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A Treatise on Rest: Why Doing Nothing Is Occasionally a Civic Duty
Among the lesser-known virtues of civilisation—clean socks, punctual trains, and the moderate use of adjectives—lies a quality increasingly rare in modern life: the ability to do nothing properly. Not lazily, nor guiltily, but with dignity and purpose. Rest, like patriotism or pastry, is only beneficial when taken seriously.
The Golden Rails to Southmarch
There are faster ways to reach the southern provinces, but none finer than the Golden Rail, that grand artery of steam and polish that carries the Kingdom’s citizens from Inverness to the green hills of Southmarch in just under nine unhurried hours. It departs from Platform Two of the Royal Terminus, a hall of brass columns and clockwork dignity where the scent of coal mingles with perfume and anticipation.
A Pilgrimage to Mount Saint Caradoc
The road to Mount Saint Caradoc begins like any other: cobbles, cottages, and the quiet chatter of travellers who still believe they know where they are going. But an hour beyond the last tavern, the landscape changes. The hedgerows fade, the air cools, and the path begins to wind upward through heather and thin mist. By the time one reaches the foothills, the only sound left is one’s own breathing—and the distant toll of a bell that no one can quite locate.
Exercise for the Desk-Bound Gentleman (and the Industrious Lady)
The modern age, for all its brilliance, has produced a peculiar kind of invalid: the upright sitter—that pale species of humanity who spends their waking hours stooped over papers, ledgers, or typewriters, and whose chief form of exercise consists of sighing. Once upon a time, work required limbs; now it demands only vertebrae.
The Anatomy of a Good Breakfast
Breakfast is not merely a meal. It is an act of national character. The way a citizen greets the morning says much about their sense of duty, their digestion, and their likelihood of behaving decently before noon. The hurried, the careless, and the perpetually late have conspired to make breakfast optional; civilisation requires its restoration to ceremony.
On the Virtues of a Proper Walk
In an age increasingly obsessed with speed, it is refreshing—if not entirely fashionable—to remember that walking remains the most respectable means of going anywhere worth arriving at. The motorcar roars, the bicycle wobbles, and the omnibus coughs, but the walker proceeds at a human pace, one foot in front of the other, and nearly always gets there eventually.
🪵 Help Wanted – Third Week of Midgloam
Employment opportunities abound across the Kingdom of Eyehasseen. Apply in person unless otherwise noted. References from reputable citizens preferred.
Notice Tacker – Regional Notices Division
Seeking someone who can nail bits of paper to things in a straight line. Requires walking, hammering, and an appreciation for public information. Must supply own ladder and resolve.
Assistant to the Clocksmith
Tasks include winding, oiling, listening for ticking discrepancies, and occasionally arguing with time itself. Applicants must be punctual and moderately philosophical. Trial hour required.
Obituary: Rodger Bianchovi, 57
Former acquaintances recall him chiefly for his passionate advocacy of self-interest, his loathing of soap, and his ability to turn any gathering into an argument about “energy frequencies.” He was, for a brief and bewildering time, employed as a part-time poetry instructor at the Inverness Community Annex, from which he was dismissed after insisting students “write only in the key of Aquarius.”
Why We Are Blessed to Live Beneath the Crown
The monarch is not elected to please, nor appointed to profit, but bound by sacred oath to govern in justice and mercy. There is no re-election to scheme for, no donor to flatter, no lobby to appease. There is only the solemn promise to reign well and die remembered as a steward of the nation’s soul.
THE AUTOMATON MENACE: OR, THE MECHANICAL SCRIBBLER THAT WILL UNDO CIVILISATION
We stand, dear readers, upon the brink of an age where thought itself may be ground out by wheels and pulleys. Where the sacred intercourse between mind and quill — that delicate dance of intellect and ink — will be replaced by a cold, relentless machine, scratching letters it neither understands nor feels. What blasphemy is this, that a mechanism of brass and wire should presume to think, to compose, to write!?
Let’s Not Be New Yorkie
New Yorkie, once a vibrant town with markets on the quay and a civic life that held its neighbours close, it has lately become a cautionary tale: rising violent crime, a housing market that eats savings, an influx of illegal aliens causing rapid demographic shifts and erosion of the tax base, and now the prospect of electing the most radical mayor in history, whose platform promises sweeping, untested reforms.
