PETER POPE'S SPEECH.
"TELL ye what, boys; now's the time! Now's the time if ye want to gain
your freedom! If ye give in tamely now and let yourselves be driven
to the shambles like a flock of silly sheep, and crushed to the earth
under the iron heels of a set of despots, as 'ud grind down the very
souls of ye, if they could, into scrapings of gold-dust,—why, ye'll
never hold the position of men!"
Peter Pope had taken his stand at the corner of a street one evening,
two or three days after the grand procession. He mounted a block of
wood which lay conveniently there; and being thus raised over the heads
of his compeers, was at once in a situation to exercise power over
their minds. Men began to gather round him, with attentive eyes and
ears, ready to believe whatever Peter Pope might assert. Englishmen do
not often put faith in Roman infallibility; but give an English Pope to
a particular class, and no amount of infallibility becomes impossible.
"Now's the time!" pursued the orator, flourishing his arms, "now's
the time! It'll maybe never come to ye again. There's a good old
saying, lads, as tells us 'Procrastination is the thief of time!'
Procrastination means putting off. Procrastination is putting off the
settling of a question like you're doing now. Procrastination is the
thief of time. It steals time! It steals the nick of time, when the
nick of time comes; and once gone, you'll never get that nick of time
back."
"Now's the time I tell ye, boys! Will you cringe before the iron heel
of capital? Will ye knuckle down before the bloodhounds of tyrannic
power, when ye may fight and conquer, if ye will; and come out from the
battle men, and not slaves?"
"For you're not men now!—Don't think it. Men!—When ye have to work like
dogs for your living! Men!—When you're counted plebeians by them as 'll
scarce deign to look at ye in passing. I tell ye, lads, ye're all tied
hand and foot; though many a one of you scarce feels his bonds, just
because he don't know what freedom is. You're degraded and miserable
and enslaved, and don't scarce know what it is to wish for anything
better."
"That's what I've come down to you for, my men. It's because I want
you all to see what you are, and what you might be, if ye'd sense
and spirit to exert yourselves. It's because I'm a friend of the
Working-man. It's because the noble society, of which I am a member and
a delegate—and proud to be both;—it's because that noble society is the
friend of the Working-man, desirous to rescue him from the gigantic
heel of a merciless power, which is crushing him in the dust—like the
boa-constrictor, lads, which wraps the victim in its voluminous folds,
and slays him in its slimy embrace. And the best thing a friend can
give is advice. Advice, men. Wise advice; thoughtful advice; advice
founded on knowledge, which 'tisn't everybody has power to attain to."
"What are we to do first? That's what you'll say; that's the question
ye'll put. Don't I read it now in your manly faces, lads, all a-looking
up at me this moment? And I'll tell you what you're to do first! You're
to—"
"UNITE!!"
The word came out with tremendous emphasis, emitted by the whole force
of Peter Pope's lungs, after a suitable pause. It made a proportionate
impression.
"Ye'll say, 'What for?' To show your power, lads; to show that ye won't
be cajoled, nor cheated, nor beaten down, nor taken in, nor treated
like a pack of infants. And then you're to—"
"STRIKE!! That's the word for you, men. It's a mighty easy word. It's a
mighty easy thing. Just strike—and the business is done."
"What business?" a voice asked.
"What business? Why, the business of getting what you want. You want
shorter hours and an increase of fifteen per cent. on your wages, eh?
Just so. You've made the demand in fair and reasonable terms, eh? Just
so. You're freeborn Englishmen, all of you, eh? Just so—or had ought
to be. What man living has a right to say you're not to have a rise
which is your fair and just due? Why, if it wasn't for the tyranny of
capital, you'd have had it months ago."
"Will ye submit to that tyranny? Will ye let your children grow up
under that tyranny? Tell you, lads, it's time to make a change. Things
have gone on long enough. It's time you should be the masters now! Show
yourselves men, lads. Better to die than to yield. Give a cheer with
me, now! Hurrah for the strike! Hurrah! Hurrah for the strike! Hurrah
for the strike, boys!"
They went a little mad, of course, and shouted and yelled in chorus,
not musically, but to Peter Pope's satisfaction. Peter Pope's
enthusiasm was catching, and so was the toss of his cap. What "boys"
would not have followed his example, under like circumstances?—"Boys"
of any age. There is no great difference, after all, between the
credulity, or to use a certain working-man's forcible word, the
"gullibility," of young and old and middle-aged.
Somewhere near the outskirts of the crowd stood a man, in age verging
perhaps on fifty, or even fifty-five. He was little and crooked in
figure, with a wizened face, and glittering eyes under bent overhanging
brows. Everybody knew Peter Stuckey; the man-servant of the Rector of
the neighbouring church—gardener, groom and coachman, all in one. Years
before, Mr. Hughes had taken Peter Stuckey into his service, after the
severe accident which cut the man off from his old work. Peter did his
utmost to repay with personal devotion this disinterested act.
Through his namesake's oration, he stood with his head on one side,
and a note-book in his hand, scribbling a word occasionally. After the
uproar of cheering, Stuckey turned to a sensible-looking man near, who
had been as silent as himself, and dryly remarked—
"I say, we've learnt a deal this evening."
"H'm," the other answered.
"Such a lot o' facts, I've had to note 'em down for fear of forgetting.
Let's see—"
"'Working-men are like sheep.' Some truth in that. I've heard say as
how if one sheep jumps over a broomstick, all the rest 'll follow to
save walking round it."
"The aristocracy is 'bloated.' Don't see much meanin' in the term; but,
howsoever, it looks grand, so we'll let it pass."
"'Men are not men, but has to work like dogs.' Shouldn't wonder. Little
enough o' work Rover gets through in the twenty-four hours—and little
enough many o' them get through. But he does a deal o' barking."
"'Peter Pope yonder is a friend o' the working-man.' Werry
disinterested friend!"
Stuckey paused, and gave a side-glance at his companion.
"Well, I won't go for to say whether Peter Pope or Peter Stuckey is the
wiser man o' the two; but I won't go for to say I haven't a notion. Any
way he's uncommon like to his namesake of Rome, layin' down the law for
everybody."
"There's nothing on earth that can't be made out in the way of talk,"
the other said briefly.
"You're a sensible fellow, Holdfast, and no mistake. Now what's your
opinion about this here notion of a strike?" asked Stuckey, putting one
hand up to his mouth with a confidential air.
"I'll not move in the matter. But it'll come about without me,"
Holdfast replied, wearing the look of one who sees impending evil.
"Trust Pope for that; he'd be a loser if it didn't. They'd every man
Jack of 'em put his head into a noose if Pope told 'em it was right.
Well—an' I've got to be off," said Stuckey, as a fresh burst of shouts
arose.
He lingered till it ceased, then singled out a man standing near—
"I say, Stevens; you and the rest is hearing a lot o' rayther startling
assertions. If you'll take a bit o' friendly 'adwice,' you'll just ask
Mr. Pope a question from me. Which is—how much that there Society pays
him for the making of his grand speeches?"
Stuckey's voice was very distinct. Peter Pope had to defer the
winding-up of his oration a full quarter of an hour, that he might do
away with the effect of Stuckey's parting suggestion.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]