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| To The Editor of The Boston Gazette, Sir, Your latest article referring to me as an antiquated adherent of the minions of the Renaissance bourgeoisie left me a bit cold, and frankly a bit confused. You say I view the world too simply, the problem of politics too negatively, and the line between good and evil too naïvely. You say I am a pretender because I’ll not take sides in this petty and childish little argument between colony and country. You say I do not understand the complexities of the Parliamentary paradoxes and the rights of man. You say I resist your angels of liberty while failing to condemn the devils of government. And you say I miss the point entire. But think on this: Liberty is not rightly attained at the hands of those who delight in the oppression of others. You scream LIBERTY! and yet scald honest, loyal men with boiling tar. You scream REPRESSIVE BUSINESS PRACTICES! and yet you smash the windows and destroy the merchandise of honest, loyal men. You scream SLAVERY AT THE HAND OF THE KING! and yet you drive to death negro slaves ~ honest, loyal men whom you purchase and trade like cattle and horses. You beat senseless those who disagree with you, you point guns at their wives and children, and then you have the gall to send men to my house to persuade me of the justice of your cause? You make dæmons out of those whose opinions vary in the slightest from yours, and disarm them by labeling them, placing them into groups that it is convenient for you to hate. You can identify them by name and so you can teach others to hate them, as well: tory, king’s man, papist, negro ~ and where will you stop? Will politics and faction divide the land to the point at which every man-jack has pushed every other man-jack into a handy little box so he may be proper hated? Keep your politics, sir. Oppress good men in the name of the rich man’s shilling, if you must. Die in the name of cheap tea. But do so for a better cause than hating other men. As you lay dying with a musketball thro’ your bowels, I hope you will have something fonder to look back upon than your rise to senselessness in the name of politics. If you truly desire peace and liberty and prosperity, then first you must destroy politics, dismantle faction, and hang every member of any party anywhere. I’ll bring the rope. | | |
| I’ve not been able to write much this year. I’ve been wondering why, but it finally occurred to me in the past week. My voice is gone. I don’t know if I lost it or if it was taken from me. I really don’t know. Whatever the cause, it’s gone, and I can’t write. I can’t converse. I just have no interest. I’m not melancholy or depressed, so don’t think that. I am happy and free, and enjoying life, as always. I just have no voice. I’m weary of speaking. I’m weary of listening. I’m weary of communication. But I seem to be happier. Perhaps it is merely movement onto another stage of life. | | |
| “…I wonder what caused it? ” “No.” I remained adamant. Sitting in my leather chair by the window. Arms folded defiantly. “You must, Sir.” responded Pathos, obviously exhausted by my refusal to acquiesce. “Never.” “If you do not, Sir, they might cancel us.” “Cancel us?” “Or replace you.” “They wouldn’t dare!” “They would.” “Sigh. Very well – feed me the line again.” “Very well, Sir.” Pathos took up his position opposite me at the study table, and picked up a newspaper. “Look at this, Sir.” said Pathos, rattling the newspaper. “What is it?” “There was a dock collapse today at the waterfront. A dozen injured. I wonder what caused it? ” “[Sigh…] Pier pressure?” “There – was that so difficult, Sir?” “More difficult than you’ll ever know, Pathos.” | | |
| I sat in the circle of learnéd and wiséd clerics before the pulpit of the South Meetinghouse in Boston. Once each week or so, the mightiest theological minds of the Boston area would meet and discuss all manner of subject, from Adam to Zebulon. I had been pushed into the meeting by “well-wishers”, but truly found little among these men of the cloth to commend them to my attention. All save one… The topic of the day was the end times. Dull, frankly. I listened to each discourse, as each man tortured the gathering with his view and why it was correct. What I heard was this… One Feller: Blah blah blah eschatology blah blah blah blah Greek nouns blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah thousand years blah blah blah blah blah blah… Next Feller: Blah blah blah blah blah seven seals blah blah blah blah blah blah thrones blah blah blah blah Revelation blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah … Next Feller: Blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah lunch blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah… Next Feller: Blah tribulation [yawn] blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah rapture blah blah blah blah blah blah… …and so-on for an eternity… until the last feller. He had remained quiet, expressionless aside from a peaceful smile, as he listened to each loud discourse. He actually spent most of the time studying my face as I wriggled in intense boredom. When his turn came, but hesitated, made a few pensive faces, then spoke his view on the end times softly, but firmly… This Last Feller: Gentlemen, all I know – and all I care to know – of the coming of the next age is spoken thro’ Isaiah: Therefore the redeemed of the Lord shall return, and come with singing unto Zion; and everlasting joy shall be upon their head: they shall obtain gladness and joy; and sorrow and mourning shall flee away. Anything else is just mindless speculation and fear-mongering. Honestly, the notion that Christians, of all people, should live in terror of Christ’s return, or even waste precious time fighting amongst themselves over this and lording one view over another. Silly, silly. If this is what Protestantism has come to, perhaps we’d do better… well, no, no I suppose not. Anyway, is it time for lunch yet? This was my introduction, not only to the little-known thinker, the Reverend Calvin Arminius Pope, but also to a turkey club sandwich that was to die for. EDITOR’S NOTE: This conversation also began the colonies’ short road to war with Britain, by the way. Stay tuned! | | |
| He was terribly cross, I’m afraid. The British officer stood at the front of the church, hand on the hilt of his sword, pacing back and forth, shouting at the congregation. A nervous sergeant stood dutifully by his side. “Right!” shouteth he. “We are none of us leaving until the guilty party or parties fesses up!” Silence, all save a few giggles. “Again,” he agained, “No one is leaving until I discover whomever is responsible for changing the words to ‘God Save The King’ in the hymnal.” “I’m afraid,” quipped the minister, “That we haven’t a clue as to what you’re talking about.” “Sergeant!” bellowed the officer. “Read it again!” The sergeant stepped forward, cleared his throat, and read off of a piece of paper that had been slipped into his hymnal… Georgie’s a stupid git, Useless old German twit Give us back James; Grant Charlie’s dad the throne, Who cares if he’s for Rome, Send German Georgie home, Or we’ll dump more tea… Another round of giggling. “As I said before,” he said again, “The minister shall not be allowed to dismiss this service until…” Suddenly, the minster rose to his feet and pronounced loudly, “May the grace and peace of Christ be with you now and…” Before the words were out the congregation rose as one, said in unison, “And also with you,” and exited the church over the protests of the officer. “Nice one, Sir,” smiled Pathos, as we gained the street and headed home. “Me? I thought you did it.” I smiled back. Martial law has come to Boston. Come on, Gerogie. All we did was caffeinate some fish in the harbour. Don't be such a wet blanket.
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