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But there was no great difficulty in the first stage of my

adventure. Upper Swandam Lane is a vile alley lurking behind the

high wharves which line the north side of the river to the east

of London Bridge. Between a slop-shop and a gin-shop, approached

by a steep flight of steps leading down to a black gap like the

mouth of a cave, I found the den of which I was in search.

Ordering my cab to wait, I passed down the steps, worn hollow in

the centre by the ceaseless tread of drunken feet; and by the

light of a flickering oil-lamp above the door I found the latch

and made my way into a long, low room, thick and heavy with the

brown opium smoke, and terraced with wooden berths, like the

forecastle of an emigrant ship.