ging 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 eac