He was like a cock whose feathers had been trailed through the mud, and who could no longer crow aloud, or claim the dunghill as his own.

His appearance was somewhat that of a dirty dissipated cook who, having been turned out of one of the clubs for drunkenness, had been wandering about the streets all night.
He began to wish that he was once more in the well-known neighbourhood of Charing Cross.
The adventure, however, must now be carried through.

There was still enough of manhood in his heart to make him feel that he could not return to his colleague at Tavistock without visiting the wonders which he had come so far to see.

When he reached the head of the shaft, however, the affair did appear to him to be more terrible than he had before conceived.

He was invited to get into a rough square bucket, in which there was just room for himself and another to stand; he was specially cautioned to keep his head straight, and his hands and elbows from protruding, and then the windlass began to turn, and the upper world, the sunlight, and all humanity receded from his view.
The world receded from his view, but hardly soon enough; for as the windlass turned and the bucket descended, his last terrestrial glance, looking out among the heaps of mud, descried Alaric Tudor galloping on Mr.Boteldale's pony up to the very mouth of the mine.
'_Facilis descensus Averni_.' The bucket went down easy enough, and all too quick.