akin to the force that inspired that splendid
fraternity that once existed in London, and is now no more: I mean the
Costers. If a Jew is in trouble or in any kind of distress, a most
beautiful thing happens: his friends rally round him.

The atmosphere of the Ghetto is a singular mixture. It is half-ironic
gaiety and half-melancholy. But it has not the depressing sadness of the
Russian Quarter. Its temper is more akin to that of the Irish colony
that has settled around Southwark and Bermondsey. There is sadness, but
no misery. There is gloom, but no despair. There is hilarity, but no
frivolity. There is a note of delight, with sombre undertones. There is
nothing of the rapture of living, but rather the pride of accepted
destiny. In the hotels and cafes this is most marked. At the Aldgate
Hotel, you may sit in the brasserie and listen to the Russian Trio
discoursing wistful music, while the packed tables reek with smoke and
Yiddish talk; but there is a companionable, almost domestic touch about
the place which is so lacking about the Western lounges. Young Isaacs is
there, flashing with diamonds and hair-oil, and Rebecca is with him, and
the large, admiring parents of both of them sit with them and drink beer
or eat sandwiches. And Isaacs makes love to his Rebecca in full sight of
all. They lounge in their chairs, arms enclasped, sometimes kissing,
sometimes patting one another. And the parents look on, and roll their
curly heads and say, with subtle significance, "Oi-oi-oi!" many times.

Out in the street there is the same homely, yearning atmosphere. It is
the homeliness of a people without a home, without a country. They are
exiles who have flung together, as well as may be, the few remnants of
their possessions, adding to them little touches that may re-create the
colour of their land, and have settled down to make the best of things.
Their feasts and festivals are full of this yearning. The Feast of
Maccabeus, which is celebrated near our Christmas-time, is delightfully
domestic. It is preceded, eight days before, by the Feast of the Lights.
In each house a candle is lit--one candle on the first day, two on the
second, three on the third, and so on until the eighth day, which is
that dedicated to Maccabeus. Then there are feastings, and throughout
the rich evenings the boys walk with the girls or salute the latter as
they lounge at the corners with that suggestion in their faces of lazy
strength and smouldering fir