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, w