Boston-- still not artistic.
Saturday, March 01, 2014
Monday, February 17, 2014
Not Art
Driving back from Home Depot yesterday someone had scrawled "THIS IS NOT A BANKSY" on the back of a road work sign. Thank you for the clarification on the art scene here, Boston. Tuesday, January 21, 2014
Tea Pirate
Monday, June 03, 2013
Concerning History, Biography, and Richard Holmes
I've probably mentioned Richard Holmes on this blog more than any other writer except possibly Dorothy Dunnett. His Age of Wonder was magnificent, and pretty crucial to me forming a specific interest in the Enlightenment, and also pretty crucial to my novel, in an indirect but also direct way, not to be vague or anything.
Richard Holmes is not really an historian, as you might think from reading that book. He's a biographer, which, I've come to realize, is really an art of its own, and a calling. For him, at least. He has the ability to invest himself so deeply in the past that he once bounced a check because he dated it 1772. One time he got so involved in a biographical subject's insanity that he nearly went nuts himself. He's a method biographer, so to speak.
(It is my duty to point out that going nuts when writing anything long is simply the nature of writing anything long, but it really doesn't help if you're writing about your subject's irreversible descent into madness and subsequent suicide.)
(Further aside: the subject in question was Gerard de Nerval, who sometimes went for a walk with a lobster on a leash. He was quoted by a friend as saying this: "Why should a lobster be any more ridiculous than a dog? Or a cat, or a gazelle, or a lion, or any other animal that one chooses to take for a walk? I have a liking for lobsters. They are peaceful, serious creatures. They know the secrets of the sea, they don't bark, and they don't gnaw upon one's monadic privacy like dogs do. And Goethe had an aversion to dogs, and he wasn't mad." While I agree, that does not mean Nerval wasn't mad. He was.)
But back to my story. Over the past week and a half, I read one of Holmes's rather old books, Footsteps: Adventures of a Romantic Biographer. When I say "old" I mean it was published in 1982, which means I just unintentionally made an ageist crack about myself. Well, some mornings are better than others. Point is, this book was so good kept my attention on an airplane, which usually requires something light like a mystery novel. True story: I always think I'm going to die on airplanes (it's a part of flying that I have learned to accept), and one time before a flight I checked out a book called Death of a Minor Character because I thought it would be amusing if I died in a plane crash reading that book. Worth it! Someday when I do die, please look at what I have checked out from the library because it might be funny. Checking out that book merely for its title was a stroke of luck, actually, because it turned out I really liked it, and went on to read more by the same author, including one of the single most frightening books I have ever read in my life, which just goes to show that there are a lot of really good books that deserve to be read that are probably being discarded by libraries because no one is checking them out. Which implies that there are also a lot of seriously underrated authors, because fame begets fame even when people have stopped deserving it MICHAEL CHABON GET IT TOGETHER but I would never name names.
Anyway, Richard Holmes seems to have been born to biograph, as it were, and I was as fascinated by his take on biography as I was by the people he covered in this book (R. L. Stevenson's twelve-day trek through the French countryside, Mary Wollstonecraft in during the French Revolution, Shelley and the origin of his mysterious "Napoleonic charge," and of course the unfortunate Nerval -- in case you wanted to know). In fact, this entire post has been in aid of setting up this quote from the book. Holmes has been talking about making friends in Paris and finding an identity apart from the identities of the people he's been writing about:
"It taught me at least two things. First, that the past is not simply "out there", an objective history to be researched or forgotten, at will; but that it lives most vividly in all of us, deep inside, and needs constantly to be given expression and interpretation. And second, that the lives of great artists and poets and writers are not, after all, so extraordinary by comparison with everyone else. Once known, in any detail and any scope, every life is something extraordinary, full of particular drama and tension and surprise, often containing unimagined degrees of suffering or heroism, and invariably touching extreme moments of triumph and despair, though frequently unexpressed. The difference lies in the extent to which one is eventually recorded, and the other is eventually forgotten."
This is what I love about Richard Holmes: how he offers up these often obscure histories unabashed, convinced of their importance, with every expectation that they will be met with like-minded interest simply because they deserve to be; and how his biographies take into account the reality of how complex it is to be alive and always has been. I rarely catch him condescending to his subjects, as if they were quaint relics of bygone times; if anything, in this book, he over-identifies with them, taking their struggles almost too much to heart. I was worried for the young Richard Holmes as he literally followed Stevenson's footsteps through France -- that he wouldn't find the personal connection with Stevenson that he was looking for and would be so disappointed he'd throw himself off a bridge or something. But it's through biography that he eventually made the connection, between himself and Stevenson, and Stevenson and me, and me and him. And that, it seems to me, is how you make history live: by investing yourself in it and then sharing the dividends. Holmes is a master at this (and so, for that matter, is Dorothy Dunnett).
One last note: if you ever want someone to write a biography about you, leave a paper trail. It is apparently a grievous disappointment to your biographers if you don't write letters. Please feel free to address them to me. I'll keep them safe in the vegetable drawer of my fridge. As a side benefit, this will also save the United States Postal Service.
Richard Holmes is not really an historian, as you might think from reading that book. He's a biographer, which, I've come to realize, is really an art of its own, and a calling. For him, at least. He has the ability to invest himself so deeply in the past that he once bounced a check because he dated it 1772. One time he got so involved in a biographical subject's insanity that he nearly went nuts himself. He's a method biographer, so to speak.
(It is my duty to point out that going nuts when writing anything long is simply the nature of writing anything long, but it really doesn't help if you're writing about your subject's irreversible descent into madness and subsequent suicide.)
(Further aside: the subject in question was Gerard de Nerval, who sometimes went for a walk with a lobster on a leash. He was quoted by a friend as saying this: "Why should a lobster be any more ridiculous than a dog? Or a cat, or a gazelle, or a lion, or any other animal that one chooses to take for a walk? I have a liking for lobsters. They are peaceful, serious creatures. They know the secrets of the sea, they don't bark, and they don't gnaw upon one's monadic privacy like dogs do. And Goethe had an aversion to dogs, and he wasn't mad." While I agree, that does not mean Nerval wasn't mad. He was.)
But back to my story. Over the past week and a half, I read one of Holmes's rather old books, Footsteps: Adventures of a Romantic Biographer. When I say "old" I mean it was published in 1982, which means I just unintentionally made an ageist crack about myself. Well, some mornings are better than others. Point is, this book was so good kept my attention on an airplane, which usually requires something light like a mystery novel. True story: I always think I'm going to die on airplanes (it's a part of flying that I have learned to accept), and one time before a flight I checked out a book called Death of a Minor Character because I thought it would be amusing if I died in a plane crash reading that book. Worth it! Someday when I do die, please look at what I have checked out from the library because it might be funny. Checking out that book merely for its title was a stroke of luck, actually, because it turned out I really liked it, and went on to read more by the same author, including one of the single most frightening books I have ever read in my life, which just goes to show that there are a lot of really good books that deserve to be read that are probably being discarded by libraries because no one is checking them out. Which implies that there are also a lot of seriously underrated authors, because fame begets fame even when people have stopped deserving it MICHAEL CHABON GET IT TOGETHER but I would never name names.
Anyway, Richard Holmes seems to have been born to biograph, as it were, and I was as fascinated by his take on biography as I was by the people he covered in this book (R. L. Stevenson's twelve-day trek through the French countryside, Mary Wollstonecraft in during the French Revolution, Shelley and the origin of his mysterious "Napoleonic charge," and of course the unfortunate Nerval -- in case you wanted to know). In fact, this entire post has been in aid of setting up this quote from the book. Holmes has been talking about making friends in Paris and finding an identity apart from the identities of the people he's been writing about:
"It taught me at least two things. First, that the past is not simply "out there", an objective history to be researched or forgotten, at will; but that it lives most vividly in all of us, deep inside, and needs constantly to be given expression and interpretation. And second, that the lives of great artists and poets and writers are not, after all, so extraordinary by comparison with everyone else. Once known, in any detail and any scope, every life is something extraordinary, full of particular drama and tension and surprise, often containing unimagined degrees of suffering or heroism, and invariably touching extreme moments of triumph and despair, though frequently unexpressed. The difference lies in the extent to which one is eventually recorded, and the other is eventually forgotten."
This is what I love about Richard Holmes: how he offers up these often obscure histories unabashed, convinced of their importance, with every expectation that they will be met with like-minded interest simply because they deserve to be; and how his biographies take into account the reality of how complex it is to be alive and always has been. I rarely catch him condescending to his subjects, as if they were quaint relics of bygone times; if anything, in this book, he over-identifies with them, taking their struggles almost too much to heart. I was worried for the young Richard Holmes as he literally followed Stevenson's footsteps through France -- that he wouldn't find the personal connection with Stevenson that he was looking for and would be so disappointed he'd throw himself off a bridge or something. But it's through biography that he eventually made the connection, between himself and Stevenson, and Stevenson and me, and me and him. And that, it seems to me, is how you make history live: by investing yourself in it and then sharing the dividends. Holmes is a master at this (and so, for that matter, is Dorothy Dunnett).
One last note: if you ever want someone to write a biography about you, leave a paper trail. It is apparently a grievous disappointment to your biographers if you don't write letters. Please feel free to address them to me. I'll keep them safe in the vegetable drawer of my fridge. As a side benefit, this will also save the United States Postal Service.
Monday, May 20, 2013
Jeanne Baret
Friends and relatives, I would like to tell you about Jeanne Baret. I just finished a book about her that has been haunting me for probably two years, and it was every bit as fascinating as I thought it would be.
Jeanne Baret was the first woman known to have circumnavigated the world. That alone is a feat, but the circumstances it even more remarkable. For one thing, she was born a peasant in the French countryside in 1740. Remember in A Tale of Two Cities when the Marquis runs over that little boy in his cart, and all he does is toss a couple of coins to the boy's father and go off to have some hot chocolate? That's how much French society cared about peasants. Their average life expectancy was 26, and literacy rates for women were 10%. (Men, at 20%, did not fare significantly better.) By all rights, Jeanne Baret should have worked herself into the grave before the age of 30 and been forgotten.
Other than a sheet of herbal remedies that may or may not have actually been written by her, Baret survives solely in others' accounts. A few of the men on the expedition kept journals, and practically everything known about her experiences on the voyage comes from their accounts. All of these men, and many later historians, subscribed to the still-popular notion that ambitious women are whores. The book that I read, The Discovery of Jeanne Baret, is a thoroughly feminist take on Baret's life that I found, for the most part, convincing.
The key to Baret's achievements was her field of expertise: botany. She was an herb woman, which means she knew more about botany and its medical uses than many well-educated men. She was employed by a botanist named Philibert Commerson to teach him all she knew, and, as is the way of things, she ended up pregnant. Commerson does not come off at all well in this book: he appears selfish, cowardly, and callous. And not a little stupid. It's hard to imagine Baret and Commerson having a happy relationship; they stayed together, but one wonders if it was only because, once they embarked on this adventure, they didn't have much choice.
When Commerson was hired to participate as a botanist in a French expedition around the world, the French government told him to hire an assistant. Baret was the obvious choice, but it was against the law for women to travel on naval vessels. Instead of letting a little thing like that stop them, Commerson and Baret entered into a ruse in which Baret was to be passed off as a man for some two years in the company of 300 sailors. Why they expected this to work, no one will ever know. It didn't take long for questions to arise, which prompted Baret to tell everyone she was a eunuch. Perhaps that staved off more questions for a while, or perhaps everyone simply said, "Uh huh, sure." It seems likely that although it wasn't openly discussed, it was obvious to everyone that she was a woman -- otherwise, there would have been less need for her to carry a brace of pistols with her everywhere she went.
By all accounts, Baret performed the strenuous work of hiking, climbing, and lugging heavy boxes and plant presses here to there with rather extraordinary energy and ability. Commerson had a leg injury that was an ongoing and kind of gross issue, so Baret seems to have done a great deal of physically difficult work for him. She may even have been the one who discovered bougainvillea (named for Bougainville, the captain of the expedition). She also endured, along with the rest of the crew, several terrible tropical storms, and survived for a time on leather and rats when the food ran out. Unlike the rest of the crew, she suffered condescension, harassment, and, as indirectly evidenced by a disturbingly jovial passage in one account, gang rape.
This is not a triumphant story by any means. Baret accomplished an incredible thing, but it was costly. After being formally "discovered" and subsequently assaulted, she kept to her cabin did no botany at all until she and Commerson were let off in Mauritius, where Commerson had once again finagled a new job. There she gave birth to a second child. Her first child, born in Paris before the voyage, was probably Commerson's. For unknown reasons, the child was given to a foundling hospital and died at a young age. Her second child may well have resulted from rape, and was left with a caretaker in Mauritius. While Commerson had an elevated position and benefactor in Mauritius, Baret was a servant, living in servant's quarters. For only a small percentage of their time together did she she and Commerson set up house together, with all their specimens. And then Commerson finally died from what sounded like complications from his incessantly suppurating leg wound. Since they were not married, Baret was left with absolutely nothing. The government even seized all of the specimens she and Commerson had collected. She was in Commerson's will, but in order to claim her money, she had to get back to Paris.
It's sort of unclear what happened to her for a while, but it appears she was a barmaid for a time. About a year and a half after Commerson's death, she married a naval officer and returned to France. That was 1774. By the age of 34, she had crossed the Atlantic, crossed the equator, been to Rio de Janeiro and Montevideo, and passed through the Strait of Magellan. She crossed the Pacific, visiting Tahiti, New Guinea, and Madagascar, and lived for on Mauritius for seven years. She and Commerson had collected six thousand specimens during their travels.
Although hardly anyone knew what Baret accomplished, she didn't go entirely unrecognized. Commerson named one (ONE) plant after her, which was renamed later by someone else. And she joined Caroline Herschel in being one of very few eighteenth-century women paid for scientific work: several years after she returned to France, someone petitioned the government to give her the same pension that invalid servicemen received, citing her "exemplary" behavior. She lived to be 67.
The book itself has some flaws, the main one being that the author includes a lot of speculation that isn't as well-grounded as I'd like. But she makes good arguments, and the amount of research she must have done is astounding. She even found evidence of a man bearing Baret's pseudonym living on Mauritius thirty years after she would have left her son there -- the uncovering of that small fact seems extraordinary to me. And I especially liked this bit from the introduction:
"Bougainville thought Baret's example [of a globe-trotting female] was not likely to be contagious because of the physical privations and brutality she experienced. But Bougainville overlooked the allure of the idea she embodies: that one human being, irrespective of the hand dealt by fortune, can have as much curiosity about the world as another. And that, like race and class, gender should pose no barrier to satisfying that curiosity and discovering how far it may take you."
I've basically told you the whole story, but should you want the details (there are lots more interesting things I didn't mention), I would certainly recommend Glynis Ridley's The Discovery of Jeanne Baret.
Jeanne Baret was the first woman known to have circumnavigated the world. That alone is a feat, but the circumstances it even more remarkable. For one thing, she was born a peasant in the French countryside in 1740. Remember in A Tale of Two Cities when the Marquis runs over that little boy in his cart, and all he does is toss a couple of coins to the boy's father and go off to have some hot chocolate? That's how much French society cared about peasants. Their average life expectancy was 26, and literacy rates for women were 10%. (Men, at 20%, did not fare significantly better.) By all rights, Jeanne Baret should have worked herself into the grave before the age of 30 and been forgotten.
Other than a sheet of herbal remedies that may or may not have actually been written by her, Baret survives solely in others' accounts. A few of the men on the expedition kept journals, and practically everything known about her experiences on the voyage comes from their accounts. All of these men, and many later historians, subscribed to the still-popular notion that ambitious women are whores. The book that I read, The Discovery of Jeanne Baret, is a thoroughly feminist take on Baret's life that I found, for the most part, convincing.
The key to Baret's achievements was her field of expertise: botany. She was an herb woman, which means she knew more about botany and its medical uses than many well-educated men. She was employed by a botanist named Philibert Commerson to teach him all she knew, and, as is the way of things, she ended up pregnant. Commerson does not come off at all well in this book: he appears selfish, cowardly, and callous. And not a little stupid. It's hard to imagine Baret and Commerson having a happy relationship; they stayed together, but one wonders if it was only because, once they embarked on this adventure, they didn't have much choice.
When Commerson was hired to participate as a botanist in a French expedition around the world, the French government told him to hire an assistant. Baret was the obvious choice, but it was against the law for women to travel on naval vessels. Instead of letting a little thing like that stop them, Commerson and Baret entered into a ruse in which Baret was to be passed off as a man for some two years in the company of 300 sailors. Why they expected this to work, no one will ever know. It didn't take long for questions to arise, which prompted Baret to tell everyone she was a eunuch. Perhaps that staved off more questions for a while, or perhaps everyone simply said, "Uh huh, sure." It seems likely that although it wasn't openly discussed, it was obvious to everyone that she was a woman -- otherwise, there would have been less need for her to carry a brace of pistols with her everywhere she went.
By all accounts, Baret performed the strenuous work of hiking, climbing, and lugging heavy boxes and plant presses here to there with rather extraordinary energy and ability. Commerson had a leg injury that was an ongoing and kind of gross issue, so Baret seems to have done a great deal of physically difficult work for him. She may even have been the one who discovered bougainvillea (named for Bougainville, the captain of the expedition). She also endured, along with the rest of the crew, several terrible tropical storms, and survived for a time on leather and rats when the food ran out. Unlike the rest of the crew, she suffered condescension, harassment, and, as indirectly evidenced by a disturbingly jovial passage in one account, gang rape.
This is not a triumphant story by any means. Baret accomplished an incredible thing, but it was costly. After being formally "discovered" and subsequently assaulted, she kept to her cabin did no botany at all until she and Commerson were let off in Mauritius, where Commerson had once again finagled a new job. There she gave birth to a second child. Her first child, born in Paris before the voyage, was probably Commerson's. For unknown reasons, the child was given to a foundling hospital and died at a young age. Her second child may well have resulted from rape, and was left with a caretaker in Mauritius. While Commerson had an elevated position and benefactor in Mauritius, Baret was a servant, living in servant's quarters. For only a small percentage of their time together did she she and Commerson set up house together, with all their specimens. And then Commerson finally died from what sounded like complications from his incessantly suppurating leg wound. Since they were not married, Baret was left with absolutely nothing. The government even seized all of the specimens she and Commerson had collected. She was in Commerson's will, but in order to claim her money, she had to get back to Paris.
It's sort of unclear what happened to her for a while, but it appears she was a barmaid for a time. About a year and a half after Commerson's death, she married a naval officer and returned to France. That was 1774. By the age of 34, she had crossed the Atlantic, crossed the equator, been to Rio de Janeiro and Montevideo, and passed through the Strait of Magellan. She crossed the Pacific, visiting Tahiti, New Guinea, and Madagascar, and lived for on Mauritius for seven years. She and Commerson had collected six thousand specimens during their travels.
Although hardly anyone knew what Baret accomplished, she didn't go entirely unrecognized. Commerson named one (ONE) plant after her, which was renamed later by someone else. And she joined Caroline Herschel in being one of very few eighteenth-century women paid for scientific work: several years after she returned to France, someone petitioned the government to give her the same pension that invalid servicemen received, citing her "exemplary" behavior. She lived to be 67.
The book itself has some flaws, the main one being that the author includes a lot of speculation that isn't as well-grounded as I'd like. But she makes good arguments, and the amount of research she must have done is astounding. She even found evidence of a man bearing Baret's pseudonym living on Mauritius thirty years after she would have left her son there -- the uncovering of that small fact seems extraordinary to me. And I especially liked this bit from the introduction:
"Bougainville thought Baret's example [of a globe-trotting female] was not likely to be contagious because of the physical privations and brutality she experienced. But Bougainville overlooked the allure of the idea she embodies: that one human being, irrespective of the hand dealt by fortune, can have as much curiosity about the world as another. And that, like race and class, gender should pose no barrier to satisfying that curiosity and discovering how far it may take you."
I've basically told you the whole story, but should you want the details (there are lots more interesting things I didn't mention), I would certainly recommend Glynis Ridley's The Discovery of Jeanne Baret.
Monday, May 06, 2013
Lists, Part IV: Late Additions to Mr. Peale's Museum
The fourth and as far as I know final installment in my series of lists has to do with one Charles Willson Peale. This is Mr. Peale, sporting a fashionable pair of forehead goggles:
The canny-eyed Peale was a portrait-painter until 1794, when he decided to go into the museum business. After the Revolution, there was a new enthusiasm for education and civic virtue that Peale wanted to reinforce; his museum would "educate and teach virtue to the public by demonstrating the benevolence of the Creator and the order, harmony, and beauty of His creation." As you will see, he accomplished this by packing into this museum every interesting and oddball thing he could get his hands on. He was so dedicated to displaying every facet of the creator's creation that he even wanted to display the embalmed bodies of public figures (posthumously, of course), but had to settle for portraits instead. The popularity of the museum meant it received contributions from all over the world. No description could be better than what you'll read below, but here's a painting of Peale lifting the veil so you can peek into an exhibition:
I happened upon an article about the museum not too long before I went to Philadelphia myself last October. The one thing I would have killed to see was this famous museum, but alas, its contents were sold off about twenty years after Peale's death in 1827. Government support probably would have preserved it, but in spite of his many efforts, he could never the government to agree on that. He had the bad luck to have started his museum when the government was still figuring out what it was and was not allowed to do. Jefferson said he supported the idea of nationalizing the museum, but he didn't think Congress had the power to do so -- or at least, he didn't think they'd think they did. So in the end, Peale's collections went to P. T. Barnum, and most of it was destroyed by fire.
Evidently there's some debate over whether Peale was a forerunner of P. T. Barnum or of the Smithsonian -- whether he was a showman or a man of science. It's silly to suggest he had to be a forerunner of one or the other, and that he couldn't have been a forerunner of both, or neither. Which brings me to this purpose of this post: the list. When the Historian Esq. and I were in Philly, we went (of course) to see Ben Franklin's printing office and bindery.
In demonstrating the presses, they print a lot of random stuff -- sayings and advertisements and articles from early American papers -- and post them on the walls. That is how we spotted this beauty of a list: "Late [that is, recent] Additions to Mr. Peale's Museum." This thing is like a found poem. It is so strange, and wonderful, and revealing as to what eighteenth-century people thought was notable. Was Peale a scientist or a showman? It's impossible to tell. Sometimes the natural world is so weird there's no need to choose.
Unfortunately, the list at the printers was from such an old demonstration that it was no longer for sale, but Historian Esq. pointed out with his customary genius that the library would certainly have this article in a database. And so it did. And so I present to you this final list. Enjoy.
Late ADDITIONS to Mr. PEALE’s MUSEUM.
A fine specimen of Petrified Wood, found in the State of Delaware : Presented by Jonathan B. Smith, Esq.
A pair of Horns of the American Rein-Deer : Presented by Mr. Shingle.
A white Hare, of which species some numbers have appeared in this and the neighbouring northern States within four years past; before that period unknown : Presented by the Hon. Thomas Jefferson.
An Otahitian dress, consisting of a long cloak, and a cap made of feathers, and very elegant; being a present to the president of the United States by some gentlemen of Boston, adventurers in the first voyage made from thence to Nootka Sound and the Otahitian islands; now deposited in the Museum for preservation and safe-keeping for the president.
Chinese ladies shoes, measuring in length 5 4-10 inches : Presented by Mr. Pritchard.
The Nautilus-shell, uncoated and ornamented. A pair of Chinese ladies shoes, made to fit the wife of a native of that country, who supplied the ship (Sampson) with necessaries when at China, and the Podada bird, commonly called the sea-pidgeon : Presented by Mr. Jacob Betteron.
Birds nests, very costly, which, made into a soup, is much esteemed in China, and throughout all the Indies. “When it is reported, that in the Indies people eat birds-nests, there is no man but must wonder at it;--nay, many think they are imposed upon, because it appears to them quite repugnant to nature, or at least very little acceptable to the palate. But they are reckoned good, light, and wholesome food, very proper for sick people. They are so well dressed with other good ingredients, that they prove an excellent dish to those who do not know what it is. As the materials with which they are made come from fish, they are not unsalubrius.”--Postlethwait Dictionary.
A kitten with two heads, in spirits : Presented by Dr. ------------
Two snake-skins, from the island of Trinidad, one measuring in length 7 feet four inches, and the other 13 feet 8 inches : Presented by Mr. Samuel Hazlehurst.
Shells, which are used instead of glass in the windows of the houses of the inhabitants of Malabar : Presented by capt. Howell.
A large flying fish, measuring from the mouth to the extremity of its tail 18 inches : Presented by Mrs. Earl.
A large porcupine fish, measuring 16 ½ inches in length, and two feet three inches circumference, independent of spines : Presented by capt. Howell.
Coisimond, (alive) a very good-humoured, playful animal, from South America : Presented by Mr. Lee.
The ring-tail monkey : Presented by Mr. J. Graham.
A calcarious stone, weighing 21 ½ ounces, taken out of the bladder of a horse : Presented by Mr. Dunkin.
An arrow, which was used against the Americans in the battle of the 4th of November 1791, near the Miami towns : Presented by Dr. Brown
A live rattle-snake : Presented by Dr. Gibbons.
N.B. This is secured in a strong case, with a wired and glass front, and may be viewed in perfect to the spectators, and it is also kept in a room distinct from the museum, so that those who have aversions to such animals need not see it.
That brilliant insect the diamond beatle, from the Brazils, is placed in the museum, with convenient magnifiers for viewing it to advantage.
A large sea-pen : Presented by Mrs. Branton (Willington)
A pair of humming-birds, preserved in a glass case : Presented by Mr. Myers
A pair of ground paroquets, very small and beautiful, from the Streights of Sundy. A Chinese lanthorn. Some incense matches, which are used in the temples in China, and a pair of Turkish knives, in a case, neat and curious : Presented by Mr. Plumstead.
Some improvement in the arrangement of the articles are made. A Gross, for receiving the marine subjects, and a number of rare birds are added.
The canny-eyed Peale was a portrait-painter until 1794, when he decided to go into the museum business. After the Revolution, there was a new enthusiasm for education and civic virtue that Peale wanted to reinforce; his museum would "educate and teach virtue to the public by demonstrating the benevolence of the Creator and the order, harmony, and beauty of His creation." As you will see, he accomplished this by packing into this museum every interesting and oddball thing he could get his hands on. He was so dedicated to displaying every facet of the creator's creation that he even wanted to display the embalmed bodies of public figures (posthumously, of course), but had to settle for portraits instead. The popularity of the museum meant it received contributions from all over the world. No description could be better than what you'll read below, but here's a painting of Peale lifting the veil so you can peek into an exhibition:
I happened upon an article about the museum not too long before I went to Philadelphia myself last October. The one thing I would have killed to see was this famous museum, but alas, its contents were sold off about twenty years after Peale's death in 1827. Government support probably would have preserved it, but in spite of his many efforts, he could never the government to agree on that. He had the bad luck to have started his museum when the government was still figuring out what it was and was not allowed to do. Jefferson said he supported the idea of nationalizing the museum, but he didn't think Congress had the power to do so -- or at least, he didn't think they'd think they did. So in the end, Peale's collections went to P. T. Barnum, and most of it was destroyed by fire.
Evidently there's some debate over whether Peale was a forerunner of P. T. Barnum or of the Smithsonian -- whether he was a showman or a man of science. It's silly to suggest he had to be a forerunner of one or the other, and that he couldn't have been a forerunner of both, or neither. Which brings me to this purpose of this post: the list. When the Historian Esq. and I were in Philly, we went (of course) to see Ben Franklin's printing office and bindery.
In demonstrating the presses, they print a lot of random stuff -- sayings and advertisements and articles from early American papers -- and post them on the walls. That is how we spotted this beauty of a list: "Late [that is, recent] Additions to Mr. Peale's Museum." This thing is like a found poem. It is so strange, and wonderful, and revealing as to what eighteenth-century people thought was notable. Was Peale a scientist or a showman? It's impossible to tell. Sometimes the natural world is so weird there's no need to choose.
Unfortunately, the list at the printers was from such an old demonstration that it was no longer for sale, but Historian Esq. pointed out with his customary genius that the library would certainly have this article in a database. And so it did. And so I present to you this final list. Enjoy.
Late ADDITIONS to Mr. PEALE’s MUSEUM.
A fine specimen of Petrified Wood, found in the State of Delaware : Presented by Jonathan B. Smith, Esq.
A pair of Horns of the American Rein-Deer : Presented by Mr. Shingle.
A white Hare, of which species some numbers have appeared in this and the neighbouring northern States within four years past; before that period unknown : Presented by the Hon. Thomas Jefferson.
An Otahitian dress, consisting of a long cloak, and a cap made of feathers, and very elegant; being a present to the president of the United States by some gentlemen of Boston, adventurers in the first voyage made from thence to Nootka Sound and the Otahitian islands; now deposited in the Museum for preservation and safe-keeping for the president.
Chinese ladies shoes, measuring in length 5 4-10 inches : Presented by Mr. Pritchard.
The Nautilus-shell, uncoated and ornamented. A pair of Chinese ladies shoes, made to fit the wife of a native of that country, who supplied the ship (Sampson) with necessaries when at China, and the Podada bird, commonly called the sea-pidgeon : Presented by Mr. Jacob Betteron.
Birds nests, very costly, which, made into a soup, is much esteemed in China, and throughout all the Indies. “When it is reported, that in the Indies people eat birds-nests, there is no man but must wonder at it;--nay, many think they are imposed upon, because it appears to them quite repugnant to nature, or at least very little acceptable to the palate. But they are reckoned good, light, and wholesome food, very proper for sick people. They are so well dressed with other good ingredients, that they prove an excellent dish to those who do not know what it is. As the materials with which they are made come from fish, they are not unsalubrius.”--Postlethwait Dictionary.
A kitten with two heads, in spirits : Presented by Dr. ------------
Two snake-skins, from the island of Trinidad, one measuring in length 7 feet four inches, and the other 13 feet 8 inches : Presented by Mr. Samuel Hazlehurst.
Shells, which are used instead of glass in the windows of the houses of the inhabitants of Malabar : Presented by capt. Howell.
A large flying fish, measuring from the mouth to the extremity of its tail 18 inches : Presented by Mrs. Earl.
A large porcupine fish, measuring 16 ½ inches in length, and two feet three inches circumference, independent of spines : Presented by capt. Howell.
Coisimond, (alive) a very good-humoured, playful animal, from South America : Presented by Mr. Lee.
The ring-tail monkey : Presented by Mr. J. Graham.
A calcarious stone, weighing 21 ½ ounces, taken out of the bladder of a horse : Presented by Mr. Dunkin.
An arrow, which was used against the Americans in the battle of the 4th of November 1791, near the Miami towns : Presented by Dr. Brown
A live rattle-snake : Presented by Dr. Gibbons.
N.B. This is secured in a strong case, with a wired and glass front, and may be viewed in perfect to the spectators, and it is also kept in a room distinct from the museum, so that those who have aversions to such animals need not see it.
That brilliant insect the diamond beatle, from the Brazils, is placed in the museum, with convenient magnifiers for viewing it to advantage.
A large sea-pen : Presented by Mrs. Branton (Willington)
A pair of humming-birds, preserved in a glass case : Presented by Mr. Myers
A pair of ground paroquets, very small and beautiful, from the Streights of Sundy. A Chinese lanthorn. Some incense matches, which are used in the temples in China, and a pair of Turkish knives, in a case, neat and curious : Presented by Mr. Plumstead.
Some improvement in the arrangement of the articles are made. A Gross, for receiving the marine subjects, and a number of rare birds are added.
Monday, April 15, 2013
Monday, April 08, 2013
Lists, Part II: Causes of Death
In the Mutter Museum in Philadelphia, there's a wall of a hundred and thirty-nine skulls from the collection of Joseph Hyrtl, a Viennese anatomist (and, not surprisingly, phrenologist). Hyrtl collected skulls from all over the world, and this selection is entirely from Eastern Europe between 1868 and 1914. There's just enough information about each of them to make them fascinating: name, age, occupation, and cause of death. I stood in front of this wall for a long time wondering about these people. Here are the occupations and causes of death that I wrote down.
Brewer. Died of edema of the lungs.
Rope-walker. Broken neck.
Tailor. Dysentery.
Workman. Ascites.
Sharpshooter. Gunshot wounds.
Cabin boy. Phithis.
Robber and murderer. Hanging.
Suicide. Unhappy love affair.
Soldier. Typhus.
Sailor. Died in Hospital of the Holy Spirit, Venice.*
Soldier. Suicide by gunshot wound of the heart, because of weariness of life.
Ship's apprentice. Cholera.
Maidservant. Puerperal sepsis.
Calvinist. Suicide by hanging.
*I wrote this down because I misread it at first. I thought he died of the Holy Spirit.
Brewer. Died of edema of the lungs.
Rope-walker. Broken neck.
Tailor. Dysentery.
Workman. Ascites.
Sharpshooter. Gunshot wounds.
Cabin boy. Phithis.
Robber and murderer. Hanging.
Suicide. Unhappy love affair.
Soldier. Typhus.
Sailor. Died in Hospital of the Holy Spirit, Venice.*
Soldier. Suicide by gunshot wound of the heart, because of weariness of life.
Ship's apprentice. Cholera.
Maidservant. Puerperal sepsis.
Calvinist. Suicide by hanging.
*I wrote this down because I misread it at first. I thought he died of the Holy Spirit.
Monday, April 01, 2013
Lists, Part I: A 1941 Yearbook
I have come upon a bunch of things in list format, so the next few posts will be lists of things. Today's list is from a 1941 women's college yearbook. In the men's yearbook, what they put under the students' photos were names of fraternities and sports statistics. Beneath the women's . . . it gets weird. The women have been given descriptive phrases. These are the more notable ones that I scribbled down on scrap paper with a stolen pencil (I was "working" at the time):
Sunshine in a Scotch cap
Pixy with a golden heart
Wheeee!!!!
Coal black midnight with the smile of dawn
Cherub with a kick
Choreography for gracious living
Peter Pan lurks behind Mona Lisa
Good books and the sheen of pearls in the firelight
Oh, shades of Beelzebub!
Seven no trump, redoubled and made
Sophistication in curls
Ebullient exothermal reaction
Agreement is a sign of weakness
Potential gaiety
Efficiency in pink
Science cuts caper
Hot tomales and honey
Insouciance in a red dress
The case for psychology
Rembrandt's only rival
The Gamma Gamma from Walla Walla
"Horses! Horses! Horses!"
The serious approach with an intrusion of accuracy
Amiable inanities in pastel shades
Pegasus and pink elephants
Pixilated Pandora
"Confoosin' but amoosin'!"
Whimsey takes the stage
Dreamy eyes over a centrifuge
The last of the conservatives
The daguerrotype-girl steps out
Still waters with golden highlights
Dark lady with a typewriter
Formula for charm
It's like a group of bad poets took LSD and wrote down their hallucinations. ("Horses! Horses! Horses!" I've never seen anyone on LSD but that's what I imagine they're like.) I have no other explanation.
Sunshine in a Scotch cap
Pixy with a golden heart
Wheeee!!!!
Coal black midnight with the smile of dawn
Cherub with a kick
Choreography for gracious living
Peter Pan lurks behind Mona Lisa
Good books and the sheen of pearls in the firelight
Oh, shades of Beelzebub!
Seven no trump, redoubled and made
Sophistication in curls
Ebullient exothermal reaction
Agreement is a sign of weakness
Potential gaiety
Efficiency in pink
Science cuts caper
Hot tomales and honey
Insouciance in a red dress
The case for psychology
Rembrandt's only rival
The Gamma Gamma from Walla Walla
"Horses! Horses! Horses!"
The serious approach with an intrusion of accuracy
Amiable inanities in pastel shades
Pegasus and pink elephants
Pixilated Pandora
"Confoosin' but amoosin'!"
Whimsey takes the stage
Dreamy eyes over a centrifuge
The last of the conservatives
The daguerrotype-girl steps out
Still waters with golden highlights
Dark lady with a typewriter
Formula for charm
It's like a group of bad poets took LSD and wrote down their hallucinations. ("Horses! Horses! Horses!" I've never seen anyone on LSD but that's what I imagine they're like.) I have no other explanation.
Monday, March 25, 2013
The Dandelion
I would like to talk to you about the Dandelion.
It is a restaurant in Philadelphia.
But it feels like an English pub. Except there's no smoking. And you have to tip.
We were seated in the dog-themed room, which was silly, and entertaining.
The dogs were so highly bred I nearly felt compelled to start using Received Pronunciation.
I had a marvelous salad, with lettuce big enough to rig up and sail to Italy with, and Historian, Esq. enjoyed his burger very much.
And then we got to dessert. Historian, Esq. said his rice pudding with peaches and cream was the best dessert he had ever consumed.
And I can tell you quite honestly that these hot-from-the-oven orange-flavored madeleines with warm dark chocolate dip are the most delicious thing I have ever put in my mouth, full stop. After I was done eating it, I seriously considered asking for a refill. This is why I bring cameras to restaurants. I WOULD NEVER WANT TO FORGET THE HOT ORANGE MADELEINES WITH THE DELICATE CRUST AND POWDERED SUGAR I TELL YOU I WOULD DIE FIRST.
If you are ever in Philadelphia, this is the place you must go. Liberty Bell Schmiberty Bell. Eat something at the Dandelion. It will be so good you'll want to take pictures of it.
It is a restaurant in Philadelphia.
But it feels like an English pub. Except there's no smoking. And you have to tip.
We were seated in the dog-themed room, which was silly, and entertaining.
The dogs were so highly bred I nearly felt compelled to start using Received Pronunciation.
I had a marvelous salad, with lettuce big enough to rig up and sail to Italy with, and Historian, Esq. enjoyed his burger very much.
And then we got to dessert. Historian, Esq. said his rice pudding with peaches and cream was the best dessert he had ever consumed.
And I can tell you quite honestly that these hot-from-the-oven orange-flavored madeleines with warm dark chocolate dip are the most delicious thing I have ever put in my mouth, full stop. After I was done eating it, I seriously considered asking for a refill. This is why I bring cameras to restaurants. I WOULD NEVER WANT TO FORGET THE HOT ORANGE MADELEINES WITH THE DELICATE CRUST AND POWDERED SUGAR I TELL YOU I WOULD DIE FIRST.
If you are ever in Philadelphia, this is the place you must go. Liberty Bell Schmiberty Bell. Eat something at the Dandelion. It will be so good you'll want to take pictures of it.
Monday, March 11, 2013
Philadelphia Zoo
The Philadelphia Zoo, for everyone's information, does not have a capybara. Or at least that's what they want you to think. The truth is they do, but they keep it hidden away because the capybara is the pleasantest, politest, and wisest of all creatures. They keep it in a secret room because being a zookeeper is a hard job, and sometimes they need to go and spend an hour having tea with the capybara, submitting to it their dilemmas, and accepting its wisdom. And its cookies. They can't do that if it's out in its cage spreading its wisdom amongst the masses. The crowds would be enormous, and people would be angry when they took the capybara away for personal use. So they keep it a secret. It's unfortunate for capybara enthusiasts such as myself, but I understand. If I had access to a capybara, I would hog it, too. (Hahahahaha.)
What the Philadelphia Zoo does have, or did the day I went with Historian Esquire, is unusually active animals. Normally when I go to the zoo all the animals are sleeping behind a rock, as if they don't like people milling around and staring at them or something. But the animals at the Philly Zoo were awake and playful, and if they weren't, they at least had the decency to sleep publicly.
Let's start with this pygmy marmoset. This pygmy marmoset was very difficult to catch in focus.
This pygmy marmoset also appears to be very angry. The secret capybara would not approve, for the secret capybara knows that anger only makes you unhappy. Better to let it go, pygmy marmoset.
Sloths, on the other hand, never get angry. Sloths don't have that much ambition.
The secret capybara doesn't approve of this either, but it's decided to pick its battles.
Historian Esquire has a friend who works at the zoo, and she wandered around with us and told us interesting tidbits. For example, apparently nobody knows what giraffes use their little fuzzy horns for.
Historian Esquire's current theory is telepathy. The secret capybara can neither confirm nor deny this.
Now for some examples of public sleepers. First, the leopard:
Predators need not be fast all the time, says the secret capybara enigmatically.
This lion was sleeping in a row of lions all laid out on the grass right next to the window. It was extremely convenient.
This fellow, however, was well aware of the people on the other side of the glass. He ate some food with his back to us, and bounded around a little, and then came over and did a variety of poses.
After this he turned his back again and did an over-the-shoulder pose. It was very weird. Also, he might be a she. I have no idea.
I was perhaps most impressed by this jaguar which was up and about playing with its toys. Animals never play with their toys when you're in front of their cage! It was like The Miracle of the Zoo. (What would also be a miracle is if I could tell a jaguar apart from a leopard. This might be a leopard. The other one might be a jaguar. Rest assured they are both spotted cats of some kind. They may be the same cat. They may be the same animal, even. I am not sure.)
Hey hey.
We're the monkeys.
The polar bears are very old, and look it. The one in front has clearly just had enough.
Doesn't even get up for visitors, can't be bothered to control its tongue. Little does it know that it's a young whippersnapper compared to these turtles.
The oldest one is a female, born in 1928. She is 84. She had a bit of trouble eating her lettuce, but frankly, I have trouble eating lettuce, so I don't think that's to do with her age. The secret capybara says it's okay: everyone has trouble eating lettuce sometimes. I love the secret capybara.
My personal favorites were the kangaroos. First, because their family name is "Bouncepants." Every time I think about that, I laugh.
But second, they obliged us by hopping around on their giant feet, and then some of them boxed! It was the most wonderful thing I have ever seen! Actual boxing kangaroos! Magnificent. Just don't tell the secret capybara I said so. It's a pacifist, of course.
What the Philadelphia Zoo does have, or did the day I went with Historian Esquire, is unusually active animals. Normally when I go to the zoo all the animals are sleeping behind a rock, as if they don't like people milling around and staring at them or something. But the animals at the Philly Zoo were awake and playful, and if they weren't, they at least had the decency to sleep publicly.
Let's start with this pygmy marmoset. This pygmy marmoset was very difficult to catch in focus.
This pygmy marmoset also appears to be very angry. The secret capybara would not approve, for the secret capybara knows that anger only makes you unhappy. Better to let it go, pygmy marmoset.
Sloths, on the other hand, never get angry. Sloths don't have that much ambition.
The secret capybara doesn't approve of this either, but it's decided to pick its battles.
Historian Esquire has a friend who works at the zoo, and she wandered around with us and told us interesting tidbits. For example, apparently nobody knows what giraffes use their little fuzzy horns for.
Historian Esquire's current theory is telepathy. The secret capybara can neither confirm nor deny this.
Now for some examples of public sleepers. First, the leopard:
Predators need not be fast all the time, says the secret capybara enigmatically.
This lion was sleeping in a row of lions all laid out on the grass right next to the window. It was extremely convenient.
This fellow, however, was well aware of the people on the other side of the glass. He ate some food with his back to us, and bounded around a little, and then came over and did a variety of poses.
After this he turned his back again and did an over-the-shoulder pose. It was very weird. Also, he might be a she. I have no idea.
I was perhaps most impressed by this jaguar which was up and about playing with its toys. Animals never play with their toys when you're in front of their cage! It was like The Miracle of the Zoo. (What would also be a miracle is if I could tell a jaguar apart from a leopard. This might be a leopard. The other one might be a jaguar. Rest assured they are both spotted cats of some kind. They may be the same cat. They may be the same animal, even. I am not sure.)
Hey hey.
We're the monkeys.
The polar bears are very old, and look it. The one in front has clearly just had enough.
Doesn't even get up for visitors, can't be bothered to control its tongue. Little does it know that it's a young whippersnapper compared to these turtles.
The oldest one is a female, born in 1928. She is 84. She had a bit of trouble eating her lettuce, but frankly, I have trouble eating lettuce, so I don't think that's to do with her age. The secret capybara says it's okay: everyone has trouble eating lettuce sometimes. I love the secret capybara.
My personal favorites were the kangaroos. First, because their family name is "Bouncepants." Every time I think about that, I laugh.
But second, they obliged us by hopping around on their giant feet, and then some of them boxed! It was the most wonderful thing I have ever seen! Actual boxing kangaroos! Magnificent. Just don't tell the secret capybara I said so. It's a pacifist, of course.
Monday, March 04, 2013
Honeoye Pirate Festival
I don't know why I bother celebrating the 4th of July when I could just wait for the Honeoye Pirate Festival. No matter how you celebrate the Fourth, I guarantee you that the parking at the festival is better, the corn-on-the-cob is better, the selection of pirate gear for sale is better, and the fireworks display is twice if not thrice as long. I mean, my butt hurt by the middle of it, and I was sitting on sand.
My crew and I arrived when it was still light, and had some dinner, and watched a woman do a demonstration with her hawk, who did not like the random booming coming from the water and basically refused to perform. I sided with the bird.
And then, when it got dark. The fireworks began.
It went on. And on. And on. I looked at my watch. It kept going. The moon rose. The moon set. The fireworks went on. The sun came up again. The fireworks continued.
All of the children were delighted, and continued to be delighted. The rest of us could only marvel at how much money that many fireworks would cost. Honestly, it was astonishing.
Three days later, when we were all deaf from the booming and blinded by flashing lights, it finally stopped, and we all staggered back to our cars and drove home, and made plans to come back next year because dude it is so awesome.
Monday, February 25, 2013
GCVM Agricultural Fair
I very nearly went to the Genesee Country Museum enough this year to justify buying a membership. Somehow I got on their mailing list, so I kept finding out about things I didn't want to miss, like the Agricultural Fair, which promised all kinds of silly period entertainment and an entire tent of goats. I forked over sixteen dollars before you could say Baa-ah-ah-ah-ah!
It turned out the goats were actually the least interesting part. I was not expecting to be so utterly delighted by everything I saw. When I got into the main square, it felt like a circus. Since I've been so many times lately, I knew that my first order of business was, necessarily, to stop by the general store and buy a maple sugar cookie. Once the cookie had been safely deposited in my stomach, I was able to roam about happily with my camera.
The first tent I came to was the Punch & Judy tent. Punch & Judy have always creeped me out, but I was betting on a child-friendly show, and I was correct. This is Punch doing battle not with his wife but with an alligator.
The woman who was interpreting the goings-on for the children was delightful, and the puppeteers were top notch. I thought it was great that they were even dressed in period clothing when they came out and took their bows.
The next tent really was a bit of a circus: there was a lady inside )who seemed to have some relationship with Italy), and who walked a loose-rope, and juggled flaming sticks, and cajoled us into giving her money. I liked her so much that I went back for her second show.
It was the perfect day for being outside in the fall: the leaves were changing and it was pleasantly cool and, of course, it smelled like woodsmoke.
Most of the buildings were either empty or closed, however.
Some with good reason.
This one (below) never seems to be open, but right after I took this picture, a girl walked by with her cow, as if she were taking for its morning constitutional. Which is why I love places like this.
Speaking of our bovine friends:
This bull had much to say, and vehemently.
While I was waiting around for some kind of demonstration, I caught this fellow using a corn peeler.
Corn peelers are hilarious. You get the crank going, stick the corn in the hole, and listen for a zzzzzzzt. Then the kernels drop from the bottom and the naked cob flies out the side in a markedly comical manner. I got to try it myself, and I'm telling you, farmers have it easy. This is the most fun ever.
The demonstration I was waiting for was the horse-powered thresher. I was less interested in the threshing than the horse-powering, which is just what it sounds like: a horse on a treadmill.
I've never seen an animal on a treadmill -- apparently, though, it used to be very common even with dogs. This horse seemed well aware of its rights and was not thrilled. Perhaps that's why it was so bad tempered. When it was in its pen, it looked perfectly friendly, but it was LYING.
This lying liar tried to bite me. TWICE. I suppose the second time was really my own fault.
To comfort myself, I headed over to see the baked goods. It turns out, though, that nineteenth-century food that's been sitting around for five hours often isn't very appealing. But I was impressed with this:
And this:
The highlight of the entire thing, curiously enough, was the vegetable tent. They had made nice beds of dirt to display the vegetables on, and they looked so handsome and colorful! I took pictures of almost all of them. After a while, the proprietors of the tent started looking at me funny.
But it was magic in there. MAGIC, I tell you.
Look at these carrots! Have you ever seen such beautiful carrots!
And these peppers! Even the leaves arranged themselves to put these peppers at an advantage! Nature bows to these peppers!
These tomatoes! Holy Moses, these tomatoes are gorgeous! I'd get wallpaper of this pattern!
The color! The delicate texture! If this isn't the finest rutabaga I've ever seen, I'll eat my hat. Or this rutabaga.
This leek. I mean. This is a divine leek.
I had a revelation when I got to this tomato. It spoke to me. It said, "Simon. This is a tomato speaking. Listen: you need to eat more vegetables." It was so remarkable I had to go back to the goat tent to get ahold of myself.
The goat told me I needed more hay in my diet, so now I don't know what to think.
By far the strangest part (even considering the talking tomato) was the exhibit of Harry Houdini paraphernalia. I saw some personal trinkets, some handcuffs, a wand. Some photos. They were shown to me by some descendants of his niece or goddaughter or something, who were peculiarly obsessed with him and could not have thought him to be a more important personage if he had been Winston Churchill. It was all very strange. I felt like I had come upon actual nineteenth-century hucksters, except that they were very sincere. It started to get colder and windier at that point, so I decided to call it a day without having my character analyzed scientifically through phrenology. I can only imagine what insights I missed.
Before I left, however, I did stop at the tent of curiosities, which had, and I am not kidding, gen-u-wine artifacts of American and world history, such as George Washington's cherry tree (which looked awfully fresh even for the time period we were supposed to be in), a glass container of tea from the Boston Tea Party, the Donner Party's kettle, a mummy, a piece of the Great Wall of China (which was a broken plate), and many things of that ilk. A corner of the tent was sectioned off; that was where they kept the Man Eating Chicken (Alive).
It was very shocking, I can tell you. Oh, the tearing of flesh!
The only thing that would have made this agricultural fair better was a butter sculpture. Other than that, I really couldn't ask for a more pleasant, amusing, informative, delicious, and light-hearted good time.
It turned out the goats were actually the least interesting part. I was not expecting to be so utterly delighted by everything I saw. When I got into the main square, it felt like a circus. Since I've been so many times lately, I knew that my first order of business was, necessarily, to stop by the general store and buy a maple sugar cookie. Once the cookie had been safely deposited in my stomach, I was able to roam about happily with my camera.
The first tent I came to was the Punch & Judy tent. Punch & Judy have always creeped me out, but I was betting on a child-friendly show, and I was correct. This is Punch doing battle not with his wife but with an alligator.
The woman who was interpreting the goings-on for the children was delightful, and the puppeteers were top notch. I thought it was great that they were even dressed in period clothing when they came out and took their bows.
The next tent really was a bit of a circus: there was a lady inside )who seemed to have some relationship with Italy), and who walked a loose-rope, and juggled flaming sticks, and cajoled us into giving her money. I liked her so much that I went back for her second show.
It was the perfect day for being outside in the fall: the leaves were changing and it was pleasantly cool and, of course, it smelled like woodsmoke.
Most of the buildings were either empty or closed, however.
Some with good reason.
This one (below) never seems to be open, but right after I took this picture, a girl walked by with her cow, as if she were taking for its morning constitutional. Which is why I love places like this.
Speaking of our bovine friends:
This bull had much to say, and vehemently.
While I was waiting around for some kind of demonstration, I caught this fellow using a corn peeler.
Corn peelers are hilarious. You get the crank going, stick the corn in the hole, and listen for a zzzzzzzt. Then the kernels drop from the bottom and the naked cob flies out the side in a markedly comical manner. I got to try it myself, and I'm telling you, farmers have it easy. This is the most fun ever.
The demonstration I was waiting for was the horse-powered thresher. I was less interested in the threshing than the horse-powering, which is just what it sounds like: a horse on a treadmill.
I've never seen an animal on a treadmill -- apparently, though, it used to be very common even with dogs. This horse seemed well aware of its rights and was not thrilled. Perhaps that's why it was so bad tempered. When it was in its pen, it looked perfectly friendly, but it was LYING.
This lying liar tried to bite me. TWICE. I suppose the second time was really my own fault.
To comfort myself, I headed over to see the baked goods. It turns out, though, that nineteenth-century food that's been sitting around for five hours often isn't very appealing. But I was impressed with this:
And this:
The highlight of the entire thing, curiously enough, was the vegetable tent. They had made nice beds of dirt to display the vegetables on, and they looked so handsome and colorful! I took pictures of almost all of them. After a while, the proprietors of the tent started looking at me funny.
But it was magic in there. MAGIC, I tell you.
Look at these carrots! Have you ever seen such beautiful carrots!
And these peppers! Even the leaves arranged themselves to put these peppers at an advantage! Nature bows to these peppers!
These tomatoes! Holy Moses, these tomatoes are gorgeous! I'd get wallpaper of this pattern!
The color! The delicate texture! If this isn't the finest rutabaga I've ever seen, I'll eat my hat. Or this rutabaga.
This leek. I mean. This is a divine leek.
I had a revelation when I got to this tomato. It spoke to me. It said, "Simon. This is a tomato speaking. Listen: you need to eat more vegetables." It was so remarkable I had to go back to the goat tent to get ahold of myself.
The goat told me I needed more hay in my diet, so now I don't know what to think.
By far the strangest part (even considering the talking tomato) was the exhibit of Harry Houdini paraphernalia. I saw some personal trinkets, some handcuffs, a wand. Some photos. They were shown to me by some descendants of his niece or goddaughter or something, who were peculiarly obsessed with him and could not have thought him to be a more important personage if he had been Winston Churchill. It was all very strange. I felt like I had come upon actual nineteenth-century hucksters, except that they were very sincere. It started to get colder and windier at that point, so I decided to call it a day without having my character analyzed scientifically through phrenology. I can only imagine what insights I missed.
Before I left, however, I did stop at the tent of curiosities, which had, and I am not kidding, gen-u-wine artifacts of American and world history, such as George Washington's cherry tree (which looked awfully fresh even for the time period we were supposed to be in), a glass container of tea from the Boston Tea Party, the Donner Party's kettle, a mummy, a piece of the Great Wall of China (which was a broken plate), and many things of that ilk. A corner of the tent was sectioned off; that was where they kept the Man Eating Chicken (Alive).
It was very shocking, I can tell you. Oh, the tearing of flesh!
The only thing that would have made this agricultural fair better was a butter sculpture. Other than that, I really couldn't ask for a more pleasant, amusing, informative, delicious, and light-hearted good time.
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