"Facts are but the Play-things of lawyers,— Tops and Hoops, for?ever a-spin— Alas, the Historian may indulge no such idle Rotating. History is not Chronology, for that is left to Lawyers,— nor is it Remembrance, for Remembrance belongs to the People. History can as little pretend to the Veracity of the one, as claim the Power of the other,— her Practitioners, to survive, must soon learn the arts of the quidnunc, spy, and Taproom Wit,— that there may ever continue more than one life-line back into a Past we risk, each day, losing our forebears in forever,— not a Chain of single Links, for one broken Link could lose us All,— rather, a great disorderly Tangle of Lines, long and short, weak and strong, vanishing into the Mnemonick Deep, with only their Destination in common."
- The Revd Wicks Cherrycoke, Christ and History
"Why," Uncle Ives insists, "you look at the evidence. The testimony. The whole Truth."
"On the contrary! It may be the Historian's duty to seek the Truth, yet must he do ev'rything he can, not to tell it."
"Oh, pish!"
"Tush as well."
' 'Twasn't Mr. Gibbon's sort of History, in ev'ry way excellent, that I meant,— rather, Jack Mandeville, Captain John Smith, even to Baron Munchausen of our own day,— Herodotus being the God-Father of all, in his refusal to utter the name of a certain Egyptian Deity,—
"Don't say it!"
"What,— seek the Truth and not tell it! Shameful."
"Extraordinary. Things that may not be told? Hadn't we enough of that from the old George?"
"Just so. Who claims Truth, Truth abandons. History is hir'd, or coerc'd, only in Interests that must ever prove base. She is too innocent, to be left within the reach of anyone in Power,— who need but touch her, and all her Credit is in the instant vanish'd, as if it had never been. She needs rather to be tended lovingly and honorably by fabulists and counterfeit?ers, Ballad-Mongers and Cranks of ev'ry Radius, Masters of Disguise to provide her the Costume, Toilette, and Bearing, and Speech nimble enough to keep her beyond the Desires, or even the Curiosity, of Gov?ernment. As ?sop was oblig'd to tell Fables,
'So Jacobites must speak in children's rhymes, As Preachers do in Parables, sometimes.'
Tox, Pennsylvaniad, Book Ten of course...."
"Hogwash, Sir," Uncle Ives about to become peevish with his Son, "Facts are Facts, and to believe otherwise is not only to behave per?versely, but also to step in imminent peril of being grounded, young Pup."
"Sir, no offense meant. I was but pointing out that a single Version, in proceeding from a single Authority,—
"Ethelmer." Ives raises a monitory Eye-brow. "Time on Earth is too precious. No one has time, for more than one Version of the Truth."
"Then, let us have only Jolly Theatrickals about the Past, and be done with it,— 'twould certainly lighten my School-work." Mr. LeSpark's Phiz grows laden with Menace.
"Or read Novels," adds Aunt Euphrenia, her tone of dismissal owing more to her obligations as a Guest than her real Sentiments, engag'd more often than she might admit, with examples of the Fabulist's Art.
As if having just detected a threat to the moral safety of the com?pany, Ives announces, "I cannot, damme I cannot I say, energetically
 enough insist upon the danger of reading these storybooks,— in par?ticular those known as 'Novel.' Let she who hears, heed. Britain's Bed?lam even as the French Salpetriere being populated by an alarming number of young persons, most of them female, seduced across the sill of madness by these irresponsible narratives, that will not distinguish between fact and fancy. How are those frail Minds to judge? Alas, every reader of 'Novel' must be reckoned a soul in peril,— for she hath
made a D——l's bargain, squandering her most precious time, for
nothing in return but the meanest and shabbiest kinds of mental excitement. 'Romance,' pernicious enough in its day, seems in Com?parison wholesome."
"Dr. Johnson says that all History unsupported by contemporary Evi?dence is Romance," notes Mr. LeSpark.
"Whilst Walpole, lying sick, refus'd to have any history at all read to him, believing it must be false," declares Lomax, gesturing with his Brandy-wine Glass.
"As if, at the end, he wish'd only Truth? Walpole?" Euphie plays an E-flat minor Scale, whilst rolling her eyes about.
"What of Shakespeare?" Tenebras still learning to be disingenuous, "Those Henry plays, or the others, the Richard ones? are they only make-believe History? theatrickal rubbish?" as if finding much enjoyment in speaking men's names that are not "Ethelmer."
"Aye, and Hamlet?" suggests the Revd, staring carefully at the young?sters in turn.
Her eyes a lash's width too wide, perhaps, "Oh, but Hamlet wasn't real, was he?" not wishing to seem to await an answer from her Cousin, yet allowing him now an opening to show off.
Which Ethelmer obligingly saunters into. Of course he has the Data. "All in all, a figure with an interesting Life of his own,— alas, this hop?ping, quizzing, murderously irresolute Figment of Shakespeare's, has quite eclips'd for us the man who had to live through the contradictions of his earthly Life, without having it all re-figur'd for him."
"Then, did he 'really' have a distant cousin named Ophelia," Tenebrse inquires, a shade too softly to be heard by any but Ethelmer, "and did he, historically, break her Heart?”
"More likely she was out to break his,— being his foster-sister actu?ally, working on behalf of his enemies, tho' with no success. A minor fig?ure, who may have charm'd Shakespeare into giving her more lines than she merits, but who does not charm the disinterested Seeker."
"Did he love anyone, then? besides himself, I mean...."
"He ended up marrying the daughter of the English King, 's a matter of fact, and later, in addition, the quite intimidating Hermuthruda, Queen of Scotland."
"What about that Stage strewn with Corpses?" wonders Uncle Lomax.
"Two wives!"
"Barbary Pirates take as many as they wish," twinkles Euphie.
"0 Euphrenia, Aunt of Lies," Tenebrae shaking her Finger in pre?tended sternness.
"Mercy, Brae,— I was nearly one myself. Hadn't been for the old Delusse, here, you'd be calling me 'Ayeesha' now. Had to run the Invis?ible Snake Trick that time, none too reliable in the best o' Circs...." She plays a sinuous Air full of exotick sharps and flats. The Company re?deploy themselves in the direction of Comfort, as the moistly-dispos'd Uncle Lomax steers again for the Cabinet in the corner, presently return?ing with a bottle of Peach Brandy.
Upon his first Sip, the Revd reels in his Chair. "Why bless us, 'tis from Octarara."
"Amazingly cognizant, Wicks."
"I once surviv'd a Fortnight, Snow-bound," replies the Revd, "upon
little else. Twas at Mr. Knockwood's, by Octarara Creek, in the terrible
winter of 'sixty-four—'sixty-five, when, after four years, the Surveyors and
I once more cross'd Tracks "
Twas a more tranquil time, before the War, when people moved more slowly,— even, marvelous to say, here in Philadelphia, where the bustling might yet be distinguish'd from the hectic. There were no Sedan Chairs. Many went about on foot. Even Saint Nicholas was able to deliver all his Gifts, and yet find time for a brisk Pint at The Indian Queen.
I was back in America once more, finding, despite all, that I could not stay away from it, this object of hope that Miracles might yet occur, that God might yet return to Human affairs, that all the wistful Fictions nec?essary to the childhood of a species might yet come true,.. .a third Testa?ment— I had been tarrying over Susquehanna, upon a Ministry that had taken me out among the wilder sort of Presbyterians, a distinct change from the mesopotamian Mysticks of Kutztown or Bethlehem. A bug-ridden, wearying, acidic Journey. Among these folk,— good folk, despite litigious and whiskey-loving ways,— I was not welcome. In my presence dogs howled, milk turn'd, bread failed to rise. Moreover, a spirit of rebel?lion was then flickering across the countryside, undeniable as the North?ern Lights, directed at Britain and all things British, including, ineluctably, your miserable Servant. What we now style "The Stamp Act Crisis" was in full flower. The African Slaves call'd it "the Tamp." Unusual numbers of Riders were out ev'ry Night. The Province seem'd preparing for open warfare. Whiteboys and Black Boys, Paxton Boys and Sailor Boys,— a threat of Mobility ever present.
Thro' this rambunctious Countryside, a Coach-ful of assorted Trav?elers make their way Philadelphiaward, each upon his Mission. The purposefully jovial Gamer Mr. Edgewise, in whose purse already lie more of my Chits than he really likes to have out at any given time, has won from me a sum we both must view, less as any real Amount, than as a Complication to be resolv'd at some unnam'd date. I lose yet again,— "Why, damme Rev just write me another note, what's it mat?ter the color of the paper, who has any cash anyway?" Business then, in this Province, Wagering included, was conducted overwhelmingly by way of Credit,— the Flow of Cash was not as important as Charac?ter, Duty, a complex structure of Debt in which Favors, Forgiveness, Ignominy were much more likely than any repayment in Specie. Mr. Edgewise is traveling with his Wife, who, when she must, regards him with a Phiz that speaks of the great amounts of her time given over, in a philosophickal way, to classifying the numerous forms of human idiot, beyond the common or Blithering sort, with which all are famil?iar,— the Bloody-Minded I., for example, recognized by the dangerous sea of white all around the irises of the eye-balls, or the twittering
 Variety, by the infallible utterance "Frightfully." Then one has Mr. Edgewise—
We have passed, tho' without comment, out of the zone of influence of the western mountains, and into that of Chesapeake,— as there exists no "Maryland" beyond an Abstraction, a Frame of right lines drawn to enclose and square off the great Bay in its unimagin'd Fecundity, its shoreline tending to Infinite Length, ultimately unmappable,— no more, to be fair, than there exists any "Pennsylvania" but a chronicle of Frauds committed serially against the Indians dwelling there, check'd only by the Ambitions of other Colonies to north and east.
Our Coach is a late invention of the Jesuits, being, to speak bluntly, a Conveyance, wherein the inside is quite noticeably larger than the out?side, though the fact cannot be appreciated until one is inside. For your Benefit, DePugh, the Mathematickal and Philosophickal Principles upon which the Design depends are known to most Students of the appropriate Arts,— so that I hesitate to burden the Company with infor?mation easily obtain'd elsewhere. That my Authorial Authority be made more secure, however, it may be reveal'd without danger that at the basis of the Design lies a logarithmic idea of the three dimensions of Space, realiz'd in an intricate Connexion of precise Analytickal curves, some bearing loads, others merely decorative, still others serving as Cam-Surfaces guiding the motions of other Parts.—
("We believe you, Wicks. We do. Pray go on.")
Bound through the nocturnal fields, the land asleep, the sky press?ing close, losing at an ever-unadjourned game of All-Fours, dyspeptic from the fare at the last inn, restlessly now and then scanning the dark outside for any Light, however distant, I was bounced out of a disgrun?tled reverie by the Machine's abrupt slowing and eventual halt, out in the middle of a Night already grown heavy with imminent snow. Wait?ing at the Roadside were two Women, who prov'd to be mother and daughter, dresses flowing as homespun was never suppos'd to, and Faces that were to drive me, later that night, unable to sleep, beneath the Beam of my writing-lanthorn, to diaristic excess.—  Yet, how speak of "Luminosity" in that pre-snowlight, or say "flawless," or, in particu?lar, "otherworldly," when in fact in Cisalleghenic America, apparitions
 continue,— Life not yet having grown so Christian and safe that a late traveler may not, even in this Deistically stained age, encounter a Woman of just such unearthly fairness, who will promise him ev'ry-thing and end by doing him mischief. Indeed, already in the course of this journey we had encountered what may well have been a Victim, fix'd and raving in the batter'd road, of some such Night-Interception. As the pair of Creatures boarded the Machine, I mutely ask'd,— not "pray'd," for all my Prayers in those Days must be Questions,— Are these now come for me, to be my own guides across the borderlands and into Madness?
But to my surprise and perhaps disappointment, their eyes will meet no one else's. As the Machine again gathers speed, it becomes clear that the young women intend to sit in companionable but perfect silence, for the entire journey. One by one, around the traveling Interior, small pri?vate lanthorns begin to glow, whilst I, long accustomed to finding beauty only among the soiled and fallen,— having thereby supposed a moral invariance as to beauty and innocence in women,— grow distracted at the very Conjunction,— undeniable, overwhelming, each with her hair tucked away 'neath a simple cap of white Lawn, tied u............