DOI article:
Egerton, George: A lost masterpiece: a city mood, Aug. '93
DOI Page / Citation link: https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.20196#0196
A Lost Masterpiece
The freshness of the country still lurked in me, unconsciously
influencing my attitude towards the city.
One forenoon business drove me citywards, and following an
inclination that always impels me to water-ways rather than road-
ways, I elected to go by river steamer.
I left home in a glad mood, disposed to view the whole World
with kindly eyes. I was filled with a happy-go-Iuclcy imouciance
that made Walking the pavements a loafing _in Elysian fields.
The coarser touches of street-life, the oddities of accent, the
idiosyncrasies of that most eccentric of city-dwellers, the Lon-
doner, did not jar as at other times—rather added a zest to enjoy-
ment ; impressions crowded in too quickly to admit of analysis, I
was simply an interested spectator of a varied panorama.
I was conscious, too, of a peculiar dual action of brain and
senses, for, though keenly alive to every unimportant detail of the
life about me, I was yet able to follow a process by which delicate
inner threads were being spun into a fanciful web that had nothing
to do with my outer seif.
At Chelsea I boarded a river steamer bound for London Bridge.
The river was wrapped in a delicate grey haze with a golden sub-
tone, like a beautiful bright thought struggling for utterance
through a mist of obscure words. It glowed through the turbid
waters under the arches, so that I feared to see a face or a hand
wave through its dull amber—for I always think of drowned
creatures washing wearily in its murky depths—it lit up the great
warehouses, and warmed the brickwork of the monster chimneys
in the background. No detail escaped my outer eyes—not the
hideous green of the velveteen in the sleeves of the woman onmy
left, nor the supercilious giggle of the young ladies on my right,
who made audible remarks about my personal appearance.
But what cared 11 Was I not happy, absurd ly happy ?—
because
The freshness of the country still lurked in me, unconsciously
influencing my attitude towards the city.
One forenoon business drove me citywards, and following an
inclination that always impels me to water-ways rather than road-
ways, I elected to go by river steamer.
I left home in a glad mood, disposed to view the whole World
with kindly eyes. I was filled with a happy-go-Iuclcy imouciance
that made Walking the pavements a loafing _in Elysian fields.
The coarser touches of street-life, the oddities of accent, the
idiosyncrasies of that most eccentric of city-dwellers, the Lon-
doner, did not jar as at other times—rather added a zest to enjoy-
ment ; impressions crowded in too quickly to admit of analysis, I
was simply an interested spectator of a varied panorama.
I was conscious, too, of a peculiar dual action of brain and
senses, for, though keenly alive to every unimportant detail of the
life about me, I was yet able to follow a process by which delicate
inner threads were being spun into a fanciful web that had nothing
to do with my outer seif.
At Chelsea I boarded a river steamer bound for London Bridge.
The river was wrapped in a delicate grey haze with a golden sub-
tone, like a beautiful bright thought struggling for utterance
through a mist of obscure words. It glowed through the turbid
waters under the arches, so that I feared to see a face or a hand
wave through its dull amber—for I always think of drowned
creatures washing wearily in its murky depths—it lit up the great
warehouses, and warmed the brickwork of the monster chimneys
in the background. No detail escaped my outer eyes—not the
hideous green of the velveteen in the sleeves of the woman onmy
left, nor the supercilious giggle of the young ladies on my right,
who made audible remarks about my personal appearance.
But what cared 11 Was I not happy, absurd ly happy ?—
because