A small lane, the name of which I have forgotten, or do not choose to remember, slants¹ suddenly off from Chatham Street, (before that headlong thoroughfare reaches into the Park,) and retreats suddenly down towards the East River, as if it were disgusted with the smell of old clothes, and had determined² to wash itself clean. This excellent intention it has, however, evidently contributed towards the making of that imaginary pavement mentioned in the old adage³; for it is still emphatically a dirty street. It has never been able to shake off the Hebraic taint⁴ of filth⁵ which it inherits from the ancestral thoroughfare. It is slushy and greasy⁶, as if it were twin brother of the Roman Ghetto⁷.

I like a dirty slum; not because I am naturally unclean — I have not a drop of Neapolitan blood in my veins⁸ — but because I generally find a certain sediment⁹ of philosophy precipitated¹⁰ in its gutters¹¹. A clean street is terribly prosaic¹². There is no food for thought in carefully swept pavements, barren kennels¹³, and vulgarly spotless houses. But when I go down a street which has been left so long to itself that it has acquired a distinct outward character, I find plenty to think about. The

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