Chapter 4 - Buckland

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richardal...@googlemail.com

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Mar 20, 2007, 6:38:28 AM3/20/07
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They called themselves the Linnean Society.

And innocuous sounding name.

“I’m just going to the Linnean Society” a man would say to his wife,
“science, y’now,” knowing that the feeble minds of women would find
even the concept of science too hard to understand. And he would
depart into the gloomy fogs of London, to visit that….place.

At first sight, the building the society owned was modest, well-
designed and in the fashion of architectural taste. On entering, a
visitor would find nothing amiss. A well-appointed library which
contained many works of science, meeting places where such high
matters would be discussed. But if a visitor spent longer there, and
was not lulled into false security by his surroundings, and was
observant, he might question such appearances.

He would notice that many of the men who entered through the imposing
doorway eschewed the library or the meeting places, shunned those who
occupied them, and made instead for the back of the building, past the
imposing staircase of the main hallway, towards those parts of the
building occupied by members of the menial classes.

Had he the courage to follow one of these fellows, he would have been
led to a door, cunningly concealed behind the panelling of a small
larder by which the nether regions of the building were approached.

And had he clutched his courage close to his chest, and followed down
the steep and narrow stair, his breath bated, his heart pounding, the
true heart of this “Society” would have been revealed to his
astonished eye.

Imagine a cavern, the roof vaulted, the walls draped in rich,
voluptuous fabrics. Imagine tables piled with fine foods from all over
the earth, piled in wasteful heaps. Imagine glittering chandeliers
casting their light on the denizens of this den of iniquity.

Imagine the “music” which emanated from a small group of ragged
players in one corner, it’s driving, baleful rhythms as insistent as a
stone bashed repeatedly against the skull. Such a stone as gathers no
moss.

Imagine, if you can, the writhing bodies of the dancers, their flesh
barely covered by the diaphanous material of their scant clothing.

It was on such a scene that the eye of this narrative alights, a night
of vileness and evil lusts, brooded over by a familiar figure.

Darwin, his figure thickened by the gratification of his carnal
appetites. The scars of illness caught through acts of sexual
depravity in South American brothels now concealed behind a prodigious
beard. Reclining on a padded chair at the head of one of the long
tables, his shirt unbuttoned , his clothing awry, a glass of brandy
clutched in his clawed hand.

“We still need Owen”
“But why?”
“We need his skill and knowledge, his authority in all matters of
science.”
“But he may discover the truth.”
“If so, we will silence him.”
“But why Owen? Why not Mantell? Or Buckland?”

He leaned forward, stroked for a moment the naked flesh of the young
woman who lay on the table before him but with a sudden sweep of his
arm threw her to the floor. She cried out in pain, but her cries were
ignored by such a company. He took from a pocket a small packet, and
opened it carefully on the polished surface. Taking a small silver
spoon, he raised a quantity of the fine white powder to his face,
sniffed it vigorously, than lay back again, his eyes bright.

“Mantell is already one of us, and if this is discovered our cause may
be damaged. Buckland is an old man now. For all his Christian
convictions” and the tone Darwin used showed contempt rather than
respect “he is of little consequence.”

Perhaps it was the brandy that spoke, perhaps it was the last vestige
of true feeling lingering in a distant corner of his mind. What
unfolded would tell a different tale.

William Buckland, Dean of St Paul’s, devoted Churchman yet a True
Christian (TM), rallied resistance against the plots of the
evilutionists. His passionate sermons, his erudite addresses in the
Hallowed Halls of Science, began to have their effect.

The tide was turning.

“This is a matter of evidence” thundered Buckland in his address to
the Royal British Science Association “and the evidence shows that
there was a great catastrophe which overwhelmed the earth. The Flood,
the Flood of which the Bible tells us. This why we find these old
bones, these bones of a creation corrupted by evil which was
overthrown to make way for our modern world. These bones, these
monsters of the deep, these Ichthyosauri and Plesiosauri, these
Pterodactyls with their leathery wings, these terrible lizards which
strode the face of the primaeval planet. Overthrown by the deluge,
buried by the Flood, locked into the rocks to be discovered by our
picks and hammers.”

The tide was turning. The conceit that the earth was very ancient,
that essential element which would allow the anti-Christian, anti-
Science conspiracies of Darwin and his gang to flourish, had been
planted in the minds of many men. The French, that race of cowardly
plotters against freedom, had given notable assistance. Their depraved
aristocracy, led by figures such as the ignoble Cuvier, seeing the
opportunity for sowing the unrest on which their race thrived had
inveigled their way into the highest bastions of British science. But
the distrust of the true inheritors of the spirit of noble Saxon race
for their natural simian foe meant that they made little headway.

Owen still reigned. Buckland, though old, was a figure of authority
whose words swayed the hearts of men and the minds of scientists.

“We must silence Buckland” It was Cuvier who spoke. “We must allow the
Lamarkian theory to prevail”.
“Lamarckian?” Darwin growled. “I won’t allow that. It was my
grandfather’s invention. I intend to name it after that old monster.”
“Nevertheless” Cuvier continued” we must silence Buckland.”
Darwin took another deep draught of brandy.
“Leave it to me,” he said “I have an idea.”

For a while it seemed that the Truth ™ had won.
“Buckland, my friend” Darwin could exert charm when the occasion
demanded it, and Buckland, true and trusting, yielded easily to it.
“You must visit me. It seems that we are almost neighbours. I have
recently purchased a new estate near Oxford, not far from your own
lodgings. It would honour me if you were to come for dinner. There are
some matters of natural history on which I would value your opinion.”

“Capital fellow, that Darwin” Buckland remarked to Owen later that day
“he has a fine knowledge of some aspects of science.”

“Perhaps” Owen mused, “perhaps.” His honesty prevented him from
engaging in tittle-tattle, but rumours of plagiarism had come to his
ears.
“Still,” he thought, “Darwin will never amount to more than a barnacle
on the great ship of science. He is of little consequence. That ship
will continue, unless we encounter some reef. A coral reef, perhaps.”

And so it unfolded. It was a fine day, the rain quite moderate,.
Buckland had led Darwin on a short walk through the counties of
Buckinghamshire, Berkshire, Oxfordshire and Hampshire as a prelude to
the evening meal, and they now returned.

“Better to use the back entrance by the kitchens. Our boots are
somewhat dirty, and traipsing mud through the main entrance would
distress my wife.”

On a table by the side of the door lay a row of small, furry corpses.
“These may interest you,” Darwin said, “they are a kind of mole
exclusively found in these parts. I would value your opinion.”
“Yes of course” Buckland responded eagerly. Darwin detected the quick
gleam in his eye, and smiled internally.

He knew of Buckland’s gastronomic predelictions.

Buckland turned up at Darwin’s door a few days later.
“Do you have any more of those moles? They are a fascinating subject
for study.”
“Of course.” Darwin provided him with another few corpses. “as many as
you like. After all, it doesn’t matter if they are driven to
extinction.”

And so it continued. A few moles at first. Then more and more.
Buckland was there almost every day.

Until.

“No more moles, Buckland” Darwin said. “they are all gone.”
“No more moles!” cried Buckland. “What am I to do without these moles
to …study.”

>From there, the collapse was quick and complete. Buckland, his mind
confused, his words incoherent, lapsed into insanity. He had been
eliminated.

“But how?” Cuvier asked.
“In my travels in South America,” Darwin smiled and evil smile “ I
encountered many strange things. The natives of that land chew the
leaves of a plant to reduce hunger, and increase endurance. I have
produced a powerful distillate from that plant which can enslave the
mind.”

He sipped his brandy thoughtfully.

“We all know of Buckland’s gastronomic habits. He eats things which
not even members of your race would stomach. Rat, armadillo, camel,
even flies, But he has a particular fondness for moles. So the moles
with which I provided him were infused with my distillate. He
succumbed quickly to the drug. Its withdrawal is what led to his
insanity.”

“Such an evil mind” Cuvier spoke “you might almost be a Frenchman!”

“Not that, “ Darwin responded, “never that.”

“However,” he continued, “we might make use of this substance. It’s
sale could yield large profits, especially if contained in some form
more generally considered palatable than the body of a mole. A suggary
fluid, gassy perhaps. We could call it coca-molar.”


..to be continued


Tiny Bulcher

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Mar 20, 2007, 7:20:44 AM3/20/07
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On Mar 20, 10:38 am, richardalanforr...@googlemail.com wrote:
> They called themselves the Linnean Society.

<snip>

> "However," he continued, "we might make use of this substance. It's
> sale could yield large profits, especially if contained in some form
> more generally considered palatable than the body of a mole. A suggary
> fluid, gassy perhaps. We could call it coca-molar."

Forrest, you swine, you owe me a new keyboard, and very possibly a new
job, after the strange looks my wild laughter elicited ... damn, now
I'm doing it.

> ..to be continued

I should damn well hope so. Is somebody preserving this epic for
posterity?


CreateThis

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Mar 20, 2007, 8:45:10 AM3/20/07
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On 20 Mar 2007 03:38:28 -0700, richardal...@googlemail.com
wrote:

I was wondering how you'd get the French into this, but I didn't dare
hope that you'd manage to include cocaine *and* Coke. Masterful.

CT

gregwrld

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Mar 20, 2007, 9:50:38 AM3/20/07
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On Mar 20, 7:45 am, CreateThis <CreateT...@yippee.con> wrote:
> On 20 Mar 2007 03:38:28 -0700, richardalanforr...@googlemail.com


Not to mention: Darwin and the Rolling Stones appear together - now
that's a combo!

gregwrld


Faux_Pseudo

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Mar 20, 2007, 8:04:23 PM3/20/07
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_.-In talk.origins, CreateThis wrote the following -._

> I was wondering how you'd get the French into this,

I keep waiting for the Masons to show up.

--
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heyref

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May 10, 2007, 4:51:36 PM5/10/07
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Faux_Pseudo <Faux....@gmail.com> wrote:
> _.-In talk.origins, CreateThis wrote the following -._
> > I was wondering how you'd get the French into this,
>
> I keep waiting for the Masons to show up.
>
You can't have a good conspiracy theory without the Kights Templar.


--
H. Brent Howatt | The deluded are always filled with absolutes
hey...@die.spammers.rootshell.be| The rest of us have to live with ambiguity
PGP keys by email or keyserver | _Aristoi_ Walter Jon Williams

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