The author
It would be helpful, for your own sakes, to imagine the author (this mule fellow) hunched at a writing desk with a quill. A physician walks sullenly out of the house, unsure if he’ll ever return. The author has been left at his desk to take a draught of an elixir that will hopefully address the unknown but incessant psychological issues (if you’ll recall, he once turned himself into a mule). This is the type of ailment where the author has frequent headaches and sometimes coughs up blood and the best medicine is simply a good deal of rest, but for whatever reason the author decided that the best rest is had somewhere else. He spent a month or so with his cousin in West Essexingtonshire who advised him to marry soon (at a time like this??). This cousin is of questionable repute, and the author only learned of his cousin’s existence upon leaving the orphanage where he was raised. It’s all...