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The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft


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.

Most men who go through a hard



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