Bourke Street is a more crowded thoroughfare than Collins Street, especially at night. The theatres that it contains are in themselves sufficient for the gathering¹ of a considerable crowd. It is a grimy crowd for the most part. Round the doors of the hotels a number of ragged² and shabby-looking individuals collect, waiting till some kind friend shall invite them to step inside. Further on a knot of horsey-looking men are to be seen standing⁴ under the Opera House verandah giving and taking odds⁵ about the Melbourne Cup, or some other meeting. Here and there are ragged street Arabs, selling matches and newspapers; and against the verandah post, in the full blaze of the electric light, leans a weary, draggled-looking woman, one arm clasping a baby to her breast, and the other holding a pile of newspapers, while she drones out in a hoarse⁶ voice, “‘ERALD, third ’dition, one penny!” until the ear wearies of the constant repetition. Cabs rattle⁷ incessantly⁸ along the street; here, a fast-looking hansom, with a rakish horse, bearing some gilded⁹ youth to his Club — there, a dingy-looking vehicle, drawn¹⁰ by a lank¹¹ quadruped, which staggers blindly down the street. Alternating with these, carriages dash along with their well-groomed horses, and within, the vision of bright eyes, white dresses, and the sparkle of diamonds. Then, further up, just on the verge¹² of the pavement, three violins and a

分享到：