WITH THE STRIKERS.
"Ignorant donkey-heads!" cried Pinchas next Friday morning. "Him they
make a Rabbi and give him the right of answering questions, and he know
no more of Judaism," the patriotic poet paused to take a bite out of his
ham-sandwich, "than a cow of Sunday. I lof his daughter and I tell him
so and he tells me she lof another. But I haf held him up on the point
of my pen to the contempt of posterity. I haf written an acrostic on
him; it is terrible. Her vill I shoot."
"Ah, they are a bad lot, these Rabbis," said Simon Wolf, sipping his
sherry. The conversation took place in English and the two men were
seated in a small private room in a public-house, awaiting the advent of
the Strike Committee.
"Dey are like de rest of de Community. I vash my hands of dem," said the
poet, waving his cigar in a fiery crescent.
"I have long since washed my hands of them," said Simon Wolf, though the
fact was not obvious. "We can trust neither our Rabbis nor our
philanthropists. The Rabbis engrossed in the hypocritical endeavor to
galvanize the corpse of Judaism into a vitality that shall last at least
their own lifetime, have neither time nor thought for the great labor
question. Our philanthropists do but scratch the surface. They give the
working-man with their right hand what they have stolen from him with
the left."
Simon Wolf was the great Jewish labor leader. Most of his cronies were
rampant atheists, disgusted with the commercialism of the believers.
They were clever young artisans from Russia and Poland with a smattering
of education, a feverish receptiveness for all the iconoclastic ideas
that were in the London air, a hatred of capitalism and strong social
sympathies. They wrote vigorous jargon for the _Friend of Labor_ and
compassed the extreme proverbial limits of impiety by "eating pork on
the Day of Atonement." This was done partly to vindicate their religious
opinions whose correctness was demonstrated by the non-appearance of
thunderbolts, partly to show that nothing one way or the other was to be
expected from Providence or its professors.
"The only way for our poor brethren to be saved from their slavery,"
went on Simon Wolf, "is for them to combine against the sweaters and to
let the West-End Jews go and hang themselves."
"Ah, dat is mine policee," said Pinchas, "dat was mine policee ven I
founded de Holy Land League. Help yourselves and Pinchas vill help you.
You muz combine, and den I vill be de Moses to lead you out of de land
of bondage. _Nein_, I vill be more dan Moses, for he had not de gift of
eloquence."
"And he was the meekest man that ever lived," added Wolf.
"Yes, he was a fool-man," said Pinchas imperturbably. "I agree with
Goethe--_nur Lumpen sind bescheiden_, only clods are modaist. I am not
modaist. Is the Almighty modaist? I know, I feel vat I am, vat I can
do."
"Look here, Pinchas, you're a very clever fellow, I know, and I'm very
glad to have you with us--but remember I have organized this movement
for years, planned it out as I sat toiling in Belcovitch's machine-room,
written on it till I've got the cramp, spoken on it till I was hoarse,
given evidence before innumerable Commissions. It is I who have stirred
up the East-End Jews and sent the echo of their cry into Parliament, and
I will not be interfered with. Do you hear?"
"Yes, I hear. Vy you not listen to me? You no understand vat I mean!"
"Oh, I understand you well enough. You want to oust me from my
position."
"Me? Me?" repeated the poet in an injured and astonished tone. "Vy
midout you de movement vould crumble like a mummy in de air; be not such
a fool-man. To everybody I haf said--ah, dat Simon Wolf he is a great
man, a vair great man; he is de only man among de English Jews who can
save de East-End; it is he that should be member for Vitechapel--not
that fool-man Gideon. Be not such a fool-man! Haf anoder glaz sherry and
some more ham-sandwiches." The poet had a simple child-like delight in
occasionally assuming the host.
"Very well, so long as I have your assurance," said the mollified
labor-leader, mumbling the conclusion of the sentence into his
wine-glass. "But you know how it is! After I have worked the thing for
years, I don't want to see a drone come in and take the credit."
"Yes, _sic vos non vobis_, as the Talmud says. Do you know I haf proved
that Virgil stole all his ideas from the Talmud?"
"First there was Black and then there was Cohen--now Gideon, M.P., sees
he can get some advertisement out of it in the press, he wants to
preside at the meetings. Members of Parliament are a bad lot!"
"Yes--but dey shall not take de credit from you. I will write and expose
dem--the world shall know what humbugs dey are, how de whole wealthy
West-End stood idly by with her hands in de working-men's pockets while
you vere building up de great organization. You know all de
jargon-papers jump at vat I write, dey sign my name in vair large
type--Melchitsedek Pinchas--under every ting, and I am so pleased with
deir homage, I do not ask for payment, for dey are vair poor. By dis
time I am famous everywhere, my name has been in de evening papers, and
ven I write about you to de _Times_, you vill become as famous as me.
And den you vill write about me--ve vill put up for Vitechapel at de
elections, ve vill both become membairs of Parliament, I and you, eh?"
"I'm afraid there's not much chance of that," sighed Simon Wolf.
"Vy not? Dere are two seats. Vy should you not haf de Oder?"
"Ain't you forgetting about election expenses, Pinchas?"
"_Nein_!" repeated the poet emphatically. "I forgets noding. Ve vill
start a fund."
"We can't start funds for ourselves."
"Be not a fool-man; of course not. You for me, I for you."
"You won't get much," said Simon, laughing ruefully at the idea.
"Tink not? Praps not. But _you_ vill for me. Ven I am in Parliament, de
load vill be easier for us both. Besides I vill go to de Continent soon
to give avay de rest of de copies of my book. I expect to make dousands
of pounds by it--for dey know how to honor scholars and poets abroad.
Dere dey haf not stupid-head stockbrokers like Gideon, M.P., ministers
like the Reverend Elkan Benjamin who keep four mistresses, and Rabbis
like Reb Shemuel vid long white beards outside and emptiness vidin who
sell deir daughters."
"I don't want to look so far ahead," said Simon Wolf. "At present, what
we have to do is to carry this strike through. Once we get our demands
from the masters a powerful blow will have been struck for the
emancipation of ten thousand working-men. They will have more money and
more leisure, a little less of hell and a little more of heaven. The
coming Passover would, indeed, be an appropriate festival even for the
most heterodox among them if we could strike oft their chains in the
interim. But it seems impossible to get unity among them--a large
section appears to mistrust me, though I swear to you, Pinchas, I am
actuated by nothing but an unselfish desire for their good. May this
morsel of sandwich choke me if I have ever been swayed by anything but
sympathy with their wrongs. And yet you saw that malicious pamphlet that
was circulated against me in Yiddish--silly, illiterate scribble."
"Oh, no!" said Pinchas. "It was vair beautiful; sharp as de sting of de
hornet. But vat can you expect? Christ suffered. All great benefactors
suffer. Am _I_ happy? But it is only your own foolishness that you must
tank if dere is dissension in de camp. De _Gomorah_ says ve muz be vize,
_chocham_, ve muz haf tact. See vat you haf done. You haf frighten avay
de ortodox fool-men. Dey are oppressed, dey sweat--but dey tink deir God
make dem sweat. Why you tell dem, no? Vat mattairs? Free dem from hunger
and tirst first, den freedom from deir fool-superstitions vill come of
itself. Jeshurun vax fat and kick? Hey? You go de wrong vay."
"Do you mean I'm to pretend to be _froom_," said Simon Wolf.
"And ven? Vat mattairs? You are a fool, man. To get to de goal one muz
go crooked vays. Ah, you have no stadesmanship. You frighten dem. You
lead processions vid bands and banners on _Shabbos_ to de _Shools_. Many
who vould be glad to be delivered by you tremble for de heavenly
lightning. Dey go not in de procession. Many go when deir head is on
fire--afterwards, dey take fright and beat deir breasts. Vat vill
happen? De ortodox are de majority; in time dere vill come a leader who
vill be, or pretend to be, ortodox as veil as socialist. Den vat become
of you? You are left vid von, two, tree ateists--not enough to make
_Minyan_. No, ve muz be _chocham_, ve muz take de men as ve find dem.
God has made two classes of men--vise-men and fool-men. Dere! is one
vise-man to a million fool-men--and he sits on deir head and dey support
him. If dese fool-men vant to go to _Shool_ and to fast on _Yom Kippur_,
vat for you make a feast of pig and shock dem, so dey not believe in
your socialism? Ven you vant to eat pig, you do it here, like ve do now,
in private. In public, ve spit out ven ve see pig. Ah, you are a
fool-man. I am a stadesman, a politician. I vill be de Machiavelli of de
movement."
"Ah, Pinchas, you are a devil of a chap," said Wolf, laughing. "And yet
you say you are the poet of patriotism and Palestine."
"Vy not? Vy should we lif here in captivity? Vy we shall not have our
own state--and our own President, a man who combine deep politic vid
knowledge of Hebrew literature and de pen of a poet. No, let us fight to
get back our country--ve vill not hang our harps on the villows of
Babylon and veep--ve vill take our swords vid Ezra and Judas Maccabaeus,
and--"
"One thing at a time, Pinchas," said Simon Wolf. "At present, we have to
consider how to distribute these food-tickets. The committee-men are
late; I wonder if there has been any fighting at the centres, where they
have been addressing meetings."
"Ah, dat is anoder point," said Pinchas. "Vy you no let me address
meetings--not de little ones in de street, but de great ones in de hall
of de Club? Dere my vords vould rush like de moundain dorrents, sveeping
avay de corruptions. But you let all dese fool-men talk. You know,
Simon, I and you are de only two persons in de East-End who speak
Ainglish properly."
"I know. But these speeches must be in Yiddish."
"_Gewiss_. But who speak her like me and you? You muz gif me a speech
to-night."
"I can't; really not," said Simon. "The programme's arranged. You know
they're all jealous of me already. I dare not leave one out."
"Ah, no; do not say dat!" said Pinchas, laying his finger pleadingly on
the side of his nose.
"I must."
"You tear my heart in two. I lof you like a brother--almost like a
voman. Just von!" There was an appealing smile in his eye.
"I cannot. I shall have a hornet's nest about my ears."
"Von leedle von, Simon Wolf!" Again his finger was on his nose.
"It is impossible."
"You haf not considair how my Yiddish shall make kindle every heart,
strike tears from every eye, as Moses did from de rock."
"I have. I know. But what am I to do?"
"Jus dis leedle favor; and I vill be gradeful to you all mine life."
"You know I would if I could."
Pinchas's finger was laid more insistently on his nose.
"Just dis vonce. Grant me dis, and I vill nevair ask anyding of you in
all my life."
"No, no. Don't bother, Pinchas. Go away now," said Wolf, getting
annoyed. "I have lots to do."
"I vill never gif you mine ideas again!" said the poet, flashing up, and
he went out and banged the door.
The labor-leader settled to his papers with a sigh of relief.
The relief was transient. A moment afterwards the door was slightly
opened, and Pinchas's head was protruded through the aperture. The poet
wore his most endearing smile, the finger was laid coaxingly against the
nose.
"Just von leedle speech, Simon. Tink how I lof you."
"Oh, well, go away. I'll see," replied Wolf, laughing amid all his
annoyance.
The poet rushed in and kissed the hem of Wolf's coat.
"Oh, you be a great man!" he said. Then he walked out, closing the door
gently. A moment afterwards, a vision of the dusky head, with the
carneying smile and the finger on the nose, reappeared.
"You von't forget your promise," said the head.
"No, no. Go to the devil. I won't forget."
Pinchas walked home through streets thronged with excited strikers,
discussing the situation with oriental exuberance of gesture, with any
one who would listen. The demands of these poor slop-hands (who could
only count upon six hours out of the twenty-four for themselves, and
who, by the help of their wives and little ones in finishing, might earn
a pound a week) were moderate enough--hours from eight to eight, with an
hour for dinner and half an hour for tea, two shillings from the
government contractors for making a policeman's great-coat instead of
one and ninepence halfpenny, and so on and so on. Their intentions were
strictly peaceful. Every face was stamped with the marks of intellect
and ill-health--the hue of a muddy pallor relieved by the flash of eyes
and teeth. Their shoulders stooped, their chests were narrow, their arms
flabby. They came in their hundreds to the hall at night. It was
square-shaped with a stage and galleries, for a jargon-company sometimes
thrilled the Ghetto with tragedy and tickled it with farce. Both species
were playing to-night, and in jargon to boot. In real life you always
get your drama mixed, and the sock of comedy galls the buskin of
tragedy. It was an episode in the pitiful tussle of hunger and greed,
yet its humors were grotesque enough.
Full as the Hall was, it was not crowded, for it was Friday night and a
large contingent of strikers refused to desecrate the Sabbath by
attending the meeting. But these were the zealots--Moses Ansell among
them, for he, too, had struck. Having been out of work already he had
nothing to lose by augmenting the numerical importance of the agitation.
The moderately pious argued that there was no financial business to
transact and attendance could hardly come under the denomination of
work. It was rather analogous to attendance at a lecture--they would
simply have to listen to speeches. Besides it would be but a black
Sabbath at home with a barren larder, and they had already been to
synagogue. Thus degenerates ancient piety in the stress of modern social
problems. Some of the men had not even changed their everyday face for
their Sabbath countenance by washing it. Some wore collars, and shiny
threadbare garments of dignified origin, others were unaffectedly
poverty-stricken with dingy shirt-cuffs peeping out of frayed sleeve
edges and unhealthily colored scarfs folded complexly round their necks.
A minority belonged to the Free-thinking party, but the majority only
availed themselves of Wolf's services because they were indispensable.
For the moment he was the only possible leader, and they were
sufficiently Jesuitic to use the Devil himself for good ends.
Though Wolf would not give up a Friday-night meeting--especially
valuable, as permitting of the attendance of tailors who had not yet
struck--Pinchas's politic advice had not failed to make an impression.
Like so many reformers who have started with blatant atheism, he was
beginning to see the insignificance of irreligious dissent as compared
with the solution of the social problem, and Pinchas's seed had fallen
on ready soil. As a labor-leader, pure and simple, he could count upon a
far larger following than as a preacher of militant impiety. He resolved
to keep his atheism in the background for the future and devote himself
to the enfranchisement of the body before tampering with the soul. He
was too proud ever to acknowledge his indebtedness to the poet's
suggestion, but he felt grateful to him all the same.
"My brothers," he said in Yiddish, when his turn came to speak. "It
pains me much to note how disunited we are. The capitalists, the
Belcovitches, would rejoice if they but knew all that is going on. Have
we not enemies enough that we must quarrel and split up into little
factions among ourselves? (Hear, hear.) How can we hope to succeed
unless we are thoroughly organized? It has come to my ears that there
are men who insinuate things even about me and before I go on further
to-night I wish to put this question to you." He paused and there was a
breathless silence. The orator threw his chest forwards and gazing
fearlessly at the assembly cried in a stentorian voice:
_"Sind sie zufrieden mit ihrer Chairman?"_ (Are you satisfied with your
chairman?)
His audacity made an impression. The discontented cowered timidly in
their places.
"_Yes_," rolled back from the assembly, proud of its English
monosyllables.
"_Nein_," cried a solitary voice from the topmost gallery.
Instantly the assembly was on its legs, eyeing the dissentient angrily.
"Get down! Go on the platform!" mingled with cries of "order" from the
Chairman, who in vain summoned him on to the stage. The dissentient
waved a roll of paper violently and refused to modify his standpoint. He
was evidently speaking, for his jaws were making movements, which in the
din and uproar could not rise above grimaces. There was a battered high
hat on the back of his head, and his hair was uncombed, and his face
unwashed. At last silence was restored and the tirade became audible.
"Cursed sweaters--capitalists--stealing men's brains--leaving us to rot
and starve in darkness and filth. Curse them! Curse them!" The speaker's
voice rose to a hysterical scream, as he rambled on.
Some of the men knew him and soon there flew from lip to lip, "Oh, it's
only _Meshuggene David_."
Mad Davy was a gifted Russian university student, who had been mixed up
with nihilistic conspiracies and had fled to England where the struggle
to find employ for his clerical talents had addled his brain. He had a
gift for chess and mechanical invention, and in the early days had saved
himself from starvation by the sale of some ingenious patents to a
swaggering co-religionist who owned race-horses and a music-hall, but he
sank into squaring the circle and inventing perpetual motion. He lived
now on the casual crumbs of indigent neighbors, for the charitable
organizations had marked him "dangerous." He was a man of infinite
loquacity, with an intense jealousy of Simon Wolf or any such
uninstructed person who assumed to lead the populace, but when the
assembly accorded him his hearing he forgot the occasion of his rising
in a burst of passionate invective against society.
When the irrelevancy of his remarks became apparent, he was rudely
howled down and his neighbors pulled him into his seat, where he
gibbered and mowed inaudibly.
Wolf continued his address.
"_Sind sie zufrieden mit ihrer Secretary_?"
This time there was no dissent. The _"Yes"_ came like thunder.
"_Sind sie zufrieden mit ihrer Treasurer_?"
_Yeas_ and _nays_ mingled. The question of the retention, of the
functionary was put to the vote. But there was much confusion, for the
East-End Jew is only slowly becoming a political animal. The ayes had
it, but Wolf was not yet satisfied with the satisfaction of the
gathering. He repeated the entire batch of questions in a new formula so
as to drive them home.
"_Hot aner etwas zu sagen gegen mir_?" Which is Yiddish for "has any one
anything to say against me?"
"_No_!" came in a vehement roar.
"_Hot aner etwas zu sagen gegen dem secretary_?"
"_No_!"
"_Hot aner etwas zu sagen gegen dem treasurer_?"
"_No!"_
Having thus shown his grasp of logical exhaustiveness in a manner unduly
exhausting to the more intelligent, Wolf consented to resume his
oration. He had scored a victory, and triumph lent him added eloquence.
When he ceased he left his audience in a frenzy of resolution and
loyalty. In the flush of conscious power and freshly added influence, he
found a niche for Pinchas's oratory.
"Brethren in exile," said the poet in his best Yiddish.
Pinchas spoke German which is an outlandish form of Yiddish and scarce
understanded of the people, so that to be intelligible he had to divest
himself of sundry inflections, and to throw gender to the winds and to
say "wet" for "wird" and mix hybrid Hebrew and ill-pronounced English
with his vocabulary. There was some cheering as Pinchas tossed his
dishevelled locks and addressed the gathering, for everybody to whom he
had ever spoken knew that he was a wise and learned man and a great
singer in Israel.
"Brethren in exile," said the poet. "The hour has come for laying the
sweaters low. Singly we are sand-grains, together we are the simoom. Our
great teacher, Moses, was the first Socialist. The legislation of the
Old Testament--the land laws, the jubilee regulations, the tender care
for the poor, the subordination of the rights of property to the
interests of the working-men--all this is pure Socialism!"
The poet paused for the cheers which came in a mighty volume. Few of
those present knew what Socialism was, but all knew the word as a
shibboleth of salvation from sweaters. Socialism meant shorter hours and
higher wages and was obtainable by marching with banners and brass
bands--what need to inquire further?
"In short," pursued the poet, "Socialism is Judaism and Judaism is
Socialism, and Karl Marx and Lassalle, the founders of Socialism, were
Jews. Judaism does not bother with the next world. It says, 'Eat, drink
and be satisfied and thank the Lord, thy God, who brought thee out of
Egypt from the land of bondage.' But we have nothing to eat, we have
nothing to drink, we have nothing to be satisfied with, we are still in
the land of bondage." (Cheers.) "My brothers, how can we keep Judaism in
a land where there is no Socialism? We must become better Jews, we must
bring on Socialism, for the period of Socialism on earth and of peace
and plenty and brotherly love is what all our prophets and great
teachers meant by Messiah-times."
A little murmur of dissent rose here and there, but Pinchas went on.
"When Hillel the Great summed up the law to the would-be proselyte while
standing on one leg, how did he express it? 'Do not unto others what you
would not have others do unto you.' This is Socialism in a nut-shell. Do
not keep your riches for yourself, spread them abroad. Do not fatten on
the labor of the poor, but share it. Do not eat the food others have
earned, but earn your own. Yes, brothers, the only true Jews in England
are the Socialists. Phylacteries, praying-shawls--all nonsense. Work
for Socialism--that pleases the Almighty. The Messiah will be a
Socialist."
There were mingled sounds, men asking each other dubiously, "What says
he?" They began to sniff brimstone. Wolf, shifting uneasily on his
chair, kicked the poet's leg in reminder of his own warning. But
Pinchas's head was touching the stars again. Mundane considerations were
left behind somewhere in the depths of space below his feet.
"But how is the Messiah to redeem his people?" he asked. "Not now-a-days
by the sword but by the tongue. He will plead the cause of Judaism, the
cause of Socialism, in Parliament. He will not come with mock miracle
like Bar Cochba or Zevi. At the general election, brothers, I will stand
as the candidate for Whitechapel. I, a poor man, one of yourselves, will
take my stand in that mighty assembly and touch the hearts of the
legislators. They shall bend before my oratory as the bulrushes of the
Nile when the wind passes. They will make me Prime Minister like Lord
Beaconsfield, only he was no true lover of his people, he was not the
Messiah. To hell with the rich bankers and the stockbrokers--we want
them not. We will free ourselves."
The extraordinary vigor of the poet's language and gestures told. Only
half comprehending, the majority stamped and huzzahed. Pinchas swelled
visibly. His slim, lithe form, five and a quarter feet high, towered
over the assembly. His complexion was as burnished copper, his eyes
flashed flame.
"Yes, brethren," he resumed. "These Anglo-Jewish swine trample unheeding
on the pearls of poetry and scholarship, they choose for Ministers men
with four mistresses, for Chief Rabbis hypocrites who cannot even write
the holy tongue grammatically, for _Dayanim_ men who sell their
daughters to the rich, for Members of Parliament stockbrokers who cannot
speak English, for philanthropists greengrocers who embezzle funds. Let
us have nothing to do with these swine--Moses our teacher forbade it.
(Laughter.) I will be the Member for Whitechapel. See, my name
Melchitsedek Pinchas already makes M.P.--it was foreordained. If every
letter of the _Torah_ has its special meaning, and none was put by
chance, why should the finger of heaven not have written my name thus:
M.P.--Melchitsedek Pinchas. Ah, our brother Wolf speaks truth--wisdom
issues from his lips. Put aside your petty quarrels and unite in working
for my election to Parliament. Thus and thus only shall you be redeemed
from bondage, made from beasts of burden into men, from slaves to
citizens, from false Jews to true Jews. Thus and thus only shall you
eat, drink and be satisfied, and thank me for bringing you out of the
land of bondage. Thus and thus only shall Judaism cover the world as the
waters cover the sea."
The fervid peroration overbalanced the audience, and from all sides
except the platform applause warmed the poet's ears. He resumed his
seat, and as he did so he automatically drew out a match and a cigar,
and lit the one with the other. Instantly the applause dwindled, died;
there was a moment of astonished silence, then a roar of execration. The
bulk of the audience, as Pinchas, sober, had been shrewd enough to see,
was still orthodox. This public desecration of the Sabbath by smoking
was intolerable. How should the God of Israel aid the spread of
Socialism and the shorter hours movement and the rise of prices a penny
on a coat, if such devil's incense were borne to His nostrils? Their
vague admiration of Pinchas changed into definite distrust. "_Epikouros,
Epikouros, Meshumad_" resounded from all sides. The poet looked
wonderingly about him, failing to grasp the situation. Simon Wolf saw
his opportunity. With an angry jerk he knocked the glowing cigar from
between the poet's teeth. There was a yell of delight and approbation.
Wolf jumped to his feet. "Brothers," he roared, "you know I am not
_froom_, but I will not have anybody else's feelings trampled upon." So
saying, he ground the cigar under his heel.
Immediately an abortive blow from the poet's puny arm swished the air.
Pinchas was roused, the veins on his forehead swelled, his heart thumped
rapidly in his bosom. Wolf shook his knobby fist laughingly at the poet,
who made no further effort to use any other weapon of offence but his
tongue.
"Hypocrite!" he shrieked. "Liar! Machiavelli! Child of the separation! A
black year on thee! An evil spirit in thy bones and in the bones of thy
father and mother. Thy father was a proselyte and thy mother an
abomination. The curses of Deuteronomy light on thee. Mayest thou become
covered with boils like Job! And you," he added, turning on the
audience, "pack of Men-of-the-earth! Stupid animals! How much longer
will you bend your neck to the yoke of superstition while your bellies
are empty? Who says I shall not smoke? Was tobacco known to Moses our
Teacher? If so he would have enjoyed it on the _Shabbos_. He was a wise
man like me. Did the Rabbis know of it? No, fortunately, else they were
so stupid they would have forbidden it. You are all so ignorant that you
think not of these things. Can any one show me where it stands that we
must not smoke on _Shabbos_? Is not _Shabbos_ a day of rest, and how can
we rest if we smoke not? I believe with the Baal-Shem that God is more
pleased when I smoke my cigar than at the prayers of all the stupid
Rabbis. How dare you rob me of my cigar--is that keeping _Shabbos_?" He
turned back to Wolf, and tried to push his foot from off the cigar.
There was a brief struggle. A dozen men leaped on the platform and
dragged the poet away from his convulsive clasp of the labor-leader's
leg. A few opponents of Wolf on the platform cried, "Let the man alone,
give him his cigar," and thrust themselves amongst the invaders. The
hall was in tumult. From the gallery the voice of Mad Davy resounded
again:
"Cursed sweaters--stealing men's brains--darkness and filth--curse them!
Blow them up I as we blew up Alexander. Curse them!"
Pinchas was carried, shrieking hysterically, and striving to bite the
arms of his bearers, through the tumultuous crowd, amid a little
ineffective opposition, and deposited outside the door.
Wolf made another speech, sealing the impression he had made. Then the
poor narrow-chested pious men went home through the cold air to recite
the Song of Solomon in their stuffy back-rooms and garrets. "Behold thou
art fair, my love," they intoned in a strange chant. "Behold thou art
fair, thou hast doves' eyes. Behold thou art fair, my beloved, yea
pleasant; also our couch is green. The beams of our house are cedar and
our rafters are fir. For lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and
gone; the flowers appear upon the earth; the time of the singing of
birds is come and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land. Thy
plants are an orchard of pomegranates, with pleasant fruits, calamus,
cinnamon with all trees of frankincense; myrrh and aloe with all the
chief spices; a fountain of gardens; a well of living waters and streams
from Lebanon. Awake, O north wind and come, thou south, blow upon my
garden that the spices thereof may flow out."