Lab
Library
Journal
Shop
Sign in
to keep
1
235
The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft
·
George Gissing
22
I
have
been
thinking
of
those
early
years
of
mine
in
London,
when
the
seasons
passed
over
me
unobserved,
when
I
seldom
turned
a
glance
towards
the
heavens,
and
felt
no
hardship
in
the
imprisonment
of
boundless
streets.
It
is
strange
now
to
remember
that
for
some
six
or
seven
years
I
never
looked
upon
a
meadow,
never
travelled
even
so
far
as
to
the
tree-
bordered
suburbs.
I
was
battling
for
dear
life;
on
most
days
I
could
not
feel
certain
that
in
a
week's
time
I
should
have
food
and
shelter.
It
would
happen,
to
be
sure,
that
in
hot
noons
of
August
my
thoughts
wandered
to
the
sea;
but
so
impossible
was
the
gratification
of
such
desire
that
it
never
greatly
troubled
me.
At
times,
indeed,
I
seem
all
but
to
have
forgotten
that
people
went
away
for
holiday.
In
those
poor
parts
of
the
town
where
I
dwelt,
season
made
no
perceptible
difference;
there
were
no
luggage-laden
cabs
to
remind
me
of
joyous
journeys;
the
folk
about
me
went
daily
to
their
toil
as
usual,
and
so
did
I.
I
remember
afternoons
of
languor,
when
books
were
a
weariness,
and
no
thought
could
be
squeezed
out
of
the
drowsy
brain;
then
would
I
betake
myself
to
one
of
the
parks,
and
find
refreshment
without
any
enjoyable
sense
of
change.
Heavens,
how
I
laboured
in
those
days!
And
how
far
I
was
from
thinking
of
myself
as
a
subject
for
compassion!
That
came
later,
when
my
health
had
begun
to
suffer
from
excess
of
toil,
from
bad
air,
bad
food
and
many
miseries;
then
awoke
the
maddening
desire
for
countryside
and
sea-beach--and
for
other
things
yet
more
remote.
But
in
the
years
when
I
toiled
hardest
and
underwent
what
now
appear
to
me
hideous
privations,
of
a
truth
I
could
not
be
said
to
suffer
at
all.
I
did
not
suffer,
for
I
had
no
sense
of
weakness.
My
health
was
proof
against
everything,
and
my
energies
defied
all
malice
of
circumstance.
With
however
little
encouragement,
I
had
infinite
hope.
Sound
sleep
(often
in
places
I
now
dread
to
think
of)
sent
me
fresh
to
the
battle
each
morning,
my
breakfast,
sometimes,
no
more
than
a
slice
of
bread
and
a
cup
of
water.
As
human
happiness
goes,
I
am
not
sure
that
I
was
not
then
happy.
Marker
Marker
Fine marker
White-out
Fine white-out
Circle
Paint
Unmarker
Hand
Scalpel
Dice
Sieve
Purify
Undo
Redo
Start over
