in itself, we shall devote a brief space to a description of it.

It was situated on the corner of Catherine street, opposite the
Catherine Market--a region remarkable for a very 'ancient and fish-like
smell.' This Market was a large, rotten old shanty, devoted to the sale
of stale fish, bad beef, dubious sausages, suspicious oysters, and dog's
meat. Beneath its stalls at night, many a 'lodger' often slumbered; and
every Sunday morning it was the theatre of a lively and amusing scene,
wherein was performed the renowned pastime of 'niggers dancing for
eels.' All the unsavory fish that had been accumulated during the week,
was thus disposed of, being given to such darkies as won the most
applause in the science of the 'heel and toe.' The sport used to attract
hundreds of spectators, and the rum shops in the vicinity did a good
business.

Suppose it to be midnight; let us enter the All Night House, and take a
view. We find the place crowded with about forty men and boys, of all
ages, conditions and complexions. Here is the veteran loafer, who had
not slept in a bed for years--his clothes smelling of the grease and
filth of the market stalls; here is the runaway apprentice, and here the
dissipated young man who has been 'locked out,' and has come here to
take lodgings. The company are all seated upon low stools; some are
bending forward in painful attitudes of slumber; others are vainly
trying to sit upright, but, overcome by sleep, they pitch forward, and
recover themselves just in time to avoid falling on the floor.

Notice in particular this young man who is seated like the rest, and is
nodding in an uneasy slumber. His clothes are of broadcloth, and were
once fashionable and good, but now they are torn to rags, and soiled
with filth. His hands are small and white; his hair, luxurious and
curling naturally, is uncombed; his features are handsome, but bruised
and unwashed. This is Sinclair!

The bar-keeper of this place is quite a character in his way. He
rejoices in the title of 'Liverpool Jack,' and is the _bully of Water
street_--that is, he is considered able to thrash any man that travels
in that region. He is a blustering, ruffianly fellow, full of 'strange
oaths.' He wears a red flannel shirt and tarpaulin hat; and possesses a
bull-dog countenance expressive of the utmost ferocity.

'Hello, you fellers,' cries Liverpool Jack, savagely surveying the
slumbering crowd--'yer goin' to set there all night and not pa