2 A Walk from 



How unnatural, and, more, almost profane and inhuman, 

 is the fiery locomotion of the Iron Horse through these 

 densely-peopled towns ! now the screech, the roar, and 

 the darkness of cavernous passages under paved streets, 

 church vaults, and an acre or two of three story brick 

 houses, with the feeling of a world of breathing, bust- 

 ling humanity incumbent upon you ; now the dash 

 and flash out into the light, and the higgledy-piggledy 

 glimpses of the next five minutes. In a moment, you 

 are above thickly-thronged streets, and the houses on 

 either side, looking down into the black throats of 

 smoky chimneys ; into the garret lairs of poverty, sick- 

 ness, and sin ; down lower upon squads of children 

 trying to play in back-yards eight feet square. It is 

 all wrong, except in the single quality of speed. You 

 enter the town as you would a farmer's house, if you 

 first passed through the pig-stye into the kitchen. 

 Every respectable house in the city turns its back upon 

 you ; and often a very brick and dirty back, too, 

 though it may show an elegant front of Bath or Port- 

 land stone to the street it faces. All the respectable 

 streets run over or under you, with an audible shudder 

 of disgust or dread. None but a shabby lane of low 

 shops for the sale of junk, beer, onions, shrimps, and 

 cabbages, will run a third of a mile by your side for 

 the sake of 3 r our company. The wickedest boys in the 



