April 9

Do You Know This Man?


Despicable and Hateful Name: Anthony Ashley-Cooper, 1st Earl of Shaftesbury

Aliases/Nicknames: Swing Em’ High Shaftesbury, Beezlebub, Coop

Height: 5”2

Weight: 12 Stones

Eye Color: Red

Hair Color: Black wig, bald underneath

Known Associations: Patron of hack writer John Locke, the Cabal, the Duke of Monmouth

Crimes: Malfeasance, Decrepitude, Sniggering, Being Generally Hateful

If seen, do not approach the Earl of Shaftesbury but instead toss rotten fruit in his vicinity. A good cudgeling might also do him some good.

April 8

A bit of a sticky wicket

 My previous post was not entirely honest. While it is true that I was not in gaol these past few months, my disappearance was one of necessity rather than of choice.

Titus Oates and his mob rule have gripped the city, as such, no Catholic is allowed within ten miles of London. My belief was that when Oates accused the Queen of attempteing to poison Charles (in league with the Court Physician) – that he had gone a step too far. Instead, we have seen the passing of the Second Test Act, which restricts Catholics from holding office, as well as the burning of effigies of the Pope on Guy Fawkes Day, instead of Fawkes himself.

Where does this leave me? Well, in a bit of a rum situation. The only reason I remain in London is on the sufferance of Jack, who now views my fortune as his own. He has taken and sold all my fine clothes, on the premise that I should remain inconspicuous. The good news is that Rebecca has publicly denounced me. So I have that in my favor, which is a boon.

The necessity of Employment


Months have passed and dust has begun to collect on this blog. I happy to inform my dedicated readers that my absence can be explained quite happily, I was not in gaol, but have instead found new employment as a gravedigger. Now, while I have no need for a job, considering that I am still despicably wealthy, the position does offer me several opportunities:

1. I get to get out of the house and away from Rebecca.

2. Anything I can remove from the bodies without family members noticing is considered mine to keep.

 3. I get to carry a shovel.

Patrick is particularly excited about my job as it offers him the faint possibility of regaining the positions we mistakenly buried. My hope is that he joins me on the job, so there will be at least one other person to keep the crows at bay when they circle overhead.

October 25

Like Unto Like

Jack has taken to calling Edward Thrasher, “Quick Ed.”

Like Patrick referring to the Crimson Unicorn as “the Uni,” this upsets me to no end. I think Jack us purposely riling Edward, a man who on more than one occasion has attempted to put us in the grave. At the moment, Jack employs this tactic frequently on the golf course, but I can suggest more productive outlets which are in tune with both their natures….

Jack: “Quick Ed, my bosom companion, let us sally forth and do harm upon some Catholics.”

Edward: “The Lord doth smile upon this day. Let his Divine Spirit bless our walking sticks with his might.”

October 24

Titus Oates is Kind of a Dick

Normally, I would not give Titus Oates a second thought. The man is a base rumor monger, and his hate speech has turned the lovely London that I know into a festering cesspool of insinuation and garble. However, since Sir Edmund Godfrey has turned up dead (run through with his own sword!) the sentiment towards Catholics has taken a nasty turn. Titus_oates_is_a_supreme_arse

Worse, Oates has brought out the worst of Jack’s humors. He quotes Oates’ speeches, remarking on how I too might be “consorting with known Papists,” and that my character should be fully investigated. Never one to hide his anti-Catholic feelings, Jack has taken to leaving me little notes around the house to remind me of my possible fate. Such notes include:

“Oates 1678 – For a REAL Englande”

“Hang Here, Hang Now – Titus Oates”

It is enough to drive a man mad.

October 23

Oh Captain, My Captain

Update: I have meant to post this for quite some time. My apologies, but our household has been unsettled, to say the least….

I enjoy High Passions. As my days are spent mostly drinking and avoiding my wife, any change to my routine is both welcomed and applauded. Jack and Patrick detest them, believing that an emotive demonstration reveals a weakness of character unfit for men of stature.

Since Capt. Araoz has moved in nary a month ago, High Passions have reigned within the household. Not a day has passed without a threat of a duel, a dropped glove, or a questioning of honor. I cannot so much as pass the sugar at breakfast without it becoming an issue of respect and deference. Despite our best efforts, Capt. Araoz’s temper will not be reigned in as he will not “compromise his Latin Blood.”

Things are a bit dicey when the subject matter is Love. Saucy wenches who refuse his advances are met with tears and a “curse upon their house and their pig whore of a mother.” He has twice threatened to defenestrate himself in vexation with claims that “his heart can take no more.” While I do not doubt his sincerity, it scares the clientele at the Crimson Unicorn and can be extremely damaging to one’s effort to write a post when one's roommates is constantly threatening self immolation. Thankfully, I have some peace this afternoon as the good Captain has decided that his latest adventure deserves to be inscribed in ink, and has gone off to have his sailor friends tattoo an anchor or some such object upon his arm. I do hope it is done in good taste.

Your apple dumpling face, your cherry scented hair...

There are few things worse then waking up on a beautiful autumnal day and realize that the company you keep consists of one slightly soused maniac, and one pedant whose head is lodges so firmly up his own arse that he would need a candle and sextant to find his way out.

Let me expound upon one case in point. I have recently returned to Jack’s house after escaping the less than affectionate ministrations of my wife. I secured my position not through an act of Christian charity on Jack’s part, but through the more direct route of blackmail. In my possession I currently hold several letters of “dubious” character, in which Jack expresses thoughts best left unwritten. One missive begins “My rosy buttocked Clara,” and then continues in a manner so laughably odious that I am inclined to think that Jack was beyond his normal state of inebriation and had instead journeyed into lands uncharted in his drunken pursuit of romantic prose. Another first prize choice is where he compares young Clara’s undergarments to the fog upon the Thames, both thick and unassailable. I feel naught but shame for young Clara, for the first comparison I would make about my own person would not reference a foul, bilious body of water.

To come back to my original point, one would think that with such ammunition in my possession that Jack’s manner would be more conciliatory. Further, one would think he would forgive my episodes of high spirits where I make lewd gestures at his maids and threaten to beat George about the head with a cudgel. Such is not the case, as he has repeatedly made good on his threats to “set the dogs loose’ upon me. I fear that the London Gazette will have a new headline this week, one in the phrase “forsooth, my love doth froth in my loins like a fizzy cider,” will become publick currency.

September 2

The Dark Tower

My absences from this space have always been easily classifiable:

1. I was drunk.

2. I was in gaol.

3. Some combination of the above.

If these reasons were irresponsible, I took heart in the understanding that my readers would assume that I had once again been overcome with the “exuberance of youth” and that I upon my return I would have an amusing tale to tell.

Such is not the case.

When last I left you, I had informed you of an attachment to a young woman whose expertise with figures almost matched the curvature of her body. Both her brains and beauty both defied logic, and I could say that love in its purest and most cherished form had taken refuge in my heart.

That refuge is now a debtor’s prison.

Rebecca’s (call her Becky or Succubus if you like) first action as my newly wed wife was to remove me (more or less physically) from Jack’s house to a “more affordable” location in Cheapside. Her argument for relocation was that my “malleable nature” had been steadily corrupted by both Jack and Patrick, and that the further away I was from the lot of them, the sooner my “soul” could begin to heal. My compatriots expressed their regret in my leave-taking, but I would hasten to add that two days after my departure, Capt. Araoz was installed in my berth. Her second action was to take away my access to contact you, my gentle reader, and alert you to my whereabouts. In large part due to her discovery of smutty etchings that I store upon this machine, she forbade me access to it and placed it under lock and key. Worse yet, she has hired an inscrutable man-servant who is to follow me at all time and ensure that the following rules (helpfully posted around our hovel) are observed at all times:

1. Sean is not to drink.

2. Sean is not to smoke.

3. Sean is not to write.

4. Sean must attend Church. (and not a Catholic one!)

5. Sean is not to consort with any women.

6. Sean is not allowed to invest or grant money.

7. Sean must be in coat and tie at all times.

8. Above all, Sean is not allowed in the company of Patrick Thrasher or Jack Shepherd.

I write this to you my friends not in the spirit of misery, but as an explanation for what is to come next. For tonight I break free of these shackles. I shall speak sternly with my wife, walk out the door, and by the stroke of midnight be asleep in the stables with Bucephalus after a night of carousing at the Griffin. If you do not hear from me again soon, fear the worst. Or send the Watch to Cheapside.

April 5

All hope with Jack Shepherd is Lost

I have been remiss in mentioning that I have made the acquaintance of a Young Lady. This is not due to any reticence on my part, but more from a fear of what Jack would do upon discovery. Based on recent actions, he is most likely to call her a “snuffling whore” and deposit her into the Midden

Of the Young Lady (whose name I shan’t mention, we shall simply call her B) her qualities are too numerous to list here. However, she has shown a keen interest in finance, and while could be seen as most unbecoming of a Lady, her insights on how best to invest my wealth have been invaluable.

More importantly,B represents my best chance on gaining entrance into Society. She has several Contacts of great Import who could only serve to further my career of which she says I am wasting in the acquaintance of Mssrs. Shepherd and Thrasher.

Tomorrow we are to go hawking. I have never been myself, but have heard Jack deride it as an activity for “men who can only find pleasure in life by galloping about the countryside without a thought in their heads.” I am sure I shall enjoy it immensely. 

Recap

Things achieved this week

1. Mucked out Buchephalus’ stable.
2. Finished six pints at the Griffin.
3. Avoided fencing “practice.”
4. Hired five new girls at the Crimson. Three redheads!
5. Learned the proper use of the word “discourse.” It turns out not to be dirty.

Things NOT achieved this week

1. Posting more regularly.
2. Finally beating Jack at cards.
3. Avoiding one of Patrick’s interminable lectures.
4. Breaking in one of the three redheads. (You would think they would have checked their morals at the door!)
5. Went to church.

The week has been more or less successful, though I would be inclined to go with less.