For, within the city lines a crawling, sticky stream, nor picturesque nor sweet to sight or smell, it yet hath smothered passions of its own, and for no graver provocation than an April shower will burst its feeble bounds, and, like Leigh Hunt's pig in Smithfield market, "rush up all manner of streets," and over bridges, and down cellars, and through an unclassified abomination of mongeries, distributing mud, dead cats and promiscuous stenches with happy, lavish malice.