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.

UNTO THIS LAST

Being, a Narrative in three Parts; a secret & true Historie of former Employ; a Parable of Christian Import; & a Tale of an abandoned Life:

In Which a Guest Offers an Alternate Viewpoint on a Particular Experience Shared With Our Benefactor

By Captain Karl Gaartenbach

Our esteemed Sir Epaphroditus Bainton is, at heart, a man of some modesties, and he has relayed to me that the following tale is one he does not wish to personally share as he feels it paints him in an unnecessarily boastful light. This is a falsehood, as the tale in question is one of coarseness and Horrors, leading me to believe that the true purpose of his mysterious reticence is all the more obscure, perhaps motivated by a desire to see his own terrifying actions from the viewpoint of a third party, like a man gazing at his own slack bed-bound corpse from above as his soul rises to the Great Reward. Whatever the circumstance, I hope to provide an alternate perspective on our benefactor, a perspective made all the more jarring by its grim veracity.

Though I am now a Man of the Seas, I once busied myself in the occupation of Entertainments, serving as the ringmaster for a Carnevale of some note. It was through this profession that I became re-acquainted with E. Bainton, a former rival turned friend and compatriot. I could see within Bainton's eyes the distinctive glitter of intelligence, and upon finding that he yearned for employment (his previous career as a Chirurgeon had been rendered obsolete by Progress, though I can attest to his skills in the field of Humours), I quickly set upon finding a suitable task which he might relieve me of. As every Circus must need its corresponding Bread, I decided to offer E. Bainton a career selling Fried and Sugared Doughs at the Carnevale Concessions. Though the work was beneath a man of his standing, he took to it as a Chinaman takes to the Rail, and as I watched the parade of merry Fatmen leaving his sugar-crusted register with thick smiles upon their greasy faces, I realized Bainton was the man I had sought to replace me, as I had grown weary of consorting with the Clownes and standing deep in the dung of the Elephaunts and Jungled Cats. I asked my Employer, the owner of the Carnevale, if she had objection to Bainton replacing myself as Ringmaster. She said she had no reservations regarding my plan.

At this point you are no doubt staggered by my use of the feminine pronoun. Yes, friends, I was in the Employ of a Woman. It remains unclear how she came to own the Carnevale, yet I believe it was bequeathed to her by wealthy aged relatives whose minds were too syphilis-blown to realize the error of their ways. While the “fairer” sex is generally known to be weak of mind and will, this particular example was a craven and venal simpleton, a platonic ideal of cronyism and incompetence. To refer to her as a “pin-head” would be an insult to the microencephalitics who would joyously caper in our center ring. She shall henceforth be referred to as “The Humbug.”

With The Humbug's blessing, I began to train Bainton in the art of Ringmastering, showing him how to utilize Confidence in order to part a man from his purse as surely and righteously as Moses parted the Red Sea. To the surprise of none, he took to the trade quickly, and I had utter faith in his ability to continue the operation of the Carnevale once I had returned to the North Pacific to hunt Steller's Sea-Cow. All seemed well at the Carnevale, until, that is, it came time for Bainton to receive his first pay-cheque, totaled and signed by The Dread Humbug herself. He came before me in confusion, for The Humbug had made him to understand that his added work was in vain, as he would not be taking over the Carnevale as Ringmaster, and to make matters worse, his pay-cheque came out to seven Spanish doubloons less than was previously understood. Bainton was paid less than even the Slop-Man, as though The Humbug wished to not only insult but emasculate him.

Over many Ham-Burgs, which were the food style at this time, we conspired to confront The Humbug regarding her poor treatment of Bainton, who, with each passing moment, seemed to become increasingly enraged at his foul lot. His rage was directed not at the pittance he was paid, as he believes money to be a cipher upon which small men project merit, but rather at the Principle behind the Principal. A man of Principle, as we all know, is a man only a fool would double-cross.

We confronted The Humbug in her office quarters and were surprised to find her with her two small children. Many would hold back their ire upon finding mother and child together, being reminded perhaps of the Pieta, but Bainton's rage was immune to all sentiment. While never raising his voice nor employing a cussed-word, he unleashed a barrage of vitriol upon The Humbug, accusing her of Shenanigans, Japes, and darkest Skullduggery. His words cut with surgical precision, owing, no doubt, to his previous experiences in less metaphorical blood-letting. I watched as The Humbug drew her offsprings to her breast, as though frightened that Bainton would steal them away and devour them in Saturnine fashion, a fear which, I should add, seemed apropos at the time. I had already suggested to The Humbug that perhaps her young ones should retire to my cabin and listen to the phonograph, as I had recently acquired a number of amusing recordings on wax cylinder, some of which ran nearly ninety seconds in length. She demurred, her bearings thrown so far from their axes that she could no longer cogitate rationally, seemingly preferring her children watch their mother's verbal vivisection.

While I remember few specifics of Bainton's heated oration (other than a reference to The Humbug's “obfuscatory duplicity”), I remain struck by the unrelenting viciousness of the whole affair. This put me in mind of when, as a child, I watched my Uncle Durastis beat a crazed dog to death with a small shillelagh that he kept for the purpose of beating feral animals to death. I remember being conflicted at the time; I hated the dog, which had taken to biting and snapping, and I knew it had to die, yet it was difficult to watch beloved Uncle Durastis drive the shillelagh into the creature's skull, as I knew the dog was not intelligent enough to know better, nor intelligent enough to defend itself. The hound, I regret to say, was infinitely more capable of defense than The Humbug.

Bainton left The Humbug in a state of glazed hysteria. We left the Carnevale, never to return in a professional capacity, through I understand Bainton did eventually receive his Doubloons. While I was startled by his capacity for Venoms, I cannot help but admire his conviction, which did not wither in the face of pitiable circumstance. I do not know The Humbug's fate, and I regret that I see Bainton infrequently now, but whenever I am hauling a sea-cow from the oceans and witness a shark-fish tearing the organs from its pasty belly, I offer a brief knowing smile.

Captain Karl Gaartenbach

[When I was a Stripling, Col. Bainton, my esteem'd Father, took me on a Survey of his Lands. There we found a wrecked Acre of vine-trellises, dragged across the tortur'd Ground like a wild Blanket of Green & Purple. He had, in some Years passed, set up a Vineyard here, on top an old Indian Field, but Maintenance had been neglect'd. He pointed with his Cane, and sd only, "Epaph, the World runs away."

So it is with Memory, & thus Capt. Gaartenbach steps from the Shadows of that other neglect'd Vineyard, the Past. The Letter came to me by the Roads & Foot-paths of Bearskin's people, out of Carolina & up the Roanoke, to meet this wild & untest'd Shenandoah. Tho' Gaartenbach now makes his Home at Sea, where there are no Dirt Floors, & the only Naturalls are Cannibal or Finn'd, I think of that noble Corsair often, & from that Time we spent together, do my best to wipe clean the Blood.]

[Gratias Tibi ago to B. R. Williams, previous mention'd Here, for his noble Work in Locating the elusive Gaartenbach, & transcribing his peculiar Style.]

L'orange chretien

Every Year, in nail'd & stapl'd Boxes, with a thin plastic Gauze overlaying glossy Skins, Clementines come to the now-crowded Counters of Ordinaries. In the Week passed, VIRGINIA has suffer'd grievously under the onerous, remorseless Burden of Snow. For Days 'pon days, the Snow fell silent as Cotton. This Precipitate has refus'd to budge, & instead become Hindrance to all - a Glare bright enough to demand Opera-glasses at mid-day, a Slick treacherous as walking on winding Snakes, and a naturall Ammunition to the riotous Sort, who are all the more frequent in a Isolatoe such as this.

But, count it as Law, that the more prohibitive Conditions be, the more Citizens burn to challenge them; and so the Ordinaries, by-ways & Publick Houses have been positively stuff'd with every-sort imaginable - the Doctor, haughty with Skill & sated with Rest; the two-tooth'd Meth-man, burning for Sweets & delights to burn in his smeltering Gut; the sweater'd Mother, ever-checking her Lists, accompanied at all Points by the Squawking of Babes & the Crinkling of Plastic bags.

Ned Bearskin & myself were chewing our Pipes over this very Situation, having a hearty Joy at the cozy Fire & our Seclusion from such vapid Bustle. But, as is her Wont, Mme Bainton enter'd & at once dispell'd whatever elusive Glee cou'd be coax'd out of the Evening. "Epaph!" she carped. "Have ye retriev'd the Clementines?"

My Heart went black, my Stomach swoon'd - I had not sent Stubb to do so. But had not she promis'd to obtain them on my Behalf? Bearskin, being Kinsman to my Wife, excus'd himself from the ensuing Discourse; but inevitably, as it must, the Responsibility devolv'd onto me, to retrieve the delicious Golden Apples, Clementines.

Upon entering the Ordinary, I look'd in vain for a Hook to hang my Jacket. But it was Velvet, & scarcely suit'd to be abandon'd in such Company. Predictably the worser Sort had collect'd at various Points thro'out, and even the sturdiest Men seemed entirely distract'd by the Ordeal. When I saw our Burgess crawl 'neath a hooded Sweatshirt, & whimper that he wou'd henceforth refuse any calling-cards, I took my seat in Plastic Storage, & consult'd my weary Interior.

"Oh!" came a low Moan, as from inside a Grave. "Oh!" came it again. I offer'd Salute; rec'd nothing. "Oh!" There it came again. I had no Companion to check my Impressions against, & consider'd the Possibility that my own Brains had been bent. But then unclick'd a nearby Bin, & emerg'd a young man.

His Face was all in Disorder, having recently been in Fisticuffs. His Pants wanted stitching, & the slow Work of Misery had plainly carved Lines round his Eyes. He refus'd any offer of Food, & instead stared, with indifferent Humor, at the noizy Customers all about. In short, he was a Youth, useless in Love.

He had come to the Store some days previous, in search of a Gift for his Sweet-heart; but having lost Hope, he had simply curl'd into a plastic Tub, & wait'd for the Horror-Christmas to pass, as all Things do. But this had not suffic'd, as I had unwittingly bang'd his Tub with my Cane. He queried me, concerning my Quest - I offer'd that I sought the elusive Clementine.

"Oh! The Clementine! The Christmas Orange! A Hesperidium!"

Greece once look'd to the West, for its Mysteries & Pleasures. Old Aigyptos had grown long in Tooth, & her Glamour had rather taken on the Courtezan's Sheen. Likewise, the ancient Phoinikai had disappear'd, dissolv'd away into their thousand Colonies. But Greece remember'd the former Order of Things, when Phoinecia ruled, & the scatter'd Cities of West Europe, blink'd like lonely Candles in an shatter'd Church.

One such Cittie was Tartessos, where Strabo places the Hesperides. Tartessos smelted Bronze, & hous'd Phonecians, Greeks, Tyrrhenians, & the unnumber'd unnamed Races of pre-History. It was Tartessos which was Tarshish, where ignoble Jonah fled, heartless to face Fate.

& yet why flee to another Port, when there were so many? For the Hesperides, that magic Garden, tended by Nymphs - whom we must understand as a sort of Vestal Virgin, consecrated to their delicate Task. Gardens were the Wonders of the Ancients - look to Babylon, where the Terraces contain'd all the Colour & Scent of Nature. & notice too, that our Word "Paradise" comes only for the Persian, for "Garden." But what held this Garden?

Hercules knew well enough. As one of his last Labours, exhausted Herakles had to steal the Golden Apples of the Hesperides. Greeks kenned what a common pomme was - the Fruit abounded in Asia. So Reason wou'd insist that the Golden Apple is a different Fruit entire, if indeed it exists.

But I count it a Wisdom of Science, that the Clementine is classed as a Hesperidium - for it carries hesperidin, that sweet, citrus Sugar that charms the Tongue into lazy Longing for more, more. Can we count it fair, that the Clementine shou'd be consider'd the Golden Apples of Antiquity? Wou'd Herakles retrieve Clementines from a secret Garden, when I cou'd not manage to grab them from the Shelf of an Ordinary?

"I shall never retrieve my Gift," came the disconsolate Moan. Lost in Speculation, I had forgot of my young Friend, the Squire whose Love burn'd so Hot he cou'd not Sleep. "I shall ever founder in this listless state, & never call her mine. Suitors approach, recieve dirty lookes; men race her scorn but when she already stands at the finish-line - her heart - what hope?"

I wearied of his Tub-Tale, & wish'd for a quick Conclusion. We two journey'd, & quickly stole away a Packet of luscious, robust Clementines. "See here, friend," said I, " take these Clementines, & give them to yr belov'd. Once Hippomenes threw these self-same Golden Apples before Atalanta, & even the proudest Virgin turn'd aside from her Stride to touch the glorious Fruit. Ye shall be assur'd, tis no dame alive now wou'd out-pride Atalanta."

Shrugging, the Youth went home, & I to my Fireside. Bearskin had retired, so I gave Stubb an awful Beating, & made him drink a Pint of Piss for his Indiscretion. A Gent. shou'd not have to journey into Inclemency for his Clementine!

****

I can add now only one Postscript, that this Christmas day I rec'd a most unusual Wreath, cover'd o'er in Clementines. Attach'd, the note - "Truer advice never given, & a better friend, though unsought, never found. Thank ye."

So Proof, then, of the Golden Apple's derivation. & after all,

"is not Love a Hercules, Still climbing trees in the Hesperides?"
-Berowne, Love's Labour's Lost.

Where is now your sourquydrye and your conquestes?

Winter chokes up Virginia like Pneumonia. The Sun, drained of summer Quickness, totters to southerly Climes, & the sweet Haze off the blue Ridge evaporates. Each day-light blanches what it reveals, bestowing a weary & sickened Kingdom on the Eye.

& yet Consolation comes, cheery & inconstant as a Wench. I journey'd to Winchester, a Citadel of Folly, where Iniquity & Tradition seat side-by-side, jostling each other for the Favours of that gruesome Capital, Washington. So far has the noble Name of Winchester fallen, to Whore as Bedroom-community for that Babylon on the Potomac!

For the Romans knew Winchester. From Venta Belgae - the Market-place of those savage Belgae, whom Caesar found spread thro'out wild Gaul. As the golden Tongue of Tully & the Gracchi decay'd to Barbarism, Belgae disappeared, and the bearded Saxons spoke only of the Venta Castra - the Market-Camp. "T" slid into "Ch", and the liquid "V" coagulated to "W."

So perhaps it shou'd be no Surprize that yr humble Epaph found himself quaffing Spirits & talking unseasonable late into the Night, dissecting with whate'er clouded Acuity possible the Problem of Preservation - how to hold back the Horde of Hacksaws, Shovels & Hammers that pound regular at the Door of Aniquity. In Staunton young Counsellors, full-up on Bachelor'd Learning, live in the rennovated Madhouse, & Richmond sees her Warehouses re-lit as Cells for lunatic Youth. In the last Days of Rome, Architects degenerate cut from old Monuments the Marble they would use for new Palaces - mutilating the ancestral Memoriae, to preserve themselves from the Labor of extracting new Stone from the Earth.

Such Problems twist'd the Knot of my enfum'd Brain. Not till an Hour before the cruel Crow of the Cock did I lay to Rest - & my Dreams haunt'd me that I wou'd miss the next Day's Appointment. For I had volunteer'd for an onerous Duty - to journey with a Train of Privy Counsellors (hence, Privies) to school them in the gentlemanly Ars Belli. We cross'd Mountains, Rivers, & even broke the State-line - into vicious, base Mary-land.

Enmity betwixt myself & this State being well-establish'd, I shall offer no further Comment thence. Only one Jewel offer'd Redemption for the diseas'd State, a Gymnasium of War, a University of Combat - Medieval Tymes.

Scoff tho' you may, Reader; chortle tho' you must, with yr knowing Glances & Smirks, much Wisdom derives from this Carnival. For the Solemnity of Rite only chokes the naturall Chuckle of unconvinc'd Humanity - & our Jollies contain subtler Philosophy than the learn'd Logic-Choppers of Wm. & Mary College.


A spindly Gent. welcom'd us to our Tickets. He point'd, with his poney-tail, and gestur'd to our Seats. At our Seats, we were treat'd to a Serving-wench. Now, I have had Occasion to describe such Personages in my various Post-Mails, but never, not even in my Days in whorish Williamsburgh, have I heard a Wench say the Following:

I am yr Serving-Wench this eve, & yes, you are to call me yr Serving Wench.

They are proverbial for their Liberality, but never had I encounter'd such generosity as this. We were to cheer the Red & Yellow Knight, a foppish Youth of some twenty&eight Years at the Most. His butterfinger'd Use of Sword gave Shame to the worthy Works of European Duellry, and a long time he gamboll'd about, showing little Pluck & less Skill. I mutter'd to my Companions a very dry Species of Drollery.

When all at once the Serving-wench return'd, and gave us such poor Eatings as I have never seen! Half a chicken, a tomatoe soup, slices of garlick'd Bread, several Ribbs of sauc'd ham, and a flakey apple-pastry of a Lightness much ador'd by the French. Such middling fare I accept'd, tho' did not relish - for what Man cou'd expect to be nourished by such a Poverty of Delight?

Altogether I was asham'd. We had dragg'd the young Councillors to an iniquitous Place, such as Mary-land undoubted is, given them a Presentation of the most effete Sort, and not e'en satisfied their Hunger - arous'd, surely, by the misleading Pungency of the Food!

I approach'd my previous poney-tailed Acquaintance. I spoke to him in subdued Tones, so as not to excite him - for he seem'd poised on the Edge of some aweful Precipice. I had no need for his squealing Excitement to overwhelm my Message. These people must be instruct'd in the proper Uses of the Sword. Sword-work, more than any other Qualification, makes a Gentleman. Now, Parisian Passions have made Sentiment the tubby Emperor of our Time, but what good will a Stack of Love-letters do, when facing an outrag'd opponent?

Sir, said I, I have certain Skilles that wou'd be most useful for yr Enterprise. He look'd intrigued, shifted to another Foot. "How do you know my enterprise?"

I have seen it readily displayed, and I am ready to offer my Services for yr Undertaking. I am well-skill'd in such Practices & shou'd have no Trouble instructing any Novice ye shou'd wish upon me.

He look'd upon me dubious now, and tapp'd his girlish Chin. "Follow me," he spoke. We came past various Barriers, paint'd quite well to appear as Rock. Finally, after succeding Hallways of Curtaines & Gowns, we came to a Dressing-room, where a burly Scalawag rubb'd his Belly, chewing on a long-exhausted Straw.

"Another one?"
"Yes," Poney-Tail replied.
"Sure about this one?"
"Yes. Look at him - none shall stop him at a Check!" They both look'd me over, curious & scornful in their Observation.
"Well, show him his Task."

We repair'd to yet another Room, and left the Scalawag to his Musings. If I had known then what I have learn'd since, I wou'd have broken my Knuckles across his moldy Brow. But instead, I continued down the useless Path towards Shame. Poney-tail stopped me ominously, before a Brief-case. He open'd it, and remov'd what appear'd to be a Sausage-sleeve enclosing a Sea-Cucumber.

What is this?
"You swallow it. You can only swallow - well, you cd swallow perhaps 5. But if they break, you'll die."
Why wou'd I swallow them? Why wou'd I die?
Fluster'd by my stupidity, he yelp'd, "You wd overdose!"

I leapt from the Room and fled, insensate, back to the Carriage waiting for to take us across the Mountains yet again. & that Night I slept sound, in the Knowledge that my Belly was Mule to no Man.

On Thieves, pt. 1

"A plague upon it when thieves cannot be true one to another!"

-Sir J. Falstaff, Henry IV, pt. 1


For ever the Road has claimed me. Sundry Travails & Exploits have taught me that peculiar Art of Dromomancy, - id est, the reading & Interpretation of Roads.

For Years before count, Men have peer'd at Creation, fumbling & muttering over its Signs like a Child at his Grammar-book. Man peel'd apart the hollow Bones of Birds & mapp'd the Course of his Fortune in slick Entrails; he gave Ear to the senseless Provocations of Delphi; he roll'd Dice in Joppa & drew Lots in Macao. He look'd for Fate's ghostly Figure in Rings of sacred Smoke, and guess'd fondly at writhing Flocks of Birds - tugg'd as they are by some cryptic Thread.

Lining out this String of Fate, we draw Squibbles & Doodles on the Land, our twisting Legacy. It is these that I read - for what can a Bird tell us of a Man, except in what way he felled it? What cou'd a priestess tell, but that her Nose has been stuff'd with sooty Incense? Human Labor, from one end to another, has made a Road - surveying, geologizing the Territory, the civil Institutions concern'd with land & its acquisition, the Sciences of grading & establishing road-bed, the Hopes that lead us to climb across a Horse's back & saddle Desire to Will.

I remember, when courting Mme Bainton, that I wou'd walk Home at night along a winding by-way. The last Spring, before we married, I took Tea at her House, and en famille we proceed'd thro' her Mother's Gardens. Her mother was rightly proud of her Work, Beds rich in Scent & Colour: snap-dragons, lillies-of-the-valley & other trifling bits, Tulips tenderly array'd, & a wild, untutor'd rose in the Corner. From this I pluck'd rose-hips whilst my future Wife peck'd at me for wasting her mother's Plants - for her father adored them in his Teas. After, when her Brothers went inside, I wou'd sit awhile with her and her Sister, as the Sun slipp'd under the Horizon-line. We bid good-bye, for the Evening, in the slate-blue Shadows of leafy Boughs.

& in that dusty pastelle-light I wou'd think of the Heroes land'd before me here - John Rolfe greeting the Summer with his new Bride Rebecca; noble Bacon, on Errand to the Accaneech, to slay their iniquitous Numbers; solicitous Byrd, crossing the elephantine James to dispute the Boundary-line. Then did my Archaeology a pied enrich my Heart.

But if it was such a Purse, that I cou'd fill it at will, I find now that each Outing leaves me decidedly thieved - a little less than I was before.


Does a Gentleman, if he deserve the Moniker, belong anywhere near the Road? Let us admit frankly that any publick Thoroughfare deserves its wretched Reputation. From the drafty publick House & Ordinary, crust'd with the greazy Remnants of Humanity, to the colonnaded Congresses of the Demos, that stink of haughty Rabble & whorish Grandees - there is little to commend the Places of publick Traffick.

I must contrary-insist, tho', that a Gentleman may make his Way, no matter what peanut-shells he may find beneath his buckl'd Shoe. I count myself such, despite my most recent Excursion to the Air-port of Charlottesville.

Tho' loath to return to a Cittie of such grievous Harlotry, lest it in some way afford hygenic Release, I had to make an Exception, for one of my People was expect'd across the Mountains, in Ohio-country. In that Land of Greenery it is said that Abundance has wed to Ease, and their Child Joy reigns as Prince of the Long-hunters. My companion, a Woodsman who first met with me on the Chikahominy R., spoke with me of the Pastures overflowing with Bird, Hind, Bear, the Fields madly Fecund, and a general Opulence of the sort that I wou'd scarcely believe.

In the midst of these earnest Disquisitions, I notic'd my Friend had grown frothy 'round the Mouth. This is not unusual for Men of the Frontier - the parch'd Condition we habitually endure forces certain occasional Miseries & Embarassments on us all. But he had a Wildness of Eye - they began to roll like Marbles, and their Colour oscillat'd from blue, to green, to a brown like dried Blood, or a bestirr'd River. He clutch'd at my Lapels, demanding, have ye the faintest clew, the empire you shove away when you live in Virginia?

He rifled over my Belongings & investigat'd my every Expression, for Proof that I might have turned my Interest elsewhere. "But I must away," said I, "for I need make Water."

Rattl'd, tho' somewhat mollified, he quak'd & shook in his Seat, crying after me, Remember that the World is alive! That Virginia is nothing more than an ancestral Ash-can!

I scuffled into the Bathroom, hurrying to the nearest Privy Stall where I might have a Moment's Respite - for I had no real Use in the Privy, but for Contemplation, & Reflection over my madden'd Friend's insensate Claims. I remov'd my Jacket, placed it on the Door, and began to scribble at my note-pages. What was left to Virginia, any more? to become tumor'd o'er by the sickly Castes of the Capital? to become a Fairy-tale Attraction, a Ginger-snap history, a wistful Solace for exhausted Interstaters? to become, in short, prey to the vague Grumbles of foreign Bellies?

Unconcluded I open the Door & immediately notic'd that I had been join'd in the Bathroom by an unannounc'd Visitor - a Custom I have never adjusted to. One shou'd announce one's entrance, viz., "Now enters Epaphroditus Bainton, Gent., & I proceed into this Lavatory to make Havock & rest my toilsome Back from Labour." But this bootless Peculiar had not.

I say bootless, for indeed he was. Moreover, he held his Feet in the Sink, scrubbing with a detach'd Joy, a dreamy Pleasure, at his hidden washing. I shudder'd at the Sight, which must have caught his Attention, for he suddenly look'd up, and drew back his Lips over a single, long, yellow Tooth, which hung from his Skull like a diseas'd Stalactite. His Eyelids rippled in queer Contractions, and he seem'd to not see me.

I shuffl'd past him quickly, back into the window'd & bright Rooms of the Air-port. Wide enough to accomodate a Virginia Reel, yet quiet except for the Mutterings of Clerks & the Snores of delayed Passengers, the Room fill'd with Light, like a Cathedral. For another Age built their Churches to shelter, to detain a while; we build ours to dispose, to shuffle off.

My Long-hunting Friend had disappeared. As had my note-pages - the Book! left in the Bathroom! I hurried, found my Book, and shuddered at the Memory of the Snaggletooth. His greazy Countenance seem'd lather'd all across the Counter. I approach'd unsteadily, and saw the rings of Dirt, the Traces & leavings of Hair, the spent Matches, and moved yet closer, to peer into the Sink, which gave off a queer Sort of Light. As I stepped over the Lip of the Basin, I found not water, but a crust'd Rim of Dirt, a Wrapper, and, filling it to the Brim, with treacly Drips, a glassy Pool of water'd Blood.

Such a Sight shakes the Senses of Someone unaccustom'd to Perversion, Crudity. I return'd to my Carriage, gain'd Purchase on the Running-boards, and for a Moment gazed at the far Mountains. Over that Lip remain'd Misery, perhaps - but such is eternal, is the Legacy of Man. But there also lurk'd, report'd only in Whispers, scarcely trust'd, the Joy of a newe Life.