noons of August
I have been thinking of those early years of mine in London , when the seasons passed over me unobserved , when I seldom turned a glance towards 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 !