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