Phantasmagoria 3

Phantasmagoria: Installment 3

Peacock:--Well, know that we are conducting a grand experiment, one that will not easily pass from our minds any time soon. What we seek to do is revolutionize the way people think not only about themsleves but others as well. Is that so surprising? Think about it. What could we possibly do that would be more original than place within ourselves the seed of hope? --And it is,
I think, hope, though one could certainly argue in favor of something else, too. But would we, could we, should we? Those are the questions that deserve some kind of answer. Make a gift of your ideas. I've not received a charity in so long. I am, perhaps, too circumspect but the load of opprobrium is upon you, not me, and I can only hope and marvel at the transformation that has taken place in the last 72 hours. So brilliant and bold your scoldings that it would appear the
heavens have released a judgement upon us all. No--no--fret not--I am not angry, nor should you be. Rather, I am peevish because of a glandular disorder that Watkins says will pass when the weather is warmer. We shall see. Until then my throat is painfully swollen and I must take lambs broth for sustenance. But these details do not interest you I know. Poor Peatrick, he has but hours to live and is lying in at hospital. The doctors say his spleen has surely ruptured. From what I can gather the details go something like this: he was on his way to Bond Street when several drunkards molested him, one striking him repeatedly with a cudgel, another an ashplant. The repeated blows damaged his organs. We all consider it a freak accident, a matter of inopportune location. He suffers greatly. Were I a praying man I surely would but evidence of God's carelessness abounds, this being a prime example. His mesotints were to be displayed next month--such a promising career ahead of him now cut short by the assasin's dart. More later--I am too moved to write.

Such misery compounded. Peatrick has succumbed to his wounds. He is to be buried this afternoon off Chapel Street in a
quiet family plot. He has but little to leave his uncle, who has promised to care for his destitute sister, and these arrangements were hastily made the night before his passing. Hunt and I shall attempt a subscription in Margaret's name. She was engaged to a sailor but his man o' war is not due back for 6 months and he has made no attempt to contact her--we can only suspect the worst. Margaret is most distraught--I shall do everything in my power to comfort her.--P.B.S.

Do not think for one minute that I have not given serious thought to your plight. Though time we have, the moment will come when a reckoning is due. Are you ready, with your misery? Are you prepared for what has been foreshadowed? We can but hope for some sense of comfort and little more given the scope and breadth of our lives, however sweet, short, or fine. You are
like a sprite grown amongst the dew and suddenly faced with harsh light, or a fairy with its wings clipped. But I digress. My purpose in writing was to thank you for your magnanimous gift of money which we direly needed--it came just in time. Kiss little Lara for me. I remain truly yours, Heather Barnstock

Trelawny Remembers Ariel: I remember him well: He was a blushing man-boy, shy, reserved, but ask him about the book in his hand and he would launch on a lecture as if a Chair of Continental rhetoric. Aeschylus was his favorite past-time. He delighted in all of the descriptions of animals. I never knew him to be without a book or pot of ink. One day he sat through supper without ever
looking away from Plato. He delighted in the classics, a harmonious occupation while in Italy, so close to the source, so to speak. I can still picture him, even now, reading and eating toast (for he preferred bread). Somehow I find this simple domestic image comforting. As if it were indestructible. And I am heartened by the fact that people still find him an object of curiosity; I'm always happy to oblige a curious post with some kind of response, so long as it does not reek of sensationalism. The critics like him much better now that he has died than they did while he breathed. He has a distinct following. I think that would please him very much.

Dear Mr. Place,
I write out of motivation to kindly enact from you your offer of solicitation made several months ago. In that time you have become aware of Mr. Shelley's activities and, as I can tell, have formed an unflattering opinion of my friend. In the interest of preserving your faith in me as well as the dual purpose of restoring your good opinion of Mr. Shelley I write. That Mr. Shelley is my friend I will not deny. How could I renounce one who has found such favor in my heart as he? I will attempt to outline for you some of his activities, of which I am certain you have heard, in connection with his motivations for undertaking those actions. It is true that he and Mrs. Shelley have separated. Never was there a more unfortunate union. She is in every way superficial, transparent, and frivolous. But perhaps I am too unkind. For every quality of
depth that Shelley possesses she possesses three of a more base nature. He favors books and ideas, she hats and gowns; he seeks out and cherishes the sublime, she the courting of wealth and society; he clambours for the lofty, she the aristocratic. I find no fault with her except that she is not in a position to understand, let alone nurture and support, the more ethereal qualities of her husband. Never were two people more different. Shelley married her at a very tender age. I remain convinced that she married him on the promise of a fortune. Her love of him does not extend beyond his means. She has sought credit from any merchant that would extend it. She has run up exorbitant bills on frivolous possessions. She has, in short, ruined him. He finds himself hounded on all sides by creditors and bankers harranguing him for repayment, enacting usurous rates on resources he may never acquire. He has, if I
may express such a fact in the strictest of confidentiality, taken out injurious post-obit loans. He remains unreconciled to his father, the one person who could set his financial craft on an even keel. All of these things in conjunction with sensitive health have left Mr. Shelley more than distraught over his opportunities. Never have I met a more open and curious mind. Were you to meet him I am sure he would strike you as warm, erudite, and soft of apprehensions about others. I am to leave Skinner Street and seek some sort of employment, though I've not settled on a particular kind. As you know,
G has been highly supportive of me and sought only my best interests. As a young man it is time for me to make my way. India beckons--it is only a matter of time before I answer her exotic call. Count me as one of her sunburnt Colonials. In the interim, any pecuniary aid that would be forthcoming would be most appreciated. All I can offer you in exchange for
assistance is a heart-felt thanks & my word that I shall execute my living expenses with maturity and responsibility. I eagerly await word from you and remain your most faithful servant--Charles Clairemont
PS--Jane asks that I commend her to your memory. CC

Claremont, Unbeknownst to you, I did meet Mr. Shelley in Hookham's and G's company. I did not care for him. At this time I am uncomfortable extending either you or Mr. Shelley a loan. I am your faithful servant, FP
(C) Copyright January 2006, Jeffrey L. Snodgrass