#banditti

[illustratus]

Salvator Rosa Sketching the Banditti by Thomas Moran

[romanticism-art-history]

A Grotto in the Kingdom of Naples, with Banditti by Joseph Wright (1734 - 1797)

[sgt-tombstone]

omg immortal soap

what if he's been around for a while and is proficient with swords

imagine him wielding a claymore

Anon you’re so incredibly right, that man was made to have a broadsword in his hands (bonus points for a full kilt ensemble too)

And, because I am a history major (and a research nerd to boot), here are a couple of quotes from Arthur Herman’s book, How the Scots Invented the Modern World:

“As Dr. Johnson observed, in the Highlands ‘every man was a soldier.’ The clansman was trained to fight from boyhood. Armed with his double-edged broadsword, which measured a yard long and two inches wide; his dagger or dirk; and his shield or targe, and screaming his clan’s motto as he rushed headlong at his opponent, he was a formidable sight. But he was no Iron Age throwback, the ‘bare-arsed banditti’ of English legend. He could be as familiar with handling a musket, and fighting in formation, as any British grenadier. For generations the principal export of the Highlands had been its surplus males, as soldiers and mercenaries for the armies of Europe. In the Middle Ages, Irish chieftains had hired them: nicknamed galloglasses or redshanks because of their exposed knees below their kilts, Scottish mercenaries had kept the Gaelic parts of Ireland safe from the English for four hundred years… ‘They are formidable fellows… They are all gentlemen, will take no affront from any man, and insolent to the last degree.’” (pgs 128-129).

“Once again, British cavalry and infantry flew into a panic as the Highlanders attacked… ‘Men accustomed only to exchange bullets at a distance… are discouraged and amazed when they find themselves encountered hand to hand, and catch the gleam of steel flashing in their faces’” (pg 149).

That’s the immortal Johnny I picture, especially if he and Simon meet on the battlefield, Scottish mercenary against English soldier. Simon has never given much thought to the Highlanders beyond the usual English disdain, but when he meets Johnny on the battlefield, all righteous anger and blazing passion, a broadsword in his face and a rattling war cry echoing in his ears, he knows that he’d gladly let Johnny kill him if only to have the honor of dying at his hand

Isn’t it fortuitous, then, that Johnny is waiting by his side when he wakes up hours later, a decent meal and an explanation waiting for him, because Johnny’s been around for at least three hundred years and he’s really fucking tired of going it alone (if the universe decides to dump some self-righteous Manc on him… well, he’s done more with less, and he’s sure he can crack that hard shell sooner rather than later)

As a side note, I highly recommend the book that those quotes come from, it’s a fascinating look into the origins of Scotland, its culture, and its people. It touches a lot on Scotland’s historical ties to England and the rest of the world from the 1500s on. The author is a distinguished historian (so he knows what he’s talking about) and it’s truly an enlightening read (and has taught me a lot about our favorite sudsy sergeant 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿)

[scotianostra]

At the last resting place of Edinburgh poet Robert Ferguson, who sadly passed away at the young age of 24, Robbie Burns was a fan and paid for the gravestone you see after discovering his grave was unmarked.

Here are a few lines from his poem The Daft Days , where he talks about Aqua Vitae, thats whisky tae you and aye. His warning is that when fou (full) we are sometimes capernoity (Crabbit) and have to be wary of Edinburgh's City Guard, the original Polis of Auld Reekie.

"And thou, great god of Aqua Vitæ!

Wha sways the empire of this city,

When fou we're sometimes capernoity,

Be thou prepar'd

To hedge us frae that black banditti,

The City-Guard."

[bethanydelleman]

Northanger Abbey Readthrough Ch 23

So the joke of this chapter, which I will admit to not understanding on my first read, is that General Tilney is deliberately showing Catherine everything he has renovated, so the newest and most fancy parts of the abbey, while all that Catherine wants to see is the old stuff. She's basically getting the brag tour and she wants the historical tour.

When the general had satisfied his own curiosity, in a close examination of every well-known ornament

Eleanor wants to take Catherine further, but the General is against it because "Had not Miss Morland already seen all that could be worth her notice?" The real meaning here is that nothing else is fancy enough for his pleasure, but Catherine's imagination is running again, "Something was certainly to be concealed"

The General’s improving hand had not loitered here: every modern invention to facilitate the labour of the cooks had been adopted within this, their spacious theatre; and, when the genius of others had failed, his own had often produced the perfection wanted.

General Tilney sounding a lot like John Thorpe here, but again, just more educated:

He told her of horses which he had bought for a trifle and sold for incredible sums; of racing matches, in which his judgment had infallibly foretold the winner; of shooting parties, in which he had killed more birds (though without having one good shot) than all his companions together; and described to her some famous day’s sport, with the fox-hounds, in which his foresight and skill in directing the dogs had repaired the mistakes of the most experienced huntsman, and in which the boldness of his riding, though it had never endangered his own life for a moment, had been constantly leading others into difficulties, which he calmly concluded had broken the necks of many. (Ch 9)

It's like the Thorpes were a nice warm-up for Catherine's discernment and now she's up against the real boss of liars.

As a mom, I can never read this without a bit of distress: by passing through a dark little room, owning Henry’s authority, and strewed with his litter of books, guns, and greatcoats. Litter of guns!!! What if a child toddles into this room, sir? I know there are no children about but STILL. Litter of guns, indeed.

Also, Catherine's general displeasure with this tour reminds me of Mary Crawford's speech about viewing houses in Mansfield Park:

“That she should be tired now, however, gives me no surprise; for there is nothing in the course of one’s duties so fatiguing as what we have been doing this morning: seeing a great house, dawdling from one room to another, straining one’s eyes and one’s attention, hearing what one does not understand, admiring what one does not care for. It is generally allowed to be the greatest bore in the world, and Miss Price has found it so, though she did not know it.” (ch 9)

I love Catherine being shocked about how numerous the servants are, since in Gothic novels only one or two are needed. Also, the note of how Mrs. Allen found that unrealistic. Catherine hasn't had to manage household staffing, cleaning, and cooking yet!. This is one of the things I liked about Emma 2020 by the way, the little touches they added with the servants always being around.

Catherine compares General Tilney to Montoni, and for those like me who have not yet read The Mysteries of Udolpho:

Montoni is a prototypical Gothic villain. Brooding, haughty and scheming, he masquerades as an Italian nobleman to gain Madame Cheron's hand in marriage, then imprisons Emily and Madame Cheron in Udolpho in an attempt to take control of Madame Cheron's wealth and estates. He is cold and often cruel to Emily, who believes him to be a captain of banditti. (Wikipedia)

Okay, Catherine. (Then again, it is weird that he just paces back and fourth for a full hour in the drawing room. Sit down, sir.)

Catherine sometimes started at the boldness of her own surmises, and sometimes hoped or feared that she had gone too far; but they were supported by such appearances as made their dismissal impossible.

Oh Catherine. This is the part where it's nearly impossible not to feel some secondhand embarrassment. I want to send Fanny Price or Anne Elliot to the abbey to straighten her out.

Also, here is some more information about those pamphlets the General is reading. He may be looking for traitors.

[dailyanarchistposts]

A.5 What are some examples of “Anarchy in Action”?

A.5.2 The Haymarket Martyrs

May 1st is a day of special significance for the labour movement. While it has been hijacked in the past by the Stalinist bureaucracy in the Soviet Union and elsewhere, the labour movement festival of May Day is a day of world-wide solidarity. A time to remember past struggles and demonstrate our hope for a better future. A day to remember that an injury to one is an injury to all.

The history of Mayday is closely linked with the anarchist movement and the struggles of working people for a better world. Indeed, it originated with the execution of four anarchists in Chicago in 1886 for organising workers in the fight for the eight-hour day. Thus May Day is a product of “anarchy in action” — of the struggle of working people using direct action in labour unions to change the world.

It began in the 1880s in the USA. In 1884, the Federation of Organised Trades and Labor Unions of the United States and Canada (created in 1881, it changed its name in 1886 to the American Federation of Labor) passed a resolution which asserted that “eight hours shall constitute a legal day’s work from and after May 1, 1886, and that we recommend to labour organisations throughout this district that they so direct their laws as to conform to this resolution.” A call for strikes on May 1st, 1886 was made in support of this demand.

In Chicago the anarchists were the main force in the union movement, and partially as a result of their presence, the unions translated this call into strikes on May 1st. The anarchists thought that the eight hour day could only be won through direct action and solidarity. They considered that struggles for reforms, like the eight hour day, were not enough in themselves. They viewed them as only one battle in an ongoing class war that would only end by social revolution and the creation of a free society. It was with these ideas that they organised and fought.

In Chicago alone, 400 000 workers went out and the threat of strike action ensured that more than 45 000 were granted a shorter working day without striking. On May 3, 1886, police fired into a crowd of pickets at the McCormick Harvester Machine Company, killing at least one striker, seriously wounding five or six others, and injuring an undetermined number. Anarchists called for a mass meeting the next day in Haymarket Square to protest the brutality. According to the Mayor, “nothing had occurred yet, or looked likely to occur to require interference.” However, as the meeting was breaking up a column of 180 police arrived and ordered the meeting to end. At this moment a bomb was thrown into the police ranks, who opened fire on the crowd. How many civilians were wounded or killed by the police was never exactly ascertained, but 7 policemen eventually died (ironically, only one was the victim of the bomb, the rest were a result of the bullets fired by the police [Paul Avrich, The Haymarket Tragedy, p. 208]).

A “reign of terror” swept over Chicago, and the “organised banditti and conscienceless brigands of capital suspended the only papers which would give the side of those whom they crammed into prison cells. They have invaded the homes of everyone who has ever known to have raised a voice or sympathised with those who have aught to say against the present system of robbery and oppression … they have invaded their homes and subjected them and their families to indignities that must be seen to be believed.” [Lucy Parsons, Liberty, Equality & Solidarity, p. 53] Meeting halls, union offices, printing shops and private homes were raided (usually without warrants). Such raids into working-class areas allowed the police to round up all known anarchists and other socialists. Many suspects were beaten up and some bribed. “Make the raids first and look up the law afterwards” was the public statement of J. Grinnell, the States Attorney, when a question was raised about search warrants. [“Editor’s Introduction”, The Autobiographies of the Haymarket Martyrs, p. 7]

Eight anarchists were put on trial for accessory to murder. No pretence was made that any of the accused had carried out or even planned the bomb. The judge ruled that it was not necessary for the state to identify the actual perpetrator or prove that he had acted under the influence of the accused. The state did not try to establish that the defendants had in any way approved or abetted the act. In fact, only three were present at the meeting when the bomb exploded and one of those, Albert Parsons, was accompanied by his wife and fellow anarchist Lucy and their two small children to the event.

The reason why these eight were picked was because of their anarchism and union organising, as made clear by that State’s Attorney when he told the jury that “Law is on trial. Anarchy is on trial. These men have been selected, picked out by the Grand Jury, and indicted because they were leaders. They are no more guilty than the thousands who follow them. Gentlemen of the jury; convict these men, make examples of them, hang them and you save our institutions, our society.” The jury was selected by a special bailiff, nominated by the State’s Attorney and was explicitly chosen to compose of businessmen and a relative of one of the cops killed. The defence was not allowed to present evidence that the special bailiff had publicly claimed “I am managing this case and I know what I am about. These fellows are going to be hanged as certain as death.” [Op. Cit., p. 8] Not surprisingly, the accused were convicted. Seven were sentenced to death, one to 15 years’ imprisonment.

An international campaign resulted in two of the death sentences being commuted to life, but the world wide protest did not stop the US state. Of the remaining five, one (Louis Lingg) cheated the executioner and killed himself on the eve of the execution. The remaining four (Albert Parsons, August Spies, George Engel and Adolph Fischer) were hanged on November 11th 1887. They are known in Labour history as the Haymarket Martyrs. Between 150,000 and 500,000 lined the route taken by the funeral cortege and between 10,000 to 25,000 were estimated to have watched the burial.

In 1889, the American delegation attending the International Socialist congress in Paris proposed that May 1st be adopted as a workers’ holiday. This was to commemorate working class struggle and the “Martyrdom of the Chicago Eight”. Since then Mayday has became a day for international solidarity. In 1893, the new Governor of Illinois made official what the working class in Chicago and across the world knew all along and pardoned the Martyrs because of their obvious innocence and because “the trial was not fair.” To this day, no one knows who threw the bomb — the only definite fact is that it was not any of those who were tried for the act: “Our comrades were not murdered by the state because they had any connection with the bomb-throwing, but because they had been active in organising the wage-slaves of America.” [Lucy Parsons, Op. Cit., p. 142]

The authorities had believed at the time of the trial that such persecution would break the back of the labour movement. As Lucy Parsons, a participant of the events, noted 20 years later, the Haymarket trial “was a class trial — relentless, vindictive, savage and bloody. By that prosecution the capitalists sought to break the great strike for the eight-hour day which as being successfully inaugurated in Chicago, this city being the stormcentre of that great movement; and they also intended, by the savage manner in which they conducted the trial of these men, to frighten the working class back to their long hours of toil and low wages from which they were attempting to emerge. The capitalistic class imagined they could carry out their hellish plot by putting to an ignominious death the most progressive leaders among the working class of that day. In executing their bloody deed of judicial murder they succeeded, but in arresting the mighty onward movement of the class struggle they utterly failed.” [Lucy Parsons, Op. Cit., p. 128] In the words of August Spies when he addressed the court after he had been sentenced to die:

“If you think that by hanging us you can stamp out the labour movement … the movement from which the downtrodden millions, the millions who toil in misery and want, expect salvation — if this is your opinion, then hang us! Here you will tread on a spark, but there and there, behind you — and in front of you, and everywhere, flames blaze up. It is a subterranean fire. You cannot put it out.” [quoted by Paul Avrich, Op. Cit., p. 287]

At the time and in the years to come, this defiance of the state and capitalism was to win thousands to anarchism, particularly in the US itself. Since the Haymarket event, anarchists have celebrated May Day (on the 1st of May — the reformist unions and labour parties moved its marches to the first Sunday of the month). We do so to show our solidarity with other working class people across the world, to celebrate past and present struggles, to show our power and remind the ruling class of their vulnerability. As Nestor Makhno put it:

“That day those American workers attempted, by organising themselves, to give expression to their protest against the iniquitous order of the State and Capital of the propertied … “The workers of Chicago … had gathered to resolve, in common, the problems of their lives and their struggles… “Today too … the toilers … regard the first of May as the occasion of a get-together when they will concern themselves with their own affairs and consider the matter of their emancipation.” [The Struggle Against the State and Other Essays, pp. 59–60]

Anarchists stay true to the origins of May Day and celebrate its birth in the direct action of the oppressed. It is a classic example of anarchist principles of direct action and solidarity, “an historic event of great importance, inasmuch as it was, in the first place, the first time that workers themselves had attempted to get a shorter work day by united, simultaneous action … this strike was the first in the nature of Direct Action on a large scale, the first in America.” [Lucy Parsons, Op. Cit., pp. 139–40] Oppression and exploitation breed resistance and, for anarchists, May Day is an international symbol of that resistance and power — a power expressed in the last words of August Spies, chiselled in stone on the monument to the Haymarket martyrs in Waldheim Cemetery in Chicago:

“The day will come when our silence will be more powerful than the voices you are throttling today.”

To understand why the state and business class were so determined to hang the Chicago Anarchists, it is necessary to realise they were considered the leaders of a massive radical union movement. In 1884, the Chicago Anarchists produced the world’s first daily anarchist newspaper, the Chicagoer Arbeiter-Zeiting. This was written, read, owned and published by the German immigrant working class movement. The combined circulation of this daily plus a weekly (Vorbote) and a Sunday edition (Fackel) more than doubled, from 13,000 per issues in 1880 to 26,980 in 1886. Anarchist weekly papers existed for other ethnic groups as well (one English, one Bohemian and one Scandinavian).

Anarchists were very active in the Central Labour Union (which included the eleven largest unions in the city) and aimed to make it, in the words of Albert Parsons (one of the Martyrs), “the embryonic group of the future ‘free society.’” The anarchists were also part of the International Working People’s Association (also called the “Black International”) which had representatives from 26 cities at its founding convention. The I.W.P.A. soon “made headway among trade unions, especially in the mid-west” and its ideas of “direct action of the rank and file” and of trade unions “serv[ing] as the instrument of the working class for the complete destruction of capitalism and the nucleus for the formation of a new society” became known as the “Chicago Idea” (an idea which later inspired the Industrial Workers of the World which was founded in Chicago in 1905). [“Editor’s Introduction,” The Autobiographies of the Haymarket Martyrs, p. 4]

This idea was expressed in the manifesto issued at the I.W.P.A.‘s Pittsburgh Congress of 1883:

“First — Destruction of the existing class rule, by all means, i.e. by energetic, relentless, revolutionary and international action. “Second — Establishment of a free society based upon co-operative organisation of production. “Third — Free exchange of equivalent products by and between the productive organisations without commerce and profit-mongery. “Fourth — Organisation of education on a secular, scientific and equal basis for both sexes. “Fifth — Equal rights for all without distinction to sex or race. “Sixth — Regulation of all public affairs by free contracts between autonomous (independent) communes and associations, resting on a federalistic basis.” [Op. Cit., p. 42]

In addition to their union organising, the Chicago anarchist movement also organised social societies, picnics, lectures, dances, libraries and a host of other activities. These all helped to forge a distinctly working-class revolutionary culture in the heart of the “American Dream.” The threat to the ruling class and their system was too great to allow it to continue (particularly with memories of the vast uprising of labour in 1877 still fresh. As in 1886, that revolt was also meet by state violence — see Strike! by J. Brecher for details of this strike movement as well as the Haymarket events). Hence the repression, kangaroo court, and the state murder of those the state and capitalist class considered “leaders” of the movement.

For more on the Haymarket Martyrs, their lives and their ideas, The Autobiographies of the Haymarket Martyrs is essential reading. Albert Parsons, the only American born Martyr, produced a book which explained what they stood for called Anarchism: Its Philosophy and Scientific Basis. Historian Paul Avrich’s The Haymarket Tragedy is a useful in depth account of the events.

[paulineagain]

Curious that you should mention New Orleans in your post this week, Betts. It was the first place I thought of when I saw the assignment, and the only place I ever long for aside from the sea. So I chose a little musing from a legend of that place who features prominently in my WIP. My gut tells me he was not the kind of man to muse much, but fiction is for standing things on their head, isn’t it?

He would always think of the city as home, though he was not born here and rarely spent much time living within the ramparts. His home was in wilder places, Barataria, Galvez and soon somewhere even further away. He stopped on the cypress plank sidewalk and closed his eyes, breathing deep as if he might be able to catch one last memory with the smells all around him.

The Mississippi River gurgled by beyond the levee. It wasn’t an illusion that the river ran higher than the solid ground he walked on. That was always the conundrum of this place: how did she stay above water? He laughed to himself as he looked to the street with its muddy puddles of standing water. “Sometimes you do not, eh ma belle?”

Swinging his cane, he continued to walk west toward the heart of the city. He tipped his hat, a formless beaver topper with a wide brim that kept his ears warm in the gathering cool, to those he passed. Soon it would be winter and time to move on, but a few more days in this mysterious, sunken place was worth his time.

It was then, as he passed people with a silent greeting, that he realized no one seemed to recognize him. Once, possibly a lifetime ago, he had been famous. He was called a savior of the city then, as were his previously maligned comrades. Even Major General Andrew Jackson gave him thanks by name in a grand speech to the city’s populace. He and the men he called brothers were elevated from hellish banditti to heroes. A brief moment it seemed, but one worth remembering.

The smell of fish stalls and river mud mingled as he drew closer to his city’s center. Women barked out the quality of the catch on the tables before them in loud, common voices. Close by the oystermen from Grand Isle did the same, making a cacophony of eager sound. Every one of them was vying for the American dollar which was still new to this place where reales and picayunes had long been standard currency.

“We are not what we were,” he said, shaking his head and waving to the vendors while passing by.

He turned left onto a street that rose subtly away from the river. Here homes took the place of the businesses on the levee road. The brightly painted shutters of each reminded him of tropical birds standing still in lush trees. Nothing was quiet here. The wind off the river blew the sounds of market day up the street, and the homes sang out the colorful songs of those who lived there.

Thinking about a particular home, where he had often known welcome and happiness, he paused once again. Looking at a nearby street sign, he realized this was not Rue Conti. “Perhaps for the best,” he thought to himself. “What good would it do to trouble Madame Docteur after all? I am no longer welcome in the bosom of her family.” A rueful chuckle rumbled in his throat. He adjusted his cutaway, made of mulberry serge, and continued on.

His introspection kept him from attention to the street, and it was only at the last moment that he jumped back to avoid the spray of mud that flew up behind a buggy pulled by two horses. He looked over, imagining the slight was purposeful, before realizing that he did not know the carriage.

“You are still agile, my brother.” The voice was familiar and would have been soothing without the reference to his age. “I am most impressed.”

“Enough of that, Pierre. You needn’t gloat for I find that you will always be older than I.”

“Such is the fortune of our birth.” Pierre, clothed in a black redingote that was beginning to show its age, stepped to his brother. He smiled, causing his left eye to close involuntarily. This facial anomaly was a lingering sequela from a stroke Pierre suffered years before. “Are you ready for church?”

“If we must.” He took the arm his brother offered him. “The need for Mass does not stir within me anymore.”

“Nor I, but it will keep the ladies of our household happy.”

He did not reply to this but looked ahead to the Place des Armes and the great Cathedral of St. Louis beyond. It was an imposing structure, shining white in the gray sunlight of autumn. Even though he had no heart for the Church itself, he felt a fondness stir within his chest at the sight of this building. “It is the heart of our home,” he said without thinking.

“What was that now?” Pierre turned to his brother with a quizzical glance.

“Give it no thought.” He looked up at the sky and then tugged at his brother’s arm. “Come along now, frère. It will soon rain, and Mass will not wait as we know.”

Pierre chuckled, put his curiosity aside and hurried across the square still arm and arm with his brother.

[houseofpendragons]

Untamable Equine

Summary: Calamity takes her first steps on her road to disaster

Warning: Gun, blood (nothing gory or anything but you never know what might trigger someone)

A/N: So I first posted this on Wattpad but I figured I’d bring it over here to share with y’all

(THE BANDITTI OF THE PRAIRIES.

A TALE OF THE MISSISSIPPI VALLEY)

CHAPTER. I.

"THE valley of the Mississippi River from its earliest settlement has been more infested with the reckless and the bloodstained men, than any other part of the country, being more congenial to their habits and offering the great inducements to follow their nefarious and dangerous trade.

Situated as it is, of great commercial importance, and the river who's name it bears, together with its tributaries stretching four thousand miles north from the Gulf of Mexico, and draining all the country south and west of the great chain of Lakes, and between the Allegheny and Rocky Mountains, it has afforded them an unequalled chance to escape detection and pursuit, and thus wooed as it were, countless villains and blood-stained, law-doomed ones to screen themselves in its bosom.

Organized bands, trampling upon right, and defying all law human or divine, have so annoyed the peaceful and quiet citizens of this great valley, that in the absence of a sufficient judicial power the aid of "Judge Lynch" has been but too frequently called in, and a neighboring tree proved a gallows and "a short shrift and strong cord" been the doom of those who have ever plead vainly for mercy at his bar."

Basking in the shade underneath the sun-dappled canopy of an ancient sycamore, on the cusp of a serpentine trail, a girl named Calamity Grace found herself lost in the timeworn pages of Edward Bonney's 'Banditti of the Prairie.' This book, a gateway further into a world not so terribly distant from her own, was an ever present companion for the spirited young girl. Their winding path was leading them closer to the bustling heartbeat of New York, a city that existed like a mirage in her eagerly expectant mind.

For Calamity, who was christened as such in memory of her mother's death, the trail was home. So, having always lived on the countryside, the thought of an actual city seemed like a far-off dream. Her Pa, a brawny robust man with a heart and spirit as boundless as the plains they traversed, was her only family. I mean, sure, she had kin in her aunts and uncle back up at the family's farm in Virginia, but they had long since abandoned the wild unpredictability of the trail in favor of settling down. Not her Pa though, her Ma had died on the trail and he was still here, headed to New York to work as protection to those traveling West on the wagon trains. He was less a conventional father and more of a boisterous older brother, his eyes always alight with mischief, sporting a grin that seemed to outstretch the horizon itself. People always told her she had his smile.

Disrupting the tranquil silence, a shadow lumbered towards her until it swallowed her up in its darkness, his big bellied laugh echoing and ripping through the quietude. "Calamity, you're obsessed, honey." He started, plucking the book from her fingers just as one plucks the petals from the pulp of a flower. "You need to make some friends beyond the ones in these dusty, old pages. Or someone who ain't a book for that matter." Amos, he wore that signature grin, the limited sunlight setting his hair and the scars that littered his body aglow. To most he was an intimidating foe, but when his little girl looked up into those eyes like an open expanse of blue sky, the only feeling she felt was home.

His playful jest kindled a spark of laughter in Calamity's eyes. He held the book within arms reach, teasing, challenging her. She sprang to her feet, her nimble fingers reaching out for the purloined leather-bound pages. A dance of playful tussle ensued as he pulled the book back at the very last second, so as to leave her agile little hand grappling with the air. His chesire grin was more arrogant now. Calamity didn't mind, sending back an even more mischievous smile to mirror his own, her eyes alight.

They continued this game of back and forth, each time Calamity becoming closer to her end goal. With frustration nipping at her heels, she could feel the pressure of the book zipping through the air, tickling the tips of her fingers. It all came to an end however, halting abruptly when Calamity tripped and scrapped her knee against a jagged rock.

Though getting quicker, she had still been no match for the stone that caught her unsuspecting and sent her stumbling down bloody to the hard packed earth. She immediately dropped down as a shock of pain went through her body. Her hands instinctively coming up to cradle the broken skin, tears welling up in her eyes. She could feel the sting of the air mixing with her cut as blood welled up freely from between her fingers .

She heard the book collide angrily against the ground, dust shooting up to create a film aimlessly on top of it. Amos collapsed at her side only a moment later. The sight of blood had quickly dissolved the laughter in her father's eyes, replaced by the familiar warmth of a parent's love. His voice softened as he insisted, "Move your hands away, let me see it, Calamity."

As he examined her scrapped knee, Calamity's keen eyes saw a glimmer behind him, and it wasn't from her tears left unshed. As she pieced together the fact that it was the sparkling of a river, an idea began to blossom in her sharp mind, sweet revenge tickling at the edges of her brain.

She saw her opportunity.

Seizing the chance, Calamity just 'gave him a little push' she would later go on to say, sending him sprawling back into the river. It rose up to greet his fallen form, creating an outline of his defeat. His surprised laughter echoed, reverberating through the clearing, merging with her own unladylike giggles that escaped past her lips in triumph.

Heaving himself back up onto the bank, he shook out his golden locks in her direction, making her squeal in delight. Though when he shook his head again it was in disbelief. "Now, how about you tell me how you noticed that, and I didn't?" He questioned, eyes twinkling with pride and intrigue.

Mimicking his teachings, she replied, "I did what you always tell me to do," her voice mirroring the hum of the river, "observe and listen."

As they lay sprawled out in the grassy field, the sun drying her Pa's clothes, he steered the conversation back to the book. Calamity Grace, her eyes reflecting the endless sky above, began to narrate the captivating tales of outlaws and their thrilling escapades with fascination twinkling in her eyes.

Her voice was bummed with fervor as she spoke, something that only a young heart could command, her words painting countless pictures and weaving vivid images of a life marked by excitement and all the other thrills that sort of life had to offer.

"I want to experience that," she confessed, almost as if she was just whispering it to the wind. A determined glint filled up her deep brown irises, "I want to know what it's like."

Her Pa, taken aback, slowly adjusted his head so that he was facing the side of her own. "Why would you want to go and do such a silly thing like that?"

With the rivers soft murmur serving as a backdrop to safeguard her secrets, she responded with, "So I can taste what it's like to be truly free, Pa." Her voice, unwavering, carried with it the hardness of the outlaws she so admired.

The sun was setting over the New Mexico landscape, casting long shadows that danced across the expanse of plains. Little Calamity now sat cross-legged in the grass, her freckled face glowing in the waning light. Her declaration hung in the air, a bold statement of intent that seemed to echo across the vast, open landscape. It staled in the air, something the girl seemed to pay no mind to and if she did, she didn't show it.

Amos, a grizzled veteran of countless gunfights and a man who had seen both the best and the worst that the West had to offer, was taken aback by her words. He sat up abruptly, his worn leather boots digging into the soft earth. His gaze fell upon his only child, the spitting imagine of himself and her beloved Ma. His heart clenched as he pondered her words, teetering with them in his mind.

Without saying a word, he had now risen all the way up onto his feet, striding over to his saddlebag. His hand disappeared into the worn leather pouch, emerging with a weighty object. He blocked his daughter's view with his broad back, the physical representation of his internal battle only increased the chaos going on inside of his mind as he now contemplated the object resting in his hands. It was a pistol, a brutal testament to the harsh realities of the Wild West, a harbinger of life and death.

His mind was a tangle of thoughts, like a tumbleweed caught in a desert wind. Would he be promoting violence by reaching her how to handle a firearm? Or was he simply preparing her?

Slowly, he turned to face his daughter at long last, pistol still cradled in his calloused hands. The rays from the sun caught on the gunmetal, causing it to gleam ominously. "Calamity," he called, his voice a gravely whisper carried on the wind. "Come here."

She rose to her feet, curiosity dancing in her dark eyes. She stepped towards him, her small boots leaving light impressions on the grass. He held the gun out to her, his heart pounding in his chest.

The pistol was a thing of brutal beauty, a testament to the deadly craftsmanship of the 1800s. It was a Colt Single Action Army revolver, its body a sleek expanse of steel, forged and tempered to withstand the rigors of frontier life. The grip was pristine white, made from the finest ivory to represent purity and elegance, adorned with intricate carvings that Amos had commissioned when Calamity was born. A rearing mustang, a symbol of untamable freedom, was etched into the wood of the ivory, its wild spirit mirroring that of its intended owner.

Casting a glance towards the boys, who were currently engaged in a game of horseshoes a little distance away, Amos led Calamity farther off into the rolling hills as their laughter echoed in the wind behind them. The world around them eventually fell away until it was just the two of them surrounded by natures natural and foreign song that was the star beauty of the West in both father and daughter's eyes.

"The gun ain't a toy, Calamity," he began, his voice stern yet gentle. He showed her how to hold the firearm, how to aim, how to squeeze the trigger and not pull. "Pulling the trigger is a careless act, no way to know if your aim will be true. But when you pull that trigger is when you really mean it, you hear me?" It wasn't a question.

The recoil jarred her much smaller arm, a sharp reminder of the weapon's lethal power, she could feel the surge of empowerment coursing through her veins now. She didn't flinch, her young face set in a steely determination that made Amos's heart swell with pride.

And the recoil that was still rattling her arm didn't just fill her with sensation, a thrill raced down her spine. It was intoxicating to her, feeling like she could protect both herself and others with the simple squeeze of the hairpin trigger. She felt invincible, responsible for life and death if her small hands so chose. Her heartbeat was pounding in her ears like the beat of a drum following no specific rhythm or pattern. A symphony of fear, excitement, and pure joy swam through her ears. She was not just a girl traveling the Wild, Wild West; she was a force to be reckoned with.

As the echo of gunshots reverberated off the plains, Amos watched his daughter, her face still being illuminated by the setting sun, eyes ablaze with newfound knowledge. With pride, there can sometimes come equal parts dread. He felt a pang of foreboding, a dark shadow that began seeping in at the edges of his heart as he watched her hand, clutching the ivory handled pistol in a tight resolve. This was a dangerous place, it's beauty matched only by a brutality Calamity had only ever read about. His smile slowly faded, replaced by a contemplative frown. For some reason he found himself reflecting on her name.

Calamity Grace. A disaster disguised as beauty.

The irony of her birth had not been lost on him. She was the most beautiful baby he had ever seen, and she had taken the woman he had loved more than anything. He didn't blame her, nor did he harbor any resentment. Instead, he loved her more if that was even possible. He decided to find humor in the situation, a bittersweet coping mechanism he supposed .

But now aside, still remained entirely glued to his little girl holding that instrument of power and danger, he couldn't help but wonder to himself. Would she become a calamity to others one day? Would her desire for freedom and her spirit of rebellion lead her to getting her wish and becoming an outlaw, bringing disaster to other towns and people? Would she one day live up to her name, and send a shiver of fear down the spines of those who dared to utter her name?

These thoughts worried him. His heart clenched with a father's worry. A father fear that they can't protect their own child from themselves. His little girl, his Calamity Grace, was standing on in the precipice of a path that could lead to an uncontrollable life of danger and uncertainty. He could only pray that she would navigate this wild frontier with the wisdom and strength he knew she'd inherited from her Ma.

He had given her a tool of survival, a piece of the harsh reality they lived in. But in her hands, it was more than just a weapon, it was a symbol of her will to carve her own path in this world, a testament to her spirit that was as wild and free as the rearing Mustang etched onto the guns handle.

He stood there, the sun dipping below the horizon his daughter by his side, he made a silent vow to a spirit resting in a grave. He would guide her, teach her, and stand by her, come what may. Because no matter what she was his little girl, his Calamity Grace, a disaster masked by beauty. And he wouldn't have it any other way.

But life has a funny way of doing whatever it likes doesn't it?

[metmuseum]

Banditti Going Out. November 9, 1780. Credit line: Rogers Fund, 1962 https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/408107

[aroundtheworldwithphillyfogg]

December 3rd: San Francisco, where Verne really has it for Americans

(warning for the N word)

on the 3rd of December, the “General Grant” entered the bay of the Golden Gate, and reached San Francisco.

Mr. Fogg had neither gained nor lost a single day.

It was seven in the morning when Mr. Fogg, Aouda, and Passepartout set foot upon the American continent, if this name can be given to the floating quay upon which they disembarked. These quays, rising and falling with the tide, thus facilitate the loading and unloading of vessels. Alongside them were clippers of all sizes, steamers of all nationalities, and the steamboats, with several decks rising one above the other, which ply on the Sacramento and its tributaries. There were also heaped up the products of a commerce which extends to Mexico, Chili, Peru, Brazil, Europe, Asia, and all the Pacific islands.

Passepartout, in his joy on reaching at last the American continent, thought he would manifest it by executing a perilous vault in fine style; but, tumbling upon some worm-eaten planks, he fell through them. Put out of countenance by the manner in which he thus “set foot” upon the New World, he uttered a loud cry, which so frightened the innumerable cormorants and pelicans that are always perched upon these movable quays, that they flew noisily away.

Mr. Fogg, on reaching shore, proceeded to find out at what hour the first train left for New York, and learned that this was at six o’clock p.m.; he had, therefore, an entire day to spend in the Californian capital. Taking a carriage at a charge of three dollars, he and Aouda entered it, while Passepartout mounted the box beside the driver, and they set out for the International Hotel.

From his exalted position Passepartout observed with much curiosity the wide streets, the low, evenly ranged houses, the Anglo-Saxon Gothic churches, the great docks, the palatial wooden and brick warehouses, the numerous conveyances, omnibuses, horse-cars, and upon the side-walks, not only Americans and Europeans, but Chinese and Indians. Passepartout was surprised at all he saw. San Francisco was no longer the legendary city of 1849—a city of banditti, assassins, and incendiaries, who had flocked hither in crowds in pursuit of plunder; a paradise of outlaws, where they gambled with gold-dust, a revolver in one hand and a bowie-knife in the other: it was now a great commercial emporium.

The lofty tower of its City Hall overlooked the whole panorama of the streets and avenues, which cut each other at right-angles, and in the midst of which appeared pleasant, verdant squares, while beyond appeared the Chinese quarter, seemingly imported from the Celestial Empire in a toy-box. Sombreros and red shirts and plumed Indians were rarely to be seen; but there were silk hats and black coats everywhere worn by a multitude of nervously active, gentlemanly-looking men. Some of the streets—especially Montgomery Street, which is to San Francisco what Regent Street is to London, the Boulevard des Italiens to Paris, and Broadway to New York—were lined with splendid and spacious stores, which exposed in their windows the products of the entire world.

When Passepartout reached the International Hotel, it did not seem to him as if he had left England at all.

The ground floor of the hotel was occupied by a large bar, a sort of restaurant freely open to all passers-by, who might partake of dried beef, oyster soup, biscuits, and cheese, without taking out their purses. Payment was made only for the ale, porter, or sherry which was drunk. This seemed “very American” to Passepartout. The hotel refreshment-rooms were comfortable, and Mr. Fogg and Aouda, installing themselves at a table, were abundantly served on diminutive plates by negroes of darkest hue.

After breakfast, Mr. Fogg, accompanied by Aouda, started for the English consulate to have his passport visaed. As he was going out, he met Passepartout, who asked him if it would not be well, before taking the train, to purchase some dozens of Enfield rifles and Colt’s revolvers. He had been listening to stories of attacks upon the trains by the Sioux and Pawnees. Mr. Fogg thought it a useless precaution, but told him to do as he thought best, and went on to the consulate.

He had not proceeded two hundred steps, however, when, “by the greatest chance in the world,” he met Fix. The detective seemed wholly taken by surprise. What! Had Mr. Fogg and himself crossed the Pacific together, and not met on the steamer! At least Fix felt honoured to behold once more the gentleman to whom he owed so much, and, as his business recalled him to Europe, he should be delighted to continue the journey in such pleasant company.

Mr. Fogg replied that the honour would be his; and the detective—who was determined not to lose sight of him—begged permission to accompany them in their walk about San Francisco—a request which Mr. Fogg readily granted.

They soon found themselves in Montgomery Street, where a great crowd was collected; the side-walks, street, horsecar rails, the shop-doors, the windows of the houses, and even the roofs, were full of people. Men were going about carrying large posters, and flags and streamers were floating in the wind; while loud cries were heard on every hand.

“Hurrah for Camerfield!”

“Hurrah for Mandiboy!”

It was a political meeting; at least so Fix conjectured, who said to Mr. Fogg, “Perhaps we had better not mingle with the crowd. There may be danger in it.”

“Yes,” returned Mr. Fogg; “and blows, even if they are political, are still blows.”

Fix smiled at this remark; and, in order to be able to see without being jostled about, the party took up a position on the top of a flight of steps situated at the upper end of Montgomery Street. Opposite them, on the other side of the street, between a coal wharf and a petroleum warehouse, a large platform had been erected in the open air, towards which the current of the crowd seemed to be directed.

For what purpose was this meeting? What was the occasion of this excited assemblage? Phileas Fogg could not imagine. Was it to nominate some high official—a governor or member of Congress? It was not improbable, so agitated was the multitude before them.

Just at this moment there was an unusual stir in the human mass. All the hands were raised in the air. Some, tightly closed, seemed to disappear suddenly in the midst of the cries—an energetic way, no doubt, of casting a vote. The crowd swayed back, the banners and flags wavered, disappeared an instant, then reappeared in tatters. The undulations of the human surge reached the steps, while all the heads floundered on the surface like a sea agitated by a squall. Many of the black hats disappeared, and the greater part of the crowd seemed to have diminished in height.

“It is evidently a meeting,” said Fix, “and its object must be an exciting one. I should not wonder if it were about the ‘Alabama,’ despite the fact that that question is settled.”

“Perhaps,” replied Mr. Fogg, simply.

“At least, there are two champions in presence of each other, the Honourable Mr. Camerfield and the Honourable Mr. Mandiboy.”

Aouda, leaning upon Mr. Fogg’s arm, observed the tumultuous scene with surprise, while Fix asked a man near him what the cause of it all was. Before the man could reply, a fresh agitation arose; hurrahs and excited shouts were heard; the staffs of the banners began to be used as offensive weapons; and fists flew about in every direction. Thumps were exchanged from the tops of the carriages and omnibuses which had been blocked up in the crowd. Boots and shoes went whirling through the air, and Mr. Fogg thought he even heard the crack of revolvers mingling in the din, the rout approached the stairway, and flowed over the lower step. One of the parties had evidently been repulsed; but the mere lookers-on could not tell whether Mandiboy or Camerfield had gained the upper hand.

“It would be prudent for us to retire,” said Fix, who was anxious that Mr. Fogg should not receive any injury, at least until they got back to London. “If there is any question about England in all this, and we were recognised, I fear it would go hard with us.”

“An English subject—” began Mr. Fogg.

He did not finish his sentence; for a terrific hubbub now arose on the terrace behind the flight of steps where they stood, and there were frantic shouts of, “Hurrah for Mandiboy! Hip, hip, hurrah!”

It was a band of voters coming to the rescue of their allies, and taking the Camerfield forces in flank. Mr. Fogg, Aouda, and Fix found themselves between two fires; it was too late to escape. The torrent of men, armed with loaded canes and sticks, was irresistible. Phileas Fogg and Fix were roughly hustled in their attempts to protect their fair companion; the former, as cool as ever, tried to defend himself with the weapons which nature has placed at the end of every Englishman’s arm, but in vain. A big brawny fellow with a red beard, flushed face, and broad shoulders, who seemed to be the chief of the band, raised his clenched fist to strike Mr. Fogg, whom he would have given a crushing blow, had not Fix rushed in and received it in his stead. An enormous bruise immediately made its appearance under the detective’s silk hat, which was completely smashed in.

“Yankee!” exclaimed Mr. Fogg, darting a contemptuous look at the ruffian.

“Englishman!” returned the other. “We will meet again!”

“When you please.”

“What is your name?”

“Phileas Fogg. And yours?”

“Colonel Stamp Proctor.”

The human tide now swept by, after overturning Fix, who speedily got upon his feet again, though with tattered clothes. Happily, he was not seriously hurt. His travelling overcoat was divided into two unequal parts, and his trousers resembled those of certain Indians, which fit less compactly than they are easy to put on. Aouda had escaped unharmed, and Fix alone bore marks of the fray in his black and blue bruise.

“Thanks,” said Mr. Fogg to the detective, as soon as they were out of the crowd.

“No thanks are necessary,” replied Fix; “but let us go.”

“Where?”

“To a tailor’s.”

Such a visit was, indeed, opportune. The clothing of both Mr. Fogg and Fix was in rags, as if they had themselves been actively engaged in the contest between Camerfield and Mandiboy. An hour after, they were once more suitably attired, and with Aouda returned to the International Hotel.

Passepartout was waiting for his master, armed with half a dozen six-barrelled revolvers. When he perceived Fix, he knit his brows; but Aouda having, in a few words, told him of their adventure, his countenance resumed its placid expression. Fix evidently was no longer an enemy, but an ally; he was faithfully keeping his word.

Dinner over, the coach which was to convey the passengers and their luggage to the station drew up to the door. As he was getting in, Mr. Fogg said to Fix, “You have not seen this Colonel Proctor again?”

“No.”

“I will come back to America to find him,” said Phileas Fogg calmly. “It would not be right for an Englishman to permit himself to be treated in that way, without retaliating.”

The detective smiled, but did not reply. It was clear that Mr. Fogg was one of those Englishmen who, while they do not tolerate duelling at home, fight abroad when their honour is attacked.

At a quarter before six the travellers reached the station, and found the train ready to depart. As he was about to enter it, Mr. Fogg called a porter, and said to him: “My friend, was there not some trouble to-day in San Francisco?”

“It was a political meeting, sir,” replied the porter.

“But I thought there was a great deal of disturbance in the streets.”

“It was only a meeting assembled for an election.”

“The election of a general-in-chief, no doubt?” asked Mr. Fogg.

“No, sir; of a justice of the peace.”

Phileas Fogg got into the train, which started off at full speed.

[galacticlamps]

Tag 9 ppl you want to get to know better

tagged by @observethewalrus​

First ship: I genuinely don’t know? And now that I’m realizing I don’t know I’m actually a tiny bit sad about that. I’d started writing things that can only be described as fanfiction long before I was old enough to be online and before we evolved past dial-up in my house & being on the computer became simple enough to not feel like a hassle anyway - which is all just to say that when I did wind up interacting with fannish communities later on, fanfic specifically wasn’t something totally new to me so I never had vivid memories of my first experiences of it. As a kid fanfic was what you basically had to do when you reached the end of any media you’d even somewhat enjoyed and the author rather rudely neglected to go on telling the story infinitely - so I think it must’ve been a while before shipping became a major thing on my radar, and it probably happened gradually. I do distinctly remember finding it a little ironic in high school that so much online/tumblr specific fandom was about shipping, and I was in multiple fandoms and had several ships, but I didn’t have any big passionate (or even non-canon & in need of defending) ships for my main fandom, which was always Doctor Who - though at the time, just nuwho. There, the only things I could be said to ship were pretty straightforward pairings like the Ponds, Doctor/River, Jack/Ianto, etc. - and I’m guessing whatever things I had that counted as ships before I got into fandom were similar to those, just a kind of passing approval of/investment in ships that were already well-established elements of their source material.

Three Ships: well Two/Jamie always (connected to the above tangent, I was involved in fandom for close to a decade before I came across them, but I’d never found cause to use the term otp before then), and at the moment the other ships taking up the next-most space in my brain are probably Ben/Polly and Geordi/Data

Last Song: Ruin by the Amazing Devil (I remember it playing as I drove home last night)

Last Movie: ah see I’m actually quite bad about watching movies/even remembering they exist. There’s a real possibility the most recent one was The Final Frontier, simply because I’ve been doing a long slow chronological trek through Star Trek, and I’m currently in the early 90s so I know I must have watched that one at some point in the last year or so, and more recently than any of the ones that came out before it

Currently Reading: Ok this I’m legitimately embarrassed about, because I’m not normally anywhere near this slow with books at all, and neither of these are bad, boring, or even slow-paced, it’s solely a matter of how horribly hectic & unpredictable my life’s been for the last few months - but I’ve been both near the end of Bare-Arsed Banditti and a couple hundred pages deep into The Two Towers since the end of August (I hate that fact so much but I need to admit it. It’s available information on my Storygraph account anyway it should not be so hard to say)

Currently Consuming: Twining’s Irish Breakfast tea, black. I am often consuming twining’s irish breakfast tea black

Currently Craving: a break - or maybe just routine in general? I’ve been doing a lot of overlapping freelance work lately: short-term projects that don’t last long enough to allow for anything like ‘time off’ & have all the busy-ness of full-time without any of the stability, which kinda feels like the worst of both worlds tbh. 2022 was a rough year for me for that in general, but it got especially bad in the fall & winter and I’m hoping to get a better handle on my own schedule in the next few weeks one way or another, but I’m sorry to anyone I’ve kinda ghosted in the interim

Tagging: @uighean​ @terryfphanatics​ @seismologically-silly​ and anybody else who wants to do it!

[bandnameserver]

Banditti

[poetrymusesesss]

Unknown

Do you think, O blue eyed banditti. Because you have scaled the wall. Such an old mustache as I am Is not a match for yourself! I have you fast in my fortress And will not let you depart But put you down in the dungeon In the round tower of my heart. And there will I keep you forever Yes forever and a day, Till the walls shall crumble to ruin. And moulder in dust away.

[p-isforpoetry]

"The Children's Hour" by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (read by John Lithgow)

Between the dark and the daylight, When the night is beginning to lower, Comes a pause in the day's occupations, That is known as the Children's Hour.

I hear in the chamber above me The patter of little feet, The sound of a door that is opened, And voices soft and sweet.

From my study I see in the lamplight, Descending the broad hall stair, Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra, And Edith with golden hair.

A whisper, and then a silence: Yet I know by their merry eyes They are plotting and planning together To take me by surprise.

A sudden rush from the stairway, A sudden raid from the hall! By three doors left unguarded They enter my castle wall!

They climb up into my turret O'er the arms and back of my chair; If I try to escape, they surround me; They seem to be everywhere.

They almost devour me with kisses, Their arms about me entwine, Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine!

Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti, Because you have scaled the wall, Such an old mustache as I am Is not a match for you all!

I have you fast in my fortress, And will not let you depart, But put you down into the dungeon In the round-tower of my heart.

And there will I keep you forever, Yes, forever and a day, Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, And moulder in dust away!

Source: The Poets' Corner

[scotianostra]

On September 5th 1750, the poet Robert Fergusson was born in the Canongate in Edinburgh.

Most of you will not have heard of Robert Fergusson, he suffered from ill health, physical and mental, during his short life, he passed away in barbarous conditions in Edinburgh's notorious Bedlam.

Doctor Andrew Duncan, the name might be familiar to those from Edinburgh, on finding Fergusson before being admitted to the "hospital" described him as being in a "state of furious insanity" he saw no choice but to have Fergusson taken to the city's Bedlam madhouse.Conditions at the Bedlam, which was attached to the Edinburgh Charity Workhouse behind modern-day Teviot Place, were notoriously awful. Patients were treated as inmates, locked in cold stone-flagged cells, with only straw for bedding.

Fergusson may have only lived for 24 years, the last of which was traumatic, but those short years not only inspired Scotland’s best-known bard Robert Burns and the writer Robert Louis Stevenson, it also paved the way for better treatment of people with mental health conditions thanks to the aforementioned Dr Duncan.

Robert Fergusson was born of Aberdeenshire parents in Cap-and-Feather Close, in Edinburgh’s Old Town, on 5 September, 1750. The street has since disappeared, having been demolished during Fergusson’s lifetime to make way for the North Bridge, many of you will have walked over where Cap-and-Feather Close, it is said to have been where the junction at the Tron Church is, the road that now takes you over North Bridge towards Princes Street.

After primary education in Edinburgh, Fergusson entered the city’s High School in 1758, attaining a bursary to attend the Grammar School in Dundee in 1762. Two years later, he enrolled in St. Andrews University. As a student, Fergusson became infamous for his pranks, having once come close to expulsion. Despite this riotous reputation, the poet’s education stayed with him, he moved back to Edinburgh to support his mother, after the death of his father.

He got a job as a copyist for the Commissary Office main concern was, of course, poetry, and on 7 February, 1771 he anonymously published the first of a trio of pastorals in Ruddiman’s Weekly Magazine. Originally he wrote in English but by 1772 he had started to use the Scottish dialect in the standard Habbie verse form - a form which would later be copied and made famous by Robert Burns, indeed this style is now called the Burns stanza, perhaps it should be The Fergusson Stanza?

Fergusson’s own muse was Allan Ramsay and, like the be-turbaned Ramsey, followed a bit of a bohemian lifestyle in Edinburgh, which was then at the height of an intellectual and cultural tumult as the nerve centre of the Scottish Enlightenment. He wrote a total of fifty poems in Scottish English and thirty-three in the Scots language, but it is for his remarkable exploits in the latter genre that he should be acknowledged and acclaimed. His poetic subject matter paints vivid accounts of the life and characters of ‘Auld Reekie’ and drunken encounters with the notorious Edinburgh City Guard of Captain Porteous, the ‘Black Banditti’ of ‘The Daft Days’.

Fergusson began to suffer from depression in 1773, biographers have described his condition as ‘religious melancholia’, but regardless of whether or not that was the case, he gave up his job, stopped writing, withdrew completely from his riotous social life, and spent his time reading the Bible. He had heard about an Irish poet, John Cunningham, who had died in an asylum in Newcastle. That inspired 'Poem to the Memory of John Cunningham', and Fergusson became terribly afraid that the same thing was going to happen to him. Tragically, his dark prediction came true. In August, 1774, Fergusson fell down a flight of stairs and received a bad head injury, after which he was deemed ‘insensible’. His friend, the good doctor Andrew Duncan, had no choice but to admit him to Darien House "hospital", Bedlam, where after a matter of weeks, he suddenly died. He had only just turned 24.

I return to the fact that Burns was a fan and after Fergusson’s death Burns wrote of him, “my elder brother in misfortune, by far my elder brother in the muse.”

Fergusson was buried in an unmarked plot in The Canongate Kirkyard. On visiting Edinburgh in 1787, Burns paid for a headstone over his long-neglected grave, commemorating Fergusson as ‘Scotia’s Poet. I have taken many friends to visit Fergusson's last resting place over the years, mainly down to my late mother's love of Burns, but also because I love showing people around my home town.

The picture shows the statue of Robert Fergusson outside the Canongate Church, if passing go pay your respects to the man, who inspired Rabbie Burns, who, under different circumstances might have been lauded as our National Bard, if you like a wee whisky perhaps raise a glass tonight on what might have been "Fergusson's Night"

This few lines are from The Daft Days, by Fergusson, you will get the drift of Edinburgh being a comforting, hospitable place where they aren't afraid of a drink, which is a s true today as it was in 1772 when they were written.

Auld Reikie! thou’rt the canty hole,

A bield for many caldrife soul,

Wha snugly at thine ingle loll,

Baith warm and couth,

While round they gar the bicker roll

To weet their mouth.

[peacedtogether]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Bec & Bridge Banditti Admiral Crossover Navy Blue Cocktail Formal Mini Dress 4.