Note: This text has been automatically extracted via Optical Character Recognition (OCR) software.
A Queer Career.
it complacently with a kind of fond , longing gratulation , replaced it , and went on his way . Whither was he going ? Shall I tell you ? No , I won't . Imagine for yourselves , refined readers ; but you can't—the "licensed" lodging house in Newcastle Street , Great Wyld Street , or thereabouts—the common fire—the fight for the public frying-panthe two-pronged forks , and the curved leaden-bladed knives with the black handles branded all over with " Stolen from Muggins ' s Home for Travellers , Little Frowsy
Street , Drury Lane "—the mugs chained to the table—the , —if you please we won't assist further at Mr . Mole's repast- My chronicle of his queer career is a threnody . Granted . We minstrels , " who learn in suffering what we teach in song , " can't all be " Lion Comiques , " you know . We must sometimes pipe in a minor key . This professes to be no other than a nocturne . The great Lord Bacon tells us that " if you listen to David ' s harp you shall hear as many hearse-like airs as carols ; and the pencil of the Holy Ghost hath laboured more in describing the afflictions of Job than the
felicities of Solomon , " which noble words , if you please , ladies and gentlemen , shall serve for the epilogue , or , as the slang phrase ' of the day goes , for the " tag " of my drama . See , as I utter them , the great green black folds of the curtain above tremblingly begin their descent . The scene is a suburban cemetery—say at Finchley or Hford . "Fosse commune "—I won't say " pauper ground" —for the French tongue seems so much more genteelly to convey what I mean . Slow music ? Well , you
can't have that , for the fiddlers have long ' ago gone home to bed . Lights half downall down—all out soon . And now the great black blind has closed in the proscenium . The fireman in his uniform is casting scrutinising glances round the house . The whitejacketed gasmen vie with the paper-capped carpenters , swatheing the boxes in canvas shrouds , who shall get their work done soonest . We are out in the lighted street—the link boys are raving and bawling" Shall I call honour's coach ? " " Shall I fetch
, your your worship a cab ? " No ? Ah , I see you long for the Cafe Monico , for your " Chateaubriand ayec pommes , " for the reeking tumbler of comfort , and the fragrant weed of consolation , for an easy chair and Offenbach's music , and early oblivion of Mr . Mole and his frizzled scrap of bacon , and his wasted life and his " queer career . "
The Past.
THE PAST .
THE Past ! the Past ! the solemn Past ! The days of "Long ago , " The hours which have faded fast , The time which has ceased to flow ; The tales of love and sorrow , Tokens of grief and lee
g , The warnings of " to-morrow " The weary destiny . All these are now before me , In vivid colours here , And faces of pallid imagery
Appear and disappear ; Shrill tones of whispered gladness And silvery voices kind , Start with utterances of sadness To meet my musing mind . And shadows , as of necromancy ,
Seem to confront me now : I watch the blush of infancy , I greet the noble brow ;
Note: This text has been automatically extracted via Optical Character Recognition (OCR) software.
A Queer Career.
it complacently with a kind of fond , longing gratulation , replaced it , and went on his way . Whither was he going ? Shall I tell you ? No , I won't . Imagine for yourselves , refined readers ; but you can't—the "licensed" lodging house in Newcastle Street , Great Wyld Street , or thereabouts—the common fire—the fight for the public frying-panthe two-pronged forks , and the curved leaden-bladed knives with the black handles branded all over with " Stolen from Muggins ' s Home for Travellers , Little Frowsy
Street , Drury Lane "—the mugs chained to the table—the , —if you please we won't assist further at Mr . Mole's repast- My chronicle of his queer career is a threnody . Granted . We minstrels , " who learn in suffering what we teach in song , " can't all be " Lion Comiques , " you know . We must sometimes pipe in a minor key . This professes to be no other than a nocturne . The great Lord Bacon tells us that " if you listen to David ' s harp you shall hear as many hearse-like airs as carols ; and the pencil of the Holy Ghost hath laboured more in describing the afflictions of Job than the
felicities of Solomon , " which noble words , if you please , ladies and gentlemen , shall serve for the epilogue , or , as the slang phrase ' of the day goes , for the " tag " of my drama . See , as I utter them , the great green black folds of the curtain above tremblingly begin their descent . The scene is a suburban cemetery—say at Finchley or Hford . "Fosse commune "—I won't say " pauper ground" —for the French tongue seems so much more genteelly to convey what I mean . Slow music ? Well , you
can't have that , for the fiddlers have long ' ago gone home to bed . Lights half downall down—all out soon . And now the great black blind has closed in the proscenium . The fireman in his uniform is casting scrutinising glances round the house . The whitejacketed gasmen vie with the paper-capped carpenters , swatheing the boxes in canvas shrouds , who shall get their work done soonest . We are out in the lighted street—the link boys are raving and bawling" Shall I call honour's coach ? " " Shall I fetch
, your your worship a cab ? " No ? Ah , I see you long for the Cafe Monico , for your " Chateaubriand ayec pommes , " for the reeking tumbler of comfort , and the fragrant weed of consolation , for an easy chair and Offenbach's music , and early oblivion of Mr . Mole and his frizzled scrap of bacon , and his wasted life and his " queer career . "
The Past.
THE PAST .
THE Past ! the Past ! the solemn Past ! The days of "Long ago , " The hours which have faded fast , The time which has ceased to flow ; The tales of love and sorrow , Tokens of grief and lee
g , The warnings of " to-morrow " The weary destiny . All these are now before me , In vivid colours here , And faces of pallid imagery
Appear and disappear ; Shrill tones of whispered gladness And silvery voices kind , Start with utterances of sadness To meet my musing mind . And shadows , as of necromancy ,
Seem to confront me now : I watch the blush of infancy , I greet the noble brow ;