drink in such a place, the abundant facilities provided outside, and
the enormous additional trouble, danger, and expense entailed by
letting drink be sold in a place where there will be every evening
thousands of young people, I am quite sure that the governing
body--that is to say, the chosen representatives of East London--will
never admit it within their walls.

We do not trust the working man. We have given over to him the whole
of the power. All the power there is we have given to him, because he
stands in an enormous majority. We have made him absolute master of
this realm of Great Britain and Ireland. What could we do more for a
man whom we blindly and implicitly trusted? Yet the working man, for
whom we have done so much, we have not yet begun to trust.





SUNDAY MORNING IN THE CITY


On Saturday afternoon, when the last of the clerks bangs the great
door behind him and steps out of the office on his way home; when the
shutters of the warehouses are at last all closed; there falls upon
the street a silence and loneliness which lasts from three o'clock on
Saturday till eight o'clock on Monday--a sleep unbroken for forty-one
long hours. In the main arteries, it is true, there is always a little
life; the tramp of feet never ceases day or night in Fleet Street or
Cheapside. But in all the narrow streets branching north and south,
east and west, of the great thoroughfares there is silence--there is