My first impression of East London was naturally a general one. Later the details began to appear, and here and there in the chaos¹ of misery² I found little spots where a fair measure of happiness reigned³ — sometimes whole rows of houses in little out-of-the-way streets, where artisans dwell and where a rude sort of family life obtains. In the evenings the men can be seen at the doors, pipes in their mouths and children on their knees, wives gossiping, and laughter and fun going on. The content of these people is manifestly great, for, relative to the wretchedness that encompasses⁴ them, they are well off.

But at the best, it is a dull, animal happiness, the content of the full belly⁵. The dominant⁶ note of their lives is materialistic⁷. They are stupid and heavy, without imagination. The Abyss seems to exude⁸ a stupefying atmosphere of torpor⁹, which wraps about them and deadens them. Religion passes them by. The Unseen holds for them neither terror nor delight. They are unaware¹⁰ of the Unseen; and the full belly and the evening pipe, with their regular “arf an’ arf,” is all they demand, or dream of demanding, from existence.

This would not be so bad if it were all; but it is not all. The satisfied torpor in which they are sunk is the deadly inertia¹¹ that precedes dissolution. There is no progress, and with them not to progress is to fall back and into the Abyss. In their own lives they may only start to fall, leaving the fall to be completed by their children and their children’s children. Man always gets less than he demands from life; and so little do they demand, that the less than little they get cannot save them.

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