Little Dorrit's Window in the Marshalsea]
Now, the whole of this immense population lives upon the City. The bread-winners go in and out every day; the local shops provide for the houses, and are paid out of the money made in the City; the local doctor, the local house agent, the local schoolmaster, the local clergyman, all receive their share of the money made in the City; even if there be, here and there, a literary man, his wares are bought by the money made in the City; the artist looks for his patron to the City; the working man, whatever his work, is paid out of the City, so that the first function of the City is to feed and supply all these millions. If at any time the trade of the City were to decay, these suburbs would decay as well; if the decay were gradual, they would slowly cease to spread, begin to show empty houses and deserted streets; if the decay were to mean ruin, the suburbs would themselves be speedily deserted. Then would be seen a deserted city on a scale never before equalled. Tadmor in the Wilderness would be a mere little wheelbarrow full of stones compared with suburban London given over to decay and wreck.
Two millions of people, most of whom belong to the working class! The brain reels at thinking of this teeming multitudinous life; these armies of men, women, and children living in the slums and in the huge, unlovely barracks. The very number makes it impossible to grasp the enormity of the mass; the vastness of the population makes one feel as if individual effort would be absolutely useless. In a sense it is useless, because it can only touch one or two, and what are they among so many? But in another sense, as I will presently show, individual effort may produce consequences both deep and widespread.
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.