A more fashionable neighbourhood, it is said,
eighty years ago than now--never certainly a cheerful one--wherein a
boy being born on St. George's day, 1775, began soon after to take
interest in the world of Covent Garden, and put to service such
spectacles of life as it afforded.
No knights to be seen there, nor, I imagine, many beautiful ladies;
their costume at least disadvantageous, depending much on incumbency of
hat and feather, and short waists; the majesty of men founded similarly
on shoebuckles and wigs;--impressive enough when Reynolds will do his
best for it; but not suggestive of much ideal delight to a boy.
"Bello ovile dov' io dormii agnello";[121] of things beautiful, besides
men and women, dusty sunbeams up or down the street on summer mornings;
deep furrowed cabbage-leaves at the greengrocer's; magnificence of
oranges in wheelbarrows round the corner; and Thames' shore within
three minutes' race.
None of these things very glorious; the best, however, that England, it
seems, was then able to provide for a boy of gift: who, such as they
are, loves them--never, indeed, forgets them. The short waists modify
to the last his visions of Greek ideal. His foregrounds had always a
succulent cluster or two of greengrocery at the corners. Enchanted
oranges gleam in Covent Gardens of the Hesperides; and great ships go
to pieces in order to scatter chests of them on the waves.
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