Fools are trapped in the web, wise n hide behind the web. Spiders ask not about morality, only which thread vibrates first.
— Arthur Hastings
As the largest city in the world at the ti, London’s scale and number of streets were unmatched by cities like Paris, Berlin, St. Petersburg, Constantinople, and others.
However, despite the nurous streets, it was not difficult for an old Londoner to rember the nas of all the streets, as each street had its own distinct character.
Opticians usually concentrated on Ludgate Street, pawnbrokers opened in Long Alley, bookshops clustered near the courtyard of St. Paul’s Cathedral. Cheese sellers did business on Thas Street, gamblers gathered on Riverbank Street to play cards, the signs of taverns overflowed on Hoop Lane and Shoe Lane, those dealing in flowers and birds were all in Seven Stairway, four-wheel carriages were made on Longek Street, sculptors were on Euston Road, clothing shops on Tottenham Court Road, and dentists had taken a liking to the land on Saint Martin’s Lane.
Of course, if you ask Eld about the favorite street, undoubtedly, it would be Saint Catherine Street, famous for its yellow book vendors.
These segregated comrcial areas also further affected the residential divisions of various ethnic groups in London.
Since these industries are not only highly connected with the streets but also closely linked with the ethnicities of the practitioners.
In London, those selling second-hand clothes are basically Jewish, most bakers co from Scotland, diggers hail from York and Lancashire, most cobblers co from Northampton, a significant part of the sugar refining and toy industry are controlled by Germans, cotton rchants are all from Manchester, the cheese business is monopolized by Hampshire, Welsh "milk ladies" enjoy the "exclusive rights" to the milk trade, only barbers and brickmakers, these two industries sohow consist entirely of old Londoners.
What?
You ask about the Irish?
The Irish are everywhere; in every industry, the craftsn’s assistants, and laborers are basically Irish.
Generally speaking, if you want to see all the various industries and ethnic groups scattered across London within a morning, it truly is no easy feat.
Either, you can wander aimlessly like a headless fly, hoping for luck in the vast London City.
Or, you should co to Charing Cross Street and squat for a few hours.
Why co to Charing Cross Street instead of sowhere else?
This is because Charing Cross Street’s most famous industry is harnesses, and the reason why the harnesses here are famous is because Golden Cross Station is located here.
For hundreds of years, Golden Cross Station has been London’s most famous coach terminus, operating on coach routes to Bath, Portsmouth, Oxford, Canterbury, and other places; plenty of travelers from all over Britain and even Europe have their first stop here when visiting London.
Just by sitting on the steps in front of Golden Cross Station, you can see the tide of people.
The worn copper nails on the station sign are smooth and bright, amidst the newly arrived long-distance coaches on the road, one from Portsmouth, one from Bath.
The coachn shouted for workers to unload suitcases and sacks. Several well-dressed ladies helped by their servants stepped off the carriage, occasionally glancing back at the locked floral traveling case as though it contained so treasure.
At this mont, the yard of the station was voided of postal coaches; horse dung and last night’s rainwater still remained uncleaned, those coachn on duty were busy carrying water buckets and shovels amidst cigarettes hanging from their mouths.
A few postn with numbered copper badges pinned to their uniforms sat directly on the stairs in the inner courtyard, handling their breakfast with freshly brewed tea and hard biscuits.
Arthur stood by an old-fashioned gas lamp next to the station, leaning against the column in front of the Golden Cross Inn porch.
Today, he was dressed in a dark green frock coat, still holding his usual black ebony stick.
Perhaps impatient from waiting, he casually took the board with today’s schedule outside the station as morning reading material.
10:00 Departure—Oxford, Ili, Stratford
10:15 Departure—Rochester, Canterbury, destination Port of Dover
10:30 Arrival—Manchester, Sheffield transfer passengers
Suddenly, a traveler passed by the board, inadvertently blocking Arthur’s view, causing Arthur to frown.
Just as he was hoping this uninvited guest would quickly move aside, the fellow abruptly turned around, facing him directly.
"Sir Arthur?"
Arthur also recognized him, greeting with a smile: "Mr. Langworth."
Jas Langworth, the special correspondent from The Tis who had followed Sir David Eckett deep into the Caucasus Mountains.
Or, as he might be more resonantly called, like the nickna Fleet Street gave him—Liberator of the Chechens.
Jas Langworth at this mont held a grey-blue suitcase, the hem of his coat stained with mud. He bowed slightly, neither shaking Arthur’s hand nor exchanging pleasantries.
"Allow to apologize first." Langworth’s pace of speech wasn’t rushed, sounding sincerely: "I heard you resigned from your position as the Cultural Counsellor in Russia...when the news ca back, I couldn’t believe it."
Arthur gave a slight smile, but didn’t avert his gaze from Langworth’s face: "Do you find it hard to believe that the Foreign Office would accept a resignation, or hard to believe I would actively resign from the Foreign Office?"
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