MEADOWS. I stand at last on Ludgate's famous hill;
I've traversed Farringdon's frequented vale,
I've quitted Holborn's heights—the slopes of Snow,
Where Skinner's sinuous street, with tortuous track,
Trepans the traveler toward the field of Smith;
That field, whose scents burst on the offended nose
With foulest flavor, while the thrice shocked ear,
Thrice shocked with bellowing blasphemy and blows,
Making one compound of Satanic sound,
Is stunned, in physical and moral sense.
But this is Ludgate Hill—here commerce thrives;
Here, merchants carry trade to such a height
That competition, bursting builders' bonds,
Starts from the shop, and rushing through the roof,
Unites the basement with the floors above;
Till, like a giant, that outgrows his strength,
The whole concern, struck with abrupt collapse,
In one "tremendous failure" totters down!—
'Tis food on which philosophy may fatten.
[Turns round, musing, and looks into a shop window
Enter PRIGWELL, talking to himself.
PRIGWELL. I've made a sorry day of it thus far;
I've fathomed fifty pockets, all in vain;
I've spent in omnibuses half-a-crown;
I've ransacked forty female reticules—
And nothing found—some business must be done.
By Jove—I'd rather turn Lascar at once:
Allow the walnut's devastating juice
To track its inky course along my cheek,
And stain my British brow with Indian brown.
Or, failing that, I'd rather drape myself
In cheap white cotton, or gay colored chintz—
Hang roung my ear the massive curtain-ring—
With strings of bold, effective glassy beads
Circle my neck—and play the Brahmin Priest,
To win the sympathy of passing crowds,
And melt the silver in the stranger's purse.
But ah! (SEEING MEADOWS) the land of promise looms before me
The bulging skirts of that provincial coat
Tell tales of well-filled pocket-books within.
[Goes behind Meadows and empties his pockets
This is indeed a prize!
[Meadows turns suddenly round,
Your pardon, sir;
Is this, the way to Newgate?
MEADOWS. Why, indeed
I scarce can say; I'm but a stranger here,
I should not like to misdirect you.
PRIGWELL. Thank you,
I'll find the way to Newgate by myself.
[Exit.
MEADOWS (STILL MUSING). This is indeed a great Metropolis.
ENTER BLIND VOCALIST.
BLIND VOCALIST (SINGING). Hey, the bonny! (KNOCKS UP AGAINST MEADOWS,
WHO EXIT). Ho! the bonny—(A PASSENGER KNOCKS UP AGAINST THE BLIND
VOCALIST ON THE OTHER SIDE). Hey, the bonny—(A BUTCHER'S TRAY STRIKES
THE BLIND VOCALIST IN THE CHEST)—breast knot. AS HE CONTINUES SINGING
"HEY, THE BONNY! HO, THE BONNY," THE BLIND VOCALIST ENCOUNTERS VARIOUS
COLLISIONS, AND HIS BREATH BEING TAKEN AWAY BY A POKE OR A PUSH
BETWEEN EACH BAR, HE IS CARRIED AWAY BY THE STREAM OF PASSENGERS.