DOI Artikel:
Beerbohm, Max: 1880
DOI Seite / Zitierlink: https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.21805#0279
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By Max Beerbohm
Say, shall these things be forgotten
In the Row that men call Rotten,
Beauty Cläre ?—Hamilton Aide.
Isuppose that there is no one, however optimistic, that has not
wished, from time to time, that he had been born into some
other age than this. Poor Professor Froude once admitted that
he would like to have been a prehistoric man. Don Ouixote is
only one of many who have tried to revive the days of chivalry.
A desire to have lived in the eighteenth Century is common to all
our second-rate litterateurs. But, for my own part, I have often
feit that it would have been nice to live in that bygone epoch
when society was first inducted into the mysteries of art and, not
losing yet its old and elegant t ernte ^ first babbled of blue china and
white lilies, and of the painter Rossetti and of the poet Swinburne.
It would have been a fine thing to see the tableaux at Cromwell
H ouse or the Pastoral Plays at Coombe Wood, to have strained
my eyes for a glimpse of the Jersey Li ly, clapped holes in my
gloves for Connie Gilchrist, and danced all night long to the
strains of the Manola Valse. The period of 1880 must have been
delicious.
It
By Max Beerbohm
Say, shall these things be forgotten
In the Row that men call Rotten,
Beauty Cläre ?—Hamilton Aide.
Isuppose that there is no one, however optimistic, that has not
wished, from time to time, that he had been born into some
other age than this. Poor Professor Froude once admitted that
he would like to have been a prehistoric man. Don Ouixote is
only one of many who have tried to revive the days of chivalry.
A desire to have lived in the eighteenth Century is common to all
our second-rate litterateurs. But, for my own part, I have often
feit that it would have been nice to live in that bygone epoch
when society was first inducted into the mysteries of art and, not
losing yet its old and elegant t ernte ^ first babbled of blue china and
white lilies, and of the painter Rossetti and of the poet Swinburne.
It would have been a fine thing to see the tableaux at Cromwell
H ouse or the Pastoral Plays at Coombe Wood, to have strained
my eyes for a glimpse of the Jersey Li ly, clapped holes in my
gloves for Connie Gilchrist, and danced all night long to the
strains of the Manola Valse. The period of 1880 must have been
delicious.
It