up-stairs, or into the
reading-room, and complete extensive bargains.

Here it is--the restaurant. All sorts of viands, but chiefly all
styles of beverage. They who frequent this place have fairly started
on the down grade. Having drunk once, they lounge at the corner of the
bar until a friend comes up, and then the beverage is repeated. After
a while they sit at the little table by the wall and order a rarer
wine; for they feel richer now, and able to get almost anything.
Towards bed-time they take out their watch and say they must go home.
They start, but cannot stand straight. With a gentleman at each arm,
they start up the street. More and more overcome, the man begins to
whoop, and shout, and swear, and refuse to go any farther. Hat falls
off. Hair gets over his eyes. Door-bell of fine house rings. Wife
comes down the stairs. Daughters look over the banisters. Sobbing in
the dark hall. Quick--shut the front door, for I do not want to look
in. God help them!

Here it is--a wine-cellar. Going into the door are depraved men and
lost women. Some stagger. All blaspheme. Men with rings in their ears
instead of their nose; and blotches of breast-pin. Pictures on the
wall cut out of the _Police Gazette_. A slush of beer on floor and
counter. A pistol falls out of a ruffian's pocket. By the gas-light a
knife flashes. Low songs. They banter, and jeer, and howl, and vomit.
An awful goal, to which hundreds of people better than you have come.

All these different styles of drinking-places are multiplying. They
smite a young man's vision at every turn. They pour the stench of
their abomination on every wave of air.

I sketch two houses in this street. The first is bright as home can
be. The father comes at nightfall, and the children run out to meet
him. Luxuriant evening meal, gratulation, and sympathy, and laughter.
Music in the parlor. Fine pictures on the wall. Costly books on the
stand. Well-clad household. Plenty of everything to make home happy.

House the second. Piano sold yesterday by the sheriff. Wife's furs at
pawnbroker's shop. Clock gone. Daughter's jewelry sold to get flour.
Carpets gone off the floor. Daughters in faded and patched dresses.
Wife sewing for the stores. Little child with an ugly wound on her
face, struck in an angry blow. Deep shadow of wretchedness falling in
every room. Doorbell rings. Little children hide. Daughters turn
pale. Wife holds her breath. Blundering steps in the hall. Door opens