Sadness Descends...

          Behold! I am dripping wet.  This is the story of my second trip into Portsmouth Harbour this week.

          I enjoy Lorrette, the wife of Pathos, because she is blunt, yet gentle.  She stood there, glaring at me, as Pathos wrapped blankets around my shivering form. 

          “Are you going to explain this to me?” she demanded.

          “Well, it’s like this…”

          See, there was this odd popinjay English fellow in Portsmouth who made a boast ~ I shall not say concerning what ~ and, well, he needed to be lowered a peg.  I challenged, he accepted, and selected pistols.

          But there was a caveat, and it was supposed to provide us both a lesson in intemperance of attitude, and break us both of dueling for good.

          Governor Wentworth, not wishing to see either of us shot, conferred upon the matter with a Scots noble (of whom I have spoken on a prior occasion) named Buchanan, who recommended the duel proceed in a certain peculiar manner, guaranteed to teach us both.

          It worked not.

          The Englishman and I stood on opposite edges of the pier.  In one hand we held our respective pistols, but in the other we held the end of a rope which connected us.  We then were ordered to lean backward over the edge of the pier and support each other by putting our weight on our respective ends of the rope, thereby the weight of the one man pulling prevented the other from tumbling into the harbour.  We were both completely dependent upon the other for staying dry.

          The point was that if one of us shot the other, the victim would immediately let go of the rope between and the shooter also would fall backwards off the pier into the frigid Mere Atlantique.

          Yet as I said, it worked not.

          As the Englishman leaned back, holding gun and rope, the realization of the consequences of his actions popped into his head, and he was visibly moved by the nonsensical code by which he lived his life, and he instantly vowed to himself never to take up arms in dueling again…

          …at which point I shot him, he let go of the rope, and we both tumbled into the drink.

          This being explained to Lorrette, she called me a silly sod for dueling, and Pathos a sillier sod for allowing it.  She was motherly toward us, and gave us both a light-hearted peck, then taking Pathos by the hand, informed her husband that she would see him that evening with a special meal prepared.  Then she set off on foot for home.

          But she never made it…

          I have found myself floating in Portsmouth Harbour twice this week.  Here is the first tale ~

          Pathos and I were seeking sustenance one fine afternoon when he suggested a nice new eating house named Yum Kippers. It served Hebrew seafood.

          We walked in and took our seats.  The view of the harbour was stunning, and the atmosphere was exquisite.

          As we waited for our server, Pathos and I debated sundry issues of the day.  Our server arrived ~ he was a terribly large fellow, wearing curls and a yalmuka with a fist delicately embroidered upon the crown.

          Pathos ordered ~

          “I’d like the matzo soup.”

          “Excellent choice, sir!” bellowed our server.

          It was my turn. I did not look at the menu before I ordered. When I crave seafood, I know what I want ~

          “Ummm…. yes, I think I shall just have the lobster with fried clams and mayo on the side…”

          As I bobbed up and down in the chilly waters of the harbour, I had time to reflect upon the afternoon to that point, and decided that some people are just plain going to find me offensive.  Can’t be helped.   

Notes on New Hampshire's Wild Horses

I have learnt that the wild horses, which roam the woods of the New-Hampshire Colony, are, by the lot, unintelligent creatures, not much taken with the bit and bridle. 

If they are to be tamed for domestic use, it shall take a dozen lifetimes merely to convert one.

But, all things considered, they are quite tasty… better than any horse I ate during the war.

ponderings

          I’ve been standing on the edge of the wilderness, looking out from civilization, and realizing something.  The wilderness does not care at all if I am there or not, so long as I do not do things that damage it.  I am an anachronism to the forest ~ unless my bones are mouldering beneath a tree, returning to the soil, the forest has no use for me being there.  And I can never see the forest when I am there as the forest sees itself when I am not there.

          But there is peace there, if only for a little while.  A man can feel all alone in the forest, yet be happy, but a man does not know true loneliness until he lives in a city.  There is nothing like a city for making a man feel lonely.

          So I suppose a farmer’s life is best for me, partway between the wilderness and the town ~ hands in the soil, head on the pillow.

          No dueling.  No politics. Just work for the hands, the head, and the heart.

At a tavern in Portsmouth...

          He sat across from me, blathering on about how he wanted to destroy the American frontier.  He was so disillusioned by life in the colonies, and how everyone was speculating on and gobbling up the wildlands in the Ohio Country since the end of the war with France, that he wanted to do something that would forever scar the land, and destroy its value.

          “Well,” says I, “I think, Mr. Chapman—”

          “—it’s John, actually, but my friends call me Johnny.”

          “Well, Mr. Chapman, I think that, if you wish to disfigure the land, you should hatch a plan that required the least amount of physical exertion and financial commitment.”

          “What do you mean?”

          “Two words: Invasive Species.”

          “What?” He took the pot off his head and sorta glared questioningly at me.

          “Invasive Species are non-native plants that take over areas and choke out the native vegetation.”

          “Oh. Will that work?”

          “It might.”

          “Well, what would you recommend?”

          “Oh, I dunno… what about apples?”

          “Apples?”

          “Why yes! If you went all over the Ohio Country planting apple trees, it would cause more people to move there, and eventually they will form cities that will billow pollution into the air and ruin the land for everyone else, from the Mississippi River to the Atlantic Seacoast, everyone would feel the effects of this pollution. Why, it could even kill off entire forests in Tennessee!”

          “Really?  Huh. And what would these cities be called?”

          “Hmmm…. Well, what about Gary and Cleveland ?”

          Mr. Chapman scratched his head.

          “Ya know, I think that just might work!  Thank you, mysterious stranger!”

          “Don’t mention it.”

          Chapman leapt up and ran out the door, almost forgetting to put the bean pot back on his head.

          “Think he’ll actually do it?” asked Pathos.

          “Not a chance. He doesn’t look like someone with a lot of follow-through.”

          “Shouldn’t you have warned him about the drinking water in the Ohio Country?”

          “Not really. There’s really only one place in the entire Great Lakes area where drinking the water could actually kill him, and he’ll probably never end up there.”