Peep This Diary

A Visitation from Becky Fagan

For the third morning in a row, I was awoken today by the banshee-like screeching of Sean’s new wife, Rebecca, informing her husband (and most of my neighbours) that he was a coward, a sissy, and a disgrace to all men the world over. While I am quite ready to admit that these sentiments are very much in accordance with my own opinions, I could wish that she would choose a more felicitous time and venue to express them than 3 a.m. and my doorstep.

But far be it from me to venture a confrontation with the harpie on my own initiative, and Sean—who has spent the last week sleeping in my guest bedroom, (no doubt a contributing factor in the general air of marital discord that characterizes their union)—appeared even less qualified to deal with this fearful apparition than did I. So it was that, by an exceeding close vote of 2 to 1, Patrick was nominated to reason with young Becky Fagan in the dark and the chill outside my home this morning, and (should his wit and diplomacy not desert him) to dissuade her from performing these nightly ministrations at my door, or at least encourage her to do so at a more appealing volume.

I cannot say that he was successful. It is not for me to decide whether the blow to his pride or the one to his cheek was the more painful to Patrick, but I am certain that he suffers greatly from both. And though we were granted a brief intermission from the invective that had been hurled at these walls following Patrick’s ill-fated intervention, it was shortly to be replaced by an unearthly wailing which promised to rob us all of our sleep until it finally and abruptly ceased at around six o’clock.

It is clear that something must be done. I have given Sean a number of practical suggestions (such as poison) to alleviate his marital woes, but he is not, at present, disposed to receive advice from even his dearest and most deeply concerned friends. I have given him a week to sort it out before I set the dogs upon him.

Posted by Jack on July 10, 1678

A Nightmare in Three Acts ...

You will notice that we have been absent from these pages for some weeks. The truth of the matter, as far as I am concerned, is simply that the events of the last two months have been so exceedingly unpleasant that I was loath to document them lest the very act of documentation appear to give them an imprimatur or a tacit approval from my quarter. And I most ardently do not approve. That having been said, you may be inclined to peruse the following list of occurrences in my life during the months of May and June—and, mayhap, to shed a tear or two for the abject horrors that I have been forced to endure:

1.    Sean is married. I cannot say I find it remarkable that he should have made such a catastrophic error of judgement by throwing away his independence in this fashion, but even I was surprised at his ability to make so completely undesirable a match as the one he has made with Rebecca Lynn Olson—daughter of a failed tradesman from Surrey, social climber, heretic (she once confided to me that she believed the stars were in fact “the winking souls of all the darling little kitties and puppies who are gone to heaven”), and insufferable, driveling bore.

In her favor, I will say that she has demonstrated at least one small piece of good taste: She clearly does not like Sean very much at all.

2.    Patrick’s paper on “The Seven Chromatic Qualities of the Aether” (which, as far as I can tell, is an extremely lengthy and almost disturbingly tedious way of saying that the sky is blue) has been accepted for publication by the Royal Society, and he has spoken of precious little else in more than six weeks. The only respite that I have had from this torment was when I offered to take dictation for a paper he was giving on the topic and replaced every instance of the word “minds” with the word “swine”. Sean and I were so consumed with mirth when he announced to his assembled colleagues that he “considered them a collection of the most literate swine in all of England” that we had to be escorted from the room.

Patrick refused to speak a word to me for a full three days after this event, which was a tender mercy indeed.

3.    I was brought up before the Magistrate yet again for “swindling”. Apparently, some letters I had been sending out (the ones where I claimed to be an African prince in a difficult political situation desirous of temporarily unloading a large quantity of gold bullion upon a trustworthy English gentleman in exchange for a generous percentage of the haul) had fallen into the wrong hands. Fortunately, no one was able to prove anything.

This post is in danger of becoming overlong, so I shall finish now with a bit of blog housecleaning: Patrick, Sean, and I are all now on Twitter, that you might more conveniently stay abreast of our daily operations. More information can be found in the sidebar. I am quite sure that there is more to tell you, so I shall attempt to be much more diligent about keeping Peep This Diary up to date this month. If nothing else, I have quite a good deal more to say about Sean’s new bride.

Posted by Jack on July 7, 1678

Meeting With a Madman

I have had a very strange day. On a tip from Sean—who has been irritatingly pleasant to me ever since I had a fit of regrettable (but entirely justified) temper and publicly referred to his new ladylove as a “nasty, controlling dragon-woman”—I went to see an acquaintance of his who has some experience in the Hospitality business. I had been hoping that this gentleman (who Sean has called the preeminent expert in the field) would help me to develop a strategy for opening a second whorehouse in London to build on the success of the Crimson Unicorn. I was deeply mistaken in this hope.

When I walked into the gentleman’s home, he flashed me a smile that was eerily similar to my own Emergency Smile No. 17 (for when a new mother insists on making me look at her child), gestured to a daybed in the corner of the room, and bade me recline upon it. Not wishing to upset this eccentric—who, if Sean speaks truth, would be an exceptionally valuable business contact—I acquiesced and lay down upon the divan, at which point we engaged in the following utterly baffling conversation:

Me: I had been hoping, sir, that you would be so good as to help me solve a problem that I have. 
Him: My, my. You are in much better shape than I expected after speaking with Sean. If you can admit that you have a problem, we have already taken the first, halting steps towards a cure.
Me: [stalling for time with Emergency Smile No. 3 (for halfwits)] Yes. Very good. Yes, I see that. ... Perhaps we can start by talking about “syndication”, which, as you know is all the rage amongst London merchants nowadays. What I’m trying to do …
Him: It’s very interesting that you should use the word “rage”, is it not? What made you choose that word?
Me: It’s a fad, a fashion. A trend. A method that is first practiced by thinking men who have a pragmatic need for it, then blindly followed by blithering idiots in search of a substitute for thinking.
Him: [serenely] Very interesting indeed. And how does that make you feel?
Me: [my dudgeon suddenly rising] Sir, if your intention is to waste my time, I would thank you, respectfully, to stuff it. I am a busy man, and I do not suffer fools unless I stand to make a considerable amount of money out of them.
Him: Let it out. Just let it all out.

By this point, I was so incensed that I was unable to speak at all and just sat there working my jaw muscles and blinking at the man, who was clearly either drunk or mad. After we had sat like this for some minutes, he turned to me with that same chilling smile and said, quite matter-of-factly: “We’ve made some real progress here today. Please come back at the same time next week, and tell Sean that I will take on his case pro bono. Very, very interesting indeed.”

And so I left, considerably more confused than when I had arrived, and headed back towards Hampstead, making a brief stop at Smithson’s Emporium to buy a sturdy walking stick with which to beat Sean about the head when I returned home.

Posted by Jack on April 27, 1678

Sean's New Woman ...

...if “woman” she can be called. I would say that she is more like a snake, except that snakes cannot hiss at you with the same malice that this harpy exudes from every pore of her body. I am not exaggerating. Last night, Sean brought this new lady out with us to attend a performance of Middleton’s Women Beware Women. Sean was acting nauseatingly coy, in a manner that I have not seen since the day that he sold me a pair of silver candlesticks which I later discovered he had stolen from my own dining room.

Although I was justifiably suspicious of this obsequious behaviour, I went out of my way to make the girl comfortable, and even attempted conversation with her during the first intermission, asking whether she might not be more comfortable backstage fawning all over the actors than listening to us discuss matters that were far removed from her interest and intellect. But despite my Herculean efforts to make her feel welcome, she spoke only to Sean the entire evening, and (oddly) she never once changed the subject from his finances. Such an unpleasant, ungrateful bore of a woman I have never met in my entire life. It's no surprise that Sean is besotted with her.

Posted by Jack on April 6, 1678

Of Whores and Journalists

After I mentioned this week that the Crimson Unicorn received a write-up in The London Gazette which had quite a salutary effect on our little business, many of you readers have been clamouring for me to post the review itself on Peep This Diary, that you may read it for yourselves. Before I do so, I will take pains to remind you that this blog is not a democracy and that your pathetic, self-serving entreaties have about as much sway with me as do the political opinions of a leprous beggar (or a woman) with the King of England. However, the write-up was really quite something to behold, and it had been my intention to post it here even before I was so rudely enjoined to do so by individuals amongst my readership. If I may extend my earlier metaphor to elaborate this point—when the wishes of the common people mirror the edicts of the King, we may be sure that we are in a nation that is well governed or—more likely—well policed. This is the article I was referring to:

Posted by Jack on March 29, 1678

Saucy Scullery Maids and Naughty Nurses

I have neglected this blog for nearly a month now, and some explanation is clearly required. However, I am not a man who apologizes where no sin has been committed, and I have learned from experience never to explain my actions without an attorney present, so you will receive no such satisfaction.

Suffice it to say that I have been occupied with business, particularly the day-to-day operations of the Crimson Unicorn, which is fast becoming London’s premiere bawdy house. Last week, we attracted more clients than our chief competition, Harry’s House of Harlots (or, as it is more commonly known, Harry’s House of Herpes), and, thanks to the recent addition of our immensely popular “Naughty Nurses” attraction, which was written up in The London Gazette as “The most vile, sinful, rotten abomination ever to defile the citizens of our once proud city,” we are poised to overtake even the notorious Black Orchid, which is reputed to be the favoured establishment of ill repute amongst discerning Members of Parliament.

So, as you will imagine, I have had my hands full—and I might add that I have had very little help from Sean (my business partner in this endeavour), who—my sources have informed me—spent the entire day today lying in a ditch.

Posted by Jack on March 18, 1678

In Love

I have fallen in love. There is simply no other way to put it. I don’t believe I have experienced anything like this sweet, giddying sensation before in my life, but I feel that even if I were to die of it, I would never give it up. Not for anything in the world. This whole day I have been walking on tiptoes, with such a brightness and airiness about my person as I have never felt before, and I fear that at any moment I might float up into the aether and disappear into a thousand tiny pieces of light and joy … or turn, of a sudden, into a songbird—that I might fly away to spend the rest of my days singing my love to the trees and to the Earth below. 

But you will want to know details. This morning, I took a different way home from church than my normal route, since the sermon had focused upon the importance of taking time to “stop and smell the roses” (and since I was hoping to avoid a certain person whom I had cheated out of a considerable amount of money the night before), when I turned a corner into Fleet Street and my life changed forever. For there she was: The brand-new 1678-model Gala Coupé Carriage, with the reinforced splinter bar and the very latest spindle technology on the rear axletree. Just sitting there for all to see, as if she were not too good for this world.

My eyes feasted on that wonderful sight for what seemed like an eternity, though it can hardly have been more than a few seconds, as the driver urged on his horses and disappeared into the London streets with such grace and speed that two beggars were knocked sprawling into a fruit stand. And though on any other day this interruption would have sent me into a fit of rage, my longing eyes never once wavered from the object of their adoration as it sped towards the horizon and vanished like a mirage.

I must have her for my own.

Posted by Jack on January 27, 1678

Women

Running a bawdy house is proving more difficult than I had anticipated. There are, it turns out, some rather delicate matters related to managing the personnel that require a softer touch than I have been accustomed to in directing affairs at a shipyard or a loading dock. By way of an example: this afternoon, when I informed Ms. Mary Walker (who is generally a model employee and a top money-earner for the business) that she was looking particularly burly today, not to mention a good deal older than her years, and could she perhaps lose five pounds and find a way of concealing her wrinkles by Monday, she suddenly burst into tears and ran from the room, leaving me to wonder whether she had caught a gnat in her eye, or remembered some awful event that had overwhelmed her upon recollection. When I attempted to discuss this strange behaviour with the others in the room, no one would look me in the eye. Sean was even quite short with me when I asked him what I had done to elicit such an odd reaction from the girl.

I have since learned from Patrick that one should never broach the subject of a woman’s weight or age without exercising an extreme amount of delicacy and care. Apparently, raising topics of this sort can provoke a chemical reaction that directly affects the tear ducts, and, occasionally, certain lobes of the brain which can cause an otherwise gentle woman to become irrational and violent. The reason for this, Patrick tells me, is that overly scientific talk, such as the discussion of body mass and its fluctuations, or the physical effects of aging, is so distressing to women (whose brains are not equipped to comprehend mathematical or scientific concepts) that too much of it can send their bodies into a kind of apoplexy, which is extremely unpredictable, and sometimes quite dangerous. I am very fortunate to be acquainted with a man like Patrick—whose understanding of the female gender is unrivaled—or else I am quite certain that I would make mistakes of this sort all the time!

I had vowed to post on this blog at least twice a week from now on, but, since my difficulties with the staff may make such an undertaking close to impossible (and I have no desire to frustrate my readers), I have asked Patrick’s brother Edward to fill in for me during my busier times. You may look forward to the occasional guest post from him in the coming weeks—and I can assure you that if you look past the unfortunate fact that he is a religious fanatic and a homicidal maniac, you will find a great deal of interest and good sense in his writing. In the meantime, I will let you know how things progress with the staff—now that I know what makes them tick, I am certain that they will grow to love me in no time at all.

Posted by Jack on December 1, 1677

Taking the Unicorn by the Horn

I suppose I should apologize for my infrequent posting on this blog of late, but my work, as I shall explain anon, has been keeping me from any other pursuits (except golf of course) for some time now—and to tell the truth, having experimented with “apologizing” for the first time recently, I cannot say that it has very much to recommend it. But my starved readers will be wanting meat for their hungry bellies, not this unmanly waffling about feelings and how “sorry” I may or may not be. If that is the sort of thing you are looking for, you will doubtless find it in abundance by reading Sean’s posts on this blog (though, not having read any myself, I can say little about them except that if they bear any similarity to his conversation, you will do well to secure a sharp implement to jab into your knee during the slow parts).

The Crimson Unicorn

But I digress. The unfortunate truth is that since Patrick returned from Indochina (which, incidentally, is a full 2,000 miles away from where we actually sent him), having misplaced my start-up funds, my bartering goods, and, indeed, my ship, I have found myself in something of a financial tight spot. And to rectify this unfortunate situation, I have done the only thing that a respectable, clear-thinking businessman in my position can do—I have taken full responsibility for the management of a bawdy house in my possession, with the intention of tripling the revenue from the establishment by blackmailing certain high-ranking members of parliament who frequent it without the knowledge of their Sovereign … or their wives. Regular readers of this blog will know that I am referring to the infamous Crimson Unicorn, which Sean rashly purchased some months ago with the reasoning that the asking price for the bawdy house itself was not really all that much higher than the tab he had run up.

And so Sean and I have spent three successive weeks remodeling the place, hiring new talent, ridding ourselves of some of the less desirable employees (One-Eyed Bertha, though a great favourite with the navy men who frequent the Unicorn, was given her marching orders last night, despite Sean’s tearful imprecations), and making all the necessary changes to turn the old place into a first-rate money-making venture. The final alterations were made this morning, and I am very excited to announce that the Unicorn will have its grand reopening on Monday! Sean took our old friend (and new employee) Odyllia out to the Griffin this evening to celebrate, and as soon as they return, we shall crack open a bottle of my finest wine to toast the beginning of an enterprise that will make us both very, very rich men. I am quite confident that (unlike previous business ventures that I have embarked on with Sean and Patrick) this time there is nothing that can go wrong.

Posted by Jack on November 18, 1677

Doctors

I will be the first to admit that I have been negligent in keeping up this blog the past three weeks. I am not a man to shy away from my mistakes; to make excuses where an apology is required; to shrug off blame when the time has come to take responsibility. But the truth is that it is all Sean’s fault.

Since returning home from Indochina last month, Patrick has been an utterly changed man—he largely keeps to himself, and when he is in company, he barely utters a word. Quite frankly, this suits me very well indeed, but it has had an effect on Sean that is as utterly pathetic as it is insufferable. For two weeks on end now, my hallways have been a waiting area for London’s most notorious quacks—my withdrawing room a symposium for some of the least credible men on the planet—as Sean trots in (one following the other, in dizzying succession) doctor after doctor in an attempt to “cure” Patrick of his silent melancholy (as if such a thing could be considered anything other than a felicitous improvement upon his previous state of noisy silliness), and I have not had a moment’s peace in which to write. 

We have had an apothecary, who, with great fanfare, held Patrick’s nose and fed him castor oil (to be honest, this was actually quite entertaining); a physick, who covered our friend from head to toe in leeches (we later discovered that he charged by the leech); a herbalist, who left us with some leaves which have significantly improved my roast potatoes, but which utterly failed to bring about a change in Patrick beyond a fit of sneezing; a mesmerist, who succeeded only in hypnotizing the cat, which now refuses to eat any fish; and (tonight) an exorcist, who has been slapping Patrick across the face for such a long time now that it has genuinely ceased to be amusing.

Sean has promised me that this will be his last attempt at a cure, which is fortunate, since the next physician who enters my home will be fed to the dogs.

Posted by Jack on October 26, 1677

A Dinner Party

I awoke this morning feeling very under the weather. Indeed, my hands were shaking so that it required a full 20 minutes for me to put on my breeches, and my head was in such a spin that I had to clasp the banister with all my strength in order to maneuver myself down the stairs. The reception that awaited me once I reached the breakfast chambers was not one to assuage the natural anxiety that is attendant upon having an incomplete memory of the events of the previous night: Sean and Patrick were seated at table in a frosty silence, with pursed lips and folded arms, looking for all the world like a pair of old harridans from a Convent School. They both refused to speak to me—even my manservant, George, gave me a cold look—and I was constrained to reconstruct the events of yesterday's dinner party without their help.

It all started rather innocuously—I remember that. Sean had invited a number of Patrick's acquaintances to celebrate his recovery, and I was in good form, beginning supper with a story about the hilarious two weeks when Patrick insisted on wearing a turban and trying to persuade my maids to feed him grapes, after an infected bite from a Macaque caused him to believe that he was an Indian Rajah.

The evening took something of a downturn after that. I remember standing somewhat shakily on a chair to propose a toast, and embarking on a rather lengthy tale—one of my favorite stories about Patrick—about the time he came home drunk and angry from a meeting of the Royal Society in which they had debunked one of his scientific papers, and entertained me for a full hour with his wonderful impersonations of the Society's illustrious members (his Isaac Newton is absolutely dead on), or, as he called them, "those pompous bloody asexuals who couldn't tell you the difference between a red-blooded woman and a common house plant except that the one is homo sapiens and the other is Geranium sanguineum".

I am now painfully aware that this was not the most opportune moment for such a history, since—as Patrick was quick to point out when he finally consented to speak to me a few minutes ago—our guests consisted, almost exclusively, of his friends and colleagues from the Royal Society.

I do not often admit to remorse, but for my role in this particular event, I am very, very sorry.

Posted by Jack on September 30, 1677

Patrick, the "Hero"

Thanks to Patrick, we have found our way once more into that Godawful sensationalist rag The London Gazette. They arrived unannounced at my home last night, asking me to "confirm or deny" rumours that Patrick had returned from Indochina with the secrets of a Fountain of Youth, which preposterous suggestion I answered the only way I know how—by whistling for the dogs. And my reward for defending our country against such journalistic hackery? The following write-up, which paints me as some sort of heartless curmudgeon, and makes Patrick look like a heroic and resourceful young adventurer. It seems the only thing that you can rely on the press to print these days is the exact opposite of truth.

Posted by Jack on September 24, 1677

Hilarity Ensues

Amusing story: Patrick woke up this evening believing that he was still in Indochina. He has been doing this the past few nights, as his fever from the bump on the head he received this week has shown no signs of abating. So Sean and I decided to do something about it. When we were rifling through Patrick's luggage yesterday, Sean discovered a ceremonial mask that Patrick had brought home from his trip, and this evening, after our friend had finally settled into a fitful sleep, we tiptoed into his room, with Sean leading the way wearing the mask, while I remained in the shadows (trying with all my will not to laugh!).  As soon as we were inside, Sean began yelling gibberish and dancing around as if he were possessed—he played the part to perfection! Patrick awoke with a start, and upon seeing the masked figure in his room, turned white as a sheet, and was able to get out the following phrase before my laughter became too loud to ignore:

"Tell Nguyen Phuc Tan he will have his tribute, but please, spare my life!"

I have made a note to ask Patrick what in God's name that means once he is fully recovered. It is not always intentional, but he really is good for a laugh sometimes.

Posted by Jack on September 19, 1677

The News Of Pat's Death Has Been Greatly Exaggerated

I am always the first to admit a mistake, and in this particular case I am more than willing to concede that I may have made a slight error of judgment in assuming that Patrick had drowned, when it was reported to me that his ship had been lost at sea. And I will even magnanimously concede that I was not displeased to discover that he had survived the disaster more or less intact. But I will not go so far as to say that I am glad to see him back in my home, as his first act upon returning to London was to dislodge a large stone above my entrance onto his forehead and then bloody up all the sheets in his bedroom beyond any hope of using them again. Again, it must be admitted that I had a small part in this accident, having loosened the stone myself in the hopes of squashing Patrick's tiresome brother EJT, but it really is just typical of Patrick to impose himself where he is not wanted and ruin a surprise that was clearly intended for someone else.

Sean has spent the last two days running about like a mother hen, "soothing Patrick's troubled brow" (his words) and otherwise making a nuisance of himself, during which time I have been attending to man's business and sorting out our differences with the murderous EJT over a game or two of golf. As a result of this careful and exhausting diplomacy, Patrick's brother has graciously promised that he will not point his gun at us again without giving us at least a day's warning—which may at least be called progress. To be honest, EJT is actually quite a reasonable fellow despite his homicidal tendencies and maniacal religious fanaticism, and he plays a surprisingly decent game of golf. 

Posted by Jack on September 16, 1677

Golf (and the secret of EJT revealed)

I have discovered a wonderful new pastime—so wonderful, in fact, that it is rendered only slightly less appealing by the revelation that it was invented by the Scots, whose only other notable accomplishments are a monopoly on the market for tartan skirts for men and a pathological fondness for oats. The game I am referring to involves hitting a small ball with a large stick as hard as you can, sending your servants in search of it for half an hour while you relax with a tankard of ale, and then hitting it again until it falls into a hole, at which point everyone slaps you on your back and congratulates you. I intend to devote every leisure hour I have to improving at this game, and I have already begun practicing at home, hiding balls in various locations around the house, and watching with great mirth while my maid scurries about in search of them.

But more on that later. The purpose of this post is to reveal that I have finally discovered the identity of the gentleman named EJT, who has been plaguing us for more than a month now with threats upon our lives, disquisitions upon the state of our souls, and other such aggravating impositions. As I was reading through the comments on my most recent entry today to check up on a conversation I was having with a Peep This Diary reader who attended preparatory school with me, I noticed a comment from EJT himself and followed it back to his own preposterous blog, where I learned that he is none other than Edward James Thrasher—Patrick's older brother! His likeness to Patrick—in both his physical appearance and his unbearable pompousness—is uncanny, and it serves to explain the apparition at Patrick's funeral last month that we all thought was a ghost. I recommend that you peruse his blog, which can be found here. There is some good stuff about monkeys (an obsession that is evidently shared by the entire Thrasher family), as well as a comprehensive (albeit homicidally insane) explanation of his plans for engineering my gruesome death. He also says some nasty things about Sean, which I must admit are not entirely without merit.

We have arranged to meet at the beginning of next week and "have it out", so I will be certain to tell you how that goes. Having met this pathetic character some years ago before he was lost at sea (another unfortunate tendency that runs in the Thrasher family), I can tell you that I am not particularly concerned about our impending encounter.

Posted by Jack on September 7, 1677

The London Gazette

It has been five days since the funeral for Patrick, and I am no closer to understanding the mystery of the fearful ghost that manifested itself in order to terrify the guests, and – I am quite certain, as I was keeping count – eat the last two slices of cake. Our little event even received a write-up in that dreadful rag, The London Gazette. Sean is so pleased with it that he has affixed a copy of the article to the wall of his room, and insists on reading it to anyone who is unlucky enough to find themselves in the vicinity.

Posted by Jack on August 16, 1677

A Ghost

Well, I awoke ten minutes ago with a pounding headache to find myself naked beneath the table in my study, clutching an empty tankard of rum in one arm and a jar of dead leeches in the other. Sadly, this is not the first time this has happened…

But I digress. My recollection of today's disastrous memorial for Patrick is somewhat shaky, but I remember enough to know that it was a fitting sendoff for him, populated as it was by a procession of anxious scholars who were more at ease with the palsied ape that had been procured for the event than they were with the parade of whores, thieves, and gibbering idiots who filled out the list of attendees that Sean had spent the last three nights feverishly rounding up. Oh yes, and there was also a ghost.

Not content, apparently, with classifying the different orders of mollusk that can be found at the bottom of the ocean where his body lies, Patrick's spirit evidently felt a need to intrude upon our little service and terrify the beleaguered guests – who were already on the verge of rioting after sitting through Sean's (two-hour-long) eulogy, which had finally arrived at an interesting segment in which Sean had pulled open his shirt and was beating his chest in anguish, while the whores shouted catcalls and the scholars from the Royal Society attempted to hide beneath their seats.

I do not pretend to understand this apparition, and I am in no state to make sense of it at the present moment, but I know that I saw with my own eyes two figures – both the very likeness of Patrick himself (though very much the worse for wear) – standing on the outskirts of the crowd and looking on with a mixture of disgust and what appeared to be constipation. Since, by that point in the proceedings, I was seeing two of everything else, I am willing to concede that one of those figures was likely a figment of my imagination, but there can be no denying the fact that a disturbingly Patrick-like individual was among the guests at Patrick's funeral.

I may comfort myself at least with the knowledge that should this spirit choose to haunt me, he will be hard-pressed indeed to aggravate me more than Patrick did when he was alive. I shall look further into this mystery tomorrow, when the world is spinning less vigorously.

Posted by Jack on August 11, 1677

A Eulogy for Patrick

I have won out against many a stubborn adversary in my time. I was able to make my first wife admit that I would never have been tempted by the scullery maid had she been more attentive to me in the first place. And on more than one occasion, after hours of haggling, I have persuaded a pauper that it was in his best interests to give me a ha'penny. But Sean's obstinacy is like nothing I have ever encountered. He insists on having a funeral for the late Patrick tomorrow, and tomorrow we shall have it, though it pains me more than I can say to spend more time and more money on a gentleman who made it his life's work to try my patience and drain my wallet.

Fortunately, not only do I know when I am beaten, but I know how to make the best of it. As part of our agreement, Sean volunteered that he would attend to the preparations for tomorrow's funeral provided that I would compose a few choice words to say about Patrick during the event.

And compose I did. I holed myself up in my study all day today, and with nothing but a bottle of rum for inspiration, I was able to piece together a statement on Patrick's tragic life that is at some times witty, at some times moving, and at all times faithful to the spirit of his personality and the mark that he left on the world. I touched on his remarkable abilities as a cribbage player, his difficulties pronouncing certain words and understanding certain basic concepts, the amusing tendency he had to sweat profusely in the presence of women, and his endearing habit of taking a surefire business proposition and turning it into a financial disaster. I mused upon his unique ability to take an hour to tell a story that would take another man five minutes, and his dogged persistence in believing that people were still listening to him talk long after they had given up. 

None of this was good enough for Sean, of course. Indeed, he seemed quite vexed by my speech when I read it to him. But considering the sentimental nonsense that he is intending to read tomorrow at the funeral, I am not particularly inclined to think much of his advice as far as eulogies are concerned. After breaking into tears halfway through his attempt to read it, he handed me his speech and begged me to read it for myself instead. I have posted it below, for your amusement.

Oh woe is me. Woe, woe, woe. Dear, dear Patrick, you were my dearest friend. Apart from my second cousin Maureen. Oh, Patrick, I do not know how you died, but I know that you died bravely. Did the Kraken swallow you up as you rushed to save your companions from drowning? Or did Poseidon himself rise from the ocean and take you into his bosom? Oh, woe. [pause here to allow the audience to collect themselves]. Woe!

It goes on.

I am not looking forward to tomorrow.

Posted by Jack on August 9, 1677

A Funeral (of all things)

Sean is trying my patience. Allow me to rephrase that: After trying my patience for almost a year now, Sean has finally succeeded in breaking it irreparably. His latest notion, which he will not leave off, is that we must hold a funeral for the late Patrick, who was lost at sea. What would be the value of such an event, I do not know, but he has become increasingly maudlin about it, clasping my arm and blubbering about "paying our respects," though why I should pay my respects to a man in death who never commanded my respect in life, I am at a loss to explain. It has always been my firm policy not to pay anything that I do not have to, and I do not know why this should be an exception.

But, as I say, he will not leave off. Though I told him last night, flat out, that I will not even countenance the idea, he burst into my chambers this morning with a list that he had written of preparations for the event and pressed it into my hand. He had obviously been up all night, and though I pray that it was but an hallucination from having been awoken so suddenly, I could almost swear that he had been weeping. I have posted Sean's list below. I do not feel that it requires any further comment.

Plans for Dear Patrick's Funeral

Item 1: Refreshments for 100 guests (we must invite the Royal Society)

Item 2: A pine coffin from Mr. Morland's

Item 3: A full choir – I will ask at St. John's if we can have them fitted with angel wings

Item 4: 15 white swans (do you think they can be trained to form into the shape of a heart?)

Item 5: Mr. Pachelbel (the German composer) has written some lovely elegies. Might he be commissioned to do a requiem?

Item 6: We will need someone to give a eulogy. I was thinking the Earl of Shaftesbury (he has a way with words), or else that chap Newton that everyone's going on about (nice to have a fellow scientist?), or myself of course.

Item 7: Would it be considered poor form to invite the ladies from the Crimson Unicorn? 

Item 8: I have a notion of releasing a thousand butterflies into the air at the moment that his coffin (I suppose we shall have to find something to fill it with, as his body is at the bottom of the ocean somewhere) is consigned to the ground. Or is that overdoing it?

Posted by Jack on August 6, 1677

A Flushing Toilet

After having mulled it over for some hours, I have decided against turning Sean in to government agents on the offchance of receiving some sort of reward. He is, after all, a good friend. What I shall do today instead is research the possibility of installing a contraption in my home called a "flushing toilet." I was first tipped off to this novel idea by a young gentleman named Wilf, to whom I am greatly indebted for the notion. This brilliant invention, which was first used by Queen Elizabeth herself, evidently uses a system of levers and pulleys to dispose of waste in one's home. Although such an expensive folly is unlikely to catch on beyond a few enlightened households, I must say that I am quite taken with the idea of having one installed. Wilf also mentioned the necessity of finding something called a "plumber" to ensure the smooth running of the contraption, but I shall attempt to deal with that obstacle when it arises.

It is always difficult to find worthwhile diversions on a Sunday, but I am, on balance, glad that I have opted for home improvements instead of sending my friend to the gallows.

Posted by Jack on July 29, 1677

The Problem of Sean

I have been musing, this morning, on the propriety of my having such a close connection with Sean, whose advantages in being a more than amenable drinking companion are, perhaps, overshadowed somewhat by the drawbacks of his being a filthy Papist dog. In the current climate, with whisperings at Court about a widespread conspiracy amongst the Catholics to put the Duke of York on the throne and convert our great nation to a slavish outpost of Rome, it is perhaps a trifle impolitic of me to be consorting with a man who has been jailed in the past for making subversive comments about the Pope. (Though it must be admitted, I suppose, that I played no small role in that unfortunate incident.) Nonetheless, should it come out that Sean has been involved in some kind of vile Papish plot, my reputation would almost certainly be tarnished by association.

I wonder what sort of a reward he would fetch.

Posted by Jack on July 29, 1677

A Brilliant Ruse

The rancour between Sean and me appears to have subsided somewhat. I have endeavoured to smile at him on every possible occasion to show that I bear him no ill feeling—until he begged me to stop, saying that my face, unaccustomed to contorting itself in such a fashion, was making him uneasy. But since then, we have been cordial to one another, and yesterday afternoon, over a jug of ale, we fell to discussing both the business of Lloyd's & Co. (and their aggravating suspicions that I have defrauded them by burning my ships to collect insurance money from them), and the threatening letters we have both been receiving from a mysterious gentleman who identifies himself only with his initials, "EJT". Sean noted that the Lloyd's problem might be dealt with quite easily, if only we could find a way to cast suspicion for the unfortunate accident with my ships on someone else. Then it would fall to their part to prosecute their new suspect, and they would have no choice but to pay me my dues and have done with it.

Before I had time to compliment him on having uttered what may well be the first intelligent sentiment of his entire life, I was struck with a brilliant idea of my own. A new letter, which I had received from EJT that very morning, was all that was required to give both parties exactly what they deserved and rid ourselves of our worries all at once! With some deftly applied ink and water to create the appearance of a stain, EJT's tedious rants were transformed into an unequivocal admission of guilt. Fortunately, I posted the original letter last night, and you may view that here in order to fully appreciate just what a bit of careful and judicious editing can do. The new letter, or should I say, "evidence", is posted below.

Posted by Jack on July 25, 1677

More Rantings from EJT

What I have done to deserve this, I do not know. I cannot tell which is worse, the anxiety produced by receiving such unpleasant threats on one's person, or the aggravation attendant on being forced to read such abominable prose. You may judge for yourselves. This is the latest missive from the ludicrous "EJT".  It would appear that this gentleman has taken against me for some reason, and doesn't even have the decency to wait in line like every other fool I have parted from their money.

Posted by Jack on July 25, 1677

EJT

Sean returned home yesterday, walked straight into the kitchen without saying a word, picked up an empty wine bottle from the table, and hurled it in my direction. The missile shot past my left ear and exploded into a thousand pieces behind me. Thankfully, no one was harmed (unless you count my manservant, who was knocked unconscious by the exploding bottle, leaving me with no one to clean up the mess for several hours). Evidently, Sean's financial people have been filling his head with garbage about the money he stands to lose if Lloyd's Insurance (which company he has a considerable stake in) is made to pay me for my two trading ships that were burned in a terrible accident two weeks ago, after I filled them with gunpowder and set them alight.

Fortunately, Sean's head for business is even worse than his aim, and I was able to persuade him that it is in both of our best interests for Lloyd's to pay up, since an insurance company that is seen to be publicly reneging on a gentleman's agreement with a man who has done nothing but stand by and watch, in anguish, while his beautiful (albeit termite-ridden) ships burn to the ground will not be likely to attract investors in the future. After we were friends again, Sean told me of a threatening letter he had received, signed only with the initials EJT. The news filled me with consternation, as, that very morning, I had received an ominous note from the same lunatic! I have posted it below for my readers' benefit. If any of you have information as to the identity of this fellow, I would be grateful to hear it.

Sir,

As my net draws ever closer around you and your ugly, feeble-minded friend, it will be my considerable pleasure to watch you both squirm. You may expect retribution for your abominable actions at any moment, though the punishment that it is my duty to impose upon you for your crimes against my family will be as nothing compared with the eternal punishment you will receive at the hands of the Lord for your crimes against honour and religion.

Yours, etc.

EJT

P.S. In case it wasn't clear, the punishment I have planned for you is exceptionally nasty.

My first assumption was that the letter came from my mother-in-law, as the tone of the message bears considerable similarities to the missives I am accustomed to receiving from her, but her initials are not EJT, and she never fails to include some advice in her letters related to my personal hygiene. The "ugly, feeble-minded friend" the note refers to must be Sean, as the only other candidate who fits the description is still lost at sea somewhere, to the best of my knowledge.

An odd business, to be sure. I shall post again once I have delved further into the matter.

Posted by Jack on July 22, 1677

Tagged

I received a disturbing missive this week from a woman calling herself "Christine Swint" and informing me that I had been "tagged" and that I must provide her with eight facts not just about my own doings but about those of Sean and Patrick as well. She did not tell me what consequences I might expect should I fail to comply, but it is not a risk I am willing to take, especially in my present circumstances—hounded as I am by the increasingly burly representatives of Messrs. Lloyd and Co., who continue to accuse me of defrauding their insurance business.

Since eight does not easily divide itself by three, I have opted to include three facts about myself and Sean respectively, and only two about Patrick, because he is a bore and thus less worthy of analysis. If you are inclined, you may take that piece of information itself as a bonus third fact about Patrick.

Three facts about me:

1.) My favourite pastimes are cribbage, theatre, and public hangings.
2.) I have a weakness for ale, but finally gave up drinking for good on Tuesday of last week. Also Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday (twice).
3.) The two things in this world that anger me the most are bigotry and Papists.

Three facts about Sean:

1.) Sean's inferior brain and Irish ancestry make it exceedingly difficult for me to carry on a conversation with him.
2.) Sean's favourite pastimes are whoring, drinking, and drinking with whores.
3.) Sean owes me three shillings. 

Two facts about Patrick:

1.) I first met Patrick 13 years ago in Jamaica — he was suffering from an infected monkey bite, and I found his hallucinations extremely diverting. Our paths have often crossed since then, and I know him better than any man living.
2.) Patrick is a fool and a stutterer.

Posted by Jack on July 14, 1677

"Suspicious Circumstances"

I have had a most vexing week indeed. Evidently, I congratulated myself too early on my clever little scheme to burn my ships and collect the insurance money. Those tight-fisted, mammon-worshipping thieves at Messrs. Lloyd & Company who had so few qualms about accepting my money when the boot was on the other foot have had the audacity to accuse me of fraud! I received a pompous note from Mr. Lloyd on Wednesday full of base accusations about "suspicious circumstances surrounding the fire," which have rendered his company "unable to pay in full until such a time as the exact cause of the incident can be determined." This note was followed by a most unpleasant visit from a low, servile little man who asked me impudent questions about why I happened to be present at the fire and whether it was true that I had been seen purchasing quantities of gunpowder the previous week, with such an obsequious manner that I had no choice but to set the dogs on him.

A second visit, an hour later, from Sean's ludicrous "financial adviser" made matters a good deal more complicated. In an infuriating piece of ill timing, the fool had invested a sizeable portion of Sean's estate in this very company, and was "exceedingly interested" to hear, as he put it, my "side of the story." And so my poor, exhausted dogs were set to work again. I have a good mind to charge both of these gentlemen for the extra feed I have had to give the overworked animals on their account.

A letter from Sean this morning informed me that he is returning to London from God knows what den of infamy he has been holed up in, and that we have much to speak about. I hope very much that at least he will be reasonable about this unfortunate misunderstanding, but I will keep Rex and Cerberus well rested nonetheless.

Posted by Jack on July 12, 1677

A Fortune in Firewood

I should probably not be posting this, but I am very well pleased indeed with the execution of a plan that has more than recouped the losses I incurred in the tea fiasco of last month, viz. 1 trading ship, 6 months' provisions, 400 pounds worth of goods for bartering, and my business partner, Patrick Thrasher. At the same time as this financial shortfall, I received ill news from another quarter — that two of the ships I had been using to transport rum were lately returned from Jamaica with an unsolicited cargo of termites, which beasts were feasting on the innards of my boats with such relish as to suggest that English wood was a delicacy that they would never taste again. I made certain that this would be the case.

I told Sean some nonsense about needing to inspect the ships in Chatham, and encouraged him to come along with me to see how the business was done. I also fed the poor fellow with horror stories about the propensity of the Dutch to launch unprovoked attacks on the harbour, that he might be prepared for the fireworks display I had arranged — which proved, in the event, to be significantly more robust than I had intended. As we approached the ships, I gave a signal to my man at the docks, who gave a signal to his man in the water, and with a great noise that quite startled me, though I was one of a very few who could have been expecting it, both ships (and innumerable families of termites, obliviously enjoying their repast at my expense) burst into flames. As if I had written the script for him myself, Sean ran — arms waving — into the square, shouting as he went, "The Dutch! The Dutch! The Dutch are here!" I have never in my life seen a man flee from a scene with such an odd combination of clumsiness and surprising acceleration, but it was merely a matter of minutes before Sean had disappeared off the horizon. For my part, I sat and lit a pipe to wait, watch, and take notes for the benefit of the poor gentlemen with whom I insured my boats last year for a considerable sum, in the event of a fire.

I must admit that an unintended result of my plan was that the witnesses to the event, who were uninclined to believe that the Netherlands would really strike at us in such a fashion, concluded instead that the conflagration could only have been caused by a lawless brigand — or worse, a Catholic — and it is not inconceivable that they fixed their suspicions on the Irish newcomer who reacted so quickly by blaming the explosion on the Dutch. I have not seen Sean since.

Posted by Jack on July 7, 1677

Disaster

You will gather from the title of this post that I have not left for the Indies as promised – though, lest you think that this is but a small deviation from a grander plan, I should observe that our ship has left without us. But you will want to know how we ended up in our pitiable situation, and – racked with concern for our well-being as you must be – how we are faring at the present moment. The answer to the latter question is "not very well at all, thank you very much", and the answer to the former is rather more complicated. To wit:

On the 28th of May, the day before our intended departure, Patrick retired to bed and Sean and I headed for the Griffin, ostensibly to celebrate our last day in England – though it was my intention to ply the Irishman with so much liquor that he would finally give over his superstitious reluctance to set foot aboard a ship (a fear which he failed to inform us of until two days before we were set to leave). Some hours, several pints, and two public houses later, we found ourselves in an area of London that I have not often frequented, at a place called The George and Dragon. Our conversation had turned to Papists, and the relevant part of it proceeded as follows:

Sean: [slurring badly and humming to himself] The pope, the pope, the pope the pope, the pope.
Me: [patiently, but with genuine concern] Sean, my friend, please come to your senses – or at the very least sing about something less incendiary.
Sean: [grinning as if he were the greatest wit in the world] The pope, the pope's our only hope!

At this point, I became very anxious, and I could sense other patrons of the inn pricking up their ears and turning their wary eyes in our direction, but in my attempt to head Sean off at the pass, I made a blunder that significantly worsened our situation:

Me: [in a strained whisper] It is high time we left. [And louder] Come on. Up, Sean. Rise up.
Sean: [mimicking me at the top of his voice] Rise up, rise up! The pope! The pope! The pope!

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, I knew we were in trouble. All eyes turned to us, and there was a general clamour and confusion, through which I could hear someone shouting "Papist conspirators! Arrest them!" and the next thing I knew, we were being bundled into a cart headed for a prison cell.

I am not yet ready to speak of the horrors that I endured over the next seven days, which were rendered almost unbearable by Sean's insistence on singing Irish drinking songs to "keep our spirits up," but, relieved as I am to have been released with a fine for public drunkenness, the damage that has been done is irrevocable. With Sean and I stranded in England, our entire venture in the Indies now rests on Patrick's resourcefulness and creativity – which is like saying that I have entrusted my entire estate to the cat and am hoping for the best.

Posted by Jack on June 10, 1677

Last Night in England

Tomorrow morning we are departing for fortune and adventure in the Indies, but tonight we celebrate. Well, some of us do. Patrick is too nervous about the journey and has retired to bed early, but Sean and I have a night of revels planned to mark our last day in merry old England! We set sail tomorrow at dawn.

Posted by Jack on May 28, 1677

Departure

I have not posted in a couple of weeks now, as preparations for our departure for the Indies have consumed my every waking second, and even in my rare moments of leisure I am forced to occupy myself with Patrick's incessant worrying over the most pedantic details and Sean's increasingly paranoid rantings about "protecting our interests back home while we are overseas." Sean's latest affectation is perhaps his most preposterous yet, worse even than his ill-fated (and extremely messy) attempt to have a contraption of funnels and pipes installed in his chambers, that he might drink wine without rising from his bed. He is paying a gentleman, who professes to be an expert on "investments" and "accounting" to help him to manage his money. Sean refers to him as his "financial adviser," which title adds an air of absurdity to the already ridiculous business that is almost too much to bear. Nonetheless, this gentleman has been nothing but trouble, meddling where he does not belong and filling Sean's head with questions that are as difficult to answer as they are detrimental to our primary goal, which is to make me as much money as possible.

The ship sets sail on Tuesday, and our captain assures us that the weather forecast is propitious and that our journey will be without event until we reach the Cape of Good Hope, at which point we must put our trust in God's hands. Given the fact that our captain is a thieving, mongrel Spaniard, I am very much looking forward to reaching the Cape, where I can remove my trust in his questionable seamanship and place it with the Lord instead.

Posted by Jack on May 27, 1677

Panic

I awoke this morning in a panic. Our ship is set to leave for the Indies in two weeks' time, and we have hardly begun to prepare! Though it was not yet light, I hastened to awaken Patrick and Sean (neither of whom appeared particularly pleased with my solicitude on their behalf), piled them into my carriage and headed forthwith for the docks where our ship is being loaded for the journey. Despite Sean's constant stream of complaints (which I dare not repeat here for fear of scandalizing any lady readers of this blog), my apprehension turned out to have been entirely justified, as we arrived at the scene to find the dockworkers we had hired in the process of removing all of our provisions from the ship. Since Sean had fallen back into a deep sleep from which it was impossible to rouse him and Patrick's deep phobia of commoners prevented him from exiting the carriage, it fell to my part to approach the dockworker who appeared to be in charge and attempt to discover what was going on. The conversation proceeded something like this:

ME: Gad, man, what in Heaven's name are you doing?
DOCKWORKER: We're getting the provisions out from this here ship.
ME: Yes, I can see that, but why? You're supposed to be loading them onto the ship.
DOCKWORKER: T'ain't what it says in the contract. 
ME: What do you mean it's not in the contract? I drew up that contract myself, and it stipulates quite clearly that "The provisions shall be moved betwixt the port and the ship at the rate of 8 pence per day per worker."
DOCKWORKER: Exactly. It says "betwixt port and ship," but I didn't read nowhere that it says which direction the goods should be movin'. Or when they should stop, for that matter. My men have been workin' very hard indeed to move your provisions onto the ship, and now they're workin' again to move them back to the port. "Betwixt port and ship" just as Your Grace has taken the trouble to stipulate.

Very few times in my life has anything made me so angry as the way that man said "stipulate," but, as the brute was nearly twice my size, there was very little I could do but ask what we might do to add a clause to the contract which would provide that the men leave the goods on the ship once they had brought them there. "Oh," he told me with a smirk, "I wish you'd said that earlier—it would have saved us a good deal of trouble. That will cost you tuppence extra per worker on the daily rate. It requires a good deal more effort just to leave the provisions on the ship, as we'll have to worry about what's the best place to stow them in that case." I had little choice but to raise their rates, and I returned to the carriage in a foul mood which was not improved by Patrick's frightened stuttering or Sean's oblivious snores. It will require a superhuman effort for us to be ready to embark in two weeks, especially given that two of the three men involved in this venture are God's prize idiots.

Posted by Jack on May 14, 1677

An Unpleasant Memory

It has been a week now since I inadvertently walled Patrick up behind a bookcase, but he has still not allowed me to hear the last of it. During this confinement, he evidently discovered a book dedicated to me by the late lamented Mary Carleton, which he will not cease to jibe me about, though it does vex me greatly to speak of her. Mary was a woman of prodigious beauty and a facility with society and conversation that generally made up for her difficulty in grasping certain fundamental aspects of morality. You may remember that her arrest was much publicized some years ago after she was exposed as a bigamist, a thief, and a cheat, and I should note that I was present at her execution myself, though it gave me little pleasure (I arrived rather too late to get a good view of the hanging). 

But all this talk of Mary has put me in a pensive, melancholy frame of mind, for which, in my experience, there is only one certain cure. And having applied that cure rather liberally for some hours now, it is only with great difficulty that I am able to apply myself to the task of posting, and though I must needs be up early tomorrow to meet with the gentleman who will be captaining our ship to the Indies in a few months' time, the desire to while away an hour or so with the ladies at the Crimson Unicorn is becoming more and more difficult to ignore. Indeed, it is my experience that once such a thought has entered my head, there is little use in attempting to push it aside, so you will, I hope, forgive my abruptness in taking my leave of you.

Posted by Jack on April 30, 1677

Tax Day

Current mood: Impecunious

I will not make a secret of the fact that I am in a very ill temper this evening. The fault lies directly with King Charles, though Sean and Patrick are in no small degree responsible themselves. It is the singularly unjust policy of His Majesty's government to intrude upon the privacy of citizens like myself, who have worked our fingers to the bone to scrape together some small comforts in this harsh world, such as a fireplace (or, in my case seven fireplaces) to keep out the bitter winter cold; a healthy mare to provide transport from place to place (or, if your estate is as large as mine, a team of horses and a French-made 1676-model Gala Coupé carriage); and a trusted maid to keep your home in order (again, if we are talking about me here, which strictly-speaking, we are, this would technically be three maids, a manservant, a full-time groom, and a personal chef). To intrude, as I say, upon the privacy of citizens like myself who have barely enough to make ends meet as it is, and to count the number of fireplaces in our home—by way of establishing our worth—so as to make us pay a "Hearth Tax" to support the dubious policies of the Crown, whether we agree with them or not.

King Charles II: Robbing England blind since the Restoration

As I do not agree with the policies of this government (particularly those which allow government agents to make nuisances of themselves where people's fireplaces are concerned), it has been my own policy for some years to leave the door unanswered when the taxman comes to call, and I have made a point of including it very prominently in the list of "100 simple rules to make your stay more pleasant for all" which I give to all my guests. As of this morning, when he answered the door—my door—to the Hearth Tax inspector, Sean has now broken every single rule on that list. Including the one about not being drunk before 9 o'clock on Sunday mornings, which I only put in there as a joke. Well, as soon as I realized who it was that Sean was speaking with, I did the only thing a reasonable man could do in such a situation: I roused Patrick from his study and set him to work moving large pieces of furniture to conceal as many fireplaces as he could before the tax inspector discovered them. When Sean found me and Patrick, frantically pushing a day-bed in front of the fireplace in the withdrawing room, and blithely informed us that a man was "here about the hearths," I instructed him (through gritted teeth) to return to the tax inspector and distract the man for as long as he could manage. 

The dreaded Hearth Tax

This proved not to be very long at all, as the gentleman appeared—followed by a shamefaced and sullen Sean—less than fifteen minutes later, just as Patrick and I were maneuvering a massive bookcase to cover the hearth in the dining room. Patrick had managed somehow to get himself between the bookcase and the fireplace, so when the inspector walked into the room he discovered me effectively walling my accomplice in behind the collected works of Dante Alighieri, which—especially after Patrick involuntarily pushed his hand through La Vita Nuova and both volumes of De Vulgari Eloquentia to reveal that he was standing in front of a fireplace—proved very difficult to explain in any other way than that I was attempting to cheat the government out of its blasted hearth tax. I hate Tax Day.

Posted by Jack on April 15, 1677

Sean Continues to Annoy

A short post this morning, as I am busy with accounts all day today. I should mention that Sean is in a temper with me because I found it necessary to ask his odious group of flatterers to leave my home last night, and, as I had been in my drinks for some time—not through intemperance mind you, but as a last resort to try and get to sleep with all the racket going on downstairs—I was not perhaps quite so diplomatic as I would have liked. Though honestly, if a man takes such offense at being called, in jest, a malodorous bootlicker, then he is not fit to be called a man. Now that I think on it, I may have expressed that opinion as well, which was perhaps a trifle impolitic in the circumstances.

Thus Sean is sulking and silent, and Patrick being at an all-day symposium on leeches at the Royal Society I have some leisure to attend to my own affairs for once, beginning with this ship we have chartered for our venture out East. I am less troubled by the ship itself than I am by its captain, a Spanish gentleman named Gustavo Araoz, who is one of those fellows that insists on clasping one's hand with far too much force when he is introduced, which, coupled with the grave shortcoming I have already mentioned—that he is a Spaniard—leaves me with no small misgivings about him.

I am just now remembering that there was quite a bit of talk about a duel last night. I hope very much that it did not involve me.

Posted by Jack on March 31, 1677

Putting on Airs

Current mood: Captious
Listening to: A Mighty Fortress Is Our God, by Johann Herman Schein (don't even ask)

I have been remiss in not posting for some time now, but truth be told, while my house has been a flurry of activity the past two weeks, it has not been particularly postworthy activity, to my mind. Unless, that is, you are one of those who make a study of human nature and take an academic interest (or a perverse pleasure) in the absurd antics of the chronically silly. I am referring, of course, to Sean, who continues to board with me while he seeks a more permanent residence where he may, presumably, flounce around the house more or less unrestricted.

It has not been long since Sean came into money, but he has wasted no time in acquiring a positive throng of toadying "friends", who like to pretend that his privy humour is the highest form of wit, and that his ludicrous outfits (one of his first actions upon becoming rich was to purchase a pair of breeches that could, and possibly do, house a small family) are the very acme of the "new style". Worse yet, he has begun to speak in the most affected manner, which, given that he has only three topics of conversation at his disposal—whores, drinking, and drinking with whores—produces some of the most ludicrous sentiments ever uttered in the English language (if such it can be called).

Nonetheless, it must be admitted that he has, at times, a shrewd head for business, and though he throws his money away to suit his vanity and his sycophantic friends, I will not be surprised overmuch should he make it back through sound investments. At any rate, our upcoming venture into the East does not fill me with such fear as it did at first, and if I can only get him and Patrick to concentrate we will make some proper headway. This does not appear likely today, however, as the pair of them are enjoying an impromptu harpsichord recital downstairs, while Sean makes inappropriate comments and claps at all the wrong times.

Posted by Jack on March 24, 1677

Doing Business With Fools

Four days have passed, and my foul mood has not yet subsided. The long-anticipated gathering arranged by the black-toothed Dutchman, Hans Broekman—who advertised it to me as a meeting of "all the most influential personages in the tea business from London to Leeuwarden"—might as well have been a drinking bout in the stables with Sean, Patrick, and my horse Bucephalus for all the useful new contacts I made in the East India Company. I have been at a loss for words but twice in my life: The first time, perhaps unsurprisingly, also involved Patrick—when he arrived at my home after three years' absence wearing nothing but a turban and a loincloth and babbling incoherently about the black death. Now that I think on it (and as soon as I am finished being vexed with him), I must remember to ask him what that business was all about—at the time, my only instinct was to set the dogs on him, and I never did discover the story behind his sudden strange reappearance.

The second time was four nights ago, when I walked into Pasqua Rosee's coffeehouse in St. Michael's Alley to discover both Sean and Patrick sitting at a table full of East India notables, with Patrick sweating and stammering even more than normal (if that can be imagined) and Sean grinning and simpering like a cat that had stolen the cream.

Pasqua Rosee's Coffeehouse, which I used to quite like

Fortunately, I was able to recover myself and avert the complete disaster that the pair seemed to have intended for the evening, negotiating a stake in Sean's shares (how he laid his hands on them, I am at a loss to explain) that will allow me at least to reign him in when he becomes extravagant, and helping Patrick to finish his sentences.

These past four days I have spent confined to my chambers, listening to the pair of them retelling the story to each other over and over again with great mirth and revelry, while I try to reconcile my own accounts with the dangerous business proposition they have forced me into, and grind my teeth into a powder.

Posted by Jack on February 26, 1677

Love Is in the Air

I'm sorry to raise such an unpleasant subject, but love has been much on my mind today, though I could not tell you why the notion should have entered into my head. It may be that I am coming down with a bad cold, or some sort of infection—such illnesses are quite common in the middle of February. I have often found that writing helps me calm myself when my brain is agitated in this way, so I took the liberty this afternoon of composing a list of the advantages and the disadvantages that I have discovered in having an attachment with a woman, a task whose ameliorative effects I felt immediately, and whose results I shall post now for your interest and edification, beginning with the disadvantages.

The Disadvantages of Love

1. The prospect of having a woman share one's bed is much more pleasant than the actual result. Though 'tis true that after a time one remembers only the caresses and the sweet whispers, the prevailing experience is one of legs and arms everywhere, and farts beneath the blankets.

2. Three times in my life have I thought myself to be in love. The first turned out to be a case of kidney stones, the second (though a pleasant enough experience) ended very sadly indeed, and the third cost me nearly half my fortune. Thus, love is expensive, painful, and bad for the health.

3. Unlike ill humor, disappointment, or remorse, love is only made worse by a jug of ale. 

4. A woman who truly loves you will look beyond the façade that you present to the world and come to see you for the person that you really are. This is not a pleasant experience for either party.

5. Being in love is not unlike being drunk, though in the latter case, the nauseating effects of overindulgence do not usually last a lifetime.

The Advantages of Love

1. When I had a wife, I often found it a useful way of extricating myself from awkward social engagements by claiming that she had a case of the vapors.

Those were all that I could come up with—though I think it is not a bad list, and it did me good to write it. I believe I would have been cured entirely had there been any available ladies at the Crimson Unicorn tonight, but when I arrived they were all occupied, and I found Patrick sitting desultorily at a table with a bottle of wine. I sat with him for a while, until Sean joined us, and they both seemed quite interested to hear my disquisition on the merits and drawbacks of the married life. I suppose I have had less pleasant evenings.

Posted by Jack on February 14, 1677

The Dutchman

Peace at long last, and a bit of time to post. It cannot have been much more than 14 days since that beast from hell, my mother-in-law, insinuated its way into my home, but I feel as though I have lived many lifetimes in those two short weeks. Yesterday was spent mostly in prayer (she, often vociferously, for my soul, and I for a quick death), and for the better part of today we discussed the deficiencies in my grooming habits. I have taken the precaution of installing Sean in the stables (Mrs. Turner does not take kindly to papists), which situation he did not bemoan as much as I had anticipated. Indeed, he appears to have formed a strong attachment with my horse, which is exceedingly strange to me. I had thought that Bucephalus had better taste.

My mother-in-law: an artist's rendition

Patrick, that scoundrel, is nowhere to be seen, though he may perhaps be excused for taking his opportunity to escape the monster's clutches. Better men than he have quailed at her fearsome approach.

Despite this adversity, I am not beaten; indeed I am quite pleased with myself this evening, as I am near to closing a deal that will, I believe, solidify my interests in the tea trade. Next week, I am to meet with Hans Broekman—a Dutchman from the East India Company—to present a proposal for backing one of his ventures out East. He informs me that some of the most important personages in the business will be present at the meeting. Many of them are very well known in the trade, though I am particularly curious to meet two mysterious new players—a wealthy Irishman with a large stake in East India stock, and an academic with powerful connections to Indian royalty. I shall be very interested to see how this meeting turns out.

Posted by Jack on February 5, 1677

Why have you forsaken me?

Current mood: Sanctimonious

Today has been triply vexed, and my head is so full of religion that I believe I could recite all the psalms from end to end without mistaking a word. I have been to Mattins and stayed for Eucharist, and we are home now, having just taken luncheon—where the discussion did not once deviate from today's sermon, which was made the more difficult for me by the fact that my only material recollection of its contents and qualities was that it was exceedingly long. I have but a few minutes to post now, as my mother-in-law, Mrs. Mary Turner, has a full day of the most exquisite tortures planned for me, ending with Evensong and an early bed, without so much as a drop of ale allowed from morning to night to dull the agonies that she inflicts upon me with each shrill, hysterical utterance that emerges (like a poisoned dart) from betwixt her carious, yellow teeth. Why do you spurn me, Lord? Why must I go about mourning, with the enemy oppressing me?

See? Psalms. Hundreds of them. Rattling around my head with such a clamour that I cannot tell what is my own thought and what is an imposter from the Book of Common Prayer. Business goes ill as well, though I have had little time to think on it today. Patrick approached me on Thursday to present his scheme for making some headway in the tea trade. It is his notion, if I understand him rightly, that we can make capital by managing operations in India ourselves rather than investing in the operations of the Dutch. This seems to me to be an exceedingly risky plan, and I said as much to him. Nonetheless, he persists in his belief that his own connections with the Indian nobility would give us an advantage over the Dutch venture—a notion which does not impress me, as I have it from a reliable source that his most recent visit to India ended with his running naked from a Rajah's palace, pursued by a family of angry gibbons. I shall not be quite so easily parted from my money.

Posted by Jack on January 21, 1677

Bad news

Current mood: Bilious

Listening to: 'Ayres and dialogues, for one, two, and three voyces' by Henry Lawes

This morning, Patrick and Sean somehow discovered my store of songbooks, and I have had no peace all day. The Irishman has a tolerable voice, it must be admitted, but Patrick's strained tenor is not unlike the mating call (or the death throes) of one of our London starlings.

It was with this cacophony by way of accompaniment that I received the most dreadful news that I have heard since my Liza's unexpected death: My mother-in-law (Liza's erstwhile mother) is coming to visit. I do not yet know how long she intends to stay, but I am quite certain that she intends to chatter endlessly, complain about my way of life, and make unreasonable demands on my time and my purse for as long as she is here. Under normal circumstances, I would plead a sudden onset of gout or dropsy, or plague—such is my desperation—but I can ill afford this luxury at present, as I have my eye on the old woman's sizeable fortune, and must be civil to her or suffer the financial consequences.

Perhaps if I introduce her to Patrick, they will bore each other to death.

Posted by Jack on January 7, 1677

Happy New Year!

Patrick read out his “Top Ten Momentous Events of 1676” to Sean and me this evening, and I enjoyed it very much. He really can be an amusing fellow when he desires it. In answer to Patrick’s list, and in anticipation of the Year of Grace 1677, I have taken the liberty of composing a list of my own, which enumerates those ideas which have fallen out of fashion this year and those which I believe will gain prominence in the New Year. Quite a novel idea, I think, and one that I am very pleased with indeed:

Out: Nathaniel Bacon. Dysentery, poor chap.

In: Francis Bacon. I had always been content frying up a rasher or two with a liberal dose of butter, but Patrick tells me that the alchemists are all abuzz with talk of a new “Baconian method,” so I will cede to his judgment in this matter.

---

Out: Pope Clement X. Like all popes, this one spoke a nasty foreign language and lived an unnaturally long time. Good riddance to him.

In: Pope Innocent XI. Cut off a head and another one grows in its place. New face, same silly hat.

---

Out: Catholic Terrorists. Attempting to blow up Parliament, burn down an entire city, and take control of the monarchy is all in a decade’s work for a dedicated papist, but some of us are beginning to tire of the whole business.

In: Terrorizing Catholics. It will start, no doubt, with just being occasionally cruel to them, but I’m hoping for public hangings by the end of 1677.

---

Out: Monogamy. A man who still holds it valuable to remain faithful to his wife may get himself to sleep at night by counting up the king’s mistresses, from Nell Gwynne to Lucy Walter. The rest of us have other ways to occupy ourselves at night.

In: Nell Gwynne. If she’s good enough for the king, she’s good enough for any man in England. That seems to be her philosophy anyway.

---

Out: George Etherege. Man of Mode was doubtless the comic highlight of the year, but I sense that the nation is growing weary with the Comedy of Manners. Indeed, with the way the Whigs are carrying on in Parliament, it seems that some of us are ready to abandon manners altogether.

In: Aphra Behn. The notion of a woman writing plays is as humorous as anything even George Etherege could come up with. I expect we have not seen the last of this monstrosity.

---

Out: Pepys' Diary. For a daily dose of toadying and affectation with a sprinkling of privy humour, Samuel Pepys is your man. But for a modern reader with more refined tastes …

In: Peep This Diary. The blogosphere just isn’t big enough for the both of us.

Posted by Jack on December 30, 1676

Ouch. Bloody well ouch.

The position I find myself in is not entirely unfamiliar. I am sat down to compose an account for you of my doings this past week, and yet I find my memory as reluctant to perform its assigned task as my head is sore—which is a considerable amount. In fact, the more I think on it, the more there is a part of me that rebels outright at the prospect of vouchsafing an account of the last few days, as if my having knowledge of the events I have been involved in were somehow more terrible even than the fact of my involvement.

But I will start with what I do know, and perhaps we can piece together the remainder. First, an accounting: I am minus one boot, a gold ring that I had been accustomed to wear lately, the hair of my left eyebrow (which appears to have been singed off), two matchlock muskets, and a pair of velvet breeches. I am plus a silver crucifix of uncertain value, a blood-stained hat that by the looks of it belonged to a sailor, a great bruise on my thigh and another on my cheek, £50 sterling (nearly enough to buy me a small cottage in the country), and a one-eyed hunting dog who will not leave off barking at me.

I remember very well leaving the house a few days ago to meet with a Dutchman from the East India Company at The Griffin. I also remember accompanying him to his home for some drinks and a game of cards, during which I became quite irate and left either because I caught someone cheating or because someone caught me cheating. I am quite certain that I also attended some abysmal play in cheapside, but beyond that I can dredge up very little at all except a strong suspicion that I will not be welcome back in the Crimson Unicorn in the foreseeable future. I arrived home yesterday morning, and Patrick kindly helped me to my bed and brought me tea, after which I did not wake until just now, when this dog began barking at me. Well, we shall trust God that I have not done any lasting damage.

Posted by Jack on December 20, 1676