man wavered past--a
night-shade, as our old dramatists would have called her. I could hardly
keep down an evil disgust that would have conquered my pity, when a
scanty white dress would stop beneath a lamp, and the gay dirty bonnet,
turning round, reveal a painted face, from which shone little more than
an animal intelligence, not brightened by the gin she had been drinking.
Vague noises of strife and of drunken wrath flitted around me as I
passed an alley, or an opening door let out its evil secret. Once I
thought I heard the dull thud of a blow on the head. The noisome vapours
were fit for any of Swedenborg's hells. There were few sounds, but the
very quiet seemed infernal. The night was hot and sultry. A skinned cat,
possibly still alive, fell on the street before me. Under one of the
gas-lamps lay something long: it was a tress of dark hair, torn perhaps
from some woman's head: she had beautiful hair at least. Once I heard
the cry of murder, but where, in that chaos of humanity, right or left,
before or behind me, I could not even guess. Home to such regions,
from gorgeous stage-scenery and dresses, from splendid, mirror-beladen
casinos, from singing-halls, and places of private and prolonged
revelry, trail the daughters of men at all hours from midnight till
morning. Next day they drink hell-fire that they may forget. Sleep
brings an hour or two of oblivion, hardly of peace; but they must wake,
worn and miserable, and the waking brings no hope: their only known help
lies in the gin-shop. What can be done with them? But the secrets God
keeps must be as good as those he tells.

But no sights of the night ever affected me so much as walking through
this same St. Giles's on a summer Sunday morning, when church-goers
were in church. Oh! the faces that creep out into the sunshine then,
and haunt their doors! Some of them but skins drawn over skulls, living
Death's-heads, grotesque in their hideousness.

I was not very far from Falconer's abode. My mind was oppressed with sad
thoughts and a sense of helplessness. I began to wonder what Falconer
might at that moment be about. I had not seen him for a long time--a
whole fortnight. He might be at home: I would go and see, and if there
were light in his windows I would ring his bell.

I went. There was light in his windows. He opened the door himself, and
welcomed me. I went up with him, and we began to talk. I told him of my
sad thoughts, and my feelings of helplessness.