But no one heeded Matt as he still shuffled onward, more than once as he passed through Fleet-street gazing up at the gas-lit windows of the newspaper-offices. Past Lower Series-place, looking in the dark night like the mouth of a sewer, emptying itself by the bridge--Temple Bar; past Essex-street, to stand and gaze down it for a few moments thoughtfully; past the last of the four churches, and the street leading to the "Bridge of Sighs." Onward still, and then into one of those hilly lanes, up which in busy day came clattering the heavy teams of wagon--horses with their black load--down one of those river lanes along which came sighing the damp-laden winds, whispering of being lost upon the great stream, and of having wandered from the green trees, where in summer the reeds rustled, and the silver water glided past emerald banks--whispering of cooling groves, and the gladdening, sparkling, dancing wavelets, sheltered woody islets, and the sweet, pure country air; but now lost in wintry weather upon the breast of the great river,--lost, after wandering by muddy pile and slimy, horrid, loathsome drain and sullying sewer; lost, as they had swept past wharf, bridge, pier, and barge; they came in despair, weeping tears from their misty burden, sweeping amongst the gloomy houses, and causing a shiver as they passed along. For a moment some bright recollection of the past seemed to strike the old man, and he paused thoughtfully beneath a gas-lamp; but old Matt's memories of waving reed and rustling tree were few, and he sighed and passed on, thinking only of his sought-for resting-place. Onward, and down beneath the great black yawning arch, to where he could hear voices, while above the faint damp fever-reek of the place, came the fumes of tobacco-smoke. On still, with hands outstretched to avoid collision with cart or wagon, but more than once he tripped over a shaft, as some stabled horse rattled halter or chain through the ring of its manger, and Matt sighed with envy as he thought of the warm straw. To a miserable fire at length, with several miserable objects huddled round, and amidst jest, laughter, and foul language, a voice yelled out a verse or two of a current song, a man and woman dancing hard by, their shadows cast, wildly distorted and grotesque, upon the reeking brickwork, where they almost seemed to cling. Then, too, came that peculiar "glug-glug" sound of liquid passing from a bottle, and a voice shouted to the old man: "Come on, matey; heaps o' room to-night. Give's a pipe o' baccy." "All right," replied Matt, backing into the darkness, and shaking his head, as he shuffled hurriedly along till he reached the Strand once more. "Can't stand that now," muttered Matt; "nerves too weak. No idea there was such a pressure of business in the hotel. Foreign gentleman that, dancing--wonder whether his organ's down there."