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October 26, 1677

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.


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