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Updated: June 20, 2025
She had been worried, she said, and not able to sleep, fearing accidents, waking now and then, to listen for the sound of a car. Poor dear, she wouldn't know Apollo's noble voice from the threepenny thrum of a motor bicycle! But she was kind and solicitous, though I think a little shocked to find my vitality in such a state of effervescence.
Not invite all artists, as they would invite all farmers to a rent dinner; but they should have a proper commingling of artists and men of the world. There is one of the latter whose name is George Savage Fitz-Boodle, who But let us return to Sir George Thrum.
Shefford pulled a blanket from his bed and covered his cold and trembling body. He had sunk down off the log, was leaning back upon it. The stars were pale, far off, and the valley seemed unreal. He found himself listening listening with sick and terrible earnestness, trying to hear against the thrum and beat of his heart, straining to catch a sound in all that cold, star-blanched, silent valley.
In Paris, there are scarce two orders of beings more different: for the legislative and executive powers of the shop not resting in the husband, he seldom comes there: in some dark and dismal room behind, he sits commerce-less, in his thrum nightcap, the same rough son of Nature that Nature left him.
"Ajax, the hock to Mr. Slang." "I'm in that," yells Bludyer from the end of the table. "My Lord, I'll join you." "Mr. , I beg your pardon I shall be very happy to take wine with you, sir." "It is Mr. Bludyer, the celebrated newspaper writer," whispers Lady Thrum. "Bludyer, Bludyer? A very clever man, I dare say. He has a very loud voice, and reminds me of Brett.
"The Ravenswing's voice is a magnificent contra-basso of nine octaves," etc. Flowers of Fashion, June 10. "Old Thrum, the composer, is bringing out an opera and a pupil. The opera is good, the pupil first-rate. The airs are fresh and pleasing, the choruses large and noble, the instrumentation solid and rich, the music is carefully written. We wish old Thrum and his opera well.
He wondered, for instance, why he had sat down precisely in the same place as before, why not in the other seat. At last he felt very depressed—depressed by suspense and uncertainty. But he had not sat there more than a quarter of an hour, when he suddenly heard the thrum of a guitar somewhere quite close.
He has, any time these fifty years, lived in the wickedest company in London, and is, withal, as harmless, mild, good-natured, innocent an old gentleman as can readily be seen. "Roundy," shouts the elegant Mr. Slang, across the table, with a voice which makes Lady Thrum shudder, "Tuff, a glass of wine." My Lord replies meekly, "Mr. Slang, I shall have very much pleasure. What shall it be?"
"And you will come with us," said Lawless, "away from this loneliness?" "It is not lonely," was the reply. "To hear the thrum of the pigeon, the whistle of the hawk, the chatter of the black squirrel, and the long cry of the eagle, is not lonely. Then, there is the river and the pines all music; and for what the eye sees, God has been good; and to kill pumas is my joy. . . . So, I cannot go.
He calls his verses "recitatives," in easily followed allusion to a musical form. "Easily-written, loose-fingered chords," he cries, "I feel the thrum of your climax and close." Too often, I fear, he is the only one who can perceive the rhythm; and in spite of Mr. Swinburne, a great part of his work considered as verses is poor bald stuff.
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