X

That aggregation of intellectually purblind and covetous dullards, who formed the socialistic sect of the King of England’s subjects, presently began in their rough rude way to perpend the Pope of Rome. It had been a moot point with these discontented sentimentalists whether it would or would not be profitable to unite with French and Russian anarchy, and attain their ends that way: but one Julia, in the Salpinx screamed such excruciating tales about slaughtered French babies, that that was “off.” Also, it was remembered that a certain Comrade Dymoke, the only capable fighting man ever possessed by socialism, had been sponged upon for fifteen years by socialistic cadgers, sucked dry, ruined, and cast out, a victim of socialistic jealousy and treachery. In the plans laid for a Social Revolution, towards the end of the nineteenth century, that man had been named commander-in-chief. Now he was not available; and his place was vacant: for a military expert rarely errs into the purlieus of socialism.

But one thing had been done. The Social Democratic Federation had been induced, at the National “Liberal” Club, to coalesce with the Independent “Labour” Party. The coalition called itself the “Liblab Fellowship”: the Salpinx and Reynards’s were its organs; and a parcel of Bobs and Bens and Bills and Bounders its prophets. It concluded that it would score by toadying the Supreme Pontiff. The brainless monster of socialism always was hunting for a brain to direct its forces. By some perverted process, it arrived at the feeling that a Pope, Who could indite the “Epistle to All Christians,” would be likely to lend Himself to the furtherance of its crude designs on other people’s property. A week later, Cardinal Whitehead called Hadrian’s attention to the current issue of the afore-named journals, which contained an “Open Letter to the Pope” praising the “enlightened humanitarianism” of His Holiness’s recent utterance, inviting Him to have courage of His opinions, and to bring His “Epistle” to (what was called) “a logical conclusion” by a formal authoritative declaration of the doctrine of Equality. Popes, as a rule, do not notice “Open Letters.” Hadrian, however, had learned from the Pall Mall Gazette that the fashion was for copious artists in words to lecture the Roman Pontiff. He anticipated the being told by that elegant journal that He knew as much about the true inwardness of Catholicism as a cow knows of a clean shirt. But He privately was of opinion that more harm may be done by leaving some things unsaid. But, Love⁠—! Was it possible that He could love, could like (even), hyenas who screeched such ditties as this on the same page:

“They will tax the baked potatoes,
They will tax our blessed swipes,
They will tax our blooming hot pea-soup,
The leather, and the tripes,
They will tax the coster’s donkey,
They will tax the Derby ’orse
And they’re going to tax the devil
When he lives at Charing Crorse.”

Ouf! No. It was quite impossible. Yet⁠—: there were people whom He could like, if not love: people in His Own environment. These He would make easy, happy. To these He could set an example. They, in turn, would do as much for the rank below them: and so on, and so on. Thus, perhaps, by Nature’s own method, might Love be brought down among men. So with a stern and trenchant rebuff He rebuked presumption. On the following Sunday, a Pontifical Breve was read from every Catholic pulpit in the Kingdom of England at home and beyond the seas. It proclaimed the dogma of Equality as scientifically, historically, and obviously false and impracticable: as a diabolical delusion for the ruin of souls. Hadrian did not soar away in metaphysical intricacies, but confined His argument to the broad highway whereon the ordinary man might walk at ease. Infinite difference, He said, was the note of the Divine Creator’s scheme. Not equality, but diversity, of physique, of intellect, of condition, was man’s birthright. One man was not as good as another: he generally was a great deal better⁠—as every man well knew. The claim to equality was so indecently unjust that it only could emanate from inferiors who hoped to gain by degrading their superiors. Socialists, who claimed equality, solely were actuated by the lust of improving their own condition at the expense of their brother. That was selfishness, and unchristian, and (by consequence) damnable heresy. The servants of God were bidden to avoid it. The Vicar of Christ repeated Christ’s commands “Love one another⁠—Love your enemies.” Only by Love could be attained the happiness which all desired. That the classes did care for the masses, futile and indolent though their method might be, was undeniable: but the attitude of the masses to the classes was unmitigated hatred. The accident of birth to poverty or wealth was not a fault, for it was inevitable. The principle of Aristos “The Best” was to be upheld. The strength of Aristos was incalculable because it acted through the relations of private life, which were permanent: whereas the political excitement of socialism was essentially ephemeral. Rights, inherited, meritorious, conferred by legitimate authority, were sacred. Only the holders of such rights of their own free will could depose themselves or abdicate their rights; and, as Christians, they were expected to behave themselves Christianly: but to deprive them of such rights, at the will of those who did not confer them, would be an outrage. The socialistic idea, which suggested such iniquity, was essentially selfish and venal. Hadrian severely denounced the newspapers in which the “Open Letter to the Pope” appeared. He said that the thoughtful reading of a newspaper was one of the most solemn and painful studies in the world, for it was little more than a category of sin and suffering, of incitements to sin, of efforts to acquire filthy lucre honestly and dishonestly. He copiously quoted the advertisements, the Cyclorama page, the Motor Notes page, the Stageland, the Woman’s Letter, and the Leaders, of the one, in order to show that the socialistic outcry by no means was the bitter groan of oppressed poverty, but rather the grumbling vituperation of envious discontented mediocrity anxious to affect an appearance, which was sham and not its own, and to wallow in luxurious conditions which it had not earned. Especially He noted the Socialistic Programme, “We suggest that the nation should own all the ships all the railways all the factories all the buildings all the land and all the requisites of national life and defence,” as a plain declaration that robbery of private property created by individual industry and genius⁠—robbery, pure and unadulterated, was the basis of the socialistic scheme. He denounced the paper as being written for amateur agnostics by dilettante atheists. He pungently derided attempts made, by pseudoscientists of the obsolete school of Haeckel, to popularize among mistaken but serious secularists the science of yesterday and the destructive criticism of the day before that. As for the other paper, He likened it to a cloaca wherein filth of all kinds is committed and collected. The news of the day was reported only in so far as it was susceptible of filthy presentation. Pages were devoted to diffusing refuse from police-courts; and, (under the head of Secret History) to calumnious inventions or distortions of fact connected with any and every man or woman who was not of the dregs of humanity. As a method of earning a living by journalism, this pandering to the basest passions was disgraceful, and damnable in the full sense of the word. Not by such means were the bodies and souls of men to be improved or profited. Not by such means could happiness, here or hereafter, be attained. “Let men raise themselves if they will; and let each man help himself by helping his brother to the utmost: there shall be no limit to your resurrection, well-beloved sons, if ye rise, not on other men but, upon your own dead selves,” the Pope concluded.

In accordance with instructions, the Cardinal-Prefect of the Congregation of Sacred Rites presented to the Pontiff certain completed processes and petitions for the beatification of the Venerable Servants of God, Alfred the Great, King and Confessor⁠—Henry VI of Lancaster, King and Confessor⁠—Mary Stewart of England, France, and Scotland, Queen and Martyr. Assent was deigned to these petitions; and pictures, each with a golden nimbus, were unveiled in the Vatican Basilica. The bull of beatification decreed the addition of the following words to the Roman Martyrology, the official roll of sanctity:⁠—

This day, in England, is kept the festival of the Blessed Alfred, King and Confessor, who by the acclamation of his own people is named Great: memorable as a father of his fatherland, a lover of his brother, a true servant of God.

This day, in England, is kept the festival of the Blessed Henry VI of Lancaster, King and Confessor: memorable for meekness, for suffering, for purity of heart, for the gift of prayer.

This day, in Scotland, is kept the festival of the Blessed Mary Stewart, Queen and Martyr: memorable for womanly fragility, for nineteen years’ atonement in prison, for choosing death rather than infidelity.

Semphill and Carvale had urged Hadrian to impose the Proper Office and Mass of the last upon England as well as Scotland. His Holiness would know why?

“Because Her Majesty was the rightful Queen of England as well as of Scotland;” Semphill responded with the air of one who has invented a new sauce.

“Display your premises, Lord Cardinal;” said the Pope.

“They are simply historical facts, known to everyone.”

“But the conclusions which may be drawn from historical facts, mainly depend upon the sequence or method of arrangement of the said facts. Display yours, Lord Cardinal.”

“The Blessed Mary Stewart was heiress of James V, who was heir of Margaret Tudor wife of James IV of Scotland and daughter of Henry VII of England. Henry VII’s heir was his son Henry VIII, who married Katherine of Aragona and had issue Mary Tudor. Subsequently, failing to obtain annulment of this marriage from Your Holiness’s predecessor Clement VII, Henry VIII lived in sin with Anne Bullen and Jane Seymour by whom he had issue Elizabeth and Edward. Canonically this prince and princess were illegitimate and incapable of succession. Therefore, on the death of Henry VIII the crown of England demised to his sole legitimate issue, Mary Tudor⁠—”

“But Parliament had passed an Act, 28 Hen. VIII c. 7, giving the English Sovereign power to limit the crown by letters-patent or by his last will to such person or persons as he should judge expedient.”

“Surely, Holiness, that ought not to count. However, on the death of Mary Tudor without issue, I argue that the crown of England demised de jure though not de facto to the next legitimate Tudor who was Mary Stewart, heiress of Margaret Tudor.”

Hadrian turned to Carvale.

“Of course, Most Holy Lord, I feel with Cardinal Semphill. I think”⁠—his beautiful blue eyes blazed with the fire of his dreams⁠—“I think that the time has come for doing justice to the memory of ‘that predestined victim of uncounted treasons, of unnumbered wrongs, wrongs which warped and maddened and bewildered her noble nature, but never quenched her courage, never deadened her gratitude to a servant, never shook her loyalty to a friend, never made her false to her faith.’ O think, Holiness, of all that the Stewarts have suffered!”

Hadrian Himself had a very tender and romantic feeling of attachment towards the Stewarts: but He responded, “Our office is not to stir up strife. We Englishmen happen to have made an ideal of Elizabeth. With that delightful capability for making our own ideals and maintaining them in the teeth of realities, we have chosen to forget the fact that no sovereign of ordinary intelligence could have helped being gilded by the really abnormal galaxy of talent which illumined the age of Elizabeth. It was those gigantic geniuses who made the glory of England then. England happened to be personified by Elizabeth. Therefore, in English eyes, Elizabeth was great and glorious and all the rest. No one” (he turned to Semphill) “can quarrel with your statement of blind and naked fact; and no one, who is right-minded, will. But, We desire to reconcile, not to exasperate, though We never will refuse to exasperate upon an apt occasion. Therefore We will not assert now that which need not be asserted. Be content that We raise your lovely martyred queen to the honours of the altars of your country. Ask Almighty God to look upon your land with favour for His Son’s sake, and for the sake of her who in the Strength of that Son was faithful unto death. Call upon Mary in Heaven to add her prayers to those which ye offer to God on earth. Precious in the sight of The Lord.⁠—If it be His Will to confirm with signs and wonders these your invocations⁠—”

Their Eminencies gazed at the Pope with ecstasy. That He, whom they had known before, not always agreeably, that He⁠—“Oh, really,” said Semphill to Carvale as they left the Presence, “I don’t know whether I’m sleeping or waking.” And Hadrian, alone, rolled a cigarette, saying to Another than Himself, “Is that what You wish me to do in this case?”

Simultaneously with the beatificatory bull Laudemus insignes, was issued the “Epistle to the English.” The Pope affirmed that the English Race naturally was fitted to give an example to humanity. In particular, He categorically distinguished its solid worth, its dignified good sense, its deliberate tenacity, its imperturbable habit, its superb impassiveness in reverses, its stoical firmness under the most cruel deceptions, its unshaken determination to conquer under any circumstances. In general, He noted its faculties of self-restraint, of construction, of administration, and (among the upper and middle classes) of altruism. He indulged no vain regrets: but dealt entirely with the present and the future. He addressed the Race, as the Race would wish to be addressed, with perfect sincerity. In spite, He said, of the scum which floats, and is called “Smart”: in spite of the dregs which goes a-mafficking, and is called “Hooligan” the English people at heart were as sound as ever. Millions, rich and not rich, gentle and simple, in town and country, led clean and wholesome lives. No newspaper paragraphs proclaimed that these good souls were bringing-up their children to be ladies and gentlemen, were solicitous for the welfare of their inferiors, had respect unto themselves. No flaming headlines screeched, announcing that they were paying their way, marrying and giving in marriage, rejoicing and sorrowing, like the brave honest commonplace people that they were. No Society Gossip told of Robert and William and Nicholas and James and Frederick and Herbert and Percy and Alfred, day-labourers for a too scanty wage, who never drank nor fought nor swindled nor yelled for their rights, but who led decent noble lives under circumstances often cruelly unjust and always rigorously hard. Of such as these, said Hadrian, was the English Race composed. He reminded England that she had received more from the Latin Church than any other nation: that her gains had been direct before 1534: indirect after that date, when her natural enemies were dragged down by the corruptions of Rome. (He thought they would enjoy that point.) He assumed nothing, not even a prejudice. He advised without commanding: He directed without trespassing. The latter half of the “Epistle” concerned those who owed Him spiritual allegiance: to these He spoke with all authority. He blamed their phrenetic anxiety to enter into worldly competition. He pointed out that the Penal Laws, which from 1534 to 1829 had deprived them of “that culture which contact with a wider world alone can give,” had rendered the Catholic aborigines corporeally effete and intellectually inferior to the rest of the nation. He did not blame noluntary defects: but facts were facts, and only fools would refuse to face them. These defects would find their remedy in the influx of new and vigorous blood and unexhausted brains. He quoted the words of a great critic who said that the religious movement of our day would be almost droll if it were not, from the tempers and actions which it excited, so extremely irreligious. It had taken four centuries to produce the present position of Catholics in England; and, as no man has a right to expect miracles, it might take four centuries more to restore them to a corporeal and intellectual equality with the average of their fellow-countrymen. To this end, He bade them to welcome and to comfort accessions to their number, not (as was the present custom) with slavering sentimentality giving place to slights, snubs, slanders, and sneers: but with brotherly love, putting in practice the Faith which they professed; and letting their light shine, instead of advertising comparatively paltry efforts at illumination. He reminded them that “God made man right, but he had sought out many abstruse reasonings”; and, for a society of Christians to pretend to be “the world” or “of the world” was an incongruous monstrosity. He warned them that the kind of conscience which they cultivated, the conscience which descends from its high personal plane, which consents to haggle and discuss how far resistance to temptation must be carried, which deigns to consider consequences, to weigh possibilities, and to guard against disaster, was the proximate occasion for the well-founded charges of hypocrisy and humbug brought against all religion by lewd fellows of the baser sort. As for those of the clergy, whose comportment elicited from outsiders testimonials to the effect that they were “thorough men of the world having nothing clerical about them except their collars” or “thoroughly good chaps who take their glass and enjoy a smutty story like ordinary beings,”⁠—His Holiness assured Their Right Reverencies, Their Very Reverencies, and Their Reverencies, that they completely misconceived their sacred character.

“Our citizenship is in heaven (ἡ πολιτεια ἡμων ἐν οὐρανωι.) If then in very truth, ye look for a city which is an heavenly, ye must esteem yourselves as being ‘in the world’ as strangers (ξενοι), or resident aliens (μετοικοι); and so ye ought not to be ‘curiosi in aliena republica.’ ”

He ordained that married Anglican clergy (whose wives were alive and who possessed the grace of a Divine Vocation) on resuming allegiance to the See of Peter, should be admitted to the priesthood and serve secular churches: but faculties for hearing confessions were not to be disposed to married priests; and each such priest, having charge of a mission, must nominate and maintain at least one Regular as curate whose sole duty should be the administration of the sacrament of penance. Finally, the Supreme Pontiff commanded the sacrifice of that phantom uniformity which had been the curse of Catholicism for four centuries, and the retention and cultivation of national and local rites and uses. And He commended England to St. George, Protector of the Kingdom.

The Archsocialists were bitterly chagrined by the pontifical denunciation of their “Open Letter”; but the “Epistle to the English” made them gnash their teeth. In print, they gibbered at first, and vomited after their manner. In congress, each one suspected his neighbour of being a “traitor to the Cause” whose treachery had taken the form of urging his comrades corporately to attract the pontifical fulmination. There was a dreadful scene at West Ham and a free fight at Battersea. Comrade Pete Quillet threatened to ’ave Comrade Bill Meggin’s blighted ear; and had as much of the left one as twenty-seven unclean gorgonzola-coloured fangs could tear off, before he succumbed to six boots, a bottle, and a harness-buckle. At headquarters, the demagogues did behave with outward decency: not disguising their disappointment, but casting about for a new lead. The curious thing was that not one of them now but was more than ever anxious for alliance with the Power which disdained and damned them. It was the Power which they coveted⁠—and admired, in the first intention of the word. Their attitude to the Pope was that of those who lick the hand that lashes them. The Pope was not a Penrhyn, against whose liberty they could invoke the laws at which otherwise they girded: He was to them something immense, intangible, potent, detestable⁠—and most desirable.

While they were debating as to the precise posture in which they next should cringe, Comrade Jerry Sant communicated startling news. He was a delegate from the north: by profession, first a haberdasher’s bagman, secondly a socialist; Socialism appearing to him an easy way of self-aggrandisement. As a rule, he did not push forward, working in the background, anonymously writing for the papers, watching for a chance to snatch. He whispered a word to his neighbour at the table.

“Rot!” said the latter.

“Rot yersel’!” Jerry retorted.

The other Fellowshipper guffawed. “Here, I say, Mr. Chairman, this Comrade says he used to know that old Pope!”

Jerry Sant became observed. He had the haggard florid aspect, the red-lidded prominent eyes, the pendulous lip of a sorry sort of man. He stood up and began to speak, sometimes dragging a sandy rag of moustache or fingering shiny conical temples, but generally holding on by the lapels of a short-skirted broadcloth frock-coat, protruding black-nailed thumbs through the buttonholes in a manner acquired during a week in Paris. His style was geological, so to speak, consisting of various strata deposited at various periods. The surface stratum, representing the Kainozoic Time, consisted of the platitudinous bombast characteristic of the common or oratorical demagogue. Below that, corresponding to the Mesozoic Time, came the ridiculous obsequious slang of the bagman of commerce. Below that again, corresponding to the Paleozoic Time, appeared the gelded English which muscleless feckless unfit-for-handicraft little sciolists acquire in school-board spawning-beds. And these rested on stratum of the Azoic Time, to wit the native Pictish Presbyterian jargon of Mr. Sant’s sententious pettifogging spiteful self. These different strata occurred as irregularly as natural strata. They ran one into the other like veins in a fissure, causing displacements resembling those which technically are called Faults; and the tracing and stripping of the same is a task for the ingenious geophilologist.

“It’s a gospel-truth, comrades. I had used to fhat ye might call know the Pope a few years ago fhen he was just George Arthur Rose and not a pound-note in his purse. I was running the Social Standard oot o’ my own pocket, and many’s the bit o’ work I’ve let him have. He was trying his hand at journalism then, and gey glad to get it. I may take this opportunity of saying that he owes his footing to me; and most ungrateful he has treated me, comrades, as is the nature of him, proud aristocrat as he is. Not that I look for gratitude in such: but I’ve often thought when I’ve heard of him getting on⁠—I mean before as he was fhat he is now⁠—as perhaps he might like to remember him as gave him his first leg up. But no, not a bit of it though. I advised him of as much, once; and he rounds on me and cheeks me cruel. And I’m not the only one neither: I can tell you something else about him. There’s a lady-friend of mine⁠—”

“Here stop a bit,” the chairman interrupted. “You’re getting on a bit too fast. What did you let him write for the Social Standard for? Was he a comrade, I.L.P., or S.D.F., or Fabian p’raps? He seems to be rather a high sort from what you say.”

“A comrade! Tits, man! ma pairsonal opeenion is that he was nothing bit a⁠ ⁠… Tory spy. I always thought he was a Jesuit in disguise and now of course I know it. Fhen I knew him first he was pals with the traitor Dymoke⁠—”

“Dymoke!!!” Teeth gritted; and the social equivalent for the Roman “Anathema sit” was snarled.

“Comrades, it wasn’t me that was to blame there you know. Wait a minute before we meaninglessly divide oursels. I have some most important developments to lay before the meeting as you’ll all cordially endorse. Don’t someone remember I was the one that stopped the traitor’s letters and give information of his treachery? If it hadna have been for me he would have bought the bally show with his Tory gold. It was me as put my spoke in his wheel and got him expelled in time. Well, as I was remarking, fhen I knew Rose he was gey thick with Dymoke. Fhat for did I let him write for us? Wy, because he could write the verra blusterous epithets which’ld make the enemy wince. Of course I went over all that he wrote though, just to see that he was economically correct. If I hadna have done that I might just as well have shut up shop. But I was going to say, comrades, there’s a lady-friend of mine he’s treated shameful⁠—made love to her while her man was alive, borrowed twenty-pound notes of her, had to be forbid the hoose, and then fhen she was left a widdy-wumman with a family he cuts her dead at a picture-gallery. That’s fhat I mean by ungrateful, the swine, fit to make a man retch with his mumping cant. What I was about to observe⁠—no, she’s not a Fellowshipper yet. I met her in the way of business if you know what I mean: but I expect she’ll join before long. I know she will if I can only bring off fhat I’m talking about. She’s got a pension, and she takes paying guests, quite high-toned and all. That’s how I got to know her. I’ve put up there fhen I’ve come down to London these five year. Well, the moment I first come ben her best parlour I spots his photo on the cheffonier. ‘Hech,’ says I, ‘I know that chap.’ ‘Then you know a very mauvy soojy,’ says she, for she knows the French fine, and a’ thing as genteel as you can think. So we had a bit crack; and fhat with fhat she told me and fhat I knew aboot him before, I may inform you that if we want to get anything out of him now I’m the man that can secure his entire acquiescence to any proposal we like to submit to him. Here’s my plan, comrades, and if anyone’s got a better let him out with it or else forever after hold his peace and stand out of the way of them that has. Comrades, the hour has struck when tyranny will be no more for I’ve got the tyrant between ma legs and A’m going to squeeze him off my own bat, supposing as I’m properly supported. Cautious though, very cautious we must be: for Rose fhen I knew him was fine and slippery. Artful? E‑e‑e‑e‑e‑eh! Dinna ye talk about his artfulness! Aye and proud too! He was the most haughty don’t care sort of chap ye can think. I mind his eyes were like lowin’ coals somewhens. You shouldn’t nail him anyhow. Insolence I call it; and I’d have pulled his nose for him many times only he wasn’t worth it. Starving I’ve known him: yet if you’ll believe me he’d give himsel’ a wash and a brush up and go out of an afternoon looking as smart as you please in his old clothes and with a fag always in his mouth like the masher he is. That fag! I’ll let ye know it was aye the same fag. He hadna used to light it ever. He lit it once and put it out directly after; and then he used to stick it in his face every afternoon and show himself as usual, so that no one should know he hadna had a bit fhite fish, na naething to ca’ a moothfu’ o’ flesher’s meat wi’ his piece the week past. He felled it me himsel’ when I got to know him. And now, comrades, there’s that feller sitting on the seven hills of Rome with three gold crowns on his head, as has been put in the papers, damning us for all he’s worth. Comrades, fhat I wish to call the attention of this meeting to this evening is⁠—I’ll just speir if ye think that Rose should like to have his past life gave away by me and my lady-friend? Mrs. Crowe, her name is.”

Jerry paused for a reply; and realized that he had possession of the meeting’s ear: He mopped the lumps on his forehead: helped himself out of the chairman’s whiskey-bottle: gulped a dram; and continued. His assumption of the rhetorical manner was consciously enormous now. “Comrades, as in the east when the golden light of dawn shows that sunrise is about to come, so this poor feeble voice of mine shows that the tyrant’s thrones are tottering to their overthrow. But, comrades, we maun beware. Snares beset our path. Once we have let oursel’s be caught by his infernal Jesuitical machinations and he has scornfully crrrushed us to the earth. This is how Labor is treated, and thus shall Labor be treated as long as we go cap in hand and ask for our rights instead of demanding them and taking them as Comrade Matchwood says in the Salpinx. Comrades, this time we maun conquer or expire. If we want the former, we must fight our enemy with his own tools. Fhat are his tools? Comrades, his tools are Jesuitical Tory tools. His emissaries are everywhere, his spies beset our path on every hand I should say infest our road. Even in this hall tonight, a Tory eye may be upon us, a Jesuitical ear may be protruded to catch these whispers falling from this feeble tongue and pass them on to that arch-pariah in Rome who is drunk with the blood of workingmen and battened on unearned increment. Comrades, we maun take a leaf out of his book: we maun hoist him up on his own Jesuitical petard. We oursels maun become Jesuitical for the sake of the Cause. Comrades, there in Rome sits the Abominable Desolation and I’ll let ye know ye’ll find him fhat ye may call a fikey customer. Day by day his satellites prostrate their forms before his so-called holy toe, and let him know a’ things which they’ve found out by base and underhand sneaking means. That is whit way he is so powerful. His slaves tell him so much that he knows everything. Look fhat with an entire lack of consistency he said about the Salpinx. Could he have said that if he hadna been informed? No, I repeat, a thousand times no. Comrades we maun do the same. He knows our secrets and uses them against us most unfair. We maun worm his out too, and use them to bend his proud knee to the people’s will. Comrades, I, me, know his secrets. I am the man and Mrs. Crowe is the woman fhat shall shame him before all his silken harems and cardinals and potentates⁠—upset his applecart if I may use a colloquious impression. We only have got to show the despot our two faces, and I’ll let ye know he’ll quail as sure’s death. We shan’t need say a word. At the mere sight of me and my lady-friend the monster’ll howl for mercy. Then we will be able to have our revenge for his recent most insulting remarks. We will dictate fhat he shall have to do to win our favour. All the starch and haughtiness shall go out of him like steam out of a toddy-jug when he sees us two; and he shall pay any price to gain our smile. And then I’ll let you know what my plans are. Comrades, we’re agreed aren’t we that the only way in which the Cause can triumph over Capital is by having a Labor majority in the House of Commons. Fhat I mean by that is this. At that magnificent demonstration of Labor’s irresistible electoral might, in the words of the Salpinx, we can make the Tories and our friends the Liberals pass our bills to pay us our proper salaries; and we will wrestle from the reluctant rich the mines and the railways and the mills and all the paying industries, and we shall even nationalize the land itself which our bloated aristocracy have robbed us of and mafficked in and wallowed in our gore. Comrades, I shall not detain you much longer for I see the hour is getting on. Fhat I mean to say is this is the point. There are, in this Great Britain and Ireland of ours the night, no less than 8,452,637 deluded papists with parliamentary votes. I obtained those figures carefully from statistics. You have to be careful about details like this if you mean to do yersel’ any good at a’. Now, Comrades, all those 8,452,637 papists shall gladly drop their 8,452,637 votes into candidates’ ballot boxes which will be put forward by the Liblab Fellowship. They shall do it at one word from their Pope, at one penstroke of his, such is the besotted state of slavery in which they exist. Refuse they dare not, or they should languish in the horrors of the Spanish Inquisition or light the Fires of Smithfield and the Massacres of the so-called Saint Bartholomew. Comrades, it is that one word and penstroke which the sight of me and Mrs. Crowe shall squeeze out of their haughty Pope. We’d better have a proper deputation to go to wait on him with us for safety’s sake; and happen we’d better have a sort of address to present, explaining how matters stand, just to make things look pleasant and polite, as it were. That’s only a matter of form though. The main thing’ll be to see him fall back toes over tip on his judgment-seat like him as was struck with worms when he sees who’s in the deputation. Laugh? I won’t ever have laughed like I will laugh at him then! Well now, comrades, I’ve said my say and I say no more leaving the matter to your esteemed consideration. Comrades, think of all the insults which he and his myrmidons has made us groan under so long. Revenge is now at your disposal. This weak hand of mine has pointed out whit way. Seize it, oh seize it in the name of Freedom is all I ask. For myself I ask nothing, not a penny if you was to offer it me. Comrades, I’m fighting for the Cause. For the Cause I’d give my life as far as in me lies. That’s my aim: that’s my game, as the poet remarks. Comrades I shall not detain you longer I shall now sit down.” And the raucous gentleman panted into the next Fellowshipper’s chair.