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235
The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft
·
George Gissing
189
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.
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