When Charles Dickens was a small boy, perhaps eight or nine years old, he got lost in the City, the teeming financial and commercial center of the great metropolis of London. A friend of the family had taken him to look at the outside of St. Giles's Church with the hope of quenching a fantastical notion that had taken hold of him: young Dickens was convinced that on Sundays, the beggars of London, having cast off their weekday pretenses to blindness, lameness and other physical maladies, and freshly attired in their holiday best, were to be seen marching into the temple of their patron saint, where they would then partake of divine service.
No comments:
Post a Comment