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Updated: May 15, 2025
I dreamed of playing "I-spy" through Kenilworth Castle with Shakespeare, Walter Scott, Mary Ann Evans and a youth I used to know in boyhood by the name of Bill Hursey. We chased each other across the drawbridge, through the portcullis, down the slippery stones into the donjon-keep, around the moat, and up the stone steps to the topmost turret of the towers.
Ah, Susan! it was a black night for you an' me that. Well, as I was a sayin', you're as like yer mother as two peas, and she was as trustful as you are, an' little knew wot a bad lot she got when she set her heart on me." "Father, that's not true." "Ain't it, lass? Well, let it pass, but then this feller, this Dan Hursey " "Horsey, father," said Susan.
Finally Shakespeare was "it," but he got mad and refused to play. Walter Scott said it was "no fair," and Bill Hursey thrust out the knuckle of one middle finger in a very threatening way and offered to "do" the boy from Stratford. Then Mary Ann rushed in to still the tempest. There's no telling what would have happened had not the landlady just then rapped at my door and asked if I had called.
Christopher Hursey, a stout Nantucket whaleman, cruising about after right whales, ran into a stiff northwest gale and was carried far out to sea. He struck a school of sperm-whales, killed one, and brought blubber home.
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