But, if the East and the West have their wide and radical differences, between the two there are, as I said, many recurring types. And the constant Londoner, were he suddenly to be brought, blindfolded, to some hitherto unknown spot in the city or near suburbs, would soon know his whereabouts by the look of the people he encountered. Thus, you may know Bloomsbury by its Jews, as well as by a population remarkable for general frowsiness, a look of "ingrained" dirt, and an indescribable air of having seen better days; Chelsea, by a certain art-serged female, and long-haired male community with an artistic,--and, yes,--perhaps a well-pleased and self-satisfied air; the "City," by its black-coated business men; Whitechapel, by its coster girls with fringes; Somers Town and Lisson Grove, by their odoriferous cats and cabbages; Mayfair, by its sleek carriage-horses, and also by the very superior maids and butlers you meet in its silent streets. Or, perhaps, by the straw that occasionally fills the quiet square corners, sounding the sad note of Death. I have seen a slum child dying of cancer in a crowded garret,--baked by the August sun,--covered with flies,--in a noisy alley; but only rich people's nerves require soothing at the last! Miss Amy Levy has written a haunting little poem on this subject: "Straw in the street, where I pass to-day, Dulls the sound of the wheels and feet. 'Tis for a failing life they lay Straw in the street. "Here, where the pulses of London beat, Someone strives with the Presence Grey-- Ah, is it victory or defeat? "The hurrying people go their way, Pause and jostle and pass and greet; For life, for death, are they treading, say, Straw in the street?"