It was a Sunday evening in London, gloomy, close, and stale. Maddening church bells of all degrees of dissonance, sharp and flat, cracked and clear, fast and slow, made the brick-and-mortar echoes hideous². Melancholy³ streets, in a penitential garb⁴ of soot⁵, steeped the souls of the people who were condemned⁶ to look at them out of windows, in dire⁷ despondency. In every thoroughfare, up almost every alley⁸, and down almost every turning, some doleful bell was throbbing⁹, jerking, tolling¹⁰, as if the Plague were in the city and the dead-carts were going round. Everything was bolted and barred that could by possibility furnish relief to an overworked people. No pictures, no unfamiliar¹¹ animals, no rare plants or flowers, no natural or artificial wonders of the ancient world—all taboo¹² with that enlightened strictness, that the ugly South Sea gods in the British Museum might have supposed themselves at home again. Nothing to see but streets, streets, streets. Nothing to breathe but streets, streets, streets. Nothing to change the brooding mind, or raise it up. Nothing for the spent toiler¹³ to do, but to compare the monotony of his seventh day with the monotony of his six days, think what a weary life he led, and make the best of it—or the worst, according to the probabilities.

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