Publisher's Synopsis
Excerpt from The Random Recollections of an Old Playgoer: A Sketch of Some Old Cork Theatres
There's music in the olden song Yea, e'en ecstatic are the tears Which will steal down our smiles among, Roused by the sounds of other years.
And truly there are no songs we love like the old songs, even though sometimes our hearts be so full that we cannot sing them. With a deep regard for the art of bygone ages we treasure our household gods, the costly pictures, the hoard of quaint and curious plate, the antique figures in bronze and china, or the sculptured marbles that typify the genius which inspired, and the culture which guided, the handicraft of other and greater ages. Yet, with what deeper feelings are we wont to regard those precious things gathered in the storehouse of the heart, those rare figures niched in the corridors of time that will never fade from our sight till we go down to dumb forgetfulness a prey - forms and faces of the radiant beings whose voices seem to come back to us at times, through the long vista of unforgotten years, in the, tones that erstwhile thrilled us to the heart's core! And memory bridges lightly over the great gulf of time, As the dear notes of some sweet air By lips long silent warbled o'er, Come back to stir the heart once more, And even while grasped are hushed away.
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