There is immensity, swinging motion, collision, dusky richness of colouring, to the sight; and to the mind idea.

London presents it.

If we can allow ourselves a moment for not inquireing scrupulously (you will do it by inhaling the aroma of the ripe kitchen hour), here is a noble harmony of heaven and the earth of the works of man, speaking a grander tongue than barren sea or wood or wilderness.

Just a moment; it goes; as, when a well-attuned barrel-organ in a street has drawn us to recollections of the Opera or Italy, another harshly crashes, and the postman knocks at doors, and perchance a costermonger cries his mash of fruit, a beggar woman wails her hymn.

For the pinched are here, the dinnerless, the weedy, the gutter-growths, the forces repressing them.