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The Middle Years: Large Print

The Middle Years: Large Print

Paperback

ArtistsGeneral World History

Currently unavailable to order

ISBN13: 9798591471668
Publisher: Independently Published
Published: Jan 7 2021
Pages: 36
Weight: 0.24
Height: 0.07 Width: 8.50 Depth: 11.02
Language: English
Let me not here withal appear to pretend to say how far I then foresaw myself likely to proceed, asit were, with the inimitable France and the incomparable Italy; my real point is altogether in thesimple fact that they hovered before me, even in their scrappy foretastes, to a great effect of easeand inspiration, whereas I shouldn't at all have resented the charge of fairly hiding behind the lowlydoor of Mr. Lazarus Fox-so unmistakeably did it open into complications tremendous. Thisexcellent man, my Half-Moon Street landlord-I surrender, I can't keep away from him-figures tome now as but one of the thousand forms of pressure in the collective assault, but he couldn't havebeen more carefully chosen for his office had he consciously undertaken to express to me in aconcentrated manner most of the things I was after. The case was rather indeed perhaps that hehimself by his own mere perfection put me up to much of what I should most confidently look for, and that the right lines of observation and enjoyment, of local and social contact, as I may call it, were most of all those that started out from him and came back to him. It was as if nothing I sawcould have done without him, as if nothing he was could have done without everything else. Thevery quarters I occupied under his protection happened, for that matter, to swarm-as I estimatedswarming-with intensities of suggestion-aware as I now encourage myself to become that thefirst note of the numberless reverberations I was to pick up in the aftertime had definitely beenstruck for me as under the wave of his conducting little wand. He flourished it modestly enough, ancient worthy of an immemorial order that he was-old pensioned servant, of course, of aCumberland (as I believe) family, a kind, slim, celibate, informing and informed member of whichoccupied his second floor apartments; a friend indeed whom I had met on the very first occasion ofmy sallying forth from Morley's Hotel in Trafalgar Square to dine at a house of sustaining, ofinspiring hospitality in the Kensington quarter. Succumbing thus to my tangle of memories, fromwhich I discern no escape, I recognise further that if the endlessly befriending Charles Nortonsintroduced me to Albert Rutson, and Albert Rutson introduced me to his feudal retainer, so it was inno small degree through the confidence borrowed from the latter's interest in the decent appearanceI should make, an interest of a consistency not to have been prefigured by any at all like instance inmy past, that I so far maintained my dizzy balance as to be able to ascend to the second floor underthe thrill of sundry invitations to breakfast. I dare say it is the invitations to breakfast that hold me atthis moment by their spell-so do they breathe to me across the age the note of a London worldthat we have left far behind; in consequence of which I the more yearningly steal back to it, as onsneaking tiptoe, and shut myself up there without interference. It is embalmed in disconnections, indifferences, that I cultivate a free fancy for pronouncing advantageous to it: sunk already was theshaft by which I should descend into the years, and my inspiration is in touching as many as possibleof the points of the other tradition, retracing as many as possible of the features of the old face, eventually to be blurred again even before my own eyes, and with the materials for a portrait therebyaccessible but to those who were present up to the time of the cha

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