'The London Road I speak of is at the Surrey side.' 'Quite right. That is London Road, Lambeth; this is London Road, Hackney. You are a good way from where you started; as the crow flies it can't be less than four to five miles.' 'I walked by Buckingham Palace and the Zoological Gardens.' 'By Jove! you have had a long walk! Good-night.' Another London Road! Another road arrogating the name of the great capital! This morning he saw pass by him a vast host of men, equal in number to the yearly increase of this one town. He had been walking ever since, and had never been out of London, Now he was in another London Road, and it was dark night! What solemn procession now approached? What vast host of sable forms now walked slowly by? They will go on walking thus for thirteen hours at quick march, and still they will not have all marched by. They will take two hours more than the host of the morning, and yet they will not have gone by. They have no horses, they have no baggage; they bear nothing in their hands, nothing on their backs; they have no haversacks slung at their sides, no water-bottles at their girdles; they bear no arms, no accoutrements, no ornaments, no decorations of any kind. Their hands hang by their sides, they do not look to the right or the left. They do not speak, or laugh, or curse; their jaws are tied securely up. This is the contingent marched by death out of London every year; these are the eighty thousand of our brethren who every twelve months leave London for the grave. The grave--the grave, Only the grave! Yes, a thousand times better the grave and darkness--nothingness--than life under the reign of the Beast. 'O God, look down upon me--have mercy upon me--have mercy.... Yes, yes; I'll go there at once. The thought may be an answer to my prayer.' 'Which is the way to the City, please?' he asked a policeman. 'To the right, into Stoke Newington; then straight on to your left will bring you into Cornhill.' He started off once more at his old speed--He felt a little spent at first, but the excitement soon entered into him, and he swung along with even greater vigour than early in the day. 'I will think no more till I am there, I will think no more. Now then, if my limbs are ever to be of any use to me, let it be to-day, On past the flashing shops, over the slippery flags, out on the grimy road. Past lamp-post and cart, and barrow and cab, and private house and doctor's lamp, and policeman and civilians, and women and children, On, as though they were grass and I a whirlwind. A cab would take me there sooner, but it would not give me the relief this walking affords.' For half-an-hour he kept on this pace. Then he paused, and asked his way again.