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- Чарльз Диккенс
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Damp
rotten
houses
,
many
to
let
,
many
yet
building
,
many
half
-
built
and
mouldering
away
—
lodgings
,
where
it
would
be
hard
to
tell
which
needed
pity
most
,
those
who
let
or
those
who
came
to
take
—
children
,
scantily
fed
and
clothed
,
spread
over
every
street
,
and
sprawling
in
the
dust
—
scolding
mothers
,
stamping
their
slipshod
feet
with
noisy
threats
upon
the
pavement
—
shabby
fathers
,
hurrying
with
dispirited
looks
to
the
occupation
which
brought
them
‘
daily
bread
’
and
little
more
—
mangling
-
women
,
washer
-
women
,
cobblers
,
tailors
,
chandlers
,
driving
their
trades
in
parlours
and
kitchens
and
back
room
and
garrets
,
and
sometimes
all
of
them
under
the
same
roof
—
brick
-
fields
skirting
gardens
paled
with
staves
of
old
casks
,
or
timber
pillaged
from
houses
burnt
down
,
and
blackened
and
blistered
by
the
flames
—
mounds
of
dock
-
weed
,
nettles
,
coarse
grass
and
oyster
-
shells
,
heaped
in
rank
confusion
—
small
dissenting
chapels
to
teach
,
with
no
lack
of
illustration
,
the
miseries
of
Earth
,
and
plenty
of
new
churches
,
erected
with
a
little
superfluous
wealth
,
to
show
the
way
to
Heaven
.
At
length
these
streets
becoming
more
straggling
yet
,
dwindled
and
dwindled
away
,
until
there
were
only
small
garden
patches
bordering
the
road
,
with
many
a
summer
house
innocent
of
paint
and
built
of
old
timber
or
some
fragments
of
a
boat
,
green
as
the
tough
cabbage
-
stalks
that
grew
about
it
,
and
grottoed
at
the
seams
with
toad
-
stools
and
tight
-
sticking
snails
.
To
these
succeeded
pert
cottages
,
two
and
two
with
plots
of
ground
in
front
,
laid
out
in
angular
beds
with
stiff
box
borders
and
narrow
paths
between
,
where
footstep
never
strayed
to
make
the
gravel
rough
.
Then
came
the
public
-
house
,
freshly
painted
in
green
and
white
,
with
tea
-
gardens
and
a
bowling
green
,
spurning
its
old
neighbour
with
the
horse
-
trough
where
the
waggons
stopped
;
then
,
fields
;
and
then
,
some
houses
,
one
by
one
,
of
goodly
size
with
lawns
,
some
even
with
a
lodge
where
dwelt
a
porter
and
his
wife
.
Then
came
a
turnpike
;
then
fields
again
with
trees
and
hay
-
stacks
;
then
,
a
hill
,
and
on
the
top
of
that
,
the
traveller
might
stop
,
and
—
looking
back
at
old
Saint
Paul
’
s
looming
through
the
smoke
,
its
cross
peeping
above
the
cloud
(
if
the
day
were
clear
)
,
and
glittering
in
the
sun
;
and
casting
his
eyes
upon
the
Babel
out
of
which
it
grew
until
he
traced
it
down
to
the
furthest
outposts
of
the
invading
army
of
bricks
and
mortar
whose
station
lay
for
the
present
nearly
at
his
feet
—
might
feel
at
last
that
he
was
clear
of
London
.
Near
such
a
spot
as
this
,
and
in
a
pleasant
field
,
the
old
man
and
his
little
guide
(
if
guide
she
were
,
who
knew
not
whither
they
were
bound
)
sat
down
to
rest
.
She
had
had
the
precaution
to
furnish
her
basket
with
some
slices
of
bread
and
meat
,
and
here
they
made
their
frugal
breakfast
.
The
freshness
of
the
day
,
the
singing
of
the
birds
,
the
beauty
of
the
waving
grass
,
the
deep
green
leaves
,
the
wild
flowers
,
and
the
thousand
exquisite
scents
and
sounds
that
floated
in
the
air
—
deep
joys
to
most
of
us
,
but
most
of
all
to
those
whose
life
is
in
a
crowd
or
who
live
solitarily
in
great
cities
as
in
the
bucket
of
a
human
well
—
sunk
into
their
breasts
and
made
them
very
glad
.
The
child
had
repeated
her
artless
prayers
once
that
morning
,
more
earnestly
perhaps
than
she
had
ever
done
in
all
her
life
,
but
as
she
felt
all
this
,
they
rose
to
her
lips
again
.
The
old
man
took
off
his
hat
—
he
had
no
memory
for
the
words
—
but
he
said
amen
,
and
that
they
were
very
good
.
There
had
been
an
old
copy
of
the
Pilgrim
’
s
Progress
,
with
strange
plates
,
upon
a
shelf
at
home
,
over
which
she
had
often
pored
whole
evenings
,
wondering
whether
it
was
true
in
every
word
,
and
where
those
distant
countries
with
the
curious
names
might
be
.
As
she
looked
back
upon
the
place
they
had
left
,
one
part
of
it
came
strongly
on
her
mind
.
‘
Dear
grandfather
,
’
she
said
,
‘
only
that
this
place
is
prettier
and
a
great
deal
better
than
the
real
one
,
if
that
in
the
book
is
like
it
,
I
feel
as
if
we
were
both
Christian
,
and
laid
down
on
this
grass
all
the
cares
and
troubles
we
brought
with
us
;
never
to
take
them
up
again
.
’
‘
No
—
never
to
return
—
never
to
return
’
—
replied
the
old
man
,
waving
his
hand
towards
the
city
.
‘
Thou
and
I
are
free
of
it
now
,
Nell
.
They
shall
never
lure
us
back
.
’
‘
Are
you
tired
?
’
said
the
child
,
‘
are
you
sure
you
don
’
t
feel
ill
from
this
long
walk
?
’
