London Ghetto Types. II
THE SOCIALIST
T was Sunday night. Brick Lane hummed and buzzed with the stir and roar of vigorouslife. Men hastened hither and thither, with firm, determined step, bent on their severalerrands; or stopped at street corners to exchange greetings for a moment and stayedto gossip for half an hour. Boys and girls of all ages ran about, shouting merrily, asthough in broad daylight. Young couples, wed and unwed, strolled in bliss along the muddypavements, discoursing audibly on tender topics. Swarthy bearded costers proclaimed in gruffyet timid voices the price and virtues of their apples and pears—of dubious age and history.Here and there a piano-organ rattled out a popular air in front of some gaily illuminated beer-house; and now, from the depths of an alley came swaggering along, arm in arm, three lusty-lunged youths with a concertina, which they made to give forth a deafening din of invalidmelody.
At the corner of one of the many by-streets were gathered several knots of workmen, with the sweat of toil still glistening on their brows, discussing with heat and energy some apparently momentous subject. Now and then angry exclamations rose above the murmuring mumble, and some strong stentorian voice would sound bold and clear. The ardent debaters, many of whom smoked cigarettes, would seize each other's hand, and with the disengaged one execute fanciful figures in the air in accompaniment to the quick delivery of many-sided arguments. In the midst of them all a man went about to bid them cease their individual deliberations and give attention to the speech of an important and eloquent member of their body.
Beneath the fitful rays of a street-lamp, stood the figure of a stern, enthusiastic looking young man, mounted on an overturned wooden box, contemplating the crowd. His features, lit up by the ghastly glare, showed signs of a life of struggle; his dark eyes flashed as with some desperate resolve; his lips twitched as with some fiery message. His head was bare; black, curly locks set in relief his massive forehead; his thick black moustache had a defiant twirl. He made a movement of impatience as the crowd still murmured on, adjusted his blood-red tie, puffed vehemently at a cigarette, and prepared to speak.
"Hear me, my brethren!" he exclaimed, drowning with his powerful voice the mumbled discussions that still continued. "Hear me! A great and weighty matter is it that we have come together to consider. We all have one purpose: we all suffer the same evil. Our lives are made black and bitter; with sweat and with tears must we earn our dried-up crust of bread; and it is time—God knows!—that we should do something to better our wretched condition. Our masters trample on our necks; they cut the flesh from off our bones; they squeeze out our blood. And for what? For a paltry sum a week, that is scarcely enough to keep the breath of life within our bodies. And why? Because we are weak to complain; because we complain only among ourselves, but do not join together and protest. Brethren, hear me!—listen to my advice. We must unite, as they do in other trades; we must make a strong and powerful union, and tell the masters what we want, and make them yield. How long, O how long, must we yet sigh and groan and grieve? How long must we yet pray, and beat our breasts, and hope for a better time? How long? And do our prayers benefit us?—will they make any change in our miserable lot? Will the saying of psalms and the gabbling of a hundred Minchoth soften the hearts of our cruel taskmasters?—will they make them relent?—will they make them turn unto us a merciful look, a kind and loving hand?"
“Meskummad (convert)! Goy (heathen)! SOCIALIST!” yelled back a dozen husky throats.
The speaker stopped and faced his detractors calmly. Then, raising his voice, he continued: