THE FILES
(THE SUB-EDITOR SPEAKS)
Files—The Files—Office Files!Oblige me by referring to the files.Every question man can raise,Every phrase of every phaseOf that question is on record in the files—(Threshed out threadbare—fought and finished in the files).Ere the Universe at largeWas our new-tipped arrows’ targe—Ere we rediscovered Mammon and his wiles—Faenza, gentle reader, spent her—five-and-twentieth leader(You will find him, and some others, in the files).Warn all future Robert Brownings and Carlyles,It will interest them to hunt among the files,Where unvisited, a-cold,Lie the crowded years of oldIn that Kensall-Green of greatness called the files—(In our newspaPère-la-Chaise the office files),Where the dead men lay them downMeekly sure of long renown,And above them, sere and swift,Packs the daily deepening driftOf the all-recording, all-effacing files—The obliterating, automatic files.Count the mighty men who slungInk, Evangel, Sword, or TongueWhen Reform and you were young—Made their boasts and spake according in the files—(Hear the ghosts that wake applauding in the files!)Trace each all-forgot careerFrom long primer through brevierUnto Death, a para minion in the files(Para minion—solid—bottom of the files)....Some successful Kings and Queens adorn the files,They were great, their views were leaded,And their deaths were triple-headed,So they catch the eye in running through the files(Show as blazes in the mazes of the files);For their ‘paramours and priests,’And their gross, jack-booted feasts,And their epoch-marking actions see the files.Was it Bomba fled the blue Sicilian isles?Was it Saffi, a professorOnce of Oxford, brought redress orGaribaldi? Who remembersForty-odd-year old Septembers?—Only sextons paid to dig among the files(Such as I am, born and bred among the files).You must hack through much depositEre you know for sure who was itCame to burial with such honour in the files(Only seven seasons back beneath the files).‘Very great our loss and grievous—‘So our best and brightest leave us,‘And it ends the Age of Giants,’ say the files;All the ’60—’70—’80—’90 files(The open-minded, opportunist files—The easy ‘O King, live for ever’ files).It is good to read a little in the files;’Tis a sure and sovereign balmUnto philosophic calm,Yea, and philosophic doubt when Life beguiles.When you know Success is Greatness,When you marvel at your latenessIn apprehending facts so plain to Smiles(Self-helpful, wholly strenuous Samuel Smiles).When your Imp of Blind DesireBids you set the Thames afire,You’ll remember men have done so—in the files.You’ll have seen those flames transpire—in the files(More than once that flood has run so—in the files).When the Conchimarian hornsOf the reboantic NornsUsher gentlemen and ladiesWith new lights on Heaven and Hades,Guaranteeing to EternityAll yesterday’s modernity;When Brocken-spectres made bySome one’s breath on ink parade by,Very earnest and tremendous,Let not shows of shows offend us.When of everything we like weShout ecstatic:—’Quod ubique,Quod ab omnibusmeanssemper!’Oh, my brother, keep your temper!Light your pipe and take a look along the files!You’ve a better chance to guessAt the meaning of Success(Which is Greatness—videpress)When you’ve seen it in perspective in the files.
Files—The Files—Office Files!Oblige me by referring to the files.Every question man can raise,Every phrase of every phaseOf that question is on record in the files—(Threshed out threadbare—fought and finished in the files).Ere the Universe at largeWas our new-tipped arrows’ targe—Ere we rediscovered Mammon and his wiles—Faenza, gentle reader, spent her—five-and-twentieth leader(You will find him, and some others, in the files).Warn all future Robert Brownings and Carlyles,It will interest them to hunt among the files,Where unvisited, a-cold,Lie the crowded years of oldIn that Kensall-Green of greatness called the files—(In our newspaPère-la-Chaise the office files),Where the dead men lay them downMeekly sure of long renown,And above them, sere and swift,Packs the daily deepening driftOf the all-recording, all-effacing files—The obliterating, automatic files.Count the mighty men who slungInk, Evangel, Sword, or TongueWhen Reform and you were young—Made their boasts and spake according in the files—(Hear the ghosts that wake applauding in the files!)Trace each all-forgot careerFrom long primer through brevierUnto Death, a para minion in the files(Para minion—solid—bottom of the files)....Some successful Kings and Queens adorn the files,They were great, their views were leaded,And their deaths were triple-headed,So they catch the eye in running through the files(Show as blazes in the mazes of the files);For their ‘paramours and priests,’And their gross, jack-booted feasts,And their epoch-marking actions see the files.Was it Bomba fled the blue Sicilian isles?Was it Saffi, a professorOnce of Oxford, brought redress orGaribaldi? Who remembersForty-odd-year old Septembers?—Only sextons paid to dig among the files(Such as I am, born and bred among the files).You must hack through much depositEre you know for sure who was itCame to burial with such honour in the files(Only seven seasons back beneath the files).‘Very great our loss and grievous—‘So our best and brightest leave us,‘And it ends the Age of Giants,’ say the files;All the ’60—’70—’80—’90 files(The open-minded, opportunist files—The easy ‘O King, live for ever’ files).It is good to read a little in the files;’Tis a sure and sovereign balmUnto philosophic calm,Yea, and philosophic doubt when Life beguiles.When you know Success is Greatness,When you marvel at your latenessIn apprehending facts so plain to Smiles(Self-helpful, wholly strenuous Samuel Smiles).When your Imp of Blind DesireBids you set the Thames afire,You’ll remember men have done so—in the files.You’ll have seen those flames transpire—in the files(More than once that flood has run so—in the files).When the Conchimarian hornsOf the reboantic NornsUsher gentlemen and ladiesWith new lights on Heaven and Hades,Guaranteeing to EternityAll yesterday’s modernity;When Brocken-spectres made bySome one’s breath on ink parade by,Very earnest and tremendous,Let not shows of shows offend us.When of everything we like weShout ecstatic:—’Quod ubique,Quod ab omnibusmeanssemper!’Oh, my brother, keep your temper!Light your pipe and take a look along the files!You’ve a better chance to guessAt the meaning of Success(Which is Greatness—videpress)When you’ve seen it in perspective in the files.
Files—The Files—Office Files!Oblige me by referring to the files.Every question man can raise,Every phrase of every phaseOf that question is on record in the files—(Threshed out threadbare—fought and finished in the files).Ere the Universe at largeWas our new-tipped arrows’ targe—Ere we rediscovered Mammon and his wiles—Faenza, gentle reader, spent her—five-and-twentieth leader(You will find him, and some others, in the files).Warn all future Robert Brownings and Carlyles,It will interest them to hunt among the files,Where unvisited, a-cold,Lie the crowded years of oldIn that Kensall-Green of greatness called the files—(In our newspaPère-la-Chaise the office files),Where the dead men lay them downMeekly sure of long renown,And above them, sere and swift,Packs the daily deepening driftOf the all-recording, all-effacing files—The obliterating, automatic files.Count the mighty men who slungInk, Evangel, Sword, or TongueWhen Reform and you were young—Made their boasts and spake according in the files—(Hear the ghosts that wake applauding in the files!)Trace each all-forgot careerFrom long primer through brevierUnto Death, a para minion in the files(Para minion—solid—bottom of the files)....Some successful Kings and Queens adorn the files,They were great, their views were leaded,And their deaths were triple-headed,So they catch the eye in running through the files(Show as blazes in the mazes of the files);For their ‘paramours and priests,’And their gross, jack-booted feasts,And their epoch-marking actions see the files.Was it Bomba fled the blue Sicilian isles?Was it Saffi, a professorOnce of Oxford, brought redress orGaribaldi? Who remembersForty-odd-year old Septembers?—Only sextons paid to dig among the files(Such as I am, born and bred among the files).You must hack through much depositEre you know for sure who was itCame to burial with such honour in the files(Only seven seasons back beneath the files).‘Very great our loss and grievous—‘So our best and brightest leave us,‘And it ends the Age of Giants,’ say the files;All the ’60—’70—’80—’90 files(The open-minded, opportunist files—The easy ‘O King, live for ever’ files).It is good to read a little in the files;’Tis a sure and sovereign balmUnto philosophic calm,Yea, and philosophic doubt when Life beguiles.When you know Success is Greatness,When you marvel at your latenessIn apprehending facts so plain to Smiles(Self-helpful, wholly strenuous Samuel Smiles).When your Imp of Blind DesireBids you set the Thames afire,You’ll remember men have done so—in the files.You’ll have seen those flames transpire—in the files(More than once that flood has run so—in the files).When the Conchimarian hornsOf the reboantic NornsUsher gentlemen and ladiesWith new lights on Heaven and Hades,Guaranteeing to EternityAll yesterday’s modernity;When Brocken-spectres made bySome one’s breath on ink parade by,Very earnest and tremendous,Let not shows of shows offend us.When of everything we like weShout ecstatic:—’Quod ubique,Quod ab omnibusmeanssemper!’Oh, my brother, keep your temper!Light your pipe and take a look along the files!You’ve a better chance to guessAt the meaning of Success(Which is Greatness—videpress)When you’ve seen it in perspective in the files.