human
How is it that though we are so interested with our life for the most part, yet when people take to writing poems or painting pictures they seldom deal with our modern life, or if they do, take good care to make their poems or pictures unlike that life? Are we not good enough to paint ourselves? How is it that we find the dreadful times of the past so interesting to us--in pictures and poetry?
gpt
It always was so, and I suppose always will be, said he,
human
Well, said Dick,
gpt
Thou hast hit it, Dick, quoth old Hammond;
human
At least let us rejoice that we have got back our childhood again. I drink to the days that are!
gpt
Second childhood, said I in a low voice, and then blushed at my double rudeness, and hoped that he hadn't heard. But he had, and turned to me smiling, and said:
human
Yes, why not? And for my part, I hope it may last long; and that the world's next period of wise and unhappy manhood, if that should happen, will speedily lead us to a third childhood: if indeed this age be not our third. Meantime, my friend, you must know that we are too happy, both individually and collectively, to trouble ourselves about what is to come hereafter.
gpt
Well, for my part, said Clara,
human
I wish we were interesting enough to be written or painted about.
gpt
Guest, forgive us for a little after-dinner dulness. What would you like to do? Shall we have out Greylocks and trot back to Hammersmith? or will you come with us and hear some Welsh folk sing in a hall close by here? or would you like presently to come with me into the City and see some really fine building? or--what shall it be?
human
Well, said I,