“A drama guaranteed ev’ry time a Reedwoman picks up her Instrument, Wick-Wax,— a Novel in Musick, whose Hero instead of proceeding down the road having one adventure after another, with no end in view, comes rather through some Catastrophe and back to where she set out from.”
“No place like home, eh?” guffaws Lomax LeSpark.
“Doesn’t sound too revolutionary to me,” declares Uncle Ives. “Sounds like a good sermon aim’d at keeping the Country-People in their place.”
“That’s because you ain’t hearing it aright, Nunk. ’Tis the Elder World, Turn’d Upside Down,” Ethelmer banging out a fragment of the tune of that Title, play’d at the surrender of Cornwallis,” ’Tis a lengthy step in human wisdom, Sir.”
“Oh dear oh dear, beware then,” the Revd groans in a manner he has learn’d, if challenged, to pass off as Stomach distress. Ethelmer seems dangerous to him somehow, and not only because of Tenebræ,— toward whom these days he is undergoing Deep Avuncularity, with its own Jangle of Sentiments pure and impure. Yet, leaving all that out, there remains to the Boy a residue of Worldliness notable even in this Babylon of post-war Philadelphia,— a step past Deism, a purpos’d Disconnection from Christ. . . .
“. . . South Philadelphia Ballad-singers,” Ethelmer has meanwhile been instructing the Room, “generally Tenors, who are said, in their Succession, to constitute a Chapter in the secret History of a Musick yet to be, if not the Modal change Plato fear’d, then one he did not foresee.”
“Not even he.” His mathematickal cousin DePugh is disquieted.
“My point exactly!” cries Ethelmer, who has been edging toward the Spirits, mindful that at some point he shall have to edge past his Cousin Tenebræ.” ’Tis ever the sign of Revolutionary times, that Street-Airs become Hymns, and Roist’ring-Songs Anthems,— just as Plato fear’d,— hast heard the Negroe Musick, the flatted Fifths, the vocal portamenti,— ’tis there sings your Revolution. These late ten American Years were but Slaughter of this sort and that. Now begins the true Inversion of the World.”
“Don’t know, Coz. Much of your Faith seems invested in this novel Musick,— ”
“Where better?” asks young Ethelmer confidently. “Is it not the very Rhythm of the Engines, the Clamor of the Mills, the Rock of the Oceans, the Roll of the Drums in the Night, why if one wish’d to give it a Name,— ”
“Surf Music!” DePugh cries.
“Percussion,” Brae, sweet as a Pie.
“Very well to both of ye,— nonetheless,— as you, DePugh, shall, one full Moon not too distant, be found haggling in the Alleys with Caribbean Negroes, over the price of some modest Guitar upon which to strum this very Musick, so shall you, Miss, be dancing to it, at your Wedding.”
“Then you should be wearing this ’round your Head,” suggests Brae quite upon her “Beat,” “if you wish to work as a Gypsy.” Handing him from her Sewing-Basket a length of scarlet Muslin, which the game Ethelmer has ’round his head in a Trice.
“More a Pirate than a Gypsy,” Brae opines.
“Yet, just as Romantick, in its way . . . ?”
27
“ ‘Demagogue’!” mutters Dr. Franklin. “Our excellent Sprout Penn, the latest of his crypto-Jesuit ruling family, and his Satanick arrangement with Mr. Allen, his shameless Attentions to the Presbyterian Mobility,— has the effrontery to speak of ‘crushing this Demagogue’— well, well, aye, Demagogue . . . Milton thought it a ‘Goblin word,’ that might yet describe good Patriots,— ”
“Good Patriots all!” cries the impulsive Mr. Dixon, raising his Cup.
Dr. Franklin observes them, one at a time, through the tinted lenses of Spectacles of his own Invention, for moderating the Glare of the Sun, whose Elevation upon his Nose varies, according to the message it happens to be inflecting, giving over all the impression of a Visitor from very far away indeed. The Geometers have encounter’d the eminent Philadelphian quite by chance, in the pungent and dim back reaches of an Apothecary in Locust-Street, each Gentleman upon a distinct mission of chemical Necessity, as among these shelves and bins, the Godfrey’s Cordial and Bateman’s Drops, Hooper’s Female Pills and Smith’s Medicinal Snuff, hasty bargains are struck, Strings of numbers and letters and alchemists’ Signs whisper’d (and some never written down), whilst a quiet warm’d Narcosis, as of a drawing to evening far out in a Country of fields where drying herbal crops lie, just perceptibly breathing, possesses the Shop Interior, rendering it indistinct as to size, legality, or destiny.
Dixon is accosting at length a clerk who has taken him for one more English tourist hectically out in search of Chinamen’s Drugs,— “Anything, ideally, with Ooahpium in it will do . . . ? Al-cohol to keep it in solution of course . . . perhaps some For-mulation that would go well with the Daffy’s Elixir of which we plan to purchase,— eeh, how many Cases was that again, Mr. Mason . . . ?”
Mason glares back, too keenly aware of the celebrated American Philosopher’s Eye upon them,— having hoped to project before it, somehow, at least the forms of Precedence,— but of course Dixon’s rustic Familiarities have abolish’d, yet again, any such hope,— one more Station of the Cross to be put up with. “Any matter of Supply falls into your area, Dixon. Have a word with Mr. McClean if you’re not sure,” hearing how it sounds, even as he goes on with it.
Dixon remains cheery. “In thah’ welcome Event,” making a carefree motion in the Air with his Handkerchief, “an hundred Cases should do the trick, for this time out, anyway,— Now as to that Oahpiated article we were discussing,— ”
“Aye, we call it a Laudanum, Sir,— compounded according to the original Formulæ of the noted Dr. Paracelsus, of Germany.”
“An hundred Cases?” screams Mason, “have you gone insane? This is a Church-going Province,— ’twill never be authoriz’d.”
“Preventive against a variety of Ailments, Sir . . . ?— excellent anti-costive properties,— given the Uncertainty of Diet,— ”
“The Commissioners know all too well about Daffy’s Elixir, and the uses ’tis put to,” Mr. Franklin, who has been attending the exchange, here feels he must point out. “And being imported, ’tis only to be had, at prices charg’d in the English-shops. Now, for a tenth of that outrageous sum, our good Apothecary Mr. Mispick will compound you a ‘Salutis’ impossible to distinguish from the original. Or you may design your own, consulting with him as to your preferr’d Ratio of Jalap to Senna, which variety of Treacle pleases you,— all the fine points of Daffyolatry are known to him, he has seen it all, and nothing will shock or offend him.” He raises a Finger.” ‘Strangers, heed my wise advice,— Never pay the Retail Price.’ ”
“This is kind of you Sir, for fair . . . ? Mr. Mason’s choices, illustrative of a more Bacchic Leaning, enjoying Priority of mine, so must I rest content with more modest outlays, from my own meager Purse, alas, for any Philtres peculiarly useful to m’self . . . ?”
Dr. Franklin shifts his Lenses as if for a clearer look at Dixon. A Smile struggles to find its way through lips purs’d in Speculation,— but before it quite may, being the sort of man who, tho’ never seen to consult a Time-piece, always knows the exact Time, “Come,” he bids the Astronomers abruptly, “— you’ve not yet been to a Philadelphia Coffeehouse? Poh,— we must amend that,— something no Visitor should miss,— I must transact an Item or two of Business,— would you honor me by having a brief Sip at my Local, The Blue Jamaica?”
“London,” Mr. Mason is soon reporting, “is quite thoroughly charm’d by your Glass Armonica, thanks to the Artistry of the excellent Miss Davies.”
“I have done my utmost to convince Miss Davies that, given the general Frangibility, use of any strong Vibrato could prove,— putting it as gallantly as possible,— unwise. Yet she plays so beautifully. My idle Toy has found itself fortunately arriv’d, among a small Host of Virtuosi. Heavens. The Mozart child,— and thes
e Tales I keep hearing, of the young Parisian Doctor, Mesmer, who plays it, ’tis said, unusually well.”
“Not the Magnetickal Gent?” says Mason.
“The very same. Known to the R.S. for some time, I collect.”
“At The Mitre, he is ever reliable as a topick of lively Discourse.”
“Where Franklin is a Member, and tha’ve scarcely been a Guest,” Dixon may be muttering to himself. Aloud,—“ ’Scuse me, Friend,” briskly upon his feet, “where does one go over the Heap around here?”
Mr. Franklin points out to him a Door to the Yard, and when he is out of earshot, begins, it seems abruptly, to inquire about the Surveyor’s “Calvert connections.”
Mason is perplex’d. “I didn’t know there were any. I imagin’d, that being of a Quaker family, he was deem’d acceptable to the Pennsylvanians, but have ever been at a loss to explain his appeal, if any, to the Marylanders.”
“The Calverts are content to live in England,— as they are Catholics, their children are educated across the Channel, in St. Omer. One of the Jesuits teaching there is a certain Le Maire, who is native to Durham and a particular friend of Dixon’s teacher, William Emerson,— ”
“Yes. But you’d have to ask Dixon about the Jesuit. I know of him only as the partner of Roger Boscovich,— the two degrees of Latitude in Italy,— ”
“— from Rome to Rimini, aye.” Franklin, behind his Orchid-hued Lenses, waits for Mason to work out the Comparisons.
“What’s going on, then?” Mason trying to peer, he hopes not as truculently as he feels, into the shadowy Lunettes.
“You might sometime find yourself discussing these matters with your Second,— ”
“After which,” Mason replies, as Franklin suddenly, with naked narrow’d eyes, looks over the tops of his Spectacles and nods encouragingly, “— I am to relate the Minutes of it all to you?”
Mr. Franklin replacing his “Glasses,” “Not if it causes you Discomfort, Sir. Although some Discomforts may ever be eas’d by timely application of Ben’s Universal Balm,— ”
“— yet do others continue intractable. Why, Dr. Franklin, are you urging me to this, may I say, dismal choice?”
“Oh,— wagering against your loyalty,” Franklin shrugs. “An elementary exercise,— and pray, do not feel you have in any way offended me,— as an adult, I am no stranger to Rejection, I have long learn’d to deal with it in Dignity, as a sane man would,— and without Resentment, motive for it though I may enjoy in Abundance.”
“Sir, I cannot spy upon him for you. I am sorry the Politics here have become so, as one would say, Italian, in their intricacies. But my contractual Tasks alone will be difficult enough without— ah and here is Mr. Dixon.”
“D’you know a lad nam’d Lewis? Said he knew you, Dr. Franklin.”
“Where was this?” Franklin has begun twirling the hair upon either side of his Head, into long Curls.
“Just out in the Alley. He tried to sell me a Watch . . . ? said it was a Masonick Astrologer’s Model . . . ? Signs of the Zoahdiahck . . . ? Pheases of the Moon,— ”
“You didn’t— ”
“Couldn’t. Not unless one of you wants to lend me— ”
“I’ll go have a look,” Mason rising. “Come along Dixon, and point him out?”
“Eeh, Ah think he’s gone . . . ?” Dixon now preoccupied with pouring the contents of a small Vial into his Coffee.
Mason, unable to insist without appearing to wish to consult out of Franklin’s hearing, and needing to piss anyhow, shrugs and withdraws. The moment he vanishes, Franklin begins to press Dixon upon the Topick of Mason’s “East India Company Connections.”
“Is thah’ the Dutch or the English one?” Dixon’s Phiz altogether innocent. “Ah’m ever confounding ’em . . . ?”
Franklin at last allowing himself to chuckle. “Friend Dixon,— Loyalty is a Gem, of Worth innate, Whose price is never notic’d,— till too late.”
“We’ve had an Adventure or two, you see.”
“Ah, me. Don’t suppose the name Sam Peach of Chalford would ring a Bell . . . ?”
With quizzical sincerity, “One of thoase lads in The Beggar’s Opera . . . ?— ”
“Well, well, Mr. Dixon, be easy, I release you,— and look ye, here again is your Companion.”
“The man’s an entire Instrument-shop,” says Mason, “— droll sort of friend for you to have, Dr. Franklin,— interesting Wig. . . . Told me a Riddle, in fact,— Why is the King like a near-sighted Gunner?— ‘Well d—— ’d if I know,’ I said back, ‘but Dr. Franklin is sure to.’ ”
“Mr. Mason! Dear, dear. How would I know any such Joak? Or person?”
“Why, to help you find out how much,—” “— and how foolishly,—” “— we have to spend, perhaps!” sing Mason and Dixon.
“Phlogiston and Electric Fir-r-re,—” cries the eminent Philadelphian, “if I’m not the Biter bi-i-t. As you’d say, trans-parent, was I? . . . Awkward . . . should’ve just ask’d them at the Royal Society, being a member after all. . . . Indeed, I was among ’em at the time you fought the French Vessel,— in London, when you wrote to them . . . quite a Hub-Bub, Gentlemen! Tho’ absent from the meeting which approv’d their reply to you,— innocent, you understand,— I did attend the next, a classick Display of those people at their worst. Taken one at a time,— dear Tom Birch, august Hadley the Quadrant’s Eponym, Mr. Short, Dr. Morton,— excellent minds, invigorating Company,— but when they got all in a Herd,— bless us, the Stubbornness! They knew the French had Bencoolen and would be as content to sink the Seahorse there, as off Brest. They all knew. But they could never allow upstarts to advise them in matters of Global strategy. Alas, the British,— bloody-minded to the end, so long as it be somebody else’s Blood. Thus the Board of Trade, thus the House of Commons. . . . Up there, day after day, instructing them, gently,— a Schoolmaster for Idiots.— Sooner or later, no offense, Gentlemen, Americans must fight them. . . .
“Hurrah, howbeit?— for I am res-cued.” He refers in his courtly way, to the arrival of a pair of young Women, both quite pleasant-looking, tho’ deck’d out with what, even to the unschool’d Eye, seems willful Eccentricity, and who may or may not have been among those in the Carriage which had been earlier at the Landing.
“There he is!”
“Oh, Doctor!” more than vigorously nudging one another, and laughing at differing rates of Speed.
“These are Molly and Dolly,” Franklin introduces them, “Students of the Electrickal Arts, whom I am pleas’d from time to time to examine, in the Sub-ject, ye-e-s. . . . If you’ve the Inclination tonight, Gentlemen, I am giving a recital, upon the Glass Instrument, at the sign of The Fair Anchor, upon Carpenters Wharf, just down from The London Coffee House. ’Tis a sort of,— what is the Word I grope for,— ”
“Gin-shop,” sings Molly.
“Opium den,” cries Dolly.
“Ladies, Ladies. . . .”
“Doctor, Doctor!” As the Philosopher, attempting to maintain his Hair in some order, is slowly absorb’d into a mirthful Cloud of tartan-edg’d Emerald Green and luminous Coral taffeta, Prints with a Lap-Dog Motif, ribbons with “Sailor Beware,” “No free Kisses,” “Be Quick about it,” and other humorous slogans woven into them, Flounces and loose Hats and wand’ring Tresses, the Astronomers reckon it as good a moment as any to be off. Passing into the Street, they can hear Molly piping, “And she swore to me, she saw it glowing in the Dark . . . ?”
Outside they stand, blinking. “I don’t knaahw . . . ? . . . Hadn’t thoo imagin’d him as somehow more . . .”
“Organized. Aye. By Reputation, he is a man entirely at ease with the inner structures of Time itself. Yet, here he seems strangely . . .”
“Unfoahcused, as we Lensmen say . . . ?”
Mason rolling his eyes, “Perhaps
we should pop into that Fair Anchor this Evening, what think you?”
“Aye, happen those two canny Electricians’ll be there . . . ? Rather fancied old Dolly myself. Woman knows how to turn herself out, ’d tha noatice?”
Hearing what he imagines to be an Emphasis upon “two,” Mason directs at Dixon an effortful smile, meaning, “Go ahead, but don’t expect me to ascend wearily out of my Melancholia just so ev’rybody else can have their own idea of a good time,”— which happens to be the most Dixon would ever think of asking of him, anyhow. And withal, when they show up at The Fair Anchor that Night, it turns out to be Mason’s sort of place nicely,— basic and bleak, discouraging ev’ry attempt, even grunting, that might suggest Conviviality, the wood Furniture carv’d upon, splinter’d and scarr’d, the Stale-Ale as under-hopp’d, as ’tis overwater’d. They secure a place along the Bar, and presently Mr. Franklin appears, having exchang’d his Orchid Spectacles for Half-Lenses of Nocturnal Blue. The occupants of the Room, hitherto strewn without more purpose than the human Jetsam of any large Seaport, all sit up at once, draw together, and with the precision of a long-rehears’d Claque, begin to chatter of Miss Davies, and Gluck, and ineluctably, Mesmer.
The Instrument awaits him, its nested Crystal Hemispheres, each tun’d to a Note of the Scale, carefully brought hither through reef’d-Topsail seas and likewise whelming Anxieties back at Lloyd’s regarding the inherent Vice of Glass added to the yet imperfectly known contingencies of voyage by Ship,— brought to shine in this commodious Corner, beneath a portrait of some Swedish Statesman too darken’d with Room-smoke for anyone to be sure who it is any more,— Oxenstjerna, Gyllenstjerna, Gyllenborg, who knows?— discussions often becoming quite spirited, though, of course, conducted in Swedish. It has hung there, growing into its Anonymity, since the early times of the Swedish settlers,— gazing into the room, at the nightly dramas of lost consciousness and squander’d Coin, at gaming and roaring and varieties inexhaustible of Argument. Behind it rises a Flight of stairs, up and down which creeps a ceaseless Traffick. Many pause to stare over the false Mahogany Railing at Dr. Franklin seated at his Glass Armonica, or down upon the Figures and into the Décolletages of Molly and Dolly, who not only have show’d up, but have brought along two more young women with similar ideas about Fashion. “These Doxies,” Mason mutters, “look ye,— they’re staring at me. I can feel myself becoming Unreasonably Suspicious.”
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