Stephen King has a male muse, or so he says. Regardless, there is a being that pours great gobs of ideas into King’s ear probably using a large galvanized funnel. It must be galvanized to protect it against the corrosive, abrasive and often heated materials with which they deal. (No plastic or unprotected metal will do.)
He admits this is unusual as most Muses are women. Perhaps his sometimes dresses in the fashion of women so that he can move about unobserved, much like a eunuch that really isn’t a eunuch at all.
Why have a single Muse? As long as they don’t act like a committee trying to decide how to unplug a toilet, more is definitely better. In my case, the ghost of Harry, Phineas, Samuel, Anne, Constantine and Miquel serve me well. From time to time they get a bit of help from E. H. Willey, George and Noah when special problems arise. But when what’s written is up for grabs, no one gives better advice than timothy, who says “just do it.” A bit of explanation is in order
Harry came to be a resident Muse when we lived in Baltimore. On Upper Eutaw, marble-stepped houses of greater and lesser means were built in the 1890's as prosperity came to this Harbor Community. Reviving an old “dollar” house takes a lot of courage and imagination. Courage to recognize the neighborhood is on the brink of either catastrophe or yuppiedom, and imagination to take a structure that is twenty feet wide and seventy feet long with three floors and a basement, having six fireplaces (none of which could be trusted to work, but did). A resident population of pigeons that had found a way to make a home under the eves. Rats that cats would not challenge and few dogs would. A built in burglar trap resulting when the bottom four feet of stairs into the basement rotted away, awaiting someone descending in the dark of night. All copper, whether wire or piping removed by scavengers who took along as well the banister to the stairs to the third floor, accomplished with a chainsaw. Of course the mantles which hung on wall clips were the first to go as did any other hardware easily removed. The two cast iron bathtubs damaged by years of use, remained, but were hauled away to a scrap dealer who paid a nickel a pound for all three hundred and fifty pounds of them. For a pittance and Fifty Thousand more, the row house was brought back to life. Our electrician/plumber, Harold Dermer, who held contractor licence number 7 from the City of Baltimer, and whose own aunt had actually lived and done piece work sewing on the third floor was only too happy to do his part in the restoration. Long before it was finished but when his part was done, he remarked that the “house was beginning to sing!”
So how was it that Harry Mencken came to be one of our resident Muses? Anyone who has lived or even visited in Baltimore makes the pilgrimage to the Mencken house which is not too far from Mencken’s Pink Pearl (a place he never visited, but which sells great gobs of good food and cheap beer, which he would have liked.) Most only are aware of his, The American Language and the two supplements, but his contribution to Baltimore was much more. The Baltimore Sun exist today and still reflects his passion for clear concise intelligent writing. (Even though the City passed through the debacles of urban renewal and race riots.) But the greatest treasure in Baltimore is not the fine museums or Johns Hopkins Hospitals or universities. No, the library is a building lost in a time warp that still makes rare books and papers available to the general public. You can be sure that HLM spent many an hour there as well.
H. L. Mencken fell in love with the town, its rude sailors, cops and burlesque; prudish business men and their Jewish wives, coarse natives, Red Necks that would make rurals proud, remembrances of the Great War, with Baltimore on the losing side; and of beer, food and cultures from all over the world; and finally blue crabs, terrapin and oysters in abundance.
So Mencken took a position on the right shoulder settled in and began to dictate what was right and wrong with the writings of William Cowper Brann; the art and fancy of the Cone sisters who lived just up the street from Eutaw; the City that had bus-stop benches proudly proclaiming Baltimore - the city that reeds, and a Government just down the road that was out of touch with everything except pockets.
A while later he was joined by another newspaper man, E. H. Willey, who happened to build the old house which was bought as a means of providing housing for our son at the University of South Dakota. Like Eutaw Place the house had known better times when he and his wife represented the “culture” in the riverside community of Vermillion. Having a house on the bluff distinguished one from those who lived just below in the river bottoms. But a publisher does what he has to do and putting out a daily paper required a lot. Advertisements as always the life blood of a paper painted a world that would be free of pain, proper and beautiful dress, select food, automobiles, fine houses, and of course posting of names of animals standing at stud. Wrapped around the advertisements was filler from the wire or perhaps lifted from other papers. But to assure readership, the writer, editor, publisher had to have stories of local interest, being careful to stay on the right side of temperance, religion, criminal behavior, and who’s who in the community. The old three story painted lady came back to life and with a bit of luck should be a prominent landmark in Vermillion for years to come. So perhaps in gratitude, EHW agreed to sit on the opposite shoulder, providing a quick stick in the eye regarding the propriety of certain individuals. He introduced us to P. T. Barnum and the ways of advertising. For free he threw in a dose about Indians, and justice.
Which brings us to Phineas T. Barnum, who gained a foot hold through his books which were pretty much about himself. Barnum loved people! He loved to entertain them, make them smile and yearn for more. He was no Humbug, giving fair value for monies spent. Of course there might be a twist in reality between what was expected and what was delivered, but the public trusted him, believed in what he did and paid good money for what he provided. His commentary on advertising should be an essential part of any course on business, promotion, marketing and dealing with employees. PTB then introduced me to the lady Muse (or not so ladylike Muse if you prefer), Anne Newport Royall.
Anne was bound to be a thorn in the paw of Government, Church, Culture, and Civilization in general. She didn’t start out to be a writer, an editor or a publisher, but she became all of these and then some. If you didn’t agree with her, that was fine with her. Just meant that you were dumb, stupid, ignorant, biased, prejudiced, and probably not worth the time of day. Barnum said, “I have never seen the likes of Anne Newport Royall” and he was right.
Barnum called her, "the eccentric old lady" and after suffering from one of her diatribes said, " I have seen some fearful things in my day - some awful explosions of tempestuous passion, but never have I witnessed such another terrible tempest of fury as burst from Mrs. Anne Royall". But she was much more; a newspaper editor, a critic of men and women alike, an author of a group of books that describe in detail, and a fair amount of criticism the life and times of our country from the turn to the middle of the 19th century, but first and foremost she was a self anointed(?) defender of the United States!
Anne was even charged and found guilt of being a common scold. This because she took on the Churchmen in D.C. and harassed and harangued them about the treatment of a poor girl servant.
So ANR joined the crowd on my shoulder, shouting above all the rest when something special comes to our attention. In particular she has little use for those who claim authority in the evolution of our species. She prefers the wide ranging philosophy of Samuel Constantine Rafinesque Smartz to serve as a background for everything from Indian culture, to the ways in which the world became populated. Of course she defers to Rafinesque.
Rafinesque was way ahead of his time, long before “doing your own thing” became popular; he did. Not a morning began without him making a discovery. Never you mind that others may have seen the same thing or thought the same thoughts, for him it was always a new awaking. And because of this attitude, he often was right, others may have passed this way before but were unaware of what their gaze passed over. For this reason he preferred walking to riding to get closer to nature. And he had little use for those in authority who for the most part were actually those with the loudest bullhorn. While remembered as a botanist, he should be given credit for his conceptualization of evolution, long before Huxley promoted Darwin’s theories over those of the Church. SC always provides a good starting point anytime a question of medical botany arises; always seek the truth. Rafinesque challenged Audubon and it’s anyone’s guess who was right; of course Audubon gets the marks for his birds but Rafinesque was the better scientist and observer. Being always just a step in front of the bill collector and the sheriff, few of his published works survived. Even in death, Rafinesque remained controversial, his body being stolen by friends to give it an honorable burial. The other Samuel Muse is Samuel Butler, not the wasted Butler who papered the world with his meaningless essays and stories, but The Samuel Butler father of Hudibras.
Hudibras and his sidekick, Ralpho spent some three hundred or so pages in mock heroic fashion attacking the starched Presbyterians of the day, with a good heap of scorn reserved for science and those who called themselves chemist, doctors and such. Butler let his characters have their sway as they traveled across Merry England in pursuit of those who engaged in fun and frivolity. In rhyme, they carried out their task much to the amusement of King Charles II and others. Pepys never got it. Actually Samuel Butler’s best efforts are in his shorter less well known poems the best of which is where he cast rocks and large boulders at those who would attempt to write poetry, scientist who make snap judgements based on history rather than careful observation, and assorted classes of people who crossed swords with him from time to time. With so much caustic, is it any wonder that he died poor and only by the good will of friends found a good place to rest some six feet under. Butler had a Muse of his own, the Spaniard, known to all as Sancho Panza. Panza’s master in turn became a Muse of mine.
Miquel Cervantes, a bit angry with the way in which a worthy soldier was abandoned by the king, found satisfaction in describing Don Quixote’s attacks on the establishment. Some say that Cervantes put a knife into chivalry, but he did more, he revealed the layers of nonsense that had been so well accepted by readers to his day. His famous knight refuses to stay buried and has reemerged in the writings of S. J. Mahtrow. Here he and Sancho work their magic. Miquel is not above twisting facts and fiction to his own use, through Mahtrow’s pen.
Of course no one can ignore the two Muses that often occur together. Noah Webster and George Crabb sit side by side. Webster was said, among other things about his abilities, to be above all else, to “define” words. His efforts were the beginning of the separation of the colonies from their English shackles as new words sprung from the lips of the settlers and their descendants. Say what you like but the dictionary as we know it owes much to Noah Webster. Samuel Johnson’s English Dictionary certainly was a mainstay in his collection of words but he felt no need to be bound by words so encased. The Oxford English Dictionary, now some twenty volumes, owes much to the collection of American English begun by Webster.
George Crabb is another fish entirely. His book, Crabb’s Synonymes is not a book of synonymes at all. His collection of words of similar meaning emphasizes that there is no interchange of words for what is intended to be said or written. Each word has a meaning of its own and he goes to great detail to ensure that if you are making a choice, be aware of the differences. So it is that a thesaurus is so dangerous. And worst of all is the built-in aids to spelling and grammar in computers where a listing of words pop-up in a window permitting one to pick and choose. Crabb sits quietly on my desk waiting, like a cat, to pounce when a word slips by.
Having a male or female Muse or several Muses seems to have been the call well before Shakespeare and his tribe filled pages with poetry and prose. However, you might wonder if Cervantes had sitting on his shoulder a mad woman whispering thoughts that until that time were unthinkable about the fine art of chivalry. More likely, twas a poor soldier not unlike himself, and thus a man. Butler more than likely had a man of the cloth egging him on to attack the injustices of the day. And of course Lewis Carroll or Charles Lutwidge Dodgson if you prefer, had a child muse upon his shoulder that whispered of an imaginary world that no one but he could see. Dodgson worked hard to make it visible to children and some adults as well. However as the world has become more sophisticated, the role of some writer’s muse(s) has been replaced with rules of political correctness and propriety.
My sympathy to those, and to their readers as well who have not the joy of a collective cabal of muses who spill out a jumble of words to entertain and to challenge. Be that as it may, it’s well to listen to them. But if you care not to, then the last fellow muse that whispers into my ear, is that gentleman from Massachusetts, timothy dexter, who invented his own rules for grammar and writing. “The First in the East” as he called himself, came well before e e cummins and the like. Unlike the majority of writers, dexter was successful in business (and rather proud of it.)
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