It seems, again, when one contemplates this mass of humanity--this compact round ball of men and women, to make which two millions have been brought together--as if any one life was nothing, as if the life of any one out of the heap--any girl, any lad--was wholly unimportant and trivial, however that life were spent. That is not so: every heap is made up of atoms; the influence of the individual is as great in a densely populated place as in a village. One example is precious--beyond all price--in a model dwelling-house of Bermondsey as in the most retired community of rustics. It is very easy to generalise from the mass: the dweller of the slums stands before the mind's eye, beery, unwashed, in rags, inarticulate, his brain filled with thoughts which may better be described as suspicions, desirous of nothing but of food, drink, and warmth. That is what we think of him. It is because we do not know him. Ask those who go down among these people habitually, they will tell you of differences and distinctions among them as among ourselves, of memories of better things, of resignation rather than despair, and, at the very worst, of traits of generosity and unselfishness worthy of a clean cottage and the air of a village green. We must be very careful how we form general conclusions about men and women. [Illustration: Alcove from Old London Bridge, now at Guy's] But--two millions of people! And every one of them wanting all the time what he thinks will make his life more happy. For the riverside folk the wants are few, but they are daily wants. With them, literally, it is a question of daily bread. Happy are the people whose wants are more numerous and their happiness more complex!