Jack Watson War
speaker
512 appearances
1 recordings
1 series
first heard Jul 2026
last heard 20 Jul
Jack Watson War’s voice in public audio — every appearance, attributed to the second.
Trend
recordings per month · last 12 monthsRecordings per month over the last 12 months — 1 in all, peaking in Jul 2026 with 1.
Appearances
There is but a short step from the ballroom to the graveyard.
There are consumptions and fierce neuralgias close on the track.
Amid that glittering maze of bullroom splendours, diseases stand right and left, and balance and chain.
A sepulchral breath flows up amid the perfume, and the froth of death's lips bubbles up in the champagne.
Many of our brightest homes are being sacrificed.
There are families that have actually quit keeping house and gone to boarding that they may give themselves more exclusively to the higher duties of the ballroom.
Mothers and daughters, fathers and sons, finding their highest enjoyment in the dance, bid farewell to books, to quiet culture, to all the amenities of home.
The father will, after a while, go down into lower dissipations.
The son will be tossed about in society, a non entity.
The daughter will elope with a French dancing master, the mother, still trying to stay in the glitter, and by every art attempting to keep the colour in her cheek, and the wrinkles off her brow, attempting, without any success, all the arts of the bell, an old flirt, a poor, miserable butterfly without any wings.
If anything on the earth is beautiful to my eye, it is an aged woman, her hair floating back over the wrinkled brow, not frosted, but white with the blossoms of the tree of life.
Her voice tender with past memories, and her face a benediction.
The children pull at grandmother's dress as she passes through the room, and almost pull her down in her weakness.
Yet she has nothing but a cake, or a candy, or a kind word for the little darlings.
When she goes away from us there is a shadow on the table, a shadow on the hearth, and a shadow in the dwelling.
But if anything on earth is distressful to look at, it is an old woman ashamed of being old.
What with paint and false hair she is too much for my gravity.
I laugh, even in church when I see her coming.
One of the worst looking birds I know of is a peacock after it has lost its feathers.
I would not give one lock of my mother's grey hair for fifty thousand such caricatures of old age.
Showing 121–140 of 512 · page 7 of 26
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