Years after that, I recall another black morning.  As usual at such times, I was suffering from a bad cold.  After a sleepless night, I fell into a torpor, which held me unconscious for an hour or two.  Hideous cries aroused me; sitting up in the dark, I heard men going along the street, roaring news of a hanging that had just taken place.  “Execution of Mrs.”—­I forget the name of the murderess.  “Scene on the scaffold!” It was a little after nine o’clock; the enterprising paper had promptly got out its gibbet edition.  A morning of midwinter, roofs and ways covered with soot-grimed snow under the ghastly fog-pall; and, whilst I lay there in my bed, that woman had been led out and hanged—­hanged.  I thought with horror of the possibility that I might sicken and die in that wilderness of houses, nothing above me but “a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours.”  Overcome with dread, I rose and bestirred myself.  Blinds drawn, lamp lit, and by a blazing fire, I tried to make believe that it was kindly night.

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.