apt to vanish, and, caring nothing though all the children in England be rendered imbecile, one descends into regions of comparative civilisation in the full flood of roaring ratiocination. Chavender declared, during his visit, that whilst angling one afternoon blamelessly[1] by the river he imagined for a few moments that he had found a reason for his lack of success in distant thunder, which presently became articulate and recognisable as periods which pulverised the Specialisation of the Modern Actor. He was careful, I notice, to find out what his hostess had been discussing during the after-tea walk, and also, the slave! to elicit her views on the subject. Once assured that she favoured the special line of business, he no longer hesitated to imperil his soul in the manner I have indicated. Therefore that night he returned to an excessively large teapot.
But I digress unworthily.
Yet I find that I have said all that I have to say about our singing of catches.
- ↑ His own description of his proceedings.
