The Curmudgeon

YOU'LL COME FOR THE CURSES. YOU'LL STAY FOR THE MUDGEONRY.

Tuesday, September 15, 2020

Journal of the Plague Year

continued, by a Gentleman

Great Tidings this Weeke, to the Effect that deſpite the Machinations of the beaſtlie French no Limits ſhall be placed by Her Majeſty's Government upon the Liberty of the Nation to continue its great ſporting Traditions of Hare-courſing, Bear-baiting, Badger-ſuffocating and Grouſe-perforating, to ſay nothing of the ſacred High Church myſteries of Caſsock-lifting and advanced Clapper-pulling. So profound and laſting was my Relief, that I ſummoned my remaining Coachman and ordered inſtant Preparation for a Journey to the Moors. Although the Poſtilion was not to be found I ſojourned ſeverall pleaſant Days with my Lord Pynke-Swynefryte and his famous Collection of modern Blunderbuſses, though not much Game was to be had becauſe my Lord hath loſt ſuch Quantities of Beaters to the Woo Han Peſtilence, that thoſe remaining are ſcarce able to diſcover the Pheaſants in their Burrows, let alone catch and hold them ſteady before the Guns. The glad News of our continuing Britiſhneſs was alſo ſomething tempered by the ſurpriſing and unmerited Permiſsion for the lower Orders to congregate in Herds of half a Dozen or leſs, for alack! it is but a ſhort Step from the Herd to the Stampede, and after the recent Unreſt among the Slaves who can preſume to ſay what ſlippery Slope may not be lighting the Fuſe upon a ſudden and dretful Ocean Wave of Anarchy? When I expreſsed theſe Sentiments to my Lord Pynke-Swynefryte he preſcribed a Courſe of Lobſter and Cheeſe, to be taken at Bed-time in the Orifice of greateſt Convenience, an Inſtruction which I find paſsing vague.

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