#sir Dunstan

[sometimeslondon]

Another view of the ruined St Dunstan in the East Church

Notwithstanding that the church is in the heart of the City of London and surrounded by tall offices, it almost feels like nature is taking over

[atotc-weekly]

Book the Second—The Golden Thread

[X] Chapter XII. The Fellow of Delicacy

Mr. Stryver having made up his mind to that magnanimous bestowal of good fortune on the Doctor’s daughter, resolved to make her happiness known to her before he left town for the Long Vacation. After some mental debating of the point, he came to the conclusion that it would be as well to get all the preliminaries done with, and they could then arrange at their leisure whether he should give her his hand a week or two before Michaelmas Term, or in the little Christmas vacation between it and Hilary.

As to the strength of his case, he had not a doubt about it, but clearly saw his way to the verdict. Argued with the jury on substantial worldly grounds—the only grounds ever worth taking into account—it was a plain case, and had not a weak spot in it. He called himself for the plaintiff, there was no getting over his evidence, the counsel for the defendant threw up his brief, and the jury did not even turn to consider. After trying it, Stryver, C. J., was satisfied that no plainer case could be.

Accordingly, Mr. Stryver inaugurated the Long Vacation with a formal proposal to take Miss Manette to Vauxhall Gardens; that failing, to Ranelagh; that unaccountably failing too, it behoved him to present himself in Soho, and there declare his noble mind.

Towards Soho, therefore, Mr. Stryver shouldered his way from the Temple, while the bloom of the Long Vacation’s infancy was still upon it. Anybody who had seen him projecting himself into Soho while he was yet on Saint Dunstan’s side of Temple Bar, bursting in his full-blown way along the pavement, to the jostlement of all weaker people, might have seen how safe and strong he was.

His way taking him past Tellson’s, and he both banking at Tellson’s and knowing Mr. Lorry as the intimate friend of the Manettes, it entered Mr. Stryver’s mind to enter the bank, and reveal to Mr. Lorry the brightness of the Soho horizon. So, he pushed open the door with the weak rattle in its throat, stumbled down the two steps, got past the two ancient cashiers, and shouldered himself into the musty back closet where Mr. Lorry sat at great books ruled for figures, with perpendicular iron bars to his window as if that were ruled for figures too, and everything under the clouds were a sum.

“Halloa!” said Mr. Stryver. “How do you do? I hope you are well!”

It was Stryver’s grand peculiarity that he always seemed too big for any place, or space. He was so much too big for Tellson’s, that old clerks in distant corners looked up with looks of remonstrance, as though he squeezed them against the wall. The House itself, magnificently reading the paper quite in the far-off perspective, lowered displeased, as if the Stryver head had been butted into its responsible waistcoat.

The discreet Mr. Lorry said, in a sample tone of the voice he would recommend under the circumstances, “How do you do, Mr. Stryver? How do you do, sir?” and shook hands. There was a peculiarity in his manner of shaking hands, always to be seen in any clerk at Tellson’s who shook hands with a customer when the House pervaded the air. He shook in a self-abnegating way, as one who shook for Tellson and Co.

“Can I do anything for you, Mr. Stryver?” asked Mr. Lorry, in his business character.

“Why, no, thank you; this is a private visit to yourself, Mr. Lorry; I have come for a private word.”

“Oh indeed!” said Mr. Lorry, bending down his ear, while his eye strayed to the House afar off.

“I am going,” said Mr. Stryver, leaning his arms confidentially on the desk: whereupon, although it was a large double one, there appeared to be not half desk enough for him: “I am going to make an offer of myself in marriage to your agreeable little friend, Miss Manette, Mr. Lorry.”

“Oh dear me!” cried Mr. Lorry, rubbing his chin, and looking at his visitor dubiously.

“Oh dear me, sir?” repeated Stryver, drawing back. “Oh dear you, sir? What may your meaning be, Mr. Lorry?”

“My meaning,” answered the man of business, “is, of course, friendly and appreciative, and that it does you the greatest credit, and—in short, my meaning is everything you could desire. But—really, you know, Mr. Stryver—” Mr. Lorry paused, and shook his head at him in the oddest manner, as if he were compelled against his will to add, internally, “you know there really is so much too much of you!”

“Well!” said Stryver, slapping the desk with his contentious hand, opening his eyes wider, and taking a long breath, “if I understand you, Mr. Lorry, I’ll be hanged!”

Mr. Lorry adjusted his little wig at both ears as a means towards that end, and bit the feather of a pen.

“D—n it all, sir!” said Stryver, staring at him, “am I not eligible?”

“Oh dear yes! Yes. Oh yes, you’re eligible!” said Mr. Lorry. “If you say eligible, you are eligible.”

“Am I not prosperous?” asked Stryver.

“Oh! if you come to prosperous, you are prosperous,” said Mr. Lorry.

“And advancing?”

“If you come to advancing you know,” said Mr. Lorry, delighted to be able to make another admission, “nobody can doubt that.”

“Then what on earth is your meaning, Mr. Lorry?” demanded Stryver, perceptibly crestfallen.

“Well! I—Were you going there now?” asked Mr. Lorry.

“Straight!” said Stryver, with a plump of his fist on the desk.

“Then I think I wouldn’t, if I was you.”

“Why?” said Stryver. “Now, I’ll put you in a corner,” forensically shaking a forefinger at him. “You are a man of business and bound to have a reason. State your reason. Why wouldn’t you go?”

“Because,” said Mr. Lorry, “I wouldn’t go on such an object without having some cause to believe that I should succeed.”

“D—n me!” cried Stryver, “but this beats everything.”

Mr. Lorry glanced at the distant House, and glanced at the angry Stryver.

“Here’s a man of business—a man of years—a man of experience—in a Bank,” said Stryver; “and having summed up three leading reasons for complete success, he says there’s no reason at all! Says it with his head on!” Mr. Stryver remarked upon the peculiarity as if it would have been infinitely less remarkable if he had said it with his head off.

“When I speak of success, I speak of success with the young lady; and when I speak of causes and reasons to make success probable, I speak of causes and reasons that will tell as such with the young lady. The young lady, my good sir,” said Mr. Lorry, mildly tapping the Stryver arm, “the young lady. The young lady goes before all.”

“Then you mean to tell me, Mr. Lorry,” said Stryver, squaring his elbows, “that it is your deliberate opinion that the young lady at present in question is a mincing Fool?”

“Not exactly so. I mean to tell you, Mr. Stryver,” said Mr. Lorry, reddening, “that I will hear no disrespectful word of that young lady from any lips; and that if I knew any man—which I hope I do not—whose taste was so coarse, and whose temper was so overbearing, that he could not restrain himself from speaking disrespectfully of that young lady at this desk, not even Tellson’s should prevent my giving him a piece of my mind.”

The necessity of being angry in a suppressed tone had put Mr. Stryver’s blood-vessels into a dangerous state when it was his turn to be angry; Mr. Lorry’s veins, methodical as their courses could usually be, were in no better state now it was his turn.

“That is what I mean to tell you, sir,” said Mr. Lorry. “Pray let there be no mistake about it.”

Mr. Stryver sucked the end of a ruler for a little while, and then stood hitting a tune out of his teeth with it, which probably gave him the toothache. He broke the awkward silence by saying:

“This is something new to me, Mr. Lorry. You deliberately advise me not to go up to Soho and offer myself—myself, Stryver of the King’s Bench bar?”

“Do you ask me for my advice, Mr. Stryver?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Very good. Then I give it, and you have repeated it correctly.”

“And all I can say of it is,” laughed Stryver with a vexed laugh, “that this—ha, ha!—beats everything past, present, and to come.”

“Now understand me,” pursued Mr. Lorry. “As a man of business, I am not justified in saying anything about this matter, for, as a man of business, I know nothing of it. But, as an old fellow, who has carried Miss Manette in his arms, who is the trusted friend of Miss Manette and of her father too, and who has a great affection for them both, I have spoken. The confidence is not of my seeking, recollect. Now, you think I may not be right?”

“Not I!” said Stryver, whistling. “I can’t undertake to find third parties in common sense; I can only find it for myself. I suppose sense in certain quarters; you suppose mincing bread-and-butter nonsense. It’s new to me, but you are right, I dare say.”

“What I suppose, Mr. Stryver, I claim to characterise for myself—And understand me, sir,” said Mr. Lorry, quickly flushing again, “I will not—not even at Tellson’s—have it characterised for me by any gentleman breathing.”

“There! I beg your pardon!” said Stryver.

“Granted. Thank you. Well, Mr. Stryver, I was about to say:—it might be painful to you to find yourself mistaken, it might be painful to Doctor Manette to have the task of being explicit with you, it might be very painful to Miss Manette to have the task of being explicit with you. You know the terms upon which I have the honour and happiness to stand with the family. If you please, committing you in no way, representing you in no way, I will undertake to correct my advice by the exercise of a little new observation and judgment expressly brought to bear upon it. If you should then be dissatisfied with it, you can but test its soundness for yourself; if, on the other hand, you should be satisfied with it, and it should be what it now is, it may spare all sides what is best spared. What do you say?”

“How long would you keep me in town?”

“Oh! It is only a question of a few hours. I could go to Soho in the evening, and come to your chambers afterwards.”

“Then I say yes,” said Stryver: “I won’t go up there now, I am not so hot upon it as that comes to; I say yes, and I shall expect you to look in to-night. Good morning.”

Then Mr. Stryver turned and burst out of the Bank, causing such a concussion of air on his passage through, that to stand up against it bowing behind the two counters, required the utmost remaining strength of the two ancient clerks. Those venerable and feeble persons were always seen by the public in the act of bowing, and were popularly believed, when they had bowed a customer out, still to keep on bowing in the empty office until they bowed another customer in.

The barrister was keen enough to divine that the banker would not have gone so far in his expression of opinion on any less solid ground than moral certainty. Unprepared as he was for the large pill he had to swallow, he got it down. “And now,” said Mr. Stryver, shaking his forensic forefinger at the Temple in general, when it was down, “my way out of this, is, to put you all in the wrong.”

It was a bit of the art of an Old Bailey tactician, in which he found great relief. “You shall not put me in the wrong, young lady,” said Mr. Stryver; “I’ll do that for you.”

Accordingly, when Mr. Lorry called that night as late as ten o’clock, Mr. Stryver, among a quantity of books and papers littered out for the purpose, seemed to have nothing less on his mind than the subject of the morning. He even showed surprise when he saw Mr. Lorry, and was altogether in an absent and preoccupied state.

“Well!” said that good-natured emissary, after a full half-hour of bootless attempts to bring him round to the question. “I have been to Soho.”

“To Soho?” repeated Mr. Stryver, coldly. “Oh, to be sure! What am I thinking of!”

“And I have no doubt,” said Mr. Lorry, “that I was right in the conversation we had. My opinion is confirmed, and I reiterate my advice.”

“I assure you,” returned Mr. Stryver, in the friendliest way, “that I am sorry for it on your account, and sorry for it on the poor father’s account. I know this must always be a sore subject with the family; let us say no more about it.”

“I don’t understand you,” said Mr. Lorry.

“I dare say not,” rejoined Stryver, nodding his head in a smoothing and final way; “no matter, no matter.”

“But it does matter,” Mr. Lorry urged.

“No it doesn’t; I assure you it doesn’t. Having supposed that there was sense where there is no sense, and a laudable ambition where there is not a laudable ambition, I am well out of my mistake, and no harm is done. Young women have committed similar follies often before, and have repented them in poverty and obscurity often before. In an unselfish aspect, I am sorry that the thing is dropped, because it would have been a bad thing for me in a worldly point of view; in a selfish aspect, I am glad that the thing has dropped, because it would have been a bad thing for me in a worldly point of view—it is hardly necessary to say I could have gained nothing by it. There is no harm at all done. I have not proposed to the young lady, and, between ourselves, I am by no means certain, on reflection, that I ever should have committed myself to that extent. Mr. Lorry, you cannot control the mincing vanities and giddinesses of empty-headed girls; you must not expect to do it, or you will always be disappointed. Now, pray say no more about it. I tell you, I regret it on account of others, but I am satisfied on my own account. And I am really very much obliged to you for allowing me to sound you, and for giving me your advice; you know the young lady better than I do; you were right, it never would have done.”

Mr. Lorry was so taken aback, that he looked quite stupidly at Mr. Stryver shouldering him towards the door, with an appearance of showering generosity, forbearance, and goodwill, on his erring head. “Make the best of it, my dear sir,” said Stryver; “say no more about it; thank you again for allowing me to sound you; good night!”

Mr. Lorry was out in the night, before he knew where he was. Mr. Stryver was lying back on his sofa, winking at his ceiling.

[accidental-spice]

Okay, my final thoughts on The Shuttle, below the cut

Bettina is SO COOL. I really want her level of common sense and ruthless sensibility. Plus, she handled that creep Sir Nigel like an utter LEGEND

Okay, but that CLIMAX. It was SO tense. All the while I was thinking, I REALLY wish that Mount Dunstan would show up, but he's sick and/or dead. AND THEN HE DID AND KICKED SIR NIGEL'S BUTT

Mount Dunstan my actual beloved. He's so GREAT. And like, he's not perfect, which makes me like him even MORE

Also. Those two. TOP tier ship. I mean, they had a PRINCESS CARRY. And a DANCE SCENE

It was BEAUTIFUL

Uuuuughhhhh, when we thought he was DEAD!!!! I couldn't bring myself to believe it

Not gonna lie, I loved that Rosalie figured out that Betty and Mount Dunstan were in love

Speaking of Rosalie, I LOVE the sweetheart

And UGHTRED

Okay, but my favorite character was OBVIOUSLY G. Selden. He was such a genuine, kind guy. Also, frankly, hilarious

I now want a steak with mushrooms and potatoes hashed brown, not gonna lie

I still am amused and mystified by the horse being named Childe Harold (I'm not technically still mystified, but I'm choosing to be)

Sir Nigel was the actual literal worst. But he got his

I highkey loved when Betty's dad saw that Sir Nigel got struck with paralysis, and was like, yeah, that tracks

The ball lives rent free in my head

So does the scene where Betty and Mount Dunstan get together

Salttina for the win

Penzance is me, to be honest

All this to say, @kazoosandfannypacks ,thank you SO much for introducing me to this book, I LOVED it!!!!!

[thrillingpolls]

[noodledesk]

london recs part 2: Sir John Soane’s museum, Youth Hostel Association (YHA) or UCL accommodations, The Burnt City (Punchdrunk), TATE Modern, lunch at Borough Market, National Portrait Gallery, explore the Barbican, backstage tours of National Theatre & Globe, British Library, British Museum, Gay’s the Word, St Dunstan in the East garden, Peter Pan statue, Bilmonte gelato

thanks so much for sending so many recommendations and places to visit! i really appreciate you going out of your way to send them, thank you so much again 🌻🌻💛

[silvestromedia]

SAINTS OCTOBER 23 "There is only one tragedy in this life, not to have been a saint."- Leon Bloy

St. John of Capistrano, Roman Catholic Priest and Martyr. In 1456 at age 70 he led a crusade against the invading Ottoman Empire at the siege of Belgrade with the Hungarian military commander John Hunyadi. St. John, at the age of seventy, was commissioned by Pope Callistus III to preach and lead a crusade against the invading Turks. Marching at the head of seventy thousand Christians, he gained victory in the great battle of Belgrade against the Turks in 1456. Three months later he died at Illok, Hungary. His feast day is October 23. He is the patron of jurists.

St. Paul Tong Buong, Roman Catholic Vietnamese martyr. A native of Vietnam, he served in the bodyguard of the king. A convert, he was Arrested by Vietnamese authorities for being a Christian, he was tortured, humiliated, and beheaded.

ST. SEVERIN BOETHIUS, ROMAN PHILOSOPHER AND MARTYR

Bl. Thomas Thwing, 1680 A.D. English martyr. Born at Heworth, Yorkshire, England, he studied at Douai, France, where he was ordained in 1665. Returning home, he labored for fifteen years in the Yorkshire area as chaplain for his cousin, Sir Miles Stapeton, and as a school chaplain. Arrested in 1680 for supposed complicity in the Titus Oates Plot with his uncle, Sir Thomas Gascoigne, he was condemned and hanged, drawn, and quartered at York.

St. Clether, 520 A.D. Welsh saint also called Cleer, Clydog, Scledog, Citanus, or Cleodius. He was a descendant of a local king in Wales. Clether left Wales and went to Cornwall, England. Churches including St. Clear near Liskeard were built in his honor. He is reported to have been martyred. A second Clether is commemorated on November 3.

St. Elfleda, 936 A.D. AngloSaxon princess, Benedictine nun at Glastonbury, England. She lived as a recluse and was admired by St. Dunstan.

[beepbeepinthecorner]

“Yay golem arc! Time to meet classic characters, such as the golem ‘Budy,’ Sir Dunstan and Verne Matimel!”

*Golem arc*

“Ah! I forgot it was horrific! Trauma everywhere! Huzzah!”

Anyway I hope “Budy” is out there somewhere living it’s best life far from the shenanigans of humans. And also Verne is my babygirl

[gildasbadonicus]

Random London: The Devil Tavern, Temple Bar, stood between temple bar and Middle Temple Gate, Fleet Street.

Small sign denoting the site of the tavern on Fleet Street

The Sign of the Devil Tavern

The church of St. Dunstan's was nearly opposite; and the sign of the tavern was the Devil pulling St. Dunstan by the nose.

(Famously, of course the legend has it the other way round, as in this verse from the 17thC,

St Dunstan, as the story goes,

Once pull'd the devil by the nose

With red-hot tongs, which made him roar,

That he was heard three miles or more )

St Dunstan in the West, Fleet Street

The Devil Tavern in the 17th Century

It was sometimes called " The Old Devil Tavern," to distinguish it from "The Young Devil Tavern," in the same street, where, in 1707, Wanley and Le Neve originated, or gave the first impulse to, the Society of Antiquaries.

Often mentioned in 17th century literature including by Swift, Pepys and Pope

"One likes no language but the Faery Queen;

A Scot will fight for Christ's Kirk o' the Green;

And each true Briton is to Ben so civil,

He swears the Muses met him at the Devil."

- Alexander Pope.

Ben Jonson and the Devil Tavern

In the time of Ben Jonson, who gave a lasting reputation to the house, the landlord's name was Simon Wadloe—the original of "Old Sir Simon, the King," the favourite air of Squire Western in Fielding’s Tom Jones.

The great room was called the Apollo, where Jonson presided:

“Thither came all who desired to be sealed of the tribe of Ben”

There young poets and wits, such men as Herrick, Randolph, Carew, Marmion, Cartwright, Howell and Lord Falkland-paid their court to one whom they regarded as the first figure in the world of letters.

Over the door was verse, on a marble tablet in gold lettering, written by Jonson, as well as a bust of Apollo:

"Welcome all who lead or follow,

To the oracle of Apollo—

Here he speaks out of his pottle,

Or the tripos, his tower bottle :

All his answers are divine,

Truth itself doth flow in wine.

Hang up all the poor hop-drinkers,

Cries old Sim, the king of skinkels;

He the half of life abuses,

That sits watering with the Muses.

Those dull girls no good can mean us;

Wine it is the milk of Venus,

And the poet's horse accounted :

Ply it, and you all are mounted.

"Tis the true Phobian liquor,

Cheers the brains, makes wit the quicker,

Pays all debts, cures all diseases,

And at once three senses pleases.

Welcome all who lead or follow,

To the oracle of Apollo."

Beneath these verses was the name of the author - O rare Ben Jonson- a posthumous tribute from his grave in Westminster Abbey.

The End of the Devil Tavern

Established in the reign of James I (1603–25), it was demolished in 1787 by Child & Co. to expand their banking premises.

[renaissanceclassics]

A Tale of Two Cities - Book 2: Part 18

In 445 parts.

The Fellow of Delicacy

CHAPTER XII. The Fellow of Delicacy

Mr. Stryver having made up his mind to that magnanimous bestowal of good fortune on the Doctor’s daughter, resolved to make her happiness known to her before he left town for the Long Vacation. After some mental debating of the point, he came to the conclusion that it would be as well to get all the preliminaries done with, and they could then arrange at their leisure whether he should give her his hand a week or two before Michaelmas Term, or in the little Christmas vacation between it and Hilary.

As to the strength of his case, he had not a doubt about it, but clearly saw his way to the verdict. Argued with the jury on substantial worldly grounds—the only grounds ever worth taking into account—it was a plain case, and had not a weak spot in it. He called himself for the plaintiff, there was no getting over his evidence, the counsel for the defendant threw up his brief, and the jury did not even turn to consider. After trying it, Stryver, C. J., was satisfied that no plainer case could be.

Accordingly, Mr. Stryver inaugurated the Long Vacation with a formal proposal to take Miss Manette to Vauxhall Gardens; that failing, to Ranelagh; that unaccountably failing too, it behoved him to present himself in Soho, and there declare his noble mind.

Towards Soho, therefore, Mr. Stryver shouldered his way from the Temple, while the bloom of the Long Vacation’s infancy was still upon it. Anybody who had seen him projecting himself into Soho while he was yet on Saint Dunstan’s side of Temple Bar, bursting in his full-blown way along the pavement, to the jostlement of all weaker people, might have seen how safe and strong he was.

His way taking him past Tellson’s, and he both banking at Tellson’s and knowing Mr. Lorry as the intimate friend of the Manettes, it entered Mr. Stryver’s mind to enter the bank, and reveal to Mr. Lorry the brightness of the Soho horizon. So, he pushed open the door with the weak rattle in its throat, stumbled down the two steps, got past the two ancient cashiers, and shouldered himself into the musty back closet where Mr. Lorry sat at great books ruled for figures, with perpendicular iron bars to his window as if that were ruled for figures too, and everything under the clouds were a sum.

“Halloa!” said Mr. Stryver. “How do you do? I hope you are well!”

It was Stryver’s grand peculiarity that he always seemed too big for any place, or space. He was so much too big for Tellson’s, that old clerks in distant corners looked up with looks of remonstrance, as though he squeezed them against the wall. The House itself, magnificently reading the paper quite in the far-off perspective, lowered displeased, as if the Stryver head had been butted into its responsible waistcoat.

The discreet Mr. Lorry said, in a sample tone of the voice he would recommend under the circumstances, “How do you do, Mr. Stryver? How do you do, sir?” and shook hands. There was a peculiarity in his manner of shaking hands, always to be seen in any clerk at Tellson’s who shook hands with a customer when the House pervaded the air. He shook in a self-abnegating way, as one who shook for Tellson and Co.

“Can I do anything for you, Mr. Stryver?” asked Mr. Lorry, in his business character.

“Why, no, thank you; this is a private visit to yourself, Mr. Lorry; I have come for a private word.”

“Oh indeed!” said Mr. Lorry, bending down his ear, while his eye strayed to the House afar off.

“I am going,” said Mr. Stryver, leaning his arms confidentially on the desk: whereupon, although it was a large double one, there appeared to be not half desk enough for him: “I am going to make an offer of myself in marriage to your agreeable little friend, Miss Manette, Mr. Lorry.”

“Oh dear me!” cried Mr. Lorry, rubbing his chin, and looking at his visitor dubiously.

“Oh dear me, sir?” repeated Stryver, drawing back. “Oh dear you, sir? What may your meaning be, Mr. Lorry?”

“My meaning,” answered the man of business, “is, of course, friendly and appreciative, and that it does you the greatest credit, and—in short, my meaning is everything you could desire. But—really, you know, Mr. Stryver—” Mr. Lorry paused, and shook his head at him in the oddest manner, as if he were compelled against his will to add, internally, “you know there really is so much too much of you!”

“Well!” said Stryver, slapping the desk with his contentious hand, opening his eyes wider, and taking a long breath, “if I understand you, Mr. Lorry, I’ll be hanged!”

Mr. Lorry adjusted his little wig at both ears as a means towards that end, and bit the feather of a pen.

“D—n it all, sir!” said Stryver, staring at him, “am I not eligible?”

“Oh dear yes! Yes. Oh yes, you’re eligible!” said Mr. Lorry. “If you say eligible, you are eligible.”

Original

“Am I not prosperous?” asked Stryver.

“Oh! if you come to prosperous, you are prosperous,” said Mr. Lorry.

“And advancing?”

“If you come to advancing you know,” said Mr. Lorry, delighted to be able to make another admission, “nobody can doubt that.”

“Then what on earth is your meaning, Mr. Lorry?” demanded Stryver, perceptibly crestfallen.

“Well! I—Were you going there now?” asked Mr. Lorry.

“Straight!” said Stryver, with a plump of his fist on the desk.

“Then I think I wouldn’t, if I was you.”

“Why?” said Stryver. “Now, I’ll put you in a corner,” forensically shaking a forefinger at him. “You are a man of business and bound to have a reason. State your reason. Why wouldn’t you go?”

“Because,” said Mr. Lorry, “I wouldn’t go on such an object without having some cause to believe that I should succeed.”

“D—n me!” cried Stryver, “but this beats everything.”

Mr. Lorry glanced at the distant House, and glanced at the angry Stryver.

“Here’s a man of business—a man of years—a man of experience—in a Bank,” said Stryver; “and having summed up three leading reasons for complete success, he says there’s no reason at all! Says it with his head on!” Mr. Stryver remarked upon the peculiarity as if it would have been infinitely less remarkable if he had said it with his head off.

“When I speak of success, I speak of success with the young lady; and when I speak of causes and reasons to make success probable, I speak of causes and reasons that will tell as such with the young lady. The young lady, my good sir,” said Mr. Lorry, mildly tapping the Stryver arm, “the young lady. The young lady goes before all.”

“Then you mean to tell me, Mr. Lorry,” said Stryver, squaring his elbows, “that it is your deliberate opinion that the young lady at present in question is a mincing Fool?”

“Not exactly so. I mean to tell you, Mr. Stryver,” said Mr. Lorry, reddening, “that I will hear no disrespectful word of that young lady from any lips; and that if I knew any man—which I hope I do not—whose taste was so coarse, and whose temper was so overbearing, that he could not restrain himself from speaking disrespectfully of that young lady at this desk, not even Tellson’s should prevent my giving him a piece of my mind.”

The necessity of being angry in a suppressed tone had put Mr. Stryver’s blood-vessels into a dangerous state when it was his turn to be angry; Mr. Lorry’s veins, methodical as their courses could usually be, were in no better state now it was his turn.

“That is what I mean to tell you, sir,” said Mr. Lorry. “Pray let there be no mistake about it.”

Mr. Stryver sucked the end of a ruler for a little while, and then stood hitting a tune out of his teeth with it, which probably gave him the toothache. He broke the awkward silence by saying:

“This is something new to me, Mr. Lorry. You deliberately advise me not to go up to Soho and offer myself—myself, Stryver of the King’s Bench bar?”

“Do you ask me for my advice, Mr. Stryver?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Very good. Then I give it, and you have repeated it correctly.”

“And all I can say of it is,” laughed Stryver with a vexed laugh, “that this—ha, ha!—beats everything past, present, and to come.”

“Now understand me,” pursued Mr. Lorry. “As a man of business, I am not justified in saying anything about this matter, for, as a man of business, I know nothing of it. But, as an old fellow, who has carried Miss Manette in his arms, who is the trusted friend of Miss Manette and of her father too, and who has a great affection for them both, I have spoken. The confidence is not of my seeking, recollect. Now, you think I may not be right?”

“Not I!” said Stryver, whistling. “I can’t undertake to find third parties in common sense; I can only find it for myself. I suppose sense in certain quarters; you suppose mincing bread-and-butter nonsense. It’s new to me, but you are right, I dare say.”

“What I suppose, Mr. Stryver, I claim to characterise for myself—And understand me, sir,” said Mr. Lorry, quickly flushing again, “I will not—not even at Tellson’s—have it characterised for me by any gentleman breathing.”

“There! I beg your pardon!” said Stryver.

“Granted. Thank you. Well, Mr. Stryver, I was about to say:—it might be painful to you to find yourself mistaken, it might be painful to Doctor Manette to have the task of being explicit with you, it might be very painful to Miss Manette to have the task of being explicit with you. You know the terms upon which I have the honour and happiness to stand with the family. If you please, committing you in no way, representing you in no way, I will undertake to correct my advice by the exercise of a little new observation and judgment expressly brought to bear upon it. If you should then be dissatisfied with it, you can but test its soundness for yourself; if, on the other hand, you should be satisfied with it, and it should be what it now is, it may spare all sides what is best spared. What do you say?”

“How long would you keep me in town?”

“Oh! It is only a question of a few hours. I could go to Soho in the evening, and come to your chambers afterwards.”

“Then I say yes,” said Stryver: “I won’t go up there now, I am not so hot upon it as that comes to; I say yes, and I shall expect you to look in to-night. Good morning.”

Then Mr. Stryver turned and burst out of the Bank, causing such a concussion of air on his passage through, that to stand up against it bowing behind the two counters, required the utmost remaining strength of the two ancient clerks. Those venerable and feeble persons were always seen by the public in the act of bowing, and were popularly believed, when they had bowed a customer out, still to keep on bowing in the empty office until they bowed another customer in.

The barrister was keen enough to divine that the banker would not have gone so far in his expression of opinion on any less solid ground than moral certainty. Unprepared as he was for the large pill he had to swallow, he got it down. “And now,” said Mr. Stryver, shaking his forensic forefinger at the Temple in general, when it was down, “my way out of this, is, to put you all in the wrong.”

It was a bit of the art of an Old Bailey tactician, in which he found great relief. “You shall not put me in the wrong, young lady,” said Mr. Stryver; “I’ll do that for you.”

Accordingly, when Mr. Lorry called that night as late as ten o’clock, Mr. Stryver, among a quantity of books and papers littered out for the purpose, seemed to have nothing less on his mind than the subject of the morning. He even showed surprise when he saw Mr. Lorry, and was altogether in an absent and preoccupied state.

“Well!” said that good-natured emissary, after a full half-hour of bootless attempts to bring him round to the question. “I have been to Soho.”

“To Soho?” repeated Mr. Stryver, coldly. “Oh, to be sure! What am I thinking of!”

“And I have no doubt,” said Mr. Lorry, “that I was right in the conversation we had. My opinion is confirmed, and I reiterate my advice.”

“I assure you,” returned Mr. Stryver, in the friendliest way, “that I am sorry for it on your account, and sorry for it on the poor father’s account. I know this must always be a sore subject with the family; let us say no more about it.”

“I don’t understand you,” said Mr. Lorry.

“I dare say not,” rejoined Stryver, nodding his head in a smoothing and final way; “no matter, no matter.”

“But it does matter,” Mr. Lorry urged.

“No it doesn’t; I assure you it doesn’t. Having supposed that there was sense where there is no sense, and a laudable ambition where there is not a laudable ambition, I am well out of my mistake, and no harm is done. Young women have committed similar follies often before, and have repented them in poverty and obscurity often before. In an unselfish aspect, I am sorry that the thing is dropped, because it would have been a bad thing for me in a worldly point of view; in a selfish aspect, I am glad that the thing has dropped, because it would have been a bad thing for me in a worldly point of view—it is hardly necessary to say I could have gained nothing by it. There is no harm at all done. I have not proposed to the young lady, and, between ourselves, I am by no means certain, on reflection, that I ever should have committed myself to that extent. Mr. Lorry, you cannot control the mincing vanities and giddinesses of empty-headed girls; you must not expect to do it, or you will always be disappointed. Now, pray say no more about it. I tell you, I regret it on account of others, but I am satisfied on my own account. And I am really very much obliged to you for allowing me to sound you, and for giving me your advice; you know the young lady better than I do; you were right, it never would have done.”

Mr. Lorry was so taken aback, that he looked quite stupidly at Mr. Stryver shouldering him towards the door, with an appearance of showering generosity, forbearance, and goodwill, on his erring head. “Make the best of it, my dear sir,” said Stryver; “say no more about it; thank you again for allowing me to sound you; good night!”

Mr. Lorry was out in the night, before he knew where he was. Mr. Stryver was lying back on his sofa, winking at his ceiling.

[biboocat]

Bad Men in Victorian Literature

1. Henleigh Mallinger Grandcourt - Daniel Deronda

2. Damon Wildeve - The Return of the Native

3. Alec d’Urberville - Tess of the d’Urbervilles

4. Arthur Donnithorne - Adam Bede

5. Uriah Heep - David Copperfield

6. Jack Reddin - Gone to Earth

7. Mr. Huglet - Precious Bane

8. Colonel Altamont - The History of Pendennis

9. Mr. Morgan - The History of Pendennis

10. Sir Percival Glyde - The Woman in White

11. Nicholas Bulstrode - Middlemarch

12. Dunstan Cass - Silas Marner

13. Stephen Guest - The Mill on the Floss

14. Count Fosco - The Woman in White

15. Harry Carson - Mary Barton

16. Mr. Tulkinghorn - Bleak House

17. Mr. Vholes - Bleak House

To be continued…

[lesbian-ashe]

I’m SO SAD this is nearly a month late, but hey, a Happy Hanukkah from Colfus and Dunstan! they are Jewish yes I make the rules!

[sometimeslondon]

An arch at St Dunstan in the East Church

This ruined church and its gardens can be found in the City of London and provides a peaceful sanctuary for city workers from the stresses of their offices, or at least it would do but for annoying instagrammers and probably the likes of me!

[neko265]

TI discord is running a competition for character fusions. The opportunity to draw a true Lanky Dunstan was too great

[kyrsperrightnow]

Theres an alternative dimension where ti is very popular and some Super Good cosplayer has cosplayed glowey markus

[septembergold]

St. Dunstan in the East

“The church was restored by Sir Christopher Wren after the Great Fire. However, it was no match for the German bombs in World War II, and remained a shell until it was transformed into a garden in 1970. Today it’s a quiet retreat in the bustling eastern reaches of the city. Ivy crawls across Gothic arched windows and trees grow respectfully in what was once the nave of the church.”

[fandom-imagines-stories]

Terrible Tradition

Tristan Thorn x Reader

Words: 2332

Summary: In preparation for his third child, Tristan begins to worry about his family’s past and the kingdom’s tradition of choosing an heir. You try to ease his mind before the baby comes.

Notes: Okay. Here it is. Writing for Tristan because this movie introduced me to the wonderful human that is Charlie Cox. I really hope you guys like this. I wrote it in about a day, so fingers crossed it’s okay!

-

The king ignored the calls of his advisors as his feet carried him swiftly out of the meeting. He darted between servants, rounded corners, and nearly knocked over a very old, very expensive-looking vase. But when he opened the doors to the queen’s chamber, the room was quiet. There were no nurses bustling about. Only the doctor, who was speaking calmly with the woman expecting her third child.

“Your Majesty,” he bowed, “I’m sorry to have disturbed you, sir. Twas only a false alarm.”

Tristan let out a sigh, trying to catch his breath from his sprint up here.

You smiled from your place in bed, holding out your hand for him to take. He crossed to you and sat on the edge of the bed. His eyes held nothing but absolute adoration. Tristan lifted your hand to his lips, placing gentle kisses across your palm

“Don’t tell me you left another meeting to check on me,” you said. His expression turned guilty, making you giggle. “Tristan! Lord Winters is going to have my head if you keep ‘abandoning your kingly duties’ on my account.”

“I’d have his first.” He held up his hands in a mock-fight position.

“I don’t know. I think you might be getting a little rusty with your swordsmanship, Your Majesty.” You teased.

The doctor bowed again, giving you strict instructions to rest before he was dismissed. As he walked toward the door, he was met by a clammer in the hall. The door was thrown open before he could step out of the way.

Two little figures scampered across the room, followed by a very flustered nanny. Tristan caught both of them in his arms before they could jump onto the bed with you.

“Gently now!” He exclaimed with a laugh. “Your mother needs to rest.”

“Papa, I thought my little sister was coming.” Elanor pouted.

Tristan gave her a small smile and kissed her forehead.

“Soon, darling.”

“And we don’t know if it will be a sister,” You corrected with a grin. “We could very well have another prince.” You affectionately ruffled little Dunstan’s hair. He broke out of his father’s arms and threw his arms around your neck.

“Careful-”

“It’s alright,” You laughed, hugging your son tightly. You lifted your hand to Tristan’s cheek. “You should go back before Lord Winters sends out a search party for you.”

“Oh, alright.” He sighed, giving Elanor’s cheek another kiss before setting her down. He stood and leaned over you, pressing a sweet kiss to your lips. “I expect you to rest today. Don’t even leave this room. That’s an order from your king.” He grinned and kissed you again.

“I’ll do my best,” You promised. There were countless events you were in charge of, along with several letters you needed to write. There was just so much to do. Not to mention, the two little royal rascals who always managed to evade their nanny.

“I will return to your side as soon as I am able,” he said, gently caressing your cheek. He kissed both children goodbye, reluctantly leaving your chamber to return to yet another boring meeting with his advisors.

“I want a brother.” Dunstan huffed.

“Sister,” Elanor said. The young siblings glared at each other.

“Brother.”

“Sister.”

“Brother!”

“Sister!”

All you could do was laugh.

-

Tristan looked over the documents before him, feeling rather content. Crop numbers were steady. Trade thrived. The kingdom was doing well. All of his advisors seemed pleased with his decisions. Well, almost all.

Lord Winters was an advisor to his grandfather. He was the only advisor Tristan had kept from the previous king. He felt having a man who’d been here longer than him would be helpful during the transition. After all, an eighteen-year-old king from Wall could use all of the help he could get. Over the course of these last seven years, however, Lord Winters tended to treat Tristan as if he were still that young boy. But he couldn’t bring himself to let the man go. Frustrating or not, he knew more about Stormhold than Tristan probably ever would.

“Another false alarm, sir?” Lord Winters asked once all of the other advisors had gone.

“Hmm?”

“Queen Y/N. I assume the maid was wrong in telling you she was in labor.”

“Oh,” Tristan chuckled and looked up from his work. “Yes. It seems we will just have to wait a little longer for our new prince or princess.” He grinned from ear to ear, the excitement of having another child bubbling inside him.

“Well I certainly would hope for another male heir for Stormhold,” Lord Winters said. He smirked with an odd look in his eye. “Someone else to vie for the throne.”

Tristan’s brows drew together in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“Tradition dictates that the crown passes to the surviving male heir.” He shrugged as if he were suggesting a new trade agreement, not fratricide.

“Surviving?” Tristan gasped. “You suggest that my sons would- that if this next child is a boy that he and Dunstan-”

“Stormhold is not like the world you came from.” His tone held a venom Tristan had become quite familiar with through the years. “Who’s to say that the firstborn son is best fit to rule the kingdom? No, here it is best decided through contest and cunning which heir will make the best king.”

“I won’t allow it.”

“Not only must you allow it, but you are meant to encourage it, sir. Do you not want the best leader for the kingdom after you’re gone?”

“I am not going to encourage my children to murder each other to take my place. It’s absolutely ridiculous!” Tristan’s mind wandered back to his memory of his uncles. Primus and Septimus hated each other, as well as the other brothers they’d killed. Out of the seven, none survived each other’s ambition. How was that supposed to be the better way?

Lord Winters clicked his tongue. “Perhaps you should do your own research, Your Majesty. It’ll help you understand our ways.” He left without another word.

Tristan’s hands shook. In his seven years as king- six as a father- it never occurred to him to remember exactly how it was he became ruler of Stormhold. His mother’s brothers had wiped each other out, except for Septimus who had met his fate at the hands of evil witches. Was he really expected to force this brutal tradition upon his own children? Dunstan was barely four years old.

“This is ridiculous,” Tristan muttered to himself. He ran his fingers through his hair. “Of course, I won’t allow this. I could never.” He closed his eyes, picturing the faces of his children and the face of the baby yet to come. “But what am I going to do?”

-

Dinner was held as normal in a private room next to Tristan’s office. You’d both agreed long ago that the formal dining hall was a bit ostentatious and impractical for family meals. Here, you had a smaller table that allowed for everyone to sit near each other. It also helped you make sure that your children behaved.

“Elanor, don’t play with your food,” you scolded

“I’m not hungry.” She continued to push her vegetables around her plate with her fork. Usually, this was when Tristan would jump in with a silly voice and puppy dog eyes to convince her to eat her dinner, but he just sat across from you in silence.

“Well, if you don’t eat dinner, you won’t have enough energy for your horse riding lesson in the morning,” you said, “I’ll just have to tell the stablemen-”

“Look at that, I’m starving!” She exclaimed and began to gobble down her meal.

“Not too fast, darling. I don’t want you to choke.” You laughed. Tristan, still, remained quiet. You leaned over the table and whispered playfully. “You know, children, I’m willing to guess that Mrs. Wilbury has some cookies stashed away somewhere. If you ask her really nicely she might even help you find them.”

“Cookies!” Dunstan squealed, running out the door, followed by his sister.

You faced your husband. “Alright, out with it. What’s troubling you?”

He finally looked up from his plate, eyes locking with yours. “What? Nothing.”

“Tristan,” you stood slowly, feeling the weight of your belly try to push you back down. You walked to his side of the table and put a hand on his shoulder. “I know when something is wrong.”

“I just-” He took a deep breath. “I had a stressful day, that’s all.”

“It was Winters, wasn’t it?”

“You know, Lord Winters is a very trusted and-and reliable-”

“Lord Winters is insufferable and you think so too,” You snickered, running your fingers through his brown locks. “I should have him beheaded. I’m pretty sure I can do that.”

“That’s a terrible thing to say.” Tristan tried to sound angry, but he just ended up laughing. He took your hands in his and looked into your eyes. There- in the glimmer of his eye and the slight mischievous turn of his smile- you saw the boy you fell in love with.

“Very well. If you aren’t going to tell me, then I am going to call it an early night,” You said. You leaned down and kissed his forehead. “The children have been begging for you to tell them a story anyway. Apparently, you do better voices than I do.” You both chuckled until you winced, your hand falling to your belly.

“What is it?”

You breathed deeply. “Nothing. He’s just a fighter, this one.”

Tristan paused. “H-he?”

“Just a feeling.” You shrugged with a smirk, stealing a bit of his bread before heading back to your quarters.

“Papa, you’re going to tell us a story!” Dunstan yelled, running back into the room with a fistful of sweets.

Tristan put aside his worries and smiled. Elanor jumped into his lap and Dunstan began to tug on his arm.

“Alright, which one would you like to hear tonight?”

“Captain Shakespeare!”

“Meeting mother!”

“Crossing the wall!”

Tristan laughed heartily and carried his children to their rooms to tell them the story of all three.

-

The idea of the king and queen sleeping in separate rooms was entirely ignored. Either you were in his room or he was in yours. Tonight, when Tristan entered his room, he shouldn’t have jumped so high when he saw you sitting up in his bed.

“Heavens,” he exclaimed. He even had to stop and catch his breath for a moment. “I thought you’d be in your room, asleep.”

“And I figured you would try and avoid me for the rest of the night, so I decided to sleep in here.” You smiled coyly. He pursed his lips and sat at the end of the bed to remove his boots. Rather than join you in bed, however, he walked to the window and looked at the sky.

“Sometimes I still think I’m just that shop boy from Wall and all of this is just a wonderful dream,” He mused. With a fair amount of effort, you climbed out of bed and joined him.

“Tristan, darling, what is it?” You laid your head on his shoulder, lacing your fingers with his.

“One moment I think I understand everything and the next I feel like it’s the night of coronation and I have no idea what I’m doing.” He turned to face you, taking your other hand and bringing them both to his lips. “Lord Winters reminded me of a terrible tradition.”

You huffed. “That man-”

“Do you remember my mother’s family?” He asked suddenly.

“I mean, I remember what I was told about them.”

“All of her brothers died. That’s why I became king. They murdered each other for the throne. Their father did the same to his brothers before him. Lord Winters said that if this child is a son…” He trailed off, returning his gaze to the stars.

You couldn’t hold back your laughter. He gave you a look of confusion, but you just kept laughing.

“That’s what you’ve been worried about?” You snorted. “Lord Winters told you that ‘tradition dictates our sons must fight to the death for the throne’ and you think that means something?”

“Of course it means something!” He said, sounding mildly defensive. “It’s tradition.”

“You’re the king! Make a new one!” You put your hands on either side of his face. “Darling, traditions change. There are other ways for the crown to be passed down. The fact that this has haunted you all day just shows that you are not just a kind and loving father, but a kind and loving king. We’ll figure it out.”

“What if it isn’t that simple? What if there’s some kind of curse and all but one of them has to-”

You interrupted him with a kiss.

“We’ll figure that out too. We have- if you recall- fought far worse.” You gave him a reassuring smile. “Everything is going to be fine.”

Worry slowly disappeared from his face, replaced with the same adoration he always looked at you with. His lips connected with yours once again, his hands moving to caress your baby bump.

A pain shot through you. You jerked back, looking at him with as calm of an expression as you could muster.

“I-I think it might be time.”

His eyes went as wide as saucers.

“Right now?”

“Yes, dear, right now.”

He helped you back to the bed, wincing at your pained groan. He held onto you with panic in his face.

“The doctor, darling, we need to fetch the doctor.”

“Right. Yes. Okay.” After two children, one would think he would feel less flustered. He started towards the door, but doubled back, pressing a kiss to your lips. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” You beamed. The sweet moment was cut off by another groan.

“I’ll be back in a moment, darling.” He assured you and took off into the hallway.