Just last month, an underfed wire of a man looked upon my betrothed and paid her compliments upon her attire. In broad daylight, along the side-walk of York Street, he plainly fixed his gaze upon her bodice without seeking my permission. Yet in the eyes of my betrothed and the neon-shirted lawmen nearby, I could not throw down my glove. I could naught but seethe.
I was expected to stand and take it. The indignity!
The modern state of affairs is truly an outrage for any honorable gentleman. For the next week, I dreamt of finding the fair-haired waif and boxing him about the kidneys, or smashing his nose, or having one of my attendants secret into his dormitory and exchange the contents of his inkwell and his chamberpot. My fixated plotting caused in my gut severe mal au foie for the next fortnight. A white, Christian man of means certainly deserves better.
Were the laws not as they were, I — or any man of good breeding! — could demand satisfaction in such a situation. I dearly miss the bygone days when I could insist that on the morrow, either that man-child or I would have our guts spilled upon the ground by rapier, or pistol shot, or thumb-tack; whatever the tool, ‘twould be an honorable death.
And my problems are not the only that could be solved by dueling. Imagine how pleasant the dance-hall Chez Toad would be if a gentleman could threaten to cut the flesh of any overly flirtatious cretin, or how quickly plagiarism might vanish if a professor were to challenge a student to defend his reputation — even a fight to first blood could assert the faculty’s honor! That is how my governess raised me, and I certainly learned the ways of the landed world.
I am certain our patricians will soon see the light. In the meantime, sniff your inkwell from time to time.
—J. Newsham
