morning in April, 1770, fighting my way. Ay, truly, fighting my way, for
the street then was no place for the weak and timid, when bullocks ran
through it in droves on the way to market, when it was often jammed from
wall to wall with wagons, and carmen and truckmen and coachmen swung
their whips and cursed one another to the extent of their lungs. Near
St. Clement Danes I was packed in a crowd for ten minutes while two of
these fellows formed a ring and fought for the right of way, stopping the
traffic as far as I could see. Dustmen, and sweeps, and even beggars,
jostled you on the corners, bullies tried to push you against the posts
or into the kennels; and once, in Butchers' Row, I was stopped by a
flashy, soft-tongued fellow who would have lured me into a tavern near
by.

The noises were bedlam ten times over. Shopmen stood at their doors and
cried, "Rally up, rally up, buy, buy, buy!" venders shouted saloop and
barley, furmity, Shrewsbury cakes and hot peascods, rosemary and
lavender, small coal and sealing-wax, and others bawled "Pots to solder!"
and "Knives to grind!" Then there was the incessant roar of the heavy
wheels over the rough stones, and the rasp and shriek of the brewers'
sledges as they moved clumsily along. As for the odours, from that of
the roasted coffee and food of the taverns, to the stale fish on the
stalls, and worse, I can say nothing. They surpassed imagination.

At length, upon emerging from Butchers' Row, I came upon some stocks
standing in the street, and beheld ahead of me a great gateway stretching
across the Strand from house to house.

Its stone was stained with age, and the stern front of it seemed to mock
the unseemly and impetuous haste of the tide rushing through its arches.
I stood and gazed, nor needed one to tell me that those two grinning