“Be not afraid,” twittered Mazie Tuck-and-Frill, “you shall be well surrounded.”
“God help us!” said Patience Scalpel, draining her Glass, “not one good hammer-throwing, discus-casting, coxy Prepuce amongst you!”
“Oh wry Luck and wrong cast! Is the Belly-strap of Venus to slip Sling and slew me to my dimming? Am I to be cuddled to the Grave in three Pins and a Yard of warm Woman’s Pelt?” cried Dame Musset. “All in my willy-nilly years, when I should find Custom only, and never a sly waylaying Drab in the dark to gin and make a catch of me, no longing lingering at Turnstile and Toll-gate, at Door-lock and Key-hole!” “Time passes,” said Patience.
SPRING FEVERS, LOVE PHILTERS AND WINTER FEASTS
Now, was it the same in the Hap-hour of the World, when whelks whispered in the brink of the Night, rocked in the Cradle of Time’s Ditch, taking their Will-of-the-wisp, all in a flux of Tenses and Turns? The simplicity of their nature was upon them, Cap and Shoe. What they gave out was but the Earth given bide, until some billion of improving Years later, having toiled for the worse, and having made a stink of Advancement, became Queen-Man and King-Woman, under the Bells of the Bride’s Wake, and Corpse Sleep, with Butter and Mustard on their Alms-bread for Charity, snitching in Larder cold end upon cold end of most comical Mutton, to fatten the lift to a Strumpet’s turn, or buck up her Roup with promise of Glut, bridling her Kick with the trace of Contention; the Snood upon her a jiffy too late; greasing the Firkin for the Passover plate — from Slime unto Dream one long Mystery of Æons-pot, steaming on the Hip of the Lamb, bringing us forward, hand over hand, up to the Standard, baa upon bleat, until, we say, we have it presented to us on an Anno Domini Salver, that Christians now think nothing of head-dipping to bite the Pippin in tub-water and Cow’s-trough; while but a thought backward the Heathen, lang syne, heaped Mystic on Magic, to bring about the same end — will she or won’t he?
So Philters and Drams, and which-ways for Maidens all forlorn in tatters of Love’s hope. Drain they not draughts of last Year’s Snow, of late year’s Bitter, tainted with Sassifras and sickened with Shag, to wax the rough Highway on which Love balks at a canter, to make them a byword of she loves me, he loves me, and the not to the not? Some go in Weal Chains and Woe Anchors, neck tied and night worn, Thumb worried and Lip lavished for the good it may cast up on the Knees of the Morrow, or on the Neck of the stiff God of Chance. But Philter by falter, and Hope upon Clutch, and the more Peels spilt over Shoulder the more spelled of a Girl. And saying riddle me this, or meddle me that, contriving the Potion as ever you may, hiccup hie jacet, brings up nothing but naught with a Dear on its back.
Was there a whisper of Ellen or Mary, of Rachel or Gretchen, of Tao or Hedda or Bellorinabella y Bellorella, or Tancred of Injen in the Old Winds, or of Wives whispering a thing to a Wife? What’s in a name before Christ? Were all Giants’ doings a Man’s, and no mountain-top moultings of a Goblin well-papped to the Heel? To say nothing and less of Myths Tongue-tied with Girltalk, or a petal of Dog-fennel seeking a bi-fatal Breeze? Blowing inland for Trace, and out-ocean for Scent, and nosing to Ground for Spoor of her want? Higg over Bluff, and jogg over Moor, prancing down Gullies and preen up an Alley. Whirling and hooting of a Miss with her Missus? No Time without God, no end without Christ!
In Cave’s Mouth it was bruited as Love-by-a-hair, when the Thigh-bone of Mother brought Daughter to rights, and the Breastbone of wishings, made Weaksisters at home.
We have it clipped from a grass Breeze, and gleaned from a Bluff’s brow, Leaf upon Leaf, incredible Autumns deep, forgotten by all but the Blood-hounds of deduction, that Priscilla herself was prone to a Distaff, and garbled her John for her Jenny in Cupboard would get no Dog a Bone.
Winter feast on Summer starve bring all Brooks to churning, and pass the Whey as ever you may, your Hands will print the Butterspot on the Foolscap of confession. So eat your Winter Lettuce, and say your Spring Beads, seek your Mirror, or stand in the cold at the hour of Midnight, or put what you will under your Pillow to know what you can in the Dawn of it, or see the Moon over your Shoulder, roving and hunting the world for an Omen, you’ll get her, you’ll have her, you’ll take her and lose her, you’ll miss by an Item, and over-reach by a Yard, undervalue, overestimate, hotbed or cold! The Branch does not bend unless for a passing, and some must go first, and some must come after. And how is the Jungle so twig-thick and underfoot, if not because a Bison, and a Bison and a Bison went by?
So take the first Hair from your Head, and boil it with Mare’s milk and wrap in a Napkin and bring the Goat inside out, then till the old Mother of six pans of her Earth, and next to the fur-side, lay the Nap to the Horns’ end, and thereover cast a peep of No-Doubting Sappho, blinked from the Stews of Secret Greek Broth, and some Rennet of Lesbos to force a get-up in the near Resurrection, and put on a Horseshoe to ride Luck’s Mare at a Gallop a trot, and when the Mass bubbles and at the River’s lip quivers, call it dear Cyprian, and take her under your Wing on the warm side, and but her no buts!
Or would you less Trouble?
Away Girl!
NOVEMBER hath 30 days
EBB
CAN one say by what Path, under what Bush, beside what Ditch, beneath what Mountain, through what Manlabour and Slaveswork, Man came upon the Burrows of Wisdom, and sometimes upon the skin of her herself? No, it cannot be said, for some and most, spend their bright Youth seeking her, while Woman spends her bright Youth brightly avoiding her. And at fifty what has a Man but his wisdom, and what has a Woman, but more suddenly, and therefore more pleasantly, that Wisdom also, for to Man it comes with the stealth of a deep Sleep, and in a Sleep he is when he nods that he has it bagged, but to Woman it comes when she has no cause for Children and no effect for Babes!
Then is she wise!
“What a wind-fall of a moment!” said Dame Musset, when at fifty odd she saw a long stretch of Beach about her. “What a lift in a Cab when there is no Address, what a Staff in Hand when the Hills have come down. Now,” she added, “that this tortured old Wineskin can no longer suffer gutting, I shall whirl me about this World indeed, and trifle to the hilt. Yet,” mused she, “what is this Safety and Wisdom worth when it comes riding before the Horse? Women must know of it before they can! And damn my Eyes!” said the good dame, “I shall ring the Bells of all Basham for this discovery; and make such a Groaning and tintinabulation throughout my own City, that every Woman will unloosen her Stays and hang them at Window for joy of the thing!”
Therefore she set out through the Town, her Staff in hand, her Busby well over one Eye, and as she went she spoke with Women, indoors and out, and had Words with them on many things that they had not hoped to know for a great long while.
Some wept into Kerchiefs for Love’s sake, and yet others swam out into a Dram of Ditchwater, and got their deaths of drowning, or hung Belly up on Halters, and Well-ropes and Kite-strings and near Water-hawsers, and others died in black Gloves, or ate Kickshaw trifles whipped up with Hemlock, from a Pantry that would never creak to their welt again, or yet others drilled, ash by dust and gravel by Hod, earth dipping for a Grave to coverall, or knelt over Mirrors of a bevel asking the worldwise Lie, or all in their Pretties, wept rump up and heart down for the Sorrow and the Pain of Loveslabourlost, while dame Musset sat on a thorn of a Hedgerow (and never the wiser) that she might save a girl or so before she had wallowed in Love’s rich welter, or troughed a mouthful at the Tarn of temptation.