The daily clarion., 1866-03-01
THE DAILY CLARION



In the Orchestra, a musical weekly
published in London, is a feuilleton in
which occurs this clsver imitation of a
popular English novelist:
DRIVING ON.
It was some ten or twenty years after
these times of ours-little matter how
many. The Stoker knew how many,
perhaps, and so did the engine driver, for
thev were middle-aged men-old men,
YOU would say, in experience OF tlue.
And how the fue stuck to them FIue
on the engine, and the wheels, and the
coats; fne on the track; hue on the tops
of the carriages. Flue on the engine
divers caps; fue on the stoker's face;
Aue inthe engine drivers and rhestoker's
pockets. Flue proceeding out of the
funnel of the locomotive up the line; hue
proceeding out Of the locomotive down
the line. In its fanatical form and
shape of hldrousness which Dirt can as
sume, il held wierd resemblance on the
rails and on the faces of the hard-work-
ing men to the stain Of sorrow and sin on
the faces of the poor There, too, 1t
clung wherever it lighted. Just, my
Lords and Gentlemen, and Honorable
Boards, as that other stain will cling
where it lights, up and down the line OF
human life.
Ii was a muggy morning. Everybody
admitted it-from the guard at the last
station, where he had afably accepted
Mr.. Pocklethwacky's four-pence for
pint of beer, to Mr.. Pocklethwhacky him
self, airily installed in an air cushion in
an airy second-class carriage, putting a
windy cigar and whistling the "Bonnie
House o Airlie." Mr. Pockelthwhacky
admitted the morning was muggy; in
fact, he stated so voluntarily. "A mug
gy morning, sir" said Mr.. Pockleth-
whacky to his opposite neighbor, bene-
fcient round faced man. with rim OF
whiskers all round his chin.
The whisker-rimmed man looked up
from a book he was reading. Mr.. Pock-
elthwhacky, casting glance at this vol
ume the other held, saw it was The
Book, open at the Proverbs of King Sol
oman.
"Dampness cometh in the autumn
morning as the dews fly downwards; and
sufficient for the day is the evil thereof, "
said the whisker- trimmed man.
Your remark, sir, is what may call
pregnant with truth, said Mr.. Pockleth-
whacky. Bearing which consideration
in mind, sir, | should say you was in
clined to philosphizing turn of mind,
Il am the Proverbial Philosopher, and
my words are the words Of wisdom" re-
turned the whisker-rimmed man. wis
dom sitteth at the street corners and cried
to the passers by. 1t is sweet to recog-
nize a glory in the backbeetle, and more
than beauty in the butterfly"
Meaning Polly Perkins, sir
mo, sir, meaning nothing but Pro
verbal Philosophy" said the whisker-
trimmed man.
.'Oh, indeed" remarked Mr.. Pockle-
thwhacky disconnected. care ye going
tar, may | ask 2"
The end of journey is its destina-
ton, and the conclusion of most things
is termination. / am going to Knebs-
worth, where the lberality Of genial af-
Auence hath provided home for the Sc
nile Philosopher" said the whiskerrim-
med man.
The train sped onward. Through
Iuts and ridges of undulating land over
low-lying tracts of desolate marsh, by
water courses, above shingle and sorre
and the spires of flashing towns. The
aue gathered and increased all the speed
and the whirl and clatter could not bear
it down. No more, my lords and gentle
and honorable boards can the whirl anc
clatter you make, in the boastful asser
tions of your order, bear down the tain
which fetters the progress of the poor.
The train flies fast. Fast, your maj
esty. Fast, my lords and gentlemen
Fast, right reverends and wrong rever
ends of every degree. Fast, common
men and women, with sorrow and human
sympathy in your hearts. And flying
thus around us every day.