Perhaps all was as simple as that,— that Dixon wish'd to remain, and Mason did not,— could not. So Dixon return'd as well, and on 15 Decem?ber 1768, at a meeting of the Royal Society Council, according to the Minute-Book, there they are, together in the Room. Both have chosen to wear gray and black. "Messrs Mason and Dixon attending with propos?als relative to the aforesaid intended observations, were called in; And Mr Dixon acquainted the Council, that he was willing to go to the North Cape or Cherry Island; Mr Mason rather declined going; but added, that if he was wanted, he should be ready to go."
Was their Appearance all pro forma, did Dixon know, did they have it all work'd out beforehand, or was it sprung upon him, and thus less for?givable than the accustom'd Masonickal behavior? The meaner of spirit might translate it into, "Of course I'll go, but not with Dixon,"— a clear Insult, Dixon was often advis'd,— Would he not care to respond? "Ah've grown so us'd to it," Dixon assur'd his Comforters, "that often Ah neglect to take offense...?"
Privately, his Sentiments are of a more hopeful turn. He knows enough of Mason to recognize by now most of the shapes his Pursuit of the Gentlemanly takes on, as well as the true extent of his progress beyond the socially stumbling Philosopher-Fool he began as. That is, 'tis possible that Mason, honestly believing Dixon ready for, as deserving of, his own command, is willing to risk looking ungracious, if it will advance that end. And so this "rather-decline-yet-if-I-am-wanted" Formula is but more of his inept Kindness.
They leave together. Out into another Christmastide, each for his own reason seeking the brightest Lights. Some horrible Boswell pursues them, asking questions. "Known of course as the Reluctant Lensmen of the Cape Expedition to observe the first Transit of Venus in 'sixty-one, and despite the generally excellent quality of your Work, neither of you has been voted to membership in the Royal Society. Mr. Mason, we've heard you're the one here who's unhappy with that, whilst Mr. Dixon takes the more philosophickal View."
"Only the long view, Lad."
How could the elder Charles have forgiven Mason for leaving his chil?dren with his Sister, dumping them really, going off to the Indies with another man, another Star-Gazer, coming home only to turn about and sail off to America, with the same man? Dixon sees the pattern, the expectation, the coming Transit of Venus. Mason sees it, too. "If we went off a third time together,... he hates me enough already.... I study the Stars against my Father's Wish,— but do I remain among 'em, only at the Price of my Sons? That is what I face,— some Choice!" So he declines the North Cape, and another posting together, symmetrically as ever, to that end of the world lying opposite their first end of the World. "Some?one must break this damn'd Symmetry," Mason mutters.
For years, as he found his way further into the wall'd city of Melan?choly, he dream'd,— tho' presently no longer sure if he had been asleep, or awake,— of the North Cape he would never see,— an unexpectedly populous land, where the native people were enslav'd by a small but grimly effective European team, quarter'd and mostly restricted to an area within easy reach of their boats, upon which indeed many of them preferr'd to sleep. The only industry there, was mining the Guano of the sea-birds and shipping it to lower latitudes, to be process'd into Nitre, for Gunpowder, which was in great demand, as it seem'd that far Below, a general European war had broken out, for dynastic, racial, and religious reasons Mason, and Dixon, who was also in the Dreams, realiz'd they were ignorant of, having been out of touch with any kind of periodical news for eight or nine years now. They arriv'd at the North Cape to find the mines working day and night shifts, and the mood turning unpleas- ant as white overseers demanded more and more from workers who were not making enough for it to matter what the warring nations Below did to each other, nor on what Schedule.
The Guano deposits and hence the mining were upon rocks off the Coast, often quite far out to Sea, where the Light was crepuscular and clear. The Guano was carried out to the Ships in Scows of soak'd, black, failing Timbers. Loading these vessels directly from the Rocks was per?ilous work. Weather often swept in, carrying away ships and Souls. The Natives, who were dark-skinn'd and spoke none but their own tongue, deserted when they could and many times contriv'd their own Deaths when all else had fail'd to deliver them...
At Maskelyne's Behest, Mason agrees to observe the Transit from South Ulster, where he obtains the ingress of Venus upon the Disk of the Sun, but not her departure. "The mists rise up out of the Bog. There she is, full, spherickal.. .the last time I shall see her as a Material Being.. .when next appearing, she will have resum'd her Deity." Maskelyne will edit this out, which is why Mason leaves it in his Field Report.
Shall Ireland be his last journey out, his last defiance of Sapperton,— which is to say, Rebekah? There's no place for him in London. The city has never found his Heart, and 'tis his Heart that keeps a residue of dis?like for the place ever guarded. Likewise must he allow himself to let go of Dixon, soon now— He sees nothing but Penance ahead, and Renunci?ations proceeding like sheep straggling back, gathering to shelter. He sits alone in brand-new Rooms of which he may be the very first Occupant, in the smell of Plaster and Paint and Glue, the Paper upon the Walls an assault of Color,— Indigo, Cochineal Red, Spanish Orange, the rarely-observ'd Magenta and Green...the Day outside unable to emerge from Mourning. Rebekah, whom he expects to visit, does not appear. He waits, trying to see his way ahead, suddenly sixteen again. He tries to think of how, short of suicide, he may put himself in her way. He is furious about ev'rything, he screams at length about transient setbacks however slight. "Misses his Family," the Servants tell it. "No sleep." The House is large, inexpensively Palladian, with beds in ev'ry room, not only the Parlor and the Drawing Room, but the Kitchen and the Music Conservatory as well. Shadows are ev'rywhere unpredictable. Mason tries each room in turn. Other Guests are out upon the same Pil?grimage,— they meet in the Halls and mutter Civilities. In the Musick-Room, he wakes during the Night and mistakes the Clavier for a Coffin, with somebody in it, withal...who may or may not be another Sleeper. Out in the Bogs, Fairy Lights appear. He hears a Note from the Cas'd Instrument, then another. He much prefers the Kitchen, or the Observa?tory out back. There he is hypnagogickally instructed all night long in the arts of silent food Preparation, the "Sandwich" having found here a particular Admiration, for the virtual Boundlessness of its Assembly.
In a letter dated November 9th, close to Mason's departure from Donegal, Maskelyne as A.R. is wallowing in the pleasure of good Instru?ments to work with at last. The defective Bob-Suspension is now but a distasteful Pang of Memory, causing him at his Morning Shave to grunt, and avoid his Eyes in the Mirror. The Sector Telescope he finds "charm?ing." "I have also used a ic-foot telescope with a micrometer. Your moral reflections on the subject I approve of, as becoming an astronomer, who ought to make this use of these sublime speculations."
"What was he talking about?"
"In Maskelyne's Letter, which we have, he says he's responding to a letter of Mason's dated October fifteenth, which no one can locate, including me,— indeed, I've not found any of Mason's Letters, tho' there are said to be many about."
"Make something up, then,— Munchausen would."
"Not when there exists, somewhere, a body of letters Mason really did write. I must honor that, mustn't I, Brother Ives?"
Ives snorts and chooses not to contend.
"Why not gamble they'll never be found?" wonders Ethelmer.
"Just because I can't find them doesn't mean they're not out there. The Question may be rather,— Must we wait till they are found, to spec?ulate as to the form 'moral reflections' upon a ten-foot telescope, with a Micrometer, might take?" The Presence of this Device, as well as the Instrument's Length, suggests an accuracy to perhaps two further degrees of Magnitude, than the Instrument it replac'd at Greenwich. "Sublime speculations"? Accuracy and Sublimity? Is the A.R. being ironickal? Whatever Mason had to say, almost certainly included G-d.
Was he off the deep end again? "Make this use..." suggests Mason had advanc'd some Program. Suppose he'd written to Maskelyne,—
"...Tis the Reciprocal of 'as above, so below,'...being only at the finer Scales, that we may find the truth about the Greater Heavens,.. .the exact value of a Solar Parallax of less than ten seconds can give us the size of the Solar system. The Parallax of Sirius, perhaps less than two seconds, can give us the size of Creation. May we not, in the Domain of Zero to One Second of Arc, find ways to measure even That Which we cannot,— may not,— see?"
"Many of us in the parsonical line of work," admits Wicks Cher-rycoke, "find congenial the Mathematics, particularly the science of the fluxions. Few may hope to have named for them, like the Reverend Dr. Taylor, an Infinite Series, yet such steps, large and small, in the advancement of this most useful calculus, have provided us a Rack-ful of Tools for Analysis undreamed-of even a few years ago, tho' some must depend upon Epsilonics and Infinitesimalisms, and other sorts of Defec?tive Zero. Is it the Infinite that tempts us, or the Imp? Or is it merely our Vocational Habit, ancient as Kabbala, of seeking God there, among the Notation of these resonating Chains...."
"Reminds me of America. Strange, some mornings I get up and I think I'm in America." Half Mountain, half Bog, ev'ry other Soul in it nam'd O'Reilly, Oakboys with night Mischief in mind all about, this is frontier Country again, standing betwixt Ulster and the Dublin Pale, whilst of neither,— poor,— at the mercy of Land-owners... such as Lord Penny-comequick, the global-Communications Nabob, who now approaches Mason upon the Lawn, carrying in Coat-Pockets the size of Saddle-Bags four bottles of the Cheap Claret ev'rywhere to be found here, thanks to enterprising Irishmen in Bordeaux. "In my family since the Second Charles," he calls in greeting.
"Isn't a hundred years consider'd old for Wine?" Mason having risen kickish this morning.
"Oh, but I meant the Coat?" Pennycomequick having decided, with Legions before him, that Mason, because he speaks in the hurried and forc'd Rhythms of at least a Tickler of Children, is a professional Wag of
 some sort. "Aye, 'tis call'd a Morning Coat, the yellow symbolizing the Sun, I imagine,— several theories about these Aqua bits, here," exam?ining them the way we examine our Waist-coats for spill'd Food, "being of course our famous historically subversive Color Green,— should have been a hanging Offense as long ago as Robin Hood, if you ask me,— yet disguis'd cleverly, you see, by the addition of Blue. Perhaps a touch of Buff as well. Ha! ha ha do not look so concern'd, Sir, being all Whigs here staunch and true, yes well do come along, ye've not seen the Folly yet have ye."
What cannot escape Mason's notice, as they come round the Butt End of the Topiary Elephant, is a sudden Visto of Obelisks, arrang'd in a Double Row too long to count, forming an Avenue leading to the Folly. In this Sunlight they have withdrawn to the innocence of Stone, into being only Here enough, to maintain the Effect of solemn Approach...yet it isn't hard for Mason to imagine them in less certain Light, at a more problematick time of day, taking on more Human shape,— almost Human Shape...somewhat larger than human size...almost able to speak,—
"There 'tis. What do you think?" The Lord has halted, Pockets a-sway, to help Mason admire it, this being a task inadvisable for but one person.
"You can't say it isn't something," is Mason's comment.
"Of course if you've read Mr. Halfpenny's Rural Architecture in the Chinese Taste, you'll recognize those bits there at the Roof-corners... our Great Buddha, half-scale regrettably.... Here,— therapeutick Pool, Peat Baths, good morning, Rufus, I trust your good woman has recov-er'd...Excellent! (She ran that Department, Chaos since she left),— Ah! the Electrick Machines, yes a good many of them, all the way down to the end there, can you make it out? On the rare chance you have an appetite when you emerge, lo, a Summer-Kitchen, complete with gesticulating Chef,— Yes yes, Soup du Jour, Armand! clever fellow, claims to know you, 's a matter of fact,—
"Meestair Messon! Meestair Messon!" 'Tis the very Frenchman,— is it not? yet why then is his figure illuminated so much less than ev'rything else about, this time of Day?— why is he moving so smoothly, as a Boat upon still Water, looming ever closer, aiming, it now becomes apparent, a Kiss at Mason's Cheek, his Color at close range aberrating toward Green, as he sweeps in a cold wind, upon and past the shiv'ring Mason, with an echo, like an odor, trailing after. Mason turns,— the Lawn is empty. At some moment he has fail'd to mark, Lord Pennycomequick has left him. He stands by an Oven, with Moss between its Stones, that he wishes upon no Account to look into.
The Rain has rais'd in ev'ryone an insomniack Apprehension, in which all talk of Bog-bursts is avoided,— yet 'tis but a Question of where the black Flood shall break thro'. The longer it rains, the higher too the level of Nerves and Vapors. No-one here, or for miles, will need to be awak-en'd for it. At last, one Midnight,—
"Bog-burst! Out upon McEntaggart's piece,— good evenin' to ye Sir, and regretfully must I now be tellin' ye,— ye've been, as they say in yeer Royal Navy, impress'd, Sir."
"Oh, I am impress'd," Mason agrees, "really,— the efficiency with which you are able to turn all these Wretches to, is nothing short of impressive, indeed."
"Excuse me, Sir,— 'tis me English no doubt,— I meant, that you too must come out and work in the company of these very 'Wretches.''
"Of course,— Man of Science, ever happy to advise. Restoring the Berm, is that how we'll be at it?"
"Someday when all's calm, I'd love to chat over wi' ye the finer points of Bog-Burst Management,— yet now, would I suggest Boots and Gloves, Sir, and smartly too, if ye'd not be mindin'?"
Little McTiernan at the Door is giving out short-handl'd Peat-Cutters styl'd, by the Irish, "Slanes."
"Not sure I know how to cut a Sod," mumbles Mason.
"Quickly's best,— before he can pick up a Weapon...?"
"Let him be, Dermy,— not his fault he's English."
"Bogs," Mason to himself, as they go along, bearing Candles in hol-low'd out Turnips, not certain if he is speaking aloud, "are my Destiny. I imagin'd Delaware, not merely the end, but years past the end, of this sort of Journeyman's Humiliation...even fancied that I had earn'd pas?sage, at last, into a purer region, where Mathesis should rule, with
 nothing beyond an occasional Ink-Smudge to recall to me that unhappy American Station of the Cross. Arrh! Stars and Mud, ever conjugate, a Paradox to consider,— one...for the Astronomer-Royal, perhaps?" His current scheme being, to assail Maskelyne's Sanity, by now and then posing him Questions that will not bear too much cogitating upon— most lately, Uber Bernouillis Brachistochronsprobleme, 17 oz, by Baron von Boppdorfer ("Mind like a Spanish Blade. Read it at the Risk of your Self-Esteem.") having almost done the Trick.
Slodging the wet Tracks, dress'd all in the local Frieze, Mason, by Neep-Lantern light, looks like a wet, truculent Sheep. The rain comes down. They cross the River, passing 'round Keadew and Kinnypottle, where more come creeping from sleepless Dwellings to join them. Mason might be traveling with a Herd of Ghosts, felt but invisible, bearing him into Country Unknown. The Sky tonight has nothing to show him. Now and then, very much closer to the Earth, he begins to see Lights, moving, flickering, soon gone. "Who are they?" Mason inquires of his faceless Companions.
"Hush," come a half dozen voices at once. "They are going their Way, as we go ours," whispers someone behind his right Ear. "They are not often out in the Rain, nor particularly helpful in a Slide."
Soon they have reach'd one Shore of the liquefied Peat-Flow, thro' some Mirage blacker than the neighboring Night. "McEntaggart's been after that Tath for a Year, and now 'tis his, for nothing."
"He kept still, and the Premises mov'd!"
"Look out, here comes more of it!"
"What, a Re-Peat!"
In Irish perversity all a-quip, they set to work finding and cutting out Peat Sods not yet saturated by the Rain. Other countrymen appear now and then bearing Rocks, piling them laboriously against the Burst, thro' the drizzling of the Night. Cottagers, daz'd, come wobbling down the Hill. Dawn finds the tops of the Hillsides obscur'd, each Shift-mate a wan Spectre in the Vaporous Bog.
"Mr. Mason!"
"Your servant, sir." " 'Tis the Well of Saint Brendan, if you please,—
"Thought he was a Galway Lad.”
No, he pass'd thro' Cavan once, ............