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235
The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft
·
George Gissing
188
V.
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.
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