In a moment you are above thickly-thronged streets, and the houses on either side, looking down into the black throats of smoky chimneys; into the garret lairs of poverty, sickness, and sin; down lower upon squads of children trying to play in back-yards eight feet square.

It is all wrong, except in the single quality of speed.

You enter the town as you would a farmer's house, if you first passed through the pig-stye into the kitchen.

Every respectable house in the city turns its back upon you; and often a very brick and dirty back too, though it may show an elegant front of Bath or Portland stone to the street it faces.

All the respectable streets run over or under you with an audible shudder of disgust or dread.