X.

Mentally and physically, I must be much older than my years.  At three-and-fifty a man ought not to be brooding constantly on his vanished youth.  These days of spring which I should be enjoying for their own sake, do but turn me to reminiscence, and my memories are of the springs that were lost.

Some day I will go to London and revisit all the places where I housed in the time of my greatest poverty.  I have not seen them for a quarter of a century or so.  Not long ago, had any one asked me how I felt about these memories, I should have said that there were certain street names, certain mental images of obscure London, which made me wretched as often as they came before me; but, in truth, it is a very long time since I was moved to any sort of bitterness by that retrospect of things hard and squalid.  Now, owning all the misery of it in comparison with what should have been, I find that part of life interesting and pleasant to look back upon—­greatly more so than many subsequent times, when I lived amid decencies and had enough to eat.  Some day I will go to London, and spend a day or two amid the dear old horrors.  Some of the places, I know, have disappeared.  I see the winding way by which I went from Oxford Street, at the foot of Tottenham Court Road, to Leicester Square, and, somewhere in the labyrinth (I think of it as always foggy and gas-lit) was a shop which had pies and puddings in the window, puddings and pies kept hot by steam rising through perforated metal.  How many a time have I stood there, raging with hunger, unable to purchase even one pennyworth of food!  The shop and the street have long since vanished; does any man remember them so feelingly as I?  But I think most of my haunts are still in existence:  to tread again those pavements, to look at those grimy doorways and purblind windows, would affect me strangely.

I see that alley hidden on the west side of Tottenham Court Road, where, after living in a back bedroom on the top floor, I had to exchange for the front cellar; there was a difference, if I remember rightly, of sixpence a week, and sixpence, in those days, was a very great consideration—­why, it meant a couple of meals. (I once found sixpence in the street, and had an exultation which is vivid in me at this moment.) The front cellar was stone-floored; its furniture was a table, a chair, a wash-stand, and a bed; the window, which of course had never been cleaned since it was put in, received light through a flat grating in the alley above.  Here I lived; here I wrote.  Yes, “literary work” was done at that filthy deal table, on which, by the bye, lay my Homer, my Shakespeare, and the few other books I then possessed.  At night, as I lay in bed, I used to hear the tramp, tramp of a posse of policemen who passed along the alley on their way to relieve guard; their heavy feet sometimes sounded on the grating above my window.