ith chaste
vessels--pots and pans and all utensils are bought with reckless
disregard of expense. Milk may not be bought from the milkman's cans.
Each house fetches its own from the shops, in new, clean jugs, which
are, of course, _kosher_; and nothing is eaten but unleavened bread.

When the fast is over, begins the feast, and the cafes and the family
dining-rooms are full. Down a side street stand straggling armies of
ragged, unkempt Jews--men, women, and children. These are the
destitutes. For them the season brings no rejoicing. Therefore their
compatriots come forward, and at the office of the Jewish Board of
Guardians they assemble to distribute supplies of grocery, vegetables,
meat, fish, eggs, and so forth. Country or sex matters not; all Jews
must rejoice, and, when necessary, must be supplied with the means of
rejoicing. So here are gathered all the wandering Jews without
substance. Later, after the fine feed which is provided for them, there
are services in the synagogue. The men and women, in strict isolation,
are a drama in themselves. Men with long beards and sad, shifty faces;
men with grey beards, keen eyes, and intellectual profile; men with
curly hair and Italian features; and women with dark, shining hair and
flashing eyes--men, women, and children of every country and clime, rich
and poor, are gathered there to worship after the forms of the saddest
of all faiths.

The Ghetto is full of life every evening, for then the workshops and
factories and warehouses are closed, and the handsome youth of
Whitechapel is free to amuse itself. Most of the girls work at the
millinery establishments, and most of the boys at the wholesale drapery
houses. The High Street is one of the most picturesque main streets of
London. The little low butchers' shops, fronted by raucous stalls, the
gabled houses, and the flat-faced hotels, are some of the loveliest bits
of eighteenth-century domestic architecture remaining in London. And the
crowd! It sweeps you from your feet; it catches you up, drags you, drops
you, jostles you; and you don't mind in the least. They are all so gay,
and they look upon you with such haunting glances that it is impossible
to be cross with them. If you leave the London Docks, and crawl up the
dismal serenity of Cable Street, the High Street seems to snatch you.
You catch the mood of the moment; you dance with the hour. There is
noise and the flare of naphtha. There are opulent glooms. The regimen