The fox hunt

I was forced to accompany father on the fox hunt today. I have resisted doing so for many months now, for I find it to be a cruel and humiliating custom -- the scarlet hunting coats are not at all in the day's fashion, and the hounds give off a horrid and pungent odour. But with this day being the last of the season, father was insistent that I attend, and sought to persuade me by indicating that many captains of industry would be present, and that my acquaintance with them would well serve my future in the railways business. What a bunch of rot! I couldn't give a sod about the wretched captains of industry, and am only engaged in the railways as a means of securing my monthly stipend!

Father's adamance won the day, however, which started on a dreadful note as a result of my attire. I recently acquired a lovely tweed overcoat, and I envisioned that it would present itself splendidly against the background of the moors of the hunting grounds -- particularly so when matched with my frilly stockings. Father disagreed and, all red in the face at my ensemble, he ordered me back to the wardrobe, where I was fitted with a scarlet hunting jacket at least two measures too large. This first incident set the note for the remainder of the day, which was an absolute anguish.

I shall not recount all the minute miseries of the day, dear reader, for it should reduce both you and I to tears. But there was one hardship which loomed above all the rest: the presence of a Mr. Henry Wigglesworth, the social pages editor of the Whitehill Courier! Yes, my very bane was in attendance, twirling his moustache and parading about in a black velvet cap like the cock of the walk. The pit of my stomach froze at the sight of him, and you can imagine my dread to see the fat little man take notice of father and I, then steer himself in our very direction!

Now, father has confessed to Ms. Myrtleberry and I that he is no admirer of Henry Wigglesworth, but respects him as a man of influence and thus holds his tongue in the bastard's presence. He would that I do the same, but I am a poet and an artist, and have fire in my belly! I am not capable of such restraint, and most certainly was not on this occasion. So when Wigglesworth snidely expressed his pleasure at meeting the young man who appeared so regularly in his penny daily, I responded in kind, remarking, "That pleasure, Sir, is yours alone."

It was a rather shrewd retort, and the impact of its thrust was immediate. Wigglesworth's forehead bulged out and he began sputtering, his escort choked upon his licorice roll, and father bit the inside of his cheek so severely that he drew blood! He hustled me off the hunting grounds immediately, and we shared the carriage ride back home in silence.

I sat at evening supper alone under the withering glare of Ms. Myrtleberry; father's mouth was stuffed with cotton balls soaked in carbolic acid, preventing him from eating. I envied him, for the meal that Prudence had prepared -- a cold cod soup accompanied by rhubarbs -- was  entirely execrable. I still must devise some means of doing away with this horrid woman. Perhaps in bed tonight I shall dwell upon the predicament.

Comments

[Byron T. Longfellow]

My Word old man what you must go through, It pains my heart to hear a young lad such as yourself deal with such trivial things....I must say that i also abhor the foxhunt, and i do agree that the required dress is much to be desired...

Yours Truly,
Byron T. Longfellow Earl of Chutany

[Lord Samuel W. Gregory]

I do say, that is quite a predicament you have yourself in, old chum. I most certainly do agree with you, as does our friend, Earl Byron T. Longfellow of Chutany, that the fox hunt is quite simply a ghastly ordeal. Also, you must convince your father to have the courage to stand up to that awful Wigglesworth.

Sincerely,
Lord Samuel W. Gregory, Duke of Westchester

[Madame M]

My dear man!

It is a ghastly shame that you allowed your baser emotions to seize your otherwise sensible mind. Know you not that filthy and vile eunuchs such as Mr. Wigglesworth are not to be trifled with? Alas, I earnestly hope all is well with you, and that Prudence has the misfortune of eating her own swill sometime.

Respectfully,

Madame M

[erick]

I promise you this is an honest question, but do you thikn we're like in the 18th century or something? Its like really gay

[Sir George of Derbyshire]

I suffered through many of the same trials as you my boy in my own day. Luckily, this was the time of the Regency, and while George III pittered about and peed blue, my own father was too busy with palace intrigues to pay too much attention to me. Perhaps if you could find some way to interest your father in the goings on at Parliament he too will become too preoccupied to dither in your affairs. I understand there is quite the uproar over the Jew Rothschild's attempts to be accepted into the House of Commons. It sounds to me that this is just the issue your father would rail on about for hours! Don't thank me, just do me the courtesy of joining me at my next dinner at the summer cottage in Northumberland.

[Lady Minerva Mountbatten]

My dear sir,

What a trial! To be forced into such a savage pursuit is torture, to be sure.

I regret that we have yet to be formally introduced -- for if we had, you could attend my weekly musicale. I have several gentleman and ladies of the ton to my parlor weekly for refreshments and an afternoon of delightful entertainments on the piano-forte. I think you would find the repast infinitely superior to that of the dreadful Prudence. I shall savor a licorice roll in your honor this very week, sir!

Sincerely,

Lady Minerva Mountbatten, Duchess of Edinburgh

[Lord Earnest Worthing]

O; dash it all! I do believe that the entire situation is abominable. We enjoy the society dailies with just the right amount of enthusiasm, and take great pains to extricate ourselves from them, but there were always moments of certain indiscresion in youth that would never quite escape the ardent attention of certain editors. However, my lad, I must argue temperance: It does no good to rally the masses. That is what they did in France, and we certainly know what that led to.

[THE MAN]

your a fag

[N]

Awesome. This blog is Real Art. The comments too. "your a fag." Classic.

[Pip]

Just like the wordsmiths of old, you may never be truly appreciated in your time by most of your contemporaries.

[Johnny Be Bad]

Gay. Fag stuff, man. Truly one must be thine homosexual in order to whelst understand said trife.

[Lane Russell]

I say, Sir!

Most unfortunate that you were unable to enjoy the fox-hunt. I myself believe that the fox should at least be given a sporting chance, but that is not the point of such an affair. There is something to be said for the traditions of the fathers, and I recommend you endeavour to enjoy any future attempt at fox-hunting.
Though I avoid wearing scarlet as much as possible (as in the episodic tale of "Star Trek," any character wearing a scarlet jumper was usually done in after the first five minutes), I should point out that in the absence of a Colonial militia, you were quite safe; though I sympathize with being issued a mis-sized garment; my experiences with the Colonial military are replete with such experiences.
When presented with an adversary such as Wigglesworth, nothing is to be valued so much as SUBTLETY! While your repartee was no doubt skillfully and stylishly delivered, in attacking your enemy outright, you lost what may have been an invaluable opportunity. By ending your involvement in the fox-hunt, you gave the enemy respite; by acting rudely, you gave him the advantage, relieving him of the obligation of being on his best behavior. His treatment of you in his little penny-daily will no doubt be vicious, and in his mind, well-justified. You would have found it more profitable to keep your mouth closed and your eyesand ears open, spending a day in the objectionable company of this man, listening intently, lest he should let slip some innocuous-sounding piece of information with which you could turn the tables to your advantage.
Bravo on keeping up this missive, your exploits never fail to entertain. Until next time, then.