Salon Coup de Grace

God save the King! You may have noted that there have not been many posts as of late, and the above picture shows the reason why: I have been locked away for a few weeks doing nothing but sleeping, eating, and breathing the English Regency. My first all-original murder party, Salon Coup de Grace went off smashingly. Thirty-seven of my closest friends and relatives dressed up in fantastic costumes and traveled to the desert to play a part, and I couldn't be more grateful. Good food, good drink, and good fun were had by all, I hope. I'm putting this up so that they all can see some of the wonderful pictures of the event.

Before we jump into that, though, some thanks:

• To the amazing, efficient, and terrific serving staff (Holly, Tim, Synnove, Arlene, and all those who pitched in), a tremendous debt of gratitude is owed you. The service was astounding, and your help invaluable. (And a special thanks to Holly and Tim for photographic services: all the photos in this post are samples of their exhaustive work.)


• To my unbelievably wonderful wife, for putting up with all this, as well as crafting a dozen costumes and filling in for a missing guest at very nearly the last minute.


• To my in-laws for allowing us the use of their church basement (I've had several requests to hold the next party at the same location), decorating, support services, and your many other assistances.


• To all those who came and did such fabulous work bringing to life the strange parts I cast you in, and most especially those who came in late in the process to plug holes in the cast list—you are all deceitful scoundrels, and bless you.


• And a few specifics: To Jen, for helping dress our Prince Regent so splendidly, as well as that rascally Samuel Coleridge and your own Jane Austen-y goodness; to Devin, our stout Prince, for taking on a giant role with aplomb, and for creating most of the bad poetry we endured during the "recitation," my favorite of which was certainly Coleridge's "Harry the Hun: An Opium Fit" ("The shadow of the dome of pleasure / Crouched midway on the waters; / Where was heard the mingled measure / From the alley and the squatters. / It was a miracle of splendiferous glee, / A sunny pleasure-dome with girls for free!"); to Ernie for his lovely dueling pistols; and to Anna, for taking on the extremely demanding role of our Princess Consort, faking out everyone with her displays of "emotion," and her special companion who followed closely behind her all evening (and I do stress the word behind...).

I could take all day to thank each individual for all that he and/or she contributed (if you met Coleridge or Hamilton Blackwell, you understand why I use that particular conjunctive connection), but I imagine most of you wish to see those pictures, so here they are. I will have all of them uploaded and will send out an email to the attendees soon if you wish copies for yourself—there are nearly 250 pictures in total, so there are many more than you see here. And, if you got some good shots, feel free to share those as well.

On we go:


Our Walter Scott seems distrustful of his professional rival, Lord Byron.


It is I, Samuel Hulce, giving some sage advice to that dastardly publishing agent, Sebastian Hurst.


The Duke of Marlborough, that famous collector of books, speaks with the up-and-coming Jane Austen; Ann Radcliffe stands aloof in the background.

Your host and literary patron, George Augustus Frederick IV, the Prince Regent.


Caroline, the Princess Consort and her paramour, Sir William Sidney Smith.


Bridget, Kendal, and Morgan, your lovely servers for the evening.


Coleridge and William Wordsworth, deep in discussions about their next set of poems, no doubt. (Most likely trying to remember who wrote which one...)


Isabella Seymour-Conway, the devious Marchioness of Hertford, has a pointed chat with that revolutionary Irish poetess, Rhianna Allardyce.


The Viscountess Castlereagh and the Whig politician Henry Brougham, whose illicit affair got them ejected from the soirée by the Prince Regent (prompting much commentary about pots and kettles and their relative states of blackness...).


Percy Shelley and his admirer, the Gothic writer Eleanor Sleath. Percy's poem, "Defending the Greatest Mind of the World; or, What I Am Thinking," was a highlight of the evening.


The Foreign Secretary, George Canning, in consultation with that indomitable Scottish publisher, Archibald Constable, perhaps discussing the Tory politics of which they are both devotees.


The Princess Consort and "friend of Scott" Susan Ferrier, throwing daggers with their eyes.


William Lane, founder of the Minerva Press, in negotiations with Baron Alvanley, probably to produce a series of salacious Gothic novels based on the Baron's life.


Anna Barbauld (progenitor of English children's literature), Regina Roche (popular Gothic writer), and Maria Fitzherbert (secret Catholic wife of the Prince Regent!) in their finery. Many thanks to them for all their work behind the scenes, as well.


The doughty Duke of Wellington looking after the defense of the nation by talking to the reigning queen of the Gothic novel, Ann Radcliffe.


That mysterious Hamilton Blackwell trying to get himself a publisher; the Prince Regent naps in the background.


And the three old pals. This look really represents my mental state by the end of all that writing.

A few other shots, just for fun:















Thank you once again, all who came—it was a splendid night, and if you all had just half as much fun as I did, then I enjoyed it twice as much as you.

Edit: I added the last few photos to try to correct my egregious oversight in not including a picture of everyone. I think I have each person covered now; and the last picture should suggest my reaction to further complaints about being left out...