come spend a night with me, Mr. Toddleworth.  It’s very kind of them.  And whenever they get a drop of gin I’m sure of a taste.  Surmising what I was once, they look up to me, you see.  This gives me heart.”  And as he says this he smiles, and draws about him the ragged remnants of his coat, as if touched by shame.  Arrived at the corner of Orange street, Mr. Toddleworth pauses and begs his charge to survey the prospect.  Look whither she will nothing but a scene of desolation-a Babylon of hideous, wasting forms, mucky streets, and reeking dens, meet her eye.  The Jews have arranged themselves on one side of Orange street, to speculate on the wasted harlotry of the other.  “Look you, Madam!” says Mr. Toddleworth, leaning on his stick and pointing towards Chatham street.  “A desert, truly,” replies the august old lady, nervously twitching her head.  She sees to the right ("it is wantonness warring upon misery,” says Mr. Toddleworth) a long line of irregular, wooden buildings, black and besmeared with mud.  Little houses with decrepid door-steps; little houses with decayed platforms in front; little dens that seem crammed with rubbish; little houses with black-eyed, curly-haired, and crooked-nosed children looking shyly about the doors; little houses with lusty and lecherous-eyed Jewesses sitting saucily in the open door; little houses with open doors, broken windows, and shattered shutters, where the devil’s elixir is being served to ragged and besotted denizens; little houses into which women with blotched faces slip suspiciously, deposit their almost worthless rags, and pass out to seek the gin-shop; little houses with eagle-faced men peering curiously out at broken windows, or beckoning some wayfarer to enter and buy from their door; little houses piled inside with the cast-off garments of the poor and dissolute, and hung outside with smashed bonnets, old gowns, tattered shawls; flaunting-red, blue, and yellow, in the wind, emblematic of those poor wretches, on the opposite side, who have pledged here their last offerings, and blazed down into that stage of human degradation, which finds the next step the grave-all range along, forming a picturesque but sad panorama.  Mr. Moses, the man of the eagle face, who keeps the record of death, as the neighbors call it, sits opulently in his door, and smokes his cigar; while his sharp-eyed daughters estimate exactly how much it is safe to advance on the last rag some lean wretch would pledge.  He will tell you just how long that brawny harlot, passing on the opposite side, will last, and what the few rags on her back will be worth when she is “shoved into Potters’ Field.”  At the sign of the “Three Martyrs” Mr. Levy is seen, in his fashionable coat, and a massive chain falling over his tight waistcoat, registering the names of his grotesque customers, ticketing their little packages, and advancing each a shilling or two, which they will soon spend at the opposite druggery.  Thus bravely wages the war.  London