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!

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 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.

Thro' a Spoon, Darkly

It has been a frequent Custom of mine, to sit at my Porch, and ruminate on a spoon-ful of Batter. But no ordinary batter this; nay, this noble Tongue-ointment cou'd only bear its proper, hon'ble mantle - PEANUT BUTTER.

Cruel Experience has taught me the Folly of buying Foodstuffs for myself. Tho' my holdings produce some Necessities (hams & Swine-stuffs, Corn, potatoes, Tobacko (tabag), snap-peas, green beanes, tortoise, wheat, bread etc., barleywines & Beers, & of course apple-orchards w. brandy, etc. etc.), the woeful-barren State of Domestick Affairs some-times demands that I buy from other Planters.

& yet so gruesome, so pungently unwholesome - what Words cou'd else be used to describe the ingracious Rabble of Curs, Blackguards, & Degenerates that lurk & leer 'round the Corner of every Aisle? In Years past I enjoy'd the use of these Aisles for my Promenade - the Floor-surface being even, and resounding with a sharp crack from my Cane, whene'er I shou'd wish to emphasize a Sentiment. In the downy Breezes of frigid-Air I stroll'd the Ordinary, secure in my Vestiments & pleased with the shining Abundance of Virginia's Produce.

But recently, yr Correspondent has boiled in Doubt, as to whether he shou'd ever see the inside of an Ordinary again. Some two Years past I swagger'd thro' the Store, intending to purchase preserv'd Pickles. These delicious Treats are best served in the following way:

1 saltine Cracker

1 jar pickle slices

1 jar of peanut-butter

In a light Layer, spread p.b. across the Cracker-surface, tho' weakly, so as not to crack the Cracker. Then, dollop a Pickle-slice on the p.b., so that it sticks most securely. As you proceed to eat this Canape, revolve it in yr Mouth, so that the Pickle & p.b. Side lands on the Tongue. Thus is the sweet Pickle balanced with the roast'd Effusion of Peanut, and the acrid Taste of Preserve smooth'd by buttery Opulence.

Already my Tongue danced in my Cheeks, anticipating the tasty Treats that awaited me. Of a winter's Night, I have eaten four Sleeves of Crackers in such a way. Wearing a stocking Cap, wiggling my Toes at the rowdy Flames of a Blaze, and listening to the stinging repartee of Ned Bearskin & his sometime Conversant, Goodman Stubb - I should want only my Crackers, p.b. & Pickles.

Thus Fancy flitted, as did my Eyes , across the furlongs of Mixes, Bakes & Browney-concoctions! Ne'er had I seen so much Bakery! Ne'er, in the long History of Man's Attempt to slay that monstrous Beast, FLOUR, had so great a Victory-flag waved as this - Row upon Row of rampant Confectionary! But my bliss was short-liv'd.

Three Rioters approached, tupp'd with Wine & suffering a surfeit of Confidence. Each presented a weird & degenerate Aspect. One, the Oldest, smacked his toothless Lips & had no Hair, excepting a single Lock, the Texture of greazed Silk, that he stroked with the two Fingers of his right Hand. Another, fast & bulbous, seem'd little more than a Collection of Pustules, Boils, & hanging Lumps. He suck'd teeth as he nodded, plucking at his Belly with a stolen Spoon. The last, a sneering Ichabod, strutted & stuck his Stilt-Limbs e'ery which Way, climbing up the Shelves with a Cackle, flailing his frail Arms like an untied Scarecrow. Peering down at me, tapping his skeletal Digits 'gainst his Chin, he muttered,

"Sirrah, has ye seen the Bridge?"

Believing this to be a Metaphysickal Conceit, the Sort that so thrilled Col. Bainton's generation, I responded with a Titter, & gave out

"Nay, but I have a pretty Cupola!"

At once the Rioters choked out hollering Barks of Laughter, an awful Semblance of that joyous Melodie. Lumpman snuffled, and held one of his knobb'd Fingers 'neath his Nose like a Moustache; the Scarecrow stretch'd his Frame with Mirth, and the hairless Vulture stroked greedily at his single Spray of Hair. When he had stuff'd enough Breath in his reedy Lungs, the Scarecrow heaved out these Words:

"Oh, Bainton - have ye lost yr Wits? Or has yr Domestick run off with 'em?"
"Domestick?"
"Aye, - that brown'd Wench ye call yr Madame."

Rage, in his russet Mantle clad, dawned in my Heart. I remember but little from the slaughterhouse-Thrash that ensued - an occasional Detail will spring into my distract'd mind, like a Blood-soaked Tooth spat from pumell'd gums. Or perhaps the Chomp of Stubb's sturdy Jaws, hammering away at some Celery (his favorite Treat) will recall the snap of a ruffian Hip, as I twist'd his already-warp'd leg around his Back.

A joyous Romp in Summary, tho' Goodman Stubb was altogether perturb'd by my Performance. Sir, quoth he, might y'not track blood 'cross yr cane, for 'tis an awful chore to remove! But Stubb's Indolence is exceeded only by his Kindness, & later Accts. reminded me that Stubb made the aged Vulture eat his own Hair, & how the Lumpman whimper'd & moan'd as Stubb pluck'd at each Pustule, rubbing Salt & Flour into each brazen Sore.

All of which Memorys circled about my Skull as I chawed on the gracious Dollop of p.b. that coat'd my Spoon. I carry a complete Utensilry, as any gent. shou'd; but far apart from that I carry my Tub of Peanut Butter. My Travells have taken me far above the Inhabitants, amongst the Naturalls of the Shenandoah. At Dusk, their martial Cries fill the lower Clouds, scatter'd & numerous as Rain-drops. Mid-winter has already creep'd in to the middle of the Night, & sprawls his bandy Legs on that worn Chair that once support'd the blazes of Summer. Inside, the young Councillors' Works pile higher, ragged & stained as Laundry, undone & untouch'd. And I sat outside in my Knickers, and saw my Visage upsidedown, in the rheumy Eye of a Spoon.

The Purloined Letter

Often has it been in History, that newes is only deliver'd surreptitiously. On the sly, the News-sneak slips in thro' the window, careful to shut silently the pane, creepingly coming down the hallway & up the Stairs, till finally it has come to its summa, its master goal, its telos - that Master-Room where we keep Pride, our Secrets, our Confidence. Those snug Bedmates are alarum'd by the Intrusion of uncouth Rumour, who wears a paint'd Mask & motley Garb to disguise his hateful visage - lest Someone recognize him in his plain, beggarly form.

So does Poe deliver the story. A poor Princess has been depriv'd of her precious Letter, by an unscrupulous Minister D_____. His villainous Machinations turn upon themselves, Wheels w.in wheels, a behemoth of Scheme - quite as monstrous as that Mechanized Daimon, so treacherously provided to the Devillish Indian.

But a certain M. Dupin unlocks the Tongue of this riddling quandry - Where did the lady's letter go? Dupin uncovers a most mysterious & Cryptic Limit of Man's Ratiocination - That one can only find what one expects to see.

Hence

"...in this world of lies, Truth is forced to fly like a scared white doe in the woodlands; and only by cunning glimpses will she reveal herself, as in Shakespeare and other masters of of the great Art of Telling the Truth, - even though it be covertly and by snatches."
-H. Melville, Hawthorne & His Mosses

So modest & skittish is Truth, quite like a jeune fille, that she flits & capes thro' the verdant boughs, hops the Streams & fluid Channels, with only a whisper of Leaves. A Struggle, then, one quite opposite to the might of Hercules, subduing Anteus. Anteus must be lift'd from the Ground, that sustaining Stability that fuels his riotous muscles, and held up to the Mischievous Air. Yet only Hercules had might enough to heave Anteus up to the Sky, & crush him, mere Feet off his nourishing Soil.

Contrariwise, we seekers after Truth chase fleet Harpies with Needle-pins, hoping to stick them in our quaint Butter-Fly-Cases. Plucking & dabbling at the ether with our greazy Fingers, most oft, we succeed only in sullying the Purity of that Fair Medium - leaving a Trail of our Missteps, a genealogy of our Immorals.

And yet, in rare Seasons, those quickly chas'd from our Eyes, a Boon descends into our Path, quite unbidden, quite unforeseen. One that slits a cold Knife thro' our Veils of illusion, that so frequent dance before our eyes in profusion. Thus is the mellifluous Moon plung'd from the Sky; thus doth high-puff'd Fame whistle, deflate, & die.


A Dialogue, betwixt Rosalind & Hypatia, in Scribbles

Hypatia - This is gonna be a long year!
Rosalind - yeah, tell me about it. He's so weird. I'm afraid he's going to be a hard grader.
H. - He probably will be but hows the next class with him?
R. - It's whatever. I'm the only one in the class now. so it's a lot of down time.
H. - What? Only you! Wa happen to the PG's
R. - They are going to a study hall with their coach now. yeah, it's a little weird.
H. - I'm sorry! I bet that sucks!

[transcrib'd with faith & accuracy. apologies.]