Nights in London. Thomas Burke

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СКАЧАТЬ HOXTON

       A BASHER'S NIGHT

       HOXTON

       A DOWN-STREAM NIGHT

       BLACKWALL

       A DOWN-STREAM NIGHT

       BLACKWALL

       AN ART NIGHT

       CHELSEA

       AN ART NIGHT

       CHELSEA

       A RUSSIAN NIGHT

       SPITALFIELDS AND STEPNEY

       A RUSSIAN NIGHT

       SPITALFIELDS AND STEPNEY

       A SCANDINAVIAN NIGHT

       SHADWELL

       A SCANDINAVIAN NIGHT

       SHADWELL

       A SUNDAY NIGHT

       ANYWHERE

       A SUNDAY NIGHT

       ANYWHERE

       AT RANDOM

       AT RANDOM

NOCTURNAL

       Table of Contents

       EVENING

      From the Circus to The Square

      There's an avenue of light;

      Golden lamps are everywhere

      From the Circus to The Square;

      And the rose-winged hours there

      Pass like lovely birds in flight.

      From The Circus to The Square

      There's an avenue of light.

      London yields herself to men

      With the dying of the day.

      Let the twilight come, and then

      London yields herself to men.

      Lords of wealth or slaves of pen,

      We, her lovers, all will say:

      London yields herself to men

      With the dying of the day.

NIGHTS IN LONDON

       Table of Contents

NOCTURNAL

       Table of Contents

      For the few who have an eye for the beauty of townscapes, London by night is the loveliest thing in the world. Only in the London night may the connoisseur find so many vistas of sudden beauty, because London was never made: she has "growed." Paris affords no townscapes: everything there is too perfectly arranged; its artificiality is at once apparent. In London alone he finds those fantastic groupings, those monstrous masses of light and shade and substance.

      Take London from whatever point you will and she will satisfy. For the rustic the fields of corn, the craggy mountain, the blossomy lane, or the rush of water through the greenwood. But for your good Cockney the shoals of gloom, the dusky tracery of chimney-stack and gaswork, the torn waste of tiles, and the subtle tones of dawn and dark in lurking court and alley. Was there ever a lovelier piece of colour than Cannon Street Station at night? Entering by train, you see it as a huge vault of lilac shadow, pierced by innumerable pallid arclights. The roof flings itself against the sky, a mountain of glass and interlacing girders, and about it play a hundred indefinite and ever-changing tones. Each platform seems a lane through a dim forest, where the trees are of iron and steel and the leaves are sullen windows. Or where shall you find a sweeter pastoral than that field of lights that thrills the midnight sojourner in lower Piccadilly? Or where a more rapturous river-piece than that to be glimpsed from Hungerford footbridge as the Embankment lights and stones surge east and west towards Blackfriars and Chelsea? Or where a panorama like those that sweep before you from Highgate Archway or the Islington Angel?

      But your good Cockney finds his joy not merely in the opulent masses of gloom and glare. For him London holds infinite delicacies. There is a short street in Walworth Road—East Street—which is as perfect as any nightscape ever conceived by any artist. At day or dark it is incomparably subtle. By day it is a lane of crazy meat and vegetable stalls and tumbling houses, whose colours chime softly with their background. By night it is a dainty riot of flame and tousled stone, the gentle dusk of the near distance deepening imperceptibly to purple, and finally to haunting chaos. And—it is a beautiful thought—there are thousands and thousands of streets in London where similar ecstasy awaits the СКАЧАТЬ