How I escaped mortal illness in some of those places (miserably fed as I
always was, and always over-working myself) is a great mystery. The
worst that befell me was a slight attack of diphtheria--traceable, I
imagine, to the existence of a dust-bin _under the staircase_. When I
spoke of the matter to my landlady, she was at first astonished, then
wrathful, and my departure was expedited with many insults.

On the whole, however, I had nothing much to complain of except my
poverty. You cannot expect great comfort in London for four-and-sixpence
a week--the most I ever could pay for a "furnished room with attendance"
in those days of pretty stern apprenticeship. And I was easily
satisfied; I wanted only a little walled space in which I could seclude
myself, free from external annoyance. Certain comforts of civilized life
I ceased even to regret; a stair-carpet I regarded as rather extravagant,
and a carpet on the floor of my room was luxury undreamt of. My sleep
was sound; I have passed nights of dreamless repose on beds which it
would now make my bones ache only to look at. A door that locked, a fire
in winter, a pipe of tobacco--these were things essential; and, granted
these, I have been often richly contented in the squalidest garret. One
such lodging is often in my memory; it was at Islington, not far from the
City Road; my window looked upon the Regent's Canal. As often as I think
of it, I recall what was perhaps the worst London fog I ever knew; for
three successive days, at least, my lamp had to be kept burning; when I
looked through the window, I saw, at moments, a few blurred lights in the
street beyond the Canal, but for the most part nothing but a yellowish
darkness, which caused the glass to reflect the firelight and my own
face. Did I feel miserable? Not a bit of it. The enveloping gloom
seemed to make my chimney-corner only the more cosy. I had coals, oil,
tobacco in sufficient quantity; I had a book to read; I had work which
interested me; so I went forth only to get my meals at a City Road coffee-