The dear soft people of the golden theatres and wonder-mansions of the West End do not see these creatures, do not dream that they exist.  But they are here, alive, very much alive in their jungle.  And woe the day, when England is fighting in her last trench, and her able-bodied men are on the firing line!  For on that day they will crawl out of their dens and lairs, and the people of the West End will see them, as the dear soft aristocrats of Feudal France saw them and asked one another, “Whence came they?” “Are they men?”

But they were not the only beasts that ranged the menagerie.  They were only here and there, lurking in dark courts and passing like grey shadows along the walls; but the women from whose rotten loins they spring were everywhere.  They whined insolently, and in maudlin tones begged me for pennies, and worse.  They held carouse in every boozing ken, slatternly, unkempt, bleary-eyed, and towsled, leering and gibbering, overspilling with foulness and corruption, and, gone in debauch, sprawling across benches and bars, unspeakably repulsive, fearful to look upon.

And there were others, strange, weird faces and forms and twisted monstrosities that shouldered me on every side, inconceivable types of sodden ugliness, the wrecks of society, the perambulating carcasses, the living deaths—­women, blasted by disease and drink till their shame brought not tuppence in the open mart; and men, in fantastic rags, wrenched by hardship and exposure out of all semblance of men, their faces in a perpetual writhe of pain, grinning idiotically, shambling like apes, dying with every step they took and each breath they drew.  And there were young girls, of eighteen and twenty, with trim bodies and faces yet untouched with twist and bloat, who had fetched the bottom of the Abyss plump, in one swift fall.  And I remember a lad of fourteen, and one of six or seven, white-faced and sickly, homeless, the pair of them, who sat upon the pavement with their backs against a railing and watched it all.

The unfit and the unneeded!  Industry does not clamour for them.  There are no jobs going begging through lack of men and women.  The dockers crowd at the entrance gate, and curse and turn away when the foreman does not give them a call.  The engineers who have work pay six shillings a week to their brother engineers who can find nothing to do; 514,000 textile workers oppose a resolution condemning the employment of children under fifteen.  Women, and plenty to spare, are found to toil under the sweat-shop masters for tenpence a day of fourteen hours.  Alfred Freeman crawls to muddy death because he loses his job.  Ellen Hughes Hunt prefers Regent’s Canal to Islington Workhouse.  Frank Cavilla cuts the throats of his wife and children because he cannot find work enough to give them food and shelter.

The unfit and the unneeded!  The miserable and despised and forgotten, dying in the social shambles.  The progeny of prostitution—­of the prostitution of men and women and children, of flesh and blood, and sparkle and spirit; in brief, the prostitution of labour.  If this is the best that civilisation can do for the human, then give us howling and naked savagery.  Far better to be a people of the wilderness and desert, of the cave and the squatting-place, than to be a people of the machine and the Abyss.