I awoke a little after four o'clock.There was sunlight upon the blind, that pure gold of the earliest beam which always makes me think of Dante's angels.I had slept unusually well, without a dream, and felt the blessing of rest through all my frame; my head was clear, my pulse beat temperately.And, when I had lain thus for a few minutes, asking myself what book I should reach from the shelf that hangs near my pillow, there came upon me a desire to rise and go forth into the early morning.On the moment I bestirred myself.
The drawing up of the blind, the opening of the window, only increased my zeal, and I was soon in the garden, then out in the road, walking light-heartedly I cared not whither.
How long is it since I went forth at the hour of summer sunrise? It is one of the greatest pleasures, physical and mental, that any man in moderate health can grant himself; yet hardly once in a year do mood and circumstance combine to put it within one's reach.The habit of lying in bed hours after broad daylight is strange enough, if one thinks of it; a habit entirely evil; one of the most foolish changes made by modern system in the healthier life of the old time.
But that my energies are not equal to such great innovation, I would begin going to bed at sunset and rising with the beam of day; ten to one, it would vastly improve my health, and undoubtedly it would add to the pleasures of my existence.
When travelling, I have now and then watched the sunrise, and always with an exultation unlike anything produced in me by other aspects of nature.I remember daybreak on the Mediterranean; the shapes of islands growing in hue after hue of tenderest light, until they floated amid a sea of glory.And among the mountains--that crowning height, one moment a cold pallor, the next soft-glowing under the touch of the rosy-fingered goddess.These are the things I shall never see again; things, indeed, so perfect in memory that I should dread to blur them by a newer experience.My senses are so much duller; they do not show me what once they did.
How far away is that school-boy time, when I found a pleasure in getting up and escaping from the dormitory whilst all the others were still asleep.My purpose was innocent enough; I got up early only to do my lessons.I can see the long school-room, lighted by the early sun; I can smell the school-room odour--a blend of books and slates and wall-maps and I know not what.It was a mental peculiarity of mine that at five o'clock in the morning I could apply myself with gusto to mathematics, a subject loathsome to me at any other time of the day.Opening the book at some section which was wont to scare me, I used to say to myself: "Come now, I'm going to tackle this this morning! If other boys can understand it, why shouldn't I?" And in a measure I succeeded.In a measure only;there was always a limit at which my powers failed me, strive as Iwould.
In my garret-days it was seldom that I rose early: with the exception of one year--or the greater part of a twelvemonth--during which I was regularly up at half-past five for a special reason.Ihad undertaken to "coach" a man for the London matriculation; he was in business, and the only time he could conveniently give to his studies was before breakfast.I, just then, had my lodgings near Hampstead Road; my pupil lived at Knightsbridge; I engaged to be with him every morning at half-past six, and the walk, at a brisk pace, took me just about an hour.At that time I saw no severity in the arrangement, and I was delighted to earn the modest fee which enabled me to write all day long without fear of hunger; but one inconvenience attached to it.I had no watch, and my only means of knowing the time was to hear the striking of a clock in the neighbourhood.As a rule, I awoke just when I should have done; the clock struck five, and up I sprang.But occasionally--and this when the mornings had grown dark--my punctual habit failed me; I would hear the clock chime some fraction of the hour, and could not know whether I had awoke too soon or slept too long.The horror of unpunctuality, which has always been a craze with me, made it impossible to lie waiting; more than once I dressed and went out into the street to discover as best I could what time it was, and one such expedition, I well remember, took place between two and three o'clock on a morning of foggy rain.
It happened now and then that, on reaching the house at Knightsbridge, I was informed that Mr.--felt too tired to rise.
This concerned me little, for it meant no deduction of fee; I had the two hours' walk, and was all the better for it.Then the appetite with which I sat down to breakfast, whether I had done my coaching or not! Bread and butter and coffee--such coffee!--made the meal, and I ate like a navvy.I was in magnificent spirits.
All the way home I had been thinking of my day's work, and the morning brain, clarified and whipped to vigour by that brisk exercise, by that wholesome hunger, wrought its best.The last mouthful swallowed, I was seated at my writing-table; aye, and there I sat for seven or eight hours, with a short munching interval, working as only few men worked in all London, with pleasure, zeal, hope....
Yes, yes, those were the good days.They did not last long; before and after them were cares, miseries, endurance multiform.I have always felt grateful to Mr.--of Knightsbridge; he gave me a year of health, and almost of peace.
