按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
wheat； and I accidentally struck an airy sample of barley out of an
aged hassock in one of them。 From Rood…lane to Tower…street； and
thereabouts； there was often a subtle flavour of wine： sometimes；
of tea。 One church near Mincing…lane smelt like a druggist's
drawer。 Behind the Monument the service had a flavour of damaged
oranges； which； a little further down towards the river； tempered
into herrings； and gradually toned into a cosmopolitan blast of
fish。 In one church； the exact counterpart of the church in the
Rake's Progress where the hero is being married to the horrible old
lady； there was no speciality of atmosphere； until the organ shook
a perfume of hides all over us from some adjacent warehouse。
Be the scent what it would； however； there was no speciality in the
people。 There were never enough of them to represent any calling
or neighbourhood。 They had all gone elsewhere over…night； and the
few stragglers in the many churches languished there
inexpressively。
Among the Uncommercial travels in which I have engaged； this year
of Sunday travel occupies its own place； apart from all the rest。
Whether I think of the church where the sails of the oyster…boats
in the river almost flapped against the windows； or of the church
where the railroad made the bells hum as the train rushed by above
the roof； I recall a curious experience。 On summer Sundays； in the
gentle rain or the bright sunshine … either； deepening the idleness
of the idle City … I have sat； in that singular silence which
belongs to resting…places usually astir； in scores of buildings at
the heart of the world's metropolis； unknown to far greater numbers
of people speaking the English tongue； than the ancient edifices of
the Eternal City； or the Pyramids of Egypt。 The dark vestries and
registries into which I have peeped； and the little hemmed…in
churchyards that have echoed to my feet； have left impressions on
my memory as distinct and quaint as any it has in that way
received。 In all those dusty registers that the worms are eating；
there is not a line but made some hearts leap； or some tears flow；
in their day。 Still and dry now； still and dry！ and the old tree
at the window with no room for its branches； has seen them all out。
So with the tomb of the old Master of the old Company； on which it
drips。 His son restored it and died； his daughter restored it and
died； and then he had been remembered long enough； and the tree
took possession of him； and his name cracked out。
There are few more striking indications of the changes of manners
and customs that two or three hundred years have brought about；
than these deserted churches。 Many of them are handsome and costly
structures； several of them were designed by WREN； many of them
arose from the ashes of the great fire； others of them outlived the
plague and the fire too； to die a slow death in these later days。
No one can be sure of the coming time； but it is not too much to
say of it that it has no sign in its outsetting tides； of the
reflux to these churches of their congregations and uses。 They
remain like the tombs of the old citizens who lie beneath them and
around them； Monuments of another age。 They are worth a Sunday…
exploration； now and then； for they yet echo； not unharmoniously；
to the time when the City of London really was London； when the
'Prentices and Trained Bands were of mark in the state； when even
the Lord Mayor himself was a Reality … not a Fiction conventionally
be…puffed on one day in the year by illustrious friends； who no
less conventionally laugh at him on the remaining three hundred and
sixty…four days。
CHAPTER X … SHY NEIGHBOURHOODS
So much of my travelling is done on foot； that if I cherished
betting propensities； I should probably be found registered in
sporting newspapers under some such title as the Elastic Novice；
challenging all eleven stone mankind to competition in walking。 My
last special feat was turning out of bed at two； after a hard day；
pedestrian and otherwise； and walking thirty miles into the country
to breakfast。 The road was so lonely in the night； that I fell
asleep to the monotonous sound of my own feet； doing their regular
four miles an hour。 Mile after mile I walked； without the
slightest sense of exertion； dozing heavily and dreaming
constantly。 It was only when I made a stumble like a drunken man；
or struck out into the road to avoid a horseman close upon me on
the path … who had no existence … that I came to myself and looked
about。 The day broke mistily （it was autumn time）； and I could not
disembarrass myself of the idea that I had to climb those heights
and banks of cloud； and that there was an Alpine Convent somewhere
behind the sun； where I was going to breakfast。 This sleepy notion
was so much stronger than such substantial objects as villages and
haystacks； that； after the sun was up and bright； and when I was
sufficiently awake to have a sense of pleasure in the prospect； I
still occasionally caught myself looking about for wooden arms to
point the right track up the mountain； and wondering there was no
snow yet。 It is a curiosity of broken sleep that I made immense
quantities of verses on that pedestrian occasion （of course I never
make any when I am in my right senses）； and that I spoke a certain
language once pretty familiar to me； but which I have nearly
forgotten from disuse； with fluency。 Of both these phenomena I
have such frequent experience in the state between sleeping and
waking； that I sometimes argue with myself that I know I cannot be
awake； for； if I were； I should not be half so ready。 The
readiness is not imaginary； because I often recall long strings of
the verses； and many turns of the fluent speech； after I am broad
awake。
My walking is of two kinds： one； straight on end to a definite
goal at a round pace； one； objectless； loitering； and purely
vagabond。 In the latter state； no gipsy on earth is a greater
vagabond than myself； it is so natural to me； and strong with me；
that I think I must be the descendant； at no great distance； of
some irreclaimable tramp。
One of the pleasantest things I have lately met with； in a vagabond
course of shy metropolitan neighbourhoods and small shops； is the
fancy of a humble artist； as exemplified in two portraits
representing Mr。 Thomas Sayers； of Great Britain； and Mr。 John
Heenan； of the United States of America。 These illustrious men are
highly coloured in fighting trim； and fighting attitude。 To
suggest the pastoral and meditative nature of their peaceful
calling； Mr。 Heenan is represented on emerald sward； with primroses
and other modest flowers springing up under the heels of his half…
boots； while Mr。 Sayers is impelled to the administration of his
favourite blow； the Auctioneer； by the silent eloquence of a
village church。 The humble homes of England； with their domestic
virtues and honeysuckle porches； urge both heroes to go in and win；
and the lark and other singing birds are observable in the upper
air； ecstatically carolling their thanks to Heaven for a fight。 On
the whole； the associations entwined with the pugilistic art by
this artist are much in the manner of Izaak Walton。
But； it is with the lower animals of back streets and by…ways that
my present purpose rests。 For human notes we may return to such
neighbourhoods when leisure and opportunity serve。
Nothing in shy neighbourhoods perplexes my mind more； than the bad
company birds keep。 Foreign birds often get into good society； but
British birds are inseparable from low associates。 There is a
whole street of them in St。 Giles's； and I always find them in poor
and immoral neighbourhoods； convenient to the public…house and the
pawnbroker's。 They seem to lead people into drinking； and even the
man who makes their cages usually gets into a chronic state of
black eye。 Why is this？ Also； they will do things for people in
short…skirted velveteen coats with bone buttons； or in sleeved
waistcoats and fur caps； which they cannot be persuaded by the
respectable orders of society to undertake。 In a dirty court in
Spitalfields； once； I found a goldfinch drawing his own water； and
drawing as much of it as if he were in a consuming fever。 That
goldfinch lived at a bird…shop； and offered； in writing； to barter
himself against old clothes； empty bottles； or even kitchen stuff。
Surely a low thing and a depraved taste in any finch！ I bought
that goldfinch for money。 He was sent home； and hung upon a nail
over against my table。 He lived outside a counterfeit dwelling…
house； supposed （as I argued） to be a dyer's； otherwise it would
have been impossible to account for his perch sticking out of the
garret window。 From the time of his appearance in my room； either
he left off being thirsty … which was not in the bond … or he could
not make up his mind to hear his l