melancholy fixedness on I know not what。 Better to betake myself to the old mechanic exercise of the pen； which cheats my sense of time wasted。
I think of fogs in London； fogs of murky yellow or of sheer black； such as have often made all work impossible to me； and held me； a sort of dyspeptic owl； in moping and blinking idleness。 On such a day； I remember； I once found myself at an end both of coal and of lamp…oil； with no money to purchase either； all I could do was to go to bed； meaning to lie there till the sky once more became visible。 But a second day found the fog dense as ever。 I rose in darkness； I stood at the window of my garret； and saw that the street was illumined as at night； lamps and shop…fronts perfectly visible； with folk going about their business。 The fog； in fact； had risen； but still hung above the house…tops； impermeable by any heavenly beam。 My solitude being no longer endurable； I went out； and walked the town for hours。 When I returned； it was with a few coins which permitted me to buy warmth and light。 I had sold to a second…hand bookseller a volume which I prized； and was so much the poorer for the money in my pocket。
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。〃 Overe 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。
Put me in a London street this chill； damp night； and I should be lost in barren disfort。 But in those old days； if I am not mistaken； I rather preferred the seasons of bad weather； I had； in fact； the true instinct of townsfolk； which finds pleasure in the triumph of artificial circumstance over natural conditions； delighting in a glare and tumult of busy life under hostile heavens which； elsewhere； would mean shivering ill…content。 The theatre； at such a time； is doubly warm and bright； every shop is a happy harbour of refuge……there； behind the counter； stand persons quite at their ease； ready to chat as they serve you； the supper bars make tempting display under their many gas…jets； the public houses are full of people who all have money to spend。 Then clangs out the piano…organ……and what could be cheerier！
I have much ado to believe that I really felt so。 But then； if life had not somehow made itself tolerable to me； how should I have lived through those many years？ Human creatures have a marvellous power of adapting themselves to necessity。 Were I； even now； thrown back into squalid London； with no choice but to abide and work there…… should I not abide and work？ Notwithstanding thoughts of the chemist's shop； I suppose I should。
VI
One of the shining moments of my day is that when； having returned a little weary from an afternoon walk； I exchange boots for slippers； out…of…doors coat for easy； familiar； shabby jacket； and； in my deep； soft…elbowed chair； await the tea…tray。 Perhaps it is while drinking tea that I most of all enjoy the sense of leisure。 In days gone by； I could but gulp down the refreshment； hurried； often harassed； by the thought of the work I had before me； often I was quite insensible of the aroma； the flavour； of what I drank。 Now； how delicious is the soft yet perating odour which floats into my study； with the appearance of the teapot！ What solace in the first cup； what deliberate sipping of that which follows！ What a glow does it bring after a walk in chilly rain！ The while； I look around at my books and pictures； tasting the happiness of their tranquil possession。 I cast an eye towards my pipe； perhaps I prepare it； with seeming thoughtfulness； for the reception of tobacco。 And never； surely； is tobacco more soothing； more suggestive of humane thoughts； than when it es just after tea……itself a bland inspirer。
In nothing is the English genius for domesticity more notably declared than in the institution of this festival……almost one may call it so……of afternoon tea。 Beneath simple roofs； the hour of tea has something in it of sacred； for it marks the end of domestic work and worry； the beginning of restful； sociable evening。 The mere chink of cups and saucers tunes the mind to happy repose。 I care nothing for your five o'clock tea of modish drawing…rooms； idle and wearisome like all else in which that world has part； I speak of tea where one is at home in quite another than the worldly sense。 To admit mere strangers to your tea…table is profanation； on the other hand； English hospitality has here its kindliest aspect； never is friend more wele than when he drops in for a cup of tea。 Where tea is really a meal； with nothing between it and nine o'clock supper； it is……again in the true sense……the homeliest meal of the day。 Is it believable that the Chinese； in who knows how many centuries； have derived from tea a millionth part of the pleasure or the good which it has brought to England in the past one hundred years？
I like to look at my housekeeper when she carries in the tray。 Her mien is festal； yet in her smile there is a certain gravity； as though she performed an office which honoured her。 She has dressed for the evening； that is to say； her clean and seemly attire of working hours is exchanged for garments suitable to fireside leisure； her cheeks are warm； for she has been making fragrant toast。 Quickly her eye glances about my room； but only to have the pleasure of noting that all is in order； inconceivable that anything serious should need doing at this hour of the day。 She brings the little table within the glow of the hearth； so that I can help myself without changing my easy position。 If she speaks； it will only be a pleasant word or two； should she have anything important to say； the moment will be AFTER tea； not before it； this she knows by instinct。 Perchance she may just stoop to sweep back a cinder which has fallen since； in my absence； she looked after the fire； it is done quickly and silently。 Then； still smiling； she withdraws； and I know that she is going to enjoy her own tea； her own toast； in the warm； fortable； sweet…smelling kitchen。
VII
One has heard much condemnation of the English kitchen。 Our typical cook is spoken of as a gross； unimaginative creature； capable only of roasting or seething。 Our table is said to be such as would weary or revolt any but gobbet…bolting carnivores。 We are told that our bread is the worst in Europe； an indigestible paste； that our vegetables are diet rather for the hungry animal than for discriminative man； that our warm beverages； called coffee and tea； are so carelessly or ignorantly brewed that they preserve no simple virtue of the drink as it is known in other lands。 To be sure； there is no lack of evidence to explain such censure。 The class which provides our servants is undeniably coarse and stupid； and its handiwork of every kind too often bears the native stamp。 For all that； English victuals are； in quality； the best in the world； and English cookery is the wholesomest and the most appetizing known to any temperate clime。
As in so many other of our good points； we have achieved this thing unconsciously。 Your ordinary Englishwoman engaged in cooking probably has no other thought than to make the food masticable； but reflect on the results； when the thing is well done； and there appears a culinary principle。 Nothing could be simpler； yet nothing more right and reasonable。 The aim of English cooking is so to deal with the raw material of man's nourishment as to bring out； for the healthy palate； all its natural juices and savours。 And in this； when the cook has any measure of natural or acquired skill； we most notably succeed。 Our beef is veritably beef； at its best； such beef as can be eaten in no other country under the sun； our mutton is mutton in its purest essence……think of a shoulder of Southdown at the moment when the first jet of gravy starts under the carving knife！ Each of our vegetables yields its separate and characterist