He came straight from the town in
which his father lived to Fleet Street, and once settled in it there
seemed no chance of change for the better. He knew what his father's
struggles were; he could not go back to him, and he had not the
energy to attempt to lift himself. It is very doubtful too whether
he could have succeeded in achieving any improvement, whatever his
energy might have been. He had got lodgings in Newcastle Street, and
to these he returned in the evening, remaining there alone with his
little library, and seldom moving out of doors. He was unhealthy
constitutionally, and his habits contributed to make him more so.
Everything which he saw which was good seemed only to sharpen the
contrast between himself and his lot, and his reading was a curse to
him rather than a blessing. I sometimes wished that he had never
inherited any love whatever for what is usually considered to be the
Best, and that he had been endowed with an organisation coarse and
commonplace, like that of his colleagues. If he went into company
which suited him, or read anything which interested him, it seemed as
if the ten hours of the gallery in Fleet Street had been made thereby
only the more insupportable, and his habitual mood was one of
despondency, so that his fellow clerks who knew his tastes not
unnaturally asked what was the use of them if they only made him
wretched; and they were more than ever convinced that in their
amusements lay true happiness.
Pages:
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112