On his head rode a large, full-bottomed, mouse-colored wig, which hung to his shoulders but from which half the hair had fallen out. On top of the wig was a stained, battered, wide-brimmed felt hat, turned up in back but otherwise allowed to droop in scallops.
Besides the wig, he also flaunted a full if straggly gray beard. I had thought that all men in this era were shaven.
I wondered if my friend was imprisoned in the body of the father, as I was in that of the son. If so, the beard was a good joke on him. As a devotee of the eighteenth century, my friend detested all hair on the face. He had long nagged me about my harmless little mustache. If indeed my friend was there, though, there was no way for me to communicate with him.
Then I thought: was I, too, wearing a wig? I could not tell. It would be an equally good joke on me, who despised wigs.
The pair subsided into silence, save for an occasional muttered remark. They were not great talkers. I could follow the thoughts of the son, but these did little to orient me. The jumble of names, faces, and scenes flickered past me too quickly to analyze.
I did learn that my host's name was William, that his father was a yeoman farmer, and that they were the only surviving members of their family. I also learned that the father had a feud with the local squire, and that they were on their way to a fair. From an allusion to Bristol, I gathered that we were somewhere in the Southwest of England. From the look of the vegetation, I surmised that it was springtime.
The open fields and woodlots gave way to a straggle of small houses, and these thickened into a village. From the height of the dim, ruddy orb that passes for sun in England, I judged that the time was about midday.
On the edge of the village roared the fair. There were swarms of rustics, clad more or less like my father (for so I had come to think of him). There were a few ladies and gentlemen in more photogenic eighteenth-century attire, with high heels and powdered wigs. Some younger men, I noted, wore their own hair in pigtails instead of wigs. My father's beard, however, was the only one in sight.
When we got into the crowd, the stink of unwashed humankind was overpowering. Although I, who smelled with his olifactory nerves, found it horrible, William seemed not to notice. I suppose he was pretty ripe himself. From the itches in various parts of his body, I suspected that he harbored a whole fauna of parasites.
Two teams were playing cricket. Beyond, young men were running and jumping in competition. There was a primitive merry-go-round, powered by an old horse. A boy followed the beast round and round, beating it to keep it moving. There were edibles and drinkables for sale; of the fairgoers, some were already drunk.
There were games of chance and skilclass="underline" throwing balls and quoits at targets, guessing- which walnut shell the pea was under, cards, dice, and a wheel of fortune. A row of tents housed human freaks and a large one, a camel. A cockfight and a puppet show, striving to outshout each other, were going on at the further end of the grounds.
My father would not let me squander our few pence on most of these diversions, but he paid tuppence for us to see the camel. This mangy-looking beast loftily chewed its cud while a man in an "Arab costume" made of old sheeting lectured on the camel's qualities. Most of what he said was wrong.
"Hola there!" cried a voice. I—or rather the William whose body I shared—turned. One of the gentlemen was addressing us—a well-set-up man of middle years, with a lady on his arm.
"Stap me vitals," said this man, "if it beant old Phil!"
My father and I took off our hats and bowed. My father said: "God give you good day, Mayster Bradford! Good day, your la'ship! 'Tis an unexpected pleasure."
Bradford came up and shook my father's hand. " 'Tis good for the optics to see you again, Philip. You, too, Will. Zookers, but ye've grown!"
"Aye, he's a good lad," said Philip. "The earth hath zwallowed all my hopes but un."
"The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. Tell me, Phil, how goes it betwixt you and Sir Roger?'
"Ill enough," said my father. "E'er since the enclosure, he hath been at me to sell out me poor little patch to add to his grand acres."
"Why don't ye sell?" said Bradford. "I hear he hath offered a good price."
"Nay, zir, with all due respect, that I won't. Shirlaws ha' been there zince memory runneth not to the contrary, and I'll not be the virst to gi' it up. And if I did, 'twould not be to a titled villain who rides his damned vox hunt across me crops. Clean ruined last year's barley, he did."
"Same stubborn old Phil! Roger Stanwyck's not so bad a cully if ye get on's good side. For all's glouting humors, he doth good works of charity." Bradford lowered his voice. "Harkee, Phil, we're old friends, and ne'er mind the distinctions o' rank. Sell out to Sir Roger for the best price ye can get, but quit this contention. Otherwise, I shan't be able to answer for your well-being. Verbum sat sapienti."
"What mean ye, zir?"
"In's cups, which is oft enough, he boasts that he'll have your land or have you dancing on the nubbing cheat ere the twelvemonth be out."
"Aye, zir?" said Philip.
"Aye verily, no question. I was there, at a party at Colonel Armitage's. Roger's the magistrate and can do't."
"He must needs ge' me dited and convicted virst."
"I' fackins, man, talk sense! With all the hanging offenses on the books, they can string you up for auft more heinous than spitting on the floor."
"Fie! Juries won't convict in such cases."
"If they happen to like you. I needn't tell you ye be not the most popular man hereabouts."
"Aye, Mayster Bradford, but wherefore? I lead a good Christian life."
"Imprimus, ye loft against the enclosure."
"Sartainly I did. 'Tis the doom o' the independent farmer."
"Me good Philip, the day of the old English yeoman is past. The country needs corn, and the only way to get it is to carve up all these wasteful commons and put 'em to grain crops. Secundus, ye are a Methodist, and to these folk that's worse nor a Papist or a Jew. They'd be tickled to see a wicked heretic swing, specially since we haven't had a hanging in o'er a year."
"I believe what the Almighty and the Good Book tell me."
"Tertius, ye wear that damned beard."
"I do but obey the divine commands, zir. Zee Leviticus nineteen."
"And quartus, ye are learned beyond your station. I don't mind; I like to see the lower orders better themselves— within reason, o' course. But the villagers think ye give yourself airs and hate you for't."
"I only strive to obey God the more wisely by me little laming. Zee Proverbs one, vifth verse. As for zelling out to Zir Roger, I'll come to the parish virst."
Bradford sighed and threw up his hands. "Well, say not that I failed to warn you. But hark, if ye do sell, ye shall have a good place with me for the asking. 'Twon't be arra clodhopping chore, neither, but a responsible post with good pay. Ask me sarvents if I beant a good master."
"Well, thankee, zirr but—"
"Think it o'er." Bradford clapped Philip on the shoulder and went away with his wife.
We strolled about, bought a snack of bread and cheese, and watched the contests. William would have liked to spend money on the freak shows and the gambling games, but Philip sternly forbade. Then a shout brought us about.
"Hey, Shirlaw! Philip Shirlaw!"
We were addressed by a stout, red-faced man with a strip of gold lace on his three-cornered hat. He came swiftly towards us, poling himself along with a four-foot, gold-headed walking stick. With him was a gorgeously dressed young man, tall and slender. The young man carried his hat beneath his arm, because it could never have been fitted over his wig. This wig, besides the curls at the sides and the queue at the back, shot up in a foot-high pompadour in front.