Walking along the road after nightfall, I thought all at once of London streets, and, by a freak of mind, wished I were there.I saw the shining of shop-fronts, the yellow glistening of a wet pavement, the hurrying people, the cabs, the omnibuses--and I wished I were amid it all.
What did it mean, but that I wished I were young again? Not seldom I have a sudden vision of a London street, perhaps the dreariest and ugliest, which for a moment gives me a feeling of home-sickness.
Often it is the High Street of Islington, which I have not seen for a quarter of a century, at least; no thoroughfare in all London less attractive to the imagination, one would say; but I see myself walking there--walking with the quick, light step of youth, and there, of course, is the charm.I see myself, after a long day of work and loneliness, setting forth from my lodging.For the weather I care nothing; rain, wind, fog--what does it matter! The fresh air fills my lungs; my blood circles rapidly; I feel my muscles, and have a pleasure in the hardness of the stone I tread upon.Perhaps I have money in my pocket; I am going to the theatre, and, afterwards, I shall treat myself to supper--sausage and mashed potatoes, with a pint of foaming ale.The gusto with which I look forward to each and every enjoyment! At the pit-door, I shall roll and hustle amid the throng, and find it amusing.Nothing tires me.
Late at night, I shall walk all the way back to Islington, most likely singing as I go.Not because I am happy--nay, I am anything but that; but my age is something and twenty; I am strong and well.
Put me in a London street this chill, damp night, and I should be lost in barren discomfort.But in those old days, if I am not mistaken, I rather preferred the seasons of bad weather; I had, in fact, the true instinct of townsfolk, which finds pleasure in the triumph of artificial circumstance over natural conditions, delighting in a glare and tumult of busy life under hostile heavens which, elsewhere, would mean shivering ill-content.The theatre, at such a time, is doubly warm and bright; every shop is a happy harbour of refuge--there, behind the counter, stand persons quite at their ease, ready to chat as they serve you; the supper bars make tempting display under their many gas-jets; the public houses are full of people who all have money to spend.Then clangs out the piano-organ--and what could be cheerier!
I have much ado to believe that I really felt so.But then, if life had not somehow made itself tolerable to me, how should I have lived through those many years? Human creatures have a marvellous power of adapting themselves to necessity.Were I, even now, thrown back into squalid London, with no choice but to abide and work there--should I not abide and work? Notwithstanding thoughts of the chemist's shop, I suppose I should.
