THE ALUMNI JOURNAL. 



53 



not discriminating customers. She en- 

 tered, but I begged her not to disturb 

 the sleepers. The light awakened a 

 5'oung lad and he curiously looked at 

 us. He had a nice face and sweet eyes, 

 but the stamp of his low associations was 

 plainly visible. I felt sorry for him: 



When Biddy McCarthy had shown us 

 her lodging house we deposited our cop- 

 pers into her willing hands, bade her an 

 affectionate adieu and prepared to go. I 

 suppose the coin was a good elixir or 

 memory stimulant, for our hag suddenly 

 remembered another important room on 

 the ground floor. It was uninviting, 

 with cracked walls and large spaces 

 where the plaster fell out, but she said 

 it was important, for here Jack had com- 

 mitted another murder, and as proof she 

 showed the spattered blood-stains upon 

 the walls. We acknowledged the au- 

 thenticity and soon breathed freer in the 

 open air. I know not whether we re- 

 ceived an invitation to call again, for my 

 mind was not bent in that direction. 



We continued our way through this 

 black spot which is found in every large 

 city in a lesser or greater degree, and 

 shortly found ourselves in Petty Coat 

 Lane. You will notice how fanciful a 

 Londoner is in the matter of names. 

 Some of these alleys are no more than 

 four feet in width and run zig-zag so as 

 to render detection almost impossible. 

 Our guide stood at one angle and clearly 

 demonstrated that a murder could be 

 committed without detection and that 

 an approach from one direction would 

 mean escape from the other. 



Continuing along the alley we finally 

 emerged into Leman street and entered 

 the tavern of the Red Lion, where, with 

 many a smile and a look of importance, 

 the proprietor told us Dick Turpin lost 

 his life. How glad I was to hear this. 

 You know it is so nice to know exactly 



where Dick Turpin died — I know you 

 all do. 



But our tour was not yet ended. 

 Starting off in another direction we came 

 to the Irish quarter. The sidewalk was 

 about three or four feet in width, and 

 the female denizens, some with decided 

 avoirdupois, sat on the stones with their 

 backs to the walls of the house and the 

 feet at perfect right angles with the gut- 

 ter, calmly smoking their pipes — short- 

 stemmed clay affairs. Not to disturb 

 their comfort we made a detour and 

 promenaded along the gutter. 



Then came the Hebrew quarter. It 

 was Sunday night, but there was no 

 appearance of it, for all the provision 

 shops were open, with their Kosher meat 

 and'garlic; the streets were crowded with 

 a moving throng, the thoroughfares 

 packed with peddlers, yelling and ex- 

 tolling their wares, while hundreds upon 

 hundreds of oil torches filled the air with 

 their stench. And amidst it all thou- 

 sands of children sported, ignorant of 

 the blessings of life and duplicating in 

 their small way, the miserable exist- 

 ence of their parents. But these peo- 

 ple are not fastidious, and in the ver- 

 nacular, with them " Everything goes." 



Our stroll through the quarters of the 

 various nationalities was intstructive and 

 novel, and while on the way home we 

 were convinced there is but one London 

 and that the greatest city of the world. 

 The trip through Whitechapel I shall 

 never forget. It was weird, strange and 

 fascinating. The district, however, is a 

 very large one and you must bear in 

 mind that some sections are quite re- 

 spectable. We are apt to fall into the 

 error of believing all Whitechapel to be 

 disreputable. 



And right here I wish to take up the 

 argument with John Burns, the English 



