London (England) -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Fiction
Hyacinth got up early—an operation attended with very little effort, as
he had scarcely closed his eyes all night. What he saw from his window
made him dress as rapidly as a young man could do who desired more than
ever that his appearance should not give strange ideas about him: an
old garden, with parterres in curious figures, and little intervals of
lawn which appeared to our hero’s cockney vision fantastically green.
At one end of the garden was a parapet of mossy brick, which looked
down on the other side into a canal, or moat, or quaint old pond; and
from the same standpoint there was also a view of a considerable part
of the main body of the house (Hyacinth’s room appeared to be in a wing
commanding the extensive, irregular back), which was richly gray
wherever it was not green with ivy and other dense creepers, and
everywhere infinitely like a picture, with a high-piled, ancient,
russet roof, broken by huge chimneys and queer peep-holes and all
manner of odd gables and windows on different lines and antique patches
and protrusions, and a particularly fascinating architectural
excrescence in which a wonderful clock-face was lodged—a clock-face
covered with gilding and blazonry but showing many traces of the years
and the weather. Hyacinth had never in his life been in the country—the
real country, as he called it, the country which was not the mere
ravelled fringe of London—and there entered through his open casement
the breath of a world enchantingly new and, after his recent feverish
hours, inexpressibly refreshing to him; a sense of sweet, sunny air and
mingled odours, all strangely pure and agreeable, and a kind of musical
silence, the greater part of which seemed to consist of the voices of
birds. There were tall, quiet trees near by, and afar off, and
everywhere; and the group of objects which greeted Hyacinth’s eyes
evidently formed only a corner of larger spaces and a more complicated
scene. There was a world to be revealed to him: it lay waiting, with
the dew upon it, under his windows, and he must go down and take his
first steps in it.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
Reviews
Reviews
No reviews yet
Be the first to share your thoughts on this work.
Elsewhere in the archive
Join the Discussion
Join the discussion
Sign in to leave a comment or review.
Sign InorCreate an account