rel="nofollow" href="#ulink_0cd04fe2-d3d7-50c2-9bf6-a7137fa869a6">CHAPTER XII—THE DRUNKARD’S DEATH
THE OUT-AND-OUT YOUNG GENTLEMAN
THE VERY FRIENDLY YOUNG GENTLEMAN
THE CENSORIOUS YOUNG GENTLEMAN
THE THEATRICAL YOUNG GENTLEMAN
THE ‘THROWING-OFF’ YOUNG GENTLEMAN
THE YOUNG LADIES’ YOUNG GENTLEMAN
THE COUPLE WHO DOTE UPON THEIR CHILDREN
THE COUPLE WHO CODDLE THEMSELVES
PUBLIC LIFE OF MR. TULRUMBLE—ONCE MAYOR OF MUDFOG
FULL REPORT OF THE FIRST MEETING OF THE MUDFOG ASSOCIATION for the advancement of everything
FULL REPORT OF THE SECOND MEETING OF THE MUDFOG ASSOCIATION for the advancement of everything
SOME PARTICULARS CONCERNING A LION
MR. ROBERT BOLTON: THE ‘GENTLEMAN CONNECTED WITH THE PRESS’
FAMILIAR EPISTLE FROM A PARENT TO A CHILD aged two years and two months
CHAPTER I—THE STREETS—MORNING
The appearance presented by the streets of London an hour before sunrise, on a summer’s morning, is most striking even to the few whose unfortunate pursuits of pleasure, or scarcely less unfortunate pursuits of business, cause them to be well acquainted with the scene. There is an air of cold, solitary desolation about the noiseless streets which we are accustomed to see thronged at other times by a busy, eager crowd, and over the quiet, closely-shut buildings, which throughout the day are swarming with life and bustle, that is very impressive.
The last drunken man, who shall find his way home before sunlight, has just staggered heavily along, roaring out the burden of the drinking song of the previous night: the last houseless vagrant whom penury and police have left in the streets, has coiled up his chilly limbs in some paved comer, to dream of food and warmth. The drunken, the dissipated, and the wretched have disappeared; the more sober and orderly part of the population have not yet awakened to the labours of the day, and the stillness of death is over the streets; its very hue seems to be imparted to them, cold and lifeless as they look in the grey, sombre light of daybreak. The coach-stands in the larger thoroughfares are deserted: the night-houses are closed; and the chosen promenades of profligate misery are empty.
An occasional policeman may alone be seen at the street corners, listlessly gazing on the deserted prospect before him; and now and then a rakish-looking cat runs stealthily across the road and descends his own area with as much caution and slyness—bounding first on the water-butt, then on the dust-hole, and then alighting on the flag-stones—as if he were conscious that his character depended on his gallantry of the preceding night escaping public observation. A partially opened bedroom-window here and there, bespeaks the heat of the weather, and the uneasy slumbers of its occupant; and the dim scanty flicker of the rushlight, through the window-blind, denotes the chamber of watching or sickness. With these few exceptions, the streets present no signs of life, nor the houses of habitation.
An hour wears away; the spires of the churches and roofs of the principal buildings are faintly tinged with the light of the rising sun; and the streets, by almost imperceptible degrees, begin to resume their bustle and animation. Market-carts roll slowly along: the sleepy waggoner impatiently urging on his tired horses, or vainly endeavouring to awaken the boy, who, luxuriously stretched on the top of the fruit-baskets, forgets, in happy oblivion, his long-cherished curiosity to behold the wonders of London.
Rough, sleepy-looking animals of strange appearance, something between ostlers and hackney-coachmen,