If they are not the Children, they are at least the Grandchildren of the Ghetto.
The particular Ghetto that is the dark background upon which our pictures will be cast, is of voluntary formation.
People who have been living in a Ghetto for a couple of centuries, are not able to step outside merely because the gates are thrown down, nor to efface the brands on their souls by putting off the yellow badges.
The isolation imposed from without will have come to seem the law of their being.

But a minority will pass, by units, into the larger, freer, stranger life amid the execrations of an ever-dwindling majority.

For better or for worse, or for both, the Ghetto will be gradually abandoned, till at last it becomes only a swarming place for the poor and the ignorant, huddling together for social warmth.

Such people are their own Ghetto gates; when they migrate they carry them across the sea to lands where they are not.

Into the heart of East London there poured from Russia, from Poland, from Germany, from Holland, streams of Jewish exiles, refugees, settlers, few as well-to-do as the Jew of the proverb, but all rich in their cheerfulness, their industry, and their cleverness.