The Air of a British Gentleman

Sir Chesterhill's recent antics while in service to the Lord.

My dearest compatriots, I am in absolute angst at the recent developments concerning my excommunication from the glorious institution that is the Church of England. I see the irony is not lost on you, dear reader, as the foundation of perpetual banishment would have a sense of sympathy for the punishment laid down by the ever firm hand of the righteous. Oh, and lo it does damage the mood of my pious soul as we Chesterhills have been Church of England since Sir Humphrey Chesterhill who was awarded the endowment for his rather inexorable treatment and attention to the Betherford Choir vestals, what? O’ how he loved them and, more so, loved to make them cry to the Lord, may he forever be risen upon the immortal throne of the Christendom.

Please, allow me to start at the beginning of this memoir, though it pains me so. I was visiting my good friend, the Abbot, who was missionarying about in the darkest regions of Punjab and as a fellow British Gentleman, I thought it best to allow those Punjabis hear the Word of the Lord, hallowed be thy name. Whilst neck deep in a caning session of a heretical orphan boy, the most striking woman caught my eye, and although I know not if it was her elegant beauty or her immense girth which strained against the fabric of her vestments, I knew for sure, my life was forever changed. We exchanged glances and I must admit, for an old fool, I tried my best to impress this young dame as I demonstrated techniques of beating the poor and wretched I had acquired from the late Maharaja.

Following this dance we shared, I finally summoned the courage and a bottle of dry sherry to approach this woman, whom had suffocated an entire stone bench with her seat. With burgundy stained mustache, I groveled at her feet, kissed them, and begged her heavenly form have mercy on a mortal and Christian heart, for I have succumbed to her doves’ enchantment. She confessed that my strutting and demonstration had moistened her frock and her growl confirmed as such. As conflicted as I was, I was enamoured more so.

We had retired to the stone patio beside the bench where she tousled and teased, and I, being an adventurer, climbed her summit with no end in sight. With none of the other missionaries in proximity, I was quite comfortable, that is until, in the throes of passion, she began to shout and bellow, and where she had acquired the war drum is still lost on me to this day, but there she was, banging and calling out to the high heavens.

All the racket has summoned the Abbot himself, who was aghast at the sight, and although I offered a plate of this meal, he abjectly declined. In hindsight, I should have known as he was more accustomed to the delights of the men’s choir, but alas, it was the last home of a gentleman. As such, he contacted the church, and not long after my return to His Majesty’s kingdom, was I notified that I was not to attend any future services for the one True God, may he forever writhe his corpse upon the alter of mankind, breathing fire and such.

As such, my return to Chesterhill Estate my mood proved to be most foul and my manservant Geoffery reminded me of such when I instructed him to place my best ointments and ether in the sitting room. After a lengthy body lengthening session, I shuffled about the manor morbidly mulling the situation over by aid of my ether cloth.

When I recovered the following morning and regained functionality of my various viscera, I contacted the local office of the Church of England to explain my most delicate situation. I explained that I was conducting a series of interesting experiments as a representative of the scientific institution. The recent discovery of the Maiden of the Missionary was a most rewarding diversion from the rather arid and droll expedition in His Majesty’s colonies and as a British Gentleman and an avid charlatan, I was obligated to pursue this most loyal endeavour.

The week awaiting the return of my courier was an anxious one; in fact, the perdition cause me to deplete my estates supply of sherry and the fact was none to pleasant for my maidservants, whom thus far had fared well with my rigorous advances. The aftermath of my antics had left my female staff quite depleted and I was forced to conducting a recruiting drive from the local den of iniquity. Unfortunately, today’s standards have diminished significantly and all but a few of the dames could sustain even the shortest caning session but the ones that could were purchased and chased to my estate.

Fortunately, I received a word from the Church of England and I shall spare you the extent of the details however, it seems that the Abbot had spoken on my behalf. In fact, he had complimented my style and prose atop Mount Biffa. The good chap had many good words and his statements had ended my excommunication. At the end of the letter, the Abbot himself invited me to attend a service of benediction at his parish, The Adoration of Our Teleporting Lord.

When I was arrived, I was instructed that my cortege of strumpets would only be allowed in the rear chamber of the Abbot. The sermon itself was quite ecclesiastical and mid-exultation, I fell to my knees and fell the high voltage power of the One True God strike me, again and again. My prayer was so fervent that the fabric of my breeches was destroyed where I knelt prostrate. As I raised my hands above my head, the Abbot reached the climax of his screaming exclamations. It was at that moment that I experienced a most interesting event of a metaphysical nature.

The general cohesion of my subatomic particles became loosely assembled, first as a completely liquid, then as a gas, then as only individual atoms in a state of free distribution. My garments were left where they lay, and the congregation threw themselves at the Abbot in hallelujah. Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah! The crowded orgy writhed on the form in the ultimate expression of piety. Meanwhile, my particles filled the room and I invaded the moist gaps between the bodies.

Once the worship session was concluded, I had my best man Geoffrey collect all my particles in jars which was quite difficult indeed. My gaseousness filled no less than one hundred fifty vessels, as it was determined by the social institution that when a robust British gentleman becomes vapourous, he should fill no less than one hundred jars; any less and he would be the laughing stock of the League of Chemical States.

The rest of the afternoon was spent with my jars basking in the warm afternoon sun in an attempt to excite their arrangement. Following the setting of the sun, I was released from my ever so transparent confinement. To ease my boredom, all my house servants chased my particles about the manor with aggressive palm fanning in an attempt to rile up my gaseous libido, as was the custom. Unfortunately, the climax was limited to the pairings of the neutrons, protons, and those deliciously deviant electrons.

At the end of the evening, the particles were allowed to remain free to settle in the rafters, cupboards, and between the very floorboards my great uncle Edward Chesterhill become deceased upon while my more devious particles rifled through the drawers of my of maidservants unmentionables. As such, several attempts were made by the scientific institutions to amorphisize my physical body using methods mystical and objective. However, it seems these days, I am content to settle my particles in a rather deep chalice of sherry so that I might gently atmosphere the surface.

Author's Note

Say what you will about a British Gentleman.

Reviews

[Magistrate Templeton]

Bully! What a fantastic story. Reminds me of a time aboard the Royal Lion, a fine vessel in Her Majesty's Royal Navy, when Captain Johnathan Barrell ordered the razing of a dark skinned village near the southern tip of Africa. The battle, of course, was pathetic like most climaxes I now share with rotund African women who maintain a sour dispositions but, we did later find that Captain Barrell had fallen in love with a women who had survived the assault and converted to the heathen religion that they practice out that way. In his cabin late one night during our voyage home we discovered him and the surviving tribes women withering on the floor with several broken ostrich eggs between them. Evil and heathen symbols were written all about them and I, a young midshipmen at the time, ordered the crew to evacuate the cabin so as not to be ensnared in the evil spell they were practicing.
After reaching home, the incident that night in the Captains cabin was reported to the local monastery and a courier was dispatch from that place to the Cardinal in Manchester. It reached my ears that, much later, Captain Barrell was arrested by holy brethren of the Church and subjected to several months of torture before being excommunicated and banished from England! Heaven forbid that any such a thing should befall you Sire. Keep your mustache clean.

Ta'ta

Magistrate Templeton
Edited by Junior Scribe Edward of the Church of Doncaster

[Marie]

I can't help thinking that you and the writer of the above story are the same man.

[grandmufti]

I think they are too. Well spotted Miss.
This text was previously written here
https://answers.yahoo.com/question/index?qid=20150622130850AAfLe6c

[Magistrate Templeton]

On the contrary dear chaps, Sire Chesterhill is my dear friend and we are indeed two unique people writing our own persona. Sire Chesterhill has been writing memoirs longer than myself. He did start his journey at Answers.Yahoo.com but they have since limited postings to 500 words, which is too few for British gentlemen such as us. I, myself, have only been writing on and off at other forums for a short time but now I have joined forces with Sire Chesterhill here until otherwise we cannot post here anymore.

Keep your mustache clean!

Magistrate Templeton
Censored by the Church of England

[Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn..]

I must say, dear fellow, that this tale your mind has contrived to set to pen, by the hand of a man who is quite the imaginative writer, is both intelligently delightful and humorously fantastic to the point of causing your reader to never spend a moment in wondering if such a tale telling is true or not for the simple wish of wanting it to be true, because a tale of such grand merit stirs the hearts and minds of all men to daydreaming of such amazingly satisfying adventures--and to Hades with the risk! ... Entertaining from first line to last ... Your story left me laughing on a day when the common cold would seek to steal even the smile from my face ... Very nice to discover you here on Writerscafe ...

[ķřăźŷ_ĺīļ_āľ�..]

A nice story. I really like! Keep on posting great stories something we can inspire.

[Marie]

THis is a fantastic sort of story. Funny, though his actions seemed quite reprehensible.