pressed back again by its own weight, expanded in the manner I have mentioned; it appeared sometimes bright and sometimes dark and spotted, according as it was either more or less impregnated with earth and cinders. This phenomenon seemed to a man of such learning and research as my uncle extraordinary and worth further looking into." - Epistulae, VI. 16.

Like a Stone-pine, Vesuvius branch'd over Italy, spreading its poison Bowers & reaching south, for the Gulf of Salerno. As the Cries of abandon'd Wretches echoed on the Tongues of Slaves, pleading Rescue! Rescue!, Pliny thought only of his Science.

From Misenus he sail'd, in a quick Cutter. At the Shore he greet'd his friends, but the Winds that had steer'd him 'cross the Bay suddenly Doldrumm'd, & abandon'd him to the growing Shadow of Ash. As the Sun blacken'd they supp'd on a Picnick Lunch, & Pliny retir'd to a nap. His friends look'd upon him, worried at his sudden Indolence; yet he stirr'd not, & cou'd not be convinc'd to return to his Ship

So they relinquish'd him, left him to nap in a Tomb of Pumice-ash. When next they return'd, he was found, in an attitude of Repose, dust'd & blacken'd.

****
"What is the body, but a loathsome Masse
Of dust and ashes, brittle as a glasse."
-- William Prynne

In Afghanistan, the women & boys gather up broken glass, for whatever may fill up their bellies. This glasse is then ground down to the finest silt-dust, at which point it can be built again into - a Kite-string.

I refute it Thus!

But yester-day, an Incident, common enough in the Traffick of daily Existence, yet singular in Import, & to the profit to humane Learning, requiring acute Attention & a pretty Interpretation to justify its Profundity, came to pass, tho' quickly, & so common, that it wou'd defy the sharpest of naturall Philosophers to capture. For it has been said, that no Observation can be made, without subtly changing the Observ'd; so does my Quill quiver at the Thought of recording so particular, & yet so instant, an Occurence.

Brick Stairs ascend to the Door of Lantz Chapell. This Work of ancient artisanry reflects the finer religious Sentiments of this porcinely profane Valley. Its stained-glasse depicts noble Scenes, exemplary Tales of Biblical History; its Gables aspire into the Sky, as do the pious & noble Souls praying therein.

On yesterday, Marcus Hockaday, a Musician, one skill'd in Composition & the arts of Conduction, strode towards the Chapell. Carrying to this, his Place of work, a sheaf of Papers, musics, notes, the Papers of his Students, he hurry'd & hoped to gain the Chapell before his Strength yield'd. As its Construction seems accomodat'd to Giants of both Spirit & stature, its Stairs are an easy Foot in height. He tripp'd his Toe against the tip of the Brick, stumbl'd, & explod'd into a Torrent of paper. & from the Depths of this white Whirlwind erupt'd a Cry, a horrid Expression of turgid Rage - "F_____!"

Marc. H. came to me, grievously cut & troubled that he wou'd lose his employ. Seeing the grizly Wound, smudg'd verdant, vermillion & teal, & hearing Marc. H.'s acc't of the terrible Incident, where by Pain & startl'd Rage he found himself utterly unmann'd, I found myself troubl'd. A nagging Sore had appear'd in the Tissue of my Thought, & I cou'd not rest till I found Balm & Bandage.
***

Why shou'd we, when fill'd with Disgust, or enflam'd with Agony, yelp out that one Word that signifies Copulation, the sacred Act of Love? Or, given the other Choice, why hurl from one's throat, "Excrement!", or "Scally-wampus!"

Such Reactions are all the more peculiar, for they cross-breed Instinct, with Learning. Pain inspires a natural Cavill to rise from our Throats, & yet we must be taught these Words, before we can employ them as the supposed instinctive Flexes of outraged Sense.

First, a distinction: that there are Curses, where one might wish Evil upon another; this is what Montaigne means when he describes, "In times past, when those of Crete would curse any one, they prayed the gods to engage him in some ill custom." Thus, when we say, "Fie on ye, & yr wretch'd whorish Family entire!", we wish that the Gods wou'd descend & violate their bodily Dignity.

Otherwise, there are Oaths, where one invokes, as Witness, a Deity or spirit presumed Oblivious. Id est, when Hamlet cries,
"Swounds! I shou'd take it: for it cannot be
But I am pigeon-liver'd and lack gall
To make oppression bitter."
we know that he calls upon the very Wounds of Christ's Passion, both to evoke the Depths of his abasement, & to stand as Emblem of his monstrous Iniquity.
***

But before we proceed to the finer Analysis, we must ask - which, then, of the two, shou'd be nobler? Is the untrammel'd Sincerity of the Heart to be valued, so that pure Exclamation gains Weight, in direct proportion to its unthinking Utterance? Or shou'd we value that man, that on a Sea of troubles, refuses to relinquish his Piety, & calls to lofty Heaven to scan his Misery?

Picture, then, monstrous plum'd Vanity, that with an outrag'd Toe, stubb'd to blood, cries to our Saviour Himself, dragging the Attention of our Almighty Redeemer to the gory Stubb that he trails along the Ground. Or a Strumpet, suddenly blossom'd with Cankers all along her most intimate Parts, giving out a cowish Bellow that summons the very Spiritu Sancto to her splay'd Legs - a Nothing, a Trouble sprouting on a Naught.
***

Nothing outrages the Reader so, as settling on a Void; so let us return to our favored Word: "F_____!", & our Theory of the Exclamation.

Earlier I claim'd it as a signal Mystery that, when in Pain, we evoke that supreme conjugal Pleazure. Even aside Ned Bearskin, I have seen him slice his Palm with an oyster-shell, & faster than Blood sprung to the Wound, the very word, "F____!" burst from his brazen Lips.

& yet this Digamma gives the Clew to the Mystery entire. For any Exclamation is an Excess of feeling - an o'erbrimming of sentiment that crushes the Frame, firing our Fury further with its own wheezing Torrent.

Linguists, in their prettiness, call these words "Expletives," from L. expleo, "I fill up." This descends yet further from the Greek - pleio, "more or many"; & plethon, "plenitude" (vide "plethora"). On the one, pain, or Frustration, to excess, inspires our ejaculation; whereas amatory Desire, fuelled by the tender Twigs of conjugal Ardor, explodes in that Burst of pent-up longing.
***

Devolving my Theory thus, I tugg'd at the Ear of young Goodman Stubb, as in his assoc. with the commoner Sort, he must have more Occasion to philosophize on the Meanings of colorful Language. When we had bandag'd Marc. H., & sent him off fie'ing & thumbl'ing the World in his Waggon, Goodman turn'd, with sagacious Humour in his Eyes. I cou'd only assume that my Physick of the Emotions had convinc'd him fully. "I must say, Sir;" and here he paused, searching my Face for Clews of my Honesty, looking for Hints of Hostility surging at my Brows, or some other, more obscure Passion, clamoring for expression in another Part of the Plantation. "I must say, I don't understand why you talk on so; seems to me, you go to some Lengths, to give a f______ about a nothing."

"On life’s vast ocean diversely we sail,
Reason the card, but passion is the gale."
--A. Pope, Essay on Man

The Original of Laura

"Nel dolce tempo della prima etade..."

683 yrs ago, Petrarca passes thro' Avignon, by the Rhone. Greet'd by Good Friday, in starch'd & solemn Garb, he betook himself to Church for the Commemoration of the Lord's Passion - that Moment when the Earth crack'd, as a single Man's heart split, on a Roman cross.

But the laughing Princes of Serendip looked down at him in kind Cruelty, granting him a softer Suffering than those cronish Parcae cou'd have dispens'd. Laura, the fair-hair'd & shapely, lovely as a Rhyme, cross'd him. & henceforth he had not the Safety of himself:

On every side Love found his victim bare,
And through mine eyes transfix'd my throbbing heart;
Those eyes, which now with constant sorrows flow.

Leaving aside umbrous Remnants and fork-tongued Rumors, we find Laura as unknown, reclusive, and confounding as Petrarca himself did, when he cried

Her, who, unshackled by love's heavy chain,
Flies swiftly from its chase, whilst I in vain
My fetter'd journey pantingly renew.

At that Moment when he seems dismember'd by Love, Petrarca has the Wisdom to acknowledge truth - that Love gathers his Fragments.

***
& yet, if a pauper takes to the Highway, he comes not a King. Last night, I betook myself to do my Dance on the running-track opposite my Plauntation grounds. Yet, I cou'd discern within myself such Disorder, such tumbling Madness, that I knew my Dauncing wou'd profit me none.

So I hied away, up into the Frenchman's Woods, towards the Massanutten range. The rocks hung a looming purple Mantle before my eyes, whilst all round, the creaking Crickets & the scuttering oppossums crumpled through the Grasses. I laid eyes on the lit Windows of strange Houses; gnarl'd Posts lining the fields, strung together by rotted Wire; and the Trees risen into the Stars. Near the Cemetery Rd., I heard a thrushing & heady Sound, echoing up to me - the Shenandoah, breathing & vibrating along in eddies & Ripples, serpentine & great like the coiled Ouroboros.

The Learned have claim'd, for years past, that Shenandoah signifies daughter of the skies - & that the pleasant Air, so call'd "Oh, Shenandoah," elegizes the Love of a trader for fair & dusky savauge Princess. I queried Ned Bearskin, but he shook his head, & resum'd his prior activity - unrolling his leather Bag, plucking a choice Fragment of beef-jerky, & gnawing in the Face of my Curiosity.

Shou'd Shenandoah be the daughter of the Skies, then she has for certain a Sister - the Nile. For only otherwise does the Nile flow northerly, contrary to the conventional course of Waters thro'out the World. From the Nile did Isis net the mangl'd & fish-bitten Remains of her husband, Osiris; and sew him back together. At the Nile Delta did the Worship of Isis spring - & fitting, that a Goddess shou'd associate with a Form, so feminine in shape, as to remind one of the female Delta.

Isis, too, was daughter of Nut, the Sky-goddess in dusky Aegypt. & in her time, when such Figments were venerated - Isis was lovely, too.

***
Passing down the Cemetery Rd., I came to Main st., cross'd up the rd. to Fairview, head'd towards to the Ridge-and-Valley Appalachians. There the sound of I-81, a flumen of Traffic, roar'd up across the Darkness on the spring Air. Down the Spring-house St., then across the Valley Pike; then home.

My Muscles seem'd finally tired by the Exercise, & I was loath to move, or to take another Step, beyond that which wou'd get me in a Tubb. Goodman Stubb knock'd, & hand'd me a Transcript of a singular History. Legend records that G. Washington nam'd the Shenandoah Valley, according to the Syllables of his Indian-friend, Oskanondonha; alias Skenando, Skonondon, baptiz'd John. A Giant, as his suppos'd Ancestors Powhatan & Opechancanough were, he assist'd the Glorious Cause of the Americans. Some Versions construe that the air "Oh, Shenandoah," tells of a trader that woos away Skenonando's daughter - the very daughter of the Stars.

But such has it always been, with the matters of History. We are manackled by faulty Recollection, imprison'd in a drab Mad-house, where chattering Idiots mumble the same Stories, repeating the same embroider'd Lines, reciting the same tuneless choruses: a Chronicle of Kings, done up in nursery-rhyme.

"Have ye not any interest, sir? Shall I take away the book?" Young Goodman looked at me over the splayed Covers, eager with a Discovery he hoped shou'd please me. But I waved him away, sending him out to the Yard to tend to Ned's hoggs before he bedded. As he part'd to leave me, he stopp'd at the Door, and turn'd to ask, "But sir, did not yr walk tonight divert you? Did it not take you far afield from yr cares?"

"No, Goodman," I said. And Goodman shut the Door, and bid me goodnight.

I found myself at the end, the same as I had been. For the passing Wonders of the world are fitful as the dancing Figures in a Phenakistoscope - they flit & sway in the closest Semblance of Life, but are only a Trick of the eye, a succession of dead Images, piled atop one another to conjure a cumulative Movement. I had climb'd Ventoux, & found the Majesty of the peak wanting.

But yet our Minds are wedded always to their Consolations - tho' they might find themselves separat'd. My hand shut the bedroom Latch quietly, so as not to stir Mme Bainton, who had slept since 9 of the clock. Her hair, auburn & soft, splay'd on the Pillow - rich Foliage spread 'gainst the autumn Sky. I stepp'd again into that chang'd River of memory, a perennial Stream since we court'd in Tidewater. And in the Darkness, the protean Murmur of the Shenandoah ran forward, a Chorus of a creeks & Runs.

In the Land of Superstition

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/tvshowbiz/article-1257377/James-Browns-body-missing-crypt-alleges-singers-daughter.html

Calamitous Newes, from Georgia! That penurious Colony, with few enough Blushes to sweeten its tuberiform Appearance, offers up a Tale of Woe, & injurious Mischief.



Monsieur Please Please Me, the Soul Brother No. One, the Cotton Gin of Romance - a dancing embodiment of Burke's Sublime - James Browne, has failed to keep Hours at his Tomb, preferring instead to walk divers Fields & Streets.

I have monitor'd the Progress of M. Browne & His Famous Flames for some years, ever since I first sight'd him at a Cock-Tussle in Gloucester Co. Business demanded that I appear north of the James, & I was kidnapped by a penurious Gent. by the Name of Churm. This Churm had draggled me about his Lands for nearly a full Rotation of the Clock. Twelve hours of tedious marching, measuring, fretting; twelve wasted Hours, better spent in the Company of Mme Bainton!

But at last, as a Diversion, he suggest'd we view an Exhibition of Cock-Strength, and watch the Battle of two Noble Spurs - El Gallo, and Mickey. Mickey was a fine Black cock, festoon'd with a red Chapeau; El Gallo another sable, but with Sprays of wild Auburn decorating his obsidian Coat. A whole rawkous Mess of Activity surrounded; a human Ring of shouts, whistles, calls, & the occasional glubbing jug, toss'd up in the Air, only to meet a pair of receptive Lips. Few were the Maids present that Day (for the Cock-Match is a grim, manly Specktacle), but many a Man kiss'd his Bottle as tho' it had been his dearest Sweet-heart.

As a Gentleman's Sport, I find it difficult to recommend the Cockfight. Generally the Contest is held on a summer's Day, which contributes to a Slew of insalubrious Influences. Dust fills the Air & grimes the Eyes with a teary mud; Heat penetrates the deepest Folds of a Gent's cotton, crowding the gaps & Spaces of any garment with Oven's-breath; Spirits, easily pass'd from Hand to hand in jolly Fellowship, soon clouds the Senses & goggles the Mind with unwelcome Distortions. At such a Cockfight did I see a man, undone by drink, approach a Barrel with all the tendernesses of a Don Juan, and embark on a commendably earnest Courtship of the Tub - a pretty Figure for some of our Society Fops!

But I distract myself down follied Roads of Thought. This Churm, in one of the few decent Turns he ever stood me, gave me to understand that he wou'd soon be sick, having imbibed entirely too much Plum Wine. He pull'd me off the Crowd, begging to be his Support, that he might not festoon himself with the Contents of his Belly. Instead, under a Linden's bowers, he collapsed, as though the Hand of an Angry God had crush'd his frail Frame to Dust.

Glad to be dispos'd of my noisome Companion, I found myself charm'd by a peculiar Tune - one whose singular Rhythm beseech'd my Breeches to boogie.

The Browne caper'd & frolick'd, gliding from one side of the Stage to another on frantic Legs. And such golden Phrases, such epigrammatic Wisdom, is rarely seen, aside from a Plutarch, or a Rochefoucauld. Such lines as -
"Gotta have a mother for me!"
"Stay on the scene, like a loving machine..."
"Night Train, Night train, all aboard night train."
recall the lapidary Style of a Horace.

All the which stirs me more, when I hear that the Browne has slid aside the Door of his Crypt & ventur'd into the scalp'd wintry Fields of Georgia. But ought we to be surprized? For

“Men who leave their mark on the world are very often those who, being gifted and full of nervous power, are at the same time haunted and driven by a dominant idea, and are therefore within a measurable distance of insanity” --Francis Galton

The recent Experiments of Galvani have shown that our Muscles are but a Tissue of Threads, pluck'd by Electricity as easily as a Maid's finger might tug her Sewing. The Lightning that blasts apart Trees, that shatters the Silence of an insistent Rain, that flashes a Sun's brightness into every Corner of Nature - of such Jolts are we made. In eastern Virginia, a Tale was told in my Father's time of a peculiar Printing. A man had stood at his Window, watching a Storm curdle out of summer's eve Heat. Suddenly a blasting Bolt struck at his window, demolishing the Wall & the man. But opposite his former Stance, the white-wash'd Wall had been stamp'd with his likeness - a Silhouette cut in the Air by an electric Blade.

Such is the sublime Power of the Electric, and such the Strength necessary to power our Limbs & Lungs. Might perhaps this wandering Browne be merely an electric Figment? - for as Galton has stated, the Extraordinary are most often those men of tremendous nervous Power. Stonewall Jackson, altho' a commended Commander, was afflict'd so terribly by the Imbalance of Electricity, that he wou'd stand, hourly, with his right Hand above him, to harmonize the trembling Currents in his Nerves. Many Gents. in this Valley assure me that, nightly, they have seen the Ghost of Jackson riding thro' the wreathed Darkness, searching for his long-dead Armies.

But this is a superstitious Valley, & plagued with Credulity.

The Worm & the Gear, part the first.

"A despairing man is in despair over something. So it seems for an instant, but only for an instant; that same instant the true despair manifests itself, or despair manifests itself in its true character. For in the fact that he despaired of something, he really despaired of himself, and now would be rid of himself." -- Søren Kierkegaard, The Sicknesse Unto Death

Mens sana in corpore sano has chapp'd, wither'd, & died. All are Romans of the Soul, yet we lack the transfigur'd Strength to preserve eternal these rattling Frames.

For we are but Sticks & Bones, none different than the Mollusck, who slurps up Creatures tiny as Dust, to make his noble, glossy Exoskeleton. We, maundering Apes, chew up Meats & wash our Gullets with Sweet-Tea, and build our Shells on the inside. Thus do our marionette-bones dance on the Whims of bellowing Cows & rooting Piggs.

On such fragile & jittery Speculation have I tap-danc'd, hoping to find a brief Moment's Respite from a reeling Waltz of Illness. Dame Pneumonia grasp'd me in her globby Palms; Tart Bronchitis chok'd the Breath of my Conversation with her sea-green Putty; and hourly my Ears click'd with Congestion.

Hoping to relieve myself of such wicked Pains, I betook myself to a Spaniard's feaste, at the Publick House call'd the Old Ranch in their Tongue. Happily did I chortle over a Plate of Chile Verde; happily did I chomp away at the Ice that cool'd my Sweet Tea. Col. Orndorff, a Man bounteous skill'd in all Ways of contending, discours'd with me regarding the inevitable growth of Oratory in our Colony. I felt a booming Promise growing in my Breast - a sensation that perhaps, in the midst of clammy Winter, shoots & Tubers were emerging for a New Year.

But no Joy goes without her Train of sorrows. Midst an afterdinner mint, an alimentary Ameliorative that I heartily recommend, I notic'd that my Molar had grown jagged. Indeed, it had broken, & my poor Tooth disappear'd into my Gullet, unnotic'd & unmourn'd as an orphan Chimney-sweep, lost in the blacken'd Streets of whorish London.