ii8 THE LIFE OF RICHARD JEFFERIES 



as a gaudy, opulent place, he was no mean admirer. 

 ' Let the grandees go to the opera,' he wrote in ' Amaryllis 

 at the Fair ' : ' for me the streets.' When he thought of 

 the shops he was a hearty countryman in his enthusiasm. 

 ' How delicious now to walk down Regent Street, along 

 Piccadilly, up Bond Street, and so on, in a widening 

 circle, with a thousand pounds in one's pocket, just to 

 spend, all your own, and no need to worry. ... To take 

 a lady — the lady — to St. Peter Robinson's, and spread 

 the silks of the earth before her feet, and see the awaken- 

 ing delight in her eyes and the glow on her cheek ; to buy 

 a pony for the " kids," and a diamond brooch for the 

 kind, middle-aged matron who befriended you years 

 since in time of financial need ; to get a new gun and in- 

 quire about the price of a deer-stalk in Scotland ; whetting 

 the road now and then with a sip of Moet — but only one 

 sip, for your liver's sake — just to brighten up the imagi- 

 nation ; and so onwards in a widening circle, as sunlit 

 fancy led. Could Xerxes, could great Pompey, could 

 Caesar with all his legions, could Lucullus with all his 

 oysters, ever have enjoyed such pleasure as this — just 

 to spend money freely, with a jolly chuckle, in the streets 

 of London ? . . . No joy like waste in London streets — 

 happy waste, imaginative extravagance ; to and fro like 

 a butterfly !' London has the exuberance and careless- 

 ness of Nature herself. And which of the great Londoners 

 has excelled Jefferies, when he wrote of the life of his 

 uncle, Frederick Gyde, the Alere Flammaof ' Amaryllis,' 

 * artist, engraver, bookbinder, connoisseur, traveller, 

 printer. Republican, conspirator, sot, smoker, dreamer, 

 poet, kind-hearted, good-natured, prodigal, shiftless, man 

 of Fleet Street, carpet-bag man, gentleman shaken to 

 pieces.' There is a wonderful feverish glow — a romantic 

 glow, even — together with a sad penetration, when he 

 writes of Fleet Street : ' Let the meads be never so sweet, 

 the mountain-top never so exalted, still to Fleet Street 

 the mind will return.' He is, in fact, one of the great 

 Londoners. What he disliked in London was the noise 



