#jack pringle

I struggled to convince myself not to write my commentary for this chapter structured along the Hamilton song The Ten Duel Commandments, and I failed. I'm not going to cram everything under the gimmick but I think it will be a helpful framework for outlining what the hell is going on with all the dueling logistics in this chapter.

Without further ado.

#1: The Challenge (Demands Satisfaction)

The gauntlet, as of this chapter, has already been thrown down. Varney denies being a vampire, so apology is out of the question.

#2: Get A Friend, That's Your Second

Varney has failed Step 2, on account of having no friends to appoint. The musical does not account for this possibility, and it seems to thwart the characters at first. Chillingworth is very uneasy about the idea of Henry facing down a man with no second, and it isn't entirely clear to me why. Something to do with wanting to make sure they meet on equal terms. Much ado is made about fairness and abiding by decorum.

#3: Have Your Seconds Meet Face To Face

With no second on Varney's side, Step 3 has gotten all messed up. Varney initially attempts to negotiate the terms with Jack and Chillingworth directly, but Chillingworth objects to this. Strangely, once Jack has appointed Admiral Bell, who is not present, as Varney's second, Chillingworth then is willing to name a time and place for the duel on the spot.

#4: Get Some Pistols And A Doctor On Site

Marchdale's intervention takes care of this step. The question of paying Chillingworth never comes up, of course--possibly omitted for irrelevance, possibly he's just so nosy that he's willing to work for free for a chance at more juicy gossip.

#5: Duel Before The Sun Is In The Sky

Okay maybe this format is breaking down a little, this is not a point about which there is anything interesting to be said. The location they picked for the duel is a valley, so not exactly "high and dry". At this rate they are never going to get a good grade in dueling, something that is normal to want and possible to achieve.

#6: Leave A Note For Your Next Of Kin

I left it out of my summary, but Henry does spend the rest of the day "writing documents and letters of one kind and another", so he presumably was doing this.

#7: Confess Your Sins

This never comes up. I assume it's in the song to make the lyrics work.

#8: Your Last Chance To Negotiate

I believe this step is the reason Chillingworth wants Varney to have a second so badly? It does seem like there's some customs and ideas surrounding the practice of dueling that are going over my head.

The duel itself has yet to occur, so #9 and #10 are not relevant at this point. I have plenty left to say about this chapter, though, so let's abandon the musical gimmick and buckle down to some more standard commentary.

Jack Pringle makes a "sea bow" as he leaves Varney's house. I have no idea what that means. Let's see...

...No, duckduckgo, I don't think that's what he means by that.

Marchdale's back! This fucking guy. He just barely missed getting appointed as Varney's second, but he's just in time to swap places with Chillingworth, conveniently freeing him up to act as doctor for the duel. Marchdale brings up an important aspect of dueling: the nature of the practice as both honorable and scandalous. He reasons that, being a bachelor with no family attachments, he can easily leave the country following the duel, while Chillingworth's reputation as a surgeon would be ruined if he served as Henry's second. The contradictory nature of duels is fascinating to me. The duel must be conducted as secretly as possible, and the author mentions that Varney would be well within his rights to call upon legal authorities to protect him from having to fight in the duel; and yet, to not fight in a duel appears to be every bit as reputation-ruining as fighting in one. You're either a disreputable rogue or a dishonorable coward, there's no winning.

The characters keep trying to call Jack Pringle by more formal names. "Mr. Pringle" and "Mr. John Pringle" are both used. The latter is much funnier to me than it should be. Mr. John Pringle.

The admiral makes much less fuss about being appointed Varney's second than I would have expected. Jack Pringle sort of backs him into it by his insistence that he knows Admiral Bell will be a good sport, and his reasoning that someone has to do it to keep Varney from wiggling out of the duel. Not to worry, we'll get plenty of fussing later when Varney meets with his second.

The author pads an already long chapter with a LENGTHY rambling reflection on the feelings of everybody gathering at the dueling ground, the possible motivations of Varney for not wanting to duel, the reputation of the Bannerworth family, and the appearance of the scenery in the early morning light. Most of it is not important; however, you should pay attention to this passage:

It has been seen during the progress of our tale, that its action has been tolerably confined to Bannerworth Hall, its adjacent meadows, and the seat of Sir Francis Varney; the only person at any distance, knowing anything of the circumstances, or feeling any interest in them, being Mr. Chillingworth, the surgeon, who, from personal feeling, as well as from professional habit, was not likely to make a family's affairs a subject of gossip. A change, however, was at hand—a change of a most startling and alarming character to Varney—one which he might expect, yet not be well prepared for. This period of serenity was to pass away, and he was to become most alarmingly popular.

In a couple of chapters, we're going to find out what this means. An important character--possibly the second most important character in the book after Varney--is on the verge of being introduced.

Varney is not looking so good. It sounds like he didn't get a very good night's sleep.

Sir Francis Varney, who, to all appearance, had been waiting, emerged from among the trees, rolled up in his dismal-looking cloak, and, if possible, looking longer and thinner than ever he had looked before. His face wore a singular cadaverous looking aspect. His very lips were white and there was a curious, pinkish-looking circle round each of his eyes, that imparted to his whole countenance a most uninviting appearance. He turned his eyes from one to the other of those who were advancing towards him, until he saw the admiral, upon which he gave such a grim and horrible smile, that the old man exclaimed,— "I say, Jack, you lubber, there's a face for a figure head."

He's also behaving rather strangely.

Varney seemed to think, that after the smiling welcome he had given to his second, he had done quite enough; for there he stood, tall, and gaunt, and motionless, if we may except an occasional singular movement of the mouth, and a clap together of his teeth, at times, which was enough to make anybody jump to hear.

I can only assume he's making this noise:

Which, I must admit, is a pretty sick trait to give a vampire.

Add a tally to the "author getting his own characters' names wrong" board.

George Holland had been on the eve of fighting a duel with Sir Francis Varney, previous to his mysterious disappearance.

The total number of braincells in this book continues to be 0. Flora has only just now come to the conclusion that Varney must be responsible for Charles' disappearance, despite him practically confessing to her a couple chapters previous. Henry, meanwhile, apparently does not think it is possible that Varney would do such a thing. Henry now is not the time to see the best in everyone. He drank your sister's blood Henry. Henry.

When she became fully aware of this fact, to her mind it seemed materially to add to the suspicions previously to then entertained, that foul means had been used in order to put Charles out of the way. "Who knows," she said, "that this Varney may not shrink with the greatest terror from a conflict with any human being, and feeling one was inevitable with Charles Holland, unless interrupted by some vigorous act of his own, he or some myrmidons of his may have taken Charles's life!" "I do not think, Flora," said Henry, "that he would have ventured upon so desperate an act; I cannot well believe such a thing possible."

Despite this, Henry does take action, finally, and goes to Varney's house to challenge him to a duel. Varney's extreme obtuseness is definitely here to pad the word count, but in this case it works. It's entertaining to read and serves the story--a rare moment when the text's paid-by-the-word nature works for the story rather than against it.

"I suspect Charles Holland, Sir Francis Varney, has met with unfair treatment, and that he has been unfairly dealt with, for an unworthy purpose." "Undoubtedly," said Varney, "if the gentleman you allude to, has been unfairly dealt with, it was for a foul purpose; for no good or generous object, my young sir, could be so obtained—you acknowledge so much, I doubt not?" "I do, Sir Francis Varney; and hence the purpose of my visit here—for this reason I apply to you—" "A singular object, supported by a singular reason. I cannot see the connection, young sir; pray proceed to enlighten me upon this matter, and when you have done that, may I presume upon your consideration, to inquire in what way I can be of any service to you?"

The punctuation still isn't doing it any favors.

Varney shows no mercy to poor Henry, who does not have nearly the wit required to match him in conversation, and proves easily wound up by Varney's taunts. It's clear that Varney is having tremendous fun.

"You have failed; for I now here, on this spot, defy you to mortal combat. Coward, assassin as you are, I challenge you to fight." "You don't mean on the carpet here?" said Varney, deliberately.

Finally, Varney sees Henry out with a "grave and formal bow" accompanied by a "sarcastic smile, most disagreeable to look upon as well as irritating [...]".

I love him.

Meanwhile, the admiral is also planning to duel Varney. He talks to himself the whole way to Varney's house, because no one in this book is capable of thinking quietly, and seems to get ruder and ruder the closer to Varney he gets. By the time he is actually within Varney's parlor, you can practically see the cartoon steam clouds emanating from him. And that's before Varney starts talking.

Honestly, this is a pretty second-rate Varney/Admiral Bell interaction. Varney doesn't get in nearly as many digs on the admiral as he normally does--evidently he used them all up on Henry. Without them, it's only Admiral Bell's exaggerated sailor speak carrying the comedy of the scene, and that grows tedious after a while. He does call Varney "Blarney" at one point, which I will paste in so that the title of this post makes sense:

"Gammon again, now, Sir Francis Varney, or Blarney." "Varney, if you please, Admiral Bell; I was christened Varney."

I also am required to paste the following line, without comment:

"Well, Admiral Bell," slid Varney, mildly, "in that case, I suppose I must come out;

Even without bringing his usual insult game, Varney still manages to wind up Admiral Bell into a froth simply by acting calm and polite. By the time Admiral Bell goes to bed (drunk, I might add), he is fuming about annihilating the entire French army, because of course he takes his anger out on the French.

Everyone in this book uses such vague euphemisms for duels, and yet somehow always know each other's meaning immediately. I know that "giving satisfaction" was accepted Duel Terminology, but Henry here simply tells Chillingworth he wishes to have "a meeting" with Varney and Chillingworth instantly knows what he means.

Chillingworth actually gives Henry some useful, practical advice! Wow!

"There can be no sort of suspicion about that," remarked Chillingworth; "but allow me to advise you that you take care of yourself, and keep a watchful eye upon every one—do not be seen out alone." "I fear not." "Nay, the gentleman who has disappeared was, I am sure, fearless enough; but yet that has not saved him. I would not advise you to be fearful, only watchful; you have now an event awaiting upon you, which it is well you should go through with, unless circumstances should so turn out, that it is needless; therefore I say, when you have the suspicions you do entertain of this man's conduct, beware, be cautious, and vigilant."

Look at that! Common sense! An endangered species in this book.

"This affair is quite a secret from all of the family?" "Most certainly so, and will remain so—I shall be at the Hall."

...Never mind, it couldn't last. Hey, guys? Keeping his midnight duel a secret was what got Charles' ass kidnapped. Now I am imagining a scenario in which Varney just keeps kidnapping characters as they challenge him to duels in turn until the entire cast is stuck in the ruins. Someone else write this fanfic, I have too many WIPs on my plate already.

Admiral Bell slept soundly enough though, towards morning, he fell into a strange dream, and thought he was yard arm and yard arm with a strange fish—something of the mermaid species.

...You know, technically speaking, this does not say that he was fighting that mermaid. I will definitely not be reading into this.

Rymer seemingly does not get tired of writing Admiral Bell and Jack Pringle arguing with each other. I, however, get tired of reading it. It was funny at first, but like Hans Christian Anderson in the house of Charles Dickens it is outstaying its welcome. For you, dear reader, I wade through oceans of nautical grousing to pick out only the choicest lines. Like this one:

"...Admiral Bell ain't a-going to have his nephew burned and eaten, and sucked like I don't know what, by a vampyre, or by any other confounded land-shark."

He is very concerned the vampire might have sucked Charles. This is a grave matter, stop laughing.

Servants in Varney the Vampire always have it rough, but this chapter is really something else. Pull out your Rymer Classism Bingo Cards--wait actually I should make a Varney bingo card/drinking game, that sounds fun.

Where was I? Oh, briefly before we get into the servant stuff, I would like to touch on how Henry is an idiot who blindly trusts everyone around him, because from his vantage point Admiral Bell should be raising some MAJOR red flags right now. The admiral has bullied him into giving up his ENTIRE HOUSE and ALL THE FURNITURE IN IT, and is rushing the move along besides. Between Admiral Bell's pushiness, Marchdale's passive aggression, and Chillingworth's useless skepticism, genuinely the most trustworthy and put together older man in Henry's life right now is Varney the fucking vampire.

Speaking of Varney, I really hope he pays his servants well, because this poor fellow needs a raise. For the sum total crimes of:

Being Varney's servant

Showing up at Bannerworth Hall to pay Varney's compliments and inquire how they're doing after the duel + mob fiasco earlier

Saying a couple of rude remarks (on Varney's orders)

this servant endures what Rymer apparently considers some light-hearted slapstick comic relief.

Jack laid hold of him by the two ears, and holding him under the pump, kicked his shins until he completely gathered himself beneath the spout. It was in vain that he shouted "Murder! help! fire! thieves!" Jack was inexorable, and the admiral pumped. Jack turned the fellow's head about in a very scientific manner, so as to give him a fair dose of hydropathic treatment, and in a few minutes, never was human being more thoroughly saturated with moisture than was Sir Francis Varney's servant. He had left off hallooing for aid, for he found that whenever he did so, Jack held his mouth under the spout, which was decidedly unpleasant; so, with a patience that looked like heroic fortitude, he was compelled to wait until the admiral was tired of pumping.

Yeah sure guys, that's a proportionate response to give to a cheeky messenger. Forget asking for a raise, this guy should press criminal charges.

Of course, all that was simply not enough beating up on a random working man for Rymer. Oh no.

"Very good," at length he said. "Now, Jack, for fear this fellow catcher cold, be so good as to get a horsewhip, and see him off the premises with it."

Jack proceeded to kick the shivering animal from the garden with a vehemence that soon convinced him of the necessity of getting out of it as quickly as possible.

Our Heroes, everybody.

The insolence of his servant was, no doubt, a matter of pre-arrangement with that individual, however he might have set about it con amore. As for the termination of the adventure, that, of course, had not been at all calculated upon; but, like most tools of other people's insolence or ambition, the insolence of the underling had received both his own punishment and his master's. We know quite enough of Sir Francis Varney to feel assured that he would rather consider it as a good jest than otherwise of his footman, so that with the suffering he endured at the Bannerworths', and the want of sympathy he was likely to find at home, that individual had certainly nothing to congratulate himself upon but the melancholy reminiscence of his own cleverness.

Okay, I know that passage is more of Rymer's usual word salad, but trust me as a sort of masochistic connoisseur of the man's work: this is not what it looks like when he sympathizes with a character, or wants the reader to sympathize with them. Rymer, in fact, does not seem to care at all about the servant one way or another; these paragraphs are part of a dispassionate aside where Rymer speculates, or rather fails to speculate, about how Varney could have made it home safely in order to send this message. I'm pretty sure he completely forgot about the scene where Charles tried to strangle Varney; it is never so much as hinted at ever again.

The literal next paragraph is a jarring transition back to Rymer's all-time favorite subject:

But were the mob satisfied with what had occurred in the churchyard? They were not,

I can't tell whether the sudden shift over the next many, many chapters to a good 50-80% Mob Content is fueled by him liking to write scenes about Stupid Peasants Acting Stupid, him getting bored of all his main characters, or just him realizing that he can milk more money out of this story if he delays the action with a bunch of pointless bullshit. It's probably that last one, actually.

So, the local consensus is that Miles the Butcher is a vampire. Some Random Guy provides an explanation, quickly accepted by the general populace, for how Miles got out of his grave: obviously, other vampires go around digging up eligible corpses and laying them in the moonlight.

And that guy was James Malcolm Rymer himself, because that bit of lore will later become 100% FOR REAL CANON. Not only that, but all vampires carry specialized shovels for that specific task. That's CANON. That's the REAL VAMPIRE LORE of this story. MATCHING VAMPIRE SHOVELS.

Meanwhile, a young man staying at an inn (The Nelson's Arms, the anachronistically-named inn Admiral Bell and Jack Pringle stopped at when they were first introduced to the story) recently took ill and died. His funeral was scheduled, by unfortunate coincidence, for the day that the mob decided to dig up Miles the Butcher's corpse, so the burial was postponed, and his body is still just laying around upstairs.

Enter The Foolish Tavern Wench.

This woman, with all the love of gossip incidental to her class, had, from the first, entered so fully into all the particulars concerning vampyres, that she fairly might be considered to be a little deranged on that head. Her imagination had been so worked upon, that she was in an unfit state to think of anything else, and if ever upon anybody a stern and revolting superstition was calculated to produce direful effects, it was upon this woman. The town was tolerably quiet; the presence of the soldiery had frightened some and amused others, and no doubt the night would have passed off serenely, had she not suddenly rushed into the street, and, with bewildered accents and frantic gestures shouted,— "A vampyre—a vampyre—a vampyre!"

Something I just realized is that, while many of the random male villagers are given names, I'm not sure any of the random female ones ever are. I can't say I'm surprised at this point, just disappointed.

Anyway, Unnamed Chamber Maid here is an example of a character type which props up the heroic narrative role of lying, gaslighting, and not telling people shit. This is a woman who cannot be trusted with the truth, because she will blow it out of proportion with her hysterical Female Emotions, and cause a mass panic. Sure enough, a mob seems to virtually materialize on the spot in response to her cries:

These words soon collected a crowd around her,

Some twenty or thirty persons, with shouts and exclamations, rushed into the inn, while the woman who had created the disturbance still continued to rave, tearing her hair, and shrieking at intervals, until she fell exhausted upon the pavement. Soon, from a hundred throats, rose the dreadful cry of "A vampyre—a vampyre!"

Rymer leaves the actual actions of the mob as a cliffhanger for next week, instead ending this chapter on the following delightful note:

It is truly astonishing the effect which one weak or vicious-minded person can produce upon a multitude. Here was a woman whose opinion would have been accounted valueless upon the most common-place subject, and whose word would not have passed for twopence, setting a whole town by the ears by force of nothing but her sheer brutal ignorance. It is a notorious physiological fact, that after four or five days, or even a week, the bodies of many persons assume an appearance of freshness, such as might have been looked for in vain immediately after death. It is one of the most insidious processes of that decay which appears to regret with its "————— offensive fingers, To mar the lines where beauty lingers." But what did the chamber-maid know of physiology? Probably, she would have asked if it was anything good to eat; and so, of course, having her head full of vampyres, she must needs produce so lamentable a scene of confusion, the results of which we almost sicken at detailing.

I hate him almost as much as he hates this random woman he made up to get mad at.

Not much happens in this chapter; it's about two thirds sailor speak by volume. I'll skip right to the good part, which is MARCHDALE GETTING PUNCHED

HELL YEAH GET HIS ASS

Marchdale confirms for us another of Varney's precious few supernatural characteristics:

"I threatened to follow him, but he struck me to the earth as easily as I could a child. His strength is superhuman."

He can't lizard climb or shapeshift, but he sure can throw a punch.

The Admiral and Jack proceed to give Marchdale about the cartooniest introduction they can possibly muster:

"Oh, you may know my name as soon as you like," cried the admiral. "The enemies of old England know it, and I don't care if all the world knows it. I'm old Admiral Bell, something of a hulk now, but still able to head a quarter-deck if there was any need to do so." "Ay, ay," cried Jack, and taking from his pocket a boatswain's whistle, he blew a blast so long, and loud, and shrill, that George was fain to cover his ears with his hands to shut out the brain-piercing, and, to him unusual sound.

Jack Pringle's relationship to the Admiral is sort of clarified, sort of not? I for one am going to be gleefully misinterpreting the "not exactly a servant" line.

"Come in, sir," said George, "I will conduct you to Mr. Holland. I presume this is your servant?" "Why, not exactly. That's Jack Pringle, he was my boatswain, you see, and now he's a kind o' something betwixt and between. Not exactly a servant."

In another moment of surprising quality, I really like the first interaction between Charles and his uncle. The dynamic between them is a lot of fun.

"Your uncle!" said Henry. "Yes, as good a hearted a man as ever drew breath, and yet, withal, as full of prejudices, and as ignorant of life, as a child." Without waiting for any reply from Henry, Charles Holland rushed forward, and seizing his uncle by the hand, he cried, in tones of genuine affection,— "Uncle, dear uncle, how came you to find me out?" "Charley, my boy," cried the old man, "bless you; I mean, confound your d——d impudence; you rascal, I'm glad to see you; no, I ain't, you young mutineer. What do you mean by it, you ugly, ill-looking, d——d fine fellow—my dear boy. Oh, you infernal scoundrel." All this was accompanied by a shaking of the hand, which was enough to dislocate anybody's shoulder, and which Charles was compelled to bear as well as he could.

The banter between these two is delightful. Charles is less of a cartoon character than his uncle, and talks and acts accordingly, and the resulting conversational clash is incredibly entertaining.

"And here you see Admiral Bell, my most worthy, but rather eccentric uncle." "Confound your impudence." "What brought him here I cannot tell; but he is a brave officer, and a gentleman." "None of your nonsense," said the admiral.

The story now goes on hold in order to clarify what the deal is with Charles' two-year vacation.

A very few words will suffice to explain the precise position in which Charles Holland was.

By "a very few words" he means about 600, for the record.

Charles' little backstory is rather contrived and not very interesting. It's one of those details where, had the author not brought it up, I would not have bothered to ask. It does clue us into one thing: Charles is set to be loaded in the near future.

Charles goes to ask Henry's permission to tell his uncle about all the vampire drama, which is frankly unnecessary because Henry already said he could earlier when Admiral Bell was being introduced. The real purpose of their meeting, however, is for Charles to give Henry this random manuscript he happens to have on him, so Flora can read it as a distraction from her troubles. Why all the fuss about this? Haha. Well. We shall see.

Ladies and gentlemen, the comic relief has arrived.

The chapter opens with a quite lengthy description of how gossip concerning the vampire attack has spread from the Bannerworth's servants to the whole surrounding countryside. We already knew this, of course, as Henry found out when he went to see Chillingworth, but the author reminds us anyway, at length.

There, it seemed as if the lovers of the horrible made a point of holding their head quarters, and so thirsty did the numerous discussions make the guests, that the landlord was heard to declare that he, from his heart, really considered a vampyre as very nearly equal to a contested election.

I will grant this line is pretty funny.

We are now introduced to Admiral Bell and his rascally sidekick Jack Pringle, who are one thrown bottle away from divorce at all times. These two men are so nautical it is physically painful.

He was attired in ample and expensive clothing, but every article had a naval animus about it, if we may be allowed such an expression with regard to clothing.

The author spontaneously decides his story is set in the Regency period; Admiral Bell is described as wearing "the undress naval uniform of an officer of high rank some fifty or sixty years ago", and Jack Pringle makes the following observation about the inn they've arrived at:

"They call this the Nelson's Arms; and you know, shiver me, that for the best half of his life he had but one."

Nelson, for the record, died in 1805.

To give an idea of the sort of nautical tomfoolery I had to slog through for this chapter, I will reproduce a small sample of dialogue; imagine, if you will, pages and pages of this bullshit.

"Heave to!" he then shouted to the postilion, who was about to drive the chaise into the yard. "Heave to, you lubberly son of a gun! we don't want to go into dock."

"Ah!" said the old man, "let's get out, Jack. This is the port; and, do you hear, and be cursed to you, let's have no swearing, d—n you, nor bad language, you lazy swab."

"Aye, aye," cried Jack; "I've not been ashore now a matter o' ten years, and not larnt a little shore-going politeness, admiral, I ain't been your walley de sham without larning a little about land reckonings. Nobody would take me for a sailor now, I'm thinking, admiral."

"Hold your noise!"

"Aye, aye, sir."

At least it's funny for now; the constant arguing between these two starts to wear on the nerves as the story goes on.

Jack Pringle namedrops Charles, although it's not confirmed until later in the chapter that he refers to Charles Holland.

"Well, but where's Master Charles? Lawyers, in course, sir, is all blessed rogues; but, howsomdever, he may have for once in his life this here one of 'em have told us of the right channel, and if so be as he has, don't be the Yankee to leave him among the pirates. I'm ashamed on you."

There's a lot of lawyer-bashing in this chapter.

Mr. Crinkles (don't you love how there's two different characters introduced in this chapter that are named after potato chips) reminds me of Discworld's A. E. Pessimal, minus the surprise bloodlust. A "very conversible, nice, gentlemanly little man", he contrasts amusingly with the two rambunctious sailors.

"So you are Crinkles, are you?" cried the admiral. "Sit down, though you are a lawyer."

"Thank you, sir. I am an attorney, certainly, and my name as certainly is Crinkles."

"Look at that."

The admiral placed the letter in the little lawyer's hands, who said,—

"Am I to read it?"

"Yes, to be sure."

"Aloud?"

"Read it to the devil, if you like, in a pig's whisper, or a West India hurricane."

"Oh, very good, sir. I—I am willing to be agreeable, so I'll read it aloud, if it's all the same to you."

The letter, besides warning Admiral Bell of Charles Holland's imminent decision to marry A Vampyre, contains a "definition" of vampires which is bafflingly unhelpful:

"P.S. I enclose you Dr. Johnson's definition of a vampyre, which is as follows:

"VAMPYRE (a German blood-sucker)—by which you perceive how many vampyres, from time immemorial, must have been well entertained at the expense of John Bull, at the court of St. James, where no thing hardly is to be met with but German blood-suckers."

Mr. Crinkles, as it turns out, has never seen this letter in his life. Who wrote it, then, is and remains a mystery; the authorship of this letter never comes up again in the text. I mean, it was probably Varney, but that's never confirmed.

Admiral Bell and Jack Pringle seem to have a very shaky grasp on what a vampire is; evidently Dr. Johnson's definition was not helpful.

"Shiver my timbers, if I knows what a wamphigher is, unless he's some distant relation to Davy Jones!"

"The vampyre!"

"Ah! I always forget the names of strange fish. I suppose, after all, it's something of the mermaid order?"

Mr. Crinkles provides an astonishingly detailed account of the vampire attack on Flora, and repeats the idea that all victims of vampire attacks become vampires themselves. Jack Pringle accidentally hits on the reason why in vampire stories this is usually not the case:

"Whew!" whistled Jack; "she might bite us all, and we should be a whole ship's crew o' wamphighers. There would be a confounded go!"

If vampirism has a 100% transmission rate, the vampire population grows exponentially. We will eventually learn more about how vampirism actually spreads in this story; for now, as far as anybody knows, Flora is set to become a vampire after death.

At the end of the chapter, Jack refers to Charles as "our nevy", which I will point to as evidence that he is, in fact, more than a valet. (These aren't the only gay sailors Rymer has written, either. Ask me about the background gay couple in The String of Pearls/Sweeney Todd.)

Bonus art for this chapter