I greatly prefer Mr. Richard Swiveller to Mr. Stanley Ortheris.
I prefer the man who exceeded in rosy wine in order that the wing
of friendship might never moult a feather to the man who exceeds
quite as much in whiskies and sodas, but declares all the time that
he's for number one, and that you don't catch him paying for other
men's drinks. The old men of pleasure (with their tooral ooral)
got at least some social and communal virtue out of pleasure.
The new men of pleasure (without the slightest vestige of a
tooral ooral) are simply hermits of irreligion instead of religion,
anchorites of atheism, and they might as well be drugging themselves
with hashish or opium in a wilderness.
But the chorus of the old songs had another use besides this
obvious one of asserting the popular element in the arts.
The chorus of a song, even of a comic song, has the same purpose
as the chorus in a Greek tragedy. It reconciles men to the gods.
It connects this one particular tale with the cosmos and the philosophy
of common things, Thus we constantly find in the old ballads,
especially the pathetic ballads, some refrain about the grass
growing green, or the birds singing, or the woods being merry in spring.
These are windows opened in the house of tragedy; momentary glimpses
of larger and quieter scenes, of more ancient and enduring landscapes.
Many of the country songs describing crime and death have refrains of a
startling joviality like cock crow, just as if the whole company were
coming in with a shout of protest against so sombre a view of existence.
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