Peep This Diary

The Week Underground and Beyond the Blade

I have enlisted some capable, discreet gentlemen to aid me in the recovery of those parts of my magnificent collections that S&J buried this Autumn passed. We are now past the final frost, and as soon as this cursed rain passes and the ground has dried, we shall dig (!). I am equal parts apprehensive and giddy as a new bride. I fear that six months underground will do the wings of my coleoptera no good whatsoever.

In good news, I am told that J has had a productive first meeting with my colleague, Dr. L, a self-proclaimed expert on the Abatement of Anger Without The Use of Leeches or The Blade. While I have  serious doubts about the scientific validity of this method, Jack does seem in slightly better spirits, though perhaps only because, rather than flowing towards every person he meets, his excessive Bile has been focused entirely on Dr. L. He has not stopped heaping scorn on the man since his meeting.

Posted by Patrick on April 28, 1678

More fun at the CU

I must say S & J have been making quite a go of the Crimson Unicorn. Bar seats have become so lucrative that I have been forbidden from lingering there without "paying my way," which, given the margins they seek, requires buying at least three quarts of ale and a tussle with a two-pearl (minimum) wench. And - as I believe I have mentioned already - cash only, upfront.

As I do not have the income, stomach, or inclination to commit myself to such an outlay by simply walking through the doors, J and I have negotiated an alternative arrangement. If I can improve their take on their slowest evening (Sunday) by a specified amount, I may be exempt from the minimum drink/whore requirements. As S so clearly put it, J & S pick up on a slow night what they lose on my slow, cheap arse on a busy one. It's little wonder they've done so well.

At the time this seemed like an excellent deal for all, but I begin to think I have gotten the short-end of the stick.

Posted by Patrick on April 3, 1678

Up late with a good read

I have remained up far past my bedtime, and assuredly ruining my eyes, reading
Huygen's Horologium Oscillatorium. It's mechanical wonders astonish; I count myself fortunate to live in an age that sees such technological advances.

Posted by Patrick on March 28, 1678

A Non-Intrusive Operation?

I spoke this morning with Dr. L of the RSC about S and my proposal to relieve J of his roiling yellow bile, which hath made him so choleric as to be unfit, at times, for all proper company. the Doctor sees two possible remedies, one known and one novel:

1) the timely removal of J's gall bladder under Dr. L's sure blade [known, effective, but risks death]; &
2) a series of interviews with Dr. L to reveal the first case of J's flood of yellow bile, and, it is hoped, to thereby tame that flood [novel and completely unproven].

I cannot honestly say which remedy J will despise more. Perhaps S and I simply shouldn't tell him. I must consult further.

Posted by Patrick on March 20, 1668

A Medical Request

In an unlikely move, Sean approached me this Thursday past and, forgoing his usual greeting - "Pat, you ignorant hussy!" - for a polite "How are you today?" asked me for some discreet medical help.

He hath encountered a woman who  troubled his insides, he explained, and further, he hath suggested that the cause of the trouble is neither the clap nor the canker, for he hath not yet so much as held the door for her. 

I suspect a sudden surfeit of blood so great that it flooded his gall bladder, and accordingly I prescribed leeches. Sean's bile should soon flow smoothly once more, and he will no doubt return to his usual irascible self within a few days.

I also prescribed he keep at least 50 yards from this woman, until we discover what about her hath prompted this sudden flow. Jack is on the case.

Posted by Patrick on February 18, 1678

Jack, Subdued

Quite a long conversation with Jack evening last, and greatly surprised at the attention - nay, interest - he seemed to have in my draft of a proposed Code of Ethicks for Society members on expedition (exempli gratia: "make every reasonable attempt to observe a specimen in its natural environment before shooting and collecting it"). He is not one to wax philosophic. He seemed, even, near melancholy, a rare, quiet response in deed from the man; historically, even the death of a dear loved one has received from him the very same intense and pugnacious bile as a misplaced jam jar or a delay in shipment. Perhaps his new passion for golf is to blame; I will observe him discreetly.

One lone, dark month since the solstice, and already I look forward to the warmth of the new year.

Posted by Patrick on January 26, 1678

Ten Momentous Things, Changes, and Events of 1677

The good year of our Lord 1677 has come to its end, and not without adventures of all sorts. My ill-fated trip to the Orient being foremost among them, I have spent some time since my return catching up on all the news since my departure. NTL, given the popularity of last year's list, I have once again compiled the Ten Most Important Occurrences of 1677, as a partial record of this eventful year. I welcome comments on the strength of these ten as the years Most Important, or on any Omissions readers may have determined in my list.

10) Death of Francis Glisson (below): An old and beloved colleague, he passed away not long after my return to London. A renowned Doctor of Physick, his study of the liver has advanced medicine immeasurably, and has saved many of us the trouble of investigating the most boring of organs.

9) Marriage of Mary to her coz William of Orange: So much preferable to that cad, the Dauphin Louis.

8) The New Management at the Crimson Unicorn: Though I am loathe to list the same establishment on two "best of" lists in a row, Jack and Sean's active involvement in the management of the best baudy house in all of London surely merits it. I have not yet determined whether this is an event of great joy or woe; but, given their harsh efforts to cut costs, and their extreme dislike of credit - even mine, and even though previous management supplied them such credit quite generously - I am leaning towards the latter. But the new sconces are nice.

7) The removal of Thomas Killigrew from the the post of Master of the Revels: Nearly as incompetent as he is unfunny, I was mightily pleased to find upon my return that he had lost his post. I am certain that ninny Pepys is disappointed; I know he found Killigrew amusing. Need I mention that Killigrew is a Papist?

6) Jean Racine's Phèdre: I have only read it - the text was given to me by a colleague before I departed for points east; I read it a dozen times on the outbound journey alone - and I have heard that the opening performances were not well received, but this play is a masterpiece. For Racine's sake, I hope History reveals this to be true.

5) Henry Purcell named to the court of Charles II: I have very high hopes for this young composer. His compositions and performances as organist at Westminster have certainly earned him the posting.

4) The death of Wenceslaus Hollar, etcher:  A great loss for all involved in Natural Philosophy. None in the City had his gift for representation, nor his production speed. His illustrative work has enabled many, many great minds to study flora & fauna seen in person by only a lucky few. Examples:

I had hoped to enlist Hollar in illustrating my own texts on my discoveries in the Orient.

3) Elias Ashmole's gift of the Tradescant Collection to Oxford University: An unprecedented scholastic opportunity, and we all look forward to the new Facilities built to house the Collection. Of course, the bequest is something of a blow to Viscount Brouncker, who had been trying to secure the collection for the Royal Society for the better part of the decade.

2) Completion of the Monument to the Great Fire of London: Wren does it again (with some help from Robert Hooke). Not only is the monument a fitting tribute to that catastrophe, but it affords a grand view of the City from its pinnacle...and it is a spectacular scientific instrument as well! It functions both as a large zenith telescope AND a laboratory for conducting gravity experiments. My only complaint: the illustrative carvings and inscription around its base fail to mention the cause of the Fire - a Papist conspiracy. Someone should fix this.

1) Discovery of Youthful Medicine in the Orient: I alluded to a "Font of Youth" in a much earlier post, and, while I hesitate to use quite such exuberant language this time around, I NTL believe something there, most likely the water, is responsible for the youthful aspect of even the oldest of men in that far away Delta. Should we be able to determine the exact cause of their longevity, we shall be able to export it back to the West, radically improving the Englishman's quality of life and earning a fortune in the process. History, I think, will show this to be far and away the Most Important Occurrence of the year - perhaps even the decade.

Posted by Patrick on December 31, 1677

Excuses, Excuses

On top of my convalescence from the braining by Jack's lintel stone, the effort required to scour this accursed city, in the (by definition) vain hope of finding worthy substitutes for the largely irreplaceable specimens from my formerly envied collection of world-wide flora and fauna, which collection Jack and Sean committed to the eternal grave in a foolish, if touching, effigy of me, has kept me both very busy and rather too irascible to post on yet another day's failures.

Further, while I was confined to my bed, Sean and Jack took the well-intentioned liberty of inventing and then delivering to my esteemed colleagues at the Society preliminary and completely fraudulent descriptions of my findings from my time in the Orient. The Society now await eagerly tractati on, among other ludicrous topics, the customs of a fictitious tribe that only walk on their hands, the "werefish," and the vegetable lamb of Tartary. Between drafting more truthful versions of these and the constant flow of quacks who, at Sean's behest, "treat" me for melancholy (from which no one has ever died anyway), I have had little time and still less energy to post.

But true to his word, this evening Jack set the dogs on Sean's latest fool before the poor man had even crossed the threshold, and the sight raised my spirits considerably.

Posted by Patrick on October 27, 1677

Home Again!

Hoorah! I never thought Plymouth would look so good! Must dash for the post-chaise - longer post forthcoming upon my arrival in London.

(And, if I count my days right, just in time for Sean's birthday! Won't he be excited!)

Posted by Patrick on September 12, 1677

Glorious, glorious day!

Today has been doubly-blessed!

First, the good Captain Araoz has sailed his ship right back into our bay!

I admit I was not so gracious at first as would have been proper - my initial joy at seeing the ship's sails above the horizon worked itself into blind rage in the hours prior to its arrival, and I spent some time chasing the Captain along the beach hurling coconuts and vile curses - but upon regaining my wits I embraced him and lead him back to the mission.

The day being twice happy, another, even better piece of news: Captain Araoz has born a letter from my poor dead brother! (Who is not dead after all!)

The Captain had sailed off to revittle at a small Spanish port passed a week before our arrival here. ("Did you not receive my note?" asked the jackass when I suggested I would have appreciated knowing his plans prior to his departure.) While taking on stores he had also picked up mail for his crew, which included a letter to me from Edward! It started its journey East on the doorstep of the Society - it missed my departure by mere days.

This is exciting beyond words. What tales he must have!  I wonder what he will make of London apres fire?  I must speed our return...

I believe he and Sean will hit it off famously. Two men more closely aligned in their passions - beer and whoring, chiefly - may not exist otherwise on this good earth.

Posted by Patrick on August 18, 1677

Premonition

I awoke with a shudder the other morning, in the very young hours of the day, as if someone had walked over my grave.

The rain pounding through the leaves outside my room and collecting in pots inside, and the scuttling across my lower leg of some swift creature, which I will call a lizard lest I begin to speculate about its true nature, convinced me that I was still entirely whole and still very, very far from home.

Unsettling nonetheless.

Posted by Patrick on August 13, 1677

The Sixth Worst Day of My Life

Miraculously, The 6th worst day of my life involved Jack only indirectly: four weeks ago, I watched my ship set sail without me aboard.

The Worst of All, of course, was the day I met those damn macaques, and worst days 2, 4, & 5 were the subsequent three days in the gaol with the chills&shakes from their cursed bites. Worst day the 3rd is private.

I wonder if Jack and Sean even remember I am gone. If they do they likely assume me dead and, having broken into my chamber, no doubt have taken to playing "cavaliers" and "roundheads" with my beloved  collection of coleoptera.

It's very likely they are drinking heavily and singing bawdy songs while doing so. Except for musing on the size and ferocity of the sources of the terrible jungle noises heard nightly; and, except for quelling the slow yearning for home and for Odyllia, and the gnawing fear I shall never return, this place has begun to bore me.

I must also post about my adventure, during which I believe I have found a true Font of Youth; should I ever leave this lush and awful land, our fortunes will have been made 1,000 times over. But not now. The good father must complain to Rome once more -- something expensive and unfathomably Papist, a Censer or somesuch, has broke Again -- and so I must cede the terminal to the urgent Needs of the Lord.

Posted by Patrick on August 4, 1677

This is NOT India

Though Captain Araoz insists otherwise, we have made landfall somewhere other than India.

Some startled but welcoming Jesuits have lent me use of their facilities for a moment, for which favor I am now greatly in their debt. Even better, they also lent me a map, which I will present to Cpt'n A to demonstrate further that, wherever we are, it is NOT India. As if the flora, landscape, and melodic, clearly NON-INDIAN native population were not proof enough.

The man begins to try my patience.

Posted by Patrick on July 8, 1677

Go West, Young Man (?!)

The good news: our ship's captain is in fact a extraordinary sailor. We made the equator in fewer days than I have ever known a ship to take.

The bad news: we are sailing West.

After much consideration, I brought my worries to Captain Araoz yesterday, just before we stopped to revictual, as I had begun to notice that the we started our day with the sun behind us, and slightly to port, and finished bearing nearly straight into it. He said little more than "confia en me," and then proudly produced a book:

Pulling a carefully folded leaf whence it had been tucked into the book's middle, he flourished the following map at me:

indicating through gestures and what little of his native tongue my Latin allowed me that, thankfully, he was going to continue with the overall mission as planned, despite his backers having missed the tide, but also that he considered the Straits of Magellan to be a short cut.

Factually he is correct, but jumping off the Dover cliffs is also, factually, a far quicker way to the water's edge than walking the path; rarely does either short cut leave one in few enough pieces to enjoy the time saved.

Posted by Patrick on June 15, 1677

Missed the Boat!!!

We have left without Sean and Jack.

The tide was running, we had to weigh anchor, and they were no where to be found. I may have made a mortal enemy in the first mate as I pleaded with him to delay a few more minutes as I sent scouts to every pub, brothel, theater and bawdy house either has ever been known to frequent. Nothing.

We have stopped to take on outbound cargo in Portugal, and I have sent word with an inbound merchantman to see if they can journey over land some how to rejoin us, perhaps on the far side of the Cape. But I have little hope of seeing them before our return.

Bloody fools.

Posted by Patrick on June 3, 1677

A Princess from the Past

When Sean found me behind the bookcase I had just found Jack's copy of The Case of Madam Mary Carleton, the autobiographical account of that late, poor liar, cheater, and temptress. I had not seen it since she gave it to Jack over a dozen years ago, and not thought about it since her hanging. The book recounts Mary's successful masquerade as a German Princess, under which guise she married the fool John Carleton:

Mr. Carleton was clearly out of his depth with her, and such antics won her a great many admirers, including Jack.  She left him, predictably, while he was heavily intoxicated, after taking his horse, his keys, his jewels, and his money, leaving him this book and its inscription:
To my Dearest Jacques, who taught me Everything I ever needed to know - MMC.

She was quite a woman -- necessary to best Jack at his own game; revisiting the book and remembering her charm will be some compensation for spending nearly two days behind those damn shelves. Some.

Posted by Patrick on April 27, 2007

On the Tax Ramifications of the Classification of Species

Stuck between Jack's fireplace and Dante's Inferno this afternoon, after our attempt to deceive the hearth inspector failed, and Jack, angry with Sean at his part in this additional and unnecessary expense, led the inspector straight to the Crimson Unicorn to make certain every hearth there was accounted for on the King's rolls, forgetting that he had left me pinned behind a bookcase I could not move alone, I had some opportunity to reconsider my tack in an ongoing feud with His Majesty's Customs Officials.

With a few colleagues from the Society I have been attempting to raise Atrophaneura dasarada in a hothouse, and our agent in the East returned recently with many fine larvae on its preferred meal:  several bushes of Indigofera kirilowii.  His Majesty's customs official down at the dock considers this Indigo and thus subject to a comically high excise tax.  I explained, politely, that Indigofera kirilowii is not at all the useful Indigofera tinctora, and therefore is not subject to this tax.  He explained, not at all politely, that

1) Indigo is Indigo;
2) I may pay him; or
3) I may go swive myself.

Our poor larvae, therefore, sit chomping on their bushes in a dockside warehouse while I dash between the Royal Society, soliciting funding for the tax, and the docks, where I beseech, cajole, threaten, and again beseech the customs official to see his gross taxonomical error.  I have had success in neither so far, and I fear that His Majesty's Customs house will soon become the world's greatest lepidopterium. 

Perhaps I can persuade Jack to vent his spleen at that damned official, to the advantage of my poor Atrophaneura dasarada. 

Posted by Patrick on April 16, 1677

Good (Fri)Day

Holy Week being upon us in Full Force, activity chez Jacques has come to a halt.  Though such a thought runs contrary to Jack's vocal and vociferous protests, I believe he appreciates his Mother-in-Law's insistence that they observe all Holy Week celebrations, for it gives him a blind behind which to hide his true devotion to the Protestant faith.  Even when beyond the clutches of the Ogress, he has become contemplative.

Sean returned last night reeking of the censer, which smell prompted from the Ogress first hostile glances and then several unkind thoughts against the Pope: "A noxious, pernicious milksop whose very lips drip Plague" being her exact words.   Sean did not appreciate this, Jack sided -- unusually -- against him and with her, and for the first time since coming into wealth Sean spent the night in the stable with Bucephelus.  He -- Innocent XI -- is recently elected, so I cannot confirm the plague part, but he does seem a bit effeminate: 

Regardless, I leave the sectarian squabbles to them.  I will spend much of the weekend at the RS at a conference on exotic flora, soliciting sponsorship for the collection of samples while on our expedition East.   

Posted by Patrick on April 6, 1677

Man to Gentleman

Rich Sean is a compass a-spin.  I noticed in him very early a certain shrewdness, masked by his rough-hewn form and his failure to use consonants properly, which wile was especially impressive when it came to removing things of value from their rightful owners. This quiet rapacity, dancing in turn with his lucky stars and his complete financial ignorance, made him among London's wealthier gentlemen, and certainly the richest to have not an acre to his name.  It has left him also at a loss of purpose.  After the usual splurging of the newly rich -- that eventful night he first bought everyone in the Crimson Unicorn a round, and then, realizing the full scale of his wealth, he bought the Crimson Unicorn -- he has been directionless.  I have spied him pocketing Jack's salt cellars out of habit, only to "find" them again the next day, and his conversations with Bucephalus have turned curt.

He has been extremely fortunate to have Jack and myself about, to help him understand the rudiments of money and investing, to give some higher purpose to his time, and, we hope, some much higher return to his capital than the Crimson Unicorn -- a fine establishment of which I can say nothing ill -- could ever provide.

And so we have chartered a ship.

Posted by Patrick on March 8, 1677

Huzzah!

Financial Backing!  Back to the East!

Posted by Patrick on February 27, 1677

Tante Dolore Quante Amore

I am no friend to Love tonight.

A Highly Regarded Physician gave a lecture at the Society this afternoon entitled Tante Amore Quante Sanguine, in which he proposed to delve into the physiological causes of affections between the sexes. Having reflected on this topic before myself, and how it has on occasion propelled me to perform preposterous acts against all reason and Good Sense, and given the unusually high numbers of sweethearts I had seen this morning, flitting about hand-in-hand, I decided to attend. 

I am a clinically responsible man: I never allow my emotions to impinge upon the focus of my academic  pursuits.  And yet midway through the lecture, with our speaker pointing at a spot just below the right breast of a naked and unnecessarily voluptious specimen (by rumor, the wife of his Manservant), I decided this affection was worth discussing rather less than it was worth pursuing and headed out to the Crimson Unicorn in search of Odyllia.

To my great misfortune, today is apparently their busiest day of the year -- I had no warning of this -- and Odyllia was at the Opera, on the arm of a wealthy young man keen to make jealous an heiress he was wooing.  In fact, I was told moments later by Jack as he descended from somewhere above and joined me at my table, every girl in the place was booked the entire night. Shortly thereafter, as I recounted the course of my day to Jack, Sean bounded in, only to be disappointed just as quickly. Our conversation gradually waned, and we drank in somber silence until near ten o'clock, at which time I made my excuses to my companions and departed.  They did not look up to see me go.   

Posted by Patrick on February 14, 1677

Back in the Game!

Kind readers: My sincerest apologies for my lengthy and unexplained absence. Two basic forces have coincided to keep me out of sight for the last fortnight.  First, I have an extremely important meeting later this week with a well-connected Dutchman, and some of the biggest players in the India trade in all of England, since Jack refused so unceremoniously to back my venture.  The proposal I have been putting together has required the utmost effort, taking me to all corners of the political, merchant, and academic worlds that snake around and through the City, and I have slept barely a wink tying up all the loose ends.

The second reason is Jack's accursed mother-in-law.  I found Sean in the stables the other day, conversing with Jack's horse; I was surprised to learn he was there not by choice, opting for the braying of a large, flatulent, and querulous beast over the shrill invectives of That Woman, but instead because he had been banished there, as if he were somehow capable of offending Her.  An evening of Sean in the illest of humors is sunshine and roses compared to a mere moment with Her.  Jack has more than once saddled me with Her, disappearing in a flash around a corner with naught a trace or a sound, leaving me Her sole escort to the theatre.  I hence try to avoid them both.

I hope to post again on my regular schedule, starting at the end of this week. My thanks for your kind patience, dear readers.

Posted by Patrick on February 12, 1677

I tried ...

Well, damn.  I had tried to distill my plan to the simplest possible points, so that even Jack, at his most contrary, could not raise any objections:

He would hear none of it, however.  I blame it partly on the impending arrival of his erstwhile mother-in-law, whose tone of voice could get a murderous rise out of a deaf sheep.  But a healthy reward stands at the end of this particular trial, and that prospect usually allows him to tolerate minor annoyances.  I must remember to ask him how well he passed water these few days past, and if he would like to go with me to see Sydenham tomorrow.

To be fair to the man, he did ask two or three reasonable questions of the expedition, solutions to which will require me to do some more thinking.  And the Dutchman is very likely to go for the project; I will consider my pitch to Jack a rehearsal.

Posted by Patrick on January 18, 1677

Taking Care of Business

Very much business conducted at the Griffin this week.  My bet on Sean was well-placed: four pints in I laid out the whole story behind his close calls with death, and he laughed uproariously. The fellow can be genuinely good-natured at times.  A short while later, I pointed out to Sean the very man responsible, as he slipped in through the backdoor well laden with crates, and Sean laughed still more.  He excused  himself to address the miscreant, and I, feeling the ale resting heavy on me, decided to weigh anchor and head for port. 

The distinct memory of which decision (to return to Jack's) contrasts strongly with the real fact of waking up, once again, and with a headache, at the Crimson Unicorn.

Tonight I meet once more with Jack. I have decided to approach him once again about a plan to start importing tea straight to London some time ago - the Portugese or Dutch are responsible for most of it at the moment - when we were loudly interrupted by Sean's violent, and i must say, even up to this point, unbalanced, entrance into our lives.  He has been in quite a state ever since he had word of poor sweet Liza's mother-in-law's impending arrival; I have hope that the potential for vast profit will break his foul mood.

Posted by Patrick on January 11, 1677

Making My Confession

I am resolved: over the course of our next evening at the Griffin, I will tell Sean who is behind the many attempts on his life.

He has suggested that he may feel well enough to rise from his bedrest, and shortly I will propose a trip to the Griffin to celebrate his convalesence.  I have found that when bearing potentially ill news, copious spirits ease the situation for messenger and listener alike, the former because of Drink's fortifying effects, and the latter because of the equanimity it produces in those in whom it does not produce anger.  I used this method to ease that which might have made an already bad situation even worse in a similar situation a few years ago, when I alone escaped and was therefore the bearer of Very Bad News to the local director of the East India Company.  (I also learned that night that, when in their cups, elephants are of the equanimious type; macaques tend towards rage.)

Being a mercurial sort like so many of his People, Sean has demonstrated both tendencies, with his frame of mind when he first lifts his glass determining his later attitude.  As this will be his first time out of the house in several weeks, and as Maureen's presence will likely raise his spirits still further, I feel safe betting on the phlegmatic Sean.

Posted by Patrick on January 4, 1677

Ten Momentous Things, Changes, and Events of 1676

A recent long night of revelry and remembrance gave Jack, Sean, and myself cause to consider the many events history will most likely remember fondly from this past twelve months.  Excited by the conversation, I took a few moments to put together a list of those things that I found most worthwhile from the year and, encouraged by Jack's rare enthusiasm for it upon my recitation, I decided to post it for all to read.  Thus:

10) Anton van Leeuwenhoek's Paper on Organisms Discovered through Microscopic Observation.  The notion that organisms wriggle around below the scale of our sight is preposterous; nevertheless, any work that stokes the Society into such confusion has done some good in the world.

9) Tea. Our city still loves coffee, but tea has gained standing among Learned Londoners. I promote its consumption in place of coffee whenever possible, as it does not excite the yellow bile nearly so forcefully as coffee.  For those already choleric -- Jack is a prime example -- this substitution will likely add a decade to their life. 

8) Thomas Betterton's as Dorimant in The Man of Mode.  Simply hysterical. Just observe his quizzical-innocent visage: And, quoth he: "Why, first, I could never keep a secret in my life, and then there is no charm so infallibly makes me fall in love with a woman as my knowing a friend loves her. I deal honestly with you." Fathers, well would you do to keep your daughters close by your side!

---

7) Bacon's Rebellion. I usually take up arms alongside those who take matters into their own hands, especially when they do so against those damned Toads of Tidewater.  Poor Nathaniel Bacon's rule of Virginia was a great, inspired pleasure, if short and ignomiously ended.

6) Wren complete's the Royal Greenwich Observatory:

The Observatory's contributions to astronomy (not to mention architecture) cannot be underestimated.  I eagerly await its findings.

5) The Close of the Tenth Year since the Great Fire.  London has since acquitted itself well in its reconstruction, though a more rigorous program to expel Catholics would be preferred. 

4) The Ruffle Returns.  I had always insisted that the cravat was a mere passing fancy, and that a proper, respectable collar with full ruffles, of the sort you see me wearing to such great effect atop this post, would again be the Fashion of Choice for respectable men; this despite Jack's views to the contrary.   Near oblivion just a few years ago, in 1676 the collar has made such inroads against that ridiculous napkin calling itself a "cravat" that I forsee the latter being made extinct by the end of the decade.

3) The Compleat Angler, Fifth Edition.  No book has brought me more pleasure on an idle afternoon than Izaak Walton's literary stroll through his favorite pass-time; when reading it I almost wish to spend time outdoors.  I worried that any further revision would destroy the book's charm, but this edition's seven new chapters are the rare successful instance of making still better something that needed no fixing in the first place.

2) The Crimson Unicorn.  For the first time since returning to London, a new Public House has surpassed the Griffin in my esteem. I base my assessment on the superior quality of their port; the exceedingly pleasant form of their whores, and their smart tongues; and the House's willingness to extend Jack credit beyond all reasonable limits. Special recognition is due here to Sean, who first took us to the place, and to Odyllia, who introduced me to all of its aforementioned virtues.

1) Peep This Diary, and you. Thank you, gentle reader, for giving me good cause to post each and every week.  I look forward to the same, and more, in the coming of the Good Year 1677.

Posted by Patrick on December 31, 1676

A Note Looking Forward

I post but briefly to give you a morsel of what is to come: in the final days of this waning year, and after much feasting, I will recount some of the very best points about the 1,676th year of the Lord. 

A very happy Christmas to all.

Posted by Patrick on December 23, 1676

Growing Lassitude

The lasting damage to Sean's head is only internal, with the split in his brow well healed, and quickly.  The man has the physical constitution of a boar.  His soul is another matter.  Since his attack, this brawler has used every excuse to stay in bed, waited on by Jack's manservant and, when she thinks no one else is about, his housemaid.

This has not been hard for her.  Two days past, now, Jack departed, bound for "the Griffin for a quick one" before a play that evening, and has not returned since.  This is not the first such occasion, and he usually turns up safely after a greater or lesser while, and occasionally wealthier.

I spent much of this afternoon, therefore, arranging bits of broken tile in Fibonacci's Series down at Wren's new cathedral.  I found counting out 6,765 bits of broken ceramic (22nd in the series) nearly as stimulating as you find reading about it.  But Wren Did show me his most recent plan, as approved by the clergy:

 

I am privy to Wren's latest thinking, however, and -- remember on whose post you first read this -- when complete St. Paul's will have a much bigger dome.

Posted by Patrick on December 14, 1676

Brained

My faith in Sean's good fortune was misplaced. Three evenings past a villanous rogue knocked him on the noggin - which, given the broad, flat and pleasingly level surface presented to the assailant, must have been a temptation the most reformed of bandits could not pass up - and then robbed him of his last nine pence.  He has been laid up in bed since, on strict orders.  The Physician tells me he's healing quite nicely, but I still speak gravely of his situation because it makes Jack flutter about so.  In truth, Jack has shown more genuine concern for this  half-wit of an adopted Irish cur, one who is largely given to drink and mean violence, than he did for (at least) the first of his wives.  (In fairness to Jack she was also largely given to drink and violence, and finger-wagging besides.)

I do not think this the work of Sean's usual tormentor: he seems more inclined to kill rather than clomp, and he would have known, were he intending to rob Sean, that Sean entering the Griffin has far more coin on him than Sean coming out. But to Sean the falling crowns, rampaging barrels, and blows to the head are all the same, and I do not blame him for the harsh words he has muttered about our great City.  In his short while here, London has not been kind to him.

Posted by Patrick on December 7, 1676

Observations 1 & 2

Fey Mr. Gray's Wandering Bonds have knocked poor Jack quite out of his senses; the blow will be double now that the month is over and the Crimson Unicorn due to collect.  I had assumed the return promised by Jack's con would shade his eyes from the bill for my fortnight's sequestration.  If his mood darkens further I may well retire to the homestead for a time.

The Advent Season being upon us, I must in good faith reveal to Sean the truth behind the plague of misfortunes that has beset him this past little while.  As the attempts come nearer to the mark I fear that 1) one might finally hit; and 2) it may be of such a scale that it catches innocents nearby as well (such as me).

Posted by Patrick on November 30, 1676

Fools and Madmen

God preserves the drunk, the mad, and the fool: I find this the only explanation for the great fortune afforded Jack, Sean, and myself.  Had He bound the universe with a simpler sense of Justice, Jack's disrepute would have condemned him to a short and disagreable life instead of the great wealth he continues to accumulate.  (Perhaps He bestows Jack's rightful due on his beleaguered mother instead.) Similarly, Fate continues to foil the murderous plots of Sean's antagonist, spinning our orb momentarily faster, perhaps, so that the stone crown pushed from aloft crashed half a pace afore him instead of atop his sloped skull.  It is my Christian duty, I realize fully, to alert Sean to the source of these ill-aimed acts, but I think the combination of Sean's quick reflexes, his Astounding Luck, and his antagonist's demonstrated incompetence will keep him safe.

My good fortune calls herself Odyllia; I find this an unlikely Welsh praenom, but she is so genuine and kind in all other ways that I do not begrudge her it.  My disappointing encounter this week past found me in the street, dripping ham, muttering invectives against the female race as one. These ill-words compelled Sean -- from compassion for my poor condition or from a hidden sense of chivalry obliging him to dissuade me from these harsh views, I do not know -- to steer me towards the Crimson Unicorn, that I might be exposed to some exceptions to my recently established, grotesque, and largely unfair hypotheses on the True Nature of Women.

Odyllia and I spent a Very delightful evening together.  She has a wondrous bosom and a marvelous oval face, and a keen eye for nature.  We chattered late into the night about the coastal waterfowl of her hometown, drank a great amount of truly fine Port, and slept well into the morning.

Normally the greatest pleasure, putting the whole night's affairs on Jack's account, was but the feather in the cap of this joyous evening.  I am fully aware of the nature of the exchange between Odyllia and myself; nevertheless, when she cried out to me, as Jack and I returned from the Dorset Garden, I found myself short of words and had to excuse myself.

Posted by Patrick on November 16, 1676

Ham from the Past

I do take satisfaction from the well-played plot, though I should never let Jack hear of it.  When Sean and I left him this morning he was hungover and surly, as usual, but I noticed a tinge of satisfaction in his curt dismissal, and perhaps even a little pride.

I nevertheless had some cause to despair by the end of the day. By chance I encountered a figure from an earlier period of my life, a woman I was much taken with for some years. I have liked to think that I have improved myself over time, that I have managed to cultivate those aspects of my person that I feel most worthy and rubbed away at those I have deemed unpleasant, base, or petty.  Further, I have thought casually -- never at a formal, philosophical level -- that this process, though  effortful and conscious, is nonetheless natural, one that most are prone to undergo overtime, regardless of his emotivations.  And yet, despite her claims to the contrary, she had not changed at all.  She impressed this fact upon me, and the correlated fact of the distance, rendered by time, between our current characters, when she threw a half-eaten ham at my head.  She had reached, I think, for the nearest object that would serve her needs, and that ham, which had until then sat cooling on the table between us, ably complied.  I am grateful that the ham was first in her line of vision, and that the carving knife lay on my side of the platter.

Sean is with a dear colleague at the Society, a physician of the highest rank and discretion, that we might gain something from the study of this fascinating specimen.  I am returning to them shortly, and I look forward to the conversation that will follow.  And, despite the hard-tossed ham, I am very well pleased to be out from under Jack's tyrannical eye.

Posted by Patrick on November 9, 1676

Nary a Hitch

I begrudge him it, but Jack's plan has seemed to go off well.  I finished my part in it sitting in the mud. My cloak had just been pulled over my head  by the "Irish" acquaintenance -- himself a con, of course -- of the foolish Mr. William Gray, right before he pushed me roughly to the side of the road, swearing vengence against my counterpart Sean.  At that very moment Sean was doing his best to disgust Mr. Gray (and succeeding admirably, no doubt).  It was comforting, really, sitting with my arms stuck above my head and my face muffled in the warm, dark folds of my cloak.  The mud, though cold, was soft and familiar, bringing to mind a happy childhood of rough-housing with cousins and the neighboring children, after which play I often found myself in a similar position. Yes, I have ended Jack's plans in much, much worse states: bedridden, for example, in the tropical heat, suffering shuddering fevers induced by the bite of a Macque, or trying to determine, before sunrise, the appropriate bribe for a eunich gaoler.

I titled this post "nary a hitch," but in fact there was one, although the knowledge gained from it may well offset any harm suffered by it. I had realized that the simplest way to dismiss this man's claims on the notes, a way that precluded any attempt on his part to persuade me to reconsider my decision, by violence, bribery, or otherwise, was to explain that they had been stolen.  Perhaps he doubted my story, although I did (I think) a passable job of affecting a distraught fool bearing bad news.  But after I had explained my position to him, he asked one question I had not prepared for: "Did I suspect anyone?"

The RIGHT answer, of course, was "no." But I was flustered, perhaps, by the question, or perhaps I bear greater malice towards Sean than I had realized previously, but looking away I said, "We suspect Sean Fagan." 

"Sean? The loo scrubber at the Griffin?" he cried in a base Cockney, dropping all Irish pretense.  Swearing  great and emasculating harm towards Sean, the brute initiated the final steps of our encounter, described above, by grabbing the hem of my cloak.  After this I had trouble hearing, but I believe the man called for reinforcements, and some smithy tools. 

Sean, of course, has no conception of any financial instrument that does not sparkle. It would never occur to him to steal the notes, and even if did he would have no notion of their worth.   But our plan has a happy result all the same: Mr. Gray's buyer has been knocked off course and, assuming Sean is successful, Mr. Gray will sell to Jack before the week is out.

When Sean and Jack and I collect to celebrate our victory, I must remember to warn Sean of this rogue's wrath towards him.  I wonder that Sean has known him previously...Regardless, I am feeling satisfied with my role in this scheme, and I am assured that Jack will be well pleased.

Posted by Patrick on November 2, 1676

Snared Again

Jack's histrionics have bested me yet again. A combination of pity for the wee man's broken heart and annoyance at yet another good meal interrupted by his sobbing pulled me from my chair and to his side, though a close observer would have noted my attempts at comfort were half-hearted. And thus I post with the anxious thought in the back of my mind that come tomorrrow morning Jack and I will be rummaging through his Great Chest of Subterfuge for the appropriate costume. 

A fascinating study could be done of the Irish, and I had some cause to think on this during dinner.  For some time, now, informal discussion at the Society has entertained the hypothesis of a connexion between the slope of a man's brow and the  Capacity of the mental workings contained within.  Among the Irish generally, I have seen, the slope of the brow off of the horizon is quite acute.  Like a well-landscaped garden, this gradient provides excellent drainage, but it does not provide for much of the volume the higher cognitive functions require.

To wit: our adopted latrine slopper, the incoherent Irishman.  His cranium resembles a low-lying hillock, of the sort found all over his homeland. He cannot structure a sentence requiring more than six words, and his motor skills are bovine.  Nevertheless, I have noticed that he has managed to live off of Jack's meager largess for over a month, during which Jack has not once set the dogs on him. This  accomplishment had previously been achieved by exactly one person (myself).

Like Jack's mastiff, the Mick is apt to slumber wherever he comes to rest, and when I next come upon him prostrate in the hall I will make some discrete measurements; a pity the drilling necessary to measure skull thickness will wake him.

Posted by Patrick on October 26, 1676

Morning tea

Jack has become more insistent, and insidious, than usual in promoting his latest scheme.  In the last two days he has mentioned "the Plan," "coming riches," "stocks" or "tea," at least sixty-four times, or an average of twice a waking hour.  I suspect the actual number of times to be much higher, because I must confess to becoming distracted by an unusual finch call on the ride this morning, and for most of it successfully and enjoyably ignored his musings.

It is a truism, but good help is hard to find these days.  Despite explicit, Exact instructions about the nature and sequence of my morning toilet and breakfast, Jack's butler bumbled into my chamber this morning with a tray overloaded with food.  In the process he spilled tea all over my beloved chimaera's tooth, an object of such rarity and prophetic value that, had he not immediately set the tray in my lap, I would have struck him about the ear.  I am not a superstitious man, but I have seen enough in my travels not to want to link small events with larger unfoldings. 

I am also not naive, and I have known Jack for some time.  It is entirely consistent with his manner to have orchestrated the whole event to make some impression on me.  I must watch him closely...

Posted by Patrick on October 19, 1676

A clever plan my arse

I am an empirical man.
Objective Observation has revealed to me, and to a great many of my brethren, those both more and less able, universal truths of our cosmos.  But in their revelation, these truths very often reveal greater mysteries still.

Fact: Jupiter has four moons.

BUT: even factoring in their presence, and gravitiational pull, doesn't completely predict Jupiter's position.  Are there more moons? Is there something else in the way?  Or is the model simply wrong? Isaac is down from Cambridge next month; I will query him on it.

Fact: Jack is right in his business proceedings just under 3 out of 10 times.  He has become very wealthy by this lowly statistic.

BUT: How the devil can such a degenerate, inebriated, philandering half-wit be right ever, let alone with sufficient frequency to make him the wealthiest man in the county?

I have learned to revile costumes, and after that run-in with the Raj's nephew and his seven macaques -- they can smell Truth, apparently; a boon for the philosopher and Royal Navy intelligence officer alike -- I hate false identities still more; my strengths as an agent lie less in the playing through of the deceit than in laying out its initial path, while letting the simpler but more resolute carry them out.  Further, there is little observational evidence, let alone anecdotal, for what happens to the unfortunate participants in the 7+ of Jack's schemes out of ten that go awry, and what evidence there is does not suggest a safe or quiet end for any of the participants (save Jack, of course).

I pray failure this time involves no monkeys.

Posted by Patrick on October 16, 1676

We've Got a Plan

I rose this morning in Jack’s guest chamber, my usual lodgings when in London. Thrifty to the core, Jack was nevertheless extraordinarily generous with the things he had already paid for.  I always had a room in any of his houses scattered across the seven seas, therefore, but almost never (eg) any wood in the fireplace.  This also meant his larder was perpetually empty, and if I rose first I nearly always had to seek my own sustenance.  But again: if Jack had already risen, hungry and aching from the miseries of whichever dungeon he had ended the previous evening, he would gladly fork over some of his bountiful grub, already procured.

These two factors – the eternal, bone-racking chill of the chamber (is the Aether itself not of such a perfect, still, and icy mode?), save under the multitude of covers, and the Importance of outwaiting Jack down the stairs and into the kitchen – inevitably encouraged me to stay in bed well past sun up; far longer than at the ol’ Oxfordshire homestead or at the raj’s palace.

Jack routinely misinterprets this strategic reluctance as sloth.  I have no interest in disillusioning him. 

Mumbled cursing in the passageway indicated Jack was on the move, and the countdown to my cue for entrance into the kitchen began.  Years of empirical study had demonstrated that 14 minutes was the ideal delay: long enough for Jack to curse his manservant into prepping coffee and running around the corner for vittles, and for him to get a bite or two into his misused frame; short enough that the coffee was still piping hot.

Perfectly timed, my entrance was nevertheless bollixed by the mick.  I had forgotten we had brought him there after the brawl. We had deposited him in the chamber closest the stairs, and now, having descended at some point during my countdown, he had beaten me to both the coffee and the abundant scrapings of Jack’s plate.

Worse, Jack looked much too gleeful for that hour of the morning.  Glee on that man before the sun passes the yardarm is a sure sign of trouble.

Worst of all were Jack’s first words to me: “We’ve got a plan!”

Posted by Patrick on October 15, 1676

The Pitch&Brawl

He seemed receptive to the idea.

I never like business over beer but Jack insisted.  And investers get to call home field advantage for the pitch.  Jack was also predisposed to the upper abdomen, generally, and our wench had the sort of bosom that starts a fight.  Unsurprisingly, the hypocrite was a regular here.

Teetotaler or not, he likes to start with three glasses worth of his latest plan. In this case, he had some notion of succulent turnips in the West Indies, or somesuch.  If his money hadn’t spoken for his ability time and time again he’d be a Very lonely drunkard.

I’d finally warmed him up to
1) rubies
2) India
3) Me (crucial)
4) 74% (est.) return
5) three ships
6) 800 men

when some mick caused a fuss.  Our beer wench, overdue for round 4, stood just outside the make-shift arena, rimmed by drunkards not accustomed to action this early.  A Very large tar was pummeling the mick’s lower abdomen. The mick was pulling mightily on the tar’s pigtale, but his punches to the skull were falling on (it seemed) sheer rock. 

Jack turned to me: “I think that’s the aspiring Irishman from last night.  I mean, already irish but with ambitions.”

I had hoped to ignore the whole thing.  Tars with half an ear are, generally, worth evading completely. Also, Jack was warming to my plan and I didn’t want his attention to wander.

The tar’s nose confirmed he was not a stranger to brawls. It took a route more circuitous than I would have thought possible between his nostrils and his eyes.  Had we had the leisure of an India journey together I would have asked him to pose for me. Evelyn could have spent pages on it.

The mick was no match for the tar’s lower deck manners. Blood now poured from his nose as he hoisted, ineffectually, a bar stool. I was still marveling at the ear.  Missing body parts still strike me awful, despite 24 cumulative months at sea, and I pitied the poor Irishman his temper.

I tried to remain focused.

“The raj is on our side…at the moment.  And he’s not stupid.  The Dutchman has made offers, and Indian loyalty is a beast apart from that of AngloSaxons.  It’s only a matter of time before his patience wears thin.”

But Jack was on his feet and already aiming to split ‘em, my words less effective even than the poor micks blows.  I’ve never known a blackheart more conciliatory.  Violence isn’t good for business, je suppose, and it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve seen him score a deal out of a brawl.

I noted my spot in my pitch, between points 6&7, tugged at my chaemera's tooth for courage, and followed Jack towards the bar on another errand of mercy.

Posted by Patrick on October 14, 1676