ossible way. To-day it is but a very narrow,
dirty, ill-lit street of common lodging-houses within the meaning of the
Act, and, though it is by no means so gay and devilish as it is supposed
to have been of old, they do say that the police still descend first on
Duval Street in cases of local murder where the culprit has, as the
newspapers say, made good his escape. I do not recommend it as a
pleasure-jaunt for ladies or for the funny and fastidious folk of
Bayswater. They would suffer terribly, I fear. The talk of the people
would lash them like whips; the laughter would sear like hot irons. The
noises bursting through the gratings from the underground cellars would
be like a chastisement on the naked flesh, and shame and smarting and
fear would grip them. The glances of the men would sting like scorpions.
The glances of the women would bite like fangs. For these reasons,
while I do not recommend it, I think a visit would do them good; it
would purify their spotty little minds with pity and terror. For I think
Duval Street stands easily first as one of the affrighting streets of
London. There is not the least danger or disorder; but the tradition has
given it an atmosphere of these things. Here are gathered all the most
unhappy wrecks of London--victims and apostles of vice and crime. The
tramps doss here: men who have walked from the marches of Wales or from
the Tweed border, begging their food by the way. Their clothes hang from
them. Their flesh is often caked with dirt. They do not smell sweet.
Their manners are crude: I think they must all have studied Guides to
Good Society. They spit when and where they will. Some of them writhe in
a manner so suggestive as to give you the itch. This writhe is known as
the Spitalfields Crawl. There is a story of a constable who was on night
duty near the doors of one of the doss establishments, when a local
doctor passed him. "Say," said the doctor, with a chuckle, "you're
standing rather close, aren't you? Want to take something away with
you?" "Not exactly that, sir; but it's lonely round here for the night
stretch, and, somehow, it's kind of company if I can feel the little
beggars dropping on my helmet."

In this street you are on the very edge of the civilized world. All are
outcasts, even among their own kind. All are ready to die, and too sick
even to go to the trouble of doing it. They have no hope, and,
therefore, they have no fear. They are just down and out. All the ug