The local antiquary points out where famous and wellborn people had their lodging; and as you look up, out pops the head of a slatternly woman from the countess’s window. The Bedouins camp within Pharaoh’s palace walls, and the old warship is given over to the rats. We are already a far way from the days when powdered heads were plentiful in these alleys, with jolly, port-wine faces underneath. Even in the chief thoroughfares Irish washings flutter at the windows, and the pavements are encumbered with loiterers.