(_AN ANTICIPATION OF THE NOT VERY DISTANT FUTURE._)
[Illustration]
It was a very unseasonable Yule-tide. Instead of the old-fashioned
mild weather that had been the constant companion of Christmas for
many years, the ground was covered with snow and the river blocked
with ice. However, thanks to modern improvements, the artisans had not
been impeded in executing their four hours of labour as provided by a
recent statute. They had been sitting at their Club (supported by the
State), reading the newspapers purchased out of the rates, and were
only annoyed that no food and drink was supplied them free gratis and
for nothing.
"It would never do," said an old workman, who remembered the
eight-hour day that used to prevail at the end of the Nineteenth
Century. "You see were we to have beer at will, the brewers' draymen
might complain. It was once attempted, but the Licensed Victuallers
made such a disturbance that the idea was abandoned."
"There is something in what you say," observed a second workman;
"but, for the life of me, I don't see why the Nation shouldn't provide
bread."
"No, there you are out!" cried a third. "I am a baker, and anything
that interferes with my industry won't do."
And so they talked, discussing this and that, until all the subjects
of the leaders in the daily papers had been exhausted. It was then
that one of the workmen suggested a walk and a pipe on the Embankment.
So they lounged down the main thoroughfare of London, with its
pleasant _cafés_ and well-appointed _restaurants_, and came to
the conclusion (for the fiftieth time) that it was far better than
anything of the same kind in Paris, or any other of the capitals of
Europe. They had all been abroad during their State-assisted vacation,
and consequently had the chief towns of the world, so to speak, at
their finger-tips. As they sauntered along, they came to a group
of half-starved, perambulating performers, who were giving an
entertainment to a crowd of bystanders. It was not a good programme.
First a young woman in rags, played on an old piano, with decent
precision, some extremely difficult variations of CHOPIN's _Funeral
March_. She was followed by a man who painted a portrait of a leading
statesman indifferently well. Then another man jumped into the river,
and made his way in the cold water with the ease of a fifth-rate
professional swimmer. Then a second young woman recited something
or other in German, with an atrocious English accent. And the whole
concluded with a lecture upon chemistry (given by a seedy-looking
old man), which was illustrated with some ambitious, but feeble
experiments.
On the balance the performance was a bore, and the public were rather
pleased than otherwise, when a police constable ordered the _troupe_
"to move on." The poor people gathered together their _impedimenta_
and prepared to obey the officer's behest. It was then that the
performers came face to face with the artisans. There was a cry of
recognition.
"Why, would you believe it!" exclaimed one of the workmen, "if it
isn't SALLY JONES, and TOMMY BROWN, and NORAH JENKINS, and HARRY
SMITH!"
The well-fed and the starving cordially greeted one another. Then
there were mutual explanations, and the old man who had lectured upon
chemistry had his say:--
"You want to know why we are all starving, and why we are so much
worse off than you, although we were educated at the same Board
School? I will tell you. It was because you very wisely made up your
minds to follow the occupations of your fathers. You became builders,
bakers, coal-heavers and paviors.
"Ah, we did that," sighed out the elderly workman, "because we were
too backward to attempt anything better. We were not clever people
like you! We couldn't play the piano, and paint and swim, and go
in for chemistry. We were not clever enough, and had to put up with
passing a very low standard."
"Thank your lucky stars it was so," exclaimed the chemist, with
tears in his eyes, "for your fate is happier than ours. We are all
fifth-rate, and can do nothing else. We have no chance against those
who have been born to this kind of thing, and we have forgotten how to
do your work. So we are starving, and--"
But here the old man was interrupted by a policeman, who ordered
all of them to move on. And on they moved. Half one way and half the
other.
* * * * *