The Literary Dandy

It is often said of those who, in their incessant daydreaming and Miltonian fashions conjure up portraits or other reflections of the ideal, that one must be, in trite fashion, ever aware of one’s own constitution, or temperament. So it was for one M. de Morpois, one friend of I, the Vis. A. Beresford. Thanks to a rather obscure history, and related enigmatic elements in his youth, Morpois was sent forth from his paternal family’s barony, an increasingly irrelevant yet quintessential peerage from the West-central regions of Old Toulouse.  Issued forth to the streets of East London in the years immediately following the Great Reform Act, he was, like so many progeny of those members of the traditional, diplomatic circles, irreducibly calm, yet preening and, I dare say, resolutely insufferable when confronted outside of his official dignities.

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[With Apologies to the Flying Circus.]

CROWD:  A racist!  A racist!  A racist!  We’ve got a racist!  A racist!

VILLAGER #1:  We have found a racist, might we burn him?

CROWD:  Burn him!  Burn!

BEDEMIR:  How do you know he is a racist?

VILLAGER #2:  He looks like one. » Read the rest of this entry «

From Darkness to Darkness.                                        Read Ch. 10.

Lost.

Hunted.

Alone.

Like the foxes he chased for sport, the Baron Granger fled for his life into the night, and into the woods. Looking like a wastrel, he leaned heavily on his horse as it rode out of town, streaking into the night, seemingly without direction. In his panic, Baron Granger sought only to distance himself from the town and gave his mount little indication of his preference other than to run. Quickly. Leaves and branches lashed at his face and tore at his thighs as he drove deeper into trees, and blood ran unnoticed down his chin. He did not know how long the horse could carry him at such a pace, but because he feared being chewed into dishcloths, he was determined to press his mount as until its legs fell off.

After an hour the horse slowed from a gallop to a trot. In a frenzy, he whipped it, cajoled, it, threatened it, and pleaded with it to no avail. The horse had run its race, and had no more to give. Slowly, at the end of a narrow pathway, the horse stopped. Both horse and rider breathed in the cold; uncertain of their next steps. The good Baron tried to look around, but all he could see was darkness. He knew he had married the widow, and he was afraid. » Read the rest of this entry «

This site, once a beacon of hope for the masses thirsting for fashion, and starving for emotional beauty, fell prey to the technological whims of soulless overlords. We have lost content, but not hope, as we re-launnch our website. We stand firm in our principal principles that beauty is an end, that fashion is the height of civilization, and that gentlemen do not labor. All are invited to partake in our meager offerings, and all are encouraged to share whatever art (free of intellectual property limitations) they wish to share.

Starch is the man.

In Which a Spectacle is Created.                                     Read Ch. 8.

That evening, two young slaves to aesthetics, who were very much in drink (having consumed a bowl of punch at a local establishment), sought to leave without paying for it. The woman of the house, being of stout bearing and character, suggested mildly to the pair that she expected that each would pay their reckoning without delay or fuss. The less slender of the two dandified gentlemen, in a reprobate manner, swore that she should die that minute, and that deuce should take him if he had not already paid more than his fair portion. Of course he had not, and knew as much. Based upon her crude and humble habit, hey had mistaken the woman for a simpleton (as is the wont of men of fashion) and therefore an easy mark. The two made several scurrilous and objectionable gestures towards her, as well as several unforgivable aspersions, before turning heel and making for the door.

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A Plea for Help and Dark Disclosures                                     Read Ch. 6.

An unusually dark man, with an unusually dark bearing, was taking an audience in an unusually dark nook of the town’s sugar shop, the Hawk’s Nest. Seated with his back against the interior corner of two brick walls, the dark man was afforded an unobstructed view of the house and all of its occupants, and the ancient mahogany table between him and his caller gave ample physical protection from any would-be assailant not boasting of powder and shot. Additionally, hidden on his person, and expertly cloaked from all but the most attentive, were numerous instruments of mayhem including several side arms and blades of various length and purpose. He was, in short, a man who anticipated dark dealings, as he was a purveyor of the same. » Read the rest of this entry «

Wherein Certain Disclosures Give Rise to Others

Read Ch. 4.

A group of travelers, weary from several hours of their coachman’s prattle, sought to amuse themselves without interruption. Though the heat of the evening would certainly make such undertaking uncomfortable, the well heeled and prancy assemblage noisily closed the windows and curtains of the coach, making certain that the driver understood that his attempts at discourse were unwelcome. Two of the passengers emitted audible sighs of displeasure, intended for the drivers ears, so that he may at last recognize his social betters. As it is in all tales such as this, the travelers would come to regret their effrontery and hubris.

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