A Wet Night in London 



do run, and yet cannot lift the legs that are heavy as 

 lead, with the demon behind pursuing, the demon of 

 Drive-on. Move, or cease to be pass out of Time 

 or be stirring quickly; if you stand you must suffer 

 even here on the pavement, splashed with greasy 

 mud, shoved by coarse ruffianism, however good your 

 intentions just dare to stand still! Ideas here for 

 moralising, but I can't preach with the roar and the 

 din and the wet in my ears, and the flickering street 

 lamps flaring. That's the 'bus no; the tarpaulin 

 hangs down and obscures the inscription; yes. Hi! 

 No heed; how could you be so confiding as to 

 imagine conductor or driver would deign to see a 

 signalling passenger; the game is to drive on. 



A gentleman makes a desperate rush and grabs 

 the handrail; his foot slips on the asphalt or wood, 

 which is like oil, he slides, his hat totters; happily 

 he recovers himself and gets in. In the block the 

 'bus is stayed a moment, and somehow we follow, 

 and are landed " somehow " advisedly. For how 

 do we get into a 'bus ? After the pavement, even this 

 hard seat would be nearly an easy-chair, were it not 

 for the damp smell of soaked overcoats, the ceaseless 

 rumble, and the knockings overhead outside. The 

 noise is immensely worse than the shaking or the 

 steamy atmosphere, the noise ground into the ears, 

 and wearying the mind to a state of drowsy narcotism 

 you become chloroformed through the sense of 

 hearing, a condition of dreary resignation and uncom- 

 fortable ease. The illuminated shops seem to pass 

 like an endless window without division of doors; 

 there are groups of people staring in at them in spite 

 of the rain ; ill-clad, half -starving people for the most 

 part; the well-dressed hurry onwards; they have 

 homes. A dull feeling of satisfaction creeps over you 

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