Three days after this a procession of Unemployed marched along the
Embankment in London. Some charitable people did actually bring down a
cart of food. _There was a riot and a fight for the food exactly as I
had foreseen in my imaginary tale._ It was reported in the newspaper.
Five days after I had imagined that, under existing conditions,
something _might_ happen, that thing actually _did_ happen--men came
fighting for a scrap of bread in the heart of the Metropolis.
This is what we see in the great streets of London and other
towns--the streets full of shops which are crammed with costly and
beautiful things, thronged with prosperous people. What we see when
we follow the procession of the Unemployed back to the awful dens in
which they live is impossible to do more than hint at. To tell the
absolute unvarnished truth in a public assembly, to publish a faithful
description in a public print is an utter impossibility. These
dreadful facts are those which despairing clergymen and ministers,
doctors, nurses, would-be helpers, tell to each other in whispers.
I knew a lady whose husband had turned out worthless, and who finally
deserted her. Her one source of income was a row of small houses in
the East End of London, houses that were let out in rooms to the very
poor. My friend was too poor to employ an agent to collect her rents
and draw a commission for his work. Every week she did so herself, and
one week she invited me to accompany her. I did so, and it was the
most horrible day I ever spent. No working man in a district such as
this can form any idea of the filth and misery in which the lost,
degraded tenants of these houses lived. I shall not attempt to
describe it, for it would be a poor return for your kindness in coming
here to-night to rob you of your night’s rest!
I will merely quote some lines written by Mr. F. A. McKenzie, one of
the foremost sociologists of the day. They deal with the lives of the
Unemployed in the East End of London, and they are guarded, reticent
words.