“What are we going to do today?” — I asked my cicerone. — “Whatever you wish,” he responded: “Would you like to visit one of the most famous London hospitals? You will be surprised at how orderly, clean, and well-supplied it is.” — “No!” said I: “I willingly believe that the hospital is clean and orderly, but I cannot bring myself to spoil my day by beginning it with an examination of a picture of human suffering that I am not able to relieve. It would be a different matter if I were the member of a hospital board or the supervisor or the doctor. Then I would be able to learn something in the hospital, but to go there like that, out of sheer curiosity—I cannot venture.” — “Well, then, would you like to see the notorious Fleet prison? It is worth seeing.” “Rubbish!” exclaimed Allan, having just entered the room and overhearing these words of my guide. “There is nothing for you to do there. And I would never have gone there myself if my friend, Chambers, the director of the Italian Opera, hadn't served a ten-year sentence in it. Instead, let's go see Truman's Brewery, and the printing house and editorial office of the newspaper, The Times.” — “With pleasure.” — “Would you also like to see the huge Longman bookshop?” — “Let's go! Let's gallop!”

First of all, we visited the brewery, located in Spitalfields, the part of London that I already mentioned. This brewery comprises a whole town in itself. Barley is poured, steamed, etc., in extremely large vats, about two sazhens in diameter; it is turned by spades that are so big one could take walks on them. We wandered, climbed, crawled for over two hours through all parts of the brewery to see how the barley grain is transformed into a drop of beer. In the last room, the brewed beer of various kinds—stout, ale, porter, etc.—is stored in giant barrels that, in size and durability, can be compared to a house in Peski or in Vyborg district. Now I understand how all the streets become flooded with beer when a barrel like that bursts.