Those who have spent the night on doorsteps and cold stones
crawl off to beg; they who have slept in beds come forth to their
occupation, too, and business is astir. The fog of sleep rolls
slowly off, and London shines awake. The streets are filled with
carriages and people gaily clad. The jails are full, too, to the
throat, nor have the workhouses or hospitals much room to spare.
The courts of law are crowded. Taverns have their regular
frequenters by this time, and every mart of traffic has its throng.
Each of these places is a world, and has its own inhabitants; each
is distinct from, and almost unconscious of the existence of any
other. There are some few people well to do, who remember to have
heard it said, that numbers of men and women - thousands, they
think it was - get up in London every day, unknowing where to lay
their heads at night; and that there are quarters of the town where
misery and famine always are. They don't believe it quite, - there
may be some truth in it, but it is exaggerated, of course. So,
each of these thousand worlds goes on, intent upon itself, until
night comes again, - first with its lights and pleasures, and its
cheerful streets; then with its guilt and darkness.
Heart of London, there is a moral in thy every stroke! as I look on
at thy indomitable working, which neither death, nor press of life,
nor grief, nor gladness out of doors will influence one jot, I seem
to hear a voice within thee which sinks into my heart, bidding me,
as I elbow my way among the crowd, have some thought for the
meanest wretch that passes, and, being a man, to turn away with
scorn and pride from none that bear the human shape.
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