[Here endeth the existing portion of the journal.]
" 'Dslife, what a place to end it!" Ebenezer cried when he had finished the manuscript, and hurried to find Burlingame. "Was there no more, Henry?"
"Not another word, I swear't, for I combed the town to find the rest."
"But marry, one must know how matters went — whether this hateful Smith made good his boasts, or thy poor ancestor lost his life."
"Ah well," Burlingame replied, "this much we know, that both escaped, for Smith went on that same year to explore the Chesapeake, and Burlingame at least set down this narrative. What's more, if I be not a bastard he must needs have got himself a wife in later years, for none is mentioned here. I'God, Eben, I cannot tell you how I yearn to know the rest!"
"And I," laughed Ebenezer, "for though belike she was no poet, this Pocahontas was twice the virgin I am!"
To Ebenezer's surprise, Burlingame blushed deeply. "That is not what I meant."
"I know full well you didn't; 'tis your ancestry concerns you. Yet 'tis no vulgar curiosity, this other: the fall of virgins always is instructive, nor doth the world e'er weary of the tale. And the harder the fall, the better."
"Indeed?" Burlingame smiled, regaining his composure. "And prithee tell me, What lesson doth it teach?"
" 'Tis odd that I should be the teacher and you the pupil," Ebenezer said, "yet I will own 'tis a subject close to my heart, and one to which I've given no small attention. My conclusion is, that mankind sees two morals in such tales: the fall of innocence, or the fall of pride. The first sort hath its archetype in Adam; the second in Satan. The first alone hath not the sting of tragedy, as hath the second: the virgin pure and simple, like Pocahontas, is neither good nor vicious for her hymen; she is only envied, as is Adam, by the fallen. They secretly rejoice to see her ravaged, as poor men smile to see a rich man robbed — e'en the virtuous fallen can feel for her no more than abstract pity. The second is the very stuff of drama, for the proud man oft excites our admiration; we live, as't were, by proxy in his triumphs, and are cleansed and taught by proxy in his fall. When we heap obloquy on Satan, is't not ourselves we scold, for that we secretly admire his Heavenly insurrection?"
"That all seems sound," said Burlingame. "It follows, doth it not, that when you profess abhorrence for the Captain, thou'rt but chastising yourself in like manner, or that part of you that wisheth him success?"
" 'Tis unequivocally the case," Ebenezer agreed, "whene'er the critic's of the number of the fallen. For myself, 'twere as if a maid should cheer her ravisher, or my Lord Baltimore support John Coode."
"I think that neither is impossible, but let it go. I will say now, thine own fall, when it comes, must needs be glorious, inasmuch as thou'rt both innocent and proud."
"Wherein lies my pride?" asked Ebenezer, clearly disconcerted by his friend's observation.
"In thy very innocence, which you raise above mere circumstance and make a special virtue. 'Tis a Christain reverence you bear it, I swear!"
"Christian in a sense," Ebenezer replied, "albeit your Christians — St. Paul excepted — pay scant reverence to chastity in men. 'Tis valued as a sign — nay, a double sign, for't harketh back alike to Eve and Mary. Therein lies its difference from the cardinal virtues, which refer to naught beyond themselves: adultery's a mortal sin, proscribed by God's commandment — not so fornication, I believe."
"Then virginity's a secondary virtue, is't not, and less to be admired than faithfulness? I think not even More would gainsay that."
"But recall," Ebenezer insisted, "I said 'twas only in a sense I share the Christians' feeling. Methinks that mankind's virtues are of two main sorts — "
"Aye, that we learn in school," said Burlingame, who seemed prepared to end the colloquy. "Instrumental if they lead us to some end, and terminal if we love them in themselves. 'Tis schoolmen's cant."
"Nay," said Ebenezer, "that is not what I meant; those terms bear little meaning to the Christian, I believe, who on the one hand hopes by all his virtues to reach Heaven, and yet will swear that virtue is its own reward. What I meant was, that sundry virtues are — I might say plain, for want of proper language, and some significant. Among the first are honesty in speech and deed, fidelity, respect for mother and father, charity, and the like; the second head's comprised of things like eating fish on Friday, resting on the Sabbath, and coming virgin to the grave or marriage bed, whiche'er the case may be; they all mean naught when taken by themselves, like the strokes and scribbles we call writing — their virtue lies in what they stand for. Now the first, whether so designed or not, are matters of public policy, and thus apply to prudent men, be they heathens or believers. The second have small relevance to prudence, being but signs, and differ from faith to faith. The first are social, the second religious; the first are guides lor life, the second forms of ceremony; the first practical, the second mysterious or poetic — "
"I grasp the principle," Burlingame said.
"Well then," Ebenezer declared, "it follows that this second sort are purer, after a fashion, and in this way not inferior at all, but the reverse."
"La, you have the heart of a Scholastic," Burlingame said disgustedly. "I see no purity in 'em, save that all the sense is filtered out — the residue is nonsense."
"As you wish, Henry — I do not mean to argue Christianity but only my virginity, which if senseless is to me not therefore nonsense, but essence. 'Tis but a sign as with the Christians, that I grant, yet it pointeth not to Eden or to Bethlehem, but to my soul. I prize it not as a virtue, but as the very emblem of my self, and when I call me virgin and poet 'tis not more boast than who should say I'm male and English. Prithee chide me no more on't, and let us end this discourse that pleaseth you so little."
"Nonetheless," Burlingame declared, " 'twill be a fall worth watching when you stumble."
"I do not mean to fall."
Burlingame shrugged. "What climber doth? 'Tis but the more likely in your case, for that you travel as't were asleep — thy friend McEvoy was no dullard there, albeit a callous fellow. Yet haply the fall will open your eyes."
"I would have thought thee more my friend, Henry, but on this head thou'rt brusque as erst in London, when I went with Anna to St. Giles. Have you forgot that day in Cambridge, the pass wherein you found me? Or that malady whereof I spoke but yesterday, that I was wont to suffer in the winehouse? Think you I'd not rejoice," he went on, growing more aroused, "to be in sooth a climber, that stumbling would move men to fear and pity? I do not climb, but merely walk a road, and stumbling ne'er shall fall a mighty fall, but only cease to walk, or drift a wayless ship on every current, or haply just moss over like a stone. I see nor spectacle nor instruction in such a fall."