ly nurseries of vice--from whose black shadows
came many of these that had been christened into crime. But in the
Bowery itself there was no gloomy spot. Light streamed from every
window, and flooded the pavements. The street-cars whirled along. Even
the bony creatures that drew them caught the spirit of this feverish
thoroughfare. From every other doorway, shielded by cloth or wicker
screens, came the sounds of twanging harps and scraping fiddles, the
click of glasses and the shrill chatter and laughter of discordant
voices.

Here and there, in front of a bewildering canvas, upon which, in the
gayest of gay colors, mountainous fat women, prodigious giants, scaly
mermaids, wild men from Zululand, living skeletons, and three-headed
girls were painted, stood clamorous gentlemen in tights, urgently
importuning passers-by to enter the establishments they represented,
whereof the glories and mysteries could be but too feebly told in words.
And upon the sidewalks all about him, swarms of itinerant musicians,
instantaneous photographers, dealers in bric-a-brac, toilet articles,
precious stones, soda water, and other needful and nutritious wares,
urged themselves upon Mr. Dootleby's attention.

He walked leisurely on, moralizing as he went, until he had passed
Chatham Square, and had got into the somberer district below. He turned
a corner somewhere, thinking to walk around the block and find his way
back into the Bowery. But the more corners he rounded the more he found
ever at his elbow, and the conviction began to make its way into his
mind that he had lost his bearings.

The block in which he was now wandering was quite dark and dismal, save
for a single gas-jet hanging almost hidden within a dirty globe, over
some steep steps that led into a cellar. Mr. Dootleby concluded to stop
there and ask his way. As he approached the cellar, he heard what seemed
to be cries of distress. They grew more distinct, and accompanying them
were the dull sounds of blows and the harsh accents of a man's voice,
evidently permeated with rage.

Mr. Dootleby ran down the steps and flung the door open, presenting his
eyes with a spectacle that made his blood run cold. The room was long
and narrow. At one end and near the door was a bar fitted up with a few
black bottles and broken tumblers, a keg or two of beer, and some boxes
of cigars. Along the walls stood a couple of benches, and further on
were half a dozen little rooms, partitioned from