Much mighty speech-making there has been, both in and out of Parliament, concerning Tom, and much wrathful disputation how Tom shall be got right.  Whether he shall be put into the main road by constables, or by beadles, or by bell-ringing, or by force of figures, or by correct principles of taste, or by high church, or by low church, or by no church; whether he shall be set to splitting trusses of polemical straws with the crooked knife of his mind or whether he shall be put to stone-breaking instead.  In the midst of which dust and noise there is but one thing perfectly clear, to wit, that Tom only may and can, or shall and will, be reclaimed according to somebody’s theory but nobody’s practice.  And in the hopeful meantime, Tom goes to perdition head foremost in his old determined spirit.

But he has his revenge.  Even the winds are his messengers, and they serve him in these hours of darkness.  There is not a drop of Tom’s corrupted blood but propagates infection and contagion somewhere.  It shall pollute, this very night, the choice stream (in which chemists on analysis would find the genuine nobility) of a Norman house, and his Grace shall not be able to say nay to the infamous alliance.  There is not an atom of Tom’s slime, not a cubic inch of any pestilential gas in which he lives, not one obscenity or degradation about him, not an ignorance, not a wickedness, not a brutality of his committing, but shall work its retribution through every order of society up to the proudest of the proud and to the highest of the high.  Verily, what with tainting, plundering, and spoiling, Tom has his revenge.

It is a moot point whether Tom-all-Alone’s be uglier by day or by night, but on the argument that the more that is seen of it the more shocking it must be, and that no part of it left to the imagination is at all likely to be made so bad as the reality, day carries it.  The day begins to break now; and in truth it might be better for the national glory even that the sun should sometimes set upon the British dominions than that it should ever rise upon so vile a wonder as Tom.

A brown sunburnt gentleman, who appears in some inaptitude for sleep to be wandering abroad rather than counting the hours on a restless pillow, strolls hitherward at this quiet time.  Attracted by curiosity, he often pauses and looks about him, up and down the miserable by-ways.  Nor is he merely curious, for in his bright dark eye there is compassionate interest; and as he looks here and there, he seems to understand such wretchedness and to have studied it before.

On the banks of the stagnant channel of mud which is the main street of Tom-all-Alone’s, nothing is to be seen but the crazy houses, shut up and silent.  No waking creature save himself appears except in one direction, where he sees the solitary figure of a woman sitting on a door-step.  He walks that way.  Approaching, he observes that she has journeyed a long distance and is footsore and travel-stained.  She sits on the door-step in the manner of one who is waiting, with her elbow on her knee and her head upon her hand.  Beside her is a canvas bag, or bundle, she has carried.  She is dozing probably, for she gives no heed to his steps as he comes toward her.