Religion has virtually passed it by, and a gross and
stupid materialism reigns, fatal alike to the things of the spirit and
the finer instincts of life.
It used to be the proud boast that every Englishman's home was his
castle. But to-day it is an anachronism. The Ghetto folk have no homes.
They do not know the significance and the sacredness of home life. Even
the municipal dwellings, where live the better-class workers, are
overcrowded barracks. They have no home life. The very language proves
it. The father returning from work asks his child in the street where
her mother is; and back the answer comes, "In the buildings."
A new race has sprung up, a street people. They pass their lives at work
and in the streets. They have dens and lairs into which to crawl for
sleeping purposes, and that is all. One cannot travesty the word by
calling such dens and lairs "homes." The traditional silent and reserved
Englishman has passed away. The pavement folk are noisy, voluble, high-
strung, excitable--when they are yet young. As they grow older they
become steeped and stupefied in beer. When they have nothing else to do,
they ruminate as a cow ruminates. They are to be met with everywhere,
standing on curbs and corners, and staring into vacancy.
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