Hotels are a new thing... urban 'manor houses' for those with a bit of social distinction, or the money to create the illusion of social distinction. They set up 'house' for a few evenings or a week, perhaps a month, if funds allow, and live a life of luxury. Mivart's is such a place. London's first major hostelry. Quite a step up from the plain, though comfortable Georgian inns, although some of them still enjoy a devoted clientele. Indeed, so discrete was the neo-classical façade that most actually took it for the city home of an aristocratic, well-off person of distinction.
My entre, my voucher, David Hefton, led the way. We ascended the grand staircase and proceeded down a wide, cream paneled hallway, lit by tall candles in crystal sconces, each surrounded by a sizeable cream framed mirror.... Why do I dwell so on such superficialities? I suppose I want the age to come alive for you. Mirrors were necessities back then, needed to reflect and multiply the illumination. Every floor had its 'sand boy,' even private homes, always at the ready to smother flames with a large, heavy pail-full of white Dover granules. For flames above the floor, such as those caused by mischievous sconces, there was a water boy... same job... different bucket. Should a ceiling alight, those that could escaped to the streets. Those that couldn't ran toward the windows and prayed.
Our era was tinged by the Enlightenment, though not by much. Urban poor often lived on pigeons or worse and prostitution was (no matter what churchmen said) better than starvation.
Now, let me get back on track.... I can use that term. Investment in railroads was beginning. The Illuminati promoted it. What better way to knit humanity together?
Hefton stopped before a pair of doors... cream colored, as usual. Oh, there was a bit of gold leaf applied here and there. 'Eggshell' does get tedious , thus the gory over reaction of the Victorian age yet to come.... Then he quietly knocked. A footman soundlessly let us in. The room, somewhat dim compared to the rest of the establishment was set up as a card room... five tables of gentlemen carelessly placing bets on the turn of a stiffened piece of thick, glossy paper..... I whispered to Hefton - How much is the buy-in? ... That term, I knew. Even country boys gambled. And I did have funds supplied by the 'beacon' (an organized 'chapter' of Illuminati).... Hefton (called 'the second Beau Brummel') smiled and said - Just sit down. Everything's been arranged.... So we took seats at a table occupied by four gentlemen recently graduated from university. Hefton made the necessary introductions. Another footmen gave us each our buy-ins and that was it. Not much different than the last time we spoke. Society was like that. One met a group... sized everyone up and was sized up in return.
Those in attendance were men of wealth, either their own, or some senior relation's... But the important thing is they could get it... should the right organization apply the proper amount of pressure.
So I played cards that night... I ate delicious cold, rare roast beef served Bavarian style with horseradish and pickled slaw..... I drank chilled Rhine wines. In the 1830's chilled wine was a true luxury and quite a delight.
Before play resumed, 'private girls,' as they were called, dressed in corsets and scanties, took their place under each table, surprising every guest in turn. Some closed their eyes. Some giggled. Others just stared into space and gasped for air.... How did I react?... With dignity and aplomb, I must say. I do remember that 'our' private girl was a quite striking Amazon named Charlotte... I did not know that then, but I learned soon enough...
'Dame' Charlotte, as she was called, proved a true friend... and a genuine virtuoso (is there a feminine suffix for that word?) in the persuasive arts.
Now, please let me streak about the universe, as disembodied spirits do. I have an appointment west of The Pleiades.
Edgerton out...
<more tomorrow> ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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It is I, oh best belov-eds, one Jonathon ben Macabi, also known as Tomas de Macabea and also known as a life-eater. I know your age calls me 'vampire.' I hate that word. For many many nights I have been lost to you, as you are lost to me. Our tale meanders like the waters or the Duero, but sometimes we fall in. This is one of those times. I have been thinking about 'infinity,' the ever expanding nexus of all possibilities and I know why such a thing can never rest under a label of numerical worth. I have always known, or almost always. A holy man came to our city during my boyhood, a man from far off Hind. All knew him as Bene Yisroel, a Hebrew proclaimer of the Unity from beyond the River Ganges. Thus they who over saw the governance of The Caliphate accepted him, for all who proclaimed the Oneness of Divinity found protection, if not unblemished freedom in our land. Though after a time we knew him as something else. He was wise and learned in the ways of many tribes and nations. Indeed, many cartloads of books came with him. I heard him expound on The Logic of Old Ur and the mathematics of Ancient Cathay. He claimed knowledge of The Ten Lost Tribes scattered far beyond the River Sabbath, but our own learned men just rolled their eyes. Still his recollections were extremely diverting and so we shared our honey cakes and wine. One night, after imbibing too much, he regaled us with detailed histories of battles fought in Heaven between blue skinned gods in radiant conveyances and cunning demons with swords made from lightning. From the tone of his voice, those versed in such things recognized his reverence and knew these stories were holy writ to him. A scholar from Toledo said - Tell me, most erudite sir, are you perhaps a high born believer in the ancient Faith of Hind?.... At first, the man hesitated, afraid to speak... but the scholar from Toledo went on.... Fear not - he said. We will not denounce you, for was not our Deliverer, Savior and Redeemer also a stranger in a strange land?.... And the high born believer in the ancient Faith of Hind knew of that Prince of Egypt who stepped down from greatness only to rise to Glory, for as I said, he was versed in many things. We asked him why he was here. Muslims ruled in this place. Trinitarians and Jews might live here, but those known as polytheists were anathema. They faced adoption of the dominant creed or death and our foreign man of wisdom was to meet with a brother wise man from far off Ux Mal, a city of the Mayans. Please don't look so shocked. People from beyond the Ocean Sea were known to us. Of course we never encountered them in great numbers, nor did we write of them. Such beings were myths, or if not myths, surely the most evil of demons. Believe me... we knew the rules. Now it was that this gentlemen from Ux Mal washed up on our shores amidst the wreckage of a great twin-hulled ship built in the manner of his people. For months, he and a companion lived in shadows, fearful of our ways and our beasts. Horses terrified him. Till a widow in Cadiz took he and the other one in. She believed them to be angels or perhaps jinn and after a time they learned her language and ways, becoming the kidnapped sons of a faithful tribe from beyond the Great Desert in Timbuctu. Word of this kidnapped prince spread through back alleys and various municipal marketplaces. Though all knew he must remain hidden lest enemies assassinate him before he might regain his portion and, if God willed it, share a bit with they who were his protectors and friends. Thus the legend worked its way from caravanserai to caravanserai, till even in the vicinity of distant Mumbai there were they who knew the tale... Where language failed, numbers kept true. And peoples different in every way still searched for the resolution of Pi... the Portal to Infinity... The magic which was real and the same even unto the most disparate segments of humanity and after a fashion represents the unity of all things.... The next time we meet, if God wills it, we will get there, or at least approach as close as we might dare.... (until next time) ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ click OLD ANDALUS to see all episodes of Vampire Wonderland. then also click on the 'subscribe' button at the top of the screen to get there. click DATES AND WINE to join me on Twitter. please comment. thank you.
Before we continue our tale, the disembodied, spirit narrator directs all to subscribe to the site conjured by Alexander Flamel on You Tube. Mr. Flamel created this video and you should see it... and now our Illuminati Arc goes on~~~~ London in this age had few hotels. Members of the landed classes had their own townhouses and used those during 'the season.' People a wee bit socially deprived rented distinguished domiciles. Unmarried gentlemen lived bachelor lives at their clubs and parvenus attempting to be what they were not took rooms in the better inns or rented space in suitable homes owned by respectable widows. Lawrence and his artificial 'aunt' left Miss Bobbin's residence for a somewhat small, though smartly set up neo-classic townhouse owned by the Illuminati. Few knew it was not theirs. Funds from the organization covered everything. And do not believe they who claim sinister intent. True Illuminati follow an assortment of recognized creeds and denominations, or none at all. Liars who tout fealty to evil forces are just that... liars and have no place among the group. There are no horned gods , or fallen angels, or revenant mummies. Seek them in fiction, for they are not here.... although mystery of a sort and shadowy intrigue run rampant and reality can be just as lethal. The Thames holds many victims tied in sacks and drowned. River mites creep up from the mud to take the leavings. The little crabby things work fast, pinching off the waterlogged flesh and stuffing it down their loathsome maws. In a fortnight only the bones remain. Hagfish and lampreys grind into those. The river swallows it all. Them what takes no dives in dark waters dies just the same, but the trip can be more troubling..... Cross the wrong sort and you might get throwed in a fiery furnace, or head-crushed in a vice, or ripped to shreds in the bear pits. The folks 'round Seven Dials got their tricks. Professionals, they are and known to work for the highest and mightiest in the land... plain and rich alike... those who scrape for their fat and them with golden pockets. Lawrence Edgerton was about to meet some... the golden pockets sort. That evening his new sponsor, the 'honourable' David (Beau Brummel) Hefton came by in his brougham and carried him off to a private roast beef dinner in an establishment known as Mivart's Hotel... indeed, the first concern of its kind to bear that lofty designation. Later generations knew it as Claridge's, but that came in Kitchener's time, soon after the fall of Khartoum. They spoke, as a quartet of chestnut geldings bore them over the damp, London cobbles. First trip to 'the Aldwyck' (early Saxon name for London, popular with romantic poets), my boy? - said Hefton..... Lawrence nodded. I believe I was here as a very young child, perhaps two or three years old, but I remember none of it, sir..... Well, you'll soon remember some after this night is over..... Then the talking ceased. Every so often the soft gleam of a street lamp cut in to warm the shadows, till they stopped by the white, marble curbstone and exited the carriage..... A liveried footman opened the door. They passed into a public room worthy of a duke's house, bright with candles and London society. Few took notice, perhaps a quick practiced glance, for all had parts to play... But they left that 'stage' and climbed the wide, main stairs to a private room above.... And there it all began... <more to come> ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ click OYSTERS to see all episodes of Vampire Wonderland, but then click on the 'subscribe' button near the top of the screen to continue. click RARE ROAST BEEF to join me on Twitter. please comment. thank you.
So young Lawrence Edgerton occupied a tall clark's desk in the room nearer the door, his top hat neatly stowed among a row of long, canted wall pegs specially made for that purpose. Shorter pegs might do for lesser headgear such as working men might wear, but this was an establishment frequented by middleclass quasi-gentlemen as well as those farther up the scale. Indeed, in 'the City,' as the financial district was termed, top hats were almost a legal requirement.
He was put to work reading every newspaper and broadsheet available and neatly clipping anything remotely important for his patron, Sir Charles, to examine later. After that, since he had a good hand, came subscription cards, fine heavy stock, about the size of what people in your time call an Ebook Reader. Each featured the name of the concern marketed, its location, the product or service vended, shares to be sold, date of initial sale and opening price. At the bottom came - Sir Charles de Castor, honourable broker, City of London plus his location on Chancery Lane. Lawrence penned them by the dozens and a bit later, during luncheon, distributed them to gentlemen coming and going from The Royal Exchange. Similar advertisements appeared in various daily business journals, but a card, respectfully presented in person was harder to ignore.... That's how he came to know Beau Brummel...
Now this 'Beau Brummel' was not the first Beau Brummel. that personage had long absconded to France in avoidance of debts and other obligations. Yet 'style' had become a 'thing' among certain moneyed circles of the town and this gentleman, one David Watkins, second son to Lord Hefton (thus he'd never inherit the title) was a sartorial paragon and because of that was bestowed with this informal appellation. Everyone called him Beau. We'll come back to him, but first I have to tell you more...
Lawrence particularly valued his time on 'the street.' He'd watch, as 'money barons' good naturedly gathered for lunch at this or that coffee house. Truthfully, coffee house entrances were a good place to distribute his cards, if not the best. The air was less sooty than districts farther east. Due to the narrow streets, foot traffic trumped the horse drawn variety. Shoes stayed cleaner. The meat pies sold at establishments up and down the thoroughfare seemed less lethal than those in less rarefied surroundings and the Honourable Mr. David Hefton apparently liked him. The 'tall' top hat is what did it. We described it in our last post, but for the uninformed, we'll do so once more..... taller than usual... slightly flaring at the top....fits low over the ears and brow, with a brim that rolls up on the sides...very memorable indeed.. In fact, the dapper man about town stopped him and asked where he got it.... but Lawrence didn't know. His 'pretend' aunt paid for it with Illuminati money. He paid no attention to the shop. He was new in town. What did he know?.... All Hefton heard was he didn't know and it struck him funny. Young men always sought good tailors, or hatters and the like and few 'forgot.' So he examined the subscription card Lawrence had just given him and later that afternoon, after a delightful coffeehouse lunch, the rather well known fellow came 'round to the House of de Castor for a talk.... and dropped seven hundred and fifty pounds on a canal company up in the midlands. Sir Charles was very pleased.
That evening Lawrence joined his new friend and other fashionable people for a night at the theatre, followed by a late dinner at one of the fashionable new hotels springing up around town.
Young Edgerton was off to a good start....
<more to come>
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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The woman playing Lawrence Edgerton's aunt was an old Illuminati 'light' (individual member) known as Flora Mendez. In her own way, she was responsible for Wellington's battlefield successes and the Chartist movement yet to come. Contemporary Britain would not be what it is without her. She directed the coachman toward a respectable establishment known as Mrs. Bobbins' Inn, a late Georgian townhouse, not far from Chancery Lane, and all the most respected counting houses. If you've seen the 1951 version of SCROOGE with Alistair Sim, you know the place. The moving picture show up above is for them what ain't seen it. The images come from down time's road a bit, but close enough in feel and spirit.. Now the Britain of these times is in no way like the nation we know today. Few people were allowed to vote. No Woman had the franchise. The vote for Catholics was a new and novel thing and not at all universal in the hearts of the Protestant majority. Jews only voted if they were also registered as members of the (usually) Anglican Church. Many submitted to baptism ( a la the Disraeli family), were added to the rolls, but continued supporting and attending services in synagogues ( the word means 'meeting houses') throughout the realm. Indeed, Benjamin Disraeli himself regularly attended services in the old Synagogue at Bevis Marks. Thankfully, Britain had no Inquisition, even if many openly hated the new voters (Catholics too) for remaining steadfast to their ancestral creeds. Catholics were allowed seats in The Commons in 1829. Unbaptized Jews gained the national franchise in 1858. Both groups faced certain petty difficulties till 1890. No male, of any group, voted if not solidly middleclass. This was not a democracy in the American manner. Life was hard. Family status and personal connections were paramount, although in some ways Britain transcended the American model. Slavery was abolished in 1833. Now we provide all this data to make a point. Much of the social progress we, in the West, take for granted was husbanded and nurtured by those many would call 'Illuminati.'... The pivotal names of individuals responsible for the furtherance of positive ideals we all enjoy today were often found on so called 'Illuminati' lists. Young Lawrence Edgerton belonged to such a group. Soon after arriving in the City of London he joined the counting House of one Charles de Castor, showing up and ready for duties at eight o'clock one cool autumn morning, resplendent in his trim, black suit, dazzling white neck cloth and really quite dashing and impressive 'tall' top hat... You know it.. flares out slightly at the crown... rests low on the ears and brow. I defy any one to look bad in headgear such as that..... Beau Brummel himself (noted, aristocratic fashion plate and man about town) would have approved. In fact, the extraordinary gentleman himself, as well as many of his exalted associates (including a few royals) regularly invested in financial offerings represented by the House of de Castor. Such dealings were strictly private. That's why it was so important for Edgerton's group to place one of their own inside. Who gives money to what is a great indicator of public endorsement and the Illuminati most keenly wanted railroad and steamship consortiums to succeed. Edgerton would provide them with much useful information... How did he come by this position? His artificial 'aunt,' Miss Flora Mendez, also Illuminati, knows everyone... An extensive network of friends is everything. And the young Lawrence Edgerton was well on his way.... That's how the Illuminati does things... A little push here, a little push there... a nod... some money... a beneficial social introduction.... nothing violent... nothing harmful... It's not that way at all... and if it were not for them, human culture would be just as hard as it was in the 'good old days.' <more to come> ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ click MAKE LIFE BETTER to see all episodes of Vampire Wonderland... and when you get there, please click the SUBSCRIBE button near the top of the screen to go on. click TRADE IDEAS to join me on Twitter. kindly consider leaving a comment? Thank you.
There was a dinner, or some sort of meal. I'd lost track of the days. Time meant nothing. But I sat at a table in a small room, opposite the First Facilitator. The walls and ceiling were covered in a burnished, antique mirror-like finish. The floor was florentined copper tiles. I suppose one of the reflective panels was a door, though once inside and seated, I could not remember where it was. Light came from two carved glass candlesticks. Not too much... just enough. Our leader poured the wine and motioned for me to drink. I did. Odd, how in just a few days (I assume it was just a few days) I'd grown accustomed to it. The leader said - You've been watched since birth... before birth actually... even before conception. I knew your mother and father. Members of the order they were. And we placed you with that family to grow up normally. I asked - Who were they? Why did you say 'were?' Are they dead?. But he ignored me and went on - It's not that hard to control the world. What's required is determination and foresight. Not just on my part. Every member of the order contributes. And some of what we do is so easy. Even kings have secrets. We excavate those secrets and thus we control them - went the leader. Do they ever rebel ? - I said. Sometimes - said my host. But then we persuade them. A prince dies. A palace burns. Whatever fits the situation. There's not a royal bodyguard we can't turn. Wouldn't the people notice all the dead royals? - I asked. They never notice. They never know. We insert a double. Few outside royal circles ever see them close up. It's not hard to do. A gilt coach rolls by. A hand waves. The people cheer. What if a monarch refuses to cooperate and before you can neutralize them, they kill themselves, but not before notifying the church of your presence? What do you do then? - I speculated. You are clever. But tell me, are not churchmen an educated lot? I suppose - I said. We brush shoulders at the best universities all the time. They, officially, avoid change. We embrace it. Thus we respect each other . They follow their path and we do ours. Yet privately many a bishop takes the best scientific journals. And many a monsignor wonders about electricity. Now we've spoken too long. Lift the dome and eat. I did and the fine breaded veal chop was still hot, so were the roasted potatoes and green beans..... The food. It's hot? - I asked. Why wouldn't it be? - went my guide, as he buttered a light, fluffy roll. And then we ate, apparently in the Continental manner, for after the main course, a footman entered through the secret door with a tray holding two plates of salad... savory, peppery greens topped with salty, Italian Anchovies and sweet onions. Dessert was lightly candied pears and shaved chocolate, some cheese too. I settled in very quickly. It seems the First Facilitator often dined with newcomers, as a way to feel them out. He poured more wine and we talked some more. I passed inspection, for the next day I took a coach to London. Not alone, a woman, ostensibly my 'aunt' went with me. Our trunks were fine, but not too showy and our garments were the same. I'd never been south before and took in all the sights. Towns grew larger. Well kept canals funneled narrow, cargo laden boats toward the capital. Carriages became numerous and gardens more lush..... At night we stopped at the better inns, taking two rooms, but never overlooking the coach yard to avoid the noise. Some people engaged us in conversation. We were polite but never shared much. I was going south to read law with a learned London barrister and my 'aunt' accompanied me for the esteemed gentleman was a close kinsman. Thus I sailed ever farther from my first life and into something new... mysterious, though enticing at the same time..... <more to come> ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ click ADVENTURE .... then click SUBSCRIBE near the top of the page when you get there to browse all Vampire Wonderland episodes. click COFFEESHOP CONVERSATION ... to join me and actually a lot of interesting people too. maybe leave a comment? thank you.
To most souls, the world is a dull place. They work. They eat. They procreate, feed their suspicions and sleep. Perhaps there's a reel on a Saturday night, or a hot pancake breakfast on Sunday? Perhaps there's nothing of the kind? Such is life. Few aspire to anything else. Cheap gin takes care of that. Lack of gentle birth does too. And the fleas suck life out of everyone. The Illuminati coalesced to stop that. But progress is slow and more like a careful, artistically arranged erosion than the growth of plants. The man with the long salt and pepper hair taught me that. Others in our rarefied congregation taught me different things, though all formed a very special and magical chord. If you read last night's entry, you know I saw the homecoming of our First Facilitator. I saw his vessel land. A lighter than air craft it was... the great grandfather of all blimpdom. Yet in those early days as miraculous as Fatima. They addressed him as 'Lord Facilitator. He had short white hair, receding at the temples but ample enough everywhere else, a trim matching chin beard and piercing, blue eyes. His attire was all black too... a severely tailored long coat over a satin waistcoat and narrow pants. I was there when he disembarked. They had it down to a science. The roof of a large stone and timber barn opened, just like two halves of a gift box, thanks to the grunting ministrations of ten men (five to a side) manning large cranks effecting a series of gears. The lighter than air ship, a cross between a hot air balloon and gondola (in this case enclosed) and an early framed craft settled in like a hen on her nest. The cranking resumed, this time in the opposite direction. The roof closed. I don't know how it maintained its integrity minus a central, ridge beam, but it did. Apparently the Illuminati know things about the physical side of architecture too. The man with short white hair looked at me and said two words - A novice?.... The man with the long salt and pepper hair nodded. Then the leader joined us in the phaeton (our coach) and we rode back, through the moonlight, toward the manor house. There were two other passengers in the gondola, a Neapolitan violinist and someone else. I never learned who the someone else was. It might have been a woman dressed in a mannish manner a la George Sand. I don't know. After late night brandies in a small sitting room lit by the embers of that evening's fire we retired to our beds upstairs. Mine was in a tiny space under the eaves, but a short, stub of a candle enabled me to get there. The bed sheets were the finest I'd ever known in my life. I saw stars through a small window, while far off, in another part of the house, an unseen juggler slapped clubs together in an intricate rhythm, as he practiced a new routine. The next day they put me to work in the scriptorium, copying texts in second century Latin with the aid of a delicate, though solid, contraption made of fine, wooden beams and small, copper rods called a scriptograph. Four pens, each mounted one foot from the other, reproduced what I wrote.... Such wonders they had. I saw electromagnets and a frighteningly real automaton of Harlequin the Clown. They said his face was covered with real, human skin. But few got to feel, for he'd snap errant fingers with sharp, pointed teeth forged from the best Spanish silver. A French count lost a pinkie. I know, because they told me, plus the relic is still displayed under a small, glass dome in the library... Harlequin still sits there on a chair right next to it, smiling in a most amoral way and waiting for only God knows what.
Come back next time and I'll tell you how to make ice knifes.... razor sharp blades perfect for slitting throats and opening femoral arteries. Death comes quick, though no weapon is ever discovered.
And now, Lawrence Edgerton bids you adieu .
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