The Anarchist
I have now lived for about two months in the country, and have gathered
the last rich autumnal fruit of a rural life, which is a strong desire
to see London. Artists living in my neighbourhood talk rapturously
of the rolling liberty of the landscape, the living peace of woods.
But I say to them (with a slight Buckinghamshire accent), "Ah, that is
how Cockneys feel. For us real old country people the country
is reality; it is the town that is romance. Nature is as plain
as one of her pigs, as commonplace, as comic, and as healthy.
But civilization is full of poetry, even if it be sometimes
an evil poetry. The streets of London are paved with gold;
that is, with the very poetry of avarice." With these typically
bucolic words I touch my hat and go ambling away on a stick,
with a stiffness of gait proper to the Oldest Inhabitant;
while in my more animated moments I am taken for the Village Idiot.
Exchanging heavy but courteous salutations with other gaffers, I reach
the station, where I ask for a ticket for London where the king lives.
Such a journey, mingled of provincial fascination and fear,
did I successfully perform only a few days ago; and alone and
helpless in the capital, found myself in the tangle of roads around
the Marble Arch.
A faint prejudice may possess the mind that I have slightly exaggerated
my rusticity and remoteness.
Pages:
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103