I will be in England in less than two weeks.
My mind travels in a loop these days; disbelief can have that effect on an humble human brain. I am plagued by visions of visas, terrors of traveler checks, and panoplies of printouts.
With the last of my evenings in Austin, I've had two objectives to occupy the majority of my time:
1)My part-time job as an office assistant and
2) my research papers (not to mention the reading assignments).
Work continues to claim my time because of an ingrained middle class belief that every last dollar counts. I acknowledge, however, that the time has come for me to quit. Next week is my last week of part-time.
These research papers, on the other hand, are not being friendly-- the little bugger-blighters. Perhaps my brain is unaccustomed to-- well-- no "perhaps"-- my brain is most definitely NOT accustomed to-- critical thinking in the lazy heat of summer.
My unfortunate disinclination to actually think heightens the difficulty of these research papers. And time is running out.
I miss the days when simply quoting Wikipedia articles in my homework assignments would fly. Though every English or history teacher I've ever had has pooh-poohed them as nonliterary-- and therefore untrustworthy-- of no merit whatsoever-- if smoothly incorporated in my argument, in those long ago glory days of high school, teachers would still accept them-- dearest, darling Wikipedia entries.
Such days are gone-- gone with the wind, I say.
After snivelling a little in remembrance of the low expectations of my past (we all must indulge sometimes), I've set to beating my brains out-- for evenings and evenings-- in a quest for legit sources on:
1)Sir Francis Dashwood of West Wycomb in Buckinghamshire,
2) Muslin,
3) Blenheim Palace.
Sir Francis was a real baddie. From what I have learned-- at long, long last-- and after many wasted hours of painfully threading through noble genealogies, where I tracked his descent as eleventh Baron Le Despencer down the titled family tree from Sir Adam--
To rebegin: From what I have learned, Sir Francis was the Hugh Hefner of his generation: an old, lecherous tycoon in pajamas, wandering among the secluded nooks (full of titled, buxomly girlfriends with flowing heads of hair, all dyed from the same marilynmonroesexkitten bottle) of his Playboy mansion (or-- er-- Wycombe gardens, in Dashwood's case).
(I admit it-- I enjoy watching the E! program GIRLS NEXT DOOR when I have many better things to do with my time).
As for muslin-- because, yes, I am researching the history of the popular 17/18th c. fabric-- you'd be surprised, if you sat down and really looked for the material (like I have) (for hours), by the amount of mentions muslin warrants in Austen's stories. In an era of handicrafts, raw material was a matter for serious discussion! Quality-- Price-- Dress patterns-- Decorations of fruit or of flowers-- Among many rather boring pamphlets on issues of trade (the Bangladesh-manufactured material outstripped plain old English cotton, which led to a market squabble), I found a delightful poem in an eighteenth century database (ECCO), and you know that you want to read it. You want to read it because I have almost nearly made the topic of muslin inspirational to you now:
"To a Young L A D Y,
Desiring her to buy some Muslin for the
AUTHOR.
DEAR Miss-- when next you do repair
To Shop of modish Milliner,
Remnants to buy-- or learn the Art,
By Pinch of Coif, to fire the Heart;
With bits of Ribband-- Patches-- Lace--
How best to set your Sunday-- Face;
(Destruction sure, to ogling Spark!
Or 'Squire's Son-- or Lawyer's Clerk--)
Please to procure, for Purpose fit,
Some Muslin, (if you such can get,)
Enough to make (Heav'n guard my Weasen'!)
Six Cravats, for this Winter Season:
Two must be superfine, and nice,
The Others, of a middling Price;
For still 'tis Policy, you know,
To've This, for Use-- and That, for Shew."
As for Blenheim Palace, well-- Ahm-- Work in progress-- Many thoughts-- AhermAherm-- Coming along grandly--
