The street was a
      narrow and long one, and his course lay within it for nearly an hour,
      during which the passengers had gradually diminished to about that number
      which is ordinarily seen at noon in Broadway near the park—so vast a
      difference is there between a London populace and that of the most
      frequented American city. A second turn brought us into a square,
      brilliantly lighted, and overflowing with life. The old manner of the
      stranger re-appeared. His chin fell upon his breast, while his eyes rolled
      wildly from under his knit brows, in every direction, upon those who
      hemmed him in. He urged his way steadily and perseveringly. I was
      surprised, however, to find, upon his having made the circuit of the
      square, that he turned and retraced his steps. Still more was I astonished
      to see him repeat the same walk several times—once nearly detecting
      me as he came round with a sudden movement. In this exercise he spent another hour, at the end of which we met with
      far less interruption from passengers than at first. The rain fell fast;
      the air grew cool; and the people were retiring to their homes. With a
      gesture of impatience, the wanderer passed into a by-street comparatively
      deserted. Down this, some quarter of a mile long, he rushed with an
      activity I could not have dreamed of seeing in one so aged, and which put
      me to much trouble in pursuit. A few minutes brought us to a large and
      busy bazaar, with the localities of which the stranger appeared well
      acquainted, and where his original demeanor again became apparent, as he
      forced his way to and fro, without aim, among the host of buyers and
      sellers. During the hour and a half, or thereabouts, which we passed in this place,
      it required much caution on my part to keep him within reach without
      attracting his observation. Luckily I wore a pair of caoutchouc
      over-shoes, and could move about in perfect silence. At no moment did he
      see that I watched him. He entered shop after shop, priced nothing, spoke
      no word, and looked at all objects with a wild and vacant stare. I was now
      utterly amazed at his behavior, and firmly resolved that we should not
      part until I had satisfied myself in some measure respecting him. A loud-toned clock struck eleven, and the company were fast deserting the
      bazaar. A shop-keeper, in putting up a shutter, jostled the old man, and
      at the instant I saw a strong shudder come over his frame. He hurried into
      the street, looked anxiously around him for an instant, and then ran with
      incredible swiftness through many crooked and people-less lanes, until we
      emerged once more upon the great thoroughfare whence we had started—the
      street of the D—— Hotel. It no longer wore, however, the same
      aspect. It was still brilliant with gas; but the rain fell fiercely, and
      there were few persons to be seen. The stranger grew pale. He walked
      moodily some paces up the once populous avenue, then, with a heavy sigh,
      turned in the direction of the river, and, plunging through a great
      variety of devious ways, came out, at length, in view of one of the
      principal theatres. It was about being closed, and the audience were
      thronging from the doors. I saw the old man gasp as if for breath while he
      threw himself amid the crowd; but I thought that the intense agony of his
      countenance had, in some measure, abated. His head again fell upon his
      breast; he appeared as I had seen him at first. I observed that he now
      took the course in which had gone the greater number of the audience—but,
      upon the whole, I was at a loss to comprehend the waywardness of his
      actions. As he proceeded, the company grew more scattered, and his old uneasiness
      and vacillation were resumed. For some time he followed closely a party of
      some ten or twelve roisterers; but from this number one by one dropped
      off, until three only remained together, in a narrow and gloomy lane
      little frequented. The stranger paused, and, for a moment, seemed lost in
      thought; then, with every mark of agitation, pursued rapidly a route which
      brought us to the verge of the city, amid regions very different from
      those we had hitherto traversed. It was the most noisome quarter of
      London, where every thing wore the worst impress of the most deplorable
      poverty, and of the most desperate crime. By the dim light of an
      accidental lamp, tall, antique, worm-eaten, wooden tenements were seen
      tottering to their fall, in directions so many and capricious that scarce
      the semblance of a passage was discernible between them. The paving-stones
      lay at random, displaced from their beds by the rankly-growing grass. Horrible filth festered in the dammed-up gutters. The whole atmosphere
      teemed with desolation. Yet, as we proceeded, the sounds of human life
      revived by sure degrees, and at length large bands of the most abandoned
      of a London populace were seen reeling to and fro. The spirits of the old
      man again flickered up, as a lamp which is near its death hour. Once more
      he strode onward with elastic tread. Suddenly a corner was turned, a blaze
      of light burst upon our sight, and we stood before one of the huge
      suburban temples of Intemperance—one of the palaces of the fiend,
      Gin. It was now nearly day-break; but a number of wretched inebriates still
      pressed in and out of the flaunting entrance. With a half shriek of joy
      the old man forced a passage within, resumed at once his original
      bearing, and stalked backward and forward, without apparent object, among
      the throng. He had not been thus long occupied, however, before a rush to
      the doors gave token that the host was closing them for the night. It was
      something even more intense than despair that I then observed upon the
      countenance of the singular being whom I had watched so pertinaciously. Yet he did not hesitate in his career, but, with a mad energy, retraced
      his steps at once, to the heart of the mighty London. Long and swiftly he
      fled, while I followed him in the wildest amazement, resolute not to
      abandon a scrutiny in which I now felt an interest all-absorbing. The sun
      arose while we proceeded, and, when we had once again reached that most
      thronged mart of the populous town, the street of the D——
      Hotel, it presented an appearance of human bustle and activity scarcely
      inferior to what I had seen on the evening before. And here, long, amid
      the momently increasing confusion, did I persist in my pursuit of the
      stranger. But, as usual, he walked to and fro, and during the day did not
      pass from out the turmoil of that street.