I Have Chased The
Lodging-House Norfolk Howard To His Watery Death By The Pale Lamp's
Light; I Have, Shivering, Followed The Leaping Flea O'er Many A Mile
Of Pillow And Sheet, By The Great Atlantic's Margin.
Round and
round, till the heart - and not only the heart - grows sick, and the
mad brain whirls and
Reels, have I ridden the small, but extremely
hard, horse, that may, for a penny, be mounted amid the plains of
Peckham Rye; and high above the heads of the giddy throngs of Barnet
(though it is doubtful if anyone among them was half so giddy as was
I) have I swung in highly-coloured car, worked by a man with a rope.
I have trod in stately measure the floor of Kensington's Town Hall
(the tickets were a guinea each, and included refreshments - when you
could get to them through the crowd), and on the green sward of the
forest that borders eastern Anglia by the oft-sung town of Epping I
have performed quaint ceremonies in a ring; I have mingled with the
teeming hordes of Drury Lane on Boxing Night, and, during the run of
a high-class piece, I have sat in lonely grandeur in the front row
of the gallery, and wished that I had spent my shilling instead in
the Oriental halls of the Alhambra."
"There you are," said B., "that is just as good as yours; and you
can write like that without going more than a few hours' journey
from London."
"We will discuss the matter no further," I replied.
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