Sir Archy, that the Ghost of a Gentleman, dead these 260 Years and more, makes a new appearance....

... here.

"As the Ghost of a Gentleman, dead these 260 years and more, I should be happy to welcome Mrs. Bono to the Astral Plane..."

"... upon her Departure from her Earthly Frame, which she seems greatly intent upon preserving from Decay."

Sir Archy, our ghostly commenter from the 18th century, made an appearance here in the early hours of the morning — in the Cher post.

What is the sound of one hand on a children's TV show host?

Fear.

IN THE COMMENTS: "The Absence of a Hand was in my Age... a most disfiguring & distressing Calamity, especially to a Lady." Yes! Our ghost Sir Archy is back!

Winter fog... cemetery...

The suddenly warm temperature on top of deep snow raised a lush fog. Last night, driving on a narrow road next to the lake, I said, "This is what death looks like in the movies. Driving into nothing." All the familiar landmarks had become invisible, and I felt lost even when I knew exactly where I was.

The fog remained, but it was easier to see things in the morning. I remembered the photographs I'd taken in the graveyards last December -- here and here -- so I went back to that place to see what the fog was doing to it this year -- and to do some things to it myself with the fisheye lens.

As I drove into the cemetery, just by chance, on the radio's "Sinatra" channel, Van Morrison was singing "That's Life." I can't find the Van Morrison version, but here's Frank Sinatra. Lyrics (by Dean Kay and Kelly Gordon):

I said that's life, and as funny as it may seem
Some people get their kicks,
Stompin' on a dream
But I don't let it, let it get me down,
'Cause this fine ol' world it keeps spinning around...

That's life and I can't deny it
Many times I thought of cutting out
But my heart won't buy it
But if there's nothing shakin' come this here July
I'm gonna roll myself up in a big ball and die

What a crazy song! It's all life affirming and then, impetuously, suicidal.

IN THE COMMENTS: Original George says:

Keep On the Sunny Side...

William says:

I like the Jewish custom of leaving a pebble by the tombstone -- a pittance of memory by the eternity of death. Even if you could find them, a few bright flowers on a day like today would be overwhelmed by the bleakness of nature. Sad that the Irish custom of taking a whizz on the most elaborate tombstone has fallen into disuse. A few yellow streaks against the mausoleum of some forgotten notable reminds us of the transience of life and the abiding value of malice and envy in human affairs.

Sir Archy -- our favorite ghost! -- says:

I know, Madam, that Entertainments of the Nature of a Turn through a Graveyard, such as you have taken, are apt to raise dark & dismal Thoughts in tim'rous Minds and gloomy Imaginations; but, for my own Part, because of my Sanguine Nature, I do not know what 'tis to be Melancholy; and can, therefore, take a View of Nature in her deep and solemn Scenes, with the same Pleasure as in her most gay and delightful ones, especially when contemplating such Pictures as you have made upon this Occasion.

Dark & dismal Thoughts in tim'rous Minds and gloomy Imaginations... I have these sometimes. But I must say that this morning, I wasn't the slightest bit spooked by the thought of all the dead bodies as I stalked about looking for the oldest headstones and the most gnarled trees. The winter cemetery is more evocative of death than the green one, which I have also photographed, but in winter, I work more efficiently. I'm not here for meditation. I'm here for art. I concentrate on that and on not stepping in snowbanks higher than my boots.

George says:

You can get van morrison's version at amazon as an mp3 or on the album 'The Best of Van Morrison Volume 3', on rhapsody, and on itunes...

Ah, yes. Good point. Done, with iTunes. Now, I'm listening to it on infinite repeat as I write this.

Cockroach Christmas.

Our favorite insect, blogging cockroach, skittered through the Red Clock Café a few minutes ago:

hi professor
sorry i haven t been around much
tommy s computer was broken
tommy is the boy whose computer i use
anyway computer trouble was only for starters
grand mere showed up from france
you know mom here at the house is french
well the very formidable grand mere blew in
complaining about everything americain
but grand mere took a spill in this fancy
cambridge food store that tries its best
so much to be french that julia child used
to shop there anyway grand mere is in hospital
and won t be out until christmas quel dommage

then we ve had snow snow snow and 2 out of 3
of tommy s christmas concerts were cancelled
that make money for his school quel dommage
which is actually a choir school where they sing
in latin if you want for weddings and funerals
quis a misericordia

well this is the first year everybody didn t
go to france for christmas er noel
so i was looking forward to grand mere s
french christmas cooking because if she s
anything like mom she s real sloppy
which is the first thing i look for in a cook

usually it s real quiet here during christmas
and i have a chance to meditate
on my having the transmigrated soul
of a composer and music professor
which is a little odd to be able to
remember but maybe i didn t get my
dose of the soup of forgetfulness
which proves that the cosmic cook
was probably a little too neat in my case

i have to admit that being a cockroach near harvard u
is pretty good comeuppance for a reborn
asshole prof at a 3rd rate state u
maybe it was 2nd rate but don t make me
a worm next time for bragging
you know i only wanted to get by last time
and what better way than cooking up
academic crap music that was only trendy
at 3rd rate state u s where the deans thought
they were being so avant garde
while they really were wearing no clothes
and no one would tell them
but at least i could hit on grad students
with nice legs
they had to have nice legs
and we got to the no clothes part asap
but now look at me
i ve got lots of legs these days

anyway i use this time to contemplate
how i got here and have resolved to be
a better sentient being if even an insect this time
because i now have an inkling of how
you can blow it if you re a jerk or even
if you re wasting your talents on useless crap
which i now think is a sure path to
invertebratedom in the next life

but this is all so hard to figure out and
it doesn t help that i only have 960 brain cells
although you would be surprised that
consciousness has less to do with the
hardware than you might imagine
so think about that the next time
you squash a cockroach
merry christmas

IN THE COMMENTS: Sir Archy -- our "Ghost of a Gentleman dead these 260 Years and more" -- stops by, with a response on the subject of reincarnation:

I may tell you that upon my Death I had expect'd to be sent to Heaven, or, Hell, or, perhaps, to have been Transmigrat'd into some other sentient Being, as the Hindoos teach and you have experienc'd. You may imagine my Mortification at finding myself remaining a disembody'd Spirit all these Years. I should have been happy even to have been plac'd in the Body of a miserable Cockroach, such as yourself. I endeavour'd, as much as any Sinner, to live a virtuous Life, and have thus always regarded my disembody'd Existence a most unfair Sentence; but, our Situations shew how hard 'tis to comprehend the Will of GOD, or, as some would have it, the Workings of the Universe. In this, the teachings of my Calvinistick Religion would seem to be vindicated; yet, as a Ghost, I may tell you that the Doctrines of neither Geneva, nor, Rome, nor, Benares, nor even, Lahsa are adequate to the Matter....

But this post is already long, so I must send you inside to read the rest.

"You painters do harm, and if you knew the resulting scandal you wouldn’t paint figures such as these, filling our churches with human vanity."

"Do you really think the Virgin Mary went around dressed as you depict her? I assure you she dressed like a poor girl, simply and modestly, and was so well-covered that all you could see were her eyes....”

IN THE COMMENTS: Sir Archy, our 250+ years-dead ghost, makes an appearance.

"Praying that your own Thanksgiving Dinner, and those of your Audience, should, in no wise, consist of Gruel..."

Sir Archy, our ghost commenter, pays us a Thanksgiving visit:

To Professor Althouse.

Dear Madam,

As the Ghost of a Gentleman, dead these 260 Years and more, you may imagine the Tales of Adventure in untam'd Quarters of the Globe that I had read in my younger Days.

In truth, my earliest Reading was much proscrib'd by my Parents, intending me as they did for the Holy Ministry. During my Service in the Army, however, I more than made up for my youthful Neglect of this Species of Entertainment; the Reading of heroick Romances being a more wholesome Pastime in Camp, than, Whoring, Drinking & Gambling, the habitual Diversions of too many of my Fellow-Officers.

After my Discharge following the Wars, when I was first employ'd as Secretary to My Lord, the Earl of O-----, I had form'd an Ambition to become the anonymous Author of such Books; but, I may tell you, Madam, the appearance of Gulliver's Travels in the Year 1726, compleatly overthrew my Plans. In a Stroke, Dr. Swift turn'd such Tales on their Heads, having made one into a biting Satire, and thus all others of its Kind into Laughingstocks.

Dr. Pepusch and Mr. Gay did a very similar thing when they wrote their Beggar's Opera, and so drove Mynheer Handel's ridiculous Italian Operas from the Stage. Of course, neither Opera Seriæ, nor Tales of Heroick Courage in remote Lands ceas'd to be made; but, they came to be regarded with bemus'd Contempt by the more intelligent Part of the Publick.

The Story of the American Colonists' first ordain'd Day of Thanksgiving at Plymouth in Massachusetts was wholly unfamiliar to me from my Youth. I may have read an Account of it, as an Example of proper Christian Gratitude for GOD's manifest Favour; but, as you may imagine, it made as little Impression upon me as one of the good Rev. Dimwiddie's ancient Sixty Sermons Saving Sinners' Sicke Soules, that was forc'd upon me at about the same Time. I had rather have read Pilgrim's Progress, and at least found Pleasure in a lively Style, than to have had my tiring Eye fall on such dreary Examples of Christian Perseverance as the Story of the bare Escape by the so-call'd Pilgrims of New-England from the Ill-Effects of their own Bungling, all puff'd up as Divine Favour.

Nay, Madam, I was all for Tales of an entirely different Character. It may have been that my Imaginations were likely to run away with my Reason; but, had I thought of it whilst I was alive, I could hardly have conceiv'd of anything more rightly romantick than the Story of Sackajaweea, and, her Journey across the the North American Continent.

Indeed, I can imagine now how the Book would have been advertis'd, had Sackajaweea been born 80 or 90 Years earlier, and, the British more forward in pressing their Claims in America. If it were to have made the Lists in, say, the Year 1723, we might have seen the following, viz.:

The Indian Princess,
or, The Slave Redeem'd.

Being a true Account
Of the Capture & Enslavement
of
An Indian Princess,
in
The Mountains of Louisiana in America,
By the Ancient Enemies of Her Tribe;
Her Variety of Fortune,
and,
Her Ransom by, and subsequent Marriage to
A French Gentleman Adventurer;
and,
Their Service to His Britannick Majesty
as Guides & Translators,
to
His Majesty's Corps of Discovery,
In finding the Headwaters,
& Traversing the enormous Length
Of a previously unknown River,
Emptying into the Pacific Ocean
In the Regions North of the fabl'd Province
of California,
Thus laying a rightful British Claim
To this new & unexplor'd Country;
together with
Episodes of Courage & Fortitude
In the Face of
Wild Indians,
Attacks by Bears, Lions, Wolves, &c.
Of Prodigious Size & Ferocity;
and including,
Tender Scenes of new Motherhood;
An Affecting Account of
The Reunion of

Princess Sackajaweea

With her Brother, now King of his People;
and,
Her tearful Departure to resume her Duties;
Her subsequent Happiness;
Delight in her Children, &c.

Illustrated with several curious CUTS.
____________________

LONDON:

Printed for Sebastian Cruikshank
in the Strand;
and to be had at Booksellers
in the Principal Cities.

Anno MDCCXXIII

price bound 4s. 6d.

* * * * * * * * * *

Ah! Madam! I might have been laugh'd out of the Town, or, gotten a Fortune from such a Book! I would not have omitted a close description of Sackajaweea's firm, young Breasts, heaving as they were upon her Capture against her tight-stretch'd leathern Bodice; and, the cords that were cinch'd about her Arms and Ankles by her cruel Enemies, &c. But, all would have been concluded with a pretty Moral upon the Virtues of Marriage, Constancy, Motherhood, Duty, Fortitude, &c.; such that both a Parson & his Stable-Boy would have found Entertainment & Improvement enough in its Pages.

But, leaving off Projections of undone Literary Endeavours near to 300 Years old, I shall only say, Madam, that every Nation needs its Legends & Fables in order to bind the common People more closely together. The Arms of many a Family in Scotland, including my own, bear some heraldick Device from the Age of Robert the Bruce, whose Exploits were the Subject of several accurate Accounts from his own Day; yet, whose Legends abound in Scotch Lore, the Details of which may be not wholly truthful; and, indeed, may often be foolish Concoctions, cook'd up hundreds of Years after the Events they purport to describe. That does not prevent such Legends from serving their Purpose, which is the maintenance of an Ardour for the Liberty & Unity of the Scottish Nation amongst the People.

Similarly, you should not be asham'd of your own National Legends, such as that of your first Thanksgiving, or, even of better-attest'd ones, such as the fantastick Adventures of Sackajeweea; whose main Import & Thrust are the noble and good ones of human Brotherhood, Fortitude in the Face of Adversity, and, Trust in the Beneficience of a Supreme Being. A People who value these Ideals will never willingly thrust their Necks into the Yokes created for them by those who sneer at such Principles and the Tales told to inculcate them.

Altho' the Story of the first American Thanksgiving is, in its Original, thin Gruel indeed (as I above aver), I cannot forbear to remark, by way of closing, that, were I alive, I should be very glad to get such a Dinner as is commonly prepar'd in its Honour.

Praying that your own Thanksgiving Dinner, and those of your Audience, should, in no wise, consist of Gruel, I am,

Madam,

Your humble & obt. Servant,

Sir Archy

Sir Archy, archy, and blogging cockroach.

In the early morning hours yesterday, this blog received a visit from our ghost commenter Sir Archy -- dead these 260 Years and more.

As a ghost, he had something to say about Barack Obama's first press conference, in which the prez-elect claimed to have spoken to all the living Presidents and quipped "I didn’t want to get into a Nancy Reagan thing about doing any séances." (That quip -- for which Obama's had to apologize -- would surely have inspired warm chuckles in a law faculty room.) 

In the comments, Amba said about Sir Archy: "I get him mixed up with the cockroach." By "the cockroach, she means our delightful insect commenter blogging cockroach. (Click the "blogging cockroach" tag below to see old posts with writings by the industrious arthropod.)

Amba adds: "I wonder if they aren't the same person, though, and 'Archy' is a clue." She's thinking -- I happen to know -- of archy of archy and mehitabel, the literary creations of Don Marquis:

Archy is a cockroach with the soul of a poet, and Mehitabel is an alley cat with a celebrated past -- she claims she was Cleopatra in a previous life.... "expression is the need of my soul," declares Archy, who labored as a free-verse poet in an earlier incarnation. At night, alone, he dives furiously on the keys of Don Marquis' typewriter to describe a cockroach's view of the world, rich with cynicism and humor. It's difficult enough to operate the typewriter's return bar to get a fresh line of paper; all of Archy's dispatches are written lowercase, and without punctuation, because he is unable to hit both shift and letter keys to produce a capital letter. "boss i am disappointed in some of your readers," he writes, weary of having to explain the mechanics of his literary output. " ... they are always interested in technical details when the main question is whether the stuff is literature or not."

Marquis' George Herriman's ink drawings are sublime. See, here is archy putting in the immense athletic effort needed to type a short column: 

Now, blogging cockroach is surely a tribute to Marquis' archy, and we appreciate his explanation of the the mechanics of his literary output by computer even as we contemplate whether the stuff is literature or not. (Perhaps someone can make a drawing in the Marquis style of blogging cockroach at the computer or photoshop this drawing somehow.)

But Amba's question is whether Sir Archy is named to connect him to the cockroach. (Bonus points if you you do that drawing/photoshop and replace mehitabel with Sir Archy.) Are these writers one and the same (and, if so, are they also anybody else that we see around here)?

Well, the cockroach saw Amba's musings and dropped by the comments thread. Here is what he wrote:

well all i can say is that there are some advantages to being a cockroach one of them is i don t have to worry about my hair or clothes anymore having the transmigrated soul of a composer i can look back at all the troubles i had when i was a music professor to buy the right suits and keep my shirts ironed etc in those days they paid us a pittance and so i drove a 56 studebaker but had to wear a suit on campus every day which cost me as much as the damn studebaker i hated clothes not to mention haircuts i was actually kinda glad to go bald except maybe for the combover which frightened away my female students damn but now i don t worry about any of that and other than molting now and then life is simple and i sure don t want to mess it up with a powdered wig but having spent a little time on the astral plane myself i can tell you archy s right about seances etc you just settle in and some idiot comes and bothers you about something really stupid reminded me of office hours anyway one day my ex wife showed up wondering where the key to the safe deposit box was now some exes hire private detectives but mine hired a medium tells you a lot anyway i screamed let me out of here let me slouch somewhere to be born and presto the next ticket said cockroach cambridge mass so here i am maybe i ll tell you about the safe deposit box next time

So here's another clue for you all:

Plus, cambridge mass... Harvard/MIT? Some bald professor with a penchant for nudism?

ADDED: And at last night's Crossroads Café, Chip Ahoy said:

What I know about the Kennedy administration was learned by reading. Smithsonian used to be so interesting. My favorite part was letters from the readers remarking on articles. What an erudite bunch. It ran a couple of pages. Then they got another new editor who cut that section back to just a few letters and to about half a page. That told me all I needed to know about the new editors attitude toward his readers. Then they ran an article in relation to the John Kennedy assassination anniversary. Readers were asked where they were when the event occurred. That series of letters then ran for several pages. All the remarks were about how glorious the age of Camelot was, how idealistic, youthful, energetic, positive, and optimistic everyone was. How amazing incredibly beautiful the time was. Every single one glowed with praise and rued a lost past. Except for one. A response from Tom Clancy. He had a wee on their little party. He remarked the administration wasn't all that remarkable. He reminded readers of several notable failures and obvious shortcomings. He suggested had the administration lasted, it would not be remembered so fondly. This caused me adore Tom Clancy, even though he's a schmuck. I was so put off by the whole thing, the rebuff to the readers, the hard leftist turn, the ceaseless pontificating, the whole desktop publishing look, I ended the subscription I held since junior high school. It occurred to me though, reading through all those responses, those writers, were recalling an idealized, sanitized youthful optimism -- their own youths. Their optimism was entirely of their own making and had little to do with facts on the ground. As is their present pessimism. And now, I'm seeing that phenomenon occurring again right before my eyes. I'm going to enjoy this. As an observer. But this will not affect my own naturally occurring cheerful optimism nor my own self-indulgent satanic pessimism. I'm just going to watch my wonderful country, the less wonderful world, willfully create their own optimism. Myth making. That's what is happening. Observe a new myth. This is how it's created. Begin by overlooking faults, dismissing them, excusing them. Next exaggerate any gain, whatever actual good there is, suddenly is really REALLY, REALLY everlastingly good. Yay! Dance! Glee! Canonize! Deify. Mythologize. Expect comparisons to Camelot, and know then you're in the arena of myth. But know also, this is all occurring within the minds of the mythologists. But know also, optimism is very real. Just as real an uplifter as pessimism interprets into very real and actual drag. Therefore, I choose to enjoy the optimism in my fellow Americans, no matter how ridiculous it is. I could go for another Camelot myself, even though I know it's all occurring entirely within the minds of all you silly dumkopfs, present company excepted, of course. I vastly prefer my fellow citizens as silly little shits, than as obnoxious unbearable cnuts. <--- a="" about="" and="" before="" company="" completes="" delusional="" did="" different.="" disguises="" entirely="" even="" for="" href="http://bour3pages.blogspot.com/2008/11/hummus-on-romaine.html" i="" in="" it.="" letter="" mixed="" my="" mythos.="" now="" one="" optimistic="" polite="" remarks="" ridiculously="" s="" see="" self-constructed="" something="" than="" the="" there="" this="" transposition.="" unacceptable="" what="" word="" worse="">Here's what I made for lunch.

Sorry you couldn't be here, I'm sure you'd have been wonderful lunch dates.Go to Chip's lunch link for all the steps, but here's his last pic:

That brought the cockroach over:

yes chip ahoy that was a beautiful lunch i adore hummus if you don t eat those lettuce leaves completely and leave the remains on the plate or better yet drop one on the floor well i ll have a beautiful lunch too now about the beautiful kennedy administration i was a young grad student when camelot happened the main thing i remember is seeing kennedy getting off an airplane looking really snappy or hot as they say today and thinking man that guy must get some action then i thought naw he s the president of the u s that s really sick to think those thoughts hoo boy was i wrong

And here's what Tom Clancy wrote:

I never voted for the guy. I was only 13 when he got elected. I was a junior in high school when Kennedy got whacked. I was in the Waverly Theater on Green Mount Avenue in Baltimore watching Shirley MacLame and Jack Lemmon. I had a half-day of school. It was a Friday. I heard it on the way coming out of the movie. The ticket-taker said the president got shot. Then followed four days of nothing but a dead president. They didn't even show the Colts play. He was the president of the United States, so I didn't want him murdered. I wanted him to lose the next election. I mean, what did he accomplish? He has been canonized by the media, which I think is a bit unseemly. He was a handsome guy. He had great style. He meant well. It was Lyndon Johnson who got the civil rights movement rolling. He was a patriot and he put his life at risk in World War II, and that's something to be admired, but I don't see anything historically significant that he did other than the space program. For the space program, I'd buy him a beer.

ADDED: Thanks to Jeff with one "f" for correcting me about the ink drawings. I love George Herriman -- and even blogged about him back here. Mehitabel's resemblance to Krazy Kat is clear... clearer than Sir Archy's resemblance to blogging cockroach.

AND: Dear, sweet Palladian has sent me the illustration I wanted!

   

"One of the Reasons for the miserable Decline of the Republican Party's Fortunes may be that his Spirit was injur'd by the Grip of Mrs. Reagan."

Ah! In the early hours of the morning, our ghostly visitor, Sir Archy, appeared and commented on the post about Barack Obama's first press conference. Obama said -- and has apologized for saying -- "I have spoken to all of them who are living," he responded. "I didn’t want to get into a Nancy Reagan thing about doing any séances."

To Professor Althouse. Dear Madam, As the Ghost of a Gentleman, dead these 260 Years and more, I may tell you that in Life, I was importun'd and bother'd by Ideots & Bores enough. Whilst no Man may know the Fate that awaits him when he crosses the Litchgate, 'twas not unreasonable to expect that in Death I should not have been pester'd by those remaining behind in the sunlit Realms of Life. Alas! Madam, it has proven not to be so. Altho' there are innumerable spiritual Beings to be found everywhere on the Astral Plane, we commonly have little Intercourse with each other. Nay, 'tis the Living, with their Seances, Spiritualism, and, dare I say, Witchcraft, who are constantly clamouring for the Attention of the Dead. You should know that many a Time I have been lost in ghostly Thought; when suddenly my Head is knock'd on the Underside of a Table, as if someone had grasp'd my Waistcoat and forc'd me into this ridiculous Pose. A Company of foolish Persons is commonly seated at the Table; whilst a puff'd up Buffoon at the Head groans clos'd-Eyed Incantations of a Strength just sufficient to drag me from my Meditations, but with no further Power to permit me to entertain or instruct those present. To undertake a Journey from the World of the Dead to the Land of the Living is uncommonly difficult, attended with much Fatigue and Uncertainty. For the Living to fling us thither by our ghostly Coattails is a very hazardous Operation, not to be undertaken lightly. Many a sensitive Ghost has been utterly ruin'd by such scandalous Exposure. As shewn by the occasional Remarks you have giv'n me leave to publish, Madam, in this, your Theatre of Topicks (as I call it), I am very obliged to be thus allow'd to help improve the Publick in my small Way. I flatter myself that I am, within my paltry Compass, a Ghost of some Parts & Application, and so am enliven'd and invigourated by such Exertions. Yet, there are many others who would vanish like evanescent Smoak were they to be us'd thus. That Mrs. Reagan were engag'd in Seances, contacting the Spirit of her late Husband, is a Thing not to be lightly believ'd, and, indeed, to be dreaded; for, as vigorous as President Reagan was in Life, his long Years of Decline weakened his Spirit. The Health of President Reagan's Shade could be in some Doubt, if Mrs. Reagan had grasp'd too firmly his ghostly Hand at her supposed Seances. One of the Reasons for the miserable Decline of the Republican Party's Fortunes may be that his Spirit was injur'd by the Grip of Mrs. Reagan. Instead of a beneficent & benign Presence o'erspreading a Benediction upon his Party, there perhaps remains only a shatter'd & withdrawn Remnant of one claw'd at by the Living with too much Desperation. Mrs. Clinton seems to have used the Ghost of Mrs. Roosevelt with greater Subtlety. If Mrs. Roosevelt continues her White House hauntings for the benefit of Mrs. Obama, we shall have strong Proof that Mrs. Clinton understands and perhaps inspires the Dead (altho' the Democrats had little Need of 'em lately as Electors). Praying that you shall continue to inspire both the Living and, in my Case, the Dead, I am, Madam, Your humble & obt. Servant, Sir Archy

"There are very many amongst the Fair Sex who consider the Choice of a Shoe with perhaps greater Care than they would a Candidate on Election Day."

Our most highly esteemed ghost commenter, Sir Archy, made an appearance, here, in the very early hours of the morning. I reprint his words in full:

To Professor Althouse.

Dear Madam,

As the Ghost of a Gentleman, dead these 260 Years and more, you may imagine the Changes in Fashion and Taste to which I have been witness.

Every Age views the Cloathes & Garniture of another with Bemusement and Contempt. As the modern World regards the Fashions of my Day, so I count it as one of the Tortures of this Ghostly Purgatorio in which I find myself, that I must look upon the Female Body so abus'd by modern Garments. I shall not dwell upon the Horrours seeing every Hair & Pimple expos'd, whilst the graceful Lines of the femine Form remain marr'd by the Deshabille of this Age. Nay, Madam, a Madwoman in Bedlam would have been asham'd in my Day to have been drest thus.

For all the Reform so necessary for other modern Cloathes, 'twould appear but a trifling Waste of Time to divert oneself admiring Shoes; yet there are very many amongst the Fair Sex who consider the Choice of a Shoe with perhaps greater Care than they would a Candidate on Election Day. Nevertheless, I cannot forbear to say that modern Shoes are perhaps the least disfigur'd Item of Dress a Woman of this Age has with which to indulge herself.

You may recall, Madam, that I had written previously upon this Topick; I thus beg your Indulgence to do so again, feeling all the Impropriety of my Lack of Originality. I excuse myself by saying that there may be new Members of your Audience, unaccustom'd to my ghostly Thoughts & Notions; and perhaps Others who would not mind seeing an old Idea, recover'd like a lost Buckle from the Bottom of a Drawer.

Many Ladies perhaps will find the Example of Mrs. Palin's Cloathes either useful or repellant; whether, as Electors, they should vote for her or not. There are also Persons of both Sexes amongst the Audience at this your Theatre of Topicks (as I call it), who cannot avert their Eyes from the many Pictures of Mrs. Palin's Feet & Legs everywhere to be seen in News-Papers and upon the Internet. Without the Readers suspending their higher Judgements, 'twould appear that Mrs. Palin's Shoes have become a more diverting Topick than either of the Wretches who would be your President.

The Audience may thus find it worthwhile to dwell a Moment upon this Sort of Vanity, little chang'd over the Centuries, viz., certain Ladies' Love of Shoes. Pray, do not take it amiss, then, if I should reprise, by way of Illustration, the little Tale which (as above) I had told here before:—

I recall Imelda, the young Wife of a Cavalry Officer and Neighbour to my late affianced Wife. Imelda had been a true Friend and great Help to my poor Fiancée when her first Husband died of the Pox (and so became the young Widow whose Acquaintance I was fortunate to have made). A more Kindly & Generous Soul you would never meet than Imelda; she was possess'd also of those Qualities of her Person that, whilst not Beauty of the first Rank, would still turn Heads upon Occasion. Knowing that she was not, perhaps, a great natural Beauty, Imelda sought those little honest Improvements that Ladies may make by the proper Choice of Cloathes & Attention to their Hair, not forgetting some small Dose of Emollients to soften the Appearance & improve the Colour of the Skin, &c. For all that, she had nothing about her of the paint'd Harlot, nor did she attempt the pert Gaiety of a Frenchwoman with colour'd Ribands, Flow'rs, &c. Nay, she cultivated an Air of Tastefulness & Sobriety, rather above her actual Station in Life, giving every Impression of a well-to-do Gentlewoman.

To this End, there were no Lack of Dress-Makers, Milliners, Hair-Dressers and the like, to whom she was wont to pay Custom. But there was one Establishment where she was habitually to be found, even when her Husband was expected on Leave, even when her Relations, come all the way from Wapping, were to appear at any Moment. You may guess that it was the Cobbler's Shop. Some People waste their Time & Fortune with Gamblers & Sharpers; others concerned with their Souls spend many an Hour with Priests; some seek Improvement with Musick-Masters, and still Others with Dancing or Fencing-Masters; so 'twas that Imelda spent every free Moment with Mr. Crispin, Shoe-Maker.

Crispin had made any Number of Lasts upon the Model of her Feet, and found greater Employment than with any other making Shoes & Slippers after the latest Fashions of Paris and our own London Taste for this Lady. When her Husband return'd from the Wars on half-pay, he found Mr. Crispin's Bills exceeded his Income for the Year, and that he was forced to draw upon his modest Estate to pay them. Imelda used to tell, by way of a Jest upon Herself, of the Occasion when she was Nine or Ten, that she ran barefoot into the Parlour where a very grave Bishop was paying the Family a Visit, and cried, "Are not my pretty little Feet fine, Sir?" Her loving Husband finally chided her that, "Your pretty little Feet are bankrupting us, Madam!" and forbade any new Shoes until he had put their Estate in Order.

Here is proclaim'd the Folly of an irrational and unwholesome Attachment to one Part of the Female Body that seems to afflict both Sexes. Certain Ladies love their Shoes too much; and, it must be said, certain Gentlemen love female Feet too much, as well. The making & selling of a Superfluity of Ladies' Shoes seems to have continued unabat'd from my Day to this, proving (as I before averr'd) that such foolish Vanity was not the especial Possession of my Age.

For my Part, whilst in Life not immune to the Charms of each Feature of the feminine Form, and glad to have had them well-drest or display'd, as may have been Proper, I took Delight in the Effect of tout l'ensemble, and remember'd that Nature gave us the whole Woman; and that whether she wore a Sabot or a Silk Stocking, She was, and always will remain, more than the Sum of her Parts.

Praying that neither You nor Members of your Audience would see themselves in any of my Anecdotes, I am,

Madam,

Your most humble & obt. Servant,

Sir Archy

"The Intent was to paint a Picture of Mrs. Palin in the Mind of the Audience as a Sow. Such a crude Jape..."

After my weekend jaunt to Hilton Head Island, I've got so many unread comments to review for spam and other delete-able things. I enjoy reading the good comments too, but it's really hard when I've fallen behind. I'm trying to catch up right now, moving quickly through the backlog, but I've got to stop and savor this one: another visitation from our ghost commenter Sir Archy.

It's back here, on "Enough with the pigs, fish, snakes, and lambs... here come the wolves!"

To Professor Althouse.

Dear Madam,

As the Ghost of a Gentleman, dead these 260 Years & more, you may imagine the Insults & Calumnies to which I have been witness. Nothing more stabs the Conscience, and arouses tender Feelings of Sympathy in a gallant Gentleman, than Slanders & Libels direct'd without Justice against a Member of the Fair Sex, especially if Comparisons be made with Beasts.

Mr. Obama's late Jest upon Pigs in a Political Oration would at first appear to be such a thing. The careful Observer will see, however, only a small Slander grown out of Proportion. The Intent was to paint a Picture of Mrs. Palin in the Mind of the Audience as a Sow. Such a crude Jape, unworthy of a Gentleman of Mr. Obama's Reputation, should not, in itself, arouse excessively chivalrous & gallant Sentiments in her male Admirers; 'twas but a passing Jest upon Mrs. Palin's own Words. Mr. Obama also made it with no little Indirection, as befits a Gentleman who would perhaps insult a Lady, altho' the Audience wanted no Hint to take his Meaning.

Yet, Madam, there remains another View of such petty Barbs. Habitual vehement Jesting against Women renders the Conscience of both the Teller & Hearer insensible by Degrees to very real Wrongs, nay mortal Injuries, that may in the end be done. Such crude & unfeeling Sentiments seem to well up naturally in brutish Men of poor Breeding & little Sense. They reqire strong Correction, lest the noblest Impulses of the human Heart be utterly extinguish'd and Society corrupt'd.

By way of Example, the following Account is from a London News-paper in my Day, shewing where ill-temper'd Designs of mix't Pigs & Women may lead:—

The London Journal
22nd August 1730.

We hear that at the late Assizes held at Bridgwater, an Indictment was preferred against a Sow-Gelder, for attempting to spay his Wife; but she refused to prosecute, and acknowledged her Forgiveness of him, and desired the Court would do the same: However, the Court remanded him back to Prison, and, for the sake of the good Women in general, ordered him to remain there 'till he could give 400l. Security for his good Behaviour during Life.

The Occasion of this vile Attempt, was this: The Sow-Gelder being in Company with several other married Men over a Pot of Ale, they all join’d in Complaint of the Fruitfulness of their Wives, because of the Charges brought upon them thereby; and asking him, whether he could not do by their Wives as by other Animals, he said he could; and they all agreed their good Women should undergo the Operation, provided he would begin with his own: This, with a great Oath, he undertook; and going Home, by Violence gagg’d and bound his Wife, and laying her on a Table, made a transverse Incision on the side of her Belly; but after much Puzzling, and putting the poor Woman to great Torment, he found there was some Difference between the Situation of the Parts in the rational & irrational Animals, and so, sewing up the Wound, he was forced to give up the Experiment. The Woman in her first Agonies appear'd strenuously against him, but being Recovered by the Time of the Trial, was so generous as to forgive him, and plead for his Pardon, as above.

I remember to have read one Instance (if I mistake not) of the Duke of Cleve’s Sow-Gelder, who actually perform’d this Operation on his Daughter, whom he suspect'd to be young with Child by an inveigling Courtier; but as he went through-stitch with his Work, so his Prince wen through-stitch with him, putting him to a cruel & exemplary Death for so inhuman an Action.

* * * * * * * *

This Account ravels several Strands that may be pull'd from the Life Story of Mrs. Palin. Nay, they are some of the Warp & Woof of the Stuff of a modern Civilized Society, where Children are count'd as an Expense, and being rid of them the Provenance of Physick. Our Sow-Gelder wanted only Knowledge of Modern Chiurgeury to compleat his Task, and so excuse himself from the Bother & Expense of Parenthood, continuing, as he would, Relations with his Wife.

Mrs. Palin & her Family have woven a pretty Tapestry, after their Fashion, from these Threads. The Sow-Gelder and his poor Wife made a very different Picture; shewing that Selfishness and ill-regard for Women, indeed, clownish Disrespect for the very Act of Procreation, are not the especial Possession of this Age.

Beggging your Pardon for the excessive Length of my Epistle, but praying that rational & sensible Persons will be reminded thus of the Difference between a Woman & a Pig, and so Men & Beasts, I am,

Madam,

Your humble & obt. Servant,

Sir Archy

Where am I? What am I thinking?

Today's photo puzzle.

ANSWER: I'm at (in) an installation by Roberto Behar and Rosario Marquardt at the Madison Museum of Contemporary Art called "The Absent City":

While the work in the prow [of the museum] succeeds as a site-specific piece, at least architecturally speaking, the most important question to consider is how these works relate to the people of Madison. On a recent opening night, people were enjoying themselves, but I don't know if these pieces really dig deeply at the social and political issues the artists want to address — presumably, in part, issues about a sense of community and questioning the conventional order. Madison, while not a progressive utopia, is a pretty savvy place, and I think Madisonians could go for something more visually and conceptually challenging.

Ahem. Yeah. I'm thinking this would be a good exhibition for children. I'm inside a room created by hanging red plastic ribbons. There are other rooms with permeable walls made of other colors of ribbons. Each room on the inside is made of a single color, and the outside of the walls are a second layer of hanging ribbons, made — did you guess? — of multiple colors. In a central area there are little figures of people standing under a big flag made of flowers. Get the message? Come on, people now, smile on your brother, everybody get together, try to love one another right now.

IN THE COMMENTS: Lots of good stuff, mainly about me being in hell. Plus: Sir Archy!

"But these Internet Savages are more like unto Vagabonds, Wastrels, or even common Thieves, enjoying the Benefits of Society, whilst doing no Good."

Surely, you recognize the voice of our ghost commenter, Sir Archy, dead these 250 Years and more. We'd been missing him, and now he's made an appearance, on that post about the trolls of the web.

"Should Sir Robert Walpole have come to Parliament as a Fop in a Bag, instead of his habitual full-bottom'd Wig..."

"... 'twould have sent the Town into a Tizzy, more than his being seen kissing Mrs. Skerritt in the Theatre."

Sir Archy, our ghost commenter, dead these last 250 years and more, has made an appearance on this post.

"Does this mean the Cap Times will no longer allow crackpot conspiracy theorists to claim 9/11 was an inside job by the government?"

Comment moderation at the Cap Times.

IN THE COMMENTS: Sir Archy appears and thrills Seven Machos.

"As the Ghost of a Person dead these 250 Years and more, who had seen enough of Bedlam..."

"... I may tell you than an Imbalance of Humours was ever at the Root of a Madman’s Distemper."

Sir Archy visits the comments section of "I don't get too high when I'm high, and I don't get too low when I'm low" (the post where I called Barack Obama phlegmatic).

"Twas unfortunate She drank an insipid Canadian Liquor, and not the noble Highland Spirits."

Sir Archy, the ghost who occasionally visits the comments section of this blog, has something to say about Hillary Clinton's recent demonstration of working-class style by drinking a shot of Crown Royal and a mug of beer:

Before I became the Ghost of a Scotch Gentleman, dead these 250 Years and more, I thought I should never live to see a Lady out of Scotland—and Few in it—drink Whiskey. In that I am not disappointed, for I had not lived; yet Sen. Clinton has drunk—and not only Whiskey, but Beer. 'Twas unfortunate She drank an insipid Canadian Liquor, and not the noble Highland Spirits; but, all Artifice as She is, I cannot but doubt that Someone told her 'twould be good Politicks to be seen raising a North American glass....

Senator Clinton may be all Artifice, but to put the most charitable Interpretation on her choice of Drink, I have little Doubt that familiarity with the so-call'd Bourbon of the American South, has left her unwilling to drink any further of it. That good Scotch Whiskey should Today be consider'd a Drink that only the well-to-do may afford, is another Example of the Chang'd World I so often pitch upon. Perhaps Mrs. Clinton sought the miserable Canadian rye as the only drinkable Spirit that did not have an Odor of Pretense about it, so that She may yet shew Herself to not be above the Common People. I however suspect that the Country People of Pennsylvania drink as little of Crown Royal as they do of any Whiskey, and are ever Beer-drinkers.

I will leave the Interpretation of the modern Meaning & Customs that commonly surround Mrs. Clinton's Choice of Drink to those most familiar with them, and only say that Decency would have me forbear to look further into the Matter.

Wishing I were yet able to drink to Your Health with something other than the very odd Products of North American Stills, I am,

Sir,

Your humble & obt. Servant,

Sir Archy

"Your Shoes are a much more diverting Topick than the Wretches who would be your President."

Sir Archy, our beloved ghost commenter, has favored us with another visit to this Theatre of Topicks as he calls it.

Sir Archy alert.

Our favorite commenter ghost — "dead these 250 Years and more" — has made an appearance in yesterday's "Virtuous vanilla" post.

"People like this should be air-dropped into reality. I'll bet dollars to donuts that she voted for Bush. "

"Tens of thousands of kids killed by sanction-wielding, war-monging asswipes in the White House, but she's all upset because of simulated violence. Die of cancer, bitch."

Idiots respond to idiots. That's a typical — and "favorited" — comment on a Metafilter post about a terrific collection of stupid complaints to the FCC about various TV shows.

IN THE COMMENTS: Another visit from our favorite ghost, Sir Archy:

To Professor Althouse.

Madam,

As You know, in a recent Letter, I propos'd to take up the Office of Inspector of Lunaticks for this, your Theatre of Topicks (as I call it). Madam, I have not beg'd Preferment, but have only wish'd to place my occasional Hobby on a more regular Footing.

As the Ghost of someone dead these 250 years and more, I had, in my Day, seen many a Madman in Bedlam. I have made an especial Study of Madness and its Causes, and I have scour'd the Ends of the Earth for Physick with which to dose distemper'd Brains; yet I can honestly say, Madam, that nothing has prepar'd me for the Parade of Lunaticks display'd in this Topick.

That a Government Department, charg'd with licensing Television, should receive such Communications, opens a Field of Raillery that only a Dr. Swift could adequately traverse. In my Day, we had to go to the Expense & Bother of hiring a Coach, having a Pique-Nique prepar'd, and spending an entire Afternoon, in order to visit Bedlam on those Days when the Publick were admitted for a Penny, all so we might be entertain'd. Now, You may have more numerous and amusing Lunaticks before You by pushing a Button. Such are the Wonders of the Modern Age.

Madam, I hope you will not take it amiss if I tell you that I shall endeavor to make application to this Governmental Department for Employment. Altho' I was a Gentleman, honest Work was never beneath Me; and I might say that my Knighthood was occasion'd not by my Service in the Army, but my Labour at Administration.

That this Department should need an Inspector of Lunaticks is obvious, and seldom have I relish'd the Prospect of Employment more. As I have been assur'd that my Ghostly State and Foreign Origin are no Disbarments to becoming an American Elector, so I shall make bold to offer my Services to the American Government forthwith. If any of your Audience were able to offer Advice as to best Way to obtain Preferment in a Situation like this, I should be very Grateful.

Wishing always to retain my Amateur Status as Critick of Lunaticks here at Professor Althouse's fine Theatre,

I remain, Madam,

Your humble & obt. Servant,

Sir Archy

Sir, you may have whatever Status you like here in my Theatre of Topicks.