The Lindsays, Volume II by John K. Leys

Who has not tried to put into words his first impressions of London? And who has not failed? Probably, if people were quite careful not to impose upon themselves, they would feel bound to confess that, after the first feeling of bewilderment was over, their chief impression was one of a vague disappointment. They knew that they had set foot in the Metropolis of the Empire, and they could not help forgetting that London is not to be seen in half an hour.

This, at least, was Alec Lindsay's experience. When he emerged from the railway-station and found himself in the Euston Road, he could hardly believe that he had at last reached the city of his dreams. With his overcoat over his arm and his bag in his hand (avoiding, like a thrifty Scot, the needless expense of a cab), he trudged slowly eastwards, taking mental notes as he went. He was surprised at the comparative stillness around him. He had often heard of the bustle in the streets of London; but the Euston Road was quieter than many a street in Glasgow. Then the houses offended him. They were much lower in height than those to which he had been accustomed, and much uglier. He gazed with contempt on the tumble-down buildings of wood, or of brick not much more durable than wood, projected from the houses to the pavement. He was surprised at the absence of hurry, at the street children playing about (as much wrapped up in their play as if they had been on a village-green), at the half-intelligible Cockney dialect.