DOI Artikel:
Mew, Charlotte Mary: Passed
DOI Seite / Zitierlink:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.21215#0128
124
Passed
peaceful country, where the broad roads are but pathways through
green meadows, and your footstep keeps the time to a gentle music
of pure streams. There the scent of roses, and the first pushing
buds of spring, mark the seasons, and the birds call out faithfully
the time and manner of the day. Here Easter is heralded by the
advent in some squalid mart of air-balls on Good Friday; early
summer and late may be known by Observation of that un-
romantic yet authentic calendar in which alley-tors, tip-cat,
whip- and peg-tops, hoops and suckers, in their courses mark the
flight of time.
Perhaps attracted by the incongruity, I took this way. In such
a thoroughfare it is remarkable that satisfied as are its public with
transient Substitutes for literature, they require permanent types
(the term is so far misused it may hardly be further outraged) of
Art. Pictures, so-called, are the sole departure from necessityand
populär finery which the prominent wares display. The window
exhibiting these aspirations was scarcely more inviting than. the
fishmonger's next door, but less odoriferous, and I stopped to see
what the ill-reflecting lights would show. There was a typical
selection. Prominently, a large chromo of a girl at prayer. Her
eyes turned upwards, presumably to heaven, left the gazer in no
State to dwell on the elaborately bared breasts below. These
might rival, does wax-work attempt such beauties, any similar
attraction of Marylebone's extensive show. This personification
of pseudo-purity was sensually diverting, and consequently market-
able.
My mind seized the ideal of such a picture, and turned from this
Prostitution of it sickly away. Hurriedly I proceeded, and did
not stop again until I had passed the low gateway of the place I
sought.
Its forbidding exterior was hidden in the deep twilight and
invited
Passed
peaceful country, where the broad roads are but pathways through
green meadows, and your footstep keeps the time to a gentle music
of pure streams. There the scent of roses, and the first pushing
buds of spring, mark the seasons, and the birds call out faithfully
the time and manner of the day. Here Easter is heralded by the
advent in some squalid mart of air-balls on Good Friday; early
summer and late may be known by Observation of that un-
romantic yet authentic calendar in which alley-tors, tip-cat,
whip- and peg-tops, hoops and suckers, in their courses mark the
flight of time.
Perhaps attracted by the incongruity, I took this way. In such
a thoroughfare it is remarkable that satisfied as are its public with
transient Substitutes for literature, they require permanent types
(the term is so far misused it may hardly be further outraged) of
Art. Pictures, so-called, are the sole departure from necessityand
populär finery which the prominent wares display. The window
exhibiting these aspirations was scarcely more inviting than. the
fishmonger's next door, but less odoriferous, and I stopped to see
what the ill-reflecting lights would show. There was a typical
selection. Prominently, a large chromo of a girl at prayer. Her
eyes turned upwards, presumably to heaven, left the gazer in no
State to dwell on the elaborately bared breasts below. These
might rival, does wax-work attempt such beauties, any similar
attraction of Marylebone's extensive show. This personification
of pseudo-purity was sensually diverting, and consequently market-
able.
My mind seized the ideal of such a picture, and turned from this
Prostitution of it sickly away. Hurriedly I proceeded, and did
not stop again until I had passed the low gateway of the place I
sought.
Its forbidding exterior was hidden in the deep twilight and
invited