tell Mason, Waddington from the outset was afflicted with a Melancholy lighter and faster, tho' no less lethal, than the traditional Black sort. "So how be ye, Robert?"
"Two weeks in Twickenham, how am I suppos'd to be? Strawberry Hill, Eel-Pie Island, haven't I seen it all?"
"Yet the Fishing, 'tis said— "
"Oh, Bleak easily the length of a man's hand. Ye take 'em with a Maggot that dwells only upon that Reach,— quite unknown to the rest of Britain. And if Beetles be your Passion, why, the Beetle Variety there! Fair stupefies one."
"Piggotts all well, I trust?"
A long stare. "Where's the Local 'round these parts, then?"
"A moment's Walk, tho' not as easy to get back from."
"Hum. Bit like Life, isn't it?"
And that was in early January, with the Transit of Venus yet six Months off. They were going to be left together upon St. Helena, an island that, according to rumor, often drove its inhabitants insane.)
"Tom Birch did happen to mention that 'twas Maskelyne who'd given him Mr. Waddington's address. He show'd me his Note-Book. Maskelyne had written it in himself. It appears he preferr'd as his co-adjutor the friend of the Piggotts to the Friend of the Peaches,— thus allowing me to proceed in a single unprotected little Jackass Frigate, instead of his own giant India-man, in a Convoy, with half the Royal N. there as well to keep them safe...."
"Allowing Dr. Bradley to step in, obtaining for thee the leadership of an additional Observing Team."
"And choosing you upon advice from Mr. Bird, Author of the most advanc'd Astronomickal Device in Creation. Yes, yes, upon the face of it, quite straightforward, isn't it?...And yet, d'ye not feel sometimes that ev'rything since the Fight at sea has been,— not a Dream, yet..."
"Aye. As if we're Lodgers inside someone else's Fate, whilst belonging quite someplace else...?"
"Nothing's as immediate as it was.... We might have died then, after all, and gone on as Ghosts. Haunting this place, waiting to materialize,— perhaps just at the moment of the Transit, the moment the Planet herself becomes Solid...."
"Even by then," the Revd declares, "upon some Topicks, the Astronomers remain'd innocent. That few usually believ'd this, might have prov'd more than once an Advantage, in their Strivings with the Day,— had they known how disingenuous they appear'd, they could have settl'd for much more than they ended up getting."
"Oh, Uncle, how can you reckon so?" "By others who did far less, and receiv'd more." "And they're all Dead," says Ethelmer, "so what's it matter?" "Cousin." Tenebras holding a Bodkin in at least an advisory way. Ethelmer scowls in reply, what was a lambent Spark in his Eyes now but silver'd, cold Reflection.
"Brae, your Cousin proceeds unerringly to the Despair at the Core of History,— and the Hope. As Savages commemorate their great Hunts with Dancing, so History is the Dance of our Hunt for Christ, and how we have far'd. If it is undeniably so that he rose from the Dead, then the Event is taken into History, and History is redeem'd from the service of Darkness,— with all the secular Consquences, flowing from that one Event, design'd and will'd to occur."
"Including ev'ry Crusade, Inquisition, Sectarian War, the millions of lives, the seas of blood," comments Ethelmer. "What happen'd? He liked it so much being dead that He couldn't wait to come back and share it with ev'rybody else?"
"Sir." Mr. LeSpark upon his feet. "Save that for your next Discussion with others of comparable wisdom. In this house we are simple folk, and must labor to find much amusement in Joaks about the Savior."
Ethelmer bows. "Temporarily out of touch with my Brain," he mumbles, "Sorry, ev'rybody. Sir, Reverend, Sir.”
8
As the Days here slip by, whilst the Transit yet lies too distant for him quite to believe in, Dixon, assailed without mercy by his Sensorium, almost in a swoon, finds himself, on Nights of Cloud, less and less able to forgo emerging at dusk,
"Two weeks in Twickenham, how am I suppos'd to be? Strawberry Hill, Eel-Pie Island, haven't I seen it all?"
"Yet the Fishing, 'tis said— "
"Oh, Bleak easily the length of a man's hand. Ye take 'em with a Maggot that dwells only upon that Reach,— quite unknown to the rest of Britain. And if Beetles be your Passion, why, the Beetle Variety there! Fair stupefies one."
"Piggotts all well, I trust?"
A long stare. "Where's the Local 'round these parts, then?"
"A moment's Walk, tho' not as easy to get back from."
"Hum. Bit like Life, isn't it?"
And that was in early January, with the Transit of Venus yet six Months off. They were going to be left together upon St. Helena, an island that, according to rumor, often drove its inhabitants insane.)
"Tom Birch did happen to mention that 'twas Maskelyne who'd given him Mr. Waddington's address. He show'd me his Note-Book. Maskelyne had written it in himself. It appears he preferr'd as his co-adjutor the friend of the Piggotts to the Friend of the Peaches,— thus allowing me to proceed in a single unprotected little Jackass Frigate, instead of his own giant India-man, in a Convoy, with half the Royal N. there as well to keep them safe...."
"Allowing Dr. Bradley to step in, obtaining for thee the leadership of an additional Observing Team."
"And choosing you upon advice from Mr. Bird, Author of the most advanc'd Astronomickal Device in Creation. Yes, yes, upon the face of it, quite straightforward, isn't it?...And yet, d'ye not feel sometimes that ev'rything since the Fight at sea has been,— not a Dream, yet..."
"Aye. As if we're Lodgers inside someone else's Fate, whilst belonging quite someplace else...?"
"Nothing's as immediate as it was.... We might have died then, after all, and gone on as Ghosts. Haunting this place, waiting to materialize,— perhaps just at the moment of the Transit, the moment the Planet herself becomes Solid...."
"Even by then," the Revd declares, "upon some Topicks, the Astronomers remain'd innocent. That few usually believ'd this, might have prov'd more than once an Advantage, in their Strivings with the Day,— had they known how disingenuous they appear'd, they could have settl'd for much more than they ended up getting."
"Oh, Uncle, how can you reckon so?" "By others who did far less, and receiv'd more." "And they're all Dead," says Ethelmer, "so what's it matter?" "Cousin." Tenebras holding a Bodkin in at least an advisory way. Ethelmer scowls in reply, what was a lambent Spark in his Eyes now but silver'd, cold Reflection.
"Brae, your Cousin proceeds unerringly to the Despair at the Core of History,— and the Hope. As Savages commemorate their great Hunts with Dancing, so History is the Dance of our Hunt for Christ, and how we have far'd. If it is undeniably so that he rose from the Dead, then the Event is taken into History, and History is redeem'd from the service of Darkness,— with all the secular Consquences, flowing from that one Event, design'd and will'd to occur."
"Including ev'ry Crusade, Inquisition, Sectarian War, the millions of lives, the seas of blood," comments Ethelmer. "What happen'd? He liked it so much being dead that He couldn't wait to come back and share it with ev'rybody else?"
"Sir." Mr. LeSpark upon his feet. "Save that for your next Discussion with others of comparable wisdom. In this house we are simple folk, and must labor to find much amusement in Joaks about the Savior."
Ethelmer bows. "Temporarily out of touch with my Brain," he mumbles, "Sorry, ev'rybody. Sir, Reverend, Sir.”
8
As the Days here slip by, whilst the Transit yet lies too distant for him quite to believe in, Dixon, assailed without mercy by his Sensorium, almost in a swoon, finds himself, on Nights of Cloud, less and less able to forgo emerging at dusk,
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